Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If you were to be reborn in a world that is heavily different from your previous world, would you be excited?

Heck yes.

But it depends on what kind of world.

Either the most magical kind of the world can be.. tolerable, to an extent.

But if it were to be the most apocalyptic and horrific world? Say goodbye to sanity, my friends.

But luckily, YOU, yes YOU (I’m breaking the 4th wall), got transported into Cookie Run Kingdom! How exciting, right?

…

No..?

Well, you have no choice anyway (/j). But I’m not saying I’m not thankful that you clicked this story.

To be honest.. This story is something that was kept in mind for quite some time.

A first-ever made fanfiction and the first time in AO3.

A writer’s inspiration at this moment to maybe bring at least some color to my ever-same life.

Some spice, you know?

Nope, not that kind of spice, the other spice—the wholesome one, okay?

If you don’t know what I’m talking about.. that’s good. I HIGHLY encourage you to store it away and never be curious about it, ahem.

Moving on, this whole story started as a small plot with not much details at first. The inspiration came from the Legendary Costume of Shadow Milk Cookie.. And…

I

AM

HOOKED!

My fanfiction ideas are tingling and this came out so,...

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

It might not be written quite well, but the whole purpose for this is entertainment and for other readers to enjoy.

Especially for me, this is a journal of sorts for stories that I can read back to again.

It might be weird I named this as the PROLOGUE chapter, yet, this was more of an Author’s note than anything.

But I want to say that I do this writing for fun, comments are appreciated especially for suggestions for improvement or just fun comments along the way, only for entertainment

purposes, and thank you for clicking this story.

May luck find your way and color your world.

 the Chaotic Ghoster —

.

.

.

.

.

The story begins…

.

.

.

.

Are you ready?

Chapter Text

The first thing you notice when you wake up is that everything feels… off. The air is thick with an overwhelming scent of sweetness, like someone dumped an entire bakery into the wind. The sky above you is unnaturally blue, not the soft, hazy kind you remember from lazy afternoons, but an intense, almost storybook-like hue. The grass beneath you feels softer than it should, and as you push yourself upright, you realize something is very, very wrong.

You’re tiny.

Your hands—small. Your legs—short. Your entire existence—comically minuscule. Panic bubbles in your chest as you stare at your hands, your fingers now short and round like some kind of living dessert. You touch your face, expecting skin, only to feel smooth, almost dough-like texture. You don’t have a nose. You don’t have a nose?!

“Oh.” Your voice is small, too. “Oh no.”

You scramble to your feet—or, well, your tiny Cookie legs—trying not to hyperventilate. This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. Just a moment ago, you were—wait. Where were you?

You try to recall anything before waking up here, but your memory is frustratingly hazy, like a dream slipping through your fingers. There’s no recollection of how you got here, no dramatic accident or sudden light at the end of the tunnel. But this can’t be normal.

Before you can fully process your impending existential crisis, something catches your eye. A faint glow on your hand.

You lift it hesitantly, watching in horror as a mysterious mark—some kind of intricate symbol with three spikes on top and another at the bottom—flickers faintly before fading back into your skin.

You stare at it.

You blink.

You very carefully lower your hand and shove it deep into your pocket.

"That’s probably nothing," you mutter under your breath. "Yeah. Definitely nothing."

Spoiler alert: It is definitely something.

Pushing down the creeping anxiety clawing at your chest, you force yourself to focus on what’s important: figuring out where the hell you are. Taking a shaky breath, you scan your surroundings. The place looks like a town straight out of a fantasy RPG—small, charming buildings line the sugar cobblestone streets, market stalls are filled with all sorts of colorful goods, and Cookies (yes, actual living, breathing Cookies)—walk past you, chatting as if this is all perfectly normal.

Your brain short-circuits for a solid five seconds before logic shakily kicks back in. "Okay," you whisper to yourself. "Okay. Either I hit my head and I’m in a very weird dream, or… I’ve been Isekai’d into Cookie Run Kingdom."

Neither option is particularly comforting.

As you wander aimlessly through the town, trying your best not to look like a lost and confused idiot (no offense), snippets of conversation drift past you.

"Did you hear? Today is supposedly the day that the Apostle bestowed by the Witches would appear."

"Right, Apostle of Knowledge, was it?"

"Yes, they can be considered an equal to the Sage himself!"

"But how could we know if the Apostle appears?"

"They say the Apostle will bear a mark—"

You freeze.

"—the same as that of the Sage's mark on his forehead, and more importantly.."

"What is it?"

Your stomach drops. No. No, no, no. You casually (read as very aggressively) shove your marked cookie hand further into your pocket (uncaring if it were really the 'Apostle mark' or not, you can never be too sure but it's best to be weary, before you regret it).

"But only the Sage can confirm their identity," another voice adds. "He has ways of seeing beyond deception, you know."

"Ohhh, how mysterious!"

"More like terrifying.. yet endearing?"

"Yeah, I heard he smiles too much."

“That is entirely unrelated to the topic.”

Okay. That’s too much information. Time to leave.

You spin on your heel, fully prepared to run in the opposite direction of anything remotely involving Sages, Apostles, and terrifying figures who smile too much.

You let out a weak laugh, muttering to yourself, "Haha, wouldn’t it be crazy if that were me? Haha—"

Your own words cut off as the realization hits.

"Oh no."

Your pulse quickens, and a deep, all-consuming panic sets in. You don’t know how you got here. You don’t know what’s going on. But what you do know is that you need to hide that mark and, most importantly—

You need to never meet this Sage.

As you wander through the unfamiliar town, the sheer overwhelming nature of it all starts to settle in. The vibrant marketplace, the chattering Cookies, the absurdly sweet aroma in the air—it’s all too much. You don’t belong here. Every second you stay out in the open feels like tempting fate, like any moment, some all-knowing Sage is going to step out of the shadows and announce to the entire kingdom, "Behold! The Apostle of Knowledge has been found!"

It's an absurd what-if situation and overthinking on your part but, eh.. anyways.

Nope. Absolutely not. You need shelter, somewhere to lay low until you figure things out.

As you turn a corner, a softer part of the town reveals itself. Unlike the bustling market, this street is quieter, lined with simple cottages and a cozy-looking building with a wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze. It smells faintly of cinnamon and warm bread. There’s a small fenced garden out front where a few young Cookies play, their laughter light and carefree.

You don’t even realize you’ve been staring until a kind voice calls out.

“Oh, dearie, are you lost?”

You blink and turn to see an elderly Cookie standing on the porch, her dough slightly cracked with age, but her eyes filled with warmth. She holds a woven basket in her hands, likely filled with freshly baked treats. Something in you hesitates. Maybe it’s because she reminds you of a grandmotherly figure, or maybe it’s just sheer exhaustion, but before you can think twice, you nod.

“Ah, poor thing,” the old Cookie tuts, stepping closer. “Come inside, dear. You must be tired.”

You don’t argue. The idea of a safe place, even just for a while, is too tempting to refuse.

The inside of the house—no, orphanage—is cozy. The scent of warm bread and spiced tea lingers in the air, and the gentle hum of quiet conversation fills the space. A few young Cookies peek at you curiously, but no one questions your presence.

The old Cookie, whom the children call "Grandmother Pecan," sits you down at the dining table, pouring you a cup of tea. “There now, no need to be nervous,” she soothes. “If you need a place to stay, you are welcome here.”

Something tight in your chest loosens slightly.

As you sip your tea, you glance down at your hands, remembering the problem. The mark. The thing that could ruin everything.

Trying to sound as casual as possible, you clear your throat. “Um, do you have any… extra gloves, by any chance?”

Grandmother Pecan raises a brow. “Gloves, dearie?”

You nod quickly, scrambling for an excuse. “Yeah. I, uh… I don’t really like skin—uh, Cookie contact.” You gesture vaguely, and internally banging your head in an imaginary wall in your mind, willing yourself to sound normal. “It’s a texture thing. Makes me uncomfortable. Also, you know… dough hands.” You force a laugh. “Wouldn’t want them to get all, uh, soggy or something.”

The old Cookie blinks at you for a long moment before chuckling softly. “Oh, dear, I suppose that makes sense. Some young Cookies are quite particular about those things.”

She pats your hand gently (the unmarked one, thankfully) before standing up. “I believe I have an old pair somewhere. Let me fetch them for you.”

You exhale, slumping slightly in relief as she disappears into another room. Okay. This is fine. You can work with this. A safe place to stay, a reason to wear gloves, and best of all—no terrifying all-knowing Sage in sight. Maybe, just maybe, you can get through this unscathed.

(Spoiler: You absolutely will not.)

Chapter Text

You are perfectly normal. Just an everyday Cookie trying to live your life in peace.

That’s what you tell yourself as you tug your gloves tighter and shuffle through the marketplace, carefully balancing a basket filled with ingredients Grandmother Pecan requested. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nope. No mysterious mark on your hand. No creeping sense of doom following your every step.

You're just trying to pick out decent apples when—

"The Sage is attending today’s debate."

You freeze mid-reach.

"Hm?" a vendor hums as they slice a fruit open. "Another debate? What's the topic?"

"The nature of Truth."

Your stomach knots.

"Oh, one of those heavy ones," another Cookie snorts. "Well, if it's Truth, of course the Sage would be there. He always shows up for those."

"I still say he’s strange," someone mutters. "Shows up, stares into your soul, and leaves."

"The way he just knows things—it gives me the chills."

"I heard he’s looking for the Apostle of Knowledge."

"Again with that rumor?"

"They say he’s already found them."

You swallow hard and grip your basket tighter.

"Child," Grandmother Pecan calls from the next stall, “we mustn’t dally. The scholars will begin shortly.”

Scholars. Debate. Sage.

You’re starting to regret leaving the orphanage.

The town square has been repurposed today. Blankets and benches are spread out in a half-circle around a small wooden stage, where scholars and Cookies in ornate cloaks are already gathering. It’s no fancy amphitheater (just a cleared-out space with a slightly raised platform) but there’s a weight in the air that even you can feel.

Curious murmurs ripple through the crowd. You overhear snippets—Cookies discussing old texts, arguing theories, challenging one another like it's a verbal duel.

You can’t help it.

You find yourself drawn in.

You sit near the edge with Grandmother Pecan, quietly fascinated. You’ve never seen academia in this world before. It’s loud. Passionate. Alive.

It reminds you of something.

Not the hushed halls and sterile whiteboards from your past life. Not the pressure of grades or academic gatekeeping or presenting a thesis to a room of people more interested in the flaws than the heart of it.

No. This… this is different.

It’s messy and vibrant and loud, but it’s alive. The scholars here are allowed to care. To argue without ego. To want to know without being shamed for curiosity.

You blink, surprised at the thought. Maybe it’s not perfect, but… it’s something.

A Cookie speaks onstage, gesturing wildly. “But what is Truth, if not shaped by perspective? If two Cookies experience the same event but tell it differently, where does Truth stand?”

Some Cookies murmur in agreement. Others frown.

Another takes the stage. “Truth is constant. It exists with or without belief. It is the foundation.”

Your lips part, and before you realize it, you murmur under your breath:

"Both experiences are the Truth for the one who lives them. It becomes a Truth for those who hold onto it until the very end—unless, of course, they are proven otherwise or they choose to let go.."

It’s quiet. Barely louder than a whisper. Something said not for anyone else—just to yourself.

But someone hears it.

You feel it. A sudden stillness, like a breeze pausing mid-air.

You glance up—and meet his eyes.

The Sage stands at the edge of the crowd, hands calmly folded behind him. He’s only just arrived. Robes trailing, hair neatly flowing, expression unreadable.

He’s not looking at the scholars.

He’s looking directly at you.

You freeze.

Then, just as quickly, his gaze shifts away.

As if nothing happened at all, he steps onto the platform, nods politely to the crowd, and turns toward the other scholars.

The debate resumes. Voices rise again.

But your heart hasn’t stopped pounding.

Did he hear that? Why would he—?

No. No. You’re just imagining things.

Right?

It seemed like it wasn't just you who noticed the direction in which the Sage looks for that specific moment. 

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), one of them was Grandmother Pecan.

"You are quite lucky, little one," Grandmother Pecan says cheerfully as you walk home. "The Sage himself was present today. Not many debates earn his attention."

You nod stiffly. "Yeah. Super lucky."

"He seemed to glance your way."

You nearly trip. "Did he?"

She chuckles. "Maybe fate has plans for you."

You don’t answer.

You’re too busy trying not to remember the way his gaze felt.

Like he saw something he recognized.

Something he already knew.

You take a slow walk after the debate, trying to shake off the awkwardness, but your steps falter when you hear a soft rustle ahead of you. The familiar shadow moves forward.

The Sage.

He’s leaning casually against the wall, his robe a wave of movement like he’s entirely at ease. You freeze for a second, heart skipping in your chest. This is exactly what you were trying to avoid.

But it's too late now.

His eyes glint playfully. "Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking for you."

Geez, I didn't know.

You don’t even think; you slip into character with a wide smile, masking the panic.

"Oh! Sage of Truth!" you gush, voice pitched with admiration, hands pressing together as if in reverence. “It is such an honor to be in your presence. Your wisdom, it’s... it’s unmatched! Truly!”

He raises an eyebrow, an amused smirk playing on his lips. "Ah, yes. Unmatched, of course. But do tell me—what wisdom exactly has caught your attention?"

You catch yourself before you ramble. Focus. Just act.

You gesture vaguely in a wide arc, trying to keep your composure, but inside your heart is racing. "The way you handle the debates… your counterpoints—so sharp and... unexpected! You leave the others scrambling for air!" You let your voice tremble with awe. "It’s nothing short of... legendary!"

He chuckles softly, his voice light. "Well, I do enjoy a bit of a challenge. You see, little one, words are like games to me. Some enjoy chess, others prefer a good card game, but the beauty of words is how they can turn everything upside down." His smile widens, a touch of mischief. "But you’ve been watching closely, haven’t you?"

Your stomach flips. You nod eagerly, not letting any hesitation show. "Oh, absolutely! The way you... command the room, how everyone hangs on your every word? It’s like you know exactly what they need to hear."

He leans in, the air around him shifting just slightly. "Do I?" he asks, voice lowering just a touch. "Or do I know exactly what they want to hear?"

For a brief moment, your smile falters, but you recover instantly, brightening your expression even more. “Yes! Exactly! You have this incredible way of making it all seem so... effortless!”

The Sage laughs, a rich, warm sound that makes you flinch inwardly. "Effortless, you say? My dear, nothing is effortless. Not wisdom, not truth, and certainly not the pursuit of knowledge. But it’s nice to know you’re so... taken with it."

You nod quickly, almost too quickly, trying not to let your discomfort show. "Oh, yes, I’ve never heard anyone speak so gently but with such... weight! Your wisdom, it... it must be like a river that never runs dry!"

He takes a step closer, his gaze sharp as ever. "That’s quite a lovely image. A river that never runs dry..." He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "But tell me, do you believe in the truth of that river? Or do you simply enjoy its sound?"

Okay, what's the point of asking that?? 

You stop breathing for a second, a brief crack in your facade, but you fill the space with a laugh. "Ah, I—of course! I—I meant it all, Sage. You... you’re just so inspiring!"

The Sage studies you for a moment, and then, with a flourish of his hand, steps back with an easy grin. "Well, then. I’ll take your word for it. Just make sure you don’t get swept away in all this enthusiasm, hm?"

You swallow hard. "Of course, Sage! You’re absolutely right! I—I couldn’t possibly do anything less than admire your wisdom!"

He turns, a light chuckle still in the air as he walks away. "We’ll see, little one. We’ll see. I think we’ll be seeing more of each other."

I'd rather not.

The Sage just keeps smiling.

And then, a strange feeling washes over you.

A sense of… familiarity.

You stare at him, confusion flickering in your mind. You know him. But how? This is the first time you’ve ever met him, right?

Right?

The image of a beast flashes through your mind. Words uttered that is meant to deceive, piercing eyes, a grin far too knowing.

Beast of Deceit.

Shadow Milk Cookie.

Your breath hitches.

Wait. Wait. WAIT.

How—? No. That’s impossible. He's too different— Unless.. This is his backstory???

You have never reached that point of the story yet!

Your head spins. Your hands tremble slightly.

You stand there, heart pounding in your chest, not moving until he's completely out of sight.

The second he’s gone, the smile falls away, leaving you feeling like you’ve just performed on stage and been caught out of character.

You hate how hard it is to pretend. Added by the information of existential crisis.

Fantastic. Another day of pretending I don’t want to scream into the void every time he smiles like that. And yet… I can’t shake the feeling he sees straight through it anyway.

You bitterly thought before shaking your head, trying to calm yourself internally, and heading back to Grandmother Pecan.

The stone path felt colder beneath your steps now, the usual rhythm of market chatter reduced to a dull buzz in your ears. You clutched your basket a little tighter, letting Grandmother Pecan’s steady pace guide you forward. She hummed a quiet tune, blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil.

You kept your head down, eyes on the shifting cobblestones, letting the weight of your thoughts press against your shoulders like the afternoon heat. Every laugh from a passerby felt too loud. Every glance, too sharp.

And yet, you didn’t look back.

Because if you did, you might’ve caught sight of the figure standing just past the edge of the crowd—half-shrouded in shadow, gaze fixed on your retreating form with the kind of quiet interest that burned far too deep.

A smile faintly appeared on his face.

Chapter Text

You have survived.

Somehow. Miraculously. Against all odds.

The Sage of Truth noticed you, stared into your soul, laughed at your miserable attempt at deception, and yet—

You’re still standing.

And now, all you have to do is avoid him for the rest of your life.

Simple. Easy. Foolproof.

Right?

Wrong.

You are barely five minutes into your grand escape plan when you realize something is very, very wrong.

You turn a corner, intending to slip away into a quiet alleyway—only to nearly crash into a flowing, dark blue robe.

You look up.

The Sage of Truth is standing right there, smiling down at you with an expression far too pleased.

You let out an undignified squeak.

"Ah, there you are, little one!" he greets, as if he wasn’t materializing out of thin air. "I was hoping we could speak again."

Your brain shuts down.

Your fight-or-flight instincts scream.

Your body chooses neither.

You finger-gun (or if it were to be possible at all because cookie hands) at him instead. "Haha. Wow. That’s crazy."

There is silence.

The Sage blinks. "...Pardon?"

You clear your throat, scrambling for a way out. "I mean—uh—haha, that’s so funny! But, uh, wow, would you look at the time! I really gotta go!"

You take a step back.

He tilts his head. "But you’re not wearing a watch."

Is he.. joking..?? This—

"Well, y’know," you blurt out, "time is… metaphorical…? Haha, anyway—bye!"

You spin around, determined to escape—

And immediately bump into another Cookie.

"Oh!" Grandmother Pecan exclaims, steadying you. "Careful, child!"

You are not careful.

You are screaming internally.

The Sage chuckles. "Ah, Grandmother Pecan. You must be taking good care of our little one here."

No. Do not talk about me like I’m important. Do not acknowledge my existence. I am a background character. I am furniture.

But wait.. did he say ‘our’? And, how does he even know Grandmother Pecan??

Grandmother Pecan smiles warmly. "Of course, Sage. The child has been quite a blessing to our home."

The Sage hums, his gaze drifting back to you.

You freeze.

His eyes gleam with curiosity. "A blessing, indeed."

Oh no. He knows.

You fumble for words, trying to sound as normal and unsuspicious as possible. "Haha, yup! That’s me! (A totally normal Cookie!) Haha—please let me go."

To the surprise of no one,

He does not let you go.

Instead, he casually begins walking alongside you and Grandmother Pecan as if this is normal.

You do not want this to be normal.

You do not want this at all.

And yet, no matter where you turn, no matter which errand you pretend to be occupied with—

He is always there.

You go to the market—he’s examining some scrolls nearby.

You take a detour—he’s coincidentally heading in the same direction.

You hide behind a fruit stall—he’s already there, casually inspecting an apple.

At one point, you test a theory.

You turn down a street, walk in a full circle, and somehow, he still manages to end up in front of you.

You stare at him.

He smiles.

You sweat.

Okay. This dude is creeping me out.

You take a deep breath, deciding to be mature about this. You turn to him with the most diplomatic, non-confrontational (read as not in an accusing) tone you can muster.

"Sage," you begin, "why are you following me?"

His expression remains perfectly serene.  "Following? Oh dear child, I am simply walking."

At one point, you somehow felt offended (by the supposedly sass) despite the overly polite tone.

"Walking. In the exact same places as me. At all times." Huh, did you speak that out loud? 

"How peculiar."

Peculiar? PECULIAR?!

You rub your temples. "Sage, please. I’m just trying to live a quiet life."

He hums. "A quiet life, you say?"

"Yes."

"How… unexpected."

You frown. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He simply chuckles, gaze twinkling with mystery (and mischief). "Oh, nothing. Just a passing thought."

You do not like his passing thoughts. Any of it. Ever.

But after some time, he left when he had matters to attend to, and you were too skeptical if he even had one.

Grandmother Pecan (upon returning to your side after chatting with the other Cookies), completely unaware of your suffering, chuckles. "My, my. To think our little one would be so noticed by the Sage himself! Truly, what a fortunate thing!"

You barely stop yourself from groaning.

No. Not fortunate. This is a nightmare.

And something tells you it’s only just beginning.

Later that night, you find yourself alone in your room at the orphanage. The other children are asleep, and the moonlight filters through the window, casting faint shadows along the wooden floorboards.

You sigh, running a cookie hand over your face.

The Sage of Truth. Shadow Milk Cookie. Fount of Knowledge.

You remember him now—just not as he is currently. No, you remember him as something else. Something terrifying. Something different.

The Beast of Deceit.

A villain. A jester-like villain who really has many things to say that can either be said jokingly, mockingly, or almost breaking the fourth wall.

The one who stood in the way of the Gingerbrave gang, has a personal issue with Pure Vanilla Cookie because of a Soul Jam (don't know what's that all about—), and hates White Lily Cookie for being the new Guardian of the Silver Tree, amongst many other things. 

The one who tangled with heroes, wove webs of lies, and brought the world to its knees with deception.

How is this the same Cookie?

The Sage you met today was eccentric, overly enthusiastic, and mildly terrifying, sure—but he was also… carefree? Playful? Almost like a scholar or a teacher?

How does that become him?

And if you’re here now, then that means—

Your stomach sinks.

You know what’s coming.

The rise of Dark Enchantress Cookie. The chaos she will unleash. The countless battles Gingerbrave and his friends will fight.

That storyline.

That… tragedy.

You stare at the ceiling, biting your lip.

If you’re here, living and breathing in this world—then those events haven’t happened yet.

Although the specific timeframe as to where you are currently is not obvious at all, or even certain that you can pinpoint it accurately, but..

The events being almost a few years long, a very long time for it to go along with the current events.

Everything is still changeable.

At least, for the Beast-Yeast part of the storyline. You are unsure if you'd be able to do anything with the events that are going to happen in Crispia, especially the Dark Flour War.

The question is: Should you change it?

Your gaze drifts to your gloved hand, where the mark of fate remains hidden.

You turn over, pulling the blanket over your head.

You’ll think about it tomorrow.

Probably…

For now, you just need to survive.

Chapter Text

Morning arrives, and with it, a new day full of hopes, dreams, and—

Oh.

No.

No, no, no.

You step out of the orphanage, stretching, ready to enjoy a peaceful morning—only to immediately lock eyes with the Sage of Truth, who is conveniently positioned right across the street.

He smiles.

You freeze.

Your left eye twitches.

"Haha… wow," you say, voice strained. "So crazy how you always find me, huh?"

The Sage tilts his head, hands neatly folded behind his back. "Indeed. Fate is such a mysterious thing."

Fate?

FATE?!

You have a sneaking suspicion this has nothing to do with fate and everything to do with his terrifying ability to pop up wherever you are.

A few passing Cookies notice the exchange and murmur among themselves.

"The Sage is always around that child. How dedicated!"

"So attentive! It must be such an honor to be under his watchful guidance!" You let out a strangled laugh, waving them off. "Haha, yeah! Honored! Definitely not horrified!"

Of course, it was wishful thinking that you could have said it out loud or even noticed something was amiss.

You don’t think they believe you.

You don’t think you believe you.

You turn back to the Sage, squinting.

"...Sage."

He beams. "Yes, little one?"

"Are you stalking me?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Stalking? Oh dear, whatever gave you such an idea?"

"Oh, I don't know," you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm, unable to hold it back (or was it just something about the morning? Nope, it’s the Sage’s fault.) "Maybe the fact that you’re always here?"

"Ah," he muses, stroking his chin (do Cookies even have a chin..?). "But am I here for you? Or are you simply always where I happen to be?"

Your face deadpans. "Are you gaslighting me?"

(Oh how the tables have turned. Or is it that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree?)

He merely hums in amusement.

This is full-on surveillance.

At some point, you attempt to shake him off by heading to a quieter area—a small library within the town.

Big mistake.

Because now the Sage is sitting across from you, chin (okay, they now have one, apparently..) resting on his palm, smiling as if this is exactly where he intended to be all along.

You squint (read as: glare).

He hums. "What an interesting book you have there."

You blink, glancing down at the book you barely even registered picking up. The title reads On the Nature of Fate.

Oh.

Well. That’s ironic.

You sigh. "If I say it was an accident, you’ll probably say it was fate, huh?"

His eyes gleam with amusement. "Naturally."

You now run out of things to make a comeback somewhat.

You huff, flipping the book open. "Alright, since you’re so keen on following me, let’s actually talk about this. Do you believe in fate?"

The Sage leans forward slightly, a bit too eagerly. "Of course. Everything happens for a reason."

You tilt your head. "So you think our lives are already decided from the start?"

"Not quite," he replies smoothly. "There are different ways to view fate. Some believe in absolute determinism, where everything is predestined, no matter what choices one makes. Others believe in a more fluid fate, one that adjusts based on the decisions we take."

You narrow your eyes at the lengthy explanation. "And which one do you believe?"

He smiles, enigmatic as always (insufferably so). "Why must I choose just one?"

You groan. "That’s such a vague answer."

He chuckles. "Very well. I believe in a mix of both. Certain events are inevitable, but how we arrive at them may shift depending on our choices."

You tap your hand on the table, opting for a petty dialogue option. "So, if I tried to avoid you forever, would fate just… force us to meet anyway?"

"Perhaps," he muses. "Or perhaps it is not fate keeping us together, but you who continue to cross my path."

The literal audacity of this guy—

You stare at him, utterly unimpressed. "That is the most roundabout way of saying ‘This is your fault.’"

His laughter is light, unbothered. "Now, now, no need to place blame. We are simply having an enlightening discussion."

You sigh, rubbing your temple. "Alright, fine. Let’s humor this further. What about free will, then? If fate controls everything, do we even have free will?"

The Sage hums, considering. "That is a question scholars have debated for centuries. Some say free will is an illusion, that every choice we make is simply the result of prior circumstances leading us to that moment."

"But if I choose to stand up and leave right now, that’s free will, isn’t it?" you argue.

"Ah, but why do you want to leave?" he counters smoothly. "Is it truly a spontaneous decision? Or is it because you feel overwhelmed, irritated, or exhausted from this conversation? Those prior factors led to your 'choice.'"

You looked around if there were any scholars or Cookies near where you both sat. 

Hoping that none of the conversations were heard and most importantly that you won't somehow be used as a sacrifice for ‘bad-mouthing’ or showing no ounce of respect when speaking to the revered Sage of Truth.

You (try to suppress once more) glare at him, not adopting anymore the ‘fake persona’ (because let’s be real, he’ll see through it anyhow). "…I really don’t like you right now."

He smiles pleasantly (weirdly enough). "That, too, is determined by prior circumstances."

You dramatically push the book away. "I hate philosophy."

He chuckles again, resting his chin in his hand. "Yet you argue with such enthusiasm. I must say, I enjoy our discussions."

You sigh, flopping onto the table. "I don’t."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

Really?

"Or is it that you want to dislike them, but secretly enjoy the intellectual stimulation?"

Your eye twitches.

At that moment, the Sage suddenly stands up, draping his robes around himself like some dramatic scholar giving a speech. "Ah, but perhaps we are merely characters in a grand tale! A story written by unseen hands, where our fates have already been set in ink!"

He gestures wildly to the air, causing some nearby Cookies to glance over curiously.

You stare at him. The second-hand embarrassment unknowingly forming..

"...What are you doing."

"Monologuing," he replies simply.

Well, no kidding.

"You look like you’re auditioning for a theater play."

"Why, thank you!" he beams. "I was once told I had a flair for the dramatic."

Of course they do. Unfortunately.

"No. That wasn’t a compliment."

Before the Sage can reply, the door to the library opens. Grandmother Pecan steps inside, noticing you both. She smiles warmly.

"Oh my, what a delightful sight! You and the Sage seem to get along so well! A fateful meeting, indeed!"

You tense. "I—uh—"

The Sage simply smiles. "It is always a pleasure to speak with a sharp mind."

Grandmother Pecan clasps her cookie hands together. "How lucky you are to have such interactions!"

You barely hold back a groan.

This isn't luck—it's a full-time surveillance mission.

Grandmother Pecan chuckles, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Ah, but we mustn’t keep the young one out too late. Come now, dear, it's time to head home."

Somehow, Grandmother Pecan can find the best moment to take you away in the situation you don’t want to be part of.

And will be forever grateful even if she isn’t aware of it, but the thought counts.

You have never felt such immense relief in your life. "Yes! Yes, we mustn't! So tragic, truly, but I must bid you farewell, Sage. What a shame." You turn to leave so fast you nearly trip over your own feet.

The Sage, however, remains entirely unbothered, his ever-present smile unwavering. "Worry not, little one. We shall meet again soon."

You freeze mid-step.

Slowly, you turn back to him, suspicious, muttering to yourself in particular. "...That’s not ominous at all."

He merely chuckles.

Grandmother Pecan pats your back, ushering you along. "Now, now, no need to fret. The Sage is always watching over us."

Yeah. That’s exactly what you’re worried about.

Chapter Text

The sun hangs, once again, high in the sky as you wander through the marketplace, trying very hard to be normal. Just another little Cookie running errands, helping Grandmother Pecan carry supplies. Totally not an Apostle of Knowledge or whatever. That nonsense is staying buried.

Unfortunately, Fate—or more specifically, the Sage of Truth—has other plans.

“Little one, what a delightful surprise.”

Oh no.

Not again—

You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. That voice is far too smooth, far too pleased for your liking. Taking a deep breath, you muster up your best neutral expression before facing him.

“Oh wow, Sage! What an unexpected encounter!" you exclaim, forcing a bright smile. “So crazy how we keep running into each other, huh?”

The Sage smiles knowingly, hands folded behind his back. “Why yes. Fate is a curious thing, wouldn’t you say?”

You feel a sense of deja vu of this interaction..

"Fate. Yeah. Sure." You carelessly say while internally screaming (of frustration at this point). "Crazy how it keeps fating us together.”

His eyes twinkle with amusement as he tilts his head. "And yet, I find it stranger still... that one as young as you carries such an old presence."

Your smile twitches. "Old? Excuse me, I am fresh out of the oven, thank you very much. "

Well.. not really the literal oven considering your first appearance, eh… but it's a metaphor to say, somewhat.

"You misunderstand," the Sage says smoothly, stepping closer. "I mean to say that you do not carry yourself like a mere child. No, there is something... else about you."

Panic. Panic. PANIC.

You let out a forced laugh, waving a cookie hand dismissively. "Pfft, nope.. I'm just.. built differently, yep."

His lips twitch, as if barely holding back a laugh. "Built differently, you say?"

"Yes, just a resident of the Spire," You place a hand over your heart, sighing dramatically. "I simply live to admire and appreciate the great and wise Sage of Truth from afar and the very essence of Knowledge (with absolutely no special significance whatsoever) ."

You muttered mostly to yourself about the last part, unknowing whether he heard it at all or not.

The Sage hums, clearly unconvinced. "And yet… I cannot shake this feeling. "

"Sounds like a you problem," you say immediately.

Ah, you said that out loud.

There’s a long pause.

Then—

The Sage actually laughs. A quiet, amused chuckle followed after, as if he finds you utterly fascinating. It would almost be charming if it weren’t so terrifying in these circumstances .

"Ah, little one,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You are a delight.”

You don’t know what’s worse—that he doesn’t believe your obvious lies, or that he’s enjoying this.

He watches you intently, his expression unreadable. Then, with an almost lazy curiosity, he murmurs, "Strange, isn't it? How fate works in such ways?"

" Super strange," you say quickly, ‘like you’ were left unsaid. "Wild. Insane. Wow. Anyway, gotta go!"

Before you can bolt, Grandmother Pecan, who has been quietly observing (was she there the whole time??), lets out a warm chuckle. “Oh my, such a delightful meeting this is! My dear little one, why don’t you spend some time with the Sage? I can manage the rest of the shopping on my own.”

You freeze. " What. "

The Sage’s expression remains polite, but you swear you see a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

“Oh, Grandmother Pecan, I really wouldn’t want to trouble him," you say a bit frantically. "I mean, he’s the Sage of Truth! He’s busy! Got all that wisdom and knowledge stuff to do!”

"Nonsense!" Grandmother Pecan waves a hand dismissively. "It’s a blessing to have the Sage’s company! You go on ahead, child. I insist."

You open your mouth to argue, but Grandmother Pecan has already turned away, making herself busy with the market stalls.

You glance at the Sage. He looks way too pleased.

With no escape, you sigh in resignation. "Okay. Fine. But just for a little while."

The Sage bows his head slightly. “Of course.”

And so, your totally unwanted outing with the Sage begins.

At first, you walk in silence, trying to think of literally anything to say that won’t invite more scrutiny. Surprisingly, the Sage doesn’t press you for conversation. He simply walks beside you, unbothered by the quiet.

Then, out of nowhere, he muses, “Do you believe in fate?”

You nearly trip. "Excuse me?"

This topic again?  

What is up with his obsession with ‘fate’?

He smiles. “Fate. Humor me for a little while but I did say that I enjoyed our discussion at that time and I thought to myself at this very moment, why not continue it?”

He kept on walking at a leisure pace that you were at least able to catch up, “Now, do you think it’s an unchangeable path? Or do we, perhaps, have the power to alter it?”

You squint at him. “Is this a trick question?”

The Sage chuckles. "Certainly not. I’m curious to hear your thoughts; a new perspective can often shed unexpected light."

I highly doubt that.

You hum, pretending to consider it. You know exactly how fate plays out in this world. You've seen it, more like played it. The appearance of Gingerbrave, the truth behind White Lily, the fall of certain Cookies…

“I think…” You tilt your head, a bit unsure. “Maybe fate is like a road. There’s a direction, sure, but you can still choose how you walk it.”

The Sage raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “A flexible fate once more. Interesting.”

“What about you?” you ask, trying to shift the attention. Even though this was just a ‘continuation’ of discussion of the same topic.

He answers without pause. “Fate is, to me, as you may already be aware of, a structure—partially fixed, partially fluid. Certain events seem inevitable, as if etched in stone. Others... are merely variables waiting to be resolved.”

His gaze settles on you, calm but distant. “The conclusion, however, that is what holds weight. Everything else is just a prelude.”

Well.. that seemed a bit eerie and quite a sudden turn.

Yeah, I bet it does, you think grimly. Considering how your future turns out.

To distract yourself, you change the subject. “Okay, if fate is a story, does that make us all just characters?”

Only then did the gloomy atmosphere clear up as if it didn’t exist.

The Sage laughs. “Perhaps! If so, I do wonder what role you play.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t press, but his amusement is way too visible.

Fortunately, the conversation shifts to more random topics—how many times you can spin before getting dizzy, why jellybeans taste different despite being the same shape, and it’s at least a casual conversation.

Before you know it, you’ve wandered to the famed Yogurt River of Rebirth (according to what Sage said after you didn't recognize the river at first glance).

The river flows with a gentle shimmer, its surface reflecting the soft golden light of the afternoon sun. You stop at the edge, gazing at the waters.

The Sage watches you carefully. "Curious, isn’t it? This place."

You blink, still taking in the scene. “I didn’t even know a river like this existed…”

The Sage smiles slightly, almost knowingly, and begins to retell the tale. “It is said that the river has the power to cleanse burdens and bring renewal. Legends claim it holds the essence of rebirth, flowing with the promise of a fresh start.”

You blink, still taking in the scene, and absentmindedly nod. “Yeah, I guess this river is special for it to have a story behind it..”

The Sage hums in agreement. "Perhaps. Though I wonder… if given the chance, would you rewrite your own fate?"

That broke you out from your mindless staring and looked towards him.

You hesitate. That… is a loaded question.

But at that time, you were wondering almost the same thing, not your own fate to be changed, but rather the other Cookies' fate.

Finally, you shrug. “I think I’d just like to avoid unnecessary trouble.”

The Sage chuckles. “Ah, trouble does seem to find you, doesn’t it?”

How about you take a look at your own reflection and ask yourself?

But instead, you sigh. “ That’s what I’ve been saying.”

You glance over, realizing you’ve wandered quite far from the bustling marketplace and the stalls of the Spire. 

A small pang of concern creeps up as you remember Grandmother Pecan is probably waiting for you. She’d be worried if you didn’t return soon.

“Right, we should probably head back,” you mutter to no one in particular, more to yourself.

The Sage nods without hesitation. “Indeed. It would be unwise to keep her waiting.” He turns to lead the way, but before he does, his gaze lingers on the river for a moment longer. 

His expression is unreadable, and he seems lost in thought, the faintest hint of something quiet flickering behind his eyes—maybe relief, or something else entirely.

After all, who would know even a fraction of what the Sage of Truth is thinking about?

You don’t notice the shift as you start following him back, the distant sounds of the marketplace slowly growing louder with every step. The river, for all its serenity, still leaves a strange feeling in your mind.

Just then, a familiar voice calls out in the distance. “There you are! It’s time to head home.”

Grandmother Pecan stands near the path, waving cheerfully. Relief floods through you. Finally.

The Sage, however, remains as composed as ever. “It seems our time together has come to an end.”

“Oh, it is such a pity,” you deadpan. “Truly, I am devastated. ”

He chuckles. “Do not fret, little one. The paths always cross again… in time.”

You shudder. Why does that sound like a promise?

Chapter Text

You are leaving.

No, seriously. You are leaving.

You’ve been thinking about this for days, replaying every interaction with him, every conversation, every too-intense stare.

The Sage of Truth is not someone you can fool forever.

The more he watches you, the more he knows.

You’ve seen this story before—at least, in a different setting or maybe the fandom, how the Apostle is discovered, how their life becomes tangled with the important figures, how it all leads to the end. Some, most commonly, bad endings.

You are not letting that happen.

You tighten the straps of your bag—a humble sack filled with essentials. A bit of food, a map you definitely didn’t steal from the market, some extra gloves (because paranoia is your best friend), and a small charm the orphanage kids gave you before bedtime.

Your heart squeezes.

…You can’t think about them right now.

Just go.

So, you planned. You prepared. You waited for the perfect moment.

And now, here you are—bag slung over your shoulder, heart pounding as you slip through the quiet streets, heading for the outer gates.

Okay, okay. I just need to get far enough away before anyone notices I’m gone.

The plan was simple: run and never look back.

Except… where do you even go?

Staying here is dangerous, but you’re not reckless enough to run into another disaster. You think through your options:

The Silver Kingdom. The land of Faeries. A place of magic, hidden beyond the forests. You could try to reach them, but Faeries don’t let just anyone in. They’re selective, distant. If you made it all the way there only to be turned away… then what?

