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Chapter Text

Phoenix Gate, the fortress that has been the cornerstone of the Rosfield’s power since the Duchy was founded. Now, it lies in ruin, reduced to little more than a broken shell, its once mighty stone walls torn asunder by the power of not one, but two Eikon’s.

Adjusting her hood to better shield her from the rain, she walks through what remains of the ash-stained gate with her head held high. Why shouldn’t she? This is after all, her achievement, her moment of victory.

Were only it not marred by the passing of her son, her Joshua, but she had always known he was not long for this world, blessed and cursed in equal measure as he was, a constant contradiction of strength and weakness. No, she has already accepted it.

The men that have been sent to guard her meander about the ruins of the once great fortress, crawling like silver ants across the broken rubble, searching for survivors. All, of which are put to the sword, Imperial, and Rosarian alike. A mercy, given the state many of them are in, how any of them still draw breath is a mystery for the Imperial Astrologers.

The captain of the squad finally notes her approach. Even with his full faced helm she can clearly see he is surprised to see her here, after having left her at the encampment. “My condolences your Grace, is there ought we can do?”

A token offering, one probably meant to win him her favour. She dismisses it with all the contempt it deserves. “Heh, haven’t you done enough captain?” The pleasure that rolls up her spine at the sight of him recoiling at her words is intoxicating. “Joshua was my world, now he is gone.” A fact, nothing more. “I can only pray there will be a place for me in in the world his…Radiance seeks to create.” Her fingers dig into the flesh of her palm over the hesitation of the emperors preferred term of address, something that will of course go unnoticed here, but can never be allowed in the vaulted halls that are about to open their doors to her.

“I see,” the captain acquiesces as he returns to his work, not that there is much left to do. The rain falling from on high will cleanse the ash, washing it to the sea, relieving them of any need or obligation to fulfil any funerary rights for the fallen. The bodies that remain can be left for the beasts.

The captain has barely moved five steps before he calls out to her again, “your Grace, over here.”

She is beginning to lose her patience with this captain. Yes, she had come of her own volition to see the aftermath of the battle, but out of idle curiosity and the hopes of distraction, not to be bothered by the inane observations of a lowly soldier.

Still, while she is here, she may as well look, just in case he has managed to find something of worth in the rubble. Raising a hand to her face, she inhales the rose scented oil covering her wrist in hopes that it will suppress some of the stench that still lingers in the air. The action is in vain, the smell of smoke and cinder too heavy, even with the rain and her own perfume the overwhelming odour of sulphur and ash suffuses her senses, causing her nose to wrinkle in distaste.

An emotion that soon overtakes her entire expression as she gazes down at what the captain has uncovered.

Of course, he would survive.

For all his failures strength was never one of them.

Face down in the dirt, his once white leather jerkin dyed grey with the heavy layer of rain-soaked soot that covers him from head to toe, her first born disappointment still draws breath.

“The rubble must have protected him from the worst of the flames,” the captain concludes as he gestures to the curved archway that obviously served as a firebreak, “shall we take him prisoner?”

She turns her back on the boy, already walking away as she hands out her judgement, eager to be out of the rain that is already starting to soak through the fine velvet of her hood. “No need for that. Kill him.”

A more elegant solution comes to mind just as she finishes giving her order, but in the second it takes her to retract her command the good captain has already brought his sword to bear. Even as she calls for him to, “Wait!” The tempered steel plunges down, straight towards the unguarded back of Joshua’s failed shield.

She turns, expecting to see the spray of fresh drawn blood painting the blackened stones around them.

The stones are painted, yes, but not with blood.

No, the light of flames freshly kindled dyes the world red.

The boy, barely conscious, eyes glazed and empty apart from the light of power that burns there, stands as the blade that was meant to end his life melts in the hands of its wielder.

Phoenix.

Her mind latches onto that thought as soon as the flames engulf the boy’s form, waiting for them to ignite into the Semi-prime banner of the trailing cloak of feathers. The mark of the Dominant of the Phoenix, not the weak imitation the blessing Joshua had bestowed upon him had been, but the full power of the Eikon of Fire made flesh.

The boy grips his head as the flames continue to grow, veins of ember aether crawling along his visible skin, glowing brighter even as he screams.

The captain is too close, and too preoccupied with the bladeless hilt he still clasps to see the treasure he has stumbled across. “Kill it!”

Two of his men move forward blindly, blades drawn, only to be blown back by the flames that ignite along the boy’s arm. Flames that soon solidify into a gauntlet of obsidian lit by fire from within.

No feathers manifest, the aether that paints his skin with the fine script of the powers of an Eikon does not burn red, but the flames still lay waste to all those that rise against him, until the burden proves too much.

All at once the flames extinguish, and the power keeping the boy on his feet fades without even a whisp of smoke to mark its passing as he collapses.

The ruined courtyard rings with a silence only broken by the sound of the rain that continues to fall, until one of the braver—or more foolish—soldier’s cries out, “What the fuck!”

“Enough!” growls the captain, voice so shaken even the echo of his helm cannot cover it, “Seize him.”

The boy does not resist this time, in all likelihood has burnt up any reserve he had left to do so with that little demonstration.

The captain still seems of a mind to put an end to him as he grabs one of his men’s blades, discarding his own useless sword without a second glance.

“Wait,” she bids again, and this time he does not have the roar of sparked aether to claim he did not hear her.

“Your Grace?” He sounds so unmoored, as though he cannot even begin to comprehend why she would be commanding him to stay his blade. She will not be the one to tell him.

Navigating the broken and melted flagstones she comes to stand before the boy, searching for something, anything, that will reveal the truth of this matter to her.

He must sense her gaze upon him, even with his eyes all but closed, because he tries to turn away. An ingrained habit of his that has been rooted in all their interactions since the day she found him wanting. One that avails him little, restrained as he is by a soldier at each arm.

“Ca-Captain Duval,” a hoarse voice interrupts her inspection and drags her attention to one of the few survivors that has yet to be put to the sword. “I-I saw it, I know what it is…w-what he is, please spare me.”

The captain moves towards his man, arms raised in the universal gesture for peace. “Easy soldier, we’ll get you fixed up soon enough.” A lie, even the most talented of physickers could not save this talking corpse, who sits there with his skin melded to armour, all but burned black apart from the occasional white bone peeking out from ruined limbs that sit at odd angles, like a mishappen toy discarded by a bored child.

Taking out his own water skin the captain allows the man to drink before signalling for him to speak his piece. “Now lad, tell us what you saw.”

The words tumble free of his tongue and provide an answer that can barely be believed. “It’s him…he did this.” Hollowed eyes flick to the boy, only to dart away again in fear. “The Phoenix lost control and then so did he. The thing he became…it had to be an Eik—”

Blood slips down the soldier’s chin and then he’s choking, drowning on his own life until the little light left in his eyes fades.

Even unfinished the soldiers account paints a clear picture.

She looks at the boy and where most would see a broken First Shield, she now sees the Dominant of the second Eikon of Fire.

“W-what should we do your Grace?” The captain’s hesitance this time is understandable, as a soldier he is meant to follow orders, but his superiors said nothing of this, lacked the foresight they claim the Imperial Astrologers give them, and so he looks to her for guidance.

“We shall bring him with us.” A logical conclusion, what fool would toss away a crystal merely because it was covered in ash, even if those ashes are those of her own child.

Besides, his little display has bought the boy at least this much clemency, for now.

She walks away and with one final wave of her hand has her two ladies in waiting disposed of, they are not fit to serve her in the heights she is about to be raised to. Besides, she had already warned them what would happen if any ill befell Joshua.

The sound of their bodies landing against the cool stone of the ruined courtyard does not even cause her to turn, nor does the captains call for crystal bindings to be brought forth so as to properly secure their captive.

After all, everything is, at last, in its proper place.

Chapter Text

“No! Stop it! Take your hands off my brother!”

“Help me…help me Clive.”

“Joshua!”

“Stop it! STOP IT!”

“I swore, I would protect him!”

“PLEASE! PLEASE! STOP IT!”

“JOSHUA…NOOOO!”

“Murderer.”

“I’ll kill you!”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

The gasp of air that rattles Clive’s lungs as he is flung back into consciousness leaves his throat burning and his chest trembling, as though his body has forgotten how to perform the simple act of breathing.

It’s not so simple, not now when it feels like his chest has been rent open, his still beating heart torn from his body, and here he is, trying to learn to breathe again without it.

“…Joshua.”

His brother’s name falls as a whisper from his lips, a quiet plea for it to have all been nothing but a nightmare.

He tries to sit up, but his body feels so heavy, as though Lord Commander Murdoch has just taken him to task in the Bailey after a full day of running drills, showing him how much he still has to learn, but that isn’t the reason he feels so beaten and it never will be again.

Ser Rodney, Father, Joshua, all of them are gone.

Taken by that thing.

He can still see it every time he closes his eyes, the savage flames devouring everything he loves dancing in the night to the sound of the creatures’ howls, and the shrieks of the Phoenix.

“Help me…help me Clive.”

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry,” he begs the silence that surrounds him, but only the reigning quiet of the space around him answers.

“Joshua.” The first tear falls with the broken utterance of his brother’s name and the dam holding the rest back breaks and the sorrowful torrent flows.

He raises a hand to cover his face, to hide his shame, all for the clink of a metal chain to stop him.

His eyes fly open as he sits up, only for him to slam them shut again against the harsh white light that blinds him. He tries again, slowly this time, squinting to the point that he can barely see through the thin veil of water that covers his eyes and continues to roll down his cheeks.

Colours come into focus first, a myriad of blues and soft whites so different from the warm reds and stalwart greys of home. Then shapes, the curve of a curtain hanging above him that fails to block out the light of the window he rests beneath, the sharp angles of the spacious but bare room that could be mistaken for a prison cell were it not for the lavish bed he finds himself lying in.

Another blink and suddenly everything comes into full focus, including the bands that bind his wrists and the chain running between them that connects to the wall. The blue glow of crystalline light that plays across his skin at the junction where flesh meets metal makes it clear that these are crystal infused cuffs, which is confusing.

Crystalline cuffs are designed to restrain Dominants, the metal and means of making them too rare and therefore expensive to waste on an ordinary Bearer, let alone a person merely blessed by the Phoenix.

Pulling experimentally on the chain that links the cuffs, he is unsurprised to find there is no give in them, nor is the chain itself long enough to even allow him the freedom to stand from the bed.

No, all he can do is wait, listen, and think, which is a torture in and of itself, for without distraction, what is there to stop the memories of Phoenix Gate from assaulting his mind.

Every time he blinks the flash of flames ignites within the darkness behind his eyes. The quiet of the room gives way to the shrieks of the Phoenix and Joshua’s plea, he only spoke it once, but Clive had been frozen, unable to move, unable to answer it.

Why?

If his limbs had been chained, he would have torn them free to get to his brother, if someone had held him back, he would have cut them from his path.

Why had he only been able to watch and beg for the beast to spare his brother?

Why had he felt—

Sharp pain, lancing and overwhelming banishes the question from his mind, along with all coherent thought as he grips his head, trying to hold the tide of agony back as it assaults all of his senses.

He can only wait, only endure, and hope that the pain will pass, that it will release him as he curls in on himself and grits his teeth against it.

Slowly, cruelly, the pain eventually fades, and he is left there panting and lost.

“…Again?” That faint query puzzles him for a moment. Again? When had he experienced pain like that in the first place?

It comes to him, like a figure emerging from smoke, when Joshua had lost control, when he had tried to approach, only to be felled by the onslaught of agony that had overtaken him, yes, but that wasn’t the first time. No, a ringing in his ears, sharp as though a crystal was being dragged across glass…there was a man there, hooded, and unknown, he had said something…what had he said?

Trying to recall it summons the pain again, duller this time, almost distant, like a looming threat. If he continues to push…

He breathes, deeply, to the slow rhythm that his father taught him.

He remembers it so well.

“Listen son, even in the heat of battle, control of your breath is important, it keeps you grounded while others lose their heads.”

“Literally?” he recalls asking with all the mischief of a seven-year-old that knew nothing of the true horrors of war.

“Quite so.” his father had chuckled as he had reached a hand out to ruffle Clive’s hair.

He feels more tears well up at the thoughts of his father.

He knows he is gone, knew it from the moment he saw Joshua turn night into day with the light from the wings of the Phoenix. He had felt it in the flames Joshua had entrusted to him, the loss, the guilt, he hadn’t understood at first, hadn’t the time to stop and process it, but now he knows. It was grief that had caused Joshua to lose control.

He understands it now, feels the twin of it burning in his own chest, grief, loss, and guilt hot enough to keep the flames of the Phoenix burning even after the fire birds own flames have been extinguished.

His thoughts turn once more to the hooded figure, the one who had vanished just before the second Eikon had mysteriously appeared.

It was him, it had to be, but who was he? Did he serve the Empire? And what were the words that he had spoken to Clive?

His circling thoughts and the fog of pain they bring with them are interrupted by the sharp sound of a key clicking in the lock of the door, which swings open near silently on well-oiled hinges.

The woman that enters, a maid by the look of her simple dress and pinned backed hair, carries a tray arrayed with potions and a few other curatives, along with a fresh roll of bandages.

She blinks when she looks at him, surprise quickly overtaking her face.

Turning back to the open door she asks, “how long has he been awake?”

An imperial guard leans into the room, the polished silver of his armour catches the light as he looks inside, all Clive can see is the reflexion of his own hateful stare glaring back at him.

Unbothered, the guard stands to attention as he hands out an order to another imperial that must be standing outside of Clive’s line of sight. “Inform her Grace that her guest is awake.”

With that, the maid is silently bid to go about her work and the door is closed behind her.

Wasting no time, she crosses the distance between them, sets her burden on the floor next to the bed and moves to take his left arm.

Pulling his limb away from her reaching grasp, he retreats as far as the stone walls of the room and the length of his chain will allow and growls, “don’t touch me.”

He’s expecting a sneer, or for the guards that stand just outside the door to be called in. Instead, he is met with quiet understanding and a business-like tone. “I’m afraid I cannot do that my Lord. I have been given a task to attend to and I must see it through. I did not harm you while you slept, I will not do so now that you are awake.”

Clive’s first instinct is to resist, to make her task as difficult as possible, but when the maid doesn’t move to grab him and instead just sits there patiently, waiting for his permission, his resolve wavers.

He studies her again, searching for the lie, he’s gotten good at that over the years, what with his mother’s maids seeking to get him into trouble in hopes of winning her favour, or at the very least sparing them her ire.

For her part, the maid merely sits there, face open, palm out, waiting for him to make the first move this time. It’s her small smile that does it in the end, warm and genuine, it reminds him of the Lady Hannah. He gives her his hand.

She sets about her task with a brisk efficiency, nimble fingers making short work of rolling up the sleeve of the cotton shirt he is wearing, exposing the bandage that covers his arm from elbow to metal cuff. Beneath which lies a souvenir from the Dragoon he had slain at Phoenix Gate.

He physically turns away from that thought as he asks, “what is your name?”

The maid’s eyes dart up from where she is unwinding the old bandage and inspecting the wound, a wrinkle of complete bafflement forming between her brow, but she soon shrugs and gives an answer, “Mia, my Lord.” She bows her head in lieu of performing a curtsy, and Clive is glad for it.

“How long have I been here?” This question is asked half because he wants to know the answer and half because he wants to see if he will get one.

Mia doesn’t hesitate. “A day and a half in my care. A physicker took a look at you when you first arrived. After all, you were in quite a state after five days of hard travel from Rosaria, but you were given a relatively clean bill of health and entrusted to me.” She frowns at the long scratch carved into his skin, inspecting the red and slightly inflamed skin that surrounds it before selecting one of the ampoules that decorates the tray. “This may sting a bit.”

The bitter smell of herbs invades the room as soon as she removes the cork from the bottle, but Clive doesn’t even flinch as the salve is gently applied. True to Mia’s words, it does sting, but it will heal. His mind is more wrapped up in the fact that he has been asleep for nearly a week.

Fresh bandages cover the soon to be scar, which is in turn covered with his sleeve and with her task complete Clive expects that Mia shall pack up her tinctures and leave. So, he’s caught off guard when she instead shares another comforting smile with him and states, “you must be starving my Lord, the physicker advised that we should start you off small when you woke, would a bowl of broth suffice for now? We can see about something a bit heartier if you manage to keep that down.”

At the mere mention of food his stomach betrays him before he can make up his mind, growling like a coeurl that’s had its tail stepped on.

He blushes and looks away as Mia huffs, only for the sudden slap of flesh to draw his gaze back to her.

She sits there, eyes down cast and nervous, a hand covering her mouth before she drops it and all but stutters, “I am sorry my Lord, I forgot myself, please forgive the trespass.”

“What trespass, you laughed, and barely at that, there is nothing to forgive.”

Again, a look of confusions knits her brow, and she looks as though she’s working up the courage to ask him something, hands ringing in her skirts as her gaze flicks between him and the door.

The resonant clack of heels on marble and the clank of armour as the guard still outside the door shift forestalls her question as she quickly arranges the curatives and leftover bandages back on the tray. She manages to stand and make her way to the corner just as the key scrapes in the lock of his door again.

As it opens, she utters a reverent and to Clive’s ears slightly fearful, “Your Grace.”

Clive has no more attention to spare for her after that, not when his mother stands there framed by the door, dressed not in the velvet tones of Rosarian nobility but the silken whites and royal purples of Sanbreque.

Traitor.

The word sparks on the tip of his tongue, but before he can spit it at her she speaks first.

With a radiant smile that had only ever been directed at Joshua, she greets him, “my son.”

Chapter Text

The smile that adorns her lips as she gazes down at him would not look amiss on one of the many statues that depicts the great Goddess Greagor. Kind and benevolent, a smile that has always been directed at Joshua. It would be perfect, if only it weren’t for her eyes.

Greed and ambition war for dominance behind her storm grey eyes, well hidden, and impossible to recognise unless you are familiar with the way it darkens her expression. As a child he had always dismissed it as a trick of the light, why wouldn’t he, the smile was only ever directed at Joshua and mother loved him—as she had once claimed to love Clive, until he was proven worthless—he knew better now.

“My son.” The words slip from her lips ever so sweetly and carry with them a rumble of pride that Clive has never heard from her.

They hit him like a dull blade being sheathed inside his chest, making him breathless as they steal his words and leave him disoriented. He tries to regain his footing even as he reels from the shock of them, but then his mother moves.

Thoughts scattered as they are he cannot help it when muscle memory takes over and he finds himself bowing his head and turning away from her gaze, submission and humility projected in all of his actions in the hopes of not inciting her scorn.

Anger and self-loathing roll through him like a cresting wave when he realises what he is doing, but by the time he regains himself she is already situated beside him, trapping him between her and the wall.

With his sight already directed downwards he takes the chance to inspect the chain. Too short, the links of steel that bind him to the wall will not allow his to reach her, to wrap his hands around her pale throat and snap it.

Even if it wasn’t he doubts he would have the strength, the exhaustion that plagues him, presses down on him from all sides, drags on him like a weighted set of chains, and the only thing keeping him awake right now is the anger and fear that burns just beneath the surface of his skin.

Slowly, as though she’s reaching out to a wounded animal, she takes him by the chin and forces him to look at her.

The beatific smile is still there, and he finally finds his words. “Why, mother? Why did you betray us all?”

“Betray?” she says it as though he doesn’t understand the meaning of it, as if he has used it incorrectly. “I fear you are being a little dramatic Clive.”

Her hand moves, rising to wipe away the tear tracks that stain his cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. He flinches violently away from the gesture, putting as much space as he can between himself and her.

The smile fades, replaced with a look of discontent that he is far more used to, even if it is missing the edge of disgust that had always curled her lips when she looked at him.

Shaking her head, she stands. “Always your father’s son,” the words are whispered as an insult. “So very strong, and bold, and daring.” His father’s smile flashes across his mind, proud and filled with unconditional love, the antithesis to the mask his mother tries to wear. “Would that Joshua had been granted a tenth of your strength.”

“Joshua was—” His voice fails him as a rope of thorns tightens its grip around his heart.

Joshua is gone.

His mother pounces on his faltering declaration. “My dearest child, my precious son, the only one worthy of my love, until now.”

“And yet you sold him to Sanbreque, left him at the mercy of soldiers who were told to slaughter us all!” He had heard them say it, seen them moving about the castle putting Rosarian men who could no longer fight to the sword.

“The soldiers orders were clear, he was to be spared, protected, but how quickly those orders fall on deaf ears when faced with the power of an Eikon.”

At the mere mention he sees it, the Phoenix taking flight, fire reigning down with every stroke of his brother’s great wings, reducing friend and foe alike to ash.

His mother is still talking. “Alas, even with the power of the Phoenix he was always a sickly child, never long for this world.” Clive feels sick, for all she claimed to care for Joshua, to love him, how can she now find it so easy to discard him?

His voice is a low growl clawing at his throat. “Joshua’s every waking moment was spent trying to shoulder the burden that you, and the Phoenix. And the Duchy foisted on him.” He can feel her gaze on him, sharp and cutting in a way that used to make him turn away, this time, he finally finds the courage to face her. “That’s why I became his Shield. To help bear the weight, but what have you done? You betrayed your own blood and surrendered your son to his fate!”

The clink of his chains going taught fades into the silence that takes the room as they stare each other down.

He's expecting her to slap him, for the guards to be called in, to be dragged to a proper cell, and beaten for his insolence.

The words that she speaks deal a far heavier blow.

“A fate delt by your own hands.”

“What?” Even as he questions it, he sees it again, the flickering flames of the Phoenix, the beast that devoured the last of them before turning them on their former master, brimstone jaws clamping down on a metal worked beak, raising the near lifeless body of his brother’s Eikon into the air as freed firelit claws clenched with anticipation.

“Help me…help me Clive.”

He shakes his head, desperate to banish the visions, the ringing in his ears. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Instead of answering directly, she takes a slow turn about the room, allowing her fingers to trace along the bare stone walls of his spacious prison, all the while thinking aloud. “I always wondered, always questioned…why didn’t the Phoenix choose you?”

The question echoes one from his childhood, one that he was not meant to overhear. His mother screaming, demanding answers, while his father remained silent, only speaking to defend him when his mother pushed too far.

She plucks something from the wall, a lose piece of grit which she studies for a time before casting it aside. “Oh, how the other nobles laughed, that Elwin’s first child was surely the son of a concubine, that my own true born son would surely succumb to the weakness that plagued him and leave the Duchy to a mongrel, but now look.” She turns to face him, victory writ large in every facet of her face. “How you’ve proved them wrong, my darling boy.”

He grips the cover as he stares unblinkingly at the manacles that bind his wrists, at the crystal within them that glows azure against his skin, the only thing known to suppress a Dominant’s power.

“You think that I’m a Dominant.” It sounds even less believable when he gives voice to it.

“The Second Eikon of Fire,” his mother confirms, satisfaction curling around every syllable as she confidently strides back to him.

The gentle façade remains intact as she weaves her hand into the hair at the back of his neck, and when he tries to pull away, she keeps him where he is with a painful tug that he doesn’t have the energy to resist.

“The only question that remains is why you chose to hide it.” He cannot look away from her, cannot escape her grasp, not that he doesn’t try, but the chain is all too short and the way she holds his head, forcing him to curve his back and put all his weight on his legs, leaves him powerless to kick out at her.

No, all he can do is stare at the unhinged gleam of possessiveness that has overtaken her gaze.

Has grief driven her mad?

Something like that could never be hidden, not when he was watched so closely as a child for any signs that he might have been the Phoenix. Not when the Undying tested him and found no flames.

But more than that.

“That thing killed Joshua!” Reason enough why it could never be him.

She scoffs, a simple huff that barely counts as half a breath.

 He lunges forward, even as the cold from the manacles flows through him as he instinctively draws on the Phoenix’s blessing. The crystals pressed against his wrists drains it all, quenches the flames before they can spark, leaving him with nothing but impotent hate.

If his mother notices his struggles, she doesn’t acknowledge them. “An Eikon’s first Awakening can be tempestuous and unpredictable,” she consoles. “Tales abound around the capital of Bahamut’s Dominant nearly taking out one of Greagor’s great cathedrals during his conferment ceremony.”

He cannot believe this.

She talks as if he merely made a misstep on a mission. As though being the Second Eikon of Fire, responsible the final fall of Phoenix Gate, for Joshua’s death, isn’t something that there would never be any forgiveness for.

“You’re wrong!” The denial echoes through the room resolute and final.

A new darkness creeps into his mother’s eyes, and he can feel her grip tightening, sharp nails digging into the back of his scalp as he refuses to yield to her madness.

“I saw you Prime with my own eyes.”

No, she saw what she wanted to see. Has mistaken the Phoenix’s blessing for the aether cloak that all Dominants can manifest in one form or another.

“You’re wrong.” It is the only answer he will give her, because it is the only one he has. The only one that is true.

The mask of benevolence finally cracks, a fine line drawn between her brows, so small it would be unnoticeable if you did not know to look for it.

When she suddenly releases him, he’s unprepared, but so tense that he doesn’t fall, doesn’t give her the satisfaction of watching him collapse without her painful grip to force him steady.

“You may keep your lies until tomorrow, there will be no denying the truth after that.”

A single sharp knock has the guards outside opening the door for her, she exits without a glance back and without pause to acknowledge the salutes that the Sanbrequois knights give her.

It’s only when the door shuts that Clive feels he can finally breathe again.

Closing his eyes and resting his head against the cold wall behind him he slowly allows the tension to leave his frame.

“She’s wrong.” It is not a reassurance, it is fact.

He is no Dominant, were it not for Joshua’s blessing he would not even be able to wield magic. Whatever lie has convinced her that he is will only end with both their deaths.

…

“Good.” At least he will be able to take one of Joshua’s murderers with him.

The dissatisfaction that sinks his heart and sours his stomach at that thought makes him realise that isn’t true.

If he dies who will find the hooded figure? who will avenge Joshua?

At the very least he has to live for that.

“My Lord?” The quiet enquiry sounds like a shout in the silent room, and he cannot help but jump.

Mia winces, but her hands that hold the tray, this time loaded with the bowl of broth she had promised, remain steady.

He looks at the thin soup and feels his stomach turn, the ravenous hunger from before his mother’s visit nowhere to be found.

It must show on his face.

“I’ll check within the hour, see if your hunger has returned then my Lord.”

He nods, and Mia thankfully takes that for the plea to be left alone that it is.

As promised, she returns within an hour with a fresh serving of broth, and though Clive’s stomach rebels at the smell of it, he forces himself to eat it this time.

He can’t avenge Joshua if he allows himself to starve, and he will need whatever strength he can gather for the trial his mother has waiting for him tomorrow.

Chapter Text

She walks down the marbled halls of the Whitewyrm castle, a towering obelisk built in tribute to the majesty of the Mothercrystal that looms large above it, Drake’s Head.

Even after only a few days, she can say with an assured confidence that she does feel quite at home here, and why should she not? Her bloodline can be traced back to the time of the Founder, a claim few nobles can lay their hands on. Fewer still can invoke a connection to the Phoenix, an Eikon tied solely to the ruling family of Rosaria, and now she will be set further apart from her lessers when her eldest son is confirmed as the Dominant of the Second Eikon of Fire.

She cannot suppress the smile that graces her lips at the mere thought of it.

Soon, her line shall be joined with that of the Lesage’s, the bearers of the Dominant of Bahamut, who knows, by the time her third child is born he may even be blessed by both the Phoenix and Bahamut. After all, Waloed’s armies march ever onwards, Odin at their fore, and anything can happen in the ever-changing tide of war.

“You’re wrong!” The memory of Clive’s adamant denial makes the smile lining the edge of her mouth wane and her eyes narrow. Not enough for the nobles that idle about the corridor to notice, not as they pretend to observe the portraits that adorn the white walls and only acknowledge her with the slightest bow of their heads as she passes, but enough to drag her mind back to the darker thoughts that have been plaguing her since Phoenix Gate.

Why, and how did he hide it?

An Eikon is with their Dominant from birth, they are born into this world together, existing as one entity, their souls entangled from the moment the Dominant draws its first breath.

Strong and healthy, naturally gifted, and of her blood, the perfect vessel for an Eikon, the Phoenix should have chosen Clive.

Her nails dig into the fine leather braces she wears on her wrists, scratching at the gold leaf emblem that adorns it, as she remembers the day the Undying had passed their judgement.

Regal and proud, she had stood there in the throne room, young Clive standing before her, close enough that she could rest her hands upon his shoulders in a lose embrace that was acceptable for such a public setting.

Elwin had sat the throne, but his eyes had continually flicked to them, assurance and eager anticipation lighting up his eyes.

Then the verdict was passed.

“This child is not the vessel of the true flame. The Phoenix does not rest within his soul.”

Her hands had tightened on the boy’s shoulders then, half in anger and half in rejection. She had felt him tense beneath her grip, too young to understand why she was angry, but old enough to comprehend that it was in large part his fault.

Even so, she foolishly clung to hope for but a moment. “There must have been some error, a mistake in the ritual?”

The Knight of the Undying, the current Bearer of the Burning Quill, had shaken his head with the finality of death, and that is what it was, the death of her ambition, of her pride, and the love she had nurtured for Clive. All that time she had invested, all the care she had given…

“Mother?” the boy had whispered, pensive with an edge of pain. “You’re hurting—”

Worthless.

The child had reached a hand to her, trying to lay his own over hers, the slap of her hand against his had echoed off the walls like a whip crack.

Elwin had been standing in the next second, taking the boy, comforting him, shouting her name as if she had done anything wrong. She had barely heard it, fleeing the room as her arms came to cradle the babe growing inside her, the next hope of her line. Her only hope.

When Joshua came, she had refused to wait, had insisted that her boy be tested before he could even turn a month old. Elwin had protested, claiming he would be vulnerable, that it would only make the unrest in the Northern territories worse. She saw the real reason; he was not yet ready to set aside his unworthy first born.

It mattered little. With time, and effort, and endless patience she wore him down, and all her prayers were answered, she had bore the Phoenix.

The rumours had started barely a year later, first whispered in the shadowed corridors of the servant’s passages, idle maids and footmen exchanging stories about their betters in order to entertain themselves.

When it first reached her ears, she had summoned the maid that had dared to speak it and had her whipped. Her first mistake, the lies spread like flames through the castle after that, fanned by her reaction to them and Elwin’s own reprimand of her for being, in his mind alone, too harsh.

Of course, it wasn’t long before the gossip was picked up by the lesser nobles at court, and from there it was impossible to stop.

Of the many iterations that flitted through the circles of high society the one that persisted, that refused to die, was the one furthest from the truth.

Clive was of her blood, a fact that had, until Phoenix Gate brought her nothing but shame, but now it was the key to her salvation. Had only Joshua survived as well.

Her heart lurches painfully at the thought of her youngest, but she soon masters herself, clenches the emotion in an iron grip and smothers it before it can spark fresh grief.

She cannot afford to show weakness.

For all that Rosalith was a bed of thorns when it came to politics and state craft, it is nothing when compared to the dragons’ den that dwells within the resplendent halls of the Whitewyrm castle.

Nor was Elwin Rosfield ever a match for Sylvestre Lesage.

 The man she now seeks an audience with.

The door leading to the Drake Wing tower is guarded by no less than four Dragoon’s in full regalia, a clear sign that the Emperor is in residence.

She addresses the captain, “His Radiance is expecting me.”

The salute all four knights give her is perfectly in sync, and only then does the captain speak, “Your Grace, let me summon a page to guide you.”

The Dragoon captain disappears for but a moment, only to return with a boy dressed in the raiment’s of a servant of house Lesage. Young, and obviously from nobility given his aristocratic features, most likely the son of a Cardinal or a Senior Astrologer to be able to serve so close to the Emperor. The boy executes a perfect bow as he smiles at her and invites her in. “If it please your Grace, the Emperor shall receive you in his solar.”

With the slightest nod of affirmation, she bids him to do so.

The Dragoon’s, well trained as they are open the doors fully to allow their passage.

As opulent as the rest of the Whitewyrm castle is it cannot compare to the tower reserved for the residence for the Emperor. The wide marble hall that opens before her eyes ends at a large stained glass rose window bordered by a set of two lancet arches. The blue and white glass that depicts the King of Dragons, Bahamut, is illuminated from behind by the light of the Mothercrystal, giving the Eikon a divine presence. That light in turn catches on the murals painted directly on the walls, the legacy of the Lesage family captured in intricate detail and preserved for the next generation.

As it should be.

The page leads her in silence to the second door that lines the great corridor. Knocking gently, he waits for the valet to open it.

“Your Grace,” an impeccably dressed but elderly man greets with a bow even more perfect than the page had given her. “The Emperor awaits you within.”

He steps aside as he announces her entrance. “Your Radiance, the Duchess Anabella Rosfield.”

Emperor Lesage raises his head from where it had been lowered, going over the reports of the day, and the latest readings from the Astrologers if the star charts are anything to go by.

“Duchess Anabella.” The Emperor stands, and immediately Anabella falls into a low curtsy, allowing her skirts to ripple out along the rich carpet beneath her feet, the perfect image of a noble woman greeting her better.

“Your Radiance,” The hesitation from Phoenix Gate has been purged from her voice with scalpel like precision, along with any other flaw that may have left her open to criticism or rumour. The way she is now, not even the highest Lord in Sanbreque’s court will be able to find fault with her.

She can feel the Emperor’s gaze trailing along her form, assessing, calculative, and dare she hope in a covetous manner. She does not make the mistake of raising her head to check like some fool maiden who is being presented for a potential betrothal, no, her betrothal to Sylvestre is all but guaranteed, bought with the fall of Rosaria, and sealed with the confirmation of a second Dominant born to her line.

Her patience pays off as Sylvestre offers her his hand. With great reverence she takes it and places her lips ever so gently against the crystal ring adorning his finger.

“Rise my dear, we have much to discuss.” Keeping her hand in his, he guides her to a small chase lounge that has been positioned below a large bay window. The view from which is spectacular, the setting sun refracted through Drake’s Head, bathing Oriflamme with divine light.

“Wine,” he offers, and as he does so the page moves, fetching glasses and a decanter from where they had been waiting on a sideboard.

“If your Radiance is willing to partake with me.” In answer he waves the boy forward, and once the drinks are poured dismisses him. Only when the door closes firmly behind the page does Sylvestre dip into the topic he is all too eager to discuss.

“How fares your son?”

“Awake at last, but disoriented, he seems to have little memory of what transpired at Phoenix Gate.” She clasps her hands in such a way as to convey worry.

He reaches out to take one of them, running his thumb comfortingly along her entangled fingers.

“Priming for the first time is always a demanding experience. My own son, Dion, barely has any memory of the event.” He takes a sip from his own wine glass, meaning that Anabella is now free to do the same. The sweet, almost honey taste that coats her tongue is refreshingly cool. “It took several days for him to fully regain his strength; such is the price one must pay to host the divine.”

“Indeed, as such, and given that he is still recovering, I would like to suggest a small test.” Twisting her own fingers in his she looks at him as a mother pleading for her son. “One that will not prove too strenuous to a Dominant while he heals his wounds, but that will still allay the doubts that the Cardinals rightly hold.”

She knows already that they scheme against her, deny her claims and seek to brand the story of a Second Eikon of Fire as nothing more than a fanciful lie.

Intrigued, Sylvestre silently bids her to continue.

“There are environs that only yield to a true Dominant, all others, even the most capable of Bearer’s, that would dare trespass upon such ground are felled by the power that resides there,” she leads him to the answer, not wanting to state her plan outright.

Understanding flashes across Sylvestre’s face, quickly followed by doubt. “Are you sure that is wise? There are other means by which he can be tested, all of them far less damaging should this Semi-Prime form of his prove merely to be the dying blaze of the blessing of the Phoenix.”

She has to fight to keep the anger from breaking her mask, to keep her perfect smile in place and even make it wider as she demures, “After all the risks you have taken for us your Radiance, how can I not do this? I know my son is a Dominant, that Greagor has blessed him with a power that has never been seen before.” She takes both his hands as she looks deeply into his searching gaze. “I have already lost one of the children most dear to my heart to the power of his Eikon run wild, I would not do anything to endanger the only one that remains to me.”

“Of course,” he agrees, as he moves his hand, cupping the back of her head, she suppresses the flinch of pain as his ring catches in her hair. “I see it, though you try so hard to hide it, to remain strong, the loss of your youngest rests heavily upon your heart.”

The slide of his fingers against her neck all but screams of desire. When he leans in, she goes willingly, stealing this first small victory with a chaste kiss.

Ever so reluctantly, she pulls back, only for Sylvestre to follow before regaining control of himself.

Clearing his throat, he resettles himself before continuing. “There is one such location here in the capital that will serve as a suitable testing ground, I shall order that preparations for this trial be made come the morrow.”

“Your Radiance benevolent reputation is well earned.” She takes another sip of wine, savouring the taste this time as Sylvestre uses the natural pause to beckon his valet forward.

“There is another matter that needs our attention.”

The man comes when called, presenting a silver tray bearing a single letter and a white wyvern tail bloom.

Sylvestre takes the flower for himself and presents her with the letter.

The seal already broken; she merely has to unfold the paper to read.

“The Iron Kingdom is already making their move?” The letter speaks of ships with sails bearing the axe and anchor sigil, spotted off the coast of Rosaria, the prelude to a new crusade by the Crystalline Orthodoxy, no doubt. In other words, a call to raid, ravage, and pillage across a weakened enemy state that no longer has an Eikon to protect it.

“Had our original plan come to fruition, it would have been a simple task to send in my troops to sweep these coming invaders back to the sea, however, with the loss of the young Prince, Sanbreque has little reason to intervene.” His eyes land on her, silently challenging her to provide him with such a reason.

If Joshua had lived, if Clive had not awoken before her eyes as a Dominant, she would have let the axes of the Iron Kingdom fall upon Rosalith. Let the waves of war wash over them until they had no choice but to beg for her aid. However, Clive is alive, and of more value to her than she could have ever imagined. An intact Rosalith shall prove to be a potent weapon against her sons more rebellious notions.

“With the death of the Phoenix…” She takes a second, allowing loss to envelope her like a cloak for but a moment before regathering herself. “…Clive is now the rightful heir to the Ducal Throne.

“Would that he were not already in his majority.” The Emperor laments.

The sharpness that curves the side of Anabella’s mouth is wholly natural. “Your Radiance, he has not yet reached his majority.”

His brows furrows in clear confusion. “He was the First Shield.”

She allows his confusion to reflect upon her own features. “Only by his father’s leave, he is still not considered an adult until his eighteenth summer.”

The spark of realisations this ignites with Sylvestre’s eyes soon catches into a blaze fuelled by an ambition that matches her own.

“Three years,” he contemplates, “yes, that should be more than enough.”

Anabella cannot help but silently agree, time enough to subjugate Rosaria as a vassal state, time enough to bind Clive to her will, and should he choose to resist, to reject her kindness and forgiveness, time enough to break and remake him.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Mia wakes him with the smell of fresh porridge, that proves itself to be more milk than oats, which he is glad for, as he fears he would not have been able to keep anything more substantial down.

She waits silently beside him as he eats, and as soon as he is finished, she quietly takes the bowl.

She still looks wholly bewildered when he whispers a soft, “thank you,” but she doesn’t comment on it as she makes her way to the door. Only to pause just as her hand reaches out to knock. “May Greagor watch over you, my Lord.”

The sadness that takes her eyes as she says this confirms all of his worst assumptions, but he still has the energy to spare Mia a smile.

 Performing one last curtsy, she knocks on the door. The guards let her out, only to file in immediately themselves.

“Get dressed,” one of them barks, as he throws Clive’s own clothes at him. He manages to catch his jerkin on reflex, but the rest tumble across the bed and the floor, far out of reach with the short length of his chain.

A chain that also poses an issue when it comes to following the order.

“How?” he asks as he holds up his arms, pulling at the links that lock his wrists together to emphasize his point.

The guards look at each other, and when one of them nods, the other pulls out a key and begins to make his way towards Clive. “I’m only undoing the chain between the cuffs, so don’t get any ideas.”

Clive would roll his eyes, but the Sanbrequois knights seem to take any resistance, no matter how petty, as a personal insult against their honour.

When the chain is undone, the links fall to the bed in a cacophony of clinks that speaks of the weight of them, but even with them removed the heavy pull on Clive’s wrists does not wane.

“Knock when you are done,” the guard instructs before giving Clive some privacy to change.

He’d already cleaned himself up with the toothbrush, the mint moss paste, and rose scented soap Mia had provided this morning when she had woken him with his breakfast—the soaps scent, not a popular one in Oriflamme due to its natural association with Rosaria spoke quietly of Mia’s kindness—so all he has to do is dress and he will be ready.

Putting on his own clothes feels like finally being back in his own skin. Of course, the clothes he had woken in were of the highest quality, Sanbreque seemed to be treating him as half a prisoner and half an honoured guest but knowing that they had been provided by the same people that had slaughtered his brothers in arms, made even the softest cotton itch against his skin.

He frowns when it comes time to strap on his vambraces, even with the flexibility that comes with the chainmail they are made from there is no way for him to wear them over the crystal cuffs that cling to his wrists.

He hesitates for a moment, only to then place them neatly back on the bed. At least the cuffs will not cause an issue with his gloves.

It’s only as he reaches for them that he realises that they are not there.

His heart sinks at the thought that they have gone missing even as he desperately begins to look for them. It doesn’t take long to practically overturn the room and search every corner for where his gloves may have fallen when the guard threw them at him, but there is not a single trace of them.

In the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t be a great loss, were it not for the fact that they were a gift from Joshua.

The proud smile that had lit up his little brother’s face as he had presented them to Clive was so bright. He had been so disappointed when he had seen Clive’s Shield uniform, white and black with only the smallest red peeking out from his shirt below, an old tradition that the true red of the First’s Shield’s uniform had to be won through his deeds. Joshua had stormed off after hearing that, only to come rushing to find Clive in the Bailey that same afternoon.

“The amount of blood you’ve shed training to become my Shield counts as a great deed,” Joshua had declared as he held out the soft red leather gloves to Clive.

He had looked to Ser Rodney, hesitant but hopeful.

The Lord Commander allayed his fears with a pat to the shoulder and a bow of his head. “A fine remark my Prince, and what Shield would refuse a gift from their liege.

He had pushed Clive forward then, nearly causing him to bowl poor Joshua over, something they had all laughed at.

The thought that there will be no more red added to his uniform now, is enough to summon fresh tears. For what deeds could a Shield achieve with the one he had sworn to protect dead.

Three booming knocks rattle the door as the guards reach the end of their patience.

Resigned and out of time, Clive wiped his eyes and rolls down his sleeves as far as they will go, which of course still leave the crystal infused cuffs exposed for all to see.

When the guards open the door after only one soft knock, they do not immediately rechain his hands, instead they take up position either side of him, so close they are almost touching.

“Walk,” the one on his left commands, and like this Clive is marched through the castle of the Whitewyrm. Only an assumption at first, but one that is proven almost immediately as they enter a main hall lined with floor to ceiling windows. The Massive crystal walls of Drake’s Head looms over him, towering and cold, what better confirmation could there be.

He tries slowing, once, just to see what will happen, whether the knights either side of him will choose to slow their own pace or…

The harsh metal grip that clamps down around his shoulder and pushes him forward is more than answer enough.

“Walk,” another barked command, as though he is a misbehaving hound.

This time in the morning, there are very few people loitering about the halls, but the few that are begin to whisper as the knight’s shout draws their attention.

The murmurs follow him throughout the march, echoing from one hall to the next and following them as they descend a series of seemingly never-ending stairs, all the same words, merely spoken in different tones and voices.

“The only survivor.”

“The Night of Flames they are calling it.”

“She claims he’s a Dominant.”

He blocks them out as best he can, unwilling to listen to the poison they seek to spread.

When what must be the doors to the entrance hall finally come into sight, he is caught off guard by an overwhelmingly sweet scent that all but assaults his senses. His nose itches with it and he has to work hard not to sneeze as they wait for the doors to be opened.

Thankfully the guards on duty choose to open the wicket gate, allowing him to pass without the unnecessary fanfare that would have been required to open the full doors.

The sweet smell only becomes stronger as he finally exits the castle, to the point where he would call it cloying, and how can it not be. Row after row of cultivated flower beds fill the courtyard, circling ornamental marble columns and creating an unbroken sea of white. As he is marched down the wide path between them, he realises they are all the same, not a single foreign bloom within their midst, an entire garden filled with nothing but white wyvern tails. Clive wonders if there’s some reason behind that other than the obvious.

The two knights finally stop when they reach the gate house. Saluting a captain they stand at attention, silently waiting for their next order.

They aren’t kept waiting long, the clank of armoured boots behind them announces the approach of another contingent of guards.

Clive can’t stop his fists from clenching as he spots the smaller blonde crowned figure walking at the centre of the four knights’ formation.

While the guards beside him salute once more at her approach, the overzealous and impractical movements making Clive think of marionettes with their strings being pulled, he glares.

Gone is the young man who would wilt under her gaze and pay her deference in hopes of keeping the peace.

She doesn’t seem to notice, or more likely, she doesn’t care. The same mask from yesterday is still fixed upon her features, but as he looks closer, he can see the cracks from their last talk are still there, its subtle, but so easy to spot when you know what to look for. The wrinkle at the side of her mouth, the furrow that quirks her brow, all signs that the smile that she holds upon her lips is slowly breaking.

“Your Grace, the carriage is ready.” She acknowledges the guard with the barest of nods before walking through the portcullis.

Clive is given no choice but to follow, the knights behind him steering him forward by the shoulders and leading him to the awaiting coach.

Anger flares in his chest when he realises he will be forced to ride with his mother, but there is very little he can do about it, as this is when the chains come back into play.

The short length of chain locks his wrists together and the few links that trail from it is fastened to a loop of metal embedded in the corner of the carriage.

Only after she is assured that he is completely secured does his mother enter the carriage herself.

As soon as she is situated in the opposite corner--regrettably out of kicking distance—the door to the carriage is shut and they begin to move.

Clive is resolved to endure the journey in silence.

His mother is not so inclined.

“Are you not going to ask where we are going?”

He pointedly looks out of the window, completely disregarding her as he chooses instead to focus on the bustling city that lays beneath the shadow of Drake’s Head.

Life plays out between the stark white towers and the fluttering azure flags of the empire. Merchants call out from their stalls to people passing by, hoping to gain their attention and their gil. Some citizens move with haste, in a rush to be somewhere as others meander idly without a care. Children, adults, elderly, all of their voices fill the streets, creating a noise that only a bustling city can have.

Clive cannot help but bristle against the calm normalcy of it all.

None of them lament over the fact that the peace they enjoy is bought with war. To them, the fall of Phoenix Gate is something that happened somewhere far away to someone else. How many of them will even know it was Sanbreque that set the fires that night, how many of them would care.

Unable to take the easy atmosphere anymore he leans back in his seat, hoping to rest his eyes for the remainder of the trip.

The red that catches in the corner of his eye as he settles destroys that plan as his gaze automatically locks onto it.

There, clasped in his mother’s hands, resting in her lap, sit his gloves.

“Give them back!” He mentally kicks himself as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it’s too late to retract them now.

The breath of a laugh that escapes his mother leaves Clive feeling cold, they’ve barely been in the same space together for more than a few minutes, and yet with that one outburst he feels as though he’s given her ground.

“No need to be upset my dear. I know how important these are to you, I was merely holding onto them for safe keeping,” she explains as she runs her nails along the lax fingers of the left glove.

“If that’s the case then you can return them.” He can’t keep the bite out of his voice, even though he knows it will win him nothing.

“Are you ready to have a polite conversation?”

Silence consumes the inside of the coach, she already has the power in this situation, he’s not going to make it even easier for her.

“I see,” she notes with an edged disappointment, as her fixed smile slips into a knowing smirk.

The noise made by the window next to her being opened sounds like the thunk of an executioner’s axe.

“Don’t!” By the time the plea leaves his mouth she already has one of the gloves outside, only kept from being snatched away by the wind by the thin grip she has on the thumb.

“Are you ready to have a polite conversation?” She asks again, her threat clear.

It’s childish, it’s just a glove that he would have soon outgrown or destroyed through too much use.

He looks at the red leather fluttering in the backdraft of the carriage like a leaf tumbling through the air and all he can see is Joshua’s proud smile.

“Yes.”

Delighted with his answer she tilts her head in approval as she pulls the glove back in and closes the window once more. “Good, we can’t have you lashing out or forgetting your manners in front of the High Cardinal, now can we?”

“The High Cardinal?” Clive had met the man once before at the Remembrance ceremony, the man had barely spared him a glance during the introduction and then ignored him completely, much to Clive’s relief. “Why would he want to meet me?”

Instead of answering she shifts, sliding elegantly between the small gap that separates the benches to take a seat beside him.

He presses himself as close to the wall as he can, but she just moves closer.

“None of that now,” she chides as she reaches out and takes his hand. Her touch makes his skin crawl. “We both know you can behave like the Prince you are when you want to.”

He’s about to correct her, he is a Lord, yes, a Marquess, but the title of Prince belongs to the heir—

The realisation hits like a blow, a stab to the heart that makes the wound still festering there rip open and bleed anew.

“No,” his denial is a whisper, but it holds more resolve than any shout could.

“You would abandon your duty, your people?” her words wrap around his mind like Morbol tentacles, as her fingers begin to stroke his hair.

He recoils from them both. “I will not be your puppet.”

The light that enters her eyes says it all without a single word being spoken, you already are.

“Tell me dearest,” she asks as she picks up his gloves again, “what do you think will become of Rosaria if you refuse? If you choose to be a hostage and a prisoner?”

“Choose?” The chains rattle as he lifts his hands.

“A precaution,” she assures, “Prince Dion had to wear his shackles for a year after his Eikon first awoke, the price of improper training.”

She straightens out his fingers from where he has curled them into fists and begins to slide his gloves onto his hands. He doesn’t fight her, but the light tickle the tracing of her nails leaves along his skin makes him want to tear them back off and scratch until he bleeds.

“I am not a Dominant,” his denial is ignored as she waits calmly for him to give an answer to her previous question.

He tries to wait her out, to gain back some facet of control over the conversation, but he has no power here, and as the silence continues to play out between them it becomes oppressive.

He hates himself for giving her even this much, but he knows it will only cost him more in the end if he resists.

“When Sanbreque invades,” he begins quietly, “there will be little Rosaria can do, especially if the Emperor were to have Prince Dion take the field,” Even as he says this, he thinks back on the map of Valisthea his father had shown him while they discussed history and the current state of the realm, and hope begins to colour his thoughts as he sees the wider picture. “But that would leave the Empire open to attack from Waloed, not to mention the reaction of the Dhalmekian Republic over the broken treaty and the unprovoked attack on an allied nation.”

“All true,” his mother agrees, and that small hope flares, if Rosaria is safe then what is there to stop him from escaping when he gets the chance?

His mother has the answer already prepared, “but whoever said that Sanbreque would be the one invading?”

“Who else would have the means?” Understanding hits like a wave the moment he asks the question. “The Iron Kingdom.”

He suddenly feels as though he’s drowning, it’s hard to breath, hard to think past the scenario that plays out behind his eyes.

Rosalith in flames, what remained of the army felled beneath the war axes of the Iron Kingdoms Crusader’s as the woman and children were rounded up and taken as slaves. That image is the clearest, especially when his mind focuses on a girl with hair the same grey as the northern mountains she hails from and silver storm cloud eyes.

“Jill…” Her name falls from his lips on a hitch of breath.

“Shh,” his mother hushes him as he tries to regain control of himself. “None of that need be feared.”

Anger consumes his fear as he realises what he must say.

“So long as I follow your orders.”

There is no mask this time when she smiles.

“Tell me, Clive. Are you a guest? Or a Prisoner?”

Chapter Text

When the carriage finally stops and the driver announces they have reached their intended destination, Clive can only focus on how exhausted he already feels.

Forced to bank the flames of anger his mother’s mere proximity strengthens, he can only grit his teeth and bare the situation in hopes that whatever trial she has planned for him will allow him to work out at least some of his frustrations.

Light catching on polished silver has his gaze trailing to the key his mother has resting in her palm.

“There’s no more need for this.” She taps a finger against the steel links that run between his wrists and secure him to the wall.

A shake of his head is answer enough.

The chain falls away and he can finally rest his arms fully in his lap, for all of a second.

The door to the carriage is opened and his mother nudges him forward first.

Stepping free of the coach he has to fight not to squint against the play of light off water, the reflection of both the rising sun and the Mothercrystal dancing off gently cresting waves near dazzling after the shaded interior of the carriage.

The small port he finds himself standing before is sheltered and well protected, surrounded by defences both natural and manmade, as hand lain stone gives way to the craggy grey rock of sea worn shoals.

As expected of a dock that handles the precious boon of Drake’s Head. An easy deduction when the crystals near spill from their carts as they are prepared and crated, ready for transport, the gift of the Mothercrystal freely shared amongst the peoples of the Empire. While Rosaria is forced to pay a heavy price, having lost access to Drake’s Breath decades before.

He turns his eyes away from it, focusing instead on the black walls of the small keep that rises above the port, guarding the entrance to one of the many mines that riddle the base of Drake’s Head.

His gaze is drawn first to the stone dragons that frame the gate, teeth bared, and wings spread in an intimidating display that breathes life into the motionless guardians. They serve the purpose of distracting from the more practical defences, the arrow slits that can barely be seen beneath the heavy shadows of the wall, the reinforced portcullis just waiting to be dropped.

His assessment is cut short by the sound of a sharp clap cutting through the soft murmur of the activity of the docks.

“Your Grace, Lord Rosfield, your timing is impeccable,” greets a man that Clive vaguely recognises as the High Cardinal, a noble so in love with his own titles he never uses his own name. Draped in the full raiment’s of his office, he looks out of place in the hive of activity and drudgery that the busy port is.

Clive can sense his mother standing just behind him, and so he manages not to wince at the feel of her hands coming to rest upon his shoulders, silently, he’s glad for his pauldrons and the extra barrier they provide against her. “Your Eminence.” He does not feel her move into the curtsy that a man of the High Cardinal’s station would expect, and when he moves to bow, the pull of her hands on his shoulders stops him.

Another game, another display of her power.

The High Cardinal waits for a moment, a pause that sits so heavily in the air that even the guards surrounding him pick up on it, causing a few to shift uncomfortably in their armour while some brave soul has the audacity to clear his throat.

The sound seems to knock the High Cardinal into action. Gesturing to the soldier’s that stand around him he bays them to walk forward, “Pay no mind to the guard your Grace, they are merely a precaution. Many covet the power the Mothercrystal’s blessing provides, a show of force may yet dissuade those with less than honourable intentions.”

As far as threats go, that was neither subtle nor effective. While the soldier’s that stand behind the High Cardinal are knight’s, they are not Dragoon’s, not like the knights that stand at full attention behind his mother. Four Knights of the Dawn Light, Prince Dion’s men, who only the Emperor may command without the Prince’s consent.

“These are perilous times your Eminence, would that more men had the sense to guard what is theirs so zealously.” Even through his armour, Clive can feel the pressure of his mother’s hold increasing.

“Quite so,” The glint that takes the High Cardinals eyes is malicious. “Had the Archduke Elwin had such sense; may haps you would not be standing here today.”

Clive takes a deep breath, willing himself not to react as he fights the tide of burning hate that rises from the depths of his soul, but he must not hide it well enough as the High Cardinal turns to him, a congenial expression hiding little and none of the satisfaction the man is feeling over his words having landed.

“Tell me, young Lord Rosfield, you were present at Phoenix Gate, the only Rosarian survivor.” His not quite simpering voice grates against Clive’s nerves. “I hear that before the Eikon emerged the fighting was quite fierce, if a little inequitable.”

The words are tumbling from his lips before he can think of the warning his mother just gave him. “Had the blades at their backs allowed them to draw their swords, maybe then we would have shown you the true valour of the Shields of Rosaria…your Eminence.” The title is tagged on at the end as an afterthought, which only seems to further enrage the High Cardinal.

Good, Clive learnt early that words could cut as deeply as any blade. He may, at this time, be bound to his mother’s wants and whims, but if the nobility of Oriflamme seek to subtly weave insults into any conversations they have with him, he will happily do the same.

The hand that moves from his shoulder to the base of his neck, silently makes it clear that he is treading on thin ice, but as she has yet to sheath her sharp nails into the sensitive skin there, he at least knows that he has not overstepped the bounds she has set, not yet at least.

“And what do you know of war, my Lord?” the High Cardinal asks, even as he waves for the entrance to the keep to be cleared so they might pass through the obsidian gates, under the gaze of stone dragons, and into the dark depths of the mines beyond.

Too much and too little all at once, Clive thinks. The ring of clashing steel, the screams of dying men, hot ash coating every inhale even as the stone beneath his feet runs slick with blood, the feel of feathers in his grasp—he shakes his head violently at that thought, fighting the bile that rises at the back of his throat as the events of Phoenix Gate play out behind his eyes.

“Your Eminence,” his mother smoothly inserts herself into the conversation with a silken tone that cannot help but carry in the narrowing passages of the mine around them. “Perhaps my son might regale you with his recollection of the Night of Flames another time. He is, after all, still recovering from the battle.”

Clive is sure he would already be fully recovered were he not forced to wear the crystalline cuffs, which even now sap him of his strength and leave him feeling cold.

The High Cardinal nods in agreement, only to shake it as he raises a hand to the bridge of his nose, his steps slowing to the point that Clive will soon overtake him if his mother does not stop guiding him forward. It’s only when they draw level that the High Cardinal finally deigns to speak, “I would of course agree, your Grace. Were I not concerned that his Lordship shall not survive this trial of yours.”

The soft squeeze of slack fingers against his throat has him stopping just as his mother does.

The Dragoon’s behind them immediately halt and then shift to take up position along the natural line of the mineshaft, the clamorous beat of their armour falling out of sync with the High Cardinal’s guard, who continue to march for a few more steps before realising their error and coming to stand at attention themselves.

“You need not fear your Eminence, I can assure you that my son shall pass this test with flying colours.” His mother assures, voice so sweet that honey wouldn’t melt on her tongue.

The look of doubt and condescension that twists the High Cardinal’s features looks painful. “Your Grace, even if the boy is not a Dominant, he is still useful, the Seven High Houses are known for their loyalty. The heir to the Ducal line is far too valuable to risk, especially with a demonstration such as this that all but guarantees his death.”

Death? Why is Clive not surprised.

His mother is standing so close behind him that he can feel her breath ruffling his hair as she sighs. “Your Eminence, did you volunteered to oversee the test to try and dissuade me?”

“I act only in the best interests of the Empire,” the man demures. A non-answer which still gives away too much if the way his mother tenses behind him is anything to judge.

“Is it not in the best interest of the Empire to confirm my son as a Dominant?” Clive’s heart sinks as he recognises the timbre of her voice, it’s the one she uses when Clive has done something she believes is beyond his station. Low and leading it brings with it such a false sense of security, entrapping those that do not know the danger lying just beneath the surface of her sweet words.

“Your Grace,” the High Cardinal adopts a kindly visage, one that would befit a priest giving a sermon to his wayward flock. “This…fabrication of yours, born of grief as it may be, it has gone too far. Are you willing to kill the only child that remains to you, all for what? A false sense of pride and the sympathy of the Emperor?”

Knowing his mother, there is a little more to it than that, but essentially, yes. She would absolutely allow Clive to die for those reasons. On that count at least, he’s going to do his best to disappoint her.

“A fabrication you say,” his mother chuckles.

“Eight Eikon’s for eight elements, this is as it has always been.” He sounds as though he is quoting directly from scripture. “A ninth cannot exist, let alone a second born of fire.” Standing to his full height he reaches out a hand. “There is still time for supplication, the Emperor is a man crowned in Greagor’s light, he shall show you mercy.”

The small push against his shoulders is enough to get Clive walking again. With slow and measured steps, he and his mother walk past the High Cardinal, her silence and the echoing clack of her heels against the uneven stone more damning than any refusal could have been.

“Your Grace.” The High Cardinal snaps.

Another clack of her heel and then it is joined by the synchronised toll of her Dragoon guard taking position around them once more.

As they move forward, the High Cardinal’s own guard stand at full attention and salute, allowing their small procession to pass with all the ceremony that would suit a conqueror returning home.

“Your Eminence,” his mother finally speaks, “I would not betray the faith his Radiance has in me, nor will I ever allow the doubts of others to steer me from the truth.” Clive cannot help but pull away slightly as she strokes a possessive hand through his hair. “Have no fear, I suggested this trial as I knew my account would be too fantastical to believe without proper proof. In all honesty, it gladdens my heart to know that you are the one to oversee this test.”

“You will not be deterred?” he demands, as though Clive’s mother has not already made it perfectly clear that she will not be swayed.

When she doesn’t answer, merely continues to walk forward, the High Cardinal relents. “May Greagor have mercy.”

The rest of the journey is carried out in silence, their small party weaving their way through the maze-like tunnels of the mine, travelling deeper and deeper until the dark shaft lit only with the crystal lanterns gives way to a sheer wall of crystal.

The curiosity that has been nibling at the back of his mind bites down hard as he is directed to a cage that looks as though it is set up to lead into the lower depths of the mine.

“Six hours was the agreed upon time?” questions his mother as she finally release him. Manoeuvring to stand before him she unveils a key on a long chain kept around her neck, with an easy flick, the chain is pulled over her head and the key inserted into the lock that binds the crystal cuffs.

The relief that comes with their release, the return of the comforting flame he can now feel fluttering to life in his chest, it’s so disorienting he almost doesn’t hear the High Cardinal’s reply. “After conferring with the Astrologers, ten hours was the time they advised for Lord Rosfield to be confirmed, without question, as a Dominant.

Six? Ten hours? What on earth are they talking about?

“You’ll be needing this.” A sword is sheathed into the ground before him, his own, still bearing the nicks and ash from that night at Phoenix Gate.

He grasps the hilt tightly before he can allow his thoughts to dwell on those memories.

The moment he does, two of the Dragoon’s guide him to the entrance of the cage, but he is the only one to board it.

The sound of the wooden gate closing behind him echoes in the small space, and as he looks back through the boards his mother’s cold grey eyes are the last thing he sees before the cage begins its descent.

For long moments, he wonders what they could possibly have planned.

Those thoughts stall the second the blue mist begins to leech in through the gaps of the cage. His eyes widen at the sight of it, even as more of it begins to fill the space, swirling around him on invisible currents that slowly tighten their grasp until he can barely breathe through the fear overtaking him.

An aether flood.

Chapter Text

The High Cardinal was right. She has sent him to his death.

The cage is still lowering him into the depths of the mine and yet every corner of it is already filled with aether. Like mist it clings to him, and obscures his sight, to the point that if he stands at one side of the cage, he can barely make out the silhouette of the other.

No, the only thing that remains clear throughout his descent is the bright glow of the Mothercrystal.

Taking up an entire wall of the cage the luminous caerulean crystal emits a calming radiance, its tranquil lustre would almost be enough to rob him of his fear if it were not for the knowledge that every moment spent here brings him one step closer to turning akashic.

Is that the reason they gave him his sword? To end it on his own terms before he could turn.

With a lurch, the cage finally comes to a stop, and the gate rises.

He steps forward, to be met with darkness lit only by the feint glow of the aether that consumes the space which extends endlessly before him and beyond that, light, pure and bright like a beacon in the night.

A false hope set to lure him deeper into the stream of aether that even now is slowly robbing him of his mind and will.

He is not the Dominant his mother proclaims him to be, all he has is the blessing of the Phoenix, and the natural resistance that comes with being so closely related to a Dominant. Common sense dictates he will not last long, an hour at most if he is lucky, and they expect him to stay down here for ten…

“That fucking bitch is mad,” the curse escapes him as a whisper, but even that echoes back to him, ricocheting off the walls and breaking the silence that comes with the absence of natural life that haunts the mine around him.

He looks once more to the light flickering at the end of the mineshaft and wonders what it could be. Too weak to be another facet of the Mothercrystal in the distance, the flame bobs on the currents of the aether, looking almost exactly like a will-o-the whisp, a tiny spirit that lures unwary travellers deeper into the swamps of the Three Reed Marshes.

His heart aches as he continues to watch the tiny waif dance in the distance, tales of will-o-the whisp and moogle’s were Joshua’s favourites. The last time it had rained for days, when all of them were trapped indoors, Joshua had begged Clive to read an old book of folktales he’d managed to unearth from the library, arguing that he always did the best spooky voices. Clive had relented, of course, but not before extracting a promise that the next time they would read another scene of the Saint and the Sectary.

Clive can’t help but smile, even as his eyes grow wet, as he remembers how Joshua had complained so loudly, “you always want to read about Ser Crandall, we’ve read his story so many times, aren’t you bored of it?”

“Bored?” Clive had asked with fake affront, before pouncing. Joshua had tried to flee but Clive had easily caught him by the waist and drawn him into the inescapable prison of his arms. “I could never be bored by the heroic tales of Ser Crandall and his noble quest to avenge his liege lady.”

Joshua had giggled only to proclaim, “but you know all his legends backwards and the ending is so sad!”

“True,” Clive had agreed as he brought his chin to rest against the crown of his brother’s head, “but Ser Crandall weathers all that hardship and opens a path to a brighter future for those he leaves behind.”

Joshua had gone quiet at that declaration, seeming to retreat into himself as he thought over Clive’s words, only to beg in a small voice, “you won’t do that, will you?”

It was Clive’s turn to go quiet then, blindsided by the hurt that suffused his little brother’s voice. He couldn’t stop himself from promising, “no, I won’t.”

The sound of water splashing against the leather of his glove snaps him from the memory. Where his eyes were once wet now the tears flow freely. He goes to wipe them away, only to stop when he realises there is no point.

Alone as he is down here, who is there to judge him for allowing the sadness and grief that claws at his soul to overtake him.

He sinks against the nearest pillar, sliding to the ground, and finally lets the wall that he has built between himself and his emotions fall.

It hits him like a wave, knocking the air from his lungs as he allows despair to grip him. He embraces it, sinks into it even as he fights for breath and screams against the injustice of it all, letting the tide of it carry him where it will.

“…”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, how long he allows himself to be lost to the surges of his loss, but when focus comes to him again, he’s lying on his side, arms wrapped around his chest as though he’s trying to hold the shattered pieces of his heart inside.

He shifts minutely, only to feel the irritating scrape of rock dust clinging to his skin, all but adhered to his face by the freshly dried tears.

His head hurts, so does his throat, but it all still feels so distant, as though his mind cannot connect with his body after being lost to the storm of his own anguish.

He lies there, wondering if there is any real point in trying to sit back up.

Another small shift and the scratch of rock against his skin and the itch it brings with it convinces him there is.

He does his best to wipe the dirt away as he reorients himself, leaning back against the pillar and staring up at the darkened ceiling above. The aether languidly curls about the crevices and rough surface of the stone ceiling, casting strange shadows as the denser clouds spark with brief flares of light.

It would be beautiful if he didn’t know what every second spent here cost.

He’s never actually seen an akashic, Rosaria having yet to suffer an aether flood. No, their problem lies with the lack of it, and the ever-encroaching threat of the Blight.

Sanbreque, however is known to suffer from them, a fact well spread by their own knights who take every opportunity to regale an audience with the tales of their heroic efforts to stem the flow of akashic beasts.

Even with his eyes open, still staring at the ghostly trails of aether at play above his head, he can picture the beasts the inebriated knights described. Wyverns with their skin mottled blue and their maws lit with flames tainted by the glow of corruption, Dragonet’s and once loyal mastiffs turning on their masters, tearing at them with tooth and claw, brothers in arms screaming as their minds were lost until they swung their blades at the men they once served beside.

It is a fate worse than death.

At that thought something shifts in his chest, the jagged pieces of his shattered heart slip and press against the quivering flame that still burns inside him, only to catch as anger ignites along the ragged veins carved into his soul by a grief so ravaging that it has left him hollow and burnt-out.

He will not succumb to this, not without a fight.

Standing, he makes his way back to the cage and inspects it. There’s a lever that under normal circumstances would activate the mechanism to have the pulley system raise the cage, he pulls it, even though he already knows his mother would never leave him that option of escape.

As expected, the lever moves limply, like a dislocated arm, useless.

Next, he turns his gaze to the roof, solid wooden planks stare back down at him. Unsheathing his blade, he stands on the rail and stabs upwards, aiming for the thin seam between the boards closest to him.

The crack of wood breaking is music to his ears.

Retracting his blade he stabs again, and again, working until his arm aches with the strain of it and then pushing on until he feels the board give way. Nearly dropping his sword under the sudden lack of resistance he manages to save it, only to sheathe it as he reaches with his one free hand to pull at the loose board. He grits his teeth against the splinters that drag along the bare skin of his wrist as he forces his way through the small hole he has managed to make. The board creaks and groans as he applies pressure, but refuses to shift, even as he places all his weight on it. Frustrated he goes to draw his sword again.

A sudden and unexpected thud above his head almost has him losing his grip.

Looking up through the hole he tries to see what hit the cage roof, only for another thud to have him ducking.

“You gone akashic?!” The voice echoes down, disturbing the still air around him.

He blinks, then realises it must be one of Dragoon’s, left to guard the shaft.

“Fuck off!” he shouts as he unsheathes his sword and bashes the handle against the ceiling.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

He ignores that and continues to beat against the wood, hoping that the weakened board will give.

“What the hell are you doing down there!” comes another shout.

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, merely continues chipping away, hope building with every crack he puts in the stubborn wood.

“I think he’s trying to get out,” one notes.

“Should we stop him?” the other asks.

“I’d like to see you bastards try!” Clive half shouts half grunts as another strike buckles the plank.

Glaring at the ceiling, he wishes it was at the right angle to kick, as with the damage he has already inflicted the wood would splinter under one good stomp. Better yet, a fire blast would rip open a hole large enough for him to crawl through, were it not for the risk of the entire cage catching ablaze.

“You know if you make it up here, we’re just going to send you back down.” the goading tone echoes down the shaft, amplifying the provoking jeer.

That is a problem Clive will deal with when he makes it out of this poisonous mist that is currently slowly corrupting his mind, body, and soul.

Distracted as he is, he does not hear the sound of skittering feet scratching against rock, but the haunting scream that escapes the tarantula’s mouth as it pounces on his leg has him dropping from where he’s perched and rolling clear of the cage.

“Shit!” It’s all he has time to say as the beast springs for him again, forearms splayed, and fangs extended.

It chokes on his blade as he shoves it down it’s throat.

It’s a mortal blow, a fact proven when the body of the tarantula disperses into the air like ash, but he is given little time to recover as the next tarantula, with eyes burning blue and skin lit from within by the aether that has overtaken it, spits venom.

The world spins as he steps to the side, allowing the vicious liquid to spray near harmlessly against the wall, as flames gather in his palm before building along his forearm, the banner of feathers that trail behind his strike manifest into a wing that sweeps the twitching arachnid into the air, slamming it into the ceiling as the fire eats away at degraded flesh until only blue stained cinders that crumble into dust, remain.

Back pressed against the opposite wall, he looks up and down the length of the shaft, searching for the next enemy that must be crawling its way out of the small fissures that hide in the shadows of the mine. He is not left waiting long, spindly legs drag a larger body out of a thin seam in the rock just to the side of his head, nearly close enough to touch.

The steel of his blade cleaves through the joints, severing the limbs cleanly, stalling the tarantula’s progress. His stance is perfect as he buries his sword up to the hilt between the convulsing arachnid’s eyes, but like the rest it disintegrates, leaving the way clear for its brethren that now swarm the gap.

Stepping back, he unleashes a weak fire spell hoping to buy time.

With a screech and a flash of flame that he has not conjured a dragonet joins the fray. Most likely drawn by the sound of battle and the spark that still lights his fingers, the small beast that usually serves as a pet for lesser Dragoon’s enfolds him in the leathery cocoon of its wings as it sheathes its talons in the bare skin of his forearm.

Tiny needle-sharp teeth snap inches from his nose, and in a way, it helps distract him from the pain of the mad beast’s sharp talons sheathed in his flesh. Grabbing the winged lizard by the neck he wrenches it back at a hard angle until he hears the telltale snap of bone being bent beyond its limit.

The creature goes limp all at once, its high-pitched shrieks silenced as it’s body crumbles like brittle chalk in his grip.

He does not have a second to spare, nor even the time to bind the deep punctures that litter his arm. The tarantulas are free now, and the remainder of the flock of dragonet’s have been summoned by the cries of their fallen scout.

The next seconds are a series of exchanges between claws, tooth, venom, talon, steel, and fire. Every dodge is a hairbreadth away from death as he dances between the aether addled monsters, until they ensnare him in a loose circle from which there is no escape, for them.

The scarlet cyclone that streams around him like a cloak of firelit feathers, reaps the beasts where they stand, leaving Clive alone once more as the stillness of the lifeless mines is restored.

He stands for a moment, blade drawn, muscles tense, only to slump as exhaustion and pain crash down on him as he realises that the fight is over. He only manages to keep his feet by planting his sword in the ground.

Leaning into it, his hands resting on the pommel and his head bent atop them, he pants for breath even as he struggles to calm the raging beat of his heart, that echoes in his ears now that he is only surrounded by silence.

Only the tacky feel of half dried blood against his chin reminds him that his arm is still bleeding. Grateful for something to focus on he searches the small pouch on his belt with fumbling fingers, the soft brush of the fresh bandages he always has stored there has him sighing with relief.

He binds his arm tightly, and curses the fact that they hadn’t even thought to give him a potion before sending him down here as the white cloth is dyed red.

Task done; he tries to summon the strength to face the next.

It takes longer than it should for him to gather himself, but even as he manages to walk back to the cage it is with heavy feet and a bent head. Every inch of him is tired, but he still has work to do.

Levering himself once more atop the rail is a mammoth undertaking, and his hand slips twice before he finds proper purchase on the broken board. The first tug elicits a soft creak but nothing more, the second the long groan of protesting wood. Frustration builds to boiling point and overtakes sense, as he jumps recklessly in order to bring all of his weight to bear.

The board finally gives, and Clive is left with nothing to hold on to.

His ankle twists the wrong way as the ground comes up to meet him too quickly, and he is left hissing and spitting on the floor looking at the hole he has just made.

It’s barely big enough for him to fit his whole arm through.

All that work, all for nothing.

He allows his head to fall against the floor as he determinedly tries to keep his eyes open, but the pounding ache of dehydration that beats behind his eyes is making that a hard challenge, but even as darkness closes in at the edge of his vision, he refuses to succumb to it.

If he gives in to the pull of sleep now the next time he opens his eyes, he will be akashic.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, simply watching the dancing motes of aether, it feels like hours, but he knows boredom has the uncanny ability to drag mere minutes out into an eternity.

Then again, dread can make hours pass like seconds.

At that thought the cage around him judders, then moves as the gate closes.

Bewildered, he sits up, waiting for the cage to drop again, for it to stop at another but equally flooded level where more monsters will await him.

Instead, it continues to rise, and hope builds as the aether starts to drain.

He hears voices next.

“-end the poor boys suffering and return before you turn yourselves. If any of you show signs of corruption you will be executed immediately, so do not linger.”

Clive never thought he would be so glad to hear the High Cardinals dulcet tones.

Forcing himself to stand, he ignores the twinge of his ankle as he takes up the defensive stance Ser Rodney had painstakingly taught him. If they try to send him back down, he will fight them.

The cage stops and the gate lifts.

A four-man squad of Bearers blink at him in surprise, but their expressions of shock are nothing compared to the look of abject horror that paints the High Cardinal’s face.

“N-no,” the man stutters, taking half a step back.

Taking advantage of the stillness brought on by disbelief, Clive steps out of the wooden cage that had been his prison, only to trip as his weakened ankle catches against the uneven ground.

He starts to tip forward, and this time he doesn’t have the strength to save himself.

Thin arms rise to catch him, enfolding him in a cold embrace that sends a shiver of dread rolling down his spine, they are familiar in the worst of ways, but the darkness encroaching on his vision now dominates everything, leaving the world feeling fuzzy and distant.

What choice does he have but to fall.

Chapter Text

Her boy collapses into her arms, boneless with an exhaustion that must rob him of all sense, as he lacks the usual tenseness that comes with her proximity.

Tall and muscled as he is, she cannot hold him steady, and so, she guides him to the ground, cradling him as she does so that when she kneels on the floor, he comes to rest with his head pillowed in her lap. A pose evoking the image of Greagor tending to an injured saint.

She allows the High Cardinal a moment and enjoys watching as he wastes it.

Blustering like the fool he is, grasping for an explanation when the truth has already been laid out before his eyes.

“There must have been an alcove o-or, or a storage room that the flood did not touch, a place where he could have sheltered from the ill effects of the aether.”

“Your Eminence, we had Bearers survey the shaft as you instructed before we sent him down there, that section of the mine is a single path, no longer than a hundred feet, all of which is fully submerged in the aether flood,” reports one of his own guards.

“Something must have happened, a rock fall opening up a passage, I shall not allow this to pass without proper confirmation!” The High Cardinal rages as he points the four Bearer’s he had prepared. “I want another full assessment conducted.”

Now, Anabella chooses to speak, “By all means your Eminence, we must be certain of the result.”

Only now does he seem to remember that she is there. As he glares at her, stricken with rage to the point that she can clearly see the vein in his temple pulsing, Anabella cannot help but preen. His anger a direct result of her own success.

She strokes her fingers through Clive’s hair, uncaring of the dirt that transfers to her own hand. Happy to sit here for the time it takes for his Eminence to realise that he has run out of excuses.

Alas, her entertainment is cut short by the Dragoon captain that takes a knee beside her. “Your Grace, shall we move him to the carriage? He may be more comfortable there.”

“An excellent suggestion, if you would please.” At her allowance the knight takes Clive, positioning him in a cradle carry, most likely in hopes of sparing the boy further injury.

She cannot help the sneer that briefly mars her face at the sight of the blood that now stains her skirts, but her expression soon melts back to a gentle smile when it occurs that this too may be spun to her advantage.

The sun rests low as they exit the keep, casting the world into a mix of red and blue shades, as the light from the dying sun competes with the brilliance the Mothercrystal casts upon the quiet harbour.

Clive does not stir, not even as he is loaded into the carriage, positioned so she can easily take the seat beside him as soon as the Dragoon steps back.

The shadowed recesses of the carriage become a quiet haven and with her son lost to the world of dreams there is nothing to stop her from drawing him close to her side.

She had been unable to do this on the trip from Phoenix Gate to Oriflamme, for the five days it had taken them to complete the journey, Clive had burned with fever. The physicker had worked tirelessly on him, and one Branded was used to the point of succumbing to the curse, as they should be in the service of their betters. Their efforts had not been in vain, as Clive’s fever had finally broken just as they had passed through Northreach, still, the physicker had advised that the boy needed rest and was therefore not to be disturbed.

She had heeded the advice until they had reached the gates of Oriflamme. Unwilling to give rumour the chance to take root, she had boarded the carriage and presented the image of a doating and concerned mother, wielding it as a weapon from the moment the eyes of the people that mattered fell upon her.

She will admit it is a little different now, the warmth of pride lighting up her chest makes it easier. Where before her gestures had seemed almost rehearsed to the point of being cold, now she doesn’t even have to think about the soft touches and gentle embraces that silently convey to others that he is indeed her son.

She moves to take his hand, only to be stopped by the damp bandage wrapped around his right forearm. That would explain the blood that had already dyed her skirt, as well as the sounds of battle the guards had reported.

Shifting his arm into her lap, she picks at the knot securing the bandage until it comes undone and then carefully unwinds the stained cloth. The six puncture wounds that litter his skin begin to bleed sluggishly as the pressure of the dressing is undone, but as deep as they look, they are not something that a simple potion cannot take care of.

Knocking on the carriage wall twice is enough to gain the attention of her guard.

“Your Grace,” enquires the knight as he opens the door, his head already bowed in deference.

“I require a potion and fresh bandages; my son is injured.” Her request is carried out almost immediately, the items presented to her like an offering.

“Does he require a physicker?” the knight asks, even as he takes a step back, ready to be dismissed or to carry out her next order.

“There is no need at present, I shall have him checked when we return to the castle.” Taking that for the release it is he closes the door.

The crack of glass breaking in the relatively small confines of the carriage causes Clive to stir, but he soon settles as the potion takes effect. Unbidden, a memory of Joshua asleep beside her rises at the back of her mind, she turns away from it before it can fully form, allowing it to sink back into the recesses of her mind as she mentally draws a line between it and this moment. This is a time to reflect on what she has accomplished; she will not allow mere nostalgia to taint it.

Seeing that the wounds have closed, Anabella binds Clive’s arm with fresh gauze, and then fetches the crystal cuffs. She cannot help but frown at the weight and bulk of them, though they serve their purpose they are anything but discreet, all but advertising that Clive cannot be trusted.

Still, until she can guarantee that she has Clive fully under control they are a necessity. Perhaps it would be best to look for ways to disguise them, but until then the excuse that Clive is still learning to control his powers as a Dominant will have to suffice.

The boys’ eyes flutter as she closes the cold crystal infused steel back around his wrists, and for a moment it seems as though he will wake, as unfocused blue eyes gaze at the fetters, as though he does not quite understand why they are there, but exhaustion wins and his eyes close once more.

If only he could be this docile all the time.

Brushing his fringe back from his face she cannot help but note how much he takes after Elwin, his hair, the colour of his eyes, and his strong jaw, all of them are an almost perfect reflexion of his father’s, but there are traces of her too. The shape of his eyes, his paler complexion, the texture of his hair, all of it is her, and as easily dismissed as these features might be upon first glance, there is no denying them upon closer inspection. Small as they may be they all add up to one incontestable fact. He is her son.

A gentle knock and a quiet, “your Grace,” distracts her from these thoughts and turns her attention back to the guard standing outside.

“Yes?” Her voice is just loud enough to be heard through the thin wall of the carriage.

“An astrologer has requested an audience.”

News travels fast.

“You may admit him.” The door opens to reveal a man dressed in the white and blue robes of a high ranked astrologer, though the traditional pointed cowl is missing, an attempt to not draw attention? A show of good faith? Time will tell.

“Your Grace, thank you for taking the time to see me. My name is Jean Vinavaire. First class in the order of Metia. My Lord Diviner charged me to welcome you and your son, as well as to congratulate you on the confirmation of your son’s status as the new Dominant of Fire. Though the name of his Eikon has yet to be revealed, we shall continue to search the stars for an answer.” The smile barely hidden by the full bow he gives her is painted with an avarice that lends his face a snake like quality, a fitting attribute for one who must crawl to the heights of power.

Donning her own smile, she returns the greeting, “Sir, I thank you and your Lord for the kind welcome, I must admit though that although my son has passed this trial the High Cardinal has yet to confirm his status.” She dangles the opening before his eyes, like a fisherman reeling in a baited hook.

He snaps at it.

Delicately, in a way that on the surface appears only to be the ever-circuitous dance of curtesy that plagues all courtiers, he weaves his denial. “Surely not, the boy sits beside you, untouched by the aether, true proof to my Lords reading of the stars.”

“Your Lord performed a reading for my son, I was not aware of this.” A lie, Sylvestre has been pouring over star charts for days, turning to the heavens to validate the answer she had already given him.

“In matters that deal with the divine, his Radiance has oft charged my order with seeking the revelations that may otherwise be out of reach.” Jean explains., fully aware that he is laying out the influence the astrologers have over the Emperor. An influence she is sure they would not want threatened.

“I will keep that in mind,” she offers as she extends a hand, silently inviting the man to take the seat opposite her. “Pray tell, what fate does your Lord foresee for my son?”

Eagerly accepting the invitation, the astrologer clambers into the carriage. “Divining is a fine art, very few can practise the skill, let alone master it.”

She easily picks up on the implication. “Your Lord is such a master?”

The nod he gives is both emphatic and without hesitation. “He rose through the ranks quickly, the youngest in our history to obtain the staff of a Diviner, some say he will soon become the Keeper of the Observatory.”

He is making this far too easy, laying out his Lord’s wants like a canvas ready to be painted. “He sounds like a talented man.”

“He is, and your son plays a vital part in the future he sees for a unified Sanbreque and Rosaria, as do you your Grace.” He leans forward slightly, and lowers his voice, as though he is imparting a closely guarded secret. “A new star has appeared aligned with the eye of Bahamut’s constellation, the star that depicts his Radiance, my master believes this star represents you your Grace.”

Anabella had to fight so very hard not to roll her eyes. She has never been one to buy into signs and portents, why would she when her blood had long secured her future, but that does not mean she is not willing to use them against those that do.

She gives a little, knowing she will gain much in return. “There has been talk…”

Jean fidgets in his seat, clearly excited. “My Master has foreseen it, the line of Lesage will join with yours, and the light born of this union shall have a protector in the form of a beast of fire crowned with horns.”

She does not have to wonder where this description came from, soldiers had loose tongues, and those that had survived the Night of Flames had been all to glad to share tales of the Demon born from fire that had laid the Phoenix low.

“A light?” she enquires gently, as though she is unsure but filled with hope over the idea he could be suggesting.

“A child your Grace, A true born heir of noble blood.” She allows some of the satisfaction she feels at those words to show on her face.

She understands now why so many nobles choose to entertain this charade; it is nice to be told exactly what you want to hear, but she will not allow the sweet promise of a future almost within her grasp to blunt her resolve. That future will only come to pass by her own hands, not by the workings of some divine power that may only be interpreted by a select few, if it can be interpreted at all.

None of her doubt is allowed to rise to the surface, only her hope. “Would your master have time to discuss these divinations at length?”

“I am sure he shall make time for you your Grace, he does hope the two of you can come to a most… beneficial understanding.” Realising that the conversation is naturally drawing to a close, Jean prepares to leave, but something of the wording of his prediction snags within her mind, and she cannot help but pick at it.

“A moment, sir,” she bids, and as one of his station should he pauses.

“True born?”

The spark that flares across the man’s eyes is calculative. “A matter for another time your Grace, one which my master looks forward to reviewing with you at great length.”

She could force him to tell her now, but that is not the way this game is played, not when you seek to win. Accepting his answer with a benevolent nod she allows him to be on his way.

“We shall arrange a meeting at your leisure, your Grace, until then.” The bow he gives her is passable, but it lacks the finesse of one born and raised in the higher circles of society, she can only pray his master is not of the same stock.

Leaning back and pulling Clive so he can rest against her more comfortably, she takes a moment to review her current position.

Sylvestre is well in hand and having a direct line to the Astrologers in whom he places so much faith shall only make her grip tighter.

Rosaria shall be brought to heel by the debt it shall owe Sanbreque for their salvation from the crusaders of the Iron Kingdom, and the fact that the sole heir to the Ducal throne is under the Emperor’s protection.

Meanwhile, Dhalmekia would be a fool to act against the Empire, especially with the threat of Kanver seeking to become a free city state, no, the republic shall not be an issue.

As for Waloed and their last King…

 Her musings on that subject are forestalled by the sound of the solution to that very problem arriving at the harbour.

The clack of taloned feet scrapping against the cobbles is soon drowned out by the ruffled kweh of a chocobo being reigned in.

Looking every inch the heir he is, Prince Dion dismounts and walks towards the Keep, where he is intercepted by a rather flustered Dragoon.

Anabella sits back and observes the situation, unwilling to initiate contact with the Prince so obviously occupied.

Even at a distance, there is no mistaking Prince Dion. He would be Sylvestre come again if not for the darker tone of his blonde hair.

Regal even while standing still, he commands a quiet respect from all the men present, which only adds to the air of authority that surrounds him.

A formidable opponent that shall be hard to undermine.

Only when the High Cardinal comes forth to greet his highness does Anabella decide to let her presence be known.

Situating Clive so he can continue to rest at ease, she steps down from the carriage and makes her way with measured steps back towards the keep, walking as slowly as she can in order to absorb as much of the exchange between the High Cardinal and Prince Dion as possible.

“—ank you for your timely arrival, I would not think to disturb your Highness if I had not thought this issue of the utmost importance.” The High Cardinal babbles, looking pale and somewhat unnerved.

“It is no trouble your Eminence, whilst in the Capital if I can be of service then I shall,” the Prince states as he surveys the harbour, his gaze lands on her and pauses for a moment, as confusion crinkles the corner of his eyes, but he soon returns to the task at hand.

The High Cardinal nods in both relief and approval. “I am afraid that only you shall be able to resolve this quandary. The Bearer’s we brought have all succumbed to the aether before they could complete their task.”

“Aether? Has the flood spread? Were the miners and guards evacuated in time?” The Prince moves as though he intends to go and check for himself, only to be set at ease by the High Cardinal’s denials.

“No, no, nothing quite that damaging, yet. However, we must act quickly if we hope to mitigate the consequences that may arise.”

Seeming to run out of patience the Prince gets straight to the point. “Your Eminence, for what reason have you called me here.”

Seeing the perfect opening, Anabella steps forward. “A fine question, Your Highness.”

The Prince’s eyes widen as he takes her in, going from idly curious to shocked concern in a blink. “Duchess Rosfield, are you hurt?”

She is puzzled by his question for but a moment, only to realise that her white silk skirts are still dyed a vibrant red with her son’s fresh blood, she must look quite the site.

Waving away the Prince’s worry, she explains as she pays him the respect his station demands, “Your Highness, I assure you I am well, thank you for your consideration, but the blood is not mine. I am afraid I have not had the opportunity to change after tending to my son and do apologise for presenting myself in such a state before you.”

“Your Son? I had heard—” the Prince cuts himself off as he comes to a realisation. “Your eldest son? The Marquis?”

“Indeed.” She refrains from elaborating further, not wanting to come across as insulting by reminding the Prince of the last time he and Clive had met.

“Is his injury severe? We can summon a physicker if there is need?” The Prince appears nothing if not sincere, already bidding a Dragoon forward to carry out the order.

“His wounds have been seen to.” She assures, even as she gives a shallow curtsy in thanks for his thoughtfulness. “Rest is all he requires now, after all his trial was quite arduous.”

The soft scoff that comes from the High Cardinal at her words refocuses their attention on him.

“I am sorry your Grace, but I fear his Highness has precious little time to waste on further pleasantries.” He turns away from her abruptly, an obvious dismissal that sits wrong with the Prince if she is reading him correctly.

“Your Eminence, is the situation so dire that we must abandon common curtesy?” His Highness objects, clearly displeased with the lack of decorum the noble is displaying.

Instead of acquiescing to his liege’s gentle reprimand, the High Cardinal commits to a final charge. “Alas, I fear it is your Highness. If lies are allowed to be taken as truth merely because of a chance of fate, we shall all soon be lost.”

Relishing the High Cardinal’s loss of composure, Anabella raises a hand to her mouth, looking ponderous and not at all offended. “Have the Bearer’s found something your Eminence?”

The High Cardinal goes quiet at that, his face turning near purple with poorly concealed rage.

One enterprising guard steps forward to answer for him, “your Grace, we sent down four Bearer’s to verify the initial assessment…only one of them returned and he was showing signs of turning akashic.”

“Akashic? You sent Bearers down into the mine when you were already aware it was flooded?” The Prince is already moving forward, his squire at his heels.

“Your Highness, where are you going?” The High Cardinal seems panicked at the Prince’s sudden turn to action.

“To appraise the situation for myself. As it would seem that you have lost control. Though I cannot help but question whether you had it in to begin with.”

“I have yet to brief you on our purpose here today.” A weak attempt at best to try and get the Prince to pause when he is so clearly set on his course.

“I am sure that my Dragoon’s already stationed here will be able to give me a full account.” Clearly done talking the Prince holds out his hand expectantly and his squire presents him with his lance.

Dressed in the white and silver of his house, Prince Dion is not easily swallowed by the shadows of the mine, like the moon hung in the sky he seems to glow with light, the perfect image of Greagor’s champion.

How she will enjoy tarnishing that façade.

Satisfied that everything shall be resolved she retreats to the coach. “I believe it is time we returned.” Before she mounts the carriage, she turns to the lead Dragoon of her escort. “I would ask that you leave one of your men here, to answer any questions the Prince may have.”

“Of course your Grace,” The Dragoon salutes.

Settling down for the journey, Anabella cannot suppress the almost girlish giggle that bubbles up from her chest. What better advocate for her version of what transpired here today could she ask for than Sanbreque’s own noble Prince.

Chapter Text

The space he opens his eyes to is dark with shifting shades of blue that make his heart sink, but he is robbed of his rising dread as the azure light resolves itself as the shadow of Drake’s Head catching off the ornate décor of the receiving room he has been placed in, and not the heavy clouds of misted aether he can remember being trapped in.

When had he been brought back to the castle? The last he remembers he had been at the bottom of the mineshaft trying to break the boards of the ceiling of the cage they had lowered him down in so he could climb out.

Wait, no, that thought doesn’t sit right with him, he can remember standing back at the top of the mine, sword drawn, and muscles primed to phoenix shift, but he cannot recall climbing the shaft. Disjointedly, the memory of too long legs, venom dipped fangs, and the smothering embrace of leathery wings floats to the surface of his mind. He hadn’t made it out, his attempt had been cut short by the plague of akashic monsters that had swarmed him like flies to a corpse.

So how…

The cage had been pulled up, but why? They had seemed determined to keep him down there until he turned akashic. No, that’s also wrong, there had been a time limit, but he couldn’t have possibly spent ten hours down there, no one could have, save a…

His pulse spikes as the idea seizes him, drowning out all rational thought and common sense as he stands up, beginning to pace the full-length of the room in order to control the frenetic energy that has suddenly consumed his limbs.

She is wrong.

She cannot be right.

This is not possible.

There must be another reason.

I am not…

I wouldn’t…

These are the thoughts that dominate his mind as he paces back and forth, hands clenching and unclenching as he bites his lip and searches desperately for an answer that makes sense.

It’s as he grips his hands together, nails digging through the leather of his gloves in a vain attempt to gain focus that his gaze catches on the crystal cuffs that bind his wrists.

The cuffs he has been wearing since he was first brought here because they are afraid of him using the Phoenix’s blessing.

It clicks then, like a puzzle piece falling into place, creating a full picture out of a collection of fragments that made no sense until you placed them in the right order.

He can remember Uncle Byron regaling the family with tales of his latest adventure, and one of those comes to mind now.

“There I was,” he had explained, sweeping his arms wide to denote an open space. “Lost in those damnable caves, left for dead by the guide who had betrayed me, that’s when the rumbling started, so strong it stole my own feet from under me.” Crouching in demonstration he had looked about with enough fear to scare Joshua into Clive’s lap. “The walls seemed to close in all around me, only for one to crack with a sound like thunder and open up a new path. I hurried forward, hope blazing as brightly in my chest as the crystal lantern I had managed to hold onto. Imagine my surprise when instead I saw the slow tide of my unmaking closing in upon me.”

Both Joshua and Clive had leaned forward in anxious anticipation as their uncle paused.

Only for Clive to grip Joshua tighter while his little brother hid his face against Clive’s chest, as Uncle Byron rushed at them with an eery whisper that filled every corner of the quiet room they sat in, “an aether flood.”

Their father had chuckled even as he reprimanded his own brother, “come now Byron, they’re still only small, don’t scare them too much.” The hand his father had laid on his head was warm and comforting enough to chase away the chill of fear that had been crawling up his spine.

“Nonsense,” Uncle Byron had dismissed with confidence, “why, it won’t be long before these two are joining me on my adventures. Anyway, where was I?”

“The aether flood was closing in on you,” Joshua piped up from where he’d still been buried against Clive’s chest.

“Ah, of course, just checking you were paying attention,” Uncle Byron said as he cleared his throat before continuing, “it rushed towards me, as inescapable as an oncoming tide. I had nowhere to go, not after the traitorous wretch had sealed off the entrance, and a dead end down every path I had taken thus far, and so there was nothing left for it, knowing that my fate was sealed I took the chance presented to me, and stepped through the hole that had opened in the wall and into the unknown.”

“Into the aether? Why aren’t you akashic?” Clive had accused as he shuffled back closer to his father even as he curled around Joshua, ready to protect him at the first sign of their uncle actually being turned.

Uncle Byron had laughed at his efforts, making Clive pout with all the power an eleven-year-old could muster. Uncle Byron had relented. “Come now nephew, do you really think your father would have let me in the castle if I had turned into an aether possessed monster?”

The question is rhetorical as proven when his uncle continues without prompting. “No, we Rosfield’s are built different.”

“How?” he and Joshua had asked at the same time as they had both tilted their heads, like a pair of confused puppies.

Uncle Byron had swept forward, and snagged both boys before they could escape. “Phoenix blood my boy’s. It runs thick in our line and though some of us may not be the Fire Birds Dominant.” He had rubbed his chin into the top of Joshua’s crown, until he pulled a peal of bell like laughter from the boy, but all the while he had looked at Clive. “It still gifts our line with certain benefits. One that lasted me long enough to find my way through that Aether Flood and out of those wretched caves, and with just enough time to catch up to that double crossing cur and bury my axe in his skull.”

After that evening, his father had taken him aside and cautioned him, warned him that his uncle had been very lucky, that the aether flood had most likely been a small one, and that his uncle had also probably exaggerated how long he had been stuck in it.

But what if he hadn’t?

His uncles’ story had made it seem as though he had waded through the thick aether for hours and come out the other side with no ill affect, and that was without the Blessing of the Phoenix.

Could this be the answer he was hoping for? Or was it just a comforting lie he was all too willing to believe?

Sitting down on the overstuffed baroque settee. He allows his head to fall back and tries to slow the rapid beat of his pulse that thuds painfully against his ribs, but even as he does this, he cannot help but note that the warmth that had previously cocooned him has fled, leaving him cold and bereft with its loss.

Moving to wrap his arms around his chest his palm brushes against almost rough fabric that doesn’t feel like it belongs in a place like the Whitewyrm castle. A place dripping in the best of everything, where even the shabbiest pillows should feel like silk beneath his touch.

Looking down he is met with the odd sight of an off grey coloured shawl that looks as though it’s seen better days, carelessly thrown against the deep blue satin cushions of the settee he sits on.

It could not look more out of place if it tried, what with the colour being something that more resembled the stormy grey that suited a Rosarian colour pallet better, than the favoured Sanbrequois style of pure white and shades of blue.

Running his hand along it again leaves his palm tingling even through the leather of his gloves, the shawl is home spun, old, and probably very warm when worn.

Before he can think better of it, he’s picking it up and wrapping it around his shoulders.

From the look of it, Clive had expected it to be a bit itchy, so when instead it proves to have a fluffy feel akin to a favoured winter blanket that he had back home, he cannot stop himself from huddling down into it.

With the bite of the cold blunted, he suddenly goes numb to the point where he feels disconnected from his own body, and all he can really focus on is the warmth he’s currently draped in. It makes him want to fall asleep again.

He must do, as what feels like only a brief blink later his eyes are flying open at the sound of someone entering the room.

He goes to rise, he wants to be standing when he faces his enemy but relaxes slightly when he recognises Mia popping her head through the gap in the door, quietly checking the room. She abandons all attempts to not disturb him when she sees him standing there.

“Good afternoon, my Lord.” She curtseys respectfully, however, the smooth motion of the dip of her legs stalls as she spots the shawl arranged around his shoulders.

“Is this yours?” he thinks his voice is gentle when he asks the question, but Mia flinches.

Worried that he has upset her he moves to give the garment back, but Mia’s hurried explanation has him pausing.

“You were asleep when last I checked, my Lord, but you were shivering as if you were freezing, and when I took your hand, it was as cold as those metal cuffs that bind your wrists. I know it was presumptuous of me, my Lord, but I am not usually allowed up on this level and so to ask one of the servants who usually work on this floor, or to dare to bother one of the guards…” She goes pale at the mere thought of doing that, and Clive can understand why.

His mother’s maids had been the terror of Rosalith castle, believing themselves to be above the other servants because of who they served, asking them to carry out a task they felt was beneath them resulted in a headache that just was not worth it.

“Thank you, Mia.” The words are quiet, but they have an immediate effect, as her shoulders slump in clear relief.

Aware that she must have come here for a reason, Clive asks, “is there something you need?”

Another quick curtsey as she ducks her head in embarrassment. “Yes, my Lord. I was sent to see if you were awake, and to rouse you if you were not, so you may make ready. You have been summoned to the council chambers.”

Clive cannot help but sigh, knowing already that his mother shall be waiting there for him. Reluctantly, he hands Mia back her shawl, already missing the borrowed warmth as the cold that seems to have settled in the centre of his chest, sends pins and needles running through his limbs, replacing his blood with ice and his skin with frost.

He knows it’s simply an effect of having worn the crystal fetters for too long, of being cut off from the Phoenix’s Blessing for a prolonged period of time, but he’s grown so used to the small blaze, like a hearth fire, burning next to his heart, that its absence feels like he’s been robbed of a fundamental part of himself. Like he’s been cut off from the last fragment of his little brother that remains to him.

Mia goes about her work, rushing back and forth with practised efficiency as she fetches all he will need to make himself presentable for this meeting. Fresh clothes are rested on a console table to the side as she sets out toiletries, a bowl, and a pitcher of warm water on the main dining table.

There is no rose scented soap this time, nothing to remind him of home as Mia gives him his privacy.

He works fast, stripping himself down and wetting a cloth that has been provided, using it to wipe away the dried sweat and dirt that still clings to his skin.

Turning to the new clothes, he cannot help but grimace. The shirt and breeches are the same style he has always worn, but the colour is a very different story. The shirt is a dark teal that looks as though it has been ripped straight from an imperial banner, the breeches a soft white, as pale as the marble used to build the Whitewyrm castle.

In an act of rebellion, he reaches for his own clothes, but his determination wavers when he thinks about the consequences, not only would this be viewed as a refusal of his hosts—since they still seem to insist on pretending he is a guest—generosity, but his mother would see this as a direct slight against her.

Still, he hesitates, but survival wins out, and he seizes the fresh clothes.

He comforts himself with the fact that he can at least get away with wearing his own boots, as the treated leather is easily cleaned with just a few swipes with a damp cloth.

Finished, he takes in the sight of his reflexion in the gold framed mirror mounted above the small hearth. He looks as pale as death; worn to the point that it wouldn’t be surprising if he faded into the background, a ghost of the person he used to be.

Lamenting the fact that he has run out of reasons to stall, he makes his way towards the doors, but before leaving the room, he makes sure to snatch up his gloves from where he had left them neatly folded on his bloodstained jerkin. He will not give his mother the chance to toy with them again, they are far too precious for that.

The receiving room opens to a long white hall, decorated with elaborate paintings depicting the many different saints of Gregor in all their moments of martyrdom.

The guards are at his sides again and Clive is given no choice but to walk as one pushes him forward with a light touch on his shoulder. Their journey is thankfully a short one, an ornate door, that has silver dragons melded into the panels, opens onto a rooftop water garden.

A marble bridge spans the length of a crystal-clear pond, leading to an ornate pavilion, made of the same white stone. As he crosses it Clive looks down into the still waters beneath, shallow, and only there for appearance’s sake, he cannot think of a better representation of the Empire itself.

His attention is summoned back to the pavilion as one of his guards announces his presence, “The Marquise Rosfield, as you requested your Radiance.”

It is only as the full table of Cardinal’s stand, their highbacked chairs scrapping against the circular mosaic inlaid beneath the round stone table, that he sees the Emperor. Reclined on a lavish bench carved from stone so smooth it can be mistaken for dragon bone, sits Sylvestre Lesage. Arrogant and proud, he rests at the feet of the Goddess Greagor and her Drake, a white wyvern tail clasped in one hand as he twists the decorative cane with the other.

The choice of whether to bow is taken from him as he is brought down to one knee by the guards that stand at his shoulders, and only allowed to rise again when the Emperor bids it with an idle wave of his hand.

“Lord Rosfield, welcome.”

The Cardinals take their seats once more, and as Clive stands the sight of something red blooming against a backdrop of white lures his gaze to where his mother sits, perched upon a gondola bench that has been set directly beside the Emperor’s seat.

When she catches him looking, she smiles and raises the rose to her lips as though in a silent toast to him.

The cold hand that clamps around Clive’s heart has nothing to do with the gentle spring breeze that teases through his loose hair, nor the cold bands clamped around his wrists, and everything to do with the threat his mother is silently conveying to him.

This is an old trick of hers, one that has been kept secret between them for years.

On many an occasion he had been summoned before his father, asked about his mother’s wrongdoing against him that had reached the Archduke’s ears through concerned whispers and rumour alone.

Every time, before he had been summoned to his father’s private solar where the conversation would take place, he had found a plucked rose on his desk or his pillow, a warning of what would happen if he dared to tell his father the truth of the matter.

It seems now she does not have to be so subtle, can openly trace her fingers against the fragile petals of the bloom and communicate with him with little threat of being found out.

As shown when her grip suddenly tightened on the rose when he takes too long to return the Emperor’s greeting.

Lowering his eyes, he corrects his mistake. “Thank you for the hospitality you have chosen to show me, your Radiance,” the words scrape against his tongue as he says them but come out smoothly enough for his mother to loosen her grip.

The Emperor seems pleased with his words as well, even as he sweeps them aside with a genial smile that does not reach his eyes, how could it when they are already overflowing with the same avarice he sees swirling in the grey clouds of his mother’s gaze.

“Not at all, we are merely extending to you the courtesy that your station warrants, alas it is a station that some of my council members have not yet been convinced of, despite your recent success.” His words are pointed, and with the way his stare doesn’t falter from the High Cardinal who sits directly opposite him, it is easy to guess who it is directed at.

“Your Radiance, I was merely being thorough.” The High Cardinal tries to explain.

“So thorough, that you thought it wise to send my own son down into the mines, like some Bearer meant to be summoned like a hound?” The Emperor directs his valet who has been standing off to the side forward, and the man comes immediately, bowing and presenting a silver tray so that the Emperor may free his hand of the white wyvern tail he has been twisting between his fingers this entire time.

“Your Radiance, I would never think to order the Pri—”

“But you did,” interrupts the Emperor as he lays both hands on the head of his cane and turns towards Clive. “Tell us, Lord Rosfield, what transpired during your time in the mines?”

Knowing now from his mother’s previous reaction that hesitance shall not be tolerated, he tells the truth, “The aether was so thick I could barely see more than a few feet in front of me, but I waited down there, until I could no longer stand the silence,” he pauses, wondering whether he should admit this, but then realises that the guards will most likely have reported it.” I tried to get out at one point, rip a hole through the ceiling of the cage, but the noise attracted the akashic beasts trapped down there. When I passed out after defeating them, I feared I would wake as an akashic myself.”

“But you didn’t.” A statement not a question, but Clive still shakes his head. The right choice, as shown by his mother gentle stroke of the petals beneath her fingers.

“Then the matter is settled.” The Emperor seems ready to draw the meeting to a close, but a half-formed syllable that may have been an attempt to speak from a Cardinal sitting on the far left of the table gives him pause.

All eyes fall on the man, young by the standards of the men that surround him, clean shaven and spindly, probably their newest member.

“Yes?” The Emperor does not snap, but the irritated tap of his cane against the stone beneath his feet speaks volumes.

The man sinks into his chair, looking like he wants nothing more than for Titan to open the earth beneath his feet and have it swallow him.

As that is not an option he sits up and answer his Emperor’s question, and Clive cannot decide whether he thinks the man is brave or stupid.

“I-what I mean is, um…” He looks back and forth between his contemporary’s, searching for aid and finding none.

His gaze lands on Clive’s then and seems to lock there until the High Cardinal loses his patience. “Out with it Devinoit!”

The Cardinal pales but does as ordered. “Y-you said you thought you would wake up akashic…”

His statement hangs in the air like a blade waiting to fall as everyone processes the meaning of it at different rates.

It is easy to tell when the full implication of those words resolves itself in the High Cardinals mind. He stands, turning on Clive with an expression that cannot be described as anything but victorious.

Clive doesn’t care, his attention too focused on his mother, she isn’t allowing any of her feelings to show upon her face, she doesn’t have to, not when the simple pluck of a petal carries so much weight. What has he lost? What harm will befall Rosaria? How many of his people will die? Or does each petal represent one person? Uncle Byron? Jill? Lady Hannah? Who will he lose now?

He can’t.

Not now, not when he’s already lost so much, he needs to know they are safe, needs to keep them that way, and for that he needs to please his mother.

The white noise of panic that has invaded his mind is breached by a sharp scoff given by the Cardinal.

“Forgive me Lord Rosfield, I have been remiss,” the man simpers as he slowly closes the distance between them, “I never did ask you for your own opinion on your mother’s claim, allow me to correct that error now.” He circles Clive, like a starving hound searching for an opening. “Do you believe you are this Second Dominant of Fire?”

The lie is on the tip of his tongue, it’s obviously the answer his mother wants him to give, a simple yes and then he can go back to standing here silently.

Then why is it so hard to say?

Help me Clive!

He flinches violently at the memory of his brother’s plea, so much so that the guards reflexively seize him by the shoulders in order to restrain him.

The sound of another petal being plucked sends a sharp pain lancing through his heart.

“Yes.” The word sounds strangled and raw, but he says it, he lies for the sake of his people and can only hope that it is enough.

The sneer that dominates the High Cardinal’s face makes it clear that he does not believe him, but in the end, it is not his opinion that matters, as proven when the Emperor’s cane taps once more against the hard stone of the pavilion.

“Enough of this,” he demands. “It seems the only way the Duchess Anabella’s claim shall be believed without doubt is if the boy Primes.”

The Council all begin to protest at once, quiet objections rising like a wave as they all struggle to be heard at once, only to be silenced by a simple raise of the Emperor’s hand. “Gentleman, young Lord Rosfield has already passed his first test, but you refuse to accept the result, what sort of ruler would I be if I were not willing to go to greater lengths to set my councillors doubts to rest.”

“Your Radiance, you must reconsider,” begs another Cardinal, a man with a youthful face but pure white hair. “The ramifications of an untrained Dominant Priming, it could be disastrous.”

The ghost of Phoenix Gate looms behind those words and gives pause to even the Emperor, but it does not hold sway for long.

“The Prince is currently in the city, and more than readily equipped to deal with an inexperienced Dominant.” He stands then, and all those present follow and bow as he steps forward. “We shall set the demonstration for three days hence, within the Inner Sanctum, the structure there is more than capable of withstanding a simple Prime.”

The Emperor pauses before his mother, offering her his arm, which she takes with all the refined grace she can bring to bear. “I shall hear nothing more on the matter of Rosaria until then.”

He walks forward, Clive’s mother at his side, and the Cardinals have no choice but to bow their heads and agree.

Clive freezes as she walks past him, so close her arm brushes against his and something is pressed into his hand.

He waits until the Cardinals leave, until the guards escort him back to the room he is now being kept in, and then until he is left alone, the door locked securely behind him.

Only then does he look down at the flower his mother had pressed into his hand.

Rumpled and damaged, but still mostly whole. If only he knew what the two missing petals really meant, who or what they represented, and what he had lost because he couldn’t behave exactly how she wanted.

Chapter Text

Three days is such a short amount of time.

The first two prove that, passing in a blur as he is left to his own devices within the confines of the new rooms he has been moved to.

A suite normally reserved for visiting dignitaries, it is lavishly furnished in an overt manner, all with the aim of impressing those that have been given the honour of staying within the walls of the Whitewyrm castle.

Clive cares little for it, the foreignness of it all sets him on edge, leaves him feeling out of place and unsettled to a degree that he can’t even find solace in the drawing room’s well stocked library, his mind too fraught to settle on any of the many titles that lurk upon the shelves.

It’s all so different from the familiar and far more humble setting of home, its grandeur designed to unveil the splendour of the faith of the Goddess Greagor and the bounty of the Empire, it makes him feel as though he shouldn’t touch anything, lest he breaks something.

He never felt this way at home, yes there was a majesty to the castle of Rosalith, but it laid in its history, its people, and the unspoken tales that have been carved into the foundations of the castle. There are tapestries and paintings that decorate the halls, but they’re made of sturdy stuff, and display the battle scars of time—and more than a few of his, Jill, and Joshua’s indoor adventures—proudly.

This is how Clive finds himself perched on the thin balcony outside the bedroom, he can’t rumple the decorative stone railing out of place merely by sitting on it, unlike the extravagant canapé he’d been found resting on by one of the maids that came with the room. The look of disapproval that had twisted her face at the sight of him merely sitting there had been enough to make him move, and then the disgruntled mumbling of, “such disrespect,” and, “no appreciation for art,” had chased him from the room.

Sighing, he looks out again over the view of Oriflamme as he thinks about tomorrow. He wonders what they will try to make him Prime, will it be the same as the test for the Phoenix all those years ago? A shadow of a laugh catches at the back of his throat when he realises that this may actually turn out to be a full reenactment of that day over a decade ago.

In a brief bout of insanity, he looks over the side of the banister, down at the white courtyard far below and wonders if he should save himself the trouble and just fall.

He tips forward, just a few inches, to the point where he can feel the pull of gravity begin to use his own centre of balance against him, but with a sigh he pulls back.

Rosaria’s fate is tied to his own, his mother made that clear with the tattered bloom she had pressed into his grasp.

He has it now, cradled gently between his hands. It’s already begun to wilt, once vivid red petals turning black as the flower loses the little life it had left.

When Mia had spotted him with it on the first day, she had suggested that he press it so he might have it as a keepsake, she had even eagerly fetched a book offering to do it for him. He had gently turned her down and given a weak excuse about how he wasn’t interested in keeping mementos.

In truth, this has almost become a small ritual of his. Every time his mother had left him a damaged rose, he had held onto the flower for at least a few days. When she had first done it, he had tried to plant it in the hopes of presenting her with the revived flower, a petty attempt at spite that had failed, even when he had sought advice from the gardeners and Lady Hannah.

After that he had contented himself with keeping the flower alive for as long as he could, none of them lasted long, but each time they survived another day it felt like a small victory.

This one is not a victory. The rose was past saving the moment she pressed it into his hand, and it had deteriorated quickly from there. As brittle and dry as it is now it’s a small miracle that it hadn’t simply fallen apart when he had picked it up today.

Sighing, he slowly uncurls his fist and lets the wind take it.

He watches it throughout its descent, tracking it until it’s swallowed up by the sea of white flowers in the courtyard below, only then does he allow himself to blink.

“My Lord?” He’s not surprised to hear Mia’s soft voice, he only wonders how long she has been standing there, allowing him to have the quiet moment he needed.

“Yes Mia?” Facing her, he’s expecting her to be holding a blanket to offer him, or a tray of light sweets and freshly made tea, as she has every other time she has quietly approached him over the last two days.

Instead, he nearly does fall off the balustrade when he sees who’s standing just behind her.

“Prince Dion?”

He stands, tilting forward in a shallow bow, the first genuine greeting he has given since he was brought here.

“Marquis Rosfield,” the Prince returns the gesture with a little more depth, catching Clive off guard, but the Prince soon explains himself, “It is a pleasure to see you again, though I had hoped it would be under better circumstances. I am truly sorry for your loss…and the part some of my own men played in it.”

Like all reminders of Phoenix Gate, the words hit him like a blow, knocking the air from his lungs and driving the ever-present ice-cold thorns of grief deeper into his heart.

“Did you know?” Clive suspects he already knows the answer, but he wants to hear what the Prince has to say.

Walking out onto the balcony, his Highness turns to Mia and asks, “may we have a moment.”

Mia sees this for the polite command it is and retreats indoors, closing the lattice doors behind her to at least give them the illusion of privacy.

The Prince moves to stand on the opposite side of the balcony, his stance nearly mirroring Clive’s own with how tense he is.

“When my father requisitioned some of my best for a military manoeuvre, I must admit I had my suspicions…” He sounds so hesitant, conflicted.

“My position as the commander of the Dragoon’s is still in it’s infancy, still subject to scrutiny.” He slouches a little, a loosening of his shoulders even as his back remains perfectly straight. “I had thought that this was merely another instance of my youth and inexperience being questioned in regard to leading a difficult campaign.” The shake of his head carries the shadow of guilt he is so desperately trying to hide. “In some ways, I was right, but had I known…”

Clive finishes the thought for him. “There still would have been nothing you could have done.”

Prince Dion looks stricken, burdened by the weight of that knowledge. “There should have been something, some way, if I had only had the opportunity to talk to my father perhaps all of this could have been avoided.”

“Even if you had my mother would have found another way.” Clive believes that, knows that his mother would have betrayed them one way or another.

“Your mother?” The confusion in the Prince’s voice causes Clive to look up from where he’d had his gaze trained on the white towers of the city beyond the walls of the castle.

“Your father’s men were already amongst ours before we even set out for Phoenix Gate.” The sashes had been proof of that. “I had wondered how they had managed to infiltrate our ranks so easily, but with my mother being complicit it all makes sense.” The Shield’s that had been gathered for the campaign on Drake’s Breath had been summoned from all across Rosaria, including the lands held by his mother’s family. It would have been so easy for her to disguise Sanbrequois knight in Rosarian armour, what with her family estate resting on the border between Sanbreque and Rosaria. The traitors were amongst them from the start.

He had never met the De Lafontaine’s. After all. why would his mother ever bring her first born failure back to her family seat? No, Joshua would have been taken, but his health had made it difficult to travel, especially when he was younger. All he knew of them is what his mother had chosen to tell him, which was very little, and as far as Clive was concerned it could stay that way.

His Highness takes a steadying breath as he leans back against the stone rail. “It would seem that more has been kept from me than I had first imagined.” There’s a distinct look of disappointment colouring the Prince’s face, one that comes from having your trust broken. “The story I have been told is that the Lady Anabella requested sanctuary here while she negotiated Rosaria’s surrender, offering herself as a hostage in an act to spare her people, and so she could be close to you. May I assume that in not the truth?”

Clive nods. “The only thing my mother wishes to protect is her own reputation and power.”

The doubt that he suddenly sees shading Prince Dion’s eyes as he studies Clive, annoys him. “You think I am lying?”

Dion ducks his head, using his long fringe to hide his eyes in a move that for once makes him look like the seventeen-year-old he is. “I did not mean to insult you, it’s just…her care for you seemed so genuine.”

The annoyance churning in Clive’s gut’s pools into cold understanding. “I realise how sincere she can appear, I’ve seen it myself, she’s very convincing when she wants to be,” he sneers, lip curling at the memory of his mother sitting with Joshua as he suffered through a fever that had all but stolen his little brother’s senses. He had been calling for Clive, plaintive pleas that were spoken with what little breath he could manage to take between coughs that left him trembling with fatigue. Clive had wanted to go to him, but one scathing look from his mother had been enough to keep him back, all he could do was watch as his mother had fussed and tried to comfort Joshua until eventually his father had found him standing there useless in the corner and taken him away.

“It used to make me jealous, when I was younger, the way she doated on Joshua…I was so foolish back then, so naïve.”

Prince Dion furrows his brow and leans forward slightly, curiosity writ large within his eyes. “What changed?”

That’s such a deep question, but there really is only one answer.

“I realised that what she was showing him wasn’t truly love.”

The realisation had dawned on him so slowly, too slowly, he hadn’t recognise it as something he should be trying to protect Joshua from until it was too late.

“My mother’s love, like her distain, is an insidious thing. A shackle that she uses to bind those she finds useful to her side.” The furtive, pleading, glances Joshua had always sent him as their mother had led him away, and all Clive could do was stand there and smile encouragingly, silently promising his little brother that he would see him later. It wasn’t enough. “Just another burden she laid upon Joshua’s shoulders.”

His Highness sighs and allows himself to fully sink against the balustrade as one hand rises to massage the thin skin at his temple, a futile attempt to ward off the tension that must be building there, as the full situation comes into focus. “And now she’s trying to do the same to you, because you’ve awakened as the Second Dominant of Fire.”

Clive cannot stop himself from flinching at those words, that lie.

His Highness steps forward, arm extended as though he intended to take Clive by the shoulder, to steady him, but he stops and awkwardly retracts his hand. Perhaps realising that Clive would not want to accept comfort from the son of the man responsible for the fall of Phoenix Gate.

It hits Clive then, as he takes in the regret that weighs so heavily on Prince Dion’s shoulders, he has a choice.

Part of him burns at the mere thought of trusting the Prince, this is the heir to the throne of Sanbreque, the master of the Dragoon’s. How can Clive believe he knew nothing of the attack on Phoenix Gate before it began?

The other part recalls how his Highness had made Joshua laugh and Jill blush when he had interacted with them at the Remembrance Ceremony. How he had accepted a loss dealt to him by a boy two years his junior with a dignity that had put men twice his age to shame.

Cautiously, he decides to test the waters.

“Do you know what they will do to try and make me Prime?”

He has been told nothing, simply left to ruminate over the Emperor’s declaration that he would Prime before the council in order to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is a Dominant.

On the first day his stomach had been in knots as he’d waited for his mother to arrive, but she did not come, and with little to occupy him there was nothing to stop his mind from returning to the very first test that was meant to determine whether he was a Dominant.

The cold ceramic cradled in his hands that failed to spark with the Fire Bird’s Flame no matter how long he held it or how hard he concentrated.

The sharp nails that had sunk into his shoulders as the verdict had been delivered.

The warmth of his father’s arms as he had swept Clive into a reassuring hug.

He digs his fingers sharply into the skin of his wrist then, forcing himself to turn away from those thoughts.

