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Pure Vanilla would consider himself to know his kingdom better than he knew himself.
He knew the softness of its morning winds as intimately as one might know the hand of a loved one, the hush of the orchards before dawn, the way the dew clung to the tips of the wheat. He knew where the sun hit first in the fields each morning— on the ridge just above the honeybee hives, where the grass shimmered like gold thread sewn into the hills. He knew the names of every goat in the southern farms, and could even tell apart the sheep by the pattern of wool between their ears.
The Vanilla Kingdom, nestled in a cradle of gentle hills and silver-dusted rivers, was not a place of marble and stone but of earth—alive, breathing, green. Dandelions burst along dirt paths like little suns, and lilies swayed beside them, heads bowed in soft reverence. Pomegranate shrubs bloomed proudly beside wild roses. Children ran barefoot through grass, laughing with jam-stained mouths and pockets full of petals.
Birds called softly in the morning, cicadas sang in the dusk, and the smell of fresh bread and honey lingered in every breeze.
To live in the Vanilla Kingdom was to live in the tender heart of the world.
And its heart had a name: Pure Vanilla.
He was beloved— not out of fear, nor out of tradition, but with the same warm certainty one might feel for the sun rising every morning. His people adored him. They wrote him letters when their children were born, they left baskets of fruit and ribbon-tied letters on his windowsill, they invited him to dinners as though he were just another neighbor passing by.
And he went. Every time.
He never missed a baptism. He knelt by every new mother’s bedside with soft words and gentle thanks, blessing the baby with a brush of his fingers and a smile that made grandmothers tear up.
He fed lambs on spring mornings and helped harvest apples in the fall. His laughter, soft and golden, had become the sound of home. Even the elders joked that he’d surely been born from the land itself— sunlight braided into his hair, tender earth baked into his skin, the fields carved gently into the curve of his smile.
He walked the kingdom often, hand lightly brushing against flowers, always stopping to greet those he passed.
He knew everybody.
Or so he thought.
It was early autumn when it happened— the time of year when the air turned crisp and the apples hung heavy, red and gold and sugar-sweet. The marketplace was at its liveliest, bustling with woven baskets and warm laughter, the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread twirling in the breeze. Bakers called out their morning specials, and flower-sellers laid out sun-kissed blooms in weaved baskets. Bees hummed lazily around the melon carts, and a few goats had broken free from a nearby pen, now munching happily on unattended parsley.
Pure Vanilla walked the stalls, a simple cream cloak trailing behind him, hands politely folded at his waist. Children waved. Elders bowed. Merchants pressed pastries into his palms, refusing payment with a grin and a “For the prince, anything.”
He stopped to pet a sleepy lamb nestled in a crate of wool scarves. He complimented a bouquet of sunflowers arranged by a little girl barely old enough to speak. He tasted a slice of caramelized apple tart and promised to request it for the coronation feast. It was an ordinary day—golden and warm, filled with familiar faces and softer moments.
It was home. He knew these faces, these hands, these voices. He had watched these families grow alongside him.
But—
Just as he turned down the narrow path between the candlemaker and the spice merchant, he paused. His breath caught— just slightly. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to still his steps.
There, leaning lazily against a stone wall where the shadows stretched long and cool, stood a man he did not know.
A stranger.
That, in itself, was rare. Few entered the kingdom without fanfare, and even fewer entered without the prince himself welcoming them in. He would’ve remembered someone new. He always remembered.
But more than that— what struck him wasn’t the presence, but the disruption.
The man didn’t fit.
While everyone else wore soft cotton, loose and sun-faded, he wore silk— dark, deep blue and black that shimmered faintly like the back of a beetle’s wing. His clothes were noble in cut, but the wrong kind; foreign. His skin was pale, nearly luminous in the dappled shade. His hair fell in long, wavy locks— black as ink, but streaked with strange threads of white and midnight blue. Like the sky just before a storm.
And his eyes— his eyes —were a thing of terrible beauty.
Blue. Unthinkably blue. Not the blue of oceans or skies or painted glass windows. No, his eyes were the blue of fire burning too hot, of precious stones hidden in volcanic rock, of something alive. They sparked, danced, gleamed as they moved— sharply, ceaselessly —bouncing from one market stall to the next with a curiosity that was all too deliberate.
He was searching.
Pure Vanilla saw it clearly now. The way the man leaned, yes, but more so the way his fingers twitched— subtle and expectant, coiled like a beast about to pounce. His gaze never lingered long, skipping over fruit, fabrics, tools, magic-glass baubles, but lingering on gold. On shine. On anything that glinted under the morning light.
A collector, Pure Vanilla guessed.
Perhaps a noble from the outer kingdoms, or a distant lord seeking oddities. His mind wandered briefly to the Queen of the Golden Kingdom, who had visited not long ago and left with three entire wagons filled with polished brass and gilded pottery. This stranger had the same glint in his eye, the same hunger and greed.
But there was something else.
He looked noble, yes. Fine posture. Fine silks. Beautifully tailored, though oddly cut. But not quite the way royalty looked. His air was too light, too out of place. It reminded Pure Vanilla, faintly, of her— of Queen White Lily, sovereign of the Silver Kingdom, who always moved silently.
Yes. He had her stillness. Her sharpness. But there was no entourage— No guards. No banners or crests. Just this man, and the market, and the wind.
And then—
He moved.
Without a word, the stranger pushed off the wall and began to walk. Right past Pure Vanilla.
Their shoulders nearly brushed.
He smelled of cold smoke and something faintly floral— like lavender steeped too long in black tea. His gaze slid past Pure Vanilla like water off glass, not sparing him a second glance, though the corners of his lips twitched, as if amused.
He drifted back into the noise of the crowd like a shadow slipping between reeds.
Pure Vanilla stood there a moment longer. And then he followed.
Not directly. That would be impolite, of course.
But he let his steps fall naturally, let his hands reach to touch silks and tins of sugared nuts as he walked, all while keeping the stranger in the corner of his eye. The man moved like he belonged to no one. Not to the ground. Not to the air. Like he had wandered in from another story altogether and hadn’t yet decided if he’d stay.
He stopped— finally —at a small, weathered stall tucked between the cobbler’s and the honey merchant. It was one of the oldest stalls in the kingdom, run by a woman known only as Grandmama Tart. A relic herself, half-blind and twice as clever, she sold magical trinkets, bits of old spell-woven jewelry, and charms knotted with thread from a loom said to be centuries old. Her hands were wrinkled and shaking, but her voice still held iron.
Pure Vanilla slowed, pretending to examine a jar of fig jam a stall behind as he watched.
The stranger was awfully charming. He leaned into the stall and his smile bloomed slowly— boyish, lovely, too lovely —and his eyes sparkled as he tilted his head just so to suggest innocence and no harm.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” he purred, voice low and velvet-smooth, “but I must say— you’ve outshone every stall in this entire market.”
Grandmama Tart raised a single, sparse brow. “And what’s that supposed to get you? A discount, boy?”
The man placed a pale hand dramatically over his chest. “Merely my admiration. Though if admiration could be traded like coin, I’d offer all of mine for a moment more at your table.”
“Hah,” she barked, but it came out more amused than unkind. “Flattery will get you nowhere, kid. What are you after?”
“Oh, only a little wisdom,” he answered, and reached toward the table. His fingers brushed over a silver ring wrapped in a strand of ash-gray hair, then trailed down the length of a braided charm cord. “And perhaps something to keep my travels safe. The roads are full of liars, you know.”
“And yet you’ve arrived in one piece.”
“I’ve been lucky,” he whispered, and that word— lucky —dripped with irony like honey off a dull knife.
All the while, his hands moved.
It was subtle. Elegant and beautiful in its delicacy.
One rested lightly on the edge of the table, anchoring him in place, while the other drifted, always mid-gesture. He was expressive when he spoke, fingers curling with emphasis, tracing small circles in the air, occasionally pretending to reach for something before withdrawing. But slowly— deliberately —he began shifting things.
A charm was nudged just an inch to the left, his palm passed over a set of polished teeth in a glass jar, hiding the glint of something smaller beneath it. All gentle movements. So that when his fingers finally curled around a golden necklace— thin, with a single obsidian bead nestled in the center like an eye —it looked like a gesture of thought, not theft.
But Pure Vanilla had been watching.
He saw how the fingers tensed— just slightly. How the chain disappeared beneath the long cuff of that silk sleeve.
The man was stealing.
Pure Vanilla did not remember deciding to move. One moment he was watching from the jam stall, fig-sweet air curling around his temples, and the next, he was gliding forward— calm, smiling. There was no fury. No righteous indignation. Only a softness in his walk, like he was approaching a startled doe, not a thief.
The man had just finished tucking the necklace from sight. His smile still lingered, charming as ever. Or, at least, it tried to be.
Pure Vanilla stepped up beside him, sunlight catching on the gold braid that was his hair. His smile was easy, relaxed. He looked at the stranger, then at the chain still barely peeking from his sleeve.
“Oh,” Pure Vanilla said, voice mild. “You’ve made a fabulous choice, sir. That necklace— if you’re buying it, of course —is one of my favorites in this entire market.”
The shift was instantaneous.
The man didn’t flinch, but Pure Vanilla saw it— the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, the twitch in his cheek, the faint flicker in his eyes. His smile sharpened, not by design but by reflex, and suddenly it looked like something worn. Painted on. Like it ached to stay in place.
A beat passed. Two.
Grandmama Tart blinked, puzzled. “The necklace?” She leaned forward, squinting. “What necklace?”
The man laughed— low and rich and soft. The sound could have passed for amused, if not for the way it trembled at the end with something that sounded a lot like barely disguised annoyance. He lifted his hand with casual grace, the necklace hanging between his slender fingers.
“This one?” he asked, feigning surprise. “I picked it up while we were chatting. I was thinking of buying it.”
He tilted his head, eyes sliding to Pure Vanilla with a look that hovered somewhere between fake friendliness and warning.
The prince only smiled—steady and warm. “It’s one of Grandmama’s best,” he said gently. “Wards off illusions, or so I've heard.”
At that, the man’s brows lifted ever so slightly. He turned the necklace over in his palm, studying it now like one might study a coin— curious, mildly annoyed, and entirely too aware of its weight.
“A tempting enchantment,” he murmured. “But alas...”
