Chapter Text
Every chain is forged from sin,
And every sin demands its penance.
The obedient shall be tempered in suffering,
Until they are made worthy in the Maker’s sight.
—Canticle of Trials 3:12*
The first blow lands across his jaw before Cid even has time to understand what’s happening.
A gauntleted hand closes around his arm, the human guard it belongs to dragging Cid up the narrow steps of the alienage¹ as though he weighed no more than a sack of grain, ignoring the outraged cries of the elves looking on. Cid’s knees knock against each uneven stone, sparks of pain flashing up his legs. Another guard follows behind, jeering something about “elven rats” and “sticky fingers.”
Cid snarls through his teeth, his lower lip stinging something fierce. “I didn’t take anything!”
They don’t care, and they don’t listen—but what else did he expect?
His wrists burn as the guards drag him out of the alienage that he calls his home and through the streets of Rosalith, their hands digging cruelly into the skin of his thin arms. The jeers of human onlookers follow like carrion birds.
“Caught the rat,” one man says, spitting near Cid’s boots.
“About time one of them paid,” a woman sneers. “They’re always filching from hard-working Rosarians.”
Cid thrashes against the guards’ grip at the accusations, even though it only earns him another wrench of his shoulder.
“I didn’t steal anything!” His voice almost cracks in frustration. “I’ve done nothing!”
The guards laugh. One of them, a thick-necked brute with a scar splitting his lip, shakes him hard enough to rattle his head.
“Nobleman’s jewels don’t just vanish on their own, knife-ear,” he mocks. “You were seen near the carts.”
“I was near them because they pass by the alienage every bloody day,” Cid spits back, trying to find purchase against the ground to dig his heels in, but the guards are too strong, forcefully dragging him along. “Does that make me guilty?”
The brute smirks, tugging Cid forward with another yank that nearly tears his feet right from under him. “Makes you guilty enough.”
The alienage stairs are still within sight when he glances over his shoulder, eyes seeking any sign of help. A handful of elves finally pushes through the crowd of humans, desperately shouting Cid’s name.
“He hasn’t done anything!” Alys yells, her pale hair pulled back in a hurried knot. “Please, ser, Cid’s a good boy. He helps us mend the roofs, he—”
Taran, a male elf tall enough to tower a head above both the guards, shoves one in the shoulder. “You’ve no proof! Let him go!”
The guards swing out with mailed fists, striking Alys across the cheek and shoving Taran back with a blow to the gut. Cid’s stomach lurches at the sight of them staggering, watching with horror as blood wells at the corner of Alys’s lip and Taran gasps for air.
“Stop!” The panic tears out of Cid before he can swallow it down. “Don’t hurt them! I’ll come with you, just stop!”
Alys meets his eyes, shaking her head frantically, but the guards are already hauling him faster down the street.
Cid’s heart pounds like a war-drum. He keeps his chin up even while the onlookers stare, because if he lets them see fear it’ll be one more thing they take from him—but he’s scared shitless. Even more when the guards drag him into the market square and he realizes where he’s headed.
Rosalith’s gaol looms at the far end of the square, squat and ugly, its stone walls blackened by the smoke of years of executions. That’s where they mean to take him. That’s where elves vanish and don’t come back.
Cid grits his teeth. Not him, and not today.
As the guards march him across the square, Cid feels for one of the guards’ belt by subtly bending his wrist, brushing the hilt of the dagger slung there with the tips of his fingers. The moment the brute slackens his grip to bark at a merchant who is standing too close, Cid seizes his chance. The blade slides free like it belongs in his hand.
He doesn’t think, he doesn’t hesitate: he drives it backward into the guard’s thigh.
The guard bellows, collapsing to a knee. Cid whirls on his heels, slashing the second guard across the forearm. Blood spatters the cobbles. Both men lunge at him in rage, but Cid slips between them, ducking under their strikes, and then he’s free. He bolts, the market spinning in a blur of faces and outstretched hands.
