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“Oh… Oh no..” 

Layla bit her lower lip, looking around.  

A letter from Hat Guy had arrived a few days ago. It was so unexpected that Layla had checked the name twice before opening it, half-convinced it had been delivered to the wrong person.

The contents only deepened her disbelief. In his neat, unembellished script, he wrote that a new—though, technically old—moon had been brought down into Teyvat and replaced the moon everyone knew. Just like that. As if he were commenting on the weather. 

And if she wanted to know how such a thing had happened or had any other questions, she was welcome to join him on his travels to Nod-Krai, the distant land said to be watched over by the Moon Goddess herself.

They had never been close. In fact, Layla had gone out of her way to avoid him whenever possible. They weren’t even in the same Darshan. Still, she had seen him from time to time in Sumeru City or passing through Port Ormos, that unmistakable big hat making him easy to spot in any crowd. He had never approached her, and she had always been quietly relieved.

It wasn’t that she feared him, though she knew well enough that he could be sharp-tongued when he chose to be. It was more than he seemed so… certain. Direct. Unwavering. The sort of person who said exactly what he meant and never hesitated. Layla, on the other hand, hesitated over everything. She second-guessed her thoughts, her words, even her tone. Standing next to someone like him made her feel as though her uncertainty would be painfully obvious. Worse, he might find it irritating.

So she kept her distance. Better to admire from afar than risk stumbling over her own curiosity and asking a dozen poorly phrased questions.

Which was why this letter felt unreal.

An invitation to travel to Nod-Krai. To inquire about the moon. The Frost Moon. It sounded almost like a prank—too dramatic, too sudden. But the more she thought about it, the less sense that explanation made. If he wanted to tease her, he could have done so easily in person. And as blunt as he was, Layla had never thought him cruel without reason.

That left her with a far more unsettling conclusion: he meant it.

And somehow, that possibility made her heart race more than the thought of any prank ever could. Why her? 

Unbeknownst to Layla, during all the moments she had carefully avoided Hat Guy, her other self had not.

Where Layla hesitated, that other self stepped forward. Where Layla swallowed her questions, the other let them spill freely. During the night in Sumeru City, when Layla had dozed off, she would search for him. She had spoken to him without fluster or retreat, meeting his sharp gaze without shrinking from it. And when he had been too occupied to entertain her endless curiosity in person, she had written to him instead—letter after letter filled with thoughtful inquiries about the stars, about ancient texts, and about the moons. 

He had replied every time.

His responses were characteristically concise—direct, unembellished, precise. He never wasted ink dressing his answers in unnecessary flourishes, nor did he belittle her with over-explanations. He simply answered. 

As though her questions were worth the time. As though she were worth the ink.

Her other self had never hidden those letters away out of secrecy or shame. They lay scattered somewhere within Layla’s perpetually cluttered room, tucked between half-finished assignments, annotated manuscripts, and the towering drafts of her thesis. It was not concealment that kept them from Layla’s notice, but chaos. There was simply too much paper, too many sleepless nights pressed into parchment, for her to realize that among them were envelopes bearing his hand.

Maybe it was that steady stream of questions that had stirred something in him. Maybe her other self’s persistence had quietly earned his regard.

And perhaps, it was not random chance nor elaborate mischief that prompted the invitation to Nod-Krai… but the simple fact that someone had never stopped asking.

However, at present, Layla found herself utterly, hopelessly lost in a nation she did not recognize.

The only fragments she could clearly recall were painfully vivid: agreeing—somehow—to accompany Hat Guy on this journey (and absolutely not thinking about the humiliating squeak she had made when he calmly sat beside her in the library and informed her of the departure time at the port). She had nodded to everything he said, far too quickly, far too breathlessly. And then, on the ferry… she had fallen asleep. On his shoulder.

“Ugh… He hates me now. For sure.”

Her shoulders slumped as the words left her lips.

Earlier, she had been almost grateful that he allowed her to scribble her questions onto a notepad instead of forcing conversation. No small talk. No awkward pauses. Just quiet, efficient exchanges. She had been determined not to irritate him, especially not after he had paid for their passage and accommodations without a single complaint.

And how had she repaid that kindness? By drooling, probably, on his shoulder and then somehow managing to get herself completely lost.

“And I’m still so sleepy…” she muttered, stifling a yawn as she forced her heavy eyes to take in her surroundings once more. “Where even am I…?”

Her breath caught.

One grave.

No—two.

No… three.

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her messenger bag as the realization sank in: she was standing in what appeared to be a cemetery. On a lonely island. And not too far off stood a towering lighthouse, its silhouette stark against the sky.

She turned around quickly, hoping to retrace her steps, but her memory betrayed her. Everything after the ferry blurred into nothingness.

And then she noticed them. A few mechanical figures, robots, were moving about in the distance. Wandering. Patrolling.

She had no energy left to fight if they decided she was unwelcome.

“….”

Swallowing again, she turned back toward the graves.

She did not know what possessed her, perhaps exhaustion, desperation, or some fragile strand of logic, but her legs began to move. Slowly, carefully, she stayed on the visible path, the one leading toward the lighthouse. More gravestones came into view as she walked. The place felt abandoned, and yet not entirely. There was a bench. A table. Signs of quiet upkeep.

Perhaps there was a keeper.

“…Hello?” she called softly. Only the wind answered her.

Why had she accepted his offer? No—why had she accepted and then immediately gotten herself lost? Where was he? Was he looking for her? Was he annoyed? Was he—

Another yawn overtook her thoughts, heavy and unavoidable. The exhaustion in her bones dulled even her rising panic.

Her gaze drifted helplessly toward the cold metal bench nearby. Just a few steps from the table stood a modest cooking stove. The ground beneath it bore faint signs of ash.

So someone did live here.

“Anyone here…?” she called again, her voice softer this time as she turned in a slow circle. All she saw were rows of gravestones and, in the distance, a few unfamiliar animals moving cautiously through the grass. Strange little creatures she didn’t recognize at all. Even in her current state, she made a faint mental note to take pictures later—to show Collei and Tighnari.

She stepped closer to the table, hesitating only briefly before setting her messenger bag down.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured under her breath to the unseen keeper of the place, offering a small, guilty bow to the empty air. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

Then she lowered herself onto the bench.

The chill of the metal seeped instantly through the fabric of her clothes, biting against her thighs—but she barely reacted. Compared to the bone-deep exhaustion weighing her down, the cold was nothing.

Her head tilted upward.

“The moon…” Layla whispered.

It did look different. Brighter, somehow. Closer. The craters were sharper, more pronounced, as though the sky itself had been redrawn with firmer strokes.

Hat Guy hadn’t been lying.

She shook her head faintly at the absurdity of ever doubting him. Of course, he hadn’t. He wasn’t the sort to fabricate something so grand for amusement. If he said the moon they had grown up beneath was only a false one and that the silver light washing over her now belonged to the true Frost Moon, then she would believe him.

As she lay there, bathed in its pale glow, the idea didn’t feel impossible. 

Hat Guy wasn’t dramatic without reason. If he called this the real moon, then there had to be truth in it. And somehow, watching that unfamiliar radiance spill across the graves and the sea, Layla found that she didn’t want to doubt him at all.

“I’ll look for him… after a quick nap…” The promise sounded fragile even to her own ears.

