"No..." I whispered as I began to back away. "No, no, no..."

  He rose instantly.

  "Oh no," he said, almost in pain. "No. Please... I don't want to do this again."

  I kept retreating until my back hit the wall. My heart was pounding, the air thickened, syrupy.

  "Don't come closer," I said, already knowing it was useless.

  He looked at me for a long moment. With regret. With a strange, tired tenderness.

  And then he did it.

  My body stopped being mine again.

  I felt everything—the fear, the cold, the warmth of the room, the smell of coffee—but I couldn't move, couldn't scream. Only my eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Molly... I can't do otherwise..." he said quietly.

  He came closer and lifted me as easily as before, as if I weighed no more than that knitted hat. Carefully—almost gently—he laid me on the couch, adjusted the cushion behind my back, leaving me half-seated.

  "I truly didn't want to," he said softly. "But you're not ready yet... You could do something... wrong. And that would be dangerous."

  I stared at him, feeling everything inside me tighten.

  He straightened and closed his eyes for a second—as if making a decision he had postponed for too long. Not dramatic. More... responsible.

  "I didn't come for salt," he said calmly. "Or even for pastries. Though," the corner of his mouth twitched faintly, "the pastries were exceptional.

  I came to continue the conversation we didn't finish yesterday. Because our shared safety depends on it."

  He sat not beside me, but a little farther away—deliberately. Close enough for his presence to be felt. Far enough not to invade.

  "Phil sends his regards," he added almost casually. "He's watching his movie now. Very absorbed. Resting. Everything is stable."

  The domestic normality of it sounded terrifying. Almost cozy. Almost mocking.

  "As I already told you," Alexander continued, "he carries a fetus. A Lactimol."

  He paused, letting the words settle—the way people do when they know this is not the moment to rush.

  "There was no clinic. No doctors. No examinations. It was a small performance. For humans. So they wouldn't ask unnecessary questions."

  He looked straight at me. Not hiding. Not averting his gaze.

  "Phil traveled to our place. Where he was protected. Where he was prepared. He was guided by the Seruses."

  He inclined his head slightly—a gesture almost old-fashioned.

  "Oh yes. I never truly introduced myself, did I?"

  He smiled—not flirtatiously, but like someone who cares about making the right first impression, even if the first one already happened.

  "Nice to meet you, Molly. I am one of them. I am a Serus."

  The word echoed strangely.

  Serus.

  It felt like something I had heard before. Not in conversation. Not in a book. Somewhere deeper—like a forgotten name from a dream too real to be just a dream.

  "I never planned to live with Phil," he went on. "I had entirely different plans."

  He looked away for a second—and there was something profoundly human in that.

  "I was meant to go far away. There is a lot of urgent work there now. Restoring ecosystems. Soil. Water. Contaminated zones. We are needed there."

  He looked back at me—more gently.

  "But an emergency arose," he said quietly.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Then, more firmly:

  "And plans changed."

  I blinked, hard, desperately. The only thing I wanted to convey was:

  remove this.

  Remove the block. I want to speak. I want to scream.

  He understood.

  "I will remove the air-glue from your throat," he said slowly. "But you will promise not to scream."

  He leaned closer. Too close for formality. Too calm for a threat.

  "If you scream—I'll apply it again. Instantly.

  He exhaled.

  "That's not a threat. It's... care. Very strange, I admit."

  I blinked once. Then again.

  Agreement.

  He changed instantly.

  His pupils dilated sharply, unnaturally. The room seemed to warm by a fraction of a degree. I felt warmth spread in my throat—a dense, viscous sensation, as if something were being carefully dissolved from within.

  I swallowed.

  "Molly," he said softly. "Try."

  "I..." I croaked.

  The voice was there. Mine. Uneven, trembling—but alive.

  I inhaled sharply, like after a long dive.

  "Excellent," he said, leaning back slightly. "You see? You managed."

  He watched me attentively. Almost tenderly. And yes—with that very look that makes you either fall in love or ask a thousand questions at once.

  "Now listen. And ask questions," he said.

  Pause.

  "But not all at once. Some answers... require preparation."

  He smirked.

  "Yours. And mine."

  Snow fell slowly outside the window.

  And I sat on my couch, finally able to speak, with a perfectly clear understanding:

  I had just met someone who would overturn not only my life,

  but my entire understanding of who has the right to be so... impossible—and so irresistibly compelling.

  "Release me," I said.

  The voice was mine now. It trembled—but it was mine.

  He didn't hesitate.

  "No," Alexander answered shortly.

  "Release me," I repeated, angrier now.

  He glanced at his watch. At me. And again—calmly, almost wearily:

  "Don't waste your energy, Molly. No."

  "You're a... sorcerer?" I blurted out.

  The words escaped before I could filter them. "I remembered you. I remembered everything."

  He tensed. Just slightly. But I saw it.

  "You were there," I said quickly, stumbling. "Back then. When Phil and I went to the market.

  You were there. You did something to Phil."

  He was silent.

  "And there were..." I swallowed. "There were monsters.

  Blood.

  I saw everything."

  My breathing broke apart.

  "That's when it all started!" I shouted. "After that walk! After that place!

  You lured us there!

  Why us?!

  Why us?!"

  I stared at him, barely blinking.

  "Are you the devil?" I said more quietly. "Who are you?

  Who are they?

  What did you do to us?"

  He looked at me for a long time.

  Not defending himself.

  Not justifying.

  With the expression of someone who heard not an accusation—but something far more serious.

  "You..." he said slowly, "you saw them back then?"

  "Yes," I rasped. "Yes, I saw them.

