The soft scent of dream-incense lingered in the warm air of the Oak Family estate, Penacony's eternal dusk bleeding lavender hues through the tall stained-glass windows. A gentle hush fell over the corridors, save for the near-inaudible, methodical click of polished boots against marble as Sunday made his way through the main hall, a letter folded neatly in his gloved hand.

His halo shimmered faintly, a soft gold radiance casting an elegant halo of light along the marble walls. The little wings at the back of his head twitched, feathers fluffing unconsciously in irritation. He had barely spoken since the Dreammaster’s visit hours ago.

He didn’t have to be a mind-reader to recall every word. "Has she mentioned anything about a stray bullet?"

Sunday clenched the letter tighter.

The Dreammaster's gaze, heavy with something unspoken, still lingered in the air of his private study. And though he hadn’t shown it then - hadn’t allowed a single hair out of place, hadn’t let his carefully measured expression falter - something inside him had cracked.

He knew you’d gone to Kasbelina-VIII against his wishes. He remembered how you'd come to him weeks prior, voice bright with conviction, eyes alight with that unrelenting, stubborn gleam you always carried. He could still hear your words: "I’ll be fine, brother. You of all people should know my voice is blessed - Harmony protects those who spread it."

Sunday had smiled then. A beautiful, gentle, far-too-composed smile that masked the tightening in his chest. He knew better than to try and cage you. He never wanted to. He'd sworn he wouldn't be another one of the Family's possessive puppeteers, even if some ancient part of him howled to lock you away where no stray bullet or foolish war could ever reach you.

He let you go.

And now, you were back.

The familiar, ethereal hum of your aura brushed against his own as you crossed the threshold into his study, and the moment he saw you - truly saw you - Sunday froze.

You still wore that easy, tired smile, your radiance dulled but not extinguished. There was a gauze bandage carefully wound around your throat, the pristine white stained faintly pink where the edge of the wound must’ve reopened. Sunday’s wings bristled, the feathers fluffing sharply, and his halo flickered dangerously.

"...What," he began, voice too soft, too level. The silk veneer of it strained beneath the surface tension. "...happened."

It wasn’t a question. He already knew.

Your voice caught in your throat when you tried to speak, a rasp where there was once the famed voice of Penacony’s darling singer - the one whose songs could hush riots and stitch shattered hearts back together. You forced a faint, weary smile. "Sunny, it’s—"

"Don't," he murmured, closing the distance in a single step.

Sunday’s gloved hand reached out, fingers ghosting over the side of your neck - not quite touching, but close enough for the heat of his palm to register. His expression was unreadable now, the kind of serenity only Halovians could master, but the shimmer of his halo betrayed him - shifting shades, gold bleeding into a stormy bronze. "You promised," he whispered, and the break in his voice was nearly imperceptible.