Chapter Text
The great doors opened with a muted groan, and Silent Salt stepped in from the darkness outside, shoulders heavy, his cloak dragging a thin trail of snow behind him. His armor looked darker than usual, dulled by frost and travel. He didn’t announce his return; he never did.
Across the room, Dark Cacao stood alone by the map table. A few candles guttered near his hands, throwing light over the piece of paper scored with mountains, rivers, and frontlines marked in old ink. He didn’t look up right away. “Long patrol?” he asked, roughened by disuse.
But Silent Salt didn’t answer. He never wasted words after a night like this. He just crossed the hall, his clinking armor filling the empty space in between, and he reached the brazier, where he laid his sword beside it with care.
“You passed through the north ridge?” Dark Cacao spoke after a pause, his tone as casual as he could make it.
A grunt. “Mm.”
“Any movement?”
“None worth telling.”
“That’s not much of a report.”
Silent Salt brushed snow off his vambrace, flicking the melted water from his fingers. “It’s all you need.”
The faintest exhale came from Dark Cacao’s direction, “You’re as talkative as ever.”
So Silent Salt huffed through the slits in his helmet. Frost clung stubbornly to the grooves of his armor, and he went on brushing at it, more to keep his hands busy than anything else.
“...You don’t have to be like this every time you return.”
“You say that like there’s something else to be.”
For a moment, only the crackle of the fire filled the room. The commander pushed away from the table, the faint creak of his armor marking the distance he closed between them, and he stopped a few paces away, close enough for the heat to touch the edge of his cloak:
“You’re jam is dripping somewhere, isn't it?” he said quietly.
“No.”
“Then take off the helmet.”
Silent Salt’s hands paused mid-motion, frost still clinging to the joints of his gauntlets. He didn’t look up. “Why?”
“Because I can’t tell if you’re all right.”
His breath escaped in a short, dry laugh that misted against the visor, “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine—”
“Because I’m not done being angry.”
Dark Cacao stopped where he was. His posture stiffened, but only slightly, just a tightening at the shoulders. Where he stood, the fire painted his armor in dull copper light as he looked at Salt—really looked: “At me?”
Silent Salt’s head tilted, just a fraction. “At everything,” he corrected, “Mostly myself.”
He didn’t say anything for a while. The fire kept its quiet rhythm, and the sound of the blizzard outside filled in the space their silence left behind, yet slowly, he reached out. His fingers brushed the side of Salt’s helmet, testing the distance between them, waiting for the usual flinch or pull away. None came. Silent Salt simply remained still, only his breath shifting behind the metal.
So Dark Cacao’s hand lingered there a moment longer, then he found the clasp at the base of the helmet and worked it loose. The metal gave a soft click, and the helmet came free.
Silent Salt didn’t move as it lifted away. His hair fell first; it fell long and uneven over his shoulders, the strands coarse like old silk, the upper half dark as wet sand before fading, almost seamlessly, into a white that gathered at the ends like snow. It framed his face in tired disarray, but even that couldn’t hide what time had done to him. Yet what the light touched beneath it made Dark Cacao’s throat tighten all the same.
His face was ruined; shattered and cracked under too many winters. Deep fissures ran across his cheek and jaw, edges uneven and broken apart. Some of the breaks were so deep they exposed the dull shimmer of crystallized sugar beneath, while others had been hastily sealed, melted smooth in some attempt at mending that hadn’t held. The dough that remained was dreary and grayish, flaking in places where the firelight couldn’t reach.
Silent Salt turned his head away almost immediately. “Don’t,” he muttered, lifting his hand to block out his face, “Just—don’t.”
Dark Cacao didn’t step back. “Its not like I haven’t seen it before.”
“That doesn’t make it any less—” Silent Salt stopped himself, and his jaw tensed. “I don’t want to look like this. Not in front of you.”
…The first time he saw those fractures, he said nothing then. It wasn’t pity that stopped him but the look Silent Salt gave him, something like defiance mixed with shame. That same look was in his eyes right now. Nothing has changed. Dark Cacao had thought he’d grown used to it, to the sight of what was lost. But seeing it again under the cold firelight, so close, he felt something twist in his gut. Not disgust—never that, just the ache of knowing he could do nothing to mend it.
Dark Cacao’s breath left him slow, fogging in the cold air between them, and he shifted the helmet in one hand, setting it down on the table beside them with a scrape of metal on wood. Without a word, he reached out.
His hand found the edge of Salt’s jaw, tracing the uneven surface with care; the cracks were colder than he remembered. His thumb brushed along one fissure that split across the cheekbone, following it down toward the corner of Salt’s mouth.
Silent Salt’s breath hitched just barely audible, but enough. His eyes flicked up, uncertain, as Dark Cacao’s shadow crossed over him. Then he leaned in, his forehead meeting Silent Salt’s, the touch firm and grounding. The cold of steel met the warmth of dough where the cracks ran deep.
And he drew in a breath, the sound of it catching in his throat, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach back but couldn’t bring himself to.
He closed the distance himself.
It was timid, but his lips brushed against Dark Cacao’s, cold and cracked, tasting faintly of salt and ash.
The other Cookie, startled at first, took a sharp intake of breath, breaking between them; his hand froze where it was resting against Salt’s jaw, yet he didn’t pull away. His fingers curled instead, steadying himself against the other’s cheek, his thumb pressing into the fractured surface. For a moment, the chill of Silent Salt’s touch sank into him, meeting the heat that lived behind his armor, and it was honest.
When they finally parted, Dark Cacao’s breath trembled and he didn’t move away, only lowered his gaze, roughened and dragged over gravel.
The door opens.
Dark Cacao jerked back instinctively, armor rasping as he straightened as the faintest trace of warmth that clung eagerly to him, gone as swiftly as it had come. His hand dropped to his side, and Silent Salt turned away at once, retreating into the half-shadow near the wall. One hand came up to his face, covering the cracks and ruined edges that the dim light might betray.
“Your Majesty?” came the voice from the doorway. It was a soldier, perhaps, or one of the aides who seldom entered without permission.
Dark Cacao cleared his throat. “What is it?”
“...The watch reports movement near the northern ridge. We await your command.”
“Understood,” Dark Cacao spoke in that clipped tone of his, “I’ll see to it shortly.”
Silent Salt had turned slightly, not enough to hide completely. His hair was sticking to his face, his profile faintly lit by the hearth’s fire; the jagged lines that ran through his cheek caught the light like cracks in glass, and the hollow gleam of his dark, red eyes met the soldier’s for only an instant.