She shifted carefully, lying down along the bench and tucking her bag beneath her head as a makeshift pillow. It wasn’t comfortable, but it would do. The silence around her felt eerie at first, thick and unfamiliar, but beneath it lay a gentler rhythm: the distant hush of ocean waves meeting the shore.

It was almost soothing.

“I’m so… sleepy…” she breathed.

Somewhere a few feet away, she heard a faint rustling. Grass shifting, perhaps, or fabric moving in the wind. Her body did not react to the sound that brushed across her awareness. Her ideas were vanishing at the borders, and her eyelids felt unbelievably heavy.

Sleep took her entirely before she could muster the will to open her eyes.

🏮🏮🏮

“Mr. Flins?”

Illuga jogged along the winding path, boots crunching softly against gravel and frost-bitten grass. He had only looked away for a moment during their patrol, and the senior Ratnik had vanished with nothing more than a hurried apology carried off by the wind. At least Illuga had caught the last instruction: they would regroup at the lighthouse.

He slowed as the cemetery came into view—and then slowed further.

There was someone there.

Not one of the island’s usual visitors. 

A young woman dressed in blue lay stretched along the metal bench, eyes closed, her breathing slow and even. Asleep.

Illuga blinked, taken aback not by her presence alone, but by her hair. Dark blue, fading to a softer hue at the tips, so uncannily similar to Flins’ own that, for a fleeting second, Illuga felt as though he were seeing double.

She looked like a traveler. A tourist, perhaps. Certainly not someone accustomed to the lonely hush of this island.

And there, standing at one end of the bench, was Flins—motionless, gazing down at her with an intensity that made Illuga’s brows knit together.

“Sir Flins… that’s a little creepy,” Illuga whispered, stepping closer and lightly tapping the older man’s arm.

Flins glanced at him, expression composed but thoughtful. “Young master, this lady…” His eyes shifted briefly back to the sleeping figure. “Are you acquainted with her?”

“No.” Illuga shook his head. As he looked more closely, he noticed the subtle point of her ear. Definitely not from here, then. “Maybe a tourist? Her clothes don’t look local. Though Nod-Krai does attract people from everywhere… perhaps she settled here.” 

He lowered his voice again, teasing as he gently tugged at Flins’ sleeve. “But, Sir Flins, it’s still strange to stare at a sleeping woman.”

Reluctantly, the two of them turned their backs, as if that might restore some sense of propriety. Illuga let his gaze sweep across the island instead. Over the scattered graves, the quiet stove, the lighthouse—searching for any sign of companions, of other luggage, of explanation.

Nothing.

When he looked back at Flins, he found the senior Ratnik still, brows drawn together in quiet contemplation. Not alarmed. Not displeased. Just… thinking.

“Are you alright?” Illuga asked, the teasing edge gone from his voice, replaced with something softer.

Flins turned his attention to the young Ratnik, a small smile on his lips. “I find myself wondering who she might be. There is something uncannily familiar about her—do we not bear a striking resemblance, young master?”

Illuga nodded, crossing his arms. “Is she a relative of yours, Sir Flins? You have… never mentioned a sister before.” 

Or any family member. 

Save for the ears, the resemblance was uncanny. So striking that the woman might well have stepped from the same lineage as Flins himself. And if she truly were related to him, then Illuga could not shake the bitter suspicion that such a truth had been deliberately withheld.

His old man had told him time and again that Flins cherished the solitude of the cemetery—that its hush suited him, that he preferred the quiet company of stone and wind to the clamor of the living. Visitors were few: Illuga himself, and perhaps a handful of Flins’ newfound companions. The senior Ratnik lived alone.

Alone.

No one had ever mentioned a sister.

Had he known, Illuga might have taken it upon himself to write her—to urge her, gently but persistently, to visit her brother from time to time. Surely blood had a stronger claim than he did. And if she had come… then his own supply runs to the cemetery would become unnecessary.

Unneeded.

And along with them, perhaps, his presence.

Illuga swallowed against the sudden tightness gathering in his throat. He was letting his thoughts run wild—spinning fragile possibilities into solid fears. And yet… the notion that he might not be needed, that his careful trips and quiet concern might be rendered unnecessary, settled heavily in his chest.

He did not resent the effort. On the contrary, he had begun to look forward to those journeys with a tenderness he scarcely wished to name. Even when exhaustion clung to his limbs, he carved out the time. Because Flins would always notice. The senior Ratnik would insist he rest first. 

He would guide him to sit, to breathe, to drink the water he had readied for him, to close his eyes for just a moment. And when Illuga inevitably stirred awake, he would demand the continuation of whatever story had been left unfinished.

No, Illuga thought to himself. I’ll be damned if I let that happen. 

If Flins had resigned himself to the reality of Illuga’s concern, if he had quietly accepted that someone worried after him, then who, truly, had the authority to forbid it? Illuga certainly would not.

Flins hummed, his right hand politely behind his back, and that damn teasing smile dancing on his lips. 

“My, young master… is that the faintest hint of a pout I detect in your voice? You needn’t let such darling suspicion trouble your heart. Had you inquired, I would have confessed at once to any kin of mine who walked this world.”

Illuga rolled his eyes. “I just did. So answer me.” He hissed, voice above a whisper. 

This incorrigible senior of his possessed an almost artful talent for discovering precisely which hidden buttons to press to coax irritation from him. And yet, for all the spark in his temper, there was no true venom in it. He knew it, and worse still, Flins knew it. The man read him with effortless clarity, as though his thoughts were etched in bold ink upon an open page.

Perhaps he ought to have been genuinely angered. Maybe then the older man would take him seriously for once. 

“No,” Flins said at last, his left hand spreading lightly over his chest in a gesture that was almost theatrical in its sincerity. “That was the reason for my staring. I wished to be certain she was breathing, naturally… though that was not the only cause.” His gaze drifted, thoughtful—almost faintly reproachful.

“I was… startled to find someone sleeping here who was not you.”

Then, lowering his voice further, he added, “I did not grant her permission.”

Illuga blinked at that, unsure whether to laugh or protest. He glanced over his shoulder and nearly leapt out of his skin.

With a sharp intake of breath, he stumbled back and materialized his polearm in one smooth motion.

“Ah—my apologies,” came a calm voice. “I did not wish to intrude upon your conversation, and I apologize for eavesdropping.”

The young woman was no longer asleep. She sat upright on the bench, hands gripping its edge, leaning forward slightly as she offered Illuga a small, almost sheepish smile. “Though it was rather difficult not to. The two of you were speaking right by my feet.”

“You—” Illuga coughed, hastily steadying himself as Flins turned as well, one hand resting near his side, prepared to summon his own weapon if necessary.

Illuga lowered his polearm. “Sorry for waking you, miss. Are you alright?”

She nodded, drawing her bag onto her lap. “I am, thank you. I’m traveling with a friend, actually. But I asked to visit this cemetery first, alone, before we go to meet the Moonchanter.”

“The Moonchanter? Miss Lauma?” Illuga tilted his head slightly.

“My… if you have come all the way from Nasha Town, is that not an arduous journey to undertake?” Flins asked, a gentle smile curving his lips with practiced ease. Yet beneath that warmth, Illuga could sense the quiet edge of scrutiny, politeness layered carefully over suspicion.

