Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A madman.

A beast.

A monster.

The cookie that stood before him was no less than a ravaging beast—fangs bared, eyes burning with pure and utter hatred.

Yet all Pure Vanilla could feel was compassion.

Compassion for the lost man whose world had betrayed him. A man who would, in turn, betray himself with lies so bitter he’d sugarcoat them just to endure the taste. For a lie repeated enough times becomes indistinguishable from the truth.

However, this story is not of the time when the beast and the healer clashed, both tainted by the inevitability of lies. 

Because before Pure Vanilla would find himself in that scene, he would come to understand the absolute truth.

A truth that lies buried—as it always does—in the past.

~~~

The moment Truthless Recluse opened his eyes, he found himself in what appeared to be a sea of flowers. Milky white and fragile, they stretched out as far as his eyes could see. Above, the glimmer of the moon greeted him—the only thing familiar to him in this situation. 

A mere second before, he had found himself in the Spire of Deceit, in the room his other half had prepared for him. Yet now, there he was, lying on top of foreign flowers, in the midst of who knows where, all alone, and very much confused. 

Oh—and his Soul Jam to his side for some reason. 

It didn’t take long for Truthless Recluse to stand up. He brushed his bottom with his hands to clear his dark robes of the dirt, and took one good look at his surroundings.

Flowers, flowers, and more flowers.

Seriously, where was he? 

Fortunately, something  soon broke the monotony: a castle of stone sheathed in opalescent hues, its surface bleeding a deep, drowning cerulean that rippled across the horizon.

It stood alone, rising in the distance in a manner all too imposing and out of place, as if declaring itself the most important thing in the area.

And truthfully, it probably was. 

Regardless, there was one undeniable reality: he could either advance toward that impossible, glimmering arrogance of architecture, or succumb to the soul-crushing monotony of endless beige, muttering a half-delirious prayer to the witches in desperate hopes of finding a cookie.

Clearly, one choice was more reasonable.

He may have given up most of his hope and pursuit for truth, welcoming the sweet embrace of deceit, but he wasn’t that hopeless yet. Asking some questions has never hurt… too much. 

Thus, with Soul Jam in hand, though hesitantly, he made his way to the self-aggrandizing tower.

~~~

Perhaps “self-aggrandizing” was too harsh. For at the gates, it was, in every sense, grandiose. Towering statues carved from lilac stone stood sentinel on either side, each shaped as a man holding a scale. Between them, a vast gate stood open, revealing a meticulously arranged patio adorned with alien flora. Slender towers rose from various corners, clad in vibrant bone and blue, some with delicate spiral-railed balconies that overlooked the courtyard below.

Whoever the owner of the castle was, they had no intention of blending in with the world beyond its walls. Everything about it—the obsessive, mirror-perfect symmetry, the unyielding height of its spires, and most of all, the choice of colors that shimmered just slightly off from reality and stood out like a sore thumb—seemed in a way theatrical. 

But what truly unsettled Truthless Recluse was the silence. In the Vanilla Kingdom, even at the quietest hour of night, there was always something—the scuff of a lone wanderer's boot on cobblestones bathed in liquid silver, the distant golden chatter of ever-cheerful citizens spilling from a lit window, the last, lazy tune of a bard weaving its way through the crooked streets like a friendly ghost.

It felt lonely.

Very, very lonely.

Truthless Recluse kept moving. The gates into the castle greeted him wide open, as if waiting for him.

No locks. No barriers. Not a single stationed guard.

No signs of life.

No anything.

What was up with this place?

~~~

Inside, he expected the usual opulence of a castle. Grand halls, chandeliers, polished floors. The usual, predictable grammar of power and majesty. But instead, he found… classrooms. Lavish to the point of absurdity, yes, but classrooms all the same.

A dizzying, recursive nightmare of them. Dozens? No, dozens was too small a number; it was dozens upon dozen. Too many to count. 

There were lecture halls with amphitheater seating. Laboratories gleaming with beakers and instruments of familiar design. Study rooms arranged in perfect, soulless grids.

All of it pristine. Perfect. 

And within them all lay a silence like the rest of the absurd place he found himself in. Attentive, and hungry intelligence holding its breath.

Was this not a castle, but a school?

He wandered further, footsteps tapping softly against stone floor. Tap. Scuff. Tap. His eyes, darted into every movement within shadow, every open doorway, desperate for a clue about where he was and why. A custodian. The hunched, solitary silhouette of a student lost in thought. A flicker. A whisper.

Anything.

Anyone. 

But there was only the repetitive architecture.

Until, finally, he found it.

A library.

At last.

He stepped inside.

~~~

The smell of old paper hit him at once. A dusty warmth intertwined with a subtle sweetness. Almost comforting. Nostalgic enough to grant him a moment of reflection. But it was wrong. Profoundly, gut-wrenchingly wrong. A beautiful lie in a place that gave the impression of being scrubbed clean.

Shelves rose around him like pillars on every side, crammed with books whose titles were either faded beyond recognition or written in scripts he didn’t quite understand. A bibliographic delirium.

Meanwhile, moonlight bled through stained glass, fever-bright rainbows spilling across the polished floor like iridescent oil. To his right, a staircase spiraled upward and vanished into a ceiling devoid of light.

And above it all, the chandeliers. Floating. Beaten gold and obsidian, they drifted. Luminous, weightless jellyfish in the sea of air. They swayed in a gentle motion that was a stark, terrifying contradiction to the air itself, which lay dead, and perfectly, perfectly still.

It was beautiful. 

And yet, like everything else, completely, utterly empty.

Truthless Recluse wandered in silence through the rows of shelves, running his fingers across the dust-furred spines. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Perhaps a memory. Perhaps a mistake. The deeper he went, the more the loneliness seemed to acquire a certain physical density that pressed against him, until even the steady click of his staff against the floor provided little company.

Though there was no sense in chasing the thought, so he let it dissolve and kept walking, deeper into the labyrinth.

Until—

“Ah, a cookie.”

Every crumb in Truthless Recluse’s body stopped moving. A figure detached itself from the deeper shadows pooled by a staircase, a form of pure silhouette, its face a void, an unlit negative space that refused to yield its secrets.

“I know I am always needed, and I’m more than welcome to help, though given today’s occasion, and the hour, I didn’t expect a visitor.” 

Truthless Recluse's head snapped toward the sound, confirming his horrific, dawning conclusion. The figure chose that precise moment to step forward, emerging from the shroud.

Before him stood a cookie all too familiar.

Tall, with pale blue dough and sharp features. One eye framed by dark lashes and a golden iris, the other with white lashes and a soft blue iris.

And his hair… it was a cascade of the deepest navy, the blue of a midnight ocean abyss. Once, it had been a wild tumult, a chaotic entity in itself. Now, it fell in an eerily placid flow. And within its depths, where once a multitude of judging eyes had glared from within strands of obsidian, there now glimmered pinpricks of light, constellations woven into the shape of shimmering stars.

It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

He was a masterpiece, perfectly rendered, but hanging just slightly crooked on the wall of reality. Something more was off.

He wore no jester’s garb. Instead, a robe of black and gold dragged with each step. Where once a Soul Jam had gleamed, a star-shaped chest piece of gold now hung, its center marked with a keyhole. The chaos was gone—no mad-driven eyes, no snarling hatred. In its place: stillness. Poise. A strange, unsettling curiosity.

It was the face of his tormentor, veiled now in gentle benevolence so warm it felt wrong.

It made his stomach turn.

Yet the evidence was irrefutable.

“Shadow Milk Cookie…”

The cookie widened his eyes.

“Shadow Milk… what?” He echoed, the name a foreign, curious taste on his tongue. The beast clothed in new robes let out a light laugh, unbothered.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he said, correcting Truthless Recluse with the same casual confidence one might use to straighten a tilted painting.

“I am no ‘Shadow Milk Cookie.’ Have you perhaps hit your head? Or confused me with someone else…?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“I believe I’ve heard of a ‘Blueberry Milk’… maybe even ‘Chocolate Milk’… but ‘Shadow Milk Cookie’? Hm. That’s a first.”

He let the word linger, tasting it.

“Shadow… how curious.”

“Hit my—”

The recluse stared, bewildered, his brow furrowing as bitterness welled up.

“Is this another one of your ‘tests’?”

“My tests?” the other mused.

“As much as I love giving them, no—no, not this time,” he said with a little pout, before gasping softly as if a light had flickered on behind his eyes.

“Oh! Wait—are you testing me? Some sort of riddle? I have heard rumors of my students planning a new game for me. Is this it? Making me guess whether ‘Shadow Milk Cookie’ is real? If I’ve been called that before? Ha! Very clever, little one.”

“That’s not—I’m not—”

Truthless Recluse stumbled over his words.

“I’m not a student.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“What’s going on?”

The other cookie simply smiled. A soft, candid smile—so gentle it unsettled him more than any manic grin ever had.

“Perhaps you could tell me,” he said, almost cheerfully.

“I am the Fount of Knowledge, after all.” A slight tilt of his head. “But without a predicament, I can hardly provide a solution. Unless you’re here for a lesson… or simply to hear me talk?”

The Fount of Knowledge…

Wasn’t that his name before the fall? Before the deceit, before the madness?

Was he inside a memory?

Or worse… was this something real?

The Fount’s gaze shifted—just slightly.

Truthless Recluse followed it instinctively.

He noticed the way the Fount’s eyes fixed on the Soul Jam in his hands.

“That gem…”

Truthless Recluse instinctively clutched it tighter.

The Fount narrowed his eyes, curious.

“Are you perhaps… a fan?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with delight.

A what?

“It’s quite the replica of mine,” he continued, gesturing to his staff. Embedded at the top was a Soul Jam—identical in color and shape to the one Truthless Recluse held. The only difference from the one Truthless Recluse knew far too well: the one on the staff glowed with a calm, upward tilt, where Shadow Milk’s… was downturned.

“I must say, I’m flattered. I congratulate you.”

What?

Truthless Recluse stared at him.

At the gem.

At himself.

He didn’t get to explain himself before the Fount started talking again. 

“Though a word of advice,” he began, “there are many who would do anything to get their hand on this very special item. So please be careful when carrying that around. I would hate for you to get hurt because of me.” 

Truthless Recluse blinked.

Because of me.

He wasn’t sure what stung more—the words themselves or the way they were said. So genuine. So concerned. So… unlike him.

He stared at the Fount of Knowledge as if trying to look past the flesh, into the cracks beneath. There had to be something—a twitch, a laugh, a flicker of familiar malice—anything to confirm that this was all some elaborate lie.

But there wasn’t. There was only kindness.

“I’ll be fine,” Truthless Recluse muttered, finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

The Fount smiled, relieved. “Good. That’s good.”

A pivot, then, into the canyon-deep silence. The Fount walked with a kind of peculiar drift unlike his corrupted counterpart, the motion of a planet in its sure and certain orbit.  It was the unhurried promenade of a king who does not traverse his gardens so much as the gardens bloom, eternally, around the fixed point of his passage. And behind, Truthless Recluse followed, his own footsteps a stuttering, hesitant punctuation against the stone’s cold, polished gloss.

“Do you… live here?” he asked after a moment, more to break the silence than anything else.

The Fount chuckled softly. “Live? Well, yes and no. Not exactly. I teach. I study. I watch the stars drift overhead and the truth scurry beneath my feet like little mice. But to say I truly live?” He glanced over his shoulder. “That would feel far too temporary.”

Truthless Recluse frowned at the response but didn’t press further.

The two continued in silence, weaving through shelves and forgotten knowledge until the Fount stopped before a tall, narrow window of pale stained glass. Moonlight spilled through it in trembling colors—lilac, seafoam, Aegean blue—painting his face in soft hues.

He turned to Truthless Recluse with a curious look. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“I haven’t,” Truthless Recluse replied.

The Fount raised an eyebrow, amused. “A mystery, then. Very well. I suppose that makes us even—I seem to be quite the mystery to you, too.”

Truthless Recluse looked at him, long and quietly. “You have no idea.”

The Fount did not smirk. Instead, his expression softened into another smile. A real one. Sincere. Peaceful. Like the kind of smile one gives to a friend they haven’t met yet.

“I look forward to unraveling it,” he said. “In time.”

Truthless Recluse didn’t know how to answer.

He wasn’t sure he could.

So instead, he just stood there. Soul Jam still clutched in one hand, heart gripped by something he didn’t want to name.

Whatever this place was, and whoever this version of Shadow Milk had once been, it was clear now:

He wasn’t the only one haunted by the future.

The Fount seemed to sense the tension in the silence. He turned away from the window and motioned for Truthless Recluse to follow. “Come,” he said gently. “You must be tired. I’ll prepare a room for you.”

Truthless Recluse blinked. “A room?”

The Fount nodded. “It’s late. And you’re clearly far from home, though you’re still keeping quite a few details to yourself.” He said it playfully, without accusation.

Truthless Recluse hesitated. His instinct screamed at him.

Don’t stay.

But his feet didn’t move. His body ached. His mind was foggy.

And for the first time in a while, he realized: he had nowhere else to go. It was just like the Spire of Deceit again.

“…Alright,” he said softly.

The Fount smiled again—that same warm, unguarded expression from before.

“This way.”

They moved through the upper halls, past narrow balconies and locked classrooms, until they reached a quiet corridor at the far end of the tower. The Fount laid a hand against a door of pale wood, its surface carved with weathered patterns, and swung it open before stepping aside, gesturing inward.

The room was… simple. Quiet. A window looked out over the moonlit sea of flowers below. There was a bed, a desk, and a single glass lantern hanging from the ceiling, softly glowing.

“Sleep well,” said the Fount from the doorway. “If you dream, I hope it’s of better days.”

Truthless Recluse didn’t respond.

He stood there for a long time after the door closed, staring out the window. The spire stood tall behind him. The sea of flowers shimmered in silence.

The Soul Jam in his hand pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.

Somewhere down the hall, footsteps faded. And then there was only stillness.

He was safe.

For now.

But he knew better than to trust peace like this.

Especially within the lair of a beast.

Fangs or not. 

Chapter Text

He ran.

Through smoke, through mirrors, through glass that cracked beneath his feet with a wet, viscous sound and melted into syrup. Doorways looped. Staircases folded.

No matter where he turned, it all led back.

To the stage.

A crumbling sea of stars and teeth, of laughter too wide. The floor shuddered like a feverish thing beneath him—blackened wood veined with molten gold, splitting and reforming with each step.

And waiting at the center—arms outstretched in mockery of a savior—stood Shadow Milk.

Invisible strings twisted from his fingers. Behind him, the void rippled like tar, collapsing with the elegance of withering flowers. Eyes blinked in and out of existence across its surface, watching him. 

A grin stretched across the cosmos.

“Still chasing truth, Nilly?” the beast purred, like a joke he’d told a hundred times. “Or are you here to sweeten your suffering a second time?”

Truthless Recluse stumbled back, breath ragged. He reached for his staff—

It melted between his fingers, turned to wax, then cinders, then nothing.

He fumbled for his Soul Jam. Called to it.

Nothing.
No answer.

The grin widened. Teeth split like cracks in eggshells.

“Didn’t you forget?” Shadow Milk snarled.

“It’s mine.”

He tried to speak—to deny, to curse, to scream. His lips parted. Silence. A vacuum. Nothing.

The air caught in his throat like thorns.

Above, the constellations convulsed. Strings coiled down from the heavens like nooses. The ground vanished beneath his feet.

He was falling.

Falling through stars, through tar, through time turned inside out.

Shadow Milk’s silhouette loomed in every corner of the dark, multiplied by mirrors that reflected nothing but his grin and Truthless Recluse’s countless failures.

Strings snapped around his wrists, his ankles, his throat, wrenching him into a bent, obedient pose.

“Don’t worry,” came the vile whisper. “I’ll make sure you regret everything this time.”

Something surged—teeth, strings, stars, eyes—collapsing into him all at once.

He screamed.

And woke.

~~~

Truthless jolted upright, breath gasping, cold sweat clinging to his forehead like sickly dew.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was—then it rushed back.

The flowers. The castle. The silence.

Sleep had betrayed him once already. Now the day seemed intent on doing the same.

The Fount.

His eyes darted to the corners of the dim room. The desk and window were still there.

And so was he.

The Fount of Knowledge stood not far off, half-hidden behind a chair as if trying to make himself small. His expression was caught between worry and wonder, like a child caught watching something forbidden.

Truthless blinked, waiting for the frantic thump beneath his ribs to slow. How long had the Fount been standing there?

The other straightened slightly. “You were… twitching,” he said softly, almost guiltily. “I didn’t mean to stare. I just… you looked like you were falling.”

“I didn’t mean to stare. I just…”

“…you looked like someone who was falling.”

Truthless Recluse opened his mouth, but nothing surfaced.

Silence settled. The dream clung to the waking world; he could still hear it—faint, distorted whispers. 

“Still chasing truth, Nilly?”

Shadow Milk’s voice.

The Fount stepped closer—just a fraction, slow enough not to startle him.

Something in him snapped.

“Don’t.” The word cracked out, sharper than he intended.

The air stilled.

The Fount did not advance. His expression wavered, like a note struck off-key.

But still… he didn’t leave.

“I’m only trying to help,” he said gently. “You looked so frightened. I thought—”

“Just stop.”

Truthless Recluse pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

The warmth in the Fount’s voice scraped his skin like static. Kindness was worse than cruelty—cruelty he understood. Kindness left room for hope. Hope was a trap.

“Whatever you are, whatever you’re pretending to be, I don’t want it.”

The Fount blinked. His lips parted as if to speak again. Maybe to protest. Maybe to comfort.

But Truthless Recluse beat him to it.

“Leave me alone.”

The words tore out of him, louder this time. 

And the silence that followed was almost cruel.

Devastation washed over the Fount’s features—not angry, not cold, simply wounded. His posture softened. His eyes lowered, their glow flickering.

He didn’t argue. Not a single plea. He only nodded—slowly, subtly. “…As you wish.”

Then, he turned and walked away, the soft rustle of his robe fading into the hush of the corridor. He closed the door.

Truthless sat there, morning rays brushing the sheets of his bed. The door was closed, but little had changed.

His breath was still unsteady, but the nightmare’s grip was loosening, peeling away like old paint.

The Soul Jam pulsed faintly in his palm, a dying ember.

 It’s mine, the dream whispered.

No—it wasn’t a dream. It never really was.

He pressed the gem to his chest and curled forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The blanket slipped off his shoulders. He didn’t care. Cold crept through the floor. Or maybe it had always been there.

He had screamed. And the Fount had looked at him like he’d cracked something fragile.

And still.

The kindness in those eyes—he hated it.

No, worse: he didn’t believe it.

Shadow Milk was not meant to look at him that way.

Not him. Not after everything.

But he had.

Truthless Recluse exhaled, slow and resigned.

Now, all he could do was wait for Shadow Milk to reveal the next card. The next rule. The next trap. The next piece moved on a board only one of them understood.

And, as always, Truthless Recluse would follow.

Not out of choice—never out of choice.

That was the dance Shadow Milk liked to lead. Or perhaps, the one he always forced into being.

Though, one thing truly bugged him.

What was he doing just before he arrived?

The only thought that stuck—the one that nagged—was a blank space.

He couldn’t remember what he’d been doing right before he’d found himself here. He could recall the distant past with perfect, painful clarity. He could trace every failure back to its origin. But the minutes just before his arrival… they were gone. Not blurry. Missing.

Each time he tried to focus, the memory didn’t just slip away—it actively retreated, bringing a faint headache. The more he strained, the emptier his mind became. Each push started a thin ringing in his ears, like a nail dragged across glass.

A cold, sickening suspicion took root.

Had Shadow Milk done more than just leave a scar? Had he taken something? Or replaced?

Only time would tell.

Eventually, Truthless Recluse rose from bed. He wandered the room, aimless, listless—stalling. Hoping the Fount had drifted far enough from his door, far enough not to notice when he left. After a while, once it felt safe enough, he moved to the door and cracked it open.

The door opened with unnatural ease. Whatever it was made of, it was certainly the witches’ craft. Impossibly quiet.

 The moment he stepped into the hallway, sound slammed into him like a wall.

Truthless stumbled back, utterly stunned. What was he looking at?

Was this not the same silent, lifeless castle from last night?

Why were the hallways now crowded—no, flooded—with people?

Left. Right. Up—down—everywhere he looked, the corridors were crammed wall to wall. Movement surged in all directions—a cacophonous, visual static that was too dense, too bright, too alive. He could barely breathe.

Children in school uniforms weaved between elders wrapped in scarves. Builders trudged past, skin smudged with soot and sweat. Wailing babies clung to their mothers. Toothless grannies barked orders from wheelchairs. Students. Teachers. Merchants. Scribes. It was a living, breathing city—within the bones of a castle he’d seen empty just hours before.

And above it all: the sun.

Risen high and golden, drenching the marble floors in warmth and blinding light.

He wanted to go back to his room.

Really wanted to.

He was this close to doing it.

Not that it would help, of course.

It wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t get him answers.

He still had to figure out what was happening—whether he liked it or not.

…Or did he?

He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the last vestiges of thought.

Not now.

So what did Truthless Recluse do?

He put his hat on and stepped into the current—into the sea of strangers that now flooded the once-empty halls.

~~~

The corridor swallowed him whole.

Elbows grazed his sides. A child bumped into him and mumbled an apology without making eye contact. Someone’s coat snagged on his sleeve. All around him, voices merged into a single overwhelming hum—language blurred into noise, words melted into motion. He was adrift in it. Unnoticed. Unseen.

He passed classrooms already in full swing. Teachers with chalk-streaked hands scribbled on floating boards; students scrawled notes or stared out windows, dreaming of elsewhere.

He passed a dining hall, overflowing with life. Towering platters of food replenished themselves without pause. Candles drifted midair, flickering softly. The clatter of utensils and laughter rang like a chorus of bells.

He passed gardens hidden in open balconies, scattered with students lounging in the grass—reading, chatting, napping beneath the sun.

It was a functioning world. Complete. Self-contained. Flourishing.

Alive.

And it made no sense.

His steps slowed. The strangeness of it all began to sink into his bones, cold and clinging. He reached for his Soul Jam out of instinct. Desperation. He needed something that felt like his, even if it wasn’t anymore. Even if it never had been.

But the gem felt quiet in his palm.

Dull.

Uncertain.

He looked around. Nobody stared. Nobody stopped. Nobody noticed.

So he kept moving.

Eventually, the crowd thinned. The wide hallway narrowed, voices dulled, and fewer candles lit the way. Where warmth might have lingered, a cooler wave swept through instead. 

Only the echo of his footsteps—the tapping of his staff—remained.

Then he heard it.

A voice. Lyrical. Achingly familiar.

“…No, no, no—you’ve got the angle wrong again. There’s no symmetry in chaos. That’s the point.”

He froze. The sound struck like a pin to the spine—sharp, intimate.

It came from one of the classrooms ahead, the door slightly ajar. Light spilled through the opening, warm and golden. The voice spoke again—lower now, thoughtful.

“The stars don’t orbit you, you know.”

Truthless Recluse stepped closer, careful not to make a sound.

He looked in.

And there he was.

The Fount.

Standing before a floating chalkboard, robes trailing like ink, sunlight catching in the fabric’s gold trim. His face—so still, so composed—wore the soft concentration of someone lost in their element.

He looked… content.

The students around him watched with rapt attention. They laughed when he joked. They raised their hands, eager. One student leaned forward, balancing a notebook so worn and full it seemed ready to split at the seams.

They adored him.

They looked at him like he was holding the stars. Like he’d never let them fall or be plucked.

And Truthless Recluse just watched.

He said nothing.

Because what could he say?

The Fount’s gaze lifted, drifted casually toward the doorway, and stopped. It locked with Truthless Recluse’s. For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face... He held that look as if unsure which expression was safe to wear.

But then, after that flicker of hesitation, he offered the softest curve of a smile. Not smug. Not exactly warm.

Gentle—careful—as though offered from a distance. Meaningful in its own way, reaching out without stepping forward.

Seamlessly, he turned slightly and addressed a student in the front row.

“Please don’t eat the eraser. It won’t make you smarter.”

The class snorted with laughter. The guilty student froze mid-bite, cheeks red, eraser halfway to their mouth.

The Fount gave a helpless shrug, as if to say ‘what can you do?’, before turning back to the board.

But not before his eyes flicked toward the door one last time.

Toward him.

I see you.

Truthless Recluse wasn’t sure on how to react.

What was going on?

Quietly, almost instinctively, he stepped back. Turned away. 

The sounds of the classroom faded behind him, replaced by the distant hum of footsteps and voices.

No dramatic exit, no final glance.

Just the soft press of boots against stone, carrying him away from answers he wasn't ready to hear.

And deeper into questions he couldn't escape.

Chapter Text

Morning came again.

Thankfully, this time without the screaming.

Instead, the soft chirping of birds and the sound of distant laughter filtered through the window, replacing the familiar mundanity of silence. In better times, back when he still bore the name ‘Pure Vanilla’, he might have spent hours lying still, listening to birdsong—fingers tangled in gold, eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips, a quiet, warmth blooming in his chest.

But that warmth belonged to a time long past.

~~~

There was no rush to leave the bed. No demands, no voice calling from beyond the door.

Light crept across the floorboards as the morning aged. Occasionally, footsteps passed in the hall, trailed by indistinct murmurs. The castle had found its rhythm—busy enough to feel alive, gentle enough not to intrude. For a moment, he almost felt like he belonged to it. But he knew better than to trust such fragile peace in a place coated in lies.

So Truthless stayed there, watching dust particles turn to copper coins in the sunlight, letting time bleed into itself until the hours held no shape. And still, the Fount hadn’t come. Not yesterday. Not this morning.

No soft knocks. No hesitant steps. It had been only him, only Truthless and his wonderful, positive mind.

He appreciated that, at the very least.

After yesterday’s fruitless wandering, he’d sealed himself away. No answers found him. No interruptions. So now he lay there, marooned in a stagnant quiet until the stillness itself became a weight he could no longer bear.

That pressure finally stirred something in him—an old reflex, or perhaps boredom masquerading as will.  He rose. The halls outside were quieter.Still occupied, but the frantic press of bodies had eased. He could walk without being crushed by the current of strangers.

Praise the witches.

Now he drifted without aim.

A grand portrait loomed in one corridor, rendered in excessive, luminous detail—hands outstretched to offer light to an unseen crowd. Farther on, a statue carved from pristine stone: one hand held a star, the other a scroll. Even here, under a gentler name, it seemed Shadow Milk could not relinquish his old habits. He still liked seeing himself reflected wherever he walked. The vanity bled through completely.

 Wherever he turned, that face stared back—painted, carved, sanctified. Serenity. Benevolence. Perfection. A mask so convincing one might almost forget the monster beneath. 

It was almost laughable. 

~~~

In time, Truthless Recluse made his way down a sun-drenched corridor and found a garden.

The staff’s eye turned first. A slight shift of his grip, and the world reoriented.

Teal and emerald plants sprawled across the space, vibrant in the light.Tucked shyly between the bushes—hoping to remain unseen—were the same white flowers from his arrival, their petals cupped upward like small, closed hands.

Somewhere in the distance, water trickled faintly—a fountain, perhaps, or a stream hiding behind the foliage. The air smelled faintly of roses and earth. Ivory-coated pillars stood in neat formation, vines and slender golden wires coiled around them,guiding the path toward a central pavilion with a pointed blue roof that gleamed softly in the morning sun.

And there, unsurprisingly, sat the Fount.

A cup of tea cradled in one hand, his nose was buried in a book far too thick to be quick reading. His long hair—surely impractical—had been braided and draped over one shoulder, the strands catching the light until the ends shimmered a soft aquamarine.

He sat cross-legged before a low, circular table, spine straight, shoulders loose. An assortment of delicate snacks were arranged around a polished kettle—not extravagantly, but neatly all the same. The scrolls had been pushed aside to avoid crumbs. It didn’t look like he was eating. It looked like he was waiting.

The Virtue hadn’t noticed him yet, entirely absorbed.

He hesitated at the garden’s edge. The Fount turned a page with an ease that felt inevitable. His thumb lingered at the edge of the parchment.

Was this really the same cookie he’d fought not long ago?  What could have possibly happened for him to change… so much? The contradiction was jarring.

Yet he stepped forward.

“Ah.” A soft sound, not startled but pleased.. The Fount glanced up with a gentle expression, then turned his eyes toward the bushes, as if to offer space. “You are earlier than I calculated. Did you sleep well?”

Truthless Recluse didn’t answer.

The Fount continued anyway, setting aside his book.

“I don’t believe you ate last night,” he said, undeterred. He bit the inside of his cheek—a nervous tic. “Would you care to join me? Or—if you’d prefer, I can show you to the kitchens. There’s a spot near the east tower where the birds gather. Or a parlor off the library, quieter during…”

“—I’ll join you.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He wasn’t sure why.

The Virtue’s mouth parted slightly, a glimmer—if it could be called that—flickering in his eyes for just an instant.
Without pause, he rose, smoothed his robes, and drifted toward the sun-warmed chair.

He angled it carefully across from his own. "I hope you don't mind that it's a little damp," he said with a sheepish laugh. "I was so caught up I didn't notice I'd spilled."

He offered a self-deprecating smile.

“Truly, for a Virtue, perhaps I’m a bit too careless.”

 He blinked, adjusted his cuffs.

"Not that I'm careless," he added quickly, sitting straighter. "That would… be irresponsible. Especially from me. In fact, I've categorized the entire library multiple times—every wing, every floor, even the undocumented scrolls. I keep detailed notes, file corrections, update constantly—"

He caught himself mid-sentence, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face.

"I only meant the tea," he finished quietly.

“Mm.”

Truthless gave him a blank look and sat stiffly, his gaze drifting past the Fount’s shoulder as if the conversation were happening elsewhere.

The chair was warm from the sun and slightly damp, just as the Fount had said. A faint ring of spilled tea had soaked into the velvet cushion, but he didn’t mind. 

Steam drifted between them. The pause stretched.

The Fount cleared his throat.

“About yesterday morning—”

“No.”

Truthless didn’t let him finish.

It was final.

The Fount flinched, just barely. A nervous, brittle laugh escaped him.

“Right. Of course. Dreadful at timing too, apparently.”

He picked at the hem of his sleeve, eyes dropping to his tea.

“I’m afraid I’m still a student at small talk. You may have noticed.”

Truthless raised a brow.

“It’s not small if you mean it.”

The Fount fell silent, watching him for a moment too long.

~~~

The tea carried the sweet aroma of blueberries, a whisper of honey, and a delicate floral note. Everything on the table carried that same blueberry sweetness—subtle but unmistakable. “I wasn’t sure what you’d prefer.” The Fount pushed the cup forward. “But this one’s comforting. My favorite, in fact.”

Truthless Recluse nodded slightly, but didn’t drink.

The Fount didn’t push. He merely returned to his seat, smoothing out a scroll beside his plate before lifting his own cup to his lips.

For a while, there was only the sound of birdsong and the rustling of wind through leaves. The white flowers in the bushes swayed with the breeze, heads tilted toward the sun. They looked almost like they were listening.

The Fount reached for a piece of dried fruit and popped it into his mouth thoughtfully.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he said a moment after. “Or rather… what you’d like to be called.”

He gave a teasing tilt of his head.

“Keeping knowledge from the Virtue of Knowledge is quite the bold game you’re playing.”

Truthless sighed, his thumb tracing the cup's rim as if to lift it—but he didn’t

The Fount went on, undeterred.

“I could call you Mystery,” he mused, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Or Puzzle. Or my deeply suspicious guest. But I’d rather not define you by absence of an answer.”

Might as well.

“Truthless Recluse.” He wasn’t going to let the Fount get any joy out of nicknaming him.

The Virtue blinked.

“‘Truthless Recluse’… that’s quite…” He paused. “No, no. Forgive me. I shouldn’t be judging names.”

There was another beat of silence. 

 “…Truthless.” The Fount repeated it to himself, turning the name over like a strange taste. “But still here.”

Truthless Recluse looked away.

 Ha.

The Fount read a little longer. He sipped his tea, gaze lingering on the slow sway of treetops beyond the pavilion. His hand brushed Truthless’s sleeve as he set his cup down. Truthless recoiled as if scalded, his whole arm jerking back. The motion was swift, instinctive, a relic from a place where touch was never benign.

The Fount didn’t acknowledge it.

“Truthless Recluse…” he repeated once more. “Is that a name you’ve given yourself?” 

Truthless offered only a slow, deliberate blink. His expression remained as always, but a faint tension tightened the line of his jaw—a silent warning to leave it be. The Fount, perceptive as ever, noted the shift but chose to proceed with care.

“I will take your silence as a yes,” he continued.

Truthless’s frown deepened.

“Though I imagine you have your reasons for it,” the Fount began, his tone by no means accusatory. “Truthless Recluse. A cookie without truth.” He let the name hang in the air between them again, a concept to be examined. “It makes one wonder… are you a liar, or have you been severed from it? Were you the deceiver, or the profoundly deceived?”

He did not wait for an answer, his gaze softening with a pang of sorrow. “And ‘Recluse’… to choose a life of such solitude, avoiding all company. That is… profoundly saddening.”

Almost immediately, he caught himself, raising a hand to his own lips in a gesture of mild self-reproach. “Ah, and here I said I was not going to judge names. My apologies. It is a scholar’s fatal flaw—I cannot help but dissect the meaning behind things.”

He sighed, the sound like the rustle of pages. “Names—titles—so often hide more than they reveal. Or rather…” he corrected himself softly, “they become a weight around one’s neck, heavier than they were ever meant to be.”

Leaning forward slightly, his voice warmed with a note of hopeful conviction. “But they need not be forever. Not for you, nor for any other normal cookie. Not if one finds the courage to walk a different, better path. So, my peculiar Truthless guest,” he said, offering a faint, kind smile, “I hope you might find a little truth here during your stay. However small.”

He didn’t need the Fount to dissect his name.

Truthless looked at him, silent once more. This time, he lifted the cup and drank.

It was warm. Delicate. Just slightly sweet.

 The warmth caught him off guard—not just the tea’s. It was something more. The bitterness within him hadn't left; perhaps it never would. But the tension in his shoulders had dulled, and the feeling was… pleasant.

For another moment, neither spoke. The Fount, his avid reading abandoned, had relaxed just enough for his “picture-perfect” posture to ease.

Clink. Clink.

The Virtue released a breath. “Will you be staying long?” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t mean to press. It’s a matter of logistics—whether to prepare a room, or just keep your linens fresh.”

In response, Truthless placed one hand atop the other, fingers curling together into little arches. He considered a soft lie. Or honesty—an admission that he didn’t know, that he was merely passing through, that he wasn’t sure where ‘through’ even led anymore.

Instead, he said, “Not long.”

The Fount nodded as if he already knew. “Then I’m glad we shared this morning.”

And, to Truthless’s displeasure, he meant it. He searched words for irony, for the lie, and found none. The Fount did not seem to notice, or chose to ignore Truthless’s reaction, and continued.

“You’re free to stay as long as you like,” he added. “There are no obligations here. No debts. Not for you.”

Truthless Recluse’s fingers tightened around each other.

“In fact, you’re not the first to arrive unexpectedly.” The Fount smiled toward the garden. “One time, a pilgrim found himself lost here and stayed for seven nights. He ate so much he started to scare the chefs.”

He chuckled. “Amusing, really.”

“And oh—another time, a young one had run away from home. She would spend the entire day in the garden playing in the dirt and return only to track it through the halls.” He sighed. “It got to the point I had to actively search for her parents. Even if I am accepting of anyone and everyone… the mess… my classrooms…”

He frowned, his voice dropping to a dismayed whisper. “My classrooms…”

He shook his head. “It was catastrophic!” he confessed. “Though thankfully, her parents did eventually find her. We did part ways, even if she soiled my robes with dirt as she hid behind me to avoid them.” He caught his breath, the memory seeming to settle.

“But to formalize the principle behind the anecdote,” he said, tone shifting to a scholarly cadence, “you are in the right place, whatever your reason. This is a place for the in-between.”

“In-between?” Truthless Recluse asked before he could stop himself.

“Yes.” He lifted his index finger. “Lives. Secrets, truths, names, moments… the ‘in-between’, the ‘furthermost.’” The Fount sat straight, eyes glimmering. “Cookies get lost. But being lost isn’t the same as being alone.”

Truthless Recluse looked down at his cup.

In between things…

Could he call his current dilemma that?

The Fount returned to his tea, his book, his breath.

Outside the pavilion, the white flowers swayed again. Still listening. Still hiding.

Truthless sat across from him, warm sun on his shoulder, the sweet hint of blueberry on his tongue, a faint ache in his chest where truth used to live.

He almost saw something else in the cup’s reflection.

Not the pavilion. Not the Fount.

A hallway. Flickering torchlight. A hand reaching, too late, for someone not there.

He blinked. It was gone.

The tea had cooled.

He didn’t understand how this felt like peace. 

And yet it did—for now.

He remembered lying still, listening to birdsong. That version of him had smiled.

The birds were still singing.

And listening—that,

that he could still do.

For now, that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

“There’s a little alcove in the main library,” the Fount had said as they finished their tea. “It’s quiet there. I think you might like it.”

The offer had been gentle.

Now, they moved in silence.

Why had he agreed? He didn't know. Exhaustion, most likely, or the old, familiar pull of persuasion Shadow Milk wore like a badge. Regret arrived two steps later, but by then the halls had already begun to change overtures.

They stretched ahead, sunlight cutting through the windows and pooling gold on the floor. Doors opened into rooms lined with maps and instruments, shelves piled with scrolls. Every bit of surface felt lived-in, touched by him—shaped by small, lingering traces he’d left behind.

Yet the great Fount of Knowledge—the Virtue who rarely ceased speaking—now seemed to have no interest in giving a tour.

Where one might expect eager explanations, Truthless was met with silence. Instead, the Fount only paused now and then, when something caught his eye—a blooming plant on a windowsill, a painting slightly tilted—and he’d correct it with meticulous care, then continue onward.

Truthless followed, always a few steps behind.

They reached the main library’s western wing—older, quieter, less curated than the rest. Four wings spread from the heart of the place: some spilling into smaller annexes, others into classrooms.

Here the shelves loomed uneven, wood darkened by years of touch, scent of old paper in the air. Lamps guttered along the walls, and the air held a faint, berry-like sweetness over the patina of age.

At the far end, nearly hidden behind a sagging tapestry, awaited a narrow doorway. The Fount pushed it open.

“This way.”

He stepped aside to let Truthless Recluse in first.

The alcove wasn’t large.

A single arched window overlooked the garden’s edge, where white flowers swayed in some distant breeze. A patch of ivy, however, leaned in through the sill as if wanting to listen. A wooden bench slouched beneath faded cushions. Shelves sagged with scrolls, sketches, chipped teacups, loose string—personal things, unfiled and unguarded.

The Fount stepped inside and knelt to adjust the pillows. “I come here when I can’t think,” he admitted. “Or when I think too much.” He smoothed a pillow twice—a habit betraying nerves.

A bitter thought surfaced: And he was supposed to care?

He didn’t sit. He lingered in the doorway, eyes flicking over cramped shelves, a half-melted candle clinging to its wick. He stole a glance at the Fount, who watched him with an unrelenting grin.

Truthless averted his gaze. “Don’t you have responsibilities? Or are those optional for you?”

Something shifted—just enough to tell Truthless the Fount had looked away.

“My, my.” The words came on an amused exhale—a private joke. “This is my hour of rest.” He straightened a stray parchment that was on the floor, light and absentminded. “I’ve been going nonstop since dawn. And if someone comes looking, I’ll simply give them the answer they’re owed.”

Truthless Recluse raised an eyebrow. “Is that how it works?”

“As the Fount of Knowledge,” he intoned with mock solemnity, “I’m allowed a little discretion.” Then, more gently, “sometimes the answer is silence. Sometimes it’s ‘wait.’ Most don’t like that. But some do.”

Truthless left the doorway and strode to the bench, settling stiffly. He didn’t lean back, only perched on the edge—just enough to rest his legs, ready to leave if necessary.

He regarded the Fount for a moment, trying to tell where the jest ended and the truth began. “…so then, do you know everything?”

The Fount’s head angled slightly, almost pleased, but not enough to smile. He stood up.

“Everything? No. Not everything. As lovely as that would be.”

He leaned back against the wall, folding his hands in his lap, his staff resting loosely across his shoulders.

“But I know many, many things,” he said. “And every day, the world gives me a thousand more.”

Truthless Recluse lowered his gaze to his hands.

“That sounds exhausting.”

A soft chuckle escaped the teacher.

“It can be,” he admitted. “But the world never runs out of  things to show me. And perhaps that’s what keeps me from going mad.”

Truthless Recluse said nothing to that. His attention shifted to the shelves—to the ink-stained cups and dried-out quills, to the little patch of ivy leaning in through the open window like it, too, wanted to learn something.

Avoiding madness… if only he knew.

The Fount then plucked a loose leaf from beside him and began turning it over in his fingers. “I keep finding new things tucked away. Not just in the world, but here.”

“There are a few volumes in here that don’t exist anywhere else,” he said absently. “Most of them never made it past draft. Errors. Abandoned theories. The kind of knowledge no one bothers writing down. Like why certain flowers only bloom near lies—or why a child’s drawing holds more truth than a star chart, if you squint at it sideways.”

He set the leaf down atop a stack of weathered pages. “I keep them anyway. Truth has a way of circling back.”

Truthless studied him—truly studied him—as for the first time. He sought belief in his words, finding only sunlight, dust, and books: half his face lit by the window, hair threaded with golden particles, a dark stain on his sleeve.

All superficial. 

The Fount then dusted off his hands and turned to scan the nearest shelf.

“Would you like something to read?”

Without waiting for an answer, the Fount searched anyway. Why would he ever wait. His hand drifted along the shelf like it remembered where the good ones were. He lingered there a while before speaking again.

“There’s a journal in here written entirely in questions. Another where someone tried to map regret like a coastline. One of my favorites is just… observations of raindrops. The author never signed it. Only a little margin note on the last page: ‘If anyone ever reads this, tell him I meant it.’”

Truthless breathed in, held it—let it go to waste.

“What’s the point of that?”

The Fount looked back.

“Well… not all knowledge needs a point,” he said, not unkindly. “Some of it is just… noticing. Remembering that the world goes on, even when no one’s watching.”

The Fount’s voice softened. Then he turned back to the shelves, rising effortlessly to the top. His fingers curled in a small wave before plucking a book from the row. He sank down again, drifting toward Truthless Recluse with a blue-bound journal in hand.

“If not reading, would you like me to read something aloud?”

Truthless shifted on the bench, pressing his back against it at last.

“…no.”

 The Fount didn’t argue. He only nodded. Book in hand, the Fount lowered himself to Truthless’s level and settled across from him.

They sat in a hush that couldn’t quite be considered silence. The wind rustled through ivy at the window; distant footsteps echoed somewhere in the deeper halls but never drew near.

Truthless Recluse let his eyes drift shut for a moment. He hadn’t realized how tired he felt until now—until the hum of the world softened to something bearable.

~~~

Minutes slipped by. The bright sky dimmed behind a slow drift of clouds. Truthless might have dozed without meaning to. A faint line of drool cooled at the corner of his mouth.

Even through the haze, he became aware of being watched. Not invasively, but with a steady, patient focus. He cracked an eye open. The Fount had turned from the window, all restlessness gone, his gaze quiet and clear.

Truthless closed his eye again, pretending it wasn’t happening. The pretense lasted only a second.

Into the waiting quiet, the Fount breathed a question:

“Do you feel lost?”  

Truthless Recluse’s breath caught, his eyes snapping open. He froze—startled, vulnerable—then swiped the drool from his chin, his cheeks tinged with heat.

What even…?

The question pulled him fully, painfully awake. He blinked, realizing the Fount had moved. Not too close, but closer. Close enough. He would not answer.

Truthless rubbed at his eyes, the soft light and dust making everything feel fuzzy. Of course, the Fount didn’t miss a beat.

Just… talking, talking, like this had been rehearsed for hours.

“There’s been a doubt in my mind recently,” the Fount began. “Minor, of course. About what it means to truly understand something…”

Truthless caught the shape of the words, but their meaning slipped away like smoke, his attention snagged by the sliver of sunlight along the bench’s edge. It was a perfect, burning line, cutting the worn wood in two. He traced it with his eyes, wondering how long it would take to crawl from his knee to the floor.

“…whether clarity is a gift, or merely a different kind of burden,” the voice continued, a distant hum beneath the static in his own head.

Truthless blinked, surfacing. The Fount was offering a faint, self-deprecating smile into the silence he hadn’t even realized he’d left hanging

“…Forgive me,” he said, the apology soft, almost hesitant. “Some regrets. Pay no mind to it. I’m just… rambling.”

His mind scrambled to catch up, eyes narrowing. Finally, he spoke, quieter than intended: “Why tell me this?”

The Fount looked at him then—calm, steady, honest. Not pitying, not suspicious. 

“Good question,” the Fount pondered. “I suppose… something about your presence just made me want to confess.”

A pause.

His breath hitched, catching in his throat. He looked away sharply, shoulders stiff, fingers gathering the folds of his robe.

He looked instead to the ivy twitching in the breeze. The dust-motes in the narrow blade of sun. Anything but the Fount’s eyes—kind and far too perceptive, a trait he shared in common with Shadow Milk.

Of course he had no answer.

He wasn’t… that transparent anymore, was he?

He tilted his head farther away from the Fount.

The bench creaked faintly beneath them.

Neither moved for a while. Then, almost on a sigh, the Fount rose and drifted toward the cluttered shelves again, fingertips brushing the wood as if reacquainting himself.

“I’ll leave you here for a while,” he said, reaching for a scroll and tucking it under his arm. “You don’t need to talk, or read. Just… let the room breathe with you.”

Truthless Recluse didn’t lift his gaze—only the faintest nod betrayed that he had heard.

At the doorway, the Fount paused, back still to him.

“If you need me, I’ll be in the Great Hall. I have a lot of answers to give.”

“…Shadow—Fount, wait.”

He paused—but still didn’t look back. “Hm?”

“Why are you doing this now?”

A flicker of memory traced through Truthless’s mind. A memory turned null. Supposed truths revealed as lies. Laughter, sharp and sinister, echoing in the breaking of the self. He felt himself sinking—deeper, into the pulped gold of the apple of knowledge, every shard of understanding dissolving, no one there to catch him, no one at all.

And now… mockery. A room unfamiliar. A voice unfamiliar. A kindness that should not be.

It felt cruel.

Irritation coiling in him, Truthless rose. He closed the space between himself and the Fount, pressing into the doorway where the taller cookie loomed, straining upward until their eyes met—his chin nearly level with the Fount’s. The Fount’s quiet, assessing gaze fell on him, and Truthless stiffened, refusing to shrink.

“You destroyed everything. I gave in. I let it all go.” His voice trembled. “And now you stand there like none of it happened.”

He hadn’t wanted sympathy. Just… acknowledgment. A name for the wound.

“I don’t understand.”

Surely playing coy again. The Fount seemed to notice the edge in Truthless’s voice.

“I’m not lying,” the Fount went on.  “If we have met, I don’t remember; but something in me says I should. If you’re willing to help me understand… I’ll listen. I want to.”

Something flickered across the Fount’s expression—too quick to name. Not fear. Guilt, maybe. Or something deeper, barely restrained.

“I—”

He stopped.

What was the point?

He could drag every memory to the surface, every wound, every broken shard of truth—and still, the Fount would look at him with those calm, unknowing eyes. No use arguing with a lie.

“—Forget it.”

Truthless stepped back into the alcove, and dropped himself on the bench again, not giving him another glance. He heard nothing but his own breathing, too loud in his ears.

The Fount broke the silence.

“Well,” said the Fount gently, “if you’re ever open to talk about it, you know where to find me.”

The Fount’s gaze lingered a little too long on the Soul Jam at his wrist. 

He lingered just a moment longer—then turned.

A door closed behind him with a quiet finality.

Truthless Recluse stayed seated, shoulders slack, staring at the spot the Fount had vacated. His hands rested on his knees, fingers twitching slightly. 

He blinked. Then rose, muscles stiff, and walked to the shelves. His steps were tentative at first, almost mechanical, but then intentional. Not idly, not halfheartedly—searching.

For something.

He didn’t know what he was looking for. He only knew that the empty quiet demanded it, that some part of him flinched at this stillness. Fingertips brushed dusty spines, traced cracked leather, in the hopes of an idea to form.

A thought, sudden and cold: Shadow Milk had a way with memories. Could he create something like this?
The logic of it was terrifying.

He blinked.
Everything felt too crisp, too detailed—how could he remember a scent he'd never noticed? What if this wasn't memory at all?

Even if faint, the idea carried a strange logic.

He drew back slightly. But even as panic threatened, another part of him pushed against it, shoving down any fear with a stubborn, brittle logic.

But if it isn’t memory, then what? I can’t… no. I won’t.

He scanned the room with sharper eyes. Nearly missed it—a scroll tucked in the corner, bearing a date he recognized.

That date had been carved into history somewhere—a disaster, a spell collapse, something no one dared replicate again.

Not his own past—history itself, long before his fall.

And yet… here that scroll was. Fresh. Annotated.

A draft. Not a relic in dust-stained paper.

 It had always been easier to believe in metaphor. Safer. But what if it wasn’t just memory playing tricks—what if memory had teeth?

What if this was actually the past?

Real. Tangible. And somehow… he'd been sent here.

What if he was actually watching him before his fall?

The idea made his stomach twist.

Because if this was the past—if the past had endured—then maybe the truth hadn’t been silenced. Maybe it had simply been watching him lie.

Maybe he hadn’t been shielding them at all.

Maybe all he’d done was protect himself—

and called it mercy.

Maybe this was what mercy looked like when it came back to collect.

He hadn’t come here to change anything. He wasn’t even sure he could.

Now that the past looked back, he doubted walking away was an option.

And worse still: maybe he’d wanted this—not to fix anything, just to see what would happen. Just to watch it fall apart again. That part didn’t even surprise him. Just made him sick.

His own story had ended a long time ago. This was just aftermath.

The Soul Jam hummed faintly in his sleeve. An echo. A warning.

He searched harder. Anything—anything on time travel, on temporal magic, on the manipulation of memory.

One book had strange diagrams of overlapping moons. Another referenced something called “fixed narrative anchors.” But nothing concrete. Nothing definitive.

No proof.

He pressed a hand to the bench to steady himself.

If this was the past…

Was there really a way to leave it?

His breath caught.

Surely there was. After all, Shadow Milk—cynical as he was—always left an answer to be caught. A way to win his games, so long as you played them the way he wanted you to.

He needed to think like Shadow Milk.

But what was the point of showing him… this?

This version of himself—fragile. Earnest. Still whole.

He pressed his right fingers to his lips, brow drawn tight.

What better way to punish a man like him…

than to make him watch his better self burn?

Eventually, he stood, pulled his robe tighter, and made his way out of the alcove.

He needed more information. The library had more than one room.

He stepped out into the deeper halls, that date still echoing.

There was a flickering of a lamp somewhere.

Truthless ignored it.

Chapter Text

Truthless Recluse stepped beyond the alcove, and the library opened—light blurred into memory, direction lost meaning. He paused, mid-step, bracing for vertigo that never came.

No—this wasn’t a memory.

Architecture dissolved upward into endless blue sky, veiled in clouds and scattered light. Shelves spiraled on impossible staircases, bridges suspended without support. Books drifted lazily through the air, circling as if unsure where to land.

He gazed upward for a long moment, then down again.

But why had the library changed so much?

The floor beneath him was firm—wood, or something like it—but it shimmered with the same translucent quality as the windows in the tower. His own reflection blinked up at him through layers of glass and light. There were shadows too, but not his. They flickered now and then along the shelves. The kind of movement only visible at the edge of vision.

He inhaled, exhaled, and stepped forward.

The silence felt recent, as if someone had just stopped speaking. The air smelled of vanilla and blueberry, soft and sweet, cut with the tang of old dust.

He walked for a while. Or what felt like a while. It was impossible to measure time in a place like this. He tried to remain calm.

Yet his pulse began to climb—not panic, not yet, but the crawling tension of being led in circles was getting to him. He rubbed his temple. Swore the lantern light had changed color.

Every hallway twisted just slightly out of sense.

Regret prickled along his spine.

As he walked, shelves passed on his right reappeared on the left minutes later. Ladders led to platforms that circled back into corridors he had already crossed. A tall archway carved with familiar symbols beckoned—but when he stepped through, he was back in the alcove. His stomach sank.

Whoever built this place wasn’t thinking linearly… and wasn’t the Fount supposed to be the rational half?

He froze. A jolt ran through him.

Then, carefully, he turned around and tried again—this time taking a different route.

A floating tome drifted past his shoulder. Its pages fluttered open, revealing a diagram of something he didn’t recognize—spinning circles, sigils, a pulse of light at the center. Before he could reach out to touch it, the book shuddered closed and glided upward, out of reach.

He narrowed his eyes.

Something about this place felt… personal. Like it was curating. Or accusing.
But he continued pressing on.

Shortly after, he found a staircase. Narrow. Spiral. It led to a platform lined with scrolls and faintly glowing globes. The first scroll he unrolled contained a list of coordinates he didn’t understand. The second bore an unfamiliar script. The third—

Time anchors.

His breath hitched.

The words were in his own language. Jagged, sketched in a hurried hand. The scroll was a fragment—torn at the edges—but legible. It spoke of temporal currents, of “anchoring consciousness to fixed points in the weave of narrative” and the dangers of untethered displacement.

Truthless Recluse’s hands trembled as he scanned further. A diagram of two overlapping moons. A phrase:

“Once unmoored, memory becomes environment.”

Environment.

Was that what this was? Not memory. Not vision. A splinter of time made solid beneath his feet?

He kept reading. The next passage had been crossed out, rewritten, crossed again—until only the following remained:

The first few lines were illegible. Entire sentences had been blackened out, as if someone had tried to erase not just the words, but the ideas behind them. But just near the center, beneath layers of scribbled-over text, something still bled through:

“…anchors… sometimes not places, but… people…

…fixed points formed by… memory or—regret…

…must not be moved…”

The rest had been scorched. Fantastic.

More books hovered nearby now—less evasive. One slid gently toward him as he stepped off the platform. Its spine bore no title, but as he opened it, he found a journal of questions. Not answers—only questions.

“Why does the world bend for some names?”

“What is the shape of choice?”

“If you could undo one truth, would the lie that follows be a kindness?”

The handwriting was familiar.

He reached out—a jolt of recognition seizing his chest.

But the book snapped shut before he touched it, fluttering as it rose into the air.

He lunged—too slow. His hand hovered in the air, fingers half-folded in the wake of its absence.

It drifted upward and vanished into the upper stacks, between shelves he couldn’t reach.

“…Coward,” he muttered under his breath. His hand dropped, fingers entwining together against his side. The target of the insult—the book or himself—remained unclear.

Then—a breath. A whisper.

Pure Vanilla Cookie…

The name echoed around him. Soft, distant, but intimate.

A memory flickered—out of reach. Just the shape of it. A voice not his, whispering that name like it meant home. Or ending. 

His chest tightened.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

Then again,

Pure Vanilla Cookie…

Something in him snapped upright. He ran.

The surface trembled beneath his feet. Glass threatened to crack. Shelves flickered between integrity and ruin. Books peeled open, scattering pages of nonsense.

The voice guided him deeper.

A stair materialized too late beneath his foot; the railing he grasped dissolved like wet paper. He fell partway, but kept going.

It whispered again,

Pure Vanilla…

And the floor gave way. Glass cracked. He plunged.

His staff slipped from his grasp—ripped away by the air, spinning out of reach. He tried to catch it, fingers brushing the shaft—but missed. The central eye blinked once as it fell, wide and startled. Then gone.

Time fractured. No up. No down. Only air unraveling and sheets of paper fluttering into nothingness.

A platform ended his fall. Jagged. Slanted. He hit it with breath gone.

He scrambled upright, breath ragged, eyes scanning the edges. No staff. Just the low hum of whatever magic held this platform aloft. His fingers twitched. He didn’t like the way the silence settled now. Too complete, too blind.

Then he saw it.

Lodged at an angle several feet away, the staff leaned against a half-buried bookstand, its carved surface dim but intact. The smaller eyes were closed. The central one blinked, slowly—dazed, almost.

He crawled toward it on hands and knees.

The moment his palm wrapped around the shaft, the eye flared open.

A tight breath escaped him. His grip on the shaft turned white-knuckled.

There, on a pedestal in front of him, lay a notebook.

Thin. Pale. Asking to be grabbed.

He crawled closer. The binding hummed. He swallowed.

A name scratched out across the top. Beneath it, softer ink:

If found, return to me. Please. Even if I’ve forgotten why.

His hand trembled as he opened it.

Inside: half-spells, reckless equations, emotional geometry. Scattered fragments, like memory breaking apart mid-thought.

And a name, over and over:

Purevanilla.

Pure Vanilla.

P. V. C.

He barely registered the letters before the book shivered.

“Wait!” he gasped, lunging.

But it snapped shut, lifted, and drifted upward into the swirling stacks—vanished.

No floor. No warning.

He tumbled again.

The impact cracked the breath out of his lungs.

Hands steadied him—startling in their warmth and undeniable solidity. He flinched—then froze. Not a hallucination.

And definitely not a cookie.

Not at all.

The one who held him stood taller than most cookies, dressed in layered blues and silvers that shimmered like folded parchment. Their hair was slicked back in elegant waves, and a single silver monocle gleamed on one eye. Their head appeared to be made out of paper.

“You’re not a cookie,” Truthless rasped, the words escaping without thought.

“No,” came the unbothered reply. “Dough tends to degrade in these conditions.”

They studied him for a beat longer, then blinked as though remembering decorum.  “Witches above! You’re okay?” The cookie peered down. Concern knit their brow. “That was quite the impact.”

Truthless stared, breath rasping.

“Not many wander this far without help. You’re the Fount’s new guest?”
Truthless nodded reluctantly. Guest felt foreign.

The figure tilted their head, then offered a small, closed-lip smile. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No.”

“Well,” they said brightly, “welcome. You’re lucky. The Fount rarely opens his wings to visitors anymore, for more ‘permanent’ visits.” Their expression dimmed slightly. “Not since… well, it’s been years since any of the others came by. And with one of the Virtues disappeared… he’s been different. Distant. On edge.”

Truthless Recluse fell quiet.

“‘Others’?”

“The other Virtues,” they said, as though it were obvious. “He used to host them from time to time. They’d come through every or so season. Linger for weeks, sometimes months. But after the last conflict…” They trailed off. “I suppose people change.”

Truthless’s thoughts turned, slow and sharp. A figure at a window, watching threads unravel, too late to mend them…

“…He was excited,” the staff member added, more softly now. “When you arrived. I’ve never seen him set out tea for someone before they even agreed to sit.”

That stung more than he wanted it to admit.

“He doesn’t—” Truthless caught himself. “He’s mistaken.”

The not-cookie shrugged. “Maybe. But he wanted to be.”

A long silence stretched.

Then the staff member brightened again, gesturing to the side. “You’ve wandered into the third loop, by the way. It’s notorious for getting cookies turned around. I’ll guide you back—unless you’d rather keep getting lost?”

“…Guide me.”

They smiled and turned. He followed.

They passed a shelf where three books hovered midair, cycling slowly around a glowing candle. One bore the title Time as Memory, another The Anchored Hourglass, and the third had no title at all—just a blank spine and a faded feather on the cover.

None were taken.

They crossed a small bridge suspended over what looked like… stars.

Truthless didn’t look down for long.

Eventually, they reached a more stable hallway. Light streamed in from an unseen source. The flickering lanterns steadied. The shelves warped less. Somewhere far above, the whispering quieted—not silenced, but subdued, as if the library had finally exhaled.

The staff member led him down the corridor, speaking in muted tones. About the way certain books rearranged themselves on schedule. About how time tended to misbehave in the second and third spirals. About how no one had truly mapped the place—not even the Fount.

The staff sagged in his grip, its eyes dimmed. It had grown quiet—as if the library’s pressure was finally weighing even on its magic.

Truthless only half-listened.

He felt… thin. Stretched around the edges. His limbs were leaden, his steps muffled. Like a puppet yanked by too many strings. His mind still caught in the echo of that voice, the ghost of that name. The notebook’s weight had vanished from his memory, like the hush of a dream, but the ache of it lingered.

He kept walking.

“And here,” the staff member said, stopping just short of a tall, arched doorway, “you’ll find your way back to the western gallery. Straight line from here. No tricks.”

Truthless hesitated. “What should I call you?”

The figure paused—almost surprised—and then offered a faint bow. “Folio. Archivist and attendant to the Fount.”

Truthless stepped past them, gaze lowered.

“Thank you Folio,” he said.

Folio inclined their head, already turning. “If you get lost again, you’ll find me somewhere in the fourth spiral. Just follow the scent of old ink and candle smoke.”

He nodded once, and then stepped through.

The hallway curved slightly but obeyed the shape of architecture again—hall, windows, alcoves. A faint breeze stirred his cape. He followed the light, trying not to look too closely at the shelves. Afraid they might look back.

And then—he heard him.

The Fount.

Was he done with his chores?

“…I had a feeling you’d gone wandering,” the Fount said from the end of the corridor.

Truthless froze. His throat tightened. The staff blinked once.

The Fount stood not too far, just beyond a pillar of dim lantern light. His robes now more draped clean and ceremonial than before, but something about the way he held them—hands tucked behind his back, shoulders slouched just a little—made him look smaller.

Or maybe Truthless was just seeing too clearly.

“You found something, didn’t you?” the Fount asked quietly. “Or… something found you from what I can see in your expression.”

Truthless looked away.

The Fount studied him for a moment, then stepped forward. “You’re not harmed. That’s good. That’s enough. I caught word that you headed inside the library alone and worried, so I came to make sure everything was alright.”

Caught word? How?

Truthless looked away. “This place is a maze.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” the Fount replied softly. “But meaning shifts. Especially in libraries. Especially in ones made of memory, and well, it’s gotten a bit chaotic. I’m going to have to fix it sometime.”

Truthless clenched his jaw. “So it is memory, then?”

“Not precisely. It’s a construct, a fragment of my power made space.”

Truthless exhaled. He wasn’t sure whether to argue or collapse. He was too tired after whatever that was.

The Fount turned. “Would you walk with me?”

“…Is there anywhere else to go?”

That earned a thin smile. “There’s always somewhere else to go. But I’d prefer if you chose to stay.”

Truthless hesitated, his gaze drifting to his side, and nodded.

The Fount walked slowly. Quiet footsteps, his presence always a little too still, like a thought suspended in time. They passed through the warm-lit gallery, out into a cloistered veranda filled with low mist. The horizon was nowhere. Only a pale white of emptiness.

“You mentioned something yesterday,” the Fount began after a long pause. “About your… duration here.”

Truthless nodded.

“Do you know how long it will be?”

“No.”

“I see.” A pause. “Would you tell me what brought you here?”

The question was gentle. Honest. And somehow, more terrifying than the madness from earlier.

“I don’t know that either,” he said, more bitterly than intended.

The Fount’s eyes softened. “Then we are equally lost.”

They came to a still fountain, tucked between ivy and stone. The water inside shimmered faintly—not with reflection, but with something behind it. As if light could echo.

“I rarely take visitors into the village,” the Fount said suddenly. “It isn’t far. But far enough.”

Truthless looked up.

“I’m expected tomorrow,” he went on, as if continuing a thought he hadn’t spoken aloud. “There’s a ‘midsummer’ gathering. A small one. Not all truth needs to be heavy.”

Truthless blinked.

“I’d like you to come.”

The gentlest request he’d ever heard—not even a request. A hope, worn quietly like a threadbare coat.

“Why?” he murmured.

“You may enjoy it,” the Fount answered. “A change of scenery from these halls.”

Truthless stared at the shifting water, unsure what to say.

“I won’t make you,” the Fount said after a pause. “But I’ll wait for you by the eastern path. After the third bell.”

He didn’t look at him. But the word still came, rough and reluctant.

“Fine.”

Truthless didn’t speak again. But he stayed beside the fountain a little longer. Long enough for the mist to part slightly around them. Long enough to see something of the stars return to the sky above.

And somewhere, nearly gone, the library sighed again. The echo of a name not spoken aloud brushed against the back of his mind.

Pure Vanilla Cookie.

It was the embered shape of a name, pressing heat through the air.

Bitter at the back of the throat.

Stubborn as ash.

Toxic.

Chapter Text

A new day. The sun barely risen.

Truthless Recluse made his way to the eastern path, nudged along by the castle’s staff. The Fount hadn’t shown him the way himself. How very teacher of him, leave the student to figure it out.

He emerged from the misty corridor into a pale clearing.

The Fount stood ahead, fidgeting with his staff—caught between waiting and pacing. He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve.
It was already perfectly folded.

He fixed it anyway, as if the perfection bothered him.

And atop his head—Truthless froze—gleamed a pointed silver crown. A shimmer of silver too bright for the early hour.

As if he needed a crown to look any more regal.

Upon making eye contact, the Fount lit up—his hair lifting and curling in soft arcs as if caught in the wind of his joy. His whole presence seemed to glow for a moment with unfiltered warmth.

Recognizable. Painfully so.

That sudden spark of feeling, the way his body responded before his mind reined it back.

Then, remembering himself, he dimmed it.

And dim it he did. He caught himself, tucking the enthusiasm away like a guilty child hiding a gift and stepped back with a gentler smile, trying not to startle him.

Truthless approached him.

“Oh—right!” the Fount said suddenly. “I have a little something for you.”

He reached into the wide sleeve of his robe and pulled out a small pouch, made of fabric the same deep shade as his robes. It shimmered faintly in the light.

“So you don’t have to carry your little copy”—a quick wink—“around in your hand all the time,” he said with a smile that bordered on teasing.

A sidelong glance. “Very generous of you.”

He didn’t ask how long the pouch had been waiting to be given. Or whether the Fount had expected him to say no.

“Don’t make it sound like a funeral gift,” the Fount replied lightly. 

Even with his bitter tone, Truthless Recluse hesitated. His fingers hovered in the air between them. But, without a word, he took the pouch. It was a matter of convenience.

He slid the Soul Jam inside with slow care. It fit neatly. The pouch closed with a muted click.

After, he slung it over his left shoulder. It was… convenient. That was all it could be.

“Is it far?” he asked, glancing at the swirling air beyond the clearing.

“An hour or so walking,” the Fount replied. “Twenty minutes flying.”

“…How exactly are we getting there?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“Through a portal, of course!” the Fount chortled, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Less than five minutes, and we’ll be in the heart of the village. It’s a wonderful little gathering—they’ll have music, and lights, and—” He cut himself short. “…Only if you’re still willing to come, of course.”

Of course. Portals.

The kind of travel only Shadow Milk excelled in. Portals that opened to too many places at once. Portals he did not like much.

Truthless’s heart sank.