He looked back to Grandmama, offering her a slight, respectful bow.
“It seems I’ve lost interest.” His tone was apologetic, but his eyes said otherwise, sharp and narrowed. “Perhaps it’s not for me after all. I wouldn’t want to walk away with something I don’t truly desire.”
She grunted, unimpressed. “You’re a slippery thing, aren’t you?”
He grinned. “So I’ve been told.”
And then, just like that, he set the necklace back down.
The man gave a soft hum, as if pondering something far too trivial to name. Then he clasped his hands behind his back, turned, and began to walk away.
Pure Vanilla didn’t follow him. At least, not immediately.
He stood at the stall a moment longer, letting the hush settle. Letting the stranger’s presence peel itself from the air like a perfume fading.
“Ah, a shame. I was having fun,” Grandmama Tart muttered, more to herself than to him. Her gnarled fingers reached to nudge the necklace back into place, but Pure Vanilla gently intercepted her hand.
“I’ll take it,” he said, his voice soft. “If you don’t mind.”
Tart raised her foggy eyes toward him, squinting slightly. “Thought you said you didn’t like wards, prince.”
“I don’t,” he said truthfully. “But I think it’s time I kept one.”
She nodded, pulling a little paper pouch from beneath the table. “He was a pretty one,” she said, wrapping the necklace with a dry rustle. “But trouble. I’ve seen hands like his before. And smiles like that? Sharp enough to skin a man’s pride clean off his bones.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Pure Vanilla murmured.
He pressed a few coins into her hand— more than necessary. She grumbled, but didn’t refuse.
The wrapped necklace was warm in his palm, Pure Vanilla tucked it into the folds of his inner coat and turned.
The stranger was nearly out of sight, he moved like a stream— graceful, evasive, too swift to hold with bare hands. He slid between people with that same fluid rhythm he had used at the stall, as if the crowd parted for him without knowing why. His coat shimmered when the sun struck it. His steps made no sound.
Pure Vanilla stepped forward, his gait steady. His cloak caught the breeze behind him, cream and gold catching the sun like parchment set aflame.
He didn’t know why he followed.
There was no logic in it. No duty. The man hadn’t succeeded in his theft. No crime had been committed. There was no reason to trail him, no royal decree that demanded the chase.
And yet—
He followed.
Through the warm-spilled heart of the market, where bread still steamed on trays and silver bells chimed from braided cords above the archways, Pure Vanilla moved with a calm that belied the sharp curiosity blooming in his chest. He followed the strangers past the stalls, past the ivy-wrapped posts and dusty laughter of the vendors. Only when the square began to bleed into the quieter paths of the town—where the crowd thinned and the cobblestones turned soft with moss— did he catch up.
There, where the air smelled of river grass and far-off stone, Pure Vanilla stepped gently into pace beside the man. His movements were fluid, unthreatening, accompanied by the faint hum of a tune caught somewhere between breath and thought.
“You’re quite fast,” he called out, voice as soft as sunlight slipping through tree leaves. “I nearly lost you behind the plum stall.”
That, finally, earned him a glance.
The stranger turned his head— not sharply, but with the sort of precision of someone weighing whether or not to acknowledge an insect on their sleeve.
And when he finally did—
Pure Vanilla saw him.
Truly saw him.
The man’s face was made of angles. High cheekbones sharp enough to catch the light like cut crystal, a narrow jawline drawn like a blade’s edge, and a long, elegant nose that curved just slightly near the bridge. His skin was pale. Unreasonably so. Not like porcelain— too alive for that. No, more like fresh milk poured over marble, dusted here and there with freckles that dotted his cheeks and the bridge of his nose like ash falling across snow.
In the shade, he looked carved from old moonlight. In the sun, he shimmered like something not entirely of this world.
And his eyes— Oh, they were incredible. One was the color of deep water, storm-dark blue, bottomless. The other a beautiful cyan, sharp and cold, like the first crack of ice across a winter lake.
The stranger was, definitely and without a doubt, breathtakingly stunning.
“Do you always chase strange men through crowded markets?” the stranger asked at last, his voice light now, lilting— like a coin flipped lazily through the air. “You must be terribly bored.”
Pure Vanilla smiled, keeping pace with him. “Only the interesting ones.”
“Oh,” the man hummed, glancing at him sidelong, “this is interesting for you? I'm unsure if I should be flattered or offended.” He skipped a step ahead— literally skipped —and then fell back into stride with a theatrical sigh, arms swinging loosely at his sides.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before,” Pure Vanilla said after a pause, still calm, still warm. “May I ask where you’re from?”
The stranger groaned, loud and dramatic, as if the question itself had physically wounded him. “You may, you did! Witches save me— you’re dreadfully polite, aren’t you?” He pressed a hand to his chest and rolled his eyes. “Fine. Dark Cacao Kingdom.”
Pure Vanilla blinked, a quiet laugh slipping from his lips. “No, you’re not.”
That brought the man to a halt. He turned to stare at him with wide, exaggerated offense. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t carry the accent,” Pure Vanilla explained, tilting his head like a curious bird. “Dark Cacao speech is more clipped— firm and heavy, like every word is wearing armor. Yours is… drifting.”
The stranger blinked once, then narrowed his eyes with a grin that was all teeth. “Drifting,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Is that your polite way of saying I sound untrustworthy?”
“Not at all,” Pure Vanilla replied, amused. “Just… not local.”
“Fine,” the man drawled, throwing his hands up. “You caught me.” He spun on his heel with unnecessary flair, then bowed with a sweep of his arm, mockery stitched into every movement. “Hollyberrian, then. I’m a noble, a knight, berry by blood, heart, and all that. Happy?”
Pure Vanilla chuckled again. “You’re not wearing the crest. Not even a berry-stitched collar. No red, no pink, no gold. If you’re from the Hollyberry Kingdom, then you’re dressed in a most heretical fashion.”
The stranger merely huffed, a sound that was equal parts annoyed and theatrical, and rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder he didn’t tip over from the weight of his own exasperation.
“Ugh. I hate the smart ones,” he grumbled.
Pure Vanilla giggled— a soft, tinkling thing, warm as summer wind through wheat stalks. “Are you from the Silver Lands, then?” he asked, light and teasing.
The stranger didn’t slow, didn’t glance over. He only gave a flippant shrug, letting one shoulder rise with serpentine grace. A sharp smile followed, all glinting teeth and dangerous amusement. He turned just enough to flash it toward the prince, mismatched eyes gleaming beneath the sun.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he purred, then resumed walking with renewed bounce in his step.
They were leaving the tighter weaves of the market now, where the cobblestones ended and the wild hills began. The air changed here— fresher, sweeter, with a hint of clover and warm earth. The sun hung low, caught between the arms of distant trees, casting long shadows that reached toward the two of them like curious hands.
The path bent gently upward, winding past stone walls dressed in moss and lichen, past shrubs bursting with late-season pomegranates and little yellow blossoms that nodded gently in the wind. The marketplace below melted into a sea of moving color and scattered sound, distant now.
Distant enough that for a moment, it was just the two of them— and the hush of grass rising all around them.
At the crest of the hill, they paused.
The breeze up here was stronger, pulling strands of blond and black and blue hair alike into wild motion. Below, the town looked like a painting— soft, golden, a little unreal. Smoke twisted from chimneys, and bells rang faint and far away. The stranger stood with his arms loose at his sides now, his silhouette thrown long across the grass. His eyes were turned to the horizon, expression unreadable— somewhere between boredom and longing, though the shape of it slipped away too fast to name.
Pure Vanilla watched him a moment longer, then reached into the inner lining of his coat.
“I was thinking,” he said, quietly, as he drew the necklace from its fold of silk. It dangled between his fingers, its golden chain catching the light, the obsidian bead gleaming like a single drop of spilled night. “Perhaps we could call for a trade.”
The stranger turned his head— his gaze dropped to the chain at once, and for a moment, something flickered across his face.
Hunger.
He made no move yet, only stared.
“I don’t think it’s really yours,” Pure Vanilla said softly, “but you seemed… rather fond of it. I’d be willing to give it over, if you answer a few questions.”
The stranger didn’t answer right away. His eyes, mismatched and wild, stayed fixed on the way the chain swayed in the breeze, as if it were trying to sing to him.
And then— he grinned.
“That depends,” he replied finally. “Is this the part where you propose to me?”
Pure Vanilla choked.
He didn’t mean to. The laugh caught in his throat, and before he could stop himself, he was coughing, sputtering on breath, dignity, and every ounce of composure he’d ever so carefully curated. His cheeks bloomed a furious pink almost instantly, the color rising from his neck like spilled rose tea.
“I— what?” he managed, voice higher than intended.
The stranger only smiled wider, devilish and dazzling, mismatched eyes sparkling with glee.
In the very moment Pure Vanilla looked down— perhaps to hide the flush that now reached the tips of his ears —the stranger moved. Quick as breath. Fingers like striking snakes, fast as the wind itself, snatched the necklace cleanly from his hand.
“Too easy, really,” the stranger laughed, eyes bright with triumph.
The prince’s mouth fell open.
Before he could summon a word, a protest, or even a clever retort, the stranger turned— toward the edge of the hill.
“Wait—!”
He didn’t.
He pivoted in one smooth motion, his coat flaring like a raven’s wing. With one hand, he gave Pure Vanilla a two-fingered salute, cocky and mocking. With the other, he tucked the necklace into some inner pocket like a prize.
And then, without another word—
—He threw himself backward down the hill.
Pure Vanilla gasped.
“No—!”
He lunged forward on instinct, reaching out a hand that grasped only empty air. His foot struck the loose edge of the slope, and before he could think better, the hill took him.
And the hill knew no prince. There was no grace to be found here. Only velocity.
He stumbled, skidded, then fell. Hard.
The world became grass and sky and tumbling blur. His arms flailed, cloak whipping around his legs, boots slipping against slick moss and packed earth. His braid flew loose behind him, snagging on something sharp before unraveling entirely. He rolled— yes, rolled —down the slope. Mud smeared up his back, the gold buttons of his waistcoat scraped against stone, and grass stained the delicate cream of his trousers with bold, merciless green.
At last, he landed at the bottom in a graceless heap, limbs tangled and breath punched from his chest.
For a moment, all he could do was lie there, blinking up at the swirling sky.
Then—
“Your Highness!”
“Is that the prince?!”