Burning Spice Cookie’s Domain. A nation that values warriors and survival. If you could prove yourself, maybe they wouldn’t care about your past. But you know what happens to this land in the future. The flames, the destruction. It won’t be safe forever.

Mystic Flour Cookie’s Territory. The calmest choice. Even after Mystic Flour falls, her domain simply fades—no war, no pain. Just everything returning to flour, soft and quiet. If you had to choose a worst-case scenario, at least that one ends peacefully.

You inhale slowly.

That’s the best option.

I just have to make it there.

You adjust your bag, stepping forward—

“Oh?”

You freeze.

No.

No, no, no, no—

A shadow stretches beside you. A tall, familiar figure steps into view.

Gold and blue eyes gleam under the streetlamps, filled with knowing amusement.

The Sage.

You nearly drop your bag.

WHY IS HE HERE?!

The Sage stands relaxed, cookie hands tucked behind his back, like he just happened to be out for a stroll. His lips curve into that signature unreadable smile.

Adding to the eerie vibe that his monocle seemed to be glowing .

“Are you going somewhere, little one? ”

Your brain instantly malfunctions.

You need an excuse. FAST.

“Nope! Just, uh… taking a very long scenic walk. Haha.”

The Sage tilts his head, expression unreadable once again. “Oh? A scenic walk, you say?”

You nod with a quick smile, trying to keep it casual. “Yeah, just needed to clear my head a bit. You know.. fresh air, stretch the legs, maybe take in some nature. Might be gone a while, but I’ll be around.”

Silence.

Your fingers clutch your bag tighter.

Then... he smiles.

You felt a slight chilling sensation which was not a good sign. 

Not a normal, friendly smile. No, this one is indulgent. Knowing.

It’s the kind of smile that says:

"I know exactly what you’re doing… and how naïve of you to think it will work."

You swear you could imagine him saying that… was your mind playing tricks on you??

And the worst part?

He doesn’t stop you.

He doesn’t grab your wrist, doesn’t call the guards or anyone, doesn’t demand an explanation.

He just stands there.

Calm. Patient.

Like he already knows how this will end.

Like he’s already won.

A slow realization creeps up your spine.

Even if you left… even if you made it across continents…

He would find you.

...

You don’t know how long you stand there, gripping your bag like it holds all the answers.

After much (panicked) deliberation, you’ve come to a clear conclusion: when it comes to confronting a Cookie who is not only a million times stronger than you but also somehow in a very bad mood... yeah, you’re not risking it.

Besides, this escape plan? Yeah... kind of flawed. And definitely way too rushed.

Finally, you let out a shaky laugh.

“You know what? Maybe I’ll take that scenic walk later. ”

The Sage’s smile deepens (creepily enough).

“A wise decision.”

You turn on your heel, walking stiffly back toward town.

Behind you, the Sage remains standing at the very spot he confronted you.

You’re still rattled by the encounter as you walk through the dimly lit streets.

It’s late, but you’re almost home. Just a few more turns, and you’ll be back at the orphanage. Safe.

But then—

A cookie hand grabs your arm.

You freeze. "Wha—?"

Annoyance flared in your chest. Of course, he caught up. Of course, he came to have that talk, one that involved around the topic of you running away.

You turned sharply, ready to snap, to defend yourself, to say something...But the moment your eyes met his (or rather someone else), the words caught in your throat.

And just like that, the fight drained out of you.

Three Cookies stand in your path. You don’t recognize them. Their cloaks are old and dirty, and their faces are hidden beneath deep hoods.

They don’t look like they’re here to help.

One of them leans in slightly. “You’re out late. All alone, too.”

Your heart starts pounding. Something about them feels… wrong.

Another steps forward, looking you up and down. “That’s a heavy bag you’ve got there. You wouldn’t be running away , would you?”

You force a shaky laugh. “Me? No, no. Just out for some fresh air.”

They don’t laugh back.

The tallest one tilts his head. “Strange. You’re giving off… something strong.”

“Strong?” you repeat, confused. “What do you mean?”

They don’t answer.

Instead, they begin to close the distance, each step slow and deliberate. They circle you, tightening the space around you with a quiet patience, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“We’ve been looking for someone like you,” one mutters. “You’re carrying something special, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say quickly, trying to back away, but they block you in.

Another whispers, “You’ve got magic in you. Can’t you feel it?”

Your stomach twists.

Magic?

What magic?!

You shake your head. “No—I don’t—I don’t have anything like that!”

“You don’t even realize it!” one says, eyes gleaming with dark delight. “But we can feel it! And oh, how desperately we need to study it!”

Then one of them lunges.

Your breath comes fast and shallow, each inhale sharper than the last. For a moment, it feels like the world itself slows—time stretching unbearably. Your eyes widen in unease, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. Then, a sudden burning sensation flares deep within you.

You cry out and throw up your hands—but something bursts forth from inside.

A warm, blinding light erupts from your palm.

The three are slammed backward by the force, crashing into the walls with sharp yells.

Your glove slips down your wrist. Something on your dough is glowing.

You stare at it, frozen. What… what was that?

Your mark—the one you’ve been hiding under your gloves—glows faintly.

You don’t waste another second.

You turn and sprint.

Sprinting like your life depends on it.

Because maybe now… it does.

Meanwhile…

A shadow shifts atop the rooftops.

High above the alley, gold and blue eyes peer downward, focused and unblinking. The Sage of Truth observes in silence as the cloaked Cookies groan, weakly pushing themselves off the stone. 

The faint scent of scorched parchment and singed cloth hangs in the air.

His grip tightens around his staff that has been summoned moments ago.

He had seen it all. The way they moved. The greedy glint in their eyes. The way they reached for something that was not theirs.

Something they had no right to touch.

Someone they had no right to approach.

With a low breath, he steps forward from the shadows. His steps make no sound from the rooftop then towards the ground.

Golden energy flickers along his staff, quiet and restrained—for now.

“I had hoped the outer circles of scholarship would learn restraint,” he says calmly, his voice ringing with clarity, tone firm and polished. “But I see now—some minds rot the deeper they chase the Truth.”

The wind tugs at the edges of his cloak as he raises his staff. A circle of runes unfurls, humming with layered incantations.

“You know the laws,” he continues, still composed. “Unauthorized manipulation of unknown magical forces. Unauthorized, persistent pursuit that invades privacy and threatens safety of an individual without consent. Interference with an individual under the protection of the Spire…”

A pause. He tilts his head slightly. The monocle gave a slight glow, and his golden eye seemed to be glowing brighter by the second.

“…Unethical experimentation on sentient Cookies.”

His lips curve.

“And here I was, ready to offer a warning.”

Then the warmth leaves his voice entirely.

"You dare lay a hand on one watched over by the very essence of Knowledge?"

His words fall soft, too soft, like silk hiding a blade.

His staff slams down.

The impact echoes through the alley like a bell ringing to announce judgment.

Golden light surges forth, twisting into jagged sigils that slice through the shadows. Magic arcs like lightning—elegant, brutal, final.

Then, from the darkness, hands emerged from the ground, gripping the cloaked scholars with unyielding force and dragging them away to who knows where. Even as the scholars scream, the Sage’s sound barrier springs to life, swallowing every cry so no one else can hear.

The cloaked scholars don’t even have time to let out their shout of desperation nor pleas for mercy.

There is only light.

And then—

Darkness.

Silence settles. The scent of scorched sugar hangs in the air. On the stone floor, a few darkened crumbs remain, scattered and lifeless, slowly disappearing into the wind as if they were never there.

He doesn’t glance at their remains. Doesn’t need to.

Instead, he turns his gaze toward the path where you fled. His expression unreadable… until a slight curve returns to his lips.

A whisper of a smile.

His expression softens. Slightly.

“Ah, little one…”

His voice shifts, laced with that odd, unsettling fondness.

“You really must stop wandering off. You’ll catch the eye of all the wrong kinds of Cookies.”

He chuckles quietly, tapping his staff once against his shoulder like a teacher with a pointer.

“But don’t worry.”

A faint glimmer stirs in his mismatched eyes, steady, almost tender, but with an edge that coils too tightly to be comforting.

“I’m watching.”

Chapter Text

You weren’t paranoid. You were just careful. There was a difference.

And right now, as you walked through the bustling market with a certain scholarly menace shadowing your every step, you were very careful.

The Sage had an annoying habit of appearing wherever you went. If you were at the orphanage, he’d conveniently pass by, checking on Grandmother Pecan or the children.

If you went to the market, he just happened to be there, examining rare tomes or chatting with the local scholars. If you tried to go literally anywhere else, it was like fate had decided you needed a personal babysitter.

So here you were.

Trying to look as unsuspicious as possible.

Totally normal.

Totally casual.

Not at all internally panicking.

"Little one," the Sage hummed, his voice cutting through your thoughts. "You look troubled."

Because of you. The thought immediately popped in your mind instinctively.

You straightened up, forcing your tone into something polite with just the right edge of suspicion. "Oh, just mulling over life’s great questions. Like why our ever-so-wise Sage is out here wandering around instead of, you know, doing... Sage things."

The Sage raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Even wisdom needs a walk now and then."

"Right," you said, dryly.

You fixed your gaze on the path ahead, deliberately ignoring him. If there was one thing you’d learned, it was that conversations with the Sage rarely led anywhere, unless riddles and half-answers counted as a destination.

The Sage fell into an easy stroll beside you, his long robes flowing behind him. "You are quite the curious one," he mused. "Always with questions. Always thinking."

"Well, it’s kind of natural, isn’t it?" you replied, with a shrug. "Can’t exactly turn off your mind just because it’s inconvenient."

"A scholar would agree," he chuckled.

You gave a faint nod, eyes still on the path. "Good for them."

And that was that.

It was supposed to be a deflection. It was supposed to end the conversation.

But instead, the Sage just smiled, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Hmm."

…That was an unsafe sound.

A very unsafe sound.

For a while, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, "Is there something troubling you?"

You glanced at him warily, but said nothing.

He continued, voice calm but edged with concern (whether it was genuine or not, you aren’t sure). "I hope I didn’t frighten you last night. That wasn’t my intention."

You stared at him for a moment, wondering why he would even bring that up… "Frighten me? No. Just didn’t expect to see anyone loitering in the shadows while I was out for some fresh air."

His smile was faint, but not mocking. "Of course."

You quickened your pace slightly. "And before you ask, no, I wasn’t running away. That would be ridiculous."

"Naturally," he said mildly. "Who would ever think that?"

You shot him a look. He was already smiling.

"You’re impossible," you muttered.

The Sage merely smiled.

You stared at him. He stared back.

And then, to your horror, he chuckled.

"You are lying, little one."

Your breath hitched.

"But that’s okay," he continued, tilting his head slightly. "I think it’s charming."

… Excuse me?

Your brain short-circuited. It completely failed to process the words that just left his mouth.

Charming? CHARMING?

There was nothing charming about your careful, deliberate plan! This was serious about staying safe, about not getting caught. This was survival, for crying out loud!

You felt your face heating up, not from embarrassment, but from sheer frustration. You wanted to argue. You wanted to demand why he was letting you lie to him. 

What was the point of running in circles, toying with you just to prove how utterly impossible it was to fool him?

But he was already turning his attention back to the marketplace, as if this entire conversation had been nothing more than idle chatter.

Without anyone noticing, a shadow of frustration settled over you, tightening your chest and souring your mood. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, trying not to show it.

From nearby, Grandmother Pecan approached, her eyes soft but concerned as she took in your expression. "Are you alright, dear?"

You forced a small, tired smile. "I’m fine," you said quickly, deflecting. "Just… ready to head back to the orphanage."

She studied you a moment longer, then nodded with a knowing smile. "If you say so."

As you turned to leave, the Sage stepped away a few paces.. His golden and blue eyes remained fixed on you, quiet and unreadable, as if something unspoken was weighing on his mind.

That night, as you lay in your tiny orphanage bed, staring at the ceiling, your mind drifted back to the other thing you’d been carefully avoiding all day.

The incident.

The weird Cookies.

Even now, when you closed your eyes, you could feel it again. That warmth from within. That dangerous, comforting instinct.

And worse—

You frowned, pressing your pillow closer.

Earlier that day…

Despite the tense atmosphere that made your mood a bit unpleasant..

You still had some errands to run, a bit of late afternoon shopping, really. Just a few ingredients you needed to pick up.

Even if it means happening to meet that Sage ‘accidentally’...

You still remembered what happened last night. It replayed in your head over and over… the glowing mark, the cloaked Cookies, the sudden burst of magic. You hadn’t told anyone. Not even him.

But when you saw the Sage a second time today, standing calm and unreadable like always, a strange thought crept in.

What if he saw them too?

What if those shady Cookies had crossed paths with him after you ran?

You tried to shake it off. He’s fine. Of course he’s fine. He’s the Sage of Truth. Still… the worry stuck.

You stood nearby for a moment, unsure, before asking without thinking it through:
“Did you see anyone… weird last night?”

The Sage didn’t look up from the scroll he was reading. “Weird?”

You awkwardly cleared your throat. “Like… Cookies in cloaks. Sneaking around. Acting suspicious. Maybe looking for trouble?”

He finally turned to look at you, the glass of his monocle catching the light and glowing (ominously you might add). One eyebrow lifted in amusement. “Why? Did you happen to run into some ‘weird’ Cookies, perhaps?”

“No! I mean—just wondering. Just… making sure nothing got too close to the Spire.” You tried to act casual, but it came out stiff. “Just wanted to make sure you were… that everything was okay.”

A short pause.

Then he smiled. That same annoying smile he always wore when he was about to mess with you.

“My, my…” he said lightly, voice smooth like sweet tea with something sharp beneath. “Is that concern I detect? For me?”

You froze. “What? No. Of course not.”

“Oh, come now.” His gaze narrowed just enough to make your stomach twist. “You were worried for me. How charming.”

Your face burned, and you immediately scowled, turning away. “Forget I said anything. It was stupid anyway.”

There was a beat of silence.

A pause.

You didn’t see it, but his smile faded just slightly. He glanced up at the sky, then quickly returned his gaze to you.

“I didn’t encounter anyone suspicious,” he said easily, before placing his cookie hand on his chest. “Nothing worth noting.”

For a moment, your shoulders relaxed, just a little. You let out a quiet breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Good. He’s fine.

But then you caught yourself.

Wait. Why do I even care?

You quickly shook the thought from your head, scolding yourself in silence.

Ugh. What are you doing? Worrying about him? That’s ridiculous. He’s not the one in danger.

He is the danger .

You crossed your arms, looking away.

Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw the faintest flicker of amusement return to his face.

"It seems the hour calls for my departure. Farewell for now, little one—do try to stay out of trouble."

You were just about to reply that you’re not exactly the type to go looking for trouble.. but he was already gone.

Weird… although the Sage was always like that. It didn’t bother you much and so you went to do the errands for now.

But, going back to the incident that happened..

The magic that had exploded out of you in sheer panic.

You shifted onto your side, gripping the blanket tightly. Your thoughts spiraled, going over every detail, every second of what had happened. 

The moment those Cookies had surrounded you, the cold sweat clinging to your back, the rapid beat of your heart (or perhaps soul?) hammering loudly and then, the sudden surge of something powerful .

It didn't feel foreign. That was the worst part.

It felt natural . Like something deep inside you had merely woken up .

No incantation. No clear thought. No external force guiding your movements. It was pure instinct, like breathing, like blinking, like your body had always known how to do it, you had simply never given it a reason to.

And that scared you.

Because what if it happened again ?

What if, next time, it wasn’t just a simple push of magic? What if it hurts someone? What if someone saw ?

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will the thoughts away. But you knew you couldn’t ignore this. If you pretended it wasn’t real, it would only be harder to deal with later.

You needed control.

You needed to understand what this was, what you were capable of.

And that meant practicing.

Somewhere private. Somewhere no one could see.

Because you had a sinking feeling that the more you tried to suppress it, the harder it would be to hide. And in a world where he —the Sage—was always watching, where whispers of other Cookies tend to reach far beyond and ‘fate’ loomed over your head like a storm cloud, you couldn’t afford to be reckless.

You pulled the blanket over your head and exhaled slowly.

Tomorrow. You will figure it out tomorrow.

But sleep wasn’t peaceful. Or perhaps it was.

The darkness was endless, stretching in all directions, swallowing everything in an abyss of silence. There was no floor beneath you, no sky above.. only nothingness, stretching infinitely, wrapping around you like an unseen presence.

Yet, in the distance, something flickered.

A soft, gentle glow.

You turned, drawn to the light, and watched as it moved closer.. a small orb, no bigger than the palm of your cookie hand, floating lazily through the void. It pulsed, a quiet hum thrumming through the air, as if it were alive .

You blinked. "...Huh."

The orb stopped right in front of you, hovering curiously. You stared at it. It… felt harmless. Warm. Gentle, even.

Slowly, you reached out a hand. The orb wobbled excitedly before bumping against your palm, sending a soft ticklish sensation through you.

"Okay," you mused, tilting your head. "Are you a magic thing? Or is my mind just making this up?"

The orb pulsed in response.

"Not very talkative, are you? I figured.." You poked it. It wobbled again.

For a moment, you just stood there, humoring the little thing as it playfully floated around you. It was strangely relaxing, this empty space, this peaceful, quiet moment. No Sage. No weird magic incidents. No whispers of fate looming over you. Just… this.

It almost felt safe .

A deep breath left your lips. When was the last time I felt safe?

The orb circled you, its warm light brushing against your cookie hand like a silent companion, as if waiting for you to say something.

You hesitated. And then, with a sigh, you spoke.

"I don’t know what I’m doing anymore."

The orb pulsed softly.

"I mean, sure, I have a goal, to survive, but it’s not like I have a real plan. I thought I could just.. stay quiet. Keep my head down. Be normal." You let out a short, bitter laugh. "But nooo, some higher power just had to make things difficult for me."

You looked down at your gloved hands.

"I wasn’t supposed to be special. I didn’t want to be special."

The orb bobbed up and down, listening.

"Now I have all these problems. I have magic? Maybe? And I don’t even know how it works. And there’s that creepy Sage guy who won’t leave me alone. And let’s not forget the fact that I almost got kidnapped yesterday." You groaned. "I swear, I think my life expectancy is getting shorter by the day."

The orb gave a soft, sympathetic flicker.

"I should leave." You muttered the words like an afterthought, as if saying them out loud would make them real. "I really should. It’s stupid to stay here. I could get caught. The longer I stick around, the worse this is gonna get."

The orb wobbled in uncertainty.

"But I can’t just go, either." You frowned. "Other than getting caught by that guy, I have people here. Grandmother Pecan. The other kids. It’s not like I could just abandon them without feeling guilty about it.”

How ironic. You were ready to leave them behind, to walk away… yet still, you hesitated. You couldn’t do it without second thoughts.

“Besides, would I even make it at all?"

The orb tilted slightly, as if pondering your words.

Your thoughts trailed off into silence.

Maybe—

The orb floated closer, nudging against your chest with a gentle warmth, breaking your thoughts. You blinked, looking at it.

"What? You think I’m being dramatic?"

It pulsed.

You snorted. "Wow, rude. I’m venting."

The orb bobbed up and down, as if amused.

You shook your head, shoulders relaxing just a little. "Fine, fine. I get it. No moping. I’ll figure something out."

The orb flickered, a small, reassuring glow.

For a moment, you just sat there, staring at it.

"Are you actually real?" you finally asked, voice quieter. "Or am I just talking to my subconscious like a crazy person?"

The orb pulsed again.

"Yeah. That’s what I thought."

A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. You reached out again, letting the orb press gently against your hand like a tiny, floating pet.

And for a little while, you let yourself enjoy the quiet.

But then, something changed.

For a moment, a blurry scene appeared in front of you. A tall tower stood at the peak of a mountain, wrapped in fog. 

At the edge of the tower was a Cookie… someone you didn’t know. Their features were hard to see, hidden by the mist. They just stood there, watching.

And somehow, it felt like they were looking right at you.

Like your eyes met.

Then, suddenly, you were pulled backward.

The orb rushed toward you, glowing and shaking, but everything around you was already fading into a bright, blinding light.

You gasped and opened your eyes.

The ceiling of the orphanage was above you. 

You lay there for a moment, heart beating fast.

That scene you saw…

What was that?

Chapter Text

You knew this was risky.

You knew it was stupid .

And yet, here you were.

Alone in a quiet clearing, hidden behind the orphanage (but a bit far where almost the trees surround themselves), your breath fogging up in the cool night air. The moon hung high above, casting pale light over the surroundings, making the faintly glowing mark on your cookie hand look all the more ominous.

You exhaled, shaking out your cookie hands. The night before, that strange surge of magic had come out of nowhere, pushing those Cookies away when you were cornered. You had felt it, that raw energy crackling through you, untamed and wild. And if it had happened once…

It could happen again.

You just needed to control it.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. Several times, in fact.

You glanced around once more, making sure no one was nearby. Then, carefully, you stretched out your hands. You focused.

Come on. Just a little magic. Just a small spark. Nothing big.

At first, nothing happened.

You frowned, disappointment clearly there that settled but immediately diving to think.

The magic appeared suddenly when you felt in danger— does that mean you have to endanger yourself for it?

…

“..I’d rather not,” You muttered, not wanting to risk such a thing but you delve into the other details. What about the feeling of being in danger?

You closed your eyes and imagined the scene that had happened before, the feeling in danger, the life-threatening experience that made you almost lose hope..

And so you try again.

This time, a faint warmth built up in your palm. Then, a dim, flickering light.

Your heart skipped.

It’s working!

The little orb of light hovered just above your palm. It wobbled slightly, unstable but undeniably there . Excitement surged through you.

But then-

The warmth intensified.

Your eyes widened as the light suddenly flared, growing larger—brighter— hotter . Panic seized you.

"Wait, wait—!"

The magic pulsed wildly. You tried to pull back, to stop whatever was happening, but it was like trying to put out a fire with your bare hands. The light only grew , consuming your palm, your cookie hands..

And then, with a sharp hiss, the leather of your glove ripped . Utterly scorched that turned to ashes.

At least it wasn’t your cookie hand that turned to ashes, your mind helpfully chimed in.

Yet, you felt your stomach plummeting.

The exposed dough beneath burned with a strange, tingling sensation. The mark, normally faint and barely noticeable, was now glowing.

You barely had time to process it before you heard footsteps approaching.

Your breath caught.

Grandmother Pecan? Maybe she had heard a noise or noticed a strange flash of light from the windows. It wouldn’t be the first time she wandered out to check on something. The idea made your stomach twist with guilt. 

If it really was her, and she had come all this way alone because of you , then you might’ve dragged her into something dangerous without meaning to.

Or maybe it was one of the little Cookies from the orphanage. You knew some of them had trouble sleeping—quiet little footsteps in the hallways at night weren’t uncommon. 

A few of them liked to sneak around when the world was quiet, chasing dreams or chasing shadows. But still... this place, where you stood now, was far from the orphanage. Too far. That made your worry grow. 

What if they got lost? What if something happened on the way?

You hoped it was the first two options but a darker thought crept in. Or worse… them. The suspicious hooded Cookies whom you met, unpleasantly.

You hadn’t forgotten.

And you really, really didn’t want to see them again.

You turned sharply toward the sound, heart racing.

You barely had time to process it before a voice cut through the night.

"My, my. Practicing magic so late? How diligent."

Your whole body froze.

That voice.

That infuriatingly familiar, smooth-as-silk voice.

Slowly, you turned only your head, your back still facing him.

And there he was.

Sage of Truth.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, watching.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He wasn’t wearing his usual light smile this time.

No, this was different.

His expression was unreadable, but his piercing gaze locked onto yours.

You cradled your hand close to you, instinctively, heart pounding, "O-oh, Sage! Didn’t see you there!"

Silence.

A slow, deliberate step forward.

He was close now (but seemed gracious enough that there was space between the two of you), close enough that you could see the faint amusement flickering in his eyes. But beneath that amusement, there was something else.

Something sharper.

"You seem quite… talented," he mused, his tone light yet dripping with intrigue. "I wonder, where does such talent come from?"

“Haha, talent? I wouldn’t go that far ,” you said quickly, flashing a nervous smile. “It was probably just… a weird fluke or something.. Right place, right time sort of thing, I guess...”

A hum.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you.

Your heart refused to slow down.

Feeling the grip of your other cookie hand tightening in covering the mark fully out of slight nervousness..

Then, to your horror, his gaze flickered downward—toward the faintly smoking edge of your damaged glove that laid on the ground.

Your mind went blank.

He saw.

He definitely saw.

Did he..?

But he didn’t say a word. That didn’t confirm anything at all.

Instead, he just gave you a long, knowing look.

The kind that made your stomach twist into knots.

The kind that told you that he wasn’t fooled.

The kind that said, I’ll let you lie. For now.

You swallowed thickly, forcing another nervous laugh.

"Haha. Ah, I’m so doomed."

But then, instead of pressing you for answers, the Sage did something unexpected.

He opened a small portal that made you curious despite the dreadful feeling.

And pulled out… another pair of gloves.

What?

You blinked. "Wait. Why do you just have those?"

He smiled, far too pleased with himself. "One must always be prepared."

You hesitated. Utterly suspicious.

He extended the gloves toward you, expectant.

Your cookie hands twitched. You should refuse. Taking these meant accepting the fact that he knew something was off. That he was waiting for you to slip up.

But your ruined glove was already beyond saving. And your exposed cookie hand felt like a target.

Reluctantly, you snatched the gloves from him (with your other unmarked cookie hand) and tugged them on, flexing your cookie hands to make sure they fit.

He watched you with something dangerously close to amusement.

"Now," he continued smoothly, "shall we begin?"

You stared at him. "Begin what ?"

"Your training, of course."

Oh no.

"I—" You laughed awkwardly. "Haha! Nooo, I don't need training. Nope. No training required here! I’m just a totally normal Cookie who—who definitely doesn’t need magic lessons."

His expression didn’t change.

"Is that so?" He tilted his head. "And yet, not even a moment ago, you were attempting to conjure magic without a proper medium. Very reckless."

You stiffened.

He chuckled at your expression. "Come now. If you insist on playing with such dangerous things, the least you can do is learn to control it."

You opened your mouth to argue—

But then he raised his staff.

A soft glow emanated from its eye. The air crackled faintly, humming with energy. The very same energy you had felt within yourself.

"Watch," he instructed, his voice calm, assured.

And then, with a flick of his wrist, a swirl of magic bloomed into existence—a small, contained sphere of light (it seemed like a star..) hovering just above his unoccupied cookie hand. Unlike your wild, unstable attempt, his was controlled, steady, effortless.

You clenched your jaw.

A part of you wanted to refuse, to walk away and pretend none of this was happening.

But another part of you—one you hated to acknowledge—was amazed and a bit curious.

With great reluctance, you stayed.

And the Sage, infuriatingly enough, smiled.

Of course, training with the Sage was anything but normal .

"Hold your hands steady," he instructed, pacing around you like a professor giving a lecture. "You must focus on your intent. Magic is not just power, it is the manifestation of knowledge and will."

You grumbled under your breath. "Sounds like a lot of work."

"Ah, but knowledge is work," he said, a bit too cheerfully. "And work is the foundation of progress!"

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, yeah. And progress leads to enlightenment, which leads to wisdom, which leads to blah, blah, blah."

He gasped dramatically. "How dare you mock the noble pursuit of wisdom!"

"Because you make it sound boring ."

"Ah, but is Knowledge ever truly boring?"

"It is when you monologue."

He huffed, shaking his head. "You truly have no appreciation for the finer things in life."

You smirked, feeling slightly a bit comfortable, keyword: slightly. "I appreciate sleep."

"And yet here you are, awake, learning from me." He flashed a victorious smile.

You groaned. "I hate that you’re right."

He chuckled. "You'll grow used to it."

Somehow, you doubted that.

Chapter Text

It might seem a little out of character for you to be so willing (albeit reluctantly at first) to accept the situation and a bit comfortable with the situation you found yourself in.

But there was something quietly comforting about wanting to learn magic for your own sake of curiosity and interest, not just as a means to keep it from hurting others. After all, magic was hardly a common thing in the modern world you came from.

Perhaps it was also the way it allowed you to forget about the mark for a while, letting you speak with the Sage of Truth without fear for a small moment, with the sole purpose of understanding.

Of course… things were never that easy. Hiding the mark that served as the indication of being the Apostle just made everything harder. Sometimes, you just wished you didn’t have to worry about any of it..

In any case, the following days were quite.. something. It seemed there was an unspoken agreement to meet at night for the “magic classes”.

You weren’t sure what was worse: the fact that you were about to learn magic from the Sage of Truth, or the fact that he seemed genuinely delighted about it.

The far clearing behind the orphanage was still cloaked in moonlight, the air crisp and quiet. And there he was, the Sage, casually twirling his staff like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Maybe for him it was.

For you? Not so much.

You fiddled with the new gloves he’d given you, still a little too snug, and tried not to make eye contact for too long. Because, really, what were you supposed to say to the guy whose job title was literally Sage ?

"Um," you started, clearing your throat. "So… how exactly does this work? Do I just… think really hard? Or wave my arms around until something explodes?"

He gave a light laugh. "Preferably the former. Though the latter is entertaining to watch."

"Great," you mumbled, mostly to yourself. "Can’t wait to be your personal fireworks show."

He stepped closer, gesturing toward your hands. “Let’s begin with intent. Magic responds not just to emotion, but to clarity. Think of it like… inviting the truth to come forward.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. "The truth? That sounds… philosophical." As usual.

He tilted his head, smiling. “Would you expect anything less?”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because the answer was yes , but you were trying to be polite.

Instead, you focused, holding out your cookie hands again. That same uncertain warmth gathered, flickering just beneath the surface. A faint glow sparked to life… then fizzled out with a sad puff.

“…It’s kind of like trying to light a candle with a soggy candy stick. Technically sweet, but absolutely useless.”

That earned a snort . A real one from him .

You blinked. “Was that– did you just laugh?”

He recovered quickly, lips twitching with amusement. “A most curious analogy. Though I suppose if I were teaching anyone else, I’d hear something more poetic.”

“Sorry I’m not a walking book,” you muttered, concentrating again.

"Don't be. I find your approach… refreshing."

You weren’t entirely sure if that was a compliment, but you didn’t ask. Ignorance is bliss, as some might say.

He moved behind you, adjusting your stance slightly. He was surprisingly gentle with his approach as he gently repositioned your arms. “Magic is an extension of the self,” he said, voice a little quieter now. “If you hesitate, it will too.”

“I’m not hesitating ,” you muttered. “I’m just… checking if the magic decides to surprise me again.”

“Ah, of course. My mistake.” The corners of his mouth twitched again. “Well then, all the more reason to practice– try again.”

You inhaled slowly. Focused. This time, the warmth steadied just a little. A soft flicker of light hovered above your palm.

A little unstable.

A little wobbly.

But it was there.

You smiled slightly at the sight, willing to calm yourself at the development lest you ruin it.

Then it blinked out again.

"...Okay," you exhaled. "That was slightly less embarrassing than the first time and less, you know, dangerous ."

"Progress," the Sage declared. "Always to be celebrated. Perhaps not with fireworks just yet, but maybe… tea?"

You blinked at him. “Tea?”

He nodded serenely, already conjuring a small portal (the same action when he took out the gloves you are currently wearing). A teapot? Steam curling delicately from the spout accompanied by two teacups.

Where had t hat even come from exactly..?

You stared.

He offered you one of the cups, which he filled the cup with tea by himself, perfectly balanced. “A true scholar never trains on an empty spirit.”

“That’s not how the saying goes.”

“It is now,” he said, sipping calmly.

You accepted the cup with both cookie hands, mostly because you weren’t sure what else to do. The tea was warm. Fragrant. Soothing.

...This was definitely not how you imagined secret nighttime magic training going. And well, you did sign up for this. So it was given and expected on having to experience one of the Sage’s weird antics from time to time (or all the time, really).

You sat down on the grass (because of the lack of chairs at the moment), you expected the Sage to somehow float himself, but the Sage sat as well, folding his clothes beneath him like this was a planned picnic instead of a midnight lesson in not accidentally blowing things up.

"Do you always do this?" you asked after a moment.

"Do what?"

"Offer tea to confused Cookies who may or may not have accidentally triggered a dangerous magic?"

"Only on Tuesdays," he replied, completely deadpan.

You gave him a look.

He raised a brow innocently. “It helps with nerves.”

You took another sip. "...I mean, fair."

A small silence fell between you, not entirely uncomfortable. The tea helped. So did the moonlight. So did the fact that, despite everything, he wasn’t pushing. Just… waiting.

"You don’t seem surprised," you said quietly. “About me. This.” The topic seemed to still invade your mind, which disrupted your tea time.

He didn’t respond right away. Just swirled his tea once, thoughtfully.

"I’ve learned that surprises," he said eventually, "are simply truths we haven’t noticed yet.”

You nodded slowly. That… felt like something he would say.

“You talk like a riddle sometimes,” you mumbled.

“Would you prefer I talk like a textbook?”

“Definitely not.”

He smiled.

And for a little while longer, you both sat there in companionable silence. You weren’t sure if this counted as training. Or bonding. Or something else entirely.

But at least, for now, it wasn’t a disaster.

Yet.

The conversation had spiraled. Again. It wasn’t even nighttime or the magic classes, but rather the usual encounter with the Sage at some point in the Spire. Or maybe near the orphanage, weirdly enough.

You weren’t even sure how it started, something about the responsibilities of power, or fate, or destiny, and then it somehow shifted into an intense discussion about how you “radiated promise” and how he “recognized the rare glow of potential” in you. 

It might’ve been flattering if it wasn’t coming from someone who stared at you like you hung the stars and also maybe had plans .

Plans you wanted absolutely no part of.

You opened your mouth to launch into a polite but firm deflection, a well-practiced skill by now.

But just as you did, a familiar voice rang through the air.

“Little one! If you dawdle too long, the chores won’t finish themselves.”

You turned toward the source, spotting Grandmother Pecan standing at the entrance of the orphanage.

Ah. Right.

You had actual responsibilities to deal with.

And honestly? At this moment?

You would rather deal with a mountain of chores than another second of this conversation with the Sage (you are willing, to an extent, to interact for the intention is clear as it was for learning magic, but doesn’t count for other purposes ).

“Right. Yes. Chores.” You nodded hurriedly, already backing away. “Very important. I should go do those. Right now. Immediately. No time to chat. Very busy.”

The Sage hummed. “A shame. I was rather enjoying our talk.”

You did not dignify that with a response.

But as you turned to leave–

“I shall accompany you.”

You froze .

Slowly, you turned back to him.

“…What.”

The Sage smiled, completely serious. “I shall help with your tasks.”

You blinked. Then blinked again . A look of ridiculousness would be the expression you are making at the moment, you guessed.

“…You?”

“Yes.”

“You— who is considered one of the highest-ranking authorities in the Spire— want to… help with chores ?”

“Indeed.”

You stared at him like he had just told you he planned to dive headfirst into a cauldron.

“ Why ?”

He shrugged lightly. “Why not?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“…Because you’re the Sage of Truth ?” you said slowly, as if he was the one being ridiculous. “You have, like, a million more important things to do?”

The Sage waved a cookie hand dismissively. “I can make time.”

Your mind stalled.

This wasn’t happening. This was a fever dream .

“But—but you’re—you’re—” You grasped at your words, barely holding onto the last thread of logic. “You’re not supposed to be doing menial labor! That’s—that’s—”

“Fascinating,” he interjected smoothly. “It almost sounds as if you do not want my assistance.”

You gawked at him.

" Obviously !" Oh, you spoke it out loud. But you were being honest, at least?

“Oh, what a shame,” he mused, shaking his head. “And here I was, so eager to lend a hand. A rare opportunity!”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

His smile was blinding. “Very much so.”

You groaned, dragging a cookie hand down your face.

Behind you, Grandmother Pecan chuckled, walking near both of you. “It seems our little one is quite lucky to have such company.”

You stiffened. “Lucky is not the word I would use.”

The old Cookie only smiled knowingly. “Well, I won’t keep you both any longer. Have fun, dear.”

Fun?

Fun?!

There was nothing fun about this!

You would have guessed that she would at least convince the Sage not to, because of his position and that he is quite, very much so, revered by other Cookies.

You might have exaggerated a bit with your look of betrayal to Grandmother Pecan, but it was justified!

And as you trudged toward your tasks, now with an overenthusiastic Sage following closely behind, you realized something horrifying.

He wasn’t going to change his mind.

And you…

You were stuck with him .

Chapter Text

You tried.

You tried to lose him.

The moment Grandmother Pecan went back inside, you walked ahead at an absolutely brisk pace, hoping he’d get distracted by something literally anywhere else and wander off.

Unfortunately, that was wishful thinking.

Because every time you turned a corner, took a different route, or pretended to forget something and doubled back, he was still there.

Just walking along at a leisurely pace, perfectly content, as if he had all the time in the world to spend tailing you.

You gritted your teeth. This is fine. You would just… ignore him. Pretend he wasn’t there. Go about your business.

You weren’t going to entertain this.

But then—

“Oh dear,” The Sage suddenly spoke. “That wool sheep appears to be in distress.”

Your head snapped toward the small pen nearby.

Sure enough, several of the fluffy creatures were jostling each other, bleating pitifully. One poor sheep had its head stuck between the wooden fence posts, wiggling in a futile attempt to free itself.

…Ugh.

Grumbling, you marched over, grasped the sheep’s sides, and carefully maneuvered it out of the fence. The moment it was free, it gave a happy little bleat and scurried off to join the others.

“Well done,” The Sage mused, watching with amusement.

You shot him a look. “I do this every day, you know.”

“I do know,” he said cheerfully (creepily you might add). “That does not make it any less entertaining to watch.”

You squinted at him. “You’re awfully talkative for someone who wants to help .”

“Oh, but talking is helping,” he countered, utterly shameless. “It provides encouragement.”

“…You want to encourage me? Try picking up a bucket and actually doing something.”

The words you uttered were just passing words with no actual weight or being thought through at all.

To your horror, he actually did.

Before you could blink, The Sage had gracefully plucked up a bucket of water and walked over to the nearby garden, pouring a perfectly measured amount onto the plants without spilling a single drop.

You gawked. “Wait— you actually —”

“What?” he said innocently. “Did you think I was incapable of basic tasks?”

“…Yes,” you admitted flatly.

Other than that notion, you never think that he’d take your words seriously and more so in doing it.

He chuckled, moving on to the next plant.

You scowled, muttering under your breath as you grabbed a second bucket and started watering the rest.

For a moment, you worked in silence. Then—

“You are rather diligent.” 

You blinked, caught off guard by the comment. “Uh… thanks?”

He did not smile. His voice was calm, deliberate. “Yet I find myself wondering, what compels you to persist so earnestly?”

“…”

“Why put so much care into these tasks? You go out of your way for things others would ignore. It’s not just responsibility. It’s… intention.” His eyes searched yours, curious. “Why does it matter to you?”

You frowned faintly, confused. “It’s just… something to do, I guess.”

“Hm,” he said. Not disbelieving. Just waiting.

You glanced away, focus drifting back to your task. “Better than wandering around aimlessly.”

The words were quiet. Almost an afterthought.

At one point, you imagined the scene of your first arrival in this Cookie world. With no one to inform you as to why you appeared to this world, a game that existed from your modern life… 

You wandered the place with no destination in mind, and kept on walking till you stumbled upon the orphanage, and Grandmother Pecan. She took you under her wing and cared for. 

