Hello Author here :)
This is kinda a one shot ig
I suggest you read my book of Alvi and Ater to give you better context.
Spoilers Recap: Everything So Far
Vivendral – The Lost World
Alvi and Ater were close childhood friends who developed a deep bond, Since they're parents: Pyrothar for Ater side,and Elaric, and Seraphina on Alvi side were close freinds. Ater and Alvi became long-time comrades and guardians during the fall of vivendral. While not related by blood, Ater took on a protective role toward Alvi from a young age.
Their homeworld, Vivendral, was a rich isekai like fantasy realm — until it was destroyed by Malgarath, a multidimensional entity bent on erasing constructed worlds/stories to be able to destory Creator. During the final moments of Vivendral, Pyrothar initiated an unstable teleportation spell to save remaining durvivors of vivendral, Ater and Alvi , sacrificing himself in the process to hol Malgarath off.
The Escape and the Cost
The spell succeeded — barely. Ater and Alvi were transported out of their world, but not without consequences. Alvi sustained severe injuries: her leg, arm, chest, and one eye were shattered. Ater survived relatively intact ether from the regular Stab wound and Cuts, but devestaed in hsi own way.
Upon arrival in a new dimension, they were picked up by the Multi-Worlds Management Bureau (MWMB), an organization responsible for managing displaced beings from other worlds/stories. Alvi was immediately placed in cryo-stasis; her wounds were so catastrophic that all conventional healing attempts failed and even reversed progress.
Life in the MWMB
The rest of Arc 1 follows Ater, the only one awake. Grappling with trauma, guilt, and uncertainty, he gradually adjusts to life in the Bureau. He is mentored by Sir Elm and forms new connections with Inter and, later in the arc, Elaria. These characters play key roles in helping Ater begin to cope with his past and redefine his place in this new reality.
Alvi's Awakening
By the end of arc 1 , Alvi finally awakens — not fully healed, but reconstructed. A combination of Ater's unique ability (used to reinforce her body) and MWMB's advanced cybernetics saves her life. Alvi is now part-machine and elf. Although changed, she remains fiercely herself. Her bond with Ater resumes, stronger than ever.
Quiet Feelings
As they return to working together on missions, their connection deepens. Romance begins to take root between the two, but neither is willing or ready to admit it — due to fear, confusion, or sheer emotional density.
First Clash with Malgarath
During one mission, they come face to face with Malgarath himself. Though they manage to survive the battle, the victory is hollow. Malgarath reveals a devastating truth to Ater:
Ater was the spy. Malgarath had secretly used, no, created Ater to watch, manipulate, and ultimately doom Vivendral from within. Ater had been an unknowing pawn — the final fracture in a world already on the verge of collapse.
Ater's Downward Spiral
This revelation shatters Ater's already fragile sense of being. Wracked with guilt and fear of being controlled again, he begins to isolate himself from everyone — including Alvi. He becomes increasingly paranoid, convinced he is a danger to others soon leaving R.A.P (basically police center of MWMB)
The Breaking Point and Reconciliation
Alvi refuses to let him disappear. She confronts him directly, leading to a heated argument and fight that finally forces Ater to open up about hsi uncertanties. After the clash, they reconcile, reaffirming their bond and their commitment to each other — whatever lies ahead.
that's all folks for where this story takes place :D
Date Finally
Start
The Center was as lively as ever—a chaotic trail mix of different worlds clashing together in one giant metropolis. People of all shapes, sizes, and species filled the streets, some rushing to work, others just bing chilling. A massive slime creature wearing a high-vis vest waved its gooey arms, somehow keeping chaotic mess called traffic moving. A shopkeeper cursed in foreign tonged as a gang of mischievous, two-tailed cats made off with a bag of pastries and goodies, their little paws working faster than he could chase. Meanwhile, a towering golem adjusted a vendor's fallen sign, unfazed by the surrounding madness, drinking its massive coffee.
In the middle of it all, two figures strolled through the crowd.
Ater walked with his usual calm and relax, blending in despite the sleek black suit and white undershirt. His dark brown skin, tired eyes and messy black hair gave him a pretty ordinary look compared to the more outlandish folks around here. The white mask covering his mouth added a bit of mystery, but he wasn't trying to stand out. he's not the type.
Beside him, Inter was the complete opposite—relaxed, smug, and clearly enjoying himself. His light brown skin caught the glow of passing neon signs and advertisements, and his white hair, streaked with red in a crisscross pattern like a side ways checkers, peeked out from under his hoodie. A futuristic visor covered his eyes and nose, flickering with unreadable data, though the real highlight was the sticky note stuck to one side with a simple crude smiley face drawn on it. Behind him, his floating mechanical arms hovered lazily, almost like they were as unbothered as he was.
"Didn't take you for the type to dress all fancy," Inter teased, his visor displaying a small amused flicker.
Ater barely reacted, sipping his black coffee. "Didn't take you for the type to care."
Inter smirked. "Yep, this was going to be an interesting day" he said.
Inter asked Ater something
Inter's smirk widened his visor had a "(¬‿¬)" as he gave Ater a playful nudge. "So, any plans for your someone, eh?" His visor lit up with a smug, teasing expression.
They kept walking down the sidewalk, the buzz of the city filling the space between them.
Ater frowned, confused at first—then it clicked. His eyes widened slightly, and a faint red tint crept onto his face. He stopped for a moment, forcing Inter to pause beside him.
"…Yes," he finally admitted, voice was steady but with the slightest hesitation. "Me and Alvi are going out. She asked me to spend some time with her since we've both been busy… figured we could use a break."
Inter's visor flickered on, clearly enjoying the moment. "Oho? She asked you out?"
Ater sipped his coffee, looking away. "…Yes."
Intern places and arm around Ater shoulder as they continued, they're walk down the street. "don't worry bro, you got this just be yourself. Plus you've guy been friends for idk like forever?"
Ater responded: "we meet once and couple times in our childho-" before he could finish. Intern gave him pat at the back "she enjoys time with you and trust me I seen a lot of anime and am sure you'll nail this "protagonist" " he winked at Ater as he laughed
Ater gave him a confused yet grateful smile the concept of anime was still quite foreign to him but he can tell he means well. As they continue to walk down the street.
Ater took a sip of his coffee, looking thoughtful. "Wonder what Alvi and Elaria are up to?"
Inter shrugged, hands in his pockets. "Not sure, but with Elaria? Anything can happen." He chuckled
As they walked, Inter's visor flickered slightly as he sent a quick message.
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Deep fried (Inter): "Yo, how's it going on your side?"
Cosplayer (Elaria): "Going well, Bit of a fashion malfunction, but we're managing."
Deepfried: "Operation Lovebirds is a go. 😎"
Cosplayer: 👍😎👍
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Inter smirked behind his visor, already entertained by how this was going to play out.
Meanwhile with the girls
Alvi—white-haired elf — was scrambling through her cabinet like it black Friday. Clothes were flying left and right, a growing pile of rejected outfits forming at her feet.
"Why is this so hard?!" she groaned, holding up a puffy red top, immediately tossing it aside. "Too extra."
Across the room, Elaria sat cross-legged on the bed, mask on as always, her long purple hair spilling like curtains. The outfit appeared ripped straight from an old stage play—ruffled, dramatic, and overly theatrical—but beneath all the drama, it was secretly high-tech. Spy gear disguised as fashion. Classic Elaria.
"Alvi, you need to relax. You got this," she said, standing to help dig through the chaos. "He's already into you. He just doesn't know it yet."
Alvi's face turned red. "That's not the point!"
After a few outfit fails—including one that made her look like a rainbow puke—they finally pieced something together.
Alvi stepped in front of the mirror, holding her breath.
