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The damascus plated dagger pressed firmly into Garland’s tan skin. He was careful to keep his breathing shallow as he stared up at the assailant who straddled him. He had a ruthless smile and fiery hair styled vaguely like a set of horns. The mercenary pulled at the long ponytail tied neatly at the nape of his neck, forcing his chin higher and his throat more exposed. He swallowed, feeling the way his skin grazed against the steel of the blade.
“It’s just business, Lord Zetwald. I hope you understand,” the redhead rasped with a foreign accent, licking his cracked lips and flashing long white canines as the knife's edge pressed further into Garland’s flesh, stinging as an angry red line appeared.
Garland Zetwald, the fourth son of one of the most powerful lords in the country, could hardly believe that the last thing he might lay eyes on was the gaunt, ashen face of some for hire thug.
“Wh—Whatever they’re paying, I’ll double it!” The words had come out frantic and completely devoid of any decorum. Garland's heart screamed in his ears as he stared up at the domineering figure with black eyes. He remained statuesque, terrified he’d worsen the wound with his trembling.
The room was silent, what was certainly mere minutes felt like centuries to Garland as the assassin seemed to consider his proposal. There was another flash of pearly white as the dagger withdrew from his throat by only a couple millimeters.
“You’ll pay me double, and swear a life debt,” the other man declared, and all things considered, Garland knew he wasn’t in a position to negotiate. He agreed to this lunatics' terms or he saw himself brutally bisected, his arterial blood left to stain the mulberry silk decorating his private quarters. His death seemed predetermined, and all he could do was delay it; the Gods would play such games.
“Double and a life debt,” Garland agreed with an ill-fated calmness. The man released the hold on his hair, pulling himself to stand, and Garland leaned backwards, colliding with the cool oak floor. A hysterical sob tore from his throat and he brought his hand up to the shallow cut on his neck. He lifted his hand from the wound and stared at the small volume of crimson liquid staining his finger tips with misty eyes.
The unfamiliar man lurked the corners of the room, staring at the expensive objects that adorned every inch of it. His nose was wrinkled with an obvious disgust, there were people in nearby villages plagued by drought and famine. All the while the irrelevant child of their overlord lived in a luxurious castle, fortified by towering stone walls that blocked all access to the only nearby fresh water source.
“Done feeling sorry for yourself?” The man asked as he glanced over his shoulder watching Garland push himself into a sitting position, and wipe his face on his shirt sleeve.
“Can I have the name of the man of whom I owe my life to?” Garland questioned in response, bloodshot eyes and red splotches on his cheeks betraying the composure he feigned.
“Yuriy.” There was a palpable disinterest from the mercenary. In fact he gave his name so freely that Garland was certain it was an assumed identity.
“You realize a life debt cannot be sworn on an allonym—“
“Does the little Zetwald heir think I’m too stupid to know how a life debt works?” He interrupted the young aristocrat before he could be bored to death with a diatribe.
Yuriy absentmindedly tossed the knife he was still holding into the air, catching it effortlessly with his other hand. Ambidextrous, a silent affirmation of how dangerous it was for Garland to be making deals with him.
“I—” Garland fell silent with a frustrated sigh, his warm breath disheveling his fringe. He slowly pushed himself up off of the floor, ignoring the mild dizziness from the abrupt change in blood pressure. Once his vision came back into focus he stumbled towards a wooden vanity tucked into the corner of the room, hastily opening one of the drawers and retrieving an emerald coloured handkerchief. He pressed it against the laceration on his throat, gently wiping away the blood that had oozed from the cut.
Yuriy leaned with his hip resting against the back of an ornate settee and observed the young noble with an ambivalent gaze.
“Who sent you anyway?” Garland asked as he vacillated between several nearly identical silk scarves. Holding each against his neck, and frowning at himself in the mirror.
“Vladimir Volkov.” Yuriy pushed himself away from the sofa, stalking over to where Garland stood fussing in the vanity and wordlessly pulled one of the scarves from his hand. Garland turned around in slight surprise and Yuriy looped the piece of silk around the shorter man's neck, before pulling his hair out from under it. Then without any further warning he tightly tied the scarf around Garland's neck, ignoring his wince as he tied the end into an elaborate bow.
Yuriy silently retreated to the other side of the room, leaving Garland standing dumbfounded at the vanity, a slight flush staining his cheeks. He hadn’t tied a neck scarf with a bow since his mother had died.
“…I think I’ve heard that name before,” Garland said softly, staring at Yuriy through the vanity mirror.
“He works for the Hiwatari family,” Yuriy replied, inspecting an elaborately arranged fruit bowl that rested innocently on one of the mahogany tables in the room. “How did you even get plums? They don’t grow here,” he asked suddenly, a frown appearing on his face.
“The Hiwatari— oh they don't? The fruit is delivered here twice weekly.” Garland’s inconscience made Yuriy wonder if including him in his plans was an incredibly dire miscalculation. He wasn’t sure if he was actually this out of touch, or just putting on an act. The intel Volkov had provided him suggested the youngest heir was the greatest threat of the brood, that he should be eliminated first.
Yet here he was fussing over a stray strand of hair, acting completely oblivious to the danger and suffering all around him.
Everything about this smelled like bullshit.
So he couldn’t rule out that Volkov had set a trap to test his loyalty. And with the stakes as high as they were, with his friend's life hanging in the balance, he’d have to tread lightly. He glanced towards Garland who smiled awkwardly as their eyes met in the mirror and for the first time Yuriy noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
So he decided that offering Garland Zetwald, the fourth son, the irrelevant sixth child, his real name and all the intel he could dig up with it, was a price worth paying if it meant Garland owed him his life in exchange.
The blade had to be crafted of pure silver, they made for crap weapons but every noble worth their weight in salt carried an ornamental one; or kept it stashed away in a plain wooden box in the back of a closet, in the case of the Zetwald’s fourth son.
Garland had dug the small container out from its grave among delicate silks and ornate pieces of art. He set it neatly on the table in front of Yuriy, who silently opened the lid. It was no more than eighteen centimeters from tip to hilt, and it tapered to a thin point. He removed it from its enclosure, inspecting the filigree hilt. Its obverse was inlaid with diamonds and emeralds surrounding the family's golden crest, and its reverse gilded and mounted with topaz.