“Somebody help the prince—!”
Footsteps thundered toward him, voices tangled in alarm and concern. Hands reached down, lifting him carefully, brushing the dirt from his shoulders, smoothing his hair back with fretful murmurs.
“Are you injured?”
“Your Highness, speak to us!”
Pure Vanilla coughed. “I’m—fine,” he wheezed, even as he sat up and immediately regretted it.
But he wasn’t listening to them.
His eyes were searching. For him.
But the stranger, of course, was long gone.
Pure Vanilla hadn’t stopped thinking about him.
Not once. Not since the fall.
It had been three days since that absurd, grass-stained descent. Since that wicked grin, that stolen necklace, that terribly silly and yet mocking two-fingered salute. Three days, and still that jester of a man clung to his thoughts like burrs caught in silk.
But morning waits for no foolish hearts.
And so, with the sunrise casting pale gold through the high windows of the eastern corridor, Pure Vanilla stepped quietly out of his chambers, soft white cloak draped over one arm, boots shining from polish only recently dirtied. The castle was silent in that early hour— too early for court, too late for cleaning crews. His footsteps echoed as he walked, soft against marble-veined floors. The halls were vast and old, their stones kissed with sunlight. Stained-glass windows cast trembling mosaics on the walls, honeyed light slipping in where ivy had pried through old seams. Every corridor was long enough to feel like a drag.
There were no portraits here; no family scenes, no gentle smiles painted in oil and gold.
Only remains.
Only the trophies.
The walls were lined with bones.
Jaws, horns, and coiling, petrified spines— remnants of dragons long slain. Their shadows twisted across the tile as the light shifted, their hollow skulls mounted with no reverence, but violence. Wings made brittle by years of sun were pinned behind glass, displayed like butterfly specimens. Each bore a plaque, etched with the same proud scrawl: King Vanilla IX.
Pure Vanilla kept his gaze forward, shoulders level, pace steady.
He had learned long ago not to look at them. Not too closely. The curve of their jaws made him feel watched. He could feel their eyes even now— whatever scraps remained —hollow sockets and empty beads staring from between cracked fangs and shadowed glass.
The light caught on one of the skulls, casting a warped reflection across the polished floor.
He walked faster.
At the corner of the next corridor, he paused before a narrow mirror set into the wall. His reflection met him with a familiar softness: long hair, pale gold and knotted neatly into a braid that spilled down his back. He adjusted the clips at his temple— delicate pieces of gilded gold shaped like tiny leaves—and smoothed the strands that had begun to fall loose.
His fingers lingered on the braid. It was heavy today.
He should cut it, he thought— not for the first time. It had grown far too long. Down to his waist, now. It tangled in his coat. Got caught in carriage doors. Made him look more like a ceremonial doll than a ruling prince.
And yet, his hands dropped from it again. He straightened his collar. Blinked once.
Then turned from the mirror and continued on.
There was no sign of his father, of course— There rarely was. King Vanilla IX was, as usual, away. Some expedition. Some new ruin to map, some beast to chase, some field to conquer. The castle never heard him return, only the stories that came after. He was never home, truly, only the corpses of his victories found respite within the walls of the castle.
Pure Vanilla, by contrast, had never once raised a weapon in his life. He had raised infants. Cared for the wounded. Sat beside the dying and held their hands. He had read laws, rebuilt bridges, remembered birthdays. He wrote thank-you notes in his own hand. He delivered medicine when the weather was too cruel for others to ride. He had chosen softness— every day —when the world expected steel.
Speaking of which—
Pure Vanilla exhaled softly and shook the thoughts from his mind like dust from sleeves. There would be time for reflection later. For now, the world was waking, and he intended to wake with it.
He pushed open the main doors of the palace and the early morning air kissed his cheeks the moment he stepped through, cool and clean, touched with the scent of wild thyme and distant firewood. The sky overhead had only just turned its pale blue shoulder toward the sun, and the hills that cradled the kingdom glimmered faintly with dew.
Two guards at the front gate spotted him immediately. They straightened— not out of obligation, but habit —and grinned when they saw who it was.
“Good morning, Your Highness!” called one, with a wave more suited to a festival than a post.
“Out early again?” the other chuckled. “Planning to beat the bread to the ovens?”
Pure Vanilla laughed and returned their wave with an open palm and a smile that reached his eyes. “You know me. I like to get my errands in before the day remembers it's busy.”
They laughed with him. The gates opened without a word more, and he stepped into the town as though stepping into a second skin.
The streets were only just beginning to stir— still cradled by the soft lull of sleep. Windows cracked open with a yawn of hinges, smoke curled lazily from bakeries, and slow, sleepy voices murmured between neighbors as stalls began to rise like flowers from the cobblestone. Carts rumbled softly over stone. A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance.
And Pure Vanilla waded in, unnoticed at first. He moved through the quiet with the ease of someone who belonged— not above, not separate, but among.
He helped an old woman lift the latch on her door. He carried a sack of flour across the square for the baker’s apprentice, who always twisted his back wrong when lifting too fast. He tied the sandal strap of a little girl who was trying to run too quickly toward her father’s arms. He righted an overturned stool, passed out greetings like morning bread, and wiped jam from a child’s chin with the hem of his own sleeve. And when someone offered him a piece of apricot tart, still warm and crumbling at the edges, he accepted it with both hands and a bow of thanks so sincere it made the baker blush.
He spent the morning this way— drifting from need to need, moment to moment, like wind between trees.
It was hours before he stopped. Not because he wanted to, but because he had given too much again— too many steps, too many lifted crates, too many kind smiles traded for the ache growing beneath his ribs.
At the edge of the square, where the sun now fell fully over the cream-tiled rooftops, he found a tree. An old one. Its branches stretched wide with sleepy leaves, its trunk knotted and wise. It stood half-sunk into a patch of mossy earth, beside a fountain that trickled with the sound of distant bells.
He sat.
The bark was rough against his back, but the shade was kind. The wind combed through his hair like a patient hand. Pure Vanilla leaned his head back, sighing. His braid had begun to unravel again, a few golden clips hung lopsided in the mess of blond, glinting like scattered coins.
The earth beneath him hummed with life, soft and drowsy, warmed just enough by the sun to make the air heady and slow. The world, for once, didn’t need him. It asked nothing. Demanded nothing. The ache in his legs began to melt. The tired thrum beneath his ribs quieted.
And so, with the gentle sigh of one who’d earned rest, Pure Vanilla allowed his eyes to flutter closed.
Just a moment, he thought. Just a breath—
Then, something tugged.
Not hard— the faintest pull, as light as a fingertip brushing a ribbon, as soft as a child testing the edge of sleep.
It was so delicate he might’ve missed it entirely— would’ve, had he not been trained to notice the smallest changes in his kingdom. A shifting wind. A stagger in a breath. A freckle that hadn’t been there the day before.
His eyes flew open. He gasped, heart stuttering with the shock of waking and turned, swiftly— only to find him.
There, lounging in the grass with the same impossible ease he always carried, sat the stranger.
His legs were folded lazily beneath him, elbows resting atop his knees, back curved in a careless slouch. He was dressed in deep blue again, but his sleeves were rolled, and the collar of his shirt hung open like he'd been climbing rooftops or napping in rafters. He looked no more out of place than a shadow, and between his fingers— graceful and lazy —he twirled the loose end of Pure Vanilla’s braid.
“Oh, good,” the stranger said, smiling with far too many teeth. “You’re awake. I was just about to start braiding it myself. You left it in such a state. Honestly, have you no pride?”
Pure Vanilla sat upright, breath catching slightly, hand moving instinctively to his hair. “You—” he began, flustered but not unkind. “I… didn’t— How—”
The man held up a finger, mock-serious. “Shhh. Don’t ask boring things. You’ll ruin the fun.”
“You’re—” He sat up straighter. “You—”
“Missed me?” the man interrupted, teeth flashing.
Pure Vanilla’s breath caught in his chest, halfway between disbelief and something far more dangerous.
“You— threw yourself off a hill!”
“I landed,” the stranger corrected, way too proudly. “You, on the other hand, rolled down like a dropped cake at a royal banquet. I half-expected applause when you hit the bottom.”
“I—” Was there really any point in trying to protest? This was a losing battle, one Pure Vanilla supposed he could surrender too. “...You could’ve broken your neck, you know?”
“And yet—” he gestured grandly to himself, “here I am. Neck intact. Hair perfect. Stunning as ever….. Unlike a certain someone.”
With that, the stranger’s gaze drifted back to the braid in his hand— half-unraveled, the golden clips askew, some missing entirely, others dangling. He clicked his tongue, head tilting as if examining a complicated riddle.
“This is tragic,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’ve seen scarecrows with more symmetry.”
Pure Vanilla blinked, startled. “It’s not that—”
“Oh, no, no— don’t defend it,” the stranger sighed dramatically, already drawing the braid into his lap. “You’re far too pretty for excuses. This thing has clearly been through war. Sit still, will you? I’ll fix it. Someone has to.”
And before Pure Vanilla could offer so much as a sound of protest, those long, pale fingers were in his hair.
He stiffened.
Not because it hurt— far from it. The stranger’s touch was feather-light; each movement was precise, slow, and practiced— as if he’d done this a thousand times before. And yet, it was intimate in a way Pure Vanilla hadn’t expected. Too quiet. Too careful.
His hands folded politely in his lap. His gaze dropped to the grass.
This wasn’t strange. This wasn’t special. His maids braided his hair often, sometimes humming while they worked. Sometimes chattering about ribbons and perfumes and court gossip. It was normal.
But this…
This was different.
He could feel the man’s breath against his nape whenever he leaned close, the ghost of a hum rising in his throat as he worked, not a tune, not a song—just the sound a person makes when they’re concentrating. Pure Vanilla could feel the heat of him at his back. Could feel the light tug, the gentle twist, the smooth rhythm of fingers threading and folding strands of hair together like the weaving of a spell.
He swallowed. His heart had begun to thrum again— quiet, but impossible to ignore. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he kept them perfectly still. Didn’t know what to do with his breath, so he held it more than once.
“All done!” the stranger chirped after a few minutes, patting the braid once like a proud artist finishing a piece. He let it drop gently against Pure Vanilla’s back.
Pure Vanilla blinked. Slowly, he reached for the end of his hair— and stopped.
