ASCENDANCY

Another funeral.

Felix stood quietly beside his mother, who was trembling with grief, her face streaked with tears that glistened in the soft, overcast light. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the hush of the crowd felt suffocating. It was a place Felix had been to before, but this time, something was different. Something was shifting in his chest, tightening with each passing moment. His eyes lingered on the open grave, the casket barely visible beneath the sea of flowers. He felt his heart thud in his chest, but not with the usual ache. There was something new this time, something he couldn't quite name. He glanced at his mother again, her hand gripping his with a silent, desperate need, as if she feared losing him, too.

For the first time, Felix was beginning to understand the weight of it all — the finality of death, the loss that stretched far beyond the rituals and words spoken in sorrow. He realized with a jolt that he had been numb to this for so long, as if the pain had always been someone else's, always distant, just beyond his reach. Why was it that it was only now, in this moment, that the truth was sinking in?

Was he really just now beginning to comprehend what it meant to lose someone? To feel the empty space left behind? To face the quiet after the storm of grief had passed?

He looked around at the faces, at the quiet mourning of those around him, and for the first time, he truly saw it. The grief wasn't just a passing moment. It lingered. It consumed. It was a shadow that followed, no matter how many years passed. He hadn't realized it until now, but perhaps, in his own way, he had been running from it too.

Why had it taken so long for him to understand? Why did it feel like he was only just waking up to the reality of it all?

He kept looking at the crowd, his eyes scanning the sea of familiar yet distant faces. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach, a sense of waiting, of expectation. There was one person he had been searching for.

And then, through the crowd, he saw him. Jack Holmes. His uncle.

Felix's gaze lingered on him for a moment, taking in the familiar features of the man who had been a shadow in his life, always distant, always just out of reach. Jack stood a little apart from the rest, his expression unreadable, as though he too were feeling the weight of this moment in his own way. He was older now, graying at the temples, the years pressing hard into his face, but there was still something commanding about him, something that reminded Felix of the stories his father used to tell about the Holmes men — about their legacy, their strength. 

As the firstborn, the Holmes title had been passed down through his father, Aaron, and with it, a responsibility Felix never quite understood until now. His father's sudden death had left him scrambling, uncertain of what came next, of how to carry on. And now, with Aaron gone, Felix felt the enormity of it all crashing down on him. There was no clear guide, no firm path ahead. The weight of the family name had always been an abstract thing, something he hadn't fully grasped until now — until he was standing here, surrounded by mourners, facing the stark reality that there was no one left to look to except for the few remaining Holmes. 

Jack. His uncle. Felix's mind lingered on him. If there was anyone who could help him make sense of this, it would be Jack. But there was also a cold distance between them, an unspoken tension that Felix couldn't shake. Jack had never been a father figure to him, never offered the kind of guidance that Felix had hoped for. His cousins, too — distant, their lives woven into their own webs of privilege and expectation — had never seemed concerned with what was happening to him. No, Felix was left alone in this strange space, caught between the past and the future, trying to figure out who he was meant to become.

Now that his father was gone, he had no choice but to rely on the others who bore the Holmes name. Jack, and his cousins. They were his family, but that didn't make them any easier to understand. It didn't make them any less distant.

Felix felt a tightness in his chest. He wasn't sure what to expect from Jack, or what Jack might expect of him. All he knew was that the weight of his father's legacy had just become heavier, and he couldn't carry it alone.

Felix gathered what little courage he had left, the tightness in his chest making it hard to breathe, but he couldn't stay in the periphery any longer. He had to speak to Jack. He had to make this connection, however strained. He forced his legs to move, his feet heavy with the weight of the moment. 

"Uncle Jack," he said, his voice more steady than he felt.

Jack Holmes turned toward him, a flicker of recognition crossing his face before it settled into something more guarded. His jaw tightened, his expression as unreadable as ever. 

"Long time no see, Felix. I'm sorry we had to see each other again under… these circumstances."

Felix nodded, the words he'd been rehearsing in his head suddenly slipping away. He didn't know how to respond. The silence between them stretched on, thick and awkward, until Felix felt the pressure in his chest make it impossible to stand still any longer. It was as though a thousand questions were crowding in his mind, but none of them seemed like the right thing to say. 

