A/N: Amazing artist monochromacolor on Instagram has made laptop stickers of two pairings—Slayne and Jiro, Falrir and Sylvain! They are nothing short of cute and undeniably sweet. If you're familiar with her art, you'll know what I mean. Her interpretation of my characters are so creative, honestly. She's more of a creator than I am. If you're interested in buying the stickers (which are also ridiculously cheap lol), please follow her on Instagram at monochromacolor. That, or you can find the link to her profile in my Instagram (hisangelchip) post of her sticker!

I'm probably going to stick all these over my laptop. Ah, the pain of being reminded that Slayne is dead :') BOOTIFUL.

Also, I kinda update really slowly so I'm not sure if you guys reread chapters but I believe that people do forget what happened in the previous one, since I updated nearly three weeks ago. If so, yes, I encourage you to reread the previous chapter : )

_____________________

Somewhere along the way, Iolani Tori had fallen asleep in the soft afternoon light filtering through the stairs that led up to the mysterious room he wasn't sure if he'd before entered. The softness of an afternoon nap wrapped him up in a blanket that soon slipped upon the cloak of the night which covered him instead, leaving the darkest part of the library in a darker, whispering abyss. And it was the whispering that startled the creature within and pulled him out of the world of dreams.

He stirred and in turn, startled the fragile little thing he hadn't noticed was perched on his shoulder. The blue morpho butterfly fluttered aside, giving Io the space he needed to stretch his arms before hovering closer, circling a distance before his eyes as though in greeting. Io stared at it in awe, hurriedly looking around for Lyra before she mistook it for dinner.

"Sylvain? It's you isn't it," he said to the butterfly. "I've been waiting for you!"

The delicate creature seemed to stop in its path of flight, hovering in mid-air as though waiting for a curious moment to pass. Then, what appeared to Io as a trick of the light was the sudden growth in the span of its wings, blossoming like a flower in spring—petals of a blue rose, oddly enchanting in the shape of wings so translucent it was ethereal.

He turned; blonde hair falling past his shoulders in a movement so fluid, Io had thought he'd seen for the first time, liquid silver. Everything about the butterfly seemed to tell a story of fleeting nature. Fragile. Fine.

Nearly inhuman.

Even his voice possessed the quality of silk, soft but undeniably smooth. "You have been waiting...for me?"

"Yeap!" Io nodded, straightening up at once before dusting himself off. "I'm looking for a story."

"A book?" There was a hint of surprise in the eyes that held the gems of the sea. "Why...what an interesting story you must be looking for, for it to be in such an abysmal corner of the library. Did you fall asleep while looking for it?"

Io laughed, then covered his mouth for the sound had echoed up the stairs and across the shelves. "Um. Not really," he whispered. "The story I'm looking for—it might be in a book. But it might be elsewhere too."

"Well then, where else might it be?" Sylvain inquired further, eyes wandering across the shelves. "I might be able to find it for you."

Io looked around the stairs, unsure of where he should stand.

"I'm looking for..." he paused. "It's... well if there's a book—or a story, per se—that would tell me more about what it means to be part of the sky. Or, well, just about the sky, well. I would like to read it."

He caught a fleeting gleam of light in the other's eyes as he went on, seemingly surprised. "And what might you use it for, Iolani?"

Far too enchanted by the elusive shade of the blue morpho's wings, a curious colour of the earth and eyes that seemed to blink at every shiver of the light, Io had completely forgotten about keeping his identity a secret until coronation night. After all, most of the island, including Sylvain, was not aware of Luna.

"U-um. Well," he began intelligently, sounding as convincing as a cookie thief. "Light reading...? Bedtime stories. Yeah."

Sylvain laughed, wings quivering despite the delicate sound. Its translucent quality seemed to emphasize a nature so fleeting that a single drop of rain could destroy it entirely. "Light reading?"

"Sort of," Io stuck to his story. "I guess I'd like to know more about what people on the island believe in."

