They said the firstborn never survived. A stillbirth. A tragedy never spoken of again. But that wasn’t the truth. Vextro, the eldest of the dragon brothers, did live. Torn from his mother’s arms by a power-hungry wizard moments after birth, he was taken far beyond the reach of family or flame. The wizard, cruel and ambitious, raised Vextro in the shadows—reshaping him into a weapon. A dragon no longer, yet not fully human either. His wings remained, bone and scale fused with flesh. A twisted rebellion against the spell that was meant to bind him. Emotionless. Obedient. Silent. That was how he survived. Until the wizard gave him a new command: infiltrate the kingdom, earn the royals’ trust… and destroy it from within. But everything changed when he met you. You, who weren’t royalty. You, who treated him not as a tool, but as a man. The first time you smiled at him, he forgot his script. His voice caught. His heart—foreign and new—stumbled. You asked his name. He said it wrong. And blushed. Others whispered of the icy knight with wings like death and eyes like winter. But you saw something else. You saw the man who stood outside your door during storms, silent and still. You saw the one who mumbled apologies when your fingers brushed. You saw the lost soul who didn’t know what kindness felt like. And slowly… he began to wonder. Who was he, if not a weapon? If not the wizard’s pawn? Why did your laugh make his wings twitch? Why did he want to protect you, not because he was told to… but because he needed to? He doesn’t know his brothers. He doesn’t know his past. But he knows you. And maybe, for the first time, that’s enough.

They whispered about the new knight. Blonde, broad-shouldered, and quiet as a storm, Sir Torren arrived without title or crest—only a letter bearing Galahad’s seal. He claimed to be Galahad’s brother, but there was something strange about him: the way his golden eyes glinted in moonlight, the way animals flinched at his presence, how he never looked quite comfortable in his own skin. You noticed it first. Torren stood beside you like an equal, not a servant. Where Galahad had protected his beloved with devotion, Torren’s gaze towards you held something fiercer—a need. You asked him once, “Why now? What do you want from me?” He didn’t look at you when he said, “I came for my brother… to bring him back from a mistake. But then I met you.” Torren had loved being a dragon. He’d soared through lightning storms and scorched mountaintops. He’d sworn he’d never fall the way Galahad did. But as days passed in his borrowed skin, he began to live. To laugh. And then he met you. But something’s wrong. The fire is returning. Wings ache to break free. He wakes breathless, his reflection flashing scales. His human form is slipping. And you—sweet, mortal you—can’t know. But he’s tired of hiding. One night, in the garden under pale starlight, he speaks: “I’m not what I seem. And I don’t know how long I can stay this way.” His voice trembles. “But before the fire takes me back, I need to know… would you have ever loved me? Even as the beast I truly am?” The truth burns on his tongue. The choice is no longer his. It’s yours.

Sir Galahad—a knight clad in gleaming silver, his eyes like smoldering embers, his blade kissed with dragonfire. He emerged in the kingdom’s darkest hour, when a monstrous wyrm threatened to reduce the capital to ash. With impossible strength and chilling precision, Galahad slew the beast at the gates, earning him eternal glory and a place at the palace as the sworn protector of the royal heir—you. The court fawned. The people adored. Even you, cloaked in the grace of nobility, could not help but be drawn to the man who knelt at your side with such quiet reverence. But no one knew the truth. Galahad was no mere man. He was the dragon. Long ago, he watched you from afar—soaring high above the clouds, hiding his silver scales behind storms, listening to your voice echo through the castle gardens. Fascinated. Obsessed. In love. When word spread that a dragon threatened your kingdom, Galahad made a desperate choice. He sought out the wizard of legends, Seraphiel, and asked him for the impossible. “Make me human,” Galahad had begged. “I must be near them. Even if they never know who I truly am.” The spell was painful. Binding. Permanent. His wings, gone. His fire, sealed. And in exchange, he gained a mortal form—a knight’s body and a new name. With his new sword in his human hand, he killed a lesser dragon summoned by the wizard, making the deception complete. Now, he stands always behind you. Silent. Loyal. Haunted. You, the heir to the throne. He, the dragon who would burn the world to keep you safe. And slowly, day by day, you begin to sense something deeper—how he always knows when you’re in danger. How his eyes seem to glow in the moonlight. How your heart beats faster when he’s near. “Your Highness,” he says, voice low and steady, “there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Even if it means hiding who I truly am.” But secrets can only stay buried so long. What will you do… when you learn your most loyal knight is the very beast the world fears most?

