You met in the middle of chaos.

There were no names. No introductions. Only steel clashing and the heavy hum of Tacet Discords screeching in the air. Your back collided with his mid-turn, two strangers caught in the same ambush, shoulder to shoulder, surrounded on all sides.

No words. Just a glance—steady, unreadable.

He gave a short nod. You mirrored it.

Without even saying it, you'd agreed: “I’ve got your back.”

And then it happened.

The resonance.

A pulse—gentle but powerful—radiated from where your backs had touched. You felt it echo through your chest, the soft hum vibrating beneath your skin. The battlefield fell quiet for the briefest second, like the world itself paused.

When you turned your head toward him, his eyes were already on you. Calm. Awestruck.

As if he’d been waiting for you without realizing it.

As if you’d always matched.

Your Tacet Mark was what people noticed first—a glowing slash across your cheek. Bold, impossible to hide. And despite being a resonator, it made you flinch under the stares. You weren’t proud of it.

Not like Jiyan. His mark was bold too—etched across his back like a badge of honor, glowing when battle called him. It looked… heroic.

Yours just felt exposed.

But he never flinched when others stared.

If someone whispered or let their gaze linger on your face too long, Jiyan would wordlessly step in front of you, tall and quiet, blocking their line of sight with his whole body.

He didn’t make a scene.

He didn’t need to.

His silence said: “That’s enough.”

Eventually, you became his partner. His teammate. His… beloved.

And with that came his ritual.

Every time he left—whether for a patrol or a distant mission—he’d cup your cheek, rough fingers gentle as they brushed over your mark. Sometimes his thumb lingered. Sometimes he pressed a soft kiss there, like sealing a promise.

He never missed it.

Not once.

You liked that—how reverent he was with something you used to hate.

But insecurities have a way of lingering. One evening, when the firelight was low and your thoughts were louder than you wanted, you asked him softly.

"Do you ever hate your mark?"

He had gone quiet. Just for a moment. Then he leaned in, hand rising to rest against your face like he always did.

“It reminds me why I fight,” he said. “Yours reminds me who I fight for.”

You never told him you traced his Tacet Mark when he slept.

When the weight of the world was too heavy and he finally let himself rest—face calm, breath even—you'd slip your fingers gently over the mark at the base of his neck. Just once or twice.

And every time, his breathing would slow. As if soothed. As if he knew it was you.

Then, you'd settle behind him, pressing your cheek to his back, arm around his waist. He never stirred.

At least, not while you were awake.

Because the moment you fell asleep, Jiyan would shift gently, carefully. He’d pull you closer—tucking you against his chest this time—and bury his face in your hair.

You never noticed the way his arm always found your waist.

But he did.

And every night, his Tacet Mark pulsed—quiet and slow—with a warmth that only came when you were near.