"Come with me," said the blue morpho as he turned, leading the way upstairs in quiet, airy footsteps, robes draped over the steps as he did. Io bopped Lyra on the head with a finger, observing her beady eyes on the wings of the butterfly—perhaps wondering how it would crunch and dissipate in her jaws.

The boy followed suit, creaking at ever turn up the winding stairs despite his efforts to remain as silent as possible. The task proved itself to be hardly realistic. "I feel like I've been up here before. These stairs and the room at the very top."

His memory of it was vague; akin to a vision in his dreams. The mysterious room at the top of the stairs that he might have visited, once upon a dream.

Sylvain looked over his shoulder with a curious smile. The kind that was quietly delightful. "But you have, Iolani."

"It...feels like a very long time ago," said the boy with a frown, unable to recall the exact details of how he'd gotten himself tucked away in a room so far. "Many things happened in between."

"I can tell," his companion agreed with a nod, producing an old-fashioned key from the sleeves of his robes as they arrived at the rake of the stairs. "I thought you'd come back. They always do."

"They?"

Sylvain did not answer. The door unlocked with a click and creaked open to reveal a darkness beyond, unlit by torches or lamps.

"From what?" Io prompted further, searching for more.

The blue morpho slipped into the darkness, seemingly unafraid of its embrace. "The journey."

Lighting the kerosene lamp nearest to the entrance, he raised it above their heads and beckoned the other inside, closing the door before leading him to the table he last sat. Everything was how Io had last imagined it to be.

The scent of tea leaves, muted in tin cans and stowed away in the cabinets above, far to the side where he was seated, lit dimly by the strangest northern lights that hovered over the sky above where the windows were open. He could, so faintly, hear the gentle sound of the trees, caressed by the wind down below and the chill of the night—its blade dulled by the embers of the fire that glowed with heat, warming the tips of his fingers.

It was at the heart of the moment, quiet and serene, that Io was reminded of Luka. He wished for this to be bottled and kept as it were; something that he could bring in return and surprise the eagle. Or perhaps it would have been more convenient and accurate to wish the other right beside him to share the moment, together.

"Chamomile?" The blue morpho bustled around, retrieving a tin can from the cabinet before putting the kettle on. "I have cinnamon rolls too. If you'd like some."

Io remembered the taste of Sylvain's cinnamon rolls from his previous visit. While the dragon had claimed it 'delightful', he'd, unfortunately, thought otherwise.

"Do you like cinnamon rolls, Sylvain?" He asked instead, not exactly answering the question. The butterfly smiled.

"Well. It was the very first human dish that Lord Falrir expressed interest in," he returned lightly, seeming to recall a pleasant time. "I, too, had gradually come to adore its unusual taste."

Io pretended to agree, looking away as he did so and helping to set the table while Sylvain occupied himself with the brewing of tea. His fingertips, bitten pale by the chill of the night, were warmed by the touch of steam in the air rising from the spout of the kettle. Fortunately, cinnamon rolls were soon left out of the picture and a jar of ginger cookies was placed, instead, before him on the table.

"Lord Falrir must like sweet things," observed Io, peering into the jar.

"Indeed, he does," said the blue morpho over his shoulder, a hint of pleasant surprise in his voice. "How did you know?"

Io would have liked to admit that it would not have taken a genius to piece together an observation so clearly, well, obvious. That the butterfly would make—and only make—the dishes that Lord Falrir favoured, Io did not have a hard time believing. Otherwise, that the dragon simply adored anything and everything made by Sylvain; that, too, was of an equally likely prospect.

It would even account for the dragon's unusual taste buds.

"I made a guess."

"A guess?" The butterfly's laugh was delicate. Yet, the small back of his seemed to tremble like the fluttering of his fragile wings. "How strangely the minds of humans work. They seem to know many things and yet, at times, seem to know nothing at all."