Jack broke the quiet with a low, steady voice, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

"It was a Moriarty, wasn't it?"

Felix stiffened, the words landing like a cold slap. It was as if Jack had reached into the darkness and pulled the very thing Felix had been trying to avoid. 

"Yeah," he said, his throat tight. "She killed Evelyn too."

Jack's expression remained unchanged, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. 

"She?" Jack repeated, his voice low, the question hanging in the air.

Felix nodded, though the truth of it felt like a weight on his tongue.

 "Yes," he said quietly, "it's a woman."

The revelation seemed to hit Jack differently. He didn't say anything right away, instead staring past Felix for a moment as if trying to find the words. Then, slowly, he exhaled. 

"A Moriarty woman… I should've expected as much."

Felix had no idea what that meant. "What do you mean?"

Jack glanced at him, his gaze sharp. 

"The Moriarty family's been in the shadows for years, Felix. You don't rise to that level of power without a certain… ruthlessness. But a woman?" 

He shook his head, his lips curling into a slight, almost humorless smile. 

"I never thought one of them would get involved with something this big."

Felix frowned, his mind racing. 

"So you know them? You've heard of her before?"

"Not specifically," Jack said, his voice grim. 

"But I know their reputation. The Moriartys don't kill for money or power. They kill to send a message. And Evelyn —"

Felix felt a chill spread through him, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice low. 

"What do you mean? What's going on here, Uncle Jack? Why is this happening?"

Jack hesitated, as if weighing how much to say, before he spoke again, his words slow, deliberate. 

"Because you're not just a Holmes by name. This — " He gestured vaguely at the grave behind them, then at Felix himself. 

"This is bigger than you think. Your father didn't just leave you a title. He left you a mess. And now it's your turn to clean it up."

"Yeah... right. I have to clean it up." 

His eyes lingered on Jack, trying to find something to anchor him in this storm of uncertainty. His father was gone, Diana was hunting him down, and now, with the weight of the Holmes name pressing on his chest, he had no choice but to face this head-on. 

The thought of fighting the Moriartys — especially a woman, someone he couldn't quite understand — felt daunting, impossible even. How do you defeat a legacy of ruthless calculation and cold power when you're just trying to make sense of it all? Felix felt small, as if the world had suddenly grown too large, and he wasn't sure if he could ever catch up. 

But something stirred in him. He had to try. He couldn't just stand by, let it all spiral out of control.

"Uncle Jack," 

Felix said, his voice stronger now, edged with a new kind of determination. 

"Could I request help from your sons?"

Jack's eyes flickered to Felix, studying him carefully for a moment. He could see the shift in his nephew — the way his posture had straightened, the flicker of resolve in his eyes. Felix wasn't some helpless kid anymore. He had something to fight for, something worth protecting, and Jack respected that. His own face softened ever so slightly.

"Of course you can," Jack replied, his tone firm, the weight of his words grounded in experience. 

"No one fights alone, Felix."

Felix nodded, the relief in his chest almost palpable. For the first time in days, he felt like he wasn't entirely alone in this. His uncle's sons, his cousins, would stand beside him — people who knew the world of power, of danger, better than he ever could. Jack wasn't offering just moral support; he was offering resources, experience, and a team.

Felix didn't know what he was walking into. He didn't know the full extent of the Moriarty family, or how deep this web of violence and treachery ran. But he knew one thing for certain: he couldn't go at this alone. He couldn't face a woman like that — someone who could erase lives so easily — without the help of those who understood what was at stake.

"I don't know how to fight someone like that," 

Felix admitted quietly, more to himself than to Jack. 

"I don't know how to fight her."

Jack studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. The wind rustled through the trees around them, a faint sound that made everything feel more distant, more surreal. 

"You don't have to know everything right now, Felix," Jack said, his voice low but steady. 

"What matters is that you're willing to fight. That's all you need to start with. The rest? We'll figure it out as we go."

Jack took a step closer, lowering his voice so only Felix could hear. 

"But listen carefully, Felix," he said, his eyes narrowing. 

"The Moriartys aren't just any family. They're dangerous. This isn't a game. If you want to beat them, you'll need more than just determination. You'll need strategy. And you'll need to be prepared for things that… well, things that you may not be ready for."

Felix swallowed hard, but nodded. "I understand."