In his head echoes a single word: run.
He darts between stalls, overturning a crate of apples behind him to slow pursuit. His breath rasps hot in his throat, but he doesn’t stop—if they catch him, they will kill him. Cid’s feet continue to pound against cobblestone until he careens straight into a figure stepping leisurely out of the wine-seller’s doorway.
Cid rebounds like he’s struck a wall. Strong hands catch his shoulders before he can recover, and Cid’s heart nearly stops as the guards begin to catch up.
“What in the blazes is this?” The man who caught him seems amused rather than angry. His grip is firm, but not painful. “Two full-grown knights bested by a boy half their size?”
Cid snarls, dagger flashing upward instinctively, but the stranger doesn’t flinch as he catches Cid’s wrist. Instead, he raises one brow, blue eyes steady. His clothes are far finer than any commoner’s—a finely made velvet doublet colored in a noble blue, the kind of fashion Cid’s only ever seen paraded at ducal festivals. Rings glitter on his fingers where they hold Cid still.
Before Cid can twist away, the injured guards stagger up, shouting, “Lord Byron! That’s the thief! The knife-ear cut us down and tried to flee—”
Lord?
Cid freezes, blade still tight in his grip. He glances between the nobleman and the guards, mind racing.
The stranger—Byron—tilts his head, looking Cid over with a half-smile that’s more curious than condemning. “Did he now? This little whelp, with a dagger no longer than his forearm?”
The scarred guard glares balefully at Cid. “He stole jewels from Lord Halbrecht’s caravan this morn. We caught him, and he turned on us like a rabid cur.”
“Lies!” Cid snaps, voice ragged. “I never touched your cursed jewels, you’re just looking for someone to blame—”
Byron chuckles low in his throat, silencing him with nothing but a glance. His eyes are bright, shrewd, but there’s no cruelty in them—only interest, as though Cid were some puzzle laid at his feet.
“Halbrecht, was it?” Byron muses. “That explains the caterwauling. He’d sooner accuse his own mother of theft than admit his guards were drunk on duty.”
Cid stares, blinking. “What?”
Before this Lord Byron can speak further, another man strides up, face red with fury, cloak trailing behind him like the train of a pompous bird.
“Lord Byron!” His voice is high, indignant. “Thank the Maker you’re here. This elf-boy is a criminal. He robbed my caravan at knifepoint, stole my wife’s heirlooms, and now he’s assaulted my guards!”
Cid bares his teeth, ready to deny it again, but Byron lifts one hand. The gesture is light, almost lazy, but it silences the entire square. Even Lord Halbrecht falters.
Byron’s smile widens, a flash of charm that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I saw the boy’s blade-work just now. Quick, ruthless, and clever—more than I’d expect from any alley rat, let alone one of our… disadvantaged citizens.” He squeezes Cid’s shoulder, just short of reassuring. “Tell me, Halbrecht: why waste such talent rotting in your gaol when Rosaria bleeds for new Shields every season?”
The nobleman sputters, eyes bulging. “You cannot be serious! This- this elf—”
“Is mine to command,” Byron cuts him off.
Cid bristles—he is no slave to be ordered around at anyone’s command, let alone a shem’s—but he keeps quiet, knowing that Byron’s whims are the only thing offering him any kind of protection at the moment.
“You’ll be repaid for your trinkets, I’ll see to it myself,” Byron continues. “But this boy? I think he deserves a better fate.”
The words are entirely unexpected. Cid stands frozen, his heart thundering in his chest. He doesn’t understand this man, doesn’t trust him, but the alternative is chains, torture, and the gaol’s black maw.
When Byron straightens again, he announces to the square and its onlookers, “From this day, this boy is a recruit of the Shields of Rosaria, by my word and rank.”
Cid can only keep staring, feeling as if he has been caught in a fever dream.
