boundaries

"Are you going somewhere?" Adam asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked at Queen Leah. Her attire was... unusual, to say the least. Gone were the flowing royal gowns, replaced by beige hunting pants and a matching shirt that looked better suited for trudging through the woods than ruling a kingdom.

Leah's expression brightened, though her smile had an oddly suspicious edge. "...Yes, I am," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of mischief.

Adam glanced at her skeptically, then shrugged. "Right. I'm just gonna—" He motioned down the hallway, ready to escape whatever chaos she was planning.

Before he could make his getaway, Leah stepped into his path, blocking his escape with alarming efficiency. "Adam," she said, her tone sweet but unmistakably commanding, "you'll be coming along. As my guard."

Adam's face twisted in confusion. "Miss Leah... where exactly are we going?"

Leah didn't answer. Instead, she simply hummed, adjusted her sleeves, and began walking toward her room, motioning for him to follow.

"Great. Love the vague kidnapping energy here," Adam muttered, trailing behind her reluctantly.

When they arrived at her chambers, Adam's wariness only deepened. Waiting for them inside was Ligh, clad in her usual jester-like blue outfit, complete with the eerie mask. She stood perfectly still, her head tilting slightly as Adam entered.

"Okay, seriously—what's going on?" Adam asked, holding up a hand as if to physically ward off whatever scheme was brewing.

Leah didn't bother responding. She snapped her fingers, and before Adam could react, Ligh grabbed him by the arm.

"Wait, wait, wait—!" Adam protested, but it was too late.

With a flick of magic, the three of them disappeared, reappearing moments later in... somewhere. Adam blinked, disoriented, as he took in their new surroundings.

They were outside, standing in front of a sprawling estate nestled among rolling hills. The air was fresh, the sky impossibly blue—and everywhere, absolutely everywhere, were dogs.

Big dogs, small dogs, scruffy dogs, sleek dogs. Some wagged their tails excitedly; others barked in joyous greeting. Adam stared in stunned silence as a fluffy golden retriever trotted up to him, plopped its head against his leg, and wagged its entire body.

"What... is this?" Adam finally managed to ask, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Leah's squeal of delight cut through the air as she flung herself into the middle of the pack, hugging as many dogs as her arms could reach. She fell backward onto the grass, entirely swarmed by the eager canines, yet she looked nothing short of euphoric.

"THEY'RE PERFECT!" she shouted, laughing as a dachshund climbed onto her stomach.

Adam watched this spectacle unfold with a mix of confusion and horror. "...So, I'm guessing these are her dogs, then?" he muttered to no one in particular.

Ligh, ever the enigma, simply shrugged and disappeared with a snap, leaving Adam alone with the queen and the hundred-some furry chaos agents.

Adam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right. Kidnapped to a dog sanctuary. Fantastic."

He barely had time to process his predicament before a particularly determined corgi began trying to climb his leg. "Oh, come on!" he groaned. Meanwhile, Leah continued rolling in the grass, shouting things like, "WHO'S A GOOD BOY?" at an octave Adam didn't think was physically possible.

____________________

People wear masks—happy masks, sad masks, masks of indifference or contentment—but masks nonetheless. Why? Adam had no idea. Perhaps it was easier to present a facade than to show what lurked underneath. Sometimes, though, those masks came off, and when they did, the people beneath them could become entirely unrecognizable. 

Leah, the regal and composed queen, had shed her mask. What emerged was something so startlingly different that Adam could only stand there, dumbfounded, watching as she ran through the grass like an overexcited child, her laughter ringing out like bells. The dogs chased her in delighted chaos, their tails wagging furiously, their barking joining her laughter in a cacophony of unrestrained joy. 

It was jarring. Surreal. The kind of thing Adam knew he'd have to unpack with a therapist someday. He sighed and crouched down to pet a dog that had nudged his leg, trying to ground himself in something normal amidst the absurdity. 

But as he absently scratched the dog's ears, his mind drifted to a nagging thought. Something about all of this didn't sit right. 

"How come these dog breeds are... here?" he murmured to himself. His hand froze mid-pat as his brain churned. The retriever, the corgi, the shepherds—they were all breeds he recognized. From Earth. "These breeds were man-made," he whispered, a chill running up his spine. "It can't be convergent evolution... it doesn't make sense. So then why are they here?" 

The question hung in the air like a specter, demanding an answer he wasn't sure he wanted. Before his thoughts could spiral further, Leah appeared beside him, her cheeks flushed and her smile radiant. 

"Come on," she said, her voice lighter than he'd ever heard it as she motioned for him to follow. 

Adam hesitated, caught between the strangeness of the dogs and the strangeness of her demeanor. But there was something in her smile—something that felt less like an invitation and more like a command wrapped in charm. With a resigned sigh, he rose to his feet. 

The queen walked ahead, her hunting boots crunching against the grass as she headed toward the mansion. Adam followed reluctantly, sparing one last glance at the dogs. They lay sprawled out on the grass, panting with exhaustion, their playfulness subdued for now. 

But something about the scene made his stomach twist. The dogs were content, yes—but they weren't just tired. They looked... still. Too still. Their eyes glinted strangely in the fading light, reflecting not the warm amber of life but something cold and unnatural. 

Adam shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought. He was just overthinking things, surely. But as he turned back to the mansion, a terrible premonition coiled in his chest like a serpent. 

Something was wrong. The queen's radiant smile, the impossibility of the dogs, the way the air seemed just a little too thick as they approached the grand, shadowed building. 

Leah glanced back at him, her smile still in place but her eyes unreadable. "Come along, Adam," she said, her voice as warm as ever. 

And yet, as she disappeared through the heavy wooden doors of the mansion, the shadows seemed to stretch and swallow her whole.

______________________

Leah walked the winding halls of the mansion, her boots tapping softly against the cold stone floor. Adam trailed a few steps behind her, his presence a quiet reminder of her internal turmoil. Her thoughts churned like a stormy sea, a tempest of doubt and desperation.

(I shouldn't do this... But it might be the only way—the cure, the solution to this lifelong curse.)