“Lord Rosfield?” Prince Dion speaks quietly but the slightly urgent tone makes it sound as though this is not the first time he has called out.

“I’m sorry,” apologises Clive as he rubs the abused skin just beneath the cuff, only noticing now that his Highness is standing beside him.

“Are you back with me?” Clive feels dazed, when had Prince Dion gotten so close? How had he not seen him move?

His Highness lifts his hand slowly, projecting his intent as though he’s afraid that any sudden movements will scare Clive, but when he lays his palm on Clive’s shoulder it just feels grounding.

“What?” He clears his throat, unhappy with how rough it suddenly sounds.

“It happens,” Prince Dion reassures, “were you thinking of Phoenix Gate?”

Clive automatically shakes his head, even as the question brings his focus back to where it belongs.

Seemingly satisfied and not wanting to push Dion returns to the subject at hand. “I have been told to report to the Mother Crystal’s Inner Sanctum tomorrow at midday.” Something light and almost encouraging overtakes Dion’s voice then. “It would appear that I am to finally have the rematch I was promised, a chance to repair my wounded pride.”

A breath he didn’t realise he was holding escapes Clive as he finally gives in and just sits. He shivers as the cool stone of the balcony leaches away what little warmth he has managed to hold onto, and suddenly he regrets turning down the blanket Mia had offered him when he had first made his way out here.

The heady swirl of relief and exhaustion that comes with knowing what will be expected of him tomorrow is making his thoughts spin.

The sound of shifting steel silk and metal has him peeking from where he has his head buried in his knees. He jerks at the sight of Prince Dion having lowered himself to sit down on the floor as well, his short chainmail tunic and the white knee-length jerkin he wears beneath it gleam even against the pale marble of the balcony.

Absurdly, Clive cannot help but wonder how Prince Dion manages to keep the garments clean, but he buries that thought before he can voice it, forcing himself to instead pay attention to the Prince who has begun to reminisce.

“I must admit, I hadn’t expected much when I saw you in the lineup for the tournament, the only thing that made you stand out back then was your lack of height.”

With a huff Clive buries his head in his knees again, this time to hide the vindictive little smirk that plays across his lips. “Didn’t stop me from knocking all of you on your arses, even if you weren’t using your full strength.”

“Who says I wasn’t?” The Prince genuinely sounds insulted, prompting Clive to turn his head enough, just so the older teen can see the disbelieving brow he raises.

“Every Dragoon there that day that saw me knock you into the dirt.” It had not been pretty, rain the night before had soaked the field leaving it a quagmire. “I didn’t actually mean to kick you at the end, it’s just…” Clive can feel his ears turning red with embarrassment.

Prince Dion laughs, “…I came at you with a lunge, that may have had a touch more than a little of the King of Dragons light behind it, if we’re being honest, and you reacted. Well, I might add. Your Victory was nothing but earned.”

“Your Highness—”

“Please, you may call me Dion if you prefer in private, or Bahamut if the former is too casual,” Dion offers, and Clive cannot help but relax a little, unused as he is to the constant use of titles that is continually enforced here.

A soft nod, has Dion smiling and fully leaning back against the banister, allowing the last of the lingering tension to drain from his shoulders. “I hope in turn that I may simply call you Clive, as I doubt you would enjoy being addressed by the name of your Eikon.”

If Clive is going to tell Dion, then he will get no better opening, but he cannot help but hesitate. He knows that appearances can be deceiving, that the face of the noble Prince, Dion chooses to present may be nothing more than a carefully crafted mask, and so he stands on the edge of this decision. Feels the same vertigo that comes with standing on the precipice of a cliff, knowing that all it would take is one step.

“You cannot call me by that Eikon’s name, because I am not his Dominant,” he whispers the words into his knees, and for a moment he fears that he was too quiet, that he will have to speak them again, louder this time, in order to be heard.

“Clive.” the hand that moves from his shoulder to his back is steadying, reassuring, and warm. “What do you mean you’re not a Dominant, your mother saw you—”

“My mother witnessed me use the Phoenix’s flames my brother blessed me with to save my life from the blade she intended to end it and saw what she wanted.” Clive’s voice is still so soft, but it cuts through Dion’s argument like a blade.

“But the aether flood, if you were not a Dominant you would be Akashic,” Dion counters gently, his tone leading, asking Clive to give him an explanation that makes sense.

“A combination of the Phoenix blood and the blessing, it’s the only thing I can think of that could have protected me.” He raises his head, resting his chin on his knees as he stares at Dion, desperate for the Prince to believe him.

Dion looks puzzled, but the shades of doubt that Clive is looking for are missing, even as something dark rolls across the Prince’s brow. “A moment, what do you mean when you say the blessing saved you from the blade she intended to end your life?”

The disgust that pervades the very timbre of Dion’s voice leaves Clive trembling with relief, he’s become all too accustomed to his mother’s treatment being dismissed, her actions only being questioned with quiet whispers, at least when his father wasn’t home.

“I was only half conscious, but I was lucid enough to hear the order she gave the Captain that found me.” Even the knight had sounded shocked when he had received the order from his mother, but he had been prepared to do it none the less. He can still hear it, the toll of the falling rain hitting the naked steel of the Captain’s blade as he had aimed his strike.

Fire consumes the rest; roaring and ferocious it rings in his ears even as a memory and all he can do is turn away from it.

“I cannot allow this,” Dion growls as he moves to rise, only for Clive to grab him by the wrist and pull him back.

Dion is on the verge of asking why Clive stopped him, but Clive speaks first, his voice steel, “does she know you are here?”

“Yes, it was her suggestion, she and my father have been occupied with the arrangements.” Dion slides his eyes in something that may pass for an eyeroll if Princes were allowed to engage in something so undignified. “The Astrologers and Cardinal’s both have equal jurisdiction over the Inner Sanctum, but can never truly agree on anything, so reaching any sort of accord takes time. She proposed that I discuss the intricacies of Priming with you, so you will be prepared for tomorrow.” He sighs as he runs a hand though his hair, only to switch to idly twisting his earring when his fingers catch upon it. “A test of hers I presume?”

Clive nods. “She wants to see your reaction after having a chance to talk to me in private.”

An old trick of hers that Clive had fallen for more times than he would care to admit.

“I see,” Dion shifts, dissatisfaction carved into his features. “If I were to confront her now, I would be playing into her hands.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” Nor will he be the last. How many promising scholars, diplomats, and lords have fallen for his mother’s games, honestly, Clive has lost count.

“I don’t doubt it,” Prince Dion wisely agrees as he rests his head back against the marble baluster he leans into. “I can already see we have a long road set before us.”

Hope, small but strong, catches in his breast, kindling like the first traces of the Phoenix’s blessing.

Dion looks at him and all Clive can see is conviction. “I cannot undo what my father has done, what the men sworn to me have wrought.” His arm comes to rest around Clive’s curled shoulders as he promises, “but I will try to make things easier for you, however I can.”

Despite himself, Clive finds himself wanting to trust those words, wanting to believe that Dion is really willing to help him, and this time he doesn’t hesitate. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do until after tomorrow.”

“Unfortunately,” Dion concedes, but then chuckles, “it’s almost a shame you’re not a Dominant, I do so hate to please the High Cardinal.”

Clive cannot help it, he laughs.

The rest of their time together is just spent chatting. Not about Dominant’s, Eikon’s, or darkling schemes, but about sword techniques, battle strategies, and literature.

When Dion eventually has to leave, Clive is sad to see him go, but he is reassured, confident in the fact that at least now he has an ally.

Chapter Text

Three days is an eternity.

At least it seems that way when she must endure the endless petty debates of holy men and star gazers, all of which insist they know what’s best when it comes to the proper procedure in regards to allowing foreign elements access to the very heart of Drake’s Head.

What should have been a simple matter, easily resolved with clear leadership and a little bribing, has devolved into a tangled mess of political manoeuvring and arbitrary attempts to gain the Emperor’s favour.

“I have already explained how a simple blessing will not be enough,” argues Cardinal Achille as he sweeps his platinum hair away from his face, “a sacrament, preferably one with consecrated Draculorum Sanguine must be performed at the very least.”

“And I suppose you would want this to be freshly consecrated Drake’s Blood, the preparation of which takes five days, unless you wish to poison those you would be blessing with it,” a Diviner from the order of Bahamut snipes. “No, his Radiance was correct when he selected the second night of the waxing moon as the date for the Prime, all the orders are in agreement, the alignment on that day favours both light and fire, to change it now would only beckon disaster.”

On and on they go, back and forth again and again, in an endless loop. The same song just a different chorus.

So, when an opening presents itself, she pounces.

Nothing as overt as injecting herself into the debate or suggesting a compromise that would leave both parties dissatisfied but with no ground left to stand on.

No, to do that while her power and influence has yet to be cemented would be to court misfortune.

Instead, her chance to bring an end to this farce comes in the form of Sylvestre pinching his brow as he twirls the fresh white wyvern tail in his free hand, clearly a gesture meant to forestall the headache building behind his eyes.

Gently, she takes his wrist and begins to draw small circles into the skin there, in an attempt to soothe, and pull his gaze towards her own.

It works, brown eyes meet her pale blue stare, and she can see how this man lights up at her simple show of care for him. “Your Radiance, might a brief adjourn be in order?”

She has to lean forward a little for her words to be heard over the din of discontent that fills the vaulted audience chamber, an intentional closing of the distance between them that does not go unnoticed by those around them that are paying attention.

He relaxes at the very idea of that and agrees readily, “an excellent suggestion my dear.”

The tap of his cane against marble has the room falling silent on the heels of its reverberating toll. “I believe we are in need of a short recess, Gentlemen.”

No one dares to object when the Emperor stands, they merely rise like a wave and bow as one, the blue of their robes appearing as the rolling surface of the sea far below the walls of Oriflamme.

Anabella herself is about to fall into a curtsey, but even as she grips her skirts to do so Sylvestre offers her a hand and begins to lead her from the room.

The glow of pride that coils in her breast at the gesture adds legitimacy to the easy smile and grateful gaze she directs at the Emperor.

As they exit the room, she can feel more than one pointed glare stabbing into her back. The smart ones can already sense it, the shifting of the tides as their own influence wanes, eclipsed by the shadow of her own.

Some will fight her, try to undermine her in order to hold on to the power they have either worked so hard to gain, or earned through the nobility of their blood. It will be interesting to see who will be left standing by the end, who will understand first that it is better to work for her rather than against her.

The Emperor guides her to a large study, light and airy, the space is warm and resplendent with all the luxuries one would expect of a cabinet room dedicated to the Emperor’s comfort. More importantly, it is private.

He directs her to sit on the bergère placed beside the full-length bay windows and once she is comfortably situated, he takes his own directly opposite her, rests his elbow against the well-padded arm of the chair and then lays his chin against his loosely curled fist, before closing his eyes in quiet meditation.

“Your Radiance, shall I have some refreshments brought?” she asks in a whispered tone that barely disturbs the air.”

His answer is a negative, “hmm,” and a small shake of his head.

Anabella accepts that, happy to sit in silence for a time, her outward exterior reflecting a calm observation of the view beyond the window; a rooftop garden encased in glass to protect the fragile cerulean, azure, and white blooms as well as a few exotic curiosities, from the harsh winds and cold rains that do not besiege their native climes.

Internally her thoughts whirl.

She had not expected the mere preparation of a duel on holy ground to take this much time, it was a profligacy that she would not have entertained in Rosalith, but even with her power in Sanbreque moored by the affection of the Emperor, a dowry that consists of the entirety of the Grand Duchy of Rosaria, and the promise of the Second Dominant of Fire, there is little she can do alone to force proceedings.

It has been nothing but a source of endless frustration for her, in no small part due to the fact that these tedious meetings have kept her away from Clive.

Originally, she had planned to sit in on only the first meeting, a chance for her to see the political heart of the Empire at work, to gain insight into the balance of power, which factions held the tide of opinion, only for her to be left disappointed as she found that none of them did.

Like birds in the nest screaming for attention in hopes of being fed, the lords throw out their own opinions, uncaring if the point has already been made, so long as it is their voice heard making it.

If there were any sensible suggestions, they are soon swallowed by the discord of Lords complaining against it, simply because it wasn’t one of their own who presented the idea.

The only thing driving progress is the stipulated timeline, Sylvestre will not be moved on that, and so out of spite the Lord’s waste what time they can.

It would be so easy to leave them to their trivial squabbles, but that would feel like a retreat on her part, an admittance that they have managed to get under her skin, and she can never allow that.

So, here she is, surrounded by enemies that will soon be on the back foot, the moment her son sets all their doubts to rest tomorrow, and her with barely a tendril of authority to act upon her advantage.

She suppresses an irritated scowl, what she would not give for a capable ally, but even the ladies in waiting she has been assigned are incompetent. Yes, they can fulfil their expected duties to the highest of standards, but she is left wanting when it comes to the finer arts of politics.

For example, when she had asked them for gossip—a question that would have sent her former ladies hunting for material capable of blackmailing even the most outwardly appearing noble of lords—they had presented her with nothing but frivolous rumours, secrets that were so well known she had heard them in Rosalith.

Clearly, she will have to replace them all, but slowly, and with good reason, as they are well connected, the daughters and wives of High Lords from well-established families.

Turning away from the window, as she is in need of an actual distraction, she allows her eyes to wonder about the room, idly and with no real purpose, because it is a quiet activity. After all she would not wish to break his Radiance from his silent contemplation.

Her gaze settles on him, calm and relaxed as he looks, she has no doubts he would wake if she were to approach him, but she cannot help but wonder what would happen if she were to reach out a hand to him when he appears so unguarded.

There was once a time where she had freely been able to do so with Elwin when he was like this, tired from a rough campaign or an overlong war council, she would find him asleep at his desk. All it would take was the light stroke of her fingers through his hair or along his shoulders and he would wake. Upon recognising her an endearing if exhausted smile would overtake his lips, and before long he would reach out for her in turn.

That changed after the Undying failed to recognise Clive as a Dominant.

After that, he would wake before she could even touch him, a harsh flinch that suited a soldier fighting on the frontlines, not an Archduke safe in his own castle. It was one of the many changes in him that spoke volumes of his distrust, and as the years progressed, his growing mislike of her.

She brushes the memory and the feelings attached to it aside with little difficulty, all of that is in the past now, and she need only remember it to ensure she does not make the same mistake again.

Still, she decides to leave Sylvestre to rest for now, choosing instead to stand and take a turn about the room.

Neat and well organised, the study has an effortless flow about it which makes it simple to navigate, but it also makes it easy to notice when something is not in its proper place, in this case the tomes that sit haphazardly on the large writing desk sequestered in the corner.

Curious, Anabella begins perusing the books that lay open there.

She finds herself quite unsurprised by what she discovers.

Star charts, past readings that had proven true, and a discourse on the meaning of Metia and her significance in Greagor’s pantheon.

Something tugs on her instincts as she reads the name Metia, a spark like the touch of static against her skin and suddenly she is recalling the astrologer who approached her after Clive had emerged from the mines.

Jean Vinavaire, the attendant to the Lord Diviner of the order of Metia.

She has not thought about them since the day Jean attempted to gain her favour, as a little digging had revealed the Lord Diviner, Calixte Pascal, as the third son of a minor noble whose bloodline could only be traced back three generations. A man with few connections whose ambition and quick rise through the ranks had insulted many.

Distractedly, she flicks a page as she reconsiders, perhaps his lack of allies is to her advantage, she can freely use him now, and discard him without worry of retaliation when more affluent associates present themselves, unless his abilities outweigh his background, in which case binding him to her side now will prove to be a valuable investment. It’s so hard for people to betray you when all their power is given by you alone.

A plan is already beginning to form in her mind, but first she must meet the man.

With intent, she knocks one of the books off the table with her elbow and easily slides a look of surprised regret onto her face as she immediately bends to pick it up.

As intended, the noise disturbs Sylvestre.

“Anabella?” he rises, obviously meaning to help her pick up the book even as she already has it in hand.

“Forgive me, your Radiance I did not mean to wake you.” She keeps her eyes lowered, trained on the book in her grasp as she turns it over, searching for damage she knows isn’t there.

“It’s quite alright my dear,” he says indulgently as he takes the tome, his fingers lingering on the back of her hand for the briefest of moments before he pulls away.

He inspects the book himself as he walks back to his seat. “Ah, I can see why this one caught your eye, Metia does reign supreme in Rosarian folklore, however her station is somewhat diminished in the faith of Greagor.” He sifts through the book, looking for a particular page. “Though some recent treaties, such as this one, have tried to argue that she does hold more sway over the fate of man then we were first led to believe.”

Folklore, like astrology holds very little interest for her, a leisure activity at best, but largely a waste of time that could be better spent on more earthly pursuits, but, for a reason she has yet to discover, Sylvestre is enamoured with it, so she must at least feign curiosity.

“As you say, back in Rosalith I never really had the opportunity to delve into the higher mysteries, not for lack of wanting to, I simply had no one that shared my fascination with the subject and lacked the resources to pursue it alone.”

Placing the book down with an almost reverent touch, Sylvestre takes both her hands in his, as restrained excitement overtakes him. “There will be no such limitations for you here, had I only known.” The smile that graces his lips is so innocently genuine in its enthusiasm. “Come, I must show you the Observatory.”

He waits for her assent; an indulgent grin, and a deep nod, before leading her out of the study.

Instead of guiding her to the stairs, the Emperor takes her along a private hall, one that leaves behind the lavish features that dominate the rest of the Whitewyrm castle and transitions smoothly into a near perfect facsimile of the architecture unique to the ruins of the Fallen. Only by running her hand along the hard marble, that has been meticulously carved into the circular patterns that encapsulates the ceramics used by the Fallen, can she tell that it is not the genuine article.

Sylvestre catches her wondering eye and explains, “the lift we are about to use is fully powered by crystals, a technology which took direct inspiration from a Fallen ruin that was still functioning to some extent about a century ago, the dungeoneer who reverse engineered it was emphatic about the surrounding ornamentation, she apparently went so far as to suggest the invention would stop functioning if any embellishments were added. After her death, no one dared to try, for fear that they would never be able to restore it should her warning prove true.”

“It’s a convincing likeness, is it the only one of it’s kind?” she questions as she hugs a little closer to the Emperor’s side.

“Alas, it is. The construction methods and materials are far too costly and rare, and so it shall forever remain a unique piece.” The Emperor pulls his crystal from its casing at his belt and presses it to a glowing hollow that rests besides the sealed doors of the lift. Blue light overtakes the carved pathways, like water flowing through the channels of an aqueduct, until the door sinks into the floor revealing a small platform, big enough for four people to stand on with an elaborate metalwork cage to enclose the space.

“Shall we?” The Emperor looks far too pleased with himself, all too aware that this is a blatant show of the wealth and power that Oriflamme commands.

She is about to step forward in silent acceptance, when a voice calls from the opposite end of the corridor, “your Radiance!”

Sylvestre’s valet, a man that until this moment has been a picture of propriety approaches at a hurried pace, but stops to pay the appropriate deference, remaining bowed at the waist until the Emperor grants him leave to speak. “I am sorry to disturb you, but the High Cardinal has seen fit to convene a private meeting in the Hall of Remembrance.”

“Has he now?” The Emperor’s voice is ice.

Anabella feels him stiffening at her side as the relaxed and easy stance he held while directing her coils into something more sinister. It sends a delightful thrill of anticipation racing down her spine.

Ever the gentleman, Sylvestre addresses her, “forgive me my dear, but it seems a few of my Councillors are in need of reminding of just who it is they serve.”

She tilts her head in understanding as a look of sympathy flashes across her eyes. “Duty, must of course come first, your Radiance, but may I still accompany you?”

Some of the tension leaves his frame at her words, but the white knuckled grip on his cane remains. “I would not have it any other way.”

They begin to walk, only for the Emperor to pull up short as though something has just occurred to him. “Henri,” he summons his valet from where the man had moved to stand like a silent shadow behind them.

“Yes, your Radiance?”

Sylvestre looks directly at her as he gives his next order, “let it be known that Duchess Anabella has the full freedom of the castle, she may wonder as she pleases.”

His valet does not question this. “As you wish, your Radiance.”

With his command confirmed he continues to walk them forward as he explains, “given the current political situation my High Cardinal has chosen to instigate it seems I shall be unable to give you a personal tour of the Observatory for quite some time, but please, do not allow that to curb your interest, there is always someone stationed in the Observatory and they will be more than happy to take you through the basics.”

“Your Radiance, I am honoured by your trust in me.” She does not simper, she would never allow herself to be so obvious, but there is a lilt to her voice that speaks of the smile she does not wish to show.

“You have earned it my dear, you have delivered all you promised and more.” The grip he has on her hand entwined in his gently tightens, “only a fool would continue to deny that.”

The doors to a room filled with such fools is opened for them as they approach.

The Hall of Remembrance stretches out before them, so striking in appearance one cannot help but crane their neck to take in the full beauty of the gothic winged arches that decorate the ceiling, which naturally direct the observers gaze to the centre piece, a coffered dome with a centralised oculus, a magnificent feat of architecture used to cast natural light on the statues that line the hall. Made from pure Caer Norvent white marble that near glows when the light hits it, they depict the fallen heroes of the Empire, preserving a legacy of sacrificial service that all Dragoons should aspire to.

How ironic that the High Cardinal chose to conduct what some might consider treason here of all places.

She hears them before she sees them as their voices, though quiet, echo off the white stone that surrounds them.

“—she plays us false, and with such a brazen lie,” claims a voice she does not recognise.

“What can you expect from a woman who conspired to murder her own husband,” asks another before he adds in a quiet whisper, “whose to say she won’t do the same to his Radiance.”

Murmurs of agreement flit amongst the gathered men until one of them speaks up with a laugh, “I’m sure we can be assured of his Radiance’s safety, at least until she has a child by him,” she recognises the boorish tone as belonging to Cardinal Janvier, a man possessing little wit and less charm.

She feels Sylvestre tensing beside her ready to move forward, but she holds him back with the merest touch of her open palm against his chest.

His eyes snap to hers, but as planned the anger there soon cools as she looks up at him with sad eyes tinted with forgiveness. “Your Radiance,” she breathes haltingly as she leans into his side under the pretence of her words not being heard by the Cardinals. “You cannot confront them in anger, some of these men may speak out of loyalty to you and not malice towards me, should they be punished for that?”

The answer is yes, but all in due time. For now, she is content to give them all the rope they need to hang themselves.

She continues to listen to them as Sylvestre takes a few calming breathes, until the rapid beat of his heart against her palm slows.

“They have no right to speak of you like this,” he hisses with conviction as he traces the pad of his thumb along the sharp angle of her cheekbone, in what she supposes is meant to be a consoling gesture.

She leans into it, accepting the comfort, until the next insult echoes through the stone halls.

Cutting through the clamour of agreement Cardinal Renard voices his own opinion, “though she hails from noble stock, Anabella Rosfield is nothing but a whore, we have dealt with her like before, we need only wait until his Radiance becomes bored.”

There is a brief instance of silence, one bought with the shock of such open boldness even in a meeting that is meant to be private, but soon enough one Cardinal nods in agreement and the rest take up the call, crowing their accord until their words turn into a dull roar that overtakes the space around them.

There is no holding back Sylvestre this time, and why would she want to.

Stepping out from behind the statue that concealed their presence—a memorial to Ser Michel Escoffier, a Knight of the Order of the Pale Moon—Sylvestre clears his throat.

As one the Cardinals fall silent as the blood drains from their faces, leaving them near indistinguishable from the statues that surround them.

“My Lords,” Sylvestre greets with a gentile mien that does not match the rage burning behind his eyes, “please, do not feel the need to stop on my account, after all, it sounds as though you were just getting started.”

The stillness that holds the air is suffocating, to the point where it appears as though a few of the older Cardinals gathered here may pass out, but surprisingly they manage to hold their nerve.

For a time, at least.

The first to break is Cardinal Janvier, with a speed that she would not expect from a man of his size he lunges forward, stepping into the space that separates the Emperor from the Cardinals as he falls to his knees in contrition. “Your Radiance, we were only—”

“Conspiring,” the Emperor finishes for him, as he raises an eyebrow and all but dares the man to challenge him.

“N-no, of course not, we are loyal to the Empire, to you, your Radiance.” Other’s join him on their knees, adding their pleas to his own.

Sylvestre lets them, but as his disinterest in their panic grows, he turns to the High Cardinal, and the two men who have yet to join the six that have wisely chosen to take the knee. “Gauvain, are you not going to plead your case?”

Again, the room is held by a fragile stillness, soon broken as the High Cardinal bends at the waist.

Not the full grovel that his spineless comrades have decided to adopt, he has more pride than that, but deep, reverent, and full of nothing but respect.

“I have no need to plead your Radiance.” He rises and adjusts his pellegrina, smoothing out wrinkles that aren’t there. “My loyalty to the Empire and to you is beyond question.”

“And yet, I find myself questioning it.” Sylvestre takes a threatening step forward, and the line of Cardinals still knelt on the floor cower.

The High Cardinal, in contrast, stands tall against it. “Over a meeting that allowed my fellow Cardinals to express their concerns?”

“Concerns? Is that what you call the insults paid to the Duchess Anabella, to the insults paid to my ability to judge a person’s character?” The words are compounded with a crack of his cane.

The High Cardinal pushes forward, the action of a drowning man grasping at straws. “Concerns that I no longer share, and fully intended to report to you upon this meetings conclusion.”

Anabella cannot stop her eyes from widening, ever so slightly, at that statement, but her surprise goes unnoticed as a rumble of shock runs through the prostrating Cardinals.

“Your Eminence, you are the one who invited us here,” accuses Cardinal Renard, his grey streaked hair whipping wildly about his face as he stands, “asked us to layout our grievances.”

“In the hopes of laying them to rest, Lord Renard,” counters the High Cardinal before the other man can build up a full head of steam. “The last two days have given me time to reconsider my position, as the High Cardinal, is it not my responsibility to arrange opportunities for my brethren to do the same?”

He directs this question to his Radiance.

Clearly intrigued by what the High Cardinal will say, Sylvestre indicates that he should continue with a light wave of his hand.

The High Cardinal lowers his head in deference and then speaks, “I was the one who oversaw Marquis Rosfield’s first test, I witnessed the boy emerge from the aether unharmed, a feat that four healthy Bearer’s, who showed no signs of the curse could not repeat. All of them succumbed to the aether within an hour of being sent down to the mine, less than a tenth of the time the Marquis spent within the flood.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “No, only our Prince managed to recreate the feat, Bahamut’s own Dominant.

He sighs then, allowing his shoulders to fall heavy with shame. “I will admit, at first, I was still determined to deny it, to cling to the scriptures on which we have all been raised. I believed a Ninth Eikon an impossibility, and in my pursuit to prove what some might consider blasphemy, false, I summoned the survivors of Phoenix Gate.”

His Eminences expression darkens as his voice becomes quiet, submerged beneath a heavy fog of what Anabella can only discern as self-recrimination and she cannot help but silently applaud him, for if this is an act it is a very good one. “Before they arrived, I had been resolved to have them recant their accounts, to confess their treason in return for clemency…I had not been made aware of their injuries beforehand.”

He turns away in shame, his eyes squeezed shut in hopes of trapping the emotion there. “I was told these were the lucky ones, I could not see how. Their wounds were bad enough…” he pauses as his complexion grows pallid, but he regains himself. “But it was their haunted gazes as they described the Second Eikon of Fire that convinced me.”

He shudders, so violently he has to shake himself to be rid of it. “One soldier, a man that had served in the vanguard, he could only speak in stilted murmurs, but the story that can be pieced together from his madness…it is not something that could be staged.”

“And so, you sought to convince those who had shared your previous opinion,” concludes the Emperor, only sounding half convinced.

“I did not wish you to be further troubled by these petty slanders. The process of determining the correct protocol to allow a duel to take place within one of our most revered sights is proving difficult enough as is. To burden your Radiance with a task that I can handle myself would be a failing on my part.” The High Cardinal reasons.

“And, what, pray tell, were you going to do with these men when it became clear that their opinions could not be swayed?” The Emperor’s gaze trail along the line of men prostrating themselves before him, only Cardinal Renard has the courage to meet his stare, a clear indication that he has not been cowed.

The tension that grips the room as the High Cardinal contemplates his answer, is balanced on a knife’s edge. At any moment, it will crack like a flash of lightning, and one way or another bring down swift judgement.

To Anabella’s delight, the High Cardinal looks straight at her as he says, “I would have brought their names before the council and advised that they were no longer fit to serve.” He motions to the two men still standing beside him. “Cardinal Étienne and Cardinal Amédée were able to see reason, in fact their doubts were brought about by misinformation and rumours, an easy mistake for young prodigies such as they to fall prey to.”

This is her chance, a golden one presented on a silver platter, in fact it would not surprise her to learn that this had been the High Cardinal’s intent all along. It would explain how his so-called secret meeting had been so easily uncovered. Either way, he has masterfully manipulated the situation to his advantage, constructed an opening to get back into his Radiance’s good graces and offered her an olive branch in a single consummate stroke that required no sacrifice on his part. Truly, it can almost be considered an art form.

Pouncing like a coeurl that has smelt blood, she runs her fingers down Sylvestre’s arm to gain his attention. “It eases my heart to know your Radiance has such a capable man to rely upon. An official that can act on his liege’s behalf is a rare thing indeed.”

Conflicted, as the anger over the discovery of the meeting and the slanders levied against her still boils close to the surface, the Emperor appears torn.

Cardinal Janvier does them all a favour by speaking out, giving Sylvestre something to aim his displeasure at, “your Radiance, I beg you, this is all just a misunderstanding, we were gathered here under false pretences you must—”

“Silence,” the Emperor snaps as he waves his guards forward from the shadows, they have been hiding in. “Escort these six to their personal residences, do not allow them to leave without my permission. They will be dealt with at my leisure.”

The Dragoons act upon their orders immediately, surrounding the six men and forcing them to their feet as they are led at lance point from the room.

Only once their complaints and plaintive protests can no longer be heard does he address the High Cardinal, “Gauvain, with me. I grow tired of the needless debate of lesser courtiers. No more delays, the details of the duel shall be resolved by the Council of Six.”

“As you command, your Radiance,” the relief cannot be kept from the High Cardinals tone, just as Anabella cannot fight the satisfied smirk that creases the edges of her mouth as another piece falls into its rightful place.

Chapter Text

The stars cannot be seen this night, hidden as they are behind a veil of thick mist that has rolled in from the sea.

This, coupled with the shadow of the first new moon, leaves Jill standing in complete darkness, that even the crystal lantern balanced on the grey stone of the banister she leans against cannot counter.

She does not care; it’s a fitting reflection of her own mood.

She’s lost her home again.

The walls may still be here, there might be a well-tended fire in the hearth, food on the table, and a roof over her head, but the people that made this place a home are gone.

Archduke Elwin had always been kind, treating her as his own daughter when she was only a ward, a means to keep her father on a tight leash and prevent further war between the two territories, but the need to treat her kindly had faded two years ago with her father’s death, nobody would have blinked an eye if he had decided to cast “the Northern Savage” as the Lady Anabella had called her, back to the Blight ravaged wastes of the North that were her homeland. But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had sent aid, offered sanctuary to those that yet remained, and even went so far as to allow Jill to erect a cairn in her father’s honour.

“So my worthy rival might rest in peace,” he had said.

Now he too is gone.

Perhaps this is the way of all great leaders, to be called before their time.

Is that why Clive and Joshua have been taken from her as well?

Why her prayers have fallen on deaf ears?

The tears she’s been trying so hard to hold back begin to fall at that thought.

It isn’t fair.

They were meant to come back to her, all of them were meant to come back.

Wiping the tears away, she looks out to the gardens, for all she can see of them, a few of the brighter flowers blooming on the trees below the balcony reflect the light from her lantern, but the rest is lost to shadow.

She really should return to her rooms. The only reason she has been able to leave them in the first place is because the castle guard has been lightened as the men are needed elsewhere. Only a skeleton crew of twenty men yet man the castle, the rest dispatched to patrol Rosalith’s streets in a show of strength the Seven Noble Houses hope will calm the growing unease that has seized the citizenry since the Night of the Flames.

She intends to do just that as she lifts the lantern from its perch and makes her way back inside, only to then walk down the stairs instead of up and back toward her chambers.

Her footsteps echo off the stonewalls, giving the false impression that she may be being followed, an old fear that had haunted her when she had first be brought here, but one that she has now outgrown and knows to ignore.

The main doors are of course barred, but she hadn’t been planning on using them in the first place, given that the guard posted there would most likely shoo her back to her room the moment she opened them.

Luckily, there’s an inconspicuous side entrance that’s much easier to open and more importantly unguarded. Working free the sliding lock she slips out into the kitchen gardens, but as she closes the door the rusted hinges suddenly give a loud protesting squeak.

Distantly, she sees another crystal lantern still on the wall above and instinctively shutters her own, not wanting to be caught after barely stepping one foot outside the castle.

The light on the wall above bobs for a moment, the guard holding it most likely raising it out further from himself in order to try and get a better look, but when Jill doesn’t move and the light fails to catch on the white of her dress, the guard returns to his patrol.

Jill waits a few seconds, watching and waiting for the light to disappear, signifying that the soldier has rounded the corner of the wall, and then she’s moving.

Unshuttering only one panel of her lantern, so she has a clear beam which she can direct on the path in font of her, instead of the pool of light that would make her too easy to spot, she navigates the thin pavestone paths weaved between the beds of vegetables and herbs, making her way to the shade of the orchard and the stone wall that separates the kailyaird from the more ornamental garden set before the front entrance.

She soon finds the small servant gate but doesn’t take it as her destination is on this side of the wall.

Turning to the left, she runs her hand along the sharp stone and counts each time her fingers dip between the thin spaces that separates each brick. She does this until she counts to twenty-seven and only then does she turn away from the wall to walk once again amongst the apple trees that dominate this part of the garden.

Eventually, after carefully avoiding the tangle of roots that in the dark seem to rise and grab at her feet, she makes it to the sheltered corner of the garden she has been looking for.

The light of her lantern bounces off the white stones used to build her father’s cairn, his gravestone, making it glow in the darkness. His bones may not be interred here, but one of his battle brothers had brought a braid of his hair when they came with the news of the Silvermane’s death, she had buried it here, beneath the tribute to his legacy.

As is her tradition, she fishes a new stone from her pocket. About the size of her fist and completely smooth from where it must have been beaten by the waves that rolled against the shore below the castle. The bone white stone fits nicely into a small notch near the top that had been left empty for too long.

She has to stand on her tiptoes just to barely reach the space she wants to fill, but with one final stretch she manages, and all without disturbing the other stones that have been painstakingly collected and placed over the last two years.

Kneeling in the dew wet grass she takes a moment to admire her work before clasping her hands in prayer, just as she would when she made a silent wish to Metia.

She does not know how long she sits there, but her eyes are heavy when she finally blinks them open.

She is a little calmer after offering a prayer to her father, but the weight of grief still sits heavily on her shoulders, compounding the loneliness that has been eating away at her, until she feels like nothing more than a pale imitation of her former self.

“I miss them,” she hasn’t dared to whisper these words out loud until now, but here, knowing she is completely alone with nothing but the wind, the trees, and the ghost of her father to hear her selfish plea, it feels safe to say it.

A breeze trailing through the trees with gentle fingers that rustle the leaves is her only answer.

Jill wonders what will happen if she just sits here. Will she turns to stone like the old legend of the maiden waiting for her love to return from the battle of Dzemekys?

That thought is soundly interrupted when a sudden jab of something wet against her ankle has her shooting up and nearly falling as she reels back from whatever touched her. Casting aside her despair in favour of fear, she searches the grounds.

A startled whine and an excited bark soon reveals the culprit.

“Torgal!”

The pup jumps into her open arms, and she presses him tightly to her chest.

She had searched for hours, the day the pup had gone missing, running herself ragged and she had turned the castle upside down looking for the young frost wolf, not caring that she missed her lessons and willing to face whatever punishment the Lady Anabella saw fit to bestow so long as she found the pup.

She hadn’t, and Lady Anabella hadn’t punished her either, because the Duchess was not in residence. Both she and her maids had vanished seemingly without warning or cause, but rumour spread like wildfire through dry brush and talk of the argument that had been heard behind closed doors between the Lord and Lady of the castle was soon heard all throughout Rosalith.

 Most, including Jill, simply assumed that the Duchess had retreated to one of the family manses in order to plan her next move, and then the news of Phoenix Gate had come.

The Duchess has not been seen or heard from since then, and Lord Byron is still at sea, though a stolas had arrived with news of his return, until then Rosaria is in the care of the Seven Great Houses.

Torgal wiggles in her arms, pulling her full attention back to him as his wagging tail whips against her side and his tongue darts out to catch her chin. As she strokes a hand through his fur, she cannot help but note the thick layer of dirt and ash she can feel coating her fingers.

“Just what have you been up to?” she asks him even as she presses him closer and begins to make her way back to the castle. She’ll do her best to get him clean with the supplies she has in her room, but there’s no doubt he’ll need a bath tomorrow, something he will hate. She smiles, thankful to have a task to focus on.

Torgal eventually settles in her arms, letting out a great yawn as he rests his head against her shoulder making it easy for her to balance the lantern and the pup in one arm so she can reach out for the handle of the door with the other.

The thunk of the door catching on the lock as she tries to push it open has her heart sinking. One of the servants or guards must have found it open and locked it, meaning her plan to sneak quietly and unnoticed back to her room is ruined.

Frustrated, but knowing the alternative is spending the night outside and trying to slip past the kitchen staff when they open the door to collect ingredients and check on the gardens in the morning, Jill sullenly makes her way to the thick oak gate linking the kailyaird to the front court gardens.

She doesn’t even try to be quiet this time, knowing that it doesn’t matter if anyone spots her because she is going to have to walk up to the front gates and ask to be let in, at which point one of the maids assigned to her will have to be woken to come and escort her back.

She very much doubts she will be lucky enough to avoid punishment this time, but she made the choice to sneak out and if nothing else Torgal came back, so no matter whether its copying lines or being sent down to the kitchens to scrub dishes, she’ll accept it with her head held high.

With this in mind she makes straight for the doors, not even looking for the lights wavering atop the walls as she follows the beam of her own lantern across the crisscrossed paths of the courtyard.

Torgal perks up in her embrace as the steps leading to the castle are touched by the edge of her crystal lamps beam of light, his nose sniffing eagerly at the air as his ears prick up with interest.

“What is it boy? She knows the guards on duty will hear her, actually, they should have seen her already and called out to her by now.

Torgal’s growl has the hair on the back of her neck standing on end as she raises her crystal lantern above her head. The red streaked across the grey stone steps has her retreating with a gasp, only for her to rush forward to check if either of the guards can still be saved.

The image of the headless corpse she finds at the top of the stairs collapsed against the column will forever be burned into her mind.

Torgal barks as he squirms in her arms, desperate to be let go, but she holds him, allowing her lantern to fall to the ground with a clatter instead.

An alarm, she needs to raise an alarm, but whoever did this is already in the castle.

Thinking fast, she sprints for the gatehouse, there’s a bell there, meant to be wrung in emergencies, if she can get to it, she’ll draw the attention of not only those still alive in the castle but even the guards down in the city.

Blazing across the courtyard, she barrels her way through the guard house door, only to freeze at the sight of the sea of blood that stretches out before her and the dead Rosarian soldiers that float amidst it. Bile rises at the back of her throat, and it takes everything within her not to throw up, especially when the iron tang of blood mixed with something far more foul hits her full force.

She can’t help them now, but she can still save others.

Turning her eyes away from the sight she makes for the door leading to the stairs that will take her to the tower holding the bell. Shadows from the crystals set in the sconces cast strange silhouettes across the stone walls of the stairs, making Jill wary as she ascends them. It feels like at any moment something is going to jump out and grab her, but she can’t waste time. Swallowing her fear and clutching Torgal tight, she runs up the last few steps of the small flight of stairs and bursts through the door to the room below the belfry, where the bell rope hangs.

Instead of simply leaping for the rope, Jill takes a moment to barricade the door with the old pew style bench that has been rotting in a corner of the ringing chamber for years.

She doubts it will hold up for more than a few minutes if anyone should try to break it down but it’s better than nothing.

As safe as she can make herself, she grabs the rope and throws all her weight down.

Silence reigns as the bell above her swing but fails to strike, again she pulls, and again the bell remains silent as her small frame lacks the weight needed to transfer enough momentum into the swing.

She doesn’t give up, instead she tries harder, hoping to build up enough of a swing for the bell to ring.

Probably thinking it’s a game, Torgal grabs the end of the rope and adds his own weight to her effort. She’s about to tell him to stop, fearing that the pup will hurt himself or throw off her timing, but the clamorous toll that suddenly rings above her head turns her aborted ‘no’ into staggered praise, “That’s it! Good boy!”

Now that it has started it takes very little effort to keep the bell ringing, she just has to make sure she holds on tight enough when the rope pulls up, a harder task than she first thought as the rough weave digs into her palms and leaves her skin raw with her efforts.

It’s worth it when she sees watch lights being lit in the city below, a signal for the guard to regroup, help will be here soon.

But not soon enough.

She can hear raised voices from the bottom of the stairs, so loud they can be heard even over the cry of the bell above.

Letting go of the rope Jill looks for an escape even as something heavy bangs against the door behind her, muffled shouts in a language she cannot understand as the handle on the door stalls against the crest of the bench, keeping it locked.

The window is too small for her, but not for Torgal, and she’ll have an easier time escaping with her hands free.

As if sensing what she has planned, Torgal whines as she picks him up, curling into her chest even as she pets him between the ears.

The latch on the window is stubborn and the window even more so, but with a rusted squeal the hinges finally give when she forces it with her shoulder. The drop on this side of the tower isn’t too far, what with the small grassy rise on this side of the tower, but Jill still forces her arm through the space as far as she can, gently lowering a scruffed Torgal as far as she can before she lets him go.

She feels so bad when she hears the pup shriek from the sudden drop, but when she looks down, he’s shaking and walking it off, then running in circles at the base of the tower, looking for a way to get back to her.

She moves to pull herself back in, but the sound of the door breaking, and the pews clawed feet screeching as it is forced aside has her yanking herself back, uncaring of the scratches the narrow frame of the window leaves upon her arms and shoulders.

It’s not enough.

The voices from before scream something as what is left of the splintered door is fully kicked aside.

Large fingers tangle in her hair even as something catches around her neck, but the sharp tug from the man behind her causes the tension around her throat to snap as she is pulled forcefully back into the room.

More words she can’t comprehend as the bloodied blade of an axe forces her to turn her chin up, to face the man who has her by the hair.

She blinks back tears as another tug on her scalp has her scrambling with her nails against his grip, trying to force him to let go.

All that earns her is a swift backhand and the blackness of her fading vision as consciousness slowly slips from her grasp.

When next she blinks her eyes open, it is to the darkness of a lightless room and the smell of brine in the air.

Chapter Text

The rain rolls in like a veil from the sea, trapping Clive inside his gilded cage.

Barred from the balcony that has become his perch, he instead takes shelter in the nook laid beneath the bow windows, that provide natural light and a panoramic view of the tall peak of Drakes Head and the white towers of Oriflamme that shade beneath it, another luxury he assumes he has been gifted in the hopes he might forget that he is a prisoner here.

They seem to have overlooked the fact that the cold clasp of the cuffs around his wrists and the lack of any of the familiar comforts of home, that no amount of extravagance can make up for, is a constant reminder.

He stares, not at the beautiful but misted view outside, but at the raindrops that flow down the clear pane of glass that he rests his head against.

It’s cold, like everything else in Oriflamme seems to be, even the people. Well, most of the people.

He pulls the blanket Mia wrapped around his shoulders closer before reaching for the cup of tea she set beside him, with how aromatic the drink is, it’s nice to just sit there with it clasped between his hands as he does his best to absorb the warmth from both it and the plush cover.

Taking a sip, he cannot help the grateful hmm that escapes him as the warm liquid slides over his tongue, bringing a brief moment of relief from the burning void he can feel at the centre of his chest.

Breathing steam, he watches as the window mists, and he cannot stop his fingers from reaching out to idly trace small rings into the fogged-up glass before it can fade. A circle, within a circle, like the ceramics of the Fallen Ruins, spinning one into the other in a pattern without end.

Running out of room, he wipes the condensation away before it can begin to fade, knowing that any maid that isn’t Mia who comes upon the sight will disapprove of his current activity to the point of making a fuss of cleaning around him until he moves just so they can get at the window.

This way the evidence of his petty revenge is hidden, at least until the rain stops.

The sound of voices draws his attention to the bedroom doors. The guards do not ask for permission before they enter, but they do not storm the room either, merely open the doors wide as they stand on ceremony and bid him forward, “you have been summoned.”

With no power to object, Clive moves forward, with an ease to his stride that comes with being back in his own clothes again.

That ease slides right off his shoulders as he comes upon his mother waiting for him in the dining room.

Sat at the head of the silver inlaid oak dining table, a full tea service with select desserts arranged before her, she looks like a noble Oriflamme lady who has invited him to a small luncheon, a complete contrast to Clive, who looks out of place even when he has no choice but to dress in the Sanbrequois fashion they provide him.

“Clive,” she greets, “come, sit.”

To anyone else’s ears it must sound like a welcoming suggestion, but the staccato of her sharp nails against the tabletop makes it clear that this is an order. Even still, he makes sure to take the seat one place away from her and hopes that the space he has set between them will be taken as habit, and not as the attempt to distance himself from her that it actually is.

She allows it without complaint, returning to her tea and biscuits as if this is just a late morning brunch between a mother and son.

Never mind the twin Dragoon’s that stand three feet behind his chair, or the literal restraints that bind his arms, the chain may be gone but the crystal that disrupts his connection with the Phoenix’s Blessing is more of a shackle than any physical chain could ever be.

“I imagine that you and Prince Dion had much to discuss yesterday,” she posits as she taps her spoon against the rim of her cup.

“Yes,” he answers tightly, knowing that silence shall not be tolerated.

“Do you believe his advice was beneficial?” The question is probing, asked with the intent of having him give her every detail of the conversation he had with Prince Dion.

He will not deny he takes a little bit of spiteful pleasure from delivering a monosyllabic answer, “yes.”

The clink of her cup against her saucer is almost deafening in the quiet that hangs between them, a clear sign that he is treading too close to the thin line of her patience.

Relenting, he gives her what she wants.

“He informed me that I will be dueling him today, and said it was your suggestion that he come and speak with me, since you were busy.”

She nods, seemingly appeased.

“The Astrologers advised that a sense of threat or danger is the best way to have an inexperienced Dominant Prime, a little cruder than the methods advocated by Rosarian scholars, but we’ve seen how their methods failed,” she tuts as she finally stops stirring and takes a sip of her tea. “They also counselled that certain emotions can be good triggers.”

It feels as though something heavy and leaden has just fallen into the pit of his stomach, and even as he forces himself to ask, he dreads the answer. “Which emotions?”

Setting her drink down she rises from her chair and circles the table, until she comes to stand directly behind him.

He turns to face her, to the point that he cannot sit comfortably in the chair, not with the edge of the table pressing into his lower back and his knee wedged against the overly decorated armrest.

She plays with the cresting on the back of his seat as she gazes down at him. When he refuses to look away, she reaches out and brushes his hair behind his ear and doesn’t notice the flinch with which he pulls back as she does so. “Anger, grief, fear, base emotions that overwhelm all sense and rational, leaving instinct alone.”

If that is true, it’s just more proof that he is not that monster.

He had felt every one of those emotions while trapped down in the mines, and free of the cuffs there should have been nothing to stop him from turning into the Eikon that murdered his brother.

He can at least take solace in the fact that no matter what she does nothing is going to happen, he is not the Second Dominant of Fire, he couldn’t hurt Dion even if he wanted to.

He doesn’t say this out loud, his mother’s lie will be revealed soon enough, there’s no point in antagonising her now.

“Prince Dion has been instructed not to hold back, an example that you would be best served to follow.” She retreats to her own seat as she says this, but Clive does not relax, he sits there waiting for the rest. For the threat that must accompany her command in order to ensure his compliance.

It doesn’t come, even as he sits there waiting for it to fall like the sword of Damocles, it never does.

“Have you been eating well?” she asks in that concerned voice he can never once remember being directed at him before being brough here. “I did mean to check-in over the last few days, but the meetings and arrangements took all my time.”

Thank the Founder, is all Clive can think in response to that, even so he manages to give an acceptable response, “the staff have been very attentive.”

In reality, only Mia has been showing any genuine care for him, but he dreads his mother finding that out, he’s already making plans to ask Dion to transfer her, she’ll be safer that way.

“Of course they have, we are the Emperor’s honoured guests.” That statement shall never be true for him, no matter how many times she says it.

When he doesn’t respond she occupies herself by taking a small pastry from the tiered plate next to the tea set, she inspects it for a moment then replaces it and selects another. “The Inner workings of Sanbreque are so different from Rosaria, less streamlined,” she notes as she pairs the pastry with some sort of honey glazed fruit dish, only to change her mind at the last moment and select a dainty strawberry topped cake in its place.

“I feared that nothing would be prepared by the Emperor’s deadline if things had continued in that manner.” She pauses, giving him the chance to ask her how the matter was resolved, he doesn’t.

Unperturbed she continues, “Luckily, the High Cardinal presented an opportunity for the preparation to be handled by the Elder Council.” She stabs the cake, spilling cream across the plate but then appears to lose interest. “I never would have guessed Cardinal Devinoit was so well versed in Greagorian scripture.”

She keeps trying, sharing anecdotes from the meeting as she plays with her food.

Resolutely, he remains silent.

Mercifully, the painful small talk is brought to an end when a page slips into the room. “Your Grace, it’s time.”

Grateful for the brief chance to put some proper distance between himself and his mother, Clive stands, but as he makes his way to the door, she presses in beside him and seizes his hand, clutching it in her own as she wraps his forearm around hers. In a soft breath that can barely be heard above the brush of silk against his leather armour as she pulls him in tight, she whispers, “We must keep up appearances, mustn’t we?”

Their small party makes their way through the halls of the Whitewyrm castle at a sedate pace, one that makes Clive itch in his own skin, he swears his mother is doing this on purpose, a suspicion that is all but confirmed when she slows further as they approach the towering  main staircase, where a small mob of nobles have indiscreetly gathered, most likely in the hopes of catching a glimpse of them.

To his surprise, and great relief, they do not descend the stairs and run the gauntlet of social climbers perched there, ready to pounce at the slightest opening. Instead, he is lead to a discreet if well-guarded door, all but hidden by the shadow of a statue dedicated to a dragoon seated upon a rearing dragon.

The narrow corridor the door opens up to is dark, the stark whites and radiant blues that adorn every inch of the castle usurped by the ashen grey of fallen ceramics, the only source of light the ethereal azure of the crystal that Sanbreque tries so hard to emulate.

He is left confused as to where they are supposed to go from here, but not for long, as what in the darkness Clive had mistaken for a dead end reveals itself to be a door.

Activated by the touch of a crystal plucked from its casing at his mother’s belt, the fallen technology turns back, spinning within the circles of its encased pattern until a small room enclosed by what looks like a giant bird cage is exposed.

The two Dragoon guards stay behind as his mother guides him forward and bow as they turn back to face them. “Our brethren await you in the Inner Sanctum, your Grace.”

“Thank you, Captain, you are dismissed,” with her instruction given, his mother presses her crystal to the lower of the two hollows carved into the ceramic framing the entrance and closes the door on the saluting Dragoons.

Drawing power from the crystal pressed against it, the hollow pools with light, which soon spreads throughout the structure, illuminating the channels carved into the walls, floor, and ceiling.

When the last spot beneath his feet, a recess that looks like a distant star, glows with the spectral light of the crystal, the platform begins to descend.

Smooth and effortless, the near silent lift lacks all the clunking judder of its supposed modern equivalent.

Alone, Clive takes the opportunity to pry his arm from his mother’s grip and steps back as far as the confines of the ornate cage will allow, crossing his arms to ensure his mother cannot readily seize his hand again.

The tilt of her head and the knowing smile as she huffs, “so stubborn,” is like a slap to the face.

“Stop it,” he growls, teeth bared and eyes sharp.

“Stop what, dearest?” she asks as she takes a seat on the woven metal bench that melds with the cage around them, her tone implying that she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Trying to remain calm he takes a steadying breath, before answering. “I can’t stop you from playing to the crowd, but you can drop the saintly mother act in private.”

He’s tired, drained from constantly having to be on guard. He knows how to navigate her spite, her indifference, and her calculated cruelty. This false sense of care is a foreign thing to him, something he’s only ever remember observing from the outside.

He won’t be drawn in by it, but the pitfalls and traps are unfamiliar to him, and the resentment that has been building from the moment he woke up to find himself here, far from home, alone, and accused of murdering his own brother is mixing with the fear and dread brought on by the knowledge that the fate of Rosaria rests within the palm of her hand.

“Still such a child,” she scoffs as something almost fond settles in her eyes.

He grips his fist so hard he can hear the leather of his gloves creak. Looking at his palm he cannot help but remember the crushed red rose that had been clasped there just the day before and all that it represented. It pulls him back, allows him to reign in the anger that wants nothing more than to run wild.

It’s what she wants, he reminds himself, she said it herself.

Back in control, he resolves once more to remain silent for the rest of the descent.

Blissfully, his mother doesn’t disturb his peace, but it doesn’t last long.

Soon enough the platform slows and then stops, and the light slowly drains from the floor and walls around them until only the door is left illuminated.

It soon retracts, allowing light to flood the confined space of the lift, and revealing a small party clearly awaiting their arrival.

Without hesitation his mother exits the lift, to be met by the Emperor himself and a full guard of Knights of the Dawn Light.

“My Dear, you are just in time.” The Emperor welcomes her with a resplendent smile as she curtseys. Clive bows before he is told he has to, unwilling to draw attention to himself before he must. “The final addition is being made as we speak, come.”

The Dragoon’s close in around Clive the moment he steps free of the lift, leaving him with no choice other than to follow.

At least with the Emperor so focused on his mother he is free to look around.

Illuminated by the light of the Mothercrystal alone, the Inner Sanctum is bereft of darkness, only the palest of shadows can survive here, sustained by the manmade marble arches, bridges, and colonnades built into the wall that faces the Inner Sanctum of Drakes Head.

Clive can hear the roar of water as he begins to descend the stairs, far off, it remains unseen until the thick gate, leading to the colossal bridge connecting to the heart of the Mothercrystal, is opened for them.

The water cascades down from a natural fissure opened between the outer facets of the crystal that hang from the ceiling like stalactites and the darker stone of the natural rock that supports it. The crystal’s light refracts through it, casting misted shades of arctic blue against the backdrop of white stone columns.

It pales in comparison to the jagged wall of Crystal that looms above it all. Dwarfing the gate that bars the entrance which must lead to the true heart of the Mothercrystal, impenetrable and alive with the aether that infuses the wall of pure crystal, it’s like nothing he’s ever seen before.

The sheer immensity of it makes Clive feel small.

It’s a feeling that must not be pressed upon those that surround him, as the Dragoons at his back soon lose patience with his open admiration and subtly press him forward.

A collection of nobles awaits them, gathered together, basically pressed shoulder to shoulder as they talk amongst themselves, enamoured with whatever subject they are discussing to the point that the arrival of the Emperor goes unnoticed until one of the Dragoon’s heralds him.

It is only as they disperse that Clive notices, Prince Dion is not amongst them.

He does not have to search far to find him.

Dressed in the full regalia of his position as the Leader of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon, his knee-length jerkin has been traded for full scale mail that shimmers a soft turquois under the light of the crystal, but the layers of white steel silk remain, merely augmented with the addition of an ornate pauldron that looks more fashionable than practical.

Armed with his halberd, Prince Dion seems to be standing guard over a man knelt at the centre of the bridge.

“Are you sure you have the right man?” questions his mother from where she stands a few steps behind him.

“Most sure your Grace, he was intercepted by the scouts only a few miles from Phoenix Gate, as a deserter he was sentenced to be hanged, far better that he be put to some use before the end.” One of the Cardinals volunteers and Clive cannot help but be unnerved by the smile that curves the edges of her mouth.

She moves to stand before him, retrieving the key to his cuffs from where she wears it around her neck as she asks, “has he confessed?”

Another Cardinal steps forward, Clive vaguely recognises him as one of the members of the Elder Council, the white hair despite his youth is quite memorable. More experienced than his cohort he speaks with an authority the other man lacked, “he volunteered the information before he was even put to question, most likely in the hope of earning a pardon,” the Carinal snorts, as though the mere idea of this man trying to earn leniency is wholly ludicrous. “Regardless, he was given over to the inquisitors, he did not recant his claim.”

At the click of the key, the cuffs slide off his forearms with an ease that undermines the relief that comes with being free of them. Warmth, flickers to life in his chest as the banked embers of the Phoenix’s Blessing catch on the breath of aether allowed to flow freely through him again. It chases away the chill like nothing else can, blunts the sharp edges of grief that are slowly killing him with the solace that is his last tether to his brother.

“Thank you, Cardinal Achille,” his mother intones as she moves behind Clive. Grasping him by the shoulders, she leans in close as she whispers in his ear, “I have a gift for you.”

Her fingers catch against his chin and gently guide his gaze towards the man still knelt beside Prince Dion. “Just the other day I learnt that there were a number of survivors from the Night of the Flames, a feat to be praised, considering the damage that was wrought.” She leans back a little as she gestures for his sword to be brought forward.

Instead of allowing the Dragoon holding it to present it to him, she takes it in hand herself. “Alas, his is not a tale of heroic endurance and the will to fight despite the odds like so many of his brave companions, but one of cowardice and opportunity.”

Light catches on the blade as she turns it in her hands, and Clive can see that his sword has not only been repaired but polished to perfection as well. “A deserter, one who fled the battle at the first sign of the Phoenix.”

She places the hilt in his hand and carefully wraps his fingers around it as she whispers the last of her poison, “the man who killed your father.”

Chapter Text

Her son stills at her words. Every muscle tensing as his sharp gaze locks onto the man restrained beside Prince Dion.

He doesn’t even flinch this time when she trails her fingers up along his arm, keeping contact as she moves to stand behind him once more.

She watches his face the entire time, trying to see past the neutral expression he has taken to wearing like a shield. It serves him well enough when he dons it before the Emperor and Cardinals, but then, they do not know to look for what might lurk beneath the placid façade he presents to them.

She does, and even as he tries to hide it, going so far as to veil his gaze beneath the shadow of his fringe, she sees exactly what she’s looking for.

Anger, so potent and wrathful it has purged his usual aversion to her touch.

She takes full advantage, playing to the crowd as she winds her arms around his shoulders, drawing him in close. “He is yours to kill,” she goads as she rests her cheek against the crown of his head, all the while pulling the threads of her manipulation tighter. “All you need do is defeat Prince Dion.”

The ease with which the words are spoken do not scale to the true enormity of such a task. Yes, her son has bested the Prince once before, but all who witnessed that event know that the ever-noble Champion of Greagor had held back. Clive will have no such advantage this time, for the Prince has been ordered to drive him to his limit.

The revelation that Prince Dion will be defending his father’s murderer doesn’t seem to faze him at all, if anything it simply stokes the boy’s determination, as shown when fire flows down from his hand to consume his blade, adding a bitter edge of heat to the already deadly sharp sword.

“Not yet,” she intones with such sweet indulgence, “the nobles must have their ceremony after all.”

Despite her words he takes a step forward, an action noticeable enough for Prince Dion to raise his halberd before the disgraced captain in preparation, for fear her son might span the distance with magic. An all too likely scenario given the waves of heat she can feel lapping over her arms from where she holds him.

She doesn’t fear it, for he knows too well that all he cares for is held within her gentle grasp, a fact that she had confirmed without words during his brief audience with the Emperor. A fact that she will reinforce when she unveils what his previous less than perfect performance cost him, but not yet. That is a revelation for another time.

In this moment, with the rage she has stoked and with how inexperienced he is with controlling his Eikon, she is unwilling to tempt fate.

Standing to her full height, she returns her attention to Sylvestre. “Your Radiance, we are ready to begin at your leave?”

Receiving the confirmation he has been waiting for, the Emperor bids Cardinal Achille forward. With a bow the man steps into the space between Clive and Prince Dion, easily finding the very centre by using the straight lines of the mosaic pattern laid across the full length of the bridge.

Placing a silver aspersorium reverently on the floor he pulls on a chain hung around his belt, the taught links slacken as an antique dragon’s tooth, hollowed out, carved with decorative dragons, and mounted with adamantite at root and point, falls from a pocket of his robes.

At the sight of it a Page rushes forward, falling in at Cardinal Achille’s heels as he approaches Prince Dion.

Knowing already what is expected of him, the Prince willingly exposes the soft skin of his forearm and allows the Cardinal to draw a swift line with the tooth. Blood wells across the cut and immediately the mousey boy holds out a silver bowl, shaped like a white wyvern tail in full bloom, to capture the Prince’s blood.

With a small thanks and a deep bow, Cardinal Achille retreats as he wets a silk cloth with a potion and cleans the fang, and then approaches Clive.

Her son doesn’t even seem to notice the sharp bite of the fang against his skin, nor the blood that freely flows from his wrist into the awaiting bowl, the echoing drop of his blood mixing with the Prince’s that has already been gathered there. His eyes do not move from where they lie fixed upon his prey.

Unnerved by her son’s silence, Cardinal Achille works swiftly and soon has all he needs to commence the sacrament.

The Page steps forward and moves to wipe the blood, only for Anabella to take the potion-soaked cloth herself, stroking the skin until the red disappears and the skin seals over.

As Cardinal Achille returns to the centre of the bridge, he whispers words over the vessel and swirls the liquid within. Pouring the mixed blood into the awaiting aspersorium, he gives the fusion a single stir, before taking hold of the aspergillum submerged within and flings the liquid captured there in, high into the air, as he softly begins to recite.

“Hail holy light, child of Heaven’s first born,
The great Wyrm, Bahamut, Champion of the Goddess,
Eldest of the blessing, guardian of the divine.
The crystal, won from the void of endless infinite,
I sing now of your grace, where once I only sung of chaos,
Beckoned by the muses I seek now to dwell within your light.”

With each line of scripture spoken, Cardinal Achille disperses another stream of bright red fluid across the floor around him, until an outline that might abstractly resemble the spread wings of a dragon has been etched into the ceramic.

The smell reveals the liquid for what it is, even before it begins to smoke, after all the spice of dragon’s blood can never be mistaken for anything else, what with the way it clings to the palate, near searing the throat with but a single inhale.

By the time Cardinal Achille has reached the end of his hymn spoken as a blessing the air around him is suffused with a thin shroud of teal tinted grey smoke, the same colour as Bahamut’s scales if the bards are to be believed.

The sacrament complete, Cardinal Achille hands the now depleted aspersorium off to the hovering Page as he himself retreats to the colonnade where the other Cardinals and nobles have gathered.

Before Anabella moves to join them herself, she takes the opportunity to deliver one final word of warning, “do not fail me.”

Taking Sylvestre’s awaiting arm, she allows him to guide her to the loggia which has the perfect overview of the bridge. As they walk Sylvestre looks over his shoulder, brow furrowed in slight confusion. “You say the boy only recently awakened as a Dominant? That the Night of the Flames was the first time he summoned his Eikon?”

Following the line of the Emperor’s gaze, she takes in the sight of Clive as he begins to prowl along the invisible line of the site chosen for the duel, the flames that swathe his blade flicker with a darker light than those drawn from the blessing of the Phoenix, but he shows no lesser aptitude for them than he does when wielding the shielding embers gifted by the firebird. The sight of it sets her at ease, if he has this much control when he denies the power that dwells within his soul, what will it be like when he accepts it?

His Radiance is waiting for an answer, so she tells him what he wishes to hear, “as the sworn Shield of the Phoenix my son is used to wielding flames, alas this was not the case when he first received the blessing.” Sighing as she shakes her head indulgently, she tries to look nostalgic over a memory that until now has been nothing but a mockery in the face of what should have been, a diluted whisp of the power her boy should have had at his command. “In the beginning a day did not go by where he was not being ferried off to the physicker for one reason or another, some of the burns were quite severe.” Or so she had been told, at the time she took pleasure at the news, yet more proof that her disgraceful first born was not worthy of the blood that flowed through his veins. If only she had known then what she knows now.

“Ah, that would explain it,” Sylvestre agrees, his jealousy and the pride in his son it was born from assuaged for the moment.

Of course, she takes the opportunity to ingratiate herself with him a little more, how can she not when he presents her with such an easy opportunity. “Still, I’m sure we have Prince Dion to thank for some of the control he is displaying, Clive told me that he found their conversation enlightening, and I have noticed that the malaise that has possessed him as of late has lifted, if only slightly.”

As expected, Sylvestre absorbs the praise, even if it is indirect. He’s almost preening with it as they rejoin the Elder Council and the small gathering of nobles that have been invited to watch the display.

“My Lords, My Ladies, I thank you for your attendance,” he greets them cordially, as if any of them would have dared to turn down the invitation in the first place. “I shall not forestall the proceedings any longer than I must, as I am sure we are all eager to witness the event that is sure to unfold.” A soft murmur of agreement rolls through the awaiting crowd, but it is hardly loud enough to be heard as Sylvestre resumes speaking, “know only that should the Second Eikon of Fire lose control as he did on the Night of the Flames, it is not an inexperienced boy that stands against him, but the King of Dragon’s himself.”

The anticipated round of applause from the audience is allowed to endure for at least a solid minute, and as the roar of the clapping crowd is about to reach its peak Sylvestre takes her hand in his and raises it to his lips in a very public display of his favour.

Soft lips brush feather light across the skin of her knuckles and were she the pious Duchess he believes her to be, she is sure the act would unleash a storm of flutters as light a butterfly’s wing beats within her stomach, but all she feels is a surge of ever growing contentment at the clear sign that her hold upon the Emperor becomes ever tighter.

Knowing it can only be to her advantage, she feigns a blush as she coyly hides her face behind her free hand, but all the while her eyes search the gathered nobles, assessing their reactions, a small gathering of ladies incline their heads together in order to gossip as a greying lord bent with age tries to hide a disapproving scowl. One noble woman, the lady Hortense, noticeable for the way she stands apart from the other ladies goes so far as to gasp at the display, while a hooded young Lord standing just behind her shoulder doesn’t seem to be paying attention at all, his gaze trained instead on the Dominant’s below, though that illusion of disinterest is easily undermined by the approving smirk painting his lips, a natural, if immature reaction drawn out by the uproar the display has caused, that even the shadows of his hood cannot fully hide.

Anabella dismisses their obvious opinions quickly, for it is not theirs that matter. Not truly, no, the only ones that matter are those of the Elder council and most especially the High Cardinal.

His shift in perspective had been so sudden, but too calculated to have been the desperate gambit to save his own skin at the cost of several loyal supporters he tried so hard to disguise it as.

A few subtle enquiries and gil placed within the right hands had led her to her answers.

The most successful lies are always built on a foundation of truth, and his Eminence has proven this, for as he claimed, his unexpected change of heart had been born from the revelations and testimonies of the survivors of Phoenix Gate.

This knowledge had compelled her to meet with the soldiers herself, to see what could have driven the High Cardinal to abandon his course to discredit her.

The shells of men who had greeted her upon her entry into the infirmary had told the story without the need for any exchange of words or gil.

Soldiers no longer, the creatures that sat bound to their beds were no better than akashic fiends, their minds lost to the memory of the Night of the Flames and the Second Eikon of Fire.

No, the High Cardinal would find no allies amongst their ranks, they were but fuel for her own tale.

A fact that was clearly not lost on his Eminence, a detail that spoke of his political acumen. As did the disinterested mask he chose to wear at the Emperor’s display while all those around him failed to hide their shock.

Interesting.

Unbothered by the mostly scandalised attitude of the audience Sylvestre escorts her to the edge of the colonnade, which naturally affords them the best view.

Looking down she is met with the sight of Clive continuing to stalk like a caged coeurl, slowly and methodically he measures the distance that separates him from his prey. Testing the limits of the Prince’s patience as the tip of his blade sporadically grazes the tiles beneath his feet, eliciting sparks, and casting embers from the steel, waiting for an opening that the Prince is clearly unwilling to provide.

They seem to be talking, but their voices are quiet and do not manage to overcome the space between the bridge and the colonnade, but from body language alone it would appear as though Prince Dion is trying to calm her son. The way he reaches out, his halberd only raised to guard and defend when Clive becomes bold, gathering flames in his left hand, a clear threat, and yet Prince Dion persists.

A wasted effort that will only earn him her son’s ire. An ire that can so easily be cultivated into resentment, given enough time and incentive.

She will admit, suggesting that Prince Dion and her son have an opportunity to talk had been a risk. Thus far she has only had the barest of interactions with his Highness, all of them formal, restrained by the expectations of their stations, but through them she has had the chance to take the measure of the Prince.

She has no trouble admitting that she actually found herself a little disappointed when it was revealed that the chivalrous persona, the one he wore like glistening armour was not the act she had first thought it to be.

In some sense, he reminds her of Elwin, a man both bold and noble who fails to see the need for ruthlessness anywhere but on the battlefield.

In certain ways, this can only make it easier for her to manipulate him, in others…

She shakes her head, filing those musings away for later. He is after all the Crowned Prince of Sanbreque, to act against him now without an immediate heir to replace him with would only sew chaos, one that she could not control and therefore has no need of.

For now, she must focus on ensuring that whatever trust has been built between Prince Dion and her son is irrevocably tarnished.

It is always easy to turn someone against a person they do not know, but a fissure dug with lies and misinformation can always be bridged with understanding and a common goal.

True mistrust can only be grown between those you have felt have deceived you, and once sewn it can never be unmade, for the sting will linger, staining every interaction, every offer of peace, until no accord can be found.

It seems that plan is already well in hand, for as the Emperor accepts the crystal from his valet and casts a flash of light so blinding it can be seen across the Inner Sanctum, marking the official beginning of the duel, her son doesn’t hesitate.

Chapter Text

As soon as his mother removes her claws, he cannot help but start to pace.

Her last whispered warning, ‘do not fail me,’ echoes in his ears, clouding his mind with a rage so potent it coils around his every thought, drenching them in a miasma of hate thicker than the haze of smoke summoned by the burning dragon’s blood that still lingers in the air, slowly corroding the tiles of the bridge it has been cast upon, carving the sigil of supposed dragon wings into the ceramic.

The fire sheathing his steel burns hot against his hand, it doesn’t hurt, he hasn’t been foolish enough to injure himself with his own fire since the first week he learned how to use them, but the heat from the tongues of flame that lap against his gloved hand are grounding, allowing him to restrain himself for now.

He has to wait, even as he feels as though he is being burned alive by the blaze of his own emotions, he has to, for Rosaria’s fate hangs in the balance, and all he can do to protect her right now is to follow his mother’s orders.

He hates it, this seemingly endless cycle that simply leads to more of her threads being wound around his soul. Tighter and tighter until it hurts to breathe, but he must endure it, must anchor his grip to the pyre she has chosen to burn him on and will himself not to turn to ash, for if he doesn’t, he casts Rosaria upon the cruel waves of his mother’s mercy.

Again, his rage flares as his gaze locks with the man who sits bound behind Prince Dion. This is the first time he has been presented with a target for his anger which he can actually attack, that he will not have to hold back against, and the only thing between him and this man, this monster, is Prince Dion.

He turns, stalking along the hard line of light and dark tiles, only to chance a step forward, into the space set between him and Prince Dion.

The clang of Dion’s halberd being slammed against the ceramic is clear and ringing, but most of all it is commanding, even so, Clive refuses to surrender the ground he has gained.

He allows the tip of his blade to catch against the tiles as he walks, knowing that the heated steel will spark against the stone, leaving a trail of firefly embers in his wake.

The man beside Dion flinches at the site of it and the screech of steel scrapping against ceramic. Clive bares his teeth at the reaction, in the approximation of a smile that a frost wolf must wear whilst on the hunt.

In response, Prince Dion flares his power once, just enough for the ephemeral impression of crystalline wings to spread from his back.

The image of a frost wolf challenging a dragon flashes before Clive’s eyes. It’s not the worst comparison that he could have drawn, he stands about as much chance as a lone wolf would against a mighty dragon.

That thought does nothing to dissuade him though, for when have the odds ever been stacked in his favour? When has a victory ever been handed to him?

Never.

Whether it was training in the Bailey, or his first command in Stillwind, none of his accomplishments have been anything but hard won. Earned with the strength of his arm and the gift of the Phoenix’s flames.

All for the chance of proving his father right in order to repay his unwavering faith, to be strong enough to defend Joshua and lay to rest the whispers that claim he is unworthy to stand beside his brother.

That chance is gone now, fed to the dying flames of the Phoenix and the rage of the Second Eikon of Fire, but the spark that beget all these tragedies lies in the grasp of the man who now sits bound and trembling before him.

The man responsible for taking his father from him.

Clive wonders how it happened, a blade to the back, an ambush, light magic shot from afar with no chance to raise a guard. His mind conjures these scenarios because the idea of his father falling in a fair fight, of being overcome by a worthy opponent who had the decency to challenge him outright, is unimaginable.

“How?” the question escapes him as a low growl, but it reverberates across the distance, clear if not loud.

The tied soldier shakes his head as he unleashes a disturbed laugh, a short bark that seems to swallow itself as the man’s eyes widen in fear as he looks again at Clive.

“Tell me how.” Clive demands again, stabbing his blade into the bridge to sheath it there, so that he won’t be tempted.

The show of strength is enough to force the man to speak, but not to answer his question.

“You look like him,” the words are haunted, tempered with an airy aloofness that speaks of a man lost to his own memories, “more than the little bird did.”

Another laugh, unhinged and trailing follows the first, a manifestation of the man’s disconnection from reality. It’s only silenced when Clive summons a small fire spell in the palm of his free hand. The soldier’s stare is irresistibly drawn to the flickering flames that waver in Clive’s grasp as he feeds them more aether.

Even from this distance he can see the reflection of the spell within the murderer’s eyes, orange, and red dancing along the black of his pupils blown wide with horror. The step forward Clive takes this time is spurred by the need to close those eyes forever.

The glint of the crystals light and his own flames off the polished orichalcum of Prince Dion’s halberd is near dazzling as it swiftly cuts through his line of sight. He follows the shaft of the weapon to the even stare of the man who wields it like an extension of his own arm, only to be surprised when he finds the Prince’s stalwart gaze is not trained on him, but the prisoner knelt at his feet.

“I will not have you speak of the Phoenix with such disrespect.” To emphasize the warning, he allows the beak on the back of the blade to graze the thin skin of the soldier’s throat. When the man gulps the steel is close enough to catch against the movement, digging deep enough to draw the faintest line of blood.

Seeing that the man has got the message, Prince Dion turns to face Clive. “Do not waste your breath on this cretin, Lord Rosfield.” Dion twirls his weapon with a flourish that has the soldier recoiling, even when it is clear that his Highness has complete control. “It is wasted on the likes of him, whatever answer you may wrench from his forked tongue, it shall not bring you peace.”

The conviction in Prince Dion’s voice makes it clear he has already heard the story, knows the details of Archduke Elwin’s death, before Clive does.

The heat that curls in Clive’s chest at that revelation is searing, but familiar. Shame tears into his heart and stokes the fire already burning there, as he lays a new claim to failure atop the hoard he has managed to accumulate over his relatively short life.

It’s irrational, he realises this, what good will it do him to know the manner of his father’s death, as Prince Dion claims it can only bring him more pain, but how can he turn away when the answers are directly in front of him.

He finds he cannot. “I would still hear the tale.”

Prince Dion lowers his guard, just slightly, his halberd resting against his pauldron in a deceptively casual manner but in a way that also shields his expression from the onlookers that perch like carrion crows above them.

“I will tell you what I have heard, for I wish to spare you from the ravings of a man who has already given himself to madness, is that acceptable?” Prince Dion offers.

Clive finds he has no choice but to accept, one more word from the clearly delirious soldier might be enough to snap the rusted chain of his control.

Prince Dion looks dejected but resolved. “Disguised as loyal Rosarian Shields, this man and his battalion approached the Archduke. Slaying the young Prince’s Chocobo and casting him to the ground, they unveiled their treachery, sure in the knowledge that no reinforcements would be summoned, having already shot the stolas meant to request aid from the sky. When your brother stepped forward to defend the Archduke, Lord Elwin acted as any father should, he moved to defend his son, losing the moment he needed to draw his blade.” He turns away as he imparts the last of the tale. “There was nothing the Phoenix could do to save him when he fell.”

Meaning that his father was dead before he hit the ground, that the blow had been so decisive that not even the Phoenix, the master of life and death could save him.

The laugh starts up again, distant to his ears, drowned out by the deafening roar of his own heartbeat, but it builds, dominating the space between them until it’s all Clive can hear.

“That’s it,” giggles the man even as his face contorts with fear and his arms pull vainly at his bonds, “now it’s the same, the exact look the little bird wore as his father’s head fell from his body, so much red staining the little chick until it all caught fire, until all of it caught fire and burned!”

Clive rips his blade from the grip of the bridge as he phoenix shifts, uncaring of the flash that signals the official beginning of their duel as it lights up the Inner Sanctum, banishing the waning shadows for a brief moment that Clive cannot see as the flames of the phoenix engulf him.

In a blink he is before Dion. His sword, wreathed in fire locks with the Princes halberd, forcing the tip down, as the flame still cradled in his left palm descends upon the man, ready to seize his throat and silence the disturbed laughter with a single flare of aether.

This plan must be abandoned as his Highness rips his weapon free, at the cost of tearing orichalcum. It sounds like the scream of sheering crystal, as the heated metal of his sword wrenches the decorative beak free from its mooring, leaving the back of the spear head a mess of melted metal that may create a weakness in the form of an unbalanced weapon.

It matters little to Clive as he follows through with the flame lit grab, using the momentum of his twisting evasion to dance back within striking range.

Flames claw against the man’s face, leaving a deep burn which craters the soldier’s flesh, but before Clive can inflict more damage, the strobe of an orb summoned by the Prince has him retreating again, directly into the line of Dion’s next attack, an arching swing that sweeps his blade and douses the flames that shroud the steel, as light propels a strike strong enough to knock Clive back and another flash from the twin floating spheres guarding the Prince, unleash a small barrage of light on the back of Prince’s Dion’s initial magic strike.

From there the duel devolves into a dance of light, flame, feathers, and steel as Clive desperately tries to make his way past Prince Dion’s unbreakable guard. His only respite, the brief moments their weapons interlock as Dion continues to try to talk him down, to have him regain himself.

“You cannot think this is what your brother and father would want…to allow yourself to fall into her hands.”

Clive breaks away with another shift of flames, only to have to raise a shield of feathers as a swirling vortex of comet like trails surround him, entrapping him in a cage of starlit spirit lights that send a constant shock of magic surging through his frame.

When one feathered shield does not prove strong enough to dispel the attacks, Clive resorts to a scarlet cyclone of enfolding wings that cascade down his arms like a flame lit banner, dispersing the cage of light.

A short cry of pain forces him to cut his attack, as he blinks past ember bright feathers to see the beat of scaled wings pulling his Highness free of the stream of the inferno that is conjured in the wake of Clive’s aether cast wings. He had not realised Dion was so close, did not think he would be so quick to reengage, but he is not one to let the opportunity slip by. Shedding his borrowed wings, as even lost to the wrath that would have him rip the man who murdered his father limb from limb, he has no wish to truly hurt Prince Dion, but frustration is quickly clouding his judgement. Blending with his rage to create an intoxicating mix of fury that knows no restraint.

Levelling his blade at Prince Dion he demands, “Why are you fighting so hard to defend him?”

The brief flick of the Prince’s gaze up towards where the Emperor must stand is answer enough.

Regardless, his Highness answers, “his Radiance has commanded me to drive you to your limit, to do everything within my power to defend this traitorous filth in the hopes that you will lose control and unleash your Eikon. A direct order that my vows and my loyalty compel me to fulfil.”

“He’s going to be sorely disappointed,” Clive snarls as he disengages and shifts towards the prisoner again, emerging from a flash of flame with his sword raised high.

The sudden static of aether in the air catching in the back of Clive’s throat has him instinctively dodging to the left, barely avoiding the spear of light that descends from the sky, a herald for the hail of flares that rain down upon the bridge forcing Clive to continually dodge.

One mistimed sidestep is all it takes; his knee gives out beneath him as a radiant lance glances against his side with enough strength for something to crack. White hot pain overtakes his senses, leaving him with nowhere left to run and no choice but to endure as the attack continues.

The sweep of air that washes over him banishes the assault as Dion lands beside him. With clenched teeth and blurring vision Clive stands, breathing heavily, even as his left side protests the movement. He doesn’t grip the wound, as drawing attention to it will merely project his weakness.

The image of Prince Dion Semi-Primed, eyes aglow with aether, white gold and azure blue veins of magic flowing along his skin, and draconian wings spread wide enough to hide them both from the audience above, is an intimidating sight.

Prince of Dragoons.

It is a well-earned title, one that Clive knows his Highness would have won even if Bahamut had seen fit to pass him over for another.

“Have you regained yourself?” the prince asks in the double layered voice of his Eikon speaking with him, as he brings the tip of his halberd level with Clive’s eyes, a threat even across the expanse that separates them.

Strangely, Clive finds that he has, at least to some degree.

Enough to recognise that he will not be able to reach the disgraced soldier, so long as Prince Dion continues to defend him.

Determined, and unwilling to face the consequences of being accused of not fighting to his full potential, Clive crouches as he takes a stance that is at once still unfamiliar to him yet so natural.

Breathing deep, he banishes the uncertainty that plagues his mind as he waits for Prince Dion to make the first move.

As Clive hoped, the flash of aether blazes as Dion unleashes what must be a move meant to end the duel.

Bracing his feet, he swings down just as the magic begins to light along his skin.

The two attacks collide and the world around them fades to monochrome as an instance drags out into eternity.

The unexpected parry fuelled by undiluted flames honed as thin as the edge of a blade breaks Prince Dion’s own stance, forcing his wings back as an updraft built on the back of the collapsing void left by their spell’s rips across them both.

Absorbing the aether from the dispelled light Clive goes on to form more blades with each sweep of his sword. They arc across the distance, leaving heat waves that bend the light and set the very air on fire with sparking trails of firefly embers.

Stunned, Prince Dion collapses to one knee, smoke curling off his armour as the decorative filigree on his pauldron glows with an intensity that breaks the Prince’s calm mien. Raising a wing, he uses the clawed edges to rip the melting armour free, sending shards of distorted adamantite and orichalcum skittering across the bridge like discarded and broken scales.

“I will not be denied the right to avenge my father,” Clive hisses as he finds the strength to walk, an effort in itself as his chest burns with pain, every breath slow torture as he feels the rough edge of bone sliding against itself.

The soldier balks as Clive comes to stand before him, the tip of his blade poised against the centre of the man’s chest.

Intuitively flames catch along his steel, responding more to his emotions than any conscious thought, and the man begins to cry out as the heat catches on the thin shirt he has been given to cover himself.

“Spare me,” the haunted plea makes Clive hesitate, not out of some misplaced sense of pity or noble thought that it’s immoral to kill a man when he has no means to fight back, but out of pure shock.

That this man would dare beg for a mercy he has no right to. A mercy he hadn’t granted his father in the form of simply letting him draw his sword.

Clive stabs forward, his form perfect, his grip steady.

Only to stumble as a scaled wing knocks him off his feet.

Prince Dion has recomposed himself in the time Clive had stood there, frozen in disbelief.

“Why!” he shouts as his highness sheathes his wings, allowing the aether veins that set his skin aglow with dazzling light to also retreat.

“You must cease this now, Clive. The Phoenix’s blessing is spent, you have nothing left.” Dion urges, even as he brings his halberd to rest against Clive’s throat. “It’s over.”

The part of Clive that knows Prince Dion speaks the truth crumbles under the weight and pain that assaults him from all sides, he knows he has nothing left, that if he tries to stand all he will do is collapse.

Still, he has no choice but to try.

His legs tremble beneath him, his sword shakes in his grip even as the dying coals of the flame he forces to burn in his chest flare to life with his undying will.

Only for it all to stop on a choked breath and an arc of crimson.

Clive stands there as red pools across pure white steelsilk, unbelieving, too caught off guard to act.

All until Dion starts to fall.

“Dion!” He manages to catch the older teen and press his hand to the wound in his back just before the weight of the Prince’s lax body takes them both to the ground.

Sat on his knees with his Highness gasping for breath Clive can finally see what wounded him. Silver turned near blue in the light of the crystal, the warped remnants of the bladed beak that Clive himself had ripped from the Prince’s halberd glints up at him with a malicious gleam.

Unhinged laughter pulls Clive’s gaze to the bloodstained soldier that still has the remnants of the ropes that had been used to bind him trailing from his wrists.

The furious howl of men and the clank of armour overtake the bridge as the Dragoons descend, like dragons pouncing on a would-be thief that has wondered too close to their treasured hoard, they fall upon the man.

Clive has no attention to spare for the scene, focused as he is on stopping the bleeding. He knows from experience that he shouldn’t remove the broken blade; he needs to apply pressure and so he pushes down.

A strangled cry from Dion makes Clive want to let go, but he can’t, he knows he can’t, he has to stop as much of the bleeding as possible until someone can get here with a potion, a branded pre-disposed to healing magic, or a physicker.

“My Prince!” As if summoned by the desperate thought one of the Dragoon’s land’s close by. He looks young, about the same age as Dion, and dressed in the lighter armour of a fresh dragoon who has only recently won his knighthood.

He reaches out, as though he aims to take Dion, but Clive holds out a hand to stop him before he can. “Do you have a potion? A hi-potion would be better, but a potion will do.”

The dragoon blinks for a moment, not quite able to understand the request as he looks between Clive and Dion before the question seemingly clicks and he pulls an elixir from the satchel at his belt.

“Perfect, help me turn him.” Trying to keep one hand steady on the wound, Clive braces his other against the centre of Dion’s chest.

It starts as a tingle at the tips of his fingers, easily ignored as he helps to push Dion on his side, but then the feeling takes a darker edge, like the static of levin just before a storm breaks.

The light that gathers at the centre of Dion’s chest makes Clive think he’s trying to heal himself, right up until the moment the radiant light begins to spread along his own arm, entwining around the limb in ribbons of ethereal blue and gold until they find his very heart, the space within him where the Phoenix flames burn ever brightly.

The agony that follows unmakes him.

Chapter Text

Receiving the Blessing of the Phoenix had felt like a missing piece of himself was finally being slotted into place, like a hunger that he hadn’t even realised he’d lived with all his life was finally being sated.

The magic had settled within his breast with none of the pain he had been prepared for, warned, and lectured about by historian and Lord alike.

The tomes, scrolls, and memoires of previous First Shields he had been given to read had all described it as a trial, an act of walking into the Phoenix’s flames of their own free will and kneeling there as the flames burned through them, judged them, until it found them worthy…if it found them worthy.

Only twice in Rosaria’s long history had the knight chosen to ascend to the position of First Shield been rejected by the Phoenix, and both times the blessing had turned curse. Reduced the men to little more than ash as the fire of the Phoenix had found them wanting.

He suspects this is the reason his mother had not shown any resistance when Joshua had selected him as his Shield. The Phoenix had already rejected him once before, of course it would reject him a second time. Clive had been more than willing to burn if it meant proving those whispers wrong,

This pain that he is feeling now, the slow fire that burns within his heart, the breathless desperation that has him grasping at his chest as though to try and reach in and grab the source of this torture and quell it with his own hand. This is what he was meant to feel when Joshua had gifted him the blessing.

If he weren’t already on his knees, he would have fallen to them, his legs no longer able to support him as he begins to tremble with the strain that is the agony of trying to breathe through the overwrought aether he’s drowning in.

When he does manage to gasp for air, he is immediately left breathless again by the scream that is torn from him.

He’s going to break, shatter like a glass vessel cast against stone, even as he curls in on himself, trying to hold himself together.

As colour bleeds from the world, the ringing in his ear’s crackles with the distortion of waning consciousness, to the point where it almost sounds like a whisper.

T̶͔̼̮́̍̕h̴̬͈̍̍͝ë̶̗̤̣́͌̈́r̶̦̱̅͐͋e̷̡̅̑͛ ̷̛̇́ͅy̴̧̖̓̊o̵̢͐̽͝u̶̼̞̲͋ ̴̳͉̳̈́̕͝ā̴͎̄̚ṛ̶̅e̶̻̐̇͜.̵̞̟̗̎͌͐

The coolness of the ceramic floor against his cheek is soothing, but rousing in the way that the cold shock of Lord Commander Murdock’s chilled pails of water are…were.

Shaking off that thought, and the lingering pain Clive starts to push himself up, trying to regain his bearing while he does so, only to falter as his gaze catches on the glow of light magic cradled in his palm. “W-what’s happening?”

“Lord Rosfield,” the concerned voice draws his attention to the knight tending to Dion. He looks a sight, as bloodless and pale as the prince who lays with his head cushioned in his lap, the bright crimson of the blood staining the white and silver of his armour almost black in the light of the crystal.

“Dion!” His own worry banishes the magic from his grasp as he stumbles forward. “How is he?”

The knight hesitates, balanced on a precipice of indecision that would have cost him and his Prince their lives were Clive the enemy, but he isn’t.

A fact that seems to be evident enough to make the Dragoon relax to the point that Clive feels he can approach without the potential threat of a lance being levelled at his heart.

Though pale Dion no longer appears to be in pain, he rests easy, at peace and completely unguarded. Dead to the world in a manner that Clive never really thought could apply to the ever-respectable Prince, who even in the midst of battle, or covered head to toe in mud, still possessed a dignity that made him seem untouchable.

That veneer has been stripped away and for the first time Dion actually looks like the older but slightly baby-faced teen he is.

“Did, the elixir work?” Clive questions as he tries to get a look at the wound.

The knight nods even as he unclenches his fist to reveal the twisted shard of halberd that the murderer had used to stab Dion. “His armour spared him the worst of it, but at such close range and in such a vital spot…” the Dragoon trails off, the implication obvious.

Most people think bleeding out is a slow death, one that gives a person time to save themselves so long as they have the means to do so.

Soldiers know different.

Slit the right artery or stab a vital deep enough and your opponent will bleed out in seconds. Most likely dead before they even realise you sheathed your blade in their flesh.

“Even with Bahamut’s strength he’ll need time to recover,” the Dragoon adds as he rests his gently curled fingers against his Highnesses brow, checking his temperature.

Dion turns into the warmth, his eyes fluttering, but failing to fully open.

“Terence?” he asks blearily, the name barely whispered strong enough to be heard.

Terence flinches back as if scolded, probably not having meant to disturb his Highnesses rest, the flush of embarrassment rides high on his cheeks as his gaze flicks to Clive, as if hoping he hadn’t seen the little exchange.

Clive shrugs even as he reaches out for Dion himself.

“Do not touch him!” the bellow echoes across the bridge, stilling even the continued struggles of the recaptured murderer, restrained by the squad of Dragoon’s that had descended upon him the moment their Prince had fallen.

Clive stands as the Emperor himself stalks towards him, eyes filled with rage as they flick between Dion and Clive.

“What have you done?” the question rings sharply across the vaulted expanse of the Inner Sanctum and is compounded by the harsh crack of steel on ceramic as the Emperor brings down his sceptre, like Ramuh bringing down lightning.

Caught off guard by the sudden threat of violence the Emperor’s near unrestrained wrath promises, Clive cannot help but to fall back on old habits. All too used to similar if infrequent outbursts from his mother he instinctively recognises that he must do everything to appear meek and contrite.

Going one step further than the Emperor’s initial demand, Clive stands and moves away from the Prince, bowing his head when he does. As soon as he retreats a physicker is bade forward from the shadows of the crowd to fill the space that Clive has left beside his Highness, but Clive has no focus to spare for them as the Emperor comes to loom before him.

The cold metal of the silver tip of the Emperor’s sceptre is brought to rest beneath Clive’s chin, forcing his head up and giving him no choice but to face the Emperor’s enraged glare. In his periphery he can see his mother circling, waiting.

“I ask again, Lord Rosfield, what have you done to my son?” the low growl the pervades the Emperor’s tone somehow sounds off to Clive, as if it isn’t harmonizing with the anger Clive was expecting to face.

He’s not given time to contemplate that thought as the dull tip of the cane is tapped against his jaw, forcing him to raise his head at an awkward angle, that highlights the strain of his already exhausted body. “The Phoenix’s blessing does not grant you the ability to wield light aspected magic, merely fire, for light is the dominion of great Greagor’s champion alone, so how is it that we have all just born witness to you conjuring light.”

He doesn’t know, but that is not an answer the Emperor will accept, a point made clear when the press of the sceptre against his throat forces him to take a step back.

Before Clive can come up with an answer that will at least calm the man, the Emperor lays out his next command, “summon it again.”

Surrounded on all sides by enemies, those that would happily slit his throat if the Emperor were merely to suggest the idea would please him, what choice does Clive have.

He turns inward, half expecting, half hoping, to discover nothing.

The light that he finds there instead shock’s him, leaves him blinking in disbelief as it coalesces easily within his waiting palm the moment he calls upon its power.

Looking deeper within himself, he feels the magic eagerly reaching out to him even as it coils within the flames of the Phoenix’s Blessing, like a young dragon stretching across a comfortable bed of embers and firelit feathers.

He doesn’t have a second to admire it, not when he has to fight to keep a grasp on it when Sylvestre seizes his wrist, clutching the limb so tight that Clive can feel his circulation starting to cut off.

The Emperor seems transfixed by the magic Clive holds in his hand, held at once by disbelief and awe. “This is not possible.”

The Inner Sanctum echoes on the hollow silence that follows in the wake of those words, the void of noise so quiet that Clive can clearly hear the near inaudible ring of aether shifting within the Mother Crystal.

“A Blessing from Bahamut,” his mother finally chooses to intercede, placing a hand over the Emperor’s own, “a fragment of Greagor’s power gifted in a moment of adversity in an act to spare her champion.”

“A Blessing,” snarls one of the Cardinal’s, an outlier that stands near the back of the crowd, all but exiled from his brethren, until the gathered nobles begin to part as he makes his way forward.

The High Cardinal moves swiftly, intercepting the man. Harsh whispers are exchanged, but his quiet entreaties for peace are thrown off as the Cardinal steps around him, batting away his Eminences restraining hand with a look of disgust.

“Bahamut’s power has been stolen, our Crowned Prince near mortally wounded,” the Cardinal accuses, clearly seeking to ignite the Emperor’s fury once more.

“Mortally wounded by a traitor that has already proven his disloyalty, and now goes so far as to stab the man who stood between him and justice,” his mother rebuffs as she runs her hand lightly down the sceptre, softly encouraging the Emperor to lower it, “An action that would surely have resulted in Prince Dion’s death had in not been for my son’s swift response.”

“Your son did nothing but pounce upon an opportune moment.” The dismissive wave the Cardinal delivers is insulting, the way he flicks his wrist as if he is swatting away a fly, as though his mother’s words are nought but air.

Clive realises he is looking at a walking dead man, he’ seen them before, so he should have recognised the signs sooner, but it’s all but confirmed by the calculative staccato tap of his mother’s nails against the burnished metal of the Emperor’s cane.

“An opportunity you created by organising this entire farce,” the Cardinal continues, confident enough to add, “It is a stain upon Greagor’s honour that you are even allowed to stand on these grounds.”

His mother, ever the diplomat when it suits her needs, instantly shifts gears in the face of the Cardinal’s insult, but not before her calm mien in the face of such denunciations convinces the Emperor to take a step back. Finally allowing Clive to release the magic that seems to have left the Emperor lost in his own world.

The calming smile that had graced his mother’s lips falls into a slight frown as she allows confusion to flash across her eyes. “I’m sorry, my Lord, are you trying to imply something?”

The Cardinal stands taller, an unsubtle attempt to project he has the moral high ground. “I would not speak it madame, for this ground is sacred and need not be tarnished more than it already has.”

His mother is undaunted. “I fear you must, Sir, otherwise I will not know what charge I stand accused of.”

Showing no regard for his life or any sense of self preservation, the Cardinal points to where Prince Dion is being helped to his feet. “An attempt on the life of his Highness.”

“You speak as though you saw me wield the blade myself and not as if we all witnessed the Prince fall to the maddened blade of a traitor, a man who was as likely to have attacked my son as he was Prince Dion, had the chance presented itself,” his mother scoffs in incredulity.

“As the person who arranged this, does the responsibility for his actions not lie with you.” reasons the Cardinal.

His mother closes the distance between herself and the gathered crowd of nobles, circling them with a languid pace that must make them feel so much like antelope caught by the gaze of a predator.

When she speaks, her voice is quiet, contemplative, “Tell me, Lord?”

The question is an offense, one that is easily recognised, judging by the way the Cardinal’s eyes narrow, even as he smiles and introduces himself, “Lord Dimitri of Merétoile, your Grace.”

“Ah, of course, how could I forget.” his mother pauses as if trying to recall some detail, “Merétoile, it is a city famous for its ships, is it not?”

Cardinal Dimitri appears bored by what he must think is an attempt to change the subject or at the very least a ploy to buy more time, but he indulges her, “It is, we provide the Empire with her best war galleons, swift enough to defend our shores from even the Iron Kingdom’s Crusaders.”

His mother nods, her features still fixed in a contemplative stare. “Correct me if I am wrong, naval history is not my forte.” A lie, anyone who has sat at a dining table with Uncle Byron for more than ten minutes will come away from it with half the realms most famous naval battles still ringing in their ears. “But wasn’t the Phaethon constructed there?”

The Cardinal’s face darkens, something haunted overtaking his eyes as the name of the infamous ship rings through the air.

His mother goes on, feigning ignorance to the Cardinal’s reaction, “A terrible tragedy, all those lives lost due to a simple mistake.”

“F-forgive me your Grace,” Cardinal Devinoit addresses Clive’s mother with only the slightest of stutters, he looks unsure even as he steps forward, focusing the attention of the crowd on him. Despite this, he still finds the courage to ask, “but what exactly is the point of this subject change?”

“The point is quite simple,” his mother explains, her voice soft and calming even as the light within her eyes sharpens with delight, “can the people who built the ship be held accountable for the disaster? Did they have any control over the captains ill-advised decision to try and face the might of the Einherjar alone?”

Cardinal Dimitri bristles before the veiled slight, but quickly regains himself as he tries to redirect the conversation once more, “I hardly believe that the two events are comparable, the fate of the Phaethon could never have been predicted, the Einherjar fell upon the fleet she was a part of without warning, some argue that it was her brave sacrifice that enabled so many of our ships to return unscathed.”

“Others that it was the captain’s rash act of immediately engaging the Einherjar in neutral waters during a time of peace that reignited the war between Waloed and Sanbreque.” The counter is scathing enough to undermine any rebuff Cardinal Dimitri might have had prepared, allowing Clive’s mother to continue unhindered, “by your earlier logic, does the fault of the war that cost the Empire so many resources not lie with the house that commissioned the Phaethon?” She allows her words time to sink in deep enough before she twists them, “the house Auclair, your house, the one that benefitted the most from renewed conflict between Sanbreque and Waloed, for as you said, your city is famous for providing the Empire with its war galleons.”

Her web of words has been so tightly woven, intricately entwined along such a seemingly meandering path, that the sudden net that snaps closed around her victim is wholly unexpected and all the more inescapable for it.

Cardinal Dimitri looks to those assembled around him, only to find that he stands completely alone, even the High Cardinal now refuses to meet his gaze, as when the man looks to him, his Eminence does him the discourtesy of simply turning away.

The other Lord’s soon follow the High Cardinal’s example, refusing to meet the man’s eyes even as he searches the sea of faces imploringly, all but one turns away from him, but Clive can’t even be sure of that as the man who still faces Cardinal Dimitri hides beneath the shadows of his hood.

The sharp edge of familiar pain that stabs his temples is blinding but brief, even so, by the time he manages to shake it off, the hooded man is gone.

Cold dread rises at the back of his throat to the toll of the aether ringing in his ears as he scours the crowd, only for the pain to fade, slowly, as it has all the other times it has struck him.

No one notices his brief inattention, for all of the nobles’ eyes have shifted to Prince Dion, who now stands with the aid of two Dragoons, pale and exhausted, but awake.

 “Dion,” The sight of his son awake rouses the Emperor from the stupor that had seized him. Beckoning the Prince forward, His Radiance waits impatiently as the Dragoons bare Prince Dion forward and with some difficulty help him to bow before the Emperor.

When his Radiance commands him to, “rise,” all three men do, but the strain it puts on his Highness is made clear by the high-pitched groan he valiantly tries to suppress.

Sylvestre turns his gaze upon the physicker who lurks in the Prince’s shadow. “Report,” the order has the man bowing with a professional if not elegant air.

“The Prince’s wound is sealed, there is no further risk of harm due to loss of blood, but this was due to the elixir and not the usual means by which his Highness should have healed.”

“Meaning?” the Emperor questions with an edge that makes it clear he in not willing to entertain an ineloquent answer.

“The healing factor granted to his Highness by Bahamut is not currently in effect due to a lack of aether, a common condition for Dominant’s of the King of Dragon’s, well documented, but one that normally only presents itself after a full Prime, when the natural aether within the Dominant has been used in full to summon their Eikon.” Seeing the way the Emperor’s expression darkens, the physicker hastens to add, “given enough time, his Highness will make a full recovery, I am sure.”

More is said, the Emperor demands answers the Physicker struggles to provide, but Clive can barely hear it now over the ringing in his ears.

One thought rises up above the ringing that begins to roll like the roar of a tide, causing a still bearable discomfort to settle behind his eyes, ‘I am running out of time.’

As subtly as he can, he positions himself so he can look discreetly over his shoulder. The murderer sits restrained against the ornate gates that guard the Heart of the Mother Crystal, four Dragoons positioned on either side with the two closest pining him down with their lances crossed over the back of his neck.

He’s actually surprised they didn’t execute him themselves, but glad, as the urge to kill the man still burns like molten steel within his chest.

Something flickers at the edge of his vision and unexpectedly the dull ache flares to a searing agony which he has to grit his teeth against. It’s mercifully short, but still strong enough to rip a gasp of pain from his lips.

When he can again bear to open his eyes, the dance of flames and the flutter of dark robes immediately has all of his attention.

“You!” It is only as he reaches for his sword that Clive realises it is not sheathed at his back, but rather abandoned behind him where he had let it fall in order to catch Dion.

The hooded man, the Second Dominant of Fire, reaches out a hand to him, allowing the flames that shroud his shoulders to extinguish as he summons a small pyre in the palm.

“S̷͔̆̌h̶̙̔̾̓͘o̸̧͓̫̯͔̔w̴̻͉̖̱̹̒̋̕ ̶̠͓̼̓̍̀̄͂͊u̸̗̜͒̈̌͒̽̎s̶̻͚͖̈̃ͅ ̶̧̩̖͍̅́̅͌y̴̳̰͎̿͂͗ǒ̷͈͈̫̭̗̜ǘ̶̻̭͈̎͊ŕ̴͕̫͕̝̬͜ ̷̢̰̽́͗́͠ş̸̫̭͇̹̓͊̿t̶̗̯͓͉͇͊͠ŕ̸̞̩̼͆e̶̬̗̩̹̗̩̿̌̀̌n̵̠̬̻͒̅̈́͑g̷̛̜̱͙̋̑͐̚͝t̷̫̜͈͘h̵̤̳́̆̀͑̚ͅ.̷̻̣͉̹̫̓̑͊͆̕”

The voice speaks directly into his mind, wiping out all coherent thought in the wake of the words that leave his soul cracking at the edges.

His voice is lost to the howl of unending agony that he cannot stop tearing from his throat, a cry soon taken up by others.

They sound distant at first but become piercingly clear in their forced harmony. His own fade into breathless gasps as the world comes back into focus and he finds himself kneeling there, with no memory of falling, both hands cradling his head as though he had been desperately trying to hold himself together.

When he finally looks up the hooded man is gone, only darkness remains.

Darkness that looms before the gates of the Inner Sanctum where the murderer struggles in vain against the metal chains that bind him there, until, with a last blood curdling scream, the shadowed aether takes him.

The Dragoons who had bound him are nowhere to be found, but Clive cannot bring himself to wonder what fate befell them, not when clawed hands begin to open the dark portal wider.

Skin the colour of a drowned corpse rejected by the bogs of Three Reeds, the eldritch horror pulls itself from the darkness with bone tipped claws mounted on too long arms, it’s face hidden by ragged strands of hair, but the reptilian stare still pins Clive where he kneels.

The next attack comes stronger than all the others, paralysing Clive, just like the night at Pheonix Gate. It feels like he is burning alive, aether eating him from within even as the cold hand of the beast emerging from the portal wraps its grasp around him, lifting him with the ease of a child picking up a broken toy.

The tightness of the grip means he can’t even breathe, let alone move and even if he could what chance would he stand.

He’s going to die, it’s the only coherent thought that manages to bubble to the surface of his waning consciousness, and the last thing he is going to see is the dead eyed stare of the monster before him.

No, he can’t allow that…who would protect Rosaria…who would avenge his father and Joshua…who else could fulfil Jill’s selfless wish for him to return safely?

With the last of the air that has yet to be squeezed from his lungs he declares, “You’re just a monster…”

The fingers constrict, robbing him of air but not of will.

“…and I will not…”

Every word is a struggle, and the darkness at the edge of his vision is closing in, but he reaches deep. Past the spent embers of the Phoenix’s Blessing and the infant light of whatever power he has taken from Bahamut, deeper, until something reaches back.

“…LET YOU STAND IN MY WAY!”

The world stills between one heartbeat and the next, frozen on the precipice of knowing.

“Ǎ̸̭̓̽w̵̯̘̫̍͆̄́a̶͇̠̠͊͂̈́͠k̴͉̀̓e̶͕̣̠̝͗̎͘̕ǹ̴͍͙͍̲̕…”

Embers catch to flame as he breathes life into them.

“Ǎ̸̭̓̽w̵̯̘̫̍͆̄́a̶͇̠̠͊͂̈́͠k̴͉̀̓e̶͕̣̠̝͗̎͘̕ǹ̴͍͙͍̲̕… Ċ̸̻͔͙̂̄h̴̥͌i̸̧͉͍̮̽͗l̴̦͘͘͜͝d̷̤̞͕͈̅̕ ̵̬̰͋͜ô̷̝̔ͅf̵̙́͊ ̶̝̖̟͂F̵̙̙̈́a̸͓͒̀͒t̷͎͙͆e̵̢̤͔͐͠ͅ…”

Flesh gives way to obsidian.

“Ǎ̸̭̓̽w̵̯̘̫̍͆̄́a̶͇̠̠͊͂̈́͠k̴͉̀̓e̶͕̣̠̝͗̎͘̕ǹ̴͍͙͍̲̕…Ȉ̵͍̃̊̓f̶̤̭̭̆̑͊r̶͔̥̜̋i̷̮͇̔ṱ̷̛́̎͝…”

His last gasp of breath is edged with smoke, and then the world burns.

Chapter Text

Dion is doing his best to remain calm and composed in the face of something so distinctly soul crushing and wrong, that one false move could see his will shattered beyond repair.

He ignores it for now, seals the problem in a small box in the corner of his mind, locked away to be dealt with later, when he’s safe.

He knows he’s not safe now, not without his armour of scales and his shielding light, but revealing that, or any sort of weakness, here is tantamount to announcing to all those that would wish to see him fall from the lofty heights that his status as the Dominant of Bahamut has granted him, and by extension, his father, that the opportunity they never thought would come has finally arrived.

And so, he locks his weakness away, and asks Terence and another Dragoon, Ser Jacob, to help him rise, all the while ignoring the concern that Terence tries so valiantly to conceal.

Exhausted as he is the act of standing, let alone kneeling before his Emperor, even with the aid of Terence and Ser Jean, is one that nearly breaks him.

When his father bids him to rise his vision swims as every muscle cries out against his command to follow his father’s simple order. Terence and Ser Jacob all but have to fully support his weight, and even then, he cannot hold back the groan of pain that sounds far too much like a whimper to his own ears.

He silently thanks the Goddess that his father chooses to question the physicker on his condition, as he doubts he shall be able to present the level of decorum that addressing the Emperor requires in this setting.

Were they alone, he is sure that his father would have dismissed the need for courtesy, but within the Inner Sanctum there is no possibility of privacy, and so the heavy restraints of strict court etiquette must remain.

As the physicker outlines his condition he can feel all the eyes of the nobles fall heavily upon his back, adding an invisible weight to his shoulders that he has to fight to bear, a feeling so foreign when compared to the usual ease with which he endures the burden of their expectations.

Noticing the tension that must suffuse his person, Terence shifts beside him, subtly stepping closer and gently tightening his grip around Dion’s waist in a silent show of support. In return Dion rubs a soothing circle over the surface of his armoured hand, though he hardly thinks Terence shall be able to register the gesture through the metal plating on the back of his gauntlet.

His father’s gaze shifts to him as the physicker assures him that he shall recover, it will only take time.

The disappointment he sees darkening his father’s eyes is only tempered by the concern that dulls its edge, a concern that wins out as the Emperor continues his questions. “Is there nothing to be done in order to bring speed to his recovery?”

“I would not think…” the physicker begins, only to stop when the mere shade of a frown begins to appear on his father’s face.

The physicker hesitates but quickly comes up with a suggestion that had been previously evading him, “I mean, that is to say I would not dare to suggest a treatment out of hand, but some records would suggest that having a Bearer transfer aether to his Highness may accelerate the natural process.”

Dion’s stomach rolls in rebellion against the idea, he has read the records the physicker is referring to, knows that the curse will claim any Bearer that is ordered to tend to him, it’s why he has so adamantly refused the aid of a Bearer on the few occasions he has been injured.

His father nods, considering the idea and Dion’s rejection is on the tip of his tongue when the Emperor shakes his head. “No Bearer is allowed to set foot on these grounds, is there not a more immediate solution?”

Having anticipated the Emperor’s demand this time the physicker is already prepared with an answer, “If his Highness were to simply meditate before the Mother Crystal’s heart, the ambient aether will replenish his own soon enough.”

The groan that Dion has to repress this time is fuelled not by pain, but by the memory of so many hours lost to the task of useless meditation before the Heart of Drake’s Head.

Were the choice his own, he would much prefer to simply retreat to his rooms and his bed therein, and simply wait until he recovered naturally; if recovery is even an option to begin with.

The lid of the box at the back of his mind opens slightly and the errant thought of ‘he’s gone’ dominates his mind in the brief moment it takes him to slam the lid down.

He cannot think about it.

His ears are ringing when he regains his composure, clear and piercing like the toll of the bells that crown the cathedral of Greagor, yet so much louder and seemingly unending,

A sharp gasp sounds above the poor physicker’s continued attempts to calm his father, and Dion follows the noise to see Clive standing behind the Duchess Anabella, all but forgotten, a fact that young Lord Rosfield seems to have used to his advantage, as, without anyone noticing, he has quietly managed to position himself so that he has a clear view of the traitor who murdered Archduke Elwin.

At this distance and with the element of surprise not even the Dragoons standing guard above the kneeling soldier will have a chance to defend him.

Good.

It had sickened Dion to the very core, having to protect a man with neither honour nor a sense of duty, a Captain who had left his own men behind to perish in the flames he had kindled with an act of thoughtless violence born from ambition and greed.

He’s so prepared for the sudden spark of flames that it takes him longer than it should to realise that the cloak of fire that ignites behind Clive is not his own.

“You!” the growl contains a hate which dwarfs the anger that Dion had heard in Clive’s voice when they had been fighting.

The robed man that stands before Clive only smiles.

Clive instinctively reaches for a blade that isn’t there, his intent clear, as the flames enveloping the hooded man’s shoulders wane, only to burn brighter in the palm of his outstretched hand which he seems to hold out in offering to the Marquess.

He says something to Clive that Dion cannot hear, not over the ring in his ears that abruptly sharpens to the point of pain, causing him to flinch.

It is a moment of distraction he should not have allowed.

When he turns back it is to a sight of horror.

Many in the crowd around him cry out, Lords and Ladies of the court overcome by fear, but they are nothing compared to the blood curdling screams of the Dragoon’s being taken by the darkness that has pooled at their feet.

Dion cannot look away, not as the men who have sworn loyalty to him sink into the shadows, their struggles as ineffectual as their dying screams as they disappear into the oblivion of the void that has ensnared them.

Dion tries to take a step forward, tries to summon the power of Bahamut.

‘He’s gone.’

“No, he isn’t,” he growls beneath his breath as he draws on the power of the King of Dragons.

Light gathers, bright but fleeting as the aether he feeds it runs dry before he can do anything more than cast a pale glow across the bridge.

Unwilling to surrender, even as the nerves along his arm burn from the strain of forced magic and what might be the first tendrils of the curse blooming across his skin, he takes a staggering step forward, drawing on what little reserve he has left in the hopes of doing something, anything for his men.

“My Prince!” Terence begs as Dion feels light trail along his back, just for him to lose his grip on it and have it dissolve into insubstantial whisps as momentary as the brief flash of a distant falling star.

His knees buckle and only Terence‘s free arm rising to catch him around the middle stops him from collapsing.

By the time he regains himself, can force himself to stand, it is all too late.

His men are gone, taken by the shadows that sought and succeeded in consuming them, shadows that now coalesce and feed into the dark void that ripples into being as a near perfect circle, a portal.

The nobles wisely begin to flee as large hands tipped with spindly growths of bone that look like petrified wood styled into the shape of claws, paw at the edges of the opening, widening it enough to allow a creature with a thin face, sunken eyes, and unkempt hair to slowly begin to pull itself free.

“What in the name of Greagor’s light,” prays Ser Jacob, as the monster tilts its head in simple curiosity.

Its gaze seems searching as it casts it over the remaining crowd still gathered upon the bridge, but it passes over them all with disinterest, that is until its stare falls upon Clive.

As soon as it sees him it abandons its attempt to free itself from the dark gate, choosing instead to reach out for the boy.

The slow stretch with which it extends its arm and long fingers is stilted, it should be all too easy for Clive to avoid its grasp, but it soon becomes clear that he is in no condition to do so.

The harrowing scream that leaves Clive is more bone chilling than the dying howls of Dion’s Dragoons simply because it is not something Dion would ever wish to hear from someone so young.

Bent and broken with pain, Lord Rosfield can only clutch his head in a vain attempt to stem the flow of agony.

The screaming only ends when the monster seizes Clive, forcefully silencing his cries with a tight grip that leaves him gasping and struggling for breath.

“Clive!” the call comes from far behind them, echoing across the chamber with ease. “Guards, guards!” the Duchess Anabella calls uselessly from where Dion’s own father holds her back. He had not noticed their retreat, but he is glad for it, the Emperor’s safety is of paramount concern, and with his withdrawal Dion is free to focus on the creature that now holds Clive captive.

Commendably. Lord Rosfield still struggles but Dion can do nothing to help him as the creature draws him in, not when Bahamut still refuses to answer his call.

‘He’s gone.’

“Your Highness, we must retreat,” urges Ser Jacob as he already begins to pull back. Dion has no choice but to go with him as he would surely collapse without the knight’s support, but even still he protests.

“We cannot abandon the Marquess.” Unlike his men there was still a chance to save Clive.

He feels Terence stiffen at his side at his words, and when Dion turns, all he sees is a determined resolve in the deep brown of his warm eyes.

“Take his Highness,” Terence commands as he gently unwinds Dion’s arm from around his shoulders. “I will—”

Whatever he is about to say is lost to a moment of monotone grey and the return of the sharp ring in Dion’s ears.

The scene revolves around Clive and the monster that holds him bound, bled of all colour and life until the first embers of fire begin to rise, catching on the air and igniting wherever they fall.

The burst of power is like the sun rising, an orb of fire that strips away the dark grip of the creature that restrains Clive and everything else around them, ripping stone, shattering marble, leaving him suspended in the circling flames, as he burns.

The heat of it is so intense, even as the fire retreats, ribbons of flame wrapping around Clive until they converge upon his chest and sink into his heart, only to catch on the power held within the boy as the second wave, stronger than the first, heralds a pillar of hell fire.

Ser Jacob cannot hold out alone against the shockwave, and neither can the bridge they stand on.

Dion can do nothing against it as he is blown back, a mercy in hindsight, for as he blinks away the dust and smoke the scale of the devastation wrought by the flames becomes clear.

The bridge where Clive stood is gone, leaving a cavernous gap bordered by melting stone that blackens at the edges as it slowly cools. The rest is lost to the smoke that rises in great billowing gouts from the breach, obscuring everything on the other side from sight.

A muffled grunt draws Dion’s gaze from the devastation before him to find Terence tossed against the railing of the bridge, a hand raised to his head in a clear sign of disorientation.

‘Too close,’ some unknown instinct cries out in his mind.

Dion struggles to his knees and soon enough Ser Jacob is there to help, but as Dion takes a step towards Terence the knight pulls him back, clearly aiming to guide him to safety.

A safety that Dion does not want as again the instinct screams, ‘too close.’

The confirmation of that thought comes in the form of the burnt hand that sweeps away the smoke. The creature looks dazedly at its smouldering fingers for a moment, as if wondering at the fact that Clive is no longer held within its grasp.

It does not distract the creature for long.

As it straightens to its full height it reveals a legless body which hovers above the fissure, arms outstretched like a priest preaching to his flock, its black and toothless maw opened wide to unleash a rumbling bellow as darkened energy tinged with light gathers at the crown of its head, Dion cannot move his eye from where Terence valiantly tries to get out of range.

‘Too close.’

“Terence!”

Red fills his vision as heat flares from beneath.

The fire that explodes against the creature’s chest completely disrupts its attack and knocks it back, sending it crashing through the warped gates of twisted steel and destroying the ornate marble arch as its last support is swept out from under it.

A growl proceeds a war cry that sounds like the perfect harmony of death and flame as fire cracked ashes float amidst the remnants of swirling smoke, heralding the rise of what can only be the Second Eikon of Fire.

Burning from within, the Eikon’s black armour and flaming horns are pure obsidian burnt crystal, polished enough to reflect the Mother Crystal’s light, and cast shades of blue that intermingle and dance with the deep crimson and orange flame that blazes beneath. He almost resembles a behemoth, in so much in the way that Bahamut can be said to resemble a dragon.

Pulling himself free of the void beneath the bridge. the Second Eikon of Fire stands tall before the creature, lashing his serpentine tail in anticipation of the kill, as Dion himself is wont to do when cloaked in the full might and form of Bahamut.

The monster moves to pull itself up, long limbs bracing against the fallen gates of the Inner Sanctum, crushing stone dragons within its palm.

The Second Eikon of Fire does not allow it.

Sheathing his infernal claws within the chest of the abomination, that has profaned this site with the blood of Dion’s men, before it can rise, the Eikon rips into the creature, clawing at it with an unrestrained savagery that speaks of instinctual rage.

The attack only stalls when the monster literally vanishes from beneath the Eikon’s onslaught, dispersing in a cloud of aether blackened stardust, immaterial and transient until the monster reforms. Perfectly placed to unleash its own attack, were it not for the tail that swipes the descending arm lit with darkness away.

The strike is so devastating that Dion can hear the crack of snapping bone bent beyond its limit and the harsh sear of burning flesh even from this distance. Its unsurprising to see the creatures arm twisted at a strange angle, though this seems to affect it little, especially when the monster simply gathers aether to itself, banishing the wound as it straightens it arm with a series of brittle clicks.

The Eikon of Fire does not sit idle while his enemy heals.

Fire gathers in his palms, dancing there for but a brief moment before it is cast against the creature, forcing it to retreat. The deluge of flame that follows sends the monster spinning and darting about the Inner Sanctum in an attempt to flee and buy enough space to prepare its own magic.

Dion finally sees his chance to get to Terence when the Eikon of Fire leaps free of the bridge in pursuit, and he takes it.

Pushing off Ser Jacob with what little energy he has managed to regain, he steadies himself against the bridge’s balustrade, ignoring the knight’s pleas to withdraw as he navigates the unstable terrain of the bridge walk, one eye trained on where Terence slowly makes his way to safety, the other set firmly on the beast and Eikon that now fight above.

Dion cannot stop the wince that crosses his face at the high-pitched shriek of claws being dragged along crystal, as the Eikon of Fire tries to find purchase on the sheer wall of Drakes Head when he is forced to disengage with the creature by two crescents of eclipsing energy conjured by the creature’s disjointed swings.

He finds none, but the crack of crumbling crystal beneath his talons slows him enough that when his feet meet the devastated remnants of the bridge leading to the Heart of the Mother Crystal the supports do not give way.

The Second Eikon of Fire unleashes a low growl that Dion can feel rumbling in his own chest and the air stills on the edge of power as the floating corpse howls at the Eikon in return, a strong war cry which summons a dark force, leaving Dion clutching at the rail in front of him for dear life as the ground beneath Terence is flooded with amethyst lightning, a shadowed storm in the form of a perfect disc of imminent destruction, at the centre of which stands the Seconds Eikon of Fire.

Immediately, the Eikon leaps, leaving a trail of flames in his wake as he clears the area, just when dark amethyst gives way to a blinding shockwave of blue magic that robs the bridge of the last of its stability.