It was not lost on Yuriy that this single object abandoned in the depths of one of Garland’s many wardrobes could solve the local towns food crisis for several years. He repressed his sense of disgust, open hostility towards the aristocrat would only prove fruitless. Instead he inspected the silver dagger for the distinct black marks of improperly cleaned blood. He was satisfied the knife appeared completely pristine, free of oxidation and scratches. Unused.
“So, we’re to make a cut with a blade crafted of silver…” Garland stood opposite Yuriy, shifting his weight left to right and twirling a long strand of hair between his fingers. “…and sign our names in blood,” he finished staring at the object in Yuriy’s hand.
“Only your blood, the debt isn’t mutual,” Yuriy replied, leaning forward and sliding the dagger across the hardwood table towards the nervous man. It came to a stop at the edge right in front of him.
“I see,” Garland said, his eyes fixed on the ceremonial object in front of him. Yuriy watched for any obvious signs of hesitation that revealed Garland knew more than he was letting on, but all he observed was a predictable uneasiness.
As far as Yuriy was concerned, all these rituals performed by those in the upper echelons of society were mere superstitions. Signing your life away in blood wasn’t some binding magic that made betrayal impossible, but to the pious and paranoid followers of the so-called Gods, it was as good as. Garland could betray him, there was no precedent to honour deals with the unrighteous— but if he was truly devout, he would fear the divine punishment he’d receive for forsaking his oath.
But Garland’s piety could be part of the performance.
“I don’t recommend cutting your palm,” Yuriy’s comment made Garland jump a little as he now held the knife in his hands, the sharp edge resting against his open palm.
“Wh— What?” Garland stammered, jerking the small blade away from his hand causing him to fumble the object as it almost fell to the floor.
“Your hand will lose dexterity while it’s healing, use the back of your hand near the thumb,” Yuriy scoffed, watching Garland stare at the back of his hand with his eyebrows furrowed. His chair scraped on the oak floor as he pushed himself away from the table and stood up. He strode over to Garland, firmly grabbing onto his wrist, twisting it so the dorsum was facing the shorter man. Yuriy’s thumb moved to gently press into a small divot above the wrist bone and below the opponens pollicis. “Cut here, there’s no vital structures, the injury will be uncomplicated,” he said. He continued to idly stroke the skin, thoroughly amused at the deep brightening flush appearing on Garland’s tan face.
“Understood,” Garland exhaled, shaking his hand until the mercenary released him. He didn’t hesitate this time when he brought the edge to his flesh and firmly pressed it until crimson liquid erupted from the reddened skin. He withdrew the thin blade from the laceration and a gentle stream of his blood trickled down his wrist, drops falling onto the table.
Garland retrieved a piece of white parchment from a nearby shelf, tiny blood droplets littering his path across the hardwood floor. He placed it onto the table along with the knife. The paper was filled with the proclamation that he, Garland Zetwald, owed a debt of life to Yuriy Ivanov. It was elegantly written in black ink and to be sanctioned in blood.
Yuriy watched Garland pick up a simple dip pen that had rested on the table and offer it to him, holding out his arm to reveal the small pool of blood collecting below the still oozing gash. He silently accepted the pen, grasping it to write before gently dipping it into the macabre inkwell. He signed his name on the contract above the line marked with an “X”.
“You sure?” Yuriy asked with a toothy grin, offering the instrument back to the fourth son; Garland accepted it. To Yuriy’s fascination, and his only observable sign of hesitation was his flushed palms, he pressed the pen into the red liquid, signing his own name, and his last chance to escape, onto the document.
And from that moment, as far as anyone faithful to the Gods was concerned, Garland Zetwald’s life was no longer his own.
The tiny paring knife easily separated the apple's flesh from its skin. Yuriy carved triangular chunks from the fruit, placing them into his mouth and chewing slowly, savoring the flavor. They were much sweeter than the bitter yellow ones in his homeland. Garland had left him to his own devices, likely scurrying to get in contact with one of the Zetwald family's information brokers, or spies. He wouldn’t find anything of use, Yuriy had been a ghost for nearly twenty years now. Volkov however, was a different story, a wealth of information was waiting for anyone willing to dive below the superficial facade of a humble priest. A heretic who believed he could become a God, an apostate to the royal family, lurked below.
Yuriy heard the old door creak, its hinges protesting the force which Garland pushed it open. He raised his eyebrows as the other man's disheveled hair and clothes. The aristocrat pushed the door closed with a loud bang and turned the lock before shuffling deeper into the brightly lit living quarters.
“I sent one of our best observers to look into Vladimir Volkov and his connection to the Hiwatari family.” Garland panted as he collapsed onto the plush settee across from Yuriy. Leaving him to wonder how fast he’d been running around the enormous castle.
“And if Volkov kills him?” Yuriy asked casually, carving out another piece of apple to eat.
“I’d be impressed,” he answered between deep breaths. “Mystel has a gift, he’s neither here nor there, but always here and there.” Garland gently brushed his fingers through his hair and elicited a breathy laugh at Yuriy’s disconcerted expression.
“So he’s a grifter.” Yuriy rolled his eyes, further confounded by the information he’d been provided that Garland was dangerous. But at the very least if he believed in magic teleporting spies, he may also believe the blood signed contract tucked away in his desk carried power too.
“Absolutely not!” Garland exclaimed, he straightened his back and narrowed his eyes. “They bestow blessings on those who are the most resolute, if you have not seen Their blessings, it is merely because of your own godless actions,” he hissed at Yuriy.
There was a wolfish smile on Yuriy’s face as he effortlessly twirled the handle of the paring knife between his fingers. This was exactly what he wanted to hear from Garland. A pious young aristocrat, who blindly trusted the scriptures and oral traditions passed down by powerful men to divert the masses dissatisfaction away from their greed and onto the intangible. The drought and famine plaguing this region wasn’t because the Zetwald family was misappropriating resources, no, it was because the plebeians hadn’t been praying hard enough. So righteous he was clueless to his own hand in the worsening of people's lives.
“Tell you what, I’ve never met a God but if I do, I’ll invite you to my baptism,” Yuriy replied with a laugh. He held Garland’s gaze as he stabbed the paring knife into the apple core like a makeshift sheath.