Her grip on the leather strap of her gloves tightened as she replayed the events of that fateful night. It had been late, and the moonlight had seeped through the cracks in her heavy curtains like silver knives. She had been sitting on the edge of her bed, the weight of exhaustion pressing against her chest, when it had spoken.

At first, the voice was soft, almost seductive, curling around her thoughts like smoke. "Leah..." it whispered, the syllables dripping with dark promise. "You're struggling. You've been struggling for so long. But I can end it for you."

She had frozen, every fiber of her being alert. The voice wasn't new—it had been with her since she could remember, lurking in the shadows of her mind. It was the darkness that consumed her, the hunger that never abated. But this time, it wasn't merely gnawing at her; it was speaking directly to her.

"What do you want?" she had asked, her voice a quiet challenge.

"What I've always wanted," it replied, the tone both sinister and enticing. "To feed. To grow. But I've grown tired of scraps—of fleeting moments of control and submission. The games you play with nobles, the blood you spill—it's never enough. I am never satiated."

Leah clenched her fists, remembering the icy fear that had laced through her that night. "And if I refuse?" she had demanded.

The voice chuckled, a low, bone-chilling sound. "You know what happens when I'm hungry, Leah. You've seen it. The nights you lose control, the days when you wake up with blood on your hands and no memory of what you've done. Do you really want to risk that again?"

Her breath had hitched, her resolve cracking under the weight of the truth. She had seen it—the chaos, the carnage. The darkness didn't just hunger for control; it devoured it. Every time she asserted her dominance over others, every time she enforced her will, it grew stronger. But never satisfied. Never full.

"What are you proposing?" she had asked, her voice a trembling whisper.

"A simple deal," the darkness hissed, its tone turning almost sweet. "There is one who intrigues me. The boy. The one with the soul both ancient and fresh. Make him yours. Break him, bind him—his very essence must belong to you. Do this, and I will no longer haunt you. No more whispers in the night, no more bloodlust. I will be... content."

Leah had balked at the suggestion. "Break him? You're asking me to destroy him!"

"Am I?" the voice had replied, smooth and unyielding. "Or am I asking you to free yourself? Think of it, Leah—freedom. True freedom. A life where your mind is your own, your choices no longer dictated by me. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

She had hesitated, the weight of the proposition pressing down on her chest. To bind Adam's soul to her—to crush him so thoroughly that even his will belonged to her—was unthinkable. And yet, the alternative was equally horrifying. The darkness was relentless, and when it hungered, it became dangerous.

Leah's thoughts returned to the present as she glanced over her shoulder at Adam, who was absently scratching the ear of a curious dog. His expression was calm, his mind clearly far from the storm that raged in hers.

(I shouldn't... but if I don't...)

Her pace slowed as the memories of the voice's final words echoed in her mind. "You cannot refuse me forever, Leah. The longer you wait, the hungrier I grow. And when I grow too hungry... you know what will happen."

Leah clenched her jaw, steeling herself against the gnawing dread. The darkness had driven her to this precipice, dangling salvation just out of reach. And now, standing on the edge of a decision she could never undo, she whispered to herself, "I've already made my choice."

Adam looked up as she paused in the corridor, her face shadowed in the dim light. "Is everything okay?" he asked cautiously.

Leah turned to him, a soft smile tugging at her lips—a mask she had learned to wear well. "Of course," she said gently.

But deep within her, the darkness stirred, its laughter echoing in her soul.

(Remember what happened to him... the dark water, the blood. Remember what I did to the boy. If you refuse me, I'll do far worse.)

The voice slithered through Leah's mind like oil on water, coating her thoughts with dread. It wasn't a mere threat; it was a promise, one laced with malicious certainty. Leah's grip on the cool brass railing of the hallway tightened, her knuckles whitening. She could still see the haunting scene from the day before playing on a loop in her memory—Adam, submerged in that cursed black water, his body convulsing as though it were a marionette under the control of unseen strings.

She had tried to rationalize it at first, thinking it was some arcane misfire or a side effect of his inexperience with magic. But as she stood there helpless, watching his eyes flicker with unnatural light, she knew better. This was no accident.

Her trusted magician, Bouyd, had been baffled, his decades of experience rendered useless. Even Ligh, her cursed yet brilliant guard, had been unable to make sense of what was happening. They had worked tirelessly, their combined expertise culminating in only one answer: they had no idea what had possessed the boy.

It wasn't until Leah had been alone in her chambers, attempting to piece the puzzle together, that the voice came. It was smug, triumphant.

"You see now, don't you?" it whispered. "Even the brightest minds under your command couldn't save him. But I could have stopped it. I caused it... and I can do it again. Shall I remind you what true helplessness feels like?"

Leah had shuddered, clutching the edges of her desk as the weight of the words pressed down on her. "Why?" she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. "Why him? He's just a boy."

The darkness laughed, a sound that vibrated through her skull like the toll of a funeral bell. "Oh, Leah, you misunderstand. He's not 'just a boy.' He is the key. The potential. The doorway to things even I cannot reach without... assistance."

Her stomach twisted, a sick feeling gnawing at her. "You're lying," she spat, though even as she said it, she wasn't sure if she believed it.

"Am I?" it replied, amused. "Did I lie when I promised you power beyond your wildest dreams? When I granted you dominion over kingdoms? No, Leah, I never lie. I am honest, even if you refuse to hear the truth. And the truth is this: If you do not bind him to yourself, body and soul, I will take him piece by piece. What happened yesterday was merely a taste. You think his suffering was bad? Imagine what comes next. He will beg for the release of death."

Leah sank into a chair, her heart pounding as her mind raced. The image of Adam, pale and trembling, his breathing ragged as he finally emerged from that nightmare, haunted her. If the darkness could do that without effort, what horrors awaited if she defied it further?

The voice shifted, taking on a smoother, more coaxing tone. "You know I speak the truth. You felt it yourself, didn't you? The power you wield when I am satisfied, when my hunger is sated. Think of what you could accomplish if I was no longer gnawing at the edges of your mind. Think of what you could protect—what you could save. Him included."

Leah buried her face in her hands, the weight of the decision pressing against her chest like an iron brand. Could this really save him? Could binding him to me protect him from whatever fate this darkness had planned?

