Toki opened the door carefully, and the creak of the hinges seemed to dissolve into the deep silence of the room. There was a calm stillness in that space, broken only by the gentle rustle of pages being turned and the faint, rhythmic sound of a quill that had earlier touched paper. Moonlight poured into the corner of the desk, filtering through the thin linen curtains, casting Utsuki's skin in a glow like living porcelain.
She sat there, immersed in an old book, one elbow resting on the table, the other hand lying near a simple yet elegant black inkwell. All around her, dozens, perhaps hundreds of pages were neatly organized or meaningfully scattered across the walnut desk. Some were written in fine, patient script, others in large letters, some marked with small recognition symbols or colored dots.
Toki hesitated for a moment, his hand still on the cold handle. Then, with a timid smile, he stepped forward. The floor creaked softly under his weight, but Utsuki didn't flinch. She merely looked up at him, slowly, with perfect calm, as if she had known he would come.
— What brings our noble knight in gala attire here? she asked, her warm voice laced with a hint of gentle irony.
Toki let out a theatrical sigh and walked toward her.
— I've survived a fashion ritual worthy of legends. Tora nearly strangled me when I told her she looked adorable in a bonnet. And the triplets... they wrapped me like a solstice gift. Dresses, buttons, shrieking. Yuki almost tore my scalp off with a silver comb.
Utsuki giggled, a rare and soft sound, like the tinkle of light bells.
— I'm sorry I missed the show. Maybe next time I'd like to tailor the costume myself—with more lace.
— Don't give the triplets ideas, please, Toki replied with a wide smile. Are you here to rescue me or to doom me?
She didn't answer right away. She placed a bookmark on the page she'd been reading, then pulled open a side drawer of the desk. With slow movements, she took out something wrapped in a piece of white cloth.
In the silvery moonlight, a red cloak appeared in her hands. But it wasn't just any cloak. Toki recognized it immediately. His cloak. Or rather, what had once been his cloak. Now it looked brand new. More than clean. In the places where it had been torn, the fibers were sewn together with nearly invisible but sturdy thread. The edges had been discreetly reinforced. It was something else now: a piece of honor.
— I... don't know what to say, he murmured. You did this?
— It was dirty, shredded, and abandoned. How could I leave it like that? You said it was dear to you. So... I took my time. It was almost like meditation.
— You brought it back from nothing... You rewove it.
— I just cared for it. Like anything that meant something to someone.
Toki looked at her for a long moment. His eyes, usually glinting with humor, were now calm, softened by silent gratitude.
— Thank you, Utsuki. Not for saving the cloak... but for understanding what came with it.
Utsuki smiled, a faint but genuine curve of her lips.
— There's no need to thank me. Just... wear it. When it's cold. Or when you feel lost. Maybe, along with its threads, you'll find your way.
Toki touched the fabric with the tips of his fingers, like a child rediscovering a treasured memory. A knot of emotion gathered in his chest.
Toki let the silence linger a moment longer before speaking, his voice softer now, almost reverent.
— I was actually sent to fetch you... Dinner's ready.
Utsuki tilted her head slightly, amusement flickering in her gaze.
— I just need a few more minutes. There's something I have to finish reading quickly. I'll join you all soon.
Toki raised an eyebrow, stepping a little closer.
— Are you studying for the Royal Selection?
She blinked, then gave a small, resigned smile.
— I am. How did you know?
— Leonard told me everything.
She looked down at her book for a heartbeat, then back up, a shadow of hesitation behind her calm.
— I didn't tell you at first because… I wasn't even sure I wanted to do it anymore.
Toki's expression softened. He crouched slightly, so he was more at her eye level.
— Why the change of heart?
She took a breath, fingers brushing the edge of a page absentmindedly.
— Because... when I saw you and Tora... opening up in front of me, being yourselves... something shifted. I realized I wanted to try. Really try. Not for the crown. But because maybe, in all this chaos, there's something worth finding.
Toki watched her, silently, as if memorizing her words. Then he smiled again, more quietly this time.
— You don't need to become someone else to be chosen, Utsuki. You're already more than enough as you are.
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, there was nothing between them but shared understanding.
— Thank you, she whispered.
He straightened and gave a little bow, theatrical but sincere.