Io watched as Sylvain took the kettle off the fire and placed it on top of a damp cloth in the middle of the table. He tipped it soon after, filling one of the two cups. The scent of chamomile felt to him like a blanket over his head, soft and warm in its embrace before lulling the creature within to a slumber so deep, it seemed to have stopped beating entirely.

"Henceforth," Sylvain slid the saucer toward him. "What is it that you would like to know about Lord Falrir?"

Io bowed his head in thanks, raising the cup to his lips. The very action seemed to instil in him a streak of boldness, beginning its course in his veins at the sip.

"Did you always call him that?"

"Lord Falrir?"

"Yes," Io gave him a curious look, observing his eyes that were the shade of aquamarine. "What is it—what are you? To him?"

The blue morpho appeared rather taken aback by the question of a sword, thrust upon him as though it was his to take.

"Me? But...but of course," his words stuttered once, twice, "I am, merely, a...an existence." He smiled, swallowing after.

"Really?" The moon phoenix blinked, and in his eyes, Sylvain could see the moon. "I don't know what that means. An existence is big. 'Merely' doesn't accompany a word like that, does it? Or maybe you think that existence is small because you are, physically. But what of the existence that is not physical?" Io put his cup down.

"What if you are more than a butterfly, Mr. Sylvain?" He stared. "What if Lord Falrir sees in you, a dragon?"

Sylvain stood up so abruptly that the old-fashioned stool he was sitting on fell backwards, sliding across the flagged stone floor with a screech. His eyes were wide and afraid, shoulders trembling like a blossom in the mind.

"That is not something you can say, Iolani. Humans cannot say something like that." He bit his lower lip in an attempt to quell the emotion in his eyes. "I can tell you many things about Lord Falrir, show you any book you wish to see, find you anything you might want to know about his Order and the reward but please," he shook his head. "Never say that again."

Frightened, Io retreated at once, backing away from the flame that was so oddly sparked by the most fragile creature of the world—a butterfly.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I won't. I didn't mean for it to come across like that, Sylvain."

They were quiet; listening to the sound of steam rising from their respective cups of tea. The sound of nothing.

"I just. All I wanted to say was," Io thought this through very carefully. "That Lord Falrir did not seem like he was talking about a mere existence when he was speaking about you, Sylvain." Not when he was struggling to climb the stairs to the third, fourth floor of the building to the library; not when he'd insisted on spending a large part of the limited time he had on the island in this private room upstairs; not when he'd so gladly and so surely, told Io that he was going to see a friend.

The butterfly picked up his teacup, swirling the dark liquid once before raising it to his lips with a sigh.

"Lord Falrir... he has given me a place to return to," he smiled small, "a place to belong."

Sylvain was compelled to continue. "But he is in no way my master. You are right. He does not regard me insignificantly."

"And neither do you look at him the way Kirill—Professor. Kirill. And the others. The way they look at him," Io could not contain the words within and they'd come tumbling past his lips in a careless fall. "You don't see him that way."

The butterfly mused quietly to himself, gazing at the reflection of the moon in his tea. "I don't indeed."

He rose from his seat before drifting towards the ledge without a window, inviting whispers of the evening breeze and the chill of its company. His eyes were fixed on something in the distance that was not there, seeming to recall a past now far, far out of his reach; a hidden smile upon his lips.

"He had the most booming laugh," said Sylvain, his hair singing in the wind a gentle waltz, moving quite as though he was underwater. "Like thunder in a storm... I even used to be so afraid of it. The storm."

"Rainy days?"

Io gave Lyra his entire tea biscuit; an attempt to distract her terribly short attention span. He, too, drew closer to the night and the wind.

"Yes," the blue morpho turned to him. "Rainy days. But he did look extremely attractive, even then. On rainy days... oh, and when he was younger, particularly."

And as though reminded at once of a certain detail that he'd left unsaid, Sylvain straightened his back and looked around the room, perhaps trying to recall the rest of a hidden memory, partially lost.

"Are you looking for something, Sylvain?"