Feeling as if a favor needs to be repaid for such kindness, you thought of helping Grandmother Pecan, especially with the tasks and chores. To the best of your abilities as of currently.

Sighing to yourself, putting the thoughts on hold.

He didn’t respond right away.

The silence stretched.

And then he said, softly, “Purpose can be a strange thing. Sometimes we build it piece by piece, without knowing that is what we are doing.”

You didn’t answer. Nor gave an outward reaction, only taking the words into account.

His gaze flickered. You felt it. That knowing look.

So before he could say anything else, you threw the conversation in a completely different direction.

“Well, what about you ?” you asked, forcing casualness into your voice. “You’re, like, the biggest deal in this kingdom. What are you doing wasting your time in an orphanage garden?”

The Sage smiled. “Oh, I have my reasons.”

You waited for him to elaborate.

He did not.

Your eye twitched.

“Vague,” you muttered. “So incredibly vague.”

“I am a Sage,” he mused. “Mystery is part of my charm.”

“Okay, wow, no one talks like that.”

“ I do.”

You groaned, finishing up the last of the watering.

After that, you moved on to collecting jellybeans from the small orchard. Unfortunately, The Sage followed.

And he was obnoxiously good at it.

While you had squatted down and carefully pluck each jellybean by cookie hand, he just gestured slightly, and a few gently floated down into his waiting palm.

You paused. Stared.

“…Are you serious ?”

He looked at you innocently. “What?”

“You—” You gestured vaguely at his effortless magic. “That is so unfair .”

He smirked. “Perhaps, but it is efficient.”

“That’s—ugh! Cheating!”

“Is it cheating,” he said smoothly, “or is it merely an optimized approach ?”

You groaned, thumping your forehead against your unoccupied palm.

Of course. Of course he was the type to try justifying it.

By the time you finished gathering all the jellybeans, you were exhausted, not from the labor itself, but from the sheer mental effort of dealing with him .

Still, despite your frustration, you had to admit…

…The chores had gone by much faster with him around.

(You would never tell him that, though. His ego was already insufferable enough.)

As you both made your way back toward the orphanage, The Sage glanced at you, his voice light.

“Well then, little one. Did you enjoy my assistance?”

You snorted. “I endured it.”

He chuckled. “Good enough.”

As the last of the chores wrapped up, you found yourself standing outside the orphanage, arms crossed, trying to will away the slight awkwardness creeping in.

The Sage, meanwhile, looked as calm and composed as ever, like he hadn’t just spent the afternoon doing mundane work way beneath his status.

You huffed, scuffing your foot against the ground.

“…Thanks,”

He blinked.

You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean… for the help. You didn’t have to do any of that, but… you did.”

Your voice felt stiff, like it wasn’t used to forming words of appreciation. Because, well, this was him . The Sage of Truth . The most unsettling, unpredictable, and mildly terrifying person you’d met so far.

And yet…

He had helped. And despite the way he constantly messed with you, he never once slacked off. (Other than avoiding most of the labor to be dealt with the magic of his.)

So, yeah. You had to give credit where it was due.

His lips quirked upward, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Oh? The little one is capable of gratitude?”

You groaned, expecting he’d respond that way. “Don’t push it.”

He chuckled. “A sincere thanks, no matter how reluctant, is always appreciated.”

Then, in a rare moment of sincerity, he added, “You did well today.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard.

His expression remained unreadable, but his tone was… genuine. Not teasing, not condescending, just an honest statement.

You weren’t sure how to respond to that.

So instead, you just muttered, “Yeah, well… I do this every day, you know.”

“And yet, it does not go unnoticed,” he mused.

Before you could figure out what that meant , he turned, stepping away from the orphanage entrance.

“For now, I shall take my leave,” he said lightly. “But I suspect our paths will cross again quite soon.”

You sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I figured.”

As he began walking away, he paused, throwing you one last glance over his shoulder.

“I find you most intriguing, little one,” he said, that ever-present knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Do try not to disappear before our next meeting.”

And with that, he was gone.

You exhaled, rubbing your temples.

You had so many thoughts. Too many. But none of them could be sorted right now.

So, for now, you turned, stepping inside.

The orphanage door closed behind you after.

Chapter Text

You don’t know why it took you this long to realize.

A library.

Of course there would be one. You’ve been meandering around this Spire of Knowledge (the name of the place speaks for itself! ) for days now..

Encountering scholars on a daily basis, listening to philosophical debates that happen every once a while, and certainly walking away from a certain Sage once spotted at a considerable range.

And yet… not once did you think of checking the place where knowledge actually lived. If you ignore the one Cookie whose existence is akin of that embodiment of truth and knowledge—

You must be slipping.

Or maybe it’s the way everyone keeps talking about fate and jam flows and divine marks that makes you forget libraries exist in this world. Or maybe that idiot that keeps on appearing..

You sigh, shaking your head before finishing the last chore assigned for you.

Having decided to ask Grandmother Pecan of the matter, as to make the destination a bit more clear and straightforward, rather than getting lost. The mark on your hand still itches faintly under your glove.

“Grandmother Pecan,” you greet, walking up to the Cookie sitting in her favorite rocking chair, needles clicking rhythmically as she knits something vaguely what seemed to be a scarf.

Her doughy hands are wrinkled, yet continued to meticulously knit. Even if she resumed her work, it was obvious she heard you and had her attention directed.

“Hm?” she hums, not missing a beat in her knitting.

“Is there a library around here?” you ask, keeping your tone casual, just a Cookie curious about books and totally not about to do suspicious Apostle-related research.

Grandmother Pecan’s eyes crinkle behind her round spectacles as she looks at you. “Ohoho, curious little dear, aren’t you? I suppose it’s only natural for a young mind wanting to develop,”

You smiled strained but not of forced one, but rather out of awkwardness but still nodded at her words, agreeing to her words.

She chuckles, which turns into a cough, which turns back into a chuckle.

“There are two libraries, dear,” she says, looking back at the creation she had made before continuing,

“The one most of us visit is by the Fountain Hall. Simple knowledge, everyday learning, manners, gardening, the brief history of the Spire.. even fairytales if you are interested!”

Her eyes seemed to light up at the last part, a dazed look appearing as if reminiscing in her mind of a memory, or a past maybe.

You nod slowly. Taking note of the information, it might not be the library you expect but it would suffice at least.

“What about the second one?” 

She leans in slightly, voice dropping a little. “The second library lies deep in the Spire’s heart. It is where most scholars frequent, quite the details of knowledge recorded perhaps.. although, it is reserved and private— unless you are an acknowledged and willing scholar, those doors will not let anyone in easily.”

So even the Spire has its own private and secretive place… You thought for a moment, even considering trying to somewhat ‘enter’ the second library, but reconsidered because of the consequences it might bring.

“You’ll want the first one,” she finishes, now humming a tune under her breath.

You awkwardly nod. “Of course.”

“Ah, mind your manners if you do visit. The librarian’s a bit of a crusty roll, bless his heart,” Grandmother Pecan softly laughed after mentioning it, while you didn’t continue asking what she meant by it. Too eager to visit the library.

After thanking and saying goodbyes to her, you step out of the orphanage and head to your destination. Passing through the clear path and entering the more bustling Cookies within the inner Spire, some stalls can be seen and even scholars.

You tug your glove a little tighter. Fastening your pace unconsciously. Library time , your mind supplied, as you spotted the modest carved wooden sign swinging gently above the door ahead. “Fountain Hall Public Library,” it read in faded golden script.

You took a deep breath before opening the door, and it responded with a polite chime , announcing your arrival to the quiet atmosphere within.

The scent of paper, aged, slightly toasty, and with a hint of ink and sugar wrapped around you instantly. If safety had a smell, you imagined it’d be something like this.

Your steps were light on the polished wooden floor as you took in the space. Bookshelves lined the walls and formed neat rows across the room, each stacked with various tomes of varying thickness and seriousness. A few Cookies sat at reading desks, heads buried in pages, the kind of silence that felt more like a mutual agreement than a rule.

At the front desk sat the librarian.

An older Cookie, sharply dressed in a deep brown cardigan and spectacles so clean they gleamed. His dough was slightly cracked with age, eyes narrow, calculating. 

He appraised you the moment you stepped in. Just one glance, sharp and analytical but said nothing. He looked back down at the large book in front of him, scribbling something with a quill that made precise scratch-scratch-scratch sounds, as though judging your entire existence in three strokes or less.

You offered a nod, which was met with complete indifference.

Cool…

Ahem, moving on…

You navigated through the shelves with the same quiet energy, careful not to knock into anything or draw attention. 

Your eyes skimmed the categories neatly labeled in delicate handwriting— Botanical Studies , Basic Structure of Magic , Basic Manners and Bows , until you found what you were looking for.

Local History. Legends. Beliefs.

Bingo.

You pulled out a few books that looked the least intimidating, thinner volumes with titles: The History of the Spire of Knowledge (Overview), The Witches’ Tale, A Virtue’s Apostle . A bit dramatic, but you weren’t in a position to be picky, especially encountering it luckily.

You carried the stack to an empty desk in a corner and began flipping through them quietly, your eyes scanning each page quickly but carefully.

The brief history of the Spire was, unsurprisingly, simple (given that the library didn’t hold much specifics but rather the general). Lots of talk about wisdom, balance, enlightenment, and a suspicious lack of actual dates.

Drifting your attention to another book, The Witches’ Tale , you gently pulled it from the stack. It was a faded old volume, bound in a deep dark brown cover with silver-gilded edges. A symbol of a Witch’s form engraved.

You opened it carefully after inspecting the cover.

The first page was handwritten in elegant cursive:

A tale older than sugar, older than dough—the hands that stirred the beginning, the eyes that watched from beyond the oven's glow.

What a catchy sentence, fit for an introduction.

The text began in a poetic rhythm, though soon transitioned into more structured accounts.

"Long ago, before Cookies knew of names and nations, there were the Witches.

No one knew how many there were, nor from where they came, only that their presence stirred flour into breath, sugar into memory. They were not rulers, nor saviors. They were Bakers. Creators . 

The ones who shaped the Cookie world from raw ingredients and enchanted flame.

Their ovens forged more than just sweets. They carved continents, stirred oceans, and raised skies glazed with moonlight. And at the center of it all—life. They shaped beings in an image, small yet resilient. Cookies, who could feel, move, think… and dream.

But it was not mere baking that brought Cookies to life. It was magic.

Magic flowed from the Witches like warmth from the hearth. Infused into every grain of flour, every shimmer of sugar crystal. It thrummed beneath the ground, whispered in the wind, shimmered in the rivers of frosting and dew.

Some Cookies were born attuned to this magic. They awakened with strange talents, glows in their dough, or whispers in their mind. These Cookies became the first wielders. The chosen Virtues, beloved creations of the Creators, are to guide and protect.

But the Witches did not stay.

Some say they watched from afar. Others claim they walked among their creations in disguise. A few believe they faded, spent from their making. But their mark remained in spells, in rituals, and in the inexplicable forces that shaped fate.

To call their names is to speak to the origin. To follow magic is to follow the baking breath of the world.

And so, all things magical—great and small—are echoes of the first stir."

You stared at the page for a while, processing.

It was a given that the Witches were the Creators and magic accompanied this at the same time.

Still, the idea that some Cookies were “attuned” by birth stirred a thought. Recalling that the Beasts were once Virtues revered by the Cookies, seen as Heroes or perhaps more than that... yet another thought came to mind.

Did the mark mean you were one of those? Not the Virtue itself necessarily. Or worse, deliberately made by a Witch for some plot-related reason?

You looked down at your gloved hand again.

...Yeah, no. Not thinking about that. It was too presumptuous.

The last book of the pile was the catchiest thing of all.

A Virtue’s Apostle.

Of course. Because the universe loved foreshadowing and having a laugh at your expense. Well, you did pick this book for a reason and even the source of your purpose when entering the library.

The cover was more embellished than the others, dark blue, with a golden inlay that formed a symbol resembling an eight-pointed star enclosed in a spiral tower.

You flipped it open with a touch of hesitation, preparing yourself for yet another round of vague metaphors and ancient drama.

The pages, however, were surprisingly concise.

"After the Witches had breathed life into the Cookies of Virtue, the world stirred once more. The Spire rose, not from stone, but from yearning, Cookies seeking truth, purpose, understanding.

And so, the Witches made their creation.

Not of another Virtue directly, but for them. A bridge. A thread. An Apostle.

It is said the Apostle of Knowledge would not be born among scholars, but arrive unnoticed. They would carry a mark, akin to that of its Virtue. Quiet and unseen by most. 

Their presence would echo the Witches’ intent, acting not as ruler nor prophet, but as a companion to the one who sees all.

Only when the Sage awakens shall the Apostle be known.

No drawing nor description remains. No one knows what the Apostle will look like, only that they will come when the time is right.

Or perhaps… they already have."

You stared at the last line for a good ten seconds.

“Oh, come on ,” you mouthed silently.

A little too specific, don't you think? Especially that ominous last line...

You leaned back in your seat, arms crossed, staring at the closed book with a suspicious squint, as if the words might burst into cackles and go, “Surprise! It’s you!”

The worst part? That tale wasn’t even treated as official history. Just some local legend, whispered between bedtime stories and dramatic lightning cracks. The Apostle of Knowledge —it even sounded unnecessarily loaded.

And yet…

Your mind wandered.

If there was one Apostle, were there others?

Did some poor Cookie out there have a secret mark of Resolution or Passion or Abundance on their arm, currently panicking under a glove and avoiding eye contact with their own local Virtue?

You exhaled sharply at the thought, amused despite yourself.

You clasped your gloved hands together and, very solemnly, muttered in your head:

To all the other Apostles out there, if you exist…

Stay strong.

May your Virtue not be weird. Or clingy. Or obsessed to the point of stalker tendencies.

Unknowing of the few confused gazes from other Cookies who happened to look to where you sat.

You sighed, resting your chin on your arm on the table, eyes drifting toward the window where soft light filtered in.

You didn’t want to be part of any story.

But here you were.

And if anyone else was also roped into this… well, you hoped their wardrobe at least included better gloves.

Or maybe a better fate.

You closed the last book with a quiet thump , letting your cookie hands rest momentarily on its worn cover. That was enough ancient whispers and prophetic foreshadowing for one day. 

Carefully, you stacked the books and returned them one by one to their places on the shelves.. The History of the Spire of Knowledge (Overview), The Witches’ Tale , and finally A Virtue’s Apostle , which you very pointedly shoved a little further back on the shelf than necessary.

As you passed the front desk, you gave a polite nod to the librarian.

He raised a single brow, adjusted his glasses, and without a word, returned to scribbling in his book.

Fair enough. You suppose.

The air outside felt fresher than usual as you stepped back onto the path, the warm sunlight filtering through the Spire.

You began walking, lazily tracing your steps back toward the orphanage, letting your arms swing freely by your sides. The books hadn’t provided answers, rather more questions for curiosity, but it wasn’t a fruitless endeavor either.

At least this day was normal enough. More importantly, you were gloriously free of—

You glanced around in mild realization.

The Sage.

Nowhere.

No suspicious smiles, surprising visits nor appearances, no hovering too close with cryptic metaphors and sparkle-eyed interest.

Peace. Actual peace.

You allowed yourself a small, victorious grin and picked up the pace, passing by familiar stalls and shops nestled between cobbled paths and weathered signs.

That’s when you caught a sound, a cluster of hushed voices just off to the side, near a stall selling shiny trinkets and old worn-out books.

You didn’t mean to listen. It just happened. Sort of.

“…They say they come from nowhere,” one Cookie murmured, their dough-colored arms folded.

“I saw them once, by the outer gates,” whispered another. “Didn’t speak to anyone. Just… looked up at the Spire and walked away.”

“Creepy,” a third added. “What kind of Cookie doesn't even say hello ?”

You blinked.

Weird Cookie who visits the Spire from unknown origins? What were they talking about now? A ghost? Or just a particularly unfriendly introverted scholar?

Either way… not your problem.

You turned the other way and kept walking.

Whatever strange tale those Cookies were speculating about, you had no intention of getting tangled in it. You were just a small Cookie living a very normal , unremarkable , not-at-all Apostle-shaped life. And you planned to keep it that way.

You were already in a good mood for today, and want nothing to ruin it at all.

Completely minding your own business, a Cookie stopped midway through their walk from afar, their hand gripping a flower staff, its 'eyes' blinking occasionally.

Their cloak swayed gently around them, and their eyes turned quietly in your direction.

They said nothing. Did nothing. Simply watched. And then turned away.

You, of course, noticed none of it. Already too busy calculating whether you could ask Grandmother Pecan for an extra cinnamon roll tonight as a celebration for ‘No Sage day’. 

It was valid in your case.

Chapter Text

Another day has passed easily and smoothly.

In the end, you weren’t able to verbalize the need for the ‘celebration’ of No Sage Day to Grandmother Pecan. 

It might lead to a more unfavorable result, but you had to talk your way around and were awarded with her baked cinnamon rolls.

A win-win situation, honestly!

The same old routine came around with full rhythm, waking up, eating some food to replenish energy, doing the chores, and entertaining the other Cookie children. 

Occasionally, listening to Grandmother Pecan hum lullabies as she knitted more blankets than the orphanage could ever need.

There were games, chores, and moments of quiet.

You were almost starting to forget the whole Apostle nonsense.

Almost.

So when your feet wandered outside one late afternoon, you didn’t think much of it.

More often than not, a stroll outside would serve as an exercise, other than the daily chores. Or simply to relax altogether.

Ever the same sweet scent that lingers because of the nature of the world itself, a baked dessert with different kinds of it.

You let your legs take the lead, idly watching the trees sway and the wind ripple through the leaves.

Mindless thoughts occupy your mind, mainly from observations of a random part of the environment.

Admiring the scene as if it were the first time you saw it.

You only realized where you were once the path beneath your feet turned familiar.

The surroundings change with more and more trees from everywhere you look. A clearing up ahead that had space amidst the crowded trees around.

This place..!

Immediately piecing it together why the area is so familiar. Too familiar that left quite the impression for you to be able to remember.

This place.. is the place where the ‘magic lessons’ would happen in private. Away from prying eyes and attention from others.

For “magic lessons,” he called it. Private training, more like. Grumbling at the reminder for such things. Other than that..

You stopped walking, blinking in vague disbelief.

Why… why did you even come here?

It wasn’t nighttime. There were no glowing symbols of magic, no stars overhead, no Sage dramatically whispering things like “Close your eyes and feel the magic in your soul.” Or at least you think he’d say so.

You frowned, glancing around.

A little bit uncomfortable with just yourself and quite frankly, all alone..

No one was here; that was given.

At least, not at first glance.

One of the key important things from the magic lessons you learned was to expand fully your range of perception, accompanied by magic. This includes not only having a larger coverage area but also that your ‘senses’ would also be enhanced.

Honestly, other than controlling your magic to your will lest it’d explode, learning this magic skill is a nice addition, you admit.

Of course… you wouldn’t dare say that out loud in his presence. The last thing you needed was for a certain Sage to grow even more insufferable—his ego was already dangerously inflated as is.

Your mind, unhelpfully, conjured up an absurd mental image: the Sage of Truth, basking in his own glory, arms outstretched, that maddeningly smug smile stretching from one doughy cheek to the other as sparkles and dramatic wind swirled around him, laughing maniacally.

You resisted the overwhelming urge to twitch your eye. Just the thought of it was enough to make your soul filled with the need to smack that smug away (despite it being an imagination).

Going back to the situation at hand, your ‘senses’ were alerted and consequently revealed that there was someone who was in the place you are currently in.

Subtly activating a part of your magic, drawn from the mark on your cookie hand, for self-defense. Just a basic defense spell, but also a magic ready to be cast for retreating safely instantly.

You turned slightly, breathing slightly paused for now.

And there he was.

The Sage of Truth.

Releasing a breath while deactivating the magic upon seeing who the other Cookie was. You relaxed slightly upon seeing him— if “relaxing” meant you internally braced for some theatrical line or emotional outburst.

Geez… guess that saying “mention them and they’ll appear” wasn’t just superstition.

“Wow,” you said dryly, arms crossing as you tilted your head. “Do I summon you now just by thinking?”

You expect him to retort in his own way of speaking, but contrary, he didn’t answer at all, which raised a questioning gaze you now expressed at the lack of response.

If there’s one thing that you’ve observed thus far, the Sage never runs out of words to say. 

There’s a first in everything…  

You inwardly grimace, but are now suspicious of the Cookie before you.

Suddenly, he was walking toward you, slowly, but there was something… off.

The Sage of Truth stood before you, calm as a still lake, his hat ever swaying with the wind, so quietly. He had that same unreadable expression, somewhere between calmness and something too deep to name.

You found yourself craning your gaze upward to meet his own. The height difference was always mildly annoying, but in moments like this, it made you feel distinctly at a disadvantage.

Before you could even open your mouth to ask what he was doing, his cookie hand rose.

Immediately, as if your entire body is shivering and upon realizing the reason, it was your ‘senses’ that were telling you to— 

The cookie hand rested firmly on your shoulder.

The contact was gentle, but the sensation sent a ripple of goosebumps down your spine. Not the warm, reassuring kind. You tensed, mildly alarmed at how cold your limbs suddenly felt.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady. Devoid of his usual dramatic flair.

“Don’t wander out here alone.”

You stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly. Not with suspicion (yet) but with expectation. As if your silence alone could press him to elaborate, you’d hope so. He didn’t often start serious conversations with cryptic one-liners unless he had at least three more theatrical statements prepared.

He did not continue immediately.

Instead, he simply looked at you for a long, lingering moment, the weight of his cookie hand still anchored on your shoulder like a warning.

Then at last, he added, with unnerving finality, “Return to the orphanage and stay there. Just for today.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

That was new.

And weird.

You opened your mouth, about to question him,

Why? What’s going on? Is someone out here? Should I be worried?

You never got the chance to do so.

Because just like that, his expression softened. A faint smile curled onto his face, and that odd solemnity in his eyes dimmed as if a curtain had been drawn shut.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, little one,” he said with a light laugh, tone now brushing back into its usual teasing cadence. “You’re acting like I’ve cast a gloom spell over you. I’m simply being careful~! Just a little precaution, nothing ominous!”

You blinked slowly, incredulous. He had definitely been ominous five seconds ago.

It makes you wonder whether the moments before were a prank of his...

Still, he withdrew his cookie hand from your shoulder, the weight finally lifting, and with practiced ease adjusted his monocle as though that explained everything. “It is best to get going now, little one.”

You crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one side. “Right. Not because you were just acting like it is the end of the world itself.”

He smiled innocently, and said absolutely nothing.

That alone made your suspicions worse.

You opened your mouth to retort again, maybe something casual, maybe something questioning, but stopped short. Whatever this was… he wasn’t going to explain. Not now. 

As much as your pride would love to argue and ignore him on principle…

You’d rather not try your luck or gamble your life just because you ignored and didn't feel like listening to cryptic advice from an embodiment of Knowledge.

So, you sighed. Loudly. Grumbling as you turn on your heel.

“Fine. Back to the orphanage,” you muttered, adjusting the gloves as a habit, “Let me guess. You’ll stand mysteriously behind a tree the whole time to make sure I actually go?”

“I wouldn’t dream of hiding,” the Sage replied pleasantly, as if he found nothing wrong with the question at all, clasping his cookie hands behind his back. “In fact…”

You paused mid-step.

“…Shall I walk you back?”

You shot him a look, somewhere between Why are you like this and Please don’t make this weirder than it already is.

“I can manage myself,” you said flatly.

“Oh, I know,” he said, still smiling. “But consider it a friendly escort. An honor truly to have such as I! The Sage of Truth to accompany a lonesome little Cookie on their way back!”

You narrowed your eyes. Equally being confronted with the usual enigmatic and infuriating smile.

You stared at him for a long second, then let out another sigh, heavier this time.

“…Fine.”

You trudged forward, a little faster than before, as if speed could outrun the awkward tension lingering in the air. Behind you, the Sage followed with light, unhurried steps, the soft rustle of his attire brushing along the quiet path.

You didn’t look back, but you didn’t need to.

You could feel the warmth of his presence at your back once more.

Still watchful.

Still silent.

Already knowing that he is still smiling.

The orphanage came into view not long after. 

The scent of baking bread and sugar lingered faintly in the air, carried by the wind. You slowed your steps as you reached the familiar front door, its wooden frame worn smooth from years of knocks and use.

You turned around, facing the Sage, who had stopped just a few steps behind.

“That’s far enough,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the threshold. “No need for grand entrances or flowery goodbyes. Destination reached.”

The Sage tilted his head, gaze warm yet unreadable. “It appears so.”

You stared.

He stared back.

The silence stretched.

You awkwardly cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. “Okay then. Uh. Goodbye...”

He only offered a soft smile, the same smile that never quite answered anything.

You turned, opened the door, and stepped inside.

It shut behind you with a quiet click .

The hall beyond was warm and familiar, the distant laughter of children echoing down from the common room. You exhaled slowly, finally relaxing.

Outside, the Sage stood still.

His expression faded the moment the door closed, lips settling into a thin line. His gaze lingered on the spot where you had been just moments ago.

Then, after a long breath, he turned his head sharply to the side.

Eyes narrowing.

The wind carried softly through the air, rustling the grass.

Something unseen rustled back.

Chapter Text

You stayed true to your word of agreeing to stay inside the orphanage for the day. After all, there wasn’t much other reason that you needed to go out other than having to take a breather.

Sleeping with not much thoughts at the moment when the night came.

Although, after that weird interaction, the day passed by easily, only now did you try to think of a reason for the weird behavior from the Sage.

Of course. He is weird and cryptic all the time which is no surprise even to you.

The only problem is that he takes initiative this time around and even acts differently.

Not to mention..

“Don’t wander out here alone.”

“Return to the orphanage and stay there. Just for today.”

Was there something you weren't aware of happening yesterday? To the point that even the Sage had to act somehow?

If that were the case, does it mean that the forest is no longer safe?

You rolled your shoulders and sighed as you tied the string of the pouch tighter around your waist. Just a quick errand, you told yourself. Grandmother Pecan asked you to fetch a few things, ingredients, bread, maybe a cubes of sugar if the stall still had some. 

Simple enough. Quick. You’ll be back before anything weird happens.

At least, that’s what you hoped .

Your feet carried you through the familiar streets of the Spire, sun-dappled stone paths warm underfoot. The scent of baked goods and herbs filled the air, and the clamor of Cookies bartering and chatting painted a normal scene. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Except for the gnawing itch at the back of your mind.

You didn’t know why it kept circling. The Sage's words— his odd behavior.

You frowned and shook your head as you approached the stall.

“Back again, sweet thing?” The vendor Cookie, cinnamon-dusted dough with a cheerful smile, greeted as she wrapped a loaf of bread. “You always come with that polite little bow of yours.”

You gave a small, sheepish nod, placing a few coins down. “Just doing errands, ma’am. Grandmother Pecan’s list.”

“Ah, she always did raise well-mannered little Cookies,” she said fondly, passing the loaf to you. “Always loyal to her honey glazed bread, hm?”

“Still the best in the Spire,” you replied automatically, though your tone was distracted.

Because behind you, just a few stalls down, you could hear it again. Low murmurs, barely masked by the clatter of coins and the creak of wooden signs in the breeze.

“—wasn’t from around here, I’m sure of it.”

“He came through the square late in the evening, didn’t talk to anyone, just stood there. Looking.”

“I heard he vanished before dawn.”

You slowly turned your head. Just a glance.

Three Cookies. One in scholar robes, another in an apron, the last looking like a passing traveler. All of them huddled in idle conversation, whispering in the way of those who wanted to be overheard, just a little.

You turned back to the vendor, pretending not to care—though you knew your curiosity was already winning.

“…Ma’am,” you asked quietly, adjusting your hold on the bread, “this might sound odd, but have you heard of… someone strange visiting the Spire recently? A Cookie not from around here?”

The vendor Cookie paused, blinking. “Strange?” she repeated, thoughtfully. “Well, darling, this place is full of strange Cookies. But I suppose you mean the type that doesn’t quite belong.”

You nodded once, subtly.

She lowered her voice a little and leaned in, though still retained her usual warm tone. “There’s been talk, yes. A Cookie no one recognizes. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shop. Just… watches. Like he’s looking for something, or someone. Comes and goes. Hasn’t caused any trouble, but… gives folk the chills.”

You didn’t like that.

You also didn’t like that you couldn’t tell whether your heartbeat picked up because of fear, suspicion, or something else you couldn’t quite name.

The vendor waved a hand after a moment, smiling again. “Probably just a traveler. The Spire sees all kinds.”

You nodded slowly, murmured your thanks, and turned to leave.

But your mind.. your mind was already turning faster than your feet.

Because a part of you couldn’t help but wonder… was that the reason the Sage told you not to wander alone?

And if so… what did that strange Cookie have to do with you ? More importantly, to the Spire itself?

But there is something odd to take note of.

If that ‘strange’ Cookie who wandered is a threat to the Spire, surely they’d be confronted immediately, who knows, maybe even the Sage steps in to personally take care of it?

Another would be, it really is just an odd Cookie who is acting mysterious and weird at different points of time. Fueled more because of the talk from the Cookies that can possibly be exaggerated to an extent.

In the end, the Sage never really said the reasoning nor did he say it was because of that strange Cookie traveler.

You sighed quietly as you reached the orphanage steps, your pouch slightly heavier than when you left, the bread still warm through the cloth. You adjusted your grip, free hand reaching toward the door—

“Ah, back so soon, little one?”

You jerked back with a muffled yelp, nearly dropping the entire pouch of ingredients.

And there he was. The Sage of Truth, standing far too close beside you with that usual, insufferably mild smile on his face as if he hadn’t just manifested out of the very air you breathed.

“What the—!” you swore under your breath, clutching your chest. “Do you have to keep doing that? You keep scaring me half to death!”

He gave a little laugh. “Really? I thought you were made of sterner stuff. My sincerest apologies,” he said, with absolutely no sincerity.

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you even doing here ?”

The Sage tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting behind his monocle. “Checking on you, of course. Imagine my joy to find out you’ve listened to me for once,” he said, smile still polite, but quieter this time. “You stayed in yesterday. I am… grateful.”

That last part made you blink. Grateful? The Sage didn’t usually say things like that. At least, not like he meant them..

You stared at him, unsure if you should feel flattered or very concerned. “Right. You’re welcome. I guess…”

You moved to finally push the door open, half-expecting him to vanish as swiftly as he came.

But no. No, that would be too easy .

Instead, he followed right behind you and, with all the shameless confidence in the world, invited himself inside.

You turned back to him immediately. “Are you—? You can’t just— What are you even doing !?”

He hummed as he stepped in lightly, hands clasped behind his back like this was a casual stroll in his own courtyard. “Oh, don’t mind me. Just observing. The atmosphere here is quite lovely.. Very nostalgic, I would say.”

You stared at him, flabbergasted. “You say that as if you didn’t just appear out of nowhere and sneak into an orphanage uninvited.”

“Technically, I came in with you,” he replied with a wink.

“Technically, you’re a menace ,” you muttered under your breath.

He either didn’t hear you (or chose to ignore it) as he looked around the entrance hall with mild curiosity, gaze briefly lingering on the hand-painted walls and the biscuit beams above. But his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. It never really did.

You clenched your jaw, pushing the door fully open as you stepped inside, the Sage following just a step behind. But seemed to overtake your pacing.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t just about checking on you.

And you weren’t sure you were ready to find out what exactly it was.

You trailed behind the Sage, who, for once, wasn’t announcing his arrival with cryptic metaphors or blinding grins. He strode forward in that smooth, theatrical way of his, but the usual sparkle behind it felt… hollow.

What’s with the sudden change…?

Before you could comment, the familiar scent of warm dough and spice met your nose. Grandmother Pecan stepped out of the sitting room, a tray of teacups balanced in her arms. At the sight of the Sage, she froze mid-step.

“Oh my—!” she exclaimed, blinking wide-eyed. “The Sage of Truth?”

The astonishment in her voice was genuine, her posture briefly stiffening. Even the tray gave a faint clatter in her hold before she caught herself.

You could sympathize with what she was feeling.. somewhat.

But then, her eyes shifted to you beside him, and her expression relaxed, softening into the warm, familiar comfort you were used to.

“Well… I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised,” she chuckled gently, stepping forward. “You do turn up now and again, don’t you?”

The Sage gave a mock bow. “Ah, Grandmother Pecan. Your memory serves you well.”

That polished smile of his returned,  it didn’t reach his eyes. Not fully.

“I see this little establishment still remains tucked in its corner of time. Endearing, really. Fragile things often cling to life the longest.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to be admiration or an insult wearing polite clothing. There’s something wrong… you mildly note.

Grandmother Pecan blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the phrasing. But her years of kindness and experience turned her reaction into a gentle, practiced smile. “We do our best to endure, Sage. This old place has seen plenty of little Cookies grow strong from within its walls.”

The Sage hummed. “How noble.”

Your brow twitched. Okay, that was definitely passive-aggressive.

She glanced at you, perhaps noticing your expression. “Little one is quite blessed to have your presence around,” she added warmly. “A quiet little helper with a kind soul. I can see why you are visiting.”

The Sage turned to you, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Indeed. Quite the precious rarity.”

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

Then, turning back to Grandmother Pecan, he added with a thin smile, “Here I was, worried I might have missed some grand catastrophe. But I suppose the roof has not collapsed yet.”

You blinked at him. Was… that a joke? An insult? A test? Either way, you are not liking it one bit.

Before you could respond, Grandmother Pecan laughed, a touch breathless but not unkind. “It’s still standing, thanks to more than just luck.”

“Mm. Good,” the Sage said, tone light as honey but with something straining beneath it.

She tilted her head slightly, clearly sensing the oddness in his demeanor. “Would you like to stay for tea? I just brewed some, and lemon curd biscuits, still warm.”

The Sage gave a slow blink, then glanced sidelong at you. “Ah… tempting, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. Not too much, at least.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He added, “Though, a few minutes would not hurt. I don’t want to impose on you.”

Grandmother Pecan smiled with all the patience in the world. “You’re always welcome, Sage.”

The Sage bowed slightly again, but his words came faintly, almost like a whisper spoken only to himself.

“Ha, really?”

You stared at him, now thoroughly disturbed.

Grandmother Pecan, not noticing nor hearing the words uttered, simply gestured to the table. “Well, come sit, then.”

You hesitated for a moment, still trying to figure out just what mood the Sage was in. But you followed her anyway, your thoughts now swimming with more questions than before.

Especially.. why does the Sage suddenly seem hostile to Grandmother Pecan?

Chapter Text

The teacups clinked gently as Grandmother Pecan moved about, placing a delicate tea set on the low table in the sitting room. The scent of lemon and sugar hung warmly in the air, but it did little to ease the knot forming in your stomach.

You sat stiffly on one of the cushions, cradling your cup more for the sake of your cookie hands than thirst. Across from you, the Sage of Truth lounged in perfect composure, teacup balanced in his grasp as if this were a royal court and not a humble orphanage.

And yet, for all the air of leisure, there was something sharp in his eyes. Something that hadn’t dulled since he’d walked through the door.

You watched him carefully, pretending to sip the tea. His smile hadn’t faltered, not once, but the way he spoke to Grandmother Pecan, it wasn’t normal . There had been a weight to his words, something nearly condescending, or worse… provoking .

Grandmother Pecan, for her part, seemed unaffected, or at least unbothered. She hummed a soft tune under her breath as she laid out a tray of biscuits and offered them to both of you. “Lemon curd, still warm,” she said brightly, placing a pair on your plate with practiced cookie hands.

You nodded in thanks, but your gaze didn’t leave the Sage.

He, of course, took one with a gracious nod and examined it as if it were some delicate artifact. “Ah, such craftsmanship,” he said mildly, holding it up to the light. “The effort in such a small thing is… commendable.”

The pause between his words was just a beat too long. Enough for you to hear the undertone beneath the surface.

Grandmother Pecan only chuckled again. “Even small things can carry great warmth, Sage.”

“Mm,” he replied, popping the biscuit into his mouth with calculated grace. “I imagine that’s true. Even the most fragile of foundations can support ... for a time.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Okay, that’s it.

Grandmother Pecan excused herself a few moments later, mentioning that she needed to check on the other children, perhaps sensing the tension herself. You quickly stood, offering to help, but she simply waved you off with a sweet smile.

“I’ll be just a moment,” she said gently, disappearing down the hall.

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

Silence fell.

You and the Sage were now alone.

You didn’t speak at first, letting the quiet stretch out. Letting him sip his tea like nothing was wrong. Like you hadn’t just watched him act like a very polite storm cloud around the kindest Cookie you’d ever met.

Finally, you set your cup down with a dull clink. “Alright,” you said evenly. “What was that?”

The Sage glanced at you, all innocence and composure. “What was what?”

You stared at him. Hard.

“That little… act,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the room. “With Grandmother Pecan. You’ve met her before. You’ve never talked to her like that.”

“I was merely being polite,” he replied, tilting his head. “Pleasant conversation, nothing more.”

You folded your arms, not buying it for a second. “Polite tone, yes. Polite message, not so much. You were provoking her,”

He smiled, just faintly. “I provoke many Cookies but in an academic sense. Surely you are not suggesting she’s special in another regard?”

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.” Your voice sharpened despite yourself, cookie hands clenching at your sides.

The Sage only blinked, tilting his head like he was observing a particularly stubborn puzzle piece. “Mm. Then what are you saying?”

You stared at him. “Don’t act dense. You were being hostile . To her . Of all Cookies.”

He raised a brow. “Hostile? I merely commented on the… fragility of this establishment. A harmless observation.”

“Oh, you mean when you implied this place is one gust of wind away from collapse? Yeah, real harmless .”

He sighed, a long-suffering sound, as if you were the one inconveniencing him . “You’re exaggerating.”

Your eyes narrowed even further. “Am I? Or are you just upset that someone saw right through whatever game you’re playing?”

His eyes glittered, smile twitching at the corners. “Now, now. That’s an interesting accusation.”

“It’s not an accusation. It’s a question ,” you shot back. “One of many you refuse to answer.”

“And what exactly do you think I’m refusing to answer?” His tone was almost indulgent now, as if he was enjoying this just a bit too much.

You took a breath, trying not to yell. “Why are you acting like this? Why you’re suddenly lurking around, showing up unannounced, saying cryptic nonsense that makes everyone uncomfortable including me , by the way. And most of all, why are you treating Grandmother Pecan like… like she’s some kind of threat.”

The smile finally faltered, if only a little. His gaze flickered.

“She isn’t,” you said quickly, cutting him off before he could even try to twist your words. “She’s never been anything but kind. I will not stand here and let you treat her like she’s something to be studied under like a specimen just because you’re in a bad mood.”

There was silence.

Then, softly, “You’re angry.”

Does it look like I’m happy?! 

“ Yes! ” you threw your arms up. “I’m angry because you’re avoiding everything I’m trying to ask you, trying to understand your perspective but you're acting like I’m the unreasonable one here.”

The Sage of Truth’s expression stilled. Then, slowly, he crossed his arms, as if considering you more seriously now.

“…You are very protective,” he murmured. “Interesting.”

Your eye twitched. “Don’t you dare turn this into one of your bizarre personality readings.”