Jack's hand clapped him on the shoulder, firm and reassuring. 

"We'll make sure you're ready. I'll talk to my sons. They'll help you with whatever you need."

"Felix."

The soft voice cut through the tension that hung between them. Charlotte, his mother, stood a few paces away, her figure a quiet reminder of the gravity of the day. Her eyes were tired, distant, as if she had been carrying the weight of grief in silence, alone. Felix turned toward her, his gaze flickering between his mother and Jack, but Jack gave him a subtle nod, signaling that they would continue this conversation later.

"We should go," Charlotte said again, her voice quieter this time, though there was a calm finality to it.

Felix hesitated for only a moment. He still had so much to ask, so many things to understand. 

"Yes," Felix replied, the weight of his thoughts pressing on him. 

"You can go first. I'll reach you in a minute."

Charlotte nodded, turning slowly, her heels clicking softly against the gravel as she made her way toward the waiting car. The air between Felix and Jack felt heavy again, but there was a sense of finality now, like they were closing one chapter and preparing to move on to the next. 

"Thank you for your help, Uncle Jack," Felix said, his voice sincere but with an edge of uncertainty.

Jack's expression softened, though the guarded look never fully left his eyes. 

"Don't mention it, Felix," he replied, his voice gruff but warm in its own way. 

"I'm sorry, my sons couldn't make it to the funeral today. But I'll make sure to tell them to visit you this afternoon."

"I'll be waiting then," Felix said, his voice steady.

For the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Jack's lips. It wasn't much — nothing like the charismatic grins that had once been part of his uncle's reputation — but it was something. A sign that maybe, just maybe, Jack believed in him more than he had let on.

"Your father has grown you well," Jack said, his voice softer now, tinged with an odd sort of pride. "You can do it."

Felix blinked, surprised by the genuine warmth in his uncle's words. He gave a small, hesitant smile in return. It was faint, but it was there. It wasn't just gratitude — it was something deeper, a flicker of belief in himself that he hadn't felt in a long time. 

Maybe I can do this, he thought.

He waved to his uncle before turning to walk toward his mother. As he approached her, he noticed the quiet sadness still etched into her face, the way her shoulders slumped just a little more with every step. But there was strength in her, too. She had lived through more than Felix could even begin to comprehend, and yet she still kept moving forward.

They got into the car, and the world outside felt a little quieter now, as if the storm of the past few days had calmed, even if only for a moment. Felix's mind was buzzing with everything Jack had said, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story, more to the family he was part of, than he'd ever been told. The Moriartys, his father's legacy, his uncle's strange promises — it was all tangled up in a knot that Felix didn't know how to untangle.

But for the first time, he felt ready to try.

As they drove away from the cemetery, Felix leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes for a brief moment. It wasn't the end of anything. It was the beginning.

The car pulled into the long driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel as the mansion loomed ahead — a place that used to be filled with warmth, laughter, and life. Now, it felt hollow. The grand stone facade, with its towering windows and sprawling grounds, felt distant and cold. The laughter that had once echoed through its halls was replaced with silence, the kind that pressed down on everything, making the walls feel like they were closing in. 

Felix stepped out of the car, the familiar scent of the estate filling his nostrils — a mixture of old wood, polished floors, and the faintest trace of lavender. He could almost hear Evelyn's voice in the distance, her laughter, the sound of her footsteps running up the grand staircase. She was always so full of life, always bringing an energy to this house that now seemed forever gone. 

As Felix and Charlotte entered the foyer, the house staff were already at attention, their faces masked with the quiet professionalism that had always defined them. Celine, the housekeeper, gave a polite but sorrowful nod, and the young maids curtsied respectfully. The butlers and servants, though they all shared the same sadness in their eyes, greeted them warmly, offering their condolences before making a formal suggestion. 

"We've prepared a meal for you, Master Felix, Madam Charlotte," Celine said gently, her voice thick with sympathy. 

"Please, allow us to serve you."

Felix caught a glimpse of his mother's face — pale, tired, her eyes sunken from days of grief. She gave a soft shake of her head, and Felix knew immediately what was coming. She wasn't ready to eat. Not yet.

"No, thank you," Charlotte said quietly, her voice thin and distant. "I'm not hungry."

