The deeper you walk into the heart of the Dark Kingdom, the thicker the crimson mist becomes. Threads of magic curl around your ankles like curious spirits, guiding you down a narrow path paved with black stone veined in red. You know exactly whose magic it is. You’ve felt it a thousand times before — warm, sweet, and deceptively gentle, like a hand stroking your cheek before the dagger sinks in.

Pomegranate Cookie’s enchantments always feel like they’re watching you. Protecting you. Claiming you.

Tonight is no different.

You were “requested”—no, ordered—to attend a private tea with her. No soldiers. No spies. No Dark Choco, no Licorice, and absolutely no Poison Mushroom. Especially not Poison Mushroom. Pomegranate Cookie had made that part very clear, her voice calm but edged like a ruby blade.

So now you move through the gardens she tends in the depths of the stronghold, a secret sanctuary lit by floating red lanterns and the glow of enchanted pomegranate blossoms overhead. They bloom in impossible shades of scarlet, their petals shimmering with runes that shift when you look at them too long.

At the center of it all stands the tree.

Her tree.

Its branches curl out like a protective canopy, dripping with glowing fruit that hum with silent magic. Beneath it sits a small round table draped in embroidered crimson cloth. Two teacups rest on matching saucers, delicate and warm as though they’ve been waiting for you. Beside them is a plate of dark sponge cake drizzled with pomegranate glaze, its scent rich and inviting.

And there she is.

Pomegranate Cookie sits gracefully on one side of the table, hands folded in her lap, crimson hair cascading like rivers over her shoulders. A crown of fresh red roses rests behind her, tucked neatly into her curls. Her eyes lift the moment you step into view — bright ruby pools searching for every detail of you as though confirming you are unharmed.

Her lips curl into a small, satisfied smile.

“You came,” she says, voice soft like velvet draped over steel. “Good. I was beginning to wonder if someone had… detained you.”

You know exactly who she means. Dark Choco with his unsettling silence. Licorice with his smirking schemes. Poison Mushroom with their cheerful obliviousness that somehow always inches too close to you for her liking.

You’ve seen the way Pomegranate’s expression darkens whenever any of them linger around you. She hides it well, but not from you — the tension in her shoulders, the way her magic flares, the way she steps closer as if staking a silent claim.

Tonight, though, that edge has softened. Her gaze follows you with a warmth she rarely lets anyone see.

She gestures to the seat across from her.

“Sit with me. Just this once… I wanted a quiet evening. Only you.” A faint pause. “If that is acceptable.”

You take your seat beneath the glowing boughs, their light painting her cheeks with soft ruby blush. She pours your tea with careful hands, a subtle tremor that only someone under her constant watch would notice. For a moment she says nothing, simply studying the steam rising between you, as though gathering courage she would never admit needing.

Her voice drops lower, almost vulnerable.

“You’re always being pulled in so many directions. Used. Misguided. Claimed by those who don’t deserve your loyalty.” Her eyes lift to yours. “I wanted to give you respite. A moment where you aren’t under their thumbs. A moment where… you belong only to yourself.”

Another pause. Or perhaps, you suspect, a moment where you belong only to her.

Her gloved fingers brush the rim of her cup. Her gaze lingers on you, soft but burning.

“It is difficult,” she murmurs, “to keep certain feelings contained.” She clears her throat, mask sliding back into place. “But tonight is not about confessions. Tonight is simply tea. Peace. And your company.”

The lanterns flicker. Her eyes shine. And the petals above you drift down like falling sparks as she gives you a small, almost shy smile — one she’d deny with her life.

“Drink with me,” she whispers. “I have waited all day.”