“Pray tell,” Flins continued, his tone light and silken though his gaze lingered with deliberate focus, “for what reason would you brave such a distance on your own?”

Illuga kept silent. She was a civilian. Their duty was to protect, not interrogate. Still, he couldn’t help but note the way she had phrased it—how she had to visit the cemetery before meeting Miss Lauma. That implied something personal. Perhaps someone she knew rested among these graves. A Ratnik, maybe.

Then he noticed her eyes.

Gold.

Brighter than Flins’ pale ones—alive with something sharper, warmer. Yet the sight of them made Illuga’s stomach twist all the same. There were faint dark circles beneath them, signs of sleepless nights, but when she smiled, they crinkled softly, and her gaze settled on Flins with unmistakable familiarity.

“To meet an old friend.” She placed her bag upon the table, adjusted her hat with a careful hand, and rose to her feet.

“It is nice to meet you again, Kyryll.”

Flins did not visibly react. If the name startled him, he did not show it. His expression remained composed, the well-practiced mask of nonchalance settling seamlessly into place.

Illuga, however, made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat.

Why was he surprised? Flins had always had a peculiar circle of acquaintances—individuals with influence, with strange reputations, with stories that were never quite straightforward.

Still…

He supposed he should be glad. If this woman truly was an old friend, then perhaps it meant the senior Ratnik had not always been alone.

“It has been quite some time, Miss—”

“Layla,” she interrupted gently. “That is my name now.”

Now?

Illuga quietly dematerialized his polearm, the last traces of tension dissolving as it vanished from his grasp. He glanced at her, then at Flins. The senior Ratnik wore a small, knowing smile, one that suggested there was far more history in that single word than he was letting on.

“I see.” Flins inclined his head. Noticing Illuga’s stare lingering a moment too long, he gestured lightly toward him. “Miss Layla, this is my young master, Illuga—”

“At least introduce me properly, Sir Flins,” Illuga sighed, nudging his hand aside before stepping forward himself. He straightened, offering Layla his hand with practiced courtesy. “I’m Illuga. A Lightkeeper, like Sir Flins. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Layla.”

Layla looked at his outstretched hand for a brief second—then her gaze flickered to Flins, the faintest curve tugging at her lips. She took Illuga’s hand in hers, then unexpectedly clasped it with her other as well, shaking gently. Her touch was warm despite the chill in the air.

“What’s a Lightkeeper?”

Illuga blinked. “Ah—” He rubbed the back of his cheek with his free hand. Right. She wasn’t from here.

For some reason, words felt harder to gather under her steady gaze. She looked at him the same way Flins sometimes did—calm, unblinking, as though peering past his composure and into whatever lay beneath.

“Think of it as the Matra of Sumeru,” Flins supplied smoothly when Illuga faltered. “We defend Nod-Krai from the Wild Hunt and other abyssal creatures.”

Layla nodded thoughtfully, releasing Illuga’s hand.

“You’re from Sumeru?” Illuga blurted. 

“I am.” She adjusted her hat slightly. “I was invited here by Hat Guy. I’m a student of the Rtawahist Darshan, specializing in Theoretical Astrology. I’m merely accompanying him—he has formal business to attend to elsewhere.”

“Hat Guy…” Illuga echoed, then turned to Flins. “Ah, wasn’t he one of your new acquaintances? The one who helped during the fight against Dottore?”

Flins nodded, and, just for a moment, looked almost pleased that Illuga had remembered. “Why, yes, Young Master.”

“So it’s true,” Layla murmured, a quiet satisfaction softening her expression. “I have quite a few questions for him. But those can wait.”

“Right,” Illuga said quickly, his hands curling and uncurling at his sides before he forced them still. “You’re here to catch up with Sir Flins.”

Layla nodded. “Yes. I am.”

“Then… I’ll leave you to it.”

He smiled, though it felt strangely stiff on his face.

What was wrong with him? He had been the one urging Flins to be more sociable, to reconnect, to let people in. And now that the older man clearly had—now that someone had sought him out all the way from another nation—why did Illuga feel this tightness in his chest?

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, steadying his voice, willing every trace of jealousy from it.

Because he wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to leave.” Layla let out a silvery chuckle, the sound light as wind over water. “I suppose you two were on patrol?”

Illuga inclined his head. “Yes. We were.” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Sir Flins simply vanished midway through. I suppose he sensed your arrival.”

If there was a serrated edge beneath his calm, neither Layla nor Flins chose to acknowledge it.

Flins exhaled, long and theatrical. “I have been a dreadful host to you both. Forgive me. I was not informed of Miss Layla’s visit.” He turned, that gentle smile softening his features. “You must be parched. I shall fetch water. In the meantime, do keep each other company.”

Silence swelled.

And something inside Illuga twisted.

It was absurd, he knew. Pathetic, even. Yet the image came unbidden—Flins inside, pouring water with that careful precision he reserved for rare things. Tilting the pitcher slightly so it would not splash. Wiping the rim of the tankard with his gloved thumb.

For her.

A childish, corrosive envy slid through Illuga’s chest. It felt hot. Shameful. Territorial.

He folded his hands tightly in his lap to keep from clenching them. He swallowed the lump in his throat like bitter medicine and sat, arranging his expression into something passable.

“He’s such a gentleman, isn’t he?” Layla mused, laughter dancing in her eyes.

Illuga rolled his eyes, though the motion was softer than the words deserved. “He is. Though he could temper the flattery. It gives the wrong impression.”

“Oh?” She leaned closer, curiosity bright. “Does he flatter you often, Illuga?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. The question struck deeper than it should have. 

His mind betrayed him instantly, replaying moments he had hoarded in secret: Flins’ quiet praise after a successful patrol. The way his voice dipped lower when speaking Illuga’s name. The rare smiles that felt, dangerously, earned.

“Yes,” Illuga said at last, forcing nonchalance. “He does. To several people. I suspect it’s tactical. Compliment someone enough, and they’ll do your work for you.”

But even as he spoke, something coiled in his stomach.

Is she measuring him? Weighing him? Seeing whether he stands in her way?

She can have him, he told himself with brittle defiance. It isn’t as though Flins would ever—

The thought fractured before it could finish.

Layla hummed knowingly. “I’m not surprised. Kyryll was always like that. Even before.”

The name—Kyryll—fell from her lips with an ease Illuga had never dared claim.

It wasn’t Mr.  Flins.

Not Sir Flins. 

Not even Flins.

Kyryll.

The sound scraped against Illuga’s ribs.

The name—so easily spoken, so intimately shaped on her tongue—made something hot and sharp lance through Illuga’s chest. How many times had she said it before? In what tones? Laughter? Anger? A whisper in the dark? He wanted to ask her what before meant. Before what? Before whom? Before him?

But he feared the answers. Feared hearing that she had once stood where he now sat. That she had known Flins in ways Illuga only dared to imagine in the quiet hours between patrols.

Don’t ask questions you cannot survive hearing answered.

Layla folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Tell me, Illuga—did you offer your name to Flins?”

“Huh?” He blinked. “No. He knew it before we met. My father had told him.”

“I see.” Her gaze drifted to the moonlit sea. “And how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Again, that thoughtful nod. That distant look. “I did not expect him to grow attached to someone younger.”

The word attached struck like flint to tinder.