She sat there for what felt like hours, the voice's words replaying in her mind like a cursed melody. Finally, she whispered, "If I agree... if I do this... will he be safe?"

The darkness chuckled, a sound that made her blood run cold. "Safe? Oh, Leah, he'll be more than safe. He'll be yours, and in being yours, he'll be mine no longer. But the question is... can you break him? Can you bring him to heel? Because that is the only way this ends. His soul must yield to you completely. And if you falter, if you hesitate..."

It didn't finish the sentence, but it didn't need to. Leah knew what it meant.

Now, as she walked the halls with Adam trailing behind her, she fought to keep her expression neutral. Her thoughts, however, were anything but. This isn't just for me, she told herself. This is for him, too. If I can end this curse—for both of us—it will be worth it. Won't it?

Adam's voice interrupted her spiraling thoughts. "Are you okay? You've been quiet."

Leah glanced over her shoulder, forcing a soft smile. "Just thinking," she said lightly.

Adam frowned but didn't press further. As he returned his attention to the ornate walls around them, Leah's own thoughts darkened once more.

(Break him...) The words echoed in her mind, a mantra and a curse. She prayed she wouldn't have to find out just how far she was willing to go.

______________________

Adam

Adam's heart raced, his instincts screaming at him that something was terribly wrong. He followed Leah down the long, silent hallway, his unease growing with each step. The air seemed heavier here, thick with an oppressive energy that set his nerves on edge. The flickering candlelight along the walls cast distorted shadows that danced menacingly, making everything feel alive and watchful.

When they reached the room, Adam froze. It was barren, save for a single pedestal in the center. Surrounding it were large, ornate paintings of Leah, each one more unsettling than the last. In one, she stood regal and serene with her pack of dogs at her feet, their eyes gleaming with unnerving intelligence. In another, she looked almost predatory, her smile sharp and dangerous. Adam couldn't shake the feeling that the eyes in the paintings followed him as he moved.

But it was the object on the pedestal that truly chilled him—a collar. Not just any collar, but one forged from dark metal that seemed to pulse faintly with magic. A chain dangled from it, long and ominously heavy. Adam's breath caught in his throat. Something about the collar screamed danger, as though it were alive and watching him.

Leah stepped forward, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a drumbeat of impending doom. She reached the pedestal and, without hesitation, lifted the collar. As her fingers closed around it, the object began to change. The leather softened into cold, gleaming metal, and jagged spikes protruded from the inside, turning it into an instrument of torment.

"Adam," she said, her voice low and commanding. "Come."

His body betrayed him before his mind could react. His legs moved of their own accord, dragging him forward against his will. Panic surged through him as he realized what was happening. The control curse—her cursed voice—had grown stronger.

"Adam," she said again, her tone sharper, hungrier. "Sit."

He fought it, digging his heels into the ground, summoning every ounce of willpower he could muster. For a brief, fleeting moment, he thought he might resist. But then his knees buckled, and he sank to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been pulled. His hands trembled as he tried to summon magic, to do something to protect himself, but his mind was clouded with fear and confusion.

"Ms. Leah," he croaked, his voice shaking. "What are you doing?"

Leah

Leah watched him kneel, her lips curling into a slow, satisfied smile. The collar felt heavy in her hands, its magic vibrating against her palms. It was warm, alive, and eager. The darkness within her purred with approval.

"Good," she murmured, more to herself than to him. She let the moment stretch, savoring the sight of Adam struggling, his will breaking inch by inch.

She stepped closer, her heels echoing in the empty room. "Adam," she began, her voice smooth and measured, like a predator coaxing its prey. "Do you remember what I told you about my curse?"

His wide, frightened eyes met hers, and she felt a flicker of something—regret? No. She buried it under the weight of necessity. "I told you it feeds on control, on domination. For years, I've done everything to keep it at bay. But it's never enough. It's always hungry, always clawing at the edges of my sanity."

She circled him like a hawk eyeing its quarry, the collar glinting in her hands. "Last night, it spoke to me," she continued, her tone hardening. "It gave me a way out. A way to end its grip on me once and for all. But to do that, I need you."

Adam's voice was hoarse, trembling. "Need me for what? What are you talking about?"

Leah stopped in front of him, looming over his kneeling form. She leaned down, close enough for him to feel the chill radiating from her. "This collar," she said, holding it up like an offering. "It's the key. It will bind you to me, body and soul. Once you're mine completely, the darkness will finally be satisfied. It will stop feeding on me. On us."

Adam's breath quickened, his hands trembling as he tried to summon magic. She saw the faint flicker of light in his palms and smiled, a cold, knowing smile. "Oh, Adam," she said softly, almost tenderly. "You're so brave, but you're wasting your strength. There's no escape from this. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be for both of us."

He flinched at her words, and she straightened, her expression hardening. "I'm doing this for us," she said firmly, as though trying to convince herself as much as him. "This will save me. It will save you. I'll give you everything you've ever wanted, Adam. Freedom, safety, power—anything you desire. But only if you submit. If you trust me."

Adam stared up at her, his face pale but defiant. "And if I don't?" he whispered.

Leah's smile faded, replaced by a shadow that darkened her features. She crouched down to his level, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "If you don't..." She leaned closer, her breath cold against his ear. "The darkness will take you anyway. And what it does to you will make this look like mercy."

Adam's eyes darted to the collar in her hands, then back to her face. Her gaze was unrelenting, sharp as a blade. He could see the conflict in her eyes, but it was drowned by the weight of her resolve.

The room seemed to grow colder, the paintings' eyes glaring down at him, and the faint hum of the collar's magic filled his ears. He had the terrible feeling that whatever happened next, there would be no going back.

______________________

Leah felt it—a surge of satisfaction so potent it was almost intoxicating. It wasn't hers, not entirely, but it coursed through her veins like liquid fire. The darkness within her was feeding, devouring the moment with an insatiable hunger, and its pleasure bled into her own. For the first time in years, she felt truly alive, a sense of elation so profound it eclipsed every shred of doubt or hesitation. 

