Jackson stood in silence and watched Corvina walk away. After a moment of stunned dismay the depraved author decided against caring.

He turned his head away from the departing figure.

His worn leather boots only walked one or two steps, before Jackson felt a gust of wind blow from behind his back and send his hair flying in the wind.

His blouse was ruffled by the wind’s strength. The ribbon that decorated the front of the shirt drifted into the wind, before whipping back onto his face.

“My eyes...”

The wind left as abruptly as it came.

In annoyance Jackson tucked his hair behind his ear and fixed his clothing. He began walking once more, this time with a quickened pace. But he didn’t make much progress before he paused mid-step.

A drifting star magnolia passed on by. The white flora twirled in the warm wind, entering in and out of his vision. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as it neatly dodged his hair.

Jackson lifted his hand in faint amusement. His fingers were outstretched, awaiting the presence of the falling Magnolia.

He did not have much expectations for where the wind decided to flow. Even so, he wanted to see what would happen to the flower, and whether he would be fortunate to have it drift onto his makeshift platform.

Much to his surprise, the little magnolia fell into the palm of his awaiting hand. The faint brush of the white petals against his hand tickled his fingers.

In delight he played with the flora in his hand and allowed himself to reminisce on an indistinct recollection of Earth.

The Star Magnolia trees speckled his neighborhood during spring. The flowers would sway to and fro in the wind, and he would watch from the window in the comforts of his home. The wind chimes tinkled their sweet sound in the wind together with the faint brushing sound of petals.

There was a transparent layer of glass that separated him from the flowers. He pressed his hands against the cold window in early winter until it formed the imprint of his hand, his eyes transfixed onto the Magnolias.

The field of white flowers appeared like a fragment of the sky. A little heaven on earth, that graced him with their presence. Yet the flowers in bloom had a finite time.

Eventually they would vanish into green and he would await the next late winter, the one after, and the one after. In the same room and in the same house he watched the seasons change, and he waited expectantly.

It was as though the flowers were paper mache in a snow globe.

If the star magnolias were paper mache, then he would think himself a figurine that sat inside.

He was the only presence in a small world. He was the sole constant in a continuously shifting world, a simple observer that would watch his surroundings swirl in motion before it inevitably came to a stop. But unlike the continuous shifting paper mache that always ended a little differently than they began, the seasons that came and went with the arrival of new flowers, he stayed the same.

And simply watched as another one of his imprint was left.

He was told many times to change, by people who told him he couldn't live like that any longer. Regardless, he didn't believe there wasn’t a need to. The person he was, and the person he wanted to come…he didn’t believe that his efforts in change would lead him to a desired outcome. He was still waiting for someone to come back. He continued to wait, and wait and wait…and the seasons changed once more before he was taken away from that view.

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He slumped onto the floor and laid there, staring at the flowers drifting down to his awaiting body. With a raised hand, he welcomed a second magnolia into his hands. The lovely white flower touched his skin. He noticed this one had little pink tip edges.

He let it sit in his hand in a daze.

“It’s similar…”

It was a pink similar to Ash’s and his eyes.

“Oi bastard, don’t fucking embarass me in public. The hell you’re playing with flowers!?”

Well. That was an annoying reminder. With an expression of dismay, the fake teen hurtled his upper body forward from the ground and tossed the flower aside.

“My dear protagonist, my thoughts are running in a circle but you decided to join in and run me over.”

“Fucker how fucking nondescript can your words get!? Bastard, none of your words make sense.”

If any of the Kurton manor servants were there to see the Magnolias, they would remark that it was an unnatural sight in the warmth of the summer season.

Yet although Jackson should’ve known it was odd, he hadn’t bothered to care about the detail. He went through rumination through rumination but he was a bit of an oblivious sort.

Without thinking deeply about the off season blooming or of the other presences around the Kurton manor, the writer of Salaria made his way back inside– this time without disruptions. He neglected to notice the cold gaze of a person peering through a window.

A hand laid against the glass that separated them. The finger’s were broad like that of a mans, and clenched tightly against the transparent covering as a pair of dark brown eyes watched Jackson walk away..

Ash’s gaze was unbridled anger that made all other emotions secondary. Corvina’s gaze was neurotic and vengeful, as if she was owed something from the world. But this man's eyes were consumed with raw animosity that went far beyond the anger and neuroticism.

They were filled to the brim with obsession, as if a great wrong was committed and captured his soul and warped the person he was. Like a ghost that clung to life in search of past regrets, his consuming rage spilled from his eyes insatiable hunger that threatened to swallow the pink eyed boy.

He channeled his anger into his fingers, allowing the sensation to flow through his body. Then, he formed a vessel. He compressed the flame into a poignant arrow, and stilled himself. HIs fingers that once trembled began to stop. His eyes that overfilled with rage began to stiffen into an empty gaze. He remembered the injustice and bided his time. There would be time to hunt.

Clenching his teeth against each other, the man finally turned his gaze away from Ash and walked away.

He sat at a decrepit table and began journaling.

As the inked feather pen made its first mark onto the paper, the man stopped abruptly. With a trembling hand, the man relaxed his grip on the quill and began crumpling the paper he had just left a mark on.

“Cole.”

With a voice croaking from disuse, the man called in the knight.

“Yes, Master.”

A faint presence made itself respectful.

“Tell the Countess Marybelle to remove that filth from my gaze. That vermin spawn of the Count’s will be harmful to Curtis’ education.”

“Yes. I will do so immediately.”

With a respectful yet cautious tone the knight left the old Count Kurton to relay the message.

The man waited for the knight to leave his side before his eyes began to fill with rage.

“If only Soleil was still alive…curse that whoring wretch for stealing my son!!”

Gritting his teeth, the man laid a trembling hand over his head. His brown pupils quaked within his eye sockets as he reminiscenced in the dishonor to the Kurton house, and the years thereafter where he made himself scarce. Yet it was not his choice to live that way, an old memory within his own home, the servants making themselves sparse and old acquaintances turning their heads away from him. All of them, who turned their backs on him.

“No, I cannot let things continue like this… that vermin continues to grow more arrogant with each passing day.”

With a shaky tone, the man lifted his pen once more. His hand moved in a fluid motion as if the earlier anger was just an illusion.

“Yes, yes…that would be perfect. The Sitri’s, correct? I shall send a message out immediately…”

A glimmer of satisfaction entered his eyes.

“Soon enough…my beloved, the noble Kurton. It will be mine once more.”

—

“Young master, your letter.”

A gaunt looking man in a servant’s uniform walked into Ash’s room. He had a pair of glasses on his face, with his dark hair was perfectly gelled and styled. Other than the dark circles underneath his eyes the man left a sharp impression.

“How surprising~ I wasn’t expecting you to actually get any mail.”

“...”

Interestingly enough, the little chihuahua didn’t respond to his provocation this time. In a disappointed hum, the author took the letter as the tired servant left the room.

It was a neat little envelope with an unidentifiable wax seal stamp. After flipping it back and forth in his hands, Jackson opened the envelope.

“No, no, fucking son of a–”

Jackson picked up the paper. His eyes widened in surprise, as he clenched the letter a little tighter.