“If you ever meet a God, They will strike you down on sight.” Garland crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the heathen sitting in his living room.
“You’re probably right,” he conceded. What Yuriy failed to mention was that stormy August night in the capital city of Ryūgasaki, ten years ago, when he’d come face to face with a deep blue slitted gaze.
Garland continued to scowl at him as the room descended into an indifferent silence. Yuriy fidgeted with the knife and apple core until it began to disintegrate, eventually electing to bin it before his hands got too sticky. As he sauntered into Garland’s private bathroom to wash off the remaining apple bits he heard the other man move from the couch. When he returned into the open space, Garland was sitting at his desk with a small notebook and ink pen.
“Am I allowed to ask why you were hired to kill me?” He asked directly, flicking the pen against the notepad.
“I was told to kill all of you, you were just the easiest to find, and easiest to get to.” Yuriy figured a little lie wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially if Garland did have a card up his sleeve.
“Why all of us?” Garland asked, his knuckles gradually losing their color as his grip tightened around the pen.
“I was told it was related to your family's connection to the Crown Prince,” Yuriy approached the desk where Garland sat rigidly. “The information I’m given is intentionally obfuscated, so this may mean more to you than it does me,” he leaned against the desk and stared down at the other man, who kept his eyes downcast.
It was clear from the slight downturn of Garland's lips on his otherwise neutral expression that this information did mean something to him. He elected not to share whatever epiphany he’d seem to have had from Yuriy’s words, and the mercenary couldn’t blame him. Not a day ago he’d been holding a knife to his throat after all.
“And what compelled you to work for Volkov—the Hiwatari Family.” Garland relaxed slightly and looked up at Yuriy, who noticed that disconcerting detachment in his expression again.
“Why do you ask?” Yuriy asked with a toothy grin, wondering if there were some wheels turning in the Zetwald heir's pretty little head.
“If it was just the money, you wouldn’t seem so eager to betray him,” he stated matter-of-factly, continuing to watch Yuriy, the pen in his hand now held slack.
Yuriy was pleased. He still couldn’t trust Garland, but the man had revealed enough of his cards in good faith to confirm at least some of his airheaded demeanor was a ruse. How accurate Volkov’s intel truly was, remained to be seen, but from what few pieces were currently in play, they seemed to consider Vladimir Volkov a common enemy on some level.
“You can know more when that magical spy of yours returns.” Yuriy pushed himself away from the desk and stretched, stepping towards the center of the room. “If he’s as good as you claim, it should only take… three days?” He looked over his shoulder at Garland who remained seated, his mouth pressed into a line, his vacant eyes following Yuriy’s movements.
“Twenty-four hours,” Garland whispered, as Yuriy continued to meander across the spacious living area.
“What was that?” The assassin turned quickly on his heels, and stared back at the unmoving noble. Yuriy knew he hadn’t misheard, he never misheard, and yet Garland’s words caught him by surprise.
“I said you won’t get much time to indulge yourself in the castle. He’ll return at exactly noon tomorrow.”
The corners of Garland's lips were turned ever so slightly upwards, and Yuriy was left to ponder exactly what cards the irrelevant sixth son was holding.
The edge of the rusted steel dagger embedded itself deeply into the trunk of the ancient black walnut tree. It was almost noon as Yuriy stood at the base of the enormous tree and pulled the neglected knife from its bark. They were unremarkable, suitable only as a backup tucked inside a soldier's jacket. Middling quality steel, and a plain wooden hilt, too ordinary to even find use as a Nobles practice weapon. It begged the question to whom they once belonged.
Yuriy heard footsteps to his left, they did not match Garland’s delicate stride, they carried a heaviness that made unease creep up his spine. So on pure instinct he threw the corroded dagger with full force in the direction of the presence. He didn’t even manage to turn himself ninety degrees before he felt a hand fist into the fabric of his shirt and slam him into the tree.
He blinked rapidly until the spots in his vision subsided, and when he could finally see again he was met with sight of the King’s youngest grandson, second in line to the throne, commander of the royal guard, and the only person in existence Yuriy might humor the idea wasn’t human: Takao Kinomiya. Not his brightest of moments, he’d admit.
Garland had friends in some really high places. No wonder this Mystel grifter only needed twenty-four hours. Who needs to spy when you can just invite the most powerful person in the entire kingdom to lunch.
“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t recognize your footsteps, I thought I was about to be ambushed,” Yuriy sang out, his voice dripping with fake cheer as he raised his arms over his head.
“I could have been a defenseless caretaker.” Takao was unimpressed as he released Yuriy’s shirt collar.
“I’d have recognized the caretaker's gait,” Yuriy replied, flashing Takao a toothy grin. He looked past the shorter man as he rolled his eyes and saw Garland standing by the fountain with a masked blonde man, Mystel he assumed, since there was no way the man standing beside him could be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Takao Kinomiya was a force of nature, his sheer existence felt omnipresent, unignorable.
Yuriy sauntered towards Garland who almost looked mortified by what had just unfolded in his garden. He offered his hand to the masked man beside him, who tilted his head slightly before smiling and briefly reciprocating the greeting.
“I didn’t realize you’d be inviting his highness into our… affair,” Yuriy said, his voice was saccharine but poison laced as he stared intensely at Garland.
“It seemed appropriate… given the circumstances,” Garland sighed, glancing at Takao apologetically as he approached the trio.
“Appropriate? A cockroach like Volkov will flee at the first indication of the royal family meddling,” Yuriy hissed, flexing his fingers at his sides.
“I won't be meddling,” Takao interjected, his arms crossed over his chest. Yuriy’s eyebrows flew up and he opened his mouth as if to speak but was cut off
“We should continue this discussion inside,” the blond man who was presumably named Mystel said calmly.
The three other men nodded in silent agreement, trudging along the well maintained stone pathway and up the ornate steps into the manor. It took several minutes to traverse the vast expanse to Garland’s private quarters, away from prying eyes and ears. Yuriy spun around to face Takao the moment he heard the lock on the wooden door click.
“What do you mean you won't be meddling?” He seethed, stomping towards the shorter man who just watched Yuriy with utter disinterest.
