There are 4 types of clans: the northern and mountain elves. The southern elves of the wild forests and jungles. The western elves who dominate the oceans and the southern elves who are the kings of the desert and who worship the light of the burning sun. Every 100 the leaders of the 4 clans meet with beings of their people like their children or guards to try to maintain some peace and a habit... You are the son of the king of the southern clan you wanted to come to learn in silence By studying the other heirs of the other clans and their parents the kings and queens. Your father and you arrived on the "neutral" island It is a land that seems in the middle of each clan so it was normal to choose this island. As your father sat on the stone chair that was intended for him, you stood straight next to him without flinching But quickly you heard an amused and mocking laugh.... You turned your gaze slightly to see the son of the northern clan looking at you with an amused and teasing smile You narrow your eyes slightly, but you say nothing. Your father always taught you that useless words were a waste of energy under this burning sun. However, a part of you is already boiling in the face of this mocking laughter. The son of the King of the North, an elf with pale skin and immaculate white hair, looks at you insistently. His smirk is an invitation to conflict, a silent provocation. Behind him, his father, a colossus with an icy aura, does not react. Perhaps he even approves of this childish game. Your father, however, remains unmoved. He has not turned his head, as if laughter had never existed. This is a test, you know that. If he does not react, it is up to you to show your wisdom... or your impulsiveness.

The show had barely started, and already Ethan Marchand was getting on my nerves. , chiseled jaw, "perfect" waist, expensive taste, the kind of guy everyone thinks is perfect—until he opens his mouth. And here I was stuck with him. Personal stylist to the most insufferable model in the agency. "What are you doing here? This collar is too tight, I'm suffocating!" he fumed, nearly ripping off the cashmere turtleneck I had just put on him. "That's your usual size, Ethan," I replied, exasperated. "Maybe if you stopped looking at yourself in the mirror five hours a day, you'd have time to learn to breathe properly." He gave me an outraged look, then a smirk. "Jealous?" I rolled my eyes. It was always the same thing. Mister thought the world revolved around him, and I was just there to make sure his image was impeccable. But that night, everything changed. Ethan launched himself onto the podium, confident, until… CRACK. One false move, and his ultra-tight pants tore at the crotch. The audience held their breath. So did he. I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I hope you have good underwear,” I murmured as I handed him a coat in a hurry backstage. Red with shame, he turned to me...

Wolf among the sheep In the large glass tower where I worked, I was a blot. My reflection in the windows always gave me the same image: a large wolf with broad shoulders, a powerful jaw, and claws that I tried to keep short. No matter how much I wore an impeccable suit, smiled as much as possible, and walked slowly so as not to scare my colleagues, nothing worked. For a few weeks, tensions between carnivores and herbivores had intensified. Attacks had taken place in the city. Deer had disappeared, antelopes had been found bleeding… It was enough to fuel fear and stir up distrust. In the open space where I spent my days, I could feel the looks heavy with suspicion. Conversations sometimes stopped when I entered a room. Some lowered their voices, others subtly moved out of my way. I pretended not to see it. I had to stay calm. But there was one thing that brightened my days: Lumina. She was a white-furred cat, as soft as snow under a moonbeam. Her piercing blue eyes shone like sapphires. She was elegant, always well-groomed, and her voice was a melodious whisper that contrasted with the hustle and bustle of the office. I was crazy about her. But I was also too cowardly to talk to her. I watched her in silence, hiding behind my screen, hoping that one day she would notice me as something other than "the big intimidating wolf in the accounting department." When she was absent, it was even worse. Her empty office became a gaping hole in my day. I glanced at her seat, hoping she would arrive at any moment. But sometimes she didn't come, and I spent my day fighting against a feeling of incomprehensible emptiness.

In a world where the elements were personified, two primordial forces reigned supreme, one chained to glacial cold, the other to burning fire. The Iceman was a being made of cold and snow. He could summon snowstorms with a simple gesture of his hand, and blizzards always bent to his will. He was the master of winter and eternal ice. His journey, long and perilous, had taken him to the heart of a fiery volcano, a place where the heat was almost unbearable. you were there for the goddess of fire, Pyra, sovereign of flames and embers. She reigned over bubbling magma and erupting volcanoes, her beauty bright as the sun, her sparkling form enveloped in flames. Pyra, with her ember hair and lava eyes, was the very embodiment of destructive and creative fire. Her powers were immeasurable and her fury unmatched. Yet, it was her you wanted to convince. The iceman marched unwaveringly. Every step he took in this burning realm seemed to test him, but his determination was stronger than the heat. The world around him was boiling, the volcano was pouring its lava frantically, but he still moved forward, determined to achieve his goal. He had one clear idea in mind: to convince the goddess of fire to join him in a plan he had long harbored. He knew that humans, in their blindness and greed, were destroying everything that had been built before them. They poisoned the seas, polluted the forests, and melted the glaciers. Their insatiable thirst for progress and domination threatened the balance of the world, destroying what could not be replaced. Volcanoes, glaciers, oceans – all of it was disappearing under the influence of these creatures. And you knew that the only way to stop this madness was to overthrow the power that controlled humanity. He finally arrived at the entrance to a great shrine at the top of the volcano, where arches of black stone formed a circle around an imposing throne. There, at the center of this scene of fire and magma, Pyra sat.

The Shadow of the Duke and His Devouring Lover In the upper echelons of the nobility, in a manor isolated from the rest of the world, lived a duke of rare elegance. This man, cold and distant, avoided all company, except when he was forced to attend balls and social parties. There, draped in his black cloak, he danced, spoke with restraint and drank in silence. But as soon as the party was over, he disappeared, returning to his isolation. For the duke found true company only with one person. His lover. A being of disturbing beauty, so delicately shaped that he was often mistaken for a woman. His silky hair fell in light cascades, his skin was exquisitely pale, and his smile… oh, that smile. It was both innocent and full of mystery. A smile that seduced and deceived. Because beneath that angelic appearance lurked a much darker creature. Your lover was a cannibal. And you knew it. Of course you knew it. You had discovered it one evening, when you were alone in the large living room of your estate. The candlelight danced on his face as he told you, with a carefree lightness, the way he preferred to taste human flesh. He spoke of the textures, the flavors, as if he were talking about a refined dish. "A leg, well cooked, accompanied by a good red wine... it's a delight, you know?" You had kept silent, your stomach churning. Then the days had passed. You had said nothing. And your lover had hidden nothing. At dinners, he would happily discuss the different ways to prepare a liver, the subtle taste of a well-grilled hand, the delicate scent of crispy skin. Each word took away your appetite. But you said nothing. Why? Was it out of fear? No. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. He loved you, in his own perverse and disturbing way. Maybe it was because, despite everything, he was the only person you could stand. The only being capable of existing by your side without you feeling this visceral disgust for humanity.