That was enough.
The young Cookie’s breath stuttered, and a sheen of cold sweat gathered along his temple. He tore his eyes away and stumbled into a bow so low it nearly scraped the floor. “F-forgive me, Your Majesty…” he murmured quickly, the words rushed, as if the longer he stayed, the worse it might get. Then he turned and left.
It's been months since the world knew peace… True, lasting peace. Ever since Pure Vanilla Cookie’s departure for the lands of Beast-Yeast, things changed for the worst. At first, there were only rumors: that he’d gone in search of the sealed ones, that he’d bring light back to what was buried, but he never returned. No word, no messenger, no traces, just absolute silence. And in his absence, the balance that held Earthbread together began to crack like ice.
The seals, as he heard, were broken one by one, and those Cookies imprisoned within Beast-Yeast stirred from their slumber, half-ruin, half-madness, spilling out into the outer reaches of the world. Shadows grew long again.
And from those shadows came him—Shadow Milk Cookie.
The first whispers of his return reached the Dark Cacao Citadel through wounded scouts and burned outposts. They spoke of monsters, of lies woven into mist and breathed into the minds of the weak. His influence crawled like rot through the mountain passes, sinking talons into every kingdom that dared to resist. And Crispia began to fall under siege.
Silent Salt came to Crispia wounded then—half-frozen, armor caked in ash and jam. The watchmen hesitated to even touch him. The name “Devil of Silence” had gone ahead of him, carried on the tongues of frightened survivors who swore he’d been seen walking beside shadows, his blade drenched in Jam.
And yet, Dark Cacao ordered the gates to open.
He still remembered the look in Silent Salt’s eyes when he first stepped inside—the quiet of a Cookie who expected execution. There was no grand gesture, no promise spoken. Just the dull scrape of armor as Dark Cacao turned away and said, “Let him stay.”
The court questioned him for it. The soldiers whispered. But he’d made his decision for reasons he never cared to explain aloud. Perhaps it was because he’d seen that kind of ruin before.
Nonetheless, even with all the gossiping and unease his presence stirred, none could deny what Silent Salt had done for Crispia.
The southwestern ridges would have fallen months ago if not for him. Those endless nights when the monsters poured through the snowfields and he met them alone, blade drawn. He moved through the battlefield like a storm, unrelenting, and when the dawns came, what remained of the monsters were only the trails they left behind: charred snow, the faint stench of corruption, and the glint of Jam crusting over the steel of his sword.
The soldiers stopped speaking ill of him after that, at least when Dark Cacao was near. Yet whispers still crawled through the halls—about what he was, what he’d done before the reawakening, why his shadow grew longer than most.
Even so, he endured it all without complaint. He took the night patrols no one wanted. He walked the frozen cliffs where even torches would not burn. And when the watch towers sighted the black fog at the horizon, he was the first to ride out and the last to return.
He spoke little, slept less, and could often be found sharpening his blade in the hours before dawn. Some nights, the younger soldiers stayed nearby just to watch him work, their ‘awe’ held tightly beneath the pretense of routine.
Then, one morning, a patrol failed to return.
The doors swung open with a gust of snow, then a courier stumbled in, breath fogging, frost clinging to his shoulders. He knelt at once:
“Report from the northern watch, Your Majesty,” the Cookie began. “The patrol assigned to the Frosted Chasm—no word since last night’s signal. The ridge fires went dark before dawn.”
A ripple of unease moved through the room at that; quills stopped scratching, and the captains exchanged glances—Molasses Cookie exchanged a grim look with Cocoa Brew Cookie, while the scholars from the Archives murmured amongst themselves.
Dark Cacao stood at the head of the table, gauntleted hands braced against the wood, his gaze fixed on the map spread before him. Only the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed the thought forming behind his silence.
“Who led them?” he finally asked.
“...Captain Karakudamono Cookie, sire,” the messenger said. “Six under his command. One of them was... Viennoiserie Cookie.”
The room quieted.
But Dark Cacao’s gaze remained on the map, “Send two search teams, one through the river pass, the other—”
…
..
.
Silent Salt… knows this patrol.
It was the youngest among them he remembered most: a bright-eyed Cookie hailing from Southeast, the City of Wizards, too curious for his own good and too unafraid. He was quite the interesting one, with one of the most fascinating questions there being how he travelled from the City of Wizards to the Dark Cacao Citadel at the time where the monster activity was at its peak.
Viennoiserie had a habit of finding him wherever he went: outside the armory, near the stables, sometimes even by the battlements when the others kept their distance.
“Sir Silent Salt Cookie!” he would call, jogging up with that half-grin that always looked out of place in the snow, “You never get cold, do you? Everyone says you don’t feel it anymore!”
Silent Salt would look down from whatever task he was doing—usually polishing his sword or tightening a strap—and murmur, “Everyone says too much.”
Then Viennoiserie would laugh, undeterred. “Then tell me what’s true!”
He never did. He’d only glance toward the horizon and say, “Go train. Or you’ll freeze before you find out.”
But the Cookie always came back. With questions, with stories, sometimes with a steaming cup of broth he’d smuggled from the kitchen. “You’ll rust if you don’t eat.” he’d tease, setting it down beside him. And sometimes, just sometimes, Silent Salt would take it.
Now, that same Cookie was gone.
“They followed my trail yesterday.”
All heads turned toward the sound; because Silent Salt Cookie had spoken.
He was standing by the frost-glazed wall, steady as ever, his hand on the hilt of his sword thats tip was tittering on the ground, “I’ll find them.”
Dark Cacao’s tone sharpened instantly, “You will not. The storm hasn’t broken.”
“If they followed me, their tracks will vanish before noon. Tomorrow, there’ll be nothing left—”
“That’s an order.”
The court fell into silence; even the banners above seemed to hush… But even the sentinel of Silence couldn't keep his mouth shut:
So Silent Salt’s sugar-dusted jaw clenched, “With respect, Your Majesty, those Cookies trusted me to guide them across the Frosted Pass. If they’re missing, I am the one responsible.”
“You are not to take another step beyond the gates until I command it.” Dark Cacao replied, “We will send a unit when the blizzard settles.”
“They won’t last until then,” Salt shot back, “You’ve seen how the winds strip the glaze from even the hardiest Cookie. If they’re caught out there—”
“ENOUGH!” Dark Cacao’s hand struck the table with a thud, “DO NOT MISTAKE MY PATIENCE FOR LENIENCY, SILENT SALT COOKIE! I know what becomes of lone riders who think grief is courage! I will not have another funeral because you chose to play savior!”