She wore a white off-shoulder blouse with silver-lined seams, soft and light, making her glow just a little under the warm light. A sheer silk sleeve, shimmering with every movement, elegantly and proudly covered her mechanical arm. Her skirt was high-waisted and crimson, layered and asymmetrical—shorter in the front, longer in the back. Clean, yet hopefully catching enough to catch Ater's eye. A belt held it in place.
On her foot, she's wearing her black dance shoes. She can't really fit a shoe in her mechanical leg. Adding: She added her mom's passed-down earring after putting on a red beanie.
She looked like herself. Just… a little more.
Alvi turned to Elaria, nervous. "You think Ater will like this? Her face was a mix between ripe strawberry and anxious puppy.
Elaria tilted her head, then gave a firm nod. "I'll be honest with you, Alvi. You nailed it." She pointed at her chest, a soft smile under the mask. "You just gotta believe in yourself. Trust me the outfit is nice."
Alvi took a deep breath. "Okay. I can do this."
Elaria grinned and grabbed her cloak and type a few pass codes into it sending a message to a certain Inter.
"Let's make this date a success. Operation Lovebirds is go." Elaria texted.
Somewhere across the city, a visor pinged with a message.
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Cosplayer: "she's on the way. She's looking good."
Deepfried: "great work Elaria, now we need gramps help. 😎"
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And so, the stage was set.
Checkpoint 1.
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Author here Don't forget to grabs some water and snacks since this is a long one
Intresting fact: this is the first longest story I made and is over 11k words long. I think.
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Few days ago
The office space was peaceful—at least compared to the usual chaos outside in The Center. A couple of rooms, shelves stuffed with reports, a fridge lounge with a perpetually broken microwave, and a stack of paperwork leaning dangerously on the right side of the desk like it was daring someone to knock it over. The low hum of overhead lights mixed with the steady zzzzzzzz of a small aquarium sitting quietly on its own stand. Fish swam without a care in the world while the city outside barely held itself together. Then there's a man in his 40s on his desk sorting through papers. His name was Elm.
Elm looks like the kind of guy who's been through way too much and somehow lived to file a report about it.
He's in his late 40s, maybe early 50s—it's hard to tell with the constant eye bags and the permanent five o'clock shadow that never quite disappears. His short black hair is peppered with streaks of grey, messy in that "I ran my hands through it too many times" kind of way. There's a deep crease between his brows from years of squinting at glowing screens and reading incident files that don't make sense.
He wears a plain white button-up, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a dark vest over it—something halfway between tactical and office formal. There's always a black pen clipped to the collar and a silver chain watch tucked into his breast pocket, never used but never forgotten. His tie is always loosened, like he meant to take it off but never found the time.
His eyes? Tired. Sharp when needed, but most days they carry this weathered calm like someone who's seen too much chaos to be surprised anymore. Burn marks and old scars peek from under his shirt sleeves, hints of a past life that probably wasn't as "desk-bound" as he pretends it is now.
He walks like a man who once ran from explosions and now limps toward coffee machines and paperwork. And when he talks, people listen—not because he demands it, but because it feels like he's already calculated five ways this could go wrong and is just hoping you'll pick the least stupid option.
Elm isn't flashy. He's practical. The kind of guy who wears scuffed boots with a suit because he knows at some point, he might have to kick a door down.
Elm sat hunched over his desk, pen scratching against paper as he worked through another report—this one about an incident involving someone named Candice. Typical chaos. Elm was the head of C.A.P.—Center Agency of Preservation. One of many branches trying to keep The Center from tearing itself apart. A glorified police force with extra paperwork.
There was a knock on the door.
Elm didn't look up, just shifted his tired eyes toward the door. "Come in," he said, voice low and exhausted.
The door creaked open.
Ater stepped inside, quiet, serious. He closed the door behind him without a word. His hands were in his pockets, but the way his shoulders were tense gave him away. There was a faint tint on his face, not embarrassment exactly—more like hesitation that had been building for a while.
"I want to ask you something," Ater said, tone steady but low. "Between you and me."
Elm gently moved the paperwork aside, sat up just enough to pay attention. "Go ahead," he replied, his gaze settling firmly on Ater now.
A beat of silence passed. Ater didn't move.
Then he spoke.
"I'm scared."
The words dropped like a stone in water. He looked down at his hands, flexing them slightly like he was checking if they were still his.
"Scared of what I'll become," he continued. "Scared of what I am. Scared of who I am."
His voice didn't shake, but something in it felt cracked. Not broken—but close. Elm didn't rush to answer. He just sat there for a moment, letting the silence stretch—not to be awkward, but to give weight to what was just said.
"…Alright," Elm said finally, voice calm. "Let's talk about it."
And for once, the buzzing lights and fish tank were quiet background noise to something that mattered more. A few minutes later into the conversation, things had gotten serious. The mask that Ater's wore for a long time is gone. What sat across from Elm now wasn't a soldier or some quiet mystery wrapped in black—just a broken young man finally cracking open after holding it in for too long.
"You don't get it!" Ater's voice cracked. His fists trembled in his lap. "That thing… that thing—it told me I was him. While it slaughtered people. While it burned everything around me."
His eyes were wide, frantic, like he was reliving it right there in the room.
"It told me I was the spy all along."
Elm sat in silence, hands folded in front of his lips. Just listening.
"The breach… if I wasn't there, Stormhold would've survived. No—Vivendral would still be alive. If me and Malgarath weren't in that world…" Ater's voice trailed off, shaky and low. "He showed me what it would've been like. What could've been. Alvi… she could've had her parents. Her real family. He wanted to break me and he did. What if am the monster! What if I am in the wrong"
He stared at his hands, fingers twitching, jaw clenched. Then—finally—he broke. Tears slid down his cheeks, quiet but heavy.
"dad would've been here," he said. "Still here…"
He paused, struggling to breathe. His body shook, like every word was a weight pressing down on his chest. "I killed him… no. I killed everyone."
Elm didn't say anything. His face was unreadable. Not cold. Not angry. Just… still.
"I can't sleep," Ater went on. "Every night it's nightmares. Screaming. Voices clawing in my head, blaming me. Cursing me."
He wiped at his face, but it didn't help much. "I'm scared, Elm. Scared I'll wake up and… and everyone will be dead. By my hand. To be a weapon. Nothing but a tool for malgarath."
His voice cracked again, rough and raw. "I'm scared I'll hurt her. That I'll kill Alvi. I'll lose control and that'll be it. And I won't even know it until it's too late."
"I'm not supposed to feel like this… I'm not supposed to—"
"Wrong."
Elm finally spoke. Calm. Firm. No hesitation.
Ater looked up, startled.
"You are supposed to feel this way," Elm said. "You're not a machine, Ater. You're not some mindless tool. The fact that you're scared of what you could do means you haven't lost yourself. Not yet."
He leaned forward, finally letting emotion slip into his voice—just a little.
"You've seen hell, Ater. And hell looked back at you and tried to convince you that you were it. But you didn't break. You're still here."
Elm leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. "That fear in you? It's not weakness. It's a reminder. Of who you are. Of what you care about."
He reached over and handed Ater a tissue—simple, silent, and enough.
"Now," he said, voice quieter. "Let's talk about how we make sure you never lose that part of yourself."
Ater stayed quiet for a while.
The tissue in his hand was half-crumpled, untouched. His shoulders had relaxed, but only a little. His eyes—still red—stared at the floor like the weight was still there, pressing against his chest.
"There's more," he finally said. Voice low. Barely audible. "It's about Alvi."
Elm didn't push. Just nodded. "Go on."
Ater leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His mouth opened, but no words came out at first—like he was still trying to untangle the thoughts.
"I know she likes me."
The words hung in the air for a second. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"And I think… I like her too. I think I always have. But I'm scared. Still."
Elm tilted his head slightly, listening.
"I let her in once," Ater continued. "After everything. After that fight we had… I opened up. Let her close." His voice cracked a little. "But it doesn't change the fear."He looked away, eyes dark, jaw tense. "I saw what Malgarath did to her. I *saw* it. What he turned her into. What she had to go through because of me." His hands clenched into fists again.