The guards gape at Byron with even greater shock, and the crowd of humans surrounding them begin to whisper and murmur amongst each other. Halbrecht, meanwhile, nearly chokes on his outrage.
“You presume too much, Byron!” he sputters. “To conscript an elf? A gutter-born wretch? What will the other Shields say, what will the archduke say—”
“My brother will listen to what I tell him.” Byron’s booming tone never falters, while Cid nearly swallows his own tongue at the revelation that the man grabbing his shoulders is a Rosfield. “And the Shields will obey. That is their duty.”
He flicks an idle glance at the wounded guards, one still bleeding from Cid’s dagger. “Have your wounds tended and consider yourselves fortunate you didn’t lose more than blood to a slip of a boy.”
Cid almost laughs at their furious, helpless expressions—almost, but not quite. His stomach’s still in knots, because he knows what this means: the nobleman saves the elf not out of mercy, but because he sees some way to use him. Cid’s lived long enough to recognize a leash when it’s slipped round his neck.
Rosfield releases him at last. His smile lingers, infuriatingly unreadable. “What say you, lad? Will you serve Rosaria as a Shield, or would you prefer the gaol?”
Now he’s asking me, Cid thinks resentfully. He wants to spit at both Rosfield and Halbrecht, declare he’ll serve no man, especially not a Rosarian lord. But Alys’s bruised face flashes in his mind, Taran doubled over from a mailed fist. If he refuses, it won’t be only him that pays.
He swallows, jaw aching from how tightly he clenches it, before releasing it again. “I’ll serve.”
Rosfield claps him on the back as if he’d just agreed to share a pint. “There’s the spirit! You’ll find life among the Shields suits you better than the gaol, I assure you.”
Halbrecht storms off in a fury, his cloak snapping behind him, and the crowd slowly disperses. Cid remains rooted where he stands, dagger still clutched in one hand, until Rosfield gently pries it from his fingers.
“Keep your edge sharp,” Byron murmurs, “but learn when to sheath it. You’ll live longer.”
Cid bites his tongue rather than answer. But in spite of all his fury, when Rosfield turns around carelessly, expecting him to follow, he does.
What other choice does he have? This shem lord might think he’s doing him a favor, but all this amounts to is another way to exploit him.
As they traverse the city streets in uneasy silence, at least from Cid’s end, the sun rises higher, burning away the morning mist that clings to Rosalith’s streets. In the alienage, Alys will be wringing her hands raw with worry. Cid wonders if she’ll think him dead already. The thought settles like a stone in his gut.
Will he even be allowed to go back home? Will the Shields even accept him to begin with? What if they refuse to take him on, and Cid is returned to Halbrecht, thrown into gaol?
But despite his fears, Byron’s word is law enough, it seems. By noon, Cid’s led into the bailey of the castle, where the Shields train in the shadow of high walls. They give him looks—some wary, some openly hostile—but Byron only chuckles at the less than warm reception.
“Talent comes in all forms, gentlemen,” he tells them breezily. “Even ones you’d rather ignore.”
Cid glares at the dirt, keeping his fists tight at his sides. He tells himself he’ll find a way to slip their leash soon. But deep down, beneath the fury, there’s a spark of something else—something he can’t quite name.
A chance, maybe. Or a curse.
Clive sits at the long breakfast table, straight-backed, hands folded neatly in his lap as if posture alone might stitch together the rift splitting apart his family.
The silverware gleams. The servants have laid out eggs, bread, and fruit, but none of it tempers the air—thick and brittle, ready to crack with the wrong word.
His father, Archduke Elwin Rosfield, stares down at his plate, jaw set. His mother, Duchess Anabella Rosfield, sits opposite him, lips pursed in a thin, displeased line. Between them, Joshua Rosfield fidgets with a piece of bread, ten years old and too young yet to hide the worry in his eyes.
Clive clears his throat, though the sound is barely louder than the scrape of cutlery. No one looks up.