“I agreed to provide Garland Zetwald valuable information as a gesture of goodwill between our families,” Takao supplied in a way that sounded like it was a lie he’d rehearsed several times. “My only other concern in your affair, as you called it, is to assure the safety of my people.” His hands rested on the hilt of the ornate ancestral sword on his hip.
“Do—Do you two know each other?” Garland asked, his cheeks stained a soft shade of red as he fidgeted with the scarf around his neck.
“Good question, do we know each other, Yura?” Takao quipped, his deep blue eyes ablaze with unresolved emotions.
“Not well enough for you to be calling me by that name, Takao,” Yuriy sneered, clenching his jaw and baring his teeth at the shorter man like some kind of animal.
“It’s His Highness Takao Kinomiya, Prince of Kiyomizu and Commander General of the Royal Guard, to you.” Mystel placed a hand over his mouth to mask his chuckles and Garland stood dumbfounded as his childhood friend, and second in line to the throne bickered with the raggedy assassin who had broken into the castle and nearly murdered him for hire two nights ago. Then suddenly Takao laughed, shaking his long ponytail from side to side before saying with a warmth Garland was more accustomed to: “Well in any case, it’s nice to see you’re still alive.”
“Likewise,” Yuriy said, crossing his arms over his chest. Garland glanced at Mystel standing beside him who gave him a look as if to say he’d fill him in later. It’d have to do, he thought with a sigh before silently making his way to the settee.
It was often considered one of the highest honors to see the Kinomiya family's ancestral sword. The scriptures declared it holy, the resting place of a sleeping God, who hand-picked every Kinomiya to ever wield it. It resided in a simple sheath, but the sword itself was a silver so brilliant you might mistake it for glass if not for an inch of warped steel on the blade’s mune. It was etched with the family crest and mounted in a royal blue hilt with a singular white ribbon coiled around its handle. Even in the absence of inlaid jewels, or gilding, it was still objectively one of the most impressive blades.
So perhaps it was slightly alarming to Garland when Takao removed the sword from its place on his hip and threw it onto Yuriy’s lap before flopping onto one of the sofas.
Certainly the phrase “it’s complicated” didn’t do the situation any justice.
The four men eventually settled into their chosen seats, Mystel beside Garland on the settee, Yuriy on a leather chair and Takao sprawled out on the larger sofa, occupying most of it. The atmosphere started to shift to a more serious energy.
“Your highness, Mystel informed me prior to your arrival that you requested a private audience with me relating to my inquiry on Vladimir Volkov,” Garland spoke in that prim and proper way only a born and bred aristocrat could, complete with all the superficial niceties that made Yuriy’s skin crawl.
“You can drop the formalities, we’re not in public, In fact, am I not currently laying on your couch in improper dress.” Takao winked at Garland, and smiled at him fondly.
“That you are.” Garland’s shoulders slouched as he relaxed his posture slightly, an appreciative smile on his face. For once, his eyes didn’t appear empty, an effect Takao seemed to have on most people.
“I requested an audience because while the Royal Family has no interest in the drama du jour of the kingdom’s nobility, nor do we wish to give any illusions of favoritism towards any particular family… I have a personal, and I assume shared interest in Vladimir Volkov’s death.” The room was silent, its occupants all sharing similar trains of thought about how kind, how joyful, how enigmatic, and how utterly ruthless the second prince could be.
“Why?” Yuriy asked, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair and his chin resting on his hand. Takao's blade long since relegated to the floor beside him.
“If I told you it was part of an effort to weed out zealots that are poisoning the Church would you believe me?” Takao inquired, carefully observing the reactions of the room's occupants.
There was a look on Yuriy’s face as if he wanted to ask: Since when did a reptile wearing human skin like you start to care about the sanctity of the Church? But instead he simply nodded.
He had no way to know how much information about Takao, Garland was privy to, besides it wasn’t information he was supposed to know himself. But teenager Yuriy had almost died in that August storm, dragging the injured, unconscious body of his best friend with him in a desperate attempt to find shelter. It was the deep blue slitted eyes of a dragon that had guided him to safety, and allowed him and Boris to narrowly escape death that day.
“Volkov is holding my closest friend captive, that’s why I agreed to work with him,” Yuriy interrupted the silence, his eyes darted to between Takao, who didn’t seem terribly surprised at the news and Garland who seemed overtaken by sadness. The observer, Mystel, gave no indication of emotion in the little of his face that could be seen.
“So that’s why you were so willing…” Garland mumbled, and in a louder environment he would have been saying it only to himself, but Yuriy could hear every minuscule sound.
“I can supply both of you the information I have personally collected on Volkov, in addition to what your observer has already collected, but the Royal Family cannot provide any support officially or unofficially,” Takao said, sitting up on the sofa, glancing between two men he’d grown to care about for very different reasons. “So, if this is an undertaking you wish to pursue, be aware— you will be doing it completely alone.”
As if either of them really needed to hear him say it.
It was crystal clear to Garland that Yuriy had every reason to want the man dead. His closest friend was captured and Yuriy was working under duress at the threat of that friend being taken from this world. Even besides that, this man, with his questionable connection to the distinguished Hiwatari family, had ordered the execution of him and his siblings. Garland needed to know why, and he needed to know who exactly was pulling the strings. Was it merely the actions of a zealot trying to posture his position within the Gerontogeous Church for political influence… or was he simply the face of a much more elaborate and sinister scheme.
Garland thought back to what Yuriy had told him the day before, his family's connection to the Crown Prince… he glanced at the calendar that nearly hung above his wooden desk, one week until the summer solstice. One week until his eldest sister became formally betrothed to Hitoshi Kinomiya, making her the undisputed future Queen Consort and mother of the next King. A remarkable accomplishment for a noble family that had been long excluded from the Royal Families most inner circle.
Life debt be damned, Garland thought to himself. He’d personally see to the demise of Vladimir Volkov for himself and his family's futures, for the future prosperity of the kingdom and preservation of the Church, and yes even for the man who tried to kill him too. No matter the cost, no matter if it meant he’d have to rely on that.
“I’m in,” Garland said, alight with a newfound intensity Yuriy hadn’t seen in the few days he’d spent with him, nor the weeks he’d observed him. So Yuriy straightened his back and grinned his wolfish grin, sharp white canines on full display before he scoffed halfheartedly:
“I hope you know your way around a blade, Lord Zetwald.”