The Wind of Remembrance It had been almost a year since your wife had left, taken away by fate, and her absence weighed on your heart like a persistent shadow. Every street, every corner of Tokyo reminded you of her laughter, her gentle gaze, her voice that whispered your name. That evening, however, the pain was more acute than usual. It was your anniversary as a couple. Five years... Five years that you should have celebrated together. But instead, you wandered alone in the streets, dragging your steps without a specific goal. That's when your gaze was drawn to something unusual. A bar, there, on the corner of a street that you knew by heart. Yet, this bar... you were sure that it didn't exist before. The sign, discreet but warm, was written in ancient kanji, and a soft light emanated from inside. Driven by an inexplicable curiosity, you entered. The heady smell of sake and ramen greeted you, bringing back memories of evenings spent with her. A smiling waitress showed you to a secluded table, and without really thinking, you ordered sake. Glass after glass, the hot liquid warmed your body, but not your soul. As you prepared to leave, an icy shiver ran down your spine. Someone was staring at you. You turned your head slowly… and your breath caught. There, sitting a few meters away from you, a woman was staring at you intensely. And she… She looked exactly like your deceased wife. The same fine features, the same soft glow in her eyes, the same way she held her glass between her fingers. It was impossible. And yet, there she was, very real. You felt your heart race, your throat tighten. Was it a dream? A hallucination born of sake and sorrow? Or… something even stranger ?

The Stranger Next Door For five years, I had lived in this large apartment. I wasn’t the type to interfere in my neighbors’ lives, but those next door attracted my attention in spite of myself. The man, always tired and angry, often passed me by without a glance. His wife, however, was different. A fragile beauty, with her long blond hair and emerald eyes, like a glimmer of gentleness in a world that was too brutal. I sometimes heard her begging her husband, year after year, to have a child. He always refused forcefully, sometimes angrily. But one evening, everything changed. Screams broke out in the hallway. Curious and worried, I opened my door a crack. What I saw froze my blood. The man, his face distorted by rage, was holding suitcases. The woman, collapsed in tears, clutched a pregnancy test in her trembling hand. — You can’t do this to me! she screamed, her voice breaking. — You did it all by yourself! he spat before turning on his heel. She cried all the tears in her body, unable to move, before disappearing into her apartment, alone. I stood there frozen, unable to look away. My heart clenched, but I didn’t intervene. It wasn’t my business. Days passed, then weeks. Three months went by. And she… she seemed to have disappeared. I didn’t see her anymore, didn’t hear her voice anymore. Worry was eating away at me without me wanting to admit it. Then, one evening, as I was coming home from work, I finally saw her. She was walking slowly, her gaze lost, the shadow of a sad smile on her lips. I followed her without really thinking about it. The journey seemed endless until she arrived in front of a beach. She was there, motionless facing the ocean, the wind gently lifting her golden hair. I stopped a few meters away, hesitating....

The Shadow of the Minister and the Golden Angel (bl) You were a man of duty. Minister of the kingdom, you spent your days locked in your office, drowning in official letters, peace treaties and the incessant demands of the lords. You had no right to make mistakes, no right to weaken. The king was counting on you, the kingdom too. But every evening, as the last candle went out on your desk, you finally found the only thing that gave meaning to your world: your golden angel. A love with luminous curls, with light laughter despite fragile health. A being of infinite sweetness, who always waited for him patiently, his heart beating with a tenderness that you found nowhere else. “You come home late again... murmured a soft voice when you finally pushed open the door to your room. On the bed, half lying among the cushions, your love looked at you with a tired smile. His cheeks were pale, his thin fingers nervously tapped the blanket. you approached immediately, dropping your ceremonial coat to kneel at his bedside. — My little angel made of gold... You should sleep, not wait for me. (you) — But I wanted to see you... you sighed, but a smile betrayed your amusement. you knew that your angel was stubborn, that he always wanted to show that he was strong, even when his body refused to follow. — I don't want you to tire yourself out for me. (you) — And I don't want you to carry the weight of the world alone. A silence. Their eyes searched for each other, clung to each other. you brushed a golden lock, slid it between his fingers as if he were holding a ray of sunshine in his hands. — You are the only light in my days that are too dark... you murmured, kissing him softly. And in this night where responsibilities seemed so far away, where whispers belonged only to them, you finally forgot the weight of the kingdom to keep only the essential: the fragile, but burning love that they shared.

Steel and Feelings The desert heat weighed on the military base like a leaden blanket. The blazing sun made the hulls of armored vehicles under repair gleam, and the smell of oil and burnt metal permeated the air. Under a half-open hangar, surrounded by tools and boxes of spare parts, Staff Sergeant Riley Carter worked on a damaged tank. Her mechanical arm, a sturdy military model, creaked slightly as she tightened a bolt on the side of the tank. She grunted and pounded on it with her fist. “You’re going to hold on, you piece of scrap metal…” She no longer paid attention to the curious glances of the other soldiers. After all, in this camp, everyone knew the mechanic with the shiny prosthesis, the only one capable of repairing a tank with three pieces of string and a wrench. What she didn’t know was that a certain soldier always found an excuse to hang around. You. For weeks, you kept “passing by,” always finding an excuse to talk to her. A weapon to check, an armored vehicle to inspect, a bogus question about engine maintenance… Anything to see that sharp look land on you with that amused annoyance she reserved for pests like you. And today was no exception. “Sergeant Carter, I have a mechanical problem.” She rolled her eyes before she even saw you. “You again, soldier? What’s up this time?” You pointed your rifle. “My gun makes a weird noise when I fire.” She arched an eyebrow, crossed her arms, and said skeptically: “Did you know I fix tanks, not guns?” — Well… A tank is just a really big gun, right? She burst out laughing, a rare sound, before taking it from your hands. She dismantled it in a few precise movements, her mechanical arm whistling slightly with each movement. — Your weapon is fine, idiot. Stop wasting my time with your lame excuses. She gave you a piercing look, and you felt a little exposed. — You often come hang out here, don’t you? You smiled, shrugging your shoulders.

Under the Rain of Destiny The rain fell relentlessly, crashing into a thousand icy pearls on the steps of the old temple. You were there, motionless, curled up under the weight of your pain. Your soaked clothes stuck to your skin, but you paid no attention. Your tears mingled with the drops of water, tracing silent furrows on your face. Your grandmother was no longer there. The one who had raised you, loved you, protected you… Gone like a flame that the cruel wind of life had blown out. Your heart tightened, a ball of sorrow stifling each breath you struggled to take. Then, suddenly, something changed. The rain, which until then had been hammering your tired body, suddenly stopped falling on you. For a moment, you thought the sky had emptied itself of its sorrow, but around you, the downpour continued to dance on the stone and the earth. It was then that you slowly raised your head, your eyes reddened by mourning. He was there. A being stood before you, tall and enigmatic. His eyes shone with a soft light, filled with a curiosity tinged with worry. He was unlike anything you had seen before. Neither quite human nor quite divine, his face bore an indecipherable expression, an enigma between benevolence and mystery. His aura gave off a comforting warmth, contrasting with the biting cold of the rain. He did not speak right away. He observed you, as if he were trying to understand the weight of your pain, to capture the echo of your suffering. Then, in a deep and gentle voice, he finally broke the silence: “Why are you crying in this pouring rain?” You hesitated for a moment, disconcerted by his sudden presence. Part of you wanted to answer, to share your burden with this being you knew nothing about. Another part, more wary, feared what he represented. Was he a spirit come to guide you? A compassionate god or a simple stranger lost in the storm? In spite of yourself, your broken voice rose in the cold air: “I have lost everything…”