He didn’t want to step into that kind of magic again, no matter how beautifully the Fount dressed it in wonder. A polished doorway was still a fracture. Portals were wounds in the world. The kind of magic that left echoes behind, no matter how cleanly they sealed. And walking into one—especially his—felt like reopening something that had only just begun to scab.

But he had said yes. And the Fount… the Fount was looking at him like the invitation still might be revoked.

So he nodded, quietly. Swallowed his dread.

He was a cookie of his word.

Or… he had been.

Whatever he was now, he could at least pretend for five more minutes.

The Fount’s staff shimmered with light. A clean light blue oval opened midair. The portal pulsed once, steady as a heartbeat.

He clenched his jaw. Then stepped through.

The world shifted.

For one weightless moment, it felt like being unmade—his body stretched between seconds, soul tugged through blue thread. Then the light snapped shut behind him.

A heartbeat later, another place bled through—navy halls, dripping walls, lights stuttering like failing lungs.

And then it vanished.

Just a flicker.

Fruit-sweet air followed, incongruously gentle.

The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet for a second longer than it should have. A faint, staticky hum clung to the edges of his hearing, the ghost of the portal's energy still dancing on his skin. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting them to phase through the solid air.

They stood on a winding stone path framed by low entryways of flowering branches. The air was warm and sweet, brimming with summer: ripe fruit, grass, and burning wood. And just ahead, the village bloomed.

It was not large. No spires, no glittering towers—just rounded pastel cottages, cobbled lanes that curved like song, and paper lanterns bobbing gently overhead. Music drifted from the town square—lilting, bright. Laughter echoed. Someone called out a name and was answered with joy.

He remained motionless. The Fount, who had stepped ahead, turned back. “We can wait, if you want,” he said, kindly.

Truthless inhaled. Exhaled. “No. It’s… fine.”

He stepped onto the path.

They walked together—though Truthless kept half a step behind. The Fount said little, letting the village speak for him. And it did.

Children spotted him first.

A delighted squeal, then blur of motion. Children launched themselves at the Fount—clinging to his legs, tugging his robes, chattering over each other.

“You came back!”

“Did you bring stories?”

“You promised to play the flute again—did you forget?”

The Fount knelt amid the chaos, laughing softly. “I could never forget,” he said, brushing powdered sugar from a child’s cheek. “And yes—I brought the flute. But only if everyone’s kind to the guests, alright?” 

“I drew you something!”

A child trotted up with a drawing—a glorious massacre of the Fount’s image. His once-elegant blue hair was now a waxy crimson, pressed so hard the paper fuzzed. A drifting green eye hovered near his ear; his smile was a crooked red slash.

It was a composition of joyous destruction, the kind only a child could execute with such unapologetic pride.

The Fount took it with the gravity of a royal portraitist accepting a commission. He studied the chaotic blobs and violent crimson streaks with a deeply thoughtful expression. “The use of color is… profoundly bold,” he said. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”

It was such a strange, yet painfully familiar sight. Like watching himself—only thinner, distant. A memory in reverse. And here he stood, no longer part of it. Draped in darker robes. Uninvited. Out of step. A stranger in a village that somehow remembered joy.

A truthless recluse, watching joy from the other side of the glass.

Dozens of eyes turned on Truthless.

He stiffened.

The children gave cautious waves. One of them offered a daisy chain.

Truthless hesitated—then accepted it with a nod.

~~~

The Fount’s smile was so radiant—one of those smiles that made things bloom. Or maybe just seemed like it could.

He opened his arms and the children surged toward him like petals in the wind. A dozen little hands reached up, tugging at his sleeves, laughing, shouting over each other, spinning stories only half-true: that one had spotted a fae cookie near the woods, that another’s goat had spoken to them in their dreams. The Fount gasped and played along, eyes wide, mouth open in mock horror or wonder.

He let them pile gifts into his hands—wilting daisies, a crooked ring of herbs, a rock that could almost pass for quartz, if one squinted with enough faith. He declared each treasure sacred, slipping them into the folds of his robe with theatrical reverence.

Then he bolted. Not away, but into the meadow nearby.

The children shrieked and chased after him, and for a moment it was like watching sunbeams trying to catch the light that made them. His robe billowed like a banner behind him as he wove between trees and splashed through a shallow brook. He doubled back, scooped up one child, then two, spinning in a breathless circle as they laughed and clung to his shoulders.

He slowed only briefly, adjusting one of the little ones on his back. And in that moment, his gaze wandered—past the children, past the grass. Toward the edge of the clearing.

There, a woman stood. One of the elders, perhaps. Her apron dusted with flour, hands white with it still. She wasn’t smiling.

Truthless Recluse saw her too.

Still, her gaze unreadable, bitter perhaps.

As though she were listening to something the rest could not hear.

The Fount’s smile stayed on his lips, but his eyes—just for a moment—hollowed out.

And that’s when it flickered.

A farmer stalked forward from the crowd. Dirt under his nails, sorrow carved into his forehead.

“You show up for games. All ribbons and ceremony. But where were you when the sickness came? When the northern fields rotted?”
Music faltered. Warmth thinned.

The Fount stood—calm, composed; hands at his sides, fingers tightened once, betraying the restraint beneath the grace. His voice, when it came, was low—tempered, as if drawn through cloth.

“I sent aid as swiftly as I could. The land—”

“The land still rots,” the farmer snapped. “My brother’s dead. Half the village nearly followed. You blessed that field yourself.”

A hush swept through the gathering like a cold wind.

The Fount’s gaze didn’t flinch. “I know. And I haven’t forgotten. I’m investigating what went wrong—it’s not yet understood, but it will be fixed. I give you my word.”

“But why no solution yet?” a voice called from the crowd.

“These things take time.”

“They said you had all the answers. That your blessing guaranteed it.“

“The guarantee,” the Fount hesitated, “was resolution. Not recklessness.”

“So you promise ‘resolution’ will come fast?”

“I can’t promise a timeline. Only my absolute commitment.” He spoke with certainty, though quietly. The kind of quiet that asks to be believed. His crown, however, seemed heavier.

The farmer’s mouth opened, but no reply came. Just a breath—bitter, uncertain. He turned away, the weight of grief still clinging to his back. As the farmer retreated, the Fount’s eyes flickered, just for an instant, to Truthless. For a mere second.

Silence.

And the Fount remained at the center of it all, tall and sure, even as his grip on the staff cinched, just enough to drain the color from his knuckles.

The crowd didn’t scatter, but it stilled a bit. Reverence became unease. Some cookies avoided looking at the Fount. Others lowered their eyes and stepped back.

“They say you used to be different,” someone murmured nearby.

Truthless heard it. He wasn’t meant to.

The moment passed—but the crack stayed.

The Fount’s shoulders drooped just slightly. But when he turned to Truthless, the smile returned. A little more careful this time.

“Come,” he said, “I believe there’s a booth up ahead that sells sugared tea leaves. They’re always better warm.”

Truthless followed in silence.

His hand drifted to the pouch at his hip—the one the Fount had handed him earlier, small and soft, enchanted to hold the Soul Jam safely. The crystal inside was quiet. Then, for a heartbeat, it pulsed.

The Fount glanced back—just once. Truthless’s grip tightened.

He said nothing.

But the Soul Jam had reacted to the Fount’s smile.

And that terrified him more than any portal.

~~~

The tea leaves were indeed warm. Too warm. Truthless cradled the cup in both hands, letting the heat settle in his palms as if it might steady him.

A child tugged at his sleeve. “Are you happy with what you’ve done?”

Truthless blinked. “What?”

The child nodded solemnly, as if that explained everything, then ran off towards the music.

Children.

He didn’t drink.

Across the plaza, the Fount laughed gently at something a child said. He crouched to tie a shoelace, to adjust a paper crown, to listen. Always listening. 

Rambling too, like he couldn’t help it.

Once playtime with the children had quieted, the Fount made his way back to him.

On the way, a ribbon came loose from someone’s sleeve and fluttered to the ground. The Fount stooped to pick it up, only for the wind to catch it again—sending him into a brief, undignified chase. He caught it on the third try and handed it back with a crooked little grin.

“Aren’t they lovely?” he asked, still catching his breath, cheeks a little flushed with joy.

“…Yes.”

They were.

The Fount dipped his head once, adjusting the folds of his robe. “I should tend to the rest of the village—‘Fount of Knowledge duties,’ if I may call it that. I imagine there’s quite a list waiting for me.”

The lilt in his tone didn’t fool him; something in it sagged, carefully hidden.

“Feel free to explore on your own,” he added gently, “or… you’re welcome to come with me, if you’d like.”

Just then, a small paper lantern floated down from above and landed awkwardly in the grass between them. The Fount blinked at it.

“Hm. Well-timed,” he murmured.

Truthless didn’t answer the offer. Just asked a different question instead. “What was the farmer talking about back there?”

He asked the question, not expecting honesty. Foolish, maybe.

The Fount’s expression shifted—just faintly. A crease in the smoothness. Like something long-shelved had been brought forward again.

He didn’t speak for a moment.

Then, softly:

“There was a blight. A spreading sickness in the soil. I tried to intervene, but…”

He shook his head. “Not everything can be forced to mend. Not without cost.”

Truthless watched him, unmoving. “You didn’t fix it?”

“I tried.” The words weren’t sharp—but they ached all the same. “But some truths come with a cost. If I forced the land to heal, it might’ve come at the price of another field, another season. Time resents shortcuts.”

Truthless looked away.

A breeze stirred the paper lanterns. They swung gently, creaking against their strings like sighs caught in passing.

“I didn’t expect them to understand,” the Fount said barely above a whisper. “But I hoped—”

He stopped mid-sentence. As if the next words had crept too close to something raw. His expression flickered.

“…It’s my duty. I just… haven’t solved it yet. But I will. In due time.”

Truthless’s grip on the teacup tightened.

Again, he didn’t trust the Fount. Not really. Not yet.

But he knew that posture. That unbearable silhouette he'd once worn like armor—adored, expected, and never enough. A savior fraying at the seams. And Truthless, against his will, understood him.

“That kind of hope is dangerous,” he said at last.

The Fount looked at him, calm. “Isn’t everything worth doing?”

Truthless paused. His voice, when it came, was low.

“…You sound like him.”

The Fount tilted his head. “Him—”

He swallowed the name back down.

The Soul Jam answered once more from within the pouch…as if releasing its breath. Like something inside him had recognized the shape of that smile, and recoiled.

He stood abruptly—as if motion alone could shield him from what the question threatened to open. “I’ll walk.”

“Will you come find me later?”

Truthless didn’t answer. Not yet.

He didn’t look back—didn’t need to. The Fount was still watching.

But he stayed close enough to hear the villagers whisper as he passed.

“I thought the Fount could fix anything.”

“Not anymore.”

“He used to be different.”

He used to be different.

The words festered, whispering the question he refused to voice:

Was he walking beside a kindred spirit, or another beautiful lie?

And somewhere, beneath it all, the Soul Jam ached—no pulse, no flicker. Waiting for a truth he had forgotten.

Chapter Text

The village burst with celebration.

Garlands of petals hung from painted beams. Music spilled from every square, laughter tangled with sugared fruit and sickly-sweet smoke. Lanterns swayed, their glow soft as burnished gold. It was midsummer, and joy was expected. Demanded, even.

Truthless Recluse stood at the edge of it all, half-wrapped in shadow beneath a lantern tree, the celebration unfolded like a painting he could not enter. The colors spun too fast. Someone laughed too hard. And he didn’t trust the way the music settled into his chest like it belonged there.

Foxes, stags, birds of paradise—there were masks and paper crowns everywhere, hiding faces already too full of life. The children moved fastest: darting between stalls, yelping with laughter, dragging ribbons behind them like comet tails. Their flower crowns had begun to wilt, but none of them cared.

Truthless mourned it.

No one had offered him a mask.

The faint glint of the Soul Jam pouch slung over his shoulder, letting the celebration wash past him. No one stopped. A few glanced at him curiously—an outsider, clearly—but didn’t linger long enough to meet his gaze.

He didn’t mind.

It was better to watch.

The lanterns bobbed in the evening breeze. Their glow caught in the curls of dancers’ hair and in the reflections on sugar-glazed pastries. Somewhere, a trio of flutists played a tune that sounded both old and entirely made of joy.

A pair of cookies passed by, one carrying a tray of honey-glazed buns, the other scattering flower petals in their wake. They didn’t look at him. Or rather, they looked through him.

Truthless closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

This wasn’t a tradition celebrated in the Vanilla Kingdom. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever hearing of it—not like this. It felt too ancient to be new, too personal to be borrowed.

Had this been a local rite, passed down through centuries?

Or had the Fount made it himself?

The thought left a strange taste in his mouth.

Then—a tug.

He opened his eyes.

She couldn’t have been more than a child—her mask shaped like a moth, delicate paper wings fluttering with each breath. Her flower crown was slipping over one eye. Her hands were sticky with something sweet.

She didn’t speak right away. Just stared up at him—head tilted—through the eyeholes of her mask.

“Are you sad?”

The question struck  a bit too clean, too sudden. Before he could answer, she lifted her arms—expectant, as if asking strangers to lift her was the most natural thing.

Truthless hesitated. His instinct said no.

But then—slowly, carefully—he bent and picked her up. She was lighter than expected, all flower petals and flour dust and laughter. She perched easily on his hip, one arm around his shoulder, utterly unbothered by the dark robes or the guarded eyes beneath them.

“You don’t smile,” she said, matter-of-fact.

Before he could respond, she pulled off her mask—a simple thing, painted paper and pressed violet petals—and tried to place it over his face.

It didn’t fit.

His golden hair, wild from the summer wind, got in the way. The mask caught on the brim of his hat, slipped sideways, sagged forward like a wilting blossom.

“Your hair’s messy,” she frowned, as she tried to push it down with one sticky hand. Her fingers left tiny sugar-sticky prints on the brim of his hat.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t move, either.

Undeterred, she tried again—this time pressing it to his chest like she was handing over something sacred.

“You look sad,” she said again. “But you don’t have to be.”

He stared at her.

Her eyes were too clear. Not wise, not ancient. Just… painfully innocent.

Slowly, he took the mask from her hands and held it between his fingers like something too fragile to keep.

She wriggled to be put down, and he obliged. Her crown slid further. She pushed it up with a hum.

“I’m Cherrybud Cookie! Happy Midsummer,” she said, and skipped back into the crowd.

For a single, fleeting second, the ghost of her weight remained on his hip, the impression of a trust he had done nothing to earn. Then it was gone.

The mask remained in his hand.

Soft paper. Faint traces of sugar.

He didn’t put it on.

But he didn’t drop it, either.

He watched her vanish into the swirl of music and color, and wondered how anyone could look at him and say those words.

You don’t have to be.

Of course he knew that. But knowing and believing were oceans apart.

He really was pathetic.

Between one breath and the next, the past rose like a bruise.

Wasn’t he the one who let go of everything he once stood for—just because of a single shove from Shadow Milk?

Well. ‘Shove’ was too kind a word. But Truthless Recluse chose to see it that way, even if he knew that his sacrifice was for a greater cost.

What Pure Vanilla endured in the Spire had been cruel. Harsh. Mentally fracturing in a way words couldn’t convey. Shadow Milk had been vile, yes, but also… something else. Something twisted beneath kindness.

And at least he had an excuse.

Truthless Recluse… did not.

And then the crowd parted.

And there stood the Fount.

He glowed, nearly as he had upon their first meeting—yet not entirely. His dark robes, now trimmed in crimson and verdant green, mirrored the festival’s palette. Swept-back hair, looser than usual, caught the lanterns with a remembered burn.

He himself had become the light.

In his hand, he held a scroll.

The other… trembled.

It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Truthless saw it. In the space between gestures, when the applause faded and the Fount raised his hand to speak—the scroll fluttered more than it should have.

The Fount smiled anyway.

“Thank you,” he said, voice clear and warm. “It means more than I can say to see all of you here.”

A cheer rippled outward.

Truthless didn’t join it.

“Many things we cannot name, many truths that change with seasons. But midsummer is about what stays—what endures through time, struggle, doubt.”

Truthless pressed a hand to the Soul Jam pouch. Its warmth met his skin. It wasn't a pulse this time, but a low, constant hum—a note of dissonance held beneath the Fount’s perfect words.

“Today, we honor that endurance,” the Fount said, quieter now. “And those who carry it, even when they forget how.”

Silence followed. A beat too long.

Then—applause.

Magic bloomed from his fingertips—flowers, birds, starry silhouettes. A spectacle of color and shape and light. When it faded, the Fount bowed and stepped down from the stage, dissolving once more into the blur of masks and flower crowns.

Truthless didn’t move.

Even when a dancer nearly collided with him—even when a spray of glitter caught in the crook of his sleeve—he stayed frozen.

Because he’d heard it.

The tremble beneath the speech.

And something else.

A whisper—sharp and intimate—slithered into his ear like smoke:

“Pure Vanilla Cookie.”

Not shouted.

Not imagined.

Just… spoken.

Familiar. Close.

He spun around, heart hammering.

No one.

Just children laughing. Lanterns bobbing. Music swelling.

And the Soul Jam pulsing, rising against his chest like breath.

He left the square without knowing why.

~~~

The music faded behind him.

Not all at once—just note by note, as if each sound had to untangle itself from the fabric of his cloak before letting go. He wandered into the quiet side paths where lanterns hung lower and joy no longer echoed.

He passed beneath an arbor of pale ribbon and thyme. Past shuttered windows. Past the scent of old earth and honeysuckle. Somewhere, someone sang a lullaby in a language he didn’t remember learning.

The Soul Jam thrummed again.

Off rhythm.

Then he saw him.

The Fount. Alone. No stage, no garlands—just standing before a moss-slick well in a forgotten courtyard. Staff leaning nearby, crown gone, hands bare.

Truthless didn’t move.

The Fount leaned forward, resting his palms on the stone rim. His head was bowed. Just bowed. As if the stillness was holding him up more than he was holding himself.

Truthless took one step. A twig cracked beneath his boot.

The Fount didn’t turn. But he spoke.

“You’re not wearing the mask.”

Truthless froze.

“I saw the child give it to you,” the Fount said. “She does that every year. To someone who looks like they need it most.”

Truthless said nothing.

“She gave it to me once, too,” he added. “I still have it. Somewhere.”

Truthless stepped closer.

The silver threads in the Fount’s robes shimmered in the well’s reflection. His grip on the stone rim was tight. White-knuckled.

“I try,” the Fount said softly, “to be what they need. I try so hard.”

He turned slightly. Met Truthless’s gaze across the shallow dark.

“I didn’t think you’d follow.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

Truthless didn’t know whether to deny it or not.

A silence stretched—thin as thread. The well’s surface rippled once. 

Somewhere nearby, a child shrieked in laughter. Someone had apparently tried to juggle berries and failed spectacularly. One rolled to the edge of the well. The Fount gently toed it away.

He toed the berry again, as if unsure whether to crush it or cradle it.

“Were you ever afraid of being loved for the wrong reasons?”

Truthless’s throat tightened.

“I am. All the time.”

He looked down. “My apologies. I’m not good at this. Being… open. I’m better at speeches. Much better, in fact.”

Truthless didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t look away, either.

“I thought the speech went well,” he said at last.

The Fount huffed a laugh. “I nearly dropped the scroll.”

“I noticed.”

That earned a real chuckle. Barely.

The Fount straightened—gingerly—but didn’t reach for his staff. He looked older in the starlight. Still beautiful. Still composed. But thinner. As if too much of him had been handed out and too little returned.

“Go back if you’d like,” he said. “The celebration’s not over.”

Truthless looked at the well.

It didn’t feel like a place for wishes.

It felt like something had been buried there.

“I’ll stay,” he said.

The Fount didn’t smile.

But his shoulders eased.

Just a little.

They didn’t speak again.

They stood together in the courtyard, two ghosts of different times, mirrored in the well’s dark water.

And above them, the stars bloomed one by one—

Dancing to the rhythms of the night, too far to reach, too bright to ever be plucked.

It could have ended there. Maybe it should have.

But the Fount turned.

And said, without expectation, “Would you like to walk?”

Truthless hesitated.

Then nodded, once.

The path back to the heart of the festival was winding and lined with lanterns low enough to brush the tops of their heads. The crowds had thinned—only the most spirited dancers and slow-talking vendors remained. Music played softer now, worn down by the weight of the night yet to become the bright morning, and the air was rich with crushed herbs and half-melted sugar.

They walked side by side.

Truthless kept his hands clasped behind his back, unsure of what to do with them. He still had the girl’s mask tucked in his sleeve. He hadn’t looked at it since.

“You know,” the Fount said lightly, “I’d like to see how it looks on you.”

Truthless glanced over.

There was no teasing in the Fount’s tone. No expectation. Just a quiet openness that unnerved him more than if he’d laughed.

He didn’t answer. But after a pause, he reached into his sleeve and held the mask loosely between his fingers—paper-thin, a little wrinkled now.

A small, honest smile touched the Fount’s lips.

“It suits you,” the Fount said. 

That earned a dry huff of breath from Truthless. Maybe the closest he came to a laugh.

They passed a stall hung with charms and paper pennants, where rings were tossed over standing bottles painted in jewel tones. A sign above read, Three rings for a wish. The vendor, a boy with ink-stained fingers, grinned and offered a set without charge.

The Fount accepted them with a light hum of amusement. “Ah, nostalgic,” he said, spinning one ring around his finger. “Would you care to try?”

Truthless raised a brow.

The Fount tossed the first. It bounced off the neck of the bottle and spun onto the ground.

Truthless huffed—barely a sound, but the Fount caught it.

“Mocking me already,” he said. “Cruel.”

The second ring missed by a wider margin. The third struck the bottle squarely before tumbling off.

The Fount sighed. “A tragic loss.”

He offered the remaining rings to Truthless. A slow moment passed. Then Truthless took one—more to end the staring than from interest.

He didn’t aim so much as let it fly.

It landed.

The vendor whooped. “You’ve been granted a wish!”

Truthless blinked at the bottle. Then looked away, face unreadable.

The Fount said nothing. Just smiled—soft, unbothered, as if this had always been the inevitable result.

Truthless let the ring fall from his hand and didn’t watch it land.

They walked on. The music in the distance faltered—then resumed, slower this time, threaded with the scratch of a worn bow. Lanternlight pooled at their feet. Somewhere, oil popped in a pan and someone laughed too loud.

Then the scent of crushed herbs cut through, clean and green, leading them toward the next stall.

They passed a stall with glowing bottles arranged like stars. The vendor smiled when she saw the Fount, and with a soft gesture offered him two small cups.

“Blueberry and basil,” she said. “With a hint of mint. Good for clarity.”

The Fount handed one to Truthless without asking.

He took it cautiously.

The drink was cool, deep purple, and strange on the tongue. Not bad. Not sweet, either. It tasted like walking through a forest just after rain. He swallowed it all in one go, mostly to keep from speaking.

Just beyond, a low wall encircled the village stream, where lanterns and paper boats floated slowly beneath the drifting petals of summer blossoms. Several villagers stood along the edge, lighting candles tucked into curled leaves, letting them go with whispered wishes.

The current carried them in silence, and the two approached.

A few greeted the Fount with a nod.

A basket of unlit leaves stood nearby.

The Fount stepped forward, taking one. He didn’t say what he wished for—only held it a moment too long between his palms before lighting it from a nearby lantern.

Truthless watched it drift away, the small flame flickering until it vanished beyond the lantern glow.

He took one too. Fumbled with the matchstick. Lit it. His hands weren’t trembling, but the flame still guttered in the wind. It flickered once, then went out.

He stared at the cold wick. Said nothing. And let the leaf go anyway.

The water carried it gently, just the same.

“I used to come here often,” the Fount said, watching the lights above the stall flicker. “Before they knew who I was. I liked blending in.”

Truthless kept his gaze forward. “And now?”

The Fount’s voice was quiet. “Now… I’m not sure who I’d be if I tried.”

They continued down the lantern-strung path.

A musician played a slow tune nearby, and a couple swayed together beneath an arbor of ivy and stars. A child ran past them, trailing a ribbon like a shooting star. Truthless stepped aside automatically, his robe brushing the Fount’s.

The Fount didn’t pull away. But the tension in his shoulders never eased.

Every moment was too bright. Too fragile. The joy in the air felt borrowed. He watched the couples dancing and felt like he was looking through a pane of glass: close enough to see, but never meant to join.

The Fount must’ve noticed.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said gently. “Truly.”

Truthless stared ahead.

“I know.”

But he didn’t leave.

They reached the edge of the square, where the music turned softer still, and the stars had grown bold enough to cast their own light. A cluster of villagers sat in a circle around a fire, murmuring old stories. One of them gestured to the Fount, as if inviting him to join.

He shook his head, just barely. And stayed beside Truthless.

“I never expected this,” the Fount said, almost to himself.

“Not any of it.” A pause. “Not you.”

Truthless pressed lightly against the rim of the now empty cup.

The Soul Jam, once more, throbbed against him. Soft. Regular. But not calm.

He looked at the Fount, silhouetted in gold and shadow, still wearing robes like starlight and still managing to look alone even here.

Truthless spoke, barely audible: “This doesn’t feel real.”

The Fount’s eyes met his. “But it is.”

The early morning air touched Truthless’ skin, and still he felt too warm.

His fingers found the moth mask in his sleeve, and for the first time all night, he did not feel the urge to let it go.

Just for now.

Chapter Text

Whatever had happened the day before, Truthless Recluse was beginning to seriously regret it.

Not because anything extraordinary had happened. No—if anything, it had been a small, almost tender moment of vulnerability between two cookies fated to share the same end.

Yet, Truthless Recluse had underestimated just how much last night would change the Fount’s perception of him.

Or at least, that’s what he concluded after being woken at six in the morning by the Fount, wide-eyed and impossibly alert, expecting him to join for breakfast.

For all he knew, he could have been faking it.

Or not.

Probably not.

Definitely not.

“I do not strictly need to eat consistently, but I thought it would be pleasant to share a meal with you before I begin my work,” the Fount had explained.

Did one slip of honesty mean he was now obligated to perform intimacy?

He lingered on the thought, thumb brushing the edge of his sleeve.

Once more—because apparently once wasn’t enough—he reminded himself he didn’t hate the Fount.

Irritation came easy, yes. Absolutely. But caring wasn’t worth it. Not now. Not with everything feeling so hopeless.

The Fount wasn’t even being cruel. Just… open. Careless with it.

And because Truthless had let himself speak gently—just once—the Fount now acted like the door had been opened.

He dragged a hand down his face, fingertips catching at his jaw, still bleary from sleep.

“Give me a moment.”

The Fount beamed, as if that were the kindest thing anyone had ever said to him. “Of course!”

The door closed softly behind him.

Truthless stood  still in the dim quiet of his room. Somewhere down the corridor, the Fount’s footsteps faded into nothing. He turned toward the mirror.

The same tired eyes stared back. The same wild hair, wind-mussed from the day before. The faintest smudge of dried flower pollen clung to the collar of his robe.

No mask. No lanterns. No music.

He touched the hollow of his throat, where the moth mask had rested against him.

“You don’t have to be sad,” she’d said.

He splashed some cold water on his face. The words didn’t wash off.

~~~

As expected, the Fount was waiting halfway down the corridor, leaning against one of the tall lilac-stone pillars—though “lilac” didn’t quite capture the color. It was the pale blue of old porcelain left too long in the sun, touched faintly with lavender. That same color stretched down the hall, washed into the walls and ceiling like a faint dream. The hallway was quiet that day.

Thankfully.

He hadn’t noticed Truthless yet. One foot rested flat against the base of the column, arms crossed loosely. His hand moved in idle spirals, sketching equations in the air with no chalk, no paper. 

He murmured to himself, just above a whisper.

“…and if I invert the values, then—no, no, the boundary condition folds in on itself—unless—”

His voice barely carried. He spoke like someone pacing through the halls of his own mind, half-lost in thought.

A pause. He tilted his head, lips pursed in faint frustration, then broke into a quiet chuckle. “Stubborn little thing.”

The morning sun slanted in from a high window, full and unfiltered, striking him square in the face. It caught in his eyes—those strange, shifting eyes—and made them shimmer. Though perhaps they were already shimmering on their own.

Truthless stepped forward. His footfall was soft but not silent.

The Fount startled, blinking up. “Oh!”

His expression broke into warmth instantly—too instantly, maybe. “You’re ready? Good. I—” he glanced at his hands as if surprised to find them still gesturing, then tucked them behind his back. “I was just thinking. Immediately after yesterday, I was ‘kidnapped’—gently—into a classroom by a scholar and given a problem to solve. Very elegant. Or infuriating. Possibly both,” he said. “Exciting! Though it’s hijacked my mind, so I figured I might as well put the hallway to use.”

He pushed off the pillar with a small stretch of his shoulders. “Oh, and good morning.”

Truthless gave the faintest nod.

The Fount didn’t wait. He turned with a flick of his robe and began walking, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Truthless followed a pace behind.

“I had the idea just before dawn, actually,” the Fount said, cheerfully. “It woke me rather completely. I did attempt to fall back asleep, but—you know how it is, when something begins to make sense. Or nearly does. One cannot help but think on it. Especially someone like me.”

Truthless gave a low hum—neither agreement nor disagreement.

The corridor curved gently, lined with pale glass windows and narrow alcoves filled with unfamiliar instruments. The Fount’s steps echoed. His voice didn’t.

“Technically, it’s a new field for me,” he continued—though the grin he wore suggested he hadn’t stopped studying it since the moment it crossed his path. “But I’ve become rather adept at persuading scholars to let me think aloud in their classrooms, and I’ve got plenty of books to analyze.” He turned slightly, eyes glinting. “A skill I’ve cultivated.”

Truthless’s gaze remained straight ahead.

The Fount went on anyway. “The scholar swears she checked the boundary conditions three times, but I’m convinced she was using the wrong coefficient for the interior curve. The proof almost resolves if you shift it slightly rightward and factor in the curvature constant—though I suppose that ruins the elegance, doesn’t it?”

Another noncommittal nod.

The Fount didn’t seem fazed. “Honestly, I’m tempted to redo the whole thing in water-soluble ink and send it back anonymously. Maybe with a riddle. I think she’d like that.”

The dining room doors loomed at the end of the corridor—tall, dark, slightly ajar.

The Fount chuckled softly to himself. “I am simply jesting, of course. I’ll give her the proper solution once it is ready.”

He paused, then added, “But I might still include a riddle. Out of principle.”

They neared the dining room, but the Fount didn’t reach for the door. He slowed, as if reluctant to part with the quiet between them. His footsteps softened to a near-stop beside one of the arching windows, where dust moved faintly in the morning light.

“Before we enter I should warn you,” he said, almost lightly, “the meal is… somewhat overdone.”

Truthless raised an eyebrow.

“Well—charmingly overdone,” the Fount amended. “Uncertain of your tastes, I requested a modest sampling of nearly everything. I may have gotten carried away with the details.”

Truthless held his tongue. He stared at the sliver of light between the two doors—soft and golden, warm in the way only breakfast light could be. The smell of syrup and cardamom drifted faintly from within.

A shift beside him.

The Fount clasped his hands again, then unclasped them, then pretended to adjust the cuff of his sleeve. “Of course, if it’s too much, or not what you’re in the mood for, we can take it somewhere quieter. There’s a small terrace on the north side. Empty, most mornings.”

Another silence.

“Oh and, I’m… not trying to crowd you,” he added, softer now. “I just thought—after yesterday—it might be good to begin the day in your company. It meant more than it should have.”

The light from outside dining room shifted faintly, stirred by someone passing within.

Truthless commented nothing, but went inside.

~~~

The dining room wasn’t the grand hall of the castle, but something smaller—sunlit, quiet, intimate in its own way. Meant for two or three at most.

A low pearlwood table stood in the center, set modestly enough at first glance: fresh fruit, warm bread, and a pot of tea that smelled faintly of honeyed thyme… and blueberries.

Because why wouldn’t there be blueberries?

But that was only the opening act.

Glazed tarts, honeyed bread, and thick cream in cut crystal stood beside still-steaming pastries, pleated and glossed to a fine lacquer, their golden crusts catching the light like gilt parchment—between fruit spirals so intricate they looked coaxed from the branches themselves. Pear and fig had been fanned into rose-shapes, their flesh soft and fragrant, edges brushed with lemon to keep from fading. Pomegranate seeds glittered between folds—tiny jewels pressed into velvet. Even the citrus had been shaved into ribbons so fine they caught the light like glass.

A careful sliver of honeycomb rested beside a croissant nearly the size of Truthless’s hand—its outer shell burnished and crisp, the layers beneath pale, buttery, and impossibly soft.

Nearby, a trio of soft-boiled eggs sat nestled in painted porcelain cups, their tops gently cracked. One was crowned with crushed pink salt and dill; another with a dollop of bright herb cream; the last with a scattering of edible petals, blue and violet.

Thin slices of preserved citrus lined a shallow dish, their translucent rinds turned faintly at the edges. Each one gleamed with sugar, glowing like pressed sunset—sun-orange, blood-red, and palest yellow, every slice warm as stained glass.

And tea, of course. Not just the pot already set on the table—pale pottery, its lid delicately askew—but two more nestled in warmers along the sideboard, each swaddled in embroidered linen to keep from cooling.

One breathed out ribbons of steam laced with mint and something sharper—an herbal snap that prickled faintly at the back of the nose, like crushed pine. The other gave off a darker sweetness: berries, surely, but deeper than that. Blueberry, perhaps, thickened with something riper—almost like blackcurrant, or the soft syrup at the bottom of a summer compote.

Just the sort of perfectly ordinary meal one prepares after dawn.

Truthless stared at it all.

He hadn’t said he was hungry.

He wasn’t.

But clearly, someone had decided that wasn’t relevant.

The Fount stepped in after him, but didn’t rush to take a seat. He lingered just a step behind, as if unsure whether to direct or defer.

“I wasn’t sure if you preferred sweet or savory, so I chose both. And added a third category I’m calling ‘edible curiosity.’”

Truthless didn’t sit immediately. He studied the table like one might a shrine or a trap—unsure which.

The Fount, noticing, tilted his head. “Too much?”

What gave it away—the fruit spiral roses or the stained-glass citrus?

Truthless blinked once, then finally lowered himself onto the cushion at the short end of the table. The seat gave slightly beneath him, warm from the sun.

Across from him, the Fount settled in with far too much grace—one leg crossed neatly over the other, posture effortless, theatrical in its restraint. He looked… pleased. Entirely too pleased.

His fingers had found the rim of his teacup and were tracing it idly, like it might sing for him if he asked. A quiet tune slipped from him as he moved—half-hummed, half-breathed. Unrecognizable, but far too content.

It was like watching a play staged for two, and only one of them had read the script.

The Fount poured tea into Truthless’s cup. 

He began.

“There’s a reason I like mornings,” he said, eyes still on the stream of amber as it rose. “They always feel like the truest part of the day. No pretense yet. Just the quiet—and whatever you decide to bring into it.”

Truthless watched the steam curl upward. He didn’t speak. His expression didn’t shift. One hand came to rest on the saucer, steady and still.

“I suppose that’s why you came banging on my door at sunrise?”

“To share the quiet,” the Fount replied, perfectly sincere.

He didn’t look up as he tipped in a spoonful of sugar. Then another. Then a third. The spoon clinked cheerfully each time, utterly at odds with Truthless’s stare.

Truthless blinked once.

With a small shift—more surrender than assent—Truthless finally raised the cup to his lips.

It was too sweet.

Of course it was.

The Fount broke a piece of bread from the center tray, brushing crumbs from his fingers. “You know,” he said mildly, “I’ve been thinking about demanding a rematch.”

Truthless blinked again.

“Three more rings. Double or nothing. This time, I get a wish if I win.”

Truthless took a long sip. “That’s a very complicated way of saying you lost.”

“I was cursed,” the Fount said solemnly. “Clearly. No other explanation for missing all three.”

He smiled into his cup. Truthless arched a brow.

“Cursed, is it?”

“A powerful force,” the Fount went on, mock-serious. “Possibly ancient. Possibly ring-related.”

Truthless didn’t answer, but reached for a small dish of melon slices—lifted one, examined it, didn’t eat it.

“It was nice,” the Fount said, quieter now. “The village. The noise. The company.”

No comment.

Truthless’s thumb moved in slow circles on the edge of his saucer.

The Fount broke off another piece of bread, but this time didn’t eat it. He turned it slowly between his fingers, brushing away crumbs that weren’t there.

“You’ve hardly touched anything,” he said quietly, not quite looking at Truthless.

Truthless glanced at his plate. Then at the melon slice he’d set aside.

“Didn’t realize this was a test.”

“It’s not,” the Fount said. “But if it were, you’d be failing spectacularly.”

He gave a small smile to soften the jab, but Truthless didn’t rise to it. His fingers traced the edge of his saucer.

“I’m not hungry,” he said at last.

The Fount tilted his head, considering the untouched plate.

“Neither’s the pear,” he said dryly, and popped it into his mouth anyway.

He reached for a sliver of pear, bit into it, and chewed thoughtfully. “Too ripe.”

Truthless made no reply. Just shifted slightly—closer to the tea, not the food.

The Fount watched him another moment, then picked up his knife again, returning to the same roll he hadn’t finished buttering.

“Change of topic,” he said, keeping his voice light, “I’m supposed to be in the Great Hall—”

“And then the archives. Reviewing scrolls, answering a few questions. I thought you might want to come.”

Only the tap of his finger on the porcelain answered.

The Fount took a sip of his own drink, then leaned back, spoon in hand, spinning it lightly between his fingers.

“You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought—well. You might like it.”

“Your version of quiet involves too many glances,” Truthless murmured, eyes on the teacup.

That earned a laugh. Not loud. But warm.

“Caught me.”

The Fount went on,

“Now that I think about it… haven’t we done this little routine before? I asked you to join me after eating, when we went to the—”

He stopped.

“The food is good,” he said instead, and took another sip.

Truthless’s eyes flicked sideways, one hand shielding his cheek like the sun was in his eyes—even though it wasn’t. Then he exhaled, a short breath through his nose.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.

The Fount gave a small nod, not triumphant, not smug—just accepting. “That’s enough.”

Time didn’t press. Sunlight inched along the wall, drawing gold through the joints of the stone. Dust turned slowly in the air, shifting with each breath. From somewhere behind the shelves, the clock kept on—each tick like a tap against glass.

The Fount took a bite of fruit, then brushed a few crumbs from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Across the table, Truthless sat almost statuesque—only his gaze moved, following the motion. He caught himself and glanced away.

There was something uncomfortably quiet about it all. The domesticity of it. The faint breeze slipping in through the cracked window. The two of them, seated like this.

Once more, the Fount spoke.

“You know, the kitchen did help me with the preparations—though I used a little magic on the dishes. I chose the tea blend myself, as always,” he said, voice low, almost to the rim of his cup. “The blueberries might be… nostalgic.”

Truthless paused. His eyes flicked to the kettle, then back to the Fount—longer this time. But the other cookie just stared down at his drink, mouth drawn like he was waiting for a memory to arrive.

Nostalgic for who?

Truthless lifted the cup again. Slower now. Still too sweet. But he didn’t mention it.

The rest of the meal passed in a kind of shared hush. The bread was pillowy. The fruit clung too long to the tongue. The tea remained relentlessly sweet. Sunlight crawled across the floor like it had no real destination.

Truthless set down his empty cup.

He didn’t know why he was handling it so gently. Maybe it was the way silence had started to mean something. Or maybe it was the way the Fount was watching him again, his look giving nothing away.

“I know you said you’d think about it,” the Fount said as Truthless pushed back his chair. “But it’s alright if you don’t come. I just enjoy your company…”

Truthless gave him a look—dry, unimpressed. “I didn’t say I enjoy yours.”

“You didn’t have to,” the Fount replied, not missing a beat.

The chair scraped softly as he stood. He didn’t thank the Fount. Didn’t need to. The silence between them had already settled into something else—less a gap, more a language.

~~~

The hallway beyond waited, quiet in the way old places sometimes are. His steps made no argument with the stone, but the hush felt altered. When he reached his chamber, he didn’t enter.

At the stairwell, his fingers slipped along the banister’s worn curve—finish worn thin, the wood burnished smooth by countless passings.

~~~

He hadn’t planned to follow.

He hadn’t planned anything at all.

And yet, his feet moved, following. To the archive.

Not at once, but eventually—after the Fount’s meeting had ended.

Maybe because he had nowhere else to be.

Maybe because part of him wanted to.

Hard to say.

The light on the stairs caught something old in him—a particular pattern of brightness and shadow falling across stone that was so like another day, another place.

~~~

He remembered the way she used to press her thumb to her lip when thinking—an old, almost childish habit. A crease between her brows, the twitch of a smile that didn’t always reach her eyes. White Lily, holding a scroll sideways because she insisted it made the words “unfold themselves.” They had sat like this once, quiet in a sun-dappled corridor, the light falling between them like petals caught midair.

“You always skim,” she had said then, teasing but not unkind. “You look for answers before you’ve heard the question.”

“And you always get distracted by metaphors,” he’d retorted, not looking up from the tome. “We make a fine pair of scholars.”

She had laughed, and then—after a beat—touched his wrist lightly. Just two fingers, as if unsure whether she had permission. She always asked for permission, even in silence.

“One day,” she’d said softly, “you’re going to look back on this moment and forget what I meant by it.”

He hadn’t understood what she meant at the time.

~~~

He hadn’t thought about her in days. Not properly. But now, in the hush of the archives, something cracked open.

Why her? Why now?

The archives were cool and dim, laced with the dry scent of parchment and ink. The Fount was already there, seated at a desk scattered with scrolls, his staff leaning against the wall behind him.

His hair caught the light—glowing faintly, as if stilled for a portrait.

Truthless stopped just inside the threshold. His arms crossed—not tightly, but as a barrier—and he let his gaze sweep the shelves instead of answering. Scrolls lined every wall, some stacked haphazardly, some precisely cataloged. His fingers flexed against his upper arm, restless.

He didn’t move closer. Just loitered near the shelf like he meant to be there.

Something brushed past his shoulder.

He turned—quick. But nothing was there. Just scrolls.

One of the shelves seemed to lean a little closer. He blinked, and it hadn’t moved at all.

Maybe he hadn’t slept enough.

“Do you actually read all these?” he asked eventually, voice dry as dust.

“I try.” The Fount dipped the quill into a pot of ink, flicking a droplet away with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Some are worth reading twice. Others… less so.”

Truthless let his eyes fall to a row of crumbling bindings. The light shifted behind him, catching specks in the air. He angled his body slightly, still facing the shelves, not the Fount.

“I suppose it depends on what you’re looking for,” the Fount added, almost absently.

Truthless’s brow furrowed. His weight shifted from one foot to the other.

“And what are you looking for?”

This time, the Fount stopped writing. He placed the quill aside with quiet care and leaned back into his chair, fingers loosely steepled near his lips. His eyes searching for an answer.

“Answers. Patterns. Warnings.” A pause. “Sometimes, I just want to remember how things used to be.”

He didn’t reply. His mouth pressed into a line. After a moment, he turned and walked toward the desk—but not too close. He gestured vaguely toward the opposite chair, then hovered beside it instead of sitting.

The Fount tilted his head. “You don’t have to stand.”

Truthless didn’t answer right away. Then—with something like resignation—he sat. He perched, half-decided, weight on the edge.

The chair was warm.

“I can be quiet,” the Fount offered. His voice gentled, not quite fully sincere.

Truthless nodded once in acknowledgment. 

And the room fell still.

The scratching of the Fount’s quill returned, a rhythmic brushing against old parchment. In the distance, a clock chimed once, faint and low. Beyond the glass, daylight filtered in uncertain slants, like it hadn’t yet decided on the hour.

Truthless tapped his fingers once against his leg. Then stilled.

He let his gaze wander again. The ceiling beams. The old binding threads fraying out of cracked spines. Every now and then, he looked toward the Fount—quick, sidelong glances—but never lingered.

Eventually, he leaned back slightly, elbows still on his knees.

He glanced over. “You ever get the feeling something’s… off in here?”

He didn’t know what answer he expected. Maybe something reassuring. Maybe something stupid enough to argue with.

The Fount didn’t look up. “All the time.”

A dry blink. Of course the Fount wasn’t fazed.

Truthless leaned back. “You don’t seem bothered.”

“If I got upset every time the castle changed its mind,” the Fount said, dipping his quill, “I’d never get anything done.” He flicked a strand of hair behind his shoulder with the back of his wrist. “The archives have moods, like everything else here. Some days they offer clarity. Other days, well… I’ve been trying to fix it. No success for now. But I’ll fix it.”

Truthless’s jaw shifted. His eyes narrowed a touch.

“That’s comforting,” he said flatly. “Living in a sentient maze.”

The Fount set the quill down. Folded his hands together loosely and looked up.

“No one said memory was linear,” he said. “Or kind.”

A longer silence now. And deeper.

Truthless met his gaze for a second too long. Then looked away.

A flicker beneath the skin.

His Soul Jam throbbed.

He stood up.

Moved down the aisle. Something tugged faintly at the edge of his perception—not sound, not movement. More like breath.

One of the books stopped him. A thick volume, black-bound and titleless. Its spine was unmarked, but his hand hovered toward it anyway. Then—

It pulsed.

A slow, steady beat against his palm. Not from within the pages, but beneath them. Like it had a heart.

Truthless drew back. The pulse faded. He pressed his lips together, spine tightening.

Farther down, the light shifted.

He thought he saw—no, remembered—no, saw:

A small, golden-haired child, lying flat on a velvet chair. Reading with both hands, mouth faintly parted in concentration. Ink smudged one cheek. And across from him, a figure with long white hair, laughing quietly. The sound was soft, full of something warm. Too warm.

Truthless turned sharply.

Only the shelves. Only the quiet.

His chest ached.

Then:

“Vanilla.”

Soft. Intimate. Real.

His breath caught. He rose to his feet before he knew he’d decided to. The chair creaked behind him.

“Don’t,” he muttered aloud—to the air, to the shelves, to himself. “Don’t do that.”

The Fount watched him, but didn’t speak.

He turned toward the sound. His feet were already moving—faster than thought.

His gaze caught on a nearby shelf—nothing special. Except… a sliver of gold ink. A familiar looping letter.  
A “P.”

He leaned in.

No gold. No ink. Just a spine stamped with lunar cartography. Nothing personal.

Still, his Soul Jam gave a twitch—barely a flutter—but enough.

There—tucked between thick grimoires on spell theory and magical ethics—was a thin leather-bound book. Unmarked. Worn at the edges, as if it had been handled often and cherished long ago.

His breath caught.

He picked it up.

The scent of lilies and pressed parchment hit him immediately. Something old. Something his.

He opened it.

His own handwriting stared back at him.

‘White Lily,’ the first line read.

“It’s always hardest to write when I feel I’m lying. I’m not sure if these pages are truth, or just the shape of what I wish it had been.

A chill settled over his skin. More pages—soft thoughts, apologies, hopes. Details he had no memory of writing yet knew he had. He traced the ink.

The words shifted.

Not faded. Shifted.

The ink swirled once. Then stilled. A word dissolved mid-sentence—‘forgive’—gone in a blink.

Becoming something else.

He blinked.

The page now read:

Sweetberry Muffins (Yields 12)

• 2 cups flour
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• A dash of sugar…

What?

He flipped back a page.

Another recipe.

Moonmint Jam

• Fresh mint leaves
• Silver syrup
• Pure Vanilla extract (optional)

A knot cinched behind his ribs.

Another page. Another recipe. He turned faster now—jam glazes, shortbread notes, annotated flavor pairings.

All in his own handwriting. But none of it true.

His hands trembled. The book slipped from his grip—hit the ground with a soft, terrible thud.

“Is everything alright?”

Words didn’t come. He stared at the fallen book, the Fount’s voice turning sour in his ears.

The Fount stepped closer and bent to retrieve it, brushing his fingers gently across the cover before opening it without hesitation.

“Ah,” he said lightly, flipping a page. “One of the cooking collections. A popular collection from decades ago. Not exactly fit for the archive, but charming. Though I should change its placement to the library sometime.”

“I swear,” he said hoarsely. “It wasn’t that a moment ago.”

The Fount looked at him—not alarmed. Not mocking. Just still—so still it made Truthless’s throat tighten. Like the Fount was deciding whether to trust him or pat him gently and look away.

“And you’re certain,” the Fount said, looking up again, eyes narrowing just slightly. “That this isn’t some mix-up? A similar book? A lapse in memory?”

Truthless flinched.

“I’m not accusing you,” the Fount said at once, stepping closer. Too close. “I just want to understand.” His hand hovered near Truthless’s arm but didn’t quite touch.

Truthless met his gaze. “I know my own handwriting.”

A pause.

“Hm,” the Fount murmured, resting his index finger against his lips, though to Truthless it seemed more like performance than genuine consideration.  He turned another page. Slowly. Like he wanted to be seen taking it seriously. Like this was for Truthless’s benefit. Then he turned the book around and laid his palm gently against the paper, his eyes flicking back up.

“There’s no enchantment on it,” he said softly. “At least, none I can detect. And again, you’re certain… that it changed?”

Truthless nodded.

“Then perhaps it’s the archives playing tricks again,” the Fount said. His eyes, for a fraction of a second, flickered to a seemingly empty corner of the room before returning to Truthless. “It happened to me not too long ago—I was reading a book on the geography of Earthbread when the pages turned into drawings of a child. Crude little things. Stick arms, wide smiles. Not malicious. Just… strange.”

Truthless hated that answer. Hated more that it didn’t surprise him.  

The Fount looked like someone waiting for a bruise to form. He ran a finger down the edge of the book and closed it carefully.

“I’ve been trying to find the root of the issue. Naturally, I’ll fix it. Eventually.”

He returned the book to the shelf. Just one among thousands now.

“If you find anything else…” He looked back over his shoulder. That smile again. “Let me know.”

He gave the Fount nothing, instead watching him leave. The soft sound of retreating footsteps faded behind a shelf, leaving the space far too still.

He remained there, staring at the place where the book had been. It sat among the others now—spine nondescript, indistinguishable. No golden shimmer. No strange warmth. No sign it had ever belonged to him.

He crouched, letting his fingers brush the shelf. Nothing. Cold wood. Colder paper.

A flicker passed through his Soul Jam. Faint. Uncertain. Akin to a thought nearly spoken, then swallowed.

He rose. Walked a few steps. Paused.

The aisles stretched too long. Longer than before. Shelves leaning inward slightly, like witnesses. The air clung heavier now—ink and dust, stirred by nothing.

He turned one corner. Then another.

And there it was again.

The same leather-bound book. Nestled on a shelf that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Or one pretending.

He didn’t touch it. Didn’t step closer.

He stared—waiting.

Waiting for it to breathe.

It didn’t.

Behind him, something whispered.

He turned.

No one.

The ceiling lamps flickered once, then stilled.

He exhaled. Pressed his hand to the wall—solid. But his pulse didn’t trust it.

He stepped back. Then again.

The shelves didn’t follow. But something in the quiet did.

Or didn’t.

And when he emerged, the hallway had changed.

Angles too soft. Light too golden. A copy made from memory, one step removed from truth.

He didn’t stop walking, didn’t look back.

The taste of blueberries and ink lingered on his tongue, though he had consumed neither.

And somewhere within, something still pretended to be his.

~~~

Chapter Text

The walls wavered in his periphery; pillars slid into place where bare masonry had stood a moment before, folding inward just enough to crowd the corridor. Light fractured into needle-thin shards of saffron, skittering across the rough stone before vanishing into shadow.

The air bent faintly, each breath laced with sweetness. Lilies again—always before loss.

His palm pressed to his side, fabric scratching against damp fingertips—mist or sweat, he couldn’t tell. His ribs rose and fell faster than his feet could keep pace. The pulse punched back against his hand, held together by something brittle.

He had no idea where his feet intended to carry him. The tiles caught every step without echo.

Forward—step after unthinking step. Never back.

Away.

Always away.

From the book. From the Fount. From the slow theft of his own memories.

A turn—he didn’t remember taking it—and the corridor spilled him into an inner courtyard. The space loosened around him; the stone seemed to sigh. Above, the sky was pale alabaster, suspended between memory and oblivion.

The walls leaned inward, entwined to hold the courtyard. Ivy spilled from above, its leaves shifting faintly despite the stillness.

He slowed. At last.

At the far edge, a terrace called to him. A low wall marked its boundary, carved with club motifs worn nearly smooth. Beyond, the world dropped off into thick white fog, gathering without release, basking in the sea of white.

He stepped forward, placing both hands on the rough wall and gripping it tight.

The mist writhed—shapes twisting in restless motion. He fixed his gaze on it, trapped in place, searching for any sign of escape.

He drew a breath and held it. Calm—he needed calm.

His hands slipped from the stone to his knees. Leaning forward, he pressed his forehead to the curve of his wrist.

In. Out. His hand pressed down. Step. Beat. Step. The rhythm kept going.

”I’m tired.”

For a moment, it worked. His shoulders eased. His grip loosened. The courtyard stilled with him.

He reminded himself of the meaninglessness of it all.

It wasn’t worth worrying.

It wasn’t.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

He had borne enough.

In.

Out.

Quiet.

Calm.

Then the Soul Jam answered—warm against him, stubborn, alive when it didn’t need to be. The fog shifted, twisting upward. Ivy rustled without wind. A faint scrape came from the wall below, gone as soon as it was heard.

His breathing faltered.

His stomach knotted. This place wouldn’t let him have calm.

A white lily clung to the wall’s edge—pristine, a biopsy of a forgotten world. Its petals glowed faintly against the stone—pure and untouched, a fragment of something long forgotten. He couldn’t say if it had been there before. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t dare. To reach out would be to admit a fracture too raw to mend.

A petal shifted in the breeze—just enough to brush his cheek. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it only wanted to. And maybe, for a heartbeat, it carried a promise he wasn’t ready to keep.

“I don’t want to remember this,” he whispered.

But who would answer?

The wind certainly wouldn’t.

He pressed his forehead harder against his wrist, trying to anchor himself—hold back the rising tide inside.

But the flower remained. Stubborn in its defiance, untouched by time or sorrow.

He tore his eyes away. To peel his gaze from that soft white resistance. To fold the memory back into the drawer it came from.

And when he blinked, the bloom was gone.

Not broken. Not taken. Simply… undone.

Another mystery of the cage he found himself in.

~~~

He didn’t turn when a door creaked open behind him.

The sound was soft—meant to be polite, meant to go unnoticed. But in a place like this, stillness magnified everything. Even hesitation had meaning.

Footsteps came—lighter, more careful than the steady pace he expected. Truthless didn’t need to look.

He already knew who it was.

Of course it was him.

Truthless adjusted his grip on the wall, grit biting into his dough.

“I thought you needed some help.”

From him? Right.

The tension in his posture didn’t ease—too still. Without a word, he let his gaze fall to the swirling haze, the quiet stretching tight between breaths, but his chin dipped just enough to hide the tension in his mouth. His grip tightened on the cold stone; he stared into the whiteness, willing it to swallow the conversation.

Without saying a word,

The Fount stopped a step short, like he sensed the warmth he usually carried might only scorch here.

“I won’t ask what you saw,” the Fount said. “But you fled like something hunted you.”

A bitter curl twisted his mouth—barely a smile, but enough.

He swallowed. “Maybe there was.”

A drop of water fell from the eaves, ringing sharply in the still courtyard.

A pause settled. Then another.

The Fount’s fingers shifted slightly on his staff—a faint squeeze.

“Well, I’m not the one chasing you,” the Fount offered a quiet bridge across the distance.

That earned a short, mirthless laugh—more a release of air than a sound, dry enough to catch in his throat.

“No. You’re just always behind.”

The Fount exhaled through his nose. Silence stretched, dreadful and waiting.

Truthless’s shoulder twitched—a tremor barely hidden beneath the surface. His mouth pressed into a thin line. He hesitated, a breath caught in his throat, the cold stone pressing into his skin—a grounding, harsh reminder of the walls he’d built.

Slowly, he turned. Not because he wanted to, never that, but because he needed the seconds to control himself. To mold his face into something unreadable, a shield forged from exhaustion and bitter resolve.

For the first time since the archive, he faced the Fount.

And for a moment, his expression softened—just faintly. Enough to reveal the depth of shadows under his eyes.

But the softness didn’t last.

“You followed me.” Truthless’s voice was blunt, stripped of patience.

“I was concerned.”

“I don’t need your sympathy.”

“I know,” he replied hurriedly. “But you are here, and the moments we have shared… and that makes you—”

“Don’t say ‘friend.’” The word caught in Truthless’s mouth like a hook. “Not when you don’t know me. Don’t let yesterday get to your head, or breakfast.”

Trivial.

The Fount’s eyes narrowed, pain barely masked beneath his calm façade.

“Then guest. You are my guest.”

His hand folded before him, neat like always, but a slight tremor ran through his thumb, restless against his palm. He sighed.

“I am trying,” the Fount said. “To understand. Your anger, your thoughts. Whatever this is. You.”

Truthless let out a short, dry laugh. His eyes flicked to the mist curling over the stones.

The Fount stepped forward, gripping his staff firmly with both hands. His fingers curved tightly around it, his thumb tracing the worn metal nervously.

“You should spend your time doing something else.”

“No, Truthless. I won’t.”

“You’re wasting your time.”

“I decide what I consider a waste of time. And no, I disagree.”

“You don’t understand. Not yet.”

He cracked the last word like a dry twig. “Kindness is a lie.”

“What? That’s not—” the Fount hesitated, searching for words. “Kindness isn’t a lie to me. It’s a path worth taking, not a lie. Where did you get that idea?”

Truthless shook his head slowly, lips pressed tight. “No.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the slow drip somewhere deep below.

Truthless’s shoulders tensed. He looked away, jaw clenched tight. “A path… how naive.”

“I disagree.”

Truthless took a step forward. The space between them shrank—not much, but enough to change the temperature. “It is. Gentleness won’t change a thing. You’ve never had to choose—truth or life.”

“I have,” the Fount said again, steel laid softly under silk. “Why do you assume I have not?”

“Then you should know better. Truth burns. M—”

He cut himself off. Breath dragged in. Jaw tight.

His thumb pressed hard into the staff, blanching the knuckle.

Then—nothing. Silence.

“What you call ‘naivete’…” His voice softened. He looked away briefly, lips pressed tight, then snapped his gaze back at Truthless—sharp. “…might simply be mercy.”

For a heartbeat, Truthless wanted to argue—wanted to tear down the word with all his bitterness. But instead, the silence grew heavier. Mercy. Such a simple word. So easily spoken, so hard to bear.

The light flickered. Just once. A shadow drifted across the Fount’s face, folding truth and pretense into a single, fleeting guise.

For a moment, it almost seemed they might dissolve in the still air.

But Truthless heard them too clearly.

“Mercy,” Truthless echoed, venomless but weighed with cold disdain. “Right.”

He looked away, tension flickering across his face like a bitter aftertaste.

The wind tugged at the ivy, leaves whispering against the stone.

“I used to believe in mercy too, you know,” he said quietly.

A truth told to conceal a greater one.

The Fount blinked once. His shoulders didn’t fall, but the line of his mouth shifted—softening in some places, setting harder in others.

The wind around them shifted. The courtyard bowed inward, shadows tightening as if listening.

Truthless looked down at the stones beneath their feet. For a heartbeat, he seemed as if he might leave it there. But then his voice broke through the hush again—lower now, but tighter.

“In forgiveness. In the chase for the truths. In giving people time.”

His eyes flickered toward the ceiling.

“But all it does is delay the inevitable. You don’t save someone by sitting beside them while they bleed out.” The memory of cold stone beneath his hands, the hollow ache in his chest—he had learned that lesson in the silence after loss. “Sometimes saving’s cruelty—showing the wound. Or lies cloaked as ‘mercy.’ Soft lies to dull the truth. Fool yourself long enough, and maybe it sticks.”

The Fount’s gaze didn’t waver.

The Fount’s voice pared down to a wire. “Mercy is not a salve. It scorches, yes. It demands sacrifice, excises weakness…”

His smile was thin now. “Sometimes the harshest mercy is the only path to survival. But you seem to think of mercy as if it were a weakness—perhaps that is why you carry your bitterness so tightly.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping a notch, cold and precise. “Tell me, Truthless, when have you ever seen cruelty admit it was mercy in disguise?” But his hands had lowered. Palms open now at his sides. Still. Quiet.

No comment. 

“Besides, I don’t think truth and cruelty are the same,” he continued.

“They’re not,” Truthless snapped. “But truth and kindness are often enemies.”

His voice faltered.

“And I’m tired of pretending that they’re not.”

A step forward. The space between them shrank enough to change the air between them.

“You think I’m bitter. Maybe I am. But at least I’m not lying about what this world demands.” A pause. A ghost of another face flickered behind his eyes. “Or maybe I’m just lying to myself.”

At this point, Truthless didn’t know who he was really talking to.

“I do not think you are bitter.”

His eyes flicked to the wall again—half expecting the lily to be there, white and waiting.

It wasn’t.

“Look around you. This place is beautiful. Magical, sure. Peaceful—until you see what’s missing.”

The Fount’s eyes narrowed. “You speak as if truth wears only one bitter face.” He frowned. “As if you already hold mine. I don’t know what you saw, and if you won’t tell me, I won’t force it. But, Truthless—do not forget who stands before you. If you can’t trust the truth you carry, then let me be yours. I’m its keeper, having held it long before you set foot between these walls. I know it far too well. The Fount of Knowledge. Cookiekind’s Fount. Your Fount.”

The words fell away, unheard.

“I need you to be honest with me. Tell me what’s wrong. I can help. I mean it. I will.”

He turned again, half-facing the low stone wall—abrupt, ungraceful—a man shedding his skin in slow, painful pieces, raw beneath the surface, each movement a silent scream. Then he spoke, his words coming out sharper and louder than before. 

“Understanding me won’t fix anything,” he said. “Not while you’re still unspoiled. Not while you haven’t tasted the fruit of deceit as I was forced to. Not while you see truth and lies in black and white.

Not while you still aren’t him.”

And wasn’t that the worst part?

The Fount wasn’t him—not yet.

But Truthless was already starting to sound like the one who’d left him that way.

“Deceit?”

The Fount’s brow pinched, barely—a crease that smoothed almost as soon as it appeared. “What good could come of that? Tell me—because you’ve spoken of it before, and I think you wish I’d never ask.”

His mouth curved, a hollow expression that felt like a burden. “Good? You want me to tell you the good in something that rots you from the inside?”

The Fount didn’t speak.

“It teaches you,” Truthless said quietly, voice steady. “Shows you what truth tastes like—bitter water. You think it’ll quench, but it burns your insides. Still, you’re left thirsty all the same. Once you’ve tasted it, you can’t go back to ignorance.”

“That sounds like surrender.”

“No,” Truthless said, finally meeting his eyes. “It’s reality.”

“Well, what you call reality can be altered. In fact, there is one absolute truth and that’s knowledge.”

His laugh barely stirred the air. “And there’s the root of it—you still think you can fix it.”

A muscle twitched along Truthless’s jaw. “You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t already know.”

The Fount’s eyes flickered briefly—impatience, maybe frustration—before settling back into calm.

“Truth wears many faces,” he said, each word placed like a stone. “It is seldom a clean blade. But knowledge—pure, structured understanding—must be the bedrock. Without that foundation, what is left but shifting sand and convenient lies?”

He tapped the stone beside him. “You cling to absolutes like shields, yet rail against lies. Do you think such certainty brings clarity? Or does it blind you further?”

The Fount’s voice held the faintest edge, slipping through the cracks of his quiet composure. “Truthless Recluse, If I am the naive one for believing the course can be changed, then what does your certainty grant you—peace? Or a prison?”

He paused, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “And you speak of poison, of inevitability—but is it the poison itself, or your refusal to seek the antidote that damns you?”

“That’s—” Truthless stopped. “You can’t change this course. Not when the river’s already poisoned.”

The fog curled tighter around the wall, tendrils snaking along the stone as if listening. Somewhere below, a low, steady drip echoed upward, slow enough to make each drop sound intentional.

The Fount’s gaze flickered past him briefly, toward the dripping sound. Then, his eyes locked on him again, he said quietly, “Then tell me… what the poison is.”

Truthless didn’t answer. The air seemed to press inward, edges warping as if the space had grown tired of holding itself up.

The Fount’s voice dropped. “…Is it… me you mean?”

Silence.

Truthless’s jaw clenched tighter; a flicker of something like pain crossed his face, but he didn’t look away.

“Is that what you mean when you speak of poison?” the Fount pressed. “You talk as though it is a thing—an accident of fate—but I think you mean a name. A face. One that stands before you now. This ‘him’ you talk about…”

Something in Truthless cracked. “You think you’re the center of it all? That the world folds itself around your shadow?”

The words hung between them like a blade—one neither seemed willing to lower.

Pointless.

“Truthless Recluse.”

A sharp intake of breath—quick, involuntary.

“Forget what I said. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t meant to be saved. Not comfort—truth. Even if it shattered me. But at least I am no longer blind.”

The Fount didn’t step forward.

“Truthless Recluse.”

“I always thought I could make it work, but all that awaits is despair, isn’t it?”

“Answer me. Please. Deceit? ‘Him’? What is it?”

Truthless’s chest rose and fell too fast, his breath ghosting white in the fog. The Fount’s gaze didn’t blink, didn’t soften.

tsk.

It was quiet enough to be mistaken for the settling of stone, yet it carried—sharp, precise, a surgeon’s tap against an open wound.

The faint click of the Fount’s tongue cut sharper than it should have.

“Was what you saw really that serious?” he asked, voice lighter than the question deserved.

Truthless’s hand curled tight against his sleeves. His breath caught, a tremor starting low in his chest. He looked at the Fount—

—and the world lurched. Gold shattered into cold bruised blue. Pale eyes bloomed, watching. The Fount’s warm light fractured, revealing the dark shadow beneath—unblinking, terrible.
Shadow Milk stood there instead.

He opened his mouth to say the name—the one he’d tried to bury—but closed it again. No. Not yet.

He blinked—a shutter-snap. Gold. Blue. A fracture in reality. The Fount stood there, bathed in warm light that now felt like a stage-set. But the chill in Truthless’s spine had taken root.

A reminder.

The Fount drew a long breath, as if analyzing whether the words were worth the risk.

“The way you think…” the Fount said at last, “is misguided. Whatever has happened to you, whatever shaped your mind… it should not be your only path north. It’s wrong. If you would allow me, let me show you why.”

Truthless narrowed his eyes. His fingers dug into his sleeves. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The world hadn’t really come back. Not yet.

A pause.

The chill stayed.

The fog didn’t move.

“Why don’t we head back inside?” The Fount shifted his weight, thumb brushing the edge of his sleeve. “You can ask the servants for anything you need—” his gaze flicked toward the doorway, not quite meeting his eyes, “—and if you’d prefer, I’ll… go away for the day. Just the day.”

The wind caught at the Fount’s hair; he exhaled, slow enough to fog the frigidness between them. “But standing here, talking like this…” A faint, rueful smile that didn’t reach his voice. “I don’t want to argue with you. Especially not about something like this, as much as I love debating.”

The Fount’s smile faltered briefly, shadows flickering in his eyes. The wind slipped between them, carrying the smell of lilies again—faint, but enough to turn his stomach.

Truthless didn’t want to either, but a quiet pull kept him rooted.

“Forget it.”

The Fount’s hands clenched on his staff, knuckles whitening. “I will not ‘forget it.’ Not after this, not after what we’ve gone through in this short time together. I’m not blind, Truthless.” His voice tightened just a fraction before softening again. “I see something, ‘deceit’ if you may call it that, eating at you, and I refuse to watch you destroy yourself piece by piece.”

“Watch me then.” Truthless’s voice was low, edged with weary contempt. The bruised blue still pooled at the edge of his vision. “I’m beyond saving.”

The Fount’s voice rose, breaking the ‘calm’ with sharp urgency. “No.”

“You’re not. But you have to let me in. Stop hiding behind your resentment and silence. That bitterness won’t protect you—it’ll bury you.”

”Some wounds cannot be healed.”

“I can fix it.”

“You cannot.”

“I can.”

The Fount stepped closer.

“I will.”

Truthless’s weight shifted back without meaning to, the motion barely a step but enough for his heels to kiss the wall.

“Stop.”

”No.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Then let me.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“It’s my duty.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“It is.”

For a heartbeat, his hand twitched, as if to reach for the Fount’s shoulder. For that same heartbeat, Truthless saw the other hand—the one from the blue. The motion froze, retreating into a clenched fist at his side.

So pointless.

His gaze lifted slowly, sharp and distant, as if trying to cut through the fog inside his own skull. For a fragile moment, he might have leaned into the promise—might have believed in the possibility of repair.

But then, as if the weight of countless failures pressed down on his chest, he turned away. He turned his back to the Fount and walked away, the chill of the empty corridor pressing against his skin.

”Try all you want,” Truthless exhaled the words like smoke. “The outcome is still the same.”

He didn't look back.

Behind him, the Fount stood silent, watching. Regret flickered briefly across his face—almost too quick to see—before he masked it with calm.

Chapter Text

Meaningless.

The lilies. The Fount. Himself.

A step forward, a step away.

Again.

He did not dare look back once.

There was an irony to the whole situation.

Truthless Recluse almost flung himself along the walls, skirting anything, anyone, and still colliding with both.

A vase nearly shattered.

He continued forward.

He shouldn’t have let it get to his head.

He shouldn’t have let it in.

—shouldn’t have let it in.

A turn.

A corner nearly lost.

He ran.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Dizzy. Stupid. Reckless.

His fingers hooked under the collar of his robe, nails scraping dough.

He tried to tear it open as he walked—failed.

Left it be.

Another turn.

His thoughts flickered—blurred fragments of the Fount’s words, the weight of deceit, the ghost of a lily’s petal brushing his cheek. Everything was sharp enough to appear accusatory, gnawing at the edges of reason. Even leaning on his staff, his gaze was a kaleidoscope of color—orange, purple, blue, black. A blur.

Left. Right.

He headed towards his room, but passed it.

Blue, purple, black, orange.

Right. Left.

He pulled himself away from the hallway. His vacant gaze lingered on an unmarked door.

He stepped inside and did not bother to close it lightly.

Inside: darkness. A desk, perhaps. A chair, at most.

Darkness was enough.

Black, purple, blue.

Blue, purple.

Blue.

Shadow Milk.

He dropped hard to his knees, the floor rising to meet him.

Hard. Hurtful.

His hand dug into his face until nails bit dough; his staff clattered away, the fractured gleam of its eye catching his hunched frame—small, terrified, nothing like himself.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Truthless Recluse slammed his hand against the ground and let everything go. His balance tipped, his own weight pulling him to the floor until strands of gold spilled across his face. He rolled onto his back, staring through the darkness at the faint, shapeless blobs of his fingers. There was no particular expression marked on his eyes or lips, only a blankness so visceral it felt unreal. 

Shadow Milk Cookie.

A name. Just a name. Three words. Sixteen letters. 

He shut his eyes and counted again.

One. Two.

Two. Four.

Six. Eight.

Eight. Ten.

Ten. Twelve.

Twelve. Fourteen.

Fourteen. Sixteen.

Sixteen letters.

Sixteen.

A sigh.

It should have emptied him.

It didn’t.

He rolled to his left side, away from the staff, and leaned his head against his arm. His sleeves were cold. The faint throb of his heart lingered in his ear. It was the only sound in the room.

Sixteen.

Sixteen.

Lily petals.

Sixteen.

Such a sickly number. It clogged his throat like bitter jellies. Festered in his mind like spoiled cream.

It would not leave.

The dark swam with it—sixteen in the shape of petals, in the curve of the cracks in the stone, in the beat between his breaths.

He opened his eyes one by one, though there was no reason to. Pressed his hand to his forehead and let out a slow, hollow sigh.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Shadow Milk had appeared for a flicker of a second back then—or perhaps it was only a hallucination. In this place, the thought was hardly absurd. And yet, he had seen it with unbearable clarity.

The ruffled sleeves. That grin—sinister, toying, unbearable.

It was him. No doubt about it.

Why was he still letting himself be controlled?

Why?

Why?

WHY?

His nails dug until dough split.

Crumbs smeared, tacky and warm, followed by jam’s faint flow. He welcomed the sting—the only thing anchored in this place.

Sixteen. Sixteen.

The number wouldn’t bleed out with the splinters.

He pressed his forehead to the cold stone of the ground, breath coming in shallow bursts. It wasn’t enough to drown the image—the ruffles, the grin, the mocking tilt of the head.

He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek until the faint metallic tang bloomed across his tongue. His breath hitched.

A tremor shivered through his arm as he raised it again, slamming his fist against the stone with a hollow crack. Once. Twice. The sound was sharp enough to echo back at him, each repetition a warped mirror of the last.

If it broke, let it break.

Dough. Jam. Himself.

The thought flared, almost sweet in its viciousness. A neat little solution. An end that would at least be his.

But it didn’t happen.

The stone stayed whole. His hand did not shatter. Nothing gave way except the last shreds of heat in his chest.

The tremor stilled.

Then, nothing.

The fire of it burned itself out all at once, leaving only an emptiness so deep it felt weightless.The beat in his chest persisted out of stubborn habit; the warmth of his own jam became just another meaningless fact.

Still, it flowed.

Still, it moved.

He did not.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

No thought. No name. No lilies.

Pointless.

The vacuum closed over him again, familiar and cold.

He let himself sink into it.

The sting in his palm whispered for a moment—then he pressed his hand over it, mending the break without care or feeling. It was just another reflex.

Now there was truly nothing.

Just as it should have always been.

Sixteen.

Meaningless.

He shut his eyes.

Blue, purple again.  His breathing slowed. Deepened. The cold stone beneath him seemed to soften, or perhaps he was simply sinking through it.

Down.
Down.
Down.

Until the floor became a stage.

