Wildflower

I often wondered what life was like beyond the boundaries of the Realm of Light—what the world looked like through eyes that had never known this pristine, wondrous perfection.

It wasn’t a good thing, this pondering. Curiosity never was. I had learned that lesson early, carved it into my bones alongside every other rule that governed our existence. I lived what anyone would call a comfortable life here: guarding the Temple of Light, watching warriors afar burning through demon flesh only when the creatures of darkness dared breach our sacred borders. I had food—simple, but nourishing. I had shelter—a small room with a window that caught the morning sun. I had a place to call home, or at least, a place where I was permitted to exist.

Yet even comfort couldn’t silence the questions that clawed at the edges of my mind in the dead hours of my watch. Questions that bloomed like forbidden flowers in the cracks of my composure. Where did the Immortals truly come from? Were they born, or simply manifested, as the temples taught? How were they tied to one another—was it merely duty, or something deeper, something more human than divinity should allow?

There were five Immortals, the Divine Creatures of Light, beings we were taught to worship from the moment we drew our first breath. Zephros stood at the apex, a glorious golden lion, the Leader whose word was absolute law. Beneath him served the High Priestess and Priest of the Temple—the twins, Meiko and Kazuya, mirror images of grace and power, both part-seahorse in nature, androgynous beings that were neither man nor woman. Then came Arikos, the falcon, commander of the Golden Shore Warriors, his reputation as fierce as the moonlight reflecting off his seaside fortress. And finally, Lorelei, the wolf, who ruled over the Forest of Life with the gentle atmosphere of nature itself.

These five were the Divine Creatures of Light. We worshipped them—I worshipped them—with every breath, every prayer, and every movement I made. I had so many questions burning in my chest, and even though I would often speak with Kazuya during the quiet moments of my shift, I never dared to ask. Some boundaries were not meant to be crossed, not even in whispered conversation.

After all, my one and only job, my sole purpose for drawing breath, was to guard this damned door.

This stone door.

I stared at it now, as I had every single day for the past three years. Ancient stone, carved with symbols that glowed faintly in the half-light, warding away evil with their mere presence. It stood twice my height, imposing and immovable, guarding something within the Temple’s inner sanctum. Something important. Something dangerous, perhaps.

And honestly? Even I didn’t know what lay beyond it.

Only the Immortals knew, privy to secrets that mortals like me were never meant to glimpse. And of course, Kazuya would never tell me. Not because they were cruel, but because some knowledge was simply too heavy for ordinary shoulders to bear.

Kazuya.

Even thinking their name sent a flutter through my chest that I immediately crushed down, strangled before it could take root.

Kazuya was beautiful—not in the way mortals were beautiful, but in the way starlight was beautiful, distant and untouchable and impossibly pure. They had long, silky, dark hair that caught the light like spun silver, flowing past their shoulders like a waterfall, pin-straight, like liquid silk. Even then, it was their eyes that undid me every time—gorgeous, impossibly blue, and as intense and ever-changing as ocean waters beneath a storm-torn sky. They’d shift to a greyish hue when the light hit them just right, soft as morning mist. Other times, they burned with an incredibly intense blue, the colour of the shallow ocean waters.

My devotion to them, of course, was normal. Expected, even. All citizens devoted themselves to the Immortals.

Love, on the other hand—that was wrong. A transgression so severe I barely allowed myself to name it, even in the privacy of my own thoughts.

Warriors weren’t allowed to love. That law had been ingrained into our very souls from our first day of training, repeated until it became as natural as breathing. We were built to fight—nothing more, nothing less. Our bodies were weapons, our hearts akin to stone, and our purpose was singular and uncomplicated. All I could ever do was watch at a distance, standing at attention while Kazuya passed through the Temple halls, keeping my love for them locked away, unannounced, hidden so deep down that sometimes I could almost convince myself it didn’t exist at all.

Love for Kazuya, I knew with absolute certainty, was forbidden. I wouldn’t even dare whisper it aloud, not to the empty air, not to my own reflection. I wouldn’t write it down, wouldn’t let my hand form those damning words on paper. The consequences would be swift and absolute—a public execution, my name struck from the records as if I had never existed at all.