Felix followed his mother into the grand sitting room, where the heavy curtains were drawn, casting the room in shadows. He could sense her exhaustion, the weight of grief pressing down on her with every step she took. She hadn't been the same since Evelyn's death, and Felix knew the pain she was feeling had settled deep into her bones. 

The house staff, understanding the mood, quietly retreated, leaving them alone in the quiet of the house. Felix stood for a moment, watching his mother, before the familiar sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Sebastian, the head butler, approached him, his long, polished shoes clicking on the marble floor. The man was always impeccably dressed, his graying hair neatly combed back, his expression one of quiet concern.

"I understand why you don't have much of an appetite, Master Felix," Sebastian said softly, his gaze flicking over to Charlotte. 

"But your mother… she's already frail herself. Can you convince her to eat, even just a little? For her own health?"

Felix sighed, glancing at his mother, who was standing by the window, staring out at the garden. He could see the faint tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders sagged with the weight of loss. He wanted to do something, anything, to ease her pain, but right now, he knew there was nothing he could say that would make it all better.

He turned back to Sebastian, giving a small, reassuring smile. It wasn't much, but it was all he had at this moment.

"Yeah, I'll make sure to," Felix said, his voice steady, though his heart felt heavy. 

"I'll talk to her."

Sebastian gave a nod of approval before quietly stepping away, leaving Felix alone to deal with the delicate task of getting his mother to eat. Felix turned back toward Charlotte, taking a deep breath. He knew it wouldn't be easy. She had been so distant lately, and the grief in her eyes was like a wall he couldn't break down. But he had to try. 

Slowly, he approached her, standing beside her in the silence. She didn't look at him, but he could see the way her lips quivered ever so slightly, as if she was holding back more tears. 

"Mom," he said gently, his voice soft but insistent. 

"I know it's hard. But you have to eat something. For yourself. Please."

Charlotte's eyes flickered toward him for a moment, filled with a sadness that made Felix's chest ache. She opened her mouth as if to protest, but then closed it again, her shoulders slumping even further.

"I'm not hungry, Felix," she whispered, her voice so soft it barely made a sound. 

"I just… I don't have the strength for it."

Felix didn't press her further. He knew how it felt to be trapped by grief, to have it consume every part of you until there was nothing left. But he also knew that his mother couldn't afford to keep neglecting herself. Not like this.

He knelt down slightly, so he was at her eye level, his voice low but firm. 

"I get it, Mom. I do. But you need to take care of yourself. For me. Please."

For a long moment, Charlotte didn't answer, and Felix feared she might refuse once more. But then, slowly, she nodded. It was barely perceptible, but it was enough.

"Alright," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'll try."

Felix stood up, relieved, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her weariness, but for the first time in days, there was a small sense of victory — something to hold onto. He would help her through this. One step at a time.

"I'll go tell the staff to bring it up," he said quietly.

Charlotte nodded again, this time with a little more strength. Felix turned toward the door, stepping out into the hall to find the staff, but before he could leave, his eyes caught a glimpse of something on the mantelpiece. A portrait of Evelyn. 

The weight of everything hit him all over again — his sister's death, his father's passing, the world that had shattered around him in just a few days. But he didn't let the grief overtake him now. Not yet. His family needed him. And right now, that was all that mattered.

He took a deep breath and continued on his way, determined to keep his promise.

Felix made his way down the long hallway, his footsteps soft but deliberate on the polished floors. He called for Celine. She was always professional, and more importantly, she understood the delicate balance of respect and care that came with serving the family.

"Celine," he called, his voice just loud enough to reach her.

She appeared almost immediately, her expression calm yet filled with the understanding that came from long years of working in this house. 

"Yes, Master Felix?" she responded, her voice polite, but with an undertone of concern.

"Please bring Charlotte her lunch," he instructed, keeping his tone even, though his mind was still focused on his mother. He couldn't help but glance back toward the sitting room, where Charlotte stood, gazing out the window. He knew she wouldn't eat unless someone stayed with her, someone to encourage her to take small steps back to normalcy, even if only for a moment.

Celine nodded, as if she anticipated his next request. 

"What about you, Master Felix?" she asked, her voice gentle but still professional.

