Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was something to be said about big crowds.

Days like these, when the weather was pleasant and the sun was shining down on the kingdom of Bluecrest, Grian found himself both thankful and irritated by the amount of people out on the streets. On one hand, it made the normally grim and cold streets feel just a little more alive — but on the other hand, it made it hard to get around. 

Especially today, when the amount of people made it difficult to even locate the market stands he needed to visit.

Really, he shouldn’t complain too much, as there were additional benefits to days like these. Larger crowds meant less people paying attention to their belongings, which meant their wallets were more likely to occasionally slip into his satchel in a rather unfortunate series of events — of which he had no control over, of course. 

Inexplicably, it kept happening. And so, Grian really had no choice but to relieve them of their gold.

Truly, he hadn’t half a mind to feel bad for these people. Most on this side of the kingdom were lower rank nobles, or had some pile of gold to their name. Here, the people lived comfortably. They hadn’t slept on the streets even once in their lives.

Grian adjusted his hood, pushing through the crowd as he spotted the first stand on his list. Pearl had requested he get vegetables, bread and meat for the soup she’d been planning to make for dinner. It was a little over their usual budget, but all three of them — he, Pearl, and Jimmy — would be busy tonight, so they’d need the extra calories. 

As he eyed the vegetables on display, he checked his bag to count his earnings. Twelve gold, he concluded, making sure every wallet was thoroughly emptied and accounted for. That would hopefully be enough. 

See, Grian wasn’t stupid. Skilled thief or not, greed was the sort of thing that got you caught. Pearl would not be happy with him if that happened. She’d been looking forward to this soup, and he wouldn’t be a very good older brother if he took that from her.

Handing the merchant the gold and stuffing the single carrot he’d bought (Four gold for one carrot? Seriously?) he couldn’t help but smile as his gaze caught on the closed off area right by the stand. The patches of pale violet spread like vines over the ground, creeping up the brick wall it was nestled against. The faint glow from the thread-like material revealed a soft, fuzzy layer of spores dusting the air around it. A clear mark of Mother Spore.

He cleared his throat, catching the merchant’s attention once again. “Pardon me, but aren’t you worried about having your wares in such close proximity to the… fungi?”

The merchant grunted, stopping briefly in his meticulous counting of coins to fix him with a glare. “Your carrot will be fine.”

Grian chuckled, fiddling with his gloves. “I’m sure it will. I’m simply asking for your sake.”

“It hasn’t killed me yet,” the man countered, returning to his task, seemingly deeming the conversation to be over.

Grian could hardly stifle the urge to roll his eyes. He was well aware of his appearance and the level of wealth his attire suggested — but in his opinion, this animosity was poorly directed. People like this man found far too much pleasure in mocking those economically below him. Needlessly so, because if all this energy could be directed upward, it’d be a much more productive use of their time. This man may live a much more comfortable life than most, but they’re all still getting completely screwed over.

The king of Bluecrest was a mystery, to say the least. Hardly anything was known about the guy, other than the way he ruled the kingdom — which showed in how the funds were being mismanaged and patrolling guards were free to abuse their power with little to no repercussions.

Luckily, this merchant’s views weren’t shared by most in Bluecrest. Grian closed his bag, turned, and slipped back into the crowd — three carrots and fifteen gold heavier.

Walking down the narrow cobblestone street, he eyed the stalls lining the road in search of the next item on his list. Idly, he admired the brightly colored and patterned textiles strung on lines above him, swaying gently in the wind. Their presence was a new addition to the normally dull streets, giving them a much more vibrant and festive atmosphere. He pondered over what the new decorations could be for.

Spotting a familiar face, Grian made his way over. 

Jevin was standing in the back of his stall, turned away from the street and bent over a wooden box filled with turnips and parsnips. Grian watched in silence as he transferred the turnips from the box to the stalls, somehow not noticing him throughout the process. Grian eyed his surroundings in search of any guards, before letting his hood fall away from his face and clearing his throat.

Jevin piped up, turning over, face brightening once he recognized his friend. “Ah, Grian! Lovely day, isn’t it? How can I help you?”

Grian smiled, adjusting the collar of his cloak. “Hey, Jevin. I’m just here for some shopping, if it’s not too much trouble. Pearl’s treating us to rabbit soup tonight.”

Jevin nodded, walking over to the front of the stand to properly assist his customer. “Well, what are you in need of?”

Grian fished out the list Pearl had provided him with from the pocket of his trousers. It was a frail thing, made from cheap paper Jimmy had received as payment for running errands for a priest once. The text had been written using coal leftovers from the campfire, making Pearl’s normally messy handwriting that much harder to decipher.

He squinted, reading the list off to Jevin. “Potatoes and onions, it seems. You got any left for me?”

Jevin clasped his hands together. “You bet I do, G. How many of each do you need?”

“How much is it?” 

“Three gold per onion, 1 gold per potato.”

Grian let out a breath. “One onion and two potatoes then.” 

Jevin gave him a thumbs up, leaning under the counter and returning with a produce scoop in his hands, before beginning to hand him his order. 

“The economy has only been going down recently, hasn’t it?” Grian sighed.

Jevin shrugged, a bitter expression on his face as he placed the groceries in a paper bag and pushed it over the counter. “Yeah. We know who to thank that for, though.”

Grian nodded, opening his satchel to place the bag of vegetables inside, before fishing out the gold he owed — but as he moved to hand Jevin his payment, the merchant pushed his hand back.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s about the principle, remember?” he grinned, winking.

“No, Jevin,” Grian said, shaking his head. “Take the gold.” Then, under his breath, “It’s not mine anyway.”

Jevin chuckled, rolling his eyes fondly as he took the gold from Grian’s outstretched hand. “Alright you criminal, if you insist.”

Grian smirked, before looking around to check if anybody was listening. Satisfied, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “You’re coming tonight?”

Jevin nodded, following suit. “Yeah, are you kidding? I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Squeezing his shoulder, Grian leaned back. “Amazing, I knew we could count on you.”

“Of course, of course! I’ll see you then?”

“See you then.”

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Other than severely overpaying for the bread and nearly failing to afford the rabbit meat as a consequence, finishing Pearl’s list was fairly easy. The crowds had let up shortly after he’d left Jevin’s stall, which meant traversing became a lot easier.

As the cobbled streets gave way to cracked stone and mud, the market stalls faded behind him and were replaced by crumbling buildings, overflowing bins, and the bitter smell of rot. The bustle thinned and the overlapping voices grew quieter. 

All of it was a sure sign he was almost home — and that, at least, was a relief. His feet ached, his satchel dragged heavy against his side, and while it wasn’t unbearable, he figured he’d earned the right to complain. The slums of Bluecrest weren’t much to miss, really — but they were still home.

He turned a corner and slowed, catching sight of a group of children huddled against a brick wall. There were three of them — two boys, one girl — all smeared in soot and old bruises, their faces far too hollow for their age.

Grian wordlessly reached into his satchel, broke the overpriced loaf of bread in thirds, and handed each child a piece whilst making sure his gloves stayed on. The girl looked up at him with cautious eyes, but took it anyway. The boys followed suit. 

Pearl might be mad later, but she'd understand.

He lingered a moment longer, watching them eat.

A younger version of him might’ve been sitting right there, thin as a shadow, every rib showing, terrified and alone in a kingdom that didn’t care if he made it through the night. He’d been a scared, orphaned boy — skin pale, breath catching any time his hands came close to a living thing. Fresh off a nightmare no child should have ever lived through, carrying something inside him that didn’t belong.

The streets were no place for children. But they’d still been kinder than the place he’d come from.

He’d been thirteen when he met Pearl and Jimmy. Running through an alleyway to get away from the guards chasing him, clutching a stolen loaf of bread tightly, evidence of his first act of thievery. He’d been terrified back then. Skin and bones, so hungry it hurt. 

He hadn’t seen Jimmy and Pearl in the dark until he’d bumped into them. Landed flat on his ass, stunned and ready to bolt the other way — until a hand reached down toward him.

That hand had been warm. And steady.

They’d stuck together ever since, scraping by, stealing food, and watching each other’s backs from guards and worse. They weren’t blood, but Grian had never believed blood made you family anyway.

If he could make sure no children would ever have to go through the same things they had, he would without hesitation. But unfortunately, the world wasn’t simple like that. 

Turning another corner, he spotted the familiar outline of their little shack. It was small, made out of rotting wood and decaying metal. He could make out the bright glow of a campfire through one of their makeshift windows, and the shadow of a wolflike creature dancing along the walls.

The shack had been another stroke of luck. Jimmy found it while scavenging the alleys. A godsend, really. The shack had been built into an alleyway not too far from the city square and markets, but far enough for it to be left unnoticed by curious strangers and pestering guards. It had been abandoned long before Jimmy found it, and he hadn’t needed to ask Grian and Pearl twice before the three of them based there. 

At the time, the place had been in an even worse state of disrepair — parts of the roof missing, and the building lacking a door entirely. Trash had littered the inside, and bugs had covered the walls. Clearing it out had taken effort, but for getting a roof to sleep under, it was effort worth putting in. 

Soon enough, the shack had blossomed into something they could comfortably call home. The only furniture they really had were three hammocks, a cabinet and a dusty rug — but it worked. It was all they needed.

As Grian got closer, he could make out the voices of his younger siblings bickering, followed by the clattering sound of metal hitting the ground, and a long silence. He chuckled to himself, before pushing the thin, wooden door open. 

Once the dust settled, the sight he was met with was one that had him snorting, and soon the other two joined in with the laughter. 

Their one pot — another treasure found discarded in the alleyways — laid on its side, water pouring slowly out of it into the carpet. Jimmy was sitting next to it on the floor, looking slightly bewildered. Pearl was standing by the campfire in the center of the room, and Pearl’s dog, Tilly, was giddily trying to drink up the last bits of water that remained. 

Grian took a deep breath, pushing the hood from his face and steeling his laughter before speaking. “What’s happened here, then?”

Pearl crossed her arms, glaring in Jimmy’s direction. “I wanted to make sure the water was ready before you got home so I could get started right away, but apparently, this guy thought he could do a much better job!”

Jimmy scrambled to stand up, brushing dust from his now damp trousers. “Look, it was an accident! How was I supposed to know the carpet would betray me?”

“Well, if you weren’t so clumsy all of the time, the carpet wouldn’t have been an issue!” Pearl retorted, blowing a strand of brown hair from her face in annoyance.

Grian shook his head fondly. “Well, it’s going to be even more of an issue if we don’t get it out of here to dry off. I refuse to deal with the smell.”

He moved forward after hanging his cloak and satchel on a hook by the door. Crouching, he began cleaning up, struggling a bit with moving Tilly away from the pot. Pearl quickly aided him, grabbing her by the collar and easing her backward.

Hands on his hips and decidedly not helping, Jimmy continued. “Ha! See? Grian agrees it wasn’t my fault!” 

“Nowhere were those words ever uttered, Tim,” Grian teased, picking up the pot and placing it to the side of the rug. 

Then, he and Pearl grabbed the carpet from opposite ends and lifted it up, folding it over and carrying it outside to hang on one of the lines just outside the shack. 

Jimmy picked up the pot and followed outside, moving past them and yelling over his shoulder. “I’ll head to the well and get some new water, alright? Be right ba—”

“No, Jimmy, take the bucket instead. We’ll need more water later,” Pearl called after him, placing clips to the line to make sure the carpet stayed in place.

Jimmy deflated and turned around, walking back toward the shack and emerging a minute or so later with a much larger wooden bucket. 

Grian placed the last clip and watched him as he left. The well wasn’t far from here, but carrying a bucket of that size filled with water wasn’t easy, so he knew Jimmy would be a while. Grian heard footsteps, giving away that Pearl had already walked back inside, so he turned and followed suit.

Once inside, he found her crouched over, surveying the floor one last time to make sure no water had seeped into the floorboards. Satisfied, she straightened and turned back around to face him.

“Did you get all the things on my list?” she asked, tilting her head and crossing her arms.

Grian nodded, grabbing his satchel off of the wall. He moved across the shack and sat down in his hammock. She sat down in the hammock opposite his, resting her head on her fist. Then, Grian threw the satchel over to her, and she scrambled to catch it. 

Grian snickered as she let out an exasperated sigh, before looking into the bag’s contents. She seemed satisfied as she looked through the ingredients, before stopping and looking up at him.

“The bread?”

Grian winced as the scar crossing over her face caught the light streaming in from the window, becoming more apparent from this angle. He knew it had been years since she’d gotten it, but that didn’t stop him from being overwhelmed by guilt anytime he saw it — and that was, of course, often.

Back when he’d only just met them, he’d frequently have nightmares. Mostly about his childhood, growing up in that… place. Vivid, graphic and unnecessarily horrid things, in his opinion. Waking up in the middle of the night screaming was something that wasn’t particularly desirable when you slept on the streets, but it was also something he’d grown used to.

Pearl and Jimmy had not.

It had been an accident. Pearl always would remind him of that. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. She assured him it wasn’t his fault. That it was okay. She could live with it and I can still see from one eye, so it really isn’t that bad, I promise!

He’d woken up disoriented, and Pearl — sweet, kind, and thoughtful as she was — had tried to calm him down. He hadn’t had that level of violent nightmares around her and Jimmy before, so it was their first exposure to it. Naturally, they hadn’t known what to do.

The darkness of the alleyway had made it hard to see who was approaching, and no matter what she’d said, he wouldn’t believe it wasn’t them coming back to get him.

He’d been foolish and idiotic back then, which meant he hadn’t gotten himself a pair of gloves — and so, when he’d thrown his hand out, panicked and trying to push her away — his fingers had faintly brushed her face. Her eyelid, to be exact. 

She’d screamed.  

He’d worn gloves at all times since then.

Grian looked out of the window. “I gave it away.”

Pearl sighed. It was a fond sigh, he knew. Maybe slightly irritated — and exasperated, probably — but fond all the same. However, something about it still stung. He watched from the corner of his eye as she put the satchel down and fell back onto the hammock. The sun was setting outside the window, its light shining down between the buildings and landing on her face, painting the scar golden.

He remembered how it’d looked that night — ghostly violet blending with crimson red , breaking skin and flesh as it grew. Rapid and relentless, mushrooms and fungi in her eye socket, spreading and spreading and spreading.

Another stroke of luck. That it had ended there — only barely missing her brain.

He shuddered.

“What time is it?” he asked instead.

She propped herself up on her elbow, eyeing the clock on the wall. Originally, it had seemed broken beyond repair as it laid there among trash and debris. Pearl had insisted on taking it anyway, and after a couple hours of tinkering, she’d somehow gotten the cogs turning again.

“Half past six, it looks like.”

Grian nodded. Five and a half hours left, then.

He sighed, turning back to the window. 

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Jimmy returned not long after, now carrying a full bucket of water — and nearly dropping it as he fumbled with the door. After that, Pearl finally got started on dinner. Grian and Jimmy helped where they could, but both of them were walking disasters in the kitchen, so Pearl didn’t trust them near anything too important.

The soup was delicious, and the boys made sure she knew it. Pearl brushed off their compliments, but Grian didn’t miss the faint smile tugging at her lips.

They passed the rest of the time playing games and talking, as they usually did on nights like these. A couple of weeks back, Grian had managed to steal a 52-card deck right from under a shopkeeper’s nose. It hadn’t been essential for their survival — which was usually his excuse for stealing — but they’d still gotten plenty of use out of it, so it had to count for something. The good thing about cards was how many different games you could play, as long as you knew the rules. Poker, Blackjack, Solitaire, Crazy Eights — and his personal favourite: Go Fish.

Before they knew it, the clock was nearing midnight, and it was finally time to get ready.

Grian changed out of his usual clothes into an all-black outfit. He threw his cloak over his shoulders and pulled the hood up over his head. Then he grabbed his mask — a homemade thing, painted black with purple accents — and tucked a knife into his pocket. Just a precaution, really. His gloves stayed on, though they’d be coming off soon.

Pearl and Jimmy were dressed similarly, all in black with their own masks — though theirs lacked the purple detailing. If he didn’t know them, he might’ve found them intimidating. Especially with the knowledge they, too, were armed beneath their cloaks.

They left the shack in silence, making sure the fire was fully extinguished before slipping into the streets. They moved quietly through the city, diverting only when a patrolling guard came into view.

Most of the city had already gone to sleep. The streets were still, and the moon lit their path.

Eventually, the three of them reached the meeting spot — a narrow alley deeper in the city, away from the usual patrol routes. One by one, more figures in black trickled in. Nobody spoke. Once eight heads were counted, Grian crouched down and opened a hatch in the cobblestones, revealing a ladder descending into darkness.

He sat down and lowered himself in. Once his boots hit the ground, he fished out a match and lit his torch. The warm glow revealed a stone tunnel — one of many stretching beneath the city. As the others followed him down, the hatch above was sealed. They stood in a circle in the small space and then, their masks came off, one by one, unveiling each of their identities.

To his left stood Pearl and Jimmy, of course — both with that familiar fire in their eyes, the kind that promised vengeance to anyone foolish enough to cross them.

Beside them was Impulse, hood drawn low over his short brown hair. In the flickering light, he looked almost menacing — though Grian knew better. Underneath the sharp mind and diversionary brilliance, Impulse was practically a teddy bear.

Then there was Ren. Steady, loyal, and clever, with a beard Grian had always quietly admired. He had never been able to grow one himself, which made Ren’s tasteful facial hair all the more impressive.

Next came Xb — a valued member. Kind, intelligent, and their most persuasive recruiter. His words could open doors Grian hadn’t even known existed.

Jevin stood beside him, just as he’d promised hours earlier. Grian had once doubted a merchant would ever risk joining their cause, but Jevin had proved him wrong in every way. Skilled, sharp, and fiercely loyal, he was as much a friend as an asset.

Then there was Etho: quiet, masked, with stark white hair and one glowing red eye. He always looked like the most dangerous man in the room — and maybe he was. But Grian knew better than to judge him by that alone. Inside that mind spun a whirlwind of ideas, ranging from the absurd to the brilliant to batshit insane — and often all three at once.

And finally, Doc. A genius of a different kind — the kind who might very well be a mad scientist in another life. Grian didn’t know how he’d lost his right arm and eye, but he did know this: Doc believed in the cause with everything he had. That was enough.

Grian exhaled slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Hey everyone. Thanks for coming.”

A chorus of quiet greetings met him, voices echoing off damp stone. He raised a finger to his lips — a silent reminder. The tunnels had been abandoned for years, but you could never be too careful.

He cleared his throat. “I know you’re all familiar with the plan, but I want to go over it one last time. Tonight, we bring our message straight to the king’s doorstep.”

Jimmy pumped his fist, as he always did when he was excited. “Exactly! He won’t be able to ignore us!”

A ripple of murmurs followed, then faded. All that remained then was the steady drip, drip, drip of water trickling down stone.

“These tunnels should lead directly to the castle,” Grian continued. “From there, we’ll find a way to the royal gardens. There’s a lot of us — so stealth is everything. If we’re caught…” He hesitated. “I probably won’t be able to do much. Everyone got that?”

He met each of their gazes in turn. They nodded, solemn and sure.

Grian drew in a deep breath. “I know we’re all nervous. This is the riskiest mission we’ve ever attempted. But I believe in us. It’s about the principle.”

“And we believe in you, Mother Spore,” Ren assured, raising his hand into the center of the circle. “For the resistance!”

One by one, the others joined him, hands stacking over his.

“For the resistance!” they echoed as their hands lifted into the air, in voices hushed but burning.

Then, they all followed Grian in a long line through the narrow tunnels. Ren walked beside him, reading directions from the map clutched in his hands. Ren had played a major part in this plan, as he’d spent tons of hours helping Grian researching and planning it out. He’d bought any maps he could get his hands on, eventually owning up-to-date layouts over all the places they needed to traverse to make this plan a success.

The tunnel was quiet, save for their footsteps. The air was damp, and the faint smell of rot and dirt filled their nostrils. Not many people knew of this tunnel system’s existence. Likely, it had been used in the past for utility, or perhaps some sort of escape route for the royal family, seeing as quite a lot of them led straight to the castle. Grian himself had found it a few years ago, after hearing about it in a bar. Curious, he’d asked about the whereabouts of the entrance, and the stranger had kindly given it to him, no questions asked. Some people in Bluecrest were strange like that. Grian certainly hadn’t minded.

After a while of walking, the tunnel grew smaller and smaller. At first, Grian hadn’t noticed it, but then he’d looked over his shoulder and seen how hunched over Jimmy was walking behind him, the ceiling having grown noticeably shorter. It wasn’t long before all of them were almost crouching through the tunnels, and he felt the claustrophobia closing in — but still, he continued onward. The mycelium resistance would not be stopped by something so trivial.

That turned out to have been the right choice, as the tunnel soon let up, the ceiling slowly growing taller and taller again. They all let out a sigh of relief despite themselves. Grian couldn’t help but feel slightly concerned over what they’d do if they had to run through there later. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be something they had to worry about.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, Ren told them to stop. The glow of the torch in his hand illuminated a long ladder, seemingly going up and up to infinity. Grian handed the torch to Impulse, before climbing ahead.

Reaching the top, he pushed the hatch to the side. Slowly, carefully, he stuck his head out of the ground. Looking around, he searched for any sign of movement. Satisfied, he climbed up the final distance and gave a thumbs up to the waiting resistance members at the bottom.

As he waited for everyone to climb up, he took in his surroundings. The tunnels had led them inside the castle walls themselves, placing them right by one of the tall cobblestone barriers surrounding the building where the king resided. Looking a bit further, he noted that the royal garden was only a hundred meters or so away. He made sure no guards were around as well. Really, he knew there shouldn’t be. Based on their sources, there were no guards patrolling the area at this hour — but he’d be foolish not to check anyway.

Etho was the last person out of the tunnel, so he was also the one to close the hatch after them. Once it was firmly sealed, the nine of them stalked toward the royal gardens, silent as a mouse.

They’d discussed the plan many, many times. According to Ren’s maps, there was a large field of red roses in the royal garden. That was their goal. That was where they’d leave their message.

Hanging on one side of the castle was the banner of Bluecrest. It depicted the kingdom’s sigil — the wing of a vex. Mythical creatures said to rope their victims into faulty deals, sink their teeth into their skin and bite. Grian thought the kingdom couldn’t have a more fitting symbol.

The group got to work immediately. Xb, Jevin and Impulse were sent to stand guard, positioning themselves so that the resistance had eyes in every direction toward the castle. Jimmy was the tallest among them, so he was tasked with getting the banner down from its perch while making the least amount of noise possible. In the meantime, Doc walked into the field of roses, carrying a wooden pole and a hammer. He dug the pole into the dirt, using the hammer to push it further down. Then, Jimmy and Etho came, both carrying the banner over the roses as it had been too large for Jimmy to carry alone. Together, the three of them worked on getting the banner onto the pole. Grian and Pearl stood nearby, watching.

Then, Pearl pulled him aside. “You sure about this?”

Grian chuckled, but there was no humor to it. “We’re not known as the mycelium resistance for nothing.”

Pearl nodded, but it was clear she still had more to say. He gave her a look, and she sighed. “You are not what they made you. Please remember that.”

Grian smiled softly at that. He loved her, truly. He couldn’t have asked for a better sister than her, who was someone that always knew what to say when words became too hard for everyone else. His hand found hers, and he squeezed it, giving her a reassuring glance before stepping away toward the flowers.

Jimmy, Doc and Etho had finished with the banner, and quickly left the field once they spotted him getting closer. Grian crouched down next to it, making sure they were in safety before gingerly taking his gloves off and placing them in his pocket.

He inhaled sharply, steeling himself — before reaching forward and letting his fingers touch the scarlet petals.

Instantly, scarlet roses paled to lavender; rubies faded into amethyst, poppies into lilacs. Spores floated around it, illuminated by the moonlight as the fungi spread throughout the little flower. It was a shame, seeing something so beautiful swallowed by rot — but hopefully, it wouldn’t be dying for nothing. 

Grian stood up, walking along the roses as his fingers brushed the petals, slowly painting the field a ghostly purple. 

Once he finished, he stepped back, admiring his work.

The roses were no more. All that remained was the mycelium, the fungi, the rot. In its center laid the banner of Bluecrest, abandoned and surrounded by dying, corrupted beauty.

It would make a fine message.

Lingering would do them no good. Grian slipped his gloves back on and gestured silently toward the hatch. Pearl gave him a quick thumbs up, then turned to signal the three on guard. One by one, the resistance began retreating, quick and silent as shadows.

Grian stayed behind, counting each head as they disappeared underground. Seven. Eight. Nine.

Once the last of them was through, he swung a leg over the ledge, pausing for one final glance.

And then he saw them.

A figure stood at the edge of the garden, their face cloaked in shadow — but watching. He couldn’t see their expression, but he felt it: that heavy, burning stare. His whole body tensed, waiting for the shout, the alarm, the crash of boots and steel.

None came.

The stranger simply watched. Not with malice — not even with fear. Just... curiosity.

Then they turned and walked away.

Grian stood frozen for a breath longer, heart still pounding. Then he shook his head, dropping down into the hatch and sealed it shut above him. 

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Dreams were a strange thing.

See, for as long as he could remember, his dreams had followed a pattern. Not one he particularly liked, but a pattern nonetheless. Usually, he was falling through an endless void, followed by faceless screams of people he never knew. Sometimes, on worse nights, he was running down a hallway that never ended — knowing, somehow, he’d be caught no matter how fast he ran.

And then there were the other dreams. The ones that followed him into daylight, curling around his throat like smoke: metal tables, masked figures, gloved hands pinning him down. Needles piercing his skin. Something foreign running cold through his veins.

But what he liked even less than those dreams was when the pattern broke — and unfortunately, tonight was one of those nights.

The minute Grian had stepped into the shack, he’d hung his cloak on the wall and moved to get changed.

Well — changed was generous. Really, he’d just put his day clothes back on, minus his boots and belt. He only owned two sets of clothing, and in the unlikely event a guard burst in while they slept, he’d rather not be caught in the outfit he wore as Mother Spore.

Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen Pearl and Jimmy going through the same routine. A glance at the clock had let him know it was already three in the morning. They were all too exhausted to speak, and Grian was content with the silence, so they kept it.

He’d finished dressing down to his undershirt and trousers, and then practically threw himself into his hammock.

If he’d kept his eyes open, he would’ve seen his siblings settling into the hammocks on either side of him, slotting perfectly into place — right where they belonged. Safe, resting next to him.

But his eyes were already closed, sleep pulling him under.

That was all fine. Completely normal things.

What waited beneath his eyelids was decidedly not.

He’d opened his eyes to a coastline. An endless ocean lapping gently at the shore, seagulls shrieking overhead. Great, smooth rocks lay scattered across the beach, waves occasionally slamming against them.

The weather wasn’t pleasant — cloudy and a bit windy — but it wasn’t storming. That was the first strange thing.

The second was how lucid he felt. His senses were clear, his thoughts sharp. Dreams weren’t usually this present , were they?

Was this what lucid dreaming felt like?

He wasn’t sure. He’d never experienced anything quite like it before.

He approached one of the larger rocks and sat, watching the waves roll gently onto the shore. It was peaceful — eerily so.

His mind wandered back to the night’s mission, and pride swelled in his chest. It had gone better than he’d ever dared hoping. Of course, the resistance had never been caught thus far. They were a sneaky bunch — clever, careful, and deeply committed to the cause — but breaking into the castle grounds like that was a risky endeavour. Twice the amount of guards that usually patrolled the city streets guarded the castle. If they’d gotten caught, they would’ve all been lined up for execution, no doubt about it.

Let’s just say the mycelium resistance wasn’t well liked by the nobles and royals of Bluecrest, and he, as the founder and leader, would probably have to pay the highest price should they ever get caught.

That was fine. It was a risk he was willing to take. When he’d started the resistance, he’d known exactly what he was getting into — but he’d gone through with it anyway. He couldn’t stand seeing another child die alone on the streets. Another family thrown out of their homes due to unfair tax rates. Another stranger being harassed by bored, pitiful guards, and another baby being taken from its mother’s arms by them. 

Pearl and Jimmy had helped him start it all. At first, his... abilities weren’t part of the plan, but after one unfortunate mishap, the papers had dubbed them the Mycelium Resistance — and with it came his title of Mother Spore.

He began to fiddle with the edges of his gloves — as was his habit — only to be met with the feeling of bare skin. 

He froze.

Looking down, his worst fears were confirmed. He was still wearing everything he’d worn when he went to sleep — except for his gloves. 

Had someone taken them off in the real world? Pearl and Jimmy would never do that, he knew that for certain — but then… had a stranger broken in? Were they in danger right now, and he hadn’t woken up? Ice cold fear filled his veins the more he thought about it. 

But if someone had entered their home, he would’ve woken up. He was pretty sure about that. Growing up had made him a light sleeper. There was no reason that would’ve randomly changed.

Still, there was the issue with the gloves. He needed them on. It was one of the few things he was certain about regarding his abilities. If the thing he touched wasn’t alive, it couldn’t be infected. The fungi was a sort of parasite, to his understanding. It needed something to latch onto. Something to feed on. Pearl’s eye was one example, and he really didn’t want to think about that right now. 

Regardless — fabrics didn’t provide that sort of thing, which was why it worked well in keeping the mycelium contained. If his gloves had gone missing—

“Why, hello there!”

A hand clasped his shoulder. Grian yelped, spun, and shoved the stranger away — then froze, hands trembling and breath hitching. 

What had he just done?

Except, the man he was looking at seemed… fine.

Actually — more than fine. Grian blinked, briefly stunned. No mushrooms, no spores spreading from the point of contact. Instead, he was staring at a perfectly healthy — shockingly handsome — young man with bright green eyes and an amused grin barely hiding his surprise. His brown hair was a tousled mess, and he was wearing a nightgown. 

Huh.

Grian frowned. None of this was right. The man had scars, yes, but they were old things. Not a result of anything he had caused.

The stranger put his hands on his hips. “You gonna say anything? I’m pretty sure staring is considered rude.”

Grian — unfortunately — kept staring.

Because… who was this guy? What the hell was going on? 

This was definitely his strangest dream yet.

As if echoing that statement, the stranger squinted at him. “Weird. My dreams aren’t usually this odd.”

That snapped Grian out of it. His heart slowed just enough to let his mouth catch up. “Wait. Dream?”

The man nodded, casual. “Yeah. I’m lucid dreaming. You’re a figment of my subconscious, or something like that.”

Grian raised an eyebrow.

Yeah. Definitely his weirdest dream so far.

The man gave him a look. “What?”

Grian blinked, dragged his gaze away from the guy’s noticeably strong build. “No. I’m the one dreaming. You’re the figment.”

The stranger let out a bark of laughter. “Great. My dream’s arguing with me. That’s new.”

“I’m serious.” Grian stood, brushing sand from his pants. “I’m real.”

“And I’m not?” the man questioned, trailing after him as he walked toward the edge of the beach, where sand met grass. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere,” Grian said vaguely. He crouched and reached out to pluck a few strands of grass.

Still nothing. No spores. No disintegration. Just grass.

He glanced back. “You said you’re not just a dream character?”

“Nope. And you’re not one either?”

Grian looked over his shoulder. The man was still standing there, watching him with open curiosity and a little uncertainty. 

Still pretty. Damn it.

“No,” Grian muttered. “That’s strange. Are we both dreaming? Is that a thing?”

The man shrugged. “Maybe. I think I read about something like that once. Shared dreams. Two people meeting in their sleep.”

Read. Huh. Books were not easy to come by these days.

“Shared dreams? You sure that wasn't a fantasy book?” he teased, despite the evidence apparently being right in front of him. “What else have you read?”

The stranger rubbed the back of his neck. “Not much. Just that it’s a thing people think can happen. You know — connected minds and all that.”

“I don’t,” Grian said, frowning at the grass again. “Look— I’ll give you this. It fits, but I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“What? Why?” The stranger sounded genuinely offended. “What did I do?”

Grian shrugged, twirling the grass strands between his fingers. “You could still be my own subconscious trying to trick me, or something.”

There was silence, but then: “...Is that a recurring issue?”

“No,” Grian admitted. He stepped closer, until he had to tilt his chin up to meet the stranger’s eyes. “But I don’t even know your name. Want to tell me, pretty boy?”

The man blinked, blushed, then laughed — caught completely off-guard. Grian smirked. There were few ways as effective at gaining the upper hand in a conversation than this particular strategy — and if he was just indulging in his own impulsiveness, who was to say?

After a moment, the stranger seemed to regain his composure, smoothing out his expression into something smug. “Scar. I’m Scar. And you?”

Grian crossed his arms. “Why should I tell you? For all I know, you’re a guard trying to gather dirt on me.”

"Why would I do that?" Scar frowned. “I just told you my name, didn’t I?"

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added: "Besides, it’d be a shame to see a face like yours locked behind bars.”

Oh? 

Two can play at this game, it seemed.

Grian snorted. “Alright, smooth-talker.”

He twirled a piece of his own hair between his fingers, drawing out the pause. “You can call me Grian.”

Scar smiled. “Grian... That's a cool name. I don't think I've heard it before.”

“Why thank you,” Grian replied, carefully keeping his gaze on the other man’s face. “Scar isn't all that bad of a name either.”

Scar shrugged, almost bashful. “A bit on the nose.”

Grian shook his head. “Oh, I wasn’t even thinking about that. I mean— they suit you. Looks good. Really good.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks in an instant. Way too honest. Any upper hand he might've had must've been lost right there. Surely. 

But Scar chuckled, his own blush returning. “Ah, well— thanks. You can look if you want. I’m used to it.”

“Nah,” Grian said, recovering smoothly. “I’d rather look at your face.”

That earned him another laugh. It was a nice sound. Scar bumped their shoulders together lightly as they walked.

They found their way back to the rocks without saying much more. Grian sank down onto a flat patch, drawing his knees to his chest. Scar joined him a moment later, sitting close enough that their arms nearly brushed.

They sat in companionable silence, the crashing waves filling the space between them like an exhale.

Then—

“You sleep in your day clothes?”

Grian scowled, turning to face him again. Scar was looking at him, a furrow in his eyebrows. Grian cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Scar shrugged, shooting him an unbothered grin. “I don’t know. I’m wearing the same clothes I wore when I went to sleep, so I assumed you were too.”

Grian raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

It seemed that Scar was waiting for an explanation, here. Grian didn’t really think one was needed, honestly. He knew very few people who could afford more than one set of clothes, much less two. 

(The only reason he did was because he’d stolen them from a particularly irritating shopkeeper. But a nightgown wasn’t as much a necessity as a disguise was.)

But Scar was still waiting, so Grian sighed. “...You’d be correct.”

“Why?”

Grian frowned. “Don’t have many other options.”

Scar watched him for a second, scowling. “Oh.”

Another silence. Longer this time. The waves crashed, again and again. Grian picked at a loose thread on his cuff.

“So,” Scar said eventually, voice light. “If we’re both real, and this is actually happening — I feel like we should, I don’t know, do introductions properly?”

Grian blinked at him. “We already did.”

“Right,” Scar said. “But names aren’t everything . There’s more to a person than just their name. Like… Favorite food? Favorite color? Most irrational fear?”

“That’s a leap,” Grian muttered.

“I’m an efficient conversationalist,” Scar said proudly. 

Grian smiled. “Alright then, ask me a question.”

Scar rubbed his chin, brow furrowed in exaggerated thought. Grian chuckled. Then Scar’s face lit up like the sun. “ Are you a cat or dog person?”

Grian blinked, huffing a laugh. Not what he expected, but he’d take it.

“Cats, definitely. You?”

Somehow, Scar's face lit up even more — green eyes sparkling like gemstones. “Me too! I have three cats. They’re called Jellie, Katy Bee and Mr. Finnegan. They’re just the cutest little things, I wish you could meet them.”

Grian chuckled. “That’s nice. My sister has a dog but I don’t have any pets of my own. I wish I had cats, though.”

Scar hummed. “Dogs are sweet. What’s her dog called?”

