[r.] I know you will follow me until kingdom come [18+]

“No. Alster doesn’t know, yet. At least, I don’t think so…” Something about the certainty and urgency in Isidor’s departure from the palace led Nia to believe the unlikelihood that he had said anything to Alster--or anyone, for that matter--before solidifying the decision to leave. Or to comment on his departure to anyone. Had she not caught him in that moment, mid-stride, the palace might have wondered what had happened to him and why his room was suddenly abandoned after months of having a temporary home in Galeyn. “I dunno, Ari. He seemed… different. He’s been upset before. He’s been broken and lost. But this felt different. Like he’s beyond all stages of grief, and has found himself somewhere… somewhere dark. He barely said more than a few words to me. But it wasn’t like talking to Isidor Kristeva at all.”

She didn’t like the change she’d witnessed in Vitali’s younger brother. In lieu of the vulnerability written so plainly on his face, the sentiments that opened his heart to others and made him want to help (even against his better judgment), there had only been… coldness. Distance. And it bruised her heart to think that Isidor Kristeva they knew might never see their friend and ally ever again--or, at last, never the same way again.

“I’m sorry. The last thing you need right now is bad news…” The Master Alchemist sighed. She was beyond tired at this point; witnessing the departure of someone she both liked and looked up to had taken a mental and emotional toll on her that her recovering body wasn’t yet prepared to handle. “But if this is what he wants… then all we can do is let him go. He hasn’t been happy here for such a long time. If he really is returning to Nairit… maybe the peace he’ll find there is exactly what he needs.”

As if that wasn’t enough, there was no rest for the wicked. It seemed that in their current positions, Ari and Nia were not well equipped to put out any fires, especially when it came to Hadwin, whose trajectory of recovery was anyone’s guess. When poor Nico, who thought he was doing something helpful, spilled the handful of cards which sent the faoladh into a fit, both Nia and Ari sprung into action to do damage control as much as they were physically able to do. But there was no tried and true protocol for what Hadwin was experiencing, and no one--especially Nico--could have known how the simple playing cards could tear a rift in his otherwise catatonic state.

“No, Nico, you’re not at fault.” Nia hurriedly amended. She had only recently secured Ari’s nephew’s respect, and was not keen on losing it anytime soon. Not to mention, the young man was suffering his own demons, to the point where he couldn’t even hide it anymore and deal with it in the silence and solitude of his own room. He and Hadwin suffered for similar reasons, even if it presented differently in the two of them. “Your uncle is right. Tivia is cryptic at the best and worst of times--more frequently, the worst. You were simply carrying out a task that someone of trusted authority asked of you. I’m sure there’s a reason she believed it was necessary for Hadwin to see these cards…”

Or, more specifically (as Ari was quick to point out in his keen observance), one card in particular. Nia’s brown eyes trailed to the six of spades which had landed face-up in front of Hadwin, at which point the shapeshifter’s behaviour had taken a drastic turn. Her knowledge of cards and their potential meanings was sparse at best; Briery Frealy might have better insight as to why the six of spades would elicit such a reaction. Yet… perhaps it had less to do with what the card meant canonically, and more to do with the wolf man’s own emotional attachment to it. Without a doubt, something about it must have reminded him of Teselin. There was no other explanation; after all, what else could possibly reach Hadwin in this state but memories of Teselin…?

And then, in an entirely unexpected turn of events, Ari’s young nephew managed to get a grip of his own composure to such an extent that he seemed to know exactly the words Hadwin needed to hear. After all, who understood the young summoner even as remotely well as Hadwin, but Nico himself? He certainly had his uncle’s way with words; never in a million years would Nia have thought to make such an analogy. Perhaps, in Nico’s more intimate understanding of Teselin Kristeva, he was also able to understand the depth of Hadwin’s psychological wounds. Perhaps he, of all people, knew exactly what the wolf man needed to hear to make the pain go away.

From the folds of Ari’s borrowed notebook, Nia also managed to catch a glimpse of something Hadwin had produced in the hours that had passed. Another portrait of Teselin: his own portrait, the way he saw her, with a bright smile and kindness in her eyes. It was less a physically accurate portrayal of the young summoner’s appearance, and more a rendition of her spirit: bright, light, and gentle. This was the Teselin that Hadwin knew and loved and currently mourned.

“That’s an excellent idea, Nico. Teselin is drawn to art; maybe, your joint efforts with Hadwin will help draw her out. Or bring her back more quickly.” Her words weren’t mere lip service; this was perhaps the best thing they could do to coax the pieces of Teselin drifting on the wind. Maybe, bit by bit, this would make her whole again. If she was everywhere, then didn't that mean she could hear everything? See everyone? Feel what they were feeling? Nia had never been confident about manifesting anything before; but she was now.

If only Isidor were around to feel this hope… 

But while there might have been hope for Teselin’s return, Isidor, on the other hand… was another story entirely. And sadly, neither Nia nor anyone else had words of comfort or encouragement following the Kristeva alchemist’s hasty departure. Tivia had certainly realized this, because she chose not to employ an edge or tactic when breaking the news to Alster and Elespeth. It didn’t matter that she was blunt and direct, because it wouldn’t have mattered if she broke the news gently, either. Bad news was bad news, regardless of whether it was wrapped in a pretty bow.

While Elespeth held Tivia in relatively high regard and had a soft spot for the tortured Rigas woman (no longer a girl), the news she bore was seldom good news, and with Alster only recently finding a moment to rest, needless to say, she was immediately nervous. What was it now? Had someone else disappeared from the living world, only to dissipate into the atmosphere? Was Galeyn suddenly under yet another threat? There was a lot that Elespeth and her husband could have been prepared for: war, danger, yet another tyrant, but… the issue was much more simple than that. And it was far more impactful than any of the above possibilities.

“Isidor… has left?” This shouldn’t have come as a surprise. How often had Vitali’s younger brother lamented leaving the safety and solitude of his tower? How often had he expressed how uncomfortable he was in Galeyn; how he felt as though, no matter how hard he tried, that he couldn’t fit in? And yet… he was always so committed to his friends and allies. His commitments, his promises, had always held him back and kept him at bay. Had Teselin’s death really changed that? She was really the tipping point? 

“Tivia, do you know where he has gone? Or where he is headed?” The former knight asked, in hopes that there might be some chance of convincing him to change his mind, but Tivia seemed determined that Isidor couldn’t be swayed. And that did not sit well with her husband.

Before she had a chance to react, Alster made the decision to take the situation into his own hands and bring the Master Alchemist back. Elespeth had seen him like this before; those times when he forced his help or interference upon others, and it never ended well. As much as she also wanted nothing more than for Isidor to come back and find some solace in the company of friends, that wasn’t going to happen, whether or not they interfered. And Alster’s interference would only make a bad situation worse…

Tivia’s warning was needless; as soon as Alster broke into a run down the corridor, Elespeth followed at a sprint. She was fortunate he wasn’t quite as fast as her on foot. “Alster--stop!”

It had been some time since Elespeth’s newfound magic had manifested. Typically, the sparks and fire would only manifest during peak moments of intimacy (they had become rather good at either repairing or hiding damage), and Alster hadn’t had much of a chance to help her work on controlling its output. But with whatever control she could manage over the powers she never asked for, she put one hand to the stone wall and from her fingertips, electric white fire, like that of a thunderbolt, streaked across the full expanse of the smooth stone panels, popping loudly as it charred pale gray and white and left fragments of stone tumbling off the wall. It was enough to shake the corridor and knock candles out of their sconces; it was also enough to startle Alster into stopping mid-stride, long enough for her to catch up to him.

“You have to stop.” The former Atvanian woman grabbed Alster’s shoulders and shook her head sadly. “Listen to Tivia. We can’t help Isidor, Alster. Forcing him to come back… what do you think that will achieve? That he will suddenly realize he needs to be among friends? That the pain he feels isn’t bad enough to want to run from it? I don’t like it, but maybe… I think Tivia is right.” Slowly, her hands slid from Alster’s shoulders, and her own posture deflated. “Isidor… I don’t think he knows how to be happy. Such that when tragedy strikes, it makes sense that he would react this way. You’ve already tried time and again to shift his perspective. There are some things that people can only learn from experience. I’m sorry, Alster…”

While she was nowhere near as close to Isidor as her husband, this was still the man who had effectively saved her life, and had given her another chance at a life with Alster. Hells, she had lived to even have a far more proper second wedding because of his efforts. He didn’t deserve what had happened to him--not any of it. No wonder the man did not know how to be happy; when had he ever had the chance to explore what it meant to really be happy? Perhaps, during that brief period of time when he had found something special with Tivia… but that had ended so poorly. The one time he dared to be happy… could anyone really blame him for giving up?

Elespeth closed the distance between herself and Alster and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “I’m sorry.” She whispered again, into his neck. “Maybe… Isidor can only find his happiness elsewhere. Away from here, a place where he experienced so much pain.”

“If you were truly working as part of a team, Bronwyn, you’d have said it differently.” Sigrid wiped a smear of perspiration and ash from her forehead and squinted at the ever brightening sun. “We are working as a team; because a team is we. Us. Something you learn early on if you choose to join the Dawn Guard, because they never fight alone. Some might see it as a handicap, but once you see what can be accomplished as part of more than just yourself… it is honestly difficult to go back to just yourself.” 

And it had been difficult going back to herself, when she’d left her place in the Dawn Guard. It was difficult not only because it was what she had been used to for as long as she could remember, but she had just lost Naimah. And somewhere along the way… she had lost herself. No longer knew who she was or where she stood as an individual, apart from the Dawn Guard family that had accepted her and raised her from petulant childhood, and it had left her so empty that Locque had seized the opportunity to fill that space and take over her mind. She wondered if Bronwyn felt the same way: apart from her pack, with her sister gone, and her brother… absent, however temporarily.

“You’re not a burden. And you’re not mad. But on this trajectory, you could easily become both, because what you’re doing is destructive.” Her tone wasn’t accusatory or judgmental; Sigrid was too exhausted to pass judgment, and after what she had done in Locque’s thrall, she had no right to judge anyone. That said, she couldn’t watch the faoladh woman spiral and lose herself in the same way she had. “Is that what you’re looking for, Bronwyn? Self-destruction, so you don’t have to feel what is happening around you? I thought that tendency exclusively belonged to your brother.” If she could prevent even one person from making such a mistake… then maybe that life-altering mistake would, in hindsight, prove to have some value.

Taking in a slow breath, the former Dawn warrior picked up one of the jugs of water that Bronwyn had been carrying. “Where are these going? Point the way. I will say, now would be an ideal time to approach the Dawn Guard. If you’re looking for something to do, they’re going to be in need of extra hands in their own relief efforts.”

Sigrid followed Bronwyn back to the encampment for the handful of displaced citizens, evacuated from their homes as a result of the fire. The outreach response in the aftermath was wide-spread; there was certainly work to do, but no shortage of people to lend a hand.Like the Dawn Warrior suspected, there was nothing of any urgence that required immediate tackling: things were under control. In fact, the encampment already appeared to have all the water they needed, and Bronwyn’s contribution was appreciated, but still superfluous. With a lack of immediate tasks to keep her busy thanks to Galeyn’s guard, the blonde warrior could sense the faoladh’s restlessness. It was time she came good on her promise.

“Let’s go for a walk, back to central Galeyn. We’ll find Roen there.” She suggested, although she wasn’t convinced that Bronwyn would follow. To her relief, Hadwin’s sister did manage to accept her help wasn’t urgently required at this point in time, and the two made their way back to the palace in relative silence. 

As they drew near the palace, not far from where the Fawn Guard was currently stationed (or part of them, anyway; some were still in Braighdath, looking out for the city), anxiety twisted Sigrid’s stomach into knots. She hadn’t spoken to Roen in months, and had avoided any and all interactions with the Dawn Guard’s revered and trusted leader, to the point where she was sure he had finally given up on her. She still wasn’t ready to face him; and since he traveled frequently between Galeyn and Braighdath, it was possible he was not currently present in Galeyn, but had a stand-in to act as a liaison in his absence. If that were the case, they would pass the message on to Roen, and he would speak with Bronwyn himself upon his return, with no need for Sigrid to face him…

The blonde warrior wasn't so lucky, though. When they approached the Dawn Guard’s outdoor encampment, the foremost tent where Roen spent the majority of his time coordinating the guard was empty… save for the man himself. Upon Sigrid and Bronwyn’s approach, he looked up from a map with surprise and what appeared to be hope in his aging eyes. “Sigrid.” It was clear that he had so much he wanted to say to the former Dawn Warrior, but hardly knew where to start. 

Sigrid seized his surprise as an opportunity to interrupt before he could go into another speech about why she should return to the Guard. “I’ve come--we have come to ask you to consider taking Bronwyn into the Dawn Guard.” She spoke quickly, the words tumbling out such that she wanted to make it clear right away that she was not here to be persuaded. “She comes from a pack, and already understands what it means to operate as a unit instead of an individual. She is physically fit, familiar with combat, and can take orders. I think you’ll find she will be an asset to the Dawn Guard, if you give her a chance.”

“Bronwyn.” Roen’s cool, blue eyes settled on the faoladh woman, sun-tanned and with traces of ash on her face and in her hair from her efforts to provide relief from the fire. “We’ve never had the likes of faoladh among the Dawn Guard.” He mused, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “This is vast new territory. If you were to fight with us… it must be as a human. Not a wolf. At least, not unless we find a way to harmonize the fierceness of a canine with our otherwise infallible methods.”

“You don’t turn away those with good intentions. Those who understand what it means to be part of something bigger than themselves. Those who need to be something bigger than themselves.” The blonde warrior stood firm; it was becoming clear that she was not about to take no for an answer. “You didn’t turn me away when I was an unruly child. Give Bronwyn a chance. You’ve lost some of your own to Locque’s tirade--the most you’ve lost in eons. You can’t afford not to replenish forces, Roen.”

The leader of the Dawn Guard nodded. “Of course, you speak reason, Sigrid. Do not interpret my musings as refusal. Bronwyn Kavanagh,” he nodded to the faoladh woman and unclasped his hands, placing them flat on the table. “I believe you do have a lot to offer our forces. I would be happy to discuss this further with you sometime soon. In the meantime,” he gestured to the opening of the tent, “perhaps spend some time around the others. See how easily you can form rapport with them. Your relationship with the others may help you determine if this is a path you truly wish to take.”

Not so deep down, Alster understood the futility and the harm fetching Isidor, such that Elespeth’s lightning assault dislodged more than a few sconces off the wall; it also dislodged some of his resolve. Vacillating between the exit down the hall and Elespeth, he ultimately turned to his wife, and listened to her reasonable appeal. Her words punched through his senses easier than a battering ram through plaster, begging the question: was he too tired to prevent his best friend from making an egregious mistake, or did he acknowledge the easy-to-observe truth about Isidor’s shortsighted, emotional-based decision?

“You’d think by now I would learn that I can’t help everyone,” he muttered, at first too hushed to translate as more than little ramblings to himself. He planted his steel hand against the scorch marks Elespeth’s magic scored into the wall; still warm and smoking. Isidor configured his prosthesis to detect pressure, temperature, and pain, but he felt only the former of the two conditions, too numb to notice the third.

“I can’t do this to myself anymore. Perhaps Bronwyn had the right idea. Except—contrary to her self-possessed need to keep busy and of use, I…just want to rest. Is that selfish of me, El?” Any streak of self-righteous fury petered out of him the moment Elespeth unleashed her errant thunderbolts, replacing fire with paralysis. He pressed his forehead on her shoulder and closed his eyes. “Let me…let me rest…”

“Self-destruction? I’m doing nothing of the sort.” Bronwyn blinked at Sigrid, looking genuinely confused. “It’s the dead opposite, Sigrid. I’m preserving my sense of self; my sanity,” she bit the word, surprised at the spittle that fueled its utterance at the cusp of her teeth. “I’m not meant to work alone, so here I am; part of a team.” The former Dawn warrior looked patently unconvinced, and Bronwyn hadn’t the patience to argue her sound and clear-cut viewpoint. Once they headed to camp and dropped off the jugs of water, it soon became apparent that no tasks of immediacy needed doing. Making good on her word—and mainly out of lack of chores to occupy her time—Bronwyn followed Sigrid to Central Galeyn. With the palace looming in the distance, Bronwyn cast nervous glances in the direction of the Night Garden, hoping their path wouldn’t meander near the sanctuary, where her brother rested. Fortunately, the Dawn Guard and their barracks were located adjacent to where the Forbanne called their temporary home, and Bronwyn relaxed her tensing shoulders, more than comfortable among their ranks; ironically, the very same who had her arrested and committed to their tent for interrogation, upon her nascent arrival in Galeyn. Funny how Sigrid, dead-eyed and driven by the pursuit of vengeance, had been responsible for her incarceration, and Teselin Kristeva, the reason behind her liberation and exoneration. And now…would Sigrid again lead them full circle, but not as her prisoner this go around, but as a potential pledge for the organization who believed her guilty by association, once upon a time?

