Chapter Text
“Mitsuhide,” Shirayuki called, her throat burning dry. He was just there a moment ago, wasn’t he?
The fog revealed nothing—only an endless sea of gray wherever she turned. Sightings vanished as quickly as her blink, and the longer she wandered aimlessly, the more fear clawed at her mind. What if Obi was already suffocating? What if every second wasted here was stealing another breath from him?
“Mitsuhide!” she called again, louder now, willing him to hear. But still—nothing—only clangs of metal and muffled voices, warped and folding into themselves. Had she gone the wrong way? Was he even close anymore?
“Mitsu—” The name splintered into a choking cough, her lungs burning as though she inhaled fire. She doubled over, scrabbling at the floor, until a hand on her shoulder jolted her back into focus.
“I’m here!” Mitsuhide’s voice reached her. “Can you stand? Are you hurt?”
Shirayuki nodded quickly, clearing her throat. “I—yes. I’m okay,” she managed, forcing the words past the sting as she stood. “But—Obi! We can’t—”
“I know, he shouldn’t be too far,” he replied, glancing downward, brow furrowing in thought. The patterned mosaic might have helped guide him, but the smoke completely obscured it. Instead, he focused on the draft moving through the fog—it must have been coming from the doors, allowing him to infer Obi’s location based on its direction.
“This way,” he finally said.
Shirayuki buried her nose in her cloak and followed closely behind. It didn’t take long for Mitsuhide’s instincts to prove correct. She spotted something—a fleeting glimpse of a collapsed figure in the distance.
“Obi!” The name broke from her as she ran, ignoring Mitsuhide’s call to wait. Urgency pulsed in her chest, louder than the rhythm of her footsteps. Don’t be too late. Don’t be too late.
As soon as she reached him, she fell to her knees.
“Obi,” she whispered. The sight stunned her in place, stalling the air in her lungs. His face was pale, his lips—slightly parted—looking as lifeless as his chest. Was it even moving?
“Obi!” she repeated, louder now, placing her hands around his shoulders as if trying to will life back into him. “Please,” she begged. Move. Stir. Anything.
A weak shudder passed through him.
He’s still alive, she thought with a long exhale of relief.
She pressed the back of her fingers to his cheek, hoping for warmth, but instead, he felt like ice despite the sweat coating his skin. Gently pulling him closer, his head found rest on her lap, and her arm curled around his back. She removed her cloak, draping it over him, the red of her hair now exposed for the first time since leaving Lilias.
The cruel knife lodged so deeply in his left eye pierced her heart in a way no injury ever could. Her eyes glistened. He had endured way too much.
And something touched her.
At first, she thought she’d imagined it—a trick of her mind. But then it came again—fingers feathered at her wrist, pausing there, as if gathering what little strength they had left.
“Obi?” she whispered, her tears spilling down her cheeks.
The touch was so fragile it could have been mistaken for a breeze. But it was there. It stayed. His fingers pressed softly on her wrist.
Even now, broken and fading, he reached for her, offering comfort in the only way he could.
A knot in her throat threatened to choke her. Gently, she weaved her fingers into his. She held on tightly, terrified that too much pressure might hurt him, yet unable to loosen her grip.
In that fragile, fleeting touch, she felt his promise—that he was still here. That he was still fighting.
His hand didn’t have the strength to return the hold, but the lightest push of his fingers against hers said everything.
It was the first time she felt his hand, and they fit so perfectly together—as if they were always meant to.
Everything melted into silence, her world narrowing to nothing but the man in her arms—until the sound of footsteps grew steadily louder.
“Shirayuki!”
It was Mitsuhide, his silhouette sharpening as he neared. “There you are,” he sighed. “Thought I’d lost you again.” But as his eyes darted between her and Obi, his pace slowed.
Was he still alive? He dared not ask.
Lowering himself to one knee, he gently placed a hand on Obi’s shoulder.
“He’s with us,” she reassured. “But not for long if we don’t move him. Mitsuhide, I need you to—”
A loud scuffle pulled their attention.
Just a few feet away, a figure stepped back, pausing briefly before standing tall. The fog began to lift, spiraling and dissipating like something long-hidden finally coming into view. And there she stood—Princess Safri.
Another shadow emerged—brooding and formidable, the smoke clinging to it as if refusing to release its hold. With every step forward, the figure became clearer, more defined.
Shirayuki’s fingers gripped Obi tightly. She knew that gait. One name rose unbidden in her mind, steeped with dread.