“Tilly. She’s a Siberian husky, I believe. My sister found her injured on the streets, took her in and nursed her back to health a couple of years ago.”

Grian wasn’t sure why he was telling Scar any of this. He wasn’t usually this... loose-lipped. Maybe something about knowing this was all taking place in a dream was comforting to him. 

Or he’s just gone mad. He couldn’t be sure.

“That’s sweet of her,” Scar said honestly. Then, he straightened, clasping his hands together. “Okay, your turn.”

Grian nodded. 

What should he even ask? He had too many questions and not enough time. Who knew if this shared dream experience was a one time thing or something that would turn into routine? 

In the end, he ended up asking probably the most boring question of all.

“Your favourite color?”

But Scar just tilted his head, thoughtful, and answered in that same easygoing tone. “Orange! You?”

“Ah, well,” Grian scratched the back of his neck. “Honestly, I don’t think I have one. I enjoy most colors.”

“What?!” Scar exclaimed. “Everyone has a favourite color! Surely there’s one you’d prefer?”

Grian scrunched his nose, grimacing. “I… really don’t think so.”

“Not even by a little bit?”

Grian thought about that. Colors weren’t something he’d given much thought over the years. His life had mostly been painted in shades of stony gray and murky brown. Of course there were colors that stood out more than others, but not enough to be considered a favourite. The only color that really stuck out to him was purple, and that definitely wasn’t it.

He thought once again about the events of tonight. A field of roses in the king’s garden, dying and rotting despite the fact that it could’ve all been prevented.

Grian shrugged. “Red, I guess . ”

“I’ll take it!” Scar beamed. “Red and orange, then. Reminds me of a sunset.”

“It does, yeah.”

They fell into another comfortable silence after that. It was a strange thing, being this comfortable around someone he’d only just met — but it didn’t feel wrong. Rather, the knowledge of having Scar next to him like this felt like a piece of a puzzle slotting into place. A black smudge wiped clean from a white surface. A crumpled fabric finally straightened out.

So when Grian felt the sun warming his eyelids, this dream world fading out in favor of his slow return to the waking world — he almost didn’t want to go.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Chapter Text

“You met someone in your dreams?”

Jimmy had paused mid-bite, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. 

Grian nodded. ”Yes, a real person. I was sharing dreams with someone.”

Pearl raised her eyebrow, filling another bowl with the reheated leftovers that still hung over their campfire, and gently shoving it into his hands. 

“Gri, have you been sleeping alright?”

Grian sighed, begrudgingly accepting the bowl. He knew what it sounded like, but that didn’t make Pearl and Jimmy treating him like he’d gone insane any less annoying. 

He knew he should’ve expected this sort of reaction. He’d reckon that if he was in their position, he’d have come to the same conclusion. The concept of meeting actual, real people in your dreams and having a conversation that way was — quite frankly — ridiculous.

But it had happened, and now the universe had kindly forced him to deal with it.

The thing was, though, that Grian was as stubborn as a mule — Pearl’s words, not his — and on top of that, he had a remarkably poor sense of knowing when a battle really wasn’t worth the fight.

“Yes, I’ve been sleeping fine— Guys, I’m not crazy.”

Leaning back on her hands against the naked floorboards, Pearl looked skeptical, tilting her head down in that disbelieving way she usually would when he’d been caught in a lie. Even Jimmy, who Grian could easily refer to as the most gullible man on the planet, was teetering on the edge of laughter.

Now that certainly wasn’t right.

Grian crossed his arms, huffing. “So you’ll believe in my abilities but not that I’ve been sharing dreams with someone?”

Pearl shot him an odd look, brows furrowed and grimacing. “Those aren’t even remotely similar.”

“Yeah,” Grian scoffed between bites. “But you can’t deny the fallacy in logic.”

“I certainly can.”

“No, Pearl, let’s hear him out,” Jimmy grinned in that shit-eating way Grian hated , and he sighed.

The issue is, he had no idea how to prove them wrong. Unlike his mycelium, he couldn’t show them his dreams. 

Grian stood, moving to the wooden bucket to fill a cup and rinse his bowl outside. When he returned, he met their gaze directly. "Listen, I know I can't prove this," he stated, "but it was a shared dream. If that guy wasn't real, then these are the most vivid, convincing dreams in the entire kingdom."

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest,” Jimmy snickered, before squawking as Pearl slapped him on the arm.

“G,” She said, drawing a sharp breath. “You know we love you, but you have to admit it’s a little hard to believe.”

“That doesn’t make it a lie,” Grian retorted, sitting back down in their little circle on the floor, fiddling petulantly with the edge of his glove.

“Fine,” Pearl sighed. “What’s he like, then? This dream man of yours.”

Grian immediately stopped, heat rushing to his cheeks. He could practically feel her smirk burning into the back of his neck, and he had to truly restrain himself from lunging at her. Playfully, of course.

Now, this was perhaps where he should’ve saved himself the embarrassment and given up…

But once again, he was stubborn, and maybe a little inept.

“His name is Scar, and he was pretty nice, if you’d believe that. His favourite color is orange and he has three cats.”

”Doesn’t at all sound like something your brain would make up,” Jimmy muttered under his breath, smirking. ”Was he pretty nice or just pretty?”

Pearl snorted, and Grian rolled his eyes.

That wasn’t fair in the slightest. He hadn’t even mentioned Scar’s bright, green eyes which Grian swore harbored a whole forest within, or how the man had the prettiest laugh Grian had ever heard, a chime of bells through wind under a shimmering summer sun.

Jeez. 

”Well, I don’t need you to believe me,” he said, standing up and crossing the room again. ”I’m not crazy.”

Pearl straightened. ”Where are you going?”

”Out,” he said, pushing the door open.

”Alright, Gri, we’re sorry,” Jimmy sighed, the air shifting.  ”We were just messing with you. You know that, right?”

”Yeah,” Grian said dismissively, ”I’ll be back soon.”

He pushed the door its final distance, stepped out, and closed it behind him. For a moment, he simply stood there, back flush against the door, exhaling.

It wasn’t their fault. Expecting a different reaction had been a bit stupid on his part, really. Still, the fact they hadn’t taken him seriously stung. More than it had any right to, in his opinion. But it's whatever. He couldn’t prove it, so it was better to just leave it. 

Sighing, he pushed himself off of the door. Almost on autopilot, he let his feet carry him forward, leaving their alleyway behind and reaching the street. There, he turned left, moving further into the city. 

If his siblings wouldn’t believe him, the shared dreams would simply stay a secret between him and Scar. And that was fine, too. He knew that didn’t sound very convincing, but he meant it. It was nice. 

That was, granted, assuming he’d even see Scar again — which there realistically was a rather slim chance of. That was also fine. Surely.

Idly, he wondered who he was outside of their dreams. Maybe Scar wasn’t even from Bluecrest. That’d be rotten luck, but then again, Grian had never held much belief in fortune.

He was dragged out of his musings when he noticed the city square now within his field of vision. Getting closer, he spotted the signature fountain in its center, and the public notice board located to its left. 

The fountain was a grand thing, presumably costing more gold than Grian would ever see in his lifetime. Even so, it had most likely only made a small dent in the King’s finances. 

He wondered how many children could’ve been fed instead. 

Although, this fountain in particular had been built before the crowning of their current King — but the King before him had somehow been even worse, so it didn’t really matter. 

Royals.

He walked up to the notice board, skimming through the papers pinned on the worn planks. These days, there were so many posters on it you could hardly even see the wood behind them. The board displayed the usual things: renovation notices, royal decrees, announcements, missing posters, and ads. But what caught his attention wasn’t any of those. It was one of the wanted posters. Many were around Bluecrest, most promising rewards to anyone who knew anything at all about the resistance and its elusive leader.

That was nothing new, and he wasn't worried about any betrayals anyway. Most citizens were on the side of the resistance, and he had no reason to distrust anyone in his inner circles.

However, what was new were the posters pinned at the notice board's center. Made of old parchment paper, one depicted a rough sketch of a cloaked figure with a mask, swirly text underneath it reading 'Wanted: Mother Spore'. It wasn't a particularly flattering sketch, he thought. The figure's features were sharp and pointy, wearing a vicious grin that made him look like a rather cartoonish villain. 

Grian scoffed. No way anybody genuinely believed that's what he looked like.

There were also posters for the rest of the resistance — though these were only text, simply announcing how any members would be punished should they be discovered.

Safe to say the king didn't seem thrilled over their break-in. Not the reaction Grian had been hoping for, but one he'd come to expect.

Before turning, he noted with a faint chuckle how the rewards had been increased. Never would he have thought the King valued them that much.

Well, he had places to be. He took a stride forward, aiming for one of the streets leading down to the markets — and then fell, crashing into someone and only just managing to grab their shoulder to steady himself.

The woman yelped, straightening herself and frantically brushing off the bustle of her skirt. “Watch where you’re going, you rat!” 

It was a murky green shade, accented with golden detailing. Her friend was dressed similarly, crossing her arms and glaring at him with eyes full of venom.

Grian bit his tongue, giving a curt bow. “My humblest apologies, my lady. I must’ve missed you standing there. I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble.”

She scoffed, waving a silk fan and shaking her head. “Thankfully not. If you had as much as left a single scratch on my face this close to the ball, I would’ve made sure you hung by the gallows at dusk.”

Grian nodded, a smile he was sure didn’t quite reach his eyes stretching across his face. “Let’s rejoice that didn’t happen, then.”

Her friend muttered something unpleasant. Grian ignored her, furrowing his brows and cocking his head to the side. “Say, what is this ball you speak of? Is it anything worth noting?”

She cackled, hand over her mouth, her chest heaving, and her friend not far behind her. “For you? Hardly. The event is only for people worthy of the King’s presence. I’d rather doubt you’d fit into that category, much less be let within a mile of the castle.”

That was stupid. The castle was only a couple of kilometers away, if he was being generous. Hardly a mile.

Her friend nodded, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “I’d bet you can’t even afford a mask.”

Grian paid their comments no mind, a smile still painting his face as he raised an eyebrow. “A mask? If I may inquire, why would a mask be necessary?”

The lady in green smirked. “The King is organizing a masquerade ball, you see. He’s inviting nobles and royals from far and wide.”

Her friend grinned, her scarlet dress making her seem more like a vampire in the early morning light. “And we’re invited, so it is imperative we look presentable for the big night.”

Grian nodded. “I see, I see. Masks are mandatory, then?”

Both of them giggled, exchanging entertained glances. “Of course it’s mandatory; it’s a masquerade!”

He pondered mentioning that a small scratch on their faces would hardly spoil the ball for them in that case — but that wouldn’t be very productive.

 “Pardon me for bothering you with these silly questions — I’m just so curious! I’ve never been to one, you see.” He could feel his smile straining, slightly. “Do you perchance know… why this masquerade is taking place? And when, if you don’t mind?”

Butter could melt on his tongue, tone saccharine sweet and sticky like honey.

The green lady chuckled, a 'We do see' muffled behind her hand, before putting her hands on her hips and raising an eyebrow. “The King is turning 24 about a month from now. I thought you’d be well aware of an important event such as this. As a loyal subject, is it not your duty to know when to celebrate your king?”

“Of course I do. It simply must’ve slipped my mind. I am quite forgetful,” he drawled. “Well, thank you for your time. I do so appreciate this information.”

He pulled the green lady in for a hug, then pulled away and embraced the other. Ignoring their squawking and stunned expressions, he threw them a two-fingered salute before skipping over to the edge of the city square and slipping into an alleyway.

There, he crouched down behind a barrel and began emptying his pockets. He was practically buzzing with adrenaline, and had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down enough to think clearly.

A masquerade ball? Now that piqued his interest.

An opportunity such as this one should not go to waste. He ought to organize a meeting with the resistance as soon as possible, if not immediately. The possibilities with an event like this one were endless, and he could hardly contain his excitement thinking about it.

Grian chuckled deliriously. For all their gold and riches, it was a good thing nobles were so easy to wring information out of. 

He’d have to save his gloating for later, though. For now, he had to focus on getting the hell out of here.

He gathered the gold and put them back in their respective wallets. 36 gold total — not a bad catch. Then, he pushed off the ground and sprinted through the ginnels, taking shortcut after shortcut until he was far enough to slow down. Abruptly, he stopped, eyes darting around for a nearby patch of mycelium.

He found it behind a pile of barrels, a web of ghostly violet against the cobble with dark, black and purple mushrooms sprouting out of it. They hummed, a low vibration that thrummed through him. Grian glanced around, confirming he was alone, before ducking under the ropes. He pulled down his hood, gingerly removed his gloves, and let his fingers sink deep into the threadlike material. The mycelium pulsed under his touch, a living current.

In the early days of the resistance, he'd spread mycelium across the city, its infectious nature ensuring it thrived despite the King’s attempts to fence it off and get rid of it. Grian actually hadn’t done it to annoy him, though there was that. 

He'd done it because he’d discovered its unique bioluminescent quality — one he could control with a rather surprising ease. 

It was a useful ability.

Grian closed his eyes, steadying his breath, focusing solely on the fungi. When he opened them, faint bioluminescent glows flickered from the purple mushrooms – just visible enough for those who knew what to look for. He willed the light, sending a rapid sequence of long and short flashes, a silent message echoing through the hidden network. He repeated the pattern a few more times, just for good measure — then stood, dusted his hands, and slipped his gloves back on. He smiled. That should do it.

There was something oddly freeing about being able to use his abilities in a way that didn’t hurt people. That the part of himself he hated the very most could still be useful, aiding a cause he truly believed in. Something he fought for, even in secret. Something that mattered . 

He still hated them, of course. The mushrooms were more a curse than a blessing — but it was still nice to know that even they had their positives.

Grian peered around a corner, readjusting his hood before quietly slipping back into the streets. The weather was worse now, the air colder and the previous morning sun hidden behind grey clouds. He found himself thankful for his cloak as he walked, remembering past days just like these spent without one. 

He’d called an emergency meeting, yes, but it also wasn’t realistic to assume all the members would be able to drop whatever they were doing and sprint toward their headquarters. Ideally, an emergency meeting would be a more direct endeavour — like a button press, where all members are teleported to the meeting room in an instant. But that’s not the reality of things, and therefore, Grian expected having to wait, making him feel justified to take his time. However, he would still make an effort to be there first.

The mycelium resistance headquarters weren't far. Not exactly close, but well within reach from this side of the city. It was located underground, only accessible through the underground tunnel network. 

As he walked, his mind drifted back to Scar. There were just so many things about that man Grian found intriguing. From what he could remember from the dream, Scar seemed to have been rather well off financially. Access to books and a nightgown were luxuries Grian couldn't even dream of affording. Perhaps he was a noble of some kind. Scar seemed considerate, so it was hard to imagine — though, granted, they had only spoken once. Some nobles did side with the resistance. It wasn’t common, per se, but it wasn’t unheard of. 

He wondered just how wealthy a noble Scar could be. Despite the nightgown and the casual way he spoke of books, his disheveled hair and defined eye bags suggested otherwise.

He was certainly an odd man. Handsome, yes — but odd. Though, meeting anyone in your dreams was inherently strange, so perhaps he shouldn't think too hard about it.

Would Scar be attending the ball? Grian would have to remember to ask next time. 

Assuming there was a next time, he reminded himself. Stars.

Eventually, he stopped by a particularly run-down, abandoned shop. He was back in the slums now, where buildings like these ones were quite the common sight. Grian made sure nobody was watching him before sneaking down the narrow alley beside it. There, he found a bulkhead door, which he knew led to the basement beneath it. He pulled the doors open, and stepped down the stairs after closing them behind him. As he descended, his senses were assaulted with the familiar smell of damp stone and mold. 

The basement had been abandoned as well, and was now just an empty cellar — save for a pile of beer bottles in the corner and a blanket or two on the floor. He’d heard of people living here, but had never actually seen anybody around the area. Grian suspected it was due to the infectious fungi that littered the walls — one that was quite distinctly not his own. Asbestos, if he had to guess. That was why he didn’t stay here.

The reason he was here anyway, though, was because it had a rather convenient entrance to the underground tunnels — one that was quite near their headquarters, too.

He walked further into the room, almost tripping on one of the bottles in the darkness, before reaching the cobblestone wall. There, he began feeling along the wall, the damp air making his gloved hands feel clammy. Eventually, he found the gap in the wall — a long, suspiciously door-shaped line — and pushed. The hidden door opened, revealing the underground tunnels of Bluecrest.

There was another reason this basement wasn’t used as frequently as you might have thought it’d be. An easily accessible entrance to the tunnels like this one would be well known throughout the slums, would it not? The tunnel network was used by many people in Bluecrest, some even living down here full-time.

This was where Grian found another use of his mycelium.

He stepped forward — his feet no longer landing on cold stone, but rather something softer — and closed the door behind him, a faint ‘click’ sealing him into the darkness. 

When he opened his eyes again, the tunnel was glowing a faint purple as the mycelium covering the walls made itself known. It looked horrific. Mushrooms grew from the walls themselves, and threads of mycelium hung from where they grew. Spores dusted the air, and he could feel its pulse all around him.

This was his solution. An easily accessible entrance to the tunnels like this one should have been well-known and constantly trafficked throughout the slums. But people tended to be careful about touching the mycelium, and stumbling upon a tunnel covered in this – these foreign, scary-looking mushrooms whose true properties nobody really knew — was enough to make anyone stay away. It worked perfectly as a form of intimidation, especially since it spread if anyone tried to get rid of it. 

It had been Etho’s idea. A stroke of genius, even if Grian hated it. And it’d worked, since simply touching the mycelium wasn’t dangerous in the slightest — but that was a secret they’d all take to their graves.

As he moved through the tunnels, the bioluminescent glow of the mushrooms painted everything an eerie shade of lavender. It was a long walk, and the constant humming of the mycelium in his veins served to both fuel and disgust him.

It was an unsettling comfort, hating something so viscerally yet feeling so undeniably right whenever it enveloped him.

Odd.

Eventually, he stopped, recognizing the outline of a door nestled into the bricks. This one wasn’t hidden at all, made out of thick wood and sticking out like a sore thumb against the cobble and fungi that swallowed its surroundings. There was no need for it to be hidden anyway. It was located so far down the tunnel they could afford being confident that nobody would find it.

And if they did? 

Well. That was a problem for future Grian to deal with. 

He pushed the door open, the creaking sound softened by the soft mycelium. Inside lay their headquarters. The very room the king had spent so much time and resources trying to locate — all to no avail, of course. 

It was a circular room, large enough to house nine people with a large table in the middle and a corresponding number of chairs around it. A rounded staircase led down from the door, and mycelium hung from the ceiling. The walls were made of cobble, old barrels and shelves lining them as evidence of the room’s past interior that they’d yet to get rid of. The shelves were filled with books, maps and candles. 

Grian stepped down the stairs, grabbing one of the masks resting on a nearby barrel, putting it on and reaching for the box of matches that laid beside them. He went around the room lighting each candle, ending his journey by lighting the final candle in the center of the meeting table. He pulled one of the chairs out, plopping down on it. Sighing, he watched the door, fingers thrumming softly against the table.

All that was left now was to wait. 

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

It didn’t take long for the others to start trickling in. 

Etho showed up first, waving and grabbing his mask swiftly, before settling into his chair. With the new mask, his entire face was obscured. Grian couldn't help but smile at the sight.

After him came Xb and Doc, followed by Jimmy, Pearl and Impulse. All five of them followed the same routine, putting their masks on and sitting down in their respective seats. Jevin and Ren had taken longer, but they’d eventually showed too.

Each chair around the table was now filled — and Grian was practically buzzing.

He stood up, finally, his excitement yet to fade. Clasping his hands together, eight pairs of eyes hidden behind masks fixed on him.

“Okay, guys. Thank you for coming. I know this is sudden, but I have good news,” He paused, just because he could, before continuing. “ Great news, actually.”

Murmurs of excitement filled the room, low whistles and whispers. He caught Pearl and Jimmy’s eager expressions, and felt his grin grow wider. 

Could an insane man gather intel this valuable? 

No shot.

”The king is throwing a party,” he announced. ”And it’s not just any party. It’s a grand one. So grand, in fact, that moneyed elites from all across the world will be flocking to the kingdom.”

He leant in, hands landing on the table. ”It’s a masquerade ball for his birthday.”

And then the room erupted, gasps and excited whispering. Pearl cheered, Ren and Impulse joining her. Etho and Doc high-fived, and Xb patted Grian on the back. Jevin punched his shoulder, and Jimmy almost tackled Grian in the whirlwind of his excitement. 

The opportunity was truly incredible, and they all understood that. The castle hadn’t been open to visitors in a long time, but that was seemingly now a thing of the past. Grian could already taste the dawn of a new era. One where the kingdom’s funds were invested into the slums instead of extravagant fountains and shallow parties.

But this party would come to be the King’s final mistake. He was sure of it.

Jimmy pulled him in for an embrace, and eventually, the room settled down. They all returned to their seats, and Doc straightened. 

"How are we going to do this?"

Ren grinned, canine teeth glinting in the candlelight. "Easy, dude. We go in, and absolutely smash them!" 

Jimmy cheered, pumping his fist, and Ren gave him a high-five. Grian joined the others in their amused laughter, but shook his head all the same. 

They all knew that they needed a plan. A good one. 

Impulse shifted. "How are we supposed to get all nine of us inside the castle without causing a ruckus?"

"We aren’t," Etho said, voice slightly muffled beneath his mask. "That would never work. Better to have some of us stand guard outside in case anything happens."

Xb folded his arms on the table. "How many of us do you think should go in, then?"

Etho hummed. "As few as possible. We're not invited, and though the masks will certainly help, it's not foolproof."

"I'd say only one person should go in," Pearl said suddenly, eight pairs of eyes falling on her in an instant.

Jevin frowned. ”But what if anything goes wrong? They’ll be completely alone."

Pearl crossed her legs, shrugging. "They won’t be. The rest of us will be outside.”

Apprehensive glances were exchanged between the members, and quiet, worried whispers followed.

Noticing, she continued. ”It’s not perfect, but I personally don't see any other way we could do this without causing alarm. Unless you have any better ideas."

”I don’t,” Grian grimaced. ”But we can come back to that. There’s still the issue of getting inside in the first place.”

He began slowly pacing, a thoughtful hum escaping his lips. Getting in was a rather important part of the plan, unfortunately. Previous attempts had taught them how the castle was fiercely protected, guards patrolling every square inch at all hours. The tunnel they’d used the night prior had worked, yes — but someone had seen them leave, making that entrance unsafe and potentially guarded now. 

Technically, they could still make it — but it seemed like an unnecessary risk to take.

”We won't be able to break in, so our best bet is using an invite,” Grian concluded.

"And how will we get one?" Jimmy enquired, leaning in against the table.

Grian once again stopped pacing, a glint in his eye as he looked around at their expectant faces. ”That, my friends, is where the real work begins.” He tapped a finger against the table. ”The invitations are likely still being sent out. If we could get our hands on one, that would be amazing. If you come across one, try to steal it — or at the very least, get a good look at it.” 

He fell silent for a beat, thinking. ”We can't decide who goes in, or the exact how, until we have more intel. Everyone needs to keep their eyes and ears open. Talk to your contacts and use every resource at your disposal. Our next meeting will be when we have enough information to form an actual plan.”

There was silence for a moment as everyone considered that. Grian exhaled, taking a deep breath.

”I think that’s the extent of what we can reasonably decide right now, and I don’t want to keep you here for too long. Does tomorrow night work for everyone?”

Each person around the table nodded, a chorus of determined agreement behind their masks. 

He gave one final nod. "It's decided then. I'll see you all tomorrow."

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Sleep came to him quickly that night.

The rest of the day had passed in a blur of small, boring yet necessary tasks — doing his usual loop of the city, talking to people, and then getting put on water duty the minute he got home. He’d been out and about until the afternoon had turned to evening, and the skies had been bruised with twilight. 

So as darkness finally settled over Bluecrest, pulling him under, Grian found himself strangely eager to see what waited on the other side.

The dreamscape unfolded before him, a breathtaking vista.

And, well…

As the strange feeling of lucid awareness he knew he shouldn’t have settled over him, as well as the disorientation that came with it — he stared in awe at his surroundings, breath catching. 

There was soft, green grass beneath his feet and all kinds of different flowers as far as the eye could see — vibrant shades of white, pink and yellow painting the ground. The meadow was on a mountain, he realized, snowy peaks clear in the cordillera surrounding the area. The sun shone bright in the sky, and the verdure swayed gently in the breeze. 

His gloves were once again missing, but this time he found himself unbothered. Turning around, he spotted what looked to be a blanket in the grass, colored in checkered patterns of white and red. There was nothing keeping it down but even so it remained still and entirely unaffected by the wind. Grian exhaled, making the short walk up the field toward it. Once there, he sat down cross-legged and took in the view.

The scene before him was confirmation, affirmation and justification all at once, and it made something ugly within him settle. A beast slain, a hydra losing its head. It filled him with a new kind of excitement — one entirely separate from masked meetings and the reckoning of elites.

This feeling was warm, bright, and all-encompassing. Not entirely unlike that of a hug. 

As he sat there, Grian thought of the sun.

It didn’t take long before the sound of footsteps filled the air around him, coming from behind. A new weight settled on the blanket, and he looked over to the man now situated beside him.

Scar was wearing the same nightgown from the night prior — navy, silk fabric with golden accents draping elegantly over his shoulders in a robe-like shape. It looked a little ridiculous, but he still managed to pull it off. It served well as a reminder of the true nature of this reality they’d once again found themselves in.

Grian exhaled solemnly, fingers grazing the wildflowers surrounding them. “Not even gonna greet me? You’ve changed.”

Scar raised an eyebrow, turning to face him. “Okay, first off Mister — We’ve spoken once.” Then, he smiled “And you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Grian scoffed. A ridiculous notion, truly.

“Alright,” He conceded. Lifting his knees to his chest, he huffed. “Still not wearing any clothes, I see.”

Scar squawked. “These are clothes! They’re just… not made for the mountains!”

“Uh-huh,” Grian deadpanned. He dragged the rest of his attention away from the flowers. It went disorientingly easy. 

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. It was as if the world itself stuttered slightly — which very well could be possible considering they were dreaming right now. Grian turned his gaze to the summits, then, cheeks burning slightly.

The boldness was gone.

“So, what have you been up to?” Scar queried. Grian couldn’t see his face, but he sounded unaffected. 

Unfair.

Grian chuckled. “What’s it to ya?”

There was a hum, and then: “Just curious.”

“Okay, well. I won’t go into detail, but—”

“Oooh, secretive. Are you some sort of spy?”

Grian stopped, brows furrowed as he whirled around to gawk at the man next to him. “No?”

Not the entire truth, per se — but he wasn't going to start spilling all of his secrets to a guy he’s only ever spoken to twice.

“I’ve just been up to some… business, you could say.” Grian sighed, reaching for the edge of a glove that wasn’t there.

Scar’s eyebrows raised, still wearing that bright, inviting grin. “What kind of business?”

And Grian folded.

Well. Only a little bit, to his credit.

“Uh—” He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, grimacing. “Slightly… illegal business?”

A snort, and Scar was laughing. “Illegal?”

“Yeah,” Grian admitted. “I mean— Just stealing, occasionally. Nothing crazy.”

“It is a bit crazy,” Scar teased, snickering. He then took a deep breath, calming his tittering. “You’re a thief, then?”

Putting a name to it made Grian feel slightly embarrassed, all of a sudden. He never had been when discussing it before, so it felt a bit strange. Stealing wasn’t anything earth shattering. Completely normal, actually.

Though — he supposed Scar wouldn’t know anything about that sort of stuff, if his suspicions were proven correct.

”You could say that,” Grian said, smiling bitterly. “However, I prefer to say I’m simply borrowing things they don’t need.”

Scar huffed, a faint smile on his lips. He was picking on the edge of his sleeve, gaze locked on the pasture below. There were animals there, Grian noticed. Fluffy, four-legged things, a cream-like shade to their fur. Could be a herd of sheep. Maybe llamas.

Grian continued. ”It’s not because I want to do it, by the way. It’s a necessity. I don’t think we’d have made it this far if I hadn’t.” He paused, scoffing, before picking back up, gesturing wildly with his hands in a fervour he wouldn’t usually display. ”It’s the King’s fault, really. If the funds went to the right things, people wouldn’t need to live on the streets and resort to stealing to get through the day. But no. Instead, the gold goes in his own pocket, and then we get a new fancy landmark once a year while the economy crumbles.”

Scar was silent again, which prompted Grian to look over at him again. The man was completely still, seemingly tense now. His body was stiff and he had his jaw clenched. It made Grian wince. He’d been told in the past that he should get better at controlling his emotions. It was now apparent to him why.

Grimacing, he shot Scar an apologetic smile. ”Sorry. Didn’t mean to start ranting like that.”

Like a button press, the thread snapped and all the glee from before returned to the other’s body. Scar was all smiles now, as he chuckled, raising an eyebrow. ”You just committed treason right there.”

The contrast gave Grian slight whiplash, but he shook it off as Scar trying to mend the awkwardness, and scoffed. ”Yeah? I’ll add that to my list, then.”

Aas a curious yet entertained smile graced his lips, Scar let his head fall to rest on his knuckles. ”You’re not worried I’m gonna tell on you?”

”Well,” Grian drawled. ”You said it yourself — a face like mine doesn’t belong behind bars.”

Scar laughed again, and Grian joined him, all the while dark eyes traced the way sunlight fell on the other man’s face. He had two scars there — one smaller line on the left side of his jaw, and one large mark that covered a little over half of the right side of his face, spanning from the center of his forehead, down, down, divoting slightly inwards, and back out over the bridge of his nose, before moving in again and stopping right at the point where his cheek began. 

Grian pondered minutely over what could’ve caused marks like these. They spoke of an awfully violent past, so unlike what Grian would’ve expected from a man who spoke of luxuries so casually, and who was dressed in sleepwear so intricately detailed. Burns, maybe? Perhaps it was the result of a childhood accident? The scars did look old, though that may just be wishful thinking. He hoped it wasn’t anything recent, but Grian wasn’t a doctor.

It wasn’t just his face, either. From the bits of tanned skin he could see, there were scars  everywhere, littered over Scar’s arms, neck, and ankles, forming detailed patterns on his complexion. Each mark was a memory, he knew, carrying a story behind it. Grian was thoroughly mesmerized.

Suddenly, he found himself fighting an unexpected urge to reach out and trace the lines with his fingertips. Obviously, he knew there was something different about this man — if the way his heart was speeding was anything to go by — but the thought entering his brain violently knocked him off-balance. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. The possibility of touching another person without his gloves was tempting, admittedly. 

But no, the issue wasn’t that. In reality, it could be found in how unfamiliar it was to him. Thoughts like that didn’t belong in the mind of a hardened criminal leading a resistance movement against a tyrannical king, who simultaneously possessed the ability of ending lives by his touch alone — and physicality is so very different from the simple art of speech.

Realizing he’d been staring, Grian shifted, letting out a faint sigh as he quickly fixed his gaze elsewhere. As if waiting for the perfect moment, the breeze sped up, tousling his hair and making a mess out of it. Blonde strands landed in his face, obscuring his vision, and Grian huffed in annoyance, reaching up to push it away.

But Scar got there first, tucking the strand behind his ear. 

They both froze, the atmosphere shifting in an instant. The warmth of his fingers lingered against Grian's ear, a ghosting heat that sent a shiver down his spine. Just as quickly as it had gotten there, Scar's hand pulled back, his eyes averting and his confident smile replaced by a soft, uncertain bashfulness. Grian could feel his own face burning again, a rush of heat that had nothing and everything to do with the sun. 

Finally diverting his own gaze, he found them fixing on the flowers by his knees again. His fingers, still tingling slightly and desperate for a distraction, began to gather some of them, stems and petals clutched tight in his grip. He laid them down in front of him on the checkered fabric, before picking two of them up — an oxeye daisy and a dandelion. He crossed their stems, and folded the dandelion’s stem under the daisy, and then looped it back around over itself. He picked up a new flower — a white pasque flower— and repeated the process.

Making these was one of those things he couldn’t remember learning, but still knew how to do. It’d been a long time since he’d last done it, but he remembered it being a calming activity. Unfortunately, flowers don’t grow in the streets, meaning he had to take advantage of the dreamscape while he was in it.

“What are you making?” 

Scar’s voice came over his shoulder, breath hot against his ear. He seemed to have come down now from the earlier embarrassment, and Grian smiled, weaving a sunflower into the braid of stems. He held it out, turning it around and inspecting his work. “Flower crown,” he said. Satisfied, he resumed his work. “I could teach you if you want.”

As he looked over his shoulder, he was met with a wide-eyed, beaming expression, followed by an eager nod. Grian snickered, putting the half-finished wreath down. He cracked his knuckles, stretching, before turning to face Scar properly. 

“Alright, first you’ll need to pick what flowers you want.”

Scar looked around, his excitement visible in his movements. He reached out, picking various different flowers and setting them down on the blanket, just as Grian had done moments earlier. They mainly went in shades of purple, brown and red. It looked a bit morbid, but maybe Scar was into those kinds of aesthetics. He didn’t seem the type, but Grian wasn’t one to judge.

Grian picked two of them up, angling himself so Scar could easily see his movements. “You’ll want to take two of the flowers and cross them like this.” Scar mirrored his motion. “And then you fold the top stem under the— yeah, just like that. And now loop it back around over the top.”

He watched as Scar followed his instructions without struggle, feeling weirdly proud of his friend for succeeding at something that really was quite simple. 

Grian continued. “Now you take another flower, place it over both of the stems and repeat the same pattern. And then you just do that over and over again until you’ve got a braid large enough for a flower crown.”

Scar nodded, following the instructions. Then, he picked up another flower and repeated the process, glancing at Grian with slight hesitancy — who quickly nodded, approving.

He’s never been the greatest teacher, but it seemed like Scar understood. At least well enough. As Grian picked his own flower crown back up, he could see Scar working away, braiding stems with intense focus. The sight made something within him soften, and for a while, the both of them just sat there, wind still gently blowing through the meadow and sunlight streaming down on their faces over the mountaintops.

Suddenly, Grian straightened, mortified, looking over at the man beside him as he peacefully weaved another stem into the wreath. “I just realized I completely forgot to ask what you’ve been doing!”

Scar turned his gaze toward him again, brows furrowed in confusion. “What I’ve been doing? What do you mean?”

“In real life,” Grian clarified. “Outside of the dreams.”

Scar nodded slowly, looking back down at his handiwork, only barely succeeding in hiding his apprehensive expression. He was silent for a tick. Two. Then three — and then he shrugged. 

“Not much.”

Grian raised an eyebrow, setting his chaplet down to cross his arms. “Not much? I just committed treason in front of you and that’s all you’re gonna give me?”

Scar shrugged again, shaking his head apologetically. “I don’t have much to tell you, honestly. I wish I did, but I haven’t been doing anything particularly interesting as of late.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous” Grian nudged, leaning in slightly, a soft smile touching his lips. “I'm interested, no matter how mundane you think it might be.”

Scar grimaced, looking everywhere but Grian — who proceeded to lean in further. Then came a sigh, his expression still unsure but effectively relenting. “I played with my cats?”

Grian gasped, punching him lightly on the shoulder before leaning back. “You dare call that uninteresting?! I’d kill to have a cat of my own! What are they like? Jellie, Katy Bee and Mr. Finnegan, right?”

That got a laugh out of him, and Grian watched as the scar tissue on his face stretched with the expression. Scar picked his flower crown back up as he spoke. “Yeah, you’re correct. They’re sweet. Absolute menaces and slightly bossy at times, but I can’t stay mad at them for too long.”

“I can imagine,” Grian chuckled, tying the flower braid together into a finished crown. “And… there we go!” 