The tension twisted her shoulders anew. Would the Dawn Guard even accept a Kavanagh to their exalted ranks? She, the sister of a scoundrel—now an arsonist—and a serial murderer? Who was she to presume they would want her?

Stepping inside Roen’s tent, Bronwyn stood stiff and awkwardly beside Sigrid, moreso when the Dawn Guard commander homed in on his former subordinate. “Roen. Sir.” She tried the name on her tongue, ashamed by the thought that he and her late sister shared a similar appellation and worried he would sense her hesitation. “If this also helps to cement my eligibility,” she said, following Sigrid’s glowing endorsements, “I have also worked with the Forbanne under Commander Sorde’s orders. He regularly appoints me for tracking and hunting, and my levels of endurance have been proven more than adequate to match their grueling pace. If you require an additional statement of recommendation, I’m certain Commander Sorde will also vouch for my credentials. Need I remind you that as a wolf, my reflexes are also—“ she paused. If you were to fight with us, it must be as a human. Not a wolf.

Glad that Sigrid took offense on her behalf, Bronwyn acknowledged her vehement defenses with an appreciative nod. “I understand your concerns, sir. However, I must also preface my involvement by adding a few clarifications. I am neither one absolute or the other. You might look at me and see ‘human,’ but I never leave the wolf behind one hundred percent when I’m wearing this skin. I have holdovers that can’t and won’t just recede until called upon; my sharpened senses, for one. If my assets prove to be a disadvantage among the Dawn Guard, as I am already coming to you equipped with unequal advantages, then it’s best you let me know now. I can’t readjust to fit a staunchly human model, after all, and it would be ill-advised to try, I’m sorry to say.”

As the aging commander explained his intentions, Bronwyn clasped her hands forward and dropped her head into a deep, reverent bow. “Thank you for this opportunity, sir. I will do as you request. Our apologies for the intrusion.” Together, they dismissed themselves from Roen’s tent and stepped outside. Bronwyn still walked stiffly beside Sigrid as they cleared the other side of camp, putting as much distance between themselves and the tent.

“Thank you. For vouching for me. And putting yourself in this obviously uncomfortable situation,” Bronwyn said, staring firmly at the ground and not at the perspiration glistening on Sigrid’s forehead, which wasn’t there a few minutes ago. “I might not see fears like my brother, but I can smell them, and it’s obvious this isn’t where you want to be right now. So you don’t have to stay here a minute longer. You’ve done more than enough. Honestly,” she tucked loose strands of sweat-slicked hair behind her ears as she gazed at the warriors clad in their indigo tunics milling about the camp, “who’s to say I’m even a good fit here? I’m not all human so I don’t exactly know how to fight like one, just approximate one, and,” she bit her lip, “what does Roen mean by ‘spend time’ with the others? Does he want me to do work? He seemed much more interested in getting you back than in entertaining a bad reputation like me. Well,” she picked up a shovel she found leaning against a tree stump and looked around for a place to utilize it, “might as well get busy cleaning up this camp. That’s how I can spend time with others, I suppose.”

You are in a storm.

Noise noise noise. The sea crashed in his ears, body, broken, speared by the rocks. Far above his head, lowering clouds swarmed like vultures ready to pick him clean. The high cliffs from which he’d plunged vanished, as if they never existed, as if she never existed because she didn’t, not anymore, and…

I promised I’d follow you wherever you went, no matter what. How do I follow?

Down, down, down, darker than depth, deeper than black, dead and dashed upon the rocks, dead where he was supposed to die, because he was supposed to die. Rowen swore so, swore she’d drag him through the dirt and into hell. He always resisted her siren’s call, ignored her shadowy manifestations, but this time, he didn’t need to resist because dead was exactly what he needed to be if he were to follow Teselin.

So he lit the fire, and he died. Death was a mindset and he reached it even if his body refused to synchronize. Its blemish remained, an echo upon the world, but oh how it persisted and oh how it transmitted so many noises from up above, on the surface. Faces and names and pictures and spades and her it’s her it’s Teselin she wants me to go there up up not down down and he didn’t know which way to swim when the storm buffeted from all sides. 

What do I do what do I do do do where do the dead go why can’t I go go where the storm is brewing? Why can’t I be the storm?

Because he was in the storm. His state of being consisted of the storm, but did not comprise the storm, not like Teselin; he couldn’t do what Teselin did. Couldn’t become infinity. His shapeshifting had limitations, whereas hers stretched on without end, and it was impossible to chase her horizon.

There’s no way to follow you…

“Let the storm pass, for it will pass. I know that it will pass.”

Hadwin blinked, and he was back in his body, listening to a boy he recognized, but barely. The noise noise noise still pounded and the ongoing storm raged, but if he waited it out…

If he could hold out just a little longer…

“Good news. I filed your request for early leave with Senyiah, and she’s in agreement that, pending any unforeseen complications or dips in health, you will be discharged from the sanctuary in two days’ time.”

“That is most fortunate news indeed. Thank you, Elias. And give the Head Gardener my best, as well.” As the Clematis healer took his leave, Ari turned excitedly to Nia. “My long convalescence has been granted an end date, at last. While I look forward to returning home and reassuming my responsibilities, the whirlwind amount of work I must address already has me feeling quite winded. Of course, the matter of your appeal takes utmost precedence; I haven’t forgotten. On the D’Marian side of affairs, I expect you will be hailed a hero and granted a sumptuous banquet the moment your feet touch the settlement grounds. My mother would have it no other way—and neither would I.”

A week had elapsed since hearing of Isidor’s sudden departure; a week since Hadwin exhibited signs of coming back to himself, and over two weeks since Ari was admitted to the sanctuary with a frantic Nia following in tow. In that sliver-thin timeframe, so much had happened; fortunately, the worst of it remained consigned to the earlier half and didn’t bleed its ink over the latter days, which for the most part focused on recovery. While Ari and Nia’s route to convalescence took the more standard, conventional path—saddled with constant check-ups, bitter-tasting teas, nutrient-rich soups, and the tireless chorus of ‘Be sure to get plenty of rest!’—Hadwin, and to some extent, Nico, went down a less straightforward road, overgrown with brambles and uncertainty. Although the faoladh had regained some semblance of control over his mental faculties, showing ability in dressing, feeding, and relieving himself, still he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak, and on some evenings he would wake up thrashing and scoring deep scratches into his throat, as though he couldn’t breathe and was clawing for an exit point. The majority of healers who studied his condition collectively concluded his breathing troubles were likely to be psychosomatic in nature, but in the interest of safety and because of his slow-to-heal lung damage, they provided the faoladh a breathing apparatus, which seemed to resolve the issue in the evenings, at least.

During waking hours, he would join Nico outside to paint. At first, his nephew attempted to teach Hadwin basic painting techniques, but when it became obvious the faoladh was more interested in slathering his hands in paint and smearing them across the canvas than learning about mixing and proper form, Nico sighed and let him do whatever he wanted. Whenever Ari asked to see Nico’s projects, however, he demurred politely, still too self-conscious to reveal his more experimental and macabre works. Conversely, Hadwin was quick to unveil his own masterpieces–random black globules of splattered paint arranged in amorphous configurations–with all the pride of a young child who crafted a picture for his parents and wanted praise.

On this day, Hadwin and Nico had ventured outside of the sanctuary on a strange mission at the faoladh’s request. He’d drawn a flower in his sketchbook and bade Nico accompany him to the Night Garden in search of it. Rare was the opportunity to bask in Nia’s company alone, and Ari would be remiss to squander it. In a fluid movement attributed to his loosening, sore-free muscles, he transferred to her bed and held her hands aloft, pressing them to his mouth. “Will you come with me to the settlement when I am discharged? I doubt you will meet with much, if any resistance from Galeynians once they learn that you’ve held up your end of the bargain, so to speak. Your case for a full pardon has never been stronger, and Nadira has been hard at work overturning whatever negative public opinion about you persists. Despite our unfortunate losses this past fortnight,” he extricated one hand to cup her cheek, “there is an abundance of gains to which we can look forward. Our much-longed-for future is all but assured,” he planted a kiss on her lips, “because of you, Nia.”

“Locating a random flower in a vast garden is like wading through a lake to find a raindrop,” Nico muttered behind Hadwin as they marched around in aimless pursuit of an eight-petaled, sharp-edged flower that possibly existed only in the faoladh’s imagination. For all his harebrained schemes in the past, this one seemed less a scheme and more a desperate, last-ditch attempt at normalcy. Though, Nico supposed he hadn’t given Hadwin enough credit from the outset, for, after a few minutes bushwhacking, the wolf strode through the brush with a purpose reserved for those who knew exactly where they were going.

Sure enough, sitting at the base of a tree beside an unmarked slab of stone, a wiry, eight-petaled purple flower broke through the deadfall, fighting to stay relevant among other encroaching weeds that choked its access to sunlight. Hadwin lowered into a squat and stared at the delicate, runtish plant, bringing one trembling hand forward as if anticipating disastrous results were he to stroke its petals. He made contact with the velvety, fibrous membrane and relaxed when no electric shock or otherwise jostled his fingers.

Understanding reached Nico’s brow. “This is your sister’s grave, is it not?” When Hadwin nodded, Nico pointed to the flower. “And the flower is…forgive me, but what is the significance of the flower?” Over the week of frequenting Hadwin’s company, Nico had gotten good at interpreting his nonverbal companion’s needs through pictures, wild gesticulations, or a bit of both. How Hadwin responded next surprised him, because it came from his mouth and produced sound. No mere lip movements, but genuine, resonant sound.

“Briery,” he said, scratchy and harsh, like a wood carving tool jabbing against the grain. Standing, he glanced behind Nico. Half expecting no one, as the faoladh had a penchant for interacting with wisps in the air he named ghosts, Nico looked over his shoulder to check, and indeed, the Missing Links acrobat was there, but Hadwin was gaping at her as if she belonged to the cadre of the aforementioned spirits that haunted him at night.

“Is it you?” he whispered, his eyes hopeful, wishful. Stumbling, he took a few faltering steps forward, aiming to close the distance between them. He laid a hand on her arm and grasped it firmly. “I thought you were gone, too…” he coughed, struggling to control his underutilized voice. “Like everyone without a form. Gone. Tes, and Cwenha, Fiona and,” he jerked his head to the grave, “Rowen. Not dead, but gone. Here and there and here again. Are you going there, too?” his gaze flicked overhead, at the open expanse of azure sky. His brow wrinkled longingly. “Take me. We’ll go together. All of us. If we go there, it gives here a chance to return. Don’t you see?” His grip tightened and his wayward stance became a little frantic. “We’ll go. We’ll go right now. Right–”

Nico shoved a playing card into Hadwin’s face. The six of spades, which he stole from the faoladh’s dresser before they departed the sanctuary, just in case. Hadwin’s glazed, golden eyes flicked from Briery to the card, and he immediately calmed. “Apologies,” Nico appealed to the bewildered acrobat, lowering into a contrite bow. “He is still…readjusting. The speaking is new, however. He has not said a word in the past week, let alone attempted to construct coherent sentences…until he saw you. And, well,” he frowned at the purple sprout in the ground, “until he touched that flower.”

Roen listened patiently to both Sigrid and Bronwyn in their pleas and testimonies. The blonde warrior did not appear to be in a position to take no for an answer; she was convinced that this was precisely what the faoladh woman needed. He respected her for that, just as much as he respected Bronwyn for her candid account of her skills. The Dawn Guard had standards, had a very specific way of functioning, and it wasn’t for everyone; but this was a case that he felt was worth looking into.

“The Dawn Guard has been in existence for hundreds of years. No single member has ever been the same; and while the principles that drive us haven’t changed, that is not to say that we haven’t adapted according to the talents and needs of the people we currently have.” The leader of the Dawn Guard met her uncanny golden eyes and pinched his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Your circumstances are certainly nothing like what we have ever dealt with before. But as you said, you may bring advantages the likes of which we had never known, but from which we can benefit. In the end, it is never really about whether you are a ‘good fit’ for the Dawn Guard, Miss Kavanagh. The question is, is the Dawn Guard a good fit for you?”

Leaving her to ponder that thought, and extending the invitation to mingle with the Dawn Guard’s current members, Roen also left Bronwyn with the reassurance that she was welcome to come and talk to him if she ever had any further questions. It wasn’t a surprise to Sigrid that her discomfort was obvious to Bronwyn, being in this situation, but she didn’t want to dwell on it either. “It’s fine; I’m fine. I’ve gone from the Dawn Guard’s wielder of the legendary Gaolithe, to mindless slayer of innocent people and their families under a witch’s thrall. Talking to Roen is the least of my concerns.” But she realized quickly that her tone was escalating, and this was not about her. Her discomfort was trivial compared to what Bronwyn was going through. She had to keep it together for her sake.

“Listen, it’s up to you how you want to approach this. But I think Roen and everyone else in this kingdom knows that you can work. That’s not what he cares about. Besides,” she gestured to a handful of indigo-clad warriors in the distance, talking and laughing amongst themselves. “Do they look like they’re working? We--the Dawn Guard does more than work. Yeah, you have to learn to fight and helping others is integral to their vision, but they’re a family in and of themselves. Before I found Haraldur, they were the only family I had for years and years. Anyone can suck it up and work together. What Roen means is he wants you to decide if these are the people you want to surround yourself with. Come with me.”

Sigrid headed for the three Dawn warriors, a man leaning against a tree with his arms folded, along with another man and a woman recounting some sort of story as he appeared to listen. The man against the tree looked to be perhaps a decade shy of Roen’s age, while the other man might have been just shy a few years of Sigrid’s age. The woman was somewhere in-between, with the sort of face that could have been just as likely on a thirty-year-old as a fifty-year-old. “Hey.” It took a good deal of courage and willpower to interrupt the conversation, and all three looked rather surprised to see Sigrid speaking to them. A few curious glances were thrown in Bronwyn’s direction, as well. “We, uh… this is Bronwyn.” The former Dawn Warrior indicated her companion. “She’s interested in joining the Dawn Guard. If one of you isn’t busy… I was hoping you could show her a few ropes. Introduce her to some of the others, so she can get a feel for… well, everything.”

“You’re the faoladh, right? Damn--I remember you. We didn’t exactly give you the warmest welcome upon your arrival, here.” The other man leaned away from the tree and extended his hand to Bronwyn. “Dalget. And this is Afreen and Zayar. Sorry about all that, by the way; the rude welcome and all. We were all a little paranoid at the time. What has you interested in the Dawn Guard? Sigrid singing our praises or something?” He cast a curious glance at Haraldur’s cousin, who promptly looked away.

“Bronwyn was part of a pack. She’s looking to be part of something, again--a unit. Figured you lot would be good for her.” She shrugged her shoulders and folded her arms, suddenly very insecure. “... I’m full of ash and sweat. I need to clean up. Excuse me.”

Sigrid left before anyone had the chance to convince her otherwise. The man, Dalget, sighed and shook his head. “No chance we’re ever going to get her back, huh. Well, it’s her choice. It always has been. So; wanna see a day in our life?” He gestured to the air before him, nothing in particular. “Not as exciting as you might think, but believe me, that’s a blessing these days.”

Nia’s recovery was somewhat slow, which was to be expected, but relatively steady and with no setbacks. As such, her wellness was within everyone’s peripheral vision, perhaps, but not at the forefront of everyone’s mind. The D’Marian settlement was still very much concerned about their bedridden leader, and Nadira was solely in charge of the narrative in providing updates. Little was ever asked about either of the Master Alchemists who had saved his life; no one was even seemingly aware of Isidor’s absence, save for the few who were close to him, and Nia was hardly an afterthought. But none of that really bothered Nia because it barely registered; how could it when she was just as guilty for her thoughts wandering just as flippantly? Between Hadwin’s condition, Ari’s recovery, Teselin’s dematerialization, and Isidor’s abrupt departure, there was too much else to focus on than how drained she still felt from the ordeal. She was able to eat and drink, was permitted to walk a little further everyday, and exhibited no reason for anyone to be concerned, and frankly… the lack of attention came as a relief.