Her mind conjured visions unbidden, vivid and consuming. She saw Adam kneeling before her, his head bowed low, the cold, gleaming collar locked tightly around his neck. He wasn't the defiant boy she knew, but something else entirely—obedient, devoted, hers. He would obey her every command, a perfect guard dog, leaping to attention at her slightest whim. She imagined him performing tricks at her word, growling and snarling at her enemies, even barking on command. The thought sent a shiver of delight down her spine. 

The darkness fed her these images, stoking her imagination, twisting her thoughts into something monstrous. And she welcomed it. She didn't care that these desires felt alien, unnatural, or that they warred with the core of who she once was. The darkness whispered sweet assurances: this was right, this was necessary, this was power. 

She glanced at the collar in her hands, its jagged spikes gleaming wickedly under the dim light. It had been crafted for another purpose—a tool to bind demonic entities, to force them into eternal servitude to the royal bloodline. A relic of cruel magic, meant to create a guardian that would serve forever without question or choice. But now, it would serve a new purpose. It would bind Adam to her, make him hers in body and soul. 

Leah stepped closer, her heels striking the floor with deliberate precision, each step resonating with authority. She loomed over Adam, her expression a mix of hunger and resolve. "Adam," she said, her voice soft but laced with iron. "This is your purpose. To protect me, to serve me, to belong to me. With this, you'll never be in danger again. I'll ensure it. All you have to do is obey." 

Adam's breath hitched. He tried to stand, to resist, but his limbs felt heavy, sluggish under the weight of her curse. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with fear and something else—disgust. 

"Leah," he croaked, his voice shaking. "This isn't you. You don't have to do this." 

But she ignored him. Or rather, the part of her that might have listened was drowned out by the darkness's seductive whispers. She crouched down, bringing herself to his level, the collar dangling between them like a cruel promise. 

"You'll thank me," she murmured, her voice low and commanding. "You'll see. This is for the best—for both of us." 

Adam's chest heaved as he struggled to push back against her control. The faint flicker of magic in his hands sputtered and died. He felt weak, helpless, as though her presence alone was sapping his strength. 

She reached out, her fingers brushing against his chin, tilting his face upward. "Look at you," she said, her tone soft but condescending, like one might speak to a disobedient pet. "So stubborn. But I can fix that. I'll make you perfect, Adam. My loyal dog." 

Her words sent a chill down his spine. His mind raced with visions of himself bound by her will, barking at her command, reduced to something less than human. The collar gleamed in her hands, and he could almost feel it around his neck, cold and heavy, choking him. 

"No," Adam said, his voice hoarse but firm. His eyes locked onto hers, a spark of defiance flickering despite the fear that gripped him. 

Leah's smile faltered for a moment, but the darkness surged within her, filling her with a cruel resolve. "Oh, Adam," she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "You don't get to say no." 

The room seemed to darken around them, the air thick with an oppressive weight. The paintings on the walls seemed to leer at Adam, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent. And Leah, standing over him with the collar in her hands, looked less like a queen and more like a shadowed tyrant, her presence suffocating, her power absolute. 

As she reached for him, the darkness within her laughed, a deep, echoing sound that only she could hear. It rejoiced, feeding on her dominance, her cruelty, her submission to its will. And though a small part of her screamed in protest, it was drowned out by the overwhelming euphoria of power. 

Adam's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he prepared for whatever was to come. But in his heart, he knew: this wasn't over. If Leah thought she could break him, she would learn soon enough that some chains, no matter how strong, could still be shattered. 

________________

Adam felt an unfamiliar calm wash over him, as if a deep, ancient presence had awoken within him. It wasn't his own, yet it flowed through him like a river, steady and undeniable. He reached out, placing a hand on Leah's shoulder. The gesture was gentle but firm, enough to make her pause mid-motion.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Adam spoke, his voice lower, steadier, carrying an authority that was alien to him but impossible to ignore. "Leah," he said, his words deliberate, measured. "This isn't right. This won't save you—it will only pull you deeper."

Leah froze, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the collar. Her eyes darted to Adam's face, searching for the boy she knew, but there was something else staring back at her. Something older, something knowing.

Adam extended his other hand, plucking the collar from her grasp and tossing it aside. The sound of the metal hitting the floor echoed sharply in the empty room. "Think," he said, his tone soft yet commanding. "How would this help? Binding me won't free you from the curse—it only feeds it. Is this what you truly want?"

His words cut through her like a blade, sharp and precise, and yet Leah felt her chest tighten. They were right, weren't they? But how could they be? She hadn't thought this, hadn't decided this—had she?

Adam's own mind was a storm. This isn't me, he thought, panic fluttering beneath the surface of his strange calm. These aren't my words. Who's speaking through me?

But his body moved with confidence, his voice unwavering. "You're in control here, Leah," he continued. "Not the curse. It needs you, but it cannot exist without you. You are its master, not the other way around."

Leah's breath caught in her throat. Her grip on the pedestal tightened as her knees threatened to buckle. Adam stepped closer, his eyes unwavering as he bent down, retrieved the collar, and handed it back to her.

The weight of the object in her hands felt unbearable now, not because of its physical weight but because of what it represented. The darkness stirred in her mind, screeching in protest, but it felt… different. Less assured, less seductive. Leah's lips parted, her voice trembling.

"This… this isn't helping, is it?" she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Adam gave a faint nod, and for the first time, his words felt like his own. "No. It's using you, Leah. It's feeding on your fear, your desperation. But it's nothing without you. It's stupid, bloated, and obvious when it's fed. Don't let it trick you into thinking it's stronger than it is."

Leah's mind churned, the darkness clawing at her thoughts with fury, its voice a cacophony of demands and threats. But she could see it now—truly see it. The thing that had wrapped itself around her soul for so long was nothing more than a parasite, a shadow desperate for control it could never truly have.

Her fingers clenched around the collar. The darkness screamed, its voice raw and desperate, but she ignored it. With a sharp breath, Leah hurled the collar across the room. It struck the far wall with a metallic clatter, then fell silent.

Straightening herself, Leah stood tall, her gaze meeting Adam's. There was a tremor in her eyes, the remnants of fear and uncertainty, but something else too—relief.