Only the Immortals were allowed to love. As Divine Creatures, their love was powerful, sacred, a force of creation itself. When Immortals loved, life itself could spring forth—new souls, blessed and perfect. The only others granted the privilege of creation were the Lifegivers, an elite class of citizens selected through Lorelei’s careful scrutiny. They possessed the best possible genetics, perfect specimens chosen to propagate the realm’s future. Everyone underwent an inspection at age sixteen, stripped bare and examined for any flaw, any imperfection that might taint the bloodline. Those selected for the role of Lifegiver would live comfortable, cushy lives in the Forest of Life, pampered and protected, ensuring their bodies remained in the best possible condition for reproduction.

It was an honour, we were told.

A sacred duty.

Defective infants were eliminated immediately upon birth, of course. No Lifegiver would ever want the shame of bearing a faulty child, the humiliation of their imperfection made public, their failure displayed for all to see.

My one fault, the single imperfection that had sealed my fate, was a birthmark—a white patch of star-shaped markings that bloomed across my left shoulder like frost on glass. It was beautiful, in its way, but beauty meant nothing when measured against genetic purity. I was careful to keep it covered, always. My uniform’s high collar, the careful draping of fabric—all calculated to hide the evidence of my inadequacy.

That birthmark was what had led me to choose combat as my path. It was either a warrior’s life or manual labour, and I had no desire to spend the rest of my days hunched over factory machinery or sweating in the kitchens, my hands wrinkled and burned, my spirit slowly crushed beneath the weight of mindless repetition. Not choosing a path wasn’t an option—useless citizens would be discarded without ceremony, and no one wanted the humiliation of a public death, their body left in the square for days as a warning to others.

So I had chosen the blade. Chosen blood and discipline and the slim possibility of honour.

Either way, it didn’t matter now. All I had to do was guard this door, stand here day after day, and everything would be just fine. Simple. Uncomplicated.

Safe.

“Kyros, are you busy?”

The voice cut through my thoughts like a blade through silk—Kazuya’s voice, unmistakable and achingly familiar. I would have known it anywhere: that soft, silky tone that somehow managed to be both gentle and commanding, like water that could carve stone given enough time.

My heart stuttered in my chest, but I kept my expression neutral, professional. I turned to face them, offering a slight bow.

“If guarding the temple door counts as busy, then yes, my lord,” I replied, allowing a hint of amusement to colour my voice. Kazuya appreciated wit, I had learned. They grew bored with those who only grovelled. “Did you want me to do something else?”

They smiled at that, a small curve of lips that sent warmth cascading through my traitorous body. “Are you free to go somewhere tonight?”

I blinked, caught off guard. In five years of standing watch, Kazuya had never asked me to go anywhere beyond these temple walls. “Well, yes, after my shift ends.”

“And that ends at six, yes?”

“Yes, my lord.” My mind raced, trying to understand what could possibly require my presence. I was nobody—just a door guard, one of twenty who rotated shifts. Why would an Immortal need me?

“The Prince of Hell is visiting,” Kazuya explained, their tone deliberately neutral, almost casual, as if they were remarking on the weather rather than announcing something that should be impossible. “We will be discussing the trading of hostages.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I struggled to keep my composure, my hand instinctively gravitating towards the strap of my rifle.

No one from Hell ever visited. The realms were at war—had been at war for as long as anyone could remember. Demons invaded, we killed them. That was the natural order. What exactly was going on?

“Like a peace negotiation?” I asked, and immediately felt foolish. The question came out too blunt, too naïve.

Kazuya’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the faintest flicker of something in those ocean eyes—amusement, perhaps, or pity. “If you care to attempt a peace negotiation with a demon, Kyros, then you can be my guest. I have no such illusions.” Their voice hardened slightly, a thread of steel beneath the silk. “My only interest is to take back our missing commander.”

That Commander. I realized with a start who they must mean. He had vanished three months ago during a battle to hold the border against Hell, his entire unit slaughtered. We had assumed him dead. If Hell was holding him hostage...

