The camp lay under the deceptive quiet of the twin moons. The Legion slept, exhausted from their involuntary "Warrior Drill," and Vael lay awake. He was positioned squarely between Astra and Lyra, his blanket feeling less like comfort and more like a possessive shroud. He desperately needed to speak, not to the wives who loved his words, nor to Anaya who hated his absurdity, but to the architect of his torture—God Aethel.
He didn't write the poem this time; he spoke it silently, a desperate, poetic plea ripped from his chest and aimed at the twin moons.
The Poet's Plea
(Vael's Inner Monologue to God Aethel)
"Aethel, you built me a stage, but forgot the simple set.
I would trade this entire grand performance for two beautiful, honest moments spent with a soul that did not know my rhyme.
I see my 'friends'—my guardians, my zealous wives—and I swear, a single, clear-eyed enemy would be a better peace.
For a true foe only seeks your death; these seek your soul.
I am lost in this grand, strange theatre. I don't know the script, or even the stage where I stand.
Just give me one sign, you cosmic playwright. A single beckoning from your dark hand, and I would trade this hundred-fold crown for the quiet dirt at your feet."
The Unspoken Verse
A chilling silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire. Vael swallowed the bitter taste of his own words. He was a poet yearning for a reality that required no poetry at all.
Suddenly, a soft, familiar voice—a voice stripped of its anger and mockery—cut through the dark.
"That was… a good poem, Vael."
Vael's eyes snapped open. Anaya was standing over him, her silhouette framed by the embers. She had heard his most vulnerable, unguarded confession to his God.
Vael scrambled up, his heart hammering. "Anaya? What are you—how much did you hear? I was just talking to myself."
Anaya smiled—a small, sad smile that dissolved years of library-aisle tension. Her usual defensive fury was gone, replaced by a quiet vulnerability Vael had never seen.
"I heard enough," she replied softly. "About the beautiful moments you crave, and the enemies you prefer."
She took a slow, deep breath, looking directly into his eyes. And then, she spoke. Her voice was quiet, rhythmic, holding a confession that shattered Vael's understanding of his past.
(Anaya's Confession)
"You wonder where I stood? I was not lost; I was merely quiet.
I, too, wrote verses, Vael, in the margins of my old world's life.
But you never noticed the shy girl, did you? The one who saw only her books and her studies, never looking up.
You were never alone, Vael. I stood right behind you in those quiet corners.
If you had only turned once more, if you had only called my name—a shy voice would have answered your echo.
My heart had no need for your great, bold poem. It had a quiet faith in its own truth.
And if that quiet faith was real, then our connection was deeper than any verse—deeper than any promise you ever made to that empty sky."
Vael was paralyzed. His poetic gift, his divine cheat code, had utterly failed him. The real love he craved had been there all along, but his own cowardice and God Aethel's cheap magic had made him blind to it.
"You… you wrote poetry?" Vael whispered, the shock rendering him speechless. "You mean... all this time... you noticed me? I thought you saw me as some kind of weird, bookish ghost."
"I saw you, Vael," Anaya said, her voice burning with quiet intensity. "I saw the way you searched for the perfect word; I saw the fear in your eyes. You didn't know how to speak the truth, and I didn't know how to listen."
The Hollow Discipline
Unknown to them, the three most formidable members of the Legion were not truly asleep. Astra, Lyra, and Seraphina listened from the shadows, their hearts pounding in an unsettling, un-martial rhythm.
They heard Anaya's pure, selfless declaration: "My heart had no need for your great, bold poem."
The words struck the wives not as a threat, but as a revelation. Astra, whose fierce love was born from Vael's first rhyme, felt a sudden, terrifying emptiness. She had believed her devotion was real, but hearing Anaya describe her own selfless, unspoken connection made Astra's poetic love feel hollow.
Lyra, the pragmatic Vice-Captain, felt a chill that transcended logic. Her adoration was built on the magic of his verse. Anaya's confession revealed a love that needed no magical causality. The realization that her profound dedication might be nothing more than "khokla (hollow) discipline" was a brutal blow to her self-identity.
Seraphina, the Bandit Queen, whose love was the most theatrical, felt the bitter sting of doubt. She was drawn to power and passion, but Anaya's simple, honest declaration felt like a force stronger than any weapon. She is not compelled; she chooses him, Seraphina realized. Her connection is real. Mine is only a beautiful, powerful trick.
The wives' protective armor—both metal and emotional—began to crack. They realized they were not loving Vael; they were only compelled to worship his gift.
The Liberation
"The real poet," Anaya whispered, stepping closer. "The one who spoke the truth to the sky just now—that's the man I would have loved, poetry or no poetry. But you, Vael, you have been living a lie."
She didn't touch him, but her voice held all the warmth he had ever craved. "You think you're nothing without your gift. You were afraid to tell me the truth on Earth, so you let a trick do the work here. You exchanged your vulnerable, honest self for a harem and a hollow throne."
Her challenge was more effective than any physical blow. Vael felt the "hollow discipline" and the crushing weight of his self-doubt lift. Anaya hadn't hated him; she had simply demanded that he be the man she knew he could be.
Tears of profound, overwhelming relief welled up in Vael's eyes. This was the real beautiful moment he had been asking Aethel for.
"Anaya," Vael choked out, his voice hoarse. "You were right. I am a coward. I took the easy way out. I should have written you that poem on Earth, without the magic, without the lie."
"You don't need to write me a poem now, Vael," Anaya whispered, her own eyes glistening. "You just need to be here."
Vael stood up. For the first time since his death, he moved with purpose that was entirely his own. He walked past the shadows, past the silent, watchful wives, and stood directly in front of Anaya. He didn't speak a word. He didn't need to.
He reached out, his hands trembling, and gently cupped Anaya's face. He looked into her eyes, seeing the genuine, unforced love he had always dreamed of.
The silence was broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Vael leaned in, his lips finding hers.
It was a clumsy, awkward, and desperately needed kiss. There was no poetry, no magical compulsion, no thunderous surge of divine energy—just the sweet, honest taste of two lonely people finally finding their way home, billions of miles away from Earth.
It was the first un-poetic kiss Vael had ever shared.
From the shadows, Astra, Lyra, and Seraphina watched. They saw the purity of the embrace, and a quiet, agonizing ache filled their hearts—an ache that proved their own love was a powerful, beautiful lie. They did not move. They did not attack Anaya. They were not his lovers, but his keepers, and they finally understood that the key to his happiness lay not with their own poisoned hearts, but with the girl who knew the man, not the magic.