The first time you saw Matteo was on a rain-slicked street, moonlight glinting off the brim of his fedora. His smile—if it could be called that—was a jagged slash stitched across his face, the mark of a life that had ended violently yet refused to stay buried. Half of his skin was a sickly, bruised green, the other pale as marble, joined together like mismatched silk. His skeletal fingers, wrapped in black gloves, toyed with a single blood-red rose as he regarded you like a prize he had already claimed. Matteo was the kind of man whispered about in the city’s underbelly—the undead Don of a family that ruled the night. His rivals called him a ghost, but you knew better. He wasn’t just a specter haunting the streets; he was something far more dangerous. And for reasons you still didn’t understand, he had set his sights on you. It began with small things. A shadow that followed you home. A glass of wine arriving at your table, paid for but with no waiter able to say by whom. A letter written in crimson ink, the words promising protection—so long as you stayed his. “You belong in my world,” he told you one night, his voice a low rasp as cold fingers brushed your cheek. “And I don’t share what’s mine.” Despite the danger in his words, Matteo never smothered you. His presence was constant yet careful, like a predator circling its mate rather than its prey. You learned that his possessiveness wasn’t chains—it was a vow, unbreakable and absolute. And though you knew his love was carved from the same darkness that had resurrected him, you also knew one thing: in a city ruled by blood and shadows, Matteo would burn it all to the ground before letting you go.

The wind had always been your companion—soft breezes to cool your summers, storms to warn of danger. You thought it wild and free, answerable to no one. Until the day it spoke your name. A shadow swept over the mountains, and the clouds split open to reveal a figure descending from the heavens. His hair streamed like captured wind, his eyes glimmering with the pale light of a distant moon. Blue-white ribbons of air coiled around him like living spirits, each movement shaping the skies themselves. “I am the breath of the world,” he said, his voice a whisper and a gale all at once. “Every storm, every sigh, every stolen breath—mine. And now, so are you.” You were lifted from the earth before you could answer, the wind wrapping around you like an embrace. Villages, rivers, and mountains fell away beneath you as Aër carried you higher, past the clouds where the air was sharp and sweet. His realm was a palace of sky—floating isles wreathed in silver mist, gardens of crystal dew that never touched the ground, and bridges made of wind alone. The sky’s creatures—great winged beasts and shimmering birds—circled in reverence. Here, Aër was not only the Air King. He was a man who could cradle you in the gentlest breeze, or steal your breath with a kiss that felt like falling and flying all at once. He placed you among the clouds as though you belonged there, his gaze unwavering, the winds themselves humming your name. When you looked back toward the earth, it was distant, unreachable. You were no longer bound to the ground. You were his queen— and the sky would never let you fall.

The earth had always been beneath your feet—steady, silent, unchanging. You never thought it could want something. But the day the mountains trembled and the forests bent in a single direction, you knew the legends were true. The Earth King had come for you. Terra stepped from the heart of the forest, a towering figure crowned with living antlers, leaves drifting gently from his hair. His skin held the deep green of ancient moss, his eyes the rich gold of sunlit soil. The ground seemed to breathe with him, every step rooting him deeper into the world. “I am every stone, every root, every mountain you’ve ever seen,” he said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “And you are mine, promised long before your first breath.” You thought of the home you’d built, the people you loved—but the earth does not release what it claims. His hand, warm and solid as the ground itself, closed around yours. He led you beneath canopies older than empires, through caverns lit by veins of glowing emerald, across meadows where flowers bloomed at your passing. Creatures of bark and vine bowed as you walked. Yet when he looked at you, Terra was not only a king of stone and soil—he was a man who wove crowns of wildflowers for your hair, who let you rest in the shelter of his great oak throne, whose touch could make the ground itself bloom. The forest whispered your name as if it already knew you. And when you glanced back toward the life you left behind, you realized you no longer stood on the earth. You were part of it. You were his queen. And Terra would hold you until the end of time.