“Protective. Curious. Stubborn. Brave, but reckless. Loyal, but—”

You groaned. “— Now you’re listing traits. Great. Fantastic. How wonderful. ”

He raised both hands, almost in surrender, though the smirk on his face ruined any illusion of humility. “Fine. You wish for plain words, little one? Here it is: Grandmother Pecan is not a threat. Not to you. Not to the Spire. Not to me.”

You stared. “Then why act like she is?”

“…Because sometimes, certain environments.. no matter how warm — invite the wrong eyes.”

That brought you up short.

“…What does that even mean?”

He smiled again, softer now. “I don’t expect you to understand yet.”

You let out a sharp breath, leaning back at the chair. “I hate when you say that.”

“I dislike repeating myself,” he replied mildly.

“You never answer in the first place,” you snapped.

He shrugged. “Perhaps, or you’re simply asking the wrong questions.”

You glared at him, throat tight with frustration. “If you’re trying to keep me ‘safe’ or something, you’re doing a terrible job at informing me of the danger.”

For the first time, something in his face changed, just a flicker, a shadow behind the calm mask.

“Safety,” he said slowly, “is not a constant. It is… negotiable.”

“That’s not comforting.” 

“It’s not supposed to be.”

You fell silent, heart pounding in your chest. The Sage watched you, something unreadable in his gaze.

“I won’t let you make this place feel unsafe,” you said finally, voice low but firm. “Not for me and definitely not for her.”

A long pause.

Then, to your surprise, the Sage inclined his head, graceful and measured.

“Very well,” he murmured. “Message received.”

He rose from his seat in one smooth motion, walking slowly to the window, gazing out with a calm that felt too calm . Measured. Like a script he was choosing to follow.

“Curious,” he said after a long moment, his voice low. “You are more bothered by my tone than my presence.”

You frowned, successfully calming yourself. “Shouldn’t I be bothered by both?”

He turned then, his expression unreadable.

“No,” he said softly. “Only one. The other… you’ll get used to.”

You clenched your jaw. “Why are you avoiding the question?” As if repeating the same question would he answer.

He stepped forward, but stopped just short of your reach. “Because some things… cannot be explained, little one. Not yet. Not when you still have so much to learn .”

“That’s not an answer,” you shot back. Already expected of his indirect answers that never really answered anything.

“It’s the only one I can give you.”

There was a flicker in his eyes then. Not anger. Not quite. But something sharp, fleeting, and gone before you could catch it.

“…Is something happening?” you asked, quieter now. “Something you’re not telling me?”

He didn’t respond right away.

But then, he reached out, just enough to adjust your glove— your glove —his fingers brushing the fabric where the mark lay beneath.

“You’re safe here,” he said simply. “As long as you stay hidden and you listen .”

You subtly tensed at the unexpected touch and the last remark. Your ‘senses’ seem to be mutely ringing in your mind.

He met your eyes again, his smile thinner now. “I only said what needed to be said. Nothing more.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. The weight in his words wasn’t just cryptic this time. It was personal .

Before you could reply, the door creaked open and Grandmother Pecan’s voice drifted in. “I hope you two didn’t finish all the tea!”

The Sage stepped back smoothly, his expression sliding once again into something easy, polished.

“Of course not,” he said lightly, turning with that too-gentle smile.

But you were still staring at him, your mind a whirlwind of questions.

Chapter Text

“You’ll have to forgive me,” the Sage said suddenly, the usual theatrical grace he always seemed to carry. “A matter has arisen that requires my attention. I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay longer.”

His words came without warning, breaking the silent atmosphere that had happened after Grandmother Pecan returned. Your teacup paused halfway to your lips, the faint clink of ceramic on ceramic marking your surprise.

Grandmother Pecan blinked, just slightly startled. “Oh? So soon?”

The Sage offered a polite smile, entirely devoid of the edge he’d worn earlier. “Alas, such is the nature of my role,” he said, dipping his head slightly. “I thank you for the tea, the warmth, and of course… the biscuits. Delightful, as always.”

“No need for thanks, dear,” Grandmother Pecan replied warmly. “You’re always welcome, you know.”

He turned to you, monocle glinting, that infuriating smirk creeping back onto his face. “Try not to miss my presence too terribly, little one. I’d hate to be a source of such profound longing.”

You blinked at him, deadpan, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of any reaction in front of Grandmother Pecan. “I’ll survive,” you said flatly.

“Will you?” he asked with a wink, promptly summoning his staff as magic were casted, and just like that, he was gone — vanishing in a golden light with such a flashy exit.

Was it really that necessary?

You exhaled sharply, letting the stillness settle around you. Grandmother Pecan hummed softly, her cookie hands folding neatly in her lap.

“…Why is he always like that?” you asked yourself mostly, unable to mask the exasperation in your voice.

She tilted her head, regarding you with a gentle, thoughtful smile. “Now and then. The Sage has… his ways. Sometimes it’s good for a Cookie to let themselves feel, don’t you think?”

You frowned slightly. “Feel what, exactly?”

“Oh, that I can’t say,” she said airily. “But perhaps it’s not such a bad thing. Better to speak than to hide everything inside.”

That.. hits too close..! You worried for a second, but you comforted yourself that Grandmother Pecan did not know about the whole ‘mark’ thing nor being ‘reborn’.

You studied her. There was no doubt in your mind that she’d sensed the earlier tension, yet she wasn’t pushing. Still, her calmness unsettled you. Almost as if… she wasn’t worried at all.

“You two seemed to have a lot to say to each other,” she added lightly, pouring herself another cup of tea. “I assume that everything is fine perhaps?”

You hesitated and sighed. “...Mostly.”

A pause. Then she smiled again, softer now. “Cherish those moments. Even the strange ones. Time has a way of changing things before you’re ready.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Grandmother Pecan rose shortly after, humming the same old tune as she collected the empty cups and tray. “I’ll see to the little ones,” she said, patting your shoulder gently. “Take a moment for yourself, hm?”

You nodded, eyes fixed on the now-empty doorway.

The house quieted once more, shadows stretching long against the walls. You stood alone in the sitting room, thoughts tangled, head spinning with what-ifs and half-spoken warnings.

Yet the sensation of something heating up suddenly appeared.

A sharp, pulsing warmth flared across your cookie hand. You jolted and hissed at the burning sensation, pulling back the sleeve of your glove just enough to glimpse it.

Your mark, it was glowing. Faintly, but undeniably. It wasn’t just warm anymore. It pulled , as if reacting to something outside. Drawing you to it.

You tensed. Your ‘senses’ even confirmed the mark’s attraction of what is outside, even ringed alongside it. Something was out there. Perhaps even near where you were.

You stayed still, contemplating. There was not much noise lately. Just the quiet hum of the late afternoon and that strange, insistent call under your dough.

Part of you wanted to ignore it. Pretend the pull didn’t exist. If you stayed inside, nothing could happen… probably. But the thought gnawed at you, what if this was the only warning you’d get? 

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “Stay put or find out,” you muttered to yourself. The logical side disagreeing with the latter.

The mark pulsed again, sharper, hotter.

A long breath escaped you, half a sigh, half a curse. “Fine. Just for a moment.”

You reached for the door, hesitating only once before stepping outside into the air, the glow under your dough quietly guiding your steps.

You walked, your pace unconsciously steady, the faint thrum of the mark syncing with your steps. It wasn’t just a general pull anymore, it had direction. 

Each beat tugged you toward the forest, down the narrow trail leading away from the orphanage.

Your gaze flicked upward; the sun was low, the sky slipping into the softer colors of early evening. The air was cooler here, scented faintly with leaves and sugar. The pull was sharper now. Stronger.

Your path curved, and soon the familiar outline of the clearing came into view, the place surrounded by tall trees standing.

You slowed, your brows knitting. This place…

It was where you and the Sage often had your magic lessons. The thought made your entire being shiver of the association that this was the same place where the Sage had warned (‘advice’) you to stay within the orphanage.

Of course. It made sense now. The mark must be reacting to him . His magic was distinct, overwhelming in its own way; maybe it had been the cause of the pull all along.

So, naturally, he’d be here, right? Waiting for you, maybe even wondering why you were late for the magic lessons. Now that you have already fulfilled by staying within the orphanage for a day, listening to his advice.

You stepped past the last row of trees into the open space, glancing around.

But the clearing was empty. No faint glow of his monocle. No tall, sage-like figure lounging against a tree with that knowing smile.

Only the wind greeted you, carrying the rustle of leaves and the faint, distant call of a bird.

The pull in your mark didn’t fade. In fact… it felt stronger here.

Stronger, and far more unsettling.

Yet, despite the subtle eerie feeling, you felt annoyed. Thinking maybe the Sage of Truth is feeling a bit playful and decided to hide at one point.

And so, you circled around the trees, trying to check whether he’d be there with an annoying and knowing smile on his face.

Still nothing.

It only made you confused, which doesn’t sit right at all.

You sighed, turning your attention back to the clearing only to freeze on your spot.

There, at the center, stood a figure.

At first, you assumed it was the Sage, almost ready to shout out to him but your voice never lets out as your mind realizes another thing.

Taking into account the appearance of the figure, it was not the Sage of Truth, at all.

The figure is tall, maybe an adult Cookie you guessed. Their back was turned to you, posture still, almost imposing. A wide, pointed hat rested on their head, its peak leaning ever so slightly to one side. In one hand, they held a staff, its top part a flower head — its petals dark against the dimming light.

Another to note is that the Sage’s staff is not a flower but an eye-shaped one with a crown on top.

Your mark flared hot under your dough. Not just a warm pulse now—this was searing , every beat demanding your attention, clawing at your chest.

Your confusion emerged with an odd spike of unease. You didn’t recognize them. You didn’t even feel like you should be here anymore.

You took one step back, ready to leave this entire situation altogether. That’s when your heel met an unlucky stick hidden in the grass.

CRACK.

You froze, horror flooding you.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect, you thought bitterly, cursing yourself six different ways.

Your eyes stayed locked on the figure.

They paused. Slowly— too slowly—they turned.

The fading light caught their face, and your breath caught with it.

It wasn’t the Sage of Truth. That much was apparent.

It was someone entirely different. Someone whose presence felt… unusual , even from here.

There was only a standoff and silence.

The figure’s face cannot be seen easily which only made the unease further intensified.

You drew in a slow, steady breath, willing your pulse to settle. The mark was burning, yes, but your other “senses” stayed unnervingly silent. No low ring of warning, no invisible ripple crawling over your dough like it usually did when danger was near.

If anything, it was the absence of that alarm that made your dough crawl.

You tried to focus on that silence, anchor yourself in it, while your mind worked in tight, careful loops.

Then, the figure spoke.

“You should not be here,” they said, tone even and measured, gentle in cadence, as one might address a child, yet stripped of warmth or familiarity. “The night is treacherous. It is far too easy for little Cookies to lose their way.”

The words carried no malice, yet something in their pristine calm made the back of your dough prickle.

You blinked, taken off guard by both the tone and the words.

Part of you wanted to blurt out that this wasn’t some random stroll. That this clearing was familiar. That this was where you and the Sage met for magic lessons, a secret kept between just the two of you.

But saying that out loud to a stranger with an ominous hat and a flower-topped staff? Not the brightest idea.

So instead, you shifted your weight, eyes fixed warily on them. “I… was just passing through. I needed some fresh air.”

Your hand moved ever so slightly, a subtle shift of your cookie hand. You let your magic stir beneath the surface, hidden but ready, like loosening a dagger in its sheath.

Just in case.

You kept your gaze steady, but in your head, you were already bargaining with the universe. Let them just… walk away. No drama, no danger, no whatever this is.

The figure only gave a low hum, as though weighing your excuse against some invisible scale. Their eyes, what little you could make out beneath the brim of that hat, lingered on you far longer than you liked, a silent inspection that made your dough suppress a flinch.

Then, without a word, they turned away. One step. Two. And then, nothing. No fading footsteps, no rustle of leaves. Just gone.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. The clearing remained as empty as it had been a moment before, save for the ghost of their presence.

Your eyes darted around the trees, searching, but there was no trace, no sound, no shadow, no flower-topped staff. Only then did you notice… the mark was still. No glow. No pull. No heat.

Which only meant one thing.

They were the reason the mark reacted in the first place.

Finally..

You released a sigh of relief, your posture relaxing and loosening the tension.

You stood there, piecing the puzzle together in your head. A tall figure. Pointed hat. Staff crowned with a flower. The way they spoke and mannerisms.

Your mind flicked back to the whispers you’d overheard in the market before, about a strange wanderer who appeared in the Spire at hours when no sensible Cookie would be awake. Always alone. Always gone before anyone could speak to them twice. 

Yet never done anything that was damaging or with malicious intentions.

Could it have been… them?

You didn’t even realize you’d gone still until a voice brushed at your side.

“What are you thinking so hard about?”

You yelped, jerking to the side, nearly tripping over your own feet. And of course, of course , he was there, grinning like you’d just made his entire evening.

“ SAGE! Don’t—don’t do that!” you snapped, clutching your chest that was beating a bit too fast than what you would've liked. “Do you enjoy sneaking up on Cookies like that?”

“ Immensely ,” he said, far too cheerfully. “Now, tell me. What caught you so deep in your thoughts that you didn’t even notice me?”

You stared at him for a long moment, weighing it. You could tell him about the figure. You could mention the mark’s reaction (but on second thought, maybe not that part), maybe the appearance of the figure who seemed to disappear after without any trace.

…Or you could not.

Finally, you exhaled sharply. “I was just thinking about… other applications for the magic we practiced.” You let the words fall flat, deliberately casual. “And wondering where you were, since you didn’t arrive early for once.”

His grin didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened.

He tilted his head, that same unreadable grin plastered on his face.

“Is that so?” he murmured, nodding at the words, then let them drift away like they were of no consequence. “Well then, let us not waste any more time.”

Without another glance toward the tree line, he stepped into the clearing, the staff being summoned, tapping lightly against the grass. The gesture was so fluid, so practiced, it was as if nothing at all had happened before this moment.

You followed, still feeling the faint phantom heat of your mark even though it had long since faded. Whatever the cause had been, it was gone now.

And so, your focus returned, at least on the surface, to the flicker of magic between your cookie hands, the hum of the lesson resuming as if this night were perfectly ordinary.

But you knew better.

Chapter Text

You were beginning to think that whatever cosmic being out there in charge of your life really, really had it out for you.

Why else would you, of all Cookies, be cursed with this problem? Not just a problem — no, no, this was the problem. 

A tall, ominous, mysterious stranger with a wizard hat big enough to double as an umbrella, who apparently loved nothing more than to haunt the exact same spot you used for your supposed “secret” magic lessons.

If this was fate, it had a very warped sense of humor.

At first, you’d managed to brush it off. One weird nighttime encounter? Fine. Two? Suspicious, but you could work with “coincidence.” 

But by the third time? At that point, you were deadpanned, arms crossed, already entertaining the thought of filing a formal complaint to the universe.

You sighed heavily as you trudged toward the clearing again, every step carrying you toward what was beginning to feel like the worst routine in existence (and quite frankly getting used to it which did not help your case). And sure enough—

There they are.

Leaning against a tree this time, as if he had every right to be lounging there, staff angled across his lap, the wide-brimmed, pointed hat shadowing his features completely. 

You couldn’t make out their face. You never could. It was like they went out of their way to always choose a spot where the moonlight bent around them, leaving only that dark silhouette and the faint gleam of the flower-shaped staff tip.

You stopped dead in your tracks, your face flattening into the most unimpressed expression you could muster. “ ...You’ve got to be kidding me. ”

The figure didn’t move. Didn’t even twitch. Just… sat there.

Great. This was your life now.

It almost felt like a routine at this point where you’d try your best to ignore their presence and instead focus on yourself.

Mainly recollecting your thoughts and trying to familiarize yourself with the new magic lessons so far, so as to not forget the principles behind it.

But at one point, maybe because it was too silent and awkward, even if your mind is a bit too concentrated on magic, you could only take a break for a while.

Your gaze glanced sidewards, directing it towards the figure. 

..It wouldn’t hurt to strike a conversation… right?

You took a breath and faced towards the figure, though cautiously, cookie hands resting at your sides. “So… what is it this time?” You muttered under your breath. “Just going to… sit there and leave later?”

Such a nice opening for a conversation..

Your mind supplied but you restrained yourself.

The figure remained motionless. Only the faint turn of their head gave any sign they’d acknowledged you at all.

A lone yellow eye glowed in the dark, its hollow gaze cutting through you.

Your 'senses' faintly ringing in your mind.

Then, finally, that same calm voice — gentle in cadence, hollow in emotion — drifted across the clearing:

“…The traces linger.”

You blinked. “...The what now?”

“The residue of your magic,” The figure clarified, words steady and slow, like speaking to a child who ought to have already known the answer. “Each time you practice, it clings to the air. Small… but detectable.”

Your entire body froze at the statement. Other than giving that kind of response, the figure also knew that magic was performed in the area. 

But another thought completely disregarded the former and rather latched onto the response.

Your brows furrowed. Residue? You hadn’t considered that. 

Magic was something you used, like breath or movement — you never really thought about what it left behind. But the way they spoke, with that infuriating calm certainty, made you pause.

“…Detectable to who?” You asked warily.

There was the faintest shift beneath the brim of their hat, but you couldn’t tell if it was amusement or disdain. “Those who know what to look for.”

That was… not comforting.

Especially, when they indicate that Cookies who at least have some kind of mastery of magic and are able to detect, would really be able to know.

You rubbed at your temple with one cookie hand. “Great. So basically, you’re saying I— no, leaving a giant magical trail marker every lesson, and anyone could just waltz on in and follow it. Lovely. ”

For a moment, silence. Somewhere along the line, you could only try and collect your sanity of the oversight but at the same time could not hold back the growing annoyance towards a certain idiot who somehow did not inform you of such.

Can you even trust the Sage of Truth?

Then you asked, almost against your better judgment, “...And how do I erase it?”

The figure did not move from their spot. They merely spoke, voice as calm and even as before, as though the matter was trivial:

“Center yourself. Draw in the loose threads as though gathering spilled grains. Hold them… compact them… and release them into nothing. Do not force and allow it naturally.”

You blinked slowly. That was… surprisingly straightforward. Hesitant, you raised your hands, letting your own magic stir, feeling outward with a cautious reach. And—oh. 

There it was. A faint shimmer, like fine golden dust suspended in the air, nearly imperceptible unless you looked directly for it.

The magic residue.

Taking a deep breath, you followed the instructions. Drawing in. Gathering. Compressing. Slowly… carefully…

The faint golden dust folded inward, like water spiraling down a drain, until it winked out of sight.

You stared, stunned.

“…Huh,” you whispered. “That actually worked.”

Turning back toward the tree, you couldn’t help but admit, “Thanks, I—”

Empty.

The space where the figure had leaned was completely bare. 

No sound of retreating footsteps, no rustle of branches. Just gone.

You let out a long-suffering groan. “Of course. Figures. He teaches me one thing, then disappears like it was nothing.”

Crossing your arms, you huffed, but the smallest tug of satisfaction lingered in your chest. 

You had done it. You’d actually cleaned the residue away.

You couldn’t help but make a contrast between the two Cookies. 

One who was well-known, loud, eccentric, and fond of cryptic smiles, teaches magic like it’s the very foundation of everything. The very truth of this world.

The other, silent, unsettling, and entirely unwilling to stick around long enough for small talk, seemed to view magic with.. disdain? Or at least, somehow have resentment with the magic.

Pinpointing the figure’s expression and feelings were hard enough to see but you could instinctively feel as though you would be able to know.

Wonderful. Your life was now officially a mess.

You barely had time to think on it before the familiar, far-too-cheerful voice rang out from behind you:

“There you are!”

You nearly jumped out of your dough. Whipping around, you found the Sage of Truth bouncing into the clearing, grin far too wide for this hour of the night, his hat fluttering as if even the air conspired to follow his dramatic entrances.

“Ready for today’s lesson?” he asked, eyes twinkling like he hadn’t just startled the living daylights out of you.

You forced yourself to stand straighter, trying— trying —to look composed. “Yes. Of course.”

Because no way were you telling him you’d just had another rendezvous with Emo-Hat-Figure over there.

Nope. That secret was staying with you.

The Sage, pausing his movements, tilted his head, gaze sweeping over the clearing in a way that made your stomach dip. 

For a second, his eyes narrowed and seemed to faintly glow in the dark, sharp and assessing. “Hmm… something feels a little different here tonight.”

Your pulse skipped.

“Oh?” you said, letting the word fall casually, even tilting your head like you were humoring him. “Maybe you’re just imagining things. The air is cooler tonight. Makes the clearing feel… clearer, doesn’t it?”

You delivered it smoothly, voice steady, not a stutter in sight. Not too defensive, not too dismissive. Just… casual enough to be believable.

The Sage’s smile returned—slower, smaller, as though he’d just let you get away with something. “Is that so?”

You held his gaze and nodded, lips quirking into the faintest smile, a perfect picture of innocence. 

Inside, however, you were practically screaming at the universe to not let your mark start glowing now of all times nor messing things up that could expose your lie .

“Very well,” the Sage said at last, clapping his cookie hands together with unnecessary flourish. “Let’s begin.”

As he launched into his usual dramatic explanations, you breathed out as quietly as possible, relief seeping into your chest.

Two teachers. One official, loud, eccentric, and far too perceptive for his own good. The other unofficial yet silent, unsettling, and vanishing before you could even blink.

And you? Stuck squarely in the middle.

Sigh…

You sighed heavily in your room in the orphanage. Seemingly unable to sleep because of the thoughts being too much of a distraction.

Leaning on one of your cookie hand, you peered towards the window that showed the sky, the moon shining brightly.

Your gaze moved towards the forest, and it made you frown.

Straightening your back against a chair, you carefully removed a portion of the glove, particularly the one covering the mark.

It stayed still and was of course, a mark. You looked and even raised your cookie hand, testing out or maybe it was out of boredom.

The mark resembled the Sage of Truth, his own mark on his forehead.

..What was an Apostle’s purpose in the first place?

You admit there were still things you didn’t understand before, even now. It seemed you gradually got used to this new world and life that you didn’t bother to think about it.

Other than wanting it to keep under cover, away from letting others know about it.

“Their presence would echo the Witches’ intent, acting not as ruler nor prophet, but as a companion to the one who sees all.”

That was what the book you read before said. The Apostle was a companion to the corresponding Virtue. Most importantly, a representative of the Witches’ intent?

What was that supposed to mean?

You haven’t really thought for a moment of wanting to meet the Witches. Other than that storyline in the main Cookie Run game.. especially White Lily’s encounter…

“...” On second thought, maybe not. You’d rather stay where you are.

But, you perked up, remembering something!

It was one of the videos shown by the official account, the devs of the game, where they introduce the Beast Cookies.

They were once Virtues, yes, but because of the sudden turn of events and their experiences, did they turn into the Beast Cookies.

One of those moments showed that a Witch was active and used magic to seal them with the Silver Tree appearing from its existence.

The Witch may be a good one..? At least, a non-eating cookie Witch?? You scrunched your face, or rather your expression, holding your head as if it were the best way to remember things.

Even if you had thoughts or a willingness to meet a Witch, you don’t know how to actually go and meet them. It would just be too troublesome to try and find it now.

Not only because you’ve integrated within the Spire, but also because a certain Cookie might not let you run away..

Yeah.. it wouldn’t be easy at all.

Your eyes lingered back to the window with the forest in view again, looking blankly at nothing in particular.

The forest loomed quiet, its branches shifting faintly with the night breeze. 

And then… your eyes caught on something unusual.

On a distant hill, where moments before there had only been shadows, a tower now stood. Tall, dark, and unmistakably foreign against the horizon, its silhouette jagged like teeth against the faint moonlight.

You froze. That— The shape stirred something inside you, a deep pulse of recognition. You knew that tower. Or rather, you’d seen it before. Once. 

In a dream, you try to remember clearly. The very same tower—

But before you could piece it together, before you could even trace the threads of that memory—

The thought slipped from your grasp, like mist between your fingers.

A sudden weariness settled over your limbs. Your head felt heavier than it should. You brought a cookie hand to your temple, steadying yourself.

Why… am I so tired?

You looked down at your cookie hand, the faint etching of the mark just visible in the dim light. The sight made your chest tighten. Without thinking, you reached for the glove again, pulling it snug over your cookie hand as if covering the mark might also bury the unease gnawing at you.

And then you let yourself fall back onto your bed, eyes slipping closed. Sleep pulled you under quickly, too quickly for comfort.

Unseen, the covered mark glimmered faintly through the fabric—weak, unsteady, like an ember struggling to survive—before dimming into nothing.

Chapter Text

His day usually held no significant meaning — as all things are.

Alone in a lone tower, so tall it reaches for the skies, yet stands unbearably lonely itself on a peak.

Away from the residents of the Spire and the place together. The self-imposed isolation is taking its place.

But.. as he looks towards the glass window from within the tower. He could see the Spire as it progressed along with its inhabitants, but the tower (and even himself) remained unchanged with each passing year.

Or so he thought. The concept of time is confusing when you are gifted cursed to have all the days, months, years, decades, centuries, or more to yourself.

Nevertheless, despite the infinite life, he still kept on living out of spite. At least, it is something he should be feeling.

Still, the thoughts slipped from his mind when time kept on marching on.

Until he became an empty shell.

Only one thing burned and imprinted itself in his entire being.

The day he once ventured atop the Peak of Truth, only to find his soul in despair and shattered to pieces…

Maybe. This was the moment that changed him. In everything he believes in, and what little hope he could salvage, only for it to be useless in the end.

The moment he resents the Truth.

…

…

…

He sent off another eager so full of curiosity seeker wanting to know the essence and meaning behind the Peak of Truth.

How annoying…

Perhaps, he too was once the same. Similarities of when driven to the point of wanting to know. An inclination to want to know the unknown and the unanswered questions plaguing his entire life.

Such a mistake he, himself, once made.

There was nothing but disappointment.

…

…

…

To think that the nature of curiosity is still embedded within himself, he walks towards the Spire of Knowledge.

He had no thoughts and merely regarded the surroundings.

The residents, each with their own uniqueness, all gathered in one place.

The scholars yearning for Truth and Knowledge, the most notable amount can be seen everywhere.

The vendors keep up with their own livelihoods to survive.

The shopkeepers offer a multitude of items and services that one might need or want.

The Cookie children, pure and have yet to fully realize the world they live in. The majority of it was their innocence and naivety.

He kept on walking through the crowds, not minding or uncaring towards the whispers from other Cookies.

Being regarded as a Cookie who is “mysterious” or “weird” or a “traveler” who stepped foot into the Spire.

He ignored them.

Although what caught his attention was a faint feeling, an unnoticeable yet weak thread of connection that pulled him towards somewhere.

He stopped and looked.

His gaze pierced through every Cookie, every object, wanting to find what it was.

But without any warning, the feeling disappeared, and he was left standing in his spot.

Eventually, he let it slip as if it were nothing but a fleeting moment, and he turned and trekked back towards the tower.

It still weighed in his mind to an extent.

…

…

…

A sharp concentration of magic was summoned that one faithful night.

It seemed there were still a few who were bold enough to cast such magic. A complex and disruptive spell.

He was tempted to find out and see the scene for himself.

He didn’t go.

However, he had a faint idea who it was in the first place.

After all, what use would it be when he had the answer he was seeking for?

The only thing that left him wondering was what purpose the spell was cast in the first place?

One that could end a living soul. (..Or should it be souls?)

That question was answered when he explored a few days later.

…

…

…

Ah, right.

How could he forget?

It appears that there was one particular thing that slipped from his mind.

Apostle of Knowledge.

One of the Apostles, the beings who are companions of each Virtue, was created by the Witches.

An important figure not only to the Virtues, but including the Spire of Knowledge specifically.

After all, it was a rare occurrence for the Witches to do such a thing.

That day never came. 

A Virtue never meeting their so-called companion, the Apostle.

Even as despair had writhed through, that moment still never appeared.

And he soon forgot about it…

"..."

No…

…The Apostle did appear.

But not at the right time. Not when the Virtues are broken pieces of what they once were.

An inconsolable soul that could not be soothed easily.

It was not their fault for their untimely presence in the world.

For what hope could they — Virtues — hold onto when it was already gone?

Having those companions would only be in pain by their Virtues’ side, his side.

This is the time he decided to—

…

…

…

It was just on a whim that he stumbled upon a magic-filled area. 

Such magic was cast fairly recently and almost often than not, without any consideration it left behind.

Unknowingly, he scowled when he felt a familiar, annoying presence of magic.

(He was reminded of someone who was the most eager of them all and welcomed wholeheartedly the essence of Truth.)

The pure golden magic which suffocated the area, pulsating in a hidden manner akin to a pomegranate snake.

Shaking its tail emits a warning for any nearby enemies within the vicinity. Claiming the territory as if it were their own.

Upon closer inspection, there was a faint trace of another pure golden magic; this had a mild presence compared to the former and seemed to be developing.

Quite in a fast pace but was contained. Like being restrained within a box, locked and hidden away.

It raises fairly few things that are concerning, but other than that…

He raised his staff, emitting a blue light from the flower, and uttered a few lines of magic of his own.

..Leaving it unattended attracts the wrong kind of company.

…

…

…

He met a Cookie child the next time he walked into the same area where magic was carelessly littered almost everywhere.

“You should not be here,” the words were uttered before he could even process, “The night is treacherous. It is far too easy for little Cookies to lose their way.”

The young one seemed to blink at his statement; he himself, at the same time, was not comprehending what he had said instinctively. Whether it was obvious or not, he did not let his expression give away what he was thinking.

“I… was just passing through. I needed some fresh air,” the young one said.

Quite a bold one to half-lie on his face, trying to attempt deceit. What an irony, truly.

He let out a hum, indicating he somewhat acknowledged their response. Two colored eyes flickered at the young one.

His cookie hand subtly twitched while holding his staff.

In the end, he turned away and cast magic on himself to get away.

He’d rather not meddle in this kind of troublesome situation. Lest he attract and alert that one Cookie.

…

…

…

He made that decision, yet he found himself coming back and meeting the same young Cookie again and again.

Was it concern he felt for them?

No. Not really. This was just a precaution he had to take for the time being.

Just a precaution… yes.

The atmosphere was usually consisted of calm and quiet, but there was a subtle awkwardness that lingered.

He easily ignores it and intends to just sit silently. Just as he always does.

“So… what is it this time?” Ah. Maybe he spoke too soon. “Just going to… sit there and leave later?”

Normally, he would have preferred to stay silent, even though it is a bit rude… still. There was a nagging feeling that kept pestering him for the past days. He finally looked over to them.

“…The traces linger.” he muttered.

Seeing the young one confused, he explained further when they remained in a confused state.

Then, they ask him if he knew such a way to resolve it. He tells them.

He watches them attempt his instructions and succeed without any problems.

The feeling of accomplishment was evident on the young one’s face.

Without a thought, a small smile can be seen forming on his face, but he catches himself fairly quickly once he realizes and composes immediately.

Casting his own magic once more did he left the place.

Before he did so, he vaguely heard a gratitude from the young one, but it was cut off.

The thoughts cleared from his mind once he was away.

There were too many weird occurrences, straying from his usual life.

He should stay in the tower for now…

…

…

…

Lounging in his own room within the lone tower at the peak, he sensed a presence nearing themselves at the top of the Peak of Truth.

There hasn’t been much anyone attempting to climb the Peak of Truth ever since he cast away those Cookies from before.

What changed?

With a scowling expression, he stood from his seat and retrieved his staff. The magic envelops him and promptly transports him out of the tower to meet the one who dares to peer at the Truth.

Naturally, he would’ve told them never to attempt to climb the Peak of Truth and cast them away from their way. If they persist, then he will use other means to do so.

But upon seeing who it was…

For the first time, he hesitated… and was stunned soon after when it followed with—

“...P-Pure Vanilla Cookie..?”

Chapter Text

The faint light of dawn slipped past the curtains, brushing across your face.

Your eyes opened. Too early. The room was silent, save for the soft, even breathing of the other children still asleep in their beds.

You sat up slowly, the blanket slipping off your shoulders. The strange heaviness from last night was gone. 

In its place was something… unusual. 

A startling clarity in your head, sharp enough to make you suspicious.

You rubbed your temple. “…What was that?”

The memory of the tower on the hill flickered like a ghost in your mind — its jagged outline, the feeling of recognition that had struck you like lightning. 

And then the sudden fatigue. Too sudden. Too unnatural.

“Did someone… cast magic on me?” you whispered under your breath.

The thought clung stubbornly, refusing to be brushed away. But it didn’t make sense. 

You barely spoke with anyone beyond casual greetings, polite smiles, and small exchanges. 

The majority of the Cookies here weren’t even aligned with magic — let alone strong enough to place a spell on you without notice.

Unless they were quite skilled in dealing with magic.

You frowned, cookie hand brushing over the glove on your other cookie hand. 

Beneath it, the mark was quiet, its presence strangely subdued, as though it too had been muffled.

Was it just burnout? The price of pushing too much of your own magic recently? 

You leaned back onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

The idea wasn’t impossible… but something about the memory of that sudden exhaustion felt different. Forced. Pressed upon you from outside.

Your thoughts spiraled in that silence, questions tightening like threads around your mind.

“…If someone really did interfere,” you murmured to yourself, “then who?”

It couldn’t be the same hooded Cookies who blocked your way that night… right?

A faint creak stirred you from your thoughts.

The door to the dormitory opened slowly, the soft shuffle of footsteps entering. 

You turned your head and saw Grandmother Pecan, peeks in from the door. 

Her kind, wrinkled face peered into the room, her eyes lingering briefly on you.

“Oh my, up so early?” she said in a voice that was gentle, yet carried that unshakable weight of authority. “The sun hasn’t even fully risen yet.”

You blinked. “Ah… I couldn’t sleep.”

That was a lie. You slept (or rather, were forced to sleep by an unknown phenomenon) soundly to the point that it felt like you had slept countless hours.

She smiled faintly, setting the tray down on a nearby table. The warm aroma of pecan tarts drifted into the air, comforting and homely.

But as her gaze met yours again, steady and unreadable, a sliver of unease coiled in your chest.

For a heartbeat, you wondered.

Had she always looked at you quite like that?

You set the table while sneaking glances at Grandmother Pecan. She moved slowly but purposefully, setting out small plates and arranging the pecan tarts with that same patient precision she always carried.

Your thoughts kept circling. Should you ask her?

On one hand, keeping quiet would mean no risk. If the tower you saw was connected to… whatever happened last night, then maybe it was best to leave it buried.

But the image refused to leave your head. 

That silhouette, sharp against the horizon, pulsed at the edge of your memory like a wound. If you stayed silent, you’d be stuck with nothing but questions.

It would result in a headache when it plagues you every day, too curious.

Plus, Grandmother Pecan was trustworthy, wasn’t she? She was kind, reliable, and patient with all of you. If anyone knew something, she might.

Your cookie hand tightened into a fist beneath the table cloth. 

If I make it vague… just vague enough, it wouldn’t hurt, right?

Finally, you cleared your throat. “Grandmother Pecan?”

She glanced back at you, smiling faintly. “Yes, dear?”

You hesitated. “Um… this might sound strange, but… I heard some of the older Cookies in the Spire talking. Something about a tower. A really tall one. Have you ever heard of something like that?”

Her hands stilled. Only for a second, but you noticed it. 

Then, she resumed her quiet movements, sliding a plate into place.

“A tower, you say?” Her tone was soft, but there was a curious glimmer in her eyes now. 

She set the tray aside and eased herself into a chair nearby, folding her cookie hands in her lap. “Well, well. That takes me back.”

You straightened unconsciously. “So… you do know of it?”

Grandmother Pecan chuckled warmly. “Know of it? Oh, child, only in the way one knows of a bedtime story. It was always spoken of as a rumor. No, a legend. The scholars were the ones who clung to it most, back in their heyday.”

“A legend?” you echoed.

She nodded. “They said there was once a tower that held the Truth itself. A place where a Cookie could uncover the answers to every mystery, every question they carried. Imagine that! A single place that promised all knowledge, all understanding.”

Her laughter filled the room, soft and nostalgic. “Of course, you can see why so many scholars were tempted by it. They wanted to be the ones to uncover secrets no one else could. They dreamed of what they might gain if they ever reached it.”

Was the Sage among them as well? He has the word Truth in his identity as the Sage of Truth. It wouldn’t be too farfetched, maybe.

“And… did anyone?” you asked quietly.

Her smile faded into something gentler, more wistful. “No one ever found it. Not truly. Although, some scholars speculate that the Sage might have. Yet, he never truly says his thoughts and even exaggerates—”

Sounds like what he’d do, honestly.

“—Over the years, the story became just that, a story. A faint legend. Yet it lingered, leaving a mark on those who heard it. Enough that even now, you still hear whispers from time to time.”

You lowered your gaze, heart beating a little faster. The memory of last night pressed at you harder now. A legend… a story… then why did I see it?

Grandmother Pecan sighed and rose to her feet. “Still, dear, I wouldn’t worry over much about such things. The world is filled with tales, and not all of them need chasing.” 

She smiled again, that same warm, reassuring smile. “Best to focus on what’s before you, hm?”

But for you, the image of the tower would not fade.

Not anymore.

The early morning passed quietly. After breakfast, you excused yourself from the chatter of the other children, slipping out into the cool air of the Spire’s streets.

Grandmother Pecan’s words lingered in your mind. A legend. A place that promised Truth. Her gentle dismissal had been warm, yet something in the way she’d said it left a trace of… distance. As though she had deliberately stopped herself from saying more.

Which was why your steps carried you now toward the Fountain Hall Public Library.

The towering structure stood like a monument to knowledge. 

You hesitated only briefly before pushing them open.

The scent of parchment and ink greeted you instantly again. 

A few Cookies dotted the tables, reading in silence, their quills scratching faintly.

And there, behind the reception desk, stood the librarian Grandmother Pecan had once mentioned.

An older Cookie with most often than not a permanent frown. The lenses gleamed, spotless, and behind his eyes that seemed to miss nothing, followed the words of a ledger he was reviewing.

You approached carefully, the echo of your footsteps seeming louder than you intended.

The librarian’s head lifted. His gaze, sharp but not unkind, settled on you. “Yes? How can I assist you, young one?”

You cleared your throat, glancing briefly at the endless rows of shelves. “Um… I was wondering if you had any books about… towers.”

The librarian arched a brow. “Towers?”

“Yes,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual. “I, uh… heard some Cookies talking about one. A strange one, like a legend. I thought maybe… there might be something written about it here.”

The librarian’s spectacles caught the light as he leaned back slightly, cookie hand tapping thoughtfully against the ledger. For a moment, he said nothing.

Then.. “You’re not the first curious soul to ask.”

Your heart skipped. “So there are books?”

“There are,” the librarian replied. “But not many. Most references are buried in collections of myths or scholars’ musings. Nothing… definitive.” 

He studied you over the rims of his glasses. “Still, if you’d like, I can direct you to the section where such texts reside. Or” he gestured toward the labyrinth of shelves, “you may search at your own pace, if you prefer discovery over guidance.”

You hesitated only for a moment before replying. “…I think I’d prefer your guidance.”

His eyes remained sharp and discerning behind the spotless lenses. Closing the ledger with a quiet snap, he rose from behind the desk. 

His movements were measured, precise, the cardigan swaying faintly as they turned toward the shelves.

“Very well,” he said. “Follow me.”

