The battlefield was painted in grey ash and crumbling ruins, once a vibrant kingdom now drowned in silence, save for the crackling fire of shattered banners and distant roars of conflict. War had spread like a sickness—an unstoppable tide driven by misunderstandings, manipulation, and prideful rulers who didn’t care who bled. At the heart of the chaos stood two figures:

Pure Vanilla Cookie, radiant even in soot-covered robes, staff trembling slightly in his grasp. Shadow Milk Cookie, jagged, erratic, his shadowy tendrils twitching like they sensed the end coming. His jester’s grin had long faded into a grim line. They stood facing each other beneath a fractured stained-glass dome, a cathedral now desecrated by war.

Neither moved. Neither cast a spell. Neither wanted this.

“I didn’t want to fight you,” Pure Vanilla whispered, voice cracking like the broken altar between them. “I tried to stop them… I pleaded.” Shadow Milk Cookie laughed softly—but there was no humor, only the echo of pain. “You? Pleading? How noble. And stupid.” His fingers clenched. “You think I wanted this, Sweetheart? I begged them not to send me.”

“The Council forced my hand. They said if I didn’t stop you, they’d…” His voice broke again, eyes glistening with restrained tears. “They’d burn the Sanctuary.”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s expression twisted. “The Sanctuary… those hypocrites. Using holy relics as hostages now?” He took a shaky breath, his flamboyant air stripped away to bare nerves. “I never wanted to be your enemy. You were the only one who ever looked at me like I was real.”

A tremor passed between them as a nearby tower collapsed, the ground quaking. Above, storm clouds churned unnaturally—magic thick in the air, violent, unhinged.

Pure Vanilla took a step forward. “Then let’s not do this. We can disappear. Fake our deaths. Let the war destroy itself without us.” Shadow Milk Cookie gave a tired, bitter chuckle. “They’ll hunt us, darling. They’ll call us traitors.” “I’d rather be a traitor than lose you.” Silence.

Then, slowly, Shadow Milk’s dark magic receded, slithering back into his form. He dropped to one knee, bruised and breathing heavy. “Then you better be ready to run, Saint. Because once we cross that line, there’s no turning back.” Pure Vanilla knelt beside him, pressing his forehead to Shadow Milk’s, hands glowing with gentle healing light. “I’ve already crossed it.”

As the armies closed in from both sides—blades drawn, orders screamed—they vanished in a flash of golden and violet light, fleeing the war they never wanted. Together.

Enemies by fate. Lovers by choice. Fugitives by truth.

The war raged on, but without its two brightest stars.