𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍

011 | Warmth

♡

Some people are willing, Y/n, to kill for you.

The L/n manor was in a mess. The crown prince had came teleporting right in the middle of the dining hall (and teleportation was a skill that required an obscene amount of mana — it could kill the person who was trying to attempt the spell), sending plates and cutlery smashing into the ground. But with just a look at him, one would be able to tell that Isidor Sierra was clearly not in the right state of mind — his eyes were darkened, seemingly pitch black — and his magic radiated off him in deadly waves, making the flowers around the estate wither.

Lady L/n gave a sharp gasp.

In his hands was Y/n — dead —

"Y/n is not dead," Isidor rushed out desperately, his words lapsing onto one another, "he isn't, but he could be, if he isn't administered medical help immediately. I tried my best to stem the bleeding, but the blood obviously comes from an internal wound. And magic doesn't work on him..."

Magic doesn't work on him. It was this very fact that has caused this situation. It was this very fact that would cause Y/n to suffer, to be tortured, to...

Oh, that lady. S-A-S-H-A. She was not yet dead: Isidor had specially made it so that she would rot in agonising pain — no — she would go through ten times more pain than Y/n before Isidor would ever allow for her death. To let her die would be too much of a blessing towards her. After all, was she not the one who had given his beloved so much pain? Who had tormented him?

Y/n's clothes were completely stained with blood. Crimson, carmine — plain rich red dripped from his mouth. Viscera had burned their way up his throat to spill from his lips with a splash, and Y/n's vision has tinted red for a few seconds. Y/n's cheeks had a rampant flush and his hair lacked the usual bounce, instead now flat and sticking to his neck. Y/n was panting heavily, making pained noises whenever Isidor shifted him — it was obvious he was violently sick. His eyes were squeezed shut, forehead creased so tightly he looked extremely uncomfortable.

"It's too cold..." Y/n whispered softly in a cracked voice. He had since regained a little consciousness from collapsing earlier on, but now he was in immense discomfort— "someone, make it hotter. Warmer," then the (h/c)-haired boy clutched at the fabric of Isidor's clothes, trying his best to snuggle his face into the prince's chest.

"Oh, Y/n," Isidor said quietly, "bear with me a little longer, alright?" He took careful note not to touch Y/n's burnt (though technically now healed) hand. "I'm sorry. It must hurt a lot. You're doing well. You're doing so, so good, Y/n..."

"Sorry I disturbed you," Y/n croaked out. Isidor's heart gave a little squeeze, furious at Sasha again — how much did she abuse Y/n for him to be so apologetic for everything? — "I don't know why I'm —" his words was punctuated by another cough of blood, another wheeze, "if I had magic —!"

Y/n was cut off once more by a brutal surge of blood from his windpipe before the blood splattered onto Isidor's attire. "Ah," Y/n said weakly, trying to wipe the blood away. He only succeeding in smudging it. "I'm sorry."

Stop apologising. Please. Please, Y/n. I beg of you.

"Mother," Y/n's eyes trailed to his horrified mother, who was frozen in shock, trembling all over, "I..."