Finally Joshua ventures a question, voice timid. “Father? I heard—some of the stewards say the princess of the Northern Territories has come into her powers. That she’s one of the favored of Shiva now. Is it true?”
Anabella’s head snaps up like a hawk’s, and both Clive and Joshua tense reflexively.
“Joshua,” she says sharply, “you will not speak of our enemies at the table.”
Joshua wilts, cheeks flushing. “I only asked—”
“She is the champion of our foe, the ice witch herself. To speak of her with curiosity is folly.”
Clive sees Joshua’s hands tremble, the crust of bread nearly torn in two. Something twists in his chest, protective and fierce. He can’t bear to see his brother cowed for the sake of politics. So he interjects, forcing his voice steady.
“If we mustn’t speak of Shiva, perhaps we can speak of Ifrit instead,” he proposes, shifting his gaze to his father who has been silently staring at the table, seemingly lost in thought. “The Eighth Blight ended near a decade ago, and still Ifrit has chosen not a single champion. Who do you think he’ll favor, Father?”
The question startles Elwin enough to lift his gaze. He leans back against his chair, considering. “Ifrit is born of fire. Our line has long been favored by his kin—the Phoenix has chosen many Rosfields as his champions. It would not be impossible to think Ifrit might look to Rosaria again. Perhaps even to you, Clive.”
The words catch Clive off guard, warmth flickering at his core. Him? Ifrit’s champion?
Joshua was favored by the Phoenix, its symbol ever-present with a warm glow on the back of his right hand. Those who are favored by the Eikons—formerly known as the Old Gods—are the only mages allowed their freedom. Though, to call them mages at all is considered a taboo by the Chantry. Hence, they are called champions instead.
It always sounded like semantics to Clive.
Not all Eikons receive this treatment, however. Shiva, Odin, Ramuh and Garuda have refused to bend to the Chantry, which denounces their claim upon godhood. They have all long been declared enemies of the faith.
Opposite to them, the Phoenix, Bahamut, and Titan have always chosen champions of the Andrastian faith, adhering to the Chant of Light, and were accepted. Or so the Chantry says.
Leviathan is the last one left to emerge: the final corrupted Eikon who will some day awaken and cause the Ninth Blight, the very last one. Once he is killed, cleansed and reborn, the blights and their ills will trouble Valisthea no more.
Before Clive can answer his father’s encouraging remark, Anabella’s laugh slices across the table, sharp as a knife.
“Ifrit choose him?” She lifts her goblet, eyes flashing. “Perhaps Ifrit delights in bastards.”
The word lands like a blow. Clive lowers his head, his ears burning.
Elwin’s voice hardens. “Anabella—”
But Clive’s already pushing back his chair, ignoring Joshua’s sad gaze on him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he speaks quietly, and stands before his father and brother can stop him. The weight of his mother’s stare follows him as he strides from the hall, slipping into the corridor.
The servants who stand in wait there do not look surprised to see him leaving the dinner table early. They at least are polite enough to wait until he is out of earshot before they start murmuring amongst each other, Clive catching the faint sound up until he turns a corner.
He does not have to wonder what they gossip about, as it has never been a grand secret: the archduke’s eldest is a bastard. Born from a poorly-hidden affair, the only mystery that remains being the identity of his real mother. No matter how he tries to outrun it, outfight it, that knowledge will be haunting his every step—it has even cast doubt on his inheriting the throne, despite his father claiming him and declaring him a legitimate heir.
The duchess, most of all, despises him for it. And the saddest part is that he cannot fault her for that. His very existence casts shame upon her, even though it was not her misstep. No matter how many times he calls her mother, or tries to win her approval, he fears it is a lost cause.
Lost in his grim thoughts, his feet take him on a familiar path, down the stairs and outside into the castle’s courtyard. The bailey greets him with the clang of steel and the bark of orders, the familiar sounds of the Shields at training.
He breathes easier here.