Dion’s eyes lock with Terence’s stunned gaze and hold it for the gossamer thin strand of time it takes for the stone beneath his feet to give way under the cataclysm the monster has unleashed.

“No!” Dion doesn’t think, he doesn’t hear the cry of panic from his father and the Dragoons that yet remain as he leaps, reaching for the power that should be there, praying for it to reach back as he falls.

The tether he thought broken snaps taught and what was once a drought becomes a flood as untamed aether rushes in to fill the void.

The relief that fills him as bright scales and iridescent light come at his command is shattered against the maddening rush of unstemmed power.

‘This is wrong.’ The panicked thought has him shaking his head in fear even as he wraps a gentle arm around Terence’s waist and spreads his wings, pulling up from his sharp dive and saving them both from a bitter end laid out upon the crystal stalagmites that litter the chambers floor.

‘This is wrong.’

He banks hard, aiming to escape only for Bahamut to buck beneath his restraint, the King of Dragons straining against Dion’s command as aether continues to flood his system, drawing more veins of gold and azure across his skin as his eyes burn with the power of the Eikon that seeks to wrest control of the vessel they share.

He pushes back, ignoring the wild roar that rises at the back of his mind and the starburst of light held within his chest as he flies between the shadows of the battle above, alighting briefly on the carved balcony of the walkway in order to release Terence.

The knight stumbles as he touches down, but Dion has no time to spare him, not when he feels the last chain of his will unwinding thread by thread as Bahamut beats his wings against the cage of his flesh.

“My Prince!”

“Dion!”

He falls, leaving behind Terence, leaving behind his father even as they call for him to return.

Bahamut will not follow orders, will not be contained, so Dion steps back, even as he refuses to let go.

The King of Dragon’s rushes into this world, heralded by radiant starlight and rage.

Chapter Text

The haze that assaults Dion as he is thrown into the depths of his own consciousness is daunting and confusing, but recognisable, even though he hasn’t been overwhelmed by Bahamut like this since before he had been freed from the fetters that had kept his Eikon suppressed, and he had been a child then.

Barely aware of what his heritage truly meant and the duty he would be called upon to fulfil, completely helpless before the power of his Eikon who had been brought forth by his rage.

His unfamiliarity with it makes it all the harder to push back against, and everything he tries only seems to make it worse.

It’s all he can do to cry out in his own mind, even as his determined entreaties fall upon deaf ears, his voice lost to the void of his own consciousness, shackled and suppressed, a mere spectator trapped in his own flesh.

Distantly, he feels it as Bahamut wraps his savage teeth around his chosen prey, dagger like fangs digging into warm flesh and seamlessly slicing through sinew as he shakes his mighty head, aiming to kill the quarry caught between his jaws with the visceral tear of flesh from bone.

A near listless grapple is the creature’s last desperate attempt to break free, but it is brought to a swift end when something breaks beneath the pressure of Bahamut’s teeth.

Behind the ardent joy that the King of Dragons projects, as aether in the place of blood spills across his tongue, Dion can only feel relief at the fact that Bahamut had mercy enough to heed his silent plea and not ensnare the Second Eikon of Fire.

Unsheathing his fangs when the monster goes limp, his Eikon tosses the being aside, a hiss of disgust seething across his tongue as the taste of the aether staining his lips turns bitter with a rot that lingers.

Dion seizes upon the moment of lost focus to try and regain some semblance of control, only to find himself thrown back by the torrent of rage that floods the link tying him to Bahamut. His efforts, though useless, do seem to have some effect, distraction enough that the King of Dragons is forced to retreat.

With one beat of his mighty wings, Bahamut falls back, unwilling to engage when he has to fight against Dion. It leads them both to a purgatory of fractured impression; cool water brushing against his scales as his tail slices through the cascading waterfall that fills the ravine of scattered and broken crystal below, aether filling his wings like Greagor’s breath as he weaves through the jagged remnants of the great pillars that had supported the bridge, and the dark tang of corrupt magic he can smell on every inhale as the creature begins to recover.

Not quickly enough, not when the Second Eikon of Fire crashes down into the rift in a plume of steam, the water beneath his feet instantly turned to vapour by his mere presence.

Fear, or the approximation of it that the being may be able to feel, flashes across the abominations face and the Second Eikon of Fire descends upon him, his arms bathed in flame as he pounces and rips into its heart, burning it from within.

The dying howls of the monster as the flames slowly take it, burning it to nothing, culminates in a near deafening high-pitched ring that leaves Dion grappling with his own senses.

"̶̨͓̮͇̦͐̌̀̿̕͠A̵̬͗̋̄ ̴̱̋͒͜ṕ̶̡̥̻͂̎̿̉͝ŗ̶͖̮͓̪̯̬̾́̕͝͝o̸̼̝͌̀̄͝m̶̟̼̏͆̈̄į̸̬͔͉̮̯̠̂́̋̍͆̽͝s̸̱̥̋͂͊̈́i̶̟̰̖̐ń̵̢̗͍͚̻̖̂ǵ̵̭̹͙̺̃̀̀̕͝͝ ̴̫̼̾́̂̎̕͜b̶̢̨̭͚̖͛̂̈͌̇e̴̦̲̠͔͊͆͜g̶̞̅̆͆̿͗i̷̲̫̫̞̭̝͊̈͛͝n̸͖͙̙̪̹̒̉̋͗̓́͐ņ̸̪̱̖͓̂͐̋̕i̷͔͉̰͖̜̾̊̓̔n̷͙̳̿̽͗g̴̺̠̗̍̓̃̕͝.̶̯̭̹̠̲̬̃͐̕͝͝"̸̛͎͙̥͕͍̖́̋̇̂̈́

"̸̱̳͓̓̈́̊̕͜B̴̨͚͉̩̾̽̔u̵̻͉͍͚̽̚ͅt̶̥͍͙̄̈́̓̿̈́̃͘ ̵̥̪̺̗̀̐̈́̋t̸̙̺̱̄̄͒h̴̨̘͔̹̠̫̳̋͆͝ȅ̷̗̥ŗ̷͚͓͇͍̻̘̋̈́͒e̸̯̅͛ ̸͇͌͆̒͑͌̚ĩ̸̩̙̬̲̻̮ś̷͓̤̪͚͇̳̟ ̸̪̗̱̳͛̀̾̅͒̐͜ͅm̸̛̲͎̳̞̊͂ō̶̧̢͈͉̘͔̆́̄͂̕r̷̢̞̥͎͗̕̕ȅ̸͊͑̓̆̌̐ͅ ̸͕͔͈̲̰͍̔̂͜t̵̡̹̖̮̟̳͉̂̃h̴͕̻̗̪̎̐̚͜ȧ̸̡͕̺̐͌t̴̥̼̘̖̠̯̩̽̈̎͌̂̋̓ ̶̛̩͚̪̱̖̼̈́́́̒ẅ̴͈͈̜͠e̶͎̿͑̌́ ̵̢̧̼͔͚̀̾w̵̠͈̮̫͇͒̄̾͐o̴̺̠͍͋̾u̸̪͉̯̔̆͛́ͅļ̸̙̱͙͚̻̄̈d̶̮̩̩̣͚̽̈ ̷̜͕͉̠̹̝̥̋́̇̊̀̈͝s̶̱̑̅͌̀̅̑͠e̸͎̮͍̙͆́̽e̵̪̬͖͔̙̣͌͌̒͆̉̕͜͠ ̵͓͉̯̳͂́͊̾͗a̴̯̭͇͚͂̇̓̈́n̷̨̞͓̋̑̄̕d̷͙̯͌́̆̅̆́ ̴͈̻̱̗̒B̶̳̎a̶̧̘̺̮̪͆̅̈h̴̛̪̜͇̟͓̾̅̕͝ä̸̼́̈́̐̈̍͝m̷̢̧̙͓͑̑͂ų̴̬̲̿̑͒͛̋͜ť̶̡̥̱͉̭̪̊̑͐'̴̧͚̤̲̪͉̬̓͐̀̀̀̔s̵̝̰̖͎͙̀͋̔̽͘͜͜͝ ̶͙̟̦͈͉͂͒̑̅́ṱ̵̤͓̟̠͖̹̐̀̏͛͑͋̅r̵̛͇͐͌̔͂̉͘a̷͖͓͈̬̯̙̼͊n̶̜͖̣͍̞̯͖̊́̈́̒̾̂͝s̷̬̭͕̞̫͊g̵̡̗͓͎̀̔̂ṟ̷̨̛̘̦̘̟̗́͆̀̒͠e̴̲͙̜̱̝̼͙̊̃́s̷͇̖̩͋̀s̶̫̦͖̙͚̝̀̚i̸̘̻̱̤͑̋̎͘o̸̹͊́͗ń̸̝̗̻͕̓̔̑͝ ̸̞͈̱̈́̅̆̈́̌m̵̟͇͚͊́͊̔͆̔̚ä̷̯́̾̈̊y̴̙̗͚͉͂͜ ̴̰̻̩̒n̵̡̛̼̻͚̅̎͂̽̅̚o̵͎̍ţ̷̡̠̺̔̃̈̀̇͌͝ ̴͎͉̺̜͕̩̍̄̿ͅp̴͇̦͌̑͝ả̷̧͚̰̳͕͜ŝ̸̡̡̛͎̀̿̓̊s̷̟̓͝ ̶̡̯͉̹͓͍̱́̿̈́͗̈u̸̞̙͎̽̊͒͘͠ṇ̴̬̼̠́͑̀̉̈́̐c̸̩͙̔̆͗̇͜h̸̭̭̗̻̟̿͐̇̔͒͊͝a̴̟͎̲͚͗̓͛̒̃͠l̵̨̛̬̯̟̼̝̊̈́̔̀̚͠l̶̼̻̙͖̖̞̦͋̈́̎̔̎̋̚è̸̬̽ń̴͚̣͕́̏̌͘͝ͅg̸̨͇̞̮̠͓̏̒̈́̿͒ͅȅ̷̜̬͎͑̆d̸͕̙̝́͂.̶̻̦̪͉̈́͋̂͐͆"̷̢̫̦͚̫̄

It fades as quickly as it rises, leaving behind an echo of the piercing tone, so faint that Dion has a hard time telling whether it is real or simply imagined.

He has no time to dwell on it, as a sudden flash of blinding light arises from the Heart, creating shadows where none have dared to dwell before, pools of umbra tinged with the blue spark of an aether flood tearing through reality itself.

The creature floats free, fully formed, whole once more, and with no trace of the deep lacerations which had split its torso from shoulder to sternum, or of the ashen crater that was burnt into its chest.

Instead, it emerges untouched, Its grey flesh knit together perfectly, leaving no scars, and the black circular symbols that litter the being’s skin like tattoos unbroken.

The shock that seizes Dion as he realises the monster is still alive is enough to make him lose his tentative grip on Bahamut’s reins, his hard-won progress fails him as he is flung back into the void, all thought and feeling swept beneath the tide of Eikon of Light’s consciousness.

A spectator once more, Dion can only watch as the creature is joined by a small legion of exact copies, one abomination after another ascending from the abyss to join their kindred.

The Second Eikon of Fire appears unbothered by the fact that he is suddenly severely outnumbered, and neither is Bahamut.

The power that gathers at the base of the Great Wyrm’s throat is a scorching liquid light that Dion has wielded before to break full charges of the Royal Knights, but it does not avail Bahamut against the beings that float eerily before him.

Nor do the flames that the Second Eikon of Fire summons against the creature that hurls itself at him.

Simultaneously, in the scattering of penumbral shadows that transition into pure light, the two beings vanish, leaving only ethereal whisps that converge with unwavering purpose upon what must have been the first of them to have breached the veil of this world.

The others all follow this example, imploding into sparks of power and giving themselves to the first until the nova of energy bursts, whiting out the chamber and forcing even Dion, still trapped as he is, to shield his eyes before it.

When it fades, the monster remains, changed and morphed; its ragged black hair and tattoos dyed gold with filigree the likes of which Dion has seen on the most esteemed of the marble statues denoting Greagor and her saints.

The similarities to the iconography of the goddess do not end there; a fragmented halo spreads from behind its shoulders, a mockery of the divine symbol of the saints it appears to be trying to emulate.

From there Dion’s gaze catches on the extra set of arms that spring from the creature’s back, a shadow of the forelimbs whose actions they mirror in delayed synchronicity. The only thing that has not changed is the creatures lack of legs, instead twisted roots, like those of a blighted tree, hang from beneath the material wrapped around the monster’s waist.

Dion does not get the chance observe more, not when the being warps, blinking out of existence for the briefest moment, only to manifest once more behind the Second Eikon of Fire, the perfect position to unleash its first attack.

The lance of light which projects from the creatures outstretched fingers, catches the Eikon of Fire in the back, sending him stumbling forward into the pooling water beneath his clawed feet.

Steam obscures the fight from there as the creature reaches out for the Eikon with all four limbs, but the sounds of battle ring clear against the precious stones that surround them; the scratch of claws raking against flesh, and the hollow toll of strikes against crystal paints a picture of close combat and heavy blows. A soundtrack supported by the incandescent exchange of magic that even the heavy mist of vapour cannot hide.

Only for it to all come to an abrupt end on the flash of voidal light as the creature shifts again, reappearing atop the hollow arch where the bridge once stood, far from the Eikon of Fires grasp.

The snarl of displeasure that churns within the Eikon’s chest resonates with the hiss of intense steam that still rises up around him.

Bahamut ignores it, more focused on the prey which is now within range. Throwing back his head he unleashes a field of quintessence, filling the air with luminary spheres that overwhelm the space, and slowly home in on Bahamut’s chosen target.

In response the monster summons chaos in the form of several rings of sapphire light, an anchor for the comet fall of spectral aether that rises again as elysian columns of light, tall enough to reach even Bahamut where he looms amidst the spires of crystalline stalactites.

The clip of voidal pressure has Dion gripping at his arms as phantom pain lances along his limbs in empathy to the holes that has just been torn through Bahamut’s wing, causing the Eikon of Light to dip momentarily as fresh skin and scale cover the wounds, all injuries that shall not last, even as the agony lingers.

The orbs of quintessence that survive the being’s attack continue on their path, enough left to surround the creature from above while the threat of the Second Eikon of Fire scales the Mother Crystal from below.

Trapped, the monster has no time to conjure the aether it needs to slip between the panes of reality, and so it gathers its arms to itself in a stalwart guard.

The explosions as the spheres connect, breaks the shield of the creature’s limbs, opening a gap that the Eikon of Fire does not allow to pass.

Seizing one of the being’s unfolded arms, the Eikon coils around it, tail and claws leaving fire in his wake as he uses the beast as little more than a foothold.

Leaping free of the monster while it still hangs stunned, the Second Eikon of Fire summons an inferno tinged with the umbra of the abyss, a flame shrouded dark star in the form of a Firaga spell.

The shockwaves as the magic connects shakes the Inner Sanctum, forcing Bahamut to flit between the cacophony of dislodged rock and crystal.

When Bahamut can again look back, it is to the sight of the creature dropping from the air, smoke and flame clinging to its body.

The halo adorning the being’s back is unable to withstand the intense heat of the blaze that overtakes it, and the monster cannot stop itself from thrashing in pain as molten gold spills across its flesh.

‘Not enough,’ it is no longer a vague impression of rage from before that streams across his and Bahamut’s bond, but a wanton cry of all consuming destruction that has Dion clutching at the very fabric of his own soul as he feels the words form upon his spectral lips.

Dion had clung to the hope that the fight would quell Bahamut’s wrath, but instead of calming his Eikon, the freedom and violence he could not fight against, has unveiled a long held dormant savagery that will not bow to Dion’s will.

As shown when Bahamut spreads his wings.

Light gathers beneath the shelter of his scales, coalescing until the power can no longer be contained.

Even if Dion had sense enough remaining to him to want to stop it, he couldn’t.

The megaflare rains down like so many fallen stars, levelling the field of battle, uncaring of the target.

Helpless before the onslaught, the creature breaks beneath the merciless volley of light tipped arrows descending from the vector of heaven. A fate that the Second Eikon of Fire does not share as a leap fuelled by wildfire throws him free of the blast.

When the smoke and crystal dust clears, swept away with but a single beat of Bahamut’s wings, nothing remains.

The silence that reigns across the Inner Sanctum is so complete that Dion can hear the ripple of water collecting once more within the depths of the ravine below.

So quiet he can hear the sharp crack of displaced air as the monster appears at Bahamut’s back, hands already dipped in the eclipsing energy the being wields.

The numbing static that bites into Dion’s spine has him falling to his hands and knees within the abyss of his mind just as the pain has Bahamut folding his wings, allowing himself to plummet as he twists his body away from the creature that inflicted it.

In retribution a breath of light bursts from his maw, but the beast merely shields itself again, taking the brunt of the attack against its caging arms. Just as the Eikon of Light hoped.

Sharp talons wrap around the creature, locking its limbs in place as Bahamut drags it down, allowing the natural pull of gravity to snatch them both and beckon them towards the jagged gorge below.

Unfurling his wings at the last possible moment, the King of Dragon’s twists, and permits gravity to snatch the being from his grasp, leaving it to be broken against the shrapnel at the base of the ravine.

Banking hard, Bahamut turns, clearly intent on finishing the beast this time.

The play of crimson and orange flames across the glass like surface of the Mother Crystal inexorably draws Bahamut’s eyes towards the Second Eikon of Fire, where he stands perched atop the overhanging peak of crystal that forms the sanctuary of the Heart.

The dance of autumnal flames comes from an orb of fire held aloft between the Second Eikon of Fire’s crown of horns. Ever expanding, as the natural aether of the Mother Crystal feeds the growing sun, bringing forth damnation as the Eikon allows it to fall.

Pinned and impaled by the long shards of crystal that pierce its chest, unable to escape, the creature tries desperately to catch the red star as it descends.

With all four limbs braced against the globe of hell fire, the being succeeds, halting its end as it arrests the flaming sphere, but not without cost.

The creature’s skin chars and flakes, its fingers becoming as brittle as the remains of burnt wood, they begin to crumble beneath the endless heat of the burning star it holds.

Immune to his own flames, the Second Eikon of Fire leaps down and punches forward.

The last of the being’s waning resistance fades and the Inner Sanctum becomes a river of flames, Phlegethon made real.

Seeking to withstand this apocalypse, Bahamut summons his shield of scales and his barrier of light.

Ensconced within the cradle of Bahamut’s wings and the sphere of light that forms like moulded glass around him, Dion remains safe even as the waves of heat flow past him, even as the world around him burns.

Through it all, he watches as the creature fades to ash, not a single particle allowed to escape this time as the flames feed ravenously upon its corpse.

Relief is a balm to Dion’s ravaged soul. The creature is dead, surely this will be enough to quell the wrath of both Eikon’s.

That hope dies amongst the ashes that catch upon the slowly receding waves of fire, as from amidst the river of flames the Second Eikon of Fire roars in challenge, his thirst for war unquenched.

Bahamut accepts, his own battle cry shaking what yet remains of the the vaulted ceiling of the Sanctum, even as Dion struggles desperately again to regain command of his Eikon, but all control seems lost before the unstoppable tide of Bahamut’s unquelled rage.

The rush of maddening rage nearly blinds Dion to the rake of firelit claws against the ethereal yet enduring surface of Bahamut’s barrier, but as the flames die, the figure of the Second Eikon of Fire comes into full focus.

Through the eyes of Eikon of Light, submerged beneath a veil of crystalline aether within his own mind, Dion sees the beast that was the Phoenix’s end, that may well be his own.

Fear, cold and drowning, the likes of which he hasn’t felt since the first time he had walked across the ashes of a battlefield and seen what had been lost, consumes him.

For most it would bring blind panic, for Dion it offers clarity.

All this time he has been fighting an impossible battle against the raging emotion of his Eikon, when he should have been trying to attune to it.

As soon as he realises this, the alignment that has been missing between him and Bahamut since he unleashed the King of Dragons snaps back into place as they both cry out.

“Enough!”

The dual tone of his voice reverberates across the devastated expanse of molten rock and cracked crystal as his shield shatters upon that thought.

The Second Eikon of Fire falters when the barrier he fought to break gives without warning, allowing Bahamut to snatch the feral Eikon from the air amidst the waning shards of light.

Sharp talons pierce thick armour, anchoring the Eikon in their grip even as he claws against Bahamut’s hold.

With one twist of his serpentine form, he slams the Second Eikons of Fire down upon the interwoven shards of the Mother Crystal’s peak and Bahamut dives, pinning the Eikon of Fire against the sharpened crystals as he holds him there, one talon primed against his throat while the other two curl around his jaw, disabling the fire he holds clenched behind his teeth.

“Do not make me do this,” he begs the boy trapped beneath the flames, knowing already how this must end.

The Eikon of Fire’s answer is a blaze that overtakes his body and a heat that has both Dion and Bahamut crying out in pain.

Needing time, needing space, Bahamut stomps down against the unyielding crystal with the other Eikon still held firmly within his grasp. The Second Eikon of Fire has no choice but to let go.

With one great beat of his wings, Bahamut spins far beyond the Eikon’s reach as the nova held within his chest glows with a light he knows shall bring this all to an end.

Even still, he calls out, praying that his words shall be heard, “Clive, you can control it! You must!”

The roar that echoes out across the expanse between them in defiance declares that he cannot, and Dion merely needs to take in the sight of pure destruction around him to know what must be done.

“Forgive me.” Resolved, Dion unleashes the charged power of his Gigaflare.

Exhausted and trapped between the Mother Crystal and Bahamut’s attack there is no chance for the Second Eikon of Fire to escape, and when the light overwhelms him and the crystal beneath him gives way, all the Eikon can do is fall.

Cautious, having heard the reports of how Phoenix had been felled by the Second Eikon of Fire in part due to his cunning. A ploy of feigning defeat in order to lure the Phoenix in close enough to attack, he approaches slowly.

When the smoke and aether finally clear, he sees that the Heart of the Mother Crystal has been laid bare, the protective cloister of crystal collapsed upon itself, and there, lying amongst the shards, curled before the Heart of Drake’s Head, rests Clive.

With no one left to fight, Bahamut finally surrenders to Dion’s will, and as he shrinks back into his human form, he holds onto the dregs of power that Bahamut has left in order to maintain a Semi-Prime, but even his wings cannot prevent him from falling to his knees as his feet touch the ground.

Bracing his hands upon the marble floor, he takes a moment to simply breathe, to settle back into his own skin.

When he has the strength to look up, his heart stills at the sight of the robed man kneeling beside Clive, his hand poised as if reaching out to touch the boy.

"̸̨̺̭͍͙̈̃̾̄́̀̌Ą̵̙̞̜͗̊͊̕ ̵̛̘́̔͌w̸̛̻̪̽̇̕õ̷̥̖̒̿̚r̴̢̨̭̪̠̫̤̎͒͂͝t̵͙͋̊̏̎̓͛̎ḩ̴̜̱̘͍̜̹̄͂̈͋y̸̢̋͐ ̶̧̨͈̻̑̂̚͝v̸̨̭̘̻̞̝̩͋̐̆̉́e̷͈̋͐̾̇̌͒s̵̘̖̯̈s̵̨̧̘͇̞̾̒̊͐͗̚e̵͖̍̚͝l̶̗̙̗̝͓̾̈́͜ͅ.̶̤̐"̵̖̫̮̤̖͎̺͌̔̈̑̏͛

"̴̊̀̾͜͜B̵͉̩̦̗̼̲͍͛̒̓̈́͂̅̊ứ̴͍͈̒̅̀͜t̵̺̣̐ ̴̨̛͖̫͍̺ţ̴͆ḣ̸̟̼̽̒͑͋͜e̵̺͂͐̅̕ ̴̮̯̮͛t̴̛̘̍͌̊́͆͝ị̴̥͋̃̓͠͠m̶͓̟̝̭̅͋̍̑͛͜ḛ̸͓͉̞͉̪̟͆͌̕ ̸̙̈̑ͅȉ̷̦̫̝͇s̶̪̻͈̒̿́͋̀̕ ̶͎̜͖̹̘̍̾̓̕͜n̴̘̞͓̩̠̑̐͠ͅö̶̡̡̼̫́͑̅ͅt̷̰͙͎̤̊̆͂̋͐͆ͅ ̴̺̗̘̠͑̍̉͑y̵̘̦̯̻͎͖͎̿͂̀e̸̹̠̬͖̤̔́̈̋̎͜͠t̵̞́̉̆̈́̃̑̈́ ̵̰́̑û̷̧̙̓̑p̷̤̹̜̖͖̔͆͘ó̸̻ṇ̴̨̖͎͊̇͗̒̂̄ ̵͓̜͋͗̓̓ű̶̧͕̗͖̻͑̾͝ŝ̴̮̅͊͗͋̿͝.̸̛̟͇̗̮͑̽̔̕̚"̸̨̛̦̓͌̇͒͂̂ͅ

As if sensing Dion’s gaze, the hooded man turns, smiles, and then fades, his image waning as the light from the Heart dims, gone between one breath and the next, as though he was nothing more than a mirage cast by the light refracted through the graveyard of crystal shards.

Raising a hand to his head as the sharp whistle sweeps across his thoughts once more, he blinks, only to wonder what he was doing just a moment ago.

It takes a long time for Dion to gather himself, to force himself to stand and approach Clive where he lies. In a daze he takes in the sight of the boy lying there, soot stained and bloody, but undamaged, at least on the surface.

The haze covering his thoughts lifts as he turns his attention to the one truth that has been proven beyond doubt.

Duchess Anabella spoke true; her son is the Second Eikon of Fire.

“I’m so sorry Clive,” he whispers as he crouches in order to shift the unconscious teen into his arms so he might carry him to safety. “Truly.”

Clive must hear him, on some level at least, for as Dion takes to the air, a single tear escapes the boy’s closed eyes.

Chapter Text

He is dreaming.

He must be, because all the things he knows he should care about seem so far away, suppressed behind a veil that leaves him feeling numb to his own emotions. He can still sense them, but barely, even though he knows they swirl like a firestorm far beneath the surface.

Then there’s the other feelings, the ones that don’t belong to him, that buffet and assault him from all sides.

They can’t be his, but even as he knows this, he can’t stop himself from experiencing them.

He should feel angry about that, but he doesn’t, because, like everything else he should feel, his own anger is pulled from him, stripped away and hidden beneath the veil with all the other emotions that are his.

If the choice were left to him, he would turn away from the dream, embrace the indifference of the veil and just allow the dream to play out around him until its end.

Instead, he sits trapped, watching as unknown figures in unfamiliar settings go about their business.

It’s as though he isn’t even there, a ghost amidst real people, a colourless phantom that warrants no attention, not an unfamiliar role.

Again. All he can think is how much he doesn’t care.

Until he does.

The shift of light catching upon blonde hair makes the haze retreat as he struggles to follow the small figure that weaves between the skirts of the ladies that overwhelmingly occupy the space, only for his heart to shatter upon the shout of the wrong name, “Dion.”

Not his brother, not Joshua.

He willingly grasps for the veil, hoping that the scene will darken if he actively pulls it forward, but to his blunted horror he finds that he cannot grasp it, not after having acknowledged the dream.

He can do nothing but watch, the dream flowing directly into his own thoughts, robbing him of even the simple option of closing his eyes against the vision before him.

“Dion, there you are,” calls a woman with blonde hair, far paler than the child who she sweeps up in her arms. Like all the rest she is unfamiliar, but the sapphire dress she is wearing that clearly favours the traditional imperial style, and her aristocratic features makes her stand out even amidst the sea of noblewomen that flock around her like colourful birds.

“Good Morning, mother,” Dion greets with a stiff nod and a seriousness that really doesn’t suit his young age, an observation that his mother must share as she kisses his nose and then his brow until his serious little face morphs into one of embarrassment.

“Now, now,” she chastises lightly, “we’re not at Great Greagor’s Cathedral yet, there’s no need for you to be the perfect little prince the nobles are expecting yet.”

“I’m not trying to be,” Dion denies, as he shifts to hide his face in his mother’s shoulder, only occasionally peeking out at the ladies around them who coo and titter about how cute he is, much to the young Prince’s further mortification.

“Oh, then that will make this boring ceremony we have to go to so much easier for you, I’m jealous,” teases the noble woman, obviously Dion’s mother.

“Do we have to go?” Dion pouts, turning pitiful eyes upon her.

She merely laughs and adjusts the boy on her hip, moving towards the door as she does so. “We must, I am afraid Bahamut’s absence will be noted if we choose to abstain, and what a fool that would make of your father.”

The little version of Dion looks horrified on his father’s behalf. “No, father cannot be allowed to look like a fool, especially not today.”

“Especially not today,” his mother agrees, setting Dion back on his own feet but keeping a tight grip on his hand.

As he watches Dion and his mother board a prepared carriage and set out, Clive can’t help but wonder, why is he seeing this?

It is a dream, but it feels like a memory, just not his.

The answer comes in whisps and waves of emotion and memory that are as impossible to catch as smoke between his hands before they too are swept beneath the veil.

The scene plays on, despite his waning focus, but the sudden roar of the crowd gathered in the streets as the carriage passes captures Clive’s attention and refuses to let go.

“This is all for father?” Dion asks as he gazes out the window from his seat.

Seeing his interest, his mother carefully manoeuvres him into sitting on her lap, placing him precisely so as not to wrinkle her dress. “It is, the people love their new Emperor, and this is but one of the many ways they show their appreciation for his hard work.”

The cheering grows louder when Dion’s mother sticks her hand up to the window and waves serenely at the passing crowd. In response, the people of Oriflamme wave ribbons, flags, and flowers in the direction of the carriage, and Dion’s smile grows impossibly wider at the sight of the reaction.

It isn’t long after that when the carriage pulls to a stop before the steps of Great Greagor’s Cathedral, a monument to Sanbreque’s goddess steeped in all the riches that Oriflamme can provide. White marble inlaid with veins of crystal that project a feint glow, as if the roots of Drake’s Head have woven themselves into the sanctuary, quietly proclaiming it as an extension of itself. Gold statues and reliefs that capture the likeness of Greagor and her saints in minute detail, staring down in judgement from their lofty perches atop the twin gothic towers.

All of it is an oblique show of wealth which while beautiful, only strikes Clive as wasteful.

This is obviously not the impression the sight leaves the younger Dion with.

Clive would expect to see the boy react with awe or at the very least mild interest for the spectacle and pageantry that have been arranged for what Clive now realises is the coronation of Sylvestre Lesage.

Instead, Dion only has eyes for the Dragoon’s lining the steps of the cathedral. The clatter of their armour moving in perfect sync as they salute the Empress and Prince, is loud enough to overtake the chaotic roar of the audience, an impressive feat considering that all of Oriflamme must be gathered outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the new imperial family.

Dion’s mother only has to give him a gentle tug to remind him that they should be walking forward.

As they walk, members of the crowd call out, a wave of well wishes, congratulations, and less frequent but no less ardent, the calls for blessings.

It is one of these that catches the Empress’ attention, causing her to slow her steps.

Seeing the Empress turn towards her, a young woman who had beseeched her falls to her knees as she raises a newborn swaddled in a clean if clearly well used blanket, up for inspection. “If it pleases you your Imperial Highness, a blessing for my girl.”

One of the Dragoon’s moves to urge the woman back, but halts with a simple wave from the Empress. Holding out her own arms she bids the young lady forward, “I can hardly ignore such a simple but heartfelt request.”

Wonder paints the young woman’s face as she eagerly hands off her child to Dion’s mother, who smiles down at the girl with a genuine kindness that warms her moss green eyes.

“What is her name?”

“Delphine, your Highness,” the woman answers.

The Empress nods knowingly at that, “aligned with water, what star was she born under?”

“Leviathan’s Tail, under the light of an eclipsed moon,” there’s a hesitance in the young woman’s voice when she admits that, as though she’s afraid to confess that detail for some reason.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to bother the Empress as she kneels with the babe in her arms beside Dion. “Just like we practised, remember?” she encourages her son.

Dion looks at her with wide eyes, clearly not having expected this development, but he gets over the initial shock fairly quickly. With pride straightening his back and swelling his chest, Dion summons a small light in his palm, that burns with the brightness of a star.

A hush falls over the crowd at the sight of it.

This too is Clive’s first time seeing the minor blessing of an Eikon. Joshua would have been able to grant them, but their mother had never let him mingle with the common people, and the only opportunity his little brother would have had to grant one was when Clive and Jill managed to sneak him out of the castle, and at those times they were too concerned about being reported to interact with the townspeople.

Bringing his hands together, Dion compresses the light, obscuring it from view, until it becomes bright enough to filter through the small gaps between his fingers.

When he again unveiled the light, a small dragon scale forged from teal coloured stardust sat on his palm.

Dion looked up to his mother for approval, and when she gives it, in the form of a proud smile and a hand on his shoulder, he places the scale carefully within the babe’s blanket. The girl stirs a little at the movement, probably reacting to the warmth of the magic placed against her breast, but soon settles with only a little encouragement from the Empress.

When the Empress hands the child back to her mother, the young lady takes her with a reverence befitting an idol of Greagor herself. “Your Imperial Highness, I…I,” she stammers as her eyes fill with grateful tears.

The Empress nods in understanding and continues on her way with Dion up the stairs and into the cathedral, where they are met by the High Cardinal and the rest of the Council of Elders.

“Empress Lucia, Prince Dion,” greets the High Cardinal as soon as he notices their entrance. “We were not expecting you this soon.”

“I am sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you your Eminence, I merely wished to see my husband before the beginning of the ceremony.”

“Ah, no need to apologise, in fact I believe you could not have had better timing.” The High Cardinal glances back towards a door set to the left of the main hall of the cathedral’s expansive entrance hall.

A knowing gleam appears in the Empress’ eyes as she raises a hand to cover the growing smirk that curves the edges of her lips. “How bad?”

“Well, worse than the day of Prince Dion’s christening, but better than the hour before your marriage.” There’s an air of shared mirth held between the High Cardinal and the Empress that allows for this easy exchange.

“I see, so he is quite deep in his cups but has not yet attempted to climb out of a window,” surmises the Empress.

“Father tried to climb out a window on your wedding day. Did someone lock the door?” questions Dion, and he is left helplessly confused as all the adults laugh.

When the High Cardinal regains himself enough to speak, he gives a quick if lacking explanation, “I am afraid I am to blame for the locked door my Prince, I misplaced the key at the most inconvenient of times.”

“Hardly,” dismisses the Empress, sounding quite offended, “If anything your supposed lack of care saved my wedding.”

Dion still looks confused but the Empress sets that aside in favour of her next suggestion. “Let’s go and visit your father, see if we can’t convince him to face this affair while he is still sober enough to actually remember it tomorrow.”

With a nod to the Council of Elders, she guides Dion to the side door.

Sylvestre’s voice can clearly be heard from the other side, as the Dragoon standing guard steps aside to allow them entrance, “-old you, this is not the one I asked for.”

The scene of a harried looking Sylvestre waving away a servant who holds a wine goblet perched precariously atop a tray in offering has the Empress sweeping forward.

Without ceremony she swipes the chalice before it can spill and downs the wine herself.

“Lucia!” cries Sylvestre, “what are you doing?”

“I think that should be quite obvious, husband,” the Empress counters as she sets the empty glass back on the tray and dismisses the servant, “or are you already so inebriated that you cannot recognise your wife saving you from yourself?”

“I am perfectly sober,” snaps the Emperor without heat, “and I’ll be very surprised if you still are after the way you downed that lower class swill.”

“I was wondering about the taste,” the Empress notes with a disgruntled frown, “not your usual preference, nor mine.” She clears her throat, as if trying to dislodge the aftertaste. “Have you drunk the cathedrals reserves dry, forcing your attendants to procure more wine from less established venues?”

“I never ordered them to bring me that,” he sounds particularly offended at the idea that he would, “this day is too important to allow something as ridiculous as willingly making myself drunk before the ceremony to ruin it.”

“You didn’t order them to bring you it?” The Empress questions, the furrow of her brow becoming more pronounced as she coughs, a hand rising to her throat.

“Mother?” Dion questions, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her.

“Thank you.” She runs a reassuring hand over her son’s head. “What do you mean you didn’t ask for it? Who sent it?”

“The servant you just dismissed brought it instead of the tea I asked for,” Sylvestre says with an unimpressed frown as he fiddles with his collar and cape, trying to make the fabric appear smooth, “it’s why I was annoyed when you entered, the man didn’t seem capable of following even the simplest instruction.”

Annoyed that he cannot manage to get his cape to sit properly he removes it with a rough yank, before taking a breath and turning to his wife. “Can you please adjust this for me, I can never get it to sit right no matter what I do.”

The Empress doesn’t answer, and Dion is looking up at her with worried eyes as he grasps the fabric of her skirt, tugging on it lightly in order to get her attention. “Mother?”

Dion’s anxious voice finally gets Sylvestre to look up, only for his own face to pale. “Lucia?”

The Empress’ only answer is a half-choked gasp as she suddenly tumbles forward.

Dion does his best to catch her, but all his tiny frame can do is delay the inevitable as his mother crumples in a dead faint, but that small moment of delay is enough for Sylvestre to clear the small space between them and catch his wife by the shoulders, but even then, the momentum takes all of them to the floor.

“Lucia,” Sylvestre pleads as he takes his wife’s hand, her head cradled against the curve of his shoulder, hazy eyes staring directly into his. “Lucia…Lucia, no…n-no, stay with me, stay focused, j-just look at me…g-guards…GUARDS!”

“Mother?” Dion questions haltingly even as Dragoons flood the room.

She looks at him with that same hazy eyed stare she had met his father’s gaze with. Dion’s name is on her lips as she takes her last breath.

Clive feels something shatter in Dion’s chest, sees the world around them fade even as chaos reigns around him, the Emperor shouting orders, demanding the death of the man that caused this even as he clings to the body of his dead wife.

Something shatters, and starlight rushes in to fill the void, as Dion’s eyes glow with the power of his Eikon.

With a jolt like the touch of lightning across his skin, Clive is finally freed from the scene.

The veil rises up to drag him back towards the depths of his own emotions, his own memories, and the last he sees of the dream of Dion is Bahamut taking flight.

The darkness Clive has been waiting for finally comes, and Clive embraces it.

Chapter Text

It has been two days since the disaster within the Inner Sanctum.

Two days since a demon had clawed its way from the depths of Greagor’s hell to defile one of Sanbreque’s most revered of holy sites.

Two days, since her claim that her son is the Second Eikon of Fire had been proved beyond a doubt as the very foundation of Drake’s Head had shook beneath the clash of the unleashed Eikons.

Two days, and yet Clive still refuses to wake.

Unlike the fevered sleep that had plagued him during their journey from Phoenix Gate to Oriflamme, this one is calm, undisturbed by the fitful bouts of half lucid thrashing that had left the physicker having to summon the guards in order to pin her son down so as to stop him from potentially hurting himself and others.

This difference should set her at ease, allow her to focus on more important things, but the stillness with which Clive lies there is a mirror image to the days that her dear Joshua had been bed bound and struggling to breathe. The soft embers of the Phoenix burning within his breast the only light fighting against the chill darkness of death.

For what must be the hundredth time, she rests her palm flat against Clive’s chest, feeling as it rises and falls and the steady thrum of his heart below her fingers, an incontestable assurance that he is alive.

“Why won’t you wake?” her question is only answered by more silence, and she has to strain not to dig her nails into his soft skin beneath her palm, in an attempt to force him to wake. She resists, if only for the sake of appearances, for her vigil could be interrupted at any moment.

She wonders who will use the pretence of wishing Clive a speedy recovery in order to gain an audience with her next? Several officials have already been by, the High Cardinal being the first, in a blatant attempt to declare his newfound support for her.

She had listened to his veiled apologies, his wishes for Clive’s swift recuperation and in return she had offered him an olive branch in the form of suggesting that his wife, the Lady Ophelia might be able to advise her on who to appoint as her ladies in waiting, as most of the young ladies currently filling the positions were overwhelmed by the responsibility.

Predictably, he had snapped at the offering, promising that he would arrange a meeting with his Lady wife at Anabella’s convenience.

And thus, her enemy had become her ally…for now.

The Keeper of the Observatory, the Chief Lord Diviner had been the next to pay her a visit, he had practically knocked over his Eminence in his haste to make her aware of his presence, though how she could have not noticed it, what with his statuesque physique and loud voice, she does not know.

She had been far less impressed with him than she had with his Eminence but had entertained him until he had said all he had come to, before gently dismissing him with an amiable smile and a promise to come to him for a divining session when she was free.

And so, it had progressed from there. All the highest Lords and Ladies seeking an audience with her one after the other, and letters from those she could not make time for, many of which still lay unopened on the small table beside her chair, her dagger turned letter opener currently lying atop them, waiting again to be used.

Simply remembering the way so many of the courtiers have so blatantly tried to assuage any ill feeling Anabella may still hold towards them due to their cold reception manages to bring an angelic smile to her face. How can it not, when it is but one of many clear signs that the winds of fortune have finally turned in her favour.

Not that her position before was untenable, in fact she would argue that even then she had been more secure in her position than she had ever been in Rosalith.

Sylvestre regard for her is a valuable asset to be sure, as the Emperor his word is law, his will his people’s, and all those that decry it, merely heretics and traitors. But even the Leader of a nation may be toppled if they do not shore up their power, as Elwin so effortlessly demonstrated when he blindly put his trust in Sanbreque, believing that a mere treaty would protect him as he waged war against a threat that forced him to show his back.

At first, when there was still some small hope for her dear husband to have made something of himself, she had counselled him on the covetous nature and subtle ambitions of the Empire, advised that they mitigate the issue by creating closer ties with Sanbreque. An objective that could have easily been achieved merely by adopting the Empire’s more traditional regulations for Bearer’s, which would in turn have increased trade between the two nations.

After all, the Empire’s frontlines were always in need of fresh blood, and Rosaria would have had so many to supply, if only it were not for Elwin’s bleeding heart.

Sanbreque, Dhalmekia, both of them were simply waiting for Rosaria to show weakness, as the only nation between them that did not have access to its own Mothercrystal and with their Dominant still so young. It had only been a matter of time, especially as the Blight marched ever onwards. But her pleas had gone ignored, Elwin’s faith in her having been broken years before.

His last chance had come on the night before he set out for Phoenix Gate, when she had set aside her pride and begged him to leave Joshua with her, laying her heart bare as she tried to voice all of her concerns, only to be silenced after barely pointing out that the boy was ill.

He had denied her; sighted how her boy was the heir, the Phoenix, as if she wasn’t already acutely aware of that fact. All the more reason to keep him by her side, to keep him safe, to let others spill their worthless blood.

Desperate to keep the dialogue open she had followed even as he dismissed her, fallen into her old habit of reaching out to him, when he did not immediately recoil, she had seen her chance to persuade him. For if he only spoke the words, even if it were an unthinking promise amidst the throws of passion, he would never take them back.

The other opportunity this scenario presented only came to her as she forced him back onto their bed and laid him out beneath her. If he did not agree, if he insisted on taking her son from her and placing him in danger, then wouldn’t it be better to secure the next Phoenix now.

Her pulse had quickened at that thought, and the idea of bedding Elwin had suddenly become so much more pleasurable, but in the heat of the moment she had pushed too far.

She saw the second she overstepped reflected in his eyes, the way the warm heat of them instantly cooled as he grabbed her hand and forced her from his lap. Wariness clear in every line of his body even as he turned his back on her.

You would think, for all his distrust in her, that he would have seen the dagger she handed to Sylvestre coming, but then, Elwin never had been one to take her into account.

The realm, the people, even the Bearers, all of their needs had always come before hers. Her council falling on deaf ears as he barrelled forward with half thought out idealistic schemes that could only drain their waning strength, leave them exposed, and eventually invite their own undoing.

She had no choice but to act, he left her with no other option.

For as much as he might have been willing to fail in his duty to secure his bloodline, she is not.

And failed she has not.

Moving her hand away from Clive’s chest, she wraps her fingers around the cold steel of the fetters that enclose his wrists, while the other hand rises to trace assuring touches along the thin chain that hangs about her neck.

She feels the weight of the small key slip along the links, a physical reminder of her control over her son, one he cannot break, for it seals the very power he would need to do so.

The Second Eikon of Fire, she has imagined its might many times, as she saw the distant flames lighting up the night, as she walked through the blackened ruins of Phoenix Gate. She could only picture it as a monster then, the demon that had stolen her beloved Joshua right when she was about to snatch him away from all danger.

A foolish and short-sighted assessment born from grief which she has since managed to set aside. It is unnecessary after all, a mere distraction from the strong, living son that lies in the bed before her.

Her son who obviously holds more secrets than she had first thought.

The Blessing of Bahamut.

An off-hand excuse she had grasped for when she had seen the fury morphing Sylvestre normally calm mien into a snarl at the sight of the radiant light cradled within Clive’s palm.

She hasn’t had much time to consider it since then, and unlike the Phoenix, the history of those blessed by Bahamut is not widely known, if there are any to begin with.

Still, she thinks back, remembering the way the light had flowed between Prince Dion and her son, the way Clive had collapsed, a scream scorching his throat as his back had bowed with pain.

It had seemed so similar to the historical accounts of the ceremony to bestow the Phoenix’s Blessing.

More similar in fact than the actual Blessing Clive had received from the Phoenix.

She can’t stop herself from turning the scene over in her mind, searching for an answer she cannot find, not with the limited knowledge she possesses now.

At least she has an easy means by which to resolve this.

Reaching for the servant bell placed within easy reach on the side table next to the armchair she sits perched upon, she takes the wrought silver handle in hand and rings it decisively. Less than a minute later the door to the room is opened by a mousy looking maid who has her auburn hair pinned back in a practical style, and a dress tailored in the plain design of the lower ranked staff that attend Whitewyrm Lair.

That detail is something that shall have to be corrected, and soon. Anabella cannot have it be said that her son’s quarters are staffed with servants of a lesser status, alas the maid is the only one equipped with the skill to attend her son while he sleeps, having been recommended from the start due to her family’s history as physickers, so for now, she must remain.

“I am leaving my son in your care, I shall return shortly, but in the meantime…”

She trails off waiting for the girl to begin to squirm.

Surprisingly, she does not, the curtsey she delivers is perfect, one that Anabella would expect to see from a trained ladies maid attached to an established noble house. “I will see to his welfare while you are away your Grace, and should he begin to wake I will have someone notify you immediately.”

Competent, a trait that Anabella finds quite refreshing, usually it takes more than a month to break in her staff, if they last that long, Perhaps she will need to reconsider getting rid of this girl…time will tell.

Rising from her chair she adjusts the quilt covering Clive and runs a hand through his sleep tousled hair.

“I will see to that while you are away your Grace,” the maid quietly suggests, most likely picking up on the small frown that had bowed the edges of Anabella’s lips as she had attempted to smooth down her son’s hair.

“See that you do,” Anabella commands in place of praise, and waits for the usual flinch or poorly hidden scowl that always arises from her abrupt tone.

Neither come, instead the maid shifts to hold the door open for Anabella, patiently waiting for her to exit.

Pleased, but still withholding judgement Anabella sweeps from the room, head held high as she makes her way through the castle.

With a confidence that no longer need be feigned, she navigates the halls, her accompaniment of Dragoon guards falling into step behind her as her swift but graceful stride carries her unerringly to the private lift that Sylvestre has given her the freedom to use.

Leaving her guards behind, as her destination is well known for its security within the castle, due largely to how frequently the Emperor may be found wondering amongst its vaunted chambers, she takes a seat on the cushioned bench within the cage of the lift and presses the crystal hung from her belt to the carved hollow.

The trip up is relatively short, at least when compared to the long minutes that it had taken for this same lift to take her and Clive down to the Heart of Drake’s Breath, and so she does not have much time to contemplate the destruction that must still lie beneath her feet, even as her eyes are inexorably drawn to the darkness beneath the rim of the rising cage.

The soft hiss as the lift reaches its destination and a series of sharp clicks as the cage begins to unfold has Anabella blinking as her attention is drawn to the mid-morning sun that softly chases back the shadows that surround her.

The space she walks into is dazzling, but what else could she expect from a room with a stained-glass ceiling. Iridescent light floods the chamber, bathing the pure white marble in the colour of the Eikon depicted above, all of whom are represented, if not as equally here as they are in the constellations the Astrologers claim to study.

Predictably, Bahamut takes centre stage, the largest of the eight glass windows that hang high above, the other seven arrayed in a perfect circle around the stone frame that supports him, he is impossible to miss, but Anabella’s gaze still slides from the great Wyrm to the Firebird represented to the left.

Smaller, but no less detailed, the stained-glass window of the Phoenix casts a near ethereal shadow of red and gold light.

It, like everything else in the Whitewyrm lair, can easily be described as elegant, but Anabella cannot help but find herself disappointed.

Red and gold are the only colours that have been used to construct the Phoenix’s image, completely leaving out the subtle greens and blues that should burn brightly along his wings and tail feathers, looking closer she can see that the feathers that adorn his crest lack the twin plumes that should crown his head.

It is as though the artist commissioned to design this window had not bothered to research any of the hundreds of images of the Phoenix that had been recorded in the Duchy’s long history.

An amateur mistake that no Rosarian craftsman would ever dare to make.

As she stands beneath it, bathing herself it its light, she feels nothing but cold fury.

She will have to have it fixed, torn down and rebuilt with all the splendour the Pheonix is due, hardly an outlandish request, as the ceiling would need to be completely redesigned even if the current image of the Phoenix were acceptable, which it isn’t. After all, the Second Eikon of Fire must be added.

That image causes some of her anger to recede and snuffs the grief that flows like an undercurrent beneath it. Allowing her to stand there for a moment longer.

Long enough for someone to find her.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The voice is quiet, pitched so as not to catch her unaware. She looks at the stranger who spoke and the young man immediately presents her with a genial smile as he falls into a bow. “Your Grace, how may I help you today?”

The obvious Astrologer greets, the pale robes and pointed hood are so recognisable, even when the hood rests around his shoulders.

She inspects him, wondering if he can.

The bright red of his hair is vibrant, eye-catching, and where most noblemen prefer to keep their hair relatively short, a style that has been favoured in Oriflamme’s court for a number of years now, this man instead wears a braid that reaches the mid-point of his back, a fashion choice that will surely make him standout even amongst his fellow astrologers who are known for their eclectic ways.

Still, his appearance and youth both point to a lower rank, an apprentice yet to learn the importance of how one should represent themself.

A non-threat.

“Yes,” she answers after a time, “I was looking for his Radiance, I know how he likes to spend what little free time he has studying the heavens, searching for the answers great Greagor is willing to provide.” A lie, she already knows that the Emperor is conferring with his Cardinals over plans to rebuild the Inner Sanctum to its former splendour, but she will not have it be known that she is actively looking up the history and lore of Bahamut.

Bright green eyes, the same colour as the missing Phoenix flames she was just considering, meet her own as the man stands straight once more. “I am sorry your Grace, the Emperor has not blessed us with his presence today.”

Disappointment slips across her face. “I was hoping to catch him during a short reprieve.”

The young man nods in sympathy. “The Emperor’s time is sadly limited, but I take it this means you have some free time yourself?”

That is highly dependant on what this young man has to offer. “Yes, the physicker has advised that it is not the best for my own health if I do not at least take short breaks from my vigil at my son’s bedside.”

The youth nods knowingly. “Wise council, I know it would trouble his Radiance immensely were you to fall ill.”

The statement is said with such confidence that Anabella cannot help but find herself intrigued. “Oh?”

“If it pleases your Grace, I can show you.” The youth steps aside and sweeps his arm towards the end of the hall where the main observatory is installed.

Anabella highly doubts that he can, but then, Sylvestre has seemed so enthused, having him hear through rumour alone that she has taken an active interest in the astrology he holds in such high regard can do her no harm.

First though, she will know who this young man is.

“Please, lead the way…”

“Ah, how remiss of me,” the young man apologises, as he retrieves an ornate and very recognisable staff from his belt, before he salutes her in the traditional Sanbrequois fashion.

“My name is Calixte Pascal, Lord Diviner of the Order of Metia, your humble servant, your Grace.”

Anabella cannot help but smile, after all, this could only have worked out more perfectly if she had planned it herself.

Chapter Text

Even as one who does not hold much stock in the divination of the heavens, Anabella must still concede that the Observatory is a wonder.

“Astrology has long been tied to the throne of Sanbreque, some see it as a gift from Greagor herself, others as a science that may be learned by all, if one is simply willing to put forward the effort,” Lord Pascal recites as he guides her to the main hall, his silk like tone making an otherwise disinteresting subject at least tolerable to listen to.

 The room itself is a perfect circle of marble and glass that revolves around a domed ceiling, a marvel made minor by the spectacle that is the colossal armillary sphere sat at its heart, that shifts and spins in a perfect recreation of the rotation of the heavens.

The wonder of it is partially due to its scale, the armillary that Anabella has viewed before now was no larger than the beauty mirror that had adorned her dressing table. This one towers above her, held aloft within the wings of an effigy of Bahamut, rings within rings constructed from silver and armatite sit in seamless layers that all draw shadows even with the light that streams in through the glass ceiling. All because of the carved crystal that rests suspended at its centre.

“Is it Ptolemaic or Copernican in design?” Anabella asks as she walks the full circle of the room, taking in the mechanism from every angle, but her eyes never stray far from the crystal that floats suspended by its own aether.

At first glance the crystal is a perfect sphere, but as her eyes adjust to the light it resolves into a near perfect replica of the Heart of Drake’s Head.

“Copernican,” Lord Pascal answers as she continues to observe the space. “It used to be Ptolemaic, but the Emperor was finally able to convince the Chief Lord Diviner that it was time for an update.”

Lord Pascal walks to a device previously obscured by the curl of Bahamut’s tail. “Though many of us do fear that Lord Argos would have it changed back were his Radiance to give him half the chance.”

A subtle way of pointing out that the current Lord Chief Diviner was stuck in the past, Anabella finds herself quietly approving.

With a single pull of a decorative lever, Lord Pascal initiates a mechanism, unseen cogs begin to click and whir as the room is slowly but surely blanketed in darkness, all the light from the full-length windows obscured by the thick drapes that now cover them.

Without the light of the sun to compete against, the crystal set within the armillary glows brightly enough to illuminate the gems set into the rings, casting sparks of light against the walls.

“If you would not mind sitting here your Grace, this is what I meant to show you.” He points towards a comfortable chase lounge built into a space of wall between two windows, and she can immediately see why when she adheres to his request.

Unseen before from her former position, is a series of lenses that surround the armillary. When Lord Pascal sees that she has made herself comfortable he uses what looks like the keyboard from a piano or an organ to set the rings and the lenses spinning.

In a dazzling display of spinning light, the rings align themselves in a perfect position with several of the lenses, and there, displayed on a canvas of marble is the constellation of Bahamut, only more detailed due to the image of the Great Wyrm that has been carved into the marble which is only visible now due to the light projected upon it.

“As you can see,” Lord Pascal explains as he takes a step back from the controls, “this is the alignment of Bahamut’s constellation, and as ever the right eye is said to be a representation of his Radiance.”

A superstitious belief born from an age-old legend that the right eye of Bahamut had flared brightly when the first Emperor of Sanbreque was crowned.

More taps against the silver keys of the control panel, the rings spin again, falling into a similar but different alignment, as shown by the way both eyes of the Great Wyrm glow with a twin radiance.

“For the past year, we have been able to observe both eyes, a phenomenon that has not been seen with such clarity since the death of her Imperial Highness.” Lord Pascal runs a gloved finger along the keys beneath his fingers, checking for dust that is not there. “Some speculate that this is merely a sign that the darkness that has hung across the empire since Empress Lucia’s passing is finally beginning to lift,” his tone is gently leading.

“But you do not share this opinion?” Anabella takes the bait, knowing she can snap this line of dialogue at any moment.

“I have my own theories but was unwilling to voice them without the proper sign, too many astrologers have made predictions without looking further than their first assumptions, and more often than not it has only invited disaster.” His gaze is fixed solidly on a large ruby set within the third largest ring, a gem that even Anabella can tell must denote Metia.

“And have you found it? This sign?” she prods.

He turns directly towards her, his emerald gaze unblinking and almost eery in the dim light. “Yes, I believe I have.”

“So, you shall submit your prediction for the other Lord Diviners to discuss.” The next step of any prediction before it can be presented to the Emperor.

The little self-deprecating huff that escapes Lord Pascal does not suit him. “Were it only that easy.”

“The Chief Lord Diviner?” she guesses. The previous nod towards Lord Argos’ reluctance towards change has clearly been leading to this.

“It is not so simple as to merely have my reading heard, not after Lord Argos most recent decree that all prophecies delivered to the Emperor must first be approved by him.” The keys beneath Lord Pascals fingers click with a rattle that does not sound unlike the clatter of bones, and the rings move again, the room brightening slightly as the lenses redirect the crystals light.

So, Lord Argos has sought to use the influence of the astrologers to his benefit alone, a fact that he had failed to mention during his visit with her, one that he would have at least alluded to if he had any intention of offering to use it for her benefit.

“I will have to speak to his Radiance about this.” her tone is airy, light, as though the offer is an afterthought, and not the veiled offer for the beginning of a tentative alliance that it is.

“I would appreciate any effort you are willing to put forward, your Grace,” Lord Pascal intones with a bow.

Nothing more need be said, not on this subject at least and so she turns her attention back towards the armillary “It must have taken years to have learned how to operate this.” She gestures to the machine, an easy and seemingly innocent conversation topic that can effortlessly veil so many subjects.

“For some, it does, yes, but I have always had a talent for music. The skills were easily transferrable.” A few more quick taps and the lights are sent dancing again.

“Music?” Anabella questions, not quite seeing the connection.

“It’s hard to explain.” Lord Pascal shrugs. “Perhaps a demonstration would be more beneficial?”

“A reading?” Anabella enquires, the interest in her voice completely feigned.

“Of course, but as my man informed you; I have already performed one on your behalf your Grace, and I am sure the result shall not change.” There it is again, the unwavering confidence that would be enough to sway those that actually hold faith in this charade.

“If I were to perform one for your son instead? With your permission of course.”

“I believe that will do quite nicely,” she agrees readily.

“What star was he born under?” Lord Pascal’s fingers are already primed above the keys, simply waiting for her answer.

“Metia,” the pleased little curve of Lord Pascal’s mouth is so obvious that even raising a hand to reposition a loose strand of hair that has fallen into his eyes does not manage to conceal it.

“Rare, very rare,” he notes as his fingers fly across the keys, and for a moment Anabella does expect music to suddenly fill the air, “He was born beneath a totality?”

“When Metia burned her brightest,” Anabella confirms.

A coincidence, nothing more Anabella had always believed, even as the lady’s maid who had faithfully served Anabella’s own mother had sworn it was a sign.

Within these halls those same superstitions she has always scoffed at hold power, as shown when Lord Pascal’s eyes widen in clear delight at the sight before them.

The armillary rings spin and lenses realign, until the supposed stars projected upon the walls are all consumed with red, as the light from the crystal focuses solely through the ruby representing Metia.

The constellations of all eight Eikons burn brightly with the crimson light of Metia, recreating a spectacular scene that can only be viewed in the heavens above Rosaria once every three-hundred-and sixty years.

“As you can see, a most auspicious alignment, the only moment at which the Eight share the heavens, but due to its rarity little has been recorded concerning the event, this has never stopped astrologers from contemplating it, and with the knowledge and technology we have now we will of course be prepared for the next Eclipse when the shadow of the moon falls across Sanbreque, for now though, we must cleave to the wisdom of those that came before us.” A wisdom blinded by self-interest and the need to win the Emperor’s favour.

A self-interest that Anabella is all too happy to employ for her own uses. “What does it mean for my son?”

“He is a herald your Grace,” Lord Pascal pauses waiting for her reaction, but she has none to give, and so he endeavours to convince her, “The Eclipse has always been a matter of some debate, the prevailing theory for years has been that it is a manifestation of Odin’s power, an easy conclusion brought about by Odin’s reign over the element of Darkness.”

“You disagree?” An obvious observation drawn from the way his brow furrows in clear disapproval.

A shrug, “I hold to the teachings of Lord Copernicus, the Lord Diviner who held this staff three generations ago, the astrologer responsible for this.” He uses the staff representing the power of his office to point to the armillary. “Without him, we would still be looking at the stars and thinking that they revolved around Valisthea and not the other way around. But back to the matter at hand, the sign here is clear, as Metia carries the wishes of the people to the Heaven’s so too shall your son, a harbinger with the potential for great change.”

A harbinger…Anabella can use this.

“You seem very fervent about this,” she notes admiringly.

He looks at her with unwavering conviction, passion burning in his eyes as he says, “As any man allowed to follow his passion should be,” he agrees as he runs a deft hand over the scales of Bahamut that rise above him. “But it does not help that the previous model that followed the principals set down by Ptolemy was leading us astray, providing false answers.”

“Lord Argos knows this?” she presses, just to see how far he is willing to twist the knife into the back of the man he wishes to replace.

“We all know this your Grace, we have for many years, but the Copernican model does not appear to provide the answers that Lord Argos favours nearly as often as the Ptolemaic did.”

Anabella cannot suppress the beatific smile that stretches across her lips, this little exchange has made it all too clear that Calixte Pascal is a man comfortable with manipulation and eager to advance. Someone she can use, and due to his background, someone she may discard the moment he no longer serves his purpose.

“You have given me much to consider, Lord Pascal,” she thanks him as she rises, her intent to leave clear in the way she angles her frame toward the door.

Lord Pascal once again proves his cunning by not wasting her time. “It has been my pleasure, your Grace. Please, do not be a stranger.”

Going back the way she came, picking up her Dragoon guards as she exits the elevator, it is only as she reaches the hall leading to Clive’s rooms that she realises she had completely forgotten to ask about the blessing of Bahamut.

She bites the inside of her cheek to the point of pain, annoyed at the fact that she allowed herself to be distracted from her initial goal.

The mere notion of turning back now or changing course to track down a library for the possible chance of finding a tome that may hold the answers she seeks is abhorrent to her. No, she will send a servant later or return on another day to the observatory, now that their acquaintance has been made, she is sure Lord Pascal will be more than willing to share the history of those blessed by Bahamut.

Lost in her thoughts, she does not hear the voices that slowly begin to rise in argument behind the closed doors of her son’s apartments, not until they are opened for her.

“By whose authority have I been brought here? And if you dare to say the Emperor’s one more time, as though that was reason enough to seize me from my ship barely a second after I made port, then by the Founder you will rue the day you met me.”

The ghost of Elwin stands before her, but as she blinks, the vision resolves itself into the familiar figure of Byron Rosfield.

Shorter than his brother and slightly wider around the shoulders, but just as lean and fit as Elwin had ever been, if it were not for the lighter sheen of his hair it would be all too easy to mistake the Rosfield brothers for twins, something that could never have been claimed by her own boys.

“Lord Rosfield,” she calls out, quietly, in that voice she has always known he hates.

“Anabella?” She narrows her eyes at the lack of title, but he doesn’t seem to care, too caught off guard by her sudden appearance.

It’s unsurprising, she has worked very hard to keep this alliance of hers secret, and she must have become a distant afterthought after the Night of the Flames.

Admirably, Byron recovers quickly “How are you here?”

His voice is calm, but it lacks the confidence with which he normally wields it.

She has thought about this moment, ever since she had learnt that Byron had been sailing back to Rosaria from the Crystaline Dominion. It was an opportunity she could not allow to pass her by, not with the wealth Byron controlled and the loyalty he inspired. No, she needed to control him, and allowing him to return to Rosaria first and potentially unearth her treachery was never an option to begin with.

The question remains.

What now?

Should she lie?

Even the best lie can be uncovered.

Tell the truth?

The truth has always been an ugly thing, something that has never served her well.

So, she settles on the facts, at least the ones that benefit her.

“We are the Emperor’s honoured guests; he is providing us with sanctuary after the events of the Night of the Flames.”

“We?” Byron questions, as she hoped he would.

“A lot has happened Lord Rosfield, there is so much to tell, so much that the Undying kept from us,” she leads softly, “but before I continue, I would know what you have heard.”

She takes a seat and offers him the one opposite and after only a moment’s hesitation, he takes it.

“I have heard very little,” he reveals with a tense voice as he slowly lowers himself into the chair, “I was merely informed of the disaster of Phoenix Gate, the emergence of a beast, this so called Second Eikon of Fire, and the losses our family has suffered.”

The last words are spoken as a whisper, as if speaking them any louder would make them all too real.

“Elwin and J-Joshua…” she digs her teeth into her lower lip over the needless stutter of her youngest’s name, “…both of them were lost to the flames.”

He flinches as though she has slapped him.

Allowing the heavy silence to linger between them, she darts quick eyes towards the door which Clive rests behind.

“I am surprised you have not though to enquire about my eldest.” A lie, she knows why he hasn’t, her obvious dislike for Clive has been on full display since the day he failed to awaken.

Bitterness gets the better of him as he fails to fully suppress the anger in his tone as he snaps, “it surprises me that you even deign to remember you have two sons.”

He realises his mistake almost instantly and seeks to make amends. “Forgive me, that was uncalled for, but you must understand my doubt of you having any care for the boy. Besides, if his father and brother are dead, then it goes without saying that Clive has met the same fate.” Byron’s eyes mist at the mere thought of it. “Clive was Joshua’s Shield; he would have died defending him.”

“Would that he could have,” Anabella agrees as she rises from her seat and moves towards Clive’s bedroom, “I believe he would have happily died to protect Joshua, but fate has something more in store for him.”

“What on Storm are you—” the words die in his throat, brought to an end quickly on the clamour of his chair clattering to the floor as he stands too quickly, his gaze fixed solidly on the head of black hair, the mirror of Elwin’s, resting on the bed in the other room.

The paralyse of shocked disbelief cannot hold him for long, not with the desperate hope that fills his eyes, restoring life to the grey pallor of his face as he closes the distance between him and his nephew with long, determined strides.

Anabella follows at a much more sedate pace, giving Byron the time he needs to assure himself that this is real.

Where his eyes had merely misted before, now the tears flow freely, unrestrained, relief so much harder to repress than grief.

“My boy,” he speaks the words reverently and with such hope as he reaches out, twining his fingers through Clive’s hair, which as promised the maid had managed to wrangle into order.

Speaking of.

The maid curtseys as soon as Anabella’s gaze is turned upon her. “I did not expect you back in such a timely manner your Grace, I only just sent the page to inform you of Lord Rosfield’s presence here.”

“I was returning on my own, has there been any change during my absence?” She walks fully into the room and retakes her seat by the bed, a cursory glance about the room reveals that the maid has gone above and beyond the instruction’s Anabella left her with. The letters on the desk have been straightened and her dagger sheathed but still waiting atop the unopened letters, the room has been dusted and the window opened to allow a fresh breeze to carry in the scent of white wyvern tails from below.

“How? I was told no one survived, that the Second Eikon of Fire killed them all,” Byron questions even as he clings to the boy’s hand, too caught up in the fact that his dear nephew is alive to notice the fetters that encase his wrists.

“As I said there is much the Undying have to answer for, but as to the reason he is here, I found him in the ruins, the only survivor.” Byron’s brow furrows, a clear question that he would never dare to voice forming in his mind, ‘and you let him live?’

“That still doesn’t explain why you are here and not in Rosalith.” The silent, ‘where you should be rings loudly in the quiet room.

“As I said, his Radiance has been kind enough to grant us sanctuary, Clive is after all the rightful heir to the Ducal throne, and Sanbreque has ever been our ally.” With things progressing as they are, Sanbreque will soon be far more than that.

“And who is it that you need sanctuary from? Who do you think would dare to harm the son of Elwin, their rightful Lord,” Byron demands, with fire in his eyes and so much fury that Anabella is surprised he cannot manifest the Phoenix flames himself.

“Why those that would see the Second Eikon of Fire as an abomination, especially after the unfortunate incident where the Phoenix lost control.” Anabella tries to guide him slowly, all in order to let the idea unravel in his own mind.

“The Second—” He looks again at Clive and finally sees the fetters, the crystals that glow within them, quietly supressing Clive’s power.

“It was confirmed for a second time just two days ago, before all the High Lords of Sanbreque, and now we have the true reason why Clive failed to awaken as the Dominant of the Phoenix.” She cannot help the edge of smugness that seeps into her voice, the undercurrent of near gleeful satisfaction that overtakes it.

He looks at her, and his eyes search her face, as if he is begging her to tell him that she is lying, that this is all a charade she has put together as some poor form of a cruel joke.

The smile that reaches her eyes, that lights up her entire face shatters that last thread of hope he was holding onto.

“My poor boy,” he says the words as he desperately clings to Clive’s hand, “I’m so sorry.”

There is a myriad of things that Byron could be apologising for, all equally pointless, but Anabella allows him the time he needs to regain himself.

At least that is what she had intended, but then, Clive begins to stir.

Slowly at first, a small flicker of his eyelids that could easily be mistaken for the natural movement of a deep sleep, but then they open, and the sharpness of the light filtering in through the windows has him turning away with a groan.

Byron snags onto the movement and shifts one hand to Clive’s shoulder to shake him in a gentle encouragement to stay awake. “Clive?”

Her son stills at the sound of his uncle’s voice, and he works hard to remain conscious, eyes blinking rapidly against the pull of sleep.

He doesn’t say anything as he shifts to pull himself up, his free hand rising to cover his eyes as he rests his back against the headboard so that he can sit up.

“…”

“Clive,” Byron calls again, worry heavy in his voice but still the boy doesn’t respond.

“…”

Only when Byron lets go does he move.

So swiftly that Anabella doesn’t realise what has happened until the dance of light off her own dagger nearly blinds her.

Instinctively, she flinches back out of danger, but red is already spilling across the blankets, dying the silks beyond salvation.

It isn’t hers; it takes a moment for that realisation to sink in, and then another for the fear that it might be Clive’s to rise, but when it does the danger has already passed.

The dagger lies harmlessly on the floor by the bed, cast far enough aside so that Clive will not have another chance to grab it.

He’s screaming, Anabella can register that, now that the fear for her life is fading, “It was me…I killed him! I killed them all! Please…I deserve to die, I’m a monster!”

Byron holds him throughout his struggles, as stalwart as any good sailor against a storm.

The blood comes from him, from the deep cut torn into the meat of his palm, where he must have grabbed the blade to stop Clive from…

No, she cannot have that, she can never allow that, he will not steal this power from her.

She steps forward, the reprimand hissing across her tongue.

All for everything to stop on Byron’s command, “No.”

Chapter Text

He sees it in flashes.

Fire tipped claws tearing into a monster.

Then those same claws tearing into the Phoenix.

It all plays out behind his eyes as though he is living those moments again.

The creature that had pulled itself into this world from the dark rift turning to ash beneath the power of the ravenous flames he unleashed, whose hunger knew no bounds.

The Phoenix igniting in a nova as it’s heart beats it’s last against the hell fire that devoured it.

‘Help me…help me Clive.’

‘It was me.’

That thought consumes him and finally wrests him from the phantom play of memories that trap him in the realm of dreams…of nightmares.

Oblivion takes him, and he welcomes it with open arms, coward that he is.

Suspended in the dark void between consciousness and sleep, he tries to turn away from everything that would pull him from this state, the one place where he can feel nothing and not care.

“…”

Eventually, as with all things, the darkness ends.

The first thing to reach him is the gentle call of a familiar voice.

“My poor boy…I’m so sorry.”

‘…Uncle?’

His uncle’s voice filters down like rain on blighted earth, slowly washing away the ash, and for a short time at least, restoring the illusion of life.

Clive cannot help but turn towards his voice.

He shouldn’t be here, he can’t be, it’s not safe, and he shouldn’t be apologising.

If anyone should be begging for forgiveness, it’s Clive.

For killing Joshua.

And for running from that truth.

‘Murderer.’

‘I should have protected him.’

‘Kinslayer.’

‘It was my duty.’

‘Oathbreaker.’

‘I failed you Joshua, I’m sorry.’

The crushing guilt that comes with knowing that his hands are stained with his brother’s blood is slowly killing him.

Not fast enough.

‘What do I have left to live for?’

Forcing himself past the threshold of waking, he blinks against the assault of light on his eyes as a groan escapes him.

A hand, heavy, warm, and grounding clasps his shoulder and shakes it gently, a silent plea for him to stay awake.

“Clive.” He directs all of his waning focus onto his Uncle’s encouraging voice, willing himself to stay conscious long enough to do what needs to be done.

With energy he feared he wouldn’t have; he manages to slowly brace himself against the headboard of the bed he finds himself lying on. All the while keeping one hand raised before his eyes, as much to hide his searching gaze as to shield his eyes from the light.

“It was me,” the words are whispered on a breath so light; he is sure they will not be heard.

“Clive,” the worry sits heavy in his uncle’s voice, but he doesn’t hear it, he doesn’t want to hear it.

“I killed Joshua.”

His gaze finally catches upon a blade, the reflection of light casting red ribbons across the white curtains on the bed, drawing his stare unfalteringly to the red ruby inlaid into the cross guard of the dagger that rests innocently on the side table by his bed, well within reach.

His opportunity comes as his uncle releases his shoulder; he doesn’t hesitate, he can’t afford to.

The pommel of the blade is frigid against his fingers as he rips the dagger from its sheath and turns it upon himself.

Roaring fills his ears as the beast trapped within his flesh—Ifrit—struggles against the chains that hold him down, stop him from interfering.

It distracts Clive from the true danger.

The warm, familiar, comforting arm wraps again around his shoulders, but this time it is like a band of iron. Strong and unmoving, it allows Uncle Byron to brace Clive against his chest and heartlessly snatch redemption from his grasp with the other.

Clive feels the rush of warm blood spilling across his face, not his, but his uncle’s, from where the blade has cut into his palm.

He’s hurting his family again; that realisation makes him struggle all the harder.

All in vain as the dagger is wrestled from his grasp and tossed to the floor, his hope shattering upon the distant clatter of the blade falling out of reach.

He breaks.

“It was me…I killed him! I killed them all! Please…I deserve to die, I’m a monster!” he screams as he thrashes in the circle of his uncle’s arms, uncaring of the blood, uncaring of the pain.

“Please…just end it! Please!”

His uncle merely tightens his hold, pinning him closer, restraining him more surely than any chains ever could.

Still Clive begs, because it is all he wishes for, the only thing that will bring him peace, “I deserve to die! So do it…kill me,” his voice breaks on the next desperate scream, “Please!”

“No!” the word is shouted with such command that Clive hears the echo of his father in his uncle’s voice. Instinctively, he stills and it’s all the opening his uncle needs.

Without releasing him, he draws Clive in, changing the grapple into a hug. Enveloping Clive as though he’s trying to shield him from all the horrors of this world with his own body and hold his nephew together at the same time.

Uncle Byron holds Clive until his voice gives, until the tears that had misted his eyes since he woke flow freely down his face, until all the fight slowly drains from his body, until all the strength Clive has left is being used to return the hug with a fierce determination to never let go.

The hand that eventually rises to run soothing fingers through his hair has him listlessly shifting away. He doesn’t deserve comfort, nor reprieve, the only thing he deserves has been denied to him.

His uncle obviously doesn’t agree, as shown when he huffs and rests his chin atop Clive’s head, stopping his from moving.

Clive can only imagine what a sight he must make, the fallen First Shield of Rosaria, curled up like a scared child in his uncle’s protective embrace.

“Clive?” Uncle Byron tries, now that Clive has stopped struggling, but Clive cannot bring himself to raise his head, too ashamed to face his uncle, a man he has always admired.

A sigh sounds above his head, so close that Clive can feel his hair sway beneath the huff of breath that escapes his uncle’s nose.

“Would you be so cruel as to rob me of the only family I have left?”

Clive flinches and tries to pull away, but the hiss of pain that draws from his uncle as the sudden move pulls on the deep gash carved into his palm freezes him in place.

“You’re bleeding,” Clive’s voice is a wreck, and the words nearly crack on his tongue as he tries to voice them.

“Far less than what you intended for yourself.” Uncle Byron counters with a seriousness that Clive has rarely heard.

“I killed Joshua, I deserve—”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish as his uncle seizes him by the shoulders and forces Clive to face him.

When Clive lowers his head, his uncle grabs him by the chin and holds him there, rough fingers holding him gently but firmly. “You did not kill your brother.”

“I did!” He remembers it now, can see it every time he closes his eyes.

‘Help me…help me Clive.’

“No,” Uncle Byron refutes, conviction shining through the serious expression he wears. “The Second Eikon of Fire killed the Phoenix.”

“But I am the Second Eikon of Fire,” Clive argues even as the confession tears open his heart and allows the tears he had only just managed to control to flow freely once more.

“No, you are it’s Dominant, not the Eikon itself, there is a difference.” Uncle Byron explains as he moves the hand holding Clive’s chin to the back of his neck, a gesture that still anchors him but also gives him back his choice, showing Clive without words that his uncle trusts him not to hide away from this.

A part of him wants to turn away, another wants to believe his uncle, to give into that comforting logic and let some of the guilt and self-hatred fade, but he can’t.

“I should have stopped it…I should have been strong enough to stop him!” Just as his uncle is trying to convince him, Clive is trying to convince his uncle.

‘Please, give up on me…let me end it.’

“Should Joshua have been strong enough to control the Phoenix?” As gentle as his uncle’s voice is, it still hits him with a force as strong as the energy blast Bahamut had used to end the fight with Ifrit.

“Don’t, Joshua is…was—” he catches his mistake and hates himself for it, and the opening it provides Uncle Byron, allowing him to sweep in.

“Joshua has been trained since he was confirmed as the Phoenix, he has…had all the techniques that were handed down since the very first Dominant of the Phoenix, all recorded and imparted by the Undying, and he still lost control.”

“He didn’t, he was only defending himself!” Clive protests, but he knows it’s a lie. The flames of the Phoenix had burned indiscriminately. Clive himself would have perished had it not been for Ambrosia.

Pain, lancing and debilitating, pierces through his temple at the shadow of that memory, and he has to raise both his hands in an effort to try and stem it.

Uncle Byron holds him through it, gives him something to cling to as the smoke and the flames of that night play out behind his closed eyes.

Loyal Shields calling for him and Lord Murdoch to run as they were consumed by the errant flames cast by the Phoenix without control against anything that moved.

Heat so intense, that even shielded by the Inner defensive wall of the castle, Clive could feel it burning the very air from his lungs.

“My boy, you always were such a terrible liar.” His uncle rubs his back, encouraging him to sit up again.

“He was just a boy,” Clive argues, “My little brother…I swore I would protect him.”

That’s what he’d meant to do, that was all he had been focusing on as he’d stepped forward, prepared to brave the wrath of the Phoenix in order to bring Joshua back.

“You yourself are still a child, and this is a burden that should never have been placed upon your shoulders so soon.” Clive scowls defiantly at that.

“I asked for it,” he hisses, and he had.

He had near begged his father to honour Joshua’s request to make him the First Shield, all for the chance to prove he was not worthless.

His father had looked at him with eyes filled with such worry, and back then Clive had feared it was due to his father knowing he would fail, he had not known the price for being rejected by the Phoenix, had not known that if he was found wanting a second time, it would have meant his death.

Why hadn’t the Phoenix rejected him? Why had it not sensed the monster that clung to his soul, seen the threat and extinguished it while it had the chance?

“Clive, this is not your fault, none of this is your fault,” his uncle’s voice is so calm and sure that it can only make Clive angry.

“Then whose is it?” he demands, knowing that his uncle will not be able to provide an answer.

“The Undying’s, of course.”

Clive stiffens at the placating sound of his mother’s voice, his spine going rigid with fear.

He had forgotten she was there.

How had he forgotten she was there?

When he slowly turns to face her, she greets him first with a smile, but then with a look of such concern that he would think she were looking at Joshua.

“Clive, your uncle is right, there is no reason to blame yourself,” she soothes as she reaches out to take his hand.

High strung and emotional as he is, he cannot stop himself from pulling back, even as the last rational part of his brain screams at him to not do anything to upset her.

But that rational part of his mind becomes quieter and harder to hear the longer he stares at his mother’s perfect smile.

Oblivious to the storm of emotion overtaking Clive’s mind his mother continues, “had we but known you were a Dominant, that it was possible for there to be a Second Eikon of Fire, all of this could have been avoided.”

The explosive snap of Clive’s thread bare restraint is harsh against his ears.

“Could have been avoided,” he repeats, astounded by her boldness, and her lack of contrition.

“Clive,” his uncle warns, as he tightens his hold again, but the arms winding around Clive’s chest do nothing to suppress the savage growl that tears from his throat.

“All of this is your fault! Everything that happened came about because of you! Father died in front of Joshua because of you! He saw it all!” A breath, ragged and faltering but still he shouts, “father died defending Joshua and Joshua lost control because of it…all because you betrayed us!”

Clive feels his uncle’s arms slacken, enough that if he lunged, he could probably break free, but everything is fading, darkness is closing in around the edges of his vision, and everything is again becoming distant.

His chest is tight, it’s hard to breathe, and when he does manage to gasp a fitful breath of air it feels as though he has swallowed fire.

Fear, anger, hate, and despair are at war within him and there is no room left to think clearly.

He’s panicking, being overtaken by his emotions so quickly that he has lost all control and, in a moment, ruled by rage, said something that he shouldn’t.

What has he done?

He has no power here, no rights, he is a prisoner in all but name, and all of Rosaria is held hostage against him.

Even if it wasn’t, Uncle Byron is here, surrounded on all sides with no hope for escape, as much a prisoner as Clive is.

What will she do to Uncle Byron for this?

It’s all too much, his heart is beating too fast, and he just cannot breathe.

“Clive!” Uncle Byron calls as he grabs Clive and turns him, so he has to face his uncle, his movements more urgent this time in his haste. “You have to breathe.”

Telling him to breathe when he physically can’t, his uncle is being ridiculous.

When Clive cannot do as he asks his uncle explains, “Clive you are having a panic attack and need to slow your breathing, I know it sounds ludicrous when it feels as though you cannot breathe but trust me my boy, it will work.”

He shakes his head, because he knows it won’t, how can it?

As attuned as he is to his mother’s presence after years of working very hard to know when she is approaching, it’s easy for him to tell when she stands from her chair and moves towards him, even in this state.

What little air he is managing to inhale leaves him as her shadow falls over him, he looks up just in time to see her pale hand flashing towards his face.

He braces for the slap and cannot stop himself from flinching when he hears the sharp crack of an open palm striking flesh.

Only to blink in confusion as the familiar pain he is expecting fails to flare across his cheek.

He opens his eyes and finally manages to take a deep breath, more a gasp of shock, as he sees the sight of his uncle holding his mother back, his grip tight around the decorative vambrace covering her wrist, to the point that Clive can see his uncle’s knuckles turning white.

“Unhand me Byron,” his mother’s voice is quiet, toneless, and all the more dangerous because of it.

“Of course, Anabella,” Uncle Byron agrees in an almost jovial manner, were it not for the spine of steel that supports it, “as soon as you agree to leave Clive to me.”

His mother scoffs, “I was not going to hurt him, as you said he was having a panic attack.”

“So, you sought to slap him out of it?” the disbelief in his uncle’s voice is only outweighed by the anger in his eyes.

“A tried-and-true method, advised by many physickers.” She is not defensive; she never has been in these situations.

“Many physickers that have never seen a battlefield and don’t know that the natural reaction for a cornered soldier subjected to sudden violence in a moment of weakness is to strike out,” he chuffs, clearly amused at the image that scenario brings to mind, “I would so hate for Clive to strike you down in a momentary instance of mistaken self-defence, what a tragedy that would be.”

Uncle Byron may joke, but the situation he paints is real enough to have his mother roughly pull back her arm and retreat, only one step, but a retreat none the less.

“Can you calm him?” she asks at length, her eyes calculating as she weighs her current options.

“Easily, once you leave the room.” His mother narrows her eyes at that answer, clearly suspicious as she tries to figure out what Uncle Byron could hope to gain from this.

Eventually she must conclude that the risk is worth it.

“I will be just outside the door,” a threat. “I’ll also send a physicker to tend to that.” She nods to the still bleeding wound on Uncle Byron’s palm, but he disregards the offer.

“No need, it’s not that deep. After all, I’m not foolish enough to try and catch a blade and not know how to have it do the least damage, just send in a maid with a potion.” His eyes shift down to the bed. “And perhaps a new comforter.”

Clive glances down as well and only now sees the mess of red that covers the once pristinely white bed cover, and the red handprint that has been soaked into the fabric of the shirt he is wearing.

“I will return within the hour.” Without another word, his mother sets about collecting the pile of letters by Clive bedside and then the discarded dagger that still lies on the floor, and then she leaves.

It isn’t instant, or even noticeable at first, but slowly, after the door closes behind his mother, the tightness in his chest begins to ease.

“Good, but try to take deeper, more even breaths,” his uncle instructs.

His mind a bit clearer, he is able to listen now, and slowly but surely, the deeper breaths help.

“I hate her,” Clive growls the phrase he has only dared to whisper aloud once before. He was much younger then and just coming to terms with the sting of his mother’s sudden rejection.

His father had been there to comfort him, and he did not reprimand Clive for saying it. He had listened, given Clive the time and attention he needed to realise that hating her would hurt him more in the end than it would ever hurt his mother.

It’s only now that he realises that what he felt as a child had never been hate to begin with.

His father had probably recognised that.

Just as his uncle recognises the truth of Clive’s words now.

“My boy, you cannot say that.” Clive is about to lash out at his uncle, How dare he tell him that, after all she has done, but before he can his uncle draws him in again and whispers in his ear, “you cannot, never aloud. If she thinks for even a second that she cannot at least win some of your affection she will do everything she can to break you. To make it so you have no choice but to obey.”

“She’s already doing that,” Clive seethes, “you being here, Rosaria under the shadow of invasion from Sanbreque, what more can she do!”

“So much,” his uncle grits out, “there is a reason your father never set her aside, and it wasn’t just for the trade routes, the dowry, and the Phoenix blood that his marriage to that woman provided.”

“What else could she possibly have held over him.” It didn’t make sense, father was strong and noble, he didn’t divorce that woman because he had sworn a vow, and his father was a man of his word. That was the only reason.

The look that overtakes his uncle’s face is so sad, so defeated. “She had you, she had Joshua.”

Confusion is all Clive feels at that revelation.

Joshua makes sense, it was Joshua, the heir to the duchy, but also so much more than that. Kind, intelligent, so strong despite the limits his illness forced upon him, but his mother never saw any of that, she only ever saw the Phoenix, and that she could use against his father, because Joshua did love their mother.

Clive was nothing to her, she had made that clear on more than one occasion, the worthless spare, so how could she possibly use him against his father?

His uncle sighs and rests his forehead against Clive’s own. “I’m so sorry my boy, clearly I was away too long.”

“Why are you apologising?” Clive doesn’t understand, he just doesn’t.

Another sigh and then his uncle is pulling away, but not letting go, all so he can look Clive dead in the eye as he says, “I will explain, but first there is something that must be said…”

Clive waits, until he realises his uncle wants him to ask, “what?”

“Thank the Founder you are still alive and thank you for being strong enough to make it back.”

Whatever Clive had been expecting, it wasn’t this, and so he is unprepared for the fresh wave of emotion that drags him beneath its wake.

When Mia knocks before entering, she opens the door to find Clive all but curled up in his uncle’s lap, his face turned into the taller man’s shoulder in order to hide the fresh tears staining his face.

“It’s alright, my boy, it’s alright.” It’s not, nothing is, but just hearing his uncle say that does make it seem as though it might be again.

Chapter Text

When Clive manages to pull himself together enough to bear being separated from the warmth of his uncle’s arms, Mia is there waiting for him with a fresh shirt.

“There is a bowl of water and soap set-up behind the privacy screen if you would like to take the chance to freshen up, my Lord,” Mia offers with a kind smile and a warm gaze completely free of judgement.

Not trusting his voice to hold in the aftermath of so much raw emotion, Clive nods his thanks as he takes the offered shirt and hides behind the screen. As promised, there is a lightly steaming bowl of warm water waiting for him, with a towel and a bar of soap set on the table beside it.

He sets to work, stripping out of his bloodied garment and folding it so Mia will not have to touch the blood when she takes it away.

The water is soothing against the irritated skin under his eyes and the vanilla and rose scent of the soap has a calming effect that finally manages to unwind the last knot of tension burdening his chest.

Dressed in his new shirt, he rounds the corner of the privacy screen he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of the injury he inflicted upon his uncle, which is now on full display.

The cut is clean but deep, it draws a solid line across the full length of his uncle’s palm, and even as Mia dabs at the wound to clear the blood, more wells up to replace it.

“I really do think it might be better to get this stitched, my Lord,” Mia advises in her most cajoling tone, “please, let me fetch a physicker, it will be but the work of a moment.”

Uncle Byron waves her off with his free hand. “Nay, I have received worse scrapes than this handling the ropes on ships during tepid storms that could hardly conjure a gale, see, it’s clean enough and the bleeding has just about stopped,” a lie that is so easily exposed when Uncle Byron pulls his hand back. “Just hand me the potion and I will take care of it.”

Mia looks so unsure, as if afraid to voice her opinion, but her eyes quickly dart to Clive before her spine straightens and she speaks her mind, “my Lord, I must insist, if you simply apply a potion it may scar.”

Uncle Byron tilts his head in clear confusion, obviously wondering what the issue of a new scar would be. As a man who has accrued many over the years, he has never had a problem with them, in fact he takes great pride in them, seldom missing an opportunity to show off some of the larger ones and share the tales of how he came by them.

Joshua’s favourite has always been the one that wrapped the full length of their uncle’s left arm, one that he had apparently gotten on a voyage past Dzemekys when his ship disturbed an ultros.

Clive’s favourite is a much simpler one, a small white scar that bisects his uncle’s right brow. Obtained courtesy of his Uncle’s own overzealousness when he had been reenacting one of Clive’s most beloved scenes from the Saint and the Sectary. Suffice it to say Madu had perished by his own blade that night.

 The feint smile that rises at that memory dies as his thoughts turn to the new scar that will form on his uncle’s palm.

He doesn’t want that, why should his uncle have to bear a scar because of Clive’s stupidity, and it was stupidity that had driven him to such an action. Stupidity and cowardice that would have left Rosaria at the mercy of his mother, had he been successful.

But he hadn’t been thinking about that, he hadn’t been thinking about anything but his own pain and his wish for it to just stop.

“Uncle, please listen to Mia and have it seen to by a physicker,” his voice is so soft that Clive barely recognises it as his own.

“My boy, there’s really no need, as I—” the protest fades to nothing as his uncle looks at him.

Whatever expression Clive must be wearing is enough. “Very well, if I must.”

Mia takes that as the order she has been waiting for and hurries to leave the room, but Uncle Byron calls out to her before she can reach the door, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, please inform the Duchess that her son needs a few more minutes to compose himself.”

“Of course,” Mia responds without question, before slipping out the door in such a manner that makes it difficult for someone standing outside to be able to see in.

They wait for a time, listening to the quiet murmur of voices from the other room, seeing whether Clive’s mother will accept Mia’s excuse.

When silence follows the sound of the receiving room door closing, Clive can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

“We won’t have too long, your mother has never been a particularly patient woman when she does not have full control of the situation,” his uncle advises as he pats the fresh cover on the bed beside him, inviting Clive to sit.

Eyes trained on the floor, Clive takes the offered seat, and willingly sinks into the warmth of the one-armed hug his uncle grants him, all the while ignoring the guilt that lies like lead within his stomach.

“Now, before anything else, I would hear what you meant when you said your mother betrayed us.” Clive can hear the undertow of anger that smoulders beneath his uncle’s voice. “Anabella is a formidable opponent when you have all the facts, and right now she has me at a severe disadvantage, anything you can tell me will be helpful.”

There is so much to tell and not enough time to tell it, but even the thought of recounting that night in full is making his throat close up.

Shaking his head, he clears it as he gathers himself, if he sticks to the bare facts, distances himself from the details and steels himself to deliver this like a mission report…

If he’s going to do this he should be standing to attention before his uncle, giving him the respect he deserves, but as soon as he moves to stand the arm around him only tightens.

“None of that my boy, I know that this is hard, I would not even be asking this of you if I had any other means of acquiring a true account of the events that transpired at Phoenix Gate, but I must hear the truth of it.”

Clive wonders what story has spread across Storm, what rumours his mother and the Emperor have allowed to circulate in order to conceal their own involvement.

Uncle Byron at least, deserves to hear the truth.

“Th-they attacked in the dead of night,” he starts, voice stuttering and haunted even before he really begins, “they set fire to the inner courtyard and by the time I reached it the flames had spread, consuming half the castle. When I made it down to the barracks so many of our men were already dead.”

He can see it still so clearly, the smoke-filled corridors slick with the blood of good soldiers who hadn’t been given more than a chance to rise from their beds, before their enemy’s blades had been driven through their backs.

“I found Lord Murdoch first, fighting for his life and all alone, several men dead around him, surrounded by enemies,” It hadn’t stopped the Lord Commander from fighting, and Clive remembers, the way the first soldier who dared to step forward had died. Flickering light dancing off Lord Murdoch’s blade as he gutted the man.

Clive hadn’t hesitated then, and soon enough the invaders were slain. “We dealt with them together and then went looking for father and Joshua.” Father had been easy enough to find, heading in the same direction as them.

“We intercepted father on the parapet leading to the royal apartments.” The shock that had filled his eyes at the sight of Clive had quickly been replaced by relief and determination in turn, and then they had continued on their way, his father’s hand on his shoulder a comforting weight before they took off running.

“But Joshua’s chambers were empty.” His heart had stopped at the sight of the broken lock on the door and the empty bed, but then Lord Murdoch had pointed out that his effects were gone.

Desperately, they had searched the castle, tearing down anyone and anything that dared to stand in their way, until finally. “We eventually found him, Ser Wade had taken the initiative to bring him to safety, but Ser Tyler was injured.” There had been so much blood, and even the power of the Phoenix had not been enough to get the man back on his feet.

“With flames surrounding us, and the enemy seeking to cut off our escape, we made for the rear gate.” The way having already been cleared previously; they had slipped unnoticed through the corridors. “Father sent a stolas, requesting aid from Rosalith, but our enemy had regathered, we could hear them closing in.” Joshua’s small hands clutching at his arm as angry voices could be heard on the other side of the wall.

Clive’s heart had sunk as he had gently peeled Joshua from his side and entrusted him to their father. “I instructed father to flee with Joshua, knowing that if I and Lord Murdoch could just buy them a little time, they would be able to escape.”

‘No, I’m not going without you. You’re supposed to be my Shield, remember.’ Clive will never forget that plea, nor how his father hadn’t held Joshua back. He hadn’t noticed it at the time, too concerned with convincing Joshua that he had to get to safety, and he couldn’t help but wonder now why father hadn’t simply pulled Joshua away despite his protests…

He shakes his head and takes another deep breath, desperate to move on, his uncle needs to hear what happened. Even still, the last sight of Joshua he had managed to glimpse through the closing doors haunts the darkness behind his closed eyes.

He can’t help the tremor in his voice as he forces himself to continue, “when I and Lord Murdoch came upon the Bailey, our men were already dead, the Dragoons that remained were simply loitering, putting men who could no longer defend themselves to the sword.” From what he had seen, the Shields were already dead, what the Sanbrequois were doing at that point was merely desecrating their bodies.

“Dragoons?” his uncle questions in a tone that suggests that Clive has merely confirmed what his uncle already suspected.

Clive nods, the sight had added an edge of vengeance to the bite of his blade, making his flames burn hotter and his strikes hit harder until…

“I must admit, the appearance of the Knight of the Blinding Dawn was a bit of a surprise,” Clive’s voice is too dull to pull off the levity he would normally try to put into that sort of statement, but his uncle appreciates the effort.

“A Knight of the Blinding Dawn is always a surprise,” his uncle huffs, “bloody cowards try to take their opponents out with the first attack. Descending from the sky with no warning or regard for their so-called honour.”

“Lord Murdoch’s warning saved me, and together we managed to defeat him, but we were already too late.” He hadn’t known, how could he have known. “When Lord Murdoch searched the body of the felled knight, he discovered the sashes that had been handed to the Shield’s before we left for Phoenix Gate.” Even bloodied the sigil had been unmistakeable.

“We knew then that there could be others, that father and Joshua were in more danger than we had first feared.” Heart pounding in his ears, Clive had hastened to call Ambrosia, only for the whistle to turn into a sharp ring of pain.

“There…there was a hooded man, I…” The man had said something to him, and the pain stopped, but what did he say? It’s only as he tries to recall the words that Clive remembers seeing the same man in the Inner Sanctum. Wreathed in flame the man had reached out to him and when he spoke the pain had been unending.

“Clive?” his uncle urges, and suddenly Clive is back at his side, a prisoner in Whitewyrm Lair, the Inner Sanctum far below his feet, distant but ever present.

“I’m sorry uncle, what was I saying?” Clive asks as he blinks away the fog that still clings to his mind.

His uncle looks at him with deep concern, tension clinging to his limbs as he draws Clive impossibly closer, but he sighs because the situation forces his hand, “The sashes, and something about a man?”

Clive skips past the hooded man, allowing the half-formed memory of boundless flames and sharp agony to fade into the back of his mind, he can’t recall the scene clearly enough, might be misremembering some details, as he did before when he assumed the hooded man must have been the Second Dominant of Fire. So, he moves on, and focuses on what he knows for certain, instead of once more clinging to the false hope that someone else is to blame.

“The sashes, yes.” Evidence that there were traitors amongst their own ranks. “I sought to go after father and Joshua, to defend them from the traitors that they did not know pursued them, but it was too late.”

The Phoenix had taken to the sky, and then Clive had lost control, unleashed a beast he never knew he held the chains to, and killed the person dearest to his heart.

“That’s enough my boy,” Clive doesn’t even realise he’s crying again until his uncle begins to comfort him. “I know enough now.”

Clive selfishly turns into the warmth his uncle readily gives and stays there as he asks, “How could she do this?”

He knows she hates him, that she held contempt for his father and the way he chose to rule, that she was frustrated by Joshua’s weakness even as he tried so hard to bear the weight of her expectations. But the thought that she would betray them like this had never crossed his mind.

“Because, she was about to lose her power, and her means by which to manipulate your father,” his uncle explains as he stares off into the half distance.

Clive is still confused, but his uncle has always been a good and patient storyteller.

“War has never strayed far from Rosaria’s borders and as the Archduke it has ever been your father’s duty to lead the Duchy’s armies.” Clive knew this, had been the one to explain this to Joshua when he was still too small to fully understand why father had to leave them.

“In such times, as the Duchess, the responsibility of maintaining Elwin’s rule in his absence fell to your mother, a task that Anabella took to at first, but later twisted to her own means.” The furrow that creases his uncle’s brow falls heavy with disapproval.

“The changes she implemented in the beginning were small, even beneficial, so much so that Elwin either did not notice them upon his return or had no reason to rescind them.” Uncle Byron shakes his head, regret lining his features and adding years to them, until he raises a hand to smooth the lines away.

“A mistake in hindsight, as your mother has always been one to play the long game.” An attribute that has cost Clive greatly over the years, as his mother has never been one to forget a slight, real or imagined. “With each new law and edict she passed, and with no disapproval from your father nor retractions upon his return, the more the Seven High Houses and the Lords of the realm began to see Anabella and Elwin’s will as one.”

His uncle sighs, memories of that time weighing heavily upon him even as he relieves himself of them by speaking them aloud, “Lords who would have protested before, who would have brought their complaints to your father upon his return, began to keep their silence, and with no one there to oppose her rule, Anabella began to install the amendments she had sought to make to the law from the start.”

Clive does not have to wonder how he was unaware of this. It is only recently, as Joshua’s Shield that he has begun to be allowed to sit in on meetings, as a guard, yes, but at his father’s side.

It is amazing how much can be learned through observation alone. Of course, as a son of the Archduke Clive had one of the best educations on Storm, but he had soon learned that there will always be a large gap between understanding the theory of a subject and actually putting it into practise.

His uncle is still talking, bringing Clive back to focus. “The matter was finally brought to your father’s attention when three separate noble houses were all but pushed to the brink by the tax on Bearers Anabella implemented.”

Confusion rules Clive’s thoughts for a moment as he tries to work out what possible benefit a tax on Bearers could provide, besides the obvious. “But why would she—oh.” The answer seems so simple when you think about the system that Rosaria has for Bearers that no longer have a master.

In most nations, following the accords, any owner that could no longer keep their Bearers were required to sell them to supposedly neutral traders.

In Rosaria, the Archduke’s household took charge of them instead.

Meant as a safety net, the law had been passed by Clive’s grandfather, the Phoenix before Joshua. Originally it had only applied to Bearers who belonged to households with no clear line of succession, Clive’s father had been the one to expand it, ensuring that no Bearer would be sold on to a nation that held no regard for their welfare.

“How many? How many of the Bearers did she sell?” His mother has no regard for Bearers, those that were employed in Rosalith knew well to stay out of her sight and were only assigned to the areas of the castle that his mother frequented the least. If she had acquired the contracts of so many it could only be for one purpose.

“About fifty, most of them to Sanbreque,” his uncle confirms. “When your father found out it was too late to get them back, but it hardened his resolve, and finally gave him legal grounds by which to divorce Anabella.”

“What?” That can’t be right, if it were then…his father was never one to make idle threats, once he had decided on something it was very hard if not impossible to change his mind, so why?

“You had only just turned seven, your father having returned from the final negotiations with the united tribes of the Northern Territories, it was the perfect time.” The strained chuckle that escapes his uncle makes it clear how false that claim is.

Clive wraps his arm around his uncle’s back, hoping to provide even a tenth of the feeling of support and safety his uncle is freely offering him. By the way his uncle smiles in return, he can at least hope he is somewhat successful.

“Your father knew that Anabella would not go quietly, that the price she would ask would be steep, but still your father was unprepared for what she demanded.”

“Joshua?” Clive’s mind instantly provides the obvious answer, but the look in his uncle’s eyes has him second guessing that thought. It’s too obvious, and impossible besides, Joshua was the heir to the Duchy, the Phoenix, there is no law that would allow her to take him were Clive’s father to divorce her. “Wait, no, she couldn’t.”

“No, she could not,” Uncle Byron agrees. “So, she chose to demand the one thing she could, that by law and the ruling of the tenets handed down from the time of the Founder she was entitled to.” When his uncle looks down at him, Clive thinks he already knows what he is going to say.

“She demanded you.” Clive feels like the knife he tried to stab himself with earlier has suddenly lodged itself in his heart.

“No, none of that my boy, I will not have it,” his uncle instructs as he pulls Clive from his side all so he can gently cup Clive’s face with his hand that isn’t bleeding, encouraging but not forcing Clive to look at him as he says, “none of this is your fault, don’t you dare blame yourself.”

How did his uncle know that he would think that?

Is he really this predictable?

That question startles a near derisive snort from Clive. But inevitably his mind turns to darker thoughts, ‘what would it have been like if his father had agreed?’

The shiver that rolls over him now is born of pure fear.

“He did not let her take you,” his uncle reminds him, and Clive cannot help but cling to that idea, even as he realises how much it may have cost them.

The bracing hug that his uncle shifts him into feels like the only thing that is currently keeping him grounded.

Eventually, and with great reluctance Clive manages to pull back and stand, making his way towards a tray of tea he spies settled on the small table by his bed.

His head is spinning, most likely a side effect of being dehydrated.

Hand trembling slightly, he reaches for the pot, the ceramic is lukewarm to the touch and unthinkingly, he grasps for the Phoenix’s blessing in order to replenish the crystal fixed in the tea warmer the pot sits upon.

The wall of cold he slams into him as the fetters on his wrists react to his attempt at magic, has him bracing his hands against the table in order to stop himself from falling.

Seeing what he was trying and failing to do his uncle slips beside him and discreetly lights the crystal for him with a slightly larger fragment that that has been left on the table for that very purpose.

“Thank you, uncle,” Clive says as he busies himself with making the tea while he waits for the water to re-heat.

“Think nothing of it, my boy,” his uncle replies as his eyes slip back and forth between the small crystal in his hand and the fetters that adorn Clive’s wrists.

“Uncle?” Clive asks, catching the way his uncle all but glares at the crystal in his hand.

“It’s nothing, I just never really stopped to think how those blessed with the bounty of a Mothercrystal used it,” Uncle Byron explains as he replaces the crystal on the table with a look of clear disapproval.

Clive studies the crystal that now lies innocently on the table, smaller than the ones he has seen hanging from the belts of nobles and servants alike, it still glints in the light of day, slowly fading from the cinder tones of fire magic to the neutral blue of all the crystals that come from Drake’s Head.

“It does make Sanbreque’s previous claims that they had so few crystals to trade seem dubious at best,” Clive notes, having observed how frivolously crystals were used in Whitewyrm castle. The Sanbrequois seemed determined to incorporate magic into everything they could, even when something as simple as a match or a lever would have sufficed instead.

“Hah, a weak attempt to keep the prices of the crystals they deigned to trade with us high,” his uncle scoffs, before he smiles. “The look on the Sanbrequois ambassador’s face at the Remembrance Ceremony, when Elwin told him that Rosaria would be reducing the number of crystals we bought from Sanbreque. Ah, I shall never forget it, the fool looked as though Elwin had just insulted his mother.”

Clive smiles at the memory, remembering how Joshua had failed to suppress a laugh at the ambassadors over dramatic reaction. Clive had fared little better himself but had recovered in time to hush his brother. Though the smirk Prince Dion had shot them behind his glass made it clear that their reaction had been noticed, at least by some.

Steam begins to rise from the pot and Clive finishes making the tea, Handing a cup to his uncle and taking his own, he is happy for the warmth the tea provides as he clasps the cup between his hands and takes a small sip.

For one brief moment he can imagine that he is simply sharing tea with his uncle, talking about nothing truly important, merely whiling away some free time they both have.

But no, they are running out of time, and there is more his uncle needs to tell him.

With reluctance, he takes his seat back on the bed and meets his uncle’s gaze.

“Right, back to the matter at hand,” his uncle agrees glumly. He stalls for but a moment, staring down at the remnants of his tea as he recentres himself and finally continues.

“Of all the things she could have demanded that Elwin may perhaps not have happily granted her, but granted all the same if it meant removing her from his household, she asked for the one thing she knew he wouldn’t.”

“Me,” Clive confirms again, more to let the idea settle in his thoughts than to hear his uncle say it again.

“Yes, she knew she could not claim Joshua, no matter how she schemed, threatened, or bribed, so she stipulated that she would only agree to the divorce if you were handed over into her care,” the last word is spat with such mockery, and Clive knows why, he has suffered from his mother’s so-called care too many times not to.

“A plot to force father’s hand, to ensure he wouldn’t push the divorce,” Clive surmises.

The nod his uncle gives him is weighted with regret. “She knew he would never give you up.”

“He could have forced the issue!” Clive cries desperately, suddenly so frustrated, he hadn’t known this, how had he not known this? Why hadn’t father told him? “He is the Archduke, he—”

“Was still bound by the law of the land, your mother knew this, and she ensured she had enough Lord’s on her side to guarantee that your father abided by it.” His uncle interrupts, halting Clive’s tirade before it can even start.

All the fight drains from him as he takes a mental step back and actually looks at the political knot his mother had managed to tie around his father’s neck without his notice. One false move and it would tighten, become a noose that would choke the life from not just his father but the Duchy as well.

“He should have let her have me.” Back then, Clive had been worthless in her eyes, the spare with no value, had his father only agreed. If he had explained it to Clive, he would have understood, would have accepted it.

“There are so many reasons why he couldn’t, foremost amongst them the fact that he loved you so fiercely my boy,” his uncle consoles, and Clive can do nothing but believe him, however…

“And the other reasons?” he dreads to ask, but he feels he must.

Uncle Byron drains his cup and sets it back on the tray with enough force to shake the table. “The others your mother took great pleasure in outlining to your father when she first made her demand.”

Tempered anger rolls through his uncle’s tone, sounding so much like the distant rumble of an approaching storm. “She sat there, opposite Elwin and basically told him that Joshua would soon succumb to his illness, that despite being born the Phoenix he was too weak, that even with its healing flames he would not live to see the next winter.”

Clive doesn’t have to imagine how his mother worded it; he simply has to recall the little speech she gave him when he first awoke here. “Alas, even with the power of the Phoenix he was always a sickly child, never long for this world,” he repeats the poisonous words his mother spoke to him. “She always thought that?”

He had assumed she had merely been trying to rationalise his death, make it seem like an inevitability so she could distance herself from the grief, but this…

“Anabella has ever been gifted at compartmentalising,” Uncle Byron explains as he shifts closer, “but I will admit that it was disturbing to see her shift from the cutthroat politician back into the role of doting mother. The smile that she wore as the maids handed Joshua back to her after the meeting, you would never think she had just casually been discussing his inevitable demise.”

Clive can feel a shiver of disgust rolling down his spine like cold water trailing across his skin, it’s so strong that he has to physically shake it off.

His uncle for his part scowls but manages to recompose himself soon enough.

Calm again, or as calm as he will get, he continues, “It sounded so much like a threat to Elwin, it was no secret that Joshua suffered from poor health, it would not have been a shock to anyone in the castle if Anabella’s words proved true, and if Founder forbid they did, you would be the rightful heir.”

As he is now.

Clive’s hands claw at the sheets at that thought, but he manages to shove the grief down because he needs to hear this.

“Of course, callous as the idea is, if Elwin had managed to set your mother aside, he might have remarried, but if he had so too would your mother, and if Joshua had died, it would soon become a race to see who could produce the next Phoenix first, and all the while she would have you in her clutches. Your father could never allow that.”

Something clicks in Clive’s brain when he hears that, and suddenly a conversation he once overheard between his mother and one of her maids a long time ago makes so much sense now.

She had been sitting out on the balcony outside her room when Clive had taken a shortcut across the gardens below because he was late for one of his lessons. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the mention of his name had made him pause, as he feared she’d caught sight of him.

It soon became clear she hadn’t, but the conversation had seemed so strange to him that he found himself continuing to listen.

“-proof of that, basically his father’s mirror image in miniature. No, the Phoenix lies more strongly with my line. I don’t know what the previous Archduke was thinking, diluting his blood like that,” he had heard his mother scoff.

“I heard it was a love match your Grace,” the lady’s maid who had been attending his mother volunteered.

Clive had left his mother to her discussion then, as young as he was—only ten—he had no interest what-so-ever in romantic love, but the mention that he looked so much like his father had filled him with such pride that he had stowed the memory away, until now.

“Grandmother…your mother, she wasn’t related to the Rosfield line, was she?” Clive asks, wanting to make sure he is correct.

Uncle Byron blinks, confused by the sudden non-sequitur, but answers readily enough, “No, a rarity in the main Rosfield line, where marriages between however many removed cousins are such a common practise it’s a wonder we’re not all sporting Phoenix feathers.”

Clive exhales a half-hearted shadow of a laugh at the running family joke.

“She was from a wealthy merchant family that rose to nobility through the knighthood of her great-grandfather,” his uncle muses. “It caused a bit of scandal in the beginning, but then my father’s betrothal had never been decided upon and he was the Phoenix, plus the dowry my mother brought with her quickly shut up the last of her deriders.”

Of course it would have, the war with the Ironblood over Drake’s Breath had nearly bankrupted Rosaria when it suddenly found itself without free access to a Mothercrystal.

“Why do you ask?”

“Something I overheard,” Clive begins, “my mother’s line, she and father are cousins, and her own parents were also cousins…”

“Yes?” his uncle encourages, still not quite catching what Clive is implying.

Never one to flinch away from being direct Clive gets to the point. “She thinks Joshua was the Phoenix because of her, that I am also an Eikon because of her, she thinks the Phoenix blood is purer in her line than it was in father’s.”

“Clive, I don’t understand?”

Clive doesn’t want to understand, but with all his mother’s talk of bloodlines and her legacy over the years, and especially now, it makes too much sense.

“She would have killed him.” If father had managed to divorce her, if Joshua had continued to overcome his illness, she would have had him killed, all because she is so convinced that the blood that runs in her veins guarantees that she will give birth to the Phoenix, so long as the current one is dead.

“Clive—" before his uncle can ask again, a quiet chap rings against the door and Mia lets herself in, the physicker she had gone to fetch trailing in her wake.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she apologises as she walks further into the room, looking sincerely remorseful that she could not buy them at least a few more minutes.

His uncle, ever the showman, plasters on a smile and welcomes the Physicker, even as he cannot stop his concerned gaze from flicking back towards Clive.

He hardly notices, too lost in his own head, reevaluating the danger that he, his uncle, and all of Rosaria are in.

He knew, he always knew that his mother’s love for Joshua had been contingent on his Eikon, at least to some degree, but he had also thought that the fact that Joshua was the Phoenix guaranteed it. Instead, it was a combination of his status as a Dominant and her ability to control him.

Without that, in her eyes, Joshua had been as worthless as Clive.

Joshua, who she supposedly loved, had been just as expendable as the rest of them.

Chapter Text

Anabella keeps her gaze trained on the door and her ears pricked for any sign of raised voices, an easy excuse to intervene, to give Byron less of an opportunity to poison her son against her.

Not that he has to work too hard on that front.

Anabella regrets very little in her life, why lament a past that can never be changed when the time spent wasted on that can be put to far better use.

That said, in this instance, she cannot help but mourn the lost opportunity.

Clive and she had been so close once, as close as she and Joshua, and would have continued to be so had it not been for the Undying’s mistake.

She can readily admit that she would have been slightly disappointed to learn that Clive was not the Phoenix, but the knowledge that he was still a Dominant would have assuaged her fears, would have allowed her to keep loving her son. The Undying had taken that from her and now force her to resort to means far less…pleasant to ensure her influence, her control.

It is not the path that Anabella would have chosen.

Yes, fear and hatred, the emotions that currently rule Clive’s opinion of her, can be useful, but love and the loyalty born from it are so much more stable and beneficial.

A sigh escapes her, born of equal parts frustration and wistfulness.

She has resolved herself to endure Clive’s reticence towards her, for a time at least, she will even be willing to weather the storm of his rage, if or when it breaks, as she already has, but this most recent display…

If Byron cannot quell it, cannot convince her son of the folly of it, then she will of course take matters into her own hands.

Though why dirty her own when Byron has so eagerly volunteered.

Besides, the tighter Clive and his Uncle’s bonds grows the easier it will be to leverage him against her dear son. Not that Byron has ever failed in his duty as the doting uncle, but he has been rather estranged these last few years, only in part due to Anabella’s efforts, she can’t take all the credit, Byron’s business ventures do keep him busy. The demands of his many and lucrative mercantile enterprises all but guaranteeing his absence from Port Isolde for at least half the year.

Something, that now she thinks about it, she will have to curtail to at least some degree, she can’t have Byron freely roaming the length and breadth of Valisthea, who knows what sort of trouble he might kick up, if she were to allow it, but then his businesses are dependent upon the relationships he maintains with his many contacts…

No, better to have him watched, maybe even have someone shadow him, so if the time ever came when he proves to be far more trouble than his exceptional worth, she might replace him.

Leaning back, she contemplates her options.

Time continues to pass as she runs through a mental list of who may prove suitable for this task, but it is only as the noon bells chime in the distance that she realises just how long it has been since Byron bid the girl to fetch the physicker.

Glancing again at the door to her son’s room she frowns at the fact that there are still no signs of the upheaval Anabella is only half hoping for.

Not knowing what has happened is beginning to make a restless tension settle in her legs, but it is beneath her to even entertain the idea of pacing about the room in order to work off the jittering pressure building beneath her skin.

As ever, she resolves to put this fretful energy to better use.

Waving over one of the other maids who has been standing in a corner ever since her return, uselessly hovering there when she should have been going about her work or asking Anabella if she needed anything.

“Yes, your Grace?” she asks with a saccharine voice that grates against Anabella’s nerves.

“I am in need of some books on the history of Sanbreque, astrology, and Great Greagor’s teachings.” All topics that should arouse little suspicion given her relationship with Sylvestre, but if anyone dares to ask the simple explanation that she wishes to learn more about the culture of the mighty empire that is so graciously playing host to her, should allay their fears. Meanwhile she can freely search for some reference to Bahamut, and more importantly his blessing.

“At once, your Grace.” The maid leaves, and Anabella is again left with the task of finding something to occupy herself with, while she awaits the maid’s return.

Eventually, her gaze slides to the pile of letters she still has to open. Empty flattery holds little appeal to her at the moment, so many of them read the same, flowery language devoid of any true substance or worth, but for every ten that hold nothing, there is one with at least the beginnings of promise.

Resigned to be bored, Anabella starts to sort the letters that remain.

Unwilling to entertain those which bare names she does not recognise, she swiftly sets them aside and moves onto the next.

She passes a good few minutes in this manner, until a light knock sounds at the door.

At first, she believes it must be the first maid returned with the physicker, but the guard opens the door to unveil a wisp of a boy dressed as a page, with a stolas perched on his outstretched arm.

She watches the boy avidly as he performs the proper bow, half bent at the waist, eyes trained on the ground, and then she beckons him forward, her posture open and welcoming, even as she dearly wishes to snatch the bird from him and glimpse the message it holds.

The stolas seems just as eager, hopping from foot to foot, its talons sheathing themselves in the thick leather cuff the boy uses to guard his arm.

“She arrived with the noon bells your Grace,” explains the boy as he takes a small tabletop perch for the bird from the satchel at his side and begins setting it up close enough to Anabella, that all she will have to do is lean forward slightly in order to receive the message.

She does just that as soon as the page takes a step back, allowing the aether and the message it contains to fill her mind.

Flashes of Rosalith on fire, streets and walls painted with blood, bodies laid out in the Bailey covered with sheets to hide the horrid sight from view, the representatives of the Seven High Houses gathered in the council chambers arguing and trading insults. Finally, an empty room she recognises as Jill’s.

‘It is done. I await your next command, your Grace.’

Anabella pulls back from the stolas and allows an image of devastation to overcome her even as she basks in the afterglow of victory ignited by this news: the confirmation that Rosaria is nothing but a shadow of its former self and will be left with no choice but to accept Sanbreque’s aid.

With quivering hands that tremble with excitement that could easily be misconstrued as shock, she takes the letter attached to the stolas’ leg and begins to read.

Far less incriminating that the message and memories held within the stolas, the letter reads:

To her Grace, the Duchess Anabella Rosfield,

It is with deep sorrow that I must inform you that your fears have come to pass.

Seizing upon the tragedy of the Night of the Flames the Ironblood have raided the very heart of Rosaria, Rosalith castle.

The full scale of the loss is still being tallied, but the most pressing at present has been the abduction of Lady Jill Warrick and several other ladies of the court.

I and your loyal servants await your return and pray that further tragedy can yet be avoided.

May the Founder keep you,

Celine Valadon,

Allowing the letter to fall from stiff fingers she falls back into her chair as false tears begin to prick at her eyes, and all the while she fights the phantom smile that’s trying to spread across her lips.

This, this is what she needed, what she had hoped for.

For all she has ignored Clive she still knows him. How could she not when Joshua had spent so much time trying so earnestly to convince her that Clive was just as worthy of her love as he was.

A notion that she had silently scoffed at even as she assured Joshua that she was listening. (She should have listened, maybe then…)

Clive is a First Shield of Rosaria, not just in name but in temperament as well, to think of others before himself is second nature to the boy.

Hurting those around him while he remains unharmed has ever been an effective punishment for him, his own guilt eating at his heart while his once friends distanced themselves in fear.

Until only two remained.

As such, the path forward is clear.

How nice that the little Northern Savage can still be of use.

As for the Iron Kingdom…

They have held Drake’s Breath for far too long, Elwin had at least been correct in that.

The preparations that Rosaria made for the attack on the island that held the Mothercrystal, which by all rights is theirs, should still be in place, and though weakened, she knows the Shields of Rosaria still have thorns, ones that are liable to try and choke her in her sleep when the truth of her betrayal is eventually unveiled. Secrets such as these can never be kept ere long.

No, best to be rid of them before that can happen, and war is ever a cruel master, swathes of soldiers can be lost beneath its tide within the blink of an eye and neither side ever emerges fully unscathed, especially when an Eikon takes the field.

Victory would be all but guaranteed with the Ironblood’s lack of Dominant, it is after all, what had made Elwin so confident about his own swift victory, but not without losses, especially with an untrained Dominant.

Recent events prove that Clive does not have the best control yet, a fault to be corrected, but also to be exploited. Something made infinitely easier by the fact that Clive has finally come to acknowledge, to accept, that he is the Second Eikon of Fire.

She considers this and yet all the while still presents the perfect image of a bereaved lady that has just received yet more demoralising news on top of the recent tragedies she has already suffered.

“Your Grace?” One of the Dragoons finally enquires.

“A moment Ser, I need a moment.” She doesn’t, but to recover too quickly would be to destroy the illusion of heartbreak she has cast.

Distantly she hears the sound of the door opening, the quiet clatter of the Dragoons well-oiled armour as he retreats momentarily back to his post, the exchange of hushed voices as whoever has entered the room is beckoned forward to go about their business but instructed not to disturb her.

She allows them to pass her by without acknowledgement, reinforcing the image of a Lady lost amidst the tide of her own grief.