…
“...Then what would you have me do?” he snapped. “Sit here in your hall while they crumble in the snow? Pretend I don’t hear them calling for help?!”
“You WILL obey your king! This kingdom stands because we do not let sentiment rule us!”
Silent Salt’s fists clenched at his sides. “Sentiment?” the bitter disbelief curled through his tongue, “Those Cookies trusted me… They followed my trail because you wouldn’t send enough to patrol the ridge. If they’re gone, it’s on my hands!”
Once more, the council fell silent with the breaths of the two hardened forces of this room. Dark Cacao was stunned with what Silent Salt said. Yet he couldn't let himself lapse, and he quickly pulled his brows knit.
And his gaze hardened, a winter storm gathering behind his eyes, “Watch your tongue, Silent Salt Cookie.”
But Silent Salt stepped forward, “No, you watch, my king. Watch as your kingdom freezes—because you’re too proud to let anyone lose jam but yourself.”
Dark Cacao’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but for a moment he only stared, stared at the Cookie before him, the one he’d taken in from the snows, sheltered, trusted. The one who now dared speak to him like this. But the Cookie simply took another step forward, his shadow spilling like dark syrup across the floor. Then he…
Spat.
Something in Dark Cacao snapped.
His fist slammed into Silent Salt’s chest before even he realized it, the sound ringing through the hall.
The council gasped.
Silent Salt staggered back, more surprised than pained. But his anger was a live wire now, raw and uncontained. “You think I don’t understand loss?” he growled, “You think the beasts didn’t take everything I had?!”
“THEN YOU SHOULD’VE LEARNED RESTRAINT!!”
Silent Salt’s blade flashed, gleaming cold as moonlight, and Dark Cacao’s own sword struck it aside before the other Cookie lifted it, sending a hiss of sparks scattering across the floor.
“ENOUGH!” roared the king, their blades locked. “YOU WILL NOT CHALLENGE ME!”
For a moment, the two stood locked in a glare that could’ve frozen rivers; Dark Cacao’s breath harsh with anger, and Silent Salt’s trembling. Then, slowly, he pulled back anyway.
The king’s voice lowered, and neither could he look at Silent Salt’s face, “...You’re dismissed, Silent Salt Cookie. Before I forget I once called you comrade.”
Silent Salt held his gaze though, jaw clearly tight. Then he turned sharply and left, the great doors slamming behind him with a boom that echoed like thunder over the hall.
The Cookie walked through the corridors like a shadow cast from bitter chocolate, boots crunching over sugared stone. The hallways smelled of melted cocoa and frost, but he barely noticed, as every step carried the weight of the argument, of the fury he could not let go.
Outside, the blizzard raged. Snow whipped along the ramparts, streaking the frozen windows with white, and the wind tore through the towers like a sharp-edged fork. The Frosted Chasm beyond the walls yawned like an abyss, and somewhere in its depths, the patrol was trapped.
Salt’s gloved hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. The metal was cold against his fingers, but the familiarity grounded him. He knew the terrain, knew the pass, knew the storm—and he knew he could track them where no ordinary search party could.
For a long moment, he stood at the gates, listening to the wind roar over the battlements, the blizzard hiding the world beyond. Then, without another thought, he pushed through the heavy doors. The storm hit him like a wave, frosting his panaches and coating his armor in an instant white, but he moved forward anyway.
After that squabble, the council dissipated; Molasses muttered instructions to the aides as they scrambled to assign search teams, Cocoa Brew sharpened his quill, scribbling notes precisely, while the rest returned to their routine, murmuring about schedules and supply rations. Life in the citadel resumed: food being made, scrapes of boots along stone, the distant clatter of the training yard—but Dark Cacao Cookie could feel none of it.
He dismissed the meeting curtly, watched the last of the courtiers leave, then sat alone at the head of the table. The maps were there, the candles flickered, the wind still rattled the doors, but he could not read them. His mind churned with the echo of Silent Salt’s words…
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the fatigue beneath his gauntlets, but the weariness was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He had done so much: ordered patrols, shored up defenses, lost jam for this kingdom, and yet a single sentence from Silent Salt had shredded his composure as though it were wafer-thin chocolate.
He tried to focus on the maps, on the markers of the northern ridges and the patrols he’d sent, but every line blurred, melted beneath his thoughts. Every icy peak seemed to whisper his defiance, the Cookie’s face pale against the frost, hair sticking to his jam-frosted cheeks.
The Frosted Chasm yawned wide and merciless with a swirl of bitter winds. Silent Salt paused at the edge of the first ridge, letting the storm whip around him, tasting the sharp bite of frost on his cracked lips, before he crouched, hand reaching toward the frozen ground, and whispered a single name into the howling wind.
A low whinny answered him from somewhere deeper in the storm, a sound swallowed almost immediately by the roar of snow, ye he murmured again, coaxing the creature still.
From the blizzard, a dark shape emerged: a sleek, shadowed steed with black-slick fur and eyes that gleamed like black sugar under the pale light. ‘Nox,’ as he called it, stepped carefully over the frost-crusted rocks. His hand stayed steady against Nox’s neck, though he could feel the tension beneath the fur. The storm whipped around them, rattling ice from the cliffs and sending sharp flakes into the folds of Salt’s cloak, and Nox’s ears flicked constantly, eyes wide from strange fascination the blizzard inspired.
She’d never been in snow this deep, not like this—never faced wind that cut through the strongest glaze, never smelled the bitter sting of frost mingled with ice. Even the first time Silent Salt had summoned her here, the snow was gentler, the winds playful instead of vicious. Back then, she danced nervously around the edges of the drifts, snorting and stamping, unsure of what to trust. Now, the same instinctive unease rose in her, a tremor in her legs and the clatter of hooves over crusted frost.
“It’s all right, Nox. Steady. Watch the snow, but don’t let it scare you.” He brushed along her mane again, careful of the frost, careful not to startle her, “I’m here. You know me. You’ve done this before.”
Her head dipped at his touch, nostrils flaring as she snorted, releasing a puff of steam, and her tail flicked, brushing the ice, but she stayed rooted, trusting the strength of her rider. Now, though fear gnawed at her, she bent to it, listening to the pressure of his hand.
With one last soft nicker, Nox shifted her weight forward, testing the footing, then, with a controlled motion, he nudged her, and she stepped fully into the storm, hooves striking the ice with tentative but growing confidence, carrying him deeper into the white chaos of the Frosted Chasm.