~~~

A dream.

Or perhaps a nightmare.

Truthless Recluse found himself on the same wretched stage again—his hands tied this time.

Above, the moon dappled the black heavens in pale, monotonous light, gazing down as if it were the only thing that mattered. It watched without warmth, without end.

Below, he sat motionless, tethered by licorice strings beside a pile of the same white flowers as before—only now, each bloom wore a crown of silver, like guests at a funeral no one had agreed to attend.

A dog stepped onto the stage soon after, wearing a padded ruff and little blue leather shoes. It moved with exaggeration, snickering as it approached.

The dog circled him slowly, its paws thudding softly against the warped floorboards. Despite its small size, each footstep echoed like a drumbeat in the hollow theater. Its ruff bounced with every step. Blue leather shoes creaked as it danced mockingly in front of him, a slow spiral of derision.

It sat. Tilted its head.

Then, in a voice like a jolly clown,

“You came back. I thought you’d gotten clever.”

No response.

The strings held him still. One tugged gently at his wrist, then another at his shoulder, like the gesture of a puppeteer not yet ready for the act to begin.

A second moon blinked open above the first.

And then a third.

Each too calm, too prideful. Their light moved like fingers, adjusting a spotlight.

The dog leaned closer.

“Still playing the martyr, are we? Tsk. And here I thought you were finally free of that stupid mindset.”

It grinned—or gave the impression of it, tongue lolling just a little too far, eyes too round, too knowing.

“Though a shame, really. All that running, and you still end up here. You sure know that the stage loves you. Wants you. Keeps your mark warm.”

It paced again, tail wagging with theatrical delight.

“Mercy or price, this time, hm? Hard to tell with you—you tie both up in the same ribbon and call it virtue.”

Then it stopped. Looked up at him, head cocked, voice dipped low — soft and sing-song:

“Did he beg you to stay? Or did you just want to be begged?”

A sharp giggle. The shoes creaked again as it danced in place.

“You never really left, you know. Not you. Not the part that matters.”

The dog tapped one paw against the boards. A hollow sound.

“Shall I start the next act? Or would you prefer another round of regret? We can cue the lilies again. Or—ooh, maybe the library scene. That one’s always a hit.”

It leaned in again, nose nearly touching his.

“…You do so love a tragedy.”

Truthless opened his mouth, but no sound came.

Instead, a white flower bloomed on his tongue. Silver-crowned.

The dog laughed.

The sky peeled back like a curtain.

Behind it: an audience of shadows in neat little rows, clapping in silence—hands no thicker than paper. Their faces were blank, but somehow, he knew them. All of them. Some wore the Fount’s smile. Some, Shadow Milk’s eyes. One wore his own.

The flowers beside him began to tremble, their petals twitching as if waiting for a cue. One by one, they lifted into the air—weightless, breathless—until he was surrounded by a snowfall of soft white crowns.

It reached out—not a paw now, but a gloved hand. Fingers pale and jointed, like marionette limbs. It touched his chest, over the throb of where the Soul Jam would be.

“The moon’s watching. Why not show her what you are?”

The strings unraveled.

Truthless fell forward—but didn’t hit the floor.

His body lightened, limbs unhooked from weight and shame. His breath scattered into pieces.

His back split.

Wings unfurled—delicate, wrong, beautiful.

Soft gray with pale gold eyespots.

A moth. Born of dust and drawn to dying light.

He rose.

Weightless now.

The theater below shrank. The dog barked once in applause.

As he flew, the moon drew nearer.

Its surface shifted—liquid-smooth. Welcoming. Hypnotic.

He flew faster.

Toward it.

Toward her.

Toward whatever he thought he’d lost.

And just as he reached the light—

A gleam.

A whistle.

A crack.

He was shot through the wing.

The world tilted.

Light shattered.

He fell—

Spinning,

Burning,

Silent—

Petals trailing behind him like ash from a candle long snuffed.

No one caught him.

Truthless woke up.

An ache lingered in his back, followed once more by the feeling of hollowness.

And in his mind, a single phrase that had been in the dream echoed:

“You sure know that the stage loves you.”

He sat up in bed, staring half-blankly at the wall.

His bed?

When had he walked to his room?

He blinked.

Had someone moved him?

Pajamas on his body, his robes were neatly arranged on top of a chair, with his hat at the top, beside his staff that leaned against a corner of a wall. Even his shoes had been accommodated to a corner, each with a shine that indicated that someone had bothered to polish them while he was asleep.

Another blink. Followed by a yawn.

The soft sheets were twisted around his legs. The sky outside the window—if it could be called sky—was pale, the puffs of gray hung in all directions, blocking any pathway the light of the sun could take.

He didn’t reach for his robes; for a flicker, he wondered if he was still dreaming.

Truthless just sat there.

Let the minutes pass.

Closed his eyes. Yawned.

Opened them. Sighed and listened.

The castle was changing.

Not the friendly sort of shifting. Not a warm rearrangement to make space for discovery. This was something more subtle. More withdrawn. The hall outside his door was narrower than before. The sconces flickered more than they should. 

After a while, Truthless stood up.

He did not seek him.

Did not even consider it.

He slipped out in silence, robes half-draped, hair uncombed. His hat left behind. He didn’t care.

He didn’t take the main corridors.

Didn’t take any corridor, really—he just walked until the walls let him through. The castle, though dim, still obeyed him in its own way. But it no longer seemed to want to spoil him. No longer hinted at hidden alcoves or secret passageways.

Now, it only watched.

Some halls ended before they should. Others stretched too long. Once, he passed through the same archway twice—but it had moved. The walls breathed, faint and rhythmic, as if trying to lull him into forgetting.

A portrait blinked as he passed. He told himself it was the light.

Further down, a hallway twisted inward. The floor curved slightly wrong. He didn’t question it. Just stepped over the ripple, past the mural at the end of the corridor.

The Fount again.

Only now—his halo of lilies had browned. Not paint decay, not mold. The blossoms themselves seemed to have aged. One petal curled off and dropped to the frame.

Truthless kept walking.

He turned a corner and found a door he didn’t know.

Not necessarily a new room. Not even unfamiliar. Simply off.

Inside, a study. Ink-stained desk. Dust on the shelves. A single silver-crowned lily pressed between the pages of an open book.

And beside it, a mask.

Moth-shaped. The same one the child had given him at the festival. But here, its wings were cracked. One eyespot gouged out. The ribbon torn.

He didn’t touch it.

Didn’t touch anything.

But the room exhaled. Cold, quiet, grieving.

Then—

Clap.

Soft. Paper-thin.

He turned.

Nothing.

But he heard it again. Again. Again.

Clap. Clap.

Like applause from another room. Faint, but steady. A rhythm he knew but couldn’t name. He left the study, steps quicker now, turning toward the sound—

And stopped.

The corridor ahead had vanished.

In its place: curtains.

Red velvet, rippling softly. A stage behind them. Unlit.

He stood very still.

He hadn’t walked this far. Hadn’t meant to.

But something was drawing them open.

The curtains parted.

And there he was.

Standing center stage.

Not now. Not here. But then—the version of himself from before, bound in strings, a white flower blooming on his tongue.

Robes of a golden color, a bright blue Soul Jam and its pendant at the place of his heart.

And sitting in the first row of the audience: the dog.

Still wearing its blue leather shoes. Still smiling.

But when it clapped this time, it had Truthless’s hands.

Clap.

Clap.

Clap.

He couldn’t stop.

The sound echoed around the area, bouncing off walls that might not exist. His hands moved on their own, following the rhythm, faster, harder. The dog in the audience grinned wider, impossibly knowing.

At first, it was mechanical. A reflex. Then—something shifted.

A sick warmth pooled in his stomach. He glanced at the version of himself on stage—the bound, struggling puppet with the white flower blooming on his tongue. His own face, twisted with helplessness. And something inside him stirred, dark and small.

He felt a chuckle, faint and wet, rise in his throat.

The sound startled him, but he didn’t stop. He could almost taste it—bitter, metallic, like the jam on his mouth not too long ago. The wings of the moth-self trembled as it tried to rise. He clapped louder.

He was enjoying it.

Horrible, unthinkable, but true. Every flinch, every struggle, every gasp that came from that version of himself made the warmth twist tighter. His chest tightened. His lips parted. And the chuckle came again, louder this time, breaking into a staccato rhythm that matched his applause.

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

A pulse throbbed in his ears, syncing with the echo of his own hands. The theater tilted and spun, the shadows in the audience leaning forward, eager. The dog barked, barked again—mocking, cheering. The applause of a single, twisted soul multiplied infinitely in the dark.

Truthless shivered, the pleasure of it sour and sweet at once. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was cruel. Yet he couldn’t stop. He watched himself suffer, helpless, and felt… satisfaction. A spark of something alive that he hadn’t felt in ages.

He laughed.

A low, ragged sound. It started in his chest, spilled from his throat, and rose into the empty theater.

The dog barked again, as if congratulating him.

He couldn’t stop clapping.

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

His hands moved faster now, the rhythm jagged, compulsive. The moth-self writhed and flapped weakly, its wings brushing the air, shimmering gray with pale gold eyespots. The dog barked in time with him, a sharp, gleeful accompaniment.

The floor seemed to dissolve beneath him. Light bent and curved, folding the theater around his senses. The moth-self trembled, wings lifting. He could feel it—the pull, irresistible, dragging him forward. Truthless’s body began to move, rising, floating toward the stage.

Air—or something like it—brushed past his face as he hovered. He could see the golden robes, the Soul Jam glinting at the heart of that bound puppet. A strange, sharp thrill coursed through him, the same sick warmth from before twisting in his gut.

And then—he raised his arm. His hand, heavy and trembling, gripped the imaginary bow, the weapon of some cruel theater. The aim was automatic, almost instinct. His other self, helpless and flailing, stared up with wide, terrified eyes.

A pulse of light. A sharp whistle.

Truthless let it go.

The strike hit. The wings of the moth-self fluttered violently, a shimmer of gray and gold spiraling outward. The white flower on its tongue trembled, tilting, drooping. And yet, the bound puppet remained suspended in midair, fragile and human in its failure.

He laughed. Wet. Husky. Ragged. It spilled from his throat.  

The dog barked. Again. Again. Cheering, mocking.  

The moth-self flailed. Wings weak, trembling.  

He clapped. Faster. Harder.

“Oh-ho! Look at you, all shiny and golden! You think you’re so clever! Gnat!”
The words spat out before he could stop them.

He froze, suspended above the stage. The sound was his own, and yet… not. The syllables, the tone—Shadow Milk’s. He had just said something he would have said. A delight in cruelty, entrapped in his throat like live wire.

A shudder ran through him. He bent over, clutching his stomach as the room tilted. Nausea hit—hot, sour, metallic.

His wings—his own, delicate and real—shivered in the void, trembling under the weight of what he had just done.

He watched the moth-self flail, saw the agony mirrored in those wide, terrified eyes, and the sick satisfaction gnawed at him. And yet, buried beneath that horror, a deeper, more terrifying truth whispered: He had enjoyed it. He had taken part. He had become this.

“Gnat…” The word escaped again, almost a sigh, almost a curse. He pressed his face to his hands, biting into palms, trying to anchor himself to something real, anything real.

The theater spun. The dog barked. The applause rose and fell, jagged and infinite. Truthless hung in the air, caught between nausea and power, laughter and horror, the cruelest performance of all.

“I… I said that,” he whispered.

A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips. The nausea surged again, hot and bitter. Another low, hollow chuckle escaped him. It was his, but not. It made him feel both enormous and small, giddy and sick. The theater spun. The moth-self fell, flapping its broken wings, and the dog barked once more.

The theater vanished.

Truthless woke up.

~~~

Chapter Text

Shuffling. Screaming. Singing.

A snatched basket, a scolded child, a man bellowing frustration.

The din seeped into his half-lingering dream, pulling him unwillingly into wakefulness. He groaned, body sluggish, mind tangled in tattered images. Light flickered beneath the door. The castle was fully awake; he remained adrift in drowse.

‘Gnat’ lingered on his tongue.

Bitter, yet thrilling—his own words.

The word left his lips again—a mere muffle, too faint to satisfy. His mind drifted through half-sleep, the thrill fading before he could fully grasp it. Though he wasn't conscious enough to realize it yet.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, dreams and memory shuffling in small sparks, conflating into a mixture of regret and torment. At this point, he did not question the authenticity of what he saw. Memories of sheep intertwined with strings of licorice. In one fragment, a dog lingered throughout the halls of the Academy, watching him and White Lily Cookie as they headed to class. The Sugar-Free Road seemed to lead to the Spire of All Knowledge. A moth silently followed behind him.

A faint scent of butter seeped in from beyond, followed by blueberries and calendula; his sense of smell awoke.

He buried his hand in his hair and grumbled, leaning to his right side. The thought of him shooting himself sprang to mind. How he enjoyed it—“enjoyed” it? Enjoyed it?

A terrifying thought, really. But a thought all together, no? Just a thought. An illusion. A mere nightmare. Not the truth. 

Right?

He opened his eyes wider, anchoring himself. Even waking was a relief from the nightmare. An ache pressed against his back. A creeping absence followed, claiming the gelid void within him.

He pinched himself; it stung.

He was awake.

Now the fragrance of echinacea clung to his nostrils.

Hours must have passed since he shut himself away, perhaps the entire day; the shift in temperature and movement beyond the door suggested it. The light outside had grown cooler; what had been noon must now have stretched into afternoon. And most importantly, the Fount must have surely been too busy to try to find him.

He remained in the frigid confinement of the dark, small room. All was as he had last seen it: bleak, barely visible, tangible. Comforting, yet oppressive. Still perched against the tiled floor, with hair resting unruly. Meanwhile, his hat lay to the side, perhaps displaced by restless movement in sleep, and the staff rested as he had left it, sloppily dropped.

Truthless Recluse pulled himself upright, muscles stiff from the cold. He rubbed his left hand on the tendons of his shoulder, caressing it with enough pressure to make the ache sting. A faint whine escaped him, reverberating through the room as his eyes found his former wounds. Though there was no pain, neither the wound on his hand nor the one in his mouth had fully healed.

He let his hand fall to his side. Minutes slipped by, blurring together as he tried to muffle the echo of his dream and the lingering trace of his last conversation with the Fount. It seemed to be working.

The Soul Jam remained awfully quiet. He found some small relief in that; its silence was preferable to anything else—anything that might strike at him from within or without. If only it remained that way always.

“You’re only dim when it conveniences you.”

Truthless Recluse drew in a shuddering breath and extended his arm towards the staff, letting it rest lightly against his fingers. His vision cleared fully; he could see where he truly was and now saw his own fingers. Wherever he was… this space felt fundamentally different from the rest of the castle. It simply felt that way.

He rubbed his forehead gently, as if to ensure whatever trivial emotion had spiraled out of control moments before had fully calmed.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Nothing. Perfect.

He grasped his knees and shuffled toward the staff. Slowly, he rose, joints protesting, leaning against the staff. His hat remained forgotten on the floor. He left it there. 

The room felt smaller than before.

He needed to leave.

The thought struck him suddenly, urgent and inexplicable. Though by no means overwhelming.

The door handle was cold under his palm. He turned it slowly, wincing at the soft click. As he opened it, light spilled into the room, ray by ray. The scents from beyond now permeated every corner. And the chaos…

Voices collided with each other, overlapping in sharp crescendos and murmurs alike. Footsteps clattered against floor, echoing and mixing with the voices. A tray tipped somewhere, sending a clatter of glass across the floor. Laughter rose, murmurs judged. A few glances made their way to the door where he stood, before minding their own business. 

Watching. Laughter. Running. Yelling.

Each scent and sound struck his senses without his permission in an overbearing, overwhelmingly suffocating manner. It reminded him a lot of his second day there. Rampantly alive and tumultuous.

The only solution Truthless could ever think of was to retreat. To anywhere else.

And that’s precisely what he did.

He stepped forward. 

Kept moving. Step by step. 

He let the hallway press against him, wrap around him, try to push him back. Still, he moved forward.

A child squealed in delight as they tripped over a cloak, and a cookie behind them barked laughter. A man argued furiously with someone about some trivial task—cleaning, arranging, measuring—and the words barely registered beyond the rhythm of the day.

Truthless took a right turn.

The light shifted again, warmer this time, almost teasing, dancing along his robe. He noticed the slight curvature of the tiles where they had warped over time. The ceiling arched higher than it should have, or perhaps it felt higher in the loudness. 

Step. Step. Step.

He adjusted his pace, letting the textures beneath his boots guide him as much as the clamor around him.

He took another right, the hallway stretching eastward.

Truthless flinched as grit sifted from a beam overhead, catching in the weak light. The handle of a door brushed against his sleeve as he passed, metal cold and smooth. Somewhere ahead, a floorboard groaned as cookies ran over it.

Another step.

Through it all, the Soul Jam remained silent. Not a word. Not a flicker. Had Truthless not given it a few glances as he walked, he would have forgotten it was even there. 

And still, he walked. Until he was far enough for the crowd and the scent of medicinal herbs was but an afterthought.

~~~

The next few hours he spent aimlessly wandering the castle halls—a meander with no destination, a deliberate wasting of time that felt like the only authentic action left. For all its grandiose exterior, the interior was a world without a map, a paradox of finite space feeling infinitely recursive. He passed through places he thought he remembered, yet the number of unfamiliar corners seemed to have doubled overnight. All wore the same lilac, blue, and sometimes white, a palette nauseating to anyone lost for too long. He felt no such discomfort. If anything, the thought of being lost seemed ideal.

His boots found their own path, ignoring where one corridor bled into another. The air shifted without him noticing—warmer, then cool again—and his steps began to echo longer. By the time he looked up, he had crossed into a quieter wing.

Quieter was an understatement.

It was empty. Architecturally the same as the rest, perhaps even more polished for the lack of wear, but utterly uninhabited. Not a single soul moved through its hallways. Even the wind seemed unwilling to intrude. The silence was perfect, and Truthless found he appreciated it.

Though the silence allowed him to think. And that in itself would eventually come to torment him—later.

As of now, Truthless had another idea in mind. To play pretend at a lack of feeling, and walk. 

So he walked.

Click. Click.

Only his boots and staff dared disturb the silence.

He crossed through dozens of neatly arranged bookshelves that seemed to litter the main corridors. At one point, he dragged his fingers through the rim of the shelves. It was buried in coats of dust. Truthless narrowed his eyes, grabbed his sleeve and attempted to clean it. His sleeve was left a grayish tint.

Still no flicker from the Soul Jam.

A memory of the argument with the Fount tried to replay in his mind. He pushed it aside.

A subtle trail of blueberry lingered as he went deeper. He ignored it.

His thoughts drifted in and out. Sometimes he walked for minutes before clarity returned, only to find himself three passageways away with no memory of crossing them. Other times, awareness would fade again, and he would resurface by a lone tower window, the horizon blank and pale. He would turn back, follow the same path, and notice details he swore hadn’t been there before—an extra arch, a missing door.

A portrait of the Fount appeared on a wall to his left. He passed it without much thought, until it appeared again a few minutes later. The second time, the bow in the painted hair was a shade darker. The third time, the eyes seemed to stare at him directly.

A whisper of laughter seemed to follow, too faint to be real. The scent of blueberry grew stronger.

He pressed on, moving through a garden where the birds’ chirps drifted lazily around him. His feet dragged across the stone path, as if each step were a chore.

And still, there was not a single soul.

~~~

The emptiness ended without warning.

The further he went, the more the order unraveled. At first, it was subtle—a shelf slightly overstuffed, a chair with a dusty shawl draped over its back. But the mess multiplied with every step. Books, more books than he thought existed in the castle at all, spilled from open cabinets and teetered in stacks along the walls. Some floating in place. Scrolls lay curled across the floor, their ribbons half-tied or undone entirely. Here and there, the sharp glint of a magical trinket caught the light: a silver astrolabe perched precariously atop a pile of maps, a crystal sphere half-buried beneath parchment.

The Fount’s half of the castle, perhaps. It bore no formal declaration, but the evidence was in every small chaos.

A soft patter broke through the chaos. He glanced down.

A rabbit—pure white, ears lolling slightly forward—sat in the middle of the carpet. A blue bow tied neatly around its neck shifted as it twitched its nose at him. Without waiting for acknowledgement, it hopped a few steps away, then stopped and looked back.

He frowned.

The rabbit stamped a paw.

It became obvious this was not an idle wanderer. With a reluctant sigh, he followed.

The path narrowed, book-strewn and interrupted by half-finished stacks that forced him to step carefully. The air warmed, then thinned, until the faintest scent of greenery crept in. When the rabbit slipped through a low archway, he stooped to follow—emerging into a garden.

The blueberry was gone.

It wasn’t the grand, manicured kind he would have expected along the castle walls. This one was enclosed, hemmed in by white stone, its edges overgrown as if tended in bursts of devotion rather than disciplined routine. Beds of alabaster flowers pressed against one another, crowding for space. Their perfume—sweet, milky—hung thick in the air. The same flowers as always.

The rabbit vanished into the foliage. Truthless made no effort to follow.

He crouched beside the nearest patch, reaching toward a bloom—small, pale, trembling under his touch. His fingers lingered on the petals without plucking them, thumb brushing the cupped top as if memorizing its shape. He leaned in, breathed its scent, and let it go. It reminded him a bit of the Fount’s crown. His mind shook itself free of the thought.

”Milkcrowns.” 

The voice came from behind, startling him.

There was not a one.

“Lovely little things, aren’t they?” the voice continued, soft and almost teasing. “Master always said they don’t need sun or soil. They just… grow, do as they please.”

Master?

“Who’s there?” Truthless demanded. Another voice? Or had his mind finally cracked completely? 

“Someone who talks to blooms, if you must know.”

Truthless whipped around, but the garden held only swaying flowers and the hush of leaves. No one.

He narrowed his eyes. “Show yourself.”

”No can do. But hey, you’re the Fount’s guest, are you not?”

That word again. Truthless stiffened. “I am,” he said hesitantly. “Who are you?”

“Nob.”

“Nob?”

“No-body!”

“…”

A flicker of annoyance ran through his forehead, but he quickly dismissed it.

“Call me what you will, who cares!”

Truthless pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowing. He had no interest in entertaining riddles, whispers, or whatever this was. Yet the sound, soft and teasing as it danced through the blooms, lingered in his mind.

“Why speak?” Truthless asked.

A sigh, airy, like wind teasing a bell: “Because silence grows dull without a witness… and play is best when uninvited, no?”

Truthless’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Enough riddles,” he said. “If you have purpose, speak it. Otherwise, leave.”

 The voice shifted—now higher, then lower. “Purpose?” It trilled, like a key in an unasked-for lock. “Oh, I disagree… why seek understanding when you can have such delicious mystery? A pinch of mercy, perhaps, hmmm?”

Mercy.

“I see enough,” he said, his voice flat. “And I hear enough. You exist, then. That is your purpose. Now leave.”

A pause. Then: “Ah, boring. But as you wish… for now. But dear, stay away from the running white petals, or they may bite. Though… golden fruits are far more dangerous than white flowers, wouldn’t you say? They show such interesting things.”

Nob’s laughter danced across the stems, high and bright, and then… silence. The garden returned to stillness, though Truthless could feel it watching, just beyond sight. He exhaled, tension easing slightly, and turned back to the blooms, their pale heads nodding gently in the windless air.

~~~

Truthless sat there for what appeared to be an eternity. The rabbit was not too pleased. He couldn’t help but faintly smile at it.

It stormed back from the bushes. Ears stiff, its tiny bow askew as though the leaves themselves had tried to hold it back. It looked ready to unleash a torrent of rabbit profanities.

With an indignant stomp of its hind legs, it darted in front of him, circling once before planting itself just out of reach. Its nose twitched—rapid, impatient.

He made no effort to move.

The rabbit flicked its head toward the far end of the garden. Truthless sighed.

When he still didn’t respond, it took three deliberate hops and turned to stare at him again, the way a servant might wait for a master’s approval, or a guide for a lost traveler’s courage… violently. 

Beyond it, the archway’s shadow seemed deeper than before, the white stone around it dimmed to a sallow grey. Somewhere past that threshold, something shifted—soft, like pages turning in an empty room.

The rabbit stamped again. This time, he rose.

It darted ahead with a flash of white and pale ribbon, weaving between leaning stacks of books that had no reason to be in a garden. He followed—slowly, like the air itself pressed against him.

The archway swallowed him into a corridor lined with shelves that buckled under their burden. Scrolls spilled over one another in loose knots of ribbon, their ends curling like dried leaves. In places, the floor was so choked with paper he had to step high to avoid crushing it. The scent shifted again—blueberry and milk, faint and sweet, unmistakably the Fount’s. Lamps hung low here, still from the lack of wind.

The rabbit kept glancing back, the pale bow bobbing with each hop. It led him through turns that grew narrower and stranger, until the corridor broke into a small circular chamber.

This room was… different.

It didn’t hum with the quiet grandeur of the castle, nor the calculated clutter of a study. It was disorderly—mess left where it fell, cushions bearing the shape of someone who had just risen. Open books slouched against one another on the floor, their pages reaching toward the warmth of a faintly glowing hearth.

And there—sprawled carelessly over a small table—were things that should not belong near books: a plate dusted with sugar crumbs, a tea cup alongside splotches of tea stains on important looking documents. 

The rabbit sat at the threshold and did not enter, as if what lay beyond was not for it to disturb.

Truthless stepped inside, lifting his robe to avoid the books strewn in precarious stacks across the floor. A box shifted underfoot; he caught himself on a chair, pursed his lips.

Why was he doing this again?

He stared back at the rabbit that seemed adamant to having him look around. It seemed to snicker, or growl.

After, he picked his way deeper, past leaning towers of tomes and half-toppled piles, until he reached the desk.

Papers spilled from its surface, corners smudged with fingerprints. He spotted another teacup balanced precariously near the desk’s edge and pushed it to safety.

He brushed a sleeve over the nearest chair before sitting. A slip of parchment lay half-tucked beneath a quill—short, handwritten, and half illegible. A few lines about the archives. A date. Then one sentence so strange he read it twice before deciding it was meaningless out of context. The faint sweetness of blueberry milk ghosted sharper here, twirling under the scent of paper until it was almost saccharine.

He set it down.

Another shard of the fight drove itself into his mind—louder this time, rampant, uninvited. 

“I need you to—”

His shoulders stiffened. 

No.

The sound was pressed flat, crumpled into some dark corner where it could no longer breathe.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

His gaze, idle at first, swept the rest of the room—and caught on something at the far corner.

A muted gleam—gold, but not quite—hovered there, the way light might cling to the surface of still water. He looked away before it could settle into focus. Not important. Not now.

He leaned an elbow against the desk, flipping through a loose sheaf of papers as if reading could smother the urge to look again. His gaze caught instead on an old bookmark pressed between the pages—stained faintly with what might have been tea. Had Truthless assumed, the Fount was probably too caught up in his readings again. He pressed his lips tightly together.

For a moment, the scent of blueberry milk rose sharper, prickling the air. He covered his nose.

Truthless stood and reached for a book from the nearest shelf—nearly losing his balance again—its spine flaking beneath his touch. He thumbed it open, but the words blurred, his eyes drifting back toward that corner.

A glint.

Gold.

It rested on a square of dark cloth, no bigger than an apple, perfectly smooth. The way it reflected light was wrong—too slow, as if it absorbed more than it gave back.

He tried to ignore it, flipping through brittle pages, but the presence of it pressed against his vision until he had to glance again. The rabbit’s head tracked the same way, nose twitching once, twice, before it sank low to the ground as if nearness alone might be dangerous.

A sigh slipped from him, half exasperation, half surrender.

Before he quite realized it, he was standing over it.

Up close, the orb’s surface seemed impossibly clean, untouched by the dust that had claimed everything else. Its gold was deeper than mere metal—impossibly rich, magical in nature. The faintest warmth radiated from it, though the room was otherwise still.

His hand hovered, fingers curved as if drawn forward by something he could neither name nor resist. The thought of touching it struck him with equal parts pull and dread.

He hesitated.

A lamp flickered in the corner.

He should leave it.

He knew he should.

Yet his gaze returned, again and again.

At last, he reached out.

As his fingers approached the golden surface, he could swear he heard that teasing voice again: ‘Golden fruits are far more dangerous…’ But when he looked around, only the rabbit watched from the doorway, nose twitching as if it knew exactly what he was about to discover.

Something struck him.

The world shifted within his eyes, golden threads of words and memory spilling into his mind. He saw countless things, paths that folded back on themselves like origami, spells of magic woven through time itself—knowledge that only he at that moment had privy to.

And there, among the cascading revelations, something specific crystallized. A location. An answer.

His hand jerked back from the orb as if burned, but the knowledge remained, etched behind his eyes like afterimages of lightning. The room swam back into focus—the scattered papers, the rabbit watching from the doorway, the faint scent of cold tea.
But now he knew.

“So that’s the scroll…”

Truthless turned towards the rabbit again.

It was gone.

That teasing laughter echoed once more through his mind—satisfied now, complete—before fading entirely.

~~~

Somewhere, the Fount drowned.

Chapter Text

There was a room the castle did not show.

No corridor led to it. No door ever had.

Yet that night, it held light.

The Fount of Knowledge sat by a narrow desk, a candle flickering as the only source of illumination. The room had no true walls; they were intangible, deep navy in color, akin to something conjured from magic. Unreal, as though stolen from a story that should not exist.

Not that anyone would have appreciated the comparison.

The Fount wrote, or nearly did. Quill in hand, it hovered more than moved, trailing half-formed strokes on recycled sugar paper. The quill’s tip caught briefly on the fibers of the page. A few words were scratched in, then crossed out. Some were circled, others were underlined. The paper crinkled under invisible pressure. Every stroke of ink seemed to resist its own form, curling and twisting as if reluctant to become language. 

Drip. 

He scratched the side of his head, pressing the quill’s tip to his lips. No words came. Another attempt followed, only to collapse into another scribble.

Nothing.

Another try. Only a single word emerged: dear. Half-willing, barely formed. He tapped his head, twisting a strand of hair.

For once, he—of all cookies—could not think.

His fingers ached from drumming on the desk, ink smeared across his skin, metallic on his tongue. Thoughts tangled in his mind—blurs of images, words jumbled up, vanishing before he could grasp them. A cold crawled into his bones. He blinked repeatedly, willing the darkness to offer clarity, as if the candlelight itself could summon ideas that had not yet been born.

A shiver.

Surely just a chill. A gust, or something like it, rustled the page. He stilled it with two fingers, though it did not try to flee again.

One sentence remained.

He did not finish it.

The quill dangled like a blade about to drop. The ink bled for him, in place of word.

Drip.

He set the quill aside. Not carefully.

The candle guttered.

The Fount rose, glanced half at the paper.

And then he was gone.

There was no door. No footstep.

The paper did not flutter. The wax continued to drip.

The ink gleamed, still wet.

And that was all.

~~~

Drip.

Mirrors are such detestable things.

Especially ones dripping with truths.

Truthless stood in the midst of half a dozen mirrors—perhaps even more. Naturally, the place was confusing; confusion was its very nature. An endless zoo of paper and stone.

After the little ‘situation’ with ‘Nob’—and the study—Truthless had decided to keep walking. Why? To find the scroll, of course.

The answer. The ‘magnum opus’ of solutions. The key. The “way” out. Whatever metaphor might have worked in the endless labyrinth of literary language and philosophy that was the castle. Or the Spire. Surely, in its most absolute form, it had to be the Spire of Deceit, even if this was some kind of construct, or past, or mind game.

After all, if he was to find a scroll, what better place to search than the lair of the beast?

Led by nothing but instinct through countless corridors, he found the mirrors.

And because things clearly could not have been simple, they were no mere mirrors. But that was for Truthless to find out.

For now, he simply stared. No grand act. No theatrical flair of despair, as there had been moments ago. In the vast sea of emotions, Truthless at that moment felt nothing, an emptiness in its absolute form. Meaningless, anticlimactic, calming yet secretly deteriorating. 

He watched.

Himself.

The half-dirtied sleeve.

The purple lines beneath his eyes. Each night they seemed to deepen. He looked frail, hollow, and the lack of eating—despite the feasts—did little to soften the image.

His feet carried him onward before he realized it. The slow tap of his shoes. The click of his staff. The dragging of cloak and robe. The sounds too sharp in the silence.

One mirror showed him smaller than he was, another wider—just enough to trick the eye into thinking him healthier, one tilted the world, tilting him along with it. The warped reflections teased his mind, each false angle suggesting a version of himself he did not recognize—and did not fully trust. However, there was a strange charm to the carnival of distortions, a sense of humor in the chaos, though circumstances made laughter impossible. But what need had the Fount for so many mirrors? Surely his vanity was not too extravagant…

Yet the mirrors were too clean. Not a speck, not a smear.

He walked on.

The echoes of his own steps began to fall half a beat behind, as though something followed in rhythm. 

The mirrors seemed endless. Then he stopped. Before him stood a mirror much larger than the rest.

After a moment, Truthless stopped for a long while to continue his loitering. Before him was shockingly yet another mirror. This time, it appeared to be bigger than the rest.

Much bigger in fact. 

It was strangely familiar.

Truthless felt a tug toward it, rather uneasy but unable to look away. His heart raced, hammering against the hush of the corridor, and a shiver ran along his spine. 

He shook his head.

Its frame was silver, undulled by time, gleaming as if smelted from distilled moonlight. Blueberries and lilies twined along its edges in neat arranges of pairs. Unlike the warped and imperfect panes, this one was flawless. Regal. A mirror fit not for a corridor, but a throne room.

It reflected him with such delicate exactness that for an instant he wondered if it was not glass at all, but another world, one where he stood just as still—half a breath behind.

A shadow crouched in a corner of a mirror, poised and patient. The shape was vaguely familiar. Candlelight glimmered on a desk that did not exist, and subtle ink lines seemed to crawl across the pane before dissolving into nothing. His pulse quickened; the mirrors were drawing him onward. 

Yet, he stared at it for longer than he should have.

For one reason only.

It did not reflect his face.

~~~

When the Fount opened a door, he was not expecting the other side to be empty.

Grand as it was to speculate endlessly the phenomena, he for once did not wish to know.

And yet, lilies bloomed there—petals pale as moons, unfurling from cracks in a place with no soil. 

Such fragile things, sprouting where nothing should grow. Like words on the Fount’s page. Like hope, where none belonged.

Drip.

~~~

The lilies swayed. The ink gleamed. The wax bled down the candle. And somewhere else, in another corridor, Truthless approached the mirror.

He wasn’t imagining. It truly did not show his face. 

For a heartbeat, there was blank—an empty oval of silver, polished too clean. He leaned closer. Still nothing. No eyes. No mouth. No truth. Truthless searched for a flicker of his own features, a familiar shadow in the silver, but there was nothing. Only the shape of his body, a hollow shell, and the faint echo of something he had once called self. The glass rejected him.

Surely another mind game.

His hand rose, almost of its own accord, and the glass shivered with the echo of the motion—but it did not touch the surface in time. The reflection was always late, a fraction behind. He pressed his hand against the mirror to see if it was smudged or dirty. Nothing.

Truthless staggered back. The mirror remained calm, imperious, untouchable—and then, absurdly, a bunny passed by. Impossibly quiet.

The bunny did not care about Truthless's dilemma. It hopped across the mirror’s reflection, not the floor. Its paws rippled across glass, leaving faint rings as though it moved upon water.

Truthless blinked. Slowly. He turned his head, but on the ground before him, there was nothing. No pawprints. No creature. Only dust.

He faced the mirror again. The bunny still lingered within, sniffing at the faint outline of his blurred face. Perhaps mockingly.

Then—it froze.

Drip.

A bead of moisture slid down the glass, though there was no source.

The rabbit’s eyes flicked up—to him. Through him. Past him.

The rabbit’s nose brushed the glass.

The mirror fogged.

The faint flicker of a yellow hat.

Ruffled sleeves.

A silver crown.

Truthless rubbed his eyes. 

For a second—only a second—his reflection wore strands of black and blue, threads glimmering in fractured glass. A sudden glint of gold followed. Nothing lingered. It returned to normal. Black robe contrasting against pale strands of hair. 

He sighed.

When was the last time he had spent so long staring at his reflection? It almost made him feel vain, absurdly out of character. It was time to go. He had a scroll to find. Places to most certainly be.

Until he saw her.

In a shimmer between panes, a pale figure darted across the mirrored hall—a white blur, moving faster than his eyes could follow. Petals seemed to trail her steps. Compulsion pulled at him, urging his feet forward, quicker, toward a place he could not yet see. Each mirror he passed reflected her in fragments, teasing, always just out of reach.

He quickened his pace. The hall stretched and twisted around him, mirrors multiplying, corners folding, reflections doubling.

Sometimes she vanished entirely, leaving only a trace of cold petals drifting in the silver, and he stumbled over corridors that were not there a moment ago.

Time bent around the chase; one step stretched into a heartbeat, a heartbeat collapsed into a second. He could not measure it, could not know how far, or how near, or if the chase had already begun before he arrived.

Each mirror dissolved her into fragments before his fingers could touch.
Then she reappeared, just beyond the next pane.

She stopped. In one mirror she stood fully, braided white hair catching the dim hall light, red eyes fixed, the purple uniform neat, the small coned hat straight. She smiled. Directly at him. The glass held her alone, and the hall seemed to shrink around it. 

Truthless froze. His own features did not appear. Yet there was the girl, so small yet so familiar, looking at him with the same recognition she always did. With a faint smile, hiding a peculiar sadness yet carrying a warmth only a friend could recognize, his hands itched to reach through.

The girl’s hand lifted and pressed against the glass. The surface shimmered, rippled crawling outward like liquid silver, undulating under her touch. He reached toward her without thinking. Then she grabbed his wrists. There was no strength to resist.

Her smile widened as she leaned forward, and tugged him closer.

He followed, every fiber of his body pulled forward, until the moment the surface swallowed him, and the hall behind him bent, twisted, and disappeared.

He fell, but not downward. The world pressed in from every side, his arms weightless, then heavy. Colors throbbed at the corners of his vision. The girl’s smile swirled in the silver of the glass, repeated, stretched, disappearing and returning in fragments that moved independently of her body. The sound of his own breathing echoed, slowed, and then vanished.

A tug at his mind pulled him forward, deeper into the hall that no longer resembled a hall. Time bent. Every step he imagined became both instant and endless. He struggled to reach the girl, to grab the braided hair, the small hat—but his hands passed through the mirror as though through thick water.

Then the pull eased. Solid ground—or something like it—met his feet. The mirror closed behind him with a subtle hum, leaving only a lingering shimmer on the surface, the faint trace of her smile.

She waited, patient, her eyes pulling him further, insistence soft but irresistible. The hall had changed. The corridors were gone. Only she and the space around her remained, and a quiet insistence: follow.

She ran. He followed. The hall twisted beneath them, folding, unspooling, and folding again, until neither knew where the chase began—or if it would ever end.

Truthless ran, lungs aching, yet the girl always remained just beyond reach, floating ahead in gravity-defying arcs. She gave him nothing less than a soft laugh, not quite enough to be considered sinister, but not quite warm.

Why am I chasing her?

Why does it matter so much?

The question dissolved before he could answer, swept aside by the rhythm of his own footfalls. Mirrors fractured into fragments, corridors bent, floors disappeared and reappeared under him. Time was a suggestion; space, an illusion.

Was he dreaming again?

A sudden red glow appeared ahead, flickering and shifting. Warmth, light, danger—the hall had become a blaze. Flames sprinkled across the walls, twisting on each other vigorously in a dance of death. His throat constricted. 

Still, he ran. Feet pounding against the warped floor, dodging whips of fire, lungs rasping with every breath. The heat smoldering against him, but he could not stop. Hoping to not be burned.

White Lily leapt across the fire, petals scattering about. She giggled, carefree, as if the inferno were nothing more than merely a game meant for her own amusement. Her small hand beckoned him forward.

Fire crawled upward, but the walls weren’t stone anymore—bark split beneath the blaze, roots tore through the floor. He stumbled into a forest already burning, branches clutching fire like torches raised against him. Yet, the trees did not fully burn. The blaze only spread around him, illuminating a path that insisted urgency.  

Branches clawed at his sleeves. The air burned his throat with every lunge. The laughter rang ahead, skipping between the trunks—too close, too far, echoing all about. His legs moved before thought could catch them.

Each giggle sharpened his frustration. Each time she turned her head to glance back, smiling, his chest tightened further. He gritted his teeth. He could feel anger knotting itself in his stomach, rising, hot as the blaze around him.

Why won’t she stop? 

Among the flames, a shimmer of silver caught his eye.

At first, he thought it a trick of heat, a wavering of air. But no—there, between the blackened trunks, the shape emerged. A tree, its boughs drawn in light. Silver, cold, endless. Its branches rose higher than sight, vanishing into smoke that did not dare touch it.

His fury faltered. His legs slowed.

A chill unlike the blaze pressed into his chest, a deep ache that hollowed his ribs. His vision swam, doubling. For a moment he forgot how to breathe. Each beat of his heart thudded too loud, then too slow, as though it were trying to climb out of rhythm. His stomach twisted with an unnameable sickness, and in the pit of it, fear—raw, endless.

A thought.

The thought cracked through him before he could stop it, a whisper that did not sound like his own. The silver branches shimmered again, and with them came a pang of recognition he could not explain, sharper than grief, deeper than dread. His knees buckled.

He stumbled, clutching at nothing.

The world tilted. Flames bent, trees warped, the ground heaved under his shoes. His breath came shallow, ragged. The silver tree blurred, splitting into fragments, its radiance clawing at his eyes until he thought they might tear.

“Stop,” he whispered, though at what—he could not tell. His hand lifted despite himself, fingers outstretched, reaching for silver he did not want to touch.

Then laughter shattered it. White Lily’s laughter.

She darted across the blaze, hand raised, and with the flick of her wrist the forest dissolved. Embers chased her, scattered in the air. Fire died out. The silver vanished last, a streak of light dragged away into nothing.

He gasped, clutching air, lungs aching as though he had drowned. The fire was gone. The forest—gone. The corridor, returned.

Only the sound of her feet, pattering across stone, petals scattering across another corridor.

He followed. He had no choice.

Drip.

The corridor convulsed. Walls stretched, melted, then shrank to nothing; the floor buckled like wet parchment. One blink, and he was back inside his room. Another, and the stone corridors had bled into an open hall of infinite flower meadows.

White Lily skipped ahead through it all. Her feet barely touched the ground. Her giggle rippled through the distortions.

Fragments bled into the walls. A desk he knew, but could not place. A cracked crown, glinting and gone. The glimmer of a dark pool, vast and still, vanishing the moment he turned. A shape sitting by it—was it the Fount?—always half-hidden, always slipping through the cracks of memory.

Memory or dream, he could not tell.

White Lily continued running. When he turned the corner after her, the air shifted—old ink, dry. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched upward into shadow.

The library.

It had no beginning, no end. It was the same as before.

Books pressed against one another as though straining to breathe; some whispered when he passed, pages fluttering with words he could not catch. A thousand bindings stared down at him like a wall of closed eyes.

His steps echoed louder than they should. Too loud. The sound of running boots rebounded off every shelf, multiplying until it was as though an army pursued him—yet it was only him and her.

White Lily danced between the aisles. She leapt weightless, skirt swirling. Sometimes she giggled again, sometimes she hummed a note that made the shelves tremble.

“Why are you doing this?” he shouted, voice cracking. The echo broke apart, stretching his words into a choir of accusations. He did not know if she heard. He did not know if he wanted her to.

She stopped. So suddenly, he almost collided with her. Her hand lifted, finger pointing toward a single scroll resting in the center of a desk. Unlike the others, it was not buried among stacks, nor wrapped in dust. It gleamed faintly. Wrapped in a purple chord.

His chest tightened. That scroll. He did not know why, but the sight of it made his breath stumble. His hands shook as he stepped closer.

This is it. This will tell me why.

He reached out. Fingers hovered over parchment. The girl’s eyes were on him now, wide and still, her giggles gone. For once, she looked solemn, almost pitying.

He touched the scroll.

The desk vanished. Shelves collapsed into softness, and when the weight settled he was smothered beneath a pile of warm, breathing bodies. Rabbits, countless, pressing down as if they had grown out of the words themselves. Their twitching noses brushed his skin.

He appeared to be back where he was. Countless mirrors, alongside the rabbits, greeting his return.

So this was his prize. A crowd of rabbits, soft and heavy. He almost laughed. Almost.

Truthless sat there, dazed, with the weight of fur still clinging all throughout. The pile of rabbits had yet to dissipate. He shifted, arms straining against the warmth. They scattered at last, vanishing one by one into the cracks of the floor, into the seams of the mirrors, until only their scent lingered—grass after rain, an afterthought.

He stood, swaying. His legs still remembered the chase. 

The library. He thought of the scroll. He needed to see it again. The thoughts lingered like hunger, propelling him forward. Perhaps if he retraced his steps, if he moved quickly enough, the shelves would open again, the words would return, and he would find the scroll.

He pressed onwards.

~~~

After the day’s work was done, the Fount of Knowledge decided to rest.

He traced a hand through the dark, and the walls parted. A ripple spread outward, a doorway born between spaces. Beyond it lay a pool of water, black and still, pressed against the far edge of the castle grounds. The stillness welcomed him.

A bench waited by the pool’s edge, dark mahogany wood against the shadowed water. The Fount sat, hands folded in his lap. He placed his staff beside his leg, just close enough for his Soul Jam to press against him. His fingers drifted across its surface, shaping meaningless patterns. A frown tugged at him.

Steps. Faint, uneven, from somewhere deeper in the grounds. Someone was wandering—circling close. He felt it keenly, as if the sound traveled straight into his chest. For a moment, part of him stirred. A thought, unbidden: he could rise, walk toward the presence, speak.

But no. His hand stilled.

He did not rise. The boy would wander, as he always had.

The ripple on the water closed with a sound like a sigh.

The water held its silence, mirroring neither moon nor flame—only the depth of itself. He kept his gaze fixed there, willing the reflection to speak, though it never had.

The steps grew nearer, echoing faintly along the stone. Slow, then hurried, then slow again, as though whoever walked could not decide whether to flee or approach.

His fingers pressed against the Soul Jam, absently tracing the edges until his skin tingled. If he let go, he wondered, would he rise? Would he allow himself to cross that small, impossible distance?

The footsteps shifted again—closer now, almost within reach of the garden’s edge. The Fount kept his eyes on the Soul Jam, though he no longer heard only footsteps.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that fragile awareness: Truthless standing just beyond. Neither approaching nor leaving.

The Fount exhaled. But his hand refused to move. He stayed seated, spine rigid against the bench, eyes upon the black pool.

He would not turn. He would not break the stillness.

If he stayed perfectly still, perhaps Truthless would believe he had not noticed. Perhaps he would leave.

And at last—he did.

The footsteps retreated, swallowed by the corridors once more. The boy’s presence passed the outer wall. For a heartbeat the sound faltered, as if he had stopped just beyond the threshold. The Fount’s throat tightened.

Still, he did not rise.

Let him pass.

Let him drift.

The Fount closed his eyes. His lips moved, though no sound followed. And so he remained, until the echoes of the footsteps blurred into silence again.

Chapter Text

The moon was quieter that night.

She had reached her zenith, casting pale rays over Truthless as he marched the hallways toward the library.  

Not in amusement, not quite in mockery. That night she seemed to wish only for silence—perhaps mourning, as the sky wept small spectacles of rain. No stars dared to accompany her.  

And beneath her gaze walked Truthless.  

His footsteps echoed against the floor, louder than they should have. The castle itself seemed to warn him back. The mirrors shivered at his passing. Warped shapes of faces dissolved when he glanced their way. A faint flicker of his Soul Jam lit the path and his clothes.

He did not falter.  

The hunger in his chest had hollowed him, gnawing slow and ceaseless, like unseen parasites feasting upon forgotten flesh—tearing his limbs bite by bite, his organs a side dish, his breath a drink, until at last nothing remained but a single bone carved into the void of him: the scroll.

If he could read it—if he could hold it long enough to trace the letters—perhaps the way would open. Perhaps the walls between timelines would weaken, and he would find himself thrust back into the moment before. Before deceit. Before exile. Before this silence that bit at his marrow.

No, not even that. Even within the wretched cradle of deceit, he would be in a better place. So long as it was away—so long as it was his own.

And so the doors of the library yielded before him.

It was darker now, the torches long since extinguished. Yet, even in this darkness the same liveliness of before remained… to an extent.

The library did not greet him as it once had.

The shelves seemed taller, darker than he remembered. Books that had once all but leapt into his hands now slipped away, and the magical relics dimmed as he passed. The place remained a maze, just as confusing as before, but now he entered with the hunger in his chest, a desire that sharpened with every step.

He twisted through staircases that led nowhere, the library determined to swallow him whole. For a moment, he tried to remember White Lily’s path—her certain steps, her hand almost grazing shelves that opened at her touch.

But when he tried to trace that memory, the path blurred. His mind reached for the gleam of her hair, the faint rustle of her laughter, yet all he caught was the sound of pages flapping overhead. The more he tried to recall her path, the more the corridors reshaped themselves.

Snapping back to the present, he stumbled over a floating book, barely catching it as it twisted in midair. The leather cover was warm. He glimpsed letters glowing on the pages: fragments of incantations he could not recall. He swallowed.

For a moment, he thought he saw her—a fleeting glimmer of white in the distance, brushing along the edges of shelves, light spilling from her hair like a beacon. He reached for it, and it vanished. The library laughed softly in the echo of collapsing stairs.

The glimpse left a hollow jab in his chest.

And then, finally, through the shadows, he glimpsed it: a pedestal bare of dust, hovering as though even the shelves had stepped back in reverence. Suspended above it, the scroll pulsed faintly, untouched. The letters writhed, restless, eager to be read.

Truthless did not hesitate.

His hand closed around the scroll. For the first time that night, the desire stilled—if only into a sharp, watchful silence. He pressed it close to his chest, veiling the glow with his sleeve, and turned from the pedestal. The library seemed to retreat with him, shadows loosening their grip as though eager to see him gone. He obliged.

The warmth of the scroll seeped into his palm. He wanted to unroll it, but even as the library seemed to lean closer, urging him onward, the hunger inside him whispered patience. He pressed the scroll closer, his grip only tightened, his gaze fixed ahead. Yet even in that resolve, he faltered when a figure came into view.

The Fount.

He was walking in the opposite direction, his steps unhurried, his expression unreadable—until his eyes caught on Truthless. Something in them lingered, a breath held, a half-formed hesitation. A quiet, startled “ah” of recognition, as though Truthless had passed through his thoughts unbidden.

The Fount’s gaze lingered longer than politeness required. There was a tilt of his head, followed by a sparkle in his eyes. His lips curved in a half-smile, almost mocking in its subtlety, as if he understood the game but chose not to intervene. It wasn’t malice—just the faintest brush of knowingness that made Truthless bristle.

Truthless lowered his head instinctively, hiding the scroll deep within his cloak, far from the curious eyes of the Fount. His brows furrowed, shadowing his eyes as if the expression alone could shield him.

Neither broke stride. The Fount’s eyes lingered, tracing the lines of Truthless’s back, the slight stiffness in his shoulders. And then it was gone, replaced by that composed mask, the same face that had once inspired trust, now impossibly distant.

Truthless did not look back.

At last, his door yielded to him, and he slipped inside. Only when the lock clicked did he let his shoulders fall, the hunger sparking again now that secrecy was assured. He set the scroll upon the desk.

And there, in the solitude of his room, Truthless prepared himself for the spell… though not before his mind lingered on the Fount once more.

Drip.

It felt odd.

Something about their current circumstances, their fallout felt… odd. He knew that distance was easier than care. He didn’t have to hear that voice that always spoke with just enough softness to make him second-guess himself. Didn’t have to look into eyes that still hadn’t learned how to hate him properly.

It was better like this.

It was.

And yet—

Some traitorous part of him still ached with the emptiness the Fount’s presence left behind. A hollowness nagged at his chest, echoing the nibbling in his limbs, as though absence itself could consume flesh and bone. He had been starved of this warmth for too long, and now it carved deeper with every step the Fount took away from him. He had become a presence. A voice that never cracked even when his did.

But what irked him the most was that dumb expression on his face when they passed through each other—so lacking in any remorse. His eyes held a careless light, unbothered, as though Truthless himself were the one out of place. Or rather, as if he truly belonged and nothing had occurred. And even then, the Fount did not act quite the same. It was that politeness… that fakeness that showed. The real hypocrisy of the Fount. 

It was absurd. Truly.

The feeling tore at him anyway.

He shook his head. There was no point in lingering on the thought any longer. His hand drifted to the pouch at his hip, fingers brushing the Soul Jam through fabric.

“Speak to me,” he muttered.

The Soul Jam shivered once. It was listening. Judging.

“Do you remember what he did?” 

No answer.

His hand trembled slightly, then he clenched his fists.

“This is why I can’t trust you anymore,” he whispered—not to the Soul Jam, not to the Fount, not even to himself. Just into the air. To the memory. To the ache.

And there—finally—he opened the scroll.

He stared at it.

There lay a spell.

A revealing, not a summoning. Truth. The shedding of illusion’s skin. 

A spell to pierce illusion. To rend lies. To burn through a dream.

A spell that seemed awfully specific for what he needed, and required just one thing—the Soul Jam. 

So he could use it.

If the Soul Jam remembered.

If it still wanted to help him.

If it knew the difference between what was true… and what he wanted to be.

He placed the scroll to his side, exhaled sharply through his nose, and turned on his heel.

Preparing for war.

The desk he swept clean, pages arranged where he could see them. The book lay open. A candle flared thanks to a whisper of light from his fingertips.

Then he reached for the Soul Jam again.

“Remember who you are,” he whispered to it. “You belonged to truth once. You were truth.”

His voice shook.

“So was I.”

The Soul Jam flickered. A pulse.

Neither warm nor cold.

Just… aware. He couldn’t tell if it was waiting for his strength or measuring how far he’d already fallen.

He closed his eyes and began the spell.

The words left his mouth in pieces. As though his tongue remembered what his heart had forgotten. The glyphs twisted in his mind. Light sparked along the floor, tracing a crude circle—misshapen, imperfect.

Still, the spell held.

Just barely.

He reached deep into the Soul Jam, called the old Light.

And this time—it answered.

Golden lines traced the glyphs perfectly. 

For a moment, he saw it. The castle cracked open like a mirror under strain. He glimpsed the edge of the illusion: a sinister laugh from beyond, the wailing cries of a tormented individual, the distant sound of sheep that had no source.

It was working.

The truth was burning through.

He pressed harder.

A warmth surged through him, climbing from his chest to his throat to his brain, filling every limb with a light that was almost too bright to bear. His heart slammed against his ribs, ears ringing with the resonance of a thousand voices.

Every fiber of him screamed, urging him onward, even as fear prickled along his skin.

The Soul Jam resisted—sharply, without warning.

The glow splitting into fragments that stabbed at his chest.

A sudden, twisting panic.

The light surged inside him, wild and unstable. A scream shoved into bone, no mouth left to release it.

Too bright. Too many. Too much. He couldn’t breathe. Not here. Not now.

“No—” he hissed through his teeth. “You don’t get to stop now. You owe me this. You owe me—!”

The glyphs around him shimmered violently. The lines of the circle—already uneven—began to unravel at the edges, leaking golden light that bled too fast, too uncontrolled.

He tried to stabilize it.

But it wasn’t light anymore.

It was a memory. It was the truth. It was too much.

Too bright.

The room glimmered inside out.

His surroundings bent—stone curving like breath, furniture distorting into shapes from another time. For one instant, he saw not his own reflection in the darkened glass—a child with bright eyes. Innocent. ‘Himself’, before it broke.

His vision split.

There were too many selves now—truths too long denied flooding in all at once. His knees buckled. One hand caught the desk to stay upright.

The Soul Jam pulsed once. Fractured.

A flicker passed through his expression—eyebrows twitching, throat bobbing around a swallowed word.

His breath caught.

The glyphs stilled. Just for a second.

A silence bloomed—heavy, trembling.

He thought it might work.

Snap.

The magic shattered.

Jagged, white light screamed from the circle, striking him with all memory, rage, and nowhere to go.

I can’t stop now.

His body snapped backward. Ribs met the desk—something broke. Pain lanced through him like knives, and his breath vanished with the sound. His arm flailed, catching the jagged corner; warm jam smeared across the floor, but still his grip tightened around the Soul Jam. The fire in his chest drowned the agony—only the goal mattered.

The impact knocked the wind from more than his lungs. For a second, his thoughts shattered like glass under a hammer.

His arms flew up instinctively, shielding his face as he curled inward, like a child expecting punishment. Desire, need, and loss were inseparable, leaving him vulnerable and starving even in the dark.

Trembling, jam-stained fingers traced the glyphs once more. Chest aflame, lungs ragged, he forced the words out, syllable by painful syllable. Pain clawed up his broken ribs, but each gasp of agony was drowned beneath the roar of his determination. This had to work. It had to.

The glyphs on the floor blazed one last time before collapsing inward. The room convulsed—furniture imploding into dreamlike shapes, walls rippling like waves. Books turned to ash midair.

The Soul Jam flared—sickly, bright. Cracks snaked across its surface, a warning unheeded. A shard flickered loose, slicing his palm. His jam—his life—spilled onto the scroll. Pain shot through him like lightning. If he faltered, his very grasp on reality—might shatter with it.

He clenched it tighter. Pain shot through his hands as the shards threatened to splinter. He couldn’t let it stop him—not now.

But it was too late.

His eyes rolled back, lids fluttering like windblown paper. Sunlight—a garden, someone humming, a white figure casting shadows. A memory that hurt for reasons he couldn’t name.

His vision peeled, split. The world rang.

Black.

And when the light finally died, he was already on the floor, bleeding, half-conscious, trembling.

A faint pulse ran through the Soul Jam in his hand—a quivering echo along its network of cracks.

Just beyond the darkness behind his eyelids, a glimpse of blue—the Fount’s eyes. The fractured memory pressed the ache of longing into him, and the truth he had seized threatened to shatter him completely.

~~~

Chapter Text

Yelling.

Everything flickered. Light and shadow, a blur of white and blue.

And then the crimson spattered across the floor, spreading in a final flight for freedom, beating in time with his tattered heart—a heart that, too, longed to flee.

And somewhere within that familiar blur that he wished—no, longed—would collapse into empty black was the Fount. His face—half there, half gone—dissolving into the scatter of black dots clouding Truthless’s sight, which lingered anywhere but in the actuality of the moment.

A brush of unfamiliar warmth pressed against his back, clutching at his robes with such strength, with such aching familiarity, one couldn’t help but wonder if, in that moment, he had become the corpse of some beloved being mourned.

But he was no beloved.

A warmth. A pressure. A tug that tilted the world sideways.

Words slurred from his mouth in babbles. The Fount opened his, most certainly tried to reach Truthless, yet Truthless could not grasp the words. Nor did he, in truth, try.

His mind drifted on and off. A faint smile tugged at his lips, amused by the idiocy of it all—or perhaps laughing at his own despair.

~~~

Laughter.

His torso heaving with the echoes of endless, minor imprudences, jokes as he would one day come to claim his own. Each twisting in ways even he could not understand, but in a way understood all the same.

Not of now. Not of here. Somewhere else, somewhere long ago.

The fresh scent of strawberries, milk and sugar. Voices, chiming in on pointless conversations.

All distant now and fading.

~~~

Thrashing.

A betrayal.

Limbs flailing, a body too heavy, too fragile.

Rage in its absolute, complete absurdity. Every motion met with unseen resistance, every attempt to rise tangled in invisible cords.

The sound of limbs hitting the floor. He wanted to thrash everything before him. 

To tear it apart into fragments until nothing remained.

Misery bearing its golden fruit.

Anger turned into spite.

Spite turned into hunger.

~~~

Silence.

In the midst of nothingness.

Anger nullified, followed by the drifting of an empty mind too tired to continue fighting. One slowly becoming splinters of its potential.

A hopeless stride that bore no real fruition. No real meaning. 

Pointless and excruciating anguish.

No more.

~~~

First came weight. Cloth beneath his spine, damp and cool.

