The Weight of Obsession
Guinevere barely acknowledged Anastasia's presence.
Her fingers ghosted over the fragile parchment, her eyes locked onto the ancient script with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.
But Anastasia saw the slight tremor in Guinevere's hands and the quiet strain behind her gaze. Whatever she was searching for wasn't here.
And yet—she continued.
Page after page, line after line, her fingertips trailing across the ink as though willing the answers to surface.
Anastasia's throat tightened.
She should say something. Should pull her back.
But watching Guinevere now—tense, relentless, almost hollow—she realised something chilling:
Guinevere was no longer searching for the truth.
She was waiting for the book to lie to her in a way she could accept.
The realisation struck deep.
Guinevere had never been patient. She was determined and driven, but never patient. And yet, she lingered, willing herself to believe that an answer had to be buried somewhere in the ink, waiting to be revealed.
That wasn't determination.
That was an obsession.
Anastasia hesitated, then stepped forward, voice softer now.
"Guinevere."
No response.
She tried again, quieter this time.
"Guinevere, this book won't give you what you want."
Still—silence.
Then, Guinevere inhaled sharply, her fingers curling over the edge of the page.
And for the briefest moment, she looked up.
Her eyes met Anastasia's.
Tears welled at the edges—not out of grief, but frustration.
"It wasn't supposed to be this difficult. The answers should have been here."
Anastasia exhaled slowly, forcing warmth into her tone.
"Go to sleep," she urged gently. "I'll help you. I promise."
Guinevere lingered in place, the weight of exhaustion pulling at her frame.
After a moment, finally, she nodded.
But Anastasia knew.
Sleep wouldn't change anything.
From Above, the Unseen Watchers
Raiden and Ena stood high above, watching the exchange unfold below.
Ena scoffed, folding her arms across her chest, her voice laced with disdain.
"Ren, what are you thinking, sparing that woman?"
She shook her head, eyes narrowing.
"How is she useful? She's just a woman drowning in vengeance, a broken thing, clinging to what's left of her husband's memory."
Silence lingered.
Raiden did not answer.
Perhaps because he agreed.
Or perhaps because, standing beside Ena, he could feel the weight of their unspoken history pressing between them.
They, too, were remnants of something lost.
Two former spouses, watching a woman unravel, while still mending the fractures of their past.
Raiden and Ena: The Weight of the Past
Raiden leaned against the balcony railing, his gaze fixed on the flickering torchlights below.
Ena stood beside him, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
"You hesitate," she murmured, not looking at him.
He exhaled slowly.
"I don't hesitate," he countered. "I think."
Ena scoffed.
"And what is there to think about? Guinevere is lost in her delusions. Ren should have ended her."
Raiden remained silent.
Ena turned to him then, her sharp gaze lingering.
"You don't disagree," she said quietly. "But you don't agree, either."
Raiden closed his eyes briefly.
"It's not about Guinevere," he admitted.
The words hung between them, weighty, unresolved.
Ena didn't answer, but she understood.
Their history—their fracture- had left scars that neither of them had fully healed from.
And perhaps, watching Guinevere spiral felt too familiar.
Not in her actions, but in the remnants of what came before.
The things they had lost.
The things they had never recovered from.
Unspoken Regret
Ena's gaze was steady, unwavering.
"You made your choice, Raiden," she said, her voice calm but weighted. "You can live with that. I've moved on—even though it took a long time."
Raiden inhaled sharply, as if trying to steady himself against words that struck too deep.
Silence stretched between them.
Then, he exhaled, a quiet admission slipping past his lips.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "You're right."
His voice carried the weight of something long-buried, something he had refused to face fully.
"I made a choice," he continued, slower this time. "A terrible one."
A pause.
"The choice that made me lose my wife."
His words hung like something irrevocable—an open wound, acknowledged but never healed.
Ena didn't answer immediately.
She only looked at him, and in that moment, he wasn't sure if she was searching for something or if she had stopped looking for him long ago.
A Love That Remains, But No Longer Consumes
Ena's steps were steady, purposeful. She left without looking back.
Raiden knew this moment was inevitable, but that didn't make it any easier.
"Be happy, Raiden. That's all I've ever wanted for you."
She still loved him.
Not in the way she once did—not with the passion of youth, nor the certainty they had once clung to.
It had changed, softened into something quieter, something distant.
Not absent.
Not gone.
Just different.
But there wasn't a time to dwell. Ena had made that clear.
"Enough about us. We should focus on our duties—governing our territories as duke and duchess for the Eternal Empire."
And in the end, that was all that remained between them.
A partnership.
A duty.
A legacy.
Unspoken Petals
Mariko sat in the palace garden, the moon's silver glow casting a quiet radiance over drifting sakura petals. The air carried the faint fragrance of blossoms, a whisper of spring clinging to the night. Her brush glided across the canvas, each stroke deliberate, capturing not just beauty but something unspoken—a dance of petals, and within them, Sakura herself.
Among Ren's wives, Sakura and Mariko shared the closest bond. They understood each other in ways words never could. And Mariko, with each stroke of paint, preserved a truth that Sakura had buried within silence—love, fleeting as the petals, scattering before it could ever take root.
"Sakura, my dearest friend, don't you think you've waited long enough?"
Sakura did not answer. She let the blossoms swirl around her, her spear slicing through the air in perfect rhythm, the moonlight catching on its edge like liquid silver. The petals followed her every motion, drawn into her silent dance—witnesses to what would never be spoken.
Mariko paused, her fingers hovering over the AI screen beside her. With a flick, she switched from canvas to holographic sketching, the artificial glow reflecting in her eyes. Though efficient and precise, it lacked the weight of tradition—the quiet resistance against an ever-changing world. She preferred the brush, the pull of bristles against parchment, the tangible connection between artist and creation.
Yet, she did not reject the new even as she embraced the old ways. The world of the supernatural and the digital wove itself into human artistry, demanding adaptation. Some things evolved. Others, like Sakura's silence, remained eternal.