The braid was… different. Not the simple weave he was used to. No— this was intricate. Elegant. Looped in on itself in small clever folds, like vines curling into flowers. It felt heavier now, but balanced. Carefully arranged. Beautiful.
He opened his mouth to say something; to offer thanks, to ask how he'd learned to do that, to—
But the stranger was gone
“...What?”
He turned, startled. Searched the grass. The shade. The fountain. Nothing.
No footprints. No laughter. No rustle of blue silk. Only wind, and the echo of his own breath.
He let out a stunned little chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief, already feeling a smile tug at the corner of his lips.
But then his hand reached up to touch the braid again.
And he froze.
The clips, the gold—
Gone.
Every last ornament. Every leaf-shaped pin. Every opal-studded fastener. Every bit of royal decorum that had once glittered in his hair— Missing.
“…Wait— what?!”
From somewhere far off— high above the rooftops, maybe drifting down from the trees —a laugh rang out.
Gold wasn’t really Pure Vanilla’s thing.
It never had been, not truly. Even as a child, he had found its gleam too loud, too brash, too obnoxious. It caught the sun and held it hostage. It made people stare. It made him feel like a statue in his own life.
But royalty did not dress for comfort.
And so, his closets overflowed with embroidered silks and velvets, with threads spun from gold and trim dipped in precious metal. His cloaks shimmered, his boots bore golden buckles, his belts were stitched with tiny pearl beads the size of raindrops. Even his nightclothes were threaded with silver.
Pure Vanilla preferred white linen. Or cream-colored coats. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t wear cloaks at all, wouldn’t drape himself in embroidery or buttons or velvet-lined boots. He would walk barefoot through the grass. He would carry a satchel instead of a ceremonial staff. He would live quietly.
But kings do not live quietly. And princes had expectations to meet.
Still, he had drawn a line. No crowns. Not unless absolutely necessary. Not unless there was a formal ball or a gathering of diplomats. His father had scoffed at the idea once— What is a prince who does not wear his title? —but had, at the very least, not forbidden it.
That was something.
Today, however… today he wore everything.
Not by accident. Certainly not out of vanity. But out of quiet, and pathetic desperation.
A week had passed since the incident beneath the tree. Since that absurd, intimate trick. Since the stranger had threaded his fingers through Pure Vanilla’s hair like he was stitching a poem, and then vanished— along with every clip, every ornament, every scrap of treasure that had glinted nearby.
He hadn’t seen him since.
He’d looked. Of course he had. Every morning since, he had returned to the square. And yet, nothing.
No flutter of blue silk in the breeze. No mischievous grin across the cobbled street. No gentle, thieving hands brushing against his braid.
Gone.
And Pure Vanilla, in the quiet corners of his thoughts, had come to a curious conclusion:
The stranger only ever appeared when there was gold to take.
So—
He would give him gold.
Or rather, offer it.
That morning, he allowed the maids to go all out. No gentle refusals. No polite downplaying. No “Oh, just one pin today.” He let them drape him as they pleased.
And drape they did.
They had dressed him like a sun deity come to walk among mortals. His suit, a soft cream with golden accents, fit too well— tailored to every inch of his figure with cruel precision. It clung perfectly, sharp at the shoulders, soft at the waist, tapering down into pale cream trousers lined with intricate embroidery.
The back was open.
A bold cut, shaped like a trefoil— three perfect leaves of negative space blooming between his shoulder blades, mirroring the shape of the gem set into his ceremonial crown. His skin, tan and smooth, was left bare in its center. Over it, they draped golden chains— fine and glinting, like sunbeams spun to thread. They crisscrossed his spine, looped behind his neck and down his chest, resting just shy of his heart.
He had bracelets around both wrists— too many to count, some jangling softly, others solid and weighty. A few were old family heirlooms, their history etched in tiny inscriptions. Others were borrowed for shine alone. Rings were stacked in constellations across his fingers, every stone a different color— opal, moonstone, tiger’s eye, blue zircon, citrine, each catching the light in a different language. They had even tied a delicate chain around his throat, with a pendant that dangled just above his collarbone— an abstract shape that looked like a star unraveling.
His hair, usually restrained, had been released in full. It poured down his back like honeyed silk, reaching his waist, gleaming with the scent of rosewater. Into it, they pinned gold-leaf combs and sunburst clips, little jeweled feathers, tiny bells that only rang when he moved too quickly.
When the crown was brought out— polished and terrible in its weight —he hesitated.
“No,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “Not that.”
The room stilled, confused.
He met their eyes gently. “It’s too risky to lose.”
A pause. Then, the attendants exchanged glances, and someone— mercifully —offered a compromise.
A diadem was picked instead. It was lighter, more delicate. A loop of gold that arched over his brow, set with a single topaz, warm and soft as candlelight. He allowed them to place it on him.
When he finally stood before the mirror, he startled.
He looked like a proper prince. And he felt absolutely ridiculous.
He bore it with grace, of course. He smiled at the mirror. He thanked the maids. He left the palace with his chin lifted and steps light, even if his shoulders ached from the sheer weight of adornment. But by the time he reached the streets, he was shimmering so brightly he thought he might blind a pigeon.
The people noticed.
Gasps met him before words did.
Hands flew to mouths. Fans snapped open. Children paused mid-play to stare with wide eyes and sugared fingers. A hush rippled through the square— quiet first, then quickly replaced by a bloom of murmurs and smiles and half-whispered speculation.
“Is that—?”
“He’s glowing.”
“He must be meeting a dignitary— no, a lover —he’s never dressed like that before.”
“I bet it’s a courtship,” someone said with confidence. “You don’t wear that much gold unless you’re trying to impress a lady.”
Pure Vanilla smiled. Softly. Politely. He bowed his head in gentle greeting to the people, even as the heat crept up his neck. The golden chains across his back shifted with every movement, chiming softly like the wind catching chimes on a summer porch.
And yet, with every kind nod returned, he felt something tighten in his chest.
He tried to help.
Of course he did. It was instinct.
He knelt to lift the basket that had tipped over— bread rolls spilling like clouds across the cobblestone —but the baker’s wife reached for it faster, laughing nervously.
“Oh— no need, Your Highness, no need at all! You’ll wrinkle that lovely coat—”
“I don’t mind—”
“Please,” she insisted, stepping between him and the basket. “Let us.”
He offered to carry a sack of lemons for an elderly vendor, but the man refused, waving a spotted hand. “You’ll drop ‘em in that getup, your highness. You can’t bend in that thing.”
He smiled still, as always.
Even when he reached to tie a child’s undone sandal strap, the mother scooped the boy up swiftly into her arms and bowed. “Your Highness! You’ll get your sleeves dirty!”
“But I—”
He stopped.
All at once, the distance had returned. The familiarity he’d spent years fostering— undoing titles with laughter, replacing fear with kindness, making himself reachabl e—had faded beneath the glint of his own reflection. It was as if the moment he shimmered too brightly, they remembered he was royal. Not one of them.
Not family.
He stood for a long moment in the square, hands folded neatly in front of him, ringed fingers resting against his knuckles. People were still smiling. Still waving.
But no one reached for him.
No one let him carry, or kneel, or help.
The air had grown warm. The sunlight caught the chains on his chest and lit them like fire. His clothes itched, and his hair stuck faintly to the sweat on his neck. The diadem pressed gently against his brow.
He could feel the ache begin— right beneath his ribs.
Without a word, he turned away.
Pure Vanilla made his way out of the square. Past the edges of town, past the gates that no longer needed guards to open— only the soft bow of a head in recognition. Past the bakeries and the fruit carts and the whispered “There he goes—what do you think he’s planning?”
He did not answer. He did not look back.
He walked until the stones gave way to packed earth. Until the trees grew closer together, brushing gold-leaf shoulders like they too were curious. Until the world, at last, stopped watching.
The forest was quiet in the way sacred things often are. Cool shade filtered through the boughs, dappling his path in green and gold. Birds called softly in the high branches. A squirrel leapt from one tree to another with an annoyed chirp. The path narrowed, and the hem of his trousers picked up the dust of dry earth.
Here, he could breathe. Here, the gold didn’t seem so loud.
He let out a slow sigh, his shoulders finally lowering, the weight of the jewelry pressing less cruelly against his skin in the quiet.
“Well well, well! Someone is having a terrible day.”
Pure Vanilla froze.
The voice was sudden, bright, and maddeningly familiar— singing through the trees like a skipping stone across water.
He turned sharply. There was no one there. He looked to his left, to the dense patch of oaks and lilacs— nothing but rustling leaves and sun-dappled bark. He turned again. Right— still no one. Only branches. Only breeze.
And then—
“Ha, behind you!”
The voice again, teasing, smug.
The poor prince spun around, half-disbelieving.
…Still no one.
His mouth parted, startled, as the laughter followed— loud and proud and utterly delighted.
“Oh dear! You’re so gullible!” the voice crowed, barely able to contain its glee.
And then, finally— finally —Pure Vanilla’s gaze flicked upward.
There.
Lounging like a cat who had never known shame, draped along a thick tree branch several feet above the path, was him.
The stranger. The Blue-Eyed Thief.
His coat today was a deep, midnight blue, sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows. He wore no shoes. His ankles dangled loose over the branch, one foot swinging gently in rhythm with his laughter. In one hand, he held an apple— half-eaten, blood-red and glossy —and with each bite, the juice glistened against his lips. His other arm was cradled lazily across his lap, and nestled there, barely hidden by folds of fabric, was a bundle of… something. Cloth. Trinkets. Ribbon. There was a glint of chain, the twinkle of gems, and Pure Vanilla didn’t need to look twice to know what it likely contained.
Stolen things.
The stranger grinned down at him, mouth shiny with apple juice, a shard of sunlight caught in his pale lashes. He looked utterly pleased with himself.
“Fancy seeing you here, my gilded prince,” he said, tossing the apple once in his hand and catching it again. “You look like a bride that got lost in the woods.”
Pure Vanilla blinked up at him, stunned into silence.
The thief took another bite, smirked, and spoke through the mouthful, voice muffled and still somehow elegant.
“You dressed up for me, didn’t you?”
The prince flushed instantly— cheeks warm, ears turning red beneath the fall of gold in his hair.
“I—I did not,” he managed, far too quickly.
The stranger froze.