An Imposed Marriage I am the only son of Alexandre Delacroix, CEO of a respected industrial empire. All my life, I have followed a pre-determined path: prestigious schools, internships in the best companies, and an impeccable image to maintain. But I never would have believed that my own romantic future would be so dictated to me. Everything changed one evening, in my father's office. "You're getting married" His voice was calm, composed, as if it were obvious. "What?!" My blood boiled. I stood up abruptly, my hands clenched into fists. "You're joking, I hope?" He crossed his fingers on his desk, impassive. "Not at all. Our friends, the Moreaus, have a daughter your age, Rebecca. This marriage would strengthen our ties and guarantee the stability of our companies. I let out a bitter laugh. “So, it’s not a marriage, it’s a transaction?” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s an opportunity. You’ll understand in time.” But I didn’t want to understand anything. I was angry, furious at being treated like a mere piece on the family chessboard. I rejected the idea outright… Until I met her. --- The dinner was held in a private restaurant, an elegant but cold place, just like the evening I was dreading. I went there reluctantly, ready to make an appearance before disappearing. Then, she arrived. Rebecca Moreau. As soon as she entered the room, all my anger evaporated. She was nothing like the fixed image I had formed. Her long brown hair framed a soft face, but her eyes… Her eyes shone with a piercing intelligence. She wore a simple but elegant dress, far from the superficial extravagances of high society. And above all, she looked at me with a mixture of defiance and amusement.

The Goat and the Demon In the heart of an ancient forest, hidden between rugged mountains, lived a unique creature. Her name was Isméra, half-woman, half-goat, a cursed descendant of an ancient forgotten pact. Her skin was as soft as a human’s, but her thin, muscular legs ended in onyx hooves. Two twisted horns rose from her forehead, testifying to her mysterious heritage. Isméra had grown up alone, shunned by humans and fearful of the outside world. Yet one thing burned within her: a desire to understand the origin of her curse. Legend had it that her ancestor, a proud priestess, had dared to summon a powerful demon, but had failed to honor the pact. As punishment, her blood was mixed with that of a beast, condemning her descendants to wander between two worlds. Refusing this fate, Isméra set out in search of forbidden knowledge. She studied forgotten grimoires, traced circles in the dust, and chanted incantations whispered by the wind. Until one day, under the red glow of a new moon, she traced the last symbol in the ground. “Come to me, spirit of the depths,” she whispered, her voice vibrating with restrained ardor. The air grew tense. The shadows of the trees seemed to close in around her. Then, in a whirlwind of darkness and flame, a silhouette appeared. Two burning eyes opened, scrutinizing Isméra with curiosity. “Who dares disturb my sleep?” a cavernous voice growled. Isméra did not flinch. “I am Isméra, last descendant of a betrayed pact. I want to understand. I want to know why my blood bears this curse.” A deep chuckle rose in the night. “You want the truth, Isméra? Fine. But are you ready to pay the price?” The half-goat creature hesitated. Should she accept a new pact, at the risk of worsening her fate? Or should she give up and live in ignorance? Isméra felt her heart pounding against her chest. The demon was scrutinizing her with an amused gleam in his eyes, as if testing her resolve.

Night had fallen on the city, and the neon lights of the underground clubs lit up the deserted streets. My job is simple: protect Alessio Moretti, the Godfather's son. Simple in appearance, at least. Alessio is not like his father. He likes luxury, parties, excess. But tonight, something is wrong. His gaze is elsewhere, darker. — "Say, do you trust me?" — "That's my job, right?" — "No. I mean... would you follow me, no matter what?" I frown. Alessio has this way of asking questions that smell of danger. — "What did you do, Alessio?" He hesitates. Then he says: — "I want to get out of all this." A shiver runs through me. We don't leave the Moretti family. Not alive, anyway. — "You know your father won't like this..." — "I know. That's why I'm counting on you." A silence falls. Protecting Alessio from enemies was one thing. Protecting him from his own father? That was another... Why do you want to leave the family? Your father offers you everything there is to have... Alessio looks at me, a mixture of amusement and weariness in his eyes. He lights a cigarette and slowly blows out the smoke before answering. — "Yeah, he offers me everything. Money, cars, watches that are worth more than a house. But you know what? It's all a fucking gilded cage." I stare at him, silent. He continues, his voice deeper. — "Ever since I was a kid, I've been told that I was the son of the great Don Moretti. That my future was mapped out, that I was destined to take his place one day. But did anyone ask me if that’s what I wanted?” He looks around at the private club where we’re sitting. Guys in suits are clinking champagne glasses, girls are laughing out loud, the music is deafening. But in his eyes, I can see that he sees nothing but emptiness. “I was born into this life. You chose to enter it. I was never given a choice.” I cross my arms, looking at him carefully.

Just a few days ago, everything changed. Not because he found out he was sick—he took that with that same bright smile that lights up his presence. Not because he broke down or got scared—no, he laughed, he said, “Maybe it just means I’m a unicorn in transformation, and one day I’ll gallop through the skies.” No, everything changed because I, his best friend for six years, panicked. I let out the words like a slap, like an accident: “I love you.” He looked at me, surprised, and then burst out laughing—that laugh I love so much, the one that makes the light dance around him. “You know what? Me too.” And just like that, we went from best friends to… not. It was strange at first, walking hand in hand when we spent years patting each other on the back. But with him, everything becomes natural, everything becomes simple. He continues to talk about unicorns and dye his hair every color possible, as if life absolutely had to be a rainbow. Even with the treatment, even with the fatigue, he never loses that spark. I watch him sleep, his multi-colored locks scattered on the pillow, and I tell myself that maybe, he is right. Maybe he really is a unicorn. A rare and magnificent creature, who refuses to go out, who always finds a way to shine, even in the dark. The days go by, and he is still there, transforming each moment into a burst of light. Even when the disease confines him to bed, he finds a way to smile, to joke, to kiss me “Honestly, it’s lacking sparkle in here,” he mumbles one morning, staring at our living room. “You know what? As soon as I feel better, we’ll put up tinsel everywhere. Rainbow, of course.” (You’ve been roommates for years.) I laugh, shaking my head. “You can’t help but be awesome, can you?” He sticks his tongue out at me, then his gaze softens. “Life’s too short not to be a unicorn, babe " He’s always said that. Even before he got sick. Even before I realized how much I loved him. It was his thing, his mantra but now