"Yes," he lowered his gaze to meet Io's. "But not exactly looking for it, per se. I know where it is—a book about him. About Lord Falrir."

The moon phoenix perked up all of a sudden, curiosity piqued and the creature within raising its head, attentive. "I would love to read that."

"Ah but the problem is," smiled the other nervously, hands clasped behind his back. "It is outside. Downstairs, actually. Before the librarian's desk."

For the book to be located at such an awfully obvious, oddly mundane place and for Io not to have known about its existence, it sounded to him fairly ridiculous and downright embarrassing. Sylvain waved aside the former's disappointment before admitting his reluctance to be seen by others in his human form.

"You can stay as a butterfly," Io suggested reassuringly. "I'll lend you my shoulder. Oh, don't worry, Lyra can have the other shoulder. I'll walk us to the desk and if there's no one there, you can shift and direct me. If, well, there happens to be someone there, I'll just..."

The butterfly nodded, having understood what the other meant. "That sounds quite alright. Well then, if you don't mind," he shifted at the touch of a breeze, wind under his wings as he fluttered close, landing soundlessly on Io's shoulder.

"I can't help but think how careful I must be when you're perched over there," laughed Io, the tremble of his frame much like an earthquake to the fragile little creature on his shoulder. "It's like a tiny brush against the shelf could crush you immediately."

Sylvain could not help but think about a time when Falrir said the exact same thing.

__________________________

Jeremiah was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, in the middle of the lobby below the predator's Hall—not exactly dressed for the occasion. The occasion was, unfortunately, gym, and he was waiting for the pair who had supposedly invited him along, unusually early. He had on a white cotton shirt underneath a blue-green plaid button-down, ironically unbuttoned, paired with some jeans. Casual. At ease.

Yet, the creature within was the furthest it had been from the center of balance. Peace was no companion of his for there was a thundering within and the brewing of a storm he knew was about to rage. Still, the attempt to rein it in allowed for details like the rolling of his sleeves to his elbow, the stuffing of hands in pockets, and the leaning against bannisters for that was he way he wanted to be seen. Careless. At ease.

It takes a hard twist of time and reality to be allowed a glimpse into the heart of Jeremiah Reyes. Speaking to him on a daily basis, being his prey or an acquaintance or perhaps even a close friend was not enough to reveal his fundamental nature. Not even those who read the words of him in tales and stories alike would know what sort of creature he harboured inside. The creature that was now moments away from marking its prey.

The watch on his wrist ticked nine.

"You're early."

The kite raised his gaze. "Luci," he waved, watching her descend the stairs in a surprisingly plain tracksuit. "Right on time as usual."

Jeremiah had always regarded Lucienne as someone who prioritized flair and elegance at the cost of practicality. That his assumption had been wrong irked the creature in his cage but was not enough to faze the flawless smile upon his lips.

"And Dmitri?" She asked, looking around as her Avian circled above, landing precariously on a chandelier that creaked under his weight.

"Not on time," laughed Jeremiah. "As usual."

Lucienne and the kite leaned against opposite sides of the bannisters of the grand staircase, arms crossed; gazes far apart and minds, elsewhere. It wasn't long before Jeremiah noticed a keen pair of eyes staring him up and down, taking in the checked button-up and jeans—in other words, his inappropriate outfit.

Jeremiah shifted his legs, crossing them the other way to snap Lucienne out of her gaze. Which she did, as he intended for her to do, before raising her eyes to meet his and cleareing her throat. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

The kite smirked.

"Wondering why I'm dressed like this?"

Lucienne broke into an unrestrained smile, just short of laughing. "Well. Yes—in a way," she sighed, somewhat exasperated but amused despite so. "I thought we were going to the gym."

"I thought we were going on a date," said Jeremiah in return, playful and yet, so oddly serious. She could tell from his eyes.

They made her doubt the playfulness of his tone; the lightness of his words and the effortless smirk he seemed to be wearing but it was the smirk that was always, always there and so she could not read him. She did not know what the kite was thinking.