Then the ache—sharp behind his eyes, dull in his chest.

He didn’t open his eyes right away. There was no reason to. Sight wouldn’t offer him much—just that same blur of color and shape, unfocused and soft around the edges. Still, light made itself known even through his closed lids. Gentle, silvery. Like the moon had stooped low to peer at him.

Eventually, he blinked. The brightness stung.

Truthless didn’t move at first. His arms felt sunk, like his body had forgotten how to begin.

Something was wrong. Everything was.

The Soul Jam.

One arm refused to straighten. The muscle pulled wrong, the wrist stiff beneath what appeared to be bandages—tender where it had torn against the desk. The ache had settled. The sharpness had dulled into something stubborn—pain that had settled in and made itself at home.

His hand drifted without thought to the hollow just below his collarbone. The place where the Soul Jam had once rested—bright and insistent. Now, even with the Soul Jam lying unused at his side, the dough there still flickered faintly. As if remembering it.

He winced.

The dough hadn’t blistered, but it radiated heat. Purple-blue bruises ghosted the edges. Something inside had buckled. The socket meant to cradle light had given under the pressure.

And the world was blurred. Though not for long.

Right. The staff.

He groped at the side of the bed, fingertips grazing smooth wood.

There.

His hand closed around it. When he opened his eyes again, the room sharpened.

Not perfectly. But enough.

The colors returned. The weight of things fell into place. And—

He saw him.

Sitting by a chair in the corner, he’d slumped into sleep at some point, head bowed, one arm pulled tight against his torso. Strands of hair clung to his cheek, the once adamant sparkles of its stars now dimmed into the quiet hush of uneven throbs, with only a few distant specks still reaching out even as the Fount slept. A fragile kind of beauty lingered there, the sort one glimpses only when something has been worn to its thinnest thread. 

Beneath his lashes, the dough lay dark and splotched. Crying, maybe—though only halfway. Abandoned. As if not even Truthless was worth the full despair of a creature born to be called “god.”

Because why would a “god” ever care enough for a resentful hermit who wished him no good? A hermit who in dreams, even behind that wall of apathy, at some point dreamt not of affection but of seeing the one before him broken down to crumbs.

But not in that moment.

This was the one he hated. Or thought he did.

And yet, feeling the warmth of that presence, hearing the slow, uneven breaths that somehow matched his own, he found himself hoping he wouldn’t wake. Not yet.

He feared those azure eyes might open with that same smile. The one that soothed, softened, lied all at once. A quick “How are you feeling?” or “Are you alright?” would follow, words that seemed to care, and care, and “care,” but ultimately circled back to nothing. He knew the fight from before would vanish, smoothed over, as if it had never happened. The mask of compassion would return.

So he prayed he would not stir, at least for this second.

Truthless tried to look away, but couldn’t. Something, some part of him prevented him from doing so.

Guilt. Resentfulness. Anger. Pity?

He couldn’t name it. How could he, when he could barely understand himself?

So he watched. Eyes fixed on that fragile, sleeping face, stripped of radiance and pretense. And after long enough, bile rose, thick and sour, until he wondered if he hated him at all.

He didn’t. Or maybe he did.

But seeing him like this made it worse. Harder to cling to the hate he wanted, harder to forget the tenderness he hadn’t asked for, harder to separate this exhausted figure from the monster who had twisted truth into cruelty.

He turned his head sharply, eyes narrowed.

His grip tightened on the staff.

His gaze drifted, unbidden, to the Soul Jam. Shattered in its core, it lay fractured, lightning frozen in its veins. Cracks deep enough to fit his fingernail spread through its surface, sharp reminders that what once held brilliance now clung to the edge of breaking.

In a way, it was like him again. Only the Soul Jam showed it more honestly, in the raw language of shattered glass.

Now, though, it made no sound, no throb, no pulse. There was no voice, not even a whisper. It simply lay there. Quiet.

“You’ve been so loud,” Truthless muttered. “And yet you don’t speak.”

No reaction.

You were supposed to be the part of me that never lied, he thought bitterly. And yet now, even you won’t answer.  

He turned his face to the ceiling.

I deserve this.

He tried to believe that. That this was earned. That this wasn’t loss, only consequence.

But some part of him still clawed at the edges of the logic, unsatisfied.

If he truly deserved it, why did it hurt so much to accept?

He glanced again at the fractured Soul Jam.

If this is what remains of me, then what am I left to become?

And the spell. What was the point of it?

Why did the orb show him the scroll, and why—most of all—had he been so quick to believe?

The questions crowded close, pressing too hard, too many. He forced them quiet.

And still… the ache remained.

Light. Truth. Mercy.

He pressed his hand flat against his chest until the rhythm dulled again.

A stir, followed by a groan.

The sound hooked into him, dragged his eyes away from the ceiling. The Fount shifted, lashes fluttering before his body gave a sharp jolt, like waking had caught him by the throat. His hand twitched, then his shoulders, then all at once he was fighting himself upright.

Truthless didn’t move. He only watched.

The Fount’s gaze landed on him. For one hollow beat, their eyes locked across the room. Then the Fount snapped. He jerked upright, stars in his hair sputtering with sudden life as if ripped out of sleep too violently, and thrashed his way toward him—hands braced against the chair, legs stumbling, movements graceless but driven, like fury had filled the gap where tenderness might have lived.

“What in the witches’ name were you thinking?!”

“How could you be so—so—reckless? No, worse—so incautious, so injudicious! Why that spell? Why that scroll?!” His words tumbled over each other, sharp and desperate.

“It was when you were in my side of the castle, wasn’t it? But where? My study? No, no—impossible, the scroll is in the library. Unless—” His eyes narrowed, fever-bright. “Did Folio give it to you?!”

Truthless flinched, gripping the bedframe, heart hammering at the implication. So he knew. He knew Truthless had been there.

The Fount’s fingers drummed nervously against his thigh. “A spell of that caliber should not be handled by just anyone, and look at you—look at your wound.” He paused, teeth biting his lower lip. “Had I not arrived in time—this little ‘adventure’ of yours could have ended catastrophically.”

His voice cracked on the next words. “Do you really hate me that much? That much? Enough to risk yourself so utterly? I don’t understand, I—please, for the love of the witches, enlighten me as to why you’d commit such an ineptitude alone. You are within my halls, and I am more than willing to assist with anything you need. So why alone? Why without me? Without me?”

Truthless’s breath caught. Wide-eyed, shocked, a flush rising unbidden, he could only stammer—

“I—”

“No.” The Fount cut him off with a slash of his hand. “No—wait. Allow me to finish.”

His hands flexed as if trying to wring the truth out of the air itself. 

“What is it with you cookies, always thinking you know everything?!” The Fount’s voice cracked sharp as glass, a bitter laugh spilling after, though nothing in his eyes resembled humor. “Always so certain, so sure, as if a single glance at a page or a whisper of magic could make you masters of it all. Do you think knowledge bends to arrogance? Do you think the unknown yields to pride?”

His throat caught. He shoved a hand through his hair, stars sparking against his knuckles.  “Or is it that you think me useless? That my study, my knowledge, all of it is just dust to you? Tell me! Because I can’t— I cannot fathom why you would risk yourself so deliberately, knowing full well—” He broke off, teeth gritted, nails digging into his palms.

Truthless shrank back against the bedframe. The words were a storm, and he had no umbrella, no footing. His wide eyes followed the Fount’s every jagged motion.

“Do you have any idea how easily you could have died? How quickly you could have slipped away, and for what?” The Fount’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. “A spell you cannot even begin to comprehend…”

Truthless’s eyes darted to the floor, tightening as each accusation landed.

“Was it pride? Was it spite?” The Fount’s voice rose, sharp as glass. “Or—” his throat caught, almost a plea— “do you simply care so little for whether you live or die?”

“Wait—”

“Wait.” Truthless surged forward, almost without thinking, and caught the Fount’s wrist. His hand was trembling but firm, fingers digging in just enough to anchor. The Fount froze mid-breath, stars in his hair flickering as though caught between collapse and combustion. His eyes widened at the act, their eyes mirroring each other’s for a brief second, before Truthless looked away.

“Calm down.”

“Explain yourself.” The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice them into two. The Fount’s chest rose and fell, but his voice when it came was softer, no longer a lash but an iron demand. He took a deep breath.

He turned his gaze aside, swallowing hard, dragging in a deep breath as though wrestling his own thoughts back into order. Truthless’s hand remained on his wrist. Truthless glanced to the side, unable to meet those searching eyes. He wavered—lie, conceal, deflect—but there was no point anymore. Keeping the truth hidden would only spiral further and he had no other true alternative.

“I was trying to return to my reality. Or my time. To leave.”

The Fount blinked, his brow tightening. “To your ‘time’? Reality? Please elaborate.”

Truthless clenched his jaw, before taking a deep breath and finally meeting the Fount’s eyes.

“Believe me if you want, or not. But it appears I have been transported into the past—or whatever this place is—and I have no way of returning. I am from a very distant future, an era much different from yours.”

The words hung between them for what appeared to be minutes, slicing through the Fount’s mind.

“Give me a moment.”

His expression shifted—shock at first, then confusion, before sinking into something quieter. Thoughtful. Mindful. Understanding. He tried to pull himself together.

Truthless, still avoiding his eyes, wondered if this had been a mistake. The truth was a dangerous thing; even if this man was not Shadow Milk yet, he would be one day. Would knowledge now shape that path—or had it already been written? Though at the same time, what if it did? It did not matter all that much truly.

The Fount took another deep breath.

“I…  believe I understand,” the Fount finally said, though his tone was careful. “However, the spell you attempted was no time spell. In fact, it has nothing to do with your dilemma. So I must admit”—his gaze narrowed slightly, searching Truthless’s face as if for hidden meaning—“I am rather confused as to why you would go so far as to use it.”

It wasn’t?

It… wasn’t?

Then why?

The thought spiraled, jagged, twisted around his mind. He thought of the orb, of the warning of ‘Nob,’ of the scroll gleaming before him like a beckoning door. Why had it shown itself to him? Why had it seemed right, inevitable, necessary? Was it the wretched castle playing tricks on him again? Or was it all, ultimately, truly, most absolutely… a pointless struggle?

What truth was revealed?

Truthless’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, but only for a heartbeat. Then, with a practiced motion he smoothed his expression back into something flat. Neutral. Untouchable.

“So I see…”

“My mistake then. But this is not your concern. If I am too much of a torment to you, then I will leave. In fact, I should.”

“No—no, no. Truthless I—“ his voice faltered, then steadied with effort. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I apologize for my outburst. It was… unbecoming of me. But, do not think I believe you a torment. I was only—worried. Frustrated. I will not take back what I said about your recklessness, because it was reckless, foolish even. But still, Truthless Recluse… it is my concern.”

He pressed on.

“It is my concern because you are here. Because you’re hurting and because helping others was the task the witches gave me.”

Truthless’s gaze hardened, suspicion flickering in the low light. His fingers twitched against the staff, a small, involuntary response he couldn’t quite stop. 

The Fount hesitated, then his voice dipped, quiet as if confessing something dangerous.

“…But also,” he murmured, “…because I care.”

Truthless froze. His grip on the staff tightened until his knuckles paled. Something in his chest flinched—not quite pain, not quite relief, but something sharp that cut without leaving jam.

Care.

That word. From him.

His face betrayed nothing, the mask quick to settle back in place, but inside he burned. He wanted to spit, to scoff, to tell him he was lying, that it was only duty speaking, obligation draped in tender colors. He wanted to believe that. Needed to.

And yet… he couldn’t.

Not fully.

His gaze darted once toward the Fount, then away again. He whispered, quieter than the breath it rode on:

“Don’t.”

The Fount tilted his head, stars pulsing faint at the motion, confusion tightening his features. “Don’t?”

Truthless swallowed hard, forcing the words out as though they were shards of glass.

“Don’t say things you’ll regret.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t waste your time on this.”

“I will—but not waste it.”

Their hands still linked at the wrist.

“…Why do you so stubbornly refuse my help?”

Truthless faltered. “…That’s none of your concern.”

Another wall.

“You are stubborn indeed.”

“You could just let me be, then.”

“Not yet. No.”

“Suit yourself.”

A long pause.

His eyes softened. “On another note. Regarding our previous conversation… when you spoke of Deceit before… I’d rather not repeat that argument again.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Then perhaps we avoid the topic altogether.”

A faint scoff. “…And here I thought you ‘liked’ debates.”

“I do.”

“Then?”

The Fount gave a small, dry smile. “‘That is none of your concern.’”

Truthless blinked, his frown twitching deeper.

“I jest,” the Fount said, a thin attempt at levity that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But, to return to the main topic—you are from the future. I have never heard of such a case… I will have to consult the witch—” He cut himself short, catching the word mid-breath. His gaze flicked away, then back. “—I will research more on the matter and let you know.”

“As of now, I must ask you one thing…” The Fount hesitated, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “…Am I responsible for what happened to you?”

There it was. The question. The great, inevitable one that had already been before yet for some reason needed to be asked again.

But Truthless didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Quick glimpses of frills and laughter surfaced—ghostly, bitter, unbidden—before he shoved them back down. Silence followed. Silence that roared louder than any accusation.

The Fount’s lips parted slightly, as though the answer might materialize if he only waited. But nothing came.

“…I see.” His voice was soft, but disappointment laced through it like hairline cracks in porcelain.

And then—he shifted. That restless gleam broke free, eyes alight with a hunger he could no longer restrain.

“Time itself. To leap across it, to survive within it, to carry memory forward…” His words spilled faster, brighter, betraying the fascination he tried so hard to keep in check. “How many years separate us? How different is the world you knew? Tell me, Truthless Recluse—do you remember the moment it happened? What did it feel like? Where were you? With whom?”

The questions fell one after another, sharper, closer, hungrier, as though he could devour the answers.

Truthless clenched his jaw, the weight of Pandora’s box settling over him. He’d opened it. And the Fount would never stop asking.

And still, beneath the flood of words, the thought coiled and lingered: he almost said witches but did not.

At last, Truthless realized his fingers were still wrapped around the Fount’s wrist. He released it instinctively, and in the same breath the Fount seemed to notice too. Both looked away at once, as though the silence might erase what had just happened.

~~~

Even after all the tensions between them, their conversation, for once, seemed to flow almost easily. The Fount’s questions turned toward what some might call trifles—food, games, kingdoms long since fallen. Yet for the cookie of knowledge, such glimpses of what was still to come were anything but trivial. They were exhilarating. A gift beyond measure, though marred by rot.

Minutes passed. Soon, hours.

And it became very evident that Truthless was growing exhausted, though Truthless owed him at least some answers. His voice thinned with each answer, pauses stretching longer as if he had to reach further back into himself to pull the words out. The Fount noticed—how could he not?—but made no move to relent. If anything, his eagerness only pressed sharper, his quill-scratch mind unwilling to waste a moment of such rare fortune.

At last, Truthless let out a breath that quivered more than he wished it to. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the bed as if he could escape from the Fount for a mere second.

The Fount stilled. His lips parted as though another inquiry was ready, yet he caught it, swallowed it, and in its place let silence fall. For a long moment, he only regarded the recluse, his gaze unsettled by what he saw. Then, with a faint shift in his tone, he spoke.

“…I apologize,” he said at last. “I have been… overwhelming. It was not my intent.”

His hand slipped toward the staff propped by the door. A flick of his fingers, a muttered word under his breath, and light coiled into being. The glow curled like ribbon through the air before solidifying into a small tray: bread, broth, fruit. He made the conjuring flourish a little too dramatically, as if to impress, but the gesture landed somewhere between theatrical and awkward. The tray settled at the bedside with a soft thud.

“I recommend you stay in bed for the day,” the Fount said, his voice resuming its usual cadence. “Minimum movement. Rest will be… beneficial.”

Truthless cracked an eye open at him, incredulous, but the warm smell tugged at his restraint. He reached for the food, chewing slowly at first—then with more hunger than he expected. The broth spread warmth through his chest, a comfort he hadn’t realized how much he missed. For the first time that day, his shoulders loosened, his body easing just enough to breathe.

The Fount watched in silence. Only when Truthless set the spoon down did he speak again.

“There is, however, a certain dilemma I have wrestled with for some time.”

Truthless tilted his head slightly, wary. “That is?”

“The Soul Jam.”

Truthless’s hand twitched where it rested in his lap. “So you knew.”

“Naturally.” The Fount’s tone was almost matter-of-fact, yet his gaze gleamed with something weightier, more dangerous. “There is no way I would fail to recognize half of myself.”

Truthless’s breath stilled, sharp in his chest. “…Since when?”

”Since the moment I first laid my eyes on you.”

The Soul Jam throbbed.

~~~

The faint flicker of the Fount’s magic dissolved behind him as he stepped into the hall. Each portal he passed shimmered briefly in his gaze, a point of potential, a fragment of knowledge yet to be reconciled with the world around him.  A flicker of the exchange played behind his eyes, each glance and falter of Truthless’s gaze pressing against his thoughts. He wondered if he had been too harsh, too distant—if his own composure had not been sufficient. Yet, a part of him was convinced it was. Truly, Truthless did deserve some of those harsh words, but he prayed that he didn’t take anything personally. To be hated would be a terrible thing, even if the conversation did in fact flow well afterward… in his eyes. 

Floating over stone, staff tucked beneath his arm, he left the confines of Truthless Recluse’s room and resumed his duties.

Things had been… ‘positive,’ all things considered. Beyond the recent danger Truthless had faced, the Fount—who, coincidentally, had passed by—had witnessed it all at its climax. Another mystery had been settled, another answer added to the ledger of understanding. And, as always, in its place, a new question emerged, quietly demanding his attention. Somewhere in the midst of his floating, his Soul Jam pulsed faintly, tremors echoing along his staff.

He continued with his duties, answering questions only when necessary, adjusting scrolls, testing locks—all motions of his usual composure. Yet beneath each gesture ran an undercurrent of fatigue he refused to admit even to himself. Night deepened outside, and finally, the Fount decided to return to his quarters. With a soft sigh, he released his floating magic. The sudden weight of gravity pulled him down, and he landed on his bed without remorse, face first into a nest of pillows and sheets. A groan escaped before he could stop it.

For a long moment, he turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, letting the soft rhythm of the room and the faint luminescence of the moon seep into him. The moonlight pooled across the floorboards, touching the edge of a shelf where his own magical traces lingered. His eyes drifted over them, catching the shimmer of  the knowledge suspended, alive in the quiet.

Eventually, though, he rose, leaving the Staff where it rested, and drifted to the balcony. A shimmer twisted in the courtyard below, almost imperceptible, but tugging at his attention. Even in stillness, the world remained stubbornly awake.

The night air was cool, the moon low and radiant, and the Fount leaned against the cold stone railing, letting his hands rest on its surface. Beyond, the world stretched in infinite white, silent and undisturbed. No stars dared join her tonight; only the soft rustle of leaves whispered against the stillness. It was peaceful—or at least it pretended to be.

From the future…

The thought lingered stubbornly in his mind. Half of his Soul Jam resided there now, distant and unknowable. What had happened to him to split it in two? How had he become a guest within his own essence, a spectator to knowledge that was meant to be his? The possibility unsettled him more than he cared to admit. To no longer wield all the knowledge, to have it divided… it was as though some essential piece of himself had been excised, leaving only a faint tremor of power behind.

He shivered, though the night was not cold enough to warrant it. Of absence. Of incompleteness. He wanted to ask. Truly, wholeheartedly, in that fleeting moment back in Truthless’s room, he had wanted to ask. But some instinct—sharp, quiet, unrelenting—had held him back. Perhaps that had been his mistake.

The memory of Truthless’s eyes flitted before him, brief and arresting. Just a second, and yet it had pressed against the edges of his resolve. Why had he not spoken? His entire purpose, his being, revolved around attaining and distributing knowledge—and yet here he had faltered.

The faint pulse of his Soul Jam echoed through him, subtle but insistent. Each tremor along his staff reminded him of the questions left unanswered, the mysteries half-solved, the truths he had glimpsed but not grasped. He let his gaze drift down to the courtyard, noting the shimmer of light on the frost-covered stones, the way shadows pooled in corners where no magic dared linger. It was as though the world waited with him, silent but watchful.

And still, the thought returned: the future. What had become of him there? What was lost, what broken, what left undone? The answers were not his to hold, at least not tonight. For now, all he could do was breathe in the cold air, feel the stone beneath his fingers, and acknowledge the quiet ache of uncertainty that had nestled deep in his chest.

He leaned further over the railing, letting the faint wind tease strands of his hair, watching the horizon blur between snow and sky. One day, he would seek the answers. But tonight, he simply existed in the liminal space between knowledge and mystery, between fear and the faint hope that even a fragmented Soul Jam might still guide him home.

And then, movement—a soft rustle among the bushes. Truthless Recluse wandered through the gardens, in what appeared to be an aimless walk. The Fount remained on the balcony, leaning weakly against the railing. He was too exhausted to move, too weary even to call out, but his gaze followed Truthless, a brief glimpse of curiosity forming in his eyes, and perhaps annoyance.

A part of him wanted to scold him for being out of bed so soonbut it faltered in his throat. The effort was too much. He could only watch, torn between concern and frustration, heart tugged toward the recluse even as his body begged rest.

Truthless drifted further into the shadows, cloak brushing against frost-kissed leaves, his golden hair glimmering thanks to the light of the moon. The Fount’s chest tightened. He wanted to intervene, to demand that Truthless come back, yet he could not.

And then, as quickly as he had appeared, Truthless vanished into the darkness, leaving only the whisper of leaves and the faint echo of his presence.

Even from here, even broken and tired, he couldn’t stop worrying. What a day, indeed.

Chapter Text

“So, allow me to get this straight. In the future, the Honey Kingdom no longer exists, you’ve never heard of a flower species called berrybelle, and there is no such thing as the Yearly Cross-Kingdom Jelly Eating Tournament?”

“As I already told you before, no.”

He’d asked three times.

“Fascinating…”

Two days after his spell, Truthless sat at breakfast, pressing his fingers against the steam-dewed rim of his cup. Warmth seeped in; morning chill nipped out. He felt neither.

Before him lay a simpler spread—eggs, toast, fruit, and tea. The Fount had dialed down the festivities.

“What could possibly have happened for it to end?” The Fount’s hand was half-buried in the breadbasket. “All things end, of course, but they were prospering…”

The word drifted from his mouth. ”Well…”

”Wait, wait. Allow me to make an educated guess.”

Truthless sipped his tea, gaze caught on the steam. A faint, exhausted curiosity tugged at him.

“What are the main causes for a Kingdom to fall… corruption, a rebellion, war? Pestilence…” He tapped a finger against his chin, eyes narrowing as if tracing invisible threads in the air. 

“A collapse of trade? A failure of succession—a weak heir. That can ruin a dynasty faster than fire.”

He leaned forward, elbows against the table. “But the Honey Kingdom is industrious. Surely they had resilience built into their hives. I simply can’t imagine it.”

He plucked a grape, rolling it between his fingers, his expression caught between fascination and unease. “No… no, it doesn’t add up. One doesn’t misplace an entire kingdom.”

“Or perhaps,” the Fount added thoughtfully, “the cookies and the jelly bees decided to unionize and vote themselves into oblivion. One never knows.”

Truthless’s brow lifted slightly. “It just faded.”

“Faded… that’s quite… well, I suppose that too is a possibility. A rare one, though a possibility no less. A+ to you for… well, I’m not actually sure,” the Fount mumbled, taking a gleeful bite of an apple—just enough to savor the flavor without muffling his speech. “Oh, I wonder what the Herald of Change would—”

He froze, mid-sentence, mouth half-open. The silence stretched before he muttered to himself, reaching for the butter and spreading it carefully across a slice of bread. “Perhaps not,” he said finally, shrugging as if the thought had never been worth speaking.

“Hm?”

“But what of magic?” he asked instead, brightening abruptly.

“There’ve been… some advances.”

“And of transportation?”

“I believe that too.”

“So how long into the future are you?”

“From long.”

“No date?”

“No date.”

Truthless’s gaze rested somewhere between the table and the empty air. He didn’t look at the Fount, but the pressure of that eager stare pressed against him. The breakfast, the chatter, the warmth of tea—it all blurred together into something he endured without struggle, without care. He wanted it to end, though even that want felt far away.

A memory of buzzing bees flickered—the Honey Kingdom, gone. He didn’t know if the flowers still bloomed, or if the sun fell the same way. Yet here he sat, drinking tea as if nothing had changed.

Soon enough, his wish was granted—though not by his own hand. The Fount suggested a change, and before Truthless registered the words, their seats emptied, the breakfast vanished with a snap. Now they were walking. A morning stroll.

He hadn’t agreed. He hadn’t disagreed.

The Fount walked eagerly beside him, occasionally glancing over as if checking that he was still there. The castle corridors blurred past—tapestries, windows, the soft echo of their footsteps against stone.

“Fresh air,” the Fount said, as much to himself as to Truthless. “That's what we both need.”

The words floated between them, requiring no response. Naturally, Truthless gave none.

The corridor gave way to a garden—one moment stone walls, the next cultivated beauty.

It was another garden—yet different. This one bloomed with light-blue and white flowers, each exuding a faint glow, their petals carrying a breath of luminescence even beneath the morning sun. They were arranged in perfect rows of circles, a geometry too precise to be wild.

At the center, one ring curved into a familiar outline. The shape of their Soul Jams.

Truthless’s gaze lingered on it, though his mind did not follow. The pattern pressed faint recognition against him, but he gave it no answer. Not even with the cracked Soul Jam by his side. At least not at this moment.

The Fount, on the other hand, lit up at the sight. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

Truthless said nothing.

“Oh,” the Fount suddenly said, looking at the Soul-Jam shape. “As for your Soul Jam… I’ll investigate more on it too.”

Okay.

They walked on, the morning air brushing them in slow, indifferent currents. Truthless’s eyes wandered past the castle walls, to the horizon beyond, to the familiar sea of white. A thought tugged faintly at him—he could leave. He could keep walking, past the gates, past the gardens, out into the stretch of whatever waited beyond.

But the thought arrived as softly as it left, dissolving before it could take root. His feet stayed where they were.

They continued along the path, gravel crunching softly underfoot. The Fount hummed—a tuneless thing that somehow managed to be pleasant. Truthless found his attention drifting again, caught between the rhythm of their steps and the pull of that distant horizon.

The Fount’s humming stopped. When Truthless glanced over, those knowing eyes studied him with something like concern.

“You’re far away,” he remarked, tilting his head to catch Truthless’s gaze. “Perhaps…” His eyes lit up. He floated until his face was level with Truthless’s. “You should sit in on a lesson today.”

Truthless neither agreed nor refused. The Fount, already floating toward the path, took his silence for consent. “Wonderful.” He snapped his fingers. The garden folded away, the path bending toward another place. Truthless followed.

The classroom was brighter than he expected.

Rows of benches curved in a wide half-circle, the stone steps polished smooth by years of shuffling feet. An arched window took up nearly an entire wall, large board in its middle forming a cross shape, spilling early day light across the floor until it gleamed like glass on the seats and tables within the classroom. Large educational posters hung around the walls, near the chalk board and in between pillars, some a faint blue, others red, purple, pink. But all being related to magic.

Children filled the space with restless energy—robes swishing, cone-shaped hats tilting precariously as they leaned across desks to gossip and laugh. Books opened, quills tapped, giggles stifled. For them, this was ordinary. For him, it was intruding on someone else’s memory. And yet, it was deeply familiar.

Truthless lingered in the doorway’s shadow, hand tight on the frame. He didn’t belong here, in a room built for beginnings. Yet his body knew it better than his mind—his feet remembered the stone steps, his hands the chalk dust. The sensation vanished before he could name it.

Or in other words, before pushing him into the spotlight.

Truthless loved the spotlight.

A few eyes turned, then more, until the entire room fastened on him. Children’s stares were never kind; they picked apart his staff, his hat, his sour expression—each a flaw to tally. Whispers rippled—snickers, half-hidden words—none clear, but all sharp enough to sting. Not that it bothered him.

“He looks emo…”

“Spooky…”

“Why is he here?” one whispered, the voice echoing louder than it should. The Fount noticed. He appeared from behind Truthless, making the student shudder.

“This is Truthless Recluse. He’ll be observing the class today—so be on your best behavior, or I’ll have to dock points on your next quiz.”

A wave of “No fair!” and “No!” followed. The Fount of Knowledge smiled, floating to the front as though he had always been there, robes catching the light like spilled crystal. The chatter softened at once. A few of the younger students straightened in their seats, eyes wide with the kind of awe children could never hide. When he smiled, the entire room seemed to tilt toward him, drawn without resistance.

A few students waved at Truthless, who just stared at them. 

Truthless moved at last to the far bench by the window, where the light didn’t reach. From there, he could see everything without being seen.

The lesson began in the most ordinary way imaginable.

“Roll call,” the Fount announced, voice light but firm. “Apple Pie Cookie?”

“Here!”

“Butter Cookie?”

“Present.”

“Thyme Cookie?”

No one answered. Student shuffling and soft whispers filled the pause. The Fount looked up from his list, scanned the room, and sighed. “Absent again?” 

“Mr. Fount of Knowledge, sir, I haven’t seen him since last week.”

“I see... I’ll investigate after class, thank you for letting me know. For now, let’s continue.”

One by one, names were called, answered with sleepy “here”s and the occasional loud, over-eager shout that made the others snicker. The Fount smiled at this, jotting down each reply with a quill that moved almost too smoothly for how fast he spoke. 

After the list was checked, and the Fount seemed satisfied enough, the Fount closed his book and floated to the chalk board.

“Page twenty-three, Fundamentals of Nature Magic,” he said next, and the sound of shuffling parchment filled the room. Chairs scraped, elbows knocked, and a handful of groans rose from those who’d clearly forgotten their books.

For a moment, it could have been any classroom anywhere. Ordinary, unremarkable.

But then the Fount began to speak.

His voice carried with a rhythm that made the words more than words—they were threads being woven together into a melodious orderly symphony, drawing even the noisiest child into listening. He strolled between the rows of desks, leaning just enough to see the open pages, to nudge one child’s book right-side up with a teasing grin, to quiet another with nothing more than a look of gentle encouragement.

Within minutes, the restless energy had shifted. The roll call and shuffling had been only prelude. Now the classroom itself seemed brighter, alive with a quiet expectancy for learning.

Truthless, seated in the back, almost resented it—how easily the Fount could take something so simple, so dry, and make it radiant.

He drifted, his mind a ship unmoored in a too-familiar harbor. His gaze slid from the Fount’s animated form to the doorway—a cookie being scolded for tardiness—then to the window, where a lone bird circled a pale sky. The lecture droned into a distant hum.

As the Fount’s voice carried over the children, something else stirred at the edges of Truthless’s vision.

He turned his head. White Lily Cookie was seated beside him, leaning her chin on her hands, a small, knowing smile on her face. She looked just as she had in their academy days—young, bright, untouched by the bitterness to come.

She shouldn’t have been here. And yet—she was.

“Still stuck on page one?” she whispered. “Or pretending not to hear me?”

Truthless’s fingers tightened on his staff. He fixed his eyes on the book.

“How long will you run circles in someone else’s dream?”

His throat ached. He said nothing.

The children laughed at some joke the Fount had made. The phantom did not fade.

“I remember how every class you would eagerly sit at the front, only to doze off since you always would wake up too early to tend the sheep, no? Teachers sure didn’t like that.”

“Is there a point to this?” He said, his eyes looking anywhere but at her.

“Oh, Pure Vanilla. Can’t an old friend reminisce?”

A grumble. “You’re not her.”

He knew her too well—she never talked like that.

“You hurt me, old friend. What makes you say that?”

Truthless narrowed his eyes.

“So I must ask you then, how much do you know yourself?”

Truthless looked at his side. White Lily had disappeared, instead appearing next to the Fount who didn’t seem to be able to see her.

“And how much do you truly know him, hm?” She snickered.

Whispers prickled the air. “Is he talking to himself?”

“Creepy…”

She disappeared. 

The lesson continued. The Fount clapped his hands together. “Now, for the practical portion! Let’s see those potions in action. Remember the three principles: clarity, intent, and control!”

The classroom erupted into a low buzz of concentration. Spells flickered to life above desks—small, shaky orbs of light, sputtering sparks, the occasional successful shimmer of cohesive magic. Truthless’s eyes, against his will, were drawn to the student beside him.

The young cookie was struggling, his face pinched in frustration. His desk was an utter mess, with all of the potion ingredients scattered in a disharmonious arrangement worthy of a disaster. For all Truthless could have assumed, it appeared that the cookie had not a single idea of what he was doing. 

Truthless knew that potion. He had failed it many times, back when his teachers sighed at him with disappointment. The memory pressed against him: the sting of chalk dust, the faint smell of sheep clinging to his robes, the way his hands had trembled when asked to demonstrate. An easy potion, once the rhythm was found. One he could do effortlessly now.

“You never could stand to watch someone else struggle.”

Truthless’s hand twitched.

White Lily was perched casually on the desk of the student, idly swinging her legs like a student waiting for her turn. She leaned close, her smile unkind. “Always quick to step in. Do you remember? Even when they didn’t want your help.”

The student’s hands trembled as the potion soured again, the once-bright mixture curdling into a dull, swampy color. His eyes darted around the room, searching—first to the Fount, too far away and busy with another child, then to his book, then to the clock on the wall as if time itself might offer mercy.

Finally, his gaze landed on Truthless.

They were wide, unguarded eyes, brimming with the panic of a child who wanted nothing more than not to fail. The boy’s lips parted, closed, then parted again, but no words came. He didn’t need them. The plea was already written across his face—eyes shining, as real and pleading as a cornered animal, as vulnerable as a pup staring up at the one creature who might help.

He exhaled through his nose, a sound barely audible, and leaned the slightest bit closer. His hand hovered for a moment, the memory of constant failure sharp in his mind. “You’re mixing that wrong,” he muttered, his voice low enough that only the student could hear. “You need to add the jellies after the water, not before.”

The student blinked, then tried again, adjusting his mixing. The cookie’s face split into a grin of pure relief, and he shot Truthless a look of immense gratitude.

Truthless quickly averted his gaze, but not before catching the Fount’s eye. The teacher was watching him from the front of the room, a strange, playful smile ghosting on his lips. As if a long-held suspicion had just been confirmed. Truthless’s stomach twisted, and he focused intently on a knot in the wooden desk in front of him.

The Fount’s voice picked up again, explaining a complex nuance of magical theory, a concept that involved understanding the innate nature of magic within cookies. It was advanced, esoteric.

The lesson deepened. The Fount spoke of the innate nature of magic, not as an external force but as something bound into a cookie’s very dough—woven into every fiber of their being. Magic, he said, was not simply learned.

Truthless wasn’t listening. Or at least he thought he wasn’t, until the words tumbled from his mouth in a low murmur:

“The nature of dough determines the shape of its spell. A flame in one will be smoke in another. The jam merely bends what was always there…”

The words hung in the air. His own voice startled him—it hadn’t felt like his. He blinked, heart lurching once in his chest. The students around him glanced up, confused. One even whispered, “Did he just—?”

Truthless’s lips pressed into a thin line. He shook his head sharply, dismissing the thought. No. Just something he must’ve read once. Nothing more.

White Lily wasn’t beside him this time. But her absence felt like a smile.

The practical portion dragged on. Truthless forced his gaze to stay ahead, but it inevitably slid sideways—to the boy next to him. The child was still struggling, only now his mess had escalated into something dangerous. Ingredients clattered, sparks of uncontrolled energy fizzed across the desk, the liquid in his cauldron rising with a low, ominous boil.

Truthless’s stomach sank. He knew that look, that smell—the potion was unstable, primed to blow.

“Stop. Wait—don’t add that—” he hissed, reaching instinctively across the bench.

Too late.

The mixture erupted. A geyser of water exploded from the cauldron, soaking half the classroom in a sudden wave. Screams, gasps, laughter—all at once. Truthless staggered back, dripping. His hat sagged over his eyes, his robes plastered to his frame, water running in streams down the staff clenched in his hands. He spat out a mouthful of liquid.

The child stared in horror, then promptly burst into tears.

Truthless glared at him, sharp enough to make the boy flinch harder. His eyes burning with a harshness too severe for the scene. Then, as quickly as it came, his expression fell back into neutrality. A blank wall.

At the front of the room, the Fount froze. His jaw had gone slack, his quill hovering in midair. He looked from the drenched benches, to the sobbing student, to Truthless dripping at the back.

“…Lemon Tart Cookie,” he finally managed, his voice thin with disbelief, “what… what did you do?”

He floated over, hands half-raised as though approaching a wild animal, then simply sighed, shoulders falling in defeat.

The room dissolved into chaos—gust spells whipped through the air as students tried to dry themselves, some laughing, some shivering. The child at fault was ushered forward, still sniffling, while the Fount crouched down beside him with patient words and gentle correction.

A blur of time passed.

The class had not yet recovered from the flood when the Fount clapped his hands once, light ringing through the room. “Order, order,” he said with a practiced brightness. “Remember children, magic is like pie—sweet, sticky, and occasionally explosive. And most importantly, accidents are lessons too. And what better way to end than with a demonstration?”

“Since we have… excess water at our disposal, who will demonstrate a controlled water spell for the class?”

The children perked up, whispers darting between them. A demonstration was rare.

“Now then…” His eyes drifted, scanning the room with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Who shall it be?”

Dozens of hands shot up at once. “Me!” “Pick me!” “I can do it, I swear this time!”

The Fount’s gaze skipped past them all, landing squarely on the back row. On Truthless.

“No,” Truthless said flatly, already knowing.

“Yes,” the Fount answered with a smile.

Before he could protest again, the Fount had already floated back to him, hands lightly brushing his wrist as though coaxing him to stand. It was barely contact, but Truthless stiffened like a board.

“The students would benefit from a true example,” the Fount murmured low enough that only he heard. “And I am curious. Given how you’re still hurt, I won’t ask for much.”

The pressure of his touch lingered until Truthless relented, rising with slow reluctance. The chatter of children swelled—half awe, half ridicule.

Reluctantly, he stepped to the front, staff raised. The basin of leftover water from the geyser gleamed in the sunlight, rippling softly.

The room fell quiet, eyes wide, some holding their breath.

A twist of his wrist, a whispered word, and the water lifted. It coalesced into a slender spiral, then split into a dozen streams, each hovering in perfect symmetry.
Droplets hung in the air, reflecting light like miniature suns. For a moment, pride flickered in him—control, precision, grace, earned through countless silent lessons. He rarely claimed it. Yet here, in this simple gesture, it surged like sunlight over frost.

The children gasped.

The Fount’s hand squeezed Truthless’s shoulder once, almost imperceptibly. “Beautiful. Precision and grace. Just as I imagined.”

“Satisfied?”

“Very.”

Truthless frowned and returned to his seat.

“Now, students,” the Fount continued, “let me explain.”

When the lesson ended, the air stayed damp, faint with chalk dust. Children filtered out, chatter bouncing down the halls. A stray gust spell circled lazily, lifting last droplets from the floor.
Truthless remained at the back, robes clinging, hair dripping. His staff lay across his knees.

The Fount approached at last, sighing, expression caught between amusement and exasperation. “Are you alright?”

Truthless lifted his gaze; the Fount paused at the sharpness. Then he laughed, a dry, ironic puff.

“Very well. Nothing a drying spell can’t fix.” He flicked his hand, and the nearest gust shifted toward Truthless.

Truthless lifted his staff, dispelling it with a twist. The air stilled.

“I can do it myself,” he muttered, flat and final.

He raised his hand, whispered—and the gust bent to him. His robes fluttered, the dampness fading until he was dry.

Chapter Text

“Oh, great Fount of Knowledge, will the skies weep upon us this day?”

“The patterns of wind and cloud speak otherwise.”

“Greatest Fount of Knowledge, will my fields bear fruit until the next turning of the season?”

“The earth is patient. With care, your harvest will come, though not without toil.”

“Fount of Knowledge, please bless my child. Will she walk in health beneath your watchful gaze?”

“The threads of life are strong, yet fragile. Guard them well, and they will endure.”

“Bless us, Fount of Knowledge, and share this evening’s bread with our hearth.”

“I appreciate the offer, but today my presence is here. Eat, and let wisdom and truth accompany you.”

The Fount of Knowledge knew better than to lie.

Many questions followed. Many questions were soon answered. Such was the daily routine of the Fount.

Day and night, when he wasn’t with Truthless Recluse or attending to other matters, he became the source of all knowledge: question after question, answer after answer—the monotony of rhythm, the consistency of flow. Hour by hour, until the sun could no longer join in song.

Yet there was a quiet satisfaction in it, in shaping knowledge and tending to curiosity alike. It made the Fount feel needed. It made him feel warm.

He liked feeling warm.

“Fount of Knowledge, greatest Fountain of all, my deity, my beloved, what is math?”

“Math,” the Fount began, “is the study of quantity, structure, and change. It is counting, measuring, comparing, and predicting. But it is more than mere numbers on a page. Through math, we see patterns in the world: the rise and fall of rivers, the turn of seasons, the rhythm of life itself. It is logic made tangible, and truth made visible.”

A nod of gratitude, and the next cookie stepped forward.

“Fount of Knowledge, is it folly to hope for peace in troubled times?”

“Not at all,” the Fount replied, “Hope is a delicate tether, yet stronger than any chain of despair. Through it, you may press onward, so never give it up.”

The questioner departed, and the stillness returned for a mere second, only to be filled once more with the soft cadence of inquiries and answers. Hour by hour, question by question, the Fount tended to the world with unwavering constancy—and with a warmth that was wholly his own.

But even warmth fades; its presence is never permanent.

A familiar cookie approached from the crowd, hooded so that his eyes were hidden, letting only the faint lines of his lips show—bitter, resentful, unlike the others waiting for answers. A villager from the nearby village, and a messenger of the Chief.

It seemed the time had come to revisit that matter.

“Fount of Knowledge, the Chief is requesting your presence regarding the blight. It has returned.”

“So I see,” the Fount muttered, his voice low, almost to himself, before turning to the crowd. “That will be all for now. I have other matters to attend to.”

A chorus of protests rose immediately.

“But Fount of Knowledge, you must answer my question!”

“Not before me! No! Please, answer mine first!”

“No! Mine first!”

“Stop shuffling! I was here first! Please Fount me first!”

“No! No!”

The hubbub swelled, a tide of voices each tugging at him from a different direction. The Fount raised a hand, yet the noise pressed closer, each plea a wave of desire, fear, or impatience. He inhaled slowly, centering himself, and then, in a voice both soft and immovable:

“Enough.”

The single word, soft yet final, cut through the noise without much force.

The crowd stilled. The protests died in their throats, leaving only soft mutters amongst themselves. Dozens of eyes stared back at him, wide with a mixture of shock, fear, and lingering want. They were so used to the endless well of answers that the sight of it refusing them was a small, quiet earthquake in their world.

The Fount did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The authority in that one word was absolute, woven from the same threads of knowledge that he gifted them. He held their gaze for a moment longer, ensuring the stillness held, before turning his back on them.

“Let us go.”

He opened a portal behind him, until stone pillar became trunks of trees and the arched roof became the light of day.

The walk to the village chief's quarters was a silent procession through the remains of the day. The Fount floated a half-step behind the messenger, his mind already turning over the problem of the blight. Calculations of soil composition, rainfall patterns, magical contamination—a dozen theories and their counterarguments began to spin in his head, a silent, frantic lecture to an audience of one. He had yet to find the solution, but his mind tried to continue searching.

He barely noticed the path they took, his surroundings blurring into a smear of stone and sky. Part of him was already there, in the rotting fields, fingers pressed into the sick earth.

The chief’s dwelling was a spacious, sturdy building at the heart of the village, but inside, the pressure of stress, worry and the faint scent of old woodsmoke welcomed him. The village chief, a stout cookie with flour dust permanently ground into the lines of his hands, stood over a large table strewn with maps and reports. His advisors—a few older cookies with grim faces—clustered around him.

They all looked up as the Fount entered. The hope in their eyes was a physical weight.

“Fount of Knowledge,” the chief began, bypassing any greeting. “Thank you for coming. It’s… it’s getting worse.”

He gestured to the maps, to the angry red marks scrawled over the northern fields. “It’s spreading faster than we predicted. The counter-measures we implemented… they’ve done nothing. Less than nothing.”

One of the advisors, a woman with a sharp face and sharper eyes, spoke up. “The yield is down seventy percent. What hasn’t rotted on the stalk is stunted, bitter. Useless.”

The chief squeezed his hands, a gesture of helplessness that seemed too large for his sturdy frame. “We’ve done everything you advised. The rotations, the enchanted fertilizers, the prayer sigils… It’s not just a blight. It feels like… a curse.”

The Fount stepped forward, leaning over the maps. His fingers traced the outlined fields. “The soil samples?” he asked.

“Here.” The sharp-faced advisor slid a folio toward him. “The magic is leeched away. It’s not just infertile; it’s… dead. Actively dying.”

The Fount’s brow furrowed. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him, waiting for the answer. The solution. The magic word that would fix it all.

He ran through the possibilities again. A parasite? A magical imbalance from a nearby ley line? A toxin they hadn’t considered? His mind, usually a boundless library of solutions, offered only more questions, each branch of logic ending in a frustrating tangle.

“The prayers to the witches,” the chief pressed, his voice edged with a desperation he was trying hard to mask. “Perhaps if you led them yourself? At the site? Your direct presence, your magic…”

The Fount looked up from the maps. He saw the fear in their faces, the unspoken accusation: You are the Fount of Knowledge. Why don’t you know this?

He straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling with a frustration he dared not show.

“I have reviewed all the data you’ve provided,” he said, his voice returning to that practiced, calming cadence, though it felt hollow to his own ears. “The situation is intricate, far beyond initial estimates.”

It was such a non-answer. A scholar’s answer. He saw the hope in the chief’s eyes flicker and dim.

“Intricate,” the chief repeated, the word tasting like ash.

“I will need to investigate the fields myself again. Directly. There are… nuances that reports cannot capture.” He was stalling, and he knew it. Buying time for his genius to finally spark, for the answer to reveal itself as it always did.

The sharp-faced advisor looked unconvinced. “And until then? What do we tell the farmers? What do we do?”

The Fount met her stare. “Tell them to continue their rotations. To maintain hope. I will have an answer. Soon.”

The words felt like a lie. Hope is a delicate tether, he had said just moments ago. Now, he was asking them to spin thread from nothing.

He wondered if centuries of knowledge had blinded him. Was there a limit to even the Fount of Knowledge? For all his calculations and theories, a simple, corrupting force had outsmarted him. For now, of course. Always just a ‘for now.’

He left the chief’s dwelling with their anxieties clinging to his robes like a bad scent. He had promised them an answer. He, the Fount of Knowledge, had nothing to give but a postponement... again.

As he walked back through the now-quiet village, the earlier warmth of being needed was completely gone. Replaced by the cold, gnawing dread of failure.

His feet carried him, but his mind was elsewhere. It drifted away from the dead fields, away from the chemical equations of decay. It sought a different warmth. A simpler puzzle.

Almost without conscious thought, his hand rose. He murmured a few words under his breath, a simple scrying spell. A window of light, an eye invisible to anyone else, shimmered into existence before him.

And there he was. Truthless Recluse.

In the alcove, half-propped up on the bench, a book open but unread on his lap. He was staring at the wall, his expression the same flat, empty slate it had been all week. But he was safe. He was still. A problem that, for now, was contained.

The Fount’s breath caught. The tightness in his chest loosened, just a fraction.

Truthless shifted slightly, as if sensing the invisible gaze, a faint frown line appearing between his brows before he turned away.

The Fount quickly dissolved the spell, a faint heat of guilt pricking at his cheeks. It was an intrusion. Truthless would not like it. He was a private creature, walls built high around him.

But the image lingered: a portrait of quiet solitude. A problem that didn't demand answers, only presence.

He would find an answer for the blight. He would.

But first, he needed a moment away from the questions.

~~~

The walk to the blighted field was a silent, grim march. The Fount’s mind, usually a symphony of interconnected theories, was a single, deafening note of failure. He could feel the eyes of the villagers on him from behind shuttered windows, their hope becoming a form of suffocation greater than the demands of questions.

He arrived at the edge of the northern field, only to be greeted by the odor of rot and traces of dead magic. The once verdant soil was a cracked, grayish expanse, and the few plants that struggled through were twisted and leeched of color, their leaves spotted with weeping black lesions.

The Fount stopped floating and knelt, ignoring the way the brittle earth crunched under his knees. He pressed his palms flat against the ground. He could feel it—a deep, resonant sickness, a hollowing out from within. It wasn't just a pest or a nutrient deficiency. It was a consumption.

“A curse,” the chief had said. The superstitious word now felt terrifyingly accurate.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the dying world. He reached for his magic. The deep, foundational power that let him shape reality.  Nature magic, or perhaps even Dark Moon magic if necessary. He began to speak in his mind. It was a spell of renewal, of realignment—a complex weave of magic designed to purge corruption and coax life back to the soil.

Light, the pale blue of a winter sky, spilled from his hands and seeped into the cracks. For a glorious moment, it worked. The gray soil darkened. The black lesions on the nearest plant receded, fading to a healthy emerald. A faint, normal scent of earth momentarily overpowered the rot.

A ragged sigh of relief went up from the small cluster of villagers who had dared to follow him at a distance.

The Fount allowed himself a sliver of hope. He pushed more power into the spell, the light intensifying.

And then the field fought back.

The healthy green of the plant he’d just healed blackened again in an instant, faster than before. The dark lesions surged back, not just reoccupying their old territory but spreading, crawling up the stalk like vicious ink. The soil around his hands turned a toxic, purplish-black and began to smoke faintly.

The spell wasn't just failing; it was being consumed, used as fuel for the blight.

The Fount recoiled, snatching his hands back as if burned. The light at his fingertips sputtered and died. The field was worse than before. His attempt had accelerated the decay.

Silence. Then, a single, heart-wrenching sob from a farmer's wife.

The Fount stood, his robes dusted with the ash of his failure. He turned to face the chief and his advisors, their faces a mosaic of crushed hope and dawning anger.

“You said you had an answer,” the chief said, his voice dangerously quiet.

“I… miscalculated the reactive nature of the corruption,” the Fount replied, his own voice sounding thin, academic, and utterly pathetic to his own ears. “It appears to feed on active magic. A fascinating, if devastating, adaptation—”

“Fascinating?” the sharp-faced advisor cut him off, her voice a whip-crack. “My stores are empty! My family will starve through the winter because you find our starvation fascinating?”

“That is not what I meant—” the Fount began, but the dam had broken.

“You promised!” another villager shouted.

“Where were you when this started?”

“You spend all your time in that castle with your books and that… that stranger while our land dies!”

The accusations flew, each one a stone striking true. They weren’t just angry about the blight; they were angry at him. The distant, perfect Fount who had failed them.

The chief didn’t yell. He just looked at the Fount, his expression hollowed out by a disappointment that was worse than any shout. “We put our faith in you. We need more than… more than theories, Fount.”

The Fount had no answer. For the first time in centuries, the Fount of Knowledge was utterly speechless. He had no wisdom, no comfort, no solution. He had only made it worse.

He stood there, taking it as he deserved. The weight of their fear, their anger, their desperation—it was a physical force pressing down on him, and he had nothing left to hold it back with.

Let it come.

“I will find the answer and return.”

After a long, terrible minute, he simply turned and walked away. He didn’t float. He walked, his steps heavy on the path back to the castle. No one tried to stop him.

~~~

He felt… meh. A vast, empty, resonating meh. Not angry, not sad. Just utterly, completely depleted. The warmth of knowledge had gone out for the moment. And in that emptiness, his mind didn’t turn to scrolls or spells. It turned, instinctively, toward the one place that was quiet. The one problem that didn’t scream… often.

He needed to see Truthless Recluse.

He did not pause to breathe, but his body betrayed him all the same—shoulders hunched, pace uneven, a faint tremor in the hand that brushed the carved doors open. He wanted solitude.

But the castle had other plans.

He had barely crossed the threshold when they descended. A flustered scholar, robes askew and trailing three floating scrolls, practically materialized in his path. "Fount! Thank the witches. The third axiom in the dimensional layering theorem—it contradicts the primary resonance principle in a way I cannot reconcile. What is the answer to this problem?" The scrolls quivered urgently in the air.

Before he could even open his mouth, a cook, her apron dusted with flour and a smudge of anxiety on her cheek, rushed up from a side corridor. "Fount, a machine seems to be broken in the kitchen! The one that whips the cream? It's just... shuddering and smoking. We've a banquet in three hours!" She wrung her hands, her eyes wide with impending disaster.

He felt a tug on his robe. He looked down. A small cookie, no higher than his knee, stared up at him with enormous, solemn eyes. "Fount," the child whispered, "why do we die?"

The air left his lungs. The question hung there, simple and utterly unanswerable. He could give the philosophical answer, the magical theory of soul-return, the natural cycle of sugar and spice. But looking into those wide, trusting eyes, all those words turned to nothing. He took a deep breath. 

It was just the usual day. The usual activities. He could handle it.

Another figure, an elderly cookie with a telescope tucked under his arm, stepped forward with a polite cough. "A simple one, my Fount, for a mind such as yours. My granddaughter asked me last night, and I realized I'd forgotten the old stories. What are the things that hang from the sky at night?"

This, at least, was a fact. A single, solid piece of data in the swirling chaos. "Stars," the Fount said, the word automatic, pulled from the deepest, most rote part of his memory. It was a lifeline.

But the lifeline was immediately cut. A young page, his face pale and earnest, had been waiting his turn. He stepped forward now, his voice barely a tremble. "Fount... will I ever truly be happy?"

“Of course. If you can find what makes you happy.”

~~~

Truthless Recluse heard the commotion long before he saw its source.

Voices, overlapping, desperate—rising and tangling together until they blurred into a single pressure in the air. Familiar, too familiar, like background noise the castle never managed to shake. He paid it no mind, turning a page in the book he’d pulled half-randomly from a shelf in the alcove. It was a dense, philosophical text on the nature of reality, a subject that felt both ironically appropriate and utterly meaningless.

The questions never reached him. Not really. They washed up against his focus like waves that broke and went nowhere. But he heard the silence that followed. A sudden, vacant quiet that was more alarming than the noise. It was the sound of an answer failing to land, of a conversation dying mid-breath.

Or maybe he only imagined it. Maybe silence was just silence, and the dread was his alone.

Then, the sound of retreating footsteps—firm, quick, and decidedly not floating.

Truthless didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the same paragraph he’d read three times, not absorbing a word. He listened to the approach.

The library doors sighed open. He didn’t look. The air shifted—Fount was here.

Frustrated. Weary.

He heard the rustle of robes moving with uncharacteristic haste, the soft thud of a book being pulled from a shelf too forcefully, the impatient flutter of pages being turned.

He was searching for something. Not with his usual methodical grace, but with the frantic energy of someone trying to outrun their own thoughts.

Truthless remained still, a shadow in the alcove. He watched through the gap in the tapestry.

The Fount stood by a large table, one hand braced on its surface, the other holding a book open. His head was bowed, his usual perfect posture slumped. He looked… ordinary. Diminished. For a fleeting second, he looked like a student who had failed an exam, desperately cramming for a retake he knew would never come. Trying to find the necessary answers to his failures.

He wasn’t reading. He was just staring at the pages, seeing nothing.

Then, as if sensing a gaze upon him, the Fount’s head snapped up. His gaze swept the room and landed, unerringly, on Truthless’s hiding spot. The alcove wasn’t as secret as he’d hoped. Their eyes met.

The Fount’s expression flickered through a rapid series of emotions—surprise, embarrassment, a flash of his usual performative warmth, before settling on a kind of exhausted acknowledgement. He looked caught.

He made a feeble attempt to straighten up. He closed the book with a soft thump that echoed in the quiet. Then, he did something utterly bizarre.

He waved.

It was a small, awkward gesture. A brief, stiff flick of the fingers, accompanied by a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It was the most unconvincing performance of normalcy Truthless had ever seen.

Before Truthless could even think to react—to nod, to scowl, to look away—the Fount turned on his heel. He abandoned the book on the table and walked quickly out of the library, his retreat just as hurried and silent as his entrance.

The doors closed behind him, leaving Truthless alone once more.

He looked down at the book in his own hands. The words were still a blur. The encounter had lasted less than a minute, but it had told a more complete story than any of the Fount’s grand speeches ever could.

The unshakable Fount of Knowledge was shaken. The endless well of answers had run dry.

And for reasons Truthless couldn't begin to name, the sight of it left a cold, sharp stone sitting in the pit of his stomach.

~~~

The Fount’s quarters welcomed him with a silence so profound it felt like a physical relief. The failed spell, the villagers’ accusations, the hollow answers, the frantic, fruitless search in the library, sloughed off him the moment the door clicked shut.

He didn't bother with light. Following the same ritual, he crossed the room and let himself fall forward onto the bed, not even bothering to remove his robes or get comfy. He lay there, face buried in the silken covers, for a long time, not thinking, not feeling. Just existing in the void of his own exhaustion.

The image of Truthless’s eyes, watching him from the alcove, flashed behind his lids. That cool, unnerving assessment. There had been no pity there, no judgment. It should have felt like a violation. Instead, in the strange logic of his weariness, it had felt like a reprieve.

Eventually, he pushed himself up. The urge to be under the open sky again, to feel the vastness of the night and remember his own small place within it, was a pull too strong to ignore. He drifted onto the balcony, the cool night air a balm on his dough.

He leaned against the railing, tilting his face up to the moon. She was quiet tonight, her light a soft silver wash over the world below. He tried to let his mind empty, to just be a vessel for the moonlight.

And then he saw him.

Truthless Recluse.

Again.

In the dark.

Moving through the moonlit gardens below. Wandering about.

The Fount watched, the day’s tensions momentarily forgotten. He saw Truthless pause by a bed of milkcrowns, their white petals glowing in the dark. He expected him to pass by, as he always did.

But he didn’t.

Truthless stopped. He reached out, not to pick one, but to gently, almost reverently, cradle the blossom of a flower that had been bent, its stem nearly broken. His fingers, usually so stiff and guarded, were careful. Delicate.

A soft, golden light—faint but unmistakable—bloomed at his fingertips. It was healing magic. Small. Simple. The most fundamental kind. The bent stem straightened. The bruised petal smoothed, regaining its perfect, milky luminescence.

It was over in a second. Truthless dropped his hand as if burned, quickly scanning the empty gardens as if ashamed of being caught in an act of tenderness. He shoved his hands into the sleeves of his robe and walked on, his pace quicker now, until he was gone.

On the balcony, the Fount of Knowledge stood perfectly still, his breath caught in his throat.

All the grand spells, the complex equations, the endless, draining questions—they all faded into noise. This… this was quiet. This was real. An act of healing done for no audience, expecting no reward, born from an impulse so pure it had to be hidden.

Truly, what was Truthless Recluse doing? He was such an enigma for the Fount, even more now that he knew where he came from. It was… captivating.

The cold, sharp stone of failure in his gut began to soften, replaced by a warmth so fierce and sudden it was dizzying. It was more than curiosity now. It was a profound, aching fascination.

He wasn't just watching a mysterious guest or a broken soul.

He was watching a living, breathing contradiction. A cookie who built walls of bitterness but whose hands instinctively reached out to mend what was broken.

The Fount stayed on the balcony long after Truthless had vanished back into the shadows of the castle. All  his focus settled on the single flower now glowing in the moonlight.

Even the grandest problems seemed smaller now. Even the loudest questions faded. The smallest mysteries were suddenly more compelling than anything he had known.

Whoever Truthless Recluse truly was, whatever the Fount had become, he now wished to truly find out.

Chapter Text

They stood in a place only found in a dream.

The meadow was silver, grass gleaming like strings pulled from a loom of stars. Sheep wandered across it, their wool pale clouds adrift on earth instead of sky. Their play was soundless—hooves barely touched the ground, laughter rang without mouths. In their multitude, each played its own trifling little game, as though the day itself were waiting to end.

But on the horizon, something waited.

A wolf, dark as the space between constellations, its fur glinting with subtle navy and its eyes a shade of aquamarine and turquoise. Amid the argent strands, it lingered—set apart, though it longed not to be.

It did not prowl; it only watched.

Among the flock, one sheep raised its head. Its eyes shone a deep, golden light, too knowing, too human. The two regarded one another in the brief stillness, as though the meadow itself had narrowed to the span of their gaze.

“Pure Vanilla Cookie?”

And then came the fire.

Flame erupted suddenly, petaling out in rose-shaped blooms of annihilation. The grass kindled without smoke, flowing like liquid fire. Sheep scattered, dissolving into ash before their bleats could leave their throats. The golden-eyed one turned to cinder, the wolf to shadow. The meadow’s silver burned away, leaving only a sky without ground.

And in that falling silence—two souls awoke.

Truthless Recluse, alone in his corner of the dark.

