Fitran stood motionless on a timeless platform devoid of any clock or marker, the solid ground beneath him firm yet mysteriously mute, absorbing the steady rhythm of his footsteps without a single echo. He had attempted to move eastward, toward the legendary grandeur of Gaia's palace, a place whispered about in dreams and ancient tales. But each time he advanced three steps, the world around him twisted violently, spinning in a dizzying blur that expelled him back to the very spot where he began. No news reached his ears. No dust stirred the still air. No shadow of judgment lingered close by.
Above, suspended in the vast expanse of the sky, floated a luminous figure—a presence he once summoned softly by name: Rinoa. Now, she was exalted as the Avatar of Harmony, a majestic guardian of nature's fragile equilibrium, weaving through the tangled web of fervent desires that bound all existence. From her ethereal form, delicate spirals of radiant light unfurled gracefully, entwining with silent tones that flowed like invisible streams of sound. Each subtle note etched a sacred, unbreakable decree into the very fabric of reality:
"Those who love must not discriminate."
"Those who long have lost their shape."
"Those who step forth for love will be consumed by their own form."
Fitran struggled to release a sound from deep within himself. Just as his lips parted to utter "Iris…", his tongue froze—not out of simple fear, but under the weight of an unyielding force. Absolute harmony forbade the pronunciation of that personal, sacred name. Every feeling inside him had been transmuted into unreachable frequencies, intangible and distant. Every longing hardened into cold, unyielding constants. And love itself… had dissolved into a vague, undefined anomaly, slipping through the cracks of his very being.
He closed his eyes tightly, attempting to quiet the turbulent chorus raging in his mind.
Behind the veil of darkness beneath his eyelids, the shadow of that ominous entity flickered once more—a blazing silhouette with eyes like burning coals, mercilessly stalking Rinoa. Its presence clung to him like a smothering shadow, signaling an ever-present, suffocating danger. This searing vision reminded Fitran of the cruel paradox thrust upon him: he loved Iris with all his heart, yet he was bound to protect Rinoa in silence, knowing that the pure existence of true love could ignite peril for her.
"Iris," he whispered inwardly, a fragile breath barely escaping his soul.
"Do you still remember my melody amid the chaos woven into this world's fractured poetry?"
But even this delicate murmur exacted a price.
The sky above darkened, clouds swirling like shadowed silk, spreading an ominous gloom.
The colors surrounding him twisted violently into jagged shards of a fractured prism, each fragment cutting through the air with a searing ache that radiated deep within his mind.
From beyond that endless, bleeding rainbow emerged a shadowy figure—not simply a woman named Rinoa, but a living embodiment of a love Fitran must never return. She was a whisper of forbidden desire, a paradox that threatened the fragile equilibrium of his existence.
"Do you long to return to the one who lies outside the balance?"
"Do you crave to touch the one who weaves time itself within his grasp?"
"Fitran," Rinoa's voice resonated softly, yet with an eerie, captivating insistence that sliced through the engulfing shadows,
"I will erase your footsteps… before they carve a destiny that shatters this world."
He felt the edges of his body blur and dissolve, as if his very essence was slipping away—no longer anchored to the physical realm.
This fading was not the work of magic, but the gradual loss of the right to act, the agency he once wielded now stolen by the relentless, unforgiving tide of fate.
Consumed by a swirling void of impenetrable darkness, Fitran clung to a solitary memory—one even Harmony could not erase. In the shadowed depths, that elusive presence continued to watch, stalking every step Rinoa took with chilling, dissatisfied intent.
And in the distortion of fractured time, he recalled Iris's gaze on that final night in the throne room.
Not a smile.
Not tears.
But a profound acceptance, an unspoken understanding that their love was destined to remain hidden—confined to the shadows of a world that revered balance far more than the bravery to embrace loss.
Fitran bowed his head, caught between two powerful duties that pulled at him like opposing magnets. He took three deliberate steps, each one weighted with the burden pressing down on his shoulders. Yet in his heart, he knew he would never truly reach his destination. Within the realm of impossibility, love found its purest form—fragile and blooming amid its own despair.
A fierce torment raged within him: should he shield Rinoa from the creeping darkness lurking in shadowed corners, or chase after Iris, his only glimmer of hope piercing the gloom? The choice lay heavy on his soul—the only one—demanding sacrifice of the most precious bond, all for a future wrapped in uncertainty.