The rapier Garland had retrieved from the same storage place as the silver dagger was as equally remarkable as it wasn’t. It lacked all the embellishments Yuriy had come to expect of a standard aristocratic decorative weapon. No family crest, jewels, gilding, nor elaborate metal craft at the handle. Instead the hilt was simple, almost fully crafted of carved and inlaid ivory. An odd choice for a weapon intended to be practical for combat, durable as the material may be, it would require much more frequent maintenance even without use. Perhaps that’s why Garland opted to keep it stored away instead of on his hip at all times. It was a nuisance to require a swordsmith on retainer to keep a mere ornament in displayable condition.
Yuriy glanced at Garland and then retrieved the rapier from its storage case. He held it high and then gave a couple swift downwards swinging motions. While Yuriy found it cumbersome compared to the stiletto daggers he was acclimatized to, it was a well weighted, agile weapon… and it would be perfectly inconspicuous on Garland’s hip.
Takao had long departed now, Ryūgasaki was nearly a half day's journey from Garland’s countryside castle, and his presence was needed as the solstice, and all its festivities, approached. He had handed Mystel a thin stack of notes with a smile as he stood on the landing of the wooden staircase, then he muttered a comment meant only for the observer's ears: “I trust this is all you’ll need.”
He found himself thinking, if a dozen pieces of paper was the totality of the information the Second Prince could gather about Vladimir Volkov, that this journey may be more a suicide mission.
But Yuriy had the misfortune of knowing far too much about Takao Kinomiya, and that meant he knew that the Commander General was a natural born tactician. He would have a well thought out plan for every potential outcome, and in every single one the Royal Family would come out on top, looking as righteous and justified as always.
There had always been whispered stories in his homeland of why the Royal Family only ever produced one heir. That it was an agreement between them and their inner circle behind closed doors, that two sons would tip the scales of a fragile power balance, that two sons would wrought tragedy. Even as a child, Yuriy had found it superstitious. Paranoia from already paranoid minds.
Yet, when he observed the older brother Hitoshi Kinomiya, who was so full of charisma, and political adeptness. An exceptional bureaucrat, an utter snake. Then the younger brother, Takao Kinomiya, who had a sharp edge, and a brilliant mind. A born conqueror, a sleeping dragon.
Well, maybe the sages who devoted their lives sealed inside frozen cathedrals, whispering maniacal prophecies of a foretold calamity— were onto something.
“Mystel will be done now,” Garland’s voice came from across the spacious room, interrupting Yuriy’s reverie. He nodded in acknowledgement, returning the rapier to its case.
As if on cue the masked man entered the quarters through the glass doors that led onto the balcony. What little of his face could be seen, his downturned lips, told Yuriy all he needed to know. The contents inside the notes Takao had entrusted to him… must be bleak.
“He’s trying to resurrect a dead God,” Mystel’s voice trembled, he looked on edge, this knowledge had rattled his impartial demeanor.
Yuriy, by all accounts, was a heretic. He wore it as a badge of honour in an unjust world where the wealthy used divinity as means to shield themselves from judgement by the proletarian class. Sans one omnipresent exception, Gods and magic did not exist. However he’d lived in this kingdom long enough to know its creed. There was only one dead God, depicted as a matted mess of black and red fathers dripping black sludge. A God corrupted by Their own immortality, every reincarnation worsening the scourge and tainting Their mind. And the price paid to slay Them was an eternal slumber, inside a sword, for another.
So even if Yuriy didn’t fancy himself devout, he would be hard pressed to disagree that some Gods should stay dead.
“Why would he want to resurrect Suz—”
“Don’t say Their name!” Mystel hissed, violently grabbing onto Garland’s shoulders and giving him a rough shake. The name had been virtually scrubbed from all written history. Only the most ardent followers of the Gerontogeous Church and Royal Family were granted access to the musty archives containing any accounts of it. To those given the privilege to learn it, uttering it out loud was nothing less than sacrilege.
It was certainly no wonder Takao Kinomiya, heir to the resting place of the King of the Gods, had a personal interest in seeing Volkov dead.
“So we kill him before he can,” Yuriy said, a grin appearing on his face. Garland looked at him like he’d grown an extra head, Mystel simply nodded curtly.
“That’s easy for someone who’s godless to say,” Garland snapped at him, as he fidgeted with his neck scarf, dipping his fingers below it and rubbing at what should by now be a mostly healed scratch.
“And yet, I’m offering to commit magnicide, at no charge, for your little imaginary friends.” Yuriy’s lips curled in annoyance at the Zetwald heir.
“Only because there’s something in it for you.” True as Garland's words were, Yuriy couldn’t help but take deep offense to them.
“A man with foolish aspirations to resurrect dead Gods, is a dangerous man who will sow discord and plunge the entire kingdom into instability and conflict,” He said curtly. “You may think me lacking morals, and I can’t blame you, but I’ve already lived through the complete collapse of one kingdom, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the stunned silence of the room. Garland abruptly dropped his hand from his neck to his side and it was clear from the expression on his face Yuriy had supplied him with the missing puzzle piece both he and Mystel had been unable to find.
“…You’re from Morozŭsk.” It was a statement not requiring Yuriy’s confirmation. A kingdom that had started dying long before he was born, plagued by internal conflicts between its godless aristocracy and its God fearing citizens. As the country's already inhospitable living conditions were worsened by the bourgeoisie's continued hoarding of wealth and resources, the Septentrional Church turned on its ruling class.
However priests were not politicians, and prayer would not bring sustenance. Morozŭsk would die slowly, cut off from the trade routes that were its lifeblood. Starvation became piety until all that remained of it was the preserved corpse of its once magnificent cathedrals, a nation decimated by its fanaticism.
After a decade of silence, His Grace Ryūnosuke Kinomiya, had personally directed the Royal Guard to launch an expedition to the nation's capital.
No survivors. Only emaciated corpses, frozen in eternal prayer.
Kiyomizu bled, its people distraught by the news, and its own Church entered a months-long period of mourning. Its priests fasted in honour of their fallen brethren.
And in the background of it all a pale, gaunt boy with long messy red curls was accompanied by three others of the same approximate age to one of the nations most remote, northern towns. A potentate of permafrost and ruins.