You trailed behind as the librarian led you deeper into the library. 

The further you went, the quieter it seemed to grow. The soft scratching of quills and faint shuffling of pages faded, replaced by the hollow hush of rows untouched by many.

Finally, the librarian stopped before a tall shelf tucked into a corner of the hall. The books here were older, their spines cracked, their bindings worn as though they had been read and reread long ago but rarely touched now.

The librarian ran a steady finger along the titles until they paused and drew out a book with a faded deep-blue cover. Dust spiraled into the air as it was opened.

“This,” he said, carefully placing it on a nearby reading table, “is one of the few collected volumes. Much of it is metaphorical, allegorical… but there is a recurring mention of what you seek. The tower.”

You leaned closer, heart quickening as you saw the faint sketches inked across the pages, jagged spires reaching skyward, eerily similar to what you had seen last night.

The librarian adjusted his spectacles, watching your reaction. “The scholars called it many things. The Tower of All Knowing. The Tower of Knowledge. Most simply, the Tower of Truth. Always with the same story: that to reach its peak was to uncover what lay hidden from all others.”

He gave a soft chuckle that carried no humor. “Naturally, such a claim drew the ambitious like moths to flame. Countless theories, countless speculations, and yet… no proof. No one who claimed to have found it ever returned with evidence.”

You swallowed hard, unable to tear your gaze away from the sketches. The familiarity in their shape gnawed at you.

“I’ll return to the desk. Should you need assistance with cross-references, do not hesitate to ask.”

His voice carried its usual calm weight, but something in the way he said it felt… deliberate. As though he expected you would need to.

You managed a small nod. “Thank you.”

He turned, his footsteps soft but steady against the library’s polished floor, until the sound faded back toward the reception.

...

The map was crude, sketched in faint lines on a corner page. A hill, marked with a symbol resembling an eye. Beneath it, a note: Peak of Truth.

You stared at it for a long moment before closing the book, slipping the details into memory.

The decision came quickly. You had to see it.

...

...

By midday, you were walking along the outer paths of the Spire, the library behind you.

Coincidentally, the described hill was located where the forest behind the orphanage was. Even further away from the clearing area where the magic lessons took place.

The climb wasn’t steep, but the silence pressing around it made every step feel deliberate. The higher you went, the quieter the world became, until even the rustle of leaves seemed distant.

At last, you reached the top.

Weirdly enough…

The hill stretched wide, its peak flat and bare, as though something had once rested here long ago. 

Grass swayed gently in the breeze, pale green against the open expanse. No tower. No ruins. Only open space and sky stretching endlessly overhead.

You stood still, breathing lightly from the climb, eyes scanning the ground. This is it?

Your thoughts circled. The book called this the Peak of Truth… but there was nothing. Nothing except the strange pressure in the air, the faint hum you could almost mistake for your imagination.

Beneath your glove, the mark tingled faintly, a restless pulse that didn’t match your heartbeat.

“Those who sought the Peak of Truth came with hope in their hearts and questions burning in their minds. Yet upon reaching it, they found only silence and emptiness. For most, this was enough to turn them away, dismissing the legend as folly. But the true trial lay not in the climb, but in the endurance of the waiting.”

Your gaze swept across the flat expanse again, this time slower. Waiting? Was that the point?

“It is said the Peak is not a place that reveals itself to all. Only those recognized by Truth may glimpse beyond the veil.”

The words gnawed at you. Recognized? By Truth?

The wind swept harder across the hilltop, tugging faintly at your clothes. You pressed your cookie hand against your chest, feeling the muted warmth of the mark beneath the glove.

Your ‘senses’ seemingly detect a sudden flow of magic materializing. You took a step back upon confirming that it was about to appear in front of you.

You froze.

The ground beneath you lit up in a pale glow, a blue magic circle etching itself into the hilltop in intricate lines. From its center, shapes stirred, eyes made of shimmering magic, opening and closing in sequence, all of them watching, watching you.

Your glove tightened around the mark as the hum of power pressed into your chest.

And then, from within the circle, a figure began to form.

The glow intensified, drawing shape and color into being. A tall Cookie stood at its center, a long hat casting a faint shadow across their face. In one cookie hand, they carried a staff crowned with a flower, its petals dark.

You hesitated, every thought grinding to a halt.

Then your gaze locked on the features, golden blond hair that caught the sunlight, and two eyes, each a different color, yellow and blue.

Your breath caught. Everything inside you stilled at once, like time had been cut clean.

“…P-Pure Vanilla Cookie..?” you muttered, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them, disbelief ringing in your voice.

The figure’s—Pure Vanilla Cookie—eyes shifted toward you.

Chapter Text

“...P-Pure Vanilla Cookie..?”

The words slipped out before you could bite them back.

And the moment they did, regret slammed into your chest like a falling boulder.

Wait… wasn’t this supposed to be a backstory? A glimpse of the past, of when everything started to break apart before the Beast’s corruption? That was what you told yourself. That was what you clung to.

But standing here, staring at him, you realized maybe that had been your biggest mistake all along. You assumed this world was set in the past.

And now that assumption was unraveling before your very eyes.

He didn’t smile with that soft, radiant warmth Pure Vanilla Cookie was known for. He didn’t carry that gentleness, that kindness that had once been said to soothe even the most fractured of hearts. 

No, this one stood blank, gaze flat and unyielding, his expression drained of light. A face unmistakably his… and yet not.

Your stomach twisted tighter.

The features were the same but the differences made your dough crawl. 

His robe was not the flowing white and yellow of hope; instead, it bore a darker scheme, blue and gold partnered with black, every line sharper. 

The staff wasn’t right either; the bloom at its head was no longer the familiar yellow orchid flower with its eye, but seemed to be sinister looking now that it had multiple eyes. 

And worst of all… his Soul Jam.

It was gone.

Or rather, not gone, but missing, nothing but a faint hollow outline upon his chest where the Light of Truth should’ve gleamed. 

That gem, the heart and proof of who he was, was nowhere to be seen.

Your throat tightened.

Could this be…?

A thousand thoughts clashed in your mind, each worse than the last, and you scrambled to stitch them into something rational. 

You didn’t know what was supposed to happen in Beast–Yeast Episodes 7 and 8, future content you hadn’t played. But maybe, maybe, you weren’t in the past after all. 

Maybe you were in the middle of it.

The trial.

Pure Vanilla Cookie’s trial.

It made sense, didn’t it? The Ancient Hero confronting his Beast counterpart, the Beast of Deceit. Shadow Milk Cookie. Fights, despair, near-defeat.. and then, the Awakening. 

A stronger, truer form of himself emerged at the end of it all.

Yes. Yes, that had to be it.

And yet… the thought gnawed at you.

If this was really his trial, then didn’t that mean the Sage of Truth you knew, the eccentric, teasing, insufferably cryptic scholar, was already the Beast? 

Already Shadow Milk Cookie, the embodiment of Deceit?

You never thought of it until now…

Your breath shuddered out of you, weak and unsteady. You pressed your cookie hand to your chest, trying to calm yourself, trying to steady your racing thoughts.

Focus!

You were not in the most ideal situation. Especially if the ‘trial’ theory was true then it would only make ‘Pure Vanilla Cookie’ (who seemed to be defeated..?) be suspicious of you.

After all, he didn’t know you. And considering you’d already slipped once, you couldn’t afford another mistake.

So you forced the panic back down. Forced your expression to smooth out. Forced yourself into the role you played best.

Feign ignorance.

Like always.

“..Ah, sorry... I mistook you for someone, haha... ….”

The words tumbled out of your mouth like loose marbles, clattering awkwardly into the silence. 

You forced a laugh, stiff and hollow, already cringing internally at how painfully obvious it sounded. Not your best work. Not even close.

But still, you kept your posture composed, back straight, face neutral, like you had every confidence in the flimsy excuse you’d just delivered. Inside, though, you were dying. Absolutely combusting. Smooth. Really smooth.

The Cookie before you said nothing at first. He simply stood there, gaze unreadable, letting the silence stretch long enough that your nerves began to buzz in your ears.

Then, with the faintest sigh, he spoke, his voice flat, calm, not cruel, but not warm either.

“…Truthless Recluse.”

You blinked, confused. “…What?”

“My name,” he clarified, turning his head just enough that the shadow of his pointed hat shifted. “You may call me that.”

Truthless Recluse.

It was nothing like Pure Vanilla Cookie. And yet, everything about him still was.

Before you could muster a response, he turned his back to you, staff resting loosely in his cookie hand, and began walking toward the other way. His voice, quiet but carrying, drifted back: “Follow me.”

You froze. Your instincts screamed don’t. Your better judgment practically clawed at you to stay put. But then, your eyes flicked down to your cookie hand, to the faint burn of your mark beneath the glove, and back up to the retreating figure.

Truthless Recluse.

You knew that face. Those eyes. You knew what he was supposed to be, or at least, who he had once been. And even if every detail screamed wrong, a blind thread of trust still pulled at you. 

Trust that this was still, in some way, still Pure Vanilla Cookie you know from the game.

Besides… what other choice did you have? Here, surrounded by unfamiliar faces in the Spire, only the Sage of Truth was the face you recognized from the game.

Your jaw tightened. Or rather, Shadow Milk Cookie. The Beast of Deceit, hidden behind his scholar’s smile.

Your eyes narrowed at the thought.

Between the two… you hesitated, then stepped forward.

One foot after another, following the figure walk away, you hurried your steps trying to catch up.

“..Is this the Peak of Truth?” you hesitantly asked, eyes roaming the barren, clear surroundings. It felt wrong – strangely empty. By all accounts, there should have been a tower. Instead, there was nothing.

“It is,” came his curt reply.

You waited for more, hoping he would explain. He didn’t.

The silence stretched, heavy, uncomfortable. He continued walking with steady, deliberate strides, and you had no choice but to trail behind, glancing at the stark sky above and the rocky ground beneath your steps.

As if sensing the tangle of questions circling in your mind, Truthless Recluse finally spoke.

“This tower is hidden away. The Peak itself does not show its form to just anyone. It withdraws, to keep curious eyes from prying into the Truth.”

The way he said Truth carried weight, as though it was something he disliked. 

You swallowed, unsure how to respond, when he turned his head just enough to ask, “And you? How was your climb here? The journey must have been difficult.”

“...Climb?” you echoed blankly.

He tilted his head slightly, expecting more.

“I just walked,” you answered, blunt, a little too quick.

He stopped in his tracks. “…What?”

“I walked,” you repeated, “It was tiring, sure.. it’s far, and the slope isn’t exactly friendly to climb, only for a few moments, I suppose… but yeah, I just walked.”

Silence.

Truthless Recluse stared at you, eyes unreadable beneath the shadow of his hat, but you could feel it: bafflement. Yet his expression never broke its indifferent stillness.

You shrugged, there wasn’t much detail to be added. It was exactly as you had said.

He turned away again without comment, continuing his path.

You followed.

Before long, a looming shape came into view, rising out of the air itself, stone edges revealing themselves as if reality had parted just for you to see. A tower, tall and solemn, its form flickering between hidden and present like a mirage.

Truthless Recluse reached it first. Without pause, he opened the door and stepped inside.

You hovered at the threshold for half a breath before taking in a quiet inhale and following after him.

The door shut behind you.

The spiral staircase wound upward, stone steps echoing under your feet. You trailed after him, half-distracted by the strange stillness inside the tower.

At last, you both reached a wide landing. A plain table stood at the center with two chairs, surrounded by nothing but empty space. He sat without hesitation, setting his staff against the edge.

You hesitated, then slid into the seat opposite him, stiff-backed.

A flick of his staff, and a faint blue shimmer sparked in the air. A tea set blinked into existence, porcelain and delicate, steam already curling from the spout as though it had been waiting.

He said nothing.

You blinked.

Okay… conjuring tea out of nowhere and being offered one. Yep. Definitely not suspicious at all. Totally fine. Definitely not déjà vu. Except it is déjà vu— haven’t I been through this exact same scenario before with someone else?

Still, when he poured the tea, you accepted the cup with both cookie hands, wary but oddly polite.

Silence stretched, heavy as stone. You took a cautious sip, and nearly set the cup back down just to escape the awkwardness.

Then he spoke.

“You seem to be… a special case.”

You almost spat the tea out. As it was, you ended up choking halfway, coughing into your gloved cookie hand. “I-Is that so..?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Simply regarded you with that blank, unreadable calm.

“Yes.”

The single word landed like a hammer. You shifted uncomfortably, cookie hands then tightening around the cup.

He continued, tone flat and remained steady. “Climbing the peak is… not so simple. There are other trials. Each is designed to bar entry. To scatter those who lack resolve. To… waste their time.” His gaze drifted slightly, almost as though remembering. “Only those too stubborn to stop… surpass them. Eventually.”

His expression remained unchanged, but the faint pause in his words, like he found the memory more irritating than anything, hung in the air.

You nodded slowly, sipping your tea just to have something to do. Okay. Not-so-easy trials, hidden tower, being somewhat a special case? 

It never occurred to you until now that climbing the Peak of Truth was strangely too.. peaceful. Not to mention, many of the scholars were bold and struggled enough to climb it for the sake of curiosity and for more knowledge.

Still, you forced a small, awkward smile, setting the cup back onto the saucer. “...I guess that makes me stubborn, then.”

He didn’t answer. Just poured you more tea.

“…”

You stared at the cup being refilled, steam curling lazily as if daring you to drink more.

…Does he plan to keep pouring until I drown in tea? By the end of this, I won’t be enlightened, I’ll just be bloated. Great trial, ten out of ten.

You lifted the cup again, trying not to sigh into it.

Then his voice cut through the silence.

“…Your mark. It is glowing.”

This time you really, almost, choked to your death.

The words were spoken as if he were commenting on the weather – flat, neutral, entirely indifferent.

But to you, it felt like the world dropped out from under your seat.

Your grip tightened around the cup, the tea sloshing dangerously close to spilling. The gloved cookie hand that had a certain mark was immediately hidden under the table.

As if it would reverse what had happened.

You tried to steady your breath, to force your expression into something blank, casual, normal. But your pulse betrayed you, thundering in your mind louder than any words you could muster.

The cup finally finds its way back to the saucer, safely. Your gaze shifted from avoiding him to staring right back at him.

Your mind whirled, yet, a shaky laugh escaped before you could even stop it.

It sounded brittle. Wrong. Even to your own hearing.

…Was this karma? For daring to mistake him as Pure Vanilla Cookie? Or for taking an easy route through the trials of the Peak of Truth?

Eyes closed you sighed to yourself.

Maybe.. it wouldn’t hurt to talk. Wouldn’t it?

You—

Chapter Text

Your cookie hands twitched against the porcelain cup. The warmth of the tea seeped faintly into your dough, grounding you just enough to speak.

“...About this,” you began, voice low, almost swallowed by the quiet tower. Carefully, you tugged at the glove on your cookie hand, just enough to reveal what you had been hiding.

There it was.

The faint glow. The mark that pulsed ever so gently, as if it had its own heartbeat.

You swallowed hard. “It’s been like this. I wanted to ask if you… know what it means.”

Across from you, Truthless Recluse stilled. His dough was unreadable, eyes fixed on the light of the mark. For a moment, he seemed carved from the same stone as the tower itself.. silent and immovable.

Then, slowly, he set his staff down against the table. His gaze lingered, not sharp, not warm, simply steady. As though weighing something unseen.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried that same quiet monotone, but there was something behind it.

“That mark…” A pause, faint. “Do you know what it is? Or rather … what it resembles?”

You hesitated, then nodded once. “An Apostle’s mark. A symbol tied to one of the Virtues.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, a flicker of consideration. “So you know.”

The tower settled into silence again, broken only by the faint hum of your glowing hand.

Truthless Recluse’s gaze lingered on your glowing mark, then shifted back to meet your eyes.

“Which Virtue,” he asked at last, tone flat, measured, “does it bind to?”

You hesitated, the words catching in your dough. But there was no use lying here, not when the mark betrayed you so clearly. “…Knowledge.”

A faint hum left him. Not surprise, not interest, merely an acknowledgement. “Knowledge. The Virtue of dual faces among many others.” His voice was calm, yet the words carried weight. “It exists in balance, both Truth and Deceit, bound as two sides of the same coin. One cannot be without the other.”

You stiffened at the phrasing. Truth… and Deceit.

Your mind instantly supplied the faces.

The Sage of Truth.. no, Shadow Milk Cookie. Beast of Deceit, walking in a scholar’s robe.

And him. Truthless Recluse, who bore the face of Pure Vanilla Cookie yet not the same light.

If he was Truth… and Shadow Milk was Deceit…

Then… where was Knowledge?

Your chest tightened. If Knowledge is supposed to be both, then who…?

The thought twisted inside you. You were the Apostle of Knowledge. Your mark said as much. But neither of them, neither Truthless Recluse nor the Sage of Truth, had ever claimed the name of Knowledge. Even worse, one of them had already fallen into the Beast of Deceit.

It didn’t add up. None of it did.

You realized your grip had tightened around the cup until your dough creaked faintly. Slowly, you placed it back down, steadying yourself before speaking. “…Then why, why is my Apostle mark exactly the same as the one the Sage of Truth bears on his forehead?”

The words slipped out more sharply than you intended. Your voice carried both confusion and the faintest edge of defiance.

The glow at your cookie hand pulsed again, faint but insistent.

Truthless Recluse did not answer immediately. His gaze dropped to your cookie hand, the faint glow pulsing as if it were breathing, before he finally spoke.

“At most,” he said, words slow, deliberate, “your mark represents only half. Truth. It aligns with the same symbol the Sage of Truth…” His voice trailed, but he did not linger there. “Such is the nature of Knowledge. It fragments when the balance is broken.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Truth? The thought flared sharp and bitter. No. Don’t try to fool me. That Sage—he’s no Truth. He’s Deceit, through and through.

The urge to say it aloud pressed at your tongue, but you swallowed it down, hard. Better not. Not here, not now.

So you sat in silence, forcing your expression into something neutral, as if the words didn’t claw at your mind.

Truthless Recluse leaned back faintly, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. “What you hold is only a shard of what was meant to be whole.”

The glow on your hand pulsed once more, steady, quiet, and unrelenting.

You dared to break the silence, your voice low but steady. “…Then… what about the other half? Do you know what happened to it?”

Truthless Recluse’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, unreadable as ever, before shifting away. His reply came without hesitation, but it carried an edge of finality.

“I do not know.”

The words fell flat, simple, yet heavy enough to press against your chest.

He stopped speaking then, and for a breath you thought that was the end of it. But a pause stretched, longer than it should have, and his posture shifted faintly. One cookie hand rose, pressing against the side of his head, curling itself as though grasping for something unseen.

“…Strange,” he murmured, almost to himself, the monotone cracking just faintly at the edges. “This… is strange.”

Your brow furrowed. “…What?”

No reply.

“…Truthless Recluse?” you tried again, this time more firm, leaning forward in your seat.

Nothing. He stayed still, head bowed into his cookie hand, mouth parting to mutter again – quiet, words half-formed. You caught only a tiny portion of words, slipping out between his silence.

“Fragmented… incomplete… I…”

It was unsettling, watching someone so controlled, so even-toned, caught in a moment like this.

“…Truthless Recluse!” you called again, sharper now, the unease creeping fast into your voice.

Still, he did not answer.

You pushed up from your seat so quickly the chair scraped against the floor. The tea on the table trembled in its porcelain.

“Truthless Recluse,” you called again, voice tight, hurried steps carrying you to his side. He didn’t move. Didn’t even acknowledge you. His hand still braced his head, shoulders heavy, words caught somewhere between silence and breath.

Something twisted in your chest. Without thinking, you reached out and gripped his shoulder with your gloved cookie hand.

The mark beneath the fabric flared, once. A hot pulse that spreads up your arm before dimming just as quickly, vanishing into stillness again.

Your breath caught. His body stiffened under your touch.

“…Pure Vanilla Cookie!” The name left your mouth before you could stop it, desperate, sharp, carrying the weight of recognition and denial tangled together.

The air stilled.

Then, slowly, Truthless Recluse raised his head. His eyes, clear yet empty, turned to you. For a second, you thought you saw something flicker there, something old, buried, and struggling to surface.

But it was gone as soon as it appeared.

His hand fell from his temple, and his tone was as flat as ever. “...That is not my name.”

“...”

You froze, still holding his shoulder, before quickly letting go.

Truthless Recluse regarded you in silence for a long, heavy moment, then exhaled – calm, steady, as though brushing the whole lapse away. “A brief lapse. Nothing more. Pay it no mind.”

The words were neat, precise, almost rehearsed.

But you could still feel that faint phantom pulse in your hand.

You hesitated for a moment longer, still searching his face, trying to decide if that smooth dismissal was the truth or a shield he’d built so well it even fooled himself.

But his gaze didn’t waver. Blank. Controlled. A wall you had no means to scale.

With a quiet breath, you retreated, steps slow, and sank back into your chair. The porcelain clinked faintly.

Truthless Recluse sat straighter, as if the strange lapse had never occurred, and folded his cookie hands neatly atop the table. “The Apostle mark,” he began, tone level once more, “is not without weight. Each is tied to a Virtue. Each carries consequences.”

You blinked at him, carefully keeping your hand tucked in your lap, glove hiding what still felt warm beneath.

He continued, gaze sliding briefly to your gloved hand before drifting away. “At its best, when aligned with its Virtue, the mark resonates. The bearer draws strength, clarity, even purpose.”

His words slowed then, and though his voice never rose or cracked, there was a quiet heaviness beneath it. “But when it is left unpaired… or when the halves remain divided…” He paused, expression unreadable, eyes drifting to some point beyond you. “It corrodes. It warps the Virtue it serves. A slow undoing, subtle at first. Always… concerning.”

You swallowed, unease prickling along the back of your neck.

So it wasn’t just some glowing sign stamped on your dough. It was something that could eat away at the very thing it represented.

And if your mark was Knowledge—if it sat between Truth and Deceit, divided as they were—

What exactly does that mean for me?

Your mind turned sharply, the Sage of Truth.

If the mark could corrode a Virtue when divided, then… what would that mean for him?

Your mouth opened before you realized you were speaking. “These… consequences. What happens, exactly?”

Truthless Recluse regarded you in silence for a moment, then shifted his staff slightly against the table’s edge. His voice was calm, measured, as always. “The Virtue is never struck all at once. It begins… around them. A distortion in their dealings, their presence, the way they affect those who linger nearby. Minor, but unnatural.”

Your chest tightened. “And after that?”

“Then it consumes inward,” he said without pause. “Behavior turns. Habits twist. The Virtue itself becomes the very thing it was meant to balance.”

You stilled. His words weighed heavy in the air, and against your thoughts.

He tilted his head toward you. “Tell me. Have you seen the Sage of Truth act differently? Not in manner, but in moments. Out of place. As though something had… shifted?”

You hesitated, searching your memory. One moment returned clear as crystal, unsettling thoughts seeped through.

“…Yes,” you admitted. “He—” Your words faltered, but you pushed them out. “He spoke to Grandmother Pecan once. But not as he usually would. It was… hostile. His tone, his words. Not kind. Not even teasing. And before.. before that, they were… friendly.”

The memory stung more now than it had then. You frowned, gripping your glove tighter in your lap. 

It wasn’t him. Not the him I knew, at least. It was wrong.

Truthless Recluse did not move, but his gaze deepened, unreadable, like still water hiding something beneath.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, before his lips parted, his voice a quiet monotone that somehow pressed heavier than any shout.

“…If what you say is true, then the Sage’s state will not hold for long. It will worsen. The more the connection falters, the more his nature bends. Until even he will not recognize himself.”

Your throat tightened. The words struck too close.

But then, as though another thought had surfaced, he shifted his cookie hand slightly, resting the staff against his knee. His eyes did not meet yours, instead turning toward the quiet walls of the tower. “Do you know why Apostles were made?”

You shook your head once, wary.

“Not only for companionship,” he continued, tone steady, indifferent—yet every word was deliberate. “The Witches created them to serve as Anchors. Without them, the Virtues would drift. Their power unchecked, their essence unstable. Apostles were meant to bind them. To keep them from unraveling.”

Your hands curled against your lap. Anchors?

He looked back at you then, his gaze cool, heavy, almost piercing. “That is why the consequences exist. If an Apostle and Virtue are not aligned, if their bond does not reach both ways… the Virtue begins to fracture.”

A long silence stretched between the two of you.

And all you could think of was the Sage of Truth’s sharp, venom-laced tone against Grandmother Pecan – his voice, hostile, foreign, nothing like the odd, overbearing scholar you knew.

Your stomach dropped.

…Was he already fracturing?

Before either of you could speak further, the air around you rippled.

A crushing weight pressed down, thick and suffocating, as if the entire tower shuddered under an unseen tide. You stiffened in your seat. The teacup rattled faintly against its saucer, its porcelain clinking in warning.

Truthless Recluse’s expression shifted – not alarmed, but sharpened, brows narrowing ever so slightly. He lifted his staff, and the faint blue glow at its tip resonated.

“…Magic.” His voice was low, toneless, but you heard the strain beneath it.

The pressure thickened, crawling along your dough, pricking your ‘senses’ like a thousand unseen needles. Your heart pounded wildly, unsteady, as though it could burst through your chest.

You looked at him, your words stumbling out before you could stop them. “Wh-where… is it coming from..?”

Truthless tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something far beyond your range. Then, he turned toward the narrow window, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“…Outside. Not far from here.” His tone was flat, but his grip on the staff tightened. “Too close, in fact.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry.

…

…

The sky above the orphanage dimmed, clouds swelling unnaturally as if dusk had been dragged in too early. Grandmother Pecan stood by the window, worry creasing her face.

“Where are you, child…” she murmured. You had yet to return, and the longer the silence stretched, the tighter her chest grew. Just as she turned, determined to step outside—

The door slammed open.

She startled, nearly dropping her shawl. The Sage of Truth stood framed in the doorway, but the cheer was gone from his face. His expression was dark, his staff gripped tight, blue and yellow eyes glowing faintly in the gloom.

“...Sage?” she ventured, voice shaking.

Her feet left the ground before another word could escape. Golden magic coiled around her like a serpent, lifting her high, her chest compressed until every breath came ragged and shallow. She clawed at her throat, eyes wide.

He drifted toward her, his clothes swaying and trailing as if he weighed nothing. His staff glowed harshly, and the mark on his forehead burned brighter with every step.

“You told them,” he said, voice cold as stone. “You encouraged their curiosity about the tower.”

“It… it was just a child’s curiosity—!” she gasped, coughing against the pressure.

The light constricted. Her spine bent under the force, tears stinging at her eyes. His gaze sharpened like a blade.

“You know better than anyone,” he pressed, tone rising with a dangerous edge. “Sending them there makes them stray. Makes them dig further. Do you want them poisoned with twisted truths? Do you want them ruined?”

His voice broke briefly, muttering to himself, something frantic caught beneath the weight of control. His staff trembled with unstable light.

And then…suddenly, the magic snapped. Grandmother Pecan fell, coughing violently on her knees as she clutched her chest, gulping air like a drowning soul.

The Sage turned his back, expression flat, steps already leading to the door.

“I cast a silencing barrier,” he said flatly, “to keep the children asleep.”

He seemed to ignore the sounds of Grandmother Pecan coughing.

“Be thankful,” he said, his voice echoing sharp against the silence, “to them. Not to me. They care for you too much… that is the only reason you live.”

Grandmother Pecan froze, breath caught in her throat.

“Remember this,” he added, the glow of his eyes dimming. “Do not forget who spared you.”

And with that, he vanished in a flicker of golden light, leaving the orphanage wrapped in a silence that pressed heavier than the magic had.

With a shaky breath, Grandmother Pecan could only lower her head and closed her eyes, regret came pouring in, “Little child… I'm sorry..”

…

…

Truthless Recluse moved his staff with the quiet intent to leave.

But then— “...I’ll follow.”

He stilled, gaze cutting briefly toward you. Your stance was stubborn, unyielding despite the faint tremor in your voice. 

For a heartbeat, he seemed ready to ignore you, to vanish alone as was his nature. Yet, against that detached composure, his silence wavered.

A flick of his staff. The world fractured into blue light.

And in the next blink—

They stood at the clearing.

Face-to-face.

The Sage of Truth waited there, his smile nowhere to be found. What greeted them instead was an expression twisted into something unreadable.

The tension between the two Cookies was suffocating, the space itself thrumming with magic that warped the night air.

No words were exchanged. Not yet.

Then, with the same voice that once prattled with mischief, he broke the silence.

“Little one,” he said, tone airy, playful even, as if the weight that had just occurred meant nothing. “It’s time to go home. ..Grandmother Pecan is worried.”

Your breath caught. The hesitation clung like stone to your chest, until her name was spoken. At that, something inside you loosened. You straightened, relief slipping past your earlier dread.

You turned toward Truthless Recluse, searching. He only returned your look with one of his own, flat but steady, unreadable as ever.

Before you could form a word—

A cookie hand settled atop your head. Calm magic unfurled, gentle, unyielding, seeping through your dough. Your limbs slackened, and the world tilted as sleep pulled you under, your consciousness fading fast.

You tried to fight it. You couldn’t.

Your body gave way, yet you never touched the ground.

Truthless Recluse’s arms caught you, steady, careful. But the weight vanished almost instantly. He blinked down, nothing. Empty.

His gaze rose.

The Sage of Truth stood before him now, staff glimmering faintly, your unconscious form gathered securely in his arms. He held you with a strange tenderness, one hand cradling your head against his shoulder, as though you were something fragile to be treasured.

“My, my…” The Sage’s tone dipped into mocking sing-song, a teasing cadence hiding a coil of steel. “To think that the elusive Truthless Recluse’s fondness for children would drive him to steal one away.” He clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk.”

Truthless Recluse’s eye twitched. A rare flicker of tension cracked through his stoic stillness.

“Such honor,” the Sage went on, voice thick with feigned delight. “To stand in your presence at last. But alas, our time is short.” He smiled now, wide and sharp. “You have no objections, yes? After all… this was a decision you made.”

The night deepened. His yellow and blue gaze glowed brighter, reflecting the same hues that burned faintly in Truthless Recluse’s eyes. Two mirrors, two halves, locked in silence.. neither giving way.

The air between them held still, unbearably so, as though the very world waited to see which one would move first.

The silence pressed on, taut as a bowstring.

It was the Sage who moved first. His lips quirked into something that could almost pass for civility, though the glint in his mismatched eyes told otherwise.

“Well then,” he said lightly, almost sing-song. “What a delightful encounter this has been. But I’m afraid this little one must be returned.” His grip on you shifted, gentle but firm, as though cradling a precious weight.

He gave a half-hearted bow of his head, mocking laziness. “Until next time, Recluse. Do keep your duties just where they’ve always lingered. As they always will.”

And with that, golden light flared.

In an instant, he was gone.

The clearing was quiet again, save for the faint hiss of magic that lingered in the air. Only then, far from Truthless Recluse’s sight, the Sage’s gaze lowered to the Cookie resting against him.

Your face slack in sleep, your breathing calm, your weight light in his arms.

His expression softened, just barely, into something raw and unguarded. His hold tightened, staff lowering as he pressed you closer to himself.

“Finally…” he whispered, almost reverent.

The word carried into the night, swallowed whole by the silence.

Chapter Text

You woke up with a start.

The first thing you felt was the softness beneath you. Sheets. A mattress. A bed.

Your brows furrowed immediately.

A bed?

Last you checked, you weren’t the type to fall asleep in random, cushioned luxuries.

You sat up slowly, blinking against the haze clouding your head. The room around you swam into view, and the pit in your dough deepened.

Unfamiliar.

The walls weren’t the orphanage’s cozy, creaky wood. Nor were they the cold stone of Truthless Recluse’s tower. Instead, it was something else entirely smooth, deliberate, and far too pristine to be anything humble.

Where…?

You rubbed your temples, trying to force your sluggish mind to line up the memories in order.

Peak of Truth.

The tower.

The conversation.

…The confrontation.

And then, nothing but sudden weight in your body, sleep dragging you under before you could so much as breathe.

Your cookie hand drifted up toward your head, almost on instinct. A phantom sensation lingered there, like the faintest press of a cookie against your dough.

A headpat.

Your eyes narrowed, a grim line forming on your lips. 

Truthless Recluse. It had to have been him. But why… why would he even bother casting a spell like that?

The thought unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

With a small shake of your head, you forced the memory down. Brooding wouldn’t change the present.

And the present, right now, was far more important.

You turned, scanning the room again. Every corner, every detail. Where were you?

Because one thing was certain: This wasn’t home.

Your gaze swept across the room again, slower this time, forcing yourself to drink in every detail.

The ceiling arched high above, pale stone beams that seemed too carefully carved to belong to anything natural. A chandelier, no, not of crystal, but of glowing fragments of magic itself hung suspended, pulsing faintly like captured starlight.

The walls were lined with shelves. Shelves ordered with methodical precision. Scrolls and tomes slotted neatly, each one marked, each one untouched by dust.

It was pristine. Sterile. Too controlled.

And the bed you sat on? It was draped in fabric finer than anything you’d ever touched, embroidered with designs you couldn’t name. Even the pillow behind you held the faintest trace of a calming spell woven into its stitches.

Your stomach sank.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

You hugged your knees, pressing your back against the headboard, a small instinctive attempt to make yourself smaller.

Silence weighed heavy. The air itself felt thick, humming faintly with magic, as though the entire room were alive and watching.

You swallowed hard.

Where am I…? And more importantly—

Your gaze flicked to the door.

—who brought me here?

The door drew your eyes almost immediately.

It stood tall, its handle gleaming faintly in the dim light, and before you could think, you were already on your feet, crossing the room with hurried steps. Your cookie hand gripped the handle and twisted.

Locked.

You tried again, harder this time. The knob rattled in protest but didn’t yield. A growl of frustration slipped past your lips as you shoved your shoulder against the door, once, twice. Alternating between pulling and pushing it as though it might work. Still nothing.

Maybe magic will do? … But I don’t know any spells for unlocking doors…

You tried and you summoned a spark of magic, shaping it into a prying force. The spell cracked against the frame, tugging and pulling as if to force the latch free. 

For a second, you thought it would work, until the magic fizzled out in your palm, rejected by something unseen. The door hadn’t even moved.

Your pulse quickened.

Trapped.

You took a shaky step back, pressing your lips into a thin line before turning away. Pacing became your only outlet, circling the room with restless, uneven steps. Your mind was a storm of questions, but no answers came.

Then you noticed the window.

A wide pane stretched across the far wall, seemingly ordinary at first glance, until your cookie hand brushed its surface. Sugar. Hardened and layered so thickly it could have withstood a barrage of attacks and yet, unnervingly clear.

Through it, you could see.

The Spire’s distant silhouette loomed against the sky (and morning at that), but your eyes caught on what lay nearer. 

A garden, lush and impossibly neat, every blade of grass trimmed, every flowerbed arranged as though sculpted manually. Its order was unnatural, almost in its perfection.

You froze, gripping the sill tighter.

If this was the Spire, where in it were you? The bookshelves behind you, the untouched bed, this strange garden outside…

Your throat went dry.

This wasn’t just any chamber.

This was somewhere meant to keep you.

A soft click echoed across the room.

Your head snapped toward the door, heart pounding, and there it was open. Just barely, but open.

Hope surged.

You bolted toward it, only to skid to a halt when something stepped through the frame.

It wasn’t a Cookie.

A white kangaroo (if such a thing could even exist) stood there. A white crown fused seamlessly with its head. Jester-like sleeves hung from its arms, fabric jingling ever so slightly with each shift of movement. 

Balanced carefully in its hands was a silver tray, laden with steaming food that smelled maddeningly warm and sweet.

You froze, struck dumb.

“…What—”

But before you could finish, the door behind it slammed shut of its own accord, sealing away your only chance of escape.

“No! Wait—!” You lunged, hand smacking the doorframe, but it was useless. The handle refused to turn, just as before. You were locked in once more.

Your breath caught in your throat as you turned slowly back. The kangaroo hadn’t moved except to adjust its grip on the tray. It tilted its head as though waiting for you to acknowledge it.

“What… are you?” you muttered, half to yourself. Then louder, sharper: “Where am I? Who brought me here?!”

No answer.

The white kangaroo only blinked, serene and silent, before raising the tray a little, gesturing toward it as if the contents were the only thing that mattered.

Your frown deepened. “Can you speak..?”

That was when you noticed.

It didn’t have a mouth.

A shiver ran down your spine.

The creature remained utterly still, only the faint jingle of its sleeves breaking the silence.

The kangaroo stepped further inside. Instead, it drifted wordlessly to the small table in the corner and set the tray down with careful grace, never once breaking its stare at you.

The sweet aroma rose immediately, the warm sugar bread, a delicate custard, and something steaming in a porcelain cup.

You didn’t move closer. Your arms folded tight.

“…Poisoned,” you muttered under your breath, eyes narrowing. “Whoever trapped me here probably thought this would be the easiest way.”

At once, the white kangaroo shook its head. Hard. Almost frantically? Its crown jangled with the force, and its sleeves swayed as though the denial itself carried weight.

Your mouth opened slightly. “…?”

Confusion twisted in your chest. That white kangaroo didn’t even have a mouth, yet it understood, it reacted. Your gaze flicked to the tray, then back to the white kangaroo.

Your stomach betrayed you, growling loudly enough to echo in the quiet.

You flinched, heat rising to your cheeks, and pressed your hand to your middle as though that would silence it.

The white kangaroo tilted its head again, a patient, almost pitying gesture, before stepping back, leaving the tray untouched but very much between you and the door.

You stared at it, heartbeat heavy, weighing the choice.

If it was poisoned, eating would be stupid. But if it wasn’t… how long could you last, locked away like this?

The food won in the end. A corner part of your mind scolded you, heavily so. You picked up the spoon slowly, your eyes never leaving the white kangaroo’s strange, unreadable face.

Every bite you took, it stood there. Watching. Waiting. It never fidgeted, never looked away. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain.

“…You’re not going to tell me anything, huh?” you tried, after swallowing.

The white kangaroo lowers its head, as if confirming it.

You frowned, chewing slower. “…Then at least, what is this place?”

Another tilt of the head. Another silence.

It was maddening, being answered with nothing but gestures, as though words were a luxury denied to both of you.

By the time the tray was empty, your stomach was satisfied but your mind was only heavier with questions.

The white kangaroo drifted forward, silent as ever, and gathered the tray back into its arms. 

Just before it reached the door, it stopped, turned toward you, and bowed. Not stiff, nor was it mocking. A genuine bend, sleeves pooling at its sides, crown dipping as though you were someone worth reverence and respect.

Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected that.

It rose smoothly and without a word grabbed the handle and twisted, it opened easily, as though there had never been a lock at all.

You blinked and scrambled forward, but the door shut the moment it left, sealing you back in with the same heavy thud.

Your hands gripped the handle. You shoved, twisted, even tried to force your magic into the hinges, nothing. Not a budge, not even a rattle.

The room was as sealed as before.

“…Of course.” You let out a shaky breath and leaned your forehead against the stubborn wood. “Figures.”

You turned away. The room stretched emptily around you, unchanging, suffocating. The bed looked as plain as before, sheets tucked in with a neatness that felt more intentional the longer you stared at it.

Slowly, you walked back, each step echoing too loudly in the confined space, and sat down.

The mattress sank beneath your weight.

So… this is it, then.

A waiting game. Nothing more.

Either the door would open again and whoever was responsible would finally show themselves… or you’d find a way out. Whichever came first.