Some time later,
Days passed with an unpredictable rhythm, like deceptively calm waves that hide powerful currents beneath their surface. Iris found herself trapped in a swirling fog of hope and doubt, much like the stubborn morning mist that clings to the earth, refusing to lift. The once vibrant and joyful palace had fallen silent; its grand walls now stood as mute witnesses to the sorrow and loneliness that had seeped into every corner, as if absorbing the heavy weight of each unfolding pain.
One night, beneath a sky jeweled with countless shimmering stars, Iris's attention was drawn to a shadow gliding swiftly and silently beneath her balcony. A young servant appeared, his face pale and etched with fear, the burden of troubling news pressing heavily upon his heart.
"Forgive me, Queen Iris," he whispered, his voice trembling as if carrying the chill of a creeping frost, "but there is news you must hear."
Iris straightened, her breath caught by the sudden pounding of her heart, a fierce drum signaling the approach of an unseen storm.
"What is it?" she asked, voice barely steady, the tightening grip of anxiety swelling inside her like an unexpected tempest brewing on the horizon.
"Rumors are spreading beyond the palace walls—whispers of slander and betrayal aimed at our kingdom. And... Fitran," the servant faltered, glancing up to gauge Iris's reaction, which remained unreadable.
"Continue," Iris urged softly, her voice wavering as she struggled to suppress the rising tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
"He is accused of treason—not only against the kingdom but against all that we hold dear, even against his love for you."
Iris stood frozen, the weight of the accusation settling deep in her chest as if her heart had been crushed beneath an invisible hand. Sorrow pierced her more sharply than she had expected; Fitran's love was no mere slander, but the very breath that sustained them both—an unbreakable bond woven through years of whispered promises and shared dreams.
"Don't they see?" she murmured, her voice barely above a breath, as the shadows of the room seemed to press closer around her. Her words hung in the stillness, a fragile plea against the growing darkness. "We stand against the world together. There is no betrayal."
The servant's face was etched with despair, his eyes shadowed with worry and the heavy burden of secrets. "There are those who tremble at the power of this hidden truth, Your Majesty," he said quietly. "They fear what will happen if it is revealed. They seek to shatter all you have built before you even comprehend their threat."
A sudden spark ignited in Iris's mind—sharp and sudden as lightning slicing through a stormy night sky. If they wished to destroy everything she held dear, then the time had come to resist. Clenching her fists, she lifted her chin with newfound resolve.
"You will help me," she declared, her voice steady and resolute, echoing through the silence like a battle cry. "We must uncover the truth of what truly occurred. If Fitran is in danger, we cannot—will not—stand idly by."
The young servant hesitated, the courage radiating from the queen stirring something deep within him. After a long heartbeat, he nodded firmly. "I will do everything in my power, Your Majesty, to protect this kingdom and those who defend it."
The night deepened around them, yet within Iris a renewed spark blossomed—delicate and fierce—like a wildflower unfolding its petals after a cleansing rain, ready once more to face whatever darkness awaited.
"We will find a way to be united again, Fitran," she whispered, her hand resting gently over the swell of her growing belly, as if weaving an unspoken bond between her heart and the child within. The soft glow of candlelight flickered across her face, illuminating the quiet determination in her eyes. "This child deserves to know his father's love, and I will not let the world tear us apart."
A subtle relief began to lighten the weight pressing against her. Iris remembered how the nobles had demanded she terminate the pregnancy, their voices sharp and unyielding. Yet she had stood firm, defying their cruel intentions. Now, as her belly blossomed beneath silken robes, their whispers had quieted—though she remained wary of the shadows they still cast. Most of them know who the father is, and their rumors stir like poison in the air, aimed at you, Fitran, and at me.
Her fingers brushed over the fragile letter resting on her lap, its delicate parchment a talisman of hope and strength. The inked words seemed to pulse with meaning, grounding her resolve. "One step at a time," she breathed, her voice barely more than a tremulous vow. "Fate cannot write the ending without my consent."
With renewed purpose, Iris set about crafting a plan, gathering whispered truths from servants lurking in shadowed corridors and keen-eyed guards patrolling dim hallways. She pieced together fragments of information like shards of a broken mirror, reflecting glimpses of a hidden truth.