Nico had very much taken it upon himself to slowly but surely rehabilitate Hadwin’s tortured mind, which came as both a surprise and relief to the Ardane woman. She very much enjoyed this kinder, more empathetic side of Ari’s nephew, and he had obviously established something of a kinship with the faoladh, on behalf of their common interest for Teselin Kristeva’s wellbeing, and the hope they struggled to foster that she would return. Ari also appeared to encourage his nephew’s involvement in Hadwin’s recovery, and as the Canaveris lord himself recovered, the Master Alchemist could have sworn she saw a deeper colour in his rich skin. Day after day, he was growing stronger than she had ever seen him, while Hadwin was slowly but surely picking up the pieces of himself, so then…

So then, why did she not feel as though she was well on her way to the life she wanted for her and Ari? Everything was falling into place; shouldn’t she feel ecstatic? Relief? A sense of purpose, now that she’d achieved something that no other Master Alchemist had ever gone on record for achieving?

Maybe that would be the case, if Teselin was here… and if Isidor had stayed.

Perhaps the worst part was how hard Ari had been working (well, as much as someone who was bedridden could work) to fast track their transition out of the sanctuary and back to real life--a life where he no longer had to worry about turning to stone, or burdening Nia with turning him back to flesh and blood. During those short periods of time when they found a moment alone (which wasn’t often), he would wax poetic on everything they could do together once they were free from the healers and Gardeners’ watchful gazes. She bought into it; Nia believed everything he said, about his plans for the beginning of the rest of their lives. And on the day that Ari was finally given word of being discharged from the sanctuary, she had anticipated his enthusiasm, and knew precisely what she wanted to say.

“Don’t you already know the answer?” The Master Alchemist grinned, even blushed at the press of his lips to her hands. When was the last time they’d had a moment alone to so much as entertain the thought of romantic gestures? “I didn’t go through all this for the two of us to end up in different places. Besides, everyone is going to be too ecstatic about your return to care that I’m there, anyway. They’ll probably be too ecstatic to remember how much they hate me, too, so I’m not concerned. We’ve already overcome more than a little neighbourhood nitpicking at this point.”

Nia didn’t have to ask Ari how soon he wanted to make his departure from the sanctuary. She knew the moment he received word of his official discharge, he would be up and out faster than she could blink. Truth be told, she couldn’t wait to get out of the small hut and sleep in a bigger bed again, with a warm body next to her, and the Ardane woman would not be far behind in the Canaveris lord’s departure. But before settling down in the D’Marian settlement… there were some loose ends she needed to tie up. 

“We’ll be outta here by the end of the day, I’m guessing. So tonight belongs to us, whatever we want to do. Plan a big meal, reserve a bath… whatever you think you can handle.” Nia squeezed Ari’s warm, soft, ungloved hands. Not a trace of stone. He was just like the Ari she had met in that world in which she did not belong… except, this was her Ari. Not the Ari that belonged to another, better, more deserving version of herself. With a sly smile, she leaned into whisper, “I can’t wait to finally have a night alone with you, after so long.”

She would hold herself to her promise. And while Ari prepared what he needed in the sanctuary to depart, Nia needed to be elsewhere. “I’ve left some things back in the palace I wanna grab before we leave. Don’t think for a second I’m not going with you; even if I don’t wait for my own ‘official’ discharge.” Nia stood on her now stronger, far less shaky legs. Even if she couldn’t claim to feel one-hundred percent, she honestly wasn’t sure what that even meant, anymore. Nor could she recall the last time she was of optimal health, considering her trade of choice and the impact it had on her body. ‘Good enough’ would have to do to justify her own departure. Planting a quick kiss on Ari’s lips, she promised, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

The palace wasn’t far, and daylight was still abundant, so Nia took her time on her way back to the palace, fighting with the mixed feelings in her heart. She’d lied; there was nothing she needed from here in central Galeyn. Hells, she hadn’t many possessions to begin with, save for the lovely necklace that Ari had crafted for her, and a handful of changes of clothes. Isidor’s disappearance had left her with a good deal of unrest irritating her heart, and while she knew Ari did experience a shade of sadness for the departure of someone to whom he had been growing close, the gap left in Nia’s heart was more profound than she would have thought. Isidor had never even accepted her as a friend, unlike he did with Ari, but what he had done to help her save the Canaveris lord’s life, how he had spoken up to sway the crowd from vouching for her death to atone for Locque’s wrongdoings… There was something lasting about his actions that perhaps made her feel closer to him than she was. For so long, she had wandered this plane as the only Master Alchemist she knew. And when she had met Isidor, it reminded her of what it felt like to be less alone. To have someone who knew and understood the strife someone with her skills suffered. Now that he was gone, she felt alone in that world again, and that stuck with her like hot oil on skin. 

Evidently, Isidor hadn’t taken much with him upon his departure. As a result, and out of respect, Queen Lilica had left his room as it was, in the event that he chose to return. The door was locked when Nia passed by. For a brief moment, she considered picking the lock, if only to step inside and see if by some chance he had left any signs at all of returning. Or even a resonance stone tied to one that perhaps he still carried, if only to reach out to him. But the truth was, Nia had neither the physical or mental energy to do either of those things. He’s gone. I can’t count on him coming back. Life would have to go on without expectation either way, and it would, but… there was at least one person who would understand that hopeless emptiness that throbbed when she thought of the poor, tortured Kristeva alchemist. And how she wished there was more that she could have done for him…

So Nia then navigated her way to Alster and Elespeth’s chambers. Alster had perhaps been closer to Isidor than anyone else in Galeyn; they were friends, and there was no way that Isidor’s departure hadn’t resonated with him. She didn’t want to burden Ari with these feelings, but Alster would understand. It would be nice to talk to someone who was perhaps taking the disappearance of Vitali’s younger brother harder than she was.

But when Nia rapped on Alster’s door, she was met with only silence. Wondering if she hadn’t been heard, she rapped again, but no one answered.

“Oh, are you looking for Lord and Lady Rigas?” One of the palace’s staff happened to notice Nia standing patiently before the closer door and flashed her a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid they aren’t here.”

In hopes of hiding her disappointment, Nia shrugged and flashed an easy smile.“Huh--of course. Not a problem. Do you know when they’ll be back?”

The staff shook her head and clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, but I can’t answer that. Lord Rigas has decided to take a reprieve from work and responsibilities for the time being, and Lady Rigas has accompanied him. As far as I know, he wishes not to be disturbed, unless for an emergency.”

“Ah--vacation, is it? Good for him! The guy need’s time away. Never takes a break, otherwise. I’m happy for him. Well, thanks for the info!”

Nia waved and wore a flippant smile until she turned a corner and found herself alone again. Isidor was gone, and the one person who could really understand how his disappearance affected her was also gone. She wouldn’t try to find him when he obviously needed and deserved peace and solitude, so those feelings of unrest in her heart would just have to be put aside for the time being. Right now, she had to get back to Ari; he was still here, and he needed her, and he was ready to start the new chapter in the rest of their lives. There was no point in holding out hope for the absent, when those who were still present needed her at her best. After all, there was no room for sadness when you had everything you’d ever wanted.

Right?

Alster and Nia weren’t the only one’s mourning Isidor’s sudden departure. Briery Frealy had patiently been holding out hope for the day when she would see Cwehna once again, with the help of the necromancer and his younger brother. She’d kept silent and largely kept to herself, not wanting to be a bother, believing that patience was a virtue and that once the dust settled, the idea of resurrecting Cwenha would be revisited. But when word reached her that Isidor Kristeva had left Galeyn without a word of explanation, or a promise of his return, the Missing Links’ acrobat quietly let go of that hope, and just as quietly grieved the loss of her sweet Silver Fairy all over again. She hadn’t heard from Hadwin in quite some time, and word had it that he was unstable and easily overwhelmed following the disappearance of Teselin Kristeva. It seemed all of the Kristeva siblings were suddenly taking their leave and leaving behind holes and shadows in the lives of those upon whom they had an impact, and it had crossed her mind to go and see her old friend, but… what if she only made it worse? Perhaps he needed time to be alone, to digest and process his own grief; why burden him with her own?

The acrobat didn’t realize the impact that she might have on her faoladh friend until one day in the Night Garden, when she was hoping through a stroll that the enchanted flora would sap all the sadness from her heart, and she happened to run into her old friend, along with the nephew of Aristide Canaveris. “Hadwin.” He seemed so shocked to see her, and despite the news that he hadn’t spoken so much as a word in the past week, he would hardly let her get a word in. Hadwin grasped her arm and questioned her existence, much like he did when he struggled to differentiate between reality and what he believed was going on in his mind. Her poor friend was broken, but… not shattered. She could see the fissures, but it was still Hadwin, and he wasn’t lost. He was never lost.

‘It’s me. I’m here--in the same place you are. I’ve missed you, Hadwin.” Briery reached out to touch his face, remaining entirely calm in the face of his rambling. “I know how you’re feeling. It does feel that way, doesn’t it? That everyone you care about is gone. But that isn’t the case. No one is ever really gone. They just take different forms. If you’re patient, and if you have an open mind, you can still feel them here.” 

Hadwin’s rambling persisted until Nico flashed a peculiar playing card in front of him, at which point he calmed and receded a bit. “It’s fine,” she assured Ari’s nephew with a patient smile. “I’m just happy to hear his voice again. I think… we’ve both been self-isolating for too long. Do you mind if I join you two?” She looked from Nico to Hadwin and tucked her brunette curls behind her ears. “I can’t replace Teselin, or Rowen, or anyone who’s departed from your life, Hadwin. But… we’ve been friends for a long time. Friends should be there for one another when they need it the most.” She touched Hadwin’s shoulder and searched his golden eyes. They were distant… but still present. “I’m so sorry. I know I’m too late, in a sense, and I should have been there for you long before this. But I’d like to make up for it now, if you’ll allow it.”

Nia wasn’t left alone in the corridors of the palace. Not for long, anyhow.

“You look…unhappy. It’s not a condemnation, rest assured. You’ve the right to be displeased.”

Tivia Rigas stepped out of hiding, a residual shimmer in the air as the only indication of her magically-concealed state. 

“The last time we chatted in this hallway, it didn’t end too well. I’m not looking to antagonize you this time. Rather,” she released a silent sigh, “I would like to apologize…for Isidor’s disappearance. And offer, perhaps, a sliver of closure and explanation. My role in this outcome can’t be disputed, for I was the one to steer circumstances in this direction. It was the only route made available to me where everyone would stand the greatest chance of surviving.” She opened a door to an empty chamber and beckoned Nia inside, intent on continuing their conversation under the shroud of privacy. Grateful for the Master Alchemist’s cooperation, Tivia closed the door behind them once both had relocated. The room itself was nondescript, containing the standard bed, clothes chest, nightstand, and vanity. Tivia wandered to the shuttered window and drew the heavy curtains back a sliver, watching the sun-dappled courtyard fountain gleam like crystals from below. 

“I could have focused my efforts on saving Isidor from this fate, but it wouldn’t have mattered,” she confessed, tilting her head to face Nia. “His archetype would have played out the same; just in a different setting. A different format. You may find it a poor excuse, but the man is determined to be miserable. The only differences are that he would have continued his miserable existence here in Galeyn, and either you or Ari would be as good as dead.” She chose not to elaborate on the details when they were so self-explanatory, and already half-experienced by the couple. “Even so, if it had been you or Ari instead of Teselin, there was still no guarantee Isidor would remain in Galeyn. In a sense…this is where he’s supposed to be right now. You’re allowed to hate the outcome. I certainly do,” she admitted, her one eye returning to the narrow slat of the window. 

“I regret my final words to him, you know. Not that responding with kindness or empathy would have made a lick of difference when he was already so determined to make enemies of his allies and view every word spoken to him as a declaration of war. Either way, I regret my actions. There was so much I wanted to say to him. I wanted to tell him everything. Make him understand, however futile the pursuit. But,” she slid the curtains closed, snuffing out what little light illuminated the modest room, “it’s better for him to hate me. Better for me, too. We’re both too damn dysfunctional to find happiness, be it together or separately. It’s well within your grasp, Nia. Such a thing is far too precious to squander. Preserve what you can, and waste not a moment of your good fortune. I needn’t tell you how fortune tends to flop in the opposite direction when you least expect it.” 

Hadwin made a peculiar sound in his throat, a cross between a growl and a sigh. Frustration. Aggravation. Disappointment. All good signs, in Nico’s opinion. To experience any of the three or all at once indicated a return to the petty annoyances of everyday society and thus, a spark of hope for the faoladh’s reintegration. If Hadwin could interact with Briery so readily—albeit with faltered speech and hints of mania in his eyes—then perhaps he was closer to recovery than either his uncle or the Gardeners initially anticipated. And if there was hope for Hadwin, then surely, Nico wasn’t far behind.

“Feel no not feel; it is,” Hadwin blurted, demonstrating, to some extent, listening comprehension, as he’d heard and registered Briery’s response, even if he was unable to match her for clarity. “More than feeling. And no no not gone, never gone. Nothing ever dies and no one is dead. Death isn’t truth it’s a lie it’s all a lie. A card trick a flick of the wrist and poof. But I haven’t learned the trick yet and if you know it then teach me and we’ll go to there and bring them here. They’ll be back, everyone. In the here and not the there. Do you know how to do it? Yes or no—tell me!” He leaned close as if to headbutt Briery, his eyes as intense as his plaintive cry for whatever operated as reality in his skewed mind. Speaking of cards, Nico dangled the six of spades in Hadwin’s line of sight, redirecting him to his precious keepsake and sparing Briery the brunt of his eye-searing madness. He quieted as his fingers stroked the black paint, the muscle spasms twanging his arms like lute strings reverting to stillness once more.

“We’ve discovered this specific card has quite the calming effect on him. When all else fails, he will respond to it. Have you any idea as to its significance?” Nico cocked his head at Briery. He didn’t know much about the Missing Links acrobat apart from her connection to fortune-telling via a special set of cards different from the ones typically used for gambling and games. He was also aware of the untimely demise of the silver fairy, Cwenha, mainly through his uncle’s involvement in sculpting her effigy and epitaph. Standing so close to the grave of her murderer sent a reflexive shiver from the nape of his neck and he took a polite step aside, farther away from Rowen Kavanagh’s buried corpse. “We’ve surmised it bears a relation to Teselin and that is why he holds it most dear.”

“Row the boat to shore,” Hadwin murmured, as if in response to Nico’s inquiry. “When it pours.”

Nico nodded, glad for the faoladh’s returned faculty of speech, however cryptically it chose to manifest. “We thought he had permanent lung damage, but he sounds fine, if a little croaky,” he said, still addressing Briery. “All that said—of course you may join us, Miss Briery.” He emphasized his words with the obligatory Canaveris smile. “Especially when your very presence is enough to awaken a modicum of Hadwin’s former ah, rambunctious glory. He takes to you far better than he does me, I daresay. I sort of…inherited him, and I more than would not mind dividing the responsibilities. Uncle Ari and Miss Nia are splendid caretakers, but,” he shrugged, “I suppose he preferred my company, for whatever reason.”

He could divine the reason as having something to do with Teselin. Among Hadwin’s small coterie of frequent contacts at the sanctuary, Nico stood out as boasting the closest connection to the dissipated summoner; although, admittedly, his history dated to such a pathetic stretch of time that to call him ‘involved’ was stretching the truth. Hadwin didn’t seem to mind, but whether it stemmed from his inability to parse the differences between the farcical and actual, Nico couldn’t say.

“How about it, Hadwin?” He turned to face the faoladh, who hadn’t removed his gaze from the card. “Would you accept Miss Briery’s company?”

He didn’t respond nor appear as if he had heard; not until Briery had touched his face and his eyes finally homed in on something different. He looked at her then, full of curiosity, full of…longing. As if he knew he was trapped somewhere and desperately wanted her to release him. Unblinkingly, he nodded. His free hand perched, featherlight, over her chest, stroking the fabric of her tunic with his thumb. 

“Water,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Water.”

“Are you thirsty? Do you need water?” Nico frowned.

Hadwin shook his head, but he gestured to the stringy purple flower sprouting from his sister’s grave. “Water.”