"I don't know what I'll do if I lose control. If he gets in my head again. If she's near me when it happens…" He shook his head, eyes burning. "I don't want to hurt her. I don't want her to see the monster I really am."
Elm didn't respond right away. Just studied him. Then he spoke—slow and steady.
"Ater… you're not a monster."
"You don't know that," Ater shot back.
"I do," Elm said. "Because monsters don't care about who they hurt. Monsters don't stop and ask if they're dangerous. They don't stay up at night afraid of becoming something worse."
Ater looked at him, unsure.
"You're not scared of being a monster," Elm said. "You're scared of failing the people you care about. You think that if you let her in, you'll hurt her—but pushing her away? That hurts her just as much."
He leaned back in his chair, letting the words sink in.
"She chose to be close to you. Not because she thinks you're perfect. But because she sees you. All of you. The quiet parts. The broken parts. Even the parts you're afraid of."
Elm's voice softened. "Let her decide if it's worth it. Don't take that choice from her just because you're scared."
Ater blinked. He hadn't thought of it like that.
"She's strong," Elm added. "Maybe stronger than you realize. And if you fall? She'll be there to help you stand again."
Silence settled in the office.
Only the soft hum of lights and the gentle bubbling from the aquarium filled the room.
Ater's voice was hoarse. "…And what if she gets hurt anyway?" Elm gave him a tired, understanding smile.
"Then you get back up and make sure it doesn't happen again." Elm leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling for a second before settling back on Ater. A ghost of a smile tugged at his face—tired, worn, and distant.
"You ever wonder why I'm always here, buried in paperwork, playing therapist for agents and anomalies?"
Ater looked at him, confused by the sudden question.
Elm chuckled faintly, but it didn't carry joy. "Before the Center… before R.A.P. and all this structure and responsibility—I was a merc."
He paused, letting the word hang there.
"Bounced from world to world, did jobs for pay. Guard duty, retrieval, assassination. You name it, I probably did it twice." He reached over, grabbed his coffee, took a long sip. "I was good at it. Too good."
Ater stayed silent, listening.
"There was a girl," Elm continued, his tone dropping. "Someone I got close to during a long-term contract. We were stationed in this outpost on a dying world. She was brilliant—smart, kind… the kind of person who made you think twice before pulling the trigger. Her name was Penelope"
He set the coffee down gently. "We made plans. You know, for when the job was over. Big dreams. Fresh start."
A pause.
⠀⠀
"She didn't make it. My choices got her killed."
The room felt heavier all of a sudden.
"I ran from that for years. Told myself I didn't deserve to feel. That staying detached meant no one else would get hurt. That if I just buried myself in work, I'd be safe… they'd be safe. Tried drinking myself to a stupper. Tried all sorts of meds. Yet none could ever erase such guilt"
He looked Ater dead in the eye.
"It doesn't work. You can't outrun pain. And you sure as hell can't outrun love. You either face it—or one day you wake up realizing you've let everyone worth fighting for slip through your fingers."
Ater's expression softened. He looked down again, but something in his posture shifted. Less curled in. Less guarded.
Elm sat forward, his voice firm now.
"You're not him, Ater. You're not Malgarath. And you're not some ticking time bomb waiting to go off. You're a person. And people? We break, we heal, and we choose what to do next."
Another pause.
"So what'll it be? You goanna let the fear control you, or are you going to live despite it?"
Ater closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"…I don't know yet," he said quietly. "But… I want to try."
Elm gave a small nod. "Good. That's all anyone can ask."
He leaned back in his chair, grabbing his pen again. "Now get out of my office before I make you alphabetize the breach reports."
Ater let out a breath—half-laugh, half-sigh—and stood up.
"…Thanks, Elm."
Elm didn't look up from the paperwork. Just raised a hand lazily and waved him off. "Go be awkward with your feelings somewhere else, kid."
Ater stopped at the door. His hand hovered over the handle for a second before he spoke.
"…How did you move on?"
Elm didn't answer right away.
He looked down at his tie—faded, slightly wrinkled, but carefully knotted. His eyes lingered on the green strip that ran down the side of his jacket sleeve. Quietly, he reached up and adjusted the knot.
"I didn't," he said softly. "Not fully." He tapped the tie with a finger. "Her favorite color was green." He looked back at Ater.
"So I wore it. Every day since."
A pause
"I live for her now. For the memory. For the kind of person she believed I could be."
His gaze held steady.
"That's how you move forward, Ater. Not by forgetting. Not by pretending it didn't happen. But by carrying the ones we lost with us—and letting them shape the kind of person we choose to become."
Ater didn't respond for a moment. He just nodded slowly, eyes misted but focused.
"…Thanks," he said again, quieter this time.
Elm offered a faint smile—small, but real.
"Now seriously. Get out before I make you alphabetize every failed breach report from the last month."
Ater chuckled under his breath, then finally opened the door and stepped out.
The hum of the lights filled the silence again, and Elm looked down at the green tie.
"…Still miss you, Penelope. . ." he murmured.
Then, he went back to his paperwork.
During that time…
Back at the apartment, things were a lot quieter.
Elaria stood by the counter, slicing up a mix of fruits with smooth, practiced motions. Pineapple chunks, frozen bananas, maybe a few suspiciously green cubes from a labeled bag marked "Mana Booster — not for casual sipping." Her blender was prepped and waiting.
Her mask shimmered for a second, reacting to her mood.
With a low hiss of nanofiber, her outfit shifted. The frills and theatrical cuts faded into a sleek, rogue-like cloak—dark green and quiet. The mask adjusted itself too, shifting into something more angular and shadowed. Her whole vibe changed. Less bubbly theater kid, more "mysterious tactician who probably knows your browser history before you do."
Persona Ability: Activated.
She didn't stop chopping. Just spoke in a lower, more precise tone.
"You know~ I haven't quite asked you this before." A pause. "Why him?"
Alvi looked up from the little cookie she was nibbling on.
Elaria continued, voice calm but curious. "I get it—you've been friends since kids. Cute story. But really… what's the point? Why Ater?"
Alvi blinked, cheeks already starting to turn red. Her grip on the cookie faltered.
"I-I…" she paused, gaze drifting upward. "He was like a hero to me."
Her voice softened.
"Someone I could lean on. Someone who didn't treat me like glass."
She smiled faintly, the kind that comes from somewhere far away.
CHECKPOINT 2
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Author here: Next part gonna be very long so drink some H20 and grab a grub or too
Intresting fact: I notice that alot of isekai don't really have of traditions or beliefs so I decided to add some when you read later. also first time I wrote these two were 2023 for a sotry I planned and haven't continued until recently thanks to some motivation.
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A long time ago/flashback…
The kingdom of Luminara was peaceful that week. King Alaric and Queen Seraphina, rulers of the radiant lands, had made a rare decision—to visit an old friend.
At the Stormhold estate, it was a different story. Maids, guards, and servants moved like their lives depended on it, polishing halls, fluffing pillows, and panicking over dinner arrangements. When royalty visited, even the sky seemed to tense.
Inside the throne room, Pyrothar stood tall, red-scaled arms crossed as he discussed regional unrest and trade issues with a few of his advisors. The conversation ended quickly when a servant rushed in with the message: They're on their way.
Pyrothar nodded and dismissed the room.
He turned toward a quiet corner of the room, where a young boy stood—still and composed. His black hair was a little messier than usual, and over his eyes was a black blindfold, worn more out of habit than need.
Ater.
Pyrothar approached him, kneeling just slightly to be eye-level. His voice was calm, like the storm before lightning.
"You'll be meeting my old friends today. King Alaric and Queen Seraphina."
He paused, then added with a small smile.