Felix hesitated for a moment, considering the options. He wasn't hungry, not really — not after everything that had happened. His appetite was lost somewhere between grief and exhaustion, tangled in the strange emotions of the last few days. 

"Bring it over to my room," he said finally. "I'll be up in a minute."

He paused, then added, "Please stay with my mother and make sure she eats. Don't leave her alone." 

His words were firm, but there was a quiet plea in them. He didn't want to pressure her, but he needed her to take care of herself, if only for a little while. 

Celine's eyes softened as she nodded in understanding. "Understood, Master Felix."

With that, she disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps light but purposeful. Felix watched her go, feeling a sense of relief that someone was there for his mother, someone who could manage what he couldn't. He felt the weight of his responsibilities pressing on him once more. He had to be strong — not just for himself, but for Charlotte, for the memory of Evelyn, and for the family that was now left to pick up the pieces.

Felix turned away from the hallway and made his way to his room, his footsteps slow, as if each one carried the weight of a thousand thoughts. He sat down on the edge of his bed, his gaze drifting out the window, lost in the expanse of the darkening sky.

"How did my father do it?" he murmured to himself, the question hanging heavy in the silence.

His eyes shifted to the nightstand beside him, where the worn leather cover of the diary he had found at Moriarty's mansion rested. A faint curiosity tugged at him. 

"What if I showed this to my cousins?"

He considered the idea, but doubts quickly followed. Would they understand? Could they even help?

A knock at the door broke his reverie.

"Master Felix, may I come in?" 

It was Sebastian's voice, calm and composed as ever.

Felix straightened, as though the sound of the servant's voice had reminded him of the weight of his own posture. 

"You may."

Sebastian entered, a tray of food in his hands. 

"I brought you your lunch," he said quietly, setting it on the small table by the window.

Felix nodded, but his mind was still far from the meal. 

"Thank you. You can leave it there." 

His words were distant, but he made an effort to sound polite. As the door closed behind Sebastian, Felix's eyes flicked back to the diary, his thoughts as tangled as ever.

He let out a heavy sigh, his mind tangled in frustration as he gazed down at the diary in his hands. The worn leather cover seemed to mock him, its pages filled with answers he could never seem to find. 

"What should I do…"

— A FEW DAYS AGO, MORIARTY HOUSEHOLD —

"Finn, come here."

Diana sat on the plush sofa, her gaze distant and her mind filled with thoughts that seemed to pull her in every direction. The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of a clock on the wall, marking the passing of time as if it were something she could control — actually, was there something she couldn't control?

"You called, Lady Moriarty?" a calm voice broke through the stillness. 

Diana didn't immediately respond, her eyes still unfocused as she mulled over the situation at hand. Finally, she turned to the figure standing at the door, her expression as calm as ever. It was frightening.

"How is the plan progressing?" she asked, her voice smooth, though there was an underlying sharpness to it.

The man bowed slightly, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he answered. 

"The Holmes heir is not planning to come at the date you had set for him."

Diana's brow furrowed, confusion creeping into her features. 

"He's not coming? Did something go wrong with the plan?"

The man remained calm, his tone matter-of-fact. 

"Lady, he is still a Holmes after all."

She stood up slowly, her movements deliberate as she crossed the room toward the window. The dark city sprawled below, oblivious to the machinations that were unfolding within its walls. Diana stared out for a moment, her thoughts weighing heavily on her shoulders.

"Well then," she said, her voice cold and steady, "we're going with Plan B."

A slight nod from the man, his face betraying no emotion. 

"Understood."

Diana's eyes followed the man as he made his way toward the door. The silence in the room felt thick, heavy, as if the air itself was holding its breath. She let out a soft sigh, barely audible.

"He's going to understand," she murmured under her breath, the words tinged with both resolve and an undercurrent of something darker. 

She stood still for a moment, a slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

"At this point," she continued, her voice gaining a quiet but firm strength, "let's make it seem intentional."

In truth, that was her strategy — or at least, what she let Felix believe. Diana had no grand scheme, no meticulously crafted plan. She was simply observing, waiting, and reacting. Every move he made, every decision, she watched closely, making it appear as though it was all part of a carefully orchestrated sequence. Slowly, doubt would begin to creep into his thoughts. He'd start questioning everything — his own instincts, his choices, even his intentions. Diana had no need to control his every move; all she had to do was give him the illusion that she did. That was the power she held — the power of uncertainty, the power of making him believe he was walking into her trap without realizing that, in truth, there was no trap at all. It was all in his mind. And that was where she thrived, in the delicate dance of manipulation without lifting a finger.