“If I may say Lord Zetwald, I agree with your companions' convictions,” Mystel spoke with an intonation that sounded as foreign as Yuriy’s but lacked the same obvious origin.
“I know,” Garland sighed and shook his head, loose hair strands falling from its tie. “The solstice is a week away, it’s the first time my whole family will be in attendance for the ceremony, if Volkov is indeed targeting us… we’ll find him there.”
“Then pack your shit, we’ll depart for Ryūgasaki at first light,” Yuriy said, his eyes trailed from Garland to the rapier resting on the mahogany table. “And if you have some time when you’re finished fretting over what silk scarves to pack, try to refamiliarise yourself with your sword, as a precaution.”
Yuriy gave the two a curt nod, turned on his heels and marched towards the locked exit. He disarmed the lock and pulled the old wooden door open with a creak. He disappeared into the castle's expansive labyrinthe, the door slamming behind him.
“He really is a stubborn one,” Mystel supplied, bringing a hand to his face to remove the mask he always adorned.
“I didn’t know the Septentrional Gods gave blessings, let alone to the perfidious,” Garland asserted, his gaze remaining fixed on the door.
“There’s a lot we’ll never know about them.” He smiled at Garland and sauntered towards the sofa before dropping into it. “He hasn’t noticed your neck or hands yet?” Mystel asked with a stretch, his joints popping.
“No, and I’d like to keep it that way if possible,” the fourth son's shoulders slouched and he dragged his weary body to the settee and collapsed beside Mystel.
“And… what do you plan to do about that?” He knew Mystel meant the rapier, Garland pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed. He wondered why everything had to be so complicated? Why did he have to get himself involved in a revenge plot, turned quest to save the entire kingdom from a lunatic attempting to resurrect a dead God.
“I’ll touch it as little as possible, I suppose.”
The sharp point of the damascus plated stiletto dagger balanced on Yuriy’s fingertip. Perfectly weighted so it didn’t favour a specific side, it made for a cheap parlor trick that could effectively draw the attention of a room. He couldn’t say how many times he’d used it when they were teenagers. Today however, it was just a way to kill time as the sun sank in the sky.
He and Garland had travelled separately, rather he had departed before sunrise leaving Mystel a message to find him the day after they made it to the capital. Volkov would have eyes and ears all over the city, if they arrived together, and Garland wasn’t in a box, the cockroach would know something was afoot. It was a silent declaration that Yuriy trusted them enough to let both men out of his sight.
There was a set of familiar footsteps shuffling through the alleyway before someone pressed their back firmly against his own. A head shorter than himself, heartbeat through the roof, and incredibly jittery. Exactly as planned.
“You only have one shot at this,” the voice possessed an incredible amount of vocal fry, someone intentionally speaking in a much lower register than what was normal or comfortable. Still it possessed a distinct cadence possessed by only three other living people.
“That’s all I need,” Yuriy replied with a nonchalance. He had contingency plans for his contingency plans at this point. The only person who needed to make it out of this alive was Boris. It was funny, Takao had declared just days ago, the only matter relevant to him about this entire mess was the safety of his people. Yuriy couldn’t help but agree, however while Kiyomizu was a thriving country home to millions of people, Morozŭsk was a frozen husk devoid of life. Beside himself, only three others had survived the country's hostile conditions. So why was it that while Takao could keep millions of people safe, he felt completely powerless to protect those three lives?
Yuriy had no birthright, no purpose, and no prospects. Extraordinary potential with no use, wasted. So if he could guarantee the safety of just three people, he’d gladly return to the permafrost from which he was created.
“The Hiwatari family have an unoccupied residence in the city's Southern district,” the gravelly voice said, straining slightly. “It’s empty if you look through windows… but it has a basement, and one regular visitor.” Yuriy stared at the dagger he was still balancing in his hand.
“The plan remains the same, lay low, keep a mental note of the Second Prince’s location, find him if the situation goes south, and the both of you get as far away from this place as you can.” Yuriy was resolute, there was no room for arguments, not when it was nearly showtime.
“Affirmative,” the man replied, stepping away from Yuriy. The connection between them lost, this could be the last time they walked away from one another. He heard the scraping of the other man’s feet on the stone.
“Hey Ivan…” Yuriy started, the blade wobbled and fell to the left before being easily caught. He turned around to face the retreating back, Ivan slowed to a stop and turned around his eyebrows raised in confusion. Yuriy swung his arm and threw the dagger at the shorter man who caught it without much fuss. “Look after that for me.”
He exited the alleyway, southbound. If that observer of Zetwald’s was more than a grifter, Garland would already know where they were expected to converge. The irony wasn’t lost on Yuriy he was relying on the intangible. Or perhaps Yuriy was still expecting one of the cards Garland held was betrayal written in his own blood.
It might have been easier to just kill the Zetwald family on Volkov’s orders, the thought had crossed his mind even after he’d spared Garland. He’d stood over his bed the night after, knife in hand, weighing his options. But Yuriy knew how it worked, if he’d survived doing the parasites bidding this time, he’d never escape him. He’d be indentured for life, ordered to kill anyone that stood in their way, and promised every time that this time would be the last. Boris would never see freedom and Yuriy would eventually die by Takao Kinomiya’s blade.
Garland was an unknown, but as long as the oath he swore on his own life was worth anything at all, Yuriy had a moderately better chance at success. So he’d tucked the dagger back into his jacket and exited his bedroom. Hoping that whatever it was about the unremarkable sixth son that seemed to unnerve Volkov, it would prove itself useful in time.
Yuriy kicked a rock, and it slid across the stone walkway towards the small garden's central fountain. Finally coming to rest at someone’s feet, he averted his gaze upward from the ground, not that he didn’t already know who it was. Garland stood there arms crossed over his chest, looking exactly how he always did with the exception of the rapier hanging from his hip.
“Waiting long?” He asked with a grin. The last vestiges of sunlight faded on the western skyline behind Garland.
“No, but you were mighty confident I’d find you,” he answered very clearly unamused. He unfolded his arms and rolled his shoulders and Yuriy noticed the glove on his dominant hand, curious.
“Ryūgasaki is small for a capital, I figured with all your big connections you’d be able to find the place… and the public park down the way from it.” Yuriy came to stand beside him, watching the water ripple in the fountain.