"They're bringing their kid. She's around your age. Bit of a rebel, so keep an eye on her, yeah?"
Ater nodded silently.
Pyrothar rested a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "You got this, kiddo."
On the road to Stormhold…
A golden carriage rattled along the forested path, escorted by guards in radiant armor. Inside, young Alvi sat with her arms crossed, staring out the window, visibly annoyed.
"Are we sure we have to visit Pyrothar?" she muttered. "I heard his kid's scary. People call him the 'Demon of Stormhold.' Like… demon. With a capital D."
King Alaric, sitting across from her, gave a low chuckle.
"Looks can be deceiving," he said with a gentle smile. "But I can assure you, he's quite kind. Polite, even."
Queen Seraphina, brushing her daughter's hair softly, added, "It's been years since we last visited Pyrothar and his son. He was just a little thing back then. Quiet, but respectful."
Alvi didn't look convinced. "Still sounds like he'll murder me in my sleep."
"Then don't give him a reason," Seraphina teased gently.
Alvi rolled her eyes and leaned back into the cushion, arms still crossed—but her expression softened just a bit.
"It's just… they say his eyes are as dark as the night sky. No pupils, just… void. A face that never changes, like he's never felt anything in his life. And that he's the most skilled fighter of his age. I heard he cut through a fireball spell once. With a regular blade. Who even does that?"
Her parents didn't respond—just smiled at each other knowingly.
But Alvi was still caught up in the storm of rumors and fantasy, the kind you tell
yourself as a kid to make people larger than life.
Back then, Ater was just a shadow in someone else's story. A warning. A mystery
wrapped in cool titles and silent stares.
She had no idea the boy she was about to meet would become so much more than just a name… or a rumor.
Stormhold Estate – Front Courtyard
The carriage rolled to a slow halt before the looming gates of Stormhold. Jagged towers scraped the sky, half-drowned in mist. Runes glowed faintly along the blackened stone walls, and guards stood still like statues, armor reflecting the gray light of the sun.
Alvi stepped out first.
She looked up at the castle with narrowed eyes, tugging at the sleeve of her red-and-gold dress.
"Okay… creepy castle energy? Check."
Behind her, King Alaric chuckled, helping Seraphina down with practiced ease.
"Be polite," he reminded gently.
Alvi turned to reply—only to pause when she saw him.
A boy stood at the base of the stone steps. Around her age. Maybe a little older.
He wore a simple black and gray formal outfit. Nothing flashy, just clean-cut and precise. A black blindfold covered his eyes completely. His black hair looked like it hadn't seen a brush all day, and his face… blank. No emotion. No reaction.
Still. Silent.
That was the Demon of Stormhold?
He didn't look like much.
But the way he stood… like he was built to weather storms.
Alvi leaned toward her mother and whispered, "Is he always like that?"
Seraphina only smiled. "You'll see."
Pyrothar approached, arms wide in welcome.
"Alaric! Seraphina! Welcome to Stormhold."
There were greetings and hugs exchanged, but Alvi barely noticed. Her focus stayed locked on him.
Then the boy stepped forward. He stopped a few feet from her, then bowed his head—not stiff or forced, just simple.
"…I'm Ater," he said quietly. "I've been asked to accompany you during your stay."
Alvi blinked. She half-expected something more… dramatic. More monster-y. Instead, he just sounded calm. Almost soft.
"I… I'm Alvi," she said, awkwardly tugging her sleeves. "But you probably already knew that."
Another pause.
Ater nodded. "I'll show you around."
Then he turned, walking back up the steps into the castle.
Alvi blinked again. "…Okay then."
She scurried after him, shooting one last look at her parents, who smiled knowingly.
As they walked, Alvi tried to break the ice.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
"No."
"…Cool blindfold."
No answer. But… was that a twitch at the corner of his mouth?
She squinted. Maybe.!
They walked through Stormhold's halls in near silence.
The castle was massive—vaulted ceilings arched high above, supported by black stone pillars etched with glowing silver veins. The walls, cold and quiet, were lined with ancient banners fluttering faintly from the drafts that crept in through tall windows. Magical lanterns floated midair, casting soft golden light that flickered like candle flame, though there were no wicks, no wax. Just steady orbs of enchanted warmth.
Ater walked a step ahead, his boots making no sound against the polished stone floor. Silent. Focused. Each turn he made was precise, each hallway memorized.
"This is the war room," he said, gesturing to a thick iron door with carvings of dragons wrapped in sand storm.
"That's the training hall," he added, motioning toward a corridor that smelled faintly of steel and old sweat and wanna be protagonist tears.
"This way leads to the tower garden."
Alvi followed behind, arms crossed and nose scrunched in mild irritation. Her heels clacked against the stone with each step, echoing sharply through the quiet halls.
She frowned. "This place is so quiet it's creepy," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
No reply.
Of course not.
The deeper into the castle they went, the heavier it felt—like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Every corridor looked the same: cold, pristine, lifeless. Alvi didn't understand how anyone could live in a place like this and not go mad.
She slowed near a massive archway carved into the side of the hall. Curious, she stepped toward it.
It opened to a balcony—wide, wind-kissed, and framed by aged stone rails. She took a few steps forward and then froze.
Below… was the town.
From here she could see everything: tight-knit streets lined with red-tiled roofs, winding alleyways branching into market squares filled with color. Brightly painted shop signs swung in the breeze. Merchants shouted over each other. Music floated up faintly—lute strings and drums and the occasional burst of laughter.
People.
Movement.
Life.
Alvi's face lit up. "I wanna go down there," she said, eyes still locked on the town below.
Ater turned slowly, stopping a few feet behind her. "You're not allowed."
"Says who?" she asked, not looking at him.
"…Me."
She finally turned to face him, one brow raised. "Oh wow," she said dryly. "The Demon of Stormhold says no. Guess I better listen."
He stepped closer, posture straightening slightly—guarded. "I was told to keep you safe. Leaving the castle isn't—"
"Isn't fun," Alvi interrupted, stepping right up to him. She raised her chin defiantly and looked straight at his face—or at least where she thought his eyes were beneath the blindfold.
"Well, you're not my dad!"
Then—without warning—she stuck her tongue out at him in full dramatic flair, turned on her heel, and jumped out of the balcony
"Alvi—!"
Ater rush to the ledge but it's too late.
She was already at the ground of the castle using a wind spell (updraft) to cushion and slow her fall, holding her skirt up with both hands, her shoes clacking loud and fast against the steps. Her laughter echoed like mischievous bells through the empty hall.
"I'll be back before dinner! Maybe!"
Ater stood frozen, completely still, the edges of his coat fluttering slightly from the air she stirred as she passed.
One…
Two…
Three seconds.
Then he let out the faintest sigh , straightened his shoulders, and followed right after her.
Just like a shadow.
Stormhold – Lower District, Hunting Ward
Alvi darted past the outer gate guards with a grin on her face and zero hesitation. The moment her feet touched the cobbled streets of the town, it was like someone turned the world's volume up.
Shouting. Laughter. Haggling. The clang of metal being hammered. The snap of leather straps. Music, dogs barking, and at least one guy yelling something about fermented elk milk.
The air smelled like smoke, herbs, roasted meat, and… something spicy. Probably magical.
The town was alive.
Stormhold's lower district wasn't like the clean, stone-carved halls above. It was rough, loud, colorful—built by warriors, lived in by hunters, and open to everything. Wooden beams and hanging cloths made up makeshift stalls on every corner. Crates overflowed with monster parts, rare herbs, enchanted stones, and bizarre trinkets from who-knows-where.
Alvi spun in place, eyes wide like a kid in a candy store.
"This is so much better than the castle," she muttered to herself, adjusting her skirt as she weaved between two bulky men arguing over the price of dessert boar armor.
Then she saw it.