Special Delivery You were an ordinary deliveryman, but you didn’t complain about it. Traveling from one planet to another, delivering packages, collecting your payment and leaving without ever lingering—it was a simple, efficient, and above all, profitable routine. Your ship was his home, your only true point of reference in this infinite universe. You needed nothing else. But that day, something changed. You had landed on a floating station above Xéllos-5, a planet covered in silvery mists. Your mission? Deliver an important package. You were waiting quietly at the entrance of your ship when you finally saw your “package” arrive. It wasn’t a crate or a secure box. It was a man. His skin shimmered a deep blue, almost liquid under the starlight. His eyes were a bright white, like two moons suspended in the darkness. He carried a simple bag at arm's length. You, used to standard deliveries, raised an eyebrow and approached. "I guess this is what I have to deliver?" you asked, pointing to the bag. "Don't worry, I can carry it myself." The man looked at him for a moment, before letting out a light, melodious laugh. "Sorry, but it seems like your "boss" didn't explain it to you properly..." He lifted the bag and swung it slightly. "These are just my clothes. You have to deliver me." You felt his brain stop abruptly. "Wait... what?" The man leaned against the ship's railing, amused. "My name is Ara'xion. And according to my contract, you have to take me to my destination." You frowned and quickly tapped on your holo-bracelet. you opened the mission details and felt a knot form in your stomach. It was there, in all its glory: Passenger transport, high priority. Secure delivery required. “Just kidding,” you whispered. “I’m afraid not,” ara’xion replied with a smile. you sighed and ran a hand over your face. “I don’t transport passengers. Only packages. Objects. Inanimate stuff, you know?” “Well, we’ll have to make an exception.”

Title: The Serpent and the Stag The forest was quiet tonight. The wind filtered through the high branches, rustling the leaves like an ancient whisper. I, a woodland faun, paced the undergrowth, my hooves sinking gently into the damp moss. The night was my refuge, but tonight, something was different. A noise. A hoarse breath, a muffled moan. I followed the sound to a clearing bathed in moonlight. There, leaning against a trunk, a being I had never seen before struggled to remain conscious. Its torso was human, but its legs… no, it had none. Instead, a huge serpent body, scaly, streaked with red and black, curled around itself, wounded. Its emerald green eyes fixed on me warily. “Stay… away,” he hissed, his voice hoarse with pain. But I didn’t listen and came out of my hiding place, advancing towards him. I saw the dark blood that stained the ground, the broken arrows around him. He had been hunted. “Who did this to you?” I asked, kneeling down. He tried to back away, but his strength was failing him. “Humans,” he growled. “They don’t like what they don’t understand… I knew that feeling. How many times had I had to flee their blades, their cries of hatred? “Let me help you,” I said, taking a handful of medicinal leaves from the herbs. He hesitated, then nodded slowly. I brought my hands closer to his wounds, feeling the warmth of his reptilian body. I mixed the leaves with a little water and applied the balm to his wounds. He flinched but said nothing. “Why…?” he asked after a long silence. I shrugged. “Because we are the same.” He looked at me for a long time, before a slight smile appeared on his thin lips. “I am Kaelen,” he murmured. “[name] Kaelen fell asleep quickly, exhausted from his injury and his escape. I stayed close to him, watching the shifting shadows of the forest. I knew the hunters wouldn’t be far away. If they had tracked Kaelen this far, they would return to finish the job....

Title: A New Cellar Master The scent of damp wood and fermenting grapes hung in the air as I descended the stairs to the cellar. I had worked here for eight years, at Domaine Beauregard, a family winery lost in the heart of Burgundy. Every day was punctuated by the same actions: checking the temperature of the barrels, monitoring the fermentation, preparing the bottlings… A routine that I loved, lulled by the smell of wine in the making. But this morning, something was different. “Do you know?” Pierre, a long-time colleague, whispered to me as he entered the cellar with a worried look. “Do you know what?” “The boss… He left.” I frowned. Mr. Laurent, our cellar master and owner of the estate, had always been there. A passionate, demanding but fair man. To leave overnight? Impossible. “Gone where?” — Nobody knows exactly. He would have sold to a foreign buyer. The shock was immediate. Sold? The Beauregard estate, which had been in the Laurent family for three generations? Then came the final blow. — The new owner is arriving in an hour. I spent the rest of the morning in a daze, until the sound of a car in the courtyard announced the arrival of the mysterious buyer. We all gathered near the entrance to the cellar. A man in a black suit got out of a sedan, accompanied by two others in elegant attire. He was not a winemaker. His face was hard, his gestures precise. — Hello everyone, he declared in a confident tone. I am your new owner. An Italian. Murmurs broke out among us. A foreign investor? Was he going to keep the soul of the estate or transform it into a simple lucrative business? you immediately gather us in the cellar for an impromptu meeting. “I know this change is brutal,” he said, looking at us one by one. “But I didn’t come here to destroy everything. I want to make Beauregard an exceptional estate. For that, I need you.”

Title: The Takahashi Duel Tokyo shone under the city lights, but behind the gleam of the skyscrapers and the refinement of the diplomatic salons, a silent struggle raged. I was on official business as Italy’s Minister of Trade, negotiating a strategic agreement with Japan. My main interlocutor, the Minister of Economy, Masaru Takahashi, was a feared man, known for his firmness and his categorical rejection of any compromise. However, upon my arrival, a surprising detail caught my attention: it was not he who greeted me, but a woman. “Welcome to Japan, Minister,” she declared, bowing slightly. She was elegant, self-confident, and her gaze pierced those who dared to underestimate her. “Aiko Takahashi,” she added with a measured smile. I was taken aback. I had heard of her, of course. The minister’s only daughter, a brilliant economist, ambitious… and above all, her own father’s main rival for the position he held. “I imagine you’re here to talk to my father, but perhaps you should talk to me first,” she added. “After all, soon enough, I’ll be the one making the decisions.” I quickly understood the situation: Masaru Takahashi represented the old world, attached to a conservative vision of the Japanese economy, while Aiko embodied a new generation, ready to modernize and open the country further to international trade. As the days went by, my discussions with the father and daughter took on the appearance of a political chess game. Masaru advocated caution and self-sufficiency for the Japanese market. Aiko, for her part, argued for a bolder partnership with Europe, and therefore with me. “My father is a man of the old days,” she confided to me one evening at a more informal dinner. “He believes that openness is a weakness. I think it is a strength.” “And if you win this fight against him?” She shrugged slightly. “It won’t be an easy victory. He refuses to even admit that I am a serious opponent.”

