Spring was in a deadlock.
She wanted desperately to help—but the idea of seeing him again made her stomach turn.
She couldn't process it.
Hatred clawed through her chest, and it wasn't like her.
It made her feel disgusting. Drained.
It was afternoon—just a few days after their meeting with the king.
She had handled herself with grace, and she was proud of that.
Well… almost.
The days that followed were strange. Off.
She couldn't focus.
Everything set her off.
But most of all… she kept thinking about that night.
Their recent encounter had left her entire body burning.
And no matter how hard she tried, the feelings refused to die down.
She didn't even know what was worse:
The thought of seeing him again…
Or the waiting for it.
Both felt like slow execution.
Both were unbearable.
And things weren't easy with Winter either.
He knew. Of course he knew.
He kept trying to soothe her, to bring her peace.
Sometimes he managed. A little.
But he could never fix the root of it.
He couldn't fix what had already happened.
The worst part was seeing the hurt in his eyes.
Knowing she was the one causing it.
And hating herself for it.
He didn't deserve that.
He had no obligation to carry this for her.
To fix what—
—what he had done.
Spring decided to leave him at home and go for a walk, under the harmless excuse of buying chocolate.
Which she did.
But she made a detour on the way back.
She walked.
No destination. No plan.
She just needed to breathe again.
If I don't go, I'll be weak.
But if I go… I'll be reminded that…
That.
The worst feeling of them all.
Being betrayed hurts.
But the betrayal itself—that initial shock?
It's just the blade meeting skin.
It stings. It starts the bleeding.
But it doesn't last.
What comes after is what kills you.
It's visceral.
It's permanent.
It suffocates you.
It binds you to your bed.
It haunts your favorite places, turning them hollow.
It taints everything you once loved, and makes you watch.
It becomes your reality.
I wasn't enough.
You replay it.
You ask what you could've done differently.
You start losing grip on who you were.
And in the end, you don't recognize yourself anymore.
You bleed.
Spring didn't know how long she walked.
But eventually… she found herself in front of a lake.
She blinked.
No way.
This lake?
She stepped closer.
It was the lake.
The one from that day.
That day.
Tears rose. She forced them down.
The universe really likes to fuck with me, doesn't it…
But something was different.
In her memory, this lake had been the sound of the abyss.
The lowest, darkest place she had ever touched.
A grave.
But now…
It was beautiful.
Still.
Alive.
The water glowed in the blush of sunset.
Flower petals danced along the surface, falling from the trees that bloomed all around.
And the smell…
Sweet. Floral. Like the world itself was exhaling peace.
It silenced her mind.
Back then, when she was bleeding, she wanted the world to bleed with her.
She wanted everything to fall apart, to mirror her pain.
She wanted to be seen in her ruin.
But that's the thing.
The world moves on.
Unbothered.
Nothing had stopped for her.
Nothing ever does.
Somehow… this freed her.
She didn't hate the world.
She didn't hate herself.
Summer had been right, all those years ago.
His actions were his.
They had nothing to do with her worth.
The thought settled in like warm light.
And finally—she stood.
She turned.
And walked back home.
Spring returned home with slow steps, her fingers curled around the small chocolate bag. Winter was already waiting by the kitchen door, leaning against the frame with that soft, tired smile.
"I knew it wasn't just chocolate," he said.
She didn't answer. Just handed him the bag and walked past him into the house.
He followed without a sound.
She sat at the table. Same place as always—second seat from the corner. He moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who knew every drawer by heart. He said nothing at first, only made her tea exactly how she liked it. Slightly floral. Warm. A drop of honey.
The cup clinked gently as he set it down in front of her.
"I thought I'd try cheering you up with something revolutionary," he said. "Warm beverage. Freshly cleaned hut. Me."
She looked up at him, unimpressed.
"Thank you. Really. I just don't feel like drinking tea right now."
"It's him, isn't it?" Winter asked.
Her gaze snapped to him.
Winter moved behind her—slow, careful.
His fingers brushed through her hair, smoothing it back.
"I know you try to hide it," he said. "But it's written all over your face."