Mounted above a blacksmith's stand like a grim trophy—was the *massive head of a wyvern.*
Its eyes were hollow, but its jaws were still filled with jagged fangs the size of short swords. Charred scales lined the snout, black and red like it had flown straight out of a volcano. Horns curled back like a crown.
Alvi's jaw dropped.
She ran up to the stand without thinking. "Whoa—Is that a real wyvern?!"
The blacksmith—a broad-shouldered woman with soot-streaked cheeks and arms like tree trunks—grunted and nodded. "Killed it myself. Mountain wyvern. Nasty thing."
"That's amazing!" Alvi said, stepping up on a wooden crate to get a closer look. "You can use the fangs for armor hooks, right? And the scales—if properly treated—can resist elemental damage!"
The blacksmith blinked. "Yeah… exactly. You're not from around here, are you?"
"Nope!" Alvi beamed. "Just visiting."
She jumped down and spun to look at a nearby potion vendor with a bright purple cart stacked with colorful vials.
"What's that one?" she asked, pointing at a glowing green bottle.
"Poison resistance. Made with wyvern bile," the vendor replied.
"Ew—but cool!" She scribbled an invisible note in the air, then gasped as she saw a netted cage of feathered creatures squawking behind him. "Wait—those are stormcrows! Aren't they illegal to keep in most kingdoms?"
The vendor looked both ways, then shrugged. "Not in Stormhold."
Alvi's eyes sparkled.
She zoomed from stall to stall, asking questions like rapid fire.
"What's that?"
"Can you eat that?"
"Wait, is that moving or is that just magic?"
"Ohmygosh is that a fireproof cloak?! What do you mean it's made of salamander skin??"
Locals gave her curious glances but most were amused. It wasn't every day some fancy-dressed noble girl came running around the trade ward like an excited squirrel.
One older man even handed her a small bag of candied nuts with a wink. "On the house. You remind me of my granddaughter."
Alvi beamed. "Thanks, mister!"
She popped one into her mouth and kept exploring, hopping between stalls, marveling at blade types, and poking at a gelatinous orb labeled *"Slime core – unstable, do not squeeze."*
Meanwhile, behind her, in the crowd, Ater watched.
Silent as ever, slipping through bodies without drawing attention, his expression unreadable beneath the blindfold.
But deep down… just a little bit?
He was glad she ran.
CHECKPOINT, 3
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Author here: take a stretch or to and keep your back straight atleast. your gonna look like a grampa if you keep slouching like that. so go out, touch grass, sniff the air, and down a glass of tasteless water.
Intresting fact: Ater and Alvi earlier design were say the least bad had to use Gacha club 2 since am bad at drawing :(
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Traditions.
As Alvi made her way deeper into the lower district, the streets opened up into a wide clearing at the edge of the trade ward. The noise here was different—less crowded, more focused. Blacksmiths hammered at scales. Tanners scraped hide. Mages carefully carved runes into pieces of bone.
That's when she saw it.
A massive creature lay on a reinforced stone platform, easily the length of a city block. Long, flat body. Pale, sun-bleached scales shimmered faintly with every movement. Its mouth—now held open by heavy chains—was lined with jagged, circular teeth like a saw, and its underbelly was scarred from years beneath the sand.
Alvi's eyes widened. "No way… That's a desert dragon…"
Dozens of workers were carefully carving the beast apart—extracting scales, organs, bones—each piece collected with reverence, not haste. Buckets were labeled with runes. Crates of teeth were carefully sealed. One mage stood nearby with a massive tome, cataloging every piece that came off the beast like it was sacred.
"You know your monsters," a voice said beside her.
Alvi turned—and found herself staring up at a woman mounted on the back of a three-horned Triagon. The beast snorted, snout low to the ground, and the cobblestone cracked slightly under its step. Its armor was minimal, just reinforced leather with runes pressed into it, designed to keep it nimble rather than bulky.
The rider wore storm-gray armor trimmed with fur and braided leather, a simple green sash tied around her waist. Her long black hair was braided back with bone beads and red feathers, and her eyes—stern but kind—held a glint of age and experience.
"I'm Anne," she said, offering a nod.
Alvi lit up. "I'm Alvi! I've never seen a Triagon before in person—they're amazing!"
Anne chuckled. "Rho likes the praise. Don't you, girl?" The Triagon huffed in agreement.
Alvi gestured toward the massive carcass. "What happened to that one?"
Anne turned toward it, her face somber. "She was old. Wounded during a hunt weeks ago. Desert dragons don't go down easy—they vibrate the sand, pull their prey in with tremors. It's how they ambush caravans. This one buried itself so deep it collapsed a whole dune trying to escape."
Alvi looked closer. The beast's body was being honored as much as it was being processed. No one wasted anything.
"Do you just… harvest everything?"
Anne nodded. "It's our way. Vivendral gave us these beasts. It's not just a battlefield out here—it's a bond. We hunt with purpose. Tame with patience. And when one falls, we return its strength to the land."
Alvi tilted her head. "So like… nothing is wasted?"
"Exactly. The scales go to armor, the blood for potions, the bones to mages and smiths. What can't be used?" She pointed to a cart filled with soft remains. "We bury it. And from it, the flowers grow. Their energy flows back into the earth. Back into Vivendral."
Alvi stepped closer to Rho, her fingers brushing against the Triagon's rough scales.
"Is everyone here trained to do this?"
Anne smirked. "Stormhold's not like the cities you're used to. Here, taming is as normal as sword training. Half the kids learn how to ride before they can walk straight. You wanna get to school? You ride a tamed crow-lizard. You want to farm? You partner with a hornback mole-drake to till soil."
"That's… incredible," Alvi breathed.
Anne's voice softened. "It's more than tradition. It's belief. Vivendral doesn't give us these creatures just to slay. They're part of this world. They are the world. It's our job to protect them, understand them—and if needed, use their gift responsibly."77
Alvi watched as a child helped a scholar draw runes into a wyvern fang, guided by an elder with missing fingers and a warm smile. There was no fear here. Just respect. Generations working side by side. Warriors and beastmasters, mages and farmers, all treating knowledge like legacy.
"A scholar's dream," she muttered, half-laughing.
Anne raised an eyebrow. "This town was built on that dream. My grandmother rode Rho's grandmother. We learn from what came before. It's not just about hunting. It's about remembering."
Alvi turned back to the desert dragon, now fully surrounded by workers, each one handling it like something sacred.
It wasn't just a beast.
It was a story.
And now… it would become part of theirs.
After few more pleasantries, she waved Anne goodbye as she explore more
Ater, still watching can't help but have a slight barely recognizable smile as he follows alvi.
Danger way closer than home
Alvi hadn't meant to wander so far.
One moment she was admiring a display of rune-inscribed beetle shells, the next she found herself drifting through a narrow alley tucked between the edge of the trading ward and the stone border of the quarry lanes. The crowd had thinned. No more music. Just wind. Dust. And crates of old junk stacked against the walls like a forgotten memory.
Something felt… wrong.
She turned to head back—only to bump into someone.
"Going somewhere, pretty girl?" a voice sneered.
Three men surrounded her before she could react—grimy, smug, armored in mismatched gear. One had rope slung over his shoulder. Another lazily flipped a dagger between his fingers.
The last one, taller and broader than the others, stepped forward with a net in hand.
"Lookin' real fancy for a place like this. Bet you've got coin."
"I—I don't want trouble," Alvi stammered, backing up.
The man with the rope grabbed her wrist.
"Oh, but we do."
Before she could scream, he yanked her closer. The others moved in fast, too fast. One grabbed her arm, the other reached for the net—
FffSSHH—
A glint of metal cut through the space between them.
Alvi blinked. One of the thugs suddenly recoiled with a shallow gash across his forearm, dropping the net.
A shadow stepped out from behind a stack of crates.
It was Ater.
He didn't say a word.