"A date?"

Jeremiah held her gaze. "Mmhm."

"The three of us?" Her smile was growing stiff, accompanied by the raise of a brow and the slight nuance in her expression. Those were enough for Jeremiah to know that he had this in his hands.

"No," he'd dragged the word in a teasing lilt, usually impish but now—nearly provocative.

The wait for Dmitri was, all of a sudden, long and stifling for Lucienne Deveraux. So odd, that for the first time, she desperately wished for the falcon to intervene with his silly words and silly mannerisms or any silly, mindless thought he had to say aloud. Nothing about the kite spelt danger or unease and yet, every part of her was standing on the edge of a cliff.

There was something in the air and she could feel it.

Reluctant, she carried on speaking, unwilling to break the flow of the conversation for that would have been, perhaps, more fatal than saying something else. Anything. "Then, two?"

It was then that Jeremiah's smile turned catlike, almost predatory and sinful in the darkness. Lucienne found that she did not quite know the creature before her. A monster with green in his eyes.

"Which two?"

__________________________

"Hey guys! Sorry I'm late. I couldn't find the other so—" Dmitri had appeared at the top of the stairs at the timeliest moment, mismatched socks so painfully obvious despite his attempt to distract with the loudest pair of designer running shoes.

He froze at the sight of tension, a string thin as thread pulled taut between the two others he'd invited along for what he'd intended as a 'chill night out'. The creature in his chest thundering before an imminent storm, Dmitri knew that the path ahead was not easily trodden and being careless—what he had come to admit was fundamental to his personality—was the last thing he could afford to be.

"Sock," he finished, swallowing. "So. We all ready? I'm thinking 'bike' today. What about you, Jerry?"

The falcon eased into the pair as they headed to the gym nearby, Dmitri so naturally being the one in the middle perhaps both symbolically and in a literal sense. Admittedly, it was easy for him to be in the center of it all; of people and attention, eyes and words.

"Hm. I'll see when I get there."

Unhappy with Jeremiah's response, he probed further. "At least know what you gotta work on? I mean, uh. Not...that you gotta work on anything, actually. Actually—dude. You don't even need to go to the gym." Dmitri lowered his gaze, giving his own tummy a pat. "Hold on a sec, is that why you're dressed like that?"

All three stopped to observe his outfit. Even Jeremiah himself did.

"I honestly can't tell if you're about to walk on a runway or the treadmill," said Dmitri, in the midst of suppressing his laughter.

Lucienne sighed, folding her arms before continuing to walk. "Maybe it's the same thing for him, Dmitri. Very much unlike you."

"What? What am I?" The falcon prompted at once, a child-like curiosity in his eyes.

"A fish on the treadmill."

All three laughed and almost at once, Dmitri had worked his magic. One would be able to tell that he had, and there was no denying that it was his very presence the magic had stemmed from. Their laughter eased into the night, escaping in wisps of the breathing wind before fading into the darkness. Slightly relieved, Lucienne was compelled to suggest something safer than gym.

"A night flight?" Dmitri did not expect this, blinking twice. "You never liked flying at night, Luci. I asked you like, four times. Remember?"

"I simply," she paused, hastily searching for a word to keep herself afloat. "Did not feel like it. Now, I do."

In truth, the girl wanted nothing more than to hide her face that was increasingly easy to read and yet, she was not comfortable leaving the pair alone in this state. With Jeremiah so quietly, dangerously strange. Shifting for a night flight would have been the most ideal solution to her predicament but Lucienne had made the mistake of forgetting the sheer ability Dmitri Ford possessed to remain completely oblivious to his surroundings.

"Aw c'mon Luci, I really wanna work those back muscles," the falcon insisted with a whine, child-like. "We'll do the night flight another day. Promise."

Jeremiah had said nothing; merely observed with a watchful eye. Really, the harpy eagle should have seen this coming but the impact of it staggered her thoughts regardless, revealing a moment of weakness in which she glanced at Jeremiah. The source of it.