"Thank you," she whispered, the words barely audible over the lingering silence.

Adam gave her a faint smile, though his own mind was still reeling. Whatever had spoken through him, whatever had helped her take that first step, he didn't understand it. But he knew one thing for certain: the battle wasn't over. Not for Leah, not for himself.

But for now, at least, they had won a single, vital victory.

______________

Adam lay sprawled on the ground, the massive weight of a particularly large and affectionate dog pinning him in place. Despite himself, he couldn't help but chuckle as the dog's tail thumped heavily against his leg. Leah, seated nearby, ran her hands through the fur of another dog, though her touch was more forceful, almost compulsive.

"So," Adam began, his voice cutting through the quiet. "You said it—the darkness—was the one that knocked me unconscious?"

Leah stiffened slightly but didn't look up from the dog she was petting. "That's what it claimed," she admitted, her tone guarded. "But… I'm starting to think it wasn't."

Adam shifted slightly, trying to free himself from the dog's weight as he responded. "Well, you're right. It wasn't."

That got her attention. Leah finally turned to look at him, her brow furrowed. "If it wasn't my curse, then what was it?"

"A fish," Adam said simply, his lips twitching with the hint of a smirk.

Leah blinked, staring at him as if he'd just spoken another language. "A fish?" she repeated incredulously.

Adam burst into laughter, his voice ringing out across the open space. "Yeah, it's… complicated," he admitted, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm still piecing it together myself."

Leah watched him with an arched brow, clearly unimpressed with his cryptic explanation, but she didn't press further. Instead, Adam shifted topics, his tone softening. "So, uh, when are we heading back to the palace? I'd really rather not spend any more time around that demon collar thing."

Leah flinched at the mention of the collar, her expression clouding with guilt. She looked down at her hands, now still in the dog's fur, unable to meet Adam's gaze.

Adam noticed and sighed, sitting up slightly despite the dog still draped over him. "Leah, it's fine. Really. I'm over it," he said, his tone calm and even. "I forgive you for… well, for trying to enslave me, I guess. But this has to stop."

Leah finally looked up, her eyes filled with something raw—shame, regret, maybe both. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Adam nodded but pressed on. "Listen," he said firmly, his voice carrying an unusual weight for someone his age. "I need to say this clearly, and I hope you're really hearing me. I'm not an animal. I'm not some tool or a weapon or whatever else you might think I am. I'm a person, Leah. And if you can't treat me like one—like an adult—then I think it's time we stopped spending time together."

The words were simple, delivered without anger or bitterness, but they hit Leah like a blow. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt a pang of something unfamiliar—vulnerability.

"I…" Leah began, her voice faltering. She looked away, her hands tightening in the dog's fur. "I don't know what to say. You're right. Being called out like this… it's a first for me." She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "I'm supposed to be the queen, and here I am, getting lectured by someone half my age."

Adam shrugged, lying back down as the dog happily resumed its position on his chest. "Age doesn't mean much if you're wrong," he said lightly. "And hey, maybe take this as a learning experience. I mean, I could charge for this kind of wisdom."

Leah let out a soft laugh despite herself, the weight in the air lifting just slightly. For the first time in a long while, she felt something she couldn't quite name—maybe humility, maybe the faintest spark of hope.

"I really am sorry," she said again, more earnestly this time. "I'll… do better. I promise."

Adam nodded, closing his eyes as he leaned into the warmth of the sun and the comforting weight of the dog. "Good," he murmured. "Because I'm really bad at goodbyes."

_______________

The scene in the guest lounge was calm, almost too calm, as Duke Nilguard sipped his tea with the kind of deliberate elegance that only came from a lifetime of excessive refinement. Bouyd stood nearby, his expression polite but strained, clearly waiting for something.

"Duke Nilguard, a pleasure to see you," Bouyd began, clasping his hands together in an overly formal gesture. "I assume you've received my letter?"

Nilguard raised an eyebrow, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. "Ah, yes. You mentioned something about the young prince and a case of… demonic possession?" His tone was casual, like discussing the weather, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Color me intrigued. When, exactly, will I get to see him? I find a firsthand look is always best for diagnosing these sorts of... situations."

Before Bouyd could reply, a loud, exasperated sigh echoed through the hall.

"Finally!" Adam's voice cut through the room like a knife. "Ligh, why did that take so long? I swear, next time, I'm taking the scenic route. It'd still be faster."

Duke Nilguard paused mid-sip, raising an eyebrow as the trio entered. Leah looked regal but visibly tense, Ligh wore her usual unreadable mask, and Adam—disheveled and exuding the energy of someone thoroughly done with the day—strolled in behind them.

"Huh," Nilguard murmured, placing his teacup down with deliberate care. "Good timing."

The young prince stopped short as his eyes landed on Nilguard. "Duke Nilguard! What are you doing here?"

With practiced grace, Nilguard rose to his feet, offering a courteous bow first to Leah and then, surprisingly, to Adam. "I'm here for you, Lord Adam."

Adam blinked, pointing at himself. "For me?"

Nilguard nodded, his expression as calm as ever. "Indeed. This concerns the… incident yesterday."

Adam's face scrunched up in confusion as Bouyd stepped in. "Master Adam, this is about your accident. The possession."

Adam tilted his head. "Oh, that. Yeah, that's already taken care of."

Nilguard froze, his usual composure cracking just enough for a flicker of disbelief to show. "Taken care of?" he repeated, his voice laden with skepticism.

"How?" Bouyd interjected, clearly as baffled as the Duke.

"Well," Adam began, rubbing the back of his neck, "it turns out the whole possession thing wasn't really supposed to happen. The… uh, entity, or whatever, apologized."

"Apologized?" Nilguard echoed, his tone now a mix of disbelief and amusement.

"Yeah, it was kinda awkward, honestly. There was this whole, like, moment. You know, 'Sorry about taking over your body and all, won't happen again.' That kind of thing. Super polite." Adam's face twisted into a half-grin. "And then… nothing else happened. So I figured we're good now."

There was a long, stunned silence as both Nilguard and Bouyd exchanged incredulous glances.

Adam looked between them, shrugging. "I mean, you can check if you want. But I'm telling you, it's fine. I handled it."