His stance was low, controlled. His right hand rested calmly on the hilt of a worn blade strapped to his back. The coat he wore rustled slightly from the breeze, and his expression—though masked—was sharp enough to cut steel.
The rope man narrowed his eyes. "You got a death wish or something?"
Ater didn't respond.
He just moved.
In a single, fluid motion, his sword left its sheath—not with flair, but with intent. The motion was clean. Efficient. Lethal.
The first attacker lunged with a dagger.
Ater ducked low, side-stepped, and drove the hilt of his sword into the man's gut with a sickening whump. The thug folded with a gasp, hitting the ground hard.
Two more moved in—one swung a chain, the other charged from the side.
Ater didn't flinch.
He used the wall. One foot planted against the stone, he pushed off and flipped sideways, narrowly avoiding the chain. His blade flashed again—this time slicing across the second attacker's thigh.
Blood hit the dirt. The thug screamed and stumbled back, clutching his leg.
Alvi stood frozen, her back to the alley wall, eyes wide.
Then—
SHNK!
A whip crack of metal swept across Ater's face.
His blindfold—cut.
It fluttered to the ground in two torn strands.
Alvi gasped.
For the first time, she saw his eyes.
They weren't empty or monstrous like the rumors said.
They were deep—dark, but not hollow. A strange, rich golden shimmer swirled faintly in the irises, like stardust trapped in obsidian. Powerful. Beautiful. But tired. So, so tired.
The last thug—the biggest—roared and came in swinging with a heavy iron club.
Ater pivoted, letting the strike miss him by inches, and slammed his shoulder into the man's side. The impact forced him off balance.
Then, before he could recover—
Ater brought his sword up and jammed the flat of the blade under the man's chin, flipping him onto his back with one swift, brutal motion. The weapon clattered away. The fight was over.
The alley was quiet again.
Only Alvi's quickened breaths and the groans of the three men remained.
Ater straightened, blade still in hand. The wind brushed past him gently, sweeping his now-loose hair across his face.
Alvi stepped forward, slowly.
"Y-Your eyes…"
Ater didn't respond.
He just turned to her, eyes still glowing faintly beneath the shadow of his bangs, and reached out—not roughly, but with quiet reassurance.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, voice low.
Alvi shook her head. "No. I'm okay."
He nodded once, glanced down at the fallen blindfold, and looked away.
"Let's go."
No arguments this time.
But as they walked side by side out of the alley and back toward the lights of the market, Alvi found herself sneaking one last glance at his face.
Not because of the danger. Not because of the fight.
But because, for the first time… she saw him.
Really saw him.
And somehow—he wasn't scary at all.
Alvi's POV
They stepped out of the alley and into the soft glow of the market's lanterns, warm light spilling across stone paths, fluttering cloth, and bursts of color. The world felt like it had remembered to spin again. People bustled past in waves, their laughter and shouts mingling with the sizzle of meat on open grills, the clatter of pans, and the occasional clang of bells from a nearby stall.
But none of it reached her.
Not really.
Not when her eyes were still locked on the boy walking beside her.
Ater.
His golden eyes shimmered in the flickering firelight—lamplight catching like molten metal behind the slits of his mask. His face, as always, gave little away. The mask covered most of it, but faint scratches still marked the skin of his cheek, and his black hair remained tousled from the fight. One stubborn strand clung to his forehead.
He looked like a mess.
And yet he walked like nothing had happened—shoulders squared, chin level, steps steady. As if the weight of the world hadn't just tried to tear them both apart moments ago.
"You're bleeding," Alvi said quietly. Her voice barely made a dent in the hum of the crowd, but he heard her. Ater blinked, as though just now registering the sting of a cut.
"It's nothing."
Alvi frowned. "It's not nothing. You shouldn't let it just—"
"I've had worse."
His tone wasn't cold. Just distant. Like he was already somewhere else again, already disappearing into the silence he always carried with him.
She slowed her steps. So did he.
And for a moment, she hated how well they knew each other.
"You didn't have to come for me," she murmured, arms folding tightly over her chest. His stride faltered—not by much, just a fraction—but she noticed.
"I mean… I'm not your responsibility."
He turned to her slightly, his gaze catching hers.
"You're not," he said. "But I still would've come."
There was no hesitation in his voice. No edge. Just the quiet truth of it, dropped between them like a stone in still water. Alvi looked down, heart thudding against her ribs. She hated how easily his words got to her. How easily they always did.
"You always do that," she whispered. "Act like nothing touches you. Like none of this matters."
He didn't respond.
So she looked up again, forcing him to see her. "But it does. Doesn't it?"
For a heartbeat, something shifted in his eyes. Not pain. Not guilt. Something quieter.
Softer.
"I'm just… glad you're okay," he said at last.
That was all.
Simple. Honest. No theatrics. No armor.
And somehow, it hurt more than anything else.
They stood in silence, tucked into the corner of the busy street where the crowd passed them by like flowing water. The lanterns above painted soft gold across his skin, shadows clinging to the curve of his jaw. The mask still covered his mouth—but not his eyes.
Not the part that mattered most. Alvi drew in a shaky breath, one hand unconsciously curling into her coat sleeve. "You're not what they say you are."
Ater's head tilted slightly, questioning without words.
"You're not some monster," she said. "You're not broken. Not to me."
And there it was again—that flicker. That brief storm behind the gold. He didn't speak. Didn't argue.
But he didn't look away, either.
And neither did she.
"I see," he said, quietly.
Present day.
Her eyes stared somewhere far away now—past the room, past the city. Back into a memory that hadn't left her.
"When I was younger… everything was a mess. Too many rules, too many people watching, waiting for me to fail or behave or be perfect. He never did that. He never told me to stop. Never looked at me like I was too much. Never tried to fix me."
She smiled—small, real.
"He just… let me be me. Even when I was running off like an idiot through Stormhold or asking stupid questions about wyvern teeth or trying to act brave. He always followed. Quiet. Patient. Never in the way, but always there."
Her grip on the glass loosened.
"I don't know when it changed. Maybe it never did. Maybe I always felt it. But the more I saw him—really saw him—the more I realized... he's not just strong. He's kind in a way most people don't understand."
She looked up, eyes meeting Elaria's mask.
"I love him because... even when the world tried to turn him into a weapon, he chose to protect. He chose to care. And when I needed someone to believe in me, he didn't say anything."
Alvi paused, the quiet settling like dust.
"He just stood beside me."
Elaria leaned back slowly, her voice dropping into a quieter tone beneath the mask's charm.
"…That's not stupid at all."
Alvi gave a soft laugh, brushing a strand of white hair behind her ear. "Yeah. Maybe not."
There was a pause between them.
Then, without looking up, Alvi whispered, "I just hope he sees it one day too."
Later That Night – Hilltop Garden Terrace, District 3/outer sectors
Snowfall – Light, calm abut chaotic
The snowfall came gently—like whispers from the sky—settling on lantern-lit branches and stone paths in glimmering silence. The garden terrace was wrapped in a hush, the kind that wasn't empty but alive. Every flake caught the light just enough to glow; every breath fogged the air like a passing dream.
Ater stood by the railing, hands buried in his coat pockets. His black coat trailed down past his knees, silver trim faintly catching the string lights overhead. His hair, always stubborn, had been combed for once. Snow rested on his shoulders, untouched.
Behind him, the soft crunch of boots approached.
He turned.
Alvi stepped into the light, brushing a few snowflakes from her sleeves. Her coat, white and lined with deep red fur, framed her like she'd stepped out of a storybook. Crimson and silver folds peeked from beneath it, her braid tied back with a flower-shaped clip, though a few strands had escaped in the walk up. Snow clung to her collar and lashes.
She smiled shyly. "Sorry I'm late."
"You're not," Ater replied simply.
They stood in an easy quiet, one only years of familiarity could bring. Around them, the world continued in soft motion.