“Oh, you want to water the flower?”

Hadwin nodded fervently. “Locque.”

Now this perplexed Nico. He raised an eyebrow at Briery, wondering why Hadwin would utter the name of the witch that recently wrecked havoc on the kingdom she claimed to love, and died in dishonor not far from the spot on which they stood. “Locque? What about her?”

But Hadwin shrugged off Nico’s concern and pointed again to the flower. “She told me. Water. Water water water. Care. Grow strong and vibrant. Grow I have to grow it I have to,” he clenched his teeth, the playing card crinkling in his fingers. “So she can rest.” He turned his haunted look to Briery. “So she can finally rest.”

What was wrong with Bronwyn?! How had she managed to screw her chances of joining the Dawn Guard within a mere weeks’ time?

As instructed by Roen and suggested by Sigrid, she did what she believed to be correct. Mingle with the other Dawn warriors. Present as friendly, helpful, with a willingness toward sociability. Laugh, engage, build rapport, and prove to the others her viability for candidacy. I am not my sister. I am not my brother. I am me, and I am stable. I am certain.

…Perhaps she’d benefit from emulating her brother in one key aspect, however. She was rubbish at exuding charm at the best of times, and lately, her scant ability to develop acquaintances had burned away to cinders in the wildfire. For the life of her, she could not summon an ounce of care for the perfectly pleasant Dawn warriors who, on Sigrid’s recommendation, had deigned to associate with her abysmal company. To spare Sigrid the embarrassment of endorsing a dud, Bronwyn redoubled her efforts, every day reciting affirmations to succeed and creating small, achievable goals, such as carrying on a conversation with at least one person. But by day’s end, her paltry gains amounted to one-word answers to questions asked of her and eagerly volunteering for every single unwanted job available at the camp. Except…her independence didn’t seem to win her much, if any accolades among the Dawn Guard and its emphasis on group dynamics. She attempted to engage in an activity meant for three other people—a simple gathering of materials in preparation for a communal dinner—and not only was her pacing out of alignment with the seasoned veterans among her team, but she’d ended up wrenching the responsibilities from their hands and claiming them as her own, juggling the majority of the assignment on her shoulders alone. She refused to share because sharing such a burdensome responsibility didn’t seem pertinent when everyone outranked her lowly recruit status. Apparently, her modus of thinking was incorrect, judging by the disapproving glances from her snubbed teammates. 

By the end of the week, she was ready to hole up in her room and shirk human contact for the rest of the year. It didn’t help matters when sharing proximity with the people who referred to each other as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ stirred in her a boiling sense of dread…in the form of sharp ocular headaches.

Close. She didn’t want to be close to anyone. She just wanted to work. Why wouldn’t anyone let her work? Forever a subordinate, she understood her lot in life and performed it well. Unity came in different forms and her idea of unity lay not in the concept of strong familial ties. Clan Kavanagh did not prescribe such nonsense in order to maintain productivity and success. Chief Orin assigned every faoladh a role to perform and each found ample satisfaction in contributing to the betterment of the clan. No need to force friendships or dilute tasks, scattering numbers unnecessarily, when it was more efficient to designate one person to the responsibility, and she was more than honored to be that one person. It…hurt less, that way.

The headaches persisted each night, escalating to a point beyond sleeping. Not like she valued dreaming nowadays when the dreaded realm was always saturated with horrific images of her siblings’ mutilated bodies strung up on trees, calling down at her to join us, join us! The head pain was preferable, but only by increments, and to douse its intensity, she’d taken to the time-honored faoladh tradition of drinking it numb.

In addition to the lack of rest, which seeped into her bones with its cumbersome water weight, one inescapable image kept flashing before her eyes: her brother’s manic grin mouthing the words, You’re next.

When Sigrid next saw her a week later, she would notice the dark shadows under Bronwyn’s lidded eyes and the weary, sluggish movements as she arrived to greet her at the edge of camp.

"Come to check on my progress, eh?” She tittered a laugh born from exhaustion rather than amusement. She thumbed back a few tresses of frazzled curls, which had unraveled from her ponytail. “That’s kind of you, Sigrid. Here, let’s take a walk around the palace, as I’m sure you don’t want to linger about camp for long.”

She led them to a pathway that ran the circumference of the palace and also cut through the main village. She tried not to make it obvious when she chose the village-bound route to the left, eager to locate the closest pub for her fledgling drinking habit. Her steps were careful and measured. Under no circumstances would she allow Sigrid to observe the slightest hint of weakness and vulnerability in her exhausted state.

“How have you been faring?” An uninspired attempt at conversation, true, but it focused the attention off of her unique, faoladh-specific struggles. “Been keeping yourself busy on your end, I hope? How goes the rebuilding efforts in the villages affected by the wildfires? How—“ she chewed on her lip before the question had the opportunity to form teeth. How is Hadwin?

The moment they crossed the village outskirts, Bronwyn kept on the lookout for a pub. Blessedly, the search yielded plenty of fruit. In as casual a gesture as she could muster, she pointed to the building on the corner and its distinct signpost advertising a frothy tankard of ale. “Well hey, while we’re here, we might as well get a pint or two. What do you say? It’s the perfect opportunity to relax and unload, and since you’re so keen on enforcing the idea for me, you might as well join in, too.”

Isidor was gone. Alster was unavailable, Teselin was nowhere to be found, and it would be a frozen day in hell before anyone saw fit to turn to Vitali for solace (well… most people, at least.) Every ally of Nia’s who remained might have offered support, if they knew the weight that Isidor’s absence had left upon her shoulders, but none could truly understand the extent of the impact of, once again, being one of your kind. She had admired and looked up to Vitali’s brother more than let on, to him or even to Ari. The relief and joy she’d felt upon learning that another Master Alchemist had come to Galeyn was almost parallel to the joy that warmed her as she’d steadily fallen in love with Ari. More proof that she wasn’t doomed to continue to wander alone; that she’d finally made it somewhere among people who could relate to what she’d been through, her life experience. And even if he hated her at the time (and she wasn’t too convinced his opinion had changed much since then), it didn’t matter; when you grew up in the conditions that he did, and that she did, hating others came naturally since it was difficult to truly trust and connect with another human being. She got him, she understood him, and whether Isidor had realized it or not, he understood her, too.

And… now he was gone. Not from this plane of existence, but from her life, just like her sisters and the rest of her family. Just like every Master Alchemist in Ilandria. It felt like losing family all over again, and she wasn’t sure there was anyone left in Galeyn who could understand why she felt that way.

Well… except, perhaps, for one person.

Nia looked up from her ruminating daze to find Tivia Rigas watching her, just feet away. She hadn’t spoken to the Star Seer since she had helped her back into this world, the one in which she belonged, and still wasn’t sure where her feelings sat with regard to her. After all, it wasn’t as if Tivia had helped her because she liked her, or wanted to do her a favour. It had been out of necessity and the general well-being and balance of the world as it stood. But, regardless of her intentions… it didn’t mean they were enemies.

The Master Alchemist followed Tivia into the empty rooms and pressed her back to the wall, undecided as to how comfortable she was yet to open up to Alster’s cousin. “I don’t think anyone blames you for Isidor’s departure. At least, that isn’t the vibe I get.” It was the truth; and, although she couldn’t help but disagree with Tivia’s general assessment of the situation and Isidor’s ‘archetype’, the man had talked about leaving for a long time. Despite how badly Alster and his friend had wished otherwise, he hadn’t successfully established a sort of comfort zone within Galeyn and among its people.

“But… I think you’re wrong about Is. Sort of. Yeah, he’s pretty fucking miserable, and that seems to be his default because that was just how the circumstances of his life shaped him. No one ever helped him: his own mother sold him to a man that made him the brilliant Master Alchemist that he is now, but at the expense of… so much. His humanity, his happiness. It’s not that he wants to be this way; it’s just what he perceives as normal. And I think…” Nia studied the Star Seer, who was so much more mature than she remembered her being not even a year ago. “What I think, is that he was searching so desperately for permission not to be miserable. He was waiting for something to happen, or for someone to come into his life and show him that he does deserve to be happy, and that they can help him get there. And anyway… wasn’t that the case for a while? I was still largely in the shadows at the time, but wasn’t there a point where he dared to come out of his shell and tried happiness on for a little bit?”

Tivia knew what she meant; there was no need to explain. But even from the safety and anonymity of her invisibility cloak, Nia had borne witness to the light in Isidor Kristeva’s eyes when Tivia Rigas had finally decided to return his attention and affection. And when Tivia left him, he hadn’t taken it lying down; he had sought her out, tried to convince her to come back to him… and that was, perhaps, the point where he’d come to believe he wasn’t intended for love and happiness, after all. Because the same person who had convinced him that he was later gave him reason to believe otherwise.

Nia breathed out and pressed the heels of her hand to her eyes. Why did the palace feel so much emptier in the reclusive Master Alchemist’s absence? He had no idea how his presence had been felt… “I get it, because I’m the fucking same way, you know. I spent more than a decade on my own because I really, truly believed that I wasn’t meant for happiness. I tried to get used to that, too, but then… I met people who I didn’t intend to grow close to. Hadwin Kavanagh continued to drink with me even when he found out I was working with Locque. And Ari…  gods, Ari spent so much time and energy trying to make me unlearn that I’m unworthy. He’s still working on it; I’m not there yet. And if not for him, I’d be a lot like Is.” Saying that out loud made it feel so real, too; where would she be without Ari, now? Dead… probably.

“I’m not about to squander what I have with Ari. This is literally everything I’ve been working toward--everything I envisioned when I dreamed about a happy ending for myself. But that's the thing, Tivia--I got a happy ending. The likes of me who, arguably, deserves it a hell of a lot less than Isidor, gets my dream come true. So why can’t it happen for him?” Nia pushed herself away from the wall and crossed the room to the window. The day seemed too bright and cheerful for the amount of sadness that some of the people in this kingdom were experiencing. “If he needed to get the hell out of here to have a chance at finding the happiness he deserves, then I’m glad he left. It’s like you said: maybe he is where he needs to be. So then why are we sad for him if it’s possible he’ll be happy again?”

Tivia didn’t seem convinced, but it was difficult to tell if it was the result of her own pessimism, or that she saw further into Isidor’s future than she was letting on. Or perhaps she was drowning in her own guilt that her words had been the ones to drive Isidor away. “If he is where he needs to be… then that should be enough, yeah? And when Teselin comes back, maybe we’ll see him again. I know he didn’t show it much, because he struggles to convey basic emotions, but he cared about her a lot. So when she comes back, and if she happens to manifest here… there’s no way he won’t come find her. Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong.” Was she trying to convince Tivia, or herself? Either way, the Master Alchemist managed to smile. “Maybe we all just need to look on the bright side more. Yeah, I’m sad Is is gone, but… that’s just me, being selfish, as usual. I was really getting used to not being the only Master Alchemist in this neck of the woods. But, it’s nothing I haven’t had to cope with before.”

The Ardane woman shrugged and turned toward the door. She’d told Ari she wouldn’t be long, and he was eager to return to the D’Marian settlement. Yet… this was a side of Tivia Rigas she hadn’t seen before. One that hinted at the Rigas woman’s vulnerability, and, perhaps, some lingering feelings she had for Isidor. “I don’t think he hates you, you know.” She couldn’t help but add as she pressed the flat of her hand to the door. “I don’t think he could if he wanted to. Aren’t we all dysfunctional? It’ll take more than that, and even more than Teselin disappearing, to make Isidor Kristeva see you as an enemy. If you ask me, the only dysfunctional thing about the both of you is that you’re both denying that at least a part of you still needs the other, even in a small way. But, if you’re sure his happiness and yours can’t be found together… I won’t argue with a Star Seer. Thanks, though.” 

Nia cracked the door open and threw one more glance at Tivia, over her shoulder. She didn’t miss the hint of regret among the Star Seer’s partially-concealed features, and while the Rigas woman couldn’t begin to grasp the reason why Isidor’s disappearance affected Nia to the extent that it did, she at least understood that it hurt. Because it hurt her, too. “I needed someone to talk to about Is. And it sure as fuck wasn’t going to be his brother. If you ever need an ear, any time, I’ll be at the D’Marian settlement.”

Poor Hadwin; how obvious it was now that Teselin Kristeva truly had been the adhesive that held his broken pieces together, especially in light of Bronwyn’s death… at his hands, to boot. But if Briery knew anything about the faoladh, it was that he was never beyond saving. Hadwin Kavanagh could reach the lowest of the low in terms of giving up and seeking death, but he could always be brought back, because of the company he chose to keep. More people cared for his well being than he would ever admit, and those people--her included--were invested in keeping him present on this plane of existence. The acrobat might not have been as consistent a presence in Hadwin’s life as the young summoner, but she was a presence nonetheless, and she was one of the many who would never give up on him. Teselin would want someone to step into her shoes while she was gone.

“The six of spades.” Briery smiled faintly at the bent and beaten-up playing card, and it seemingly came as no surprise to her that the object calmed Hadwin almost immediately. “If I recall, it was the card he gave to Teselin when she felt her most hopeless. Following her rescue from the hands of Mollengard, she was understandably distraught, and her magic seemed to veer further from her control. I happen to do some fortune telling on the side,” The ringleader patted a pouch hanging from the rope around her slim waist; she seldom went anywhere without her cards, in case opportunity arose. “So Hadwin picked up a few things from here, here and there. The six of spades is all about letting go of what has hurt you or what holds you back, and making your way toward a future or destination you want. It’s a sign that, even though you’ve been hurt and feel as though you can’t go on, the path forward is still open to you. I think this meant a lot to Teselin; so, unsurprisingly, it also means a lot to Hadwin.”

While Nico might not have understood the meaning behind Hadwin’s comment about a boat, it did not surpass Briery’s attention. “Hadwin doesn’t always make sense even when he is playing with all his faculties,” she chuckled, “so this is indeed a good sign. That he is speaking at all. You were somewhat close to Teselin, weren’t you?” She seemed to recall lending a dress to the young summoner for the ball that had taken place at the palace, prior to her disappearance. But Nico looked away, either embarrassed or remorseful upon the comment regarding his relationship to Teselin, and it wasn’t Briery’s place to pry. “Well, if she thought you a friend, then I imagine that is all that matters to Hadwin. Perhaps that’s why he’s taken to you. And, if you want help--or a bit of a break, you know I am more than happy to step in.”

Hadwin interrupted their brief exchange by suddenly turning to a purple flower located where Rowen Kavanagh had been buried. Nico appeared confused, but Briery understood right away. “It’s his sister. Where she was laid to rest,” she explained to Ari’s confused nephew. “Although… I don’t understand why he’s referring to Locque. Perhaps he’s recalling some past conversation with her. But nevermind that; I think this is important for him. Wait just a minute.”

The ringleader took her leave of the duo for only a handful of moments. When she returned, she held a simple wooden watering can fashioned of polished wood. “Fortunately, if you can find a Gardener, one of these is never too far away.” Briery smiled as she carefully handed the watering can to Hadwin, ensuring he had a good grip on it before letting go. “Water Rowen’s flower, Hadwin. Carefully, now--not too much at once. Just a little at a time. We’ll remember to do this, every day, and you can watch it grow tall and beautiful. All thanks to the care you show it.”

“I was told you wanted to see me?” Sigrid’s enthusiasm toward seeing Roen again was less than negative. It had been difficult enough to face him the other week for Bronwyn’s sake, but not longer after she’d convinced him to give the faoladh woman a chance of integrating with the Dawn Guard, he insisted on seeing her again. “Please tell me this won’t take long,” She sighed, gripping her elbows and fidgeting one of her legs, unable to control the nervous tells in Roen’s presence.

The leader of the Dawn Guard nodded from his seat at his desk. “Of course. I respect your time.” And then, without looking up, he said, “I simply wished to inform you that it has been determined your friend isn’t a good fit for the Dawn Guard.”

“...Bronwyn? What? You can’t be serious.” Now he had all of Sigrid's attention. Enough that, for a moment, she forgot all about being nervous.

“I’m afraid so. She hasn’t interacted with any of our members, with the exception of insisting she do more than her share of work.” Roen leaned back in his seat and sighed, beginning to tick off each point on his fingers. “She won’t take part in discussions with them and isn’t exactly working with them, but rather, alongside them. She won’t openly speak to anyone, so she is as much a stranger now as she was a week ago. And she simply won’t stop, even after the job is done. I’m sorry, Sigrid, but if your friend cannot learn to work with the others in everyday tasks, I cannot imagine she would be an effective fighter among us.”