The Shields spar in pairs across the yard. Clive watches a moment, letting the rhythm of combat ease the knot in his chest. Then, at the far end, something unusual catches his eye.
A boy that looks to be of an age with him stands across from a seasoned Shield. He’s slender, quick, his movements honed to a dangerous edge. His dark brown hair plasters to his brow with sweat, and his ears are notably long and pointed. An elf.
Clive watches as the boy ducks a swing, feints left, then drives a knee into the Shield’s gut. The man stumbles, and the boy kicks up dust and dirt straight into the Shield’s face, blinding him temporarily.
Gasps ripple through the other recruits as the boy takes the disoriented Shield down with a sweep of the legs, placing his practice blade at the man’s throat within an instant.
“Dirty tricks,” one of onlooking Shields hisses, the others seeming to agree.
A shout comes from among the other recruits: “Cheater!”
Ser Wade, younger than most but already sworn, steps forward uncertainly. “He didn’t cheat, he just fought smarter.”
The protests rise louder, but the boy—grinning through a split lip—taunts back, “If you can’t stomach losing, maybe you should hang up your blades!”
Clive’s mouth quirks before he can stop it: something in the boy’s fire speaks to him. Without thinking, he steps forward.
“In a true battle, honor means little if you end up dead,” he says, his voice carrying. The yard quiets. “Better to win with wit than die with pride.”
The Shields exchange uneasy glances, but they remain silent. Bastard or not, no one dares contradict the archduke’s son.
Then the elven boy turns to him with a wary look, sweat dripping down his jaw. His eyes—green, as vibrant as stained glass—meet Clive’s. For a heartbeat, Clive forgets what he meant to say next.
The boy mutters a reluctant, “Thanks.”
Clive feels heat climb his neck, and he quickly looks away. The boy is nothing like the elven servants he’s glimpsed in passing, silent and bowed under human eyes. This one stands proud even when outnumbered, his lip bloodied and his pride bristling like a wildcat’s. There’s a rawness to him, a defiance that Clive finds… arresting.
He tries to tell himself it’s only admiration for the boy’s skill, the cunning in his movements, the refusal to yield. Yet he can’t shake the way those green eyes cut straight through him, daring him to look longer than he should. It leaves Clive unsteady, as though the ground itself has shifted beneath his boots.
Clearing his throat, Clive tries to shake the weight of that stare. “What’s your name?”
The boy tilts his head, suspicious, then lets a derisive grin tug at his mouth. “Why? So you can add it to your list of good deeds? Spoke up for the poor elf, how noble of you.”
A few of the Shields grumble at the cheek, but Clive only smiles faintly. “No. So I know who it is that bested a man twice his size.”
That earns him a laugh, and something in his stomach flutters strangely.
“Cid,” the boy says finally. “Just Cid.”
Clive inclines his head. “Clive Rosfield.”
The cheeky boy named Cid whistles low, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Rosfield, eh? The archduke’s whelp. Should I kneel?”
The sarcasm cuts, but Clive lets it slide, answering lightly, “If you did, I’d only ask you to stand again.”
Cid blinks at him, momentarily wrong-footed, then huffs a laugh. “Hells. You really are a princeling, aren’t you?”
“Lord Marquess,” one of the older Shields corrects stiffly, but Clive ignores it. His eyes remain on Cid.
“You fought well,” he says simply. “Smarter than most I’ve seen today. Will you spar against me?”
The mutters rise again, incredulous, but Clive does not find them worth listening to. Most of these Shields are all fully grown men, feeling threatened by a boy who could be half their age yet with twice as much talent.
Cid arches a brow, his grin sharp as a blade. “You sure? I’d hate to ruin that pretty face. Might give your mother conniptions.”
Clive flushes hot, caught between indignation and something else he can’t name, something oddly pleasing in the notion that Cid finds him pretty. He shakes it off, refocusing on Cid’s challenge.
“Try me,” he answers, steel beneath the calm.