Lord Rudra.
The princess reacted instantly, stepping directly into the path of the looming threat.
He halted just a few paces away, his glare fixed on her, the bloodied shiv swinging from his fingers like the ticking of a clock.
Rudra lunged without warning, the shiv flashing toward her throat. Safri ducked aside just in time, but he yanked her arm, throwing her hard to the ground.
She rolled, narrowly dodging his next strike, but he was on her again, his knee crushing into her chest, pinning her arms. The shiv rose—too close—but Safri twisted sharply, breaking his grip. She drove her foot into his chest, forcing him back, though he barely stumbled.
Rudra surged forward, shoving her off balance. Her feet slid against the stone as his hand snapped out, locking her arm in a brutal twist. With a sharp jerk, she tore herself free—both vanishing into the gray as they moved.
A light tremor passed through Obi as he rested in Shirayuki’s arms, his cough bubbling like a fragile whisper.
“Mitsuhide!” she urged.
“Yeah. We need to move,” Mitsuhide agreed, but he hesitated, staring at Obi. He looked so fragile, so close to lifeless, that Mitsuhide couldn’t figure out how to lift him without causing more harm. “How do I…” his voice barely a whisper.
Shirayuki gently supported the back of Obi’s neck. His head lolled slightly, and she cradled it against her palm, adjusting his position carefully. “Like this,” she murmured. “His head needs to rest against your chest—don’t let it fall back.”
He nodded, sliding one arm beneath Obi’s back and the other under his legs. He adjusted his hold as Shirayuki guided him.
“That’s it,” she said firmly. “He has a broken rib, so keep him steady. No sudden movements.”
“Understood.” he replied, adjusting Obi’s weight.
The two stood and wasted no time moving toward the draft—the doors. Behind them, the sounds of Lord Rudra and Safri’s fight were muffled, the smoke swallowing both sound and direction, making it hard to tell how close or far the battle was.
After a moment, Mitsuhide felt something warm on his chest and glanced down—blood from Obi’s eye staining his clothes. His expression darkened, and concern edged his voice. “Once we’re out of the smoke… should we take it out? The knife, I mean.”
“No. Not yet,” Shirayuki said softly. “It’s too dangerous. The blade’s too deep, and it’s likely stemmed some of the bleeding. If we remove it too quickly, he’ll lose too much blood. It’ll take time and precision. Maybe… we can even save his sight.”
“Why would Rudra preserve it at all?”
Shirayuki’s gaze dropped briefly to Obi’s face, her voice low. “If I had to guess… he wanted it to watch its own destruction.”
In that split second, their eyes snapped to the side. The fight came back faster, louder—closer than before. Rudra and Safri, ghosting in and out of the gray mist.
Safri’s foot lashed out, aiming for his knee, but Rudra pivoted, his focus dropping to the ground, locking onto something.
A sword—discarded, barely within his reach.
Shirayuki’s blood ran cold. But before she could even warn Safri, a blade sliced through the fog in a silver flash.
Zen.
Rudra rolled to avoid the blow, but the prince was already pressing forward. “Mitsuhide!” Zen barked. “Get them out—now!”
Rudra abandoned the shiv, rolling toward the discarded sword. His hand closed around the hilt, and in one swift motion, he slashed upward toward Zen. Steel collided with a deafening ring as Zen parried the strike, but Rudra’s force overwhelmed him, pushing him back.
Safri, winded from the blow, closed the distance quickly, grabbing Rudra’s wrist as the sword came swinging toward her. With a sharp twist, she forced his arm to the side, using his momentum to send him stumbling, his chest wide open.
Zen seized the opportunity, quickly swinging his sword. Rudra jerked away, but the edge grazed his side, the wound forcing him back with a snarl.
Shirayuki gripped Mitsuhide’s shoulder. “We need to go.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Obi, noticing his labored breaths and the imminent cough threatening to break free.
With a nod, Mitsuhide quickened his pace, Shirayuki close on his heels. He cast a glance back at the fading battle, a furrow deepening on his brow. Obi’s survival demanded his focus, but what if Zen…
“Just a little further… we’re almost there,” Shirayuki urged, her gaze locked ahead.
The smoke began to thin, streaks of light piercing through the mist, and the doors came into focus. Mitsuhide shifted Obi’s unconscious body in his arms, brow knitting in concern as the weight—or lack of it—became painfully clear.