Only for a blink. A breath. A moment caught like a caught flame behind his teeth.
And then—
He howled. A laugh tore from his chest— loud and wild. Not the sly little chuckle he usually exhaled, but something full-bodied and absolutely delighted. It cracked out of him like thunder, echoing off the trees and scattering birds into the canopy above.
“You— you actually did!” he gasped, clutching his stomach as if the absurdity physically hurt him. “Oh, witches, I was only teasing! I didn’t think— oh, you dumb, dumb prince!”
Pure Vanilla, still very much crimson-faced, crossed his arms lightly, trying— and failing —not to let the corner of his mouth twitch.
“I did not dress up for you,” he repeated, softer this time. Firmer. But not angry.
The thief wiped the corner of his eye, breath hitching between the remains of his laughter. “Oh, please, don’t lie to me now, little prince. I’m already touched.” He sat up straighter, juggling his half-eaten apple as if he was a jester in mid act. “You waltzed into the woods looking almost like a bride, I mean! Witches! You’ve got enough metal on you to ransom a kingdom!”
Pure Vanilla looked away, embarrassed, one hand rising instinctively to cover the pendant at his throat.
“Well! I- Uhm- I thought you’d… maybe, like it,” he admitted, quietly. It came out softer than intended. A half-thought.
But the thief stilled. The apple paused in mid-air, then lowered. His grin didn’t fade, but it softened, just enough to suggest a flicker of something gentler behind it. Surprise, maybe.
Then, as if desperate to break the tension, he bit into the apple again.
Crunch.
“Well,” he said breezily, stretching out along the branch like it was a throne and he its chosen prince. “You weren’t wrong.”
He popped the rest of the apple into his mouth and tossed the core over his shoulder, missing a squirrel by an inch. A furious chirp erupted from the branches above, but the thief only laughed.
“I do like it.”
With one hand, he grabbed the little bundle of trinkets from his lap— looped fabric, something silky and knotted, bulging with stolen things and glinting softly like treasure at the bottom of a shallow pool. He slung it over his shoulder with an effortless swing, the whole mess jingling faintly like a windchime in motion.
Then, without so much as a warning, he jumped.
He landed with a soft thud just before Pure Vanilla’s feet—smooth and practiced, like his body knew the ground as an old friend. And now, finally, they stood eye to eye.
Except… they didn’t.
Pure Vanilla blinked down, surprised. He had never realized that the thief was just slightly shorter than him. Not by much. An inch or two, maybe. But it was enough to shift something subtle in the air.
The thief, of course, noticed immediately. He tilted his head, eyes twinkling with sharp, amused interest.
“Well?” he asked, flashing a grin. “You gonna go on about it?”
Pure Vanilla blinked. “About… what?”
The thief scoffed, dry and theatrical, as if he were the one offended.
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely up and down, toward Pure Vanilla’s entire figure— rings, chains, the slow fall of his golden hair. “The bells, the rings, the shine, Your Radiance.”
Pure Vanilla looked away, flustered, his fingers absently rising to adjust the edge of one dangling bracelet.
“Im, well, actually. I wanted to—”
“Oh, please,” the thief interrupted, already laughing again. “You dolled yourself up for a thief, don't make this harder than it has to be” He stepped closer, just enough to make the air feel warmer. His voice dropped low, teasing: “If you don't want to take it off yourself, I could definitely lend a helping hand.”
Pure Vanilla choked.
“You—! That is not—! I am not—” The poor prince stammered, scandalized, pink flooding back to his cheeks like a struck match.
The thief howled, tossing his head back with laughter.
“Oh, you’re so easy!” he crowed, spinning on his heel, delighted beyond belief. “So pink! So stupid! Witches above, I’m going to die— what are you, a sheltered little princess?”
Pure Vanilla, trying very hard not to hide behind his hands, straightened his spine and cleared his throat.
He would not let the thief win.
“I came to offer a deal,” he said, and was rather proud of how even it came out.
That caught the thief’s attention. He blinked once, brows lifting.
“A deal?” he repeated.
Pure Vanilla nodded. “You clearly enjoy stealing from me. And I, admittedly…” He hesitated. “I find you difficult to catch. So— what if we made an exchange instead?”
The thief narrowed his eyes, intrigued. “Go on.”
“One answer,” Pure Vanilla said, lifting his hand, “for one piece of gold.”
The thief lit up.
“You’re bartering with a thief,” he said, giddy.
He took a step forward, eyes bright with interest. “Alright, little prince. You give me something shiny…” He reached out, and gently tapped one of the chains draped across Pure Vanilla’s shoulder. “And I’ll give you something true.”
Pure Vanilla nodded. He reached up slowly, fingers brushing the clasp of a pale gold bracelet wrapped twice around his wrist— a thin, twisted piece with a tiny sapphire charm. He undid it with a soft click and held it out in his palm.
The thief didn’t snatch it. Instead, he reached out with surprising care, taking it between two fingers and lifting it as if it were something delicate and strange. Then, he slipped it into the bundle over his shoulder with a satisfied hum.
“Alright,” he said, grinning. “Ask away.”
Pure Vanilla hesitated for just a moment. Then:
“…What is your name?”
The thief blinked. “Starting strong, are we?”
Pure Vanilla didn’t respond. He only watched, quiet and patient.
The thief clicked his tongue.
“Well. A deal’s a deal.” He leaned closer, close enough that Pure Vanilla could smell the sharp-sweet tang of apple still on his breath.
“My name,” he whispered, “is worth more than just a bracelet.”
Pure Vanilla sighed.
Across from him, the thief only laughed, delighted by the sound. “Don’t give up yet,” he purred, tapping his fingers against the knot of his stolen bundle. “You’ve got plenty of gold left to gamble.”
Pure Vanilla gave him a flat look. “Next question,” he said, reaching for one of his rings— a slender thing with a milk-pale pearl set into it, cradled like a drop of moonlight. He twisted it free and placed it gently in the thief’s open palm. “Where do you come from?”
The thief blinked once, then twice.
It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting.
He twirled the ring between his fingers thoughtfully, then slipped it into his bag.
“Ah,” he said, and his voice came slower now. “A bit east of the Silver Kingdom… a bit west of the Land of the Beasts.”
“That’s—” Pure Vanilla frowned. “That’s no kingdom I know of.”
The thief grinned. “Exactly. I don’t belong to any kingdom.” He stepped back, spreading his arms dramatically. “None but my own.”
Pure Vanilla stared, curious now, and maybe even a little charmed. “You have your own kingdom?”
“Of course.” The thief shrugged, tilting his head. “It’s a very exclusive place. Population: me. Borders? Wherever I go. Culture? Trickery. Cuisine? Mostly apples.”
Pure Vanilla laughed— a warm, quiet thing.
“What’s it like?” he asked, stepping even closer now. “Your home, I mean. Is it big? Is it warm? Were your parents kind? Did you ever belong anywhere before?” The questions spilled gently, like water over stone— soft but persistent. Terrible in the way they were genuine.
And for the first time since they’d met, the thief looked… flustered. A strange cold hue rose faintly in his cheeks. Not pink— no, that would have been too human. It was more like a soft violet, the kind of flush that didn’t belong in the heat of day.
Before Pure Vanilla could press further, the thief suddenly, with no explanation, dropped to the ground with a huff.
“Hey! Too many questions, too little gold!” he announced, crossing his legs. He plopped down in the dirt like a child ending a game, tossing his bundle of stolen goods in front of him and pulling it into his lap.
Pure Vanilla, caught somewhere between intrigued and alarmed, slowly followed. He smoothed his trousers before sitting down across from him, the chains on his chest settling like wind chimes coming to rest. The dirt was warm. The air smelled like moss and apples and something faintly citrusy— possibly stolen perfume.
The knot of the thief's bundle came loose with a practiced tug.
And for the first time, Pure Vanilla saw the thief’s hoard.
It was… not what he expected.
Yes, there was jewelry— rings and chains, clasps and pins, the occasional locket tangled in ribbon. Some clearly expensive. Some clearly not. But alongside these sat things far more humble:
A smooth but yet shiny black stone, polished oval by years of river water, gleaming like obsidian. A pie wrapper, golden and familiar— Pure Vanilla blinked in recognition. It was from the royal bakery. The kind used only on the seasonal honeyed plum tarts. A snapped hair comb, missing a tooth, its surface inlaid with tiny blue flowers. A bent coin. Three marbles. A string of buttons, none of them matching. A charm shaped like a bell, its clapper broken.
They shimmered in the light that filtered through the trees, every surface catching the gold. Every item different— but all of them gleamed.
Not valuable, not really. But shiny.
Pure Vanilla stared, awed and bewildered. “You… collect these?”
“Obviously,” the thief replied, as if this should be obvious.
“They’re not… worth much,” Pure Vanilla said carefully, eyes drifting over the little pile.
The thief gave him a scandalized look. “Not worth much? Excuse you.” He picked up the pie wrapper and held it up between two fingers. “This one sings in the wind. It’s like music. And it smells like sugar. Tell me that’s not priceless.”
Pure Vanilla couldn’t help it— he laughed. It startled even him, light and sudden, like a bell ringing in his throat.
The thief looked pleased. He gathered a few stones into his lap and began sorting through them— quick fingers dancing over marbles, shifting buttons into neat rows, lifting each piece with a casual reverence that made them seem like relics rather than rubble. There was no pattern to it, no method— but there was care.
Pure Vanilla watched him quietly.
And for a moment, he forgot himself.
There was something oddly… endearing in the way the thief moved— full of delighted little murmurs and tsk-tsks as he nudged a snapped comb aside to make room for a copper pin, or lined up a trio of stones so they caught the gold filtering through the canopy in perfect harmony.
Silence fell between them, but it was the soft kind— companionable. Like two travelers warming their hands beside the same fire. Like the forest was listening, and holding its breath to keep from interrupting.
And then the thief looked up. Not startled, but sharp, as an accusation— like he’d noticed the weight of Pure Vanilla’s gaze, and decided to meet it squarely.
“Well?” he asked, brow arched. “You planning on asking more, or are we just going to sit here until the moss takes root in our bones?”
Pure Vanilla blinked, startled. He coughed lightly into his hand, a bit embarrassed by how long he’d been staring.
“Right,” he said, fumbling briefly with the golden cuffs around his sleeves. “I— ah. I suppose it’s my turn again.”