— Well then, future queen—or scholar supreme—you'd better come before the triplets declare war on your absence.
Utsuki chuckled and nodded, reaching again for her book.
— Just a few more pages. I promise
Toki moved to the window, turning his back to her, hands clasped behind him. The soft moonlight spilled in across the stone floor, stretching toward the walnut desk like a path.
"What do you think perseverance is?" he asked, his voice calm but weighted. "You'll need it for the road you've chosen."
Utsuki lifted her eyes from the page again, watching the silhouette of him framed by moonlight. She was quiet for a moment, then answered softly:
"It's the strength to rise and keep walking. Even when everything in you wants to stop."
Toki turned, leaning back against the stone window frame, folding his arms. The slight smirk he often wore was absent. He was thoughtful, almost distant.
"The essence of perseverance," he said, looking directly at her, "is what you're left with after everything else has been taken from you. Nothing is truly ours. Not forever. Not titles, not safety, not even people. The only thing we can ever really cling to is hope. And hope... hope dies last."
Utsuki's brow furrowed slightly. "But don't we gain something, too? New connections. New experiences. Isn't that what freedom really is? The chance to feel something new, to be someone new?"
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of Toki's mouth. He turned his gaze back out the window, to the silver wash of moonlight over the courtyard below.
"Let me tell you a story," he said, his voice carrying the weariness of memory. "About a boy who once sought freedom."
Utsuki leaned forward instinctively, her book forgotten in her lap.
"Once," Toki began, "there was a boy born within a city of towering walls. These walls kept the world out, yes, but they also kept him in. He grew up feeding on stories of flight, of wind, of open skies. He dreamed not of riches, not of glory, but of liberty. His heart beat like a caged bird's, frantic and unrelenting."
Toki's fingers brushed the cold stone of the windowsill as he spoke.
"But freedom is a cruel illusion in a world built on chains. He wasn't just bound by laws or walls. He was bound by love—the love of people he couldn't leave behind. Bound by dreams—not only his, but those of others who hoped he might change something. Bound by fate, by responsibility, and by a power he never asked for. A power that demanded perfection... or ruin."
He paused, his voice quieter now.
"He could never afford to fail. One misstep, and that power would destroy everything he cared about. Everyone he loved. So he chose the only path left to him. He walked through fire and blood, with hands stained by the weight of decisions no child should make. He fought for those who feared him, bled for those who spat on him, and stood tall even as the world labeled him a monster."
Utsuki was silent. Her breath was shallow, her gaze locked onto him.
Toki's next words were softer, like a confession:
"He didn't flinch when they called him a demon. He didn't move when the stones flew or when the words bit deep. Because the boy who longed for freedom had died long ago. And in his place was someone who had betrayed the very dream that had once kept him alive."
He turned his head, meeting her eyes.
"But you... What would you do for freedom?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. Utsuki felt it cut through the stillness, sharp and demanding. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
She didn't know. Or maybe she did, and the answer scared her.
Toki gave her time.
At last, she rose from her seat, walking slowly toward him. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her steps were steady.
"I think..." she began, her voice quiet but gaining strength, "I think freedom doesn't always come with wings. Sometimes it comes in scars. In choices that ache. But I would walk that path. Not for a crown. Not for glory. But for the truth. For something real."
Utsuki looked at him.
"Did he ever regret it? The boy in your story. Did he ever look back?"
Toki didn't answer at first. He reached up, touching the glass lightly.
"Every day," he said. "But regret doesn't undo the steps you've taken. It just reminds you of why you keep walking."
There was a pause.
Toki turned toward her more fully now, his expression solemn, a gravity settling in his tone. The light from the moon caught the edges of his face, illuminating the sharp lines carved by years of choices, burdens, and unspoken regrets. His gaze held a calm intensity, like the quiet before a storm.
"So if you've chosen this path," he said, voice low and steady, "then walk it. Don't look back. The road crumbles behind us, and we change as we go. We kill the person we were and are reborn from our own ashes with new strength."
His words hung in the air, heavy and absolute, their weight pressing gently against the silence that stretched between them. The candle flames flickered, as if bowing in response to the truth they heard.