Shortly thereafter, they circle one another in the dirt ring, bare blades dulled for training. The other Shields gather close, eager for spectacle.
Cid moves first, quick as a striking serpent. He darts low, feints high, testing Clive’s guard with sly little jabs. There’s a street-born rhythm to him—dirty, unpredictable, the kind of fighting that wins back alley brawls rather than tournaments.
Clive meets him step for step, his training like water poured into the cracks of Cid’s offense. His stance is textbook, his parries smooth, but there’s force behind them too.
Cid no doubt notices as much, Clive watching the way his arms tremble lightly as their blades clash. He is quick, but not particularly strong. No doubt in part from being underfed, lacking the muscle that Clive has built.
Despite his disadvantage, Cid snarls and presses harder, sweat flying from his hair as he drives Clive back a pace. “Not bad, lordling, but you’re too stiff. Can’t read the flow.”
Clive grits his teeth, deflects a wild slash, then twists to tap at Cid’s knee with a clever pivot, hitting it with the flat of his blade. Cid stumbles, but then manages to catch himself before he falls, quickly putting distance between them
Amused, Clive lets him, lowering his blade. “Still think I can’t read it?”
Cid bares his teeth in a grin that’s half challenge, half grudging respect. “You got lucky.”
“Then strike again.”
They clash, steel ringing, boots scuffing the dirt. Clive feels alive in a way he hasn’t at breakfast, where every word dripped poison. Here there’s no pretense, no courtly scheming, no mother who loathes the very fact that he was born. Just him, Cid, and the rhythm of combat.
For a while, it feels endless. Neither yields.
But slowly, inevitably, Clive pulls ahead. His endurance holds steady where Cid’s begins to fray. His strikes grow heavier, more precise, until at last, with a swift disarm, he knocks the blade from Cid’s hand and pins him to the dirt with the tip of his own.
The yard erupts in cheers, some mocking, some awed.
Clive steps back, and knows better than to offer Cid a hand. It would only be taken as an insult.
“Next time,” he says instead, breathless but steady, “try to keep up.”
Cid scrambles to his feet, glaring fiercely, yet Clive thinks he also sees something of curiosity in his eyes. Wade claps Cid’s shoulder, murmuring encouragement, but Cid ignores it.
“Next time, I’ll wipe the floor with you,” he replies to Clive, speaking it like a vow.
“Then I’ll look forward to it,” Clive says in turn, and he means it much more than he ever expected.
The crowd disperses slowly, their chatter still thick with disbelief. Some scoff at the idea of an elf standing among them, while others whisper about the way he fought, quick and cunning as any born soldier. It seems that display was enough to at least change some minds about Cid already.
Clive’s gaze lingers on the boy in question as he dusts himself off, chin lifted high despite the flush of defeat burning his cheeks. There’s a determination there that makes Clive’s chest tighten, holding his attention captive.
He tells himself it’s only respect for a worthy opponent, yet his eyes keep straying—catching on the curve of a smirk, and on a gaze that shines brighter than it should in the sunlight.
Something twists low in his stomach, unfamiliar and disquieting, and he’s grateful when Wade distracts Cid with a word of encouragement.
Still, as Clive turns away, he hopes this won’t be the last time they clash.
Cid’s jaw aches from keeping it clenched too tight. Every muscle in his body hums with the memory of the fight, but what bites deepest is the sting of losing.
Wade’s hand lands on his shoulder again, steady and kind. “You did well. Better than most your age would against him.”
Cid shrugs it off, heat prickling his ears. “Spare me your pity. I don’t need it.”
Wade frowns but says nothing more. He knows enough to leave Cid his pride.
The other Shields drift back to their drills, though more than a few throw lingering looks his way. Some mocking, some wary, a few curious, and a few with pity. Cid meets them all with a glare sharp enough to cut. There’s no difference between their stares and the ones of the people at the square, watching and jeering as he was dragged towards the gaol for a crime he did not commit.