“That’s not fair. You’ve barely given her a chance. You gave me months--years, even, to prove myself, and I was downright petulant!”

“You were a child, Sigrid. A lost and hurt one, at that.”

“Bronwyn lost her sister! And her brother has been taken by a bout of madness. Can’t you see that she needs the stability of the Dawn Guard more than anything?” Sigrid shook her head, and gave Roen a look that he knew was one to suggest she wasn’t in a mood to take ‘no’ as an answer. “She deserves more time. Don’t be so hasty to write her off; I’ll talk to her.”

The blonde warrior didn’t wait for a response, and immediately left to track down the faoladh woman, who she found sometime later at the edge of camp. Bronwyn looked… unwell. Tired. “Bronwyn…” She didn’t get more than a word in before Hadwin’s older sister insisted they get out of camp to chat. While she had her suspicions as to why Bronwyn led the two of them into the village proper, she wanted her to be comfortable, and if it would be easier to talk to her elsewhere, then so be it.

“The village has recovered well from the wildfire. There hasn’t been enough for me to do, if I’m being honest. What about you, Bronwyn? How…” Sigrid paused, wondering the best way to word her inquiry without sounding too pressing. “How are you finding the Dawn Guard?”

It was at that point that Bronwyn insisted they take their conversation inside--to a pub, to ‘relax and unload’, as she claimed, although Bronwyn seemed anything but relaxed. “You know, I only reluctantly became part of the Dawn Guard, when I was younger.” Sigrid began to explain as she sat down, and Bronwyn ordered ale from the serving staff. “I didn’t want to get to know anyone; or to do anything. I don’t know what changed, but eventually, I learned to work with them and fight as one of them. Have… you been finding the responsibilities too much? Because if that’s the case, that is when you rely on your brothers and sisters of the Dawn Guard to pick up the slack that you aren’t able to carry. Bronwyn.”

Was she even listening? As soon as a stein of ale slid across the table, Bronwyn didn’t hesitate to all but drain it in an instant. “Bronwyn.” Again, but this time, Sigrid raised her voice a little. “Have you tried to get to know anyone? Are you even sleeping? I get it: you want to be busy, because when you’re busy, you don’t have to think. But there’s more to the Dawn Guard than being busy… do you understand? I think this could be good for you, I really do, but if you can’t buy into this way of life… then we need to find something different. So what would you like to do?” She waited for Bronwyn to put down the tankard so she could meet her golden eyes. “Do you want to really try to be part of the Dawn Guard, or do you want to explore other options? You know I’m not going to judge you either way. I walked away from the Dawn Guard; I walked away from everyone I cared about and who cared for me. I’m probably not the best influence for you, but the important thing is…” The former Dawn warrior leaned back in her seat and tossed her long, pale braid over her shoulder. “You need to know what you want. Because until you know that, you’ll be searching blindly without ever knowing what it is you’re truly looking for.”

Tivia smiled ruefully. While it was certainly not Nia’s intent, she had gone and spelled out one core truth influencing Isidor’s constant downward spiral: her. The woman who briefly entered his life only to exit with a swift, decisive abruptness. “It’s not that simple, Nia. Isidor had a multitude of opportunities thrown at his feet by proactive people who would do anything to see him happy. No matter, because he doesn’t understand happiness. The ‘someone’ that you’re referencing—you can come out and say her name, you know,” she raised a brow, not amused by Nia’s delicate circumlocution, “was unequipped for the job. Tivia Rigas—who would have thought she would be the one to ruin someone’s life?” she laughed, all bitter and self-deprecating.

“I wouldn’t allow him to sacrifice for me, especially when he refused to communicate his methods. I lashed out, he lashed out, and I left. I am not a patient person, nor am I some guiding star of hope and love. A common side-effect of seeing glimpses of the future? It makes you jaded, cynical, absolutely bereft of optimism or good tidings. You think I alone created the catalyst for his self-destruction? Just imagine if we would have stayed together. He wouldn’t have a prayer.” She fiddled with the silken tassels hanging from the curtains, spinning them in increasingly erratic circles. “You don’t cast blame on me for Isidor’s departure, yet I can see it in your eyes; the implication that I’m heavily responsible for crushing the poor man’s spirit underfoot. It’s alright if you find me the reason he’s surrendered his quest for happiness. I’m inclined to believe it myself. But as I reiterate—it’s not that simple. At this stage, every golden opportunity he touches turns to shit. He views himself as shit and so shit is what he’ll receive. It’s not up to other people to change his damaged convictions because that strategy didn’t work. It’s up to him, and he’ll either succeed alone, or…fail alone. That’s my analysis, short and sour.” She dropped the tassel and drew away from the windows. “I’ll leave the optimism to you. Someone needs to light the beacon. It might as well be you.”

She was about to bid the Master Alchemist a good day—whatever good remained—but Nia stopped mid-stride, not quite finished with their dour conversation. “I can’t say I agree, but I appreciate your perspective,” she sighed, figuring she’d throw Nia a kind, hopeful word so as not to isolate the one other person in Galeyn with whom she oddly felt a kindred spark. “I doubt you’d want to spend your spare time with a doomsayer. I have no intention of dampening your good fortunes. Nonetheless,” her hands waved deliberate gestures, a habit she couldn’t curb around people unable to understand her hand speech, “while Alster is away, I’ve agreed to step in for him and make myself more available around the palace. So if you should, heavens forbid, need me,” she lowered her hands, “I’ll be here. As a consolation before you go, I will convey some happier news.” She looked to the sliver of sunlight so desperately trying to escape the confines of the thick, impenetrable curtains. “I said nothing could be done for Teselin, but that isn’t entirely true. Hadwin’s recovery is far more important than you may realize. On his current trajectory…he’ll make it. He’ll return to himself sooner than expected.” 

“Ah; then no wonder why this card acts as such a balm to him,” Nico said, appreciative of Briery’s cartomancy expertise. “Not only for its inherent meaning, but for the deep connection it serves between him and Miss Teselin. Their…bond truly is vast and boundless. Beyond comprehension, I daresay.” He tried not to sound envious, but couldn’t help but feel that way, regardless. Who was he but a stranger among close friends, forced to accompany Teselin’s companions on their misadventures out of loyalty to a friendship too new and naked to have developed hair, let alone advanced past the crawling stage? Somehow, he’d been dragged into this mess, but not unwillingly. Far from it; he embraced his strange and unquantifiable position as Hadwin’s minder and not because he enjoyed playing caretaker. On the contrary, he often offloaded the burden of watching after his five younger brothers to Sylvie whenever the nanny required assistance, which explained why he and his sister were on such frigid terms. He sought escape through his art and his uncle rewarded him for it by plucking him out of the morass of obscurity and personally selecting him as his protege, whereas Sylvie was forced to place her aspirations on hold for five chattering, quailing siblings who didn’t even share the same mother as them. Perhaps it was fitting punishment, then, to have assumed some responsibility for another human life. Although Hadwin was his senior in maturity, as it currently stood, Nico became an elderly brother figure by default, and the responsibility worried him. He never nourished a soul a day in his life, so he was relieved to see Briery more than happy to step in for him. He was in way over his head anyway.

“Ah, thank you, Miss Briery. I do not believe we have been formerly introduced. My name is Nico Canaveris,” he lowered into a stiff bow. “My uncle is Lord Canaveris,” he added. It was pretty telling how he chose Ari and not his late father to represent his lineage. Usually, one would use, ‘Son of,’ and not ‘Nephew of,’ for their additional moniker, but Nico threw convention to the wind. Both his parents were dead; his mother from childbirth and his father from war. Thus orphaned—he hardly viewed his stepmother as an adequate parent—who better to fill the parental guardian void than the new Lord of Stella D’Mare? “Somewhat close is quite the generous analysis,” he glanced at his feet, muttering. “Miss Teselin and I shared a few conversations and Hadwin facilitated the exchange when communication grew…difficult,” he said vaguely, averse to mentioning Ari’s ordinance banning Teselin from entering the bounds of the D’Marian village. “I suppose you are correct in assuming our tenuous connection has brought me into Hadwin’s good graces—although, to be quite honest, I am with you. Even when he is, shall we say, lucid, I haven’t the foggiest idea what he’s on about half the time.” 

He pressed on a practiced smile and turned to Hadwin, who had seemed to grow bored with their conversation and returned to staring at the drooping purple flower residing on his sister’s grave. Briery was quick to parse the meaning in his request for water and hurried off to fetch him a watering can. Within moments she returned, handing him the polished wood receptacle and instructing him on the best technique for watering the tiny bud so as not to drown it. What the faoladh did next was enough for Nico to question his own sanity.

Hadwin rolled his eyes and laughed. “It’s a flower, Brie. I think I can handle it.” To prove his point, he accepted the can from Briery and drizzled a fine spray over the blossom, dabbing the petals with small beads of dew.

Nico, eyes wide, met Briery’s face, beseeching her to corroborate what he just heard. “Did he—? Surely, I did not hallucinate snide speech pouring out of his mouth?”

But when they tried to address the source of their shock, they found him staring at his sister’s flower, the same glazed eyes and expression as before.

“He’s not…fucking with us, is he?” Nico spluttered, surprised at his own audacity to deliver a raw swear unprompted. “Because if he is—“

Another, far different sound took him off guard. The sharp, sucking in of breaths, shallow and labored, as if one were climbing a steep, endless hill…

or crying.

Hadwin, eyes misting, lowered the watering can to the ground. He said nothing as he clumsily got to his feet, pained by the prolonged sight of his sister’s grave, and skulked away like a skittish animal avoiding an unknown, foreign artifact in their path. Nico, alongside Briery, followed after him, concerned but…hopeful. At least for Nico, he believed that something—a string of somethings—was getting through to to the troubled faoladh. Prompting unstable and disparate reactions, yes, but they proved to be punching through his fugue and stimulating signs of life.

“Miss Briery,” he slowed a step, encouraging her to do the same. Hadwin’s uncoordinated footwork made it easy to catch up to his pace, so a moment of her attention wouldn’t lose their quarry. “I leave this to you. That is, if you do not mind? I daresay you are the better fit for him, and the affection he shows for you is on par with Miss Teselin. At least, it seems that way from my brief assessment. The two of you have history. You…will be good for him. I shall check on him when I am able, of course–do not see this as abandonment on my part–but I hope you do not think any less of me when I admit…I am a big brother of five, and yet I do poorly in situations such as this. He will only thrive in your company, Miss Briery, I can tell as much.” When Briery departed with his blessing, Nico chewed on his lip. Did he do the right thing, stepping down? I’m not fit for this, but…

For the first time ever, he seriously considered seeking a relationship with his estranged half-brothers. 

Sigrid was bound to broach the topic of the Dawn Guard. The situation was unavoidable, and Bronwyn felt obligated to honor all inquiries asked by the woman responsible for allowing her the opportunity to join such a vaunted and respected community in the first place. It would be rude to withhold information from someone to whom she owed a favor, and she didn’t plan on it. But first…she needed a drink from a tankard so large it could front as a barrel, and she no longer cared how desperate it made her appear in front of Sigrid. Pain and the quest for a quick remedy spoke louder than social self-preservation. She swept inside the establishment, settled down at the bar, and hailed a serving girl with an expert flick of her hand that would make her brother proud. Damn it all, Hadwin. Is this why you’re such a fucking lush?

Were, she corrected. You were. She swallowed hard, remembering Hadwin barely existed at this juncture, too gone to resemble anything but half-dead. The tankard and the hand wielding it in a white-knuckled grip didn’t belong to him, as it would on any normal day, but to her. The thirsty lips that spilled the musky liquid down her gullet and growled demands for more mid-swig—also hers.

"Responsibilities too much?” Bronwyn grunted a laugh, not meaning to sound insensitive or ungrateful, but it felt better to make light of a situation, which, for her, was quickly becoming untenable, than admit the crux of her troubles. “You have it backwards, Sigrid. They’re not giving me enough responsibilities. They undermine and underestimate what I can do, and focus their numbers on tasks they can easily delegate to one person. I’ve more than made myself available and capable of handling the workload, but I suppose they don’t know how to utilize me properly if they think I need help gathering ingredients for a simple stew. It’s frankly a little insulting how dumb they think I am to treat my initiation process as if I’m a toddler they’ve no choice but to entertain.” An indignant huff later and she was back to guzzling her coveted tankard. Gone was any attempt at delicacy or tact as the soothing swill polished the hard edges of river stones tumbling endlessly in the cascade of her hyper-energized mind. 

By the introduction of her second tankard, she had reached a comfortable buzz and the insidious headache wreaking havoc on her mental faculties receded into a dull throb. Later it would no doubt return to inflict its double vengeance, but by then she’d hopefully have passed out, sleeping off the brunt of the pain. If not, she could at least take advantage of the sleep aid once the ale’s sedating effects swept in. After a matter of days, she was certain the headache—indicative of stress and nothing faoladh-related, she pressed—would run its course and vanish. No need to make a fuss by consulting the Gardeners for a long-term remedy. She didn’t intend for this issue to become long-term, and she sure as hell wasn’t hankering to join the ranks of the other alcoholics present in the half-filled establishment. Considering the time of day—early afternoon—the clientele who ordered only ale had given their ill-kept secrets away, but despite her similar methods, she was an exception to the rule. Hells, she didn’t even like the taste of ale, or the sticky, bilious ichor it left in her mouth.

Have you tried to get to know anyone? Even if Sigrid hadn’t meant it, Bronwyn couldn’t help but hear notes of accusation in the blonde warrior’s voice. “Why? What does it matter?” she bristled, but hid her clenching teeth behind the rim of her tankard. “I’m doing the work. I’m cooperating. I don’t need to befriend the entire blasted team in order to coordinate with their interests. That’s what my wolf instincts are for. You lead and I’ll follow. I can’t possibly earn respect by standing around like a stooge and basking in their company. How can that possibly prove my merit?”

Realizing her mistake, she swallowed the word, but too late. Merit. My merit. What she said stank of individualism, and perhaps intoned her problem. If she cared about nothing more than group harmony, then why would she yearn for recognition? Yearn for just one person to single her out and express their congratulations for doing an exemplary job?

Such trifles are beneath you, Bronwyn, her father’s perfect, pronounced cadence appeared in her head. Keep your head down and do the work. No attention is good attention—remember that.

And yet—the Dawn Guard saddled her with attention at all times, asking about her life, her business, her opinions over incidental, unimportant nonsense. What am I doing wrong? she wanted to shout at them. Just tell me and I’ll correct the issue! But don’t…don’t look at me like that!

Concern. She couldn’t take their concern, nor Sigrid’s accompanying, companionable glance—all too similar to the brethren from which she so badly wanted to distance herself. It flared Bronwyn’s headaches, those looks, followed her into darkened rooms and burrowed under shuttered eyelids. Always on, always unblinking. Always staring.

“Stop.” She muttered under her breath, turning from Sigrid and hunching over the remains of her ale. “Please stop. It hurts. It hurts my head.” She consulted the honey-tinged puddle of ale sitting in the bottom of its wooden well, comforted by the smooth-rippled reflections of the candlelit lanterns sitting on the shelves overhead. Their eyes carried no souls to disturb her with the verve of their emotional integrity—and intensity. They shone, but not with a light aimed to snuff hers out. “I want…to go home,” she confessed, head hanging in shame. “To Collcreagh. To clan Kavanagh. To the way things used to be. But I can’t go home because it doesn’t exist anymore. Clan Kavanagh isn’t there anymore, and my siblings…” She dug her nails into the wood grooves of her tankard. “My father was right. Only he truly understood what to do with me. I never appreciated how good I had it until I lost everything. And now…I well and truly am lost. I’m lost, and everything hurts, and I fucking want to go home.” She refused to meet Sigrid’s eyes but she lifted one hand to acknowledge her unfortunate companion, who was likely regretting her involvement with the latest Kavanagh disaster. “I don’t think…I can do this anymore. Any of this.”

When Nia returned to the sanctuary, Ari was waiting for her, dressed in an outfit befitting both his station and his natural sense of style. For too long was he forced to don the sanctuary’s cream-colored vestments, clean but clinical and reserved for patients only, and in preparation for his official discharge, he returned to the long frock coats and cravats he enjoyed. It didn’t occur to him, not yet, to alter his wardrobe to something more breezy and seasonally appropriate. He had nothing to hide, after all, but old habits died hard.