The Fount of Knowledge, elsewhere, eyes opening to the same remembered blaze—yet neither spoke of the dream.

~~~

“You are healing incredibly well,” the Fount observed, easing Truthless’s arm out straight. “You’ll be un-mummified before long.”

“Right.”

Truthless Recluse was more than capable of tending to himself. He was no damsel in distress—never was, never would be. Yet the Fount behaved as though he believed otherwise. More than that, he was adamant about it. He had insisted, over and over, that Truthless not even touch his own bandages.

“I can heal myself,” Truthless huffed, though he let the Fount continue as though his arm were some fragile experiment. The Fount’s touch was meticulous, almost scientific.

“That I know you can do~”

The Fount smirked, releasing his arm at last, the bandages neatly tied.

…What was that supposed to mean?

No elaboration was given. The Fount closed his medical kit with a clicking, before putting it aside. He did not immediately move away, instead opting for a stare down.

Truthless flexed his newly freed arm. The dough beneath the bandages was smooth, the ache almost a memory. He had been healing himself, in small moments, though his healing was not proving all that effective. It was a habit as natural as breathing for him, a remnant of a self-reliance beaten into him over centuries. 

He looked down at the new wrappings with a reluctant sort of reverence. Impeccable. Every fold, every knot, every line precise. Perfect in a way that unsettled him. For the briefest instant, he wondered—Shadow Milk Cookie… had he once been so careful, too?

The thought did not linger.

The Fount’s gaze changed. It was no longer the gentle one he’d worn while retying bandages, nor the teasing spark of a healer playing at bedside games. Something in it sharpened.

Truthless felt the shift before the words ever came.

“So,” the Fount sang out, drawing the word into a lilting thread. “So, so, so~”

Someone was awfully in a good mood.

Truthless’s gut tightened. He knew, with sudden certainty, that he wasn’t going to like whatever came next.

“Tell me more about the future,” the Fount chimed, eyes alight with mischief. “Or—oh!—about my… your? Soul Jam.”

The Light of Truth.

Now ever so silent.

The Virtue of Knowledge.

Now ever so annoying.

Truthless sighed. “What more is there for me to say?”

Truly, what more was there?

He had already said everything. From gastronomy to culture, from magic to geography. And when it came to his Soul Jam… he had already said everything that he wanted to say.

It was the Light of Truth. The Fount had asked what had happened to the other half, and Truthless had refused to answer. There was no need for that truth. The same with the Fount’s fate—much as he would have loved to finally strike something against him. Better to keep him as the Fount than to risk awakening Shadow Milk once more.

The Fount pressed his index finger on his lips. Then lifted it into the air. “Perhaps you could tell me what happened with the other half of my Soul Jam?”

“No.”

Denied.

“Or….” He continued, “you could tell me what happened to me in the future.”

“No.”

Denied again.

The Fount’s smile didn’t falter, but it tightened at the edges. The cheerful facade thinning, revealing the relentless, humming engine of inquiry beneath.

“A shame,” he murmured, though his eyes glittered with anything but disappointment. They were alight with the challenge. “Two perfectly good truths, left unspoken. It feels… wasteful, don’t you think?”

Truthless said nothing. 

“Very well,” the Fount conceded, with a sigh that felt more theatrical than genuine. He leaned back, tapping a finger against his chin. “If you will not give me a truth, perhaps you will play a game with one. I wish to finally confirm things once and for all.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I will make a statement. You need not confirm or deny. You simply… listen. And I will learn from whatever you do not say. How does that sound?”

It sounded like a trap. Every word out of the Fount’s mouth was a carefully laid snare, decorated with courtesy and a smile. Truthless remained motionless, a statue in the face of a hurricane of calculated charm.

The Fount took his silence as permission.

“Statement one,” he began, his voice dropping into a softer, more intimate register. “You are not merely from a, ‘the’,  future. You are from my future.”

The air in the room seemed to still. Truthless’s gaze, which had been fixed on a point somewhere beyond the Fount’s shoulder, flicked back to his face. It was a minute tell, but in the absolute quiet, it was as good as a flinch.

The Fount’s lips quirked. He’d seen it.

“Statement two,” he pressed on, a hunter closing in. “The ‘deceit’ you spoke of with such bitterness… it is not a mere concept to you. It is a person. A cookie. And you believe I will become them.”

“You said not to talk about deceit.”

“Shu-shush. I’m the one talking.”

This time, Truthless couldn’t suppress the reaction. His jaw clenched, a sharp, minute tic. The Light of Truth at his side gave a feeble, almost imperceptible pulse, a dying ember stirred by a gust of dread.

The Fount’s eyes dropped to the Soul Jam for a fraction of a second, then returned to Truthless’s face, his expression one of rapt, terrifying fascination, though also a bit of worry. He was conducting an experiment, and Truthless was his fascinating, volatile subject.

“And statement three…” the Fount said, his voice barely above a whisper now. He leaned forward slightly, and the morning light caught the strange heterochromia of his eyes, making them seem like twin pools into different, equally deep worlds.

“You are afraid that by telling me the truth… you will make it come to pass.”

The final, unanswered statement finalized the game with devastating conclusion. It was the most intimate guess yet, and it struck with the precision of a needle slipped between his fingers.

It laid bare the terrible paradox at the heart of Truthless’s existence here: his fear that speaking the catastrophe would cause it. That he was not just a prisoner of the past, but its potential architect.

The Fount fell silent, his earlier playfulness completely gone, replaced by a look of intense, unsettling concentration. He was watching Truthless, reading the landscape of his silence, learning everything he wasn’t saying.

He had gotten his answers after all.

The Virtue of Knowledge leaned back, the intensity in his gaze receding like a tide, replaced by a look of serene, almost paternal, satisfaction. He had dissected a mystery and found the answers pleasing, though again… worrying. Or so Truthless assumed.

"Don't look so grim," the Fount said, his voice returning to its usual melodic lilt, though it now sounded hollow to Truthless's ears. "Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. Knowing a probable future is the first step in avoiding it, no?"

A foolish way of thinking. Awfully optimistic.

Truthless said nothing. He could only stare at the dimly pulsing Light of Truth in his lap. The Fount’s words were logical, reasonable, even hopeful. But they were born of an intellect that had never been truly scorched by the consequences of its own curiosity. He spoke of avoiding a future as if it were a simple puzzle to be solved, not a damnation to be outrun.

This had been a catastrophic mistake. Every withheld word, every flinch, every guarded silence had been a piece of ‘data’ fed into the Fount’s impeccable logic engine. He hadn't needed confirmation; he’d needed reaction. And Truthless, for all his days of isolation and self-reliance, had given him everything he required.

No point on worrying about what had already happened.

“Alas, It’s my day off,” he announced, as if this were a profound and novel concept. “A rare occurrence, I assure you. Typically, the questions never cease. But today… I’m finally free.”

Truthless made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. He knew all about holding one’s breath.

For someone supposedly not so free, he was surprised by the amount of times the Fount would visit him.

“I thought,” the Fount continued, undeterred, “that perhaps we could… I don’t know. Do something.”

“Something.” Truthless repeated the word flatly, turning to look at him. The Fount’s face was its usual mask of benign curiosity, but there was a new tension around his eyes—a faint shadow that hadn’t been there before the blight, before the failure. The dream had left its mark on him, too, whether he would admit it or not.

“Yes! Something. Anything.” The Fount gestured vaguely, his robes swirling with the motion. “You’ve been cooped up in this room for days when I’m not around. It can’t be good for your constitution. Even knowledge needs fresh air to avoid going stale.”

Truthless almost smiled. It was a bitter, thin thing that died before it reached his lips. The irony was too thick. The Fount of Knowledge, worried about going stale. And most importantly, how did he know he had stayed in his room?

Was he… stalking him?

Yikes.

But unsurprising.

“What would you suggest?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral. He would not give him the satisfaction of enthusiasm. But he would not refuse outright. Not yet. The memory of the dream—the wolf’s lonely, watching eyes—held him in place.

The Fount’s expression brightened, a little too quickly, a little too forced. “I have several suggestions! We could review the astrological alignments for the next century—fascinating stuff, really. Or perhaps a stroll through the eastern gallery? The portraits there are known to… shift their perspectives based on the viewer’s mood. Quite entertaining.”

Truthless just stared at him.

“...Or,” the Fount amended, catching his look, “we could go to the gardens. The ones we… well. The ones with the Soul Jam shaped formation. They’re… calming. Tend them perhaps.”

Truthless considered the options. Reviewing astrological charts sounded unappealing at the moment. Sentient portraits felt like an invitation for more psychological probing. The gardens, however… the gardens were familiar and simple. 

“The gardens,” Truthless said.

The Fount’s smile was a little too bright, a little too quick. “A superb choice! A little sunlight, a little nature… excellent for convalescence.”

The walk to the garden was a silent negotiation. Truthless moved in a way that belied his injuries, a stiffness in his gait that was more about guarding his space than his wounds. The Fount glided beside him, a study in contrived nonchalance, his hands clasped behind his back while holding his staff. He pointed out insignificant architectural features and hummed snippets of tunes, filling the air with a nervous energy that grated on Truthless’s nerves.

They arrived at the garden. It was, as promised, calming. The geometric patterns of light and flora were less an imposition of order and more an invitation to it. The Fount produced two sets of tools from a discreet cabinet woven into the hedge itself—small, silver trowels and pruning shears that looked more like surgical instruments. He handed a set to Truthless without a word.

For a long time, they worked in silence. Truthless, despite himself, fell into the rhythm of it. There was a simple, honest truth in tending to something, in clearing away the dead growth to make way for the new. It was a language he understood far better than the Fount’s dizzying intellectualism. It was calming. He found himself carefully untangling a vine choked by weeds, his touch gentler than it had been in a while.

The Fount watched him from the corner of his eye, his own movements efficient and precise. He was, Truthless noted, surprisingly competent. This was not theoretical knowledge; it was practiced.

“You’re good at this,” the Fount observed, his voice quiet, lacking its usual performative edge.

Truthless grunted, not looking up from his work. “It’s not complicated. You cut what’s dead. You support what’s living.”

“A rather elegant summation of existence,” the Fount mused. He snipped a wilted leaf from a glowing bush. “I often find the simple things are the hardest to grasp. They resist over-analysis.”

Truthless made another noncommittal sound, but it was less hostile this time.

Encouraged, the Fount tried again. “So. Truthless Recluse. Do you have a favorite color?”

The question was so absurdly mundane, so utterly out of place, that Truthless actually paused. He looked up, expecting to see mockery on the Fount’s face. He saw only genuine, awkward curiosity.

“...What?”

“A favorite color,” the Fount repeated, as if it were the most natural question in the world. “I’ve been cataloging aesthetic preferences. It’s a fascinating window into the soul. Mine is the color of a quasar’s light—a specific frequency of blue-shifted ultraviolet, but it translates poorly. Do you have one?”

Truthless stared at him for a long moment, then returned to his vine. “No.”

“Not one? Surely you must have a preference. A hue that brings you a modicum of… quiet?”

Truthless thought of silver grass burning. Of a wolf dark as the void. Of golden eyes turning to cinder. “Quiet isn’t a color.”

The Fount nodded, filing the answer away. “A fair point.” He was silent for a few more minutes, the only sound the snip of their shears and the rustle of leaves. “Hm… do you have another name, besides Truthless Recluse? A… cookie name?”

Truthless’s hands stilled.

“None worth mentioning,” Truthless said finally, the lie coming easily, coated in disuse. He turned the question back, a deflection. “And you? Do you have another name? Besides the Fount of Knowledge?”

He knew of Shadow Milk, but surely he had a name before…

The Fount looked genuinely perplexed. He stopped his work entirely, tilting his head. “Another name? Why would I have that? I am what I am. The Fount is the title, and Knowledge is the function. A name would be… redundant. A label for a container that is already clearly marked.” He said it with the absolute certainty of someone who had never needed to be anything else, who had never had to hide or reinvent himself. “Though for the other cookies, I understand if they do, as there is great meaning to that, if you recall our previous conversation. However, I cannot say I am quite a ‘normal’ cookie,” he laughed almost too casually. 

The simplicity of the answer, the sheer otherness of it, struck Truthless. This cookie was not like others. He was a concept given form. The Virtues had been created for only one purpose, unlike him—first born, then granted the Soul Jam. Had the Fount never experienced a normal moment? No childhood, no parents—had he been doing this, all of this, since the beginning of his existence?

“I’m sorry,” the words escaped his mouth. He widened his eyes, and the Fount’s gaze changed as well.

The Fount’s head tilted further, a gesture of pure, unfeigned bewilderment. The casual ease with which he’d just dismissed the concept of a personal name evaporated, replaced by a deep, probing curiosity. The silver shears in his hand stilled completely.

“For what?” he repeated, his voice softer now, devoid of its earlier theatricality. “What could you possibly have to apologize for?”

Truthless looked away, focusing intently on a perfectly healthy leaf, suddenly finding it in desperate need of his attention. He had spoken without thinking, a surge of unexpected pity—no, not pity, understanding—overtaking his usual guarded cynicism. The Fount’s existence sounded profoundly… lonely. A being defined solely by function, a container forever marked, never just… a person.

“It’s nothing,” Truthless muttered, the words gruff. “Forget I said anything.”

But the Fount of Knowledge did not forget things, at least not when he truly wished for an answer, or so Truthless believed. It was antithetical to his very nature. He took a step closer, the hem of his robes brushing against the neatly trimmed grass. Eye met eye with no space to look away. “An apology implies a transgression, a fault, or an expression of sympathy for another’s misfortune. You have committed no transgression against me that I am aware of. And as for misfortune…” He spread his hands, indicating the magnificent, impossible garden around them. “I lack for nothing. I am the Fount. This is my purpose. It is not a misfortune; it is my state.”

He said it with such absolute, unwavering conviction. But Truthless heard the echo in the words. It was the sound of a cookie who had never known anything else to compare it to. He looked down, defeated by the other’s “perfection.”

“Never mind.”

They worked quietly for a while, but it was different now. Softer. The sun warmed Truthless’s back, and the scent of damp earth and blooming, flowers filled his senses. For a fleeting moment, the constant hum of dread in his soul quieted. This was… not unpleasant.

“It’s quiet,” Truthless said simply.

“Indeed.” The Fount was silent for a moment, watching Truthless’s hands work the soil. The intensity from before was gone, replaced by a calm, observational curiosity. He seemed to be making a conscious effort to be… casual.

“I have another question,” the Fount announced, though his voice was softer now, less of a demand and more of an offering.

Truthless sighed inwardly. “What is it?”

“Do you,” the Fount began, with the gravity of someone asking about the nature of the cosmos, “have a preferred meteorological phenomenon?”

Truthless paused, a clump of rich, dark soil in his hand. He looked at the Fount. The cookie was utterly serious.

“My… what?”

“Meteorological phenomenon. Weather,” the Fount clarified, as if speaking to a child. “I find most cookies have a preference. Some favor the catharsis of a thunderstorm. Others the clarity of a cloudless day. The Sugar of Happiness is inexplicably fond of humidity, which I find entirely baffling.” He leaned closer, conspiratorially. “I believe it has to do with the effect on her garden.”

Truthless almost, very nearly, laughed. It was a strange, foreign sensation that got stuck in his throat. He shook his head, returning to the plant. “No.”

“No preference? Or no, you will not say?”

“No preference.”

That cookie was quite something.

“I see.” The Fount seemed to digest this. “I am partial to a particular quality of sunlight myself,” he offered, unprompted. “The kind that occurs just after a light rain, when the atmosphere is still heavy with moisture. The light becomes tangible, each ray distinct and visible, as if one could climb them to the sky. It’s… orderly and peaceful.”

Of course he would like the most analyzable, particle-visible weather possible.

They lapsed back into silence, but it was comfortable this time. The Fount didn’t press. He simply watched the somnolent sprig, then reached out and gently adjusted a leaf with a precise finger.

“Thank you,” the Fount said, so quietly Truthless almost missed it.

“For what? Not having a favorite weather?”

“For joining me today.”

Truthless looked to his side. There was nothing meaningful about it, there was no need to thank him. Nothing at all.

After some time, he finished with the vine and stood, brushing the soil from his hands. He looked over the garden, at the order they had carved from the gentle chaos. His eyes scanned the periphery, across the manicured hedges and to the garden’s entrance.

And there, he saw her.

A flash of liturgical white, a cascade of hair like suspended lilies. She stood just at the edge of the path, half-hidden by a flowering archway. She was looking their way, and on her face was a smile of such profound warmth and affection that it seemed to radiate its own light. It was a smile of pride, of deep, unshakable love.

It was aimed directly at the Fount, who was still blissfully unaware, humming as he examined a peculiar leaf.

But for a single, heart-stopping second, Truthless Recluse met White Lily Cookie’s gaze.

And in that moment, he was not a bitter exile from a ruined future. He was not a prisoner of the past. He was simply a cookie, standing in a beautiful garden, seen by a memory whose smile felt like a blessing.

Then she was gone, melting back into the shadows of the path as silently as she had appeared.

The world snapped back into place. The dread returned, but it was now intertwined with a piercing sorrow. He looked back at the Fount, who was now looking at him with a curious, almost soft expression.

“Is everything alright?” the Fount asked.

Truthless could only shake his head, the ghost of White Lily’s smile burning behind his eyes, a final, beautiful truth before the inevitable fire.

Chapter Text

“Fount of Knowledge, why did my wife leave me?”

“Have you asked her if you’ve done something wrong?”

“…No.”

”Try that.”

The cookie left, his question seemingly answered.

“Fount of Knowledge, will I see my dead relatives after I die?”

“…That is a truth beyond even my reach, for the cradle of death lies outside my expertise.”

“But you were supposed to know everything!”

The cookie departed, no wiser than before.

“Greatest Fount of All Knowledge, what is the meaning of life?”

“It is what you make it.”

“Fount of Knowledge, why should I pursue an education?”

“The answer is simple: to build a wider room for your mind to live in. Without it, your thoughts echo in a tiny, dark chamber, and you would mistake those echoes for the sounds of the world. The world is far louder, and infinitely more fascinating, than an echo.”

The cookie frowned, not quite grasping the metaphor, and left feeling more confused than inspired.

“Fount of Knowledge, what is the truth?”

“…Truth, truth is…”

For a split second, the Fount's endless certainty faltered. He steadied himself to the best of his ability, then answered with a confidence worth a thousand lectures:

“Truth is the thread that binds all things. It is absolute. Many people will have their own version of the truth. But ultimately, within that sea of perspectives, only one is reality.”

”And how do we know what this ‘absolute truth’ is?”

"That is the question, isn't it? The most important one. You don't know it, not in the way you know the sky is blue or that sugar is sweet. You pursue it. You gather threads from books, from observation, from the words of others. You test them. One false strand can weaken the cloth, and when the wind comes—a sharp question, a sudden crisis—it may all unravel.

You are near truth when the tapestry holds fast. When it withstands scrutiny. It does not yield to your desires; you must yield to it. Uncomfortable, yes. Rarely simple. But it is the only thing that endures.”

“Uhm…. In simpler terms?”

A rare flicker of irritation sparked in the Fount. Was the weave of the universe not simple enough? He took a slow, slow breath, the model of patience. "In simpler terms... do not believe a thing simply because you wish it to be so. Seek evidence. Test it. The truth is what remains. Truth is knowledge.”

“Ah! I see! Thank you!”

Perhaps he should have toned down the metaphors.

The crowd murmured. Some left satisfied, some puzzled. The Fount exhaled quietly, as though he had convinced himself more than them the words spoken not too long ago.

At last, the petitioners were gone. The Fount of Knowledge reclined on his seat, feeling the ache finally settle in. The fatigue of sharing truths that never seemed to land, of being a well that gave endlessly, while no one lingered to see its depth. Not truly.

Just as he was about to retreat into the quiet solace of his archives, a figure approached with a slow, searching pace.

The cookie was different. Or well, that’s what the Fount felt. For outside he was ordinary in every way shape and dough.

His hair was the color of wheat field at harvest. The robes were nothing special, travel-worn robes, mauve, yet somehow he still looked dignified enough to be on par with the graceful robes of the Fount.

But it was his eyes that gave the Fount a pause.

Behind the sorrow lingered a warmth. The sensation brushed against him like rough déjà vu.

“Great Fount,” the stranger began. “I… I do not have a question of philosophy or fate. I have lost something. A request. A very dear possession, and I cannot find it anywhere.”

The Fount almost dismissed him out of hand. He had much to do, and a lost item? The Fount was open to aiding seekers, but this…

“I am more an ‘answering questions individual’ than a ‘finding things one.’ Perhaps the castle stewards can assist you?”

The golden-haired cookie’s shoulders slumped, yet he stayed.

He looked down at his hands. “It is a scarf. It is not valuable to anyone but me. It was… a gift. From someone I may never see again. Without it, I feel…” He struggled for the word, a flicker of profound loss crossing his features. “…unmoored.”

The Fount watched him. The logical thing was to turn him away. And yet, the compulsion he felt was illogical, a pull in his dough that defied his nature. This wasn’t quite curiosity. It was a need. A silent, desperate plea.

He found himself standing. “Describe it,” he heard himself say.

He found himself listening. 

The cookie’s face lit with a type of fragile hope. “It is blue. The color of the sky just before twilight. And it is embroidered with tiny, silver vanilla blossoms.”

”Very well,” the Fount said, descending from his dais. “The public halls are vast, but lost items have a tendency to find their way to quiet corners. We will retrace your steps.”

It became a miniature quest. Something ultimately pointless in the Fount’s long life.

The Fount, who typically saw the castle as a map of knowledge and in a way controlled chaos, now viewed it through the lens of loss. He led the way, his eyes scanning alcoves and beneath benches. They checked the busting main throughfares, the quiet scriptoriums, and the sun-dappled atriums.

The Fount asked questions about mundane details. “Were you reading here? Did you stop to admire the tapestry?” It was a different kind of inquiry, a collaborative puzzle, if he may call it that.

He found himself… enjoying it. Immensely. The simplicity of the goal. The concept of a shared goal.

Finally, in a secluded corner of a lesser-used garden—as the castle had too many for reasons even the Fount now did not know—,where the hedge walls were woven with glowing jasmine, the Fount spotted a flash of cobalt blue caught on a thorny branch. He floated over and gently disentangled it.

It was indeed a scarf, soft and well-worn, the silver embroidery of vanilla blossoms glinting in the light. He felt a strange tenderness as he handled it.

He brought it back to the waiting cookie. “Is this it?”

The cookie’s breath hitched. His hand shook a little when it brushed the cloth. The look in his eyes—so full of thanks—made it hard to look away.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Thank you. Thank you, Fount of Knowledge. You have… you have given me back a piece of my heart.”

He carefully, reverently, tied the scarf around his neck. The blue looked right against his golden hair. Complete.

“I am glad I could assist,” the Fount said, rather satisfied with the results.

The cookie smiled, a warm, genuine thing that seemed to light up the entire garden. “I hope our paths cross again.”

And with a final, graceful bow, he turned and left, the lost thing now found, leaving the Fount of Knowledge standing alone, watching him go.

The Fount watched the golden-haired cookie until he disappeared around a distant hedge, the faint, comforting blue of the scarf the last thing to vanish. A peculiar emptiness lingered in the otherwise silent garden. The encounter had been a splash of vibrant color on the monochrome canvas of his endless duty.

He turned and made his way back to the castle. The questions of the day—of wives and death and meaning—seemed like childish scribbles compared to the gratitude in the stranger’s eyes.

~~~

Another night.

The Fount arrived at his personal quarters. It was perfect, orderly, and utterly lifeless unlike his study.

Tonight, it felt a tad more suffocating.

With a wave of his hand, he heated water from a jar in the corner. From a small, plain tin—an old gift from the Master of the Ivory Pagoda, won in a bet over charades—he selected a pinch of dried leaves. He was still proud of that win, though the tin had sat barely used for decades. He poured the hot water over the leaves, steeping them patiently. Only when the warm, earthy scent filled the air did he add a handful of blueberries from his side, and enough sugar to give a child a dozen cavities.

Cup in hand, he stood on the balcony, watching the moon paint the courtyard in silver and blue again.

The tea was too sweet. He’d let his mind wander again while preparing it. The overpowering sweetness should have been sickening, but instead it reminded him of something he couldn't place. A memory just out of reach, like the golden-haired cookie's familiar eyes.

And again, for the who knows how many times, his thoughts fixed on a single, puzzling point: Truthless Recluse.

The enigmatic, bitter cookie from the future was yet another problem to be solved, a locked chest of fascinating secrets. Each slowly revealed detail confirmed the chest's importance. But the frustration of their earlier interactions had been momentarily overshadowed by… something else. The memory of Truthless, alone in the garden, gently tending to a broken bloom with a magic familiar to him, surfaced in his mind.

Where was he now? Was he still sulking in his room, nursing his bitterness? The Fount had once claimed that he didn’t believe Truthless was bitter, but he had to admit—if only to himself—that the evidence suggested at least a little.

A pinch. A crumb.

Or was he, perhaps, somewhere waddling around the bushes in the garden again? 

A probable outcome.

The compulsion that had driven him to help the golden-haired cookie returned, this time sharper, more personal. The same inexplicable pull, but focused on a different mystery entirely.

Setting the half-finished tea aside—he decided to check. But he would not approach directly. He wanted to observe without bothering Truthless too much, even if part of him wanted to poke at that sharp, guarded gaze. 

Without a thought, he dissolved into the air, becoming little more than a shimmer ray in the moonlight, a subtle warping of space that would be invisible to any but those with the most magically attuned eye. So long as he was within his domain he had no issue doing this, and the chances of Truthless finding him out were close to null.

He drifted down into the courtyard.

There he was.

Truthless Recluse moved through the gardens again. His movements were slow, weary from the hurt of his wounds most likely, as if each step cost him a great effort. He was not admiring the beauty; he was cataloging it, his keen eyes missing nothing. He would pause by a cluster of starlight-bells, his fingers—usually clenched into fists of defiance—gently tracing the delicate, glowing petals, again.

The Fount’s unseen form stilled. He watched, fascinated, as Truthless stopped before a luminous, spiral-flowered plant whose central stem was snapped, causing its head to droop pathetically towards the earth. It was the same plant he had been healing days before. It must have been damaged again.

Truthless knelt. He did not look around furtively this time. Perhaps he believed himself truly alone.

If only he knew the truth.

He simply bent to his task. His hands, usually hidden in the folds of his robes, emerged. They were slender, elegant, but scarred on the fingers.

He cupped the broken stem.

A soft golden light flickered from his palms—weak, faltering, but unmistakably a healer’s gift.

Truthless’s brow was furrowed in concentration, a sheen of sweat on his temple despite the cool night air. The light sputtered, and the stem knit together only partially before the magic faded, leaving the flower still wounded, though less so than before. Truthless sagged, a look of profound frustration and exhaustion on his face. He whispered something to the flower, too low for even the Fount to hear, a quiet apology perhaps.

Why hide this? Why possess such a gift and only use it in secret, on flowers, when he could…?

The questions died in his mind as he continued to watch. Truthless did not give up. He stayed there, on his knees, and tried again. And again. Each attempt was a little weaker, the light a little more faint, until he finally sat back on his heels, utterly spent, staring at the partially healed flower with an expression of such deep, weary defeat that it struck the Fount with the force of a physical blow.

In that moment, spying from the shadows, the Fount of Knowledge understood something fundamental. Truthless Recluse wasn't just hiding from him. He was hiding from himself. And the Fount, the seeker of all truths, had just stumbled upon one he wasn't sure he was meant to see.

After a long moment of staring at his own failure, Truthless pushed himself up from the ground with a quiet, weary sigh. The frustration seemed to drain from him, replaced by a numb acceptance. He turned from the imperfect flower and began a slow, aimless walk deeper into the garden, toward the soft chorus of croaking from a clear pond.

The Fount, still a shimmer in the air, followed, his own thoughts a turbulent whirl. The image of those scarred hands cradling light was burned onto his mind.

Truthless reached the pond’s edge and simply… dropped. He didn't sit gracefully; his legs seemed to give out from under him, and he landed in a patch of soft, moon-silvered grass with a quiet thump. He drew his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, and became still. His eyes drifted to the water, where a dozen frogs sat on lily pads, throats pushing with their quiet chorus.

He wasn’t smiling, but the harsh lines of his face had softened; something within him eased, if only slightly.

A moment of respite stolen from a world of pain, the Fount assumed.

The Fount watched, and something in the scene tugged at a thread deep within his own soul. The stillness. The quiet observation. The way Truthless seemed to simply be, without the need to analyze, question, or perform. It was so unlike his own existence, a constant, roaring cataract of information and demand. For a fleeting second, the Fount felt a pang of… envy.

And then it happened.

The way Truthless tilted his head, the specific angle of his profile against the moonlight, the absolute stillness of his form as he watched life play out before him—it was a key sliding into a lock the Fount never knew he had.

The garden vanished.

He stood in a meadow.

An endless, rolling plain of silver grass rolled beneath a sky of myriad, unfamiliar, polychromatic stars. Small. Vulnerable. He looked down and saw not hands, but hooves. Soft, white wool with buttermilk undertones. He was one of countless sheep, their bleating a soundless, panicked rhythm thrumming through the air. A mindless flock, playing its trifling games, utterly unaware.

On the horizon, something waited.

A wolf.

Its fur was the void between stars, streaked with subtle navy. Its eyes glowed—aquamarine and turquoise—piercing, seeing everything. It did not prowl; It only watched. And he, the sheep, knew it was watching him.

Then silence erupted.

A bloom of pure, white fire. It consumed the grass, the sky, the sheep—they dissolved into ash without a single scream or cry. The wolf’s gaze never left his. It began to move then, with the inevitable stride of a fate it too could not control.

He tried to run. His hooves sank. Solid earth became living tar.

The wolf descended, and it was not just teeth that struck him—it was a devouring force, invisible yet intimate, unraveling him from within, longing to tear him apart. His dough shivered, crawling along his muscles like a swarm of tiny, desperate insects, peeling, folding, and sliding as if testing the boundaries of his form. Flesh tore in ways that should have been impossible, layers slipping slick and malleable.

Underneath, the deeper parts of him followed. Sinews writhed like ropes being twisted until they frayed, each pop and dry crunch echoing in his candy skull. Muscles knotted, then tore themselves ragged. His organs shuddered in their hollows—some sagging like rotten fruit, others twitching, frantic to escape their cages of candy bone. And the marrow—witches, the marrow—spilled hot and thick, searing through his veins like molten metal. Jam crawled along his nerves, and every spark lit him from the inside.

The world shrank to those twin pools of aquamarine and turquoise, but the colors themselves seemed to bite, twist, and grind him apart. They grounded against him, tore without touch. His limbs convulsed—a grotesque puppet with strings snapping, joints groaning and shredding as they came unraveled.

There was no pain. Only a simple, jarring, excruciatingly sickening intimacy of a dissolution he did not wish for. Every atom, every string of tissue, plucked, kneaded, devoured—or simply erased from existence. Creation had become nullified. He was unmade. Each fragment writhing, slick, repulsive, drawn inexorably into the void, into the wolf’s unblinking, merciless gaze.

And as the last vestiges slithered away, the world remained indifferent, leaving only the echo of something that had once been alive, grotesquely, intimately undone.

The vision shattered.

The Fount of Knowledge gasped, his form solidifying as he stumbled forward. He was on his hands and knees on the cool grass, his breath coming sporadically. The tranquil pond, the croaking frogs, it all rushed back in a dizzying wave. He could still smell the phantom scent of burning grass.

What was that…

His body answered before his mind could, stomach lurching in a dry heave. He pressed his forehead against the cool, mercifully solid earth, waiting for the world to stop spinning. The contrast was unbearable: the dewy grass against his skin was real, but the memory of it turning to living tar was more real.

Never, ever in his thousands of years of life had he experienced a dream so… visceral and real. He could still feel the fibers of his being twisting, the unbearable intimacy of his own anatomy betraying him. He clutched at the grass, anchoring himself in the now, in the wholeness of his form.

A shudder wracked his frame. He felt… contaminated.

A shadow fell over him.

He looked up, his heterochromatic eyes wide and unseeing for a moment, still trapped in the terror of the dream.

Truthless Recluse was standing over him, having moved with a silence that contradicted his usual weary demeanor. He was leaning down slightly with sharp, analytical curiosity, hiding even the slightest hints of concerns. His eyes, usually so guarded, were narrowed, scanning the Fount’s face as if he were a fascinating, malfunctioning artifact.

The intensity of that gaze—so similar, yet so different from the wolf’s—jolted the Fount back to himself. He couldn't explain this. He couldn't analyze this. It was a flaw in his own perfect system, a crack in the foundation.

So, he did the only thing he could.

He laughed—high, horrid, and utterly unlike himself, devoid of any real amusement. He pushed himself up, brushing imaginary dirt from his pristine robes with hands that trembled slightly.

“Ah! The night air!” he declared, his voice too loud for the quiet garden. “It plays such tricks on the mind, does it not? One moment you are contemplating amphibious choruses, the next you are quite literally swept off your feet by a… a sudden dizzy spell! The atmospheric pressure, no doubt. A fascinating, if inconvenient, phenomenon.”

He was babbling. He, the Fount of Knowledge, was babbling again. He forced another laugh, hoping it sounded more casual than crazed.

Truthless straightened up, his curious expression hardening back into its familiar mask of bored cynicism. He said nothing. He simply watched the Fount’s buffoonery while still, his head tilted in that same way that had triggered the vision. He didn’t offer a hand. He didn’t ask if the Fount was alright. His silence no more than a loud condemnation of it all.

Ouch.

Finally, the Fount’s nervous laughter died in his throat.

Truthless’s gaze remained averted, now fixed on some distant point in the pond, but the Fount could see that Truthless surely had at least one question for him. Surely, at least one. In fact, he hoped, he wished he did. That, he wanted to answer.

It was… awkward to say the least.

The Fount’s own heart was still hammering against his chest.  He had to break the tension. He had to reassert control, to prove that he was still the ‘unflappable’ Fount of Knowledge, not some creature brought to its knees by a… a dizzy spell… or a vision? An illusion? A craze?

“Well!” the Fount chirped, his voice still an octave too high. He clapped his hands together, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. “No matter! All is well! See?” He executed a little twirl in the air, floating a few inches off the ground in a show of effortless levity that made physics seem like a lie. “Perfectly balanced!”

His eyes landed on Truthless, who was still resolutely not looking at him. A mischievous, nervous impulse seized him. If he couldn’t explain his own behavior, he could at least disrupt Truthless’s infuriating calm.

With a flick of his wrist and a murmured phrase, he cast a spell. Not a complex one—a simple levitation charm.

Truthless, a brooding weight on the grass, suddenly yelped in surprise as he was lifted a foot into the air. He flailed for a moment, his legs dangling comically, his robe fluttering. The look of utter, bewildered shock on his face was so human, so far from his usual cynical mask, that the Fount couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, a genuine, if slightly hysterical, sound this time.

“The look on your face!” the Fount giggled, clutching his staff. “Oh, you should see it! Priceless!”

But the laughter died in his throat as he saw Truthless’s expression shift from shock to something colder, more guarded, perhaps even terror. He was not amused.

The Fount’s little joke suddenly felt cruel.

“Ah. Right. Yes.” The Fount cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing with a warmth that had nothing to do with magic. He gently lowered Truthless back to the ground. “Apologies. A… momentary lapse in judgment.”

Truthless landed gracefully, his feet meeting the earth with a soft thud. He didn’t say a word. He simply brushed off his robes with sharp, precise motions, as if dusting away the Fount’s foolishness along with the grass. “I was doing nothing,” he said flatly, finally meeting the Fount’s gaze. His eyes were shuttered again, all traces of the vulnerable healer gone. “Now, if you’re quite finished…?”

The dismissal was clear. But the Fount, unnerved by the vision and strangely desperate to not be alone with the memory of it, found he couldn’t leave. The quiet by the pond, which had seemed so peaceful moments before, now felt charged and strange.

“It’s a nice spot,” the Fount said lamely, floating over to where Truthless had been sitting and settling onto the grass beside him. He folded his legs beneath him, trying to mimic Truthless’s earlier posture. “For… contemplation.”

Truthless eyed him warily but, after a long moment, sat back down. Not close, but not leaving either. They lapsed into a strained silence, side-by-side, watching the frogs croak on their lily pads.

The fragile peace lasted perhaps three minutes.

It was broken by a guttural snarl that ripped through the garden’s calm.

Chapter Text

The rose thicket did not merely part or splinter. It underwent a violent, botanical detonation.

The thing was a blasphemy of forms, a bear-sized perversion of morphology. It was a shuddering amalgam of cake fur and jagged, crystalline confectionery, a thing seemingly vomited forth into the sanctity of the garden. Six milky eyes rolled independently before fixing on Truthless.

Both cookies scrambled back in instant retreat.

“A Candy Cane Beast!” The Fount shouted. “Its hide resists magic. It’s drawn to strong emotion—it must have sensed—“

The beast lunged. A piston-strike of dough and candy aimed to pulp Truthless’s chest.

The Fount’s staff shot out. A barrier of hard light, a scintillating masterwork of interlocking geometry, snapped into existence.

It was also a catastrophic fraction of a second too slow.

The beast’s skull hammered into the field. Light shattered. The shield held, but the concussive backlash threw Truthless from his feet, straight onto the floor.

He landed with a brutal crunch on his injured side, a gasp ripped from his throat.

His staff skittered away, clattering on stone and grass.

The Fount cried out. A retaliatory whirlpool. A spiraling helix of searing wind and incandescent flame erupted from his staff, scouring the beast’s fur. A brilliant feint. The beast didn't flinch. It tanked the conflagration, six eyes merely squinting against the fury, and retaliated with a massive, swiping paw. A crystalline spike caught the Fount’s robe, shredding it, sending him spinning to the earth in a heap.

The abomination now loomed over Truthless, its breath a foul exhalation of rotten peppermint that frosted the air around them. Truthless scrambled backward, fingers clawing frantically for his staff. Agony screamed up his arm from his half-healed wounds. His magic sputtered. A weak, dying silver flicker at his fingertips.

This was the finale. Not some grand, heroic battle. A squalid, anonymous end in the mud.

No.

Gritting his teeth, Truthless forced his broken body upright to his knees. His hand closed on the cold wood of his staff. Every ounce of his shattered Soul Jam strained. He wouldn’t summon a blade. He wouldn’t hurl a bolt.
He called down the moon.

The full moon above contracted, sharpening in the sky to a single, painful, stellar point. Its argent light violently condensed, funneling into a single, searing, absolute column that speared his upraised staff. The sheer impact drove him down, one knee grinding into the stone, dough crumbling. A cold and absolute stillness swallowed the garden whole, smothering the beast’s snarls utterly.

With a final, culminating gesture that felt like tearing his own soul in two, he released it.

The beast’s lunge halted, suspended mid-air. Snarl frozen in a rictus of thwarted malice. Fur and candy spikes were instantly encased, transformed into a grotesque, shining sculpture of captured moonlight.

One heartbeat. Utter, deafening silence. The only sound was the gentle, almost cruel hiss of the beast's iridescent dust settling upon the trampled roses like a mockery of frost.

The Fount lowered his staff, his breath catching in his throat. He looked to Truthless. The emotion that swelled within him was a turbulent compound: awe, profound trepidation, a spike of worry, and something else, something wholly unanticipated—sheer, unfiltered respect.

But Truthless was not watching. His gaze was transfixed, locked past the shattered wreckage of the thicket, on a jagged, weeping tear in the very wall of the garden. A tear that bled, wept. A fissure where reality itself had been cloven in twain. And beyond it… a sea of familiar flowers, stretching into an impossible, infinite distance.

Truthless Recluse could not look away.

The Fount followed his gaze, his own awe freezing into a new kind of dread. "By the Witches... what is that?"

A sudden movement. A rustle in the bushes that remained intact.

Both cookies snapped their heads toward the sound, staffs coming up again in unison, magic sparking at their tips.

Another beast? A second tear?

The leaves parted.

A small, white bunny hopped out into the clearing. Its pink nose twitched, a tiny, rapid pulse of life utterly unconcerned with the monstrous residue of energy that remained in the air. It sniffed at a single, trampled petal, its whiskers brushing the ruined thing. Then it passed through the beast's path, before hopping once, twice, and disappearing through the jagged, weeping tear in the wall into the impossible field beyond.

The Fount stared, his mind refusing to process the contradiction. "Was that... a bunny?"

Truthless Recluse finally lowered his staff.

“It was.”

~~~

The precise click of a tea cup settling into its saucer.

What drives a cookie who has given everything up? Not courage, certainly. Not optimism. Those were fuels for ovens long gone cold. No, the answer was far more pathetic: random spurs of impulse. The last, sputtering flickers of a will that refused to be entirely extinguished.

After countless failures, Truthless Recluse knew better than to act on them. Logic dictated restraint. Experience screamed it. Every attempt to grasp control, to find an answer, to leave, had ended in pain, humiliation, or that strange, shifting castle folding back in on itself to mock him.

Yet even now, with every shred of hope long atomized, a small, stubborn thought surfaced—an idiot child of an idea. Was hope itself nudging him toward a solution so simple he had never considered? The thought was insulting in its simplicity. Just walk away. Not through a portal, not with a spell. Just… open the door and go. Why did he insist on twisting solutions into complexity when simplicity alone would have sufficed? It was the arrogance of his old self, he supposed, even if it was now less than a flame.

This idea was a thought as sticky as gum on a shoe—one he knew would trail him into the deep night, picking up the lint of his anxieties until it became a heavy, unavoidable ball. And yet, as his eyes seemed to meet the key within the lock of the unfamiliar white petals beyond, he knew one thing—and one thing only: the thought would become reality, no matter what might come. This time, he wouldn't think. He would just do.

“Tr…uthless Re…cluse?”

One final yearning.

“Truthless Rec…luse?” The voice came again, slightly more firm, trying to reboot the system.

A wish to be free.

“Crispia… to Truthless Recluse?” A faint, almost playful note entered the Fount's tone, as if trying to lure him out with a puzzle. “You seem a thousand miles away. Did we lose you to the moon?” He gave a soft, charming laugh, trying to share the joke.

Freedom at last. A blade in his mind.

“Are you alright?”

Truthless Recluse was pulled back to reality.  He blinked, the faint image of the flower field dissolving, replaced by the opulent interior of the castle sitting room. The Fount was watching him, head tilted, a half-eaten pastry forgotten in his hand.

“Mn? Yes,” Truthless muttered, the lie automatic. A worn coin.

“That was quite the surprise, wasn’t it?” the Fount continued, gesturing vaguely with his pastry as if to encompass their entire bewildering encounter with the beast. His eyes were alight with a kind of afterglow of resolved chaos, already sanding the edges off the terror and turning it into a story. “One moment, peril! The next, victory! The narrative tension was exquisite.”

“Mhm.” Truthless offered a non-committal grunt, his gaze drifting back toward a window. Toward the outside. His fingers twitched against his leg.

“You and I make quite the great team,” the Fount declared, his voice brimming with a satisfaction.

“Yes.”

Not quite a lie.

Well, did they?

What was he thinking, of course they did. Two halves of a whole. Or was it more like one and a half, with him being the broken half?

Regardless, their dynamic was not partnership. It was gravitational collapse.

The Fount’s smile widened, taking the agreement at face value. “Bearers of the Light of Knowledge—or in your case, the Light of Truth, though ultimately, it is all Knowledge, is it not? All part of the same glorious library. Facing a ferocious beast from the old stories together… it feels poetic, doesn’t it? Meant to be if I do say so myself.”

Truthless simply nodded again, a short, sharp, sharp motion..

He could feel the impulse from moments before crystallizing into a plan. A stupid, reckless, simple plan.

He would wait for the deepest hour of the night. And then he would go, at least for a while.

Just enough for a break. Just enough to remember what it felt like to choose.

~~~

The deepest hour.

So early the world belonged to ghosts and insomniacs—a category the Fount, often found clutching a book until dawn, firmly occupied.

Truthless Recluse lay in bed. Fully clothed. Shoes soiling the pristine linen sheets with garden dirt and other. Hat still perched atop his head. Staff at his side. He weighed the idea for a performative moment, the potential consequences of the action he was about to take. Not for long, of course.

When the first, lonely chime of one struck, Truthless swung his legs over the bed. The choice had already been made; the bell only rang to bless it.

The castle halls were silent, bathed in the same pearly moonlight he had channeled hours before. The moonlight had always seemed to chase him, from the very beginning. And now, as he retraced his steps to the place where he had first arrived—bewildered and unprepared—she seemed to follow once more.

Truthless moved like a phantom. Through the shattered garden, between crushed white roses, toward the jagged tear in the wall, still weeping and waiting to be mended. Toward the field of white flowers. Toward the unknown.

And so he walked, the crush of blossoms underfoot, leaving only the faint memory of their perfume behind him.

With every step, the castle receded. Its towering, cake-like spires and glowing windows shrank, becoming a mere fever-dream smudge on the horizon, a painting that was fading with the night. Yet the image of the weeping wall remained vivid behind his eyes, a second sight overlaying this new world. For a long while, there was only the lingering hollow, vertiginous sensation of being unmade, utterly unmoored from logic or map. He was a comma in a sentence that had no end.

But the further he went, the stronger it became—that subtle, undeniable hook behind his sternum. A compulsion. A gravity his weary soul could not resist. His feet merely obeyed the invisible thread.

And he let them. Which was absurd, really. Since when did Truthless Recluse follow gut instinct and vague “tugs of the soul” rather than thinking things through? Even if he was in the past emotional, there was always some thought. What was wrong with him lately? It was unlike him, yet he did not fight it.

If the Fount woke and found him missing, would he follow? Or simply watch from some far-off window, amused at the desertion? The thought did not change his pace.

The journey blurred into a tangle of half-felt impressions.  Time stretched and snapped like old elastic, moments blending into a haze of cold and the endless monotonous crunch underfoot. At last, the land simply changed. The flat white nothingness gathered itself into a gentle rise, and the moon—a sharp, silver coin pinned to the vault of a black velvet heaven—cast its sterile light on the moving shapes ahead. No light flickered in the windows, which were mere dark holes, but the path led directly to the heart of the settlement.

He paused at the invisible boundary where wilderness became domain.

The only village he knew in this strange place.

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the field ended and the hamlet began. It was a failure of his own senses, a sudden lurch in perception. One moment, monotony was all in sight. The next, it was less that he had walked here, and more that the world had executed a complex topological fold, rearranging  itself around him and depositing him at this precise point. The once-bright pastel facades of the cottages were now submerged in a deep, neutral hue, their colors bleached away by the moon, hiding themselves in the rhythm of the night.

The sounds were mundane, almost shockingly so after the silence of the field and the violence of the garden: the scuffle of some small animal in an alley, the faint clatter of a dish from an open window. The low, indecipherable murmur of a voice or two from the inn’s direction. For a village, they sure seemed to enjoy their quiet in the night. A village playing at being asleep.

It was like watching a play performed by insects— fascinating in its intricate, pointless activity. He needed shelter, a place to process the day's fractures. The inn was the obvious choice.

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, stepping into a wall of haze.

Warmth pressed close, heavy with the sweet-sour tang of berry gone just past ripe and the grounding scent of bread still lingering from some earlier hour. A few patrons glanced up from their steaming mugs and murmured , their voices briefly dimming to let their glances pass over him. One soon to fade, their gazes sliding over him with a gelatinous, transient curiosity before retreating back into the cozy orbits of their own parochial universes. He remained, half-real, no more than a blur on the edge of their vision.

Just another stranger.

He secured a room with a few murmured words, the innkeeper’s own exhaustion rendering Truthless’s dishevelment a matter of supreme irrelevance. As he turned from the counter, key in hand, a sudden weight slammed into his side.

A cookie, reeking powerfully of fermented berries, stumbled against him, slurring an apology that was more a phonemic slurry than language before listing into a table. He then executed a slow, weightless descent to the floorboards. Truthless stiffened, his hand instinctively tightening on his staff. A single, treacherous flicker of argent light sparked at his fingertips before he quelled it.

Another cookie, more sober, rushed over, pulling the drunkard upright with a sigh. "Ah, terribly sorry, friend!" he said, hauling the drunkard upright, now a humanoid sack of potatoes. "This one here... let's just say the berry juice won the battle tonight! Happens all the time." The friend offered an apologetic, lopsided grin, a gesture of weary camaraderie.

The words. The tableau. It was a ghost, an echo from a life long crumbled.

"Sorry, my friend! This old cookie has had one too many barrels again! Aha ha ha!"

Hollyberry.  The memory was sudden and viscous. Hollyberry Cookie, slinging an arm around his shoulder, her laugh booming through the grand, sun-drenched halls of a different life, a different castle. It was a sound that could shake down cobwebs from the most tedious corners of a wall and doubt, unashamed and full of a life that was contagious. A friend. A comrade. A relic. 

For a second, the inn’s hazy air didn't smell of stale juice, but of victory feasts, of sun-warmed berries and uncomplicated camaraderie. The ghost of a smile, a forgotten muscular twitch from a face that knew how to form them, almost touched his lips. The ache of it was physical.

Almost. It almost did. And the 'almost' was the most exquisite pain of all.

Then the present rushed back in. A hollow ache. The absence was an old wound, healed around the thorn—a load-bearing pillar made of nothing.

He acknowledged the flaw, then buried the memory again. Deep. Where it already had

He simply gave a curt, silent nod to the apologetic cookie and turned away, leaving the warmth and noise of the common room behind.

The door to his rented room closed without much force, sealing him in a silence that was, for the first time, of his own choosing. He stood in the dark, the image of a drunken friend and the memory of a simpler loyalty lingering in the air before him, another kind of tear in the fabric of his reality. 

~~~

The pale light of morning was a dull drill before his eyes. A headache, faint but ever so persistent, had taken root in Truthless's temples the moment he woke. Perhaps it was a leftover phantom of the day before, or just the cost of a night spent in a stranger’s bed. He descended into the inn’s common room, now a crucible of brutal, cheerful noise. The clatter of ceramic, the prismatic chatter of patrons—each sound was a shard of glass dragged across the raw substrate of his awareness.

He minded it. He minded it with a profundity that was almost philosophical.

But he was a “master” of suppression (self-proclaimed, surely). He offered the feeling no acknowledgment. He let the annoyance wash over him and then through him, a wave against a stone. It found no crack to seep into. For now. He would find a quiet corner, a cup of bitter tea, and he would plan his next move. The journey was not over. It had only just begun.

He avoided the offered breakfast with a curt shake of his head, the smell of grease and sugar turning his stomach. He placed the exact coin for his lodging upon the counter. The innkeeper’s look was one of pure curiosity, but it was met with a void, and the coins were pocketed with a shrug.

He paid from a pouch whose provenance he did not interrogate; some mysteries were too banal to merit scrutiny.

Stepping outside was no better. The village was now a fully operational engine of cacophony.

Cookies of all kinds hurried about their morning routines. A stout Baker's Cookie, his apron dusted with flour, was rolling a barrel of fresh milk down the street, His voice, a booming, yeast-raised baritone, calling out a cheerful greeting to a group of children—little Gingerbraves and Strawberry Cookies—chasing a runaway gummy bird. Simultaneously, from the open window of the tea shop, a symphony of delicate porcelain chimes, a click of a cup, spilled into the street. Spiced scent of spices blended with the sharper aroma of blackberry coffee from a stall across the way.

A pair of Elderly Cookies sat on a bench shaped like a pretzel. They leaned into one another, a conspiratorial archipelago in the morning bustle, steaming mugs cradled in dough-knuckled hands. Their voices a low, pleasant rumble under percussive calls of merchants hawking wares with the fervor of carnival barkers. "Fresh-picked berries! Sweeter than a morning melody!" "Get your warm scrolls here! Knowledge and breakfast in one!"

It was vibrant, alive, and utterly mundane. A picture of simple, contented cookie life. And for now, its meaningless noise was a shield. And a shield, however pathetic, was a form of freedom.

A freedom he found himself, inexplicably, beginning to… appreciate.

The village’s rhythm was a riptide, and Truthless found himself in its pull. He navigated the margins of the candy-colored cobblestones, a dark silhouette avoiding carts and kinetic children, the ambient heat from the edible architecture leaching into his dough, inducing a profound drowsiness.

He paused, arrested by the baker’s open window, mesmerized by the man’s flour-alchemist hands kneading the day's batch. He drifted, stopped again where light fractured in a jeweled display. A gummy bee, its sugar-cell wings a prism, hovered with a resonant hum over a crystallized violet.

It was warm.

Oppressively so.

He was so engrossed in this analysis that he didn't see the small, bright blur until it was too late.

A collision of pure, uncalculated momentum against his heating robes. He stumbled back, his staff producing a discordant chime against the stones, his free hand splaying for purchase against a cottage wall.

"Oof!"

He looked down. A small cookie had rebounded from the impact and was now sitting on the path, looking dazed. A basket of woven sweetgrass had tumbled from her grip, scattering bundles of fragrant cherries and chamomile across the floor.

It was her. The same young cookie from the festival, the one with the moth mask.

Her hair was a magnificent, fluffy cascade of shades of pink, from a pale, almost-white blush at the roots to a deep, vibrant cherry at the tips, all tied back with a simple green ribbon. Her dough was a light, creamy shade, dotted with tiny, freckle-like speckles across her nose. She blinked up at him, her warm brown eyes wide filled with surprise.

Recognition dawned, then instantly ignited into a blaze of unguarded delight. "Oh! It's you! The tall, sad cookie with the sparkly staff!"

Before he could formulate a response—an apology, a grunt, a syllable—she scrambled to her feet. She did not assess for damage. Instead, she took two quick steps and wrapped her arms around his legs in a brief, potent, and utterly uninvited hug.

"You're back!" she declared, her voice muffled by his robes. She released him just as suddenly, beaming up as if his presence was the day’s singular triumph.

She seemed wholly oblivious to the internal cataclysm she’d triggered. Her smile softened into a more thoughtful expression, her head tilting. "Are you sad again? You look tangle. Like your thoughts are all knotted up. Like bread!"

She said it with the simple, devastating honesty of a child stating that ‘the sky is blue.’ Then, her practical side took over. She turned and began efficiently gathering her scattered herbs, stuffing them back into her basket. "I'm sorry I bumped you. I was running because Mama's jammies are almost out of the oven and I was supposed to be back with these for the tea."

She stood, basket hooked on her arm, and looked up at him again. The invitation in her eyes was clear and uncomplicated.

"Come on," she said, not asking, simply deciding for himself. Her small, confident hand reached out and closed around two of his fingers where they gripped his staff. Her touch was warm. "The blackberry ones are still gooey. They're best when they're gooey."

Truthless Recluse did not get dragged home by tiny, pink-haired cookies for jam cookies.

Yet, he did.

How could he say no to a child?

He allowed himself to be led, his large, cloaked frame a dark shadow following her bright, cheerful one. She chatted amiably, not seeming to mind his silence much. “My ex-friend Uchuva Cookie said that the best recipe for sadness is a good meal.”

They continue walking through the village, following a small trail that led to a small shed. The trail wound through a patch of defiant sunflowers before ending at a shed whose wooden walls were softened by a blanket of flowering vine. 

"Mama! I found a friend!" she called out, pushing the door open and pulling Truthless across the threshold after her. A woman was by the kitchen.

A woman with the same bright eyes as the girl looked up from chopping vegetables at a worn wooden table. “Did you now, Cherrybud?” she said, a warm smile gracing her features. “Any friend of yours is welcome here.” Her gaze shifted to the silent stranger, lingering on the weary slope of his shoulders. “And where did you meet this… kind fella?”

A mischievous glint entered her eye. “A friend or a project?”

“Mama!” Cherrybud’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Kidding, kidding,” her mother said, waving a dismissive hand. Her expression softened into one of gentle curiosity. “What’s your name, young one?”

“Truthless Recluse.”

The woman was silent for a moment. “Aye…” she finally murmured. “Well, Truthless Recluse, you look like you could use a bowl of something hot. Don’t just stand there in the doorway, child, let the man in.”

“No, no, no! We’re leaving soon,” Cherrybud interjected quickly.

Her mother’s voice held a note of gentle admonishment. “Cherrybud.”

“It’s fine,” Truthless said, his tone firmer now. “I am not hungry, but thank you for the offer.”

The woman studied him for another moment before yielding with a slow, accepting nod. She returned her attention to her daughter. “Aye. Well, the offer stands. You know where to find us.” She gestured with her knife toward the interior. “Now, Cherrybud, will you stand there all day, or fetch what you came for? Don’t keep your friend waiting.”

“Aye!” Cherrybud squealed, the previous awkwardness forgotten in an instant. She darted toward a back room. Before the silence could become uncomfortable, she reappeared, triumphantly holding aloft a small, pink pouch embroidered with a single cherry blossom.

"Got it!" she announced, her cheerful energy once again filling the small space. She bounded back toward Truthless, reaching for his hand again. "Come on! Come on!"

"Bye, Mama! Love you!" Cherrybud chirped, already pulling Truthless back toward the door.

He managed a stiff, truncated nod to the woman over his shoulder. Then he was once again a captive to the little cookie's momentum, the shed door swinging shut on the warm, herbal scent of her home.

Cherrybud's path was not linear. She was a homing pigeon on a deliberate detour, her small hand a firm anchor. She dragged him to a halt before a bustling bakery stall, its windows steamy, filled with racks of golden-brown pastries.

Her gaze locked onto one in particular: a swirled confection dusted with sparkling sugar and dotted with plump, purple-blackberries. She didn't ask. She simply turned her enormous, warm brown eyes up to him, the picture of hopeful yearning. Of youthful spirit. The puppy eyes were a masterclass in silent persuasion, rivaling the likes of Shadow Milk himself.

Truthless Recluse looked from the pastry to her expectant face, then back to the pastry. A long, slow blink. 

Puppy. Eyes.

“Do you want one?”

Puppy. EYES!

The verdict was clear.

With a sigh, he fished a few coins from the mysterious pouch and placed them on the counter. The baker, beaming, handed the treat over in a crisp paper sleeve.

Cherrybud accepted it with a gasp of delight. "Thank you, Mister Truthless!" she beamed, immediately taking a large bite. A smudge of purple marmalade appeared on her cheek. "Mmf 's 'e best!" she declared, her words muffled by the pastry.

Holding her prize carefully in one hand, she once again seized his fingers with her sticky ones. "Okay," she said, resuming her mission with a full mouth. "Now we really go."

And so Truthless was led away, following a trail of sparkling sugar and cheerful crumbs.

Truthless cleared his throat, the sound like gravel shifting. "Cherrybud. I must be going. Was that all you needed?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. She didn't pout or argue. Instead, she simply turned and looked up at him, her expression crumbling into one of such profound, heartbroken confusion that it seemed to question the very foundations of reality. Her lower lip trembled just slightly. The remaining bit of pastry in her hand suddenly looked like betrayal.

"But..." she said, her voice small and wounded. "We haven't even... I thought we were going to see the gummy bee hives next. You... you said you wanted to see them. You promised."

Truthless stared down at her, utterly blindsided. He had said no such thing. He was certain of it. He had said perhaps ten words to her total. Yet the sheer, unshakable conviction in her tear-glazed eyes, the raw disappointment at his apparent amnesia, was so potent it made him doubt his own memory for a fraction of a second.

He opened his mouth to refute her, but the words died before they were born. What was the point? Arguing with this tiny, formidable creature was like trying to hold back the tide with a broom.

He deflated, the fight leaving him in a slow exhale. "...Very well. The hives. Then I must go."

The transformation was instantaneous. The tragic mask vanished, replaced by a sunbeam-bright grin. "Yay! This way! They're so sparkly!" she chirped, as if the previous emotional negotiation had never occurred.

She grabbed his hand again, her grip now sticky with jam, and off they went. Running. A whirlwind tour of the village's most important sights, as dictated by Cherrybud's whims.

She dragged him past the hives, which were indeed shimmering hives of crystalline honeycomb buzzing with iridescent bees, but she didn't stop for more than a gasp of "See? Sparkly!" before pulling him toward the next thing.

It was a relentless itinerary of false finishes. After the hives, it was the millwheel "because it's turning super fast today!" Then it was the duck pond "to say hello to Mr. Quackers!" Then the blacksmith's, just to watch the sparks fly for exactly seven seconds.

Each time he tried to gently extricate himself, she would hit him with the same wide-eyed, "But we have to see the...!" followed by some new, utterly essential marvel located just another hundred yards away.

He was a tall, dark cumulonimbus cloud being piloted by a very small, very cheerful, deeply manipulative pink sunbeam, on a mandatory tour of an overwhelming, saccharine normalcy he had never solicited.

~~~

The trigger was the scent.

It wafted from a small, open-air candymaker's stall they were passing—a sickening, overly sweet, and unmistakable aroma. Toasted plain yoghurt and the over-ripe, almost fermenting tang of blueberries.

The village’s cheerful cacophony fractured without warning. The shrill peals of children’s laughter and the staccato volleys of haggling merchants cut off midair. The vibrant pigments of the cottages dissolved into a nauseating vortex of silver and bruise-blue. For one spinning heartbeat, the street betrayed him. Cobblestones unraveled and reknit themselves as a seamless, gleaming plane, an infinite floor throwing back a thousand reflections of grins not his own.

A visage, all sharp angles and cruel charm, materialized behind his eyes, its smile a promise that was itself a violation. A voice, smooth as clotted cream and sharp as splintered sugar, insinuated itself directly into the fabric of his mind: "Why run, my other half? There is no corner of this world that is not my stage."

"—and then the candy apples are dipped right in that big pot of— Mister Truthless?"

Cherrybud's cheerful narration cut off. She had been pulling him toward the stall, but his hand had gone rigid in hers. She turned and looked up.

He froze where he stood. His face, usually a mask of weary neutrality, was a ghastly pale. A single, treacherous bead of frigid sweat carved a path down his temple. His free hand was clamped against his skull, fingers digging into his own scalp as if to physically excavate the memory.

The headache was now an ice pick driven directly through his eye, a white-hot lance of pain fueled by pure, undiluted panic. The silhouette of a memory—vast and sweet and endlessly, ravenously hungry—had fallen across his soul, and for a terrifying moment, it was the only thing that existed.

"You're all… sweaty," Cherrybud observed, her voice diminished, suddenly tentative. The masterful puppy-eyed manipulation was gone, supplanted by genuine concern. "Does your head hurt… the super mega bad kind?"

He couldn't answer. The world began to right itself slowly, the village sounds returning to their normal pitch, the silver and blue receding back into simple, harmless pastels. But the pain remained for a fragment more. 

He finally managed a single, tight nod, his eyes squeezed shut against the daylight.

“Ice cream.” Cherrybud tilted her head. “Would a cone of ice cream fix it?”

The suggestion was so absurd, so utterly disconnected from the internal cataclysm he was experiencing, that it momentarily short-circuited the pain. Ice cream. Against that.

He forced his eyes open. The world was still too bright, but her small face was a point of focus. Her expression was no longer one of performative sadness, but of earnest, clumsy compassion. She was offering the only solution her world knew for any ailment: a sweet treat.

"It's... not that kind of headache," he rasped, the words scraping his throat.

"But it's the best kind for headaches," she insisted, her certainty absolute. "The coldness pushes the hurty thoughts right out of your ears! I saw it happen once to Mr. Quackers after he ate a sour berry."

The logic was unassailable. Before he could form another protest, the small, sticky hand was tugging him again, but this time with a new goal. She was no longer a tour guide but a medic on a critical mission. 

She led him to a small bench, pushing him down onto it with surprising firmness. "You sit. You look like a melted popsicle. I'll be super quick."

And she was gone, a pink comet streaking toward an ice cream cart fashioned like a gargantuan strawberry. He watched, dazed, as she rose on her toes, issuing silent, authoritative commands. He saw the vendor scoop two generous orbs of pale yellow ice cream into a wafer cone. He saw Cherrybud pay with a single, brightly colored coin from a tiny pouch at her waist.

In moments, she was back, presenting the cone to him like a knight bestowing a sacred relic to her prince. "Lemon-cream," she announced. "Mama says it's for when your insides feel... frowny."

Truthless looked from her hopeful face to the offering. The cold was already beginning to seep through the cone. It was a simple sensation cutting through the complex, searing pain in his skull. It was  in a way ridiculous. But… he appreciated it.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and took it.

A pure, piercing cold spread through his head, numbing the blades of the pain. It was a temporary reprieve, a quieting of the screaming memory for just a moment. It didn't cure anything. But it helped.

“Thank you,” he gave her a faint smile. This seemed to make Cherrybud’s day.

The effect was instantaneous and electric.

Cherrybud’s eyes widened in pure shock. Her jaw went slack. The leftover bit of her pastry, forgotten in her other hand, tumbled to the ground.

For a single, silent second, she was a statue of astonishment.

Then, she erupted.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

It was a sound of such piercing, joyous triumph that several cookies across the square jumped, and a flock of gummy birds scattered from a nearby rooftop. She began to hop up and down on the spot, a pink-haired pogo stick of pure ecstasy.

“YOU SMILED! YOU SMILED! YOU SMILED!” she chanted, each word punctuated by a bounce. She grabbed the hem of his cloak, tugging on it as if trying to share her bounce with him. “I saw it! It was little and kinda wobbly but it was THERE! A REAL-LIFE SMILE!”

Her volume was astronomical. Truthless’s newfound, ice-cream-induced peace shattered under the assault of her glee. The headache, now a dull throb, threatened to resurge simply from the decibel level.

“Mister Truthless smiled! Did you see? Did anybody see?” she yelled, not to anyone in particular, but to the entire village, the sky, and the universe at large. She spun in a dizzying circle, her arms flung wide as if to embrace the totality of her victory.

An elderly cookie on a pretzel-bench chuckled into his tea. A mother shaking a rug out a window smiled indulgently. Cherrybud’s celebration was a one-cookie parade, and she was the marching band, the float, and the cheering crowd all rolled into one.

HOORAY!

She stopped spinning and launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around his legs in a hug so fierce it nearly toppled him. “I knew it!” she muffled into his robes. “I knew the ice cream would work! I knew you weren’t all frowny inside forever!”

She released him just as suddenly, beaming up at him, her face flushed with happiness. “This is the best day ever! Even better than the day I found the triple-yolk gummi egg! This calls for… for…” She scrunched up her face, thinking with the intense effort of a military strategist planning a siege. “A CELEBRATION!”

Truthless opened his mouth, a feeble attempt to protest, to retreat, to explain that a faint twitch of the lips did not warrant a state holiday.

But it was too late. The decision was made.

“We have to get cake!” she declared, her tone leaving no room for argument. “The kind with the sparkly sprinkles that look like tiny stars! And we have to tell Mama! And we have to go back to the duck pond and tell Mr. Quackers!”

She snatched his hand again, her grip now a vice of excitement.

“Come on! The bakery closes soon on account of the frosting needing to set!” And with that, she took off, pulling him behind her with a renewed, terrifying force, a comet of pink hair and boundless joy blazing a new path through the village, leaving a stunned and faintly smiling Truthless Recluse helplessly in her wake. The plan to leave was, once again, thoroughly and completely annihilated.

They headed to the Mr. Quackers. They did not seem very eager to be greeted by the screaming.

Shop by shop Cherrybud was announcing her victory.

The celebration was a whirlwind. And finally, Cherrybud, powered by pure joy, dragged Truthless on a final, decisive mission to the bakery. She selected a small, perfect cake with an almost violent intensity, pointing at the one with the most iridescent sprinkles. "That one! The starriest one!" Truthless paid, the transaction feeling surreal amidst the lingering echo of his own smile and her seismic reaction.

Cake box secured in her arms, Cherrybud was a vision of triumph. "Okay! Now to tell Mama! She's gonna freak!" she squealed, and with the energy of a sugar-gummi rocket, she shot off down the cobblestone path, leaving a trail of happy noise in her wake.

"Cherrybud, wait—" Truthless's warning was half-hearted, lost to the air as she rounded a corner ahead, her laughter echoing off the pastel walls.

The laughter cut off.

It was severed. Replaced by a sharp yelp and the sound of a small body colliding with something.

Truthless's pace, which had been a languid stroll, instantly sharpened. He rounded the corner.

In the narrow alley between a tea shop and a candlemaker's stall, the scene was stark. Cherrybud was on the ground, the precious cake box squashed beneath her. Towering over her were two older cookie boys, their dough smudged with dirt, their expressions cruel and bored.

"Watch where you're going, Pinky," one sneered, a lanky boy with hair the color of burnt caramel.

"Yeah," the other, broader one chimed in. "You ruined my new shoes with your... cake goo." He gestured to a tiny speck of frosting on his toe.

"I'm sorry!" Cherrybud said, her voice small as she tried to gather the ruined cake. "I didn't see you—"

"Course you didn't," the first boy laughed. "Too busy being a little spaz. Heard you been dragging some weirdo in a cloak around all day. Your new freak friend?"

Truthless watched in silence.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly on the cold of his staff. Every instinct screamed at him to act. But a colder, more calculating part held him back. Words, it whispered. Just words. Let it play out.

"Leave him alone!" Cherrybud shot back, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a flash of loyalty. "He's nicer than you'll ever be!"

The broader boy's face twisted into an ugly smirk. "Aww, defending your freak? How cute." He took a step forward, looming over her. "Maybe you're a freak too. A little pink freak."

He gave her a sharp, mocking shove with his foot, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to knock her back onto her hands in the remains of the cake. A gasp of pain and shock escaped her.

Truthless’s jaw clenched. 

The lanky boy laughed. "Look at her! Covered in her own mess!"

The broader one, emboldened, reached down. Not to shove, but to grab. His hand closed roughly around the vibrant pink strands of her hair, yanking her head back. "Maybe you need a real bath, Pinky."

That was the line.

The moment the boy's hand made contact, the calculus changed. Words were no longer the currency here.

"Let her go."

A command, flat and absolute, that sucked all the sound from the alley. 

The boys froze, startled by the sudden presence and the sheer authority in the voice. They turned to see the tall figure stepping fully into the alley, no longer a shadow but a very real, very imposing obstacle.

The lanky one recovered first, puffing out his chest. "Or what? You gonna make us, old man?"

The broader one, still holding Cherrybud's hair, gave another spiteful tug. "Yeah, we're just having fun with the freak. Mind your own business."

Truthless took another step forward. "You are making her your business. And now," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm, "you are making her my business. This is your last warning. Release her."

The fear in the boys' eyes was now warring with arrogance. They were cornered, and cornered animals lash out. "You don't scare us!" the broader one yelled, his voice cracking. He shoved Cherrybud away from him, sending her stumbling into the wall. "See? We're done. Happy?"

But they weren't done. The lanky one, seizing on his friend's action, snatched a rotten, overripe starfruit from a nearby discarded crate. "Here, Pinky! Have a snack!" he yelled, and hurled it.

It wasn't aimed to miss. The soft, foul fruit splattered against the side of Cherrybud's head with a wet smack, dripping putrid juice down her face and neck. She froze, utterly humiliated, a small, shuddering sob finally breaking free.

The boys laughed, a harsh, cruel sound.

The laughter died in their throats.

They hadn't even seen him move. One moment Truthless was several paces away. The next, he was simply there, standing between them and Cherrybud, his back to her, shielding her.

Truthless did not turn to check on Cherrybud. His entire focus was on the two bullies, who now looked less like cruel boys and more like startled mice before a slumbering cat that had just opened one eye.

A flicker, cold and dark, passed behind Truthless's own eyes. It was not the noble silver of moonlight. It was something older, something that enjoyed the scent of fear. For a single, exhilarating moment, watching their bravado crumble into pure terror, he felt a spark of something he hadn't felt in an age: a twisted, visceral joy. It was the joy of a predator seeing its prey flinch, the joy of absolute dominance. It was a feeling that tasted like stolen licorice and power.

He savored it for a heartbeat. Then, with the ease of a master slipping on a familiar, hated glove, he summoned a mere parlor trick. An illusion.

A simple flicker of the wrist. 

Dark Moon Magic.

From the deepest shadow pooled at the base of the wall, a tendril of pure blackness unspooled. It was a perfect, terrifying illusion of life, woven from whispers of a void.

It slithered across the ground, not towards the boys, but towards the squashed cake. It flowed over the vibrant, starry sprinkles, and where it passed, the colors were erased, consumed by a light-sucking gray that made the eyes ache to look at.

The boys’ mouths hung open, all sound trapped in their throats.

The shadow-tendril then changed course, moving with that same unnatural speed. It cracked in the air an inch from the lanky boy's nose—a sound like a bone breaking in a distant room. 

The illusion was perfect. The cold, the sound, the smell—all fabricated, all designed to trigger a primal panic.

It worked.

The boys didn't scream. Pure, mindless terror sealed them shut.. Their eyes bulged, seeing not just a simple magic trick, but a monster made of shadow and nightmare. They turned and fled, their feet slipping on the cobblestones in a desperate, silent scramble to escape the abyss that had opened in their sunny alley.

Truthless watched them go, the ghost of that dark joy fading from his spirit as quickly as it had come, leaving only the familiar ash of self-loathing in its wake. He had used his magic. Not the moon's. His.