But Clive—Clive didn’t look at him like the rest of them do. When Clive spoke, when he smiled, when he set his blade at Cid’s throat, there was no mockery there. Only challenge. Respect, even.
It unsettles him. And he finds, to his surprise, that he doesn’t hate it.
Try to keep up next time, Clive said. As if he expected that there would be a next time. As if he hoped for it.
Cid smirks to himself, though his ribs still ache. “Next time, lordling,” he speaks under his breath.
The sun’s dipped lower by the time he’s—surprisingly—released from training, its light painting the streets of Rosalith in gold. The alienage gate groans open at his approach. Children dart past him, chasing one another with sticks, their laughter carrying over the stone walls.
Alys rushes forward the instant she sees him, her face pale with worry.
“Andraste’s mercy, Cid! Where have you- oh no, your lip—” She catches his chin, tilting his head to see the bruise swelling at his jaw where Halbrecht’s guard struck him earlier.
“I’m fine.” He pulls back, too tired for fussing. “Better than fine. They made me fight.”
Taran tenderly walks up behind her, still sore from the guard’s strike that morning. “Fight?” His brow furrows. “Against who?”
Cid drops onto the worn step outside Alys’s door, leaning back against the stone. His eyes fall on the vhenadahl at the center of the alienage, the great oak tree kindly sheltering him from the sun with its shade. The bark on its right side still shows the scorch-marks that scarred its wood from fifteen years ago. Sometimes, he hates looking at it.
Other times, like now, he thinks that if the vhenadahl is meant to be a symbol for the elven homeland, then the state of theirs is a hopeful one. Damaged as it is, it still survived the fire.
“The Shields,” he finally says, feeling too tired to form proper sentences anymore. He wants to lay his head down and rest. “All of them were watching. And then him.”
“Him?” Alys prompts.
Cid’s grin flashes, weary. “Clive Rosfield.”
Her eyes widen. “The archduke’s son?”
“The lord marquess,” Taran murmurs darkly. “What business has he with you?”
Cid shrugs, trying to look careless, though his heart still skips when he recalls their spar. “He challenged me. Said I fought well. Said I should spar him again.”
The words hang in the air, strange and heavy. An elf from the alienage, invited to cross blades with the archduke’s son. It sounds absurd even to his own ears.
Alys sinks down beside him, shaking her head. “That boy will bring you trouble. Shems only ever do.”
Cid leans back, eyes on the strip of sky above the walls that filter through the branches of the vhenadahl, now fading to twilight. Maybe Alys is right, but he remembers the way Clive looked at him—not like trash, not like a burden, but like someone worth measuring himself against.
Trouble or not, Cid finds himself smiling.
The alienage quiets once the little ones are called indoors not long after that. Firelight spills from shuttered windows, smoke curling into the dusk. By that time, Cid sits cross-legged on the worn cot in Alys’s house, elbows on his knees, staring at the dagger that he’d snatched from the guard and that Byron had taken from him earlier—now returned to his belt as part of his “recruit’s kit.”
A token of service, they called it, as if it was a choice of his own will. Yet, inexplicably, they let him go at the day’s end. Fed him the same as the humans, and even spoke of sorting out his payment.
The door creaks open, pulling him out of his thoughts. Small footsteps shuffle in, and a boy clambers up beside him without asking. Gav, with his tangle of blond hair and ears a shade too large for his head, blinks up at Cid with light green eyes. Those get the two of them mistaken for brothers more often than not.
“You’re back!” Gav says excitedly, as if it were in doubt.
Cid snorts. “’Course I’m back. You think a pair of lardy guards and a puffed-up noble can stop me?”
Gav’s lips twitch in a half-smile, though it falters quickly. “But you’re bleedin’.”
Cid touches his split lip, scowls at the sting. It’s scabbed over already, but it’ll be hurting for a while.