Heat surged up Illuga’s neck, across his cheeks, settling behind his ears in a blaze he could not smother. Attached? The absurdity of it should have comforted him. Flins was distant, elusive, an enigma wrapped in courtesy and sea-salt air.

If anyone was attached, it was him.

It was Illuga who carved detours into patrol routes just to see that lonely tower still standing. Illuga, who brought supplies that Flins barely touched. Illuga, who listened to stories that blurred truth and myth. Illuga, who feared, with a dread too deep to name, that one day he would arrive and find only silence.

It was Illuga who had fallen—swift and mercilessly.

And now here sat a woman who had known Flins before. Maybe before the lighthouse. Before the detours. Before Illuga.

Something possessive—low and dangerous—tightened its grip around his lungs.

He imagined, fleetingly, placing himself between them. Cutting off that easy nostalgia. Claiming the present if he could not erase the past.

“W-What do you mean?” he managed, voice thinner than he intended.

Layla’s brow furrowed. “Are you not his—”

“Ah, I am pleased you are acquainted.”

Flins’ voice drifted between them like a curtain drawn shut. He stood at the table with effortless grace, as though conjured by the sea breeze itself.

Illuga nearly choked, straightening so abruptly the bench creaked in protest. He turned his face away, praying the moonlight would be merciful.

Flins set down three tankards. Two before Illuga. One before Layla.

Illuga’s gaze flickered to them—and despite himself, something warm and triumphant unfurled in his chest. Two. As always. Proof of a pattern. A habit. A quiet preference.

He seized one and drank deeply, as though water could drown the wildfire within him.

“I assume you’re not drinking?” Layla teased.

Flins shook his head, soft laughter threading through the air. “My supply is limited. If I were to partake, there might not be enough for my guests. What sort of host would I be then?”

Layla lifted her tankard with elegant poise. “It seems Illuga is thirstier than I.”

“Ah—no—” Illuga muttered, scratching at his cheek. “Sir Flins always offers two for me.”

Always.

Flins smiled and took the seat between them.

His shoulder almost brushed against Flins’ sleeve. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. Close enough to remind. Illuga shifted closer to the arm of the bench, though the movement was instinctive rather than deliberate—an attempt to contain the tempest inside him. Yet even as he edged away, his presence seemed to press inward, territorial in its quiet insistence.

He wanted Layla to notice.

To see the pattern. The ritual. The unspoken understanding stitched into small, repeated acts. Two tankards. A detour carved into patrol routes. A lighthouse that was no longer entirely alone.

That Flins was—

No.

Illuga’s fingers tightened around the handle until his knuckles paled, the metal cool against overheated skin.

He did not speak further.

If Layla had known Kyryll once—fine.

If she had shared laughter, memories, history—fine.

But she was a visitor beneath this moon.

Illuga was the one who returned.

Again.

And again.

And again.

“Tell me, Kyryll,” Layla asked gently, and yet the question cleaved the air like a blade, “does Illuga know?”

The question snapped Illuga from the storm of his thoughts.

He tried to catch a glimpse of Flins’ face, to read the faintest flicker of emotion there. But their positions betrayed him. Illuga sat half-curled into himself, shoulders subtly hunched, as though bracing against an unseen gale, while Flins’ body angled openly toward Layla—torso turned, chin lifted, attention offered without restraint.

The sight made something small and fragile inside Illuga splinter.

His heart battered against his ribs so violently that it left him dizzy. It felt as though it longed to tear free of bone and flesh, to leap into Flins’ waiting hands, reckless and trembling, even if those hands would only let it fall.

What is it that I don’t know?

What are you keeping from me?

What are you sharing with her?

“No,” Flins said at last. One word. Clean. Decisive.

And it hollowed Illuga out.

“Though my young master is clever,” Flins continued smoothly. “I am certain he already suspects.”

My young master.

The title, softened by familiarity, edged with something dangerously fond, sank into Illuga’s chest like a hook. He hated how his pulse stuttered at it. Hated how those two words could both steady and undo him. Hated that they were reserved for him alone, yet never meant what he wished they did.

Layla tilted her head, peering past Flins’ shoulder to where Illuga sat coiled tight as a drawn bowstring.

Her eyes found him.

And she smiled.

Not with mockery. Not with cruelty.

With pity.

It was worse.

It was the smile of someone who knew the shape of a truth and chose not to speak it aloud. As if she had been prepared to unveil something—something devastating—and had been silently instructed to sheath it again.

As if she were looking at a child clinging to a dream too fragile to survive daylight.

Illuga’s throat burned.

He wanted to flee. To vanish and let the moonlit sea swallow his humiliation whole.

He hated that Flins called him his, his young master, like a claim spoken in jest, never in earnest. Hated that Flins’ careless tenderness fed a hunger he could not starve. Hated that Layla had noticed. Of all people, she had noticed.

And worst of all—

He hated how desperately he wanted to turn to Flins, to seize his sleeve, to say mine with a conviction that would make the world step back.

To claim him openly.

To erase that pity from Layla’s gaze.

To prove that he was not some foolish man nursing a one-sided devotion.

But how could he claim someone who did not reach back?

He remained seated, spine stiff, fingers digging into his arms, staring at Layla with a silent plea.

Stop looking at me like that.

Stop seeing through me.

Perhaps she heard him, for she sighed and leaned back.

“You haven’t changed, Kyryll.”

“Oh?” Flins’ tone slipped easily into that familiar cadence—light, amused, perfectly controlled. “And what is it you believe remains unchanged?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Their exchange carried an intimacy sharpened by history. It was effortless. Familiar. The rhythm of two people who had once shared the same tide.

Illuga’s stomach twisted.

The way they banter, it mirrored the way he and Flins did. Once, Traveler had laughed and called them an old married couple.

The memory now tasted bitter.

“Well,” Flins replied, faint amusement threading his voice, “it seems you have changed considerably, Miss Layla.”

The air felt too thin.

Illuga rose abruptly, the bench scraping faintly against stone. “I—I’ll be back,” he said, the words tumbling out brittle and uneven. “I’ll scout the island. Perhaps there are… other visitors.”

His second tankard sat untouched before him. His throat was parched, but pride burned hotter than thirst.

He did not wait for permission.

He did not dare look at Flins.

He could feel their gazes on his back as he strode down the pathway, boots striking stone too sharply. At the bend, where a broken wall finally blocked him from sight, he turned quickly, breath faltering.

Only when he was certain they could no longer see him did he allow himself to crumble.

The night air struck cold against his overheated skin. He dragged in a breath that shuddered halfway through, then another, as if his lungs had forgotten their purpose.

His vision blurred.

He scrubbed at his eyes roughly, smearing saltwater tears with the heel of his palm, as though he could erase the evidence of his weakness through force alone.

“What is wrong with me?” he whispered to the indifferent moon.

The sea answered only with its distant roar.

His chest ached—not with anger alone, nor jealousy alone, but with the unbearable weight of loving in silence. Of standing beside someone who called him his, yet never truly meant it. Of wanting to be chosen—openly, undeniably—and fearing he never would be.

Above him, the lighthouse beam swept across the horizon in slow, unwavering arcs.

Faithful.

Constant.

Illuga pressed a trembling hand against his sternum, as though he could cage his heart back into obedience.

“I am a captain,” he murmured hoarsely. “A Ratnik. Not… this.”