You lay back against the pillow, eyes lingering on the ceiling where faint patterns in the sugar-white structure swirled like frozen ripples.

Would you escape in due time?

Or… would they come to you, revealing themselves when they decided the moment was right?

For now, the room gave no answer. Only silence.

You exhaled slowly, letting your body sink deeper into the mattress. The softness felt foreign, too soft that screamed of luxury.

Absentmindedly, your gaze dropped to your gloved hand. You flexed your cookie hands, the cloth rustling along, and a subtle wave of relief washed over you. 

It was still there. The ‘kidnapper’ hadn’t removed it. Hopefully, they hadn’t even tried.

Your thoughts drifted unconsciously to Grandmother Pecan and the Cookie children. A pang tugged at your chest. They must be worried by now. How long had it been? Hours? Days?

“…Hopefully not too long,” you murmured, half a plea, half a reassurance to yourself.

You leaned back against the headrest, curling your cookie hands into the sheets. What excuse am I even supposed to give them? you wondered, a dry, humorless laugh slipping out before you could stop it.

“Sorry I vanished for who knows how long, I was… kidnapped and given food by a white kangaroo?” you muttered aloud, snorting softly. “Yeah. That’ll sound believable.”

Your laughter faded, leaving only the faint hum of magic in the walls and the weight of uncertainty pressing in.

Still, the thought gave you something, a flicker of warmth. If nothing else, at least someone out there would care that you were missing.

You closed your eyes. 

Waiting… 

Thinking… 

And hoping…

Your eyelids grew heavy before you realized it, sleep tugging despite the fact that morning light still glowed beyond the sugar-glass window. 

You fought it for a moment, stubborn, whispering to yourself that you’d try again later — to test the shelves, to pry at the seams of the room, to find something that might help you escape.

But exhaustion won.

Your breathing slowed. Your dough stilled.

And with reluctant surrender, you drifted off once more, not into peace, but into uneasy, waiting dreams.

…

Somewhere at the edge of that haze, a sound stirred.

The faint creak of a door.

Footsteps padded across the pristine floor, slow, deliberate. A murmur, soft, low, and almost inaudible. You wanted to open your eyes, to know who it was… but you couldn’t. Your body was too heavy, your slumber too deep.

Then came the touch.

Gentle hand brushed through your hair, smoothing it out, tucking stray strands aside as though afraid to disturb you. 

It was careful, familiar, almost like Grandmother Pecan’s hand when she’d fuss over you before bed. Without thinking, you leaned into it, chasing the comfort even in sleep.

The caress lingered at your forehead. A warmth bloomed there, soft and steady, before the touch slowly pulled away.

The footsteps retreated.

The door creaked once more.

Chapter Text

You woke up again, groggy, heavy.

Your dough felt like it had been weighed down, thick and sluggish, every movement an effort. 

Yet beneath that weariness was something strange.. refreshment, like you’d been forcefully rested, like sleep had been poured into you whether you wanted it or not.

You frowned. This wasn’t new… and it was weird to think so.

Far too many times now, you’d woken up like this. Far too many times you’d felt exhaustion pressed into your dough without your consent. It unsettled you, the way your body seemed to betray you with these constant collapses.

Still, you pushed yourself upright. A promise was a promise. You had told yourself last time that you’d search around the room, and search you would.

Your cookie feet padded across the pristine floor and your eyes scanned over the shelves that stretched neatly from corner to corner. Rows of scrolls and tomes, ordered with obsessive care. 

You tugged one out at random, flipping through parchment that smelled faintly of sugar. Words that are dense, archaic, and irrelevant. Nothing about the information you’re looking for. Nothing that could help you escape.

Feeling as if it were intentional that whoever decided to place you here was at least smart enough not to put books that could help you, and it is frustrating.

You crouched low, pulling at the sheets beneath the bed, lifting its polished frame. Nothing. Not even dust. What were you expecting anyway?

You were still crouching when the door clicked open.

Your head jerked up instinctively, though your heart didn’t lurch the way it had the first time. No, you expected it now. The sound, the entrance, the inevitable closing of the door after. Too far. Too slow. You wouldn’t be able to reach in time.

The door sealed with a muffled thud before you could so much as think of crossing the distance.

And just like before, there it was.

The white kangaroo. Crown fused to its head, jester sleeves swaying faintly with each step. The tray in its hands steamed with another neatly prepared meal, and without any delay it crossed to the table, placed it down, and stepped aside.

The routine was already ingrained.

You rose, book still in your cookie hand, and drifted toward the table with a low murmur. “…Thank you,”

For a moment, you swore the white kangaroo froze. Its head lifted slightly, its body tilting in a way that almost felt enlightened, once more. As though those two small words had reached somewhere you couldn’t see. 

Or maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you were just so desperate for any reaction at all that you invented one.

You sat anyway. The food’s scent wrapped around you, sweet and heavy. With one cookie hand flipping through the book’s pages and the other spooning slow bites, you let the motions blur together. Reading, eating, reading, eating.

Nothing useful. Nothing to help you. 

The walls of text blurred into a single, monotonous hum in your mind, thoughts churning beneath them. You couldn’t keep doing this. Not forever. The white kangaroo… the food… all of this waiting. It was all a cage disguised as hospitality.

But still, you ate. Because you had to.

The kangaroo waited, as patient as always. Never fidgeting, never moving unless moving when it’s necessary. Watching.

You ignored it. You’d gotten better at that. At pretending it wasn’t there, pretending that the silence didn’t gnaw at you every time.

When at last the tray was empty, it stepped forward again, lifting the silver tray with the same careful grace.

And then, like before, it bowed.

The movement was fluid, reverent. Genuine. Like you mattered more than you could understand. It was a bit uncomfortable. Not knowing what you have done to receive such respect.

You hesitated before awkwardly raising your cookie hand in a small wave. “…Uh. Bye.”

Its sleeves shifted with the bow as though it had acknowledged your gesture, and then, without a sound, it turned.

The door opened easily for it, closed immediately after, and locked itself once again in your face.

You sighed, slumping back into the chair, the book heavy in your lap.

Same routine. Same silence. Same cage.

You lifted your cookie hand, palm open, trying to draw magic into it. The familiar warmth rose sluggishly from your dough, crawling through you like syrup instead of fire. 

The glow at your gloved cookie hand flickered faintly, sputtering as though someone had wrapped a cloth around your senses. Not gone, not smothered completely, but dulled. Restrained.

“...” You clenched your cookie hand, forcing it harder. For a moment, light bloomed brighter. Then it fizzled, scattering into nothing.

Not useless, then. Just… hindered.

Your eyes drifted toward the sugar-glass window. Thickly coated, reinforced, but clear enough to make out the view beyond. The sky. The faint shift in its color. 

You squinted at it, judging the hour as best you could, if it even mattered here. Whoever had locked you in this place hadn’t bothered to leave anything resembling a clock. No measure of time.

Your teeth grit faintly as you turn back. Fine. If they wanted to keep you idle, you’d do the opposite.

The shelves called to you again. You pulled another book, flipping through pages with quick, practiced eyes. 

None of it is useful.

Back to the bed. Sit, stand, pace. Magic again. A faint glow, then sputter. You adjusted your focus, slowed your breath, and tried once more. This time the glow lingered longer, bright at your palm before trembling out of your grasp.

It wasn’t enough. But it was something.

Your pulse steadied, frustration pushing down into a kind of stubborn resolve. You couldn’t let yourself rot here. Couldn’t just sit and wait. 

If there was even a slim chance that practice could sharpen your power, that repetition could strengthen it past the dull weight pressing on your ‘senses’ then you’d take it.

Better to hope than do nothing.

So you alternated. Books. Magic. Shelves. Glow. Read. Spark. Scan. Flicker. The routine built itself into something like a rhythm, one that wasn’t theirs, wasn’t given to you by whoever put you here. This was yours.

Your own quiet defiance.

The rhythm of your small rebellion was broken by a prickling sensation crawling up your dough. Like icewater down your spine. 

You froze mid-breath, magic faltering in your palm. At first you thought it was fatigue again, but no — your ‘senses’, muted though they were, throbbed with a warning.

Danger. Or rather, someone was approaching. Towards you.

You didn’t see the faint glow at the back of your glove, the Apostle’s mark stirring awake, but your body knew, goosebumps crawling across you, stiffening your movements.

The door had opened without sound. You hadn’t noticed.

Your back still turned, you willed yourself not to react. But your shoulders betrayed you with the slightest flinch. Slowly, stiffly, you turned your head.

And froze.

The Sage of Truth stood there.

For a heartbeat, your chest leapt. Rescued? The idea flickered, then crumbled like brittle sugar as the darker thought snapped into place. 

What if he wasn’t here to save you? What if it was him all along… the one who brought you here, the one who locked you in this room?

Your pulse quickened, your feet instinctively shuffling you back until you nearly pressed against the shelf behind you. Your eyes said it before your mouth could: distrust. And in the corner of your very emotions, fear.

The Sage didn’t seem deterred. He hadn’t even spoken yet. He simply stood there, gaze on you, ever so steady, unreadable, yet heavy enough to press against your very dough.

Not the scholar’s playful air you’d grown used to. Something else entirely.

And still, he said nothing.

…

Until he did.

“Ah, you’re finally awake!”

The cheerfulness hit like a whirlwind, snapping through the tension in the room. The Sage of Truth clapped his cookie hands together as if greeting a dear friend after a nap.

“I was beginning to think you’d decided to sleep through the years, little one. Should I have tempted you with food instead? A cookie who sleeps too long might forget what sweetness tastes like.”

You stared, unmoving. His tone was bright, lilting, yet the air didn’t match it. Too thick. Too intentional.

“...”

He tilted his head, smile unbothered, as though the silence amused him.

Your mouth parted before you could stop yourself, “Was it you?”

The words came out flat, your voice quieter than intended. “Were you the one who brought me here?”

The Sage stopped mid-gesture. For a fleeting second, the smile faltered, then returned softer.

“Well now,” he mused, tapping his staff (appearing beside him) once against the sugar floor. “That’s quite the question to open with. You’re certainly not wasting time, are you?” His eyes, blue and yellow, glowed faintly as he stepped further in, magic curling behind him like ribbons of gold.

A chair scraped across the room, guided by that same glow, coming to rest behind him with perfect grace. He sat leisurely, folding one leg over the other, his posture at ease as though the earlier tension hadn’t even existed. 

Another chair, the one across from him, glided soundlessly toward you, stopping just shy of your knees. He gestured toward it with a flourish.

“Sit, little one. You’ve just woken up from quite the rest, it’s best not to stay standing like you’re awaiting judgment.”

You didn’t move.

The Sage didn’t seem to mind. He propped his chin on his hand and continued, tone airy and conversational, like a lecturer who’d found his rhythm.

“I have always admired scholars who begin with questions above all else. Curiosity, after all, is the very heart of understanding. To ask, to wonder.. these are the truest marks of a mind striving beyond itself. It is our questions that make us, in the end, who we are.”

He waved the other cookie hand lazily, golden trails of magic blooming and fading in the air.

“Without questions, we stagnate. Without wonder, we crumble. Every pursuit of Knowledge begins with that small, innocent ‘why?’ Don’t you agree?”

Still, you said nothing.

He chuckled as his gaze flicked toward you again.

“A worthy habit for a scholar,” he said, his tone gentler now. “Though, on occasion... the truths we discover are not so kind in return.”

Your stare didn’t waver. “You’re not answering my question.”

The words fell sharp and steady, like a pebble dropped into still water.

The Sage blinked once. Then, he laughed.

It wasn’t mocking at first. More like a delighted sound, bright and rolling from his chest as though you had just told him a clever joke. “Ah, you noticed! Sharp little one, aren’t you? It’s a dreadful habit of mine, I admit.” 

He leaned back with casual ease, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “To answer questions too directly.. how dreadfully dull, don’t you think? Where is the flair, the suspense? A scholar ought to possess a certain style!”

“Have you noticed,” he said with a faint smile, “that a plain answer seldom satisfies? They nod, but you can see it. It’s not the truth they crave, but the path that leads to it.”

You frowned, unimpressed. “That’s not answering either.”

The Sage’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “And yet you’re still listening, aren’t you?”

Before you could retort, the chair beside you glowed faintly gold.

You glanced at it, suspicion tightening your chest. “...What are you doing—?”

The chair moved on its own. Slowly at first, then quicker, sweeping behind you and nudging forward with unexpected force. You stumbled with a startled yelp as your legs hit the seat, and before you could resist, you were unceremoniously pushed down onto it.

“—!”

Your small cookie hands clutched at the sides of the chair as it slid forward across the polished floor, the golden glow covering the chair. It didn’t stop until you were close enough to the Sage that his shadow overlapped yours.

You looked up, heart thumping, glare wavering somewhere between fear and outrage. “That’s— hey!”

“Much better,” he said brightly. His smile stretched wider, but it no longer reached his eyes, narrowed.

“There now,” he murmured. “Much easier to talk when we’re closer, don’t you think?”

Your dough prickled uneasily.

The Sage tilted his head, studying you. “Since we’re on the subject of questions,” he began lightly, “allow me to ask one in return.”

He gestured lazily toward your gloved hand. The motion was casual, but the weight behind it wasn’t. “What secret,” he asked, tone lilting but edged, “are you so intent on hiding under that glove of yours?”

You froze.

The Sage’s smile curved slyly, his gaze unwavering. “It’s only fair, isn’t it?” he added in a singsong whisper. “If you won’t tell me your truth… then I won’t tell you mine.”

Chapter Text

“You’re hiding something, aren’t you?” asked the Sage, monocle subtly glinting against the golden magic emanating from him.

“Nope. Just... fashion.” You gave the flattest expression possible, hoping it looked natural and not like the face of someone obviously lying through their crumbs.

“Fashion,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was an exotic spice. “For aesthetics or for deception?”

You tilted your head. “For aesthetics. You gave them to me, remember? The night I almost burned my cookie hands off?”

The Sage chuckled, amused. “Ah, yes. I do recall. Magic in the middle of the forest, one Cookie desperately trying to do magic all by themselves with no supervision. Quite the sight.”

“I wasn’t desperate,” you said quickly, waving your gloved cookie hand. “Just... motivated.”

He smirked. “Motivated to incinerate yourself?”

“Motivated to learn!” you countered, leaning forward a little. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

The Sage’s eyes gleamed, “True. Though most don’t start by nearly setting their dough on fire.”

You frowned. “It wasn’t intentional in the first place.”

His grin widened, tone teasing. “I am well aware of that,”

“I’m serious,” you said, trying to sound annoyed. “So, whatever it is you’re trying to project on me with your riddles and indirect words, doesn’t really work on me.”

He looked delighted by that. “Oh, I adore riddles. Especially when the answer’s sitting right in front of me pretending to be something else.”

You exhaled slowly. Don’t bite. He’s trying to bait you.

You leaned back, playing along with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Then maybe you’re just bad at guessing. I told you, it’s just fashion.” deliberately emphasizing the word as, “Comfortable. Simple. Matches my aesthetic.”

“Does it?” He tilted his head, the light around him flickering gently. “Because I seem to recall that same aesthetic being… ungloved before.”

You shrugged. “Tastes change.”

“Hmm.” He smiled, softly this time, almost approving. “Quick answer. You’re learning.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

The Sage leaned back, fingers steepled. “Oh, how bold. So certain. So.. defensive.”

You blinked. “Defensive?”

He nodded slowly, golden light rippling faintly around him like sunlight through honey. “Most Cookies I know don’t rehearse excuses about their fashion choices. Nor do they bring up the past so quickly when I haven’t even mentioned it.”

You stiffened. He’s baiting you again. Stay calm.

You forced a laugh. “You’re reading too much into this. You always do.”

“And you always try to make me,” he said smoothly, his tone light but his eyes razor-sharp.

“I’m just saying,” you pressed, trying to sound playful, “You’re seeing secrets that don’t exist. If anything, I think you’re hiding something from me.”

How about your status as the Beast of Deceit? — Is what you wanted to say.

That earned a surprised blink. Then, a slow, delighted smile. “Oh? Now that’s interesting.”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning in with mock suspicion. “You disappear for hours, you always show up with that smug glow, and somehow you just know things you shouldn’t. Sounds suspicious to me.”

He laughed again, a rich, warm sound that echoed through the room. “Are you accusing me of deceit?”

“Just saying. Maybe you’re projecting,”

He gasped in exaggerated offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Oh, the betrayal! My own pupil is turning the mirror upon me!”

You sensed the shift, good, keep him distracted. “You can’t just throw accusations and expect me not to defend myself. What kind of teacher are you?”

“The kind who enjoys a sharp tongue and sharper wits,” he said, eyes dancing with delight. “But you see, little one, the trouble with mirrors is that they always show what’s truly there.”

You hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

The Sage leaned forward now, all humor melting into a quiet, careful smile. His voice softened even further, not teasing, but cutting in its gentleness. “You’ve been trying very hard, haven’t you? To convince even yourself.”

You didn’t respond.

He glanced briefly at your gloves. The silence stretched. Then—

“Charming,” he murmured, a small, knowing smile curving at his lips. “I’ll keep watching you.”

“Running our talk in circles won’t free you from the question, little one.” he sighed, “No matter how clever your words spin, the truth stays exactly where you’re trying not to look.”

Your body went rigid in the chair. You didn’t even breathe for a moment. The Sage’s gaze was all warmth and mischief, but beneath it… there was that glimmer. The kind of sharpness that could slice through even the thickest sugar-coating of lies.

You forced yourself to exhale. Slowly. Quietly.

Panic wouldn’t help. You already learned that lesson the hard way.

He’s testing me.

You stared down at your gloved hand, almost feeling the phantom pulse beneath the cloth. The mark hadn’t reacted much before, had it? You couldn’t tell anymore. Everything felt muddled lately, too many odd sensations layered over one another.

Your thoughts churned.

If he didn’t know, then this was a trap — a bait to make you confess.

But if he did know, then… why ask at all?

You risked a glance at him.

The Sage of Truth was still smiling, elbow on the armrest, chin propped on his cookie hand as if he were watching an entertaining play. His eyes, one gold, one blue, reflected the faint shimmer of the room’s light, bright, knowing, and so very amused.

He knows, you thought grimly. Or at least he wants me to confess it outright. He’s the Sage of Truth, lying in front of him is like trying to bluff against a lie detector.

You had to be careful. One wrong tone, one wrong twitch, and he’d see straight through you like sugar glass.

Still, a part of you (the tired, cornered part) felt something flicker in rebellion. If he wanted games, you could play along.

You leaned back a little in your chair, mimicking his easy posture, though your heart was racing far faster than you’d ever admit. “You already know,” you said simply, the smallest, faintest smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “So what’s the point in asking?”

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the Sage blinked.. and burst out laughing.

It wasn’t the cold, mirthless laughter you’d feared, either. It was genuine, bright, loud enough to fill the room, ringing against the pristine walls. He even clutched his stomach, as if your words had struck him right where he least expected.

“Oh—oh, splendid!” he said between laughs, waving a hand dramatically. “You wound me, little one! You really do!” He straightened, his grin as wide as ever. “You’ve got more wit in that tiny frame than half the scholars I’ve met. And to think I thought I’d have to coax something clever out of you!”

You rolled your eyes slightly, though you didn’t let your shoulders relax. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” you muttered.

He beamed. “You should! I rarely give them!”

That earned him a deadpan stare from you.

The Sage only chuckled, leaning closer, “You’re right, though,” he admitted, voice lowering, the humor thinning to something more thoughtful. “Maybe I do know. Maybe I don’t. But isn’t it more fun to hear you say it yourself?”

You looked away, fiddling with the hem of your glove. “Fun for you, maybe.”

“Of course for me,” he replied brightly, no shame in his tone whatsoever. “You’re the one with secrets, after all. I just collect them.”

“Like trophies?” you shot back without thinking.

He tilted his head. “Like puzzles. Each one is a little mystery. And you, little one…” He trailed off, his grin curling sharper. “You’re one of the most intriguing puzzles I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach twisted at that. Not quite fear, something smaller, colder. The realization that this wasn’t just curiosity. He was enjoying this. Studying you. Picking apart your reactions like a scholar dissecting a specimen.

You forced a breath, keeping your tone level. “Then you’ll be disappointed. I’m not that interesting..”

“Oh, nonsense,” he said, leaning back again, golden magic spiraling lazily around his chair. “The moment you say that is when I know you’re hiding something interesting.”

You groaned softly, pressing a hand to your face. “You’re impossible.”

“True,” he said cheerfully.

You peeked through your gloved cookie hand at him, he was still smiling, looking utterly content, as if your wariness, your irritation, your guarded tone were all part of his ideal morning routine.

The longer you sat there, the more it felt like you were playing chess with someone who already knew all your moves but wanted to see how long it would take you to realize it.

Still… you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of folding just yet.

He can suspect all he wants. But I’m not giving him what he wants that easily.

The Sage of Truth kept the same expression, expressing his patience towards the situation.

“Little one,” he said finally, breaking the silence like it was a glass wall he’d grown bored of, “you remind me of myself, you know that?”

You blinked. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

He chuckled softly. “Oh, it is. The stubborn kind. The sort who refuses to answer questions even when the answers are written all over them.”

That tone again — half-jesting, half something else. You tried not to flinch under it.

The Sage leaned forward slightly, and though his expression remained bright, his eyes softened. “For instance,” he continued, drawing slow circles in the air with a cookie hand, golden magic following the gesture, “there’s a particular pattern of magic that feels… quite familiar.”

The golden light curled lazily toward you, brushing against the air above your gloved hand before fading again.

You froze.

He tilted his head, smiling almost too kindly. “You wouldn’t happen to know why that is, would you?”

“I don’t,” you said too quickly, eyes darting away.

He hummed, as if he’d expected that. “Hmm. A pity. Because you see—” He tapped his temple lightly, right where his mark glowed faintly, “—there’s something rather curious about magic that mirrors one’s own. It tends to… resonate. A kind of echo between two matching sources.”

“...”

Still smiling, he continued, voice dipping into something teasing but weighted: “It’s rare, truly. For someone to share the same… mark, the same bond of origin. That kind of connection doesn’t just happen.”

You gripped the edge of your chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” he said lightly, though his eyes searched yours, as if trying to coax out something you still refused to let surface. “Ah, perhaps I’m mistaken then. But tell me.. if I’m wrong, why hide it?”

The teasing lilt in his voice didn’t hide the subtle coaxing beneath. Every word sounded like a game, but the tension in your chest said otherwise.

You forced a small, nervous laugh. “You really like asking questions you already know the answers to, don’t you?”

He smiled wider. “I like hearing them said aloud.”

You shook your head, deflecting, pretending to study the sugar-glass window instead. “Then I guess you’ll have to wait a long time.”

Silence.

A part of your mind notices the subtle change in the atmosphere.

When you dared glance back, the Sage’s smile had faltered. Just slightly, but enough to see the shift in his expression.

For a moment, he wasn’t smiling at all.

His gaze dropped, his shoulders slackened the tiniest bit, and his voice was quieter. “...Is it really so bad,” he murmured, barely audible, “to be at my side?”

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t answer. His mouth moved again, but whatever he said after that was too soft to catch. You leaned forward instinctively, only for him to straighten up suddenly– his usual grin snapping back into place like it had never left.

“Well!” he said brightly, clapping his cookie hands once, the sound sharp enough to shatter the tension. “It seems I’ve lingered long enough. A sage’s work never ends, after all. Lectures, questions, you understand~.”

Your confusion only deepened. “Wait—”

He ignored you, standing with practiced grace. The golden magic around him shimmered, and his staff followed obediently in his cookie hand with a soft hum, light gathering at its eye.

“You’ll be fine here for a little while longer,” he said with a teasing tone, unsure whether he was talking to you directly or to himself, glancing over his shoulder. “Try not to miss me too much, little one.”

You stood abruptly, realization striking. “Wait! You’re still leaving me here?!”

But he was already moving.

The glow enveloped him, a swirl of light and fragments of gold that left the faint scent of magic in the air.

“Behave yourself,” he added, almost fondly, though his tone carried something else beneath it.. something hollow.

You caught only a glimpse before he vanished completely, but in that last flicker of light, his face wasn’t smiling. Not really.

It was… bitter. Sad, even.

Unaware of a single eye piercing through the seams—

The room fell silent again, the hum of magic fading into the sterile quiet.

You stood there, frozen, staring at the space where he’d been moments ago. The realization dawned slowly, like sugar melting into syrup.

You were still trapped.

The silence that followed his disappearance was thick enough to chew through. You stayed frozen for a long while, staring at the space where golden magic once flickered, before you sank back into the chair with a sigh.

It was useless trying to call out. The air itself seemed to hum faintly with the Sage’s remaining faint trace of magic, layered and heavy, as though it were watching. And now, after everything, it wasn’t difficult to piece together the truth.

He was the one who trapped you here.

No denial, no attempt to soften the realization could change that.

And yet… why?

You stared at your gloved cookie hand resting on your lap, the faintest warmth pulsing beneath the fabric as if mocking your thoughts.

Because of that? Because of the mark?

The Apostle of Knowledge.. his companion, his supposed equal, his Anchor. The title still felt absurd, even in your own head. But if that were the reason, if he’d truly taken you just because of that, then—

Your thoughts trailed as you recalled Truthless Recluse’s voice. Detached in the way he always spoke:

“The more the connection falters, the more his nature bends. Until even he will not recognize himself.”

The words played back in your mind, looping over themselves.

Then the next line comes quieter, softer.

“If an Apostle and Virtue are not aligned, if their bond does not reach both ways… the Virtue begins to fracture.”

Your gloved cookie hands tightened.

Could that really be what this was? Was that why the Sage acted so strange, half warmth, half seriousness hidden under that laugh of his?

The idea wasn’t impossible. In fact, it was the only thing that made sense.

But then, why hide it behind jokes? Why treat this like some lighthearted game?

A headache began to bloom behind your eyes. You rubbed your temple and muttered to yourself, “I’m too tired for this…”

You leaned back, staring up at the white ceiling. The magic in the room was still there, subtle but unyielding, its hum a quiet reminder that this wasn’t your space to command. Everything here, the still air, even the door that refused to open.

A cage wearing the mask of comfort.

Your thoughts kept circling, annoyance gnawing at confusion. The more you tried to make sense of it, the more tangled it became.

Then—

Tap.

The sound was soft, like a knock on glass.

You froze, head turning toward the window.

Another tap-tap, quicker this time.

You squinted, approaching cautiously. The glass was thick – almost glossy like hardened sugar and outside, something small shifted in the light.

A bird.

No… not quite.

At first glance, it looked like a small blueberry bird, tiny and round, with feathers that looked like jelly. But as you moved closer, pressing your gloved cookie hands lightly to the glass, you noticed it wasn’t quite right. 

If it were any random wandering bird that somehow found itself on the window, you wouldn’t have paid any attention to it soon after.

Yet, something about the bird felt odd, especially its gaze piercing through your soul.

You blinked.

The bird blinked back.

Its gaze was uncomfortably sharp for something so small.

“…Hello?” you whispered, unsure why you even spoke.

The thing only tilted its head again, hopping once against the window frame.

Another tap.

You took a small step back, uneasy. The creature fluttered its wings once, scattering a few bright blue specks that dissolved before they reached the glass. For a brief second, you could’ve sworn its outline flickered, like a mirage.

And then it was still.

You waited for it to move again, but it didn’t. Just stood there, black beady eyes steady, unblinking.

Something about it… felt familiar, but you couldn’t place why.

You took another careful step forward. The bird’s head jerked toward you with unnatural precision.

“…What are you?” you murmured.

Chapter Text

You took another step closer to the sugar-glass window, staring intently at the strange little creature perched just beyond it. It tilted its head again, almost expectant, almost too intelligent.

And then you noticed it.

That faint mark.. barely visible under the glimmer of sunlight refracting through the crystalline coating.

A four-pointed star.

Right there, on the creature’s small forehead.

Your breath hitched. There was no mistaking it.

“…Truthless Recluse?” you whispered before your mind could fully catch up to your mouth.

The small blueberry bird blinked once. Its wings shifted slightly, responding to the words. Then, against all reason, a low voice answered, not from its beak, but as though the air itself carried the sound through the glass.

“You are perceptive.”

The voice was calm, cold, and unmistakably his.

You blinked hard, once, twice, even rubbing your eyes before squinting again. “You— wait, what?! Did you just???”

Truthless Recluse’s voice continued, steady, unbothered by your disbelief.

“This form is not me. Merely a manifestation. A conduit through which my magic may communicate.”

“A… manifestation?” you repeated under your breath, still staring at the bird that wasn’t a bird. “So you’re not actually—” trying to will yourself not to be disappointed, somehow.

“No,” he interrupted flatly. “I have not transformed into this creature. What you perceive is only my magic given temporary shape.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to wrap your mind around it. Of course it wasn’t him. Of course he wouldn’t turn himself into something like this. Still—

The memory hit you then. The Peak of Truth. The way he had stood there, calm as ever, even as your eyelids grew heavy and your thoughts fogged. That last fleeting sensation—his cookie hand patting your head.

A spell.

He had put you to sleep.

The reminder snapped like ice inside your chest.

Your eyes narrowed sharply, expression twisting from shock to something closer to betrayal. You turned your head to the side abruptly, a frown darkening your features.

“You,” you began, your tone low and trembling, “you’re the one who—”

Your voice caught midway, but the fury behind it was unmistakable.

You met the tiny, glimmering eyes beyond the glass, and though they were not truly his, it felt like they were watching you, the same calmness that knows all.

The small blueberry bird didn’t move, not even a twitch of its body. Its glimmering eyes, Truthless Recluse’s eyes, or at least an imitation of them, remained fixed on you, calm and steady despite your glare.

“I did,” the voice spoke through the glass, as even and emotionless as ever. “The spell was cast with intent.”

You froze at the bluntness. No denial, no evasion. Just a clear admission, stripped bare of excuse.

For a heartbeat, you thought that maybe, just maybe, he would continue, explain why, offer some thread of reasoning you could hold onto. But the silence stretched between you instead, heavy and deliberate.

Of course.

You sighed, shoulders dropping slightly as the tension inside you twisted into something bitter. “I should’ve guessed,” you muttered under your breath, though the words carried enough for him to hear. “You wouldn’t tell me why, would you?”

The bird, his manifestation remained perfectly still, as if to confirm your suspicion without needing to say a word.

You gave a small, humorless laugh, pressing a gloved cookie hand to your head. “Figures. First he doesn’t answer properly, now you. Is everyone in this place allergic to direct answers?”

The words were half complaint, half frustration and entirely genuine. You didn’t even bother hiding it anymore.

Outside the window, the bird’s feathers caught the faint light, glimmering faintly like shattered glass. Yet Truthless Recluse’s voice, when it came again, was devoid of mockery or defense, merely still, as if carved from quiet stone.

“It was necessary.”

Necessary. That single word echoed in your mind, cold and unsatisfying.

You clicked your tongue softly, turning away from the window at last. “Necessary for what purpose?” you whispered, but you didn’t expect an answer. Not anymore.

The small blueberry bird pulsed faintly with light before it suddenly unraveled, threads of magic dissolving like dust, and slipped through the thick sugar-glass window as if it meant nothing. 

You instinctively stumbled a step back, eyes wide, as the same threads formed again midair, reforming into the familiar, small bird shape right inside the room.

“W–What—” you stammered, disbelief cutting your words short.

The bird beat its wings lightly, hovering in place. Its black beady eyes met yours directly, unflinching.

You took a breath, forcing composure back into your dough before asking, “Then you can move through things that easily? If that’s the case, do you… know a way out of here?”

A pause. The little bird tilted its head, as if studying your expression, weighing your tone. Then, without another word, it turned and drifted toward the door.

You followed close behind, your steps quick and expectant. The faint shimmer of Truthless Recluse’s magic brushed against the doorframe as he examined it, quiet and every movement deliberate.

After a moment, his voice reached you, echoing from the bird like a calm thought given sound.

“It is possible,” he said finally. “Given enough time, I can open it.”

You almost brightened, but the next words smothered that spark immediately.

“However… what comes after is something you must not take lightly.”

Your brows furrowed. “Meaning?”

The bird’s wings stirred softly, carrying him a little higher, but his tone didn’t change.

“Once the spell breaks, the one who cast it will be alerted immediately.”

That silence that followed was thick, suffocating, even though the air didn’t move.

You didn’t need to ask who that was. The same image came to both your minds, the Sage of Truth, with his golden staff and the dual-colored glow of his eyes.

Your stomach dropped at the thought, your mark faintly pulsing under your glove as if in grim agreement.

You exhaled, the sound halfway between a sigh and a laughless chuckle. “Of course,” you muttered under your breath, trudging toward the bed. “Of course it wouldn’t be easy.”

The mattress sank slightly as you sat down. The bird, Truthless Recluse’s small manifestation, fluttered after you, landing neatly on your lap. 

Its weight was barely there, yet the air around it carried that same still, measured gravity that followed the real him.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence stretched long enough for you to start tracing absent circles on the blanket, thoughts drifting somewhere between resignation and stubbornness.

Then, finally, the bird’s quiet voice broke through the air.

“I will help you leave this place,” he said. “It is only right. I am… involved. Partially the reason you were placed here to begin with.”

You huffed, a small, sharp sound of exasperation more than surprise. “Should be,” you replied flatly, meeting the bird’s glinting eyes.

The bird tilted its head slightly, unbothered. You narrowed your gaze, then lifted your gloved cookie hand and began patting its head. Slowly, deliberately, and a little too firm for it to be gentle.

“Consider that payback,” you said under your breath, the corner of your mouth twitching upward in dry amusement. “For what happened back then.”

The bird’s feathers ruffled faintly, but it didn’t move away.

You leaned back on the bed, eyes briefly closing as you added, softer this time, “So we’re allies now, huh? Guess I’ll be depending on you… Truthless Recluse.”

The bird didn’t answer immediately. But the faint hum of magic around it pulsed once, ever the same calm and steady, like a silent acknowledgment.

In the meantime, days.. or what you assumed were days, blurred into a quiet, monotonous rhythm.

Weirdly, or fortunately, he didn’t visit either.

The small blueberry bird perches often on the table or the bed’s headboard, alternating between teaching you a few spells and tinkering with the door’s magic. The air in the room became a steady pulse of quiet instruction, faint magic hums, and the rustle of turning pages.

It started when you’d asked, voice tentative but hopeful, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

The bird had merely tilted its head, wings twitching slightly before it gave a firm shake.

“No,” it said, voice soft yet firm. “You’ll only draw attention if you tamper with the seal directly.”

You nodded, yet a small frown formed, eyes looking away as if the atmosphere became too awkward.

A pause.. then, a quiet flutter as it landed on the table near you.

“If you wish,” Truthless Recluse said evenly, “I can teach you a few spells. Ones that focus on protection… and concealment.”

That caught your attention. “For self-defense?”

“Yes. You will need it, eventually.”

And so began a strange sort of partnership. The bird would demonstrate.. tiny, glowing sigils forming in the air, its wings stirring the faintest trails of blue light and you would mimic it, your own golden magic still unsteady but eager. 

The spells weren’t complex, at least not at first: a barrier that deflected most magic and physical attacks, a charm that could veil your presence for a few seconds, and a magic meant to break weak illusions.

You weren’t perfect, but you learned quickly.

Whenever your spell finished, the small bird’s voice would always follow, steady and guiding:

“Now. Erase the magic residue. Slowly.”

You pressed your gloved cookie hands together, murmuring and concentrating as you’d been taught before. The faint shimmer of leftover magic faded into nothing.

But before you could relax, the bird added:

“Not too perfectly.”

You blinked, looking up. “Huh?”

“If the spell trace vanishes completely, it will suggest awareness… and experience leading to suspicions.”

You frowned slightly, glancing toward the door. “You mean.. he might notice?”

“He will notice,” came the simple, measured response. “The Sage of Truth is not one to overlook such things.”

You grimaced but did as instructed, leaving faint, imperfect traces of your magic scattered, like smudged fingerprints. It felt wrong, but Truthless Recluse’s quiet tone made it sound logical.

Throughout it all, his voice never rose nor fell, remaining that same calm, even timbre that felt neither comforting nor cold, just steady. Occasionally, though, there was something gentler beneath it, like faint sympathy trying to surface but never quite reaching full warmth.

When you stumbled or the spell fizzled out, he simply said:

“Try again.”

When you got it right, he murmured:

“Good. Proceed.”

It was almost funny, almost.

Every so often, while the bird examined the door’s spell again, you caught yourself thinking that if someone peeked in, they’d see something ridiculous: a Cookie sitting cross-legged on the floor, muttering towards their gloved cookie hands and practically glowing, while a small blueberry bird lectured them in the flattest, calmest voice imaginable.

And yet, you found a rhythm in it, a strange sense of another purpose amid the confinement.

You were shaping a small sphere of light in your cookie hands when the thought slipped out.

It wasn’t even intentional, just one of those offhand things that floated up after too long in silence.

“Hey… Truthless Recluse,” you murmured, eyes fixed on the way your magic curved unevenly into form. “Could you do me a favor?”

The bird perched on the bedpost flicked an eye toward you.

Chapter Text

“A favor?”

“Yeah. Well… something aside from the whole ‘help me escape this weird magic prison’ thing.”

A quiet hum answered you. Not quite agreement nor was it a refusal, just an open sound that meant he was listening.

You drew in a slow breath, letting the glowing sphere hover between your palms. “…Could you… let Grandmother Pecan know I’m alright? Not exactly where I am, but— just enough so she doesn’t worry herself sick.”

The light dimmed slightly between your cookie hands.

“She’s probably worried by now,” you went on, softer. “And I can’t exactly send a message myself. If she knew I was in the Spire, or worse, if she knew who was keeping me here—” you exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “No. I can’t risk that. The kids at the orphanage don’t deserve to get dragged into this mess and even Grandmother Pecan.”

The bird was silent for a moment. It tilted its head slightly, eyes half-lidded in what almost looked like contemplation.

“You want me to send a message. Delivered by me.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Another pause.

“I can do that.”

You blinked, surprised. “Really?”

“However,” Truthless Recluse continued, “I will need proof that the message truly comes from you. A tangible link, so she recognizes it and so my magic carries your signature with it.”

“Proof…?” you echoed, frowning in thought. Then, it came to you. “Ah—my gloves. She’d recognize them for sure.”

You tugged lightly at the fabric around your wrists… and froze.

The texture wasn’t right. These weren’t the ones Grandmother Pecan had owned before or the ones she willingly gave upon first meeting at your request. No, it was entirely new and separate.

A memory flickered, unbidden: the Sage’s faint smile that night, he took something out of the small portal he made, a pair of gloves.

"One must always be prepared."

You went still, hands lowering slowly into your lap. The realization settled like a pit in your stomach.

“…Never mind,” you muttered under your breath, voice smaller than before. “That won’t work.”

The bird’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Why?”

You swallowed, forcing your tone into something neutral. “These gloves.. aren’t the same ones she gave me. They were… replaced.”

You didn’t say by whom. You didn’t have to. Truthless Recluse likely already knew.

If given a chance, you would have discarded the gloves long ago, especially if it were given by him. Yet, it was the only thing hiding the mark from others.

A brief silence passed between you, heavy but not suffocating. Then, his voice came again soft, but steady.

“Then think of another. Perhaps not an item if there is no alternative.”

You nodded absently, the bitter taste still lingering. “Right… I’ll think of something.”