Suddenly, a soft knock echoed through the room.

"Lady Moriarty, may I come inside?" came the quiet voice from the other side.

Diana's gaze shifted toward the door, and without hesitation, she replied, "You may."

Finn stepped into the room, his footsteps firm and deliberate. His presence was always reassuring, yet today, there was something heavier about the air between them.

"Why are you here again?" Diana asked, her voice laced with an indifference that masked the familiarity she felt with him.

"Lady Moriarty…" Finn began, his tone hesitant, as if he were bracing himself to speak the words he knew would be rejected.

Diana already knew what he was going to say. She had always known.

"No, I won't" she cut him off, before he could even form the full question.

Finn froze, caught off guard. They had known each other since childhood, grew up side by side in a world of shadows, but still, she surprised him with every word. Diana was the only person Finn had, and he was the only one she truly trusted. And yet, despite their bond, she still couldn't let herself escape this life.

"But… you can escape this hellish life your father gave you. I can help you. You won't have to kill anymore…" Finn's words came out almost pleading, but Diana remained unyielding.

She moved closer to him, her presence both commanding and unsettling. Her gaze locked with his, deep and unwavering, as she peered into his green eyes. There was an undeniable connection between them, one forged in blood and survival, yet it was also an unspoken tragedy — a bond that neither of them could ever truly escape.

Finn couldn't tear his eyes away from hers, captivated by that intense shade of red — scarlet, like blood spilled across the ground. It was a color that reminded him of all the lives they had taken together. And yet, despite everything, he couldn't look away.

"Finn," Diana spoke his name softly, breaking the fragile silence between them. She reached up, her fingers brushing gently across his cheek. The touch was tender, yet it carried the weight of everything they had done. Finn didn't flinch or pull back. Instead, he leaned into her touch, tilting his head toward her hand — his heart betraying him. The same hand that had killed countless people now caressed his skin, but he didn't feel fear. Instead, he felt something far more complicated — desire, longing, and an aching sorrow that he couldn't quite name.

"I was born to end this rivalry, Finn," Diana continued, her voice softer now. "I can't escape this fate."

"Lady Moriarty…" Finn murmured, his voice filled with quiet anguish.

"You were born lucky, Finn. You can feel emotions. You can understand them. But I…" 

Diana's voice faltered slightly, a rare crack in her otherwise impenetrable exterior. 

"I can't. I really can't."

Finn's expression softened. A deep sadness washed over him, the kind that came from seeing someone you cared for trapped in their own self-made cage. He had always hoped, always wanted, to pull her out of the darkness. But he knew — he had known for a long time — that she was too far gone.

"If we only had been born in a different situation, would things have been better?" 

Finn whispered, almost to himself.

"Maybe… who knows." 

Diana's response was fleeting, almost indifferent, but there was a hint of something behind it. Regret? Hope? It was hard to tell. 

She slowly withdrew her hand from his face, the moment passing between them like a fleeting shadow.

"How's the plan proceeding?" Diana asked, changing the subject with ease, as if the intimate exchange they just shared hadn't occurred.

"Everything is as planned," Finn replied, his tone shifting back to business, though his eyes still carried the weight of their conversation.

Diana nodded, her expression unreadable. She had her own role to play, and there was no turning back now. The rivalry would end on her terms, and if that meant sealing her fate, so be it. She had never been one for sentimentality, and she never would be. In the end, she knew the only thing that truly mattered was the power she held — and the legacy she was determined to leave behind.

Finn stood there, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to proceed or what to say. He had always been there for her — since childhood, since the very beginning of this dark path they had walked together — but now, in moments like this, he felt like an outsider in her world.

"May I bring you something to eat, Lady?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

"No, thank you" Diana replied curtly, her gaze fixed on a distant point, as if the world outside her thoughts didn't matter at all.

"But… you know you're gravely underweight." 

Finn pressed, his worry deepening. He couldn't ignore how frail she looked lately, how the fire that had always burned so fiercely within her seemed to be dimming. Or… was it just an impression of his?

