The whip slammed into the stone wall with a deafening crack, shattering a chunk of ancient marble and narrowly missing Noah's face by maybe two inches.
"FUCK—!"
He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the tangled heap of broken chairs he'd piled for target practice. The glowing whip recoiled like a serpent made of light, writhing back toward his hand before flickering out entirely. The silence that followed was deafening.
Across the room, Abel—shirt half-off, muscles gleaming from training—paused mid-swing with his sword.
"…Are you trying to kill yourself," he said flatly, "or is this some kind of complex mating ritual?"
Noah, panting, tossed the half-burnt spellbook onto the bed behind him. "I told you not to look while I practice."
"You screamed."
"I always scream when I'm doing something important. It's called drama." He pointed accusingly at the smoldering dent in the wall. "That, for example, was almost a perfect Fate Line."
"It was a wall."
"Well, it was a very threatening wall. And I'm getting better."
"You punched yourself in the face five minutes ago."
"Progress isn't linear."
Abel sheathed his sword with a faint clink and walked over, taking in the destruction with a tired expression that bordered on fond exasperation. The training room they'd repurposed—some once-opulent bedroom now cleared of cursed furniture and ghost residue—was covered in faint whip marks and glowing scorch trails. A shattered chandelier wept glass shards onto the dusty carpet.
Noah straightened his posture and summoned the magic again.
Thin threads of light flickered to life around his fingers—two glowing cords of fate unraveling like puppet strings. He focused, breathing in.
"Fate Lines."
The threads surged forward—one lashing toward a practice dummy, the other wrapping around the leg of a shattered table. They hit. The whip around the dummy held tight; the other… yanked the entire table into Noah's shin.
"GAH—!"
He went down in a heap of limbs and magic and splinters.
Abel didn't even blink. "Do you want me to leave so you can suffer in peace?"
Noah groaned, flopping onto his back. "No. I want applause. I just tamed the ropes of destiny and only got minorly maimed."
"You didn't tame anything. You assaulted furniture."
"I'm very intimidating to wood-based lifeforms."
He expected a sigh. Maybe a snort. Instead, when he peeked up—Abel was crouching beside him, one hand lightly brushing the edge of Noah's bruised knee.
"…You okay?" His voice was quieter than before.
Noah blinked.
"Wow. Look who's going soft on me," he said, but it came out quieter than he meant. Not teasing. Not really.
Abel didn't move his hand.
"If I didn't care," he murmured, "I wouldn't be watching you nearly break your neck to master a spell you barely understand."
Their eyes met.
And for a second, the ruined room faded. No ghosts. No curses. Just warm light and the faint burn of magic on Noah's skin where the Fate Lines still flickered, coiled like glowing thread around his wrists.
Noah looked away first. "...Okay, well, now that you've gone all sentimental knight, I guess I'll stop dying for five minutes. Let's get lunch before I accidentally bind myself to a chair."
Abel stood, offering a hand. Noah hesitated like he might ignore it… then took it anyway.
"I still say you're weirdly into watching me suffer," Noah muttered as he was pulled up.
Abel's grip lingered half a second too long. "If I were into suffering, I'd still be living here."
That earned a genuine laugh from Noah, low and sharp. "Touché."
They moved through the old halls of the castle with a strange sort of ease. No ghosts. No screams. Just the sound of boots on faded rugs and distant echoes as the castle—now finally dead—settled into its decay.
It was warmer. That was the weirdest part.
Not in temperature, not really. But in feeling. The walls no longer wept shadows. The air didn't cling like rot. Where once every step felt watched, now there was just… peace. A sleepy, almost sacred stillness.
Abel opened the door to what used to be the pantry, now their makeshift supply station. Shelves of semi-preserved dried goods, salted meats, bottles of water, herbs, and the occasional bizarre alchemy jar labeled in a language neither of them could read.
"I think this one's full of eyeballs," Noah said, squinting at a jar floating with pale orbs.
Abel didn't look up from packing rations. "Then don't eat it."
"You're no fun."
They sorted supplies in silence. Bandages, spare cloths, two clean cloaks, a tiny bottle of healing salve Abel had risked death looting from the royal armory.
Noah peeked into the food satchel. "Wow. Gourmet expedition."
"I'm not cooking for you."
"You just wait until we're starving and I'm the only one who knows how to boil moss without poisoning us both."
"Then we'll die quickly."
"Optimism, Abel. It's sexy."
Abel paused.
Then—finally—a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Noah caught it. His heart skipped, stupidly.
Later that evening, they sat by a makeshift fire in what used to be the Queen's private salon. Abel was polishing his sword. Noah was sprawled across the thick rug with the Book of Woven Fate open in front of him, one leg lazily kicking in the air as he mouthed through the archaic script.
He muttered to himself, tracing sigils in the air with glowing fingers.
"Fate Lines can extend from the caster's hands… stable length approximately five to six meters… redirectable after impact…" He scribbled in the margin with a piece of charcoal. "Mental image: magical BDSM ropes. Training: do not test on yourself."
"You know I can hear you," Abel said without looking up.
"Then maybe someone should offer to be a test subject."
A long pause.
"…Noted."
Noah blinked. "Wait, what?"
Abel didn't answer. Didn't even look at him. But the firelight glinted against the edge of his cheekbone, and Noah swore that man was smiling again.
Bastard.
Noah closed the book with a dramatic sigh. "Okay, I'm officially done pretending I'm a diligent scholar. My brain is melting."
"You got through five pages."
"Five dense pages. Magic is exhausting. I deserve praise. Or sex. But I'll settle for tea."
Abel looked over now, eyebrow raised. "You're not serious."
"About the tea or the sex?"
"…Both."
Noah gave him his sweetest, most innocent smile. "I'm always serious."
Silence.
Then, against all odds—Abel looked away. Actually blushed.
Noah nearly burst out laughing. "Oh my god, are you flustered? Is the mighty cursed prince getting red over a joke?"
"It's not the joke." Abel's voice was low. "It's that I don't think you were joking."
The laughter caught in Noah's throat.
For a second, it felt like everything slowed—the flickering fire, the shadows on the broken walls, the scent of old roses still clinging to the drapes.
"No," Noah admitted, softly. "I wasn't."
Abel looked back at him. "And you still want me to stay?"
"More than anything."
They sat there for a long time after that.
Close, but not touching.
Warm, but not safe.
Not yet.
By the next morning, they were packed.
Rations. Weapons. Maps of hallways Noah had sketched from memory. The Book of Woven Fate.
And when they stepped through the once-cursed halls—now silent and bright with morning sun through broken stained glass—it felt like something had shifted.
A page turned.
An old wound finally sealed.
They paused at the grand stairway that led upwards. To the broken world above. To whatever waited.
Noah glanced sideways at Abel.
"You ready?"
Abel nodded. "As long as you don't trip on the first step and die."
"I'll do my best," Noah muttered. "For you."
And together—side by side—they ascended.