Ari greeted Nia with an eager smile and a kiss, as if she’d been gone all day and not for only an hour. “Did you fare well on your errand? …Do not be wary of speaking the truth,” his smile scrubbed away, his dark eyes with their mirth-crinkled edges smoothing into a sobering slate. “Forgive me if you have felt unable to confide your anxieties. My default is to look on the bright side, but please do not misinterpret my blitheness for ignorance. I suppose I have not yet learned how to navigate my newfound freedom in expressing myself however I wish without fearing a flare-up as a consequence. I hope you will be patient with me.” He pressed a warm but callused hand against her cheek, pushing back a few strands of loose hair that hung over her eyes. “I know you miss Isidor. He left so abruptly and I worry for him dearly. As do I worry for Laz, who no one has seen for weeks. I worry for Nico, and Teselin…I even worry for Hadwin,” he snorted, the closest he dared show to classless distaste. “Let us make room for those feelings. Perhaps you can show me? That it is acceptable to release our burdens to each other, in the sanctum of our private company?”

“If I recall correctly, Teselin met Hadwin during a very vulnerable point in her life. And he extended a hand in friendship to her while others feared or suspected her.” Briery smiled fondly, remembering how she had immediately detected a change in the faoladh when they had reconnected, following his introduction to Vitali and Isidor’s sister. Yes, he was still reckless, still made questionable decisions… but with some newfound sense of responsibility. He had actually curbed his impulses, knowing how they affected Teselin, a lost, young girl who had really taken to him like a little sister. 

Although, Hadwin wasn’t the only person that Teselin had taken to. He wasn’t the only person who had seen past the unbridled danger of her magic, to the sweet, loyal girl who was only looking to belong among fellow mortals. After all, she hadn’t borrowed that ballgown from Briery for Hadwin’s sake, on the eve of the final ball. “Nico; yes. I’ve seen you with your uncle. You are quite the talented artist, much like him, I hear. As much as I respect your uncle… I’m glad you kept in contact with Teselin, even when it was against his wishes. I believe it meant a lot to her. Hadwin was always a constant companion, but I do believe it important for everyone to also have friends their age. And… well,” she cast her warm, brown eyes on Hadwin, as he crouched near the flower sprouting from Rowen’s eternal resting site. “It wouldn’t hurt for him to have a few more good influences in his life. If he’s taken to you, take it as a compliment.”

However, it was no young man’s responsibility to keep an eye on a mentally unstable, wayward shapeshifter, and Briery could tell without having to ask that Nico was reaching a point where he felt helpless to deal with Hadwin’s behaviour. The ringleader put a kind hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t sell yourself short, Nico. We have only you to thank for bringing Hadwin as far as he is now: out of bed, verbal… almost lucid. You have well earned a reprieve, if I do say so myself. Leave it to me.” Her hand slid from Nico’s shoulder, and she offered him a reassuring smile. “You have enough on your hands, helping to raise several younger siblings. But do drop by from time to time, if you are able; I think Hadwin would be happy to see you.”

Undermine? Underestimate? Sigrid’s time among the Dawn Guard had been far from perfect; after all, while their philosophy revolved around healthy, balanced, working relationships with their peers, they were all still individuals, hailing from different places and upbringings. There were sometimes disputes, and sometimes work was not as balanced as it should be, with some carrying more weight than others. But something that she could confirm without a doubt was that no one ever undermined or underestimated anyone else’s skills. That went directly against their group mandate, and if Roen caught wind that anyone had fallen into such habits, they would be swiftly excommunicated, as such attitudes negatively impacted the group as a whole and what they were able to accomplish. So while she did not believe Bronwyn to be a liar, and genuinely believed that was her interpretation of this experience thus far, the blonde warrior was assured she was seeing things from entirely the wrong perspective.

“But Bronwyn… none of this is about merit. Particularly not your merit; not if you are contributing as part of the group, even in the smallest ways.” Sigrid frowned, noting that the faoladh woman seemed to be coming to the same realization that she had already come to: she was going about this ‘integration’ in entirely the wrong way. She had never been interested in becoming a part of the guard, at least no in the sense that the Dawn Guard operated. They weren’t about giving and taking orders day after day, but rather, deciding the best and most efficient ways to accomplish tasks amongst themselves. That wasn’t a life that Bronwyn was used to, or a role she wanted. And given her confession just now, it appeared as though she had never been looking for belonging: she had been looking for an appropriate substitute for her clan. But the Dawn Guard did not operate like her clan did… and this, an exhausted, pained woman before her, was the result.

Without thinking about it, the former Dawn warrior and wielder of the legendary Gaolithe laid one of her hands atop Bronwyn’s white knuckles. “I get. Because a part of me wants to go home, too. To the way things used to be. When the Dawn Guard was uncomplicated, before Galeyn was ever unearthed again, before… I met someone I loved, only to lose them.” Every single word from her mouth threatened to choke her. She hadn’t realized how difficult it was to say out loud… but here they were, and there was no taking those words back.

“But I can’t go back, either. It’s why I left the Dawn Guard. Nothing is the same; everything is different from before. People I’ve known all my life treat me differently, because I went from being a hero to a mind slave to a failure who tried to take their own life. I’m not the same person anymore; and I am willing to bet… neither are you. And even if your clan was still the way you remember it, going back still wouldn’t be an option. Because you’ve changed. You’ve grown stronger and seen and experienced things that have changed you forever. There’s no place for your in your old life anymore because you no longer fit the mold, and that’s scary as all hell, because now it’s left you desperately searching for a mold that you fit. And you no what? You’ll never find that perfect mold, Bronwyn. And neither will I. Because we have both outgrown molds, old habits, and familiars ways of life, and we won’t find a place to ‘fit in’ anywhere, anymore.”

Too much. She’d said too much, spoken too candidly, and these were not the words the faoladh woman wanted or needed to hear. But it was all Sigrid had to offer: understanding. Kinship. They were different people, looking for the same thing, and entirely in vain. “...I’m sorry.” Sigrid removed her hand and clutched her fingers into fists in her lap, to which she averted her eyes. “I don’t have the answers or solution you’re looking for. Because I don’t have answers for myself, either. I don’t fit the Dawn Guard’s mold, anymore. I’m not going to sit here and try to convince you that perhaps you might. It’s not fair to you. If it just isn’t working… then don’t proceed. But don’t give up. There’s something, somewhere out there that will feel like a good fit. It’s just a matter of finding it.” The blonde warrior finally released Bronwyn’s hand and sat back in her bench, looking particularly deflated and defeated, for someone who had been training physically on practically a religious basis since she’d come back into herself. “That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.”

Yes, Isidor was woefully unequipped to understand happiness when it was thrown at his feet, let alone embrace it. Tivia wasn’t wrong about that. Just like any other person who was a victim of their own trauma, he had sabotaged countless opportunities for friendship and validation in Galeyn, alone. Hells, Queen Lilica even acknowledged him as a brother, for his relation to Vitali. She had tentatively extended a hand not of friendship, but of family… and he had ignored it. And how many times had Alster reached out, just to be there, to try and be a friend in whatever way Isidor needed? In a lot of ways, Isidor had no one to blame but himself, but… did that make him undeserving? Did that mean no one should bother to try?

“...yeah. I get it. Why you feel like it didn’t work out between the two of you.” It wasn’t Nia’s intent to invalidate the way Tivia felt with regard to her relationship with Isidor; that was for her to decide, and there was no denying that that very relationship had been less than perfect in many ways. “But I don’t think you’re to blame for Isidor’s unhappiness. It’s like you said: if it weren’t one thing, it would probably be another. It’s not your responsibility to set him on the right path for it, either. He struggles with happiness. And… obviously, also with love. And love doesn’t always guarantee happiness, does it?”

She had most certainly learned that the hard way, years ago. She had been so desperate not to be alone, she had let love--and with it, trust--come easily. Too easily, to the point where it had threatened her safety. It just so happened something very similar had occurred with Isidor. But… it didn’t have to spell the end of something that could be good for both him and for Tivia. If only they believed as much. “Although… it sounds like you see yourself in a similar light. Because you see into futures that other people would rather not know, you sound pretty convinced that no one wants your company, either. I really don’t believe there’s no hope for Isidor; the same goes for you. I mean it. I’m gonna be that optimist. In fact,” the Master Alchemist grinned and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I think, that if you were both ready and willing to give happiness a chance at the same time… you’d see fit to give each other another chance. Love doesn’t always guarantee happiness, but it can, if you’re determined not to make all the downs your downfall, right? Is cares about you; if he didn’t, the impact of your words wouldn’t have hit him quite the same way. And if you didn’t care for him, you wouldn’t care that he’s gone. I’m not giving up on either of you.” Even if it aggravated the star seer; for all their rocky history, Nia didn’t want her lost to the shadows of doubt forever, because she didn’t believe her future belonged in the shadows. At least, she didn’t want to believe it.

“Don’t be a stranger. I’d like for us to meet on better, less hostile or depressing terms. But… I do appreciate that you’re willing to lend an ear.” Just as Nia was about to leave, she paused, stalled by what Tivia had to say with regard to Teselin’s disappearance, as well as Hadwin’s recovery. Which was perhaps the best news she could have possibly hoped for at this given moment. “...that so. Then I’ll be sure to keep an eye on Hads and do whatever it takes to get him back to himself.”

Nia took her leave of the room and of the palace, trying to convince herself there was room for hope. Hope that Teselinn would return, that Hadwin would be alright, that Isidor and Tivia would actually make room in their lives for happiness, and someday--by some miracle--might make room in their lives and hearts for each other again. Her spirits weren’t exactly lifted, but having had the opportunity to clear a little of what she held close to her chest left her feeling a little bit lighter, and most importantly, ready and able to show Ari her best side. After everything they had been through, she couldn’t let her own petty disappointments get in the way of the beginning of the rest of their life. There was a time and a place to quietly grieve her own perceived loss; now was not that time. Ari was back at the sanctuary, waiting for her, ready and eager to go home to his villa in Stella D’Mare. 

And ready he was. When Nia returned to the sanctuary, Ari was dressed in the very sort of finery that befitted his personality. Gone were the neutral-toned garments that the Gardeners provided, replaced with a frock coat and cravat, like he was ready to get right back to business and put any indication that he hadn’t been well these past few weeks behind him. “Did I miss something? By the looks of it, I should be dressed in something far more formal.” She laughed, gesturing to the drab neutral tones in which she was still clad. She’d been so preoccupied with her one personal concerns--for Hadwin, for Isidor--that she hadn’t spared even a moment to consider how she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Ari. He was so ready to move on… and it was her responsibility to move on with him.

Clearly, her preoccupations wasn’t lost on him, after all. “It still feels surreal. All of this. That we can move on with our life, now--safely. That you feel like a whole healthy, living being, with absolutely no trace of illness or curse. It feels like a dream.” Nia covered Ari’s hand with one of her own. Nothing: she could detect exactly zero interference in his bodily chemistry. He was warm, and healthy, and full of life. It was still difficult to register that all of this was real, considering that last time Ari had been so healthy… it hadn’t been her Ari, at all. “I can’t take full credit for it, either. Hell, I can’t even take half credit. If it weren’t for Alster, and for… for Isidor, we wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be here. I hardly had a chance to thank him… I don’t think he even realizes what he’s done. How he helped to change our lives for the better. That he gave us a chance at a future. Maybe, if I’d spoken up sooner, if I’d made him aware of how valuable he is…” Would he have stayed? Nia trailed off because she truly didn’t know the answer. There was no guarantee that reaching out would have made any difference whatsoever. Perhaps Tivia was right: if he was destined to leave, it would have happened anyway. But she couldn’t help but wonder… if there was a chance things might have turned out differently, if she could have made him realize his potential and that he was needed.

Then again, Isidor Kristeva had never really let her in. He’d held her at arm’s length from the very beginning, and perhaps that was the impetus for the helplessness that plagued her now.

“It’s just me again. Like when Celene left. Like when Palla died. Like when the rest of my family died. One by one, I was reduced to just me: the only Master Alchemist around. And now… it’s happened again.” The Ardane woman breathed a heavy sigh and let her hand drop. “There was never any guarantee that Is would want to stick around; I know this. But… I didn’t realize that losing him would feel like another death to me. You think I’d at least be used to this feeling by now. But, nothing we can do, right? We just have to move on. If Is comes back, he comes back. If not… well, we can’t squander this chance at a brand new life. We have to be in the here and now, because ultimately, the present is all we are really guaranteed, isn’t it? So.”

The Master Alchemist brought back the grin for which she was so well known, and took Ari by his free, ungloved hand. He was so warm… No matter how she felt about Isidor, she couldn’t lose sight of this. It was everything she had been working towards for months. “When do we depart? And are you going to survive in all those layers? It’s optimally sunny and warm; how will you fare in the carriage?” Behind her eagerness was the clear indication that Nia was not ready to acknowledge the full impact of her feelings. Not because she didn’t trust Ari, or didn't feel safe, but because she wasn’t ready to grieve what felt like yet another loss. The Master Alchemist needed a break from sorrow. She needed to feel happiness again; and Ari happened to be her joy.

Burn burn burn burn.

Hadwin lumbered from Rowen’s grave site, pushing a pace his limbs could never match. Like wading upstream in a turbulent current, they flailed and thrashed, but went nowhere. Stuck in the raging river, it took everything not to stumble on a rock, submerge, and drown.

Burn burn burn burn.

He fought to escape the flames, the violet tongues igniting brittle summer deadfall and blossoming from buds to full-blown bouquets, which spread its conflagration like dandelion spores in the breeze. Inescapable. Once Rowen chose her target, not even death would douse her destroying flames. They would chase him till the ends of the earth. No amount of water could nourish a flower bent on burning him alive. It was not that kind of flower. It sought nourishment of a different sort. Kin’s blood. His blood.

He tried before but it didn’t work. Interferences prevented the sacrifice. Bindings holding him aloft, suspending movement. Even now those straps dug into muscle, into tissue, creating lacerations so deep they damaged his mobility. Stunted, he couldn’t go anywhere. Not fast. He fought to escape her. He fought to escape them. If he broke free from all his captors and pursuers, then he could go where Teselin went. Down. Deep down. No one to stop him.

Burn. Drown. Fall into darkness. Do all three and maybe…

Maybe…

He stopped moving.

Maybe Rowen has been helping me get there all along. Deep deep down, to Tes. The flower, the flames, let them come.

He closed his eyes and waited.

Something did come, and call his name, but when he opened his eyes, he saw her. Briery. No one else; nothing else. No apocalypse waiting to descend. No openings or pathways to the deep down somewhere. It was just her and him and the stillness of a pond. The river disappeared, the current, and he could see to the bottom, his feet poking out from the swirling sediment.

"Gone. It’s gone. The path to her—where is it?” When the object of his inquiries didn’t respond right away, he grabbed her shoulders with his restored strength, the tethers twisting his muscles having receded with the river. “Where? Where did it go? How am I supposed to…I promised I’d follow her anywhere!” He searched her eyes for the truth but found only fear, like he was the one who needed to be found, and not Teselin. Not Rowen, trapped in her hellscape deep down below.

“Burn burn burn burn. I’ll burn. I have to burn! Burn and I can follow. I’m here and that’s the problem, don’t you understand?!” But she didn’t. No one understood because no one could see like he saw. The gaps in the world, ever-shifting like sands in a dust storm. To find one and to submerge meant recovering what he lost, but only if he shed his mortal form. Burn. Drown. Fall.

…Follow.

Die.

Black.

Spade.

Six six six six six six

Stay. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t follow. 

Tears streamed down his face as his steady grip on Briery loosened. The six of spades reappeared in his hand, its crisp cardstock sustaining widespread furrows from the rough handling. “Why can’t I go? Why? Why?!” he demanded of Briery, his teeth pestling so hard that his jaw ached. “Dammit!”

And there it was. Anger. Rage. His free hand curled into a fist and he marked a tree with his knuckles in a move so signature to him that with every bloody, subsequent blow to the bark, normalcy returned in violent waves. Heedless of his audience, he pummeled and pummeled with reckless abandon until, breathless, he backed against the tree and slid to the ground, cradling his busted, bleeding fist to his chest.

“Fuck…me,” he wheezed. “I can’t go anywhere. It won’t let me,” he motioned to the deeply creased card, and mourned his losses for Briery to see, blood and tears and all.