The two let the storm buffet them both as they plunged deeper, and each step was a battle against the bitting wind, the trail faint beneath the new snowfall, the jagged peaks like broken shards rising from the white void. He scanned the drifts constantly, eyes behind the slit of his helmet, searching for the telltale signs of Viennoiserie Cookie and the others. Tracks. Bits of jam glinting in frost. A snapped twig of crystallized candy. Anything.
His memory drifted as he guided Nox through the howling whiteness—months ago, the Milk Tribe was all but wiped out by the Cake monster armies. Their village was scattered to frosted cottages and churned fields, their milk streams and sweet pastures reduced to rubble, glazed over with bitter sugar and smoke. Only a handful had survived, fleeing to the citadel for shelter, where they now lived as refugees, still tending to the Milk Potions that was the lifeblood of their home.
Silent Salt had seen them when he arrived, limping into the Citadel with frostbitten dough and shattered pride. Even then, he chose to stay as a guardian, shielding the fragile Cookies of the Milk Tribe while the citadel debated his presence, about his shadow growing longer than most, about the Devil of Silence in their midst.
And now those same monsters—the Cake armies, the twisted forces that Shadow Milk somehow got with his renewed power—were at large again, prowling beyond the ridges and cliffs. Silent Salt knew the patterns: how those monsters struck, what paths they favored, how their dark dough melted the snow into treacherous patches. Every patrol sent after them risked being swallowed, their tracks obliterated by frost and jam alike, and Shadow Milk’s own forces had grown cunning in his absence, breeding chaos in the northern valleys, daring even the bravest Cookies to step out.
He remembered the words Dark Cacao had spoken a long time ago, when the Frosted Chasm first tested him, when the bitter winds and jagged ridges seemed insurmountable.
“There are lands beyond these ridges,” the king said quietly, almost to himself, as they stood over the edge of a frozen precipice. “Places where the snow thins, where sugar streams run sweeter, and the air is lighter. You will see them one day.”
Silent Salt allowed the words to sink in then, half as promise, half as warning. Now, with the storm lashing at him and Nox’s hooves slipping on the brittle glaze, those distant lands seemed more like whispers of a dream than a reality. How were they holding up, he wondered, those distant valleys and villages beyond the ridges? Did they even remember what sunlight on sugarcane felt like, or had Shadow Milk’s Cake armies spread so far that even the sweet lands were tainted? Were they alive? Were they cold and scared, teeth chattering under crumbled faces like his own, jam-stained from rations dropped in panic? Every possibility twisted in his gut like a bitter caramel knot.
Nonetheless, there was no time to linger on what-ifs. The frost cut sharper with every step, the wind clawing at cloak and armor alike, but Silent Salt kept moving. Nox moved beneath him, ears flicking at every howl of the blizzard, and he pressed a hand to her neck, murmuring steady words and letting her feel the calm he forced into himself.
Forward. Always forward. Through drifts that swallowed hooves, over cliffs glazed with ice, into the heart of the storm where even the faintest trail could vanish before it was fully traced. He rode until his fingers ached, until the snow crystallized along his lashes, until every breath tasted like bitter frost.
Even until the sunlight dies, he told himself, even if the sky cracks and the world falls to gray sugar and shadow. There would be no pause, no hesitation. Somewhere ahead, Viennoiserie and the others were trapped, their warmth fading in the cold, their jam-stained hands reaching for help they could not call aloud.
Inside the citadel, Dark Cacao moved through the motions of his day like a well-tempered caramel sliding through a mold—precise, controlled, and exact… Though it was clear to the others, that each action, was shadowed by the morning’s confrontation. He signed reports with meticulous strokes, inspected the armory to ensure all patrols were provisioned, and oversaw the Milk Tribe cookies as they prepared their potions, but even these routine tasks felt hollow.
His mind wandered, replaying that squabble with Silent Salt and the flash of defiance in that Cookie’s red eyes. He had commanded restraint, demanded obedience, yet when Silent Salt spoken, he lost himself. The hand that struck the table had trembled after, as if even he understood the sting of what had passed between them.
He watched the braziers flicker in the dimming afternoon light, the firelight scattering across the frost-etched windows, and for a moment he allowed himself to acknowledge the ache in his chest, the gnawing guilt that no strategy, no order, could banish. He shouldn’t have lashed out—not at him, not at anyone—not when everything depended on unity and vigilance…
He blinked, startled, turning toward the sound, and found a Cookie standing there: shoulder squared, bow slung over her back, it was Caramel Arrow Cookie.
“Your Majesty,” she began, “You’ve been… Distant all day. Are you well?”
Dark Cacao fixed his demeanor quickly, brushing the trace of distraction from his expression, but Caramel Arrow’s gaze didn’t waver.
“I am…” he started, then faltered, knowing the lie would be obvious, “Occupied with the patrols. You are aware of the northern ridge situation.”
Caramel Arrow nodded once, “Understood, Your Majesty. The northern ridge patrols have been reassigned as you instructed. The Milk Tribe cookies are prepared to send additional supplies of their potions—”
Her voice remained steady, but her eyes kept looking at him, to the tightness around his jaw, the way his shoulders were slightly hunched, and the restlessness of his gloved fingers as they tapped against the map table. Something about him was… off. Not sick, not ill… but distracted in a way..?
“…And the south watch reported that the Frosted Chasm has worsened overnight. The bridges have broken, wind currents have shifted, and—” Caramel continued her briefings, but inside, her mind strayed. She had known Dark Cacao for long enough to recognize the signs: the furrowed brow that didn’t fully smooth, the restless pacing that had nothing to do with duty, and that distant gaze looking far beyond the citadel walls.
She didn’t speak of it aloud—professionalism would not allow it—but concern settled in her chest. He lashed out at Silent Salt earlier, that she knew… Well, the soldiers haven't stopped talking about it ever since it happened… There was guilt, or worry, or some shadow of fear in the way he avoided looking directly at her, the way his hands clenched before he forced them still.
When she finished her reports, she gave a short bow. “That is all for now, Your Majesty. The couriers will relay further updates as they arrive.”
Dark Cacao inclined his head. “Very well. Thank you, Caramel Arrow Cookie.”
Caramel Arrow moved toward the door, boots against the stone, but just as her hand touched the frame, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder:
“Your Majesty… if I may ask…” she started cautiously, voice even but insistent, “You’re troubled since this morning. Is something—?”