Slowly, he turned around.

Cherrybud was still pressed against the wall, trembling, starfruit pulp and tears streaking her face. She wasn't looking at where the boys had fled. She was staring at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock, relief, and a dawning, fearful confusion.

She had seen the magic. Not the silver light of the moon. But something dark and hungry.

He knelt, his movements stiff. He didn't reach for her. Not yet. 

She didn’t want to say her conclusion.

“The cake is ruined,” was all that she muttered as she stood up.

The walk back to the sunflower-lined path was utterly silent. The vibrant energy that had propelled Cherrybud through the day was gone, replaced by a quiet solemnity. She didn't chatter nor skipped about. She simply held onto two of Truthless's fingers, her small, sticky hand on his.

He did not pull away. He did not complain. He allowed the contact. The memory of the scene before lingering in their minds, a  question she was too afraid, or too kind, to voice.

When the small shed came into view, the door flew open before they even reached it. Cherrybud's mother stood there, her warm smile dissolving into immediate concern. Her eyes flicked from her daughter's tear-streaked, fruit-stained face and ruined dress to the tall, grim figure beside her.

"Cherrybud! By the Witches, what happened?" she exclaimed, rushing forward and kneeling, her hands cupping her daughter's face, wiping at a smear of pulp with her thumb.

Cherrybud's lower lip wobbled. "The cake fell. And... and some boys were mean..."  she deflated.

Her mother's gaze shot up to Truthless, sharp and questioning, but not yet accusing. She saw the protective way he stood near her daughter, the lack of any real harm on him compared to the state she was in. The pieces assembled themselves in her mind: a confrontation he had ended.

She looked back at Cherrybud, her voice softening into a practical murmur. "Well, the cake is just a thing. Things can be remade. But you, my little cherry, look like you've been through the millwheel backwards. Let's get you cleaned up." She stood, taking Cherrybud's hand. "Thank you," she said to Truthless, the words layered with meaning—thanks for bringing her back, for stepping in, for being there. The unspoken 'what happened?' still lingered in her eyes.

This was his cue. The moment to extricate himself.

Truthless gave a single, slow nod. He looked down at the top of Cherrybud's head. She was staring at the ground, looking exhausted and small.

"Cherrybud," he said, his voice low but clear.

She looked up, her big brown eyes wide and still shimmering.

"Thank you," he said. He wholeheartedly meant it. "For the day."

A tiny, wobbly smile touched her lips, a ghost of her former sunshine. "'Welcome," she whispered.

Without another word, Truthless Recluse turned. He did not look back.

~~~

Now with the arrival of the new moon, the village, draped in the soft indigo and orange hues of dusk, felt different. The cheerful noise had settled into a comfortable evening melody, and Truthless found he wasn't quite ready to return to the vast, empty field.

His gaze now swept over the closing shops. As he walked,  a flicker of movement in a window caught his eye—a display of soft, colorful yarns and gleaming knitting needles. For later, a quiet, practical part of his mind noted, filing the image away without examining why.

Thus the hermit continued walking, stopping at a stall to buy some food, lingering by a flower shop to admire the flowers, until he was satisfied. 

He turned a corner, and his jam ran cold.

The Fount stood in the square, but the man was a wrong note in the evening’s melody. His usual air of academia had been scraped off, replaced by something more... tense. Worry, sharp. He spoke to two village elders, their faces etched with something that wasn’t welcome. Truthless couldn't hear the words, but he didn’t need to.  His gaze never settled. It scraped over the cobbles, the benches, the darkening eaves.

The Fount seemed to be asking questions. Surely, looking for something. Or someone. 

Hopefully a something.

The Fount turned his head just enough for him to make eye contact with Truthless. 

A jolt of pure, instinctual alarm shot through Truthless. Without a single conscious thought, he shrank back into the deep shadow of a bakery's awning, his heart hammering against his chest. Why hide? A part of him screamed. This was his… his something. But some part of him knew only one command: Hide.

His retreat was a series of frantic evasions. He ducked into alleys, pressed himself against cold stone walls, his cloak pulled tight around him. Every glimpse of The Fount's worried face sent another wave of panic through him. The man was methodical, moving from villager to villager, his inquiries growing more desperate. 

He knows you are here.

His path took him down a narrower lane, one that ended not in another street, but in a high, ivy-covered wall. A dead end. He was trapped.

Footsteps echoed near him. He spun around. No way out.

The walls of the alley seemed to close in.

Panic consumed him. No plan, no thought, no moonlight. Only a raw, desperate need to be anywhere but here.

He threw his arms out.

Reality tore.

A jagged wound of violent blue energy ripped open in the air behind him, its edges spitting chaotic sparks. A wound to the world. A door.

The force of the uncontrolled eruption was immense. It didn't pull him in—it blew him backward off his feet. He had a fleeting, dizzying glimpse of The Fount's face, the alley, the sky—

Then his back slammed into the cold, familiar hardwoods of his room in the castle. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a painful gasp.

The portal snapped shut with a final, deafening crack, severing the connection instantly. The silence it left behind rang in his ears.

He lay there, sprawled on the floor, staring up at the ornate ceiling. The scent of the village was gone, replaced by the sterile, dusty smell of the blueberry of  the castle.

He was back. He had fled. And in his panic, he had revealed a power far more terrifying, far more his, than he had ever meant to show. The look on The Fount's face was burned into his mind.

~~~

“Truthless?” The Fount´s call, cheerful just a moment before, died in the empty alley. He blinked, his charming smile faltering. he villagers’ stubbornness about the garden blight had been a dull frustration. Spotting Truthless’s cloak had been a spark—a chance to pry, to share a treat and parse the day’s strange events.

Now, there was nothing.

But not quite nothing.

The air prickled against his skin. Traces of spent magic lingered, but there was something else in the residue. It wasn’t the silvery chill of Truthless’s lunar magic. What remained was a coarser vibration, a frayed and frantic energy that had clawed its way through the world.

A magic he had been investigating for quite some time…

The Fount’s scholarly curiosity instantly overrode his social graces. He took a few steps into the alley, his hand outstretched as if he could feel the fading resonance.

"A portal...?" he murmured to the empty air, his voice a mixture of awe and deep confusion. His mind, ever the library of arcane knowledge, scrambled for a reference. "But that's... since when could he do that?"

No one would come to answer that question, though there was no need for it. The relief he’d felt at finding Truthless had dissipated, filled instead with the now frequent and deeply unsettling curiosity that had begun to form when it came to Truthless.

The narrative of his mysterious companion had just developed a fascinating, and potentially alarming, new chapter.

He pouted.

Chapter Text

Truthless Recluse found himself, as always, in his fundamental state of being.

The floor.

It was a brutal reunion. The familiar, jarring bite of cold seeped into his back, followed by the mechanical, metronomic pulse of a clock. A pendulum's swing.

Tik. Tok.

Tik. Tok.

Ding.

The bell. Seven in the evening. A chime that threatened to soak into everything.

He did not move. His mind, however, was a whole other story: a buzzing, seething swarm of contradictions. A synaptic spasm in the making.

A portal. Somehow… he had summoned it.

How? When had he ever… or had someone else?

The evidence was the cold floor beneath him. The how was incomprehensible. The why was a question that spiraled into nothingness.

Then came a second wave, crashing into the first and bringing horrifying clarity. It didn’t surprise him. Of course it didn't. Because the method, that reality-rendering grab… was not unfamiliar.

After all, it was the hallmark of another.

A being of such obscene, gravitational arrogance that he simply took what he wanted, spacetime be damned.

Shadow Milk Cookie.

He had, in his moment of purest panic, reached into the same filthy well. He had performed a cheap, desperate imitation of the beast.

The similarity was appalling. He had become a fleeting, pathetic echo of that which he sought to escape, and the universe, in its usual infinite, ironic cruelty, had handed him the very means to do it.

He truly understood him, didn’t he?

The thought was the most profound horror of all.

Though perhaps—perhaps—he was overthinking it. Perhaps he was granting a moment of blind instinct a meaning it did not deserve. After all, it wasn’t like Truthless was unfamiliar with Dark Moon Magic. An overlap in an ability wasn’t out of the picture…

So he let the questions go. The universe, it seemed, had made its opinion on the matter abundantly clear. It had spat him out here, onto this specific patch of floor, with the finality of a judge dropping a gavel.

‘Just don’t try to leave, Truthless.’ That was the message. ‘Stay. Down.’

His will to oppose it was, as ever, bankrupt.

If the cosmos demanded his presence on the floor, then there he would remain.

After all, it was his habitat.

An hour passed.

~~~

Knock, knock.

A faint, reedy attempt at a whistle sounded from the other side of the door—a series of flat, tuneless notes that died almost immediately, aborted by a lack of skill or conviction.

Knock.

“Truthless Recluse?” A blade of unwelcome sunshine. “Are you in there? It’s… well, it’s me. Well, who else would it be? Are you conscious? Philosophically, I mean. Not just physically.”

“Yes.”

The soft turn of the doorknob. The Fount glided into the room with a tray balanced in one hand. His staff was held in the other.

“The bandages,” he announced. “They require changing. One must be vigilant against crumbling.”  His sharp eyes scanned the room, finally landing on the crumpled form of Truthless Recluse on the floor. From the Fount’s perspective, Truthless appeared like a wet blob of matter plastered all over the floor. A flicker of something—amusement—glinted in his gaze.

He set the tray down. Upon it lay clean linens, a basin of water… and a small, meticulously wrapped parcel of sweets, their paper rustling with each of the Fount’s movements.

“I also took the liberty,” the Fount continued, his tone lilting into something more devious. “The village confectioner does remarkable work. A particular blend of sugar and ‘crystallized starlight,’ I’m told, whatever that could mean.” He picked up one of the candies, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as if examining a rare jewel. His lips curved into a smile that was all sharp edges. It was a look that said, I know. I know you were there. I saw you~

It was the epitome of sly, smug revelation.

Truthless Recluse observed him from his position on the floor, his own expression unamused. He willfully, deliberately, chose to ignore the entire loaded subtext of the moment.

“You should try some,” the Fount coaxed, gesturing with the candy.

Truthless raised his head in order to make direct eye contact with what was offered. They looked appetizing.

“Though not now, of course,” the Fount then stated, his tone shifting to one of gentle, scholarly reprimand. “It is far too late for such sugary indulgences. The body requires rest, not a glucose spike.”

The pronouncement was undercut immediately by a soft, distinct crunch.

The Fount had already popped the sweet into his mouth, his eyes closing in a brief, theatrical moment of bliss. He chewed, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room, and then looked down at Truthless, his expression one of pure innocence. He waited until he had swallowed completely before continuing.

“But up, up,” he chided, making a gentle, lifting motion with his sugar-dusted fingers. “I am unable to change your bandages very well while you’re moping on the floor.”

A long, stagnant silence followed. Just as the Fount drew a breath to coax again, Truthless moved.

A roll onto his side followed by a push onto his feet. He took two steps and plopped himself on the edge of the bed, his back to the Fount. The entire maneuver was executed with the sullen obedience of an individual complying with a command he saw as utterly pointless.

He stared at the wall, presenting his bandaged arm. The message was clear: Get on with it. 

The Fount gladly abided. 

His fingers worked at the knots of the old bandages. The soiled linen fell away, revealing the skin beneath. A soft, pleased sound escaped him.

“Oh my.”

His touch was gentle as he probed the edges of the wound. The ragged, crumbly parts had knitted together seamlessly. The deep, sugary fracture was now a smooth, barely visible seam, as if a master baker had applied the finest icing glue and polished it to perfection.

“It’s healing beautifully,” he murmured, more to himself than to Truthless. The genuine pleasure in his voice was unmistakable. He reached for the clean cloth, dipping it into the basin of water. “The body’s resilience never ceases to impress me. A little care, a little vigilance… and it remembers how to become whole again.”

“Were you healing it again?”

Truthless Recluse gave a single, shallow nod.

“Marvelous work,” the Fount breathed. He carefully began to clean the area around the seam with the damp cloth, his touch light and precise. “You’ve accelerated the healing process remarkably.”

He paused, applying a faint, cool salve that smelled of mint and vanilla—a familiar scent from the Fount’s previous ministrations. “It requires very little from me now. Just a touch of balm to ensure the texture remains supple and does not become brittle.”

His hands stilled for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, laced with a curiosity he could not quite suppress. “Healing magic never ceases to impress me, though…” 

He narrowed his eyes. 
Something about Truthless Recluse healing himself felt odd. He couldn’t grasp why. 
A lingering thought, really. Not one he would ponder on. 

He finished his work in a comfortable silence, tying off the fresh bandage with a neat, efficient knot. He gathered his supplies onto the tray, the soft clink of the basin the only sound in the room. As he turned to leave, he paused at the door, glancing back at the silent cookie who had already returned his gaze to the opposite wall.

~~~

“Sweets?” Truthless intoned. “At this hour?”

It was early morning. So early the light was a thin, grey trickle through the windows. So early it felt like a crime to be awake, a transgression against the natural order of dough and sugar. It clearly wasn’t Truthless’s idea to be there.

The Fount, entirely unrepentant, smiled as though he had committed no crime at all. He sat down across from him, placing the meticulously wrapped parcel of sweets between them on the wooden table. They found themselves in the dining room, though no breakfast appeared to be in preparation. There were only some cups of water, bread and butter.

“But of course,” the Fount nodded. “As my dearest friend, the Sugar of Happiness, is so fond of proclaiming: ‘there is a ‘too late’ when it comes to dessert, but a ‘too early?’ Not for that!’”

The Fount paused.

Truthless knew better than to try to understand whatever went on in his mind.

“And I,” he declared, finally meeting Truthless’s skeptical stare, the candy poised before his lips, “find her logic to be… impeccably sound.” The sweet disappeared into his mouth with a soft click.

The other Virtues. The thought arrived, uninvited, in Truthless’s mind. The other Beasts. The Fount spoke their names so easily, painting them in strokes of vibrant benevolence—a benevolence strikingly similar to the way his own friends and fellow Light holders had once been portrayed.

The dissonance was a physical itch beneath his dough.

“Besides,” the Virtue added, selecting a periwinkle candy and holding it up for inspection, “when one is the Virtue of Knowledge, one is privy to certain… truths. And a well-documented truth is that a measured glucose spike at dawn significantly improves cognitive function for the hours to come.” A smile played on his lips. “Consider it less an indulgence and more… academic fortification.”

Truthless Recluse questioned the logic behind it in his mind. It sounded very, very much like a flimsy, self-serving excuse. Yet, a long moment of silence passed before he let out a quiet, conceding breath. He reached out a hand, palm open, a silent request.

The Fount did not hesitate. His smile softened into something genuine and warm as he carefully selected a crimson candy from the parcel and placed it in Truthless's waiting palm. "A wise choice," he murmured. "The pomegranate ones are particularly invigorating."

Truthless Recluse stared at the crimson candy resting in his palm. It looked like a drop of jam against his dough, a small, glossy contradiction to the grey morning. After a long pause, Truthless brought the sweet to his lips. The flavor was immediate and startling—not just sweet, but tart and complex, bursting with the taste of a hundred sun-bleached summers. 

A faint, almost imperceptible tension left his shoulders. He said nothing about it, but he did not need to. The slight straightening of his spine, the subtle focus in his eyes—it was enough.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few breaths, the strange moment of the shared, stolen treat lingering between them. It was in that slightly softened space that Truthless found the words.

“Could you tell me more,” Truthless Recluse began, “about the other Virtues?”

The Fount’s posture shifted. “Ah, a delightful question. Of course.”

A softer smile touched his lips at the inquiry.

“The Flour of Volition,” he said, his fingers lingering thoughtfully beneath his chin. “She is very calm and sweet, though not overly so. Like the first, perfect note of a beautiful melody. Her volition is  also second to none. Though she is not fond of me mentioning this to other cookies, I have ‘gambled’ with her before. For educational purposes, of course.”

The way he had said it didn’t seem very academic…

He gave a soft, almost self-conscious laugh. “And oh, the Sugar of Happiness…” His eyes drifted upward, as if tracing a pleasant memory in the air. “I am quite certain she would be utterly delighted to make your acquaintance. We really must visit her garden; It is beautiful.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I must confess, I’ve found my way there a few… more times than is strictly necessary. If I had an assistant, I am more than certain I would be scolded! Fortunately, I do not.”

His hands fluttered in a vague, dismissive gesture, a faint, wry twist on his mouth. “As for the Salt of Solidarity… well, he is his own… special case. A good one, of course!”

“And lastly,” he continued, his energy shifting again, to something much softer, “the Herald of Change… his passion is… immense. He greets every new idea as if it were the dawn of creation itself.” The Fount’s own hands began to sketch shapes in the air, illustrating the concepts. “Our last conversation was a seven-hour discourse on the inevitability of societal collapse. For him, decay is not an end but a necessary fermentation—the fall and the rising are inseparable phases of a single, glorious cycle. Civilization is but a temporary, beautiful equilibrium in the great, churning wheel of life.”

Seeming pleased with his explanation, the Fount plopped another candy into his mouth.

“And what of the Fount of Knowledge?”

The Fount went perfectly still. Not a single crumb moved. The playful light in his mismatched eyes shifted into something more analytical. “Oh?” he breathed, the single syllable laden with layers of meaning, probably.  He seemed rather too pleased with the question. “You wish to know more… about me?”

…was this a good idea?

The Fount let the question hang for a minute and a half, maybe two (or three). His gaze was glued on Truthless unlike before.  Truthless merely stared back, his own face an impassive mask, offering no reaction. He held the Fount’s gaze without blinking.

Seeing the absolute lack of response, the Fount’s smile didn't falter; if anything, it deepened, becoming a performance unto itself. He placed a hand over his heart, striking a theatrically noble pose.

“The Fount of Knowledge is…” he began, his tone shifting into one of mock-gravitas, ripe with self-aware pomp. “One of the five great Virtues created by the ancient witches to shepherd cookie-kind from the darkness of ignorance. A being of unparalleled intellect, the sharpest mind in all of Crispia and beyond.” He paused for effect, a glimmer of genuine amusement in his eyes. “And, though I do hesitate to boast, notoriously, devilishly handsome.”

And there came Shadow Milk’s vanity…

The Fount waited again, a pause designed specifically to elicit a reaction. A scoff, an eye-roll, anything really.

Truthless’s only concession was a slight, skeptical furrowing of his brows, a minute crack in the facade.

Emboldened, the Fount continued, his voice softening. “The Fount of Knowledge exists to serve. He spends his eternal days answering the great and small questions of cookies, delighting in the unending pursuit of the World’s most exquisite secrets. He does this all day and most of the night. And when he is not answering questions, he spends his days teaching young and old about the marvelous world of magic.” His gaze drifted away for a moment, as if looking into a vast distance. Then it snapped back, the confidence seeming to flicker, just for a heartbeat. “The Fount of Knowledge…” he repeated, his rhythm faltering. “He… always finds the answers they seek. Even if… if he…”

A shadow, fleeting and deep, passed behind his eyes. He seemed to grapple with a thought, then consciously, visibly, shut it away. The polished persona slid back into place. The warmth didn't reach his eyes, which remained a little too bright, a little too focused on Truthless’s impassive face. He concluded with firm, final certainty, sealing the admission away. 

“He always finds the answer,” the Fount repeated, the words a little too crisp.

Truthless Recluse observed the performance. It truly was a performance in its every right.

So that was the way the Fount saw himself… it gave Truthless a lot to think about. He was, in a subtle way, very subtle, reminded of Pure Vanilla. 

The Fount’s smile remained, a perfect, polished curve of sugar. But the question seemed to land as a key turning in a lock.  “Has the ‘Fount of Knowledge’s answer’ sufficed?” he asked. He leaned forward.

Truthless nodded. It was best not to pry anymore. The Fount’s internal cracks were not his to explore.

“Splendid then!” a cornucopia of stars began twinkling in his hair, the previous intensity vanishing behind a facade of breezy cheer.

“But enough about us, as lovely as we are,” he winked. “I would like to ask you a question.”

And so it began.

“What were you doing yesterday?” He asked.

“Not much.”  An immediate response. Truthless looked away, focusing on a distant crack in the wall, avoiding all eye contact.

“It was certainly a great day for fresh air, wouldn’t you agree?” The Fount crept in a bit closer, his body levitating slightly over the table. He drifted so far forward that a few strands of his starlit hair dipped into a pat of melted butter on a small plate. He seemed utterly unaware of it.

“I suppose.”

“Worthy of… an engaging journey, no?” The Fount leaned in further, his voice dropping to a suggestive whisper. His proximity was becoming overwhelming.

He leaned in just a fraction too far. His elbow bumped the base of a cup, sending a splash of water across the wooden table. The Fount jolted back, the intense interrogation broken as he looked down at the small spill with wide-eyed surprise.

“Oh! By the witches!” he chirped, the interrogator instantly replaced by a flustered host. He fetched a cloth napkin and descended upon the wet spot, plastering the napkin over it and pressing down with an earnest, slightly frantic energy.

Almost on instinct, Truthless moved to help him. After a moment of quick, quiet scrubbing, the spill was gone. The Fount sat back on his heels and looked at their handiwork, then at Truthless. A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him.

“My apologies,” he said, the laughter fading into a more genuine tone. “I was testing you.”

Truthless sat back down, his expression unchanging. “Just say what you wanted to say.” 

Might as well get it over with.

The Fount’s face shifted into an impression of perfect, innocent confusion. “Hm? What could you possibly be talking about?”

“Isn’t the test over?”

A long pause. The Fount’s shoulders slumped in a faint, theatrical sigh. “Fine, fine,” he mumbled, finally looking away. He picked at the damp napkin. “The village.”

Truthless felt a familiar weight settle in his dough. “What about it?” he muttered, still clinging to the futile hope of avoiding the confession outright.

The Fount’s eyes found his again, and the playful glint was entirely gone, replaced by a look of pure curiosity that was far more penetrating than any of his previous theatrics.

“Why did you run away from me like that?”

Truthless held the Fount's penetrating gaze for a long moment before his own eyes drifted down to the damp, crumpled napkin between them. The words came out flat, a simple statement of fact devoid of any emotion.

"I didn't mean to."

A slow, brilliant smile spread across the Fount’s face, so genuine and unforced that it seemed to light up the grey morning air around them. The last remnants of his theatrical pout and performative curiosity vanished, replaced by a warmth that, for once, did reach his eyes.

"Still," the Fount said, his voice softening into something earnest. "It was a rather pleasant surprise to see you there. Quite needed it, in fact." He leaned forward again, though this time it was without the intense, probing energy. It was a gesture of confidence. "So. Thank you."

Truthless’s posture did not change. He did not return the smile. He simply absorbed the gratitude and found it fundamentally incorrect, a miscalculation of cause and effect.

"There is nothing to thank me for," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He had not gone to the village for him. It had been an accident. The Fount's pleasure was a coincidence, an unintended byproduct of his own failure. To be thanked for it was a logical error.

The somewhat comfortable environment that had finally settled between them was suddenly broken. The Fount’s head snapped toward the window, his expression shifting to one of sharp, birdlike confusion. His body went perfectly still, as if listening to a sound pitched too high for anyone else to hear.

Instinctively, Truthless’s gaze followed, scanning the empty window frame and the dull grey, soon pink, sky beyond. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. There was nothing

Just as suddenly, the Fount gave a light, dismissive cough and turned back, the strange moment vanishing as if it had never happened. “My apologies,” he said, waving a hand. “A fleeting thought. Where was I? Ah, yes. The confectioner’s work is truly sublime. I find my supply is already dwindling. I will have to pass by the village again soon, or perhaps ask someone to fetch a larger parcel for me.”

He paused, his eyes landing on Truthless. A new, speculative glint appeared in them. “Perhaps…” he mused, the idea seeming to form as he spoke it. “Perhaps we should go sometime.”

The suggestion hung in the air. Truthless did not immediately reject it. Against his will, the image of Cherrybud’s gentle smile flickered in his mind. He did not hate the idea.

His eyes drifted back to the remaining sweets on the table. Noting his gaze, the Fount’s smile softened. He selected a deep amber candy, the color of honeyed tea, and offered it to him without a word.

Truthless took it and ate it. The flavor was rich and warm.

The Fount looked immensely pleased. He immediately picked out another, this one a pale lavender, and offered it again. Almost without thinking, Truthless took that one too, eating it more quickly than the first.

“Aren’t they good?” the Fount prompted, his voice a pleased murmur.

“Yes,” Truthless admitted.

Then, Before he realized, his hand had already reached out and taken a third candy, a vibrant mint green. He ate it.

The Fount’s expression was one of pure triumph. He beamed, selecting a fourth sweet and pushing it gently toward Truthless’s palm, his fingers closing Truthless’s own around it in a brief, encouraging gesture. “Try this one too.”

Truthless found the candy in his hand without any memory of deciding to take it.  He ate it.

The Fount did not even wait for him to swallow before he was selecting a fifth, a deep violet one dusted with sugar that sparkled like crushed amethyst. “And this,” he said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper as he placed it firmly into Truthless’s now-open palm, “is the confectioner’s masterpiece, or so I’m told. A blend of berries and…”

“They’re good, no?” the Fount prompted again, his voice a pleased murmur, watching Truthless's face for the reaction as the flavors hit.

“Yes…” Truthless admitted again, the word leaving him in a quiet exhale. 

He had barely finished the syllable when the Fount was already there, a sixth candy—a swirl of cream and crimson—being pressed into his hand. It was a relentless, sugary siege. Before his mind could form the thought I should stop, his body, operating on a new and disconcerting autopilot guided by the Fount’s unwavering attention, had brought it to his lips.

The Fount’s smile was beatific. He reached for the parcel to select a seventh.

This is too much, Truthless thought, the alarm finally piercing the sugary fog. The sweetness was cloying now. Overwhelming. His dough felt over-saturated. His thoughts, slow and syrupy. He stared at the proffered candy, then at the Fount’s delighted, expectant face.

His hand, however, did not move to take it. It remained on the table.

~~~

The following days settled into a rhythm as precise and predictable as the ticking of the great clock. For the Fount of Knowledge, it was a rhythm of profound delight.

Mornings began with the sweet goodbyes to the moon and the rustle of wax paper. He would arrive in the dining room to find Truthless already there, and the Fount would launch into his daily soliloquy of intellectual curiosities and prying questions. He offered his commentary like scattering seeds—on the weather, on a new text, on the particular quality of the silence—never truly expecting anything to take root, but enjoying the act of cultivation itself. Truthless’s minimal responses, the occasional grunt or single-word concession, were victories he collected and treasured.

The bulk of their days were spent in the library, a place the Fount loved more than any other place. To have a subject there—especially this subject—was a unique pleasure. He watched Truthless move through the towering shelves, attempting to understand the great labyrinth that the place was, and it was extremely enjoyable. They researched the nature of his predicament, of portals and spatial fractures, and the Fount offered theories and texts with the eager generosity of a host presenting his finest treasures. He found he enjoyed the silence of study almost as much as his own monologues, a comfortable space where two intellects, however differently oriented, could orbit the same complex star in order to attain a single shared goal.

But the true highlight, the moment he found himself unconsciously anticipating as the sun began to set, was the evening ritual of the bandages.

He would enter Truthless’s room with his tray, and without a word, Truthless would rise from whatever contemplative pose he’d assumed and present  his arm. It was an act of trust so simple and absolute it never failed to stir something warm in the Fount’s dough.

His fingers, so often fluttering and expressive, became gentle and precise as he worked at the knots. He took genuine, clinical pleasure in observing the healing process—the way the tear had smoothed into a perfect, seamless seam under their combined attentions. But more than that, he cherished the quiet. There were no questions to answer, nor any performances to maintain. He only needed to focus on the single, purposeful act of care, the faint scent of mint and vanilla salve, and the shared, unspoken understanding that for these few minutes, the immense weight of Truthless’s existential dread could be set aside for the pressing of a clean cloth and the application of a balm.

The Fount greatly enjoyed those little moments. They felt, in their own strange way, like an answer to a question he hadn’t known he’d been asking.

So, it was a genuine surprise when, on a quiet morning, Truthless looked up from his meal and asked if the Fount would accompany him to the village.

“There is something I wish to buy,” Truthless explained, his tone as flat and unreadable as ever.

A brilliant, automatic smile spread across the Fount’s face. “But of course! A change of scenery would be—"

The sentence died in his throat as the full implication crashed into him. The village. That village. Going there for casual purposes seemed… inappropriate, given the circumstances.

His smile remained, frozen in place, but the stars in his hair flickered uncertainly. There was no way he could say no… mostly.

There was just one small, itsy-bitsy, tiny detail that he wanted to avoid altogether.

“Why don’t we do another type of quick change of scenery? Perhaps visit a new village for a change,” he began, the suggestion a little too bright, a little too quick. “There is one not too far from here, with a rather different climate—more… bracing. Wouldn’t that be enjoyable?”

Please say yes.

“Hmn.” Truthless didn’t seem too convinced.

“It is much bigger than the little Pastry Village,” the Fount pressed on, a note of desperation creeping into his cheerful facade. “Finding what you seek is a definitive certainty.”

Please say yes.

“Fine.”

Relief flooded the Fount’s dough. The stars in his hair reignited with a triumphant shimmer. Crisis averted. He would not have to face the judgmental gaze of that particular village today.

“Splendid!” he chirped, clapping his hands together. “It’s settled then! I’ll make the necessary preparations. You won’t regret it!”

Moments after, the Fount gestured, and reality tore.

Truthless Recluse watched. His eyes tracked the fracture’s propagation, the way spacetime itself crumbled and re-knit under the Fount’s will. One step, and the world dissolved into a nauseating vortex of color and sensation. The next, it solidified into the quaint, sweet square of a village he had hoped Truthless had agreed to go to (and thankfully he did).

Their arrival did not go unnoticed. A cookie carrying a basket of fresh berries froze, her eyes widening. A pair of children chasing a butter-roll pet skidded to a halt, their playful shouts dying in their throats.

Then, the whispers began, rustling through the street like a sudden wind.

“V-Virtue!” A cookie stammered, her voice carrying in the square. “We… we had no word of your visit! Forgive us, we have nothing prepared! The town square isn’t decorated, the welcome cake isn’t iced… we…”

The Fount of Knowledge drew himself up, his expression morphing into one of benevolent serenity.

The usual face he knew the other cookies liked to see.

“Please, please, do not trouble yourselves,” he said, his voice a soothing balm that washed over the anxious villagers. He waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it. Your everyday simplicity is a far greater welcome than any ceremony.”

“B-but—” the cookie tried again, wringing her apron in her hands, her gaze darting toward her shop as if mentally calculating how many hours it would take to frost a sufficiently grand cake.

“No ‘buts,’” the Fount interjected, his tone taking on a gentle, yet firm, finality. “Really, do not fret.”

~~~

Truthless Recluse was starting to regret bringing the Fount with him. 

The initial awe had melted into a fervent, sugary chaos. Cookies were swarming. A baker emerged from his shop, proudly presenting a loaf of bread still hot from the oven. A child shyly offered a clumsily woven bracelet of pink strings. An elderly cookie was trying to gently pull the Fount by the sleeve toward her cottage, insisting she had a pot of tea just brewed and a question about her wilting petunias that only he could answer.

“Virtue, oh Virtue, if you have just a moment—”
“—just a small question about my grandfather’s recipe—”
“—the meaning of my dreams, if it’s not too much trouble—”

“So what are you searching for?” The Fount tried to muffle out the inquiries. 

“Knitting materials.”

“Virtue, my soufflés keep collapsing! Is it the oven temperature or a magical imbalance?”
“My son wants to be a jester! Is there a scholarly precedent for this?”
“The moon looked particularly orange last night—is it an omen?”

“I didn’t know you liked knitting. Is it something you do often?”

“Yes.”

“Can you bless my new rolling pin?”
“My grandmother’s ghost keeps moving my cheese—is she trying to send a message or is she just forgetful in the afterlife?”
“Is it true you can tell how many raisins are in a pudding just by smelling it?”

“I believe the shop should be nearby.”

“Okay.” 

“Should I paint my shutters periwinkle or lavender? The future of my lineage may depend on it!”
“My bread keeps singing—is it proof of a joyful kitchen or a sign of yeast possession?”
“What’s the official Virtue-approved way to fold a napkin?”

“Why did you invite me to come?”

“…”

“Is a hot dog a sandwich? We’ve been debating for three generations!”
“Can you settle a bet? Does the universe have a definitive end, or is it just one big, eternal bakery?”
“My neighbor’s topiary is obscene! Should I seek legal counsel?

The pleas became a relentless tide.

“Fount, wait, please!” A cookie clung to the Fount’s sleeve, her grip desperate. A flicker of sheer, unvarnished irritation sparked in his eyes—a lightning flash of impatience that was there and gone in an instant, instantly masked by a veneer of calm.

“Not now,” the Fount said, his voice losing its musical lilt and gaining a new, firmer edge. He gently but purposefully pried her fingers from his robe. “I am attending a guest.”

More villagers surged forward, but he held up a hand, a simple gesture that somehow created a sliver of space. A low, disappointed murmur ran through the crowd. Truthless Recluse, watching from just behind the Fount, saw the way the cookies exchanged glances. He couldn’t make out the words, but he caught the tone—a mix of awe, confusion, and a thread of something else. Something like… offense.

The Fount’s smile was back, but it was tight. “Please, everyone. I must insist. This is my day off. A personal respite. I do not wish to be disturbed with scholarly matters.”

It was almost a lie. The words were technically true, but the delivery was all wrong. The Fount of Knowledge did not fully take days off, even if he claimed it. He was the embodiment of answer-giving. To claim otherwise was a flimsy, transparent excuse, and the crowd sensed it. The murmuring grew slightly louder, more confused.

Truthless’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, his eyebrow lifting infinitesimally. He saw it—the minute tightening around the Fount’s mouth, the way the stars in his hair seemed to flicker with a frustrated, contained energy. The Virtue’s placid expression was a dam holding back a storm of exasperation. He was lying, poorly, and he knew it. And Truthless knew he knew it.

The Fount turned away from the crowd, his focus snapping back to Truthless with an intensity that felt forced. “The shop,” he said, his voice a little too bright. “It should be just down this lane.” He began to walk, cutting a path through the crowd that reluctantly parted for him, the cheerful facade firmly back in place for Truthless’s benefit, even as the whispers of the dissatisfied villagers followed them like a cloud.

Ding!

The bell above the door of the yarn shop chimed, a soft, mundane sound that was blessedly ordinary after the cacophony of the square. The inside was quiet, smelling of caramel and clean wool. Bolts of yarn in every color imaginable lined the walls. A rainbow plastered for all to see.

The Fount leaned back against the closed door for just a moment, as if physically barring the chaos outside. He let out a long, slow breath, and the performative sparkle in his eyes dimmed, leaving behind something genuinely weary.

“I must apologize, Truthless,” he said, his voice quieter, stripped of its public grandeur. “This is… not the calm excursion you likely intended. I am afraid my presence rather tends to… disrupt the local ecosystem.” He offered a faint, self-deprecating smile. “You probably just wanted a quiet day to choose your materials.”

Truthless merely glanced at him before turning his attention to a shelf of skeins. He didn’t confirm or deny the statement. His silence was acceptance enough.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the soft rustle of yarn as Truthless methodically examined different textures and weights. The Fount watched, his earlier frantic energy settling into a tranquil yet observant quiet. He seemed content to simply be in the peace of the small shop.

Truthless reached for a skein of a deep, steel-grey wool at the same time the Fount moved to point out a vibrant cobalt blue one on a higher shelf. Their hands did not so much clasp as they brushed—a fleeting, accidental contact.

The Fount’s fingers, usually so expressive, stilled for a heartbeat against the back of Truthless’s hand. It was a whisper of a touch, cool and smooth against Truthless’s own dough. Just as quickly, the Fount withdrew his hand, curling his fingers slightly as if the brief contact had been unexpectedly warm.

“My apologies,” he murmured, his gaze fixed a little too intently on the cobalt blue yarn.

Truthless said nothing. He simply retracted his own hand and continued his inspection as if nothing had happened. But his focus remained on the neutral, muted tones. He bypassed the blues, the greens, the warm golds. His fingers finally settled on a cool, silvery thread. It was the color of moonlight on a still lake, of a sky moments before dawn.

He held it up, not for the Fount’s opinion, but simply as a statement of fact. This was the one.

The Fount looked from the silver thread to Truthless’s impassive face. A small, understanding smile, genuine this time, touched his lips. “A fine choice,” he said softly. “A very practical color.”

Truthless gave a single, shallow nod in acknowledgment of the Fount's comment. He turned and placed the skein of silver yarn on the counter before the shopkeeper, a quiet cookie with spectacles made of hardened caramel. He produced a few small, smooth coins from a hidden pocket.

The transaction was swift. As Truthless took his small parcel, the Fount, who had been leaning against a shelf in a pose of casual observation, suddenly went rigid.

His eyes widened. The stars in his hair flashed with the intensity of a sudden lightning strike. A soft, incredulous gasp escaped him.

“Oh,” he breathed. The sound was full of such profound, world-shifting realization that Truthless actually turned to look at him.

The Fount’s hand came up, fingers splayed, as if to physically grasp the thought hovering in the air before him. “Oh, witches,” he whispered, his voice a mixture of excitement and sheer self-directed exasperation. “Why didn’t I think of this before? It’s so… so obvious!”

“Huh?” Truthless tilted his head.

“I am not too fond of illusion magic, as convenient as it is, but…” The Fount raised his staff. A soft, cerulean light emanated from the jewel at its tip, enveloping him in a cool, shimmering aura.

His long hair remained, but a part of it was now elegantly raised and pinned back. His form softened, his shoulders narrowing, his stature refining into a more graceful silhouette. The ornate robes melted and reformed, weaving themselves into the shape of a long, elegant black dress that swept the floor. The fabric was simple, yet it held a subtle, expensive sheen.

Yet, his color palette remained. His hair retained its familiar  dark-light blue hue, still dotted with those distinctive, tiny stars. His eyes, one pale cyan and one warm turquoise, stayed exactly as they were, now looking out from a face that was both new and utterly familiar.

The glow faded. The figure now standing before Truthless was undeniably female, yet the sharp, intelligent gaze was the same.

The Fount of Knowledge had become a woman.

Chapter Text

If the Fount of Knowledge typically considered himself handsome—and he did—the being now regarding her reflection in the dark glass of a windowpane was nothing short of radiant. A new thought, pristine and self-congratulatory, bloomed in her mind: Oh yes. This will do nicely.

She tilted her head, watching the starlight in her now-upswept hair catch the warm light of the shop. The black dress was a dramatic canvas against which her unique features—the cyan and turquoise eyes, the constellation-like hair—truly popped. It was artistry. It was genius. It was…

…being observed.

Her gaze slid from her own reflection to meet another in the glass: Truthless Recluse, standing a few feet away, his parcel of silver yarn held in one hand, his expression utterly unchanged. 

The Fount turned, a fluid, graceful motion that made the skirt of the dress swirl just so. She beamed at him, the expression somehow both new and familiar on her altered features. “Well?” she prompted, her voice a slightly higher, mellower version of its usual cadence, but still laced with the same eager anticipation for approval. “What do you think?”

Truthless’s eyes did not waver. They performed a slow, analytical sweep from the pinned-up hair down to the hem of the dress and back again. A long, flat silence filled the shop, broken only by the distant hum of the villagers outside.

Finally, he spoke.

“The shoes are impractical.”

The Fount’s brilliant smile faltered for a microsecond. She looked down at the elegant, sleek black heels that had formed as part of the illusion. They were indeed entirely impractical for walking any real distance.

“It’s been a while since I wore shoes…” she admitted. “And I rarely walk…” She looked back up, a faint, defensive pout touching her new lips. "But aesthetics," she began, her voice regaining its lectural momentum, "are a fundamental component of believability. A cohesive visual narrative sells the illusion. If one is to play a part, one must commit to the entire costume," she countered, as if that settled the matter.

Truthless gave a single, shallow nod that conveyed neither agreement nor disagreement, only acknowledgment of the statement as a fact. He shifted the parcel under his arm. “Are you done?”

The Fount drew herself up, smoothing the front of her dress. Once again, the scholar spoke. “The transformation is complete and stable, if that is what you are asking. The Glamour will hold.”

“Good,” Truthless stated. He paused for a fraction of a second, his head tilting just so. “Couldn’t you have just created a portal instead of doing this?”

Why choose the complex, theatrical solution when a simple, direct one was available?

The Fount opened her mouth to argue, lifting her right hand with her index finger out. It looked slightly absurd coming from her new, elegantly gloved hand. “Well…” she began, the scholarly gesture deflating slightly. The grand explanation about narrative cohesion and the academic merits of undercover fieldwork died on her lips. Truthless’s blunt logic had punctured the performance.

Her hand lowered. The defensiveness melted. She looked away, towards the bustling village square they were about to re-enter.

“Truth be told, while you were choosing the yarn, I got an idea. I do not wish to return yet,” she confessed, the words softer, stripped of their usual theatricality. It was a simple, startlingly honest admission. The errand was an excuse. The disguise was a ticket to stay in the world, to linger in the simple, chaotic warmth of the village a little while longer, free from the weight of his own title.

“But what am I going to do with you?” She pondered aloud, turning her gaze back to him.

“With me?”

A nod. “If they see you, I presume they will ask you about the Fount’s whereabouts.” It was a reasonable deduction.

“Shall I use a similar spell on y—”

“No.”

“But it could be—”

“No.”

The nerve of him, undermining my elaborate plans…

The Fount stared at him. He stared back, his resolve as immovable as a mountain. She huffed a small, frustrated breath. She was utterly, completely cookieblocked.

The Fount’s mind, usually a whirlwind of solutions and schemes, was uncharacteristically blank. Every potential argument—the logic, the practicality, the sheer fun of it—shattered against the wall of Truthless’s “no.”

And yet, as the pause stretched, a spark of cunning lit behind her eyes—a solution simple, almost mundane, but perfectly elegant in its own minimalism.

“Very well,” she said, a mock sigh carrying the faintest theatrical flourish. “Then you shall serve as my… bodyguard.”

“No.”

The Fount’s brow quirked in incredulity at the inefficiency of his obstinance.

“You are the most impossible cookie,” she intoned, her voice losing its mellower cadence and sharpening with a familiar, frustrated edge. “Pray, what solution do you propose? Shall we simply stroll into the square and when the first villager asks where the illustrious Fount has wandered off to, you will just… grunt? Glower at them until they flee? Enlighten me, if you would.”

Something about the appearance had granted the Fount a bit of a feistier mouth. She took a step closer, the impractical shoes making a click on the wooden floor. “This is a collaborative endeavor! I require a modicum of cooperation! Or would you prefer to be swarmed by anxious bakers and their soufflé-related crises?”

Truthless watched her mini-tirade. He waited a full three seconds after she finished, ensuring the silence had properly settled back in.

Then, he spoke.

“I will tell them you are indisposed.”

The Fount blinked. “Indisposed,” she repeated, the word flat.

“Yes.”

“And what, pray tell, does that entail? A sudden headache? A tragic bout of… of pastry poisoning?” The skepticism in her voice was thick enough to frost a cake.

Truthless’s gaze was unwavering. “Thinking,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “The Fount of Knowledge is… thinking. He cannot be disturbed.”

He said it with such finality, such utter conviction, that for a moment, the Fount was speechless. For a moment, the Fount’s mouth parted, struck by a rare, grudging admiration. Brilliant. Elegant. Inevitably foolproof. Truthless had delivered a solution as neat, as irreproachable, as any carefully crafted Glamour. It was so fundamentally true to his nature that no one would ever question it. Of course the Virtue of Knowledge would be unavailable due to the act of knowledge itself.

A slow, incredulous smile spread across her face. She let out a soft, breathy laugh.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, that’s… that’s actually rather perfect.”

She looked at him with a new sense of appreciation. He hadn’t been cookieblocking her; he’d been offering a simpler, more elegant solution all along. One that required no magic, no costumes, and no talking from him.

“Very well,” she conceded, her tone warm with amusement. “He is thinking. Do not disturb.” She smoothed her dress once more.

“Shopkeeper.”

“Y-yes?”

“Is there a back door?”

“Ah,” the shop owner widened his eyes, before nodding. “Yes, my Fount of Knowledge.”

“We will leave from there.”

“Okay, my Fount of Knowledge.”

“And please do not let anyone know we were here, until tomorrow.”

“Of course my Fount of Knowledge!”

The shopkeeper, wide-eyed and flustered by the direct address from his disguised Virtue, merely pointed a trembling finger toward a beaded curtain at the back of the shop. "Through there, my—" He caught himself, remembering her instruction. "—my lady. It leads to the alley."

"Your discretion is appreciated," the Fount said, her tone regaining its pristine warmth, now filtered through her new persona. With a satisfied glance at Truthless—a look that said see? This is working already—she swept toward the curtain, the beads chiming softly as she passed through.

Truthless followed. The alley was narrow and smelled of sweet yeast and damp stone. The sounds of the main square were muffled here.

The Fount took a deep breath, savoring the unobserved moment. She turned to Truthless.

"Right then," she said. “I wish to try this village’s sweets. The confectioner's is just around the corner. And this time, I intend to actually use the door."

“This time?”

“I tend to use a portal that leads directly into the shop when visiting the Pastry Village. It’s less conspicuous,” she admitted. 

What could she say, it prevented him from garnering unrequited attention when simply seeking a moment of peace and sweets.

She began to walk, then immediately stumbled, her ankle twisting awkwardly in the impractical shoe. She caught herself against the alley wall with a soft, undignified squeak.

She looked down at the offending footwear, then up at Truthless, who had stopped and was watching her with a slight amusement. Perhaps mockingly.

"A minor adjustment," she declared, her cheeks flushing slightly. A faint blue shimmer passed over the shoes, their elegant, slender heels morphing into something lower, sturdier, and far more sensible. The glamour held, but the logic had been updated.

"Much better," she murmured to herself, and set off again, this time with a more stable gait.

The journey to the confectioner's was a revelation.

No one looked at her. Not really. A few cookies offered polite nods to the well-dressed "lady" and her imposing companion, but their gazes slid away without a flicker of recognition. There were no dropped baskets, no awed whispers, no desperate hands clutching at her sleeves. It was… peaceful. Exhilarating. She had forgotten what it was to hide under a new visage and play a role free of the crown known as the Fount of Knowledge.

She paused for a moment, watching a group of children chase each other around a fountain, their laughter echoing in the square. 

“Fount,” Truthless said from behind. 

“Hm? No, no,” she said, without turning. “The Fount isn’t here. He is… indisposed.” She couldn’t keep the slight, pleased smirk from her voice at using his own perfect excuse.

A moment of silence.

“Then what do I call you?”

Oh. Right. A name. The Fount turned. A designation was required. An alias. It felt like lying but… it was a necessity.

“Fount of Truth… no, that’s not right…” she muttered, tapping a gloved finger against her lip. “Sage of Truth? Too derivative. Sage of Knowledge? Mn… redundant.” She was thinking aloud, cycling through titles as if searching a mental index that had suddenly misplaced its primary subject.

“Blueberry Milk Cookie?” Truthless suggested.

The Fount stared at him, horrified. Cookie. The word landed with the subtlety of a dropped anvil. A cookie name. A name that ended in cookie. It was what one called a person. A citizen. A mortal. It was simple, normal, and… profoundly wrong.

Truthless had mentioned a ‘Shadow Milk Cookie’ before, a name that seemed to be attached to the Fount in one way or another, and given how he seemed to be related to the concept of deceit in the future, perhaps he had chosen a cookie name. Future him,  of course, because the current Fount could not find it in him to do such a thing willingly. In fact, the notion of him changing his name was just bizarre all together, so a part of the Fount hoped it was someone else. As of now, he, she, was facing this dilemma. 

She was not just a cookie. She was a Virtue. An idea given form. A function for the world. To reduce that to a… a flavor… it felt like trying to fit the ocean into a teacup.

“No,” she said, the word firmer and more certain than any she had uttered since her transformation. “Not that. Something… else.”

The search continued.

Her gaze drifted over the square, over the villagers and then back to Truthless himself. A name didn't need to be a flavor. It could be a concept. A title. But it had to end with Cookie... that was the rule of this reality….? He didn’t want to concede but… c’mon, the Fount was always one to try new things for the sake of research, was he not? He could embrace the cookie name for now… just for now…

An idea sparked. It was simple, and it borrowed from the very one who had caused this dilemma. It was perfect.

"Truthless Cookie," she declared, a sly smile touching her lips. “Truth Cookie.”

Truthless’s stare, if possible, became even flatter. It was a look of pure disbelief.

She quickly held up a hand. "A jest! A jest. Mostly." Her smile softened. "But you have the right of it. A name is a shield here. It must end as theirs do." She thought for another moment, then snapped her fingers. "Scribe Cookie. No, too plain. Seer Cookie? Closer..."

Finally, she landed on it. A title that spoke to knowledge, but obliquely. A name that could belong to a reclusive scholar, not a grand Virtue.

"Archivist Cookie," she said, the words feeling solid and right. "You may call me Archivist Cookie." It was a role. A function. It was, in its own way, a truth.

Truthless considered this for a moment, his head tilting a fraction. "Archivist Cookie," he repeated.

"Precisely," the newly-dubbed Archivist Cookie said, smoothing the front of her black dress. "Now, shall we? The confectioner awaits." She turned from the fountain, her new, sensible shoes carrying her forward with a confidence that came from a perfectly constructed alias.

The two cookies arrived at the shop, only to be greeted by the longest line Archivist Cookie had ever seen. It snaked out of the confectioner's door, wound around the fountain twice, and ended somewhere near the herbologist's stall, a teeming, chattering ribbon of impatient cookies.

Archivist Cookie stopped dead, her triumphant posture deflating. "Oh, witches," she whispered, the words barely audible. Her shoulders slumped. The simple joy of walking into a shop and buying sweets like a normal cookie was evaporating before her eyes, replaced by the grim reality of a forty-five minute queue.

She turned to Truthless, a look of pure dismay on her face. "This is... suboptimal."

Truthless gave a single, shallow nod. It was the understatement of the century.

For a moment, she looked longingly toward a shadowy gap between two buildings—a perfect spot for a discreet, shortcut-taking portal. Her fingers twitched at her side, the thoughts of a spell lingering in her mind.

Then she caught herself. She clenched her hand into a fist, extinguishing any magic from her mind. A heavy sigh escaped her. "No," she muttered to herself, resigned. "That would defeat the entire purpose."

She was committed to the bit. She was Archivist Cookie, and Archivists apparently had to wait in line like everyone else.

She looked up at Truthless, her expression a mixture of apology and determination. "It appears we wait.”

Without a word, Truthless took his place at the very end of the line. He stood perfectly still amongst the fidgeting crowd. Archivist Cookie slipped into place behind him, the vibrant skirt of her dress a stark contrast to the grim line of cookies.

The minutes ticked by. The line moved with the speed of melting ice in frigid temperatures. Archivist Cookie fidgeted. She tapped her sensible shoes. She tried to peer around Truthless to see how much progress they’d made (very little). She let out another, more dramatic sigh.

Truthless, meanwhile, could have been mistaken for a very life-like statue. His patience was absolute, infuriating, and, in its own way, deeply impressive.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached the doorway. The warm, sugary air from inside wafted over them, a tantalizing reward for their perseverance. Archivist Cookie perked up, a genuine smile returning to her face. They were next.

And then the shopkeeper appeared in the doorway, holding a small sign. She gave the crowd an apologetic wave.

"So sorry, everyone! We need to close for a brief moment to restock the Starfruit tarts! We'll reopen in just fifteen minutes!"

A collective groan echoed through the line. Cookies began to disperse, grumbling about coming back later.

Archivist Cookie stood frozen, her face a perfect mask of complete betrayal. She stared at the "CLOSED" sign as if it had personally insulted her entire lineage.

Truthless looked from her devastated expression to the sign, and then back to her. A long, slow blink was his only reaction.

The freedom of anonymity, it turned out, also came with its own unique set of tortures. And the greatest of them all was a temporarily closed confectioner.

~~~

Truthless Recluse had begun to wonder what the purpose behind the Fount’s grandiose idea was.

Genuinely, what was the aim?

Though, regardless of whatever peculiar idea the Fount had tangled him in and currently had the honor of being involved, Truthless Recluse couldn’t help but observe the Fount’s—Archivist Cookie’s—new form, and found himself analyzing every aspect of it. 

The elegant black dress, the upswept hair, the dramatic flair… though it was the first time Truthless had ever truly laid his eyes on such a figure, he couldn’t quite say that he had never seen it before. Sure, he had never seen the exact replica of the lady that stood before him. Yet, the figure that once bore the familiar face of Shadow Milk’s predecessor now was strikingly similar to a portrait that Truthless had once spotted and was fortunately starting to forget.

Back when Pure Vanilla still was, he had wandered those halls in the seek of truth and perhaps resolution, unaware that the grandeur around him was not of Knowledge but of Deceit. And there, before him, plastered about with no shame, was the portrait of the same lady before him, drawn in oil and preserved in cotton.

There were many other paints of similar figures, bearing the same mesmerizing allure as the one who stood before him. They were beautiful, captivating, and utterly false.

If it was not evident before that the Fount was in fact Shadow Milk, perhaps the enchanting costume in front of him spelled it out in bold. Though draped in scholarly pretense, the methodology felt eerily akin to Shadow Milk Cookie’s thousand ways to trick the eye and heart.

Though, he didn’t quite believe that the Fount had any ill intentions… at least against cookies. The desserts, in the other hand, he couldn’t reassure them with safety.

In fact, if there was one absolute truth at that moment, it had to be that no sweet was safe from him… her?

To his side, Archivist Cookie seemed to be relentlessly shifting in place, rolling her feet at the ankles in a slow, restless motion.

If Truthless had to guess, he would have believed that she was getting tired from standing still. After all, as she said it herself, the Fount of Knowledge rarely walked, less stood in place.

She let out a low, dramatic groan that was entirely out of place coming from her refined new visage and coming from the Fount.

“This is an outrage,” she murdered, not to him, but to the world at large. “A statistical improbability. The one time I endeavor to participate in the mundane economy, to queue like a common— ahem— like a cookie, and the universe sees fit to halt the entire production of Starfruit tarts?”

She shot a venomous look at the “CLOSED” sign, as if her glare alone could force it to flip back to “OPEN.”

“Fifteen minutes,” she repeated, the words dripping with disdain. “An eternity. We could have been halfway through a comprehensive analysis of the village’s structural integrity in that time. Or cataloged the local flora. Or… or…”

“—Do you want to continue waiting?”  Truthless interjected. 

Archivist Cookie’s tirade cut off. She turned to look at him, her expression shifting from theatrical despair to genuine contemplation. The question was a pivot point. Did she value the principle of the bit—the commitment to the mundane charade—more than she valued the tarts?

She looked at the sign. She looked at the dispersing crowd. She looked down at her sensible, glamoured shoes, then back at Truthless’s impassive face.

“Yes.”

Truthless sighed. The Fount was certainly not patient, though it appeared that she wanted those desserts more than anything. At least that’s what Truthless hoped.

His goal was completed so now he was completely at the mercy of the Fount’s spurs. But… why did he want the sugar so much?

Archivist Cookie’s gaze flickered all over the place. Up, down, right, left, down, right. She seemed to be searching for something, yet at the same time searching for nothing. He had never seen the Fount this restless. It was quite the new experience. 

She seemed to really be bothered by the fact that she was standing.  She bit the inner side of her cheek and rubbed her hands together, before gazing at the bright sky.

Why didn’t she sit down? There was a bench nearby. In fact, there were multiple benches of waffle texture near a little pond not too far. Empty ones. Without a single soul sitting on them, almost calling out to her.   

“Take a seat over there.” He pointed at the seat. Seeing Archivist Cookie relentlessly fidgeting was unpleasant. 

“No, no, no. The fifteen minutes will be over soon.” 

Could she truly withstand the remaining time? Could she stand still for the many remaining minutes still to pass? There was great determination in her eyes. She really seemed to want to play the part, or so Truthless was rather convinced.

Spoiler alert.

She foiled after two minutes.

Archivist Cookie’s resolve, once as firm as royal icing, began to show fractures almost immediately. A slight sway in her posture. A more pronounced shift of her weight from one shoe to the other. A tiny, almost whimper escaped her lips.

The performance was over.

With a groan of pure surrender, she deflated. "I can't," she confessed to the cobblestones. "I can't stand it another second. It's an anatomical impossibility."

She practically fled the spot, making a beeline for the waffle-textured bench by the pond. She sank onto it with a sigh of relief, as if her dough had been moments from melting into a puddle on the street. She leaned back, stretching her legs out in front of her and closing her eyes, a picture of utter exhaustion from the great effort of doing nothing for two minutes.

After a moment of blessed stillness, her eyes fluttered open. She looked across the pond, then at Truthless, who had followed and now stood observing her like a scientist documenting a rare creature's behavior.

A new, mischievous light sparked in her heterochromatic eyes. The restlessness, momentarily cured by sitting, was morphing into something else.

"You know," she began, her voice regaining its melodic, plotting cadence. "While we wait... we could play a game."

Truthless said nothing. His expression remained a monument to skepticism.

"An intellectual pursuit," she clarified, waving a gloved hand dismissively. "A test of mental fortitude. I'm thinking of a number between one and ten. If you guess it, I will... I will grant you a boon. A question answered. A secret revealed." She leaned forward. "Anything you wish to know."

Truthless’s gaze was unwavering. He knew this game. It was less a game and more a thinly veiled attempt to stave off boredom by making him participate in her whims.

"Four," he stated.

Archivist Cookie’s triumphant smile vanished. Her jaw went slightly slack. "How did you—? That was sheer luck! A statistical anomaly! Again! One and ten!"

"Seven."

She stared at him, her expression a comical mix of outrage and awe. "This is preposterous. You're cheating. You must be. You're using some... some truth-seeing magic I've yet to catalog." She pointed an accusatory finger. "Best of three! Final round. One and ten."

"One."

A long, flat silence hung between them. Archivist Cookie’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She had been so certain he’d say ten.

"Fine," she mumbled, crossing her arms. "You win. The great Fount of Knowledge, bested by a numbers game." She looked at him, a challenge in her eyes. "Well? What is your question? What great secret do you wish unveiled?"

Truthless considered the offer, the power she had just frivolously handed him. He could ask about the Castle. He could ask about the other Virtues' true natures. He could ask about the precise mechanics of the Glamour she wore.

He looked from her petulant face to the still-closed confectionery, then back to her.

"Why," he asked, his tone devoid of any expectation of a worthwhile answer, "are you so obsessed with these tarts?"

Archivist Cookie blinked, then let out a laugh that was part relief, part genuine amusement. Of all the cosmic secrets he could have demanded, he asked about pastry.

"Why?" she repeated, a dreamy look entering her eyes. "Because, my dear Truthless, they are not merely tarts. The baker here is an artist who works with sugar with such proficiency…. She uses a fruit so pure in juice… they are... sublime."

She sighed, a happy, anticipatory sound. "And I haven't had one in seventy-three years."

Truthless absorbed this confession. Seventy-three years. 

It was not a casual craving. Of course it wasn’t. When had he felt that way? Back in the Vanilla Kingdom he always found a way to acquire his favorite delights… before? Yes, maybe. Though, he knew what it felt like wanting something for long, even if it was not treat related.

Truthless nodded.

The confectioner's door chose that moment to swing open with a cheerful ting, cutting through the quiet of the square.

The shopkeeper beamed at them. "We're back open! And the new batch is just out of the oven!"

In a flash of black fabric, Archivist Cookie was on her feet, all prior fatigue and frustration forgotten. The wait, the game, the confession—it was all prelude. The prize was at hand.

“Come along, bodyguard," she said, her voice seamlessly slipping back into her assigned roles for him. "Your services are required. I require an escort to carry my purchases." She didn't wait for a reply, already gliding toward the door, the promise of long-awaited tarts making every step light and sure.

He wasn’t her bodyguard…

~~~

Oh the waiting was worth it.

It was very, very worth it.

It was so worth it that Archivist Cookie had almost floated above her seat as she took the first bite. She inhaled deeply, a look of pure bliss on her face. This was the real thing.

The starfruit tart was, in a word, perfection. The delicate, crisp, buttery shortcrust shell gave way to a rich, velvety citrus-kissed custard that was neither too sweet nor too dense. It was a symphony of flavors: the deep, floral notes of the sun-ripened starfruit, the earthy sweetness of cream, and a hint of candied ginger that balanced it all. It was a taste she had carried in her memory for decades, and the reality was even better.

She took another, slower bite, savoring the texture, the temperature, the very essence of it. For a long moment, the Fount of Knowledge—Archivist Cookie—was not a Virtue, not a scholar, not a being of immense power and responsibility. She was simply a cookie, experiencing joy.

She opened her eyes, unaware she had even closed them, to find Truthless Recluse watching her, something he sure liked to do apparently. He hadn't touched his own tart, which sat neatly on its wax paper wrapper on the bench between them. His parcel of yarn was tucked securely under his arm.

"Well?" she prompted, her voice still dreamy. "Aren't you going to try it? It's a culinary marvel. A testament to mortal ingenuity."

Truthless's gaze flicked from her beatific expression to the pastry. After a measured pause, he picked it up. He examined it from all angles, as if assessing its structural integrity, then took a small, bite. He chewed. He swallowed.

His expression did not change.

"Well?" the Fount asked again, leaning forward eagerly. "What do you think?"

"It is a tart," he stated.

The Fount stared at him, her joy momentarily frozen. "It is a masterpiece," she corrected, her tone lectural once more. "Consider the layers of technique! The sourcing of the ingredients! The—"

"It is sweet," he interrupted, his flat tone silencing her burgeoning lecture. "It is adequate."

Adequate. The word was a dagger to her pastry-loving soul. She deflated, looking at him with something akin to pity. "You have no poetry in you," she lamented. "No sense of the whimsy. It's a tragedy, really."

She polished off her own tart in two more blissful bites, then eyed his. He had taken only the one. A wicked, brilliant idea sparked.

"You know," she began, her voice dripping with false nonchalance. "Since you find it merely 'adequate,' and since it would be a genuine shame to let a work of such art go to waste... I could relieve you of it. As a favor. To prevent such a culinary tragedy."

She held out a gloved hand, her expression the ultimate picture of benevolent sacrifice. 

Truthless looked from her outstretched hand to the remaining tart, and then back to her face. Without a word, he took another deliberate bite. Then another. He methodically consumed the entire thing, his eyes never leaving hers, a silent, crumb-by-crumb rebuttal to her attempted ploy.

The Fount’s hand slowly lowered. Her lips pursed. "You are," she declared, "an utterly joyless individual."

“Hm.”

Having finished, Truthless brushed a stray crumb from his lap. "We have the yarn and the tart," he stated. "The objective is complete."

It was a dismissal. A suggestion to end the charade, drop the Glamour, and return to the silent, orderly halls of his home. The fun is over.

The light in Archivist Cookie's eyes dimmed. The sugar-high and the thrill of anonymity began to recede, and the weight of her true title started to settle back onto her shoulders. He looked down at his hands, at the elegant black gloves that hid the familiar shape of his own.

His gaze swept across the village square. A mother laughed as she chased her giggling child. Two elderly cookies shared a pot of tea outside a café, their conversation a comfortable, murmured rhythm. The sun was beginning its descent, casting long, golden shadows. It was all so beautifully, painfully temporary. So alive.

He didn't want to go back. Not yet.

"One more thing," she said suddenly, brooking no argument. She stood up, the decision made. "There is a… an archive. In the village. A local historical society. I’ve been meaning to survey their collection for any unique primary sources. It will only take a moment."

Silence…. 

Truthless stood there, his gaze fixed on her. Something was not convincing him…

Archivist Cookie held the stare for a count of five before her resolve crumbled. A faint  flush crept up her neck. "Very well," she amended, her voice losing its authoritative edge. "There might be an archive. It is a statistically probable feature of a settlement of this size and age. We should... verify its existence. For the sake of completeness."

Truthless’s expression did not change, but the archivist could feel his judging eyes pricking her.

"Oh, stop looking at me like that!" she burst out, throwing her hands up in exasperation. The elegant Archivist persona fractured, revealing the utterly bored and sugar-hyped Fount beneath. "I am not ready to go back to the silence and the dust and the endless, endless thinking. I want noise! And chaos! And—” She paused, blinking at her own outburst. “That is… what I mean is… some form of organized celebration. Something with proper structure but also… spontaneity. A change of pace since we are having an abnormal day.”

She began to pace in front of the bench, her shoes scuffing against the cobblestones. "There must be something to do. An event. A spectacle. A minor, contained ‘disaster’!" She snapped her fingers, her eyes lighting up with a dangerous, glittering fervor. "A festival! Do they have a festival? We could start a festival! I could conjure a light show! Nothing major, just a small aurora borealis over the town square—"

"No."

"—or perhaps a sudden, localized shower of non-perishable confetti—"

"No."

"—or a singing competition! I could be a mysterious, unknown patron! I have a wonderful singing voice, you know. I could—"

She stopped mid-stride, her gaze locking onto a small, fenced-off area beside the pond she had previously ignored. A sign, shaped like a loaf of bread, depicted a happy duck and the words: PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE WATERFOWL. THEY ARE ON A STRICT DIET.

A slow, wicked, utterly brilliant smile spread across Archivist Cookie’s face. The kind of smile that, in its original form, usually preceded a three-week lecture on the paradoxical nature of time.

"Truthless," she said, her voice dropping to a hushed, conspiratorial whisper. "What is the one absolute, universal truth about posted signs?"

Truthless followed her gaze to the sign. He said nothing, but a faint, almost weary tension settled in his shoulders. He knew this look.

"That they are a challenge," she answered her own question. "A gauntlet thrown down by the forces of order against the indomitable spirit of chaotic inquiry." She drifted toward the fence, her black dress flowing behind her like a shadow. "A 'strict diet.' How fascistically arbitrary. Who are we to impose our culinary prejudices upon our feathered brethren?"

"Those are domesticated ornamental ducks," Truthless stated flatly. "They are prone to digestive problems."

"Nonsense!" she declared, though she had no idea if it was nonsense or not. It sounded plausible, which was an inconvenience she chose to ignore. "They look peckish. It is a scientific fact that all waterfowl are perpetually peckish. It is their primary metabolic state."

From a small pouch at her belt—a detail the glamour had thoughtfully provided—she produced the remainder of the tarts she had purchased.

"Archivist," Truthless said, a single word of warning. It was the first time he’d used the name without prompting.

She ignored him, her eyes alight with the joy of impending mischief. "This is a cultural exchange! A gastro-ornithological outreach program!" She began to break a tart into pieces. "We are expanding their palates. Broadening their horizons. It is practically a public service."

The first piece of tart sailed over the fence. It landed with a soft plop in the water.

A single duck, with emerald-green feathers and a beady, suspicious eye, regarded it. It paddled closer. Snapped it up.

A beat of silence.

The duck let out a low, appreciative QUACK.

