Armish's POV
The universe hated her. That was the only logical conclusion.
First, she woke up in some royal fever-dream wearing silk pajamas that looked stolen from a moon cult. Then she tripped like an idiot in the world's fanciest hallway. And now—
Thundering footsteps shook the floor like an approaching earthquake.
Armish scrambled to untangle herself from the silk fabric snared around her legs, panic rising like a tidal wave. She wasn't ready for… whoever—or whatever—was barreling toward her.
The sound grew louder, closer, heavier… until—
He appeared.
The man from her half-blurred, fever-drenched dreams. But now, painfully real.
Tall. Broad. Intimidating in a way that made her lungs forget how to work. His silver hair fell past his sharp jawline, loose strands framing an unnaturally perfect face that looked carved from stone. His clothes — fitted navy and silver, embroidered with faint glowing symbols — screamed high-ranking, important… dangerous.
And his eyes… silver as moonlight, glowing faintly, locked entirely on her.
Armish froze mid-scoot, wide-eyed, still tangled on the marble floor like a disgraced burrito.
The stranger stormed down the hall, every step deliberate, sharp, yet somehow silent despite his size. The heavy, navy cloak trailing behind him shifted with his movements, embroidered patterns glinting softly in the dim light.
He stopped just feet from her — a towering, utterly terrifying wall of power.
For a beat, they just stared at each other.
His gaze scanned her face, her disheveled hair, her tangled robe, lingering at the faint bruises on her arms. His expression darkened, jaw tightening, lips parting— and then…
Words.
Deep, low, unfamiliar words rolled off his tongue — strong and commanding, yet laced with something she couldn't decipher.
"…Veylin'ka… ilren sai?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder, rich and foreign.
Armish's brain stalled.
"Cool, cool, absolutely no idea what you just said," she muttered under her breath, forcing a weak, crooked smile.
His silver eyes narrowed slightly, clearly not understanding her either. His gaze roamed her features again — and some of that fierce edge cracked. His posture softened, shoulders losing tension.
Before she could process, he crouched beside her — fast, fluid, controlled — every movement radiating coiled strength.
Armish flinched instinctively, but instead of grabbing her like some medieval kidnapper, he simply… reached.
His hand — large, calloused, steady — brushed a wild curl from her cheek, thumb lingering along her jawline. His fingers trembled faintly. His expression wavered between raw relief and something heartbreakingly vulnerable.
"Okay, uh… personal space? Maybe? No?" she whispered, trying to lean back, but the silk wrapped around her legs had other plans.
He spoke again, quieter this time, voice like velvet over steel — words that carried weight but no sense to her ears.
"Seriously, what is this? Fantasy land with no subtitles?" Armish groaned internally.
More footsteps echoed from behind them — softer, several sets approaching fast.
Armish's panic reignited.
Strange place? Check. Strange guy? Check. More strangers incoming? Big check. And her… looking like roadkill in silk? Triple check.
The man's expression hardened instantly at the approaching sounds. His glowing eyes sharpened, and his shoulders squared — protective, dangerous, lethal.
Armish squeaked when his arms slid beneath her knees and back — and in one smooth motion, he lifted her effortlessly off the floor.
"Wha—hey! Nope, put me down! I can walk—kind of—!" she protested, flailing weakly against him.
It was like hitting a granite statue wrapped in expensive fabric.
He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate.
Apparently, this dude didn't believe in personal space.
Despite her awkward protests and flailing, the silver-haired stranger carried her like she weighed nothing, storming down the endless corridor with ridiculous ease. His arms were warm, solid — annoyingly safe — as he cradled her against his chest.
The familiar chamber appeared around the corner — all towering ceilings, glowing runes, and annoyingly expensive moon-vibe décor.
He pushed the heavy door open with one booted foot and strode inside, making a beeline for the ridiculous bed.
Armish braced herself, expecting to be tossed like luggage — but nope. He gently — almost reverently — lowered her onto the silk-draped mattress.
But he wasn't done humiliating her.
The towering stranger proceeded to… tuck her in.
Like, full burrito wrap. Blankets pulled snug around her sides, layers of velvet and silk secured until she resembled a dazed, confused, half-dead caterpillar in royal packaging.
"…Cool. I'm a blanket burrito now," she muttered under her breath, pinned like an awkward sandwich.
Satisfied with his overprotective human-wrap skills, the silver-haired giant settled into a nearby chair, his glowing eyes never leaving her. Intense, unreadable, annoyingly gorgeous.
Silence.
She squirmed beneath the blankets, but curiosity flickered brighter than panic.
Moments later, the door creaked open.
Two beautiful people entered. Like wow I'm gonna ask the lady what cream she uses to have such a flawless skin. Just you wait lady once I get my hand on my phone I'm gonna google translate everything
Lady with Perfect-Hair and Old Broody dude — at least, that's what Armish nicknamed them.
The tall, intimidating old dude hovered near the doorframe, arms crossed, face carved from stone. His sharp silver eyes flicked between Armish and silver hair model dude like we were some political puzzle.
The silver-haired guy stood too, mirroring the old dude I think that's his father like pfft of course anyone can tell they are related, both towering like statues of pure authority.