  I saw everything."

  The words came out torn, as if I were pulling them out of myself by hand.

  He tightened instantly. Not sharply—but deeply, inwardly. His posture didn't change, but his gaze became focused, quick, dangerously attentive.

  "Don't scream," he said quietly, but with absolute firmness. "And listen to me. This is important."

  He ran a hand over his face, as if wiping away exhaustion that was far too heavy for one evening.

  "I didn't lure you," he said. "Neither you nor Phil.

  It was... different."

  He paused, choosing words. I could feel—it wasn't something he was used to explaining.

  "The Fliiruses haven't rung for thousands of years," he continued. "Usually one flower rings. In rare cases—two. That alone is an event. A sign."

  He looked straight at me.

  "But this time—all of them rang."

  A chill ran down my spine.

  "All of them," he repeated. "Here. And in distant places.

  We contacted Seruses from other regions. Everyone who still had even a single bush.

  And everyone said the same thing:

  the Fliiruses are ringing."

  He clenched his fingers, as if remembering the sensation.

  "Fliiruses are flowers of our ancient vine-shrub. Magical. Living.

  We preserved only a few. The rest..."

  He stopped, then exhaled.

  "The rest burned."

  "There was a long, terrible war," he said hoarsely. "With disgusting creatures—the Gruns.

  It lasted hundreds of thousands of years.

  They destroyed almost everything. Our forests. Settlements. Beings.

  And us, too."

  I sat motionless.

  "When the Fliiruses rang," he continued, "it was a sign known to all of us.

  It means only one thing."

  He raised his eyes.

  "A new Lactimol will be born."

  The words hung in the air.

  "A sacred being," he said. "Extremely rare.

  Only one remains on the entire planet.

  He is wounded.

  Exhausted.

  He can no longer heal the planet."

  His voice softened.

  "His mother is also gravely ill. We barely saved them.

  A few Fliirus bushes are not enough to heal them. We need more. Much more.

  And when the flowers rang..."

  He exhaled.

  "It was a chance."

  He looked at me as if I was meant to understand not with my mind, but with something else.

  "We were close to despair," he said. "But we fought to the end.

  And then—this."

  He smiled faintly, without joy.

  "We didn't know where the Lactimol would be born. To whom. When.

  It's always different. It cannot be calculated.

  It's a miracle. Lactimols are born extremely rarely—once every ten to twenty thousand years.

  But a Lactimol is always born to a special human or a Serus—someone connected to us...

  I still cannot understand why Phil... I truly cannot."

  He fell silent. Then continued:

  "Then the strongest Pteroseruses took the Book of Ash.

  They created it long ago, in haste—from ash, from the remnants of the forest, from charred Fliirus leaves.

  It is imperfect. But we had nothing else."

  He looked aside, as if seeing it again.

  "They tore out a single page and performed the ritual—Vorzithum."

  The word sounded heavy.

  "That page, with the help of one of our Seruses, led you to me," he said.

  "That's how we understood: one of you would become the mother."

  He looked at me.

  "And when you entered the nesting ground...

  the Fliiruses rang as they never had before."

  Something clenched inside me.

  "It was music," he said quietly. "Real.

  They were singing."

  He closed his eyes for a second.

  "I took the page. Left a semblance behind—an ordinary scrap.

  I didn't understand it then."

  He looked at me again.

  "And it turned out that in those moments the Fliiruses were pollinating him.

  They chose Phil.

  He fell into a state of bliss back then.

  That's how it happened."

  The silence was dense.

  "But I didn't know..." he frowned. "I didn't know that you saw someone else in that room.

  Besides us."

  He stepped half a pace closer.

  "Tell me, Molly," he asked very softly,

  "what exactly did you see?"

  He froze, watching me as if weighing not words—but consequences.

  "Molly," he said gently, steel entering his voice, "this is not a negotiation."

  "Then let me go," I exhaled. "Remove it. I want to move.

  I won't say a word while you hold me like this."

  The silence stretched, taut as a wire.

  He straightened slowly, ran a hand through his hair, and gave a tired smirk.

  "You're stubborn," he said. "That's... impressive. And very inconvenient."

  I stared at him without blinking.

  "I am not a thing. Let me go."

  He stepped farther back.

  "Fine. But I won't release you completely," he said honestly. "Not now."

  "And one more thing, Molly," he said calmly, without threat—precisely why it was so unpleasant.

  "If you try to do something foolish... sudden... desperate..."

  He tilted his head slightly.

  "I won't warn you."

  I tensed.

  "Spectral ropes," he continued evenly. "Immediately. No discussion.

  Pause.

  "They don't cause pain. But you already know how... persuasive they are."

  He studied my face, checking if I understood.

  "I don't want to use them again," he added more softly. "Truly."

  A faint smirk.

  "It ruins the atmosphere. And you start looking at me as if I've completely destroyed my reputation."

  I stayed silent.

  "So let's do without heroics," he said. "No window escapes. No screaming."

  I felt something inside shift—as if the pressure eased. My fingers twitched. My legs were still weak, but mine.

  "You see?" he said. "I'm meeting you halfway."

  I gave a bitter smile.

  "How generous."

  He returned it—a brief, crooked smile.

  "And now listen to me carefully," he said.

  "You may say nothing—fine.

  I won't extract it by force."

  He looked straight into my eyes.

  "But you will stay here until we reach an agreement.

  Because what you saw—"

  he paused,

  "means that you are already inside the story."

  He leaned closer, almost whispering:

  "And leaving it without understanding the rules—

  is the most dangerous option of all."