The identities of the visitors are confirmed when the door to her son’s room is opened and Byron’s loud voice bids them enter.

“Ah, the vaunted physicker, come in. We won’t take up too much of your time.”

The door closes quietly behind them, blocking out the sound of their voices again.

Anabella shall grant them a few more minutes, if only to help sell her act.

The creak of crystal infused armour to her right followed by the crunch of parchment being grabbed, paints a clear picture of the Dragoon guard taking a knee by her chair in order to retrieve the letter that must have fallen to the ground.

“Your Grace, what news?”

“Ill tidings,” Anabella manages to whisper on a quavering breath.

She flutters her eyes as she looks up, forcing more tears to fall from her lashes. “Was it not enough that I lost a son? Must the home I raised him in be burnt to the ground as well?”

Even with his face hidden beneath his helmet she can tell that the Dragoon is left uncomfortable by the sight of her tears.

The awkward cough that echoes in his helm as he tries to fill the silence that has grown to fill the room speaks only of his growing discomfort as does his next question, “your Grace, shall I send word to his Radiance?”

“No, no,” she manages to gasp out, “I would not have him troubled by this.” She says this with the full hope that the Dragoon will insist.

“Your Grace, I can assure you his Radiance shall want to be here, at least give him the chance.”

Sylvestre is currently touring the wreckage of the Inner Sanctum, he has been since this morning, even if the Dragoon were to send someone with a message now, it shall be at least an hour before Sylvestre can come to her.

The smallest of nods is all it takes for the Dragoon to act.

“You boy, run to the Emperor and inform him that news from Rosalith has arrived, be sure to impress upon him how it has affected the Lady Anabella, now go.” The page bows and goes to retrieve the stolas, but the Dragoon waves him off. “I will have this dealt with, go.”

“At once Ser.” Quiet, controlled steps transform into the fast tattoo of a run as soon as the boy leaves the room.

The surprised gasp of a woman has Anabella glancing in the direction of the door, revealing the sight of the maid she had sent to retrieve the books standing in the doorway, nearly knocked flying by the page’s haste.

Said books are precariously balanced in her arms, liable to tip at any moment but the Dragoon swoops in, catching a heavy leather-bound tome that is about to fall, before taking the rest of the books from her hands.

“See to your Lady,” he orders, not unkindly as he steps aside to grant the maid access.

“Your Grace?” the maid asks as she falls to her knees before Anabella, “what has happened?”

The Dragoon saves Anabella the trouble of explaining as he places the books on the table and reaches for the stolas. “Rosalith has been attacked.”

“Oh, your Grace, how terrible,” the maid babbles, and that alone is enough to convince Anabella that she has maintained her broken façade long enough, lest the maid try to comfort her.

“I must tell my son…and Byron,” she tags on, as she rises and retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing at her already dry tears.

“Your Grace, won’t you sit a moment longer, your son was already so distressed.” Anabella’s eyes narrow at that comment, how much had this girl heard? “Perhaps wait, at least until the physicker is done?”

“No, this is not something that can be made to wait.” Anabella moves with purpose towards Clive’s room.

She makes it there and opens the door before the maid can even begin to pick herself off the floor.

Byron is obviously not expecting her to open the door herself, or more likely, for her to enter unannounced, so his brash dismissal, “we’re still a little bloody in here, advice the Duchess we shall be a while,” is not unexpected.

That does not detract from the abrasive nature of the comment, a fact Byron recognises as he meets her gaze.

“Ah, your Grace, forgive me,” the insincerity in Byron’s voice is always hard to catch, but Anabella has had years of practise. She can let it slide for the moment, what matters here is the pretence that they get along.

“Of course, Lord Rosfield,” expected if disingenuous pleasantries aside, Anabella searches for her son.

Perched upon the chair she previously occupied, he rises the second her stare falls upon him.

His stance is tense, rigid in a way that speaks of so many repressed emotions.

Does he intend to try and attack her again? Or has Byron managed to quell his fury as he had promised?

The answer comes in the form of the tight but perfect bow Clive presents her with, and the small greeting of, “mother,” that follows.

Elation over this small victory is a near physical thing filling her chest.

The fire in his gaze still needs to be tempered, if not banked completely, and the inscrutable mask he has forced upon his features will need to be refined, but the fact that he is willing to pay her the respect she deserves, without having to be told to do so, is a step in the right direction.

Especially after his earlier display.

“Clive.” She sweeps forward, intending to take him in her arms, but he steps back out of reach, placing the chair between them so she cannot force the issue.

“Please don’t,” his voice is so tight. “I have caused enough harm to my family for one day.” His eyes dart to where the physicker is dabbing an elixir against the unsightly gash that mars Byron’s palm.

A lie, and not a very good one, they will have to work on that too, but she can allow it to pass for the moment.

“Clive, have faith, the crystal fetters you are wearing were forged by the best artisans, they will not fail.” Her fingers rise to caress the thin chain around her neck, a gesture that is fast becoming a habit. “Besides, we both know you would never intentionally harm those you hold dear. Now come, there is something I must tell you both.”

Clive understands this threat as he has every other, his shoulders droop in defeat as he reluctantly moves towards her.

When he is close enough, she gives him no option but to look at her as she places a finger beneath his chin and directs him to look at her, digging her perfectly manicured nail into the thin skin beneath his jaw at the first sign of resistance in order to force him to comply.

A quick study of his face reveals that he has indeed been calmed, though even after washing his face the evidence of his little outburst is still there, the redness around his eyes a clear sign that he has been crying.

“There is something I must tell you,” her voice is heavy with the rumble of her feigned grief, and she can see Clive does not fall for it by the way his eyes flash with the shadows of anxiety and doubt.

“Your grace,” Byron tries to distract her, and she lets him, allowing Clive to step back, “the physicker still has some work to do, I assure you it will only be a few more minutes, if this matter might wait?”

“It may not,” she declares as she retakes the seat Clive has so kindly vacated for her.

Without further explanation, she hands the letter to Clive.

Hesitantly, as if he half expects the paper to transform into a snake and bite him, he takes it, and Anabella watches with avid fascination as he unfurls the paper and reads.

The way his eyes widen and his breath catches, the way the parchment crumples as his grip upon it tightens, the way he tries so valiantly to hide the despair that slowly overtakes him as he processes each word on the page.

“My boy?” Byron questions, concern projected with every gesture, even as he bats the physicker away. “By the bloody Founder, its fine now, just pour the rest of the elixir over it and be done with it.” The physicker does as Byron commands before gathering his things and making himself scarce.

When the door closes behind him, Clive hands his uncle the letter with numb fingers.

Anabella ignores Byron, she can already guess what kind of reaction he will have, quiet rage that will boil beneath a thin veneer of calm until some fool unwittingly triggers him.

No, instead she keeps her attention fixed firmly on her son.

He stands closer to Byron than to her, but he is still close enough that she has no trouble reaching out to take his hand.

He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t react in anyway. He might as well have turned to stone for all the warmth she can feel from him.

“It will be alright,” she soothes as she runs her thumb comfortingly across the back of his hand.

That is apparently all he can take at the moment as her voice seems to snap him out of whatever apathy he has forced upon himself.

“We have to go back,” he says, his voice a hollow echo of what she is used to hearing from him, “we can’t just let them…” his eyes widen as his thoughts turn to all the horrible things that must have happened to his home, to his people, to his friend.

Byron’s hand lands on his shoulder, and instinctively Clive’s own rises to keep it there.

The sharp sting of jealousy that rears at the sight is not unfamiliar to her, it struck every time she caught Joshua smiling at anyone but her, especially Clive who always seemed to earn it so easily.

Briefly, she considers the merits of having Byron seized and thrown in a dungeon, but a quick reminder of his worth has her burying the notion, though the mere image of Byron behind bars is a tantalising one.

“We will,” Byron consoles, “after all what would it say about our gracious allies, who have been so kind as to grant the heir to Rosaria’s throne sanctuary, if they did not allow us to defend our own lands,” Byron pointedly looks at Anabella, even as he reassures Clive.

Trust Lord Byron Rosfield to try and turn what should have been a deathblow into a potential opportunity.

“Of course, I will speak to the Emperor at the first opportunity.” A subtle deflection and block, but one that Byron recognises, one that makes it clear he shall have no power here.

He opens his mouth, prepared with a counter, ready to begin the dance of words that as they stand now can only end with his loss, only to be silenced as Clive speaks up.

“What do you want?”

The question cuts through the saccharine perfume of fake civility that has filled the room and causes even Anabella’s to blink in surprise.

“Clive,” Byron warns in a gentle tone as he uses the hand he has on the boys shoulder to try and pull him back, but Clive steps forward, his face set with determination, braced as though he’s prepared for a fight he knows he shall lose in the end.

Ever the martyr.

“What do you want?” he asks again, “What do I have to give you to save them?”

“Clive,” she scoffs with a motherly tone that she used to use when Joshua was being difficult.

Clive doesn’t yield.

“For once in your life just be honest,” he demands, “you’ve already won in most ways that matter, and yet you still insist on playing these games, ones that cost me more and more, so just tell me.”

Has she won?

Yes, he’s right, in so many ways she has, but still…

What does she want?

The answer is so simple when she actually considers it.

Standing, she takes his face between her hands, and is gratified when he neither flinches nor recoils. He simply meets her gaze for the first time in such a long time.

“You.”

She can see the last light of resistance dying in his gaze as she says it, but still she goes on.

“I want my dutiful, obedient son, who has the power to reshape the world. I want that loyal boy that is oh so willing to sacrifice himself for a greater cause.”

“Anabella,” Byron hisses as he stands, anger on Clive’s behalf clear in every tense line of his stance, but Clive quiets his uncle’s rage with but a single sweep of his hand.

“Is that all it will take?” he asks, as though she has not just demanded everything he is and ever will be.

“That is all,” she agrees.

He nods, but she would hear it.

“Say it.”

He struggles for a moment, the words a burden on his tongue before he even speaks them.

“…you have me.”

There it is at last.

She sweeps back his hair as she bestows a kiss on his brow and takes him into her arms.

Everything in its proper place.

Chapter Text

‘Everything in its proper place.’

Yes, the mother of their Chosen spoke true.

Much has been achieved since Mythos first awoke.

That the long-awaited vessel has already drank of the power of the Warden of Light, and through the means of covenant, though incomplete, bound Bahamut to his soul.

The first trembling step on the path to the divine.

It is more than they dared to envision.

Especially when the Phoenix had managed to slip from their grasp, leaving their vessel with little more than an imperfect impression of the power he was meant to obtain, and now the child of fire rests on the precipice between life and death, held there by the power of the Phoenix which sustains him, an ember simply waiting to be snuffed out.

It matters little, a mere delay, for whether the child lives or dies, Phoenix will rise once more.

For now, their thoughts must turn to the other Eikons and their Dominants, for their Mythos can only be perfect once all the Wardens have been made to bow.

The Motes of Darkness have endured and Odin, their most loyal servant, now sits upon the throne of Waloed.

The Last King holds Ash in their name and has won the allegiance of both the Wardens of Wind and Lightning and though Garuda and Ramuh are unaware of their true purpose, of the role they are meant to play, they are still held within the shadow of his Warden of Darkness.

In Dhalmekia, their Warden of Earth has crafted an Empire within the Heart of Drake’s Fang itself, and contents himself with playing mercenary as he trades his favour for treasures. A perfect example of the avarice of mankind that would see Valisthea drained of all her splendour.

A waste, but the connection to the truth was severed with the destruction of Dzemekys, and so Titan can only stumble forward blindly.

In contrast, their Warden of Ice has yet to awaken, but events conspire to ensure that the Dominant of Shiva shall awake. The tundral wrath of the Glacian summoned forth by despair as the corrupted will that drives man ever onward down the path of ruin, breaks the veil of innocence that keeps Shiva locked in slumber.

All that remains is their Warden of Water.

Leviathan the Lost.

A false moniker born of ignorance begotten by arrogance.

No, all is in place.

For the Eikons endure by their will and may be made manifest once more when the time comes to make the world anew.

Alas, Mythos is still young, it will take years to forge and temper him into the vessel they require.

And so, he must be made to struggle, for how else can the strength they require be obtained.

They must reflect, Typhon had been an excellent means by which to test the strength of their Mythos, but the emergence of Bahamut had seen Typhon consigned to the void and Ifrit’s power spent.

Again then, they must test him.

For they must revel in the strength of the vessel long promised.

Chapter Text

A week abed has been torture.

Muscles used to hard work from regular training scream in pain over the sudden and immediate disruption to his routine, and Dion has no one to blame but himself as his father is so fond of reminding him, during his visits.

Still, when the alternative is watching a Bearer yet untouched by petrification forced to succumb to the Curse…no, never again.

Besides, his confinement is finally over, the physicker has at last given him the all clear, and so, with unspent energy near burning through his veins he makes for the nearest training ground.

He has half a mind to simply open the doors to the veranda and semi-prime, allow Bahamut a chance to spread his wings, but he holds back, as he has since the fight in the Inner Sanctum.

The Great Wyrm has been unsettled since the battle, where once he was content beneath the leash of Dion’s will, calm and pliant until called upon, now there is an undercurrent of disquieted chaos that Dion has little idea how to quell.

If he manifests the King of Dragons wings, will they be under his command or Bahamut’s? Will he once again be banished to that space within his mind, his body reduced to a puppet, a Dominant controlled by his Eikon.

Like Clive and Ifrit…

It is a chance he is unwilling to take, not now when even the smallest acts of magic have Bahamut writhing in his chest and baring his teeth in discontent.

Still, he is unwilling to run the gauntlet of nobles that the halls of Whitewyrm Lair have become, and so as soon as he exits his apartments, he ducks into the back halls reserved for the servants.

The staff have long grown accustomed to this tactic of Dion’s, so much so that all they do is bow as he passes them before returning to their work.

This early in the morning he is expecting the training grounds to be empty, so he is surprised to hear the reverberating clash of steel as he approaches.

Surprised, but also eager, he had hoped to run through some drills with his halberd but maybe a spar will do him some good after so many days spent idle.

That thought dies the moment he turns the final corner before the stairs leading to the training grounds.

Firelit wings and sparks catching against the air cause Dion’s steps to falter.

The toll of metal rings strangely in his ears as he watches Clive throw fire at a man armed with an axe.

Distantly he notes that Clive is not wearing the crystal fetters that keep his magic his Eikon suppressed and something tight constricts within his chest. It tips over the edge of painful when light replaces flame and suddenly Dion finds himself walking away, a hand pressed to his chest as he tries to take a moment to breathe.

He closes his eyes, but all he can see in the darkness is the reflection of the fight within the Inner Sanctum.

The play of firelight reflected off crystal as a horned beast forged from fire pulls Bahamut from him.

He’s so agitated, he doesn’t even realise he has called upon Bahamut’s wings until he regains himself as he circles the astrologer’s tower.

When he alights atop the highest roof, he curls his arms around his knees and enfolds himself within the sanctuary of his Eikon’s wings.

Terence finds him a while later.

He says nothing, simply sits, simply waits.

A while after that, Bahamut’s wings shift, only enough to allow Terence to slide closer, to allow the wings to enfold him too, to draw him in, to keep them safe, and shield them both from the world.

Clive looks down at the crystal fetters that enclose his wrists and despairs.

He has managed to convince his mother to remove them while he trains, but she still insists that he must wear them at all other times.

The drain of them is endless, a fact that has now been proved by the brief windows of time he is allowed to go without them.

An hour each morning in which he is permitted to train with Uncle Byron, where the lethargy that constantly plagues him is finally lifted.

They call it training but it would be more accurate to call it a brawl, one where his uncle encourages him to not hold back, to vent all his frustrations while he has the opportunity, in the hope that it will at least ease the burden of having to endure his mother’s demands for the rest of the day.

It works, to some degree, and even provides him with an opportunity to acclimate to the light he has stolen from Bahamut—it’s not a blessing, no matter what his mother insists, Dion did not grant it willingly and if there is a way to return it, he shall—but the effect is tempered as soon as the cold combination of crystal and metal is closed around his wrists.

How will he ever get strong enough to save Jill like this?

“What’s wrong my darling?” his mother asks, even as she twists the key within the lock to secure the cuffs in place.

Everything in truth, but as per their agreement he must at least try to play the role of the dutiful son.

“I’m just tired,” he excuses, already knowing it shall not be enough.

He does his best not to flinch as she trails her knuckles against his cheek, but he’s so used to the same hand slapping him across the face, that the instinctive need to brace is nearly impossible to suppress.

She frowns, but otherwise makes no comment on his reaction as she brings her hand to rest upon his shoulder, in a gesture that must look so empathetic and comforting to anyone watching them.

This is what he cannot force himself to get used to, the touches that must look so kind and loving from the outside, when she hugged him the other day, he froze like a gazelle caught in crystal light, unable to move until she let him go.

“The crystal fetters are a burden, I know,” she consoles, her voice filled with such patience and understanding, “but until you have full mastery of your Eikon, of Ifrit,” she says the name with such pride and this time Clive cannot withhold his flinch, but again, his mother ignores it. “Until we can be sure you shall not lose control, these must stay.”

The finality of that statement is not lost on Clive, so he doesn’t push it, merely nods, and walks beside her when she links their arms and pulls him forward.

That doesn’t stop Uncle Byron.

“How exactly is the boy meant to gain control if he is only ever allowed to take the crystal cuffs off for barely an hour each day?”

The saccharine quality to his uncle’s voice has Clive wincing, as he recognises it as one of his uncle’s most condescending tones, something that isn’t lost on his mother, judging by the way her smile takes on an edge of sharpness.

“The Astrologers are currently working on a solution, in the meantime, if he continues to make progress in his morning sessions with you, then of course we may discuss removing the cuffs on a more regular basis,” she says this in her diplomatic voice, which is why Clive already knows to expect the catch.

“However, with everything that happened at Phoenix Gate, and again within the halls of the Inner Sanctum…” she lets the sentence hang, and Clive’s own mind works against him, conjuring vile memories that he will never be able to outlive.

Assured that her warning has landed, his mother releases his arm. “I have a meeting with the Duchess of Oriflamme, the Dragoon’s shall see you back to your apartments.” She runs cold fingers through his hair, and tucks a lose strand behind his ear, a gesture she is beginning to favour that makes Clive feel like insects are crawling across his skin. “Go rest, and I will see you for afternoon tea.”

Clive nods and bows to her as she leaves. “Mother.” The wholly satisfied smile that adorns her lips lets him know that he has done well enough, for now.

The Dragoons form up around them, a silent barrier of armoured bodies that follow his mother’s command and lead Clive and his uncle back to the extravagant rooms that act as his gilded cage.

When the doors close behind them and the sound of the key turning in the lock echoes through the room, Clive can at last drop the act.

Removing his sword with careful movements, he makes for the balcony and collapses to the floor, pressing his back against the banister as he allows his head to fall forward.

It’s exhausting, having to keep up these appearances, having to bow and act cordially towards the very people responsible for the Night of the Flames. That’s what they’re calling it, as though it wasn’t their fault.

No, they’ve made sure that the truth has been drowned out by rumour and lies, claiming that the tragedy came about because Joshua lost control, leaving out any mention of the Empire’s involvement, of their guilt.

Taking a deep breath Clive tries to calm himself, but he’s been having to keep himself calm every time he interacts with a noble, and the reminder just causes a ceaseless tide of frustrated anger to rise at the back of his mind. If it were not for the crystalline fetters, the rage he feels would be painting his arms with cinder veins and the soft down of the burgeoning wings of the Phoenix’s blessing.

It’s an endless cycle, still waters run deep, and when he tries to clear his mind, he can see through the calm surface all the way down to the depths of his soul, and into the burning pit where Ifrit lies curled around the undying embers of his hate and shame.

He turns his focus outward, trying to find something to anchor himself to.

His Uncle’s voice, familiar and always associated with safety, immediately has his attention.

“Is Mia not available? I thought she had been assigned here permanently?”

“No, my Lord,” explains an unfamiliar voice, “her services were requested by the Imperial Physicker, and her Grace saw fit to grant it.”

The knot of fear that had been tightening within Clive’s chest over the thought that Mia had been fired loosens as he hears that.

He’s not entirely sure how she is managing to navigate his mother’s notoriously impossible standards when it comes to staff, but selfishly he hopes she will continue to succeed where every other maid that has been assigned to him has failed.

“Very well, if I might trouble you to set us up with some refreshment?” Uncle Byron requests, and Clive assumes she goes about the task without complaint, as he hears his uncle walk out onto the balcony to join him.

He waits a moment, giving Clive the opportunity to speak first.

He can’t, now that he thinks about it, this is the first time he and his uncle have had any sense of privacy since…

‘Say it.’

‘…you have me.’

Clive curls in further on himself.

His uncle sighs, and with the weight of it, Clive finally finds the right words.

“I didn’t have a choice, I’m sorry.”

The laugh, half derisive, half genuinely surprised, sounds so unlike his uncle’s deep baritone that Clive is used to.

“My boy, are you truly so arrogant?”

Clive looks up, perplexed, only to find his uncle smiling at him indulgently, which just confuses him more.

“How is apologising arrogant?”

Uncle Byron answers his question with a question, “are you omnipotent?”

“No,” Clive answers, even more confused but curious.

His uncle nods “Are you a tried and tested leader who has overseen negotiations upon which the fate of a nation may depend?”

Again. “No.”

“Are you a politician who has defeated his adversaries with words alone, and has years of experience from which to draw upon?”

Once more, the answer is, “no.”

Uncle Byron nods and then asks one final question, “what are you?”

Several answers pop into Clive’s mind, but most of them he knows his uncle would not care for: monster, murderer, traitor, the list goes on, but Clive already knows there’s only one answer he can give that Uncle Byron will accept, “the First Shield of Rosaria.”

A hand on his shoulder, encouraging and grounding, “The youngest First Shield in Rosarian history,” his uncle corrects. “A worthy accomplishment to be sure, but how exactly is a fifteen-year-old, meant to compete with a seasoned politician who orchestrated a betrayal that could well see her as the next Empress of Sanbreque?”

When he put it like that…

Is he being arrogant?

Or is he simply falling into the same trap that defined his entire childhood, trying to live up to a standard that he can never reach.

“Still,” he tries, but stops, because his response sounds like an excuse even in his own mind.

“My boy, we are going to get through this,” Uncle Byron reassures, and Clive wants to believe him, but…

His doubt must show on his face, because the grip on his shoulder tightens.

“Clive, do you know why I and your father encouraged your interest in the Saint and the Sectary and other such tales? Apart from the fact that they were and still are entertaining.”

“Besides the obvious?” The similarities between his mother and Madu were becoming more apparent by the day.

Uncle Byron smiles, and Clive has a feeling he just read his mind. “Yes, besides that.”

Clive sits up straighter and rests his head against the cool stone of the banister, looking up at the clouds, allowing his thoughts to drift along with them.

“They were all moral tales that had meaning.” he says after a while, when a cloud loosely in the shape of a sword passes overhead, reminding him of the blade Ser Crandall used to slay Madu. “Some of them might not have had the happiest of endings, but even if it required sacrifice, good eventually did triumph over evil.”

“Indeed, that was one aspect,” his uncle agrees, “but more importantly, what did the heroes of these tales always have?”

Clive draws a blank, but his uncle has mercy at last. “None of them were alone, even Ser Crandall had the Knights of the Round and Saint Sybil at his side. He had their support, and you have mine.”

The warmth those words give Clive is enough to chase away the cold of the crystalline cuffs.

“Thank you, uncle.”

The doors open onto the observatory, unveiling not the pristine and opulent architecture that has greeted her during her previous visits, but a scene of chaos.

Neat lines of shelves have been replaced with cloth tarps, work benches, and crates as the workmen go about deconstructing the elaborate stained-glass ceiling.

A necessary disturbance, one that could no longer be denied nor ignored, not when the clash between Bahamut and Ifrit had left the images of the Eikon’s cracked beyond repair.

A sign if anything, after all, how could the Astrologers claim to speak for the celestial order if the very halls in which they reside failed to represent all the Eikon’s upon which they based their divinations.

Even Odin had still held a place of honour, despite the war his Dominant chose to wage against the Empire, to exclude Ifrit would be an insult, one that she could not allow to stand, one that the Empire itself could ill afford, not now with so many tales of Clive’s heroic efforts spreading across the nation like wildfire.

The fact alone that her son’s actions had spared the Empire’s beloved Crown Prince from an inglorious death at the hands of a traitor, was enough to earn their praise. Add to that the Blessing of Bahamut, a full Blessing not the paltry scale the Prince could bequeath without harm to even the most common peasant, but an actual portion of the Eikon’s power…

A knight of the Order of the Pale Moon reborn, that’s what the bards have taken to calling Clive.

An obvious association, given that the Order of the Pale Moon was solely comprised of those that received Bahamut’s Blessing. A double edge sword that led to their eventual downfall, for as it is with the Phoenix, the Warden of Lights blessing may only be grated to the worthy.

Those that dare to reach for the divine and fail to prove their worth are subject to the Eikon’s wrath.

As a consequence, the Empire has not witnessed the ascension of a Knight of the Pale Moon in over a century, but the prestige of the Order and the legacy of their deeds endure.

The association can only be to Clive’s benefit.

Just as the addition of Ifrit to the pantheon of Eikons should ease his path to acceptance and grant him the reverence that is his by right, for it has never been lost on Anabella how the Eikons are venerated.

Even when the pure bloodline is broken, and the Eikon has no choice to choose a Dominant of lesser breeding, the fact that they are a Dominant is enough to raise the lowliest of beasts to the height of nobility.

But how the nobility would react to an unestablished Eikon, even when his Dominant comes from an unquestionably noble line…

‘And lo, the creator did make of the elements eight Eikons, to serve as keepers of the one law.’

Eight elements, eight Eikons.

So far, she had heard little to no disparaging talk directed towards Ifrit, the same cannot be said for the Phoenix.

The rumours that have been spread concerning the events of the Night of the Flames may have allayed any fears regarding Ifrit, but in doing so the blame has fallen instead upon the Phoenix upon Joshua.

Talk of the Phoenix’s power having waned to the point where the Second Eikon of Fire arose to replace him.

A vile lie, and when Anabella finds out who was responsible for breathing life into it, she would have their tongue.

For now though, she must content herself with righting the wrong before her.

The designers greet her upon her approach, shifting to accommodate her at the head of the table as they push the only designs that will hold her interest forward.

“Your Grace, thank you for making the time to see us, the Emperor made it clear that we were not allowed to proceed until you had approved these designs.” The head architect gestures towards said designs, enthusiasm causing him to vibrate with anticipation.

A huge contrast when compared to the last architect, whose proposed drafts for the new Phoenix and Ifrit stained-glass had left Anabella calculating how quickly she could ruin his career, She had soon learned that he was indeed the original architect who had been responsible for the dull, and near insulting representation of the Phoenix, and he had seemed determined to give Ifrit the same treatment, depicting the Second Eikon of Fire as something akin to a wingless wyvern with horns.

One dismayed word to Sylvestre had seen the man thrown from the castle.

No, the new head architect, an artist by the name of Camille Matisse had been handpicked by Anabella from a litany of artists that had been recommended to her.

He had impressed her with the mere fact that out of all the artists to present her with preliminary ideas, he had been the only one to give equal focus to Ifrit and Pheonix.

“The Twin Flames,” he had called them, and Anabella could summon nothing but approval for the moniker, and since then had taken to referring to them as that herself, after all they were brothers.

Looking down at the sketches Camille has prepared for her, Anabella can see the moniker brought to life. Even in the medium of charcoal both Eikon’s seem to burn with power, Pheonix with his wings spread wide and his tail feathers fanned out behind him, Ifrit with a fire spell cradled between his horns, his maw wide in challenge, as though he is ready to leap from the page.

Anabella stares in awe, already imagining what both images shall look like when cast in glass.

“Your Grace,” Camille prompts, anticipating praise.

She is all too happy to give it, though more modestly than Camille is hoping for. “How soon can work begin?”

Clive is seldom alone these days, but in the company of strangers and traitors he finds solitude to be a rarely won prize that he covets more and more.

Uncle Byron and Mia both conspire to give him the seclusion he craves, coming up with excuses and creating small gaps in the schedule his mother has organised on his behalf, an attempt to correct the gaps in his education, as she calls it. Torture, he and Uncle agree as Mia nods in the background.

The small snatches of moments between one tutor leaving and the next arriving, are few and far between, but they are the only times where he is allowed to be himself. Where he is given the chance to breathe without someone trying to correct his posture, quiz him on political history and its real-life applications, or dictate preparations for the upcoming invasion of Drake’s Breath and the role he shall play in it.

When his current tutor—a man who has the strange ability to turn every history lesson into a sermon about the greatness of the Empire—leaves, Clive rests his head against the fine oak table and pushes the books and notes cluttering its surface as far away from himself as he dares, before letting his mind go blank.

Time flows too quickly.

It’s barely been ten minutes when a knock on the study rooms door lets him know that his time is up.

He groan’s quietly, but none the less resigns himself.

He’s just managed to sit up straight when the door opens to reveal not the tutor he is expecting, but Prince Dion.

“Forgive me Master Harpocrates I was—”

The Prince freezes as his gaze locks with Clive’s, his face falling into a neutral mask that Clive has seen him wear during the Cardinal’s assembly and other public events.

The atmosphere that begins to settle between them reminds Clive of a much milder version of the air of distain that had always risen around his mother whenever she was displeased with him.

Something dull but painful settles within Clive’s chest as Prince Dion stands there, saying nothing.

Instinctively, Clive turns his face away, even as he rises to greet the Prince. “Your Highness.”

“Lord Marquess,” Prince Dion’s voice is toneless, even as he returns Clive’s bow. “I seem to have made a mistake, good day.”

With that the Price removes himself, and Clive is once again alone.

The once dull pain becomes a sharp stab, but it is mercifully brief, and easily explained.

Of course, Prince Dion can no longer stand to look at him, or even be in the same room as him for longer than he must.

Unintentional though it may have been, Clive lied to him, and Dion had been the one to pay the price.

Looking down at his palm he blinks and sees the shadow of Bahamut’s stolen light, and in the quiet of the room something that sounds like a contented growl.

He shakes he head as he runs his fingers across the cold crystal that keeps Ifrit sealed, taking comfort in the fact that at least Dion survived.

Six months.

Six months of silence.

All so that they might remain undiscovered.

Much has been lost along the way, but it is a sacrifice willingly given unto the flame so that their Lord might endure.

Still, their once great order has fallen far from the heights the wings of their Lord had availed them, and Cyril can only find regret in their diminished state and how it effects their ability to serve the Phoenix but serve they shall.

The beat of swift feathered wings has him rising and making for the door even before the guard stationed there can announce the arrival of the stolas. The heat of the Dhalmekian sun beats down upon the market of Tabor but the bird still hops with an eager anticipation that mirrors his own as he raises his arm to provide it with a perch.

He ignores the uncomfortable press of sharp talons in the skin of his wrist in favour of pressing his forehead the lithified feather of the stolas’ own.

The images that flow into his mind are as clear as day.

The corridors of the Whitewyrm Lair are filled with nobles from all across the Empire, and the halls echoes with their gossip, different iterations of the same story repeated again and again, until a lie becomes the truth.

“Did you hear?”

“Yes, they say the Phoenix lost control.”

“What did they expect, sending such a young child to war, separating him from his mother.”

“How much more devastation might have been wrought had the young Marquess not awakened as a Dominant as well?”

The next memory is a scene from the training grounds of Whitewyrm Lair, easily identified by the opulent marble architecture, the Bahamut iconography, and the shadow of Drake’s head that looms over the snow-covered field of Oriflamme in winter.

Marquess Clive Rosfield faces off against his uncle, wielding the flames of the Phoenix as if he were born to them, and not the usurper that he has become, but the darker flames that interlace the blessed fire, the death to the life the Phoenix wields, reveal him for what he is, though it does not explain the new development.

Light, iridescent but ephemeral comes at the young Lord’s call, swifter than his flames the radiant spell manages to block a strike and provides the young man with the opening he needs to win the match.

Another shift, this time to one of the many reception rooms, her Grace, the Duchess Anabella, sits opposite the Emperor, their voices quiet but clearly heard over the silence of the room.

“Of course I will be willing to provide the men,” the Emperor assures, “Waloed has been quiet as of late, but Dion can remain as a deterrent should the Last King bay for more blood.”

“Your Radiance, your mercy and generosity continue to know no bounds,” her Grace demures as she reaches out to take the Emperor’s hand in hers.

The memories finally fade as a voice fills his ears.

‘The Marquess has been confirmed as the Second Eikon of Fire, I shall continue my observations and await further instructions.’

As he pulls back, and the world comes into focus once more, he blinks away the after image of the memories, logging away the useful details and discarding those which hold little to no interest to their order.

He is most pleased with this report, after months of little progress, they finally know the identity of the false Eikon, the beast that thought to extinguish the flames of their master, to think that the fiend had been so close all along, his Grace’s own brother.

He knows what must be done, but first he must confer with his Grace, for the Undying work ever from the shadows, and even the Bearer of the Burning Quill may not act without the blessing of the Phoenix.

 He dismisses the stolas, sending it back to its perch for the rest it has earned before he begins to ascend the stairs.

The quarters that have been set aside for his Grace are the best the village can provide, but even still they are humble, not that his Lord can mind them in his current condition.

Like all the other apartments of Tabor, the room is carved directly from the sandstone cliffs, but at least at this height the window does come with a view of the stark beauty of the Dhalmekian desert and the Fallen ruins that dot the landscape, Like the bones of some great beast that had collapsed years ago, only for its bones to be picked clean and left to bleach in the sun.

Upon his entry, all eyes that can, turn to him.

“Lord Cyril,” greets the physicker who has been charged with his Grace’s care, as his little assistant bows.

“Uriel, Jote,” Cyril returns, “how is he?”

The question might as well have not been asked, for the answer lies before him.

His Grace rests fitfully, sweat clinging to his brow as he tosses and turns. Cyril can feel the heat of fever from where he stands by the door, more oppressive that anything even the Dhalmekian desert can conjure.

“Worse,” Uriel confirms, even as he rests a glowing hand against their Lord’s burning brow. “Please, if there is anything you need ask of him, I beg you, be brief.”

Cyril nods in understanding, as he kneels beside the bed and takes the young Lord’s hand in his. “Your Grace?”

Hazy eyes, unfocused and lost try to find him, but it is clear the boy sees nothing.

“Your Grace, we have just received a report, were circumstances not as they are, I would leave this matter until a time when you may pass judgement with a clear mind.” He waits, as fever misted eyes regain some clarity, and continues when the lightest squeeze of too thin fingers lets him know his Grace is listening.

“The Second Eikon of Fire has been found, his identity unveiled to us, by members of our order who have infiltrated the very heart of Sanbreque.”

A slow blink, and what Cyril hopes is understanding. “With your permission, I shall charge our best to do what needs to be done.”

The room is silent, which only makes the heavy sound of Lord Joshua’s wheezing breaths louder.

But then.

“…I trust you.”

The laboured words take the last of the boys waning strength, and his Grace falls back into the awaiting arms of sleep.

It is enough.

Chapter Text

Word of his and Uncle Byron’s early morning spars has apparently gotten out. The small untended training ground they had taken for their own, once a quiet space for them alone, has now begun to attract a small crowd.

One or two curious soldiers to begin with, easy to ignore because they were too intimidated by the Dragoon standing guard to truly get close.

Unfortunately, that meant little to Dragoons of the same rank or higher who came and went as they pleased. Initially, like the soldiers they had seemed content to simply watch, but as the group grew larger, they seemed to grow bolder.

A derisive comment here, a jeer there, nothing Clive hasn’t weathered before. After all, when he first picked up a sword intent on becoming a Shield, the other soldiers had seen him as nothing more than a spoiled Lordling trying to play soldier. Having to work to prove himself is nothing new to Clive.

The only difference, he doesn’t want to earn the Dragoon’s respect.

He blocks a blow from his uncle’s axe with a shield of feathers, forcing Uncle Byron to take a step back, a chance to press forward, but by now Clive knows his uncle’s tricks all too well.

The Dragoon’s do not.

“Again? Who knew Rosarian swordsmanship was so timid, he can’t even countered a strike when he’s given an opening like that?”

Clive ignores the remark as he aims a weak fire spell at his uncle’s boot, hoping to break his stance so he can actually move in and safely disarm him, but his concentration must be slipping as it is not flames that rise to his call but light.

The spark moves faster than his fire spells ever could, not giving his uncle the opportunity to retreat he had planned. The snap of bone echoes off the ivy-covered columns that encircle the field, and Clive feels the shock of phantom pain, as though it is his own ankle that has been broken.

Burying the head of his axe in the dirt, Uncle Byron manages to keep his feet, but he is unable to hide the grimace of pain that shatters his features.

Clive is at his side in an instance split by a Phoenix shift.

Throwing Uncle Byron’s arm over his shoulder, uncaring for the protests of, “nothing to worry about my boy, most likely a sprain,” he leads his uncle over to a broken column whose base serves as a prefect seat with the way that the elements have worn in down.

As soon as he has his uncle settled, he reaches for the small bag of curatives they always bring to their morning spars for just this reason, only to find them gone.

The clink of glass shifting in the confines of a leather pouch draws his gaze to where one of the Dragoons, a youngish knight with black hair and brown eyes, is holding the bag, a potion held out in offering.

“Thank you,” he says as he tries to take it, only for the Dragoon to pull his hand back.

“A favour, Lord Rosfield, if you would hear it?” The smirk on the Dragoon’s lips makes it clear that he already knows that Clive will have no choice but to.

Gritting his teeth, Clive nods, knowing that any words he were to speak now would only sound like a growl.

The Dragoon smiles wider, showing more teeth than necessary, and Clive gets the impression that this is what the dragons the Dragoons are famous for taming look like when they sight prey.

“I was hoping you might accept a challenge; it must get boring only ever facing off against your uncle, and we wouldn’t want your skills to become dull.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Clive agrees as he gestures for the potion again, in silent acceptance.

The Dragoon is all too happy to hand him the curative, now that he has gotten what he wanted.

As Clive turns back to his uncle, he sees worry traced into the heavy lines of his face. “Be careful my boy.”

The Dragoon is already in position when he turns, lance drawn, and legs spread wide in preparation for a jump.

Clive takes his own, limbs lose and fire gathering at the tips of his fingers.

One of the other observers’ steps forward, another Dragoon who may actually be related to the knight he faces considering how similar they look, taking a position between them, an unofficial starter.

“Ready?” He asks.

“Yes,” both Clive and the Dragoon say.

“Start!”

As Clive expects, the Dragoon leaps, kicking up dust as he takes to the air.

Slow, is all Clive can think as he steps to the side, nothing in comparison to the Knight of the Blinding Dawn, who had sought to take his life, there isn’t even a point to try and compare him to Prince Dion.

The Dragoon’s lance meets soft dirt and becomes lodged there, Clive hardly gives him the chance to twist the shaft in an attempt to free the weapon, before the pommel of his blade descends upon the Dragoon’s exposed neck. The dull thud of metal connecting with bone heralds the knights collapse and Clive merely watches as he falls like a puppet with his strings cut.

He looks to the other Dragoon, silently awaiting his judgement. The man sighs as he declares Clive the winner.

Moving back over to his Uncle, Clive fetches another potion from the bag and tosses it to the Dragoon who is currently checking over his unconscious friend (brother, cousin?) looking him over for any injuries besides the obvious.

The Dragoon catches it easily with a quiet word of thanks.

His uncle is smiling at him when Clive turns to check on his ankle.

“What?” he questions uncomfortably, but his uncle only chuckles as he ruffles Clive’s hair.

“Absolutely nothing my boy.”

Clive doesn’t get it, he’s just happy it’s over, hopefully the Dragoon learned his lesson and will spread the word.

Or not, as Clive discovers the next morning when he and Uncle Byron find that Dragoons waiting for them, smiles on their faces and a challenge on their lips.

Anabella is already sat beside the Emperor when Prince Dion, Clive, Byron, and the Council of Elders arrive.

She and Sylvestre had walked here arm in arm after enjoying a small brunch together. Throughout the morning she has kept the topics light, keeping to subjects such as the progress of the new ceiling of the observatory, a book she had recently acquired detailing the works of Saint Eleos, and her recent discussions with the Duchess of Oriflamme concerning her numerous charity works.

Sylvestre had seemed pleased with this, contributing to the conversation freely, recommending more books that he thought might catch her interest, and suggesting some charities that might benefit from her patronage. At least, that is how it appeared on the surface of things.

Annabella could admit that the challenge of being courted by a man whose love language is the orchestration of a series of political entrapments which she has to navigate with both poise and acumen, is rather entertaining.

Oh, it would be so easy to fall for the same trick so many others have, after all, the mask of the generous Emperor who has come to the aid of a lady in distress is very convincing, most lies based on an element of truth are.

That Is until she realised: what did he have to lose?

No, the game Sylvestre is playing is brilliant, and one that she cannot help but admire, for the intricacy with which he plays is so subtle and complex that should any of his schemes fall through the cost to Sylvestre himself is minimal at best, for to him, anyone is expendable.

Or so she would have believed, were it not for his reaction in the Inner Sanctum.

The fear and anger she had seen in his eyes then was all too real.

It is a look she recognised, having seen it too many times, reflected in Elwin’s eyes when he pushed too far, and she was forced to push back.

Fear for his son, for his heir, for his legacy.

All things which Anabella could give him.

And as fortune would have it, one of the last roadblocks standing between her and this goal kneels before them now.

“Your Radiance.” The Chief Lord Diviner’s voice is so weak it can barely be heard over the gentle breeze that flows across the open chamber of the rooftop garden, but it seemingly suffices, as Sylvestre bids the man to rise.

“My Chief Lord Diviner, I summoned you here as the final preparations for the relief force we are sending to Rosaria have at last been agreed upon,” Sylvestre explains in what can only be described as a long suffering tone.

With good reason, as it has taken the Council of Elder’s months to finally unanimously agree upon the number of resources and men that will be dedicated to this campaign, but at last they have acquiesced to the Emperor’s wishes, and with the blessing of the Chief Lord Diviner all will at last be ready.

“Indeed, your Radiance, would that I were able to give you the news you wish to hear,” the wizened old man laments, grey eyes heavy with regret.

The low murmur of conversation that had been filling the air suddenly halts upon those words, and Anabella’s attention that had been shifting to where Clive stands next to her is all too easily brought back to the Chief Lord Diviner.

Sylvestre’s brow furrows in a way that clearly projects his displeasure, but he quickly smooths it out, replacing it with a mask of disappointment as he leans back in his throne sat at the feet of Greagor.

“When we last met you advised that the stars favoured our plans, that Bahamut had aligned with the Phoenix,” there is a hint of accusation in the High Cardinal’s tone that he cannot suppress, as he rises to take the floor.

The Chief Lord Diviner shakes his head as though he is listening to the complaints of a child, and not the demands of the second most powerful man in Sanbreque.

“As with the Council of Elder’s, the Orders of the Astrologers must speak with one voice, we must be united, for the art discerning the heaven’s is a delicate process and doubt cannot be allowed.” He takes a breath, remorse weighing heavily on his aged shoulders. “But one amongst our council has taken it upon himself to be the voice of dissent, spouting predictions of danger that others have not been able to see. I had hoped to convince him of his error before todays meeting, but he is ardent in his beliefs and can no longer be moved by reason.”

Anabella cannot stop the tingle that trickles down her spine, a sense of foreboding trailing just beneath her skin before the Emperor even asks the obvious question.

“Which Lord Diviner is this?”

“Calixte Pascal, your Radiance, of the Order of Metia.” The Chief Lord Diviner appears calm when he speaks the name Anabella has become all too familiar with, but the way his grip tightens upon the staff of the Diviner he uses as a cane projects his antagonism.

“Calixte? Where have I heard that name before?” the Emperor wonders aloud, but Anabella catches his eyes flicking to hers, offering her the brief chance to volunteer the information before someone else can.

She takes it.

“The Lord Diviner of the Order of Metia, I had a meeting with him the other day regarding my son.” She takes the opportunity to draw Clive closer to her side, he neither resists nor flinches, a vast improvement from months ago where her mere proximity would have him shying away. “As he is the Lord Diviner of the sign that my son was born under, I was advised that it would be best to consult him.”

“By whom, your Grace?” The Chief Lord Diviner inches forward in his chair, eager for a name that might reveal Pascal’s allies.

It is clear he is hoping for the name of someone he would be able to silence with a word.

Which is why she has to work so hard to keep the mirth from her voice as she reveals it, “why, the Duchess Theresa of Oriflamme.”

She blinks guilelessly at the High Cardinal who for a moment looks caught off guard, but as the consummate politician he is, he manages to regain himself. “A fine recommendation that anyone familiar with astrology would make, for the star beneath which a person is born has predominance over their fate, everyone raised in the light of Greagor knows this.”

 “Indeed,” agrees his Radiance, completely at ease once more as he raises a silent toast to Anabella and taking a small sip of his wine, before rising from his throne.

Another test passed.

“I believe that is enough for today then, I shall call a conclave of the Lord Diviner’s and we shall meet again once these contradicting portents have either been validated or disproved,” Sylvestre dismisses as he turns to Anabella, offering his hand to help her rise.

She is about to take it when a voice cuts through the intermingled acceptance of the Council of Elder’s, the Chief Lord Diviner and Prince Dion.

“That’s it?”

Her gaze flies to where Clive has stepped forward, his stance firm and his jaw set. Stubbornness writ large in the way he holds himself.

She takes his arm and gently pulls back on it even as she sheathes her nails in the thin skin of his elbow, a warning that goes unheeded as he brazenly stares down Sylvestre.

Anabella awaits the Emperor’s reaction, already knowing that in this sort of situation it is better to play defence and look for a chance to retreat.

She is expecting anger, for she has learned that he does not and never will suffer fools. Cold and cruel, a reflection of her own but different in a way that she cannot explain.

The genuine, if indulgent smile he dons instead is unexpected.

“Yes, Lord Rosfield, that’s it.”

With that Sylvestre takes her hand and leaves the water gardens.

Dion’s quill flies across the page, line after line of writing taking up the void of white space with neat notes on the lecture that he is currently listening to.

“Now, if we compare the tactics employed by Emperor Ardagium VI in the year of the realm seven-hundred-and-fifteen at the battle of Kingsfall, to those of his successor Emperor Somnus I in the year of the realm seven-hundred-and-thirty-six, against the Grand Duchy of Rosaria, we can see a clear shift from war being used as an option of last resort, to the more expansionist agenda that led to the loss of several territories.”

Dion pauses in his note taking as something his tutor says catches in his thoughts, misaligning with history he has previously learned.

“Pray, a moment Master Harpocrates,” Dion requests, and his ever-patient tutor is all too happy to oblige.

“Yes, your Highness?”

Composing his argument in anticipation of a good debate, Dion begins, “by expansionist agenda, do you mean the reclamation of territories that were historically Sanbrequois?”

“You will have to be more specific on which territories you are referring to your Highness,” Master Harpocrates suggests, encouraging Dion to be more precise.

“What are now the Deadlands but were once the disputed territories between Rosaria and Sanbreque.” And would still have been had the Blight not swallowed the land, making the decades of sacrifice and the battles fought between the two nations all for nought in the end.

“Ah, yes, an interesting topic to say the least,” Master Harpocrates concedes, before launching an all but devastating counter offensive, “though Sanbrequois texts document the war as a result of the need to reclaim the provinces that had been invaded by Rosaria, the Grand Duchy’s historical record sights that the territories had originally been settled by both countries, in an attempt to open more lucrative trade routes, but a clash of cultures and beliefs led to localised fighting that soon dragged their respective nations into conflict.”

Unwilling to admit defeat yet Dion points out the flaw in this argument, “but how can we know which account is true? Both would obviously seek to paint themselves in the better light, for the sake of political gain and their own legacy.”

Harpocrates looks pleased with this answer, but as ever he does not allow it to sit idle. “Indeed, which is why we must look to other civilizations. I recently read a fascinating essay on Dhalmekian texts from the time which lean towards the Rosarian account, but many Sanbrequios scholars argue that this was merely an example of the effectiveness of Rosarian propaganda of the time.”

“So, there is no way to truly know who was in the right,” Dion concludes.

“That is one way to look at it,” agrees Harpocrates, before positing a harder question, “But are there others?”

The obvious answer is yes, but Dion knows that Harpocrates expects more from him than the obvious, and so he thinks.

Any other tutor would expect him to defend the Empire’s stance, to recall Greagorian scripture that would justify the actions of Emperor Somnus I.

Not Master Harpocrates.

Drawing upon his earlier discussions with his tutor, Dion eventually lands on an answer he hopes the scholar will approve of. “Yes, many, but all of them ignore the question that truly matters.”

“Which is?” Harpocrates asks when Dion hesitates, nothing but encouragement filling his tone.

“Was war necessary in the first place? Could a compromise not be reached?”

Harpocrates eyes twinkle with pride. “Now this is most certainly a subject worth exploring. In many cases it is true that war is unavoidable, in some cases it may even be justifiable, especially when the alternative would cause more suffering to one’s own people. But alas, many leaders are too short sighted, caring only for their immediate legacy and how history will recall their reign to take into account how their decisions may affect those who follow after.”

Dion thinks on this, even as he takes more notes, but it as he goes to question Master Harpocrates further a knock on the door interrupts him.

“Enter,” he commands.

Any disappointment he is feeling over the disturbance immediately vanishes when Terence slips into the room. “Forgive the intrusion your Highness, but you did ask me to remind you of your schedule.”

“I did, but it has only been…two hours, oh.” Dion corrects himself as he looks at the clock on the mantle.

“How time does fly,” Harpocrates notes as he sets about collecting his things, “we can continue this tomorrow your Highness.”

“Yes, of course,” Dion agrees, before a better idea occurs to him, “unless.”

“Yes, your Highness?”

“You mean to return to the library?” An easy conclusion, Master Harpocrates can oft be found lost within the maze-like halls of the Whitewyrm Lair’s largest library.

“Why yes I do,” the agreement hangs in the air between them, waiting for Dion to elaborate.

“I mean to make for the Dragoon’s barracks on the back court, the library is in the same general direction, if you were to accompany us, we might be able to continue our discussion.”

“It would be my honour your Highness.” The matter settled, the three of them begin the long trek through the grand castle, words flowing like water as they continue and expand their debate, Terence joining in and picking up the flow of the argument as if he had attended the lecture.

It is only as they make their way across a colonnade overlooking the inner gardens that Harpocrates steps slow. Thinking that his tutor merely needs a moment to catch his breath Dion reaches out to Terence to subtly signal that they need to pause, only to find that he has already come to a stop, his eyes trained on the gardens below.

“What is it?”  Dion asks even as his gaze follows theirs.

The answer is self-explanatory, for the inner gardens of Whitewyrm castle were made famous by the near endless sea of perfectly maintained white wyvern tail blossoms, a symbol of the Emperor’s influence and power.

A symbol that has been supplanted here in the back gardens where white is now a rare spot amidst the blooms of purple and red flowers that have replaced them.

“How?” Dion cries in disbelief.

These gardens have an entire army’s worth of gardeners and Bearers, all employed for the sole purpose of maintaining the white wyvern tails, this should not be possible.

As always, Master Harpocrates has a theory.

“I believe the answer might lie with the foreign blooms that have taken root within the flower beds, your Highness.”

He points to the red flowers, roses, that have grown in small patches in the middle of the affected flower bed. Which makes even less sense.

“Roses are rare in Sanbreque, most samples have to be imported from either Dhalmekia or Rosa—”

His eyes fly up the tower that overlooks the gardens, straight to the balcony of the rooms that have been granted to the Empire’s long-term guest.

Thanks to Bahamut, Dion has always had excellent eyesight, and so even at this distance he can see the small figure perched atop the banister of the balcony of the apartments.

Just like that day.

The memory of Clive allowing a near crushed rose to fall from his hand to the gardens bellow all those months ago, hits Dion so strongly it nearly knocks him off his feet.

The emergence of the Second Eikon of Fire, the theft of Bahamut’s light, they had blocked out the image of that sad and broken boy who had just lost everything he cared for.

“My Prince?” Terence questions, drawing Dion’s attention back to him and consequently, back to Master Harpocrates.

It hits him then, as he stares at the tutor who has worked so hard to give him the education he will need to become Emperor, how much he has failed.

He looks up again to see that Clive has retreated, the balcony now lying empty looks lonelier than it ever has before.

The weight of guilt that slams into Dion at the sight of it is crushing.

“Dion?” Terence prompts again, and Dion finally knows what he must do.

“Terence, please share my regrets with the Dragoon Captains, we will have to reschedule.”

The knock on the door is unexpected, he hasn’t had many visitors—apart from his mother—since his uncle was sent away three days ago. Ostensibly, to prepare the ships they would need for the counter offensive against the Ironblood Crusaders and the invasion of Drake’s Breath, but also as punishment, to remind Clive that he only has contact with his uncle at his mother’s pleasure.

That his uncle is only safe because his mother wills it.

His offense this time hadn’t been that great, a simple break in decorum due to being told that once again the plans to chase the Ironblood Crusaders from Rosarian shores would be delayed because a council of star gazers couldn’t agree whether the moon was in the right place.

That said, it is the last link in a chain of events that has seen his uncle banished, the excuse his mother needed, a reason to justify separating him and Uncle Byron and still have it be Clive’s fault.

He knew, yet he still gave her the reason, and now he sits here alone not even caring who could be at the door, because he knows for certain it will not be anyone he cares for.

So instead, he keeps his focus on the plans that lay spread out on the table before him, trying to ignore how his father’s writing in the margins of the outdated reports and the scrawl of notes across the terrain depicted on the map that lays at the centre of it all, makes his eyes prick with the pain of unshed tears.

Despite this he hears the door open.

Bracing himself, he slips on the mask that he’s been cultivating for months now, a weak defence that his mother has managed to see through and rip away time and time again, but it is all he has.

The heavier tread that thumps against the carpet lets him know that she’s sent one of the Dragoon Guards to fetch him, meaning that he has a little time to at least to shore up his defences, but not much.

With a sigh he turns. “Where to this time Ser Quentin?”

He regrets the casual tone immediately when he sees who stands there in the Dragoon’s stead.

“Prince Dion…”

His Highness closes the door and stands there, silent, head hung in a way that makes it impossible for Clive to see his eyes and the emotions that must be reflected in them, but he knows what he would see if he could; cold distance, anger, and something Clive could never quite identify.

The air between them now is so different from that day on the balcony, where Clive had foolishly allowed himself to hope, when he had extended his hand in friendship, accepting Prince Dion’s offer of alliance.

That alliance was broken now, shattered upon the lies that Clive unknowingly told.

Which begs the question, why is his Highness here?

He can’t just ask, that’s one lesson that has been reinforced very recently, but he’s also unwilling to play the political game his mother has been trying to teach him, so what does that leave.

An awkward silence that Clive has no idea how to break.

His Highness shifts, moving his weight from one foot to the other, as though he’s contemplating turning around and simply leaving again without a single word, but something must steel his resolve as some of his airs suddenly drop and his posture relaxes.

“I…where is one even supposed to begin with something like this?”

Prince Dion starts to pace, a clear sign of agitation, as though he were a caged dragon about to be unleashed for war.

If Clive is honest, he was actually expecting this much sooner, after all it would only be natural for the Prince to want to confront him, especially after his mother has worked so hard to spread the rumours, the lies, that Dion has granted him a blessing, when in truth he stole Bahamut’s light.

So, he braces, and he waits, determined to endure whatever accusations or insults Prince Dion chooses to throw at him.

But before that, he takes the chance to say one thing, “I’m sorry.”

The pacing halts as Dion finally looks at him, but now that he has spoken Clive can’t seem to stop.

“I never had any intention of lying to you, of stealing your power. I didn’t…I don’t know how it happened, that I could even do that, and then Ifrit…I’m sorry, I’m so—”

“Clive.”

Clive blinks at the sound of his name.

For months now whenever his Highness has had no choice but to address him it has been by his title: Lord Marquess.

He looks up, only to find Prince Dion smiling sadly.

“I am the one who must apologise.”

“Why?” Clive feels like an idiot the second the question leaves his mouth, had he not just reminded himself not to be blunt, but he was caught off guard, after all this is the last thing he was expecting.

The Prince sighs as he gestures towards the empty chairs at the desk, silently asking whether he might stay.

Clive realises he could say no, that he could bring this, whatever this is to an end before it can even begin to start.

Instead, he pulls out the chair, inviting prince Dion to stay.

Sleep does not come easy to Clive.

When he closes his eyes the flashes of fire are now joined by light, and in the quiet of the night his ears are only ever filled with one thing:

‘Help me…help me Clive.’

It means that when he does sleep it is light and easily disturbed and when he wakes in the middle of the night it is almost impossible for him to fall back to sleep, and so all he can do is lie there and stare at the ornate canopy above and wait for the sun to rise.

When he wakes this night, it’s with a half-strangled scream, the phantom feeling of warm blood coating his fingers, and the fluttering beat of a dying heart within the grip of his hand.

He comes back to himself as the cool air of the room makes him shiver, compounding the chill of the crystal fetters and the cold sweat that soaks his shirt and makes his untamed hair cling to his brow.

Deep breaths and his fingers tangled in the thick comforter allow him to ground himself enough to stand and walk to the water pitcher that has been left on the nightstand for him. Tea would be better, but he would have to wake Mia for that, and why should she lose sleep just because he had the same nightmare he’s been having every night.

He ignores the shifting shadows in the room, even as they make the hair on the back of his neck rise with unease as he pours himself a glass, he’s well used to his anxiety upon waking causing every dark silhouette in the corner of his eye to look like a threat.

Taking a sip from the glass he only realises how thirsty he is when the cool water washes over his parched throat and before he knows it, he has drained half the glass.

It’s as he reaches for the pitcher again that he sees the warped reflection playing across its facetted surface.

Too late.

The hands that grab his wrists and take advantage of his fetters to bind his arms behind his back, are unnaturally warm, a shocking contrast to the hand that covers his nose and mouth—obsidian teeth closing around an armoured beak—silencing any sound of shock that tries to escape him as the cloaked man before him leans in and whispers, “may the Phoenix’s flames burn ever brightly.”

Pressure, both blinding and suffocating overtakes him as something—flame forged claws—slides between his lower ribs.

The pain doesn’t register until the man twists his wrist, causing something sharp and metal, a blade, to scrape against bone before he pulls it free, leaving Clive breathless.

The hand covering his mouth stays in place even as the blade is sheathed, and the man leans closer, his gaze never leaving Clive’s, watching, waiting.

For what, becomes clear when the darkness begins to crowd the edges of Clive’s vision.

The men begin to talk amongst themselves, but Clive can only hear it as a distant murmur, the sound of his own heartbeat ringing in his ears drowns out everything else.

He barely feels himself fall, but the world tilts on its axis as light floods the room.

More voices echo distantly, but it is only as Clive is grabbed again that he bothers to try and recognise who is holding him.

Mia, his sluggish mind provides, even as her face swims in and out of focus.

She’s trying to say something, but Clive can no longer hear anything over the fluttering beat of his heart against the cage of his ribs.

Things become clear for a moment as liquid splashes across his bloodied skin, only for it all to be swallowed by pain as something in his chest shifts.

Then cold again, complete and unending in a way he has never felt before.

It makes the small flicker of warmth that ignites within his chest so much easier to find, especially when one band of the restraining cold he had been forced to live with since he came here, is removed, followed by the next.

Without thought, Clive clasps onto the spark and folds himself around it.

Too lost, he does not feel the spark become a flame, as Phoenix feathers ignite across his skin.

The last thing Clive hears as the darkness finally closes in, is the Phoenix’s wrathful cry, as wings forged from flame pull him from the edge of oblivion.

Senses lost amidst the flames that seek to reforge him, he does not hear the plaintive cry that calls to him from afar.

“Clive.”

She pulls her hood closer as she walks through the shadowed streets of Oriflamme, trying to shield herself from the rain that falls in sheets around her and chases all but the most determined back inside.

She is determined, as this may be her only chance for many weeks to come, and she had to take it.

She has to know.

Navigating the streets by memory alone she clutches at her hands, doing the best to keep the bandages that wrap them dry, a pointless endeavour as her cloak has already been soaked through, but still, it gives her something to focus on as she makes her way to the darkened door that is her destination.

The sign above swings in the wild wind of the storm, making it impossible to read, but she knows she has the right place when she runs numb fingers along the door frame and finds the tiny feather carved there.

Slipping inside, she locks the door behind her and waits.

“We are closed.” Comes a low voice, barely heard above the falling rain outside.

“I would not intrude, but the flames burn low,” she replies.

A pause.

“Have the ashes been gathered?”

She breathes a sigh of relief as she confirms, “so the Phoenix might rise.”

Light floods the room, revealing a small storage space dominated with boxes. The light comes from the palm of a man whose features are hidden by the robes he wears, the robes of an acolyte of the Undying.

“Mia.”

“Glen,” she greets in return.

He offers her a box to sit down on and she accepts it gratefully, removing her cloak as she does so and setting it aside to dry.

“Your hands.” Glen notices the bandages immediately as he quashes the flame in his palm and lights a crystal.

He reaches for her, but she pulls back. “Please, the wounds need to stay.”

She moves to remove the bandages, unveiling the fresh burns that cover her hands and eventually disappear beneath her long sleeves.

“The Marquess?” he asks.

Mia shakes her head with conviction. “No, I did this myself.”

“Why?” the shock in his voice rings painfully clear making Mia rush to explain, “that night, when the Duchess removed the crystal fetters in the hopes of saving her son, the Phoenix wings manifested, and the flames with it.”

Every time she thinks about it, the memory of heat rushes forward, always followed soon after by the echo of the screams that had overtaken the room, as those standing closest to the boy had been swept up by the firebird’s flames.

“No one was spared, not even her Grace, the Lady Anabella.” The Dragoon’s had managed to pull her back quickly enough that the only burns her Grace had received were superficial at best, nothing that would not heal given time. “No one but me.”

Mia had still been clutching the Marquess when the flames washed over her, she had felt the heat and expected pain, but it never came.

“When the flames abated, the Marquess injuries were healed, and our brethren were dead.”

Initially, Mia had been shocked, but as her thoughts had settled and her racing heart had calmed, one traitorous thought rose above the rest.

‘Good.’

She does not allow that thought to show one her face. “Above all else I could not afford any suspicion, so when I saw that everyone else was burned, to some degree at least…” She raises her arms and gingerly pulls up her sleeves, showing the full extent of the burns.

The fire crystal had been easy to acquire, but the process of pressing it to her skin and holding it there long enough to inflict the wounds she needed had been arduously slow.

“No, you did well Mia, with you we at least still have a chance.”

No, they didn’t, and they never would have if she had known.

She had thought her brothers had been there to rescue the Marquess, to take him to safety, to his brother. That was why she had let them in, it is their duty to obey the Phoenix and protect the Rosfield line, they were meant to save him not…

There had been so much blood, he is just a child and they had…

The call for the guards had left her mouth before she had realised it. The look of betrayal that had crossed her brothers faces, but no, they were the traitors, not her.

Glen is still talking, outlining what they will need to do next, as he rises to prepare the stolas for her.

Mia listens to every word, and all the while, plans.

The Marquess will not die, not as long as she yet draws breath.

For she bore witness to it with her own eyes.

It is by the Phoenix’s will that Clive Rosfield still lives.

Chapter Text

Clive knew the moment they crossed the border.

Something instinctive inside him finally aligns as the scent in the air changes subtly, pine giving way to the heavier smell of moisture laden air and fresh wheat, as the ground beneath the feet of the chocobo he rides, a mild yellow steed called Vesper, becomes just a little less stable.

“Lord Marquess, you’re straying from the path,” reprimands one of the Dragoons guarding him, and before Clive can protest, or even point out that the muddy trail he was about to wonder down is actually an effective means to avoid the nest of Vampire Thorns he could see waiting by the side of the main trail, the Dragoon grabs the excess of the reins and leads his chocobo back to the packed dirt road.

At the sudden jolt, a twist of phantom pain pulls along the taught skin of the fresh scar that decorates his lower ribs, causing him to grip the reins tighter in an effort to suppress the hiss that wants to escape past his clenched teeth.

It’s only been three weeks since the wound was inflicted, it should have been mortal, Clive can remember the imperial physicker confirming that, experienced fingers running over the burn scar that looked years old instead of a stab wound that was only inflicted hours before.

He should be dead.

The Undying had sent assassins for him.

That’s what his mother had told him, and he couldn’t even call her a liar for it, not when the word’s his assailant had whispered in his ears still ring so loudly in the dark of night.

‘May the Phoenix’s flames burn ever brightly.’

Had they come a few months sooner Clive would have probably yielded to their judgement, would have accepted the punishment they saw fit to enact in the place of their Lord, but now…

The change in mindset had been slow in coming, reinforced, and built over months of his uncle’s ever gentle and unwavering support. Gradually, he had learned to want to live again, not for himself, but for those that needed him. When he had said that out loud Uncle Byron had looked at him with such sad but resolved eyes, as he drew him close and told him, “it’s a start.”

Clive hadn’t realised how true those words were until Dion had come to him.

Their first exchange of words in almost a year, that wasn’t simply the expected pleasantries their respective status demanded, had been so awkward.

They had sat there at the table in his room, each apparently waiting for the other to start, but Clive couldn’t, not when he didn’t know what had convinced Dion to try and talk to him again, what had compelled him to believe that he had owed Clive an apology.

The answer came when Dion finally decided to move.

Leaning forward, the Prince laid a fragile bloom across the centre of the desk between them.

Clive’s half-formed recognition of the flower resting before him had stalled upon the colour, for though the bloom perfectly resembled a White Wyvern Tail in form, the deep purple hue that suffused the flower’s petals identified it as something different.

That too had traced the edge of his memory, as he felt he had seen this exact colour very recently…

It had clicked when the curtain obscuring the balcony door shifted in the breeze bringing with it the fresh scent of flowers that had only just bloomed.

The purple and red flower bed far below the balcony had not seemed strange to him, why would it, the gardens of Rosalith castle boast a variety of flora, it seemed stranger to only have one type, but now, looking at the dyed Wyvern Tail, Clive realised his mistake.

“That’s…” he began, praying to the Founder he was wrong.

“I must admit I was more than a little surprised myself when I saw them,” admitted Dion, “In truth, I was unaware that Wyvern Tails could be anything but white.”

Clive had tentatively taken the bloom, holding it carefully in his grasp, even so, he half expected it to fall apart, for White Wyvern Tails were notoriously fragile.

On closer inspection he could see that the flower seemed to be a bit hardier than its delicate brother, still he wasn’t willing to push his luck, the last thing he needed was the gift Dion had brought him to crumble in his grasp.

“Neither was I,” Clive agreed, as he prepared for the accusation that was bound to come.

“Master Harpocrates, my tutor, explained it to me.” Dion sat back more comfortably in his own chair, but his gaze never left the flower. “The striking hue is meant to be unique to Wyvern Tail’s found in the wild, something of the harsh environment causing the change in shade, otherwise, there is no difference. From root to stem, until they bloom, they are indistinguishable.”

A pause as Dion fished a White Wyvern Tail from a vase set on the desk, but when he spoke his voice was strong, “There is much the White Wyvern Tail is meant to and does represent.” The weight with which Dion gently touched the already wilting petal of the bloom would crush lesser men.

“Honour, duty, the Empire itself, my father is so fond of reminding me of this.” The frown that marred Dion’s brow only lasted for a moment, but it was dark. “On the eve of my first battle he made a point to gift me one, and most saw it as he wanted, a reminder to me of the duty I had to the Empire. To him.”

“What did it mean to you?” Clive had asked, having known that there must have been more.

“An apology.”

Clive had not expected that, from what he has seen, Emperor Sylvestre was a man who regretted nothing, and therefore never had any need to apologise.

“He knew what he was demanding of me, what would be required of me from then on after I had proved myself as the Champion of Light everyone expects me to be,” Another gentle stroke of those oh so fragile petals had sent the first one falling.

“My father can never apologise to me, not in public or in private, it is a weakness he can never allow himself, for as the voice of Greagor he must speak ever with conviction.”

Dion had finally set the flower back in its vase, its lustre clearly diminished even by the short time he had handled it.

“Is that what this is then?” asked Clive, unsure whether he was misinterpreting the Prince’s words.

“No,” Dion had clarified, his tone sincere, “As of late, I have been remiss, I have allowed an unfounded fear to taint my good opinion of you.” The Prince had stood and made his way round the table.

“It is not a mistake I intend to prolong.”

With that, Dion had fallen into a deep bow. “Again, please know that I am truly sorry, I regret my behaviour in recent months, and if you would permit it, I would like to start again.”

Clive had already stood, hands rested on Dion’s shoulders, as he entreated him to stand back up, “Prince Dion, this is not necessary.”

“It is,” disagreed Dion, “and I shall not leave until I have earnt your forgiveness.”

“There was never any…” Clive had bitten his tongue on the beginning of his argument and taken a step back.

“You’re as stubborn as those dragons your Dragoons ride,” he’d snapped.

The Provocation hadn’t even caused Dion to huff.

“I forgive you, there, can we bring an end to this farce now?”

“Of course,” Prince Dion had agreed most amicably as he’d straightened and retaken his seat in a whirl of steel silk, which had made Clive want to knock the smug smile from his features. Only the thought that he might get the chance, now that they were on better terms again and his Highness might be willing to indulge him with a bout during his morning training sessions, which Clive had insisted on continuing, even in the absence of his uncle.

“What of the flowers?” Clive had asked as he had resettled in his chair, reaching for the pale violet bloom.

“I have already given orders that they are to remain,” Dion shrugged. “Claiming responsibility for the roses.” He had smirked then, open, and honest in a way Clive had hardly seen him indulge. “A gift for my soon to be stepmother, a symbol of the true alliance between Sanbreque and Rosaria.”

Their alliance, his and Dion’s.

If only all Dragoons shared their commander’s integrity.

As if to prove that thought right the Dragoon holding Vesper’s reins gives another sharp tug, and this time his mount puts up his own protest, probably because he smells the sweet odour of the Vampire Thorns that have begun to stir on the road ahead.

With a disgruntled “Kweh!” Vesper rears back, and its only because Clive was simply waiting for it to happen that he manages to keep his seat.

The Dragoon is not so lucky.

The sudden jerk of the reins he has such a tight hold of, sends the Dragoon falling to the ground, where he’s near trampled by his own mount.

This is of course when the Vampire Thorns choose to make their move.

Hissing and chittering as their vines unwind the monsters make for the downed Dragoon, noxious gas spilling from their petals and leaves in warning, a display of aggression to any that would dare to try to take their prey from them.

Clive doesn’t hesitate, his sword comes down in an overhead strike, slicing through the searching vines with ease, sending the first of the mob scuttling back as he takes the opportunity to leap from Vesper, unwilling to take the chance of fighting from the back of a chocobo he is not used to.

The flames of the Phoenix are locked away, but Clive doesn’t need them in order to dispatch an enemy such as this. Weaving between the roots and stems of the puffing Vampire Thorns, he holds his breath as he delivers one punishing blow after another, until the last of them lay dead at his feet.

Work done, he flicks his blade to get the worst of the blood and poison off it before sheathing it at his back again, he’ll have to be careful when he sees to his blade this evening, as the poison from Vampire Thorns while harmless to steel could easily do him harm if he is not careful.

With the aid of two other Dragoon’s the Sergeant has finally managed to get back to his feet, he seems largely unscathed, though his mood is clearly worse.

“Lord Marquess!” the man barks as he shoves his men away, they go willingly, not wanting their commanding officer’s ire turned on them.

“Yes Sergeant,” Clive asks lowly as he snags Vesper’s trailing bridle and runs his hand along the downy feathers of the bird’s neck in order to calm him, and to give himself something to focus on beside the pulsing pain of his wound, that has only been put under more stress because of the fight.

“You were told not to engage with any monsters we came across,” snipes the Sergeant as he fruitlessly tries to wipe the dirt and muck from his once shiny armour.

Taking a deep breathe, Clive suppresses his initial impulse to snap back at the Sergeant. When he first became a Shield, he’d learnt the hard way that answering your senior officers back was not the way to get ahead.

That said, the Sergeant isn’t technically his commanding officer…

“Of course, Ser, next time I’ll let the monsters have you.”

Before the Sergeant can voice a reply Clive mounts up and continues down the path at a soft trot.

The Dragoon blusters, snarling half-formed threats he will never be able to act upon in any real manner, as he continues to fail at trying to remove the worst of the mud.

Clive isn’t left alone for long, two younger Dragoon’s pull up alongside him, but Clive doesn’t mind, not with these two at least.

Ser Tristan and Ser Richard, the two Dragoons who had insisted on coming back again and again to Clive’s morning training sessions. What started as a vow to beat Clive had turned into a friendly rivalry, and then later, a not quite friendship? But Clive isn’t sure how else to categorise it, their all familiar enough that Clive at least doesn’t mind them.

“He’ll not soon forget this,” Ser Tristan huffs as he starts to dig through his saddle bags, brown eyes gleaming with mirth.

“Let him moan,” Ser Richard shrugs as he knocks his fellow Dragoon, and cousin, on the arm to get his attention. “Do you have any of those honey bread rolls left?”

Ser Tristan’s answer is a leather bag held high in victory.

“Don’t worry about the Sergeant,” Ser Tristan says as he opens the bag and turns it towards Clive in offering, “he’s just mad he got his shiny armour all messy while you didn’t even get a spot of dirt on your cloak.”

Clive grimaces at the reminder of the cloak, even as he takes the roll with a thankful nod. Bright red with the Rosfield crest emblazoned across it for all to see, it makes it impossible to hide amidst the sea of silver and white that surrounds him.

Even still, it’s a compromise, his mother had wanted him in full royal regalia for their homecoming, but Clive could not stomach the thought. He is a usurper, not the legitimate heir, he has no right to wear the raiment’s of a title that was never meant for him, of course, his mother would never accept that as an answer.

And so, he had conceded to wear the cloak so reminiscent of the ceremonial tunic his father had worn as the Archduke, but the new black and white leather armour he wore beneath it was still so similar if finer to the armour he had worn as the First Shield. Really the only thing that has not changed is his gloves.

Taking a bite of the roll, he allows the fluffy sweetness that bursts across his tongue to take the edge off the bitterness that rises at the thought of it.

Ser Tristan and Ser Richard are still talking, seemingly not even having noticed Clive’s momentary lapse of attention.

“Not as if he’s even going to have to be the one to clean it at the end of the day,” Ser Richard notes through a mouthful of crumbs.

“Which unlucky squire gets that honour?” Ser Tristan looks back, not even trying to hide his curiosity.

“Louis’ little brother, I think, unless he can bribe one of the stable lads at the next manor we’re staying at, again.”

They both turn to Clive then, eyes wide and expectant.

“What?” he asks.

“Well, this is one of your mother’s estates we’ll be staying at, right?” reasons Ser Richard.

“It is, one of her winter villas.” One of the ones she had bought by selling Bearer’s behind his father’s back, Clive hadn’t even known about the manor house on the Northern road leading to Phoenix Gate, named Embersfall, until his mother had told him they would be staying there this morning, their last stop before the final push to Phoenix Gate itself. The only good thing about it is that there will be no ruling Lord in residence for whom he will have to be on his best behaviour for.

Neither of the Dragoons seem to pick up on his reticence towards the subject.

“You must have stayed there then,” pushes Ser Tristan, obviously fishing for details.

“No.” Clive digs his heals a little harder into Vesper’s sides, causing the bird to trot slightly faster, a clear sign that he no longer wishes to talk about this subject.

He doesn’t pull too far ahead, he can’t, even ridding at the head of the procession like this is pushing it, but to finally be back on Rosarian soil after almost a year away…

He just wanted one clear view of the land without the taint of Sanbrequois banners.

Vesper takes the next ridge with ease, the chocobo hardly breaking stride as he summits the shallow peak.

Clive blinks away the sun that near blinds him, eager for his first true glance of his homeland after so long.

It’s better than he remembers.

Rolling green hills give way to small patches of woodland that edge the marshes which litter the length and breadth of the vista before him. Everything looks so vibrant, the reflection of light off shallow water playing off the different surfaces giving everything more depth, more life.

It’s so much better than the sterile beauty of Oriflamme, where everything is uniform and symmetrical, making every flaw stand out.

Here, there is beauty in imperfection, in wildness, and the untamed.

His home would be perfect, if only he had Joshua and father still by his side.

The sound of carriage wheels forces him to turn his gaze away from the breathtaking view.

The four chocobo’s leashed to the ornate coach his mother rides within take the rougher terrain without fuss, but they are so much slower than their unburdened brethren.

A journey that could have taken four days at a soldier’s pace has already taken nearly two weeks, what with his mother having planned several stops along the way, honouring one Lord or another with their presence and staying for at least a few days at each of their estates.

Clive had hoped that he could at least get a break from his mother’s political machinations on the road, he had been sorely mistaken.

Noticeably, the family they did not pay a visit to, one Clive would have thought would have been at the top of the list considering their location, is his mother’s own.

The De Lafontaine’s.

Located on the border between Rosaria and Sanbreque as they were it had seemed obvious to Clive that they would be stopping there, but they hadn’t.

It makes him wonder what insult her family levelled against her that now she very publicly chooses to exclude them from her royal progress back to Rosaria. Then again, he wouldn’t have even thought about them if he hadn’t seen the letter from them resting atop the stack of papers his mother had been going through this morning over breakfast.

Something to contemplate later, or possibly ask Uncle Byron about when he sees him again.

That thought does at least bring the shadow of a smile to Clive’s face, as the letter Clive received from him two days ago, brought to him by one of his mother’s new ladies in waiting, obviously already opened and read, had confirmed that his uncle would meet them at Phoenix Gate.

“How much longer?” his mother asks the Sergeant from the confines of the carriage.

“Three hours at most, your Grace,” answers the Sergeant in a low voice, clearly not trying to draw attention to himself.

It proves to be answer enough as a sharp rap on the coach’s roof signals his mother’s command for them to continue.

The Sergeant’s prediction proves true, the grey towers of Emberfall can be seen poking through the thick canopy of the woodlands that surround it just before evening descends, the deep red light of sunset paints the light grey towers a warm rose red that reminds Clive all too well of Rosalith, and actually makes him eager to reach the relatively small, at least by his mother’s preferred standards, keep.

The well-maintained path leading to the outer stables, that cuts through the modest forest provides a clear view of the castle walls long before they reach it, and it is because of this that Clive finds himself stalling, pulling back on Vesper’s reins, and forcing the chocobo to stop even as the procession continues forward without him.

Ser Tristan and Ser Richard take notice and pause as well, looking between each other and then the walls. The darkness that shades their eyes at the sight there is one of horror.

Battered bodies covered in rags hang from the walls by their necks, three each, either side of the gate, with only the crows for company.

The only commonality between them all, the brand that stands out so clearly against the pallor of their bloodless faces, and the stone that can be seen creeping across their skin.

“Ah, I will have to have a word with the castellan, those were supposed to be removed before our arrival,” his mother comments offhandedly as she steps forth from her carriage, lip curling in displeasure at the sight, as she smooths out the wrinkles in the fine silk gloves that she wears to hide the still healing burn scars.

Clive bites his lip, sealing the retort he wants to spit at her behind clenched teeth.

How can her heartlessness still manage to surprise him, even now?

He wants to order her to have them taken down, to have them burned and let their ashes be taken to the nearest river where they might have a proper casting, so at least their souls might find the peace that they were never granted in life.

Instead, he has to force himself to dismount and walk through the gate silently, lending his arm to the very woman responsible for this atrocity and so much more.

He looks up just before he enters through the gate, doing the Bearer’s the courtesy of at least memorising their faces, and as the gates close behind him, he prays for rain as he silently whispers the words of the casting.

“So shall the waters cleanse thee of thy burden…and bear it out to sea.”

When Clive closes his eyes that night, the empty eyes of the Bearer’s stare back at him.

Chapter Text

Their arrival at Phoenix Gate is a calm affair, one marked with silence that begins as soon as the crater comes into view.

Black as blighted land, the landmark looks like something that should be found near the mouth of a volcano, or at the site where a Fallen Airship Ruin crashed down upon the earth, even looking at it now Clive cannot fathom that he is responsible for it.

He turns away from the sight, unwilling to tempt fate with the chance to remind him of the events that took place here over a year ago now, he already has to relive them every night as he sleeps. 

The sound of rock being chiselled and the grunts of stonemasons hard at work draws his gaze towards the keep.

Phoenix Gate is no longer the charred ruin that he barely remembers being dragged away from. In the place of broken walls and melted towers lies a worksite, teeming with the shouts of men and beast alike as they go about their business, crawling along the walls like ants upon their hill.

Above the noise one voice rings clear.

“Now lads, puts your backs into it, there’s a hefty bonus in it for you all if we manage to get the last of this sorted before the sun reaches its zenith.” His Uncle calls from where he walks atop the gate house.

“Uncle Byron!” Clive shouts as he stands in his saddle, so happy to see his uncle that he doesn’t care that he’s breaking the decorum his mother has worked so hard to beat into him this past year.

“Clive my boy!” His uncle greets as he leans over the wall to get a better look at him, the joy on his face as clear as day at the sight of his nephew.

“Come, come,” he beckons before he turns to the guard beside him, “what are you standing around for man, is my nephew meant to stand out in the cold while I come down to welcome him, the gate, man, open the gate.”

The gate soon opens after that, the creak of old wood and rusted chains is noticeable in its absence, replaced instead by the clink of fresh gears and the smooth shift of new wood as the portcullis rises, at least until a blast of a horn that rolls off the stone walls overtakes it, announcing their arrival to all who reside within.

Workmen and Shields alike line up as he enters, all their eyes instantly catching on the red cloak and the Rosfield sigil it bears. Recognition lights in so many of the gazes he can feel staring at his back, and the weight of it makes him want to curl up and hide, but he has no choice but to bear it.

His uncle is there to embrace him as soon as he dismounts, the crushing bear hug near squeezing the life from him as his ribs creak in protest with it, honestly, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“How are you, I heard…” Uncle Byron’s eyes roam over him with obvious worry, as if checking for blood that has long been cleaned.

Clive can’t help the hand that rises to cover the scar beneath his ribs, even as he rushes to assure his uncle, “healed, I barely needed a day of bedrest before the Physicker released me with a full bill of health.”

“So you said in your letters,” his uncle confirms, “but seeing is believing.”

He takes another full look at Clive before he is satisfied.

“You’ve gotten taller,” he accuses after a moment, and Clive can’t help but smirk.

He gives his uncle a thorough look over in return, and he is happy to see that he has not changed at all, but that will never stop him from teasing, “have you gotten wider?”

The playful slap that earns him on the back of his head just makes his smile brighter, but the sight of his mother’s carriage pulling to a stop not far from them, and all the men at arms bowing and the workers soon following their lead, has that expression sliding from his face.

Taking a breath, Clive prepares to offer her his hand as she begins to exit, an expectation that she has had of him on every stop of the journey here.

Uncle Byron spares him.

As Clive moves to walk forward his uncle takes him by the shoulder and gently pulls him back, as he himself walks forward to greet Clive’s mother.

“Your Grace, I trust your trip was pleasant?” There’s an undertone in his uncle’s voice that begs her to say no.

“Most pleasant, yes, though as ever the roads in Rosaria leave much to be desired,” his mother quips back, not missing a beat, even as she accepts Uncle Byron’s offered hand, her eyes briefly clouding with distaste as she looks around the inner courtyard, taking in the stonemasons and Shields who have still yet to rise from their bows.

Straightening out the full-length white skirts of her dress, she addresses the gathered crowd, “gentleman, we thank you for your warm welcome and hard labour, know that your leal service shall be rewarded anon.”

Most of the men posted here must be familiar with his mother, as they do not raise their heads even as she walks past them.

Uncle Byron makes to lead her into the castle, but she pauses as she looks over the sea of bowed heads. “Byron…where is Lord Zagreus?”

The mask that his uncle adopts at this question is one of ease, but it does nothing to hide the malefic gleam in his eyes. “Getting to grips with the mess his predecessor left me back at Port Isolde, poor boy has a sea of invoices and promissory notes that the gambler you previously sent me decided to dump in my lap.”

His mother’s lips purse with displeasure as they cross the threshold of the main keep, heading for the very heart of the castle where the open courtyard that holds the entrance to the Apodytery lies.

The halls are dark as the recently repaired walls with their high set windows dim the natural light of day, meaning that the main source of illumination comes from the flame lit torches that line the halls.

Having become used to the bright light provided by the crystal lanterns that are utilised liberally throughout Sanbreque it takes a moment for Clive’s eyes to adjust. This however does not prevent him from navigating seamlessly through the castle, having visited the Keep many times throughout his childhood.

It means he does not have to wait for his uncle and mother, but instead can guide them through the network of halls as he continues to listen to their conversation, using their voices to anchor him in the present and keep the shadows of the past at bay.

“Has Lord Francis been found yet?” his mother inquires as they make their way through the great hall. Clive keeps his eyes trained forward even as he listens, taking the opportunity to admire the new tapestries his uncle has chosen for the room.

He can’t help but notice that most of them are recreations of the ones that were lost to the fire, familiar depictions of the Phoenix and famous battle scenes from throughout the Duchy’s long history, but the red and blue one that sits behind the head table is unfamiliar to him, but he’ll have to take a better look at it later.

“Not a trace of him to be found,” his uncle sighs, “apparently he used the funds he stole from me wisely and got as far away from Rosaria as possible.” His Uncle places a hand on his axe, the implicit threat of the action strikingly clear. “As if I weren’t already busy dealing with the damage the aid before that did to my contacts in Ran’dellah, the fool was lucky Kupka’s man decided to take his head before I did.”

“Lord Paris came highly recommended, and had his own connections in Dhalmekia, he seemed like the perfect choice, I find it very hard to believe he would be so ignorant as to slander Lord Kupka before one of his most loyal men, as you previously described Byron,” his mother accuses, unwilling to accept blame even by proxy.

“Yes, he had connections alright, to Kupka’s main political opponent,” his uncle snipes with an edge in his voice as he cuts to the very heart of the matter, “that in and of itself was insult enough to have us dismissed, but as we were being led out Lord Paris had the audacity to infer that Lord Kupka only holds the position of Economic Advisor because of his status as a Dominant.” Clive winces in second hand mortification at the mere thought of such a blunder.

The entirety of the Twin’s knew that Lord Kupka is a proud man, he may have only awakened as the Dominant of Titan five years ago but in that short space of time he had already managed to secure his position as Ran’dellah’s Economic Advisor by selling his services as a Dominant for a steep price.

It is also a well-known fact that his men are extremely devoted to him, a mix of the wages and benefits he offers, as well as his willingness to promote men regardless of their birth.

“If the student stumbles, is it not the job of his teacher to step in and help right him?” his mother questions with a leading tone that near drips with suspicion.

The chuckle his uncle gives in return is humourless and dull, “you may have sent him to learn from me, but I never once claimed to be that pampered Lord’s teacher.”

Clive cannot see his mother’s face from where he walks in front of her, but the silence that consumes the grand hall speaks volumes.

Wisely, he speeds up as he moves towards the exit, the two Shields standing guard by the door open it without a word needing to be said. He nods in appreciation to them both as he passes, but softly in the hopes that his mother shall not notice.

The silence continues to hang over them even as they enter the main courtyard that holds the tunnel to the Apodytery, a fact compounded by the emptiness of the space.

A necessity for his security, his mother had assured this morning, but Clive knew the truth.

His mother didn’t know whether Clive would be able to open the gate meant for the passage of the Phoenix alone, and rather than have a gathering of prominent Lord’s here to gape at his possible failure, she had claimed that this was a sacred right for the Rosfield bloodline alone. Allowing her the freedom to weave the narrative of the results of their journey here, no matter the outcome.

But with only the three of them here it makes Clive realise just how wide the courtyard is.

It also makes the appearance of the lone hooded figure standing just within the shadow of the entrance all too easy to spot.

Clive halts at the sight of him, his back straightening with unease and suspicion even as the cloaked figure turns away from him, fading into the darkness beyond Clive’s sight.

“Clive?” his uncle calls from behind him.

Clive jumps at the sudden volume of his uncle’s voice and turns to see worried eyes staring straight at him.

“Did you…” the question, half formed, crumbles under the weight of his own doubt.

“Clive?” his mother’s question is sharper, more demanding, and tainted with the power she holds over him, leaving him with no choice but to answer.

“N-nothing,” he denies, “just the shadows playing tricks.” The look she gives him makes it clear that she does not believe him, but when her own eyes reveal nothing out of place, she allows him the lie.

“Come, there’s no point in delaying this,” she commands as she lets go of his uncle’s arm and takes his instead. Clive allows her to do so without resistance, ignoring the way her nails settle against the thin skin of his inner elbow, poised to sheath, should she need to make a point without having to speak. Not out of necessity, but more habit by now.

Descending into the shadowed room of the Hall of the Gate, Clive keeps his eyes wide open as he searches the shrouding darkness that entombs the sacred grounds, hunting for any signs of the hooded man.

The room reveals nothing but the looming forms of ancient pillars and dark stone that absorbs what little light the large braziers set throughout the room can provide.

That, and the looming Gate set into the wall at the end of the room, made visible only by the way the dancing light of the flames play off the pale stone and swirling design of the ancient Fallen Ceramic it is made from.

When Clive’s gaze falls upon the Gate it becomes fixed there, he can’t seem to force himself to look away, nor even blink as his eyes roam the surface of it, following the endless patterns spun into every plane.

His mother’s hand taking his wrist snaps him from the trance as the heavy click of the crystal bracers being undone ricochets off the stone walls.

“You merely have to place your hand against the inset crystal,” his mother instructs with an insidious tone that only leaves Clive feeling cold, even as the warmth of the Phoenix flows through him.

This is not his place, this is not his right, he should not be the one standing here.

If there is any justice in the world this Gate shall remain closed to him, the crystal inert and dark beneath his touch, he silently begs for that to be the case as he walks up the stairs.

His hand trembles faintly with a sick mix of nerves and dread that makes him want to flee from the room.

Again, he silently begs for the Gate to stay firmly locked.

What little hope he has left shatters upon the spark of light beneath his fingers that blooms under the barest of touches.

Like the kindling of a newborn flame the ember of light that glows within the hollow of the Gate takes a moment to ignite, but when it finally does the glow floods the door like raging water filling carved riverbeds that have been left bereft and dry for far too long.

The azure light is nearly blinding, but the mesmeric motion of the door retracting and layer after layer of Fallen Ceramic yielding to the next forces his eyes to stay open.

Even with the size and scale of the Gate, the machinations that operate within are near silent, making Clive’s own gasp of surprise as the passage beyond it is revealed seem loud to his own ears in comparison.

The corridor that is unveiled beyond is dim, but with the lattice of crystals embedded along every wall there is still enough light to see another Gate just waiting to be opened at the end.

“Anabella,” his uncle’s sharp reprimand has him turning to see his mother taking a step towards the threshold of the gate, the only thing that has stopped her from crossing it is the suddenly tight hold Uncle Byron has on her wrist. “Only a Dominant of Fire may pass, the Gate has yielded only to Clive.”

The heavily implied ‘not to you’ screams through the silence.

With effort, his mother snatches her hand back, but the move costs her.

The silk glove that had been covering her hand comes free as she pulls her hand through his uncle’s closed fingers, exposing the still healing burn scars that were hidden beneath.

Red and angry, even after several treatments with potions and elixirs, the scars are an ugly thing to look at, something his mother is very aware of as she snatches her glove back from Uncle Byron.

Reclaiming some of her grace as she hides the scars once more beneath the deep purple silk glove, she gathers her skirts, turns away from the Gate and descends the stairs, leaving Clive alone at the threshold.

He near jumps out of his skin as his uncle gently takes his wrist.

Looking down, he can see Uncle Byron gazing up at him with clear pride.

“Whatever awaits you, know that you belong here, and that I shall be praying for your safe return.”

The denial that rises so easily to his tongue is smothered by the conviction Uncle Byron imparts as he steps forward for a final bracing hug. Clive returns it fiercely, but eventually, he has to let go.

The moment he crosses the dividing line that separates the Hall of the Gate from the Hall of the Ancestors the Gate begins to close behind him, sealing him in.

The last glance he manages to steal of his Uncle paints a picture of a confident smile, brought low by the worry that clouds his eyes.

With no other choice, Clive takes a breath and begins to cautiously move forward. He can only be thankful that the stairs leading to the next gate are relatively shallow, as the light cast by the crystals embedded withing the walls between steepled arches cause the shadows here to stretch in strange ways. It leaves him feeling unsteady, as though he half expects the floor to suddenly start moving beneath his feet.

When he reaches the bottom, he doesn’t hesitate to raise his hand. All his breath escapes him in a grateful whoosh of relief as the gate opens without issue, and light and space chase away the tendrils of claustrophobia that had begun to weave their way beneath his skin.

He loses that breath of air almost immediately on the gasp of awe that escapes him at the sight before him.

Far from a ruin, the structure around him looks as though it could have been constructed yesterday. unlike the remnants of the Fallen that remain on the surface, who through time and the chaos that caused them to fall from grace in the first place have been left as little more than crumbling monuments to a civilization whose glory has long since faded.

He takes in everything he can as he walks further into the space, but soon adopts caution again when the blue mist rising from the depths catches his attention.

“No wonder the Phoenix was the only one ever allowed to enter,” Clive notes as he treads along the edge of the circular disk that makes up the floor of the room. He runs his hand through the thin cloud of aether that has settled there, making it impossible to see how deep the fall below is.

The Flood seems stable enough, barely stirring even as he disturbs the thin tension of its surface, it merely ripples around his hand like water before docilly settling back into place.

Assured that there are no akashic waiting just below the surface of the mist, Clive walks back towards the middle of the circular platform. He goes slowly, taking the time to fully observe his surroundings, the strange architecture based around spheres within spheres, each one leading into the next in an unending design that his eyes will never be able to fully trace.

It is as he studies the orb directly in front of him which looks like a partially hollowed out moon, that he notices the statues spaced around the platform.

From a distance he had assumed they were damaged pillars or rubble that had simply been left abandoned, but up close he can now see that there is intent in their design.

Bug like in appearance and curled in on themselves, it looks as though they could come to life at any moment.

Clive is half tempted to reach out and touch the nearest one, but before he can his foot catches against something carved into the floor, and azure light again takes over the scene.

The sudden shift of the floor beneath his feet has Clive fighting to regain his balance, and it’s a battle he almost loses as the ridge in the ceramic beneath his feet divides, the smallest circle at the centre of the platform separating itself and rising at a rate that has Clive throwing himself back in an attempt to save himself.

He lands hard against the floor and feels the raised edges of the design pressing into his skin even through the leather of his armour. For a moment he thinks he must have hit his head as well on the way down, because of the sick swoop that claims his stomach even as he lies there on the ground, but he is soon robbed of that notion when he opens his eyes and sees that stone circle he rests upon is still moving.

Scrambling away from the edge he raises a hand to his head as he tries to regain his equilibrium, but even as he gathers himself, he stays crouched low, out of fear that one false move could send the floating disk plummeting.

It’s a very real possibility in his mind, and the sheer drop into the abyss below that he manages to catch a glimpse of when he looks over the side does little to allay that fear.

Especially when the memory of falling into this very pit assaults him so clearly the moment he closes his eyes.

That’s right, this isn’t the first time he has been here.

No, the evidence of his first visit can be seen the moment he opens his eyes.

Even after a year, soot and ash still stains the ceramic of every Fallen tower that rises from the fog of the aether flood below, like so many abandoned lances. Beyond that, the sight of broken Fallen ceramic and melted towers bent beneath the heat of aetheric flames.

As he continues to stare the howl of the wind within the voidal space morphs into the sharp song of the Phoenix and the heavy beat of wings, both of which are overtaken by the scratch of claws and the bellowing roar of Ifrit.

He covers his ears as he tries to block out the memories, keeping his eyes focused on the grey stone beneath him because every time he blinks, he sees flames.

“No, no, no,” he chants in a hollow voice barely above a whisper as he tries to banish the images that haunt the darkness of his mind, but he fails.

He must disassociate, must allow time to bleed away between the flash of flames, blood, and his little brother’s pleas.

‘Help me…help me Clive.’

The sound of his own ragged breaths, loud and echoing in the silent endless space around him forces him back to reality.

He grips his hands tightly against the floor until he can hear the leather of his gloves creak against the strain of it.

Trying to take deep breaths and not throw up, it’s only now that he realises the platform has stopped moving, having at some point come to a rest against a set of shallow steps that lead, once again, to a gate.

At least Phoenix Gate is living up to its name.

Still not trusting the floating platform he quickly makes his way back to solid ground and takes a moment to regain his bearings.

 Part of him is relieved to realise that he does not recognise this place at all, the other is more concerned by the fact that he has no idea how he is meant to get back.

It soon becomes clear that his only choice is the gate that lies before him.

Just to be sure he takes one more look about the space.

Studying the distant landing that lies at the other side of the chasm he finds himself standing on the edge of he finds little that could help him as there is no clear connecting path between the two platforms.

Looking further he only sees a circle of ornate arches that enclose the area like the bars of an elaborate bird cage, which just adds to the feeling of entrapment that has been rolling down his spine since the moment he set foot on these holy grounds.

Desperate, he wonders whether a Phoenix shift would be able to span the distance between the two platforms, but he soon abandons that hope at the sight of the high walls that surround the other area. The grey ceramic walls curve in on it and enclose it in a way that would make it impossible for Clive to land on it, even if he could shift the distance.

With a sigh he turns back to his only option.

Like all the others before, there is no resistance or hesitance as he places his hand against the hollow, and the gate retracts in a series of seamless circular motion, only to unveil a dead-end.

No gates, no pathways, and as he walks across the space, no lifts that activate beneath his feet without his consent.

Only a dais, cold and white as bone, rests below a dark mural. Cracked and broken beyond recognition apart from a lone figure that rises above the decay of age on outstretched wings that save it from the blight, the image stands as a lonely figure.

“Is it some sort of God?” Clive questions the emptiness that surrounds him as he takes a step forward, only to immediately regret it as the lightning spark of agony streaks across his mind, forcing him to close his eyes and bow his head as a piercing ring overtakes his hearing.

Fighting against it, he manages to keep his feet, but finds he has to blink away tears as he looks up.

A figure with their face hidden by the deep shadows of a hood now stands before him, and Clive finds himself gasping with shock as another streak of familiar pain takes his senses hostage.

“You,” he gasps out between ragged breaths, “I’ve seen you before.”

Twice now, and each appearance had heralded the summoning of Ifrit.

“Just who are you?” Clive’s demand is engulfed by the shout that escapes his lungs as spectral claws drag across his nerves.

He had first thought that this hooded man must have been the Second Dominant of Fire, until that hope had been irrevocably ripped from his grasp and replaced with a truth that shattered his soul.

"̴̧̯͉̰̬̎̿̍Y̴̜̓͠ỏ̶̜͖͚̇͊͝ų̴̢̗̟̬̽͗̌̈́͘.̶̹͌̒̽̏̽"̸̦̎̈́͝

Clive’s head shoots up at the answer, as the pain breaks upon the strange sound he can somehow understand.

Slowly, the hooded man raises his hands and takes the edges of his cowl.

The fabric slides back, revealing a face that is a perfect refection of Clive’s own.

"̶̬͈͖̉̅͆̄͜͜Ẃ̷̨͎͌̈́͑͊ͅȇ̸̛̮͕̰͙̐̑͝ ̷͉̳̪̑͑ȁ̸͖͍̳͋̅r̴̛̳͓͕̻̀͌̉e̴̛̩̫͎̠͋͘͝ ̵̥̜͇̽͊̕y̵͈̅͆ò̵̞̥͙̰̞̏̀͋u̵̲̫̹̦͂͒̿͑̕.̵̲̳̜̊͝"̴̨̢͙̬͈̀̍͒

So transfixed, Clive doesn’t notice the darkness that seeks to steal his sight, not until it has already claimed it.

Chapter Text

Heavy smoke burns his nose and throat as he inhales deeply.

A wild gasp for air that leaves his chest heaving with the desperate need to pull oxygen into his deprived lungs, as though he’s just breached the surface after being held under by callous hands that wanted him to drown.

Opening his eyes only reveals the dark canvas of an overcast sky, further obscured by the rising smoke that first awoke him, but where there is smoke there is fire, and the old adage is immediately proven true as he turns his head.

He wishes he hadn’t.

Phoenix gate burns before his eyes as red and gold flames fight for dominance over the splayed ruin of broken walls and crumbling towers the once glorious keep has become.

It’s a scene taken directly from Clive’s worst nightmares, the same one that again begins to play out before his eyes as the high shriek of the Phoenix heralds the fall of the Eikon of Fire.

Clive only has enough time to leap back and shield his face before the wave of heat and earth thrown up by the Phoenix’s meteoric landing overtakes him, hitting him full force and once again leaving him breathless.

It’s as he lays there, hearing overtaken by the ringing that is ever-present in these dreams that he tries to compel himself to wake.

“It’s not real,” he pants as he forces himself to his feet, ignoring how the fire warmed stone digging through the leather of his gloves feels so solid and how the relentless heat around him is already causing sweat to gather on his brow.

“Wake up, it’s not—” His next denial shatters upon the heart stopping noise that is the sound of the Phoenix screaming in pain.

All thoughts that this is merely an illusion, or a nightmare are immediately discarded in the face of the emotions that rise to choke him as Ifrit lays into the Phoenix, fists of obsidian traced fire raining down blow after blow upon the true Eikon of Fire.

Clive’s rational and common sense are swallowed by the fear and dread of seeing his younger brother being torn apart before his eyes.

“Joshua!” he begs as fisted claws are unwound to unsheathe razor sharp talons that tear wide bloody gashes into the Phoenix’s chest, filling the air with a mist of hot blood that steams against the overheated ground.

“Stop it…please…stop!” his voice is so weak, even as he shouts, shaken by the panic of once again being forced to watch this scene play out, and all the while being powerless to stop it.

Somehow, Phoenix manages to find the strength to fight back—his brave little brother, never giving up—and the phantom pain of gushing fire lances across Clive’s face, making him flinch until Ifrit clamps immovable jaws down upon Phoenix’s metal beak, sealing his last defence.

Clive knows what’s coming, can already see it playing out within his mind, can feel his brother’s warm blood coating his arm as Ifrit stands to his full height, Phoenix’s limp form still trapped within his teeth, his wings a bloody shroud of waning firelit feathers whose last ember is about to burn out, even as the flames beneath Ifrit’s molten skin glow brighter.

It all seems to happen so slowly as he watches Ifrit pull back his arm and prime deadly sharp claws to land the final blow, and Clive cannot stop himself from reaching blindly, voice breaking upon a command he knows shall not be obeyed.

“STOOOOOOOP!”

The power that rings out from his voice leaves him straining against the weakness that clasps its hands around his throat, he can only pull in one faint wavering breath after another as his gaze stays locked upon the suddenly frozen scene before him.

He doesn’t question how; he doesn’t have the strength left to do so, not when horror and despair rule his mind.

“I-I…I did this,” the whisper escapes him just as tears blind him and his knees collapse beneath him. “I killed him.”

The revelation is nothing new but seeing it like this unblurred by the taint of distant and distorted memories just makes it so real.

“Joshua chose me to be his Shield,” Clive utters from where he kneels on the ground, fingers digging into the thick layers of warm ash that have settled there, “he gave me his blessing and asked me to keep him safe…” Self-hatred takes the form of an invisible weight upon his shoulders and Clive can only sit there and bear it as one recrimination after the next falls from his lips.

“I should have protected him that day…it was my duty.” No, it was the reason he was born, the very purpose for which he existed, so why?

Why?

Why was he still allowed to draw breath, when his little brother had died by his hand?

It’s a line of thinking he has had to work so hard to suppress over the last year, and to some degree he has been successful, but here, faced with his sin, his failure, how can he not think it.

“Clive.”

He looks up slowly at the sound of his name, already half sure that the sound is just an echo of a memory, but he phantom that stands before him is no mere figment summoned by his own guilt, he’s sure of that, because as he stares at him Clive realises just how much he has forgotten.

It’s all the small things, the way Joshua’s hair curls naturally to frame his face, the slight redness at the corner of his mouth caused by his little brother’s bad habit of chewing on his lower lip, the paleness of his skin from so much time spent indoors.

But it all adds up.

“Joshua…”

Hope, unbearable, consuming, and all the more painful for it takes hold of him and he cannot help but stumble forward, only coming to a stop when his arms wrap around his younger brother’s oh so small frame.

He expects the illusion to break then, for the reality of what he did to snatch away this comforting lie as it has so many times before in the worst of his nightmares, where he is left bereft of everything but ash and guilt.

It doesn’t, Joshua is warm and solid beneath his touch, the heat of him radiating gently through the leather of Clive’s gloves, and beneath that the rhythmically calm beat of his heart, small assurances that give weight to the idea that this is somehow real.

He tightens his hold as the sigh of relief which escapes him fractures upon a gasping cry as Joshua raises his own arms to wrap around Clive’s neck, returning his desperate embrace.

The last grip he has on the tears he has been holding back slips then, and as he closes his eyes, he feels the first of them begin to roll down his face.

It makes his vision blurry when he finally finds the strength to pull away from the warm comfort of his little brother’s hold to stare into his almost hazy eyes as Joshua seems to battle against an exhaustion that seeks to drag him down.

“I’m sorry,” Clive breathes as he gazes up at Joshua’s face, silently begging his brother not to reject him, not to turn away, at least until he’s said all he needs to say.

After that…

“I failed you when you needed me most…I swore to protect you and instead…” he chokes as fresh grief locks steel fingers around his heart and squeezes.

“Instead, I killed him, and took what was always meant to be mine.”

The voice sounds directly behind him, so close that Clive can feel the breath of the words ghost across the skin on the back of his neck.

He stands, drawing his sword with one hand and shepherding Joshua behind him with the other, only to be faced with…

…himself?

“What?” he questions even as he remembers the hooded man lowering his cowl and showing Clive his own face.

The robes are gone now, replaced instead by the light armour of an untested First Shield that in his months of training, Clive had come to wear like a second skin.

His doppelganger simply tilts his head under Clive’s assessing gaze, seemingly perplexed by his shock. It doesn’t stop him from answering, “You.”

Clive shakes his head in denial, but his reflection barely seems to care as his eyes fall upon the boy shielded behind Clive’s back, whose hands are fisted in the soft steelsilk of his cape.

“Joshua was too weak, everyone saw it, why should I feel guilty for taking what was rightfully mine?” the younger version of himself that stands before him says with a cavalier shrug that looks so strange, as it is a gesture that Clive hardly ever makes, used as he is to hunching his shoulders and bowing his head.

He feels his mouth fall open with familiar defensiveness, but silence drowns him as anger and disbelief fight for control of his tongue, because those are his mother’s words, the poison she has been drip feeding him for over a year now, always whispered in that same mawkish tone of hers that without fail sets Clive’s nerves on edge.

Why wouldn’t it? After all, it’s the same tone she had once reserved for Joshua alone.

It’s so much worse hearing it spoken with his own voice.

His shadow takes a step forward, apparently encouraged by Clive’s lack of response.

“Why now should my power be blunted by grief and guilt when Joshua is already gone?” The way the shadow of himself gestures towards his little brother makes Clive pull Joshua even closer to his side and Joshua goes willingly, clinging to the back of Clive’s cloak as though it is a lifeline.

The move only seems to further enrage the shadow.

“The chains that bind me only hold so tightly because I allow them to, bound so deeply that I tear flesh with even the smallest of moves” the doppelganger snarls as he draws his own sword and takes a stance that Clive is all too familiar with, “and I am done bleeding from them.”

Before Clive can even begin to decipher what those words could mean, his doppelganger is upon him, what little distance that had still laid between them bridged with a single upward swipe that makes the flames that surround them dance along the mirror like steel of his blade.

The instinctive reflex to dodge as he has always been taught to, a tactic drilled into him for the express purpose of defeating larger more experienced foes that have and will always underestimate him, is blunted by the need to protect Joshua.

He can’t fail, not again, never again.

The twin blades lock at their cross guards and Clive tries to twist his wrist in the way that Ser Rodney taught him, a sharp flick that should use his opponents own strength against him and send his weapon flying.

An immediate lack of resistance that comes from his opponent suddenly disengaging, causes Clive to stumble, to step away from Joshua, leaving him wide open.

His other self capitalises on his mistake, flinging fire with his left hand at Clive and lunging for Joshua with his right.

“No!” The feeling of a Phoenix shift is like a flare through his blood as he turns the space between himself and Joshua to ash. His sword comes down, deflecting his doppelganger’s strike, but as he uses his fire magic Clive feels something else slip from his grasp.

The sound of the rumbling growl of Ifrit reignites in the air around him as the frozen Eikon fights against the restraints Clive had used to stop him.

Panicking, he reaches for them again, arm outstretched, a furious command clawing up his throat, only to be silenced as sharp fingers dig into the thin skin of his throat and squeeze.

“Enough!” his doppelganger snarls in his face and Clive can’t stop his eyes from widening as fire crawls across his counterpart’s skin, leaving black obsidian armour in its wake that glows with the distinct aether etchings of a Dominant.

“This already happened, I already killed him, so why? Why do you still reject the truth?” His other self growls as liquid fire drips from the spiked obsidian plates forming along his shoulders.

Semi-Prime, Clive’s straining thoughts distantly provide as the vice like grip tightens around his throat, cutting off his air and leaving five near identical deep lacerations from where the heated claws of the other dig into his flesh.

Clive doesn’t care, so long as his doppelganger is focused on him Joshua is safe. Still, he can’t stop himself from trying to fight back.

Flames lick along his palm as he presses his left hand to the others chest and tries to push him away.

A normal man would have leapt away screaming as the flames Clive summoned burned through steel and mail alike, would have collapsed in pain as the fire had overtaken them, leaving Clive the time he needed to gather himself.

His doppelganger laughs instead, but Clive does not have time to focus on that, not when the ground beneath him starts to crack as Ifrit shifts his stance and again begins to move.

Clive smothers the flames he had called, cuts them off from the aether he is supplying them with and redirects it back into restraining Ifrit with all of his will.

It works, even as Clive finds himself struggling to hold the invisible chains that tie Ifrit to him, but any move to redirect his aether, to channel it into a spell that will allow him to repel the shadow of himself that restrains him, will allow Ifrit to break free from his wavering control.

Like this he can’t use the Blessing of the Phoenix; the revelation locks cold fingers of ice around his mind, causing him to still beneath his captor’s grip.

If he fights back Ifrit will kill Phoenix, he knows this, can feel Ifrit’s hunger as if it were his own, a burning pit at the centre of his being that needs to be fed, but it is a yawning hollow that can only be filled by the aether of another Eikon.

It leaves him with an emptiness that is all consuming and impossible to ignore, simply for the fact that the Phoenix already lies still, trapped within his jaws.

The power is his, all he has to do is reach out and take it.

‘No!’

The thought is loud and uncompromising, his will unbroken.

“Weak,” his other self hisses down at him from above, “even now, you refuse to claim the power that is yours by right.”

“I’d rather die.” Clive spits, conviction allowing him to force the truth past the steel grip his doppelganger has on his throat.

“No,” the plea is quiet and confused, smothered beneath an exhaustion that seems to slow the word, dragging it out into an almost whine.

Immediately Clive’s eyes are focused on Joshua.

Where before his brother had stood frozen in what Clive could only guess was a half-lucid state, now Joshua seems to be fighting, clawing against whatever power holds him as Clive watches light and comprehension return to his gaze.

“No,” the word is firmer this time as Joshua shakes his head, bringing up one hand to tangle in his hair as he takes an uncertain step forward. The other hand reaches for Clive, open and desperate as if Joshua is afraid that Clive will vanish before his eyes.

“I-I won’t let you,” he says with a trembling strength that Clive recognises, he’s heard it often enough when he had been allowed to comfort Joshua when he was lost to the suffering of a bad fever.

As if in challenge the shadow looming above Clive merely tightens his hold, finally cutting off the small breaths of air Clive had been managing to gasp.

At the sight Joshua’s vision finally seems to clear as he calls out, “I said no!”

Fire ignites in the corner of Clive’s darkening vision as the Phoenix dissolves into ribbons of flame and aether, fading from the tight grip of Ifrit’s paralysed jaws.

The ribbons coalesce around his brother for but a moment, but they soon catch into a banner of feathers; long, flowing, and dipped with embers of flame. The Semi-Prime of the Phoenix.

The heat that radiates from Joshua’s form is a living thing, like the breath of a wyvern rolling over Clive’s skin.

It only adds to the veil of power that cloaks his brother, that lends strength to his words as he speaks.

“Release my brother!” The demand echoes, threaded as it is with the cry of the Phoenix.

It holds little influence over the doppelganger that pins him, who simply glares at Joshua from where he continues to restrain Clive.

“How are you here?” the shadow asks instead, curiosity giving a lilt to his aether infused voice, all but turning it into a growl. “Your will should not be strong enough to allow you to trespass here.”

Joshua does not lose focus, and his answer comes with a fully charged Firaga spell.

“I said: release him!”

Where Clive’s spell had merely washed over the shadow like smoke, insubstantial and weak, Joshua’s catches like wildfire.

Caught off guard the doppelganger is thrown back and Clive, at last, can breathe.

The first desperate inhale causes his starved lungs to rebel, and he is left with no choice but to curl in on himself as he presses one hand to his throat, where he can still feel the phantom fingers of his shadow.

“Clive!” comes the concerned call as Joshua rushes to his side, voice watery and strained.

He manages to get his knees under him just in time to catch his brother as Joshua all but throws himself into Clive’s arms.

In this form Joshua should be impossible to touch, the mere act of wrapping his arms around him should be a torment equivalent to willingly embracing a sun made flesh, but all Clive can feel is the warm glow that slowly sinks into his blood, chasing away the cold that has stolen into his veins.

“I-I’m so-sorry, I’m sorry,” Joshua whispers into his chest as he clings all the tighter.

‘That’s wrong,’ Clive thinks even as he tries to calm Joshua, running a soft hand over his brother’s halo of aether lit hair. “Shhh, shh, it’s alright, I have you.”

Joshua shakes his head as he takes a stuttering gulp of air before apologising again, “I’m sorry.”

“Joshua no I—” he tries to correct, aiming to pull his brother back slightly so he can look into his eyes, but the guttural noise of steel being dragged across melted stone has all of his attention back on the shadow that wears his face.

The flames of the Phoenix still burn, dancing across the obsidian armour that now covers the doppelganger’s arms and legs in thick plates of aether infused stone, but Clive watches with horror as the bright gold and blue flames of the Phoenix begin to fade, engulfed by a cerise fire that floods beneath his reflections skin.

As his doppelganger gets to his feet Clive can’t help but notice the other changes that have overtaken his form, subtler than the flame imbued armour but no less startling when looking at a copy of his own face.

The white hair, infused with veins of the same fire that flows beneath his skin, makes the ochre eyes that stare at him all the more unnerving, especially when contrasted against the ashen tone his skin has taken.

“I will claim this power, one way or another.” The threat is obvious and immediately acted upon, but not by the shadow that stands before him.

With a sound like molten iron cracking beneath the strike of a hammer, and the feeling of something strained finally being pulled beyond its limit, Ifrit breaks free from his restraints.

Claws close in an inescapable cage around his chest and all Clive has the time for is to desperately push Joshua to the side in the hopes of saving him from the same fate.

The sensation of his stomach falling as he is swept into the air has him grasping for anything to stand on, but the fingers locked around him allow no movement apart from the turning of his head.

His ascent stops as suddenly as it had begun, and he opens his eyes to be met with the same unnerving and merciless gaze that had adorned the stare of his shadow.

Ifrit glares down at him, unchained and free to do as he will, but Clive does not have the time to focus on that as a sharp growl from far below is followed by the ricochetting echo of fire spells being exchanged.

He looks down to the see the shadow of himself charging at Joshua, only the whip like movements of the Phoenix’s feathers keep him at bay, save Joshua from the blade and the claws which seek to end him.

It is a temporary strategy, one that will soon fail as Joshua’s endurance is tested and pushed beyond the limits he has never had the chance to discover.

“Joshua!” Clive cries as he struggles uselessly within the confines of Ifrit’s grip, “no, just run, just run, please!”

His brother doesn’t listen, he can’t, not when the shadow commands the dark flames that surround them to burn hotter, trapping them together.

Clive can’t watch this, not again, but what can he do when his flames merely spark like cold ashes against the grip that contains him.

It’s as he despairs at his own weakness, eyes flicking between the battle below and the face of the Eikon that looks down on him from above that Clive begins to wonder: ‘why is Ifrit doing nothing?’

As he is now the Second Eikon of Fire could crush Clive with the briefest flex of his fingers, but even as he continues to struggle, sparks of flame and flashes of light interchanging as he tries anything to escape, Ifrit does not move.

“What do you want from me!” he cries out with impotent rage and frustration, already knowing that the question will fall on deaf ears.

"̸͇̘͑̎F̷̠͚͉͋o̷͉̼͕̓r̶̡̰̀̉ ̶̘͚͌͜ý̷͍̆̚ŏ̴̱̋͜ú̸̞̩̿̽͜ ̴̗̄̇t̴̟̠͎͑͝o̶̼̤͈̓ ̷̼̥̀̃ā̷̡͎̭͠c̶̲̮̙͐ć̶̳ͅe̵̝̔p̶̠͈͈̀̓͆t̴͍͗ ̵̗̐ẗ̴͈́h̵̘̐e̵͎̅́̋ ̸͇̓t̴̻̫̩̍͋̑r̷̮͇̘̕u̶̯̞͛͗̆t̵̬̑͗͜ĥ̶͉͜.̴̢̡̮̈́̈́"̶͔͕̼̓̾̍

He flinches as the voice rings through his mind, bringing with it the same pain it always has, forcing him to grit his teeth against it as he tries to endure the unexpected assault.

“Truth? What truth?” he snarls as he struggles again, powerless before the might that contains him.

"̵̭̌̚À̶̹̙͕c̴̳̜̗͊c̸̨̮̮̚e̵͖̲̱͊p̵̛̖̙̄̎t̴͓̼́͋̊ ̵̠͇̌̒̌y̴̳̹̐ǫ̷͉̗͒̓͌ǘ̷̹r̴̟͖̃ ̵̪͖͈̈f̵̘̚͜a̴̪̹̽̕ṯ̸̈́͋͗é̴͓̟̤̇̈́,̸͇̻̑ ̴̯̒̋͑ǎ̵̮͇c̵̤̩̗̓c̶̹̜̯͂ḛ̶̛̳̩̅̕p̴̰̦͓͒̒̈́ṱ̷̛̛̿ ̵̟̍͝t̸̞͒ḧ̸̝̭͠ë̵̫̞́̇ ̵̝̟͆͜p̶̣̳̍̅͘u̵̧̞̳̇͠r̵̜̮̆́̓p̷̯̋͗o̴̝͇̓s̶͉̥͛̎̊ẻ̷̡̝̝̓ ̴̟͙͙͒̌̊y̷̢̙͐́ő̴̥̘ǔ̵̙̣̜̋͆ ̶̹̋́̓w̸̡͓̭̅e̷̫̦͊r̴̛̫͚̦̅͘ḛ̵̳̭̾͒͌ ̴̘̅͝b̵̛̦̘͍o̴̪̭̅r̶͔͊̅͜ǹ̷̛͈͍͔̎ ̴̤̙̄̈́f̶̛͙̪ŏ̶̧͚̋r̷͕̲͌.̵̖͔̯̈́̆̕"̵͇̮͑͝͠

“No!” he yells, stubborn and wilful to the end.

"̵̧̰̀́̀͘A̶͎̥̯͊͐̆̕͝c̵̱͑ç̴̛̪̯̪̰̉͐̽e̶̙̰͍̔̏̉͘p̸̳͕͖̗̾̓͝ṯ̷̋ ̶̳̱̫͇͗͜i̴͉̘̓͂t̸͖̂̃̀,̸̦̆̽̍͝ ̸͓͗̽͋̚o̴̯͇̮̝̩̒r̴̝̺̙̬͋͜ ̸͔̤̮̔̽̀͝t̵̢͓̱͂́͆͐̄h̶̦͛e̸̲̠̭͂̿̑̐ Phoenį͔̏͑̒x̵̧͔̕s̸̱̘̱̾h̷͔͠a̷̬̓̐l̸̘̬̹̄ĺ̷̦͇̞͚̊̄̂ ̸̨͖̱̘̍̍p̵͉̄̕ͅȩ̸͖̹̩̟̑r̶͖̞̳̖̺̽̉͌̌ḯ̶̠̔͋̂̕s̶̢̢͌̽̀͊̈́ḩ̸̟͈͌̃ͅ ̴͈͈̈́̈́̎͠͝h̴͔̩̽ẽ̴̹̖͜r̵̦̻̓ͅͅȩ̸͕̼̪͎̀́.̶̼͑̉"̴̻͈̭̌

The ultimatum is punctuated by Joshua’s scream, as his shadow’s blade cleaves one of the trailing feathers that had been keeping him back, and with it the Semi-Prime of the Phoenix retreats, leaving his brother defenceless.