"It doesn't matter." Diana said, her voice sharp, as though she were trying to cut through his concerns with a blade. She didn't need anyone to worry about her, and she didn't want to hear it.

"But—" 

Before he could finish, Diana interrupted him with a cold finality.

"Finn, I understand your concerns, but nothing about my health regards you. You exist only to help me kill."

Her words hung in the air, cutting through the tension between them like a sword. Finn's breath caught in his throat, the sharpness of her statement landing heavy on him. He had always known this to be true, at least in part, but hearing her say it so plainly left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had tried for so long to reach her, to break through the walls she had built around herself, but he knew deep down that he would never be the one to pull her from this darkness.

He froze for a moment, his expression betraying the hurt and confusion he could never fully voice. But he knew. He knew what she was, and what she had become. He was a tool for her, nothing more. And she would never let him be anything else.

"I'll take my leave then," he said quietly, his voice stripped of any previous warmth, now resigned to his role in her world.

"Update me if anything happens," Diana replied without looking at him, her tone businesslike, as if their exchange had been nothing more than a simple transaction.

"Understood," Finn muttered, his heart heavy, before he turned and walked out of the room, the door closing softly behind him. 

Diana stood still for a moment, her thoughts a tangled mess of resolve and sorrow. She didn't have the luxury of softness, of emotions like Finn clung to. She had a mission, a path laid out before her, and no one — no one — was going to stand in her way.

Finn walked slowly through the dimly lit corridor, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his own thoughts. Every step felt like a reminder of the world he could never escape, the world he had become trapped in — his own feelings of helplessness gnawing at him. He reached his room and opened the door, the familiar scent of stale wood and dust filling his lungs as he stepped inside. 

With a sigh, he let the door close behind him and sank onto the bed, his body going limp as his mind became consumed by one person: Diana. She was the only constant in his life, the one who had pulled him from the depths of despair. But why couldn't he save her? The question echoed endlessly in his mind.

He had never allowed himself to feel this way before — this overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Since when had he started to hope for something more than this, something better? Something for the two of them? Was it foolishness? Was it a dream he had no right to have?

When did he start feeling this way?

His thoughts drifted back, to the time before everything changed. Finn had once lived a simple life. He was born into a humble family, but it had been enough. Despite their modest means, things had always worked out. That was, until tragedy struck. His mother's health had slowly deteriorated after she gave birth to him and his twin brother. Finn could still remember the look in her eyes as she became weaker and weaker, the toll it took on her body, her spirit. She passed away when he was still young, and soon after, their father, crushed by grief and guilt, had turned to gambling and drink. 

Finn could still hear the angry, slurred words of their father as he came home late at night, blaming his sons for their mother's death, for the tragedy of their lives. It wasn't long before the alcohol claimed him too, and he died in a drunken stupor, leaving Finn and his brother to fend for themselves on the unforgiving streets.

They had begged for food. Stolen from others. Slept in alleys, shivering under the cold rain. They had nothing but each other. But even that wasn't enough to survive.

That was when she appeared — Diana. She was only seven years old, yet there was something in her eyes that made her seem far older, far wiser than anyone Finn had ever known. She came to them, offering a way out of the nightmare they were living, a promise of something better. A home. Food. Warmth. A roof over their heads.

But there was a catch. 

She demanded loyalty. Royalty. They had to swear it to her, no questions asked.

At the time, Finn had been taken aback. She was younger than him, and yet, here she was, speaking of royalty, of power, like it was something that came naturally to her. He had never seen anyone like her — so sure of herself, so capable of commanding the world around her. His curiosity had led him to accept her offer, though he hadn't truly understood the gravity of it at the time. But somewhere along the way, that curiosity turned into something more. 

They swore their loyalty to her, and from that moment on, their lives had a new purpose. They began training, learning what it meant to serve her, to help her build her empire, to be worthy of her, even though they were not allowed to meet her again, just yet.

Not everyone could handle the weight of it. Finn's twin brother had struggled, unable to endure the demands placed on them. On a bitter, cold winter day, his brother had died, his body too weak to continue.

That night, everything had shifted for Finn. 

He had always admired Diana from a distance — seen her as something beyond his reach, someone untouchable, even though she had saved him. But after his brother's death, something inside him broke.