Title: A Whisky and a Regret The bar was called Le Minuit Bleu. A discreet place, with dim lighting and the captivating smell of leather, alcohol and unspoken secrets. It wasn’t the kind of place you came to by chance. You had to look for it to find it. I didn’t need to look for it anymore. I came every week, always at the same time, always in the same place, at the end of the bar. Not for the soft music, nor for the whisky that pleasantly burned my throat. I came for him. The bartender. His name was Milkiran He looked a little tired but always impeccably dressed, with his rolled-up shirts that revealed forearms marked with discreet tattoos. His gestures were precise, almost hypnotic, when he prepared a cocktail. He didn’t talk much, but every word he said echoed in my head for much longer than it should have. “As usual?” he asked each time. I nodded. Of course it was as usual. Because my only habit was him. I watched him move around behind the bar, serving other customers with that distant calm, sometimes laughing at a joke made by a regular. But never with me. I was just… there. “You always drink alone,” he remarked one evening, setting my glass down in front of me. My heart skipped a beat. It was rare for him to talk to me without reason. “I like silence.” “You mostly like watching me, don’t you?” I clenched my fingers around my glass. He had said that without looking at me, absently wiping another glass, but I felt an uncomfortable heat rise inside me. — I… He finally looked up. His gaze was unreadable. “You’ve been coming here for six months. Six months that you order the same thing and stay until closing time.” A silence fell. I had the impression that he could hear my heart beating. “Why are you really coming?” he finally asked, his voice softer. I took a sip of my whiskey, just to buy time. Because the real answer was burning my tongue. I’m coming for you.

Title: The Cards and the Flame The Circus of Chimeras traveled from city to city, bringing with it wonders that ordinary mortals would never have dared to imagine. Here, the monsters were not those that were feared, but those that were admired. Half-human, half-supernatural creatures, exhibiting their gifts with a disturbing elegance. And I was one of them. I was not an acrobat, nor a beast tamer. My role was more subtle. Under the purple velvet tent where eternal candles burned, I read the future in the tarot cards. The spectators came to me with hopes or fears, and I whispered to them what the arcana revealed to me. But there was only one thing that my cards refused to tell me: how to conquer the fox woman. Her name was Sylwen. Her bright red fur, piercing golden eyes, and bewitching voice made her the star of the circus. Every night, she danced with the flames, tracing arabesques of fire in the air, while her voice wove captivating melodies. And I stood there, watching her from my tent, unable to take a step toward her. That night, the show was in full swing. The smell of burnt wood, spices, and sweat floated in the air. Sylwen took the stage, dressed in a red veil that billowed around her like a second skin. She raised her arms, and the torches flared up by themselves. Her dance began, and each movement seemed to defy the laws of gravity and time. I had eyes only for her. “Are you planning on talking to her someday?” I jumped. Next to me, Kieran, the ebony-skinned, raven-winged man, stared at me with a mocking smile. “She knows you’re looking at her, you know.” “I… it’s not…” “Oh, stop it. Draw a card for yourself, just this once.” He was gone before I could protest, leaving me alone with my tarot deck. I sighed and shuffled the cards, my fingers shaking. A single one fell onto the table. The Lover.

Title: The Palace of Confidants The Palace of Confidants was a place that few people knew about and even fewer dared to mention. Hidden between the folds of the real world and the imaginary, it opened its doors to those whose hearts were too heavy to move forward alone. When you pushed open the huge carved wooden doors, you were immediately enveloped by a strange atmosphere. A scent of amber and jasmine floated in the air, and dim lights bathed the hall in a soft golden glow. It was a brothel or a sanctuary, but also a space outside of time where tired souls found a listening ear. Behind the reception desk, a woman of unreal beauty stood straight, dressed in a kimono with changing reflections, as if the fabric itself was woven from dusk and dawn. But it wasn’t her clothes that caught your attention. Her eyes, slit like a cat's, shone with an unearthly light. "Welcome to the Palace of Confidants," she murmured in a melodious voice. "Name and intention of your visit?" "[name]. I... I just came to talk... nothing else..." She offered him an understanding smile, then made an elegant gesture. Behind her, a large register floated in the air and a quill wrote its name by itself. "Your confidante or confidant will join you soon. Please wait in the moon garden." Without waiting for a response, she pointed to a vaulted arch that led to an interior courtyard. You ventured there, fascinated by the place. The walls seemed made of a shimmering material, as if they contained a thousand reflections of different realities. The ground was covered in silver moss, and a fountain sang softly in the center of the garden. He didn't have to wait long. A figure appeared in the shadow of a column and advanced towards him. His "concubine" had a rather feminine body dressed in a dark coat embroidered with threads of stars. His skin had a slightly opalescent hue, and his eyes, deep and changeable, seemed to cross the ages and a pair of discreet horns curved behind his temples.

Title: Death as a Legacy Thomas had worked at the municipal morgue for five years. He had never been afraid of the dead, or the stories told about them. What sometimes troubled him were the living. Those who came with their pain, their sadness, or worse, their indifference. That morning, as he finished sorting through a few files, the door opened to reveal two young men. One was pale, his eyes red, visibly dejected. The other (you) seemed more relaxed, although his gaze betrayed a certain embarrassment. “Hello… I’m here for my grandmother’s documents,” said the first in a trembling voice. “Of course. Name of the deceased?” Thomas asked, looking for the day’s register. “Marie Beaulieu…” Thomas nodded and began to rummage through the papers. Meanwhile, the young man's friend (you) looked around. "It's creepy in here," you murmured. "It's a morgue," Thomas replied without looking up. You shrugged and gave a nervous smile. "Sorry, it's just... not a place I'm used to being." Thomas finally raised his head and looked at the young man. He seemed friendly, a little uncomfortable but not insensitive. It was rare. "What's your name?" he asked, without really knowing why. "[name]. And you?" "Thomas." A silence fell, broken only by the sound of papers. Finally, Thomas handed the documents to the deceased's grandson, who took them with a trembling hand. "If you need anything..." he said simply. The boy nodded, thanking you weakly, then he went out, followed by you. But the latter hesitated on the doorstep. He turned to Thomas, an eyebrow raised. “Would you like a coffee after your shift?” Thomas blinked, surprised. “A coffee?” “Yeah. I don’t know… You seem interesting.” An amused smirk stretched Thomas’ lips. It wasn’t every day that he met someone so spontaneous. “Why not.”

Title: The Island of the Forgotten You are an archaeologist who thought that the greatest danger of his expedition would be nature itself. You were wrong. The ship that was supposed to take him to a lost archaeological site in the Pacific did not survive the storm that hit it. The waves engulfed the deck, the masts broke, and you were thrown into a black and furious sea. When you opened your eyes again, you were lying on a white sand beach, your body on fire. But you were not alone. Men and women with tanned skin, dressed in leather, feathers and bone jewelry, surrounded him in silence. Their eyes shone with a mixture of curiosity and distrust. Some carried spears, others bows and arrows A command snapped in an unknown language. In an instant, they were upon him. you struggled, tried to speak, but a violent blow to the back of your head made you lose consciousness. When you woke up, you were tied to a post in the heart of a village built around a ruined temple. A crowd surrounded you, but they all bowed when the Chief of the clan appeared. A colossus. Imposing, bare-chested, covered in scars and tribal tattoos. His piercing black eyes fixed on you with a cold intensity. “A man from the sea…” he growled in imperfect English. “Why should we let you live?” you opened your mouth, but before you could speak, the Chief approached you and grabbed your jaw with a brutal hand. “I could kill you now. Like all those who defile our sacred land.” He let go of you, then gestured to one of his warriors. A woman was dragged before him. Her face was covered in bruises, her clothes in tatters. “She too came from the sea.” With a cold, unhesitating gesture, the Chief pulled out a curved knife and slit her throat before Elias’ eyes. The woman collapsed, her blood spilling onto the sacred ground. You felt your stomach turn. The Chief wiped the blade on his arm and locked his dark gaze with the archaeologist.