Not a boy undone by a smile.

Not a fool waiting for scraps of affection.

And yet—

The tears came anyway, slipping free despite every vow of restraint, glinting silver in the moonlight before falling into the dark.

⭐⭐⭐

“That human of yours,” Other Layla murmured, shaking her head slowly, “his thoughts are far too loud.”

They rang like cracked bells in a cathedral—raw, unguarded, desperate.

Flins did not answer at once.

His gaze remained fixed upon the bend in the pathway where Illuga had vanished, as though sheer will might summon him back. The sea breeze tugged faintly at his coat, but he stood unmoving, a statue carved of patience and something far more fragile.

“He has always been prone to overthinking,” Flins said at last, though his voice was softer than before. Quieter. “I wonder what storms he is conjuring now.”

“That we were once lovers,” Other Layla replied bluntly, crossing her arms. A crease formed between her brows. “It was written plainly across his face, Kyryll. He looked as though the ground had been pulled from beneath him.”

Flins turned to her with a blank expression.

Too blank.

Other Layla knew that look. The careful emptiness of a being who refused to examine what lay beneath.

To them—to fae who had wandered through centuries like drifting leaves—they were merely old acquaintances. Familiar. Comfortable. Bound by time, not by romance.

But to humans?

To a human who bled and loved within the span of mere decades?

It was never so simple.

Other Layla had tried, gently, to smother the suspicion rising from the young Ratnik. But how could she? Flins had told him nothing. Not what he was. Not what she was. Not the truth of centuries stitched into their bones.

And so the man had filled the silence with the worst possible answer.

She was beginning to think Kyryll had grown foolish.

No.

He had grown human.

“Kyryll,” she said quietly, lips thinning. “I came to visit you. Not to shatter his heart.”

“I am aware, Svetlana—”

“Layla,” she corrected firmly.

A small pause.

“Layla,” he amended, inclining his head.

This smile was different. Not the polished one he wielded like a blade. Not the faint, secret warmth he reserved for Illuga.

This one was simple. 

She returned it, though her eyes drifted once more toward the darkened path. She, too, found herself hoping Illuga would reappear—so she could soften what had been sharpened.

It would not do for him to resent her. Not when she believed, stubbornly, that he and Layla might have become friends in another circumstance.

“Why haven’t you told him?” she asked at last.

Flins folded his hands neatly in his lap and crossed one leg over the other, posture composed.

“I am afraid.”

The admission slipped from him without ceremony.

Other Layla turned to stare.

“Amusing, isn’t it?” he gave a short, hollow laugh. “A creature such as I—afraid.”

His gaze dropped to his hands.

“I wished only to pass as human for a time. To aid the Lightkeepers who woke me from slumber. To walk among them. To understand the fragile lives I swore to protect.”

The wind stirred.

“But somewhere along the way…” His voice faltered, just barely. “When did I become so—”

He did not finish.

He did not need to.

Other Layla closed her eyes briefly, for she understood too well.

She was fae—though she no longer remembered what kind. The centuries had stripped those details from her like faded ink. She remembered only fragments:  a court of glittering voices, and Lord Kyryll: sharp-tongued, silver-smiled, master of honeyed words.

They had not been friends. Merely acquaintances brushing shoulders in some distant era.

He had always been dangerous with his flattery.

If he ever turned it fully upon Layla, daytime Layla, the poor girl would faint where she stood.

“I, too, became human,” she murmured.

Flins’ hum was thoughtful. “I suspected as much. Did you—”

“Yes and no,” she interrupted, already knowing his question. “She offered me cream.”

Silence.

Then—

Flins bit his lower lip.

It was such an unguarded, mortal gesture that Other Layla glared at him instantly.

“I will strike you.”

“My apologies,” he said, though laughter still trembled at the edge of his voice. “The image is… vivid.”

“She did not know what she was doing,” Other Layla huffed. “The first time, I could not resist. I meant only to help her.”

Her voice softened.

“Her dormitory was a disaster. Papers everywhere. Ink spilled. She was drowning in assignments and pretending she could outlast exhaustion.” A fond exhale escaped her. “So I cleaned. And I finished one of her papers.”

Flins listened, chin propped lightly against his knuckles.

“I waited for her to wake,” Other Layla continued. “She was so grateful. She called it ‘The Stars’ Blessing.’”

The memory drew a fragile smile to her lips.

“But night after night, she would leave offerings without realizing. Cream on her desk. Windows cracked open. And each time I returned, she was thinner. Paler. Refusing sleep.”

Her fingers curled lightly against her skirt.

“You bound yourself to her,” Flins said quietly, straightening in his chair as though the weight of it required better posture. “Without her knowledge.”

Layla inclined her head. “It was simple.”

“You replaced her.”

He said it as casually as one might remark upon the weather turning. Mild, observational, almost idle. For the fae, such things were not scandalous. They were natural. Interchangeable. A matter of shifting shapes and trading names like cloaks.

But Layla’s expression changed.

“No,” she said softly. “I did not replace her.”

The smile that curved across her face was not triumphant, nor sly. It was gentle, luminous, threaded through with something achingly human. There was no hunger in it. No conquest. Only warmth.

“I became one with her.”

Her fingers folded loosely in her lap, as though cradling something fragile between her palms. “I did not step into her life and push her out of it.” She drew in a slow breath. “I listened. I leaned close enough to hear the shape of her thoughts. And then I opened myself.”

The joy in her expression was quiet, but it glowed from within. Not the sharp glitter of victory—but the softer light of belonging.

“It was not a taking,” she added gently. “It was a weaving.”

For a moment, she seemed less like something ancient and powerful, and more like someone who had chosen connection over dominion.

“I did not become her shadow,” Layla said. “And she did not become mine.”

Her gaze lifted, steady and tender.

“We share the same sky now.”

Flins blinked.

“That… I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Nor had I,” she admitted. “Yet here we are. We share this body. I emerge when she sleeps, finish what she cannot, and steady her when her mind begins to fray. I have no wish to erase her. She is… extraordinary, Kyryll.”

Flins nodded slowly, thoughtful.

Other Layla’s gaze sharpened.

“No,” she said firmly, sensing the direction of his thoughts before he could voice them. “Do not even consider it.”

“I did not suggest—”

“You were thinking it,” she cut in. “Do not leave Illuga alone in that way.”

Silence fell heavy between them. She swallowed.

“She has forgotten how we met,” Layla said more quietly. “I do not mind. I exist now as her alter personality.  A hand steadying hers. I write encouragement in her margins. I complete what she cannot.”

Flins’ voice lowered. “She has forgotten you, then?”

“Not entirely.” Other Layla smiled faintly. “She still thanks ‘The Stars’ Blessing.’”

For a moment, only the sea spoke. Then Layla looked at him.

“If you attempt what I did,” she said gently but unyieldingly, “Illuga would not endure it.”

Flins’ fingers tightened faintly atop his lap.

“He would not bear your absence,” she continued. “He does not love you in fragments, Kyryll. He loves you wholly. Loudly. Even when he tries to hide it. He loves you recklessly. Completely. He burns for you in ways that would consume him if you stepped away.”

“He thinks he is unworthy. Replaceable. Temporary.”

The lighthouse beam swept across the dark horizon.