Scar clapped enthusiastically as Grian proudly held the flower crown in the air like a trophy. He shifted onto his knees, straightening and moving to gently place the crown in the brown curls of Scar’s head. It was a delicate weave of daisies, dandelions, pasque flowers and buttercups, whose various shades of white and yellow painted the picture of something angelic, or the sun and stars resting among pure, fluffy clouds

Scar sputtered slightly, a raw disbelief tangible in his voice as he managed, "...You made it for me?"

Grian simply shrugged, smirking, leaning back on his hands and closing his eyes, letting the sun warm his eyelids. That was for him to know and for Scar to find out, as one would say. He took a deep breath, enjoying the calm moment. Serenity like this was a rarity, and he had every intention to indulge in it whenever possible.

Moments passed, and he lost track of how long they’d been sitting there. The sun was unmoving in this reality, remaining fixed in the center of the sky, making the passage of time hard to note to begin with. He'd open his eyes on occasion, but for the most part, Grian simply settled back, somewhere between sitting and lying down, letting the quiet moments stretch as Scar worked on his flower crown.

Eventually, Grian heard the faint cheer of success and he sat up fully, peeling his eyes open.

Scar’s flower crown was made of lilacs, moss campions, poppies and small, red and brown bell-shaped flowers Grian didn’t know the name of. It was a stark contrast to the pure white of the one on his head, yet so undeniably beautiful Grian let out a small gasp. 

For a first attempt, he could concede it wasn’t too shabby.

Scar smiled smugly, lifting it up from the blanket. “You like it?”

“Yeah,” Grian answered earnestly, sitting back up, knees moving to his chest. “It’s good. Brilliant.”

He meant it, too. It was gorgeous — and Grian couldn't help but feel a little selfishly proud for showing Scar how to craft such a thing.

Then Scar turned, his green eyes locking onto Grian's, and Grian felt his breath hitch again. For some reason, the action surprised him — even though he’d just given his to  Scar, who reasonably couldn’t wear two flower crowns. So it made sense, he supposed, as Scar gently placed the flower crown in his sandy curls.

A charmer, he was. It was entirely unfair.

“As a thanks,” the man said, smirking as he had the audacity to wink — and oh, if that didn’t make Grian’s poor heart skip a beat. 

Thankfully, he still managed to nod diffidently, making an attempt at a laugh as he stammered out a thanks.

Then, Scar groaned, a low, contented sound, as he melted onto his back, eyes closing. The white and yellow flower crown slid precariously down his brow, and instinctively, Grian's hand went out, gently nudging it back into place.  Scar stirred faintly, a contented hum rumbling in his chest, but offered no other reaction. This time, the unspoken gesture hung in the air not with tension, but with a surprising, easy comfort. Grian was eternally thankful for it, letting his gaze settle on Scar's peaceful face as the sun dappled through his lashes.

“I think I could stay here forever,” Scar mused, exhaling. 

Once again, Grian found himself watching the gentle rise and fall of Scar's chest, finding an unexpected comfort in its rhythm. “Same,” Grian breathed, the word a soft echo in the tranquil air.

Birds chirped lazily over the alpine meadow, and the sun, bright as ever, warmed Grian's face. He hummed, watching the flowers sway.

"It's weird," Grian said, the confession surprising even himself. “I feel like I've known you for ages. Everything about this... it just feels so right. You know what I mean?” 

He didn't regret the sudden honesty. How could he, when it felt so profoundly true with Scar? Perhaps it was just the dream, he mused, but a deeper part of him believed it was something else.

Scar remained silent for a long moment, his expression thoughtful, as if carefully collecting scattered thoughts. 

"I do," he eventually settled on, his voice soft.

And with nothing more to say, Grian also laid down, letting the placid calmness of their dreamscape wash over him. They lay there for minutes, perhaps hours, lost to the quiet comfort of each other's presence. It didn't really matter.

Morning, as always, came far too soon.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Chapter Text

There were papers scattered all over the table, a mess of maps, posters, notes and parchment papers obscuring the dark wood. The strong smell of ale in wooden mugs had long since been forgotten by the people in the room, and the soft scrape of coal against paper grated their ears. 

Grian’s head hit the table, nearly spilling out what was left of his own drink with the force. Impulse caught it just in time, saving their hours of work from spilling. The coal stick Grian had been holding rolled out of his hand, and he groaned loudly. 

Pearl snickered, and her hand landed on his shoulder. ”I think we should call it for now. What do you say, Mother Spore?”

Grian grimaced, dramatically raising his head and letting his forehead rest in his palms instead. ”We can’t give up yet . Who knows how far we might get if we keep going?” 

He stared up at the ceiling, searching the hanging mycelium for any hidden answers. 

There were none.

”I hate to say it — but she’s right, my dude,” Ren sighed, pushing his chair out. He stood, reaching forward to begin cleaning their mess up, gathering the various papers into organized stacks. Impulse got up as well, moving to help him.

Only the five of them were left now. The rest had left hours ago, all for various reasons. And that was fine, by the way. Grian wasn’t in the business of keeping his members chained to the meeting table, and this one had gone on for longer than usual.

But he refused to leave. 

This, he articulates.

”We’re just so close. I swear I can almost taste it! There’s just a… couple of kinks we need to figure out, and then we’ll have it all set!”

Jimmy grimaced, glancing over at Pearl. ”We don’t even know what the king looks like…”

Pearl nodded, shooting Grian a pointed look. He sighed, dropping his head back into his palms. 

It was the understatement of the century. Not only did they not know what the king looked like — they didn’t know what he’d be wearing, what he’d be doing or where he’d be throughout the night. Not how many people would be with him, or even how to get close to him. They still didn’t have an invite, and basically — this all meant they were completely and utterly stuck.

Grian, admittedly, didn’t know what exactly they were so close to figuring out. There was just something within his brain that screamed at him to stay a bit longer. To do a little more planning, a little more staring at the maps and papers and hope to the stars that the questions would solve themselves. 

Even though he knew that — realistically speaking — that would never happen.

Yet, to leave felt like making a colossal mistake. Because, if he stayed, who knows what could happen? What if he, in an alternate universe, stayed and managed to work it all out? He’s here now, isn’t he? No time like the present, or whatever.

Not to mention he’d gotten so caught up in making stupid flower crowns and fawning over a man he’d only ever met in his dreams that asking about the masquerade had completely slipped his mind. He’d forgotten to ask Scar — the one person who might be able to provide him with all the information they needed. 

Stars , he was stupid. And incredibly frustrated. And tired. 

All in all — it certainly made planning much harder than it had to be.

Pearl cupped his face, suddenly, rather forcefully turning his head up and making him look at her. Grian felt his cheeks squishing under her palms, making him look somewhat like a glorified pufferfish. And then — as if the universe herself was purposely adding insult to injury — he was (not for the first time) reminded of how ridiculously tall his sister was. The fact that she was standing and he was sitting didn’t exactly help the situation, either. 

But then, he caught her stern look and swallowed.

”Shut up and listen to me, you workaholic. This isn’t just about you. We all need a break, so I propose we wrap this up and we can all go out and do something fun instead. Grab a drink or something. This is just making us all go crazy and I won’t stand for it.”

Grian sputtered and pushed her hands away, frowning. ”A drink? Don’t you think it’s a bit too late for that?”

She scoffed. ”We’ve already been drinking, and it’s not that late. Besides, The Fairy Fort is still open.”

Ren, currently placing the maps back in its usual hiding spot behind a loose brick in the wall, straightened with a gleeful look in his eyes. ”Dudes, that’s a great idea! BigB has been asking about you.”

Grian winced. He’d been meaning to visit sooner, but simply hadn’t found the time. The past couple of days had been hectic, so to speak. He’d made his guilt over it abundantly clear to everyone in the room a number of times, which meant he couldn’t help but shoot the both of them a pointed glare. 

Thinking he didn’t know what they were doing. Stars…

Even so, he folded instantly.

”Fine, whatever.” Grian huffed, finally joining the others by pushing his chair out and standing up, gloved hands still flat on the table. ”But we are coming back to this tomorrow. We can’t afford to mess this up.”

Jimmy nodded, standing up as well. ”We won’t, but we also won’t let you drive yourself mad over it.” 

”Exactly. You worry far too much,” Pearl teased softly, subtly rubbing circles into his back. “Now let’s all help clean up.”

Grian sighed. Obviously, he didn’t want to be overbearing — but he also couldn’t stop the anxiety clawing at the edges of his mind.

As scary as the thought was, they had hardly gotten anywhere. This was the first time the castle was open to visitors in at least twenty years. There was a huge risk that all of their valuable information would turn out to be outdated and useless — and wasn’t that a terrifying prospect? That all of these years of waiting and small, miniscule acts of rebellion could all amount to one big, embarrassing failure where they are forced to retreat like cowards? And then there was the risk of being discovered, caught, or even killed —

Jeez, maybe he did need a break.

Grian extinguished the last candle, stuffing his mask into his pocket for safe-keeping, and then walked up the winding stone staircase to the four silhouettes waiting in the doorway. After quickly deciding on a meeting spot in the ghostly violet glow of mycelium and fungi, they all drew their hoods over their faces and went their separate ways.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

The Fairy Fort was practically buzzing. Laughter and loud chatter filled the air, nearly drowning out the faint strumming of a lute in the background. The bell above the door jingled their arrival, and Ren led the way into the packed room, calling out greetings to various people Grian had no relation to as they navigated through the crowd. 

When they finally found a small clearing, Pearl and Impulse offered to snag a table, leaving Jimmy, Grian, and Ren to handle the drinks. The two disappeared into the throng of tables, while the remaining three pushed their way toward the bar — a circular structure in the center of the room, decorated with vines, mushrooms and hanging lanterns.

Behind the serving counter, Grian spotted the familiar whirlwind of pink hair he’d been looking forward to seeing again, hard at work making drinks and taking orders. Ren pushed forward, resting his arms on the counter as a mug of beer was passed to the customer beside them.

“Hey, Lizzie! I brought guests!” He called, leaning over the counter.

She stopped her movements, her face brightening as she spotted the group. Almost instantly, she crossed the space and appeared in front of them. 

“Ren, what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t working today!” She exclaimed, shooting Grian and Jimmy a quick smile. 

“I’m not,” Ren agreed, grinning. “I’m just here for my own enjoyment, and it seems like you’ve got things covered.”

“Of course I do,” Lizzie let out an amused huff, though there was genuine curiosity underneath her smile. “Any specific reason?

”Let’s just say we needed a break,” Jimmy snickered, lightly punching Grian in the arm, who sighed, making a face. 

They were really going at him today. Nothing he couldn’t fix, though.

“Oh, come off it, Tim,” he groaned, rolling his eyes.

Tim — or Timmy, as Martyn (a childhood friend of theirs) would usually say — was Jimmy’s nickname. One of those inside jokes they'd been using for so long that none of them actually remembered how it started. 

Grian smirked and, just because he could, punched Jimmy in the arm a little harder than the punch he’d received had been.

To his delight, his brother’s shit-eating grin fell into a look of mock offense as he reached up to dramatically clutch his arm, which led to Grian laughing right in his face. 

Sweet, sweet victory.

“I see,” Lizzie giggled, drawing him back to the conversation. “Well, hopefully you’ll be able to loosen up a little. I know how you get sometimes.”

His laughter ended as abruptly as it had started, and Grian scowled, mock-offense now painting his face. Even so, he smiled.

The thing was that Lizzie did know. She’d known him and his siblings for years now, and she’d always been a good friend to the three of them. Although she’d always struck him as a bit of an anomaly, with her pointed ears and the way her eyes sometimes glowed in dim light. Those things stuck with him most.

But, well.

He wasn’t exactly in a position to judge.

“Alright. What can I get for you?” She asked, finally, resting her chin on her knuckles with a smirk.

Ren easily rattled off Pearl and Impulse's orders, and then his own. Grian asked for another glass of ale, while Jimmy, ever the cautious one, ordered an apple cider, muttering something about not wanting to get too drunk. Once their drinks were called in, they settled onto the stools at the bar, chatting with Lizzie as she prepared their order.

Grian watched as she moved with an easy grace, twirling around the counter, mixing drinks and humming a soft tune to herself. Her hands were a whirlwind of motion, mugs clattering softly, bottles tilting just so, yet nothing ever seemed out of place or rushed. It was like watching a perfectly choreographed routine, smooth and utterly impressive, and something definitely worth admiration. She made the chaotic rush of the bar look effortless. Magical, even. 

It actually reminded him of a fairy, although he’d never seen one. Fairies danced, didn't they? He was pretty sure they did.

“So,” she mused, cutting off her own singing. “What have you three been up to?”

Grian gave her a sheepish yet honest smile. “We’ve had our hands full, to be quite honest. Glad to be here now though.”

Lizzie hummed, understanding, as she grabbed a mug from one of the cabinets. The mugs, made of ceramic and impressively crafted by her own hands, were painted a soft pink with green detailing along the edges. A white silhouette of a small mushroom decorated their sides. Very Lizzie.

She sighed. “Well, you really should stop by at least once in a while.” Then, she leaned in, lowering her voice: "You see, I might’ve heard something the other day that I think you guys could find useful.”

Grian immediately straightened, and he, Ren and Jimmy quickly leaned in. She cast a glance over their shoulders and her own before continuing.

“There's a rumor buzzing. I heard it from a few of my regulars currently working at the castle. Apparently, the King is hosting this ball to find a partner. His advisors are seemingly putting a lot of pressure on him to secure the line of succession."

Grian leaned back, considering. That would explain the castle being open again after such a long time, as well as those noble ladies' dramatic reactions at the idea of an insignificant scrape. 

After all, who wouldn’t want to marry a King?

Well. He supposed he didn’t. Grian wanted the complete opposite, actually.

Part of him felt almost bad at the revelation that the King was being forced to find a fiancé, and that… That was strange. Thus, he chose not to dwell on it. Nothing good ever comes from being sympathetic for your enemies.

Regardless, this was huge . Lizzie had not only revealed what the King would be doing throughout the night — but she’d also revealed a potential path for the resistance to get close to him. 

Oh, she had no idea the true weight of what her casual insights lifted from his shoulders. He made a mental note of making sure to thank her properly one day.

"Thank you so much," he beamed, keeping his voice down. "That's great to know."

Jimmy and Ren nodded, exchanging excited glances, relief softening their faces. Lizzie shot them a smug grin, a silent acknowledgment, before turning back to her work, already moving on to the next order.

Grian sighed, resting his chin in his palm as he surveyed his surroundings. The Fairy Fort consisted of a single room, made of wooden floors and wooden walls. It was decently sized, with the bar in the center and a staircase in the far left corner leading to a private upstairs area. Barrels lined the walls, lanterns hung from the ceiling, and a fireplace cast the room in a soft orange glow.

Long tables filled the space, and on a small stage to the left, a bard performed. He wore a cerulean jacket with puffed shoulders and gold trim, red-and-gold striped breeches, white stockings, and red shoes. A lute rested in his hands, and a feathered burgundy beret sat atop his blond hair. A frankly ridiculous costume, if you asked Grian — but granted, he’s never been much for fashion.

The room wasn’t relaxing by any means, but it was cozy. Lizzie had done an excellent job with the atmosphere. Despite the strong smell of alcohol in the air, it felt almost homely.

Grian dragged his gaze back to the two men next to him, both deep in a conversation about sheep, of all things. He let the sound of their conversation wash over him, as he stared up at the ceiling, waiting for their drinks.

And then he was forcibly dragged out of his musings when a hand landed on his shoulder. 

He spun, hand hovering over the knife tucked into his belt, muscles coiling instantly. His gaze snapped up, ready for a threat, only to be met with—

”Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

Instantly, Grian let his hand drop, all the tension leaving him just as quickly as it had appeared. Joel — another longtime friend — was smiling down at them, the green streak in his hair bright as ever under the tavern’s warm, low lighting.

Jimmy cut off mid sentence and turned fast, eyes wide, a grin already spreading across his face as he jumped up to give Joel a strong hug.

 “Joel, you madman!” he laughed, pulling back. “What are you doing here, mate?”

Joel grinned, teeth flashing. “Bakery’s closed, thought I’d pop in. It’s nice to see you.”

Joel had always had a soft spot for Jimmy — not that he’d ever admit it, but even so it was clear as day. From the very start, actually, back when Joel gave them a free loaf of bread instead of reporting them for the worst attempt at thievery the bakery had ever seen. 

Stealing wasn’t Jimmy’s thing, you could say. Of course, Grian hadn’t contributed to the failure in the slightest.

The three of them had been close since that day, anyway.

“It’s good to see you too, dude,” Ren said with a smile. Grian echoed the sentiment, nodding his agreement.

Jimmy clapped Joel on the shoulder. “You’ll join us, right? We’re waiting on our drinks. Pearl and Impulse went to grab a table.”

“I suppose I could,” Joel said with an exaggerated sigh, sinking into the nearest stool.

Lizzie, focused on mixing drinks, paused to slide their orders across the counter. Ren, Jimmy, and Grian each muttered quick thanks and dropped gold into her palm. Ren grabbed his own and Impulse’s drinks, leaving the two brothers alone with Joel.

And— 

Well. To be frank, that was when things got weird .

Lizzie turned toward Joel with a bright smile, reappearing from beneath the counter. “Oh, Joel! Nice to see you again! Your usual, I suppose?”

Now —  that wasn’t the weird part. 

See, Grian had always known Joel as confident, and maybe even a little cocky at times — but never the slightest bit flustered in social settings. Cool as ice, with an easy charm that drew people in. 

So. When Joel’s reply stumbled out, awkward and hesitant?  

Suffice to say it caught Grian’s attention.

“Uh— ah…” Joel’s usual grin faded into something almost embarrassed. “Yes please, thank you.”

Lizzie nodded, smiling, and turned to get started — but Grian couldn’t tear his eyes away. In the dim candlelight, he noticed the faintest flush coloring Joel’s ears and cheeks, a subtle tightness around his eyes like he’d just run a race. Either he’d suddenly contracted an intense fever, or some other sickness, or—

Stars .

“Joel!” he hissed once Lizzie was out of earshot, leaning in to grab his friend by the shoulder and give it an enthusiastic shake.

Joel blinked, startled, looking up with wide, confused eyes. “What?”

“You like her!” Grian whispered, voice low but full of certainty. “There’s no way— You like her!”

Joel was about to shake his head, adamantly spew out some poor excuse for his behaviour that would only somewhat convince him — but then Jimmy spun around, eyes wide. 

“You do!?”

Joel slammed a hand over his mouth, mortified. “Shut up— Blummin’ heck! You don’t need to shout, mate!”

Thankfully, Lizzie seemed to remain unhearing of the conversation. Joel cast a wary glance her way before slowly removing his hand.

“So you admit it?” Grian smirked, raising an eyebrow. “You like her.”

Joel opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again — and then he crossed his arms, pinning his gaze to the ceiling, before eventually concluding: “I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

Jimmy’s eyes crinkled, and he leaned in slightly, whispering. “Are you kidding? It is all of our business!”

“Exactly,” Grian nodded, expression morphing into a mockery of something serious. “She even asked you if you wanted your usual . Have you been coming here every night, or something?”

Joel’s brain seemed to stutter again, as if he’d been caught red handed doing something he wasn’t meant to — which Grian supposed he, in a sense, had been. Then, Joel seemed to settle on not saying anything at all. 

Grian snorted. 

Jimmy bumped Joel’s elbow. “Come on, mate. Go talk to her! She’s never gonna know if you don’t give it a shot.”

Joel gave up, then, slumping in his seat and shooting them uncertain glances, voice low. “What would I even say?”

“You could introduce yourself?” Jimmy suggested.

Joel huffed. “Obviously I’ve already done that, Jimmy. She literally greeted me when I came in, you knobhead. Stars…”

Grian cackled, throwing his head back. Then, he straightened, barely catching his breath. “You could ask her out? That’s typically a successful course of action.”

Joel groaned, petulantly throwing his head in his hands. It was a move so unlike him that Grian couldn't help but continue his snickering, Jimmy quick to join.

"Jeez, this feels like a group of teenagers trying to figure out how to speak to a girl for the first time," Joel muttered, voice muffled beneath his hands. "I can't believe this."

Grian clapped him on the back. "That's almost exactly what's happening though, isn't it?" He sighed fondly. "You'll do fine, mate. Just don't overthink it. Lizzie's great."

Jimmy nodded, his smile encouraging. "Yeah! You're awesome too! I'm sure she'll say yes."

Joel glanced up miserably from underneath his dark brown hair. "You’re sure?"

"Positive," Grian quickly assured. "Come on, dude."

Joel straightened, making a contemplative face. His gaze flickered between his two friends and Lizzie, who stood with her back to them, animatedly speaking with a customer on the other side of the bar.

"The worst she could say is no," Jimmy offered.

Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to help much, seeing as Joel’s expression somehow turned even more abashed. 

The universe, apparently, found that hilarious. 

Lizzie's conversation on the other side of the bar ended right as he spoke, and she turned, moving back towards their section. Grian met Jimmy's eyes. Their silent conversation ended in a swift, synchronized movement as they stood, grabbed their own drinks, and almost didn’t forget Pearl's, thank you very much.

"Looks like Impulse is calling!" Grian blurted, keeping his voice light despite the urgency. "Must be wanting his drink – you know him. Always such great timing!" He tugged Jimmy along, who managed to shout, "We'll be over here if you need us! See you later, Joel!" before being pulled away.

Grian barely held back his laugh as he caught the near-murderous look in his friend's eyes. However, it dissipated the minute Lizzie reached Joel, engulfing him in conversation. Grian continued watching as the earlier nervousness, only truly noticeable if you knew Joel, made its grand return. All the fight directed at his friends visibly left his body.

It was sweet, so he didn't feel too bad. That look in his eyes was something Grian had never really seen before, and if his friend needed a little push – or maybe more accurately, a violent shove – to make something of it, Grian certainly couldn't be faulted for it. It was his and Jimmy's duty as his friends.

Turning away from the situation, he crossed his fingers, silently hoping Lizzie would give Joel a chance.

As the two brothers walked through the maze of tables and drunk patrons, Grian’s mind predictably fell back into the familiar tune of green eyes, scarred skin, flower petals and snowy peaks. It came the way he’d come to expect it by now: quietly, persistently, and yet oh so beautifully.

Fleeting thoughts came right behind it — slightly bitter and envious, fraught and confined.

Not the time, he concluded.

They reached the table their friends were waiting at, tucked into the far corner of the tavern where Pearl, Ren, and Impulse were gathered, mugs wobbling slightly on the uneven surface. Ren was deep in a conversation with Impulse, both having claimed two of the chairs. Pearl had taken the third, leaning back with her boots propped up on the table and dangerously close to knocking over the flickering candlelight trapped inside a lantern. 

She didn’t seem to care, though, staring up at the ceiling with a bored look. Still, her face lit up the moment she heard them approaching. 

“Finally! What took you two so long?”

Grian set her drink and his own down on the table, taking a seat and offering her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, we ran into Joel.”

She scoffed, shaking her head fondly as she planted her feet back on the ground. “You three, I swear. What did you get up to this time?”

Jimmy motioned for her to get closer, leaned in, and whispered something in her ear. She put a hand over her mouth, preventing the gleeful squeal Grian knew would have escaped otherwise. He didn’t miss the smug look in her eyes as she managed an impressively nonchalant nod, either.

Pearl reached for her drink, taking a sip. ”Well, do tell him I wish them well.”

”Will do, chief.” Jimmy said, giving her a mock salute.

She took another sip of her beer as Grian leaned back in his chair, shoulders easing for what felt like the first time in hours. Around them, the conversation had softened into easy murmurs, blending with the faint music drifting from the bard’s corner of the room.

Visiting The Fairy Fort used to be a weekly tradition for the three of them. Its cozy charm and atmosphere, affordable prizes paired with the additional discount Lizzie insisted on giving despite their many protests, made it the perfect end-of-week escape.

But now, it had been over three weeks since their last visit. 

Grian realized he missed it more than he thought. Still, he knew better than to place his own comfort too high on the list. Not when there were more important things at stake.

(The dreams were different. He wasn’t awake during those)

He sighed, gaze drifting back to the bar. Joel and Lizzie were still talking, so things couldn’t be going too badly. He allowed himself a victorious smile, but only for a short second, as the deal hadn’t been sealed just yet.

Martyn and BigB stopped by sometime during the evening, briefly joining the conversation before being called back to work. Even in the dim lighting, Grian had easily recognized Martyn’s blond hair and BigB’s dark eyes that he knew better than most. Both wore white undershirts and leather aprons stained with grease and flour, matching Lizzie’s.

BigB had worked here for a long time now, but Martyn was a new addition to the staff. Most people didn’t want to hire people from the slums — but thankfully, Lizzie wasn't ‘most people’. When Jimmy had asked how it’d all happened, Martyn had explained that it had been thanks to Ren, who’d recommended him. Lizzie had been looking to fill the spot in their staff that had been left open when a former employee had apparently quit as a result of a major falling-out with BigB.

The Fairy Fort never ran dry on gossip, it seemed.

It went on like that — easy conversation, clinking glasses, and the gentle warmth of being surrounded by friends. Impulse had launched into an animated description of some new project he was working on, hands moving in wide gestures as he spoke and voice rising with enthusiasm. Grian made a valiant effort to follow along, nodding in the right places, offering the occasional hum of acknowledgment. 

But, well — after his third drink of the evening, everything had started to soften around the edges, despite his best efforts. The sounds all blurred together — Impulse’s words, the bard’s music, the low laughter drifting from other tables — until it all began to feel like a pleasant, distant hum.

He let himself sink into it. It was nice. That alternate universe where he’d stayed in the headquarters was long forgotten by this point.

And then the door swung open, bell slamming harshly against the wood. The room’s atmosphere turned cold in an instant, as the telltale clang of metal plates grinding against each other with each footstep made itself known, making Grian suck in a harsh breath.

Never a calm moment left undisturbed. Good fucking riddance, universe.

The two men were clearly drunk, one having taken off the chestplate of his armour. Neither wore their helmets, revealing their flushed, grinning faces to the world. Grian recognized them, having seen them before. Real assholes, they were. Just what he needed.

They stumbled in, and with them, the laughter and commotion of The Fairy Fort died. It was an unusual sight, for sure. Guards were not well liked on this side of Bluecrest.

One of the guards, the blonde one who was still wearing his chestplate, almost immediately tripped over a foot sticking out in the narrow walkway between tables, falling headfirst into another table and causing everything on it to fall to the floor with a loud crash. The room, somehow, grew even colder. 

The guard made an irritated noise, and pushed himself up, glaring down at the owner of said offending foot. He was an older man Grian didn’t know the name of, but had seen around plenty of times playing his harmonica in the city square. A kind man, as far as he could tell.

The guard drew his sword, the rasp of steel against leather echoing in the sudden silence, prompting a series of horrified gasps from the tavern patrons. He pointed the blade directly at the man’s face. "You wanna apologize, old man? Or do you want to learn what happens when you cross the King's Guard?" His companion guffawed.

“Hey!” Lizzie’s voice came from the bar, loud and furious as she pushed through the maze of tables and people. “No weapons in The Fairy Fort! Take that outside, or get out of here! I refuse to deal with blood on my wooden floors.”

The other guard chuckled, his black hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. “Alright sweetheart, calm down a peg, would you? You’re threatening official guardsmen.”

“And you’re threatening an innocent man because you’re too plastered to even stand up right,” Lizzie replied, voice seeping with venom as she crossed her arms.

The blonde guard turned his sword toward her in one swift, unsteady movement. “Watch your mouth, little lady. If you’re not careful, you could get hurt.”

That was when Joel appeared, stepping between the guard and Lizzie, hands clenched and practically twitching in rage. “Leave her alone, you buffoons. She told you to leave.”

“Aw, is the baker boy trying to act tough now? Worried we’ll lay a hand on your girl?” The dark haired of the two cackled as the other moved his sword between both Joel and Lizzie. 

Lizzie scoffed. “You wish. I could outmatch you no problem. The two of you ain’t anything special.” She blew a strand of pink hair out of her face. “Leave. There’s no need to cause a scene.”

The sword was shoved closer to her throat, and there were sharp intakes of breaths from all around the room. “Yeah? You wanna say that again?”

The music had stopped long ago, and the room held its breath. You could hear a pin drop in the suffocating silence as neither party moved nor wavered. Grian had already begun moving though, shoving the mask hidden in his pocket over his face and pulling the hood of his cloak up. Vaguely, he could feel his siblings’ and friends’ gazes burning into his back as he walked, actively making the decision to ignore them.

“Right, that’s enough of that. Put the sword down,” he called, shoving past the various tables and chairs.

The guards turned their gazes toward him now, ugly smirks plastered on their faces as he approached. 

“What’s this then? Another stray wants to play hero?”

Grian caught Lizzie’s gaze, giving a curt nod toward the bar. She nodded, capturing Joel’s hand and swiftly dragging him along. Grian continued walking until he was standing face to face with both guards.

He shrugged. “Depends. Do you plan on leaving?”

“We have more right to be here than you, peasant. Who do you think you are?” The blonde guard hissed. 

The sword had, to their credit, been put down — but the handle was still being gripped tightly. He could tell these men were far too drunk for any civilized conversation, and even worse, only a hair away from drawing their weapons again. 

Now, maybe he too was a little further beyond soberness than he’d initially thought, but he was impatient. There was no need to drag this out.

Grian clicked his tongue. “Shame. I was hoping to avoid a fight.” 

Sighing deeply, he looked between the two guards. Without another word, he slipped his gloves off, shoving them into his pocket. His gaze darted to a small vase on a nearby table, and in one fluid motion, his bare hand snatched a flower from its depths, closing around it. He spun back, meeting the guards' confused stares.

Well, they were confused — until he opened his hands again, revealing a dead, wilting blossom, its petals already turning translucent as ghostly purple threads of mycelium slowly snaked through its stem and leaves, coiling slightly as if alive.

The guards stumbled back, their faces draining of color as they finally comprehended. Their confusion curdled into raw horror, eyes wide and fixed on the pulsing tendrils. The blonde guard’s grip on his sword hilt went bone-white, his breath catching in a choked gasp. The black-haired guard, visibly shaking, instinctively reached for his blade, then hesitated, his hand hovering.

“Leave,” Grian repeated for the last time, lip twitching slightly. “Unless you wanna have a taste.”

Things escalated pretty quickly after that. 

One minute, he was locked in a tense staring contest with the two guards, their faces contorted with a mixture of terror and furious determination

The next moment, he wasn’t.

With a sudden, almost inhuman burst of speed, they — disappointingly — sprang forward, and he leapt onto the nearest tavern table. The startled patrons at the table scrambled back, sending mugs clattering.

"Get him!" the dark haired guard shrieked, his voice cracking slightly. He lunged first, his neglected sword finally clearing its sheath with a harsh scrape of steel. The blonde guard, just a beat behind, followed suit, bellowing a guttural cry.

Swords drawn, they tore after Grian, a destructive force storming through the crowded tavern. Tables groaned and splintered under their heavy boots as they shoved furiously between chairs and startled patrons, sending bewildered men and screaming women sprawling in their wake. Dishes crashed, ale sloshed, and shouts erupted as the once-cozy Fairy Fort descended into utter pandemonium. 

Grian cackled, agile even with the beer in his system as he danced across the tabletops, a masked silhouette against the flickering firelight, only narrowly avoiding the swipe of a blade that took a chunk out of the wooden surface where his foot had just been.

Then, he reached the door, quickly jumping off the table and throwing it open. He slammed it shut behind him before bolting down the street. A satisfying thud echoed from behind him, followed swiftly by the door being shoved open again, and heavy footsteps pounding into the cold night air. 

Not how he’d expected tonight to end up, but as the saying goes — life is full of surprises.

He weaved through the labyrinthine streets, narrowly avoiding a collision with a woman who rounded a corner just as he did, offering a hasty apology over his shoulder. He pressed on, past darkened shops and vacant market stalls, until he found a promising gap and swiftly slipped into a narrow alleyway. These cramped passages between buildings were his turf, far easier to disappear into than the wide-open thoroughfares.

The pursuing footsteps were fainter now, a less immediate threat, but still distinctly there. He made a sharp turn, then another, and then a third, before dropping low behind a cluster of barrels stacked against a cold stone wall. As the heavy boots crunched to a halt right by his hiding spot, Grian held his breath, his heart hammering, praying he hadn't been spotted.

A moment stretched into two. The muffled murmur of the guards' voices drifted to him, too distant to make out words. 

But then, eventually, the footsteps resumed, thankfully moving further away. Grian let out a slow, shaky breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. That was far too close a call.

He remained there for a moment, chest heaving, waiting for his racing pulse to calm. Rationality, usually a quick guest, returned at a crawl through the lingering fuzz of alcohol. When it finally did, the fleeting feeling of accomplishment drained from him as instantly as a pulled plug. 

Lizzie had wanted to keep things civilized. Jumping on tables and causing such a chaotic ruckus was decidedly not that.

Well, at least he had a clear to-do list for tomorrow: a hefty apology and helping her clean up the mess. He desperately hoped the guards would be too exhausted from the chase to return to the tavern. It would be a shame if this entire, reckless stunt was for nothing. Grian certainly didn't feel like going back. Not after all of that.

With a weary sigh, he pushed himself back up, pulling down his hood and tucking his mask neatly into his pocket. Then, he slipped out of the alley's shadows, rejoining the muted glow of the main streets.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

“Are you insane!?”

Grian winced, clenching his hands into fists. 

There it was again. Insane.

It made his skin crawl, his heart still slamming harshly in his chest, and where he would’ve normally stepped out to cool off, the fuzziness in his vision blurred his judgment, prompting him to do the complete opposite.

“No, I’m not, but throw me in a mental asylum, why don’t you? Since you’re so convinced!”

Pearl was pacing around the small room, gesturing wildly. “You could’ve been caught! Imprisoned! Killed! All to— what? Impress your friends?”

Grian stood up, mouth falling open in disbelief. “I wasn’t trying to impress anyone! I was helping! Why does that seem like such an unbelievable concept to you!?”

“Help?!” She scoffed, folding her arms as she stopped her pacing. “All you did was escalate the situation! Jumping on tables, making a mess, outright using your abilities in front of witnesses— hardly disguised, as well! What the hell were you thinking?!"

Grian huffed, rolling his eyes. “Well, I got them to leave, didn’t I? What did you do, besides just sitting there?”

“Getting them to chase you isn’t getting them to leave, and Lizzie and Joel had it covered—”

“That sword was inches away from slitting their throats—”

“And it could’ve just as easily slitted yours!” his sister retorted desperately, full on yelling now. “Or worse, you could have infected someone! What if you slipped? What if you touched a person, Grian?! Did you even think about that?!" 

Grian stared at her for a moment, mouth gaping and eyes fixed on the scar crossing her face, lingering on the spot where her right eye should’ve been.

“Yeah. All of the time, actually,” He bit out, seething and voice rising steadily in volume. “You have no idea what living with this shit is like, you have no right— ” 

Then, Jimmy cut him off, groaning as he propped himself up on his elbows in his hammock and glaring at them through bleary eyes. “Can you guys shut up?! I’m trying to sleep.”

A moment passed, and then Grian deflated, sighing. 

“Sorry, Tim.”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Pearl echoed.

“It’s alright,” Jimmy grumbled, turning to face the wall. “You guys should try to sleep too. Just a thought.”

Grian nodded, sinking back down on his hammock. Pearl frowned, shooting him an uncertain look — to which he nodded, and she sat down next to him, their shoulders brushing. His sister exhaled deeply, tentatively placing her hand over his — and he almost didn’t flinch at the contact.

There was silence for a moment, before she spoke again, this time mindful of her volume: 

“Sorry for yelling. And for saying those things. I didn’t mean to,” Pearl admitted, letting out a soft chuckle devoid of any humor. “I’m just— you scared the living daylight out of me. Us.” 

Grian nodded, his fingers once again subconsciously picking at the edge of his glove. He knew that. She was worried, but he also hadn’t been able to help himself. He'd always suspected he was an impulsive drunk, and this certainly wasn't the way he'd hoped to confirm it.