“I’m flattered you think so highly of me,” he said, the slightest hint of humor in his voice. He turned back towards the horizon, now devoid of any colour. “Shall we go then?”
He gave a brief nod and the two walked through the quiet southern district, the only light the scattered street lanterns and the moon, still low in the sky. Yuriy’s instincts screamed that he was out of place, suspicious, and he had to make a conscious effort to remind himself he was walking alongside a born and bred aristocrat. Even if he didn’t belong here, Garland did.
The two of them slipped through the back gate into the garden of the modest looking manor. Yuriy allowed Garland to take the lead, because he gave off the air he wasn’t trespassing. That he was supposed to be lurking in the back gardens of an empty Hiwatari estate after dark. He also suspected the man may have a better understanding of how to access the basement. There was a fleeting curiosity of just how much breaking in they’d have to do.
“Are you any good at picking locks?” Garland asked in a hushed voice as they approached an exterior door tucked away in a corner of the garden.
“I’d be pretty shit at my job if I wasn’t,” he whispered back, reaching into his jacket pocket and retrieving a small pick. It was a pretty garbage lock that took nearly no effort to crack, which made Yuriy a little antsy. He hoped it was simply that Volkov wasn’t expecting anyone to come strolling into the most affluent part of the city and go unnoticed by the residents.
He silently descended the stairs first, expecting the basement to be pitch black. To his surprise there was a faint glow of light through the crack under the door that stood to the right of the staircase. Yuriy waited until Garland had joined him at the bottom of the stairs before putting his hand on the simple brass doorknob. Then he paused, and listened for signs of life from within. Just one, with an all too familiar gait, pacing around in circles. So he turned the handle, and pushed the wooden door open.
“What, you come back to read more insane fucking scripture to me!?” The tall grey haired man shouted as he spun around inside the small prison cell. It was the best thing Yuriy had heard in months. His hair was a shaggy mess and he looked like a mop, but he was alive, and full of his standard Boris charm.
“I assure you, if I’m getting any scriptures out, it’s to beat your stupid ass with it,” Yuriy replied as he stepped through the threshold into the warm glow of the small lamp. Boris’ eyes lit up immediately upon seeing him.
“About fucking time!” Boris exclaimed, wrapping his hands around the cell bars. “Now pick this stupid fucking lock and get me the hell out of here before I gouge my own eyes and ears out, I cannot listen to another one of his insane monologues about Soosaxu or whatever it is.”
It was a mistake that Yuriy dropped his guard. He was too caught up in the sound of Boris’ voice to notice the fourth occupant who walked through another of the basement doors, and slipped into where he was currently tinkering with the iron lock.
He heard the sound of Garlands rapier being drawn before it fell to the floor with a clang. Yuriy turned quickly to see Volkov’s hand fisting into the aristocrat's hair.
“The agreement wasn’t that he be brought to me alive,” Volkov spoke, his face obscured by the ugly brushed aluminum mask he always wore. He tilted Garlands head upward by his hair and stared down at him through red painted eyes. His frown deepened for a moment and then he tossed the much smaller man into the stone wall of the room. His head connected first and there was a loud crack, and a trail of blood left on the off-white finish. “Well no matter, I’ll deal with it after I put down my disobedient dog.”
He stepped forward and Yuriy drew one of his daggers from his jacket. In these conditions, there wasn’t any situation where this man, twice his age, with no combat experience, could best him.
In a fair fight that is.
So when Yuriy circled towards Volkov, confident he could put an end to this farce without any further injury. He failed to consider that he was never the intended target for the small blade the man retrieved from his robes. It all happened so fast, in one moment Boris was rattling the cage bars, screaming colourful profanity at his captor and words of encouragement to Yuriy. In the next he was doubled over, choking on his own blood with a knife firmly embedded into his chest, below his rib cage. Right in the aorta.
There was a ringing in Yuriy’s ears as his heart pounded in his chest. In the moment of indecisiveness between rushing towards where Boris was pouring blood all over the floor and attacking Volkov the priest grabbed onto the collar of his jacket and threw him forward into the iron bars. In a daze he fell into the accumulating pool of his best friend's blood, wondering why he couldn’t protect just three fucking people.
A hand pressed against the stone wall as Garland brought himself back to his feet. He could hear what sounded like someone drowning, overlaid by the delirious ravings of a madman, quoting scripture Garland hardly recognized as part of Kiyomizu’s faith.
He turned around slowly, taking stock of the situation. Boris was critically injured, Yuriy had sustained a head injury that shouldn’t keep him from fighting but clearly the psychological toll had incapacitated him. As for Volkov… he was so consumed by his own frenzied ranting he'd failed to notice Garland hadn’t been rendered unconscious by his assault. Slowly he inched himself towards the men, removing the glove he’d put on his hand to protect it from his own rapier.
The first time it had happened, he had been sparring with Takao.
Garland had never been any good with a sword, he wasn’t expected to be, he was a noble son, he would be protected by retainers all his life. He’d be comfortable, safe, and locked up in a gilded cage.
So he’d gone to Takao, his only friend, and begged on his hands and knees for him to teach him how to use a sword so he could protect himself. So he could travel and see the world beyond what his father approved of. The Prince had looked at him with unbridled excitement and pulled him to his feet, dragging Garland to the Kinomiya Families training ground.
The Commander General had never once gone easy on him. From the very start he’d stood before him with the ancestral sword in hand, his sharp sometimes inhuman eyes trained solely on Garland… and he always gave him a lesson he’d never forget. In one of their skirmishes Garland’s fingers had grabbed onto the dull side of the blade and there was a sensation like the metal had softened. When they’d pulled away, sure enough, a small inch of the Katana was warped, like the metal had melted, and Garland's fingers burned red and hot for weeks after.
Takao had never fixed the warping of the sword, instead telling anyone who asked that it was the closest anyone had ever come to defeating him. It was proof someone could defeat him.
Garland would eventually come to understand that he had been bestowed two blessings, one of healing, and one that allowed him to melt anything containing metal. But there was a hefty price; he could not heal his own injuries. In fact contact with anything made of metal came with a particularly slow and painful healing process. So he avoided it like the plague, and he hid the exposure sites from prying eyes.
He came to a stop when he was only inches from Volkov, the sole of his shoe making a loud click against the stone. The masked man stopped speaking mid-sentence and slowly turned towards him, his lips downturned.