“And what exactly does this demon want from us in return?” I asked carefully, trying to keep the tremor from my voice.

“I don’t know, actually.” Kazuya’s admission was startling in its honesty. Immortals rarely confessed ignorance. “What I do know, however, is that Zephros will be reincarnated in two days’ time, which means I will have to run the meeting, and the trade that follows.”

I looked at them then—truly looked at them, studying the way the Temple’s eternal light played across their features. Their eyes flickered with some emotion I couldn’t name, and those distinctive blue freckles that dusted their cheekbones seemed to dance like little stars scattered across pale skin. Their gaze, as always, remained fundamentally unreadable, a Divine quality that kept mortals at a respectful distance. Yet they seemed…relaxed, unbothered by the magnitude of what they were describing, as if meeting with a Prince of Hell was merely another tedious administrative duty.

“I thought we didn’t take hostages, my lord,” I dared to say, the question escaping before I could consider the wisdom of asking. “What could we possibly have to offer?”

It was true—the Realm of Light prided itself on its righteousness. We killed demons; we didn’t capture them. What could we possibly possess that Hell would want?

“I’m not quite sure either,” Kazuya admitted, and there was something almost conversational about their tone now, as if we were simply two people discussing a puzzle rather than an Immortal and their subordinate. “But this demon—he is a Prince, one of Hell’s ruling elite. We should be cautious of his intentions.” They paused, their gaze growing distant, as if looking at something I couldn’t see. “I myself have only seen him once before, years ago during yet another skirmish by the border. He harbours a deep, personal hatred for our Zephros.”

“Of course a demon would hate Zephros,” I muttered, unable to help myself. Zephros was the embodiment of everything Hell despised—order, light, righteousness enforced with an iron fist.

“Indeed.” Kazuya’s lips quirked in something that might have been a smile. “So when is this negotiation, you ask? Six o’clock. This evening.”

My eyes widened. “You want me to leave the door unguarded while I get ready?”

It was unprecedented. In hundreds of years, this door had never stood without a guard, not for a single moment. The shifts overlapped specifically to prevent such a thing.

Kazuya cocked his head to the side, the gesture so casual, so human, that it momentarily made me forget their divinity. “Well, no, Kyros. I’ll simply tell the night guard his shift starts early, just for today. And I’ll arrange for your replacement tomorrow as well, since you’ll likely be exhausted.”

I hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning in my mind since this conversation began. “Why me, though, if it’s okay to ask, my lord?”

It was a valid question, surely. There were twenty guards who rotated shifts at this door alone, not to mention the hundreds of warriors stationed throughout the area. Why had Kazuya picked me specifically out of all of them? And why ask a mere door guard at all, when they had access to elite fighters?

Why not ask another Immortal?

The question must have shown on my face, because Kazuya answered immediately, before I finished my sentence. “Are none of the other Divine coming?”

“No,” Kazuya replied, and their smile was easy, almost lazy, as if the absence of their fellow Immortals was of no consequence whatsoever. “Meiko is busy with temple preparations—you know how she gets about the ceremonial details of Zephros’ reincarnation. And I don’t care to ask the others. Arikos would turn it into a military spectacle, and Lorelei...” They trailed off, something complicated flickering across their features. “Lorelei has her own concerns. Zephros is still dead, for now, and he’s the only one I’d actually want there, I think.”

What’s it like to be dead? The question rose, unexpectedly, in my mind. What’s it like to die, knowing you’ll return? How long has it been since you died last, Kazuya? Do you remember your deaths? Do they haunt you?

Too many questions—again, always too many questions I could never ask. Questions that would reveal too much, expose the depth of my curiosity, my care, my...

No. I couldn’t let that thought complete itself.

“Will you be bringing other guards, my lord?” I asked instead, keeping my voice soft and professional. “Surely a Prince of Hell warrants a proper escort.”

“Of course not,” they said, as if it were such an obvious answer, as if the notion was almost amusing. Their eyes met mine directly, holding my gaze with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Not for this initial meeting, anyway. You’re the only one I’d want there, my dear Kyros.”