"̷̙̞̹̓͑A̵̛̫̙̓̂͜w̴̻̣̹͖̬͂a̷̧̛͍̗͎͙k̸̢̛͛ę̸͍̝̰̓̓̀́͜n̶̯̮͕̔͋̾̅̾,̴̪͕̮̐̊͜ ̴̨̧̦̬͆̈́ȯ̸͇͖͕̙͚̓́̾̍u̸͓̐̅r̵̢̞̣͈͈̾̂̎͝ Mytḣ̷͕o̵̩͘š̵͇.̶͖̒"̵̡̚

Clive feels again the threads connecting him to Ifrit, the heavy chains that bind the Eikon to his soul, and all too clearly the truth he must accept unfolds amidst the chaos of his thoughts.

Instinctively he tries to turn away from it, a reaction born of that same truth being forced upon him even as he consciously did everything he could to distance himself from it, whenever he had the chance.

Morning spars where he would claim fatigue for the chance to stop wielding the unfamiliar flames, rejecting Prince Dion’s overtures of advice and guidance so he could forget that he now wielded light as well as fire, moments spent in silence, allowing his mother’s words to wash over him but never settle.

There is no running from it now, but if he admits it, gives this truth voice, there shall be no turning back.

The thought of the alternative, of leaving what he realises must be a manifestation of his brother’s wandering soul, summoned by the Apodytery, to the mercies of the fiend wearing his face…

Never.

He reaches for the chains as he speaks the truth.

“You are not Ifrit.” He opens his eyes meeting the gaze of the Eikon that holds him. “I am.”

He pulls the chains taut, and Ifrit rises with his call, flames erupting from the ember of his soul as the true Second Eikon of Fire takes form.

Where before Clive had felt himself slip, his consciousness lost to the aether that flowed through him, now he is in control.

The false Eikon before him reals against his flames, falling back, and Ifrit follows, clamping his jaws around the exposed neck before him, ripping through stone and lava and drinking in the aether that lays below until the impostor fades to nothing.

It’s invigorating and terrifying, but he doesn’t have time to get used to it, or even adjust as his shadow descends upon Joshua.

His tail comes in use, crashing down between his brother and the doppelganger that seeks to be his end, before sweeping it across the ground.

He barely feels the shadow against the adamantite tough hide of his tail, but he feels the ground yield beneath it, all in its path levelled and swept clean as he turns placing the large body he now wields in a protective crouch above his brother.

The spark of cerise and black he catches out of the corner of his eye draws his predatory gaze to the edge of the barrier of flames where his shadow lies prone, armour shattered and form slowly disintegrating into motes of cinder that turn to naught but dead ash as they drift to the floor.

He remains crouched, expecting more, ready for the next challenge, the next test.

He will not fail.

He cannot fail.

Never again.

The ember warm touch that brushes against one of the talons on his left hand is such a light thing, he is surprised he even notices it.

“Clive?” Joshua’s voice wavers upon the conflicting emotions of hope and disbelief and Clive’s heart breaks at the sound of it.

Immediately he drops the threads that allow him to summon Ifrit, uncaring of the sudden height he finds himself falling from, even as his knees give out beneath him as he lands.

As he moves to stand the world swims around him as dizziness assaults him from all sides, robbing him of what little balance he has, forcing him to take a knee as he presses a hand to his forehead in the hopes of restoring some sense of equilibrium.

He thinks he hears something, but it’s distant and garbled, overshadowed by the piercing ring that has pervaded every thought and now brings nothing but pain as the bracing hand turns into a clawed fist, that he grips against his skull in the bitter hope of relieving at least some of the agony.

“…ve!”

He looks up to see Joshua standing beside him, hands raised as if trying to get to him through an invisible wall.

He reaches out in turn, only to have his fingers brush against the unseen barrier that keeps his brother back.

“Cl…”

"̶̤̈́͊A̶̢̪̞̒͝t̴͓̑ ̶̡̖͓̱́̓l̸͓̎̈͒a̴̺͉̿̃̆̀̕ś̵̞̤̦͖̍̈̏̈ṯ̴̛̘̳̀,̴͕̘̻̩̒̐̓̚ ̵̗̞͙̳̹̈́͝y̶̺͇̲͚̑̊̃͠ô̴̙̗̦̮̅̇̀u̸͕̩̯̿̂͆̍͆ ̸̛̼̞̪̆̋͊ͅạ̴̯̭̰̇c̸̡̳̼̺̽̈́̈͆͝c̴̮̯̺͘e̷̝̼̤͕̩̓̀̔͊p̶̠̙͚̂͝͝ṯ̴̻͙̐͘͝ ̷̤̩͔͎̹̀̿ț̷̛̀͋ẖ̵̄̆͐̚ę̴͍̰̈́ ̸̭͝t̷̝̓ŗ̷̥̞͓̒ͅü̵̘̮̼̓̏͝ͅt̶̨̢̩̿̑͑̅h̶̛̠̠̪̋͝͝.̵͇̎͋"̴̱͌͐͌͝͝

What little strength Clive has left buckles beneath the onslaught of those words.

"̷̬̰̫͈̈́̌̕Y̸̯̾͘ͅȏ̸̠̖͇̪̜̂̅͝u̷̢̟̼͠ ̸̛͚͇̬̻͝͝ẇ̶͕͍̝̖̐͆̈́͝e̴̘̪͔̠͛͂̐r̷̹̾͆̊e̴̡͈͙̝̲̐ ̵̫̘̀͋̿ḅ̶̓o̶̤̜̼͛͒̉̇ŕ̴̲̭̻̤̈́̆̉̌ǹ̸̺̖̫̭̆͛̇͜ ̸̛̩̺̙̿ṯ̷̢̀̍ỏ̵̩̩̲̯̹̈̉͑͘ ̶̠͑̾w̶̡̛̺͎͓̾͂i̵̮̯̿̋̈́̃ẹ̸̅̈̄̈́̉l̴̫̄̊̆͑͝d̷̡̮́̄͒͜ ̵̺͕̖̈́̂l̶͍̬̤̑ï̶̧͍̝̗̥̔̀m̵͉͉͂ǐ̴̞̇͝t̶̗̎̓̕l̴̨̢̟̥̯͂̈́͂̒e̴̗̥̯̞̾̀̌̕s̶̩̀̓̎͗s̸̛͎̳ͅͅ ̸̪̭̑͠ͅp̶̦̻̺̩̰͊̀͐o̷̻͈̞͉̓͒̎̒͝ẁ̸̱̄̉͘ẽ̷̫͖̗̱̝̀̍͑ṙ̸̤̲̋͆̇̔.̴̺̗̙͓̿ ̴̱̖̋̔̔̎E̴̪̜̟̖̊ͅm̴̫̲̠̓̆̓̏b̵̮͚͕̝͗͑̎ŗ̸͎̲̙̒͐a̵̜̒͑̋̌̔c̷̨̋e̸͚̟͈̒ͅ ̷̝̻̐̌͜i̷̻̲͔͈͒t̴̼̻̑̇.̸̘̰͙̈́̎̈"̷̩̾̈́

Both hands come up to brace against the tide of agony that makes the world around him flicker.

The last thing he sees before he has no choice but to let the darkness claim him, is Joshua mutely punching at the force that separates them.

…

Clive comes back with a startled gasp as the cold quiet of the Apodytery rushes in to greet him.

There are no voices, no ringing, no pain, but as he falls to his knees before the mural of a forgotten god, he knows that he would endure it all just for one more moment with his brother.

Chapter Text

Consciousness slowly descends upon him, chasing away the dark like a weak candle almost burnt down to its wick, and Joshua quickly realises that he has to actively grab onto it in order to keep it burning.

Even so, it dims before the assault of the heavy exhaustion that still has such a tight grasp on his mind and body.

In an attempt to fight it he spreads out his dulled senses, searching for something to hold onto, to clutch like an anchor.

It comes in the form of a distorted voice calling out his name.

“…ess, your Highness?”

No, not his name, just his title.

That more than anything makes it clear that it’s not his brother that is calling out to him.

It’s almost enough to make him let go of the tentative grasp he has on lucidity, but he doesn’t, only for the simple fact that he knows he has been asleep for far too long.

He can feel it in his bones, the dull persistent ache that only comes from lying in the same position long enough for your muscles to scream at even the smallest movement.

“Your Highness?” the voice sounds clearer this time, cajoling if insistent, with an undercurrent of deep respect that always sets Joshua’s teeth on edge because he hasn’t done anything to earn it.

“Fetch Lord Cyril,” the voice instructs to someone unseen, who by the sounds of the rushed footsteps and the slamming of a door, moves quickly to fulfil the command. Joshua cannot help but flinch at the heavy sound of the door closing as the noise echoes around the room strangely.

With great effort, he manages to pry one eye open, only to regret it as the grit that clings to his lashes irritates his skin to the point that it feels as though he has actual sand trapped beneath his eyelid.

He goes to raise a hand to wipe it away, but finds the limb is too heavy to lift, which makes sharp panic rise for a moment until the familiar if frustrating feeling of unused muscles beginning to wake up sends the numb tingle of pins and needles running through his limbs.

Nothing he hasn’t dealt with before, nothing he hasn’t overcome…

Joshua flinches when he realises where he has heard those words before. They were the quiet reassurances that Clive always used to whisper to him when he was recovering, when Clive was either allowed to see him or went against their mother to sneak into his room, usually at great cost to himself if and when he was discovered.

“Your Highness?” comes the probing voice again, drawing him from the memories that were slowly pulling him back under the weight of exhaustion to the realm of sleep.

He tries to speak, to confirm that he is indeed awake, but all that comes out of his throat is a dry and painful wheeze.

It feels like shards of glass previously unnoticed have suddenly shifted in his throat, falling out of a delicate alignment that had let him breathe without pain into a chaotic mess that causes agony to flood his system with every staggered inhale he manages to pull in with his weak lungs.

He can feel the cough building before it happens, but there is little he can do to stop it as the next breath catches on one of the many shards lodged within his throat.

Suddenly muscles that were so unwilling to co-operate are spurred into motion as his chest involuntarily convulses, and Joshua feels like he is drowning on dry land.

Hands move swiftly to turn him on his side, and he has no choice but to allow it, all his minor strength now refocussed back on just trying to stay conscious as his body rebels against the very notion of air.

Something cold is pressed to his lips, and with long practised familiarity, he knows he needs to drink.

The mild sweetness of honey does little to offset the bitterness of the potion that he is slowly fed, but he still appreciates the thought.

Almost instantly the raw pain of his dry throat is remedied, but only to the point where the glass has been blunted. The sharpness soon comes back the second he coughs, but again, what he now realises is a bottle, is placed against his lips and this time he is able to take a bigger gulp.

“There you are your Highness, nice and slow,” encourages a voice that Joshua now has some sense to recognise.

“Uriel?” he asks for confirmation, easily having mistaken people when he has been in similar states before.

“Yes, your Highn-” the relieved words suddenly cut off, as if Uriel has caught himself. The reason why becomes clear soon enough, when he again begins to speak. “I mean your Grace.”

Joshua furrows his brow, still trying to blink sleep from his eyes as he tries to figure out what is wrong with those words, but he can’t quite connect to the feeling of unease they cause to stir in his soul.

Confused, he asks for clarification, “What?”

Uriel must misunderstand—easily done, since Joshua’s voice sounds like a ghost of a whisper even to his own ears—because the old Physicker seeks to explain what is happening, “you are safe, your Grace, we are far from danger, amongst the most loyal, amidst one of our oldest outposts, none of our enemies shall find us here.”

The words wash over Joshua’s mind like mist, causing more confusion and leaving him grasping for more answers.

‘Most loyal?’

‘Enemies?’

What did that mean?

The last thing Joshua remembers is the warm feeling of his brother’s arms embracing him…no, that is wrong as well, that’s only what he wants to remember, for the last thing he truly remembers is the cold touch of an impenetrable shield keeping him from his brother’s side, Clive folded beneath the weight of so much pain as dark laughter had drowned out Joshua’s shouts.

He blinks at that, but finds himself unable to summon any tears, his body lacking the moisture needed for the act even with the potion he has only just swallowed.

Even so, he turns his head away, trying to hide his face in the soft pillow. He wants to deny the vision as a mere dream, something conjured by his fevered mind to distract him from the horrors still fresh in his memory.

A scene painted with his father’s blood that had ignited the flames that had always burnt as near cold embers in Joshua’s chest.

It clicks then, even as he wishes it never had.

“My father?” his voice is a broken croak.

Silence is his only answer for a time, but then Uriel’s familiar hand is engulfing his own. “I am so sorry, your Grace.”

Joshua scrunches his eyes even though they are already closed, and lets the darkness reclaim him.

.

.

.

He wakes again, this time to a darker but louder room, anxious voices exchanging theories and worries.

“-still delicate, what with his health before and the amount of time he has been asleep,” Uriel advises.

The shift of fine robes against rough stone draws Joshua’s focus to the other presence in the room. “Indeed, but matters progress now at a pace, and the Phoenix must be kept informed, the Duchess and the usurper now dwell within Rosaria and make a claim for Drake’s Breath, if events unfold in their favour…”

The room falls silent amidst heavy speculation, giving Joshua a moment to sort through the words.

Usurper?

The image of fire born horns and sharp talons makes the invisible wound on Joshua’s chest throb as the notion that he is forgetting something rises at the back of his mind, but the thread is soon lost as the voices sound again.

“Is the Duchess not more of a threat than the Marquess? By all accounts the boy is unwilling, Rosaria itself held hostage against him, our agent reports that-”

“His will matters not, the fact that he is the Second Eikon of Fire alone is enough to see him dead.”

Those words are the spark that Joshua’s memory was lacking, and in a conflagration of fractured images it all comes rushing back.

The traitors…

His Father…

The blood…

The flames…

He had failed.

He had promised and he had failed.

He had attacked his brother…

He remembers it now, the flames he had summoned and sent against the Second Eikon of Fire as fear, confusion, and so much rage had driven his actions.

He had attacked Clive, and now the Undying seek to finish his work.

Joshua feels sick, but his stomach is empty enough that all he can feel is the burn of acid as his stomach churns with the thought of Clive still being in danger.

“Many of our order are already in position, one hopes that we shall have fair tidings to greet his Grace with when he fully awakes,” Cyril sounds so pleased with himself, and Joshua senses an all too familiar impotent rage building in his breast.

“Lord Cyril, if I may…” Uriel pauses, waiting for Cyril’s permission, which he must give as Uriel takes a breath before continuing, “…what of the rumours of the Phoenix being the reason the Marquess survived out first attempt? Is that not a clear enough sign that it is by the Phoenix’s will that he endures?”

‘First attempt?’ Joshua repeats as a distant image of Phoenix wings sprouting from his brother’s back forms in his mind.

“Lies,” spits Cyril with more vitriol than Joshua has ever heard spill from his lips. “We know now there is no line the Duchess shall not cross in her pursuit of power, a most unfortunate development as before I would have never doubted her dedication to the preservation of the Phoenix.”

Joshua mentally blinks at that, what did his mother have to do with any of this? Why was Cyril talking as though she had betrayed them, it didn’t make any sense and only added to the distress burning like hot lava through his veins.

He needed answers, but merely the act of trying to open his eyes is a herculean task.

Still, he forces the issue, even as he groans with the strain of fuelling an exhausted body when he has no reserves to speak of.

Blinking against even the dim light of the crystal lit sandstone room he finds himself in, Joshua tries to get the attention of the two men quietly arguing beside his bed, but all that escapes him is a dry wheeze that is soon swept away by the tide of conversation that fills the room.

His efforts would have passed without notice, were in not for the silent figure watching over him.

“Master Uriel, I believe he may be waking up,” the voice that speaks sounds so hopeful even with the cool nervousness that coats her words.

Joshua can barely make out the faces of those standing closest to him, blurry as his vision is, but Cyril’s blonde hair, even partially hidden beneath his hood is distinctive enough for him to know who he is looking at.

“Cy-Cyri-” his voice breaks before he can utter the name, but Cyril understands enough to take a knee besides the bed.

“Your Grace,” he greets, relief breaking through his normal near emotionless tone.

Any attempt to return the greeting is immediately swallowed up by the inevitable cough that escapes his lips, and all Joshua can do is mentally growl in frustration as he waits for it to pass.

It does, eventually, but with his strength quickly waning, Joshua does all he can to make sure his first and only command will be clear.

“My b-brother,” another bout of breathless coughing and Joshua finds himself biting the inside of his lip to force himself to stay conscious.

When he blinks his eyes open again, Cyril is leaning forward eagerly awaiting the order.

“Is not to be harmed.”

He does not hear the reaction to his command, only knows it was definitely loud enough to hear.

It will have to be enough.

Cyril stiffens at the quiet command that escapes his Lord’s lips, disbelief and confusion warring for dominance as he watches his Grace fall back into the awaiting arms of unconsciousness.

That he would use the last of his strength for this…

No.

It must be a mistake, an error in judgement brought about by the fever that still assails his Master.

Yes, that makes far more sense, and there have been recordings before of the Phoenix and their Dominant’s will misaligning, and as the Bearer of the Burning Quill is it not his sworn duty to protect his Lord from all threats?

‘I trust you,’ the words spoken those weeks ago had held more power than this weak breath that was uttered on the edge of exhaustion, it is clear that his Grace was not fully aware and even if he were he has yet to be fully appraised of the full situation.

He is pulled from these circuitous meandering of thoughts by movement to the side attracts his gaze to where Uriel is gently moving his Grace back into a more comfortable position before he beckons his little assistant forward. “Jote, head down and send a stolas immediately, we must send word to our agents in Rosaria.”

“Of course,” Jote agrees, making for the door.

“No,” Cyril hisses before she can even take three steps, forcing the girl to stop.

“My Lord?” Uriel questions clearly confused.

Cyril takes a moment, takes a breath and allows himself to calm, for he must make this decision with a clear mind, even as he knows he has already made his decision.

‘I trust you.’

“His Grace is obviously unaware; it would be remiss of us to take any actions in haste.”

“My Lord Cyril,” Uriel protests as he stands to his full height, but Cyril silences him with a wave of his hand.

“It has been decided.”

Chapter Text

Curious.

The trespass of the Phoenix’s young Dominant had not been foreseen, and therefore not prepared for.

An oversite that should not have been possible, especially when their Mythos had at last wandered so willingly into the crucible of their making.

From whence had this manifested.

They cannot know, and at once they cannot allow it, for too long have they awaited the coming of their vessel, their Mythos.

Eons spent in restless slumber, haunted by the vision of their prize which always seemed to lay just beyond the grasp of their power.

The far spark radiant in its splendour, dwelling at the edge of the sea of glowing motes they had cast across the fertile field that was their Valisthea.

Now that he is here, that he has taken the first step needed to reach the perfection they desire, nothing may be allowed to interfere.

It is with these thoughts in mind that they turn to their most loyal.

Their servant who once cursed them, only to embrace them with rekindled faith when the truth of their Divinity was made clear.

The last true son of the Motes of Darkness.

The very shadows of the room bow before them as they step forth from the veil, donning the figure of their vessel cloaked in hooded robes as has become their preference since Mythos was at last revealed to them.

Odin stirs at his presence, alerting his Dominant of his master’s return.

 Barnabas stills, the words that had been spilling easily from his lips falling to silence as his attention shifts and focuses.

“Barney?” questions Ramuh’s Dominant, the breath of the word sending the smoke from his cigar pooling across the table set with maps and figures of war, chess pieces making a game of the savage act of violence humans do so love to embrace.

“Leave me,” Their servant commands, already turning towards them, his shoulders rolling with the need to supplicate himself before them.

“Wait, what?” Ramuh’s Dominant protests, “I only just got here, and you were the one whose been on my arse all morning about actually showing you these battle lines.”

He looks down at the carved figures again and their gaze follows as his hand curls around a black onyx piece carved into an impressive likeness of Odin mounted on Sleipnir. “For all the good it’ll do since the Beastmen don’t give two fucks about flinging themselves against your blade or my lightning.”

“It will have to wait,” their servant dismisses again, his voice sharper this time, tinged with an edge of frustration born from the fact that he knows he is keeping them waiting.

Ramuh’s Dominant doesn’t move, but his eyes do narrow in suspicion, locking on the shadows where they stand, shielded from his sight by the power their servant summons.

“Barney, have you been drinking the aether again?” After a moment filled with nothing but silence, he continues, “we talked about this, even as a Dominant you can’t go drinking the stuff, even you’ll turn akashic if you keep doing that, and fit as I am, the prospect of fighting an aether mad Odin is not appealing in the slightest.”

“Cidolfus,” their servant warns, and the half teasing smile that had been playing on the lip of Ramuh’s Dominant slides off even as the stubborn line of his shoulders only tightens.

“Whoops, full name, I am in trouble,” the tone is mischievous, as is the way of Ramuh’s latest vessel stands, but the way he rolls the small figurine between his fingers and allows leven to spark across the contours of the piece speaks of a growing irritation.

They have little patience for these performances.

Stepping forth they allow themselves to be seen.

Their eyes meet with the gaze of their servant for but the briefest of moments before the man falls on bended knee, head bowed low in the reverence they are due, as he awaits the word of his Lord.

The crack of marble on stone heralds the summoning of lighting, as Ramuh’s Dominant drops the figurine he was holding out of shock.

It is the work of a mere thought to capture the leven, to cage it in his gloved hand and hold it at rest as it struggles with the fast wingbeat of a struggling bird.

“What the-” the words stall as the arm still raised is snatched and twisted behind his back as Sleipnir slips into being.

“Calm yourself, Lord Commander, we wouldn’t want any mishaps, now would we,” chides the Egi, who with a mere shift in position applies more pressure to the limb he has in his steel grasp, until Ramuh’s Dominant has no choice but to kneel before his creator.

“Barney, call off your show pony before I fry him so much his brother’s will be choking on his dust for a week,” Ramuh threatens, with a bite that has little teeth as the man’s eyes widen as they again focus on the lightning which they easily hold within their grasp.

“Forgive his impertinence, My Lord, he knows not in whose presence he speaks,” his servant apologises as he lowers himself further, degrading himself on behalf of his Commander, in the hope of sparing the man from his Master’s ire.

It works, only in so far as they have more pressing concerns than the wilfulness of Ramuh’s Dominant, and so they dismiss the apology as easily as they dispel the leven still trapped within their grasp, for the title of Warden is only held, allowed to endure, because they so will it.

Perhaps the time to make an example has come again.

After all, their Warden of Water had once been proud, arrogant to the point where their continued disobedience had swelled into rebellion, but her banishment had brought silence to the voices of discontent and divergence.

Leviathan, of course, still exists, she is theirs and like the others she is destined to return to the welcoming fold of their embrace, but a Dominant has only one purpose…

Thoughts for another time, as they well know that Ramuh’s Dominant has his uses, his role to play.

Forgetting these meandering thoughts for now, they turn their attention back to where their servant awaits their command.

Lowering his hood, he looks upon Odin’s Dominant with the visage of their chosen, and speaks, “mark this face well Odin, our Mythos made flesh. He who shall channel our power and bring about the salvation of our treasured Valisthea.”

The fevered light of pure devotion overtakes his servant’s eyes as he takes his time memorising the face before him, as he questions, “What name does the vessel bare, my Lord?”

“Clive Rosfield, though currently in the care of Sanbreque, we would have you know your duty to protect and prepare him, and if needs must, to sever every tie that would profane our chosen,” they intone as they circle the room.

“My will is yours to command my Lord.” His servant bows again, but even still they can see the plans that swirl within the shadows of his mind.

Pleasure at the show of subservience blooms within their chest like a flower unfurling upon the warm breath of spring, and they feel no disgust as they reach out to lay a hand atop the bowed head of the last adherent to the truth of the Circle of Malius, in both blessing and benediction.

Their command relayed, their desire made clear, they fade, leaving Odin’s vessel to deal with the growing storm that is Ramuh’s tempestuous Dominant.

Chapter Text

The journey from Phoenix Gate should have taken less than half a day under normal conditions. It has instead taken them a full day, weighed down as they are by all the pomp and ceremony Anabella is so insistent on travelling with.

If Byron had his way the traitorous bitch would have been flogged and then dragged through the streets by Chocobo, alas, that is a plan that will have to remain on the back burner for now, but the mere image of the snake tongued harlot getting what she oh so rightly deserves does bring a smile to his face.

Maybe it can be her reserved mode of transportation on her way to the gallows? Ah, just the thought of a neatly woven rope around her neck makes her grating presence so much easier to endure.

Such a shame he cannot share these delightful plans with his dear nephew, alas, if Anabella is not watching the boy directly, she always has one of her sycophants circling close by, ready to report the slightest deviation in Clive’s schedule. A consequence of Byron’s own meddling and one that has seen him landed with his own set of babysitters.

Nothing that he cannot handle, as demonstrated by the string of ‘advisors’ as Anabella sees fit to call her spies. No, he had recognised them for what they were the moment that had dared to cross his threshold and had sought to be rid of them as quickly as possible, but not without first using them to his own advantage.

They were after all quite capable businessmen, with many a connection across the Twins, Lord Paris had indeed been most helpful in opening a few channels that had previously been closed to Byron, introducing him to several Dhalmekian Lord’s and councillors who were all too eager to begin trade negotiations with Port Isolde on the promise of future use of Byron’s extensive maritime network. A promise that proved to be worth its weight in Crystal from Drake’s Fang.

All it had cost him in exchange was the simple task of setting up some meetings with Byron’s own long-time partners in Ran’dellah. If he had put it into the boy’s head that these men were looking to undermine Lord Kupka and were not in fact Kupka’s own most loyal merchant Lords, well that was neither here nor there, and Lord Paris hadn’t kept his head long enough to complain.

Lord Francis on the other hand, now there was a tough nut to crack. Astute, with good instincts, and wary after his predecessor’s sudden demise, the man had been on his guard from the start, watching every one of Byron’s moves. It made it so easy for Rutherford to move behind the scenes, after all, who would pay attention to the calm and quiet butler when his boisterous Master was giving such an amazing performance.

The look on Lord Francis’ face when the debt collector had come with the IOU, the first of many, all clearly signed with his own signature. (Rutherford’s calligraphy was outstanding and lent itself rather nicely to forgery.)

From there it had been a simple task to uncover the full extent of Lord Francis’ supposed double dealings, all lies of course, the gambling houses he supposedly owed all built on land that Byron owned under a pseudonym, Elwin never did have a taste for his less honourable ventures.

Still, it made for the perfect cover to whisk away a good portion of his and Rosalith’s treasury out of Anabella’s greedy undeserving clutches.

Lord Francis was allowed to flee, straight into the Blighted lands of the Northern Territories, his body had been recovered three days later and burnt on a pyre, not a trace of him remained.

Now he has young Lord Zagreus to deal with, but young is putting it lightly.

Only seventeen and barely having completed his education, that in itself had raised more than a few red flags with Byron, and a little digging had revealed much.

A second son and a failed knight due to an injury he had received as a squire, his only saving grace the head he seemed to possess for numbers, in other words, expendable, but greatly indebted to Anabella should he prove to be useful.

An old ploy of hers, one that yielded capable and loyal servants that would do almost anything to please her.

A ploy that Byron knew how to undermine. After all this isn’t the first time Anabella has tried to fill his household with her spies, it’s just the first time she has been so brazen about it.

No, Byron would either turn the boy to his side or mercilessly crush him underfoot, there is no middle ground in a situation such as this.

For now, he must turn his thoughts to the coming assault on Drake’s Breath, a task that becomes all the more real as he turns his eyes down to the docks beneath Rosalith castle where the Duchy’s fleet is currently moored.

From where he stands at the window of the Archduke’s solar, he can see the armada being prepared, loaded with supplies they will need for the journey, and prepared for the battle that lies ahead.

Even from this distance he can clearly tell the difference between Rosaria’s own troops and the pitiful support force that his Excellency has been oh so kind as to lend them.

A single battalion of knights, not even Dragoons.

Not to say that there aren’t Dragoon’s here, but all of them belong to the unit sent along with Anabella as her honour guard, from what he has been told none of them shall be taking the field, instead staying behind to ensure the safety of the Duchess.

The question as to why the Duchess would ever need protection in her own country goes unasked, the answer is already clear, projected from the eyes of the citizens they had passed on the way here.

Anabella could spread her lies amongst the nobility as much as she likes and many of them will bow and accept them with a smile, but then those same nobles would also gladly listen to the latest rumour their man servant or lady’s maid happened to hear while running an errand, and more likely than not believe it over the honied lies Anabella fed them.

Thank the Founder that Clive is not tainted with the same stigma, but then, how could he be when the evidence of his unwillingness and captivity is made clear by the bright crystal cuffs that constantly weigh down his wrists.

At the thought of his dear nephew Byron walks the length of the solar and finds himself looking out the window down at the bailey below.

As expected, he soon sees Clive, the only speck of red surrounded by a veritable sea of silver, Rosarian Shields replaced with a wall of Dragoon’s that act as the boy’s cage when his mother permits him to remove the crystal cuffs in order to train, still the only time he is able to find respite from the constant drain of his binds.

A farce any way you look at it, for truly, what does Anabella think an honour guard of Dragoon’s could do if Clive decided to cast aside the chains he so willingly donned for the sake of his people.

No, they would be but ash on the wind, and Byron dreams of the day he can witness it, for that is the day that Clive shall at last be free.

For now though, they must bide their time and bite their tongues as they focus on more immediate concerns.

Case and point, ensuring that as many Shields as possible survive what Anabella is clearly hoping to be a mutual slaughter, a chance to further weaken Rosaria and make them all but reliant on Sanbreque, a province of the Empire in all but name.

A cunning plan, that would leave Anabella’s hands clean of the blood of the last of Elwin’s loyalists, the men who after Phoenix Gate had wisely fled into exile, only to slowly filter back when word of Clive’s survival had reached them. Their loyalty not only to Elwin, but to the boy they had trained and fought beside outweighing any sense of self preservation.

It would be admirable if it wasn’t so bleeding stupid.

Of course, Anabella had magnanimously pardoned them for their ‘desertion’, knowing that her apparent mercy would spread along with the news that troops were being raised once more to finish Elwin’s work, to reclaim Drake’s Breath.

Like moths to a flame, the loyal Shields of Rosaria rallied in their droves.

All of them had, of course, had to accept demotions, and other such punishments, depending on their rank, all the easier to force them into positions on the frontlines that would ensure they served as carrion for the crows.

Bloody martyrs the lot of them, was it truly too much to ask to have at least one battalion see the benefit of staying in hiding?

Then again, with the ongoing efforts of the Undying, and Anabella’s own efforts against them and anyone even suspected of aiding them, (the fate of the Bearers of Ember Fall had been broadcast far and wide, a warning to all) perhaps the Shields had assumed that if they remained in hiding, they would be viewed as allies of the Undying?

A moniker no loyal Rosarian wished to be branded with, not after their attempt on Clive’s life.

With a shake of his head and a hard pinch to the bridge of his nose Byron brings his focus back to the plans at hand.

The maps they have of Drake’s Breath are severely outdated, and all previous attempts to get scouts onto the island in order to survey the terrain have ended in utter disaster, the isolationist nature of the Iron Kingdom and the zealots of the Crystaline Orthodoxy making them suspicious of even the most benign piece of driftwood that approaches the shores of Drake’s Breath.

It’s a well-known joke that Iron Blood Crusaders keep their blacksmiths busy, what with them supposedly being prone to losing their axes when on watch duty, all because they hurl them into the sea at the barest ripple of a wave.

A joke that doesn’t seem quite so funny anymore when he and his nephew are bound for their shores in a little more than two days hence.

At least the one thing he can be assured of that won’t have changed is the currents, and treacherous as they are a good sailor can read the tide and slip through unscathed.

Though it had been decades ago, Drake’s Breath had once belonged to Rosaria, had, at one time, played host to the Undying as their main stronghold, but a war that had seen their forces stretched all too thin left the island vulnerable, and the Crystaline Orthodoxy were never one to sit idle when a chance to ‘free’ one of their ‘Mothers’ presented itself.

Many attempts have been made to take it back, the worst of which had cost the Grand Duchy near enough its entire fleet, as a freak storm had smashed their greatest war galleons against unseen shallows. To this day the old priests of the Crystaline Orthodoxy still boast of how their ‘Mother’ had summoned her wrath against the heretics, sending them limping back to their own shores with only shame and defeat to claim that day.

No, this time Byron would give them nothing to celebrate, but in order to do that, and ensure that countless Rosarian lives aren’t lost in the process, he needs the Dragoons, and for that, he needs Anabella’s approval.

Thank the Founder he doesn’t need to resort to the begging and scraping she so desperately wants to force upon him, not with the little trump card he’s been keeping in his back pocket for just such a rainy day as this.

With these thought in mind, he exits the solar and begins making his way to the Royal quarter.

He keeps his eyes down as he goes, unwilling to watch Anabella’s minions as they stalk the halls of Rosaria’s greatest castle, quill and paper in hand as they tally up and assess the artifacts that have adorned the keeps walls since time immemorial.

Relics that may have survived the ravages of the Iron Blood sweeping through these halls will not escape the eagle-eyed gaze of Anabella’s maids, and even though Byron had seen this coming, there was nothing he could have done to pre-empt it.

Spiriting away a small fortune is one thing, but sneaking away the treasures of his family is an entirely different game, one that could not be played with the subterfuge that is required to fool Anabella.

Some will of course be allowed to stay, those of sentimental or historical value, and nothing else, but anything of monetary value shall be packed up and shipped off. A perverse version of a dowry that sickens Byron to his soul.

Oh yes, the rumours have reached even here, talk of the preparations being made, and a year of mourning being more than enough.

It simply hammers home for Byron how long two years is.

An expanse of time in which he can do nothing but pray that Anabella does not fall pregnant, and if she does pray again that the child is not the Phoenix reborn, because for all of the laws of succession in the Grand Duchy of Rosaria, there is one alone that can never be overturned, the Phoenix is, and always shall be, the rightful ruler of the Duchy.

It’s with these dark thoughts that he finds himself standing outside Anabella’s chambers, awaiting her permission to enter.

The door opens to reveal the youthfully thin face of one Celine Valadon, a raven haired, emerald eyed beauty whose forked tongue spits the deadliest poison. Anabella own childhood companion who has ever remained in her service, a vindictively cunning woman who somehow managed to be the only lady’s maid to avoid capture or slaughter during the Iron Blood’s raid.

Forgetting that for the moment, Byron plasters on his most winning smile and proceeds to greet her, “good day, my Lady, so sorry to interrupt, but I have some matters of interest with which I need to discuss with your Mistress, if she can of course accommodate her dear brother-in-law.”

The way Celine’s eyes sharpen slightly at the edges is the only sign that she can see through his saccharinely sweet routine, but, as is the way of these exchanges, she moulds her lips into her own sugary smile and gives him an equally polite reply, “her Grace is currently in a meeting with the Captain of her Dragoon guard, but if you would care to wait, I can inform her that you are waiting for a chance to speak.”

Reading between the lines, the most obvious outcome here will be yet another power play in which he shall be forced to wait until Anabella deigns to see him, but Byron is nothing if not patient. “You have my thanks, of course I will not mind waiting.”

Allowing him to enter, Celine leads him to the reception room and directs him to the furthest chair set by the unlit fire, a cold welcome if ever there was one.

Ignoring the offered chair Byron instead plops himself down on the comfortable window seat that overlooks the gardens and the orchard below, making himself more than comfortable as he pulls out a book from the little cubby hole in the backrest.

Celine raises an eyebrow in clear disapproval but fails to act upon it as she curtseys and leaves to inform her mistress of his arrival.

Already mentally prepared for a long wait he flips the book open and begins to read.

He barely makes it past the first chapter before the sound of clicking heels on slate flooring attracts his attention back to the door Celine exited through.

Celine enters, her face a mask of politeness. “Her Grace has magnanimously agreed to make time for you Lord Byron, if you would follow me.”

Suspicious, but ready for whatever game Anabella has planned for him, he does as instructed.

He hears the voices as soon as he enters the short corridor that connects the reception room with Anabella’s private study. “Your Grace if I might—”

“For the last time, you may not, Captain,” Anabella’s voice rings with clear command, “now, as you have just heard, I have a meeting with Lord Rosfield to discuss matters of actual import.”

The dismissal is ignored as the Captain speaks again, “You must understand, your Grace, in times of peace such as these for the Empire, the opportunity for my men to prove themselves is rare, most of them serve no purpose here, as five would be more than enough to provide the protection you need.”

Byron can hear the sharp intake of breath that will proceed a no doubt scathing remark from Anabella, one that will send the good Captain into full retreat.

The joy Byron takes in scuttling that outcome is no small thing.

Using his naturally longer stride he overtakes Celine, ignoring her protest as he takes the handle of the ornate oak door and flings it open with much a plume. “Your Grace, did I hear correctly? Has this valiant Captain, so generously assigned as you guard just volunteered some of his men for our soon to be legendary retaking of Drake’s Breath?”

Shock causes Anabella’s true feelings to shine through the beatific mask she calls a face for but a moment, but the seething hate that curls the perfect bow of her lips into a half snarl is a gratifying thing to witness.

As the consummate actress she has ever been, she manages to set her face to rights again, donning instead the magnanimous features of a soon to be Empress. Byron does wonder how long she must have spent staring at pictures of the late-Empress Lucia in order to perfectly emulate the saint like calm the woman had seemed to breath in life.

“Lord Rosfield, there is no need to concern yourself with this matter, as it has already been settled,” Anabella demures, obviously eager to have the good Captain leave the room as she summons Celine forward like a well-trained lap dog and silently instructs her to remove him.

Byron puts a stop to that by simply standing in front of the door, blocking the exit.

“Come now, I believe the Captain…I am sorry good Ser, but I have yet to hear your name.” Byron enquires with a warm friendliness that has bought him entrance through the door of many a Merchant Lord.

“Leon Habas, my Lord,” the Captain introduces himself while giving a picture perfect Sanbrequois salute.

“Captain Leon, as it so happens, I have come here to request the use of some of your men from her Grace.” The Captain’s eyes light up with clear interest as the despondency that had been dominating his shoulders slips away, only to return as Anabella slides back into the conversation.

“Byron,” she starts in that condescending tone of hers that sounds so much like nails being dragged down a chalkboard, “Surely you aren’t claiming that the Shield’s of Rosaria would need more assistance from the Empire, after his Eminence has already been so generous.”

“Need? No of course not, Elwyn trained these troops himself, but what sort of Admiral would ever turn away men, especially when they themselves are willing,” Byron defends, looking to Captain Leon, who takes the endorsement and runs with it.

“Of course, Lord Rosfield, my men and I have trained day and night for an opportunity such as this.” Ah, there is nothing Byron can appreciate much more right now than a willing meat shield for his nephew.

Alas, Anabella is determined.

“Be that as it may.” The sharp tap of her perfectly filled nails against the carved wood of her armrest speaks loudly of her growing irritation, letting Byron know that he is treading on very thin ice. “With the threat that lies in wait here, it would be remiss to weaken our defences.”

It would be a good point, a damning point, were it not for Byron’s aforementioned trump card.

“If I were able to ensure your safety here and put those fears to rest, would you be willing to lend me the Captain and his men?”

Anabella leans back in her chair, all but assured he will be unable to deliver on that promise.

She gives her leave with a wave of her hand, all but begging him to try and fail.

“Well, your Grace, if you would care to accompany me.” He offers her his arm, and expertly hides the shiver of disgust as she takes it, winding her fingers around the crook of his elbow in a way that reminds him of the creeping vines of a Morbol.

The walk to their destination is swift if winding, the dungeon’s having no direct path to the Royal suits of the castle.

Anabella realises where he is taking her as soon as they enter the courtyard, her gaze naturally gravitating to the dark gate on the other side of the garden as she fishes her silk handkerchief from her pocket.

“Byron,” she whispers in warning, but he simply carries on. Much as he would love to see her locked in one of the many cells down below, it would unfortunately be counterproductive to his current plans.

“Unfortunately, the prisoner I wish to show you is a danger to himself and others, to allow him free of his bonds for even a moment would be to give him an opportunity to silence himself before we can acquire all the knowledge that he holds.” He rids himself of her hold for a moment as he opens the gate, giving the key the sharp twist it needs to move in the heavy lock.

Anabella looks unsure as he begins to descend down the short flight of stair, but the presence of Captain Leon must provide some confidence as she soon begins to follow.

It’s obvious which cell is occupied, given it is the only one that currently has two guards posted outside the bars.

“How is our guest?” Byron asks as he approaches, eyes already searching the gloom for the prisoner he knows is chained to the back wall, his arms and legs secured so he can barely move.

Instead of an immediate answer the two Shield’s look unsurely at each other, as if nervous.

“What happened?” Byron asks, not unkindly, but with an edge of frustration that speaks of days trying to thwart one inventive attempt at suicide after another.

The guard on the left is the one to speak up, a burly man with tanned arms and a well-kept beard. His voice is deep and sonorous, meaning that it carries well in the stone caverns of the dungeon. “He tried to bite through his tongue this time, we ‘ve had to wedge a strap of leather between his teeth to stop him.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Byron thanks the men for their careful attention, as shown by this latest attempt it would have only taken a few moments of distracted boredom for the man to succeed.

Entering the cell, he pulls a box of matches from his pocket and lights the awaiting torch that hangs in the sconce. The oil-soaked rags catch immediately, providing a soft glow that illuminates the entire space, what little there is of it, bare stone walls with nothing of interest trapped inside but the man bound and gagged, chained to the back wall.

He looks a little worse for wear, dried blood from his initial capture and his stay here clinging to his skin, mottled bruises covering his face and arms documenting the history of his fruitless resistance, it all adds up to a rather sad image of a bedraggled man whose very close to breaking.

But then, this isn’t just any man…

Being handed over to Anabella is a fate very few deserve, this man though, and all his ilk, Byron will happily trade them for all that they are worth. In this case, a full battalion of Dragoons all of whom seem ready to throw themselves into the fires of war.

“Your Grace, may I present the latest assassin sent after my dear nephew, an acolyte of the Undying by the name of Alexandre, the only man we managed to take alive from a team of three sent to infiltrate the castle.”

The greed and wroth that Byron can see lighting up Anabella’s eyes is a physical thing, he swears he can actually feel the room grow a few degrees colder as he watches her step closer, but as always, his sister-in-law is cautious.

“Do you have any evidence to back these claims?” she asks as she presses the silk handkerchief harder against her nose. “Afterall, any prisoner or slave can be made to look like an Undying.

Byron was prepared for this. “We have his affects, as well as those of his fallen comrades.”

He gestures to the box opposite the cell. “He also bears the orders brand, but if that shall not suffice you are of course free to use more…persuasive means to get the answers you seek.”

Torture is not something that Byron would ever normally condone, the barbaric practise doing little more than getting you only the answers you want to hear, but again, this man came here with the express purpose of killing his nephew. No, Byron won’t lose a wink of sleep over this.

Silence dominates the cell for a long while, only broken by the crack of the flames as they eat through the rags of the torch and the pained breaths of the prisoner.

Then…

“Captain, how many of your men would be willing to volunteer for the expedition to Drake’s Breath?”

“All of them, your Grace.”

Chapter Text

Drip!

Drip…Drip!

Drip!

The sound is so annoying, repetitive yet unpredictable in a way that always leaves her on edge, at least, more on edge than she already is, given her current circumstances.

There isn’t much to see, not with the darkness that surrounds her being nearly complete, the only light available the pale glow of the crystal embedded in the cuffs that keep her chained to the uneven floor, but then again, all light would reveal would be an empty stone chamber, a dried-up magma well outfitted with bars and turned into a black cell of granite and iron.

A cage for a monster cursed with the sin of magic.

Magic, her magic, that had come as a surprise.

For her and the Crusader she had ended up impaling on a spear of ice when he had grabbed her by the hair from the line of cowering captives and made to drag her off to Metia knew what—no, she knew exactly what, but the mere thought of it made bile rise at the back of her throat and tears well in her eyes.

Shock and terror had made her slow to react as the body of the man had fallen to the ground before her, but the Iron Blood had not been so burdened by the sudden death of their comrade, at least not in any way that slowed them.

The short scuffle to restrain her had ended as quickly as it started, and everything had gone dark as the hard butt of an axe handle was cracked against the back of her skull, sending her tumbling into unconsciousness.

She had woken in this cell, and here she has stayed ever since.

Again, a lie, for there are moments where she is dragged from this place, guards on either side of her as one leads her by a long chain, always to the same place, always to the same person.

Imreann.

The mere thought of his name sends a shiver down her spine, sends gooseflesh pricking along her arms, and sweat beading across her skin.

Monster he calls her, abomination, and beast, all names she had resisted at first, fought back against and denied, even as he had brought forth the whip, even as he left lash after lash across her back until there was no skin left unmarked, until her blood dyed every inch of the offering table before the Crystal’s Heart.

A payment for the fact of her unnatural condition, an apology to the Mother whose aether she steals for her own.

Lies, all lies, but everything she had said had only fallen upon deaf ears and made the punishment last longer, and after she would pass out, body too weak and consciousness too frayed to cling to reality anymore.

Always, she will wake here, and then it shall begin anew, an endless cycle of pain and misery with only one speck of light amidst the endless dark.

She can hear her coming now, distantly, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing down as quickly as she is allowed to, the faint light of a distant lantern growing brighter as it is brought closer.

“Jill?” comes the concerned whisper, quiet enough that it would not wake her if she had actually managed to find sleep.

“Lady Marleigh,” the dry croak barely makes it past her cracked lips, but it is enough to have Lady Marleigh running forward and clasping the bars as she turns to the guard accompanying her and speaks in the rough tongue of the Iron Blood.

After so long spent amongst these people, Jill can at least recognise a few scattered words, the ones for lock and open being the most pronounced and easy to recognise. She must be right, as soon enough the cell door is open and Lady Marleigh is beside her, hands reaching out but pausing as she gets a proper look at Jill’s latest injuries, the map of new cuts that has been lashed into her skin, creating a new picture of ridged lines that will never fully heal.

“Oh, my poor child,” she gasps, and Jill can hear the upset tremor in her voice that assures her that this is all genuine, that Lady Marleigh, is not just a part of the game Imreann is playing with her. No, Imreann is not cut from the same cloth as the lady Anabella, who plays games within games, pushing you away and degrading you with one hand while pulling you in and building you up with the other, a slow mental torture that meticulously breaks you down but at the same time makes you want to live up to the expectations she has in you.

Jill never dreamed she would miss those games, but at least with the Lady Anabella she felt like she at least had the chance of winning, the choice of whether to play in the first place, here, there are no choices.

Refocusing her drifting thoughts, she takes in the sight of lady Marleigh near in tears at the sight of her.

Reaching out she weakly grasps Lady Marleigh’s hand and tries to offer what little comfort she can, as she knows the sight of her must be distressing.

Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect.

“Jill, no please,” she sniffs, as she tries desperately to wipe away the tears before they can fall.  “Lie still, we don’t want to make these worse.”

She doesn’t, that’s true, but most of them will probably have to be re-opened in order to be cleaned anyway.

Instead of arguing she asks the question that she always must.

“How fair the others?”

Those that had been taken with her, she has not seen them since the day she unwittingly revealed herself as a Dominant, but she still prays that fate has been kinder to them than it has to her.

From what she can see of the crumbling expression on Lady Marleigh’s face, she can already tell the answer.

Hesitantly, and with so much regret, Jill can feel it sinking like a stone in her own stomach, Lady Marleigh delivers the latest news. “Lady Amelda has passed, succumbing to wounds inflicted for trying to escape, Lady Florence gave birth to a healthy son, when the boy is old enough, he shall be taken from her and entrusted to the faith, and three of the Bearers that were captured from Rosalith have been offered to the Mother.” Sacrificed, she does not say, murdered, slaughtered, defiled, all of these descriptions would be so much more accurate for the barbaric practises that Imreann revels in, but none of them can be uttered within the hearing of the most devout.

Anger and frustration well up uselessly within her breast, stabbing at her heart with sharp claws making it so hard to breath past the lump that forms in her throat from the suppressed scream.

Lady Amelda had been such a free spirit, talented in flower arranging and painting, she spent as much of her spare time as she could outside, in the gardens and would often stop to talk to Jill when she took a turn about them.

Lady Florence had always wanted children, she had dreamed of either having a girl who could inherit her natural curls or a boy with her purple eyes, to think that wish has been corrupted like this, and that soon the boy shall be ripped from her arms, to be raised by the men that did this to her.

The Bearers had not even been named, so Jill is left to wonder who among them could be dead, is it Mira who worked in the stables, who knew every chocobo by name? Vince who was assigned to the forge, who had talent enough to start training as an artisan? Little Biggs or Wedge who were still too young to be assigned any real tasks but who helped out with the Physicker or the library?

Sarah, Cameron, George, Olivia, Jess, Nick, or Seth, it could have been any of them, and not knowing makes it so much worse.

Lady Marleigh squeezes her hand and the warm pressure grounds Jill slightly allowing her to gather herself enough to try to sit up, but before she can, Lady Marleigh is baying her to stay down, “No, remain still, we don’t want to make this worse than it already is.”

Jill would argue, but she knows it would be useless, having been through this process so many times already. Lady Marleigh can be very stubborn when she needs to be.

As she settles back down, Lady Marleigh pulls out the poultice that she will need for this and pushes Jill’s hair to the side, it’s gotten so much longer, almost to the length she used to have it as a child, almost to the point where she will be able to have a proper braid again.

Those idle thoughts leave her as soon as Lady Marleigh begins to clean the wounds on her back.

“Sorry,” she apologises softly, but she doesn’t stop, this after all, is a good pain, a necessary pain, and Lady Marleigh works quickly, flushing out the dirt and grit with warm water before soothing the sting with the honey-based poultice that she applies liberally.

 After they are done with this, she will help Jill sit up and change into a fresh wool dress, give her something warm to eat, a hardy stew or a still warm loaf of bread, something to help her keep her strength, to give her the fortitude to see this through for another day.

At least, that is what usually happens, but the sudden loud bang that shakes the cave around them, causing Lady Marleigh to flinch back interrupts their routine.

An Iron Blood guard calls something out from down the hall, his voice distant but demanding, the man standing outside Jill’s cell shouts something back, but it’s not loud enough to cover the shocked intake of Breath from Lady Marleigh.

“What’s happening?” Jill asks as cries join the tremors that shake the cavern around them, even as her mind already conjured up scenarios, scenes of lava overtaking the mountain as the volcano around them reawakens after so many years of sleep, the pale blue mists of an aether flood rolling throughout the network of ruins, robbing everyone of their senses and leaving her to the mercies of akashic fiends that she would have no means to defend herself against.

Those thoughts are interrupted as the guard barks a demand at Lady Marleigh as he opens the cell door, closing in with intent.

Lady Marleigh moves, not out of the way like Jill hopes, but into the path of the closing Crusader.

Words fall from her lips that Jill cannot understand, but the way she spreads her arms and kneels before the guard makes it clear that she is begging on Jill’s behalf.

Her words do little but aggravate the man as he yells an order at her, spit flying from his mouth, as he pushes her aside, but Lady Marleigh is determined, seizing the Crusader’s arm she begs and pleads with open sincerity. It ends abruptly when the Crusader pulls his arm free of her grasp and delivers a swift backhand that sends the poor Lady flying against the wall.

“Lady Marleigh!” Jill cries as the sound of her head cracking against the sharp granite rings through the cell.

Like a puppet with her string cut, Lady Marleigh falls to the ground and doesn’t move again.

Jill scrambles to crawl to her side, but a boot placed on her lower back traps her, stopping her from moving as the freshly cleaned lashes across her skin flare with renewed pain.

She cannot stop the animalistic cry it forces up her throat, and with the black spots swimming in her vision there is little she can do to fight against the Crusader as he undoes her chain from the floor and swings her limp form over his shoulder, carrying her from the cell.

“Lady Marleigh! Lady Marleigh!” she calls again as the gloom snatches the woman from sight, but no response comes but the infuriated growl of the man who carries her.

Even so, Jill continues to try and struggle as she is conveyed from the dungeons of Drake’s Breath up into the halls of the Oratory.

Built within the body of the volcano, the Sanctuary is made up of a series of platforms surrounding the great red spire of the Mother crystal, which burns with a bright light so similar to the radiance of Metia that it makes Jill nostalgic each time she is forced to gaze upon it.

Interconnected by a series of bridges in different states of decline, the structure has always reminded her of a Ruin of the Fallen, one painted black by the ash and smoke that falls across the cavern, one that has been left to suffer the full ravages of time.

Jill blinks as the man carries her across the last of these bridge, for though the light of the lava pooled beneath the walkways is dimmed by the sheer onyx columns it reflects off of, it is still almost blinding after so long spent in the darkness of the cell she has been confined to, but over the course of her captivity here, she has learned to adjust to it quickly, and so, with each painful step the Crusader takes, the blurred colours begin to morph into the figures of bloodied men.

Jill’s first conclusion is that the Iron Blood have returned from another raid, but as the scene resolves itself before her eyes, she finds the details do not line up with this assumption.

Men charge forward toward the front of the Sanctuary, some half dressed in armour, others only bearing their weapons.

More stumble back from the barred gates of the Oratory, curses leaving their lips as they clutch at wounds that bleed freely, letting their axes and swords fall to the ground as they lose the strength needed to hold them.

She can hear it now, as she is carried across the stone bridge that leads to the Comraich, the sounds of fighting, of steel clashing against steel, of men screaming and dying as wood splinters and iron hinges bow beneath the heavy beat of something pounding against the doors that protect the Sanctuary at the heart of Drake’s Breath.

Hope, fierce and clawing wakes in Jill’s chest, but as she tries to lever herself up to see what’s happening, to see who is attacking the Iron Blood—in the back of her mind she is already picturing the bright red of the Rosarian Shields, but subconsciously she keeps that thought down, knowing already how bitter the sting of false hope can be—but she can’t seem to find any leverage, not with the mess of her back and the way the Crusader holds her.

The man carrying her is waved forward by his comrades as he passes them, while others are armed with the weapon scavenged from the Crusaders that have already fallen to the blades of their attackers.

It’s as they reach the final gates that defend the Comraich that Jill hears something else, the chanting, the prayers that Imreann and his priests have always muttered as the whip had been lashed against her back. Always followed with demands for her to use her magic, for her to Semi-Prime so that they might know the extent of her power.

She has yet to give into these demands, and as the loud crash of barred gates finally being forced to yield and break before the onslaught laid against them overtakes the Sanctuary to the song of an explosion, Jill reaffirms that resolve.

She would rather die than summon Shiva to defend the Iron Blood.

The opportunity to test that resolve comes sooner than she would like, as the Crusader carrying her casts her from his shoulder, throwing her against the stairs at the feet of the thin framed old man that stands at the head of the congregation, Imreann.

She lands wrong, but at least still manages to protect her head, even as her ankle catches on the ridge of the stairs and twists until bone and sinew snap beneath the strain.

Her shout of pain is drowned out by the tide of prayers that rises all around her, as the priests continue to exult their Mother, fuelling the fervour of the Crusaders that defend them.

When Jill tries to shift, just enough to take the pressure off her definitely broken ankle, the Crusader that had carried her here, stands upon her ankle and grabs her by the hair.

The tug at the tangled strands of her hair is nothing compared to the lightning shock of pain that sends fire burning through her veins to the pulsing beat of her rabbit fast heart.

The scream that escapes her this time is loud enough to at last drag Imreann from his invocation, even as the priests knelt before his platform continue the chants without their leader.

“Ah, the abomination.” Imreann smiles as he bids the Crusader to drag her forward, which he does with little care as he pulls her by the grip he has on her hair, until he forces her to fully supplicate herself before the so-called priest. “At last, we have a use for your sinful power, a chance for you to begin to repent for the stain of your corruption.

“Never!” Jill spits with as much venom as she can summon, only to immediately pay for it as the Crusader pulls her up, only to seize her by the back of the neck and slam her back down.

The blow leaves her dazed, to the point where she cannot feel the initial pain which soon blooms into a rolling wave of nausea that makes even the darkness behind her closed eyes spin.

“Lady Jill!” comes a shout, followed by the rough commands of another Crusader, but it is enough to force Jill to open her eyes, because she recognises that voice.

There, off to the side, stands a small group of people surrounded by Crusaders, weapons drawn in open threat.

A small group of people that Jill recognises.

The Rosarian captives, at least, what is left of them.

Too few, that’s Jill’s first thought, far too few, she knew that already, but hearing about something and actually seeing it are two different things.

She searches the small crowd, looking for the faces that aren’t there as much as she takes in those that are.

She finally has her answer as to which Bearers were killed, as she searches and fails to find Jess, Seth, or Olivia looking back.

Three new names she has to add to the ever-growing list of people lost to the Iron Blood’s cruelty.

“Lady Jill,” Cameron calls out again, pushing back against the guard that forces him back, until the Crusader has enough of his defiance and delivers a staggering blow with the handle of his axe. He moves forward to deliver another blow, even as the small crowd of Rosarian’s close ranks as much as the chains they wear will allow them, until Imreann calls, “gu leòr!”

The Crusader obeys, without complaint, and the prisoners are forced back into line as Imreann turns his full attention on Jill.

“Monster that you are, I find it near impossible to believe that you could actually have any attachment to your fellow man, but then, heretics and beasts have always found communion in one another,” he lectures as he fishes a familiar key from his belt, the one that fits the cuffs that seal Jill’s magic.

“I have tried to tame you, followed the creed handed down by our forebears to the letter, by all accounts, any one of your kind should have broken by now, should have capitulated to the wisdom that the one who wields the whip is the master.” He seizes Jill by the chin and digs crooked nail into the soft skin of her cheeks as he goes on, “but your resistance seems to know no end, and now we find ourselves at a junction where the beasts are burning down the halls of the sacred, closing in like fell wolves sent by the accursed himself.”

He shakes his head as another explosion rocks the chamber, causing the Heart of Drake’s breath to ring with the sound of it. The fever that overtakes Imreann’s dark, sunken eyes at the sound of it is a terrifying thing.

“The Mother shall not be profaned, even as we must resort to the use of your impure power, for it is not heresy to use evil against evil, to unleash a monster born of darkest sin against the unfaithful who would see the tower of the devout torn down.”

How he thinks he will force Jill to fight for him is made clear as he barks another order at the guards, who wrestle Lady Florence, clutching her now wailing babe, and young Biggs from the Rosarian captives.

Cameron and George try to resist again, getting between the Crusaders and shielding the others as much as they can with their own bodies, it earns them nothing, other than the slash across Cameron’s face which sends blood flying into the air as he collapses.

“No, Cameron!” Jill cries at the sight of his body hitting the floor and the others rushing forward, Wedge’s fingertips already lighting up with healing magic even as his eyes flit between Cameron, Biggs, and Lady Florence.

Jill’s own eyes cannot be moved from Lady Florence, not when Imreann moves to intercept her as she is dragged before him.

She curls over her son protectively, using her entire body to shield him from even his gaze, but there is nothing she can do, not when the Crusader holding her seizes her arms, allowing Imreann to take the boy.

He holds the child by the woollen blankets he has been swaddled in, as though the babe is something unclean that he could drop at any moment. The boy, having been removed from his mother’s warmth only cries louder, to the point that Imreann has to shout to be heard above him.

“Abomination, you will Prime and defend the Mother and her followers from these heretics! You shall sweep them back into the sea from whence they came and sink the armada they have sent against us! The very lives of these sinners that remain to you depend upon it!” To emphasize his point, he hurls the key to Jill’s cuffs at her and with his now free hand draws a blade from his belt, the same dagger that has ended the lives of so many innocent Bearers.

When he brings the steel to rest against the crying babe’s chest, Jill feels her resolve freeze over.

She isn’t given a chance to even think, not when Imreann nods to two of his priests, who at his silent command take their own blades and level them at the throats of Lady Florence and Biggs. Desperate as she still is, it’s unsurprising when the naked steel placed against Lady Florence’s throat draws blood, her struggles only stop when her knees are kicked from beneath her and the priest yanks on her hair to fully expose her throat, but even then, she never stops pleading, and her eyes never leave her son. “Not him, you already have me, you don’t need him, please, please!”

Jill is left with no choice, not when Imreann pulls his arm back, the blade primed.

Her hands shake as she fumbles to remove the cuffs.

The relief that comes with her wrists finally being free after so long encased in crystal and steel is quickly subsumed by the rush of numbing cold as the unfamiliar chill of Shiva’s magic runs through her veins for the first time since she accidentally awakened the Eikon.

Clinging to that feeling instead of shying away, she begs the Glacian for help, even as her skin turns to ice and a blizzard of diamond dust comes to her call.

She feels Shiva’s icy arms embrace her, feels power filling her veins, and a distant but familiar voice calling her name.

Chapter Text

His uncle is a genius.

Clive has always known this, has seen it, and heard of it, through both his uncle’s actions and the stories he would share with the family whenever he returned from a long voyage or trip.

But seeing him apply that same genius to war is a humbling thing.

His plan starts as soon as Drake’s Breath comes into view upon the darkened horizon, and as the order is given to drop anchor behind a small collection of islands Clive can feel a sick sort of anticipation that drowns out any of the reservations that have been plaguing his mind on the journey here.

His uncle must sense it from him, or he sees the slight tremors that have overtaken Clive’s hands as the eagerness to get started, to pay the Iron Blood back for all they took, to finally unleash his rage on a target that deserves it, even if it’s not the one he truly wishes to set ablaze and watch burn.

A smaller, more hopeful voice that he has been ignoring ever since it first began to whisper at the back of his mind, speaks up again; a chance to save Jill and everyone else that was taken.

He sees her now, as he closes his eyes and tries to take a steadying breath, grounded by the warm arm Uncle Byron has wrapped around his shoulders. Even after a year apart he can still picture her star like eyes and moonlit smile so easily, and he will be damned if he fails her.

Giving him the moment he needs to gather himself his uncle then asks, “are we ready to begin?”

“Yes,” Clive answers without hesitation.

The smile that overtakes his uncle’s face is a roguish thing.

“Right, Captain, time to see the prowess of the Empire’s famed mounts,” Uncle Byron addresses’ Captain Leon, and as he does so the sailors move to uncover the large crates that has been sitting ominously by the prow the entire trip here.

“It shall be an honour, Lord Rosfield,” Captain Leon intones with a perfect salute as his eyes light up at the sight of the crates. “With these, the Iron Blood’s vaunted fleet shall be little more than driftwood come morning.”

Uncle Byron nods but at the same time holds up a hand in warning. “Please do remember that these have never been tested like this, though I must thank you and your men for sparing me three of my ships, I was loathed at the prospect of having to choose which to sacrifice to deal such a decisive blow to the Iron Blood.”

Clive knows that’s a lie, his uncle had already quietly confided in him that the three ships that were going to be loaded with incendiary bombs and set aflame right as they were sailing toward the Iron Blood’s fleet would have been: The Duchess’ Smile, Mother of the Flame, and—Clive’s personal favourite—The Black Widow.

If the names aren’t enough of a give-a-way that Uncle Byron was vicariously setting Clive’s mother on fire, the fact that she had christened all three of these ships is. Secretly, Clive had very much been looking forward to setting them on fire himself, alas, they’ll have to find some other way to do that after they return.

Captain Leon salutes, as enthused as he has been since he was granted leave to take part in the attack. “I shall personally ensure that your preparations and planning do not go to waste, my Lord, Lord Marquese.” With a bow he turns to the two men that will be accompanying him on this mission. “Ser Macéo, Ser Laurent, with me.”

The ‘mounts’ that his uncle spoke of are hard to miss, considering the three that were summoned to Rosalith as soon as Captain Leon sent word that his unit would be participating in the invasion, take up almost the full deck of a ship each.

Dragons.

Not the Wyverns that Clive is so used to seeing in the wilds of Rosaria, but actual dragons.

When they had flown in over Rosalith, heading towards the harbour where a temporary landing pad and stable—one of the warehouses normally used as his uncle’s winter storage—they had blotted out the sky. Serpentine and completely at home in the air, the dragons had cut through the gathered clouds like dolphins surfing waves. They were a magnificent sight to see at a distance, but up close they were truly something special, large leathery wings lay folded against a back of silver scales that glinted in even the palest moonlight, and with each frosted breath the great beasts took their long whiskers shook, which required the dragons to occasionally shake their great twisted horn crowned heads, in an attempt to rid the sensitive hairs of the powdered ice that formed.

Many of the sailors who walked the decks give the creatures a wide berth, making the Dragoons on watch duty chuckle, Clive himself is not without his reservations, but a little teasing from Ser Richard had convinced him to approach the dragon half an hour into their journey. He’d stopped when the sleeping beast had opened one eye at the slow sound of his approach. A great sapphire with one cat slit pupil studied him with interest for a moment, but soon enough it was lost and as the eye closed the tail that had been lounging on the deck raised enough to sweep Clive’s legs out from under him.

The laughter of the crew and the soldiers had followed him all the way back to his uncle, but Clive didn’t mind as it seemed to break a lot of the tension that had slowly been gathering like a thick mist.

As Captain Leon now mounts his dragon in full armour, he directs his men that will remain on the ship to position the crates. As soon as they are in place the Captain commands his mount to stand, the dragon moves slowly to account for the little space she has to work with, when Captain Leon indicates the crates, she sniffs them cautiously, but when the Captain gives a soft encouragement, she easily but gently places her claws around the metal chain that links the two crates.

Uncle Byron moves in when he sees that the dragon has a good enough grip on the chain and begins to explain again the mechanics of the crates as a sailor hands the Captain what looks like a tow line which connects to the boxes, “there’s three compartments in each crate, the mechanisms inside should ensure that the next one won’t open until the first has been released, that gives you six runs. Are you sure that shall be enough?”

The nod that Captain Leon gives is fuelled by a confidence Clive wishes he could emulate. “What ships that will not be sunk by these bombs will be sealed in ice so thick they shall never be seaworthy again.”

With this last declaration the Captain dons his helm and takes flight.

It is the signal that the two other Dragoons have been waiting for.

The silence that descends upon the anchored fleet as the dragons disappear into the moonless night is all encompassing, and not a soul on board has the will to break it. This is why the first sounds of the attack roll over them like distant thunder. It’s nothing compared to the sight of it as fire catches and reflects off the brilliant crystal tower of Drake’s Breath itself, making it look as though the sun has decided to rise in the west.

Looking pleased, his uncle commands, “weigh anchor!”

The call is taken up by every Captain of the fleet and almost immediately after the sounds of chains clinking, as the anchors are dragged from the depths, rings throughout the night as more commands are issued and the fleet divides into two forces. Those that will support the Dragoon’s initial strike and the main force that will further divide once Drake’s Breath is less than a league from sight.

The plan is to completely encircle the islands and cut off any hope of support from the Iron Kingdom, while two ships make landfall, so their small host can quietly infiltrate the caverns that had acted as the escape tunnels for the Undying when the Crusaders had laid claim to Drake’s Breath.

The first and second parts of the plan go smoothly, the fleet easily navigates the rough currents and shallow sholes that surround the island unmolested as the dragons and their riders rain down fire, ice, and light upon the burning ships that were meant to be untouchable in the sheltered cove the Iron Blood used as their harbour.

Its up to their group now to ensure the distraction does not go to waste.

His uncle curses the low light as he pulls out the map to study it again and Clive can see his thoughts racing a mile a minute as he tries to compare the illustrations to the natural landmarks of the beach. Clive begins to do the same, looking for the natural markers that will give away the entrance to the tunnels.

“There!” Clive spots it when another flash of light reflects of Drake’s Breath, revealing the brief silhouette of the cave entrance they have been looking for, marked by a sea arch that looks like a folded wing.

Their company moves quickly, leaving the sailors to return the longboats to the safety of the ship. Traversing the pebbled beach in the dark is difficult, and Clive can hear many of the men behind him slipping and having to catch themselves as they go, but with the alert already having been sounded they cannot afford to cast light and draw attention to themselves.

Besides, the trek is short, and the relative safety of the cave soon conceals them from sight, but still, Clive refuses to summon his way light until they are so deep no other light can reach them.

As the gentle orb of light unfurls into existence, Clive has to take a step back as the sudden flash of white bone lying at his feet draws all of his attention. He’s not the only one to startle at the sight, the gasps of breath behind him and the sound of rattling armour makes that clear, but his uncle soon disperses the tension.

“Nothing to fear lads, the dead cannot harm us.” He walks up to the old bones, inspecting them for any sign of identification, he finds it in the tattered red fabric that clings to the shoulders of the skeleton. “An Undying, one failing to live up to the name,” he scoffs as he tosses the ragged cloth and tattered insignia back on the ground. “Which means…”

His uncle walks a little deeper, careful of the deep pools and low roof that makes up the passage, only to sigh when the sight of black metal bars greets them.

“Of course they found it,” Uncle Byron complains with disgruntled exasperation as he grabs one of the more rusted bars and gives it an experimental shake, the iron holds fast, despite the ware of time and tide upon it.

“Well, nothing a little brute force won’t handle, a few solid kicks should do the trick, care to do the honours with me Clive?”

“With pleasure,” Clive agrees as he moves to stand beside his uncle, his stance loose, his muscles primed.

The first kick is promising. “Just a little out of sync,” comments his uncle.

The second more so. “Are you actually putting any effort into this?” he jokes, as he and his uncle take a few steps back.

The third kick rips the gate from it worn fixtures within the cave and send the iron clattering into the shallow water of the cavern beyond.

Uncle Byron goes first, peaking into the lit darkness. “If there’s any beasts down here that sound will definitely have alerted them to our presence, we go carefully, but quickly.”

Every man here takes his uncle’s word as gospel as they all but crawl through the narrow passage that only allows one person at a time to pass.

The Dragoons have a harder time of it, all ten of them wear heavier armour of an ornate design that’s more likely to catch upon the jagged edges of the natural tunnel, but they bite their tongues and press ahead. Their determination is rewarded with a widened chamber, one by the looks of it that may have once been a secret storeroom, what with the clearly looted chests and discarded items that have been broken against the ground. Now though, the circular chamber serves as nothing more than a tomb, the bones lay scattered about the space, some splintered open and obviously chewed on. All of them clad in torn and decaying robes that may at one time have been the raiments of the Undying.

It all paints a very sad picture, either one of complete slaughter, where these people had no time to even try and defend themselves, or of willing sacrifice in order to buy their fellows enough time to escape, Clive isn’t sure which is worse.

“The third tunnel I believe,” his uncle speaks up from where he has been studying the map of the caverns that weave their way through the volcano cradling Drake’s Breath.

Moving closer, Clive naturally provides more light as the orb of flame follows him, leaving his uncle blinking slightly, before he turns the map and clears his throat. “Ahem, I mean, it’s this one, yes definitely this one,” his uncle corrects as he faces a different passage and proceeds with care.

The tunnel ends after a short while in what at first glance looks like a dead end, but the map proves itself as his uncle reaches for a crag in the wall and pulls free a rope. At the first tug the wall before them groans as dust and long held debris falls from the newly opened seam, before air tainted with the putrid smell of sulphur flows through the gap, which only grows wider as the hidden door reluctantly swings open.

The surprised cries that greet them are unintelligible to Clive, but recognisable enough for him to identify the two Crusaders that lay beyond the threshold of the passage.

Clive strikes first, quick enough to not even give the first warrior time to draw his steel, in a shift of flame he is before the man and his blade is buried up to the hilt in his throat.

Clive pulls back, ignoring the horrid sound the man makes as he tries to breath for the one instant that his airway is clear, but his own blood soon chokes him.

When Clive turns to face the other warrior that had been in the room, he finds him already dead and his uncle’s axe bloody.

Without a word they move to the door of the room they have found themselves in, a wine cellar now that Clive has time to observe his surroundings and can see the casks of wine and mead piled high against the stone brick walls. It puts Clive slightly at ease, as it means the Iron Blood have not seen fit to reinforce the defences here, beyond the iron gate, even after discovering the tunnel, most likely assuming that all those who knew of it laid buried in it.

It's a mistake Clive swears he shall make them pay for as the last of the Shields and Dragoons make it into the room, weapons drawn and ready for the carnage to come.

With a finger pressed to his lips, calling for silence, Uncle Byron eases the door to the cellar open, just enough to catch a glimpse of the empty stairs outside. Clive takes the opportunity to snuff his flame, plunging the room into near total darkness.

The sounds that flow from the room above are ones of agitation and unease that remind Clive all too well of the buzzing of a kicked hornets’ nest.

The air is thick with tension as his uncle holds up a hand, waiting for the perfect moment.

It comes when the voices above raise in anger, their anxiety boiling over into aggression.

His uncle’s hand drops, and they charge.

The first Crusaders fall with barely a noise, but with so many in the room, stealth is abandoned as the cry for war leaves the throat of every man storming up the stairs.

The Iron blood scramble for weapons that had been left idle at their sides in the supposed safety of the depths of their fortress, only to fail to grasp them as the steel wielded against them is brought down without mercy.

Shields and Dragoons surge forward like an oncoming tide, washing away the filth that is the Iron Blood Crusaders. They fight with a righteous fury unmatched by their unprepared opponents, until the enemy has no choice but to fall back, retreating into smaller halls and barring doors behind them, in the hopes of stalling their attackers long enough for them to regroup.

It is a chance that Clive does not intend to give them and one that the men fighting beside him agree with as swords and lances are brought to bear against the fortified door trapping them inside what must be the feasting hall of the fortress.

It is a fortress, though one that has been neglected in the most wasteful of ways, as half crumbling walls, painted with ash, and smashed effigies that at one point must have depicted the Phoenix make Clive wonder what the Iron Blood must do with the treasures they steal from the various lands of Valisthea.

That idle thought dies within the shadows of his mind as their first real challenge greets them once the first barrier breaks beneath the onslaught of armoured bodies and crystal enhanced lances.

The shock of blood suddenly coating his face has Clive flinching back as the Dragoon before him falls beneath the primed axe of the Iron Blood Fanatic that suddenly bars their way.

It’s a move that saves his life as the Iron Blood warrior lets out a guttural snarl and charges forward, diving into the fray of tight bodies that had been pressed together by the constraints of the small hall their fleeing prey had escaped down.

Blade after blade comes down upon the Fanatics back, but his thick armour endures the attacks, allowing him to continue sewing chaos from within their midst, buying his fellows enough time to retreat behind the large doors at the end of the hall. The sound of adamantite locks sealing the stone doors has Clive’s heart sinking even as he dodges, pulling men with him out of the path of the wild swings of the Fanatic who refuses to die even as a Shield’s sword bites through the thin seam of the armour protecting his stomach.

The brave Shield pays for the blow, as the Fanatic seizes him by the throat and begins to squeeze.

Too far away and caged in by the men that surround him in the small space, Clive has no choice but to watch as the Iron Blood pulls the Shield off his feet, the sound of his neck breaking is a ricocheting snap, that resounds even above the Fanatics own cry of pain as a Dragoon ambushes him from behind, causing both Shield and the Crusader to fall to the ground, lifeless.

There is no time to dwell on it, no time to mourn or lament the sacrifice of the men that have already fallen in the act of getting them this far, not when every moment wasted is another chance for the Iron Blood to reform and bolster their defences.

Many of the more experienced warriors are already acting on this fact, working together to find a weakness in the gate that blocks their path forward.

Clive himself has lost all patience for subtlety that only serves their enemy.

“Move!” It is the only warning he needs to give, one that is reinforced by the light that rushes over his form as the spectral wings of a dragon burst from his back.

They are heavier than the Phoenix’s wings ever have been, for where the feathers of the Phoenix feel like a warm cloak, the wings of Bahamut in contrast feel like armour that he is still growing into. It doesn’t stop him from spreading them wide as he focuses the light he can now summon into an attack that will devastate all that dares to stand before him.

Following the advice that Prince Dion was so kind to share, Clive curves the wings forward, a guide and a shield strong enough to channel the light he focuses upon the barrier before him, the heat of it is daunting, but not something he must fear.

Light concentrated and compressed into a keen edge of destruction rips through adamantite and iron as though it was never there to begin with. Only the echoing ring of the explosion speaks of the chaos Clive has just unleashed as the billowing smoke obscures the space beyond from sight.

It doesn’t stop the amalgam of knights from continuing their advance, cutting down the dazed and confused men that lay scattered on the bridge, before they have a chance to regain themselves.

“No, pull back! Pull back! Do not let the bloodlust take you!” shouts his uncle over scattered calls to advance and show no mercy.

Many listen, stopping in their tracks and falling back in line, but a small group is already too far to hear.

Clive sees regret and fear colour the men’s faces in the brief moment they have to realise the mistake they have made before the horde flooding the bridge behind the smoke descends upon them.

It’s a mixture of desperation and numbers that allows the Iron Blood to overcome the superior armour and equipment of the small band of Dragoons and Shields that chose to ignore his uncle’s orders, but it costs them, as at least three Crusaders die for every armoured knight that falls to them.

Even so, the Iron Blood still hold the advantage in numbers.

An advantage that shall not work upon the men who band behind his uncle and listen as he cries of “guard up, wedge shield!”

The Shields trained in this manoeuvre since the day a sword was placed in their hands follow the order on instinct, lining up shoulder to shoulder, his uncle in the lead, Clive at his side.

Only when the remaining Dragoon have been bullied behind the line of Shields and the last gap has been closed do they begin to advance upon his uncle’s command of, “forward!”

The first Iron Blood to step within range attacks in a blind fury, he dies just as quickly as Uncle Byron buries his axe to the hilt in the mans undefended chest.

The Crusader behind his fellow tries to lunge while Uncle Byron extricates his weapon from between his opponent’s ribs, only to be met with Clive’s own blade and another courtesy of the Shield on his uncle’s left, and as the Crusader dies at their feet, again they advance.

The Shields of Rosaria.

Many always question the title when they first see the knights of Rosaria standing in formation sans the weapon they are named for.

Their enemies would often joke that Rosarian troops were merely fodder. meant to sacrifice themselves, kindling for the flames of the Phoenix who was the true defender of the Duchy.

They are wrong, but father had always advised him that deception was its own form of protection in war, a point that they are all proving now as the Iron Blood continue to throw themselves against the true Shield of Rosaria that has never known defeat.

“Advance!” his uncle calls again.

In reply, the line whistles, sharp and piercing in a way that’s meant to emulate the song of the Firebird.

Three steps forward before the call of “hold!” rings out as the next line of scattered, ill prepared Crusaders crash against them.

It’s slow, painfully so, to the point where Clive can feel his blood begin to boil with the need for blood and fire, but to give into this urge would be to abandon his brothers-in-arms, would be to break the Shield that defends them all, for one weak link, one crack, is all it would take.

“Advance!”

They whistle as one and Clive sees true fear in the Iron Bloods eyes.

The end of the bridge is in sight, the last of the defenders, lay pressed against the gate that blocks the entry to the sanctuary of the Mother Crystal’s Heart.

One final barrier they need to overcome.

The hope that rises at that thought flickers upon the gale of glacial winds that suddenly flood the chamber, cooling even the harsh heat of the lava pits below.

Ice, crystalline and so pure that the light created by Drake’s Breath refracts through it to cast pink and deep rose shadows across the entire chamber, even as the aether spins in a blizzard of white crystals, only for the diamond of ice to shatter upon a silent command and unveil the Glacian, Shiva, in all her ice crowned glory.

The men around Clive can do nothing but brace, even as they refuse to abandon their positions.

But Clive has another option.

Shifting forward he reaches for Ifrit and finds him; teeth bared and flames eager to answer in a way that he never was before the vision (the nightmare) he was shown at Phoenix Gate.

Flame and obsidian armour encase him even as he summons the Phoenix’s wings to beat back the wall of ice that is crashing along the bridge towards them.

It just so happens that he doesn’t have to.

In a shock move that leaves Clive blinking even as he holds his flames ready and his wings spread wide, the sheer ice wall bends and warps around them, creating a dome of clouded rime that is all but impossible to see through even as glacial lances spread from the point of impact.

Lances that form a treacherous path across the sure death that is the lava below.

Clive doesn’t give himself the chance to question it, for he knows with a sense that he cannot explain that if he does, he will die, so instead he leaps and feels his courage plummet for that one instant where gravity has no pull on him.

The landing is jarring and treacherous, his feet sliding against the thick ice beneath him as steam rises around him in thick clouds. His hope that it will act as a screen to hide his approach is short lived as Shiva herself circles.

Clive readies a Phoenix shift, already knowing he will have to time this perfectly, he locks eyes with the Eikon and feels his heart freeze upon the gaze filled with hope and recognition.

“Jill?” he questions as he reaches out to the Glacian, his own hope burning out the flames that cover his form until the cooled obsidian armour falls away.

“Clive.” The song of tinkling ice brings a strange echo to Jill’s voice, but it doesn’t change the fact that it is her, nor does the ice that forms across the leather of his glove in twisting patterns as she reaches out to take his offered hand.

Colossal as she is in this form, she still moves with the grace of a winter nymph, delicate and ethereal in a way that only freshly fallen snow can replicate.

“They have hostages.” The pain that overtakes her words makes it so clear that she has no choice, and Clive knows what he has to do.

“I’ll save them,” he doesn’t have to say anything else, not when the smile that breaks across her face is so full of trust.

With a wave of her hand, she makes a bridge that clings to the edge of the volcanic columns, just below the jagged boundary of the platform that leads to the sanctuary.

It won’t last long, already the side that hangs above the ravine is beginning to melt but it is enough.

He runs, saving his Phoenix shift and the levitation that comes with Bahamut’s wings for later, as he clings to the long shadows cast by the natural walls of layered volcanic steps that defend the sanctuary.

He resists looking back, though it is a near thing as the sound of clashing magic explodes behind him, ice shattering upon the light wielded by the Dragoon’s that have broken free of the dome they did not know was protecting them.

As he nears the Mother Crystal itself, black basalt and granite give way to crimson quartz spires that pulse with so much aether Clive can hear the ring of it. He shakes his head, knowing that he cannot afford to be distracted, and trains his eyes upon the group that stands at the pinacol of the steps at the feet of the Mother Crystal.

From a single glance it is easy to tell the hostages apart from the Iron Blood, but the problem lies with the three that have been separated from the main group. He recognises young Biggs and Lady Florence, but the figure that concerns him most is the young babe with the blade levelled at his chest.

Clive will only have one chance at this, one instant that will determine the fate of three of his people. His only advantages lie with his abilities and the fact that all eyes within the sanctuary are fixed upon the dancing figure of Shiva as she weaves between the attacks of the Dragoon’s, occasionally throwing back attacks that soon fizzle out of existence in the heat of the volcano, becoming nothing more than harmless steam that further obscures the staged battle.

It is all the advantage he needs.

He shifts behind the leader and steal flashes the moment his flames part, having already cleared the last distance between them.

The red that douses his blade is far darker than the crimson glow of the Mother Crystal, so dark it almost appears like ink. It dyes the stone beneath their feet a glittering onyx, but Clive pays it little mind as he pries the severed hand from the blankets of the crying child.

“Don’t move!”

His command can barely be heard over the screams of the man who kneels at his feet, clutching the stump Clive has made of his arm, but it is still understood, especially when Clive places the edge of his blade against the exposed flesh of the back of the priest’s neck.

The acolyte closest to him pulls back on Lady Florences hair and shouts, “heretic! Release our Father!”

He emphasizes his command by pressing the blade he has against Lady Florence’s throat until blood flows across her skin, but in order to make this demand he takes his eyes off where they had been so carefully tracking Shiva.

Just as Clive had hoped.

The Sirens call of mercilessly chilling winter winds heralds Shiva as she falls upon them.

The diamond dust mist that envelops the field as she steps forward literally freezes the horde of Crusaders around her and with a flick of her wrist, she erects a barrier of ice spears that divide the Rosarian’s from the few Iron Blood that remain, most of them at least.

Lady Florence and Biggs still lay within the grasp of their captives, and at the blatant display of power both men try to use that fact to save themselves, brandishing the knives and threats in equal measure as they use the hostages as shields.

It serves them little, as the icy winds wielded by Shiva are selective, and held tight within her grasp.

The breath the men use to spit their vitriol curls into whisps of red tinged fog as their lungs freeze from within.

Bigg’s runs instantly as soon as his captor falls, uncaring as the man’s body smashes like glass on the steps behind him. As he approaches, the ice wall opens a small gap that allows him to press through and join the others.

Lady Florence instead scrambles to get to Clive’s side, uncaring of the blood that still flows freely down her neck as she reaches for her son.

The man at Clive’s feet lurches up at her approach, trying to grab her with the sole arm that remains to him.

Clive does not allow it.

Stepping between the priest and the Lady he delivers a brutal kick that sends him tumbling down the stairs, before turning and finally returning the boy to his mother’s awaiting arms.

“Thank you, Lord Marquess, thank you,” Lady Florence cries as she embraces her child, tears of fear turning instantly to gasps of relief and joy.

Clive nods in acknowledgement of her gratitude, but his focus soon turns back to the events playing out at the bottom of the stairs.

The priest is trying to stand, but with the imbalance that comes with suddenly missing a limb all he can manage is a shallow crouch as his body curls in to try and shield what remains of his arm.

He clutches desperately at the stump, trying to quell the blood rushing from the wound, it makes him ignorant of the true threat that slowly approaches, at least until she calls his name.

“Imreann.”

The man flinches at the sound of his name spoken in that pure echo of frozen air.

When Shiva steps forth from the cloud of steam and frost, she looks like the Warden she is, her crown of black ice and her cape of hoarfrost divine in a way that no mortal adornment could ever match.

“Monster, you called me.” She raises a porcelain white arm and rime creeps forward at her silent command. Imreann screams when it touches him, when it encases him, and freezes his legs to the floor.

“Abomination and beast, you claimed as you brought down your whip and bound me with chains.”

The ice continues to grow, slowly at a rate that will ensure that Imreann doesn’t die…yet.

“But who’s the real monster? Me? Or you who revelled in the suffering and death of innocents who you dragged from their homes!”

The thin layer of ice suddenly thickens at her words, becoming jagged and crushing. Imreann screams again, even as he shivers from shock and cold, but he still has enough breath left within him to speak, “i-innocents y-you s-ss-say? H-how could anyone stained by the evil of aether b-bbe called innocent? I merely c-cleansed them of their ssins,” he stutters, even as he cringes beneath the continued progress of the ice.

Something colder than the rime adorning the raiments of the Glacian overtakes Shiva’s eyes at these words.

“Father,” the title is whispered almost gently, almost kindly, “may the blessings of the Crystals go with you.”

The lances of Ice that erupts directly from the floor beneath him give Imreann no chance to cry out or beg, they instead leave him frozen mid-breath, eyes glazed with fear and pain as the image of Shiva’s smile casts him from this world.

Shiva walks past the diamond coffin, not even looking as she allows her ice tipped fingers to trail along its surface, sending cracks and fissures racing across its surface until the entire construct shatters, reducing everything within to diamond dust that shall soon fade in the heat of the Heart of Drake’s Breath.

As Shiva ascends the first step, the ice begins to melt from her form, white mist and blue aether disperse like snow in a storm, revealing Jill.

Clive runs.

She meets him halfway, throwing her arms around his middle even as he pulls her close, holding her as he never dared before, tight and without restraint.

It feels like regaining a piece of home he thought lost forever.

Pulling back, he cups her face and pushes back the curtain of her hair to ensure he gets the best look. She seems tired, worn and beaten to the point that it’s a miracle she’s still standing.

Rummaging through the small pack on his belt he fishes out the elixir his uncle gave him for emergencies and presses it into her hand, only to find her grip unwavering as she looks up into his eyes.

“You came for me,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes as the dam holding back her emotions finally breaks.

He thinks back to the night they had said their goodbyes, to the promises that were exchanged, and finds himself leaning in, resting his head against hers as he clasps her hands and stares back into her starlit eyes.

“I always will.”

She smiles, and Clive can feel himself mirroring the expression, only for it to fall as all colour begins to fade from the world.

“No,” he breathes as Jill grows cold and still in his arms.

“No, no, no, Jill? Jill?” He ignores it as the now familiar pain begins to take over his senses and the shift in the shades of grey as the cloaked figure wearing his face appears behind Jill, looming over them even as he stands below them.

Clive is only forced to abandon his efforts to wake Jill when the figure disappears in a veil of flames, just for heat to flare across Clive’s back as the man manifests behind him.

Ready this time despite the pain, Clive strikes out, his blade sheathed in flame.

Will and fire both die upon the command fuelled by overwhelming power as Clive’s mind goes blank.

He sees nothing, he feels nothing, he merely hears the words that speaks directly into his mind as he falls away from everything.

"̸̯̼̮̣͋̈́W̸̛̭͎̘͐̊ͅĕ̴̮͍͊ ̷̩̦̲͓͍̔̋̀ḩ̸̦͌̀͛͘ȃ̸̙̘͔̩̌̔̃̃ṿ̸̫̩͂͑̒́ę̴͖̲̐̓͗ ̶͇̤̥̀̃͘n̸̢͎̒̓͝e̴̪̠͚͒͝e̷̗̺̿d̷̳̼̻̘̳̉ ̸̳̎͊͊͋ö̶̲͙͎̂͘f̷̜͖̫̙͌ ̷̡͔͙̇͐̉̈́ỳ̶̠̤̣̹̯́ơ̴̢͚̫͖͈̇͝ú̸̱̆̿͊,̴̾̂ͅ ̶͚̼͍̞̓͌ọ̸͈̲͂̄ͅu̴̜͜͝r̵̬͇͎̜̀̇ ̶̛̛̥̄͋M̵̤̥̳̯͂̉͘y̶̧̠̮͂͋̕͠ţ̸͇͎̈́̑͌h̴̘̐̐̊ỏ̵̮́̈ş̵͔̘̲̿͜.̷̱̲͈͉͆̃"̴͈͕̙̉̄̅̏

Chapter Text

“Clive?” Jill asks, concern already threading her tone as she feels Clive’s arms tighten around her and hears the sudden intake of breath that cannot be anything but a supressed cry of pain.

She looks up, half expecting him to brush off her question and already prepared to begin searching for an injury the idiot thought he could ignore, when the glazed look in his eyes draws her up short.

She pulls back, but moves her hand to cup Clive’s cheek, gently encouraging him to look down at her. It’s a gesture she has to abort as veins of orange aether flow across his skin, carving lines that look so much like the lava that surrounds them, into his face and casting strange shades that make it appear as though his eyes glow an unnatural ochre, instead of the sky blue that Jill remembers.

He burns, so hot she has to take a step back as literal flames overtake him. She looks down to check her hands, searching for burns, but her skin remains the same pale white she has always had.

The sound of feathers draws her attention back to Clive just in time to see the wings granted to him by the blessing of the Phoenix erupting from his back as black obsidian forms across his body, slipping into place like impenetrable plate armour and resting atop his head in the facsimile of a black crown forged from bone burnt black by the flames that enshroud him.

Only when he turns his back on her, does Jill snap out of the shock the transformation has forced upon her.

She reaches out for him, trying to grasp hold of one of the trailing firelit feathers in an attempt to slow his progress and regain his attention. The hand that seizes hers from behind and pulls her back has her flinching and summoning ice.

“Founder!” swears a familiar voice that Jill has always associated with warmth and kindness.

“Lord Byron,” she exclaims as she takes back his hand and wills the ice covering it away, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

He waves his unaffected hand at her as his eyes keenly study the other, searching for signs of frostbite. “No harm done,” he assures, off handedly as his eyes fix unwaveringly on Clive’s back.

“What’s happening to him?” Jill asks, moving to shadow Lord Byron’s steps as he makes his way up the stairs.

“I’m unsure,” He replies, voice quiet as he measures his approach, “but it would be unwise to approach without caution, Ifrit has already proven himself unpredictable.”

“Ifrit?” The name is unfamiliar to Jill, but she is given little time to process it.

Keeping their distance does indeed prove to be the safest choice when the floor shifts beneath them, the stairs lurching with a strength that casts both of them to the floor as great gouts of steam erupt from the fissures cracking the ancient stone of the sanctuary.

“My Lord!” cries out a Shield from where he and the rest guard the freed hostages, all of whom, including Biggs, Lady Florence, and her son are being led to the relative safety of the bridge.

“Go!” Lord Byron commands, loud enough to be heard even over the sound of crystal, rock, and Ancient ceramic being torn apart by a force none of them can understand.

If the Shield calls back, his reply is lost to the shriek that emanates from the very Heart of the Mother Crystal.

A mournful tone, so close to what Jill has always imagined the Phoenix’s cry must sound like, it is only matched by the pure bright light that overtakes the Heart as Clive reaches out and touches it.

His wings spread wide and all the ember bright tones that infuse his feathers glow with aether as the flames encompassing him flow towards the Heart.

The rumbling beneath their feet only grows stronger and Jill finds herself having to grip onto Lord Byron for dear life, it’s the only thing that saves them both, as the splintering crack of stone above them heralds the fall of a once precariously attached stalactite.

The spin fuelled by cool winds and a suddenly frictionless floor, gracefully allows Jill to sidestep the rock that would have been their end and pull Lord Byron with her, but the frostwork takes a toll so soon after Priming and Jill feels the cold bite of exhaustion sink into her bones.

Lord Byron keeps her steady, even as his gaze flicks over her in understanding and calculation.

“Thank you, but you must retreat my dear, and please, if you can, do not unveil your status,” Lord Byron instructs as he guides her back with a shielding arm, even as his gaze remains fixed on his nephew.

Jill wants to argue, but the exhaustion and blood loss from her reopened wounds has left her so weak that the gentle hand nearly knocks her off her feet,

The sudden clink of cool glass against her foot as she takes a step back to steady herself, is so at odds with the deep rumble of stone, that it draws her attention to a bottle on the floor.

The elixir that Clive had pressed into her hands lays innocently at her feet.

Snatching the glass, she breaks it almost as soon as her fingers wrap around it.

“I can help,” she shouts as she allows Shiva’s power to flow through her once more, only a Semi-Prime, as even the potency of an elixir is not enough to fully restore her.

Lord Byron still looks conflicted, but he is a practical man who cares for his nephew, and so with a nod he bids her forward, “we need to get to him, evaluate what is happening before trying to stop this madness.”

A task made near impossible by the rift spewing magma that has split the stairs, until the tremors rocking Drake’s Breath to its roots provides the answer, Like a great tree bowing beneath the howling words of a storm, one of the crystal spikes that enshrine the Heart of Drake’s Breath cracks and falls.

Acting quickly, Jill covers the crystals tip in thick layers of ice, fixing it in place and stabilizing it as much as she can.

“Quick thinking, my girl, well done, now, stay close to me,” Lord Byron compliments as they make for the thin spire of crystal that now acts as a bridge, but they soon find that the heat which rises around them from the lava pooled below makes it difficult to navigate the crystal that is cracking beneath their feet with every step they dare to take.

Embraced as she is by Shiva’s cloak, Jill will not fall. Lord Byron is not so lucky, a fact that he is very much aware of given the careful steps he takes and how he pauses whenever a crack beneath his feet widens.

He looks back at her and smiles. “Normally this would be the part where the gentleman would joke about ‘Ladies first’.”

The laugh that escapes Jill is a tiny nervous thing, and all the more natural for it. “I don’t think now is the best time to try and break the ice,” she jokes in return, even as she allows a little more ice to spread from her feet, in the hopes of supporting the crystal beneath them.

“Quite so,” agrees Lord Byron, as he allows a sigh of relief to pass his lips as they traverse the midway point.

Another cry from the Mother Crystal and the shifting of the crimson spires above them makes Lord Byron’s breath stutter on a gasp and Jill’s heart seize.

“Move!” All previous caution is abandoned as Lord Byron takes Jill’s hand and throws her across the remaining distance of the bridge as he himself tries to jump.

Even as Jill is sent sliding on the other side of the rift, she presses her hands to the floor and summons ice in a spiderweb of frostwork across the ground, all in hopes of providing Lord Byron with that extra bit of platform he needs to make it.

The crystal cracks as the earth rolls beneath them both, but Jill’s ice endures, forging a path of sparkling blue that glints purple in the red light of the Mother Crystal.

Lord Byron’s leap propels him across the barrier between salvation and damnation and the ice beneath him has him sliding to safety, though his landing is more of a desperate roll than a daring lunge.

His motion only stops when his back slams heavily into the wall of Crystal the yet remains untouched, and Jill is quick to help him up, even as he grimaces against the move.

Noticing her concern, he smiles even as he speaks to ease her worries, “I’m alright, but alas it would seem my days of laughing at gravities whims will soon come to an end.” As he straightens, he forces his back to crack with an audible snap, which seems to resolve the issue for the most part.

If only the other issues they currently face were so easily solved.

This close they can at last see Clive’s face.

He would appear calm, eyes closed, breathing even, lost in focus, and concentration, were it not for the angry lines of aether that snake across his skin and the flames that consume him.

Even the Phoenix wings seem to be a darker tone than Jill can ever remember seeing, but she hopes that this is merely a trick of the wavering light of the Mother Crystal.

The Crystal that begins to shift and morph as Clive continues to bathe it’s Heart within the flames he feeds it.

“Clive! Can you hear me?” Lord Byron calls out, desperation cracking his voice as the arch of Crystal that shields the Heart, that to Jill’s eyes has always resembled a Phoenix curled around a diamond, encroaches upon Clive’s position, as though the Mother Crystal intends to entomb him within her embrace.

Clive doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, or react, perfectly at ease, even as the protective wings of the Phoenix’s Blessing dissipate into the air, joining the stream of fire and aether that flows into the Crystal.

It seems to be the last piece to this unknown ceremony, as the room around them stills, the air heavy with expectation as they stand on the precipice of unfathomed change.

It comes in the form of the great Crystal head of the Phoenix opening its beak wide as flames erupt from the Mother Crystal itself.

Shielding ice comes to her call in time to weather the inferno that overtakes them, and Jill tries to push it forward, to enclose Clive within the protective cold, but as the flames pass over she can see him standing there untouched as the Crystal morphs into the Firebird of legend and takes flight.

The Heart still stands, bright and glinting as before but the shade of it shifts as the protective crystal wings of the Phoenix leaves it. No longer a red to rival the glory of Metia but a blue so pure it rivals the Northern Lights of her homeland.

Some of Drake’s Breath still stands as the Phoenix preserved within its crystal disappears with one last sombre cry, vanishing within a cloud of aether that sparks and glints like so many embers crackling against the cold night sky.

Jill blinks, not understanding what she has just witnessed, she looks to Lord Byron, only to see her own confusion reflected back at her.

The only one who can explain what has happened is the one that wrought the change, and so Jill turns to Clive, ready to run to his side, to catch him should he fall after such a working of magic.

The empty space before the glowing Heart of the crystal is a cold stab within her own chest.

She runs to the spot where he stood, mind lost to the stream of the impossibilities she has witnessed and the white noise of loss.

“No, please no, no, no, no…Clive, please.”

She knows what she expects to see, white dust pale as bone scattered across the alter before the Crystal, another sacrifice to the seemingly endless hunger of the merciless God Imreann worships.

The empty space that she finds where Clive should stand fills her with a sickening mix of relief and dread, and then, the world shakes.

Chapter Text

Drake’s Breath glitters above them as light and fire compete for the remains of the scraps that were once the formidable armada of the Iron Blood.

Previously untouchable, protected as they were by the jagged cliffs and reefs that cradled the harbour, the fleet now resembles nothing more than driftwood, what little of it remains to be seen.

Ser Wade cannot help but duck as one of the dragons responsible for the destruction roars as it passes over head, the Dragoon that rides it taking a well-earned victory lap above the bay that has now become the watery grave of so many Crusaders.

Not all of them though, as proven when the next wave of them come spilling from the caves that mark the entrance to the catacombs that lead to the Heart of Drake’s Breath.

“Stand firm!” his commander calls, and Ser Wade has to lick his lips before he can join the piercing whistle that rises from the throats of his brothers that stand in formation with him. The salty sea air soon dries them out again, and the fresh sting of cracking skin returns, but it’s a small price to pay to see how the so-called mighty Crusaders hesitate as their whistle carries over the wind, the waves, and the crackling of hungry flames.

Still, they charge, but it is not as a united front, and so like the waves that crash against the shore beside them they break against the Shields, beaten back and bleeding in a way that sews more fear.

It all comes to a head when one of the Dragoons lands his mount behind the Crusader’s lines, caught literally between the jaws of a dragon and the blades of their enemies, the Iron Blood have nowhere left to go.

“Drop your weapons and surrender,” shouts the commander, loudly and clearly, the order in also called out in Haearannish, by one of the Shield’s that knows a bit of the language, all in an effort to make the offer clear.

A growl from the dragon and a slow veil of freezing mist that escapes the beast’s maw seems to be the final incentive the Iron Blood need.

The clang of metal hitting the pebble beach as the Iron Blood raise their hands is discordant but welcome, a universal sign of surrender that transcends all barriers of culture and language.

Still, he and his brothers move carefully as they encircle the prisoners of war.

It’s not careful enough, not when a deep breath of mist from the dragon that sits behind the Iron Blood is mistaken for an attack,

That’s all it takes for the disquieted fury of the Crusaders to turn on their own commander who ordered their surrender. For their abandoned axes and swords to be reclaimed and a last desperate charge to be made.

Fools that they are they rush the dragon.

The beasts natural magic and the crystals that adorn the Dragoon’s armour probably fuelling their inbred hatred.

The Dragoon can do nothing as his mount reacts to an attack on her master, magic charging in her maw, summoning ice that there shall be no escape from.

He and his brothers are already running, but the pebbles shift beneath their feet, robbing them of grip and speed.

The deep breath of the dragon and the sound of gathering aether is a death tole unto itself that creates an imperfect harmony with the cries of the Crusaders who rush towards death with the lust of men that have already abandoned their lives.

They can keep it to themselves, Ser Wade will not allow it to drag him down as he runs for the safety of the natural barricade that is a broken sea cliff that rests beside the shore.

He knows he’s going to make it the second his hand closes around the sea-worn top of the rock, a single leap is all that separates him from safety.

The thud of light armour behind him and the sharp squeak of a young lad having the breath knocked from him has his eyes trailing to the path behind, where one of the young squires who was never meant to be on the front in the first place has fallen to the ground, directly in the line of fire.

Ser Wade doesn’t even think about it, he just does it.

The boy screams again as Ser Wade dives, shielding the younger man’s body with his own at the last second as ice overtakes the field.

Truthfully, he feels none of it, not the impact as the conjured ice tears through his back, nor the freeze as his blood turns to ice in his veins.

His focus is locked on the last sight he shall ever see, Drake’s Breath.

It’s not a bad one, as things go, especially when the delirium hits and the great spire of the Mother Crystal that is no longer Rosaria’s shame morphs into the Phoenix taking flight, wings of crystal swallowing up the stars, as the ground beneath him shakes and spears of crystal rise from the ocean.

It’s a good dream to see before the end.

Lord Kupka finds himself replete at last, for today at least, as he drains the last cup of Ran’dellah Blood Rose for the evening, a small gift from the visitor he had yesterday, a very unexpected and potentially profitable visitor, should things go as he hopes.

If not, then there is no real loss, after all he shall be playing with pieces that have no place on his board, whose only value is to others.

He looks again at the proposal, at the deal that screams of desperation and a grasp for power that is quickly slipping away like fine sand caged within a tightly closed fist.

It is amusing to say the least, and he has more than enough space to accommodate a songbird, young as it may be.

His good mood takes a sharp dive as the chamber around him suddenly quakes through no power of his own.

Light reveals the source of the tremor as the Heart of Drake’s Fang, as the gold crystal glows with a peerless shimmer that can only be the work of aether, but as quickly as the chaos starts it ends, leaving the chambers ringing with the silence that fills them in the absence of the song of rolling earth.

Curious, Kupka makes his way through the grand chambers of the fortress he has made of Drake’s Fang, and soon enough finds himself before the Heart of the Mother Crystal the Councillors were all too eager to barter for the promise of his power.

When he opens the grand doors that defend the Heart of his nations greatest treasure and resource, he finds what he expects, emptiness.

Just to be sure, he takes a quick turn about the room, and once again is confronted with nothing but the opulence he has bestowed upon the sanctuary.

It is only as he turns to exit the room that he finds something of interest, something out of place.

Ash, so thick it crunches beneath his boot, as though a fire had burned briefly but intensely before the dais of the Heart.

Kneeling, he takes a measure of the ash between his fingers, finding it is still warm to the touch.

A threat perhaps? A warning? Or just the remnants of a torch cast to the stone floor by the tremors that had seized the Crystal.

He smiles as he dusts off his hands, never one for signs, but always one for trusting his own instincts.

A stolas to ensure his men know the penalty of failure should be more than enough incentive.

Cid leans against the wall of the Crystal, uncaring of the disrespect he’s showing, Barney’s yet to call him out for it.

Secretly, Cid actually thinks the King’s somewhat entertained by his antics, he can’t think of any other reason why a man so devoted would willingly allow such callous regard for an object worthy of worship to go unpunished, but that’s still just a theory at this point.

Benedikta isn’t quite so relaxed where she stands next to him, posture perfect despite the way she fiddles with the ornate smoking pipe she balances precariously between the fingers of her left hand. A gift from him in the hopes that she wouldn’t take up his worse habit of smoking cigars, he’s a lost cause but there’s still some hope for her.

She doesn’t dare to lean against the Crystal, nor touch it in any way, holding for it a safe and silent respect that Cid abandoned years ago. After all, it’s hard for him to respect an object that’s responsible for one war after the other, in fact, in Cid’s very humble opinion, they are a lot more trouble than they are worth, but he is very much in the minority with that opinion.

Besides, Barney was strong enough to unite the entirety of Ash, a feat that’s never been accomplished in the Twin’s history, well, the human population at any rate, there’s no accounting for the Beastmen, but then again he supposes the huge ass army of Waloed has to have someone to fight when Sanbreque’s pleading off the next war over the Straight with a lot of excuses and a shit tonne of gil, used to bribe Barney into not attacking their fleet when their glory hound captains get it into their heads that they can become a legend if they take down the Einherjar.

It only works some of the time, when Barney’s preoccupied with other things, otherwise he’s more than happy to charge headfirst into a war that might get him a good fight with the King of Dragons.

At this point Cid is very sure that these wars are all just a game to Barney, a means to pass the time until something happens.

Something that the King has been waiting for since before Cid knew him.

Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with Cid, but even as he thinks that he cannot help but feel nervous, especially when he has been summoned here of all places.

Kicked out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn and harried by a too chipper show-pony until he did as he was bid and followed.

Barney hasn’t acknowledged him since he entered, didn’t even turn to look at him or Benedikta when they entered the Sanctuary of Drake’s Spine’s Heart. Now normally Cid wouldn’t give a damn, but despite himself and his long-held disinterest for anything spiritual, Cid has found himself curious.

What was it some idiots said about cats and curiosity?

He blames the little encounter with Barney’s so-called god.

Despite the fact that he had looked very human to Cid, a young lad barely touching the edge of adulthood, his presence was unmistakeable.

When he had revealed himself, stepping out of Odin’s shadows like he was the one that controlled them and not Barney, it had sent a chill down Cid’s spine, and that was before the child caught one of his bolts barehanded.

No, there was definitely something up there, but no matter how many times Cid has asked, Barney is determined to stay mum on the subject, going so far as to order Cid away when he got too aggressive about asking. He wouldn’t have gone, but Zantetsuken levelled at his face made for a very compelling argument.

But now they are here, and with the way Barney is kneeling there praying, Cid can’t help but think he might at last be about to get some answers to all the burning questions that have been nibbling away at the back of his mind, taking up space that is normally reserved for great engineering projects that he was looking to turn his hand to.

Barney’s a zealot, no two ways about it, and he has managed to spread this once near extinct religion of his to nearly every corner of Ash. The promise of salvation and for the most part the actual delivery of a piece of that, in the form of a Kingdom that hadn’t seen famine, akashic, or any mass plagues since Barney took the throne, will do that.

Still, Cid’s never been one to jump on bandwagons, he’s the type of sod that questions everything and then tests it to its breaking point, never one to give anything the benefit of the doubt because nine times out of ten it gets you killed.

But Barney’s never been pushy about this religion of his, sure he’s offered and explained, been very open with his beliefs and his end goal, but Cid had always taken it as just another faith, a collection of stories and superstitions to help people deal with the shit lot they were dealt.

Ever since that evening, he’s been starting to reconsider his position on that conclusion, however, mad engineer that he is, he wants more evidence before he starts throwing himself in the deep end.

That’s the main reason why he still hasn’t complained yet, especially since it appears that the thing Barney has been praying for is about to happen.

It starts as a tremor, a small shiver that barely causes the crystal to ring with the sound of gathering aether.

That all changes when light overtakes the sanctuary.

Cid grabs Benedikta and pulls her to his side as he steps far away from the Mother Crystal. Benna doesn’t complain, too busy covering her ears to try and block out the piercing ring that is emanating from the Mother Crystal itself, a tone so high it would sound mournful were it not for the elated air that surrounds them.

 As the light begins to slowly fade Cid can see that Barney hasn’t moved, even as the Crystal shakes around him, shards of amethyst crumble and fall around him, getting so close as to open a long gash across his arm, allowing blood to flow and spill at the feet of the Heart of the Crystal.

Barney doesn’t even twitch, but Cid does.

“Cover me,” he shouts to Benna as he releases her from his protective embrace and makes a dive for the mad bastard he calls King.

Calling on Ramuh, he’s able to close the distance fairly quick without the threat of being impaled as being fast as lighting does have its advantages, and for what he lacks Benna makes up for in the form of sharp talons that knock back the crystal stalactites that seem all but directly aimed at him.

Cid can’t help the cocky smirk that overtakes his lips as he reaches his goal and seizes Barney by the collar, aiming to drag his King to safety before his blind faith gets him killed.

Or at least, that was the idea.

He fails to see it through when his own collar is grabbed before he can fully tighten his fingers in the thin steel silk on Barney’s shirt, and caught off guard as he is, there’s nothing he can do against the arm that yanks him back like a misbehaving pup.

Landing hard he rolls and lands on his feet still with enough force to slide back a good few feet.

When he finally stops and looks back at where he once stood, it’s to see the smugly grinning face of Barney’s show pony.

“Sleipnir” What the fu—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Sleipnir interrupts as he slowly waves his finger at Cid, “manners, Lord Commander, I stopped you for your own safety, after all our Lord does not appreciate being interrupted.

“If it saves his life then screw what Barney doesn’t like!” Cid bellows, as he stands, dusting off his jacket, even as he carefully checks his surroundings, ready to dodge when the next tremor inevitably sends another part of the Crystal crashing down on top of them.

 “There is no need for fear,” Sleipnir dismisses, “our Lord shall not allow any true harm to befall his chosen Dominants within his own Sanctuary, what you saw was merely a test of faith.”

“Faith? If that crystal had been a few inches to the left even the fact that he’s a Dominant wouldn’t have saved Barney.” Cid snaps as he walks forward, eager to get Barney out of here and get that cut seen to.

It’s only as he looks passed Sleipnir that he finally notices the new figure that has joined them.

Steps pausing, his eyes go wide with recognition and shock as they lock upon the boy who claimed to be Barney’s god standing before the Heart of the Crystal.

He’s different from the last time Cid saw him, the Phoenix wings folded against his back make a big statement piece for one, the crown of flaming horns for another. The brown robes are gone this time, revealing armour worthy of a prince and a red cloak adorned with the sigil of Rosaria.

Clive Rosfield, he had names himself last time he had appeared, Cid’s halfway to buying that this time, but it’ll take a lot more to sell him on the god-shtick.

“What is thy will, my Lord?” Barney bows almost impossibly lower to the boy that seems to tower above him from where he stands upon the stairs.

The boy turns his back on Barney without acknowledgement, eyes trained solely on the Heart which he stretches out a hand towards, it seems desperate to reach out to him in turn, Crystal warping and forming around him in a lattice cage that almost looks like the ornate bars of some strange birdcage.

The ring returns as the Crystal seems to vibrate around them as pulses of aether begin to manifest streams of light and power, all of which seen to flow towards the boy, feeding the fire that emanates from the wings that spread across his back and the horns that curve back along his head.

The ringing cuts off abruptly as the strange Crystal structures that had been taking over the chamber, still and crumble around them, and the streams of aether suddenly fade, leaving the room dimmer were it not for the beacon of light that the boy’s wings have become.

“More is required,” the boy comments with a deep tone that seems to echo with the voices of more than one being, an illusion cast by his proximity to the Heart, surely.

He turns then, and Cid cannot help the shiver that runs down his spine at the sight of the ochre eyes that meet his. They’re unnatural in every sense of the word, and Cid can’t help but feel as if they’re not staring at him, but into the very depths of his soul.

When they shift away from him and onto Benna, he can’t stop himself from moving to the side, hiding her behind him even as he tries to calm his heart which races as fast as the lightning he wields.

The gaze meets his again, and he feel Ramuh squirm beneath his skin. Power floods his system as he refuses to look away from that assessing stare, until the sheer brightness of the wings and the Heart of the Crystal forces him to look away.

Immediately he is able to breathe again, and he can now feel Benna’s warm fingers closing around his wrist.

“I think it best you bow, Lord Commander,” notes Sleipnir from where he kneels mere feet away, his smile clear in the lilt of his voice.

Cid wants to object, wants to chafe against the restraint he can feel tightening around his neck, but Benna’s trembling fingers tangled in his own and Ramuh’s sparking unrest at his continued resistance, forces his knees to buckle beneath him.

“Unruly as ever, our Warden of Lightning.” Is that a compliment, Cid’s gonna take it as one.

The boy’s—God’s—focus shifts to Barney. “You have done well to keep him at your side Odin, Ramuh and his Dominant’s have ever been those that seek rebellion, and discord, despite the self-destruction they find therein.”

Should Cid feel called out? Because he is really feeling called out.

“He has served me well, my Lord, and shall continue to do so, if given the chance,” Barney defends, and Cid would feel all warm and fuzzy if he wasn’t too preoccupied with the cold chill that has settled in his stomach that feels like Shiva is grabbing his guts and twisting.

“As will our Warden of Wind, Garuda,” there is an unspoken command there that wasn’t present when the boy had called Cid’s title, one that Barney hears loud and clear as he stands to his full height and turns to face them. His hand outstretched in invitation.

“Benadikta.”

Cid tries to move, to remain in front of her, but he finds his limbs frozen as the very air around him seems to leach of all colour. His mind races as his body stills, but he can do nothing as Benna stands on wobbly legs and makes her way to their King’s side.

The cry of her name is sealed behind clenched teeth, only his eyes can move. but by his own will they are fixed upon the scene that plays out before him.

Benna looks back at him once, but all she must see is supplication and silent endorsement, when inside all Cid can do is scream.

As she nears Barnaba’s side, he takes her hand and gently guides her into a kneel, his free hand ghosting across her shoulder as all the while he whispers something that Cid cannot hear, but Cid doesn’t have time to try and read his lips, not when the boy is descending the stairs, getting closer to Benna.

Cid’s heart leaps into his throat as the lad reaches out with a flame clad hand and takes Benadikta by the chin, tilting her head so she has no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Worthless.” Benadikta stops breathing, Cid can see that even from back here, but she begins to breathe again when Barney’s god continues. “That is what you fear, what drives you to serve.”

The flames cupped within the boy’s hand distil into pure aether and if Cid was questioning why Benna wasn’t burning before he’s down right rebelling against the idea that the concentrated aether isn’t poisoning her with madness.

“And serve us you shall.” those words hold the weight of a death sentence as the blue fog of an aether flood engulfs Benna, leaving her with no choice but to recoil from the influx of power that would drive a normal person to become akashic in an instant.

Barney holds her in place, his grip deceptively gentle, but strong enough to ensure Benna does not fall as her legs give way beneath her.

He lets go when she has enough strength to stand without his aid, her gaze darting back and forth between Barney and the boy. “W-what?”

Her hands tremble as small whirls of air ruffle her hair and clothes.

“Listen, hear their voices as they call to you,” Barnabas instructs as he covers her hands with his own, “Accept the master’s gift for what it is, the chance to never again walk alone.”

The strange air holding Cid back suddenly breaks and he is on his feet and running.

Not fast enough to stop whatever the hell is happening as two names fall from Benna’s quivering lips, “Chirada…Suparna.”

The Tornado that splits the air before him, forces Cid to retreat, making way for the creatures summoned from the torrents of Benna’s making to spread their wings as their eery laughter echoes throughout the chamber.

Cid draws his blade even as he readies to Semi-Prime, prepared to cut down these harpies if they mean to keep him from Benna’s side.

They react to his drawn steel, talons bared, and feathers ruffled as they float in the eddies of their own creation, clicks and calls flowing freely between them as they circle Cid.

Only for it all to come to an abrupt end as Benna shouts, “stop!”

The two beings obey, falling in at Benna’s side like loyally trained hawks, hovering behind her shoulders as they tilt their helmed heads in confusion and enquiry.

“Promising, you take to the Lord’s gift as though they have ever been a part of you,” Barney praises, looking upon Benna with a pride that is so hard to earn.

“I did this. They’re mine?” Benna questions, so unsurely as she turns to face the boy who granted her this boon, but the stairs lie empty now, bereft of the form and flame of the God that had seen fit to come and go as if he was never there to begin with.

Barney seems untroubled by it, in fact he seems downright giddy with the latest development, eyes alight with an avid faith that seems catching by the way Benna stares up at him with awe.

Cid on the other hand just has one thing to say, “what the fuck!”

The people of the Crystalline Dominion are oblivious to the true events that shake their city that night.

Most still held in Morpheus’ embrace sleep through the quake that rolls across the roots of Drake’s Tail, only to wake to be regaled with the stories that their neighbours are all too willing to share.

No one notices the lone figure that floats beside the Heart of their Crystal, no one sees the flames that flare and die within the night.

One scholar, as she rushes to the library held within the white marble vaults of the parliamentary building does notice something the next morning. A feather, firelit and aether burning, but as she reaches out to take it her fingers brush against it and it crumbles to so much ash, as if it was never there to begin with.

It is in the early hours of the morning when Dion is woken from a fitful sleep. He fears the trembling that surrounds him is within his own muscles, brought about by the flashes of battlefields that play out behind his eyes, but as a tremor strong enough to shake the room about him causes a decorative table to fall to the floor, he realises that it is the earth itself that shakes beneath him.

Leaping from his bed and donning his night robe, he runs to the doors.

He opens them to find the Dragoon on duty there clinging to a Wyvern statue for dear life. He goes to steady the man, understanding how much of a liability the full regalia of a Dragoon can be, but he finds himself stilling as he watches the pale walls of Drake’s Head ignite with a piercing light that has him shielding his eyes.

It fades as quickly as it flares, like the brief flash of a distant and dying nova.

The quake departs alongside it, leaving silence in its wake as Oriflamme settles back into the stillness of deep night.

Sleep is something he knows shall evade him after such events, so with determination driving his steps and a clear goal in mind he sets out for his father’s chambers, to check on the safety of the Emperor.

It’s as he steps out into the bracing cold along the bridge of the Wyrm’s back, the sole entrance to the Emperor’s private tower and the last line of defence should the walls of the White Wyrm Lair ever be breached, that he notices something in the far distance, straight across the Bay of Greagor’s Tears.

A light so similar to the one emitted by Drake’s Head that had blinded him before.

It’s as he continues to watch that he sees a strange shimmer begin to take the night sky, the canvas of stars cracking along previously invisible lines as light breaks through the rifts, only to be followed by a bellowing cry as the frozen wave, a mysterious feature that had been labelled by the Astrologers as a divine potent, a memorial to Leviathan the Lost due to the way it refracted the light of the sun and the moon across the bay, begins, for the first time in nearly a century, to move.

“No,” Dion whispers as he sees the events unfold, the wave swelling as it draws upon the deep water of the Bay of Greagor’s Tears, causing the shoreline enveloping Oriflamme to retreat.

He doesn’t even think as he throws himself over the decorative railing of the bridge, ignoring the cries of the Dragoon guard that had followed him, they should be used to this from him by now.

Priming comes easily with the flow of aether and the blossoming of scales across his skin.

Leathery wings catch the unseen currents of the air and soon enough he is soaring above the dark waters of the bay, on a path to intercept the colossal wave that rises to a height that would see even some of the tallest towers of Oriflamme washed away like so many pebbles cast in sand.

His maw burns with the contained light of a Zetaflare which he aims at the base of the tidal surge, all in the hopes of forcing the wave to collapse.

The steam and surf that rises across the bay makes his heart soar with victory, but the wall of water that rises above the mist soon leaves his soul sinking.

Only one section of the tsunami falls beneath the might of his light, the rest continues to gather strength, becoming large enough to cast a shadow upon Drake’s Head itself.

Dion gaze stretches across the bay, searching out the distant glow that is North Reach, a glow that becomes brighter with each crystal that is lit as the bells of Oriflamme and North Reach ring out in tandem, a call for warning, a call to be saved.

A call he cannot answer.

“Forgive me,” Dion begs as he turns away and raises his shields, channelling all of his power into the defence of the capital, the defence of his father.

The wave that night washes across the entirety of the Royal Meadows, flowing until it reaches far enough inland to batter against the walls of Caer Norvent.