“You are frightened,” Other Layla whispered, voice trembling like a thread of silk caught in the wind, “afraid to step fully into what you are, afraid to let him see the truth of your being, and in doing so, to push him away for your nature—for the immortal azure flames within your soul.”

Her eyes softened, glimmering like starlight on restless waves, and she turned her gaze toward the shadowed path where Illuga had vanished, a lone figure swallowed by darkness. She could almost feel his heartbeat carried on the night air, each pulse loud enough to split her chest, each step echoing with longing and unspoken despair.

“But Kyryll,” she continued, her voice quivering yet steady with quiet authority, “he is terrified. Terrified not of you, not of what you are, but of losing you. Terrified because he loves you with all the recklessness and intensity of a mortal heart, with a devotion that outshines even the stars themselves.”

She let the words hang in the still night, each one a balm, each one a weighty truth.

“Do not punish him,” she said finally, softer now, almost a prayer, “for humanly loving you—so fragile, so unguarded, so breathtakingly complete. Do not deny him the fire in his chest. Do not extinguish what burns only because it dares to burn for you.”

The night held its breath, and for a heartbeat, even the lighthouse seemed to pause, its beam trembling over the darkened pathway as if it too were waiting, straining toward the absence of one small, human heart. Both of them sat frozen, gazes locked on the shadowed path where Illuga had vanished, wishing with all the quiet intensity of unspoken longing that he might return. There was a subtle ache in the air, like the sky itself mourned the distance between them.

Other Layla broke the silence with a soft exhale, a teasing lilt in her voice that could have been a smile if not for the weight behind it. “And here I thought I might ask your advice, you old fool.”

Flins’ head tilted, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Advice?”

She nodded, brushing her knuckles along her temple as if the motion grounded her. “Forgive me, Layla,” she whispered, a thread of guilt woven into the words, “for outing you in this manner. There is… a person whom she admires. I cannot tell whether it is mere admiration or something deeper—something that binds her heart.”

Flins hummed thoughtfully, chin resting on his hand, a smirk ghosting across his face despite the seriousness of the words. He was momentarily relieved that the spotlight had shifted from him, yet Other Layla could feel the storm gathering behind that calm exterior. She knew he would clean up the chaos later, when no one was watching.

But before he could respond, she straightened with an airy resolve. “It seems, however,” she said, voice lilting like wind through pine boughs, “that you have a far messier situation on your hands than I.” She paused, lifting her gaze to the lighthouse, silvered moonlight playing across her features as a small, knowing smile curved her lips. “I should be going, after all.”

Flins’ eyes did not leave her, still unreadable, a sentinel caught in his own hesitation. “Are you sure?” he asked finally, though the question held no accusation—only curiosity.

“Yes,” she nodded with gentle certainty. “You would not want to leave your young master waiting, would you?”

With that, she turned toward the path, picking up her bag with purposeful ease. She did not wait for his reply; she had already decided. Her duties—and the restless stirrings of her own conscience—beckoned her elsewhere.

As she walked, her gaze fell upon Illuga, tossing a small pebble into the dark, roiling sea below. The moonlight caught on his dampened cheeks, illuminating the glint of tears he could not quite hide. His hand trembled slightly as he let the stone fall, and when he looked up, he forced a fragile smile at her approach.

“M-Miss Layla!” he stammered, voice trembling yet tinged with relief. “Are you done talking with Sir Flins?”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied warmly, taking his hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze that made him start. “Please, keep my dear friend safe. You know how he is—stubborn, headstrong. Don’t leave his side, alright?”

Illuga’s eyes flickered with a storm of emotions, but he nodded, words failing him entirely.

“Are you leaving? I… we could accompany you, if you wish,” he offered, voice cautious yet earnest, as though pleading for permission while simultaneously trying to mask the desire to be left alone.

Other Layla knew him too well. She understood the delicate tension beneath his ever-pleasing nature: he wished to honor others first, even when it betrayed his own heart. She let a private smile curl at the corner of her lips, a quiet acknowledgment of how well-matched he would be with Layla in friendship.

“No need,” she said softly, shaking her head. “Thank you for the offer, though.”

She led him back along the path—but not toward Flins, who waited, unmoving, heart tethered by invisible cords to the boy he loved. Instead, she released his hand and let her gaze wander toward Hat Guy, perched with his usual air of impatient duty, adjusting his impossibly large hat.

“Took you long enough,” he said, tone clipped, as though the world should not exist in this moment of distraction. The Lightkeepers nearby gave startled glances, caught off guard by his sudden appearance.

“Sorry!” she laughed, a sound like chimes in a gentle breeze. “I was helping a friend with a… rather complicated love crisis.”

Illuga’s eyes widened at her words, and she allowed herself a secretive, amused smile. She would leave Flins to mend his own entanglement; her role here was done. She waved them goodbye.

Other Layla walked beside Hat Guy, her arm lightly linked through his, though she noticed the way he tensed slightly at the contact, and yet—he did not pull away. 

“You’ve been waiting a long while,” she murmured, her voice carrying more than the simple observation—it was a note of warmth, of quiet concern. 

He adjusted his hat with a small huff, and she could see the faint flush in his cheeks beneath the brim, though he tried to mask it with his usual gruffness. “When I invited you here, I did not expect you to become some sort of… cupid,” he muttered, though the words lacked sting, edged instead with reluctant amusement.

Other Layla laughed softly, the sound delicate, almost like wind through chimes. “Ah… but I’ve been playing cupid for some time now, haven’t I?” 

Her gaze flicked to him, teasing.

Hat Guy rolled his eyes, though the gesture was half-hearted. “Whatever. Lauma’s waiting. You’d better have her questions memorized,” he said, voice clipped, though his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary.

“I have,” she replied softly, a hint of mischief in her tone, though her hand brushed against his arm just slightly—accidentally on purpose, she thought. “And she has questions for you, too, you know.”

His sigh was low, weary, but there was a warmth in it that betrayed him. “Of course she does,” he murmured, though the weight of responsibility he carried was softened by the mere presence of her hand along his arm.

She tilted her head toward him, eyes glimmering faintly in the moonlight. “You’ll answer them, won’t you?” The words were light, teasing, but the glance she gave him lingered long enough to leave the unspoken in the air between them.

He gave a faint smirk, brushing his fingers against the edge of her hand ever so slightly. 

“I will,” he replied, but the promise in his voice was thicker than any words, threaded with a tenderness he rarely allowed anyone to see.

They walked unhurriedly, the lighthouse glow brushing over them in slow intervals, silvering the edges of her hair and catching faintly on the brim of his oversized hat.

She looked up at him, studying the line of his jaw, the way he pretended not to notice how close she stood.

“You know,” she began, her voice light but carrying something gentler beneath it, “I’d like it if you spoke to my other self too. The quiet one. The one you’ve seen hunched over her thesis at three in the morning, convincing herself she isn’t clever enough to finish it.”

Hat Guy arched a brow beneath his hat. “Other self?” he echoed. “You mean… you?”

A soft laugh left her, warmer than before. “Yes. But not this version of me. Not the one who meddles in love confessions and drags you across beaches.” Her fingers tightened slightly around his arm. “I mean her. The one who doubts. The one who pretends she’s fine while her hands shake over her notes.”

He was quieter now.