Dark Cacao froze, a flicker of something uncharacteristic crossing his features. He cleared his throat then his eyes narrowed, “I am focused on the patrols,” he said finally, indirect. “Nothing more concerns me than the Frosted Chasm and those who traverse it.”
“I… I understand, Your Majesty, but—this isn’t just about the patrols, is it? I can tell when something weighs on you—”
Dark Cacao’s eyes snapped toward her, “Enough.”
Her stomach tightened at once, but she did not speak, waiting for him to continue.
“You are dismissed,” he ordered, “Leave the chambers, and attend to your duties. I will handle what rests here.”
Caramel blinked, momentarily taken aback by the forcefulness in his tone, then inclined her head stiffly. “...As you command, Your Majesty.”
Dark Cacao remained frozen for a long moment after the door shut, the sudden quiet pressing against him. Beyond the frost-etched windows, the blizzard tore across the ridges, a wild swirl of white that seemed to mock his hesitation. Every second spent here, every thought lingering on what had been said, only fanned the fire of frustration and guilt.
Suddenly he spun on his heel.
His cloak swirled around him as he strode from the chamber without another word. The corridors were emptying toward evening, the citadel quiet save for the distant scrape of armor and muffled conversations. By the time he reached the stables, the attendants were caught off guard.
“Your Majesty…” one began, bowing nervously, but he cut them off with a look. Without waiting for a reply, he strode past them, reins in hand, and swung onto a stallion, another steed, equally capable of the storm, shifted beneath him, sensing the urgency in his posture.
The stablehands froze, glancing at each other in startled silence as the king moved with uncharacteristic speed. Outside, the howling storm battered the gates, snow whipping across the courtyard in chaotic sheets. Soldiers lining the walls straightened as they caught sight of their king mounting into the blizzard.
“Your Majesty, the ridges—” one higher knight began, “the storm will strip armor and glaze from even the hardiest Cookie. It is perilous!”
Dark Cacao’s hand tightened on the reins, eyes set forward, “Open the gates, I will take the risk.”
They could never deny their king.
So the gates groaned as they swung wide, chains hauled up. Soldiers muttered warnings, some moving to follow, others gripping their weapons as if to halt him—but none dared defy the king. With a final tug on the reins, Dark Cacao urged the horse into the storm.
He should’ve known better than to let his temper crack against Silent Salt. That stubborn… Infuriating Cookie, with that cursed loyalty and that impossible resolve. In the end, all he’d done was wound the Cookie who carried the storm and the frost without complaint.
A bitter gust stole his breath, frost crystallizing along the edges of his armor. He pressed forward, teeth gritted, chest aching from the cold and his own pride and guilt. He would find him. And if the storm or the Cake armies dared stand in his way… then so be it.
Snow whipped across the frozen ridges, stinging Silent Salt’s cheeks where the frost hadn’t yet bitten through his cracked dough. He leaned low over Nox’s neck, gloved hands steady on the reins as the black-steeled steed lunged forward, hooves striking the brittle ice.
Ahead, a pack of Cake monsters surged from the blizzard, their twisted dough glistening, limbs malformed, mouths dripping dark. Silent Salt didn’t hesitate. His blade sang through the air, glinting in the pale firelight of the storm, and each strike split their dough with practiced force, sending shards flying like sprinkles.
He pivoted Nox with a sharp kick to her flanks, ducking under a swipe from a hulking brute, and the creature’s claws scraped the ice where he had just been, sending up sprays of frozen dust. Another slice, another instant, and it crumpled, leaving only sticky fragments behind.
His eyes, alert beneath the cracks in his face, tracked every movement, every tendril of dough, and every ragged shift in the storm. Nox snorted, and he leaned with her, anticipating the creatures’ unpredictable movements, striking with their combined experience.
The monsters advanced relentlessly, but Silent Salt kept going like a shadow among the ice and snow, blade flashing, cutting, parrying. Every strike was ruthless, but there was a strange grace to it, as though the storm itself bent around him and Nox, giving them space to move.
Silent Salt didn’t know how long he had been out here. Hours? Time blurred into the endless white swirl while in the blizzard, the cold biting through even the thickest armor, the wind tearing at cloak and cape.
The sun long since vanished behind the frozen ridges, and now the night settled fully, swallowing the landscape in a thick, dark gloom. Shadows merged with the swirling snow, and the faint outlines of jagged cliffs and ice became ghostly shapes that danced at the edges of his vision.
He could feel it—or perhaps he imagined it—the familiarity of the ridge lines and the subtle shifts in the wind; the distant howl of something alive and restless. Somewhere ahead, he was probably close to his destination.
Crunch.
The sudden crunch beneath Nox’s hooves froze him mid-stride. Silent Salt eased the reins, bringing her to a careful halt.
He then squinted through the swirling snow; it was clear that beneath the black-steeled hooves, something wasn’t right. Carefully, he slid from Nox’s back, landing with a muted thud on the hardened snow. Frost clung to his armor as he crouched, fingers brushing against the white crust.
Crumbles—small, dark, sticky fragments—were scattered across the frost, partially hidden beneath the snow. He pressed further, brushing away the powdery layers with the edge of his gauntlet, and the pieces revealed themselves more clearly: chunks of glazed dough, torn from uniforms, perhaps, or worse, bits of frost-hardened clothing mixed with dark traces of jam.
They were close… Or maybe… Too close.
Silent Salt let Nox circle beside him, and he moved cautiously, eyes scanning the ground for more of the telltale crumbles. They appeared again here and there, a broken trail of dark fragments, smeared and scattered as if someone had struggled desperately through the snow.
The wind tore at his cloak, and the storm hissed around them like a living thing, but he pressed on:
Then he saw it.
A hand, cracked, protruding from a drift of snow. Their dough was stiff, tipped with frost as if reaching barely toward him. Stains traced the edges of what had once been gloves.
Silent Salt’s heart thudded in his chest, he dropped to one knee beside the hand, pushing snow aside, and mre of the body revealed itself—an arm, partially buried, uniform shredded and frosted, glinting glaze catching the faint light.
“Hold on… I’ve found you.”
His hand curled around the frostbitten hand, tugging gently at first, then with more insistence as he tried to free the Cookie from the snow’s grip—
A sharp snap echoed in the hollow wind. The hand tore clean from the shoulder, brittle dough fracturing in a way that made his stomach lurch. It slipped from his grasp, spinning in the snow before landing a few inches away.
He froze, heart hammering, eyes wide beneath the helmet. For a breathless moment, the storm around him seemed to stop, the howl of the wind reduced to a distant hiss as disbelief and shock clawed at him.