North Reach and Moore never stood a chance, a fact that is made clear when the sun rises upon their flooded ruins the next morning.

Only Oriflamme survives unscathed.

The contingent of Dragoon’s sent out from the capital find Dion hours later, hands bloody from the work of trying to reach survivors. The captain that tries to stop him, that tells him his father has ordered that he return to Oriflamme finds himself silences with a glare as Dion orders the men he has brought to widen the search.

Amidst the tragedy, Dion has little time to spare a thought for the power behind the wave that has brought so much suffering to his people.

Chapter Text

Shula wakes in the night, not because of the earth-shaking tremors that rattle her house to its very foundation, but because of the cry that rips through the still night air.

“Waljas!” she shouts as she throws herself from her bed, foregoing her armour but equipping her axe, even as she fights to brace herself against the earth that rebels beneath her feet.

She exits her home to a scene of chaos, a village in turmoil as family, friends, and neighbours cling to one another.

She grasps blindly for the first person she passes as she makes for the village gate, gripping so hard she leaves white indents in dark skin. “Tell everyone to get to high ground, saddle the chocobo’s and have them carry the elderly, take only what you must, go tell the other!”

She runs, ignoring the cries of “Tributary!” as she charges for the familiar path.

The lights of the cairns flicker as she passes them, creating strange shadows against the forest floor, but their display pales in comparison to the cascade of light that falls upon the valley, cast from the peak of the ruins where her people’s salvation and greatest shame stands.

She cares not for the false Heart, only for the child, only Waljas who has suffered all these years, it’s why the decision to run to him and not the mountain Is so easy.

If there’s a chance that the Crystal is failing, that he might at last be freed from the prison of time that was cast upon him all those decades ago might be lifted…she’ll fight for it, she’ll fight for him.

Nothing obstructs her as she races for the coast, the beasts that inhabit these lands are wise enough to know they must run the opposite way, as far inland as they can manage, for no defence they could muster would be enough to withstand the rage of the Mother of the Tides, Leviathan.

She reaches the crater which has been Waljas’ cradle all this time just as the anchor of light begins to flicker, making the water that has been suspended in the air begin to flow once more. Thousands of droplets falling like so much rain as the constraints that bind the child finally begin to release.

“Waljas!” she cries as she throws herself into the basin, uncaring of the dirt that stains her white hair and cream robes or the sharp rocks that scratch furrows that soon well with blood into her exposed skin.

Unseen in the dark an unanchored rock gives way when Shula steps on it and she is cast to the bottom with enough force to nearly knock her senseless.

Sloshing mud now replaces the hard dirt that had made up the floor of the basin as the wave suspended in time begins to swell, growing larger with the power of the child overcoming his prison.

Turning to lie on her back in an attempt to rise, Shula can see the sky above her fracturing, rifts of light causing spiderweb cracks to form along the glamour that has defended them all this time.

She can’t find the will to care, not when this ending is of their own making, not when their safety came at the cost of any right to take the moral high ground, she only hopes that her people have time enough to make it out, to escape this tragedy they have only forestalled.

As for her, Shula cares little what becomes of her, it may be her Grandfather’s sin, but the burden has ever been hers to carry.

Waljas begins to cry in earnest, as the bubble of aether finally begins to dissolve.

With determination, Shula somehow finds the strength to stand, for at least once before the end, Waljas deserves to know the warmth of a kind embrace.

A flash of light behind her, brighter than all the others, and the sound of crystal cracking marks the inglorious end of the false Heart, but Shula does not turn to witness it, her eyes are fixed instead on the sudden blaze that ignites before the child in an almost blinding display that rips apart the night as surely as the dawn.

She rises to her knees and looks up to see a strange sight.

A boy, tall and lean, dressed in fine armour and a cape of such deep red it looks so much like the flames that engulf the wings that spread from his back, stands before Waljas.

“Our Warden of Water,” he proclaims as he reaches out a hand to the child, “bound and profaned, how you must rage against those that have sentenced you to this prison.”

As if in answer, water swirls around them, the beginnings of the hurricane seeded all those years ago sprouting from the droplets that break from the spell that holds them in suspension. All driven by the high-pitched cries of the child.

The young man reaches out a hand, and though the motion is not threatening, Shula cannot suppress the dread that bubbles in her chest.

Scrambling to her feet, she draws her axe from where it rests against her back, ready to defend her family.

Without sound, without warning, the hard edge of her blade falls down upon the undefended back of the stranger who has so easily circumvented all their defences.

Shula’s eyes can only widen in disbelief as the head of her axe vaporizes before it even makes contact with the firelit feathers, dispersing on the aura of flames that act as a shield, in a spray of molten metal that soon puddles and cools on the ground between them.

The boy doesn’t even flinch, simply continues to address Waljas, “One instance, we shall grant you this, as the power within our vessel is not yet vast enough to sustain another tether upon his soul at this time.”

As he speaks water and aether gather around Waljas as his cries morph into the siren call of the Mother of the Tides, as Leviathan rises, bringing the tide with her.

The boy vanishes in a spark of flame only for the space he occupied to be taken by a beast the likes of which Shula has never seen. Serpentine and scaly, adorned with fins made for swimming that almost distracts from the feminine form that hides beneath it.

An egi, she thinks, but the monster doesn’t stop to introduce itself before it lunges towards her.

Lacking her axe, Shula raises the remains of the handle as a club and seeks to face death with her pride intact.

That thought is swept beneath the oncoming tide that is Leviathan’s creation, as scaled arms wrap around her middle, locking tightly even as she stabs the handle of her axe into the creatures exposed back. Her broken weapon skitters near harmlessly off the bony appendages that shield the beasts back, and Shula can do nothing but struggle uselessly as the beast carries her from the field.

Flying above the trees, Shula watches as Leviathan commands the waters that have remained still for so long to swell with her power.

She feels her own tears gathering as she watches the Bay of Greagor’s Tears lend strength to the coming catastrophe.

She only stops looking when the creature carrying her drops her unceremoniously on the ridge that had once been the sight of the false Heart. Glaring at it, she takes a stance, only to strike at nothing as the egi disperses into nothing but scattering bubbles and sea foam.

“Tributary!” Dalina cries and suddenly she is at Shula’s side, taking her arm in order to keep her steady.

Shula looks across the gathered crowd even as she asks, “is everyone here?”

The headshake that Dalina gives sends Shula’s stomach plunging to the darkest depths of her soul.

She’s already running through the ruins, heading back towards the village, she makes it to a large outcropping overlooking the village just in time for the siren call of Leviathan to seduce the tide.

The tsunami dominates the landscape, leaving an inland sea that retreats so slowly, the valley that was their home transformed into a fjord between one instance and the next.

Shula’s knees give out beneath her, the realisation that anyone that was still down there is now dead hitting her as hard as any wall of water ever could.

She looks back at the sky, where Leviathan still writhes, her wrath not sated despite the blood that mixes with the waters below.

But the Warden of Water’s attention is no longer focused upon the sunken village, rather her gaze is locked upon the distant spark that floats beside her, a red star that rivals Metia in the night sky.

The boy who had started all this.

 Leviathan screams as she opens her maw. Her intent to swallow the light and steal it from the night sky clear, only for silence to fall as her form dissipates upon a wave of fire, her aether stripped from her and cast across the bay to sink into the waters.

“Waljas!” Shula screams as she watches a teardrop of light fall towards the bay, only for it to be swept up by the fallen star that is the fire winged boy and for them both to disappear. True night restored as their light fades from this world.

Their wings beat with repressed power as they fly through the rift between worlds, the sleeping child cradled in their arms, the culmination of their motes of water, Leviathan’s vessel, weak and soiled as it is by the taint of man’s avarice, still has a purpose, and to let it fade from their world now and wait for the next would be a waste when the touch of time magic still clings to the infant.

Sailing through the void they navigate oblivion until they come upon the perfect crucible, the remnants of a long dry fountain that had once born witness to the splendour provided by the abundance of aether, and so it shall be again.

The child hardly stirs as they place it at the centre, but the shadow of Leviathan rises from him, eager to fill the source from which they were first drawn.

Water and aether fill the basin of the fountain, bringing light and sound to a landmark that has only known silence and darkness since they came to Valisthea, and between the spaces of the stone that surround the fountain, flowers begin to bloom, blue as the sea which the Mother of the Tides commands.

A fitting temple for their Warden of Water, where the prayers of those that still worship her will reach.

Carrying with them the tether of aether they need for their next task; they leave Leviathan to her slumber.

Anabella is dreaming, she knows this.

How else would Joshua be safe in her arms again, his head resting in her lap and his arms wrapped around her waist in a lose embrace as he slept, peaceful, and safe from all that would harm him.

The other small discrepancy is where she sits, not in the Fallen Ceramic throne of Rosaria’s main hall, but in the marble seat at the peak of the White Wyrm’s Lair, only Greagor herself still standing above her.

 It is a peaceful dream she has had many times, even before the events of Phoenix Gate, but unlike those times Clive now sits with them, content and proud, where in reality he still carries a useless fear of her that she has yet to rid him of, but all in good time.

The haze of peace that surrounds her is disturbed when she hears footsteps approaching the throne and she deigns to open her eyes to see who has encroached upon the scene.

The hooded figure that greets her brings with it a chilling darkness that seems to still the very beat of her heart and the air in her lungs, as the sky above them turns from a far-reaching endless blue to a storm grey.

“Is this the vision you wish to fulfil?” the figure asks as he ascends the stairs.

Anabella tries to stand, to draw Joshua closer to her side, but she finds she cannot move. The vision of Clive is under no such restriction as he rises from his seat beside her and walks to meet the cloaked figure.

When they meet, she can only watch as the vision of her eldest burns to ash before her eyes as the man pulls his cloak back to reveal Clive, Semi-Primed and bearing the wings of the Phoenix.

“Or is it the return of the Phoenix that you truly desire?”

Anabella opens her mouth, her reply already primed on her tongue, only for her words to morph into a scream as the burn scars along her hands suddenly ignite with the flames that had first caused them.

They soon die out, but her scars still feel as though they are aflame, and she has no choice but to curl into herself, an ill-conceived attempt to shield herself from the pain that turns her nerves to flowing acid.

“We will not allow lies to pass your lips here,” states Joshua from where he now stands beside his brother, his voice sweet and lilting.

“Joshua,” she begs, “Clive.”

“You will answer us, it is all we require of you,” Clive says as he draws Joshua close to his side, a united front against her.

Tormented as she is, Anabella cannot stop the truth from tumbling past her sealed lips. “The Phoenix…Joshua is already gone, my precious boy is dead, stolen from me by the weakness that plagued him from birth, even as he was gifted with the power of an Eikon. I would never want that weakness to cling to me again, not when Clive is proof that I can bare a strong Dominant!”

The agony tearing apart her skin recedes, and so do the scars.

She looks up, expecting to see her sons, but the creature that reaches out to her barely looks human. Corpse grey skin stretched over four arms, white hair, and sunken yellow eyes; it brings to mind the monster that descended upon the Heart of Drake’s Breath.

Her frozen horror costs her, robs her of her chance to retreat as the creature closed one of its hands around her head, completely blocking out her sight.

"̷̯̺̬̃̔̃Ą̸͍̂̀͛͠ņ̶͙̠̰̜̼̑̂d̷̫̣̳̬̈̀̃̊ ̵̪̫̟͈̆̊̌͜s̵̼̠̥̯̪̍̓͋̉ͅŏ̵̧̨͍͇͕̼͛ ̴̧̠̦̼̠̎̕ĭ̷̝̞̪̼̆̈́͋͂̕t̵̼̠̹͑̈́̍̽ ̴̢̟̓̐s̸̛̬͉͚͓̤̃̚͠h̵͇͚̍́̎͠͝͝ǎ̵̡̤̰̦̆l̸̻͗͌̿̔ͅl̷̫̩̦͗̌͐̍̉ ̸̢̬̏̽͗̽͠b̷͎̹̪͎̉̈́e̶͔̦͕͚͎̾̂͒͝͠.̴͇̉̚"̶͇̭̀̎̊̑̇

She wakes with a half-formed scream, the remnants of the dream fading quickly, even as the phantom pain still assaults her.

Gripping her hands with a strength that should have the twisted and thin skin of her scars tearing open, she looks down at her sheets expecting to see blood staining them a vivid red.

Unblemished skin, so fine it looks like porcelain greets her instead.

In disbelief she reaches for the crystal lamp sat atop her bedside cabinet and stares at her hands in the cool light that now fills the room.

Healed.

As if the burns had never been there in the first place, a miracle that neither crystal nor Bearer could accomplish.

It’s then that she feels it, the smallest nudge from within.

Instantly her palm comes to rest against her stomach, and she stops breathing as she waits.

The nudge comes again, stronger this time, and she knows.

The laugh that escapes her is a tinkling joyous thing as she wraps both her arms around her stomach, cradling the new life that has taken root there.

“Welcome back, my Phoenix.”

Jill and Lord Byron can only run as the catacombs of Drake’s Breath come down around them.

Adrenaline and fear are all that propels their steps, but it allows them to stay ahead of the disaster that unfolds behind them long enough to find an exit.

Even still they run, Lord Byron taking Jill’s hand as they slide down the scree slope that seems determined to give way beneath their feet.

Neither of them stops until they reach the beach, but even then, their safety is in question as the crystal walls they had been fleeing from follow them, spiralling out from the crumbling crater that was once the cradle of Drake’s Breath as the Mother Crystal itself splits, the solid obelisk reforming into two mirroring towers that themselves soon unfold into something that look like nothing if not the wings of the Phoenix.

“Founder,” Lord Byron swears when he has managed to regain some of his breath, and Jill can only agree, even as her fear begins to wane and her dread begins to rise.

They had left Clive in there, they had no choice, there wa no trace of him, and if they had stayed death would have been their only reward, but he had come for her, and still she had left him.

The first tear begins to fall as lava erupts at the base of the Mother Crystal, sealing the fate of any who remain inside.

She barely hears the sound of displaces beach pebbles behind her.

“Uncle, Jill?” comes a wavering and confused voice, nearly drowned out by the soft crash of waves.

Jill turns to see Clive standing there, looking for all the world completely exhausted and utterly bewildered.

“Ho—oomph!” his question is cut off as she throws herself into his arms with enough force to bring them both to the ground.

The tears still fall, so much harder than before in an ugly mix of relieved joy that’s so sharp it makes every breath feel like a stab to the chest.

She doesn’t care, she just buries her face into the hard lines of Clive’s chest plate and accepts every stumbling nervous word of comfort he’s willing to impart to her.

If she had her way, she would never let him go again.

Chapter Text

The sound of wind rustling through the trees around him, and birdsong filling the air is relaxing, grounding in a way that has been denied to him for over a year now.

Stretched out on the damp grass, still wet with early morning dew, Clive focuses on thinking of nothing, not the taking of Drake’s Breath, not the life that has been forced upon him in Oriflamme, not Ifrit, not anything but the calm sounds of nature that surround him on the small island that has always been his and his alone.

The Rookery.

Too small to be of any real use to anyone, located conveniently between Port Isolde and Rosalith, it has always served as Clive’s private retreat, the place that he could go to and know he would be alone, and not have to care about the burdens of his position.

That had been the plan at least, but as he lies there, and the morning sun slowly dawns across the Talons, he finds his thoughts rushing. Image after image flashes across his mind’s eye, until the point where he has to shake his head in order to be rid of them.

When the action only slows the memories, he has no choice but to sit up and blink open his eyes as he stares around the small clearing in the hopes of finding something to distract him, but nothing seems to hold his attention for long and his frustration is beginning to grow, all until he remembers his little side project.

Reaching for his left boot, he pulls a small metal pick out from where it is hidden in the heel and sets to work picking the lock on the crystal cuffs that once again seal his magic.

His uncle’s idea, he had started teaching Clive in secret whenever they could find a spare and rarely unguarded moment in Oriflamme and when his uncle had been sent away, Clive had taken to practising whenever he could, and his efforts had led to success eventually. Now, he still practises in the hopes of reducing the amount of time it takes to get himself free, his record so far being just under five minutes, a time he hopes to reduce by half if he can.

With something to fully focus his attention on, he finds his mind calming at last, the soft clink and scratch of the pick working against the pins of the lock almost hypnotic.

After a time, he manages to get the first cuff off, but before attempting the second he takes a moment to appreciate the natural flow of aether through his veins again, as he rubs his wrist to work out some of the pain that lingers there from the tight grasp of the crystal shackle.

Looking down he can see that some of the wounds inflicted by the cuffs are starting to scar. The constant rub of metal and crystal against his skin carving deep furrows into the soft flesh there, to the point that potions can no longer fully heal them anymore.

Clive simply writes it off as something that will take care of itself, his skin would harden like the calluses on his hands had with sword practise, given time.

He tries very hard to sidestep the memory that seeks to swarm him as his eyes trail from his wrists to his palms, only to fail miserably and tip headfirst into it.

It’s so strong he can almost feel Joshua’s small hands covering his own, as the power of the Phoenix works to mend broken skin.

“Joshua, you shouldn’t waste your gift like that,” Clive had chided as he had a thousand times before, only to find both his hands healed by the time he managed to pull them away, the Phoenix’s magic always taking easily when applied to him.

Joshua had stood with only a slight wobble, his face set with a hard determination that didn’t suit his soft features. “It isn’t a waste,” the rebuff he always had ready to throw at Clive, “you’re training to be a Shield, you’re going to look out for me, just as you always have.”

What could Clive say to that, as it turned out very little, apart from a quick reminder that Joshua was meant to be inside, “come on, we need to get you back inside, you’ve only just recovered from your last illness,” Clive had stood and tried to usher Joshua back towards the castle gates, a doomed endeavour from the start when Joshua turned sad, watery eyes upon him.

“Clive, please don’t make me go back, I only just managed to slip the maids mother set to watch me, if she had her way, I’d never leave my room, let alone the castle.”

Joshua hadn’t been exaggerating, the physickers had given him a clean bill of health days ago, some of them had even advised that fresh air would do him some good, but their mother had insisted that she knew best and had all but confined Joshua to his rooms.

Father had been away on campaign for months by then, and very few within Rosalith’s walls were willing to chance the Duchess’s ire, but Joshua had always known that Clive would do almost anything for him.

“Come on,” he had beckoned as he led his little brother to the stables where Ambrosia awaited. Joshua’s hand had slipped easily into his own. His fingers gripping tightly as the brightest smile had overtaken his features.

Hours later had found them both being escorted back to the castle by a contingent of Shields that had been sent out to find them. Only to find their mother worked up into such a state over Joshua’s whereabouts that she seemed ready to murder the maids who had lost him.

The sting of her hand slapping Clive across the face had been so sharp he would have sworn she had drawn blood.

Only Joshua’s pleas for her to stop, followed by a breathless coughing fit that had nearly taken him to the ground had forestalled her wrath, at least until Joshua had been sequestered back in his rooms.

The lash she had ordered wielded against Clive, never one to get her own hands dirty, had left wounds that had required a Bearer to heal him before his father’s return.

With a sigh and fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, he turns away from the memory and focuses on the next cuff, determined to be quicker this time. He remembers the advice his uncle gave him about how to work the pins to ensure he can twist the core, but with crystal cuffs it’s a little bit more difficult as the crystal reacts badly if the pins are misaligned for too long. A fact that is once again shocked into him when he twists when he should have pushed and instead of a satisfying click he’s expecting to hear he feels the sharp sting of his mistake as the crystal contained within the shackles rejects his attempts.

“Shit!” he curses, as he grips the cuff in a vain attempt to reduce the pain only to drop the pick and lose sight of it in the overgrown bushes that hedge the clearing.

Frustration closes around his throat as he stands and searches the area where he saw the pick disappear with the glint of sunlight off metal, but the thickness of the bramble proves a deterrent to the point that he would abandon the search if he didn’t need the pick to relock the cuff into place before he left the island.

With little choice he unsheathes his blade, determined to hack the bush to pieces if needs be.

He’s just about to swing when movement in the bush stays his hand. Isolated as it is, the Rookery boasts no large predators, so the fear of it being something that might actually do him harm is minimal, like as not his search has disturbed something no bigger than a bunny, hardly something to be worried about.

As such, he starts gently prying the thorned branches out of his way in the hopes that the light will catch on the metal of the pick.

Another rustle and the sound of snapping wood has him looking to his left as something much bigger but just as fluffy as the bunny he had imagined crashes into his side. Tangled in the bush as his blade is, it’s impossible to bring it up in a guard in time to stop the beast from pouncing.

Vision taken up by a mixture of grey and white fur Clive can only push against the beast that seems intent upon pinning him to the ground as a rough tongue runs along his cheek.

Familiarity sneaks in where fear was trying to settle, and Clive’s struggles soon abate as he sits up and sees a familiar pair of tawny eyes staring back at him.

“Torgal,” he whispers, breathless with an excitement the young hound shares, evident in the way that he paws at his long lost master’s chest.

Sitting up and gripping the hound behind the ears, as he runs soothing fingers along the thick fur there, he studies the pup that’s almost tripled in size since the last time he saw him.

Torgal soaks up the attention, his tail wagging so hard it’s all but a blur.

“You’re alive,” Clive gasps in relieved disbelief as he buries his face in the thick fur of Torgal’s mane, he believed that Torgal had perished with all the others during the Night of the Flames, to see him here now, safe, sound, and happy to see Clive is a miracle he is silently thanking the Founder for.

“Jill won’t believe this,” Clive exclaims gleefully, already making plans keep this from his mother, sure that Uncle Byron will be more than happy to help conceal the hound, for selfish as it is, Clive can’t bear the thought of casting Torgal out to the wilds again, and seeing how delighted Torgal himself seems to be over being reunited with Clive he would not leave willingly.

“Easy boy, easy,” Clive chides gently, as he eases Torgal off his chest and moves to sit up, he still keeps a hand on the pup’s head, kneading his fingers in the thick fur there until Torgal closes his eyes with contentment.

“How on earth did you even get here?” Clive finds himself questioning, praise and astonishment shining clear in his words.

Of course he doesn’t get an answer, merely an excited bark, one that is slightly muffled by the pick Clive has been looking for which hangs from his mouth.

“Good boy,” he praises, as relief makes the final worry darkening his mood vanish, only to find that when he reaches out to take it that Torgal finally retreats.

“Hey,” he calls at the unexpected behaviour, half afraid that Torgal is about to disappear into the underbrush and Clive will end up chasing him in loops around the island until one of them, most likely Clive, is exhausted.

His fears prove to be unfounded when Torgal circles him before pawing at his boots, a clear sign that he wants Clive’s attention.

“What is it boy?” Assured that Clive will follow, Torgal turns and trots the short distance across the clearing towards the ladder that leads to the treehouse that Clive managed to build here years ago.

Unable to climb the ladder, Torgal navigates a low branch thick enough to support his weight and easily makes it to the deck of the tree house.

Clive is quick to follow and makes it to the top just in time to see Torgal’s tail disappearing round the door as he trots inside. Taking a moment to assess the decking beneath his feet, Clive is glad to see that the wooden planks have held up remarkably well given the year of neglect. It makes him confident enough to enter the hut without any real fear of falling through the floor plaguing his mind.

Torgal’s already on the other side of the tree house, and it’s clear the pup has been making frequent use of the place, given the collection of objects that have been piled as carefully as a dragon’s horde in the far corner. Though if a dragon ever saw this pile of treasures Clive is sure that the picky beast would turn its nose up at the offerings.

A collection of scraps that seem to have no real rhyme or reason, unless you know where they come from.

Torgal finally drops the pick he’s been carrying, but Clive doesn’t move to pick it up, eyes too fixated on the armour and the wooden training sword, his wooden training sword, the one Ser Rodney had insisted he still use in their training sessions.

“You found all this,” Clive whispers, slightly breathless with the awe he feels at the loyalty on display here.

Torgal barks, almost as if in answer, and when Clive goes to pet him again, he finds that Torgal has something hanging from his mouth again.

“What’s this,” Clive asks, and he only has to hold out his hand to get Torgal to surrender his prize.

Crystal of the purest blue glints up at him from where it sits in his palm, contrasting perfectly with the dark heart of the black gem that sits above it, nestled in the fine woven nest of silver that connects them. Clive recognises the necklace instantly, having seen it almost every day since the moment he met Jill. At least until she was taken by the Ironblood, he hadn’t even really noticed that it was missing, not consciously at least.

“How did—” he starts but stops because he already knows the answer.

“You really are a fine hound, aren’t you?”

With a smile that’s so wide it actually hurts he kneels and wraps his arms around Torgal, the pup is more than happy to sit there and take it, snuggling in as close to Clive as he can get and licking the side of his face.

“I missed you boy,” Clive admits as he buries his face in Torgal’s fur in order to hide the tears that prick at the edges of his vision.

He stays like that for a good minute, soaking in Torgal’s warmth, ecstatic to have another small piece of his former life returned to him, it only makes him all the more determined to keep him.

Storing the necklace and retrieving the pick, Clive works quickly to get the cuff back into place, grimacing more from the way the cold metal digs into his skin than from the exhaustion that sinks its teeth deep into his bones as the crystal sets about sealing his aether.

“Come on boy, let’s go.” Torgal doesn’t have to be told twice, as if he’d never left his side Torgal falls in at Clive’s heel and stays there until they reach the boat.

The journey back to Auldhyl Docks is calm, or as calm as it can be with an excited pup in the boat.

The waters of the Talons are calm, so still it’s like the surface of a mirror, if Clive looks over the side, he can see himself so clearly, but if he’s honest, he can hardly recognise the person looking back at him anymore.

At least that is how he had felt this morning, but now…

He looks at Torgal and sees only recognition in the hound’s eyes, even after so much time has passed. It’s the same recognition that had shone in Jill’s eyes when they had finally been reunited and it makes something small but so very warm unfurl in his chest.

Before he even realises it, they’ve reached the docks, fishermen hauling in their first catches of the day call out to him in greeting as he disembarks and ties the small rowboat to its usual berth and Clive is more than happy to return the greetings, some sense of normalcy he can grasp with his own hands, at least for now.

One more day of freedom, one more day before his mother arrives in Port Isolde.

Retrieving his borrowed chocobo, he checks once to see that Torgal is still following, he is, and makes for his uncle’s city.

A small guards entrance proves itself a second time this morning, as does the Shield guarding it, who merely gives a short bow when he sees Clive returning and simply blinks at the sight of Torgal before smiling and returning to his duty.

Port Isolde is a marvel, a naval fortress in all but name, the fleet of ships both anchored and built there all sworn to his uncle, a fleet that has tripled in size, strength, and legend since his uncle was first given this command.

The city itself embraces its naval routes and combines them with the traditional emblems of the Phoenix that Rosarian architecture so loves to incorporate. The practical canal system threaded throughout the city is bridged by marvels of engineering that use water wheels to harness the natural flow of the water as it makes for the sea. But practicality gives way to his uncle’s flare for design in the form of the Phoenix style gargoyles that decorate the arches. It was his uncle’s goal to have the history of Rosaria carved into the walls of Port Isolde, and with the mosaics and murals that litter the city, Clive would say that he is well on his way to accomplishing that dream.

His distraction proves to be his undoing, as his inattention allows Torgal to break from his side before he can stop him as they round the last corner of the main street leading to his uncle’s grey stoned manse.

The reason for Torgal’s flight is obvious as the morning sun catches on flowing strands of cold steel grey hair.

“Jill!” it’s all the warning Clive can give before Torgal reaches her.

Caught as unawares as he was this morning, Jill has no hope of keeping he feet as Torgal leaps, taking her to the ground.

Clive runs, cursing the fact that he cannot just phoenix shift across the distance as he pulls up alongside the two, only to find that all his concern was misplaced.

Jill is laughing, her voice ringing out with a bell like quality that Clive finds infectious.

He regains himself quickly when Jill starts to beg for a reprieve, “no, please, stop! That tickles.”

“Torgal, come on, give her a chance to breath,” his words and Jill’s own gentle push against Torgal’s muzzle dissuades the hound enough to allow Jill to sit up, but that’s as far as she gets before Torgal is pressing in again, begging for more pets.

“Where did you find him?” Jill asks as she obliges Torgal and begins stroking the thicker fur of his chest, a move that has the hound melting into a puddle of puppy in her lap. For her part, Jill is more than happy to grin and bear Torgal’s weight, simply as excited as Clive is to have their beloved companion back.

“He found me,” Clive explains, all hope of sneaking Torgal in abandoned, he hadn’t had much faith that he would be able to pull it off in the first place, not when his mother has eyes and ears everywhere, despite how hard his uncle works to root them out.

That seems to be enough for Jill, as she at last manages to extricate herself from Torgal’s affections, dusting off the white skirts of her dress as best she can.

Keeping one hand on Torgal’s head she faces Clive as all the newborn happiness, that suited her features so well, slips from her face.

“Clive,” she says, and Clive recognises her tone, it’s the one that always meant bad news, the one she used whenever he returned from training only to find that his mother was looking for him, or that something had happened to Joshua.

His stomach drops as he half expects his mother’s shadow to suddenly fall upon him, but he forces himself to ask, “what is it?”

Playing with the fine silk of the bell sleeves of the dress she wears, switching between tugging at the royal blue ribbon that decorates it and smoothing down the fabric when it becomes rumpled from her actions, she meets his gaze. “Ser Wade has requested an audience, he won’t…” she pauses, the weight of the words she must speak holding down her tongue, but Clive can already read what she means to say in the way her mouth turns down.

“Can you take him,” Clive requests, gesturing to Torgal and Jill nods softly.

“We’ll await you in the gardens.”

With a nod and heavy steps, he makes his way into the manse, walking the familiar halls with his head bowed and a new weight on his shoulders.

The walk to the Physickers quarters and the infirmary isn’t far, but it feels like an eternity.

The large oak doors that lead to the infirmary’s main hall are easy to open and barely make a sound, allowing Clive to slip in unnoticed. Though, with the state that many of the men who occupy the beds are in, he very much doubts that his presence would be noted.

Walking down the line of beds he makes sure to look at every man who may end up paying the ultimate price for the Duchy.

Ser Michael, Ser Jasper, Ser Rowan, the list of names goes on, but Clive makes sure that he knows them all.

Ser Brannon, Ser Clayton, Ser Stephan, so few of them were actually wounded in the attack against the Crusaders.

Clive himself has no memory of the change that came about from the transformation of Drake’s Breath, he can only remember waking up on the beach, Jill is his arms, her warmth the only defence against the cold ocean breeze that tore at his back, as walls of crystal spiralled around them, stretching out to the sea like grasping vines of flame. A firestorm frozen solid, with the twin spires which Drake’s Breath had become stretched out above them like the Phoenix’s wings spread wide, ready to take flight.

Lost in his thoughts he reaches the last bed in the infirmary before he realises it.

“Your Highness?” questions the head physicker as she rises from the chair which sits next to the bed.

Clive has to suppress a wince at the use of that title, he shall never be used to it, no matter how often his mother constantly insists that he will become accustomed to it.

“I was informed that Ser Wade wished to see me,” he explains, even as he moves to take the seat she has just vacated.

She looks down, but the sadness that darkens her eyes is still so clear. “Yes, though, I’m afraid he will not have the strength, my Lord.”

“I have strength enough for this,” interrupts Ser Wade, with a rasping voice that could barely count as a whisper.

“Ser Wade.” Clive moves to take the Shield’s hand as Ser Wade struggles to open his eyes. The skin beneath his fingers is clammy and hot with fever and when Ser Wade manages to pry his eyes open, Clive can clearly see that they are misted with a haze that speaks of encroaching darkness.

Still, Ser Wade finds the strength to speak, “Lord Marquess?” he asks, unsure, even as he stares straight at Clive.

“I’m here Ser Wade, just as you requested.” The smile that overtakes Ser Wade’s face at those words is heartbreaking, it’s the expression of a man who knows his time has come.

“My Lord, I shall not waste your time…” Clive moves to say that it is not a waste, but Ser Wade tightens his grip and the words that Clive had prepared fall silent on his tongue. “I had hoped to meet again under better circumstances, with the chance to make up for my failure, but it seems that my aspirations of glory have come to naught but ash.”

Ser Wade stutters for a moment as something shift within his chest, and Clive cannot stop his eyes from catching on the fresh bloom of red that is soaking the sheets that cover Ser Wade.

Turning to the physicker he asks, “is there nothing that can be done?”

With deep regret, she shakes her head. “I am sorry your Highness, I have already done all I can, all we can do is give him medicine to ease the pain.”

“It doesn’t matter now my Lord,” Ser Wade wheezes as he finally manages to breathe, “I can’t even feel it anymore.”

Before Clive can protest Ser Wade continues, “I must apologise to you Lord Marquess, for my failure during the Night of the Flames. I only had my position as a Shield due to your brother’s kindness and your father magnanimity, and yet when the time came for me to prove my worth, to repay the faith they had placed in me…”

Another stuttering breath escapes Ser Wade, more laboured than before, making his words all the more strained. “When I heard that you had lived, I saw a chance for redemption, it blinded me to the Duchess’ machinations, to her ploy to weaken Rosaria even as we moved to secure a prize that would stand us on equal footing with the Empire.”

Clive can hear the echo of his uncle’s laments in those words, the same frustration but tempered with self-recrimination. “I hate to rest another burden upon your shoulders my Lord, but I am afraid I can no longer bear them myself, and to take them to my grave would be a disservice to your brother.”

The mention of Joshua causes Clive to tense but he forces himself to remain quiet, to let Ser Wade continue. “When the traitors revealed themselves, his Highness moved to defend your father, there was no fear in his eyes, nor hesitation. I can only imagine that the promise he made with you gave him courage, your father in turn acted as all fathers should. The blame for what befell next lies with me, had I simply noticed all the terror and tragedy that transpired that night could have been avoided.”

“It was not—” Clive protests, only to be silenced by the conviction that sets Ser Wade’s face.

“My fault? How many people have already told you the very same thing?”

Clive feels as though he has fallen into a trap.

The grip on Clive’s fingers grows weaker, forcing him to put more strength into his own in an attempt to compensate, but with the way Ser Wade’s eyes now fall to half mast, his gaze lost and focused on something so far away that Clive cannot perceive it, he doubts the man can feel it.

Even still Ser Wade manages to ask, “if I told you, here at the end, that my last request is for you to forgive yourself, would you do it Clive?”

No, Clive wants to scream, to shout, to rebel, he does not deserve forgiveness, Joshua may have wanted that for him, may have granted him that, and even if Clive can accept his sins and walk forward despite them, that does not mean he can ever earn the right to be forgiven.

His silence must be answer enough, as Ser Wade lets out a small chuckle, “I didn’t think so. Fine, let me ask this of you instead: don’t let her win.”

Clive bows his head in silent agreement, not daring to voice the promise he wishes he could make as Ser Wade struggles over his last words. “If at the end, all our sacrifices end up being another rung added to the ladder she seeks to use to climb to new heights, I can’t think of a greater waste. Much better to be one spark amidst the flame that will burn down her ambitions, even if I’ll be nothing but ash by the time justice finally catches up with her.”

The words settle on Clive’s shoulders, heavy with expectation, a burden indeed, one that he is willing to carry.

“I promise,” he swears in a voice that resounds with sincerity.

It earns a smile from Ser Wade.

Chapter Text

Leaning against his window, arms folded over the pillow he has placed upon the hard surface of the wooden sill, with his chin resting on his crossed wrists, Joshua stares at the setting sun that paints the sands of the Dhalmekian desert before him red and gold.

It doesn’t help the pounding headache that he has been fighting ever since he first woke up, but Joshua is tired of simply lying in bed, having news drip fed to him in whatever snatches Jote or her grandfather are willing to impart to him, as Cyril insists that he must focus on recovery and not the ills of the realm.

Joshua knows when he is being handled, he was subjected to it every day of his life by his mother, excuse after inane platitude laid before him in order to fool him into thinking that he was choosing to stay inside, to remain quiet, to agree with his mother, all by his own choice.

His only real choices were the ones that inevitably got Clive in trouble.

His brother had always tried to hide it, but Joshua knew, if not by the way his brother moved stiffly or the way he flinched in their mother’s presence, then by the way his mother’s maids gossiped about Clive’s latest punishment. Their tittering voices used to fill the halls, some in horror, more in amusement.

Thinking back, it’s what made Joshua so willing to obey his mother, what allowed her to first sink her claws into him. So long as he did what she asked, so long as he behaved, Clive would not be punished, and would even be allowed to come and spend time with Joshua, for short moments at least.

This is not to say that he doesn’t love his mother, no, her love for him is too genuine for him to hate her, smothering and controlling as it is, he also saw how it drove her sick with worry whenever he fell ill, how she defended him from the whispers and rumours that said he would succumb to his illness, even when she was the worst when it came to treating him as though he was made of glass.

He thinks now of the picture he’s been able to grasp from the broken shards of information he has gotten from Uriel and Jote, or from what intel he has overheard Cyril and the other Knights of the Undying discussing whenever the Bearer of the Burning Quill believed him to be asleep.

Clive is the Second Dominant of Fire, Joshua realised this himself far too late, as his brothers voice cried out in desperation and despair as dark flames and obsidian claws forced Joshua to disperse the summoned form of the Phoenix in the hope that the Flames of Rebirth that still clung to his body would be enough to heal him.

His mother has taken Clive to Oriflamme, Cyril throws around words like usurper and traitor, while Uriel whispers tales of hostage situations and his brother’s loyalty to the people of Rosaria. Joshua knows who he believes.

Undying agents have attempted to kill his brother, this he has only heard in whispers, in fragmented points of clarity that seem so distant and unreal. He wants to deny them, not only because the thought of Clive being in danger makes him sick to his soul, but also because it goes against all the orders he has given since he finally regained consciousness. It makes Joshua feel as weak as he ever did, for if even the Order that is meant to obey the will of the Phoenix is willing to disregard his direct commands, then what authority does he actually have?

It all comes together to paint an image of a fallen false idol that never had any power to begin with, a fledgling bird toppled from its nest, but Joshua is unwilling to let this stand.

Despite everything, he is the Phoenix, he is the rightful heir to the Duchy of Rosaria, and with that comes the power to command the Bearer of the Burning Quill.

He wants to trust Cyril, the man saved his life, working with the other knights that had survived the Night of the Flames to dig through molten rubble to find him in time to spirit him away, before the Dragoon’s could find them.

When Joshua had later asked why men could not be spared to go and retrieve his brother, Cyril had simply answered that their first priority was him, as if his brother never mattered to begin with.

In the eyes of the Undying he didn’t.

To Joshua though, Clive matters, he will always matter, and that is why he has found the resolve to confront Cyril, to not only demand that he calls off any attempts to assassinate his brother—attempts that should never have happened in the first place—but to make it clear that all efforts to aid his brother should be made.

Joshua may not be able to do much at this time, but he knows how capable the Knights of the Undying can be, even with how limited their resources are now, compared to when they had the full patronage of the Duchy.

A patronage that might be restored if they could only contact his Uncle.

Amidst all this his thoughts are haunted by the vision he had been shown in the twilight of his dreams. Clive fighting for him whilst his shadow, and Ifrit, sought to steal the Phoenix’s flames. Despite the warm sunlight that reflects off of the glowing sands of the vista before him, Joshua cannot help but shiver with cold dread at the thought of it.

The fiend that had worn his brother’s face was an exact copy in looks and speech, but the seething hate that had burned in his tone as he goaded and tormented Joshua had easily revealed the phantom for what it was.

An empty puppet under the control of something else.

Something that wasn’t Ifrit but held power enough to influence the Eikon and drive him mad with hunger.

It is this…entity, this being that the Undying must turn their attention to.

With a breath that stutters as it fills his lungs, Joshua pushes himself up and makes for the door of his chambers.

His legs nearly fold beneath him the moment he stands, but he manages to catch himself on the rough sandstone of the wall beside him and steady his imperfect balance, even as the room swims around him.

From there it is a slow journey to the door, made all the harder by even the limited furnishings he must navigate around, in order to maintain his balance against the wall.

When eventually his hand does wrap around the handle of his chamber door, it is with a great sigh of relief on Joshua’s part. Only for all his efforts to nearly amount to nothing as the door suddenly opens from the other side.

As light and as small as he is, Joshua can do nothing but tumble to the floor as the door swings open.

“Your Grace!” cries Jote, concern and mortification cracking her voice as she rushes forward.

Joshua tries to bury his own embarrassment even as he accepts Jote’s aid, simply happy that it is her that has discovered him.

“I’m fine Jote, you couldn’t have known,” he tries to assuage, but the fact that he refuses to reprimand her simply seems to fuel her guilt.

“Still,” she demures as she pulls him to his feet and begins to lead him back to the bed, only for them to both nearly trip as Joshua refuses to walk.

“Your Grace?” Jote asks in clear confusion.

Joshua hesitates, not wanting to drag Jote into this, not wanting her to be punished for his decisions, but what other choice does he have?

“Jote, I need you to take me to Cyril.” He feels regret the second the request leaves his mouth, but this is something that he needs to do.

“Lord Cyril is currently in a meeting,” Jote answers, her young voice containing a waver that makes it clear she does not think they should disturb him.

Before, Joshua would have folded beneath this answer, would have nodded, and allowed Jote to lead him meekly back to the bed, but now.

“I do not care, I have matters that must be discussed with him.” Joshua shall not be moved on this point.

Jote still looks unsure, but with a small bow that causes her eyes to be hidden behind the short curtain of her dark fringe, she agrees, but not without a request of her own first, “your Grace, would you at least take your medicine before we seek out Lord Cyril?”

The grimace that twists Joshua’s mouth is unbecoming of a prince, but he doesn’t care, the medicine he is forced to take because of his illness tastes foul. Jill had once tried to prove to him that it wasn’t that bad by taking a sip, only to gag so forcefully she nearly spat the concoction straight out onto Clive’s boots.

Alas, he is asking quite a lot of Jote, and so with a groan and his fingers pinching his nose closed, he takes the vial she offers and downs the grotesque liquid in one gulp, ignoring the pond scum like consistency and the bitter taste that clings to the back of his throat even after he swallows.

Jote smiles as he hands her back the vial, and readily accepts his hand as she works with practised ease to maneuverer herself into a position to act as a human crutch for him.

Their progress is slow, hindered not only by Joshua’s current weakness but also by the difference in height between them. Jote being at least three inches taller than him, she has no choice but to hunch her shoulders in order to accommodate him.

Still, Jote manages with a decorum and a dedication that is admirable, and soon enough Joshua finds himself standing before the space that Cyril has claimed as an office, a converted storage room, divided from the rest of the room with a draped carpet instead of a door.

Joshua is just about to thank Jote and dismiss her, only for him to feel Jote’s shoulders stiffen beneath his arm.

He looks at her to question the sudden reaction, but Jote raises a finger to her lips, silently begging him to remain quiet.

Even confused and tired as he is, the short journey down the carved stone halls having taken so much more from him than he would have imagined, he nods in acquiescence and listens for what Jote must be hearing.

“—rdly think you invited me all the way here to discuss the scrolls you have in your possession, Lord Cyril,” drawls an uninterested voice that Joshua does not recognise. “Lord Kupka is not a man known for having patience when it comes to people wasting his time.”

Joshua’s eyes widen at the mention of Lord Kupka, the Dominant of Titan.

“I assure you, Lord Azime, your master will find this venture I propose a worthy investment, one that will benefit him greatly in the long term,” Cyril simpers, his voice laced with honey.

“It is the short term that concerns my master,” Lord Azime snipes with a pleasant tone that ill fits the insinuation he is clearly making.

“Is a small loss in the present not an acceptable exchange for the guarantee of free access to a Mother Crystal in the near future?” counters Cyril.

“A Mother Crystal you have no claim over,” dismisses Azime.

“On the contrary.” Joshua can hear the victorious smile that has overtaken Cyril’s lips. “Drake’s Breath has just been reclaimed by Rosaria.”

“By the Empire in the guise of Rosaria,” Lord Azime scoffs, his voice thick with derision. “The Emperor was brazen enough to lend his new whore a full battalion of Dragoons, but to hear the tales of the Shield’s that survived the reclamation of Drake’s Breath, it was the new heir that truly ripped the Mother Crystal from the grip of those zealots of the Crystalline Orthodox.”

“A usurper, nothing more, one who hides behind the veil of lies crafted by the Duchess in order to disguise his illegitimacy,” Cyril rebuffs, his tone broaching no argument.

Lord Azime seems unwilling to take the hint as he continues, “his legitimacy seems beyond question, he is after all a Dominant of Fire, and the eldest son of the late Archduke Elwin.”

“Primogeniture holds no sway when the Dominant of the Phoenix has been confirmed.” The sound of a chair screeching against the thin carpet of the room beyond the patrician causes Joshua to flinch back, but Jote is there at his side to steady him. “His Grace is the heir by right, precedence, and tradition.”

“And yet tradition can be overturned in the face of sheer power and the results it brings,” Lord Azime argues, “and what better example of that than the power to change the very shape of a Mother Crystal, to command its form to take whatever shape works best to his advantage,” he chuckles, and Joshua can easily imagine the greed lighting up Lord Azime’s eyes.

“Word already spreads of the impenetrable walls of crystal that have risen from the sea, destroying the sea lanes the Crusaders used in their first invasion. With a single move the Second Dominant of Fire has made it impossible for the Iron Blood to muster a counter offensive, and this is before we even consider the loss of all the Crusaders that defended Drake’s Breath, including that High Priest of theirs. No after a defeat such as this, I would all but guarantee that the Iron Blood will not dare to attack our shores for at least a generation.”

“There is no evidence that the Second Dominant of Fire was the catalyst behind those changes, in fact the information our spies gathered suggests a far more mundane cause behind the Crystal shift. A crystalised aether flood, triggered by the concentrated magic attacks of the Dragoon’s,” dismisses Cyril as he directs the conversation back to the point he is trying to make. “Besides, it has already been proven that the Second Eikon of Fire is and abomination beyond control.”

“His mother seems to have been able to secure a tight leash around the neck of this so-called feral beast,” Lord Azime goads, but Cyril refuses to take the bait.

“A tentative chain, bought with crystal fetters and threats, one that will be easily snapped eventually. Afterall, it has already been broken once, and would have cost the Empire much had Bahamut not been there to restrain it.”

“Ifrit,” the name is stated without inflexion, but it still manages to provoke Cyril.

“Its name is of no consequence,” he snaps, seeking to cut off this avenue of conversation before it can truly begin.

“Oh, but it is, a name after all, holds prestige, and from where Lord Kupka currently stands the names that Clive Rosfield holds far outweigh the shattered legacy of an order that hides in the shadow of a flame that has long since burned out.”

Before Joshua can hear anymore, Jote tugs on his arm, pulling him back from the room and the conversation that would see the Phoenix, see him, bartered for what little power and aid Lord Kupka is willing to offer.

They walk slowly across the room, but Joshua cannot fight the unease swelling in his chest, it feels as though unseen eyes are trained upon his unguarded back. A place that was meant to be safe, was meant to be a secluded sanctuary has become a cage, one with bars unhidden and chains looming, ready to close around him and never let him free again.

He needs to breathe.

He needs to think.

 What are his options?

Who can he trust?

“Clive,” his brother’s name escapes him as a whisper, as the memory of the half dream he had of Clive, holding him, begging for his forgiveness assaults him mind once more.

“Your Grace,” Jote murmurs as Joshua continues to be lost in his own head. “We must find my grandfather, if we tell him…surely the rest of the order cannot be complicit.”

“Can they not?” Joshua questions, his trust broken and bleeding in his chest.

All the time they walk Joshua can feel himself growing heavier, feel his thoughts growing slower, and distantly he has enough sense to wonder what is wrong, as it does not feel anything like the attacks he has previously suffered. For instead of a sharp pain with every breath that makes it feel as though he cannot gain enough air, he merely feels distant and disconnected.

When did this start happening? He reflects, even as his mind becomes dizzy, his thought spinning and the bitter taste of medicine still clinging to his tongue making him feel sick.

He doesn’t even notice Jote opening the door back to his room, or their slow progress across it, he only registers being laid down upon the sheets of his bed, Jote near falling into them with him as he suddenly becomes a dead weight in her arms.

The room spins, and he has to close his eyes against it, a mistake, as he finds he no longer has the strength to open them again now that they are closed. Not even when Jote takes him by the shoulders and tries to rouse him.

The sound of footsteps approaching has Joshua’s heart beating loudly in his ears, but that, along with everything else, soon fades.

Chapter Text

A cold wind blows over the roof tops of Port Isolde, making it feel as though icy fingers are trailing a path along his exposed skin, a steep departure from the heat the seizes the day, but at this early hour, when the first talons of dawn have only just begun to reach over the castle walls, the cold breeze that blows in from the sea holds dominance.

It doesn’t bother Clive; in fact, he finds it refreshing.

Far better to run through a few drills in the crisp air of dawn than under the full blaze of the midday sun, though that is not his purpose this morning.

Training is the furthest thing from his mind as he ascends the stairs of the inner wall of Port Isolde, he is far more concerned with the looming arrival of his mother and the necklace currently burning a hole in his pocket.

Of those two subjects, Clive very much prefers to let his thoughts dwell upon the necklace.

He had meant to return it to Jill as soon as he had met up with her, but circumstances had conspired against him, and thus a day had past, leaving Clive with only this time to return what belonged to her.

Rounding the ramparts he finds Jill perched on the wall, her legs kicking over the edge as she gazes out across the harbour below, watching as the city comes awake.

Dressed for riding, she has abandoned the long skirts she prefers for more practical black leggings and a split-front riding gown, coloured in the preferred white, grey, and glacial blue of the Northern territories.

“Jill,” he calls out quietly, not wanting to startle her.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite succeed, Jill’s back straightens as though he had shouted her name, and her nails dig into the rough stone beneath her, but when she turns to face him, it is with a familiar smile that Clive soon finds taking over his own face. Only for the expression to die a swift death as Torgal nearly knocks Clive’s feet out from under him in his eagerness to get past.

“Torgal!” Clive cries in betrayal, but the hound completely ignores him as he bounds towards Jill, who has the sense to plant her feet firmly back on the wall, just in time for Torgal to bawl her over.

It’s not lost on Clive that this is basically a one-to-one recreation of exactly what happened yesterday when he brought Torgal back, but there’s nothing he can do about it now other than silently vow to train it out of him.

“I’m sorry, Jill, I should have known,” he apologises as he pulls Torgal back by the scruff with one hand and offers her the other.

She takes his hand without complaint, and he pulls her to her feet with ease, a disconcerting amount.

Taking a moment, he looks at her, really looks. She’s thin, to the point where her sunken cheeks cause deep shadows to darken her face, to the point where his fingers can wrap around her wrist and still have space to tighten if he only grips that little bit harder, to the point that he could carry her with ease and worry the entire time as he felt every sharp edge of her press against his chest, in the simple attempt to leach some warmth from him.

Noticing his gaze, Jill pulls back her hand even as she waves away his apology. “I’m partially to blame as well, we let him away with so much when he was small.” As if to emphasize that point, Torgal looks up at them both with the biggest puppy dog stare, and Clive can’t help but note how unfair it is that it’s still as effective as it was when he was a puppy.

Clive can’t stop himself from kneeling and giving Torgal a scratch behind the ears, most likely simply reinforcing the bad behaviour.

Jill joins him, but also fishes a cold sausage from her pocket, instantly making her the favourite.

“That’s bribery,” Clive admonishes with absolutely no heat

“I prefer to think of it as giving Torgal what he deserves,” counters Jill.

Clive can only roll his eyes. “So, world conquest is next on the agenda?”

“Logically,” Jill agrees, and that’s about all the two of them can stand as their serious masks drop and they allow themselves to smile freely.

Standing, Clive dusts off his hands and retrieves the necklace from his pocket, allowing it to unwind on its chain as he pulls it free. “Speaking of things that are deserved, I think this belongs to you.”

Jill’s eyes widen as they land on the pendant as it swings, casting the reflected rays of dawn across her face, causing light to catch within her eyes.

“Where?” she questions hesitantly as she reaches out to cradle the necklace, her hands trembling and unsure as she tentatively clasps the pendant in her open palms, as though she’s half afraid that the crystal will shatter when she dares to touch it, breaking like the first fragile frosts of winter.

“Thank Torgal, he had this and several other trinkets ferreted away at the Rookery.”

Jill’s eyes mist with tears, but the smile that spreads across her lips is a radiant thing. “I thought…I woke up without it after the Crusaders took me, I was so sure…”

“Here,” Clive offers as he undoes the chain.

Jill turns as she sweeps her hair to the side, making it easy for Clive to loop the chain—one of his uncle’s maids was kind enough to fix the broken clasp—around her neck without the embarrassment of unintentionally catching her hair.

When Jill faces him once more, he’s only able to take in the sight of the necklace back where it rightfully belongs for an instant, before she sweeps forward to engulf him in a hug.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and even though he knows it’s improper, he cannot stop himself from wrapping his own arms around her, drawing her in close, just like he did that day when they were finally reunited on Drake’s Breath. Except this time there is nothing and no one to interrupt them.

He lets go as soon as he begins to feel Jill pull away, but her own hand comes to rest on the loose circle of his arms, silently asking him to keep them there.

“Do you remember that night on the balcony, when we looked up at the moon.” She takes one step away from him, her gaze turned towards the sky where the faint silhouette of the crescent moon and Metia can still be seen in the twilight of morning. “I said a prayer to Metia, and that prayer was answered.”

Clive finds that he cannot look away from her as her eyes trail back to him, the weight of her gaze freezing him where he stands. “You came back to me, against all the odds.” Her fingers tangle in the chain of her necklace with a nervous tension that Clive can feel crawling along his own spine.

“Jill,” He says, as his fingers move to brush the veil of her hair away from her face.

She leans into the touch and even with the crystal fetters restricting his aether, Clive can feel a warm blaze trailing up his arm and settling in his chest.

She moves forward and Clive finds himself meeting her halfway, his forehead coming to rest against hers as he closes his eyes and listens as she continues to speak. “You make me want to believe that the Heavens have not yet forsaken us, that the suffering we have endured was not just meaningless violence wrought by greed.”

Clive wants to believe that too, wants to think he could have a purpose beyond the scope of his Mother’s ambitions, that his father’s legacy and Joshua’s death could be more than just another step stone added to the path he has been forced to walk thus far.

The feather light touch of soft lips against his own that sends lightning coursing through his veins fans that sparking hope into a blaze, but before Clive can react, Jill is already pulling back.

He wants to follow, to chase that ember of fire he felt blooming across his lips at the lightest touch from her own, but the sound of approaching footsteps and a welcoming bark from Torgal has him letting go of Jill as if her very touch burns.

Jill does the same, her eyes going wide as her cheeks flush red.

When Uncle Byron finally appears at the top of the stairs it is to the sight of them standing three feet apart, Clive’s gaze fixed solidly on the rising sun while Jill ducks her head and plays with the end of her braid.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Uncle Byron asks with a tone that makes it exceedingly clear that he knows exactly what he’s just walked in on.

“No, it’s fine uncle,” Clive denies, even as embarrassment and frustration vie for dominance just beneath the surface of the calm mask he’s used to wearing in Oriflamme.

“Splendid,” crows Uncle Byron as he walks up to the two of them and takes one of their arms in each of his own. “In any case, I assume you are both ready to leave. If we hope to make it back before your mother arrives this evening Clive, we will have to depart now.”

All the warmth Clive was previously feeling suddenly turns to cold ash at the mere mention of his mother’s impending arrival.

Selfishly, he’s been ignoring the fact that even without his mother here nothing has changed, her threats still hang above him, like an invisible sword levelled at his throat, one that will never harm him but is always poised to cut down those he loves and wishes to protect, held in place and stopped from falling only by the chains of his mother’s ambitions and commands.

Feeling him slouch, his uncle merely tightens the hold he has on Clive’s arm as they make their way down the stairs, descending away from the light of dawn and into the shadows cast by the high walls that defend Port Isolde, where the small party that shall be accompanying them gathers.

With the arm Uncle Byron has linked through his own, Clive can feel the instant his uncle tenses, and as he looks at the collection of knights he can see why. Dragoons stand in military perfect lines opposite the small contingent of Shields that continue to go about their preparations to leave with only a few badly hidden glares of suspicion.

“Captain Leon,” his uncle calls out with cheer that does not sound entirely fake to Clive’s ears. “I am surprised to see you up this early, how can I assist you and your men this fine morning?”

Removing his helmet, the Captain takes a moment to shake out his tawny red hair before falling into the Sanbrequois salute, his golden eyes cast down towards the ground in a show of respect.

His men are quick to follow, and Clive immediately recognises Tristan and Richard standing amongst their ranks, but his focus does not stay on them for long, as Captain Leon begins to explain the reason behind their presence here.

“We are here to escort you, Lord Byron.” The words cause sharp blades of ice to cleave through Clive’s chest, striking straight for his heart.

“Escort me?” Uncle Byron asks, with none of the worry or fear that is currently flooding Clive’s veins. “Where to, Captain?”

The confusion that crosses Captain Leon’s face at that question is as clear as day and is mimicked by the hesitant tone in his voice.

“Forgive me, Lord Byron,” the Captain apologises, “but are you and your company not set to journey to the Hero’s Bluff?”

Uncle Byron does not tense, nor does he deny the claim, “of course, why I sent her Grace a stolas three days ago to confirm this little venture of ours.” He raises a hand to forestall Captain Leon’s next words. “I know, I know, a dreadful waste of the Lady Anabella’s time, but with the tragedy that has befallen our family I find myself being overcautious these days. I myself having been subjected to the dreaded experience of having no word of my dear nephew’s location after the events of the Night of the Flames.” He shivers at the mere thought of the memory. “No, it is not an experience I would wish upon my worst enemy, let alone my dear sister-in-law.”

Captain Leon winces. “No, my Lord, that is not what I meant, nor did I mean to imply…” he refuses to speak the word ‘deception’ or worse ‘treason’, but they hang heavily in the silence between them, until the Captain clarifies, “what I meant to say was that I and my men would be honoured to accompany you.”

For a moment, even unshakeable Uncle Byron seems caught off guard, so much so that he feels there must have been a mistake. “Ah, I see, the name can be quite misleading.” The smile that tilts his uncle’s lips makes the lines around his mouth just that little bit deeper. “Am I correct in thinking that you believe the Hero’s Bluff to be a memorial to the fallen heroes of Rosaria?”

“Is it not?” Captain Leon and his men look genuinely confused. “Your Shields spoke of it as though it was a monument of great renown, I assumed…”

“An easy mistake,” assures Uncle Byron, “however, the monument that presides over the Hero’s Bluff is less than a year old, one that was placed there by the people of Rosaria in honour of the late Archduke, so they might have somewhere to pay their respects for his long years of service.”

Instead of clearing up the misunderstanding, his uncle’s explanation has instead seemed to compound it.

“Would the former Archduke not find rest within the crypts beneath Rosalith castle, where your ancestors reside?” Captain Leon seems to realise that he has asked a very personal question only after the words have already left his mouth.

Unwilling to leave the burden of the tale to his uncle alone, Clive steps forward from behind the shield of his uncle’s shadow, and answers, “my mother, as regent, thought it best to reinstate some of the lesser-known traditions of the Duchy, in this case: the rite of exile, essentially, the practise by which a Lord of Rosaria may be banished, even in death.”

Horror widens the eyes of every Dragoon standing before them, but it is Tristan who shouts what many of them must be thinking, “but why? Lord Rosfield was a noble man, who defended his country, and brought prosperity to his people despite the lack of a Mother Crystal.”

“Tristan!” Captain Leon barks, but if Clive is not mistaken there is clear concern in the Captains voice, not just anger.

The command is enough to have Tristan retreat with a small, “sorry, sir.”

“There is no need, the boy is merely curious,” Uncle Byron intervenes, “alas, we are but servants of her Grace, even if Elwin is…was my brother.”

At the slip, Clive takes the slight step to the side he needs to in order to close the short distance that yet remains between him and his uncle, a silent show of support that earns him a kind smile and a warm arm around his shoulders.

Bolstered, Uncle Byron continues, “This may be my Nephew’s last chance to pay his respects to the grave of his father, for a while at least, as I am sure the Duchess has plans to return to Oriflamme soon.”

It does not even need to be stated aloud that Clive shall be returning with her.

“Of course, Lord Rosfield.” Captain Leon agrees, with a stiff bow that projects that he has heard Uncle Byron’s dismissal loud and clear.

The rest of the Dragoons do not appear to be as astute.

“Even if it is a memorial to Archduke Elwin, can we not still pay our respects?” Ser Richard cries out from where he has lingered behind as his fellow Dragoons begin to disperse.

Truthfully, Clive cannot believe that he did not predict this, he has been sparring with Ser Richard and Ser Tristan for over a full year, and as such he has come to know just how stubborn they both can be, though they would both argue that he is worse.

Clive opens his mouth to give a generic reply, something along the lines of: ‘by tradition, only Rosarians may pay their respects’ or ‘with the aid you have already given us, how can we ask you to trouble yourselves further.’ Something essentially meaningless but still polite enough to dissuade them.

“As if the Archduke could stand to see those that orchestrated the Night of the Flames paying false respect to his grave,” a quietly menacing voice spits from somewhere in the crowd of Shields.

“Ser Andrew!” Uncle Byron chastises, but the black-haired Shield refuses to back down.

Moving past his brothers-in-arms he steps into the no man’s land that divides the two parties as he moves into a deep bow. “I am sorry Lord Byron, but I cannot remain silent. We here all know the truth, and though we may hold our tongues for fear of losing our heads, I cannot remain silent and allow this to pass without objection.”

Ser Andrew looks stalwart, like a man ready to die for his principles, as he clenches his jaw in defiance.

Looking over the crowd of Shields, Clive sees the same determination reflected in every gaze that meets his.

The Dragoons have begun to murmur amongst themselves, their voices merging and creating an undercurrent of unease that only seems to raise the hackles of the Shields that have chosen to take a stand against them.

Clive understands the animosity, has felt it himself on more than one occasion while trapped in Oriflamme, but after meeting, training, and fighting alongside Dragoons like Tristan and Richard…

Yet how can he dare to speak out.

To side with his Shields would be to reveal his hand, as surely word would soon make it back to his mother, but to defend the Dragoons, to ask for peace when they were the ones to first declare war on Rosaria, it would only be seen as a betrayal by the men who had served his father so loyally.

This conundrum that picks at the seams of Clive’s soul has no such grip on Jill.

In the flash of flowing silver locks and the briefest touch of her fingers brushing against his own, she walks past him. Stepping forward with the poise and confidence that only a true Lady can possess, she holds her head high even in the midst of a space that may soon see bloodshed.

“Ser Andrew?” She draws the Shield’s attention with a polite whisper that shatters the tense silence.

“Lady Warrick,” Ser Andrew greets, his voice tight with rage that he does not mean to direct at Jill, even as he bows his head in deference to her.

She smiles at his regard, but the expression soon melts into one of sadness. “Forgive me, Ser, but am I to assume, given the sentiment you have just shared, that this means my prayers would not be welcomed either?”

Caught off guard, Ser Andrew looks as though Jill has just slapped him.

“Lady Warrick, of course not,” Ser Andrew denies immediately. “Archduke Elwin took you as his ward, treated you as his own daughter—”

“And yet,” Jill cuts in, “I am the Daughter of the Silvermane, one of the Duchy’s greatest enemies.”

Whatever retort Ser Andrew had dissolves before the truth of Jill’s words.

Seeing the respect and acceptance Jill inspires now, it would be hard to believe that the people had once held any animosity towards her, but in the beginning, it had been Clive’s father’s word alone that had spared Jill the worst of the retaliation from those who had lost friends and family to the war.

That protection bought Jill the time she needed to establish herself as more than simply the daughter of that Northern Chief, despite his mother’s best efforts to remind everyone that Jill was an outsider. It was hard to buy into that rhetoric when Jill would hardly be seen without Clive, Joshua, or even the Archduke himself at her side.

Another one of the Shields steps forward when Ser Andrew has trouble finding his tongue.

Older than most of the men gathered here, Clive recognises Ser Hector from his father’s honour guard, even dressed in the simpler armour of the infantry, a man who had served in every campaign against the Northern Territories and bore a scar that nearly claimed his left ear for it. A Shield who had more reason than most to hate Northerners.

“And you do his legacy justice, Lady Warrick,” Ser hector admits, neither hesitance nor hate held within his voice.

Jill looks away at that, shame hunching her shoulders slightly. “If only that were true, but the legacy my father left me very nearly held no glory nor honour. In fact, had he not been swayed by the pleas of his own men the only inheritance he would have left me would have been a tale of infamy and dishonour.”

“The Valley of Wolves,” Ser Hector names the only event Jill could be referring to.

Jill nods. “Where my father ambushed Archduke Elwin and his men when he had been invited under a banner of peace.”

Every Rosarian and Northman knew the story, a chance for peace that had revealed itself as a deadly trap, one that would have been his father’s end had it not been for the avalanche triggered by the fierce fighting and the raging magics of a young Bearer.

“You cannot be held accountable for the sins of your father, Archduke Elwin made that clear,” defends Ser Andrew, he seems to realise what he has said as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Just in case Jill strikes the final blow. “Would he then not welcome the sincere respect of the men who fought alongside you to reclaim Drake’s Breath and rescue those that were taken by the Crusaders?”

The rage that had been building like a wave, ready to crash down upon the courtyard, suddenly loses all strength.

The moment of dazed calm gives Clive the opportunity he was so sure would never come.

The clack of his boots against the stone of the yard echoes off the looming walls of his uncle’s estate, drawing everyone’s attention as he moves to stand beside Jill.

Meeting the gaze of every Shield there he makes sure every one of them is looking at him as he faces the Dragoons, and with all the dignity he can muster, lowers his head.

“I would be honoured if you and your men still wish to accompany us, Captain Leon,” Clive requests.

For the briefest of moments, he cannot help but feel as though he has just made an utter fool of himself as the silence remains unbroken.

But then, with the clank of armour and a precise synchronicity that can only be achieved with hours upon hours of practise, the full Dragoon guard fall into the Sanbrequois salute.

“The honour is ours, Lord Marquis,” declares Captain Leon.

Releasing the breath he didn’t quite realise he was holding; Clive looks back to the Shields, ready for the looks of disappointment or betrayal he may see there.

He is ill prepared for the mix of quiet pride and self-admonishment that dominates the faces of the Shields that return his stare, and as one, reciprocate the Dragoons salute in the Duchy fashion.

With the tension largely diffused, Uncle Byron happily steps up to disband the lingering awkwardness that still clings to the scene. “Splendid, Rutherford, inform the stable master that we shall require seven more chocobos for our ride, and also tell him that if he dares to saddle up Vixen, that hell beast disguised as a bird, I’ll drown him in the Talons myself.”

Upon his uncle’s command the Shields and Dragoons return to preparing for their departure and Clive takes the moment where all eyes are no longer on him to lightly grip Jill’s hand and whisper, “thank you.”

Chapter Text

The rock of the ship beneath her feet and the sharp smell of brine that assaults her makes her stomach cramp with displeasure and sickness.

Even the scent of lavender and rose oil she has soaked her handkerchief in is not enough to overpower the scent that permeates every facet of the space around her. Even the silk pillows and the soft velvet curtains that decorate the space having soaked up the smell, making it impossible for her to relax.

Add to that the cloyingly sweet smell the cassolette had steeped the room in, a smoky scent of burning herbs that had made her dizzy to the point that she had opened a window and dumped the antique straight into the sea, and Anabella finds herself less than pleased.

However, it is by far the lesser of two evils when she considers the alternative of the cramped space and rough ride provided by her carriage, especially when she takes into account the precious cargo that she now carries.

At the mere thought her fingers trail across her stomach, tracing the shape of the life that has taken root there.

She has already sent a Stolas to inform Sylvestre, and now she merely awaits his reply.

Looking out the window she contemplates what his reaction shall be.

Joy? Naturally, he shall finally have a legitimate heir, descended from not only the line of Bahamut but the Phoenix as well.

Oh yes, she has heard the rumours, a secret this large, after all, could never be contained, but the Emperor’s word is law, and so if he says a bastard is a trueborn, well, who will dare to question it, especially when the previous Empress was so quick to claim and dote upon the boy as if he were her own, an obvious attempt to hide her own failings.

Add to that the fact that the bastard is blessed with the favour of Greagor’s greatest champion…so very few would be willing to slaughter their future prospects on the altar of a truth that nobody wished to hear to begin with.

Trepidation? Perhaps, an emotion that she will ease and guide, mould into an unbreakable desire to protect their child, her Phoenix.

Whatever emotions this happy news causes to flicker in Sylvestre’s heart, Anabella shall be sure to twist them to her advantage.

One thing is for certain now, the Cardinals that have sought to, and have succeeded in forestalling her marriage to Sylvestre with cautions of ‘too soon’ or ‘improper’ and one upstart that had dared to suggest ‘too old’, all of them shall be silenced now, or at least Sylvestre shall be more eager to turn a deaf ear towards them.

No, the rumours Anabella must defend against now are those that would suggest she has compromised herself.

Whispers of whore and adulteress already dog her steps, hide beneath the layers of courtesy and pleasantness that all highborn learn to wear like armour.

Some disguise it better than most, those that didn’t either learned to very quickly or found themselves no longer welcome at court.

But even fear can only hold tongues for so long, so it is always far better to have at least the veil of deniability wrapped firmly around her person.

That is why her little one cannot have the recognition that is rightfully his, not until she is Empress in name as well as practise.

Plans have already been made for her marriage to Sylvestre, funds allotted, and Astrologers consulted, would that the current Chief Lord Diviner simply drop dead, her life would be made so much easier. Alas, the old man seems determined to linger, though as with all things the tide of time begins to turn against him.

Lord Pascal’s help in this matter has been most valuable, the young Astrologers ambition is only matched by his fierce intelligence, both of which he has put to great use, and to Anabella’s benefit.

Undermining those who already have power, especially those that have come into their positions through blood alone is a difficult task, the lack of natural skill and the thought of losing the only thing they have makes them all the more desperate to cling to the power they have been given.

Despite the distance the use of Stolas’ makes it easy for her to remain in contact with Pascal, the ready excuse of an interest in the Astrology the Emperor holds in such high regard an easy cover for the regular correspondence.

Even as the Chief Lord Diviner grows suspicious there is little he can do, not when more and more of his readings prove false, while Pascal continues to produce predictions that soon come to pass, one way or another.

A development that has not escaped Sylvestre’s eye, how could it, when slowly but surely the most high in his court turn towards Pascal for answers instead of the Chief Lord Diviner.

Of course, Anabella acted surprised when Sylvestre discussed this sudden turn of the heavens favour towards this skilled but previously unknown Lord Diviner, this did not stop her from singing her own praises of the promising young talent, nor of wasting the opportunity to drip the sweet honey of the promise of an heir that Pascal had used to try and ensnare her.

All it shall take is one more push, as tradition must be observed, and a new Chief Lord Diviner may only be elected upon the death or resignation of his predecessor.

For the Chief Lord Diviner’s sake, she hopes he has the sense to resign, for her patience can only be stretched so far.

Placing her fingers against her temple, she tries to gently massage away the ache that has settled there, only to find herself jolting back to wakefulness as a light touch lands upon her shoulder.

“Your Grace,” apologises Celine, as she steps back and immediately falls into a curtsey, “I did not mean to disturb you, but we have arrived.”

Anabella blinks, disturbed by the loss of time she hadn’t even noticed, but as her eyes take in her surroundings, she can see how the light has changed in the room, how the shadows have grown longer since she last blinked her eyes open.

“Good,” Anabella dismisses as she waves Celine back to her feet, “fetch my shawl.”

No sooner has she asked for it than Celine orders forward a handmaid, who already has the folded mu fur shawl ready for Anabella to take.

What Anabella would not give for even one more lady of Celine’s calibre, it goes without saying that she shall be accompanying Anabella back to Oriflamme.

“The evening air has a slight chill your Grace, I thought the option best be ready,” Celine explains as she goes about ordering the other ladies to pack what will be necessary for the one-night Anabella plans to stay in Port Isolde.

In actuality, she would much prefer not to have to stay here at all, but she would also like to limit the time that Byron has alone with Clive as much as possible.

She doubts that he has had much chance to further twist her eldest against her, not that her son needs encouragement on that front, but Byron has ever been adept at his schemes.

She will also take the chance to assess Lord Zagreus, assuming that the man hasn’t gone the way of his predecessors. Though if he has, it would not be any great loss to her, he was chosen for this position because he was capable, but mostly due to the fact that he is expendable.

The greatest service he can do for her at this moment is to die in such a way that incriminates Byron, alas, she already knows that is too much to hope for.

Unlike his brother, Byron has ever been a cunning man. To those he cares for he is a kind soul who would strip the shirt from his own back if they had need of it, but to those who have earned his ire he is nothing but a plague.

Anabella knows this well, has had to fight against him on more than one occasion. She cannot help but lament that he had not accompanied Elwin to Phoenix Gate, if he had perished in the flames that night with all those most loyal to Elwin things would be so much easier.

With a sigh she dismisses the thought and instead turns her attention back to a much more pressing matter.

Standing, she walks across the room to the cabinet which holds the specific treasure she is in need of. The rosewood doors are decorated with four panels cast from pure adamantite, a source of beauty as well as protection, each depicts a different scene but only one truly warrants her admiration, the one on the top right which portrays the Phoenix in flight over Rosalith, a sight that she shall see again.

With a twist of the key, she pulls from her pocket she unlocks the doors and unveils the heirloom that had once been a sacred treasure of the Undying. She had learnt much from the agent that Byron had given to her, not least among them the location of this artifact.

Pulling it from its place she does not dare to remove the rich red velvet that covers it from sight, Celine already stands beside her, the box that shall be used to transport it already open and waiting.

The treasure secured she leaves her cabin and emerges into the painted dusk of evening, sailors and knights go about their business but pause as soon as the herald declares her emergence.

As one they bow, like wheat before the breeze.

The deck is already lowered for her, an honour guard of Dragoons awaiting her descent.

They close ranks as soon as her feet touch dryland and move in perfect step as she makes her way to Byron’s manor.

Anabella takes the opportunity of the short walk to inspect what she can of Port Isolde.

Neoclassical lines and columns provide the perfect base for the ornate marble statues and detailed carvings that decorate the walls. The subtle greys of the stonework allow the eye of the observer to roam freely across the broad towers and bridges that defend the busy port, creating a canvas that Byron has put to full use with the climbing rose vines that bring life and colour but also act as a subtle proclamation of where the cities loyalties shall always lie.

Anabella cannot suppress the twist of dissatisfaction that ruins the neat line of her mouth as she takes in the splendour of it all. It is hard to believe that Port Isolde had been nothing more than a small military outpost only a few decades ago, a single lonely tower overlooking a few stone docks.

In the past she had smiled when Byron had returned from one of his many ill-conceived adventures and requested, the then, neglected settlement. She had thought—hoped—he would waste the small fortune he had somehow miraculously managed to produce on what was, in all but name, a ruin.

A single decade had seen him raise a city from the ashes and bones of the once abandoned garrison, another had seen him establish it as the main trading hub of Rosaria, one that had not insubstantially reduced the flow of taxes from the land-based trade routes that had been part of her dowry, as with more ships to defend their borders, traders suddenly felt safe to travel by sea again.

As with everything Byron did, she never had proof that the actions he took were, at least in part, to spite her, but the knowing looks and veiled barbs he had never been afraid to throw at her were enough to convince her.

It matters little now, the balance of power has shifted so greatly that she has all but flipped the board, upending all the strategies he once employed to such great use against her.

A short walk leads them to the outer wall of the manor, the portcullis is already raised for her, allowing free entry of her and her guard, and on the other side awaits a welcoming party.

“Your Grace,” welcomes Byron, false warmth adding a levity to his voice that causes it to boom across the courtyard.

Anabella returns the greeting with an adequate nod, but her eyes remain trained upon the gathered crowd, noting all of them briefly until her gaze locks upon the person she has been looking for.

“I shall not keep you standing on ceremony, Lord Byron.” She walks forward with clear intent.

“My darling boy,” she declares as she draws Clive into her arms.

Clive does not flinch, a vast improvement from the early days where her simple proximity would have him pulling away.

No, instead he freezes, like an antelope caught before crystal light, so still in her arms she would not be surprised if he had turned to stone within her embrace.

“Mother,” he greets cordially enough as she steps back, another improvement, she is happy to note.

She takes the chance to inspect him, taking her time as she allows her hands to settle on his shoulders, only to let them trail down his arms until her fingers brush against the cold steel and crystal of his cuffs. How she longs for the day he will no longer have to wear them, when they can be replaced with something equally as disarming but far more subtle, alas the astrologers have yet to find such a solution.

Before she lets him free of her grip she bestows a kiss upon his brow. “Your legend is already spreading, my son.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, even as he hides his gaze from her.

Moving down the line she locks eyes with the target of her previous search. “Lady Warrick.”

The girl curtseys, with all the grace that Anabella made sure to teach her, not a single hair out of place. Anabella extends a hand to help the girl stand, and wisely she takes it. Though when the girl tries to take her hand back, she finds that Anabella has turned her fingers into a cage.

With a sharp tug that has the emaciated little thing almost stumbling into her, she pulls the girl forward and hooks her arm with hers in order to ensure she cannot slip away, all in a way that makes it appear as though she is gently guiding the young Lady along.

“Come, it has been too long since we last had the opportunity to chat,” she insists, even as she feels the girl begin to dig in her heels.

“Anabella!”

“Mother!”

She hears both Clive and Byron object, but she ignores them, at least until her son goes so far as to try and grab her.

The sound of armour clanking makes it clear that the Dragoons behind her have moved to stop him, but she has very little desire for a scene to break out.

With an easy smile but a coldness in her eyes that she knows Clive will recognise, she addresses her son, “not to worry dearest, I shall return her to you soon enough.”

With her intent made clear she continues to the keep and walks at a brisque pace towards a solar she assumes shall be free, only to be caught off guard when the door is opened for her to reveal the sight of a shockingly still alive Lord Zagreus.

“Your Grace?” the young man fumbles as he attempts to bow while still holding onto the scrolls he has piled in his arms.

“Lord Zagreus how goes your work here?” she enquires, even as she moves around the man and guides the Northern girl into the free chair that sits before the half-buried desk that takes up the majority of the space in the room.

Free of the girl and her weak struggles, she faces Lord Zagreus and begins to walk him out of the room even as she waves Celine into it, disinterested in his rushed report of ‘tax ledgers’ and ‘expense reports. She cared little for the mundane practises of Byron’s mercantile empire, merely wishes for the method to subsume it.

“Yes, I see, I will hear your full report on the morrow then.” She ends the brief and frankly pointless exchange there as Celine squeezes past her and continues to walk the man out of the room before she slams the door in his face.

In the sudden quiet that descends upon the room Anabella takes her time to navigate the small space, careful not to disturb the precariously stacked scrolls and towers of books that have overtaken what she remembers as a formerly neat and well attended solar.

“It gladdens me to see you returned safely to our care, Lady Warrick,” Anabella intones as she rounds the desk and takes a seat in the highbacked chair, allowing her nails to tap out a rhythmic pattern off the perfectly varnished armrests, pettily hoping that the scratches she now leaves in it shall be all too noticeable to Byron.

Having gathered herself, the girl displays what little decorum Anabella managed to drill into her. Straightening her hair, which has insultingly been done in the lose Northern style rather than the more proper bob of a respectable young lady. The girl at least does not have the audacity to look Anabella in the face as she had the first time they had been introduced.

“I am sorry for the inconvenience I caused you, your Grace,” the girl apologises.

Good, at least she understands her place still.

The North has little and less to offer, the dowry her father had provided when he surrendered her as a ward was what one would expect to see from a minor Lord instead of a leader of an entire nation.

Only the heirlooms she wore had any real value, and as a symbol of the North it would be foolish even now to deprive her of them, her worth was only in the perception of her legacy.

Or at least, that is what Anabella had thought.

“Now, now, there is no need for that, it was hardly your fault that you were taken by those barbarians,” Anabella consoles in her most mellifluous tone, the way it makes the girl still like a mouse caught beneath the paw of a cat projects the sense that the girl knows what must be coming.

Still, Anabella’s quiet pronouncement of, “however,” falls like a hammer blow.

None the less she continues, “one could argue that the blame for keeping the fact that you are Shiva lies solely upon your shoulders.”

“Shiva, your Grace?” the girl has the audacity to lie.

“Do not deny it,” Anabella advises, still in soft tones, “the transformation of Drake’s Breath may have hidden many things, but the reemergence of the Eikon of Ice is not one of them.”

Silence freezes the air as the girl stands on the precipice of her answer. If she is wise and tells the truth, Anabella will be gracious. How far that grace extends depends on how long the girl has dared to lie to her, but none the less, she is willing to show clemency, but should she lie…

“I am not the Dominant of Shiva.”

There is no explosion of anger, no outburst of rage, Anabella is far too refined for such ugly displays.

Instead, she pulls the crimson velvet from the heirloom that has been set directly before the girl, unveiling the ghostly grey and ethereal blue that can only be found in ancient ceramics.

The warm glow of the antiquity disperses the shadows cast by the towers made of tomes, as expected of an artifact that emulates the Phoenix.

Ceramic wings, greyed with time, shield the crystal at the pieces heart, tail feathers coil like silk cast to the wind, and an armoured head lays bent before the crimson jewel. It gives the piece an air of defensiveness, highlighting how precious the treasure the Phoenix guards truly is.

Wasting no time, Anabella seizes the girl by the wrist and forces her to rest her hand against the head of the bird.

She waits then with bated breath for the reaction that she has only seen once before.

A spark of red that shall alight into a blaze as the figure of the Phoenix uncoils from its prize, willing to share its gift with one that it recognises as its own, an Eikon.

Hope and elation born of a triumph she was so sure already laid within her grasp turns to cold ash within her mouth as the ceramic remains still beneath the girl’s hand, unmoving, unresponsive, a clear rejection.

A feeling of disappointment descends upon her like the first fall of winter snow, quietly and unobtrusively to the point where, by the time she first takes note of it, she has already been half buried within it.

Her grip slackens enough to allow the girl to escape her grasp, but not without the sharpened edges of Anabella’s nails leaving deep furrows across her snow-white skin.

“Get out of my sight,” she hisses, dismissing any plans she had for the savage that had once been her burden to tame.

The door slams behind the girl as she flies from the room, and Anabella has the wild thought to have her chased down, to have her seized and thrown from Rosaria, for what use is she if she is not a Dominant, but thoughts of Clive’s attachment to the wild little thing soon dispel that impulse.

With will alone, she calms herself, and begins again to examine the information that had been reported from Drake’s Breath.

For one thing is certain, the Warden of Ice did not perish with the Fall of Drake’s Eye.

Chapter Text

She runs, feet pounding against the stone of the hallway floor, all decorum abandoned in the face of her pure desire to flee, to get as far away from that woman as possible.

“Jill!” She vaguely recognises the call of her name but it’s so hard to hear over the loud beat of her own heart.

Rounding the corner she keeps going, choosing random paths and avoiding the most populated areas. She just wants to get away, to find a space where she can curl up and make herself small, if she’s small then they won’t be able to do as much damage, her arms and legs will take the brunt of the injuries while her chest and head remain safe, then Lady Marley…

No, no, Lady Marley won’t, she can’t, they killed her, Jill remembers, she saw her fall, heard the crack of her skull against the hard wall of Jill’s prison, she’d seen the blood, seen her body.

Barging through a random door she finds a dark room filled with shelves piled high with objects that she has no chance of identifying in the darkness.

Slamming the door shut behind her she runs for the furthest corner and squeezes herself in between the end of a shelf and the back wall.

The space is further concealed by the massive sheet that has been draped over something that hangs on the wall, most likely a painting or a tapestry, Jill doesn’t care.

Arms coiled around her legs she curls into a small ball and buries her head in her knees as she does her best to regain control of her breathing.

That’s when the tears finally start to tumble, nacreous and streaming, they sting as they fall into the scratches that cover the back of her hand.

She’s pathetic, Lady Anabella didn’t even really do anything to her, Shiva had not revealed herself, though Jill had felt the cold tendrils of the glacial winds that the Empress of Winter commanded begin to chill the air around her as soon as that woman seized her wrist.

It was fine, it was fine, it was fine.

Lies, all lies, but it is the only way she can keep herself sane.

The door opens with the creak of stubborn hinges and distantly Jill can see light flood the room, but it does not reach far enough to illuminate her chosen hiding place.

“Jill?” Clive asks from the doorway.

She wants to answer, to call out to him, but at the same time she does not wish for him to see her like this.

If anyone has suffered at the Lady Anabella’s hands, it is Clive, so he will understand, she knows this, but ever in these situations it has been her role to comfort him.

To allow him to comfort her now would make it feel as if she were depriving him of that chance in the future.

Despite her silence, Clive walks into the room. He pauses for a moment to pull the drapes covering the large window to allow the natural light of day to suddenly fill the room and to close the door, but he soon begins to move towards her.

Like the coward she is, Jill remains in her space, right up until the moment Clive finds her.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch her, but she feels the air shift as he sits beside her, hears the sound of his steelsilk armour that now replaces his comfortable leathers as he slides his back down against the wall, careful not to disturb the cover that Jill is half hidden behind.

He waits, quietly and patiently, emulating the tactic she always used to use with him after an inevitable attack from his mother. It gives her the space and the time she needs to gather herself, and when she finally does look up, he has a handkerchief ready, already held out, just waiting for her to take it.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, as she wipes away the last of the tears, and blinks when she realises some of them are frozen, before quickly wiping them away.

“Don’t be, I know what she’s like,” Clive reasons, and he does, better than anyone. “She hurt you.”

It’s not a question, as he can already see the blood that has stained her skirts.

“Not really, it’s just because I ran, look, it’s already stopped.” She raises her hand as proof but finds herself stilling when he wraps his fingers gently around her wrist.

“Does she know?” he asks as he takes the handkerchief that has suddenly become useless in her own grasp.

“What?” Jill asks, rather stupidly, only to immediately realise that he’s asking about Shiva. “No, no, she tried to get me to confess before forcing me to touch an ancient idle of the Phoenix, but nothing happened. I assume something was supposed to happen, only because she became angry when nothing did.”

Clive nods along with her explanation. “It sounds like the relic that the Undying once possessed, an ancient artifact that was said to hold a crystal made directly from the aether of the Phoenix. It can identify Dominants, it’s how the Undying judged that I was not the new vessel of the Phoenix.”

“But you are Ifrit…does that mean it doesn’t work on Dominants that aren’t the vessel of the Phoenix?” Jill reasons, only to doubt her own logic when she wonders whether Lady Anabella would make such an obvious mistake.

“No, in the past it was used to identify the true Dominant of Titan when two twin brothers both claimed to be his vessel.” Clive muses as a furrow carves a narrow line between his brow, Jill has the desperate urge to smooth it away as it is an expression that unconsciously mimics his mother’s own frown, but she refrains.

“Why would they both claim to be the Dominant when the true vessel of Titan could easily prove it simply by Semi-Priming,” Jill asks instead, grateful to have a different topic to discuss.

“Oh, I didn’t explain that very well, you see the other twin was an unmarked branded, the Dominant was trying to protect his brother, as the Dhalmekian magistrate couldn’t risk killing the wrong twin.” The look in Clive’s eyes as he says this is a sombre one.

“What became of them?” Jill cannot help but question.

Clive’s lips curl up in a smile. “Somehow, the Dominant of Titan was able to escape the crystal fetters that had previously restrained his aether, the Phoenix at the time, my grandfather, was of course too concerned with the safety of his own guard to stop the boy and his brother as they fled.”

“I wonder how he did that?” Jill comments mischievously, reading between the line of what Clive didn’t say.

He huffs a small laugh, but the sound is quickly interrupted by a loud sneeze that shakes his entire body.

Jill laughs herself, then watches as the cloud of dust resettles around them, the soft motes gliding and catching in the light.

“So, what became of Titan’s twins after that?” Jill asks, curiosity still nibbling at her thoughts.

Clive shakes his head. “I don’t actually know, no one heard of them again after they escaped, most stories say the desert claimed them, though what that actually means depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.” Jill knows that Clive has a penchant for stories, historical or otherwise.

“I don’t doubt they could have easily survived, the Bearer brother was unmarked, they both had access to magic, and it was over half a century before Titan was reborn to Lord Kupka,” Clive rationalises. “Besides, they both had something to live for.”

“The love of a brother, something you can understand the power of.”

Anguish casts a deep shadow across Clive’s face and Jill suddenly wishes she could take the words back.

“Clive, I’m…” she starts but he’s already standing, brushing off the dust that has settled on his clothes. The smile he gives her is a waning thing, but there is still genuine care beneath the hurt.

It just makes her feel worse.

“It’s alright,” he assures as he extends a hand to help her up. “I know you said the scratch was nothing, but we should probably get it checked. Besides, you’ll need to change your dress.”

“Alright,” she agrees, as she manoeuvres out of the small space she had managed to squeeze herself into, but not without nearly pulling down the drape that had made this place the near perfect hiding spot it was.

She doesn’t notice this though, nor does she or Clive see the way the cloth continues to succumb to the pull of gravity under its own weight as they exit the room, closing the drapes as they go to leave the room to the shaded darkness that had ruled it before.

In that darkness, the drape finally falls with an ignoble fwump that merely sends up another cloud of dust and exposes the tablet that had once laid abandoned and broken within the depths of Drake’s Breath.

Collected by Lord Byron as part of the spoils of war, the fragmented monolith depicting a forgotten god rests safe but unseen.

For now.

Chapter Text

He watches as the girl makes her way around the table, waiting until she has filled every cup, his face an inscrutable mask as he takes the time to study the mien of the men and women sitting around the table.

All of them are loyal, committed, the most devout, he knows he shall be able to convince them of the path he has found forward.

Even still, worry gnaws at his heart, the situation is already delicate, it won’t be long now until he has to start reducing the strength of the draft he has mixed into his Grace’s medicine, the risk of long-term damage too great.

After tonight though, the final pieces of his plan shall fall into place, he has already signed the pact with Lord Kupka, a deal secured with the return of some paltry artifacts that were offered in tribute to the Phoenix in trade for an alliance long lost to the passage of time.

A trifle that held no significance to his Grace of the Order of the Undying, but a symbol of legitimacy that Lord Kupka desperately craved, for even the gifts of Titan could not remake his pedigree.

Cyril’s eyes linger for a moment on Uriel as his young granddaughter fills his cup, the man seems nervous, twitchy in a way that speaks of restlessness, a demeanour that has become more obvious and disruptive over the last few days, but Cyril has been too occupied with his own work to address it.

Even now, as his own blood finishes pouring his drink for him his nerves overtake him enough that as he takes the thin stem of his goblet between his fingers, he spills it, red flows from the cup in a mimicry of a morbid display, and Cyril finally loses his patience as the old man stutters out a halting apology.

“My humble apologies.”

“Enough Uriel, I hardly think it matters, Jote, fetch your grandfather a fresh cup after you’ve cleaned that.” The girl, knowing her place, acknowledges his command with a silent bow of her head as she works faster to clean up the mess before exiting the room with a haste that Cyril can appreciate.

In order to ease the tension that is building behind his eyes Cyril takes first a gulp of his own wine and then a more tentative sip, so he might actually enjoy the rich flavour, a mix of sweet berries that is slowly overwhelmed by a subtle bitter tang that causes him to relax.

“It is strange for you to have wine served at a meeting, my Lord,” Samuel remarks, even as he takes a sip of his own drink, as if half afraid that his reminder will cause Cyril to order that the wine be taken away immediately.

Cyril nods in agreement. “It is, but this is not a meeting, this is a celebration.”

With a flare that he usually does not permit himself, preferring to be reserved and quiet, he unfolds the accord that Lord Kupka had finally agreed to sign.

It is the result of weeks of work, of negotiations and counteroffers, of duplicity and uncovered secrets.

 It was a triumph that would see the Undying and the Phoenix returned to their homeland, that would ensure the death of the usurper and his traitor mother.

“Lord Kupka has at last agreed on the terms of our alliance.” The reactions to this news are mixed but mostly positive, and the soft murmur of adulation slowly builds and silences the few voices of dissent.

All but one it would seem.

“And what does his Grace have to say on this matter?” enquires Samson, an older acolyte of the Undying, grizzled and suntanned from his many years as the keeper of this outpost, he had not taken well to his displacement from authority upon their arrival, but for the most part he has held his tongue, until now.

“His Grace is still recovering, the Phoenix works ever to restore him, but the wounds that were inflicted by the abomination that our lord’s kin plays host to, are deep. Even with the power of healing the Phoenix grants him, the periods of time his Grace is lucid enough to hear reports, let alone give commands, is short.” Cyril leans back in his chair, trying to project an air of patience, though beneath the calm mask he wears the urge to snap at such a blatant undermining statement is strong.

“Is this move not too hasty then,” speaks up Lorella, an older stouter woman, who has always preached caution, more out of habit than any real thought.

“If anything it comes too late,” argues Blake, one of the younger of the sixteen members of their council gathered here today, but his works in the rescue of his Grace in the aftermath of the Night of the Flames has earned him a seat at this table.

His grey eyes light with a devotion that Cyril can see reflected in his own gaze each time he looks upon his own visage. “Already the usurper turns the people of Rosaria to his cause, the successful retaking of Drake’s Breath, the transformation of the Mother Crystal, what we see as signs of his demonic nature they view as portents of legitimacy.”

“Are they not,” enquires Lorella, who stands firm against the righteous anger that flares at her blasphemous suggestion. “Drake’s Breath has been reforged into something akin to a monument to the Phoenix’s glory, even as his mother tries to erase his Grace, does his brother’s actions not show where his loyalties still lie.”

“Are we even sure that it was by his power that the Mother Crystal was remade?” Cyril interjects in an attempt to cut off this avenue of thinking. He needs this council united, or at the very least for the majority to be on his side, if he allows debate to stir up now there is potential for smaller factions to form, weakening his support. “At this time, it matters little, for what defence can a profaned Mother Crystal provide against the full might of Titan and the Men of the Rock?”

This fact seems to instil some confidence in the members of the council, though many choose to remain quiet, keeping their judgement to themselves.

Samson however is more than willing to share his. “You speak as if the people will not fight for the Marquise, as if they shall not rally to defend their lands against an invading army of foreigners.”

“Of course the people will rally, behind the rightful ruler, we have the Phoenix,” reasons Blake.

“A Phoenix that has already been declared dead, who has been hidden away for the better part of two years. Few would stand for a ghost, fewer still for one that could easily be accused of being an imposter,” counters Samson.

“The only imposter is the pretender who even now basks in the glory that belongs to his Grace. There is only one true Warden of Fire, and he wields the flames of healing, not the hellfire that the abomination conjures,” Cyril reminds them.

“Our Warden that you shall permit none but your chosen to see,” accuses Samson, with a controlled rage that does little to hide his bitterness. “Who is, if you are to be believed, still in a coma and in no position to give orders, leaving the ‘burden’ of leadership solely to you…my Lord.”

With an aggrieved sigh, Cyril addresses this complaint, but not before taking another sip of his wine. “My ‘chosen’ as you style them, are his Grace’s own Physicker,” he points to Uriel who quals beneath the gazes that turn to him, “his assistant, and his Grace’s guard, who have served him faithfully since the day it was confirmed he was a Dominant.”

A slight pressure begins to build behind Cyril’s eyes as he glares at Samson, why the man insists upon challenging him…it gains them nothing. Everything Cyril has done and will do; it has all been for his Grace’s own sake.

Even had he not been born with a weak constitution, his Grace has such a soft heart, a weakness when unguarded, and has his Grace not always been his brother’s most staunch defender.

And yet, at the first chance, his brother had repaid that faith and kindness with blood and fire.

If Cyril had not been in the Rosfield’s service during the Lady Anabella’s pregnancy, and had the boy not resembled his father so closely, Cyril would be willing to consider the rumours that Clive Rosfield was in fact illegitimate.

Alas, he knew that rumour to be false, but still allowed it to spread as a means to curb Anabella’s pride, to remind her that she had but one duty and purpose.

Cyril will not lie, at one point he had felt a distant empathy with Clive Rosfield, born from the same line but passed over by the Phoenix for one, who it may be argued, is not well suited as a Dominant, in times of war at least.

He could understand the frustration of that, but in all his years of guardianship he believed the boy to have accepted his role, to have even flourished when he obtained the Blessing.

A deception, in truth, a lie which had allowed a beast in human form to approach the divine and land a blow that may yet prove fatal.

“Lord Cyril?” Blake questions, his voice sounding distant in a way that echoes in Cyril’s ears.

He looks up only to find the room spinning around him, the light of the candles and torches that illuminate the room transforming into long flowing tails that spin about his head in a dazzling display that leaves him feeling unmoored.

He feels a hand land on his shoulder, feels himself drooping, but already the shouts become quieter, the sensations become softer, and the shadows that he never knew clung to the edges of the room engulf his sense as he is pulled relentlessly into the deep dark of oblivion.

.

.

.

Awareness is a sharp thing, a thin blade that pierces him directly between the eyes, it causes him to throw himself back into consciousness, like a man breaking the surface of the water after being held under for far too long.

He falls, tumbles straight from his chair onto the hard stone floor, blinking and lost, only to find that the long shadows of night have been replaced by the pale light of morning.

Trying to stand he finds that his limbs refuse to cooperate as he would wish them to, so instead he sits as he wipes the grit and sand from his eyes, grimacing all the while as the stubborn substance refuses to budge.

“Did you sleep well?” asks a deep voice that he was not expecting.

He jolts up, looking around wildly for where the voice may have come from, but his vision is unfocused at worst and fuzzy at best.

It is only then that previously unseen hands seize him.

Roughly, he is forced to his feet and held there, even as his head lolls upon his neck.

“I must say, I find myself disappointed.” The sound of a chair scraping against the rough surface of the sandstone floor and the creak of the wood as a large, blurred silhouette takes a seat in it, draws Cyril’s attention to the opposite end of the table. “I expected a much warmer welcome from the keepers of the Phoenix.”

“Lord Kupka,” Cyril acknowledges, even as he shakes his head to try and clear it, but it only makes the dizziness that had wavered at the edge of his mind suddenly stir and flood his senses.

He feels sick, nauseous to the point that he can already feel acid burning the back of his throat.

“What have you done?” he accuses, voices weak and fading.

“Done?” Kupka asks with a mocking tone that makes it clear that he is not taking the question seriously, “I have done nothing but what you asked.”

Before Cyril can protest that, he is forced down into his chair. The rough hands hold him by his shoulders as another moves to seize him by his hair, allowing an unseen person to wrap thick cords of rope around his neck, chest, and arms, so tight that each breath is a struggle unless he holds his head up.

A difficult task when whatever drug has been given to him still makes it so difficult for him to control his own muscles.

With his captive audience now secured, Kupka continues, “I arrived here this morning, expecting to see you prepared to leave, to find your once great Order primed to join my men in the fight to reclaim your home, but what do I uncover instead…a fool.”

Cyril hisses against his constraints, but he has no strength, and his thoughts seem to slip through his fingers before they can form, leaving him disoriented and confused.

“Lord Kupka,” he tries, only to choke as the rope is pulled tighter around his throat, the unforgiving fibres bite into his skin, and Cyril swears he can feel blood beginning to stain his pale neck.

“A fool who does not know when to keep his silence, and who is unable to follow through on his promises,” Lord Kupka admonishes.

Cyril hears the thunk of something metal hitting wood, echoing and booming in the cavernous space of the meeting hall it causes his heart rate to spike. Blinking fretfully, he finally manages to clear his vision enough to see.

Lord Kupka, even sitting, looms above Cyril from the opposite side of the table. A mountain of a man, his shoulders a landscape of corded muscles, he projects an air of strength despite his relaxed posture.

Cyril does not dare to shift his gaze from the other man, afraid of what will happen, now that he has made eye contact. He imagines this is what it is like to come face to face with one of the famed chimera’s that are said to roam the deep dune sea.

“I assure you Lord Kupka,” Cyril tries again, his voice strained and dry, “I have done everything to keep my end of the bargain.”

The expression that barely lifts the edge of Lord Kupka’s mouth and exposes the barest amount of white teeth looks more like a grimace than a smile. “Oh, is that so? Tell me then, why is it that my men cannot find the young Archduke?”

Cyril’s breath catches in his lungs at that statement. “His Grace is in no condition to travel.” Not on his own at least.

At the words his gaze flies frantically around the room, he finds that twelve of the sixteen chairs are still occupied, the members of the council tied in a similar fashion to him, all unconscious, all helpless.

How?

How did this happen, who could have done this?

He looks to the empty chairs, Uriel, Samson, Lorella.

The voices of dissent, Uriel’s strange behaviour, his twitchiness that caused…

The wine.

Thinking back, he remembers, no, neither Lorella nor Samson had touched their goblets, in fact, they still sit untouched upon the table in front of their empty chairs, silent yet screaming incrimination.

Lord Kupka stirs in his seat, leaning forward to the point that he may reach the chest that has been laid on the table in front of him.

It is a beautiful box, dark wood framed with dragon bone and encrusted with a fine gold dust lacquer which breathes life into the image of Titan and Drake’s Fang that has been meticulously carved into the lid.

Opening it, Lord Kupka’s eyes immediately light with a satisfied greed.

“It matters little,” he dismisses as he pulls the sole object enshrined within the chest from its bed of golden silk. “I have what I came for.”

He nods his head to the unseen men that stand behind Cyril, and immediately they are moving, one out the door, disappearing down the hall that will lead him to the vault dug deep into the earth that houses some of their greatest treasures. The other comes to kneel beside his Lord, awaiting further instructions.

Lord Kupka hands off the chest as he begins to fix the treasure around his waist.

Titan’s Belt.

An heirloom handed down the line of Titan’s Dominant’s since before the Motes of Earth first began to settle the Dhalmekian desert. A work of art made from dragon leather, silver, gold and ancient ceramic with techniques lost to the veil of time. Adorned with runes whose words have not been spoken since the Fallen came crashing to the earth.

“My Lord, please wait, you must listen to me,” Cyril entreats, only to be cut off by Lord Kupka’s laugh.

“I need do no such thing,” correct Titan’s Dominant.

“The people of Tabor have already told me all I need to hear: a small party, seen sneaking away into the night, their Chocobos loaded for a long journey. Your Phoenix has abandoned you, taken wing before you could secure him in the cage you requested I construct for him.”

The pit of Cyril’s stomach falls, despair overtakes him as the foundations of his ambitions crumble beneath his feet, leaving nothing but a desolate sense of failure that eats away at him.

Still, he tries to decry it.

“You lie!” he spits, uncaring of the way the rope around his throat chokes out the last word.

“Why would I when the weight of the truth can crush you?” Kupka asks as he stands to his full height, Titan’s belt securely in place and glowing with the power it contains. “Alas, the squawks of a flameless bird hold little interest when it no longer has the Phoenix trapped within its nest made of thorns.”

Aether gathers with each step Kupka takes, gold and shimmering it leaves behind stone whenever it alights against Kupka’s skin, until a full gauntlet of earth, aether, and crystal encapsulates his right arm.

Cyril quivers in his chair, struggles as he can, but the ropes do not give, the chair does not break.

When he looks up again, ready to beg, the fingers of the earthen glove are already closing around his head, suffocatingly, crushingly, until the sound of his own skull breaking is all he can hear before death takes him.

.

.

.

Far away, on a dusty road, at a slow pace so as to not attract attention, a small party blends in with the crowd of merchants and sailors that make their way to the Free Cities of Kanver.

No one gives a second glance to the small sleepy child that sits astride one of the Chocobos, his face hidden by the shadows of the cloak he wears.

Chapter Text

Shula is going to murder him.

It does not matter that he is her brother, it does not matter that he is the only close family she has left, and it certainly does not matter that he had good intentions.

Good intentions are what caused this tragedy in the first place, when their great grandsire sacrificed his own son for the sake of their people, a people who now paid the price for their past transgressions in blood and in grief, as the waters that had been frozen for so long finally took their due, leaving Haven as nothing more than a watery grave for those who had not made it out in time.

She sees it every time she closes her eyes, the slowly retreating waters washing away the remnants of a life and a home that she and her people shall never be able to reclaim.

Gripping her fists, until blunt nails dig into the callused skin of her palms, Shula dismisses these thoughts as she refocuses on her goal. What matters is the people they have left, and the fact that her brother’s stupidity and his thirst to prove himself is putting them all in danger.

She clings to the remnants of the shadows cast by what at one point may have been an outer wall of the town of North Reach, as she searches the crowd gathered around the tent city that has been erected as temporary accommodation for those that survived the initial flood, and those that have come to aid in the recovery efforts.

The most notable of which is the crown prince of the Empire himself.

Pale as the reflection of light off the Glamour, the prince is easy to spot even from a distance, despite the cover of muck, grime, and exhaustion that clings to him.

He flits about the encampment and the bared bones of the town like a hungry coeurl, unsettled and restless in a way that compels those around him to work harder, lest he come and try to take over the work himself. An example of which she immediately sees herself when one worker, digging through the remains, fails to lift a collapsed beam, only to suddenly find the Prince by his side taking up the slack.

It’s impressive, a show of selflessness that almost makes her buy into the tales those of her clan that ventured and worked outside of Haven liked to share, almost.

For now, she has no time to dwell on it, or she wouldn’t, if the Prince’s presence here didn’t mean that he came with an entire contingent of Dragoon guards, making her mission a thousand times harder than it ever need be.

Again, as soon as she’s done hugging him, she’s going to throttle Famiel.

Pulling up her hood, she does her best to hide the fair shade of her hair, it’s been more than a few generations since the Gregorian purges but you can never be too careful, if all goes well she’ll be able to slip into what little remains of the town, find her wayward brother and pull him back to the relative safety of their own little camp in the hills outside Caer Norvent, before anyone takes a second glance at her.

Joining the back of a queue that leads to a large open tent which seems to be handing out rations, she subtly keeps her head on the swivel as she searches the crowd for a shock of white hair, because tides forbid her brother would have sense enough to cover his head.

Thankfully, no one gives her a second glance, as her mud-stained cloak and all-around ragged appearance, caused by too little sleep and not enough food, allows her to blend in near perfectly with the crowd.

As she stands there, occasionally shuffling forward whenever the line moves, the wind changes, replacing the smell of salted air and dying crops with the tantalising scent of fresh bread and stewed meat.

Overwhelmed by the aroma after so many days of meagre rations gathered from the edges of a ruined home, her eyes move against her will in the direction of the tantalising scent. The soft glow of the campfire ripples against the billowing canvas of the white tent in a mesmeric fashion, that almost emulates the enticing scales of an elusive fish just begging to be caught.

The small voice of reason that whispers at the back of her mind that she has no time for this is drowned out by the ferocious growl of her stomach as it cramps in hunger.

The only thing that holds her back is the sudden flash of white hair she has been searching for, small and darting she sees the brief image of her brother sneaking between what remains of two devastated buildings.

Slowly, she extracts herself from the crowd, who are more than happy to let her slip away without a second glance.

The warmth of the campfires and the gathering of threadbare families that survived the tragedy soon gives way to the cold streets of a devastated town. Roads have been cleared in the weeks since the disaster struck but the earth beneath her feet is a quagmire of thick mud and unseen obstacles. Every step is a balancing act between her foot either sinking into the salt-soaked ground or losing her footing completely as any grip she has is undermined by the sludge of still draining flood water and detritus that seems to cover every surface.

By the time she reaches the corner she saw her brother vanish round, he is already long gone, but the sound of raised voices nearby gives her a pretty good idea as to where he has gone.

Navigating a mound that may have been a house at one point, she comes upon a scene that she has seen far too many times; her brother, caught and pleading for mercy from a person that he wronged.

“Please madame, my family need this, I had no other choice,” Famiel begs, with wide watery eyes that have fooled more than one soft hearted victim.

Though he appears to have chosen his mark poorly this time.

“Oh, sweet boy, those crocodile tears may fool the untrained, but to a woman of my profession they are naught but a pale imitation of the art I ply each night,” whispers the woman who holds Famiel firmly by the wrist.

As always, when he’s caught, Famiel switches to his next tactic, distraction.

“It’s dark here, and the guards are far away, aren’t you worried that someone more threatening than a child might try to take advantage of a lone woman?” his eyes widen in foe distress even as he says this, his other arm already rising to point at the imagined attacker behind the woman’s left shoulder.

But before the cry of alarm can leave his lips a much deeper voice purrs from the shadows, “Who says she’s alone?”

The man who emerges from the shade of a collapsed roof has the build of a warrior, tall and willowy, he moves with a controlled strength that speaks of ingrained technique and honed balance. The two swords he wears at his belt supports this, as does the way his hand rests casually against the hilt, ready for a quickdraw at the slightest hint of danger.

His appearance speaks of a subtle wealth, for even in the shadow of the building he emerges from the quality of the leather he wears cannot be hidden, though his short hair and grizzled chin makes him look more mercenary than Lord.

Famiel’s attempts to escape from the woman’s grasp grow more desperate at the man’s approach, but the lady’s fingers are a steel trap around his wrist.

“Let me go! Let me go! Help! Help!” Famiel screams into the evening, trying to draw as much attention as possible, but in the little sunken space they find themselves in, his voice merely echoes back to him.

Shula, for her part is happy to sit back for the moment and allow her brother to squirm.

The man chuckles at the sight of Famiel’s fruitless struggles but for the most part ignores them as he addresses the lady, “there you are, took a little finding as your room isn’t where it used to be but it’s no worse for wear, all things considered.”

He hands something over, a box of some sort, but the details are lost with the distance.

“Thank you, Cid, would you mind?” the Lady enquires with a slight nod towards Famiel, who is summarily scruffed.

Famiel tries wriggling free, going so far as to kick out, but the man’s armlength proves too great a distance to overcome and he’s just left there, flailing uselessly as the man continues to act as if he isn’t even there.

“Is it all there? I can go and take another look if there’s still some missing,” the grizzled mercenary offers.

With a sharp thunk and a click that echoes around the ruined space that may have at one time been a small garden, the woman finishes her appraisal. “It’s all here, enough of it at least, now what’s to be done with this little one?”

“What indeed?” questions the man even as he already seems to know the answer.

Famiel catches onto the tone and freezes in actual terror, Shula can tell it’s real this time by the way the colour drains from his face, making him look as pale as a ghost even in the low light of the setting sun.

It’s at this point that she finally decides to show her little brother mercy.

“Please don’t,” she requests in a low and calm voice as she emerges from her hiding spot.

The woman, a beauty by all accounts, with deep auburn hair and full lips, jumps in genuine fright, only to immediately grimace as her hand comes to rest against her leg, or as Shula now sees, what remains of it.

The man’s reaction is less surprise and more smug validation, but the little smirk that plays across his mouth shifts to a frown as he sees the lady wince in pain.

He releases her brother without demand or protest as he takes a knee at her side, but before he can even ask if she is alright, the lady is already assuring him, “I’m fine, the flesh is still tender, but the pain passes quickly.”

“Are you sure? The wound hasn’t started to bleed again, has it?” Retrieving a crystal from his belt, he casts light upon the injury, revealing a stump tightly bound in layers of clean white cloth.

Shula doesn’t see anything else, because by then she’s too busy grabbing Famiel who’s tried to use the opportunity to escape. “Shula, please, they were going to kidnap me,” he proclaims with a whine, but Shula is having none of it as she seizes him by the ear and pulls.

“Oh, and if they had how long before they let you go when they discovered that you are more trouble than you are worth?” she asks, unmoved by the genuine tears that well up in his eyes.

Ignoring him, she turns to the small audience and bows her head. “I am sorry for the trouble my brother has caused; I know it isn’t much but please accept this with my sincerest apologies.” Shula holds out her sad excuse for a gil pouch, ignoring the way the salt-soaked leather scratches against her skin.

“No!” Famiel cries at her side, “You worked so hard to find that after the Tsunami, they can’t have it!”

Shula merely tugs harder on his ear until he falls silent, before biting at him with her own words, “and you think these people didn’t work as hard for what they have managed to retrieve, what right have you to take from anyone, let alone those that have suffered just as we have.”

“They’re outsiders,” he mumbles in a voice that she was clearly not meant to hear.

“You forget,” she corrects, her own voice quiet, “we’re the outsiders here.”

Finally, she lets his ear go, but she places a firm hand on his shoulder as insurance, she knows from experience that Famiel is likely to take off running again if she gives him half a chance.

Hers and Famiel’s small fight has given the man enough time to gather the lady up in his arms. They now stand just below Shula, on the stairs leading into the small basin.

Shula extends the pouch, a silent offer, but the Lady shakes her head as she takes Shula’s hand and closes her fingers more firmly around the pouch.

“I would not deny those who have fallen on hard times what little they have.” She smiles in a way that is both genuine and benevolent, but a moment later the expression takes on an insidious edge as the lady looks between Shula and her brother. “Besides, after the display we just witnessed I am sure the boy shall not soon forget that it is not right to steal from those who have been dealt a sour hand by fate.”

The wording catches Shula slightly by surprise. “You make it sound as though there are those worth stealing from.”

“The lass catches on quick,” remarks the man, “unfortunately, you won’t find too many of their ilk hanging around here at the moment, though a lot of them did use to haunt the Veil like horney ghosts.”

That makes the lady and Famiel laugh, and the sound of it mixing and chiming like the ring of discordant bells is enough to bring a smirk to Shula’s own lips.

She is not unfamiliar with the Veil’s reputation, some of her clan had worked there in order to help provide for Haven, those that did only had good things to say about the previous mistress and her successor.

She is going to give Famiel such a hiding when they get back to camp, or better yet, she’ll just tell the Veil’s former workers that he dared to try and steal from the Dame.

Whatever she decides it will have to wait until they make it back to the encampment, a long walk that will see the sun setting before she even catches a glimpse of the few white and blue canvas tents they managed to scrounge together.

At the mere thought of the journey ahead of them her stomach rebels, making its anguish known in the form of a painful twist deep in her guts and a gurgling growl that could easily be mistaken for the cry of a Behemoth.

Heat floods her cheeks as embarrassment takes hold and grips tightly, it’s not like she can even still smell the tempting scent of the meals that had been on offer, besides, she refuses to rely on charity from a nation that would see her people dead.

Ignorant of her thoughts the man steps forward to begin guiding them back to the Dragoon’s encampment. “I think that’s a clear sign that if we’re going to continue talking it should be over a bowl of the antelope stew the Prince is paying for out of his own coffers.”

Shula moves to refuse, to provide an excuse, but when she thinks about it there is none, not one that would make sense when her belly is so obviously empty and free food is literally a few feet away.

Keeping her silence she follows the man, all the while making plans to use the cover of the crowd to escape with Famiel.

Those plans flee her mind the instant the smell of rich gravy and stewed meat assaults her again. She could resist it before because she had her brother to worry about, but with Famiel safe at her side and the sound of his own empty belly growling almost in sync with hers…

When the bowl is placed before her she practically falls upon it like a starving wolf. Ripping into the soft bread she was given, she uses the fluffy interior to scoop up the thick gravy, and silently praises her own resourcefulness as the dripping loaf meets her tongue. The taste of slow roasted meat is heavenly and just the right amount of salt and pepper makes her tastebuds sing and dance.

She knows this is the hunger talking, that the meal itself is probably just an average army stew that soldiers would complain about after weeks of eating nothing but it, but right now, it’s the best thing Shula has ever tasted, and there’s just one thing that could make it perfect.

“Steady on there lass, it’s not as if they’re going to confiscate the bowl if you don’t clean it in under a minute,” comments the man as he comes to join them after leaving to collect… “Is that ale?” Shula asks as her eyes lock on the four tankards he’s carrying.

Before he can answer she’s already leaning across the table, hand outstretched to take one.

He hands it over freely.

“Safer than the water,” he comments as he hands out the other two tankards before taking a deep swig from the one left in his hand.

Shula doesn’t hesitate to follow his example, gulping down the drink before turning back to her stew.

The rest of the meal is demolished within minutes and as Shula sits back, she refocuses on what should have been her priority, escaping with her brother.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she says as she moves to stand, gesturing for Famiel to follow, even as her brother endeavours to clean the pattern off the bottom of the empty bowl.

“Leaving so soon?” the man asks, “hell lass, you haven’t even introduced yourself yet?”

“Shula,” she offers, clipped and impersonal, but not impolitely, “and this is my brother Famiel.”

It matters little if he knows their names, the clan has voted that it is best not to stay in the Empire’s lands, they were a nomadic people once, and so they shall be again.

“Cid,” returns the man, “and you may already know of the Dame, by reputation at least.”

Shula nods. “Indeed, again, thank you for your generosity, but we really must be going.”

“A moment,” requests the Dame, and Shula has no choice but to oblige as the eyes of the dining tent turn upon them in interest.

“Do you know of a woman named Abra?” The name tears straight through Shula’s chest like an iron bolt shot with pinpoint accuracy.

“It’s just, she often spoke of her family, and the names Shula and Famiel were brought up more than once.” Past tense, why did she need to speak in past tense. It confirms the dread that Shula had been turning away from, quenches the hope she had felt rise at every glimpse of snow-white hair.

“My cousin, she left home some years ago.” Contact was always difficult with those outside of Haven, she had only ever seen Abra once a month when she visited to drop off gil and supplies.

She had held no hope coming here that her cousin had survived, at least, that is what she had told herself.

When the Dame reaches into her pouch and places an Elder’s Blessing brooch on the table before her, Shula realises that she was lying to herself.

“Does she have a grave?” She silently begs that the answer to be no, the thought of her kind, witty, cousin being buried beneath the ground, trapped, kept from the sea she was meant to return to.

“A marker, the flood waters claimed so many…” The Dame explains, pain and sadness clear in her voice even as she cuts off before she can state the obvious.

Shula has to work very hard to hide her relief, but she does so by holding Famiel close and allowing the true grief to flow.

The tears that come fall rapidly, fuelled by the faces that she sees flashing behind her closed eyes, Arda is merely the first, the faces rise from the depths of her mind, bubbling up before flowing away with the water that trails from her eyes.

Talor, Sadie, Eden, Orin, Daphna, Aharon, Blasir, Shiloh, and so many more…

All taken by the tide, all returned to the sea.

It takes more than Shula would like to admit for her to recover and recompose herself, because once she opens the gates it’s so hard to close them.

When she finally manages to wipe her eyes, they inevitably fall upon the brooch which sits so innocently before her.

When she picks it up the cold metal sends a shiver down her spine. Scratched and battered the warped silver speaks of a violence that Shula does not wish to imagine.

“May I take this?” she asks, pleads.

“Of course,” the Dame doesn’t even hesitate, and the wave of gratitude that nearly pulls Shula under is a powerful thing.

“I thank you both, but now we must go, as we truly have overstayed our welcome here.”

Cid doesn’t try to stop her this time, and neither does the Dame.

“May your travels be safe and know that the hospitality of the Veil shall ever be yours.”

“You’re too kind, may the ti—” she almost slips before correcting, “may Greagor watch over you both.”

“You as well,” returns the Dame.

Cid, for his part remains silent, even as he does give them a small nod of acknowledgement, his stare still as assessing and calculating as it was since he first laid eyes on her.

Shula doesn’t dwell on it; she has no intention of ever returning to North Reach.

Heading for the gates which are surprisingly mostly intact, a few of the decorative arches and buttresses have been lost to Leviathan’s wrath but it still serves, or it would were it not for the ornate carriage currently blocking it.

Pulling Famiel to the side she lowers her head and adjusts her hood even as she hands her brother a scarf to cover his own hair. Like this they blend seamlessly with the sidelined crowd standing trapped between the rubble and the cleared road as they bow before the passing procession.

Shula would have kept her head down the entire time and then fled through the gate at the first chance, had it not been for that shade of red fluttering in the corner of her eye.

She’s following it before she even realises why, her stare locking on the cloak dyed that colour, until she recognises the boy it’s attached to.

It’s him, the cause of all this, the boy that took Waljas.

Shula watches, frozen as the young man rides through what remains of the town, only stopping when he finds the crowned Prince of all people.

She watches as they greet each other formally before sliding into a more casual rapport that better suits their young ages.

She watches as he removes the cloak that allowed her to first recognise him and sets about aiding the Prince in his seemingly single-minded goal to rebuild North Reach himself.

The feelings that swell in her breast are a torrent of anger, wrath, indignation, fear, and unbridled confusion that twist and tangle around her throat like a sea of writhing snakes. A hurricane of emotion that seeks to drag her into a black rage.

“Shula?” Famiel’s unsure and suddenly scared voice has her looking down, only to see the first glow of aether dripping from her fingers, only hidden from those gathered around them by the way Famiel shields her hand with his own body.

Without another thought, she gathers up her brother and flees through the gate.

He’s what’s important, him and her people.

Revenge can wait.

Chapter Text

“Presenting, his Radiance, Sylvestre Lesage, Greagor’s Blessed and defender of the one true faith, and her Grace, the Lady Anabella Rosfield,” the announcer proclaims as the great doors to the Hall of the Mother of Light are opened before them, unveiling a crowd of staring nobles and dignitaries that have been invited to attend the wedding.

The wave of applause is near deafening.

Four weeks had been such a short amount of time, but Sylvestre had commanded that no expense be spared for the ceremony and the days of celebration that would mark it, a fact that is clearly showcased by the grandeur that greets Anabella’s eyes.