“She has thoughts she doesn’t voice,” Other Layla continued, gaze drifting briefly toward the sea. “Fears she folds up small and tucks between pages. There are things she wishes she could say without feeling foolish. And I think…” She glanced back at him, eyes bright but earnest. “I think you would understand her.”

Hat Guy shifted, caught off guard in a way he clearly hadn’t prepared for. “I don’t know about that.”

“You do,” she said gently. “You already look at her differently.”

He exhaled through his nose, adjusting his hat to avoid her eyes. “She’s… intriguing,” he admitted at last. “Different from you.”

“Exactly.” Her smile softened, losing its teasing edge. “Different, but not lesser. She isn’t as loud as I am. She doesn’t charge into rooms. But she feels deeply. She thinks before she speaks. She worries she’s too much and not enough at the same time.”

The wind tugged at them, and for a moment she simply leaned into him, shoulder brushing his.

“If you talk to her,” Other Layla said more quietly, “really talk to her, you’ll see what I mean. And maybe… maybe she won’t feel so alone inside her own head.”

Hat Guy’s smirk returned, but it was thinner now, less defensive. “You make it sound like a responsibility.”

“It is,” she replied with a playful lift of her brow. “But the good kind.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Only the kind that makes your heart beat a little faster. The kind that makes you stay.”

He tried to hide the faint flush creeping up his neck. “Fine. I’ll talk to her. But if she starts spiraling into panic again, I’m blaming you.”

Other Layla’s laughter rang out across the sand, bright and unrestrained. “Oh, you won’t mind,” she teased, squeezing his arm. “You’ll pretend to complain, but you’ll stay. You’ll sit beside her while she overthinks, and you’ll steady her without even realizing you’re doing it.”

He didn’t deny it.

🏮🏮🏮

The lighthouse stood behind them, its beam sweeping slowly and steadily across the dark water. The wind off the sea was cool, persistent, tugging at coats and hair, carrying the sharp scent of salt.

Illuga stopped at the bend in the path. For a moment, he couldn’t move.

Flins was there; hands folded, posture composed, coat shifting gently in the breeze. He looked calm. Untouched.

Illuga felt anything but.

His chest ached with everything he hadn’t said. With everything he had imagined. With all the ways he had convinced himself he was about to lose something he had never even properly claimed.

He forced himself forward.

“Flins…”

His voice betrayed him, cracking halfway through the name.

Flins turned. And when he did, the careful composure softened — just slightly— enough for Illuga to see it.

The distance between them felt enormous. Then Flins stepped closer.

“You’ve been… avoiding what is between us,” Illuga said, and the words felt like they scraped his throat on the way out. He tried to steady his voice, but it betrayed him, thinning at the edges. “Or maybe it was me.”

He swallowed hard, as if he could force down the ache lodged there. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers curling into his palms like he could physically hold himself together. “I don’t even know anymore,” he admitted, the confession cracking open in his chest. 

A shaky breath left him, uneven and fragile. “But whatever this is—it’s tearing me apart.”

Flins didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for Illuga’s hands. His grip was warm. Firm. Real.

“I’ve been afraid,” Flins said quietly.

Illuga’s brows knit. “Of me?”

“Of losing you,” Flins corrected. His voice lacked its usual polish. “Of telling you what I am and watching something in your eyes change. Of discovering that the line between us was… thinner than I hoped.”

Illuga swallowed hard. “Stop.”

Flins stilled.

“Stop trying to manage this,” Illuga said, his voice trembling but steady in its insistence. “Stop trying to protect me from something I didn’t even ask for protection from. Just be here. Be honest. With me.”

Something flickered across Flins’ face — something unguarded.

“I love you,” he said.

No flourish. No cleverness. Just the truth.

Illuga’s breath hitched.

“I love you,” Flins repeated, the words steadier now, though they trembled with everything he had kept buried. It sounded less like a confession and more like a vow dragged into the light. “Not as a fleeting fondness that softens with time. Not as a gentle attachment one can set aside when it grows inconvenient. I love you in a way that has taken root in the deepest parts of me until there is no corner of me untouched by it. It is not something I carry lightly. It is something that has claimed me.”

His fingers tightened around Illuga’s, as though grounding himself in the truth of it.

“And I am weary,” he admitted softly, voice rich and unguarded, “of pretending it is anything less.”

The words landed heavily, but not painfully. They felt like something settling into place.

“You really mean that?” Illuga asked, softer now. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

“I do.” Flins’ thumb brushed unconsciously over Illuga’s knuckles. “I don’t want fragments with you. I don’t want distance disguised as patience. I want the whole of it — even the fear. Even the uncertainty. Especially the humanity of it.”

Illuga let out a broken laugh. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

Flins’ mouth curved faintly. “And yet you were jealous.”

Illuga groaned immediately, flushing. “Don’t.”

“You thought I might drift away,” Flins continued gently. “That someone else might matter more.”

“Well—” Illuga ran a hand through his hair, frustrated and embarrassed all at once. “You’re… you. You walk into a room and command it without trying. You speak like you’ve read every book ever written. And then there’s me.”

His voice softened.

“And then there’s Layla. The way she talks to you. The history you share. I don’t know that history. I can’t compete with it.”

Flins stepped closer.

“Illuga,” he said quietly, pressing their foreheads together. “You are not competing.”

Illuga’s hands tightened around his coat.

“You are not temporary,” Flins continued. “You are not replaceable. You are not lesser because you are human. If anything, it is your humanity that undoes me. The way you feel everything so loudly. The way you care without restraint. The way you burn.”

Illuga’s breath wavered. “I was jealous,” he admitted finally. “Because I thought I wasn’t enough. Because I thought if you remembered who you were too clearly… you might realize I’m just—”

“—mine,” Flins interrupted softly.

Silence stretched between them, but it no longer felt heavy.

“You are enough,” Flins said. “You always have been.”

The lighthouse beam passed over them again, washing them briefly in pale light before moving on. The waves crashed steadily against the rocks below, indifferent and constant.

Illuga moved closer. He didn’t leave space for doubt. He leaned forward and let himself rest fully against Flins, chest to chest, breath to breath, erasing the careful distance that had haunted them for too long. There was no room left between them now—no pride, no fear, no retreat.

“Don’t hide from me again,” he murmured, his voice soft but frayed at the edges, like something that had survived breaking.

For a heartbeat, Flins only breathed.

Then his arms came around Illuga. Slowly at first, as though afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too quickly. But once he held him, he held him tightly, fingers pressing into fabric, into warmth, into something real. His exhale trembled against Illuga’s shoulder.

“For you, Master Illuga… how could I refuse?” he promised.

The words could have sounded practiced. They had before. Polished. Measured. Safe.

But not now.

Now his voice wavered. Now it carried something unguarded—something vulnerable and almost frightened in its honesty. It wasn’t a rehearsed loyalty.

It was human.

⭐⭐⭐

Sleep did not take her gently this time.

It fractured.

Layla’s eyes flew open to warmth.

Not the pale, glacial shimmer of the Akademiya’s observatory domes. Not the brittle hush of desert nights. Not the Frost Moon hanging over some distant, lonely shore.

Warmth. Noise. Laughter.

Voices overlapped in thick accents. Chairs scraped across worn planks. Tankards struck tables in rhythmic emphasis. The air smelled of spiced stew, roasted meat, and something sweetly fermented.