“He’s… too light,” he muttered softly. Obi felt like nothing but bones and cloth, brittle as glass. He swallowed hard, clinging to him as if he needed to hold him together. “He hasn’t had a proper meal since Lilias, has he?” His gaze flickered back to Shirayuki—
But she wasn’t there.
“Shirayuki?” he called, his pulse spiking. He turned, his eyes scanning the smoke, but the path behind him was a wall of gray. She had been there moments ago. How could she…?
“Shirayuki!” he shouted.
Anger flared—not at her, but at himself. How could he have been so careless? She had been right there, and now… now he didn’t even know if she was safe. Idiot. He couldn’t go back—not with Obi like this. I’ll come back for her.
Mitsuhide moved as quickly as he could toward the looming doors, careful not to jostle Obi. He stole a glance down to him, catching the faint rhythm of his breaths. “You’ve made it this far,” he murmured, the words meant as much for himself as for his friend.
At the threshold, he was met with an onslaught of sunlight, forcing him to squint. For a moment, his vision was flooded with white—then shapes began to emerge: soldiers everywhere, crowding the exits with weapons at the ready. They had encased the grounds, leaving no avenue of escape for Rudra.
“Stop!” A soldier cut off Mitsuhide’s advance, his eyes narrowing at the unconscious criminal. “You’re not—”
Before the soldier could finish, Hisame intervened. “It’s quite all right; they are with me,” he stated firmly, his approach unhurried.
The man hesitated but, after a moment, inclined his head. “Understood, sir.” And he turned back.
Mitsuhide didn’t waste a second, Hisame matching his pace. “The situation is well in hand. My beloved and I have the requisite authority. Secret codes and clandestine orders, you know how it is.”
“Right, is she here with you?” Mitsuhide asked.
“She is assisting the captain in escorting His Majesty to safety,” Hisame replied, his tone as composed as ever. “They should be nearing the secured wing by now. The eastern corridors have been contained.” He paused, casting a sidelong glance at Mitsuhide. “And… where is Lady Shirayuki?”
Mitsuhide’s jaw set, and he exhaled quietly. “I lost her,” he admitted, the words sour.
“You lost her?” Hisame repeated, his voice edged with disbelief, though he quickly tempered it.
“First, the medical ward—where is it?”
Hisame hesitated for a moment before gesturing toward the gates ahead. “One of Lady Zehara’s attendants is waiting outside,” he said. “I spoke with her moments ago; the Lady has already ensured that all necessary arrangements are in place.”
***
Someone yanked her arm, jerking her violently backward. Her feet skidded against the floor, her fingers flailing uselessly in the air.
“Let go!” she gasped. “Let me go!”
There was no answer—only a harsher pull that nearly wrenched her off her feet. Shirayuki thrashed, fighting to find her footing, but it was no use. Her vision blurred from the stinging smoke, her strength faltering under the brutal grip dragging her further.
Her shouts for Mitsuhide were swallowed by the smoke, lost beneath the relentless pounding of boots on stone.
“Ah, the secret revealed,” Lord Rudra intoned, making her blood run cold. “What a shame you’ve hidden such a striking hair color, Lady of Ideals.”
The light of the doors vanished into the misty gray—it was thinning, but he led her to a secluded pocket, an isolated, darker recess where the remnants of the smoke clung stubbornly to the walls.
***
The bulky throne room doors creaked open, revealing Mitsuhide and Hisame silhouetted against the dissipating mist. The chamber’s grandeur lay in ruins, its floor now strewn with corpses. Smoke clung to the high arches and distant edges like lingering phantoms.
Mitsuhide’s steps faltered briefly, but he forced his focus back to the task at hand. Lady Zehara had promised Obi was in capable hands—for now, that would have to be enough.
Hisame crouched beside one of the bodies sprawled near the center of the room. His sharp gaze studied the corpse. The fatal wound was small but precise—a single stab directly to the base of the neck.
He moved to another body nearby. The same pattern. One clean, lethal strike, all from behind. They never had a chance.
“Each one… struck with a shiv. All from behind,” he murmured, rising to his feet and glancing back at his companion. “This is assassin’s work—Lord Rudra’s work.”
Mitsuhide’s expression hardened as his eyes swept the room. “So he’s just as capable as his men. The smoke breached containment, but for him, it was an advantage. He wasn’t just hiding—he was hunting.”
“Precisely, it would seem he’s more than well-versed in this kind of art,” Hisame said, gesturing to the bodies around them.