And then what Pearl had actually said earlier finally caught up to him, and realization crashed down like a vice. His thoughts still struggled for coherence, but the stark truth remained clear as day.

He had just revealed his mycelium in a public setting.

Alright. That’s… That’s bad.

Granted, he’d been wise enough to put on his mask — but his cloak was only barely long enough to even be considered one, and he couldn’t be sure he’d even put the mask on properly. There was also no way of knowing for certain that the guards had been the only ones who’d seen the flower.

And then there was the uncertainty if they were actually blackout drunk, and what would happen if they weren’t and oh stars—

“Pearl,” he whispered, voice only barely not shaking. “Do you… They won't remember, right?”

The following silence was suffocating, and he allowed himself to spare a glance up at her face — and what he saw left him feeling anything but reassured.

“Do you think anyone else saw?” he pressed on.

More silence, his sister chewing anxiously at the inside of her cheek — before: “I mean… It was hard to see from a distance—”

“Pearl.”

She grimaced. “I think— Maybe not? You were kind of turned away from everyone, and your hand was pretty close to your chest, but…” she stopped momentarily, considering — then sighed and squeezed his hand lightly. “I think… it might be best for you to lay low. For a bit.”

“I can’t do that,” he argued. “Especially not now— What about the resistance?

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” she amended quickly. “Just… until things simmer down.”

Grian stared down at his hands, both gloved and his right still firmly intertwined with hers.

"Laying low" meant he couldn’t be seen in public. No more daily excursions for intel or supplies, and the worst part: no sneaking out to Resistance HQ. Not until the guards finally called off their search. If those guards he'd encountered had even a flicker of memory from tonight, they'd report it to the King instantly, escalating the risk of capture tenfold. They couldn't afford that. Not this close to the ball.

But they also couldn't afford to lose valuable meeting time. 

Mind made up, he met her eyes. "Pearl," he stated, "You know I’d trust you and Tim with my life. Please lead the meetings in my stead."

Her expression shifted from brief bewilderment to understanding, and she squeezed his hand again in confirmation and renewed determination. 

It gnawed at him, being sidelined from these crucial gatherings, but he knew this consequence was entirely of his own making. For the foreseeable future, he'd be confined to solitary planning, depending solely on his siblings' recollections of the discussions. 

The resistance's mission was simply too important to defer, and the masquerade would be happening in exactly a month, whether they were ready for it or not.

And he wouldn’t be the reason they weren’t.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

This time, Grian found himself in a jungle.

The dense, towering canopy stretched far above, a living ceiling that filtered the light into dappled emeralds and deep shadows. Everywhere, thick, looping vines hung like ropes, while broad, dark green leaves choked out the air, making the already dense forest almost seem impossible to navigate. The ground was barely visible under an intense undergrowth of ferns and tangled bushes, a soft squelch accompanying each step. Parrots squawked somewhere in the humid, heavy air that clung to his skin, thick with the scent of damp earth and unseen blossoms.

Immediately, he recognized his hands were free, and he felt far more clear-headed — a relief, despite the brief disorientation.

He surveyed his surroundings, gaze settling a few meters away on a tranquil lake. Its opposite shore was lined with towering bamboo stalks, their rustling leaves a soft whisper in the stillness. Grian strode a few steps forward — and there, behind one of the thick jungle trees, he found the missing piece to his puzzle.

Scar was sitting on a log, watching the lake water. He wore the same attire as the previous two nights, as if he'd never even changed in the first place. His frowzy auburn hair caught the sunlight streaming through the tall bamboo, framing his silhouette and making him look almost holy — even from behind. 

Grian resisted the urge to comb the knots out with his fingers.

Briefly, he considered sneaking up on him, but the crunch of leaves beneath his boots gave him away before he could even begin enacting the plan — and thus, Scar turned. His face brightened. The moment their gazes met, any lingering bother over the missed opportunity simply vanished.

The warmth of those familiar green eyes on him also meant a wave of immediate calm washed over him, dissolving some of the tension he was holding. Grian moved forward, slumping down next to Scar on the log with a soft thud. 

“You got here before me,” Grian noted, looking up at the man beside him.

“I did,” Scar replied, a smile playing on his lips. He raised an eyebrow, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Any reason for that? You look a bit tense.”

Observant. Grian hummed, acknowledging the truth. Beneath Scar's easy way of uttering the words and his disarming grin, Grian also caught a thread of genuine worry, which was new. 

He returned the smile.

“Got held up. I’ve had an eventful night, you could say.“ Grian sighed, then added with an amused smirk, “You’re not complaining, are you?”

“Nah, for you I don’t mind waiting,” Scar breezed, easily bypassing the implication that he would have for anyone else. “But don’t leave a man hanging, Gri. What happened?”

Grian blinked, still reeling, but even so managed a chuckle and a shake of his head. “Ah— No, why don’t you go first for a change.”

“...You sure?” Scar asked, his smile faltering slightly, a sudden hesitancy in his eyes. “I don’t mind listening to you, and I’m not sure if I have much to tell you—”

“Oh, come off it, Scar. No more of that nonsense,” Grian cut in, a playful edge to his voice. “Didn’t I say I was interested, no matter how mundane you think your day might’ve been?”

“Yeah,” Scar chuckled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess you did.” 

Grian caught the flash of apprehension across Scar’s face, a flicker of anxiety he hadn't seen so clearly until now. Without overthinking it, he shuffled closer, an encouraging smile tugging at his lips. Scar’s jaw, previously tight, visibly loosened, and a faint blush dusted his cheeks, a sight that sent a quiet wave of pride through Grian.

“I guess something kind of interesting happened today. Not super interesting, though,” Scar warned with a light chuckle, his gaze flicking away. “I accidentally found a secret room in the— my house.”

The slight hitch in Scar's voice, the quick glance away, didn't escape Grian. He just watched, his own expression unwavering, a silent promise of interest that he knew Scar needed to see. The thought of Scar doubting his genuine care felt absurd.

“A secret room? You just… had that in your house?” He exclaimed, eyes widening. “That’s sick. What kind of room was it?”

“Oh, uh— it was a library, I think. Had a bunch of old books. Dust everywhere. I don’t think anyone’s stepped foot in there for at least a hundred years.”

“Don't tell me you forgot to bring a peace offering for the ancient dust bunnies,” Grian snickered. “That's their library now, you know. Very rude to just waltz in.”

That got a hearty laugh out of Scar, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. “I’ll have you know I brought the most excellent gift of all, mister!”

“Yeah? Which is…?”

“Why, my presence, of course.”

Grian snorted, unable to hold back a grin as Scar beamed at him, clearly proud of his own wit. A comfortable, easy laughter settled between them for a moment, the sound mingling with the distant calls of jungle birds. When it finally subsided, Grian leaned back on his hands, still smiling.

“Alright, alright, you narcissist,” he chuckled. “Your presence is indeed a gift . But were there any cool books? Like— I don’t know. Spell books? That feels like something a hidden library would have.”

Grian expected another laugh here, or some form of acknowledgement at the very least — but was instead struck by a sudden, uncomfortable silence. He frowned, glancing back at Scar, finding him silently staring into space in a manner that seemed so unlike him. There was a light furrow in his brows, and while he didn’t look hurt, per se, he did look like he wasn’t really quite there. Distant, or hollow, even. 

Regardless, Grian found that the expression didn’t suit him.

“Hey,” he whispered, tentatively shuffling even closer, careful to avoid getting too close. “I was joking. I didn’t mean that.”

Like a switch flicking, Scar’s expression snapped back to glee. “I know! Of course you didn’t,” He exclaimed quickly, shrugging.

Grian frowned. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt your feelings—”

“Yeah, yeah. No feelings hurt!” Scar said, waving his hand nonchalantly. “Now, can you tell me about your ‘eventful night’? I think I’m dying of curiosity over here.”

“Right,” Grian said slowly, studying the man’s face. While he adored seeing Scar’s smile — it felt wrong, this time, and it definitely wouldn’t feel right moving past it, either.

But, he supposed — prying wouldn’t help. Scar would tell him when he felt ready. He was certain of that.

“Well,” he started, shifting a bit. “Me, my siblings and some friends were visiting this bar. The Fairy Fort. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

Scar made a so-so motion with his hands, and Grian chuckled. “That’s alright. We were having a pretty good time, anyway — until two guards came in and started being assholes and harassing an old man cause they were too drunk to even keep their balance.”

“Harassed?” Scar interrupted, suddenly.

Grian gave him a quizzical look, before remembering how different their lives were. He sighed. “Yeah. Pretty normal, unfortunately. But that’s not the crazy part.”

“It escalated pretty quickly, actually. One of them drew their sword, so Lizzie had to step in, but then they started threatening her — and it was just a whole thing, really. It all ended with them leaving to chase after—” he stopped himself, clearing his throat. “ Someone .”

“But yeah. My friend almost died, which was cool,” Grian finished bitterly. Scar, however, had once again gone quiet, his gaze distant, this time paired with a thoughtful frown creased his brow. 

He frowned. “Is Lizzie one of your friends?”

“Yeah,” Grian confirmed. “She owns The Fairy Fort. Really great person.”

Scar was  resting his chin on his palm, watching the still water of the lake rippling occasionally when a fish came too close to the surface. 

The curve of his jaw, the faint shadow of his stubble, the way the light caught the dark strands of hair falling over his forehead left Grian feeling an almost dizzying pull to catalogue every minute detail. He drank it all in, every line and shadow, knowing these moments were fleeting, stolen gifts. A cruel fate for a man who wanted nothing more than to spend the next eternity and then some just watching the other exist.

Grian froze.

That was… wow.

Okay. Alright. Obviously he knew there was something about this man, but he didn’t think he’d fallen that hard. 

His mind drifted to Joel, back at the bar. The way his eyes had gleamed in a way Grian had never seen before as his friend had watched the pink haired tavern owner from afar. He wondered if he’d just worn the same dopey expression.

The realization had him reeling, leaving him the tiniest bit breathless.

Alright. It’s fine. Just play it cool.

“Do you ever feel like your life lacks purpose?”

Violently pulled out of his thoughts, Grian froze again — this time for an entirely different reason. His eyes darted to his friend in a millisecond, who was still staring at the water, deep in thought. 

“Like no matter what you do, you can’t change anything even though you really really should.”

Then, he looked up, catching Grian’s baffled expression, and immediately flushed. “Sorry, I know. Kind of a weird question. I guess I was just thinking. I don’t know—”

“No— No, it’s alright.” Grian interrupted. “Uh, I don’t…know? I definitely find life to be unfair, but I don’t know about purposeless… Maybe before I met my siblings, but certainly not anymore."

Scar nodded, grimacing a bit as he avoided Grian’s eyes. “Alright, uh— great! Same, same.”

Grian frowned. “Any… particular reason that you’re asking?”

“Reason?” Scar said, and this time Grian could tell for certain that he was playing his surprise up. “Nope, I’m fine. Peachy, in fact. Mhm! I was just… curious. That’s all.”

Grian nodded, still frowning as he turned his face toward the water. Scar would let him know when he felt ready , he reminded himself.

But that didn’t help the ache he felt in his heart over being unable to help him. The hurt over not being trusted enough to know.

It wasn’t his decision to make. 

It wasn’t.

However…

“If I did feel like that,”  Grian said, his voice softer, “I’d force myself to look for the small things. Find one tiny bit of good, just enough to pull myself through. And if I couldn’t find even that, I’d figure out how to make it. Because even if nothing you do feels like it matters, doing something always beats doing nothing. Baby steps, right? They still move you forward.”

From his periphery, Grian noticed Scar's emerald eyes on him, shadowed with an uncertain melancholy. His brows were subtly furrowed, revealing a vulnerability he almost certainly thought remained unseen.

For a long moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Grian felt the hesitant warmth of an arm settle at his waist, a question in the slight tremble of Scar's fingers. He didn't flinch, didn't pull away, and that lack of resistance seemed to give Scar courage. With a gentle, almost imperceptible tug, Scar drew him closer. Their knees were already brushing, making the distance negligible, yet the quiet act of physical connection resonated with an understanding that words couldn't reach.

And when Grian leaned to rest his head on Scar’s shoulder, meeting no resistance, he knew he'd finally done something right.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Chapter Text

Grian's life had settled into an unwelcome schedule, where the days blurred into a monotonous cycle of waiting, isolated planning, and living vicariously through the stories his siblings brought home. Most of the time, he was simply bored. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been so careless that his own safety demanded he stay at home for long periods like these, but he certainly didn't remember it being this dull. Poverty left little to do, unfortunately.

So, he did the only thing he reasonably could:

Plan. 

Endlessly .

Thanks to Lizzie's intel, the mycelium resistance had made significant progress. Each night, when Jimmy and Pearl returned from the meetings — usually after loudly complaining about the sea of papers covering the floor — they’d fill him in on the discussions. From there, Grian would meticulously refine the plan, which his siblings would then bring to the next meeting as a proposal. Even though he couldn't be there himself, he absolutely refused to sit on the sidelines.

And it wasn’t for nothing, either, because the logistics of the plan were immense. They mapped out guard patrols, guest entry points, and areas of the castle with minimal traffic. They had a decent grasp of the routes and layout, but he knew certainty was a dangerous illusion. Being too confident only invited carelessness. So, he drew backup plans for their backup plans, endlessly reiterating the importance of preparedness — which also led to Jimmy complaining that no one could possibly remember so many contingencies. 

To that, Grian had merely asserted it was about the principle. Being prepared was always better than not.

They had finalized the decision to send only one person in to complete the mission solo. Grian still despised the idea — but as Pearl had said at that very first meeting, there was just no other viable way. Sending one person did mean they only needed one invitation, which admittedly simplified things. 

Yet, even obtaining one had proven impossible so far. How could they possibly enter the castle without one? That was the million dollar question, it seemed.

The only thing truly keeping Grian from running himself into the ground was the reprieve his dreams offered. He clung to them desperately, even when his anxiety and worries threatened to overshadow the peace. These dreams were now the most eventful part of his days, rivaling only his regular dinners with Pearl and Jimmy (who, bless him, had started buying most of their food with the meager gold he'd earned – a significant feat, considering the dire times. It was precisely this kind of struggle that kept Grian from ever considering conforming to the kingdom's absurd laws himself.)

Scar and him had been growing closer during this time, although Grian now found himself empathizing strongly with Scar's struggles to find conversation topics — but thankfully, that had yet to become an issue, as Scar had now started opening up more, spinning tales of his daily pursuits. He spoke with such conviction, wrapping each word in the charm he carried so easily. It was something Grian admired strongly — even when he could tell there was a bit of hesitation there that his friend probably thought he didn’t notice. Grian didn’t know if he was supposed to.

It was during this time he had learned just how talkative Scar could be. Grian was talkative at times, too — but for once, he didn’t mind listening. He loved it, actually. Something about Scar's voice was addictive to listen to. Intoxicating, was another word that came to him  — though that sounded a bit too gruesome. 

He always seemed to think of the most horrific metaphors, even when he really didn’t need them. Still, he couldn’t help but feel it was accurate.

Anyways.

Most recently, Scar had spoken of learning to paint, lamenting his inability to show Grian. It was true, regrettably, that their situation made it impossible, but his friends’ simple wish had warmed his heart. These days, Grian found himself dreading morning light more and more.

It all came to a head, though, when two weeks after the whole tavern debacle, Pearl walked through the door wearing a new kind of excitement.

Grian, still sprawled on the floor amidst his usual chaos of maps, coal pens, and notes, braced himself for her inevitable complaints — but they never came. Instead, she knelt beside him, careful of the scattered papers, a wide, triumphant smile on her face. 

He looked up, an eyebrow rising in question. "What?"

"Griba," she said, her voice barely containing its excitement, before a sudden scowl creased her features as Tilly, nose to the ground, attempted to investigate a particularly crinkled map. "No, Tilly— Bad girl, stop that." The large dog whined, a soft, aggrieved sound, but obediently retreated to flop by the doorway. She'd just returned from her own daily adventures, same as his sister.

"Anyway," Pearl sighed, her smile quickly returning, even brighter than before. "I think you'll really enjoy what I heard— or, I guess, saw today."

"Yeah?" Grian prompted, a spark of genuine curiosity finally cutting through the monotony.

“I’ve been taking note of the patrol routines these past weeks, just to make sure we had them correct. Recently, they changed — but only slightly. Initially, I was concerned the reason was that they were looking for you, but I don’t think that’s what it is.”

“Word must’ve gotten out of what went down at The Fairy Fort, because I haven’t been able to spot those guards anywhere in their new routine. Matter of fact, a lot of guards that have been notoriously prone to causing problems seem to have been replaced.”

Grian sat up straighter, his brows knitting in a deep frown. 

Replaced? That did not track. He could only assume the King had fired them or punished them in some way, but why? 

Immediately, he began sifting through possibilities, his mind already mapping out a dozen angles.

Why would the King bother? He didn't do things like that. Although it — admittedly — was great news that some consequence for misusing authority was being handed out, he still couldn’t comprehend the reason behind it. The King’s previous track record showed he didn’t care about citizens in the poorer districts, so why would he start now? Was it even related? Pearl seemed to think it was.

But if it wasn’t… was it a trap? Had word gotten out about their plan and this was some elaborate, strange plan to get the resistance captured? Sure, it was inconvenient that they now had to re-map the patrol-routines, but they still had a sufficient amount of time to re-learn it. If anything, the only one the King would be sabotaging would be himself , because changing out guards this close to the masquerade was just straight up dumb. Even for him.

Maybe those two drunken idiots somehow embarrassed the King enough for him to bother with this display of justice. But that didn’t track either. It sounded far too petty for a King who usually operated more indifferently, and the fact that this seemingly hadn’t been publicly announced anywhere like he’d assumed it would be, spoke volumes .

So, if it wasn't about embarrassment — what then? 

“Not all of them have been replaced, obviously,” Pearl clarified, shrugging. “There are still some bad eggs in there, but I don’t know. It’s still a big deal.”

Grian nodded slowly, agreeing. It was a big deal, and the possibilities were truly endless, as well as utterly incomprehensible.

Stupidly, out of all the thoughts that had run through his mind in the span of a few short milliseconds, the only thing he could manage was a bewildered:

“...Why?”

Thankfully, Pearl understood what he meant anyway, shrugging. “I don’t know. I’ve been mulling it over all the way back home, but I couldn’t reach any logical conclusion either. Who knows? Maybe our dearest monarch is finally bettering himself.”

Grian scowled, fighting back the urge to laugh. “Right. As if.” Then, he sighed, picking the coal pen back up and directing his attention back to the maps, “But can you tell me what changed in the patrol routines?”

Pearl perked up, quickly moving to open the satchel she’d borrowed for the day and unraveling a parchment. She placed it down next to the large map of Bluecrest Grian had sprawled over their singular carpet, and scooted closer.

“Like I said, actually not much.” she said, reaching out a hand and pointing at locations on the map as she spoke. “They have guards over here now instead of in the courtyard, and the ones they usually had by the gate between six and seven now stand by the main entrance of the castle.”

“They’re all just minor changes to accommodate for the changes in the team. The times they switch out are still the same, so really there’s barely anything worth noting.”

Grian hummed, nodding slowly. He was even more confused now, but he wouldn’t find the answer by driving himself insane over it. He had bigger things to focus on.

“Other than that, I don’t have much else to tell you — so that leaves one final question…” Pearl sighed, leaning back and turning her face toward him. “How are you?”

Grian smiled. “Good, thanks. A little bored, but that’s nothing new.”

She laughed at him, shaking her head. “Of course you are. Well, maybe that’ll change soon. I am yet to see any genuine attempts being made at finding you, so perhaps the King couldn’t be bothered.”

“Beats me,” Grian huffed, waving his hand and shrugging. “Certainly wouldn’t be surprising.”

“Indeed, it would not,” Pearl admitted somberly, sighing.

Grian looked over at the maps again, brows furrowing in thought. He traced the various coal lines and arrows with his gaze, going through the current version of the plan again and again in his head. Changes would need to be made after this new information, that was for sure. 

He rested his head on his palm as he began crossing out some of the markers and lines on the map. Then, a thought struck him. “Actually, do you think it’s safe for me to go to the meeting now?”

Pearl observed him, face twisting into an odd, unreadable expression that pulled at the scar tissue. She hummed, running a hand through her hair — and after what seemed like an eternity of silence, she finally delivered his verdict.

“Yeah, probably. We could try it tonight if you want.”

Grian sat up immediately, face morphed in surprise. “Wait, seriously? I didn’t expect you to say yes.”

She laughed, then, her hand moving from her hair to drag over her face. “Griba, I’m not your mum. You don’t need my permission.” She shifted slightly, moving closer. “But yes, from what I’ve seen, I think things have calmed down.”

A sigh of relief and glee escaped him, the teasing having no effect on him. Pearl was indeed his younger sister, and he certainly thanked the stars she wasn't his mother — but those small details wouldn’t stop him from holding her opinion in just as high regard. Aside from being someone he respected, she was also infinitely more responsible and sharper than he’d ever be. 

Then, Tilly barked, standing up from where she’d been lying by the door, signaling the sound of footsteps nearing the alley. Pearl stood up, jaw tense, and moved toward the door, peeking through the small peephole drilled into its center. She said nothing for a moment, and Grian watched intensely — before she relaxed, exhaling.

“Just Jimmy. I was starting to wonder when he’d get home.”

Grian stood up as well, walking toward the dog to calm her down and stop the barking. He’d never been much of a dog person, but Tilly was well trained and sweet, so he didn’t mind her.

“Tilly, stop,” he muttered, petting her grey fur as he turned his face back toward his sister. “Where’s he been? You usually get home together.”

Pearl stepped away from the door, joining him in petting the dog, who had now laid down and rolled over to her side, demanding belly scratches. “He said this morning that he’d been offered a job that he had high hopes for. Didn’t tell me more than that, though.”

“Yeah?” Grian prompted, a fresh wave of worry staggering him. 

Since stealing had proved to not be Jimmy’s thing, he’d started running errands and taking on small odd jobs for anyone who would pay. But legitimate work was painfully rare in the slums; those with money enough to pay rarely looked for help within their borders. Grian’s mind immediately went to the unsavory possibilities, to the ways the rich took advantage of those with no other choice.

And it wasn’t like Jimmy to hide his dealings. Grian swallowed, praying his brother hadn't done anything foolish.

“You don’t think Tim would—” Grian began asking, but was then promptly interrupted by the door swinging open with surprising force.

Immediately, Grian gave him a once-over — and to his relief, he looked fine. Unusually happy, actually. Jimmy was a cheerful guy, he knew, but never normally to this degree. His blonde hair was windswept, and he was still breathing heavily, suggesting he must’ve ran home. In twin movements, the two eldest raised an eyebrow at him, and his smile somehow grew even bigger.

“You guys,” he started, voice a little breathless still. “Are going to love me.”

“Spit it out, Tim,” Grian sighed, thoroughly doubting that statement.

Jimmy scowled, pouting. “Well, if you’re gonna be like that I’m not gonna tell you.”

Pearl huffed in annoyance, swatting at Grian — a movement he predicted, and luckily managed to dodge. She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, he’s sorry. Tell us.”

“Never said that,” Grian muttered, relenting. “But fine, I guess. Now tell us.”

Jimmy glared at him for a moment longer, but eventually folded, fishing out a piece of paper from his cloak. He rolled it out, beginning to read from it. 

“Dear Lord Poultry. You are cordially invited to celebrate His Majesty, the King's, 24th Birthday at an exclusive Masquerade Ball.”

Grian’s eyes widened, as did Pearl’s while their brother continued reading, quickly adopting a fake, pretentious accent. “Join us for an evening of enchantment and revelry in the grand Ballroom of Bluecrest Castle. Kindly note that masks are obligatory. We eagerly anticipate your presence.”

There was silence for a moment, and then the room erupted in cheers as the two eldest siblings moved to crush Jimmy into a hug.

“Jimmy— Oh my god!” Pearl exclaimed, laughing and at a loss for words.

Grian felt the same, backing away and staring at him in beaming disbelief. “Tim, how did you get that? What— How!?”

Jimmy looked smug as ever as he spoke. “One of the mailmen wanted help delivering letters. I found this in the pile and managed to grab it.”

Grian scowled, still flabbergasted. “But— you’re awful at stealing?”

“What can I say,” Jimmy drawled, still smirking. “I improved.”

“That’s— Oh wow, Jimmy. Jimmy! Do you even realize how incredible this is?” Pearl shouted excitedly, shaking him.

“I do— ow! I said you guys were going to love with me, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Grian grumbled, conceding. “And, although I hate admitting it — I suppose you were right.”

Jimmy cheered, pumping a fist in the air. Grian rolled his eyes, chuckling, but the laugh died as he took a deep breath, trying to calm his adrenaline. A scowl then claimed his face as he finally gave voice to the words plaguing his mind.

“If you were just helping a mailman, why didn’t you just say that? You made us worried.” 

Jimmy looked confused for a minute, scowling, but then realization dawned on him and he frantically shook his head. “No, no! I was hoping there’d be an invite there, and didn’t want to get your hopes up in case there wasn’t. I wouldn’t— No .” 

A relieved sigh escaped without his permission, and Grian nodded slowly. “Okay. Good. Sorry, I just—” 

“No, no— it’s alright. I get it, I’d probably worry too,” Jimmy chuckled, the sound slightly strained. “But I wouldn’t do that, got it?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, got it,” Grian nodded, casting the window another glance, exhaling. A moment of silence stretched, then a second, and a third — before he abruptly stated: "Also, I'm coming to the meeting tonight."

Jimmy froze mid-step, his confused expression deepening.

“What?” he blurted, a gasp of disbelief. 

“To the meeting,” Grian clarified. “I’m going.” 

“No, I heard you,” Jimmy sputtered, jaw dropping. “It’s just— seriously? You’re actually coming?” 

“Yeah,” Grian confirmed, smug. “Pearl said I’m a free man now.” 

“As if anyone could hold you captive for long,” Pearl scoffed, shaking her head. “I’ll explain in more detail at the meeting, but in short — I think it’s fine now. However , if he gets captured, he’s on his own." 

Grian squawked, raising his hands in mock-offense. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Pearl just laughed at him, because she’s mean and horrible and wants him to suffer.

Perhaps he should be worried about getting caught — extra wary and all that — but truly, constant danger was just part of his life. Compared to what he usually faced, this was hardly even a footnote. Just the idea of also finally doing something, being truly useful again, scratched an itch in his brain that had plagued him for weeks. 

Sue him, he doesn’t handle boredom well. 

And, if he secretly missed his resistance members, that wasn’t anybody’s business but his own.

Pearl, having calmed down from her laughter, then declared with a decisive clap of her hands, “Alright, let’s clean this mess up! We don’t have much time, so if we want to celebrate we gotta do it now.”

Grian’s gaze flicked over to the mess of papers on the floor, and he couldn’t stop the groan that escaped him. Cleaning was the absolute last thing he wanted to do right now, especially with the ever persistent ache in his stomach being more poignant than normal.

Jimmy made an offended noise, pointing indignantly at Grian. "You want me to clean up his mess?!"

Grian snorted, about to launch into his own protest, but Pearl’s swift, pointed glare cut him off before he could get a single word out. 

She crossed her arms. “No, I want us all to help clean up his mess so we can celebrate your accomplishment. Quit complaining, Jim, you’re a grown man.”

Jimmy sputtered. Grian, fighting the laughter that desperately clawed its way up his throat, recognized that stubborn set to his sister’s jaw and knew further argument was useless. Pearl would not be budging even an inch . 

And so, with a shared sigh of resignation, the two brothers begrudgingly got to work, Pearl swiftly joining them with a satisfied smile on her face.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

When he closed the door to the glowing, mycelium filled tunnel behind them, a cheer erupted in the room. Most chairs were already filled, the only empty ones besides their own belonging to Ren and Etho. The candles were already lit, and Grian had barely made it down the stairs before he was being borderline tackled by a delighted Impulse, his mask nearly getting knocked off of his face in the process.

“Dude, welcome back!” He exclaimed, harshly patting Grian on the back.

Grian chuckled, catching his breath and readjusting his mask. “Thanks, man. Glad to be back.” He looked around the room, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he gestured toward his siblings, who were still in the process of descending the stairs. “Did they do a good job filling in for me?”

Doc grinned, glancing between Pearl and Jimmy and making a so-so motion with his hand. “Ah, I don’t know. Could use some work, but they were alright , I suppose.”

Pearl gasped in offense, yet still smiling. “You suppose? I’d like to see you try leading a meeting with all you chatterboxes. It’s a full time job!”

Jimmy nodded, serious, and Doc chuckled, sounding somewhat sheepish. “Alright, perhaps you’re right.”

The room launched into a fit of giggles, Jimmy visibly fighting the smile worming its way onto his face. Ultimately, he failed — but it was a good effort nonetheless. Grian laughed, too. 

Though, he was internally cringing at the fact they hadn’t been there first — something he usually preferred. He was someone who valued punctuality, but their celebration of Jimmy had taken longer than anticipated. Mostly thanks to the generous dinner they’d shared — and even though he did feel a twinge bad about the slight wastefulness of it, he also wouldn’t say he regretted it. They rarely had much reason to celebrate these days. It was a double edged sword, in many ways.

Regardless, it didn’t take much longer before Ren and Etho showed up, and with that, they all took their places around the meeting table. Pearl went over the changes in the King’s guard and their patrol routes, and Jimmy announced his attainment of the invite to the ball — which got a huge reaction, spurring cheers and celebration from all of the members. 

Grian was still riding the high of it, even hours later. That’s how incredible it was. They had a plan, and they had a way in. Everything was falling into place, and they could see the light at the end of the tunnel already. 

Which left one question that still needed to be answered before they could comfortably move forward.

“Who will be going in?”

XB had stood up, and instantly, the room went quiet, the mood turning serious once again. 

“Yeah, we should probably address that now,“ Grian sighed, running a hand through his hair as he too stood up. “One person needs to go in, and the rest of us will be helping as much as we can from the outside. That’s the plan right now. So… Who’s up for it?”

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him when eight hands were lifted in the air, excluding his own. He watched his fellow members — his friends — for a moment, only permitting himself to show a little somberness.

Though it was admirable they all were willing to give their lives for the cause, he almost wished they weren’t.

But still, Grian nodded, breathing out through his nose. “We’ll need to use the method of elimination, then. Timmy, you’re not going.”

“What!?”

Jimmy immediately paused, muttering a short apology for his sudden rise in volume — before pinning his gaze back on Grian. “Why not? I can be sneaky.”

Grian raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “No you can not. I’ve experienced you trying to sneak up on me enough times to know that is an objective lie. I’d much rather you help from the outside. You’re better at other things.”

“He’s right, unfortunately,” Pearl added. “Sorry, Jim.”

Doc lowered his hand, albeit rather begrudgingly. “I probably shouldn’t go either, then. I’m a little too eye-catching.”

An understatement. Doc had green skin with a mechanical eye and arm. He was the textbook definition of standing out — which was not a bad thing, obviously. Just not really desirable in his specific context. Not to mention that the sound of gears turning and metal plates rubbing against each other each time he moved would make it very hard for him to sneak up on anyone unnoticed.

Everyone nodded, small murmurs of respect.

“I shouldn’t either,” Etho spoke up, voice a little sheepish as he pointed toward his eye. Red and glowing, it was poorly hidden beneath the masks he was wearing. It’d be even more traceable without them.

Again, there were nods and murmurs of agreement. Jevin cleared his throat.

“I’m literally blue.”

Grian couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped him, then. He hadn’t been sure how to bring it up without hurting his feelings, honestly, but Jevin was a slime hybrid. No matter how skilled or sneaky he was, he would stand out. There were no hybrid nobles in Bluecrest, unfortunately. His cover would be blown immediately.

That left XB, Ren, Pearl, Impulse and himself. 

Before anyone else could get a word out, though, Pearl sighed, rubbing a hand over her temple. "Alright, let's be brutally honest here. Obviously, a single operative needs to be undetectable, resourceful, and capable of handling stressful situations. The five of us all possess these qualities — however…" She paused, her gaze sweeping over the remaining candidates, then settling firmly on Grian, a slightly apologetic look in her eyes. "Should things go sideways, only one of us has something that gives them a significantly better chance at getting out."

Grian flinched, a subtle recoil that only she and Jimmy likely noticed. 

She wasn’t wrong. If he were to be discovered, he could in theory just take off his gloves and fight his way out. One single touch from him, and any pursuers’ body would be overtaken by spores, killing them instantly.

The thought made him shudder, and he had to swallow the bile that made its way up his throat. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t use those abilities on anyone , person or animal . At least not on purpose. It’s a painful, quite frankly cruel way of ending a life.

But… hadn’t the King and his guard caused more than enough pain and suffering to justify such methods? They’d already decided to end one life, what’s a few more? 

Grian closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. Was it worth compromising his morals? Putting another human through something as excruciating as having your insides compromised by a parasitic spore? He knew what that felt like.

Feeling the expectant eyes on him, he reminded himself that it’s for a good cause. He’d only use the mycelium if things went wrong , and it probably wouldn’t. They’d thought of almost everything . At this point, he felt there was little to no sequence of events they hadn’t accounted for — at least in some way. 

But the King would die by his blade, not by his touch. A life ended in such a way wouldn’t be honorable. After all, you can’t put spores on display.

Mind made up, he nodded. "Alright," Grian stated, his expression carefully neutral. "Unless anyone has any objections, I'll do it."

When he was met with silence, he nodded for one final time, resolute. He was doing this. 

A part of him was fiercely glad it would be his hand to deliver the blow. He'd started this entire movement, fueled by the suffering of centuries of neglect and cruelty, and now he would bring it to its rightful end. It was all on his shoulders, now — but Mother Spore hadn’t failed yet, and this would not be the first time. 

Grian would make sure of it.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

The dreams made him feel many things — but out of those things, the most prominent one when he opened his eyes was always, without fail, relief. 

Relief that they were still happening. That he wasn’t making it up. Because no matter how sure he was that Scar was real and that they were sharing dreams, there was always that suffocating feeling of doubt filling him when he woke up.

So it was nice to have that confirmation.

This time, the dreamscape took him to a field of flowers. Sunflowers , specifically. Grian hadn’t really seen any before, but as he stood there observing his surroundings, he found that he liked them quite a bit. They were a nice shade of yellow, their petals a gradient that deepened towards the brown, circular middle balancing on top of tall, sturdy green stems. 

He’d heard sometime long ago that they always turn to face the sun, hence their name. Pretty fitting, in his opinion. The sun was always shining in their dreams.

Grian realized Scar had once again gotten here first when he spotted the man further down the field. He understood just as fast that sunflowers being such tall plants posed a new problem for him, as they were quite hard for him to see over with his meager stature. But the crown of wild, brown hair was unmistakable, and he didn’t really believe it could be anyone else anyway. 

Scar was standing in a small clearing, a path leading from where Grian stood winding through the field up to it. He was busy watching the sun and clouds, and probably had been for a while. It didn’t seem like there was much else to do here. Luckily, Grian wasn’t so rude he’d want Scar to be bored . The petals rustled in the wind, and he grinned, mind already scheming.

Sneaking through the field. Grian realized his outfit blended in surprisingly well with the foliage. He wouldn’t have assumed his tunic made out of repurposed flour bags would disguise him as well as it did, but, well. He wasn’t complaining.

Carefully, he made sure not to make a sound as he stalked closer — and then he was right behind his friend. Grian braced himself, grinning mischievously.

He took a step back, and leapt.

Scar fell forward with a yelp — and Grian (after a quick glance to make sure he wasn't hurt) burst into giddy, loud laughter, immensely proud of his successful attack. Scar had cushioned his fall with his hands, landing face-first in the dirt and accidentally squashing one of the flowers. Quickly, Grian dismounted, giving him space to get up and reaching out a hand to help.

Scar looked a little winded, running a hand through his hair before putting his calloused hand in Grian’s — but ultimately, he was alright, quickly joining in with the laughter. A bright, hearty sound that Grian couldn’t ever get enough of. Once Scar was standing, his clothes remaining miraculously clean despite the fall, Grian put his arms around his shoulders and pulled him down for a hug, giggling against the crook of Scar’s neck. 