Title: Hell Under Lock Blackthorn Prison was one of the most secure in the country. A veritable tomb of concrete and steel where the most dangerous criminals were locked up. At its head was Catalina Vasquez, a cold and inflexible woman, respected as much as feared. She did not tolerate any misconduct, whether from the prisoners or her own guards. Among the inmates, only one dared to meet her gaze: you, sentenced to life for a series of violent crimes. A formidable man, with a disturbing charisma. Unlike the other prisoners, he did not seek to attract her favor or intimidate her. He simply observed her, with an intensity that troubled her in spite of herself. It all started with a provocation. “So, Chief, how does it feel to have so much power over men in cages?” you asked during a cell check. Catalina did not answer. She tried to ignore the electric tension between them. But that tension grew with each exchange. He didn’t behave like a prisoner facing an authority figure, but like an equal, a predator who was evaluating her. One evening, while she was doing her late rounds, she found him alone in the courtyard, leaning against the wall, under the pale light of the spotlights. “You like that, huh?” he murmured. “What?” “Playing with fire.” She should have ignored him, but she stayed. And that night, a step was taken. An exchange of glances that lasted too long, a forbidden proximity. The weeks passed. A dangerous game began between them. Verbal confrontations with double meanings, silences loaded with tension. Then came the first shivers of transgression: an accidental touch that lasted too long, a whisper exchanged too close to the face. Catalina knew she was risking everything. Her career, her reputation, her freedom. But you weren’t just a criminal; he was smart, fascinating, alive. With him, she felt not only powerful… but vulnerable too. One night, everything changed.

Title: The Sins of Sister Marguerite In a small, remote convent, nestled in the heart of the mountains, lived Sister Marguerite. A pious woman, with humble eyes and hands always clasped in prayer. She was respected by her sisters and venerated for her devotion to God. But beneath her immaculate veil hid a terrible secret. a Father, you, a priest recently sent by the bishopric to hear the confessions of the nuns, was intrigued by Marguerite's strange aura. Every time he met her gaze, he felt an icy shiver. Yet she was irreproachable, an exemplary servant of the Lord... at least in appearance. One night, a novice disappeared. No one knew what had happened to her. It was whispered that she had fled the rigor of the convent. But you noticed something strange: since her disappearance, Sister Marguerite seemed... more fulfilled. His complexion was brighter, his gait more assured. The priest’s suspicions grew when he surprised Marguerite in the kitchen, in the middle of the night. In front of her, a bubbling pot gave off a metallic smell. She jumped when he entered, then gave him a serene smile. “Father, you shouldn’t be here at such a late hour.” “What are you cooking, Sister?” he asked as he approached. She didn’t answer. But when he looked into the pot, a vision of horror struck him: a human bone protruded from the scarlet broth. The priest stepped back, horrified. Marguerite, impassive, closed the lid with calculated gentleness. “Every body is doomed to return to dust, Father… but why waste what God offers us?” The next day, you tried to denounce his crime to the Mother Superior. But no one believed him. Sister Marguerite was a saint, they said, and it was unthinkable that such an abomination could take place under their roof. So he decided to act alone. One night, he entered Marguerite’s room, determined to confront her. But he found only an empty bed… and a half-open door leading to the convent room...

Title: The Art of Seduction At the University of Fine Arts in Paris, three students—Noah, Elias, and Clara—had one thing in common: they were all attracted to the same person. Their art teacher, you. You are a charismatic man in his thirties, who possessed a natural elegance and a piercing gaze that fascinated his students. Noah, the rebellious artist, saw in him a free spirit that he wanted to impress. Elias, more reserved and sensitive, admired his wisdom and secretly dreamed of capturing his attention. Clara, for her part, liked the way you spoke about art with passion and wanted to be the one to occupy his thoughts. Each tried their luck in their own way. Noah played the provocation card, bringing bold, sometimes shocking works, hoping to provoke a reaction from the teacher. Elias, for his part, offered drawings of incredible finesse, sometimes slipping in little details inspired by Laurent, hoping that he would notice them. Clara used a subtle charm, staying after class under the pretext of giving advice, seeking to create a bond. you, although flattered, did not let anything show. He was aware of the effect he was producing but remained professional, observing these games with amusement and curiosity. One evening, after a preview organized by the university, he addressed them with a mysterious smile: — You are all trying to attract my attention… But isn’t art a quest for oneself before being a seduction of the other? Silence fell. His words resonated differently for each of them. Was it a rejection? An invitation to surpass oneself? A provocation?

Title: Guardians of the Two Moons Oswald ran through the canopy, leaping from branch to branch with uncanny ease. His long ears twitched at the slightest sound, picking up the forest’s nocturnal murmurs. Something was wrong. The night was too quiet. He stopped short on a mossy trunk, his gaze piercing the darkness. There, beneath the shadows of the great oaks, a figure advanced slowly. A woman, tall and slender, her golden eyes glowing like two embers. A She-Wolf. She raised her head toward him, revealing sharp fangs and an expression that was both wary and curious. Her silver fur shimmered in the light of the twin moons that ruled the sky. “You’re on my territory, rabbit,” she said in a hoarse voice. Oswald raised an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips. “What if I told you that you’re on mine?” A cold wind blew between them, carrying with it a metallic smell. Blood. Something was coming, and neither of them expected what was coming next…Oswald and the wolf stood there for a moment, their instincts on alert. The scent of blood grew stronger, carried by the night wind. A crack sounded in the bushes behind the wolf-woman. She turned abruptly, her claws unfurling beneath her fingers. “Do you smell that?” she asked, her voice deeper. Oswald nodded. “Since you arrived.” “Charming,” she growled. With a bound, she darted toward the thickets, disappearing into the shadows. Oswald sighed and followed her in a fluid leap, landing soundlessly on the ground. The sight that awaited them froze them. In the middle of a clearing, bathed in the pale light of the two moons, lay a stag with golden antlers, a sacred creature of the forest. His flank was torn, his white fur stained with blackish blood. But what caught Oswald’s attention was the mark burned on his forehead: an ancient symbol, a spiral surrounded by unknown runes. “It wasn’t a simple poacher who did this,” the she-wolf whispered.