He reached up, undoing the clasp of the diadem at his brow. The golden band slipped free with a soft click, its warmth still lingering from the sun. He cradled it in his palms for a beat before he leaned forward and set it gently among the thief’s treasures.
The thief stared— for once, he didn’t grin right away. His gaze lingered on the diadem, tracing the arc of it, the soft glint of the topaz nestled like firelight at its center. His fingers hovered over it— but didn’t touch.
Then, with a tilt of his head and a voice still caught somewhere between mocking and curious, he murmured, “That’s a pretty price for a pretty question.”
Pure Vanilla smiled, just a little. “Then I hope the question is worthy of it.
The thief raised an eyebrow. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
Pure Vanilla folded his hands in his lap, the bells in his hair catching on his shoulder as he tilted his head, soft gold brushing against soft gold.
“What’s your favorite color?”
The thief blinked. Then he blinked again.
And then—
Laughter.
Oh, he laughed like a boy unspooling at the seams, one hand pressed to his heart as if the absurdity of it was too rich to keep contained.
“That’s what you asked?” he wheezed. “That’s what the crown gets me? Not ‘what are your intentions’ or ‘where do you sleep at night’ or ‘are you a danger to the kingdom’— but my favorite color?”
Pure Vanilla nodded primly. “It matters.”
The thief barked another laugh, curling over his hoard like it physically hurt him to be so utterly amused.
“You’re unbelievable,” he gasped. “Completely, spectacularly unbelievable.”
And yet, when the laughter quieted— when he leaned back again, eyes still shining —he didn’t dodge the question.
He looked at Pure Vanilla with something almost thoughtful in his expression, the grin still lingering at the corner of his mouth.
“Yellow.”
The maids back home were, rightfully, horrified.
Not scandalized— not yet —but definitely somewhere along the road there. Their prince, once the paragon of restraint and simple elegance, had somehow developed a terrible habit:
He kept losing his jewelry.
“Not just a bracelet,” one of them muttered, holding an empty velvet slot like a dead bird in her hand. “No, no, that would be reasonable. He’s losing sets. Full sets. Earrings with no pair, necklaces with no chain, entire brooches— gone! Vanished! Vanishing!”
“And don’t even get me started on the diadem,” hissed another. “Or the hair clips!”
They searched every room. Every cloak. Every banquet hall and balcony and flower-wreathed corridor. They checked the fountains, the garden hedges, the royal cat’s personal chaise lounge. Nothing.
It was as though the jewelry had learned to sprout wings and fly away.
Nonetheless, Pure Vanilla had begun to visit the woods more often. Alone, always. Sometimes under the guise of herbal research. Sometimes for meditation. But the guards had long since stopped asking. They saw the shift in him— the way his shoulders sat a bit looser, his laughter came quicker. They chalked it up to a new prayer regimen or a change in diet.
Pure Vanilla would say he was learning a lot.
He came to know, for instance, that the thief had a sweet tooth so profound it bordered on criminal. That he would never eat a lemon tart, but would risk his life for a candied apple. That he hated sugar on bread— “an affront to both grains and grace” —but would spend twenty minutes talking about plum jam.
He knew that the thief claimed to have visited all the kingdoms in Crispia. “Even the glass-floored palace of the Sea Fairy Queen,” he’d bragged once, tossing a stone into the water. “Though I mostly went for the view. Below, not above.”
He knew the thief could rattle off the names of gemstones like they were old lovers: chrysoprase, larimar, sunstone, smoky quartz. He knew which ones were “worthless but charming,” and which ones “might curse your teeth out if you wore them at the wrong moon.”
He knew he didn’t like crowns. Too heavy, too loud. He preferred clips— little ones. Sometimes beaded, sometimes plain.
As long as it is shiny, it was well received.
And eventually, Pure Vanilla listened.
He started, slowly, bringing not just jewelry, but little trinkets. A clip shaped like a sunflower. A ribbon from his own childhood braid, long since outgrown. A button made of polished wood, carved into the shape of a fox.
That, of course, didn’t stop him from taking.
Oh, the blue eyed thief still stole— always with a devil’s touch and the casual arrogance of someone who knew they’d be forgiven before the crime was even complete.
He’d slide his fingers into Pure Vanilla’s hair mid-sentence, eyes locked on his like a challenge, and undo the pins one by one. Combs, feathers, tiny bells— lifted with the soft clink of metal-on-metal, a glint in the sun before vanishing into a pocket.
Once, he unbuttoned the top clasp of Pure Vanilla’s cloak with a theatrical sigh and muttered, “Too stiff. You’ll suffocate.”
Then— snap. The button was gone.
“Was that necessary?” Pure Vanilla had asked, cheeks flushed.
“Absolutely,” the thief replied, tucking the button behind his ear like a prized coin. “For your health.”
It would be maddening, should have been maddening. But Pure Vanilla only laughed.
He adored him. Truly, he did. In the quiet, inconvenient way one adores a storm before the thunderclap.
And so, the prince gave more.
One night, they found themselves on a hill, miles from the palace. The sky above was painted in constellations, each star bright and sharp against the velvet dark. The wind moved gently through the tall grass, combing it like fingers through hair.
They lay there side by side, arms brushing, heads tilted skyward. The thief was muttering something about the royal baker’s atrocious tart crusts when a small, golden ring flew through the air and thunked gently against his chest.
He jolted upright, blinking down at the offending object. “Hey— what was that for?”
Pure Vanilla smiled faintly, hand still half-raised from the throw. His hair had fallen loose again, soft gold spilling across his shoulders like silk. The wind tugged gently at the sleeves of his robe.
“I have a question,” he said simply.
The man sighed, long-suffering. But he picked up the ring anyway, twirling it once between his fingers before tossing himself back onto the grass.
“Well? Out with it.”
“Do you…” Pure Vanilla paused, then glanced up. “Do you know any constellations?”
There was a beat of silence.
And then, with a grumble, the thief rolled onto his side and grabbed Pure Vanilla’s hand.
“Of course I do,” he muttered.
His fingers were calloused, his nails sharp, but his touch was careful. He guided Pure Vanilla’s hand up to the sky, pointing with his own fingers.
“That’s the Silver Serpent,” he said. “See the bend there? That’s its tail. It wraps all the way to the top. The head is that little trio of stars that look like a crooked smile.”
Pure Vanilla squinted. “I… see it. Yes.”
“And that,” the thief continued, warming now, “is the Breadmaker’s Belt. Don’t laugh, it’s a real one. It’s good luck during harvest. You can only see it during this part of the year, unless you’re far enough north.”
Pure Vanilla smiled gently, enchanted. “You know so much.”
“I travel,” the thief said with a shrug. “Spend a lot of time under the sky. It’s free to look at, last I checked.”
There was a pause.
And then the thief added, offhandedly, almost too casually:
“From my house, you’d be able to see even more. Higher elevation.”
Pure Vanilla blinked. “You… you have a house?”
It was a simple question. A natural one. Should have been brushed off, or mocked— But the thief’s hand dropped, letting go of the prince’s hand as if it had burned.
Pure Vanilla turned. Yet, the thief was already looking away. Not in the theatrical, overplayed fashion he usually wielded— but something tighter. Smaller. His shoulders had gone still, breath pulled low into his ribs. He was biting the tip of his thumb, sharp teeth pressing into the nail like he meant to erase it.
“Is something wrong?” Pure Vanilla asked, voice soft with careful concern.
The thief shook his head immediately— but it was too quick, too sharp to be believable. His eyes didn’t meet Pure Vanilla’s. His mouth moved, but no words came out.
Then—
He stood. Abruptly. Like the earth had stung him. And before Pure Vanilla could say something, before he could even reach for him; he turned, and left. He strode down the slope of the hill with a pace that was not quite a run but nothing close to casual. His coat caught the wind behind him, deep blue fluttering like a wing torn midflight. His boots crushed the grass but made no sound. His silhouette disappeared with the ease of someone who had practiced vanishing their whole life.
“Wait—!” Pure Vanilla called, already rising to his feet.
He didn’t hesitate. He gathered the folds of his robe and ran— over the flattened grass where the thief had passed, past the patch where they’d sat together, through the tall reeds that whispered like gossiping hands.
But when he reached the edge of the hill—
There was nothing.
He stood there, breath caught in his throat, heart still rattling in his chest. The night air was soft, the stars unbothered. But the hill had gone quiet in a way that hurt. No parting joke. No final glint of blue. Not even the rustle of a departing coat.
He was gone. Just like that.
Vanished, as if the very question had peeled back a seam in him, raw and too-close-to-the-heart, and sent him fleeing before it could bleed.
Pure Vanilla waited.
Minutes passed, then an hour, then two— though he could not tell by the moon. He waited until the insects began to sing, until his knees ached from standing, until the grass leaned tired against his calves.
And only then, with the faintest hitch in his breath, did he turn and go home.
Sleep did not come.
The palace was quiet, draped in that particular hush reserved for nights too deep for dreams. Yet Pure Vanilla stood by the balcony, draped in a robe of ivory and gold thread, the air brushing his cheek with every sigh of the wind. His chest felt twisted. Folded in on itself like bad parchment. He pressed his hands to the railing, fingers curled tight.
Why had that question stirred such a storm? Why did the mention of a home send the man scattering like windblown ash?
He didn’t even know his name.
Witches. How idiotic. How pathetic.
He, the crowned heir of the Vanilla Kingdom— gifted in knowledge, trusted by courts, beloved by scholars —had given away rings and diadems, hair pins and secrets, to a man who slipped away like rain through open fingers.
And he hadn’t even gotten his name.
What kind of fool—
A sudden gust of wind roared through the air.
Curtains billowed like sails, loose parchment flew from his desk, and every lantern flickered violently, as if something massive had just breathed in.
Pure Vanilla gasped, staggering back. He stumbled to the railing, clinging to it with both hands as the wind screamed louder, sharp with the scent of metal, cold stone, and something wild. His hair snapped around his face, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut.
Then—
A silence.
When he opened his eyes the stars were gone, blotted out by shadow.
No— not quite? It was not shadow. It was too blue for it. And when the prince squinted, he found that the shadow was actually scales.
A creature too massive to be contained by thought or instinct hovered above the palace, wings like veined obsidian stretched wide enough to cover the moon. Its body shimmered in black and blue, each scale a gemstone of night. Silver webbing etched through the wings. Its eyes were brilliant— glowing, magnificent, and intelligent.