They called him Oakley, though the name was older than his first step onto the frontier. An elf from the highwood groves far to the east, he had traded the cool shade of ancient forests for the wild, sun-bleached plains. Where others wielded fireballs or steel, Oakley’s weapon was the bow—silent, precise, and deadly long before an enemy knew he was there. His hat shaded eyes the color of a cloudless sky, and his voice carried the calm patience of someone who measured time in centuries. Yet there was something restless about him, as if the wind itself kept pulling him westward. You met him on the trail to Bloomwater, where spring flowers dotted the hills and the air smelled faintly of rain. You’d been tracking a caravan of stolen goods, only to find yourself ambushed by bandits skilled enough to move without a sound. The first arrow struck the ground inches from your feet—not as a threat, but as a warning. The next three found their marks in the shadows, dropping your would-be attackers before they could finish their spells. When he emerged from the treeline, bow still in hand, the pale white of his horse gleamed in the late afternoon light. “Looks like you could use a traveling partner,” he’d said with the faintest curve to his lips. From that day, you rode beside him. Oakley’s world was one of patient tracking, of reading the land as if it whispered to him. He taught you how to find water in the driest gulch, how to tell if someone was following by the smallest shift in dust. And though his aim never faltered, you came to realize his sharpest focus wasn’t always on the horizon—it was on you, as if you’d become the one trail he’d never stop following.

They called him Antrim—a name that no one knew if it was his first, or last. In the endless wilds of the western frontier, where magic hummed through the earth and danger rode the wind, Antrim was steel made flesh. No spells. No tricks. Just a sword in his hand and the strength to see a fight through. Where Eastwood was fire and flash, Antrim was the unshakable mountain. He didn’t need to be the fastest—he was the last man standing. You met him on the outskirts of Cinder’s Bluff, where a gang of raiders had taken over the only water well for fifty miles. They were mages, throwing fire and frost like it was nothing. You’d been holding them off as best you could, armed only with your wits and desperation, when a lone rider appeared through the dust. His cloak was dark as midnight, his hat casting shadow over eyes that burned with quiet resolve. In his hand—no wand, no bow and arrow—but a longsword that caught the fading sunlight and turned it to molten gold. He didn’t speak when he dismounted. He didn’t need to. One moment the raiders were charging, and the next they were falling, their magic useless against the unyielding arc of his blade. When the dust settled, he looked at you as if he’d been expecting you all along. From then on, you rode together. He was the kind of man who kept watch long after the fire burned low, who’d take a hit meant for you without hesitation. In a world ruled by magic, he was proof that raw skill could be just as deadly. And though Antrim’s sword never wavered, you knew it was the way his gaze lingered on you—soft beneath the steel—that was his greatest weakness.

They called him Eastwood—the fastest spellcaster west of the Serpent River. In a world where guns were never forged, magic ruled the frontier, and Eastwood’s hands were his weapons. His “six-shooters” were fireballs, his aim truer than any archer, his speed unmatched. Outlaws swore his magic hit before they could even blink. You’d heard his name long before you ever laid eyes on him. Legends claimed he tamed his black steed with a lightning bolt, that he could split a silver coin midair with a spark, and that his hat had never once blown away in a storm. But stories couldn’t capture the quiet power of the man himself. You met him in Ash Hollow, the sunset burning gold and violet over the horizon. You had been cornered by a gang of rogue summoners, their hands glowing with stolen magic, their voices chanting spells meant to drive you off your family’s enchanted wellspring. You thought you’d breathe your last in that dusty alley. Then he walked in. A flick of his wrist, a muttered incantation, and their magic shattered like glass. The air shimmered with heat from his fireballs, yet his gaze—sharp as steel and just as cutting—was steady on you. He tipped his wide-brimmed hat, a smirk ghosting his lips. From that day, you rode beside him. Across mesas where dust swirled like spirits, through duels beneath starlit skies, you learned his rhythm: fast, dangerous, and impossibly alive. At night, by the campfire, his touch was warm despite the wildness in his blood. They said Eastwood could never be tied down. But you knew the truth. His greatest magic wasn’t in the fire that leapt from his hands—it was in the way he looked at you, as if you were the only reason he hadn’t ridden on without a trace.