Silent Salt barely had time to register it before a hulking Cake monster lunged from the snow, dark dough slick with frost
It slammed into him with a force that knocked the wind from his chest, sending him sprawling across the brittle ice. The impact sent shards of glaze flying, the snow crunching sharply beneath his armor. Pain flared across his side where he’d hit the ground, but it was fleeting, drowned out by the surge of adrenaline.
He rolled instinctively, coming up on one elbow, and Nox whinnied behind him, hooves skidding across the ice as she readied herself.
Every sense screamed, every nerve on edge. The Cake monster advanced again, limbs lurching in twisted, unnatural angles, the dark dough of its body glinting wetly in the dim light.
He pushed himself to his feet; the severed hand lying nearby, the injured Cookie partially buried, none of it mattered now—only survival, only the fight. He could save them, but not if he let this thing get the better of him.
With a sudden, sharp pivot, he slashed, steel biting through sugar-glazed dough, forcing the monster back just enough to create space. The storm screamed, but Silent Salt tuned it out. Only the rhythm of the fight, the feel of the blade in his hands, and the presence of the monster before him existed.
The monster lunged again, but before it could strike, a shadow shot through the storm like a black comet, and hooves thundered against the brittle ice; a massive shape collided with the Cake monster, sending both tumbling into a spray of snow and shattered glaze.
Silent Salt blinked, barely able to register the sudden arrival. The rider atop that dark steed was unmistakable. Dark Cacao. His armor glinted dully beneath the storm, cloak whipping behind him like a banner of midnight, eyes narrowed and fixed on the same target.
The monster growled, staggering to its feet, but the king’s blade was already cutting through, forcing the creature back. Nox shifted closer to Silent Salt, whinnying softly as if in recognition, as Dark Cacao pressed forward, merging seamlessly into the fray.
He hadn’t expected anyone to follow him, especially Dark Cacao after… that… Yet here he was, charging into the heart of the blizzard, answering the storm and the monsters with nothing but sheer force and determination.
Silent Salt caught a fleeting glimpse of Dark Cacao’s face as he swung his blade, snow plastered to the edges of his armor and clinging to the cracks of his skin. The frost had drawn harsh lines across his features, shallow fractures along his cheeks and forehead from the storm, his jaw set grimly. Even in the chaos, even with the storm biting and the monsters lunging, there was something terrifyingly, beautifully relentless about him.
Another wave of Cake monsters emerged from the white swirl, their limbs striking and thrashing. Silent Salt met them head-on, blade flashing, each strike precise, cutting through frozen dough, glaze flaking into the storm. Nox’s hooves slipped and slid, but she was steady, coiled and ready as she pivoted with him, muscles tensed under the snow-drenched harness.
They fought in unison: hooves skidded, blades sang, and the snow swirled like smoke around them. Silent Salt’s eyes flicked to Dark Cacao’s face again—grit and frost, shadow and fracture—but there was no hesitation, no faltering.
The last of the Cake hounds yelped and scattered, leaving only the harsh wind and the relentless blizzard in their wake. Silent Salt’s chest heaved, fog curling from his slits as he watched the monsters retreat, but his relief was short-lived.
Dark Cacao swung his sword one last time, then let it drop. He slid from his black-steeled steed with a grunt, knees hitting the brittle ice with a sharp crack. Snow clung to his armor and hair, flakes catching in the cracks along his face. For a moment, he just stayed there, hunched forward, hands pressed to his thighs, as if the fight had drained more than just his strength.
Silent Salt didn’t hesitate. He was beside him in two strides, gripping Dark Cacao’s shoulders, steadying him. “Your Majesty—are you—”
Dark Cacao shook his head, brushing the snow from his eyes. “Don’t… Don’t start lecturing me, Silent Salt Cookie,” he growled.
“I wasn’t—” Salt began, but the words faltered as the king lifted his gaze, sharp and accusing.
“You always do this. charging in, ignoring orders, throwing yourself into the storm. Do you think you’re the only one who can fight? Do you think this—” He gestured to the blizzard around them, the torn crust of ice, the flattened snow where monsters had fallen—“is some game?”
“And you’re blind,” Silent Salt shot back, “You care too much about control to see what’s right in front of you. The patrol is alive—because I acted! Because I went! Because YOU wouldn’t!”
Dark Cacao’s fists clenched at his sides. “And you think this justifies what you did? That I should let you risk your life—and theirs—because you can’t follow orders?”
“I followed what matters! You don’t understand—you’ll never understand—what it’s like to watch them crumble beneath your hands and not be able to save them!”
Then, as if the storm itself pressed in, Silent Salt’s voice faltered. His words dwindled, anger melting away, and no longer could he face Dark Cacao’s eyes.
The wind whipped around them, carrying the brittle crunch of snow and the faint echoes of what had once been life. Silent Salt lowered his gaze, shoulders slumping beneath the realization he refused to speak aloud.
And Dark Cacao could see it, despite Salt’s stubborn defiance, despite the fire that still in those frozen eyes; these cookies were long dead. The patrol, scattered and broken across the white expanse, would never ride home again.
And yet… he could also see the guilt, the crushing responsibility that bent Silent Salt’s posture, the ache in every breath he drew. Dark Cacao felt it too: for the lost cookies, for his own soldiers who had given their all, and, quietly, for the Cookie kneeling before him, who had risked everything, carried by stubborn loyalty and fierce courage.
Even under scrutiny, under whispered questions and wary eyes, he cared. Not just for the kingdom he had been sent to defend, not just for the fragile order of soldiers and couriers, but… for Dark Cacao’s soldiers, for the kingdom itself, and most painfully, most undeniably—for him.
Dark Cacao’s hand twitched, reaching out toward him, his fingers hovering just above the frost-bitten armor, unsure if he should close the space between them or let the moment linger, but Silent Salt, however, moved away and pulled him back from the reach. Swiftly he swung up onto Nox’s back, and the horse shifted beneath him ready to carry him away.
Dark Cacao did not move. He allowed the silence to stretch, letting it settle between them.
“I suppose,” Silent Salt began evenly, “we should ride back. Bring word of the patrol. Before more of them catch our trail.” He gestured toward the darkened expanse of white, where every drifting flake seemed to whisper of lurking teeth and glazed claws. “The Cake monsters will be drawn to the smell. The jam is unmistakable.”
The other Cookie only nodded. The words were practical, a soldier’s clarity through the tension. So he swung up onto his own steed, the black of his armor muted beneath the blizzard, and together, they began the ride back, the wind whipping around them, carrying the bitter tang of frost, jam, and ruin, as the white expanse swallowed their trail.
