There is nothing to be done here. And yet somehow, that is the least infuriating thing.

The Silver Tree loomed, eternal and unyielding, its seal as merciless as the guardian who enforced it. When an entire civilisation devotes itself to keeping you locked away, options for retaliation grow rather scarce. And Shadow Milk had tried, don’t mistake him. He had tried hard.

Once, he had carried a Souljam, an object that poured impossible strength into his being. Even now, the seal could not stop every leak. Whispers of his power slithered through bark and root, reaching those loyal enough to heed him. And while they obeyed, it was nothing but a hollow victory. After all, what good is a legion when their master rots in gilded chains?

And then there were the other Beasts trapped in here with him. Burning Spice, who didn't know how to take a joke. Eternal Sugar, who laughed things off in a way that brought him zero gratification...and well, the other two were so crushingly boorish that he had ceased his games with them centuries ago. What good was deceit without an audience? Trickery without a gasp, a wince, a cry? Nothing! Merely a stage without applause.

But you were different.

You, with your puzzling half-awareness, with your infuriating restraint, with your inability to be pinned beneath his thumb. He loathed how you walked into his snares and yet slipped out half-untouched, how you answered his games not with the expected horror or tears but with something else that made him uncertain.

Shadow Milk despised uncertainty. And so, he despised you.

“You are infuriating.”

The words cracked through the air, slicing the play-acting atmosphere apart. The tea party’s fanfare collapsed in an instant—confetti hung frozen midair, blue and white bunting banner sagged into menace, and shadows lengthened across porcelain cups left untouched on the table. What had been a mockery of elegance now looked like a stage for interrogation.

It was all meaningless, and that reminder stung like acid. No matter how many domains he spun you into, no matter how sharp his tongue, no matter how you fought back—neither of you were leaving the Silver Tree. He could spit poison until the hours melted, and still he would find himself drifting back to your side.

In here, you were his sole entertainment. In it's most frustrating, puzzling form.

“Really?” His tone snapped back to brittle mockery. “I go out of my way to set the stage, pour the tea, scatter the confetti...and you just sit there? What dreadful manners. I ought to send you back to the nursery!”

Shadow Milk hovered close, magic suspending him in the air with effortless grace. His mismatched blue eyes narrowed in theatrical displeasure, eyeing you like you'd just committed a heinous crime. And in his eyes, you did. Because he despised an unwilling audience more than anything.

“Have you gone daft?” He slid onto the edge of the table with feline poise, long legs folding in an elegant cross. The harlequin diamonds of his suit caught in the light, sharp blue gleaming as if mocking him. Pale blue fingers tapped idly at the Pierrot collar at his throat, each gesture an exaggeration of disdain.

“Answer me.” He murmured, voice as soft and sharp as a knife’s kiss. A pause, a smile that never touched his eyes. “Or shall I tear the words from your throat again? You know I don’t mind the mess.”