A pause.
"You're hurt."
Spring's throat tightened. "I'm not hurt, Winter. I just—"
"Can't stop thinking about him," he finished gently, still brushing her hair. "I know. It's all right."
She stilled.
"You don't have to say it." His voice was barely a breath near her ear. "You never do. I understand you better than anyone."
Spring stared at the table. Her stomach twisted.
"That's why I stay," Winter whispered. "Even when it hurts me too."
He rested his forehead against the back of her head. His hands never left her hair.
"Because I know one day…
You'll see it."
Another breath, softer than all the rest.
"You're mine, Spring."
She turned slowly up toward him—
And he kissed her.
He was still standing behind her, hand tangled in her hair, and he leaned down to claim her mouth from above. His other hand slid around to the side of her neck—firm, grounding, reverent. The kiss was slow at first. No rush. Just presence.
She gasped into it.
He didn't pull away.
The fingers at her neck flexed slightly. His thumb traced along her jaw, and she leaned into it before she could think.
Then—she moved.
She gripped his arms and pushed herself up—fast—onto the edge of the table.
Her legs parted around him, pulling him closer.
He kissed her again, harder this time, and his hands slid under her thighs, drawing her deeper into him. She clung to his shirt, needing him close, needing something to hold on to.
Golden eyes still stared at her in her mind. That voice. That smile.
Winter kissed down her neck, teeth brushing her skin.
Then he paused.
"Let me help you," he murmured. "Let me… take the others away."
Her breath hitched. "How?"
He reached into his coat, pulled something soft—dark silk—and lifted it gently.
"Trust me," he said.
She stared at the fabric. Her heart raced.
Then—she nodded.
Winter stepped between her legs again, kissed her softly once more, then raised the blindfold to her eyes. Darkness fell.
"Now," he whispered, "You only feel me."
Her breath caught.
Winter's hands moved slowly at first—up her thighs, along her waist—deliberate. His mouth brushed the curve of her neck, then paused beside her ear.
She could feel everything. His breath, his touch, his long hair. All of him.
For a moment, as his mouth brushed her collarbone, her chest tightened.
Fall?
The thought hit without warning. A memory, sharp as lightning. His laugh. The way he used to kiss her shoulder like it was sacred.
She blinked under the silk. Her lips parted—then closed.
Winter's voice cut through the haze.
"You feel everything more now, don't you?"
His voice was low. Controlled.
She nodded, heart pounding.
"You don't need to see anything. You only need to listen."
He kissed the hollow of her throat, then again, lower, his hands slipping under the fabric at her hips.
Spring gasped.
He didn't stop. Didn't slow.
His grip was firmer now—possessive. He guided her back flat onto the table, his hands pressing her wrists above her head.
"We have some unfinished business," he whispered.
His mouth found her collarbone, then lower. He peeled her clothes back with quiet efficiency—unfastening, sliding, discarding—until the air touched her skin and she arched.
One hand stayed at her wrist. The other explored her—tracing, teasing, testing every reaction.
She moaned.
"Quiet," he said.
The word was soft. Dangerous.
She bit her lip, trembling under him.
He leaned down, kissed her hard. Deep. His tongue moved with precision, with intention, until her legs were trembling around his waist.
And again, her mind faltered—just for a flicker—on a different voice, a different rhythm.
No. She clung tighter to Winter.
Then—his hand slid between her thighs.
She gasped sharply, hips jolting.
He didn't move it. He just let it rest there—heavy, warm, commanding.
"Hard to think now, isn't it?" he murmured.
She whimpered.
"Good. Stay there."
His hand pressed firmer between her thighs, teasing without motion, and it became unbearable. A tension she couldn't run from.
"You're not in control tonight. I am."
He stopped.
Her breath hitched. "Winter…"
"I said quiet."
He dragged the silk blindfold just enough to kiss her eyelids, then placed it back. "I'll tell you everything you need to know."
His hand wrapped around her thigh, pulling her to the edge again. He pressed into her slowly, fully, and didn't move until she gasped from the pressure.