"Handled it," Nilguard repeated, his lips twitching as though suppressing a laugh. "You're telling me you reasoned with a demonic entity?"

"Reasoned? Nah." Adam waved dismissively. "It was more like… weird customer service. They messed up, I complained, they fixed it. End of story."

Bouyd pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about "precocious children and divine intervention."

Nilguard, on the other hand, chuckled, shaking his head. "Master Adam, I don't know whether to be impressed or deeply concerned."

Adam leaned back against a nearby chair, crossing his arms with a self-satisfied smirk. "I'll take impressed. And hey, if it starts acting up again, I'll just file another complaint."

Leah, silent until now, let out an exasperated sigh of her own, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Adam, you're impossible."

"I try," Adam replied with a grin, earning another chuckle from Nilguard, who was now thoroughly entertained.

Ligh, still in the background, said nothing, but her stance seemed to shift slightly, as if to suggest she was either ready to intervene or simply accepting her fate in Adam's orbit of absurdity.

"Very well," Nilguard said finally, reclaiming his seat and his tea. "If the young master says it's handled, I suppose I'll have to take his word for it. But I'd keep that 'complaint line' handy, just in case."

Adam gave a thumbs-up, plopping into a chair with a satisfied sigh. "Don't worry, Duke. I've got it all under control."

Leah, on the other hand, looked like she was ready to start day drinking.

Adam leaned back against the armrest of a plush chair, his legs casually draped over the side. "Oh, yeah, Bouyd," he began nonchalantly, "did you know what Leah was planning today? You know, with that demonic collar of slavery thing?"

The casual bombshell made both Bouyd and Nilguard freeze mid-motion, their heads snapping to Leah with synchronized precision.

"What?" they said in unison, their tones a mix of disbelief and dread.

Leah, ever the picture of composed royalty—even when caught red-handed—lifted her chin. "I'll explain later. Everything is fine. Really." Her voice was calm, almost convincing. Almost.

Adam raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Hey, Nil, mind coming with me for a second? I've been trying to work on this magic thing, and I could use a second opinion."

Without waiting for an answer, Adam grabbed the Duke by the arm and started dragging him out of the room, leaving Leah to face Bouyd alone.

Bouyd, still standing stiffly, turned to Leah and gave her the look. The kind of look a weary parent gives their misbehaving child right before delivering a lecture that starts with "I'm not angry, just disappointed."

Leah sighed, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.

In Adam's room, Nilguard surveyed the scene before him, his usual poise faltering slightly as he took in the unique decor. The walls were charred in irregular patches, faint wisps of smoke curled from scorched furniture, and the faint smell of sulfur lingered in the air. A precarious pile of singed papers sat on the desk, and the remnants of what was once a curtain dangled limply from a rod.

"Lord Adam," Nilguard began cautiously, "you said you 'took care of it.' But…" He gestured vaguely at the apocalyptic state of the room. "Forgive me, but this doesn't exactly scream 'handled.'"

Adam waved him off, casually attempting to conjure a fireball with one hand. "Oh, that? Yeah, I talked to it."

"Talked to it?" Nilguard repeated, his skepticism palpable.

"Well… talk is a strong word," Adam admitted, a sheepish grin creeping onto his face. "It's more like… it beamed information directly into my brain, and later I kind of… pieced it together into what I'm pretty sure was an apology."

Nilguard raised an eyebrow. "You're 'pretty sure.' That's very reassuring."

Adam ignored the sarcasm, focusing instead on the sputtering flame in his palm. "Look, it's hard to explain. Imagine, like… a really big fish."

"A fish," Nilguard deadpanned.

"Yeah, but not, like, a regular fish," Adam clarified, gesturing wildly as the fireball fizzled out. "It's massive. Like, planet-sized or something. And it doesn't swim in water—it swims in… I don't know, existence? Reality? Anyway, it's not malicious, just… clumsy. Possessing me was an accident. It's like stepping on a bug and going, 'Oh, my bad.'"

Nilguard blinked, processing this increasingly bizarre explanation. "So, you're saying a cosmic fish accidentally possessed you, felt bad about it, and apologized… telepathically."

"Exactly!" Adam said, snapping his fingers as if Nilguard had just cracked the code.

Nilguard pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'Why me?'

"Look," Adam continued, unbothered, "I could feel it was genuine. Like, deeply sorry. So, as far as I'm concerned, we're good. Case closed."

Nilguard took another glance at the scorched room, then at Adam, whose lopsided grin radiated an almost dangerous level of optimism. "Lord Adam," he said finally, "this might be the most absurd explanation I've ever heard. And I've attended court debates about whether potatoes qualify as a fruit."

Adam shrugged, already back to conjuring another fireball. "Hey, absurd or not, it's my life. You just have to roll with it."

Nilguard shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. "I'll say this much: you certainly keep things interesting."

"That's the spirit," Adam said cheerfully as his fireball finally flared to life—only to immediately go rogue and scorch the ceiling.

Nilguard sighed, watching a small ember float lazily down onto his shoulder. "Interesting indeed."

Nilguard sighed, brushing soot off his shoulder before settling into one of the less-charred chairs in Adam's room. He crossed one leg over the other and folded his arms, exuding the patience of someone who had long since accepted the chaotic nature of his job. "Now," he said, his tone carrying the weight of a weary mentor, "what's this about magic experiments?"

Adam perked up instantly, practically bouncing in place. "Oh! Okay, so, how much do you know about the different types of magic?"

Nilguard arched an eyebrow, his voice dry. "I am a court magician, Lord Adam. I'd wager I know more than most."

"Right, right, makes sense," Adam said with a nod, bouncing on his heels like an excited child. "So here's the thing—I figured out how to make fire… not burn."

The statement hung in the air like a poorly cast levitation spell. Nilguard's brows knitted together, his expression caught between curiosity and skepticism. "You made fire… that doesn't burn?"

"Exactly!" Adam said, his grin almost splitting his face. "Well, sort of. It doesn't burn physical stuff, but I think it's still burning something. I just don't know what."

Nilguard leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he peered at Adam. "And how, pray tell, did you manage this? Magic does not simply rewrite its fundamental laws on a whim."