Instantly, everything felt right again . 

Scar was still laughing into his hair, his hands settling on Grian’s hips. “You’re lucky we can’t feel pain here, otherwise I would’ve had serious problems.”

Grian pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Scar was doing that thing again, that expression he couldn't quite name. Eyes crinkled, a soft look to the green irises . Grian smiled. “True that. I would’ve felt terrible.”

Scar laughed again, short but bright all the same. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have been standing in the first place.” 

Grian blinked, a little unsure if he was supposed to laugh at that, but seeing the glint in Scar’s eye, he felt he was allowed. 

Scar had mentioned his disability a couple of nights prior, explaining it as the reason he rarely left his home. Although Grian knew that wasn’t the entire truth, he’d let it slide. Scar’s struggles weren't anything that would drive him away, and in that moment, he’d prioritized making sure he knew that.

Grian let his head fall onto Scar’s shoulder, arms still holding the man in a loose hug as he let out a deep sigh. “Oh, Scar… I’ve had a great day today, you have no idea.”

The sun was going down over the horizon, painting the sky a bright amber. The light bounced off of the sunflowers, painting a golden sea of some kind surrounding the small clearing of which they were standing. The field looked endless from here — hills and hills of yellow stretching in all directions — and Grian had no doubt it was. Something about that was strangely comforting. 

“Yeah?” Scar chuckled, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind Grian’s ear. “You wanna tell me about it?”

Grian huffed. “I wish. Can’t, though. It’s a secret.”

“What? You won’t even tell me, your best friend in the whole wide world?”

Looking at him again, Grian scoffed. “Best friend in the whole wide world? Scar, really?”

His friend chuckled, grimacing slightly. “Well, I guess we can workshop the title a little.”

“A little ,” Grian deadpanned. Then, he sighed. “But yeah, no. Seriously, I want to, I just don’t think it’d be safe. Not that I don’t trust you,” he quickly added, continuing. “But… Ah, I don’t know. I’ve had a good day. That’s all you need to know.”

Scar nodded, grinning. “That’s alright. Don’t worry about it. I’m not interrogating you, or anything like that.”

“Oh, you’re not?” Grian snickered, raising an eyebrow. “Well, too bad, cause I am . How was your day?”

Scar sighed, moving his hand from Grian’s hair to his waist. “Ah, I guess I could tell you — since I’m getting interrogated and all.”

Grian melted into the embrace. He didn’t think he could ever get enough of being able to actually touch another person. Completely safe, no barriers in between. 

Scar chuckled. "Well, let’s see. Jellie decided my painting needed a new perspective and knocked it right over — and then, Mr. Finnegan walked right over it!" He shifted slightly, something fond in his gaze. "And although the little paw prints were absolutely adorable , it unfortunately wasn’t what I was going for. So, I spent the whole day trying to fix it."

Grian laughed, imagining it. He couldn't picture such a simple day for himself, but an overwhelming want stirred within him to somehow be a part of that kind of peace, a peace Scar seemed to find so easily. Grian had always loved cats, those notoriously untamable creatures, and his friend seemed to manage them so effortlessly, along with so much else. He truly admired it.

“What are you painting, anyway? You never told me.”

Scar hummed, observing the sunflowers swaying in the wind intently. He didn’t respond for a long moment, but then, he turned back to face him, a smug smile on his face. “If we meet in the real world, I’ll tell you. How about that?”

Grian blinked, startled for a moment by the statement. Their potential meeting outside the dreams was a topic they'd silently agreed on avoiding, in his mind. 

Apparently not anymore, though — so he huffed, crossing his arms. “What? Why can’t you just tell me?” 

Scar only laughed, looking annoyingly satisfied with himself. “Hey, you have your secrets, I’ll have mine. And I didn’t say you couldn’t know — I just said I’d tell you when we meet in the real world!”

Grian pouted anyway. “You know that’s not guaranteed.” 

His gaze drifted over the vast, golden field. Bluecrest was a really large kingdom, and the chances of their paths ever truly crossing were impossibly slim. That, coupled with the obviously stark class difference between them, felt like an insurmountable barrier he hadn’t dared fully considering.

Scar was quiet for a moment, then he held Grian closer, beginning to rock back and forth, slowly yet gently. Grian let out a confused noise, instinctively trying to push himself away, but his friend was quick to explain. “We’re dancing. Don’t worry, I’m an expert.”

Grian laughed, a little unsure. “Scar, what—”

He cut himself off as the man pulled him fully into the dance, swaying in time with the sunflowers, the quiet rustle of the leaves, the distant call of an unseen bird, and the steady thrum of Scar's chest against his ear. It shouldn’t have been graceful in the slightest, as Grian didn’t at all know what he was doing — but Scar took the lead effortlessly, holding him close like he was something precious. 

It was foreign to him. The dancing, yes, but also the intimacy of it. It wasn’t like he minded — but still. It was unfamiliar. 

“We don’t even have any music,” he muttered anyway, because that was easier.

Scar didn’t seem to mind, and he began to hum. His voice, low and warm, sent a flutter through his chest and oh, he was so screwed.

Then, the humming turned into words, Scar's voice beginning to pick up the lines of a verse:

““Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:”

A sharp, cold flicker of surprise went through Grian, startling him. It was a melody he hadn't heard in years , an echo from a time he'd tried so hard to forget. 

And Scar — somehow — knew it.

This song made his skin crawl, a cold dread momentarily seizing him. It reminded him of cold stone and voices that spoke of comfort, even as they held needles behind their backs.

“And he smote upon the door a second time,
“Is there anybody there?” he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.”

As he continued to listen, though, Scar’s voice, low and resonant against him, imbued the old, unsettling rhythm with a strange, almost comforting cadence. 

And, against all logic, Grian found he didn't mind it.. 

He tightened his arms around Scar, and let his own voice join in. The familiar words, unspoken for so long, flowed from his throat, a shared whisper carried on the wind as their voices intertwined to continue the song:

“But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller’s call.”

They danced then, truly danced, enveloped in their quiet verse, two figures swaying in a field of giants under a sky turning to dusk. It was messy, probably, but it was theirs, and it felt so impossibly right that Grian had a hard time putting it all into words.

And, once the final verse faded, he whispered, because it felt like a whisper- moment . “I didn’t expect that song.”

Scar only chuckled, also whispering. “Well, I didn’t expect you to know it.”

Grian smiled, only a little somberly. “Guess there’s still a lot we don’t know about each other.”

Scar nodded, and then they stood there for a silent, peaceful moment, arms still tight around each other. While it was a strong hold, it wasn’t suffocating. Grian would stay here for the next millenia and a half if he could, held motionless as the natural world slowly absorbed them, weaving them into the dirt. He thought of flowers blossoming underneath their skin, vines braiding two beings into one, bathed in the gentle light of a never-ending sunset.

Scar sighed, his hold loosening slightly as he exhaled. Grian looked up again, allowing himself a glance at the man he loved.

Loved.

The thought arrived unbidden, a jarring, physical blow that emptied his lungs. 

He loved Scar.

He…

Stars. 

Grian felt his heart squeeze, a suddenly painful sensation that threatened to spill over and suffocate him.

Because… that was the crushing truth, wasn't it?  

He couldn't love Scar. How could he love a man he'd only ever met in dreams? Someone whose very existence in the waking world was still a question, no matter how intimately, undeniably right it all felt?

He couldn't. Yet, he did. Grian loved him — and in some hidden corner of his heart, he supposed he'd known it all along.

“I wish I could take you to see views like these in real life,” Scar confessed, still holding him so impossibly gently — and Grian couldn’t do anything but nod silently, burying his face back in the man’s chest.

He hoped the sun never set.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Chapter Text

“Can I help you?”

The apprentice was tall, standing in front of him with her brown hair in a neat ponytail and her face set into a stone cold sneer. She’d approached pretty much the second Grian had set foot in the establishment, piercing blue eyes fixated on him as she’d walked out from behind the little desk at the far end of the room. 

She leaned in closer, to the point where she sort of towered over him. Grian wasn’t intimidated. He smiled, gaze travelling over all the different displays and mannequins in the room. He put his hands behind his back and cocked his head to the side. “Oh, yes actually! I’m just so into fashion, and I’d love to have a look at all the exquisite clothing Mr. Napier’s made.”

She scowled, disbelief clear on her face. He continued, expression as pleasant as ever. “I’m quite the fan, you see.”

The room was spacious, burgundy wallpaper paired with dark, wooden accents and an extravagant chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The ceiling wasn’t particularly high, so the chandelier wasn’t large, but it painted the picture well enough. There were paintings decorating the walls, and a fireplace surrounded by soft, sumptuous armchairs where he suspected any potential customers were meant to wait while the tailor prepared to welcome them. Grian knew he would not be taking a seat.

“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” The apprentice asked after a moment of silence, gaze visibly scrutinizing as she gave him a once-over. ”We typically don’t see… your kind, here.”

She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, the other hand resting on the hip of her dress. It was made of fine and smooth fabric, perfectly fitted to her form. The pearly white apron she’d paired it with was of the same high-quality textiles — though he imagined she found it to be more of a nuisance than anything else.

He was mildly offended at her comments, actually. He’d truly done his very best to appear presentable for this visit, thank you very much, even taking a bath and brushing out his hair. Definitely not just because he knew he wouldn’t even be given a chance if he hadn’t. Yet still, like a bloodhound, it seemed she’d instantly picked up on the smell of the slums that must’ve just radiated off of him, despite his best efforts. A shame. 

Anyways.

“Yes,” Grian smiled, so wide his teeth were showing. “I’m quite certain.”

The apprentice watched him for another moment, sighing, hardly even bothering to hide the way she rolled her eyes. Then, she turned around, haphazardly gesturing for him to follow her.

She walked over to a corner of the room where elegant mannequins displayed a selection of exquisite dress suits. Nearby, a tall, gold-accented mirror reflected the opulent wooden desk behind it. The desk itself was a controlled chaos of artistry: rolls of fine cloth lay half-unfurled, mingled with gleaming scissors, measuring tapes, and a set of pins and needles.

With the apprentice turned away from him, he let the smile on his face fall slightly.

Truth be told, Grian wasn't interested in fashion in the slightest. He had absolutely zero interest in Mr. Napier and his exquisite designs, or whatever it was he’d described them as.

He did, however, know of its importance to the mission. A masquerade ball for the elite was a place of superficiality, where one's attire would be a high point of discussion and scrutiny. The resistance had agreed that if he was to avoid suspicion, he couldn’t just show up in the first thing they found.

So, since it was he who would be wearing the disguise, it was he who had been burdened with the task of obtaining it.

Unfortunately, a suit fitting a noble was anything but cheap.

The apprentice had stopped, now glaring at him with her arms crossed. Her left foot tapped impatiently at the polished wooden floor, creating a grating loop of click, click, clicks in the otherwise silent room. The facade was back on, and Grian took his time looking at all the different pieces on the shelves, almost making a show out of it.

Despite his disinterest, he wasn’t below recognizing good craftsmanship — and this tailor sure as hell didn’t possess it. Technically, the pieces were well-made — but that didn’tt mean much when there was no passion to them. That even he could tell there was something stale and almost manufactured about the roster really spoke of the hands who had made them. Ouch.

Still, he pointed at one of the suits, smile still wide and carefully composed. “Could I see that one, please?”

Begrudgingly, as if the very act was causing her great pain, the apprentice took the piece from the display. She moved toward one of the empty mannequins to begin the process of dressing it, something aggressive in her movements to properly convey her utter discontentment with the situation.

It was a good thing the tailor himself wasn’t here right now. Otherwise, Grian knew he wouldn’t have been given this amount of patience.

Might as well stretch it further.

“Oh, actually,” He said, and she sighed, turning around with the suit still folded neatly in her hands. “Could I see that one instead? Forgive me, I’m just so indecisive.”

He pointed at a different suit, not paying much attention to which one  — and she pursed her lips in annoyance, placing the previous set of clothing on the wooden desk nearby. 

The story goes like this:

Whilst the cat’s attention is focused elsewhere, the treat is left unattended. The mouse, who had been watching quietly, takes advantage of this, sneaking forward silently to grab it. 

And when the cat turns back around, no trace is left behind.

“Ah, sorry!” He calls, one foot already out the door and the satchel at his hip just that much heavier. “Gotta go! Thanks for having me!”

He briefly managed to catch her expression, and had to stifle a laugh. Her face is, for once, not twisted in irritation — instead only bewildered and confused. The mannequin was only half dressed, but the bell rings, the door was shut, and Grian was nowhere to be seen

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

As he raced down the blocks, giddy and snickering to himself, he paid the glaring looks thrown his way no mind. This wasn’t his side of town, and he relished in it. Shops, signs and faces all turned into a blur as he runs, runs and runs.

This was his favorite part. This was what he lived for.

Once safely tucked away in the safety of a darkened alleyway, he leaned against the brick walls, catching his breath with a wide grin still on his face. This one, however, was genuine. It’s just so hard to feel bad for the classist assholes he tends to target, and this lady was no exception.

Deciding to finally have a proper look at the fruit of his labor, the satchel was opened, and the suit was fished out.

And…

Well.

It’s just a suit. He doesn’t know what he expected, honestly. With its plain, black coloring and silver buttons, it’s rather unimpressive. Certainly not worth the steep price they were selling it for.

Still, he wasn’t particularly worried. Ren (who actually was ’just so into fashion’) had offered to help him put a proper disguise together, not trusting Grian to do so himself. A wise decision, in all honestly, but it also meant that all Grian was doing was providing Ren with a base to work off of.

Even so, he should be allowed to complain.

Grian exhaled, allowing himself another moment to celebrate the successful heist. He didn’t think it could ever get old — the adrenaline rush of using prejudice and the oldest tricks in the book to get what he wanted for free, and the giddy escape that followed. It was like a drug to him. Pearl didn’t get it. Jimmy did, but he couldn’t do it. It didn’t matter. Grian still loved it.

He closed the satchel and looked up, deciding it was time to begin heading home. He’d done his usual round of the city already, and the apprentice would probably have alerted the guards right about now. No reason to risk capture.

As he walked through the alleyways, though, he went over the information he’d gathered that day in his head. It was certainly a delight to be outside again, and the past week, Bluecrest had been bustling. It was enticing, and very much expected a week before the grand masquerade ball.

Yet, it wasn't the vibrant, slightly chaotic energy you’d expect from a city preparing for such an event. Instead, it was quite… bitter. That’s a good word for it.

And Grian supposed that it made sense. Only nobles were invited, and the ball was of course being funded by the state. Money that was supposed to go back into the kingdom wasn’t being used that way again, and it seemed that the people’s patience had finally reached some sort of a breaking point. Grian knew that pretty much only nobles still supported the monarchy, but the level of support for the resistance had still been growing exponentially as of late.

He wasn’t complaining, of course. It was without a doubt a good thing. It’d been decades, and it was about time the people stood up for themselves. The knowledge of that certainly served to fuel his own motivation to drive that dagger straight through the King’s throat as soon as possible.

He’d been leading this resistance for years now, and the ball was only a week away, with their plan finally coming together. Next week, the King would be six feet under, nothing more than a memory of a time long gone.

So.

Why was it that Grian kept wondering?

The King had been crowned at seventeen upon his father's death, whose passing had initially been met with celebration. The old King’s rule had been borderline tyrannical, and there were hopes of things finally changing. But things never did. The new King never ended up lifting a finger for his kingdom.

That was common knowledge — his reign defined by inaction, his name and face unknown to most, confined within the castle walls.

Look closer, though, and you’d see clear mismanagement of funds and pervasive corruption had taken root. It was that realization that had pushed Grian to start the resistance in the first place.

But what he hadn’t considered then — and had since learned — was that whether or not these decisions stemmed directly from the King was actually quite vague. Even the wanted posters for the resistance seemed half-hearted when no real efforts were ever made to capture or stop their movement. Only the distant lure of money, hoping someone would eventually fold — which nobody ever did.

And most recently, Grian had realized that the King probably just didn't actually care.

And wasn’t that a strange prospect? Any other ruler in his shoes would be fighting tooth and nail to crush a rebellion like theirs. This odd passivity, coupled with the recent, unexplained changes in guards and patrol teams...

Well. It made Grian think.

And that was dangerous.

He was only a year older than this King. Almost nothing was known about the ruler, and his direct involvement in the corruption was unproven. But he still held the greatest power in the kingdom, and he was actively choosing to do nothing. There was no use fabricating justifications or seeking sympathy for a man he had never even met. A man who clearly didn't care, and probably never would.

The King was, at best, a political pawn, Grian reminded himself. One death to save millions. By his calculations, that was a net positive.

And so, one foot in front of the other, he kept moving. He was in the slums now, which he could tell by the amount of dirt and broken glass bottles littered over the ground, paired with the faint smell of alcohol and urine.

Ah. Home sweet home, or whatever they say.

Although… Things were weirdly quiet, here. The slums weren't usually filled with commotion the way the city centre was — but something about the silence felt… odd.

He turned left, and immediately spotted someone, causing him to jump back behind the wall.

Upon further inspection, he recognized the stranger not as a threat, but as a little boy. He was covered in dirt and grime, seven years old at most. He was sitting on a blanket by the side of the road, with a little cup next to him and a sign asking for donations or food.

His stomach churned, and Grian cursed himself for forgetting to save something in his satchel for moments like these. On top of that, he'd given all their gold to Pearl, who was currently helping Etho and Doc with something related to the mission that she refused to give him details about.

He sighed. He always tended to see himself in the poor kids on the street — but this one was especially analogous. Asking for donations wasn't a common strategy, but he vaguely recalled doing it once or twice with Pearl and Jimmy — before learning the hard way that the reason nobody did it was that people either didn't have any money to give or simply didn’t want to.

This child, though, being as young as he was. Stars, he hated seeing it. Grian had been young too, the first time. Four years old, probably. Far too little to survive even a day out there, and he suspected this kid wouldn't either. Luckily (or unfortunately, depending on how you see it) he didn't have to be out there for long. At least not the first time.

But this kid didn’t have anybody to take him in. Nobody to help him.

And Grian couldn't help him either. Not today.

He begun walking again, fighting the urge to turn back around and ask this kid to come with him to their shack. He couldn’t do it. They didn’t have the space or the resources to care for him properly.

But soon, he’d be able to. Soon, this would all be fixed.

However — that was when he heard footsteps. Not one pair, but a set of them.

Now, footsteps weren't anything rare, but these ones certainly were. These ones were enough to make him freeze. These ones made him duck back in behind the wall again.

These ones were familiar.

Not even a moment later, two silhouettes rounded the corner at the end of the road — and if the footsteps made him freeze, the silhouettes absolutely paralyzed him.

Polished black shoes clinking against cobblestone, long dark cloaks and robes draped around their forms. Their faces were hidden, and as they neared, Grian could make out the faint symbol on their masks.

He inhaled. Held it. Gloved hands over his mouth to stifle the sound.

They didn't look too different from when he'd last seen them — which would be an odd thing if he wasn't so terrified. Some part of him expected them to break out of their eerily graceful stride and straight up lunge at him.

But they couldn't see him there. So they wouldn't try to take him again.

And they didn't. In fact, they walked right past him.

But no breath of relief ever left his lips, because they'd stopped walking.

And the little boy was still there.

Right.

There.

And they were talking to him.

⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆

He’s hungry. So hungry. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’d last eaten, but surely it’s been long enough. He can’t imagine he can last much longer.

He’s a little bit scared, too. But only a little bit. He’s a big boy, now. Just… he doesn’t really know where his mother went. He hasn’t seen her in a while. He hopes she’s okay.

It’s going to rain soon. He knows that smell — the sharp, damp kind. There’s an empty market stall by the road, its wooden frame slightly crooked, canvas flapping in the wind. He’s been standing under it for a while now. It’ll keep him dry, but only for a little while. When she comes back, they’ll go home. She’ll give him food if he asks nicely. She always does.

He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t remember ever seeing this place before. The buildings are tall, dark stone with pointy roofs, and the streets are made of cobblestone that hurt his feet to walk on. It reminds him a little of the books she reads to him before bed. Like Nottingham from Robin Hood.

Robin Hood. He’s a real hero. He would take from the rich and give to the poor.
He hopes Robin Hood gives his mother some gold next time. He hates seeing her cry.

He’d asked a man earlier if he’d seen her. The man just frowned, muttered something, and kept walking. Maybe he didn’t hear the question.

Oh. The rain is falling. She is still not back.

Maybe she’s testing him. Seeing if he can wait patiently. He’s patient.

He’s getting tired. He wants to sleep.

There’s a group of strange, cloaked figures walking down the street. They have umbrellas. Maybe they’ve seen his mother.

It’s thundering now. His clothes are wet. He doesn’t like the rain. It makes him feel cold and sticky.

They want to know where his mother is. He thought they would know. Has she gone home without him?

They’re saying it’s okay. He can stay with them until she comes back, in their mansion. They have food there. And a warm bed.

He’s so hungry. And sleepy. He doesn’t want to be patient anymore.

They want to know his name. That’s easy.

”I’m Grian.”

⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆

Grian wished he wasn’t such a coward, sometimes.

He was locked in place. Cold and still. Frozen.

He couldn’t see the little boy anymore — not really. They were surrounding him, their dark forms shifting like shadows, forming an impenetrable wall. Blocking Grian’s view. Blocking any onlookers path, hiding the child. He knew it was strategic. It always was.

His feet wouldn’t move. He could feel the phantom threads of mycelium coiled around his ankles, tight as garrote wire, cinching down with every passing second. Too tight. They threatened to cut off circulation entirely.

Was it raining? It must’ve been. A damp chill clung to his skin, a thousand icy pinpricks. He hated the rain. Hated it.

He…

He should do something.

It wasn’t the same anymore. Not like it used to be. If he just reached out — if he touched them — they wouldn’t even see it coming. They wouldn’t be able to fight back. He could end it before it started. He could save this boy.

It didn’t have to happen again.

Not anymore.

But the threads held, unyielding, and he stayed where he was.

He was shaking. Just slightly.

Why were they here? Why now? Why were they still doing this?

The questions clanged around inside his skull, loud and relentless, leaving no room for answers — no room for anything.

They hadn’t seen him, right?

Oh. They were already walking back the way they came from. Three silhouettes, one much shorter than the others. A sick wave of nausea rose in Grian's gut.

That didn't just happen, did it?

That— That wasn't—

They were gone, now. He was still there. Alone in the sudden, echoing silence of the alley.

The threads loosened slightly, a slow, agonizing unraveling, and he could feel his heart slowing down, thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird. The fuzzy feeling in his skull dissipated, and the edges of his vision sharpened.

He could think properly again.

He could…

Stars, what was he doing?

Throwing all caution to the wind, he sprinted out of his hiding spot, his desperate momentum toppling one of the bins by the alley's edge with a clatter that rang deafeningly in the quiet street. Buildings and faces turned into a blur. He didn't have time to catalogue it, and he didn't care either. He had to find them. He couldn't let them just get away like that.

The narrow streets gave way to an opening, and he suddenly found himself in the city center again. There were a lot more people here. Men and women in all sorts of dresses and suits — but none in dark, purple robes.

Like someone poured cold water over his head, he blinked, disoriented.

They were gone.

And he...

He’d just let that happen, hadn’t he?

"Fucking hell..." he rasped, the words barely above a whisper. Maybe he hadn’t even uttered them at all.

Grian didn't cry. He didn't. Still, some part of him felt like a child again, small and utterly helpless. Like he’d never even left in the first place. It was unfair how much power they still held over him. He was a grown man. He was the leader of a resistance. He was going to assassinate a King.

Why was just seeing them enough to completely paralyze him? Why couldn't he just get it together for once?

He sighed. The lack of nightmares over the past few weeks had clearly been enough to make him forget. Lulling him into this false sense of security, rendering him utterly useless when it truly mattered.

There was no security. He wasn't safe. Nobody was, and they never would be. Not until that cult had been properly dealt with.

Grian sighed again.

He should go home.

⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆

He didn’t get a break at home, either.

The minute Grian stepped into the little shack, Pearl and Jimmy fell quiet mid-conversation. They didn’t say anything, but their eyes flicked to him in perfect sync — just for a second — before they both looked away again.

He never wanted them to worry. He hated when they worried. But of course they did. Of course they always would. It was inevitable, given everything they'd been through together.

Still, they were merciful, returning to their conversation and giving him a pass.

At first.

You see, tension has a way of lingering — and Grian felt it wrap around him the moment he sat down in their usual little circle on the floor.

It was during dinner that he finally let himself acknowledge it. The stiffness in the air. The way Pearl's fingers tapped rhythmically against her bowl — a steady, unconscious beat. The way Jimmy kept glancing at him, sharp and fluttery, like a bird unsure whether to bolt or stay perched.

He chose to ignore it. Instead, he focused on forcing down mouthfuls of soup, bland and thick, each swallow dragging against the bile that still clung to the back of his throat. Every sip tasted like metal.

He’d never been so acutely aware of his gloves. The constant pressure on his hands, the cling of fabric against his skin. He was immensely grateful for them, and he wanted to rip them off and throw them into the fire.

The low hum of a conversation he hadn’t been listening to petered out entirely.

Silence.

Great.

And so, Grian gave up on the now-cold soup, pushing the bowl aside. When he looked up, both Pearl and Jimmy were watching him.

He’s never liked being watched.

"Grian? Are you... alright, dude?" Jimmy's voice was hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask. He rarely sounded like that. Usually he’d crack a joke, redirect attention, lighten the mood — because that was what worked best for him.

Unfortunately, not this time.

"Yes," Grian replied easily, shrugging. "Just a bit tired."

"No, you're not," Pearl said flatly, waving her spoon for emphasis. "Tell us what's up, Griba. Don’t lie to us."

"Wrong," Grian smirked, crossing his arms. "Prove I’m lying. You can’t, ’cause I’m not."

"You’re deflecting," Pearl deadpanned.

She didn’t even sound annoyed — just certain. It just made it all worse.

"Maybe you can fool Jimmy with that whole shebang, but you can't fool me."

His sister had always been more direct. Her and Jimmy made a good team in these instances, as they knew exactly when to give him space and when to corner him. Most days, it worked in his favor.

Today, of course, just had to be the outlier.

"Hey!" Jimmy squawked, reaching over to swat at her — but his hand froze mid-air, and his expression dropped when he realized Grian wasn’t laughing. Pearl realized as well, raising an eyebrow.

Grian looked away.

Shit.

Mentally kicking himself, he sighed. "Look, can we just… come back to this later? I wasn’t lying when I said I was tired."

Pearl looked like she'd just been told the sky was fake. She stared at him, arms crossed tightly, mouth set in a skeptical line. It was as if the very idea of not confronting the issue immediately offended her on a molecular level. Maybe it did. In all honesty, Grian couldn’t bring himself to care right now. He just wanted to go to bed.

Jimmy made a face. "I mean, we could, but... I don’t know if we should. You’ve been acting weird, man."

Pearl nodded, and Grian’s scowl deepened. "In what way have I been acting weird?"

"Well, for starters…” Pearl started, raising a finger. "You’ve been distant. Like you’re not even here.”

"Unfocused," Jimmy chimed in, mimicking her gesture with his own finger.

"Right. And you’ve been taking more risks lately, too."

Grian frowned. "That was because I was drunk. We’ve been over this."

"Yeah. Drunk. That’s another thing." She raised a third finger. "You never used to let yourself go that far."

"Well—"

"I’m not done yet," Pearl cut in, holding up a fourth finger. "You came home tonight looking like you’d seen a ghost. You say you’re tired, but you look like you’ve experienced the horrors. That expression isn’t a sign of fatigue. Trust me — I would know."

"You would?" Jimmy asked, side-eyeing her.

Pearl punched him lightly. "I’m tired all the time. Don’t act like that’s news."

"That’s because you stay up all night—"

"Not important!" she declared, then returned her gaze to Grian, expression steely. "Point is, something’s wrong. Don’t try to tell us otherwise. If you don’t talk, I will pry it out of you."

"Oddly threatening," Grian muttered. Then he exhaled, shoulders slumping. ”Stars— Fine, maybe I’ve been a little… worried. Lately."

"Yeah?" Jimmy asked, straightening.

Grian's gaze drifted to the window. It was dark, now. He could make out clusters of stars in the moonlit sky. Space was vast — millions of burning embers floating endlessly, and the Earth just one small rock among them.

He felt impossibly small.

In this tiny alleyway, the shack, the life he and his siblings had painstakingly carved out for themselves — he felt microscopic. What was he, in a world of so many others? What is a smudge on your shoe, when there’s a hundred more on someone else’s?

Nothing.

"I don't like the idea of… you know. Using the spores on a person."

Silence.

Pearl's eyes widened. Jimmy’s mouth formed an ‘O.’ Realization hit like a slap.

Grian offered a sheepish glance between the two. "I know I should’ve said something, but… I didn’t want to worry you. The mission comes first and all that.”

Pearl shuffled closer, pulling him in for a hug. She cautiously avoided direct contact with his hands. It was a familiar dance, one everyone around him performed without a second thought. He didn’t use to think much of it, either.

"You need to stop thinking like that," she said softly. Her arms tightened around him. "You’re allowed to be a person too, you know."

Grian remained still, unable to bring himself to reciprocate.

Somewhere in the room, Tilly whined, and his vision was suddenly filled with fluffy grey hair and a wet lick at his face.

Jimmy snickered, and Grian grimaced, wiping his cheek. "Ew."

"Don't say 'ew' to her! She's trying to comfort you!" Pearl exclaimed, pulling back.

"Well, tell her to find a different way. I don't know where else she's had that snout, and I certainly do not want it on my face. Gonna make me catch something," Grian grumbled, still wiping the dog’s saliva off of his face.

Jimmy was laughing properly now. Pearl sighed, muttering something about Tilly being 'the most clean dog she's ever had' and how he was speaking nonsense – but ultimately, she didn’t argue.

Eventually, Jimmy  calmed down, and Pearl leaned back on her hands, meeting his eyes again. ”Look. If you don't want to do it, I'm sure someone else can. They'd understand."

Grian shook his head. "No. I'm doing it. You guys would be at a bigger disadvantage, and there’s no reason to risk that."

"Right," Pearl nodded slowly, something somber in her eyes.

Jimmy hummed. "You'd only have to do it if something went wrong anyway, and it won’t, ’cause we’re experts.”

Experts.

"Yeah," Grian nodded numbly. "You're right."

He already knew that.

⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆

I t wasn’t relief that hit him this time.

A desert. Seriously? Of all dreamscapes, this time just had to be a desert. An infinite expanse of dull sand.

Where he would’ve usually found comfort in the idea of once again finding himself in one of these shared dreams, there was none. He would’ve preferred a night without them, for once. Even with the nightmares. They were, at the very least, straightforward.

There was a mountain in the distance, with a building that vaguely resembled a sandcastle perched at its peak. That must be where they were meant to talk, then.

It wasn’t a small mountain by any means — in fact, it was remarkably tall. The thought of climbing it felt terribly daunting, and for a moment, he considered just staying at the base. That is, until he spotted a long staircase carved into the hillside, winding steadily toward the summit. So much for that idea.

He was still tired. A dull headache throbbed behind his eyes — strange, since the dreams usually wiped out any lingering pain. But he couldn’t bring himself to dwell on it.

Grian took a deep breath, collected himself, and began the climb.

The stairs were steep, and sand was everywhere. A dry gust of wind passed by, flinging grains into his hair and clothes. It itched.

Thankfully, dream logic meant the climb didn’t leave him winded. Before long, he reached the top.

The so-called sandcastle wasn’t much of a castle at all. It was more a cluster of sandstone towers fused together, each one rising to a different height. Lanterns hung from the edges of its many roofs, swaying gently in the breeze.

He walked up to the door and pushed it open.

A short corridor stretched out before him, leading to a larger room. Off to the right, a smaller room branched off to what looked like a kitchen, judging by the wooden cabinets and the sandstone furnace tucked in the corner. He didn’t linger.

Instead, he continued down the corridor toward the larger room, which turned out to be a sort of living area. A makeshift couch sat facing a fireplace, and a small carpet — likely made from llama wool — was spread across the floor. Against one of the walls leaned a wooden ladder, leading to the second floor.

Most of the rooms on the following floors were empty. There was one that had a single bed in it, but not much else. Eventually though, he found himself standing on the roof of the tallest tower, high above the desert floor.

Up here, the wind was harsher, and sandy winds whipped his face insistently. The sun was setting by the horizon, and Grian could already start to make out tiny speckles of stars in the sky. He stood by the edge of the roof, peering down — and that was when he spotted Scar.

He had clearly just made the ascent up the staircase as well, hand by his forehead to shield his gaze from the sun. He moved around, turning and spinning as if looking for something. Someone.

Scar looked up, finally, and as they made eye contact, his face brightened in that way that never failed to make Grian’s heart skip a beat. Somehow, Grian was surprised to see him. It didn’t make sense. They’d done this dance more times than he could count, at this point. Scar being there whenever Grian closed his eyes was an inevitability more than it was a coincidence.

Scar entered the house, and it didn’t take long before brown hair and bright green eyes joined him on the roof. Arms snaked around him from behind, and Grian went limp in the embrace.

And…

”You’ve been acting distant. Like you’re not even here.”

”Unfocused.”

He stiffened.

What… what is he doing?

When did he become this… soft? Vulnerable? What happened to him?

His heart pounded in his ears. He shook the arms off, breaking the contact, stepping forward to lean over the edge again. Watching the dunes shift in the wind — a landscape constantly in motion, yet never changing. It wasn’t interesting in the slightest.

Scar made a quiet sound of confusion behind him, but didn’t protest. He stepped up beside him instead, standing quietly.

It didn’t break Grian’s heart. He didn’t wish Scar would pull him back into the warmth of that embrace, because then he could pretend none of this was his choice. That this connection wasn’t something he’d invited in.

And yet…

It terrified him, suddenly, how hard he’d let himself fall. He’d fallen for people before. Of course he had. But not like this. Never this fast, never this consuming. Never to the point that he knew — without a doubt — that Scar could kill him right now, and he’d thank him for it.

That wasn’t normal. That couldn’t be normal.

How do you love someone who isn’t real?

Because that’s what this was. A dream. A mirage conjured by longing. A fictive reality born from his own desire for… comfort and companionship.

As if he didn’t already have that. As if his siblings, the resistance, the shack, and even Tilly weren’t enough. As if the real world didn’t already offer him something to hold onto. But no. Here he was. Losing himself to this fake version of life, where he isn’t who he is and has the ability to love and touch and feel without restrictions.

It’s stupid. It’s everything. It’s…

Not real.

It’s not.

Scar still hadn’t said anything. Grian hated it. Hated how he backed off, how he gave him space, how he didn’t push. Because he knew him, now. Knew him far too well.

Jeez. Take the spores away for one second and he’ll lose every ounce of self control. Scar didn’t even know what he was getting himself into. What he’d already gotten into.

A moment passed. Then another.

Grian could feel Scar watching him. Not impatient. Not angry. Just waiting. It made him feel like a live wire, buzzing but empty. He should say something. But he couldn’t.

He was shaking again. Fuck.

Finally, Scar broke the silence. “So… how are you?”

Deep breaths. In. Out. Repeat.

“Good. You?”

A pause.

“You…” another breath, softer this time. “You don’t seem good.”

Ungloved hands tightened around the wooden railing. Teeth grinding, a fragile thread stretching further and further. ”I’m fine.”

“I don’t— Are you sure? You know you can tell me anything…”

“But I can’t!” he snapped. “And I am sure! I’m fine, Scar. Why won’t you just believe that?”

Something broke. A thread pulled too tight. He didn’t look, but he could feel Scar flinch.

“I can tell you’re not okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.” A beat. “I’m just worried about you.”

Maybe this was a nightmare. It sure felt like one. Why couldn’t Scar just be angry? Yell at him. Walk away. That would’ve made this so much easier.

