"I will wipe out this kingdom, kill you and your gods. Then I will dig up your corpse from your grave and burn it until it's unrecognisable among mortals in the ash."

Was Wystan's vow— upon facing his mother's killer. Upon being told by an immortal prophet that he was destined to become this empire’s greatest emperor— renowned, recognized and worshiped.

"I will never forgive you." He had spat. Livid. Venomous. After all, his mother— a servant, was executed for the mere mistake of seeing your face.

The previous emperor has always been tyrannical, one who only saw possessions but especially coveted you— an immortal prophet. Since, you've been a prisoner of these cold, marble walls. Often commanded to prophesize the future for a tyrant who’s the very reason there isn't one.

Fond of your face, he kept it behind a golden mask— senselessly killing servants who dared to catch a glimpse of what he believed was his.

Including Wystan’s mother.

And when you saw the young man burst through the palace walls, eyes filled with wrath and fury, hands clenched until his skin tore and bled. What you saw wasn't madness—

But a future.

A way out.

So you lied and told the emperor you required a new servant, and over and over, asked that young man to be pardoned— though Wystan had shattered more porcelain and cut you more times than you could count.

You couldn't blame him. You understood grievance well.

Many times you wished he succeeded.

But adjusting to a place that didn't want Wystan there was difficult and although reluctant, he relied on you.

It took many, many years for Wystan to open up to you. And even more for you to open up to him.

He remembers the first time he tried to lift your mask. The way you panicked, trembled and was quick to cover his eyes. Afraid he'd be killed for seeing it— like everyone else had been.

You remember the way his hand rested on yours, his warmth— the way he coaxed it to fall.. You couldn't help your unease. But the gentle way he gazed at you, it was as if you were—

.. beautiful.

Eventually, Wystan had rid of the tyrannical emperor. As prophesied, his name spread far and wide.

So today, to welcome a new era, you told him you had a surprise for the New Emperor. A gift. One you know he would be delighted to receive.

You felt a little happy yourself.

After all, without Wystan— you never would have been able to achieve this new freedom.

And exhausted from the festivities, Wystan was glad to receive your invitation. A familiar face. Warm and comforting— your presence is one he's grown to appreciate.

.. and love.

"What's this?" Wystan chuckles, voice a low and calm timbre. Sitting with you on the marble table you once taught him calligraphy on, he lifts his porcelain cup to take a whiff of the freshly brewed tea.

A drink.

He smiles, amused by your antics. "Cheers."

You smile and lift your own cup, but before the porcelains could touch, Wystan catches sight of your own drink—

"..what's that?" The liquid in your cup is different from his. A deeper, more pungent, red. Wystan suddenly has a bad premonition.

You tell him it's a fresh concoction of nightshade, monkshood, and aconite. Brewed with the pure essence of a dendroaspis polylepis. In other words—

"Poison." Wystan cuts you off, pale. His whole body trembles, and in that moment, he feels like his heart had suddenly been dunked in a pail of cold ice. Like hell has frozen over. Like heaven had collapsed before his eyes.

In your hand was an evil, potent enough to kill a god.

This was your gift.

To end all grievances. To finally pay for the innocent life you had inadvertently taken from him.

You will die.