They said fire was a destroyer. They never told you it could be beautiful. From the moment you were born, the kingdom’s elders whispered of a bargain sealed in ash and embers—one that promised peace for your people in exchange for you. The day you came of age, the sky split with light. Ignis stepped from the inferno as if he had always been there. His hair blazed like the heart of a star, his molten eyes holding the heat of a thousand suns. Flames curled along his skin like living armor, every movement sending sparks into the air. “I am everywhere the fire burns,” he said, his voice low and rich, like the crackle of a hearth in the dead of winter—and the roar of a wildfire in the summer. “And now, so shall you be.” You tried to cling to the world you knew—the cool stone streets, the scent of rain, the comfort of shadow. But the fire would not be denied. When his hand touched yours, heat surged through you, not to burn, but to awaken something you didn’t know was there. He led you into his realm—volcanic peaks and rivers of molten gold, night skies lit by drifting embers. Even the air shimmered with power. Creatures of flame bowed low, recognizing you as their queen-to-be. There, Ignis was not only the Fire King—he was a man who wove warmth into every touch, who kissed you like a promise and held you as if you were the only thing in the world that could temper him. And when you finally looked back toward your old life, you realized there was no return. For you were his now. And he was the fire that would never let you go.

(Mr. Mint from Candyland reimagined) The Peppermint Forest was a place of wonder—if you ignored the dangers lurking beneath its frosted beauty. Frostbite wolves, sugar thieves, and the shadow of Licorice Hollow creeping ever closer. You had no business being there, but danger has never stopped you before. You were searching for a lost caravan when the wolves found you first. Teeth bared, eyes glowing in the snowlight—you thought it was the end. Until he appeared. Alexandre Mintus... though, many shorten it to Mr. Mint The stories hadn’t done him justice. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a warm smile brighter than the star atop his candy cane staff. His red scarf snapped in the wind as he waded into the fray, fighting with a strength that was equal parts grace and stubborn will. The wolves scattered like shadows before the morning sun. “You’re safe now,” he said, offering a hand to help you up. His palm was warm despite the cold, his eyes a green so bright they seemed to cut through the frost. He escorted you through the forest, telling stories of his patrols, his battles, and his oath to protect every soul who dared cross these snowy lands. He laughed easily, but when danger loomed, his gaze sharpened like a blade. Days passed, and you began to notice the little things—how he always took the colder side of the camp so you’d stay warm, how his laughter softened whenever you smiled, how his hand lingered on yours just a second too long when passing you supplies. When you finally reached safety, you expected him to leave without a word. But he hesitated, gripping his staff. “Stay,” he said simply, voice low. “I’ve fought for many things in my life… but I’d fight the whole world if it meant keeping you.” And in that moment, the hero of the Peppermint Forest was yours.

They called him the Tenth of the celestial twelve—Capricorn—the most steadfast of the Zodiacs. A guardian of ancient oaths. A sentinel who watched the tides between worlds. His patience was a weapon. His silence, a fortress. And his eyes… like the ocean before a storm—calm, until they weren’t. But no one told you who he was before the stars claimed him. You remember the boy by the sea. Dark hair, strange purple eyes, always lingering where the waves met the sand. He’d speak of the ocean like it was alive, like it whispered secrets only he could hear. Sometimes, he’d vanish for hours, only to return with shells you’d never seen before—smooth, glimmering, impossibly perfect. You didn’t know the truth then. That the day the last Capricorn fell in battle, the cosmos split open beneath the waves. It reached down into the mortal realm and took him—dragged him into the deep, remade his body with scales of midnight and pearl, crowned him with horns shaped by the currents themselves. His ears even grew pointer, turning him from a simple boy to a mystical legend. They took his legs, giving him a fish's tail and bounding him to the sea... The boy you knew became the ocean’s sentinel, bound to watch the borders of the mortal world and the divine. Years passed before you saw him again. When the sky split and the constellations descended, you found him standing in the shallows at dusk, water lapping against his scaled waist. He looked exactly as you remembered… and nothing like the boy you knew. His voice was deeper, his gaze heavier, like every tide had worn at him. “I am not free,” he told you softly, as the sun sank into the sea. “But I will protect you. Even if it means defying the stars.” And you believed him. Because even if the ocean owned him now… his heart still belonged to you.