“I think you should worry about yourself instead of wasting your energy on me,” he muttered. “I don’t need your pity.”

Each word fell like a stone, heavy and final, cracking something inside him beyond repair. It wasn’t his heart, because his heart wasn’t involved with this man.

A hand landed softly on his shoulder.

He recoiled instantly, as if the touch burned — and made the mistake of looking.

Scar’s expression had crumpled — the light from earlier completely gone. He looked like a kicked puppy. His hand hovered awkwardly in the air, suspended where it had just been.

The last sliver of sunlight caught the edge of his face. He looked golden. Desert-born. He was beautiful. He was everything.

It made him feel ill.

His eyes burned, and his chest hurt in that deep, aching way it wasn’t supposed to.

“It’s not pity,” Scar said quietly. “…I love you, Grian. Please, just let me help you.”

Oh.

Scratch that. This wasn’t a dream. This was hell. His own personal hell. What had he done to deserve this?

Grian didn’t want to kiss the sadness off his face. He didn’t want to fix this, undo what he’d just done.

Because this wasn’t real.

“Just go, Scar. I can’t do this right now.”

He turned away, closing his eyes.

The silence that followed stretched long and thick, pressing down on him like a weight.

Eventually, he heard footsteps — and when he opened his eyes again, Scar was gone.

Chapter Text

The masquerade was less than 24 hours away.

During the week leading up to it, each night had been spent in meetings where they checked progress, assessed intel, and assigned duties, meticulously going over each and every detail of the plan. There weren’t a lot of moving parts, but each member of the resistance had been handed their own tasks to complete ahead of the big night, all of equal importance.

Honestly, it was a lot to keep track of. There was absolutely zero room for mistakes or slip-ups, and Grian wanted to make sure everything was ready and memorized in time.

Hence the frequent meetings.

He could tell the amount of meetings was wearing on them a little — but it was also necessary.

Or, well. He thought so, and nobody really argued with him on the matter.

Now, Grian wasn’t anxious, per se — but he was just a little bit stressed, and that paired with his habit to fuss wasn’t actually a wonderful combination.

Still. He pushed on.

Candles flickered in the bioluminescent glow of mycelium, casting a soft light on the nine, masked silhouettes seated around the meeting table.

"Alright team," Grian announced, clasping his hands together with finality. "Let’s recap one last time. Impulse, XB, Jevin?"

Impulse nodded, clearing his throat, and the three of them stood.

”So, as we know by now, all the guests will be entering through this gate,” he said, pointing at the entrance of the castle displayed on the map lying sprawled across the table. Beside it, laid various old chess pieces, serving as budget markers.

Impulse picked one up. ”There will be guards stationed over here,” he explained, placing the marker down, ”and here.” He placed another one. ”They’ll be checking the invites and their legitimacy.”

XB nodded, continuing the breakdown. ”From there, guests will proceed through the main entrance into the ballroom. Upon entering, they will be announced by their name and title.”

”Lord Poultry,” Jimmy snickered, and Grian rolled his eyes.

”Yes, that is the alias we’re working with,” Xb confirmed, grinning. ”The guests will mingle, and after an hour or so, the King himself will show up.”

Jevin smiled enthusiastically. ”And that’s when the real fun begins. Thanks to our intel, we know that the King will be looking for a partner to spend the evening with. That means he’ll be susceptible toward any advances, which will be the key for you to get closer to him.”

”Which means I’ll need to flirt with him,” Grian muttered, running a hand over his face. ”Stars, help us all.”

Pearl grinned. ”Don’t worry, you’re an expert!”

Grian shot her a murderous look, which she leveled with an innocent smile. He sighed, looking back at Jevin. ”Continue, please.”

”Right, right,” Jevin chuckled. ”Well. Getting close to the King is the one thing we actually can’t plan, so you’ll just need to rely on your social skills here — which we, as you just heard, have full faith in.”

”And,” Impulse smiled. ”Once that’s done, you’ll just need to ask him to go somewhere more private, and bada-bing bada boom, he’ll be dead before morning!”

”Yeah!” Jimmy cheered.

”Oh, stop it. We shouldn’t be taking our victory for granted.” Grian laughed. ”Let’s go over what you’ll be doing in the meantime.”

Xb exhaled, picking up various markers and placing them down sporadically outside of the castle walls. ”The rest of us will mostly be on the lookout for any incoming guards, distracting them if necessary. Etho and Pearl will be keeping track of your location in order to assist with the escape.”

Etho groaned. ”Which we’ve gone over about a hundred times, so can we please skip it tonight?”

”Come on,” Grian smirked, crossing his arms. ”It’s our very last meeting, one more time won’t kill you.”

Etho sighed.

”There’s an entrance to the underground tunnel network hidden behind a pillar by the ballroom. You’ll escape through there, meeting me and Pearl who will cover you from any potential pursuers,” he grumbled, a smile evident in his voice despite the masks covering his face.

Satisfied, Grian beamed at him, giving him a thumbs up. Then, he switched his focus to his left, stifling a yawn.

”Ren,” He called. ”Why don’t you continue? You still haven’t shown us what you did with that suit I got you, and I am so very curious.”

Ren — who had been sitting with his legs crossed on the table, leaning back his chair — looked toward him, putting his feet back on the ground. He stood up swiftly with a sharp grin on his face, causing it to almost fall over.

He strode to a shadowed corner of the room, and then reappeared with a custom-built wooden case, polished to a dark sheen. Holding it in his hands, he showed the box to those seated around the table, never missing an opportunity to be dramatic.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” Ren announced, his hands sweeping wide. ”I’ve created a masterpiece. A creation sure to convince even the most observant noble.”

Instead of opening the case, though —  he simply smiled, smug. ”But, it shall be a surprise.”

”A surprise?” Grian questioned, raising an eyebrow. ”Is that really necessary?”

Ren chuckled, crossing his arms. ”Of course it’s necessary, dude! It’s all about the dramatics — and besides, it’s not everyday you get the chance to style someone for a royal ball. It’s gotta be special.”

He said the last words teasingly, shoving it into Grian’s arms. ”Now, take care of that alright? Let me know if I should adjust anything.”

Grian laughed lightly. ”You got it. Thank you.”

Ren took his seat again, and Grian placed the box on a nearby barrel. Then, he looked up again, ignoring the stinging beneath his eyelids as his gaze turned searching. ”Now, Pearl… what did you do with all of that gold I gave you?”

His sister stood up, smiling widely. She quickly gestured for Doc and Etho to join her as she walked excitedly to the center of the meeting table. The three of them then stood beside each other, smug grins on their faces.

”Alright,” Etho started. ”So. We’ve been busy.”

”Real busy,” Pearl chimed in.

”…Preparing something that we think will significantly better our chances of avoiding suspicion.”

Doc nodded. ”We’ve gotten you a carriage!”

Grian stared dryly at the trio for a moment, expecting some sort of elaboration, or reveal that they were joking. But when none ever came, he sighed, stifling a laugh. ”Are you guys just playing dress up with me?”

”Us? Never!” Pearl said rather unconvincingly in his opinion, cackling. ”People will be arriving in style, and if we want it to be convincing, you gotta do it too.

Etho nodded seriously. ”Jimmy will be the coachman.”

Grian gave a long-suffering sigh.

”I absolutely hate it…. But you’re right,” he admitted, shaking his head fondly. ”Stars, fine. Let’s do it.”

The room filled with cheers. Grian scoffed, clapping loudly to quiet everyone down.

”With that said,” he yelled over the noise, waiting for it to disperse before continuing. ”I see no reason to keep you here longer, so without further ado — let’s wrap up, get home safely and have a good night’s sleep, alright?”

He put his hand in the center of the table. ”We strike tomorrow. I know I’ve been a bit antsy this past week, and I’m sorry for that — but I just need you to know that I truly believe in you all, and I know you believe in me as well. I have full faith that the mycelium resistance will come out on top. So, one final time… For the resistance?”

Eight pairs of hands gathered in the middle on top of his.

”For the resistance!”

⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆

It was dark.

Grian sighed, leaning back against the wooden walls of the shack. He could light a candle, in theory — but he also didn’t want to risk waking his siblings up. Jimmy was snoring loudly in his hammock, and Pearl had only just managed to fall asleep.

It was… Gosh, 3 AM? Something like that.

The meeting had ended maybe about two hours ago. He felt pretty confident regarding their plan and numerous backup plans — but he knew he’d never feel truly prepared, so it was a losing game, really.

It had been five years.

Five years since he’d started this movement, and he still remembered it like it was yesterday.

It probably wasn’t supposed to be a fond memory, but in all honestly, it was. Jimmy had come home one night, bruised and beaten. Said something about having another run-in with a pair of bored guards off duty, and being a young boy on the streets, only skin and bones — he’d made an easy target.

Grian had been furious.

It hadn’t been the first time that had happened, either. Hell, he himself had gotten a beating once or twice from the people who were supposed to keep them safe. Seeing it happen to his younger brother, though…

Well. It had been the straw that broke the camels back, so to speak.

Grian definitely admired his twenty-year old self for the determination required to start something like this. He definitely still possessed that fire, stubborn as he was, but he couldn’t ever imagine doing it again. It’d been hard enough getting people to join the movement when you couldn’t really advertise your activities on a billboard — and even harder for to get the people he did speak to to take him seriously.

Pearl and Jimmy had been a huge help. He’d forever be thankful for that.

Really, the resistance was a group effort. It’d been his idea, maybe — but he wasn’t ever meant to become the leader. It’d sorta just… happened. Mother Spore herself was a complete accident. One mishap during a mission, and suddenly all the papers were raving about some omnipotent cryptid who spread death wherever she touched. Like he was lady death herself, or something. Absolutely ridiculous.

But he couldn’t deny that Mother Spore had a nice ring to it, and you’d be surprised what a bit of strategized PR could do. The female pronouns had only helped keep his real identity concealed, so he’d had no complaints there either. Plausible deniability, and all that. Pretty lucky, if he’d say so himself.

Grian brought his hands up to his face, watching the moonlight bounce off of the leather surface of his gloves.

By this time tomorrow, the King would be dead.

The resistance would be finished. Mother Spore wouldn’t be needed anymore. The kingdom would be free.

And it was incredible — of course it was — but it was also slightly… well.

Unsettling, he supposed.

Now, Grian knew this was the selfish part of him speaking — but here, in the dead of the night, he couldn’t truly bring himself to fight these thoughts off.

What… was he meant to do? After this. The spores wouldn’t go away. Unless he found some sort of miracle cure, they’d most likely be there until the day he died — and even then, he couldn’t possibly know what would happen after.

The resistance gave this ability — if you could even call it that — a purpose. Made them something more than just an infection that killed anything he touched, because of course that had to be what he was given. Of course he couldn’t have been given anything useful.

So what were they without that? What was he without that? Without her?

He took the gloves off.

To the untrained eye, his hands would look — for the most part — normal. Smooth, pale skin, only slightly too thin for his age.

Look closer though, and you’d see the purple discoloration of the veins in his fingers. The ghostly glow to them that was only really visible in the dark. The small, pulsing, violet spores that were permanently fused with the skin of his fingertips.

He didn’t like looking at it. Never had. Preferred to think of it as… as magic, or something stupid like that. Not the things you could do with scalpels and needles if you were creative enough.

But it wasn’t. His hands had been normal in the dreams. Here, they were just… well — an abomination, to be frank. And what made it all worse was how he didn’t even know what the true purpose of it had been. Just that once it was done, he’d ’see things more clearly’. Whatever the hell that meant.

Bullshit, he reckoned. That was all they ever spoke. Riddles and poems about absolutely nothing for anyone dumb enough to listen. A child couldn’t possibly have known any better.

Grian scoffed, letting his head fall back against the wall.

He hadn’t been sleeping.

He knew how stupid that was. The masquerade was tomorrow, and not sleeping could impact the success of the mission. He’d need the energy. Desperately.

But he just… couldn’t.

Partially due to the fussing — but also due to the excellently timed resurgence of his paranoia. Some other things, also, though he didn’t feel like getting into that tonight.

It was fine. He’d stay up, keep his siblings safe. Make sure nobody ambushed them in the middle of the night.

And besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t been sleeping at all. He’d been taking naps during the day, when he knew it was safe. Just to make sure he didn’t pass out.

He looked up.

A spider crawled on the ceiling. It had spun a web, deep and intricate. The spider had caught its prey in it — a little moth. Defenseless and utterly stuck, fragile wings spasming against the threads holding it captive. Soon, the spider would come back, ready to sink its teeth into the small body.

Grian felt his eyes close, slowly but surely. He was so tired. He can’t sleep. Won’t.

The waters of sleep continued to pull him under, though. It felt... nice. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a little bit. Big day tomorrow, and all that. He’d wake up before he went too far. Too deep.

It’d be fine. He should just—

(A river. Two bodies, a head resting in the other’s lap, looking up at green eyes.

”Do you have parents?” The first asked, brown hair falling over his face in waves.

The other made a face, unreadable yet thoughtful.

After a moment: ”No. You?”

The brunette sighed. ”I used to. He died.”

”Oh. I’m sorry.”

”Don’t be,” he chuckled, running a hand through sandy locks. ”He wasn’t the best.”

The other nodded, leaning into the touch. ”Ah. My… parents weren’t great either.”

Green eyes hummed thoughtfully. Scarred skin scrunched up in consideration, before settling. ”Can I ask you something?”

”Anything.”

”How do you deal with it?”

The blonde raised an eyebrow. ”Deal with what?”

The gentle hand stilled for a moment. ”The guilt. I’m happy he’s dead, but… That’s kind of horrible, isn’t it?”

Ah.

Brown eyes searched green. Ambers and emeralds. Crowns of leaves. Rough treebank.

”I think it depends. Does he deserve mourning?”

SIlence.

”Doesn’t everyone?”

A somber smile. ”No. Not if they hurt you.”

The brunette nodded, thoughtful.

There were daisies in the weeds.)

Like someone had slapped him, he flew upright, blinking rapidly. He accidentally slammed against the wall, causing Pearl to stir.

Nope. Too far. He would not be thinking about that right now.

”Sleep, Griba,” she muttered, her sleepy voice the only audible thing in the silent room.

Grian sighed, whispering ”I’m going to. ”

She groaned, shifting slightly. ”I’m serious. Go to sleep. I thought I was the insomniac here.”

”Yeah, I know. I’m gonna,” he assured her, voice gentle as ever.

She seemed to accept that, as she stilled again, breathing evening out.

He felt ill.

The spider wasn’t moving. It was waiting. Watching, as the moth fought to free itself. Why, Grian didn’t know. Insects were weird.

Tilly whined in her sleep. Grian sighed, putting the gloves back on.

Finally, the moth broke free. The spider remained.

⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆

”Oh my god.”

Grian didn’t think he’d ever heard Jimmy sound that baffled before. Maybe once or twice in the past when he’d gotten a bit too greedy down at the market, or when things went a bit too far down at The Fairy Fort. Never really to this degree, though.

”Well? Do you think it’ll convince people?” Grian asked, gesturing toward himself.

There were two hours left, and he had just put on the disguise Ren had provided for the first time. It was an extravagant get-up, stiff and uncomfortable in all the ways you’d expect.

There was a suit jacket, which was velvet, a deep, rich black that absorbed the faint light streaming from the window of the shack. The edges of the lapels and collar sported golden accents, which glittered around the seams, matching the new golden buttons.

Beneath the jacket, Ren had given him a vest of deep, almost blood-red silk, paired with a crisp white dress shirt. The trousers contained a hidden, weighted pocket perfectly sized for a dagger.

There was a custom mask as well, which was still resting inside the box. It was crafted from papier-mâché, edged with a thin line of gold and golden swirls painted around the eyeholes. A single, deep crimson feather was tucked into its side, finalizing the look.

Excluding the feather, it was actually quite similar to the one he usually wore as Mother Spore. Just lacking all of the mushrooms and… mold.

Probably a good thing.

Honestly, it was a lot. Not anything against Ren. Of course not. Just— Stars. Grian hadn’t expected him to make something so detailed. He could only imagine the amount of time and resources had gone into creating this outfit, and Ren had done it for free.

It made him feel a little bit… odd. He couldn’t quite name it. Words were leaving him today, it seemed.

Jimmy let out a startled laugh. ”Do I think it’ll convince people? G, if I didn’t know you were my brother, I would’ve mistaken you for one of them.”

”Well, that’s good,” Grian grimaced. ”I don’t feel like myself, so that’s another plus.”

”Yeah, no kidding,” Jimmy breathed. ”Did Ren really make that?”

Grian nodded, fiddling with the edge of his glove. ”Yeah. He really knows his stuff. Remind me to never underestimate his sewing skills ever again.”

A moment of silence passed, before Grian sighed. ”This feels ridiculous.”

That got a cackle out of his brother. ”You look ridiculous, dude! It’s perfect!”

Grian gave him a dry glare, rolling his eyes.

Really, Jimmy shouldn’t be laughing. He was dressed rather ridiculously as well, sporting a long black overcoat with a short capelet, fastened with silver buckles and buttons. Along with it, he was wearing black trousers, black dress shoes, and a tall black top hat — all to sell his role as the coachman.

Grian was the oldest, though, so he made no comment. He was mature like that.

”Do you have the mycelium?” Jimmy asked, still staring and visibly holding back another fit of laughter.

He nodded. ”Yeah. Ren made a custom pocket for it. I’ve filled it with spores.”

That was another thing they’d gone over. The bioluminescent quality of the mushrooms were still an excellent and subtle communication device, so they would be using it tonight as well in case of emergencies. Three flashes. That was the signal they’d agreed on.

Suddenly, there were footsteps outside, and the door to the shack flew open. Pearl — hood over her face and expression overtly serious — stuck her head in. ”Are you boys coming? We gotta hurry up.”

Jimmy nodded, any trace of laughter leaving him, and Grian grabbed the mask out of the wooden box, stuffing it in one of his pockets. They crossed the room, joining their sister at the door.

Grian yawned as Pearl gave them both a once-over, the extent of her teasing being only a faint smile — and then they were on their way.

She was dressed in black and muted shades of red, matching the crimson of her cloak. Tilly walked beside her, vigilant and loyal as always.

Now — initially, Grian hadn’t loved the idea of bringing her along — but they were inseparable, so he’d just had to concede that one. At the very least, she had agreed on not bringing the dog down to the tunnels.

They stalked through the alleyways, Pearl leading the way. Because it wasn’t late enough for curfew to be in effect, it wasn’t very dark — which gave the added blessing of the streets being a lot easier to see.

Although, walking by itself wasn’t very fun in this outfit. He supposed he was a little jealous of Pearl in that regard.

Finally, they reached the very outskirts of town, where the streets gave way to the stone walls separating Bluecrest from the forests outside. Grian found his eyes lingering there. Hardly anyone in Bluecrest crossed those walls — not unless you were a noble or a farmer. There wasn’t danger, exactly, just… nothing worth the effort. He himself hadn’t stepped past them in years, and he doubted he ever would again.

Instead, he, Jimmy and Pearl made their way over to a seemingly abandoned stable located right against the wall, run down and vacant.

It wasn’t an interesting building, by any means, built with a straw roof and wooden walls. It was the kind of building you’d automatically skip over with your eyes, because it simply wasn’t intriguing enough to dwell on.

Pearl walked up to the doors, pushing it open and waving her hand to signal her brothers to follow. They obliged, and once they were inside, Pearl and Tilly joined them, closing the door behind them with a quiet thud.

Inside was just an empty stable with a few haybales decorating the corners. Not anything impressive. Pearl crossed the room, opening another door which lead to the back of the stable.

There, was a large, hidden clearing situated outside of the city walls. Under a canvas tarp, the carriage stood ready.

It wasn't a simple wagon, like Grian would’ve expected given the amount of gold he’d given Pearl — but rather, a sleek, expertly crafted coach with dark, polished wood and subtle golden accents that gleamed in the low light. Two horses were strapped to the vehicle, both of them a warm brown color with white spots and blonde manes. It looked incredibly convincing, to the point where he began wondering where they’d gotten ahold of it.

He ultimately decided that it didn’t really matter.

Around the carriage, two resistance members were waiting, their masked faces hidden from view. Still, Grian recognized them as Doc and Etho, who lingered near the carriage, masked faces turned toward their work. They were checking harnesses and fittings, but looked up when the door creaked open. Both grinned in greeting.

”Hey,” Pearl called. ”You got everything ready?”

”Yep,” Doc replied, fastening a buckle on one of the traces. ”Jimmy? Come here, I’ll show you how to steer.”

Jimmy brightened and scrambled onto the box seat, grabbing the reins with a grin.

While Doc talked him through the basics, Etho stepped out from behind the coach and crossed to Grian.

“Here,” he said, fishing a small box from his pocket, pressing it into his hand. “I was told to give you this.”

Grian took it, flipping open the lid.

Nestled inside lay a dagger, its sleek, double-edged blade catching the light with a cold glint. The hilt was a masterpiece of curling silver filigree, curling along the guard like frozen flames. The grip was just as ornate, ending in a rounded pommel set with a warm ruby stone.

Grian gripped it tight, shoving it into one of the hidden pockets of his suit jacket, determination filling him. Just seeing it was enough to make his heart raise with excitement.

Stars, he couldn’t wait.

”Thanks,” Grian said, glancing up.

Etho tilted his head, smiling. ”Ah, no worries. XB wanted to give it to you, but he’s with the others. We’ll be following the carriage all the way up to make sure you get in without issue.”

”Good,” Grian nodded, drawing in a steadying breath. ”How much time?”

Doc, still standing beside Jimmy, squinted at his watch. “Not much. Best we leave now.”

Grian and Etho both nodded in acknowledgement, moving toward the carriage in tandem. Before Grian could enter the carriage itself, though, Pearl caught his wrist.

”Don’t worry too much,” she whispered. ”You’ve got this, Griba.”

He smiled, eyes softening. ”Thanks, Pearlie.”

He pulled her into a hug, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders. A moment later Jimmy stumbled into the embrace too, and the three of them stood pressed together, hearts beating in unison, only hours away from the goal they’d been chasing for so long.

When Grian finally pulled back, his collar was damp. Pearl wiped at her eyes, shaking her head. “Sorry. Just… be careful, both of you. For me.”

The brothers nodded. No more words needed.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Doc called, “but if we want to be there on time, we need to move.”

“Right,” Grian said. His eyes met his siblings’ one last time. “Let’s do this.”

Pearl stepped back into the lantern glow with Etho, Jimmy climbed onto the driver’s seat, and Grian ducked into the carriage. He had barely sat down before the sharp crack of reins split the air and the coach lurched forward, wheels clattering over cobblestone, hooves striking sparks in the night.

Once he’d steadied himself into the seat, he was able to have a look around.

Unlike what he’d expected, the interior of a carriage wasn’t actually that big. He’d always assumed the gilded coaches rolling through Bluecrest had endless space inside, like one of those enchanted purses street-magicians used that could swallow an arm whole.

But no — it was simply two benches facing one another, upholstered in pearl-white silk. Comfortable, yes, but claustrophobic too, with padded walls pressing in on all sides.

Oh well.

Don’t get him wrong — it wasn’t like he liked it, or anything. The extravagance only made his skin crawl — especially when he thought of their shack, where three hammocks and a single threadbare rug counted as “furniture.” The contrast was insulting, and it only stoked his anger.

The windows gave him a narrow view of the road, but not of Jimmy on the driver’s seat. That alone set his nerves on edge. At least he knew it was his brother holding the reins. He couldn’t imagine trusting a stranger with that power the way nobles did.

Stars. Speaking of nobles, how do you even act like one?

His strategy so far had been to observe the other guests and mimic their mannerisms, assuming he would only have to put on the act for a little while before the King would finally show his face.

But what if the king takes longer? That probably wouldn’t be good. The longer he’d have to wait to set the plan into motion, the more he’d risk being caught.

…What if the King doesn’t even show up?

No. That’d actually be ridiculous. It’s his birthday. Maybe he can’t show up for his kingdom, but he could at the very least show up for himself.

He’d heard… somewhere, that there’s nothing more anxiety inducing than the last few minutes before a big performance. Grian supposed that was kind of what this was. A performance.

Where someone dies.

Assuming he’ll even pull it off.

Which he will.

Jeez — he’s really overthinking this, isn’t he?

Grian sighed, a long, drawn out sound, blending with the background noise of wheels turning and hooves clicking.

The streets of Bluecrest had started giving way to the long, winding path up to the castle now — buildings replaced by trees, the upwards tilt of the ground more noticeable now. Grian hoped the horses weren’t having too hard of a time.

Another tree. Another streetlight.

Another turn, and suddenly, Grian could make out the faint clusters of light further down the hill belonging to the city of Bluecrest.

From here, it looked… tiny. Not like the large, bustling city he knew, filled with life and  love.

From here, it more so resembled one of those wooden build sets a child might use to play with kingdom. Pieces on a chessboard, or… Carcasonne.

Yeah.

He stared at the wall opposite him.

Pearly-white tufted upholstery covering the walls and seat backs, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Ornate curtain swags swaying with the tremor of the carriage.

It looked like a padded room.

He shuddered, taping his gaze back to the window.

It was darker outside now. Almost night, trees on both sides, and he could just make out the sound of Jimmy humming a faint tune in the box seat.

Suddenly, the carriage slowed down, stopping — and Grian stiffened.

Right. Showtime.

There were voices outside, and from the windows, he could see a line of carriages ahead of them, as well as the tall, stone brick walls surrounding the castle. Behind it, the tall towers and spires of the castle sprouted against the dark night sky.

Bluecrest Castle had always been grand, a large construct made of pale but weathered stone, each block bearing the scars of centuries. Roofs of dark prismarine crowned the turrets, and narrow windows glittered faintly in the fading light. Tonight, though, lanterns had been hung along the path up to the entrance gate, and beds of flowers decorated the edges.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of XB, Impulse, Ren and Jevin watching from afar, hidden in the foliage, shielded by the darkness. Grian made eye contact with XB, who gave him a nod so subtle he almost would’ve missed it.

The carriage moved forward, before stopping again.

Soon, it’d be their turn. Jimmy, as the coachman, would be the one to hand the guards the invite. After that, they would be allowed to proceed, and they’d be in. He could only pray that Jimmy wouldn’t somehow mess it up, and that they’d be let in without issue.

The gate was closing in, and suddenly, Grian felt the carriage stop, followed by the sound of Jimmy speaking to one of the guards.

Perhaps it was only noticeable to him because Jimmy was his brother, but he sounded terribly nervous. There was a slight tremor to the way he was speaking, and he was laughing just a tad too often.

Thankfully, it didn’t seem like the guard noticed, and that was the only thing that mattered anyway. For the most part the conversation consisted of exchanging of pleasantries, a moment of silence — and a ’Proceed’ that Grian nearly missed but almost made him faint from relief. And then the carriage began moving again.

They were in.

He quickly went over his mental checklist for one last time, making sure he had everything he needed. He’d only just put on his mask and secured his gloves when the door swung open. Steeling himself, he stepped out.

It wasn’t Jimmy who opened the door. Rather, it was a man Grian had never seen before.

Castle staff. Footman, probably.

Grian's gaze flickered past him, meeting Jimmy's eyes in the box seat — who gave him a faint, reassuring nod — before his focus returned to the horses. With a gentle twhack of the reins, the carriage began to roll away, leaving Grian standing on the cobblestones.

Alright.

There were a few guards stationed in the courtyard, keeping an eye on the influx of guests arriving at the castle. To Grian’s delight, their placements mostly matched up to the information they had been working from, only noticing a few differences. They were off to a good start.

He turned his eyes back to the footman, who cleared his throat. ”Good evening, my Lord. The ballroom is right this way. I'll escort you inside.”

The footman gestured up the grand staircase, its balustrades carved with intricate patterns. Grian's steps were silent on the polished wood as he ascended, the scent of expensive perfume and old stone filling the air. At the top, two towering wooden doors loomed, marking the main entrance to Bluecrest Castle.

He fell in line with a slow-moving stream of nobles, his movements a mirror of their confident stride. He gave a quiet nod and a murmured "Thank you" to the footman by the door, whose mask was a cold, silver scowl. The footman returned a quick, almost imperceptible wave before turning back to his post, a silent sentinel in the endless procession.

From there, the journey to the ballroom itself went pretty smoothly.

Firstly, he and a group of other nobles were all greeted by the castle steward — a short man by the name of Bdubs — who took their names and showed them through the many winding halls to the ballroom, which was located fairly close to the main entrance.

On the way there, Grian took note of the layout, vigilant for any inconsistencies with their planning. Thankfully, they were mostly minimal.

The castle hallways were decorated by high ceilings, rare paintings and aquamarine carpets, armed guards lining the walls. Every inch had some sort of golden accent or decor, whether it was a golden frame or a golden vase. All of it was expected, so Grian didn’t really care much beyond strategical planning.

After a short while of walking, they finally arrived at the ballroom. The steward led them to a set of archways where a herald stood waiting, a tall, imposing man whose voice boomed even when he wasn’t speaking. The guests were told to form a line — which Grian thought wasn’t completely unlike the line of kids that’d form outside the candy shop in the city center every morning. The thought forced him to stifle a laugh.

The line moved forward, one by one entering once they’d been announced.

It was all standard protocol so far. They’d gone over this part a number of times while planning — but still. Terribly pretentious traditions these people had.

The names being shouted weren’t anything surprising either, Grian even recognizing some. A lady from Gilded Helianthia, a king from Pixandria, and another from Rivendell. School wasn’t anything he could afford, but nobles had a hard time keeping quiet. Things got around.

Still, there were some he didn’t recognize — like a royal couple from HermitHollow. He imagined the reason was somewhere in the name.

Finally, though, it was his turn. He stepped up, the weight in his pocket making itself extra poignant. He sighed, readjusting his gloves.

"Lord Poultry of Bluecrest!"

Grian had to stifle another laugh at that, biting the inside of his cheek and instinctively straightening, before moving to step into the ballroom. As the herald waved him in, though, he swore he saw a flicker of something in the man’s eyes.

But it passed, and Grian was already inside.

And…

The ballroom was ridiculous. The ceiling stretched high, lost somewhere above in a haze of painted gods, giant, dripping chandeliers, and silk cloths draped from golden pillars. Balconies jutted out from the walls on either side, filled with people who looked down on the scene below.

There was a grand staircase at the far end of the room, leading down to the giant marble dance floor, where masked guests drifted around the floor like schools of jeweled fish. Their silks and feathers whispered against one another as they circled and paired off, loud chattering and soft music echoing off the walls. Servants walked around as well, bearing trays with glasses of wine.

The first terrifying revelation was that some of the guests were already watching him, whispering to their companions and sipping their wine. Also expected, of course, but that didn’t negate the discomfort.

In terms of guards, though, this room was by far the heaviest in surveillance. They stood positioned along the walls, some only two meters at most away from each other. Grian counted about thirty of them in this one room, though he couldn’t be sure.

Right. No more goofing around.

Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any snickering or looks of suspicion from the guests, which meant the disguise had at least done its job. Not ridiculous, after all.

His first instinct was to make a beeline toward the refreshment table, located to the far right of the room, nestled in between two pillars. There, he took his time, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the spread of food.

And even that was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

Arranged on immense platters of polished gold and silver, the food itself seemed like artwork, almost too perfect to be eaten. There were tiny pastries shaped like swans, their glazed wings unblemished, and towers of jewel-toned candies that shimmered in the light. The extravagant ice sculptures, carved with obscene detail, dripped into basins below, cooling goblets filled with spiced wines and clear liquors. It was a display of such thoughtless excess that Grian was almost fascinated.

Almost.

Grabbing one of the savory apple tarts, he had another look around the room, scanning the crowd. Unfortunately, there was no clock in the room, so there was no way of telling the time besides the color of the sky outside. If he had to guess, though, there was still a bit of time before his target would be showing up.

He’d just have to busy himself. He did enjoy people-watching.

And oh, were there people to watch.

Masked nobles in dresses and suits of all kinds of colors flitted around the dance floor, mingling and chattering, some even throwing nasty glances at others and snickering. Servers moved alongside them, carrying trays of various different appetizers. Glasses of wine, scallops on silver spoons — even bruschetta towers.

Grian sighed, mostly to himself. Though he’d loath to admit it — the tart was awfully tasty. He found it a crime he hadn’t had the opportunity to taste things like these before. Wonder how you made them?

Despite the tastefulness of the tart though, he did feel like his nerves were on fire. He was itchy, ten seconds away from crawling out of his skin. The muffled music, the whispers, the clinking of glasses — it all seemed to bleed together into a single, overwhelming thrum that buzzed in his ears.

Probably should’ve slept more, but, alas.

”Lord… Poultry, right?” An unfamiliar voice behind him spoke.

Here, Grian would’ve liked to say he didn’t jump. Of course he was both focused and vigilant, cool as ice and entirely at ease.

That being said — he did jump.

”Ah, uh… yes,” He said, slowly turning, schooling his expression into indifference. ”You?”

The voice belonged to a tall, lanky man with raven black hair, dark eyes and a neat, handlebar mustache. He bowed lightly. ”Lord Mumbo K. Jumbo of Boatem. Pleasure to meet you”

He was dressed in an overly frilly black blouse with ruffles, as well as a deep wine-red waistcoat with gold buttons, a cravat pinned with a gem, and dangling red earrings that swayed in tandem with the way he was bouncing slightly on the balls of his heels. His mask was black, with red gems and silver swirls decorating the edges.

Unlike the other nobles tonight, though — this guy’s smile seemed rehearsed, yes, but also genuine.

Well. Grian could work with that.

”The pleasure is mine, Lord Jumbo,” He replied, returning the gesture.

Mumbo chuckled. ”Please, there's no need for that. Lord Jumbo is a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?” He laughed again, smiling nervously. ”You can just call me Mumbo.”

”Very well. Mumbo it is, then,” Grian nodded, grinning lightly.

This was an interesting man, he noted. Obviously, he’d spoken to nobles before — but titles were usually something they placed more weight on. He almost wished he could return the gesture, but — yeah.

”I was just curious,” Mumbo mused, twirling his thumbs. ”…I haven't seen you at these events before. Is it your first time?”

Grian felt himself tensing up for a moment, glancing at the staircase for a split second before recovering. ”Er, yes, you’d be correct. I… don’t typically find myself enjoying parties — but His Majesty’s birthday is a special occasion, don’t you think?”

”Yes, yes, I certainly agree,” Mumbo hummed, nodding thoughtfully. ”A momentous event indeed.”

Grian cast another glance at the staircase. There was a large set of doors at the top, two guards stationed by each end. The King’s entrance would be a grand one, presumably. Hopefully that wouldn’t cause any problems.

”Say, you don’t mind me hanging around here, do you?” Mumbo queried, running a hand through his hair. ”You see— Between you and me, I am, uh… not a huge fan of social events either, and...I’m hoping I’ll be left alone if it… looks like I’m busy.”

Grian chuckled, waving a hand. ”Yes, yes, of course. Some company could be nice.”

Mumbo instantly slumped, letting out a sigh of relief. ”Oh, good. Great. Please don’t tell anyone, it’s unbecoming—”

That made Grian fully start laughing, shaking his head. ”You have my word, dude, don’t worry.”

Mumbo laughed as well, though at a much more acceptable volume. Grian adjusted.

”So… Boatem,” Grian remarked eventually. ”Is that far from here?”

Mumbo perked up. ”Oh! Uh— no, actually. It’s just over yonder, a little past Mangrovia. I actually come here quite often.”

Mangrovia. Another new one.

”I see, I see... Why’s that?”

Mumbo smiled, more genuinely this time. ”I’m really into engineering. I was hired to work on the... well, the noteblock automaton in the center there. It's a prototype, you see, for a bigger project I'm hoping to get approved.”

Grian followed his gaze to the opposite side of the room, where a sort of stage that he’d somehow missed was located. Resting atop it was what looked to be some sort of contraption, which he realized was where the music was actually coming from. It was filled with all kinds of cogwheels and... redstone components, he vaguely remembers it being called.