My dear.

The words hit me like lightning, like a blade between the ribs. They said it with such ease, with such casual tenderness, as if the endearment meant nothing at all—or everything. For a moment, for one terrible, wonderful moment, it made me doubt myself, made me wonder if perhaps...

No.

I crushed the thought before it could fully form. This was dangerous territory, treacherous ground where one wrong step could destroy everything. I wouldn’t dare do something as scandalous as voicing my own feelings, wouldn’t let hope take root in my chest.

Not to Kazuya—never to Kazuya.

“Do you doubt yourself?” they asked suddenly, their voice gentle but perceptive, cutting through my spiralling thoughts like a bell through fog.

The question made me snap back to attention instantly, my spine straightening. “No, my lord,” I said, then hesitated, weighing honesty against protocol. “Just...I suppose it might be unusual to ask a door guard to a peace negotiation, is all. Surely someone with more experience in diplomacy would be better suited.”

“You’re probably wondering why I didn’t ask one of Arikos’ Golden Shore Warriors,” Kazuya said, reading my thoughts with that uncanny ability they possessed. “His elite fighters, trained in every form of combat. A Commander, perhaps, trained in the art of negotiation.”

“I...” I paused, then decided honesty was the only path forward. “Yes, I will admit I did wonder that, my lord.”

“I don’t like Arikos.”

The statement was so blunt, so unexpected, that I actually stared at them for a long moment, confused and slightly alarmed. Immortals didn’t speak ill of each other—not to mortals, anyway. Whatever conflicts existed between the Divine were kept carefully hidden from our eyes.

Why are you telling me this? Why would you trust me with something so personal, so potentially dangerous?

“As for why I’d tell you that...” Kazuya continued, and now there was something almost playful in their expression, something that made them seem less like an untouchable deity and more like a person with thoughts and feelings and frustrations. “Well, you know, don’t you, Kyros? My dear friend?”

Do I? What am I supposed to know? Why do I feel like whatever the answer is, remains out of my reach?

Friend?

The word echoed in my mind, incomprehensible. You’re Divine. You’re one of the five Immortals who rule this realm, who decide who lives and who dies, whose word was literally law.

I’m just...me. A door guard with a birthmark and forbidden feelings and nothing special to offer.

How could we possibly be friends? Moreover, why couldn’t I remember a single detail of any conversation that we’d ever had that might have implied such a thing?

“My lord,” I said carefully, choosing each word with the precision of a blade’s edge, “if you consider me to be a friend, then I do appreciate it. Truly. It’s an honour I never expected.”

They laughed at that—laughed so openly and freely that the sound seemed to fill the entire corridor, echoing off the ancient stones. It was flippant and almost callous in its ease, the laugh of someone who had never known true fear, who moved through the world knowing nothing could ever truly harm them. “Oh, Kyros. You are so very kind, do you know that? I love being able to talk openly with you. Most people are so careful around me, so terrified of saying the wrong thing. But you—you actually speak your mind.”

And I love you, my lord.

The thought rose, undeniable, a truth that lived in my bones and blood and every beat of my traitorous heart.

But you can never know that. You can never, ever know.

I smiled instead, offered a slight bow, and said nothing at all. Some truths were too dangerous to speak aloud. Some feelings were meant to remain locked away, silent and eternal, burning like a flame that consumed everything but somehow produced no light.

“I’ll be ready at six, my lord,” I said quietly.

“Good.” Kazuya’s smile was radiant, beautiful enough to hurt. “Wear something other than your uniform. This needs to appear...casual. Non-threatening. Just two people meeting to discuss terms.”

Two people. As if I was anywhere close to the same level as a Prince of Hell.

“As you wish, my lord.”

They turned to leave, their dark hair catching the light like water, so shiny it was almost silver, and I watched them go, memorizing the way they moved, the grace in every step.

When they were gone, I turned back to the stone door, resuming my eternal vigil. But something had changed. The questions in my mind burned brighter now, and beneath them, more dangerous still, hope had begun to take root.

Hope was, perhaps, more forbidden than love.

And infinitely more painful.