Adam scratched the back of his neck, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. "Uh, well… you know how elemental magic works, right? Like, straightforward stuff—heat, light, combustion, all that jazz? Well, I thought, 'Hey, what if I added ritual magic to it?' You know, to, uh, experiment. Ritual magic's all about perception, mythology, and symbolic resonance, right? So I mashed the two together—fire plus the myths and ideas behind fire—and… well, something happened. It's like fire, but it's… not."

Nilguard's skeptical gaze hardened into something resembling academic scrutiny. "Lord Adam," he said slowly, his voice heavy with doubt, "it's possible you're mistaken. Allow me to demonstrate."

He extended his hand, his fingers dancing with precise movements as a faint energy shimmered in the air. Slowly, glowing runes spiraled into existence, weaving an intricate lattice of power. A heartbeat later, a sphere of flame materialized above his palm—a pale orange orb that crackled with restrained energy.

"This is fire created through ritual magic," Nilguard explained. "It functions differently than elemental fire, obeying symbolic laws rather than physical ones. It doesn't burn in the conventional sense but consumes abstract concepts like fear or intent. Is this what you mean?"

Adam stared at the flame, his eyes wide with fascination, but then he shook his head. "No, that's interesting, but it's not quite the same. Mine looked more like… this."

He raised his hand, and Nilguard immediately noticed something unusual. Adam didn't draw any visible runes, nor did he chant or form a ritual circle. Instead, he simply willed it into existence. At first, nothing seemed to happen—but then Nilguard felt it. A ripple of energy that defied classification, a strange mix of elemental and ritual magic that felt like it shouldn't coexist.

A tiny flame ignited, no larger than a seed, hovering above Adam's palm. Its color was mesmerizing—a pale cyan that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light. It didn't flicker like normal fire but moved with a strange, fluid grace, as though it were alive.

Nilguard's jaw tightened as he leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. "Fascinating… but impossible. That flame contains far more magical energy than you channeled. How did you achieve this? What principles is it obeying? Ritual magic requires structure, yet I see no sigils or preparatory work."

Adam shrugged, clearly enjoying Nilguard's growing intrigue. "Beats me. It just… happens when I try. Watch this."

With a soft exhale, Adam released the flame. It floated upward, defying gravity, leaving behind a faint trail of glowing blue sparks. Then, with a quiet pop, it vanished, as if it had never existed.

Nilguard stared at the empty space where the flame had been, his analytical mind racing. "This… this is not ordinary fire. Not even ritual fire. Lord Adam, I believe you've created something entirely new—a hybrid phenomenon that transcends conventional magical frameworks."

Adam tilted his head. "Uh, thanks? So… is that good or bad?"

Nilguard didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood, pacing the room as he muttered under his breath. "It's beyond good or bad—it's unprecedented. The flame's properties suggest it operates on a plane of existence tied to both physical and metaphysical concepts. But what does it consume? If it doesn't burn matter, then perhaps it feeds on intent, willpower… or something more intangible."

He stopped and fixed Adam with a piercing gaze. "Lord Adam, you must understand the significance of this. If improperly studied or used, this new fire could be catastrophic. It might consume things we don't even comprehend yet—concepts, memories, even souls. We need to document every aspect of it immediately."

Adam raised his hands defensively. "Whoa, Nil, slow down. It's just a tiny flame! How bad could it be?"

Nilguard sighed, rubbing his temples. "Lord Adam, that 'tiny flame' radiated more magical energy than some battle-class spells. Its very existence challenges the fundamental principles of magic. So yes, it could be bad."

Adam blinked, then grinned sheepishly. "Okay, fair point. So… what's step one?"

Nilguard shook his head, muttering, "Step one is making sure you don't accidentally burn a hole in reality." Despite his grim tone, there was a spark of excitement in his eyes. The prospect of unraveling this magical enigma was too enticing to ignore.

"Has… has that happened before?" Adam asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and worry.

Nilguard let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temples like a parent dealing with a particularly mischievous child. "Yes. Unfortunately, it has. Some time ago, in the Has Republic, a self-proclaimed 'Magic King'—" He paused, raising a finger for emphasis. "Self-proclaimed, mind you—decided to 'improve' on the basic principles of magic. The result was a hole in reality about the size of a carriage. Lovely field, too. Now it's a perfectly circular crater that no one dares approach. So, in short: let's avoid adding to the list of existential hazards, shall we?"

Adam blinked, trying to process the enormity of what he'd just heard. "A… hole in reality? That's a thing? Like, an actual thing that happens?"

"Yes, Adam," Nilguard said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Reality doesn't take kindly to being tampered with. And unorthodox mages like you have an uncanny knack for poking it in all the wrong places."

"Unorthodox mages?" Adam tilted his head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Nilguard smirked, his tone gaining a playful edge. "Unorthodox mages are… how shall I put this? Magical loose cannons. Most mages learn through structured study, carefully passed down from master to apprentice, with centuries of tradition ensuring they don't accidentally incinerate themselves—or anyone else, for that matter. You, however, are like a chef who ignored the recipe and threw whatever looked interesting into the pot."

Adam scratched his head. "That doesn't sound so bad."

Nilguard arched a brow. "The last 'unorthodox mage' was the aforementioned Magic King of the Has Republic. He invented spells so bizarre they still baffle scholars. One of them is a 'whistling storm' that only rains sideways, and another is a teleportation spell that works perfectly—except it swaps your left and right shoes. No one's sure if he was a genius or just very, very lucky."

Adam snorted. "That's hilarious. Did he ever fix the reality hole?"

Nilguard leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Oh no, he left it. Said it was 'a testament to the boundless potential of magic.' Then he disappeared for three years and came back with a pet goose that apparently speaks ten languages."

Adam burst into laughter. "Okay, that's ridiculous. You're messing with me."

Nilguard grinned. "I wish I were, Lord Adam. The point is, unorthodox mages have a habit of making things no one can explain—and sometimes things no one can control. Case in point: your cyan fire. It's fascinating, yes, but also potentially catastrophic. So, until we understand what it does, I must insist you don't use it. No unauthorized experiments."