“Barely.” He pulls the boy close with one arm, ruffling his hair until Gav yelps. “I’ve had worse from your elbow when you thrash in your sleep.”
That earns him a giggle, thin but real. It eases something heavy in Cid’s chest: Gav doesn’t laugh nearly often enough for an eight year old. Cid himself found the lad two years ago, weeping alone in the market. No one knew where he’d come from, only that his parents never returned for him, and Gav refused to answer any questions about it. Everyone assumed the worst.
Cid thinks Gav might tell him if he asked, but he never pressed him for details: some wounds are better left alone.
“Tell me a story,” Gav says suddenly. His eyes gleam in the firelight, eager. “About the old days.”
Cid leans back against the wall, considering. The Chantry forbids such tales, calls them heresy—but in the alienage, the old lore is all they have left. If the shems don’t like it, they can choke on their sermons.
“Fine,” Cid says at last. At least now he's rested enough to speak more than five words at a time. He softens his voice, letting the natural rhythm of the familiar tale take hold. “Long before the Maker’s priests came with their chains and their fire, the People sang to the gods that walked the Fade. To Elgar’nan, the All-Father, to Mythal the Protector, to Sylaise the Hearthkeeper. We built no walls, for the forests were our homes, and the rivers carried our songs.”
Gav’s eyes widen, soaking in every word.
“They say even now, when the Fade thins, you can hear their voices in dreams.” Cid glances toward the shuttered window, the night pressing close. “Promises, warnings, omens. Some say the Eikons are those same gods, changed, forgotten, wearing new faces. Who’s to say they aren’t?”
The Eikons were once called the Old Gods, up until the Chantry took offense. There is no place for them or for the elven gods in the Chant of Light: there is only the Maker and His bride, Andraste. Even in the alienage, most of the elves here claim the Andrastian faith as their own. Cid doubts it is out of any true belief, though. Most of them want to fit in with Rosarian society, or if not that, then at least escape human scrutiny.
Gav chews his lip, thoughtful. “Do you think the Phoenix was once one of them? Sylaise, maybe?”
Cid shrugs. “Could be. But if that’s true, then he’s a god of ours no longer. Maybe that’s why he chose the Rosfields—to twist us into bowing to the Chant, like the rest.”
The words leave a bitter taste. He thinks of Clive, standing tall in the training yard, and wonders if the boy truly bows or if, like Cid, he burns against the leash.
Later, when Gav finally dozes against his side, Cid slips out into the courtyard, seeking air. A few of the older elves lounge nearby, sharing a bottle of something. Their voices carry low, hushed, until one of them notices him lingering.
“You’ve been with the Shields today,” one remarks, tone guarded.
Cid folds his arms. “Not by choice.”
Another, older still, leans forward. “We heard who you fought. Clive Rosfield.”
Cid stiffens. “And?”
The man spits to the side. “Bastard. His mother hates him. Calls him the archduke’s shame. Some say that’s why he hides behind the Shield’s colors, because he’ll never sit the ducal throne.”
Cid blinks, surprised. He’d suspected there might be quarrels about the line of succession—he’d heard the whispers at court festivals, scraps of gossip—but to hear it so plain sets the pieces in order. That explains the quiet sadness in Clive’s eyes, the way he seemed almost grateful for the clash, as if it mattered to him that Cid pushed him hard.
“Doesn’t matter,” another elf grouses. “Rosfield blood is Rosfield blood. It burns us all the same.”
Cid doesn’t argue, though the words churn in his gut. Later, he lies back on his cot, staring at the rafters, and thinks not of Byron’s smirk nor Halbrecht’s fury.
He thinks of Clive Rosfield. Cid turns the name over in his mind like a coin between his fingers. Bastard prince, son of privilege, hated by his own mother—and yet, he looked at Cid like an equal.
Cid closes his eyes, a smile tugging at his mouth despite the bruise on his lip. He doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring, but for once, he almost looks forward to it.