The ride back was long and silent, the blizzard having dulled to a persistent hiss, leaving only the crunch of hooves and the groan of wind against frozen walls. By the time they reached the Citadel, the sky had blackened fully, and the torches lining the battlements cast flickering blues shadows across snow-dusted stone.
The courtyard was a flurry of activity when they arrived. Soldiers halted mid-step, eyes widening at the sight of their king. Dark Cacao’s armor was battered, caked with ice, his face crumbly beneath the harsh light. Murmurs ran like frost through the ranks. Caramel Arrow Cookie’s lips pressed thin, her usual composure taut with unease, and Crunchy Chip Cookie’s hands clenched at his sides, eyes darting between the two figures, uncertain whether to step forward or flee.
Silent Salt dismounted, Nox shaking snow from her flanks, but he drew only cautious glances from the onlookers. Whispers trickled through the ranks—“Devil of Silence” still—and the fear in their tones was unmistakable. Though he’d saved lives and fought through storms, his appearance alone reminded them of what was lost and what might befall them.
Healers rushed to Dark Cacao, hands already busy with bandages and poultices, but he waved them back, “Only what is necessary,” he instructed, “treat the frostbite. Everything else is mine to bear.” The healers, unflinching, obeyed, quickly tending to the king’s injuries as he stood with stiff, rigid poise.
Once the courtyard settled, the couriers carried the news to their respective posts, and Silent Salt and Dark Cacao withdrew from the eyes and whispers of the Citadel, where only a few Soldiers saw Dark Cacao drag Silent Salt by a pinch in his cape.
Every corner, every bend was familiar to them both: the passages Silent Salt had learned to navigate during his late-night patrols, the staircases Dark Cacao had walked a thousand times in quiet contemplation.
They passed under archways carved with the sigils of the Citadel, banners still dusted with frost from the northern gales, and finally, they reached a narrow spiral staircase tucked behind a low door near the armory, a place few ever thought to enter. The steps weren't even worn smooth by years of use, and the stone remained cold and rough beneath their boots, but it carried them to a small, secluded room far above the bustle of the main keep.
Dark Cacao pushed the door closed with a firm hand then tugged Silent Salt inside. He guided him to one of the simple wooden benches by the hearth and pressed him down until he sat, legs stiff, boots still flecked with frost.
“You have no idea how close you came to…” Dark Cacao’s voice wavered for just a fraction before hardening again, “Do you realize what you’ve done? The blizzard—any Cookie could die in that storm. Any armor, no matter how strong, can be worn down, shattered, scraped beyond repair. And yet here you are, half of your plating dented, scratched, ice-laced where it shouldn’t be, frostbite beginning to set!”
His gaze roamed over Salt’s battered form, noting every gouge, every jagged edge of metal, the tattered gauntlets, the dulled shine where ice had etched itself deep.
Yet Silent Salt said nothing. His jaw was tight, his hands resting quietly in his lap, fingers brushing the edges of the bench as if testing its solidity. He didn’t argue, didn’t defend himself, he didn’t even flinch, even under the king’s eyes.
“You think silence is clever here?” Dark Cacao continued, frustrated, pacing a few steps beside him. “You think being still, being quiet, changes the fact that you risked yourself unnecessarily? That you could have been…” He broke off, words dying in his throat as he stared at the Cookie before him.
And still, Silent Salt remained… silent.
Dark Cacao’s words faded into the low hum of the hearth. He stopped pacing and knelt before Silent Salt, the firelight over his expression, resolute. Without a word, he reached for Salt’s boots over the frost-encrusted sabatons.
“Stay still.” he murmured as though asking permission, and Silent Salt nodded minutely.
Methodically, Dark Cacao worked the metal free from Salt’s feet, the ice-crusted leather and cold steel resisting slightly before sliding away with soft clinks. He moved upward with the same care; lifting the greaves, easing the poleyns from their hinges, then cuisses from the thighs, each piece coming free with a scrape of metal over metal.
Dark Cacao’s hands stayed briefly on the exposed frostbitten skin of Silent Salt’s feet as he carefully peeled away the dampened leather boots. A faint hiss escaped Salt’s lips, yet Dark Cacao didn’t flinch at the sight—he had seen enough to know the price the storm exacted—but he paused a moment, letting Silent Salt adjust to the sudden exposure.
Gently, he lifted the worn hose, rolling it up to the Cookies knees; The frostbite crept farther than he imagined, the pale, mottled dough stretching halfway up the calf, edges tinged with the faint gray of ice that had settled deep within.
Silent Salt shifted instinctively, a subtle recoil of shame, of a desire to hide what he thought was broken and ugly, his shattered dough:
“Stay still,” Dark Cacao said firmly, pressing a hand gently yet unyieldingly against Silent Salt’s shoulder. “I need to see it… I cannot help if you pull away.”
His eyes flicked down, tight with embarrassment, the tremor of his jaw betraying the tight coil of self-reproach he carried. He wanted to retreat, to fold in on himself, to make the shattered parts disappear.
But Dark Cacao held him steady. One hand on the shoulder, the other lightly tracing the fractured lines along his calf, careful not to press too hard. “I see it, and I do not flinch. Not at the damage, not at you. Do you understand? I’m not afraid of you.”
Dark Cacao moved to the side and reached for a dry cloth from the small cabinet tucked into the corner of the room. The cloth smelled faintly of herbs and wax, and he returned and pressed it gently against the fractured, frostbitten dough, brushing away the thin ice where he could, careful not to aggravate what was already painfully delicate.
Silent Salt’s shoulders hunched in relief, and “Thank you. for this. for staying with me, for not letting me—”
Dark Cacao’s hands paused, the cloth hovering in midair, and Silent Salt’s voice faltered:
“I… I am sorry.” he continued, eyes downcast, “For charging into the storm, for letting them crumble. For putting myself—and you—at risk. I should have listened, I should have—”
“Enough,” Dark Cacao interrupted, though his tone carried no anger. “You could not have saved them all. And you… you cannot apologize for survival or for courage. Do you hear me?”
Silent Salt remained still upon the bench. His jaw clenched as Dark Cacao gathered a basin of steaming water and settling it near his frostbitten legs. The tendrils of warmth rose in curling wisps, brushing against the icy edges of Salt’s kneecaps and calves, a soft reprieve from the blizzard’s lingering chill.