Adam nodded solemnly, though the glint in his eye suggested he wasn't entirely deterred. "Got it. No unauthorized experiments."

Nilguard's eyes narrowed. "When you say it like that, I don't feel reassured."

Adam raised his hands defensively. "Hey, don't worry! I'll be careful."

"That's what they all say," Nilguard muttered, shaking his head. "And then, next thing you know, we're investigating why the moon is glowing green or why chickens have started teleporting into people's homes."

Adam stifled a laugh. "Chickens teleporting? That's not real."

Nilguard's expression turned grave. "Oh, it's very real. And very annoying."

Adam couldn't hold back his laughter any longer, doubling over. "Fine, fine! I'll behave. But, uh… maybe you could help me figure out what it's burning? I promise I won't make it worse."

Nilguard sighed again, though this time there was a trace of amusement in his tone. "Very well, Lord Adam. But only under supervision. And if I see so much as a flicker of cyan fire outside this room, I'll personally ensure you never see your spellbook again."

"Deal," Adam said with a grin, already excited about their next experiment.

______________________

In the far reaches of the Has Republic, hidden deep within a cave that resembled more of a chaotic magical laboratory than a proper workspace, the self-proclaimed "Grand Sorcerer of the Arcane Depths" was beside himself with excitement. He bounded up to his wife, Uruua, and thrust his hands forward, practically shoving a handful of glittering, swirling substance in her face.

"Look! Look, Uruua! Look what I made! It's— it's like a rock but liquid!" His eyes gleamed with childlike enthusiasm, oblivious to the fact that he had most likely knocked over three different stacks of magical textbooks in the process.

Uruua, who had been calmly perusing an ancient tome on magical theory, barely spared a glance at the sand before she lowered her book, sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "That's… sand," she said flatly. "Colored sand."

"Not just any sand! This is—wait, don't you see?" His voice wavered with excitement, the sand shimmering in his hands. "It's liquid rock! It's a new form of—of magic! A whole new element! This could change everything! I—"

Uruua cut him off with a raised hand, her voice calm but firm, like a teacher who had just caught her student making an obvious mistake. "It's sand, dear. Colored, enchanted sand. You've just infused it with an illusion of liquidity. That's all."

The self-proclaimed sorcerer blinked, as though her words had somehow not reached him. "What? No, no, you're not understanding! It's more than that. It's unstable! It's—" He juggled a handful of it, and the sand swirled in midair like liquid mercury before suddenly snapping back together into solid form, only to dissolve again moments later.

Uruua's eyebrows arched ever so slightly, and she folded her arms. "Unstable, yes. That part I can see. And it's quite… dramatic," she added dryly, watching the sand swirl in unpredictable patterns before disintegrating once more. "But calling it 'magic rock liquid' won't get you anywhere except maybe an invitation to the local tavern to tell tall tales. If you want to understand it, you'll need a deeper comprehension of the magic behind it."

"But that's just it!" He bounced on his heels, eager to explain himself. "I do understand it. The magic is unstable on a molecular level! It's not just sand; it's a fusion of elemental magic with a temporal disruption spell. The sand can exist in multiple states at once, solid, liquid, and even gaseous—"

Uruua gave him a pointed look. "A gaseous rock?"

"Exactly! Don't you see?! It's unpredictable, but it's possible! I could make—" He was cut off as the sand in his hands suddenly exploded into a cloud of sparkles that hovered in the air for a moment before sinking to the floor in a heap of dust.

Uruua did not flinch, not even a little. "Oh dear. We're back to the 'rock liquid' part again." She sighed, setting her book down and walking over to him. "The problem isn't your idea, per se. The problem is that you've mixed incompatible magical forces without proper control. You're creating something that can't exist in a stable form. It's not a new element—it's chaos. You're not building an innovation. You're creating an unstable reaction."

The Magic King, visibly deflated but still clinging to his excitement, glanced at her for reassurance. "So… it's not entirely useless?"

Uruua narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, as though deciding how best to frame her response. "It's useful in exactly one way: as a demonstration of how not to handle magic. If you don't want to accidentally summon a reality-warping explosion or leave half of the cave in a different dimension, you might want to reconsider this 'innovation.'" She took a deep breath, then added, "For now, at least."

The Magic King, once again filled with the spark of his 'genius,' puffed out his chest. "So you're saying I need more control over it? More stability?"

"Exactly." Uruua nodded slowly, her tone more patient now, as if teaching a student who had just begun to grasp the concept. "Try to isolate the core magical principles you've combined. Work with each one individually and refine your understanding. Stability is key. Without it, you're left with chaos." She leaned in, eyeing the sand closely. "And chaos, while interesting, doesn't make for very practical magic."

The Magic King stared at the sand in his hands, the sparkles slowly dissipating into nothingness. "Hmm... More control. More focus. Got it. So… no more rock liquid."

"Not until you figure out what went wrong," Uruua said with a nod, smiling just slightly. "And perhaps leave the elemental disruptions to someone who knows how to clean up after them."

He looked at her, his expression somewhere between frustration and awe. "You make it sound so simple."

Uruua straightened, her expression unwaveringly calm. "That's because it is. Magic is simple. People—people make it complicated."

For a long moment, the Magic King stared at the colored sand in his hands, as if seeing it for the first time. "Right. Simple. I'll keep that in mind."

As he looked back up at Uruua, she gave him a measured smile, shaking her head with a soft sigh. "Just… try not to create another sandstorm, all right?"

He grinned sheepishly, but the seed of determination was already planted. "I'll work on that… after I find the right bucket."

Uruua sighed, staring at her so-called "husband," who was happily tinkering with his magical experiments.

"And stop calling me your wife," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "We're not married, nor do I think it's possible for us to be."

He looked up, confused. "What do you mean? You're always with me. You're my wife. Everyone calls you that, even the tavern keeper."

"I was dragged here. I never agreed to any of this," Uruua shot back, gesturing to the chaos around them. "Besides, you're technically still the 'Magic King,' which doesn't exactly scream 'husband material.'"

He grinned, oblivious to the logic. "Well, I'm still better than the talking goose, right?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Barely."