It was the starter pistol for chaos.

From behind reeds, under the small footbridge, and out of seemingly nowhere, a swarm of ducks materialized. They were not the placid, paddling ornaments of a moment before. They were a feathered hurricane of greed, their eyes locked on the source of the heavenly scent—the tarts in Archivist Cookie’s hands.

She let out a delighted gasp and threw another handful.

The ducks went into a frenzy. They scrambled over each other, a squawking, flapping, quacking maelstrom of beaks and wings. Water splashed everywhere. The serene pond became a warzone.

"Marvelous!" Archivist Cookie cried, clapping her gloved hands together. She threw more tart, leaning precariously over the fence. "Look at them go! The velocity! The enthusiasm! It's a breakthrough in duck-motivation studies!"

A particularly ambitious mallard, fueled by starfruit, launched itself out of the water, flapped frantically, and snagged an entire tart right from her fingers before crash-landing back into the pond, causing an even bigger splash.

Archivist Cookie shrieked with laughter, a sound of pure, unvarnished glee that was entirely at odds with her sophisticated appearance. She was soaked, her upswept hair was coming loose, and she had never looked happier.

Truthless watched from a safe distance, the duck-based anarchy unfolding before him. He saw the sign forbidding the very act she was perpetrating. He saw the ducks, now in a full-blown food riot. He saw the Fount of Knowledge, one of the great Virtues of their world, cackling like a witch as she fomented insurrection among waterfowl. So like him…

And then he saw the Baker.

The confectioner, wielding a rolling pin like a scepter of justice, stormed out of her shop, her face a thundercloud. "I TOLD THEM! I TOLD  THEM NOT TO FEED THEM CAKE! THEY GET THE BLOAT! WHO'S DOIN' IT? WHO'S—"

Her eyes landed on the scene: the elegant lady in the now-damp black dress, the swarm of sugar-crazed ducks, the tell-tale flakes of tart floating on the water.

Archivist Cookie froze, a piece of contraband pastry held aloft in her hand, her expression that of a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar—literally. The sheer, hilarious irony of the situation—the architect of this chaos being caught by the very artist whose work she was illegally distributing—was too much.

She looked from the furious baker to the quacking horde, to Truthless, who was still standing as still as a monolith.

And Archivist Cookie lost it.

She started to laugh. It wasn't her usual elegant chuckle or her lectural ha-ha. It was a full-bodied, breathless, helpless laugh that doubled her over. Tears welled in her eyes. She tried to speak, to offer an apology or another absurd justification, but all that came out were wheezing gasps of laughter. The glamour flickered at the edges for a split second, the starlight in her hair glitching like a faulty hologram.

The Baker, utterly bewildered by this elegant woman's complete dissolution into hysterics, just stood there, her rolling pin lowering slightly.

Truthless watched the Fount of Knowledge, the radiant Archivist, utterly come undone in a fit of joyous, chaotic laughter. He saw the pure, unfiltered fun she was having, the release from ages of solemn duty. He saw the way she clutched her stomach, how she leaned against the fence for support, how her laughter rang through the square, drawing confused but smiling looks from other cookies.

And then, something remarkable happened.

A low, quiet sound escaped Truthless Recluse. It was not a laugh. It was not a chuckle. It was something rarer: a soft, breathy exhalation of amusement. A mere huff of air. But the corners of his mouth, usually set in a firm, uncompromising line, twitched. Just once. Upwards.

Even if the scene before him carried cruel implications.

It was the barest ghost of a smile, there and gone so fast it might have been a trick of the light.

But it was enough.

Seeing it—that tiny crack in his facade—only made Archivist Cookie laugh harder. She pointed a trembling finger at him, her whole body shaking with mirth.

The Baker, now completely disarmed, shook her head, a grudging smile touching her own lips. "Ah, get on with ya," she muttered, waving the rolling pin dismissively. "Just... just stop feedin' them my good cakes! They got digestible pellets for a reason!" She turned and trudged back to her shop, muttering about crazy tourists.

The chaos began to settle. The ducks, having devoured every last crumb, started to calm, paddling in contented, bloated circles.

Archivist Cookie’s laughter finally subsided into hiccups and happy sighs. She wiped the tears from her eyes, her glamour stabilizing once more, though a few strands of hair had escaped and now framed her glowing face. She looked a mess. A beautiful, happy, chaotic mess.

She looked at Truthless, her chest still heaving, her smile wide and genuine.

"Oh, my," she breathed, her voice hoarse from laughing. "Oh, that was... that was something."

She looked at the placid ducks, then at the "DO NOT FEED" sign, then back at Truthless. The adventure was over. The sugar rush was fading. The weight of return was finally, truly upon them.

But it was okay now.

"Alright, Truthless," she said, her voice warm and content. "You were right. The objective is complete." She smoothed down her damp dress, a final, futile attempt to regain her composure. "Let's go home.”

~~~

Truthless Recluse was exhausted.

It was a fatigue that clung to his dough and in a way went beyond the physical. The day had been a high-intensity burst of stimuli, a chaotic symphony of sensations it reminded him a little of Cherrybud. The crush of the crowd, the relentless chatter, the sheer presence of so many lives in one place—he hadn’t experienced this in quite some time.

Then came the Fount’s own explosive energy… that was a whole other matter to dissect. One he knew best not to do so right at that moment. 

After the two arrived back at the castle, a shift had occurred. The vibrant, chaotic energy of “Archivist Cookie” had flickered and disappeared. She had thanked him, her voice once again the Fount’s—softer and beaming in gratitude that seemed to surprise even her—before her form shimmered and solidified back into the familiar Fount of Knowledge. The final goodbye was a quiet nod that needed no words, before he retreated into the deeper, private chambers of his home, leaving Truthless alone in the grand entrance hall.

The sudden absence of her frenetic energy was a vacuum, leaving behind a ringing silence.

There was no dinner that night. The thought of more sugar, more consumption, made something in Truthless’s dough feel queasy. He suspected the Fount felt the same, likely already buried in a tome to recalibrate his overstimulated mind. Instead, the usual night routine ensured. Truthless moved through the motions on autopilot. Yet, sleep felt like a distant world. His nerves were still humming, echoes of laughter and quacking bouncing around the inside of his skull. Not wishing to let the night’s disquiet take him into a fitful slumber just yet, he headed to the Alcove.

Now, in his hands was the silver yarn. The parcel had been opened, and two polished, bone-white knitting needles moved with a slow rhythm. A length of fabric, shimmering and soft, was growing from their tips. It was not yet identifiable as any specific garment; it was a simple, elegant strip of stockinette stitch, its pattern as straightforward and honest as he was. The repetitive motion was calming.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of the needles was a tiny clock marking the passage of time. It was a familiar rhythm, one that tugged at a thread of memory.

Knit. Purl. Knit. Purl.

He had done this before.

Not with this yarn, nor with this name. But the motion and focus upon creating something warm and tangible, it was familiar. A memory of sitting in a sun-drenched garden, the scent of vanilla orchids and lilies lingering throughout and the sounds of a thriving kingdom’s gentle murmurs in the distance… it was familiar.

His hands, softer then, had moved just like this, crafting for the simple joy of giving.

A gift for…

The thought fragmented, lost before it could fully form. The memory was a fish in deep water, seen only as a fleeting, silver flash.

…Pure Vanilla…

The voice was a whisper from the stones themselves, a sigh on the edge of hearing. It was the same voice that sometimes called to him in his solitude, using a name that felt like a suit of clothes that had never quite fit. He ignored it, his focus narrowing on the next stitch, the next loop of soft, silver thread. He was Truthless Recluse. He lived currently stayed in Knowledge’s domain. That was the only truth that mattered.

…come back…

The whisper came again, more insistent this time. The rhythm of his needles faltered for a single stitch. He corrected it, his jaw tightening slightly. He was getting drowsy. The day’s strange events—the glamour, the queue, the ducks, her laughter—had been a peculiar drain on his energies. The comfortable monotony of knitting was lulling him toward sleep.

It was then that he saw her.

At the far end of the long, dark hall, a figure flickered into existence like a candle flame guttering in a draft. White Lily Cookie, again. Her back was to him, her posture tense, as if she were speaking urgently to someone he could not see. Her image wavered, unstable, a projection of anguish from a fractured Soul Jam.

Then, as if sensing his gaze, her conversation cut short. She turned her head. Not her whole body, just her head. Her eyes, usually pools of gentle red, found his across the vast distance. And they were not gentle. They were sharp, accusatory, and filled with a bitterness so potent it felt like a physical blow.

It was hatred.

So pointed, so… personal. It wasn’t the kind born of misunderstanding or petty anger—but the kind that carried accusation. That type that carried the certainty that someone was wronged, and he was the instrument of it.

He wanted to speak, to reassure, if possible. To say why are you here? Why are you looking at me that way? I am not the one who…

But words caught in his throat.

He closed his eyes.

The vision vanished, snuffed out like a candle.

The knitting needle slipped from his suddenly numb fingers and clattered softly onto the floor.

A cold ache pulsed from the side—from the broken Soul Jam embedded there. It was only a matter of time since it reacted to something again like it was currently doing.

He slowly picked up the fallen needle. The click of his work resumed. 

Though not for long.

The rhythmic click-click of the needles eventually slowed, then ceased altogether. Truthless Recluse had lost the battle against his exhaustion. His head had lolled back against the cool wall of the alcove, his breathing evening out into the deep, slow rhythm of sleep. The silver yarn, still anchored to the needles, lay pooled in his lap. In sleep, the usual stern set of his jaw softened, the lines of perpetual skepticism smoothed away. He looked younger, and utterly defenseless.

It was in this state of vulnerable peace that the Fount of Knowledge found him.

He moved through the halls without a sound, gladly floating around rather than walking. The day had left him strangely energized, his mind too abuzz with the echoes of laughter and the novel sensation of anonymity to settle into study. A restlessness had drawn him from his chambers, and his feet, almost of their own accord, had carried him toward the alcove he knew Truthless favored.

He paused at the entrance, his form silhouetted against the soft glow of the hall. His eyes adjusted to the deeper gloom of the niche, taking in the scene: Truthless, asleep, the silver yarn like captured moonlight in his lap. A fond, almost tender smile touched the Fount’s lips. The great desperate soul, brought low by the mundane trials of village life and duck-related anarchy.

He stepped inside. He knelt on the floor beside the sleeping form, the fabric of his robes whispering against the stone. For a long moment, he simply watched. The rise and fall of Truthless’s chest, the absolute stillness of his features—it was a rare glimpse of unguarded truth, more valuable than any secret contained in the Castle’s libraries.

Gently, almost hesitantly, the Fount reached out. His fingers hovered for a second before carefully brushing a stray strand of hair from Truthless’s forehead. The action was feather-light, a whisper of contact.

Encouraged by the lack of reaction, he let his fingers linger, twirling the soft strand of pale hair around his index finger. A thoughtful, deeply affectionate look settled in his eyes. This stubborn, impossible, infuriatingly deceitful cookie had given him a gift today far greater than any tart. He had given him a moment of freedom. A memory that was sweet and uncomplicated by the weight of his duty.

The Fount’s smile deepened. He leaned closer as slowly as he could, not wanting to break the spell of the moment. He inclined his head, bringing his face close to Truthless’s, his gaze fixed on the sleeping cookie’s cheek. He hovered there, a breath away, the intention hanging unspoken in the space between them—a silent thank you, a benediction, a secret of his own.

But then he stopped. He closed his eyes, as if reconsidering, and let out a soft, silent sigh. Some truths, perhaps, were better left unspoken. Some moments were too fragile to risk.

Instead, he simply remained there for a heartbeat longer, committing the peaceful image to memory. Then, with infinite care, he withdrew his hand, letting the strand of hair fall back into place. He rose to his feet as silently as he had arrived, casting one last, lingering look at the sleeping Truthless.

Without a word, he turned and left the alcove, melting back into the shadows of the hall, leaving Truthless to his dreams.

Chapter Text

“A game?”

“Yes.”

“And here I thought little ol’ you didn’t like games. I’ll bite.”

“Charades.”

“Charades between only two cookies? C’mon, you bore me.”

“There are unique rules.”

“Oh?”

“One cookie will act, and the other will guess what the other one is. There will be five rounds.”

 “Helloo~? Aren’t those the normal rules?”

“The cookie will act, and the other one will guess. If the guesser gets it right, they gain a point. If they lose…”

“Yes? If they lose what? They get the other’s Soul Jam? I love that.” 

“If they lose the game, then they will—”

The dream ended.

Groginess surfaced from the cold, violent-tinted air. 

He lifted his head, the currents of the world swimming into his limited focus.

The darkening sky, the first stars from beyond a window, the empty alcove.

Truthless Recluse pressed a hand to the numb, cold dough of his cheek. 

He had stayed too long in the alcove. It was time to return to his room.

~~~

“And if you’re overconfident and skip the necessary precautions, you’ll end up with… potato jellyride.”

“Is that so?” 

Truthless Recluse and the Fount of Knowledge had quickly stopped by an atrium to enjoy the morning breeze. The new echoes of the incoming wintry weather were rather prominent, so much so that Truthless couldn’t help but shiver slightly every few minutes. The Fount, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind it. Unlike most days, he wasn’t wearing his cloak. Dressed only in a simple robe, his blue feet bared to the open air, one might have mistaken the weather for summer if they looked only at him.

Truthless might have been half-blind, but the Fount seemed blind to temperature.

Below, a few children in uniform ran through the inner garden, shivering from the temperature as well. They appeared to be playing a game of hide and seek, though the garden provided not much scenery for the hiders. 

“Children are rather adorable, aren’t they?” The Fount mused, not taking his eyes from the scene below.

As if on cue, the game shifted. The seeker, a small boy with cheeks flushed apple-red from the cold, gave up on the futile hiding spots and simply pointed at a cluster of his friends. “You’re all seen! Now it’s tag!” he declared, and the dynamic exploded. The shrieks intensified, transforming from suppressed giggles into full-throated alarms of delight and terror. The new seeker was fast, and he was ruthless, cutting off escape routes like a predator. He was, undoubtedly, winning.

Truthless drew his own worn cloak together around his shoulders, the coarse wool a feeble barrier against the pervasive chill. He watched the children’s breath puff into small, frantic clouds. 

“And the temperature is rather pleasant,” the Fount stated, his voice devoid of any irony. “To think that when you arrived, days were much warmer than now.”

“Pleasant,” Truthless deadpanned. 

“Pleasant,” The Fount teased.

Though the Fount had brought up something Truthless hadn’t considered before… it was true. The weather had shifted since his arrival. Trees once brimming with leaves now seemed eager to bare their branches. Gardens that had been alive with white, blue, and red had faded into lonely patches of mush and brown. How much time had passed? A month? More? Somewhere along the way, he had grown accustomed to his condition—escape attempts and all—and had stopped truly noticing the passing of time.

What was everyone doing now?

GingerBrave, Strawberry Cookie, Wizard Cookie, Dark Cacao Cookie, Golden Cheese Cookie, Hollyberry Cookie…

White Lily Cookie…

White Lily…

Did they miss him? What were they doing? Had time passed for them the way it had for him? Or had they not even noticed he was gone?

He hoped the little ones had escaped the Spire of Deceit safely. He hoped they kept moving forward, that they continued on without him.

No. No, no, no… no.

He had made his choice.

Truthless had made his choice. To watch from the distance, to go his own way.

To remain far, far away from his past.

Away.

Yes. Away.

A Recluse, wasn’t he?

But could he truly say he had kept his word—here, of all places?

He looked to his side. The Fount was leaning against the railing, floating as if it were the most natural thing in the world, utterly engrossed in the scene below. A familiar smile tugged at his lips as he watched a particularly small child trip over their own feet, only to be immediately tagged in a fit of helpless giggles.

The Fount’s head tilted, his expression bright with genuine curiosity, as though he were watching the most fascinating play unfold.

The sight was so strangely normal that it jolted Truthless from his spiraling thoughts. The meaning of his past, the gnawing questions about his friends, all of it receded for a brief moment, replaced by the simple absurdity of the present: a man with blue feet, floating while leaning on a railing, immune to the cold, finding profound entertainment in the failures of shivering children.

A quiet sigh escaped Truthless. He pulled his cloak just a little tighter.

~~~

The cold was freezing the living dough out of the Fount.

Why had he chosen today, of all days, to “try a new look”? If it could even be called that—it was just his usual robes, minus the cloak.

He hadn’t lied to Truthless when he said the weather was pleasant.

It was…at least from an analytical standpoint.

The passing of time and the shifting of seasons were phenomena the Fount never tired of observing. Each change brought with it new possibilities, new conclusions waiting to be drawn. After all, there were cookies in the world whose bonds with nature ran so deep, so intricate, that the Fount couldn’t help but wonder—not conclude, for he had no proof yet—whether they played a hand in turning those very “tides.”

But conclusions aside, he was freezing. Freeeeezing.

And he had begun to conclude, with certainty, that Truthless was feeling the same, if it wasn’t evident for his posture and the shivering.

A violent shiver, sudden and utterly betraying to the image the Fount was trying to keep, racked the Fount’s body. It was a spasm so intense it nearly lifted him off his floating perch on the railing. He clenched his jaw, willing his teeth not to chatter.  This was something he had not adequately accounted for: the sheer, physical rebellion of one's own form against a principle.

Across from him, Truthless let out a soft, almost inaudible sound. Not quite a laugh, since those were rare. More of a puff or a huff or a...

Something. Whatever that something was, it seemed he had caught on to what the Fount was trying to put on… the Fount’s performance of imperviousness had cracked, and the truth—blue, shivering, and slightly ridiculous—was seeping out. Fast.

The Fount’s pride, however, was a formidable insulator. He would not admit it. Instead, he straightened his spine and toughed it out. “Fascinating,” he declared, his voice tighter than before, fighting to keep the tremor from his words. “Observe the third one from the left. Her strategy is pure chaos. There is no predictive pattern, just frantic energy. It is, against all logic, working.”

Truthless followed his gaze. The little girl was indeed a whirlwind, zigzagging with no apparent plan, her shrieks a blend of terror and joy. She was a live wire in the grey garden.

“Perhaps,” Truthless said, his voice dry as the winter air, “her strategy is simply to generate enough kinetic energy to stay warm. A theory you seem to be testing personally.”

Oh. 

Another shiver, this one smaller but no less telling, shook the Fount’s shoulders. He crossed his arms, tucking his icy fingers into his armpits. “Thermodynamics is a valid, if… brutish, school of thought.”

Silence fell between them again, not for long. The Fount’s philosophical detachment had melted away, leaving behind something far more relatable: a cookie who was very, very cold and too stubborn to say so.

Below, the game of tag dissolved as a stern-looking teacher cookie emerged, ringing a bell. Lunchtime. The children scattered, their shouts fading into the stone corridors, leaving the garden empty and suddenly very quiet.

The show was over. The audience was frozen.

With the distraction gone, the Fount seemed to deflate slightly. The act was too much effort to maintain for an empty theater. He finally turned from the railing. He looked at Truthless, really looked at him, taking in the way his cloak was pulled tightly and the slight hunch of his shoulders against the wind.

“It occurs to me,” the Fount said, “that the inside of the castle is climate-controlled. For the preservation of the manuscripts, of course.”

“Of course,” Truthless echoed.

“And it would be… inefficient,” the Fount continued, beginning to glide toward the arched doorway that led inside, “to have two truth bearers succumb to hypothermia when there is perfectly adequate… climate control… nearby.”

“Right.”

And so, two relatively stubborn cookies went for some hot drinks…

Or so that had been the plan.

Because the Fount—as always—had an idea.

A cold idea.

A very cold one.

He took a long, long detour to the castle’s bailey, where yet another garden awaited. This one was far more colorful than the last, its beds dotted with weather-proof white flowers whose petals glistened like frost.

Ego, pride, some random spark of energy—the Fount couldn’t tell which had driven him here. Not that it mattered. He went anyway with the poor freezing Truthless.

The Fount led the way, gliding just above the frost-kissed cobblestones of the bailey. Truthless followed, each step a conscious effort against the cold that now seemed to cling to his very dough. The promise of a hot drink felt like a distant, cruel joke.

Shadow Milk…?

“A slight detour,” the Fount announced, his voice still carrying a faint, betraying quiver. “A matter of… pressing cultural significance.”

They stopped before a large, mantle-draped form in the center of the garden. The white, frost-glistened flowers surrounding it seemed to bow in deference. With a dramatic flourish that was entirely undercut by his chattering teeth, the Fount waved a hand. A shimmer of pale energy enveloped the mantle. It lifted away, fluttering to the ground to reveal the statue beneath.

“Ta da!” he declared.

Truthless stared.

The statue was massive, hewn from some strange, lilac stone that seemed to swallow the weak winter light and glow with its own inner luminescence. It depicted the Fount, but a version of him so idealized it bordered on parody. His expression was one of beatific serenity, his right arm extended gracefully toward the heavens as if beckoning the stars themselves. His left hand was pressed against his chest, over where his star-shaped plate with a keylock was, in a gesture of profound piety.

“I wanted to show you my most recent gift,” the Fount said, his pride thawing his voice back to its usual timbre. He floated a little closer, admiring the work. Oh he loved it. “Received it from a very lovely cookie from the north I had helped a while back. The craftsmanship is exquisite, don’t you think? The way the light plays on the…”

He trailed off. Truthless was not admiring the craftsmanship. He was simply staring at the Fount, his face a perfect blank canvas of utter, soul-deep exhaustion. His expression said, with painful clarity, ‘I am freezing. You promised warmth. You have brought me to look at a giant, shiny version of you. Are you serious?’

The Fount cleared his throat. The sound was brittle in the cold air. He pivoted, the subject changing faster than a child’s game of tag.

“Well! Aesthetics are subjective, of course. Tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate its… imposing presence?”

Truthless didn’t even blink. “Zero.”

“A zero! Fascinating. A truly contrarian viewpoint.” The Fount nodded, as if Truthless had just offered a deeply insightful critique. “Ten points to you.”

He glided a few paces away from his own grandiose likeness, the stone now seeming a little foolish even to him. The cold was no longer a fascinating phenomenon. It was just cold. He needed to change the subject to something that mattered, something that would justify this frigid detour.

“On other news,” he began, his tone shifting. He kept his gaze forward. “I have been tinkering a bit. Safely, of course. With my Soul Jam.”

He paused, the memory of a fracture threatening to spiderweb across the surface of his own gem flashing in his mind. The sharp, internal jolt of panic that had made him stop. He would not mention that part.

“I’ve been attempting to see if I could… find a theoretical framework for a solution for yours.” He finally glanced at Truthless. “I believe I’m progressing.”

The Fount had Truthless’s full attention now. The giant, silly statue was forgotten.

“I tried analyzing the spell you used recklessly,” the Fount continued, the word ‘recklessly’ toned quite prominently. “Used it too, in fact.”

This seemed to intrigue Truthless further.

“And absolutely nothing happened,” the Fount stated. The cold seemed to matter less now. “Not a flicker of light, not a errant spark… it was as if I were reciting a recipe for sugar syrup. There was no magical resonance whatsoever. The incantation was inert.”

He finally turned fully to face Truthless, his blue-tinged features alight with genuine, puzzled curiosity. “It wasn't that it failed. It's that it couldn't function. The fundamental principles required for it to work appear to be… absent. Dormant. Like a key turned in a lock that has not only been changed but entirely bricked over.”

Truthless was silent for a long moment, his limited gaze fixed on the Fount. The implications settled over him. His own reckless act had not just broken something in him… it had broken the very rules around him... or something.

“Do you think,” Truthless asked, his voice low, “it is related to what happened to me?”

The Fount gave a single, slow nod. “Most likely. It is the only variable that changed. Your Soul Jam is not merely cracked, Truthless Recluse. The fracture seems to have affected something. The principles required for the spell to work were simply… absent. I have never seen anything like it.”

He continued. “Either the spell was never meant to work on you—or worked depending on how you look at it—or something has made it impossible for it to do so now.”

The Fount’s eyes gleamed with bright light of a scholar presented with the puzzle of a lifetime. 

A new sound emerged—the quick, light pattering of new footsteps. A young cookie attendant, bundled in a thick scarf, hurried into the bailey.

“Fount of Knowledge! There you are!” the attendant called out, skidding to a halt and offering a quick, respectful bow. “You’re being solicited. The delegation from the Blueberry Yoghurt Academy has arrived early. They’re waiting in the Great Hall.”

“The Academy? Is the new headmaster with them?”

The Fount had very recently retired in order to expand his new experiment, the Castle.

The attendant nodded. 

“Well,” he said. “Duty calls.” He smoothed down his thin robe and glanced at Truthless, an uncharacteristic hesitation in his gaze. The thought of facing a room full of expectant, chattering cookies alone felt suddenly… tedious. Exhausting.

“Would you… care to join me?” The question was unplanned, softer than his usual pronouncements.

Truthless, surprisingly, agreed.

~~~

The Fount of Knowledge entered the room—Truthless Recluse behind—and a wave of respectful silence followed by a chorus of murmured greetings washed over him. The new headmaster, a cookie with a neatly trimmed beard and spectacles perched on his nose, stepped forward, bowing deeply.

The Great Hall was a cavern of warmth and noise, a stark contrast to the frigid, silent bailey. A great fire roared in a hearth large enough to roast a dragon, its heat pressing against Truthless’s chilled skin like a physical force. Tapestries depicting the Fount’s Soul Jam and ancient stars lined the walls, and the air brimmed with the polite, energetic chatter of two dozen cookies, all adorned in the deep indigo and silver robes of the Blueberry Yogurt Academy.

“Fount of Knowledge,” the headmaster said. “An honor. We did not mean to arrive ahead of schedule.”

“Your presence is always welcome,” the Fount replied, his voice effortlessly shifting back into its public, oratorical cadence. “I trust your journey was enlightening?”

“Quite. This new project of yours is beautiful. As expected of you.”

The Fount offered him a smile with no response.

As the headmaster launched into a pleasantry about meteorological observations, the Fount’s eyes briefly scanned the room. He gestured subtly to a quiet corner near the back, a clear suggestion for Truthless to wait there, away from the center of attention. Truthless needed no further encouragement. He retreated into the shadowed area.

The Fount was swept into the center of the delegation. Questions flew at him—about theoretical magic, historical interpretations, the pedagogical focus of the new Castle. He answered each one with fluid grace, a fountain of knowledge indeed, never pausing, never faltering. He quoted obscure texts, corrected a minor historical date with a gentle smile, and proposed a fascinating counter-theory to a well-established magical problem, leaving the academics buzzing with excitement.

To anyone watching, he was in his element: revered, brilliant, untouchable.

The Usual Fount of Knowledge.

The performance was flawless, but it was a performance. Truthless saw the minute tightening around his eyes when a question veered into a subject he found tedious. He saw the way his gaze, just for a split second, flickered toward the corner, as if checking to see if his audience of one was still there.

The conversation eventually turned to the Fount’s retirement and his new venture.

“The Castle of Knowledge is a monumental undertaking,” the headmaster said, admiration clear in his voice. “To think, a repository open to all seeking truth, guided by your wisdom. It will eclipse even the Academy.”

“Nonsense. The goal is not to eclipse, but to illuminate,” the Fount corrected gently, though a flicker of pride was undeniable. “The Academy specializes. The Castle will synthesize. Two different paths toward the same light.”

“A noble goal. And yet,” a younger, more bold professor interjected, “one wonders about the… practicalities. A truth open to all must be a truth that can be grasped by all. Does that not risk… dilution? The oversimplification of complex principles? Why not come back to the Academia?”

“Return? Do you doubt your skill and my choice?”

“Of course not! I am nowhere near you in terms of skill and knowledge, but I just mean… would it not be simpler for you to return? Perhaps a merge between the two? Would the truth, again, not risk dilution and oversimplification?”

It was the kind of scholarly debate the Fount would normally relish. He opened his mouth, no doubt to deliver a beautifully crafted paragraph on the democratization of knowledge.

But he stopped. His eyes lost their focus for a moment, looking at the professor but seeing something else entirely: a fractured Soul Jam, a spell that refused to function, a truth that was answered and broken.

“Simplicity…” the Fount mused. “You often mistake ‘simplicity’ for ‘easiness.’ You fear that making a thing understandable makes it less. But the most profound truths are often simple. Their simplicity is what makes them so terrifying. They cannot be hidden behind layers of complexity.”

He paused, his gaze drifting back toward the corner, though he seemed to be looking through the wall itself. “The challenge is not in complicating a truth to make it seem grander. The true challenge is in understanding a simple, devastating truth without flinching. Without trying to build a fortress of jargon around yourself for protection.”

The academics were silent, intrigued by this philosophical turn.

“Take a… theoretical example,” the Fount continued, his voice now barely above a conversational tone, yet it carried through the silent hall. “A spell. A simple incantation, its principles clear, its execution straightforward. It should work. By all known laws, it must work. And yet, it does nothing. The truth is simple: the spell has failed. But the reason… the reason is a deeper, simpler, and far more devastating truth. That the very foundation upon which the spell was built… is no longer there.”

He finally looked back at the gathered professors, a strange, weary light in his eyes. “You can write a thousand theses on the spell’s syntax and its magical theory. You can complicate it until it becomes a lifetime’s study. But that changes nothing. The simple, bedrock truth remains: the foundation is gone. And all the complexity in the world is just a very elaborate way of avoiding that fact.”

The hall was utterly still. The fire crackled. The new headmaster adjusted his spectacles, looking slightly bewildered. The Fount had not given them a debate. He had given them a confession wrapped in a parable.

He seemed to remember himself then, the public figure pulling the private thinker back into the shell. He offered a small, practiced smile. “But that is a theoretical for another day. You must be weary from your travels. Let us discuss the transfer of the manuscripts you mentioned…”

The conversation moved on, but the energy had shifted. The Fount continued to engage, but his heart wasn’t in it. The performance was once again just a performance.

After what felt like an eternity of polite conversation, the delegation was led away to their quarters to freshen up before a formal dinner. The Great Hall emptied, leaving only the popping of the fire and the two of them.

The Fount floated over to the corner where Truthless waited. The grandeur and energy seeped out of him, leaving behind a cookie who looked… tired.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, just stared into the roaring fire.

“They will write papers on my ‘metaphysical interpretation of foundational failure’ for decades,” he said finally, a hint of dry amusement in his voice. “They will completely miss the point.”

He turned to Truthless.

“It is a terrifying thing,” the Fount said, his voice quiet, “to stare at a simple truth and have no framework for it. No precedent. No theory. Just the empty space where the rules used to be.”

He was no longer talking about spells in general. He was talking about the one in the bailey. He was talking about Truthless.

“I have devoted my existence to knowing,” he continued. “To categorizing, to understanding. And you… you have presented me with a truth that defies all of that. It is infuriating. It is… humbling.”

He finally looked at Truthless, his expression unguarded. “And it is cold.”

The admission. It wasn’t about the weather anymore.

He paused at the doorway, glancing back with a grin that was all sharp, delighted challenge. “But it is the most fun I’ve had in a century.”

He led the way out of the Great Hall, the warmth of the fire giving way to the cooler air of the corridor. The encounter with the academics, the heavy concepts, were already being filed away in his mind, making room for the next item on the agenda.

He clapped his hands together softly, the sound echoing in the hallway.

“Now then. Where were we? Ah, yes. Prior to being so rudely interrupted by the pursuit of knowledge…”

He glanced at Truthless, his expression shifting into one of pure, cheerful avarice.

“Hungry for some tarts?”

Truthless looked at the Fount, a single eyebrow lifting infinitesimally. The whiplash from profound metaphysical discussion to simple gluttony was, even for the Fount, impressive.

“You just consumed an entire parcel of them yesterday,” Truthless stated. “And you fed a significant portion to the ducks. Is your capacity for sugar not yet exhausted?”

The Fount gasped, placing a hand over his star-shaped chest plate as if mortally wounded by the very suggestion.

“Exhausted?” he repeated, the word a scandalized whisper. “Truthless, one does not simply exhaust a capacity for joy. One builds upon it! One refines it!” He began to glide down the corridor with a new purpose, his voice taking on the cadence of a passionate lecture.

“Yesterday’s tarts were a reintroduction! A reacquaintance with an old, beloved friend after a seventy-three-year separation. It was a beautiful, emotional reunion, but it was just the beginning!” He paused, turning to walk backwards so he could face Truthless, his expression alight. “Today’s tarts are for analysis. For a proper, scholarly appreciation of the nuances I was too overwhelmed to properly catalog yesterday!”

He spun back around, leading the way with a flourish. “The flakiness of the crust under careful, mindful mastication. The precise balance of tartness and sweetness in the filling now that my palate is prepared. The way the flavor profile evolves from the first bite to the last!” He glanced back, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “It’s research. Very serious, very important research. I thought you of all cookies would appreciate the methodological rigor.”

Truthless offered no rebuttal. Arguing with the Fount’s self-serving logic was like trying to knit with water. He simply fell into step beside him, the promise of warmth and the inevitable, sugary spectacle ahead a strangely constant fixture in his new, unpredictable life.

The Fount hummed a cheerful, tuneless little melody, the weight of the world once again replaced by the thrilling weight of a pastry box.

~~~

The Fount did not, in fact, lead them to the kitchen. Instead, he guided them to a small, cozy salon tucked away from the main halls. A low table was already set with two porcelain plates, a pot of steaming herbal tea that smelled of mint and lemon, and a small, familiar paper parcel.

How had the Fount already prepared everything? Not even the Witches know…

With the reverence of a curator unveiling a priceless artifact, the Fount opened the parcel to reveal two perfect, glistening starfruit tarts. “For scholarly analysis,” he reiterated, placing one on each plate with a pair of silver tongs.

They ate in a silence that was, for once, comfortable. The Fount did indeed perform his “analysis,” closing his eyes and making soft, considering noises with each bite, though it was clearly just an excuse to savor every molecule. Truthless ate his with his usual stoicism, but even he had to admit the pastry was a minor masterpiece of culinary engineering.

Once the last crumb was gone and the tea was drained, the Fount sat back, looking perfectly content. His gaze drifted around the room, then landed on Truthless with a familiar, plotting glint.

“You know,” he began, his voice lilting. “The mind, after such a rich sensory experience, requires a different sort of stimulation to achieve optimal equilibrium.”

Truthless said nothing, recognizing the lead-in to another of the Fount’s whims.

“We should engage in a recreational activity. A structured diversion to cap the evening.” The Fount’s smile was all innocence. “A game.”

Truthless went very still.

“A game.”

The words echoed, not just in the room, but in the recently disturbed depths of his memory. A cold prickle, unrelated to the weather, traced its way down his spine. The dream. The fragmented conversation. A game.

“Yes!” the Fount beamed, either oblivious to or ignoring the sudden tension in Truthless’s posture. He began to list options, counting them off on his fingers. “We could engage in a battle of wits! Twenty Questions? No, too simplistic. A riddle competition? I know several that have stumped philosophers for centuries. Chess? A classic, but the board is in the west wing and that is far too much walking. Perhaps a word association challenge? I could—”

“Charades.”

The word left Truthless’s mouth before he could consciously form it.

The Fount stopped his listing, his hand frozen in mid-air. He blinked. “Charades? Between only two cookies?” A slow, intrigued smile spread across his face. “Oh my, you do bore me sometimes. But very well. A theatrical challenge it is.”

Truthless nodded. He mechanically recited the rules. “One cookie will act, and the other will guess what the other one is. There will be five rounds.”

“Hm?” the Fount chimed, tilting his head. “Aren’t those the normal rules?”

Truthless pressed on, ignoring him. “The cookie will act, and the other one will guess. If the guesser gets it right, they gain a point. If they lose…”

He trailed off. The dream had ended before the stakes were set. He wasn’t sure.

The Fount’s eyes glittered with delight. “Yes? If they lose what? They have to polish my staff? They get the other’s Soul Jam? Though I mean... your Soul Jam is kind of…”

“—You put those conditions,” Truthless stated, pushing the responsibility back onto him.

The Fount tapped his chin. “Well, how about if the loser grants the winner a wish?”

That’s too open-ended, Truthless thought immediately. A wish from a being like the Fount could be catastrophic. Or unbearably tedious.

“Not any type of wish,” Truthless argued.

The Fount pouted for a nanosecond before brightening. “A favor, then? A single, reasonable favor to be called upon at the winner’s discretion.”

Truthless considered. If he lost, the Fount would likely ask for something intellectual, or worse, something social—like another trip to a village.  And if he won… the potential of having the Fount of Knowledge owe him a favor was a significant asset.

“Fine.”

They began. The first rounds were as silly as predicted. The Fount, with flamboyant glee, acted out “a cookie being chased by a very slow avalanche of pudding” and “a philosopher trying to untie a knot that doesn’t exist.” Truthless, with grim determination, acted out “a rock” and “a sheep.” They were tied two-to-two.

For the final round, it was the Fount’s turn to act. A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. He didn’t even bother to think of a concept. He simply… changed.

His posture slumped. His shoulders hunched forward. His head bowed, and his face settled into a mask of world-weary bitterness. He shoved his hands into imaginary pockets and scuffed an imaginary foot against the floor, radiating complete, undiluted moping.

Truthless stared. Is he seriously doing this…

Then, the Fount broke character. He straightened up, his chest puffing out. A brilliant, manic light entered his eyes. He gestured grandly to nothing, a picture of inspired genius having a groundbreaking idea. He mimed writing in the air, pointing with excitement.

Then, just as quickly, he dropped back into the first character. The slumped shoulders, the bitter frown. He shook his head at the imaginary genius, looking utterly unimpressed and deeply annoyed.

He swung back to the brilliant pose, now miming explaining the idea with patient, exaggerated gestures.

Back to bitterness. A dismissive eye-roll.

The swing between the two poses was dizzying. It was a perfect, wordless show of their entire dynamic: the Fount’s explosive enthusiasm constantly crashing against the immovable wall of Truthless’s skepticism. It was an entire conversation without a single word.

Truthless watched the ridiculous, accurate performance. There was only one thing it could be.

He sighed, the sound long-suffering. “Truthless Recluse.”

The Fount immediately stopped, applauding for himself. “Brilliantly deduced! You see? Theatricality! It conveys multitudes!” He floated over, looking immensely pleased with himself. “And that means I win! Three to two! A decisive victory!”

“So I get a favor now?” the Fount asked, his eyes sparkling with impending mischief.

Truthless nodded, the motion stiff. He already regretted it.

The Fount’s smile widened. “Splendid. I’ll let you know what it is when the time is right. For now…” He gestured to the empty plates. “I believe that concludes our analysis. A most productive evening.”

Truthless said nothing, the strange sense of déjà vu settling over him.

The game was over, but it felt like something had just begun.

Chapter Text

“A teacher!”

The cookie nodded.

“Wow,” the other cookie deadpanned. “Awwwwful. Just awful. You’re a disgrace to the craft. Step aside. I’ll show you what REAL acting is like.”

And so the game went on.

~~~

The cookies may have been scholars in dough, but they were pigs at heart.

Men in silk and brocade ate from plates of silver and aurelian like ravenous beasts. The finer the silk, the lesser the manners, it seemed. 

It was a deeply distasteful spectacle.

Even the so-called future Beast of Deceit seemed to agree.

The Fount of Knowledge observed the scene from his seat at the head of the table, a throne-like chair making his authority evident. While excess reigned at the table, the Fount, for once, offered its quiet counterpoint. His own plate, a delicate metal thing, was pristine. Almost untouched. A single starfruit tart, the last one he had hidden, sat upon it. 

The scholars, however, were a case study in abandon. Cream dripped down chins and prospered in vulgar stains on the fine indigo fabric of their robes. Fingers, sticky, reached across each other to seize a particularly glistening pastry. There were towers of glazed berry tarts, mountains of whipped cream topped with violets, steaming trenchers of roasted nut, and lakes of shimmering, spiced syrup. It was made for the fanfare of celebration, to the sheer, unchecked joy of having knowledge—and the resources it brought at your fingertips.

And the Blueberry Yogurt Academy delegation was devouring it with the single-minded intensity of starved hounds.

Chewing. Swallowing. Chewing again. Contented, muffled sighs.

Were these not meant to be the crème of intellectual society? These spluttering, gravy-chinned scholars were the ones he had personally entrusted with his legacy?  The contradiction was so vast it threatened the logic of his own past decisions.

And to think that they now had the audacity to ask him such brash and simply impractical things. How utterly tactless—how loftily blind.

Social commentary aside, it was most certainly a sight the Fount never expected to witness. The theory of their refinement had catastrophically failed the experiment of this feast.

 They were not like this back in his Academy days. At all. At least not in front of him… never in front of him. They were always what you would expect of a teacher, of a scholar. A bit egotistical, but extremely passionate and refined. In fact, he had left the Academy confident of their abilities. Sure, they had never been on his level—but then, who was? The comparison was meaningless.

He had trained them in everything—advanced philosophy, the depths of magic, the art of refinement. Etiquette. Manners. Etiquette and manners. Etiquette and manners. Etiquette and manners. 

Etiquette and…

So he waited.

The grand dining hall of the Castle of Knowledge had been transformed. The very architecture seemed to have shifted for the occasion; new, temporary pillars of shimmering lilac had been fabricated, each one intricately carved with the keylock pattern of the Fount’s Soul Jam, repeating ad infinitum as if to remind everyone present of the source of their feast.

The bombardment began between mouthfuls.

“Fount of Knowledge—” a portly professor sputtered through a spray of crumbs, “this honey-glaze is divine! But it brings to mind a textual ambiguity in the Apocrypha of the First Hive—the passage on the ‘sunless bees.’ Surely you hold the definitive interpretation?”

Before the Fount could even draw breath to answer, a sharp-faced academic elbowed her way in. “The bees are a tertiary concern! My dear Fount, the structural integrity of this chocolate table is the real marvel! It speaks to a level of engineering I’ve only seen referenced in the lost scrolls of the Caramel Fort. You must have access to them! A summary, if you please?”

A third, younger cookie, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s, waved a half-eaten jellybean. “Forget scrolls! The magic—the jelly! Its juice, still fresh—how?!”

Demand.

Each question was another helping piled onto his plate, another expectation to be met. They were devouring his knowledge just as they were gorged upon the food—with the same wet, acquisitive hunger.

And the Fount, the eternal fountain, answered.

He clarified the metaphor of the sunless bees, corrected the historical timeline of the Caramel Fort’s fall, and explained the elegant simplicity of the rotational cooling enchantment on the jellybean, all without a single change in his serene expression.

Demand. And another. And a third, layered over the wet sounds of mastication. The Fount’s eyes, seeking refuge, were elsewhere. A glob of sugared red spattered his sleeve, blooming bright against black. The scholar never noticed. He was already demanding more.

“Honored Fount, is there truly no way for you to return?”

A flicker of a Soul Jam. A candle guttering in the wind.

“What?”

“I mean, with all due respect to you and to your speech yesterday, but the Academy could really benefit from having you back, y’know?” He began. “Why did you all of a sudden call ‘quits’ to the whole Headmaster thing? Aren’t you immortal? Why couldn’t you just stay there?”

“That’s…”

“Fenugreek Cookie! That is no way to talk to the Fount,” the Headmaster interrupted. “My profound apologies. The young ones are bolder than my generation. He is merely a student who joined us on this visit.”

“I see.”

“But Fount of Knowledge, he makes a fair point,” he continued. “This magnificent castle is a testament to your vision. Truly. But while we have been expanding here, we have been facing a… slight challenge back at the Academy itself.”

The Fount’s gaze, which had been fixed on a distant, flickering candle, slowly drifted back to the Headmaster.

“The inscriptions,” the Headmaster continued, lowering his voice slightly as if sharing a shameful secret. “There’s been a slight decrease. Nothing catastrophic, of course! But noticeable. It seems that… well, with your departure, some of the luster has faded for prospective students. The premier draw of the Blueberry Yogurt Academy was the chance to learn in the shadow of a Virtue. Without that certainty…”

He spread his hands, as if the conclusion were obvious. “We were wondering if you might… reconsider your total retirement. Not a full return, witches no! We wouldn’t ask that. But perhaps a contribution? A visiting lectureship? Even the occasional guest appearance would do wonders for morale and, frankly, for enrollment. The mere announcement would cause a surge.”

Demand. Demand. Demand.

The cacophony of gluttony dwindled into a heavy, sugared quiet. The Fount listened. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, eyes that hope he would once again become their beacon.

“I cannot become a teacher again,” the Fount emphasized again. “My duties here, and elsewhere, are all-consuming. This castle is a living entity that requires my constant attention.” He saw the flicker of disappointment on the Headmaster’s face and pressed on before the man could interject. “However… the notion of a lecture is not entirely out of the picture.”

The delegation perked up, a wave of eager anticipation replacing the disappointment.

“How often were you envisioning?” the Fount asked, though he already knew the answer.

The Headmaster leaned forward, his eyes bright. “We were thinking… once a week? A regular seminar. ‘The Fount’s Weekly Discourse.’ It has a ring, doesn’t it?”

The Fount fell silent. He wasn’t just considering the request. He was already declining it. He loved lecturing, yes. Standing before a crowd and speaking his heart out was nothing short of heavenly. But as things stood now, the thought of committing to a weekly exodus from his castle, from his research, from the quiet, unpredictable company of Truthless, to stand before a hall of hungry, expectant faces felt like being asked to willingly don a set of chains. The saccharine expectations of this single evening were already unpleasant. The prospect of making it a weekly ritual were suboptimal. 

Perhaps in a much later future he would agree to the idea, once he was more free from his current duties. But that was simply a ‘perhaps.’ He saw the eager, sticky faces around the table, already imagining the prestige and the applications such a series would bring. He saw the Headmaster’s hopeful smile.

“That,” the Fount said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation, “is not possible. My schedule cannot accommodate such a frequent departure. Not once a week.” He let the refusal hang for a moment, watching their faces fall. “I could, at most, commit to a bi-monthly engagement. A single lecture, every other month.”

The air in the room chilled by several degrees. The scholars exchanged glances. Bi-monthly was a pittance. It was a concession, but a meager one. It was not the steady, marketable drip-feed of wisdom they craved.

The Headmaster’s smile became strained, a thin veneer over clear dissatisfaction. He opened his mouth to argue, but one look at the Fount’s placid, immovable expression told him it was futile. The wellspring could not be commanded to flow on a schedule.

“Bi-monthly,” the Headmaster repeated, the word tasting sour. He forced a nod, syrup still glistening at the corner of his mouth. “We… we are, of course, grateful for any time you can spare, Fount of Knowledge. It will be announced as a great honor.”

The great honor was a defeat, and everyone knew it. 

The scholars picked at the remains of their food, the magic seeming to have leeched from the enchanted jellybeans and the structurally sound chocolate.The Fount watched as the Headmaster attempted to rally, clapping his hands together with a false heartiness that rang empty in the vast hall.

“Well! A bi-monthly lecture from the Fount himself! A rare treat to be savored!” the Headmaster announced, his eyes scanning the table, begging for a reaction. He received only muted nods and the quiet clink of a fork against a plate.

The Fount allowed a small, internal smile. Savored. Yes, they would have to learn to savor what they were given, rather than gorge on what they desired. It was a good lesson. Perhaps the most valuable one they would learn tonight.

The Fount watched the rest of the evening unfold with a detached interest. The scholars, their initial gluttony thwarted by his refusal, had retreated into a kind of performative, sullen politeness. The conversation turned to safer, more mundane topics: curriculum adjustments, the rising cost of rare spell-components, the surprisingly aggressive behavior of the local squirrel population on the Academy grounds. It was all terribly administrative. The Fount contributed where necessary, his answers precise and minimally informative, like a scribe copying a text he had no passion for.

The grand windows of the dining hall, which had been blazing with the light of a thousand enchanted candles, slowly dimmed as the artificial day within the castle began to wane. The sky outside the crystalline panes, visible in patches between the lilac pillars, deepened from a vibrant blue to a bruised twilight purple. Servers began to clear the wreckage of the feast. The mountain of berry tarts was a crumbling ruin; the lakes of syrup had been reduced to sticky puddles.

The Headmaster, seeing the evening’s inevitable conclusion, finally stood. “Fount of Knowledge, we cannot thank you enough for your… generosity. This feast, your wisdom, and the promise of your future guidance have been… illuminating.” The words were correct, but the tone was that of a cookie who had been promised a kingdom and given a single, albeit shiny, coin.

The Fount inclined his head. “The Castle of Knowledge is always open to its scholars. Travel safely on your return journey.”

The dismissal was clear. With a flurry of bows and strained smiles, the Blueberry Yogurt Academy delegation was ushered out by the castle’s attendant wisp-cookies, their robes still slightly stained, their postures deflated.

Silence descended upon the hall once. The Fount remained seated for a long moment, listening to the absence of their noise. It was a profound relief. He rose, his own movements unnaturally quiet in the vast space. The task now was to return to his study, to the great hall where his true work awaited—the slow, patient unraveling of the universe’s secrets, a far more satisfying consumption than the one he had just witnessed.

His path took him through one of the castle’s long, transversal corridors. These halls were less frequented, lined with shifting murals that depicted historical events one moment and abstract magical theorems the next. It was a place for thought, for walking without a specific destination.

Which is why the sight of another figure was so unexpected.

There, standing before a mural that was currently illustrating a picture of himself, was Truthless. He wasn't looking at the mural. He seemed to be simply… walking. Aimlessly. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his simple, dark robes, his posture relaxed in a way that was utterly alien to the frenetic energy of the scholars.

A spark of genuine excitement, sharp and bright, cut through the Fount’s lingering weariness. He quickened his pace, the soft sound of his robe fluttering causing Truthless to turn.

“Truthless,” the Fount said, his voice warmer than it had been all evening. “I did not expect to see you here.”

Truthless regarded him with those calm, depthless eyes. He gave a slow, single nod of acknowledgment.

“I am returning to the Great Hall,” the Fount continued, gesturing down the corridor. “Are you heading in a similar direction?”

Another nod. Truthless fell into step beside him. They ‘walked’ in a companionable silence that was the polar opposite of the demanding clamor the Fount had just endured. Truthless never demanded anything.

After a few moments, Truthless spoke. “The cookies from the Blueberry Yogurt Academy. You have a history with them.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but the Fount treated it as one. “I do. I was its founder. And its first Headmaster.” He said it plainly, a simple statement of fact, yet it carried the weight of centuries.

He glanced at Truthless and saw the cookie’s eyes flicker. It was a minute reaction, a brief intensification of focus, a sudden sharpening that was there and gone in an instant. But the Fount noticed. He noticed everything about Truthless.

“Hm?” the Fount prompted gently. “Something about that interests you?”

Truthless was silent for a few more steps, as if weighing his words. Then, the sharpness faded, replaced by his usual placid demeanor. He shook his head slightly. “It is nothing of consequence. A passing thought.”

The Fount felt a twinge of curiosity, but he would not press. To demand answers from Truthless would be to become like the scholars. Instead, he shifted the topic. “What were you doing in this wing? It is not your usual path.”

A long pause.

“Knitting,” Truthless replied.

The simplicity of the answer almost made the Fount smile. Of course. While the castle thrummed with intelectual energy and scholars debated the fate of knowledge, Truthless knitted. It was, in its own way, a more profound act than any of them were capable of. Creation, not consumption.

“I would like to see what you are making sometime,” the Fount said, the request earnest. “If you would be willing to show me.”

Truthless nodded. “Sometime.”

The Fount was just beginning to feel the equilibrium of his castle restore itself when a sharp, discordant sound pierced the calm: voices, hushed but urgent, emanating from an alcove just ahead.

"...completely ransacked, I heard," one cookie whispered, their voice trembling. "The Ivory Pagoda. A mob, just... appeared."

The Fount's steps faltered. Every other thought vanished.

"Attacked? But why? It’s master is... was... peaceful," another voice, higher-pitched with anxiety, replied. "They say the crowd was screaming about promises and riches. That the pagoda needed to give them what they wanted."

"The structure still stands, but the gardens are ruined. And... and they said at least one cookie has died. Maybe more. They don't know what happened to the Master herself..."

The Fount did not hear the rest. A cold, sharp dread, more potent than any scholarly demand, lanced through him. The Ivory Pagoda. The Master. Attacked. Dead. The words echoed in the vast, suddenly hollow space of his mind. His usual serene composure shattered. There was no calculation. There was only a single, frantic imperative.

In a flicker of distorted space and a whisper of displaced air, the Fount was simply gone from Truthless's side. He reappeared instantly within the alcove, causing the two servant cookies to stumble back with startled cries. His presence, usually so controlled, now radiated a palpable, frantic energy.

"Explain. Now," the Fount demanded. "The Ivory Pagoda. What do you know? Tell me everything."

The cookies, trembling, clutched at each other. "Honored Fount! W-we don't know much! Just... just rumors from a traveling merchant. He said a crowd gathered at dawn. They had weapons, tools... they broke through the gates. They were shouting about treasures, needs."

"And its master?"

A crack in his voice.

The cookie shook their head, terrified. "We don't know! The merchant didn't see her. He only said... he only confirmed one death. He fled before it was over. The roads are buzzing with the news, but details are scarce."

Oh.

A wave of nausea surged up and threatened to unbake him, to dissolve the very magic that held his form.

Scarce. One death. Her fate unknown. The facts were insufficient, a void into which every terrible possibility rushed. His mind began to spiral. Visions of ruin flashed behind his eyes: shattered jade, trampled lotus flowers, a still and silent form. He had not visited in too long. He had been preoccupied with his castle, with Truthless, with petty scholars. A corrosive guilt mixed with the fear.

Truthless approached from behind.

"I have to go," he muttered, more to himself than to the terrified servants. "I have to see. I have to know if she..." He turned, his movements uncharacteristically jerky, his plan already forming: a direct teleportation to the Pagoda's outskirts, an immediate assessment. The Castle of Knowledge, his duties, all of it receded into insignificance.

“I’ll join,” Truthless stated. It was a declaration.

The Fount turned to him, surprised. Truthless never involved himself. He observed. He existed on the periphery. This was an active intervention.

The desperate cookie looked at Truthless, confusion flickering through his fear. “Who…?”

“He is with me,” the Fount said, the statement feeling profoundly true in that moment. He looked at Truthless, and in those depthless eyes... he saw some resolve.

~~~

The journey was a blur of distorted space and the villager's ragged breathing. When the world solidified again, the scent of smoke and burnt sugar hit the Fount like a physical blow.

The Pastry Village was a painting of devastation. A jagged scar ran through its heart, where buildings had been torn apart and set ablaze. The air shimmered with heat from smoldering ruins, and the frantic shouts of cookies trying to douse the flames with milk and water mixed with the pained cries of the injured. The western half of the village still stood, but it was a fragile, terrified thing, huddled against the encroaching destruction.

Terror, cold and sharp, filled the Fount’s eyes. This was far worse than he had imagined.

His gaze swept the chaos and found the Village Chief, an old, stout cookie, directing a bucket brigade. The Chief’s face was streaked with soot and grief.

The Fount strode forward, his heart thumping a frantic, painful rhythm against his dough.

“Barley! What happened? Tell me everything, now!”

He demanded.

The Chief whirled around. Instead of the relief the Fount expected, his face contorted with a fury that was hotter than the dying fires. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, blazed with an accusatory fire.

“You?” the Chief spat, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the noise. “What are you doing here?!” He took a step forward, his fists clenched. Then, he turned his rage on the crowd. “WHO TOLD HIM?!” he roared. “We had an agreement! Who broke their oath?!”

The cookies nearby flinched, shrinking back from his wrath. The Fount stood frozen, stunned by the hostility.

The chief turned back to him, his voice rising to a scream that was dipped with betrayal and despair. “Where were you?! And where are the other Virtues when you need them?! The Salt of Solidarity?!”

The Fount recoiled as if struck. This was the fury of those who felt abandoned. He tried to cling to reason, to push past the emotional onslaught and get to the facts. He closed the distance between them, his own voice tight with a mix of concern and rising frustration.

“Listen to me. I am here now. I cannot help if I do not know what I am facing. What caused this? Was it an attack? A magical surge? Tell me!”

He reached out, intending to grasp the Chief’s shoulder, to steady him, to force him to focus.

It was the wrong move.

With a guttural cry of pure rage, the Chief’s hand snapped up. The crack of the slap split the village square, a sound more intimate and world-ending than any collapsing beam.

Silence.

Absolute, profound silence fell. The bucket brigade froze. The moans of the injured ceased. Every cookie, every sound, seemed to have been sucked from the world, leaving only the faint crackle of embers and the stunned ringing in the Fount’s ears.

The Fount stood still. His head rested at a slight, untenable angle, turned by the blow. Slowly, as if moving through sap, his hand rose to his cheek—not to soothe a sting, but to verify the impossible physics of the event. 

No one had ever struck him. Not in centuries. Not ever.

~~~

Chapter Text

Truthless Recluse’s eyes sharpened as they locked onto the Village Chief.

“I… I didn’t mean to…”

The furious heat behind the slap dissipated the instant it landed, leaving a sickly, dough-white pallor. His hand trembled, rising halfway to his mouth as if to call the blow back.

The Fount had not moved. His head stayed turned. His fingers rested lightly on his darkened cheek.

The shift was subtle at first. Then the knowing glimmer in his gaze winked out. The endless fountain of knowledge stopped flowing altogether. What faced the Village Chief was a dry, fathomless well.

As if echoing that emptiness, his hair began to rise—slowly, ominously, forming a dark, crackling corona around his head.

And there was no wind.

The village chief stumbled back a single, precarious step, a ragged gasp clawed from his throat. It was followed by another, softer and more terrible.

The Fount straightened to his full height, towering over every cookie nearby.

Truthless couldn’t read his expression, yet his own placid eyes widened. A familiar dread coiled in his stomach. Because he didn’t need to see it. The silence said enough. Whatever the Fount thought was sharp, volatile—cold enough to still the very air.

Yet he moved before he decided.

A small step, a mere shift of weight, but it severed the line between Fount and chief.

His hand shot out—a swift, arcing motion that ended not in a blow. His thumb found the soft inner valley of the Fount’s elbow, his fingers a vise over the hard muscle above. "Fount." The word was soft, but the grip spoke of nothing but urgency.

The Fount's head jerked, his eyes finding Truthless with jarring suddenness.

For one shattering instant, Truthless didn’t see him at all—only the ruinous glare of Shadow Milk, that hollow, beastlike vacancy that used to precede torment.

Then it saw him.

Nothing moved. The crackling corona of hair remained suspended in the windless air. The villagers were statues. Truthless’s grip on his arm was the only anchor in a world threatening to invert.

Then, strand by reluctant strand, the hair began to fall. Like gravity was being persuaded, against its will, to return to work. The pressure in the square bled away, leaving a ringing, fragile quiet.

Awareness returned to the Fount’s face. Fractured, but there. His stance eased by a fraction.

“Truthless Recluse,” the Fount murmured back. Recognition softened the syllables.

The Fount lowered his hand from his cheek. Closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose  as though fighting a monumental headache. He drew in a long, shuddering breath.

Only then did Truthless let his own breath go—and grip. The crowd held theirs.

After a minute of pure, brittle quiet, the Fount turned.

“Since I am already here,” he said. His voice scraped clean of all warmth, all irritation. All life. “Explain the incident. Omit nothing.”

What had just occurred would not be acknowledged.

By then, the chief’s defiance was gone, hollowed out into a pearl-less clamshell. He gave a weak nod. “A demon,” he rasped, his voice thin as charred paper. “It fell from a clear sky at market’s peak. All claws and fire.” A limp gesture toward the ruins. “It left… but it comes back. Not the big one. Others. Lesser ones. They come by day. They strike, retreat, return. They aren’t finishing us. Just… taking pieces. Whittling us down to the nerve. Showing off.”

He spat on the ground. A wet, contemptuous slap of sound in the quiet.

“We sent runners,” he said, the words beginning to tremble with a bitter, rising heat. “To every neighbor. To every Virtue. We begged.”A grimace twisted his features. His eyes, burning with a terrible brew of fury and despair, slid from the Fount and bored into Truthless.

“But it seems they are as useless as the Fount.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant, weary crackle of a fire that hadn’t quite died. Truthless took the Chief’s bitter stare the way he took most things: silently, with a depth of consideration that made the anger seem petty. Small.

The Fount, however…

As useless as the Fount.

The words struck. The sterile calm on his face shattered, just for a second. Just long enough to see the raw, corrosive shame festering underneath. The poison of knowing it might be true.

He took a sharp, involuntary step forward. “When this began,” he whispered, incredulous, “why did you not come to me?”

The Chief let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

“After the job you’ve been doing lately?” he sneered, sarcasm cutting like acid through the last veneer of respect. “We lasted centuries before you built your fancy castle and forgot we existed. But a rat”—his glare snapped to the trembling cookie who’d fetched them—“yet even a rat ran to fetch you.”

“So you would let your home burn before asking me?”

“I’d rather have had a guardian who actually did his job!” the Chief snarled, the words exploding from a place of broken faith. “I’d rather have had anyone else!”

The Fount went perfectly still. His shoulders, which had been rising with that sharp breath, lowered in one controlled, sinking motion.

The shame. The anger. The cold, rising dread. He seized it all, forced it down once, and forced it back into the dark well where the fury had been. He slammed a lid of pure, cold will over the chaos.

“I will handle it.”

The chief looked at him. His face was a wreck of total disbelief. He gave a mocking, sweeping bow.

“Then by all means,” he said, his voice dripping with exhausted scorn. “Save us, oh great Fount of Knowledge. Perform your miracle.”

He turned his back. Walked away into the heart of the smoldering ruins, as if preferring the company of honest ash to that of failed Virtues.