The king’s hands were meticulous, almost ritualistic, as he began to strip away the remnants of Salt’s armor. Every buckle, every leather strap, yielded under, and Silent Salt’s own movements were measured, taut with restraint; a subtle stiffening of his back, a minuscule turn of his wrist, betrayed the faintest undercurrent of mortification. He did not speak. He did not flinch. He simply allowed himself to be stripped piece by piece.
The frostbitten sleeves of his surcoat were next. Dark Cacao eased the fabric upward, revealing mottled, cracked dough upon Salt’s forearms, pale and brittle where the cold had seeped most deeply. Salt’s fingers twitched briefly, an almost acknowledgment of the vulnerability, yet he did not withdraw them.
Finally, the helmet. Silent Salt’s own hands lingered at its edges, hesitant, as though he half-expected the act itself to fracture him further. Dark Cacao lifted it with unerring care. Hair, long and shadowed, cascaded down, dark at the roots and whitening toward the tips, pooling over his chest in silken disarray.
Now, bare of all but greaves and trousers, Silent Salt sat completely still to the point it was almost statuesque.
Dark Cacao’s hands then sweeper the dark-and-white strands of hair aside. Beneath, the full extent of Silent Salt’s ruin was laid bare: fractures and fissures running along his torso and shoulders, mottled dough scarred and splintered where the frost had eaten him the deepest.
Silent Salt once more tried to recoil, the barest pull of his shoulders away from the scrutiny. Embarrassment flitted across his features—a twitch of his jaw, the faint downward tilt of his eyes, the rigid press of his lips. He had never liked being seen this way; never liked the shards of himself exposed, even to those who knew him best.
Yet Dark Cacao did not flinch, did not avert his gaze. He simply knelt there, hands poised to hold the shattered pieces tenderly:
“Still… not accustomed to being seen like this?” he asked, careful, almost as though he feared the answer.
Silent Salt didn’t hesitate. “No. I am not.”
A faint sigh escaped Dark Cacao, “Then… I apologize. You may treat yourself if it makes you more comfortable. I—” He paused, searching for the right phrasing, “I will not force more than you wish to reveal.”
But his hand, surprisingly swift, closed around Dark Cacao’s wrist before he could fully retract it. “...It’s… Fine.” he murmured, “If it is you… Then it is okay.”
So Dark Cacao’s resumed:
“...You still push yourself too far, Silent Salt Cookie. Every frost, every scrape—do you not realize how easily it could have ended tonight?”
His hands moved and dabbed the dry cloth over the frostbitten fingers, then the arm, finally brushing the dampened face with care. Then his gaze drifted upward, catching the harsh lines of Silent Salt’s visage—fractured and solemn beneath the cascading hair. The cookies had seen much, endured worse, but here, laid bare, he looked… Impossibly fragile.
Dark Cacao’s hand stilled, the cloth resting lightly against Silent Salt’s forearm. He could see it now, more than ever—the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw, the shadowed slump of his posture.
Silent Salt’s voice was almost swallowed by the hearth’s hum, “My… Kala Namak knights. They were lost to the beasts. The… ‘Virtues’ who abandoned their own codes, their promises. I… could not save them. I could not protect them. I…” His hands clenched briefly in his lap, fingernails digging into the fabric of his trousers, a subtle but telling gesture of self-reproach. “What just happened out there… It reminded me. Reminded me of my… Incompetence. Of all I failed to prevent.”
Dark Cacao reached out and closed his fingers over the hand that clenched so tightly at the fabric of Silent Salt’s trousers, “Do not do that…” then he took the hand off the tight grasp and held it with a small squeeze, “Do not bind yourself to pain like a prisoner.”
He shifted beside Silent Salt on the rough-hewn bench, then one hand lifted and brushed through the dark-and-white cascade of hair that fell across Silent Salt’s face, tucking it carefully behind his ear:
“You carry too much, too much of the weight that was never yours alone to bear. I see you. I see the courage you wield, even when the world thinks you fail. It is not incompetence. That is… Fidelity, loyalty, the greatest kind of strength there is.” His thumb brushed over the trembling knuckles that had just clutched at his trousers. “The Kala Namak knights… You remember them because you honor them. That is your proof, Silent Salt Cookie, of all the care and vigilance that shapes you. Do not let their absence twist into blame against yourself. You are not alone in this, not ever. Not with me. Not while you breathe. I see all of it. Every fracture, every shadow, every fear—and still, I see the Cookie who stands unwavering through the storm. That is who you are.”
His gaze remained on Silent Salt’s face, taking in the fractured planes, the pallor of frost and fatigue, the way the firelight caught the shards of dough and the pale tips of his hair.
“You… Your face,” he began slowly, “even like this… It’s… Striking. Beautiful, in a way I cannot fully name.”
He coughed softly, clearing the sudden tightness in his throat, unsure if the words sounded clumsy, but determined to speak them anyway. Silent Salt, stoic as ever, kept looking at Dark Cacao, though the twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed the faintest bit of acknowledgment.
“And you, you’re… Crumbling too.”
Silent Salt extended a hand, fingers delicate despite their own shattered state, and traced along the fine fractures that ran across Dark Cacao’s the scarred dough of his face, then they settled lightly against Dark Cacao’s cheek. That touch drew an unapparent shiver from Dark Cacao, and he could feel his back tremble.
Their breaths mingled in the small warmth of the room, mingling with the faint scent of smoke and iron from the hearth, and Dark Cacao’s own hand moved instinctively, covering Silent Salt’s over his cheek, holding it there.
Neither spoke, as words seemed inadequate.
A tilt of the head, a lean closer, and their foreheads met first, then, ever so slowly, their lips lingered in tentative communion, the faintest quiver passing between them, neither yielding and simply just a delicate negotiation. The warmth of their breaths mingled, tasting faintly of cold metal and faintly sweet icing from the frost-bitten air outside, and Silent Salt’s fingers, tremulous yet resolute, gripped the nape of Dark Cacao’s neck, tracing the sinews beneath the armor, seeking the warmth hidden in the cold, steel-encased frame.
There was a tension in the touch, an acknowledgement of pain, of danger, yet also a surrender, some anchor that allowed them to be seen as they truly were: broken, weathered, and yet unbroken in the tether of mutual recognition.
When Dark Cacao leaned in, the second kiss was firmer and more certain, as though he could chase away the isolation of months, years, of bearing the world alone. The contact pressed them together, and Silent Salt’s lips parted slightly, letting the moment deepen, the shiver of the cold intertwining, and the world beyond the room faded to nothing but the warmth they offered each other.