One night, bathed in the ethereal silver light of a full moon pouring through tall windows, she made her way to the palace's secret library—a sanctum veiled in dust and silence, where ancient tomes lay forgotten, their cracked spines holding whispers of centuries past.
"There," she murmured, eyes scanning the rows of faded leather-bound books, their pages yellowed with time, "the answers to everything might be waiting."
Her breath caught with a fierce longing. "And I will read every word with all the passion I possess, so Fitran will know that hope never fades."
The baby inside her stirred once more, as if responding to the fierce resolve burning within her. "I will uncover the truth for you, my child," Iris whispered softly, a promise laced with hope and unwavering determination. "And when the time comes, we will reunite this family." With that, she turned away from the balcony, her steps steady and purposeful, carrying with them a profound realization: love is not merely patient waiting, but an endless, fierce struggle for those who mean everything.
The library enveloped her in a heavy silence, as thick and dense as the humid night air that lingered outside. Dust particles danced in the faint beams of moonlight filtering through stained glass, settling gently on stacks of forgotten tomes. Iris let her fingertips glide over the spines—crumbled leather, cracked edges, faded gold leaf—each book whispering stories etched deep into its very fabric.
"Among these countless volumes, there must be something that can help," she thought, her heart trembling with both anticipation and urgency. Slowly, she reached for a large, emerald-green book resting atop a worn oak table. Its cover, weathered but regal, gleamed faintly under the moon's gaze, embossed with shimmering golden letters: 'The Strengths and Weaknesses of Kings'. She opened it with reverence, as if unlocking an ancient door to hidden truths long overshadowed by time.
As her eyes scanned the fragile, yellowed pages, Iris uncovered delicate annotations scrawled in the margins—dusty notes recounting bitter rivalries between noble families, enmities so deep they had entwined themselves with the kingdom's very roots. The weight of history pressed upon her, heavy as the storm clouds gathering beyond the palace walls.
It turned out that many factions conspired to undermine the throne's authority, including the cunning royal advisors who lingered in the King's shadow, their presence masked behind heavy, dark curtains that swallowed the light. "So this is what they have been hiding," Iris whispered, her voice barely more than the soft rustle of wind through cracking leaves as she turned each fragile page, her curiosity growing with every secret unveiled. "These people are far more sinister than I ever imagined."
A fierce determination ignited within Iris, blazing like an unquenchable wildfire deep in her chest. If this buried truth could be revealed, perhaps she could save Fitran—and shift the fate of the kingdom when all hope seemed lost. She needed to weave this newfound knowledge into a grander scheme—a plan not only to protect their love but to defend the very future of the land now teetering on the edge of ruin. Yet for a moment, doubt shadowed her resolve; maybe it was just her fear whispering in the silence. Still, Fitran held a power that could change everything.
"How ironic," Iris murmured, the words slipping from her lips like a secret breathed into the night.
"But I also want to fight for you in my own way…"
With a spirit ablaze and a heart drumming like distant war calls, Iris snapped the book shut with unwavering resolve. She envisioned gathering those steadfast and true—loyal souls who championed justice and light, brave enough to confront the deepest shadows without flinching. "I will call them to the place where we once shared whispered stories beneath the stars," she decided, feeling the weight and warmth of unity as her greatest weapon.
"Every step draws us nearer, Fitran. Nothing—no force—can sever the bond between us."
Then, with trembling hands, Iris penned a letter. It was a message she knew might never find him, yet no ordinary ink could capture the anguish and lingering hope that stained her heart. So she wrote with her own blood, each drop infused with the rawness of love and sorrow.
Fitran, if these words reach you in any world: I hold no blame for what has come to be.
But please, do not let our child come into this world alone.
I may have the power to hold back the march of time, but my womb—my body—cannot endure such loneliness.
And my soul is too weary to wear the crown of queen, hollow and devoid of purpose.
I am not pleading for your return. I only beg for a farewell that can mark an end—not an endless pause frozen in grief."
She folded the letter with gentle care, laying it softly upon her swollen lap. Within her, the baby stirred—a slow, tender movement—as though feeling the heavy hope and love woven into every line.
A soft smile flickered across Iris's lips.
"When your father finally arrives, I will tell him you waited for him with a patience greater than mine could ever hold."