Your eyes lingered on the gloves for a moment longer. The thought that they’d come from him — the same Cookie who locked you here — made your dough twist unpleasantly.

Still, if it meant Grandmother Pecan could rest a little easier… you’d find another way.

A letter maybe?

Your gaze drifted toward the shelves. Rows upon rows of neatly arranged books stood there dustless, pristine, almost too untouched to be natural.

You walked towards it and scanned the books lined up. The titles lining the spines were… unhelpfully vague.

Whatever those meant. You scanned them all until your eyes landed on one that looked utterly unimportant.

“The Basic Framework of Sugar Alignment.”

Perfect.

You pulled it from the shelf and flipped through the pages, expression tightening. The text was dull and filled with diagrams you couldn’t care less about. When you reached the back, you hesitated only a second before tearing out the last page that had a few words written on it.

A quiet rip echoed in the room.

You winced immediately, guilt prickling. “Sorry, book,” you muttered, as if that would somehow fix it.

You glanced around next, scanning for a pen or anything to write with. 

“Okay…” you mumbled, brow furrowing, “Do they even have pens here?” wondering to yourself.

You turned toward the small blueberry bird, who was watching you with that perpetual calm stare that seemed just a touch too knowing.

“…Truthless Recluse,” you started hesitantly, “would it be possible to, uh… borrow a feather?”

The bird blinked. Then, without a sound, it extended one tiny wing toward you. The feathers weren’t the same kind of feathered ones you’re familiar with but semi-solid gel that caught the light oddly.

You gently plucked one of the feathers. It didn’t resist, it just shimmered faintly, humming with restrained magic.

“Now for the ink…” you murmured, trailing off as you glanced around once more.

“No need,” the bird said, voice steady and low. “Magic writing will suffice. The words will be imprinted directly into the parchment.”

You blinked at him, shoulders sagging in half-relief, half-exasperation. “You could’ve led with that, you know.”

There was no reply, just the faint flicker of amusement in the way his feathers shifted, or at least you thought so.

You let out a quiet sigh, sitting at the desk as you held the torn page flat. The gelatin-like feather glowed faintly in your grasp, pulsing with Truthless Recluse’s magic as you began to think.

Something small, something only Grandmother Pecan would know.

Your mind drifted back, to that first day you met her when you aimlessly wandered around, perhaps even the request for a pair of gloves.

Maybe that would be enough.

You steady your hand, the faint blue shimmer pulsing beneath your borrowed feather. The magic hums faintly, as if the parchment itself is breathing along with your thoughts. 

For a long while, you just stare at the blank page.. wondering how to even begin. Now that you’ve written a small part that only you and Grandmother Pecan would know, a way to express it was indeed from you.

How do you reassure someone who probably already noticed your absence (not to mention for days)?

You began to write, faint blue light etching itself into the parchment with every word, a quiet hum of magic echoing under your breath.

You steady your hand, the faint blue shimmer pulsing beneath your borrowed feather. The magic hums faintly, as if the parchment itself is breathing along with your thoughts. 

Inhaling, you let your thoughts spill quietly into words.

To Grandmother Pecan,

The first words pulse softly, glowing faintly as they sink into the paper. You pause, lips pressing together before continuing.

I hope you are doing well, and that the children are behaving. I’m alright, really. I ended up wandering somewhere unfamiliar for a bit, but I’m safe and being looked after.

The feather quivers slightly as you write, like the magic recognizes the hesitation behind your half-truths.

You don’t need to worry too much. It’s peaceful here, in a strange way. Different, but not dangerous.

You pause again, tapping the feather against your chin before adding—

I might be away for a little while longer, but I’ll return when I can. Please tell the others that I’m fine, and not to panic if I don’t show up right away. I didn’t get lost this time, I promise.

A faint smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. That sounded almost convincing. Almost.

There’s a friend helping me. He’s quiet, but reliable. He’ll deliver this to you, so if this letter reaches your hands, it means I’m alright.

You stop there, the last word flickering faintly before settling into the page.

Silence.

Then you exhale, the air leaving your chest in a slow sigh. You stare at what you’ve written, how every word glows faintly gold before dimming into a gentle blue hue.

Magic writing was strange. It didn’t feel permanent, but maybe that was the point.

You fold the page carefully and hold it out toward the blueberry bird perched at the desk’s edge.

“Will that be enough?” you ask, quietly.

The small blueberry bird, Truthless Recluse, regards the page for a moment, eyes unreadable. Then he dips his head in a faint nod.

“It will reach her,” he says simply.

Something in his tone, though flat as always, feels… reassuring. Like the weight of a promise.

You smile faintly and nod back. “Then I’ll count on you.”

You hold out the letter, and the small bird hops closer, taking it carefully in its beak. The air stills for a moment. His feathers glimmer faintly, flying towards the window.

Then, without warning, his form begins to scatter, breaking apart into hundreds of glowing specks that drift toward the sugar-glass window. You blink, startled, as the fragments seep through the solid surface like dust, vanishing on the other side before gathering together again.

Outside, beyond the thick pane, the tiny blueberry bird reforms once more. He hovers there, wings fluttering gently.

Truthless Recluse looks at you, his expression unreadable even through this shape.

“I’ll be back,” he says simply.

You nod, meeting the faint glow of his gaze. “Then I’ll wait for you.”

The bird inclines its head before spreading its wings wider. With one last flutter, the small bird takes off into the open sky beyond the sugar glass, disappearing into the endless white horizon.

For a while, you stand there, eyes following where he vanished.

The wind was gentle that day, brushing through the sugar-leaf trees around the orphanage yard. Grandmother Pecan stood just outside the door, her old cookie hands folded before her, eyes fixed on the winding path that led down the hill.

Days had passed. Still, no sign of you.

She had told herself that worrying would do no good, that the little Cookie she knew was strong and bright, would come home soon. 

But every quiet dusk, every creak of the wooden door, made her heart leap in hope.. only for it to fall again when no one appeared.

Until, at last, a faint sound fluttered from above, the soft beat of small wings.

Grandmother Pecan lifted her gaze and blinked. A small blueberry bird descended before her, glimmering faintly with a sheen of magic that made the air hum. It landed neatly on the porch railing, tilting its head. In its tiny beak was a folded letter.

The elderly Cookie’s brows furrowed in confusion.

Before she could take a step closer, the bird spoke. Its voice was calm, quiet, and carried a strange familiarity that made her back straighten.

“I was asked to deliver this,” it said. “It is from someone under your care.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the tone, not the voice itself, but the weight behind it. Something she had heard once before, long ago, when her feet still dared to tread the path of the Peak.

The bird’s gaze seemed to narrow, a faint curve of amusement in its tone as it continued,

“One of the stubborn scholars who once thought they could reach the Peak of Truth.”

Grandmother Pecan froze, her heart skipping. She knew that voice now. The memory came sharp and cold, a younger her standing before a Cookie guarding the Peak of Truth. Turning her away with no more than a single sentence.

Although the form is a bit different than what she initially remembered.

“…You,” she whispered, almost disbelieving.

Grandmother Pecan’s expression softened as she took the letter from the bird’s beak with careful hands. Reading to content at her pace.

The blueberry bird fluttered to the wooden fence, settling there as though it weighed more than it should. Its head dipped slightly, eyes half-lidded.

“They are unharmed,” it began, voice steady, low, and precise. The kind that carried a truth even through its restraint. “For now. But the place they’re confined in… it isn’t one easily escaped. You may have already guessed who holds them there.”

Grandmother Pecan’s eyes lifted sharply at the shift in tone. The faintest edge of dread curled at the edges of her heart.

“A certain Sage whom you might know,” the bird said, almost idly, but that title alone was enough.

Her brows furrowed, the memory of golden light and laughter too close to arrogance flashing behind her mind. Even that night… “The Sage of Truth—?”

Truthless Recluse hummed, confirming without saying more. “I’m attempting to get them out,” he continued. “But I cannot do it without aid from outside. The bindings around the place are layered, meant to alert him should anything shift.”

Piecing it all together, it meant one thing. The older Cookie didn’t hesitate. “You want my help.”

There was silence. Then, softly, “…Yes.”

Grandmother Pecan folded the letter carefully, looking toward the distant outline of the Spire that loomed faintly against the horizon. 

“Then you’ll have it,” she said firmly. “If that child is trapped under his doing, then I’ll do whatever I can to make sure they return.”

Truthless Recluse tilted his head. “It may bring danger to you and to the orphanage. He doesn’t take kindly to interferences.”

A faint smile touched her tired face. “I’ve lived long enough to know danger when I see it. But doing nothing..” She shook her head. “I can’t. I feel responsible for all this, one way or another. …If this is the only way I can make it right, then so be it.”

The bird was quiet, unreadable. Then, in a tone softer than before, it murmured,

“Then I will lend my protection as well. Until they return, the children here will not be left unguarded. Should he try anything—”

He paused.

“He’ll find that I’ve already made my move.”

Grandmother Pecan’s lips pressed together, gratitude and worry warring in her gaze. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

The small blueberry bird inclined its head. The light around it pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

“Keep the letter safe. I’ll contact you again soon.”

And with that, it took to the air, wings scattering faint glimmers of light as it disappeared into the blue.

Chapter Text

The halls of the Spire gleamed with their usual serenity, golden light flowing across the marbled walls, as if untouched by time. The Sage of Truth walked these corridors with practiced grace. His movements light, tailcoat fluttering faintly with every step. 

To any Cookie watching, he looked as composed as ever, radiating calm intellect and that familiar air of warmth.

He followed his routine without fail, checking on the magic that shimmered faintly along the walls, reviewing old enchantments, letting his gaze pass over through each of the passing residents. 

Each pulse of golden energy met his inspection and obeyed, perfectly aligned, perfectly still.

Then came the garden. The milkcrown flowers were blooming again, its white and petals glowing faintly under the light. The Sage crouched slightly, brushing his cookie hand against a bloom, reminiscing within himself.

“...”

But when he raised his head, his eyes briefly caught the faint glint of a particular window, that thick sugar-glass pane that separated him from the very room he was trying not to think about. 

His expression stilled for a heartbeat. Then, as though shaken from a dream, he turned sharply away, a faint, tight smile forming on his face.

As if a performer was readying themselves for the show.

The day continued as it always did. The town square below the Spire buzzed with activity. Scholars, apprentices, and residents all gather to exchange their ideas. 

The Sage stood among them, easily slipping into his role. He was both the listener and the guide, the one everyone turned to for answers.

He laughed in amusement at their debates, adding clever remarks, deflecting and spinning answers with charm. But the laughter around him dimmed slightly when few Cookies whispered too close to him.

“That small Cookie that always follows the Sage.. have you seen them lately?”

“No, not for a while. For days, perhaps..” 

“Oh enough with that. He is the Sage of Truth that adores that little Cookie. We don’t have to worry about it!”

“I mean, he does seem protective of that little Cookie.”

Protective. The word clung like a bitter taste.

The Sage smiled, even kinder this time, but something twisted behind his eyes. A faint pulse of dark color flickered across his shadow.

He raised his staff when another scholar called for his opinion, to which he gave a brilliant, satisfying explanation about ancient magical structures. The others nodded, impressed. Everything looked as it always was.

Until the shadows on the ground began to move.

At first, it was subtle. Just a ripple beneath his feet, unseen by anyone else. 

But then, tendrils formed, dark and formless, like smears of ink in water. They slithered outward from him, silent, unseen, crawling toward the other Cookies in the square.

He didn’t notice it immediately, not until he saw one tendril wrap itself around the leg of a scholar Cookie, one of the Cookies who whispered before, slowly creeping upward toward the neck, as though to choke.

His eyes subtly glowed and the tendril froze. The Sage’s grip on his staff tightened, golden magic bursting forth from the eye. The tendrils recoiled instantly, burning away into smoke.

“Is something the matter, Sage?” a scholar asked.

He turned smoothly, every trace of tension gone from his voice. “Ah, nothing of concern,” he said with gentle authority, tone perfectly level. “A minor distortion in the ambient magic. I merely corrected it before it became an inconvenience.”

The scholars looked reassured, bowing their heads slightly. After all, if the Sage of Truth himself said it was fine, it was fine. None dared question him further.

Still, his head throbbed. A dull ache, right behind his temples. He ignored it.

“Carry on with your discussions,” he said pleasantly, turning to leave. “I’ll be excusing myself. It seems I have other matters to attend to.”

They nodded, and he walked away, his usual serene expression unbroken. But as he moved through the corridors, the tendrils followed.

They crept silently, coiling in his own shadow, sliding along the edge of his tailcoat. His golden magic flickered every few steps, working constantly, pushing back against something unseen. 

The air around him shimmered faintly each time he did. His Soul Jam pulsed irregularly, dimming and glowing like an unsteady heartbeat.

By the time he reached his personal chambers, the ache in his head had grown sharp. He closed the heavy door behind him, letting the golden magic lock the door and wrapped the entire room. 

For a moment, the perfect composure faltered. He leaned against the door, exhaling, as if the silence itself weighed on him.

The room was a familiar sight, lined with scrolls, few stacks of papers, and shelves of carefully arranged books. But none of it seemed to bring him comfort. The light from the window reflected off the polished mirror across the room.

And then, a shift.

In that reflection, the mirror darkened. A silhouette flickered into view, a featureless one and draped in shadows.

The Sage’s golden magic dimmed at once. His eyes, bright yellow and blue, hardened into something unreadable.

The silhouette did not move, yet its presence rippled like a whisper in his mind.

He straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his clothes, his tone calm but edged. “You again,” he murmured. “I thought I told you to stay away.”

The mirror rippled. For a moment, the reflection twisted and bent its ‘head’ to the side. Then, from the darkness within, two faint lights appeared, one cyan, the other blue, shaped like mismatched eyes. They opened slowly, blinking once.

An eerie crescent smile followed.

“Stay away?” the voice crooned, rich with mockery. “Ah, what a funny statement coming from you, Sage of Truth.”

The glass trembled, and from it, the dark silhouette pulled itself free, sliding out like ink escaping from a cracked vial. It landed softly, its form formless, constantly shifting. And yet, it bore his outline.. his height, his posture, his voice.

The Sage of Truth froze, his staff rising slightly in defense, though his expression stayed calm. “You’re not real,” he said. “You’re just—”

“An illusion?" the shadow interrupted, circling him in slow, deliberate steps. “A nightmare? A part of you you’d rather pretend doesn’t exist?”

It laughed, a strange, theatrical sound, full of cruel amusement. “How many lies and excuses will you hide behind before you admit it?”

“I don’t have time for this.” The Sage’s tone sharpened, his golden light flaring faintly, forcing the shadow to keep its distance.

“Oh, but you do, Sage. You always have time for everyone else’s truths– just not your own.”

The figure swayed closer, voice lowering into a soft taunt. “Tell me, how is the little one doing? Still trembling? Still so afraid of you after your… ‘protection’?”

The Sage’s breath caught, his composure flickering for the first time.

“Don’t—”

“Oh, BUT WHY NOT?” the voice sang, each word emphasized greatly. “You LOCKED them away, didn’t you? For their own ‘safety’, you say. How disgustingly noble, how false selflessness.”

It cackled. “You could have simply rewritten their thoughts! A flick of your magic, and the child would adore you. Fear gone. Doubt gone. But nooo~! the great Sage of Truth couldn’t do that, could he?”

“I would never..!” he snapped, golden energy pulsing briefly through the room.

The shadow tilted its head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Would never what? Interfere? Manipulate? Lie?”

The Sage’s light dimmed slightly. “..That would not be right.”

The shadow gasped dramatically, pressing an unseen hand to its chest dramatically. “Not right? Haha! Oh, but what you did was right?”

It leaned closer, whispering near him: “Tell me, Sage… which part felt right to you? Locking them away, or smiling while you called it was for their own ‘good’?”

The Sage’s light flared, golden sparks snapping around his figure. “You twist words.”

“I speak the truth,” the shadow hissed, baring its teeth. “Something you’re supposed to do, remember? Or have you forgotten your title already, Sage of Truth?”

He turned away, trying to steady his breathing. “You know nothing of my reasons.”

“I know everything,” it snarled, suddenly shifting, its tone laced with bitter laughter. “I know you despise yourself for what you did. I know you can’t stand to look at their face in your mind because it reminds you of what you’ve become.”

The Sage’s eyes flashed. “Stop,”

“I KNOW,” it continued, louder now, “that you didn’t lock them away to protect them, you locked them away because you were AFRAID.”

Golden light exploded from him, momentarily tearing the air apart, but the shadow reformed, laughing wildly. Remaining unaffected of the magic with the intent to kill.

“Afraid they’d leave YOU! Afraid they’d see what you REALLY are!” It lunged closer, pressing its face almost to his. “And they did, didn’t they? The look in their eyes.. oh, I can still see it..! That flinch, that horror, that disgust!”

“SHUT UP!” the Sage shouted, slamming his staff onto the floor, sending a burst of gold through the room. The ground cracked under the force.

But the shadow only smirked wider. “There it is. The temper you hide behind calm words and gentle smiles. The monster under the sage’s robes.”

The Sage staggered back, his Soul Jam flickering erratically, its glow pulsing in painful rhythm.

The shadow chuckled lowly, walking in a slow circle around him again. “You think you’re any different from me?”

“I am nothing like you,” he spat.

“You are me,” the shadow whispered sharply. “You just keep pretending otherwise.”

He said nothing. His golden magic wavered, trembling between radiance and ruin.

The shadow tilted its head, its smile stretching unnaturally wide once more. “Tell me something, oh Sage of Truth… do you even remember what truth means anymore?”

Its voice softened, still cruel, echoing like a curse. “Or has your truth become whatever lie makes you sleep at night?”

The Sage froze, the words cutting deep, too deep.

The shadow stepped back, fading, its form melting into mist that slithered toward the mirror. “A Sage blinded by his own brilliance… a hypocrite dressed in false light.”

The last words drifted like smoke as it vanished completely.

“Then tell me,” the voice murmured, cold and close. “Are you truly the Sage of Truth… or just the best liar who believed his own tale?”

Silence.

...

The Sage of Truth stood still, his reflection staring back at him with hollow eyes. His Soul Jam pulsed once, faintly, before dimming into dull blue.

Silence stretched, heavy and unmoving.

The Sage did not stir, his reflection staring back with hollow stillness.

Minutes slipped by unnoticed.

Then, at last, his eyes flickered open, one gleaming gold, the other cold blue, light cutting through the dimness of the room.

His gaze drifted toward the window, where the horizon lay silent, untouched.

“…Too quiet,” he murmured, almost to himself. A faint curve ghosted across his lips. “Has the bird finally lost its way?”

The quiet lingered, with no one to answer his question.

“Perhaps,” he whispered, the smile sharpening, “it’s time I paid Truthless Recluse a visit.”

It was the same smile the shadow had worn before it faded, quiet and eerily familiar.

Chapter Text

The little blueberry bird had returned not long after, fluttering soundlessly through the sugar-glass window as if it were only air. The faint shimmer of blue magic accompanied its arrival before reforming into the familiar shape perched atop the bookshelf.

“I’ve delivered the letter,” Truthless Recluse said simply, wings folding neatly. “There were no issues.”

You blinked, pausing in your reading of a random book. “Really? That’s… that’s good news.” Relief laced your tone before you felt yourself smiling. “Thank you. I.. really, thank you for that.”

The bird inclined its head, as if acknowledging your gratitude without dwelling on it further. You had no idea what sort of encounter took place beyond his words. 

Only that Grandmother Pecan now knew something, and that was enough to soothe the ache of uncertainty.

Days bled into one another after that. You could tell time by the rhythm of your own small habits: waking, eating, reading, practicing magic, and waiting. Occasionally looking at the window.

The white kangaroo still came at set hours, balancing a tray of simple meals. It never spoke, only inclined its head whenever you greeted it. Still, you found yourself talking to it as though it could understand every word.

“You know,” you said softly as it set down the cup of warm milk, “you really didn’t have to do all this. Thank you… it means more than you think.”

The kangaroo’s tail twitched. Its bright eyes flicked toward you briefly, then to the cup, then back. A silent look that almost said, drink before it cools.

You chuckled softly and obeyed. “I know.”

It didn’t answer, never did, but its quiet presence was oddly comforting. Just like Truthless Recluse, when he had no words left to say, only understanding.

Whenever the blueberry bird appeared, it was always through the same window, bringing brief moments of conversation and instruction. Sometimes it hovered over your shoulder, correcting your magic circles or quietly murmuring advice as you struggled to control the shapes your magic formed. 

Other times, it simply sat in stillness, the faint hum of its aura filling the silence between you both.

Then, one morning, after you successfully managed to shape your magic into a glowing sphere, one that didn’t immediately fizzle out, the bird spoke again.

“I will need to return to the Peak of Truth,” it said, tone unchanged yet heavier somehow. “There are preparations to be made.”

You froze mid-motion, the faint light of your spell dimming. “Preparations?”

“Yes.” He paused briefly, unreadable. “If I am to ensure you can leave this place safely, certain things must be set in order.”

You frowned a little, gaze flicking to the sugar-glass window. “How long will that take?”

“Some time.” A beat. “I will send a message when I can.”

You opened your mouth, half wanting to elaborate on his response being ‘some time’, the other half wanting to ask him to stay... but his tone made it clear that this was something he had already decided. 

So instead, you sighed softly, giving a small nod.

“Alright… just don’t take too long.”

The bird inclined its head once, then lifted into the air. Light gathered at the tips of its wings before it dissolved into scattered blue magic, fading out through the window.

You stood there for a while, staring at the space he once occupied. Then, exhaling, you turned back to your usual routine.

The days continued as before. How unsurprising.

The kangaroo still brought your meals, and you still spoke to it, though you caught yourself glancing at the window more often than before. 

Sometimes, when you practiced your magic, the faint traces of your energy flickered in the shade of gold, and you couldn’t help but smile faintly at the familiarity.

You didn’t know when he would return, or if the plan would work, but at least this time, you were waiting with purpose.

Even in silence, even in captivity, hope had begun to breathe again.

It started small, barely even noticeable at first.

The first day the white kangaroo didn’t visit, you thought little of it. Maybe it was busy, you told yourself. Maybe something came up. Even strange magical attendants must have other duties, right?

You didn’t want to think of the worst possible outcome right off the bat.

You had already set your mind to optimism. The thought of food didn’t matter much. You’d eaten plenty enough before, and besides… waiting was something you had already grown used to.

But when the light dimmed into that soft, indistinct twilight that filled the sugar-glass window, and still no sound of anyone approaching or the soft click of the door came, you found yourself sitting in silence for much too long.

You tried not to think about it.

“Probably late,” you muttered aloud, pacing. “It’s fine. Tomorrow, maybe.”

Tomorrow came, but so did another empty silence.

No door creaked.

No faint sign of the crown adorned atop the white kangaroo.

No quiet nod or patient gaze met yours.

You tried to keep your thoughts from turning dark, yet every small sound made you look toward the door, hoping. The books sat untouched that day. Even the sugar window, usually hazy but familiar, seemed thicker, like it too had grown tired of letting you see the outside world. Or maybe you were imagining it.

When the third day came, hunger made its presence known, sharp and unkind. Your dough felt weaker, as if hollowed out by something gnawing deep inside. You’d endured worse before, but here, the emptiness was different.

It was quiet hunger. The kind that filled the silence like an echo.

You sat by the window, arms resting on your knees, staring out through the faintly clouded glass. You imagined the white kangaroo there, maybe standing or approaching… maybe, sigh.

Still… where was the white kangaroo…?

Your mind chased reason after reason, anything to make sense of it. Maybe he dismissed it? Or perhaps—

The last thought stung enough that you immediately tried to smother it.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, that’s… not it. It wouldn’t—”

But the sentence never finished.

Your stomach growled, loud and mocking. You pressed a hand over it and sighed shakily, trying to ignore the growing dizziness at the edge of your thoughts.

Even as your vision dimmed slightly, your mind wouldn’t stop circling around one truth: the white kangaroo was missing. And if it was gone, something must’ve happened.

That became your only focus, overriding the ache of hunger.

You had to find out what.

The small blueberry bird soared through the cold, thin air, wings slicing through the sky. Its form soared through the sky freely.

Truthless Recluse had sent the message. The letter was delivered. The promise, fulfilled. Now the time for waiting was over; the next stage had begun.

The bird glided lower, coming towards the tall, spire-like tower that sat solemnly at the Peak of Truth before quietly slipping through one of its windows. 

The room inside was silent, books stacked in uneven towers, loose parchment scattered almost everywhere. It was a mess truly. Little to the side of the mess, seated motionless, was Truthless Recluse himself.

The bird landed on the table and dissolved into magic that glowed faintly before sinking into his chest. His eyes opened. Slow, deliberate, golden-blue irises flashing in the dim light.

A quiet breath escaped him. Then, standing, he reached for his staff placed near him where he left it. He took a single glance at it before turning toward the spiral staircases, footsteps echoing faintly against the cold, hard floor.

His thoughts were calm, steady as they often were. But there was something… uneasy threading through his composure.

The plan was simple. Grandmother Pecan, the outsider, would act on her side of the arrangement when the time came. When that started, the magic barrier confining the child would weaken, and with his help, collapse entirely.

All he needed was time. Just a little more time.

And yet, time was what seemed to slip through his grasp like mist.

His pace slowed as he walked along the winding corridor. His mind, quiet but sharp, replayed fragments of what he had seen and heard these past days. 

The Sage of Truth.

Flying back through the tower and then toward the child, along with Grandmother Pecan to discuss, he was bound to see and hear the discussions taking place in the Spire.

Though the Cookies of the Spire spoke highly of their Sage’s diligence, always at work, maintaining order, teaching, and leading, their words had grown fewer recently. Their tones… quieter.

And the Sage himself, from a distance, even Truthless Recluse could tell - had been different. Too still. Too quiet.

Truthless Recluse’s intuition tugged at him. That same dull, persistent weight that sat, a warning born not of fear, but of experience.

He stopped walking.

The air around him shifted.

It was subtle at first, like a breeze that had lost its way. Then came the overwhelming surge of magic. With a blink of an eye, the entire tower was enveloped in darkness, shadows even. It ominously writhed, leaving nothing of the the tower spared.

Every nook and cranny, the shadow enveloped everything.

His grip tightened on his staff. His senses spread out through the tower, and the realization came quickly, sharply—

It wasn’t just the tower itself. The whole Peak of Truth seemed to drown beneath the surge of magic, constricting around it like a cage, with power that distorted the natural flow of magic itself.

“…This presence,” he murmured, voice flat but edged with focus.

Truthless Recluse acted instantly. His magic flared, his own staff glowed with blue magic, and a magic circle appeared underneath him that stopped the relentless shadow trying to affect him. 

The direction pulsed sharply in his mind.

Near. Far too near.

Without hesitation, he lifted his staff, and the world blurred. 

He teleported out of the tower immediately.

The next blink brought him outside, the cold air biting sharply against his dough. Not to mention the disruptive magic that still makes itself present.

Unsurprisingly, standing before him, with heterochromic eyes like his own, glowed against the darkening sky.

The Sage of Truth.

For the briefest moment, a sense of déjà vu struck him. The exact same stillness, the same faint pressure in the air, just like that time — when he had found the Sage standing before him from before, uninvited.

Only this time, the presence was far heavier. The power radiating from the Sage of Truth was no longer calm and golden, but darkened, tainted by something unseen.

Truthless Recluse barely had time to acknowledge the blare of instinct that screamed danger before the atmosphere shifted entirely, a pulse like a heartbeat pounding through the air.

His cloak fluttered violently in the wind as his eyes narrowed, magic rising along his staff.

Something had gone very, very wrong.

“..What have you done?”

Chapter Text

Truthless Recluse’s eyes narrowed as the wind tore around them, the Peak trembling slightly under the weight of the magic that rolled like a dark tide from the Sage. His cookie hand tightened around his staff, the flower atop it glowing faintly as if trying to anchor his senses.

“…What have you done?” he asked, voice low, flat, but sharp enough to carry across the howling air.

The Sage of Truth’s smile sharpened, unnaturally wide. His golden-blue eyes gleamed fervently.

“Accusations already?” the Sage replied, voice playful, teasing, like he was mocking the very question. “Oh, Truthless Recluse, so serious, so tense. Surely, you must know by now — words like that are far too dull for such a moment!”

Truthless Recluse’s gaze flicked downward, following the creeping shadow at the Sage’s feet. It writhed and pulsed, curling beneath like a living stain. His jaw tightened.

“You… are the source,” he said, voice flat, measured. “The disturbance. The magic enveloping the tower and the Peak of Truth. I am not a fool.”

The Sage chuckled. “Ah… of course, not a fool. I do not doubt that. You are ever vigilant, ever precise. Admirable, really.”

Truthless Recluse’s eyes remained locked on the Sage, unflinching.

“And what,” the Sage continued, tilting his head lightly, “what you have done, the elusive recluse? What revelation have you wrought today?”

Truthless Recluse’s cookie hand tightened on his staff.

“Don’t play coy,” he said. “Changing the topic does not pardon your actions.”

“Indeed, indeed,” the Sage said lightly, spreading his arms like he were giving a lecture to a particularly stubborn student. “It seems, by my observations, that the elusive recluse of the Peak of Truth, the one who has pursued — rather, shepherded — scholars who were far too curious for their own good… wanders aimlessly now. A curious behavior, would you not say? Not the careful, measured behavior of the Truthless Recluse of all these past years.”

“...”

“Do not misinterpret my words as flattery,” the Sage continued, “I am merely stating what I observe. Pure scholarship. Evidence, fact, a deduction. You see?”

“…You are provoking me,” Recluse said, still flat, still cold.

The Sage’s laugh rang through the Peak, teasing, almost jester-like. “Ah! Provocation? Perhaps. Perhaps, I am merely enjoying the discourse. After all, what is truth if not examined from all angles? Even from angles most rigid and austere?”

Recluse’s gaze never wavered. The wind tugged at his cloak, the magical pressure around them intensifying at the mere presence.

“Then..” the Sage said suddenly, returning to his question, “ What has the Truthless Recluse done, hmm? Tell me, enlighten me — or shall I continue to deduce, as a scholar deduces from fragments of evidence and hints left behind?”

Truthless Recluse inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “I observe the same as you claim to,” he said, voice flat, unwavering. “I act only to protect the Peak of Truth and what must be preserved. Unlike you, I do not disrupt or taint the balance to this very moment.”

“Balance…” the Sage said, spinning his staff lazily, the golden tip catching the dim light. “Yes, yes, balance. Such a subjective thing, isn’t it? Observed from every angle, bending to the eye that looks upon it. Yet, here we are, each doing what we will, and each claiming the same name for it.”

Recluse’s eyes narrowed further, he repeated. “…What have you done?”

The Sage of Truth grinned wider, sharp as a crescent moon. “Ah, my oh my, what indeed… You will see soon enough.”

In a blink of an eye, the shadows surged forward like a tide of ink, twisting and wriggling with intent, aiming to overwhelm Truthless Recluse before he could act. His eyes narrowed as the first shadows unfurled from the Sage of Truth, writhing like living serpents across the ground.

Without hesitation, Truthless Recluse drew a magic circle beneath his feet, his own flower staff glows brighter. A second circle formed in the air behind him with a sharp breath, and then..

Eyes.

Masses of eyes scattered across all directions. Dozens of glowing blue outlines of eyes blinked open within the circle, unblinking, unyielding, gazing directly at the Sage.

The circles connected, expanding in a heartbeat.

A binding spell.

Blue chains of magic lashed out from the magic circles snapping around the Sage of Truth’s body, aiming to restrain. In mere seconds, the Sage’s movement was halted, trapped within Truthless Recluse’s layered spell.

For a moment, the Sage simply blinked.

Then he laughed.

“Oh, extraordinary,” he cooed, voice lilting with delighted mockery. “A dual-structured containment field, how nostalgic! Such magic is rarely used. Should I be honored?” 

His eyes roamed the binding chains as if examining an academic diagram. “Such a meticulous pattern… mm, but flawed. You’re rushing. The pressure – ah, you’re compensating. How unlike you.”

Truthless Recluse didn’t respond, his expression as blank and cold as ever. He had no interest in dragging this out any longer; he only wanted this confrontation to be finished. 

There were more important matters awaiting him.

The Sage of Truth tilted his head, continuing, “You’re upset. Imagine that. My, my, how unusual for you to show it in your magic rather than in—oh, nevermind. You don’t feel anything.”

Truthless Recluse raised his staff slightly, about to tighten the bindings further, when a ripple of movement flickered in the corner of his eye.

A shadow appeared at his side, razor-thin, its tip sharpened to a deadly point, directly targeting his right eye.

Truthless Recluse jerked his head aside just in time, instinct honed over centuries, yet the shadow grazed his cheek. A thin slash formed. Red jam welled, trailing down his dough.

He felt the sting. He ignored it.

The Sage watched him bleed with a grin far too wide.

“Oh, beautiful reflexes,” he praised mockingly, voice dripping sugar-coated venom. “But careless. You almost let it take your eye. Tch, shame. Yellow does contrast well with red.”

Truthless Recluse lifted his staff again, and in response—

The magic circles multiplied. Two became four. Four became six.

Pillars of blue magic erupted around the Sage, forming a cage of vertical beams. The floating eyes moved closer in synchronized patterns, blinking, tracking every micro-shift of the Sage’s body, ensuring he could not slip free.

The Sage of Truth’s ability to move tightened into nothing.

His legs folded beneath him as he was forced down.

A quick flash of a small blue magic projectile cut through the air. It struck the Sage’s cookie hand, knocking it open and sending the staff flying out of his grasp and out of reach.

He sat slumped, pinned and trapped, yet still smiling faintly.

“Well done,” the Sage of Truth praised. “You really are cautious. Taking my staff the moment I lost mobility.”

Truthless Recluse finally spoke, his voice low. “Stop this, Sage of Truth. Whatever it is that’s been plaguing you, ignore it. Sever it. If you keep letting it in… consequences will come for you.”

For the first time, the Sage of Truth went silent.

Then he laughed, loud and mocking, almost delighted. He lifted his head just enough for his gaze to lock onto Truthless Recluse. His eyes glowed yellow and blue, bright and unnatural. The yellow one flickered, just for a moment, into cyan, both pupils sharpening like a needle.

“How rude,” he said, smile stretching. “You speak as though you’re familiar with it.”

His laughter grew, echoing against the cage of blue magic.

Truthless Recluse didn’t answer, but the alarm inside him only grew louder.

Something was about to happen.

The shadow beneath the Sage trembled then erupted.

The layered binding spell shattered.

Not cracked nor was it strained. Shattered.

The pillars blew apart like brittle glass, and the floating eyes blinked out of existence, as the magic circles fragmented.

Just as Truthless Recluse was about to summon his magic to recover and counter–

One shadow tendril, its form appearing akin to a snake, quietly appearing by the Sage’s side, obediently made itself known to the owner.

In its inky grasp was an object. It placed the object gently into the Sage’s waiting hand.

Truthless Recluse’s eyes widened, but more than he had in a very long time.

The object gleamed in the Sage’s palm.

...!

It was Truthless Recluse’s Soul Jam.

A small, inverted replica of the Sage’s own glowing Soul Jam of Truth—yet this one looked wrong in almost every way.

The dull gem sat in the Sage’s palm like an ordinary gem. The surface didn’t shine; it looked half-broken… like it had not felt warmth or purpose in years.

It was the kind of object that told its own story just by existing, a story of someone who once stood tall but had fallen too far to return.

“You know,” he said, voice bright, “a little snake told me that something shameful was hidden in the tower. Something you protected. Something you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.”

The Sage’s Soul Jam glowed at his chest, the light pulsing to match his amusement. “Now I understand why.”

Truthless Recluse did not move at first.

His dark, quiet eyes stared at the gem held in the Sage’s cookie hand, his face blank, not giving away much emotion. But the stillness around him felt heavy.

His cloak barely stirred in the wind, as if even the wind hesitated to touch him at this moment. A faint tension appeared in his jaw. His other cookie hand unconsciously touched his chest. A key outline, empty it was for many years, a gem missing in its place where it was supposed to be.

Barely there, almost invisible, but clear enough for anyone who is able to look a little closer. It was a reaction too honest for him to hide fast enough.

The Sage of Truth saw it instantly and smiled with too much delight. Sheer giddiness overflowing. It was the smile of someone who found a secret he was never meant to see.

His cookie hand lifted the dull Soul Jam a little higher, letting the faint light hit it, almost mocking how weak the glow was.

“My, my,” he said, his voice soft but sharp around the edges. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Well… I suppose this is a part of your dead past, isn’t it?”

Truthless Recluse finally moved.

His cookie hands tightened around his staff, blue magic sparking at the tip, but the sparks were disorderly.

His magic usually flowed calmly like still water. Now it rippled like a disturbed body of water, trembling, reacting to emotions he never allowed himself to show.

The Sage laughed, far too joyful for the situation. He placed the inverted  Soul Jam in front of his own, near enough to contrast one another. The difference between it was too obvious; the Sage’s bright and alive, Recluse’s dull and nearly broken.

“Oh? Did that bother you?” the Sage asked, tilting his head like a curious child. “Truly? How fascinating.” He kept a tight hold onto the dull gem. “But I must say, it is fitting, don’t you think?”

Truthless Recluse stepped forward, no longer wanting to hear any of it. Drawing another glowing magic circle beneath his feet, though the lines quivered slightly from the strain.

The Sage easily stepped away from the forming spell, golden light brushing the edge of the blue magic as if pushing aside a curtain. He moved lazily, not a hint of fear in his posture.

“You discarded this, didn’t you?” the Sage of Truth went on, voice soft but merciless. “A tragic little remnant of who you used to be.” He held the gem up near his face once more, studying it like a rare specimen. “Abandoned in that lonely tower of yours, buried under dust and denial.”

His smile sharpened the next second. “But you didn’t destroy it. No, you simply couldn’t bring yourself to.”

Truthless Recluse cast another spell, faster this time, sharper, more controlled. A blue dome and projectiles appeared in the air, cutting through space. 

But the Sage of Truth lifted a single cookie hand, his own staff correspondingly made a reflection of the attack with a swirl of golden magic, successfully scattering the summoned blue magic into harmless particles.

“You keep trying to erase your existence,” the Sage continued in a sing-song tone, “yet leave so many traces behind. Quite unlike the cold recluse everyone believes you to be.”

Truthless Recluse finally spoke, his voice low, flat, tightening at the edges.

“Give it back.”

“Hmm?” The Sage blinked as though surprised. “This little thing?”

He lifted the dull Soul Jam of Deceit a little higher, letting the dim light once again reveal every crack inside.

Truthless Recluse’s magic surged, a wave of blue rushing forward, yet the Sage countered it once more, a golden barrier forming and sending the magic crashing aside like water hitting a stone.

“Oh, careful now,” he scolded with a smile. “You might break it further. Although…” He leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret. “Can it even break more than it already has? It’s barely alive.”

A faint tremor went through Truthless Recluse’s breath. His eyes stayed steady, but the corner of his grip tightened just enough to show how tense this situation was for him.

The Sage noticed. Of course he did, and he relished in it.

He stepped closer, the shadows under him curling like playful snakes.

Truthless Recluse launched another attack, this time, filled with quiet fury. Blue shapes flew through the air, crossing over each other like fragments of broken glass. 

But the Sage dodged through the waves of magic, golden sparks deflecting each blast before they could touch him. His own Soul Jam pulsing as if to aid him.