“Zen and Princess Safri were here just moments ago, fighting him.” Mitsuhide said, but a thought struck, and panic surged. “Wait…” His eyes flitted over the fallen, his breath quickening. He stepped closer to one, his gaze jumping frantically to the next.
“Relax. I’m alive,” the prince’s voice pulled him back, “and so is the princess.” Zen strode forward in a few brisk steps, Princess Safri close behind. His faint smile was a balm to his aide’s fraying nerves. “She held her ground, and I came in before he could gain the upper hand… But we lost him.”
“He wasn’t caught outside either,” Hisame added grimly.
After a moment’s thought, Zen’s eyes searched Mitsuhide’s face. “Obi and Shirayuki—tell me they’re safe. Together?”
“Obi’s on his way to the Nomad camp. Faizan’s preparing for him.” The words felt hollow as they left him. “But…” His voice strained. “Shirayuki—I thought she’d be here, with you.”
***
“Mitsuhide… Zen!” she rasped as Rudra dragged her up and shoved her back against the wall of the hidden recess. The impact crushed the breath from her, leaving her wide-eyed and shaking, her chest rising in desperate gasps. His face was close, too close, his dark eyes boring into her.
“Who is he to you?” Rudra hissed.
Paralyzed, she could only stare back, her mind scrambling for a response that wouldn’t provoke him further.
“Speak!” he demanded, jolting her violently, bruising her shoulders. “Who is Yuma to you?”
His whisper slithered down her spine, his narrowed eyes dissecting her face for cracks. “This hearing… orchestrated by Lady Zehara,” he spat. “And you, you are not from Tanbarun. You’re with that prince.” The realization seemed to kindle a dark hunger in his gaze.
“You call him Obi,” he went on. “You came here earlier than the others. I saw you at the Ring, in that alcove.” His grip tightened. “Is he your friend? A lover? Tell me—who is he to you?”
Her breaths stuttered, her heart pounding too loud to hear anything else. She tried to speak, to deny, to deflect, anything. “I…” she finally managed. “Technically… I am from Tanbarun.”
Her attempt to redirect only enraged him. His face turned livid as he drove her back into the wall with a brutal thud. The hairpiece hidden in her dress tumbled free, falling between them with a final, damning clatter.
Rudra’s eyes flicked to the ground, and the moment hung precariously, stretched to its breaking point.
His hand dug into her shoulder, forcing her to stay still as he stooped to retrieve the object. Straightening, he held it up to the dim light.
“This,” he said, his voice low and cutting, “is a Nomad’s rare offering. It’s something they only give to those they trust deeply. Intimately. And for a foreigner like you to possess it… it could only come from someone like Nanaki.”
Shirayuki blinked. That name… Her eyes flicked between him and the hairpiece. A thought struck her like a blow, and she whispered, “Obi… was a Nomad?”
Rudra froze for the briefest moment. “He didn’t tell you,” he murmured. “Of course he didn’t.”
Rudra got closer, leaning in as if to share a dark secret. “Of course he wouldn’t tell you. Because I destroyed everything he cared about when he was just a boy. His home. His people. His mother.” He paused, savoring her shock before adding, “And I will do the same thing now.”
Her knees felt weak, but she forced herself to stand firm. She didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. The hatred in Rudra’s eyes seemed to grow with each passing second.
He slowly tucked the hairpiece back into her pocket. “How touching. He allowed himself to care again. But you must know—his affection always comes at a price. And this time, it’s you footing the bill.”
Then, he made his promise.
“When I’m done, he will have nothing. No home to return to. No title to cling to. No prince to shield him. No Clarines to call his. Not even you. I’ll strip away every scrap of hope until there’s nothing left but the hollow shell I created.” He released her, the sudden lack of pressure leaving her staggering slightly.
The sound of distant voices calling for Shirayuki reached their ears, accompanied by nearing footsteps, but the Lord was unfazed.
“Go on. Save your Obi,” he murmured gently, stepping back with eerie calm. “After all, the dead don’t feel.” He paused, his gaze burning into hers. “And I need him to feel everything.”
And without another word, he receded into the black of the recess. She watched as his figure faded—first a dim outline against the gloom, then nothing. One moment, he was there; the next, he was simply… gone.
The dead don’t feel.
She clutched the hairpiece, trembling. It was a piece of Obi’s past, a token of trust—his heart.
If you must endure this, Obi, then so will I.
Step for step, I’ll walk with you—no matter how dark the path becomes.