Off to the side, a fox girl in an oversized hoodie dove face-first into a snowbank with a delighted squeal. A golem sat on a bench, sipping cocoa from a tiny mug held awkwardly in its stone hands, a hand-knitted scarf looped once around its massive neck. Down the slope, a group of slimes were sledding—poorly—one of them frozen in a popsicle state and being dragged across the snow by two giggling friends on a wobbly wooden sled.
Alvi blinked, then giggled softly. "This place is… different."
"I asked Elm for somewhere quiet," Ater said.
"You picked well," she murmured, stepping up beside him and leaning her elbows on the railing.
For a moment, neither spoke. Just the wind, the snow, the distant laughter.
"I still can't believe you actually agreed to this," she said.
"You asked."
"You could've said no."
"I could've," he admitted.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're terrible at conversation."
"I'm aware."
She chuckled. "I missed this," she said after a pause. "Just… us."
Ater was quiet for a beat, then said, "I'm still figuring things out. About me. About what I might become. I don't know if I'm safe to be around."
Alvi didn't hesitate. "You are."
"You don't know that."
"No," she admitted. "But I trust you."
His golden eyes flicked toward her—quiet, unreadable—but something in them softened.
"When the fight happened, back in the alley…" She glanced up at him. "I wasn't scared. Not when I saw your eyes. Not when I saw you fight."
Ater frowned slightly. "Why?"
"Because you didn't become a monster," she said. "You became you."
There was a long silence between them.
And then—for the first time that night—Ater smiled. Small. Real.
Behind a snow-covered bush, Inter's visor flickered as he zoomed in from his hiding spot. "Target Ater is emotionally compromised," he whispered. "We're goin' full shoujo manga out here."
Beside him, Elaria lay on her stomach in snow-camo, snorting softly. "Five minutes. I'm calling it. They're gonna hold hands."
On the terrace, Alvi's breath came out in a soft cloud. She didn't say anything more—she just inched closer, until her shoulder brushed his.
No words.
Just warmth.
Snowball Showdown—Same Terrace
A breeze swept through the garden, carrying snow like scattered silver spirits. Footprints dotted the fresh powder, lanterns glowing overhead like fireflies caught in a lullaby.
Alvi's eyes flicked sideways.
"…Do you remember that winter when it didn't snow in Stormhold?" she asked.
Ater glanced at her. "You made it snow."
"I got better at it."
She raised a hand, a faint shimmer pulsing at her fingertips—white and blue. The snowfall thickened gently, swirling faster around them.
Then—fwump.
A snowball struck Ater's shoulder.
He blinked. "…You cheated."
"I adapted."
Without a word, he crouched and packed a snowball with effortless precision.
Thunk.
Right to her waist.
"Oh it's on!" Alvi laughed, skidding behind a pillar.
Ater calmly stepped aside, gathering more snow. "You're not going to win."
"I already am!"
She grinned and clicked something on her mechanical arm—plates shifting, transforming with a soft whirr. In seconds, it reconfigured into a snowball launcher.
In the bushes, Elaria squinted through her binoculars. "Oh, gods, she deployed the arm."
Inter's visor glowed faint blue. "DEFCON Snowball initiated."
"Last chance to back out," Alvi called.
Ater's arm shimmered black-red as a morph-shield formed—solid and sleek. "Fire away."
THOOM!
A melon-sized snowball spiraled toward him. BAM! His shield absorbed it in a puff of white.
He stepped forward. She fired again—rapid shots this time. Fwoom! Thwack! He dodged, pivoted, danced through the snow, cloak flaring.
"You're cheating!"
"You built a cannon!"
"Touché."
Ater shifted again, his shield retracting as a paddle-shaped spear formed. He swatted one snowball back—BONK.
"Okay—rude!" she yelped.
Snow flew. Magic sparked. They raced across the terrace like kids again—laughing, ducking, charging. Every strike echoed old memories. Every laugh stitched a thread between past and present.
Nearby, the golem took a long sip of cocoa. The sledding slimes crashed into a pine tree and kept laughing.
Alvi ducked, panting, hair wild and cheeks pink. "Still holding back?"
"…A little."
"Don't."
She fired one last glowing snowball—huge, glittering, fast.
Ater didn't block it.
He caught it.
His hand—morphed and lined with red—closed around it. The snowball exploded into glitter.
They both froze, breathless.
"Okay," Alvi laughed. "You win."
"No," Ater murmured. "You let me."
She stepped closer. "Maybe."
Their smiles met.
And the snow danced around them, quiet and endless.
From the trees, Elaria and Inter exchanged a silent high five.
"Operation Lovebirds: Snowball Edition," Inter whispered.
"Total success," Elaria
CHECKPOINT, 4
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Author here: if our reading this far thank you. your doing amazing hope your pillow is cold. you have good fps in your games and hope you find spare change in your pockets when you need it the most.
Intresting fact: honestly am bad at romance the best thing I came close to romance is watching romance movies but that it. so I asked some close associates and people close to me in life and how I wanted a date to go.
intresting thing about my charaters
Ater is a cheap skate. he prefers cheap items that are good quality over expensive stuff and would not hesitate to dive head and feet into a crowd looking for a good price bagel for sale.
Alvi likes sweets since they don't have things as sweet as this in their home world close thing to candy was honey dipped b-re-ad bug dough (a type of bug which once crushed into a powder can make a decent decent dough starter)
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Later that Night – Downtown, District 3
Alvi's laughter lingered in the cold, crystalline air like music carried by the snow.
Her cheeks were flushed, breath curling visibly from her lips as she clutched the edges of her white-and-red coat. The memory of their snowball fight still shimmered behind her eyes—his quiet smirk, the crunch of snow beneath their boots, the way their laughter mingled with the lantern glow. She wiped at her cheek, brushing off a bit of stray powder as her breathing slowed.
Ater stood before her, his coat dusted in white, gloved hand extended.
"Ready?" he asked, voice calm as ever.
Alvi blinked at him. "Wait, are we—"
Before she could finish the thought, his arms were already around her—one beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders. He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her against the warmth of his coat.
Her eyes widened. "You could've just said we were flying!"
"You would've run," he replied simply.
She opened her mouth to protest—too late.
Shadows coiled at his feet like gentle smoke, wrapping around them in slow, elegant spirals. Then the world shifted. Wind rushed past her face, twisting the snow into streaks of silver and ink. For a heartbeat, they were weightless—moving between blinks, between heartbeats.
And then—
Stillness.
They stood at the mouth of a narrow stone street, tucked between rows of dark wood buildings dusted in snow. Lanterns swung gently in the breeze, painting lazy golden halos onto the cobblestone. The quiet hum of the city drifted in from beyond, but here… it was another world. One slower. Older. Still awake in its own way.
The smell of roasted meat and herbs hung in the air—savory, warm, familiar. It beckoned like a promise.
A crooked wooden sign swayed on iron hinges above a faded green awning, its edges frayed from years of wind. Painted across the old timber in still-bold letters were the words:
Yai Mira's Noodle & Roast
Alvi blinked up at the sign. "This place is… adorable."
Ater set her down carefully, adjusting the collar of his coat as he nodded. "It's run by someone I owe a lot to."
They stepped toward the door, boots clicking softly on the stone. A tiny bell chimed overhead as Ater opened it for her, letting in a gust of heat and the rich scent of broth and spiced oil.
Inside, the restaurant was small and glowing with age. Wooden tables lined the walls, their surfaces covered with little burn marks and faint carvings from generations of customers. The floor creaked with every step, and dried herbs hung in bunches above the kitchen window—lavender, thyme, juniper. A pot clattered somewhere in the back, followed by a familiar-sounding grunt.
It smelled like home. Like stories. Like someone had wrapped warmth into a room and kept it alive for decades.
From behind the counter, a voice called out. "Ater?"