Aristide Canaveris knew how to present as an unruffled, well-adjusted member of society, in both the public and private spheres. Constant expectations of how he should behave made it so he always defaulted to that persona, especially now, when circumstances demanded it. No doubt he was saddled with his own worries. Isidor’s sudden departure affected him, perhaps not as strongly as Nia, but the Kristeva alchemist had fast become an invaluable ally and akin to a brother in the short time they were acquainted. Then there was Laz, whose psychic connection was a comfort and a constant for as long as he remembered. When all else dissolved into uncertainty and chaos, Ari could always rely on his steadfast golem companion to provide stability and an extended arm to catch him whenever he stumbled or faltered. You are my rock, he oft told Laz. I cannot do this without you.

When he awoke from his procedure, his curse was gone, but with it, all traces of his and Laz’s psychic connection—and of Laz herself. Did she vanish? Die? Revert to stone, a nondescript boulder dotting Galeyn’s landscape? All searches initiated on his behalf yielded no sign of her, and Ari grew increasingly distressed. He made it a point not to alarm Nia or Nico, who had their hands full with other concerns, and doubled down on his recovery and the hope of returning home, Nia at his side. He opted for sunny optimism and a proactive, forward-facing disposition, because to show anything otherwise stank of ingratitude and would invite the demons of stress and anxiety to harden his soft, supple flesh. While no longer in danger of a flare-up, it proved difficult to convince himself that he was free of its petrifying influence, but to admit his insecurities to Nia would cause her great offense. Better to keep silent. Better to be a rock of a different kind, and embody Laz’s role for the woman he loved.

“It does feel surreal,” Ari admitted, crossing the room to glance at his reflection in a small hand mirror he kept on his nightstand. He appeared thinner, paler, his hair longer and more ragged on the ends. Vanity aside, the image in the mirror felt…off to him somehow. Different; as if the cure rubbed away some physical features he took for granted and hadn’t realized he lost. “I should be dead and I am not. It is an adjustment. Certainly not a bad one by any means, but an adjustment nonetheless. I cannot remember the last time I felt healthy. Please forgive me as you bear with my extremely gradual acclimatization process.” He lowered the mirror and smiled reassuringly. “I shall get there, I promise.” 

Mention of Isidor swept the smile away from his face, replacing it with a sigh. “No, I don’t suspect Isidor realizes his worth, nor the monumental difference he made in our lives. Would that I could reach him before his untimely departure…alas, he is too swept up in tragedy to hear our pleas and praises. Please take comfort in knowing you did what you could, Nia.” He took her into his arms, pressing her gently against his shoulder. “It may feel the same in the moment, but Isidor is not gone. As long as he is still alive, I have faith we shall see him again. In the meantime, you are free to miss him, as I do. Take as much time as you need to process his absence. I am here to listen and to commiserate.” I share in your pain, he wanted to add. Not only for Isidor. Without Laz, without our connection, it feels as though an enormous chunk of myself is gone. An inexplicable emptiness has opened in my soul—and I am alone.

Even in your arms…I am alone.

Glad for the tonal shift, Ari withdrew from Nia’s embrace and revived his smile. “I cannot argue your refreshing viewpoint, Nia. A brand new life awaits us. I spoke with the Gardeners and we can leave as soon as this evening if it suits you. Speaking of suits,” he made an exaggerated show of fluffing his cravat, “you do realize I always don an obscene amount of layers, even in the height of summer? This is far from my first time. I must appear presentable to my citizens when I make my triumphant return, else they worry I’ve suffered subpar treatment in the Night Garden. You know how they can be; quick to rile at any perceived slight. They must see that their leader has been well-cared for.” While his argument told no falsehoods, it wasn’t the whole truth. To wear less than his regular, excessive amount…terrified him. It was too soon after recovery to literally lay himself bare when the embarrassment of taking a huge leave of absence to address his multiple health crises still affected him. “Now where are my gloves? Do I not have an extra pair on hand?”

Bronwyn wasn’t too far gone with drink to realize she might have caused Sigrid unintentional offense by criticizing the Dawn Guard and their methods. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she hurried, wondering if it was too late to rescind her comments and salvage the situation. “I know I’m the problem. I must be, because I don’t fit their mold quite right, but none of that is their fault. This is all very new and the adjustment is a learning curve. I’ll try harder, and keep trying. I’m not ungrateful for this opportunity; others would kill to be in my position, so I’ll stop complaining and do the work. I’m sorry for—“

When Sigrid placed a companionable hand upon hers and delivered her own lengthy confession, Bronwyn cut her own words short and listened. Listened to the raw delivery, watched how she rounded her shoulders, self-conscious to the vulnerable position in which she placed herself—and for what reason? For Bronwyn’s peace of mind? You don’t have to do that, Sigrid. Strip yourself bare for me when you’ve already done so much that I don’t deserve. I earned nothing, least of all your trust. 

She silenced her inner thoughts, sensing a greater driving factor in Sigrid’s speech. Necessity. Someone in whom to confide. She got the impression that she was among the first to hear about Sigrid’s issues revolving around the same themes of simply outgrowing the place you thought you’d always belonged, and never being able to return for whatever reason. Everything resonated so damn much, it created a different ache in Bronwyn’s pain-addled head. A light, brilliant as the sun and warm, oh so warm, but impossible to glimpse at length without sending a collection of sharp stabs behind her eyes. Even so, she could not stop staring at the source. At Sigrid, the current object of her comfort…and agony. It hurts, it hurts so much, and yet I can’t look away because I see you and I see myself and…it feels right. This feels right. Familiar and yet not familiar, but it smells of something close. Something like home. A home I never knew but always imagined could exist…in another life removed from mine. 

“No,” she sighed, soft and deliberate. Sigrid’s hand retreated from atop hers and Bronwyn wished she hadn’t. Wished they remained attached for just a bit longer. “Don’t apologize. You do have the answers. I see them in you, and they’re a perfect fit for me. I think this is where I want to be. Where I should be. And it’s…here. It’s…”

Where you are.

She startled to an upright jolt, the warm rays cast over her flickering as thickets of clouds descended, enshrouding the light. Blinking as if out of a reverie, Bronwyn clutched her head, the ache compounding on itself like someone had embedded an axe in her brain.

“That was nonsense. I didn’t…I’m drunk.” She hurried to her feet. “I should know better than to use substances to stave off a headache. I’m a damn masochist for following in my brother’s footsteps. I’m sorry.” She threw a few coins on the table; more than enough to pay their tab. “You’re a wonderful person, Sigrid. Thank you for everything. I won’t give up on the Dawn Guard, so don’t worry, ok?” Before she had more time to stew in the awkwardness, she waved her farewells and shuffled out the door. Once she bridged enough distance between herself and Sigrid, she heeled her palm into her forehead and muttered, “Stupid, stupid. Idiot. What was that all about?!”

Keep your head down, Bronwyn, her father’s words echoed. A warning. Keep your head down if you want to survive.

Without much delay, Ari and Nia left for the D’Marian village that evening. Equipped with a new pair of white gloves, the Canaveris lord looked about as sharply dressed as the circumstances allowed, which sat fine with him, but Nico had his doubts.

“If you dress as normal, uncle Ari, does that not send the opposite message?” Prior to their departure, Nico returned to the sanctuary, surprised to see just his uncle and Nia among its guests. Hadwin and Briery hadn’t yet returned from their foray in the Night Garden. “That you are still afflicted by your curse and must continue to cover your flare-ups? Wouldn’t it thrill them if you wore something more seasonally appropriate for a change?”

“And I will, but it is best to introduce the crowd to my newer, bolder fashion choices gradually and not all at once,” Ari said, fussing with his hair in the mirror. “If your concern is for Nia not receiving her due, rest assured, your grandmama has done wonders to favorably work the crowd in our absence. All is well.”

Nico chewed the inside of his lip, shrugged at Nia, but nodded. “Of course it is.”

Settling on a low bun that expertly hid his uneven tufts of hair, Ari clapped his hands together and made an eager approach for the door. “Well—shall we?”

The trio didn’t venture far into the Night Garden before stumbling across Hadwin and Briery, and the former seemed to have undergone a significant metamorphosis in the short time he had been away. For one, his eyes no longer appeared foggy and languid. They easily tracked everyone’s movements. His eyebrows had even furrowed, giving the impression of contemplating—and analyzing—his surroundings, and them, very carefully.

“Ah, Miss Briery—I heard you were giving my nephew a much-needed reprieve today. For that, you have my utmost thanks.” Ari dipped into a gracious and grateful bow. “We are about to make our leave for the settlement, so Hadwin is sure to benefit from having the sanctuary essentially to himself for a while. Isn’t that right?” He turned to the faoladh, but he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, for his roving, golden eyes had landed on Nia.

“She did it for you. Got you out of the muck.”

“Why, you have found your voice! This is cause for celebration,” Ari beamed. “But what do you mean by ‘out of the muck?’”

Hadwin looked past Nia, into the dark forest. A few fireflies flashed their bulbs, a brief illumination before the darkness coalesced again. He said nothing more on the subject, but stared, transfixed, into the night.

“Hadwin…” Briery didn’t react when he all but violently grabbed her by the shoulders. He needed a pillar right now: someone that wouldn’t sway in the wind. Someone who wouldn’t disappear, and who wouldn’t try to steer him in a direction in which he did not want to go. Hadwin had saved her, once, when she would otherwise have shriveled away. She wasn’t going to abandon or mislead him in such a time of need.

There was no substitute for Teselin. No one could keep him grounded like the young summoner could. But, at the very least, Briery could help him avoid complete and utter destruction. 

When he had had his fill of pummeling the tree, she gently guided his bleeding hand away.

“You can’t follow… because she needs you here. She needs someone here for when she comes back.” The acrobat reached up, resting her hands on Hadwin’s tense shoulders. “Think about it. Isidor… is gone. We don’t know if or when he will return. Vitali cannot be counted on as anyone’s support. And Nico… is limited in how openly he can be there for Teselin. You are the only one left here for her to return to with certainty. If you disappear… what will she have left when she returns?”

Hadwin didn’t respond, which she chose to take as a sign that her explanation was sinking in. “The problem isn’t that you’re here. You are exactly where you need to be. The problem is, Teselin isn’t here… but she will be. I know she will be. Don’t give up.” Letting her hands drop, she picked up the six of spades, and placed it into one of the faoladh’s palms, carefully closing his sore fingers around it. “Don’t give up, because we have to prepare for her return. We don’t know what condition she will be in. She will need a strong, steady shoulder to lean on… so let’s focus on that. Focus on being what and where she needs you to be, for when she comes back. Not if, Hadwin.” Briery enunciated the word, slowly, in case he wasn’t listening, but could otherwise read her lips. “When.”

She had thought she’d blundered this last-ditch attempt to help Bronwyn. Sigrid knew that she, of all people, was in no way equipped to coach others on the topic of finding belonging. Bronwyn, struggling with inner demons, needed someone who was not too preoccupied with their own demons to reach out to her. But, alas… there was no one. Even Roen, who had never given up on her and her own petulant ass when she was a teenager, expressed doubts that the Dawn Guard could be of any help to Bronwyn. So, then… what was the alternative? Let her fight it out on her own? Isn’t that what Hadwin did? And look what has become of him…

“...wait!” Sigrid was too late. After Bronwyn mumbled her apologies, she was out the door faster than the former Dawn warrior could get the words out of her mouth. Raising her voice raised a few heads at the local public house; precisely what she didn’t want, as someone who had only been trying to lay low since Locque’s demise. So she did the only thing she could think of to restore her own sense of comfort, and rushed out the door after Bronwyn.

Luckily, Hadwin’s sister hadn’t gone far. Considering how much alcohol she had likely consumed, Sigrid had figured she wouldn’t be moving with the same stealth and grace the faoladh were known for. “Forget the Dawn Guard.” She said, with a long, sweeping motion of her arm for emphasis. “They’re good people. And they’re good for a lot of people. But clearly they aren’t right for you. At least, not at this moment. You’ll just be trying to conform to something that isn’t you, at the core. You won’t find what you’re looking for. I… feel like I misled you. I’m sorry.” The blonde warrior dropped her arms back at her sides. “What I’m trying to say is I… I don’t know the answer. Because I have the same issue, and I can’t find my answer, either. But if you want… I can help you find it. The place where you finally feel comfortable. Where you can feel like yourself, again.”

Whether or not the Gardeners were confident in two of their charges’ recovery, there would certainly be no convincing Ari otherwise of the decision to discharge both him and Nia. The Canaveris lord was more than ready to depart, dressed once again in all his finery, right down to the white gloves he had once donned to hide his curious yet concerning affliction. Nia could only guess that he now only wore them out of habit, but if it was yet a matter of comfort or acceptance that they were no longer necessary, the best she could do out of support was to let it run its course. 

She also wasn’t the first to take note that Ari was already falling into old habits. When young Nico joined them later that evening, prior to their departure, he pointed out precisely what was on her mind in such a way that evoked a response from his uncle. And it wasn’t one she had particularly expected to hear. “Ah, Nico.” The Master alchemist smiled playfully at the young man, to whom she had since taken a liking. Of course it would be Teselin who ended up being the object of them finding a way around their differences. “I know it’s not about me. But your uncle is right. Right now, the D’Marians are just eager to see their leader alive and well: not alive and completely different from before. A little familiarity can go a long way, especially when Stella D’Mare hasn’t exactly been supportive of abrupt changes to what it is used to in the past. One thing at a time, right?”

Then, in a playful, albeit meaningful gesture, tugged on the glove that hugged Ari’s free hand. The Canaveris lord cast a startled look in her direction, but she only smiled, and closed his bare fingers around the silky white fabric. He felt as warm as the rich colour of his skin. “When you’re ready,” she added, knowing well that no one would be comfortable forsaking what had been familiar to them for years. Ari would come around, eventually, but… it would take time.

“Are you leaving?” It was not long following Ari’s declaration of departure at last, just a few minutes back into the Night Garden, that the trio happened to encounter none other than Briery Frealy, accompanied by Hadwin. It appeared the Missing Links’ ringleader was bringing the afflicted Faoladh back to the safety of the sanctuary for the evening. “I’m glad to hear of your recovery, Lord Canaveris. And Miss Ardane.” Briery nodded at Nia. She was perhaps one of the only impartial denizens of Galeyn (however temporary) who had not found a reason to loathe the Ardane alchemist at any point; at the very worst, she had remained impartial. Nia owed her for that, and it wasn’t lost on her how terribly Cwenha’s death had affected her. She wished she’d had the opportunity to get to know the acrobat better; perhaps once their mutual faoladh friend had his wits fully about him again, she might yet find the opportunity.

And speaking of Hadwin… well, he was speaking! That in and of itself should have been a reason to celebrate. He wasn’t yet his old, obnoxious self, but when he came around, any friend of his was easily someone Nia knew she could take to. As an underdog himself, Hadwin had a habit of seeking out other underdogs; and she was no exception. “Looks like he’s in good hands.” She commented, just happy to see Hadwin up and about, and far more lucid than he had been a week ago. But then, Hadwin turned to her, and something in his golden eyes was… not right. Not in the same sense that he was still a victim of his loss, and what it had done to him. It was something different that Nia couldn’t quite put her finger on…

She did it for you. Got you out of the muck.

Hadwin hadn’t been lucid, let alone intelligible, for quite some time. There was no way to confirm he even knew what he was saying, or whether his words held any meaning. Hells, just the fact he was forming sentences should have been something to be celebrated, but it would be foolish to jump to the conclusion that he had suddenly found any form of clarity in his mind that might translate to his words. 

And still… they made Nia feel uneasy. As if he was accusing her of something, but she couldn’t fathom just what she had done. Who was the she to whom he was referring?

“What do you mean, Hads?” Nia echoed Ari’s question, with perhaps a modicum more worry than the Canaveris lord emanated. Neither of them received an answer; just as quickly as he seemed to have registered her presence, he forgot about her, and fixed his golden gaze on the depth of the Garden at night.