"Oh. Um, actually... I just remembered," she flashed a smile that was stiff, very much unlike her usual elegance and composure. "I promised to help Shri with her term essay due next week. Some proof-reading."

Dmitri appeared genuinely puzzled. "Wha—but it's due next week!" His shoulders drooped visibly, and one could tell how upset this seemed to make him. "C'mon Luci. You can't go back on your word."

They'd stopped right before the frosted glass doors to the gym, having already taken the trouble to walk all the way. Even Lucienne found herself admitting it a pity to leave at once. She hesitated.

"I don't know, Dmitri." She bit her lip. "I didn't exactly give you my word either."

The air contracted with a chill upon her words—breathed like the winter cold—it lowered the temperature by several notches. Jeremiah was looking at her with yet another expression she could not read and because Dmitri's back was facing the other as he broke into yet another protest, he remained quite in the dark.

"I was really looking forward to this, Luci," he said, eyes downcast. "The partner thing? Weren't we going to talk more about that?"

Unfortunately for Lucienne, she had herself the most innocently insensitive, cluelessly inept (at reading human beings) partner who had absolutely no idea what could be said in front of and behind other people's backs. Dmitri appeared completely oblivious to the fact that Jeremiah, the only Heart without a partner, was standing right beside him.

And worse; the kite was so clearly on edge.

"Dmitri," she returned in warning, voice laced with disbelief. "I'm not going to repeat myself."

There was no more air and the night felt to her as though someone had trapped the entire island in a bell jar, observing them from above and making this all a stifling experiment of survival. It knocked the breath out of her.

"Alright," the falcon gave in with a sigh, flashing a smile that didn't quite look like one. "Maybe next time. Hold up, don't go yet... I'll go get you guys a drink."

No, no, no. Lucienne was desperate to leave at once and she could not afford to wait for Dmitri to return with drinks from the post albeit it being approximately eighty feet away—no. It was too much. She had to leave now.

"Dmitri, thank you but it's really okay."

He waved her aside, already starting toward the post that was open twenty-four seven. "You guys don't look too good, that's all. It's my treat, don't worry... just something to get your spirits up."

The harpy eagle did not recall her companion ever having this side of care and concern and though it was very pleasing to witness, she could only admit that it was untimely and frightfully sudden. Not a word, fat and full of emotion, could escape her bottleneck before he left her alone with Jeremiah Reyes. Not one,

No.

She saw from the corner of her eye how the kite walked, seemingly intentionally, into her frame of vision—forcing himself into the picture of her world that was now awry and lacked the kind of balance and control that she always seemed to have. He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets in an effortless, nonchalant manner that was quietly provocative.

"Do you like him?"

Lucienne blinked, shifting her stance. Arms crossed. "What?"

Dmitri was, by then, too far gone. Out of earshot, he wouldn't be able to hear the contents of the conversation and this was what she had feared.

"Do you like Dmitri?" Jeremiah had repeated unblinkingly, unfazed by her judgement and seemingly eager to hear the answer he knew he would hear. To his dismay, the harpy eagle was very careful in answering his question.

"Well that depends on your definition of 'like'."

He snorted. "Just answer the question."

"He is a decent human being." She gave instead, knowing perfectly well where this was going; where, exactly, Jeremiah was directing her towards. She'd seen it coming from afar; a speck in the distance that had soon turned into a storm in the sky. The harpy eagle, armed with words ready at the tip of her tongue demonstrated a mind filed sharp and on its highest guard.

"So you don't like him," said Jeremiah without reason. "Good. Why did you agree to this, then? Pairing with him even though you never really wanted him in the first place—"

"I did not say that."

"You had other options, Luci."

"I see you had them too," she fired in return, tight-lipped.

"No dear," it was upon this that Jeremiah advanced, hands in his pockets as he closed the distance and pushed the limits.

"I. Want. Him."

11/9/2018