An elderly woman stepped into view, white apron over a thick knit sweater, round glasses slightly askew. Her hair was silver, tied into a soft bun with a red ribbon that didn't quite match the rest of her outfit. Her eyes were sharp—but warm.
Ater stepped forward. "Good evening, Mira."
She paused. Then grinned. "Took you long enough, boy. And who's this young lady?"
"This is Alvi," Ater said.
Alvi gave a quick, nervous bow. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."
Mira tilted her head, eyes sparkling. "Oh, you've got manners. I like her already."
She smacked Ater lightly on the arm with a towel. "Sit down. I'll get you something hot. Your usual?"
Ater nodded once. "Please. And… thank you."
"You always say that," she muttered, disappearing behind the counter again.
They took a corner booth near the frosted window, the glow of lanterns outside casting gentle shadows across the wood-paneled walls. Outside, snow drifted down like feathers.
Alvi glanced around the restaurant, leaning on the table with her chin tucked into her palm. "She's sweet."
"She fed me couple of times," Ater said quietly. "When I first joined the Center, I didn't have enough credits. Every coin I had was going to clear debt."
He stared into the wood grain of the table for a second, then said, "Mira didn't ask. Just handed me soup like it was nothing."
He exhaled, slow. "Told me I looked like someone who needed kindness more than money."
Alvi's gaze lingered on him for a long moment. Her voice softened. "She was right."
Silence settled between them—but not awkward. Just full.
Soon, Mira returned with two steaming bowls placed carefully in front of them. Broth rich with roasted meat, thick noodles, herbs scattered across the surface like forest leaves. Each bowl came with a slice of toasted bread and a soft-boiled egg glistening in the center.
"Eat," Mira said, hands on her hips. "Before it gets cold."
Alvi beamed. "Thank you!"
Mira gave her a playful wink. "He never brings anyone here. You must be special."
Ater coughed into his hand.
Mira laughed and shuffled off toward the kitchen.
Alvi stirred her noodles gently. "You really couldn't pay for food?"
Ater shook his head. "Didn't have much. Just a name and a blade. Mira didn't care. Still doesn't."
Alvi smiled softly, then took her first bite. "She saw something in you."
He said nothing, just gave a rare, quiet sigh as he tasted the broth.
"…She still calls me 'boy.'"
Alvi chuckled into her spoon.
Outside, the snow continued to fall in soft spirals. Inside, the restaurant glowed with golden light and the smell of herbs and in that little pocket of calm, between the noise of their past and the weight of what waited beyond tomorrow, Alvi and Ater sat across from each other—not as friends, comrades, but something more.
MEANWHILE
Across the street from Yai Mira's Noodle & Roast, two very professional operatives were doing the exact opposite of anything resembling professionalism.
Inter was lying belly-down in the snow, visor zoomed in through the restaurant window with enough focus to catch Ater mid-noodle slurp. Elaria, covered in a ghillie blanket made from actual tablecloth scraps and leaves she probably picked up just for the aesthetic, had somehow acquired a thermos of hot chocolate and was sipping it like a war-hardened sniper watching romance unfold.
Inter nudged her. "Okay, okay—pause. Zoom in. Tell me that wasn't a smile. He just smiled. That was a smile. Confirm that was a smile."
Elaria tilted her head. "Mm… yeah. That's either a smile or he bit into a pepper by mistake."
"They're leaning in—look, she just nudged his hand. Hand contact detected. This is it. This is the prologue to Chapter 1 of their married life."
"You think we'll be invited to the wedding?"
"Only if they find out we've been stalking them for two hours straight."
"Rude. I brought cocoa."
Just as Elaria leaned in for a better view—and Inter attempted to rate Ater's soup-holding posture—a very large, very unimpressed shadow loomed over them.
Elm.
Arms crossed. Scarf perfectly tucked. Clipboard under one arm. And that dad energy radiating like a passive aura.
"Tell me," Elm said slowly, voice deadpan, "what part of your mission description included hiding in shrubbery like emotionally unstable pigeons?"
Inter rolled over and saluted from the ground. "Field reconnaissance. Emotional progress report on subject Ater. Data shows significant development."
Elaria took a long slurp of cocoa. "He hasn't run away once. That's practically a confession in Ater-language."
Elm stared at them.
Then he looked down.
Then he looked harder.
"…Are you wearing the Center's emergency med-bot battery as a heater?"
Elaria shrugged. "It was cold."
Elm sighed like he aged five years. "Both of you—up. Now. Out. Go. Shoo. Leave the lovebirds alone."
"But we haven't even gotten to dessert yet!" Inter whined.
"I swear," Elm muttered, "if either of you says one more thing about shipping them, I'm assigning you both to filing duty for a month."
Inter and Elaria groaned simultaneously.
Elaria rolled onto her back like a sad cat. "This is suppression of art."
Elm turned and walked off without another word, boots crunching the snow.
"C'mon," Elaria grumbled as she got up, brushing leaves from her hood. "Let's go write our fanfic in peace."
Inter was already typing on his wristpad. "Title: 'Snowfall Soup & Suppressed Feelings'."
"Ten chapters minimum," Elaria added.
Behind them, Mira's window glowed warmly as Ater poured Alvi some tea.
Blissfully unaware.
Later That Night — Just Outside the Restaurant
The night air was gentle, cooler now beneath the hanging lanterns that cast soft pools of gold across the empty plaza. The scent of food had long faded into the quiet hum of the city falling asleep. Somewhere in the distance, a wind chime tinkled, delicate and lonely.
Alvi's footsteps slowed.
So did Ater's.
She turned toward him, her eyes searching—not with fear, but with something braver. Her voice, when it came, was low but steady.
"There's something I need to say."
Ater stood still, his gaze never leaving her. The way he looked at her now—quietly, intently—made her chest ache.
"I don't know if now's the right time, or if it ever will be, but… when everything collapsed—when we lost our home, our father, everything—I kept thinking about one person."
Her fingers trembled slightly at her side, the artificial hum of her robotic arm barely noticeable.
"You."
Ater didn't move.
"I kept waiting for the moment you'd walk away," she admitted. "That you'd leave. That I'd wake up, and you'd be gone like the rest of them. But you didn't."
She took one step closer, and then another.
"You stayed."
And then, more softly than breath:
"I love you, Ater."
The words hung there between them, trembling and real.
He didn't speak at first. Only stared at her, golden eyes wide—not in shock, but in something closer to wonder. The mask he wore, always hiding the part of him she wanted to see most, shifted. Slowly, he reached up and drew it down.
His lips were bruised from the earlier fight. A faint scratch trailed his jaw. But when he smiled, even just a little, it was soft. Honest.
"Pyrothar once told me," he said, voice quiet, "*'Love is what makes us human.'*"
Alvi's breath caught.
"I never understood it. I thought emotions were a weakness. That distance made me stronger." His voice dropped to a murmur. "But I was wrong."
He reached out—hesitant at first—then gently cupped her cheek with his hand. Warm skin against cool metal.
"I love you too, Alvi."
And then, he leaned in.
Not rushed. Not careless. The world seemed to still as his forehead brushed against hers, and for a long, aching moment, they simply breathed the same air, hearts beating in the same rhythm.
A breeze stirred the edge of his coat, and he could feel it again—that unseen hand on his back. A whisper of warmth. A father's final push.
Go.
Ater tilted his head, just slightly.
And kissed her.
(Author: they did it lets go!!!!!!!!!!!!)
It was gentle—so unlike the battles they'd fought, so unlike the world that had tried to break them. His lips met hers with a careful tenderness, as though he was afraid she'd vanish if he wasn't soft enough. But she didn't pull away.
Her hand gripped the edge of his coat. Her eyes shut. The world disappeared.
There was no pain in that moment. No war. No fractured timelines or broken skies.
Only them.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, their foreheads still touched. Her eyes opened slowly.
"I waited a long time for that," she whispered, barely audible.
His lips curved again, just a little. "Me too."
The END