And they were fixed on him.
A tail, long and gleaming like a whip made of midnight water, coiled through the wind. It moved too fast— before Pure Vanilla could even think of crying out, or running, it struck.
But it didn't struck in the way he had expected; there was no violence, but an almost delicate curl around his waist. Either way, panic struck him all the same. He gasped as the cool smoothness of scale wrapped him. Binding. And lifting.
“W-wait—!”
The ground dropped beneath him. The wind roared again— this time as a cry of flight.
He was lifted. The balcony vanished below, and then the towers, and then the gardens, and then the very palace itself shrank to a glittering toy in the distance.
The wind tore at Pure Vanilla like a thousand knives. It howled in his ears, whistled through the seams of his robe, dragged tears from his eyes and stole them before they could fall. His breath caught in his chest— no longer from fear, but from altitude. From speed. The ground had disappeared, the stars spun too fast, the clouds were beneath him now, shredded wisps cast aside like the breath.
Pure Vanilla couldn’t even scream.
His voice had abandoned him. His thoughts, too. Only instinct remained— clutch tighter, breathe, pray.
So he did.
He pulled his trembling hands together and pressed his fingers to his heart.
“By the wind and flame and root and bone, may mercy find me. May the stars bear witness. May the dawn not forget my name.” He mouthed the words, again and again, even as the air thinned and his vision blurred. The world was dissolving around him, all weight and distance vanishing. He was a whisper wrapped in silk, hurtling through myth.
Below them, the kingdoms fell away like toy houses knocked from a table. The glow of the Vanilla Palace dimmed, vanished. The rivers of the central lands shrank to threads. Even the great crystal towers of the Silver Kingdom passed by in silence— his last glimpse of civilization before they crossed into the spine of the world:
The Beast Yeast Mountains.
Where even maps dared not draw too deep. Where travelers never returned.
The air grew colder. Sharper. Each gust a dagger in his lungs.
And still— up.
The dragon carried him across peaks that scraped the stars, their jagged edges silvered in moonlight. Shadows painted the ridges. Snow curled along the wind like threads of smoke. No birds. No trees. Only rock. Only sky.
Only death, waiting like a patient god.
Pure Vanilla shivered violently, more from terror than cold. He dared a glance upward.
The dragon did not look back. Its wings sliced the air with silence, no part of it faltered— not its rise, not its grip, not its pulse. It flew with the grace of something ancient and certain, a creature who had always belonged to the sky.
Pure Vanilla felt small. So, so small.
“Please,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut as the world blurred. “If this is retribution, let it be quick. If I am to die, let it be with dignity. Do not let me scream. Do not let me suffer. Do not let me beg."
But his body ached to beg.
Because he knew what this was. He knew what the dragons were— what his kingdom had done to them. What his father had vowed. The dragon hunts. The trophies. The nests destroyed.
He knew.
Of course it was revenge. Of course he was going to die.
The dragon gave no sign of this— didn’t roar, didn’t gloat —but the silence was worse.
And then, with no warning, the creature dived.
The air shrieked. Pure Vanilla choked on a gasp as they plummeted through a wall of mist, a curtain of clouds torn in two by wing and scale. A mountain loomed below— its peak jagged like a broken crown, sheer cliffs on every side.
He braced for impact. For bone to meet stone. For blood.
But instead, they simply slowed. The wind softened. The dragon dipped low, skimming the mountain’s edge with a terrifying ease before curling into a wide spiral around the tallest peak. A summit untouched by time. Snowless. Moonlit. Still. And at the very top— a mouth in the rock. A cave. Barely visible, tucked like a secret between ridges, too high for any man to reach. Hidden from every compass.
The dragon flew straight toward it.
Pure Vanilla shut his eyes. Pressed his lips together. This is it. He braced again— this time not for the wind or the flight, but for the end.
The cave swallowed them whole. Darkness embraced him.
The dragon landed. He did not crash. He did not roar. There was no fire. Just the soft scrape of claw on stone and a faint huff of breath.
The tail unwound from Pure Vanilla’s body with gentleness. And he was lowered. Down and down… Onto something that was not rock. Not dirt.
But— soft.
Pure Vanilla still kept his eyes closed. Still shaking. He sank into something that cradled him, warm and yielding beneath his weight— something plush, like down-stuffed cushions or densely packed moss. Something... comfortable.
Too comfortable for death.
The silence stretched.
Pure Vanilla’s hands trembled where they rested against his chest. He dared not move. Dared not breathe, as if any motion might trigger the punishment yet to come. Time folded around him. Long. Weightless. Unbearable.
And still— he was not torn apart.
His lashes fluttered. And slowly— very, very slowly —he opened his eyes.
The cave greeted him not with horror, but glow. Pale moonlight spilled in through a high crevice, casting the walls in a hush of silvers and blues. The stone was smooth, worn down by age or magic or both. Crystals jutted from the walls in gentle veins, catching the light like droplets mid-fall. And just ahead—
Just beside him— was the dragon.
Massive. Terrible.
And beautiful.
Coiled with quiet stillness, its body folded into itself like a serpent. Wings tucked, breath steady, the creature rested atop a carpet of silks and treasure. But it wasn’t the hoard that stilled Pure Vanilla’s breath.
It was the eyes.
The dragon’s eyes. Big, bright, blue. One lighter than the other. One like winter skies, the other like ocean depths. Mismatched and all the more mesmerizing.
Familiar.
Pure Vanilla stared, and the longer he did, the tighter something twisted in his chest.
He knew those eyes. Not just vaguely. He had looked into them before. Watched them crease with laughter. Watched them glint with mischief, sharpen with cunning, soften— so delicately —with something that almost resembled warmth.
They were his thief’s eyes.
His.
The realization hit him like a bell toll— loud, all-encompassing. He tore his gaze from the dragon, suddenly breathless, and only then did he notice where he lay:
Not on stone. But on a coat. Blue, yes— but not just any blue. The exact shade of sea-drenched dusk, where salt met sky. It smelled of pine and distant smoke, of rain and something sharper— him. There was a patch near the collar where the fabric had thinned, a snag along the hem that had never been stitched.
Pure Vanilla had seen it a dozen times. Worn, tossed like an afterthought. Draped over shoulders in mockery of chill, used as a pillow in sunlit glades, stolen back with a laugh when he tried to keep it for himself.
And now it held him.
Pure Vanilla’s fingers curled into the fabric, clutching it as if it might vanish too. His throat tightened. But even as the weight of that familiarity threatened to buckle him, something shimmered at the edge of his vision.
He looked up.
The nest he lay in— this hoard —wasn't just gold and precious stones, wasn’t just the glittering currency of dragons. It was his.
All his.
His brooches, his bracelets. Necklaces given in jest. Rings pressed into warm palms in quiet evenings. Hair clips—the ones he thought he’d lost to the wind—nestled like tiny stars across the bed of silks. Pins that once adorned his braids, laid carefully along woven threads of ivy and velvet. A wooden bead from his prayer cord. A tiny ribbon from a braid. A pearl comb he’d worn only once, and never found again.
Each one lovingly placed. A thousand moments of closeness. Stolen touches, lingering glances, the weight of an object transferred from one hand to another— all preserved. Not in vaults, but out in the open, where they could be seen.
Loved.
Pure Vanilla’s chest ached with something too large for his body to hold.
Slowly, he raised his eyes once more— confusion struck for a second when he did, because the dragon was gone.
Strange, for there had been no shimmer of transformation. Not a sound. Only the faint rustle of breath and chain and silk.
However, in its place, now he stood. The thief.
His thief.
No longer cloaked in tailored blue or hiding behind the smug tilt of a too-loose smile. No longer crouched beneath layers of cleverness and deflection. He stood farther away now, near the mouth of the cave, half-lit by starlight and silvered mist.
And he was different.
Taller, somehow. Not by inches, but by presence. His posture was still relaxed, but it rang with something older than kingdoms. Something not human. Horns curled from his temples, long and arched like the petals of a black lily, kissed with opalescent shine. Chains draped between them— gold and glass and tiny baubles, each one catching the light. They sang faintly when he moved. Some were braided with beads. Some dangled rings that Pure Vanilla recognized.
His eyes were still the same— those mismatched, piercing blues that saw too much and said too little. But now, they carried weight. As if the truth of him had always been there, but only now had been allowed to look back.
He wore no crown. No cloak. Only a loose silk shirt, open at the collar. Simple trousers. Bare feet on stone.
And his skin... there were no freckles. Not anymore. Instead, fine scales shimmered in dark blue. Dustings of them beneath his eyes. Across his cheekbones. Down the slope of his nose. Curling along the edges of his throat. His forearms glimmered with them like inlaid ink, silver-blue and delicate, as though constellations had bloomed there instead of stars.
A tail swayed gently behind him. Black as night. Smooth and long and ending in a soft, crescented tip. It curled low to the floor, then lifted, nervously, the way a cat might hesitate before stepping into light.
He did not speak. He only looked.
And Pure Vanilla—
Pure Vanilla could do nothing but stare.
“You—” Just one word, trembling with questions. With disbelief.
But the figure before him— his thief, no, his dragon —cleared his throat suddenly, sharp and low, like the sound had been waiting behind his teeth far too long.
“Shadow Milk,” he murmured.
The voice was the same— musical, cocky, threaded with irreverence —but there was a tremor to it now. The kind that betrayed nerves.
Pure Vanilla blinked. So stupid. “I—what?”
“My name,” the dragon clarified. His eyes didn’t quite meet Pure Vanilla’s. He looked off to the side, tail tapping against the stone. “It’s Shadow Milk.”
The name fell heavy in the air. Familiar and strange. Cold and soft all at once. It curled around Pure Vanilla’s ribs like smoke; he had heard it before. The dragon of shadows.
The one his father had never been able to catch.
Pure Vanilla’s eyes widened. “You’re—”
“What?” Shadow Milk snapped. But not cruelly— no. It was too fast, too defensive. Too much like a wounded animal, lashing not from malice, but fear. “A dragon? A beast? Yeah. I am. Surprise.”