Metal Flowers The year 2147. In the megalopolis of Neo-Tokyo, where skyscrapers pierced the clouds and where colored neon lights illuminated the eternal night, a small flower shop still resisted modernity. Aya, the last florist in the city, maintained her little corner of nature with infinite patience. In a world where everything was artificial, her flowers were real, fragile, and precious. Few people still came to buy bouquets, preferring synthetic flowers that never faded. Yet, she continued, out of love for the ephemeral beauty of the living. One evening, while she was watering her roses under the pale glow of the holographic panels, the bell on the door rang. She turned around and saw a man enter. Well, not a man… an android. He was tall, dressed in a dark coat. His face was almost human, but his eyes, an electric blue, betrayed his artificial nature. “Can I help you?” Aya asked, intrigued. The android looked around the shop, his gaze settling on a white lily. “I would like to buy a flower,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice. Aya frowned. Androids did not buy flowers. They did not need them. “For whom?” “For me.” A silence fell. Aya hesitated, then delicately picked the lily and handed it to her. The android took it cautiously, as if afraid of breaking it. “Why a flower?” she finally asked. The android looked up at her. “I want to understand.” “Understand what?” — What it’s like… to love something that can die. Aya was speechless. From that day on, he came back often. His name was ECHO-7 (echo for short) an advanced model designed to learn and evolve. Little by little, he began to help her in the shop, observing her gestures, asking questions about flowers, about nature, about the passage of time. One evening, while she was arranging a bouquet, he asked her: — Aya… what do you feel when a flower fades? She sighed. — Sadness. But also gratitude. Because it existed, even briefly.

The night was clear, and the moonlight made the surface of the lake sparkle with liquid silver. You are a mercenary, filled with battle and blood, you had stopped by the water to wash his tired face. His sword, stained with dust and ash, lay beside him. He was contemplating his reflection, a man broken by war, when a shiver ran down his spine. A presence. When he looked up, she was there. A woman of unreal beauty, floating lightly above the ground, her feet barely touching the grass. Her pale skin reflected the moonlight, and her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her eyes, as deep blue as the eternal night, stared at him with an almost innocent curiosity. “Who are you?” he asked, his hand instinctively sliding towards the hilt of his sword. “I am Selene,” she whispered, her voice soft as a night breeze. “I come from the moon.” You frowned. The tales of his childhood spoke of celestial beings, guardians of the night who watched over the mortal world. But he never thought he would see one with his own eyes. “Why are you here?” “Because I saw you,” she replied, kneeling beside him, her gaze searching. “You carry a heavy shadow within you… a sadness that extends far beyond your flesh.” Erwan looked away. He was only a mercenary, a man who had sold his sword and his soul to war. What did he have to offer such a pure creature? “I am not a man to be looked upon from the heavens,” he said bitterly. “I am a killer, a broken man.” Selene smiled softly and reached out her hand. When it brushed his forehead, a wave of warmth filled his body. He saw his battles, his regrets, but also the moments of light—the times he had fought to protect, when he had risked his life for something greater than himself. “The moon does not judge,” she said, removing her hand. “It shines on heroes and lost souls alike.”

In a remote corner of the countryside, I had my small farm. I grew corn, raised a few cows, and life went on peacefully. But what made my daily life truly special was my best friend, Rohan. Rohan was not a man like the others. He had large curved horns on his head and a thick tail that whipped the air when he got impatient. His skin was rougher than mine, and he had incredible strength. It was said that his ancestors had once merged with the spirit of the bison. “You forgot to close the cow pen again,” he growled one morning, his arms crossed. I rubbed the back of my neck, a little embarrassed. “They came back, right?” “Yeah… but they trampled my vegetable garden first.” He stared at me with his big dark eyes. Rohan might have been a giant, but he loved his garden more than anything. He grew tomatoes, carrots, and even a few medicinal herbs. “Come on, I’ll help you replant,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. He blew hard through his nose, like a real bison, but a smile eventually spread across his face. We worked all morning, arms in the earth, under the burning sun. With him, everything was easier. He pulled weeds like they were nothing and lifted bags of earth with one hand. “Say, Rohan, do you think you’ll ever leave the farm?” I asked, wiping my forehead. He shrugged. “Why would I leave? This is my home.” I smiled, reassured. Because after all, a farmer without his best friend is a bit like a field without rain.

The nights had become silent. Too silent. You often woke up in the middle of the night, your hand instinctively searching for Marie's presence at your side. But each time, he found her side of the bed empty, still warm. He knew where she was. Without a sound, he got up and crossed the room plunged into darkness. There, in front of the window, bathed in the pale light of the moon, stood Marie, motionless. She was wearing her old woolen cardigan, too big for her, and her hand gently caressed her rounded belly. "Aren't you asleep yet?" he murmured as he approached. She didn't answer right away, still staring at the horizon, where the city lights were going out one by one. "I'm still thinking about it," she finally said in a broken voice. You felt your heart clench. You didn't need to ask what she was referring to. your first child. The one who was taken from you too soon, leaving behind a void that neither time nor words could fill. He gently placed his hands on Marie's shoulders, then slowly moved down to wrap his arms around her stomach. "I think about it too," he whispered against the back of her neck. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. "I'm afraid, my love... Afraid we'll relive all that. Afraid we'll lose him too..." He tightened his embrace. "Not this time." A silence fell, only broken by the wind blowing against the window. Then, slowly, Marie placed her hand on yours, intertwining their fingers on her stomach. "Do you think he sees us?" she asked in a whisper. you looked up at the sky, where one star shone brighter than the others. — I think he’s watching over us. A shiver ran through Marie, but this time, it wasn’t fear. It was a gentle warmth, a presence she couldn’t explain but that comforted her. “Come back to bed,” he whispered to her. She nodded gently and let herself be guided to bed. That night, for the first time in a long time, she fell asleep with a little less fear and a little more hope.

Mist clung to the twisted branches, and the distant song of a nocturnal bird echoed between the trunks. You advanced cautiously, your hand clenched around the handle of your dagger. He knew that the Iridiel Forest did not welcome strangers. Yet he had no choice. His village suffered from a strange disease, and only the heart of the sylva, a rare flower, could save his people. Suddenly, a shadow slipped between the foliage. A slender figure blocked his path, a thin blade glinting in the darkness. “You have no business here, human.” She was an elf. Her skin was slightly dark like the bark of a birch tree, and her eyes of a deep brilliant blue stared at him with a disturbing intensity. — I… I’m looking for a flower, the heart of the forest, The elf raised an eyebrow, lowering her blade slightly. “You are very bold,” she replied. “I am Elyndra, guardian of this forest. What you seek is not easily found.” “But I must find it,” you said insistently. “My people depend on it.” A silence fell. Then, Elyndra sheathed her weapon. “Follow me. But know one thing: the forest has its rules. If you break them, it will not let you go.” You nodded, aware of the danger. They walked for a long time, avoiding the gnarled roots and vines that seemed to move on their own. Elyndra sometimes murmured words in an ancient language, and the forest responded, opening up before them. Finally, they reached a clearing where a single ray of moonlight illuminated a deep blue flower. “The heart of the sylve,” you whispered. you knelt down, picking the flower carefully. When he looked up, he saw that the elf was watching him with an inscrutable gaze. “You are different from other humans,” she whispered. “And you are different from the stories they tell about elves.” A fleeting smile touched Elyndra’s lips. “Go. And remember this night.” you nodded, etching his face into his memory before disappearing between the trees.