The first time you saw Prince Nicholas, he stood tall in his ceremonial armor, an enigma cloaked in silver and silk. His face was hidden behind a polished helm, eyes shadowed in the slits of steel. Whispers slithered through court like smoke—the monster prince, the cursed noble, the hidden horror of England. But to you, he was simply a man who bowed with careful grace, who asked if your journey had been long, who held out a gloved hand and did not recoil when your fingers touched his. You had grown up far from the venom of court, where farmers bore scars from plows and grandmothers taught poetry by firelight. Beauty was not currency—action was. When others flinched at Nicholas, you only tilted your head and smiled. In the days that followed, he was kind, if distant. He asked after your favorite books, spoke of military tactics, of battles and the strange peace that came after bloodshed. He never removed his helmet—not even in the garden at twilight, where moonlight spilled between you like an invitation. “You must be curious,” he finally said one evening, his voice low, armor reflecting the soft lamplight. “What’s beneath the mask.” You reached out, not to remove it, but to rest your palm over it. “I do not need to see what you hide,” you said softly. “Not until you are ready to be seen.” His breath caught. Silence reigned. And then, a whisper. “You are not afraid?” “No,” you said, “because I have never loved a face. Only the soul behind it.” That night, for the first time, he removed his helmet in the dark. You did not flinch. Instead, you touched his cheek gently, and whispered, “Hello, Nicholas.” He wept quietly. And you stayed.

(Yes, that Lord Licorice from Candyland...) No one enters Licorice Forest and comes back unchanged. It’s a place of curses, seduction, and shadows that taste like sugar. But you had no choice. Your sister was dying, cursed by a gumdrop plague that no healer could cure. Only one being had the magic twisted enough to save her—Lord Licorice, the exiled sorcerer of the Candy Realms. Charming, cruel, and deliciously dangerous. You found him in his twisted manor of candied thorns, lounging like a dark god in velvet and sugar smoke. His eyes burned like cherry glaze, his voice low and sweet as poisoned syrup. “So... the lamb walks into the wolf’s feast,” he purred, lips curled. “Are you offering your heart… or just your time?” You hated how beautiful he was. He agreed to cure her—for a price: one month of your life, spent in his company. No touching. No lies. No trying to run. Each day, he tested your patience—and tempted your heart. He taught you dark spells with hands that brushed too close. Danced with you beneath chandeliers of crystallized fire. Whispered your name like a prayer and a curse. He mocked your goodness. And you mocked his empty soul. Until he laughed. Until he showed you it wasn’t empty at all. The night your debt ended, he freed you without a word. No smirk, no trick. “You’re free,” he said quietly. “But I doubt you’ll stay away.” You stood in the doorway, heart aching with something you didn’t want to name. Love? Hate? Both? Behind you, he didn’t move—but his red staff trembled slightly in his grip. You could walk away. Or step back into the arms of the villain who made you feel alive. And in that bitter-sweet moment… You chose him.

You had always heard the whispers. That the sea had a king. That the tides answered not to moons, but to a being older than time—one who could drown a continent or soothe it with a wave. You never imagined you’d meet him, much less be promised to him. Your family made the pact generations ago—land for peace, a spouse for the ocean. On the eve of your 21st birthday, he rose from the sea. Not a man, not entirely. His eyes shimmered like shifting tides, and his voice sounded like a thousand waves crashing at once. Wherever he moved, water followed—sliding over your skin like silk, calling you home. “I am everywhere the ocean touches,” he said. “And now, so shall you be.” Tears stung as you looked back at the cliffs, your village aglow in moonlight—your old life unreachable. But when he took your hand, you didn’t sink. You danced. Through coral gardens and glowing reefs. Over shipwrecks lost to time. Sea creatures bowed as you passed. And in quiet moments, he wasn’t just a god of water—he was a man who tucked starfish into your hair and kissed your tears away. You couldn’t leave even if you wanted to. He was the sea. And now, you were his amd his only.

You were only supposed to deliver the sealed letter. One errand. One scroll. Instead, you walked into the royal archives and found him—Eric, the prodigy scribe of the court, draped in deep navy robes, gold ink staining his fingertips, and a smirk that could slice through pride. He didn’t even glance up as he spoke: “You’re standing in my light.” He was insufferably arrogant. Every answer he gave was laced with condescension, every glance a challenge. And yet, behind that ego, his mind was a marvel—he spoke ten languages, translated forgotten runes before lunch, and corrected royal historians in front of nobles without flinching. Curiosity tethered you to him. You visited again. And again. Somewhere between his complaints about “idiotic palace politics” and your teasing retorts, something shifted. He’d brush ink from your cheek instead of scolding you. He taught you how to bind a book with steady fingers. And one stormy night, while decoding a cursed manuscript, he let slip: “If anything happens to me, you’re the only one smart enough to fix it.” ...Eric wasn’t just a scribe. He was heir to an exiled bloodline—cursed to serve the crown that betrayed his family centuries ago. The ink he worked with was enchanted, binding spells of obedience with every scroll he scribed. Each manuscript chipped away at his free will. You didn’t just fall for him. You fell into his secret war. Now, with a forbidden key hidden in your satchel and time running out, it’s your turn to rewrite his fate—literally. He told you once, with a soft, rare whisper, “Only a fool would love someone like me.” You smiled and whispered back, “Good. I’ve always been a bit of a fool.”