Words passed between them — flowing, unfamiliar language. Deep voices, clipped phrases, occasional sharp glances her way.
Armish barely contained an eye-roll.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm the weird human prop here."
But then the lady approached which I'm guessing my kidnapper's mom.
Her silver hair shimmered as she leaned down, violet eyes softening. She gently brushed her hand across Armish's tangled curls, murmuring something in that melodic, strange language.
Warm. Oddly reassuring. Almost motherly.
Armish blinked, slightly thrown.
"Uh… thanks? Maybe?"
Before she could question it, the door creaked again.
Enter: Hot Babe Alert.
Tall, strong, sleek dark hair pulled back, sharp green eyes like she could kill a man with a look. Her clothes hugged a lethal figure, embroidered with those shimmering moon-thread patterns.
She bowed to the parents, then her sharp gaze landed on Armish — curiosity flickering before it vanished beneath military control.
Serious conversation sparked between Hot Babe and the Silver-Haired guy. Their expressions tightened, words snapping back and forth, occasionally glancing at Armish like she was an unsolvable riddle.
Armish sat up slightly, burrito blanket sliding off her shoulders.
"Okay… focus, backpack retrieval time."
She gestured with her hands, miming a square shape, shaping the air like she was holding an invisible bag.
They all paused — silver eyes locked on her. Confusion. Curiosity.
The tall guy's expression shifted — recognition flickering in his glowing gaze.
He crossed to an ornate golden chest tucked near the wall, etched with glowing runes, guarded like a dragon hoard. From inside, he lifted something with ridiculous care — cradling it like treasure.
Her backpack.
Beaten, worn, coffee-stained — her lifeline. He brought it over, placing it beside her with weird reverence, like it was ancient relic-level important.
Armish exhaled dramatically, clutching it like a security blanket.
"Judge all you want… this thing's been through more hell than your pretty carpets."
The Hot Babe tilted her head, unimpressed by the precious bag.
Ignoring them, Armish unzipped the battered backpack with exaggerated care, as if disarming a bomb under royal surveillance.
Four suspicious faces stared, expressions ranging from amused to mildly ready to intervene if she pulled out a deadly weapon.
She yanked out…
A melted chocolate bar.
The room collectively tilted their heads.
"Ah yes," Armish muttered to herself, holding the squished wrapper up like an artifact, "the finest treasure of the mortal realm — half-dead chocolate from my purse."
Silver-Hair — okay, Mr. Tall, Glowy & Broody — frowned slightly, sniffing the air like the chocolate personally offended his ancient bloodline. His sharp silver eyes narrowed in utter confusion.
Next came her half deadphone. Screen cracked, battery pretty much alive.
Lay Perfect-Hair leaned in curiously. Hot Warrior Babe cocked an eyebrow. The Old dude just… looked vaguely disturbed.
Armish powered through, pulling out gum wrappers, her broken sunglasses, power bank, and one tangled pair of earbuds from the depths of the apocalypse bag.
"Relax," she deadpanned, glancing at them, "no holy relics or cursed daggers hiding in here… unless lint counts."
The silver-eyed guy's brows furrowed like he half-believed lint could be a threat in her hands. His posture didn't relax — if anything, his protectiveness dialed up, hovering near her shoulder like a stubborn wolf-shaped security blanket.
Armish's fingers brushed something solid — her cracked compact mirror. She flipped it open, catching her disaster reflection.
"Great," she muttered, "still look like I survived a tornado."
Hot Warrior Babe muttered something sharp in their language — all clipped syllables and curiosity — eyes never leaving the strange Earth objects sprawled around the bed.
Armish offered a tiny, awkward wave, unsure whether to be polite or deeply concerned. The Warrior just smirked faintly, unimpressed, arms crossing over toned shoulders.
Silver-Hair finally stepped closer, scooping the worn backpack off the bed with a weird gentleness, like it was some mystical relic after all. His thumb brushed along the frayed strap before tucking it beside her, lips pressed in a thin line.
Mine.
The word wasn't spoken, but Armish could feel the possessive energy radiating off him like static electricity. His eyes, glowing faintly silver in the candlelight, softened for a flicker of a moment.
The King spoke again, low and measured, clearly frustrated but holding it together under royal pressure. Hot Warrior Babe nodded in agreement, voice sharp with military precision as they exchanged tense phrases.
Armish, blanket still half-burrito'd around her legs, held up the melted chocolate bar dramatically.
"Alright, I see how it is — you run a giant glowing castle, but chocolate's still the most suspicious object in the room."
No one understood her words. But the tone? The sass? That landed.
The pretty lady chuckled softly, surprising Armish, and gently brushed a stray curl from her forehead, murmuring something comforting again. No translation needed — the warmth settled into her bones like a quiet promise.
Armish exhaled, falling back against the mountain of pillows, still groggy, still overwhelmed, but slightly less… terrified.
The weirdos might be tall, broody, and alarmingly attractive, but so far? No murder attempts.
Progress.
Outside, the castle pulsed with moonlight, the halls buzzing faintly with whispers of fate and impossible things — but in that moment, Armish clutched her backpack, her chocolate, and her sanity like the most precious artifacts in existence.