He left the Fount and Truthless standing alone in the square. Surrounded by the acrid smell of failure, and the echo of a trust that had burned away long before the first demon fell from the sky.

~~~

The Fount did not watch him go. He stared at nothing. At everything. At the architecture of a failure so profound it defied understanding.

The hum of fury was still there, but it was folding inward, compressing from a storm into a dense, cold stone in the pit of his stomach. He could feel its edges: sharp with indignation, weighty with the Chief’s word—useless—and beneath that, the older, more brittle weight of his own neglect. The slap had been a spark; now the real fire was catching, fed by the tumultuous churn of his ever-active mind.

“I should have known.”

A statement of empirical fact. 

“A market was razed. A village besieged by ‘demons’ for… how long? Days? Weeks?” He trailed off, his brow furrowed in genuine, pained bewilderment. “The distortion in communal coherence… the psychic noise of such suffering… how did I not know?”

He thought of his placid trip with Truthless to the neighboring village, a journey chosen for its specific, cowardly geography—a deliberate detour to avoid this place, these streets, this silent, accruing judgment.

He had felt something that morning, too. A faint, cold dissonance in the air as he’d sat beside Truthless, discussing eagerly about the Virtues. He’d felt it, and he’d dismissed it. Called it a draft. A trick of the light. Anything but what it was: a scream, smothered at its source.

A cold, sick clarity washed over him.

Had the fires already been burning then?

Guilt surged—a discordant, violent tide—swamping everything in its path. His attention plummeted from the middle distance, crashing upon his own hands as if they were foreign things. Instruments of neglect

Around them, the villagers had begun to creep back into the square, with the hollow-eyed stare of people bracing for the next blow. They kept their distance, a wide berth of ashen ground between them and the Virtue—not out of reverence, but the same instinct that keeps you from touching a hot stove.

Though not all.

An older woman, her face a cartography of wrinkles, stepped forward. She clutched a shawl stained with what might have been jam. Her voice was soft, turned rough by the sickening smoke, but it carried a kindness the Chief had scorched away long ago.

“Great Fount…”

He turned his head slowly towards her.

“…you cannot blame yourself,” she said. “You’re only one cookie. The world is wide, and evil is sly. It is not your fault.”

For a second, the need for that to be true flickered in his eyes. A raw, childlike want for the absolution she offered. But it was crushed. His face, already pale, seemed to grow older.

“…ha.”

The sound was breath more than laugh. Hollow.

“Not my fault,” he repeated, as if testing the words. They felt foreign. Wrong.

He gave a small, helpless shake of his head, his throat working silently. His gaze fell to his own hands. He turned them over slowly, staring at his palms as if reading his own fate there, his expression one of devastating incomprehension.

When he spoke again, his voice had frayed to a silk thread.

“Then what is the point of me?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a confession. A plea.

And the square held its breath.

The woman’s kindness faltered. Her eyes widened, with the sudden, vertiginous realization of the chasm she was looking into. She had no answer for that. No one did. She took a single step back, then another, melting back into the crowd as if the ground near him had grown too cold to stand on.

He held the woman's retreating look for a fractured second. He was painfully aware of Truthless’s stare from beside him, a pressure he didn’t want to acknowledge. He couldn't meet it. Not yet. He focused on the empty space where the woman had stood, letting the silence stretch a moment too long.

Then, a small, hesitant voice cut through. The cookie who had fetched him shuffled forward. “I… I don’t mean to intrude…” he began. He swallowed, his gaze fixed on the ashy ground between them. “But, Fount of Knowledge… can we take it… that you will help us?”

A simpler question.

”Of course.” 

The words were immediate. Automatic. A reflex of duty that bypassed the wreckage of his pride.

A collective sigh moved through the crowd. Shoulders sagged by the sheer relief of a bright future. The heaviness in the messenger’s face lightened, just for a second.

The Fount’s chin tilted up, his eyes seeking and locking onto the bruised sky to the north. “But first,” he said, the words coming in a rushed, low murmur, as if speed could outrun doubt, “I must… contact someone. We must try the Salt of Solidarity. His strength, his capacity to bind…” he paused. “A formal request for aid would…”

He then turned toward the ruined distance, his body aligning with the empty air ahead as if meeting a ghost. There was no one there to face, just the sheer, blank fact of what had been taken.

The thought of facing another Virtue, of confessing this localized failure, of being seen in this ash-strewn moment of disgrace—it was a fresh kind of terror.

“No,” he said, the word sharp, final. He drew himself up, pulling the mantle of the Virtue around him like a physical cloak. His chin lifted; his jaw set into a firm line. He snatched the plan back. “He will not be needed. I’ll… I will handle this.”

Naturally. The great Fount of Knowledge did not need assistance. If he were to save the village—truly save it, not just patch over the wound—he would do it alone. He had to. To ask for help now would be to make the failure official. It would be an admission that the crack ran deeper than this village, that it ran all the way to him.

He must act. Now. Before the doubt could set its hooks in any deeper.

…though.

He wasn’t truly alone.

His gaze lingered on Truthless, who wasn’t looking at him at all. The other cookie was studying the ruins the same way he gazed at everything, offering neither pity nor solutions. Yet he was still there all the same.

A faint, weary smile touched the Fount’s lips. It didn’t last. But it was enough. The brittle tension in his frame dissolved.

He turned, putting his whole body toward Truthless.

“Walk with me,” the Fount said, faintly enough for only Truthless to hear. “Let’s see what’s left to see.”

He was moving then, his steps quick as they left the square and struck out for the foothills. And so, almost weightless, he walked. Not floated.

Past the huddled survivors who watched him with hollow eyes. Past the blackened timbers and shattered pottery of the market, the ash turning to a fine, choking dust underfoot.

A familiar scent lingered in the air. One he would rather ignore.

He heard Truthless’s steps behind him. A steady rhythm beside his own. A much needed rhythm.

The prelude to a plan began somewhere in the deepest part of the ruins. Whatever came next was still just a thought, half-formed and sharp.

And they kept walking.

He glanced back. Truthless’s eyes were wandering, scanning the scorched beams and collapsed stalls with a peculiar focus. His gaze then shifted to a group of cookies kneeling near some ruins, then drifted to another huddled by a collapsed well. Scouting. Looking. Not just at the wreckage, but at the living. Searching faces in the aftermath.

The Fount couldn’t help but pry.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“Cherrybud Cookie.”

The name, spoken so plainly, caught the Fount a bit off guard. He remembered her. The loud girl with the perpetually sticky fingers who’d openly pushed a mask and some candied nuts into his hands a year ago, grinning with a gap-toothed smile. The same girl who’d done the exact same to Truthless. He’d filed the interaction away as a minor, pleasant memory—one among thousands.

But that she had stuck with Truthless… that he was looking for her…

“Of course.” 

There were many children in the village. Some had inevitably perished.

After some thought, he found himself hoping, with a sudden, desperate clarity, that she was not among them. A selfish hope, maybe. But seeing Truthless want something—anything—had always quietly pleased him.

“Shall we look for her?” the Fount added.

Truthless met his eyes. He shifted his balance, the staff taking his full weight as he probed the rubble underfoot—a dismissal, his body already turning toward the task. "I can do it alone. You should help the rest. I’ll join you once I’m done."

“Nonsense,” the Fount said. “Two sets of eyes are faster. Besides, my analysis will be worthless if I can’t see the whole picture.”

He didn't say the rest. That letting Truthless wander a demon-scarred ruin alone felt… unwise. That even in this situation his mind wandered off to wanting to be with Truthless. That it was easier to think when he was nearby.

Truthless considered him for a moment, then gave a faint, almost imperceptible shrug. “Do as you’d like.”

So he tacked on a footnote. A temporary amendment to the mission.

They would search for the loud girl with the sticky fingers. And while they were at it, they would analyze the situation.

Two birds, one stone. A practical adjustment. Nothing more… though the thought of sharing this grim search with Truthless made the task feel just a little less unbearable.

The ruins didn’t give up their secrets easily. They moved through a landscape of alleyways and skeletal houses, the lingering scent in the air making their noses act up. The Fount sneezed.

The Fount paused by a claw-gouged stone, fingertips hovering just above the grooves. “The angle is wrong for a lunge,” he murmured, not turning. “It pivoted here. Planted a rear foot.” He sketched the motion in the air with a stiff hand. “It wasn’t fleeing. It was turning to strike again.”

Truthless grunted, using his staff to lever a collapsed shelf off a pile of crockery. The plates were intact, powdered with soot. No one under it. “It was showing off.”

The Fount’s hand froze mid-air. That word again. He looked over, his face pale in the gloom. Showing off. A worrying thought.

Truthless didn’t elaborate. He let the shelf fall back with a thud that stirred up a small, bitter cloud ash. He didn’t need to. The shape of the cruelty was the same. Grand. Performative. Meant to be witnessed.

They moved on. A few steps was all it took.

They found a doll. Its painted smile was blistered black, one button eye melted shut. The Fount stared at it, his expression hollowing out. Truthless stared at it for a long moment, then knelt. He picked it up, brushed the ash and caked dirt from its yarn hair and faded pinafore with the edge of his sleeve.

Truthless locked his gaze on it. He just held the ruined thing, his thumb resting over the melted eye socket, a gesture that felt more like a benediction than anything the Fount had ever performed in his grand halls. Then, he set it carefully on a nearby stone that was still standing, as if giving it a bench to wait on.

The stone was cold. Truthless’s fingers came away gritty.
A silly gesture. The thing was burnt wheat and dead thread. It couldn’t know the difference between ash and a clean sleeve.

Yet… the care of it. The quiet tenderness of the act lodged itself in the Fount’s chest, a warm, disorienting flutter against the cold dread. Was it silly? Or had he, in all his vast knowledge, been wrong about what mattered to a broken thing? His own heart gave a feeble, answering beat against his chest, a traitorous pulse of something painfully close to hope.

He wondered how many others he had overlooked, the small tragedies buried under grand designs, the tiny cries that never reached him.

And yet he couldn’t speak. His gaze just travelled, helpless, from the doll on its cold bench to Truthless’s ash-stained hands, then to his own empty palms, and to Truthless once again. The frantic, sparking energy that had crackled off him in the square was gone, snuffed out. What remained was a different stillness, intermixing with the fresh smell of burnt molasses and cinder. 

He was still staring when Truthless turned. Their eyes met for long, too long. The Fount’s breath stuttered again, his carefully maintained composure cracking under the weight of that simple, incomprehensible kindness.

It reminded him of the flowers he used to heal in secret. A silent tending. An act of care for a broken thing that asked for nothing in return.

He opened his mouth. A soft, aborted syllable died on his tongue. An apology? An explanation for what had just happened? Both felt too vast, too clumsy to fit into this charred, silent space between them.

So he said nothing. He simply held Truthless’s gaze, letting the shame and the sudden, disarming warmth of that memory show in his eyes—a silent, conflicted storm where his words had failed. Then, slowly, he gave the smallest, faintest smile. A receipt for the kindness he’d witnessed and didn't know how to process.

He broke the look first, turning his face towards the deepening gloom of the ruins ahead, his throat now working. But it didn’t take long before he glanced at Truthless again. The other cookie was already moving, staff testing the ground ahead, his attention sharpening on the jagged silhouette of a half-collapsed stable.

Together, they moved deeper into the wreckage. The Fount’s mind, finally silenced on the topic of its own humiliation, began to work. He catalogued both damage and patterns. The claw marks were concentrated around points of egress—doorways, low windows. The scorch marks followed fuel lines: spilled oil, stacked hay, cloth awnings. This wasn’t random savagery. It was the dismantling of a community’s ability to function.

There was more to the story than what they could currently find.

That lack would prove fatal.

After some time, the light was leaching from the sky, staining the ash violet.

They worked in a rhythm now, born of grim necessity. Truthless would clear, the Fount would analyze. A shattered cart revealed claw marks too fine for a beast, more like tools. A granary’s door had its iron lock sublimated, turned to a puddle of re-frozen metal.

Truthless moved to the mouth of a narrow alley, his staff held low. The Fount rose, dusting his knees, and followed his gaze.

The alley was a dead end. At its end, a small shrine to the Witches was intact. Its candle had burned down to a nub, but the flame still flickered, protected in its glass. Before it, arranged with chilling care on the cobbles, were three perfect, unblemished apples.

Their vibrant gold was a scream of color in the monochrome devastation.

The Fount’s breath hitched. He took a step forward, then another, drawn by the horrific wrongness of it. Truthless’s hand shot out, barring his chest.

“Don’t.”

The Fount stopped. He looked at the apples, then at the pristine shrine, then back at the apples. A offering. A mockery. A signature.

Showing off.

“We should go,” The Fount said, already turning, positioning himself between Truthless and the alley’s mouth.

Truthless didn’t argue. He followed.

They emerged from the maze of shattered homes into a wider lane. The smell here changed—less ash, more the damp, loamy scent of the riverbank, undercut with that persistent, cloying hint of burnt molasses. The sound of flowing water reached them.

And there, ahead, was the village's edge, and the cluster of intact structures that served as the makeshift infirmary. Lanterns had been lit within, casting long, mournful shadows of moving figures onto cloth walls.

The Fount stopped at the edge of the yard. His hand came up unconsciously to adjust the high collar of his robe. Here, the smell of crushed herbs and sour pain lingered intensely, mixing unpleasantly with the molasses-scent. Cookies wrapped in blankets stared into nothing. An old baker he vaguely recognized clutched a bandaged arm, her eyes glazed with something stronger than painkilling tea.

No sticky-fingered girls.

A doctor—a grim-faced cookie with sleeves rolled to the elbow and hands stained a pale, sickly red—saw them from a doorway. He didn’t speak. He just gave a single nod.  It was an indictment: This is what your absence costs.

~~~

After leaving the infirmary, the two decided to rest by the village’s central plaza.

Truthless moved toward a surviving stone bench shoved against the fountain’s base. It was dusted with plaster and splinters, but the seat was intact. He planted his staff upright between his feet and sat. The Fount did not join him on the bench. Instead, he let his feet drift to a halt a few paces away, and there, he simply hovered in place, a few inches above the ground. His gaze was unfocused, passing over the smoldering village as if it were a poorly rendered painting.

“I believe I have walked more than enough,” the Fount muttered, rolling his feet.

The soft, shell-shocked chatter of a few surviving cookies filled the background with meaningless noise.

“What now?” Truthless Recluse said, folding his arms.

The sound seemed to reach the Fount from a distance. He tapped his fingers against his chin. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice strangely airy, “if we find where she lives… we can search for more clues.” He gestured vaguely.

“I know where she lives.”

Truthless’s voice was flat. He didn’t bother scanning. He simply pointed west, toward a clutch of intact cottages—a part of the village untouched by the flames, perfectly visible in the distance.

The Fount’s gaze, adrift, slowly followed the line of his finger. He blinked. The swift, logical pivot of his thoughts stumbled, tripped over the sheer, staggering obviousness of it.

“And… why didn’t we start with that?”

He heard the sharp edge in his own voice too late. It was a prod, the frustrated snap of a mind that prized efficiency above all, hitting a wall of illogic.

Truthless turned to look at him fully, his placid expression unchanging. The silence stretched just long enough to become an answer of its own.

“…”

Then, a small shrug. “I was just following you.”

The Fount felt the air leave his lungs, not in a soft, punctured deflation. I was just following you. Through the ruins, past the scorched beams, over the shattered crockery—he had been leading, and Truthless had been following, without question, without pointing out that the leader was, perhaps, not looking at the most obvious map.

All his grand, scrambling analysis, all his frantic attempts to do something—anything—had been a performance on a stage. And Truthless had simply watched, waiting for him to finish.

A flush of heat, equal parts shame and a strange, defeated amusement, crept up the Fount’s neck. He closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Truthless Recluse…” he said, the name a weary exhale. It held no title, no formality. It was just a name, spoken into the space between them that was suddenly filled with the humbling awareness of his own, beautifully complicated, completely unnecessary folly.

~~~

Truthless Recluse began walking toward the cluster of cottages. The Fount followed, this time a half-step behind (and floating), his usual composure softened into a posture of chagrined acceptance.

The trail wound through a patch of defiant flowers, their faces turned away from the ruin, before ending at the shed whose wooden walls were softened by a blanket of flowering vine. It looked impossibly peaceful for the scenery painted nearby.

Truthless stopped before the door. He did not knock immediately. His gaze traced the vine, the sturdy latch, the faint glow of lamplight seeping through the crack at the threshold. You look like you could use a bowl of something hot, he remembered.

The Fount watched him, the scholar in him noting the hesitation, the uncharacteristic softness in the line of Truthless’s shoulders. Before he could comment, Truthless raised his hand and knocked—three firm, deliberate raps that sounded too loud in the hushed aftermath.

From inside, a woman’s voice, warm and muffled by wood. “Aye? Who’s there at this hour?”

Then, the rapid, unmistakable shuffle-thump-shuffle of small feet running across a floor. A latch clicked, and the door swung inward.

Cherrybud Cookie stood there, her bright eyes wide.  Candy stuck to one cheek, and her hair was escaping its braid in wild strands. For a moment, she just stared at Truthless, her expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and a radiant joy that eclipsed the ash-smudged world behind him.

“You came back!” she squealed, and before he could react, she launched herself forward, wrapping his legs in a sticky, candy infested hug. She peered around him at the Fount and beamed. “You brought the shiny teacher!”

She didn’t wait for an invitation. Small, implacable hands seized Truthless’s wrist and the edge of the Fount’s sleeve, pulling them both across the threshold with the unstoppable force of a determined child. “Mama! They’re here! The sad and the shiny one!”

Cherrybud’s mother turned from the hearth, a ladle in hand. The warmth of the small room—the smell of simmering broth and fresh bread—reached the door. She appeared to have been cooking.

“Well, look at that,” she said, her gaze sweeping over them, lingering on the soot staining the Fount’s elegant robes, the weary set of Truthless’s shoulders. “I said the offer of a bowl stood, and it seems the world has taken me at my word.” There was no admonishment in her tone. “Sit. Both of you. You look like you’ve had a long day.”

“We shouldn’t intrude—” the Fount began, the automatic courtesy of a guest, but his protest was cut off by the simplicity of the room. There was no space for grandeur. A worn table, four chairs. A hearth. A home.

“Nonsense,” the woman said, already setting down two more chipped clay bowls. “You’re not intruding. You’re obeying the law of the kitchen. You stand in it, you eat from it.” She fixed Truthless with a look that brooked no argument. “Especially you. A body can’t run on air and melancholy, child.”

Truthless opened his mouth, a refusal on his lips, but found he had no defense against this quiet, maternal siege. The warmth, the scent, the sheer normalcy of it was a weapon against which his reclusive bitterness had no guard. He sat, stiffly, on the chair Cherrybud eagerly pulled out for him.

The audacity.

The Fount, after a moment’s hesitation that seemed more about shedding the weight of his title than any reluctance, sat across from him. He looked strangely small at the humble table, his starlight hair and fine robes absurdly out of place, yet his posture eased into something genuinely grateful.

Cherrybud clambered into her own chair, vibrating with excitement. “Mama’s soup fixes everything,” she announced with absolute authority.

Her mother placed a steaming bowl in front of each of them—a simple, hearty broth swimming with garden vegetables and shreds of herb-roasted grain. A thick slice of crusty bread, still warm from the oven, followed. “Eat,” she commanded gently, taking her own seat. “Then talk, if you need to.”

Left with little choice, the two cookies ate.

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of spoons against clay, the crackle of the fire, and Cherrybud’s enthusiastic slurping. Truthless watched the Fount, who ate with a thoughtful, appreciative slowness, his eyes closed briefly as if cataloging the flavors of safety.

It was Cherrybud who broke the comfortable silence, her curiosity finally overflowing. “Did you come to check on me?” she asked Truthless directly, her head tilted.

Truthless’s spoon stilled. He looked at her, at her flour-smudged, earnest face, and the lie of ‘clues’ and ‘investigations’ died in his throat. He gave a single, curt nod.

Her smile was like a small sun breaking through smoke. “I’m okay! We’re okay. The scary noise and the wobble-lights didn’t come over here.” Then her expression grew solemn, an adult worry settling onto childish features. “But the others… their houses…”

Her mother placed a comforting hand over hers. “The Fount and his friend will help, little bud.”

They continued eating. Once Truthless and Cherrybud finished their plates, the mother continued.
Cherrybud’s mother smiled, a real, warm smile that reached her eyes. “Old family recipe. The secret’s a touch of honey from the shop of an old friend out the back. Helps the crust.” She looked between them, her gaze curious but kind. “So. You’ve come from the castle, then? After… all that.” She gestured vaguely towards the door, to the world of smoke and ruin beyond it.

“Yes,” the Fount said, setting his spoon down neatly.

“Well, we’re sturdy here,” the woman said, patting Cherrybud’s hand. “Shaken, but sturdy. Thanks for looking in.” She studied them for another long moment, her head tilting. Her eyes tracked the way the Fount’s gaze had flicked to Truthless, the way Truthless seemed hyper-aware of the Fount’s presence despite not looking at him. A slow, knowing smile began to dawn on her face.

“You know,” she began, her tone deceptively light, leaning forward on her elbows. “When you two first came in, all soot and solemnity, I thought maybe you were guardsmen. Or officials.” She took a sip of her tea. “But you don’t have the look of it. Not really.”

The Fount blinked. “Oh? What look do we have, then?”

She smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “Well, forgive an old woman her nosiness, but you’ve got the look of my cousin and his beau when they’d had a spat and were too proud to apologize. All tense silence and pointed glances.” She waved a hand between them. “There’s a… charge. In the air. So,” she said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “how long have you two been a couple?”

The Fount, who had just taken a sip of water, inhaled it directly into his windpipe.

A violent, undignified choke ripped through the quiet kitchen. He doubled over, coughing into his fist, his entire face flushing a spectacular, deep blue that clashed horribly with his hair. Water droplets spattered the worn wood of the table.

Cherrybud gasped, half-standing in her chair. “Shiny teacher’s turned into a berry!”

Truthless reached out. His hand closed around the clay water pitcher. With a steady motion, he poured a fresh cup and slid it across the table towards the spluttering, deep blue-faced Fount, without making eye contact.

The Fount grabbed the cup, gulping the water down as if it were a lifeline, his eyes streaming. He finally managed a ragged, wheezing breath, staring at the table with the wide-eyed horror of a man who had just been publicly unmasked.

Cherrybud’s mother laughed, a rich, warm sound that held no malice, only delight. “Oh, my! I’ve struck a nerve, haven’t I? My apologies, Virtue, truly! I meant no offense.” Her eyes were crinkled with mirth. “It’s just, you arrive together in the middle of the night. You share a whole conversation without saying a word. It’s the oldest story in the book!”

The Fount made a small, pathetic noise, still unable to speak. He seemed to be trying to will the floor to swallow him whole.

Truthless finally lifted his gaze. He looked first at the woman’s amused, kindly face, then at the Fount, who was now studying a knot in the wood grain as if it held the secrets of the universe. The furious blush was only just beginning to recede from the Virtue’s cheeks and the tips of his ears.

He held the look for a beat. Then, he turned his flat, unreadable stare back to Cherrybud’s mother.

“We’re not,” he stated, flat as ever.

“Ah,” she said, her smile softening into something more understanding. She raised her hands in a peaceful gesture. “Of course. My mistake. Like I said, just an old woman’s fancy.” She winked, the teasing still there but gentler now. “The world could use more stories like that, is all. Even the complicated, denial-riddled ones.”

The Fount continued coughing softly, and a more comfortable quiet settled over the table, now flavored with shared amusement rather than tension. Cherrybud, sensing the adults were done with Grown-Up Talk, slid from her chair and began to quietly build a tower from the empty bread crusts on her plate.

“So,” Cherrybud’s mother said, seamlessly changing the subject, “about the calamity we’re facing.”

And chatted for long they did.

Many minutes passed.

The Fount cleared his throat. He still couldn't bring himself to look at anyone, his attention fixed on the fascinating crack in the wall. "We... should be going. There is much to assess. Still."

Cherrybud's mother's smile didn't falter, but it took on a steely, matriarchal quality. "Nonsense," she said, her voice brooking no argument. "Listen to the night. It's quieter now, but that doesn't make it safe. Those... things are still out there. Skulking or whatever. It's no fit hour for anyone to be wandering, not even a pair of a Virtue and his... complicated friend." She gave a meaningful glance between them.

"But the village—" the Fount began.

"—will still be smoldering at dawn," she finished for him. "A few hours won’t change the ashes. Exhaustion might get you killed. Even you, honored Virtue.”

The Fount opened his mouth, the logical part of his brain scrambling to form a counter-argument about perimeter checks and magical analysis. He was the Fount of Knowledge; he could handle a few skulking demons. He—

"We'll stay."

The words came from Truthless. He wasn't looking at the Fount or the mother. He was looking at Cherrybud, who had gone very still, her wide eyes darting between the adults, her earlier joy dimmed by the talk of leaving.

The Fount’s head swiveled toward him, his composure fully shattered now into pure, unvarnished bewilderment. "What?"

Truthless finally met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "It's dangerous. She's right." He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod toward Cherrybud. "And she's scared."

It was a simple, devastating logic. Not about strategy, or duty. It was about the child gripping the edge of the table, and the fear of being left alone.

The Fount now really stared at him.

Cherrybud’s mother beamed, a victorious glint in her eye. “Settled, then. Cherrybud, fetch the spare quilts. The nice ones, mind. We’ll make a pallet by the hearth for our guests. It’s the warmest spot.”

Truthless gave a small, final nod, the matter decided. He didn’t look triumphant or relieved. He just was.

The Fount could only watch, adrift in a current of domestic willpower he had no idea how to navigate. The woman was already bustling, clearing a space on the floor near the fire’s gentle heat. Truthless moved to help her, his movements efficient and unconcerned. He was staying. Because Truthless Recluse had said so. Because a little girl was scared.

Slowly, feeling as though he were moving through syrup, the Fount rose from the table. He watched, mute, as a simple but generous pallet was arranged from folded quilts and a worn but clean cushion. It looked… adequate. Separate. A clear space on the floor for two, but not a shared confine. The tight knot of panic that had begun to form in his chest loosened, just slightly.

Truthless, for his part, seemed utterly unperturbed. He tested the firmness of the arrangement with a foot, nodded once, then went to bank the fire for the night.

The Fount was left standing awkwardly, surrounded by the comforting, claustrophobic warmth of a home that was not his, sentenced by a quiet man and a kind woman to a night of uneasy rest, while just outside, in the beautiful, treacherous dark, the world he had failed waited patiently for him to return.

~~~

The transition from that bewildered surrender to the quiet of the back garden was a slow, internal thawing. The meal, the shocking question, the firm kindness, and the finality of Truthless’s decision had left the Fount feeling overfull—not of food, but of sensation. He needed space to digest it all.

After the last of the bread had been sopped up and the simple clay bowls sat empty, the clatter of cleanup began. The Fount murmured his thanks to Cherrybud’s mother and, seeing Truthless drawn into the dishwater and the child’s chatter, he seized the chance for escape. He slipped out the back door of the small shed, closing it gently on the pocket of warm, complicated life, and stepped into the cool, vast clarity of the night.

Even in the midst of the rubble just beyond, with the soft, persistent crackles of flames not yet fully extinguished, the night felt peaceful.

The moon’s sovereignty was absolute here, at the edge of the unscathed. Its light fell upon the world with a clemency that felt almost divine. The same moon as always—though tonight, she wore her most expensive garb, gentling the destruction. 

She turned the silhouette of a broken cart in the middle distance into a sculptural shadow, softened the lines of a collapsed roof into a mere fold in the landscape. The world was rendered in monochrome—silver, indigo, and deepest black—and none could escape.

For a few breaths, the Fount allowed himself to be seduced by it. He leaned against the wood of the shed, the last of the day’s heat bleeding into his back, and simply existed within the beautiful, breathing quiet.

From here, he could see through the small, square window into the warm glow of the kitchen.

The scene there was its own kind of peace. Truthless Recluse stood at the basin. Moonlight, slipping through the front window, caught the curve of a freshly washed bowl in his hands, making it gleam with a soft light. And on his back, clinging like a determined little barnacle, was Cherrybud. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her chin hooked over his shoulder, chatting a mile a minute about something the Fount couldn’t hear. Truthless did not seem to mind.

He scrubbed, he rinsed, he listened. Once, his hand reached back, a blind, steadying pat on her knee as she wriggled with the excitement of her tale.

The Fount’s smile was a fragile, private bloom in the dark. He turned his face back to the sovereign moon, letting her light fill him, empty him of thought. He was just a man, beneath an ancient, untroubled sky. The immense, quiet beauty of the surviving night was an absolution in itself.

After some time, Truthless Recluse came to stand beside him. Not close enough to share warmth, but close enough that the Fount could sense the shift in the night’s atmosphere, the subtle displacement of air by his solid, quiet presence. He did not speak. He simply lifted his chin, his austere profile etched in silver, and joined the silent vigil. Two pillars in the tranquil ruins, sharing the vast and luminous quiet.

It was Truthless who finally gave words to the silence.

“Back when the village chief slapped you…”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Fount interjected. “I didn’t mind it much.”

“Is that so?”

Something about Truthless’s tone was curious. As if the Fount had just stated that the sky was green, and he was politely waiting for the explanation.
The Fount felt the fragile shell of his dismissal crack under that simple, weightless question. He had expected silence. Not this gentle, probing curiosity.

He swallowed. The beautiful night seemed to lean in, listening.

“He was… right to be angry,” the Fount began. “The failure was mine. The rage was his. A direct transfer of cause and effect. A logical consequence.” He was building a theorem out of his own humiliation, laying out the proof step by shaky step. “To resent the consequence would be… illogical. Petty.”

He glanced at Truthless, searching for a nod. But Truthless’s gaze was still on the moon, his expression unreadable in the light. Only the slight tilt of his head indicated he was listening.

“And you?” Truthless asked after a moment. “Were you angry?”

A simple, surgical incision, offered with the same detached curiosity one might use to inquire about the weather. The Fount narrowed his eyes, then glanced at the moon once more.

“…no.”

It was the flattest syllable he had ever uttered. Devoid of conviction, of feeling, of truth.

Why… just why did he lie?

Truthless would not give him time to ponder on it.

“The moon,” he observed after a time, his voice blending with the cricket song, “is bright enough to read by.”

The Fount fidgeted with his staff.

Why had he…

“It is,” the Fount agreed, a thread of his old, wry self returning. “Though I doubt even its library contains a treatise on the binding properties of malevolent confectionery.”

This earned him the faintest exhalation from Truthless—the spectral echo of a laugh, there and gone. “Probably not.”

Another span of quiet, measured by the slow journey of a cloud across the moon’s face. Then, Truthless shifted. His staff tapped once, a period on the sentence of their moment. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He became a shadow among shadows. The latch clicked softly behind him.

Leaving the Fount alone.

He took a deep breath, something slightly burning his nostrils.

And alone, the Fount’s face changed.

The slight, weary smile that had touched his lips during their talk froze, then slowly dissolved.  His gaze, which had been soft on the moonlit ruins, sharpened, focusing on nothing.

The cool night air brushed his cheek. The same cheek.

A memory sparked.

The crack of the Chief’s hand, the shock of heat, the immediate, doughy pallor of the man’s face. The public silence that followed. The taste of his own irrelevance, jam-sharp on his tongue.

From the cottage window, a warm sliver of light painted the grass. A murmur of voices. Safety. A world where he was "the shiny teacher," a guest, a curiosity. A world that didn't need a Fount.

His lips—still curved in that ghost of a polite, moonlit smile—thinned. Peeled back just enough. Not a snarl. Something emptier. The bare mechanics of a bite, soundless and small.

In the fragrant dark, under the beautiful and useless moon, the Fount stood perfectly still and let the bitterness fill him like a toxin. It was in the set of his shoulders, the cold line of his jaw, the awful, smiling rigor of his face.

He looked, for a long moment, like a cookie remembering how to hate.

Chapter Text

The Tragedy of

the Fount of Knowledge

By: ██████

Fount of Knowledge                                                        
████ ███████ ██████

Flour of Volition (Mystic Flour Cookie)

█████ ██ ██████

Cloud Haetae  Cookie                                                                           
█████ ██ ██████

Narrator

 █████ ██ ██████

Act 1 

Scene ██: The Ivory Pagoda.

[Enter FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE]

NARRATOR

What makes a person? Is it the memories or the flesh?

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

Flour? Flour—please answer me!

NARRATOR
To define a self by memory alone is to build on shifting sand, for recollection is a fluid storyteller, rewriting its own script with every telling. Yet to reduce being to mere biology—to the pulse and synapse—feels equally hollow, dismissing the invisible cathedral of experience built within.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

Where are you… Flour, please…

NARRATOR

The paradox lies in their inseparable dance: memory is etched into the very flesh of the brain, and the body itself carries its own silent history in scars and instincts. So perhaps the question is not one of or, but of threshold: at what point does the erosion of one, or the failure of the other, cause the person we know to cease? When does the echo of who they were stop answering the call of who they still appear to be?

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE
If only she didn’t shut herself in that cocoon…

NARRATOR

Observe the Virtue, righteous in his meaning. He searches for cookie he calls a friend. But isn’t it ironic? He, Knowledge incarnate was not immediately informed of the growing rumors surrounding his fellow Virtue. Rumors that would lead to the end of Volition.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

(pressing fingers to his temple)

Come on, Fount of Knowledge. Think.

NARRATOR
But how? But why?! My dear audience, the answer to this is simple. He had already started forsaking knowledge at this point without realizing it, turning a blind eye. You see, the Virtue so feverishly seeking his friend had, unbeknownst even to himself, begun to succumb to what our historians now recognize as the first signs of intellectual burnout.

[Enter CLOUD HAETAE COOKIE]

NARRATOR

Preposterous, is it not? That the Virtue of Knowledge himself—he who deemed his mind a sanctuary above all others—could succumb to burnout? Yet alas, this was no common fatigue. For by this time, Cookiekind had grown wary of his truths, and their ears had begun to close. 

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

I hear something…

NARRATOR

Ah—do you hear that, dear audience? The faint fluttering of a weary mind? Even now, he mistakes the echo of his own unraveling for a clue.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

Flour? Is that you? I… I’m right here! Please—answer me!

CLOUD HAETAE COOKIE

You shouldn’t be here.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

You… Cloud Haetae Cookie, correct? Where is the Flour of Volition?! Is she safe? What happened? I heard of an attack.

CLOUD HAETAE COOKIE

She doesn’t want to see you.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

What? Nonsense! I must speak to her at once. Please show me the way.

CLOUD HAETAE COOKIE

You can’t.

NARRATOR
Ah, look at him go, trying to get what he wants through conversation. Determined. Desperate. How… touching.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE 

Why can’t I? Cloud Haetae—tell me where she is. If not, move out of the way.

CLOUD HAETAE COOKIE

Grrrr…! No! No!

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

Out of the way!

CLOUD HAETAE COOKIE

No! I must protect Mystic Flour Cookie!

NARRATOR

There it is. The plot twist, the name change! A crack in the script revealed before its time. Mystic Flour Cookie— the name she bore after destiny crowned her Apathy.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

Mystic… Flour Cookie? What do you mean?

NARRATOR

Yet little does he realize that he partly caused this. A quick slip of the tongue, one of his first lies. A domino effect that led to the beginning of an end. Dearest audience, what do you think the cookie did next?

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE
Cloud Haetae—explain yourself. Now. I am not afraid of Knowledge.

NARRATOR
Oh, but he was. Not of knowledge itself—no, the Fount feared nothing so childish. You see, what the Fount of Knowledge feared the most was change.
Change—the great unbinder of certainty.
Change—the quiet thief that steals the familiar.
Change—the one force he could not quantify, catalogue, or cage.

Change—that which he and all Virtues must have never allowed to seep into their core.
For a Virtue is meant to be eternal, unyielding, a pillar carved from the very essence they embody..

Volition must remain Volition.

Change must remain Change.

Knowledge must remain Knowledge.

Happiness must remain Happiness.

Solidarity must remain Solidarity.

To change is to falter, to falter is to fracture, and to fracture is to invite ruin. Yet here we stand, dear audience, ankle-deep in the wreckage of a Virtue’s certainty—and he does not even see the shards cutting him already.

FLOUR OF VOLITION (MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE)

Inconsequential... yours is a futile struggle. Turn back and return to flour.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

(spinning, searching each path, breath visible in the cold air)

Flour of Volition, what happened? Where are you? Come, let us talk as we have done before. Why are they calling you Mystic Flour? Why haven’t you contacted anybody? 

FLOUR OF VOLITION (MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE)
All is futile. Fount of Knowledge… you cling to names as though they hold any true meaning. But I have shed mine. I am no longer the cookie you seek. I have let go of ambition, of selfish desires.

MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE

Escape the meaningless nature of existence, and be granted peace.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

Impossible. You are speaking nonsense.

NARRATOR

Impossible—his favorite lie.

FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE

Tell me what happened to you. Let me help you. Please. 

MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE

You are a fool. You cannot help what you refuse to see. And you have never seen me, Fount. Embrace Apathy, and you will come to truly see. 

(FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE reaches out but cannot take a single step forward.)

NARRATOR

How fitting, dear audience. A plea offered too late, an answer given too plainly, yet still he reaches in the dark—grasping for a truth he taught others to seek, but never dared to face himself.

(MYSTIC FLOUR’s voice fades into the cold. FOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE bows his head, the first  real fracture forming in the unwavering Virtue.)

NARRATOR  

And thus begins the fall.

[CURTAIN FALLS.]

Chapter Text

The cookie stared blankly, arms held half-raised.

“C’MON! Are you trying to lose?” groaned the other, hopping with aggravation. “And to think YOU stole half of MY Soul Jam. Awful. Simply awful.”

With a limp, ambiguous wave, the first cookie ventured, “a bird.”

“Wr—ooong!” he sang, shaking his head so hard his crumbs rattled and his head fell into his hands.

A snarl. An eye-roll aimed at the other cookie.

“You are cheating.”

“HA!!!” The other cookie huffed. “You WISH!”

He snapped his head right back onto his neck and placed a palm on his forehead, bending his knees in “distress”. “Oh Nilly, you disappoint me. Why would I need to cheat? You’re just terrible at this! Zero points on theatrical flair! How utterly disappointing,” the jester continued.

“...”

A pause stretched.

Then, a grin.

“But at this rate, victory is all mine~”

They continued their game.

~~~

Why had he lied?

The question echoed in his mind.

Why had he—?

He simply had.

A dry, metallic chirp split the silence, followed by a thrashing sound like parchment tearing. With it, the mantle of the Fount of Knowledge reasserted itself, an ill-fitting shell that pinched at the memory of unburdened sleep.

He opened his eyes to a soft, starry darkness, the familiar grit of sleep still blurring his vision beneath the wool. He was buried in a nest of quilts, their weight a welcome anchor after yesterday's turmoil. Even the stiffness in his neck felt like a relic of it. Against his cheek, the fabric was coarse, worn soft in patches, a hint of faint cherry blossom lingering in the weave.

For a long, disoriented moment, he simply existed within that warmth. The deep, bone-aching cold of the square, the chill of the garden—they were memories.

The Fount liked feeling warm.

Still, the thought of him—a Virtue—sleeping on the floor of a random house… it was unthinkable. Or it should have been. Yet his life was a catalogue of wonders, so perhaps he should simply accept this. A new experience was new knowledge, and new knowledge, however peculiar, held its own utility.

And the night…

No, not now.

He shifted minutely. To his right, a steady, slow breath whispered into the quiet. He turned his head.

Truthless Recluse lay on his side, back turned toward him, cloak drawn over himself like a blanket. His hat was pulled low, shrouding his face from the thin morning light seeping through the window.

He was perfectly still.

Upon him, a small, chaotic moon had come to rest.

Cherrybud Cookie was sprawled like a victorious mountaineer. Somehow, in the dark, she had migrated from her mother’s bed to claim Truthless as her personal summit. Her head lay pillowed on his shoulder blade, one arm flung possessively across his side. Her legs executed a full invasion, tangled over his shoulders so that her small bare feet dangled freely. One big toe rested with precarious intimacy against the curve of his ear.

A soft snore, more of a hum, escaped from under the hat.

The Fount’s lips twitched.

On the table, two clay bowls sat waiting. Next to them, a covered pot and a loaf of bread wrapped in a checkered cloth. The mother was gone, the hearth swept and quiet. She had left sustenance and vanished, granting them this fragile, private morning.

The Fount turned to his other side. He felt the steady cadence of his heart quicken into a deeper, more insistent rhythm.

Was this what normal cookies felt? This… borrowed peace? This warmth from a kindness he had done nothing to earn? This domestic simplicity that asked for no grand analysis…

It was warm. Not just the quilts. A deep, marrow-deep luxury, a stolen wonder for the heart. Pleasant. Exciting.

What if I just… stayed?

The thought was sleepy, yet rebellious. The world outside was death and accusatory. In here, there was only the soft sigh of breathing and the scent of wonders from the covered pot. Surely the gears of fate would not grind to a halt if a Virtue claimed just one more minute of this unearned solace. One more minute where he was not the Fount, but simply a cookie, cozy beneath a blanket.

A foolish, cowardly, delicious thought.

Then what is the point of me?

The memory of his own voice.

…no.
No, no, no, no.

No.

What was he thinking? He should be ashamed. Wallowing in borrowed comfort while a village lay in ruins, demons skulked at the edge of the wood, and a child’s doll sat on a cold stone bench.

In a mind engineered to chart the motion of stars, why was he so preoccupied with the gravity of a quilt?

What was happening to him lately?

He was the Fount of Knowledge. The Fount of Knowledge. Shaped by the hands of the witches, set apart from all cookiekind. This was not ego, nor a belief in superiority. It was the simple, immutable fact of his creation. Other cookies mixed their dough and raised their young. They lived the wonders and sorrows of a finite existence—childhood, adulthood, a quiet end. A cycle he was designed to observe, to protect, but never to join.

He could never be an ordinary cookie. Nor had he ever really wanted to.

Of course not.

And above all, cookies depended on him. They came to him for answers. He loved teaching—loved talking—loved being needed. Surely some even envied him.
He loved it.
They liked it.
They loved him.
Liked his knowledge.
Loved…

But what did he want?

It was a question he had never honestly asked himself. His purpose was his desire. His function, his yearning. To know was to be. Yet here, in this quiet warmth, that equation felt hollow. A perfect, empty circle.

His palm met his forehead with a soft thud. He sighed—a sound of utter exhaustion. He pressed his face deeper into the wool, as if he could smother the treasonous yearning.

Enough. This pointless introspection was a luxury he could not afford. He sat up.

Liar. The memory of his own voice hissed again, serpentine. You lied. Why did you lie?

It threw him back to Truthless’s words, to that conversation about his future and fate.

And the nerve of the Village Chief…

A sharp shake of his head dispelled nothing. His Soul Jam throbbed. He stared at his staff lying beside him.

“What are you doing...”

No more. He would not allow himself to lie anymore.

Action, then.

First, order. He stood, the fine linen of his under-robe whispering against the coarse wool of the quilts pooled at his feet. His outer garment, once pristine, was a painting of mud, draped over a nearby chair. He ignored them. They were the uniform of yesterday’s failure. He would not wear them into today’s battle.

Magic flickered at his fingertips—clean, cold, precise: perfect. He drew a narrow arc in the air. Light stitched itself into fabric. Azure threads turned obsidian. In a new breath, a fresh garment unfolded around him, settling across his frame as though he had stepped into a memory of divinity.

He smoothed the fabric. Straightened the fall of the robe. Another gesture summoned a mirror, rippling into existence like a pane of water held upright by will alone. His reflection stared back: hair tousled, crownless, looking more like a weary wanderer than a Virtue.

Unacceptable.

He combed his fingers through his hair until each strand obeyed. The new robe adjusted under subtle spells—creases eased, hems realigned. And finally, with a sweep of his palm, he tore open a portal. From its depths, something glimmered: a circlet wrought of authority. His crown.

He crowned himself anew, approached the hearth. The embers were dead, but the kindling lay ready. A snap of his fingers and a neat flame leapt to life. He fed it one dry stick, then another.

Next, the water. A clean pot from the shelf, filled from the covered bucket by the door. He set it precisely over the flame. While it heated, he turned to the table. He lifted the cloth from the loaf. It was still tepid from yesterday’s baking. He found a knife and sawed two thick, even slices. Not for himself. One for Truthless. One for Cherrybud. He set them on the bare wood beside their bowls. Somewhere outside, someone shouted.

The covered pot revealed a rich, congealed stew. Breakfast. He spooned a careful portion into each clay bowl, ensuring equal distribution of vegetable and grain. He did not take any for himself.

By the time the water simmered, the cottage was beginning to hold a new kind of intimacy. The scent of stew mingled with the clean steam. It was warm.

He found two chipped mugs and a small tin of tea leaves. The ritual of preparation—spooning the leaves, pouring the water, watching the swirl of color—was a meditation. A controllable outcome. He felt he needed one.

As the tea steeped, he finally allowed himself to turn.

Truthless had not moved, but the Fount knew he was awake. The quality of his stillness had changed; he knew well the texture of feigned sleep. Cherrybud’s foot twitched against his ear.

A smile.

The Fount picked up one mug of tea. He crossed the short distance and knelt, placing it on the floorboards within easy reach of Truthless’s hand. The offering was its own statement: The night is over. The day has begun. We have work to do.

He then walked to the window and stood there, the chipped clay mug lukewarm in his hands. He allowed himself a final, fleeting smile at the quiet scene within—the sleeping, the ordered breakfast, the illusion of a peaceful morning he had constructed.

Then he looked past the glass.

The smile died.

The hard, clarifying light of dawn did not reveal a village awaiting his analysis. It illuminated a slaughterhouse.

Pillars of black smoke clawed at the maroon sky, more numerous and angrier than the day before. The skittering, fiery silhouettes, the jagged shadows—yesterday, they had fit a convenient narrative. Demons. Beasts of mindless malice.

But this new, pitiless glare revealed a different truth.

Where claws should have been, he found hands.

Where whip-like tails should have been, he found rope.

Formations shifted like an army. One creature snapped a hand signal, fast and authoritative.

“Wait…” he whispered, the word misting the pane. He leaned closer, his mind violently re-cataloging every detail, stripping away the comforting assumption of monstrosity.

His voice, when it came again, was flat with dawning horror.

“…these aren’t demons.”

He turned from the window, his face pale. His gaze found Truthless, who had just begun to move.

“These are cookies.”

A blasphemy.

The Fount bit his nail, his stare fixed on the window before cutting back to Truthless, who rubbed a weary eye.

Cookies. Actual cookies.

The realization slammed through him, shattering the framework of the night. It demanded a new calculus, new tactics—an entirely new world. Who were they? Why attack? But they could be reasoned with. A preferable outcome. It had to be.

Yet the word kept echoing, destabilizing him. Cookies.

Every assumption he had built in the last day buckled at once. The map in his mind was wrong—catastrophically wrong—and his thoughts fractured into frantic shards, scrambling to rebuild a logic that would hold. If they were cookies, they had motive. Coordination. A leader. A plan. Nothing was random. Nothing was senseless.

…or was it?

Cookies could be senseless—petty, impulsive, disastrously misguided. Was this that?

Still, cookies could be talked to—

The loud silence shattered.

“Mm… Mama?”

Cherrybud stirred atop her human mountain, rubbing a floury eye with a small fist.

“Oh,” she mumbled, sight settling on The Fount. “Shiny teacher. Morning.”

“Cherrybud Cookie...” The Fount mumbled. He looked at her, really looked, seeing the trust in her sleepy eyes.

Her gaze drifted, searching the room, then lingering on Truthless.

“Is she gone?”

It swam next toward the window, drawn by the pallid, unnatural light. Drowsy confusion lasted only a heartbeat.

She saw the clawing smoke against the neighbor’s cottage, the fiery shapes moving where her mother had gone at first light. Her small body stiffened, every muscle locking. Her breath hitched, a tiny furnace stoking in her chest.

Then her mouth opened, and a sound ripped from her that was pure terror—a high, piercing shriek that held no tears yet, only raw, animal panic.

“MAMA?!!”

On the floor, Truthless Recluse jerked as if struck. He grunted, a sound of startled pain, as a small heel connected with his ribs. His hand shot out, grappling with the flailing child. "Wha—? Cease!"

“Truthless.”

The Fount’s voice cut across the chaos. He had moved between the window and the child, his wide eyes locked on his companion.

Truthless shoved his hat back, his disoriented alarm hardening as he registered the Fount’s tone and the hellish glow painting the room. He struggled to sit up, hindered by the small, hysterical weight. “What is it?”

“MAMA!” Cherrybud wailed, her cries becoming gulping sobs, her tiny hands pushing against Truthless’s cloak as if she could burrow through him to safety. “She's outside! She's OUTSIDE!”

“The attack,” the Fount said, his voice low and terrible, “is not a demon incursion.” He let the child’s screams fill the void for a heartbeat. “They are cookies. This is an invasion.”

Truthless’s hands shifted from restraint to an awkward containment. He pulled the small child against his chest, tucking her face into the rough fabric of his cloak to muffle her screams against his shoulder.

“Calm,” he muttered, the command fraying into a strained attempt at calm. “Your mother is clever. She is hidden. Shouting will not help her.” He cast a sharp, questioning glare at the Fount over the top of Cherrybud’s head. Cookies? his expression screamed. Explain.

There was no time.

The Fount was already moving. He snatched up his staff and strode to the door.

“You will stay with her,” he stated. It was not a request. “Your mobility is hindered. She is a liability in the open, and you are the only shield present.”

Truthless's eyes narrowed. “And you? You propose to walk out alone? Into a cookie army?”

“I must.” The Fount’s reply was absolute. “Do not forget who you are speaking to.”

A Virtue. The greatest Mage. What was a cookie army against the depth of his knowledge?

“I will find her mother and end this.

He turned fully to the door, the gathering hellscape waiting beyond. He paused, his back to them.

“Keep her quiet. Keep her safe. That is your role.” He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze clear and cold. “Understanding this… is mine.”

“Don't take long.”

Without another word, he unlatched the door. A gust of acrid wind invaded the cottage’s fragile warmth. Then he stepped through, closing the door softly behind him.

The enemy was not a monster.

It was themselves.

~~~

The cottage door shut. Inside, a child's fear. Outside, only aftermath.

The splintering of timber. The shatter of glass. A scream, then a silence that was worse. The air had condensed. Burnt crust and the sweet tang of exposed filling. Spice.

He stepped into smoke and ruin.

The untouched part of the village, which yesterday had held market stalls and life even in the midst of chaos, now was in utter ruin. Buildings gutted. Walls crumbled to expose their dark interiors. The cobblestones, once familiar underfoot, were slick with substances he forced himself not to name.

He floated forward, searching for survivors, for answers, for some logic to impose on this.

A figure emerged—a miller, his tunic dark with sweat, arms wrapped around a burlap sack of grain. His eyes, wide and green, found the Fount. A desperate gratitude flooded them. “You've come—” he rasped.

He did not finish.

The spear entered his back. It was a crude thing, an iron-tipped pole meant for goading oxen. It punched through cloth, through dough, with a deep crunch. The baker arched, a soundless gasp locking his throat. He was pinned for a moment, a grotesque butterfly, before the spear’s momentum slammed him forward. His sack spilled, a cascade of rye flour that bloomed around him in a soft grey cloud. He fell onto his side, curled around the protruding shaft. One hand scrabbled weakly at the iron where it burst from his chest, his fingers leaving smeared prints in the flour dusting his tunic. He blinked, slow and confused, at the strange metal stem growing from his body, then his eyes fixed on nothing.

The Fount halted.

A cold, avoidant sensation opened in his core. The world narrowed, tunnel-vision sharp, to the point of the spear. To the miller’s eyes, still holding the ghost of that grateful recognition, now glazing over into empty orbs.
For one interminable second, there was no knowledge. Only sensation: the deep, crunch of the impact echoing in his own dough; the sweet scent of  jam flooding his nostrils; the sheer, violent wrongness of a cookie-made object piercing a cookie-made body. His stomach lurched.

Then, as if slamming shut a heavy tome, knowledge rushed back in. A desperate, screaming torrent to fill the void of horror: the angle of penetration, the velocity required, the speed of the jam loss, the irreversible viscosity loss. It was a fact. A clinical, catastrophic fact.

A cookie. Killed by another cookie’s hand.

This was a choice. A deliberate, mechanical act of ending.

His eyelids widened.

Then—the suck-pop of the spear being wrenched free.

The killer planted a boot on the baker’s shoulder and pulled. He was a cookie, his dough the color of sand, his armor a carapace of baked clay. He looked at the Fount. His expression held no awe. It was a butcher's look, noting a new piece on the block.

“Stop.”

The word was a stone dropped into water.

He lifted his staff. His Soul Jam kindled, its light the deep, abiding turquoise. He would not trade violence for violence. He would speak in the old language of growth and restraint.

The ground answered. From the cracks between cobbles, from the mortar itself, gnarled cords of vines erupted. They were vicious, whip-fast, studded with thorns long as fingernails. They lashed around ankles and wrists, snaking up legs and torsos with a horrible, creaking vitality. The thorny binds tightened, digging into dough, anchoring the attackers to the spot. The spearman roared, thrashing, but the vine only bit deeper, its hooks sinking fast. Six of them were caught, wrapped in a snarling, tightening cage of living barbed wire. Their struggles grew frantic, then stilled as the thorns pricked warningly at their throats.

A broad warrior with a hammer lowered his tool. His gaze, previously fierce, now held a primitive wariness. “The Virtue,” he muttered. “The Fount of Knowledge is here.”

A collective flinch ran through their ranks. They had schemed for every earthly resistance, but no plan accounted for this—a fundamental truth of the world descending to meet them, not in a temple, but in the mud.  

For a moment, the only sounds were the hungry crackle of distant flames.

Then a new voice abraded the quiet. It came from the shell of a burned-out cart. “Your courage is curdled milk,” it said, utterly devoid of inflection. “Everyone knows that the Fount of Knowledge is a coward that doesn’t kill.”

Coward.

A muscle on the Fount’s cheek twitched. A smile, was audible in the hooded figure's next words.

“Thank you for joining our grand little skirmish.” He paused, letting the silence twist. He left the cart, stepping into view. “Did you enjoy the welcoming gift? A fine demonstration of intent, wouldn’t you agree?”

The Fount’s staff remained raised. “You will explain yourself. Who are you? What is the purpose of this slaughter?”

The cookie blinked, slowly. As if the question were in a foreign language. “Hm... no.”

“No?”

“Yeah... no.” He finally looked directly at the Fount, his gaze traveling from the immaculate robe to the crown, to the staff’s glowing heart. “Though... the report was correct. You need a reason. A story. You cannot act without one.”

A report... there was a report of him?

“Your actions are senseless,” the Fount said, his voice retaining its clarity. Yet the cadence was off. The sentence ended with the faint, upward lilt of a plea masquerading as a statement. “Cease this at once and explain yourself.”

“Are they?” The villain’s head tilted a fraction. A dry, rustling sound. “We are here. We are achieving our objective. You are here… talking. Asking for a syllabus before you’ll permit yourself to intervene.” He took one slow step forward, his eyes never leaving the Fount’s. “They say the Fount of Knowledge knows everything. Yet you did not know we were coming. You do not know who we are. You do not know why this village must burn.” His voice dropped to a flatter tone. “What is the utility of a virtue… who does not know?”

The Fount’s left foot, which had been hovering a clean inch above the charred cobblestone, settled. It was a minute adjustment, the barest whisper of foot touching ground. The altitude had been compromised, as if the weight of the question had added a single, precise gram to his being. He took a deep, deep breath. It was intoxicating.

“Who sent you?” The Fount pressed on. A teacher prompting a slow student. “Your coordination is too precise for bandits. Your gear is standardized. You are funded. Who is your benefactor?”

The hooded cookie stared. “Wow.” He shook his head, crumbs dusting his shoulders. “You actually lead with that. ‘Who sent you?’ As if we’re in a play.”

“Answer the question.”

“Or what? You’ll think at me harder?”

“Knowledge is the foundation of consequence,” the Fount said, his tone even, lecturing. “If I know your patron, I can trace the motive. If I trace the motive, I can resolve the conflict without further waste. This is logical.”

“Logical,” the hooded cookie echoed. He scratched his neck, looking past the Fount at a burning cottage. “Yeah. Real logical. Meanwhile, that cookie's house is on fire. But hey—you got a motive to uncover. Priorities, right?”

The Fount’s fingers tightened on his staff. “Avoidance is not an answer. It is a confirmation of fear.”

“Fear?” The cookie barked a laugh. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m bored. You’re just… talking. Always talking. You know what your problem is? You think words are the only tools. If you find the right one, you can fix anything. Even this.” He gestured to the smoke, the screams now fading into whimpers. “But some things just need doing, a greater destruction.”

That was an awfully personal thing to say... did he perhaps know him?

“So you admit this is wanton? Without greater purpose?”

“I admit I have a greater purpose,” the cookie said, his voice dropping into a flat, tired rasp. “And you’re in the way. And you’re boring.”

The Fount’s composure was marble, but marble could crack. “A mindless tool, then. How droll.”

“Tool. Weapon. Whatever.” The hooded figure began to turn away. “Call it what you want. It gets the job done while you’re still picking the perfect noun.”

Something hot and sharp flashed behind the Fount’s throat. The insult, the dismissal—the sheer, mundane irrelevance of him. His knowledge, his titles, his crown: set dressing. His breath caught.

“You think this is simple?” His voice lifted, raw and unsteady. “You think burning a village is a job? You are not a weapon—you are a child with a lit match, too stupid to see the forest you’re in is your own!"

The hooded cookie stopped. Slowly, he turned back. A wide, toothy grin split the shadow of his hood.

“There it is,” he whispered, delighted.

The Fount opened his mouth to shout—

And stopped. He saw the grin. The eager, bored eyes. A performance.

The heat drained from his face. The tremor stilled. A hollow, incredulous laugh escaped him.

“Oh… I see.”

The words came out hollow.

Of course. Of course that was it. The grin, the boredom—bait, laid with a lazy confidence that assumed he would take it. His throat still burned from the outburst he had nearly finished shouting. 

"An appeal to emotion," the Fount declared, his voice steady despite the white knuckles on his staff. "A classic rhetorical pivot when factual argument fails."

He brushed a stray strand of hair back from his forehead, the gesture fastidious. A return to routine. 

"How transparent. You provoke. You insult. You reduce a complex, tragic situation to a petty taunt about my verbosity, hoping to trigger an undisciplined response." He tilted his head, the crown catching firelight. "You are attempting to make me unreasonable. To make me match your chaos. Then, you win—not through force of arms, but through the degradation of my principles."

He took a step forward.

"You are correct about one thing. I do require understanding to act. But you mistake the nature of the requirement. I do not need your puerile justification. I need only to understand you."

His staff pulsed. The vines creaked tighter. A warning.

"And I do. You are a mercenary. Pragmatic to the point of moral destitution. You value efficiency over all else—including the lives you were paid to end, and your own. Your 'boredom' is the hallmark of a cookie who sees the world as a series of obstacles between himself and payment. You are not a zealot. You are a contractor."

His smile returned, thin and cold.

"So, the most efficient way to thwart your objective is not to defeat you in battle. It is to deny you the spectacle. To remain... unruffled." The word was precise, almost prissy. "You cannot report back that you 'cracked' the Fount of Knowledge. You can only report that he found you... dull."

For a second, there was only the crackle of fire. The hooded cookie had stopped listening. His eyes were already elsewhere, scanning the square. "Blah, blah, blah," he murmured, the words not even a taunt anymore, just a brush clearing dust. "You talk so much you didn't even notice the work." He pointed.

The Fount’s gaze followed, his triumphant analysis still cooling on his tongue.

Across the square, two flanking soldiers closed on a cellar door tucked beneath a cottage. The door shivered under a heavy kick. A mother’s sob  bled up from the ground.

A cold jolt, like lightning made of pure wrongness, shot through the Fount’s jam. His breath hitched. The child. Stop them— but how? Barrier? Blast? The mother—the angle—crunch—

The door splintered inward.

No no no nonono—

Move.

The soldier drove his boot heel hard against the wood beside the latch. A dry, final crack.

A shape lunged from the darkness—the mother, a kitchen knife held in a shaking hand. A wordless cry tore from her, all despair, no hope.

The soldier moved with contemptuous efficiency. He caught her wrist, twisted. Dough cracked and crumbled. The knife clattered to the stones. A shove sent her stumbling back into the cellar mouth, landing hard on her knees on the packed earth.

From behind her skirts, a small form spilled out—a child, his face a mask of tear.

“No—!” The syllable ripped from the Fount, too late, utterly useless.

The soldier did not look at the child. His gaze was on the mother, blank as a tool. He reversed his grip on his short, stabbing spear.

He drove it down.

Dough parted. The spearhead punched through her back in a spray of crimson jam. Her body jerked, then went rigid, held upright only by the weapon transfixing her. She sagged against the doorframe, head lolling, eyes already filming over.

The little cookie stared, his mouth a silent, perfect 'O' of obliterated world.

Move.

His staff moved.

A short, downward stroke. A full stop.

Winter answered.

Frost sprang. A thick, jagged barrier of rime exploding from the damp earth. It formed a snarled palisade of ice spikes before the child, close enough to chill his dough, a cage of absolute cold. 

The soldier recoiled, his arms already sheening white, the moisture in his dough and armor betraying him. A clumsy, heavy rime locked his joints. He stumbled, falling to one knee with a grunt, his weapon arm encased in a painful, glittering sleeve.

The Fount’s aim was already fluid, already elsewhere. His focus found the hooded figure, now drawing a sword. No more analysis. 

He directed the stream.

Water answered. It twisted in mid-air into a vortex and shot forward.

“Predictable,” the cookie sneered, shaking droplets from his sword. His voice slid into a familiar, theatrical whine. “C’mon! Are you trying to lose? And after you stole the show, too. Awful. Simply awful.”

 A memory of a different game, a golden hat, a stolen jewel. The Fount’s jaw tightened. 

Why did that seem so...

A headache. The Fount swayed, a sudden vertigo as the whine hooked a memory deep in his jam. He locked his knees, grounding himself. His free hand was still extended toward the child’s icy cage, maintaining the frigid barrier. Then, he twisted the vines to ensure the soldiers would not escape.

The water that had been knocked loose pooled at his feet. The Fount's staff turned, a millimeter's adjustment, and it leaped back to his command, swirling around his ankles like a loyal hound.

“Hit me! Hit me, oh great powerful Fount!”

The taunt ended. The figure exploded forward, sword a silver streak.

The Fount was already moving. The water at his feet erupted. It fanned into a wide, shimmering wall, a shield of liquid force that met the charge. The sword bit into it, slowed, entangled.

Simultaneously, the Fount’s staff hand flicked toward the ice-encased soldier near the child. The frost coating the man’s arm bloomed. It shot across his chest, webbing over his other arm, pinning him fully to the frozen ground with a heavy thud. One threat permanently filed away.

His attention snapped back to the water-shield. The hooded figure was already disengaging, leaping back from the clinging liquid. “Three spells at once!” he chirped, a malicious applause. “Very flashy! Does it hurt to think that hard?”

The hooded cookie’s sword flashed again in a wide arc that severed the clinging tendrils of water. He watched the orbiting water, his head tilted. “You know, for a Fount of Knowledge, you’re not very curious about the right things.”

“Your psychology is transparent,” the Fount replied, his voice calm, monitoring. “You seek to divert attention. A distraction.”

“Am I?” The cookie chuckled. “Or are you just avoiding the question because you don’t like the answer?”

The headache sharpened, a needle through his thoughts. That cadence—that mocking, singsong whine—it wasn't just an insult. It was a key, scraping in a lock he’d sealed with triple-bolts of will.

“Who is your benefactor?”  He pressed on. He didn’t wait for a retort. His staff described a complex sigil in the air. The water transmuted.

Where there had been liquid force, there were now flowers—a cascade of crystalline milkcrowns forged from frozen water, their petals razor-edged, their stems barbed wire of ice. They filled the space between them as a beautiful, deadly garden. An analysis made manifest. Control, lethal elegance.

He was in his element now. 

The hooded cookie paused, his head tilting. For the first time, his bored expression flickered with something else. Not fear. Interest. “Ooh. Pretty.”

How could he get him to talk...

He took a step forward, strolling, as if the garden of ice between them was a mere inconvenience. “You’re trying so hard to be clever. To outthink me. But you’re thinking about the wrong thing. You’re thinking about me. My motives. My employer.” He was close enough now that the Fount could see the fine network of cracks in his dough, the dusting of ash in the folds of his hood. “You should be thinking about the little oven-mite back in that cottage. How long do you think your grumpy friend can keep her quiet?"

The words were a cold knife between the ribs. 

The cottage.

The child. Truthless.

Ice seized his spine.

Truthless...

“Your tactic wont work.”

The hooded cookie rolled his eyes.

He lunged.

But not at the Fount.

He spun, his sword a blur of dull metal, and hacked not at the icy flowers, but at the base of the thorny vine binding the nearest trapped soldier. The vine, tough as ironwood, resisted, but the sword bit deep. The soldier, a brutish cookie with an axe, gasped as the constriction on his chest eased a fraction.

“What are you—?” the Fount began, his spell-weaving interrupted.

“Simplifying the equation,” the cookie grunted, wrenching his sword free and bringing it down again. Chop. The vine frayed. “You’re multitasking. Vines here, ice there, water everywhere. Very impressive. Also very, very stupid.”

Chop.
The vine snapped.

The axe-wielder stumbled forward, free, his dough gouged with thorn-marks. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look at the Fount. He looked at the cookie who freed him, received a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, and then turned. His target was not the Fount.

It was the cottage.

He broke into a lumbering run, axe held low, heading straight for the door the Fount had exited.

“No!” The denial was pure instinct, shredding the last of his analytical detachment. The Fount’s staff swung, a torrent of water abandoning its formation to lash out, aiming to knock the axe-cookie off his feet.

The hooded cookie moved like shadow. He intercepted the water, throwing himself into the stream. It slammed into him, a crushing wave that would have pulverized a lesser cookie, but he rode the momentum, letting it carry him backwards even as his sword came up in a desperate, slashing parry against the Fount’s now-exposed flank.

The Fount jerked his staff back, deflecting the blade with a shower of green sparks. But the damage was done. His attention was split. The axe-cookie was at the cottage, raising his weapon against the door.

He made a choice.

The beautiful, deadly garden of ice flowers detonated.

Inwards. Every razor petal, every barbed stem, imploded with a sound like a mountain of glass being ground to dust. They became a directed storm, a vortex of frozen needles aimed at one point: the hooded cookie.

The world narrowed to that converging point.

But the hooded cookie was already moving. Not to dodge—he couldn’t. Instead, he dropped, curling his cloak around himself as he hit the charred earth. The ice-shards shrieked over him, pelting the burned-out cart behind him into a pocked, glittering ruin. A few found their mark, stitching across his back and shoulders with crunching thuds. He hissed—a sound of genuine, furious pain that held no theatrics.

The axe at the cottage door fell.

THWUNK.

The sound of a boundary breaking. The Fount’s Soul Jam gave a sickening lurch. The door.

But no scream followed. No roar. Instead, a moment of dead silence from within.

Then, a dry, gurgling laugh from the ground. The hooded cookie pushed himself up on trembling arms. Shards of ice fell from his back like brittle, melting spines. He looked at the Fount, his face finally clear of the hood’s shadow. His dough was pale, covered in ash, cracked around the eyes from a permanent, bitter smile. His expression was no longer bored. It was alight with a painful, vindictive joy.

“Checkmate,” he rasped, blood-tinged jam spotting his chin.

The cottage door creaked open.

Truthless Recluse stood in the frame, the axe embedded in the wood beside his head, his hand wrapped around the haft, holding it fast. His hat was gone. His eyes were fixed on the hooded cookie. Behind him, the interior was a cave of safe darkness. No child’s cry.

The calculus of the battlefield shifted irrevocably. The Fount felt it like a click in his mind. Two fronts. One enemy wounded. The vines still held the others. For the first time, true tactical advantage was theirs.

The hooded cookie saw it too. The joyous hate in his eyes didn’t dim, but it banked. He snapped his gaze from Truthless to the Fount, then to his own trapped men. A decision passed over his ruined face.

But it wasn't a decision to retreat.

His horrible smile didn't fade. It widened, becoming a rictus of pure, final defiance.

“No prisoners,” he said, his voice suddenly clear and carrying. “No interrogation. No knowledge for you.”

Before the Fount could shout, before Truthless could move, the hooded cookie’s hand moved. To his belt. He drew a short, cruel-looking dagger, its blade serrated. It was a tool for butchering, not a warrior’s weapon.

He looked directly at the Fount.

“This,” he hissed, “is a better ending than you deserve.”

He reversed the dagger in one fluid motion, placed its tip under his own chin, and drove it upward with all his remaining strength.

The blade vanished into the soft dough of his throat, up through the roof of his mouth, and into the core of his being. His body jerked, a marionette yanked by a single string. His eyes bulged with a terrible, ecstatic triumph. He stood like that for a suspended second, impaled on his own weapon.

Then the light in his eyes winked out. He crumpled forward, hitting the ground one last time. A pool of dark, shimmering jam began to seep from beneath him, mingling with the ash.

The Fount stood frozen, his mind screaming a single, silent note of negation. No. No, that’s not— you can’t—

A crunch sounded from his left.

He turned, his movements slow, dreamlike.

One of the trapped soldiers, the one with the hammer, had thrown his head forward and to the side with savage, impossible force. The sound was his own neck snapping. He slumped in the vines, head lolling at a grotesque angle.

Crunch-pop.
Crack.

Another, biting deep into her own forearm, severing the main jam line with a spray of red. A third, seeing no other way, began slamming his forehead against the jagged stone of a broken wall with a rhythmic, sickening determination. Once. Twice. A third, final time that ended the sound.

It was over before it started. A ghastly, synchronized punctuation.

Silence, absolute silence, reclaimed the square. The vines now held only limp, vacant shapes. The enemy was gone.

“Truthless Recluse.” 

“Hm?” 

“Heal them.” 

“They are dead.” 

“Just—heal them!” 

They couldn't die. No, not yet. No.

No.

No!

Not before he understood.

NOT NOW!

“There is no ‘them’ to heal. You are asking me to knead flour back into grain.”

The Fount’s breath hitched. “I am asking you to TRY!”

He didn’t wait for another refusal. He moved, a streak of obsidian against the ashen square, with a stiff, frantic lurch. He fell to his knees beside the nearest trapped soldier—the woman who had bitten her own arm. The vine’s thorns still anchored her upright in a macabre embrace. Her head lolled, eyes open and dull. A viscous river of jam ran from the horrific tear in her forearm.

“Try this one.” 

“No.” 

They were already crumbling.

The Fount whirled, a wild motion that sent ash swirling. He stumbled to the next, the one with the crushed skull. He grabbed the slumped head, tried to force it straight, his fingers slipping on the gritty, lifeless dough. “The cranial structure—if we just stabilize the—”

“Fount. Stop.”

The command was a lash. Truthless hadn’t moved, but his voice filled the square.

The Fount froze, his hands still cradling the broken skull. He looked down at it. A fine network of cracks spread from the impact point. It was just… a broken thing. A vessel. Empty.

They can’t just leave. They can’t just do this and not tell me why.

The thought was a scream inside a soundproof room.

His gaze swept the square—the dagger in the leader’s throat, the snapped neck, the torn arm, the shattered head. Not a retreat. A synchronized, volitional erasure.

But why were cookies like this? So… illogical?! Why did they kill themselves? Just to not answer a question?!

It wasn’t tactics. It wasn’t strategy. It was… a tantrum. A monstrous, final, petulant NO shouted directly into the face of his need to understand.

The frantic heat in his chest reseeded into something else. Desperation turned into flash analytical fury.

“Okay,” he said, his voice suddenly, terribly calm. He let the soldier’s head drop. It thudded dully against the ground. He stood, fixed his hair with a precise tug, then brushed ash from his knees with fastidious slaps, hands smeared with jam. “Okay. Fine.”

He walked to the hooded cookie. He looked down at the dagger’s hilt, the dark pool of jam. “You are correct, Truthless. There is no ‘them.’”

A deep breath followed.

“How is Cherrybud Cookie?” 

“Scared for her mother. But fine.” 

Oh right... her mother.