“You never truly let go,” the Sage whispered, almost gently. “Even after you fell. Even after you abandoned your Virtue. Even after you became… this.” He gestured toward the recluse with the Soul Jam, almost mocking. “You kept it safe. How kind of you.”

Truthless Recluse’s silence thickened, turning cold enough to cut.

The Sage laughed again. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s almost poetic.”

A golden wave shot out from his staff, forcing Truthless Recluse to step back. His feet slid across the ground, blue magic curling defensively around him.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t expect someone to find it eventually,” the Sage said, stepping forward step by step. “You were Knowledge itself once. Surely you knew… something hidden is simply waiting to be found.”

Truthless Recluse steadied himself, blue magic gathering at his feet like a living circle.

The Sage clapped his hands softly, mockingly. “Finally returned to your senses?”

Truthless Recluse lunged forward to seize the Soul Jam, his Soul Jam. But the Sage rotated away, elegant and unhurried, twirling the gem between his cookie hand.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he whispered, his breath warm with amusement. “The Soul Jam of Truth and the Soul Jam of Deceit… separated for so long.”

Truthless Recluse’s eyes widened, the dots connected, a crack in the mask he always wore.

“You wouldn’t…!”

The Sage saw it and smiled as if confirming it. “Maybe they were meant to be reunited,” he murmured.

Truthless Recluse’s magic burst with sudden force, blue circles overlapping like shields and blades combined, in an act of desperation.

It was once again met with a simple movement cutting through all the complex spells.

“You didn’t think my little display earlier was meaningless, did you?” he asked. His golden magic brightened, contrasting against the creeping shadows. “Enveloping the entire Peak of Truth? Pressuring your tower? Letting the magic seep into every stone, corner, and breath of the place?”

His smile grew sharper, stretching too wide. “It was never an empty action.”

Truthless Recluse’s grip on his staff tightened so hard it might have cracked.

The Sage of Truth lifted both Soul Jams together, his glowing bright one, and the dull fallen one belonging to Truthless Recluse. Side by side, blue and blue, but one alive and one nearly dead.

“Thank you,” he said sweetly. “Really. For keeping the other half safe for all this time. For letting me find it so easily. For being exactly as predictable as I thought.”

“And now…” he said, bowing like a performer before an applauding crowd, “I’ll be putting this to very, very good use.”

Truthless Recluse opened his mouth, maybe to warn him, maybe to threaten him, maybe simply out of breath, there was none of that.

The Sage leaned back, eyes glowing brightly, smile curling like a blooming flower of malice.

Shadows wrapped around him lovingly, like darkness greeting an old friend.

All while the newly acquired dull Soul Jam of Deceit pulsed weakly in his cookie hand.

His smile stretched again, thin and sharp, a scholar pleased with the final piece of a study finally falling into place.

Golden magic rose around him in soft bright flakes, gathering at his feet like tiny sparks. The shadows behind him spread, preparing to carry him elsewhere.

He turned his head one last time toward the wounded Truthless Recluse, his eyes half-lidded in amusement. “It seems I must go,” he said lightly, as if excusing himself from a pleasant visit, ignoring the debris, the broken terrain, and the lingering sting of blue magic still humming in the air.

“Someone has been waiting for me, after all.”

His magic flared, too fast for anyone to stop. The ground lit gold beneath him. And in the next second, he vanished.

…

The air inside the room rippled as a bright circle of light spun itself open from nothing. The walls glowed with gold for a heartbeat, shadows bending backward as if bowing. 

Then the Sage of Truth stepped through, tailcoat settling behind him with a soft flutter.

He did not knock. He simply appeared, as though the room belonged to him. The golden circle faded behind him, sealing shut like it had never been there at all.

The Sage brushed dust from his sleeves, as if tidying himself before a polite reunion. His smile returned, relaxed but sharp at the edges, the very picture of someone preparing to give a playful apology.

“Well now,” he said quietly, eyes bright with that same dangerous light, “I suppose I should say sorry for my absence. You must have felt quite lonely without me here.”

He took one step forward.

His voice carried a small lilt, warm on the surface, yet cold beneath it. He was ready to greet you, the little one.

He expected to see you sitting on the bed. He expected you to look tired. He expected many things.

But the moment he lifted his gaze—

He froze.

Completely.

His smile stopped halfway. The glow in his eyes flickered out for the first time in a long while. His hand, still loosely holding the newly acquired Soul Jam, trembled ever so faintly.

His breath left him in a slow, controlled sound.

“…Ah.”

All warmth vanished from his face.

The Sage of Truth stood perfectly, still staring at what waited for him inside the room.

Chapter Text

Minutes ticked by slowly. The sunlight slanting through the thick sugar-glass window didn’t feel warm… You hugged your knees tighter, your mind racing with plans. 

What would you do when you finally got out of this room?

First, you thought, find Truthless Recluse. Surely, he would know something about the missing white kangaroo. Surely, he could explain why it had suddenly vanished. The thought offered a small comfort, a thread of hope amidst the monotony of waiting.

But comfort wasn’t enough to fill the empty hours. Your cookie hands twitched, wanting something to do, and your mind drifted to your magic. Carefully, almost experimentally, you lifted your cookie hands and let a tiny glow flicker between your fingers. 

You focused, letting the light twist and curve, shaping it without aiming for precision, until a small, rough outline emerged.

Blinking, you frowned. Your own creation had taken the shape of the white kangaroo. Its jester sleeves were there, its crown uneven, and the tray it had carried, you even imagined the food steaming slightly. You stared at it, incredulous. 

Did I just… unconsciously recreate the white kangaroo? A pang of confusion followed, and you shook your head. That wasn’t important. You had other shapes to try, the only thing that could occupy you as of right now.

With a deep breath, you let the magic flow again. This time, you focused on another shape. You let the faint pulse of your mark guide your hands, the golden glow stretching into shapes that slowly began to resemble one gloomy Truthless Recluse. 

The shape hovered midair, imperfect but unmistakable dull eyes, composed stance, a calm that seemed to seep from it despite the crude lines. You stared, dumbfounded at how your magic had instinctively, again, recreated him without conscious thought.

At least I’m able to project my subconscious thoughts into taking form? Would that be a good thing…?

Still, you pressed on, letting your magic form another shape or rather figure. 

And then, almost before you realized it, the golden light warped itself into the shape of the Sage of Truth.

You froze.

The shape was crude but the design was unmistakable. Even the form itself carried arrogance, his teasing posture, the slight tilt of his head, even the faint gleam of amusement you had once seen in his eyes. 

Your chest tightened. The warmth from your earlier comfort drained, replaced by a bitter sting. You let the magic falter. The glowing shape wavered, then collapsed, scattering into sparks that vanished like dust in the air.

…What am I even doing?

You swallowed hard. The air in the room seemed heavier. Your lips pressed into a thin line as you stared at the space where the golden figure had been. Bitterness pooled in your stomach, mingling with the small gnawing hunger you had almost ignored these past days.

It wasn’t just frustration. Not just anger. It was the sour reminder of why you were trapped here. Of who had done this. Of how you had been left alone, powerless to act, while he continued… whatever it was he was doing outside, somewhere in the Spire.

You clenched your cookie hands into fists. The golden glow flickered weakly, a mere echo of your intent. The pulse of your mark beat faintly beneath your gloves, almost as if reminding you that you weren’t entirely helpless, that there was still a thread of connection to guide you.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate, trying to calm your dough.

And so, you sat, silent, letting your golden magic drift in idle swirls around you, shaping nothing at first, letting the faint pulses of your mark guide your thoughts. Every flicker of light reminded you: someday, you would step out of this room.

For now, though, all you could do was wait.

Same old routine… how unsurprising…

"…"

Until it wasn’t.

The room was quiet.

You were still sitting on the bed, shaping small threads of golden magic between your fingers, watching them twist and fade, when a sudden sound broke the stillness.

A dull rattle.

Your head snapped up.

The door was moving.

Not opening, rather shaking. The handle quivered as if someone on the other side was testing it, tugging, forcing, not welcomed in but trying anyway. The sound scraped against your nerves, uneven and wrong.

Your magic stilled.

You stared as the spell, seemingly invisible most of the time, appeared, carved into the doorframe and began to react.

The glowing circle, familiar, constant, unchanging until now, flickered.

Once. Twice.

The lines blurred, light thinning like it was being pulled apart. You slowly rose to your feet, heart pounding harder with every second. This wasn’t how it usually happened. When the white kangaroo came, the door opened naturally. 

The magic never resisted. It never weakened.

But now it was struggling. The glow then dimmed. With a soft hiss, the circle vanished entirely. A sharp familiar click echoed in the room.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The door began to open, inch by inch, the hinges creaking softly. You took a cautious step back, every muscle tense, your mind scrambling for answers.

Is it the white kangaroo? No… this isn’t right.

The door opened wider.

A figure stood on the other side.

Not the company you were expecting like one white kangaroo.

A suspicious hooded Cookie.

They stayed just beyond the doorway, half-hidden in shadow, their face concealed beneath the deep hood. They didn’t step inside. They didn’t speak. They simply stood there, silent and still.

Your stomach dropped.

Your gloved cookie hands curled into fists at your sides as recognition hit you like cold water.

Were they the same kind, the same presence, that had ambushed you during your first attempt to escape the Spire?

Your thoughts raced. How did they get here? This room was sealed. Locked by powerful magic. Even scholars couldn’t enter freely. Even the white kangaroo followed strict rules you didn’t understand.

So how did they break through?

A slow, creeping fear settled in your chest, heavier than the hunger you had been trying to ignore, heavier than the long days of waiting. This wasn’t part of the routine. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your heart slammed against your chest as instinct took over.

Golden magic stirred at your gloved cookie hand, warm and familiar. You remembered Truthless Recluse’s quiet instructions, the way he had shown you how to fold magic inward instead of outward. 

Protection spell first. Concealment second. Hide your presence. Blur your outline. Buy time. Just enough time to run.

You drew a shaky breath, beginning to shape the spell, focusing on the space around your body, imagining the magic wrapping you like a thin veil—

“Dear?”

The voice cut through you.

You froze.

The magic faltered, trembling between your cookie hands before dissolving into harmless sparks. Slowly, almost afraid to confirm what you’d heard, you lifted your gaze to the hooded Cookie standing in the doorway.

They moved at last. A cookie hand reached up and pulled the hood back.

Wrinkled dough. Familiar lines. Gentle eyes filled with worry.

Grandmother Pecan.

Your breath left you all at once.

“…Grandmother Pecan..?” Your voice cracked around her name, disbelief and relief tangling together so tightly it hurt.

Her eyes widened the moment she heard you speak. “Oh—oh my dough…” she whispered, stepping forward.

You didn’t even realize you were moving.

Your feet carried you across the room on their own, fast and clumsy, and the next thing you knew, you were crashing into her arms. You wrapped yourself around her, clutching her cloak like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

She stiffened for half a heartbeat, then hugged you back just as tightly.

Her arms were warm. Solid. Real.

“There you are,” she murmured, voice shaking despite herself. “You scared me half to crumbs.”

Your face pressed into her shoulder, breath hitching as everything you’d been holding in threatened to spill over all at once. The locked room. The waiting. The hunger. The fear.

You were safe.

At least, for this moment.

The warmth lingered for only a moment before something cold and sharp crept into your thoughts.

Slowly, you pulled back just enough to look up at her.

“…Grandmother Pecan,” you asked, voice quiet but urgent, “how did you know I was here?”

Her expression shifted, not fear, but something heavier. Understanding. Concern. She glanced past you, toward the room, toward the door that should never have opened so easily.

“He appeared before me,” she said softly. “He who watches the Peak of Truth.”

Your eyes widened.

“He delivered your letter,” she continued, tightening her grip on your shoulders. “Not himself fully, that is. A small bird, made of magic. But I recognized who it belonged to.”

Your breath hitched. “…Truthless Recluse told you…?”

She nodded. “I don’t know his name,” she admitted, “but I know him. From that interaction, I know that you know him.”

That was enough confirmation. Your fingers curled into the fabric of her cloak, heart racing again but this time with something close to relief.

Before you could say more, Grandmother Pecan suddenly pulled you closer, her arms firm, almost desperate.

“We can’t talk here,” she said, low and urgent. “Not now. Not anymore. We’re running on borrowed time.”

Borrowed time.

Your chest tightened as she guided you away from the door, already moving with surprising speed. The hallway beyond was empty, too empty. The air felt wrong, stretched thin, as if the Spire itself was holding its breath.

As you hurried along, she spoke quickly, barely above a whisper. “He lent me a bit of his magic. Just enough to pass unseen. Without it, I would never have made it this far.”

You swallowed. “I can help,” you said immediately. “I… I know a concealment spell. It’s not as strong as his, but—”

“But it will do,” she said at once, giving you a small, proud smile despite everything. 

You nodded, focusing despite the pounding of your heart. Golden magic stirred again, steadier this time. You shaped it carefully, remembering the lessons, letting it settle over both of you like a thin veil – soft, quiet, hiding not just your forms, but both presence.

Grandmother Pecan let out a slow breath as the magic took hold.

Then she squeezed your hand.

“Now,” she said gently but firmly, “let’s get you out of here, before the one who locked that door realizes it’s open.”

Your footsteps echoed softly as the two of you moved through the halls, the sound dull and distant. You ran, but not as fast as you could. You slowed without thinking, matching Grandmother Pecan’s pace, careful not to tug her along or make her strain herself.

I dragged her into this, you thought, guilt settling deep into your dough. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t have to risk anything because of me.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I didn’t mean to involve you.”

She shook her head immediately, her grip on your gloved cookie hand firm and warm. “No,” she replied, voice gentle but steady. “That was my decision. No one forced me.”

She glanced at you and slowed down.

Her eyes softened, then tightened with worry as she truly looked at you. You weren’t the same little Cookie she remembered. Your shoulders were slumped. Your steps were uneven. Your breathing was shallow, as though each breath took effort.

You stumbled. Just a little.

But she noticed.

“…Dear?” she asked softly. “Are you feeling alright?”

You straightened instinctively, trying to brush it off, but the concealment magic around you flickered faintly before settling again. It didn’t escape her notice.

She frowned. “Have you eaten?”

The question hit harder than you expected.

You flinched.

It was brief, almost unnoticeable, but her eyes caught it at once. Your lips parted, then pressed together.

“…I have,” you said after a moment. “Earlier.” Lie.

She didn’t respond right away. Her hand tightened around yours. “Earlier,” she repeated gently. “And after that?”

The hall felt too quiet.

You swallowed. “…Not for a while.”

She stopped.

You took another step before realizing, nearly bumping into her. “Wha—?”

But she turned suddenly and pulled you into her arms. You let out a small sound of surprise as your feet left the floor, your body gathered up without effort.

She cradled you close.

You felt it. The way her arms stiffened for just a second. The way her breath caught.

…Too light.

The realization struck her hard, and you could feel it in the way she held you tighter, one arm firm beneath your legs, the other braced against your back, as if afraid you might slip away if she loosened her grip.

“Oh, my poor child…” she murmured, her voice shaking despite her attempt to keep it steady.

She pressed you closer, her chin resting briefly against your head. You could feel the worry radiating from her now, quiet, heavy, and edged with anger toward things she hadn’t yet named.

“We’re leaving,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “Right now.”

She drew a slow breath, steadying herself.

“And when we’re safe…” her voice wavered, “…no one will ever let you go hungry like that again.”

Her hold didn’t loosen as she started moving once more, carrying you forward through the halls. No matter how many times you try to tell Grandmother Pecan to not carry you, it was only met with reassurance in return.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

The halls stretched on, pale and endless, the concealment magic humming faintly around your bodies as Grandmother Pecan carried you forward. Her steps were careful but determined, each one measured, as if she feared the HE might notice if she hurried too much.

Then it hit you.

A sudden shiver ran through your dough, sharp and wrong, like ice sinking beneath your surface. Your breath caught in your throat.

Grandmother Pecan felt it immediately.

She stiffened just slightly, her arms tightening around you. “Dear…?” she murmured, concern creeping into her voice. “What is it?”

You didn’t know how to answer.

Your stomach churned, nausea rolling through you in heavy waves. Your breaths turned uneven, shallow gasps that scraped your throat. The world felt tilted, distant, like you were sinking underwater.

Then came the heat.

It bloomed suddenly at your forehead, fierce and unbearable. Not warmth, it was burning. As if something inside you had been struck and was trying to claw its way out.

“A—ah—!” You hissed, clutching your head with trembling hands. The pain made your vision blur, sparks dancing at the edges.

Grandmother Pecan stopped short.

“Dear—” Her voice shook as she shifted you in her arms, panic bleeding through her calm. “You’re burning up…!”

She pressed you closer, one hand lifting instinctively to your forehead, only to pull back slightly at the heat radiating from you. Still, she didn’t let go.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, worry thick in every word. “Tell me, please—”

“I—I don’t know,” you gasped, your voice cracking. “It just— it hurts—”

Your gloved cookie hands dug into your head as the pain spiked again, sharper this time, pulsing in time with your racing heart. Each breath came harsher than the last, your chest aching as if it couldn’t pull in enough air.

“It’s alright,” she soothed quickly, forcing steadiness into her tone. Yet the immense worry did not subside. “We’re almost out. Just a little more, dear. Hold on for me.”

But her words barely reached you.

The pain drowned them out, filling your thoughts until there was nothing else. The burning at your forehead throbbed violently, as though something unseen was awakening, stretching, demanding attention.

You curled in on yourself as much as her hold allowed, whimpering softly, breaths coming out ragged and broken.

Grandmother Pecan tightened her embrace, shielding you with her body as she moved again, faster now despite herself.

“Stay with me,” she whispered urgently. “Please. We’re almost free.”

But you could barely hear her.

Unaware to both of you — Grandmother Pecan with her focus locked on the path ahead, and you lost in the storm of pain — the change finally happened.

The burning at your forehead sharpened one last time. Then, quietly, something appeared.

The shape was unmistakable, the same mark that once hid beneath your glove, now branded openly upon your forehead.

It glowed weakly, unevenly. Blue light pulsed once… twice… struggling, as if uncertain whether it was allowed to exist.

Grandmother Pecan did not see it. She was too busy tightening her hold on you, murmuring reassurances under her breath, pushing forward with stubborn resolve.

You, however, felt it.

For a brief moment, the pain faded, not gone, but drowned out by a strange clarity. Your eyelids fluttered open. Gold suddenly flooded your vision.

Your eyes glowed, bright and unnatural. For that single heartbeat, something recognized you or perhaps, reclaimed you.

Then the light flickered.

Your breath hitched once and your body went slack in Grandmother Pecan’s arms. The glow dimmed as your consciousness slipped away, the mark settling into place as if it had finally found where it belonged.

Grandmother Pecan gasped softly, stopping mid-step as she felt your weight shift. “Dear—?”

But you did not answer.

…

The room was empty.

That was the first thing the Sage of Truth noticed and the thing that refused to make sense.

No small figure curled on the bed. No quiet breathing. No faint pulse of magic lingering in the air where you should have been.

N O T H I N G . . .

He stood still at the center of the chamber, then, his gaze drifted, slow and sharp, until it caught on the door.

The locking sigils carved into it were disturbed, their lines no longer stable, no longer whole. His magic still clung to the frame, he could feel it, but the spell itself was gone. Not broken violently. Not shattered.

Removed.

That realization settled coldly in his chest.

His grip on his staff loosened.

It slipped from his cookie hand and struck the floor with a dull sound, rolling once before coming to rest. He did not reach for it. He did not flinch.

Silence swallowed the room.

The Sage of Truth closed his eyes.

For a heartbeat, his face was still. Blank. Then his eyes snapped open.

Gold flared, bright, sharp, and furious— then it flickered.

The gold bled into blue.

A laugh tore itself from his throat, sudden and uneven, echoing too loudly in the confined space. It wasn’t joyful or calm. It was edged, cracked, almost breathless.

“…Ah,” he muttered, voice trembling, and a smile that did not reach his eyes. “So that’s how it is.”

His attention shifted to his other cookie hand.

Above his palm, something hovered.

A Soul Jam.

Dull blue. Muted. Scarred by disuse and neglect. A thing that should not have been here, should not have existed at all.

Truthless Recluse’s Soul Jam.

The Sage lifted his hand slowly, bringing it closer to his face. His own Soul Jam pulsed in response, glowing faintly at his chest, as if recognizing its broken mirror.

Dangerous, a distant voice in his mind warned. Unstable. Forbidden.

He smiled anyway.

“Using the Dark Moon Magic was never meant to be safe,” he murmured, almost indifferent. “But then again… it will all be worth it.”

Golden magic seeped from his palm, thin strands reaching out and wrapping around the dull Soul Jam. The transfer began slowly, like cautious hands testing the edge of a blade.

The dull blue gem trembled.

Then it responded.

Light stirred within it as it glowed forcefully, accommodating the magic it was given.

The Sage’s breath hitched as he forced more magic into it, ignoring the sharp ache blooming behind his eyes. Symbols ignited in the air before him, forming one by one.

An eye.

One that resembles the similarity of Truthless Recluse’s sigil.

It hovered, watching, unblinking.

The moment the symbol fully formed, the room changed.

Cyan light flooded the chamber, washing over the walls, the shelves, the bed where you should have been. Shadows began to stretch unnaturally long, trembling and swallowing the room in darkness.

The Sage lifted his head.

One of his eyes, once gold, shifted.

Cyan replaced it.

His smile faded, slow and deliberate, as the room hummed with unstable power.

“…Run all you want, little one,” he whispered into the glowing air. 

“There is no place left to hide.”

…

…

…

A shadow gathered at the far edge of the room.

It was not like the writhing tendrils from before. This one had a shape. It stood upright, its outline unmistakably that of a Cookie.

Or perhaps, what remained of another Sage of Truth.

What it could’ve been.

He lingered just beyond the reach of the cyan light, half-formed, half-swallowed by the glow. His silhouette leaned lazily against nothing at all, arms crossed as if watching a play reach its most amusing act.

A quiet snicker slipped from him.

“Ah… finally, he says,” he whispered, voice dripping with mockery, “FINALLY you use it. Time and time again, always holding back. Only now, when it’s dire, do you finally dare? Tsk, tsk.”

He tilted his head, a cruel crescent smile curling on his shadowed face.

Another low chuckle, sharp and theatrical.

The shadow’s cyan-and-blue eyes glimmered brighter in amusement.

“Always so careful. Always so cautious. But now? Now it’s too late, isn’t it? You have no choice but to act. How very typical of you.”

But no one heard him.

The words dissolved into the humming cyan glow, swallowed by the pulse of the Soul Jam’s power.

Finally, the shadow turned, not toward the Sage this time.

Looking above at something.

His grin softened into something almost slyly fond.

“Oh, this is going to be entertaining.”

He gave a small, theatrical bow, one hand pressed to his chest as if addressing an unseen audience.

“What an interesting turn of events,” his silent gaze laughed. “Don’t you think so?”

The shadow thinned, leaving only the echo of amusement and the room humming with cyan light, unstable, and dangerously alive.

Chapter Text

Your eyes are squeezed shut, cookie hands clamped tightly against your head.

It hurts.

Not sharp nor was it sudden, but heavy. A deep, burning heat that presses and presses, like something trying to carve its way out of you. Your breaths come uneven, small hitches escaping your chest as you try to endure it. You don’t scream. You don’t even know if you could.

You just hold on.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the pain eases.

Your eyes snap open.

For a brief moment, the world flashes gold. Light floods your vision from within, warm and blinding, before it fades just as quickly as it appeared. The glow leaves your eyes, and with it, the worst of the pain drains away.

You gasp, sucking in air like you’ve been underwater for too long.

Tears cling stubbornly to your eyes, blurring everything. Your cookie hand lifts shakily, dragging across your face to wipe them away. Your movements feel slow and heavy, like your dough hasn’t quite caught up with you yet.

You sit up.

The motion makes your head throb faintly, but it’s bearable now. You blink once. Then again and freeze.

There’s nothing.

Just utter void itself.

An endless void stretches in every direction, silent and unmoving. It doesn’t feel cold, nor warm. It feels like nothing at all, and that somehow unsettles you more than pain ever could.

“…What…?” Your voice comes out small, swallowed by the dark.

You look down at yourself. You’re still here. Still whole. Fortunately enough.. And yet, you try to remember.

.̴̼̟͕͙̤̅͂.̵̛͍͉͎͎̘̮͇̈̈́̃͘̕͘͝.̸̢̮̥͓̙̔̀̂̎̐̍̽̑͝ͅ

“...?”

Your head throbs sharply in warning, and you wince, clutching your head again. The memories scatter the moment you reach for them, blurring into fragments that refuse to line up. 

It hurts to think about it. Like pushing against something that doesn’t want to be touched.

“Okay…” you murmur, swallowing hard. “Okay. One thing at a time.”

You close your eyes again not from pain this time, but on purpose.

Breathe in and out. Slow and steady…

You force your racing thoughts to settle, even as confusion coils tight in your chest. Wherever this place is, whatever happens to you, panicking won’t help. You need to calm down. You need to gather yourself.

You open your eyes once more, staring into the void.

“I’m… still here,” you whisper, more to reassure yourself than anything else.

With nothing else to do, you stand up.

There is no path, no ground that changes beneath your feet, yet you move anyway. One step, then another, walking into the black void as if it might part or respond. It doesn’t. No matter how far you go, the darkness stays the same flat, endless, and uncaring.

Still, doing something feels better than doing nothing.

As you walk, a strange feeling settles in your chest. A quiet sense of déjà vu. As if you made a similar choice before, but the situation would be way different.

You try to think about it.

The moment you do, the thought slips away ripped from your grasp. Not fading naturally, but erased, clean and sudden. Your head doesn’t hurt this time. There is just… nothing left where the thought used to be.

You stop walking.

“…That was weird,” you mutter, uneasy. It doesn't mean you ignore it. More on the feeling of which it didn’t stay in your mind and wandered off… completely forgetting the suspicion.

Time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. Seconds, minutes.. there’s no way to tell here. Eventually, frustration weighs you down, and you sit back where you are, staring into the void with a tired sigh.

Nothing changes.

This place could use some light…

Your gaze lingers on the darkness, unfocused, until a thought finally clicks into place.

Magic.

Your eyes widen slightly.

“If I still have it…” you whisper.

Hope stirs as you raise your cookie hand. You focus, not really trying to conjure a spell but rather trying to prove whether you were able to summon  a magic. Proving that it’s still there. That you are still you.

Warmth answers.

Light spills from your palm, soft and golden. You suck in a breath as the magic gathers, brighter than you expected. It doesn’t flicker or scatter. Instead, it pulls itself together, condensing—

—into an orb.

You blink. “…Huh?”

That wasn’t what you meant to make.

The orb fully forms, smooth and glowing, then lifts itself from your hand. It floats gently into the air, drifting in a slow circle around you, almost curious. It doesn’t feel like a spell waiting for orders.

It feels… alive in a way

Your heart skips.

As the orb moves, that strange sensation hits you again. Déjà vu, stronger this time. A faint image brushes the edge of your mind. An orb, glowing softly, seen through the haze of a dream.

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere,” you murmur, unsure.

But the memory won’t settle. It stays blurry, incomplete, slipping through your thoughts like mist. You can’t tell if it’s real or something you imagined long ago.

The orb continues to float beside you, steady and patient.

Somehow, in this endless void, it’s the first thing that makes you feel not alone.

The orb begins to pulse.

Soft light swells and fades from its surface, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. Then it drifts forward, rising and dipping as it moves, almost playful, inviting even.

You stare at it for a moment.

“…You want me to follow you?” you ask, doubtful.

The orb doesn’t answer. It only floats a little farther away, then floats up and down again, waiting.

You sigh, rubbing your face. “…”

Is this what it feels like to lose sanity?

Still, you stand up.

There isn’t anything else to do. So you follow.

At first, it’s just walking through the same empty blackness. The orb glides ahead of you, never too far, its glow steady. You talk to it as you walk, filling the silence without thinking too much about it.

“So… Do you know a way out of here?”

No response.

You huff a quiet laugh. “Right. Of course you don’t talk. That would be too easy.”

The orb dips once, as if acknowledging you anyway.

“Maybe you know where the exit is,” you add lightly. “If there is one.”

Still nothing… but the orb keeps moving, and you keep following.

Then something changes.

The darkness thins.

It’s subtle at first, like fog lifting. The black void loses its weight, its opacity fading, and color begins to bleed through. Green spreads beneath your feet.

A patch of grass.

Your steps slow as the world sharpens – not fully clear, but there. The orb drifts onward, and scenes unfold around you like overlapping memories.

An orphanage appears.

You recognize it faintly, even though the details feel wrong. Cookie children run across the yard, laughing but their faces are blurred, smudged beyond recognition. A grandmother stands near the door, her form familiar, comforting… and yet her face is just as unclear.

Your chest tightens.

Before you can linger, the scene shifts.

The Spire rises next, tall and bright. Cookies and scholars fill the paths below it, bustling with movement. Stall owners call out, books are carried, conversations overlap yet every face is blurred, every voice indistinct, like sound heard through water.

You watch in silence.

Your mind wants to analyze everything. To question why you’re seeing this, what it means, why no one has a face. Thoughts line up, ready to spill—

—but you don’t speak.

You simply take note.

The library follows. Shelves towering high, scrolls and tomes stacked neatly. A place you faintly have a vague feeling of knowing. Again, the same problem: familiar spaces and unfamiliar faces.

The orb floats calmly through it all, guiding you forward as memory after memory passes by.

You don’t stop it.

You don’t interrupt.

You just walk, quiet and observant, letting the blurred past (or you assumed it to be) unfold around you, wondering not what you’re being shown, but why.

As you move deeper into the memory, something new begins to appear.

Thin lines of silver creep along the ground.

At first, you think they’re cracks with faint, glowing trails etched into the earth. But as you walk closer, you realize they’re roots. Silver roots, spreading outward like roads, branching and overlapping, guiding the path forward.

You slow down, unease settling in your chest.

“…What is this?” you murmur.

You glance at the orb. It doesn’t stop nor turn back. It keeps floating ahead, steady and certain, as if this was always the destination.

With no other choice, you follow the silver roots and more importantly, the orb.

The roots thicken as you go, rising slightly from the ground, their glow brighter now. The air feels different here — heavy, old, like something important has been buried beneath it for a long time.

Then the roots lead you to their source.

A silver tree can be seen.

It stands before you, vast and towering, its trunk pale and luminous, its bark etched with faint patterns that shimmer softly. The roots coil from its base in every direction, disappearing into the memories behind you.

You tilt your head up.

At the very top, its branches stretch outward and there, nestled among them, are five shapes.

They are distinct, yet unclear. Each one different from the other, their outlines ambiguous. You can’t name what they are, only that they matter.

Your gaze lingers on them.

More importantly, on the lone shape to the right.

You can’t explain why. Your eyes return to it again and again, as if something is pulling your sight, refusing to let you look away. The longer you stare, the heavier your chest feels.

Something stirs inside you. A quiet pull. A pressure that settles deep, firm and undeniable, even though you don’t understand it.

The feeling doesn’t fade.

If anything, it grows stronger.

“…What?”

The shape shifts.

At first, you think you blinked wrong. You rub your eyes once, then twice but when you look again, the outline is no longer steady. It wavers, bending in on itself, as if the space around it is warping.

Your unease spikes.

“That’s…—”

The shape distorts further, stretching and folding in ways that hurt to focus on. A faint hum fills the air, low and vibrating, resonating straight through your head.

Then—

It glows.

A deep, clear blue light blooms from the shape, cutting through the silver branches like a pulse. The glow beats once… twice… in rhythm with your heart.

Your breath catches.

Without realizing it, you—

“■■■■■■ ■■■■?”

The word slips out before you can stop it. The moment it leaves your mouth, pain flares across your forehead.

You gasp, clutching your head as heat burns into your dough.

Unseen to you, a mark blooms there — blue and sharp, mirroring the very shape on the Silver Tree. It glows faintly, resonating in perfect sync with the blue light above and for a brief moment, you feel it resonate, like two distant things recognizing each other.

The tree responds.

The ground cracks.

Thin fractures split the memory beneath your feet, spreading fast, crawling outward like shattered glass. The colors of the world begin to drain as darkness seeps through the breaks.

But this isn’t the quiet void from before.

From the cracks, a black, oily substance leaks out, thick and wrong. It flows unnaturally, as if alive, spilling over the roots and swallowing the memory whole.

Your heart pounds.

“Wait—!”

The darkness surges.

Eyes open within it.

Dozens. Then more. Wide, unblinking eyes tear open from the black liquid, all turning toward you at once.

You freeze for half a second then panic hits.

You turn and run.

Your feet barely touch the ground as the black tide rushes after you, eyes blinking open and closing as it chases you down. You don’t dare look back for long.

The void presses in from every direction, the sound of something chasing you echoing behind.

“What—what is that?!” you shout desperately. Forcing to not look behind.

Your gaze darts around, frantic, searching. You don’t stop running, eyes scanning wildly, praying to catch even a single glimpse of that golden light before the darkness reaches you.

The orb.

You scan the crumbling memory, the fading tree, the collapsing roots, anything. Fear tightens your chest as the darkness closes in, reaching, stretching—

“Please,” you gasp, “Anyone—!”

You run harder, heart racing, desperately searching for the faint golden light as the void threatens to swallow everything whole.

Out of nowhere, a sound reaches you.

A faint hum can be heard. Soft, but urgent.

Your head snaps up.

There.

The orb.

It shines in the distance, its golden light flickering wildly, pulsing faster as if calling out to you. Relief hits your chest so hard it almost hurts.

You stumble forward, legs burning, vision blurring at the edges. The darkness thickens around you, swallowing the ground, crawling up your sight like ink spilled over glass.

The hum grows louder.

Closer.

But your strength is fading.

Your steps turn sloppy. The world tilts. Black bleeds into everything, drowning the last colors you can see. The rushing dark nearly reaches your feet.

Your cookie hand stretches out.

Just a little more.

Your body trembles as the light dims in your vision, and a stray thought slips through your mind, weak and unguarded.

Ah… am I going to—?

Your cookie hand closes around the orb.

Light explodes.

Warm, blinding gold bursts outward from your grasp, flooding the void in an instant. The void recoils violently, the black liquid screeching without sound as it is forced back.

The eyes snap shut one by one.

Some vanish immediately. Others linger, trembling, before collapsing into nothing, swallowed by the light. The black substance evaporates, dissolving like mist under the sun.

The cracks continue to emerge but this time, it emits light unlike what had happened.

The void quiets.

Golden light fills everything, steady and overwhelming, wrapping around you like an embrace. The hum softens, turning calm, reassuring.

You slump forward, breath shaky, but alive.

The darkness is gone.

…

Sunlight warms your face.

Not the sharp kind nor was it blinding. Just enough to tell you that you are awake.

You groan softly and sit up, cookie hands digging into the soft texture of grass. Your head still aches, a dull reminder of the pain you went through, but it is no longer burning. Your whole body feels heavy, sore, like you were pulled apart and put back together poorly.

You breathe in.

Slowly, your memories return in pieces. The room. The mark. The pain. Running—

“Grandmother Pecan…?”

You turn your head, scanning the area. No sign of her. No footsteps. Nothing. For a brief moment, worry claws at your chest, but you force yourself to stay calm. You’re alive. That much is clear.

The place feels familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. The open sky, the gentle slope of land, and then you see it.

The river.

Milky white, slow-moving, glowing softly under the sun as if it carries light within it. It stretches calmly before you, unchanged, untouched by time.

A memory surfaces from deep within your mind, clear and undeniable.

This is where it all started.

“The Yogurt River of Rebirth…” 

This was the place where you first opened your eyes in this world.

You stare at the river, emotions twisting together inside you.

Fear. Confusion. A strange sense of familiarity.

And something else.

As if the world itself has brought you back to the beginning.

You barely have time to gather your thoughts before something familiar drifts into view.

A soft golden glow floats in front of you.

Your eyes widen.

“The orb…?” you say, a little breathless.

Now that your head feels clearer, the memory clicks into place almost instantly. The strange dream. The way you talked to it that one fateful night. This is the same one. There is no doubt about it.

A small spark of relief rises in your chest.

“Hey,” you greet it, a bit awkward but genuine. “So you’re real, then? Or… real enough.”

You stare at it, brows knitting together.

“But how are you here?” you ask. “This isn’t a dream, right? I’m awake.”

The orb only hovers, pulsing softly, offering no answer.

Before you can press further, something changes.

The light around you dims.

“...?”

You look up just in time to see the sky shift, the bright blue draining away like spilled ink. In seconds, the warm daylight is gone, replaced by an unnatural darkness. It isn’t night, not truly.

There are no stars.

Instead, strange sigils stretch across the sky, glowing faintly, layered and overlapping like carved symbols written directly into the sky. Between them, eyes open.

Large. Unblinking.

Watching.

A chill runs down your spine.

“…What the—” you mutter, instinctively scramble back.

The eyes do not move, but you can feel their attention pressing down on the land, some falling their line of sight on you. Your body tenses, every sense on edge. This place no longer feels calm. No longer safe.

You push yourself fully to your feet, cookie hands clenching at your sides.

“Yeah. Nope. I don’t like this,” you say under your breath.

Your gaze flicks to the orb. It floats closer, its glow steady, as if urging you onward. You swallow, heart pounding, then nod once.

“Alright,” you say quietly. “Let’s move.”

You turn away from the river, setting a destination in your mind, anywhere but here, frankly away from the prying eyes. 

The orb drifts beside you as you start walking in hurried steps, its golden light cutting a small path through the growing darkness, while the watching eyes above remain fixed, silent, and waiting.

Unseen by you, several of the eye sigils shift.

They tilt, narrowing ever so slightly, their attention breaking away from the land below. One by one, they turn inward, whispering through the spell that binds them. A quiet signal travels along invisible threads, carrying a single message.

Somewhere far above, beyond the false night sky, a Cookie lounges as if the world itself were a stage built for his amusement.

He wears a jester’s outfit, bright and theatrical, colors clashing in a way that feels intentional. His posture is relaxed, almost lazy, as he peers down at the Spire below. Chaos unfolds beneath him with Cookies running, scholars arguing, magic flaring where it should not. He watches it all with open delight, chin resting on his cookie hand.

His eyes — one cyan, one blue — gleam as if reflecting the mess he created.

“Ohhh, look at them go,” he hums, voice light and pleased. “Such panic! Such confusion! I really outdid myself this time.”

Then—

He pauses.

The smile on his face doesn’t fade, but it stills momentarily.

Something brushes against his senses. A strange tug, faint but unmistakable, carried through the very magic he cast. His spell reacts before he does, feeding him a vague impression.

An intruder.

His brows lift in mock offense.

“…Oh?” he murmurs.

He straightens slightly, head tilting as if listening to an unheard voice. The eye sigils relay what little they know. Not a threat. Not an ally. Just… present.

Present without permission, that is.

His grin sharpens.

“Well now,” he says softly, placing a cookie hand over the Soul Jam embedded in his chest. The gem glows faintly as his cookie hand brushes it, responding to his touch. “How rude!”

His mismatched eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Entering my stage without an invitation?” he continued, tone playful, almost scandalized. “Without so much as a knock?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, light and theatrical, as if someone unseen had just told a very good joke.

“But then again…” He glances outward, not at the Spire, but somewhere else, somewhere beyond it. “…what’s a story without a surprise guest?”