Split (1)

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You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Dean wakes to his alarm screaming in his ear, which does absolutely nothing for his pounding head and roiling stomach. His cotton-dry mouth has the lingering taste of sour whiskey, and his eyes feel as though they’ve been glued shut. He lets out a truly pitiful moan and blindly taps the screen of his phone until it stops shrieking, successfully snoozing the alarm for another nine minutes. Or so he thought. When he wakes again, it’s to the sound of someone calling him — repeatedly. Grumbling, he rolls over, ready to give whatever fucking telemarketer or bible thumper keeps blowing up his phone a piece of his overwrought mind, when he sees it’s actually Edgar calling… for the sixth time, apparently. A quick glance at the time tells him why. ‘ Motherfucker !’ he yelps, wincing as the sound of his own voice pierces through his aching skull like a jackhammer. He answers the (seventh) call from Edgar with a, ‘Hey, man — sorry, I’m running a little behind. I’ll be out in, like, two minutes.’ ‘You’re expected at the site in seven minutes, Mr Winchester,’ Edgar reminds him, polite, but clearly annoyed. ‘It is a ten minute drive, and I will not break any traffic laws to get you there any sooner.’ ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Two minutes, Edgar.’ Dean hangs up, somewhat rudely, but there’s no time for pleasantries as he zooms around his apartment trying to find clean (enough) clothes, tripping over the contents of his backpack still strewn across the living room floor like sad debris. He doesn’t even brush his teeth — just swishes with mouthwash to try to get rid of the worst of the leftover whiskey taste, then pops some ibuprofen, scoops up his watch and keys, and races out the door. He hisses like a wet cat the second the sun hits his eyes; it’s so bright that it feels like a nail gun to the temple. For a moment, he debates going back to grab his sunglasses, but a glance down at his watch as he puts it on lets him know what a poor choice that would be. Just like he had the day Dean had nearly been late going to Cas’s, Edgar makes a show of looking at the clock when Dean throws himself into the backseat of the company town car, but Dean ignores him. Let the guy be pissed if he’s gonna be pissed — he’s got a face like an unplugged toaster on the best of days. The ride to the Roman Enterprises site is blessedly quiet, save for the occasional burst of chatter from Edgar’s radio. Dean leans his head back and closes his eyes, wondering for what feels like the hundredth time this week if this gig — this whole thing — is worth the slow erosion of his sanity. The day wears on, brutal and unforgiving. By midday, the heat’s rising, his headache’s spiking, and Dean’s sweating through his shirt like he just got caught cheating on his taxes. He’s nauseous, dehydrated, and still feeling like the odd man out, between Michael’s snide remarks and Cole’s uncharacteristic silence and everyone else’s hushed whispers. Even Lee’s backed off, saying little more than good morning and offering a good-natured, ‘You look like shit soufflé, Winchester,’ before heading off to the opposite side of the site. He’s been taken off forklift duty until future notice, so today he’s basically a glorified errand boy — hauling materials, cleaning shit up, moving scrap. Stuff any high schooler looking to earn an extra buck could do, and it’s humiliating. It also leaves him plenty of time alone with his thoughts, which is not necessarily a good thing, because now that he has the opportunity to take an emotional inventory, he’s not at all sure how he feels about last night. He can still feel Nick’s hands on him if he thinks too hard about it, which causes a weird mix of heat and emptiness in his chest. He’d like to believe that it’s just the whiskey crash, the after-burn of a long night following a shitty day, and maybe it is. Or maybe not. He’s too sick and tired to decide now. When the whistle signalling lunchtime sounds and everyone breaks off into little groups that he somehow already knows don’t include him, he pulls out his phone, thinking he can at least text Sammy, the one person who’s (almost) always glad to hear from him. (Well, maybe he won’t be so glad to hear from him once Dean tells him how much he’s going to have to cut back on what he sends him. Sam’s never asked for money, per se, but he’s mentioned that it’s helped enough times that Dean’s determined to keep helping as much as he can for as long as he can.) However, when he pulls his phone from his pocket, apparently the damn thing is suffering from heatstroke as well, because the screen takes forever to light up, and even longer to pull up Sammy’s text thread. There’s definitely a lag when Dean types out his message, and it takes two or three minutes before the message actually gets marked as delivered, and even then, it only goes through as the green bubble, not the usual blue one. Dean sighs and tries to do a hard restart of his phone, but when he goes to turn it back on, the screen stays black. He presses the power button harder — like that’s going to do a damn thing — and when still nothing changes, he nearly throws the fucking thing on the ground in frustration. ‘Son of a bitch ,’ he growls under his breath, jamming the stupid phone back in his pocket. ‘What the fuck else can go wrong today?!’ As if summoned by the call of Dean’s bad mood, Gadreel appears at Dean’s elbow, scaring the everloving shit out of him. ‘A problem, Dean?’ Gadreel asks, serene as ever as he studies Dean’s no doubt wrecked appearance. ‘Just my friggin’ phone,’ Dean mumbles, feeling frustrated, but also a bit foolish at being caught by his boss mid-tantrum. ‘It just… won’t turn back on. Might just be that the battery’s dead or somethin’, but it was acting up before that. Think maybe it just don’t like workin’ in this heat any more than I do,’ he tries joking, but it definitely comes out sounding more like whining even to his own ears. Gadreel’s expression doesn’t change, but he does incline his head in that calm, faintly patronising way of his. ‘A working phone is essential to be successful at this job. We must be able to reach you, should the need arise,’ he chastises, though not unkindly. ‘I know, I know.’ Dean runs a hand through his sweaty hair and groans. ‘I guess I’m gonna have to hit the cell phone store after this ’n see what they say. I’m definitely outta warranty, so I’m sure they’re gonna try to get me to buy some new high-tech gadget that’s gonna set me back, like, twelve hundred dollars or somethin’ stupid like that.’ Just the thought of the unexpected expense on top of everything else that’s crushing him financially right now is enough to make him want to vomit even more than the hangover. ‘No, you misunderstand me, Dean.’ Gadreel holds up a hand as though trying to stop Dean’s spiralling panic in its tracks. ‘I’m saying that Mr Roman understands how necessary it is for his employees to have a functioning cell phone, so he’s ensured that Roman Enterprises issue company devices to all essential personnel. I’ll inform Hester of your need, and she’ll arrange for you to be provided with one at once. You’ll be operational before you return home tonight.’ Dean blinks. ‘I- I mean- Thank you, but… isn’t that for, like- the big shots? I mean, I’m the gopher boy today — not exactly what I’d call ‘essential’.’ ‘On the contrary,’ Gadreel says mildly, ‘It’s our standard policy. We find it ensures efficiency and connectivity for all staff.’ Dean scratches the back of his neck. He doesn’t love the idea of Roman footing the bill, but his bank account is haemorrhaging right now, and while this might just be a band-aid on top of a bullet wound, a free phone is a free phone. ‘Yeah, alright,’ he says, trying his best to sound appreciative, rather than reluctant. ‘Thanks, man. I appreciate it.’ ‘Of course,’ Gadreel replies. ‘Now, let’s return to work. The schedule waits for no one.’ By the time the whistle blows signalling the end of day, Dean’s legs feel like lead. Maybe Michael, despite his shitty way of saying it, was onto something when he’d made all those comments about Dean getting spoiled working for Cas — fixing the busted up bathroom was nowhere near as tough as working on-site. He’s told by Gadreel to stop by the admin trailer before heading home, meaning Edgar’s going to have to wait again , which should make for a super fun drive home. It’s well worth any attitude Edgar might give him, however, when he’s handed what amounts to a gift bag by Hester with a chirped, ‘Welcome to the Roman Enterprises Network, Mr Winchester!’ Ignoring Edgar’s annoyed huff and rearview mirror glare, Dean slumps into the back seat of the waiting town car and digs through the bag, pulling out a box with the latest model iPhone, a fancy heavy-duty case, and a package of screen protectors and wipes. It’s easy enough to set up, and by the time Edgar drops him off back at his apartment, he’s set the new phone up and has everything downloading (or is it uploading — he can never tell) from the cloud-thingy from his old phone onto the new phone. The relief he feels is almost palpable… he hadn’t realised how worried he’d been about possibly having to buy a new phone until just now, now that he’s positive he has one that works. A text comes through just as he’s taking off his watch and dropping it and his keys onto the table. He glances down at his new phone, assuming it’s probably Sammy, responding to his text from before, but to his surprise, it’s Nick from last night. Good time last night. Stress relief offer still stands. No strings… Drinks later? Dean stares at the message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the message bar while he considers his options. His stomach, still unsettled, twists even further. The hollowness from this morning hasn’t really gone away, and the thought of another night out feels like pouring gasoline on an open flame. He locks the screen again without answering and shoves the phone in his pocket. Satisfied with the decision, he turns and faces the utter devastation that is his living room and groans, but rolls his sleeves up, feeling for the first time in days that he just might have the wherewithal to clean up his mess. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text won't make my momma proud it's gonna cause a scene she's gonna scream "god, what have you done?" Something has changed. Something notable. But you can't think of it now as you approach that accursed dining hall where the grafted scion haunts, sniffing with its many noses for the next silly Tarnished to walk into its surgeon's clutches. You've informed Morgott of the monstrosity that awaits you both in the hallway over, telling him with a hand on his cloak that is more to comfort you than assure him. Your hands are shaking, badly; there is a constant tremble in your step that you quite literally cannot hide from Morgott. Though perfecting your incantation had settled your nerves somewhat, that does not negate the fact that you are walking right back into your deathbed. And that scares the life out of you. Rightfully so, you'd like to add. You catch his wary glances towards you, quick and furtive. You wonder if he's worried for you, although it might be more accurate to say that he's worried his ally is now a walking liability. If you were a better person, you'd just tell him why you're about to faint the closer you get to the dining hall. Too bad you're not. Coward. You can feel your steps slowing once you reach the archway. Morgott stands behind you, Veil doffed. He's forced to bend to fit through, but it's better than having him transform back to his regular self in the middle of a fight. He sidles up next to the opening, peering at the grafted scion. You should probably try laughing a bit at the expression he makes, overflowing with disgust. He's expecting it, you think. You only swallow dryly instead. He asks, "Art thou prepared?" "No." That makes Morgott sigh deeply. He pushes you behind him with a large hand and you follow the motion willingly. The firmness of his hand grounds you. You repeat the mantra in your head, that you're allied with a demigod and king– a great Omen that is practically the same height as the grafted scion. The odds of both you dying is miniscule. The odds of the grafting surgeon and perfumer getting the jump on you– if they're even here– are also very low. But not zero. It's unlike you to be so scared, so frightened– you'd be embarrassed if you weren't so busy shaking in your boots. As harsh as Morgott is, you can see why he's been so frustrated with your attempts to drag him everywhere but where you two need to be. Maybe you should be thankful that he's been remarkably patient, going along with your stupid little sightseeing plans across Limgrave in order to keep your mind lovingly devoid of Stormveil Castle. He even kept his mouth shut when you were teasing him in front of Blaidd– a feat he probably wouldn't have achieved a week ago. And then there was last night with your incessant incantation practice, convinced that if you could just cast this one spell then you could save yourself from being part of the scion, and Morgott awakening from its glow. Rather than grumbling and muttering and calling you a fool, he moved close and showed you how to hold your hands to cast it correctly. Again, something has definitely changed. You're not sure what, but you can feel it's important. And then Morgott is jumping on to one of the dining tables in order to avoid the grafted scion's many blades, yelling out to you, "Foolish Tarnished! Fight, now!" You make to leap into the fray, but your feet betray you. Your whole body betrays you. The scion is made of innumerable bodies, malformed by infected stiches that have long come undone. It's hard to tell where anything stars or ends. Arms like the beginnings of never-ending forests and legs that get trapped beneath one another, the thing ambles yet lunges with such speed that the human eye can hardly keep up. The blades fly fast– one, two, three, slashing at Morgott as he is forced backstep closer to the wall. One of the swords gets caught in a pillar, though it is of no consequence to the grafted scion when it has another at its disposal. Morgott swings, but is reflected by the greatshield it also wields. You can only stand in the doorway as Morgott pushes his staff into one of the arms. Maybe he has a preternatural sense for weakness, because that arm must have belonged to a particularly wimpy Tarnished as it immediately releases the greatshield. It clatters to the ground, allowing Morgott to follow up his attack with another forceful swing of his staff directly into the grafted scion's face. Perhaps nothing has changed, in retrospect, as Morgott breathes deeply while staring at you with a charged stare. He says, not entirely under his breath, "Stormveil hast made thou a coward, Tarnished." "I…" "'tis disappointing, for thy warrior's heart to be dampened by such a feeble place." Though you haven't been intimidated by Morgott for some time, seeing him in his full Omen form beneath the rafters makes you want to take a step back. The shadows cast darkened shades on his face, stark and intense; his cloak makes him seems to add so much bulk to his body, making him appear bigger, taller, stronger. He looks invincible, and every bit the untouchable demigod you know him to be. He wears no anger, though. Only disappointment. Which is so much worse for some reason. You open your mouth to serve a retort, but are interrupted by the skittering of footsteps. They are light, small, and almost rat-like in the way they scurry along with the clinging sound of claws stuck in soft flesh. But, no– that's not really what they sound like. They're closer to the clicking of heels, slinking against unclean floors. And then there's the shifting of cloth, metal clinking against metal. It is a sound that has haunted you, a sound that will forever follow your pitiful memory. Your eyes drawn like lightning up to the rafters. Do you know that Omen are extremely susceptible to the effects of Trina's Lilies? You don't, but now you do. There is a burst of purple mist that explodes from the rafters. The cloud settles like heavy fog, descending upon Morgott just as he goes to tell you off again. It makes him inhale a large breath, causing the mist to go straight to his lungs. You know the sting that follows the inhale, that biting thing that crawls like centipedes down your throat and nostrils. Though the concoction is meant to put someone to sleep, there is nothing peaceful about the way it is achieved. Morgott is forced to his knees just as another cloud falls from the rafters. His eyelids struggle to remain open. He looks at you just before he falls asleep. This makes you act. It makes you act like nothing before– without thinking, an incantation is on your tongue. Your hands move like so , flames forming in your grasp. You chuck the fireball at the rafters, hoping to fumigate the rats from their den. It's hard to see them through the dimness of the dining hall, but the fire lights the way to reveal a perfumer and a grafting surgeon laying in wait. They curse as the fireball hits their spot. They cannot leap down from the rafters without risking falling asleep themselves– at least, the surgeon cannot, as he lacks the appropriate gear to prevent inhaling the concoctions. You can see them share a quick nod in the flickering fire. The perfumer jumps down. He finds you standing in the archway quickly enough, tossing an explosive perfume in your direction. You roll, unsheathing your sword just as he does the same. You apply pressure fast– it must be fast, as Morgott is left below the grafting surgeon. You can imagine the hungry eyes of the surgeon, though not wanting to taint his creations with Omen limbs, his scientific depravity driving him to chop whatever bits and pieces he can from the Grace-Given. Charging, you drive your broadsword directly into the perfumer's gut. He doesn't expect it; people don't fight like this, jumping right into the fray as if their life meant nothing. Unguarded, unaware, you are like a flying arrow hitting its mark true, and you turn the blade in the perfumer's stomach. The perfumer is barely dead before you take a step back to launch another fireball up at the grafting surgeon. You can see him begin to panic, eyes bouncing from Morgott to his dead perfumer partner, desire and fear a jumble in his wicked brain. It doesn't matter. You take another good step back and let the adrenaline do the work: you throw your broadsword like a javelin at the grafting surgeon, hitting him square in the back. Blood gurgles from the wound as he wavers for a moment. Then, he falls forward. He hits the ground with a satisfying splat . But there's no time to enjoy your victory against the two bastards that made you taste a death that lasted days. You wrench your blade from the grafting surgeon's back and make a beeline for Morgott. To say he's sleeping soundly would be lying. You've seen him asleep many times already, and while he's never seemed like the happiest dreamer, often groaning and unconsciously kicking out, you wouldn't say he's a violent sleeper. It could be, in part, due to the fact that the both of you are sleeping very lightly while out in the field, where combat waits just around the corner. Here, though, affected by Trina's Lily, Morgott is in a deep slumber, far below the depths of the waking. He is tossing, turning, face pained from some terrible nightmare. His hand are reaching out at the ground to claw harsh scratches into the stone. He kicks and bashes a pillar. " Gods , okay, okay. It's okay," you say mostly to yourself. "It's going to be okay." You do the first thing any reasonable person would do to a sleeping person that they need awake. You poke him. Nothing. You give him a gentle nudge with your foot. Nothing. You slap him, palm connecting with cheek. Nothing, even when you apologize for being a foolish Tarnished after. The final thing you can think of doing is using the Mimic Veil on Morgott so you can haul him to a site of Grace while he sleeps off the perfume. You have no idea how much time that could take, though. Considering how little it costed to actually put him to sleep, there is the very real possibility of him being asleep for a considerable amount of time. You don't really have a choice at this point. You make him don the Veil. You end up venturing through the rest of Stormveil with a sleepy soldier. It's definitely the most nonoptimal way you've ever gotten through the castle, but you've done it enough times that this handicap is almost a way for you to exercise how much you've achieved since your first cycle. For every fight, you leave Morgott propped up against a wall as you clear the room of enemies. You pick him up again after you're finished. He sleeps roughly on your back. Still, paranoia plunges deep in your heart as you step lightly through the castle. Logically, you know there are no other surgeons, perfumers, or grafted scions on your route, but you cannot help but jump at every soldier that blocks your path. Hard-wired to see threats in everything, you think that it must be some kind of confessor-jerk-reaction (if Morgott is to be believed) to react with quiet violence at anything you see. The whole "I got grafted to a grafted scion and lived for a while on its body until it died to some random Tarnished" doesn't really help with that. You wish Morgott was awake, even if he were just here to insult you for being a baby about it all. You eventually venture into a small side room just to catch your breath, chest pounding. It's a safe enough location from your memory, though you never actually stepped foot in it before. You only ever glanced in before sprinting past. It feels like a liability to step into a place you've never been in before, especially when you're so on edge, but you don't have any other options as your heart feels like it's about to burst. There is a woman standing in the room, clad in a fighter's garb. She is looking over a body while muttering to herself. You think that you should probably be alarmed at the fact that there is a person and a corpse in this room, but you're way too busy admiring her from afar. A tight wrap of animal skin holds her chest flat, conjoined with a shoulder guard; her bare midriff is toned and muscled, and her ragged skirt only serves to make her seem more agile beneath all her armour. Frankly, she's very attractive. You must be breathing fairly heavily because of the grown man on your back as she turns around at the intruding sound. She raises her eyebrows at the sight, but says, "Well, who do we have here? Tarnished, are you? Clearly not one of Godrick's lot." She gives you a once-over as you reply, "Ha, gods, no. Definitely not." She nods. "Good, then. I am Nepheli Loux, Tarnished and warrior, like you. I'm on decree of my father." Nepheli extends a calloused hand out towards you. You shake it, though it forces you to lean your extra weight over to the other hand that is holding Morgott up. The movement makes him thrash, and you end up pulling Nepheli with you. "Sorry," you say, adjusting Morgott on your back. You can hear him groaning, the sounds of a man sloughing off the remnants of sleep. "We had a run-in with a perfumer. My guard here got doused." "Well, seems he's waking. Put him down here." Nepheli grabs a chair just as you let him slide from your grasp. You both manage to place him in the chair, slumped over. You kneel next to him to keep him sitting mostly upright as Nepheli watches you. Morgott grumbles. "Your guard, hm?" asks Nepheli. "Something like that," you say, looking for the right words. "He is not Tarnished, though." You shake your head. "Far from it." Morgott grunts. Instinctively, he pushes you from him and bends over, head in his hands. A gauntlet runs over his face, soft, plush and human, though illusory scars cover it. You watch as he slowly wakes, realization dawning as to what happened. He looks to you, then to Nepheli, and then back to you. "Tarnished," he rasps, voice dry from disuse. "Thou'rt alive." For some reason, that makes you laugh. It fills your stomach as the laughter takes the wind from your lungs, your soul suddenly lighter. You push yourself upward to your feet while the chuckles cling to your words. "Yeah. Ye of little faith," you say. "I'm well and alive." Morgott nods at that. You can't read his expression from this angle, from how his helm obscures his face, but you can see his head bob anyways. He says, "That is good. It appears my assumption that thou wouldst freeze in the storm was proven false." Nepheli snorts at that. "Quite a rude guard you have there," she says to you. "He's always like that– don't pay him any mind." As Morgott adjusts himself with being in a new body, you and Nephli get down to brass tacks. It turns out she's here because her father ordered her to kill Godrick. You trade information in turn, and inform her of your similar goals. The two of you get along as well as any accidental allies do, and it's a special kind of comfort to come across a warrior woman like yourself. She nods heartily when she hears of you and your guard overcoming the grafted scion, and decides that you and he are of a thick battle blood. She requests to join your fight against Godrick. Though, just as you go to accept her assistance, Morgott interrupts you. "If thou art to join our battle, thou must sweareth to relinquish any designs on Godrick's Great Rune. That Rune belongs to my Lady, and my Lady alone." A possessiveness overtakes Morgott as he speaks to Nepheli, gauntlets clenching at his tabard. It takes you aback, and you are momentarily confused before you remember that Nepheli, too, is Tarnished, and that she would presumably want to take the Great Rune for herself as well. You try not to think of how the gruffness of Morgott's voice coiled around his words like hot smoke, sharp and cloying. Nepheli looks conflicted before nodding. "I agree to your terms. All I wish is for Godrick to die, and that is all." You know she's lying– the tells are so obvious that she may as well be shouting it to the heavens– but you allow her the grace to think that you and Morgott are none the wiser. She seems the type to wear her heart as if skin, bared for the world to see. "you're a pink pony girl, and you dance at the club" oh mama, i'm just having fun on the stage in my heels it's where i belong at the Each time you close your eyes, you can see Godrick ripping your legs off and grafting them onto his body. His breath is rank, stinking of a thousand corpses. He whispers in your ear about how thrilled he is to test out your little limber legs on the next Tarnished he's going to tear apart. But when you open your eyes, you see your allies with their weapons readied. You've danced these steps before– they haven't. You must play the lead, hands holding hands to guide their dips and twirls. Your voice will command their movements to bring out the elegance in their power. If you do not move nor speak, it will be all your deaths. The stage's curtains drawing to a close is something you must not accept. The dancers still need their spotlight, and they still need their leader. You know you belong battle. It is nigh time that you stop pretending that you do not. You stand between Nepheli and Morgott, head raised as high as you dare. The yellow mist taunts you with its golden glints. "Okay, I'm ready," you say. You don't know if it's for your teammates, or for you. it's where i belong, down at the pink pony club Godrick doesn't get to say anything before you begin the fight. You figure that it's all wasted breath anyways– you might've let him say something if Morgott was in his true form, but as a regular soldier there is no point. The plan is thus: you do not have the height advantage with Morgott as you normally do, so you must play with your smallness to your benefit. Morgott is best suited for running rings around enemies, and Nepheli seems to be more of an anchor. You will play the middleman, the all-rounder; you will direct when needed, and be whatever the fight needs you to be. You go for the easy swings first before Godrick begins to swing. As you get closer, his composite legs come into view. Huge tumorous growths swallow your vision, but you muster your fear into your stomach and away from your throat as you swing at them, hacking infected legs off from their grafting. Godrick howls, and goes straight for your head. You roll out of the way, the axe barely nicking your cape. "Lowly Tarnished," Godrick bellows, "playing as a lord. I command thee, kneel!" He still manages to give part of his spiel before Morgott gathers his attention with his zipping movements. The two demigods dance; Morgott jumps out of the way with each heavy swing of Godrick's axe. Nepheli positions herself right behind the monstrosity. You are near her, watching her hack at the Grafted while you impale his legs with your blade. Godrick turns around at the intrusions in his leg, swinging his axe around in a swirling motion. In the coming gale, his many extra arms are like a thousand people reaching for help in a torrential storm, drowning in a great flood. They beg and plead for a savior that will never come. The fear is creeping up on you again, feet like roots in the ground. One of those arms is yours– it's going to be yours; you can see your goddamn glove, immutable confessor symbol on the back of black leather, calling out for her gods and goddesses that have never responded back. She reaches out at nothing, because nothing is all she has ever been and known and will be. Godrick's axe catches your leg, driving into your calf with all the strength of a storm. And then a hand is grabbing at your shoulder, the force of it slamming you into the ground far from the axe's further reach. "Wake up, Tarnished!" Morgott snarls. i'm gonna keep on dancing at the pink pony club Morgott is looking at you with such intensity in his gaze you'd think you were the Erdtree itself. His chest is rising and falling in rapid intervals, hair wild like the storms herself have tousled it in her untamed fingers. Past the Veil, you can sense the weight of his true form's eye, golden and blown wide. It feels as if time has slowed just for you to hear his words. The weight of them hits you as you sit in the storm's eye. "Wake, Tarnished; shake thy sleep from thy soul!" i'm gonna keep on dancing down in west hollywood Come on, Tarnished. You know these steps. You've always known them. i'm gonna keep dancing at the pink pony club pink pony club You push yourself upward with the help of Morgott. You cannot feel his skin through his gauntlet and your gloves, but the heat is there regardless. It is comfort incarnate. Nepheli has just taken a large blow, but you plan to end this before Godrick is even able to graft the dragon's head to his arm. As Nepheli slowly stands, you chug one of your crimson flasks, unsheathing your blade from its home. Through the shadows of his helm, Morgott is smugly smiling. He hits you on the back once, and then jumps into the fray. The dance follows these steps: you leap and twirl, dip and spin, feet placed on against tombstones to propel you forward into Godrick's fleshier spots. Arms, stomach, but most coveted is his throat. You shout commands– Morgott to gather Godrick's ire, Nepheli to hammer her axe. Godrick cannot fight a war on two fronts, much less three. He goes to summon his storm, but there is an opening. The winds tear your hood from your head and your hair from its ties. It matters not as Godrick forces his gale toward Morgott, he is suddenly distracted by Nepheli slicing a huge chunk of his left leg out. He howls, crouching down. There it is. You sing your incantation under your breath, the Blessing of the Erdtree in your veins before launching yourself from a tombstone, blade readied for the Grafted's neck. When the metal kisses his flesh, the hot spray of blood is like coming home. His gurgles are symphonies: the richest of songs. The grin on your face comes as naturally as anything you've ever done, because taking cheap shots and revenge are what you were made for. Godrick's head is lopped off. It plunks into the ground without much ceremony, sinking into the mud below. Your nerves are still humming when Nepheli comes up to you to congratulate your victory, for it wouldn't have been possible without your direction. Your feet are aching to move, to dance back and forth from your spot; the adrenaline isn't wearing off, and you just want to jump onto something. Morgott seems to notice you not listening to Nepheli's words, about her retiring to the Roundtable Hold, and speaks for you instead. There are mentions of "my Lady" and "recover" and "rest". But you do not want to rest. You want to move, to fight– to feel the heady rush of battle in your blood once more. You think that, in your past life, you lived for these moments of victory, and hated the come-down. You chased the adrenaline highs and avoided the lows at all costs. The Great Rune is thrust into your hands, Morgott Unveiling himself the moment Nepheli flickers into golden dust to the Roundtable Hold. "Tarnished," he says. It is an understatement to say that the Grace-Given handing a Tarnished a Great Rune is strange, but Morgott is doing it anyways. You are ready to jump out of your skin, but the feeling of his hands closing around yours, around the Great Rune, pulls you back to reality. His face is conflicted, as it was the last time you got Rennala's Great Rune. He pulls his hands from yours as if it physically pains him, grimacing at the sight of you pocketing the Great Rune. Muttering under his breath, he turns away to look at Godrick. The pitiful fucker will decay in the mud forevermore, and you cannot wait for the day you can come and kick his disintegrating bones into the abyss below. The come-down always comes with a dousing of cold, but your hands remain warm. In fact, your entire body is warm with something like victory. Something has changed. Something notable. In you, in Morgott. In both of you. i'm gonna keep on dancing i'm gonna keep on dancing Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Minhkhoa Khan didn't think it would be this easy, this was one of the few missions in which he could claim that he had luck on his side rather then simply skill. of course it would be a disservice to himself to claim that it played a huge role in it. He stood on the balcony of his hotel room, the building lights were a beautiful flare of various colors that illuminated the inky black abyss of the night. the wind was pleasant and the quietness of it all allowed Minhkhoa to appreciate the absolute beauty in front of him. He relaxed his shoulders, tilting his head as he played with the glass in his hand, watching as the light bounced off it. He took a sip of his drink as he leaned against the cold railings of the balcony, his eyes trailing over to the man that laid in his bed, on his stomach as he curled up, scrunching up the sheets as he gripped the pillow to his chest, the blanket Minhkhoa had draped over him was now spilled over to the floor—giving him the perfect view of his companion's ass, the dip of his back and pale skin that sparkled in the moonlight. raven black hair sticking up in an almost endearing manner. Jack . he was an interesting individual for sure, definitely too trusting if Minhkhoa was being honest. But it didn't mean that he was boring by any means. The man had made Minhkhoa feel a type of thrill he hadn't felt in years. curing his boredom and serving as a good distraction. He glances at the small gold band that laid atop Jack's ring finger. The newest addition to the ravenette's appearance. Again, finding someone to settle down with as cover proved to be easier than expected, at least now he could indulge himself the true pleasure his job had to offer. Minhkhoa sets his now empty glass on the coffee table, sparing one last glance before jumping out the balcony, his movement swift and silent. he lands on the bushes below, causing them to rustle—but nothing more. Then "A room for one?" Anton beamed at the receptionist with a faux smile. two suitcases sat his feet and a sun hat perched on top of his head, his sunglasses still covered his eyes as he rested his elbow on the counter. "That's right—" His sentence was interrupted by a loud slam of the door as it collided with the wall. the bustling and chattering that filled the room had quieted, the atmosphere growing swiftly tense. The sound of a gun being loaded is what finally got Minhkhoa to turn his head to look at the scene. he clenched his fists as he watched the men dressed in blue uniforms and garish hats interrogate people. he kept his gaze for a moment longer before turning back to the receptionist , intrigued by his unsurprised and calm demeanor. "Ah..what's happening?" He asked, The man simply shrugs back at him—lips pressed into a thin line. "Someone shot up the Mayor, they're looking for any lone tourists." he replied curtly, before turning his attention back to the computer. Minhkhoa glances at the scene again, his hands traveling to his back as they searched for the smooth feel of his blade when a man walked in, ignoring the officer who kept on his tail, a frown etched on his face. he momentarily locked eyes with Anton before briskly turning his head to the officer who had tugged on his arm. Anton's attention was diverted as another one of them approached him, he simply acknowledged them with a turn of his head, lowering his sunglasses to his nose. "Are you with anybody?" he demanded, Anton leaned in closer, a baffled expression taking over his face. "Ah-sorry??" "I asked if-" Anton's attention was already back on the other man who was being hassled , he stood there for a second more, before taking swift strides forward. The other following his cue as he rushed to his side. Anton nodded politely at the officer, tipping his hat as he took the stranger's hand in his. "He's with me officers" he said, not waiting for a response as he scurried his way to a more secluded part of the hotel, dragging along the black haired man with him, he looked around before finally shutting the door. "I'm Jack" the stranger whispered to him, a small smile playing at his lips. he had black hair that curled around his neck and fell over his ocean blue eyes, his ear pressed against the patterned wood, keeping an ear out as the muffled sounds of thumping and thrashing could be heard. Anton smirked back, offering his hand out. "Hello Jack, I'm Anton." he replied back; his smirk widening at the sound of Jack's laugh. he reached out to take Jack's hand in a firm shake, holding it for a few seconds longer than appropriate before letting go. Jack had a strong jawline, full lips clearly red from him chewing on them, his blue eyes reflected the sunlight that came in through the large hotel windows, black wisps of hair curled around his neck, it was clear that the man was over due for a haircut as his hair threatened to cover his eyes. Maybe Anton could entertain himself for a bit longer, and it would remove the burden of worrying about appearances or another threat of being caught. They had made their way to a nice restaurant nearby, sharing a glass of wine over candlelight. Jack raised his glass up, the red liquid swishing at the movement, Anton reached up with his own glass to clink them together in a celebratory gesture. "To dodging bullets" Jack announced, bringing the glass to his lips. "indeed" Anton chimed back, imitating Jack's movement. The music streamed in as the two took drank their drinks, Anton perked up as couples got up to dance to the sensual music. he put his glass down to turn to Jack, who's eyes were trained on him, he smirked. "How about dance?" he casually asked, a perfectly manicured brow raised in question. he felt amused as he watched Jack's pale cheeks flush pink with embarrassment. it was cute— a strong well built man like him squirming at the idea of just a simple dance. he got up, moving to tug Jack along with him. "Come on now Jack, getting shy are we?" he teased. "What-no I just-" "then let loose hm? " Minhkhoa would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy dancing the night away to the music, turns out his new friend was a terrific dancer, he led Anton along with him, swaying his hips as his body slowly pressed up against Anton's own. The brunette held onto his hips, following his movement as he leaned in close. "Not half bad" he whispered bemused. the rhythm of the music was slow and the rest of the world blurred around them as Jack's finger traced Anton's chest, their breathes intermingling, small drops started to pour down on them, but it didn't distract either party, Anton couldn't help but enjoy the warmth his companion brought him, it was only until the music stopped that he realized that they had been dancing in the harsh downpour of the rain, his white shirt damp and half transparent from the water; it stuck to his skin. Jack was in a similar predicament of his own—water trickling down his face, his eyes half covered by the bangs that were glued to his face. Jack leaned up, his fingers clutching at Minhkhoa's wet collar, his hands tightened as he leaned up to capture Anton's lips into a soft kiss, his lips dewey from the rain. Anton opened his mouth to let Jack's tongue slip in. his arms fully wrapping around Jack's waist as he pulled him impossibly close, it was sloppy and clumsy and yet filled with enthusiasm. Anton smiled into the kiss before pulling back. "Let's take this somewhere else shall we? I'd rather not catch a cold." Now Minhkhoa had managed to make his way back to the hotel room with a tray of breakfast in hand— a hot cup of coffee, some bacon and eggs. he opens the door to see Jack stirring awake, rubbing his eyes and wincing at the rays of the morning sun hitting his eyes. He manages to still offer Anton a soft smile through barely opened eyes. "You're up early" "he mumbles, taking the hot cup of coffee handed to him, he kisses Anton's cheek as he takes in a sip, his shoulders going lax, followed by a content sigh escaping his lips. "I went ahead and grabbed you some breakfast, you're a pretty heavy sleeper." which was perfect for Minhkhoa, it would make slipping out for his job far more easier. "Oh you have no idea.." Jack murmured, taking a bite out of his bacon. Anton sat beside him, looking over the window, Jack followed his gaze as he chewed on his breakfast. "So, any plans for today?" Jack asked, swallowing his food. "hm, I was wondering if we should visit the carnival, I heard it's quiet popular among other tourists." he replied, his fingers tracing Jack's bare thigh, almost absentmindedly. "Sounds like a plan then." It was almost too easy, now to make sure that he could keep this marriage long enough without growing any suspicions. Minhkhoa was efficient but he wasn't daft. Jack was clearly an intellectual person himself, working as a surgeon in Gotham central. but he was still pathetically stupid when it came to the matters of the heart. It doesn't really matter to Minhkhoa however, Jack was simply another stepping stone that helped him keep up his cover and continue his one actual true love—the art of crime fighting and espionage. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text At this time of year, the sun sets shortly after six. Tokyo is probably in shadow already, but up here, up in the mountains, they bake in its heat a little longer. Even as the evening settles in, the waning call of the cicadas gradually giving way to the chirp of bell crickets, it’s still sweltering where they linger outside the old shrine at the top of the torii gates. All of these mountains belong to Jujutsu Headquarters, but this little shrine — more for show than for worship — is the end of the road. The last post and lintel structure before the scant civilisation at the edge of the city gives over to wilderness at last. From here, there’s a good view of the sun as it makes its slow descent, spilling its guts all over the sky as it goes. It’s just the two of them at the top of the world. No one else is stupid enough to climb the steps in this persistent heat. Neither were they, actually. Satoru had muttered something about “good sunset tonight” and teleported them without another word. As a matter of principle, he’d earned himself a telling off for transporting people through time and space without prior warning or permission, but the truth is, Suguru doesn’t really mind. Now Satoru has figured out how to bring him along without leaving the void at the centre of his being behind, Suguru likes the excuse to be close to him. He likes feeling Satoru’s arm slip around his waist without good reason. He can’t even find it in him to feel bad about the fact that they disappeared before Shōko’s very eyes, because he likes being alone with Satoru, too. They’ll have to head down the mountain for dinner soon. Outdoor barbecue that was supposed to be an end of week treat — a reward for making it through the long summer without any almost mass murders — but Yaga said he didn’t think the weather would hold. They’ll have to head down soon, but for now, it’s just the two of them. The two of them and the sun, Suguru supposes, though even that will dip behind the mountains in a matter of minutes. It feels like they’re waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. He doesn’t know why Satoru felt it was so important to watch the sunset and, even though the silence isn’t uncomfortable, he finds he doesn’t know what to say either. At the edges of his consciousness, Satoru is a flame. At the edges of his vision, Satoru is aflame, set alight by the vibrant orange glow of the setting sun. His whole head is on fire, hair ignited by the dying day where it flops over his forehead, curling up at the ends like cinders. He’s always been aware of Gojō Satoru, but now, he can’t stop noticing him. Now, watching him from the corner of his eye where they linger beneath the veranda, he can’t stop seeing all the things he previously overlooked. Mostly, he can’t stop staring. And he’s not stupid enough to believe that the boy with the Six Eyes hasn’t noticed. He follows the gaze of those all-seeing eyes out into the valley below, blinking against the warm light streaming through the gap in the mountains, blinking against the burn. ‘How long have you been taller than me?’ ‘A while.’ There’s a pause, filled by the swelling screaming sound of summer. When Satoru speaks again, Suguru can hear the grin in his voice. ‘Does it bother you?’ Steeling himself, Suguru lifts his face to study Satoru, eyes scanning past those shoulders that are broader than he remembers. Up past that jawline that’s sharper than he recalls, more squared around the edges. When their eyes meet, Suguru’s head tilts on its axis and the world does, too. Finally, he looks at where the toe of his tabi boot is grinding a groove into the dry, dusty earth. The entire moment is a tinderbox, ripe for a spark. ‘No,’ he says, voice hoarse. ‘No, it doesn’t bother me.’ Satoru has been an ever present shape at the edges of his consciousness for as long as he can remember, a bright and brilliant flame that Suguru couldn’t ignore if he tried. He takes up the entirety of the space he’s in, even when the space is boundless. Even when his presence wasn’t welcome, he’s always invaded Suguru’s thoughts. He’s always been on Suguru’s mind. It’s never a choice with Satoru. He’s something irrefutable. Maybe you’re the one who’s different . Inevitable, perhaps. Overhead, the swifts scream their farewells to a season that’s gone on too long. They’re heading south, over the ocean in search of warmer shores, chasing endless summer. Looking up at the boomerang of their bodies, silhouetted against the dusky sky as they begin their journey home, Suguru wonders what they sense that he doesn’t. There is comfort in cycles, he supposes. There is comfort in knowing that some things are bigger than him, that some things are beyond the realm of his mortal comprehension. That some things are simply beyond his control. Limitless boy. Impossible to contain. Impossible to deny. Satoru is bright and brilliant, licking at his sides, licking at his defences. The sky is aflame and Satoru is a flame and Suguru is but a moth. A dusty flutter on an updraft. A winged creature seeking warmth. It’s irresistible. Inevitable. In their culture, purification by way of water is common, but some put their faith in fire. Now, for the second time in his life, Suguru thinks about letting it all go up in flames. Not in a blaze of blue this time, but in a gentle red smoulder. The kind of fire that feeds new life, sweeping through the ground cover, clearing a path for greenery to grow through the gaps. Some believe that fire has cleansing properties. Some believe it has the power to destroy the last obstacles to enlightenment. And though his faith isn’t what it used to be, Suguru has always believed in this. He’s always believed in Satoru. Maybe that’s what compels him to speak the truth. Maybe that’s why the confession spills from his lips almost unbidden, like water. Like smoke. ‘Sometimes I think I still hate them.’ It sits heavy in the space between them. A damp log thrown into the hearth, smothering the flames with its weight. In the forest, the chorus cries its mournful lament. On his right, Satoru shifts where he stands. He settles into place, licking at Suguru’s sides, lapping away at his apprehension. ‘Okay.’ There’s no heat behind it. And Suguru doesn’t dare breathe lest he sap away the scarce oxygen feeding this gentle flame. He thinks of Satoru’s body curled around his mother’s. He thinks of soft laughter shared over the best zaru soba in the whole of Japan and, clenched into fists at his sides, his hands start to tremble. He didn’t expect judgement in blue, red, and purple, but he expected something explosive. Not this easy acceptance that almost resembles indifference. Maybe even absolution, if Suguru could summon the audacity to believe it. ‘Okay?’ he croaks over the call of the crickets. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ His eyes dart to the side in time to see Satoru shrug. He swallows around snatched breaths that come increasingly swift and shallow. ‘Then does that mean…’ As he trails off, too afraid to give voice to the words that would damn the both of them, Satoru turns to look at him, the intensity of his gaze utterly unforgiving. Even as he gasps for reprieve from its brilliant burn, Suguru can’t look away. No matter how much he feels like an ant caught in the path of a magnifying glass, no matter how much he feels like a moth flailing over an irresistible flame, Satoru holds him there. And Suguru holds his nerve. ‘Do you hate them?’ he ventures at last, voice barely more than a whisper. ‘Non-sorcerers, I mean?’ Satoru shakes his head, easy as breathing. And Suguru finds his own breathing comes a little easier in the wake of it. His own relief almost comes as a surprise. ‘Nah,’ Satoru says, scrunching his freckled nose a little. ‘Protecting the weak is exhausting, but I don’t hate them.’ He looks away, out towards the setting sun as his expression settles into something thoughtful. Caught in the low light, coloured in its glow, he looks all blush and beautiful. Petal pink when he says, ‘You don’t hate a rose because it has thorns, do you?’ After all this time, Suguru is still taken aback by the uncanny way Satoru can transform when the moment calls for it. Somewhere in the distant past, there’s poetry in his genes. He comes from a family of statesmen; he’s practically a politician himself. The sombre way he conducts himself when he isn’t trying to drag a smile out of someone shouldn’t catch Suguru off guard anymore. Still, the truth cuts deep. Even dressed up in rose petals, it’s sharp as it sinks into his flesh. Beyond the mountains, the sun drips blood red down the horizon. ‘If it kills you, you might.’ Within seconds, he senses Sato ru’s gaze on him. ‘No one d ies from rose thorns, Suguru.’ There’s the hint of a smile in his voice. A hint of derision that makes Suguru bristle. ‘Actually, it does happen,’ he says, shoulders stiffening involuntarily. ‘If an infection administered by a rose thorn develops into sepsis, then people can actually—’ ‘Seriously?!’ The volume of Satoru’s outburst sends birds scattering from the nearby trees in a commotion, only moments after they sought shelter for the evening. ‘Trust you to take Great Teacher Gojō Satoru’s Very Important Life Lesson and turn it into something morbid!’ he complains, rolling his eyes at the same time his head flops back on his shoulders. ‘Why do you even know about that?’ And Suguru just can’t help it. Despite the gravity of the matter, despite his heartbeat still rabbiting away in his chest, he can’t help biting back a laugh. It’s just that Satoru has transformed again, now the picture of petulance with his puckered brow and lips to match. The spirit of Sugawara no Michizane possessed his descendant for all of three seconds before Gojō Satoru overwhelmed him in all his pouty glory. Of course he did. He’s the limitless boy, impossible to contain, impossible to deny. Suguru’s laughter only serves to exasperate him further. Even though the colour is swallowed up by the orange pink glow of the setting sun, Suguru knows his cheeks are flushed. After four years of friendship, he knows the course Satoru’s emotions follow like the back of his hand. He knows he’s the only one who can get under his skin. And even if it’s a new feeling, he knows exactly why the thought of getting under Satoru’s skin now sends heat rushing through his body, travelling against the sun’s retreating rays. At his side, Satoru sighs, scratching at the back of his neck like a schoolboy even as his countenance turns contemplative once more. Maybe it’s a Six Eyes thing, but he’s always seemed caught between ages to Suguru, the closest thing to a real life Peter Pan he can conceptualise. Out of place and out of time and exactly where he’s supposed to be. A relic of the past repurposed into 180 centimetres of broad shoulders and boyish disposition. Probably closer to 190 centimetres these days, Suguru supposes. ‘The point is, it can’t be helped,’ Satoru finally says. ‘The rose has thorns, it is what it is.’ It can’t be helped. How many times did Suguru hear his father utter the very same sentiment as a child? At the time, in the middle of a tantrum over a broken Tamagotchi, he’d thought it a useless phrase. Even now, he feels a bit like throwing a tantrum at Satoru’s apparent willingness to roll over in the face of such suffering. His willingness to surrender to the unknown, to cede control to the ungovernable laws of the universe. To compare human beings to flowers, most of all. Honestly, who does he think he is? ‘I think that might be worse,’ Suguru eventually says, smiling despite himself. He feels surprisingly detached from the words leaving his mouth. There’s no heat behind them. ‘You see how that’s worse, right?’ At his side, Satoru shrugs. ‘Whatever. We all die at the end of it.’ It can’t be helped. Easy to say for a man who can manipulate space. It has Suguru wondering if he’s really set on teaching, if he’s really the right person to take responsibility for young lives. If he’s really prepared to see bright sparks snuffed out under his care. Because, Suguru knows, even a man who can manipulate space can’t exist everywhere at once. Even Satoru can’t save all of them. He can’t save them but… In the distance, the sun is finally bisected by the mountains where they cut a sharp silhouette across the sky, haemorrhaging its hue over the horizon. It’s the colour of danger, it’s the sign to flee. ‘I’m not good like you.’ Despite it all, Satoru will always be a jujutsu sorcerer. He’s always been aware; he’s always cared. In the moments where it really matters, he always takes responsibility, if only so someone else doesn’t have to bear the weight of it. He’ll always do the right thing, because he’s a good man. But Suguru is— ‘I promise you’re the only person who thinks I’m good, Suguru.’ Satoru’s voice is lower than he’s ever heard it. It’s low enough to make Suguru shiver despite the heat. It sounds like a warning. It sounds like the colour on the horizon. ‘You think I don’t want to walk in there and rip off their heads with my bare hands? You think I don’t get mad?’ He laughs and it rings out like an alarm. ‘Of course I get mad.’ All around them, the cricket song starts to sound like sirens. It starts to sound like screams. And then it passes. The last sliver of sunshine is swallowed by the contours of the mountains. Blue light comes rushing back in as they’re plunged into shadow at last. It passes and, in the wake of it, the crickets are just crickets. They’re all just insects to Satoru, yet he handles them with the gentleness one affords only the most precious and delicate things. He handles them like butterflies. Like flowers. Even as Suguru crumples under the weight of the power in his own palm, taunted by its perilous potential, he says, ‘I’m not strong like you, Satoru.’ ‘Thank god for that.’ Minutes have passed since the last time he dared to look at Satoru, since he felt worthy of gazing upon his visage, but Suguru turns to him now, seized by something approximating shock. He isn’t stupid. He knows there’s a gulf between them that will never close. He knows that Satoru knows it, too. Still, even though Satoru left him in the dust a long time ago, he never stopped talking about them like they’re a unit. Granted, he hasn’t said “we’re the strongest” for a long time, but he’s never said “I’m the strongest” either. Now, in the moments after sunset, it’s the first time Satoru has openly acknowledged that Suguru is no longer his equal. If his hurt shows on his face, Suguru has no way of knowing. Across from him, Satoru’s is inscrutable. In the early twilight, his eyes seem even more blue than usual as they sweep over his features, and Suguru desperately wants to know what they see. ‘Listen,’ Satoru says, voice as hard as his expression. ‘I hate to break it to you, Suguru, but you’re delusional if you ever thought I liked you because you’re strong, at least the way you understand strength.’ At least he hasn’t gone all soft, at least he isn’t handling Suguru with the gentleness one affords a flower. At least things aren’t quite that desperate, even if Suguru can only blink at him, mouth hanging open like an idiot. ‘I let you win every single time we fought,’ he adds, urgently looking between his eyes as he lets it sink in. ‘ Surely you knew I was letting you win?’ Of course he did. He knew his blows had only landed because Satoru let them. And he knew that when Satoru got a hit in, it was only by his good graces that it didn’t come wrapped in his technique. He just never knew why until now. ‘Because you pitied me.’ Suguru turns his gaze to his tabi boots, only to watch them skitter through the dust when Satoru suddenly throws an arm around him, knocking him off kilter. ‘Because I liked being close to you, idiot!’ he crows, pressing their bodies together as if to drive home the point. Their clothes are damp with cooling sweat, but Satoru doesn’t seem to mind sharing the remnants of the day’s heat, all sticky against his skin. There’s no lightning scented Infinity between them, but Suguru feels electrified all the same. Satoru is so hot to the touch. He’s so hot. In nothing but a T-shirt and shorts, oversized like everything else he owns, Suguru can feel the warmth of him like a brand, burning into his shoulder, burning into his hip. He feels it rushing over his cheek when Satoru says, ‘I still like being close to you.’ His voice is so near, but that’s not what makes Suguru’s breath catch in his throat. It’s the heat behind his words. All the heat that was missing before, packed into this searing sentiment that surges past Suguru’s defences, filling him up from the inside. It reaches deep within him, warms the tiny part of his soul that had gone cold without prior warning or permission. Satoru never asks for permission. He’s too bright and brilliant. He takes up the entirety of the space he’s in, even when the space is boundless. Impossible to contain, impossible to deny. It’s never a choice with the limitless boy, but it isn’t his fault. It’s just the way he is. He’s something irrefutable. Turning to him now, staring into those fathomless blue eyes only inches from his own, Suguru feels his heart flutter between his ribs like the wings of a moth, a butterfly, a dragonfly, and he thinks Satoru has probably always been inevitable. Everything about him softens, but not in a way that makes Suguru feel weak. Instead, he feels strong when Satoru says, ‘You’re my best friend, the only one I have.’ Such embarrassing words. Suguru feels himself blush beet red at the sound of them, because they sound like something else. Even though Satoru left him in the dust a long time ago, he never stopped talking about them like they’re a unit. Granted, he hasn’t said “we’re the strongest” for a long time. But he’s never said this either. Now, Suguru wonders if they don’t mean the exact same thing. He wonders if Satoru ever stopped thinking of him as his equal at all. His counterpart. He can’t find it in him to match Satoru’s vulnerability. The words get stuck in the back of his throat when he attempts to voice them, so his body does the talking instead. At least, it tries to, but he’s never felt more awkward than he does when he slips his arm around Satoru now, pulling him into the most tentative half hug they’ve ever shared. Satoru never asks for permission. He invades Suguru’s personal space as much as he invades his thoughts, teleporting into his room without notice, leaping into his arms without warning, draping himself around his body without waiting for an invitation. He never asks for permission, and it’s only now he hovers his palm over Satoru’s shoulder blade, curling it into a fist rather than relaxing into the embrace, that Suguru realises how easy he’s had it. It’s never a choice with Satoru. He’s never made Suguru work for his affection, because he’s always given it freely, pouring it all over him without asking for anything in return. Maybe you’re the one who’s different . ‘Anyway, what’s the big rush?’ If Satoru shares in his embarrassment, it doesn’t show. His expression is open and relaxed when he pulls back, his gaze unwavering until he turns his face up towards the sky, up towards the stars peeking through as the veil of night draws in. ‘We’ll never be this young and beautiful again.’ Suguru can’t imagine Satoru any less beautiful than he is in this precise moment, awash with colour as the blue hour settles in. He can’t imagine him old either. Satoru is the closest thing to a real life Peter Pan he can conceptualise. Suguru can’t imagine the cut of his jaw any less sharp, the blue of his eyes any less bright. He can’t imagine him standing at 180 centimetres ever again. ‘We’ve got the rest of our lives to figure this out,’ Satoru says easily, before immediately changing his mind. ‘Or not.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe we’ll never figure it out. Maybe we’ll die as ignorant and wrinkly as the day we were born, what do I care?’ He turns to Suguru once more, painfully sincere. ‘As long as you’re there, too.’ Suguru laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. He says it like it’s guaranteed. Like he’ll always turn to find Suguru there, patting him on the back. As though he isn’t subject to the ungovernable laws of the universe, just like the rest of them. Arrogant little shit. ‘Who says I’m planning to stick around, asshole?’ Suguru croaks, shoving Satoru away the moment he finds his voice, shamefully teary eyed. He’s smiling though. Even when Satoru makes another attempt to latch onto him, lips coming dangerously close to his cheek, Suguru can’t stop smiling. He can’t imagine surrendering to the unknown like that. And he can’t imagine Satoru any less young and beautiful than he is in this precise moment. He thinks he’d like to see it though. He thinks he’d like to see what this man will look like thirty, forty, fifty years from now. Shoulder to shoulder outside the shrine, they settle into a comfortable quiet as they watch the colours change, accompanied only by the chirp of the crickets — and the rude interruption of Suguru’s phone vibrating in his pocket. Shōko, probably. ‘We should go,’ Satoru murmurs, somewhere to his right. ‘Yeah,’ Suguru says, making no attempt to move. They’ll have to head down soon, but for now, it’s just the two of them. The two of them at the top of the world, and Suguru still doesn’t even know why they’re up there. He feels like he missed something. He feels the strange urge to reach out — claw the sun back over the horizon so they can have a do over — but he knows it’s futile. The moment for whatever they were waiting for has passed, disappearing along with the day when it dipped behind the mountains, ready to dawn again tomorrow. There is comfort in cycles, he supposes. There is comfort in knowing that some things are bigger than him, that some things are beyond the realm of his mortal comprehension. That some things are simply beyond his control. At his side, the back of his hand brushes against Satoru’s. When their knuckles bump into one another, sliding then slotting together a little, he wonders if these, too, are the ungovernable laws of the universe at work. He wonders if this falling he feels is just gravity, the fundamental force of attraction between two bodies. It’s comforting. Suguru has always been afraid of surrendering to the unknown. He’s always been afraid of letting go and giving himself over to the inevitable, but not if it’s him. Not this limitless boy. He wonders if it’ll really always be the two of them. His faith isn’t what it used to be, but he finds he believes in this. He’ll always believe in Satoru. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: The Stars we Travel - Chapter 1 - Barry36 - Mass Effect Trilogy [Archive of Our Own] Main Content While we've done our best to make the core functionality of this site accessible without JavaScript, it will work better with it enabled. Please consider turning it on! Archive of Our Own beta Log In Username or email: Password: Remember Me Forgot password? Get an Invitation Fandoms All Fandoms Anime & Manga Books & Literature Cartoons & Comics & Graphic Novels Celebrities & Real People Movies Music & Bands Other Media Theater TV Shows Video Games Uncategorized Fandoms Browse Works Bookmarks Tags Collections Search Works Bookmarks Tags People About About Us News FAQ Wrangling Guidelines Donate or Volunteer Work Search tip: "sherlock (tv)" m/m NOT "sherlock holmes/john watson" Actions Comments Hide Creator's Style Share Download AZW3 EPUB MOBI PDF HTML Work Header Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warnings : Graphic Depictions Of Violence Major Character Death Categories: F/F F/M M/M Multi Fandom: Mass Effect Trilogy Relationships: Jeff "Joker" Moreau/Shepard Shepard/Liara T'Soni Characters: Shepard (Mass Effect) Jeff "Joker" Moreau Kaidan Alenko Ashley Williams (Mass Effect) Liara T'Soni Tali'Zorah nar Rayya Garrus Vakarian Urdnot Wrex Additional Tags: Slow Burn Slow To Update Kaidan Alenko and Ashley Williams Both Survive Virmire Spacer (Mass Effect) Sole Survivor (Mass Effect) Angst Fluff Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD the slowest of burns Afab Shepard - Freeform Unrequited Crush Aromantic Shepard (Mass Effect) Romance Neutral Shepard has a sibling Shepard has a name Language: English Stats: Published: 2025-09-19 Updated: 2025-09-19 Words: 17 Chapters: 1/? Hits: 2 The Stars we Travel Barry36 Summary: Drafting has started, do not read yet as it has not been added but will be soon Shepard thought following in their family's footsteps would have been simple, but after Akuze they realize how wrong they were. Now faced with an even bigger threat, Shepard's going to need a team. Things are lonely in space, time is short, distractions abound, can they save the universe when the universe refuses to see the truth? This will hopefully be a series (Shepard will have a sibling, the sibling will have a different notoriety then this Shepard, they will travel together however in this series my Shepard will have become the Spectre and in the other my sibling will have), this work will cover the moments that will happen in Mass Effect 1. In this first part of the series Shepard will be romancing Liara so ✨Angst✨, this is going to be a Joker/Shepard fanfic so don't get too attached. I'm going to try and stick with this, but be warned I may forget about it. Chapter 1 : Chapter 1 - The Beacon Chapter Text Place holder, as I am drafting and will be collaborating with my sibling to write this series. Actions ↑ Top Kudos Comments Sorry, this work doesn't allow non-Archive users to comment. You can however still leave Kudos! Footer About the Archive Site Map Diversity Statement Terms of Service Content Policy Privacy Policy DMCA Policy Contact Us Policy Questions & Abuse Reports Technical Support & Feedback Development otwarchive v0.9.429.1 Known Issues GPL-2.0-or-later by the OTW Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Tears still pricked at his eyes when there was a knock on the door. “I don’t want to talk to you yet, Lu Ten,” Zuko called. There was silence for a moment. “Or you, Keeli,” he added on a moment later, despite the fact that it made him feel a bit bad. Silence again. Then, slowly, the door eased open. “Well, I’m not either of them, but I hope you’re not about to add me to the list.” “Same here!” Zuko blinked and looked up. In front of him were Kya, Mai, and Ty Lee. He quickly wiped his eyes with his good arm. “Lady Kya,” Zuko bowed his head to her and she returned the gesture. “Mai. Ty Lee. What are you doing here?” “ I’m here because I thought I’d be the best of the three who you invited to dinner to come looking for you,” Kya replied, moving farther into the room. “I joined up with these girls along the way, they said they were looking for you.” Zuko blinked. “I missed dinner ?! But it’s like, only late afternoon, at the most.” Kya raised an eyebrow, but a hint of concern flooded into her eyes as she took another step closer. “Fire Lord Zuko, are you all right?” Zuko swallowed down the lump building in his throat and nodded. “Yes,” he said, trying to ignore the fact that it sounded a bit choked. “Yes, I’m fine.” Zuko glanced at the other two teenagers. “Why were you guys looking for me?” Mai shrugged. “Ty Lee’s been acting weird all day. Said something felt wrong .” Ty Lee nodded. “Something has felt wrong, ever since breakfast, in fact, but it came to a boiling point a few hours ago. It’s barely gone down since then, and I just thought… Well, I thought maybe it was something to do with you.” Zuko was silent. Mai spoke. “Zuko, what is it?” Silence. A hand on his shoulder. Kya’s. He looked up. “Lu Ten is alive.” The comment clearly meant nothing to Kya and everything to Mai and Ty Lee. While the two girls sputtered and seemed to try and find something to say, Kya furrowed her eyebrows and asked, “Lu Ten?” She blinked. “ Prince Lu Ten? Your cousin.” Zuko nodded. She pursed her lips and her face scrunched up a bit as she asked, “Wait… wasn’t he the one in line for the throne? What happened to him?” Zuko swallowed and opened his mouth to explain, but Mai must have read the look on his face relatively well as she jumped in instead and said, “Supposedly, he died during the Siege of Ba Sing Se. His death was what caused General Iroh to withdraw from the siege, and was also what caused Fire Lord Azulon to declare Fire Lord Ozai, his second son, as his successor and not General Iroh. The general had no more children and Fire Lord Ozai had both Zuko and Azula.” Zuko nodded. The lump in his throat was back, and it hurt more to swallow around it. “Yes, well, he’s alive.” “You found this out today?” Kya asked, turning back to him. Zuko found himself nodding once more. “How?” “He’s…” Zuko wet his lips. “Keeli brought him in.” “ Keeli? ” Kya asked. Mai glanced at Ty Lee. “Dark wavy ponytail, acts like a mom friend?” Mai asked for clarification. Zuko blinked before nodding. “Yeah, all right. Why did she bring your dead cousin in , though?” Something behind Zuko’s nose started to tingle and he scrunched up his face a bit in an effort not to cry. Zuko cleared his throat and shifted his gaze away as he replied, “They’re, uh… They’re married. They have been for something like four, maybe five years. ” There was quiet for just a moment before Ty Lee spoke. “If… If they’re married, and Keeli was serving you that whole time, then…” Her voice seemed to fail her. Kya picked right up where she had left off, her face an odd blend of different emotions. “He knew you were down there. The whole time. He knew.” Zuko nodded. “He did.” His voice broke and he felt his eyes begin to sting. He ducked his head to try and hide it from the other three, but he was sure that it wasn’t working very well. “I just…” Zuko hesitated. He looked up. Ty Lee’s lip was trembling. Mai was frowning, her eyes a subtle red. Kya’s eyebrows were knit, as if staring at him brought her great confusion and pain. “What is it?” Kya asked. He couldn’t read the tone in her voice at all. Sad, maybe? That was weird, why would she be sad? Something welled up in his chest, something painful and heavy. His heart seemed to clench a bit, and the hole where his connection to the sun was meant to be felt more pronounced than ever. His shoulder ached. Zuko bit his lip and tried to choke back a sob. It worked once. It did not work again. Tears flowed down his face as he managed to say, “I just want to feel like someone cares about me.” His vision blurred. “I’m so… I’m just so tired of being put second. I’m always put second.” Zuko’s shoulders trembled a bit and he grit his teeth. His hands were shaking. “I just… I want to be important to someone for me . Not because I’m the Fire Lord, or the prince, or a… a failed son. I just want… I just…” His chest hurt. Another sob rippled through his body. “I’m just so tired. I’m so, so tired. I want to stop everything , but I can’t, and…” He took in a gasping breath. “I want to rest . I don’t want to have to deal with this war, or with assassinations , or with my father staring down at me with that stupid smile of his! I just want to go to sleep, but I can’t because every time I do I’m there again , and I can’t go back there! I’m sixteen fucking years old and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over three years and I just-” He broke. His words cut off, and his face burned, and his chest hurt, and his heart pounded enough that he could hear the blood rushing. Salty tears streamed down his face and his fingers felt tingly and numb. He was sure he was shaking, but he wasn’t sure if it was from just sobbing or something else as well. “I’m just…” His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. It felt as if all the energy just drained out of him. “I’m just so tired. I’m so , so tired.” There was quiet, or at least he thought there was, but all he could hear was the sharp ringing in his ears. Someone sniffled. Zuko didn’t know who. He didn’t look up to check. Then, slowly, Kya kneeled down in front of him so that she could meet his eyes. Her eyebrows were knit, her lips turned slightly downward. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she said quietly, her voice breaking through the silence. Before she could go on, though, Zuko had the inexplicable urge to interrupt. “Zuko. Please. Just call me Zuko.” She pursed her lips, but before she could do anything he pushed on. “Just right now, at least. Please .” Her eyes were tinted red as she nodded. “Of course.” There was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. “ Zuko ,” she said, and just the one word held so much power and emotion that more tears spilled from his eyes when she said it. “What you have been through… What has been done to you for the past three years, is so unimaginably cruel that it’s a miracle that you didn’t die.” He shifted a bit. “Sometimes I wish I had.” Kya’s intake of breath was slow and shaky. Mai sucked in air through her teeth and Ty Lee sniffled just a bit. “But you didn’t . You were stronger than him, you were stronger than your father, and you survived . He tried to break you and he failed because you were stronger than him .” Zuko shook his head shakily. “He didn’t fail . I can’t bend anymore. I’m messed up, now, I’m broken now. I’m a firebender and I can’t even bend .” “Your bending doesn’t define you , Zuko,” she said. It struck him how much more effective the words were without the ‘Fire Lord’ attached to the front. It truly felt like she was talking to him . “Your whole life you’ve trained to be a better bender. You were taught by your father and your grandfather and your sister that your bending is the only thing that you could ever possibly hope to be good at, and even then that you weren’t enough, am I right?” He swallowed. His throat hurt. His chest hurt. He was pretty sure he was still crying. He nodded. “Did you know that the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe, my husband, is a nonbender? As is the Chief of the Northern Water Tribe. So is the High Earth King. They don’t define themselves by their bending, or rather their lack thereof. They define themselves by the choices they make, to help both their people and the rest of the world.” She paused for a moment and cracked a smile, despite the occasional tear that still slipped down her face. “That’s what you’re doing, too.” The smile on her lips widened just a bit, though it looked a twinge sad. “And you’re doing great , but you also need to rest .” Zuko wet his lips and shook his head. “I can’t… I can’t, I have to… I’m the Fire Lord . I can’t .” Her eyebrows moved down just a bit and her ocean eyes glittered warmly, like the deep waters he could see from the top balcony in their home on Ember Island. “You are,” she agreed. “But you’re also just a boy.” He grit his teeth as more tears came. Another sob tore from his lips and he wanted nothing more in that moment than for everything, the past three years, the past six years to be nothing but a bad dream. He wanted to close his eyes and wake up to Mom standing there, smiling that loving smile of hers as she gently woke him up in time for breakfast. Through the blur of the tears, he saw Kya move forward, and then suddenly she was wrapping her arms around him. It was, what, his third hug in over three years? He’d forgotten how good these things felt. Kya moved back again and sighed. “You need to eat.” Zuko blinked, swiping furiously at his eyes. “ Now? ” Kya pursed her lips. “Yes, now .” He thought about his cousin (and Keeli) out there, somewhere, wandering the palace. He should probably talk to them. Instead, though, he looked up at Kya and nodded. “All right.” He glanced at Mai and Ty Lee. “You two wanna join us?” “We already ate,” Mai said. “Of course we want to join you,” Ty Lee chirped at the same time. She side-eyed her best friend before saying, “Unlike Miss Grouch over here, I will never turn down free food.” Mai rolled her eyes but nodded. “Yeah, we were coming, anyway. You really think we’d leave you alone after all that?” Zuko wet his lips and nodded. “All right. Okay. Dinner. Dinner is good, then.” Mai moved first, going to the door and poking her head outside, exchanging some quick and quiet words with the guards outside. She pushed the door open a bit more as she moved back toward Zuko and the others, Tyne behind her. Tyne grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and pushed him toward the door. They were halfway to whatever dining room they would be eating in when Tyne spoke. “My Lord, if you don’t mind me asking, what in the name of Agni happened with Keeli and her husband?” Zuko was silent for a moment before asking, “Anzo, is anyone around?” There was a beat of quiet before Anzo’s deep drawl responded, “No, your grace.” Zuko nodded. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Keeli’s husband is Lu Ten.” He could almost feel the shock waves that rippled through the group. He literally stopped moving as Tyne halted in her tracks. Zuko glanced back at his guards. They mostly had varying degrees of surprise and confusion written on their faces. Ming’s lips were pursed, her eyebrows furrowed in a sort of deep thought. “ Lu Ten , my Lord? As in, Prince Lu Ten?” “Yes,” Zuko nodded. “My dead cousin is not-so-dead and is actually married to Keeli. Has been all this time.” He felt tears prick at his eyes again. He swallowed, attempting to force the emotions that were trying to well up in his throat back down. There was a moment of quiet before Lee asked, “So, that means that… that he knew. The whole time?” “He did.” Zuko nodded once more, swallowing harder in what seemed to be a fruitless endeavor at pushing away the oncoming tears. “None of you can tell a soul until after a royal decree is made, am I understood?” He hoped his voice was firm enough with the tears sliding down toward his chin. There was a chorus of “Yes, your Majesty” from the guards. He swiped at his face with his good arm and asked, “Could we keep going? I’m feeling a bit hungry.” Truth be told, he was always feeling a bit hungry. He was just smart enough to know not to eat a lot after starving for three years . Kya had mentioned at some point while she rewrapped her bandages that he could do more harm than good by eating even a normal amount of food after what he went through. He trusted her judgement. Keeli had said the same thing, too, when she had first served him after he was freed. The wheelchair started moving again, and, as it did, Zuko attempted to leave the thoughts he was having far, far behind him. - - - Zuko could feel the tension as soon as he was rolled into the main dining hall. (He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t figured that dinner would be served here. It was where the Fire Nation royal family always ate. He knew how to get here from anywhere in the palace. He wondered why they hadn’t been eating in this room before now. He didn’t deign to ask.) Chief Hakoda rose when Zuko entered the room, Suki (who sat next to him) rising as well, albeit a bit begrudgingly. Hakoda’s expression was rather schooled, and Suki seemed to be doing the same. He couldn’t get anything from their faces. Or maybe Zuko just wasn’t very good at reading people. Maybe both. “Fire Lord Zuko,” Hakoda greeted, his voice a bit tight. Suki nodded and the both gave a small bow in his direction. Zuko returned the gesture once they had risen from their own. “Chief Hakoda, Lady Suki, I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to you for joining me for dinner. I hope the dishes I’ve ordered to be prepared for you live up to any expectations you may have.” Hakoda nodded, but Suki pursed her lips and asked, “How will we know the food is not poisoned?” Zuko froze. That was a good question. In the past few days, he had become used to Keeli being there to watch his food, but he supposed his guests had even greater reason to be suspicious. (He shouldn’t have mentioned the food. That made it so much worse.) He wasn’t sure what to do. He knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to call for a poison tester, but he didn’t want to have to make anyone take a risk like that. Still, he needed to do something . Zuko went to open his mouth when Ming spoke. “I’ll test the food, Chief Hakoda, for all of those present.” Zuko almost protested, but the steely look in her eyes (and the fact that protesting would make him seem even more suspicious) made the words die in his throat. “Thank you, Ming,” he said instead, meeting her gaze for a moment. She nodded and turned her attention back to the wall, as if waiting for something. Tyne pushed Zuko forward as Anzo moved the chair at the head of the table aside so Zuko’s wheelchair could be pushed up to it instead. Kya settled gracefully into the seat between her husband and Zuko himself. Mai sat on Zuko’s other side, Ty Lee sliding in on the other side of her best friend. Zuko opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly the doors to the kitchens’ hallway opened. (The reason why this was the main dining hall, besides it being a rather large room, was because it was the only dining hall that connected to the hallway that the kitchens array branched off from. It was both for the grandeur and for convenience’s sake.) Eleven servants spilled out. The first five zipped around the table, placing down the cutlery, glasses, and napkins for each person seated. The next five placed down the plates of food (Zuko nearly groaned when he realized it was an appetizer . There were multiple courses. He hoped he didn’t offend the chefs by not eating very much of any of the dishes). The eleventh circled the table with a jug, filling each glass with shimmering water. Once the servants had disappeared, Ming moved forward and tasted from Hakoda and Suki’s plate (and Kya’s, once her husband insisted). Zuko went to eat, but Ming surged ahead and tested his food as well first, despite his small protest. The first course was rather light, thankfully, just a few slices of ash banana bread with a small slab of butter resting to the side. Zuko had eaten half of one slice before he spoke. “Lady Suki, you’re from Kyoshi Island, correct?” Suki blinked, her eyes narrowing just a bit. She swallowed, put down the piece of bread she was eating, and looked up at him. “I am. I’m the Leader of the Kyoshi Warriors, as well.” Zuko nodded. “I have not seen an official decree of this, but I am assuming that Kyoshi Island is no longer neutral and has allied itself with the Earth Kingdom and Water Tribes against the Fire Nation?” Suki glanced at Hakoda before her gaze moved back to Zuko and she nodded minutely. “Yes. Kyoshi Island sheltered the Avatar for a few days. Word got around, and within a few days there were Fire Nation troops all over. They burned down our village.” Her fist clenched. “The whole town. Everything. Almost nothing survived. Avatar Kyoshi’s statue barely made it through. We had to rebuild everything .” Zuko pressed his lips together and furrowed his eyebrows. “I… I didn’t know.” Suki raised an eyebrow. “Not interested in paying attention to a small neutral territory ?” Zuko thought about all the documents he had looked at over the last few days. After finding Suki in the Boiling Rock, he had made sure to go through all documents over the last decade involving Kyoshi Island. Most of it was just interactions with the colonies, and the rest had been Kyoshi Island’s annual assertion of their neutrality in the war (though Zuko doubted there would be another one of those on the way any time soon). There was nothing about the Fire Nation navy burning the island to the ground because of the Avatar being there. “No, it’s not that,” Zuko said, his mind running rampent. “No, there’s… I’ve read every document on the Kyoshi Island in our records in the last decade in the last few days, and none of it says anything about the Fire Nation navy burning your home, and there was nothing about the Avatar.” Suki’s eyes widened just a bit. She sat back in her chair, her back straightening just a bit. “What does that mean?” Hakoda spoke then. “That sort of thing would have at least something written somewhere , especially if the Avatar had been sheltering on the island.” He looked up at Mai and Ty Lee. “Do either of you know when the Avatar was declared a wanted ‘man’ by the Fire Nation?” “It wasn’t until after confirmation of the Avatar returning came from the Fire Nation navy, as well as a battallion stationed near Omashu. An official decree calling for his arrest came after both of those reports.” Suki blinked. “The first time Aang encountered the Fire Nation navy was on Kyoshi Island.” Kya sucked in a breath. “So, that means…” Zuko broke in. “Kyoshi Island was not harboring a wanted criminal at the time. You were truly a neutral territory.” He paused, his heart pounding in his chest. “And the Fire Nation navy attacked you , meaning we were the ones to violate the neutrality treaty. We were the ones who made it null and void, so you were completely free to ally yourselves with the Earth Kingdom.” There was a beat of silence. Zuko’s eyes flickered across the table in front of him as he thought about the implications. He had to do something . Under the table, there was a sudden hand on his knee. Zuko jerked a bit and looked up to meet Kya’s eyes. She offered a gentle smile and a small nod. Zuko swallowed and nodded back before turning his gaze back to Suki. “I will personally make sure that financial reparation is given to your home, as well as extra support in an attempt to help make up for all of the pain that was caused to your people.” Suki was silent for a moment, though her lower lip was trembling ever so slightly. Then, she spoke again. “The rest of the Kyoshi Warriors and I stumbled into an encounter with Princess Azula and her friends.” She looked up pointedly at Mai and Ty Lee, sitting across the table. “We were defending the Avatar’s sky bison, who was lost at the time. He managed to escape, but I, along with the rest of my warriors, were captured. I was put in the Boiling Rock because I was the leader, and I don’t know what happened to the rest of them. I haven’t heard from any of them since.” Zuko nodded, a bit jerkily. “All right. Okay. I’ll put out an order for them to be treated as guests, and be given medical attention. I’ve already done this with the Southern Water Tribe war prisoners, as you may have been told, so adding a subsection to the decree would be rather easy to do. Within the next few weeks, I’m planning on having all Southern Water Tribe war prisoners transferred to the city prison. I could do the same for the Kyoshi Warriors, as well?” Suki stared at him. “Why… Why are you transferring those men to the city prison?” Zuko felt his face flare a bit. “It was… It was an idea I had, turning the Caldera City Prison into a hospital of sorts. There are multiple other prisons around the outskirts of the city that the prisoners in the city prison can be transferred to. I’d like to make sure that there’s a way for all the people in the city to get good, reliable medical care rather than everyone having to go and figure it out themselves or having to find a small family healing business.” There was silence, but Kya was giving him a look that made Zuko feel in his heart that he had done something right. Then, Suki spoke. “It would be much appreciated if you went through with those guidelines for the treatment of my warriors, Fire Lord Zuko.” Zuko nodded. “All right. I’ll send out the order after dinner.” She nodded shakily and turned back to her bread, shoving a bit in her mouth in was seemed sort of like an attempt to avoid talking more. Zuko couldn’t blame her. His throat hurt, and he didn’t particularily like talking, either. He took a sip of water and set out to finish the other half off the once slice he had started. Ten minutes later, a group of servants came out, swiping up the plates and cutlery. Another group quickly followed, placing down new cutlery. A moment later, six dishes were placed down as well. Both Hakoda and Kya were given five-flavor soup (Zuko really hoped it was good enough for their tastes). Suki was given sushi, which Zuko remembered vaguely to be a commonly eaten food on Kyoshi Island. Mai and Ty Lee were each given dishes they had requested, Roast duck and boiled cabbage for the former and spicy fire noodle soup for the latter. Zuko was given a plate of komodo sausage, as well as two vegetable dumplings. Each person was also given a small bowl of spice rice on the side. Ming moved forward to test Suki, Hakoda, Kya, and Zuko’s food. When she didn’t die (yay), the food was deemed safe to eat. There was relative silence as everyone ate. After about five minutes, Kya met Zuko’s eyes as he finished the half of the sausage he was going to be eating. “Would it be all right if I showed your chefs how to make proper five-flavor soup one day, Fire Lord Zuko?” Hearing her call him ‘Fire Lord’ again after she had spent time calling him just Zuko sent a pain into his heart, but he ignored it. “Is it… Is it not good ?” She offered a gentle smile. “It’s delicious. It reminds me of home . It’s very impressive, too, for chefs who I am sure have never had to make a single Water Tribe dish before, but the spice ratio is wrong. It’s a relatively easy fix, though I’m sure the cook time should also be a bit different, too.” Zuko let out a small breath. “All right. Yeah. Whenever you want, Lady Kya. That’s perfectly fine. Of course.” Kya gave him another smile and a tiny nod before she turned back to her soup. Zuko grabbed a dumpling in his chopsticks and went to try and finish it. Another ten minutes passed when the servants returned. While all the others had mostly or completely finished their dishes, Zuko had left a full dumpling, half the sausage, and a little less than half the rice behind. Honestly, it was more than he had expected to eat. He had even drained his glass of water. Some servants swooped in to grab the leftover plates. As a few more came in to deliver dessert, which was, around the table, hotcakes and sweet cream, a young woman walked in holding a jug of water. She looked a bit pale. She approached Zuko’s empty glass and filled it with water slowly, looking a bit clammy. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, her teeth seeming to be gritted behind her lips. Zuko noticed that she kept glancing at him. She looked very, very nervous. “Hey,” he said quietly. She started, nearly spilling the jug. “Y-Yes, my Lord?” She asked, seeming to be attempting to avoid eye contact. “Are you all right?” She swallowed. “My… My Lord?” “You… You seem nervous. Are you okay?” The young woman swallowed. “I’m perfectly fine, your grace. Simply… Simply tired.” Zuko nodded. “Make sure you’re resting. Go home tonight, even if you weren’t planning on it. Get some sleep.” He reached forward, took the half-filled glass, and took a large gulp. He wondered if that made a point the way he hoped it would. He put the glass back and turned back to look at the servant. “Please, relax. All right?” She swallowed, her throat bobbing a bit. Sweat glistened on her forehead. “Yes, your grace.” The young woman finished pouring the water, looking no less jittery than she had before. She kept glancing at Zuko. Finally, she finished pouring and backed away. Just like that, she was gone, as if she was in a hurry. Zuko held back a sigh. He hoped she got some sleep. She looked shaky enough to need it. He took another sip of water. His throat felt dry again. He realized all eyes were on him. He coughed to clear his throat and said, “Uh, enjoy the dessert. It’s a Fire Nation speciality.” As he waited to eat the hotcakes, Zuko felt jittery. His feet tingled just a bit. He scrunched his face up. “Anything wrong, my Lord?” Ming asked, from where she was my Hakoda, testing his dessert. “No, no, thank you, Ming,” Zuko said.My feet are tingling, I think they just fell asleep. I haven’t moved them much, recently, you know.” Her eyebrows furrowed, but she nodded and turned to move to testing Kya’s dessert. Zuko’s mouth felt dry. He drank more water as a chill ran through his body. He shivered. “Your food is safe, my Lord.” Zuko was brought out of his head by Ming’s words. He nodded shakily, moving his hand to start on the dessert. His hand trembled as it moved. “My Lord, are you sure you’re all right?” Ming asked, her face scrunching up a bit. “I’m perfectly fine, Ming, I promise.” Ming didn’t look convinced, but she backed off and moved back to her place near the door. A minute passed and Zuko’s head was pounding. His mouth kept getting dry. He drank more water. Zuko cleared his throat once, twice. His good hand moved up to scratch at his neck. Zuko moved his head forward a bit to have another bite of the hotcakes and he suddenly felt like he was about to pass out. “ Whoa ,” he muttered. “ Dizzy spell .” “Zuko?” Mai placed a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, just… just dizzy…” No one was eating now. All eyes were on him. A cough welled up in his throat, and before he could stop it, it escaped, ripping through his body. Another followed it quickly. Then another. And another. His skull pounded, blood rushing in his head. “Something’s wrong,” he whispered, the thought dawning on him suddenly. He winced at another pang coming through his head. His legs were tingling from his knees all the way to his feet now. “Fire Lord Zuko?” Kya was standing now, a hand resting on his back. His vision was tunneling now. He was falling. People were calling his name around him. People were rushing. He couldn’t concentrate. “Zuko, stay awake. C’mon, stay with me, now. Stay with me, sweetie. You can do it. You can-” His vision went black. - - - As soon as the words, ‘ Dizzy spell ’ left his mouth, Kya was on high alert. Something wasn’t right. Her fears were confirmed when the Fire Lord muttered the same thing a moment later. Kya shot to her feet, pushing the chair back and stepping toward the boy in the wheelchair, hovering above him. “Fire Lord Zuko?” Kya asked. He didn’t respond, nothing more than a small whine escaping his lips. It was most definitely involuntary. Kya knelt down and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Zuko, stay awake.” She abandoned the title. “C’mon, stay with me, now. Stay with me, sweetie. You can do it. You can do it, just a bit more. Tell us what happened, please. C’mon, honey, stay with me.” She backed away when she saw that he was definitely out. People moved around her, the Fire Lord’s guards, she thought. “What happened to him?” Suki asked. Everyone was on their feet now. Kya didn’t answer, her fingers flying to the boy’s neck to check his pulse. As soon as she touched his skin, she realized it was warm. She pulled back his collar and saw that his neck was covered in red splotches, hot to the touch. A rash. Kya’s heart pounded. She moved to check the boy’s pulse again, and felt it beating, but fainter, and much slower than the average speed. Things started adding up in her head. She thought back to the girl who he had been reassuring to just a few minutes ago, the one who had been pouring the water. Kya grabbed her water and grabbed the Fire Lord’s. She smelled her own. Nothing. She smelled the Fire Lord’s. There was nothing. Then, though, there was suddenly a faint scent of something sweet, sickly, sickly sweet. “ The Fire Lord’s been poisoned ,” she breathed, turning back to the unconscious boy that she suddenly realizing was dying by the moment. “What, what did you say?” Mai asked, the girl standing on her fading friend’s other side. Kya rushed to pull off Zuko’s clothes so he could breathe more easily as she exclaimed, “ The Fire Lord’s been poisoned ! ” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The sun was shining bright but cold as Rito Village began yet another archery competition. It was a snowy day, as usual when venturing north from the village. They were pretty far from it today, upon hill, one of the many smaller peaks of Hebra. Five Rito lined up in front of one target and drew back their arrows. His eyes squinted, adjusting the aim so that he would hit the innermost circle. He had to be quick, but not so quick as to hit it first. He was better than that. He had trained to be better than that. When the signal was given he waited a split second longer than everyone else, then released. His arrow progressed on its path, faster than anything could move. He didn't blink. Everyone had gone silent. His arrow whizzed through the air, its course directly set. He smiled as his arrow cut through each and every other arrow, splitting each before centering itself directly in the middle of the target. Every Rito, watching or competing, was still silent. For a moment, his heart quickened. Was that not allowed? Had he broken some ancient custom? Then a roar of applause sounded through the audience and he relaxed. The four other competitors gazed at him in astonishment. He had had a winning streak, of course, but even Revali himself couldn't believe how far his still and training had taken him! Part of it was his bow, of course. He was the only Rito in many millenniums who was able to wield the Great Eagle Bow. It was too heavy for others, although most were much older than he was. As he walked away, hoping to catch a breeze that would send him quickly back the the village, praises followed him. "Amazing work, Revali!" exclaimed Seria, who owned the inn. "Revali, that was incredible!" squeaked a small child- Bato, Revali remembered. He thanked them and everyone else, brimming with pride and excitement. He knew he had broken all previous records and set an insurmountably high bar. Revali caught the breeze and soared back to Rito Village, the bow on his back heavy, but his heart unbelievably light. Word spread quickly. Rito all across town congratulated him, even the ones that weren't present at the contest praised him about his win. Revali accepted their congratulations eagerly. It felt good being not "just Revali". Now he was "Revali: World's Best Archer", "Revali: Master of the Great Eagle Bow". He had worked hard and had succeeded. After dinner, Elder Kuzoco invited him to his house. Not sure if this was a good or bad thing, he was hesitant at first about going, but then made up his mind, making the long walk from his home to the Elder's. "Elder?" Revali approached his chair, not wanting to disturb the older bird, although he had been summoned. "Young Revali!" Elder Kuzoco exclaimed. Inwardly, Revali scoffed. Sure, his red marks hadn't faded yet, but he wasn't young . Well, actually compared to the Elder, he was pretty young. "Impressive win this morning," the Elder continued, "I can't think of anyone who wields a bow more skillfully than you do." Revali inclined his head. "Thank you, Elder." "The best archer in all Rito Village, or nay, the world, should receive a great reward." Elder Kuzoco offered. "What'll it be?" Revali began to decline, but then he stopped himself. It would likely be considered rude to decline. The Elder had an expectant look in his yellow eyes as Revali began slowly. "What about an archery training ground?" "An archery training ground?" Elder Kuzoco repeated. Revali nodded. If he was to keep his archery skills up, he would need a place to practice. "One with varying elevations? And away from the town?" Revali suggested. Elder Kuzoco seemed to consider the idea. Or at least humor it. "I'll see what I can do." The Elder told him. Revali took that as his excuse to leave. As Revali walked to his home, an idea began plucking at the back of his mind. It was one that had come up before. Again and again. It was an asinine idea, really. But he couldn't shake it. It was something no one, Rito or otherwise, had done before. It was foolish to think that he could even attempt it. But then again, he did master the Great Eagle Bow. And with that new training ground...maybe he could try. Before Revali rested for the night, he recounted what had happened all that day in his diary. His private diary that definitely did not exist. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Caitlyn doesn’t get to her father fast enough. Cassandra bursts into Caitlyn’s room with a gun pointed at the intruder. Tobias follows with medical supplies. Vi grips Ekko’s hand as Tobias works, promising Ekko this would all be so much easier in a hospital, but Ekko remains steadfast. No hospitals. No Pilties. It’s bad enough that Caitlyn’s parents know he’s there, and only blood loss keeps him in the house. Vi sits by his side for the first three days as he drifts in and out of consciousness, knowing it’s selfish. It isn’t all for Ekko. She isn’t only there because she knows exactly what he’s going through. She’s waiting for him to blink his eyes open, take in his surroundings, and tell Vi he was wrong: Powder didn’t shoot him. Powder might have an immaculate aim, but she’d never turn a gun on anyone, much less a friend. Caitlyn remains at Vi’s side, working when she can. They don’t head to the undercity, not with Ekko recovering; the last thing they need is a swarm of Firelights following them, intent on discovering what happened to their leader. “Look at him. He’s a whole adult ,” Vi murmurs, head rested on Caitlyn’s shoulder. Ekko’s getting the soundest sleep he has since arriving, but Vi doesn’t dare leave the room. “I used to hose him down when him and Powder had too much fun at the scrapyard and came home covered in grease and oil. I’d carry him on my back when he couldn’t run from trouble fast enough. I used to think he was such a kid – hell, we all called him Little Man – and it was up to me to look after him, but look at us. All grown up.” Caitlyn runs her fingers across the shaved side of Vi’s hair. “You only ever tell one of two stories about your childhood, Vi. Either you’re engaging in all manner of illegal antics, or you’re looking after those around you,” Caitlyn says. “He may have grown up in your time apart, but not everything has changed. You’re still here, watching over him.” “Your dad did most of the hard work,” Vi huffs. “I just can’t believe that Powder would—that she could . Her and Ekko were best friends, and she isn’t—she wouldn’t.” Vi screws her eyes shut. She’s brought it up countless times those last few days, and there’s still no eloquence in it. Still, Caitlyn doesn’t cut her off, doesn’t interrupt to assure Vi that she knows, she knows. “We can’t imagine what she’s been forced to do to survive,” Caitlyn says. “And the Firelights have considered her an enemy for years. Whatever she did, I’m sure it wasn’t unprovoked.” Vi grumbles into Caitlyn’s shoulder. Life was so much less complicated when they were living in squalor, when they could navigate the Lanes like blood in a vein, when they could use their fists to solve any problems that came their way; when it was her, Powder, Ekko, Mylo, and Claggor, when Vander would always welcome them home with a scowl and a lecture and warm hand on their shoulders. Life was easier in Stillwater, too. Vi counted the days, weeks, months, years, though time itself didn’t move. The Lanes were as she had left them. Powder was as she’d abandoned her, and Vi could indulge in thoughts of saving her night and day, night and day. But now she’s out, now she’s been welcomed into a Councillor’s estate with open arms, Vi has to let the lost time sink into her. She has to make good on her promises, has to move forward, has to find Powder, before she can mourn all she’s lost. * Part of Vi is relieved Ekko’s spending so much time unconscious. Tobias assures her that Ekko is stable, that the bullet has been removed and the wound closed, so she only checks he’s still breathing every half hour or so. Without the fear of him slipping away, Vi lets herself be grateful he’s getting some actual rest. If he’s anything like her, he hasn’t got enough of it since the night of the explosion. Caitlyn convinces her to come down to breakfast on the fourth morning. Cassandra and Tobias are still home, and Caitlyn and Vi sit across the table from them, enjoying a pleasant if not somewhat awkward breakfast. “Bet you never expected this to happen. Or to be okay with it happening,” Vi says, when Caitlyn and her father won’t stop talking about the weather. “A kid from the trenches, a Firelight , turns up with a bullet wound, and four days later, he’s still in your guestroom. The rest of the Council would shit themselves if they knew.” Tobias lets out an appreciative chuckle, glad to have it brought up. “Cassandra and I have been forced to acclimatise to a new way of life, these past years. It’s been difficult, but I think it’s for the better,” Tobias says. “That young man deserves the very best care I can give him.” Vi scoops up some eggs with her toast and speaks with her mouth half-full. “Wild, huh? Guess Ekko’s got it easy. No way your guys wouldn’t have flipped out and called the enforcers if your daughter didn’t have a sump-rat for a, uh—” Vi trails off, not certain where she was going with that sentence. She swallows the rest of her food, feeling it move painfully down her chest. She sees Caitlyn staring directly at her from the corner of her eye but chooses not to engage. “Please, Vi. Don’t call yourself a sump-rat. Or—what was it? Trencher trash? We don’t use those terms in this house,” Tobias says. “No, father. You used to say those people instead,” Caitlyn interjects. Clearing his throat and sipping on a glass of orange juice, Tobias colours across the nose. “Indeed. As Vi said, there have been a great deal of changes, of late.” Not liking the lull in conversation, or the way Tobias fiddles with his fork, Vi says, “Bet Ekko’s a better patient than me, huh, Doc? Lying there nice and quiet, sleeping the days away. Not threatening any nurses.” “Now, Vi. You were unconscious for a full fortnight, if you’ll recall.” “And you weren’t a difficult patient,” Cassandra interjects. “So long as Caitlyn was close by. So long as you could cling to her, you were perfectly content. It was—endearing. I suppose.” It’s Vi’s turn to blush. She laughs through her nose, scratching the back of her neck. Caitlyn places a hand on her knee under the table and squeezes it. “Yeah, but , after that, I—” A thump cuts Vi off. Her eyes dart up to the ceiling, and Caitlyn’s already on her feet. * “Easy there, Little Man,” Vi says, helping him back into the bed he’d stumbled out of. She holds him by the shoulders, easing him towards the pillows. The pain relief Tobias provided has left Ekko’s eyes glazed, his head foggy, but Vi can tell there’s still just enough of an ache around the gunshot wound to keep him grounded. “Not a kid anymore,” Ekko mumbles. “Don’t call me that.” “Alright, Baby Boy,” Vi says, hand on his face. “Shit. I take it back.” Tobias checks Ekko over, making diligent notes in his chart. Ekko holds still, breathes heavy through his nose, and grips Vi’s hand almost hard enough to break it. Ekko can deal with pain, but distrust has him on his guard. Satisfied that Ekko is out of any immediate danger, Tobias excuses himself, promising to come the moment they need him. Vi sits on the side of the bed, and Caitlyn brings her a bowl of warm water and clean cloths. Ekko glowers up at Vi as she gently wipes the sweat and grime from his face, but doesn’t stop her. “I know you’re dying to get out of here, but you’ve got to heal up enough to ride your board back to the undercity, alright?” Vi says. Ekko’s nostrils flare, but he says nothing. “And before you go, you’ve got to try the showers they have topside. If you thought getting hosed down was good, you’re not going to believe how this feels.” “Not my first time getting shot, Vi.” “Mm. But it’s my first time seeing you with a bullet hole, so humour me, okay? Doesn’t matter how big and important you get, Little Man. You’re still that kid tinkering in the back of Benzo’s shop to me.” They both pause at the mention of Benzo, but neither are accustomed to the sort of safety that lets them soften. Vi continues wiping Ekko’s arms clean, and his hard eyes flutter from Vi to the ceiling. “I’ve got to get back to my people,” he protests. “And we have to get you back to your people alive,” Caitlyn says from the armchair in the corner. Ekko tenses. The painkillers have him off his guard. Vi expects he forgot Caitlyn was there. “Don’t act like this is all for me. I know you, Vi. I can see it in your eyes,” Ekko says. “You’re dying to ask me questions.” “Sure am,” Vi says, not bothering to argue. She owes Ekko more than that. “Go ahead,” he says, challenging her. “Not until you’re all healed up, Little Man.” “You’re not going to like the answers, whether you get ‘em now or in a week. Might as well give yourself time to digest them,” Ekko says. “And I don’t have anything better to do in this damn Piltie bed.” Caitlyn rises from her chair, taking the cloth and bowl of water from Vi. She takes them to the far side of the room, arranging them on a cabinet by the door; she doesn’t leave, but she gives them the illusion of privacy. “You said Powder—” “ Jinx . I said Jinx shot me. Because she did.” Vi swallows the lump in her throat, nodding. She has to allow whatever Ekko’s said if she wants to get a fraction of the full-story; she can’t tell him he’s wrong when he’s lying there with a bullet wound in his side. Powder shot him, but there has an be an explanation; it has to have been an accident, a misunderstanding. “What happened?” “You know how it’s been with her, since The Last Drop went up and smoke. She vanished, and that made us jumpy. When she was with Silco, she was out in the open. We couldn’t stop what she was doing, but we could track her. Track her movements. It gave us half a chance to save who we could, but—” Ekko stops. He shakes his head, jaw tight. He’s had the better part of a decade to accept what he claims Powder’s become, but disbelief still threatens to ripple across his features. “But one of my Firelights caught sight of her, hiding out in an old shimmer warehouse we were about to torch. He got ahead of himself, chasing her down, and I can’t blame him. She’s taken so many people from us, Vi. Killed ‘em in cold blood. I jumped in, tried to intervene. I would’ve handled it, too, would’ve made us even, but all I could hear was your damn voice in the back of my head,” Ekko says, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I thought, shit, maybe Vi is right. Maybe Jinx can be Vi’s problem now. I called out to her and she fucking shot me, Vi. You think there’s any going back from that?” Vi’s mind slides over so many of the details. Ekko says her sister has killed people, and Vi neither argues with it nor takes in the words as anything but a series of sounds. That’s not Powder. It couldn’t be Powder. She’d never—she couldn’t—but if she were alone— “She was at the warehouse? We need to get down there. I need to talk to her, then I can—” “Then you can nothing ,” Ekko snaps. “Like I said, Vi. We were there to torch it to the ground. She’s long gone. Found a new hole to hide in.” “But—” “No buts. You don’t get it. You haven’t been here. And I know that’s not your fault, I’ve wished you were here every damn day, but you don’t know her. Not anymore. You don’t know what she’s capable of.” Vi bundles the bedsheets in her fist. She’d storm out of the room, or at least around it, if her leg hadn’t turned to a series of sharp, scrawled stabbing pains, disguising themselves as flesh and bone. “If I could just—” Caitlyn begins. Vi and Ekko start. They both turn, eyes burrowing into her. “Vi told me about the arcade you used to visit. I believe there was a game that tested your accuracy with a pistol, and that Powder excelled in it every time. She was undefeated, if I recall corrected, and that was so long ago. Whatever she’s become in the interim, she’s certainly more capable. Yes, she shot you, Ekko, but it was through-and-through. It didn’t hit any organs or major arteries, but I’ve no doubt she could have shot to kill, had she wanted to.” Vi lets out a shaky breath through her nose. She could kiss Caitlyn, she really could, but again: her leg has other ideas. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ekko says, “For fuck’s sake, Vi. Your girl has some nerve.” * After comparing bullet wounds with Ekko and forcing him to indulge in pretentious-looking topside food , Vi heads downstairs in search of breakfast and Caitlyn. She hates to admit it, but not going to the undercity those last few days has done her good; she makes it down the stairs in record-time. Heading into a kitchen and freely choosing from the near-endless food on offer still feels like a trap, and Vi’s in the habit of shoving food into her mouth before she puts together what she actually wants, just in case. In case of what? Waking up ten years in the past? With breakfast done and her shirt mostly crumb-free, Vi pokes her head into Cassandra’s study. The door’s ajar, which tends to mean she can tolerate an interruption or two, and Caitlyn usually works there of a morning. There are all kinds of law books and hefty tomes for her to pluck from the shelves, frown over, and cross out whatever she’s started working on. “Hey,” Vi says. Cassandra looks up from an unusually blank page and blinks herself out of a cloud of confusing thoughts. “Good morning, Vi. How is our guest?” Cassandra asks. “Eh. He’d already be out the window, if he had his own way. But if you guys have taught me anything, it’s that sometimes, you’ve gotta do what you’re told and rest up,” Vi says. “Caitlyn not with you?” “She said something about getting fresh air,” Cassandra says, rubbing two fingers against her temple. “Everything okay? I mean, other than the everything we know isn’t okay?” Relishing the opportunity to twist the cap back on her pen and put it down, Cassandra sits straight and holds out her hands, almost deigning to shrug. “Sevika has been invited to meet with the Council a week hence, to finalise the first stage of construction,” Cassandra says. Brow shooting up to her hairline, Vi slips into Caitlyn’s usual chair. “She’ll be coming to us, this time. While I have my apprehensions about her behaviour, I’m more worried about my fellow Councillors. While we’ve been working on this, do you know what most of them have been doing? Attending the opera. Dining out. Continuing with life as usual, happy to ignore all that doesn’t directly affect them. Worst of all, I would’ve been doing the same, had Caitlyn not endured what she did.” Vi rubs her mouth, stuck on the thought of Sevika not only in Piltover, but in a room with the entirety of the Council, overlooking the whole city. She wonders if Sevika’s spent much time topside, or if she’s ever been there. Vi knows so little about her for someone who was always in the background of her life, drinking and smoking in The Last Drop , keeping an eye out for trouble she hadn’t caused. It’d be harder to reduce her to that one word, to a traitor, if Vi knew her better. It doesn’t matter who Sevika is, not anymore; all that matters is what she does with the influence she holds over the undercity. “Huh. That’s going to be one for the history books,” Vi says. “Good thing you’ve had me around all this time. You’ll be the only one who isn’t scared shitless of her.” The corner of Cassandra’s mouth twitches, but shadow of a headache falling over her remains. “Wait here a second, okay?” Vi says. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.” Vi returns to the kitchen, brushes a few more crumbs from her shirt, and slides a kettle onto the stove. She’s got fairly decent at making tea, under Caitlyn’s instruction, and knows where the Kirammans keep the best of their biscuits. It takes some doing, but with her cane pinned under an arm, Vi gets the tea tray to the study without putting too much strain on her leg. She places it on the desk, and Cassandra looks between the tray and Vi, mouth drawn into a thin, tight line. “Take it easy, yeah? Thing with Sevika is, her bite is worse than her bark,” Vi says, putting her weight back on her cane. “And I know you know your way around a gun.” Vi grins. Cassandra’s fingers hover over the biscuits. “Thank you, dear,” Cassandra says. “I’ll give myself ten minutes to enjoy this.” Vi takes those ten minutes as the victory they are. She heads for the gardens, in search of Caitlyn, and finds her out on the lawns below her bedroom window. There’s a scar across the perfectly-maintained grass where Ekko crash-landed, and Caitlyn’s stood with her arms crossed, staring at the hoverboard they propped against the wall, not knowing what else to do with it. “Hey,” Vi says, drawing Caitlyn out of her thoughts. “Did you want to try it out?” “What? Oh—no, no. I was admiring it, is all. It’s a remarkable piece of technology,” Caitlyn hums. “ Much more impressive than anything Jayce has come up with, and without any of my family or the city’s funding.” Vi nods her agreement. She grew up seeing Ekko’s little projects and streaks of genius, but even with the years between them, the hoverboard far exceeds anything Vi could’ve imagined. It’s sleek without losing any sense of character, all bronze and liquid green, thrumming with energy even while dormant. Desperation breeds innovation, Vi supposes. “Always knew Ekko was something special, but I couldn’t have imagined this. Leading the Firelights, flying around on this thing, not taking any of my shit. He turned out alright. Even without me around, he’s okay. He’s great,” Vi says, letting out a long breath. “Other than the bullet wound in his side, I guess. Oh, and Cupcake? You’re a bad liar.” “Well—who wouldn’t want to try it?” Caitlyn says, shoulders hunched. “But I couldn’t impose. It’s Ekko’s.” “And Ekko’s up there in your guest room, getting around the clock medical care. He ripped up half the garden and got blood all over your bedroom. Seems fair to me,” Vi says. “I wouldn’t know how,” Caitlyn says. It takes them ten minutes to figure out how to get the hoverboard to live up to its name and actually hover. They have it laid out in the centre of the garden, where the grass has a chance of breaking Caitlyn’s fall, and it thrums softly, alive with light, even under the bright morning sun. Caitlyn stands with her feet at shoulder-width apart, hands held out. Vi entwines her fingers with Caitlyn’s, keeping her steady, and Caitlyn cautiously bends her knees a little, hoverboard humming beneath her. “I’m not sure how to…” she murmurs. “First of all, you’re way too tense. Shake out your shoulders,” Vi says. “And it’s all about balance, right? Balance, and trusting the board. It’s gotta be intuitive, you’ve gotta lead it and let it lead you.” “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” Caitlyn says. She makes a solid attempt at loosening up, though her grip remains tight on Vi’s hands. Vi’s never used a hoverboard. She’s never not used a hoverboard. She used to fly through the undercity, used to glid over topside roofs, trusting her body to react, to make split-second calculations that meant the difference between an easy landing and a broken ankle. She couldn’t use the hoverboard. She entertained the idea for all of five minutes, but her leg couldn’t take it. Still. The nervous grin across Caitlyn’s face more than makes up for it. Tentatively, Caitlyn leans forward. The hoverboard raises a few inches, sloping beneath her feet. She shifts back to her original position and the board hovers flat over the ground. “See? You’re getting it,” Vi says. “You’re an excellent teacher,” Caitlyn says. Confidence building, she toys with her weight, shifting it back and forth, lowering and raising herself on the board, clinging to Vi’s hands all the while. Nodding to herself, starting to understand the device, Caitlyn shifts her hips, urging the hoverboard to move forward. It works too well. The hoverboard shoots out from under her feet, and with a yelp, Caitlyn ends up in the grass, pulling Vi down with her. The board skitters across the lawn and ends up in a bush. Winded, Caitlyn stares at the grass stains on her clothes. The moment she catches her breath, she breaks out into bright, brilliant laughter. Vi tries to help her to her feet, but Caitlyn pulls her down in that careful way of hers, and before Vi can register the grass beneath her, she’s laughing, too. They lie side by side, staring up at the clear blue sky. The hoverboard powers itself down and rests safely in the shrubbery. Vi finds Caitlyn’s hand, entangling their fingers once more. “Perhaps I could trouble Ekko for instruction, once he’s better,” Caitlyn says. “Gonna run off and join the Firelights?” “I think I’d look the part,” Caitlyn says. She turns onto her side, facing Vi. “And I’d feel like I was doing something . Working with the Council is more depressing than I imagined, even in my youth. No wonder I was so intent on rebelling.” Vi shuffles in the grass, turning from the blue of the sky to the blue of Caitlyn’s eyes. “You’re doing good, Cupcake. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Everyone in the undercity is lucky to have someone who actually understands this shit on their side,” Vi says. “Plus, you got your parents to sell the summer house. That’s not nothing. And I know you’d give up all your own money, if you could.” “It doesn’t feel like enough. Ekko and his people are making a real, tactile difference, and Piltover has spent the last five years doing its utmost to ruin their reputation,” Caitlyn sighs. Vi reaches out, running her fingers along the scar she knows so well. Caitlyn could’ve led a life of complete contentment, could’ve indulged in an eternity of comfort and soft, easy days, but she chose to give that all up. She went to Stillwater for it, and though her nightmares are frequent and her scars deep, Vi knows Caitlyn wouldn’t take it back. “How much money do you have?” Vi asks. “A frankly appalling amount. Not enough to bring the entire undercity out of all we’ve reduced it to, but enough to make a start. Enough to set up a hospital, to build housing, to work on the infrastructure. However the people of the undercity would wish to use the money, that is; I wouldn’t want to build another Piltover on your land.” Vi hums. The sheer wealth set aside for Caitlyn means almost nothing to her. To Vi, wealth means having a roof over your head and knowing you can afford to eat the next day. The idea of building hospitals from nothing and still having money to spare cannot dent the sphere of poverty she grew up knowing. “You’d really give it all away?” “Oh, no. I’m not entirely selfless, I’m afraid. I’d like to buy a home of my own, somewhere I could at least attempt a life of independence from. It wouldn’t have to be much. An apartment by the river,” Caitlyn says, humming. “Beyond that, yes. What could I need the money for? A second home I never visit? A blimp ?” Caitlyn laughs at the thought. The sound trickles between Vi’s ribs, warming her. “But you can’t get to the money? How’s that work, if it’s yours?” Rolling her eyes, Caitlyn draws her lips into a thin, tight line. Her mother gets the same look when frustrated by the rules of the society she helped create. “The continuation of House Kiramman is of the utmost importance, you see. As the next matriarch, I only get what is supposedly mine by birth in the event of my marrying.” “Damn. That’s rough,” is all Vi can think to say. Caitlyn hums. She rolls onto her back, hands folded across her stomach, and stares at the sky. “Would you want to?” Caitlyn asks. “Huh?” “Come with me, that is. Theoretically. Were I to have an apartment of my own, closer to the undercity,” Caitlyn says. Vi moves onto an elbow, looking down at her. “Nah,” she says. “Figured I’d help you move out and then stay here with your folks.” Caitlyn shoves an affection hand against Vi’s shoulder. “You’re awful,” she says. “Mm,” Vi agrees, catching her in a kiss. “Not my fault your parents like me more than they like you.” * Vi shows Ekko the ropes and gets him into a routine of stretching, of working his muscles without straining them, once he’s out of bed. Ekko listens, attentive, and Vi’s glad some things haven’t changed. Ekko doesn’t wander far from his room, even as his strength returns. He looks over Jayce and Viktor’s plans for the air filtration system, one evening, and hums in approval. He jots down a few improvements that come to mind, and Caitlyn promises to pass the changes along. Vi helps Cassandra prepare for the upcoming meeting with Sevika. Her help amounts to telling tales from her childhood, giving her a clear, honest impression of life in the Lanes, without softening or glorifying any of it. Cassandra nods as she listens, making the occasion note. Vi hopes it’s worth a damn. Caitlyn spends her days meeting with important people Vi’s never heard of. Without fail, she comes home overwrought with frustration. Vi sits at the foot of the bed, listening to Caitlyn rant as she marches back and forth. After a few failed attempts at helping Caitlyn come up with solutions, Vi quickly learnt that all she really needed to do was take Caitlyn’s wrist, pull her close, and kiss her. Sex is a world in and of itself. Vi swears she only means to pull Caitlyn in for a quick kiss, only wants to roll over in the morning and pull her close, but the whole world melts around them, until Caitlyn is at the centre of everything Vi orbits around. Her leg causes her problems, but it’s easy to work around when Caitlyn’s breathless and Vi is convinced she might die if she doesn’t get some relief. She loses hours between Caitlyn’s legs, thighs clamped around her face. Caitlyn grips the headboard, doing most of the work with the roll of her hips, and Vi swears she’s taken a left hook to her jaw that’s left it aching less. It’s never left her grinning, though. Each gentle touch of Caitlyn’s fingertips opens Vi up to a new part of herself. She runs her hands across Vi’s back, and Vi’s muscles tense in a way they never have during a fight. Caitlyn’s touch burns in the most heady, addictive way, and makes her feel like her tattoos are glowing with each scrape of her nails. There are no barriers between them. There certainly aren’t clothes. As she gives all she can to Caitlyn, bestowing all she deserves upon her, Vi feels parts of herself trickle back; her settles into her own body for the first time in a lifetime, stretches out to fill all its distant corners and twisting corridors. She’s aware of herself in a way she hadn’t thought possible, after all the pain she’s endured, making her starkly aware of every nerve her in her body. This is different. It’s Caitlyn, long limbs entwined with her own, leaving burning kisses over the spots she knows will make Vi arch her back. It’s Caitlyn, gasping into her mouth, pleading for more, praising her, and it’s so, so easy for Vi to lose herself in Caitlyn without losing herself. Vi doesn’t worry about not being enough. She doesn’t fret over not knowing how to express the things she feels, or how to let Caitlyn know exactly how important she is to her; there’s never room for doubt between them. After nine days, they can no longer confine Ekko to the house. His hoverboard has been rescued from the shrubbery, and he’s spent the better part of the evening making adjustments to it. He thanks Tobias for all he’s done without making eye contact, and tries to leave by the window. Vi grabs the back of his collar and says they’ll walk him out. Grunting, Ekko tugs himself free, but takes the stairs down. “You know, there’s always a place for you with the Firelights, Vi. As soon as you accept the truth about Jinx, as soon as you’re ready to give this all up, there’s a place for you to do some real good,” Ekko says as the three of them make their way through the wide Piltovan streets, avoiding lamplight. Vi’s learnt to swallow back the urge to tell Ekko he’s wrong about Powder. Those nine days together have shown her how much he’s changed, how much he’s been through in a world infinitely more variable than Stillwater. He’s seen Powder change. He’s tried to reach out to her, time and time again, but she’s fought him at every step. Vi doesn’t know why she thinks she can do what he can’t. “Thanks, Little Man. I’m going to get this all sorted. I know you don’t think it can be done, but all we have is each other. I’m not going to give up, even if I have to get shot a few more times,” Vi says. “And I’m not sure I’d make a great Firelight with this leg. I’m not going anywhere on a hoverboard.” “I’ve been thinking. I could customise one for you, figure out something that works. Look at you. You’ve still got stupid amounts of core strength. That’s enough to get you around. A few handles, somewhere to hook your legs—would have to work on some quick releases, though,” Ekko muses. Vi’s steps falter. Her leg isn’t to blame. Ekko’s put real thought into this, into a future where she’s at his side, willing to trust her after all these years, after her insistence that the girl who shot him and worked alongside Silco can still be redeemed. Ekko gets a few steps ahead before glancing back, brow furrowed. “I missed you so much,” Vi says, catching up and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t be a stranger, okay? I know you’re not thrilled about us working with Sevika, but it’s about the undercity. It’s about making our home better.” Ekko rolls his shoulders but doesn’t knock Vi’s arm back. “Better than Silco, I guess. Better than any of the chembarons,” Ekko mutters. “Better than a Councillor.” Vi laughs. They’re about a mile from the Kiramman estate, but she’s having a good day and doesn’t want to turn back yet. “You know who else could go for some hoverboard lessons? Caitlyn,” Vi says. Caitlyn clears her throat. “Yeah? Think you could learn to shoot a gun from one of these, topside?” Ekko asks, patting the hoverboard under his arm. “Absolutely,” Caitlyn says, chin raised. “And you wouldn’t fall straight on your ass?” Vi asks. “Never,” Caitlyn continues. “A Kiramman excels at whatever they apply themselves to.” They walk another mile before Ekko loses his nerve. His pace slows and he pats his hoverboard, humming to himself. Vi doesn’t argue. She’s proud of herself for getting that far and needs to make the return journey, too. Caitlyn stops a few feet away, giving them space for their goodbyes. “I’m proud of you, Little Man. Proud of everything you’re doing and everything you’ve done,” Vi says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t be far behind. Promise. Me and Caitlyn are going to sort things here, and then we’ll be back where the real action is.” Ekko clicks his tongue, pretending to be annoyed by her praise and pride. Vi knocks her fist under his chin, and with a shake of his head, Ekko moves in for a hug. Vi holds him tightly, afraid of letting go. Ekko is more of himself than ever for all he’s been through. He knows who he is and what he stands for. He came to her willingly, scrambled to her when he was in danger, and yet their paths don’t merge as seamlessly as they should. If Vi isn’t with the Firelights, she’s against them. She knows Ekko doesn’t hold anything she’s doing against her, but he doesn’t approve. He can’t. If she can’t keep hold of him, what chance does she have with Powder? “Don’t go getting sappy on me,” Ekko says, squeezing her tighter. “You’ve got a good thing with your girl, even if she is a Piltie. Don’t mess it up, okay?” Vi laughs, clinging to him tighter. She lets go before he pulls away. “I mean it, Ekko. We’re going to make this right,” Vi calls after him as he hops onto his hoverboard, lighting up the dark street with a choppy, green glow. Ekko clips his mask into place, glances over his should, and gives them both a slight nod. Shifting his body, the hoverboard comes to life. He darts through the wide street, gaining height, and Caitlyn takes Vi’s hand as streaks of neon green fade into the night. Vi keeps her eyes on the darkness, as if she knows what she’d do if Ekko turned around and offered to take her back to the Firelights. The undercity is her first home, but she doesn’t belong there. Not right now. “We could get a car home,” Caitlyn says. Home , she says. “Nah. I’m good, Cupcake, if you don’t mind taking it slow,” Vi says. Caitlyn hooks an arm around Vi’s. Not to support her, but for her own benefit; to keep her close as they wander down the streets she never thought she’d see again. The warm, summer air holds the world still, keeps time cradled in its palms, and the dark sky is only broken by stars in their multitudes. Vi breathes deep. The clean air in abundance, the wide streets of Piltover, the beautiful, slumbering buildings, and green, open spaces no longer disgust her; it isn’t that Piltover doesn’t deserve this, that it’s taking more than its share. With Caitlyn at her side, hand resting lightly on her arm, Vi realises that everyone deserves this. Piltover. The undercity. There’s so much to the world around them; in the grand scheme of the greater continent, Piltover and the could-be nation of Zaun are as closed-off as Stillwater. There’s room for all of them. There’s enough for all of them. It makes her ache. It makes her angrier than any excess before, than the opulence topsiders take for granted, and it all comes back to a low, acidic simmering in the pit of her gut. There’s enough for everyone. There always has been. What the hell has the undercity been sacrificed for? Vi’s never enjoyed a lot meal less because the person next to her was eating the same. “Cupcake?” Vi asks, after a silent mile. “Mm?” Caitlyn hums, lost in thoughts of her own. “I want to live near the undercity. Ground floor. Near the river,” Vi says. “When we, y’know. Have your money and get a place of our own. I want to be able to get to Jericho’s as easily as your parents’.” “I’d like that,” Caitlyn says, tugging Vi a little closer. “Yeah?” Vi tilts her head to see the smile creeping across Caitlyn’s face, the sheen of her eyes reflecting moonlight. “I’d like nothing more,” Caitlyn says, turning to face Vi. She places a hand on her face and ducks her head to kiss her. “And all we have to do is fix the entirety of an unjust society first.” Vi laughs, pulling her into another kiss. With their noses touching, Caitlyn reaches up, tucking Vi’s hair behind her ear. She takes her arm once more, leading Vi to the place they call home, for now. The Kiramman estate rises above the dark horizon, visible down the wide, main road of Piltover from a mile away. No guilt sinks into Vi’s soles as they head towards it. Maybe it should, and maybe she’s gone soft, letting herself believe that the Kirammans truly care for the undercity, but Vi knows her newly-imposed limits, and she has more value than what she can do with her fists. Moonlight glints off the windows. The silence of the night crescendos, and from the top of the Kiramman home, a great burst of blue light erupts. Fiery tears seep skyward. The whole night comes alive with the signal, with the call for help kept locked away for longer than Vi was. A sound like a rib breaking leaves Vi’s throat. She steps forward, wanting to run, caring nothing for the pain in her leg. She grips her cane, picks up her speed. Caitlyn, a few steps ahead, stares back at Vi with wide eyes, offering to do what Vi can’t and terrified to take it from her. “I can get to her,” Vi calls through grit teeth. “I can make it, I just—we can’t leave her alone. Not this time. Not again.” Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The familiar rumble of engines announced their arrival before Carl could see the convoy of vehicles approaching Alexandria's gates. He stood at his post on the watchtower, jaw clenched as he watched the black trucks roll through the entrance like a funeral procession. Every week, at some time but same routine. The Saviors had come for their 'weekly tribute'. Carl's single eye tracked the lead vehicle until it came to a stop in Alexandria's main square. The door swung open with its characteristic metallic groan, and out stepped Negan, leather jacket gleaming in the afternoon sun, Lucille resting casually on his shoulder. But Carl's attention wasn't on the man who had killed his friends, wasn't on the weapon that had crushed skulls and dreams alike. His focus was on the figure that emerged from the passenger side. Valentine Smith moved with a confidence that seemed to mock the very air around her. She surveyed Alexandria like she owned it, which, Carl supposed bitterly, she in a way practically did. Her eyes swept the community until they found exactly what they were looking for; him, standing rigid in the watchtower, trying to look anywhere but at her. She smiled. Carl's stomach twisted. "Carl!" Negan's voice boomed across the square, cheerful as ever. "Get your ass down here, son. We've got work to do." Carl descended the watchtower ladder with deliberate slowness, each rung a small rebellion against the inevitable. By the time he reached the bottom, Negan's men had already begun their systematic pillaging of Alexandria's supplies. They moved through the community like locusts, taking what they pleased, leaving just enough to keep the residents alive until next week. "There's my boy," Negan grinned as Carl approached. "Hope you've been keeping things nice and tidy for daddy's visit." Carl said nothing. He'd learned that silence was often the safest response when it came to Negan. "Now, while my boys do their shopping," Negan continued, gesturing broadly at his men, "I need you to keep an eye on my little princess here." He nodded toward Valentine, who was examining her fingernails with theatrical boredom. "Can't have her wandering off and getting into trouble, now can we?" The request was phrased as such, but Carl knew it was really an order. Everything with Negan was an order, dressed up in the language of choice to make the medicine go down easier. "Sure", Carl muttered, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Wonderful!" Negan clapped his hands together. "Valentine, honey, try not to corrupt our young sheriff too much while I'm gone, alright?" Valentine looked up from her nails, meeting her father's gaze with an expression of perfect innocence. "I'll be good, daddy." The way she said 'good' made Carl's skin crawl. There was nothing good about Valentine Smith. She was chaos wrapped in deceptive packaging, and Carl had learned that the hard way over the past few months of these weekly visits. Negan and his men dispersed to continue their inventory of Alexandria's resources, leaving Carl alone with Valentine in the square. The silence stretched between them for perhaps ten seconds before she spoke. "Soooo", she said, moving to lean against a nearby fence post, "what's the plan today, cowboy? Going to show me around your little playground again?" "Just stay where I can see you", Carl replied curtly. "That's all." "How thrilling." Valentine pushed off from the fence and began walking in a slow circle around him. "You know, Carl, you're not very good at this whole babysitting thing. Most people try to at least pretend they enjoy my company." "I'm not most people." "No", she agreed, stopping directly in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume– something expensive that had no business existing in a post-apocalyptic world. "You're definitely not." Carl took a deliberate step back, maintaining distance. Valentine noticed and smiled wider. "Afraid of me, Carl?" "Should I be?" "Maybe." She tilted her head, studying him with predatory interest. "I am my father's daughter, after all." "That's not something I'd brag about." Valentine laughed, the sound sharp and bright in the heavy air. "Oh, but it is. Do you know what it's like, Carl, to be feared? To walk into a room and watch people calculate whether they should run or submit? It's intoxicating." "It's sick." "Says the boy who's killed more people than I've had birthdays," Valentine countered smoothly. "Don't pretend you don't know what it feels like to have blood on your hands." Carl's jaw tightened. She was baiting him, trying to get a reaction. It was what she always did during these visits – pushed and prodded until she found a weak spot, then pressed until something cracked. "That's different", he said. "Is it? You've killed to protect what's yours. I kill to take what I want. The only difference is motivation." "The difference is everything." Valentine moved closer again, and this time Carl forced himself to hold his ground. Running from her would only encourage whatever game she was playing. "You know what I think, Carl?" she said, her voice dropping to something almost conversational. "I think you're attracted to the danger. Why else would you watch me so intently during these little visits? Why else would you get that look in your eye when I'm around?" "What look?" "Like you can't decide whether you want to kill me or—" "Valentine." Carl's voice was a warning. "Or what?" she pressed, taking another step forward. "What's the alternative, Carl? What's the other thing you want to do to me?" Carl said nothing, but his silence was answer enough. Valentine's smile turned predatory. "That's what I thought." Before Carl could respond, one of Negan's men approached them, a burly guy Carl recognized but couldn't name. "Valentine," the Savior called out, "your dad wants you to come check the medical supplies. Make sure we're not missing anything important." Carl felt his stomach drop. The infirmary. Of all the places in Alexandria, that was the last place he wanted to be alone with Valentine. "Of course he does," Valentine said pleasantly. "Carl, you'll accompany me, won't you? Wouldn't want me to get lost." It wasn't really a question. Carl nodded reluctantly and began walking toward the infirmary, Valentine falling into step beside him. The journey felt like a march toward execution. The infirmary was quiet when they entered, sunlight filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the medical equipment. Carl positioned himself near the door while Valentine began examining the medicine cabinet with theatrical thoroughness. "So many pills", she mused, picking up various bottles and reading their labels. "Antibiotics, painkillers, anxiety medication..." She held up a bottle of sedatives. "I wonder what would happen if someone took too many of these." "They'd die", Carl said flatly. "Mm. Quick way to go, though. Better than some alternatives." She set the bottle down and moved to the next shelf. "Do you ever think about it, Carl? Death, I mean. Do you ever wonder what it would be like to just... stop?" "Everyone thinks about it." "But do you think about it because you're tired, or because you're curious?", She turned to face him, medicine bottle still in her hand. "There's a difference, you know." Carl didn't answer. Valentine set the bottle down and moved closer to him, her movements deliberate and calculated. "I think about it sometimes," she continued conversationally. "Death. What comes after. Whether there's anything after. But then I think about all the fun I'd miss, and I decide to stick around a little longer." "Fun", Carl repeated, the word dripping with disgust. "Don't tell me you don't enjoy our little encounters, Carl. Don't tell me you don't look forward to Tuesdays just a tiny bit." "I don't." "Liar." Valentine was close now, close enough that Carl could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. "You know what I think? I think you spend all week thinking about me. I think you lie in bed at night and wonder what I'm doing, what I'm thinking. I think you're obsessed." "You're insane." "Maybe. But I'm not wrong." She reached out as if to touch his face, and Carl caught her wrist. "Don't." "Why not?" Valentine's voice was barely a whisper now. "What are you afraid will happen if you let me touch you?" Carl's grip on her wrist tightened. "Valentine..." "What, Carl? What happens if you stop pretending you hate me? What happens if you admit that there's something else here, something darker?" "Nothing happens," Carl said, but his voice lacked conviction. "No?" Valentine stepped closer, eliminating the last inch of space between them. "Then why haven't you let go of my wrist? Why are you looking at me like that?" Carl realized she was right. He was still holding her wrist, and he was looking at her–really looking at her– in a way that had nothing to do with keeping watch and everything to do with something he didn't want to name. "This is wrong", he said. "Most of the best things are", Valentine murmured. "Don't you ever get tired of being good, Carl? Don't you ever want to do something just because it feels right instead of because it is right?" "No." "Another lie." Valentine's free hand came up to rest on his chest. "I can feel your heart racing. That's not fear, Carl. That's excitement." Carl knew he should push her away. Knew he should walk out of the infirmary and report this conversation to his father, knew he should maintain the careful distance that kept Alexandria safe. But he didn't move. Couldn't move. "You want to know a secret?" Valentine said, her lips barely inches from his. "I think about you too. I think about what it would be like to break you down, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but want." "Stop." "Make me." The words hung in the air between them like a challenge. Carl stared down at her, this girl who represented everything he hated about their new world, everything that was wrong and twisted and dangerous. She was chaos and destruction and the promise of pain. And he wanted her with an intensity that terrified him. "You're playing a dangerous game," he said. "I know." Valentine's smile was sharp as broken glass. "That's what makes it funny." Carl felt something snap inside him, some carefully maintained wall crumbling under the weight of months of tension and proximity and unwanted desire. Before he could talk himself out of it, before rationality could reassert itself, he kissed her. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things a first kiss was supposed to be. It was fierce and desperate and full of everything he couldn't say, all the anger and frustration and confused attraction that had been building between them since the first day she'd walked into Alexandria. Valentine kissed him back with equal intensity, her hands fisting in his shirt as if she was afraid he might change his mind and pull away. But Carl wasn't pulling away. Couldn't pull away. All the careful control he'd maintained for months was gone, replaced by something raw and honest and entirely too dangerous. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard. Carl stared down at Valentine, seeing his own confusion and want reflected in her eyes. "Well", she said, her voice slightly breathless, "that was unexpected." Carl stepped back, reality crashing back down around him like cold water. What had he done? What had he been thinking? "This can't happen," he said. "Why not?" "Because..." Carl struggled for words that would make sense of the chaos in his head. "Because you're you. Because your father is... because this is wrong." "Maybe", Valentine agreed, straightening her clothes with practiced casualness. "But you kissed me back, Carl. You can't pretend that didn't mean something." Carl looked away for a moment and pressed his lips softly without respond. "Stop being such a wimp, Carl..." Valentine then glances to the side, raising his eyebrows. Carl, who was already frowning again, turned to see a small box on a shelf, with a pack of condoms sticking out of it, "No." "Oh, why not? Can't you get an erection? You're probably just little down there." Carl wasn't the type to get carried away by such silly provocations, but something inside him, something fiery and bubbling, urged him to shut her mouth once and for all. He snorted audibly before going straight to grab the pack of condoms and taking one out. He didn't really know the exact details of how do it, but he had a vague idea; he wasn't stupid, and he was going to prove it to her. Valentine sat on the edge of a gurney, watching him expectantly, a smile on her face as she waited to see what his next move would be. Carl moved close enough to be between Valentine's thighs. She grabbed his shirt collar to pull him closer, causing him to let out a small gasp, which he couldn't tell if was from annoyance or pleasure. "Kiss me again, cowboy, show me you're not just a daddy's boy and that you can actually do something big." Those words were like immediate permission for him to kiss her again with renewed fury and intensity, his hands gripping her waist tightly enough to leave a mark. At his touch, she arched her back, following the kiss without hesitation, their tongues locked in a battle that neither of them wanted to lose. Without looking one of his hands slowly moved up at Valentine's shirt, until her bra was visible. At another time, that would have made him nervous, but he didn't even notice; he completely ignored her clothes and went straight to caressing one of her breasts with gentle firmness. Valentine moaned softly during the kiss, from the sensation of Carl's calloused, warm hand kneading her soft breast. This was enough to cause a bulge to form in Carl's jeans, he grunted at the feeling of tightness down there. Already a little anxious, she tried to unbuckle his belt when he pulled away to take breath. Panting, he watched her struggle a bit with his belt. He couldn't help feeling a little embarrassed. It was a strange but somewhat sweet scene, though as soon as that thought crossed his mind, he quickly and abruptly unbuckled his belt and opened his jeans himself.* "Mmh, a little impatient, huh?",she smirked a little. "Shut up." "You tell me to shut up, but you sure got hard from just a little sound I made...", Valentine used one finger to pull down the hem of Carl's jeans and boxers, revealing his erection, which gently bumped against his stomach with a wet sound. His cock was already red and swollen, with pre-cum dripping from the tip. Carl sighed, a little breathless, but he didn't move, not even when Valentine ran the tip of her finger along its length, testing it. "Oh, I underestimated you. You do have a nice dick." "Don't say things like that..." "Why not? I'm being honest. You should be flattered, cowboy." "You're making me insane." Valentine remained silent at those breathless words from Carl. She could feel the heat and moisture building up between her legs. She bit her lip before gesturing for Carl to continue. As soon as he saw Valentine's consent, he moved his hands to the sides of her shorts, though he paused for a second. "Why are you stopping?" "Are you sure?" "God, Carl, just take off these damn shorts!" That was enough for Carl to lift her slightly to remove her shorts, leaving her in only her panties, already damp with moisture. She sighed as the air cooled her still-covered crotch. Carl gently ran his fingers over her, making her hold her breath, then pushed her panties to one side to see her pussy dripping alredy por him. His jaw tightened slightly before he began to caress and explore. By this point, Valentine had opened her legs further, clinging to the edge of the bed. His fingers, which he would usually have used to stop her from cause damage, now touched her as if he didn't want her to suffer any. Then he inserted a finger. "O-Oh, if that's your finger, I don't want to imagine your dick." Carl started slowly moving his finger to silence her. When he thought she could handle it, he inserted a second finger, making scissor-like movements inside her. Valentine, now starting to feel more pleasure, felt very comfortable, moaning heavily, clinging to the bed and to Carl's flannel shirt, who felt his member contract from the excitement of what he was seeing and hearing. Then he withdrew his fingers. Valentine grimaced at the emptiness, but her expression changed to one of slight surprise when she saw Carl, while taking the condom with his clean hand, put his fingers, still wet from her, into his mouth, licking her juices as if nothing were wrong. "You're disgusting." "You looked quite pleased when I did it." "Now you're the one who's bothering me? How bold" Carl sighed at Valentine's attitude, but simply continued putting on the condom. He opened it carefully and unrolled it with a certain delicacy but clumsiness on his penis. Valentine had to hold a little the laugh as she watched how Carl was putting the condom. Even after all the íntimacy of the moment she couldn't stop bothering him. Carl noticed this and felt vulnerable; combined with the excitement of the moment and his mixed emotions, he felt his previous annoyance resurface. As soon as he finished putting on the condom, without warning, he pulled down her panties, dropping them to the floor, eliciting a small shriek from an unsuspecting Valentine. He firmly spread her thighs to the sides and, with one hand, grasped his cock, aligning it with the her small vagina. "W-Wow, what are you doing?" "You asked for it." Valentine opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out; her mouth just formed an 'O' shape as Carl's hard cock began to enter her slowly but steadily. "Oh, fuck...", he bit the inside of his cheek as he felt the warmth and tightness inside Valentine. It was truly a new sensation for both of them. He was focused on fully penetrating her, but Valentine was already feeling hot and passionate from the intimacy, so she wrapped her arms around his neck and started kissing him. Carl let out a small sigh in the kiss, responding to her, and then began to thrust slowly but deeply. The medication they had originally come to the infirmary for was completely forgotten amidst the new heat that now enveloped them. The small, tidy room was now filled with lewd sounds of wet skin slapping against skin 'plap plap', and gasps and low moans that grew louder as Carl's movements became faster and more forceful, thanks to the natural lubrication and the sweet sweat of both of them. Without stopping his movements inside her, Carl slowly moved his head from her lips down to her jaw and then to her neck, leaving her skin burning with kisses and nibbles that made Valentine's legs tremble. He continued moving down until he reached her half-covered breasts. With one hand, he held her by the hips, and with his free hand, he unhooked her bra, which fell down with a slight jolt, as he continued kissing her. Without hesitation, Carl went straight to her breasts, gently massaging them with his free hand and licking and nibbling them with his mouth. Completely overwhelmed by the double stimulation, Valentine grabbed his long, brown hair, her back aching from how arched it was. "Carl... Ah" "So tight... I think I'm about to come." "Do it... I will too." As if on cue, Valentine moaned loudly in Carl's ear, whom she held tightly against her chest, embracing—or rather, squeezing—his head between her arms as if for support for the climax that hit her like a freight train, a flood of euphoria and pleasure that made her clench her already throbbing vagina. Carl didn't stop moving until he felt it; the heat and friction became too much for his virgin body, causing him to ejaculate after a few more thrusts. He continued moving, somewhat awkwardly and uncoordinated, for a while longer, as if to process the orgasm. And then he collapsed onto Valentine, who was like jelly in his hands, he gently wrapped his arms around her. They didn't say anything more, it wasn't necessary. The infirmary was once again peaceful and silent, though now with two sweaty, ecstatic intruders. Over time, they recovered from the intense act. Valentine loosened her grip enough for Carl to lift his head; his long bangs stuck to his forehead, his cheeks flushed, and his eye bandage slightly askew. "You're a mess." She teased. "You too." Valentine wasn't far behind; her lips were slightly swollen from the kisses, and there were a few reddish marks on her chest and neck. She would probably complain about it later, but right now she couldn't stop smiling at seeing Carl like that... so vulnerable, the same Carl who she made angry and drove crazy was so tender in front of her right now. "But look at you, what would Rick's son think seeing you like this? All silly and cute, like a little dummy teddy bear." "You can't be without be annoying for even a second, can you?" "I'll make sure to mess up your life until I die, Grimes kid." Carl grumbled with a little annoyance that didn't seem very genuine. Then Valentine gently brushed the hair off his face, silencing him and making him look at her with confusion, and so she kissed him softly on the lips, leaving him breathless. It almost seemed like something out of a movie; perhaps they only needed a kiss to get along... And then they heard something. Before Carl could respond with another kiss burying again in the ambient, voices echoed from outside near the infirmary. Negan's distinctive laugh carried through the walls, signaling that the weekly pillaging was nearly complete. Making both of them all scared, well, not that much of Valentine but still she had to hurry up. "Looks like daddy's almost finished...", Valentine said this before they both went their separate ways, making sure to fix all to avoid raising any suspicions about what had happened. Even though he had already seen her and been inside her, Carl still turned around to buckle his belt while she was getting dressed again. He didn't look at her until he stopped hearing the rustling of fabric as she put her clothes back on; he had to hear Valentine clear her throat before he finally turned around. He saw her moving toward the medicine cabinet as if nothing had happened. "Better grab what we came for." She selected several bottles of medication with practiced efficiency, slipping them into a bag she'd he grabbed it from there. Carl watched her work, still trying to process what had just occurred. "Valentine," he started. "Don't," she said, not looking at him. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Don't apologize, don't try to take it back, don't make this into something it isn't." "What is it then?" Valentine paused in her packing, considering the question. "It's truth," she said finally. "Maybe the only honest thing between us." She finished collecting the medical supplies and turned to leave, but stopped at the last moment. With casual precision, she turned around and picked up a hair clip that she had dropped earlier–which she had only noticed at the last moment– something delicate and expensive that definitely didn't belong in their current world. "Oops," she said, placing it on her hair again. "How clumsy of me. I hope I don't miss nothing more." Their eyes met for a moment, and Carl saw something in her gaze that might have been invitation or threat or both. Then she was gone, leaving Carl alone in the infirmary with the scent of her perfume and the taste of rebellion still on his lips. ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･₊ ⊹ The convoy was loaded and ready to leave within the hour. Carl stood in the square again, watching as Negan's men prepared to return to the Sanctuary. The weekly tribute had been collected, Alexandria had been reminded of its place in the new order, and everything was proceeding according to routine. "Another successful shopping trip," Negan announced cheerfully as Valentine rejoined him beside the lead truck. "I do love coming here. Such a friendly, cooperative community." Valentine slid into the passenger seat without looking back at Carl, but he could feel her awareness of him like a physical thing. She said something to her father that Carl couldn't hear, and Negan laughed. "Until next week, Alexandria," Negan called out as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Stay safe, stay productive, and remember– we're all on the same team here." The engines roared to life, and the convoy began its departure. Carl watched the vehicles disappear through Alexandria's gates, taking Valentine and her dangerous games with them. The community exhaled collectively as the sound of engines faded, residents emerging from their hiding places to assess what had been taken this week. Rick approached Carl, his expression grim but relieved. "How was she today?" Rick asked, not needing to specify who he meant. "Same as always," Carl lied. "Annoying." Rick nodded, accepting the answer at face value. He had enough to worry about without adding Carl's complicated relationship with Negan's daughter to the list. "I'm going to check on the inventory," Rick said. "Make sure they didn't take anything we can't spare." Carl nodded and watched his father walk away. Around him, Alexandria slowly returned to its normal rhythm, people resuming their daily activities as if nothing had happened. As if everything was normal. But nothing felt normal to Carl. He could still taste Valentine on his lips, could still feel the echo of her hands in his shirt. The act had lasted maybe twenty minutes or less, but it had shifted something fundamental in the careful balance they'd maintained. Almost without conscious thought, Carl found himself walking back toward the infirmary. He told himself he was just checking to make sure nothing important had been taken, that it was a routine security sweep. The infirmary was quiet and empty, late afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows at a different angle than it had an hour ago. Carl moved through the space methodically, checking supplies and equipment. And there, on the examination table where Valentine lay down before, were her panties. The small pair that she was using in that moment. Carl picked it up with two fingers, feeling the light weight of it in his palm. It was delicate work, probably expensive even before the world ended. The kind of thing a girl might wear to a date or to look more atractive – remnants of a moment where a lot of things had happened. He turned it over in his fingers, studying the intricate details. There was no note, no message, nothing to explain its presence except Valentine's words echoing in his memory: "How clumsy of me. I hope I don't miss nothing more." It wasn't clumsy. Nothing Valentine did was clumsy. This was intentional, calculated, a move in whatever game she'd been playing since the moment they'd met. But what kind of move? What was she trying to tell him? Carl pocketed the panties and turned to leave the infirmary. As he reached the door, he paused, looking back at the examination table where thirty minutes ago he'd fucked Negan's daughter with a desperation that still made his chest tight. Despite everything, despite who she was, despite the danger, despite the absolute insanity of the situation... Carl found himself smiling. Not the careful, controlled expression he wore for the community, but something real and slightly excited. Next week couldn't come soon enough. The side smile was still playing at the corners of his mouth as he stepped out into the Alexandria sunshine, Valentine's panties burning like a secret in his pocket. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Mort was sleepy. Mort was tired and mama- who now wanted to be called Ms. Megaera- was very loud. She was loud with the way she placed things down and loud how she talked. Mort sat up in his little bed with stars on the blankets and a rocketship pillow. Light filtered in from the hallway, a golden beam that cast itself across the room, across his bed, and onto his face. He looked across the room at Battie, who could sleep through her mother’s loud outbursts. Battie herself was much like her mom, loud and headstrong. Playtime went her way almost all the time, and Mort just went along. Mort tiptoed across the room, the carpet soft under his feet, careful that the loud voices didn’t turn his way. “You’re only with me because you like the money!!” Mort identified the voice as his Dada’s, which scared him. His dad never got loud mad, except at Ms. Megaera-Mama. Mort peeked out further, watching the argument from down the hall. Arms were waving fast, and their voices were so loud that little Mort had to cover his sensitive ears. As Mort heard his and Battie’s name thrown around in the mix, he decided the conversation wasn’t worth listening to anymore. He was so sleepy, and his bed seemed so comfortable. Mort crawled back into bed and laid in his bed with the star sheets and rocket ship pillow. He tucked himself in, as best as a boy could tuck, and curled up, pulling his rocket pillow over his head to try and sleep. Sleep was patchy, and his dreams turned back and forth from happy parents, snuggling by a fire, to angry parents, fighting and waving their arms and having no care for sleepy little boys in the other room. He dreamed that they were mad with him, he dreamed that they were mad at Battie. In the later hours, when Thanatos and Megaera went to sleep, Megaera in the bed and Thanatos on the couch, Mort got to sleep. Bad sleep, but quiet sleep. In the morning, Ms. Megaera-Mama didn’t talk to Mort or his dada, so Battie didn’t either. “Megaera, leave Mort out of this.” Thanatos pleaded, not wanting poor Mort to get involved, but she ignored him. All morning. Mort ate his cereal and drank his juice, and let his Dada dress him, giving him a smile after he finished. He didn’t protest as he was buckled into one car, and Battie into another. It was normal, by then. The drive was calming, Mort was still sleepy from the night before, he stared at his Dada’s hands on the wheel, the same hands that flew through the air angrily last night. But still, the same hands that smoothed his hair and rubbed his back. The same arms that gave him hugs. The same Dada. Thanatos walked Mort up to his preschool, giving him goodbye kisses, as if it was enough comfort to save him from what happened the night before. But Mort walked into his classroom bravely, hanging his backpack up on the hook, and when he turned back to the door to tell his dada about his sleep, he had vanished from the doorway. … Thanatos knew it from the way his son looked, the way he responded, that his boy was tired.The argument the previous night had gotten loud and ugly, and Thanatos should have made sure that it was kept quiet. But when he returned home, quiet wasn’t anywhere in the picture. Megara got going about the next thing, and the next thing, and the next thing after that, and Thanatos shocked himself with what he said next. “If you want a divorce, fine. Let’s get one. You have the forms, let’s plan it out.” Thanatos said. “I’ll move in with my mom or my brother, and we wait out the period for it to be finalized. Then we show up to court.” Thanatos said, picking at his nails. The color had drained from Megaera’s face as she processed it. A divorce. A legal separation. But that’s what she wanted, no? It’s what she had threatened numerous times, going as far as to get papers. She couldn’t deny it: they didn’t love each other anymore. They hadn’t for a long time. … Mort ran outside waiting to see his dada waiting for him, but instead, his grandma was waiting. He walked to her cautiously, taking her hand. “Hello, darling.” She smiled as she picked him up and put him into his carseat. “Dada’s busy right now, so you’re coming home with Grandma Nyx. Mort nodded gently. Where was Dada? At Grandma Nyx’s house, not much happened. Mort watched Bluey a little, and watched Sesame Street more. He felt better in the presence of Elmo and Big Bird. He had spaghetti for dinner in fat, short straws, unlike the ones Ms. Megaera-Mama made. When the sky was dark and Mort had already taken his bubble bath, his Dada walked through the door. He was hugged by Grandma Nyx first, and then pushed past uncles to hug Mort. Finally, Mort clung to his Dada and everything was okay. Dada smelled like safety and calm. Dada’s arms were warm and he would hold him all night. Many voices bombarded them from all sides, until Grandma Nyx hushed them and whisked them away, away, away, until it was just Mort and his Dada. Mort felt as his Dada walked to the black couch and sat, rubbing Mort’s back. Mort was wearing the fuzzy purple pajamas that he always wore at Grandma Nyx’s, even though they were too small. “How was your day, Mort?” Thanatos asked, his voice more calming than the woosh of the wind outside, more warm than the summer air, twirling and singing its sweet melody outside. “Good, I learned a new song for red today.” Mort mumbled. “A new song for red? Can you sing it for me?” Thanatos asked, sitting up so he could see Mort sing it for him. “Uh-Huh.” Mort took a breath. “R-e-d red, R-e-d red, I can spell red, I can spell red! Fire trucks are re-ed. Stop signs are red too-oo. R-e-d. R-e-d.” Mort declared proudly. Thanatos smiled, trying to repeat it. “R-e-d red, R-e-d red, I can spell red, I can spell red! Fire trucks are re-ed… What else is red?” Thanatos asked, earning a giggle from little Mort. “Stop signs!” Mort announced. “Oh, silly me! Stop signs are red too-oo… uh oh. I keep forgetting. Sing it with me?” Thanatos asked, finally happy to see his son’s smile. “Ok, dada, let’s sing it together.” Mort said, leading him through the song all over again. … It was late when Mort finally went to sleep. Even later when he stopped stirring when Thanatos put him in the bed. Thanatos returned to the living room, facing many pairs of eyes. A cup of tea was thrust into his hands, and everyone watched expectantly. Thanatos took some time to watch the tea leaves swirl around in their bag, the spoon moving with the current of the swirling liquid. The cup had a fire truck on it, a red fire truck. Because fire trucks were red, Thanatos laughed to himself. He looked up, meeting the sets of his eyes that belonged to his brothers, his sisters, his mother. “I’m getting a divorce!” He said proudly, though he had thrown up over the fact earlier. Bile burned his throat more than the heat of the tea, burned with the heavy burden of a divorce, of his choices. Of his failures. He had rehearsed how to tell Mort, but nothing could prepare him for how hard it actually was. To throw that into his child’s happy smile made that bile burn stronger, so he kept his mouth shut. The word divorce felt foreign, something that happened to others but not Thanatos. But of course, Thanatos. The others looked around, hoping for some sort of clue as to what to say next. Should they celebrate or cry with him? Should they press or place a delicate band-aid over the sensitive wound? “I’m not mad. I don’t think so. It has been coming for a long time.” Thanatos said, taking his seat and sipping the tea. “I honestly wish I’d chosen sooner, I could’ve spared Mort having to listen to our arguments. I’ve coordinated meetings with the preschool’s counselor. She specializes in early therapy. Maybe he’ll need to talk, I don't know.” Thanatos couldn’t stop talking. “I’m not sure how to tell him, maybe go to the fair? I wouldn’t want to ruin that. Maybe we could go feed the ducks. I don’t know.” Thanato chuckled. “It’s not my stuff or her I’m worried about.” He added. “It’s Mort. It’s always Mort. Marry another single parent, that’ll work out, won’t it?” He chuckled dryly. Hypnos chewed his lip, while Nemesis swirled her tea. Nyx just listened and all the other siblings did something of that nature. “Maybe it just comes up when it comes up. You don't need to make an event of telling him.” Hypnos added. Thanatos thought about it. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it’d come up the next day, maybe in a month. Thanatos nodded softly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He agreed, downing the rest of his tea in one gulp and walking to go brush his teeth. He brushed his teeth, listening to the methodical sounds of the brush in his mouth, spitting out the toothpaste whenever it got to be too much. He laced floss through his gums, the burning, pulling feeling not unfamiliar that day. He had spent the day researching divorces with Megaera and separating their closet first, then the bed. He let her keep the furniture, he didn’t want the memories.Thanatos had realized that they hadn’t fought nearly as much that day, instead just listening to the heavy sound of silence between them. It wasn’t an eerie silence, just still, as frozen as fish in a pond during winter, just waiting for something to trigger a difference, but nothing did. They got boxes sorted for Thanatos’ items, and he left a lot. Plates, silverware, he didn’t want to eat from them anymore, so he only took the things that didn’t have her written all over them. Battie was picked up by Alecto and Tisiphone, Mort picked up by his Grandma, Nyx. They spent the whole day making boxes and piles, and Thanatos would be back the next day to make more. He rinsed his mouth out and washed his face, groaning at the stress-acne that popped up. People say divorces are traumatic, but it didn’t feel like trauma, more like… release. The sort of release a rock has, tumbling off of the side of a cliff when it finally broke away. Their first fight had felt more traumatic, their second, their third. By the time they had started happening monthly, something began to shift. The subtle cracking of the rock away from the cliff. Not enough to break unless further provoked, enough to be mended with lots of care, but it wasn’t mended. It was pulled. It was pulled with shallow insults and unnecessary anger. It was pulled by fights when the kids were home. It was pulled by sleeping on the couch. It was pulled by the kids gravitating toward “their” parent again. It was wrenched away when she asked Mort to call her Ms. Megaera. Thanatos looked in the mirror and realized that Megara hadn’t meant much to him as of late. Battie had always disliked him, so maybe it was for the better. But the only one he cared about in this dilemma, really, was Mort. Thanatos padded back to the guest room, Charon’s old room, where he spotted Mort sleeping peacefully. He smiled, sliding into bed beside his son, biting his lip as Mort rolled over to face his chest, but staying asleep. He pulled the blanket up and laid on his back, watching the projection of the firefly's glow through the window. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Prologue. Bilbo had never felt so small before, even when surrounded by men, elves and wizards thrice his size. Bilbo had never felt as small as he felt now as he clutched onto Thorin’s clothes, tears getting stuck in his throat as he fought back sobs. The sounds of the Eagles as they grabbed and clawed at the oncoming army barely registered in his brain as he stared at the only person he had ever loved. Bilbo had always been a man who was alone, having lost his parents so young and not being like the rest of the hobbits in the Shire, never Baggins enough nor Took enough to fit in anywhere. And Bilbo had been fine with that; he preferred to be alone, actually. But now? Now he felt more alone than he ever had… and he hated it, the acorn in his pocket feeling like it was scorching him while the ring in his other pocket felt heavier than it had ever been before. Sitting on the bench in his front yard, Bilbo puffed on his pipe, inhaling the smoke deeply before making smoke rings like he had done many times before, enjoying the peace when suddenly smoke hit his face, interrupting his peaceful moment by making him cough. Waving away the smoke from his face, Bilbo opened his eyes to stare at the stranger standing behind his fence, staring at him expectantly. Raising an eyebrow at the tall man - because it was clearly no Hobbit - Bilbo hesitated before speaking. “Good… Morning?” “What do you mean?” He said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a good morning to be good on?” Asked the grey-clad man, raising a bushy eyebrow at the hobbit that stuck out further than the brim of his grey hat. Confused about what to answer with, Bilbo moved his mouth around a bit, trying to find the correct answer to such a long and confounding question before simply answering with a confused voice. “All of them at once, I suppose..?” Seeming pleased with that answer, the man smirked at him before clearing his throat. “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone” “I should think so!” Bilbo said before puffing on his pipe again, blowing out another ring of smoke that flew over the hill undisturbed. “In these parts, we are a plain folk and have no use of adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner! I can’t think what anybody sees in them,” Bilbo said, not wanting anything to do with adventures or men or anyone in fact beyond what was needed of him! Standing up, Bilbo leaned over the fence, opened up his mail box, took out his morning letters, and began to flip through them, glancing here and there at the man still standing there, seemingly not having quite gotten the hint that Bilbo thought he had laid out quite clearly. Getting uncomfortable with the man’s staring, Bilbo started to squirm under the heavy gaze before snapping a bit crossed. “Good morning!” he said loudly. “We don’t want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water!” Walking up the stairs to his door, Bilbo was stopped by the man’s voice. “What a lot of things you use Good Morning for!” Said the man. “Now you mean that you want to get rid of me, and that it won’t be good till I move off.” Sighing, Bilbo turned around, tucking his letters beneath his armpit and taking his pipe out of his mouth before answering. “Not at all, not at all, my dear sir! Let me see, I don’t think I know your name?” Yes, yes, my dear sir - and I know your name, Mr. Bilbo Baggins. And you do know my name, though you don’t remember that I belong to it.” The man paused to flash Bilbo a smile before continuing. “I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means… me!” before muttering still loud enough to be heard “to think I would be Good morninged by Belladonna Took’s son, as if I was selling buttons at the door!” ending the sentence at a much louder note, raising an eyebrow yet again at the Hobbit who stook frozen at the stone step leading to his front door. “Gandalf, Gandalf! Good gracious me! Not the wandering wizard that gave Old Took a pair of magic diamond studs that fastened themselves and never came undone till ordered? Not the fellow who used to tell such wonderful tales at parties, about dragons and goblins and giants and the rescue of princesses and the unexpected luck of widows’ sons? Not the man who used to make such particularly excellent fireworks! I remember those! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer’s Eve. Splendid! They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire and hang in the twilight all evening!” Said Bilbo, shock and happiness clear in his voice as he made his way down the steps to stand beside the bench, staring up at Gandalf. “Dear me!” he went on. “Not the Gandalf who was responsible for so many quiet lads and lasses going off into the Blue for mad adventures? Anything from climbing trees to visiting elves—or sailing in ships, sailing to other shores! Bless me, life used to be quite inter—I mean, you used to upset things badly in these parts once upon a time. I beg your pardon, but I had no idea you were still in business.” Bilbo ended it cheerily with a small chuckle, even tho he hadn’t seen the old family friend since he was a faunt. “Where else should I be?” Ask the wizard. “All the same, I am pleased to find you remember something about me. You seem to remember my fireworks kindly, at any rate, and that is not without hope. Indeed, for your old grandfather Took’s sake, and for the sake of poor Belladonna, I will give you what you asked for.” Confused by what Gandalf meant, Bilbo’s smile dropped, and he raised an eyebrow. “Pardon? I haven’t asked for anything” “Yes, you have!” Answered Gandalf jovially, confusing the poor Hobbit. “Twice now. My pardon. In fact, I will go so far as to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very good for you—and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it.” Gandalf ended it with a bright smile as dread filled Bilbo’s stomach. “Nope! Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea—any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Goodbye!” Bilbo said as he hurried to his round green door, closing it as quickly as he dared not to seem rude. Putting his letters away on the desk beside his door, Bilbo stopped in his tracks as a scraping could be heard on his door. Moving over to the round window beside his door, Bilbo peaked out it to see what was happening when suddenly the Wizard’s old face appeared in front of the window, scaring Bilbo enough to let out a very un-Baggin like swear word before duking down, deciding to move to his writing room, staring out the window just in time to see the wizard disappear down his step and close the gate behind him before walking down the hill away from Bag End. Sighing in relief, Bilbo muttered to himself. “What on Earth did I ask him to tea for!” Making his way to the kitchen, Bilbo decided to take himself a piece or two of cake to calm down from the whole ordeal, unaware of the queer little sign sitting on his freshly painted door. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Can’t sleep?” The words made Jean flinch as she glanced up from her computer. She offered a weak smile to Scott as he came in from the doorway. He was shirtless and in sweatpants, clearly not having expected to see anyone else in the kitchen this late on a Tuesday night–or rather, this early on a Wednesday morning. “No,” she said, looking back to her essay. She shut her computer closed and laid her head down on it, staring at Scott as he went and grabbed himself some water. He drank and turned to look at her, leaning on the fridge. She was glad he was shirtless, and Jean couldn’t help herself but trace her eyes over the curvature of his abdomen, his muscles. “Can you?” “Woke up a few hours ago,” he said, drinking, “couldn’t fall back asleep. What’re you working on?” “Just a paper for Mr. Hand’s class,” she said. “He’s killing me with this.” He chuckled. “Hey, you were the one who took his class,” he said, leaning against the fridge, “Mrs. Ellis is so much better.” She smiled. He smiled back, and raised his glass in a mock toast. “What’s the paper about?” “Oh, something real interesting,” she said, standing up from her chair and going to the counter, hopping on it and sitting. “We were given a list of topics to do, and I got stuck with carrier pigeons and their role in World War One.” “I’m jealous.” “Knew you would be.” A sweet silence settled between them, and Jean glanced to the side. She wanted to keep him talking. It was nice to hear his voice. “You know,” she said suddenly, “I’ve been thinking. About what I’m gonna do when I graduate. I’ve already been accepted to a few colleges, around here and out-of-state, and I’ve been trying to narrow down which one I’m going to go to.” He frowned. “Yeah? You’re really thinking about leaving the institute?” She nodded. “Well, it’s not that, I just–I don’t know,” she said. “I’d love to stay, really, but I don’t know if I want to go and get my degree, or if I want to stay here, or…” She shrugged. “I don’t see how having a degree could hurt.” “What would you get it in?” “Biology, maybe neuroscience,” she said. “You’d kill in exercise science.” He laughed and she nudged his shoulder, leaning forward and grinning. She watched as the light caught his jawline. “I’m serious,” she encouraged, “you’d do amazing. Have you even thought about where you’re gonna go after you graduate?” His laughter died down and his expression fell slightly, and he glanced into his cup, swirling the ice around. She leaned back. They listened to the crickets chirp outside. “Yeah,” he said after a few moments. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it, but…unless the Professor really encourages me not to, I think I’m going to stick with the institute,” he said. “We’re really helping people here. I mean, with everything going on–The Brotherhood, Mystique, Magneto–without us, a lot of stuff could go wrong.” She tilted her head. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said. “Leader brain.” She poked his forehead and he rolled his eyes, chuckling. Jean knew he wasn’t attracted to her. It sucked. She watched as he never leaned in the same way she did, how he’d only touch her shoulder, top of her back, only in a friendly way, how he called her his best friend. She would lie if she said it didn’t make her jealous. It especially sucked when Taryn came into note a while ago–they dated briefly, broke up, and Jean thought she had a chance, but it never seemed to work out. She glanced down at her lap then back up at him. She ignored the buzzing on her phone. Probably a text from Duncan. They had been talking again, albeit not much–she figured it was probably just a last ditch attempt, a dare from his friends. She knew she was popular, she knew she was pretty, she knew she was skilled, and he did, too. It wasn’t pride, it wasn’t gloating, it was just a fact. “Do you ever think about staying?” he asked. “Maybe take online courses instead?” She hesitated. She had thought about it, actually, but had never given it too much consideration. “I mean…I guess,” she admitted. “I don’t see how that could hurt, honestly. One of the schools I’ve been looking at does offer a completely online curriculum for some of their majors, so I guess it couldn’t hurt to look through that.” Then, she smiled. “You’re awful smart for someone so lame.” He laughed and put his hand to his chest in mock offense. “Wow, okay; rude.” “Oh, you love me, and you know it.” “Well, of course I do,” he said, “you’re like a sister to me.” That hurt a lot worse than she expected it to. Still, though, she swallowed and smiled, tilting her head and raising her shoulders. She used her telepathy to get herself a bagel from the fridge and she bit into it, crossing one leg over the other. He went to the sink and washed his cup out, before putting it back in the cabinet. “Do you need any help on your paper?” She shook her head, her throat now a little sore from the forming lump. “Nah, I’m good.” “Then I’m going back to bed. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, waving to her, and exiting the kitchen. She put her face into her hands, and when she was sure he was gone, groaned. God, did it ever get better? Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The war room of the Palace of the Kings had gone quiet save for the soft crackle of logs in the hearth. The map of Skyrim, scarred with knife points and ringed with tiny Stormcloak banners, dominated the long table at the chamber's heart. Over it stood Ulfric Stormcloak, arms folded, brow furrowed in contemplation. To his left, Galmar Stone-Fist leaned with both fists on the table, scowling as if the map had insulted his ancestors. Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced stood beside him, arms crossed, the firelight catching the deep scars on his face. Opposite them was Jorleif, steward and advisor, robes slightly rumpled, quill and ink forgotten at his side. Ulfric broke the silence. "The boy has challenged me." Galmar snorted. "You mean the Dragonborn." "He is a boy," Ulfric said. His voice held no malice. Just weariness. "Barely thirty winters. Younger than Torygg I shouted him to ash. And yet he slew Alduin. The bards sing his name louder than mine." Yrsarald offered a terse nod. "He commands dragons, Jarl. And stood against the Thalmor when we still thought them allies." Ulfric glanced at the map, his fingers drumming on its edge. "He fights for Skyrim, but not our Skyrim. He’s forged his own path. One the people might rally behind if I fall." Galmar scoffed. "Then don’t fall." "Easier said," Ulfric murmured. His eyes flicked to the western edge of the map. "We need Markarth. Its silver. Its forges. Its walls." Jorleif frowned. "You mean to take it before the duel?" "No. During." A long silence fell. "I will send a missive," Ulfric continued. "A week from now. I will name the Throat of the World as the site of our duel. The symbolism is strong, and the boy won’t resist it. Meanwhile, we march on the Reach. By the time he realizes, Markarth will be ours." "And your honor?" Jorleif asked softly. Ulfric’s eyes narrowed. "My duty is to Skyrim." Galmar gave a sharp nod. "Damn right." "But this is not the way," Jorleif pressed. "You gave your word." "I gave my word to defend Skyrim’s freedom," Ulfric snapped. "Not to hand it over to a half-blood whelp with a dragon’s name." Yrsarald’s voice cut through the tension like a drawn blade. "And if he sees through it? What then?" Ulfric paused. "Then we remind him that war is not won by single combat." None noticed the figure just beyond the threshold. Ralof had come only to deliver fresh logs for the war room hearth. But as he approached, the voices inside halted his step. What he heard chilled him more than the Skyrim frost. He backed away silently, the wood forgotten. His hands trembled. He’s going to betray him. Ralof had seen much since Helgen. Fought in skirmishes, watched brave men bleed out for the cause he’d once believed in with his whole heart. He still wore the Stormcloak blue, but it felt heavier now. As he disappeared into the shadows of the hall, only one thought burned in his mind: Kieran Stormwhisper must be warned. * The War Room door had barely shut before he made for the barracks, heart thudding against his ribs like a war drum. He kept his head down, his boots quiet, ears straining for the echo of pursuit. None came. The guards outside the Palace had heard nothing. The others... Galmar had barked for ale. Yrsarald had already started sharpening his axe. Jarl Ulfric—his Jarl—had settled back in his throne with a sigh, as if the lies he’d uttered were no heavier than a cloak dropped on the floor. But Ralof felt them. Like iron shackles, cinching tighter with every step. He ducked into a storage room on the lower floor, stripped the Stormcloak cuirass from his back, and tossed it into the flames of a brazier. The blue fabric caught quickly, curling and blackening until the bear sigil was unrecognizable. He pulled on a plain set of traveler’s leathers—old, battered, smeared with blood from drills in the yard. His face he wrapped with a scarf, the kind traders wore on the road to shield against the cold. He didn’t say goodbye. Not to the men he’d bled beside. Not to the captain he once called brother. Not to the Jarl who had given him purpose. The Jarl he’d pledged himself to for so many years. He stole out through the back hallways, through the city and to the gate, down to the stables under cover of a sleet-laced twilight. Ralof’s own mount was humble—a dull-coated palfrey, no warhorse, but fast and surefooted. He mounted without a sound, guiding the horse down the path with the ease of a soldier who had patrolled these roads a hundred times before. And no one stopped him. He didn’t look back. Not at the Palace spires. Not at the silent stones. Not at the looming banners that flapped in the wind like they still meant something. He had one destination now. One truth left to tell. Jorrvaskr. To the Dragonborn. To the ones who still might stop this before the land cracked open again in war. * Jorrvaskr’s courtyard rang with the rhythm of steel on steel, laughter, and the occasional yelp of bruised pride. “Elf-ears!” Lucia shrieked, stomping her foot. “You take that back, Horker-face! ” Sofie snapped, crossing her arms and jutting her chin out with defiant confidence. Lucia narrowed her eyes. “Skeever-toes.” Sofie gasped like she'd been stabbed in the heart. “That’s it! You smell like draugr breath! ” “You look like a hagraven and you smell like one too!” “DO NOT!” “DO TOO!” “Oh Divines,” Aela muttered as she drew back her bow. “At least when trolls fight they don’t do it near the quiver racks.” Kirsli laughed from beside her, letting her own arrow fly into the bullseye. “I’m just impressed she learned that insult from me and not from Farkas.” “Hey!” Farkas called, breaking from his sparring match with Torvar, just long enough to pout. “I don’t teach ‘hagraven-face!’ I only use it when I mean it!” “Which is about once a week,” muttered Vilkas dryly, parrying Ria’s thrust with a flick of his blade. “Usually when Torvar eats the last of the eidar cheese.” Across the yard, Illia lunged at Athis with both daggers, her form sharp, her balance stronger than it had been in the past week. “Your footwork’s improving,” Athis grunted, ducking low. “But you still drop your guard—” “Not this time,” Illia smirked, sweeping a leg under him. Nearby, Argis and Njada traded heavy blows, both grinning despite the sweat pouring down their brows. Grimm, the broad-shouldered orc recruit, was mid-lesson with Kieran, who moved with casual precision, dodging a greatsword swing with ease. It was the heart of late morning. The mead hall behind them sang with the scents of cooking pheasant and woodsmoke. Old Tilma had enlisted the girls to pluck herbs, though mostly they just got dirt under their nails and called each other increasingly creative names. No one noticed the rider at first. Not until the hooves slowed. Not until the horse came to a full stop just past the stairs to the Skyforge, steam rising from its flanks. The man who dismounted wore leathers, road-worn and muddied, but his stance was all soldier. Vilkas froze. Kieran turned, brow furrowing. And then Farkas muttered, “Is that... Ralof?” It was. He pulled back the scarf from his face and exhaled hard, as though he'd been holding his breath since Windhelm. “I come in peace,” Ralof said, raising both hands. “And I bring word.” “From whom?” Kieran asked, stepping forward, voice taut. Ralof looked him in the eye. “From Jarl Ulfric. And from a dying oath.” Kieran’s jaw tightened at the name. His eyes flicked to the children, then to the faces of his Companions. The courtyard had gone still—bows lowered, swords paused mid-swing, all eyes on Ralof. He didn’t shout. He didn’t draw steel. Instead, Kieran lifted a hand. “Everyone, back to training,” he said, calm but commanding. “Grimm, ten more strikes. Illia, Athis—switch stances and start again. Kirsli, I want to see arrows in tight formation on that bullseye. Njada, don’t go easy on Argis just because he’s got better hair than you.” “That’s debatable,” Njada sneered. “And Lucia,” Kieran added, glancing toward the girls. “If you call Sofie ‘Skeever-toes’ again, you’re helping clean the privy.” Lucia huffed. Sofie smirked in triumph. Satisfied the courtyard would return to controlled chaos, Kieran turned his gaze on Ralof. “Farkas. Vilkas. With me.” He didn’t wait for a reply, just started moving toward the hall. The two brothers fell in behind without a word—Farkas cracking his knuckles, Vilkas studying Ralof with the same expression he used when reviewing old Nordic texts for hidden meanings. Ralof followed, boots thudding over the stone steps. He cast a glance over his shoulder—at the training Companions, the children, the Skyforge—before ducking inside. They moved through the mead hall quickly, passing the firepit and the long table, and into the private quarters beyond. Kieran’s chambers were modest but purposeful: double bed, a weapon rack, a table scattered with maps, and a small shelf of worn books. Trophies of battles won lined the walls. Kieran shut the door behind them. “All right,” he said, voice quiet and sharp. “You changed armor, rode all this way, and risked your neck getting through Whiterun’s gates.” He crossed his arms. “Start talking.” Ralof didn’t sit. He stood near the hearth, shifting the weight on his feet like a man uncertain whether to drop his shield or raise it. “I was outside the War Room,” he began, eyes fixed somewhere over Kieran’s shoulder. “Hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Just needed a breath. Things’ve been… tight in the Palace lately. Tense. Galmar’s been pacing like a wolf in a trap. Yrsarald’s snapping at everyone. Ulfric’s been more quiet than usual.” Kieran waited. Ralof swallowed. “I heard the Jarl speak of your challenge.” That earned a glance from Vilkas. “Of course he did. He accepted it. His word—” Ralof shook his head. “That’s what I thought. But… Dragonborn, he doesn’t mean to keep it.” Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “I swear by Shor, I heard it with my own ears.” Ralof took a breath, and then, as if yanking off a bandage, he fully recounted the exchange and when he finished, the silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone. Farkas muttered something low and dark under his breath. Vilkas looked as though he were calculating the exact number of steps it would take to get back to Windhelm with a blade in hand. Kieran didn’t move. He stood there, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line so tight it could cut. Then he spoke, voice low and frigid: “Ulfric Stormcloak means to trade his soul for silver.” Ralof finally met his eyes. “Aye.” “Then he’s not worthy of the crown,” Vilkas growled. Kieran’s gaze slid toward the map on his table. Windhelm. Markarth. Solitude. The peaks between them. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He thinks this is a game,” he said. “Thinks the world will forget what he breaks as long as he wins.” He looked to Ralof. “Why come to me? Why not stay silent?” Ralof exhaled slowly. “Because once, I believed in him. Believed he could save Skyrim. But now… all I see is a man so desperate not to lose that he’ll tear the land apart just to feel like he’s already won. I won’t be party to that.” Kieran nodded once. “Then you’ll ride with us again,” he said. “When we bring the truth to Skyrim’s doorstep.” Ralof gave a short, solemn nod. “I will.” “Then settle in. Jorrvaskr is open to you.” * The wooden door shut with a quiet thud behind them. For a long moment, the only sound was the low creak of Farkas’ armor as he unbuckled a vambrace, setting it gently on the nearby bench. Then he turned, and his eyes—clear, steel-gray and steady—met Kieran’s. “I don’t like this,” he said plainly. Kieran raised an eyebrow, arms folded across his chest. “No clever metaphor? No talk of wolves and wind tonight?” Farkas didn’t smile. “No. Not when something smells this off.” Kieran waited. Farkas stepped closer, voice low, intimate in the way he rarely let it be. “Ralof. A soldier— Stormcloak —just shows up at our gates wearing different armor, says he ‘overheard’ Ulfric’s plan and wants to help? Come on, Kieran. That doesn’t sit right with me. It shouldn’t sit right with you, either.” “It doesn’t.” Kieran’s jaw was tight. “I haven’t gone blind just because someone handed me a bit of truth.” “Then you know what this could be,” Farkas said. “A trap. A honeyed word to lull you into thinking Ulfric’s being watched, that you’ve got the upper hand. So you let your guard down. You delay. You go soft.” He stepped around the table slowly, watching Kieran with a husband’s concern, not a warrior’s. “I’ve seen you face dragons. I’ve seen you tear through draugr and daedra. But this? This is the kind of fight that kills people before swords are ever drawn. The kind that turns on lies and whispers.” Kieran didn’t speak right away. He leaned over the map Kodlak had gifted him, traced the lines between the holds and thought about how he had traveled the width and breadth of this fair land. He could easily say he’d given his heart to this land. And it hurt to see the scars that Ulfric’s selfish rebellion placed upon it. “You’re right,” he said finally, voice low. “Ulfric’s never played fair. The civil war was his game from the start. Divide and claim. He doesn’t just want Skyrim. He wants the story that crowns him. The legend.” He turned, eyes shadowed but burning. “But I’m not that naïve boy who climbed the 7000 steps to learn from the Greybeards. I expect treachery. I’ve planned for it. If Ralof’s lying—if this is some staged performance—I’ll know.” Farkas gave a slow nod. “Just… promise me you’ll be ready. Promise me this won’t be another Skuldafn. Another mission where I’m left watching you bleed out on the floor, wondering if you’ll crawl back to me.” Kieran’s lips curled, just slightly. “You’ll always come find me.” Farkas stepped closer and rested his forehead against Kieran’s. “Yeah. But someday I want to find you in a bed, warm, breathing. Not in a ruin, bleeding out with half the world trying to write your damned saga.” Kieran chuckled softly, arms winding around him. “I promise,” he murmured. “We’ll stay three steps ahead. Let Ulfric think he’s the clever one.” Farkas kissed his temple and murmured against his skin, “Good. Just remember—wolves fight best in packs. Don’t try and shoulder this alone, love.” * The scent of baked honey-bread and woodsmoke filled the air, but peace was nowhere to be found. “You’re a horker-face !” Lucia shouted from across the table, arms folded tight across her chest. “I am not ! And at least I don’t smell like skeever droppings!” Sofie fired back, hands on her hips with righteous fury. “You lied ! You said I could play with the saber cat pelt first! ” “I didn’t lie! I just forgot! ” “You forget everything! Even your own face!” “That doesn’t make any sense!!” “None of this makes sense,” Njada groused over her mug, watching from the side of the table as the two girls squared off like junior Shield-Sisters. “They’ve been at it since dawn.” “Should I separate them?” asked Ria, hovering awkwardly with a slice of bread in one hand. “They’ll burn themselves out or accidentally become friends again,” Aela said flatly, biting into a smoked horker fillet. “Either way, it’s more amusing than watching Torvar and Grimm try to out-belch each other.” Kieran strode into the hall, eyes flicking between the warring girls. He paused just long enough to let a sigh slip from his nose, then kept walking. Sofie spotted him first. “Harbinger, tell her I’m not a horker-face!” Lucia jumped in. “He doesn’t have time for your milk drinking, Skeever-Toes !” He paused in the archway, looked at both of them, and said in his best, most exasperated Harbinger voice, “If I have to send either of you to sit with Tilma and fold linens today, I’ll do it.” That got their attention. “…Sorry,” they chorused, glaring at each other without an ounce of remorse. Kieran arched a brow. “And?” Lucia sighed. “You’re not a horker-face.” Sofie scowled. “And you don’t smell like skeevers.” “See?” Kieran gave them a wink. “That wasn’t so hard. Carry on. Just—maybe no name-calling while breakfast is still warm.” * The stone steps leading to Dragonsreach always carried a weight with them, but today Kieran felt it tenfold. The words Ralof had brought were a slow fire smoldering beneath his skin. A direct attack on Markarth? Deception disguised as honor? Ulfric would have the Reach before most even realized he’d moved. The doors to the great hall opened with a resonant creak. The guards gave nods of recognition but didn’t stop him—Dragonborn or not, Kieran had long since earned his way into the Jarl’s presence without fanfare. Balgruuf sat on the throne, in quiet conversation with Proventus Avenicci and Irileth. They turned as Kieran approached. “Kieran,” the Jarl greeted, sitting up straighter. “You’ve got the look of a man carrying bad news—or worse. Come. Speak.” Kieran bowed his head with just enough deference. “I bring word of treachery from Windhelm. Ulfric means to attack Markarth, despite agreeing to single combat. He plans to send a false missive to lure me away to the Throat of the World while his army moves on the Reach.” Proventus straightened, face pale. “If this is true…” “It is true,” Kieran said, eyes hard. “And I need the Jarl of Whiterun’s help. Not as a sword. As a voice of authority. Send official warnings to The Reach and Haafingar—sealed and delivered through your stewards and couriers. If I send word, it could be ignored. But if you do…” Balgruuf stroked his beard. “It lends legitimacy. Makes it clear that Whiterun stands against Ulfric’s treachery.” He nodded once. “Done. Proventus, draft it. Send word to Jarl Igmund immediately. And to Elisif as well—she’ll want to know the storm is coming for her next.” Kieran let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf. I won’t forget it.” The Jarl gave a wry smile. “Just make sure you don’t let him win, Dragonborn.” * The night hung thick with mist and the sour bite of damp stone. The Skyforge’s glow pulsed dimly behind Kirsli as she stood in the middle of the training yard, not far from where a line of training dummies and archery targets stood waiting for the morning’s first strike, their worn surfaces bearing silent witness to countless hours of practice and the echoes of battles long past. The air was crisp with the scent of coal smoke and dew-damp stone, and the faint clang of a distant hammer rang like a heartbeat through the stillness. Kirsli’s breath misted in the chill, her fingers flexing around the hilt of the dagger as she stared ahead, not at the targets, but through them—into memory, into purpose. Kirsli had only wanted a walk, a moment of quiet. But something felt off. A crunch. Footsteps. Measured. Not like a drunkard or thief—but someone watching . She turned slowly, fingers ghosting near her belt. “Who’s there?” No answer. Her boots whispered across swept training yard until she stood in the shadow of the Underforge. He stood half in shadow, cloaked in leather so dark it drank in the light. Argonian. His scales shimmered faintly green in the gloom, his left eye scarred from old fire. But she knew him. “You!” she whispered. “So the frightened girl hiding in a Riften cellar… grew teeth. I didn’t expect the Ember-Walker to be you .” He nodded at the dagger held in her grip. “I left that for you, you know. On the mantle. 'Now the shadows are your own.’ You never carved a reply.” Kirsli froze—She remember ed. His voice. His golden eyes. A gasp slipped from her lips and she dropped into a battle stance. “I’m not the scared girl I used to be.” The voice rasped like scales on stone. “They’re watching, Ember-Walker. Astrid will come, or worse. Be ready… and next time, don’t let your shadow touch theirs. Not unless you mean to kill.” He watched her silently for a long moment. She had changed. Arnbjorn hadn’t lied. “I gave you a blade,” he said. “Not mercy. Mercy would’ve been leaving you to starve or slit your throat quietly. A blade meant you had a choice.” She squared her stance. “And what’s this now? Another choice?” He tilted his head. “A reckoning.” Silence hung between them. The stars overhead flickered behind the slow-roaming clouds, as if even the heavens paused to listen. “Astrid sends her regards, I assume,” Kirsli said bitterly. Veezara smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Astrid sees debts and shadows. I see... a girl who walked through both and became something interesting. ” Kirsli’s eyes narrowed. “So what are you here to do? Watch me? Warn me? Kill me?” He shrugged lightly, that too-smooth way all assassins have. “I wanted to see for myself. If the ember I left behind had turned to ash… or fire.” Her hand slipped the dagger free. The metal caught the faint orange glow of the forge above. “Want to test it?” “No.” He didn’t flinch. “Not yet.” Kirsli didn’t lower the blade. “Why not?” Veezara’s voice dropped lower, quieter. “Because if I wanted you dead, Ember-Walker, we wouldn’t be talking.” She froze at the name. Veezara’s eyes glinted, predatory and knowing. “That’s what they used to call you down there, right? When you lit the fire that drove the skeevers out and nearly burned the house down. When you crawled through the coals to escape the Black-Briar thugs hunting you. ‘Ember-Walker.’ I liked it. Still do.” Her voice came rough: “Don’t call me that.” He chuckled. “But you’ve earned it.” Then he gestured—not threatening, but firm. “You’ve been followed. Not just by me. Astrid isn’t the only one curious. You’ve left footprints in the snow, in too many stories. A girl with no clan, no name, now traveling with the Harbinger and sons of Ysgramor? That stirs more than whispers.” Kirsli's gaze didn’t waver. “You’ll tell her I’m not afraid.” “I’ll tell her whatever I choose,” Veezara said. “But the real message?” He pointed to her dagger, still trembling ever so slightly in her grip. “Carve it in the wood again.” And with that, he turned, melting into shadow like he’d never been there at all. Kirsli stood alone, the chill curling around her again. She looked to the Underforge wall, where moonlight struck a beam of old, weathered timber. On impulse, she stepped forward, unsheathed her dagger fully, and etched four words beneath her breath: "The shadows are mine." * She found Kieran in his quarters, poring over a map of the Reach with a furrow between his brows and his arms crossed tight. He didn’t hear her at first, not until she stepped fully inside. “Kieran.” He looked up, blinked. “You’re up late.” She offered a faint shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.” His eyes flicked to her face, reading more than she meant to show. “Something wrong?” Yes. Maybe. Not yet. Instead she said, “I wanted to ask if… before we head for Markarth, could we make a detour? To Riften. Balimund should be done with the sword by now.” Kieran straightened slightly, his expression softening. “The dragonbone one you commissioned a few weeks back?” She nodded. “It’s nothing urgent, I just—” She faltered for half a second. “I need to pick it up. I think I need it with me.” Kieran studied her a moment, then nodded once. “Of course. We can leave at first light. You’ll ride with Vilkas. We’ll bring the whole gang.” Kirsli managed a dry laugh. “Sounds like fun.” A brief pause. Kieran tilted his head, one brow rising. “That’s not the only reason you came here, though, is it?” Her throat tightened. She wanted to say yes. Wanted to spill the strange encounter in the yard, the hiss of shadows curling under her ribs like smoke. Wanted to admit that part of her—the girl she used to be—was still hiding behind hearthstones and ghosts. But she only said, “That’s all, really.” Kieran let her keep the silence. “Alright,” he said, rolling up the map. “Go get some sleep. Dawn will be here before you know it.” She turned to go, but paused at the door. “Thanks, Kieran.” He winked as she turned to leave. Something else was on her mind. He only hoped it wasn’t something that would bring trouble to their door. * Before dawn had fully crested, the forge fires of Warmaiden’s were already crackling. Kirsli ducked through the shop’s wooden door, the scent of hot metal and oil curling around her like incense. Adrianne stood at the counter, arms crossed, a smudge of soot across one cheek and the unmistakable air of triumph in her smirk. “Came early,” Adrianne said without preamble. “I heard through the grapevine the Ember-Walker wanted new armor.” Kirsli stepped forward as Adrianne pulled back the canvas tarp covering the armor. The gleam of ebony metal caught the light like wet obsidian—full ebony, with wolf-etched pauldrons and a custom-forged gorget that left no room for fragility. The armor wasn’t just protection. It was declaration. “It’s perfect,” Kirsli said, reverently running her fingers along the vambrace. Adrianne grinned. “Had to trim the edges. Most ebony’s built for bulky brutes, not nimble ones like you. But I think it’ll suit.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t tell Eorlund, but I added a bit of Skyforge steel to the plating. For balance.” Kirsli raised an eyebrow. “Your secret is safe with me, Adrianne.” By the time she stepped into the stableyard again, the armor hugged her frame like a second skin—dark, deadly, and undeniably hers. The black of the metal gleamed in the early morning mist like wolf's eyes watching from a treeline. Vilkas turned when he saw her. Whatever he’d been about to say died on his tongue. “Damn,” he murmured. “Remind me not to spar with you today.” She smirked. “That wise streak of yours is finally kicking in.” And with that, she mounted, the weight of the past cloaked in ebony behind her—and the road to Riften stretching ahead. * The clatter of hoofbeats and the shuffle of Companions readying themselves echoed faintly in the stableyard, but Vilkas barely registered it. He heard her first—the soft tread of new boots on packed earth, the whisper of leather buckles settling into place. Then the light shifted, the rising sun slipping through the mist to catch on something darker than shadow. And she stepped into view. For a moment, Vilkas forgot how to breathe. The ebony armor wrapped around her like night given form—sleek and sharp, forged for speed and strength both. The wolf etchings across the pauldrons caught the light, glinting with quiet menace, like they too were watching, guarding her. The gorget framed her throat like a warrior queen’s collar. And the way she moved in it—fluid, fearless—it wasn’t just that she wore the armor. It obeyed her. Aelin, shield-maiden of legend. Red Eagle’s wrath reborn. Ember-Walker. His Ember-Walker. She glanced his way, one brow lifted, lips curving into that half-smile that always made his chest ache. “Well?” she asked. “Do I pass inspection?” Vilkas found his voice, barely. “You look…” He paused, then gave a soft, wry snort. “You look like someone I should pray not to meet on a battlefield.” She gave a mock bow, and for just a breath, the tension of coming war eased. But Vilkas couldn’t look away. Because in that armor, in that moment, she wasn’t just Kirsli. She was what the bards would one day sing of. And by the gods, he was already hers. * The road curved gently along the banks of the White River, mist rising in silver sheets from the water’s surface. The rhythmic clop of hooves was the only sound, save for the distant call of a hawk above. Kirsli reined in slightly, letting the others ride ahead. Vilkas fell in beside her with a glance, one brow raised. “You’re quiet,” she said as she approached. He glanced sideways. “So are you.” “Vilkas…” Vilkas looked over sharply, his expression sharpening. “There was someone in the yard last night.” Her voice was soft. “Someone from my past. From before Jorrvaskr. He didn’t hurt me. Just… reminded me who I used to be.” Vilkas’s jaw tightened. “Should I be worried?” “No,” she said. “I think I should be.” Silence stretched. The river whispered beside them He didn’t speak immediately, but steered his mount closer, one hand curling gently beneath her chin to tilt her gaze up. “You’re not who you were, Ember-Walker. You’ve walked through fire. And you're not alone now.” She swallowed. “I know.” He gave a small nod, leaned forward, and pressed his forehead lightly to hers. “But if that bastard comes back, I’ll gut him before he can say a word.” She cracked a smile, the tension in her shoulders easing. “You always know how to comfort a girl.” “I’m a man of many talents,” he said dryly, before he gave her a long-suffering sigh. * The sun had dipped low behind the mountains, setting Lake Geir ablaze with gold and lavender. Mist drifted lazily across the surface, curling around stones and reeds like a whisper too shy to speak. Kirsli stood at the shoreline, boots half-sunk into the wet moss, arms folded as if she could hold herself still by force of will alone. The chill off the water settled on her skin, but she didn’t move. Behind her, footsteps. Familiar, measured. She didn’t turn. “I thought you might follow,” she murmured, voice quiet but not uncertain. Vilkas stepped up beside her. Close, but not too close. Just enough that their shoulders nearly touched. “I always will,” he said simply. They stood in silence a long moment, watching the water ripple in soft lines across the lake. Then Kirsli spoke again, her voice softer this time. “I used to think I was in love with a blacksmith.” Vilkas glanced at her, but said nothing. She gave a faint laugh. “Balimund. Back in Riften. He was kind to me. Protected a scared girl, talked to me like I mattered. I thought if I found all those fire salts for him, maybe he’d see me. Really see me. Thought if I worked hard enough, I could earn his heart.” Her voice caught. “He told me I was too young. That he was too old. And he was right. I was just… a girl who didn’t know the difference between love and kindness.” Vilkas’s gaze stayed fixed on her, unreadable but attentive. She turned toward him then, eyes shining not with tears, but with honesty. “I’m not that girl anymore.” “No,” he said, voice low. “You’re not.” Kirsli took a breath, the lake wind brushing her hair back from her face. “But I still find myself here again. With someone older. Wiser. Stronger. Someone who makes me feel more than I know how to name.” Her voice trembled, but she kept going. “I don’t want to wonder where I stand. I don’t want to just steal kisses in the dark and pretend I don’t want more. I do, Vilkas. I want you. Not just your presence. I want your heart. Your truth.” She looked up at him. “Is there ever going to be more than this? More than just… stolen moments and almosts?” Vilkas didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked out across the water, his jaw tight, eyes storm-lit with thought. Then he turned fully toward her. “You’re not a girl anymore, Kirsli,” he said. “And I’m not afraid of your fire.” He reached for her hand, gently, reverently. “What I feel for you isn’t some passing flame. It’s the kind of fire that sinks into your bones and stays there. And I’ve tried… gods, I’ve tried to keep myself distant. For honor. For sense.” He brushed his thumb over her knuckles. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I want more, too. I want every kiss. Every morning. Every fight we’ll ever have. And I want the quiet moments like this one, with no one else but you.” Her breath caught, and she stepped into him, his arms slipping easily around her. He kissed her then—slow, deep, and sure. When they finally pulled apart, her forehead rested against his, and the words came quietly. “Then let’s not steal moments anymore,” she whispered. “Let’s claim them.” * After carrying Kirsli to their bedroll, Vilkas laid her down with reverent care, lowering himself beside her. His arms enfolded her, pulling her close as warmth blossomed between them. She looked up into his silver eyes—no longer merely steel, but molten with something deeper. Fierce, and tender. He dipped his head to her jaw, brushing kisses along her neck until his breath stirred the fine hairs at her ear. “You’re mine,” he murmured, voice husky with longing. “And I will love you always.” Kirsli trembled, but not from fear. The weight of his promise stirred something inside her, something old and aching and ready to burn. When his lips trailed lower, she opened to him—body and soul—letting him slide the folds of her tunic aside until her skin met the cool air. His hands, rough from sword and shield, gentled against her as if she were something sacred. Fingers traced the soft curves of her breasts, coaxing fire where nerves once held only unease. As he kissed the hollow of her throat, the tight peak of her nipple, her breath hitched and a sweet shiver raced down her spine. Every thought scattered beneath the growing storm of sensation. Fear melted like frost at sunrise. All that remained was want—raw, honest, and hers. Her fingers fumbled at the clasp of his cloak, easing it off his shoulders. Bit by bit she peeled away the layers of armor and linen, revealing the man beneath—strong, scarred, real. She pressed her hands to his back, learning him by touch, by heartbeat. Her lips brushed across his brow, his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw. She nuzzled against his ear, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and home . Vilkas groaned softly, hands drifting down her sides to the bend of her hips, his touch both questioning and sure. When he found the heat between her thighs, she gasped—startled by the intensity, the need, the way her body arched toward him with no shame, only yearning. Their clothes fell away like snow from a branch. He settled over her, heat to heat, his knee parting hers with tender insistence. For one suspended moment, they simply looked at each other. Then, slowly, he entered her. Pain, brief and biting, made her cry out—but his kiss caught the sound. He stilled, whispered her name, held her as she breathed through it. And then… the ache gave way to something deeper. His hands stirred pleasure from pain, kindling sensation into flame, guiding her through it with patient devotion. Her hips rose to meet his. Their rhythm built—hesitant at first, then bolder, each stroke of his body carving away the last of her doubts. She clung to him, fingers splayed across his back, as passion burned through her like wildfire. With every movement, she surrendered. With every kiss, he claimed nothing but what she freely gave. And when they reached that trembling precipice together—when light burst behind her eyes and the world unraveled—she didn’t fall. She flew. Afterward, wrapped in the hush of fading stars and shared breath, Vilkas held her close. His fingers traced idle patterns across her skin. He whispered to her in a language she didn’t know, low and soft as lullabies. She didn’t need the words. She already knew the truth: they belonged to each other, utterly. And from this night forward… there would be no turning back. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Тьма. Все что он мог или не мог видеть была тьма. Он мог чувствовать как его затягивает только глубоко в тьму дальше от света к которому он привык. Миллион вопросов было в его голове, но одновременно всё было пусто. Он мог чувствовать боль от вырванного сердца чувствовать эту пустоту и тишину в груди где не бьётся его сердце. А было ли оно у него? Он не помнил. Как он сюда попал? Почему была только тьма? Он хотел ответ, но его веки не поднимались, а тело словно парализовано не двигало ни одним мускулом, мысли были туманный и неясны прокручивая одни и тяже вопросы вновь и вновь. Это было так странно он чувствовал так много и ничего одновременно. Билось ли его сердце когда-то? Какой у него был звук? Как оно ощущалось? Это не имело смысла все его мысли были бессмысленны и не имели смысл, но одновременно всё было так очевидно. Это всё так странно и ему это не нравилось, ему не нравилась эта тьма что окружала его и ему также не нравилось что он не мог пошевелиться. Как долго он ещё будет спать? Он хотел проснуться! Он хотел открыть глаза и увидеть солнце и море! Подождите он спал? Почему он спал? Он не помнил. Он не знал. Тьма. Вокруг была только тьма и больше ничего. Задавая себе миллионы и больше вопросов он почувствовал что теряется, растворяется, падает. Он чувствуется что засыпает. Но это ведь не имела смысл он уже спал и до этого верно? Он уже ни в чём не был уверен. Тьма полностью окутала его и он только полностью растворился во сне ни о чём не думая. БАХ! Тьма она всё ещё была и он всё ещё ничего не чувствовал. Сколько времени прошло? БАХ!... Он чувствовал что и прошло очень-очень много времени, но так почему он всё ещё спал? БАХ! Он начал раздражаться. БАХ!! Он не понимал что это за звук. БАХ!! Он чувствовал как с каждым ударом этого звука проявляется ясность в его мыслях. БАХ!! Он спал очень долго, но впервые за всё время он вспомнил. БАХ!! Он помнил как ему вырвались сердце. БАХ!! Он вспомнил как он кричал о возмездии. БАХ!! Он помнил как слышал молитву верующих и помнил их горе. БАХ!! Он вспомнил её красные глаза которые скрывали тень страха в них её победную, но не уверена улыбку. БАХ! Он помнил как жестоко она привязала его к стене, заковав в цепи, поставила на колени перед ней. Он вспомнил как она запечатала его во льдах, отправила в вечный сон. БАХ! Он вспомнил отчаяние он, вспомнил надежду и как упал в пустоту. БА-БАХ! Свет! Он впервые за эти годы увидел проблеск света. БА-БАХ! Он всё ещё был закован в цепи, всё ещё не мог пошевелиться. Бам! БАХ! Он мог слышать голоса. -...давай! Ещё немного... -...осторожен не порань... - Надо ещё что-то сделать с цепями... БАХ! Он мог чувствовать цепи на своих запястьях и ледышках он мог чувствовать как лед соприкасается с его кожей. БАХ!БАХ!БАХ ! Он чувствовал как его трогают, как перемещали его тело, слышал их радостные возгласы и обеспокоенные голоса. А потом он вновь упал в тьму. Он издал крестящий звук и зажмурился прежде чем открыть свои чёрные глаза. Ярко. Солнце. Он поморщился и проморгался пока наконец его глаза не привыкли к свету и он не увидел белый потолок. - Господин Ника, все хорошо? Спокойный, но явно обеспокоенный голос привлёк его внимание и он повернул голову в сторону голоса. Мужчина с серыми глазами и чёрными волосами с красной татуировкой на всю левую часть лица, мужчина скрутил руки на груди и смотрел прямо на Нику. Ника хотел что-то сказать, но лишь хрипел и закашлялся. - Ох прошу прощения, вот держите воды. - мужчина встал и подошёл к Нике аккуратно приподнимая его в сидячее положение и помогая выпить воды. Ника выпил воду, принимая помощь мужчины и остался сидеть даже когда мужчина поставил стакан на тумбочку рядом и сел обратно на стул. Ника с любопытством за ним наблюдал. - Меня зовут Монки Д Драгон, я лидер революционный армии. - голос Драгона был спокойным, но Ника все ровно мог чувствовать какую-то мягкость. Ника прочистил горло и ярко улыбнулся. - Меня зовут Ника, но ты и так это знаешь верно? Шишиши! - Ника закашлялся из-за хрипоты своего голоса, и Драгон увидев это, поднялся и налил ему ещё один стакан воды. - Где я? Драгон наблюдал как Ника пьют воду. - Вы в Балтиго, главном штабе революционной армии. Ника облизал засохшие губы и что-то промычал передавая ему пустой стакан. - Спасибо, что освободили меня. Сколько я спал? Драгон кивнул и только сейчас Ника заметил что все это время у него была голова в лёгком наклоне, что он все время указывал к нему уважение небольшим наклоном головы. - Незачто меня благодарить господин Ника. - Драгон на всякий случай наполнил стакан ещё водой. - Я не могу сказать точно, но около 800 лет. Челюсть Ники встретилась с полом когда он в шоке вскрикнул. - Что! 800 лет?! Драгон слегка поморщился от громкости, но нечего не сказал на этот счёт и просто кивнул. Ника была в шоке, этаж сколько приёмов пищи он попустил! Чёртова Иму, она позже заплатит ему за это. Ника моргнул и ещё раз посмотрел на Драгона. - Ты можешь просто звать меня Ника, но ты сам полубог верно? Драгон кивнул сохраняя спокойствие и с лёгкой улыбкой объяснил. - Да вы...ты прав Ника, я полубог, как и все носители Д. После распада 800 лет назад Мировое правительство объявило охоту на богов и многие погибли, так что теперь в основном только некоторые Полубоги до сих пор живы. Ника нахмурился, а его лицо покраснело от всей информации и мыслей, когда он изо всех сил пытался обдумать это. - Так... Сейчас какая-то охота на богов и полубогов? Дракон мягко усмехнулся. - Да Ника, настоящих богов как вы по пальцам пересчитать можно, в основном сейчас охота, на полубогов. Ника сделал самое серьёзное лицо на которое был способен и кивнул. - Мировое правительство? Драгон когда постучали в дверь поблагодарил кого-то и привёз тележку с едой от чего у Ники потекла слюна и он сразу начал есть мясо показывая палец вверх. - Мировое правительство это те кто правит над всеми и обеспечивает безопасность от пиратов и полубогов. - Когда Ника наклонил голову в вопросе Драгон объяснил. - Полубоги считаются преступниками и помехой всему миру, поэтому их объявили особо опасными и убивают. Ника пропустил половину из его речи больше волнуюсь из-за еды. - А Революционеры? - Я и моя организация выступаем напрямую против них. Ника кивнул и ела дальше в тишине. Через 20 минут живот Ники надулся и он довольно вздохнул. - Спасибо было вкусно. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Katniss and I are quickly separated once we disembark from the train. Not only are there cameras and reporters waiting for us, but so are hordes of eager Capitolites, clamoring over one another to get an early glimpse of this year’s tributes up close. The tone couldn’t be more different from the station in Twelve. Where that felt more like a funeral march, the excitement in the air here is palpable. Cheers, applause, and congratulations follow us until we are safely ensconced inside the Tribute Center. I remain silent as my prep team waxes, lathers, and scrubs me raw. Their Capitol accents and loud clothes remind me of the exorbitantly expensive displays at the sweet shop back home. I don’t remember names, and they didn’t bother introducing themselves, probably thinking I won’t survive long enough for it to matter. For now, I decide to call them by nicknames in my head. Spike, who has his hair gelled in long red spikes and studs pierced on his ears, brows, and lips. Mermaid, who has intricate seashells glued around her face and fish scales tattooed over her arms. And Peach, who’s dyed her skin a soft orange color and whose short hair is dyed various shades of green. I thought it would have been harder to remain stoic in front of my prep team, but it’s surprisingly easy to let my mind slip away from the present. Last time, I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore their animated conversations as they ripped the hair off my body and handled me like produce at the market. This time, I couldn’t help but remember the way they deteriorated each time I saw them while I was in captivity. The dark circles under their eyes and silent tears as they tried to hide my bruises. The gentle whispered words every time I flinched at their touch. The off-hand way Plutarch told me they were publicly executed after my rescue. He wouldn’t answer me when I asked if it was my fault. The very least I could do now is be still and quiet as they went about the work that will eventually kill them. Mermaid tells me to tilt my chin up, and I comply automatically. I try not to wince as she moves some kind of device over my throat. It doesn’t hurt, but each time it touches my skin, it gives a sharp zap sound , and my skin is left tingling. The noise it makes is what really bothers me, reminding me too much of the prods the guards used to use. If she noticed my shallow breaths or tensed-up posture, she doesn’t acknowledge it. “You’re doing so well! Almost done,” Peach says as she plucks my eyebrows, the sting making my eyes water, but I don’t complain. She doesn’t wait for my response as she continues her conversation with Spike about some gossip she heard at a party or something. I don’t know because I tune them out. Their words meld with the sting of my skin. The pokes and pinches, painful at first, quickly become something happening to someone else while I watch from far above. It’s not unlike bathing in cold water– bracing at first, but the body quickly adjusts. It’s what I did in the Capitol– retreated so far within myself that I could separate what was happening to my body from what I could process in my mind. It made a lot of what they did survivable. But they took that away too as soon as they introduced the Tracker Jacker serum. After that, everything became a tangled mess. I couldn’t even tell what was real, much less where the pain of the injuries on my body ended and the ones in my mind began. I don’t even notice that I’m alone and naked until Portia walks into the room. “Sorry. I knocked, but you didn’t answer,” she says. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since escaping the Capitol. Her kind face and large brown eyes send a jolt through me. They were the only part of her that the broken hijacked portion of my brain could register when they came to make me over. They’re the same, and yet not. Her eyes were tense and afraid, but bravely refusing to let any tears fall. Her gentle fingers had chipped purple nail polish. Now they are long, bright red, and intricately decorated with little gems and rhinestones. My jaw flexes as the memory dissipates. I want to embrace her and beg for her forgiveness. I wish I could tell her how much those small acts of kindness meant to me when I started to forget what even the shape of kindness looked like. “I’m sorry.” I clear the tightness in my voice. “I didn’t hear.” She hands me a robe with a small smile. “My name is Portia, and I’ll be your stylist. I’m sorry this happened to you.” I take a little longer than necessary to carefully wrap the robe around me as if the action needs my full attention, because I need an extra moment to banish all I wish I could say to her. Just like last time, I appreciate how she shows compassion without pity. She took a moment to look me in the eye and introduce herself before surveying my naked body like a piece of meat at the butcher’s. “Thank you,” I say, finally meeting her warm brown eyes. “For not congratulating me.” That is what my prep team did upon meeting me. Congratulated me, surveyed my body, then ignored me as they chattered away, ripping my hair and lathering smelly creams all over me. “I find there is little point in pleasant words if one doesn’t mean them.” I return her smile, and finally feel a wave of something like relief crash over me. Finally, being in the presence of someone I trust after being surrounded by people who either want me dead or don’t care if I live, feels like remembering how to breathe. “I’m just going to take a closer look at you, alright?” She says, and I nod. She circles me slowly, already making measurements and calculations with her eyes. I stand as still as possible. “My team said you sat for them very well.” She touches my shoulder, and I can’t help it– I flinch. I’m far jumpier here in the Capitol, especially in the Tribute Center, than I was back in Twelve. “Sorry,” I say. Her eyes turn down for the briefest of moments. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve asked your permission before touching you. I apologize.” “You’re my stylist,” I say, embarrassed by my reaction. “It is still your body,” she says. And how I wish that were true. It’s the old Peeta’s body, before the two Games killed him, and Tracker Jacker Serum poisoned the vessel he left behind. “May I?” She lifts her hands, indicating she wants to take a closer look at my face. I nod, and the extra second to prepare for the feeling of another person’s touch does help. Her nimble fingers tousle my hair, pushing some strands away from my eyes and then laying others over the side to frame my face. “You have beautiful curls,” she says. “And exceptionally blue eyes. I think definitely a light touch with the liner would be best. Just enough to make them pop. Especially with these long lashes.” I feel that push from the timeline to ask the same question as before. I had a nervous edge to my voice last time, but now, I just sound a little cheeky when I ask, “What’s a liner?” Something sparks as soon as the question leaves my mouth. I think I learned most of the names of the makeup tools in the past, especially because I liked to ask what each brush did and stored that information away, hoping I could transfer the technique onto canvas later. I can’t recall what those names are now, or if I was successful in those experiments, but there’s a flare of something like excitement at the thought that I could get to relearn that side of me again. She laughs. It’s bright and bubbly like champagne. “Oh, you’ll see. I’m going to make everyone fall in love with those blue eyes, if they haven’t already.” I feel myself blush, which just makes her laugh again. “C’mon. You must be starving. Let’s order lunch, and I’ll explain more.” A few minutes later, we’re in a small adjacent room, furnished simply with two plush red chairs and a small round table in between. The walls are blank, but I suspect that was done purposefully, as one wall is made entirely of glass. I don’t remember this room from my previous timeline, but I assume that was because I was too busy being terrified while trying not to look like it. But I take the skyline in with an intensity that is somewhere between awe and spite. The sky is a clear azure blue, not a single cloud in sight. Bright with the noon’s sun, the buildings shine like polished silver. It would be beautiful if it weren’t for the people it inhabited, one man in particular. Below me, the streets are clear of coal dust, the walkways are uncracked and well-kept. There are trees planted at each corner as if for decoration, which they probably are. In Twelve, you were considered lucky if you had a fruit-bearing tree on your property. If you were smart, you could make the fruit last for the whole year by canning and drying it– you were unlikely to starve to death. I looked forward to every summer when I could pick and eat fresh apples from the tree in our yard, one of the only times I ate anything that wasn’t stale. I watch a worker in uniform sweep up the little fruits the trees produce from the ground. Some are flattened, others are kicked aside into the road. A waste. I can actually feel my face shift into a glare as I stare at the citizens walking without a care in the world—little dots of unusual colors, well-fed, their children never in danger of dying in the Games. The bitter, twisted thing I’ve become rages at them, and my wrists look for the centering pain of the restraints that are no longer there. “I know you must hate us.” I turn to see Portia eyeing me from her seat. She’s already ordered food, and it’s appeared as if by magic on the lone table. Chicken and vegetables over a white grain with a sweet-smelling sauce on top. It smells delicious. With food available at the touch of a button in a lavish building meant to house the tributes who are about to be paraded around before murdering one another for sport, it’s hard not to agree with her. But then, I remember that she’s dead in my time. Executed in front of the entire country on live television, for helping me. Even though she didn’t have to. She had every comfort in the world available to her, but she still went against Snow. And not just her, my prep team is dead in my time, too. Those vapid, Games-loving, Capitolites still found themselves at the end of a noose or firing squad, and from what I overheard in Thirteen, they weren’t the only ones. “I don’t,” I say, my anger dissipating. She gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t believe me. I try for a smile, but the best I can muster is a noncommittal shrug. She waits for me to begin eating before she tells me of her plan. It’s good. The sauce is sweet and tangy, the chicken juicy, and the vegetables crisp. I know from my shattered over memories what the gist of the plan will be, but I’m surprised to hear that they’ve had plans for the Tributes from Twelve to be connected since the beginning. “Cinna and I–he’s the stylist for the other tribute from your district–We decided to dress you both in complementary styles for the tribute parade.” “I don’t know how I feel about that,” I say, setting down my plate. I didn’t realize I’d have to start to separate our images this early. “I know it’s a bit unconventional,” she says, unfazed. “But we want to make an impression. District Twelve is already starting at a disadvantage, being an outlier district. So, we want to give you the best chance of standing out, especially to prospective sponsors.” She has me there. No one looks twice at Twelve, and it’s an uphill battle to get their attention after the first impression at the parade. Still.. “It’s just …” I swallow. The sweet, tangy sauce suddenly turns to glue in my mouth. “We’re not exactly going into the arena as teammates.” “Yes, that’s true,” she concedes. “But we’re not asking you to do anything other than be cordial to each other. Presenting a united front, even if it’s just temporary, is just interesting and novel enough to get you noticed. It’s a perfect launch point.” I mull this over for a bit. She’s right. I don’t have to go above and beyond like the first time I did this. I just have to be polite enough not to show open hostility, which is what I already resolved to do anyway. I briefly weigh the pros and cons. I risk being linked to Katniss from the very beginning, but I also risk not being noticed at all. Sponsors mean everything in the arena, so the choice is simple, really. “What do you have in mind?” I ask. Portia tries to hide her pleased grin behind her teacup. A few hours later, I’m dressed in a black leotard that covers everything from my wrists to my ankles. It has a cape made up of fluttering streamers that Portia says they will set on fire once we’re ready. It’s not uncomfortable, just very snug. Everything from the tightly laced boots to the high collar and even the stiff headpiece makes me feel a little claustrophobic if I’m honest. I’m supposed to wait for Portia and my prep team to escort me downstairs, but my chest is starting to feel too tight. If I stay still, I won’t be able to keep the thoughts of being strapped down and confined at bay, especially since I know I’m about to be set on fire. And even though I know I won’t be burned alive, I can’t really help the way my body recoils inwardly at the thought. So, I ask if I can go ahead on my own. Portia thinks about it for a bit, maybe wondering if I’m trying to make a break for it or something. But where would I go? As if coming to the same conclusion, she waves me off, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the elevator doors open to a much more open space. I start a loop around the Remake Center, beginning with District One. Hopefully, by the time I make it to the District Twelve spot, the rest of my team will be there waiting for me. Some horses and chariots are already mounted and ready, with the stylists putting the finishing touches on their tribute’s costumes. Districts One and Two easily look the best, golden chariots and snow-white horses with confident, beautiful tributes. When my eyes sweep over, I catch the District Two boy tribute, Cato, staring at me. His glacial blue eyes are locked on mine. He’s smirking at me, an excited gleam in his eye. But it begins to fade when I don’t look away. He looks confused, but I can only think of the excruciatingly long death he suffered, and all I feel is sorrow. His face hardens before he turns away. A few steps later, a shock goes through me when I spot the familiar face of Johanna Mason. Her gaunt face and shrill cries replay in my mind, making me shudder and goosebumps rise all over my skin. She looks different from the bald woman who was nothing but skin and bones when I last saw her. Her brown hair is shoulder-length, her eyes are clear, and her face is healthy. She’s scowling at someone I can’t see, and then I finally notice Finnick Odair. His golden bronze skin and sea green eyes are easily recognizable, and yet something about them seems off. With Annie, his smile was small but genuine, reaching all the way to his eyes. But here, it’s too wide, and his eyes too manic. His demeanor is overly flirtatious as he speaks to an older Capitol man with many golden rings and a gaudy white fur coat. I slow my steps and watch the interaction from a good distance away, just far enough for me to hear what is being said without looking too obvious that I’m eavesdropping. “Remake Center is closed to everyone but Tributes and their teams,” Johana says maliciously, eyes narrowed to daggers as she stares at the man in the coat over Finnick’s shoulder. Then adds in a faux sweet voice. “Guess you better get going now.” “I was just getting a closer look at the goods ,” the man says, looking at Finnick from head to toe, a lecherous smile on his face. “You know, before I make my selection. Just because I have a lot of money, doesn’t mean I want to go around spending it without the proper research.” Finnick returns the smile, but even I can see the sweat beading on the back of his neck. Finnick could easily impale his trident through the man’s throat in the blink of an eye. Why is he letting him talk to him like this? “Well, buy yourself some binoculars and head to the sponsor’s box before I get a Peacekeeper here to escort you,” says Johanna, eyes flashing dangerously. The man quirks an eyebrow at her. “I do like them with some fight in them.” Johana smiles, but it doesn’t have the same effect as Finnick’s. “I’ll introduce you to my axe sometime, then–” “Perhaps, I’ll see you after the parade?” Interrupts Finnick. He squeezes the man’s arm, his strained smile never faltering. I don’t listen to the rest. I feel like worms are crawling all over my skin. The interaction was strange. The way the man was leering at Finnick and the way he not only bore it, but smiled as he did so. It makes the bile rise in my throat and my hair stand on end. Unsettling in the same way I used to see Twelve’s Head Peacekeeper Cray look at girls half his age. The rest of the tributes look as terrified as you’d expect as they cast unsure glances at all the unfamiliarity around them. The costumes look garish. Even though they are made of expensive materials, it dehumanizes them further somehow, transforming them into characters rather than children. Something in my chest unclenches when I spot Katniss a few yards away. We’re dressed identically, but the all black look suits her better, I think. With her braided hair, back straight, and her chin lifted, it will be hard for anyone not to be awed by her. Portia appears next to me, and we greet Cinna and Katniss together. She straightens my collar and helps me into the chariot, pats some powder over my forehead and nose, and assures me I’ll do great. Cinna fiddles with a device that produces a flame as the rest of the team wishes us luck and heads off to their places. “What do you think?” Katniss suddenly asks me. I’m startled again at the fact that she’s the one initiating conversation. “About the fire?” I’m so surprised that I can’t even fight words that escape before I have a chance to stop them. “I’ll rip off your cape if you rip off mine.” “Deal,” she says conspiratorially. I can’t help but marvel at how normal she looks up close. I’m glad they didn’t cake her up with a ton of makeup. Just like Portia said about my eyes, you can’t help but be reeled in by her steel grey ones. “I know we promised Haymitch we’d do exactly what they said, but I don’t think he considered this angle.” That’s right. I haven’t seen the drunk since the train. “Where is Haymitch anyway?” “With all the alcohol in him, it’s probably not advisable to have him around an open flame.” I burst into laughter. She joins me, and then we’re giggling like children. And it feels so good– to laugh together despite what’s ahead. Her eyes crinkle and her cheeks round as she laughs, and I can’t believe how normal this feels. There’s a candle inside me that’s just flared awake. Suddenly, the opening music begins, and our laughter dies in our throats. There’s movement in the front, and I crane my neck to see what’s going on. Giant doors slide open, groaning with the sound of stone grinding on stone. The volume of the crowd abruptly turns up by a thousand. One by one, a chariot holding two tributes thrusts forward and trots into the street leading to the City Circle. District One goes first, marked by a crescendo of applause, then District Two with a similar greeting from the audience. Far too soon, District Eleven’s chariot lurches to life, and I know we’re next. My palms suddenly go very clammy, and I feel like the collar of my costume has just shrunk. “Here we go!” I hear Cinna say behind me, and before I know it, he’s climbed onto our chariot and sets our costumes ablaze. “It works!” He says under his breath in relieved awe, which doesn’t make me feel better. “Remember, heads high! Smiles! They’re going to love you!” Cinna hops off the chariot, and we’re moving. Before we fully turn away, he catches our attention again, shouts something, clasps his hands together, and waves them in the air. No, I think. No, I won’t. I can’t. “What’s he saying?” Katniss says. She’s much closer now because it’s getting hard to hear anything over the crowd ahead. My mind momentarily goes blank at the sight of her. The flickering flames cast golden light over her face, sharpening her angles and highlighting the silver in her eyes. There’s a moment, half a second, where I think I may have a flashback to the nightmare version of her with flaming wings and arrow-tipped fangs, but that image of her has nothing on this real version in front of me. The cape flutters in the wind like a candle next to a window, in gentle streams rather than a torrent of fire. Her normal white, non-serrated teeth are clearly visible behind her parted lips which are shiny and pink. And most of all, her eyes give off a warmth that sends a bolt of lightning right through my chest. It’s so acute, I know for a fact I felt this last time too, and the timelines have warped together again to double the impact of seeing her like this. I’m mesmerized by her, and I’m hopeless to think of anything else. I feel words on the tip of my tongue, sense the timeline trying to drag them out of me. I consider lying, telling her I don’t know what he’s saying. I try to push those words out instead, but too many forces are pressing against me. Her distracting face, the way I can feel her warm breath coast along my face, the sheer volume of the crowd pounding against my eardrums, the past urging me to just say it . “I think he said for us to hold hands.” The words are dragged out of me. Damn it. Her brows knit at my words, but then she snatches my hand and waves our joined hands at Cinna as if in question. He gives us a thumbs up. And then we’re on the street. People are screaming our names as they cheer for our District. They’re throwing flowers and little plush animals at us. Their excitement is infectious. I can tell Katniss is caught up in it, too, because she starts waving back, even throwing a few kisses at the crowd. Our faces are on every screen, flickering flames casting dancing shadows over our faces, youthful and whole as we blaze towards the City Circle, hands defiantly clasped together. Something rises inside me, and as if on their own, my chin lifts and I raise my other hand in a wave to the adoring audience, who surges like a wave with every movement Katniss and I make. I think this moment was always meant to be ours. We’re entering the City Circle when I feel her grip loosen. I pang of disappointment goes through me before I can smother it. I barely refrain from tightening my hold on her, not ready to let go. Ready or not, I don’t care. I can’t prolong this. My hand lets go of hers. I flex my fingers to soothe that instinct from the past timeline, and then shake my hand as if to return the blood flow, when in reality, I want to be able to banish the memory of holding her hand. The movement causes a stray ember to jump from my cape and arc towards the horses. It spooks the one in front of Katniss, and it bucks and swerves out of the way. The chariot pitches up at a sharp angle, making Katniss lose her balance. On instinct, she reaches for me. Something inside me snaps to attention at the thought of her getting hurt. I catch her by the elbow before she falls off entirely. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it at the base of my throat. Fear, relief, and a sick thrill at my skin in contact with her again all coursing through me at the same time. Her chest is heaving, probably on the tail end of terror, but she looks at me when she says, “Maybe we should…” She glances towards our hands, inches apart. “Just until we’re safely off this thing,” she rushes to add. I hesitate. A million different responses fly through my mind in the span of less than a second. No, that’s not happening. Just hold onto the chariot instead. Please … I might fall out of this thing. She notes my pause, and I see a flash of something cross her features, disappointment? Embarrassment? I don’t know, but my voice returns at the sight of it. “Alright.” Her brows pinch and then relax, and I wonder what is going through her head. Whether it’s confusion, distrust, or something else entirely. It doesn’t matter because our hands find each other in the noisy chaos erupting all around us. Our fingers lock together, and we straighten, using each other for support as our chariot pulls up to the president’s mansion. I’m glad for her hand now, because when I see President Snow for the first time since he had me tortured–repulsive, puffy lips and cold, dead snake eyes–the terror surges, making my heart pound and my lungs shrink. My mind wants to run, hide inward, and never come out, but with every camera pointed at us and every citizen’s eyes enticed by our flickering light, I force myself to fight through it. I grip onto Katniss’ hand, and her steady presence helps. She does not falter in front of Snow– she never has. I focus on the feel of her palm against mine, her fingers, small and calloused, clutch onto me with surprising strength. As if some of her defiant confidence has flown into me, my posture straightens and my chin steadies. My mind still cowers, but it does not retreat. President Snow drawls on for a while about the Hunger Games and what they represent, but I tune him out because the darker it gets, the more impossible it is to keep your eyes away from us, and the more I’m transfixed on the girl next to me. From her strong hand in mine to the steely glint in her eyes as the artificial flames illuminate her on screen. I’m beginning to see exactly the kind of effect she can have. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text The first time Nero had ever seen you play the piano was shortly after the passing of a dear doctor. Each note was filled with so much sorrow and anguish, and Nero could not stop herself from following the distant ping of each key. She has heard the piano being played from afar many times, but often times she dismissed the sound as the soft background music being played overhead on the Chaldea speakers. She almost feels foolish for not knowing until now that the pianist was none other than her own beloved Master. When she finds you playing in a far isolated room, she can’t help but applaud once your performance is over. It startles you for a moment, but it doesn’t take long for you to calm down as soon as you see it’s Nero. Nero is perhaps the only person that you trust with your entire life. She’s important to you and she helps keep you grounded when your thoughts begin to wander. Nero is usually filled with loud and energetic enthusiasm. She loves to encourage you and she loves being there for you. But at the same time, she feels bad that she can’t do anything for you that will make you feel better about your capabilities. She does however encourage you whenever you ask if the song was good. When she compares it to an artwork though, it brings about some sort of strange tension in the air, and that’s probably where Nero first notices that you’re uncomfortable with your abilities. While Nero would love to brag about you to everyone, for now, she’s content with keeping it to herself. She knows how you don’t like the attention, and especially more so from the more artistic and creative Servants and staff members around. As much as she wants to ask you to play for her more often, she understands that sometimes you just don’t want to. But as long as she can keep you company when you do play, she’s more than content with that. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Where are they deploying you?” he asked. “It’s classified,” she replied. “But you’re going to shadow Yularen?” There was an eagerness to find out more of this classified information filling inside him. He had already plucked out that Biala was leaving her service to work as a pupil under the famed director. “This has got to be something big. You know, he initially asked me to be on his service,” throwing out a straight lie to see if she could pick up on it. “You kriffin’ liar,” she said with a smile. She was always so beautiful when she did that… or caught him in a lie. It always kept her on her toes, just like she had to do to reach his face and kiss him. Without warning, a switch turned within him. He found himself in a moment in time in which he last found himself to be truly happy. How he had gotten here, he had no idea. He didn’t care. He was finally with Biala again. He didn’t speak, as she made him speechless. He lunged his face into hers and kissed her like he never had before. She kissed back for a second but had to push him off. “Elriza! You know we can’t do that here!” His shoulders dropped, but she was right. He took in his surroundings. They were in an alleyway back on Coruscant. The last moment he saw her. Right before she left for the Death Star. He needed to take action, and quickly too. If his timing was right, she only had about twenty minutes before her ship left the system to join the doomed battle station. He pondered over their location and where they could escape to. The alleyway was located near the main Imperial spaceport where all ISD-I Star destroyers deployed from to traverse throughout the galaxy. Now he needed to think of a way to convince her to stay with him. Biala Tero was the longest relationship Elriza ever had. They had been dating for four years now, ever since they both graduated from the ISB Academy. The night they received their qualification documents, they had a night in the Verity District to remember. They had gotten ice cream together, talking and bonding over their experiences in the academy. He had confessed to his attraction to both males and females, revealing quite too many details about his personal life that not even the most classified of files knew. She didn’t mind. In fact, she wanted to learn more, explore and experience it. The night had ended together in his room. What they did was never to be disclosed to anyone, though they often talked about it amongst themselves whenever they wanted to tease the other. The reason they could never officially reveal to others they were with each other was because of one glaring issue, of which the Empire would never approve. Biala Tero was human. He was not. She wasn’t necessarily ashamed of their relationship, but she also never wanted anyone to know. She feared she might lose her position as an ISB Attendant. In a career where the main focus was to stake out other’s secrets, it was difficult to keep a secret to one's self. “Biala,” Elriza began to speak in a pitch higher than he intended. He knew she could tell his sudden shift in demeanor, but he didn’t care. “You and I, we have to leave,” his speaking pace was hushed and quick. Her eyes widened in surprise, but he was unsure what the reaction was meant to be. “Whatever do you mean? Are yo-” “You can’t go with Yularen,” he interrupted, stammering over his words. “You and I,” he paused to think, his mind a broth boiling with traitorous thoughts, “we’ll desert the Empire! We’ll find a forgotten Outer Rim world, we can settle and have a life together. You’ve always taken a fondness for Batuu. Let’s live amongst the spires!” Desertion? he thought to himself. How could we desert when we’ve got so much to pursue? He would be kicking himself for that one. Her brow furrowed. Hadn’t she always wanted to go off and be together? She had always said sweet nothings to him about how they’d settle there with their mixed Human-Sephi children. But her jubilation in a future together seemed to disappear here within her in front of his very eyes. “We can’t, Elriza! Don’t you know how serious desertion is? Where is all of this coming from anyways?” Her tone was grave, and Elriza knew he had to explain himself then and there. In a hushed tone as for nobody to hear him, he revealed it to her. “I know you’re going to the DS-1 battle station.” She recoiled as he revealed her secret, instinctively shoving him away. "How do you— no… no! You’re not supposed to know that! Did you break into my files again?" Rage flared in her eyes. The last time he’d done this, their relationship nearly shattered. This time, it wasn’t the same. “You have to believe me, Biala,” he was starting to sweat now, nervously wiping his brow. “If you go…” he paused. What he was about to say next would shift the foundations of their love between each other forever. “If you go, you’ll die,” Elriza blurted, his words shattering into her trembling hands. “W-what?” Biala stammered, stunned by the revelation. “The Rebels… they’ve found a flaw in the station. They’ll destroy it, kill everyone inside! That’s how Yularen died. That’s how you—” He caught himself, but the truth had already spilled. Her face turned to ice, the warmth of her affection for him draining in an instant. Biala drew her blaster, leveling it at his chest. “You seem to know too much, Elriza,” she said, her voice a cold blade. Tears brimmed in his eyes. “Biala, you have to believe me! I—” He lunged for the blaster, desperate to wrestle it from her grip, but she sidestepped with ease, leaving his hands grasping at air. His voice broke, barely a whisper, hands trembling in surrender. “Biala… please. I love—” Her blaster flashed, a single shot piercing his chest. ΩΩΩ “She was the one who planted the beacon on Nalmu,” Cho had tried to plead his case to Enfys, who had only entered moments before. “I swear it!” Omega’s anger rose like floodwater within her as she pressed his blaster further into his temple. He had hidden it on his person─which apparently went unfound by the Cloud-Riders─and pulled it on Omega when she had asked for information on the ISB Agent. Remembering the training she had once received from Hunter, she was able to pry the blaster from his hands through the bars and turn it against him in almost a split second, pulling him against the cage. “Don’t believe anything he says!” she shouted, trying to get Enfys to believe her side instead. The optics were definitely not in her favor. “Omega…” Enfys said calmly, as if she were trying to coax a tooka out of a tree, “just hand me the blaster and we’ll talk th—” “No! You just fought a battle against the Empire and I have the person who brought them here!” Omega was not going to hear her out. “He tricked me, Nalmu, and you into what happened today, and I’m not going to let that stand.” Omega kept her eyes locked on the Tiss’shar’s, but noticed in her peripheral Enfys sliding her helmet off. Cho turned his head in a split second shock. He didn’t speak, but his eyes said everything. Disbelief, discomfort, and a flicker of disdain. Omega didn’t lower the blaster, not yet, but she turned just enough to meet Enfys’ gaze. In that moment, everything inside her jolted. All day, eyes had haunted her, but her eyes were not like those. Enfys’ eyes were warm, sharp, and alive, a rich caramel hue that didn’t pierce so much as reach. They didn’t haunt her, they held her. A flicker of trust, of defiance, and of understanding. And they made her hesitate. In that hesitation, Cho used that distraction to kick against the bars of the cell causing a resounding crashing sound. The motion and noise made Omega flinch and drop the blaster inside his cell. Enfys leapt for the gun, but it was too late. As they rose, he pointed the weapon intermittently between Omega and Enfys. “Now, that wasn’t too convincing, was it?” Cho laughed. Omega noticed in his joy that he might have thought he had the upper hand. “You!” he pointed the blaster at Enfys. Her face was stone solid, her head tilted down but her eyes still up, staring at him beneath her brow. It sent chills down Omega’s spine and saw Cho’s hands shaking. “Release me from this cell, you lying snake!” “You’re one to talk, reptile ,” she spit back, never wavering. Cho let out a fiery growl and almost pulled the trigger before Enfys suddenly swung down her staff through the bars, the blade slicing his blaster in half. Before he could react, she hit Cho with a kinetic blast from the bottom of her staff, sending him flying and knocking him out cold for the second time today. Omega sighed in relief for only a second before Enfys stormed into her face. “Is it your mission to anger me today, Omega?” she asked, her eyes now flickering like coals. “What?” Omega asked in puzzlement. “I figured out the spy who brought the Empire here! You couldn’t show just a little appreciation for that?” “You made a situation out of something that didn’t need to become one. You’re undisciplined, unruly, and too much of a wild card to be trusted!” The two were now in a heated argument and Omega hated that. She knew this was way past defusing now. She bit back. “I was left all alone in this hole with nothing to do but sit on my thumbs and watch you fight!” she paused for a moment and pointed at Cho. “I figured I may as well ask him if he knew anything about that ISB Agent you got killed. So I did, and he pulled out a blaster that your people failed to uncover. Just be glad I had the training to take it from his hands.” Enfys, looked her up and down, as if she couldn’t believe someone like her could do such a thing. Omega was unsure how to feel about that, considering she still had her fatigues down and her top half was only covered in a tank top and bandages. She folded her arms, covering herself instinctively. “Omega, you helped lead the Empire here today. I was almost going to look past that because you obviously didn’t know Nalmu was bringing the tracker, but this whole thing with Cho was an absurd stunt. I had to break in here to make sure you didn’t pull anything stupid with him. How did you ever expect me to believe that he was the spy?” Omega noticed her voice quaking, as if she was personally breaking Enfys’ heart. It was a lot of unfortunate circumstances, but Omega had to convince her now to join the Rebellion or Enfys never would. “Listen, we can take him prisoner. We’ll meet back with the Rebel—” “No ,” and that was all Omega needed to hear. She had failed her mission. “You will leave on your own, Omega,” Enfys said. Omega thought it sounded like she had a lump in her throat. Was this hurting her as much as it was Omega? “The Rebel—” “ E nough about the Rebellion,” she snapped. “We will not be joining. Do not find us, do not come back for us. Go back and tell your gracious generals that we couldn’t find an understanding, and that we will operate independently from your cause.” Omega could sense the unease in Enfys’ voice. Each word trembled, soaking in the ache she was trying to conceal. No more words could sway her. Omega had accepted her failure, and the truth of it settled like ash in her chest. Rather than ask for a ride back to her X-wing, she let Starfall escort her out to the entrance of the fortress. Her heart was a quiet storm as her steps were mechanical. As she stepped outside, she refused to look back. Not at first. Her boots crunched against the brittle, dead grass. Each step was deliberate, as if moving with purpose could dull the ache. As the fortress doors groaned shut behind her, she could still feel Enfys’ presence lingering at her back, like a shadow refusing to let go. She hadn’t just failed the mission or the Rebellion—she had failed her. That sting of that hurt more than any blaster wound. It was sharper than the betrayal of her own hope. As Omega reached the portcullis, something tugged at her. Some instinct she didn’t have a name for. She stopped, going breathless, and turned around—perhaps to catch a final glimpse of the cold silhouette of the fortress—but all she saw was her. Enfys stood in the archway, her helmet off. The fading dusk framed her figure. Her eyes were raw and unguarded. They betrayed the words she’d spoken. Perhaps she hadn’t meant them, or perhaps she meant them too fiercely. Perhaps her heart was torn by the weight of it all. Their gazes locked across the chasm of distance, and in that fleeting moment, the galaxy fell away. No Rebellion, no Empire, just two souls bound by a fragile pull that had sparked in a single meeting hours before. Omega’s heart screamed to run back, to plead, or perhaps to beg her to flee together into the stars, as absurd as that sounded. But her feet stayed rooted, her voice trapped in her throat. Though in the distance, she could see Enfys’ eyes held a mirror of that longing. She wished that they could rewrite the day, the war, the worlds keeping them apart. The cold wind stirred, breaking the spell. Omega turned away, her chest tight with the unbearable truth. This was likely the last time she’d feel Enfys’ warm gaze, like a star she’d never reach again. Her eyes stung as she walked on, the ache of what could have been trailing her into the night. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text For two days after the coffee shop, Bucky felt… steady. Not good, not normal, but steady. He unpacked a few more boxes. Sat on his balcony for a while in the mornings. Even managed to sleep without waking up drenched in sweat. Then, without warning, the bottom dropped out. It started with a sound—construction work down the street, the sharp crack of metal on metal. His chest seized. In an instant, he was back in the prison camp: clang of iron doors, boots on concrete, the echo of his own ragged breathing. He shut himself in his apartment and didn’t come out. The next day, Steve knocked gently. “Hey, Buck? Just checking in. Want to go for a walk?” Bucky sat on the floor with his back against the door, silent. His hands shook so badly he pressed them between his knees to hide it—even though there was no one to see. After a long pause, Steve’s voice came again, softer this time. “No rush. I’ll be around.” Bucky listened to the footsteps fading down the hall. Relief and shame twisted in his gut, tangling until he couldn’t tell one from the other. The days blurred. He ignored the outside world, ignored the gnawing hunger in his stomach. The walls felt like they were closing in. On the third night, he woke up from a nightmare—sweat-soaked, gasping, heart hammering like it was going to explode. He stumbled to the kitchen, trying to breathe, trying not to fall apart completely. A knock came, soft but steady. “Bucky? You don’t have to open the door. I just…” Steve’s voice hesitated, then steadied. “I wanted you to know you’re not alone.” Bucky froze. His throat burned. He pressed a hand over his face, torn between wanting to scream go away and wanting—desperately—for Steve to stay. He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away from the door either. For a long time, silence stretched between them. Then Steve’s voice, quiet: “Okay. Goodnight, Buck.” Footsteps again, retreating. Bucky slid down against the door until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to his chest. He pressed his forehead against the wood, eyes stinging. He hated himself for not answering. For not being stronger. But beneath the shame, there was something else. Something small. Steve hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t given up. And for the first time since the panic hit, Bucky felt the faintest thread of hope: maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to do this alone forever. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text LAOISE God I can hear my alarm ringing on my bedside table. It pulled me out of my dream where I was back at the party with Jasper's tongue in my mouth- Okay it's time to get up Lai. First day of school. No biggie. You've done this many times before. I turn the alarm off before getting up from my bed. Stumbling into the shared bathroom of me and Jes I see her already brushing her teeth. "Morning Lai. I could almost hear your moans for Jasper from your room to mine." "Oh shut up." I say grabbing my toothbrush and applying a dollop of toothpaste on it. "They were muffled by the sound of your whining for Mike or whatever his name was." I say with my toothbrush in my mouth making it hardly english. Brushing my teeth I spit out the paste before rincing my brush with water. "You need to make an impression today. Not everyday does a blonde hottie enter the school already having one of the Cullens up her sleeve." "C'mon Jes I don't have him. It was just some drunk stupid stuff." More like amazing stupid- "C'mon he was ready to suck your toes if you'd have asked." Jessica says before walking out of the bathroom through a door that leads to her room. I groan as I walk out of the bathroom into my room and start to dig through the boxes with my clothes still inside. I pull out a pair of dark blue true religion low waist jeans and a skin tight long sleeve shirt that stops before my bellybutton. It has a low v neck. "This is fine enough." I say pulling on a pair of chestnut uggs and spraying my perfume. I grab my leather school bag and walkout of my bedroom straight into the kitchen. Jessica's parents leave super early work and come home late so I almost never see them on school days. I grab an apple from the tray and walkout of the front door to see Jessica sitting in the convertible waiting for me. Stepping into the car she looks at me up and down. "I guess this'll do. Jasper will probably want to tear it all off, am I right?" "Oh give it a rest will ya!" Forks high school seems like the typical school you'd meet in any part of the States. I walk through the hallway looking for my next class. Jessica told me that the history class would be the class 201 but when I walked there I was told I was in the wrong class. Fucking Jessica. “Are you lost?” I hear someone ask behind me making me turn around to look at them. I spot a huge man. Not like in a fat way. With a black buzzcut and a really defined face. “A little. I’m new here.” “I can tell Laoise.” I raise an eyebrow. Did I tell him my name? I don’t think so. “I’m Emmet by the way.” He says making me nod slowly. “Come i’ll show you where the history class is.” What is going on. I didn’t even tell him what class I had. Oh whatever I really need to get to this class. I start following him through the hallways filled with navy lockers and classroom door decorated with some stupid motivational crap. “Here it is.” He points to a door numbered 102. Fucking Jessica. “Thank you.” I say as I’m about to walk into the class. He takes a hold of my arm. “Just don’t sit on the furthest desk from the teacher close to the windows.” He says before giving me a quick smile and walking away. I raise an eyebrow. This school is fucking weird and everyone in it. Fuck it I’m going to sit on that desk. I walk in interrupting the teachers teaching clearly late for my class. “Ms. Stanley please come in. Choose any free desk to sit on.” I eye the classroom and finally spot the one the hulk just now told me not to sit on. I walk towards it making everyone whisper around me. I start to get a little self conscious but oh well it’s too late now. I sit down placing my bag on the floor and my notebook on the desk before turning my attention back to the teacher. “So where was I.” He starts to continue before the door swings open again. JASPER My sister Alice saw some sight from the future where I would lose my cool and suddenly start kissing the new girl if I went early history class and help her find it. That’s why Emmet did it for me and helped her look for her class. She probably was creeped out by the way Emmet almost knew everything about her. I walk into the classroom 15 minutes late and find her sitting on the desk I usually sit alone in. Great, I told Emmet to tell her not to sit there. I walk towards her taking the seat right next to her. She seems to be avoiding my stare. Maybe she doesn’t remember. She was pretty drunk just like me. I can hear her heartbeat. It’s going crazy. She must remember she’s just avoiding me. God she smells so good. I could pay all of the money from my bank account just to have another kiss with her. And trust me there’s a lot of money. I try to concentrate on the teacher just like her, but I am failing miserably. She’s so close. I twitch as her knee just so gently brushes against mine and quickly moves away. We both turn to look at each other clearly affected by the sudden touch. We look at it each other for second clearly both of us fighting back the urge to jump at each other. Fuck it I have an idea and it’s only beneficial for both of us. She must want it as badly as I do. And if she doesn’t she can just decline. I rip out a package out of the notebook and grab one of her pencils scattered on the table. I need her in someway I can’t explain. But I don’t think I can stay away from her. I push her back the piece of notebook paper. LAOISE ‘I know you feel it too’ I gulp nervously reading the paper. Yes Jasper I feel it but what do you want us to do about it? I grab the paper and write back. ‘So what if I feel it? What do you want to do about it?’ I slip the note back to him reading his face as he reads my message to him. He grins before grabbing the pencil and writing back. Not even a minute goes by before I feel the note nudging my hand. I grab it and open it and I feel my heart beat out of my chest. ‘I could somehow breathe again when your lips were on mine and I know you felt the same way. So what if we both use each other as an escape from the reality once in a while no strings attached?’ Is he suggesting we start screwing around with each other. I know I felt it too and I don’t think I can go without now that I know the one thing that gets my thoughts away from my past. I start writing back. ‘Fine. But there will be rules. 1. No one knows about this. 2. No feelings attached. 3. if either of us develop feelings other than physical (doubt it will happen to me so if you do) it stops immediately. 4. We will meet couple times a week secretly.’ I slip the note back to him making a grin spread on his face. He turns to face me he lifts an eyebrow almost like he is reassuring me that it really is fine with me. Not like I’m a virgin. I’ve had my one or two boyfriends in California and I have experience. It can’t be a disaster if both of us are getting something out of it. I nod making he pull out his phone from his pocket. He clicks a few buttons before sliding it to me. I look at the screen seeing it asking for a new contact number. I click my phone number on there questioning what will this lead into before sliding the phone back to him. The bell rings making class end immediately making me pack my bag and walk out of the classroom without looking back at him. I hear my phone beep in my ass pocket making me lift it to my face. Unknow number: “I’m free tonight if you are ;) -Jasper” A quick blush creeps to my face making me up my steps and get quickly away from his gaze before he sees the effect he has on me. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text Part LXVII. Cue The Boss Music Zhongli is swerving before the first bullet is fired. The second one hits his shield and explodes in a shower of tiny ice shards. “Incoming!” one of the Adepti yells, and the sky lights up as La Signora’s submarines fire at once. “Fuck, how do we stop these?” Lumine yells amidst the whistling bullets. They’re hanging on tightly to Zhongli’s mane as gold spots bloom on his Jade Shield where it’s been hit. Around them, the Adepti are dodging left and right, leaving colourful trails of their elemental magic in their wake. “With offence,” comes Zhongli’s rumbling answer. He rears back, his mane rippling in the wind as shimmering gold gathers in his horn, lighting them up like twin beacons that cut through the surrounding darkness. The horns glow until they appear white hot, their shape perfectly visible even with Ajax squinting through watery eyes, and just as he’s about to turn his head because the brightness is becoming too much , Zhongli releases his attacks. Beams shoot forth in a high-pitched sound like firing lasers. They carve into the dark sea and hit the closest submarine. A fireball erupts with a deafening roar as molten metal and water explode outwards in giant waves, followed by plumes of purple smoke rising from the wreckage. Bits and pieces fall back into the water, leaving only charred scraps behind. All the submarines stop attacking. “Adepti, do not let them distract you,” Zhongli commands. His words are echoing in everyone’s minds. “First Squadron, focus on stopping Osial’s summoning. Second Squadron, cover them!” “Yes, my lord!” the Adepti roar. The Adepti split up. Colourful lights zigzag through the sky amongst churning storm clouds while the violent crashing waves add to the cacophony of the battle. La Signora and her men react quickly; upon seeing Zhongli blasting a submarine to smithereens, they dive down to take cover beneath choppy waters. Meanwhile, the red ring of magic surrounding Osial’s prison pulses ominously. “I can sense eight power sources deep below the ocean.” Cloud Retainer yells. She breaks off as a shot of ice streaks towards her. With a mighty flap of her wings, minty green Anemo magic swirls outwards and deflects the bullet. Moon Carver, who had just finished countering a few stray bullets with fire, flies towards them. “The spell’s anchor points. We’ll need to dive down and disrupt them.” “Or alternatively, we kill the spell casters. Either of those will help end the spell.” Both options are easier said than done. Despite the Second Squadron’s best efforts, the enemies continue to attack ferociously. Add to that are pelting rain mixed with furious winds, and the pervasive dark sky only briefly alight from flashes of violent lightning: all of which are giving the seasoned warriors a hard time to counter efficiently. More speedy submarines pop to the surface. They fire a few shots, then disappear back into the deep. A blur of green flashes beside them and Xiao appears with Venti. “Slippery annoyances,” he growls as Venti, in white wings and with one knee still bandaged, sends out a gust of wind to throw off a cryo shot. “This can’t go on. What’s the plan?” “Can we do another detection spell to find the casters?” Lumine calls. She and the rest of the gang are clutching onto Zhongli’s mane for dear life, but under the protection of the Jade Shield, the wild storm’s effect is greatly diminished on them. “Too many Sigils are being used,” Zhongli answers. “I can sense the Sigils’ powers practically carpeting the sea.” “They’re using the Sigils to boost the Guizhong Ballistae,” Kaeya guesses from somewhere behind Ajax. “Can we force them to burn through their stash?” “That is a war of attrition that we would rather not fight.” Not when they don’t know how many Sigils La Signora even has and how many people she’s got using them. Hu Tao’s poking her head over Zhongli’s mane and squints below. “We wall them off instead! Or better yet, we wall ourselves off.” Ajax makes a face. “What?” She gestures at the red magic circle frantically. “The easiest solution is to have the Adepti get to the anchor points but they can’t with all the subs. So we make something—a shield, a wall of ice, whatever, something to dome over the spell area. Stops them from coming at us—” “While keeping us safe inside !” “Do we have enough juice to make that big of a barrier?” “I can make a shield,” Zhongli offers. “I don’t know how long it will hold given the size but it will have to be enough. Once cast, I won’t be able to stray far from it to keep it active, nor will I be able to fire powerful attacks; I will only be able to cast smaller shields at most. You all will have to help defend my position.” A grim look of determination settles on everybody’s faces. In other words, they will be sitting ducks, so the longer they can keep their Jade Shield up, the better. “Got it, Zhongli,” Ajax answers. “Do what you need to do.” Zhongli raises his head and lets out a roar. His next words ring in everyone's minds. “First Squadron! On my signal, dive for the anchor points! Second Squadron, defend our position!” With a powerful kick, Zhongli shoots towards the red seal, cryo bullets glancing against his shield and doing nothing to slow him down. The chaos grows the closer he gets, the storm winds howling like a fierce banshee while silver lightning strikes in powerful, frequent lashes. The build-up of electricity sends tingling sensations running down Ajax’s skin, and the rising Abyssal energy makes him feel a touch nauseous. He ignores it and focuses on keeping a tight hold on Zhongli. They stop at the top of the seal, high enough so that the sea waves can’t hit them. A red circle of light glows ominously from under the water, with eight points along its circumference shining the brightest. The points are equally spaced with wisps of red light diffusing outwards. Along the inner circumference are a series of archaic Liyue symbols with long, elegant strokes like ones on the Sigils of Permission. But, with every second, the eight points would flare a bright, angry red, sending a pulse of light through the seal and making the symbols shake and waver. When the pulse dies down, the symbols look visibly more distorted and faded. Zhongli wastes no time watching the seal being slowly chipped away; the smell of ozone and the buzzing in the air spike once more, and his horns grow bright. “First Squadron! Dive on three! One, two…three!” Over a dozen colourful lights zip to the Sigil as a humongous golden dome shimmers into existence, starting from the top, then trickling down before solidifying, fragment by fragment. The bottom of the dome hits the water and extends down into a golden tube, and as the walls form, the Adepti are diving right alongside them, their light dimming and dimming as they descend further and further into the ocean depths. With one last bright flare, the shield fully solidifies, and the pure Geo energy is so strong that Ajax can feel the warm vibration against his skin. Even the wild weather seems to calm in its presence. Holy shit, Ajax thinks, his mouth going a bit dry. Zhongli’s shield is the size of a literal mountain! No wonder he said they’ll be sitting ducks. The fact that he can even hold something this large while still maintaining their Jade Shield is phenomenal. In the water, Ajax can spot the Adepti’s light reaching the anchor points. The red circle shudders but continues to pulse, albeit slightly more sluggishly. The Adepti that are not at the anchor points are moving within the shield quickly, and a few seconds later, bursts of light appear along with bubbles rising rapidly to the water’s surface. “They’re attacking the subs that are stuck inside the shield. At least that’s some threats taken care of,” Diluc observes. His eyes cast towards the sea outside the shield, and he smirks. “And with the shield in place, it also becomes easier to find our enemies.” Indeed, the submarines are firing at the dome in a frenzy, but in so doing, they reveal their positions. Squadron Two takes advantage of its good fortune and fires at the enemy. Elemental magic slams into the subs and the water, sending giant waves spraying upwards along with twisted metal pieces and broken submarine parts. Some of the vessels are frozen in place from Cryo magic, some are being fried with purple electricity dancing across the metal surface, but all that have been hit eventually meet their fate. Explosions, fireballs, and smoke appear from where the strikes are true, and soon, the sea is carpeted in oil fire. Ajax and his buddies don’t sit lightly either. “Burn!” The Sigil glows brightly in Diluc’s hand and a fire phoenix materializes. It swoops down and carpets the subs in fire, its flames spreading from the strong gust Lumine has summoned with her own Sigil. Meanwhile, Ajax is drawing his bow, Hydro arrow growing in power with the Pyro and Cryo magics swirling around it, courtesy of Hu Tao and Kaeya. He aims at one of the subs Diluc hits and fires. The sound of an explosion is like music to their ears. “Another one bites the dust!” Paimon cheers. “Get that one next! That one over there!” Just as Paimon finishes cheering, the seal flares violently and shakes. One of the anchor points pulses in visible distress, but from the depths of the ocean, they can see elemental magic at work: beams of golden light striking the point over and over, until with one last death rattle, the anchor point dims. The red fades away, leaving nothing but darkness. A few seconds pass and it does not glow again. “One anchor down!” an Adeptus announces amidst the roaring cheers. “Seven left!” The Adepti renew their attacks with fresh vigour, but so do La Signora’s people. Where fire spreads across the sea, ice dominates the sky. Volleys of frozen bullets are striking the large dome and shattering on impact. Cracks begin to form, dotting the shield in pockets that look like spider webs, but Squadron Two is doing their damndest to hold the line and repel the bullets where they can. Some have begun casting a series of ice walls to force the submarines back, and the big blue slabs spike into the water at random, skewering a few enemies too slow to evade. Their efforts are slow going as they fight to advance inch by inch among the barrage. It’s not like Ajax has a better idea on how to improve their tactics. He’s too busy drawing arrow after arrow on the endless waves of foes while his friends match his battle frenzy, his sweat beading his brow, and his heart thrumming in his chest. Then, another spark of hope. The red seal flares three times. The second, third, and fourth anchor points go out simultaneously, and more loud cheers go up. “Four left!” Ajax draws his bowstring back and lets it loose. Multiple Hydro arrows streak out, catching the flurry of Cryo shots aimed at them. A couple more attacks come hurtling towards Zhongli from the other side but Xiao and Venti are there in the nick of time. Swish goes the Yaksha’s green spear, and the Anemo-tipped weapon smacks one shot away just as the mighty beat of Venti’s white wings sends the other bullet curving into Xiao’s bullet. The two shots collide mid-air and explode in a mist of ice and snow. Hu Tao makes a whooping sound. “Strike!” Xiao ignores her, but Venti puffs out his chest. “Don’t underestimate the powers of this old Archon!” He eyes Zhongli and the golden dome around the seal. “Speaking of power, how did you hold a shield up that’s this big? You don’t have a Gnosis, and you’ve been fighting for days. Did you get a power boost or something?” Ajax coughs and pretends not to see the way everyone is looking at him suspiciously. Naturally, that’s when AR chimes in. “Status Update. Let’s just say there’s a lot of R Points from your companions except for Venti, Zhongli, and Hu Tao. Also, +300 L Points from Zhongli? Wow.” There’s a beat of silence, then, “I’m glad you two enjoyed doing ‘nothing’. Do you need a Healing Item or…?” OKAY, AR! THANK YOU! I’M FINE! “Focus on the battle,” Zhongli retorts, mercifully freeing Ajax from those judgmental stares. “My shield may be standing, but it’s not infallible.” In the brief moment of distraction, more cracks have appeared on the dome—large ones that cut across at an angle as if a great sword had tried to slice it. Still, it continues to stand even after a fresh barrage of shots pepper against its walls. Then, another loud cheer goes up as the seal flares red and dies. Four more anchor points left. Another flare of light. Three more, now. “Watch out,” Diluc cries. “They’re changing their tactics!” All the submarines dive under the waves. Adepti magic flies through the air and lance through the water like torpedoes but the submarines are fast. They must be putting all of their juice in movement because they do not return fire. Instead, they’re circling the ice parameters the Squadron Two set up like schools of hungry piranha before sinking into the depths where they go out of sight. Silence save for the raging storm. Everyone is looking around desperately. Where are they going? What are they planning— A Cryo shot shoots from the ocean and hurtles towards Zhongli. The shot is brighter and more powerful than any other attacks they faced, the elemental magic twisting and arcing like electricity dancing on a live wire. Zhongli twists out of the way just as another flies for his head—too late to duck that one. It catches the Jade Shield and shatters on impact, leaving a large explosion of ice shards splattering across the golden globe. As the flurry of ice slides off the barrier, a crack begins to spread… More powerful Cryo shots arc towards them, and Ajax curses, clinging to Zhongli’s mane. “They're trying to take Zhongli out!” Kaeya just barely deflects a shot with his own spell and whips around. “Of course! Concentrate on the spell caster, and the barrier goes down!” “Defend Zhongli!” Paimon cries. “Careful, these pack a punch!” The Adepti move as one. Blue ricochets from all sides as Liyue’s defenders surround their once god-king and fight off the assault. The enemies have indeed switched up their strategy. Rather than peppering the large shield around the seal with millions of shots, they’re concentrating their might on firing cannon blasts after cannon blasts at Zhongli. Even though the number of shots is decreased, the way they have kept up their speed, popping in and out of the water, makes it impossible to defend fully, even with Zhongli dodging. Three more cannon strikes slam against the Jade Shield, and the crack spreads upwards, deepening to the point where Ajax can feel the growing storm winds mixed with a sticky thickness from the Abyssal energy bleeding through the protection. Then, more cannon strikes, and the shield looks more and more like shattered glass by the second. Zhongli is trying his best to keep his shield up and the large shield over the seal. His horns are glowing white with power, and the air is vibrating with his familiar warm magic, but the attacks are relentless. Worse still, every time a particularly strong attack hits, the shield over the seal shudders and blinks for a split second. “Shit, my Sigil’s up!” The group turns in time to see the talisman in Diluc’s hand dissipate. “How many anchor points do we have left?” Ajax shouts. “Three now! One just went out,” Kaeya replies with a grimace. “My Sigil is done too.” “Same with mine,” Lumine admits. Not good. At this rate, the group is going to use up their Sigils before the anchor points are destroyed. “How are they even aiming at us like that?” Paimon yells as Zhongli dodges. “They can’t possibly see us that well, and we’re a much smaller target than the big shield, but they’re still getting us!” A familiar chime sounds in Ajax’s head. “They’re using sensors!” AR says in a rush. “I remember now—Il Dottore’s submarines are equipped with elemental magic sensors to guide their attacks! That’s how they see us!” Ajax repeats what AR says out loud. “They’re hitting Zhongli because he must be emanating so much elemental energy! The shield probably made him glow even brighter.” Not to mention, Ajax’s power boost. Who would have thought that his offering would come back to bite them in this manner? But if they’re only able to detect them using this method, then… AR, can they tell the difference between elemental energy types? “They can’t,” AR answers. “The sensors show the shape of creatures with elemental energy. Stronger creatures show up more clearly as in their outlines look brighter, but over a certain elemental strength, all creatures just appear white so…” You’re thinking what I’m thinking? “I think I am. Your Sigils are in your pocket. Remember to cast shields to trick the sensors.” Ajax takes one out and closes his eyes. He reaches into the depths of his Hydro power from his Vision and yanks it. He can feel ribbons of blue spill forth into his hand and he molds, smashing it into a ball and packing it while drawing more and more energy so that it swells like a balloon. He can hear more explosions and ominous cracks mixed with his friends asking him what he’s doing. “Decoys,” he grits out. In his mind’s eye, he can see the amorphous shape of his Hydro floating in the air. There’s no grace in his actions as he forces the figure to stretch, then reshaping it so that it takes on some familiar features: a long neck with a snout, a mane, elegant horns, then scales down the serpentine body, with four powerful limbs ending in wicked claws, and finally, more fur along the spine and tail. His beloved water Rex Lapis is back, made slightly girthier to match his Zhongli’s disguise. “Zhongli, I’ll need you to cast three shields on them. Can you do that?” “Understood. I’ll wait for your signal, beloved.” He activates the Sigil and feeds his will and power into it. I want to make copies of my summons. I want my summons to be powerful and brimming with power. I want them to be powerful enough to hide Zhongli! Heat burns his fingers and his palm while he feels the mental strain of keeping his summon steady in his mind. The air feels humid and more sweat is running down his face and neck. The power of the Sigil is feeding into his Hydro and he can feel his water Rex Lapis glowing, warping, then splitting into one copy, then two as the air grows so thick that it’s becoming hard to breathe. “Zhongli! Get ready,” he grits, muscles tremoring. The power is burgeoning and the figures are almost done…almost there—“NOW!” A river of power escapes his chest and fills his vision with blue. Three Hydro dragons rush forth and take to the skies, setting the air humming with charged magic as golden shields enclose around them. Ajax gasps, bowing over with his uninjured hand on his chest. The way all that energy left him feels like the very air in his lungs is squeezed out. Worse still, he can feel a sense of nausea and the beginnings of a migraine from the dark Abyssal energy slowly building in his body, thanks to his proximity to the seal. “Healing food, low grade, casted on your hand,” AR speaks up while his other friends are holding Ajax steady. “The Abyssal taint effect is getting a bit stronger. Hang in there.” “Ajax?” he hears Zhongli ask. “Are you alright?” “I’m fine,” he says and gives the team a weak smile. His hand is still tingling, but he ignores it. “Felt that one. Just need to take a breather and I’ll bounce back.” His gambit seems to be working. The decoys are flying around Zhongli with Cryo shots heading towards them. It’s also clear that the submarines are confused by the sudden appearance of so many dragon-shaped targets with shields because the shots are not as accurate as before. They’re striking a bit wide, as if unsure where to hit. Their sloppy attacks make it easier for the Adepti to counter as the three water Rex Lapis’s figures continue to dance in the air, long, coiling bodies flashing amidst the light from the magic and lightning. Thick spears of dense elemental power are summoned and with a high-pitched whistle, they pierce through the water in great splashes. More explosions and large splashes follow, but it’s hard to tell how many submarines are left. Ajax supposes it doesn’t matter, not when Squadron One is laser-focused on their mission. The seal flares with red magic, and the light dies. Two more anchor points left. “Where the hell is La Signora?” Diluc growls. He lights up a fresh Sigil, and a large Pyro phoenix manifests. It swoops down, picks Kaeya’s swirling ice up as a power buff, and dive bombs the Cryo shots, catching them in mid-air. “She has to show up soon,” Lumine adds. A swing of her sword sends Geo bullets flying out in an arc. “We’re almost done ruining her plans.” Another red flash fills the air. They’re down to the last anchor point, but instead of being excited, the achievement only fills Ajax with dread. The other Adepti are sharing his sentiment. They’re hovering by, eyes tracking the water for any signs of movement. Meanwhile, all the shields on the field are looking rough; the golden dome protecting the seal is riddled with holes while the shield around Zhongli (and them, by extension) looks like it’s on its last leg before shattering into a million pieces. Even the shields around the water dragons are worse for wear. So where the fuck is— A thunderous crash erupts from the sea, and then, a column of water shoots up from the base of the golden dome. Before the Adepti can react, a panicked voice is projected into their minds. “Lord Lapis! The enemies—they’re detonating thems—URGH!” Another roar and violent burst of water shooting up like a volcanic eruption, the explosion sending shockwaves radiating outwards—because that’s exactly what’s happening under the water: an explosion. And then, to their collective horror, the golden dome shatters with a crash. “The shield!” “Squadron One! Can you hear us?!” “How are they—?!” Zhongli’s horns glow, and a Geo shield tries to reform but it’s too slow. The water over the seal turns red as the last anchor point flares. Instead of disappearing, the crimson light only grows more prominent to the point of obscuring the rest of the seal from view. The water churns, waves crashing into each other, then, as if someone has pulled a plug at the bottom of the ocean floor, the water starts swirling counterclockwise, tracing the perimeter of the seal. The Adepti are furiously casting spells. Arcane Liyuan characters manifest in front of them, and swirls of energy pour into the newly made whirlpool but Ajax knows it’s futile. The weight of the air feels heavy, and he can taste the smoke and oily thickness associated with the Abyss. He’s—fuck—he’s hunched over, one arm clutching over his stomach as the rising sensation of wrongness and sickness pour into him in ways he’s never experienced. His head feels like it’s about to split open. What the fuck—just what the— …failure—weakling—clearly too late. Always too late. Always lacking. No wonder your family hates you. No wonder your parents divorced. No wonder you died alone in your shoe box apartment—pathetic— “F-fuck. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” “Ajax!” The weight lifts as warmth sinks into his body. It takes a few seconds to register the stronger Jade Shield around them and Hu Tao holding him up. She gives him a pat on the back. “You’re alright, boyo.” She raises her voice: “Zhongli, he’s doing better. Concentrate on getting the seal under control!” Shit. AR, are you okay? He hears a ping in his head. “I’m…fine,” AR replies, his voice tight. “The Abyssal energy surge caught me off guard. The seal is failing.” Everyone appears to be coming to that conclusion too. They look tired and angry. Even Kaeya loses his trademark cool as he says, “It’s too late to save the seal. We should split up and have one team focus on catching La Signora instead.” The sky has turned pitch black and the whirlpool has deepened to the point where they can see the ocean floor. The seal has turned blood red with what looks like red vines snaking from the anchor point to curl around the symbols. Where they touch, the already faded and warped Liyuan symbols shudder and turn fuzzy. The light blinks once, twice, then everything goes dark. The seal is dead. The ground shakes as a loud crack is heard emanating from the earth. The water around the whirlpool grows larger and turbulent, sucking in more and more of the nearby debris into its vortex. Lightning strikes, and white hot electricity fans across the waves, but as it ripples out, something sparks against a smooth something that’s pulling ahead from being sucked in. Ajax squints. “Hey, is that a—?” “A submarine!” Hu Tao answers, Sigil flaring. A fireball shoots from her hand towards the vehicle. But just as it hits, spikes of Cryo bloom to form a shield. That’s never happened before in all the other ones they've blown up, and it can only mean one thing. “Found her!” Lumine calls. “Get her!” Multiple Sigils light up and different coloured attacks slam into the submarine, including Hydro attacks from Ajax’s summons. When the smoke clears, the submarine is covered in more jagged ice that’s fanned out like fins on a fish. The ice is chipped and more smoke is pouring out from somewhere—one of their hits must have succeeded—but the submarine is still speeding quickly over the cresting waves, and that’s after so many powerful blasts? Just how many Sigils is La Signora using to boost her defence? Ajax isn’t the only one to have noticed this. Zhongli’s rumbled words are heard in their heads as he says, “She must be using an extraordinary amount of Sigils to have fend off our attacks thus far. She must be feeling the effects of overuse. Not good.” Paimon, who’s been hiding behind Lumine, sticks her head out. “Wait, not good? What do you mean?” “Too much Adeptal energy will overwhelm the soul and burn up life force.” “I’m still not seeing how that’s a bad thing here…?” “In return, it grants the user one last boost of strength, including strengthening the willpower to complete their objective. The Millelith of old have used this as a last resort power to hold the line. In La Signora’s case…” “Her last objective is destruction,” Hu Tao answers through gritted teeth. She’s been firing fireballs nonstop to no success. “That’s the point of releasing Osial—she wanted revenge!” The ground shudders violently and more cracking sounds emerge, mixed with low, haunting groans. Then, a faint zigzag splits across the ocean floor. It cuts through the dead seal, and with each earthquake, it grows, separating bit by bit, revealing yawning darkness. Ribbons of Adeptal magic fly towards the gap and coalesce into a shimmering silver circle with arcane marks. Zhongli’s horns are bright as he sends his power to the new seal, making it pulse like a heartbeat that grows stronger with every second. The seal hovers over the crack and shakes as if desperately trying to push something back. As it does, light is thrown to its surroundings and into the dark chasm. It's just bright enough to illuminate the thing that’s been kept imprisoned. Ajax wishes he couldn’t see it because reflecting from that light are too many pairs of malevolent red eyes staring back at them, embedded in a mass of serpentine heads. He can’t look away, though, and the longer he stares, the more he finds his muscles locking into place as sweat pours down his face. He’s being pinned down by the gaze of an apex predator so powerful that in its presence, his strength feels as insignificant as an ant’s. Every second, he becomes more aware of his mortality and how it merely takes one attack—one swipe of its claws, or snap of its jaw around delicate neck—for his life to be forfeit. And there’s nothing he can do about it, not when the creature is that ancient and not when it’s encompassed in nothing but pure, blinding rage . He swallows hard. On the scale of one to ten, how fucked are we? “Twenty,” AR answers. “Thirty if we don’t stop La Signora. Focus up, Ajax! She’s getting away!” He curses and fires a Hydro arrow at the submarine on instinct. As expected, it does nothing to the Cryo shield. He’s pulling more power to make another shot when, from the corner of his eyes, something twinkling is aiming straight for them. But at the last second, one of Ajax’s summons slips in front of them and fires its own Hydro blast. Water meets ice and the bullet shatters in midair. “Not all the submarines are destroyed!” he yells. “They’re helping La Signora get away!” But the Adepti can’t do anything about it. With the loss of Squadron One, they’re down to half of their forces already. Most of them are pouring their energies into trying to make a new seal, leaving a small handful, including Venti, to defend them. Dark tentacles are starting to wriggle from the crevasse—Osial is fighting hard to escape, one limb at a time. There’s no one left to spare to stop La Signora. No one left except the mortals, that is. “It’s just us left who can stop her,” Ajax says to his team. “We need to draw her attention away from Liyue Harbour and Osial somehow.” “Which means we’ll need to get off Zhongli and find a way to get to reach her,” Lumine concludes. “ How ? None of us can fly!” “Whatever it is you’re planning, I do not condone it,” Zhongli’s voice rumbles with disapproval. “We don’t have much of a choice,” Ajax counters. “You guys need to focus on Osial, and we’re the only ones who can chase after her. Besides, if we get out of your hair, you don’t have to hold back!” “Beloved…” “C’mon, Zhongli, it’s the best plan we’ve got!” Lumine adds: “Once we figure out how to fly, that is.” “I got an idea!” Kaeya points to the water Rex Lapis that’s still lingering by them. “Master Ajax, how solid did you make your summon?” “I—” Ajax thinks. He had used his Sigil so that his summons would be powerful enough to hide Zhongli, but does that include a body that’s solid? “One way to find out, I guess.” A hand grips his arm hard. “You’re not jumping like an idiot,” Lumine hisses. She turns to Paimon. “Paimon! Can you check?” As Paimon floats to the summon, Ajax mutters, “I wasn’t planning to jump. I was going to test by throwing something at it…” Lumine, tellingly, does not release her iron grip. “It’s solid!” Paimon yells back. “We’re good to go!” “Alright, that’s our cue!” Diluc is the first to jump. He passes through their Jade Shield and the one on Water Rex Lapis, landing gracefully. Lumine and Hu Tao follow, with Kaeya tailing them. Ajax pats Zhongli’s head and kisses his fur. “Time to go. I’ll see you later, Zhongli. Kick some ass, okay?” He hears a resigned sigh in his head. “ Be careful , my love.” But he does not stop him, which goes to show just how dire the situation really is. “Always. I love you, Zhongli.” With one last gentle pat, Ajax lets go of the mane and jumps. He lands on Water Rex Lapis’s back closest to its neck, taking the driver’s seat, and he can feel the Hydro power growing warm under his touch in response to his presence. Aside from that, his summon feels completely solid even if the mane has a strange texture to it, like a mix between slime and modelling clay. “Everyone, hang on to your seats! We’re going to go fast !” They take off like a rocket. Part LXVIII. Phase Two Piloting Water Rex Lapis is not something Ajax predicted he would ever do, yet here they are. As they slice through the air to make up the distance between them and La Signora’s vessel, he gains a newfound appreciation for the gentle and masterful way Zhongli had treated them during their flight. “Oh, gods, I’m going to be sick!” “Why is the ride so bumpy?” “Please, Master Ajax, maybe a bit gentler?” “I’m trying!” Ajax cries. “It’s hard getting him to go fast without—ah! Bullet!” They swerve sharply to his friends’ screams. At least they didn’t get hit! They’re gaining grounds and now that they’re closer, they can make out a dozen other vessels surrounding La Signora’s, who still has the Cryo ice sticking from her hull. None of the submarines are diving—perhaps they’re running out of energy, or judging by the way they’re smoking, they’re too damaged to dive. Either way, they’re all beelining for the shores of Liyue Harbour, full speed ahead with their ballista sticking out from their deck, poised to fire. Ajax suspects that those are what remains of La Signora’s fleet, and that Zhongli’s prediction is right: they’ve overused their Sigils and are likely making a kamikaze run at the Harbour. With La Signora’s boosted strength to her mage power, the damage she can do to an already vulnerable city will be devastating, whether or not she survives her objective. Yeah, well, not on their watch. “Water Lapis, use water blast!” He hears Hu Tao’s choked laughter even though her voice is thin with panic. “ Really , boyo?” Diluc also sounds a touch more shrilled than usual: “I don’t understand why you’re laughing, but bullets! Three o’clock!” They do a barrel roll. There’s a lot of screaming, but Water Lapis is wreaking havoc with his attacks. He swoops low and lets out a jet of water, forming giant waves that knock the fleet off kilter and forcing them to swerve awkwardly. A hail of Cryo shots fire at them, and they dodge with some managing to hit their shield. “We need to disable their ballistae!” Kaeya yells over the sound of battle. “How many Sigils do we each have left?” “Not enough to take them all out by long-range fire,” Lumine answers. She brandishes her sword. “Melee combat it is!” Ajax nods. “Understood. Get ready to board!” Another round of bullets. Water Lapis ducks and counters with more angry streams of water. He swoops to the left, to the right, then dives low over the cluster of subs before the ballistae can recharge. The team jumps off and hits the deck, tucking their bodies into a roll before springing back up, weapons already glowing with elemental power. A blast of ice and fire slams into the ballista and making it spark wildly. Lumine delivers the finishing blow by straight-up bludgeoning it with her dull blade. A gust of wind, courtesy of Hu Tao’s Sigil, helps them hop to the next sub. On their way out, Ajax chucks a Hydro bomb behind him for good measure. It hits the side of the hull where it’s already damaged and explodes, blowing a hole through chunks of warped metal. More dark smoke pours from the submarine, and it begins to sink rapidly. The second they land on the second submarine, Diluc is ready to go. He runs headfirst and swings his Pyro-charged sword. A fire phoenix blossoms from the edge of his blade and flies for the ballistae. It sinks its claws into the gun and tears out bits and pieces of metal and wire while fire burns the rest of it. Kaeya steps in without missing a beat, and like a perfectly choreographed dance, sends spikes of ice to skewer through what’s left standing. Another fire blast from Hu Tao finishes the deed. They’re crossing to the next submarine, and Ajax is about to Hydro bomb the one they just left when he catches a flash from the corner of his eyes. He throws the half-formed Hydro bomb at the new threat instead. It catches the Electro bolt and destroys it. Wait, Electro bolt ? “In coming,” AR warns in his head. “You’ve got company!” Fatui agents are pouring out of the escape hatches, but there is a wrongness to how they look. Their movements feel jerky, like they’re having issues controlling their limbs, and they’re slightly slumping forward. Some have one arm hanging limply by the side, clearly broken, while others are dragging their bloodied legs that are bent at the wrong angle. None of them are speaking or look like they’re in pain; their expressions are strangely blank, and their eyes are vacant save for an unnatural yellow glow from their pupils. “What the actual fuck?” Hu Tao exclaims as Paimon lets out a scared “eep!” “Are these people zombies or something?” Kaeya raises his sword. “They’re barely alive. Looks like that’s what happens if you overuse those Sigils.” Diluc merely raises his sword in a battle stance. “Whatever they are, they’re in our way!” He dashes forward and brings his broadsword down on the nearest enemy. Everyone follows suit. Hydro daggers form in Ajax’s hands, and he sprints towards the Electro unit that fired the bolt at him. Before the man can reload, his blades flash, and the weapon is sliced into pieces. A kick to the abdomen sends the soldier sailing overboard and into the water. A sword is aimed for his chest, and he deflects it, the flat of his left dagger catching it as he lunges forward. He flips the blade in his right hand and smashes his opponent in the temple with the pommel, dropping him like a sack of potatoes. More people are coming out of the hatches from neighbouring submarines with guns and bows at the ready. He gathers his Hydro power and slashes—one, two. Twin blue arcs slice through the air and slam into the group. It’s enough to knock a few down, but the rest are still standing, and Ajax follows through with his attacks; he leaps to the submarine, feeling a sense of easy weightlessness thanks to Hu Tao’s active Anemo spell, and lands deftly on the deck. Before the rest of the soldiers can react, he slams the ends of his daggers together, morphing them into his double-headed spear, and sweeps the legs of the closest enemy from right under him. He can feel his heart racing as adrenaline rushes through his body. Everything feels sharp—the scent of blood and ozone, the feeling of heat rolling from his body mixed with the ice-cold sea spray against his skin, the rapid beating of his heart and the sound of combat, and his sight catching every movement the enemies are making. He twists, feeling wind brushing against his skin from a sword narrowly skewering his side, and slices the arm that made the mistake of overextending. He twists away to sweep his spear around in a move Zhongli had taught him. Two people fall to the ground. A flash of his blade and that number grows—three, then four, then five—his body moving on its own to fight off the next slashing blade, the next flying arrow, the next elemental blast. There’s a bright line of pain somewhere on his arm and he looks down. A shallow cut on his bicep from a knife. He ignores it and takes out the attacker. He fights until everyone is down and, for good measure, makes sure they stay down with a water bomb. He barely registers the ping in his head from AR’s notification. “The first Battle Gauge is filled. You can now use your Delusion. Do you want me to activate it?” Not yet! I’ll use it when I need to! How’s the Abyssal taint? “Growing slowly but there’s no avoiding it when you’re close-ish to Osial and out of the Jade Shield’s protection. I’ll warn you when it starts to get bad.” A pyro blast sweeps over the deck and sets the ballista ablaze. Ajax blinks. Hu Tao is on the submarine with him. She’s somehow managed to get some fresh bruises on her legs, but she looks unbothered by her injury. She gives him a little wave. “Figured I’d finish the job since you took care of everything else. Jesus, kid, you’re a beast!” Ajax chuckles and wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I put all my experience points in battle. How are we doing?” “Still got some ways to go. C’mon, you can pave the way and I’ll take out the guns.” Ajax feels a sense of weightlessness, mixed with a minty coolness wash over him. Another Anemo spell. He frowns. “Hu Tao, how many Sigils have you used?” “Not nearly as many as you think,” she answers, giving him a wink. “I’ve been faking it. I’m mostly using my Shop Items. Auntie Hu Tao has amassed quite the bag of tricks, so don’t you worry your pretty little head.” She twirls her staff and a blue swirl of magic surrounds her. Some sort of buff magic, most likely. Before jumping to the next submarine, Ajax hears her say in a sing-song voice: “Hey System babe, play ‘J-E-N-O-V-A’.” He shakes his head and follows her. They don’t get much of a reprieve when they land on the deck. The hatch busts open and the enemies open fire. But as it turns out, Hu Tao’s spell is a buff because in the blink of an eye, she disappears only to reappear a few feet away, Pyro spell at the ready. The wall of fire slams into the soldiers before they can retreat. Ajax dashes over, and the blade on his spear sparkles in the firelight as he sends it whipping in a horizontal strike, cutting into the sides of those who were too slow. He lunges down and sends his spear flying up to smack someone in the head in a classic Liyuan-style move, yanks the spear back and deflects the strikes slashing down at him with a flick of his wrist. Another flick and the spear twirls, knocking the attackers off balance. He springs up, breaks his spear into two blades and leaps at his foes using acrobatics that are purely from Master Skirk’s training. Two more enemies are kicked off the board. A third trips over the railing, trying to get away from his blade. All are down in a couple of minutes. Hu Tao’s Pyro magic ends the fight by destroying the ballista. They leap for the next closest submarine and hit the deck just as the rest of the team joins them. The enemies have caught on and are fanning out the submarines, leaving them stranded. Bullets and arrows fire at them from all sides. They drop to the ground and flatten themselves against the floor while chaos enfolds, mixed with pinging sounds from metal being struck. Ajax reaches into his Vision and tugs at one of the connections there; a second later, one of his Water Lapis summons plunges towards the enemies and blasts them into the ocean, but a stray Electro bullet shatters its Jade Shield. Still, it gives them enough reprieve to stand up and for Diluc to take care of the rest with his Pyro phoenix. Kaeya, Lumine, and Hu Tao make quick work of the ballista, leaving it a smoking husk by the time they gather at the center of the deck. “Shit. We need to get to those subs before they leave!” Lumine says, looking around. La Signora and a small handful of vessels have travelled quite the distance during their fight, their figures growing smaller and smaller with every second. Ajax is tugging his Hydro power before she finishes her sentence. “On it. Water Lapis! We need a ride!” Water Lapis arrives and they quickly hop on with Ajax back in the piloting seat. They take off, wind and rain whipping against their clothes and chilling their skin, now that the Jade Shield is gone. Ajax does his best to huddle in the watery mane for warmth as he pushes his summons to go faster. “There she is!” Lumine cries as Paimon clings desperately to her scarf. “Up ahead!” La Signora’s submarine is growing larger, but to their horror, so is the sight of Liyue Harbour as it emerges from the horizon. A row of what appears to be merchant ships is idling by—a sign that they’re getting close to the docks. Too close. Ajax grits his teeth and nudges Water Lapis to attack. “Water blast!” A powerful jet of water streams from its mouth but it’s met by a hail of cryo shots. More shots fly towards them and they barely dodge. In the brief moment of distraction, La Signora and a few submarines have pulled up ahead even further. Ajax feels his heart drop to his stomach. She’s heading straight for the merchant ships and the ballista on her ship is beginning to glow the tell-tale ice blue of a powerful Cryo spell. It’s clear that she’s hell bent on removing all obstacles from her war path, and she doesn’t care how many innocent people she kills. “ Fuck! Water blast! Water blast!” The blasts catch La Signora’s submarine, but more ice spikes grow from her damnable Cryo shield to absorb the attacks. It’s too late for Water Lapis to strike again, too late for the team to charge enough power to take her out. All they can do now is watch helplessly as La Signora’s ballista fires. It’s as if everything is moving in slow motion. Ajax sees the way blue light shoots from her weapon and streaks through the air in a high-pitched whistle. It cuts through the waves, freezing the water in its place, and travels straight for the large merchant ship. His entire chest is clenching; he can hear the loud thuds of his own heartbeats as Paimon screams in horror. The blue shot is moving in closer, closer still, and then— It hits a shimmering wall with a loud, resounding “crack” and disperses in a burst of mist. “H-holy shit!” Hu Tao exclaims, leaning out to look closer. The rest of the team is also staring at the merchant ship, gobsmacked. “What the actual fuck?” Then, a series of panels open along the side of the merchant ship and out pops a series of little cylinders that Ajax has ever only seen on T.V. “Wait a minute! That’s not a merchant ship—” “Fire!” Deafening thunderclaps fill the air as the row of cannons lay waste to La Signora and her men. La Signora’s ship retreats, her Cryo shield taking the brunt of the shots. Some of the spikes come flying off and land in the water. They can see a thick layer of glistening ice over the hull, keeping her vessel largely undamaged. The subs that follow her do not share her luck. As the cannons continue to fire, their hulls are getting more and more damaged, with thick, dark smoke escaping from where new holes are made. They try to evade, but manage to get a few meters when the other merchant ships open fire. Hu Tao is cackling. When the cannons die, she cups her hands to her mouth and yells, “I don’t know who you are, but kick some ass!” An authoritative and very familiar voice calls back: “We’re happy that you approve, Director Hu Tao.” Figures emerge from the deck of the large merchant ship. The first to appear is a stranger—a tall woman with long dark hair, dressed in red and wearing an eye patch. Every part of her screams pirate captain from her powerful physique to her confident stance. Beside her is a lady who embodies regal grace with moonlit pale hair. Compared to her companion, she sticks out like a sore thumb, save for her steely, determined gaze that speaks of authority and power. Now, that figure, they know very well. “Good evening, Knights, Traveller,” Ningguang greets. “I hope you don’t mind the assist.” From the other merchant ships, more familiar figures show up: there’s Keqing with Uncle Tian, there’s General Sun, who is barking orders at the other Millelith to reload their cannons, and there’s Lieutenant Shen with some of the men they travelled with. They’re all eager and ready to defend the golden shores of Liyue, even if it means giving their all. Ajax wonders if this is what gave Zhongli the confidence to retire. Behind them, the Adepti are fighting tooth and nail to keep an old, powerful foe at bay. Before him, Liyue’s men held the line to ensure no further danger reached their homeland. They are not fighting for glory, nor are they fighting because they enjoy the thrill of battle. They’re fighting because it is necessary to protect everything they love with the sober knowledge that failure is not an option. Zhongli made the right call to quit. The land is clearly in good hands amongst these faithful custodians. “We don’t mind it at all,” Lumine answers. A warm smile is spreading on her face. “We’re honoured to fight by your side.” Ningguang dips her head. “Our apologies for the delay. Thank you for your help.” Her gaze turns chilly as she casts them at the lingering submarines. “Now, it’s our turn to clean up the mess.” La Signora’s forces may be down to the bare bones, but they’re still a force to be reckoned with. They fire with reckless abandon, their attacks even more frenzied now that they know their chances of victory are quickly draining away. Even the subs with their ballista destroyed refuse to give up. Ajax watches as a handful charge full speed at the Millelith ships despite the ongoing cannon and ballistae fires. “Watch out! They’re going to self-detonate!” Water Lapis tries to stop them but the submarines smash against the side of the ships and explode in great billowing plumes of fire and dark smoke. The battlefield is covered in darkness, save for the faint flickering blue lights of shields being broken and continuous Cryo shots fired by the enemies. Amidst the chaos, La Signora’s vessel remains encased in protective ice. As more rounds are fired, however, the sky flashes white with violent crashes of lightning and an unholy cry reverberates across the sea. Ajax turns around. In the distance where the seal had failed, Osial is slowly emerging from his prison. His multiple heads are flailing, blasting water to fight off the Adepti while his body is pushing against the newly made half-formed seal. Slowly but surely, he’s rising to the surface, and the more of him escapes, the more violent he gets. More flashing lights and Ajax can make out the shadows of Adepti dropping from the sky as they’re hit by Osial’s attack. With every Adeptus down, the new seal grows weaker, its glow fading faster and faster. They need a change of plans. Ajax nudges Water Lapis to get closer to Ningguang so that he can be heard. “Lady Ningguang, the Adepti need your help! You can’t stay here!” Ningguang, who’s been watching Osial, narrows her eyes. “We can’t leave La Signora! If we go, she’ll destroy the city!” “Osial will destroy the city if we don’t go!” the captain beside her says. “If anything, we’ll be in a worse state with our Adepti forces taken out!” More submarines are taken out and La Signora is down to her last two vessels, plus herself. While the two vessels are struggling under the barrage, La Signora is dodging between waves with ease. Her ballista lights up again—one shot, and another. The powerful Cryo energy flies towards the smaller ships and rips through their hulls like paper, leaving the Millelith on board scrambling. The lady captain growls. “I’m ending things now!” She gives a sharp whistle and her crew immediately begins to move. Large cylindrical contraptions are hauled out and placed onto wooden pedestals. Thick metal chains are wrapped around them to secure them in place. In the moonlight, Ajax can see a sharp point poking from the long barrel, but there’s something attached to it—more ropes, maybe? He has no time to investigate further. “On my mark!” the captain yells, raising her arm straight up. She drops it in a chopping motion. “Fire!” Loud bangs followed by swooshing sounds as multiple harpoons shoot out. Spikes of ice wrap around La Signora’s submarine in a protective cocoon, but the harpoons were not aiming to pierce. Before they even hit the hull, the mess of ropes attached to them unfurl into large nets and in the blink of an eye, the vessel is tangled up in a mess of ropes like caught fish. The ice spikes only serve as convenient anchor points for the netting to hold on more securely. Ice spells are fired from all the ships and they hit the net. Ajax and the rest of the team catch on to their plan and pull out their Sigils to join in. A sheet of ice quickly crawls across La Signora’s submarine, melding between the spikes to form a smooth, even sheet. It spreads further, out into the surrounding water, while the layer grows thick and sturdy, enough that not even nearby waves can rock the ice sheet. More tendrils of ice creep out and catch the last of La Signora’s men, who were struggling to move their damaged vessels, but they are quickly overwhelmed. One of the Millelith decides to put them out of their misery, and a couple of loud bangs, shots rip through the hulls, stopping them more permanently. Calm settles over the battlefield, save for the loud cracking of ice. Just as well because Ajax feels the energy wane from his Water Lapis summons, and knows that they’ve got one minute left before it’s gone. He guides the dragon to land on the deck of the ship where Ningguang continues to observe the horizon, and clambering off. As the magic dissipates, he staggers, barely catching himself from faceplanting. Ah. Shit. Everything is aching with a deep, twinging pain, and he feels weak in his limbs. Worse of all, he feels woozy and faintly nauseous, no thanks to the thick Abyssal energy of his surroundings. He blinks and shakes his head to get himself to focus. “Boyo, you okay?” Hu Tao asks as Kaeya moves forward to support him. Lumine pulls out a water skin and nudges at him to drink. He takes the water with a quick thanks. The three summons took a lot more out of him than expected. “Yeah. Just a bit light-headed. How are you guys doing?” The group looks rough. The hand-to-hand combat left them with cuts and bruises, and the intense magic use left them pale and haggard. Their clothes are torn and dirty, and Lumine is wincing a little as she rotates her wrist. Diluc is cupping his side while Kaeya is quietly adjusting his stance to put more weight on one leg. Even Paimon is struggling to stay floating in the air. But at least they’re safe and sound, and now that La Signora is stopped, they look less stressed than before. “We’ll manage,” Diluc answers. He turns to Ningguang. “What’s next? Are we heading back to Osial?” “Yes. Rest for now.” Ningguang turns to the captain. “Captain Beidou, send word to have General Sun take charge and sail out with all the ships that are ready leave. We will stay behind for now to rescue those in the water. We have more ships coming this way and we’ll order them to guard La Signora before we catch up.” The captain grins. “Roger that, Lady Ningguang.” The deck is filled with chaos as people rush around to follow orders. Ajax and his gang find a quiet place to sit and tend to their wounds. At some point, one of the crew members drop by with water, dried rations, bandages and ointments, which are accepted with tired enthusiasm. AR, are you handling the Abyssal energy okay? Ajax asks as he patches over the cut on his arm. There’s a chiming sound in his head. “I-I’m managing,” AR answers. “The sooner this whole ordeal is over, the better. Do you need another Healing Food?” “A small one to replenish energy, please.” Healing Food, Low Grade, has been activated. The dizziness subsides and Ajax’s mind feels a bit clearer. The nausea is still present, but can be ignored more easily now that he’s feeling less miserable overall. He’s taking another slow sip of water with some food (discreetly by lifting his mask just a touch) when Hu Tao scoots over to sit beside him. She holds out some jerky that he’s sure are not part of the rations the crew member gave them. “How’s your System doing?” she asks quietly. “Mine has been ecstatic.” “AR’s hanging on, but the Abyss energy exposure is not fun.” He gives her a look when the second half of her response clicks in. “Ecstatic? Why?” She looks around. When nobody is paying attention to them, she says, “The Perfect Ending. I’ve been racking up points from all the fights.” “Isn’t that a good thing? You don’t look happy, though.” Indeed, Hu Tao is shifting, her nervousness evident. “Because I still haven’t satisfied the condition for this mission, so this,” she gestures to her surroundings, “is not over.” Ajax doesn’t like the sound of that either, but he tries to be logical. “Maybe it’s not over because Osial isn’t sealed yet, or maybe because La Signora hasn’t officially been sentenced.” At Hu Tao’s skeptical look, he adds with dread: “What? Did your draft contain a last-minute fight with another crazy tentacle monster, or something? Because I swear to God, Hu Tao—” She waves him off. “No, it’s not like that, at least I don’t think.” “ You don’t think. ” “We already fought the tentacle turtle. Fighting another tentacle animal would be overkill. It’s got to be something else.” They drop their conversation when they see Ningguang and Captain Beidou approach them. “No, don’t get up, keep seated, please. I just wanted to let you know that we’ll be setting off soon and see if you’re still willing to fight. You can stay behind if you choose. There’s no shame in that.” “Especially since it looks like you guys have been out there for a while now,” Captain Beidou adds. Up close, the captain cuts an even more impressive figure. Her muscular frame, sun-darkened skin, windswept hair, and ruby eye add a level of wild fierceness to her, especially compared to Ningguang’s carefully manicured elegance. “How long have you been fighting? We showed up when we saw the Adepti streaking across the sky but it looks like you were there even earlier.” “We arrived with the Adepti,” Kaeya explains. He’s got his back against the side of the ship with his legs stretched in front of him. One of his boots are off and white bandages are wrapped around his ankle. “We were staying at Yiyan Temple with them when we heard that La Signora was spotted in the ocean.” “Some of us were awake when we got the warning, so we were able to move super quickly,” Paimon says, nodding. “Hu Tao and Ch—Sir Honourary Knight, for example. If anybody needs the extra rest, it’s you two. Did you even sleep?” Ajax coughs awkwardly as Hu Tao arches a brow at him and smirks. Thankfully, she answers with something tame. “Oh, we’re fine. It’s not like we were doing much aside from drinking and chatting. It’s just as well because we were talking about La Signora and where to find her, so the timing was uncanny.” It feels like a lifetime ago when they were idling at the table, shooting the shit. It was interesting hearing all things Hu Tao had wished made it into the plot. The contrast between Tartaglia and La Signora for one and how cool it would be for them to one v. one— Ajax’s eyes go wide. He turns around but Hu Tao clearly has caught on because she’s looking shocked herself. “Hu Tao—!” “Holy fuck, boyo!” Everyone startles by their combined outburst, but Hu Tao is shouting, “La Signora! She’s not down for the count! Check the ice—!” A loud cracking sound cuts through the noise. Then, another, and another, like exploding firecrackers. Everyone scrambles to the side of the deck to peer at the ice prison. Deep splintering cracks appear at the center and they’re spreading quickly, causing the ice sheet to break apart smaller and smaller, with pieces jutting out from the water at odd angles like glass shards. “Hold the prison!” a Millelith captain shouts and bolts of Cryo magic come pouring from the side of the ships. But it’s too little, too late. The ice sheet explodes in a shower of sparkling shrapnel and a blast of ice cold water. Ajax hits the deck, arms flying over his head. He’s one of the lucky ones who reacted in time. A series of sick wet squelches and thuds surround him. Ajax turns his head to see. The Millelith who had shouted the order is on the ground with an ice javelin sticking out of his throat. His vacant eyes are still wide with surprise even as thick, sticky blood begins to pool around his body. Holy shit! Holy fucking shit! What the fuck?! “Ajax!” AR screams in his head. “Move!” He rolls just in time because an ice javelin skewers the spot he had been a second ago. He scrambles, half-running, half-crawling, adrenaline is pumping through his veins, and throws himself to the ground behind the mast. Not a second too soon because more javelins thud against the wood. Frost creep down to encase the pole and the flooring in ice. “Get behind something!” he yells. “Don’t stay on the ground!” But he’s not sure if anybody can hear him. There are screams everywhere mixed with panicked cries and groans of pain. A few feet away, a Millelith is on the ground, her leg beneath the knee completely severed by the ice and a javelin is sticking out of her spine. She’s reaching out to Ajax, face bloodied and pupils shrunken to the point where only the white of her eyes can be seen. She opens her mouth and more blood is pouring out. “H-help—help m-me—!” An ice spear skewers her through the heart and she goes limp. Holyshitholyfuckwhatthehellwhathehell— “Ajax! You need to—focus! Use a Sigil! Make a shield!” AR’s voice cuts through his internal panicked screams and he reaches into his pocket, fumbling a little. He pulls out the Sigil and wrenches his Hydro power from his Vision to feed the talisman. Shield! Shield! C’mon! Fuck! Shield!! A burst of light erupts and a golden dome grows up and out. Javelins are bouncing against the wall but they’re not penetrating through. “Get in the shield!” he yells and this time, people hear him. Footsteps thunder against broken wood and people are diving into the protective dome. A second dome goes up—Lumine is plastered behind another mast like he is, her Sigil glowing with power. There’s blood running down her face and arm, and beside her, there’s Paimon clinging to her side with Kaeya, gripping his leg, face pale. Injured, but alive. But where’s Hu Tao and Diluc? “Fuck you, ice bitch!” To his left, near the front of the ship, is a third, smaller dome but it’s shimmering red instead of gold. Hu Tao’s flame spear is red hot and it’s planted into the flooring upright like a load-bearing post. The ice is evaporating before it can even hit her, and somehow, she’s returning fire with what looks like razor-sharp knives made of pure flames. Huddled behind her are Beidou with a bleeding Ningguang in her arms, and Diluc on one knee, shoulder stabbed by a smaller icicle. “Annoying vermin.” The cold voice sends a chill running down Ajax’s spine. It’s familiar in the delicate, precise and crisp way the words are normally spoken, one that speaks of high society and careful upbringing, but there’s a certain wrongness to it, a gravelly rasp that was never present before. He leans over and looks out. Floating in the sky is a creature with skin as pale as death, with matching snow white hair that’s plastered to her face in scraggly strands. Half of her thin face is obscured in a black lace mask and on her head is a dark crown with two jagged spokes jutting out like the spread wings of a bird in flight, if the bird’s wings are clipped and broken, that is. Where her face is uncovered shows sunken cheeks, bloodless lips, and a large bulging eye that’s entirely black—no pupil, no sclera, just a swath of darkness. The creature has a long white dress that trails down to her feet, mixed with black lace that would have added elegance to it if not for the fact that it is torn, wet, and stained. A long red cape hangs limply from her bony shoulders and trails down, also torn, making her look like she possesses a pair of ravaged gossamer wings. She raises a porcelain hand ending in wicked claws, and her lips pull back in a monstrous snarl. “I will end all of you.” The sky around her lights up with twinkly white sparks that grow brighter and sharper. And then— “Hu Tao! Watch out!” Hundreds of ice shards rain down. They whistle through the air and cut through the wooden deck, leaving a field of holes as they embed deep. More ice spreads out and the flooring is coated in a light dusting of sparkling frost. Hu Tao grimaces, and her shield pulses a stronger red just as an endless wave of ice shards smashes into it. The ice is melting and sizzling against the fire, creating a thick mist that rolls off her defence, but with every second, the red grows dimmer and dimmer as the protective fire gets weaker. Fuck this shit. Ajax grits his teeth, grabs another Sigil and activates it. Shield! A second one appears over Hu Tao’s group and the air is filled with a soft clinking sound. Ajax immediately feels a wave of vertigo sweep through him. In his mind, he can hear murmurings, indecipherable at first, but with every beat of his heart, they grow louder. Kill—fight—destroy—fight, fight, fightfightfight. “F-fuck!” He squeezes his eyes shut and grips his head in his hands. AR! he cries. AR! C-control it! “I’m trying!” “Sir Knight!” Something hard and cold is pressed into his hand, and the familiar warmth mixed with the scent of ink and Silkflower floods his senses. It reminds him of morning breakfast shared over tea and coffee, peaceful afternoon strolls along the docks with warm sea wind ruffling his hair, and quiet evenings spent on the couch, fingers strumming the strings of his guitar. Through it all, there’s a presence beside him, warm, dependable, sturdy as rock. Zhongli. The voices quiet and suddenly, Ajax feels like he can breathe again. When he opens his eyes, he sees the thing in his hand. A small jade pendant carved in Rex Lapis’s likeness. It’s attached to a necklace made of bright red string. He looks up. A crew member is crouched in front of him and is giving him a weak smile. “A protective charm,” she explains. “I-I got this from Yiyan Temple. The priests said it helps calm the mind, guard against evil, and replenishes the spirit. Take it.” From the corner of his eyes, he sees Hu Tao bending over, hands on her knees, and heaving great breaths while the fire shield fades. Diluc has managed to get rid of the ice shard in his shoulder and is pressing down on the wound with some cloth, stemming the bleeding, while beside him, Ningguang is stirring in Beidou’s arms. Thank goodness they’re fine. “Thanks,” Ajax says, and stands up on shaky legs. He steadies himself against the mast with one hand. The ship is a wreck, and the deck is filled with bodies save for the three pockets of protection. Those that are alive are injured and bleeding, his allies are busy holding the fort, and up in the sky is that ice bitch that is the cause of all of this destruction and misery. She has been the thorn in his side—in AR’s side—for as long as he’s been in this world, the one enemy who’s been throwing wrench after wrench into his plans of a peaceful retirement, and for some god awful reason, despite being fired, stripped of her nobility, tossed into the wild, and frozen under ice, she’s still here wreaking havoc and destruction. Not just to him, but to AR, to his friends, to Zhongli . Like a cockroach refusing to die. All because she’s too proud to know when she’s beat. Too proud and too cruel to just let things go and leave them be. He slips the necklace over his head and feels a fire growing in his chest. The fresh anger is renewing his energy because seriously, fuck that ice bitch. He glances at Hu Tao again. The Perfect Ending, huh? Maybe Hu Tao is onto something about how satisfying it would be to go toe to toe with La Signora, because Ajax is just itching to take her down once and for all. But just as he’s about to do…something, he hears a chiming in his head and the familiar System’s screen pops up. “New Mission,” AR says, “Learn to control the Foul Legacy Transformation by defeating La Signora and saving Liyue Harbour. Reward for successful completion: For User Ajax—30,000 SP, 50,000 Mora and the gratitude of the Administrators. For System Ajax—fulfillment of the System contract. Mission failure consequence: None. Please do your best, User Ajax and System Ajax. We believe in you both. (ง •̀_•́)ง” Ajax looks at the floating window grimly. Looks like that’s our cue to kick ass and take names, AR. “Indeed. I wish I had the chance to perfect my control, but my current training will have to do.” I believe in you, bud. We’ve got this. Not like failure is an option. He continues, Am I anywhere near filling the second Battle Gauge, or did my progress get reset? “Your first Battle Gauge remains filled. You’ve got 53% left until you fill the second Battle Gauge. How would you like to proceed?” Ajax summons a Hydro spear. Activate my Delusion on my command. I need to do something crazy first. He tosses his spear lightly in his hand and then winds his arm back and chucks it at the flying pale ghoul. The water spear freezes just as it’s about to touch her and shatters into harmless pieces, but the surprise attack has La Signora whipping around. “Insolent rat,” she snarls, “who dares?!” Ajax steps out form his hiding spot. He cocks his head and summons another spear. “I dare. And I don’t think you’ve ever called me a rat before, that’s new.” Then, he tugs off his mask and tosses it aside. “Hello, La Signora. Long time no see. Retirement hasn’t treated you well.” La Signora is gaping at him, her dark eyes going wide. “Tartaglia?!” Murmurs fill the deck. “Wait, Tartaglia?” “As in the dead Harbinger?” “Didn’t he die in a fire?” “Didn’t he get assassinated by the Fatui in prison?” “There were protests over his death!” “Yeah! Because he was married to an Adeptus!” There’s a gasping sound coming from Hu Tao’s corner. “Diplomat Childe,” Ningguang says, coughing lightly. She’s being propped up by Beidou but even in her sorry state, the surprise is evident. “You’re alive ?” He gives her a weak smile. “Sorry, Miss Ningguang. The Tsaritsa doesn’t accept resignation letters, so I had to get creative. But your trial sucked, and I never tried to kill you or Miss Keqing, so I’m only half-sorry.” A strained, breathy chuckle. “Noted.” La Signora lets out an unholy shriek. “Tartaglia!” Her voice sounds like a thousand ghouls screaming in dissonance. “Tartaglia! All this time—all the things you’ve made me suffer through, and you’re still alive! Why are you still alive? Why are you always alive?!” She’s clutching her head, fingers digging into her hair. “I won’t allow it. I won’t allow it. I WON’T ALLOW IT!” White sparkles fill the sky around her, and the temperature drops. Ajax tightens his hold on his Hydro spear. AR, activate the Delusion now! Electro energy courses through his veins, and in the blink of an eye, he zips across the deck and launches himself over the railing and into the air just as ice daggers lance through the air to strike the sea below. Where they hit the water, thick patches of ice are formed, sturdy enough for Ajax to land on before he leaps upwards, his speed and strength now magnified. He twists and, using his momentum, chucks the spear again. La Signora freezes it before it can skewer her face, but she can’t stop the electricity from zapping her. She screams. “TARTAGLIA!” Ajax lands on a piece of ice, Electro-charged Hydro weapon in hand once more. Hey AR? “What is it?” Play “J-E-N-O-V-A”. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Lord Mat!” Mat stopped in his tracks and groaned. Could he not be left alone for five bloody minutes? “What do you want now, Talmanes?” he said impatiently, turning around to face the man who’d called. Talmanes Delovinde was a minor lord who was surprisingly competent in military matters, and had thus become Mat’s impromptu second-in-command when Mat had rallied the nearby Tairen fighters to defend the Stone from the Shaido. As far as Mat was concerned, their working relationship had begun and ended that day, but the trouble was that Talmanes did not seem to agree. He’d been badgering Mat all week, asking what he thought about this or that or trying to get Mat to give him and the other soldiers assignments. The whole lot of them kept looking to Mat for orders, and he had no idea why. Yes, he’d done a decent job leading them through the battle, but that had been an accident! Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? He felt like a mother duck whose ducklings kept trailing after her squawking. At least over the course of the week he’d bargained Talmanes down from “General al’Thor” to “Lord al’Thor” to “Lord Mat”. But that was as close to informality as Talmanes was willing to go, so Mat had to accept it. “I finished that report you asked for,” Talmanes said, offering Mat several sheafs of paper. Mat took them reluctantly. He didn’t even remember what he’d asked Talmanes to report on; it had been to keep him busy more than anything. Something about the city’s grain supply. He’d make Rand or Elayne look at it later. “Is there anything else the men and I can assist you with?” “You can assist me by leaving me alone,” Mat said, not for the first time. “I’ve bloody told you. I’m nobody’s lord or general, and certainly not yours! If you want an army so badly, lead it yourself.” He turned around again and stomped off down the corridor. “Very well,” Talmanes called after him. “I suppose I’ll start training them in longbows. That ought to come in handy if the Shaido return to lay another siege.” Mat stopped. His eye twitched. He whirled around and said, “Not longbows, are you mad? Those are for burly Two Rivers farmers, not tiny Tairen lordlings! You need to play to your strengths. Something like—” He cut off as he realized Talmanes was smirking at him. Bastard! Baiting him on purpose by suggesting deliberately stupid things. “Leave me alone!” Mat snapped, and he hurried off before Talmanes could pester him any further. In Mat’s defense, he actually did have somewhere to be. A messenger had summoned him to Nynaeve’s apartments just now; the girls had probably returned from their scouting trip to the rebel Aes Sedai encampment and wanted to share their findings. In truth, Mat couldn’t have cared less what was going on with the Aes Sedai, but he was married to the Dragon Reborn and that meant he had to keep abreast of continental politics. Unfortunately. He could sense Rand getting closer and closer to where he was, and then Mat turned down Nynaeve’s corridor and saw Rand approaching from the other end. “You were summoned too?” Mat asked. Rand nodded. “Let’s hope it’s some good news, for once,” he said. “Or at least neutral news.” “Speaking of, I have some report or other for you from Talmanes,” Mat said, handing him the papers. “It might be neutral news, if you’re lucky. It definitely will be thorough news.” Rand sighed and pocketed the papers. Already, he was all too familiar with the painstaking level of detail Talmanes included in his reports. Elayne, however, had been impressed and thrilled by the one she’d looked at the other day. Mat should lock her and Talmanes in a room together and see who managed to exhaust the other first. Mat rapped on Nynaeve’s door. She called to them to enter, and Mat stepped inside and saw that Elayne was with her, and so were— “Mat!” “Matty!” Mat’s jaw dropped. “What the—” But that was all he got out before Bode and Eldrin were colliding with him, nearly tackling him to the floor. Blood and ashes, when had they gotten big enough to tackle him? Had it truly been so long since he’d left home? Mat was laughing, and so were they. He did his best to wrap his arms around both of them at the same time—not as easy now as it had been when they were small. “Who are these young ladies and what have they done with my baby sisters?” he asked. “We’re not babies!” Eldrin said indignantly, poking him in the ribs and making him yelp. “We’re almost twelve.” Mat couldn’t…couldn’t quite remember how much younger they were than him, couldn’t quite remember how old he’d been when they were born, so he had to take her word for it. In his mind, they’d been younger when he’d left, but then, they’d always been small for their age, ever since they were babies born too early. At last Mat managed to make himself let go of them, and he had to wipe a few tears from his eyes. He leaned back so he could look at them properly and take in how much they’d grown. Still shorter than him, at least, but not by nearly as much as he remembered. Most striking of all was that they looked healthy and well-fed, and were dressed in nice sturdy clothes. Had their family’s fortunes taken a turn for the better in recent days? Or perhaps this was a result of them leaving home and going wherever they’d gone with whoever they’d gone with. “What are you doing here?” Mat said. “We can channel,” Bode said. “Alanna Sedai took us to join the rebels and train as Aes Sedai.” Mat had to keep his jaw from dropping again. They could channel? Both of them? And they were going to become Aes Sedai. Light, he couldn’t say he wanted his sisters getting tangled up with the White Tower, especially amid its current strife, but they both looked so proud that Mat couldn’t do anything but smile. Then Bode’s eyes moved over Mat’s shoulder, and her own smile slipped. “Rand?” she said uncertainly. Mat turned to look at Rand, trying to see him with fresh eyes. He supposed he did look startlingly different from the sweet farmboy Bode and Eldrin had last seen, even though for Mat, the changes had come on more gradually. Close-cropped hair instead of those angelic curls, which made the angles in his face look sharper. Golden dragon tattoos peeking out of the sleeves of his fine coat. And he wasn’t as quick to smile these days; the old Rand had seemed ready to smile every time you looked at him, but his resting expression now was serious, even stern. But right now, he was smiling as broadly as the old Rand would have. Nose and eyes crinkling, and joy dancing in the bond. “It’s good to see you both,” he said. “I promise I’ve been doing my best to keep Mat out of trouble.” Eldrin laughed and stepped closer to hug him. Rand had always been like a second brother to them—they’d been terribly excited the morning of Bel Tine when Mat had told them that he was going to marry Rand and bring them both with him to live on the al’Thors’ farm. Ah, if only that future had been able to be. Although Mat had to admit, he wasn’t sure how he would’ve done as a farmer’s husband in the long run. That life had been Rand’s dream more than his. Mat hadn’t been opposed to it, and indeed had looked forward to the security and belonging it would bring, but…well, he couldn’t regret getting the chance to leave the Two Rivers and see what else the world had to offer. Even if the circumstances that had brought him that chance weren’t much fun. Bode had relaxed, but she didn’t make any move to hug Rand herself. Rand felt a little hurt when he let go of Eldrin and looked at Bode and she just glanced away to look at the floor. Mat lightly touched his hip in reassurance. Bode had always been shyer than Eldrin; perhaps she just needed a bit more time to get comfortable with Rand again. Not least because she’d likely heard by now that he was the Dragon Reborn. They both must have—even Eldrin’s hug was only brief, and then she retreated back to Mat’s side, eyes flicking down to the tattoos on Rand’s wrists. But she looked back up at his face again and smiled, clearly doing her best to act like nothing had changed. “Nynaeve said you’re married now,” she said. “Is it true?” “Do you think I lied?” Nynaeve said indignantly. “It’s true,” Rand said, giving Mat a soft look that made his heart go all gooey, as if he were still a lovesick village boy rather than a worldly married man. “And every day I wonder how I got so lucky.” “Bloody sap,” Mat grumbled, feeling his cheeks heat up. What was Elayne getting all smiley and moon-eyed for? No wonder she and Thom got along so well—obsessed with love stories, the pair of them. “Enough about us. I want to hear more about this business of you two becoming Aes Sedai. Dare I ask what Mum and Dad had to say about it?” To his surprise, Bode’s face fell and Eldrin’s lower lip wobbled. Had their parents reacted that badly? They weren’t overly fond of Aes Sedai, but Mat would’ve thought they’d jump for joy at being rid of these last two responsibilities. “Dad went with Master al’Thor to bring the Aybaras to safety when the Whitecloaks came looking for Perrin,” Eldrin said. Whitecloaks? Looking for Perrin? Was he all right? “We left before he got back. But Mum…” Now her voice was wobbling. “She…she’s…” “Mum’s dead,” Bode burst out, and Mat felt like the floor had been pulled out from underneath him. “The Whitecloaks took all three of us, and I channeled in front of them by accident. Mum said it was her who’d done it, to protect me. So they took her away for questioning. We could hear her screaming, until she stopped. She’s dead and it’s my fault.” She was crying now. “It’s my fault.” Nynaeve was rushing over to hug her. “Of course it’s not your fault,” she said firmly, though her eyes looked a little wet too. “It’s the Whitecloaks’ fault. Only theirs.” Her voice sounded far away, as if Mat were listening through a long tunnel. He just stood there, trying to process this, barely aware of Rand’s concern in the bond and supportive hand on his lower back, or of Elayne’s worried, sad eyes watching him. Dead. His mum was dead. Sacrificed herself to protect the girls. Light, that was about the last way Mat would’ve expected her to go—drowned herself in ale would’ve been his top guess. “I shouldn’t have let her lie,” Bode sobbed. “I should’ve told them it was me.” “And then what? Then you’d be dead,” Mat said. “And I’d much rather her be dead than you.” Eldrin gasped. “Mat!” “What? It’s true,” Mat said bitterly, the words pouring out before he could stop them. There was a tight, ugly feeling in his chest, something he couldn’t put a name to. “She was always a piece of shit, but maybe you’re too young to remember that, maybe you just remember this newer version of her who apparently turned over a new leaf and decided to be a good mum the second I left—” “Mat,” Rand said softly as the girls made distressed noises. “Maybe we should go back to our room for a bit, take a breath—” “I don’t need to take a breath!” Mat said, shoving Rand’s hand off. “What I need is a bloody drink. In her honor.” He laughed. “She wouldn’t have lifted a finger if it was me. She would’ve just let me die.” “That’s not true!” Bode said fiercely. “’Course it’s true. You have no idea what she was really like, because I kept you from it. Fuck off, Rand.” Mat shook Rand off again and stomped towards the door. He could feel Rand start to follow. “Don’t follow me. And turn the bloody bond off! For Light’s sake, can’t I have my head to myself for five fucking minutes?” Mat stomped out the door and stomped down the corridor. And he felt the bond wink out, obligingly masked by Rand. Now Mat just felt worse, without that familiar sense of Rand in the corner of his mind grounding him. But he wasn’t about to turn back around and admit he’d changed his mind, so he kept on walking. Out of the Stone and out into the city, towards the rough port district called the Maule. This was where you should go if you wanted a proper drink and a proper game of dice, but Rand had never let Mat go before, saying it was too dangerous. Ridiculous. Darkfriends were just as likely to inhabit a rich man’s house as a poor man’s— more likely, even. Mat went into the first tavern he saw and asked for the strongest drink they had. He took a large sip and winced on the way down. “Here’s to you, Mum,” he said, raising his glass to the empty air. “You’d have liked this one.” He took another sip, even larger. Damn prick. Just like him. Mat quickly lost track of time and count of how many drinks he’d had. He drank and diced in one tavern until he got kicked out for being too rowdy and picking too many fights, and then he moved onto a new tavern down the street and repeated the process. But aside from a couple whacks upside the head from patrons and barkeeps far more sober than he, he didn’t actually succeed in picking any fights, which was infuriating. Getting some solid punches in sounded like grand fun right about now. Maybe people recognized him as the husband of the Dragon bloody Reborn—his scarf and medallion were too distinct, should’ve left them at the Stone—and were too bloody afraid of getting on Rand’s bad side to square up with him. It was late by the time Rand turned the bond back on. Although Mat was feeling so woozy that he didn’t actually notice Rand had turned it back on until he suddenly realized Rand was standing right outside the tavern he was currently in. He turned his head to the door a moment before Rand stepped through it. Elayne was just behind him. Both of them looked comically out of place, with their red hair and fine clothes. So naturally, it was seconds before the patrons near the door noticed all Rand’s unusual features and worked out who he was and started gasping and whispering to each other. A hush quickly fell over the entire room as everybody realized the Dragon Reborn was in their midst. Rand shifted uncomfortably. “Good evening,” he said. “Please, don’t let us interrupt. We’re just here to collect ou—my husband.” “I don’t want to be collected,” Mat said petulantly as Rand and Elayne crossed the room towards him. Rand tugged him up from his chair, against his will. “Stop it. Stay for a drink.” “I don’t want one, and you’ve had enough already,” Rand said. Under his breath, not that it mattered when the tavern was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. “Let’s go home.” “You’re so boring,” Mat complained. “You used to be fun. You used to drink with me and dice with me and dance with me. Now all you want to do is sit in a room and talk about politics and prophecies.” Distantly, he registered that Rand felt hurt in the bond, but Mat’s own head was starting to hurt too much for him to pay any mind to what was going on in Rand’s. Rand didn’t say anything else—probably didn’t want to start even more gossip, because that was all he cared about these days, what random strangers thought of him—and instead just set a pouch of coins down on the table with perhaps a bit more force than required. Elayne, meanwhile, was all gentleness and sweet smiles as she pried Mat’s half-empty glass out of his hand. “Let’s go home, Mat. You must be tired,” she said in a tone reminiscent of somebody bargaining with a mid-tantrum toddler. “But maybe we can dice tomorrow night. I think I still remember how.” “It’s not fun when I’m playing against someone who’s so shit at it,” Mat sulked. But there was nothing to be done—Rand was already dragging him out of the tavern, with Elayne following