Again. School.

”That’s impressive,” Grian gasped, looking at the machine with something akin to awe. ”How does it work?”

”It’s, uh… quite simple, actually,” Mumbo explained, his eyes slowly lighting up like stars as he began gesturing animatedly. ”Where the music is coming from is the noteblocks, obviously, but the redstone mechanisms are what actually makes them play. There’s an observer clock that sends out a single pulse, which travels along the main redstone wire, hitting a series of repeaters when the pulse just right before it activates a line of pistons and more observers. That’s the main gist of it, basically.”

Right.

”I see…” Grian breathed, nodding slowly. ”…I’ll be honest, I have no idea what you just said.”

That startled a laugh out of Mumbo, who began giggling wholeheartedly. Grian snickered, taking a bite out of another apple tart.

“So, you said it was a prototype?” He asked between bites. ”What is the final product meant to be?”

Mumbo straightened, his eyes lighting up again. “Well, the goal is to use a similar system to build an automated farm just outside the city. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the crops aren’t doing so well right now, and this would mean we could get a lot more done with less.”

”Oh,” Grian uttered dumbly. He blinked. ”No, no. I’ve, uh… heard about it.”

He watched Mumbo's face for a moment, noticing how the earlier nervous flicker in his eyes had completely vanished. Now there was just a light and a smile.

”And... is it working? The crops, I mean?”

Mumbo sighed, the light dimming just a bit. “Not yet. But hopefully soon. It’s a work in progress.”

”Right.”

Grian felt a straight sensation.

The man in front of him fit his surroundings perfectly, in his expensive suit and the silver monocle that hung from his suit pocket — but it felt as if his face belonged on a different body. One covered in the soot and dirt of an artificer in his workshop.

Did Mumbo have a workshop? Grian would assume so. With his status, he couldn’t possibly be lacking the resources to own one.

He didn’t get to dwell on it any further, though, as a sudden, impossible silence fell over the entire room. The muffled music from the noteblock automaton seemed to shrink, fading into a single, quiet thrum. The loud chattering of the nobles vanished, Mumbo stopped his fidgeting, and Grian looked up.

The silence was broken by a single, booming voice that echoed down from the top of the grand staircase.

”Allow me to present; His Royal Majesty, the King!”

The large double doors at the top of the stairs swung open with a heavy thud, paired with the sound of trumpets booming. For a moment, all Grian could see was a silhouette — but then, he could see the man in more detail.

The King was stood at the top of the stairs, still and silent, his face hidden behind an ornate golden and midnight mask, vaguely resembling a crown just by itself. With it, he was wearing a fitted white shirt and trousers, which were softened with lace at the cuffs. Over them he wore a navy waistcoat patterned with subtle damask designs, fastened in gold. A sapphire ribbon, clasped by a jeweled brooch, rested at his throat, and a chain draped neatly across his hip. From one shoulder, an elaborate cape swept down, its dark blue fabric embroidered in curling gold that shimmered in the ballroom lighting.

The King raised a hand in a royal salute, and each person in the room, from the closest to the furthest, fell into a deep, synchronized bow. When he began his slow, deliberate descent down the staircase, they rose again, their heads tilted in perfect unison.

He was the center of an entire world, the axis on which their lives revolved.

Grian rose slowly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. His self control was impeccable, truly.

He observed the man as he moved.

It was weird, finally getting to see what he actually looked like. You’d think the King would be bad looking, with the way he’d avoided public appearances like they’d kill him — but he wasn’t, and that was by far one of the most irritating things about him. He had brown hair, styled into a neat ponytail, slightly tanned skin and broad shoulders. Not handsome, but again — definitely not bad looking.

Familiar, was another word that popped up. It only pissed Grian off.

Ridiculous.

Pretty much the second he’d completed his descent, guests surrounded him, desperately trying to get a word in. They kept their distance just enough to still technically be considered respectful, but it hardly was.

Grian didn’t care much about the commotion, beyond the fact that attempting to get close to the King at this moment in time would be a poor idea — so he let out a sigh, leaning back against one of the pillars. Mumbo was still beside him, watching the scene. He was seemingly utterly starstruck, by the way he stared wide-eyed as he took a slow sip of his wine.

Grian scowled, sparing a glance out of one of the large windows. Stars were out. 8 PM, probably. Something like that.

He looked back at the crowd, then the King, then Mumbo — and then at his half eaten apple tart.

Well. No time like the present.

Grian grabbed a tissue, wrapping it around a handful of savory tarts — before stuffing it in his pocket. He grabbed a few swan shaped pastries as well, just for good measure.

Just then, Mumbo sighed beside him, his eyes still glued to the staircase. "Goodness me, everyone is staring," he whispered, mostly to himself. "I can't imagine having to do that. All those eyes on you."

Grian snorted quietly, leaning back against the pillar, his pockets a little bit heavier. "Well, that's the life of a royal, mate. Doesn’t look too bad.”

Mumbo grimaced. ”You think?”

Grian shrugged, fiddling with the edge of his glove. ”I mean, he’s the most powerful man in the room. Anything he wants, he can have it. A group of obnoxious nobles trying to get in his good books could hardly be worth losing sleep over.”

Mumbo nodded thoughtfully, humming. ”Still — I’d definitely find it awful.”

”Awful or not, it's a small price to pay,” Grian said, his voice flat. ”He’s kind of just doing a performance.”

“Ah, I get that. The Noteblock Automaton was a bit of a performance itself, if you ask me,” Mumbo said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The royal court wanted a full orchestra, but the room is so big the sound got completely lost. So I built a series of hidden noteblock relays inside the pillars. The main machine plays a set of notes, and a few ticks later, the relays play the same notes, loud and clear, echoing from all around the room to make it sound like more.”

Grian’s eyes, which had been on the king, snapped to Mumbo. He leaned in, a flicker of genuine fascination crossing his face. “Wait, seriously? That’s sick. How’d you think of that?”

Mumbo's whole demeanor changed, beginning to explain, gesturing excitedly with his hands as he got into the nitty-gritty of his design, a topic so specific and captivating that Grian completely lost track of time despite not really understanding much.

The things you could do with redstone was truly astounding. Other than the Automaton, Mumbo told him about some of the things he’d created using it — like a big vault designed to keep burglars of any skill-level out, and a contraption he’d been extra proud of, known as the ”Buttercup Bot”. Grian wasn’t completely sure what the use of that one was, though.

Still, it was interesting.

In fact, it was so interesting that he completely lost track of time, fully immersed in the conversation him and this noble he’d only just met were having.

And it remained that way — until Mumbo suddenly stopped talking, instead beginning to stare somewhere behind Grian — who raised an eyebrow, his head snapping up as he scanned the room to find the source of the sudden interruption.

And when he found it, his heart nearly jumped out of his chest.

”Apologies, I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Grian almost let out a long-suffering sigh. Just wonderful.

Of course the King managed to sneak up on him first.

”Not at all, your highness,” he mended quickly, bowing deeply, Mumbo joining him. ”You couldn’t possibly.”

The King laughed, a bright, hearty sound, as he laid his eyes on Grian. ”Oh, I’m glad, I’m glad. I just saw you from across the room, and I guess I wanted to come talk to you.”

Grian straightened, briefly stunned speechless. Blinking, he schooled his expression.

He couldn’t mean—?

Right. Deflect, deflect—

”You’ve truly caught my eye, and I’d like to know more about you,” the King confessed, gently taking Grian’s hand and lifting it to his lips, placing a featherlight kiss on his gloved knuckles. ”May I have the honor of a dance?”

Grian’s mind went blank.

Oh.

Oh.

The King was watching him, expression open and waiting for his response. There was no hint of dishonesty in his eyes, a pale green obscured by his mask.

Well. Grian supposed that works too.

He glanced at Mumbo, who was staring with even more surprise, somehow. Catching his gaze, Mumbo gave a subtle, quick nod, and Grian looked back at the King.

”I’d be delighted,” he exclaimed, his brain slowly coming back online.

The King’s smile deepened, and he released Grian’s hand, offering his arm without hesitation. Awkwardly, Grian took it, and in an instant, the King’s confident stride pulled him out from behind the pillar. He let himself be swept into the center of the ballroom, the crowd parting around them and the chatter falling into hushed whispering.

The musicians shifted seamlessly into a waltz as if the entire room had been waiting for this moment. The King guided him into place without hesitation, one hand at his waist, the other clasping his gloved hand firmly, yes, but not unkindly. His touch was steady, assured.

“Now,” He said lightly, tilting his head just enough that the jeweled mask caught the light. “You’ll forgive me if I stumble, right? I’m dreadfully out of practice.”

He smiled as though it were a joke, and Grian smiled politely in response.

Performance, he thought immediately. Every line rehearsed. Every glance measured. The King was a man made of mirrors.

Well, two can play at that game.

And as it turned out, the King was good. He spun him with easy grace, laughter spilling bright and genuine-sounding as though the entire thing amused him endlessly. The crowd lingered at the edges of the ballroom, whispering behind painted fans and jeweled goblets, their eyes following every turn with scrutiny.

Against his better judgement — and perhaps a little childishly — Grian relished in having something they wanted, for once.

“And what shall I call you?” The King asked suddenly, leaning close enough that Grian could catch the warmth in his voice beneath the practiced lilt. “I couldn’t possibly refer to you as just ’the mystery man’.”

Grian smiled softly, mind internally racing.

“Just another admirer, your majesty,” he said smoothly, wincing as he teetered the edge of sounding dismissive.

But the King’s grin only widened, bright and unbothered. He leaned back into the rhythm, twirling Grian as though he’d been waiting for that exact reply.

“Then I suppose I’m a very lucky king,” He said, soft enough that only Grian could hear.

Lucky king.

He supposed that was one word for it.

Grian’s eyes fell on the golden accents of his mask, mind jumping to images of the sun and sunflowers, a beach, and a desolate desert kingdom.

Awfully alike.

The King guided him through another smooth twirl, humming softly.

“What do you think about masquerades?” He asked, voice low. “I see it as kind of osten— ostan—” He paused, smile sheepish. ”Ah, forgive me — what’s the word?”

Grian’s lips twitched into another polite grin. “Ostentatious?”

The King’s eyes glimmered beneath the jeweled mask. “Yes! Ostentatious.”

Grian shrugged. ”Well, perhaps. Though, I think I can also appreciate the anonymity of it.”

”Really?” The King asked, humming thoughtfully. ”Huh. I suppose I can see that. However I also would’ve loved to see your face.”

Grian laughed. ”Unfortunately that’d be against the rules — wouldn’t it, my King?”

”Yes, yes, masks are obligatory,” He chuckled, calloused hands pressing closer. Grian thought he could almost feel his pulse through the firm grip at his waist.

The King guided him through another smooth twirl, humming softly in tune with the music.

Dreadfully similar.

Grian wanted him dead.

Around them, the ballroom seemed to swell. Guests who had been lingering along the edges were now swept into the rhythm, skirts and tails brushing past, laughter and whispered greetings layering over the music. Every turn of the dance pressed Grian closer to the crowd, the eyes on them suddenly undeniable.

“This is… quite lively,” He murmured, letting his words float just above the music, his eyes flicking to a cluster of dancers weaving near them.

The King’s green eyes sparkled beneath the jeweled mask. “It did get busy, didn’t it?”

He paused, watching Grian carefully. ”Are you alright?”

Grian gave a small smile, adjusting his grip on the King’s hand. The crowd pressed in closer with each step, the warmth and chatter wrapping around them like a tide. He could feel the pulse of the ballroom through the King’s steady movements, each turn measured, effortless.

The weight in his pocket still felt impossibly heavy.

“Perhaps…” Grian started, choosing his words carefully, leaning just enough so the King could hear without drawing attention, “We could find somewhere a touch… quieter?”

The King tilted his head, amused. “Quieter? Ah.” He laughed softly, but his eyes didn’t leave Grian’s. “I think I know a place.”

⋆ ─── ⋆ ༺ 𓆩 ⚔ 𓆪 ༻ ⋆ ─── ⋆

The air outside was cool and crisp, brushing against them the moment the doors swung open. The King’s hand lingered in Grian’s, warm and insistent through the fabric of his gloves — but Grian allowed himself a careful step back, letting the other move ahead to the balcony’s balustrade, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

The man was lit by the moonlight, entirely oblivious.

”It is a lot nicer out here, isn’t it?” The King hummed, casting a glance back and meeting Grian’s gaze.

He smiled sweetly, cocking his head to the side. ”It is, your highness. You’ve chosen a nice spot, as well.”

The King chuckled, turning back around to observe the castle grounds beneath them. ”I’m glad you think so. I value your opinion.”

”I’m honored,” Grian hummed, unmoving.

Far below, the royal garden stretched out, beds of red roses, black dahlias and blue hydrangeas. Grian slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers closing around cool metal.

”Say, do you stargaze?” The King asked, voice pensive. ”I’ve found it to be a great hobby of mine. Other than painting, of course.”

He laughed again, bright and melodious. Grian felt his teeth grinding, knuckles going white with the force of his grip. Uncanny.

One foot in front of the other, he bit it all back. ”No, I don’t think I have. Tell me about it.”

”Well,” the King mused, eyes now fixing on the stars. ”I like to look for constellations. Over there is leo, for example. My zodiac sign.”

”Really? It’s mine as well,” Grian revealed, voice even. Another step. ”Funny how that works.”

”Seriously?” The King exclaimed, amazed. ”That is a fun coincidence.”

Grian chuckled softly, slowly nearing the balustrade. His hand rose slowly, dagger tight in his grasp. He was centimeters away now. So, so close. Almost there, just a little—

"I'm sorry," The King said suddenly, his voice slightly losing its playful edge. "I get a little carried away when I get to talk about things I enjoy. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable, or anything.”

Grian froze, blinking. ”Uh, no, you’re… fine. Don’t worry about it, your highness—”

He didn’t get to finish, though — as the King turned around, too suddenly for him to react properly.

And for a moment, they simply stared at each other, centimeters apart, the dagger still raised in Grian’s hand.

Then the King slumped, letting out a soft laugh. ”Ah. I see.”

Grian hesitated only a heartbeat — then lunged.

The King twisted aside, narrowly avoiding him, and scrambled to the far side of the balcony. Grian followed, boots scraping against the stone, heart hammering. The wind tugged at their clothes as they dodged the carved balustrades, each step ringing against the cold marble.

“Guards!” the King called, voice sharp, echoing over the garden below.

Grian’s eyes narrowed, lunging again — and the King dove, rolling to the side, knocking over a potted fern in the process. Leaves and soil tumbled across the floor as Grian skidded to a stop, momentarily unbalanced.

The King’s laughter floated over him, a sound that Grian thought was supposed to come off as taunting, but only really sounded startled.

“Look, we can talk about this,” the King said, springing toward the corner of the balcony.

Grian’s muscles coiled, rage filling him. He gritted his teeth, eyes locked on the King as the cold night air whipped around them. He lunged again, dagger raised, his pulse hammering in his ears. The King stepped lightly to the side, almost too easily, and their arms collided in a brief, sharp clash of momentum.

In that instant, his hand shot out, catching Grian’s wrist mid-thrust. The blade wobbled, slipping slightly in his grip as the King twisted, using Grian’s own force against him. With a quick, practiced flick, he wrenched the dagger free, letting it clatter against the stone balcony.

Grian stumbled forward, off balance, blinking in shock. “You—”

“You wanted a private conversation,” the King said softly, chest heaving, eyes calm beneath the jeweled mask, “so let’s have one.” His green gaze bore into Grian, steady and unflinching. “Do you think you can handle that?”

The wind tugged at Grian’s hair. The King didn’t move back.

Grian steadied himself, taking a slow step back as adrenaline and surprise fought each other.

Right. Not his best work.

Really, he wasn’t left with much other choice, disarmed and exposed on the cold balcony as he was — so he nodded curtly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

”Thank you,” The King replied, sighing. ”Alright. Oh, jeez— Look, I understand that you’re upset, but killing me isn’t going to change anything.”

”Of course you’d say that,” Grian countered, speaking through gritted teeth. ”I’m done giving you chances. Bluecrest would be a much better place with you out of the picture.”

The King smiled somberly. ”Yeah. Uhm. Like I said, I understand where you’re coming from — but things aren’t as simple as you think. If I knew how to change things, I promise you that I would.”

”Then maybe you’re not fit for the job. There’s plenty of people out there who could—”

”They wouldn’t allow that,” The King interrupted, frustration seeping into his voice. ”I don’t know how to tell you this, but unfortunately I’m not the one making the decisions around here. Not most of them, anyway.”

Grian scoffed, disbelieving. ”Right. Who is, then?”

”The council runs pretty much everything, to put things simply. I’ll admit that it is entirely my fault, but it has gotten to a point where doing anything about it is beyond my ability.”

”If I die, they’d just replace me with someone else. It will not change anything.”

Grian stared.

That—

”You’re lying,” he bit out, practically seething.

The King shrugged, somber, yet entirely calm. ”I’m sorry. If you want to kill me anyway, that’s fine. I’d deserve it. I’m just… I don’t know—”

Acceptance.

Grim yet constant, a steady rock blocking the cave exit. Grian sees it, a man in a grotto, sitting still by a campfire and a perfectly fine pickaxe.

”But you’re still the King! Can’t you just… I don’t know, fire them?” He offered, desperation clawing at his throat.

The King made a face, his eyebrows scrunched beneath his mask. ”Maybe, but…”

Unfortunately, he was interrupted by the balcony door slamming open behind them, four knights standing in the opening, their chestplates clanging in tandem with their swords as they move.

Grian bit back a swear. As if this couldn’t get any worse—

He had approximately three seconds of time to regain his bearings and think of some way — any way — out of there.

Unsurprisingly, that was not quite enough.

The only exit was blocked. The balcony was far too high up to jump from, and it was far too small of a space to attempt dodging around his pursuers.

”Get him!” One of the guards shouted, and they lunged.

Right.

Grian jumped aside just in time, ripping off his gloves. Without giving it any more thought, he squeezed his eyes shut, throwing his hand out, fingers finding skin.

The air filled with a guttural scream.

Everyone froze, the moment halfway suspended in the air. Grian, startled, peeled his eyes open and watched, horrified, as the spores spread, mycelium taking root under the helmet of the knight.

The mycelium raced across his face and down his neck like a virulent sickness, the knight’s helmet rattling as he convulsed. A deep, sickening crack echoed through the sudden silence, followed by another, as his bones began to give way. The man's skin stretched, turning a bruised purple and blue as the mycelium veins pulsed beneath the surface.

Finally, the skin split at the seams of his armor, revealing a pulsating, pale violet network of fungus. His body collapsed, a writhing, boneless sack of armor and mycelium.

The knight hit the ground with a wet, meaty thud, the fungal growths still twitching beneath the seams of his armor.

For a moment, everything was silent, the only sound the faint, labored rattle of air escaping his ruined lungs.

Grian’s chest heaved. His hand was still outstretched, trembling violently, slick with sweat. The smell of soil and rot clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

No, that wasn’t—

His legs locked beneath him. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. The sight of the guard’s collapsed body burned itself into the back of his eyelids. He staggered back a step, but the balcony’s stone pressed cold and unyielding against his spine.

Trapped.

The remaining guards didn’t hesitate. Two surged forward, weapons forgotten in the urgency of their task. Metal hands seized his arms, forcing them down, pinning them without meeting much struggle. His body was frozen, stunned and unable to retaliate. His knees hit the marble with a thud.

The third guard hovered near the King, blade drawn, watchful.

“Hold him,” he barked. ”Careful of his hands. That’s Mother Spore.”

Iron bit into his wrists. He felt the snap of the shackles closing, the links grinding against his skin.

Grian choked, chest still heaving, eyes glued to the husk of the man he’d killed. Mycelium still pulsed faintly across the corpse, threads of pale blue light flickering like veins of fire beneath translucent skin.

“Wait, let me through—” The King’s voice cut softly through the ringing in his ears, almost low enough for him to miss it.

And then—

A gloved hand reached for him. Not rough, not dragging him like the guards did, but deliberate, careful. Fingers brushed his chin, tilting his head up and closing around the hilt of his mask, taking it off.

Green eyes met his, sharp with recognition.

“…Grian?”

The world fell.

Chapter Text

The thing about it all was that there was no time.

There was no time to fully dwell on the implications. No time to think about the potential, incredibly likely fallout, and the inevitable end that would follow.

Because the very same moment his brain had caught up, there was a harsh slam to the back of his head — and the world went dark.

Now, contrary to what some might believe; Grian wasn’t an early bird. He liked to wake slowly, taking his time to greet the sun. Hammocks weren’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but he enjoyed those little moments anyway. The simplicity of early mornings, that small, peaceful moment in time where nothing truly mattered. Nothing, before either Pearl or Jimmy dragged him out of it because they had better things to be doing. 

What he was lying on now was definitely not a hammock.

It was cold.

And it was with that realization his routine sped up. In a flash, he was sitting up, eyes darting around the room, stomach dropping as the memories from before falling unconscious hit him.

It all sort of came in waves. 

The first thing that really registered to him — even before opening his eyes, really — was the dull, throbbing ache in his wrists, the pounding in his skull, and the freezing temperature. 

It all sort of paled in comparison to the realization of where he was, though. There wasn’t much furniture, aside from the poor excuse of a bed he was currently seated on, a small table with nothing on it, and something that Grian thought was supposed to be a toilet. Three of the walls were made of stone bricks, and iron bars lined the fourth, giving view to a hallway. Based on the damp smell and humid air, he knew he was underground. There weren’t any windows, either.

In short, a textbook cell.

He was in a cell.

Right. He’d really done it now.

Then came the third realization, which was arguably the worst of all. With his rapid movements, the sound of chains clinking against the stone floor filled the dungeon. 

Steel gauntlets. He couldn’t think of a better word to describe them, really. They weren’t gauntlets in the traditional sense, more so resembling mittens — just lacking the section meant for your thumbs. Metal, bullet-shaped things, attached to thick chains coming from the floor at the center of the cell. Clearly meant for a very specific type of prisoner. 

Grian sighed. At least he knew what was causing the pain in his wrists.

Great. Just great. Absolutely wonderful. Just take the one thing he had going for him, why don’t you. Not like he needed them anyway. Who needed to use their hands, anyway? What a ridiculous concept. 

Stupid.

It was so stupid. It wasn’t like he could do anything anyway. Was he supposed to — what? Turn the iron bars into mushrooms? That wasn’t how it worked. It wasn’t— stars. What would even be the point? The spores might be dangerous, but it wasn’t like he’d ever—

Oh.

He’d killed someone.

A… person. That was a person. A human being. With family, and… friends. A life. Someone’s child. Dead.

Death. Irreversible.

Okay, that’s— 

That… Wow. Okay. Fuck, that was— really bad. 

And definitely not how this was supposed to go. 

He felt nauseous, suddenly. 

Still sitting on the bed, metal encasing his hands and chains rattling, Grian wondered how one could mess something up this badly. So much work had gone into this mission, so many hours spent planning — all for naught. Sure, he hadn’t expected everything to go 100% according to plan, but… stars. This was almost ridiculous.

And, as icing on his rotting cake — Scar was the king. 

Grian swallowed. Throwing up right now would not be a good idea.

Right.

Focus, Grian. Losing his head had never done him any good in these situations.

What would be happening now? Best case scenario, they’d kill him and be done with it. He’d die, yes, but the others would be safe. He could live with that. Maybe that was also the least likely of scenarios, but he knew that if they tried prying any names out of him they wouldn’t be getting anything. He refused to give anybody up to save his own arse. Over his dead, rotting, spore-infested body.

But he didn’t want to just let that happen, either. He couldn’t just give up — especially not to the King (or the council, if he were to believe Scar. He’d get to that later.) 

No. He was stubborn as all heck — and there had yet to have been a single situation Grian hadn’t been able to weasel his way out of, at least somewhat. This would not be the first one. No way.

Mind made up, he went to stand up. He used his hands to the best of his ability to push himself up, even with the heavy chains attached to them. That immediately turned out to be a lot easier said than done. Every part of him ached — and once he’d gotten to his feet, the world tilted, forcing him to sit back down again.

Figures. So much for the dramatics.

No matter.

Blinking away the dizziness, he gritted his teeth, trying again.

This time was a little more successful. 

Still dizzy, but he was prepared this time. Once standing, he did his best to maneuver over to the front of the cell. He went as far as the chains would let him — which was approximately just a decimeter or two away from the bars, if he really strained for it. Not close enough to even begin attempting to do anything — but it’d have to work. From here, he at least got a clear view into the corridor.

From what he could tell, there were about six cells, three on each side, all empty except for his own. At the far end of the hallway was a rusted metal door, from which he could hear the faint chatter of guards posted on the other side, if he focused his senses hard enough.

To summarize — he was screwed. Absolutely, beyond belief, completely screwed. 

Grian let out a frustrated exhale, sliding down against the wall and falling into a sitting position, gaze fixed on the door.

What now?

His mobility was limited, he had lost complete use of his hands, and the gauntlets were still causing a fair amount of pain.

That was a good place to start, wasn’t it? If he wanted any chance at escaping, he’d need to get them off.

Grian looked down, observing them closely. They were made of thick metal, decorated with all sorts of bolts and screws. At the top of each gauntlet was a metal ring, attached to their respective chains.

His first instinct was to try to get the gauntlet off by sheer force, using his right hand to push up against the gauntlet on his left hand. He gritted his teeth, shifting his weight. 

Alas, this plan quickly fell through as a jolt of raw pain shooting through him stopped him right in his tracks. It forced him to bite back a groan, and any other attempts were just as unsuccessful. 

Wonderful.

Through the pain, though, it became clear to him that there was some sort of ratcheting mechanism in there to stop the gauntlets from coming off. From what it felt like, there were dull, rounded spikes that dug into the muscle and tendon of his wrists, tightening until they found the small, soft spaces between the bones whenever the mechanism was triggered. Grian wasn’t entirely sure why he’d thought whoever designed this hadn’t considered escape attempts.

No matter. He’ll just think of a different plan. A better plan. 

His attention went back to the gauntlets themselves. 

Bolts. One on either side of the wrist, right where the two halves of the gauntlet meet. There was a hole in the center of each gauntlet, presumably where a key would go. Obviously, he didn’t have a key — so he’d need to get a bit creative. Find an alternative way to unscrew them, or at least loosen the pressure by a little bit.

Grian glanced around the cell. It was still pretty much empty, and there weren’t any sharp edges or surfaces he could see being useful. He could hit them against something, or maybe against each other, hoping the friction would cause them to move — though that didn’t sound very logical, and he’d probably just end up hurting himself. In his current predicament, that seemed unproductive.

Well. Desperate times call for desperate measures, or whatever they say.

With a huff, he brought the heavy, bullet-shaped metal to his mouth, trying to get his teeth around the bolts on the side. They were cold and tasted like iron filings, and the smooth steel grinded against the enamel, making it so that he couldn’t quite get a grip around the bolts. The hard, sharp edges jarred against his teeth with every failed attempt, and he could feel his jaw ache with the effort.

Unsurprisingly, it was futile. Useless. The bolts didn’t give. As it turned out, his captors hadn’t been stupid. 

Grian let out a frustrated cry, punching down onto the smooth stone floor as his exasperation and fury spilled over. Immediately, he regretted it as another sharp jolt of pain shot through his wrist. The bolts hadn’t moved an inch. 

He was in an impossible situation, all odds stacked against him, completely brought onto him by himself.

Did…

Did Scar… do this? Or at the very least, did he know about it? Grian didn’t know if he could even stomach the idea. But it was there. It’d make sense, wouldn’t it? He was the King, after all.

No. No way. Grian would not be thinking about any Kings or Queens or… stupid nobles he was supposed to be triumphantly laughing at, right now.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Hardly at all. 

It had been a rigged game from the start. King of the hill, but the hill had been a steep cliff. A single pillar of sand, only with space for one man at the top. Only a fool would make the climb. Only a fool would even attempt it. 

He was a fool.

Grian sighed, leaning back against the wall, closing his eyes.

Pain was an interesting beast. 

There was the physical kind, the kind that splits your bones and tendons like a lightning bolt, forcefully making a place for itself. When it’s strong, it’s almost feverish. Your brain shuts down, as if hitting a wall. In most cases, you’re unable to process it — which is almost a mercy in itself. In some backwards way, the pain is eased.

When it’s small, though, it’s like an itch — constant and relentless. Like someone is clawing at your insides, never quite penetrating. No blood is ever spilled, and yet, it's almost worse than the kind that simply consumes you. 

Some fucked up part of Grian longed to see blood on the walls.

But the thought dulled as quickly as it came, swept under by the heavy drag of exhaustion. It appeared he’d have to find comfort in a different world of unconsciousness.

Time moved agonizingly slowly down here. At some point, though, his eyes slipped shut, head tipping forward as he finally managed to drift off to sleep.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

The nightmares were back.

It almost felt like mockery. Some sick form of entertainment for the higher beings of the world. As if the universe itself was finding this funny — and hell, maybe it was. Maybe, this was the most hilarious thing in the world, and Grian just didn’t get it.

Stars forbid a man wants to escape his reality for a while. Thanks a bunch.

And hey, maybe it was extra funny to those higher beings they always spoke about. The beings he was supposed to serve. They were supposed to see everything, so maybe they were watching him right now. The prickle in the back of his neck might just not be placebo. Surely they were laughing. He’d run from one dark place just to end up in another. Figures.

But… 

Well. It did make him wonder. 

Did they know he was here? Grian remembered them talking about the castle quite a bit. They didn’t really like the monarchy, but as nobles they had to maintain the connection.

This was ridiculous, he knew. He hadn’t willingly lent them much thought over the past twelve years, there was no reason to start.

But also… did they know? The council? Did they know who he was, now?

They weren’t planning on giving him back to them, right?

The thing about starting to think about something you weren’t supposed to be thinking about, was that it often meant you were unable to stop.

And suddenly, he was panicking again. 

It made far too much sense. Why would they just hold him here if they weren’t planning on doing something with him? He’d shown all of his cards when he was arrested. He doubted many blonde men in their 20s fit the description of causing death with their hands. If the monarchy were still in close contact with them…

Grian inhaled sharply.

Okay. Deep breaths.

In. out. Repeat.

No, that was ridiculous. He’d only learnt they were still active a week ago. They had been in close contact with the previous King (who he, now that Grian thought about it, remembered was supposed to be Scar’s father), not the current one. Grian had a hard time imagining Scar sitting in meetings with them. 

He wouldn’t. Grian had no evidence to support that claim, but he wouldn’t. He just… He wouldn’t.

It was fine. The nightmares were just getting to him again. This was one thing that was familiar to him, right now. The one thing he’d dealt with before. Who's to say he can’t do it again? Nightmares are nothing worth getting worked up over. He wasn’t even sure if they were still after him. So it was fine.

He was getting hungry, though. It was getting to the point where he was starting to get concerned — which was rare. He would’ve expected someone to give him food, but that had yet to occur. Even just a guard would’ve been fine. Even if it was just to mock him. He could take it. That would’ve at least made sense . 

Somehow he’d been wise enough to hide a few apple tarts in his pocket — but the issue with the gauntlets persisted. Without his hands they really only served to taunt him.

Stupid things.

Were they just trying to starve him to death? Drive him to insanity? Was Scar involved? This didn’t seem like something Scar would do — but then again, Grian supposed he couldn’t be sure anymore.

Talk about an unsuccessful first date.

It wasn’t funny.

He hadn’t moved an inch, still firmly planted in that same spot he’d fallen asleep on however many hours ago, his gaze firmly fixed on the door. Keeping track of time was extraordinarily difficult, down here. It wasn’t something he’d expected to be as terrifying as it was.

Guards chattered outside. Occasionally, he’d be able to make out a few of the words. It wasn’t anything interesting.

He couldn’t really decide if this isolation was a blessing or a curse. 

The pain hadn’t gotten any better.

Part of him wished they’d just kill him already.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

By far the worst thing about being a prisoner was how boring it was. The hunger, also — but mostly the lack of entertainment. Once trying to eavesdrop on the conversations outside stopped being interesting, there was nothing else to do.

He’d probably counted every single brick in his cell. 882 was the usual answer, but last time he’d reached 883. He’d have to check again.

Another thing he’d learnt; sitting down on cold stone floors for extended periods of time hurt. A lot . The short chains forced him into a strange, cramped position, his arms tilted at an awkward angle and his knees pulled up against his chest for warmth. 

He was glad the disguise — although horribly out of place for the current setting — had many layers. Otherwise hypothermia might’ve become an issue. Like water. 

Just thinking about it sent him into another coughing fit. He’d heard humans could go three days without water before they die of dehydration. Maybe that was how he was meant to tell how much time had passed.

Morbid.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

…Was this what heartbreak felt like? 

There was no reason to put it off anymore. He was thinking about it now — and boy, was he thinking about it.

Grian knew he’d already driven Scar away even before all of this, so he was fully aware that this wasn’t a feeling he had any right to — but ethical integrity was pretty hard to hold on to right now.

Scar was the king. Is the king.

And he had been. The whole time.

It was a thought his mind refused to hold for more than a second before it would fracture, trying to make sense of what didn't. How could a man with such a gentle soul and such kind eyes be the King? The same man who looked at him with such softness was the reason behind the state of the kingdom. For all the starving children on the streets. For them . This.

Grian had always known Scar as the overly kind and trusting man from his dreams who carried his heart on his sleeve. Slightly silly at times, maybe a bit stupid — but so was Grian. Picturing Scar as the greedy, out of touch ruler he’d known the King to be didn’t… it didn’t work. It didn’t make sense. 

Sure, maybe some things made sense. Scar had been heavily detached from the rest of the kingdom, seemingly surprised at the fact that the guards were prone to harassing civilians. Unless Scar had been a part of a cult, there was no reason for a noble to never step outside. The King, however, hadn’t been seen in public in many, many years. 

Scar had easy access to books and a multitude of outfit changes. A noble could afford those things, and so could the King. His father had died, at some point. The King’s father had died, too. Both were allegedly terrible people.

Despite all of that, it didn’t make sense. Scar was disabled, wasn’t he? Chronic pain, something like that. Grian didn’t know too much about it. The King hadn’t been using any mobility aids.

He was grasping at straws, he knew that. The King recognizing him when the mask came off, even knowing his name was pretty hard to dispute. For safety reasons, only a handful of people knew Grian’s real name — and none of them were anything close to royal.

Except for Scar.

Grian sighed. 

Was anything they’d shared even real? He knew it’d happened in a dream, but… stars .

He kept turning the idea over in his head, dissecting each word with an almost surgical precision — hitting dead ends over and over again. 

Scar had said he loved him. Grian hadn’t really acknowledged it at the time, but Scar had said it. Things like that are quite hard to forget. Grian had loved him too. Really, how could he not? How could he not love the man he’d met in his dreams, who was so kind, so gentle. He was handsome, considerate, and understanding… and he could go on for hours, probably. That Scar had been everything. Grian had so much love in his heart for that Scar that he didn’t know what to do with himself.

For this Scar, though?

He wasn’t sure, he told himself. Not… 

Not sure. 

He didn’t know what to do. Was it real? Maybe at one point, but…

Scar probably hated him. Grian couldn’t possibly hold it against him. It made sense. If he found out Scar was trying to murder him right before witnessing him do exactly that to someone else — in one of the most gruesome ways possible, no less — he’d probably take extra safety precautions as well.

Scar wasn’t supposed to know about this . He wasn’t meant to find out. Ever.

Out of all people he could’ve shared dreams with. 

The universe was cruel.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Grian was startled awake by the door slamming open.

There was a guard. 

That actually wasn’t what surprised him. What did, was how the guard was approaching him. 

Rapidly.

Blinking away the remnants of sleep, Grian shuffled further back into the cell, only stopping once he was sure his face was engulfed in shadow.

A safety precaution. 

”Hello?” He rasped, voice sore from disuse and dehydration. 

The knight did not respond, silently continuing down the hallway up to his cell.