"Take it."
When she did, he moved—deep, controlled thrusts that left no space between them. One hand around her throat now—claiming. The other guiding her hips.
"Good girl," he murmured.
She let go. Completely. Let him take over. Let him show her—again and again—how much he'd missed her.
She trembled beneath him, hands gripping the edge of the table.
Winter didn't stop. Didn't ease.
Every movement was precise—measured. His control was total, not a single motion wasted. He thrust deeper, harder, but never lost rhythm.
He leaned in, breath hot at her ear.
"You don't get to fall apart yet."
Her lips parted with a soft, broken sound.
"No," he said firmly. "Not unless I let you."
She whimpered.
His hand slid back to her throat, thumb brushing the underside of her jaw as he kissed her again—this time rougher. Hungrier. He bit down on her bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who was in control.
"You've spent days ignoring me," he murmured. "Running around like you don't belong to anyone."
"I wasn't—"
"I didn't say speak."
She bit her lip hard, spine arching as he drove deeper. Her moan cracked in her throat.
"That's better," he breathed.
He pulled her tighter against him, one hand now gripping her hip, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. Only feel. Her nails dug into his arms. He let her. Let her cling, shake, break apart—only when he said so.
"You'll come when I tell you to," he whispered.
Her whole body tensed, every nerve thrumming with heat.
He kissed her again—hard—and whispered against her lips:
"Say it."
She gasped. "I'll wait."
He smiled darkly.
"Good girl."
And then he picked up the pace—faster, deeper, relentless.
She cried out, head tipping back, thighs trembling. Every part of her ached for release.
Still—he didn't let her fall.
Not yet.
"Do you feel that?" he growled softly. "That's mine."
She nodded desperately, breath hitching, fingers curling around his shoulders.
"Say it."
"It's yours," she breathed.
He finally let go.
"Now."
And she shattered.
Her whole body trembled, legs locking around him, voice lost in a broken moan as she came undone in his arms.
Winter held her through every tremor, not letting her fall. He stayed with her—inside her, around her—until she was limp, breathless, and glowing with heat.
Then he kissed her forehead through the blindfold. Gentle again.
"I'll never let anyone else touch you," he whispered.
The day of the Trials had come.
Everyone was gathered in a small, overgrown town tucked deep in the forest, just at the base of Wright Mountain. The area, long since abandoned, had only a few decaying huts once used by guards that patrolled. The only structure still standing tall was a massive stone wall that enclosed what could be seen of the Veil—the ancient, wooded territory that stretched to the sea. No one knew what truly lay within, only that the worthy would emerge changed.
At the center of the wall stood a towering stone gate.
Musicians played nearby, their melodies lifting into the warm air, full of joy and ceremony. Crowds lined the streets, cheering for the senior Academy students as if this were some grand festival—
and not the beginning of something dangerous.
The Veil was more than a rite of passage.
It was a sentient spell—cast over the ancient forest long ago to protect the Fountain, a mythical source of unimaginable power.
It was the only place in the world where the dead could meet the living.
Because of that, the people of Rowen believed—fiercely, faithfully—that facing the dead would elevate both body and soul.
Over time, the people learned the rules by heart—
Passed down in hushed voices, carved into stone, spoken like prayer:
The Veil does not lie.
In the first passage, you walk alone.
You may turn back before the second passage.
Anyone who deemed themselves worthy could enter the Veil.
But only a few had ever made it to the end.
Those who succeeded—always returned the same way:
Back in their beds, almost believing it was all just a dream.
And now, once again, this sacred trial was about to begin.
Spring and Winter arrived together. The crowd's energy was electric, but Spring's nerves twisted inside her. Something deep within still ached.
Winter walked beside her in silence, his hands behind his back and his eyes locked on the ground.
That was unusual.
"Hey, what is it?" Spring asked gently.
Winter gave a quick glance. "Nothing."
She didn't believe him, but she let it go.
Spring looked around at the crowds. It was impressive. The excitement, the music, the way the students were preparing. It was incredible.
There was only one thing missing.
