Bullshit
Before Okjin could let his thoughts spiral into panic or unravel further, his body took care of it for him.
The overwhelming weight of exhaustion, both physical and mental, crushed down on him, dragging him into unconsciousness. He felt his knees buckle beneath him before he was caught—soft, firm arms enveloped him, steadying him as he slumped forward.
The familiar, comforting sensation of being held was the last thing he could register before everything started to blur. It was Jeremiah, of course. The deep, weathered sigh that escaped the blue-haired man's lips seemed almost routine, an expression that had been used countless times before.
How many times had Jeremiah caught him like this?
Okjin wondered vaguely, his thoughts hazy as his mind struggled to hold onto the fleeting moments. The constant exhaustion was nothing new, but the concern buried in that sigh was, and it struck him as oddly troubling.
It wasn't just a sigh of mild frustration—it was the kind of sigh someone gave when they had witnessed this behavior over and over, when it had become a worrying, frequent occurrence.
Okjin couldn't help but wonder.
How many times had Jeremiah caught Lirien—his body—like this? Was he really that fragile?
His thoughts, still drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, didn't fully connect as the weight of the moment pressed in on him.
The faint, dim light rising sun cast long shadows across the garden, but all of it felt distant, as if the world was slipping away from him. The last sensation he had before slipping completely into darkness was the sensation of his head resting on Jeremiah's chest, the soft, rhythmic thrum of the older man's heartbeat reverberating through his ribs, grounding him for the briefest moment before everything went black.
.・゜-: ✧ :- -: ✧ :-゜・．
Memory
Lirien sat at his desk, eyes stinging from the strain of hours spent on paperwork. It was never-ending. The neat cursive handwriting on each document—delicately inscribed in blue ink—seemed endless. Just as he reached for the next stack of papers, a fresh pile was tossed in his face with a sharp thwack. He blinked in surprise, staring at the towering pile before him. Elder Ashton Sylvaine, his great-grand uncle, stood looming in front of him, a cruel sneer on his face.
Ashton was an ancient, bitter man—an unyielding presence in the family, obsessed with nitpicking Lirien's work and comparing him to Angelica at every turn. He wasn't just a nagging elder; he was a political tool, an obstacle Lirien was forced to endure.
"You call this acceptable?" Ashton snapped, glaring at Lirien with a look of disdain. "Your handwriting alone is a disgrace to our legacy."
Lirien's jaw tightened. This man—this ancient bastard—loved nothing more than belittling him.
"Such a disappointment. After all we've done to allow you to take on more responsibility, to prepare you for the role of Duke, you show such incompetence. You're not ready. You never will be." Ashton's words were like daggers, aimed to wound, aimed to control.
It was all a game. The political maneuvering, the false sense of responsibility—they just wanted him to do all the work while they enjoyed the benefits of power without lifting a finger.
Lirien clenched his fists, a silent fury boiling beneath the surface.
They want me to do their dirty work. They never thought I was ready for power—what a joke.
He was the Jade Mage, the true heir of the Sylvaine family, the son of the Matriarch. His lineage was a legacy of power. His magic was unmatched. He raised the moon alone, night after night, and yet they still treated him as inferior. Angelica—his cousin—was an afterthought in comparison. She didn't even deserve to be in the same conversation.
The truth was, Lirien's political power could rival that of the crown princess herself. He wasn't blind. He saw the value he held. But he needed the title of Duke. He needed access to the family tomes—the knowledge that was locked away in the hands of the Sylvaine patriarch. To be free of their control.
He just needed to endure a little longer.
Another stack of papers flew through the air, landing squarely on his face with a sharp edge that sliced his cheek. Blood trickled down, staining his flawless skin and tainting the white strands of his hair with a spot of red.
The pain barely registered.
His eyes, cold and seething with suppressed fury, locked onto Ashton. His chilling silver gaze shimmered with a quiet yet terrifying intensity, the reflection of the crimson streak in his hair amplifying the darkness behind his gaze.
Ashton faltered, his arrogance faltering under the weight of Lirien's presence. He shrank back.
Lirien's lips curled into a cruel, cold smile as he gracefully bent down to pick up the scattered papers. His movements were deliberate, unnatural in their fluidity. The cursive on the documents glowed faintly, as if mocking the tension in the air.
"If that is all you had to discuss, Elder," he said, his voice as smooth as silk but carrying an unmistakable coldness, "I shall return to my estate. Good day."
He stood and left without another word, the echoes of his presence lingering long after he had gone. Behind him, Ashton seethed—but beneath his rage was something far more satisfying.
Fear.
.・゜-: ✧ :- -: ✧ :-゜・．
Okjin jolted awake to the sensation of someone nudging him. Blinking against the lingering haze of sleep, he barely registered Jeremiah's familiar, exasperated sigh.
"My lord, I apologize for disturbing your rest," Jeremiah murmured, his voice laced with something that almost resembled guilt. "I know how rare true sleep is for you, but the elders have requested your presence."
Okjin groaned internally. Of course, they did.
As Jeremiah efficiently helped him dress, Okjin's mind drifted, his focus caught on the absurdity of Lirien's wardrobe. Multiple layers of semi-translucent silk robes—some a pale, ethereal blue, others a milky silver—draped over his frame, giving him the appearance of being wrapped in a literal cloud. The effect was… celestial. Unreal.
Too much.
Note to self: Get normal clothes. Lirien already looked too angelic; he didn't need to attract even more attention.
His thoughts, however, soon took a darker turn. The memory from earlier still clung to him, the sharp words of Elder Ashton echoing in his mind. The timing was suspicious. Why had that particular memory surfaced right now?
Was it the gods? Lirien himself? Someone—or something—was drip-feeding him information, ensuring he only received fragments at just the right moments. And what a convenient moment this was. Just as he was summoned to face the elders, he suddenly remembered their long history of belittling and exploiting him.
His jaw tightened.
Then came the next realization, and it hit like a punch to the gut.
Lirien was raising the moon. Every. Single. Night. Alone.
Did anyone ever stop to consider how insane that was? The sheer magical energy it must've required? Sure, Lirien had an abundance of it, but that didn't mean it was normal. And if that wasn't bad enough, the relentless paperwork and political nonsense piled on top of him made something sickeningly clear:
The elders were using him.
They were playing cat's cradle with the power of a Duke while he was stuck doing all the dirty work.
He handled the responsibilities, the decision-making, the endless bureaucracy—yet he had no actual title, no real authority. The Sylvaine name was draped over him like those ridiculous robes, making him look the part while stripping him of any true power.
Okjin clenched his fists.
"This," he thought, "is bullshit."
He wasn't about to keep playing their game. Either he was getting the full title of Duke, or they could find someone else to be their magical workhorse. He had enough on his plate literally holding up the goddamn moon—he wasn't about to keep being their unpaid intern on top of that.
As Jeremiah finished fastening the last layer of silk (seriously, how many did Lirien wear?), Okjin straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders back.
"Let's go," he said, his voice steeled with newfound resolve.
The elders had no idea what was coming for them.