to make sure Mat didn’t make a break for it. Mat spent several blocks whining and trying to wriggle out of Rand’s grasp, but it was no use. Burn him for being so strong, and burn the rest of the world for wobbling around so much when Mat was trying to concentrate. Then Mat realized that he really didn’t feel good, and he veered sideways to move away from Rand, but alas, that meant moving closer to Elayne and therefore heaving his guts up all over her fancy silk dress. Rand hastily steered him a few steps away from her. “Sorry,” Mat said, but another wave of nausea distracted him from whatever Elayne said in response. Rand crouched down beside him, his warm, sturdy hand gently rubbing Mat’s back. Once Mat was done, Rand said, “Can you make it back to the Stone?” “’Course I bloody can, I’m not dying.” “I’ll carry you if I have to.” “No.” Rand helped Mat up to his feet. Mat glanced over at Elayne and saw that her dress looked as good as new. The One Power to thank for that, probably. “Sorry,” he said again. “It’s all right,” Elayne said, stepping closer to take his free arm and sling it over her shoulders. Then she slid her own arm around his waist, which made Mat’s stomach slosh around—out of feelings rather than queasiness this time, but the two were nearer neighbors than he would’ve thought. “Let’s get you to bed.” Mat had to admit that the massive cushy bed in his and Rand’s room at the Stone seemed deeply appealing right now, so he began wobbling his way back, leaning on Rand and Elayne quite heavily. But they were not carrying him. They got plenty of stares from passing servants, but at least the nobles were all in bed at this hour. Once they’d reached Rand and Mat’s apartments, Elayne hovered in the doorway. “Is there anything else I can do?” she asked. “Shall I fetch Nynaeve?” “No, no need to wake her,” Rand said. “He doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick again—he just needs to drink some water and go to bed, I think. Thank you for coming with me.” “Why’d you bring backup anyway?” Mat asked. “Scared I’d punch you or something?” Rand raised an eyebrow. “If I had to, I could handle you without lifting a finger and we both know it,” he said, and Mat shivered in delight. What were the odds he could get Rand to tackle him into bed right now? Probably not good—Rand was in an annoyingly serious mood. “I just wasn’t sure what sort of a state I might find you in. Figured it couldn’t hurt to have Elayne with me if you needed to be calmed down.” “I’m calm,” Mat said indignantly. “Never been calmer!” “I can see that,” Elayne said, and Mat nodded in agreement. Wait, was she being sarcastic? But before he could think about that, she patted his arm and made his brain collapse in on itself. “Sleep well. Both of you.” She left, shutting the door again behind her. Rand began herding Mat around like one of his sheep, having him drink some water and splash more water on his face and scrub his teeth and change into nightclothes. “Enough already,” Mat said, shoving Rand away as he tried to unbutton his shirt for him. “You’re always doing this, fussing over nothing and acting like you’re my—” His voice caught. “Like you’re my bloody mum.” And that was when he finally broke down bawling. Immediately, he found himself snuggled in Rand’s lap, Rand’s warm arms around him and lips brushing gentle kisses against his shoulder. Mat cried and cried and cried, and Rand didn’t say a word the whole time, which Mat was grateful for. Anything he might’ve said probably would’ve made Mat want to knock his teeth out, but this, holding him in silence—this was just what Mat needed. After Mat had run out of tears, they continued sitting on the floor together in silence for a long time. Mat closed his eyes and buried his face in Rand’s shoulder. He felt woozy and queasy and exhausted and angry and sad and too many things all at once, but Rand’s solid presence and familiar touch were doing a little bit to ease all of it, as was the feeling of his tender care and concern and love wrapping around Mat in the bond. “She never would’ve died for me,” Mat mumbled into Rand’s shoulder. “There was one time I pissed my dad off too much and he punched me for it, nearly broke my nose. She just stood there and watched. Didn’t say a word. But she always liked them more. Her babies, her girls. Why could she be brave for them, but not for me? Why didn’t she ever love me enough to want to be my mum?” Rand pressed a kiss to the top of Mat’s head. Mat could feel his heart aching in the bond. “If she treated you differently or…or didn’t love you the same, that’s her own fault, not yours. And not the girls’ fault either,” Rand said. “But maybe it was nothing to do with that. Maybe it was just that the first Trolloc attack knocked some sense into her. Maybe you leaving made her realize she had to step up to protect the girls, since before you’d always been there to do it for her. You know, if they do have good memories from their childhoods, that’s because of you. Because you worked so hard to look after them and make them happy.” Mat let out a half-hearted snort. Good memories of playing with ratty old dolls on the dirty floor of their one-room house? Mat had done all he could to provide for his family and it had never been enough. And Bode and Eldrin probably didn’t even remember all he’d done. They probably thought of him as the flighty, irresponsible brother who’d run off and abandoned them, while Natti was the hero, the one who’d sacrificed herself for them. One grand deed to cancel out ten years of neglect. “You did so well at raising them,” Rand was saying. “But it wasn’t fair that you had to. It wasn’t fair that you had to be a father instead of a son.” Mat took a shuddering breath in and out. Rand gave him another kiss and said, “Come on. You might feel a little better after you’ve gotten some rest.” Mat allowed Rand to help him back up, into the rest of his nightclothes, and into bed. Mat lay there staring unseeingly at the opposite wall for a while as Rand puttered around getting ready for bed himself, and then Rand was climbing in to join him, scooching up against Mat’s back and draping an arm over him. Mat took hold of Rand’s arm, fingers rubbing across the now-familiar scaly dragon tattoo. Right now, he felt at peace, but dread crept in at the thought of Rand not being there later to keep his grief at bay, of lying here alone in this enormous bed. “I don’t want to wake up alone again,” Mat whispered. More heartache in the bond. “You won’t,” Rand said firmly. “I’ll still be here in the morning.” “You’ll be busy.” “No, I won’t. I won’t ever be too busy for you.” They were comforting words, even if they weren’t true, so it wasn’t much longer before Mat managed to drift off into sleep. Sunlight was streaming in through the cracks in the curtains when Mat woke up. He yawned and stretched, and was startled when his arm bumped someone lying next to him. He’d woken up alone every morning in Tear so far, and most mornings during the journey out of the Waste too. “Rand?” he said. He rolled over and immediately groaned as the movement made his head pound. Ashes, how much had he had to drink last night? Mat had to close his eyes again—even these smidges of sunlight were far too blinding—but he felt Rand’s heron-branded palm cupping his cheek. “I’ll send for Nynaeve, maybe she knows a good weave for hangovers,” Rand said. “I feel like a stampede of wild horses has trampled my head to mush, so I can only imagine how you feel.” Mat laughed, then winced when that worsened the throbbing in his head. “Should’ve thought twice before Warder-bonding a drunkard,” he said. Although technically, Rand hadn’t even thought once; he’d created the bond by accident, back before he knew how to control saidin. “You’re not a drunkard,” Rand said, seriously enough that Mat knew he was thinking about—about Natti. Mat scrunched his face up and did his best to shove that thought out of his head. It already hurt enough in there right now. He sensed Rand get up from the bed and leave the room, then return a few moments later. “Enaila went to look for Nynaeve,” he said. “Hopefully it won’t take long.” “Maidens still infesting our entire corridor?” “Of course.” Increasingly, Aiel Maidens had been following Rand around. And they now seemed to be the only Aiel who did, whereas in the past there might have been Aiel from other societies guarding the Car’a’carn for the day. Maybe they’d all worked out an agreement for the Maidens to be his permanent guards going forward; Mat had heard a Maiden or two mention something about how it was their duty to carry Rand’s honor. Whatever that meant. Mat managed to work himself up to keeping his eyes open, though he was grateful that Rand had left the curtains closed. Rand was settling in on the other side of the bed to wait for Nynaeve, and Mat was surprised to see him still in his nightclothes. “Late for you to be starting your day,” he remarked. “Aren’t there some High Lords and Ladies waiting?” “I’m spending the day with you,” Rand said. “I made it known that I’m very busy today and am not to be disturbed for any reason. Which the Maidens have been happy to enforce so far.” Mat felt embarrassed over some half-recollections of his drunken self whining about Rand not spending enough time with him. “You don’t have to do that,” Mat said. “I’ll be fine once Nynaeve fixes me up. No need to fall behind on your duties for my sake.” “There’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” Rand said. “You were right. I haven’t been a very good husband lately—” “I didn’t mean it,” Mat said, even more embarrassed, and also guilty. He was supposed to be Rand’s escape from his duties, not another duty for him to worry about neglecting. “I was just drunk off my ass and looking for a fight.” Rand took his hand. “I want to spend the day with you,” he said, in that way of his that meant he wouldn’t be talked out of it. “Today you need me more than Tear does.” And Mat couldn’t help melting, scooching closer to Rand and curling up against his hip. “Thanks,” he said softly. Rand gently stroked his thumb back and forth across the back of Mat’s hand. “How are you feeling?” he asked, a little tentatively. Mat knew he wasn’t asking about the hangover. Reluctantly, he could admit there was no point lying that he was fine to the man who was inside his head, so he just gave a half-shrug and said nothing. “It’s all right if you don’t feel sad,” Rand said. “You don’t have to grieve her just because she was your mum.” Was that what he was getting from the bond? Well, Mat supposed he saw why—he wasn’t really feeling much of anything right now. Mostly he just felt numb. “But…I do. I think,” Mat said. “It’s stupid. Looking back, my life probably would’ve been better if she’d died years ago, but—but—” “But she was your mum,” Rand said, sounding sympathetic, and Mat’s lip quivered. “It’s all right to feel sad.” “You just said the opposite.” “Because both are true,” Rand said serenely. “You wouldn’t be a bad person if you didn’t miss her, but you wouldn’t be stupid or weak if you did.” Mat sighed. He couldn’t work out how he felt, and he didn’t really want to either. Just lying here quietly with Rand was enough. Though Mat soon broke the silence with a groan as he remembered something else from last night. “I threw up on Elayne,” he said. Rand tried and failed to turn a snort of laughter into a cough. “You did,” he confirmed. “Fuck,” Mat moaned. “It’s not funny!” “It wasn’t at the time, but it is now,” Rand said, now grinning openly. “She channeled it off right away, it was fine. I’m sure she’s not cross with you.” “I’m not sure!” Mat said, aghast. “She probably hates me!” “You spewed up black gunk all over me a few times while you were cursed by the dagger, and it never made me hate you.” “Well, you were already madly in love with me by then. I could’ve done any embarrassing thing under the sun and it wouldn’t have change your mind.” Rand shrugged. “If you want something serious with Elayne, you have to be comfortable with her seeing even the embarrassing things.” Mat grabbed a pillow and covered his face with it to drown out the sun. “I am not in the mood to be matchmade right now, so stuff it.” Rand allowed himself one last chuckle before mercifully dropping the subject. Mat added Elayne to the list of people he had to apologize to once Nynaeve restored his ability to get out of bed. Rand was on that list too. “I think I was an ass to you last night,” Mat said into the pillow. “I’m sorry.” “It’s all right. You were going through a lot,” Rand said. “ I’m sorry I left you alone for so long. I should’ve come looking for you sooner, or gone with you in the first place.” “I told you to leave me alone,” Mat reminded him. “Not your fault that you listened.” Rand conceded the point. In the bond, he still felt a little guilty, but not at all cross or upset with Mat, even though Mat had been an ass. It was…it was a nice feeling, knowing that Rand would understand and forgive him when he acted stupid. Knowing that he could always lean on Rand when he needed it. Soon Nynaeve was bustling into the room, and she did manage some sort of channeling to take Mat’s hangover away. He would’ve expected her to leave some of it to teach him a lesson; she must really feel sorry for him, Healing it fully like this. “Thanks,” Mat said, putting his medallion back on and then finally sitting up in bed and guzzling the glass of water Rand had left out on his bedside table. He felt more like a person now, rather than a hollowed-out shell. “Mat,” Nynaeve said. She hesitated, then put a hand on his knee. “I’m…I’m sorry.” Mat shrugged, uncomfortable with the sympathy. “I’m okay,” he said. “How are the girls? I was such a prick to them.” He frowned at the memory. “They were a little upset,” Nynaeve acknowledged, “but they’re fine now. They do understand, I think. That you…weren’t on the best of terms with her. I think they understand. They’re growing up now, you know. You don’t have to protect them from everything anymore.” The smile she gave him was sad and seemed to include Rand too. Was this something she’d had to tell herself before? When Rand and Mat and Egwene and Perrin had started growing up too fast for her to be able to keep protecting them? Nynaeve patted his knee and left again. Mat spent a little while longer cuddling in bed with Rand, but he was anxious to go find Bode and Eldrin and apologize, so soon he was hauling himself up and dressing for the day. “Want me to come with you?” Rand asked. Mat shook his head. “Best if we talk alone first, I think, but maybe I’ll bring them here for lunch,” he said. “Why not spend some of your day off doing something for yourself? Read a book of stories instead of prophecies, for once.” Rand chuckled. “Maybe,” he said. Mat wouldn’t be surprised if he scuttled off for a political lesson with Elayne or prophecy browsing with Moiraine the moment Mat left the room. These days Rand only let himself relax if he could convince himself it was for Mat’s or someone else’s benefit, never his own. Mat set off looking for his sisters, and he was surprised to find them with Elayne, out in the Stone’s carefully-manicured gardens. Pleasantly surprised. It was…it was nice to see Elayne taking an interest in them, and nice to see them getting along with her. Mat packed that thought up and put it in the box where he kept all his other ridiculous thoughts about Elayne. “What are you lot up to?” he asked. “Elayne’s teaching us weaves for eavesdropping on people!” Eldrin said with a grin. Mat groaned. “Don’t encourage them.” “Someone has to fill the role of the mischievous Accepted who shows them weaves their teachers don’t want them to know,” Elayne said with a laugh, but there was concern in her eyes as she touched Mat’s arm. “How are you?” Mat really wished people would stop asking him that. “Fine,” he said. He turned to the girls. “Can we talk for a minute?” They both nodded, so Elayne bid them goodbye and headed back inside. Mat took a seat on a nearby bench, and after a moment’s hesitation, Bode and Eldrin sat down too on either side of him. “I just wanted to say sorry for how I acted yesterday,” Mat said. “You were already upset, and I made it worse. I’m sorry.” Eldrin bumped him with her shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said. Mat was quiet for a moment, trying to come up with the right words for what he wanted to say. You don’t have to protect them from everything anymore. Maybe he could be honest now, instead of trying to cover things up and make everything sound nice and rosy the way he had when they were small. Maybe he could treat them more like his sisters now, instead of like his children. “Things between me and Mum…usually weren’t very good,” he admitted. “But if they were good for you, then I don’t want to take that away from you. I won’t pretend to feel differently than I feel, but I don’t want to change how you feel either.” Neither sister looked surprised—if anything, there was an understanding on their faces that took him aback. But they weren’t babies anymore, he reminded himself. They were old enough to understand. They’d all shared the same parents, after all. Maybe Mat had sheltered Bode and Eldrin from some of it, maybe their mum had been a little more attentive to them than she had to him, but they’d still seen most of the same things he had. Of course they would understand. “They weren’t always good for me either,” Bode said. “But—but she sacrificed herself to protect me.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “How can I ever think anything bad about her again after that?” Mat was the one who didn’t understand. He hadn’t been there for Natti’s final moments. They had. How horrible must it have been? How much guilt must they have been carrying around ever since? No wonder they’d gotten upset when Mat had spoken poorly of her yesterday. Mat pulled Bode in for a hug, rubbing her back as she let out a few quiet sobs. He could hear Eldrin sniffling on his other side, so he let go of Bode with one arm in order to hug Eldrin close to him too. He tried to draw on what Rand had told him earlier; Rand was much better at this sort of thing. “You’re allowed to think whatever you think and feel however you feel,” he said. “She wasn’t perfect, and you don’t have to remember her as if she was. Admitting that there are bad memories too doesn’t mean you aren’t grateful for what she did.” As he said it, Mat felt a piece of himself softening too. Grateful. Natti had rarely stepped up for him (that he could remember; could she have been a better mum to him in memories he no longer had?), but he was more grateful than he could put into words that she’d stepped up for Bode and Eldrin right when they’d needed her the most. That they were here with him today because of her. Thanks, Mum, he thought, and he kissed the tops of both sisters’ heads. That was more than enough feelings talk for Cauthons, so next Bode and Eldrin began telling Mat about their studies with the Aes Sedai. It sounded as if Alanna of the Green Ajah was a particular mentor of theirs; they spoke of her with a great deal of admiration. Mat couldn’t remember if he’d ever met her, but he did remember that she was one of the sisters who’d helped free Rand in Cairhien, so that disposed him well towards her. Then they caught him up on the recent events in the Two Rivers. It worried Mat sick to hear about Perrin giving himself up into Whitecloak custody, but the trial had probably already happened by now or would have by the time Mat made it all the way from Tear to the Two Rivers or Amadicia or wherever they’d taken him. Not much Mat could do for Perrin at this point but pray to the Light that everything had worked out in his favor. Besides, the way Bode and Eldrin described it, it didn’t sound like Perrin would agree to be rescued anyway, burn him and his overblown sense of honor. Hopefully Egwene was renewing her efforts to contact him in his dreams (what a sentence that was), but Mat couldn’t ask her since she had apparently decided to stay in Salidar for the time being, though Bode and Eldrin didn’t know of any particular reason why. Maybe Moiraine had asked her to stay and monitor things on her behalf. Next Mat told them about what had happened to him since leaving home. The short version, abbreviated by both the holes in his memory and his unwillingness to frighten them too much. Silly perhaps, when they’d now witnessed one Trolloc battle and fought in a second, but he couldn’t shake all of his instincts to shield them. Their favorite part of the tale was his and Rand’s wedding. Naturally; it was Mat’s favorite part too. “I wish we could’ve been there to see you cry like an idiot,” Bode said with a sigh, and Mat harrumphed. He hadn’t —okay, fine, maybe he had cried a little during the wedding, but that was none of anyone else’s business! “When we introduced ourselves to some of the servants and said we’re your sisters, they called you General al’Thor,” Eldrin said. “You took Rand’s name?” Mat nodded. “You didn’t want to be a Cauthon anymore.” Damn. It was true—Mat hadn’t wanted to be a Cauthon anymore. But he’d only been thinking about his parents. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he was also getting rid of his sisters’ name. Cauthons aren’t worth much. That was what their mum had always said. Had Mat accidentally reinforced that to Bode and Eldrin by jumping at the chance to stop being a Cauthon? “I wanted to share a name with Rand, and he refused to part with al’Thor on account of his dad, and Mat Cauthon al’Thor was too much of a mouthful. That’s all it was,” he said. “But I’m still a Cauthon, even if my name doesn’t show it.” As much as he wanted to work on being more honest with them, there was nothing wrong with a little white lie to make them smile every now and then. And he was still a Cauthon insofar as it meant being their brother, even if not any further than that. Mat was getting hungry (he belatedly realized he hadn’t eaten any breakfast), so he brought the girls back to his and Rand’s room for lunch, as promised. Rand was innocently reading a book on the sofa, but Mat had felt him hastening to walk back to their rooms just now, so he was certain Rand had been attending to business and then hustled back when he’d realized Mat was returning so that Mat wouldn’t yell at him for not relaxing on his day off. But Mat took pity on him and didn’t yell, just kissed him in greeting and said, “Don’t think I couldn’t sense that you only just sat down to read this book two minutes ago.” Then grinned at the sheepishness in the bond. Rand asked what Bode and Eldrin each wanted for lunch and then passed the requests on to a servant, a novelty which astonished them as much as it had Mat on his first day in Tear when he’d been told the kitchens could whip up anything he asked for. As long as it was something Tairen cooks had the ingredients and recipe for—no luck in getting Two Rivers honeycakes. The girls were quick to catch Rand up on how Tam had been getting on, and lunch arrived partway through their account. Tam had recovered fully from the first Trolloc attack, thanks to Moiraine’s Healing, and had gone back to business as usual on the farm just until recently when the Whitecloaks had first come. Then he’d helped Perrin’s family flee, and the girls hadn’t seen him since; Alanna had whisked them away the day after the battle, so they didn’t know whether the Aybaras had returned or even whether the Whitecloaks had actually left the Two Rivers now that they had Perrin. “Let’s hope they kept to their word that Perrin was all they wanted,” Rand said, with a fair amount of doubt and worry. “Does my dad know…has he heard anything about me?” Now there was some pain and homesickness in the bond, and Mat reached over to squeeze his hand under the table. “Does he know you’re the Dragon Reborn?” Bode shrugged. “None of us knew until Perrin came, but your dad had already left by then. I don’t know if he’s come back and heard from someone in town by now.” “Are you mad yet?” Eldrin wanted to know. Bode whacked her on the arm. “Eldrin!” Mat opened his mouth to scold her too, but he was surprised to feel that Rand was faintly amused. Maybe it was refreshing in a way to hear someone be blunt about it, after Tairen nobles had been skirting around it and glancing sideways at him all week. “Not yet, no,” Rand said. “And with luck, I’ll remain that way until the Last Battle. After that, it won’t matter whether I go mad.” Because I’ll already be dead anyway, his tone implied. “All right, that’s enough of that,” Mat said hastily, and he changed the subject to something more cheerful. After lunch, Bode and Eldrin went to visit with Nynaeve. Mat promised to join them later, but first decided to stop by Elayne’s room and see if she wanted to take his medallion for a while to study it. Rand declined to accompany him on the grounds of preferring to stay here and read, but there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye that made Mat think he was actually thinking more along the lines of a matchmaking scheme. Bastard. Mat had told him he wasn’t in the mood to be matchmade right now! But he didn’t object, because he did want the chance to talk to Elayne alone for a minute. Even though the thought of facing her after everything she’d seen last night made him want to crawl out of his skin and die. She must hate him, whatever Rand said. Or at the very least, she must have lost all respect for him. Mat found her already with a visitor. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, peering over her shoulder to where Aviendha was on the sofa straightening out her blouse and hair. Elayne looked rather pink and disheveled too. “I was about to return to the tents,” Aviendha said, with just a hint of breathlessness in her voice. “The Wise Ones are expecting me.” And she skedaddled out of there before Mat could offer to return later. “Sorry,” he told Elayne, grinning. “Oh, that’s all right. She’s been saying for the past half hour that she really needed to head back soon,” Elayne said with a laugh. “I hope they won’t be too cross with her.” She ushered Mat inside and shut the door. “So, you and Aviendha,” he said, taking a seat on the sofa and folding his hands expectantly. “Is that a thing now?” Elayne went pink again, but she looked dreadfully pleased. “I suppose so,” she said, obviously fighting not to smile. “It’s new, but yes.” Mat felt a confusing mix of delight and envy at the news, but it wasn’t any effort to allow the delight to the forefront and give a genuine smile. How about Rand, would he feel more delighted or more envious when he heard? Ashes, Elayne and Aviendha would be horrified if they knew Mat and Rand had feelings for them. Well, Elayne would be horrified. Mat wasn’t sure about Aviendha. It seemed to him that she might feel something for Rand, even if Rand insisted she could barely stand him. Aiel marriage and whatnot—she obviously liked Elayne, but probably wouldn’t consider it strange to like another person at the same time. And she always seemed to be on pins and needles around Rand, and Mat could never tell if it was because she disliked him or because she liked him. She would probably tell Mat the truth if he asked, thanks to the Aiel sense of honor, but he was too afraid to ask. At least not until Rand had decided how he felt about her. If he decided he wasn’t interested, that would be the end of it. But if he decided he was…how would Mat feel? Would he be keen to play matchmaker, as Rand was with him and Elayne, or would he feel jealous and like he was being displaced? It was a question he’d been pondering all month. He wished it could be as easy for him as it was for Rand—Rand knew Mat loved him, so it wasn’t logical to be jealous that he also liked Elayne, so he wasn’t jealous. But then, Rand had always been much more secure in their relationship than Mat had. Rand wasn’t the one who’d constantly had a voice in his head telling him he wasn’t good enough. Or voices outside his head. Mat had heard village gossipers say once or twice that Rand could’ve done better—maybe they’d said so even more frequently and he could no longer remember—and Natti had loved to project her own marital regrets onto Mat and tell him there was no way Rand would remain satisfied with him for long. Thanks to the bond, though, Mat was more aware than ever of how untrue all those voices were. Rand loved him so much, it felt overwhelming at times. And when he focused on Rand, on the way he treated Mat and the way he looked at him and the way he felt in the bond when they were together—when he focused on the reality of their relationship instead of all those lying voices, it was hard to resent the idea of Rand liking someone else besides him. Because it felt impossible to imagine Rand starting to love Mat less just because he loved a second person too. Rand didn’t know how to love people by halves. Once you were in his heart, you were there forever, constant and unwavering. And it was such a big heart; Mat didn’t feel like he’d be losing out on anything by no longer being the only one there. His place in Rand’s heart would remain just as spacious and comfortable as it had always been even if Aviendha became his new neighbor. If anything, it might be fun to have a neighbor. Over the past month, in moments when Rand had done or said something that made Mat love him so much he could barely breathe…occasionally he’d found himself looking over at Aviendha. Wanting to share that feeling with her. Wanting to talk about loving Rand with someone who was experiencing it alongside him. Light knew Perrin or Egwene or Nynaeve never appreciated it properly when Mat wanted to have a discussion about how beautiful and perfect Rand was. And that was an important topic that ought to be discussed! Frequently! Although, even if Aviendha did like Rand and even if Rand did decide he wanted something with her and even if Mat did agree to it (which was a whole lot of ifs already), there was also Elayne to consider now that she was with Aviendha. Elayne might not have any interest in sharing. She was the Daughter-Heir of Andor; she’d probably never had to share a thing in her life. “What do you think of Aiel marriage and all that?” Mat asked before he could stop himself. “Has she told you to expect any sister-wives? Or brother-husbands?” Elayne rolled her eyes, but she didn’t actually seem annoyed by Mat’s prying. “We’ve been kissing for a few days. Hardly anywhere close to marriage,” she said. “But yes, I’ve let her know that I’ll be fine with sharing if another person were to catch her eye. I already told you—ah, maybe you don’t remember.” Her expression went sad. “Don’t remember what?” Mat said. “In Tanchico, you and I talked about my feelings for Aviendha and about Aiel marriage, and I told you then that I would be fine with that sort of arrangement,” Elayne said. “But it was just a silly little conversation, you didn’t forget anything important.” “Oh,” Mat said. “Well, that’s good to know.” But he couldn’t help feeling sorry at the discovery of a missing memory involving Elayne. There were probably plenty of others, but this one especially, a one-on-one conversation they’d shared about something so personal—it would be nice to remember it, even if it was silly and unimportant. “And you and Rand?” Elayne said. “How are things with you?” “Good,” Mat said. Elayne smiled. “Good.” She seemed genuinely relieved, rather than like she’d only been making small talk. Had she only been worried due to Mat being snippy with Rand last night? Or could it be… Mat’s eyes narrowed. “Aviendha told you about the kiss?” he said. Relief swiftly turned to embarrassment, and Elayne lowered her eyes to her lap, flushing. “Yes,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, I know it’s none of my business whatsoever, but I couldn’t help but worry whether you’d been hurt, or…” What should Mat say? He had to make sure Elayne knew that he wasn’t hurt—he didn’t want her to think badly of Rand or to worry needlessly about the state of their marriage—but he certainly couldn’t tell her the full truth of why he wasn’t hurt, couldn’t tell her about their discussions about sharing and Aiel marriage and their feelings for her and Aviendha respectively. But if he veered too far from the truth, Elayne might sense that he was lying and might wrongly assume it meant he was hurt but didn’t want to admit it. Time to take a leaf out of an Aes Sedai’s book. “I wasn’t hurt,” Mat said. “Oh, a bit miffed when Rand first told me, of course, but we talked it through and cleared it all up. He was under a lot of strain and made a mistake, that’s all it was. And he swore it won’t happen again, and I believe him. So, nothing to be upset about, as far as I’m concerned.” Elayne had recovered enough from her embarrassment to look back up at him, and now she nodded. “That’s good to hear,” she said. “It’s lovely that you trust each other enough to be able to forgive mistakes when they happen. I hope for a marriage that strong someday.” “Maybe you could find one with Aviendha,” Mat said, but Elayne shook her head, and he didn’t need to ask why—hard to imagine Aviendha agreeing to become the Princess Consort of Andor, or whatever they called the queen’s spouse. “Do you mind what happened? The kiss?” “No, not at all,” Elayne said, earnestly enough that Mat believed her. “Aviendha and I weren’t together at the time, and even now that we are, we have an understanding, like I said. So the only piece of the situation that worried me was whether it had caused any strife between you and Rand, and thankfully it didn’t, since I’m sure Rand made it clear to you that he has no interest at all in Aviendha.” She seemed to be watching him more carefully now. Wanting to make certain Rand wouldn’t be any further threat to her relationship with Aviendha? “Yes, of course,” Mat lied, then changed the subject to something safer. “Anyway, I didn’t come here only to gossip, although that has been an excellent side benefit. First, I just wanted to say that I’m…uh, I’m sorry you had to see that yesterday.” Not just the tavern escapade, but also when he’d first learned the news and snapped at everyone about it. Elayne had truly seen all of the worst of him yesterday. But there was no judgment in her eyes now. Only warmth and understanding. “You have nothing to apologize for. Death can bring up unexpected emotions,” she said, reaching over to give his hand a quick squeeze. “I was tiny when my father died—I don’t really remember the man himself, but I do remember that when my mother explained to me that he was dead, I felt pleased that he wouldn’t be around anymore. And I remember Galad telling me how horrible it was for me not to be sad.” She shrugged. “So. I understand.” Mat nodded gratefully. He knew Rand understood too, to whatever extent he could, but Rand had such a loving, uncomplicated relationship with his dad, and with his mum too before she’d died. He couldn’t truly understand how it felt to lose a parent you didn’t like, not the way Elayne apparently could. Mat wouldn’t have expected that might be something he’d have in common with a princess. But he’d long since learned that there was more to Elayne than met the eye. That was exactly why he liked her so much, Light help him. Her good looks had struck him right when they’d met, but it was getting to know her better and uncovering her good heart and good humor that had really ensnared him. And it was those same things that were making it hard to get over her—a mere shallow attraction would’ve been far easier to forget about. “And I’m sorry I threw up on you,” he added sheepishly. Elayne laughed. “That, you do have to apologize for. But saidar took care of it, so no harm done,” she said. “Besides, you should’ve seen the state I was in the first time I figured out how to brew liquor with the One Power. You last night was nothing in comparison.” Mat laughed too, both in relief that she was being kind to him about it and in amusement at the mental image of such a scene. That stuff she brewed was strong even for him—he could only imagine how it had affected a sheltered teenage princess who’d never gotten so much as tipsy before. “Now,” he said, taking his medallion off. “I came by to see if you wanted to have this for a few hours.” Elayne smiled and took it from him. “That would be wonderful. Thank you,” she said. “I’ll bring it back in the evening, but come find me if you need it again sooner.” “As long as no Forsaken appears to attack me in the next few hours, I’ll be fine without it,” Mat said. “Don’t tempt them,” Elayne muttered, and he chuckled. Mat had been feeling pretty good all afternoon, and now that he knew all was well with Elayne after last night, he intended to stay and chat with her a while longer. But she went into her bedroom to fetch some extra pastries from breakfast to split with him, and as soon as she was gone and Mat was alone in the sitting room…completely alone with his thoughts for the first time all day… “Are you all right?” Elayne asked when she stepped back in with a tray in hand. Mat hadn’t realized he’d been putting on a pleasant, relaxed expression until now that it was gone and Elayne was visibly concerned at seeing him without it. He hadn’t realized how much effort it had been taking to appear fine until now that he wasn’t doing it anymore and he suddenly felt so tired. Elayne and Bode and Eldrin and Nynaeve all knew that he wasn’t fine. And Mat knew that he didn’t have to pretend in front of them. But he couldn’t help doing it anyway, just on instinct. Right now, all he wanted was to go back to the privacy of his room. Right now, all he wanted was Rand. He stood up. “Um, actually, I need to…” He trailed off. He couldn’t come up with a good excuse. He didn’t need to come up with an excuse. Elayne understood. He could let her know that he wasn’t fine. He didn’t have to pretend. “I’m not feeling…” he tried, then sighed and shrugged. “I just. Dunno if I can do a chat right now, after all.” Elayne’s face was soft and sympathetic, and she was already setting the tray down to come over to him and rest her hands on his forearms. “That’s perfectly fine, Mat,” she said, gentle and understanding in a way that made him want to cry. “We can chat any old time. Do you want me to walk you back to your room?” Normally Mat might have said no, might have refused to have her stay any longer when he felt so close to breaking. But now, he found that he did want her to walk him back. Leaning on her would be easier than walking alone. So he nodded silently, and Elayne looped her arm through his and escorted him out. His and Rand’s room was only one corridor away. Mat and Elayne turned the corner and nearly crashed into Rand coming from the opposite direction—Mat hadn’t sensed that he was quite so close by. “I was coming to find you,” Rand said simply, and again Mat felt like crying. Rand had felt Mat getting distressed in the bond and had dropped everything to go find him. Elayne gave Mat’s arm a soft pat and passed him off to Rand. A part of Mat felt ridiculous, like a small child being handed from one parent to another—now for the second time in less than a day—but the greater part by far was comforted to have them both. Rand pressed a kiss to Mat’s temple and looked over his shoulder at Elayne. “Thank you,” he said. Elayne smiled at him, then looked back at Mat. “I’ll be around if you want company later,” she said. “If not, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mat nodded. “Thanks,” he whispered. Elayne returned to her room, and Rand brought Mat back to theirs. Once the door was shut, Mat leaned against Rand’s broad chest and closed his eyes, feeling an overwhelming relief at being alone with him. Here, even his instincts knew he didn’t have to pretend to be fine. Rand wrapped his arms around him and held him close. “Did anything in particular happen?” he asked. “No,” Mat said. “Just…it’s hitting me again, I think. It was easier to distract myself when Bode and Eldrin were around, but—but—” Rand hummed in understanding. He didn’t say anything more, just continued holding Mat quietly. Mat no longer felt any urge to cry; he just felt numb and awful. Unfortunate—having a good cry would’ve been preferable. But he was starting to breathe easier, in the privacy and comfort of being home with Rand. After a minute, Rand led them over to the sofa and tugged Mat to sit down with him. Mat slung his legs over Rand’s lap and nestled into his (uninjured) side, feeling steadier now. “I told the girls I’d join them soon,” he said. “Think they’ll mind if I make myself a liar?” “No, of course not,” Rand said, giving Mat’s head another kiss. “You need to stay here and rest for a bit, I think. Do you want to take a nap? Or have a bath? Or are you hungry or—” “No, we just ate,” Mat reminded him, unable to help smiling at Rand’s compulsive need to take care of him. A shepherd tending his flock. Mat had complained about it last night, but in truth it was one of the things he loved most about Rand. “I don’t want anything. Just to sit here with you.” And so they sat together for a little while. Probably only a few minutes, because Mat got bored easily and he doubted it could’ve been more than a few minutes before he started feeling done with the comfortable silence and instead wanting some comfortable chitchat. Something lighthearted to gossip about and take his mind off things. That was when he remembered Elayne’s news. “Elayne and Aviendha are officially together,” he said. “Well, I’m not sure how official it is, or how serious, but I most definitely walked in on them kissing just now, and Elayne told me it’s been going on for a few days already. And seemed like she hoped it would go on for many more days to come.” Rand went along with the conversation right away, either because he sensed Mat needed it or because he was just as invested in Aviendha’s love life as Mat was in Elayne’s. “Oh really?” he said. “That’s that mystery solved, then. Good that they’re happy. They suit each other.” “An Aiel and a princess,” Mat said. “They do suit each other. Don’t think I would’ve ever guessed that when I first met either of them.” Now, he knew that Elayne was more than the sheltered, spoiled noble he might have assumed a princess would be—she was daring and curious about the wider world and had a taste for adventure that Aviendha no doubt satisfied. Mat couldn’t begin to guess at what Aviendha got out of it, on account of barely knowing a thing about her despite spending most days of the past month with her, but maybe somewhere underneath all those prickles, there was a softer side that craved the warmth and kindness of someone like Elayne. Someone like Rand. Mat examined Rand’s feelings in the bond. He didn’t feel jealous over the news, just thoughtful. Maybe there was a touch of wistfulness, if Mat pressed in more deeply. Rand’s chest vibrated with a chuckle. “Are you jealous that Elayne’s with Aviendha?” he said. Bloody bond. Apparently Rand had been examining him right back. “No,” Mat protested. “Considering that I’m already married myself, it would be ridiculous for me to be jealous that Elayne also has somebody.” “You are jealous.” “Am not! Burn me for walking into the room and thinking it might’ve been nice if Elayne would give me a kiss too.” Mat bit his lip as soon as the words slipped out. Rand knew full well that Mat liked her, of course, but it just—it didn’t feel right, admitting so brazenly that he wanted to kiss her. But Rand didn’t feel jealous. On the contrary, his amusement doubled. “I already know you want to kiss Elayne,” he said. “You don’t have to feel guilty for saying so.” Bloody bond! But Mat was smiling now, in far better spirits than he had been when he’d first gotten back to their room. Mat finally sat up straight and stretched, then shifted so that he could lean against the back of the sofa instead of Rand in order to look at him properly. “It just feels strange,” he said. “It feels like it shouldn’t be allowed, for me to talk to my husband about wanting to kiss someone else.” Rand took his hand. “It’s our marriage, Mat,” he said. “Only two people make the rules. You and me. We get to decide what’s allowed. And as far as I’m concerned, you telling me about how much you like Elayne is definitely allowed.” He tilted his head. “But if it’s not allowed for you, that’s fine. If you feel uncomfortable talking to me about it, you don’t have to.” Discomfort was the furthest thing from Mat’s mind right now, sitting with Rand and feeling his unconditional love and support in the bond. Talking openly about his feelings for another person was certainly a new experience, and an awkward one, but feeling that Rand was comfortable with it made Mat comfortable too. New and awkward for now. But maybe something Mat would get used to, soon enough. “I don’t mind talking about it with you, as long as you don’t mind,” he said. “Strange as it is, it does feel better than keeping it all to myself. Feels less like I’m doing something wrong or hiding secrets from you.” “You’re not doing anything wrong,” Rand assured him. “And I don’t mind talking about it either.” “What about Aviendha?” Mat said. “Want to talk to me about her? You can if you want. Happy to listen.” And he meant it. Rand shrugged, that old flustered confusion coming into the bond as it often did when he thought about Aviendha. “What’s there to talk about?” he said. “I still don’t know how I feel. Whenever she’s around, I feel too many things all at once and I can’t tell what half of them are.” To Mat, that absolutely sounded like a crush—those same butterflies that Rand had teased him about with Elayne—but he didn’t say so. He had to let Rand figure it out for himself. “And I’ve been…noticing things about her that I never really paid attention to in any other women before,” Rand continued, “but—” “What, like tits?” Mat said, then snickered when Rand went bright red and tried to insist that he’d meant personality traits, not physical ones. “Sure. You got a good look at them those nights in the sweat tent, so I’m not surprised you’ve been thinking about them.” “That’s not what I meant, and I never looked on purpose,” Rand objected, the bond still alight with embarrassment. “It’s just, she was right there and I couldn’t help but see her. Her and all the other Aiel who were in with us. But…seeing the other women, I didn’t feel anything about it, except a little embarrassed. Seeing Aviendha was…I felt something.” Mat nodded. “Because you’re attracted to her, but not to the other women who were there?” Or the other men, for that matter—Mat had often struggled not to look too long at various Aiel men and women while in the sweat tent, but for Rand, feelings of attraction had only welled up in the bond on the occasions when Aviendha was one of their fellow tent-goers, and not if she wasn’t. Well, no, of course there had always been some attraction there due to Mat’s presence, but Rand had seen Mat naked a million times before and was no longer overly affected by seeing it during everyday, non-sexual moments. Easy to distinguish that subtle underlying attraction from the sudden surge of it whenever Aviendha had stepped into the tent. Huh. Mat supposed it was a mark of how comfortable he’d grown with the situation that he instinctively understood that difference in attraction level as a difference in what Rand was accustomed to seeing regularly, rather than a preference for Aviendha over Mat. Even now that Mat was thinking about it, he didn’t feel jealous that the sight of him in the sweat tent had never driven Rand wild; on the contrary, it would be awfully inconvenient if Rand died of arousal every time Mat took his clothes off. Mat only wanted him to sometimes, when it was the right circumstances. The right circumstances being, somewhere more private than a tent full of Aiel. “Maybe?” Rand said. “But I don’t even know if I’d like being with a woman in…in that way.” He was even redder now. “Well, I’m not about to sit here and describe to you how sex with a woman feels,” Mat said, amused. “So you’re just going to have to keep trying to figure that one out by yourself.” Rand rolled his eyes and let Mat chuckle himself into silence, then changed the subject. “I was thinking, we could go out into the city tonight,” he said. “If I weave Illusions to disguise us, no one will bother us. I could take you dicing and dancing and—well, maybe not drinking.” There was some guilt in the bond, and Mat didn’t like it one bit. Guilt and self-loathing. Why had the idiot inhabiting Mat’s body last night had to go and make Rand feel like a bad husband? Mat regretted that even more than he regretted sicking up all over Elayne. “Definitely not drinking,” he agreed. “And I don’t know if I’m in the mood for dicing or dancing either. I’d rather just have a quiet night here.” Rand furrowed his brow doubtfully. “Are you sure? Last night you said—” “I know what I said,” Mat cut him off. “I didn’t mean it. You’re not boring. All right? I don’t care how I spend my time as long as it’s with you.” “But so often it isn’t, these days,” Rand said. “And I know you don’t like it when I’m busy all day long and can barely spare a moment for you. I know you don’t.” Mat sighed. “I don’t,” he admitted. “But I don’t blame you for it. I blame the Pattern for giving you all this shit to deal with.” He shifted his position again to straddle Rand’s lap facing him, and he cradled Rand’s face in both hands. “I’m glad for any moments you can spare for me. Some days, I wish there were more of them. But if you were the sort of person to constantly blow off your other obligations in favor of spending more time with me…well, then you wouldn’t be you. And I wouldn’t love you nearly as much as I do.” Gratitude and affection bloomed in the bond, almost edging out the guilt and self-loathing. Almost. It was enough of an improvement that Mat wouldn’t push Rand on it any further right now. Rand reached up to cover Mat’s hands with his own, thumb brushing over Mat’s wedding ring. He gave Mat a soft smile and said, “I think I fall even more in love with you every day.” Mat spluttered speechlessly for a moment, his face feeling as hot as the sun. “Disgusting!” he said. “If you ever say anything like that again, I’ll box your ears!” And Rand laughed and tugged his head down for a kiss. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text SCENE 2 EXT. WAREHOUSE DISTRICT - NIGHT District warehouse. PYRO is trying to melt a large steel door. It's not going well. PYRO Fucking piece of shit door. It's... it's just not respecting my fire. ICEMAN (Sighs, looks at his phone) Dude, you know they have an app for this, right? It's called 'Locksmith Now.' PYRO I don’t trust a locksmith. They're all fucking narcissists. They think they're so great because they can open a lock. It’s like, yeah, and I can turn a person into a human candle. Who’s the real artist here? Suddenly, a group of SECURITY GUARDS appears. They're wearing full body armor and carrying fire extinguishers. SECURITY GUARD 1 Freeze, assholes! PYRO (Groans) Oh, for fuck's sake. Fire extinguishers? What is this, a gender reveal party? The guards spray the extinguishers. Pyro's flames sputter and die. He looks at Iceman. PYRO Okay, this is where you come in. Iceman rolls his eyes. He steps forward and with a flick of his wrist, turns the fire extinguishers into solid blocks of ice. The guards drop them. SECURITY GUARD 2 What the fuck? Iceman just looks at him. ICEMAN (Nodding towards Pyro) He's a menace. A literal terrorist. But this guy? (He points to one of the security guards.) He's a registered sex offender who hasn't paid his child support in two years. I looked it up on my phone. The guard looks shocked. SECURITY GUARD 2 How did you— ICEMAN Shut up. You're evil. The rules are different for you. Iceman raises his hand, and the security guard's face becomes encased in a block of ice. The guard stumbles backward, his muffled screams barely audible. He trips and falls, his head cracking on the concrete floor. The ice block shatters, revealing a mess of gore. The other guards stare, horrified. PYRO (Laughs, clapping) Holy shit, Bobby! You actually did it! You killed a motherfucker! ICEMAN (To the remaining guards, deadpan) Just so we're clear. You can't kill a good person. But a bad one? That's just... pest control. The remaining guards drop their weapons and run away, screaming. Pyro looks at the dead guard's head, then at Iceman. PYRO He should have been a villain. At least then his death would have had some purpose. A good villain always has a tragic backstory. This guy was just... a dick. ICEMAN (Shakes his head) Let's just get this over with. Pyro melts the steel door, and they go inside. The camera stays on the dead guard's head as a small puddle of blood seeps from the ice. FADE OUT. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text It has been a week since the extermination order was passed down. A week since Yoruichi appeared before them, face hard and blank. A week during which they've fallen into their old mindsets, two war generals trying to minimize casualties and ensure their people's survival. The first few moves were easy. Messages went out, with the discretion only ninja were capable of. The Shihouin Head called. The Onmitsukido answered. Considering they'd been part of Division Two for centuries, it should not have been as easy as it was to mobilize a small army of assassins, and take out every supply and information line on their way out. Sealed "missions" were all that was needed; no one would question an operative on assignment, and no one would think anything of the mobilization of most of Division 2, in light of the recent order. That was precisely what was going on, after all. It was a shame that Yamamoto had never considered that anyone in the Gotei or adjacent branches could have loyalties that differed from his own. Somewhere in the heart of the Division Two stronghold, Soi Fon stares at a simple black envelope with a dark, velvety purple butterfly stamped on it. She has a choice to make, and until the end of the week to do so. She already knows where her ultimate loyalties lie. She breaks the seal without hesitation. With the Onmitsukido handled and the Second Division defanged, they turn to the Kido Corps. Tessai and Hacchi escort themselves to the headquarters they ran only last month, on the evening of the second day, only to find their subordinates waiting for them with anticipation. The Kido Corps stands in readiness. They were not pleased with Central’s treatment of their leaders, and as an independent, mostly research-based organization, they were free to follow whomever they pleased without being accused of treason. They had merely been waiting for the word to be given. With the assassins and the spellcasters more or less exclusively on their side, Ichigo and Kisuke turn to the next order of business--getting their noncombatants out . Some of the Corps goes, as does a protesting Gin, and anyone who isn’t overly interested in risking their lives against the best Seireitei has to offer. Families and children, as well, with Hacchi, Mashiro, and a very grumpy Hiyori reluctantly accompanying them to ensure their safety. Ichigo sincerely hopes that no one manages to track them down. He doesn’t think Hiyori will leave much of whoever dares get in her way. He almost pities the poor Arrancar who are going to be handling that group. Maybe Grimmjow will be up to letting the Visored get some aggression out? Actually, that was a terrible idea. They'd destroy Las Noches between the two of them. He sends a hasty note to Starrk and tries to pretend he's not afraid of coming back to find smouldering ruins. Meeting their enemies face-to-face on a battlefield is a dumb tactic, more suited to medieval armies than to a small horde of individuals with the strength of an army to each of them. Ichigo doesn’t particularly care for the concept, but if he doesn’t do that , he’s basically just going to end up storming Seireitei, like he did for Rukia, a century in the future. He could also have the assassins just go murder everyone who could stand against him, but that sort of victory leaves a bad taste in his mouth for all that he wouldn’t have hesitated to use it against Aizen. They have a chance for victory in mostly nonlethal combat. He’d be a fool not to take it. It’s gonna suck, though. Yamamoto alone is a gigantic pain in his ass, and one he’s going to have to handle personally. Shinji has volunteered, in a fit of absolute suicidality, to waylay Unohana. Ichigo salutes his bravery and tells him that he’ll remember him fondly in the days to come, laughing as he ducks away from the swat Shinji aims at his head. The other two major threats are Shunsui and Juushiro, but they fight as a single unit with devastating effectiveness, and they don't play fair by any stretch of the imagination. Kisuke steps up, with a lazy little smirk, and declares that he'll take care of them. Chaos immediately ensues; none of them save Ichigo know his true capabilities, and it's a bit concerning for the Visored to see the youngest captain going up against two of the eldest. Ichigo just laughs and tells him to have fun. None of the rest of the captains or lieutenants with the Gotei should prove too much of a threat, not to the much stronger hollowfied Shinigami, and Ichigo allows the Visored to mix and match themselves as they will. He's a little amused to note that Shiba Kaien and Shiba Isshin will both be on the battlefield, though. The Onmitsukido will be handling things with the Division 2 assassins, and ensuring that no one tries anything like a prison break while the vast majority of the Gotei is occupied. Similarly, the remaining Kido Corps will be securing Seireitei and sealing off attempts at breaking through to Hueco Mundo. Yoruichi herself will be playing a key role-- while the two factions clash, she'll be visiting the Central 46 in an attempt to convince them to revoke the extermination order, and if possible to hammer out a ceasefire in preparation for a true peace treaty. They're not particularly hopeful that she'll succeed, but maybe after the initial battles, C46 will see that it's pointless to try to exterminate them with force. And also that they're not mindless monsters, or a major threat to their lives. …. Yeah, Ichigo doesn't believe it either, but he has to try. The mood in Seireitei the night before they officially mobilize is solemn. Everyone is well aware that they're going to be hunting their own comrades, some of whom could even be considered family. The only exceptions seem to be Mayuri, whose last-minute calculations will be crucial to actually tracking their targets, and Kiganjo, who appears to be having a wild party with the rest of the Eleventh, all of them drunk on anticipation and battle lust. Shunsui and Juushiro sit next to each other in silent contemplation, sharing a single cup of sake between themselves-- their own unspoken pledge to each other to come back alive. They hate extermination orders. Even if it's not likely to kill them, there's something about hunting down survivors, those noncombatants trying to flee, just to keep living, not oppose the Gotei, that leaves a bad taste in their mouths. Juushiro is still a bleeding heart, even after all these years, and Shunsui isn't that much better, for all that he still remembers how to shut down his emotions. Times like these, he can't help but hate those spoiled nobles who think they're entitled to anything , even the lives of others. And maybe he hates Yama-jii for it, a little, for listening to them, when he knows how it was . They'd made it better, they had, given everyone a little hope and stability and protection, but it doesn't feel like it, not now-- they feel like bullies . Shunsui hopes the orange Shiba had the sense and power to get all the rest of them out. He doesn't care where they go, just that they're somewhere beyond the long arm of the Gotei. Because if their hunt succeeds, if they find their former comrades… He is still loyal to his sensei's ideal. As little as he likes it, he will follow his orders. They will be his enemies, and they will die. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text "Nana Seven?" "Don't." Seven turned to Raffi and inclined her head to the spot on the couch next to her. "It's cute, and actually suits you." Raffi sank down into the couch, her shoulder brushing against Seven's. "Still hate parties then?" "Yes, if I am expected to 'mingle'. I like this one though." "You're the magnetic person." "Excuse me?" "Something Jae used to say. When people have a party, there's always one magnetic person who can pick their spot and everyone comes to them." Raffi nudged Seven affectionately. "You think you're being antisocial and sitting on the outside of the party but actually you are the party." She laughed when she saw Seven's implant almost climb off her forehead. "I just mean everyone has come and sat here to say hi. You've not missed anything or anyone." She saw she wasn't exactly selling her case, so went for the killer point. "Very efficient. And sitting makes you more approachable." "I am tired." "Not much sleep?" "On the Enterprise in the last month? No. The Beta and Gamma shift engineers lack confidence and that is infecting the Bridge." Seven knew Raffi had been teasing her about the last two days, but deliberately took the conversation in a different direction. She didn’t quite know how to explain that while she’d had decidedly few hours of sleep since she’d left the Enterprise, they’d been some of the best hours of sleep she’d had in the last few years. "So that's why you were working on the Bridge so much." She'd known Seven had taken to working on her reports after her own shift had finished on the Bridge rather than in her Ready Room the last few weeks of the mission, but had never managed to get an explanation as to why beyond ‘getting to know the crew’. "You do know that's what your Chief Engineer and First Officer are for right?" Seven's expression was blank, a sign for Raffi to expand on her statement. "Tell the Chief that you are unhappy with the experience of the Beta and Gamma shifts and request they and their deputy cover Beta and Gamma between them until the problem is resolved. Then tell your First Officer you've done that and that you have a similar concern with the Bridge Shifts." "And what does that achieve?" "Well, if your First Officer has any sense, she'll assign herself to one of the shifts and, depending on what she thinks the Captain's opinion of the Second Officer is, either assign them to the other Shift, ask the Captain to make some spot checks while the weakest shift is improved or pick one of the Alpha Shift Bridge Officers to increase their command experience." "And if the First Officer didn't have that sense? If he had decided his Captain's judgement was flawed despite having limited engineering skill and was already demonstrated to be an ineffectual leader?" asked Seven, starting to see how and why Kathryn had worked the way she had on Voyager and the parallels with her first First Officer when the ship was still the Titan. "Oh, well in that case the Captain has to go it alone and try and offload the First Officer at the earliest opportunity." Raffi paused, the significance of what she'd just said jarring. "Am I being off loaded?" "Are you male?" "Well, no." She might once have made a joke about not being so the last time Seven checked but that felt crass and inappropriate now. Plus she was genuinely nervous, surprised at how much even the hint of a suggestion she might not be good enough for Seven as her First Officer hurt. "Then you should know I was not talking about you with my example." Her eyes drifted over her friends until they landed on Kathryn, currently in an animated discussion with Riker and B'Elanna. "Voyager?" "By the time I joined them, they had overcome their 'teething troubles' and B'Elanna was leading a competent and dedicated engineering team. The Delta Quadrant did not understand the Starfleet shift pattern and the Bridge Officers on the Beta and Gamma shifts had gained plenty of experience. Mr Tuvok often took the Beta Shift and Mr Kim was developing his command skills on the Gamma Shift in addition to his duties as Alpha Shift Ops Officer and various projects with myself and B'Elanna." "Neither of those were Captain Janeway's First Officer." Raffi was starting to understand the source of Seven's confusion and why she'd taken the approach she has. "And neither could she offload them I'm guessing. What were Starfleet playing at?" "You must remember that her mission order was a three week fugitive recovery task in the Alpha Quadrant. The ship's transit to the Delta Quadrant was not smooth and her assigned First Officer, Chief Engineer, CMO and Chief Helmsman were among the fatalities." "Shit, that's half the Senior Staff." "Indeed." Seven had managed to spend twenty five years not speaking ill of Chakotay in public by just not speaking of Voyager publicly. She was, if at all possible, going to continue with a variation of that strategy now. "The Beta Shift Bridge Officers are able to exercise some judgement, but lack engineering knowledge and confidence, so get 'steamrolled' by the engineers. Do you think Lt La Forge is ready to start gaining more formalised command experience?" "She hates engineering." "She hates the presumption she should be an engineer and reaction from her family when she exercised free will. That is different." "Fair enough. Why her for Beta Shift if Engineering steamrolling is the issue?" Raffi wasn't disagreeing, she was just trying to fully understand Seven's choice of solution. "Because she will not be taken in by the engineers and I think it will help her confidence and belief that she is allowed to elect not to follow exactly in her father's career path if we actively give her the authority and responsibility to say 'no' to engineering when they make inefficient requests." "I like it." She more than liked it, she thought it was genius. "Ask that the new Deputy Chief work some Beta shifts. The Chief Engineer should work Gamma." "And I'll take Gamma shift on the Bridge." Raffi was relieved that the Chief Engineer would be in Engineering - computer code she could do, but warp cores and deflectors? She'd leave that to those who understood them better. "Does this mean you'll go back to doing your work in your Ready Room?" "Yes." And, thought Seven, she would not be dragging it out to ensure she remained on the bridge. She had to hope that Kathryn did manage to find her some more Lego sets, or she would be building the Borg Cube one after all, and somehow she didn’t think Starfleet would see the funny side of that decision. "Good. Can't have Nana Seven sleep deprived." "I was wondering how long that would take…" mused Seven, sipping her whiskey. Raffi had been shocked at first, seeing how much Seven could and did drink, but after learning that as long as it wasn't synthenol her nanoprobes dealt with the alcohol even faster than a human metabolism would, she stopped worrying. Trying to help Seven limp back to La Sirena one time after a less than tidy trip to find someone who didn’t want to be found had also seen her never underestimate her bodyweight either, suggesting even if her human metabolism was dealing with the alcohol, she wouldn't be a complete lightweight, as there was plenty of muscle on that enhanced skeleton. "It suits you. And her." Raffi watched as some of the other children, presumably also the children of Voyager's crew, gathered around Janeway. "How'd it happen? Calling her Nana Captain I mean." "Apparently it was the five year anniversary of Voyager's return party. The children had been calling her Captain like their parents did. Davey Chapman, his father was one of the engineering team, was four and wanted to tell her about his new school on Mars. But when he said Captain, he got five responses, as now there were Captains Tuvok, Torres, Ayala and Chakotay as well as Captain Janeway present. Apparently this scared him into sitting down on the floor and crying. When his father asked what was wrong, he said he didn't want them, he wanted Nana Captain." Seven grinned as she pictured what Kathryn's reaction must have been to this startling news, having heard several versions of the event via her friends over the subsequent months as they sent her carefully encrypted messages, mostly via Kathryn and Tuvok. "It transpired he had grown up equating Captain Janeway with his grandparents, in that she was someone appearing older than his parents to whom they deferred. I do not think he had understood that Captain was a title not her name." "You weren't there?" "This is the first Voyager gathering I have attended since the fourth year reunion gathering Kathryn hosted at the farmhouse. After Starfleet refused me a commission I did not feel inclined to attend that party for the fifth year, which was here at Headquarters. By the sixth year reunion I was a Fenris Ranger and my presence would have caused issue for Kathryn and my friends." She paused, wondering if there was any risk now to Raffi knowing the truth. "This is, according to Federation records, the first time I have been on Earth since 2384.” “But I sat in a bar with you last year.” Raffi sat back and looked at Seven in disbelief as she tried to put everything together. “Wait, you…” She suddenly remembered Guinan’s staff just pouring out into Seven’s glass each time, without getting her to file a transaction entry to transfer credits each time she went to a bar. And Seven had met them in Los Angeles rather than head down to the surface using one of the regular spaceport shuttles like the rest of them had. “Did a reclusive Trill scientist get our drinks that night by any chance?” “The ones that weren’t on the house.” Despite everything she had mastered, Seven still couldn’t evade questions that had direct answers. "When you left the bar, you went to the farmhouse?” “Yes.” “But you were back on the Stargazer for the start of the Alpha Shift.” Raffi started trying to work out how that had been possible, nevermind while staying ‘off grid’ as Seven clearly had. “Let’s just say I had a little help from a very old friend, and it was only for a couple of hours.” It had been brief, really brief, with Seven just there long enough to show Kathryn she was fine and all was well, then shower and return to the Stargazer. “Since you’ve known me, that was the only time, that I was at the farmhouse, before I was made First Officer on the Titan. And nothing happened.” Not only had there not been time, but Seven had been too tightly wound to be able to cope with anything, or anyone really, which was why she’d gravitated to Kathryn, knowing she had never pretended with her, knowing that she could talk to her about anything without needing to worry if she was ‘too Borg’ or ‘not organic enough.’ “Huh?” Whatever Raffi had been expecting Seven to share about that night on Earth, making sure Raffi knew that Seven had remained faithful to her all the while they were trying to be a ‘something’ was not on her list. “When I went to the farmhouse. Everyone was asleep, but I…” She sipped her whiskey, wondering what Raffi would make of what she actually did. “...was restless so I went and mucked out Titan and Sirena’s stables, gave them fresh hay, water…I cleaned up in the yard shower then went into the farmhouse.” She smiled at the memory, able to picture a sleepy Mollie waking just enough to lick her implants and then fall back asleep, her tail thumping with delight at the familiar presence. “Made a pot of coffee and went upstairs…she’d fallen asleep in her armchair, reading glasses almost fallen off, padd in her lap. She woke as I put her into bed…asked me if it was a dream or was I there, then I told her to go back to sleep.” She smirked as she remembered Kathryn’s rather grumpy declaration that ‘you were clearly real, as a dream would have both of us in this bed about now’. “After I’d drunk the coffee and we’d talked a bit, she went back to sleep and I returned to the ship.” Raffi appreciated the care Seven showed by explaining how she’d not ‘cheated’ on Raffi with Kathryn during her time together, but couldn’t help feeling like she was the one who had been the cheater, despite intellectually knowing that neither Seven nor Kathryn considered her to be that. She was just ‘the other person Seven loved’, and surprisingly, she was starting to understand that better now she’d met the Admiral. But right now, she needed to move them back to less emotionally unstable ground, afterall, she was only human. "So when you thanked Tuvok…" On second thoughts, maybe talking about how these very senior officers seemed to avoid the Starfleet and Federation controlled transporter and shuttle systems wasn’t the wisest topic change. "It is interesting how a traditionalist community maintains a transporter block. It is a civilian system designed to inconvenience and irritate those that try to bypass it, rather than a security barrier like a starship shield is." "So easily bypassed…but I guess the farmhouse should have security, not just rely on the transporter block?" Seven sipped her whiskey, electing instead to consider Raffi's question to be rhetorical. "Anyway, back to Nana Captain," decided Raffi, knowing Seven well enough to know when not to push, now understanding even more clearly why, in Janeway's absence, Tuvok had been the perfect candidate for giving Seven the news that the Enterprise was now her command. "There's quite a lot of Voyager kids now?" "Over sixty I believe. Excluding Tuvok's family of course, Naomi Wildman and Miral Paris are the oldest, both born in the Delta Quadrant. Some children have two parents from the Voyager crew but most have one. Kathryn believes that there will be Voyager grandchildren by the thirtieth reunion with two Voyager children for parents. No doubt Mr Paris has a pool set up." Seven hardly knew any of the Voyager children, seeing many of them for the first time today, so had yet to work out which combinations of Voyager crew were going to become family by virtue of their children forming attachments and creating their own families together, but she was certain Kathryn’s prediction was correct. “I think Kathryn said someone had started placing a bet on there being enough Voyager children and grandchildren to fully crew Voyager by the fiftieth year reunion…” "Why excluding Tuvok's?" "He was already a grandfather when Voyager returned." "Oh, right. Vulcans." She always forgot their extremely long lifespans, and mentally 'aged up' Tuvok by about 90 years. "He's much older than Janeway?" In her head they'd always seemed about the same age. "About eighty-five years." Seeing Raffi's raised eyebrow at her unusual imprecision, she added. "I do not know exactly how old he is." "And Brax, you said his father was on board Voyager? But isn't here now?" "Yes. I met him, Brax, once in the Delta Quadrant. Neelix, his father, is Talaxian, a species native to the farthest part of the Delta Quadrant. Voyager was thrown to the edge of the territory he traded with. He joined the crew as a local guide, familiar with the species they met in the first year or so. By the end of our journey he was far from Talaxian space, in fact further we thought than any Talaxian not assimilated by the Borg had ever travelled. But we, and he, were wrong." "You found some more Talaxians?" Raffi tried to picture what an older Talaxian might look like. “Was he nice? To you I mean, Neelix?” “He taught me to eat.” “Excuse me? He taught you to eat? As in…” Raffi mimed taking a bite of something and swallowing. “Borg do not have digestive tracts, therefore they neither chew nor swallow. And have no need of table manners.” Seven recalled the various times Neelix had, in retrospect, taught her so much. “He was very kind to me, annoyingly exuberant and talkative, but a kind and generous man. And yes, we found some more Talaxians, shortly before our eventual return. They were living inside an asteroid belt. After the Captain assisted them with negotiations over who had the mining rights, Neelix elected to remain with his kind and not become the first Talaxian to visit the Alpha Quadrant. He married Brax's mother and raised him as his own." "So Brax met you all but was never on Voyager?" "He visited but did not remain as a member of the crew. He was an inquisitive child." Seven had not been surprised when Neelix had told her he was going to stay, having accepted he had a strong desire for family and kinship. She was equally unsurprised when she heard Brax had successfully applied for the Academy, knowing that the curiosity that she saw from him when he was exploring Voyager was a curiosity life in the asteroid belt would not satisfy. "And a fine first Talaxian graduate of the Academy. But you did not sit down with me to ask about the Voyager children." "No, I guess I didn't." A silence settled over them, Seven always comfortable saying nothing and Raffi, still not yet sure of her words, was grateful for it. "I'm happy for you, both of you," she said finally, surprising herself as that wasn't what she'd thought about. "Thank you. I know it is putting you in a difficult situation." "Not really. If you'd dumped me just before you came down here for your shore leave maybe…" "I did not do that." "No. You were sweet and kind and unflinchingly honest." "That does not sound like a compliment." Seven, memories recalled with perfect clarity of all the times she was corrected for being too direct, for not 'sugarcoating' some of her observations so they didn't sound like criticism, looked at Raffi with confusion. "It was meant to be one. You were honest before I kissed you that first time. That can't have been easy? Talking about her?" "It was…" Seven hadn't been expecting that as a question, her eyes drifting to Janeway, listening intently to Harry Kim's eldest, now starting to look a lot like his father had done when he was on Voyager. Hardly surprising perhaps, given that John Kim was now 19 and his father had only been six or seven years older when Seven first met him. "... hard, trying to be true about my feelings and commitment when any hope of a permanent future together continued to feel remote and impossible rather than improbable." "I thought impossible was a word humans use far too often?" "Yes, but it can be valid. I was a 'notorious Fenris Ranger', ex Borg, from the Delta Quadrant. My service to Starfleet and the Federation, my Federation citizenship? It was classified, even Kathryn, Tuvok…or Picard…none of them could access my records then." "But that's ridiculous! She knows you, was there.." "As Picard would say, fear makes fools out of wise men, nevermind idiots and Admirals. Even now I do not know if I could have successfully proved I was not a 'synth' if my life had depended on it." She sipped her drink. "When we first met, officially I had not been in the Sol System for almost fifteen years…” She saw Raffi mentally trying to work that out, their time in the alternate timeline not helping. “2384, just under six years after Voyager’s return I left Earth and the Sol System.” “You went to join the Rangers?” It was one thing, Raffi started to realise, to know the facts about her friend’s life, but quite a different experience hearing her explain exactly what those facts actually meant. “Yes. I decided to leave Earth because it was clear I had no opportunity to find a purpose here, but I, we, also knew that the combination of what I wanted to go and do and who certain Starfleet Admirals thought I was, that there was no indication that I would ever be able to be freely here again. Two years later and, with the ban on synthetics established, even if I could be confident of not being deemed a synth, I was virtually as bad in the eyes of Starfleet and the Federation.” “But your family, the Admiral…” “How was I going to be able to be with her?” Others would have sounded bitter, but Seven’s voice never changed in tone, this was just facts about a time years ago, albeit a time she’d never been able to talk about, with anyone. “What sort of a life could we have with me unable to have a life on this planet? I could not ask her to leave Starfleet, she was one of the few not consumed by the fear, one of the few like Picard who might possibly be able to make things change. Plus she was the Captain of Voyager, they had made her famous across the Federation. So even if I waited until she could leave, where could I ask her to go? Fenris?" Raffi winced, knowing that would have never worked, knowing too she'd never really understood the truly awful spot Seven, and Janeway, had ended up in. "That first year of the ban, there was so much to do…but then he was, she…” Seven took a large gulp of her drink as she remembered Icheb’s final moments. “I’d gone back, I needed to see her but she was on the Voyager-A, sent to the Delta Quadrant despite her swearing she’d never go back there, so I waited, researched, tried to work out how it had all gone to shit…after that, each time I went back out there I was going deeper into the former Neutral Zone, finding more who needed help, finding the help harder to organise…finding it harder to come back home because of the danger to Kathryn…” As she spoke, she searched the gathering, finding Kathryn laughing at something Riker had just said, making her smile, but it was a sad smile, tinged with despair and regret as she remembered the unending, exhausting cycle of organising supplies and getting them to those who needed them, trying not to give in to the exhaustion and declare the task unending and hopeless. She couldn’t acknowledge hopelessness, couldn’t abandon hope completely. “By the time we met, it had become easier to be honest with you about my situation, because…" "Because you'd lost hope?" "Not lost, but learned to accept it was forever out of reach, something I might one day get to see a glimpse of again, rather than something I’d almost had…it made each day easier but also made the truth, about where my home was, feel like lies." She blinked hard, not wanting to let any tears escape. "Turned out pretty true from where I'm sitting." Raffi risked wrapping Seven's clenched right fist with her own hands, wondering how to lighten the conversation if at all possible, not having expected such brutal and raw honesty given the occasion. "And I dumped you remember?" "It is hard to forget," agreed Seven dryly, her smile starting to turn into more of a smirk. "I had been enjoying that whiskey." "I apologised…" Raffi was still embarrassed about how she'd reacted to the news that Seven's commission meant she was going to be First Officer on the Titan. Throwing her whiskey in her face had, as Seven rightly observed, been a waste of very good whiskey. "...I mean, how was I to know you'd be drinking three hundred year old whiskey?" Seven's look was pointed as she sipped her current drink. "Ok, fair. I should have known you'd find a way to get the good stuff, even in a Quark's." "Why did you throw my drink in my face? I never understood that." "You sounded so bitter. I thought you were angry about only being a Commander when J-L made you Captain of the Stargazer." "Oh." Seven reviewed her eidetic memory. "It was Hansen. My orders were addressed to Commander Hansen. That was why…" "You were angry, because you were still not being accepted as who you are, I get that now, well, as of an hour or so ago if I'm being super honest." "Kathryn?" There were not many who could articulate why her commission being first given to Commander Annika Hansen angered her, and even fewer who would actually go through with the explanation. Kathryn was one, having first accepted Seven’s initial rejection of the name ‘Annika’ in her first weeks on Voyager, then revisited the conversation several times during the debriefing, when more than one Admiral refused to address her as Seven and cited her refusal to acknowledge and respond to ‘Annika Hansen’ as evidence of her ‘Borgness’. It had not gone well, either trying to explain her objections to those Admirals, nor when she had tried to practise her explanation with Kathryn, her frustration at her inability to articulate her point turning into anger. "Phoebe. I might have accidentally told her about the other timeline." "She will cope. Did she tell you about when the Q visited the farmhouse?" "Some. I hadn't realised there were three of them." "I know of five, and Kathryn has met eight I think. But there are many more." "All called Q?" "Yes. Though some add a title. And no, I am not Aunt Seven." Junior had tried it but quickly worked out 'Seven' was just fine. "Yet." Raffi laughed at Seven's glare. "Seriously though…" "Yes?" "I really am happy for you, both of you." "Thank you." Seven followed Raffi's gaze, guessing that she was actually not looking at Kathryn Janeway. "There is an unofficial viewing platform on the roof of this building for tonight's display, you should ask her." "Ask who?" tried Raffi, her turn to glare at her amused friend before sighing. "I might already have." "Good. Has she told you what made her try working with glass?" "The phasers…you know I'd never thought about how much everyone else saw, I'd forgotten it was being broadcast." "Not much. Kathryn ordered the feeds cut immediately. Admiral Shelby was apparently unaware for quite some time." Seven resumed her contemplation of the three Janeway women, stood laughing at a shared memory. "Kathryn will worry." "Because I'm an addict too?" "Because you are Starfleet and will be at risk of getting 'lost in space' and Kathryn still struggles with the guilt that knowledge brings. And both of us would only worry about your addictions if we thought you were concealing them from each other, which you are not." It was blunt, but true, and made Raffi rather more reassured than if Seven had tried to sidestep the point. "You're not worried? She's basically your sister too." "Yes, but you and I are literally in the same boat." Seven reached behind the couch with her left arm and retrieved the whiskey bottle, explaining why Raffi had never seen her get up for a refill yet always had a glassful. "If I refill my glass will my face be safe?" "Yeah." Raffi took note of the bottle as Seven poured herself another measure, her eyes widening. "Shit, that's the really, really good stuff." "Your discovery of the real inventory for Quark's on McKinley was most helpful. In addition to Mr Crusher's apology token to Kathryn, I…" There was a phrase that Phoebe and Gretchen used, which always had Kathryn groaning and trying to make conflicting plans in order to avoid it. Ah, yes. "...enjoyed some retail therapy. Once latinum was mentioned the proprietor was most accommodating. It was delivered during the Confirmation. Before that all the shuttles were full.” "I bet. Do I want to know how much that cost?" "No, though it was less than I anticipated once I realised they had no idea about the value of Earth Whiskey. But made him a very satisfied Ferengi." Seven secured the bottle and returned it to its safely tucked out of sight spot behind the couch, having established long ago that Raffi was fine with her drinking in front of her, so long as she never offered her a glass, as the temptation to join someone in a glass of something was an opportunity for a glass to turn into a bottle and her sobriety to turn into a distant memory. "I have no desire to be away from Kathryn for anything except our ordered missions. Should anything befall the ship that sees us displaced in time or space, I have several schematics retained in my cortical node to ensure our prompt return should the Enterprise be insufficient." Plus, after the stunt with the alternative timeline, Seven was certain that Q (junior) could be relied on to owe her a favour or two if necessary. "Sticking with you, got it." She was about to say more, but something in Seven's expression told her she wasn't finished. "You, I think, have mostly talked of me and Kathryn with Phoebe so far. That is understandable, you have us in common. But do not limit your connection to us. She is as brilliant as her sister but in different fields and ways. Her work is incredible." "I must look it up…" muttered Raffi, realising that she knew nothing of Phoebe Janeway the artist. "Don't. Let her show you when she is ready." "But I just thought you…" "Were reminding you that Phoebe Janeway is an individual worthy of friendship and more on her own merits and achievements? Yes. I was. But you had decided that already when you went to check on the horses, and then when you invited her to spend time with you this evening." Seven sighed, wishing Kathryn was here to help her, she was much better at this sort of advice. "You're doing fine, keep going," encouraged Raffi, correctly interpreting Seven's frustration was with herself, not Raffi, having seen a similar reaction when she’d been trying to motivate the Enterprise and Titan crews on occasion. "You met Phoebe because she is Kathryn's sister. Keep meeting Phoebe because you enjoy her company and conversation, because you like her for who she is right now, not because of what she painted or felt for me." Seven looked at Raffi with complete and unrelenting focus. "If you doubt your motivation then you will not be on the roof tonight." "Yeah." Raffi sank back into the couch, surprising Seven with her wry smile. "I was wondering what it would be like." "It?" "A Seven 'shovel talk'. And for the record?" Seven's implant arched, curiosity trumping her confusion. "Pretty fucking scary. Ten out of ten." Seven blinked, noting Raffi's increased heart rate and temperature. And then she laughed. "Seven?" "She likes hot chocolate and macaroons, from a bakery in Paris. Kathryn had a supply delivered here this afternoon, you should take them for this evening." "That sounds suspiciously like encouragement. Does this mean you approve?" "What do you think they're talking about?" asked Phoebe, directing her Mom and sister's attention towards where Seven, all long limbs and languid gracefulness, had spent the entirety of the party camped out on the couch. "You dear," said Gretchen perceptively, sipping her champagne. "Me?" "That, dearest sister, has all the hallmarks of a Seven 'shovel talk'. She's got rather good at them at the first couple of reunions." "I remember," agreed Gretchen. "Didn't she make that poor Admiral's grandson wet his pants?" "There is nothing 'poor' about Shelby," said Kathryn tartly, "and yes. He was fifteen and was not understanding that just because Naomi is half K'tarian didn't mean that it was appropriate he try anything on with her. He'd already ignored Tuvok and me, citing Shelby's rank in his defence…" "Sounds like a right spoiled shit," said Phoebe succinctly. "He's better now, not a bad Starfleet Marine last I heard. But back as a fifteen year old, he was rather full of himself. Until Seven had a word." "What did she say? Do you remember?" "You'd have to ask Seven for the verbatim, but the gist was that even the Borg are offended by young men who find 9 year old girls attractive and would not waste resources completing his assimilation. They would also then purge his memories from the Collective, which is something that they do not consider necessary for murderers." Kathryn sipped her coffee as she remembered the rest. "She then also told him how many species of the thousands the Borg had knowledge of considered his anticipated behaviour warranted the death penalty, and how many were within the Federation. I think that's when she observed he was in need of new pants." "Wow, so…" Phoebe gestured towards Seven and Raffi. "... tonight's a date then?" "Are you asking or telling?" asked Kathryn, dropping all hint of amusement and putting an arm around her sister, noticing her Mom's diplomatic and strategic exit as she suddenly remembered she wanted to ask B'Elanna something. "Because it can be whatever you want it to be." "She's fun. And not intimidated by you being my sister." "Okay." Kathryn smiled at the reference to her - she hated it when, usually when Voyager had been in the news vids again, people tried to use Phoebe to get to her. She wasn't sure Raffi was entirely at ease with her yet, but was well on her way to being, with Seven no doubt elbowing her along. "And she gets my issues…" "Pheebs…" "No, in a good way. We've talked about it, well, bits of it. You, Seven…is she really safe now?" "She's really safe now Pheebs, I promise. We both are." It had taken them almost two years to actually believe it, to have Seven's commission and Captaincy of the Titan go unchallenged, then her appointment as Captain of the Enterprise go uncontested, first on the shakedown cruise, then their just completed 6 month mission. But now they had managed to get to this point that they’d both long ago had concluded it was probably impossible, the point at which Seven was prepared to openly set foot on Earth again, nevermind enter Starfleet's headquarters. And of course, in true Seven fashion, her worry had not been about herself, but about the risk to Janeway. "I like Raffi. She's Starfleet but not a Fleet type you know? No offence." "None taken, unless you think I'm a Fleet type?" "You're good sis," promised Phoebe, leaning into her big sister's one-armed hug. "Back when you were a Lieutenant and switched to the red team I was getting a bit worried, but you turned out alright." "Not worried about me squaring up now I've got this office?" "Name one time you wore jeans and flannel in HQ before today?" "Easy, never." She thought for a moment. "Actually, I'm not sure I ever went on the Bridge on Voyager without my uniform." "Doesn't count. You lived in your uniform out there because you’d packed light.” Phoebe’s easy brushing over of the real challenges of life in the Delta Quadrant, with the replicator rationing and food shortages had her sister smile, enough time now passed that it was a familiar oversimplification that caused no offence. “Seriously…" Phoebe wrapped her in a full hug and kissed her cheek. "...keep being you, it's what we all need right now." "Seven will object if I try to be anything else." "She's smart, that space pirate of yours." "The smartest of us all, and the best of us all," agreed Kathryn, feeling her eyes filling with tears. "And you don't have to date Raffi, just because she's Seven's friend." "Oh I know," confirmed Phoebe, a wicked grin forming on her face. "But she’s interesting, and pretty cool for Starfleet. And what she can do with her tongue?" "Pheebs!" Kathryn tightened the hug, feeling her sister squeeze her back, then whispered. "Use the townhouse if you want." "But I thought…" Phoebe pulled back to look at Kathryn, who knew what she was going to ask. "We were planning on going to the farm, but Tuvok wants us to go somewhere we can transport to directly from the Ball." "But the townhouse…" "Still has the pad from when I was just back from the Delta Quadrant? Yes, but…" Kathryn looked past Phoebe to Seven, who was now in conversation with Raffi, Will Riker and Beverly, the two former Enterprise Senior Staff the latest to gravitate to Seven’s couch. Still, that didn't seem to stop Seven feeling her eyes on her and meeting her gaze with a soft smile before refocusing on Will again. "...this is the first time she's been in San Francisco since the debriefings ended. With the Confirmation and the Ball…I'm not sure if we'll ever go back to the townhouse to be honest, not after what happened there." "But that doesn't bother you," concluded Phoebe, seeing how clear and calm her sister's eyes were despite the bombshell she'd just dropped. "Not a bit, I’ve already moved the paintings from the bedroom and study to the farm." They were paintings done by Phoebe, seemingly abstract but actually layered with the symbols Seven had taught her, the artist fascinated by their elegance. Few had ever realised that the bold geometric shapes she'd overlaid over swirls of mesmerising colour were, when reconstructed into single logograms, Borg script for 'Earth' and 'Voyager' and other words that had come to hold great significance for the former Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero-One in ways the Borg had never intended. The less abstract works, when Phoebe had sketched them 'being human' rather than these great heroic explorers, were also already at the farmhouse, safely tucked away on the top floor amongst Kathryn's most treasured possessions, protected by several layers of Borg encryption, just in case. "I might use it a bit if I'm having to work here late but…" she thought of the bedroom she now had as part of her office, a room she'd barely set foot in until today but now had rather different memories to associate with it. "You have better memories here now." Phoebe understood, and was about to say more when she saw Sam Wildman approaching. "I think that's my cue." "Huh? Oh, Sam, is it time already?" "Yes Admiral." "You staying Pheebs?" "To see my big sis swoon? Wouldn't miss it, plus Mom volunteered me to zip you up." "Zip me up? But I…" "Oh no, we’re not letting you near each other until you're both dressed. Mom's orders." "Tuvok has promised to assist Seven with her uniform Admiral. And Admiral Crusher and Commander Troi asked me to tell you they're delighted you're not wearing Mess Dress and will also be in gowns." "How did they know?" "Jack was telling them about going with Mom to get the sword engraved, and since you've never captained the Enterprise…you haven't, have you sis?" Phoebe knew she'd never paid her sister's career that much attention, but liked to think she'd have remembered that small detail if it had been the case, or you know, been reminded of it constantly by the wall-to-wall Voyager coverage. Still, she wanted to hear it from the oracle as it were. "Nope. Seven wins the biggest ship competition. And don't," warned Kathryn, knowing exactly what her sister's mind was capable of when it came to entendres, double or otherwise, "say it." "Me?" Phoebe's innocent face hadn't improved from since childhood. "I'm not saying anything." "No, but you're thinking it." "Now I am." And with a smirk Phoebe left her sister with Sam and went to chat with Raffi some more, seeing all the Starfleet Officers senior enough to be required at the Ball were going to change in either their own offices or ones loaned to them by friends. Admiral Crusher’s office was particularly congested, with the entire (pardoned) Enterprise Senior Staff in attendance this evening and all calling in a favour with the Doctor. Worf, Geordi and Data had already gone to change in her aide’s office, with Deanna and Will going to use it next, while she used her own office. (Jean-Luc was about to discover his changing room location was rather dependent on whether or not Tom Paris’ Chateau Picard purchases were going to be at the family rate or not.) "Admiral?" When Sam got no response from a thoughtful Janeway, she tried again, before finally resorting to what she knew would work. "Captain Janeway?" "Sam, sorry. I…" She took a deep breath, knowing she'd zoned out for a moment as a few previously independently held thoughts connected in her brain, but not registering her temporary 'demotion'. "...have there been any problems? After the Confirmation?" "Tuvok's not said anything to me, and there's been no message from Intelligence or Security concerning your arrangements, though they have requested additional officers to assist the Bloomington authorities with coordinating the management of the media visitors. Communications have sent a media team including holoengineers and Security sent some of their friendlier faces. Apparently the Mayor has already sent her thanks and the situation is under control." "Good. Just so you know, Mayor Jacqueline Swinton has been Mom's bridge partner since I was about Tommy Kim’s age and a falling out between them becomes my problem under normal circumstances, nevermind when I'm actually responsible." Kathryn felt a layer of tension she'd not noticed she was carrying lift from her. "And the media themselves?" She didn't care about her image and approval ratings, not like some of her predecessors had, usually to the point of obsession, but she worried for Seven, just as Seven worried for her. "Apart from invading Indiana?" "The updated Voyager documentaries are being shown, with the unclassified details now including Seven." They’d been shown for the last few weeks, ever since they’d been updated last year, but no one had paid them much attention until the Admiral had been announced as the next Commander-in-Chief, and even then, Seven mostly appeared in the documentaries when the Voyager crew mentioned her, so she’d been easily overlooked…until today obviously. "Nothing about the ban?" "Not about bringing it back. Quite a lot about how it was the cruel low point of our history. Several are also referencing it in the context of ‘the love story’.” Sam had to remind herself that as long as she’d known Kathryn Janeway, and despite how well she knew her, chuckling at her groan on hearing her and Seven described as ‘a love story’ was probably stretching the bonds of friendship a bit too far. “Everyone loves a love story. Even the Ferengi it seems as their Gaming Commission have already suspended all bets on your marriage, Seven being Fleet Admiral and Federation President…" "At the same time?" "Or sequentially. They are still taking bets for now on the formal recognition of the Fenris Rangers by Starfleet, Seven being made up to Commodore or Rear Admiral at the Ball and which of you will propose." "That's ridiculous. Does Seven know?" "She suggested I put credits on her proposing because you are apparently clear about her feelings on the topic, hoped I hadn't wasted any credits on her being any sort of Admiral, said something I didn't quite follow about already having the President's t-shirt and was rather offended by the odds being offered on your being Federation President." "That's never going to happen." She could be diplomatic when the uniform required it, but she was no politician. "What were the odds?" "5-1. Seven felt that was insulting to you as it suggested you were considered a politician." "Did you remind her low cunning and sharp negotiation skills are highly prized by the Ferengi?" "No Ma'am. I think she'd hear it better coming from you, after you've changed Ma'am." "Sam…" warned Janeway, not missing the double 'Ma'am' unlike her earlier demotion to shake her out of her thoughts. "From Bajor to Trill, it's all the Alpha Quadrant seems to be talking about. Even Vulcan channels are reviewing the poetry references you both made, with the poems being deemed to 'have primitive merit'.” “Tough crowd, Vulcans. Especially about poetic expressions of emotion. That’s high praise from them.” “They’re not the only ones, the Klingon Ambassador intends to seek your permission for one of their leading composers to hear the story of Seven, Voyager and you then write songs worthy of you both." "This is really happening, isn't it?" asked Kathryn, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tried to forestall another headache blossoming as a result of the three ringed circus the universe seemed to want to put them through. She wondered what Seven would think of her suggesting they both resign and elope, before maybe heading back to the Delta Quadrant after all…perhaps go say hi to the grandkids…or not. Guess they’d just have to suck it up and hope it passed soon…or, well, her ‘in-laws’ dropped by…she blinked, giving herself a telling off for being silly and refocused on Sam, just in time to hear her answer to the question Kathryn had actually intended to be rhetorical. "Yes Ma'am…" Sam had a brilliant smile on her face, deciding this was definitely one hell of a crunch time and she wasn’t the only one of the Voyager crew who couldn’t stop smiling at the confirmation that their Captain and Seven had finally been able to be happy. "...it really is." Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).
You are given a chapter. Your job is to craft ONE WRITING PROMPT such that the provided chapter could plausibly serve as a strong example response to that prompt. CHAPTER: Chapter Text “Stay here for another day. You should not go back out there yet. There’s a sandstorm coming in a few days.” Alhaitham was about to drink from his cup, yet what was said to him made him sigh, “I shall not impose any longer. You have been a good host, Candace.” The Guardian of Aaru Village shook her head, “Anything for a friend.” She then looked a bit bewildered, as if she was hesitating to speak some more. It lasted for a few seconds before she decided to press on. “Dehya told me… what happened, and what she has been doing to help. If you require the aid of more scholars or scouts, let me know.” “No need,” replied Alhaitham after he finally finished his meal. “You have helped enough.” “Assistance given to things like this should not be measured or quantified,” said Candace. “Look. I know how it feels to lose someone very important to me. I know you might deny his significance in your life, but it was obvious with the way you chase each lead that may lead you to him. Even if the Matra issued the official statement six months ago.” “It became a tourist attraction, those ruins, down there,” frowned Alhaitham. “The people of the forest and the desert alike go down there on the daily to offer flowers and wine. I knew he was loved by many. I just never expected the worship he received. If they really revere him as they claimed to, they should have extended help when he was still around and struggling to get commissions to support himself. Not now, when they all believe he’s dead.” Candace looked completive, “Unfortunately, Alhaitham, people see the value of things and people once they’re gone, once it’s too late. Regret is poison, even more so than the curse of falling in love. Oh, right. Dehya also wanted to ask you if you remain sure that you want to continue the search. It’s been half a year, after all. We’re all getting worried.” Alhaitham raised an eyebrow. Candace sighed, “Accept it. We’re your friends. And… even if I never got the chance to be close to him, this village was among the many recipients of Kaveh’s generosity and kindness. People were right to call him that title of his. He indeed brought light wherever he went.” Right. Kaveh did a lot of pro bono work to restore and fortify Aaru Village buildings to prepare them for future sandstorms. He also taught scholars and teenagers how to repair simple things around - doors, roofs, window locks, and whatnot. People loved him as he could not help himself but take care of others, mostly at his own expense. Perhaps that was what ultimately led Kaveh to this predicament. Maybe, right now, he was out there, stuck helping people he could have left well alone. Maybe he could not afford a trip home. That was something very possible, considering Kaveh’s charitable background. That was why Alhaitham just needed to find him and bring him home. The Acting Grand Sage has been gone from onsite work for far too long, and he could not bear the taste of not-Kaveh-made coffee in the mornings. And yes, Kaveh needed to come back to pay off his debts. He had to do more than just go missing one day and escape all of his financial responsibilities in the city. As the Acting Grand Sage, someone trying to ditch a whole pile of debts should not be given a leeway. They should be located and brought back to the city to continue being accountable for their debts. This was just the right thing to do. “What of the two things, then?” Candace shook her head, “I could not give you a proper update, since it’s been two weeks since they came by. Dehya continues to search for Zamir’s whereabouts after the Tanit tribe denied his affiliation with them. Cyno’s pursuing a trail of stolen artifacts to the northeast.” “That Eremite,” spat Alhaitham. “He followed Kaveh everywhere he went, and now no one knows where he is. If he was the one who took Kaveh…” “The Eremites would not attack unprovoked, especially not if he was hired as part of Kaveh’s team. Unless he was strategically placed there by someone to keep watch of a prey.” Alhaitham sighed, “Kidnapping the Master Architect who held nothing but debt and half-finished designs could be the most illogical thing I have heard. They could have just commissioned him. That would be cheaper than staging his death and making him work somewhere. Less effort too.” “What if,” something in Candace’s eyes flickered with mischief. “Kaveh fell in love with Zamir and then faked his death to be with him forever? They could have found themselves a small cozy house somewhere and he has been living a simple life full of gentle love for the past six months.” The Acting Grand Sage pushed himself up and pushed the chair in, towards the table. It made a loud, creaking sound. Without another word, he headed towards the door, clearly shutting down the conversation. This made Candace chuckle, “That was a joke, you know. No need to be so jealous about it. You were the one he was living with for so long, after all.” “I shall wait for the General Mahamatra’s report instead. Perhaps he could provide me with some useful information, not make up some improbable scenario that could help no one,” replied Alhaitham before stepping out of the Village Chief’s house. Alhaitham still heard the village elders chuckle at his reaction before he was able to close the door behind him. That was just illogical. Kaveh would never fall in love with someone he just met, and would proceed to make everyone think he’s dead just so he could elope. Alhaitham knew Kaveh enough to know that the Master Architect had only one great love, and it was his craft and his craft alone. No man could come close. Archons knew Alhaitham had tried. A week later, the General Mahamatra arrived at the Acting Grand Sage’s office. Cyno was shaking his head and crossing his arms like this was the last place he wanted to be in. Cyno sniffed at the air, “This place was as stuffy as I remember. Perhaps it was because it’s full of stuff. Why not hire more staff, while you’re at it?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “Oh, it’s a joke. You see…” Cyno saw Alhaitham’s expression and proceeded to roll his eyes, “Whatever, hater. I’ll explain next time. Anyway,” he placed some documents on the table for the Acting Grand Sage to look at, “there’s a lead I am pursuing. Remnants of a Treasure Hoarder camp by the border of Mawtiyima Forest and Nantianmen in Liyue. I have heard they ransacked some wenut tunnels a few months back. The coordinates are in those files. I can have Matras pay them a visit.” “I’ll go there myself. You can see yourself out, General Mahamatra. You've been away for quite some time, so I am sure you’ve been wanting to return to Gandharva Ville as soon as possible,” said Alhaitham, giving Cyno a pointed look. Cyno sighed, “I understand what the objectives of this mission are. I understand the uncertainty it all brings. If I were you, I would be out there, too, holding onto phantom strings that could lead me to a different conclusion no matter how futile. The search could last forever, but you need to know that you’re being unfair by pushing us away like this. You’re not the only one in grief, Alhaitham. He was our friend, too.” “No jokes this time, General?” “Kaveh was important to me, to Tighnari, to Collei, and to so many people. He was able to touch so many people’s lives, not just yours. If you could just accept even a little more help to recover his lost belongings…” “The Mahamatra already declared that he’s dead,” replied Alhaitham. “I do not understand how this may be of value to you, General. I was merely trying to recover some of my ‘dead’ roommate’s belongings, after all.” “Be that way, then,” snapped Cyno. “Now, I see why Kaveh always ran to Tighnari when you’re being difficult. You’ve made him cry in sadness and frustration more times than I could count. Best of luck with your endeavors, Acting Grand Sage. I shall go back to my duties.” Cyno was already going down the lift when the General’s words sunk in. He made Kaveh cry in sadness and frustration. Alhaitham made him cry more times than Cyno could count. Did he really? Cry because of Alhaitham? The Acting Grand Sage was able to capture it quite clearly in his head. His blond hair was a complete mess as his carmine eyes shone with tears, sobbing into his hands, his shoulders heaving. Now, Alhaitham was a lot too late to reach out to wipe away any, if at least one, of those tears. Taking a deep breath, Alhaitham began preparing his trip to Nantianmen. There was still a Dendro vision for him to find. It took him a day and a half to reach the Liyue borders. Cyno’s report, as expected, was complete and accurate. Alhaitham was looking down from the cliffs, immediately spotting a treasure hoarder camp below. He decided to travel alone. There was no need to involve anybody else, and the hoarders do not pose enough threat for him to require a backup. If he could barter anything in exchange for what he seeks, he would. He was wearing the common uniform of a scholar so as to not raise suspicion. Alhaitham activated his Dendro vision to teleport down the cliff. He walked towards the camp, raising a hand to greet the treasure hoarders resting under the tent. “Hey, scholar, what are you doing this far out?” One of the treasure hoarders wearing glasses inquired as they fall back into defensive positions. “I do not wish to fight,” Alhaitham shook his head. “I am just a feeble scholar, after all. I came here to ask questions. I came across some of your comrades, and they pointed me to this warehouse.” The Acting Grand Sage eyes the stack of crates that can be seen from a nearby cave opening. There must be more inside. “If the price is right,” said the other treasure hoarder wearing a fancy fedora. “We might let you look.” “Name your price then. I’ll be sure to double that amount if you have what I seek,” replied Alhaitham. The two treasure hoarders looked at each other, then back at Alhaitham. The bespectacled one nodded at him, “What do you want, then?” “A vision,” Alhaitham looked at their confused faces. “A Sumeru vision. An active Dendro vision… or a blank one. I was told the ransacked items and artifacts from the wenut tunnels near Khaj-Nisut and Al-Azif have been delivered here. If you have found a vision, then I must have it.” The hoarder with the hat raised an eyebrow, “Was it yours? Did you lose it? Such a feeble scholar indeed.” “It’s my roommate’s vision. He dropped it while we were studying the ruins. He was a bit of a klutz,” shrugged Alhaitham. “I am a lazy student, you see, and if it weren’t for his clumsiness I would not even be here. I’d rather read my books at home.” The bespectacled one hummed, “Was he clumsy enough to die?” As he spoke, something was thrown in Alhaitham’s direction. The Acting Grand Sage caught the item, and when he opened his fist, it was a blank Sumeru vision. The swirling dull grey has replaced the once-alive vision. There was no way to determine which element it used to hold unless Alhaitham could reach out to the Traveler and Paimon so they can confirm the item’s elemental traces. It could not be Kaveh’s. At the same time, it could also be his. This is the best thing Alhaitham has gotten for the past six months. He knew he would have to settle. He placed the blank vision in his pocket and handed the treasure hoarders two hundred fifty thousand mora before walking away. The lifeless vision had some scratches and dried blood. It looked fairly new. It would have to do, for now. The Traveler and Paimon seemed to have been caught up in something important, as usual, since Alhaitham’s letter remained unanswered for a full month. He was promised that they would visit, though, once they were able to make it back to Sumeru. Alhaitham was left to accept the vision as any other proof. Chances that another vision holder died and lost their vision deep within the wenut tunnels in the past six months were slim. It was not the most concrete of pieces of evidence for Alhaitham, and yet it was a piece of evidence that made sense. It was logical, considering they failed to find a vision in the worship temple they found. Somebody must have taken it away already, or Kaveh died somewhere else. Either way, it pointed to the same conclusion. Pointed, not verified, not confirmed. Alhaitham would have to live with that. For now. And so, the Acting Grand Sage closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and went back to work. He requested both Dehya and Cyno cease their search for any leads and let them go back to their normal programming. He paid a visit to Tighnari for two kinds of medications: one for migraines, and another to help him sleep at night. Time passed, unbidden. A full month later, as Alhaitham finished rejecting funding proposals for the afternoon, someone paid him a visit. Alhaitham stood up from his seat, “Lord Kusanali.” “Alhaitham,” responded the Dendro archon as she gave him a small smile. “It has been a while. I thought I would have gotten your resignation papers at this time.” “You want me to leave the post?” She shook her head, “No, if it’s not something you wish. You can accept the position full-time. I would be honored if you could be the nation’s Grand Sage from now on, but, don’t you want to take a longer break? I remember the Alhaitham who never wanted a position so high it took him away from the simple life he wanted to lead.” “People change, Lord Kusanali, and this position has been serving me well for the time being. I believe your wisdom would have considered that fact of life,” curtly replied Alhaitham. “Go home for the day. The city will not fall if you go home. Don’t you remember the things you strongly want to protect? It’s been a long time now, but I do remember it clear as day. You saved me so I could preserve the way you want to live your life. How about now? How do you want to live your life from this point on, Alhaitham?” The Acting Grand Sage had nothing to say. Nahida spoke again, “Go home, Alhaitham. Come back to work once you have your answer.” It took him about twenty minutes to go home. He slid the key and turned the lock, and it gave way so easily, the door opening for Alhaitham to face a dark, cold room. He opened the lights, turned off his noise-canceling earpieces, and let the silence welcome him. No hammering, scritching of charcoal on rough paper, no endless complaints, and no mindless chatter. Things were left as they were for more than six months ago. Alhaitham could not lift a finger to touch anything that was not his. Anything to preserve the life he wanted to live, even if what was left were only phantom voices and empty echoes inside a lonely house that was meant to be a home for two. It was weird and unbelievable, that Alhaitham responded to Kaveh’s absence like this. He wanted to goad the architect to move out - if he were truly tired of Alhaitham like he claimed so many times, over and over again. He only wished for Kaveh’s joy and comfort, and if living with Alhaitham no longer gave him any of that, then the Scribe would be contented to let him go. Yet the plates, the mugs, the cups, and the bowls stayed a pair of two as it was how they were meant to be, even if the other was left untouched. Papers, pencils, and other artistic supplies stayed where they were left - on the kitchen table, on the bookshelves, in the spaces of the divan mattress, and even on the living room table. There were little notes, too. It reminded Alhaitham of the groceries and toiletries they were running out of, current snacks they both liked, a quarterly schedule of when Liyuen and Natlan traders would arrive so they could grab some imported goods and a list of current commissions left undone. Reminders that Alhaitham should drink half a glass of water for every fifty pages he has read. Reminders that Alhaitham needed to have his earpieces checked for repairs. Pieces of Kaveh that attempted to glue him together, to keep him whole, as he tried to navigate a sea of nothingness, a fog without some semblance of light. He took the paper that was stuck by the kitchen cupboard. It was a reminder to the self. Words were written: Do not forget to buy some Snapdragon today, Kaveh! You gotta perfect that Sabz Meat Stew this time. Not too many spices, just one! And two onions, two! Please don’t forget, self! Gotta make him smile wider this time! The voice that accompanied the written words was clear in Alhaitham’s head as if the person stood beside him all this time. No one else was with Alhaitham. Only blank spaces, shadows, and static. Alhaitham wondered when he could smile wider, when he could taste that perfect Sabz Meat Stew, and when he could stop the tears from flowing freely from his eyes. For the first time after a long while, perhaps ever since his grandmother passed away, Alhaitham finally let himself cry. Requirements for the writing prompt you produce: - It should be a standalone assignment-style instruction (e.g., “Write a short story about…”). - It must be satisfiable using only what appears in the chapter (no external canon required). - Calibrate the prompt’s scope (length, POV/tense, tone, genre) to match the chapter so the chapter reads like a correct/ideal answer. - If the chapter’s content implies sensitive themes, include a brief, neutral content note in the prompt. - Avoid naming specific characters or franchises; use generic roles (e.g., “a queen and her sworn protector”). - Keep it concise (one or two sentences), actionable, and classroom-ready. Output your question within <begin> and <end> tags. Guidance: - Match the chapter’s core elements (e.g., f/f romance, rivalry-to-allies, slow burn, post-battle comfort, political intrigue). - Mirror its narrative stance (e.g., third-person limited past tense), and approximate its length (e.g., “800–1500 words”). - If the chapter centers a scene type, make that explicit (e.g., “a reunion scene after a long separation” or “an argument that turns into confession”).

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