How rude.

Grian pushed past the pain in his arms, forcing himself to stand up. His knees wobbled slightly, but he bit back the sound that threatened to leave his throat. 

He’d always been a survivalist, because he had to be — and as a teen, he’d conjured up a mental list of rules to follow in situations like these. He hadn’t thought about them for a long, long time, but now, they popped up in the forefront of his mind like it was second nature. 

Rule number one: Avoid showing weakness.

”You here for any reason?,” Grian questioned, his voice still gravelly. Teeth showing, he grinned, intentionally shaking his hands just slightly. An incessant rattling of metal chains filled the space. ”I think there’s been a mistake here. You mind loosening these for me? Just a tad.”  

To that, the guard scoffed at him. He came to a stop outside the cell, carefully making sure to keep a safe distance from the bars. Whether conscious or subconscious, Grian wasn’t sure — but he had a keen eye for things like that.

And here, it was delicious .

The guard curtly unraveled a piece of parchment cradled in his hands, clearing his throat.

”To the Subject, Grian,” he started, and against all better judgement, the air was punched out of Grian’s lungs. 

”You stand accused of treason against the Kingdom, its Monarchy, and its people. You have, under the pseudonym of Mother Spore , committed a number of crimes against the Crown — of which include the repeated act of public vandalism, speaking ill of the Crown, the encouraging of public uproar, theft, the extensive damage to public property, breaking and entering — and finally, the charge of attempted regicide.”

A breath.

”The sentence for such crimes is death by execution.”

The guard paused, letting the words hang in the air. 

It was meant to be dramatic, probably, but of course — Grian had already come to that conclusion himself. It didn’t piss him off any less, though. 

He gritted his teeth, and he would’ve clenched his fists if he was able to. Hearing the past five years of his life laid out in this unflattering way made him wish to strangle someone — a thought that rarely crossed his mind under normal circumstances. 

Hearing it all like this, it sounded incriminating. Hearing it all like this, you’d think he was a hardened criminal. As if he hadn’t done all of these things out of necessity . Describing their desperate pleas for the King and his council to get off their asses and do something as ”public vandalism” was, quite frankly, insulting. His stealing had never been a choice, and that the public sided with the resistance was hardly anything he could blame them for.

He took a deep breath. 

Rule number two: Do not let yourself appear affected in any sort of way.

The guard cleared his throat again. 

”However, in a final act of discretion, the Royal Council offers you one opportunity. Provide a full and truthful accounting of all of your co-conspirators, and your sentence will be stayed. You have forty-eight hours from the moment of this letter's receipt to comply. Your failure will be met with the immediate and permanent application of your sentence. By Order of the Royal Council.”

For a short moment, Grian blanched. 

Then, he laughed. 

Straight up laughed .

He was sure he sounded like a psychopath, but he couldn’t help it. The concept was so ridiculous that it’d briefly stunned him, leaving him at a loss for words. 

Locked in a cell, in immense pain, isolated and starving, his mobility limited and his hands completely taken from him — they expected him to betray the resistance. 

His family.

Rule number three: If the opportunity arises — affect them instead.

One step in front of the other, he got as close to the bars as he physically could, his body bent at an awkward angle to account for the chains. With great effort, he gathered up the last of his saliva — and spat right in the knight’s face.

”That’s my formal response,” Grian declared, smirking. ”Forward that to the council, will you?”

Wordlessly, the guard wiped the spit off of his face, expression neutral.

The blow to his stomach wasn’t unexpected, but the method of achieving so was. The hilt of a newly sheathed sword had been pushed through the bars. An effective method, for sure, successfully pushing Grian back onto the floor and sending a sharp pain through his abdomen as well as his wrists.

Still. He laughed.

Later down the line, he might come to regret it — but right now, he was riding the high of defiance. The part of him that yearned for control, to level the playing field, that laughed with all the might of a villain. The part of him that wished to poke, to prod, to bite was seeing stars . There were so many buttons to press, and he wanted to try every single one. For no better reason than to get a reaction. Cause a stir, get the adrenaline pumping. To say that he’d done it.

Ultimately, he was ignored. 

Rule number four: It’s not over ‘til it’s over.

“Your sentence will be publicly carried out by weekend.”

The door slammed shut again, and he was left alone.

His throat was unbearably dry.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

Time moved slowly.

Grian had a million questions in his head right now, all of them aching for an answer he would not and could not get.

Most pressing was the fact that he was going to die. 

Soon.

He had never lent death much thought. Living as he did, affording any of his energy to thoughts like those was simply a waste of time and resources. He’d always preferred thinking about how to survive, rather than what would happen if he didn’t .

Now, though — Grian did wonder.

Gods weren’t anything he believed in. Not an afterlife, either — but if there was one, he hoped whatever awaited him on the other side would be merciful and most of all fair . And that he’d get there quickly. Though he’d loath to admit it, the constant pain he was in was starting to wear him down quite a bit.

Death would take away the pain. It didn’t sound too bad, suddenly.

Except…

He doesn’t get to think that way, right now, because this wasn’t about him. It had never been about him. The resistance, the plan — it had always been about the people, and Grian honestly wasn’t too sure it would be able to continue without him.

That wasn’t a statement of self-importance, by the way. At this time, he would’ve preferred if the other resistance members could get back on their feet and come back both better and stronger without him. 

The unfortunate truth, however, was that he’d infused too much of himself into it.

He knew these people. He knew they were all strong, smart and so incredibly kind and selfless. Those were qualities he admired about them. Envied, even — but he also knew that grief was a cruel mistress. Grian found it hard to imagine it wouldn’t affect them, at least a little. Pearl’s tearful sendoff for him and Jimmy had cemented that in his mind.

His impending death wasn’t anything that frightened him, strangely enough. His opinion on it kept fluctuating, never leaning too far in either direction. He had been expecting it, so maybe that was it — or maybe he simply just hadn’t processed it, and wouldn’t process it until it was mere seconds away. He wasn’t a stranger to that concept. It seemed likely.

Would his final moments be spent in this cell, only let out once it was time? It’d be a shame — he did quite enjoy nature, and would’ve loved to see it one final time — but that seemed awfully unlikely. It didn’t matter if it was Scar or the council leading the monarchy. Whoever it was, he knew how they worked like the back of his hand. Public execution definitely wouldn’t be an enjoyable way to go out, but it wasn’t as if he could do much.

Right now, he just felt terribly lonely.

He didn’t like admitting that. Again, weakness is… weak, or whatever. He couldn’t be bothered thinking of better phrasing.

Point is; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever felt this alone. Grian had always been someone who thrived on human connection, as cruel as that was. He was a sociable guy, sue him. 

It just seemed unnecessarily cruel for this to be how he spent his final few days. 

He didn’t think about Scar. Nor did he wonder why Scar hadn’t visited him yet, or if Scar was okay. He wasn’t desperately wishing they could somehow get past this, fix this . They were enemies. Grian had dedicated the past five years of his life to get rid of that man, and the other twenty hating his guts. Finding out that the King was who he was shouldn’t have changed that. Who was Grian to let anything as trivial as his dreams get between that? 

That being said, he had done all of those things. 

Once. Maybe twice.

His gut twisted just thinking about it, but he was only a man. That much he could admit. Whining about his night terrors was starting to get stale, so he tried not to — but they were causing problems for him.

They always tended to stick to one format. One period of his life. One place, one group of people.

Until recently.

Recently, they’d included Scar. 

They were all carbon copies of one another, but effective all the same. There’d be blood everywhere, seeping into sand, into grass and into the oceans. The sky would rain explosions and debree, and in the center of it all would be one man, looking back at him with soft, green eyes.

Scar would always die in Grian’s arms, to Grian’s own hands. 

And then, he would wake up.

Stars. He was being pathetic . He was imprisoned, about to be executed thanks to that man. Scar brought him nothing but pain. And suffering. And sweet words spilling from that silver tongue of his, gentle swaying among sunflowers and—

It just didn’t compute to him. How they were the same person.

The King… he’d never cared like Scar had. He’d never lifted a finger for his kingdom. Never…

Grian pressed his metal-encased hands against the cold stone, focusing on the pain in a futile attempt to ground himself. His mind replayed the events of the last few weeks, desperately looking for… something. 

What frustrated him the most was how he hadn’t even seemed surprised. As if he had been expecting the knife to his throat. As if he had been one step ahead the whole time. Grian refused to believe it.

Had he known? Grian had confessed to stealing , but that was nothing. He’d never once revealed his identity. Scar always just accepted that there were things Grian couldn’t tell him, and then just… left it. Hadn’t pried. No… nothin’.

He kept going around in circles. There wasn’t much else for him to do — a rabid dog chasing its own tail, its snout in a muzzle yet still desperately reaching out with its tongues and teeth to clamp down.

Grian sighed. He’d always thought of himself more as a cat. Cats were sneaky and resourceful. They wouldn’t end up in this situation.

His mind went to his siblings. Would they have failed like he did? 

Were they alright?

They could handle themselves, of course. He knew that — but now that the council knew of his identity and clearly were in the process of locating the rest of the resistance — his immediate family would be first on the list of potential suspects.

So for the first time in his life, he was thankful they weren’t related by blood.

He hoped they’d gotten out without much issue. They had, at the very least, definitely not been caught yet . That was something he kept coming back to, repeating it to himself when the silence got too loud. Chanting it internally like a mantra. 

He sighed. 

It was fine.

Just fine.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆

It happened rather unremarkably.

One moment, Grian was alone, staring at the wall opposite him as he had been doing for the past hour or so.

The next, he wasn’t.

Contrary to last time, the door opened slowly, softly — almost tentatively. There was the sound of footsteps, mixed with a soft clicking sound against the cold stone floor. Grian could not yet see the individual, but it didn’t really matter. He already knew who it was.

A cane came into view first. His eyes traced the shape of it, watching as the intricate designs that adorned its sides gleamed in the torchlight. It was made of dark wood, paired with blue and orange gems that lined the shaft like crystal tears flowing up to its very top. There, the wood curved into the shape of a cat’s head with bright, mischievous green eyes.

Green eyes watched him for a second, before widening.

”Grian!”

Scar walked— no, limped over to the cell, his pace quicker than you’d assume possible. Grian observed him through dark, voidlike eyes. Unlike last time somebody bothered joining him down here, he could not bring himself to move away nor stand up. There was no point now, anyway.

Seeing him here was bittersweet, at best. First and foremost, it was confirmation that Scar really was the man he’d spent all this time dancing with — both figuratively and literally. Not the preferred outcome. 

But it was nice to see a familiar face. 

However, the greatest of luxuries come in the form of secrets.

Scar was dressed in a loose, cream-colored linen shirt with a simple v-neck and pleated front, the fabric doing little to disguise the lean muscle of his arms and shoulders. Cinching his waist was a wide belt of dark, gathered fabric. Below that, his trousers were a heavy, dark brown material, pleated at the waist. 

His hair was back to being a complete mess, as Grian was used to. He had dark, defined bags under his eyes. That, Grian was not used to. 

There was an apparent struggle, as the man lowered himself onto the ground. He wasn’t sat too far away, but not too close either. At a distance that, at the very least, felt more respectful than anything else. 

A moment of silence passed between them. Grian had no interest in breaking it.

Eventually, though: 

”...How are you?” Scar asked, his voice hesitant as it echoed in the silence of the dungeon halls.

How was he?

Grian sighed ”What do you want.” 

Speech was a conscious effort, right now — his throat dry and gravelly like the sand of the desert he’d last known this man. He turned his head away. 

Scar shifted slightly, placing his cane on the ground beside him with a soft thud.

”…I wanted to check on you,” he answered, his voice still uncertain. Grian wished it wasn’t. ”Are you alright?”

Silently, Grian turned his head back around to glare at the man. ”What do you think, Scar?”

It was meant to come off as harsh. To push away. Deflect. Redirect attention.

Instead it came out defeated. Pathetic, even.

He brought his knees to his chest, the motion causing the chains to rattle slightly. Grian watched as Scar’s gaze drifted from his face, tracing the line of his body all the way to his hands, and the metal attached to them. 

His eyes widened again, shocked.

”What are those?”

Grian wanted to scream. He really did. Either this man was an incredible actor, or he seriously did not know a single thing going on around him. Both were equally possible, and it killed him.

”These?” He bit out, his frustration taking over as he lifted his metal-encased hands toward the light. ”Some kind of restraints. I don’t know if you’ve realized it yet, but I killed someone.” 

Scar winced. ”No, I… did.”

Another silence. Scar’s brows were furrowed, the scar tissue of his face scrunching up in some kind of anxious hesitation. The torchlight flickered, the glow framing him nicely. 

Was this how it was meant to be? Scar at the center of the universe, of which Grian orbited around but could never get too close? Lit by candlelight, sunlight or torchlight, glowing like the morningstar on a nightsky, surrounded by thousands of smaller lights that would never shine as bright? 

The idea was much too painful.

A flicker of deliberation crossed Scar’s face — and he grabbed onto his cane, moving to stand up again, which also was a struggle. U sing his arms for support, he planted the cane on the floor, beginning to push himself up. His legs moved slowly, and a hardly noticeable grimace of pain crossed his face.

Instantly, Grian regretted everything.

Scar paused in his movements, shooting him a soft smile. ”Don’t worry, I’m not leaving. I just want to see if it’s possible to get the restraints off.”

Oh.

But…

Grian’s thoughts came to a halt, as if hitting a wall — because… what?

Although the idea of getting his hands free and getting rid of the constant pain sounded appealing — it didn’t make any sense. 

Like. At all.

But Scar was doing it anyway.

The man went back to standing up, rising carefully even as his body trembled slightly with the effort. Fully upright, he leaned on the cane to momentarily steady himself. After a second or two, he made his way down the corridor, back to the door. Even now, he was limping. It wasn’t a surprise to Grian — Scar had told him about it —  but it brought his thoughts back to the masquerade.

Maybe he hadn’t dared using it then, and was now paying the price for it. The excitement of a regular masquerade maybe wouldn’t have required it, if he was only planning to be there for a short period of time.

It made Grian ill. 

Appearing weak in front of your enemies wasn’t good. He wanted to cry.

The moment passed.

There was a part of him that wanted Scar to turn around, laugh in his face and claim he’d just been joking. That he wasn’t helping, and then leave him without sparing another word. 

As it was, he rarely got the easy way in life.

Scar never left his sights fully, because of course he wouldn’t. Instead, he poked his head out into the area outside, speaking cheerfully to what Grian assumed was a guard. A moment later, he closed the door, meeting Grian’s eyes again with a smile. After no small amount of effort, he was outside the cell again, a keyring in hand with hundreds of different keys dangling off of it.

”I’m going to open the cell now. That okay?” He asked, still smiling so softly at him. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t.

With a sigh, Grian shrugged — and Scar unlocked the door. He walked in, only drawing near once Grian granted a quick nod. From there, he crossed the cell, sliding down onto the stone floor beside him.

Once settled, he leaned back against the wall with a sigh. ”Oh, jeez. You’d think I’d be better at this by now.”

He paused, searching Grian’s eyes. For what, Grian didn’t know. He seemed to have found it though, as even though it shouldn’t have been possible, his features softened even further. 

“I’m sorry for not coming down here sooner. I wanted to, believe me.”

Yeah. Grian did believe that. He liked to think of himself as someone who could recognize liars without much trouble. 

Or, again — Scar was just an incredible actor.

He couldn’t bring himself to respond, though.

”Now,” The man started, lifting the keyring to his face, the metal jingling together as he did so. ”I’ve been told that somewhere in here there’s a handy dandy tool of sorts that will make it possible for us to loosen those bolts you got there.”

Grian nodded slowly, his own brows furrowing slightly. 

Quite honestly, he didn’t fully understand what the point of this was. Maybe Scar miraculously didn’t hate him, and for some reason had conjured up some sort of masterplan to help him escape— but looking at it realistically, how would he even have managed that? If the council controlled everything, there was hardly anything Scar could do. Publicly executing the biggest enemy of the Crown would be too good of an opportunity for propaganda to pass up. 

Grian was going to die. There was no question about that.

But, just to indulge the idea — if he were to assume Scar did manage to convince them — then what? Nothing would change. His identity jeopardized, the resistance would most likely disband. They’d be back at square one, except they’d be able to do even less about it. Grian would go back to living in the shack, hunting for scraps to make it through the day like he used to do. Maybe he could still steal, but after an experience like this, that’d be much too risky.

Not to mention there’d be absolutely zero benefits for Scar to help him in the first place.

There was simply no point. Grian didn’t get it.

Perhaps he just wanted to make his final however many hours more bearable, and in that case, Grian would take it without question.

He watched as Scar looked through the dozens of keys, deeply entranced in his hunt for the correct one. Watched as calloused, scarred fingers touched each key, each piece of metal — before a small huff or a slight headshake came, and he moved on to the next one. Grian found himself entranced with the movement, once again against his better judgement. Each key looked different, some of them large and flashy, others smaller and nimbler.

His scarred hands…

Scars.

(Grian pondered minutely over what could’ve caused marks like these. They spoke of an awfully violent past, so unlike what Grian would’ve expected from a man who spoke of luxuries so casually, and who was dressed in sleepwear so intricately detailed.)

A violent past. His father, who was…

Oh. 

He had been such an idiot.

”Aha!” Scar exclaimed, face lighting up in utter glee. ”I’ve got it. Here, give me your hands.”

And in a way that was as familiar to him as breathing, Grian moved to do just that — before another thought struck him, his blood running cold with the realization.

”No, Scar—” he paused, wincing slightly at Scar’s bright expression fading. ”I… can’t.”

The man raised an eyebrow, his face scrunched up in confusion. ”Do you want to keep them on? That’s alright, you don’t have to. I shouldn’t have assumed, honestly, I’m sorry—”

”No— Scar .”

Grian exhaled harshly, his eyes closed as he let his head fall back on the wall behind them again. 

”Obviously, I want them off. But I don’t have gloves underneath .”

Silence.

”So?”

What?

Peeling one eye, he saw Scar’s puzzled expression, open and waiting.

”I need gloves,” Grian explained, desperation seeping into every word. ”If we’re taking these off, I need gloves on. I won’t risk it.”

”But it was fine in the dreams?”

Grian choked on a laugh. ”They were dreams, Scar. The reality is a lot less idyllic.”

”Oh,” Scar hummed, stumped. ”Hm. I assumed there would be like… an off-switch.”

Grian sighed, tipping his head in the man’s direction. ”Yeah, that… that would’ve made things a lot easier, huh.”

Scar nodded slowly, eyes deep in thought — before shrugging. ”Well, that’s okay. I can just ask the servant to fetch a pair when they’re back with your food.”

That made Grian freeze again, and he straightened.

”What— You got me food?”

Scar blinked. ”…Yes? Was I not supposed to?”

Met with Grian’s baffled stare, he continued, muttering under his breath. “I don’t think they brought you anything to eat. Unless I misheard, which is definitely possible.”

Grian was broken out of his stunned state, scowling and confused out of his mind. ”Don’t waste resources on me, I’m fine . The kids on the streets— ”

”But this is about you, and you haven’t had anything in almost three days now, Gri. You need to eat.”

Grian closed his eyes again, his shoulders slumping with them. 

He didn’t need it. It was wasted effort. 

”Please, G.”

A bated breath. An exhale.

”Fine. But only this once.”

”Only this once,” Scar confirmed, grin spreading wide and softly. He placed the key on the floor. ”Alright. It’ll be a while, though, so in the meantime…” He sighed. “I think it's high time that we talk… Can we?”

Talk.

Right.

That was the dreaded question, wasn’t it? Could they, even after everything? Was there any point to talking, when Grian was going to be executed by the week’s end? When he had spent the past five years waiting for an opportunity to carry out this very man’s murder? Only to fail miserably after weeks of planning, whilst also finding out the man he’d fallen for was the same man he’d been trying to kill?

It was ironic, the whole thing. Far too ironic. Grian would be justified to hate Scar, and Scar would be justified to hate Grian.

Yet he didn’t. For some incomprehensible reason, Scar was still here. Trying. Willing to give Grian a chance, from the look of things.

And maybe Grian was sick of biting.  

”...Alright. Let’s talk.”

Scar nodded, relief clear on his face. ”Alright, alright… Cool! I’ll uh… I’ll start, then?”

Grian shrugged, gesturing vaguely. ”Go ahead.”

Scar inhaled sharply, shaking his hands as if preparing to lift something heavy. There was another moment of silence, trepidation in the air — before he finally spoke.

”Okay… I uh, definitely owe you an apology for starters. Not just for all of… this ,” he paused, gesturing vaguely toward the room. “But also for the way I’ve handled the kingdom. I know I haven’t been… the best. So, I’m sorry.”

Alright. 

That was a good start, admittedly. He wasn’t the only one Scar should be apologizing to — but it was a start . Silently, Grian prayed to the gods he knew weren’t real that things would continue like that. 

There was a pause, there. As if Scar was waiting for a response. Grian kept his mouth shut.

Scar shifted, taking a deep breath. ”When I was 17, I wasn’t really in the best…headspace, I guess. I was really afraid of a lot of things, and definitely not old enough to rule a kingdom. My father had left a huge mess behind, and I had no idea how to go about fixing it.”

He shifted again, a movement Grian knew was futile. Stone tiles didn’t get more comfortable regardless of how you were positioned. 

Still.

”That’s not an excuse, by the way,” Scar quickly added. “I’m just saying, because my solution back then was to just… hand it off to someone else. My father hadn’t really… taught me much — he preferred violence over pointless meandering, as he’d always put it — so, that’s why I’d assumed the royal council knew what they were doing. A bad combination.”

It definitely was. Fear from past experiences, wanting to help, but a lack of knowledge and skill on how to do so. 

What was it, the name of this feeling? Two halves, cut the same way, yet inherently different in the way they were struck? It made him go cross-eyed, just thinking about it.

Déjà-vû. That was it.

And getting confirmation of his suspicions wasn’t anything that eased the pain in Grian’s chest, either. Like Scar, his heartache shifted slightly.

The man sighed. ”I think I realized that they didn’t have the best interest of the people in mind. They stopped telling me what decisions were being made, and whenever I tried to step in, they’d argue against me.”

He chuckled humorlessly, running a hand through his hair, his fingers combing some of the knots along the way. ”I’d tell myself I was going to step in soon, but I never did — and then the guilt of doing that ate me alive.”

Grian remained silent, watching him through half-lidded eyes. Scar was leaning against the same cold stone wall as himself, half slumped over.

From this angle, he didn’t seem godlike at all. More enervated. Tortured, almost — though that’d be stretching it. He made it work, but Grian didn’t like seeing it.

For a second, he imagined the man in this very position on the streets of Bluecrest, rather than the dungeon walls of his own castle. It was almost as hard to believe as it was easy to picture. That this was the man he’d spent all those years fighting. 

He was about to say something — but he didn’t get to, as Scar straightened. It was a little bit like one of those wind-up toys he’d seen in the shop windows of the toy store as a teen. The kind that would jump to life in the most jarring way imaginable, right after being as still as a statue. Scar mimicked the action exactly, the spark in the muted green of his irises going from a defeated dull to shining with only a blink. It was a stark contrast to the grey of their surroundings. 

”But then I had this amazing dream,” he said, and it was only far too late that Grian realized what was happening.

Gentle as ever, Scar reached out, taking Grian’s metal encased hands in his own. “I’d close my eyes, and you would always be there. It was amazing — You were amazing. Still are, if you ask me,” Scar confessed, adoration clear in his eyes even in his slight smirk. It was almost too much, yet Grian didn’t pull away. Couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Scar held him gently, despite how heavy Grian knew his hands were right now. To Scar, it seemed as if the cold barriers weren’t even there.  As if the chains that clattered against the stone, hanging off of the sides of his arms, were mere ghosts in the room. There, but hardly material. Grian couldn’t even feel him, yet he ached .

The shine in the taller’s eyes didn’t dim for a second as he continued. “You were always so sweet, always brutally honest with me if I needed it. Which meant the world to me — there’s a lot of scumbags in this court, I’ll tell you that.”

Scar chuckled at his own joke, something Grian distinctly remembered that Scar doing in the dreams. 

Was he dreaming? He was sweating a little. How could a dungeon go from freezing for multiple days to burning within the span of a few seconds? That didn’t make any sense, although dreams rarely made sense.

But then, why was he still in pain?

Scar laughed faintly at Grian’s expression, tracing the cold metal where his knuckles would’ve been with a thumb. “I think something about seeing how strong-willed and passionate you are for the things you believe in woke something up in me that I’d forgotten I had. I can’t quite phrase it — but I want to do better. I want to try to fix this.”

He paused, something akin to hesitation glossing over his eyes for a single second. Then, he blinked. “But I can’t do that without you.”

Grian blanched. 

A deep breath.

“You’re an idiot.”

Scar blinked, momentarily shocked — before he began laughing again, sheepish. “I mean, yeah. I am.”

“No,” Grian interrupted, his hands leaving Scar’s grasp as he shifted. “You’re an actual idiot. You’re the king, you have the ultimate authority. How could you let the council have any say over that?”

“I gave away my responsibilities?”

Grian sighed. “At 17 . You’re still the king, you can revoke that at any time. You don’t need my help for that.”

“But I want your help,” Scar explained. He sounded almost pleading, in the way he said it. It made Grian pause. “I understand if you may not want to be anywhere near me after this, but I can’t think of anyone else more passionate about the prosperity of the kingdom than you.”

Oh.

He wouldn’t want to be near Scar? 

If you could physically sigh internally, then that was what he did. Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted to be near Scar when he first found out — but he was near him right now, wasn’t he? As long as Scar wasn’t intentionally neglectful, there was no reason to hate him. 

And, as it turns out — trying to hate someone you love requires a lot of willpower. For once, Grian didn’t feel all that stubborn. It wasn’t like he was an innocent angel, either.

So. He says just that.

“I’m near you right now, aren’t I?” he questioned, watching as the other man’s face scrunched up in hesitation, and what he now recognized as pain . Letting out another sigh, he scooted a bit closer. “Come on, I’m not innocent either. I’ve killed someone, and I tried to kill you .”

Scar tensed slightly, before relaxing, chuckling softly. “Yeah, and you failed.”

“Hey,” Grian scowled, meeting amused green eyes with a look. “Careful now, I could change my mind at any time.”

The both of them laughed, and even though it wasn’t as loud and giddy as it used to be — it was incredible. Being enemies wasn’t fun. Grian was sick of it. Sick of all of this animosity, sick of the constant swirling in the pit of his stomach. 

Scar reached a tentative arm around his waist to pull him in, and Grian allowed it. After that, the pair settled into a comfortable silence.

One apology wasn’t going to fix anything — and Scar hadn’t been forgiven yet — but for now, it was nice to let go of all of the hate and hurt. Good thing, too, because things were bad enough even without all of that crap.

Grian exhaled, starting slowly as he broke the silence. “I don’t get it, though. How’d you know I was going to kill you?”

“I didn’t,” Scar shrugged, now smug as the air had lost some of its tension. “Just had a hunch.”

“Well, that’s not fair. I spent weeks planning that, y'know."

Scar snorted. “What kind of noble just stands to the side instead of socializing?”

“Mumbo did?” Grian argued.

“Mumbo is a whole different breed of noble. That man couldn’t socialize if he was held at gunpoint,” Scar snickered. “Besides, you were scanning the crowd as if they were out to get you.”

Grian scowled. “That doesn’t necessarily mean I was there on a mission.”

“Sure, but clearly something was up — and I just wanted to find out what.”

“Is that why you asked me to dance?”

“Maybe,” Scar wiggled his eyebrows. “Or I just have an eye for handsome men.”

Grian’s brain stuttered for a moment — before he hid his face in his arms, groaning. “You’ve just apologized for neglecting an entire kingdom, and now you’re flirting?”

Scar only laughed and laughed and laughed. It was a lovely sound. 

Absolutely ridiculous.

Though, it did remind him of something.

Voice muffled through the fabric of his dirtied suitjacket, he muttered. “How would I even be able to help you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” He shifted, chains rattling. “I’m to be executed, and I have quite the extensive criminal record. That won’t work.”

He could hear the smug smile in Scar’s voice as he spoke. “Well, it’s like you said. Doing something is always better than doing nothing, right? So, the first thing I’ll do after this is to pardon you.”

“You make it sound like that’ll be easy,” Grian muttered. “They have valid reasons to get rid of me. Technically.”

“And I have even valid— valider reasons to stop them” Scar assured, somehow sounding confident. “It might take a bit of bartering with the council, and I can’t guarantee it’ll work — but you didn’t do anything wrong. Technically.”

Grian snickered through his dry throat. “Right, right. So breaking the law is okay if it’s me?”

“You know what I mean,” Scar chuckled. “But I’ll get you out of here if it so kills me. I promise you that, G.”

“Don’t,” Grian smiled. “Who would fix the kingdom, then?”

Scar shrugged. “You could.”

“Don’t say that,” He argued, and he would’ve swatted him on the wrist if he had the option to. “I don’t know the first thing about actually being a king.”

“No, but you could learn,” Scar suggested, a smile spreading on his face. “I think you’d make a great king.”

Grian’s mouth fell open, heat rushing to his cheeks. “Don’t— stars… Don’t say that either.”

“Why not? It’s the truth!” Scar retorted, laughing.

Grian shook his head disbelievingly, avoiding eye contact. “I’m an activist, at best.”

“Of course, of course.”

He still sounded far too smug. That bastard.

Suddenly, the sound of the metal door at the end of the hall filled the space, and Grian straightened, gaze snapping toward the sound. There, he saw a servant hesitantly stepping inside. They were holding a tray with a water bottle on it and a silver plate, paired with one of those steel coverings Grian had seen used at the fancy restaurants down in the city. 

Scar straightened too, his face brightening as he beckoned the servant closer. Grian watched warily as the servant hesitantly entered the cell, hastily placing the tray on the cold floor with a tremor. 

As he was glaring holes into the poor stranger, he thought he heard Scar speaking cheerily and kindly, presumably thanking the servant for the food and requesting a pair of gloves. He wasn’t really listening, nor would he until the servant had left.

Which, eventually, they did.

The door closed, and Grian relaxed. Scar chuckled lightly, nudging him. “Someone’s wound tight.”

Grian rolled his eyes. “Forgive me for not trusting a single soul in this place.”

“But they brought you your food! They were kind, weren’t they?” 

Grian shrugged. “Guess so.”

They didn’t need to wait long, this time — as only a minute or so later the servant returned, gloves in hand. Grian recognized them as his own pair of gloves, the same ones he’d worn the night he’d been captured. The familiar black leather gleamed in the torchlight, and he could feel himself letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Scar took them, placing them on the floor next to him as he began looking after the key — of which its location he’d stupidly already forgotten. Grian allowed himself a fond smile.

Alright. 

Food was here, he had gloves ready to go, and Scar had a key. The gauntlets would finally be coming off. 

Finally , because the pain caused him to be bordering on insanity at this point.

A quiet “aha!” and Scar presented the rediscovered key proudly. Grian gave him his hands, maybe a bit quicker than he usually would’ve because he was beyond caring. 

The taller placed the key in the designated keyhole — and turned.

It was a weird feeling, the bolts loosening. There really wasn’t much difference, because the pain was still there — but he could feel the pressure around his wrists dissipating. 

It took a surprising amount of work to fully loosen the restraints, but eventually the mechanisms yielded — and Grian was free. The gauntlets clattered to the floor, thick metal hitting stone, and in a subconscious movement as familiar to him as breathing, Grian quickly withdrew his hands from Scar as if he’d been burned. He instantly began to massage the aching joints, eyes fixed on the irritated, red indents in the pale, thin skin of his wrists.

The spores infected anything living, so why he was able to touch his own skin without being consumed by them was something he’d always wondered about. Jimmy had suggested that because he was already a host, the spores couldn’t colonize him any further. Pearl had elaborated on that idea, proposing that the spores recognized him as their equilibrium — a base of operations, their root system — and thus left him intact. Both ideas were gross, but equally as plausible. He tried not to think too hard about it, most days.

“Thanks,” he muttered, because he realized he hadn’t said anything. “... Thank you.”

And…

Well. He didn’t get a response — which normally wouldn’t have been alarming to him — but this was also Scar. 

Grian looked up, and his stomach dropped once he caught the horrified look in the taller man’s eyes. Ice filled his veins in an instant, and he quickly reached for his gloves, yanking them on as fast as his trembling fingers would allow.

His hands. Scar saw his—

He shuffled away from Scar. Things were already bad enough. He wasn’t ever meant to see them . He wasn’t ever meant to know , and now he’d seen the state of his hands and his veins and the state of Grian, wholly and unfiltered. Of course he looked horrified and disgusted. Anyone would. Jimmy and Pearl might act like they weren’t — but he wasn’t stupid. Far from it. Even they would flinch at times. Even they were scared. Grian noticed.

“What the hell, Grian—” Scar breathed, cutting himself off. “Stars, what did they do to you?”

He felt like throwing up. Everything was static. 

Why couldn’t the mushrooms just have been magic? That would’ve actually been cool. He could’ve been Lady Death for real, then. Science was only cool in theory, but once you peel back all the smokescreens and mirrors you’d see Mother Spore for what she really is — a freak of nature. A failed experiment that should never have left containment.

“Look,” he stammered, chest almost heaving. “I know it looks bad, but—”

“Grian, your wrists—” Scar interrupted, voice breaking.

Oh.

So it wasn’t—

Right. Scar had already seen what his hands looked like, up on the balcony. He’d already seen him without the gloves. Scar wasn’t concerned about the spores, he was concerned about the pain Grian had been in this whole time. Evidently, he hadn’t known.

Scar hadn’t known. It hadn’t been—

Grian wasn’t a crier. He really wasn’t. Even as a child, long before he’d ever met Pearl and Jimmy — he rarely cried. Maybe it was a survival tactic, pushing it all down, building miles and miles of walls to keep the water contained.

Now, imagine those same walls — each one of them crumbling with the fervour of a dam breaking, water rushing like a tide flattening everything in its path to the ground.

That was what it felt like, right then. There was no use trying to keep the walls standing against a current like that. 

“Gri…”

Of course, Scar would catch him. He reached out, gently pulling Grian into a hug he hadn’t realized he needed.

Scar’s arms tightened around him, steady and warm, and his voice dropped low without thinking. “Oh, angel… It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

Grian wasn’t a crier, but for once, he felt safe enough to be one. Wasn’t that just the most ridiculous thing ever? Feeling this safe in a dungeon , in a cell , in the arms of his enemy . 

He pressed closer to Scar’s chest, feeling the wet spot slowly forming in the fabric of the taller's white shirt. He didn’t cry much, and it wasn’t loud either — but it still felt strangely… freeing. He wasn’t worried about being judged, or taken advantage of. 

It just felt right. This was where he was meant to be. As long as he could stay here in Scar’s arms, he could brave anything.

And Scar… Well, Scar had gone silent. The only evidence of his consciousness was the rise and fall of his chest, the fingers combing through his hair and the comforting circles being rubbed into his back. It made Grian pause, and he wiped his eyes, looking up at the man holding him.

He looked furious.

Grian had never seen him angry before, although this time he could tell it wasn’t directed toward him. Which was nice. If it was, that would kind of contradict all previous observations about the man. Lucky was he.

As if he’d read his mind, Scar took Grian’s hands, careful, inspecting the state of his wrists and the red marks just under the cuff of the glove. It made Grian jolt, even though it was mostly unwarranted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” the brunette asked, voice low and measured, gently massaging the irritated points even as he looked both three seconds away from yelling at the heavens above and two seconds away from breaking down.

Well. Nothing better than the truth.

Grian shrugged, avoiding eye-contact. “I thought you knew.”

Scar went cold. The fury in his eyes disappeared like the press of a button. “No, I had no idea— I…”

He paused, gaze still locked on the marks. Grian watched him, watched as his expression hardened, determination settling over it. “This will not happen again. I’ll fix this, I promise.”

And Grian believed it.

⋆───⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆───⋆