The Hall of the Mother of Light is the largest ballroom contained within the labyrinth structure that is the White Wyrm’s Lair. Nearly its own castle was it not for the fact that it is firmly connected to the main structure, the hall boasts the most spectacular view of the imperial gardens, which is fully exploited by the full length windows that even now allow the last of the evening light, which reflects through Drake’s Head, to dye the edges of the room in an ephemeral shade of blue that is only held back by the radiant circle of Crystal chandeliers that create a perfect ring of white light across the room. One that is only broken by the ethereal marble pillars that support the domed ceiling above, a marvel in itself due to the full-scale painting of Great Greagor’s pantheon which dominates it.

In addition to these staple features of the hall, garlands of white wyvern tails and white roses have been used to decorate the marble statue of Greagor and her Great Wyrm which holds pride of place at the head of the hall, so that her cold stone stare might judge every person who would dare to cross the threshold of one of the spaces dedicated to her glory.

When Anabella had first returned from Rosaria the appointed planner, a Blair Sacerdote, had the banal idea to incorporate red roses into the arrangements. Anabella had immediately and coldly shut the concept down, white roses were enough of a symbol for Rosaria, and would suit the son growing in her womb, pure and untainted, she wished to wash out the red, and so it had been.

From there Anabella had coordinated everything, never demanding, but ever uncompromising in her pursuit of perfection, for these three days of ceremony would be the proclamation of her ascendancy, it would be a reflection of her and her ability to command, and so she charmed the nobles assigned to help her.

Celine had been ever at her side, offering samples and placing the fear of Greagor into servants who dared to interrupt her while she set about her work. It was a relief to have her only trusted Lady in waiting at her side again, and it had made the process of selecting the final members of her entourage that much easier. Not that the Lady Theresa had made it difficult, in fact the lady had seemed most taken with Anabella’s trust and had used the opportunity to prove her competence.

The interviews had proceeded accordingly and within a day Anabella had found every vacant position filled with the daughters of Cardinals and one young widow, a Lady Bérénice Seydoux, who had unfortunately lost her elderly husband to the spring sickness before he could provide her with an heir, fortunately the Lord Seydoux had no living male relatives to speak of, and so his fortune and title had fallen to his widow, Anabella had felt an immediate kinship with the woman during their first meeting.

Anabella turns her eyes back to focus upon the sea of faces as she and Sylvestre reach the bottom of the stairs, and sure enough, her newly assembled Ladies are front and centre, in dresses that compliment Anabella’s own in both colour and style.

The first of four gowns Anabella shall wear over the course of the celebrations, it is an eggshell blue that darkens into the dusky shades of evening, providing the perfect contrast to the pure white petticoat she wears beneath the split skirt. The fitted corset combined with the panniers she dons creates an elegant silhouette that allows her to conceal her slowly growing bump and maintain her perfect posture as she and Sylvestre descend into the ballroom.

Every Lord and Lady bows as soon as she and Sylvestre reach the bottom of the small staircase and as they proceed to the centre of the room, the crowd moves as one, like a ripple travelling at speed across a still pond, perfection at work in both their symmetry and execution.

This, Anabella cannot help but ruminate upon, is what true power looks like, to have your mere presence evoke both silence and respect.

All eyes are upon her and Sylvestre as they take to the floor, as expected, Anabella shifts to courtesy, to pay the Emperor the deference he is due by right. Unexpectedly, he halts her progress before she can bend her knee.

“You, my dear Anabella, need bow to no one,” he whispers for her alone as he pulls her into his arms, his fingers brushing softly across the unseen swell of her belly as they await the music that shall accompany their first dance.

The strings sing a waltz, and Sylvestre leads her across the polished marble floors with an ease that makes it feel as though gravity has relinquished its hold upon them for this dance. It’s so unlike the practised but ill at ease steps that Elwin used to guide her through whenever they attended a ball. A fighter more than a dancer, he had possessed the grace but lacked the timing that was needed to make his steps truly align with hers.

They were a misaligned pair from the start, unsuited for each other in both temper and outlook, an obstacle that Anabella would have overcome had Elwin not been born with a will of iron that would break before it would bend.

No, Sylvestre was a far better match, malleable and open to flattery, self-serving and ambitious, traits that Anabella could mould to her advantage, as she already had to great effect.

Her skirts flair around her dramatically as Sylvestre leads her expertly across the space that is currently reserved for them alone, a showcase of the distance that lies between them and the other nobles. The dramatic turns and spins that make up the Drake’s Flight, the most traditional dance of the Empire, leaves her feeling slightly dizzy, even as she chooses a single point to focus upon. It is not so bad as to interfere with her steps, but she does find herself having to cling tighter to Sylvestre for balance, something that he does not seem to mind at all as he squeezes her hand in turn.

Before she knows it, the dance comes to its natural end and Sylvestre is leading her to the small dais that has been raised for them at the feet of Greagor’s statue.

The music continues as the attendants are invited to take the floor, allowing for some privacy as those of higher status are given access to greet them and present their gifts.

The Crown Prince, is of course, the first to come forward.

He kneels, alone, and all the more regal for it, dressed in the full regalia of his position as the Leader of the Holy Order of the Knights Dragoon. As he speaks, his voice carries, even above the soft music that dominates the hall, “Your Radiance, know that my Order pledges itself to you and your chosen Empress and shall act in a way that befits the tenants handed down to us by Great Greagor. As the Dominant of Bahamut, so do I swear myself again to you in leal service,” as he says this, he lays his halberd at Sylvestre feet.

Rising, Sylvestre plucks a white wyvern tail woven into the arm of his throne, the fragile bloom quivers at the move, but remains intact as the Emperor threads it within the mail of Dion’s armour, directly above his heart.

“You have served the Empire well, your loyalty and love are the greatest gifts you could give me on the eve of my marriage.” The words are spoken so softly that Anabella has no doubt they were meant for Dion alone.

With the Crown prince’s presentation complete the Council of Five swarms forward.

“Your Radiance, your Grace,” High Cardinal Gauvain greets on behalf of the council as they all bow deeply. “I know I speak for us all when I offer you both my sincere congratulations, may Great Greagor bless this union and usher in another era of peace and prosperity beneath your benevolent rule.”

The council’s well wishes are accompanied by an offering of a sceptre for Sylvestre and a coronet for Anabella, both are extravagant pieces that will of course be worn during the actual wedding ceremony tomorrow, heirlooms that may only be used by the anointed Emperor and his chosen Empress.

The sight of the coronet being presented to her for inspection has a warm feeling that feels so much like vindication and victory settling within Anabella’s breast, beating in sync with the steady but rapid pace of her heart.

“You honour us, High Cardinal.” Sylvestre nods, satisfied with the presentation of his own symbol of legitimacy, before he turns to Anabella.

“It is a gift I shall endeavour to be worthy of,” she intones even as her fingers itch to snatch it from the blue silk pillow, she resists, only because she knows it shall be placed upon her head tomorrow.

She shall kneel a Duchess and rise an Empress.

Satisfied with her perfunctory and expected answer, the High Cardinal and his ilk retreat, allowing the next guest to step forward.

Dressed in the finery of his station, the new Chief Lord Diviner steps forward and bows. His first public appearance after the hasty election, a must after his predecessor’s fall from grace, his failure to predict the return of Leviathan and the disaster that followed the final nail in his coffin.

Stripped of his office and the protection it offered the extent of his lies and false predictions had finally been unveiled, revealing that he had known, that the stars had apparently warned of the terror to come.

His fate had not been a pretty one, crucified beside the Bay of Greagor’s Tears before the ruins of North Reach, left for the mob and then the carrion crows to feast upon, a warning to those who would dare to try and deceive the Emperor.

“Rise Lord Pascal,” Sylvestre commands, his voice more eager than it had been when he had addressed his own council. The reason for this difference is clear when Lord Pascal unveils a scroll bearing the sigil of his order.

“I speak for all astrologers under your command when I wish you both glad tidings on this happy event, the stars above bless this moment, Bahamut aligns with the constellation of the Phoenix, their talons interlocked as a new star is born between them, guarded by the fire of Metia and christened by the light of Greagor, this union shall bear a Prince of great power.”

Lord Pascal unfurls a star chart that supposedly supports these claims as he makes them, to Anabella they merely look like a collection of dots scattered within a circle, but Sylvestre reacts as if Greagor herself has appeared before his eyes.

“Already you prove your doubters wrong, Lord Pascal,” Sylvestre proclaims as he takes the scroll and studies it with avid interest, his eyes locking on the small dot held between the series of lines meant to depict the Phoenix and Bahamut respectively.

Lord Pascal seems unbothered by the backhanded comment as he smiles and accepts it as though it was a sincere compliment. “Thank you, your Radiance, I merely wish for more opportunities to prove my worth.”

“You shall have them,” assures the Emperor, the fervour of belief burning bright within his eyes.

As Pascal rises to leave, he shares a silent nod with Anabella as their eyes meet, a subtle indication that he knows who he truly has to thanks for his current position, good.

With the Highest echelons of the Empire dismissed, the first of the foreign dignitaries step forth.

As Anabella’s relative of course this means Byron and the Rosarian delegation is the next to be seen, but she only has eyes for Clive. He is the perfect image of what an Archduke should be, a near faultless mix of her and Elwin, it is such a shame that the position will once again be stolen from him, for she knows with a certainty that the son growing inside her is the Phoenix reborn and shall therefore supplant Clive from the line of succession. She smiles at the thought of it, knowing that it is all for the best, as her regency shall now last until her and Sylvestre’s son comes into his majority at sixteen.

As they all bow, Clive’s cloak dances like fire creating a stark contrast against the pure white shirt and doublet he wears, they both make the burnished gold thorned rose pauldron he wears for the occasion stand out in a way that is eye catching yet understated.

Her gaze reluctantly trails back to Byron as he stands, only to widen with pleasure at the sight of the chest he has brought with him.

The red crystals nearly spill to the floor as he lifts the lid and presents them. “A gift mined from the crucible of Drake’s Breath itself, the first of many,” Byron declares with pride as he waves forward Lord Zagreus, who kneels and present Sylvestre with a leather-bound scroll, which when unrolled reveals the plans for a mighty galleon.

“You shall find her arriving at your port within the fortnight, her belly loaded with ten times this gift, she has been christened and found worthy, and shall prove her strength by completing the treacherous journey through Shiva’s Lance.”

Those in the crowd close enough to hear gasp at the declaration, the Shiva’s Lance is a thin and treacherous channel stretching across the Northern Territories, once it had been a viable throughway for trade between the Duchy and the Empire, but the advent of the blight had made the journey near impossible.

Apart from prestige, what did Byron hope to gain from this endeavour, she would have to look into it. At that thought, even as the practised benevolent smile cements itself upon her lips, her gaze locks upon Lord Zagreus. It is about time she took measure of his value.

The Rosarian contingent is soon dismissed after that, allowing for the Dhalmekian representatives to step forth.

The mountain of a man who leads the party can only be Lord Kupka, his stature and the common look of him, despite the fine silks that make up his apparel, are an instant giveaway, amongst the small crowd of Dhalmekian Lord’s that surround him he stands out like a rock cast amongst diamonds.

Stepping forward, the Dhalmekian envoy begins a long and dry speech that Anabella has little interest in listening to. Rosaria is now a province of the Empire in all but name, and thus Sanbreque has command of two Eikons and the wealth of both Drake’s Head and the untapped resources of Drake’s Breath.

If Dhalmekia was so foolish as to raise arms against the Empire, they would find their Dominant reduced to ash and their cities buried in the sands they made their home.

Anabella has been listening to the pleasantries with half an ear, nodding and smiling when appropriate, the Dhalmekian’s have nothing of real value to offer her.

The deep red fabric that Lord Kupka throws at the feet of the dais may prove her wrong yet.

“A little unconventional, perhaps, but I believe this to be a far more genuine gesture than any bauble or gift you were expecting,” Lord Kupka rumbles in a tone that sounds like shifting sand.

He is correct, Anabella does indeed find the bloodied garment laid at her feet pleasing, for even stained she can recognise the crest of the Bearer of the Burning Quill.

She has no doubt that this is indeed the genuine article, she had seen it in person many times and can confirm the sigil is correct, something that would be exceedingly hard to fake as the Undying guard their secrets well. Instead, the question is whether this blood is truly Cyril’s, or merely a neat party trick in order to buy the Undying anonymity through a faked death.

Still, to play her part she appears uneasy, eyes shifting away from the bloody garment as she raises a hand to cover her mouth, to hide her smile but to give the illusion that the mere sight of blood is enough to unsettle her.

She knows her performance is effective when Sylvestre takes her free hand, interlacing his own fingers with hers in a silent show of comfort.

“I hardly think it proper to present such trophies at an event of this standing,” Sylvestre admonishes, “it is unseemly.”

Anabella keeps the fact that she would have much preferred to have Cyril’s severed head presented to herself, such thoughts are not to be voiced by an Empress.

One of the attendants shuffles forward to collect the bloodied hood, and Anabella takes the silence that follows to ask, “What of the rest of them?” She calls upon the memory of the night they tried to assassinate Clive, pictures Clive lying on the pristine white carpet soaked in a pool of his own blood, the fear that had seized her at the thought that he was already dead, that another Dominant had been taken from her.

Lord Kupka seems unmoved by her display, but still answers her question, “buried, like the rats they were, they seemed to believe that they could lure us into an alliance with false assurances and the promise of the Phoenix’s speedy return, a plan the council had little patience for.” He smiles, and the way his white teeth contract with the tan skin of his lips makes the expression seem all the wider. “Dhalmekia has no tolerance for those that would seek to undermine the true order of things.”

That statement makes Anabella want to laugh, such a bold lie told without shame or hesitation, she’s almost impressed.

For the moment, it is in the best interest of the Empire to accept this offer of peace, a fact that Sylvestre recognises as he easily navigates the conversation back to the pleasantries of before. “Neither does the Empire, which is why we have always found such steadfast allies within the Republic, as ever you and your countrymen are welcome here.”

The clear dismissal is taken with good grace, and so the line of well-wishers’ proceeds.

The banalities are set to continue as the delegation from the Crystal Dominion is ushered forward, but the sudden sound of glass dropping and steel being drawn has some in the crowd screaming as Prince Dion bellows a command of, “Halt!”

Anabella’s sight is cut off briefly as the Dragoon guard close in around her and Sylvestre, but the height of the dais makes it so she merely has to stand in order to catch a glimpse of the figure that has brought such disorder to the hall.

Barnabas Tharmr.

Chapter Text

Something is wrong.

Clive has been feeling this way since the moment he woke this morning, he put it down to nerves and anxiety initially, his mother’s wedding to the Emperor is a three day event, one which he is not allowed to miss, one that he is expected to take part is despite Uncle Byron’s best efforts to volunteer in his stead, the mere thought of having to walk his mother down the aisle is making his stomach turn, but now as he stands in the Hall of the Mother of Light he realises the difference, where the nerves had caused a constant feeling of unease and nausea, whatever this is seems to create a near ravenous hunger.

Not for food, but for something that he cannot put a name to.

It leaves him distracted and ill-tempered in a way that makes it so hard to focus on the insipid conversations the court Emperor Sylvestre has managed to gather around himself. A collection of sycophants and lickspittles who either truly seem to believe that Greagor’s light shines out of their Emperor’s arse or do a very good impression of it.

Thankfully, Uncle Byron is more than happy to run damage control, and Clive is doing his best to pay attention and learn from the lesson his uncle is more than willing to teach.

He’s currently speaking with the High Cardinal, the exchange had started off slow, the High Cardinal dragging out the greeting to an extent that made Clive want to yawn like a bored cat, he only realised that was the entire point when he saw the crowd around them begin to thin.

Once the vast majority of obvious ease droppers have moved off in search of more tantalising gossip, the conversation takes a subtle turn.

“This ship of yours, she must be a marvel for you to brave the treacherous waters of Shiva’s Lance, the voyage has not been successful since the tragedy of the Three Maids,” the High Cardinal notes in a deceptively uninterested tone that Clive is becoming all too familiar with.

Uncle Byron shrugs as he takes a sip from his goblet before answering, “A tragedy born of mismanagement and bull headedness if you ask any sailor worth his salt. To attempt the voyage in the dead of winter was suicide from the start, of course, they supposedly had a wealth of crystals and Bearer’s pre-disposed to fire magics, but even if they had made it, their crystals would have all been spent and their Bearer’s dead, they would have lost far more than they would have gained, it was a lost cause from the start.”

The High Cardinal nods in agreement, “true, however, would the renown gained from being the first to complete the voyage during the inhospitable months of winter not be worth any expense?”

“Inhospitable?” Uncle Byron chuckles, “that’s one way to put it, another would be to describe it as the icy grave it is. The waters of the Shiva’s Lance freeze within the first few weeks of winter, trapping any vessel foolish enough to brave her course for the full season, leaving the crew with only two options. To either make camp and wait out the winter with the supplies they brought with them or to brave the artic environment of the Northern Territories at the worst time of year.”

“You seem very well informed,” admits the High Cardinal.

“One must be prepared before they set about any venture, must they not?” Uncle Byron questions with the avid passion that Clive has seen so many people fall for. “Were I not to learn from my predecessors’ mistakes, then I am all but doomed to repeat them.”

“A lesson we could all learn from,” the High Cardinal acknowledges, as he pointedly looks to the man standing to his left. “Wouldn’t you agree, Chief Lord Diviner.”

“Wise words,” agrees Lord Pascal in a reverent tone the High Cardinal seems to feed off of. “Those of us in positions of responsibility must always act to strive further than those that came before us, all the while working diligently to avoid the vices that they may have succumbed to.”

“An admirable approach,” commends Uncle Byron, as he extends his hand towards the Chief Lord Diviner. “Lord Pascal, isn’t it? I have not yet had the pleasure, but the Lady Anabella and others have spoken of your talent.”

Lord Pascal bows as he takes the offered hand. “I thank you for the kind words, but reputation means little when compared to the opportunity to prove one’s abilities.”

“Are you offering a free reading? I thought your services were reserved for the Emperor and his few chosen.” Uncle Byron half jokes, sure in the knowledge that the Chief Lord Diviner’s talents are reserved for those that the Emperor deems worthy alone.

Lord Pascal surprises them all when he continues, “Why not? As the High Cardinal pointed out, it would be in my best interest to distinguish myself from the man who previously held my title. A Diviner’s job, no matter their rank, is to divine, and I believe your gift for the Emperor and the Empress provides me with the perfect opportunity.”

Curious as ever, of course Uncle Byron agrees, “a splendid idea, a chance to solidify your reptation and hers, so how does this…divining work?”

Lord Pascal smiles. “There are many different methods and techniques, but since we do not have access to the more refined techniques here, I believe it would be best to rely on the basics, simply tell me the name of the ship and what constellation shone brightest on the night before her departure?” as Lord Pascal requests this he pulls out a small piece of parchment and a needle.

Uncle Byron ponders for a moment as he tries to recall the details, his fingers stroking his beard in that way he does when he is about to play a magnificent joke. “I believe it was Shiva’s Crown that shone brightest, I can recall Captain Danvers being in good cheer as it was apparently an excellent omen.”

Lord Pascal nods as he begins to punch holes into the piece of parchment he holds. “And the ships name?”

Uncle Byron looks Clive straight in the eyes and smiles as he says, “the Lamia’s Embrace.”

Clive thanks every deity he knows that he was wise enough not to take a drink at that moment. He would have choked and drawn so much unwanted attention as he tried to regain his breath, instead he pretends to take a drink and hides his smirk behind the dark blue glass and silver stem of the goblet he is holding.

He does well enough not to draw any gazes as the High Cardinal supplies the obvious conclusion for the name, from the Gregorian perspective at least, “ah, named for St Lamia I assume?”

“Of course,” Uncle Byron lies through his teeth, knowing that anyone not of Rosaria will make the same assumption.

Clive would love to be in the room when his mother hears the name of the ship, he would pay to see the way her lips will curl, and her eyes will narrow as she has to fight to keep her composure and accept the gift with grace.

He will be the first to admit that his uncle can be two faced, but Clive has only ever seen him use it against those who deserve it, and Clive’s mother most certainly deserves this.

When he manages to regain himself enough to be able to look up with a straight face, he is slightly disappointed to find that he was not as subtle as he had hoped. The High Cardinal and Lord Pascal may not have noticed his little break in decorum, but the look on Prince Dion’s face, a mix of intrigue and perplexity, makes it clear that he will have some explaining to do.

He supposes there is no risk in letting Dion in on the jest, the Prince may even get a laugh out of it, especially after the spectacle Clive’s mother put him through upon their return.

The entire performance had been a farce, a means by which to undermine Dion after his recent efforts in North Reach had earned him the acclaim of his people and the pride of his father.

It is a secret that Dion had been struggling with his control over Bahamut ever since their duel within the inner sanctum of the Mother Crystal, not to a degree that it interfered with Dion’s ability to carry out his duty, but in the sense that it left the Prince feeling uneasy.

Dion had explained it to Clive; it felt as if Bahamut was straining beneath bonds that he had never noticed before, akin to a dragon rejecting a bridle it should have long become accustomed to.

Clive advised him against letting his mother know of this, but Dion felt compelled to tell his father, and inevitably, his mother had found out. The consequences thus far have not been too devastating, but Clive knew how his mother could bide her time, for now she seemed satisfied with using Dion’s difficulty as an opportunity to showcase the power of the heirloom she had chosen to bring with her.

The same fallen idle that she had used to test whether Jill was Shiva had been placed before Dion and had instantly reacted with the barest brush of his fingers, just as brightly as it had when she had insisted Clive himself test it.

His mother possessed enough acting ability not to look disappointed and to even look pleased with the result, overall, her little scheme had put the Emperor at ease, as he confidently dismissed Dion’s concerns.

Yet Dion remains unsettled.

“There,” Lord Pascal announces, retracting the needle as he replaces it in his now free hand with a crystal.

Clive studies the parchment, now littered with holes, it makes absolutely no sense to him, even when Lord Pascal channels the power of the crystal and shines a light over the mess of pinpricks and projects a series of dots onto the marble floor before him.

Lord Pascal seems to quickly draw a conclusion from the punctured parchment, but as he opens his mouth to deliver his prediction the sound of shattering glass and the ring of Dion’s voice crying, “halt!” seizes all of Clive’s attention.

Finding Dion’s gaze, he tracks it to where it lies anchored upon the delegation from the Crystalline Dominion.

For a time, it is hard to see precisely what has evoked such a dramatic reaction from Dion, as the crowd is sent scattering, breaking Clive’s line of sight with the mix of elaborate fabrics and scared nobles that obstruct his view, but soon enough, his gaze catches upon the lone dark figure standing tall amongst the cowering figures of the Crystalline Dominion’s party.

The empty feeling in his chest flairs.

Dressed in rich silks that would suit a corsair better than the King he is, Barnabas Tharmr projects nothing but cold confidence even as he stands alone within the very heart of his sworn enemies’ territory.

“Is this how you would greet an honoured guest?” asks a pale man who almost seems to appear from thin air. Unlike his King who wears a mask of indifference and distain, Sleipnir Harbard is nothing but smiles, dressed similarly if in complete opposite shades, the two appear to be a matched set, it almost feels as though it would be wrong to see one without the other.

“You are no guest of mine, more a stain upon the eastern fringes of my Empire, one that I shall at last be rid of: guards!” At the Emperor’s command the Dragoon’s standing before him begin to advance.

The nobles foolish enough to still be standing close enough to get in the way cower, but it proves unnecessary as the King of Waloed gathers umbra and shadow in his palm until the famed blade of Odin, the Zantetsuken, forms. Light itself seems to wane before the blades edge as Odin’s Dominant delivers a single but sweeping strike.

For the barest moment, all stands still, until the first Dragoon topples to the floor, soon followed by his brethren, like puppets with their strings cut there is nothing to stop them from yielding to the pull of gravity, the sound they make as adamantite greets the polished marble floors is a cacophony that rings as loud as any funerary bell.

Clive shifts, stepping forward to guard his uncle, and silently decries the fact that he was banned from bringing a weapon to this event. With the crystal fetters locked tightly around his wrists he is as vulnerable as any pampered noble that has never held a sword in their life.

Frustratingly, all he can do is watch as Dion flares Bahamut’s wings as he stands between his father and Barnabas Tharmr.

“Butcher!” the prince curses as his eyes flick briefly to the bodies of his men that slowly paint the floor red.

King Barnabas finally smiles.

“Manners, Prince Dion,” Sleipnir chides with a mocking tut from here he still stands at his King’s side. “You cannot denounce such a natural outcome when they merely shared the fate of all those who would dare to bare steel against my Liege. Would you condemn the moon for commanding the sea to rise? or the night for swallowing the day? They forfeited their lives the second they drew their lances.”

“I could ask you the same, my men moved only to fulfil their duty, to remove you for your trespass here, to defend their Emperor, and you would cut them down for that alone!” Dion shouts as his eye’s flair with the power of the Eikon of Light.

“War after all, is an unforgiving mistress,” reasons Sleipnir as he moves to the nearest body of a fallen Dragoon and nudges it with his foot, so the Dragoon now faces his Prince with the vacant eyed stare of a corpse.

“War?” questions one of the cardinals, “we have known peace for the last three years, the accords-”

“The accords no longer hold any power; their worth spent the moment you moved against your own allies,” Clive would swear the Sleipnir’s eyes move to where he and his uncle stand as he says this. “That is to say the Crystalline Dominion finds your words no longer hold the promise they once did, it is at their behest that we came.” Sleipnir gestures to the ambassador of the Crystalline Dominion and his entourage.

At this, the ambassador, an elegant man with olive skin and white hair steps forward, even from this distance Clive can see the way the man has to wrestle with himself in order to suppress the tremor of fear that runs along his fingers, his solution is to tightly clench his fists as he raises his head and speaks, “It is true, we saw this invitation for what it was, the balance that has kept peace between our nations has shattered, ambition has clouded your judgement, robbed you of the wisdom we thought you possessed, and the Crystalline Dominion refuses to fall before your greed.”

“Nonsense,” declares the Emperor, who seems to have grown bold with Bahamut as his shield. “You speak of ambition and greed ambassador, who would you say truly embodies these vices? Me? Who offered aid to Rosaria before the woman I love had even consented to marry me. Who provided shelter for her and her son, the heir to the Ducal Throne when they were forced to flee from their lands. Or the King of Waloed? A man who has slaughtered thousands in pursuit of power. Who controls an entire continent and yet still practises war in the name of some heathen God that has no place on Storm.”

King Barnabas, who until this point had remained indifferent to every word that fell from the Emperor’s mouth, suddenly looks angry, his dark eyes turn to obsidian as the umbral blade in his hand hums with the song of war, its edge made keen by the blood that already paints it.

“The words of a man who worships at the feet of an empty idle mean nothing before the true power of God, have I not already shown you this Lesage? When you first sent your untested boy to face me on the battlefield? He lived that day by the grace of the Almighty alone, but it seems it is a lesson I must teach you again.”

Dion raises Bahamut’s shield in preparation for the strike he knows is coming, but the shadowed blade never connects.

Instead, the sound of stone being cleaved echoes through the cavernous dance hall, as a perfect line carves itself into the throat of the statue of Greagor.

Dust falls first, but then the shriek of marble sheering against itself screams like the death cry of a woman as the head of the great statue slips from her shoulders.

The tragedy unfolds in slow motion, to the point that Clive can see every detail of it even as the world seems to bleed of all its colour.

The head of the statue caught mid-fall by nothing is a sight, the beautiful visage of Greagor made monstrous by the strange shadows cast upon her severed head by the shield Dion still fights to maintain over his father, and as a consequence, Clive’s mother.

How many of Clive’s problems would be solved if Dion’s shield were to fail?

He doesn’t have time to dwell on that, none of them do, as the marble head strikes the shield of light that defends the Emperor.

Debris immediately fills the hall, creating clouds of dust that disrupt the light cast by the crystal chandeliers and plunging the room into near complete darkness. Only the light from Drake’s Head piercing the full-length windows still illuminates the darkness, until the veil of Bahamut’s shield overcomes the shadows of the wreckage that surrounds it, revealing the Emperor curled protectively around Clive’s mother, both completely unharmed.

It takes a moment for the Emperor to realise that he is in no danger, and another to rise to his full height again, but any words of triumph he might have spoken are soon silenced when he comes face to face with the shadowed blade now pressed against his heir’s throat.

Dion, for his part seems calm, but it is clear to all those that still stand in the hall that the King of Waloed has him at a distinct disadvantage.

With all eyes on him Barnabas presses forward and the edge of Zantetsuken bites into Dion’s throat without even touching,

He stops there, as the crowd holds its breath, as they wait to see the execution of the Emperor’s only heir.

Dion doesn’t even flinch, his eyes trained on the King’s gaze, silently daring him to do it as blood flows freely from the small wound in his neck.

The umbral blade of Odin pulses at the sight of the blood and adopts a dark hue that seems to burn with power.

“A half blessing,” King Barnabas notes, “I expected less from a branch that has buried its roots and forsworn its true purpose, but the old ways, even corrupted, still hold sway.”

Dion bares his teeth as he hisses, “I see your proclivity for zealotry has not diminished.” Only to be silenced as the blade meets his skin in truth and bites deeper.

The King continues as if Dion had never spoken, “know this Bahamut, the advent of our Lord is soon upon us, and for his glory alone do I spare you.” Stepping back, his sword still primed King Barnabas allows his gaze to circle the hall. “This false peace has never suited us well, flawed as we are our wills have ever chaffed against it, but now comes the dawn of a new war, another corruption of the power granted to us by the Almighty, but I shall see its end Lesage, can you say the same?”

The Emperor recognises the challenge and stands to meet it, separating himself from Clive’s mother he commands Dion, “release the shield.”

“Father,” Dion protests, but a stern look from the Emperor has Dion acquiescing to the surely suicidal demand.

With a grace that many men would have lost after such a near brush with death, the Emperor descends the dais.

Clive cannot help but question the Emperor’s sanity, what with his Dragoons dead, Bahamut ordered to stand down, and the effigy of his goddess in ruins at his feet, it is clear he has no power here.

So many in the same position would beg for mercy, especially when faced with the Dominant of Odin, and yet Sylvestre Lesage still moves as though he could command the world around him with the merest wave of his hand.

“You destroy a statue, a meagre representation of our Goddess, and believe your deity stronger for that? You speak of sparing my son, when countless battles betwixt you and he have ended in stalemate after stalemate. Your words are as ephemeral as the darkness you command, and in the end, I shall witness it cleansed by the light of Greagor’s chosen.”

Silence commands the hall, but the sound of Zantetsuken being sheathed shatters it.

“We shall see,” King Barnabas has the last word as he turns and exits the hall.

As he leaves, his gaze catches upon Clive’s for the briefest of moments and despite the cool crystal locked around his wrists he can feel Ifrit stir within his chest. The growl that escapes Ifrit is a covetous thing that makes Clive feel uncomfortable in his own skin, as the ringing in his ears grows to a painful pitch.

Only for it all to still as the doors slam firmly behind the King of Waloed and his company.

Chapter Text

The troubles of the previous night hang heavy as Anabella rises from her bed, adding a weight to what should be a wholly happy occasion.

Despite the bath she took last night upon returning to her rooms, it still feels as though she has dust in her hair and dirt beneath her fingernails, even when she can dismiss these notions with the barest glance in the mirror or at her hands.

Add to this the lethargy which still clings to her limbs as she moves about the room, and she must look like the shadow of the Empress she wishes to present herself as.

From the corner of her eye, she can see Celine commanding her lady’s maids to prepare her dress, make-up, and the effects she will require for the day. It puts some of her unease to rest, as she knows from experience how a light dusting of powder and the right dress can hide even the most ruining of flaws.

Oh yes, the wedding is still going ahead, she didn’t even need to argue the point, Sylvestre had silenced the cardinals that had dared to suggest they postpone with a single question: “would you have us appear weak?”

He is right, continuing as if nothing untoward has occurred is the best course of action, to panic now and rush to prepare for a war that has only just been declared would be the height of foolishness. A display of unpreparedness that would put them at a perceived disadvantage when the truth is entirely different.

For all its riches the Crystalline Dominion is a passive nation that previously relied upon its own neutrality and relative irrelevance to leverage itself as the obvious negotiator between its neighbouring nations, but it would seem that sixteen years of peace has blunted the memory of the horrors that war can bring.

The combined forces of the Empire and Rosaria shall soon remind them, and Drake’s Tail shall be added to the Empire that her son shall inherit.

She wonders if King Barnabas actually realises what a wonderful wedding gift he had presented her with. Then again, if he had truly sought to please her he would have removed the Crowned Prince’s head when he had the chance.

She sighs as she sits at her vanity desk, lamenting the wasted opportunity, but soon relaxes as she feels soft fingers begin to pick apart the braid she had worn to sleep, without her even having to instruct them.

The steps to get ready for the wedding ceremony are arduous, but all worth it as she observes herself in the mirrors at the end of each stage. There are a few corrections that have to be made, the bath temperature and the scent of the soaps she prefers. One or two instances in which Celine has to intervene, a shade of eyeliner that would complement her skin tone but is too ostentatious for the virtuous mask she will be wearing today. Regardless, her new ladies in waiting are already proving themselves a quick study and compared to the women they replace, they are competence personified.

When it comes to donning her corset, she has Celine alone adjust it, claiming its Rosarian design as the excuse, a small difference that enables her to continue to conceal her growing belly. So far, she has not heard any rumours, at least not true ones, the lies that have been spread about her thus far have been entirely unimaginative and easily dismissed, the Emperor’s favour protecting her far better than Elwin’s supposed honour ever did.

 As the last lace on her corset is pulled and tied off, Anabella allows herself to breathe again. Satisfied, with both the position and the tightness she allows the other ladies to encircle her once more as one sets about brushing her hair out in preparation for it to be styled, while the others help her slip into a modest silk dressing gown, as the last leaves to usher in a Daughter of Greagor in order to anoint Anabella with the sacred oils that she would be blessed with this morning.

The girl who enters is a nondescript thing, plain and simple in a way that allows the eyes of the observer to pass over her without truly taking note of the girl unless you are actually trying to focus on her. In all honesty Anabella would normally pay her no mind nor waste any attention on her.

Alas, the Gregorian faith has a strangle hold on the politics of the Empire, and to wilfully disregard its practises or to even flaunt your disinterest is tantamount to declaring yourself a heretic, a fact that her family knows all too well.

When the girl finally stops before her and curtsies, Anabella greets her with a benevolent smile and a soft voice, “may the light of Greagor bless you.”

The girl instantly seems pleasantly surprised, as some of the anxiety tightening her shoulders leaves her frame at the familiar blessing, that must fill the halls of the churches the Daughters of Greagor tend to.

“May her light bless you as well, your Grace.” The girls voice tweets like a caged nightingale, sweet but sad in a way that makes Anabella want to snap her neck.

She rises, from her curtsy when Anabella prompts her to, but otherwise does not move.

When Anabella’s patience begins to wear thin, as indicated with the way her nails start to caress the wood of the armrest beneath her hand, Celine steps in.

Moving forward she opens her hand and gestures towards the small ivory box the girl has clutched in her hands. “Are those the oils for the blessing?”

“Y-yes,” stammers the girl as she suddenly seems to remember why she is here. Celine uses her hesitance as an opportunity to sweep forward and lift the box from her hands, leaving the girl with no choice but to follow.

“Is this your first time giving the marriage blessing?” Lady Seydoux enquires, as the girl enters the circle of women surrounding Anabella.

“No,” the girl answers readily, with a tremor in her tone that speaks of fear. With the way her eyes dart around between her ladies in waiting, Anabella assumes that it is a fear born from social anxiety, and the sight of it makes her want to roll her eyes.

She resists her initial instinct to dismiss the girl, it would be so easy to send the little nightingale flying back to her marbled jail, but with that tales of Anabella being uncharitable would surely spread, and that is something she cannot allow. No, she has not spent the last two years cultivating a benevolent mask and image simply to discard them now just before she attains the title she sought from the beginning.

Taking a deep breathe, she suppresses her rising irritation and offers a hand to the girl. When she tentatively takes it, Anabella draws her forward, into the heart of the circle of women.

The girl shrinks into herself, shoulders bent, head bowed, and so Anabella makes sure that when she speaks it is in a gentle tone, “there now, tell me child, what has made you so anxious?”

“Nothing, your Grace,” denies the girl, even as she knows she has been caught.

Anabella smiles as she draws small circles on the back of the girl’s hand, a soothing gesture that can so easily be turned into a slow torture with sharp nails and the correct application of pressure.

“Come now my dear, you are here to perform a great service for me, please. What can I do to make you more comfortable in my presence?” Anabella pleads in a leading tone.

The girl shakes her head. “There is nothing you can do your Grace, it’s just…” she hesitates, on the cusp of giving the answer.

Impatient Anabella prompts her, “just?”

“The blessing is meant to be given in the cathedral, in a house guarded by our lady’s grace,” the girl finally confesses.

Again, Anabella must work so very hard not to display any signs of outward contempt for the Gregorian faith.

So instead of the sharp reprimand that leaps to the tip of her tongue, she asks, “Is the Whitewyrm Lair not blessed by Greagor? As the seat of both the council and the Emperor himself I would think it would be an oversite to declare these grounds unsanctified.”

The girl frowns at that, as if the thought that the Whitewyrm Lair had been consecrated before even the first stone of its foundation had been laid, had never occurred to her.

“I suppose…” she falters, her eyes darting to the desk where the oils she will anoint Anabella with are being laid out.

Anabella seizes upon her faltering conviction. “And lo, did the mother of light descend from the head of the drake and proclaim this land to be the home of her people,” she quotes perfectly, her voice filled with encouragement.

“You know the scriptures?” The girl sounds so shocked.

“I was raised on them, as any true daughter of the Empire should be,” Anabella leaves it there, with the name Rosfield so many forget her maiden name: De Lafontaine.

The girl just seems more confused, but that emotion is dispersed in part at least when Celine hands her the first vial she will need.

The blessing proceeds from there, the oils are rubbed into her skin, the smell of lavender and nutmeg complementing each other as the girl’s voice lilts through the blessing, speaking of the virtues Anabella should be bringing into this marriage. The list is so long and so demanding that no woman alive would be able to truly embody them.

When the girl finally packs up to leave, Anabella is confident in the fact that word of her piety and kindness shall soon fill the halls of the church of the Daughters of Greagor, many of whom come from high born families of great renown, as not just any common thing can serve the most holy.

A few may be old enough or smart enough to know her family history, but they have not yet dared to voice it or employ it against her, not when she was merely an honoured guest, now that she is the Empress…they would be wise to forget her family’s past, just as she has.

“Your Grace?” Lady Seydoux queries, a tray with a selection of jewellery already prepared for her inspection.

The emeralds and diamonds arranged in each piece sparkle in the morning light, as all of them compete for her attention, but it is the single understated teardrop pendant that wins her focus, along with a matching pain of earrings.

Her decision made, the jewellery is taken away as she steps into her dress, a work of art that she had full control of. A statement piece that represents her bloodline and her legacy, made of lace, tulle, and silk.

With a high floral lace neckline and long sleeves that cover the shallow v neck of the bodice, it is the height of modesty, and thus it allows her the leeway necessary for the more opulent ballgown style of the skirt leading to the royal train, which is personally her favourite part of the dress.  Starting from the centre of her back and continuing in a waterfall of feathers and fabric, the train is a blaze of red, orange and blue, comprised of dyed chocobo and griffin feathers in order to emulate the tails of the primed form of the Phoenix.

The look of them is unmistakable, and the message is clear.

As the last button is finally fastened at the back of her neck Anabella takes a moment to observe herself in the full-length mirror.

Even without her crown she looks like an Empress.

Her hair arranged in a chignon, studded with pearls and secured with a silver comb from which her veil hangs, allows her hair to perfectly frame her face.

The makeup she wears is understated, soft tones that highlight the paleness of her flawless skin without washing her out, which allows the rose petal pink lip paint she is wearing and the subtle peach eye powder to give a warm look to her face.

Satisfied, she turns and makes for the doors.

Clive awaits her exit in the reception room, standing by the balcony doors, his eyes fixed upon the sight beyond.

She gives him a moment to make the right choice, to turn and greet her cordially with the respect she deserves. When he does not move, she inhales in preparation to call his name but finds it unnecessary when he suddenly turns and acknowledges her, “good morning mother.”

His bow is perfect, lacking the slowness that he once used to execute it with out of a need to make it flawless. His expression once he stands tall again is blank, his eyes hidden by the way he chooses to look down at the floor, the same old trick he always used to use to try and hide his fear of her, with one slight change.

She crosses the room, and as she stands before Clive, she takes his chin in her hand and quietly instructs, “look at me.”

He hesitates again, but before she has to command him a second time, he obeys.

His eyes reveal it all.

His hate, his anger, his frustration, and his defiance.

She embraces it, for she knows he can do naught against her.

Leaning forward, she brushes aside his fringe and plants a gentle kiss upon his brow before she whispers in his ear, “one day, my son, you shall thank me for all I have done for you.”

Clive tenses, and as she pulls back, she can see the war that rages beneath the mask he has crafted for himself.

Knowing his temperament, she cannot help but be proud when he manages to maintain control, even so, she is more than happy to give him the moment he will need to calm down.

He must after all be able to wear his best mask if he is to walk her down the aisle today.

Chapter Text

“You couldn’t have stuck around for the festivities?” Cid asks as he boards the Einherjar, casual as you like, as though he’s just another sailor and not the Lord Commander of the Waloeder army.

Barney’s answer is a half-amused huff as his gaze stays fixed on the distant glow of Drake’s Head and the Capital of the Empire that rests beneath it.

Cid, not one gifted with the sense to quit while he is ahead, continues to prod, “come on, you’re telling me you went all the way there just to declare war and didn’t even swipe a bottle of that fancy wine of theirs on your way out?” Cid shakes his head. “For shame Barney, I thought I taught you better than this.”

“You did,” intones Barney, completely deadpan as he raises a hand and summons a bottle of bloody Gaultand sixty-six of all things.

“Have I mentioned what a smug bastard you are recently?” Cid laughs as he snatches the bottle away before Barney can make it vanish again. “Because you really are one.”

“I believe the Emperor and the Crowned Prince shall be thinking much the same after last night,” Sleipnir chuckles from where he emerges from below deck, as he walks to stand beside the two men leaning against the railing of the ship.

“I’m sure Sylvestre looked more than a bit shocked to see you rubbing shoulders with those folks from the Crystalline Dominion,” Cid comments as he fishes out a fresh cigar and a crystal to light it. “I bet he didn’t think they’d ever have the balls to challenge him, let alone go to his greatest enemy for help.”

“They serve their purpose.” That’s Barnabas speak for he wants to be rid of these annoying politicians as soon as possible.

“You know, you didn’t have to accept their offer of an alliance,” Cid reminds him in his own not-so-subtle way of asking why Barney would throw them into yet another war against the Empire. Not to say that the Empire and Waloed have been all that chummy over the last few years. Cid himself loves it when he has the chance to raise a storm against the Dragoons, fast as they are it only takes one spark to knock them back to the earth where they truly belong.

“War with Sanbreque was always inevitable, the greed of man is a living thing, driven by will it crushes those that would try to bear its weight, the Emperor, in time, will learn the truth of this as well.” Barney declares, conviction in every word he speaks.

“There you go again,” Cid sighs, “spouting off like some prophet, must get tiring.”

Barney gives him a harsh side eye for that one, but the way Sleipnir snorts at the jab lets Cid know that he hasn’t crossed the line, not yet at least.

Looking to move along the conversation, and probably give Cid less ammunition, Barney asks, “Your report?”

Cid takes a long drag of his cigar before answering, holding his breath for a moment to let the smoke settle in his lungs before breathing it out in a heady cloud that smells of coffee, cedar, and leather. “Bahamut was able to defend the capital, there’s not even a raised water mark on those pretty white walls of theirs, but the same can’t be said for anyone that lived on the Royal Meadows, North Reach survived, if you can call having half your population drowned and the other half left homeless surviving, but Moore was taken by the tide.” Another deep puff to help calm his nerves, it’s one thing seeing the bodies of soldiers scattered across a battlefield, it’s a whole other thing seeing an entire town sunk, the bodies that remain left for the lucky scavengers that managed to track them down because there’s no one left to bury them.

With a small headshake he moves on and continues his report, “the fields themselves are completely destroyed, there’s not a chance they’ll be able to harvest anything but salt from that soil for the next few years, even if they do use crystals to restore them.”

“Good,” Barnabas acknowledges.

But Cid can’t stop there. “For our war effort yes, but maybe not so much when you take into account what the locals are saying caused it.”

Cid’s ready to deliver the shocking news, only to have the wind completely stolen from his sails when Sleipnir beats him to the punch. “The Whorleater, Leviathan.”

“The nobles’ gossip about it at that fancy party you crashed?” Cid pokes weakly in retaliation.

He’d been looking forward to Barney’s reaction, to finally getting one over his King, but it looks like he’s the last to know, again. A man can soon grow tired when it comes to being kept in the dark.

“Hardly, already the Emperor’s agents work to suppress the reemergence of the Warden of Water.” Barnabas finally turns his back on the distant spire that is Drake’s Head as he makes his way to his cabin.

Reluctantly, Cid follows him, it is a shame after all, to spend such a nice day below deck, even if Barney’s cabin does come with the best view, the enclosed space keeps out the fresh sea breeze and makes it harder for Cid to sense the changes in the atmosphere that whisper of approaching storms.

Cid waits to ask his next question until the door to the cabin is closed firmly behind them, “oh? And why the hell would they do that, from the talk in North Reach Bahamut soon sent Leviathan packing, you’d think Sylvestre would be crowing his sons praises from the highest tower of the Whitewyrm Lair.”

“He would,” volunteers Sleipnir with that lilt of his that makes him sound condescending even when he’s not even trying to be, “if the very existence of a new Dominant of Leviathan did not contradict their holy doctrine.”

“Come again?” Cid questions.

“Thus, through the piety of her people and the worship of the one true god were the heretics banished,” recites Benedikta from where she is sitting on the built in window seat, almost hidden by Barney’s desk. She seems relaxed, comfortable in a way that makes her look like a bored stolas sunning its feathers.

“The Cleansing?” Cid guesses, the Empire might not be as gun hoe about persecuting other religions as they were a hundred years ago, but the horror stories from that time still haunt the Church of Greagor, and it’s no secret that some of the more zealous within their ranks would like to bring the practise of burning non-believers back.

“It was one of the most prominent theories as to why Leviathan had not been seen for near a century.” Sleipnir confirms, “what better way to justify the genocide of an entire people than to point out how their own Eikon abandoned them.”

“So old titanic, dark, and scaly being back doesn’t fit with their rhetoric of divine right.” Cid points out the obvious as he takes a seat before the desk and drags the tray filled with four goblets towards him. He wastes no time snatching up the corkscrew and getting to work on the bottle, and soon enough the cork is freed with a satisfying pop that assures him that the bottle was properly sealed.

“And so, they turn away from that which they dare not face,” Barnabas sums up as Cid hands him a goblet. He offers Benna hers next, but she goes a step further and sits in his lap before taking it, she’s becoming bolder as she grows older, taking advantage of the fact that he has a hard time saying no to her, in order to get what she wants.

Just like she planned, he doesn’t complain, but it does make handing Sleipnir his goblet a little harder.

“Do horses even like wine?” he jokes as he holds out the third goblet, just out of easy reach.

“This one does,” declares his fellow Lord Commander, as he snatches up the goblet and takes a deep draft.

Cid grabs his own goblet, an old thing that has been worn by time and use, but it’s one of the first things he bought for himself, so he can’t bring himself to replace it. Look at him, not even old and he’s already a sentimental fool.

The sip he takes is generous, but not so deep as to be insulting to as fine a vintage as this.

“Damn, that is smooth.” His words hardly do it justice, but then again, he’s not the type to wax poetic.

“I could get used to this,” Benna concurs, as she takes another sip.

“You would,” Cid snorts, making Benna pout.

“Am I not worth it?” Cid decidedly does not meet her gaze, not even when she starts to play with the edge of his sleeve, a mistake.

The zing of pain that shoots up his arm as her fingers lightly brush the petrified skin that’s barely begun to bloom along the back of his wrist is nearly unbearable.

So much so that he nearly drops the goblet in his other hand.

“Cid?” Benna cries, as she herself is nearly tipped out of his lap.

Gritting his teeth he manages to breathe out a very unconvincing lie, “it’s alright.”

Barnabas doesn’t buy it for a second, in one stride he’s looming over Cid, and Benna is wise enough to stand up and get out of the way, giving Barney full access to him, Cid can’t blame her for it when he sees the stormy look Barney’s sporting.

“Show me,” he commands, his tone uncompromising.

Cid, of course, still has to push it as far as he can.

“Listen, Barney, it’s not that bad, nothing you need concern yourself over, it doesn’t even hurt that much so what is the point-”

He doesn’t get any further, because Barney grabs his wrist, forcing the words to stop as Cid lets out a strangled hiss.

The pull of his sleeve against the stone flesh as Barney pushes the material out of the way is pure torture, but Cid is resolved not to show the pain on his face. Keeping his eyes fixed on his arm, he’s forced to confront the reality of the curse spreading across his skin, the small grey splotches of pebbled flesh stand out against his wind tanned skin, making them all the more obvious.

Barney doesn’t even blink at the sight of the curse, merely cloaks his free hand in a power that must be Odin’s—Cid can’t allow himself to believe it’s anything else—and places his palm above Cid’s wrist.

The touch is cold, not like the freezing touch of ice water, but rather something simply void of all warmth. It makes Cid want to snatch his arm back, sure he’s used to unnatural things, what with being the Dominant of Ramuh, but this is a step too far even for him.

The only thing that stops him is the quietly receding pain.

Instead of the constant stab of dead and dying flesh and the weight of stone bearing down upon his wrist, all he feels is a light static, like the tingle of pins and needles running along every nerve, it makes him want to squirm, but before it can grow to a level strong enough to overcome his own endurance, it stops.

Barney shifts his hand, taking Cid’s in his own so he cannot pull back, revealing the skin that had previously been covered by his palm.

Cid’s wrist is a little inflamed, but the patches of stone are gone, leaving only red and slightly irritated flesh behind, but it’s what lies underneath that causes Cid to worry, the blue veins of aether that slowly vanish, as if they were never there to begin with.

Satisfied for his part, Barney finally backs off and moves to take up his own seat behind the iron wood desk. When he’s sat comfortably, he retrieves his goblet and finally takes a sip, but his expression doesn’t change.

It all but confirms Cid’s worst fears but he still has to ask, “can you even taste that?”

Barney glares, but when Cid only meets the stern gaze with open and genuine concern it soon breaks.

“Somewhat,” is the reserved answer, which is more telling than Barney would ever like it to be, because if he’s willing to admit to any weakness then it must be far worse than what he is letting on.

“Barney,” Cid starts, in that tone that he knows Barnabas hates because for whatever reason it can still reach him, draw out the man beneath the façade of the Warrior King that united an entire continent by leaping the walls of Ravenwit and taking the head of the last King of Veldermark.

“The gift is well worth the price,” Barney explains, or doesn’t, as the case has always been, and this is what it all comes down to.

“How can you know that?” Cid implores, cause from where he’s sitting there is something very wrong, there’s been something wrong ever since that night months ago, when the supposed god wearing the face of a boy appeared before them…maybe even before that.

Barney just smirks in that infuriatingly knowing way of his as he states with a certainty that Cid could never have, “faith.”

That’s it, and usually it would be the end of the conversation as Cid would scoff and storm out, only to go brood somewhere as he thought about his place in the world and how Barney’s faith shook it.

Not this time.

Like Cid said, he’s seen some shit lately, and now he wants answers.

“Faith in what? The Circle of Malius? This God you worship?” Cid asks with a cynic’s curiosity, determined to get a straight answer for once.

“I never asked you to understand Cidolfus, you had no interest,” Barney deflects, “I only ask what I have always asked, that you follow so that I might lead.”

“Yeah, and I’m fine with that, so long as it’s still you I’m following,” Cid challenges, pushing it further than he has in a while. It’s been a few months since their last big tiff, they were due for another one.

Barney, as always, appears unfazed.

“Is it this power of mine you fear? Or the source of it?

Cid bristles, uncomfortable with being called out, but the terror that has been building at the back of his mind for weeks now is getting harder and harder to ignore.

Unintentionally, his eyes flit to where Benna now sits back in her little nook, he watches for a second as she plays with her pipe, sending little green sparks of wind to spin the trails of smoke that waft off the lit embers of the tobacco she is smoking.

She catches him staring and smiles back, her eyes lit with both fire and magic in an idle use of aether they had both once shied away from.

She’s changed, and though Cid knows he should be glad that she no longer feels the trepidation she once did when it comes to using the powers of her Eikon, he can’t stop his own anxiety from growing as he sees her become more reckless, more zealous.

If he keeps allowing Barney to take away the curse, how long until he’s no longer cautious? Until he no longer cares?

Unwilling to voice this and knowing Barney’s waiting for an answer he counters, “is fear really such a bad thing? More often than not it keeps you alive.”

“And at other times it can blind you, lead you to stray down a path which only ends in horror,” Barney’s speaks from experience, Cid knows he does, but he just can’t bring himself to back down.

“So, what’s the price then?” he asks, “other than the obvious?” He flips his hand towards Barney as he takes a sip of his wine, projecting maximum asshole energy and not giving a damn.

Barney looks at him, really looks at him in a way that lets Cid know he is being measured, that he is being placed on a scale and weighed against Barney’s faith. It’s a battle he lost before it ever truly began, and he sees it in the way that Barney’s eyes darken, the way his defences rise.

After all they have been through together, in the eyes of the King he admired, Cid is still found wanting.

“The price is no concern of yours,” the words fall as heavy as a blow, and Cid can taste the wine grow sour on his tongue.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.” Excuse him for thinking they were friends, that Barney would trust him.

Standing from his seat Cid makes for the exit, ignoring the way Benna calls after him when he slams the door behind him.

As he comes to stand at the rail of the ship again, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon and the dark clouds brewing there Cid can’t help but ask himself, just what is he fighting for?

Chapter Text

Clive can recall the first time he was allowed to see Joshua, the events leading up to and surrounding the memory are blurry, the details having grown fuzzy around the edges with the passage of time, but their actual first meeting is as clear as crystal in his mind.

He remembers being escorted into the room, the nervousness that had seized him as he approached the cradle, the way his feet had stopped as he clutched his hands to his chest, afraid to reach out, scared that if he dared to take another step forward that his mother would appear and order him from the room.

It was only at the prodding of the maids that had been assigned by Lady Hannah to watch over Joshua that he finally dared to cross the final distance that separated him from his new baby brother.

The moment Joshua looked at him with wide innocent eyes and all the trust in the world, he had Clive.

The love that had bloomed in his chest when he first saw his little brother was an unselfish thing, he knew then and there he would do anything to protect Joshua, that this was his role now, as an older brother, to keep his little brother safe.

As he grew Joshua had returned the same love, even as their mother had tried to poison it, whispering in his ear about how Clive was not worth his love nor his time, for years Joshua had not understood, but the lesson had been taught so harshly to him one evening when their mother caught them sitting together in Clive’s room. They had been sat on the carpet in front of the fireplace, a book describing the adventures of a wondering Moogle open to Joshua’s favourite tale.

His mother had crossed the distance that separated them faster than a diving Dragoon, leaving Clive with little time to brace himself for the attack he knew was coming, only for him to catch the glint of near hysteria that possessed his mother’s gaze.

He used the little time he had to shield Joshua instead of himself.

The slap that followed was a brutal thing, his mother put all her weight and hatred behind it as she brought her palm down across his cheek, her sharp nails caught in the meat of his cheek as she followed through, leaving three distinct lines carved into his flesh.

Clive didn’t register the pain, he didn’t register anything, because the force of the blow was enough to make him crash to the floor, and with his arms wrapped protectively around Joshua there was nothing to stop his head from slamming into the hard stone hearth.

He had woken an hour later, in the physickers quarters, with the worried face of Lady Hannah slowly wavering into focus.

The next time he had seen Joshua was the next morning, when his father had brought him to the physickers ward.

Joshua had burst into tears the second he saw Clive laid in the bed, bandages wrapped tightly around his head and salve pasted across his left cheek in order to stop the bleeding.

His little brother had only calmed when he was allowed to lie on the bed next to Clive and hadn’t hesitated to wrap his arms as far as the small span of them would allow.

The comfort was instant, and Clive had happily returned the hug, only reluctantly flinching back when Joshua began to glow with the soft healing light of the Phoenix.

He had moved to shuffle away but the restraining arms of his brother and the all too regretful look on his father’s face when he had looked up at him for help, had forced him to stay still.

The warmth that suffused him chased away all the lingering aches and the worrying vertigo that had lingered at the edge of his mind since he awoke. It was only then that he heard the quiet mantra that his little brother was whispering into his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Shh, Joshua, no, you have nothing to be sorry for.” Clive’s words merely seemed to make things worse as Joshua’s tears came harder.

“It’s my fault, I know it is, she hates you because of me.”

Clive knew that wasn’t true, his mother hated him regardless.

Clive looked to his father, all but begging for help.

Shaking his head his father came to sit on the bed beside them, resting one hand gently on Clive’s head, still careful of the bandages even though they were no longer necessary, and the other on Joshua’s back.

“Joshua, your mother’s feelings are her own, and nothing you, Clive, I, or anyone else says shall ever change them.”

“But-” Joshua had tried to interrupt but a soft pat on his back had halted him, allowing their father to continue.

“The one thing you will always have control over is how you yourself treat others, and for that I am grateful. You are a kind boy Joshua, but it is an ugly world we live in, and you cannot blame yourself for that.”

Joshua, as young as he was at the time, did not spear to fully grasp the difficult concept that their father was trying to outline, but the way he had calmed made Clive think that he understood that it wasn’t his fault.

This, like so many other memories involving Joshua and his father were painful to remember, but he cannot allow himself to forget, he will not let their memories fade, and he will not allow his mother to forget them either.

The latter task is easier said than done, especially when his mother now has replacements for them both.

The thought of it alone is enough to make Clive’s blood boil, bad enough that she shamelessly married the man who helped her murder Clive’s father, but now she has given birth to that man’s child as well.

Clive wants nothing to do with it, if it were up to him, he would never lay eyes upon the babe.

He knows objectively that the boy is innocent, but any goodwill Clive might have had towards the babe was extinguished the moment he was confirmed as a Dominant.

His mother hadn’t wasted a second, barely a day old and the boy had been presented with the idle of the Phoenix, the instant reaction and the bright red glow were all the proof anyone needed and soon the news had spread like wildfire.

The Phoenix had been reborn to the Empire.

With that single revelation, all of Uncle Byron’s political plotting had come undone.

It would have been one thing for Rosaria to rise up in Clive’s name against his mother, it is entirely another to rise up against the Phoenix’s chosen heir.

By all the laws of the Founder, this new child is the next ruler of Rosaria.

A year, a mere year had separated Clive from his majority, Rosaria would have been free, and with the war against Waloed occupying Bahamut and the Empires main forces, it would have been the simplest of things for Clive to reinstate Rosaria’s independence. What could his mother or the Emperor have done? Any troops that have been stationed in Rosaria would have been expelled and the Empire could not afford to fight a war on two fronts.

It would have been an all but bloodless coup.

This new child destroyed that vision the moment his status as the Phoenix was confirmed.

Uncle Byron holds onto some hope that Clive’s mother is lying.

Clive knows she isn’t, his mother is a consummate actress but the one thing she could never hide was her disappointment that her child was not born the Phoenix.

With a deep breath and the sharp brush of his own nails against the palm of his clenched fists, Clive tries to calm himself.

He can’t afford to show his emotions now, not when he is being led towards his mother’s chambers in order to meet this new little Prince for the very first time.

It is a completely different experience from his introduction to Joshua, for one, he is not being led down a servants’ passage and snuck in through a side door, while his father distracts his mother. No, this time he is given the ‘honour’ of being one of the very first people introduced to the new Prince.

“Lord Marquis?” asks Mia from where she is walking just behind him, he would prefer for her to be walking beside him, her warmth and quiet comfort is so similar to that of Lady Hannah’s, but that would not be proper.

Still, as he turns back to acknowledge her, he can see the quiet concern as her gaze flits between his own and his tightly clenched fist.

“it’s fine Mia,” he assures as he shakes out his hand, “but thank you.”

His own eyes flick to the silk gloves covering her hands. “How are your wounds?” he questions out of concern and a need for distraction.

Mia smiles. “Better now,” she says as she adjusts the gloves.

Clive gave them to her after noticing the blood stains on her previous ones, caused by the harsher cotton fabric reopening her burns as she went about her work. Mia had been close to tears when he gave them to her, he had immediately commissioned two more pairs for her after that, both in pale colours that would go unnoticed against the pastel shades of her maid uniform.

It was such a small thing, and hardly enough to make up for all that Mia had done for him, but Mia seemed grateful for the gesture, and that was all that mattered.

He does realise that he has come to rely on Mia for a lot of things, a natural outcome of her competence and skill but even so, Clive cannot help but feel guilty.

Despite this he knows by this point he would not be able to bring himself to dismiss her, it would be for her own safety, and the thought had crossed Clive’s mind so many times in the beginning, but then he had witnessed how Mia intuitively managed to navigate his mother’s moods and avoid her ire.

As if she had been doing it for years, she managed to fade into the background all the while pre-empting his mother’s requests.

On the more selfish end of the scale is the fact that over the past two years she had managed to almost singlehandedly fill the room he has been assigned here with reminders of home. Small things, like the red comforters she places over the white sheets that are prepared by the castle staff, to the replacement of the overly sweet Oriflamme desserts that used to be on offer with a much-preferred savoury selections that had obvious Rosarian influences.

No, the thought of replacing her has long since fled his mind.

That doesn’t mean he does not go out of his way to protect her.

As they approach the guards that guard the nursery Clive turns to Mia and says, “thank you, I am sure this shall be far enough.” Giving her an easy excuse to retreat.

The smile Mia wears is sly as she tilts her head and returns with a voice that is absolutely professional, “I was instructed to accompany you, Lord Marquis.”

Clive is beginning to develop an eye twitch in response to that phrase, which is quickly becoming a favourite of Mia’s.

Whenever he tries to give her an out or provide a perfect excuse for her to flee it’s always: ‘I was instructed,’ and the worst part is, she knows there is nothing he can say against it.

He stares at her for a moment, silently begging for her to reconsider, she just keeps smiling at him in that pleasant way, and Clive knows that he has lost, at least this time.

With a sigh of defeat, he turns back to the Dragoon’s posted outside the entry.

Seeing they have his attention; they fall into the Sanbrequois salute and allow him to pass without interference.

The room he enters, like most apartments assigned to members of the Imperial family, or honoured guests of the Emperor, is a lavish reception hall that boasts the riches of the Empire. A dark wood table and the matching chairs that surround it takes up the lion’s share of the space, it contrasts beautifully with the soft creams and blues that dominate the colour pallet of the chamber. With how vacuous the room is the table still hardly takes up a third of it, allowing room for oblique display of wealth in the form of platinum filigree designs worked into the marble walls and arched ceilings, all of which frames the lavish murals that depict Greagor in her most nurturing form.

The show of extravagance, as always, is wasted on Clive, his eyes skate over it, seeing everything but catching on nothing, because his focus lies on the door leading to the main nursery.

Unfortunately, it does not take long for one of his mother’s new ladies in waiting to notice him and usher him forward.

“Lord Marquis,” the woman greets with a bow before she stands aside and bays him enter, “your mother has been expecting you.”

Knowing there is no point in further delaying the inevitable, Clive does as he is told, but not before Mia can give him one last sincere and secretly commiserating smile.

The door fully opens on silent hinges to the scene of a flock of women gathered around the sat figure of his mother. The cradle beside her, an ornate thing that sacrifices practicality and sense for aesthetic in the form of a curved metal structure that is supposed to look like a crescent moon, but to Clive’s eyes appears to be the frame of a broken dragon’s egg, sits empty.

The sound of a small infant fussing soon reveals the location of the boy, his small body completely concealed by the sea of skirts that surround him.

Any hope of continuing to go unnoticed is soon demolished as the woman who had ushered him into the room suddenly announces his presence.

“Your Majesty, your son, as you requested.”

The ladies’ part, and Clive’s mother looks straight at him, her eyes filled with satisfaction and pride.

“Clive, come meet your little brother.”

Clive stills when he hears the tone his mother uses, soft and endearing, with an emphasis on the word ‘brother’, not your ‘new brother’.

It’s as though she is trying to erase Joshua with her words alone.

He wants to scream, to shout and rail against the injustice of it all.

Instead, in order to buy himself a little more time, he asks, “what is his name?”

He doesn’t manage to fully mask his anger, and he can’t help but be disappointed in himself for that. Over the past few months, he’s gotten so much better at hiding his emotions, at wearing the mask he is slowly and painfully managing to craft, at telling the truth in a way that cannot be used against him, as he learned quickly that lying, whether well or poorly, never worked.

For once he is lucky and his mother fails to notice his slip, too focused on the small bundle she has in her arms.

“Olivier,” she utters with all the love in the world, her voice as soft as a feather fall.

Of course it’s a Sanbrequois name.

With no other choice and his final tactic of delay used, he walks forward.

Looking down he is met with a piercing blue gaze, unlike Joshua this child does not smile, he doesn’t reach for Clive in that endearing way Joshua did, but still, the moment their eyes meet there is that thread of connection.

Steeling his heart, Clive bats the feeling away and once more resolves himself to dislike this child.

“Would you like to hold him?” his mother asks, even as it is not a request as she is already standing from her chair and manoeuvring the child into a position that will make him easy to hand off.

The denial is on the tip of Clive’s tongue, along with the preprepared excuse that he is afraid he will drop his fragile little brother.

It proves to be unnecessary when salvation comes in the form of a knock on the door.

One of the Dragoon guards enters with a nervous look on his face as he bows before Clive’s mother.

“Forgive me, your Majesty, but there is a Lord De Lafontaine here to see you.”

All joy instantly drains from his mother’s face, only for a moment, but long enough for Clive to see the displeasure and borderline loathing that cracks his mother’s beautiful face.

As always, she manages to gather herself quickly, “the younger or the elder?” she enquires, her voice as light as silk falling across a blade.

“Young, I believe?” the guard replies, clearly unnerved and a little hesitant, he must have good survival instincts to catch the danger lurking beneath his mother’s tone.

Only his mother’s eyes change this time, clouding from pure blue to a storm like grey that Clive has rarely seen directed at anyone but him.

“I shall see him in the drawing room,” she instructs, and before Clive can protest or otherwise do anything but automatically adjust his hold, he finds the babe thrust into his arms as his mother marches from the room, Celine following in her shadow.

“W-wait!” Clive finally manages to get out, but the sudden loudness of his voice only causes the babe in his arms to squirm, which in turn forces Clive to clutch him tighter, lest he actually drop the boy.

A soft giggle to his left alerts him to the presence of Lady Seydoux.

“Is this your first time holding a baby?” Her hands are already moving to adjust his before he can answer. “Make sure you support his head.”

Clive does so and as a consequence once again ends up meeting the gaze of those bright blue eyes.

His treacherous heart twists in his chest but he does his best to ignore it.

This is his half-brother, he reminds himself, he is the reason Rosaria will probably end up as a full province of the Empire.

The boy yawns, one tiny hand rubbing uncoordinatedly against his eye while the other takes Clive’s shirt in a tight grip.

Clive holds him a little closer, a little more securely, only to shake himself when he realises what he is doing.

This is his half-brother, the son of the man that orchestrated the death of his own father.

The boy snuggles into Clive’s warmth, blinking widely as he tries to fight off sleep.

This is his brother…damn it!

…

His mother returns a few minutes later to find Clive sitting in the chair she vacated, but she does not pause at the sight, nor does she slow her pace as she makes her way to the fire that burns brightly in the hearth of the nursery.

From the corner of his eye Clive watches as she tosses something onto the fire. Whatever it is catches immediately and violently, and only the single blue petal that survives the flames by fluttering out of the hungry fires reach gives a clue as to what the object was.

Clive doesn’t care, in fact he barely takes notice of it, too focused on his new little brother who is safe and sound asleep in his arms.

His mother approaches, and Clive forces himself to relax even as his instincts tell him to shy away.

She hates it when he does that, even a slight tense when she wraps her arms around him is seen as an insult in her eyes, so what would her reaction be to him trying to protect Olivier from her?

So, instead he remains perfectly still.

This reaction pleases his mother immensely, as shown when she reaches out and runs a hand through his hair, in what should be a comforting gesture. It isn’t, as always, her hand is cold and her nails are sharp, it feels like a threat even when it is not meant to be one.

Looking to distract himself, he asks in a low voice, so as to not disturb Olivier, “who was that?”

Of course, he recognised the name De Lafountaine, but he has never had the chance to meet any family on him mother’s side.

“A man of little consequence, who has some unfortunate blood ties,” his mother dismisses with an air of disinterest that Clive can tell is forced.

The message is clear, do not ask, do not look into it, and do not dare to try to meet with him.

Clive will of course obey; he’ll just also remember to mention the man to Uncle Byron.

Considering the matter resolved, his mother reaches for Olivier, and Clive can do nothing as he is lifted from his arms, though he is surprised when his mother, instead of keeping Olivier in her own hold passes him off to Celine.

Petulantly, Clive silently thinks that if she was just going to hand his little brother off then she may as well have continued to allow Clive to hold him.

That thought is dispelled by the shock of seeing his mother fish out the key for his fetters.

The only time Clive is allowed to be free of them is when he is training, the moment he is done, there is always a servant or a guard assigned by his mother awaiting to clamp them back over his wrists, just as a precaution they say, as he still does not have full control of his Eikon. A lie, though Clive has not had the chance to Prime since his duel against Dion, he can feel how Ifrit has calmed.

Ever since Phoenix Gate, and the visions he was shown in the heart of the Apodytery, the revelations obtained there…

He knows this power is his, that he can control it, both flame and light come so easily to his call now, it is only the healing flames of the phoenix that still evade his grasp, and Clive does not resent this, he is built to defend, to be a shield.

He may have failed Joshua in the worst way, but now he has a second chance with Olivier.

He is not replacing Joshua, nothing and no one could ever do that, however, Olivier is also his little brother, innocent of all his parent’s crimes, does he not deserve that same protection, that same devotion.

 The click of the key in the lock of his fetter snaps Clive out of these thoughts, allowing him to clearly hear the next words his mother speaks, “The Astrologers have advised that it is best to allow your aether to flow freely when you are in contact with your little brother, Lord Pascal said that since you are both Dominants of Fire there will be some element of synchronisation.”

Clive knows the truth of this the moment the fetters fall away, instead of the normal, near painful rush of aether suddenly flooding his veins, there is a much slower flow to his aether.

The difference is startling, like comparing the slow rise of a gentle tide to the devastation of a tsunami crashing down upon him.

Any doubts of Lord Pascal’s hypothesis are quickly dismissed when his little brother is once again placed in his arms, the flow of aether between them is immediate, and the effects that follow nearly bring tears to Clive’s eyes.

A sense of tranquillity settles across him, blunting the apprehension and fierce hate he always feels when forced to endure his mother’s presence.

He doesn’t even mind when she reaches up to brush away the tears that have traitorously started to fall.

“You will protect your little brother, won’t you Clive? It is after all, the reason you were born.”

He can’t even argue against her, not with this, because it is the same self-assigned task that he gave himself the moment he locked eyes with Joshua.

Olivier is not Joshua, but he is Clive’s brother.

“Yes,” he swears with an iron resolve of the First Shield of Rosaria.

Chapter Text

It has become near impossible to sneak out of the White Wyrm’s Lair.

In the months following the unexpected appearance of King Barnabas on the first day of celebration to mark the Emperor’s wedding, both the rules and the security have been tightened.

Where once Mia could submit a request for a day of leave, now she must await an assigned day off where she and other servants shall be escorted into the city by armed guards, giving her little opportunity to slip away.

It has been inconvenient to say the least, and in the end, it meant that Mia had to sacrifice sleep in order to sneak out of the castle under the cover of darkness. A risk for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that it left her tired the next day, more susceptible to mistakes, never a problem when she is serving the Marquess, who when he noticed her minor slips insisted on helping and even covering for her, but it becomes a true danger on those rare days she is summoned to assist the Empress.

Thankfully, it is not something she shall have to deal with much longer.

With that happy thought in mind, she makes her way through the dark passage deeper into the mines beneath the White Wyrm’s Lair.

The tunnels that link the castle to the mines of Drake’s Head are vast and labyrinthine in their construction, a design feature purposely built to discourage attempts such as hers. It would be next to impossible for her to navigate her way safely through the tunnels were it not for the map that she had long since memorised. A map obtained over generations of spy work by the Undying that came before her.

For decades they had worked to infiltrate the Empire, Mia only regrets that their success had come too late, but she does not allow herself to dwell on it, not when she now has a chance to correct a mistake.

Long minutes pass in silence, this section of the mines long abandoned for fear of aether floods and the creatures it spawns, but Mia knows the way is relatively safe, the plumes of aether having yet to rise this far, the size of this tunnel also makes it impossible for any of the larger beasts to attack her, though a few of the smaller ones do try.

They do not last long, a deft twist of her wrist is all it takes to send the throwing knife soaring, and many of the creatures fall before they even realise they are dead.

When she finally reaches the exit she has to face a short climb, but the natural crag she emerges from is perfectly hidden, obscured by a large growth of crystal that presses itself against the outer wall of the White Wyrm’s Lair, impossible to find unless you know it is there.

Slipping into the shadows of the small woodland that rests beneath the castle walls she disappears from sight only to reemerge on a quiet street that leads into the heart of the city.

An hour later she finds herself standing before a familiar door, with a well worn but defined carving of a feather cut into the frame.

A soft knock and the whispered words that must always be spoken to affirm her identity, but the phrase she is expecting is not returned.

Instead, the door opens harshly, the man behind it barely waiting for the latch to be unhooked before he near rips it from the frame.

An arm emerges from the darkness within, and Mia is dragged in before she can pull back, the fingers of the hand that grabs her are harsh against her healed burns, to the point that she can feel some of them reopening, but she does not allow the cry of pain that rises at the feel of it to escape her.

The door is slammed shut as soon as she is inside, cutting off the limited light the moon and the crystal lamps provided.

“Glen?” Mia calls into the darkness as she hears shifting footsteps somewhere to her left.

“A moment,” he whispers in return, his voice the barest breath of air in the small room.

Mia lets him have it, remaining still and quiet as he moves about the room.

It comes to an end when he lights the crystal lantern and exposes his face to her.

The man she looks at is a ghost of his former self, his face pale and drawn, his eyes sunken, and his robes bloodstained and tattered almost beyond recognition.

“Mia,” he whimpers as he tries to regain himself. The deep shadows of the room fail to hide how much he shivers, how scared he is.

“Glen,” she asks with concern, “what happened to you? Where are the others?”

“Dead,” he answers in a shaky voice that nearly breaks upon the word, “I barely managed to escape, but the others, I could only watch as they were killed, I arrived too late…if I had met with them as planned…” A trembling hand rises to cover his mouth, sealing the words behind it.

Mia moves slowly, her hands raised as she speaks quietly, “How do you know they are all dead? Some might have escaped-”

He shakes his head in denial. “I saw the bodies, I saw them being dragged out, they killed themselves before the Dragoons could take them, they took our secrets with them to the grave.”

Coming to stand beside him, Mia places a calming hand on his shoulder, he grabs hold of it instantly and she cannot help but hiss at the tightness of his grip, but otherwise she does not complain.

He goes on, his voice still tremulous and weak, “I was meant to be with them, I should have been there, but we’ve already lost so many, between her Grace and Lord Byron, but when word came of Lord Cyril…so many of us have fallen, the order is falling apart.”

“Glen,” Mia starts, but he interrupts her, “If only we had succeeded in killing the Marquess, we could have left this place, been by Lord Cyril’s side when he needed us.”

He shales his head, despair taking over as his sunken eyes roam wildly about the room as if looking for a target before they lock onto Mia and a mad hope suddenly flickers across his hollow expression.

Reaching out he takes both of Mia’s hands. “We can still do it, he trusts you, he lets you close, you can do it Mia. For out fallen, their lives won’t be a waste if we finish this.”

She looks at him with a smile as she frees one of her hands and brings it to rest against his thin cheek, her thumb rubbing beneath his eye.

“No.”

She doesn’t give him time to process the word, to understand what she says. The throwing knife moves too quickly, cutting deep enough to hit bone as she thrusts it to the hilt into his throat.

His eyes darken before the shock can even overtake them, and as she steps back his lifeless body falls to the floor with an ungraceful thud and an almost sickening splash as his blood paints the ground.

With quick hands and a professional demeanour, Mia cleans her blade on Glen’s robe before hiding the small blade in her sleeve again, before turning off the crystal lantern and quietly leaving the room.

Hurrying down the road she takes several turns making sure to walk slowly so as not to draw any unnecessary attention.

At her unhurried pace it takes her around ten minute to make it to the small, shielded church square where a familiar figure waits.

She does not greet him, merely stands beside him at a respectful distance, she would prefer to bow, to show the respect he deserves, but anonymity is always preferred in situations such as these.

“Is it done?” he asks, his voice cool and unemotional.

“Yes,” she confirms quietly, as she hands him a small slip of paper with the address of the store house.

“Well done, is there anything incriminating that I need to have disposed of?” He’s as thorough as always, unwilling to have her compromised when she has already proved so useful to him.

“No, my Lord,” she answers with certainty, having already disposed of anything that may have linked her to Glen and the others weeks ago.

“Very good, may the rest of your evening be pleasant, my dear.” He departs then and Mia waits, already mentally planning her own route back to the castle.

As he exits the small square, she hears a voice greet him, “Lord Byron, her majesty is expecting us, if we delay any further…”

“Yes, yes, I am well aware of Anabella’s impatience, honestly Lord Zagreus, one would think you would be used to her ire by now,” Lord Byron sighs.

Mia doesn’t hear much more as the heavy gate to the square swings shut, muffling their voices.

Allowing herself to enjoy the crisp fresh air that flows this evening Mia looks to the sky and wonders for a moment whether she did the right thing.

When she closes her eyes, all she sees is the tentative smile that had graced the Marquess lips as he had welcomed his new little brother into the world.

Yes, Mia is certain that she has done the right thing.

Chapter Text

The seas are calm as the leidang sails towards its target.

Thirty ships, each carrying a hundred Crusaders, an army of the most devout equipped with steel and vengeance.

Drake’s Breath is a beacon in the darkness, a guiding light steering them back toward the Mother, calling them to reclaim what is rightfully theirs.

This Holy Crusade has been years in the making, the Iron Blood slow to recover after the blow that had been dealt by the unholy union of the nations of Rosaria and Sanbreque.

They had hope back then, in the form of a tamed demon, an abomination chained deep within the belly of Drake’s Breath, kept docile with sermon and the firm and righteous hand of Father Imreann.

But the beast had shown its true nature the moment it was called to service.

It is said that the bodies of the faithful still lie trapped within ice in the very Heart of the Mother Crystal, macabre trophies for the demoness that still haunts the shores of their most sacred land.

They cannot allow this insult to stand, nor can they let the heathens continue to desecrate the Mother, denying her rightful sacrifice as year after year they chip away at her splendour in the name of enriching themselves.

No, this heresy has been allowed for too long, and now the Rosarians must pay for it in blood.

The lead ship pulls forward as orders are given to the others through the blink of shuttered oil lamps.

This is the most dangerous part of their journey, their old maps made useless by the transformation of Drake’s Breath, reefs and jagged walls of crystal now spiral out from the sacred isle where once there had only been open sea.

To add to the difficulty a thick mist hangs about the island, obscuring those rocks and outcroppings not dotted with the blessing of the Mother. Many see it as a curse, an ill omen, but the Iron Blood know it for the trial of faith it is, and they are determined to overcome it.

More orders are communicated by the lead ship as it pulls further ahead, leading the way. The shuttered lamps become more necessary as the distance between the ships increases, to the point where only a sharp pinprick of light can be seen in the heavy mist that cloaks the ships.

The shiver that trails down the spines of every sailor on deck is not born from fear, but the severe cold brough on by the inescapable grasp of the freezing fog that weaves its way into every space. It forces all of the men on watch to turn away for the briefest of moments, the air too cold for them to keep their faces turned towards it.

That small space of time is enough for the light of the lead ship to be snuffed out.

Men gather at the fore of their ships, eyes scanning the gloom in the hope that they are mistaken, it leaves them undefended.

Just as Shiva hoped.

The lances of ice fall upon the ships like rain, but they do not shatter upon impact, instead they expand, freezing everything they touch.

The screams of men and the sounds of splintering wood would echo through the night, if they were not smothered by the mist that thickens with the aether Shiva pours into it.

The men not smart enough to throw themselves upon the sea’s mercy, soon find themselves dragged down with their ships, while those that can still float try to turn back, try to escape, but it is already too late.

The waves around them are frozen, transformed into sharp jaws that rip and crush the wood of their long boats sealing the fate of every man here.

In a panic some try to flee across the thick sea ice, abandoning their brothers as they run blindly, merely hoping to escape the cloud of fog.

A final crack and a flash of azure light that appears like the aurora borealis at play amidst the cloud of fog, and all the screams are silenced.

In the ominous quiet that follows the heavy pants of the lone survivor as he pulls himself free of the mist sound louder than the waves that gently lap against the ice he lies upon.

With hopeless eyes, he glances up towards the distant glow of Drake’s Breath, hoping for one last look at the Mother’s grace.

The lone silhouette that floats above the water, crowned with ice and dressed in snow, robs him of that vision.

The curse that leaves his lips is familiar to Shiva, but inconsequential as the Warden of Ice allows diamond dust to fall around her.

Gliding on the artic winds commanded by her power, Jill allows herself a moment of freedom as she lets her mind go blank.

She does not think of the screams of dying men, she does not think of the red that stained the ice she summoned, or the lights she had snuffed out in the darkness.

Jill instead thinks of the sound of the wind rushing past her ears, the dance of moonlight off her porcelain skin and frost worked clothes, the sparks of aether that flow around her, caught in the breeze of her wake and mixed with the flakes of snow that scatter behind her.

It is so strange, to inhabit a body that is her own and yet not, to feel the presence of a consciousness wholly separate from her own that lies dormant at the edges of her senses, allowing Jill to use her power without complaint or protest, even as the price she must pay looms dauntingly before her.

Jill has yet to feel the bite of the curse, her use of Shiva’s power too brief and infrequent, for it is only in the rarest of circumstances that Lord Byron calls upon her aid, Jill’s anonymity his top priority in the face of Empress Anabella’s spies.

In this case though, they were left with little choice, events had conspired against them, the report of the incoming attack from the Iron Blood having been delayed when the Stolas carrying the message had been blown off course by a storm.

Lord Byron had been reluctant, but Jill rose to the challenge.

She merely hopes her success tonight will convince Lord Byron to rely on her more.

Jill will have her answer soon.

The lights of the Lamia’s Embrace make her glow like a star in the night, the crystal lamps she carries far more reliable than the oil lamps the Iron Blood had relied upon.

Painted white and blue and trimmed with silver in tribute to the Empress’s marriage, the Lamia’s Embrace is unlike any other ship in the Rosarian navy. A merchant vessel in name alone, she is equipped with the steel silk sails and the weapons of a war galleon, her hull reinforced with adamantite allowing her a speed that a vessel of her size would usually be incapable of.

She was also built with the thought of potentially transporting dragons in mind, leaving plenty of space for the Glacian to alight.

With a flair that isn’t necessary, but is definitely enjoyed, Jill lands on the deck. She holds the form of the Glacian for the briefest moment, allowing the tingle of aether to settle into her skin before she pulls it back.

The tall and elegant form of the Warden of Ice disperses with the crack of ice and Jill finds herself stumbling like a newborn gazelle as the soft lurch of the ship beneath her sends her sense of balance tumbling from her grasp.

A hand is there to catch her though, as Lord Byron greets her with a proud smile and gentle eyes.

“Well done my dear girl,” he offers with macabre glee, as his gaze rises to glance at the empty horizon that had formerly been dotted with the advancing leidang of the iron Blood.

Jill cannot say she doesn’t share that same glee, not after what she and the other prisoners had suffered at the hands of the Crusaders and their Fathers in the name of their religious zealotry.

“I did my best to remain unseen as you requested, but I am afraid I did not account for the brightness of the magic,” Jill volunteers as she walks to the railing, her eyes locking with the impressive structure of Drake’s Breath and the spiralling crystal walls that defend it.

They make her wonder whether her intervention was entirely necessary, with the size and scope of them making the isle of Drake’s Breath a veritable fortress.

Lord Byron dismisses her concern with a wave of his hand. “This far out I doubt there is anyone besides the guards of Drake’s Breath or perhaps an adventurous fisherman who would have been able to see the aurora you cast. Besides, even if tales of Shiva were to somehow make it back to her majesty’s ears, Jill Warrick has nothing to do with them, in fact, she is currently still sequestered in Port Isolde under the tutelage of Lady Hannah, an honourable Lady of impeccable character, who would of course never lie about the whereabouts of her student.”

Jill smiles at that, Lady Hannah has been a balm upon her wounded soul, ever understanding and patient, neither snapping nor reprimanding in those moments where Jill still finds her mind trapped in the stone cells beneath Drake’s Breath.

The Lady had even taken it in her stride that time Jill came down with a winter fever and ended up freezing her room in a fit of delirium, simply laughing about the affair and gently ribbing Jill about her giving her the cold shoulder while she was ill.

“I’m sure Lady Hannah will have work and lessons waiting for me upon my return,” Jill acknowledges, unable to suppress a grimace as she remembers the etiquette lesson that shall await her.

“Ah, the bane of every young noble’s education,” Lord Byron agrees, “alas, with her majesty’s demanding nature they are a necessary evil, better to be overlooked amidst a crowd of bootlicking nobles than to have your head taken over an accusation of disrespect or a display of ill-manners.

Jill would like to say that Lord Byron is exaggerating, but after being under Lady Anabella’s tutelage, she knows he is not.

Instead of focusing on the Empresses’ impending arrival she turns her attention to a much happier topic. “They have confirmed that Clive will be accompanying her this time?” She tries to keep the eagerness out of her voice, but knows she’s failed when she sees the smile curling Lord Byron’s lips.

He is kind enough not to keep her in suspense.

“My dear nephew wrote to me himself confirming that fact, It also seems as though her majesty has finally deigned to allow the little prince to accompany them this time.”

Jill blinks at this news, it is surprising after all. The Empress has been so protective of her youngest son, to the point that the boy has rarely been seen outside the walls of the White Wyrm Lair.

“She has something planned?” Jill asks, already dreading the answer.

“One would assume,” Lord Byron confirms with a dark look, “this was meant to be the year of Clive’s ascension, his year of majority, I would not put it passed my dear cousin to twist the knife over that fact.”

Lord Byron is still obviously bitter over his political plans being laid to waste by the birth of the new Phoenix, at least in front of those he trusts, before those whose loyalties he cannot guarantee he presents nothing but the happy façade of an uncle proud of the newest addition to his family.

Jill herself is curious over the little prince, having never met him herself and having only heard tell of him from Lord Byron, who did not have much to say on the matter as the boy is still so young, and Clive, who was built to be an older brother.

From their letters and the all too brief visits she can already tell that Olivier has Clive wrapped around his little finger just as tightly as Joshua had.

The bite of sorrow that clamps around her heart at the memory of Joshua is a sharp thing, people say that the sting of loss is blunted with time, but Jill has yet to feel it, she knows the same holds true for Clive. It adds to his already iron-willed determination to protect his new little brother, something that both Jill and Lord Byron know that his mother was quick to capitalise on.

Jill can only sigh at the thought of it, as she imagines another chain, perhaps stronger than any that have come before it, wrapping around Clive’s heart, keeping him bound and docile before the endless demands of his mother.

She would love nothing more than to tear them all apart, to sever them as he had done for her, but Clive himself will not allow it, the cost would be too great.

And so, they do what they can.

“No matter what she does, we support Clive, we gather our strength, and when the time is right, we strike.”

Lord Byron grips her round the shoulders, an accomplished smile on his lips as her lets out a small chuckle, “Ah, dear girl, how you do me proud.”

Chapter Text

Olivier is perfect.

Anabella has been guilty at one point or another of thinking this about all of her children.

With Clive until he failed to manifest as the Phoenix.

With Joshua, from the moment he was born and again when he had been confirmed as the Phoenix, only for his brilliance to be smothered by sickness and weakness.

Yes, she has been guilty in the past of judging too soon, both in the aspects of perfection and mediocrity.

Clive had been found wanting and yet proved himself worthy of her blood, manifesting an Eikon powerful enough to defeat the Phoenix.

Joshua had seemed to be everything she wanted, only to later prove that appearances could be deceiving, that even the Phoenix could not make up for some flaws.

With both of them her intuition had at once been substantiated and found false, but always in unexpected ways that could have never been predicted.

With Olivier that bout of lacking discernment has finally been put to rest.

Confirmed as the Phoenix within mere days of being born, a strong boy, absent the signs of weakness that had ever plagued Joshua, especially in his early years.

Yes, this is the son she has always envisioned.

Add to that the hold he possesses upon Clive, the calm he has brought to his older brother’s temperament with his mere existence, perfect is almost too tepid a word to describe her son.

One merely has to look and see where Clive rides now to observe the effect Olivier has had upon him.

Previously, in a procession such as this Clive would have claimed a place in the vanguard, the furthest position he could take away from her, now he rides abreast with the carriage.

She cannot help but study him as she gazes out the window, allowing her sight to flit between him and Olivier who sits asleep in her lap. The features they share are not obvious at first glance, not to those who did not know Clive as a toddler, many say that Clive took completely after her first husband while Olivier was blessed with the Emperor’s features.

Anabella has accepted these comments as the complements they were meant to be, even the snide backhanded ones that seemed to be implying that Olivier was as much of a bastard as Sylvestre’s first son.

Yes, accepted them, only to disregard them the moment she allowed her gaze to fall upon her sons.

She can see it so clearly now, though they both have the respective hair colours of their sires, there is no denying that they are her sons.

The eyes more than any other feature give that away, the deep blue of the De Lafountaine line, it is not something that Dion Lesage can lay claim to, even if he was lucky enough to inherit the platinum blonde of his father’s lineage.

Almost subconsciously, Anabella runs her fingers beneath Olivier’s closed eyes, hoping that he will blink them open so she can study them.

Only for her movements to halt and a chill to run up her spine as her own eyes lock onto her hands.

They’re back.

The shadow of light red that spreads across the skin of her hand is the first feint sign that she has learned to keep an eye open for.

Within days, the rash like blemishes shall spread across her palms and fingers, deepening and growing more painful as they bloom into the scars that should have long since healed, that she saw disappear the night she first suspected she had fallen pregnant with Olivier.

Her gentle caress of Olivier suddenly transforms into a more urgent shake, still soft, still motherly, but determined to see him awake, to have him conscious.

Olivier blinks once, his brow furrowing in confusion over the sudden disturbance.

While he orients himself, Anabella takes the opportunity to remove the tiny cuffs that encase his wrists, all the while speaking in a placating tone, “I know, I know darling, Mother will let you sleep again, but first.”

She wiggles her hand in front of Olivier, encouraging him to take it, an old and well-practised routine by now.

With sleep dulled movements he latches onto her hands, his little ones dwarfed in her own, and she watches with rapture as the blue flames, unique to Olivier, overtake her skin, burning away the returning scars and replacing them with clear and perfectly healed skin.

A sudden knock on the window of the carriage has her jumping, to the point that it breaks Olivier’s concentration and dispels the healing flames.

Annoyed, Anabella looks up to see Clive looming outside.

Lowering the window, she asks in her most innocent voice, “yes, Clive?”

Clive is having none of it, though he has learned to be a little more diplomatic. Instead of accusing her as he would have once done, he simply requests, “I’d like to have Olivier ride with me for a while, let him see Rosaria, let the people see him.”

Anabella makes him wait for her reply, as she subtly slips Olivier’s cuffs back into place, even as her youngest fusses in complaint, stubbornly trying to hold his arm out of her reach, but to no avail.

“Very well.” She eventually allows, a reward for Clive’s patience and his acumen.

With two sharp taps on the carriage roof, she instructs the carriage to be brought to a stop before opening the door.

Clive is waiting with open arms, and it is clear he has to work very hard not to snatch Olivier from her grasp as soon as she presents him.

Olivier goes willingly, his arms stretching out in return and a delighted, “Clive!” escaping his mouth.

Clive smiles freely at the call of his name as he hoists his little brother into his lap, one hand wrapped securely around his middle to keep him there as he uses the other to coax his chocobo into a slow canter.

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even bid Anabella goodbye, not now that he has his little brother with him. A small slight, one that goes unnoticed by the servants and guards that surround them, but one that would never pass the notice of a noble. Anabella shall have to remind Clive of that later.

For now, she settles back in her seat and commands the procession to proceed.

Inevitably, her sight is drawn back to her hands.

Every six months, like clockwork, the scars return.

Feint at first, always appearing as a light dusting that could be mistaken as a small scattering of freckles upon her skin, only for them to darken and spread, first appearing like sunburn, then growing deeper, biting into her skin and pulling tight with the pain that comes from exposed nerves and permanently damaged flesh.

The first time they had returned, six months after Olivier’s birth, Anabella had been beside herself, thoughts racing through her mind as the scars had spread, painting her hands with the ugly molten lines of the burns she had received that night Clive had almost died.

Her first impulse had been to call a maid and demand a hi-potion be brought to her, but as soon as the attending night maid had come rushing into the room, Anabella rethought that plan, having gathered herself enough to remember how ineffective the potions and even the power of a Branded had been.

She had ignored the night maid even as the woman had bowed low and asked what Anabella required of her, because for once, Anabella did not have an answer.

What could she do? It would hardly go unnoticed if she suddenly started wearing gloves, people would begin to inquire, her attendants and servants would gossip, and it would soon bring into question the validity of Olivier’s powers.

Her thoughts had screeched to a halt then, all of them focusing on the answer to her problem.

Olivier.

Wasting no more time, she had ordered the maid to fetch her robe, and simply remained glad of the fact that the darkness and the long sleeves of the garment hid her hands.

Once covered she had left the room, leaving the maid behind as she navigated the rooms and the small stretch of hall that separated her from her Phoenix.

The Dragoons on guard bowed and let her pass without protest, even as they exchanged looks above her head over the lateness of the hour.

Anabella didn’t even spare them a glance, not when her eyes could finally lock upon the small figure of her infant son.

The wetnurse on duty rose to greet her, but with a simple sharp, “leave us,” the woman had been sent running.

Finally alone, Anabella found herself hesitating, Olivier was still so young, he had only just begun to babble full words, how would she communicate what she wished of him, what he needed to do.

Even with her doubts Anabella had found herself cradling her son with one hand while using the other to remove the tiny crystal bands that restrained his power.

Her son woke immediately at that, but instead of the disgruntled cry that most babes would give upon being awoken from a peaceful sleep, he had merely looked up at her with inquisitive eyes.

“My Phoenix,” she cooed, as she brought her injured hand before him, “you had the power when you first took root within me, surely you still know what to do.”

Her son tilted his head studying her with a focus far beyond his years. Even so, Anabella lost some of her hope when her son simply latched onto her hand and drew it straight towards his mouth, gumming at her fingers as any child would.

Her heart had sunk, disappointment hitting as hard as a hammer blow, her hopes were left dashed against the soft Dhalmekian carpet of the nursery.

Only for the bright blue flames that had suddenly engulfed Olivier’s hands to banish the cold dread that had seized her.

Minutes later, Sylvestre himself had entered the room, clearly having just been roused from his own bed.

“Anabella?” he had asked, his voice thick with sleep.

“Shh,” she had hushed in return as she rocked her son in the cradle of her arms, “he’s sleeping,” she had explained with a smile in her voice.”

Sylvestre had made his way slowly to her side, coming to stand beside her so he could look at both her and his son.

He remained quiet for a moment, his hand rising to lie gently on her shoulder, his thumb circling in a soothing motion that was no longer necessary as Anabella was perfectly calm.

Still, he enquired, “is everything alright?”

“Simply a bad dream,” she explained, “the details are distant now, but when I awoke, I felt unsettled, scared, I needed to see him, to hold him.”

His gaze softens at her words, the line of tension set between his brow easing as he lets out a deep breath. “He is safe, I shall always keep him safe,” Sylvestre promised, and Anabella knew then that she had him, for if one thing had been proven true over the years she has known him, it was the fact that Sylvestre loved his sons.

It is a point that has been confirmed time and again, one that has both benefitted and sabotaged her aspirations in near equal amounts, as attempts to elevate and protect Olivier have been met with nothing but praise and approval, but even the subtlest move to disparage or undermine Prince Dion have been met with nothing but distain.

Even the recent losses against Odin have done little to convince Sylvestre that Dion is not worthy of the throne.

No, Generals and Lords have been blamed in the Prince’s stead for his failures while all the credit for any success has fallen to Dion and Dion alone. In these instances, his highness is wise enough to be humble, to name others as his father showers him in accolades, appearing to the court as one willing to share the bounty of his achievements, drawing more talent to his side.

In all truth, Anabella had hoped that the war would solve her problem for her. Odin, after all is known for his blade, and King Barnabas is a legendary commander, a tyrant on the battlefield who has built his name upon the mountain of corpses he has left in his wake.

One would think that a fighter of such renown would be capable of slaying a dragon, but all of their encounters thus far have ended in nothing but stalemates, that have left a forever changed landscape behind them.

At least she is guaranteed in one thing, the frequent use of Bahamut shall expediate the progress of the Curse. One way or another, this war will bring about Prince Dion’s fall.

With that happy thought Anabella allows herself to relax back into her seat, but her good mood does not last long, not with the breadth of the task that lays before her as Rosalith comes into view.

The trip here has been eye opening for Anabella, every noble has been singing Byron’s praises, commending his choices when it comes to his economic decisions in regard to the bounty of Drake’s Breath, as well as his own ventures that he continued to manage.

Anabella had been loathed to appoint Byron as the overseer of Drake’s Breath, but what other choice did she have when he has only ever presents himself as loyal, she has no evidence against him, and his reputation speaks for itself, and to appoint an Imperial noble to the task over Byron would all but declare her intentions for Rosaria.

The uprisings that would follow were she to act while the Empire is at war…even after Olivier has been officially inaugurated as the new heir and she appointed as his regent there may still be unrest if she were to remove Byron. No, she has plans for Rosaria’s military forces and they do not involve them being used against her.

At least with Byron she knows what she is up against.

Banishing those dark thoughts from her mind, she instead allows a practised smile to fall across her lips.

The Gates of the Bewit Bridge lay open in preparation to welcome them, allowing Anabella the view of the entire length of the ancient bridge that is at once Rosalith’s lifeline to the mainland and her greatest defence.

Stark, like much of the architecture of Rosaria, the Bewit Bridge at least incorporates some of the Baroque style in the form of its decorated arches and stylised defence towers.

Additions that had been added slowly over decades during times of peace when the bridges purpose as a shield against would be invaders was no longer the highest priority.

As Anabella looks out at the crowd being held back by the line of Imperial and Rosarian soldiers, she notes that the bridge may serve its main purpose again sooner rather than later.

Still, she must play her part.

Pulling back the curtain and opening the window, Anabella can clearly hear the cheers called out in honour of their return, but even amidst the celebration there are dissidents.

Occasionally, mixed in with the calls of, “long live the Princes!” and “may the Phoenix’s Flames burn ever brightly!” she hears a chant that does not belong.

“Don’t let her win!”

The people the shouts come from are lost amongst the horde, granting them anonymity by the sheer size of the crowd that has gathered here to greet Anabella and her sons.

For the briefest of moments, the thought of ordering her guard to find the anarchists crosses her mind, but she dismisses it. In closed spaces such as these it is so easy to lose control, besides, she has subtler methods at her disposal, and an unseen agent hidden amongst your own is far more terrifying than the simple iron fist of authority.

Despite the crowds they make it to Rosalith castle in good time, though Anabella’s heart nearly skips a beat as her gaze locks with that of the new bronze statue that has been erected in the main square of the city. She quickly turns her gaze away from it, ignoring the fact that she ever saw it.

She cannot allow a single shadow of doubt to mar this day, to diminish the scale of victory she is about to achieve today.

With a deep breathe and one last check of her now perfect hands, she steps out of the carriage as it rolls to a stop.

Clive stands only a few feet away from her, having already dismounted from his Chocobo, Olivier secure and content in his arms even as his wide blue eyes take in the expanse of his new surroundings.

As she steps forward the announcement rings out from beside her, “All hail her Majesty, the Empress Anabella!”

The gathered household bows as one, and a reverent silence falls upon the courtyard, to the point that only the ambient noise of the city beyond the walls and the flutter of the standards of both the Empire and Rosaria can be heard.

“You may rise,” she instructs, as she moves forward, taking pride in the way some hesitate, waiting until she has passed them before daring to raise their heads.

Byron is of course there to greet her.

“Your Majesty,” he intones with all the false politeness she has come to know and loath, “to what do we owe this distinct pleasure?”

The happiness that flares within her chest at the mere mention of her purpose here today settles within her heart with a blazing warmth, but it would be remiss of her to reveal it now after working so diligently to keep it from Byron and his spies.

“We may discuss such things later,” she dismisses, as she turns to Clive and holds out her hands to take back Olivier.

Her eldest complies, though very reluctantly, in return her youngest puts up a mild resistance, that is until he realises who he is being handed to.

“As you wish,” Byron accepts, but behind his neutral expression Anabella can sense his unease.

Soon enough, he will come to learn that he was right to be unsettled.

Soon enough he shall learn what she has done.

Until then, she shall take the morning to relax, it was after all, a long journey to get here.

Chapter Text

Clive paces, it’s a habit that he has always had, everyone in his family and those that know him well have commented on it at one point or another.

Some with derision and annoyance, the majority with harmless needling.

His uncle compares him to a caged coeurl whenever he catches him doing it, whereas Jill often remarks with a laugh that Torgal picked up the habit from him, and Clive has no room to deny it because as he paces now, there Torgal is, right on his heels.

Clive sighs, it’s not as though he can help it, by the time he consciously registers it himself he will have already made several circuits within the restricted space he has mapped out within his own mind.

He has tried to give it up in the past, tried to catch himself before he falls into that headspace where he can’t hear anything but the rhythmic tap of his own tread fuelling his own racing thoughts. Obviously, he has failed, and so he now finds himself wearing a rut into the stone floor of his room as he walks back and forth, his mind lost to the thoughts that plague him.

In all honesty he believes that even his mother could not hold his need to pace against him this time, in fact, she would probably take great pleasure at the sight of it, knowing full well that she is the cause of his current unrest.

He had barely had time to greet his uncle before she had intervened, claiming the long journey as a need for all of them to rest before the Royal Summit this afternoon, she had swept forward then, linking her arm with his, giving him no opportunity to protest. The only warning he had been able to convey to his uncle was a loaded stare that did nothing to communicate the real fear he felt curling in his gut over what was to come.

No, he would not be able to give Uncle Byron any real warning, Clive can only hope that his uncle’s over cautious nature and his head for schemes will allow him to weather this trial as he had the ones that came before it.

These circling thoughts that do nothing but weigh him down are enough to give him a headache, something that Torgal must sense by the way he paws at the heel of Clive’s boot.

It’s distracting enough to cause him to pause and look down at his friend, though not as far down as he would have once had to.

“Sorry boy,” he apologises as he takes a knee and gives his hound the attention he deserves after so long spent apart, running gentle fingers beneath Torgal’s chin while his other hand pets him between the ears, much to the wolf’s pleasure if his wagging tail is anything to go by.

Clive can’t help but wonder again at how much Torgal has grown, where once he had barely come up to Clive’s knee he now easily measures up against his hip, just another marker of the swift march of time.

Three years, how can his life have changed so much in just three short years?

He casts his eyes to the window, looking at the view of Rosalith that lays beyond it, at the red capped rooftops and the gothic towers that dominate the skyline. The tiered city with the single bridge connecting it to the mainland makes for an easy defence, from the outside at least, but what can he do when the enemy is already within the walls.

“Don’t let her win,” he mumbles under his breath.

Clive’s blood had run cold when he had heard those words shouted from the crowd, they had echoed in his own head loudly, but in a different voice, with a strength that came from the last wish of a dying man.

It must be a coincidence, but Clive cannot stop his heart from clenching at the thought that others may have heard Ser Wade’s last words and Clive’s promise to fulfil them.

‘A spark amidst the flame,’ that is what Ser Wade had called himself, when in truth he was a spark that helped start the fire, and it seemed as though this fire has spread further than Clive could have ever imagined.

He had felt it as they made their way through Rosalith, beneath the cheers and the smiles that had welcomed them, a thread of unease, eyes amongst the crowd that stared at the procession with a burning hostility.

Clive’s response then had been to pull Olivier closer and smile down at his little brother with open warmth, showing the crowd without words that Olivier is different from his mother, that he is separate. Olivier’s response had been endearing, a wide-eyed look as he grabbed Clive’s tightening arm with both of his own and kicked his legs in the air, but the atmosphere of the crowd had not changed.

Why would it?

Did his people even trust Clive anymore? Or did they merely see him as the puppet he is forced to pretend to be?

Things would have been different if Joshua was here instead of him, the laws of succession were different for the Phoenix, more streamlined to ensure the rightful succession. A shield that has suddenly been transformed into a double-edged sword that is liable to bleed Rosaria dry.

Or would have, had Clive not stepped forward when he did.

Anger flares at the mere shadow of the memory, but what choice did he have when his mother held all the cards?

The only thing he is certain of is the fact that Uncle Byron will not be pleased.

With a heavy sigh, Clive stands and begins to prepare for the summit.

Walking to the chest that had been packed for him at his mother’s instruction, he takes his first look inside of it and groans.

An aspect of the Empire which his mother enforces upon him is the apparent need for grand spectacle at every opportunity, which unfortunately means that Clive must make himself presentable by their standards for such events.

His once comfy wardrobe of Dhalmekian cotton shirts and practical leather clothing has long since been deemed insufficient at best and an insult at worst.

The real insult in Clive’s opinion is what his mother had originally sought to replace them with.

He had remembered then how she had used to treat Joshua, as though he were a doll for her to dress, always in the most expensive silks that emulated their father’s formal surcoat, which looked ridiculous on a child of Joshua’s stature.

Clive knew for a fact that on more than one occasion Joshua had fully pretended to be ill in order to avoid the entire fiasco.

A fine strategy that would not work for Clive, but thankfully cold logic in the form of a reminder that the Rosarian nobles would view it as a slight for their prince to be dressed in the apparel of a foreign nation, had prevailed.

For a time at least, because as Clive opens the chest, he is assaulted with an arrangement of neatly folded garments that would be far more suitable for Prince Dion.

The thought of setting the entire chest on fire briefly crosses his mind, but he decides to at least check the rest of the chest before resorting to such drastic measures.

He only has to dig through two layers of the new garments—all of which he petulantly dumps on the floor with the intent of cramming them back in the very bottom of the chest—in order to uncover his own clothes. Jerkins, coats, tunics, and vests all accompanied with matching pants and accessories that are unmistakably high quality but understated in a way that represents Rosaria’s spirit of practicality and military background.

Setting aside a black steelsilk shirt and a black and red wyvern hide waistcoat, he searches for a set of pants that will match them, only to halt when a knock sounds at his door.

“Enter,” he calls, not even bothering to look up to see who it will be, knowing already that it cannot be anyone he truly wishes to see, not with the Dragoons loyal to his mother stood outside his door.

Looking up from his self-assigned task he is surprised to see one of the nurse maids apportioned to serve Olivier standing sheepishly in the doorway.

The woman curtseys as soon as he raises his head, not daring to look him in the eye, she’s new, obviously.

“Can I help you?” Clive asks, already suspecting he knows the reason why the maid is here.

His assumption is proved right when the maid manages to speak, her words flowing like a rehearsed speech she was told to repeat word for word but hasn’t had time to fully memorise, “Lady Jane instructed me to fetch you, Lord Marquiss, his Highness is being dif—I mean…his Highness is reluctant to acquiesce to our requests at this moment—”

Clive is kind enough to stop her there, humming knowingly as he stands.

“Another tantrum?” he surmises.

The maid shakes her head automatically. “I wouldn’t exactly call it that, my Lord,” the maid denies as though her job depends on it.

“Not within ear shot of my mother,” Clive jests, trying to lighten the mood.

The maid can only grimace.

Walking forward, Clive holds the door open for her as he kindly requests, “after you.”

Openly sighing in relief, the maid sets off at a hybrid pace of a steady walk and a flat-out sprint and still somehow manages to maintain perfect posture as she does so. Clive takes things at a slower pace, already knowing the way to the nursey like the back of his hand.

They have barely turned the first corner, the eyes of the Dragoon guard heavy on Clive’s back as they follow, and already Clive can hear the distant cries of his younger brother.

His pace increases accordingly.

The scene that greets him as he enters the nursery is sadly, not an unfamiliar one to Clive.

Held by Lady Jane, Olivier cries at the top of his lungs, drowning out the sweet nothings his nurse tries to calm him with.

Only one-word rings clearly through the room, “NO!”

Anyone passing outside the door would be forgiven for thinking that Clive’s little brother is being tortured, but then, looking at the outfit that has been laid out for Olivier to be changed into, it could be argued that he is.

The room goes quiet for a brief moment as Olivier stops to inhale, and Clive jumps on the chance to intervene, knowing from experience that he has to seize on these moments when they arise.

“Olivier,” he calls, his voice stern.

Immediately, his little brother’s eyes are searching for Clive, and when he finds him, he starts reaching, eyes tearing up in a silent plead to be saved.

“Clive,” he whines with a sniffle that pulls at Clive’s heart strings.

In three easy strides Clive is across the room and taking Olivier into his arms, the effect is instantaneous.

His brother’s frown transforms into a smile as the tears immediately dry, and Clive cannot stop his eyes from rolling even as a small chuckle escapes him.

“You truly are a terror,” Clive admonishes in a voice that has no heat as he holds Olivier at arm’s length before he throws his brother gently in the air, much to Olivier’s delight if the giggles and the cries of, “again!” are anything to go by.

Clive obliges, adding a spin as he catches his brother, strategically moving closer to the bed that the outfit Olivier is meant to wear has been laid out on.

Thoroughly distracted, Olivier doesn’t notice the betrayal until Lady Jane takes the chance to slip the tiny surcoat onto his outstretched arms.

By the time Olivier does take notice the deed is already done and before he can protest Clive is spinning him again.

There are no squeals of joy this time, but even as he pouts and crosses his arms, Clive can see the smile starting to tug at his lips.

“Want to come and wait with me until mother comes to fetch you?” Clive asks when he finally comes to a stop, already knowing the answer.

“Yes!” Olivier declares, with all the excitement of a two-year-old in a new place.

In anticipation of that very answer, Clive was already making his way to the door, but he finds himself pausing when Lady Jane calls out to him, “My Lord, should we not inform your mother first?”

That would be the wise and proper thing to do, but Clive does not feel like being lectured and denied at the moment, he’s had quite enough of that in recent days, and the need to rebel is an ever-present itch at the back of his mind.

Besides, he’s sure one of the guards assigned to watch him had already slipped away to inform his mother of his movements, or at least that is the excuse he will use.

Diplomatically, and a little selfishly, he says, “If you would take care of that for me, Lady Jane.” He’s already exited the nursery and heading back to his room before the nursemaid can reply.

Olivier squirms in Clive’s hold as they navigate the corridors of Rosalith castle, his head on a constant swivel as he tries to take in his new surroundings all at once.

As different as the halls of the White Wyrm Lair had appeared to Clive, the inner workings of Rosalith must seem to be an entirely different world to a young boy who has never been allowed to leave the safety of his father’s castle.

Clive had been expecting fear, reticence, and a little boredom, plain and dark as Rosalith castle is when compared to the lavishly opulent style that the White Wyrm Lair boasts.

Instead, he is pleasantly surprised to see Olivier looking around with open curiosity, and dare Clive hope, a little bit of awe.

It makes Clive wish that Olivier could have seen the castle before his mother had removed so many of the artifacts that used to dominate its halls, that he could impart their shared family history and actually have heirlooms to point out as they walked back to Clive’s room.

At least Clive’s room remains largely unchanged, the things he considers treasures worthless in his mother’s eyes.

Opening the door, he already has a few ideas to keep Olivier occupied, but like all of Clive’s initial plans they die on first contact.

Torgal, obviously upset with being left behind leaps at Clive the first chance he gets. Used to this, even when caught by surprise Clive is ready with a defensive stance and a light command, only for the order of ‘sit’ to fall silent upon his lips as Torgal crouches and bares his teeth.

The growl that leaves Torgal’s maw is a near feral thing, animalistic and defensive as if the Hound is being cornered by an enemy.

“Torgal!” Clive shouts, in a biting tone that he has never had to use on the hound before.

Torgal flinches back at the anger in Clive’s voice, his ears folding down against his skull in clear contrition as he lowers his head and tucks his tail.

Confused and feeling overly cautious, Clive rests Olivier on his bed, taking a moment to reassure him before turning his attention back to Torgal.

“What’s gotten into you boy?” he asks, lost as to what could have caused Torgal to act like this.

As he reaches out a hand to try and pet Torgal, to calm him, he sees the way the hound’s lips curl as he snorts and shakes his head.

Retracting his hand Clive takes a quick sniff of his own limb and quickly deduces the problem.

The floral smell of rose oil mixed with white wyvern tails, Clive feels his own nose scrunching in displeasure as the scent conjures the feeling of phantom nails being trailed along his scalp.

No wonder Torgal reacted so badly, he can smell Clive’s mother on him.

He almost instantly deflates in relief, as this is something that is easily remedied, for both him and his little brother.

Grabbing a cloth, Clive wets it in the bowl of now lukewarm water that was left in his room for him to refresh himself with and wipes his hands.

Torgal seems more than appeased by the gesture when Clive holds his hand out to him again, his tail wagging as he pushes his head into Clive’s hand begging for scratches.

Clive obliges as he walks back to his bed, fresh cloth in hand ready to wipe Olivier’s hands.

His little brother watches him with wide eyes from where he sits perched on the edge of the bed, half hidden behind the red velvet curtain.

Putting on his most encouraging smile Clive takes a knee next to the bed and holds his hand out for Olivier to take. “It’s alright, Torgal’s friendly, he just has a very sensitive nose, strong smells can irritate him, make him grumpy.”

“I smell bad?” Olivier questions.

“To Torgal,” Clive chuckles, “but we’re fixing that.”

Olivier looks a little unconvinced but doesn’t complain as Clive washes his hands, he even manages to pull a light giggle from his baby brother when he catches him off guard, dabbing the cloth against the tip of his nose.

Torgal waits out the entire process like the fine hound he is and is nothing but accommodating as Clive shows Olivier how to hold out his hand so Torgal can get a proper sniff.

The gentle lick Torgal gives Olivier’s fingers seals the deal as all the caution and fear drains from Olivier’s body.

The sight of his youngest brother hugging Torgal and his hound not only enduring it but licking the boy in return is probably one of the cutest scenes Clive has ever been privy to.

Torgal’s aid in distraction gives Clive the chance he needs to finish getting ready himself, meaning all that he has left to do is wait for his mother’s inevitable summons.

It comes all too quickly, Clive barely has time to finish securing his gold filigree bracers, before a knock on the door announces Celine’s arrival.

“Lady Valadon.” Clive greets pre-emptively, as he keeps his back to her and picks up his brother.

His mother’s lady’s maid pays the frosty greeting no heed as she bows and imparts his mother’s orders to him. “My Mistress awaits you and his Highness in the salle basse, Lord Marquis.”

Clive takes one moment to look over Olivier, even as he knows it is pointless, even with his little brother being perfectly presentable his mother will still make adjustments.

Taking a deep breathe, Clive walks out of his room with his head held high.

As he enters the salle basse through the side door his gaze immediately locks with his mother’s impatient and assessing stare.

As expected, she evaluates him from head to toe, searching for any flaws she can pounce on. Clive knows she finds what she’s looking for when her eyes sharpen.

Clive grits his teeth as she approaches, but his hand remains unclenched by his side and his hold on Olivier does not tighten, he doesn’t want to give her anymore points to pick at.

Standing before him, she takes his wrist in a gentle grip as she turns it up towards the light, exposing the lose knot that Clive had used to secure it.

“You really should wait for your attendants,” she comments as her perfectly manicured nails pick at the lace of the bracer, slowly undoing it.

“I’m a soldier, not a Prince,” Clive remarks casually.

She pulls the laces suddenly, until the bracer sits as tightly around his wrist as the crystal fetters once had.

“You are a Marquis, a Dominant, and my son.” Clive knows which one of those titles she places the most value on, “it is unbecoming.”

“It will soon be necessary,” Clive counters, toeing the invisible line even as her sharp threads chafe against his skin.

“Soon,” she agrees, “but not yet,” with those words she finishes retying his bracer and takes Olivier from him.

Her fingers immediately rise to the collar of his surcoat, pulling it one way only to then pull it the other so it sits exactly as it had before.

Luckily, Olivier does not have to endure her fussing for overly long, as the doors the great hall are opened for them.

An announcer that Clive cannot see rattles off their titles as they enter, but Clive pays neither him nor the crowd of gathered nobles any attention.

His eyes too focused on his mother as she makes the short journey across the room towards the dais that holds the Duchy’s throne.

Made from ancient ceramic the castle of Rosalith was built around the throne, the place where the Founder was said to have first ceased the endless walk that had been humanities atonement for the Sin of Dzemekys.

It was meant as a reminder, the Grand Duke was always meant to sit with the memory of the Fall at their back, so they might remember that civilisations could rise even from ashes.

Clive highly doubts that this is the message his mother keeps in mind as she takes the throne.

Sitting in it as though it has always been her right, as though the blood she has soaked her hands in to achieve this moment did not belong to her former husband and son.

Clive prevents himself from speaking out by keeping his jaw locked and his nails buried in the soft skin of his palms, but even so, he can feel Ifrit’s flames rolling beneath his skin, begging to be unleashed. He only manages to hold them back because of the human shield that is his brother sitting in his mother’s lap.

The court is not so silent, the quiet murmur that flows across the room at his mother’s choice to sit upon the throne and not the seat of the Regent that had been prepared for her is telling, those that were not already nervous are suddenly put on edge.

His mother allows the speculation to flow for a moment, to rise to a crescendo that only fails with the resounding crack of the Dragoons lances against stone.

“Ladies, Gentlemen, the Duchy thanks you for your loyalty and this fond welcome,” his mother begins, her tone one that has always grated against Clive’s senses, “Rosaria has always been known for its devotion and its reverence towards its rightful ruler, the Phoenix,” she pauses, allowing the silent threat behind those words time to sink in, “but now I fear an hour where our bonds must be tested has befallen us.”

A few nobles amongst the crowd allow their gazes to wonder, searching the faces of those they stand next to, an air of suspicion falling heavily upon the crowd, and more than one gaze lands upon Uncle Byron’s back.

“The Empire has ever proven itself to be our closest ally, once merely a neighbouring sovereign nation whose values aligned with our own, we are now two states united by marriage and by blood,” Her hand trails covetously over Olivier’s hair as she says this. “To let them stand alone against a threat that would see us all swept away by the darkness that Odin controls would be a fatal mistake. This is why I come to you now with this command.”

She stands from the thrown and towers above the hall as she proclaims: “henceforth, the forces of Rosaria shall be at his Radiance’s disposal, every effort shall be put forth to aid the Empire in this historic war that shall at last see the end of Waloed’s Warlord.”

The court remains still, every Lord and Lady frozen under the weight of this ruling, until a lone voice dares to break the quiet, “only the ruling Grand Duke or the recognised Regent may declare war.”

All eyes within the hall fall upon the woman who dares to speak, Clive recognises his own great aunt, the Lady Ariane Wellesley.

His mother bids her forward, and the crowd parts easily to allow her to step to the front.

His great aunt moves with a grace that defies her age. Black hair washed steel grey by time cannot hide the familiar Rosfield traits, her features hold so many similarities to Clive's own that she could easily pass for his mother in his younger years.

The blue-eyed gaze she trains on Clive’s mother is a withering thing, full of disappointment and displeasure, but still she bows as she approaches the throne.

His mother makes her wait before motioning to allow her to stand and his great aunt struggles for a moment, but when she stands again her shoulders are squared and her head is held high.

“My son is the Phoenix, and as he is not of the age of majority, it is of course my duty as his mother to rule in his stead,” his mother challenges, as if she expects one simple clarification to be enough for the Lady Wellesley to back down.

“Respectfully, no it is not,” counters his great aunt, in a voice that could be mistaken for one used to chastise a misbehaving child, “a Regent must be appointed and agreed upon by the Seven High Houses, as tradition dictates.”

His mother’s eyes narrow for a moment, but the slip is soon covered by a calm smile. “How fortuitous, all the representatives of the Seven High Houses are currently present, are they not?” She looks about the crowd as she beckons, “come, step forward.”