His tail lashed again, quicker now. His voice rose. “And before you start— I don’t want you to say anything. I don’t care what you think, actually! This wasn’t about you. This was— this was just—” He faltered. Fumbled. “I’m just doing this because I wanted— needed— because you kept giving me things, and I didn’t ask for—”
The words left Pure Vanilla before he could stop them.
“You’re beautiful.”
Shadow Milk’s mouth froze halfway open, his tail even stilled. For a single heartbeat, it was as if the cave itself held its breath.
“…What?” the dragon whispered, stunned.
Pure Vanilla’s chest rose with a shuddering inhale. His voice, when it returned, was quiet. But steady. He would not allow himself to be a coward, not when in front of something so stunning. “You’re beautiful.”
It wasn’t flattery, nor awe. The prince felt it inside his chest— this was truth, spoken with the reverence of someone who had stared into myth and not only believed it— but found it lovely. Absolutely gorgeous, not in the way bards spun tales, or children imagined firelit wings, but in the raw, unpolished way one finds a storm beautiful when standing at the edge of the sea.
“You don’t have to say that,” Shadow Milk muttered, looking away. His claws flexed. “I know I’m not— I’m not wearing my pretty face anymore.”
“You’ve never not worn it,” Pure Vanilla replied, breathless. “I just didn’t see all of it.”
Shadow Milk flinched at the words— flinched like he'd been struck, like beauty was a weapon aimed too close to the heart. His tail twitched once, sharply, before curling back in again. His eyes darted away and then back again, unsure what to do with the tenderness being handed to him so freely.
He looked shy.
Witches, shy.
The same thief who had once stolen hairpins with a grin and plucked brooches mid-laugh now stood like a boy caught in the middle of a confession he hadn’t meant to give. His hands fidgeted at his sides, fingers brushing the fabric of his loose shirt, his breath fluttering— just a little.
Then— tentatively, like each step might shatter the world beneath him —he came forward.
One step. Another.
Pure Vanilla watched him, eyes softening with every breath. The way Shadow Milk approached the nest was not how a dragon moved, nor a thief, nor a monster. It was how someone stepped into holy ground. Cautious. Hesitant. And from this close, he was still beautiful. More beautiful, if that was even possible. The scales caught the lamplight in the cave and shimmered like dew at midnight. His horns looked heavier up close, the golden chains between them swaying gently. The freckles that had once speckled his cheeks were now ghosted with starlight scales, and it made him look… untouchable. Untamed.
And yet— here he was.
The dragon of the stories, the one who had survived the death of thousands and his father constantly hunted for. That same mythical beast was now within reach.
His reach.
“You’re insane,” Shadow Milk muttered at last, voice quieter now. The self-righteousness had faded to a tremor. “You should be terrified. You should be crying, or begging for your life.”
Pure Vanilla gave a small chuckle. He tilted his head, smile blooming like a flower beneath the sun. “I’m not scared of you,” he said, as though it were the simplest truth in the world. “I couldn’t be.”
Shadow Milk opened his mouth to argue, to scoff, to deny— but Pure Vanilla had already reached up. His fingers brushed the dragon’s face, cupping his jaw, soft and careful, like he was holding a secret. His thumbs grazed the ridges beneath Shadow Milk’s eyes, where fine, opalescent scales shimmered like frost.
The dragon’s breath caught. His entire body went still.
But, even through the fear, he leaned in. The dragon leaned into the touch like a man starved of kindness. His eyes fell shut, lashes trembling, and a faint noise left his throat— half sigh, half shudder. One hand reached up, not to stop the touch, but to brace himself against it, like the contact was too much and not enough all at once.
“You’re warm,” Pure Vanilla whispered, brushing his thumb once more beneath those lashes.
Shadow Milk’s voice, when it came, was hoarse. “I’m always warm.”
“I love it.”
Shadow Milk opened his eyes again, startled. His lips parted like he wanted to say something biting, something sarcastic— but the words didn’t come. Only silence.
“I’m not afraid for myself,” Pure Vanilla continued softly, his voice now tinged with sorrow. “But I am afraid for you.”
The dragon blinked.
Pure Vanilla drew his hand back just slightly, enough to let his thumb trace the curve of Shadow Milk’s cheek.
“Just what they’ll do to you if you don’t return me home.”
That made something flash through Shadow Milk’s eyes. Not fear, like the prince had expected, but stubborn defiance.
“Let them try,” he said, the words low and laced with smoke. “I’d like to see them try. It wouldn't be the first time mortals are foolish enough to defy me.”
And before Pure Vanilla could speak again, before he could warn or offer the words the moment was aching for—
Shadow Milk surged forward.
The kiss was not gentle.
It was more of a crash, not a caress. A wave breaking against shore, all mouth and breath and need. Shadow Milk kissed like he was drowning— like Pure Vanilla was air, the only thing keeping him from collapsing. His mouth was cold on the outside, from the wind— but burning within, firelit and trembling.
And Pure Vanilla kissed him back. Soft, and deep. His arms wrapped gently around Shadow Milk’s neck, fingers sliding up through thick, unruly hair until they found the nape— holding, guiding. He was, perhaps, just as hungry. He felt like the thief then, taking as much as he was allowed.
Shadow Milk groaned softly, the sound muffled in the press of lips, and leaned further in, pushing him back, deeper into the nest. Cushions and silks shifted beneath them. Gold clicked softly against itself. The hoard sang with every movement.
The dragon moved like a creature used to dominance, used to towering over kingdoms.
But it was Pure Vanilla who commanded the kiss.
His hands were gentle, but firm— pulling Shadow Milk closer, taming the wild of him with every breath they shared. Their lips moved in tandem, rough and slow, desperate and tender. When Shadow Milk pulled back to breathe, Pure Vanilla followed, catching him again in a kiss that was all hunger and love.
Their noses brushed. Their foreheads touched. Breath mixed.
“You— shouldn’t stay,” Pure Vanilla murmured, between kisses, gasping the words into Shadow Milk’s mouth. “You should really… take me back…”
Shadow Milk gave a low laugh, ragged and breathless, eyes heavy-lidded and starving.
He reached down, took Pure Vanilla’s hands— so gently, so carefully —and placed them on his hips.
Then he straddled him.
“Say that again,” he murmured, a wicked glint flickering behind storm-dark eyes. “With a little more conviction.”
And Pure Vanilla—
Well.
He was just a man.
“Your Highness,” came a voice, soft and sweet through the wood of the bedroom door, “are you awake yet?”
Inside, the room smelled of lavender oil, sweat, and something older— like warm stone and pine wood. The morning light slanted through the gauzy curtains, pale and golden, pooling against the foot of the bed where the sheets had long since been kicked aside.
From beneath the weight of soft blankets, Pure Vanilla gasped— a sharp, shivering inhale drawn between parted lips as he broke from a kiss, breathless and flushed.
“Y—Yes!” he managed, voice cracking like a morning fire, delicate but barely controlled.
Below the covers, warm hands caressed his hips.
A tongue, too long and too mischevious, traced a sinuous path down his chest, slipping lower, cooler than skin but quick to warm with every pass. It dragged slow over his collarbone. A sharp set of teeth nipped at the base of his throat a moment later.
“A-Apologies,” Pure Vanilla stammered, limbs trembling, “I’ll be out in ten—”
Too fast. Something beneath the blankets moved faster than humanly possible. In barely a second, the warmth left his throat.
A second later, a sudden, pointed bite at the inside of the prince's thigh made him flinch, breath escaping in a small, helpless choked cough.
“Half an hour!” he blurted, strangled and mortified.
A pause. Then a kind, little sigh on the other side of the door.
“As you wish, Your Highness. Breakfast will be waiting in the dining hall.”
Footsteps padded gently down the corridor.
Inside, Pure Vanilla exhaled a long, shaky breath and tossed the blanket back.
The dragon lay sprawled lazily between his legs, golden chains tangled in his hair, his scales glinting faintly in the low light. His horns curved beautifully above his brows, casting shadows across his cheekbones, and his pupils were blown wide, the blue of his eyes almost impossible to see.
“Well,” Pure Vanilla muttered, exasperated, “you’re incorrigible.”
Shadow Milk blinked up at him, feigning innocence with a smirk. “I warned you,” he said, voice thick with sleep and mischief, “sharing a room with a dragon has its drawbacks.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” Pure Vanilla huffed, running a hand through his own tousled hair. “I really do need to get going, though.”
The dragon whined, dragging himself up the bed like a lazy cat. “It’s already tragic enough I have to sleep in your human bed instead of a proper nest, and now you’re leaving me so early?”
Pure Vanilla sat up, another set of blankets slipping off his bare shoulders. His skin glowed in the morning light, kissed with faint marks— bites and hickeys, shimmering like spilled wine. He turned to the vanity, where jewels lay scattered, nestled between piles of polished stones.
Too many stones.
Rough-cut rose quartz, glinting amber, smooth river pearls. Tumbled gems and delicate crystals, arranged carefully around earrings, rings, pins, and clips— all his.
Every one of them a gift.
He’d read about it. In old stories, hidden footnotes, and nearly forgotten scrolls: when a dragon courts, it gives gifts. Rocks, shiny things, things it likes.
And Shadow Milk had been giving him little pieces of himself for months now.
(How stupid of the prince to not realize before that he had been, apparently, courting a dragon without even noticing.)
“Well,” Pure Vanilla sighed, pulling on his robe and stretching, “I’ll make a deal with you.”
Shadow Milk perked up from the pillows.
“If you let me go,” Pure Vanilla continued, walking barefoot across the silken rug, “you may pick something to drape me with today. A cloak. A chain. Even a rock, if you so insist.”
The dragon bolted out of bed with all the grace of a summoned storm.
“I insist,” he said, already pawing through the vanity like a man on a mission.
Pure Vanilla chuckled, allowing himself to be steered gently to the cushioned stool before the mirror. Shadow Milk stood behind him, still shirtless, scales winking along his shoulders. He plucked up the brush— a golden-handled one Pure Vanilla had once lent him —and began running it through soft, golden strands.
The motions were slow. Tender.
Pure Vanilla’s eyes half-lidded in the mirror. “Are we still on for tonight?” he asked softly.
“Hm?” Shadow Milk said, caught up in a stubborn tangle. “Oh, yeah. Absolutely.”
Pure Vanilla smiled, quietly pleased.
Tonight, in the gardens— far from eyes and judgment —he would give him a little something new for his growing hoard of jewelry.