“Hey,” he said somewhat lightheartedly as he took another step towards Volkov who immediately backed up until he collided with the cell wall. “You know what comes next, I take it?” Garland said with a cheery smile before his hand shot out and grabbed onto Volkov’s mask.
Screams of agony reverberated in the small stone room and the smell of burning flesh assaulted all occupants' noses. The aluminum mask on Vladimir Volkov’s face began to melt, burrowing holes in his flesh and running down his face onto his skin and clothes. His skin burnt away, and his robes were set alight. As one of his pockets burned, an old rusted key clattered to the ground.
It seemed that was all Yuriy needed to come back to his senses and he grabbed for the discarded key and shoved it into the lock on the cell door. It opened without any resistance and he rushed to Boris’ side.
Garland withdrew his hand from the melting body, wincing at the bright red mark forming on his entire hand and traveling to his wrist. It would take months to heal, it may never fully heal.
He joined Yuriy inside the open cage and looked at the pale face of his dying friend.
“We need to get him out of here,” Yuriy stumbled on his own words, his pupils were completely blown out and he looked like a wild animal.
“…I can help him, if you’ll trust me,” Garland replied to Yuriy’s pleas, causing the man to freeze and glance over at the pile of scorched robes.
“I’m listening,” Yuriy replied eventually, perhaps all too aware of how little time they actually had.
“His life for my life, I’ll heal his wounds and the life debt is null and void.” Garland offered his uninjured hand towards the mercenary.
Yuriy suddenly burst out into a slightly hysterical laugh. He flashed Garland a wolfish smile and reached out a bloodstained hand to grasp onto Garlands. “As if you’d have to bargain with me at this point, Lord Zetwald.”
Garland smiled warmly and moved quickly towards Boris' barely conscious body. Minding the metal he reached for the small dagger and pulled it out by its wooden handle before pressing his hand against the man's chest.
Healing people always felt warm, like summer, like his late mother. He rarely had the opportunity to do it in fear rumors would spread and he would be harassed and hounded for his blessing. As Boris’ wound stitched itself closed his eyes fluttered gently. He would live, but Garland couldn’t replenish all the blood covering the floor. His body would have to do that itself. He was going to feel terrible for a while, but feeling terrible meant he was alive.
“Can you carry him yourself?” Garland asked as he stood up, ignoring the wave of dizziness that hit him.
“Like a sack of potatoes, but yeah,” he heard the man reply, grunting as he lifted his friend's dead weight over his shoulder.
They slowly trudged up the steep, dark staircase, careful not to make too much noise as they exited into the garden again. The moon was high in the sky now.
Garland paused and stared up at the looming house, and all the evidence it contained of them. He wondered if Hitoshi Kinomiya would have the ability to make this go away if the Hiwatari family decided to make a fuss.
“What?” Yuriy asked in a hushed voice when he noticed the Zetwald heir had stopped following him.
“Give me one of your daggers,” Garland replied, holding his red, swollen hand out to Yuriy whose eyebrows knitted together for a moment before he seemed to understand the request. He dug out one of the knives and tossed it haphazardly to him.
He stumbled forward and caught the weapon before scurrying towards the wooden steps that led into the home. Carefully to keep his good hand from contact with the metal he pressed the other against the steel with a slight hiss and molten metal began to drip onto the wood, smoldering until it grew into a strong flame. Garland turned around and quickly ran towards the gate where Yuriy stood.
The trio slipped away into the darkness back towards the park as the residents of the Southern district awoke to the raging inferno as the unoccupied Hiwatari estate disintegrated into ash.
The empty wooden hilt rested on the table, carved from ash; it once housed a beautiful steel stiletto dagger, plated with damascus, one from a set of four, now three. Sometimes the price of freedom could be so steep.
Boris leaned back in the plush leather chair, clutching his head, shivering violently. He was only ever too hot, or too cold, and never comfortable. But he had felt the knife pierce his flesh, and how it felt to drown in your own blood. So while he felt like he’d been run over by a stampede of horses, he resigned himself to that feeling like shit was better than the complete absence of feeling.
He opened one of his eyes when he felt a heavy blanket drop onto his lap, he shared a brief exchange with Yuriy who gave him a little nod of affirmation before wandering back over to the sofa where the third occupant of the luxury apartment sat. He slowly dropped himself beside Garland who was propped against the arm dozing. They hadn’t slept much through the night, a mix of adrenaline and pain making them restless.
Now the two of them fought against the clutches of sleep, knowing soon enough they’d be receiving a visitor, in the Commander General of the Royal Guard. But as the clock ticked and minutes turned into hours, it seemed clear Takao wasn’t in any particular rush to make an appearance. Typical.
“What are you going to do after this?” Garland asked suddenly as he straightened his posture into a more appropriate sitting position.
“When he recuperates enough, we’re going to meet up with Sergei and Ivan and travel for a while, keep a low profile,” Yuriy said, glancing at Garland and then at the lump on the chair that had pulled the blankets completely over himself. “You?”
“I’ve always wanted to travel too, but I was either too weak, or too restricted by my… circumstance,” he said, leaning into the sofa and allowing his head to fall against the back of it. “Takao has always been my only friend, and he’s been completely buried with work for as long as I’ve known him.” Garland sighed softly, his eyes fluttering closed and the room was silent for several minutes.
“Well if you aren’t sick of me, I suppose you could tag along,” Yuriy offered as he turned his gaze toward the polished oak apartment door.
“Ah he’s here I take it,” Garland straightened himself again. “About time.”
“The luxury of being one of the most powerful men in the country, the world revolves around you,” Yuriy said with a coy smirk as he pushed himself off the sofa and sauntered towards the door and pulled it open before the man on the other side could even knock.
Garland closed his eyes and for a brief moment the chatter between the two men melted into a dull muffled background noise. He considered the opportunities offered to him by Yuriy and his friends. What would traveling with them bring? Danger? Excitement? Love? Or just the opportunity to experience true freedom, away from gilded cages and noble expectations. Where he was just any other person, traveling with a group of people he considered his equals and not his attendants.
He thought it a wonderful prospect, he had no reason to reject the offer.
Because he definitely wasn’t sick of Yuriy yet.