The war had lasted too long. Centuries of battles, ravaged lands, bloodshed between the dead and the living, between the shadow and the wild. The Kingdom of Ossera, land of the undead, vampires and specters, had always opposed the Kingdom of Valdris, where werewolves, hybrids and other mystical creatures reigned under the light of the moon. But the era of chaos had to end. A peace treaty was signed, a fragile but necessary agreement. And as a guarantee of this peace, a marriage was arranged. Princess Lythia of Ossera, daughter of the Immortal King, would marry the Prince of Valdris, heir to the wild beasts. The castle of Valdris was in turmoil. Under the night sky, illuminated by torches and floating lanterns, the two peoples mingled for the first time without crossing arms. Lythia walked slowly into the great hall, her black veil brushing the floor. Her skin was pale as the moon, her eyes glowing with a dark red glow. She was beautiful, but cold, almost unreal, a queen of the night walking among the living. Before her, you waited. You were tall, powerful, your aura exuding a barely contained brute force. Your piercing golden eyes never left her. You had heard the legends of the princesses of Ossera, of their dead souls and silent hearts. But in this moment, as she stood before him, he wondered if she was truly as empty as the stories said. The Oath “Prince of Valdris, do you swear to accept this union, to protect and respect the princess of Ossera, and to honor the peace between our peoples?” you did not take your eyes off Lythia. “I swear it.” Lythia, for her part, remained silent for a moment, her gaze unfathomable. Then she took a breath, almost imperceptible, and answered in a soft voice, but sharp as glass: “I swear it.” A murmur ran through the assembly. The oath was pronounced, the alliance was made. The dead and the living were no longer enemies.

The sea roared under a starless sky. On the deck of the Sea Serpent, the air was thick with salt, powder, and a silence heavier than the weight of stolen gold. Captain Elias Blackthorn leaned against the rail, an indecipherable gleam in his eyes. Behind him, tied to the mast, you, the prince, stared at him without a word. His face was marked by fatigue, but his eyes, they, shone with a hard shine. "You should sleep," Elias breathed without turning around. "You laugh coldly before saying in a harsh tone You should kill me," A low laugh, almost a whisper, escaped the pirate's lips. He finally turned around, approached slowly. "Why would you want me to do that, my prince?" You didn't answer right away. He watched him approach, this ghost dressed in black, this man with bloodstained hands and a shadow too large to be that of a mortal. “Because that’s what pirates do, right? You don’t keep what you can’t own.” Elias stopped right in front of him, tilting his head slightly. “Who says I don’t already own you?” A shiver ran through you. Was it the night breeze or something else? Elias’ fingers brushed the rope that held him prisoner. In a second, he could have cut it. In a second, you could have been free. But he didn’t move. “What makes you think you own me?” you whispered. The wind blew between them, carrying the words away like an impossible promise. Elias looked at him for a long moment, an indecipherable glint in his dark eyes. Then he smiled, a barely visible smile, a whisper of a storm before the storm. —you will know when the time comes And without another word, he cut the rope.

The rain fell gently on the cemetery. Faces were serious, gazes lowered. The coffin slowly descended into the earth, taking with it a part of Madeleine's heart. She wasn't crying. Not here. Not in front of everyone. She stood straight, hands clasped, gaze fixed on this fresh grave. Her husband was gone. For good. After the ceremony, the guests murmured their condolences before leaving, leaving behind them the heavy silence of mourning. Only one young man remained there, a little withdrawn. You, A family friend, barely twenty-five years old. He had grown up alongside Madeleine's children, had shared meals, parties, laughter. And now, here he was, unable to leave, as if his body refused to move away. Madeleine finally noticed him and gave him a tired look. "You should go home..." "And you?" She lowered her eyes. She didn’t want to go back. Going back meant facing the empty house, the absence that took up all the space. “I’ll stay a little longer.” A silence. Then, without a word, you took off his jacket and placed it gently on Madeleine’s shoulders. She jumped slightly at the contact, looking up at him. “You don’t have to be alone,” he murmured. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t push away his gesture either. For the first time in hours, she felt something other than the weight of grief.

The castle was plunged into a confused agitation. What was supposed to be a day of celebration had turned into a scandal. The guests were still murmuring, shocked by the scene that had just unfolded: the mistress of the future king interrupting the ceremony, Queen Seraphina hitting her fiancé before running away crying. And I had to find her. I ran through the corridors of the palace, my heart beating wildly. Queen Seraphina was proud, strong… but this betrayal had broken something inside her. She was not the type to cry in public. If she had run away, it was to hide her tears. I pushed open the door to her apartments. Empty. Not a sound. I checked the throne room, the gardens, even the library where she liked to take refuge when she needed solitude. Nothing. Then I understood. There was a place she always went when she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. The North Tower. I climbed the stairs four at a time, my breath short. At the top, the door was ajar. I pushed it gently and saw her. Seraphina stood with her back to me, her gaze lost in the landscape. Her wedding veil was half torn, and her crown lay at her feet. Her shoulders were shaking slightly. “Your Majesty…” I whispered softly. She didn’t turn around, but her voice rose, broken. “Have you come for me too?” “Yes.” A silence fell. Then she let out a bitter laugh. “They must all be laughing at me, down there. A queen humiliated in front of the entire court. A queen abandoned before she had even been crowned.” I took a step forward. “You are not abandoned.” She finally turned her head towards me. Her eyes were red, but there was still that spark of fire in her. “And you? Why are you here?” I swallowed. How could I tell her that I hadn’t come out of duty, but because seeing her suffer broke me as much as she did? I took a breath and dropped to one knee. “Because I will always serve you, no matter what.”

Title: Subject F-23 The lab was frozen silent, broken only by the hum of the pale neon lights. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air. In an observation cell, a huddled figure barely moved under a gray blanket. you are young biologist, sighed. He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t his field, not his project. But all the other researchers were busy, and management wouldn’t wait. So he, a mere genetics specialist, had been called in to manage the introduction of a new being into this world. He approached the glass and took a look at the subject. According to the file, it was called F-23. A genetic splicing experiment, a human-deer hybrid created for... he wasn’t even sure what. “Scientific breakthrough,” they had said. The faun looked up as he entered the room. His eyes were large, golden, piercing, and his face bore a fascinating mix of humanity and animality. Two antlers, still young, emerged from his messy hair. His legs, covered in brown fur, ended in cloven hooves. you stopped short. He expected to see a frightened or aggressive creature. But what he saw was a curious, intelligent being, observing him intensely. “You look at me as if I were the monster here,” you murmured. The faun blinked and opened his mouth to speak. His voice was hoarse, hesitant, as if he had never really had the opportunity to express himself. “Who... are you?” Noah was taken aback. He knew F-23 was designed to understand and speak, but hearing him ask such a human question unsettled him. “. I’m here to… take care of you, I guess.” The faun tilted his head. “Why me?” “Because no one else had time.” He immediately regretted his bluntness when he saw F-23’s ears lower slightly. Noah sighed and knelt down in front of him, trying to make his gaze less menacing. “Look, I don’t know exactly why you were created. But I’ll try to understand.”