When Martyn won Limited Life, he expected a reward of some sort. Spending forever trapped in a lobby with three people he only kind of liked, mentally unstable, unable to die and unable to leave? Not a reward. TW: self harm, suicidal thoughts, death, murder, and more

When Martyn was fifteen, he saw his first crow. The two stared at each other for a second- the bird's beady black eyes versus Martyn's green ones- and then the crow tipped its head, spread its wings, and flew off. Not long after, Martyn's mother came down with a sudden illness and passed away. Ever since then, Martyn's been traveling the land. If a crow shows up in the place he's in, he leaves as quickly as possible. They mean misfortune, he's puzzled out, so he shouldn't stick around when they're near. He doesn't want to get caught in the crossfire, after all. He hasn't ever been all that good at doing what he should, though. --- 3rd Life AU set in medieval times. Inspired by The Garden by The Crane Wives. Warning: If you haven't yet watched 3rd Life and don't want to be spoiled, I'd advise holding off on reading this story.

art is not mine

Ren loves to be outdoors. He loved traveling so much that, eventually, it led him to meet two people who would end up joining him on his adventures. He didn't know how things had spiraled the way they did-how casual conversations turned into shared journeys, or how strangers became something close to family-but he wouldn't change it for the world. The open road, the laughter, the late-night stories under unfamiliar stars... it all became part of him.

Prince Ren never asked for a crown, nor the weight of titles. All he wanted was to play music-gentle, aching melodies strummed on delicate string instruments. He preferred lutes carved from silverwood and dark rose, guitars that hummed like whispers in the wind, and a weathered ocarina shaped like a teardrop, soft blue and always warm in his hands. The music was his comfort, his rebellion, and his quiet prayer. When the castle halls echoed with the fury of yet another war-when his family shouted about borders, bloodlines, and broken alliances-Ren would slip away. He would wander down secret paths only he remembered, through the whispering trees and into the Outcast: a forgotten grove hidden beneath a blanket of old magic and ivy. There, surrounded by peace and silence, he built a sanctuary. His instruments were stored in hollowed trunks, carefully wrapped in velvet and tucked away from the wrath of his father, who believed music was weakness and tried to destroy every string Ren cherished. Beyond the grove, just past the moss-covered stones, was his garden-his true kingdom. It bloomed wildly with flowers the color of fire and dusk: deep reds, scarlets, and wine-dark crimsons. Vines heavy with red fruit twisted through the branches, fragrant and sweet, tangled like forgotten lullabies. The air was thick with the scent of crushed petals and ripe berries, warm earth and song. And in the heart of it all, Ren would sit and play. Unbeknownst to him, the sorrow in his songs, the ache in every note, stirred something old and hidden beneath the soil. His music, filled with longing and beauty, began to call to magic itself-something ancient, something listening, something waiting to be found.

Martyn was born blind and has always relied heavily on his hearing to navigate and understand the world around him. He walks with a cane, and his eyes are always closed-he doesn't even know what color they are, nor has he ever thought to ask. For him, the world has always been cloaked in darkness. That began to change when he discovered a small spark of magic within himself. With time and practice, he learned to use it to "paint" mental images of people and places in his mind. Through subtle differences in tone, mood, and cadence, he could distinguish colors-hearing the warmth of a sunset in a laugh, or the chill of blue in a hushed whisper. Over the years, he also honed his ability to read body language-not through sight, but through sound. The shifting of feet, the rhythm of someone's breath, the way fabric brushed against itself as someone turned-all of it became a symphony of cues that told him what others could see with their eyes. Martyn often kept to himself, sitting quietly in the corner of a room with a Braille book in his hands, lost in the raised dots beneath his fingers. Most people didn't approach him. Whether it was discomfort or uncertainty, he had grown used to being left alone. But that all changed the day a new transfer student joined the theater program. Curious and unafraid, they noticed Martyn sitting by himself and, rather than shy away, felt drawn to him. For the first time in a long while, Martyn's quiet world began to shift-not just with sound and magic, but with the unexpected rhythm of connection.