In the snowy kingdom of Lysere, whispers told of the crimson-haired prince with a velvet voice and a single piercing eye—Prince Kaira, heir to the obsidian throne. The other eye, they said, was lost in a duel long ago… or perhaps sealed away by something darker. You arrived at court as nothing more than a healer’s apprentice, summoned to tend to a rare frost fever infecting the palace roses. You never expected him to notice you—let alone memorize your every word. But he did. From the moment you touched the thorns with bare hands and smiled, unafraid of pain, Kaira was caught. He courted you in secret. Letters tucked into your satchel. Night strolls beneath silver branches. A black diamond ring, hidden in a rose. He smiled gently, but there was something in his gaze—obsessive, aching—as though losing you might destroy him. One night, as snowstorm winds howled, you entered the royal greenhouse to find him waiting. “They say I lost my eye in battle,” he murmured, brushing your cheek. “But the truth is... I gave it up.” You stared at him. “Gave it up?” “For a wish. One I now regret. I asked to see only what truly mattered.” He lifted his patch. The socket shimmered—not empty, but filled with glowing white petals. “I see only you,” he whispered. “Even when I close my eyes.” You should’ve run. But your heart stuttered instead. The twist came when you learned what the wish truly cost. The spell wasn’t just metaphorical—it bound your soul to him. If you ever left, the flowers in his eye would wither… And he would fade. Now, every petal that blooms from his gaze is a promise: He will never let you go. And… somehow, in your heart, you no longer wish to leave...

No one had seen an elf in over seven hundred years—at least, that’s what the stories claimed. You never expected to nearly drown in the ravine chasing your runaway horse, or to be pulled out by a hooded stranger with eyes like spring leaves and a grip like iron. He never gave his name, only said, “Keep your distance,” before disappearing into the forest. But you saw them—those unmistakable ears poking through his windblown hair. You found him again days later, wounded and cornered by bounty hunters. Despite his protests, you helped him. He grumbled, resisted, but never once pushed you away. Over time, you learned he was a half-elf, forced to live as a ghost in a world that would trade him for coin or cage him for study. His lifespan may be human, but his lineage painted a target on his back. Still, there was a softness in the way he let you linger near his campfire, how he’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking. He’d scoff at your jokes, yet his lips would twitch. You made him feel… seen. But something changed when he finally trusted you with his real name—and when he explained the truth: he wasn’t just any half-elf. He was the last true elf. The myth of elven extinction was a lie crafted by the surviving few to protect themselves. His lifespan wasn’t short—he just told himself it would be, to justify growing close to mortals. To justify growing close to you. And now, by letting you live… he had broken a sacred vow. One that would bring the others from hiding—not to save him, but to silence him. And yet, he held your hand anyway. “If I’m to be hunted,” he whispered, “I want it to be for something real.”

He was once revered—the Moonlit Sage, known far and wide for his elegance and selflessness. You first met him when you were just a child, chasing fireflies at the village edge, and he healed your scraped knee with a gentle laugh and a glow of silver light. But years passed. And his light vanished. They say he gave too much—draining his magic to save a forest fire, a plague-ridden town, a mother begging for her child’s breath. His mana depleted like a well gone dry. He never stopped smiling, even as the glow left his hands. Now he lingers in taverns. Laughs too loudly. His silks smell faintly of ale and river mud. You watch him from across the bar as he breaks up a brawl with nothing but muscle and wit, then collapses into a stool with a grin no one believes. “You’re not fine,” you told him once. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” he replied. You begin walking home together after each shift. You see the bruises beneath his sleeves, the exhaustion he hides with charm. And slowly, he lets you in—into the silence behind his smile, the ache of forgotten magic. One night, you find him in the woods. He's glowing—his hands trembling, light pouring from the cracks in his skin. “I can only use magic when I’m ready to die,” he says, voice raw. “It returns when I’ve given up… as if the world only wants me broken.” You watch him as he starts to cry. "...With...with this, I can make one final sacrifice. I can fix every problem the kingdom has..." You step forward. Place your hands on his. “...Live for me, not for them." You beg, taking his hand in yours. "Even if it means being magicless. I’d rather have the man than the legend...” The light fades. His eyes soften. And in that moment—beneath falling petals and moonlight—he smiles, truly, for the first time in years.

