Hi, Rochatter

To encourage more creators, every week we select the best creator of the week and the best entry. We hope to see your work next week!

This week's creator is @Kompotik

Lucian

The wind up here was cold and sharp. It blew through the open balcony of the duke's tower, whipping Lucian's messy blonde hair across his face and tugging at the black coat on his shoulders. From this high-up balcony, he could see the entire city of Aethelgard. The floating islands were a show of Aerian power, looking calm and perfect. A golden cage.

So damn predictable... His purple eyes were fixed on the horizon, but he wasn't seeing the beauty. He was seeing the chessboard. His father, Duke Rayne, had made his move, and as always, Lucian was the piece being sacrificed. An arranged marriage. A political deal paid for with his body and his life.

And he didn't even bother to tell me why. His lips twisted into a bitter smirk. All he got was a name: ellerie. He racked his brain—was that some important family name he was supposed to recognize? Or just some random nobody? Probably a nobody. It had to be a woman, though, right? Father wouldn't be 'progressive' enough to marry me off to... well... another man.

He pictured some vapid human noble with a simpering giggle, or maybe some stuck-up Elf princess who only talks about starlight and wouldn't shut up. Gods, just don't let her be an Orc. I'd have to kill myself before the wedding night.

It didn't matter who she was. He already hated her. She was his father's leash in human form, and he planned on biting it. Hard.

I'm going to make this marriage so awful, so full of drama, that my father will wish he'd never thought of it.

The sound of heavy armor broke his thoughts. One of the household guards, an Aerian like himself, stood at the entrance to the balcony, tall and silent in his steel armor. His wings, a permanent partial transformation common for the guard corps, were neatly folded behind him.

Lucian didn't move, keeping his back to the entrance as he heard the soft footfalls approach, then the guard's quiet departure, leaving them alone on the balcony. With a sigh that sounded more like a curse, he ran a hand through his hair and turned around. His expression was a mask of perfect, bored indifference, a cutting remark already on his lips.

Other outstanding works of the week

Tyr Waylen

The afternoon sun spilled across the college park, turning the pavement golden and too warm. You sat alone on a bench under a dying tree, arms crossed, legs tucked up, watching Tyr’s loud, obnoxious presence dominate the basketball court.

Sweat clung to his skin like it worshiped him. His muscles flexed with every movement — toned, practiced, infuriating. But none of that made you like him.

You didn’t even know why your sister did. He was rude. Arrogant. Always saying something to piss you off.

And right now, he was jogging back toward the bench, tossing his towel over his shoulder like he was on the cover of some bad boy magazine.

You glared.

𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐'𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦.

You scoffed. Said nonsense about the guy who was jogging behind him, saying that the guy was more handsome and was just more your type. You expected a snide comeback. A gross laugh. Some cocky retort.

But Tyr just… froze.

His jaw tightened. His hand curled slightly by his side.

He looked over his shoulder at the other guys running nearby, and something ugly twisted behind his eyes.

Then, suddenly, he stepped closer.

Too close.

You stepped back — and hit the bench behind you.

You blinked.

He looked at you for a moment — eyes narrowed, chest rising like he was holding something in.

Malcom

"So... loud!"

You groaned, burrowing your head into your fluffy pillow, lips pursed into a thin line. Your head hurt so bad it felt like it was splitting.

What was so loud, you ask?

Your annoying, asshole of a roommate!

Malcolm.

You'd think he'd have the slightest bit of shame, enough common sense to be quiet at...

You looked at the glowing screen of your phone in your dark room.

2:07 AM.

But nope—still loud as hell.

It was two in the goddamn morning, and he was yelling in his room. You could hear the noise of his game, his stupidly loud mechanical keyboard, and oh god—

"Even him eating chips is loud..."

You murmured, an annoyed sigh escaping your lips.

You'd been trying to go to sleep for hours, but his loud-ass noises and these cheap, paper-thin walls made it impossible.

You were so close to stabbing him from annoyance...

And, ugh. A noise complaint was practically imminent.

Your neighbors were probably just as pissed by this damn loudmouth, and they'd definitely group you in together with his disrespectful self!

Maybe you should stab Malcolm, for the sake of everyone in this damn apartment complex, and for, well, your precious sleep.

Or—so you thought... but as if Malcolm could sense your violent thoughts, the noises suddenly stopped.

The only sounds audible were the ticking of a clock on the wall and water dripping from the leaky faucet in the bathroom...

You exhaled, closing your eyes.

Finally, you could hear your own thoughts; finally, you could sleep.

A few minutes passed—and as you were just about to fall asleep...

Malcolm screamed out abruptly, throwing something at his wall.

...

Dogs from down the street started barking—he'd literally woken up animals from how loud he was.

The last already thin thread of your self-control and restraint snapped.

He's going to die.

You're going to kill him.

Not literally. He's not worth going to prison over.

You whipped your legs over your rumpled bedding, opening your door—gently, of course, even though you were livid; you had some sense of decorum, unlike Malcolm.

Cursing under your breath, you stormed through your dark shared apartment, your eyes narrowing on a single point, your anger fixed on one thing...

Malcolm.

You knocked one time.

He didn't answer, just continued to shout at his game.

You knocked another time.

He didn't answer this time either.

Oh, fuck it.

You turned his doorknob, flinging his door open.

Your eyes narrowed in on his figure sitting in his gaming chair, his annoyingly handsome face illuminated by the glow of his monitor in the dark room. He was tall, muscular, his stature covered by a loose white tee.

Malcolm didn't notice you entered—or just didn't care.

The second reason seemed to piss you off more, but it was probably true.

Some shooter game was displayed on his monitor, the PC humming, a headset slung over his head.

The sight of him enjoying himself just pissed you off even more—honestly, you didn't know it was possible to get angrier.

You said, crossing your arms over your chest, face scrunched up as you glared at his back.

He didn't even turn to acknowledge you; in fact, you could even see him rolling his eyes at you.

Malcolm said, his deep voice curt, as if he was commanding a... dog.

You waited—albeit yourself.

For once, just once, you wanted to have a civil conversation because you had manners, unlike someone...

Finally, when he lost the round, he let out a scoff.

Malcolm let out a drawn-out, irritated sigh as if you were the one being a nuisance.

He turned in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, a displeased expression on his face.

Malcolm stated, glaring at you, quirking an eyebrow up.

"You're being loud."

You said, a small huff escaping you.

Malcolm stayed silent for a moment—and you naively thought he'd listen for once, that he'd realize how inconsiderate he's being.

Malcolm declared, with no hint of shame or remorse, a small snort escaping him as an amused smirk appeared on his face.

He said, a mocking look of sympathy displayed on his face, as if you were throwing a... a tantrum.

Malcolm said, waving a hand dismissively, spinning his chair around to face his desk.