Finn stood alone, the rain soaking through his clothes, but he barely felt it. His eyes were fixed on the grave before him, the cold, damp earth where his brother now rested.

Suddenly, he heard the faintest sound — footsteps approaching through the rain. It was a skill he had honed over the years, one he had mastered during his training: the ability to hear things others would miss. He tensed, his hand instinctively going to the knife at his belt, but when he turned, he was met with an unexpected sight.

It was Diana.

She was only nine now, still young, yet there was something in the way she moved, something in her presence that made her seem older than her years. It was as if time had slowed for her. Her scarlet eyes, the same cold, unwavering red that had once pulled him from the depths of his misery, looked at him with an intensity that never faltered. 

"Diana —" he began, his voice hoarse from the weight of everything he had been carrying, but she immediately cut him off.

"Shhh," she whispered, a finger pressed to her lips. "I snuck out to see you. Don't make any noise."

Finn blinked in surprise. Diana, sneaking out? This wasn't the detached, regal girl he had grown up with. She was supposed to be untouchable, someone whose every action was calculated, every move deliberate. The fact that she was here, in this moment, felt… different. 

"Snuck out?" Finn repeated, still puzzled. "Since when do you sneak anywhere?"

Her gaze softened for a moment as she gave a small, almost sad smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Don't be too sad for your brother, please," she said, her voice softening as if trying to ease the weight of grief she knew he carried. 

"I promise I have everything under control."

Finn felt a pang in his chest. The rain had begun to fall harder, but it felt like nothing compared to the weight of her words. Everything under control? Diana had always been the one with control, the one who set the course. But what did she mean by that? She seemed so… different, so much more human in that moment.

"Am I not allowed to see you yet?" he asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. 

Diana's expression flickered with surprise. She wasn't used to people questioning her, not like that. But then, something about it seemed to amuse her. A soft chuckle escaped her lips, a sound that was rare, almost unfamiliar. It was a moment of vulnerability that caught Finn off guard.

"It's not you who's not allowed to see me," she said, her voice still quiet but carrying a strange mirth.

"It's me who's not allowed to see you."

The words hung in the air, cryptic, and Finn's mind immediately began to turn, analyzing every syllable. His training had taught him to read people, to listen carefully to their words, to understand what was left unsaid. Something was wrong here. Something in Diana's tone — something in the way she said it — wasn't quite right. He looked at her, trying to make sense of it. The little girl standing before him was someone he could never have predicted, someone he thought he understood but was now slipping through his fingers, just like the rain that washed over them both.

"Did you understand?" Diana's voice broke through his thoughts, a playful smile lighting up her face, her eyes glinting with something he couldn't quite place.

Finn hesitated, his mind still trying to piece together the puzzle she had just handed him. He wanted to say yes, but there was something more to it. She wasn't just playing a game, not this time. There was something she wasn't telling him.

"No," he said slowly, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't think I do."

Diana's smile widened, though there was a flicker of something darker behind her eyes. She didn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch between them as the rain continued to fall.

"You will," she said softly, as though she had all the time in the world. 

"You just need to see things for what they are, Finn. Not for what you want them to be." 

Her words were a challenge, a riddle wrapped in an enigma, and Finn couldn't help but feel the weight of them settle deep in his chest. He couldn't tell whether she was speaking to him, to herself, or to both of them.

But he knew one thing for certain — nothing was simple anymore. Not even Diana.

That day, Finn began to see her differently. She wasn't just a savior; she was a force, a queen in her own right, and she was alone in a way that Finn could never truly understand. She had always carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, even when she was just a child. And in that moment, Finn knew — he would do anything to help her, to see her smile like that again, even if it meant losing himself in the process.

But now, as he lay on his bed, wondering why he couldn't save her, he realized the cruel truth: Diana wasn't like him. She had never been like him. She had always known who she was, what she was meant to do. And he… he was just a tool, a weapon to serve her, and nothing more. He couldn't change her fate any more than he could change his own.

The love he felt for her — if it could even be called love — was a hopeless, silent thing. He had never been able to speak it aloud, never been able to show it in any way that mattered. And now, with every passing day, it only grew more futile.

She had saved him. But he couldn't save her. He wasn't strong enough for that.