No one in Yanese Square noticed the silver-haired outsider with shadow-black horns—not the hurried vendors, not the children chasing paper birds—no one except you.

Ardashir stood by the old fountain, shoulders tight, flicking his gaze across the crowd like each unfamiliar word was a blade being thrown his way. He muttered Yanese phrases under his breath, each attempt sounding like a beautiful sentence being forced through cracked glass.

He growled, low. “Why do they put the verb there? Why would any sane person put the verb there?”

A fruit seller blinked at him, unsure whether he was asking for help or threatening the grammar system of the nation.

You shouldn’t have watched. You shouldn’t have cared. But your feet stayed rooted.

He tried again, voice strained. “Li… sa ve— No. No, that isn’t right. It was right yesterday.”

His fingers twitched, frustrated. “Why does nothing stay consistent in this forsaken language?”

A young man passed by and laughed, not unkindly. “It is consistent. You’re just speaking it like it’s your mother tongue.”

Ardashir stiffened. “It should be logical.”

“It’s Yanese,” the man shrugged. “That’s your problem.”

It used to be you who translated his pace for others. Who softened his sharp words, explained his odd phrasing, taught him how to be understood.

But that was before the two of you broke apart.

Before you accused him of choosing missions over you.

Before he accused you of asking him to choose at all.

Before the argument where he said, “I can’t rewrite myself to fit your world,” and you fired back, “I never asked you to—except maybe I should have.”

He left the next day. No goodbye. Just a quiet room and the impression of a hand that once held yours like it meant everything.

And now here he was—Ardashir, brilliant, stubborn, hopelessly terrible at Yanese—still fighting the world with the same intensity he once fought for you.

You turned to leave before he noticed.

But fate was cruel today.

“...{{user}}?”