"Whatever happens, don't stop," he continued, his voice firmer now, infused with something deeper—maybe sorrow, maybe hope. "A bird with no legs has no choice but to fly above the clouds."
The metaphor struck something within Utsuki. She imagined that bird—weightless, relentless, unable to rest. Always moving. Always alone.
He let the words sink in, watching her as she processed them. Then, with a quiet breath, he went on:
"Sometimes, failure means death. But even death is a kinder fate than regret. Even if you fall and die, I want you to be able to smile—because you flew, even for a moment."
His hands were no longer clasped behind him. One rested against the window frame, the other loose at his side, fingers twitching slightly with emotion he didn't show in his voice.
"Don't become queen if that's not what you want. Because once you start, there's no turning back. The hopes and dreams of others will become chains, dragging you into the ocean of despair."
His eyes locked with hers, intense, unwavering. There was no kindness there, not in that moment. Just truth. Truth sharpened by time, by loss, by too many nights spent standing at windows just like this one.
"I know you want to create equality in the kingdom," he said. "But people aren't equal. Equality doesn't exist. What everyone truly wants is meritocracy. But unfortunately, we live in an idiocracy."
He said the last word with a kind of bitterness, a quiet scorn that chilled the space between them.
"Ignorance is the shield of cowards and the sword of demons," he said. "If you want to do something real, prepare yourself to fall and rise again and again."
Utsuki drew in a slow breath. Her chest lifted, then fell. Her hands were clenched at her sides, not in anger, but in resolve. In understanding.
"Then I'll create a world," she said slowly, deliberately, "where fate no longer decides who has the right to happiness."
There was silence. And then—
Toki smiled faintly. Not mocking. Not sad. Something in between. A breeze moved through the night, brushing past him like a memory. And without warning, he reached behind him and flung the window open wide.
The gust was immediate, powerful. It howled into the room like a released spirit, catching dozens of papers from Utsuki's desk and sending them flying into the air in a flurry of ink and parchment.
"Hey!" she protested, rushing to catch a few midair, her arms flailing as pages soared past her.
One sheet spiraled upward like a white bird, another slapped against the far wall. Ink blurred. Diagrams bent. The lamp on her desk flickered violently, nearly extinguishing.
Toki chuckled lightly, unbothered, his coat billowing slightly from the force of the wind.
"Don't blame the wind for the mess when you're the one who opened the window," he said. "From now on, every failure will be yours—not fate's. Because you chose to persevere."
Utsuki stared at him, hair whipping across her face, then laughed. It was short, bright, the tension cracking just a bit, like a thundercloud pierced by sudden sun.
She stepped toward him again, smiling, brushing strands from her eyes. Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with something fiercer. Something alive.
"Thank you, Toki."
He bowed his head slightly, a hand over his chest in mock formality.
"My pleasure."
Then he straightened, brushing back a strand of his own hair that the wind had tossed across his eyes. For a second, they both stood still again, the breeze curling around them like a living thing, whispering through the room like fate itself.
The sounds outside filtered in more clearly now. A bell ringing faintly. Laughter echoing from somewhere distant in the great hall. The rustle of leaves in the courtyard below.
Outside, the moonlight spilled like liquid silver across the stones, bathing the path in a glow that seemed almost sacred.
Toki looked back at her, his eyes now softer. The intensity had not vanished—it had simply shifted. Beneath the steel was warmth. A recognition.
"Now, come to dinner," he said, gesturing with a slight tilt of his head. "I promise I'll come back and clean this storm I unleashed."
She gave him a wry look, lips quirking.
"You better. Some of those were annotated texts from the Fifth Age archives."
He winced playfully.
"My deepest condolences to history."
Utsuki shook her head and turned, smoothing her skirt and reaching for the book that had nearly fluttered out the window. Her fingers brushed the pages with care, reverence. She paused a moment, holding it against her chest.
Then she tucked it under her arm.
They walked to the door together, the light from the hall spilling across the threshold. She paused there, just briefly, glancing back once at the disordered room—the scattered papers, the open window, the moonlight.
A storm had passed through, but it had cleared the air.
Together, they stepped out of the room. Into a hallway washed in firelight. Into a future neither of them could predict.
One step forward on a path that stretched before them... and vanished behind.