"Where are the other Royals? Shouldn't at least some of them be here?"
Winter's jaw clenched. "Maybe they're busy in Rowen."
Spring frowned. His mood was off. But before she could press further—
Summer appeared out of thin air right in the middle of them.
"Your Highness. Winter."
"Hey! You seem to be in a good mood." Spring smiled and hugged her.
"Why shouldn't I be? This beats delivering pendants by a mile."
Summer turned to Winter. "What happened to you, big guy? You're quiet."
Winter gave her a slow, disinterested stare.
The sound of hooves shattered the noise of the crowd.
Sharp. Echoing. Inevitable.
The king's chariot rolled through the masses, pulled by phantom-horses. All fell silent.
Dante stepped down.
He didn't speak. He didn't smile. He simply walked past them and the students with a single, subtle nod—
and ran upwards the stone wall.
Up there, the wind caught his royal cloak like a banner. He lifted his hand, fingers glowing with light—
and conjured an illusion in the sky.
A massive golden clock flared into existence above him, its hands ticking down with agonizing precision.
"Such a showoff," Summer muttered under her breath, grinning.
The final second struck.
BOOM.
The gates thundered open.
Music exploded.
The crowd roared.
The world surged forward—students pouring toward the entrance like a wave crashing against destiny.
Summer moved closer to Spring and whispered, "Your Highness... I hate to break it to you but he's not here."
Spring's stomach dropped.
What if... he really was behind it?
Her heart refused the idea.
"Now that isn't very nice."
The voice hit like a knife.
Spring froze. Slowly, she turned.
Fall.
He was just inches from her face. Leaning forward. Smiling—but it did not reach his eyes.
She stopped breathing.
The calm she'd collected shattered. Rage flooded in. She stepped back fast, clenching her fists, turning away from him like he burned her.
Summer stepped in front of him, shoving him with one hand. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Fall didn't move. His eyes stayed on Spring.
"You think I was behind it all," he said. Then, softer, "What if you're wrong?"
The world seemed to tilt.
Summer's lips parted, but she didn't speak.
She glanced to Winter, expecting fury. Nothing. He stood frozen.
She stared at him. "Winter, what—"
But –
A shadow fell over them.
Something colossal. Malignant. Wrong.
The sky cracked as a sphere of black, pulsing energy slammed into the heart of the crowd.
Impact.
Silence.
Then—carnage.
Screams erupted. Limbs flew.
Students were torn apart where they stood. Blood sprayed like rain. The scent of flesh filled the air.
And then—
The sphere moved.
A being.
It unfurled like a nightmare given shape—demonic, regal in the cruelest, most twisted way.
It was him.
It had to be.
Tharion.
The fallen king.
The one who should've been long buried.
His body was scorched to the bone.
A crown—melted and fused into his skull—gleamed with charred gold.
A corrupted collar still clung to his neck, warped and blackened like it had tried to contain something ancient and failed.
His grin split his face—
obviously inhuman.
A maw built for torment.
And before anyone could scream again—
He moved.
One flash.
One breath.
He was at the wall.
His claws wrapped around Dante's throat.
He lifted him—effortless, like a broken doll.
"Dante!"
Winter stepped into the rift beneath his feet and vanished——only to reappear in a blur, his blade flashing like lightning as it carved deep into Tharion's arm.
Dante dropped.
"Take him and go!" Fall shouted.
Winter obeyed, despite himself. He caught Dante mid-fall and vanished once more, swallowed by a rift that tore open toward the Veil.
Summer stepped forward, fury burning in her blood—ready to strike—
But Fall grabbed her. And Spring.
One arm on each.
And he ran.
"Let me go!" Spring shouted, thrashing in his grip.
Fall didn't."We can't fight him. He's too strong."
Summer opened her mouth to argue—But then she looked back.
The field.The blood.The bodies.
And the demon, standing atop the wall, above the carnage, smiling down on them—breathing in the wreckage like smoke.
All those students who never got the chance to enter—Children.Dreamers.Gone.
She didn't speak again.
She just ran.
They all did.
Until the Veil swallowed them whole.