They obey, slowly but surely, they all obey as five more figures emerge from the Crowd, to stand beside his great aunt.

“My Lords, My Ladies, surely this matter can be put to rest with a simple vote, though it hardly seems necessary, for who better than the mother of the Phoenix to rule in his stead?”

This is all for show, a play put on for the gentry that dared to return to Rosalith after the defeat of the Iron Blood, a statement that is made all too clear as the Dragoon guard step forward, as their lances beat against the stone.

“Anabella,” his great aunt warns, her gaze burning with the same ire that Clive can feel flowing through his own veins.

His mother merely raises a brow, daring her to say more.

The tension breaks upon the tremulous voice of the first defector, “Her majesty does raise a valid point, who better than the Phoenix’s own mother?”

The words are a death blow, as the excuses flow and one by one the hands of the representatives rise.

The motion passes by five to two.

And thus, Rosaria falls.

Chapter Text

Jill watches from the gallery as the institution of Rosaria falls beneath the Empress’ demands.

She watches as throughout the entire process Clive is forced to remain by his mother’s side, a silent shield used against his own people, the unsaid threat implicit.

How could it not be with the legion that makes up the Empress’ guard.

From this vantage she can see it all play out, like a tragedy unfolding upon a stage and here she stands with the best seat in the house, a bird’s eye view of the Empire annexing Rosaria, declaring them one nation is all but name.

Lord Byron had worked so hard to ensure this day would never come, done his best to undermine the Empress at every opportunity.

When war had broken out between Waloed and Sanbreque he had hope that they might have the chance to rebel. With Bahamut occupied by Odin and the Empire’s forces entangled in what could only be a drawn-out conflict, it would have been their best chance, their only chance, and the Empress had known that.

Clive had been kept closer than ever, a prisoner in the White Wyrm Lair, cut off from his home and the rest of his family, as even Lord Byron’s visits to Oriflamme had been restricted over claims of security.

Still, they would have had a chance, if only the Empress had not succeeded in birthing the next Phoenix.

Looking at the boy, Jill cannot help the ice-cold fury that chills her veins at the mere sight of him.

Imposter, the word had leapt to the front of her mind the moment she saw the young boy cradled in Clive’s arms.

Usurper had been the second, and it applies in so many ways, and yet Clive looks at him with such warmth, the same warmth that had once been reserved for Joshua alone.

It grates against Jill’s nerves like splinters of ice, cold and piercing in a way that can neither be ignored nor hidden, and the fact that she knows that none of this is the boy’s fault only makes it worse.

If he were doing this on purpose, she would at least be justified in hating him.

At least there is no guilt when it comes to hating the Empress.

Jill wonders how she managed to obtain a near unanimous decision from the Seven High Houses, she will have to ask Lord Byron about it later, but she already suspects that bribery and threats had a lot to do with it.

She takes solace in the fact that Lord Byron can and will claim that he was obligated to abstain from voting due to the nature of his close blood relation to the Empress, but this only causes Jill to worry more for Lady Wellesley.

Why did she take such a risk? Why has she singled herself out and made herself a target?

Jill isn’t sure she will ever have the answers to these questions, if anyone will, not when the Empress summons her Dragoon Captain.

“Captain Habas, I do believe my aunt is tired from her long journey here, would you be so kind as to have some of your men escort her to the guest quarters, I will check on her myself after this meeting has been concluded.”

The Captain acts upon the order without question, motioning two of his men forward. They move so they stand either side of the Lady Wellesley, towering above her in an intimidating display even as they are nothing but cordial, gently requesting that she accompanies them instead of ordering her to walk.

The Lady Wellesley seizes on what will probably be her last chance to address her niece in a public setting.

“A moment, if you would you Majesty,” she asks, but before the Empress can grant her permission she continues, “a favoured phrase of yours has always been: ‘all in its right place.’ A curious phrase to be sure, especially when one considers other perspectives.”

“Your point, Lady Wellesley?” the Empress asks, even as she waves a hand to encourage the Dragoons to carry out her orders.

Oddly, they act quite slowly, allowing Lady Wellesley to finish, “the Throne is not yours, even as Regent, you have yet to achieve your so called ‘right.’”

With that, Lady Wellesley happily allows the Dragoons to escort her out, even as the court erupts behind her.

The Empress weathers the commotion with a calm mien, before commanding the room to fall silent again. Throughout the uproar, Jills eyes remain trained on Clive, and because she knows him so well, she can pick up on the war of emotions that play out behind the mask he tries valiantly to uphold.

Fear, worry, concern, all of these emotions add weight to the stare he keeps trained on the stone tiles of the Great Hall, but Jill can also see the hint of smug satisfaction that makes his eyes grow darker.

Anabella Rosfield is a proud woman, being scolded by her great aunt in what she must have seen as a moment of triumph had to have stained some of the glory of the moment for her.

The session continues as soon as the great oak doors of the hall close and so many matters are presented in what seems like such a short amount of time.

Talk of troops, equipment, rations, taxes, and the bounty of Drake’s Breath are all touched upon, and the picture already looks bleak. Rosaria’s forces were only just starting to recover, but the bulk of the Shields were made up of new recruits, trainees that had never seen combat, now they would be thrown to a frontline they were unprepared for…how many of them would ever see Rosaria again?

Despite this, the nobility accepts these decrees without complaint, as passive as a flock of sheep overseen by their shepherd.

That is, until the Empress mentions her plans for the Bearers.

“Of course, there are some things that even the crystals of Drake’s Breath cannot accomplish, there worth far more evident in times of peace than in war, and thus we must turn to our Branded.”

“Your Majesty,” begins Lord Byron, trying and failing to make his voice sound respectful, “the Bearers under out care are an integral part of the Rosarian economy, they fill our wells, work in our smithies, help to heal our sick and perform so many other indispensable services. None of them have held a weapon in their life, let alone used their magics for war, to deploy them to the frontlines would be to send them to the slaughter.”

“They will soon learn that to perish to the curse in the service of their betters is the highest honour a Branded could ever hope to achieve,” The Empress dismisses as she moves onto the next topic as though Lord Byron had never spoken.

The callousness of the statement shouldn’t be as shocking as it is. Outside of Rosaria, Bearers are treated worse than livestock and the Empress has certainly never had any love for them, but the reality of the curse is something that should never be seen as an honour or something to aspire to.

Jill has seen it with her own eyes, it had been one of Imreann’s favourite tricks to lock a Bearer near death in her cell with her, to show her the fate that would one day befall her for her sin.

The memories of those times are so dark, the small gasps of pain that had passed for stuttered breathe in that small space, the feel of petrified skin beneath her hands as she had tried to offer what little comfort she had to offer, the sensation of dust falling between her fingers as the curse completed its foul work.

Jill must have gotten lost in her memories for longer than she thought, as when she blinks back to reality it is to the loud bang of the announcer’s sceptre upon the flagstone and the proclamation that the meeting has been concluded.

She watches as the great hall slowly empties, Lords and Ladies filing out, their heads bowed not in respect, but in defeat.

Jill moves then, taking the stares two at a time as she rushes to intercept Clive, if she is careful, she can make it appear as an accident, a mere coincidence that will fall beneath the Empress’ notice.

The stomp of the Dragoons boots against the stone floors of Rosalith castle echoes the near thunderous beat of her heart within her chest, but even as the fresh adrenaline it forces through her veins makes her want to run, Jill compels herself to go slow.

Rounding the corner, she comes face to face with the Empress’ delegation and curtseys. “Your Majesty.”

The Empress’ eyes are as cold as she remembers, frigid in a way that makes the deep blue of her eyes, that looks like the open sky in Clive’s gaze, instead resemble the cold depths of an endless sea.

Jill does not have to endure her scrutiny long, not when the Empress continues to walk, barely allowing her eyes to linger upon Jill.

Her disinterest and distain are easily projected, to the point where it foils Jill’s plan to simply join the end of the procession and follow Clive to his room, as the Dragoons close rank, cutting off her view of Clive, one takes it a step further and makes a point of stopping to bar her way.

Jill continues to watch with regret as Clive is led away, but a plan soon forms in her mind.

....

Night falls slowly, the sun remaining long into the evening and casting a beautiful red haze across the sky that reflects upon the waves of the Bay of the Talons, setting them on fire.

Jill watches it with impatient eyes, begging for the moon to rise and the curtain of night to be drawn across the castle.

In the meantime, she picks at the tray of food Lady Hannah brought her, barely touching the meal, not even the fresh strawberry tart that is a favourite of hers, the knowledge that it is a conciliation for the order from the Empress that the evening meal would be for family alone, making the one bite she takes taste sour.

When one of the maids comes to collect her tray, Jill informs her that she is not feeling well and that she shall be retiring early.

She waits then, eyes trained on the sky outside the guest room she has been given for her stay here, the same room she had occupied when she had been kept here as a ward, comforting in its familiarity, but barer than it had been with all of her slim personal affects having been moved to Port Isolde.

The moment the moons light reflects across the bay, Jill moves.

Opening the doors towards the balcony she looks down, checking for the guards that should be patrolling the outer walls.

None of them are within sight, and the beacon on the wall have yet to be lit.

She will never have a better chance than this.

The Semi-Prime feels like a cloak made of frost being drawn around her shoulders, cold and enfolding in a way that hides her from the world. The raiments of the Glacian are beautiful, otherworldly in a way that could never be replicated by human hands, fragile to the eye but as strong as adamantite to the touch.

Even so, the sight of it and her own hands suddenly painted white makes her feel unmoored, distant in the way that she cannot recognise them as her own even as they seamlessly follow her commands.

She dispels her doubts as best as she can as she focuses back on the task at hand.

With a deep breathe to try and calm her nerves, she moves towards the railing on the balcony and sits herself upon it. Looking down from this height in the darkness, the ground below cannot be seen, concealed as it is by the long shadows of the walls that guard Rosalith. In a way, it makes what Jill plans to do next a little easier.

Without allowing herself to think about it further, Jill jumps.

The fall before the flurry she conjures catches her is terrifying, the feeling of weightlessness a band of terror around her throat as her heart hammers in her chest. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from screaming, but as soon as the first whisper of winter catches her the fear vanishes, replaced with exhilaration as she spins through the air, gliding through the night like one of the winter nymphs of the North.

Her elation comes to a sudden and ungraceful end as she collides with one of the brattices fixed to the adjoining towers.

Embarrassed, she is more than glad that no one is around to see that as she pulls herself up onto the small lip of the structure and braces herself to jump again, this time with the presence of mind to pay attention to where she is gliding.

Luckily, her destination isn’t too far, and when she does land on the balcony she has been aiming for it is with a grace that her earlier attempts had been lacking.

“Jill?” Clive asks in a surprised voice.

She allows the Semi-Prime of Shiva to drop as she stands, a little unsure, thoughts of the consequences of her action only occurring to her now that she is here.

Those fears flee the moment Clive embraces her, replaced by one single thought, ‘worth it’.

Reluctantly, she pulls away but doesn’t leave his arms as she takes a step back in order to get a proper look at him.

He’s taller, his shoulders are more filled out, his hair is a little longer, rebelling against the proper style a servant has tried to wrangle it into, but his eyes are still the same, still open and expressive even as stress casts heavy shadows beneath them.

Before she realises it, her hand is rising to trace them, she wishes she could simply brush the dark circles away and dispel all his tiredness with it.

As she does so, he takes her hand and leans into her touch.

He relaxes slowly, his shoulders slumping as he draws her in closer, curling his arms more firmly around her middle as he rests his forehead against hers.

Jill basks in the warmth that comes off of him.

“I missed you,” her words are whispered and all the more sincere for it.

“I feared I wouldn’t get to see you before-” he returns, trailing off with a disheartened sigh.

“Before what?” she queries, dreading the answer, even as she suspects she already knows what he is going to say.

He hesitates and that is enough confirmation for Jill to know she has guessed right, but she remains silent, allowing him the time he needs to find his words.

“I’ll be joining the Shields, leading them on the front lines.”

Jill’s heart sinks as worry chokes her. “The front? Against Odin?”

She has all the faith in the world when it comes to Clive, but Odin is a legend unto himself, a conqueror who the people have dubbed as Bahamut’s Rival, though the more appropriate moniker would be Bahamut’s Bane considering the fact that Odin had been responsible for the last Dominant of Bahamut’s death.

“If I must,” agrees Clive with a determination that may very well lead him to his death.

“It never really ends, does it?” Jill echoes the same question she had asked all those years ago on a balcony just like this.

“No,” Clive repeats in turn, but this time with a heaviness that speaks of the weight of the war being placed upon his shoulders.

Jill had been afraid before, when the idea of war was just that, an idea. Now that she has seen it, had a taste of the true loss it can carve upon a person’s soul, she finds herself terrified.

Her eyes flick from Clive’s face to the clear night sky above them, latching onto the bright spark that is Metia at her full brightness in the glow of the new moon.

Clive follows her gaze and from the corner of her eye she can see the smile that forms upon his lips. “You still believe?” he questions, slightly disbelieving.

“I have every right to,” she responds as she raises her hands up to pray, in reaction, Clive shifts so he is standing behind her, his arms still clasped around her waist with his cheek resting against her hair.

Jill shivers, not from the cold but from the blaze of tingles his touch sends shooting down her spine. But still she prays, silently but reverently.

Clive must already know what she begs of Metia, as he speaks the words she is desperately hoping to hear, “Jill, I will always come back to you.”

She holds his hands that wrap her in his warmth tighter, nodding in affirmation as she tries to hide the single tear that rolls down her cheek.

Chapter Text

Cid runs.

He doesn’t look back, after all, he has his little girl bundled in his arms, what more does he need, other than to get as far away from here as possible?

“Dad?” Midadol mumbles, her word hushed from where he holds her tight against his chest.

She’s scared, of course she is, she probably doesn’t have a clue what is going on, young as she is.

In truth, Cid doesn’t have a clue either, all he knows is right now he has to run far and run fast.

Well, that and one other thing, that Barney has completely lost the plot.

Cid’s been seeing the cracks for years now, it’s been happening ever since that so called God of his wearing the face of a boy showed up, Barney just fell deeper and deeper into that religion of his and dragged Benna down with him.

“Cidolfus!”

Speak of the devil.

The sound of beating wings and screaming winds carry Benadikta’s cry, adding a gravity to his name that almost pulls Cid back, almost…

Until he reminds himself that she’s not the girl he once knew, not anymore. The innocent girl he saved from traders is gone, replaced instead with a zealot blinded by her loyalty to her King and the God he serves.

Part of Cid gets it, he really does, how can he not with the Curse hardening his skin and turning his joints to stone.

Barney didn’t just promise salvation, he delivered it, the proof is in the situation they find themselves in now, Cid running for his life weighed down by an arm that’s doing its best impression of a gargoyle while Benna glides through the air, not a thought to the consequences of drawing on the powers of her Eikon because apparently, she doesn’t suffer any.

Cid wouldn’t either, if he weren’t so stubborn, if he just listened to Barney and gave in, what was a little thing like your free will when measured against the guarantee of protection from a slow and painful death?

Everything.

That’s the answer he gave Barney and his God and there’s no taking it back now.

A flash of light from above has Cid ducking for the cover of a rotted oak bent by time, he hides in the shadow of the hollowed-out trunk, pulling Mid’s hood down a little further to hide her bright hair, his little spark can’t flare tonight, not if he wants to get them both away safely.

It’d be one thing if it were only Benna, Cid would be confident enough to take her, after all he taught her all the dirty tricks she knows but was wise enough to keep some back for himself.

It’s a whole other thing when she’s got her flock to back her up and the bloody pony to boot.

Cid is fast but so are they and he has Mid to look out for, he’s got everything to lose, and they’ve got everything to gain, but he won’t let them win.

He waits a few more minutes and it pays off when another cry of, “Cidolfus,” rings through the trees, but this time from much farther away.

Taking a chance, he bolts, heading in the opposite direction, keeping his ears open, listening for any sound that might indicate they are on his trail again.

He just needs to make it to the coast, Otto should be waiting for him there, in a ramshackle merchant ship that’s barely seaworthy, a hell of a down grade from the beauty that is the Einherjar, but since when could beggars be choosers?

Things get a bit more difficult as the underbrush continues to thicken and the hill he’s climbing turns sheer in places, but it’s either this or the blades Benna and Sleipnir are looking to sink into his back.

No doubt, Cid would be cursing up a storm right now if he wasn’t trying very hard to keep quiet.

He’s rethinking that policy when, like an idiot, he trips over a root in the dark and catches himself with his face because his arms are full of breakable little Mid, but a sharp reminder to keep his mouth shut comes when a chittering cackle seeps through the woods around them, bouncing off trees and rocks, making it nearly impossible to pinpoint.

The first syllable of his preferred profanity that was about to escape his bleeding lip is muffled as he bites down, uncaring about the sting of his teeth widening the cut.

Cid looks around even as he shushes Mid, running a calming hand over her head, his little girl is smart enough to copy him and bite her own lip, staying quiet where other kids would have already started crying.

A swirl of dust gives away the egi’s position, directly behind him, right on the edge of the large step he lies at the bottom of.

Cid holds his breath as he watches the aether infused winds scatter leaves and shake the trees around them, and all the while he silently begs the creature to move on, to take flight and not look back.

He doesn’t get his wish.

The cackling tweets evolve into a shrieking howl as blades of wind and feather like daggers kick up a storm above him.

Only his reflexes, boosted by Ramuh’s favour allow him to dodge in time, and now that he finds himself exposed there’s little choice left but to fight.

Lightning leaves his fingers in a branching staccato of bolts and catches the egi straight in the chest with enough force to knock her off the whirlwind she rides.

It’s not enough to kill her, Cid’s seen firsthand the punishment Benna’s so-called sisters can take, but he doesn’t have the time he needs to reduce her to ash, not unless he wants to find himself surrounded.

Ducking for the thickest part of the forest he keeps running in the general direction of up, knowing that he needs to summit this hill if he wants to make it to the hidden cove he agreed to meet Otto in.

Judging by how the egi’s sheering scream echoes through the thicket he’s forcing his way through, it’s safe to say she doesn’t like this decision of his, even as it doesn’t stop her from trying to follow him.

Progress is painfully slow, but with as much trouble as Cid is having making his way through the grasping branches and the tangling thorns that wrap around him with every step he takes, it’s nothing compared to the impossibility that is the egi trying to even step into the deep grove.

Her frustrated cries grow more distant as the close trees and the thick brush make the option of spreading her wings unfeasible, proof that not all egi are made the same as at least the pony would have had the sense to try a different route in order to attempt to cut him off.

A possibility that is very real with all the noise Benna’s egi is making.

It makes Cid nervous and gives him the push he needs to reach the peak of the hill, where he finally gets his first glimpse of the coastline below and the sea beyond.

The endless expanse of deep blue stretching to the horizon looks limitless in the darkness, only the half-moon lights up the night, but it is enough to see the route he needs to take. Cid just needs to make his way down the ridge without being spotted, from there a series of sea caves—once used as a smugglers den—will give him all the space he needs to get lost and stay that way until he can slip away and meet with Otto.

It’s a great plan, one that doesn’t last three steps.

Cid doesn’t even hear the cutting wind that slams into the back of him, that’s how he knows he’s hit.

The incline of the hill is merciless, as soon as he starts falling, he can’t stop, and with the momentum that drives him all he can do is curl more tightly around Mid and hope for the best.

What he gets is a near landslide, lose dirt and rock tumbling down alongside him as he grits his teeth and tries not to inhale too much dust.

Then, a mind shattering instant where his shoulder collides with something too solid to give way, maybe a tree or a boulder, it all happens too fast for Cid to tell, but something does crack.

Bone, he realises drunkenly as agony overtakes his arm and chest.

The world still spins even as he comes to a stop, but Cid does not have the time to wait for it to right itself, nor does he have the time to pay attention to the awful grind of splintered bone he can feel shifting beneath his skin.

What he does have time for is Mid.

Sniffling, she still trying to stay quiet even though the fall scared her.

“Are you hurt?” the question comes out as more of a wheeze than actual words, but Mid understands him. The shake of her head sends gut deep relief washing over him, but it’s soon swallowed by the wave of pain that is his messed-up shoulder.

Cid didn’t want to have to do this, but stealth went out the window already and he left all his potions back in the castle with everything but the clothes on his back and the swords on his hip, what choice does he have?

None is the answer, one that’s only emphasized by the soft sound of ruffled feathers and beating wings as Benna circles overhead like a vulture.

“Back up Mid, and get ready to bolt,” Cid instructs as he forces himself to his knees.

“Oh fuc-argh!” he can’t even finish the expletive, not when the break shifts at that exact moment, robbing him of his voice as a he tries to throttle his own scream, until he can channel it into a roar as he allows aether and lightning to race through his veins.

The purple veins of Ramuh’s quintessence overtake him in an instant, there’s a brief spark of pain as Cid’s bone suddenly realigns, the flood of aether through his system taking care of the break in the blink of an eye, even as the pain from the injury lingers in the form of phantom jolts of electric pain that leave his arm feeling numb.

He stays semi-primed, the option of leaving without a fight gone the moment Benna found him.

She’s smart enough to try and strike him while he is still in the midst of priming, the talons of Garuda coming at her call and falling with the force of a hurricane, but quick as she is she’s still not as fast as lightning.

The discharge of his powers acts as a shield, blocking Benna’s summoned claws and dispersing the aether that made them, allowing Cid to stand tall as Benna lands before him.

Windswept and angry, she looks ready to disembowel him, but Cid can see the hurt she tries to hide behind her mask of hate.

“Lord Commander,” she spits with a venom that makes her words poison.

“Not anymore,” Cid corrects, his voice heavy with the rumble of Ramuh.

Benna’s face twists in a way that makes the shadows under her eyes deepen as she lashes out. “Over what? Some Branded that were doomed from the start! Barnabas is offering you everything, an end to the suffering, a means to be free of a curse that has chained us since the day we were born.”

“Aye, he is,” Cid agrees, “but at what cost?”

Benadikta scoffs, “merely our loyalty and service in building a new world, something that you were already giving before your little spat.”

“A spat, was it?” It’s Cid’s turn to scoff, “you tell me what kind of spat leaves half a castle in ruins and me running for my life?” He throws his arm in the general direction of Vidargraes, or what remains of it.

A lot, if he’s being honest, he managed to duck out before he and Odin could do more than exchange a few energy attacks, and lucky for him the old bastard was still recharging from his last scrap with Bahamut and the new fire gecko with a bad temper known as Ifrit.

Unfortunately, his majesty’s presence also meant that Cid’s plan of taking down Drake’s Spine as the worlds biggest middle finger before his daring escape, had been dead in the water from the time the idea first flashed across his mind.

Oh well, there’d be other opportunities so long as he’s still breathing.

“If you would just listen to him,” Benna tries to defend, “come back with me now, accept the gift he offers and all of this can be forgiven, things can return to the way they were but this time without the burden of a dreaded fate.”

She holds out her hand in offer, but when Cid doesn’t immediately take it, she pushes, “if not out of loyalty to him, then at least for the bond we share.”

The anger that once held her expression softens around the edges, leaving her open and sincere and Cid can hear the unsaid plea that hangs between them.

Don’t leave me.

“It doesn’t have to be this way Benna, you don’t have to stay with him, whatever he and that God of his have promised, you’re smart enough to know it’s all a bunch of lies.

She falters, taking one unsteady step towards him at those words as the glow of her semi-prime fades, veins of green dimming and retreating as the wind that swirls around her begins to calm.

For a moment, Cid sees the Benna he knows.

“I’m tired Cidolfus,” she whispers as her shoulders slump and her gaze falls to the ground, “tired of running, I just want to be free, free of it all.”

“You can be,” Cid pleads.

The world is still around them

It all happens in an instant.

The flash of aether as the veins of power reignite along Benna’s skin.

Sharp talons swirling through the night.

The flash of lightning in a once clear sky and an earth-shattering crack as the sea cliff beneath his feet crumbles under the onslaught of power at play.

Cid grabs Mid as he dives and they both fall, untethered and only semi-primed there’s nothing to stop the unrelenting grip of gravity that seizes him and his little girl, not until the waves below the cliff catch them.

Cold, so cold it burns.

That’s all Cid knows for a second that feels like an eternity, until the burn in his chest becomes strong enough to overtake it.

Desperate kicks allow him to surface, and he fights to keep both himself and Mid there, then he fights harder to get them both back to shore, to the caves that litter the cliffs and to safety.

The first feel of sea battered rock beneath his grasping fingers is a lifeline he refuses to let go of, even as the waves batter his already bruised body.

Crawling, he drags himself into the nearest cave, clutching Mid close as she shivers from a mix of both terror and cold, all the time whispering, “It’s okay, I got you lass, we’re safe, we’re both safe now.”

Stumbling further into the darkness of the cave, he ignores the distant screams of Garuda as she continues her search.

Chapter Text

The inner chambers of the Heart of Drake’s Spine are dark, the glow of the Mother Crystal muted by the black stone that enshrines it, but the air of worship that suffuses the space is unmistakable, even when only one believer bows before the altar.

Odin’s prayers reach them even as they are whisper soft, echoing through the gallery and rising to a chorus of reverence that so few know.

They watch for a time, seeing but unseen, safe in the knowledge that Odin’s faith is unwavering, so much so that even the booming echo of the doors to the sanctuary being thrown open do not disturb his supplication.

“My King,” their Warden of Wind begins to call, but the second she sees him kneeling she stalls and takes a step back, her head bowed as she falls to her knees at the base of the steps.

Odin continues his vigil, the light of Zantetsuken voidal in its umbral glare, and ever hungry, even as it gluts itself of the ample sacrifice Odin has offered to the famed blade.

Interrupted once already, Odin does not dare to let his focus fray again, and with a final note of sacrament the Bearers laid out before the Heart disperse, their aether claimed for a higher purpose.

“He is gone?” Odin asks, even as he knows the answer.

“I have my men searching the caves and the coast and have already commanded ships be sent out to widen the search, he shall not evade my grasp for long,” Garuda defends.

Sheathing Zantetsuken, Odin rises and makes his way down the stairs. “I shall hunt the traitor down myself.” With a mere thought, their Warden of Darkness calls his charger, and Sleipnir emerges from the shadows, ready to fulfil his masters wishes.

It is only as Odin begins to summon his armour that they choose to step forward.

Their form flickers for a moment, caught between the visages now available to them, but soon enough light hair turns black as charcoal and a small form gains height as they emerge in the guise of their vessel.

Odin stills immediately, not even having to be commanded to wait as Sleipnir allows his true form to fade into the lithe body of a pale man, knelt at his liege’s side.

 “Our Warden of Lightning has fled?” They ask, curious as to whether their Warden of Darkness shall dare to offer an excuse.

As expected of their most devout, he does not beg for clemency, but he does claim responsibility, “I have failed you in this task my Lord, you spoke of Ramuh’s rebellious and tempestuous nature, and yet I thought him tame and placated. A result of ignorance and pride wrought by human will.”

“Correct,” they agree, but there is no disappointment in their voice, in fact, pleasure suffuses their tone, for though Ramuh’s Dominant believes himself free the strings that bind him to his master can never be severed, and yet pull at even the most disobedient of his puppets.

Odin can recognise their lack of anger but is wise enough to know not to question his God, instead, he offers his plan. “Ramuh shall be reclaimed, chained, and brought before you, forced to bend or break, whichever best serves your design, my Lord”

It is a sound plan, they can see how it will play out, how their Warden of Lightning would rail against this fate only to succumb to it, mind and will suppressed by aether to the point that he is merely a beast of destruction, for this flawed world of man must first be cleansed before they can usher in their paradise.

…

“No,” they answer.

Odin’s confusion over this declaration is a near palpable thing, and yet still, he does not question.

It is because of this that they explain, “Ramuh thinks himself free, unknowing of the task he has been unleashed to fulfil.” They descend the stairs, allowing their wing to spread and illuminate the space around them, in this form they feel so much closer to their original self, instead of the corpse they were forced to exist as throughout their slumber.

“While he works against us, he will in fact enact our will, and all the while the time for our ascension shall grow nearer. By the end, Ramuh will submit, just as all the other Eikons shall.”

It is an inevitability at this point, and should their Warden of Lightning continue to fight, to use the power that was gifted to him by the almighty he seeks to denounce, he shall only incur the price that all those who wield the aether must endure.

When they reach the bottom of the staircase Odin has already knelt and Garuda, ever eager to please and to prove herself remains in her stance of supplication, a picture of a loyal servant.

“Your purpose, our Warden of Darkness, is to keep the eyes of Storm upon you, for the final clash of mankind approaches, the Ragnarök that shall till the fields of our paradise.”

“As you command, my Lord,” Odin accepts, and they retreat, safe in the knowledge that their chosen grows stronger by the day and that the ties that bind him to them can never be unmade.

Chapter Text

Clive thought he had seen war.

He thought the battle to reclaim Drake’s Breath had been a war, the clash of men, one fighting to defend their claim, while the other fought to reclaim theirs, and painting the black stone of Beinn Leodladh red to do so.

Or that the battle of Phoenix Gate had been one, the sight of Shields slaughtered where they stood, some of them unarmed, others simply taken by the treachery of that night, only for it all to end in hellfire as Clive himself lost control.

But no, nearly a decade spent on the front of the war between the Empire and Waloed has taught him that he knew nothing of real war.

The strategies which his father, Ser Rodney, and Uncle Byron drilled into his head as a child mean nothing here, not when faced with the pure savagery that is the battlefield commanded by the lord of war himself: Odin.

Taking his place at the front of his troops Clive silently reminds himself to breathe, the men behind him need his mind to be clear, especially when the battlefield might soon be overtaken not only by the battle between two armies, but also by the natural disaster that is a clash between Eikons.

He looks out from the treeline he has chosen as his Shields staging point in the hopes of flanking the Waloeder forces, judging the distance, the terrain of the field before them, and the engines of war that Odin’s army have brought with them this day.

None of it is favourable to the forces of the Empire, the distance is long, and the terrain is flat, perfect for the famed Waloeder cavalry. Add to that the ballista and catapults guarded by the dirt walls and trenches and you have a killing field designed to break the Empire’s lines and sew chaos throughout its ranks.

When Clive had listened to the Imperial General’s plan for a full-frontal assault, he had protested, sighting the unnecessary loss of life due to the fact that King Barnabas’ forces were already dug in.

The stares of confusion Clive had been met with were unsettling, but the words that followed were disturbing, “what do we care of our Brandeds safety, we can always buy more.”

“Buy more,” Clive had protested, fire spitting from his mouth with the words.

General Paulus had merely sat back in his chair, swirling his wine in his goblet, uncaring of the fact that he spilled it across his gloves, wine dying the white cloth red like so much blood. “Indeed, Marquees, and I would remind you that his Radiance placed me in charge of the Empire’s troops in the absence of Prince Dion, not you. So, I would ask that you hold your tongue, lest you would like me to instruct you on the proper use of your troops.”

Bitterly, Clive had to swallow his anger, for the fact was that the Rosarian forces only remained separate from the Empires by the Emperor’s grace. An easy thing to maintain when Prince Dion was in command, but with the Prince being summoned for a peace delegation Clive finds himself alone amidst commanders who see their men—especially Bearers—as expendable.

All Clive could do through the rest of the meeting was quietly pray that the peace summit, which had finally been called after nearly a decade of open war, would be successful. Pray that the Empire and the Crystal Dominion would finally come to terms, and if they did that King Barnabas would also accept them.

His prayers had not been answered.

The sound of a Waloeder horn breaks through the morning quiet, sending birds scattering from the trees around them, and Clive watches with dread as the thin line of Imperial Bearers cower in the face of the beast of war that is Waloed.

The horn sounds again, booming and terrible, matched only by the call to arms that flows down the lines of armoured knights.

Even from this distance Clive can see the near impenetrable defences of Waloed’s position.

It would be a slaughter, a one-sided massacre that only served to use up some of the Waloeder artillery and if they were lucky, expose a weakness in the lines of defence that had previously gone unnoticed, all in the hopes that they would be easier targets for the elite Dragoon legions, that would fall in on the flanks of the sacrificed Bearers.

Clive could never stand aside and allow it to happen.

Drawing his sword and turning to his men he stands in his saddle as he turns his blade towards the rising sun, catching the light as he does so. It gains the attention of every Shield hidden amongst the trees, a silent signal to be ready.

They wait, watching as the line of Imperial Bearers are ordered to advance, as the light of aether held in trembling hands snatches all focus.

Standing here, on the precipice of battle, Clive wonders if he resembles his father. Clad in burnished steel light plate armour, his pteruges and his cape with the Rosarian sigil emblazoned upon a field of red fluttering in the wind like banners.

He hopes so.

“To dwell in darkness that we may purge the night and welcome lasting dawn. On these our swords we swear!”

As the men behind him take up the call, for himself Clive whispers, “for Olivier,” and silently he thinks, ‘for Joshua.’

This is the last thought that echoes in the back of his mind as he is forced to surrender to the roared battle cries of the soldiers who stand ready behind him.

He charges, his Shields at his back, Torgal at his side, as they barrel down the shallow hill to attack the relatively smaller earthworks on the left flank of Waloed’s formation.

The thunder of clawed feet is the drumbeat that announces their full charge, and even with the warning of the call to charge there is little the closely packed Waloeder infantry and artillery operators behind them can do to prepare.

The Chocobo’s scale and leap the earthworks with hardly any resistance, the lancers having been posted on the frontline to deter the Imperial Bearers all but suicidal charge.

There is nothing to stop the tide that is the Rosarian cavalry as they wash over the Waloed forces, but the momentum that propelled them cannot last forever, and all too soon Clive finds himself in the thick of it.

The flash of a blade aimed to kill cuts so close, he would swear he feels it shave some of the hair dusting his jawline.

A man besides him falls to the dirt, brought down by a spark that may have been a blade, or a bolt, or aether, he can’t tell with the quick blur of battle that subsumes his senses.

Fire comes to his call as he breaks the line of Waloeder infantry that are trying to push them back, he forces his way through, leaving behind a field of burnt ash that creates a gap for his mounted Shields to flood.

Men die in droves, to his blade, to his fire, and to his light, and all the while Clive cuts a path through to the artillery and its lightly armoured operators. If they can kill them, it won’t matter if the ballista and catapults still function, without men who know how to maintain and work them they shall be rendered useless.

Blinded by that goal, Clive fails to see the way the lancers are repositioning themselves, only noticing the danger when Torgal barks a warning and the crowd around him suddenly thins, revealing a line of pikeman with black spears.

Pulling on his chocobos reins, he is quick enough to turn the bird before the lancers can move in, but some of his men are not as lucky as he. Some Shields are thrown from their saddles and do not have time to recover before the infantry falls upon them

Clive can only turn his eyes away from the scene and focus on the men around him that yet live.

Raising his fingers to his lips, Clive releases a high-pitched whistle that rings out even above the roar of heated battle: the sound to retreat.

 The Shields obey immediately, knowing what is to come, what is about to be unleashed.

Hopping down from his Chocobo, Clive tosses the reins and sends his mount off with a solid slap to his flank, the only one that shall remain by his side through this is Torgal.

The Waloeder infantry and lancers look at him as if he is mad, only to then recognise him too late.

The Semi-Prime ignites across his skin, covering his red and black armour in thick plates of molten stone that feels as light as ash to Clive.

A command that Clive cannot understand is shouted from somewhere amongst the lancers and as one, they move, lowering their spears as they advance upon him, trying to force him back, but weapons forged by mortal hands mean very little to Clive now.

Summoning Will-o’-the-Wykes, Clive has no fear when leaping back into the fray, there is almost nothing that can harm him like this, and soon enough he has reached his target.

The cracking snap of tensed wood, metal, and cable as the delicate mechanisms of the weapons of war melt beneath his burning blade is music to his ears.

A Phoenix flash has him in range of his next target in a blink, and the lines that are the heart of the mighty trebuchet’s power break like worn fishing wire beneath his next strike.

Clive uses every moment he has, moving as a blur, but as each minute passes he can feel his time running out, he cannot hold a Semi-Prime forever, and to venture too deep into enemy lines only to find himself surrounded and too exhausted to fight back…there is a difference between valour and madness.

“Torgal, back!” Clive commands and the hound listens, immediately abandoning the soldier that had become his prey to run. Clive provides him the cover he needs to leap the earthworks and bolt for the trees before focusing on his own escape.

Bahamut’s wings spread from his back with a sound that reminds Clive of the unfurling of a ships sail.

Immediately he can feel the wind filling them, pulling at him and encouraging him to take flight, he gives into the feeling and allows himself to soar.

The battlefield unfolds beneath him, and Clive can clearly see the chaos he and his riders carved into the Waloeder defenders.

Only the thick plumes of smoke that rise from the wreckages they have made of the war machines manages to obscure Clive’s vision, seven of which now lie broken and splintered on the battlefield.

It isn’t enough to hide the carnage of the frontlines.

Men push against each other in a churning sea of conflict that has no end, and Clive can feel his heart sink at the thought that all the Rosarian charge did was change the method of their deaths.

His eyes trail to his own men who continue to engage the Waloeder infantry, running parallel to the earthworks and attacking with their crystal tipped javelins, causing fires to ignite wherever they strike, only to retreat again before the enemy can counter, giving the Rosarian archers still hidden in the treeline free reign to unleash volleys so thick they blot out the sky.

It’s an encouraging sight, but how long will the general force them to fight alone?

What sacrifice will he consider worthy enough to send out the Dragoons?

He already knows the answer.

“Dammit, I need you,” he whispers in frustration as he looks inward and tries to reach for the burning sun that is Ifrit.

As ever, the true power of the Eikon lays just beyond his reach, separated by an invisible barrier that no amount of anger can ever seem to overcome.

With vexation nearly making him choke on the growl that rises at the back of his throat, Clive dives, determined to make a difference.

The sun setting behind the hills that enclose the field of battle paints the sky in the deepest shades of red, a near perfect reflection of the bloodied, open, plain that now plays host to only the dead and dying.

Clive himself stands with the general’s delegation as they await the arrival of the Waloed forces commander, an honour, he is told. It doesn’t feel like one, not standing here atop blood-soaked soil, his entire body aching from the burn of exhaustion that would see him falling the moment he closed his eyes a second too long.

Shaking his head in order to stay alert, Clive tries to focus on the white flags that flutters above the small contingent of Waloeder knights that is steadily growing closer, but he finds his thoughts wandering as his gaze slides to the mouth of the valley that lays behind the defences of Waloed.

More specifically, the harbour that lays behind it.

Captured in the first year of the War of the Four Crystals—as nobles and commoners alike had taken to calling it—the port, named Coquille Cassée, for the jagged sea stacks that surrounded it which resemble the shards of a broken egg, had become the main launching point for the Waloeder forces in their wider campaign of Storm.

Positioned close to the Dragon’s Aery, the Emperor had declared the harbour town a top priority, but in a near decade of war no Imperial General had been able to retake it.

Clive hopes that after today’s display that would soon change, though the thought of General Paulus being able to take any credit for the actions of his soldiers does make Clive’s stomach turn.

The Waloeder party finally arrives, but wisely chooses to keep their distance, requiring the commander to shout from where he sits upon the back of a coal black chocobo, “Who speaks for you?”

“I do,” General Paulus calls out in reply, “by his Radiance’s order I have been granted full authority to negotiate your surrender.”

A contemptuous laugh escapes the Waloeder commander and his men at these words, as they look upon the elderly general with what can only be described as distain.

It takes the commander a moment to recover, but once he does, he is happy to explain the reason for their mirth, “forgive me, general, but we do not recognise your…Radiance’s authority, and we have no intention of surrendering.”

The Emperor’s title sounds strange upon the Waloed commander’s tongue, his accent mixing with the clear irreverence he has for it, creating a tone that makes the title sound like an insult.

Clive makes a note to remember it.

General Paulus for his part falters, remaining silent even as his lips move, until he manages to compose himself and try again, “If not to surrender then why did you raise the white flag?”

“To negotiate the retrieval of our fallen, for men who die in the service of the Last King deserve better than to be food for the crows.” The commander turns his hand towards the sky, pointing out the scavengers that have already begun to circle.

“The Last King,” General Paulus scoffs, quietly enough that the Waloed contingent cannot hear him, before going on to say more loudly, “a shame that both our time is wasted then, we have no need to retrieve our fallen, for no men of any real worth perished this day.”

Clive’s hackles immediately rise at that statement, but he already knows that to voice his complaint to General Paulus would yield nothing but more frustration.

So, he takes matters into his own hands.

Ignoring the Imperial party as they turn their backs, Clive steps forward.

“General Paulus may be unwilling to negotiate, but I am not.”

The disgruntled “kweh!” of a chocobo being pulled back abruptly makes it clear that the general heard him.

“Marquess,” his title is hissed, like a huntsman trying to call back a misbehaving hound, as if the general presumes that he has a right to order Clive.

Looking over his shoulder Clive takes great pleasure in reminding him that he does not. “As you said this morning, general, you have command of the Imperial forces, not the Rosarian.”

The lowly whispered warning of, “his Radiance shall hear of this,” as General Paulus rides away means nothing to Clive, as he is already well aware of the fact that the Emperor cares very little about the frontline of the war, so long as it remains a distant threat to Oriflamme.

He waits until the general and his party are far enough away before he addresses the Waloed commander, “I am Marquess Clive Rosfield, First Shield of Rosaria. If you swear to hold to the accords of the treaty of the Crystal Dominion, so I too shall swear to abide by them, so that the noble warriors that died this day might receive the honours they are due.”

His words echo across the divide that separates him from the Waloed contingent but are heard clearly as the commander dismounts his chocobo and removes his helm, revealing a younger man than Clive would have expected.

Braided black hair and a well-kept beard frame a hawkish face, but it is the soldier’s eyes that draw the most attention, or rather, the lone golden eye that remains to him, the other hidden by a heavy patch that covers his left eye.

Dismounting from his chocobo the commander steps out into the unmarked divide between them.

Stopping in the centre, he extends his right hand to Clive and speaks, “I, Lieutenant Colonel Bard Olenius, do hear by swear on the shadow of Odin, that we shall have peace until the rise of the second dawn, so that we might both lay our fallen to rest.”

Solemnly, Clive dismounts and takes three steps forward to meet the lieutenant colonel and clasp his hand.

“I, Clive Rosfield, do hear by swear on the flames of the Phoenix, that we shall have peace until the rise of the second dawn, so that we might both lay our fallen to rest.”

With a satisfied nod they each take one step back, a mark of respect between warriors, only then, do they both dare to turn their backs, facing instead the task that lays before them.

As Clive rejoins his party, he turns to his own lieutenant colonel and instructs in a soft voice, “you know what to do, Wedge.”

Mirth filled eyes convey the smile hidden beneath the half mask Wedge wears. “Same plan as always, my Lord?”

“It hasn’t failed us yet,” Clive confirms as he mounts up and steers his chocobo back towards the Rosarian camp.

“I’ll grab Biggs, he’s still the best at convincing the more devout that the Empire doesn’t give a shit about them.”

Clive nods, having seen Biggs skills for himself. “I’ll send a stolas to my uncle.”

They ride hard, knowing that time is of the essence.

By morning, if the Empire even bothers to search, all they will find of their Branded is dust, and no Imperial soldier will give a second glance to the Rosarian wounded being sent back to their homeland, even if more than a few have bandages covering the lower half of their faces.

War is hell after all, and few men return whole.

If Rosarian reinforcements arrive a few months later with familiar faces but new names, the Imperials never notice, the site of the brand is all they remember of their Branded, and all the while, Rosaria grows stronger.

Chapter Text

Cid is already regretting this.

Bad enough that the climate of Dhalmekia is inhospitable, with the sun burning down on his back and dry winds kicking up sand every other minute but add to that the ill-tempered people that populate it, and you have a recipe for disaster.

Especially when it comes to him and his charm, which to most people is an acquired taste, and that’s when his face isn’t plastered on walls all across the country with a hundred thousand gil reward on his head.

Though, he must say he doesn’t mind his new moniker.

Cid the Outlaw.

It has a nice ring to it.

Alas, his notoriety does come with its downsides, like having to wear this heavy cloak in temperatures that would have a Wyvern slinking into a cave to get some shade.

Needs must though, and hopefully he can at least lower his hood once they are past the gates of Kanver.

Dhalmekia may want his head, what with all the Bearers he’s been freeing from their chains, but luckily the descriptions they have been giving to the artists charged with capturing the likeness of his beautiful mug are so far off he doubts his own mother would recognise him.

At least Gav and Mid have been having fun with that fact, at his expense no less, making a collection out of the most unflattering posters and displaying them behind the counter of the Fat Chocobo for all to see.

Whatever keeps them entertained, although, he’s afraid that he won’t be seeing any new posters for a while.

Not after this.

He looks down at Mid, she’s fidgeting with the rim of her hood, pulling it down and curling it up again and again in an almost rhythmic pattern. Nerves, or excitement, maybe a mix of both, he can’t blame her, its not everyday you get accepted into a prestigious university, at the age of eleven no less.

Still, he has to put a stop to her fidgeting before it escalates into trouble, as it always inevitably does.

Taking her hand and flicking her nose to get her attention, he looks down at her and asks, “so, little miss Mid, what are the rules for today?”

They’ve already been over this, but it never hurts to remind his little imp of a daughter.

She roles her eyes but recounts the rules anyway, “stay by your side and don’t draw attention.”

“And?” he prompts when she forgets to add the last rule.

“Keep my smart mouth shut.”

Cid laughs as he pulls down her hood, so it covers her eyes. “Its just for today kiddo, first impressions and all that, you can be the hellion you truly are after they verify that you are a prodigy and therefore worth keeping.”

“Dad!” she whines, and Cid smiles as he tries to ignore the fact that soon enough, he’ll be saying goodbye.

He reminds himself that its for the best as he prompts Mid, “so what was it you were saying about the conductivity of ancient ceramics?”

With that, Mid’s off, practically lost in her own world, speaking a mile a minute and hardly stopping for breath.

Cid chips in here and there, gently correcting her when her ideas get a little too wild. By Storm is he going to miss this, but he keeps reminding himself it is for the best.

The Deadlands are no place for a child to grow if they don’t have to.

Mid keeps chatting away, right up until they reach the front of the line and Cid hands over the fancy arsed gold trimmed papers that are their ticket inside. The burly guard stationed on watch duty takes one bored look at the letters and the seal of the Kanver university that decorates them before handing them back and nodding them through.

Cid gives a friendly, “thank you kindly,” as he walks beneath the carved archway of the free cities, he nearly strains his neck trying to get a proper look at the sculpture that adorns the top, a knight in full armour taking down a chimera with a spear. There’s a story behind that, he’s sure, but not one he has time for, not today at least.

Five steps into the city and Cid can already tell it’s going to be a bitch to navigate, what with its tall buildings and crowded streets. As a merchant city he’d expected things to be busy, but this is taking the piss out of it.

Stalls dominate every bit of free space, narrowing what should be wide streets into near impassable funnels that are constantly filled with people trying to get past. Cid makes the wise decision to avoid that mess by heading to the canal, hoping that the city has a boat service.

Just to be safe, he picks up Mid and places her on his shoulders, much to her delight given the happy squeal that escapes her and the way she keeps her head on a constant swivel, pointing at whatever catches her eye.

How can he blame her when there’s so much to look at.

The city comprised mainly of sandstone differentiates itself from the rocky desert that surrounds it with its impressive architecture. Everywhere Cid looks he sees works of art incorporated into every building that can afford it, in the form of icons and mosaics, mainly in either teal, white, gold, or a mix of all three, to reflect the colours of the city’s flag. Some simply depict symmetrical patterns while others denote full scenes of daily life, war, or whatever took the artists fancy that day, adding a vibrancy and breathing life into what would otherwise be simple sandstone brick.

Even the domes that decorate only the most opulent of the buildings, like the grand basilica Cid can see glinting in the distance, stick to this convention, creating a contrast that is eye-catchingly mesmerising, with its deep teal domes scaling up in size and grandeur with each new tier.

It’s so different from the dark and dusty ruins of the Deadlands, where everything eventually becomes the same grey as the land. There, every scrap of light and brightness has to be fought for tooth and nail to maintain. Growing one apple tree is taking all the spare resources they have and even the water needs to be pumped through a filter into a meticulously curated reservoir in order for them to drink it.

Here, the water flows freely through ornate water fountains decorated with nymphs and hippocampi, fruit trees of all kinds thrive in between buildings and even on some rooftops, taunting Cid with their bounty that’s within hands reach.

He gives into the impulse as he passes under an apple tree that’s hanging low across the balcony of a set of stairs, leading to a stone covered bridge, that follows the style of the buildings around it with its decorated column supports.

Offering the apple to Mid first, he only takes a bite himself when she rejects it, turning her head to the side and pushing the apple away in clear disgust. He can’t blame her, after all, her limited experience with the fruit comes from the Hide Hideaway, and the bitterness of those beauties definitely takes some getting used to.

The crunch alone as Cid sinks his teeth into the fruit is enough to make his mouth water, but the sweetness that follows is what hooks him, it’s got none of that tartness that Cid has grown to appreciate and that just makes it taste all the better.

Though his sweet treat soon turns sour on his tongue when he crosses the bridge and comes face to face with a familiar scowl.

At least this one’s carved out of stone.

“Sleppy!” Mid cheers as she taps Cid’s shoulder in a request to be let down.

“Yep, that’s the pony alright, and his master too,” Cid agrees as he obliges Mid’s silent demand and sets her down.

She immediately begins running circles around the black onyx statue, clearly judging it from every angle and calling out all the faults she sees with exclamations of, “too big!” or “too fancy!”

He leaves her to it, knowing she’ll soon get bored and want to move on, but in the meantime, he makes his own observations.

It’s a startling likeness, so much so it makes Cid think that the artist who carved it must have had an eidetic memory, because there’s no way Barney posed for the damn thing.

Carved from marble that’s as black as the void, that really does a lot to capture the umbral aura which Barney carries around with him. Even under the bright sun of the Dhalmekian desert the statue doesn’t reflect any light, a fitting feature for a statue of the Eikon of Darkness.

Looking on, as Mid said, the armour they have Barney wearing is a little too fancy, the ornamentation on the breast plate screams Kanver instead of Waloed, but Cid suspects he’s only picking up on this because he knew Barney personally and was one of the few to see him in his Semi-Prime who lived to tell the tale.

The result is a set of armour that looks like a weird amalgamation between Barney’s Semi-Prime armour and his full Prime form. Not that it looks bad, just more angular and spikier than it should be.

The face though, Barney’s angular jaw and stone-cold eyes have been captured perfectly, to the point that Cid wouldn’t be surprised if the bloody thing suddenly sprung to life.

Shaking off that awful thought he lets his eyes drop to Sleipnir, only to chuckle when he sees the sculptor went the extra mile and carved all six of his legs, something that he knew the pony would be pleased about. The number of statues of himself that he had petulantly kicked over, because they hadn’t depicted him with all six legs…at one point, Cid was half convinced he gave the sculptors the wrong instructions just to watch their looks of horror as he demolished their masterpieces.

As accurate as the statue is, it begs the question, why is it here?

Cid gets his answer when he reads the plaque fixed to its base.

“The Ally of Kanver.
Dedicated: Year of the Realm 857

In honour of the Last King who stood with us
in our darkest hour against the wrath of Storm.”

Ah, that explains it.

Cid himself hadn’t been a part of this campaign, left instead to guard the home front from Beastmen and Sanbrequois incursion instead. He was glad of it in the end, as it turned out that the secession of Kanver from Dhalmekia was quite a boring affair all things considered.

A lot of posturing and threats that amounted to little more than a near decade long stand off as politicians bickered over land and taxes.

It got Barney what he wanted in the end, a guaranteed foothold in Storm and the benefits that came with the gratitude of the city that is basically the bank of Valisthea.

To some, him wanting to leave his daughter in a city that has such close ties to Waloed, might seem strange, but there is method in his madness, there always is.

You want to hide a book; you find the biggest library and hide it in plain sight. Same logic applies here, you want to hide a Dungeoneer prodigy; you stick her in the fanciest, stuffiest, most expensive university with all the other prodigies, and laugh yourself silly as your little girl schools them all.

All on the university’s own gil mind you because your brilliant little bolt got a full ride, all expenses included.

Damn is he proud.

Speaking of the university, it’s about time they headed back on their way.

“Mid,” he calls, looking behind the statue, expecting to see her head pop out.

Instead, he hears nothing but the continued drone of the city around him.

Walking around the statue, he looks for her, calling out again in a more serious tone this time, “Midadol?” that normally brings her running, not this time.

He does a full circle of the statue before he allows himself to panic, but there’s not much he can do to stop the heart dropping fear as he completes his circuit without seeing her.

“Mid!” he shouts, uncaring of the strange looks the people around the plaza are starting to give him.

He doesn’t give a fuck; his little girl is missing.

“Mid!” He’s getting frantic, he knows he is, losing his cool and heading straight for the red haze of terror that usually leads to very bad things.

He’s heading down the steps behind the square holding the statue, tearing down them three at a time as he glances every which way.

“MID!” he’s screaming now, desperate to the point that he can feel Ramuh starting to stir at his distress, causing the stone on his arm to ache.

What will he do if he can’t find her? If someone took the chance for the brief moment, she was out of his sight to snatch her up and run?

He’s regretting not bringing Gav, if he were here not only would that have been another pair of eyes to keep on Mid, but when this happened, he would have been able to find her.

Cid can’t find her.

He can’t find her!

She’s not here.

Not there.

She’s just…gone.

“MIDADOL!”

“Dad!”

Everything stops as soon as he hears that voice, his world falling apart at the seams remakes itself in an instant as he pinpoints where the cry came from and watches the small figure pushing her way through the crowd straight towards him.

“Mid!” he exclaims, running straight towards her and gathering her up in his arms as soon as he meets her, finally able to breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” she says, repentant and nervous, but unharmed.

He takes a step back to double check that, to make sure.

She’s fine, not a hair out of place, and on the heels of that relief comes the anger.

“What the hell were you thinking? I told you to stay beside me!”

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, “I thought he was you.”

Cid’s confused for a second until he looks to where Mid is pointing. A young man in a very similar cloak to Cid’s is standing awkwardly behind her, his body half turned as if he meant to disappear back into the crowd before Cid took notice, but now that he has the lad seems frozen, unsure of what he should do.

Grabbing Mid with one arm and lifting her off the ground so there’s no chance of losing her again, Cid’s happy to provide the lad with an answer as he extends his hand and says, “much obliged, stranger.”

The lad simply seems more shocked, looking between Cid’s hand and his face, before haltingly raising his own hand.

Cid takes it, clasping the boy at the elbow and pulling him a little closer, it’s meant to be an assurance, a mark of Cid’s gratitude, but the lad pales slightly beneath his hood and stumbles, looking so uncomfortable that Cid cannot help but feel bad.

“It was nothing,” dismisses the lad, sincere if still a little nervous.

With the hood oh his cloak pulled up, Cid can only see the bottom half of the lad’s face and the few curls of strawberry blonde hair he can see poking out make it clear that the boy is not a native of Dhalmekia, that and the accent which he hasn’t yet heard enough of to place.

“Not to me it isn’t,” corrects Cid, “anything could have happened to her if she’s followed someone less scrupulous.”

“An easy enough mistake,” the boy remarks lightly as he gestures between their similar outfits.

“Aye, but one I won’t be allowing her to make again,” Cid begrudgingly agrees, “still, at least let me buy you a drink for the trouble this one caused.”

“I said I was sorry,” Mid protests suddenly, but Cid is having none of it, not when his hearts still galloping a mile a minute in his chest.

“Shut it, we’ll talk about this later,” he hushes, and for once Mid is smart enough to listen, probably because she realises that she’s already pushed it too far.

He turns back to the lad, waiting for an answer to his offer, which he soon gets, “thank you for the offer, but it would be rude of me to impose upon you further.”

Cid accepts that easily enough, it’s clear from the stares that are currently glued to his back that he has already attracted too much attention.

“Alright then, guess all I have left to say is thank you,” Cid says as he nods his head and starts to walk away. He looks back once, to see that the lad is no longer alone, as a woman with a short bob cut and dressed in similar robes has emerged from the crowd to join him.

Slowing his pace, he hangs back long enough to catch a few words of their exchange.

“Lord Margrace, do you know them?” asks the lady, her tone suspicious.

“No, but I was glad I could help,” answers this Lord Margrace, and with that Cid finally allows himself to relax, the fear that he had been recognised fading as he disappears into the crowd.

After a moment or two, he can feel Mid shifting uneasily in his hold and looks down to see her staring at him with worried eyes.

“So, how much trouble am I in?” she questions, as nonchalant as you like.

Her attitude doesn’t last, not when he raises a brow and replies in his most serious voice, “a world of it.”

Chapter Text

Joshua watches the man and his daughter until they disappear into the crowd, nostalgia pinning him in place as he studies their easy interaction and is reminded of a better time.

With the girl’s blonde hair, it is easy to recall his old self and seeing her teary eyed and clearly lost the second she grabbed his coat and realised that he wasn’t the person she thought he was, he felt compelled to help her.

A mistake?

No, it appeared that Ramuh had not recognised him, and Joshua could not sense the scourge of Ultima upon him, it would seem that the report of Ramuh’s Dominant abandoning Odin’s cause had been true, a relief.

It was an assumption that had been reinforced when the man had reached out his hand in gratitude and Joshua had reluctantly taken it. Beneath the thick leather of his armoured over coat, Joshua could feel the rough patches of stone that those unfamiliar with the effects of the Curse would most likely mistake for simple scars.

Having lived amongst the Undying, Joshua is all too accustomed to the crippling effects of the spread of the Curse. The feel of flesh slowly being calcified, robbing it of function and life as the aether takes its toll.

A horrid fate that only Dominants with the favour of Ultima are spared, or so the old texts that Joshua has gathered would have him believe.

“Lord Margrace, is everything alright?” Jote asks from where she stands beside him, his ever-loyal guard.

“It’s fine, let us continue on our way,” he decides as he turns, heading once more for the gates of Kanver, he will send a stolas to Uriel informing him of the presence of Ramuh in the Free Cities.

Over a decade of rest and research within these walls is finally at an end, the limit of what he can learn here having been reached years ago.

To finally be able to set out upon the journey he has longed for, to return to the homeland he had been forced to flee. It is a day he feared would never come.

“It feels like a dream,” he quietly murmurs as he approaches the gates, eyes fixed upon the lands that lay beyond, the promise of freedom that they offer.

He knows the journey shall be a hard one, for the roads of Dhalmekia are closed to them, the reach of Titan’s influence engrained into the very sands of the country he rules in all but name.

Joshua does not oft allow his thoughts to turn to Cyril, the betrayal of his former Bearer of the Burning Quill still a deep cut even after so many years, but he cannot help but think of the man when faced with the consequences of his choices.

The secret of his survival had been a better defence than any castle wall or armour, and to have had it pried from his hands when he was weakened, by a man that had held his complete trust, with the intent of using him merely as a pawn in someone else’s game.

The report of Cyril’s death had brought Joshua no joy, but it somewhat eased the embers of resentment that coloured every memory of the man.

What worries Joshua now is the Undying that Lord Kupka took into his custody that day.

The secrets that every Undying carry with them can only be held so long as the acolyte chooses to keep them.

At one point in his life, Joshua would have never question whether those sworn to him would be willing to give their lives to defend that trust, but the betrayal of Cyril and those that conspired with him had opened his eyes wide to the lies he had always been fed.

No one is incorruptible, everyone has a price, and when torture is involved, even the strongest will can be broken.

Whether by their own will or the pressure of the instruments of pain Lord Kupka would have instructed his torturers to use, those taken that day had gifted their secrets, and Joshua only yet remains free due to Uriel’s quick wits and the connections he had fostered outside of the order.

To risk that hard earned freedom by taking the safer roads through Dhalmekia would be an insult to the years of vigilance that had kept him from Lord Kupka’s grasp.

No, their only real choice was to chance the roads through Sanbreque.

There, he and Jote could disappear amongst the crowds of refugees who travelled in the hopes of finding refuge from the war that plagued the lands of the Empire.

The falsified papers they carried would grant them passage through any official checkpoints, and any bandits they encounter along the road would rue the day they chose them as their next mark.

Joshua has nothing to fear.

So why does his heart hammer in his chest?

Why does his chest feel tight?

Why does the scar across his abdomen itch as the feel of phantom claws tightens around his spine?

“My Lord?” Jote asks, concern colouring her tone.

Joshua blinks back to reality to find his own hand clawing at his scars.

Releasing his grip, he tries to shake off his unease as he smiles at Jote.

“I’m fine,” he assures her, “perhaps a little nervous, but this journey has been long awaited.”

Jote’s brow wrinkles, as her hands twist the reins of the chocobo that shall be accompanying them on this journey. She hesitates, words forming on her lips only to fall silent as she refuses to breathe life into them.

“What is it?” Joshua encourages, eager to hear her council.

Jote takes a moment to check the crowd around them, to ensure that they shall not be overheard, before whispering, “my Lord, our reports tell us that Ifrit is currently engaging the Waloeder forces entrenched at Coquille Cassée, the chances of a twist of fate causing your paths to cross is doubtful.”

Joshua inhales sharply, misliking the fact that his hesitance has been read so easily.

“My brother’s name is Clive,” Joshua corrects, perhaps too harshly.

Jote immediately wilts.

 “Forgive me, my Lord, I spoke out of turn.”

The guilt immediately hits Joshua like a hammer blow, blunt and winding in a way that makes him bite his tongue.

He gathers himself quickly, knowing he is in the wrong. “No, forgive me, Jote, that was uncalled for.”

Joshua knows the Undying, even those who have proved themselves unwaveringly loyal, do not see Clive the way he does. To them he is a threat, something to be dealt with and contained.

To Joshua, Clive shall always be his brother.

Even as all the evidence he gathers points to something beyond mortal ken pulling at the strings of fate that have been woven around Ifrit, Joshua wants to believe that Clive takes no willing part in it, but his only evidence for this is the half-faded memory of a fevered dream.

With a sigh, he takes the reins from Jote and imparts a soft smile, he knows his apology has been instantly accepted, that Jote shall never blame him for his quick tongue or rising temper, it is the reason he must work all the harder to control it.

“Tabor remains closed to us, an outpost for Titan’s army, but the mountain passes should allow us to cross without notice,” Jote explains as she does the final check on their bags, her hands testing the straps that attach them to the chocobo’s saddle, much to the bird’s chagrin.

Joshua placates him with an offering of greens, a move that does not go unnoticed by Jote.

“No wonder he likes you better,” she jests, seemingly satisfied with the saddles set-up.

“I am merely being diplomatic,” he returns.

“Bribery,” she accuses under her breath, and Joshua can only laugh.

They move on then, at last heading for the gate.

As Joshua passes beneath the shadow of the entrance, he allows himself one glance back. This place has been his sanctuary for over ten years, even when at times it had felt like a cage, and as the sun catches upon the gilded domes, he realises just how much he shall miss it.

But the familiarity and safety of this city must be left behind, for there are places he alone as the Phoenix can tread.

Straightening as he looks forward, he takes his first steps beyond the city in years and refuses to look back.

It shall be a long time before he returns.

Chapter Text

Pointless.

That is what this summit had been.

A complete waste of time for everyone involved, and all of them equally share the blame for it.

Even Dion himself is partially at fault, allowing frustration to dictate his arguments at the end of a ten-day long assembly that was only supposed to last two.

His father had given him clear—impossible—terms to work with, demands that would paint the Empire as the victor of a conflict that shall go down in the annals of history as one of the bloodiest in the saga of Storm.

A pyrrhic victory that in the long term would only see more suffering befall their people.

In truth, Dion was half relieved when the Crystal Dominion refused the initial offer of a full surrender. Stretched thin already, the Empire does not have the men to control the territory the Emperor wishes to be ceded to his rule.

A single rebellion in a distant land they have no right to, could see their Empire topple from the knife edge it finds itself delicately balanced upon, and for what?

Pride? Legacy?

Meaningless expressions that hold no power when the ambition that drives them is a corrupted and twisted thing.

Dion finds himself internally recoiling from the vitriol of that thought, not only is it unbecoming but near treasonous when directed at his father’s commands.

But in truth, upon his infrequent returns to the capital Dion can no longer recognise the court he grew up in, gone are the noble men who speak of serving the people, those that once embodied the word of Greagor with their diligence and generosity.

Strangely enough the men that have replaced them mostly wear the same faces and bare the same names, but now in the place of their calls for building projects and policies that would help enrich even the most humble of the Empire’s citizens, there are only calls for war, for the spread of Greagor’s blessing by the sword, and the demand for ever more of the Mother Crystal’s light.

As if it is their right, simply due to the fact that they were born nobles.

He knows where this insidious idea comes from, where this infectious philosophy first took root, before it began to spread like a weed that seems intent on strangling everything that was once good and gallant within the Empire’s court.

The Empress has made herself indispensable to the inner workings of the Empire.

His father’s words, never Dion’s.

He would prefer to describe the Empress’ contributions to the state as a cancer, one that knew where to target to get the most desired reaction from the Emperor. It is an open secret that the Chief Lord Diviner Calixte Pascal, is the Empress’ man, rarely do they not work in tandem, bolstering and promoting each other’s proposals.

It is an endless web of indulgence that his father has willingly entangled himself in, charmed with being told what he wishes to hear he turns a deaf ear to the few that entreat him to take a look at what has become of the people due to the war he refuses to end.

That said, it has come to the point where Dion believes there is no true peaceful resolution to this war.

Too much blood, resentment, and fear has been sown to ever allow mere words and treaties to bridge the gap that has been cleaved between the continents of Valisthea.

Even if the emissaries from the Crystal Dominion were to be struck with a sudden and complete bout of mental deficiency and sign the outlandish terms that his father is demanding, Ash would not.

If there is anything that these ten years of war have taught him, it is the fact that Odin lives for battle.

The Last King embodies his moniker as the God of War.

One would think the king has no fear of the curse, but then, with the length of his rule and the long history of the wars that Waloed has either started or simply participated in, by all accounts the curse should have already claimed the man’s life.

Thoughts of the curse have Dion contemplating his own fate.

Since the moment he was old enough to understand the cost of the power he has been blessed with, Dion has dreaded the moment he would find the first signs of the curse painted across his skin. When he first began training and would wake in the night with his muscles screaming from the work of the previous day, he silently worried that it was not the simple pain of muscles growing, but something far more nefarious.

Eventually he was caught and made to confess his worries, only to have them dismissed.

He was a young Dominant after all, in a time of peace, he would in all likelihood live to see his fiftieth anniversary before the curse began to eat away at him.

That was then, when war had been but a distant nightmare, seldom talked about and always brushed aside as though it was of no concern.

Now.

Ten years of war has seen Dion push himself harder than any Dominant of Bahamut has in three generations, and with the strain the worries of a childhood long since shed have come back to haunt him with a vengeance.

Every ache became the waiting sword of Damocles, something to fear as he awaits the inevitable grey that would dust his skin and the crippling agony that would follow.

At least, that had been his fear when the war first broke out.

Months had turned to years as the inevitable march of time had been marked upon his skin in the form of new scars, but the curse never came.

As much as Dion should find relief in this, he can only summon a profound sense of foreboding.

The unnaturalness of his…condition is simply another trouble to add to the growing weight he bears upon his shoulders.

When he was younger, he may have at least had the opportunity to discuss the lack of progression of the curse with Master Harpocrates, but that opportunity has long since been lost to him.

The learned scholar’s dismissal had come as a shock, and the Empress’ claim that she merely wished for a more traditional and accomplished tutor to be in charge of Prince Olivier’s education had been a thin veil that did nothing to hide her true intent of ridding the court of Dion’s supporters.

At least in this matter his worries are a little lighter. Dion shall forever be grateful to Clive for his intervention in this matter, giving Master Harpocrates a place within his uncle’s household as the tutor to the Lady Warrick, and then later as a scribe and archivist when the Lady had outgrown the need of his services.

Still, with his every letter and stolas under scrutiny, it makes it all but impossible for Dion to reach out to his former tutor, the man may as well have been banished to the Deadlands for all that Dion manages to correspond with him.

He tries to tell himself that it is nothing to worry about, that it is, in fact, something to be grateful for, and not something that is completely unheard of.

Clive has been fighting as long and as hard as Dion has these past few years, and like him has yet to display any ill effects from his use of his powers as a Dominant.

The small, insidious voice that in these dark times lurks in the shadows of his mind whispers, ‘he does not Prime.’

It is the one fact that Dion cannot deny, and though he cannot blame Clive for it, having seen how hard the Marquess works and trains to try and control his powers as a Dominant, he still cannot help but be frustrated, which only leads to more self-recrimination when faced with the reality that is Clive’s position and the penalties he must endure when he inevitably fails to live up to the Empress’ already impossibly high expectations.

As of late, Clive has done everything he can to find an excuse to remain on the frontlines, being the first to set out at the end of the seasonal rule and the last to return upon its reinstatement.

A trend that shall now continue given the fact that the peace negotiations have gone nowhere.

With an exhausted sigh Dion finally looks up, hoping to find distraction from these circuitous thoughts in the beauty that surrounds him, only to slump at the realisation that his wondering reflections have caused his feet to carry him to a part of the castle that he does not recognise.

Similar in décor as it may be to the section of the castle Dion and his delegation have been gifted, for their stay here at the summer castle of one Lord Ferguson—a moderate member of the Crystal Dominion’s council, who had first suggested the ceasefire—it is clear that Dion is lost.

The sound of distant conversation gives Dion some hope that he might simply be able to ask an attendant or a member of the castle’s extensive staff for directions.

It is a hope that dies swiftly upon the hard edge of an accent that in these years of war has become all too familiar.

“See that you maintain Titan’s interest, the time for his call to service has come sooner than I foresaw,” instructs King Barnabas, his voice as calm as ever.

“An easy task, Kupka’s ambition is only matched by his lust, and I have convinced him that I can sate both,” boasts Lady Benedikta Harman, the Commander of Waloed’s Elite Intelligencer’s and the Dominant of Garuda.

Dion takes a step back, intending to quietly extricate himself from this situation before he can be noticed, a vain wish that could never be realised to begin with due to the presence of Waloed’s Spy master.

“Going somewhere, your Highness?” asks Lady Benedikta in a lilting voice that seems to bounce off the intricate frescos and gold filigree that decorate the walls of the hall he stands in, giving the effect that the words are being whispered directly into his ear. “A shame, things were just starting to get interesting.”

Never one for cowardice, Dion steps out from around the corner.

His eyes immediately lock with the Kings gaze, he expects to see judgment, suspicion, and even distain, but as ever the King’s emotions are unreadable, hidden behind the shadow of the abyss that is the weight of his stare.

“Your Majesty,” Dion greets as cordially as he can, he may be at war with the man but as a Prince of the Empire a certain standard of decorum is always expected of him.

“Bahamut,” King Barnabas returns, much to Dion’s shock.

In truth this is the first time he has been addressed by the King, as throughout the long sessions of the summit he has preferred to remain mostly silent and allow his Lord Commander to speak for him.

The weight of Bahamut’s name is a suffocating thing in such close quarters, the knowledge that the thin veil of peace held between them could be shattered upon the slightest fracture of either of their control, a heavy burden to bear.

With a deep breath Dion forces himself to relax as he quickly acts to remove himself. “Forgive my intrusion, it seems these halls are harder to navigate than I assumed, I shall leave you to your own company.”

As he turns to walk away, he finds himself instead frozen by the next words King Barnabas deigns to speak.

“It gnaws at you, doesn’t it? The absence of the reason why.”

Too close, the accusation is far too close to Dion’s own worries and against his better judgement he finds himself halting his retreat, only to immediately silently admonish himself.

King Barnabas could be referring to a myriad of things, after all, despite his best-efforts Dion’s frustration has been on full display during these last few meetings, and yet…

“The reason for what?” Dion questions against his better judgement.

“Why you have been spared,” King Barnabas alludes, and when he sees the flash of indignation in Dion’s eyes that he cannot suppress at the allusion that he only lives at Odin’s discretion, the man elaborates, “why the curse has yet to lay claim upon your flesh when those that came before were brought so low with every invocation of Bahamut.”

“I don’t—” Dion tries only to be silenced by the King’s sharp return.

“Lies do not become you Bahamut,” the King interrupts, cutting through the falsehood before it can even roll off Dion’s tongue. “Your every move projects fear. On the field of battle, you strike as though every attack could be your last, a blade made of glass that is likely to shatter on the first strike.”

Dion bristles against the slight, but before he can respond Odin continues, “this gift that should come as a long-awaited blessing, an advent of the Lord’s return, is instead unknown and foreign to you. Benighted as your false religion is, you are left to roam in darkness, but the Lord is merciful and can give you the answers that you seek.”

Dion grits his teeth at the insult directed at Great Greagor as he looks down at the hand King Barnabas stretches out in offering with antipathy.

“I have little interest in your lauding of your god, Odin. If you wish to debate the respective virtues of our deities, I suggest seeking out one of our Astrologers or Cardinals.”

Determined for that to be the end of this strange and unforeseen exchange, Dion bows with the full intent of walking away.

The coldness that suddenly bites into his every nerve as the world around him freezes, as he himself stands paralysed with his head bowed, his sightline trained on the floor, is all consuming and all the more terrifying for it.

The next voice that speaks does not belong to Odin.

“Our Champion of Light, how lost you have become where once we alone held your devotion. The light that shone brightest in our presence.”

Multilayered and faceted the words echo within Dion’s mind, wrapping around his every thought until he cannot focus on anything but the voice.

A shadow that is not Odin’s falls over him, and Dion finds that he cannot breathe.

“And yet, even in your ignorance you serve, a shield to defend our Mythos, a means to hone his strength. At first, we had thought your light would be a detriment, a font of power too deep for our vessels first true taste of divinity.”

Something electric zips through every one of Dion’s frayed nerves as a hand comes to rest atop his head. With every fibre of his being he wants to pull back, but this strange, horrific paralysis still holds strong.

“Our worries were for naught, Mythos is indeed our perfect vessel, and when our time to claim him comes, you too shall once again stand at our side.”

The presence disappears as quickly as it arrived, and all at once Dion is released.

By some miracle, he manages to catch himself before he can fall to the floor, but his composure fractures along the previously hidden stress lines.

Light comes to his call, coiled and burning in his palm, but as he stands tall, he is faced only with an empty hall.

Panicked, Dion searches desperately for Odin and his retinue, but all he sees is shadows.

“Odin!” he shouts, confused and reeling as a mist begins to take over his thoughts.

What was he…where is he?

Dion places his back against the wall, feeling dizzy, unbalanced in a way that makes him want to summon Bahamut’s wings just to have something to anchor himself with.

The blaze of light caged within his fingers flickers and dies, when he slumps his other hand rises to clutch at his temple, as though he can grasp and hold onto the memories that are slowly flickering into oblivion.

Someone had been speaking to him, not Odin, or his commanders…

It was someone…

The memories continue to fade, one by one each word spoken swallowed by the static that dominates his mind until only one name remains.

“Mythos?” The title means nothing to him, and even as he speaks it sinks to the back of his mind, half-forgotten but still present.

“Your Highness?” The last tenuous hold Dion has on the memories, snaps upon the sound of his title, and suddenly his mind is clear.

He looks up to see Terrence standing before him, eyes filled with concern that he is trying so hard to conceal.

“Terrence,” he greets, while shaking the last of the haze from his mind, it feels as though he’s waking up from a long daydream and his mind races to try and catch-up to a world that has continued to turn without his conscious input.

Pushing himself off the wall he stands to his full height and allows his shoulder to brush against Terrence’s own, a silent assurance that he is fine.

Terrence appears unconvinced, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip in a childhood tell that he has never quite been able to rid himself of.

“The guard has been looking for you, I know you said you wished to be alone, but this is not Oriflamme, you cannot put yourself at risk like this.”

Dion cannot help but smile at the dressing down he is receiving, it has been a while since he has managed to earn one from Terrence, mindful as he is with the difference between their stations, a difference that Dion has never cared for nor concerned himself with.

“Forgive me,” Dion asks sincerely, if only for the fact that he is sorry that he has caused Terrance trouble.

With a sigh Terrance at last allows the tension to drain out of his shoulders as he steps aside to allow Dion to walk past. “There is nothing to forgive, I just…I worry.”

The cold, uncomfortable feeling that has been curled around Dion’s heart since the moment he blinked back to reality melts upon those words.

It’s something that only happens with Terrence, and he treasures it.

“Sometimes, I truly think you are the only one that does.”

He allows himself a moment then, in these quiet halls.

He allows himself to forget.

Chapter Text

The sun rising above the cliffs that surround the Gilded path, should be a welcomed sight after a long night spent traversing the dunes and then camping out in the perilous cold of the deserts of Dhalmekia, and so it would be, had it not come with its own set of dangers.

The night provided long shadows and a means to spot the Men of the Rock from a safe distance, the crystal torches they carried a double-edged sword with the light that they provided also easily giving away the position and movements of their patrols.

With the rise of the sun this advantage is lost, no longer can they cling to the shadows of the canyon and remain completely hidden as a battalion of Kupka’s men pass within feet of them, instead they must pray that their clothes and their merchant’s pass are enough for them to be moved along without much scrutiny.

It has worked so far, the last Dhalmekian guard had not even bothered to take the pass from Jote’s hand before waving them forward with a bored expression and a yawn.

Not that they should have even needed to resort to the pass this early, but their original plan to use the hidden paths of the gorge had come to nothing.

Joshua had felt slight annoyance when his eyes fell upon the first blocked path, the opening made impassable by what could have been the natural erosion of the roof of the cave that had concealed it.

The second had sparked frustration but still came with the markers of the natural results of the passages being left without regular maintenance, old wooden braces that should have been replaced years ago laid in pieces at the front of the abandoned mineshaft, half buried in rock and sand.

Upon reaching the third though Joshua has been forced to face reality.

Denial could only get you so far, and there was no reasoning that could be applied to explain an uphill landslide occurring naturally, a landslide which just so happened to completely block off the third supposedly secret path.

A closer inspection confirms the hand of Titan at work, the rock scarred with aether spoke of a violent invocation, a semi-prime at least considering the yellow quartz that is embedded throughout the majority of the wreckage that blocks their way.

It surprises Joshua that Lord Kupka made the effort to do the work himself when with his resources he could have easily sacrificed any number of Bearers instead. Then again, it seems that the Dominant of Titan is eager to still keep Joshua’s survival a secret.

To what point and purpose illudes him at the moment, and to speculate when he has no evidence for his musings would only result in a conclusion that would be nothing but a product of his own bias.

Besides, he has more pressing matters to concern himself with, now that their planned route has been rendered impassible.

“The next path is a day’s walk,” he notes as his eyes scan the cliffs of the canyon, as if he half expects the Men of the Rock to be perched there ready to ambush them, “but more likely than not, it has met the same fate as the others.” He stands, pocketing the shiny quartz crystal he managed to pry from the barrier that blocks their way. Worthless as it might be, it is still pretty to look at and it might be something to occupy his hands with while they continue their trek.

Jote hesitates behind him, her boots kicking at the sand as she searches their chocobo’s bags for something.

She soon finds what she is looking for, a map, new and crisp but already covered in scrawls made in red ink that mark the sealed routes, which can still be seen even when the map is neatly rolled up. Unfurling the map, Jote quickly consults it before spreading it across a conveniently flat rock.

“Perhaps we should turn back? Chart a ship from Kanver and enter Rosarian territory by sea?”

At this point it does seem like the most reasonable suggestion, but after already coming this far…

“No,” Joshua answers with a shake of his head, “We decided on this route for a reason, as dangerous as it has become it is still less of a risk than taking to the sea, what with the Imperial fleets patrols and the Waloeder navy’s frequent raids.”

“Waloed is allied with Kanver,” Jote contests gently, “many of their merchant ships have sailed without issue.”

“Only because they take the longer routes, it would add another two weeks onto our journey, it is the reason we ruled that out as an option originally,” Joshua counters his voice already weary, after all, this is a well-trodden conversation, one that he had hoped was far behind them.

The paper of the map earns another red strike, leaving them with fewer options,

“If we continue down the Gilded Path, we can cross into the Sothern Velkroy Desert through Dravozd, once there we can make for the Dalimil Inn,” Joshua reasons as he takes a look over Jote’s shoulder, careful not to acknowledge that this route shall take them directly past Tabor.

Even so, Jote’s eyes trail across the map to the ancient town, and Joshua’s own gaze cannot help but follow.

“It appears to be the only choice left to us,” Jote eventually agrees with a grim sort of determination as she puts away the map.

They continue on their way, carefully traversing the small valley until they make their way back to the long wind worn crevasse that creates the main canyon that is the Gilded Path.

This early in the morning there are not that many travellers to be seen, but the few that there are pay little attention to two more merchants joining their procession. Still, the closer they get to Tabor the more Joshua feels the need to pull down on his hood, to hide his face.

He doesn’t even want to look up as they pass the gates to the town that was once a sanctuary for the Undying, but he is given little choice when a loud voice commands his attention.

“Single file, all travellers must have their papers and permits ready for inspection!” the shouted instructions come from a Man of the Rock dressed in the garb of a captain, his rank easily recognised by the gold trim that decorates his armour and keffiyeh.

He stands before the closed gates of Tabor, which themselves are unrecognisable, gone is the simple yet serviceable wooden gate built into the sandstone walls, and in its place stands a construct of stone and black iron that projects wealth as well as defence.

Idly, Joshua wonders what else has changed within the town. Have the ruins and the history that Tabor was built upon been demolished to make way for Kupka’s seal of control, or have they been incorporated and swallowed into the military complex the town is rumoured to have become?

It is not something that Joshua has time to dwell on.

Ignoring the instruction, as it will not apply to them, he and Jote turn away from the slowly forming line, silently hoping that security at Dravozd will not be this tight.

They have barely walked three feet when a bright flash of light catches in the corner of Joshua’s eye.

Unwittingly, he turns to get a better look.

What he sees is not an uncommon sight, but it still has a sick feeling rising in his gut.

The light reflects off chains as they are removed from a covered cart, that Joshua assumed was carrying supplies given Kupka’s personal crest embroidered on the tarp, which is being unloaded before the gate, but instead of crates and barrels people are being dragged from the cage previously hidden by the canvas.

Roughly, men, women, and even children are hauled from the shadows of the iron pen they were transported in, shoved into the light of day chained and dressed in little more than rags, the brands on their faces stark against their skin, a slash of black cutting across their cheeks, marking them for life.

Joshua has to stop his eyes from flitting to Jote. To her cheek absent the mark that all Bearers are branded with. It is a blatant reminder of just how lucky Bearers born, even distantly, to the Rosfield line are, that they are spared a life of bondage and freed from the threat of poison ink painting their skin, it is a blessing that no other Bearer born under the accords could possibly dream of.

As distasteful as Joshua himself may find the scene, there is nothing he can do.

Turning away from the sight, he and Jote continue down the path, their heads hung low in order for the shadows of their hoods to better conceal their faces.

At least, that had been his intent.

“You, did you not hear me,” calls out the Captain, and Joshua first assumes that he must be talking to someone else, that is until one of the soldiers advances and seizes him by the arm.

Jote’s hand immediately moves to the concealed dagger at her side, and only Joshua’s sudden grip on her wrist stops her from drawing it.

“Forgive me sir,” he starts, voice as meek as he can make it, “we do not seek to enter Tabor, we are simply passing by.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the guard dismisses Joshua’s words as he drags him towards the line, “all travellers must submit their papers and be tested if they wish to pass through, or by, Lord Kupka’s outposts.”

“Tested?” Joshua enquires, keeping his voice flat, even as his eyes flick to the front of the line where another flash of light briefly illuminates the shadows cast by the high walls of the canyon.

The answer to his question is self-evident as soon as he sees the crystal held within the Captain’s hand.

Darker than most crystals, even the rare samples from Drake’s Spine Joshua would occasionally come across in the markets of Kanver, the crystal held in the Captain’s hand is unmistakably a Mother’s tear.

Naturally formed within the cores of Mother Crystals and comprised of highly condensed aether, Mother’s tears possess the ability to flare within the presence of magic, and as a result have been used as the standard to identify Bearer’s at birth since before records began.

“Clear,” declares the Captain with disinterest when the crystal fails to react.

The lady moves away quickly, allowing the next person in line to step up for inspection.

Joshua stumbles as the soldier behind him suddenly pushes him forward, knocking him out of the daze his abject horror at the sudden turn of events had locked him into.

He manages to catch himself before he can barrel into the back of the poor bystander in front of him, but he nearly falls anyway when the soldier gives him another shove. Near hysterically, he wonders how rough the treatment will be when they mistakenly identify him as a Bearer?

His eyes flit again to the small crowd of Bearers being led to the gate, a harrowing reminder of the fate that could befall he and Jote if they are discovered here.

Luckily, one option yet remains to solve this peacefully, and over the years it has proven to be most effective against the ‘honourable’ Men of the Rock.

“Wait,” Joshua entreaties quietly as the guard who shoved him into line moves to walk away.

Pausing, the soldier looks at Joshua in clear exasperation, but the expression soon melts as Joshua steps forward and subtly places a pouch in the guard’s lax hand.

Instantly, the soldier’s palm closes into a tight fist, hiding the bag from sight even as the sharp movement causes the gil within to jangle.

“I’m sure we don’t need to wait in line and waste your time when we have no intention of entering Tabor, especially when you already have so many travellers to check,” Joshua coxes as he subtly starts to move away from the line.

Picking up on his movement, Jote begins to pull their chocobo away, manoeuvring the bird so it is positioned between them and the gate.

Coughing to try and hide the sound of the coins clinking together the soldier slips the pouch into his belt.

“The line is looking a bit long this morning,” muses the guard as he takes a step back, his head turning to see that the Captain is not looking their way.

Joshua follows the man’s stare to see that the Captain is paying them no attention, his focus snared by the line of travellers he is inspecting.

“Go,” commands the guard beside them with a tight voice, “and do it quickly.”

Not having to be told twice, Joshua turns on his heel and walks swiftly down the road, Jote beside him with the chocobo shielding them both from the line of sight of anyone standing by the gate.

When they walk far enough for the sounds of the crowd and soldiers to wane to a dull murmur, Joshua lets out a sigh of relief that finally loosens the tight knot in his chest.

“That was close,” he notes as he allows his hood to fall back a little, letting the last of the cool morning air brush against his face and relieve some of the cloying heat that assaults him.

“I’m afraid we may not be out of danger yet, my Lord,” Jote warns as her eyes flick across the terrain, searching for danger in every long shadow and blind turn.

“All the more reason to travel swiftly,” he advises as he pulls their chocobo to a halt so they may mount him. He waits for Jote to pull herself up, before seating himself behind her. He knows already that the chocobo shall not be able to carry them both for very long at any great pace, but what they need now is to get as far away from the outpost as quickly as possible.

The shadows of the canyon are short by the time they reach the arch of the Fields of Corava, an old landmark that has long since been left to rot and ruin, the carvings that once decorated it now made unrecognisable by the winds that have long since worn them to mere etches.

Dismounting, Joushua gives the chocobo a fond pet on the beak as he offers Jote his hand to help her down. “We should be far enough,” he remarks as they cross beneath the archway.

The sound of flapping wings and a shadow flying over their heads has Joshua looking up, only for the sun to fall directly in his eyes, blinding him.

He blinks, eager to be rid of the strobes of light dancing behind his eyelids.

Luckily, his sight clears quickly enough, and he is able to see again, with time enough to follow the noise of ruffling feathers to a stolas.

His breath catches in his throat when he sees the bird landing on the outstretched arm of a Man of the Rock.

The encampment the soldier stands besides is well appointed as are all the soldiers that occupy it.

The small hope that Joshua has that they might simply be allowed to go about their day without being accosted flickers and dies when the soldier with the stolas looks directly at them and cries, “halt!”

The thought that they may be able to talk or bribe their way out of this, dies a similar death as the soldiers’ advance blades drawn.

Jote, seeing the same signs as he, draws her dagger and prepares for the fight to come.

“Do we run?” she asks, fully prepared to cover his escape should Joshua choose that route.

Searching the terrain, Joshua takes note of their desolate surroundings, for miles around there must be nothing but the flora and fauna hardy enough to survive the arid conditions.

“I do not that shall be necessary,” Joshua almost purrs, “I have had quite enough of running for one day.”

The Men of the Rock do not register his change in stance, nor the way the tension seems to slip off his shoulders even as one of them shouts, “in the name of Lord Kupka, we order you to surrender!”

“No,” is Joshua’s swift and final answer as red feathers unfurl like a banner of flame from his back.

Chapter Text

They have a War Panther.

Joshua had not expected the War Panther, and he actually feels pretty bad for having to put the poor thing down, but the creature leaves him little choice when it chooses to go after their chocobo, when a slice from Jote’s dagger slits the throat of the soldier giving it orders.

A Firaga spell forms easily in the palm of his hand, the drain almost negligible after so many years of fine tuning his aether control.

The spell explodes the second it collides with the beast’s side, swallowing the poor animals dying scream and leaving behind the smell of charred flesh and bone.

Looking back, Joshua can see that Jote is busy cleaning up the last of the small outpost’s soldiers.

They cannot allow a single one of them to escape, not after they had seen Joshua Semi-prime. He regrets it now, as he looks across the scorched sands and the burnt bodies, but he knows that they would not have stood a chance against this many soldiers without the power of the Phoenix.

Allowing the aether to recede, he watches as the long tails of the Phoenix disperse into a cloud of flaming down feathers, most of them burn up before they can even touch the sands of the Fields of Corava, but some retain enough power to endure.

With a care and reverence that Joshua can never understand, Jote kneels and begins to collect them.

“They’ll turn to ash if left alone,” Joshua reminds her.

Beautiful as they are, the feathers invoked by his Semi-prime have only the power to endure for a short time on their own.

Jote looks between him and the feathers she has already managed to collect. “Is that an order to leave them, your Grace?”

The stare she fixes upon him is a tentative and silent plea, and Joshua is powerless to resist her.

He knows she would drop them in an instant if he asked her to, even though she clearly wishes to keep them for the limited time they shall persist under her power. It is an action born from both loyalty and a long-held Rosarian superstition that Phoenix feather’s provide protection.

“No, keep them if you wish, but we do not have much time,” he relents as he leads their chocobo into the Dhalmekian encampment in search of supplies or gil that might help them on their journey.

The gil is easy to find, there are several piles of it scattered about the communal areas of the outpost, abandoned next to playing cards, dice, and a senet board where the soldiers had been gambling to pass the time.

Food and water are also easy to come by, stored safely in a tent next to a large fire pit that is obviously used for cooking.

The real boon from their search comes in the form of the chocobos Jote finds tethered on the edge of the camp. With speed and distance now priorities the birds are a god send, that will allow them to rest their own chocobo by no longer burdening him with the weight of two riders.

“We should move,” urges Jote as she finishes saddling both birds while Joshua finishes stuffing the saddle bags he manages to find with their bounty.

“To Dravozd with all haste,” Joshua agrees, looking nervously at the smoke left behind by their brief fight as he mounts the waiting chocobo.

If they are lucky, the soldiers sent to investigate the outpost will believe their comrades died to an attack from a dread aevis, a far more believable explanation than the truth.

A sharp kick has the chocobo taking off at a fast pace, one that will hardly be sustainable for long but what matters now is that they are far from here by the time the devastated encampment is discovered.

With the shift of the saddle and the beat of the chocobo’s talons against the hard packed sands at the mouth of the Gilded path, there is no way for Joshua to sense the sudden shake that possesses the ground beneath his chocobo’s feet, but the bird he rides is far more attuned.

Rearing, the chocobo pulls up at such a rate that Joshua is nearly thrown from his saddle and only his sudden death grip around the bird’s neck saves him from this fate.

It is a short-lived salvation that soon ends as the chocobo bucks, desperate to retreat from an unseen danger.

The world turns on its axis, switching sky with ground in a vortex of chaos that leaves Joshua grasping for some sort of control, but he fails to seize it as he lands hard enough on the ground to knock the air from his lungs.

“Your Grace,” shouts Jote from where she has dismounted her own bird with far more poise. Though her balance soon leaves her as the very earth beneath them lurches.

Joshua feels true dread wrap a tight stone fist around his heart as the ground literally drops out from underneath him, only to rise behind him, sealing the mouth of the Gilded Path and cutting off the wide-open plains of the Fields of Corava.

He moves to stand, knowing that he shall have to be ready to defend himself, but quarts and stone coil around his limbs, weighing him down and robbing him of his chance.

Jote’s own dash to his side is similarly halted as quartz spikes rise from the sand, nearly impaling her.

Quick reflexes spare her from death, but one of the lances of rock still manages to rip through her thigh, and the light steelsilk she wears for protection can do little to defend her.

The way she grips the limb projects the pain of the injury even as she bites down on her own tongue to silence the cry of agony scrambling up her throat.

“Jote!”

Joshua tries to break the restraints, testing them against his own mortal strength before daring to resort to more drastic measures, but it proves to be a fruitless effort that gains him nothing but frustration.

Reaching for the flames of the Phoenix, he concentrates the heat of the firebird’s flames upon his wrists and ankles, holding the flames there, allowing them to build until he unleashes them with an explosive force that sends the shrapnel that the restraints have been reduced to, flying.

He feels some chunks of stone and crystal cut into his own flesh, an unavoidable consequence of the violence with which he had broken the restraints, but something of little concern when the situation at hand demands all of his attention.

Running to Jote’s side, he cups the healing flames of the Phoenix within his palm and holds them above her wound.

“Your Grace, please, it’s not necessary,” Jote pleads, even when the tension holding her body eases as the flow of blood from the gash first turns sluggish and then stops.

“Silence,” Joshua commands, unwilling to hear her self-sacrificing request, besides, he will need her at her full strength.

When her wound is finally healed, her flesh knitted together without a trace of a scar, the only evidence of her injury the long slash left in her trousers which exposes her steel silk chainmail below, the sound of a loud, slow clap, echoes off the wall that has been erected behind them.

Joshua knows who it is that offers applause before he even raises his head, but still, the sight of Hugo Kupka himself sat astride a war chocobo, built like a mountain and equipped with Titan’s Belt, is a harrowing sight.

“An interesting trick, one that leads to a single question,” Lord Kupka remarks as he drops his hands, “who is it that is conducting the show? You, or the Empress Anabella?”

Ushering Jote behind him even as she pushes to stand guard before him, Joshua meets Lord Kupka’s assessing stare. “Lord Kupka, there must be some sort of mistake.” Joshua tries, even though he knows it is a futile effort.

“Spare me the theatrics, Phoenix,” Lord Kupka demands with a voice that rumbles with the power of a rockslide, “even had I not arrived in time to see those healing flames at work, I would know it is you, for your secrets have long since been revealed to me.”

Waving one of his men forward, Lord Kupka bids the soldier to remove his keffiyeh.

The soldier does as he is bid, and soon enough a pale complexion not native to the Dhalmekian region and the sharp features of a scholar are unveiled, striking Joshua with a sudden bolt of familiarity that he cannot seem to place.

“Your Grace,” the man greets with a reverence that he did not expect from one of Kupka’s loyal men.

The sense of familiarity grows stronger as the man bows in the form of the Undying, his hand cupped above his heart and his head bent low.

Before Joshua can place the man, his thoughts are interrupted by a vicious hiss from Jote, “traitor.”

The word is spat with a venom Joshua has never heard from her before.

The man, for his part, seems unfazed by the accusation as he turns again to face Lord Kupka. “My Lord, I can confirm that this young man is his Grace Joshua Rosfield, the resemblance to his mother, the Empress Anabella is uncanny, and with his display of the healing flames he can be no one else, I would stake my life on it.”

Lord Kupka leans forward and places a heavy palm upon the man’s shoulder.

“You are, in fact, staking your life on it, Captain Blake.”

Blake, the name finally allows the missing piece to fall into place and at last Joshua recognises the man.

The thirteen years since Joshua last laid eyes upon him have not been kind, formerly a promising young knight of the Undying, Blake appears to have aged thirty years instead of thirteen. His once blonde hair is now streaked with grey, his dark eyes sunken and almost hollow, his face etched with both wrinkles and scars that speak of stress and torture, and yet he seems to stand beside Lord Kupka with pride, even as he quals beneath the weight of the man’s hand upon his shoulder.

It is not something that goes unnoticed by Jote as she steps forward to shout, “how long did it take for you to turn your cloak?”

The polite expression that Blake is wearing shifts slightly at that accusation but does not crack, instead the man bares his left arm for inspection, pulling up his long sleeve to reveal scarred skin, corded flesh which puckers in strange ways at the edge of each wound that have been carved like canyons into his arm.

It is a horrid sight that leaves the base of Joshua’s stomach dropping to the floor, but what makes it so much worse is the fixed smile Blake continues to wear.

“It was a hard lesson that Lord Kupka had to teach me, but one that I am glad to have learned in the end, others of our order were not so lucky, too stubborn to realise the mercy Lord Kupka offers to those who work with him willingly.”

Unable to continue looking at Blake and his uncomfortable smile, Joshua turns to Lord Kupka and asks, “you are offering to work with us?”

Sceptical does not begin to describe the tone with which Joshua speaks, but Lord Kupka chooses to ignore it as he leans forward in his saddle, his teeth bared in a smirk that is more bared teeth than smile.

“Oh, I am afraid that offer has long since expired, your Grace,” Lord Kupka sneers, “now it is a case that you shall work for me.”

Joshua takes a step back, and silently ushers Jote to do the same, but eventually they run out of space to retreat.

“I will be of little use to you, Lord Kupka,” Joshua deflects as he looks for some way out of this, but his options are limited. A point that is emphasized as Lord Kupka dismounts from his chocobo and the ground beneath his feet rumbles.

 “You underestimate yourself, Phoenix, the mere revelation of your survival shall send shockwaves through the realms.”

“The Empire already has a Phoenix; they will not take kindly to another’s rise.” Threatening Lord Kupka with the wrath of the Empire will buy him little time, but he needs every second he can grasp, time to think, to search for an escape.

“And how long will that Bearer keep the mask of a Dominant once the truth is unveiled,” Lord Kupka laughs, “no, they’re resources are already strained with the ongoing war against the united forces of the Crystal Dominion and Waloed, I have nothing to fear from the broken territory that Sanbreque shall become.”

The broken territory that he intends to turn it into, is the unspoken goal that hangs silently in the air between them, and directly at its heart rests Rosaria.

How many would rise in rebellion for him? Do the old oaths of the duchy still hold strong even beneath the boot of the Empire?

Would Clive—

He cuts that thought off at its root before it can fully form.

Joshua has no intention of being used to test it.

Out of time and out of space as Kupka advances upon him, Joshua allows the Phoenix flames to ignite once more.

Semi-priming for the second time within hours exacts a toll that instantly has him breathing heavily, the sharp pain that unfurls in his chest like a lance of flame—or obsidian claws digging into his chest and reaching for his heart—has him blinking away dark memories that still haunt him.

Pushing past it, he cracks his cloak of feather like a whip allowing fire to consume the area.

He has no fear for Jote, her own fire aspected magic provides her with enough resistance to allow her to stand at his side even as he transforms Lord Kupka’s trap into a hellscape.

Soldiers without the sense to retreat as soon as he called upon the powers of the Phoenix are reduced to nothing but ash.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Lord Kupka himself, though it does give Joshua some pleasure to note that the Dominant of Titan’s arrogance has not gone unpunished.

Believing himself strong enough to endure the Phoenix’s flames without having to initiate his own Semi-prime has cost him, exposed bone can be seen on the palm he stretched out to block the attack, charred and blackened, on a normal man it would prove fatal, but for a Dominant it is simply an instance of pain.

Muscle, sinew, and flesh regenerate as golden aether gathers and then explodes with the force of an earthquake, and from the plume of dust that rises from the violent invocation steps Lord Kupka clad in the armour of Titan.

“Burn brightly, Phoenix, for this shall be the last chance you have to use your powers freely!”

That claim is the flare that declares the start of a clash of Eikons.

Joshua is immediately put on the defensive as Kupka uses the terrain to his advantage, the wall at his back becomes a map of lethal crystal spikes that nearly impale him as the ground beneath his feet rolls with the full intent of flinging him back upon them.

He leaps clear of this attack, only to be met with a gauntleted fist of stone that misses his head by inches, as he ducks beneath the blow and spins out of reach.

That is when this battle becomes a dance of attrition.

Flame and earth are exchanged as Joshua does his best to maintain distance, for against an opponent like Kupka, close quarters is a death sentence.

Something that the Dominant of Titan is well aware of as he does everything within his power to corner Joshua.

With all of his focus on Joshua, it is a simple enough task for Jote to slip past his notice, those few soldiers that accompanied Lord Kupka who remain, spy her too late as her blade slips between the thin gaps in their armour to deliver swift death, but her actions can only go unnoticed for so long.

The cry of a soldier rings loud within the canyon as Jote stabs and misses, her blade skimming across thick plate where she must have expected thinner steelsilk.

 “You whore!” screams the Man of the Rock as he draws his blade, only for the insult to be drowned in his own blood as Jote recentres herself and drives the blade deep into his throat.

That is all Joshua has time to see as the crash of rock behind him alerts him to Kupka’s next attack.

Having no time to turn and face the attack, Joshua summons the shielding flames of the Phoenix, but even that is not enough as he is forced to kneel beneath the weight of the wall that has been brought down upon him.

The air around him quickly grows stale as his own fire devours the oxygen within the crushing cage of rock with which Kupka seeks to seal him, leaving Joshua with little choice.

“In earnest then,” the words are spoken reluctantly, but they proceed a cry that carries all of his strength as the flames that shield him spill forth in a torrent that cannot be contained.

His prison of rock shatters beneath the first beat of his wings as Joshua casts them wide, catching Lord Kupka off guard and beating him back with a flare of flame that has the sand beneath his feet pooling into molten glass.

“Jote,” he calls, in a voice distorted by the whistle of the Phoenix.

Disengaging immediately from her fight, she runs to his side, all caution abandoned as she sacrifices stealth for speed.

Joshua covers her retreat, concentrating most of his attacks on Kupka, but also sending out wide bursts of flame to keep the Men of the Rock at bay.

The moment she reaches his side and grasps his leg he spreads his wings and leaps; the open sky welcomes him like an old friend, its expanse a freedom that he has seldom been able to enjoy.

His relief is an ephemeral thing as the air charges with more aether and the earth far below begins to shift.

Flying higher, he seeks the clouds for cover, but the arid climate of Dhalmekia only yields clear blue skies as far as the horizon.

The whistle of the wind deafens him to the danger from below and to Jote’s warning. The boulder that clips his wing a silent threat until it breaks his bones.

His wing folds beneath the pain, the limb useless for a moment too long as the aether flowing through him seeks to heal it, but all too soon gravity has its due.

Sand gives easily beneath his bulk but the rock below it does not yield so easily. All Joshua can do is raise his shield as he curls around Jote.

His defences prove strong enough, but he still feels dazed after such a fall, but the aether as well as the healing flames of the Phoenix make short work of his injuries, to the point that his broken wing snaps back into place as soon as he spreads the appendage.

Looking back towards the Gilded Path, he can see the gargantuan form of Titan looming before the cliffs, the way his slow, lumbering, gait changes the land around him as mountains rise and fall with every step he takes.

They do not have long, and should Joshua attempt again to fly from here it shall only end as before.

He checks on Jote, bending so his eye is level with her sightline, she appears unharmed, by some miracle, a stroke of luck as she will need all the strength she has.

“You need to run,” he orders with all the authority he can muster.

The stubborn line that takes over her shoulders and jaw is an all too familiar tell that warns him that Jote is about to dig her heels in and refuse, but he does not have time to argue with her, not when she should be using this time to get as far from here as possible.

“Your Grace, I will not abandon you,” she starts, but Joshua cuts off her declaration with the only thing that might convince her, the truth.

“Jote, I cannot hold the form of the Phoenix for much longer,” it shames him to admit it, but the price of maintaining a full Prime for a prolonged length of time is a gamble he can already feel himself losing.

As if to confirm his words the flames of the Phoenix begin to die, even as he fights to maintain them.

“Then we fight,” Jote protests, but Joshua already knows the end.

“I cannot defeat him, Jote, you know this. Lord Kupka is a seasoned warrior and an experienced Dominant, to fight him now would be utter folly. He will not kill me, not when he needs me, but your life does not hold the same promise. Flee now, and you will still have the chance to save me.”

It is another gamble, but one that he is sure he can win.

Jote still hesitates, and Joshua is prepared to order her again, perhaps attack her if he must, but it does not come to that.

“May the Firebirds flames burn ever brightly,” she softly intones with a bow before finally obeying his command.

Running past him, she heads deeper into the Fields of Corava, using the newly opened rifts and fissures that Titan’s approach has carved into the land as cover.

With relief he turns his full attention on Titan, determined to delay him and wipe out the Men of the Rock that remain, a task made easier by Kupka’s cavalier disregard for the men he crushes beneath his feet.

Taking to wing once more, he ignores the fractured agony that has begun to pool in his chest, he has lived with this pain all his life, he can disregard it now to buy Jote the time she needs to escape.

Emboldened by Joshua’s clear choice to continue fighting, Titan rips apart the earth beneath his feet and compresses earth and stone between his palms to create another earthen missile.

It breaks heavily against Joshua hastily summoned shield, but serves its purpose as it allows Titan the distraction he needs to close the distance.

The stone forged palm that eclipses the sky above, descends upon him with the full intent to capture him in a full body hold, and only Joshua’s swift rise, aided by the wind currents created on the back of Titan’s palm allows him to evade.

Flying high, Joshua unleashes the sparks contained within his feathers to blind Titan for the briefest of moments.

Shielding his eyes Titan flails wildly, casting aside stone and earth in a landslide that does not distinguish between friend or foe as the screams of dying men soon attests, but slow as Titan is, it is still a challenge to elude him. Though, inspiration strikes when a wild swing unbalances the giant and exposes his back.

Taking a chance, Joshua latches his talons into the thinner earthen armour of the stone collar that defends Titan’s neck and opens his beak wide, allowing the song of the firebird to gather the embers he wields until the flames burn blue.

When he at last unleashes the fires in an iridescent burst, he concentrates the full power of it upon the small knoll of bone unguarded at the base of Titan’s shoulders.

The howl that escapes Titan is not a war cry but a bellow of rage and pain as the Phoenix’s flames strike true, but the fervour of victory can only burn for a moment as lithic claws finally catch him in their stone grip and rip him from his perch.

Spent, Joshua can only watch as the feathers of the Phoenix flicker and then fade, but he knows it has been enough when Titan too begins to crumble.

The hand curled round his body erodes but the fist that replaces its grip around his throat feels like iron, and as his vision begins to swim, he struggles to breathe.

He knows Lord Kupka is speaking, but the words never reach his ears, too lost in the frantic beat of his heart, only for everything to go silent and dark as the bite of cold metal is clamped around his wrists, robbing him of all heat and warmth as the flames of the Phoenix are locked behind a wall of crystal.

The loss of his connection to the Phoenix is a physical blow and when oblivion comes to claim him, he can do nothing but embrace it.

Chapter Text

Dion’s return cannot come soon enough.

This is the thought that has plagued Clive’s mind every morning he has awoken to find that General Paulus is still in command of the Empire’s forces.

The two days of peace that Clive managed to negotiate have been a test of his patience, for though the general has not proven foolish enough to break the truce, he seems intent upon undermining Clive’s every order.

Organising meetings every day, for the sake of, as the general calls it: the continued smooth operation of the encampment, a blatant lie.

As a result, Clive has seen hours out of his day wasted upon the alter of self-congratulation and adulation of old men who Clive would bet have never set foot on the field of battle. No instead they content themselves with sending thousands to die in their place, only accepting the glory of victory while they decry the sting of defeat and lay all blame at the feet of men no longer here to defend their honour.

And so, it is with heavy footsteps that he makes his way to the meeting tent, expecting another day to be wasted, his only conciliation the fact that so long as the Empire’s generals are squandering his time, they are left with little time of their own.

Still, the thought of having to deal with them for another few hours makes the porridge he managed to force down this morning curdle in his stomach. Knowing that he was going to end up feeling like this he would have preferred to skip the meal entirely, but Biggs and Wedge had noticed him before he could successfully make his escape.

Apparently, they were both under orders from Jill to look after him, and instead of taking that to its logical conclusion to simply watch his back on the battlefield, the two idiots have taken liberty with the request and continually use it as their default excuse when they feel Clive is neglecting his own health.

Staying up late to look at battle plans and maps.

The scrolls are snatched from his hands and Biggs says, “Lady Jill wouldn’t take too kindly if she found out you’re foregoing sleep.”

Pushing himself in the training field.

He suddenly finds no one left to spar with him while Wedge does his best to look innocent in a corner.

Skipping a meal he doesn’t have the time or the stomach for.

There they both are, badgering him about how whatever meal he’s choosing to not eat is the most important of the day.

He wouldn’t mind it so much if they weren’t so much younger than him, but the one time he’d confronted them about it simply inspired them to go behind his back and get Dion of all people involved.

If there was ever a lecture more filled with hypocrisy than the one the prince had given him, Clive would very much not like to hear it, as he has had more than enough already.

Though, that said, he’d take one of Prince Dion’s lectures over General Paulus’ any day.

Which is why he feels the weight of dread that has solidly lodged itself within his stomach suddenly lifting the second he steps into the ornate and well-furnished tent to find Dion sitting at the head of the table.

“Marquess,” the prince greets warmly and as casually as he can when they are surrounded by other nobles.

Clive returns the courtesy, “Prince Dion,” he greets with a shallow bow that is sincere, before he takes his seat. “I was not aware that you had returned.”

“My contingent arrived in the early hours under the cover of night, safer for the dragons,” Dion explains as he massages the bridge of his nose in attempt to stem a headache brought on by lack of sleep.

“If you require rest—” Clive starts but he is silenced as Dion bats away the idea.

“I shall sleep once I have been briefed on the current situation here.” What was that Clive was thinking, oh right, Dion and his hypocrisy.

Clive nods and settles in to await the arrival of the three commanding Lieutenant Generals and General Paulus.

In the meantime, he’s more than happy to strike up a conversation with the Prince.

“Should I even bother to ask how the negotiations went?” he queries, even though he can probably guess the result, Dion had, after all allowed him to read the letter outlining the terms for peace the Emperor had dictated.

The glare Dion levels at him from between the splayed fingers he is using to shield his eyes from the weak morning light that is managing to seep through the thick canvas of the tent, says everything, but Dion is still kind enough to lay it out plainly.

“A farce on all sides,” he hisses with distain, “even if I had been sent to the table with realistic stipulations, there was never any peace on offer, not from the Last King.”

“He’s winning,” Clive offers, and really, it’s all that needs to be said.

Dion’s fingers twitch and his nails dig into the skin above his brow, hard enough to cause pain but not to draw blood.

“My father refuses to believe it, he views the power of Bahamut as divine, a gift from Great Greagor herself, peerless.” Dion leans forward and takes the goblet of water that has been set before him, more something to occupy his free hand then to slake his thirst. “I fear these preconceived notions blind him as to what is actually achievable.”

Clive’s eyes lock upon the map of the port of Coquille Cassée laid out at the centre of the table. With the power of Bahamut the Waloeder army could be scattered in a day but in the process the city would be levelled and the citizens held hostage within massacred.

It is not a sacrifice that Dion is willing to make, and when it had first been suggested as a solution at the start of the war, the Prince had the General who dared to voice it stripped of his rank and dismissed. A firm threat that still serves to warn others who might volunteer similar plans, to hold their tongues.

Besides, the promise of retaliation from Odin or Garuda is itself a heavy deterrent against a full assault by Bahamut, and one of the reasons why the war has lasted this long to begin with.

Leaning forward, Clive turns the map so he can get a better glimpse at the lay of the land, though to what end he cannot explain as he has already lost so many hours of sleep studying this very same map, one that by this point may no longer be accurate.

He looks back at Dion, ready to discuss his most recent clash with the Waloeder forces, only to fall silent at the sight of Dion practically fast asleep in his chair.

His eyes are still open, but barely, and his head rests precariously balanced in his hand, liable to slip at any moment when he loses the strength to hold it up.

Standing, Clive quietly signals for one of the attendants to come closer, the man obeys and when he is within hearing distance Clive whispers, “Is General Paulus aware of Prince Dion’s return?”

The man shifts uncomfortably, but his voice is steady when he answers, “A runner was sent to inform the General, but he has yet to return.”

In other words, no.

Clive can see how this has happened, as it has become a favoured tactic of Lord Paulus’ over the last two days to see how long he can make Clive wait, disregarding the messengers Clive relays. Only to send his own harried squire to retrieve Clive when he has finally returned to his own work, to inform him that he was keeping the General waiting.

A power play that had been both annoying and impossible to deal with, until now.

“Thank you, recall the squire you sent with the message of Prince Dion’s arrival, and when General Paulus does eventually decide to show up, please inform him that I shall be awaiting him in my own tent.”

The attendant gives Clive a knowing smirk as he bows and accepts the orders with an, “as you command Marquess.”

After rolling up the map of Coquille Cassée and storing it in his belt, Clive walks around the table until he is standing beside Dion.

Gently, and fully prepared to jump back in case he has caught the prince off guard, Clive shakes Dion’s shoulder. “Prince Dion?”

Dion still has enough sense about him to recognise Clive, even as he blinks blearily back to full consciousness.

The moment he realises that he has been caught dozing his cheeks brighten and his eyes widen.

Coughing into his fist he tries to recompose himself, but soon realises it is too little too late as he wipes his chin and grimaces.

Clive does his best to cover his own mirth at the scene but fails miserably as he has to hide his own smirk behind an ill-disguised sneeze that is obviously a snort.

“You saw nothing,” Dion orders in a voice that says he expects to be obeyed.

“Technically I am not under your command,” Clive cannot help but volunteer.

“You saw nothing,” Dion threatens instead, but the way he has to smother a yawn as he does it reduces its effectiveness.

“Dion, you can barely stand and look liable to keel over the second you see a bed, let alone lay in it,” Clive argues.

Dion looks defeated for a moment, but then, a thin smile spreads across his lips. “Remind me who it was that intervened when the High Cardinal nearly cemented that betrothal between you and his charming daughter?”

Clive feels the blood drain from his face as a shiver runs down his spine and Dion knows he has him when Clive clears his throat and says, “I saw nothing.”

That at least manages to encourage a genuine laugh from Dion, but he still looks exhausted, and Clive has plans to rectify that.

“Come on,” Clive encourages as he collects a few more maps and scrolls from the table, “it seems as though General Paulus won’t be showing himself for a while, so I may as well brief you in a more comfortable setting.”

Dion’s brow furrows at that remark, but he doesn’t question it as he rises and follows Clive out of the tent.

“Where’s Ser Terrence?” Clive asks as they navigate the encampment, paying little attention as the men around them move aside and bow low as he and Dion pass.

“Refilling his supplies,” Dion volunteers with fond exasperation.

It’s explanation enough, and Clive changes his path slightly, planning to intercept the knight and drag him along for the meeting. 

He finds Terrence just outside the medical quarters, a satchel hung over his shoulder clinking with every step he takes.

“Marquess Rosfield, your Highness,” he greets as he notices them approaching him.

“Change of plans Ser Terrence,” Clive explains as he takes the satchel from the knight and continues to lead the way to his own tent. He can feel the confused stare the Dragoon is levelling at his back but soon enough he gives in and follows his Prince.

The walk back to the Rosarian encampment is long.

Situated on a bluff that overlooks the Empire’s own camp, the two armies are as separate as the geography and logistics will allow, but as if that wasn’t enough to differentiate between the two, the colour scheme of red and black that dominates the Rosarian army is at complete odds with the calm white and blue of the sea of Imperial tents.

To Clive, the atmosphere is also completely different, but that may just be from his perspective, for here, amongst his own people, he can at least relax.

As they walk through the encampment to his own tent, Clive greets soldiers by name as they pause in their daily tasks to pay him respect.

Two days of peace has been good for the men, instead of the worn exhaustion Clive has grown used to seeing, now he can see hope, determination, and purpose again. Where once few had time for nothing more than a brief meal and sleep, now Clive can see actual life playing out before him, men gathered around a fire as they see to their equipment and debate recent events or exchange news from home, others bent over a low table as two soldiers arm wrestle over a pile of gil and a few crystals.

He sees Bigg’s outside the storage tent, perched on a box, a small knife in his hand whittling away at a piece of wood with precise movements that slowly wear it down into the form he desires.

Time like this in war feels rare, and all the more precious for it.

Finally entering his own tent, Clive offers Dion and Terrence the free seats at the small table in the centre of his current living space and hides his smirk when the two men all but fall into them.

Prince Dion, for his part slumps into the foldable canvas chair, in a way that the stiff Imperial high back chairs would have never accommodated, proof in Clive’s mind that he was right in his decision to bring Dion here, though not as grand as the meeting tent at the centre of the Imperial camp, his tent does boast one thing it never could, legitimate warmth.

Turning to the small crystal powered stove in the corner he begins to rummage in the bag he had taken from Terrence, only for the man himself to move to rise from his chair. “Marquess, I’ll see to that, please I would hate to inconvenience you.”

Clive is having none of that as he waves the knight back. “By my standard, humble as my current residence is, you and Prince Dion are still my guests.”

Just as Clive planned that statement immediately succeeds in taking the wind from Terrence’s sails, leaving the man to slowly sink back into his chair. “Still,” he tries as he watches Clive handily fish the packet he was looking for from the bag he took from Ser Terrence. He relaxes when he sees that Clive does in fact seem to know what he is doing, as he takes the now boiling kettle of water from the stove and excavates a rarely used tea pot and matching tea egg.

Only to speak up again when Clive apparently nearly makes an irredeemable mistake. “No! Stop, for the love of Greagor you’ll scold the tea leaves,” Terrence complains as he leaps across the tent.

Clive pauses, wondering what he could possibly be doing wrong when all he is doing is pouring hot water.

Relenting, as Terence looks as though Clive is murdering a puppy before his eyes, he allows the Dragoon to take the pot.

Falling into his own seat, Clive does his best not to look at Dion and his knowing smirk as he reaches his hand out to pet a sleeping Torgal on the head, only for Dion to immediately seize his attention as he jumps so hard he nearly kicks the table over, waking Torgal up in the process.

“Dion?” Clive asks as he calms Torgal.

The Prince looks truly mortified by his actions but recovers quickly as he adjusts his seating position and offers an explanation, “forgive me, I thought he was a rug.”

Clive laughs at that, loudly and without inhibition as he continues to pet Torgal.

“That is a first,” Clive chuckles, getting Torgal to sit back at his feet with a small bribe of dried gazelle.

“One wonders how you could have missed him in the first place,” Terrence comments as he walks over with the prepared tea and sets about serving.

“He’s exhausted,” Clive answers, taking a sip of the tea, enjoying the way the hot beverage washes across his tongue leaving behind the taste of citrus and smoke. “You both are.”

Terence answer is a worried glance at Dion, while the Prince merely waves away Clive’s concern. “I am fine, Clive, one night without sleep will not fell me.”

“Two,” Terence corrects, earning a betrayed look from Dion, but for once the Dragoon persists, “you barely slept the night before we departed, my Prince. The sun rose before you returned to your sleeping quarters, and even then, you stayed up reading the latest correspondents from his Radiance.”

“It could not be helped,” Dion defends, “My father is currently on his Progress, if I do not take charge then—” he halts, the words catching on his clenched teeth as his eyes dart to Clive.

Pain and desperation fight for dominance in the Prince’s gaze in a way that Clive understands on a visceral level.

With a sigh, Clive finishes the sentence for Dion, “if you don’t, then my mother shall.”

A heavy silence comes to rest over the tent after those words fall from Clive’s mouth, but Dion soon speaks in an effort to fill it.

“Clive, I did not mean to question the Empress’ intentions.”

“Question away,” Clive dismisses, “it means you’ll be more prepared when she eventually tries to stab you in the back.”

The prince winces at the bluntness of Clive’s statement but has spent enough time with the Empress to know that Clive is right.

“But only so long as you remain in good company,” Clive adds after he takes another sip of tea.

“I can definitely say that is the case here,” Dion acknowledges, “but it is sound advice none the less.” He takes his own sip of tea and sighs at the relief it brings, before posing his next question, “was she always so…”

He struggles to find the words.

Clive doesn’t.

“Vile, treacherous, malevolent?”

Terence chokes on his drink and even Dion seems taken aback at the vehemence with which Clive speaks.

It gives Clive the time he needs to truly form his answer.

“In some ways, yes, what she is now has always been a part of her, but there were things that held her more…cruel aspects in check, once.”

“Your brother?” Dion ventures.

Two faces rise to the fore of Clive’s mind at that title, both blonde haired and blue eyed if in slightly different shades. It hurts that one’s image in his mind is as clear as if he were standing before him while the other has grown fuzzy around the edges, his memory dulled by time.

“Joshua,” Clive starts, only to stop, the name not having been spoken aloud in so long, it seems to weigh his tongue down in a way that makes it harder to continue, but he manages, “she was always so protective of him, so devoted, and she rarely allowed her true self to show through the mask of the doating mother she always wore around him.”