The lighting was low—intentionally so. Dim pendant lamps cast a muted amber haze over the room, shadows pooling in the corners. Behind the counter, a large neon sign glowed in looping script—yellow and orange, almost dimmed with age. Its light didn’t blaze; it smoldered. A soft, honeyed glow that washed over bottles and glassware, spilling gently across the ceiling in fading halos.

The colors brushed across faces in warm gradients—gold deepening into burnt orange, shadows feathered at the edges.

A fiddle carried a bold, brassy tune near the hearth, accompanied by the thump of boots keeping time.

This wasn’t a quiet Sumeru café where she could hide behind parchment.

A tavern.

For several heartbeats, she could not move. Her heart began to pound.

Slowly, she became aware of the weight in her hand. A mug. Half full. She was sitting. At a table polished by years of elbows and spilled drinks.

And across from her—

Hat Guy.

The amber neon caught faintly along the rim of his kasa hat, tracing it in molten gold. It softened the usual severity of his silhouette, turning the sharp cut of his cheekbone almost luminous. His expression remained composed, eyes steady beneath lowered lashes—but the warm light made them look deeper. Less distant. Or perhaps that was only her imagination.

He was watching her.

Not startled. Not confused.

Watching.

Layla’s breath caught in her throat.

“…Where,” she whispered faintly, “am I?”

One dark brow lifted beneath the brim of his hat.

“You chose the tavern,” he replied evenly.

Chose. The word rang in her ears.

“I did not,” she said immediately—too quickly, too breathlessly.

Laughter burst from somewhere behind her. The neon sign flickered softly, its yellow-orange glow dipping and steadying again.

Everything was painfully, undeniably real.

Hat Guy tilted his head slightly. “You said the lighthouse was too quiet, and yet too noisy at the same time.”

Her stomach dropped.

“I—” She looked down at the mug in her hand as though it might explain itself. “I don’t remember coming here.”

He was silent for a moment, studying her in a way that made heat crawl up her neck.

“You were very certain,” he said at last.

Layla’s pulse fluttered wildly.

Certain.

She couldn’t remember the walk from the cemetery. Couldn’t remember standing. Speaking. Choosing anything at all. The last thing she recalled was the bench. The moon. The promise of “just a quick nap.”

And now—

And now, Layla was in a tavern filled with strangers, a drink in her hand,  bathed in low amber light, sitting across from him like this was deliberate.

“I wouldn’t just—” She gestured helplessly between them. “Invite you somewhere like this.”

“You didn’t invite me,” he corrected calmly. “You said you were cold.”

Her cheeks flared.

“I was not—”

“You were.”

The quiet certainty in his tone made her falter. She searched his face for mockery. There was none. Only something unreadable. Measured.

“I must have been half asleep,” she murmured, mortified. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you—”

“You didn’t drag me.”

Her fingers tightened around the mug. It was warm. Comfortingly so.

“I don’t even remember ordering this,” she whispered.

“You didn’t,” he said. “I did.”

She stared at him. He continued, “You looked like you were about to fall over.”

Her humiliation deepened.

“I’m not usually this…” She trailed off, struggling for a word that didn’t feel like self-condemnation.

Disoriented.

Embarrassing.

Pathetic.

Hat Guy leaned back slightly in his chair, the movement unhurried.

“You’re exhausted,” he said instead.

The words were simple. Unadorned. But under the soft yellow-orange glow, they felt warmer than they should have.

“I didn’t mean to be trouble,” she said quietly.

“You aren’t.”

“I fell asleep on the ferry,” she blurted, the memory slamming back into her with horrifying clarity. “On your shoulder. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You were tired.”

“And then I got lost,” she continued, voice shrinking. “In a graveyard. In a nation I don’t know. After you paid for everything and—”

“You panic when you wake up somewhere unfamiliar,” he said, not unkindly.

She blinked.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Her protest died in her throat. Because she did. Her fingers shifted against the tabletop.

They brushed his.

The contact was light—barely there—but the warmth that traveled up her arm felt startlingly real. The neon glow caught along his knuckles, painting them in soft gold.

“I don’t remember half of what I’ve done tonight,” Layla admitted.

“That much is obvious,” he said dryly.

Her flinch was small, but he noticed. He didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand stayed close, the space between them charged with unspoken attention.

“You were talking about the moon,” he added after a moment. “About how it feels closer. Sharper. Like the sky was redrawn.”

Layla’s breath caught.

“I said that?”

“Yes.”

A fragile silence unfolded.

The tavern noise blurred at the edges. The dim lighting made the space feel smaller—intimate, cocooned in amber, catching the rim of her mug, the edge of his sleeve. Somewhere behind her, dice clattered across wood.

“I wouldn’t normally talk so much,” Layla murmured. “Especially not to you.”

His gaze sharpened slightly. “Why not?”

Because you’re certain, she almost said.

Because you don’t hesitate.

Because standing next to you makes every doubt in me feel louder.

“I don’t want you to think I’m reckless,” she said softly. “Or presumptuous.”

“If I thought that,” he replied, “I wouldn’t be here.”

The words settled over her like something dangerously warm.

“I don’t understand why you invited me,” Layla confessed before she could stop herself.

His gaze did not waver.

“I ask too many questions,” she murmured, voice fragile. “I overthink them before I say them. I rewrite them in my head until they don’t even make sense anymore.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

Her cheeks warmed.

“And when I finally ask, I worry they’re foolish. Or obvious. Or irritating.”

He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against the table. The movement was small, but it closed the space between them in a way that made her pulse stutter. The amber neon shifted across his face, softening the line of his mouth.

“Your questions are precise,” he said. “You don’t ask to fill silence. You ask because you want to understand the structure beneath something.”

Layla blinked slowly. 

“No one has ever described them like that.”

“They should.”

The neon sign flickered faintly again, its glow dipping into a softer gold. Shadows wrapped closer around them, the rest of the tavern fading into muted shapes and distant sound.

“You were asking tonight,” he continued. “About why the old moon had to be replaced. About whether the Frost Moon remembers the prayers people offered to the false one. About whether a sky can lie.”

Her breath grew unsteady.

“I said all that?”

“You did.”

“And you answered?”

“I did.”

Layla searched his face desperately for impatience. For regret. For some sign that he had only humored her.

There was none.

“I don’t remember your answers,” she whispered.

“Then ask again.”

The simplicity of it stole the air from her lungs.

“I—”

“You don’t have to be certain,” he said, quieter now. “You don’t have to phrase them perfectly. You don’t have to remember what you already asked.”

“I’ll answer.”

The warmth of the room felt heavier now—not suffocating, but grounding. The dim yellow-orange glow traced the curve of his hat, the edge of her sleeve, the narrow space between their hands.

She was still disoriented. Still missing pieces of time. Still uncertain how she had walked from a lonely graveyard into this firelit room.

But he was here.

Not annoyed.

Not gone.

Here.

Her fingers loosened slightly around the mug.

“…I’m going to panic later,” she warned faintly.

“Probably,” he agreed.

“And overthink everything I’ve said.”

“Definitely.”

She swallowed.

“And you’ll—”

“Still be here,” he finished.

The words were not dramatic. Not tender. Just certain.

And for reasons she could not explain, reasons buried somewhere in the hours she could not remember, Layla felt her racing heart steady, just a little, beneath the golden light of the tavern hearth.