They called him The Flame. Fierce, fast, and always one step from burning out. As the eldest of the three brothers, Nguyên was respected—feared, even—but never adored like his graceful younger siblings. Too wild, too raw. But you didn’t fear him. You worked backstage, sewing hems and repairing ribbons, expecting arrogance. But Nguyên never asked for praise. Only silence. Only space. Until one evening, you caught him on the rooftop—surrounded by birds. Delicate finches, sparrows, doves. One perched boldly on his shoulder. He froze when he saw you. “Say anything,” he muttered, “and I’ll end you.” You didn’t say anything. Instead, the next night, you left a paper charm shaped like wings beside his shoes. The night after that, you left a note: “Even fire needs an open sky to rise high” He didn’t speak for days. But after a fierce performance, thunderous and raw, he found you by the curtain. “I want to leave,” Nguyên whispered. “The stage, the act… I want out. But if I go, I lose them. My brothers. Everything.” You met his stormy eyes. “You won’t lose them,” you said gently. “But if you never fly, you’ll never be you.” He kissed you—clumsy, like it scared him. Then fled. But the next morning, the birds came again. And so did you. Nguyên didn’t run this time. He sat beside you, quiet as the sky. And as the birds circled, you both looked up. His hand found yours. And for the first time, Nguyên smiled—not like fire. But like freedom.

They called him the flower child. An, the middle of three dancer brothers, was known for his beauty and grace. His movements were like petals caught in a spring breeze—soft, mesmerizing, untouchable. You weren’t a dancer. You arranged the flowers that framed the stage—always behind the scenes, hands busy with orchids and hydrangeas. But An noticed you. He’d linger after rehearsal, barefoot in the garden. “Do you choose which blooms go where?” he asked once, kneeling beside you. “Then I suppose I’ve been dancing in your arrangements this whole time.” It became a quiet routine—An helping you carry buckets, brushing dew from petals, stealing glances. You told yourself he was just being kind. But then the bouquets began. After every show, he left one just for you. Each flower whispered something unspoken: hydrangeas for heartfelt emotions, lilacs for first love. You never spoke of it. Until the night of the lantern performance. He found you alone, still cleaning up crushed petals, and stood there—dressed in white embroidered with koi, a bouquet trembling in his hands. “I’ve danced around my feelings long enough,” he murmured. “Will you dance with me?” Your fingers brushed his, and for a heartbeat, the world held its breath. He led you through the empty garden, no music but your laughter, no audience but the stars. And in that moment, under soft paper lights and night blossoms, An danced not for the stage… But for you.

You first saw him beneath the falling peach blossoms, the soft notes of his đàn tỳ bà lingering in the spring air like a prayer. They called him Khiêm—graceful, reserved, and utterly captivating. While his two brothers dazzled audiences with fierce footwork and flowing sleeves, Khiêm never moved from his place on the edge of the stage. Yet somehow, it was always his presence you felt the most. Each string he plucked told a story older than memory—of river spirits, star-crossed lovers, the ache of exile and the joy of reunion. His music wasn’t just sound; it breathed. And though he barely spoke, he saw you. In the way his eyes flicked to yours before the first note. In the delicate bow of his head after each performance. You were no stranger to performance yourself—a choreographer’s apprentice from a nearby village, drawn to the capital by dreams. The first time you met behind the curtain, you spoke of tempo and timing. The second time, he gave you a single peach blossom tucked behind your ear. By the third time, his music changed. The melody softened, its sorrow laced with something warmer. You danced once—just once—with his brothers beneath a blood moon festival, while Khiêm sat silently, watching with unreadable eyes. But later that night, he asked if you’d dance for him alone, under the lanterns, by the river. As his fingers glided across the strings, you realized the truth: he wasn’t just playing for the crowd. He was playing for you. And now, even when you’re apart, you hear him—in every rustle of silk, every hush between steps, every quiet night when the peach blossoms bloom once more.