But they had a carriage waiting for them, and there was no time to sit and try to decipher the answer. Bidding both Hadwin and Briery goodnight, the three of them exited the Night Garden, and climbed comfortably onto the padded seats of the ornate, Night steed-helmed cart. Nia must have been betraying uneasiness on her face, for Ari couldn’t help but ask her if all was well. “Of course--I’m going home. With the man that I love. Home and love are two things I never thought I’d hear myself talk about with certainty.” Nia smiled and squeezed one of Ari’s gloved hands. What did Hadwin mean? Who was he talking about? And why was it directed at me? Those were the questions she wanted answered, but knew well that Ari didn’t have the answers; and, in fact, he himself had been relatively silent about some of his own concerns: namely, the whereabouts of Laz.

“We can speak with Queen Lilica, you know. And the Dawn Guard. To look for Laz.” The Master alchemist chose to change the subject to something that could be realistically addressed. “I know you’re concerned for her. I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault; this all happened when I tried to save you. But I’ll work with the best mages and trackers to try to bring her back to you.I feel like I’m not on too bad terms with Hadwin’s sister--ah, the only one he has left… She’s got a good nose for unique scents. Might be worth a try.” Nia reached to tuck the silky, onyx tresses of hair that had escaped Ari’s bun behind his ear. “Don’t you think?”

After the hectic hustle and bustle of dealing with the aftermath of the small forest fire that Hadwin Kavanagh had allegedly caused, life grew relatively placid in the following week for Haraldur and Vega Sorde. The Eyraillian princess and prince were able to find more time to spend with their growing twins, whose first birthday was quickly creeping forward. The future was beginning to finally look bright, and they cherished this time they found with one another and their small family. But, as life would have it, peace was short lived, and just when all was beginning to unfold like a flower finally introduced to sunlight, the delicate petals caught fire.

“Your Highness,” one of the serving staff knocked on Vega’s chamber door one afternoon with a message. “A visitor from Eyraille has arrived and wishes for an audience with you.”

“...Eyraille?” The Skyknight shot up for her seat on the settee, where she was watching Klara and Kynnet as they had finally agreed to be put down for a nap. “Who is it?”

“I’m afraid I’m unsure, Your Highness. They merely introduced themself as a representative.”

Not Caris… Of course it wouldn’t be her younger brother. The King of Eyraille couldn’t afford to leave his kingdom. She was foolish to have gotten her hopes up, even for a moment. “Alright. Ah… Haraldur is on duty. Permit me time to don something appropriate, and I will need the twins’ nurse to mind them in my absence.”

All of the above was easily arranged, and after dressing in the most formal garb of Eyraille’s silver and vibrant blue that she could find (unfortunately, arriving in Galeyn very pregnant, the traditional garb she had donned at the time no longer fit her body), Vega agreed to meet her Eyraillian visitor in the council chambers, with Lilica’s consent. This visitor was unfamiliar to the Eyraillian princess; neither friend nor foe, but a woman clearly clad in the garb and insignia of a royal official. “Vega Sorde.” The envoy bowed her head in greeting. “I am Tissa, employed by your noble family as a palace official envoy. I come bearing a message from your brother, His Majesty.”

“Is he alright?” Vega all but ignored the wax-sealed letter in Tissa’s extended hand. “His health, his well-being? Is Caris well?”

“His Majesty is in good health, yes. Please.” Tissa extended her hand holding the letter further. “All of your questions… well, you will find all of the answers here.”

Caris was alright, which meant Eyraille must have been alright. So then, why was Vega’s heart racing? Albeit reluctantly, she took the letter from the envoy’s hand and broke the wax seal. Caris’ distinct handwriting filled about half of the page, and the message was detailed, yet concise. Blunt, and cutting, just like the homophone so similar to their namesake. Just like a Sorde, nothing was left to interpretation. Just as quickly as her heart sped up, she could feel it all but stop. “...what is this?” Vega looked up at Tissa, who appeared rightfully uncomfortable. “This is a joke. This must be a joke.”

Tissa, who didn’t appear to be much older than herself, shook her head slowly. “Those words are His Majesty’s own. I’m afraid I have no authority to dispute them.”

“Well I fucking can.” The former Skyknght’s patience dissipated the moment she’d finished reading, and she slammed the letter back on the table with such force, her knuckles would later bruise. “I’m his older sister, and I will call my own family on their utter bullshit. Excommunication? Exile from my own home? You’re employed by Caris; surely you’re not so daft that you cannot see this is my little brother’s version of a child’s temper tantrum!”

“You… you left Eyraille in the middle of the night, without more than note, yourself. It has been over a year, and you haven’t so much as reached out to your brother. Or… to your kingdom.”

“Haraldur has sent letters. I know he has, I was present when he had the scribe record his dictation. Galeyn has been through absolute hell and back; so has Stella D’Mare.” The fiery woman, whose blood now ran as hot as the colour of her hand, gripped her hands into fists upon the smooth surface of the table. “Surely you can understand I haven’t had the luxury to return home. The twins are not yet a year old; even in all of his hotheaded obstinacy, Caris should understand that as well!”

“Please understand… I am not in a position to question His Majesty’s wishes. Or his judgment. But I’m…” Tissa clasped her hands in front of her. “I am truly sorry that it has come to this. For you and for your family. For what little it is worth… I do believe your negligence was not out of malice.”

Vega quietly seethed. At the letter. At Caris. At this envoy’s complete and utter dedication to such a ludicrous decision on the part of her king! “Negligence? Oh, to hell with all of this.” The princess hissed and lifted her hands from the table. “If you won’t listen to me, then he will. I will make him when I see him face to face.

“You are not permitted to return to Eyraille! Please, Vega,” the envoy begged the irate princess when she stomped toward the door, the letter clutched in her hand like she intended to dispose of it. “It’s in the letter. You know if you return, you will be committing a crime.”

A crime. By returning to her own home, bringing her children to her rightful home… And the worst part was that Caris had written the letter not in Eyraillian, but in the Common Tongue. So that his words could not be misinterpreted by anyone who happened to read it. Caris had made his message loud and clear, and even if this was a temper tantrum on his part, she would still have to wait for him to come to his senses and rescind these words before she could safely talk to him again. “...then I have a message for your king.” She had managed to hold back her tears so well, but now they flowed freely, and there was nothing she could do to stop them. “Tell him that if he has chosen to alienate his family… then he has nothing. He is a king with nothing.”

With nothing left to say, Vega left the council chambers. How was she to explain this to Haraldur later? That she, and he, and both of their children could never set foot on Eyraillian soil again? Haraldur had thought he’d had a relationship with Caris. He would be heartbroken… 

And it was all her fault.

The stringy purple flower, left neglected for weeks under the shade, had begun to awaken to its true potential. Since the visitor arrived a week ago with a watering can, the flower filled out its shrunken, hunched form, opening up its lustrous petals with every repeat appearance from its personal gardener. Only, this one didn’t bear the cream-colored robes of the typical Gardener. He was a scruffy man, scraggly-limbed and undernourished, as if the flower absorbed his vitality with every watering session.

The man was never alone. He either kept the company of a sleek and limber woman, or a boy in the midst of an awkward growth spurt. Sometimes both. The man often spoke to the flower, his tones hushed, as if he were passing along a secret. And the secret was a name. Rowen. 

Rowen Rowen Rowen.

In time, the flower had come to know itself by that name. He said it enough times, so it could only mean it now belonged there, nestled among the water droplets that clung to its vibrant petals. Rowen is my name. I am Rowen.

And this person…is here for me. He loves me.

So I shall love him back…

And the once abandoned, neglected flower grew splendidly, shone brightly, for him.

I can help you find it. The place where you finally feel comfortable. Where you can feel like yourself, again.

It could have been that Bronwyn was drunk. Whether drunk on ale or on faoladh visions, she couldn’t determine. All she knew was that she was loath to pull away from Sigrid. Were she truly a selfless group-conscious person, she would have declined the offer and blithely returned to the Dawn Guard. Instead, she halted her retreat on the road and whirled around in response to the blonde warrior’s summons. She couldn’t believe what she heard! She hadn’t scared Sigrid away with her uncalled-for intensity and casual idolatry? 

This can’t be what you think it is, Bronwyn. She’s made you her responsibility now. That is all. You’re her responsibility; nothing more. 

Despite her reservations, Bronwyn refused to flee from the opportunity. Rendered speechless, it was all she could do just to nod.

Yes. We’ll find it together, you and me.

“It’s a group effort,” she managed to choke out, finally. “We. The place where we’ll feel comfortable.”

But that was a week ago. And now, Bronwyn was faced with an entirely different problem.    

“He wants to see me?”

“That’s what he said, yeah.”

She scoffed. “And all his mental faculties were in check when he said that? Because he still sounds raving mad if he willingly asked for my company.”

The attendant stared at her blankly, at a loss for how to answer her rhetorical question. She waved him off. “It’s fine. I’m talking to myself. Tell him I’ll be there.”

After the attendant took his leave, Bronwyn turned from the door to address the other person inhabiting the room. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I don’t think I can do this alone. Would you come with me?”

Since Sigrid offered to help her find a place of belonging, Bronwyn took her at face value rather than give in to doubt. Except…her response bordered on the excessive. The day after her drunken confessions at the pub, she approached Roen and formally retracted her bid for the Dawn Guard, with the hope that one day, she would be in a better place mentally to give it another attempt. Not a moment after, she shamelessly asked Sigrid if they could share a room together, “Just until things blow over.” While afraid to be alone and stew in her thoughts, it was only half of the truth. The other half…she couldn’t explain it, but she found herself inexplicably drawn to Sigrid’s orbit, such that departing for any length of time left her feeling empty, distressed, and foggy-brained. With the blonde warrior gone, she had difficulty concentrating, and her headaches, which found instant relief in Sigrid’s presence, smacked her in the face with a stinging memento of their return. It was pathetic and embarrassing, but Sigrid well and truly represented her entire world, at the moment. Who else did she have? No one. 

…Until Hadwin reached out that afternoon and asked to see her.

“I’m a horrible person,” she stated as she threw on a modest but reasonable outfit she fished from the clothes chest. The seldom-worn tunic sported a few wrinkles and looked rumpled in places, but she didn’t care. When she threw it over her head, it smelled faintly of musk. “A horrible sister. Since the night of the fire, I haven’t been to see Hadwin once. And now he’s asking for me? Why, I wonder? To chew me out? Who knows if he’s the one who actually made the request and not Briery in some well-meaning attempt to bring us together. He could still be…you know,” she sighed, unable to speak the word. Catatonic. Gone.

“I can’t take a lick of responsibility for his recovery. Here I offloaded him to Nia, Briery, and the Canaverises like some…coward. So if he wants to see me so he can shame me for my absence, he…he has every right. I won’t stop him.”

With Sigrid agreeing to accompany her, the two of them set off for the spot where Hadwin wanted them to meet: atop the observatory tower.

The dedication ceremony for the newly erected and renovated tower, previously destroyed during Locque’s night of terror, was a quiet affair. A small gathering, a speech from Lord Canaveris, the cutting of the ribbon, and nothing more. Considering the string of recent tragedies—namely her brother’s wildfire—Lord Canaveris and Queen Lilica collectively decided a modest ceremony was more fitting. Bronwyn understood their rationale, but what she didn’t understand was why Hadwin wanted to meet up there, of all places, when it was so far removed from one of his regular haunts. Why not a pub, a private room, or hells, anywhere in the Night Garden?

The ascent up the tower surprised her. In place of Canaveris levels of excess was understated elegance in the style of Galeynian minimalism—with just a few signature D’Marian flourishes for flavor. White space married splashes of colorful mosaic and crown moldings shaped elegantly in stylized vines and flowers. When she reached the open-air balcony, the sky opened up and engulfed any who stood under its firmament in an electric azure blue. She imagined how the place looked at night, when the light punctured the shroud to let the stars shine through it.

They found Hadwin with Briery. The faoladh was leaning against the balcony, looking out in the direction of the Night Garden. When they approached, he turned around to face them. The last few weeks had left his cheeks sunken and his limbs deflated. His hair, even more wild and untamed than usual, whipped across his face in the wind. While he looked like a scarecrow removed of its stuffing, his eyes, at least, showed vestiges of their old spark. At the moment, he appeared lucid. At least, more lucid than the last time she saw him, singed from the fire and staring unseeingly into oblivion.

Hadwin took in Bronwyn and Sigrid, neither bothered nor surprised to see the ex-Dawn Warrior with her. “It’s better up here,” he explained, as if to answer Bronwyn’s unspoken question. “I hear her in the wind, sometimes.” He bunched up his hair and raked it back from his forehead. “Not today, though.”

Bronwyn shuffled her feet, at a loss for what to say. She should have known Hadwin wouldn’t be operating with a full deck of cards so soon after Teselin’s abrupt disappearance.

“Call me crazy or whatever,” he muttered, shrugging. “Hey, Siggy,” he tilted his head at Bronwyn’s blonde companion, acknowledging her with a slight smirk on his lips.  

“So uh…why did you want to see me?”

“Relax; I’m not gonna bite your head off or anything for leaving,” he said, his knowing, fear-seeking eyes boring into hers. “If I were aware at the time, I would’ve told you to beg off anyway. Less collateral damage that way.”

But his reassurances didn’t make her feel any better for ditching him in his hour of need. “So how are you…holding up?” she blurted stupidly, changing the subject. 

“Oh, you know. I’ve got my good days and bad days,” he stuck his hands in his pockets. “You caught me on a good day, for whatever that’s worth. They don’t last, but Brie’s been helping me through the worst of it,” he nudged the ringleader’s shoulder fondly. “So it’s why I wanted to get you while the getting’s good. Just to tell you, ‘Hi,’ and to…I don’t know,” he heaved out a sigh. “If you’ve got a spare moment in your day, come see me, but no problem if you can’t.”

He tried so hard to sound casual and unruffled, but she saw the not-so-hidden context behind his request. He…wanted her around. Perhaps even needed it if it helped address his demons and brought him closer to healing. 

“Sure,” she smiled. “I’d like that, Hadwin.”

A grin spread across his face, all toothy and deranged just as she remembered. Suddenly, she couldn’t figure out why she’d been dreading this meeting. Sure, she might have been only a replacement figure for Rowen and Teselin, but it didn’t bother her as much as before. Perhaps it was because of…she looked at Sigrid. I feel like I can do anything when you’re near.

As they opened up the conversation to both Briery and Sigrid and chatted gaily about a multitude of topics, Bronwyn failed to catch the furrow that appeared between Hadwin’s brow, or the intense glances he stole at her and Sigrid when they weren’t paying attention, his fear-seeking eyes watching...and alert.

“Please, have a seat. I will fix you something to drink.”

“That won’t be necessary, Lord Canaveris. I only have a moment to spare.” Haraldur hovered by the doorway to the parlor, bedecked as usual in his armor and weapons. “I’m just here to report my findings.”

“Oh, well I would not wish to keep you from your other duties. You are a busy man, after all. A commander of a small army, a father of two, and a part-time Gardener—I cannot imagine how you manage to balance your finite time. Ah, look at me, prattling on when you just told me you cannot stay long. Forgive me,” Ari bowed his head, contrite. “I suppose I haven’t been myself, as of late. Weeks of bedrest will make short work of your productivity, as you can imagine.”

“I can. I’ve been there, too.” Haraldur admitted. Not like near-death by his own hand was any secret, but it was something he’d rather forget ever happened.

Ari splashed dark-purple liquid into his goblet and motioned for Haraldur to continue. “I shall have your report now, Commander Sorde. Rest assured, I know it not to be happy news,” he lifted his goblet for emphasis. “Hence the wine.”

“I recruited my best trackers, including both Sigrid and Bronwyn, but we’ve all come to the same conclusion. We followed Laz’s trail to the northwestern border and lost it there. We can determine with confidence that Laz is no longer in Galeyn, but I suspect you already knew that. If you want my speculation,” he hesitated, “if Laz continues in a northwesterly direction, she’ll hit nothing but wilderness. There are no towns or cities that way for miles. But if she doesn’t change course at all for that entire trek…she would eventually end up in West Mollengard.”

“West Mollengard,” Ari tapped the side of his goblet, thoughtful. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but West Mollengard runs an enormous mining operation in the mountains, does it not?”

Haraldur nodded. “It’s about all that’s there. The rest of the territory is wasteland and roving bands of nomadic tribes. But it’s also Mollengard’s major source of wealth. Without those mines and the precious ores they extract, Mollengard wouldn’t have the resources or the funds to bankroll their expensive campaigns of conquest.”

“Then perhaps Laz is headed for the mines. For what reason, I cannot fathom, but as a golem, it is possible she is experiencing a magnetic attraction to whatever is out there now that she is no longer psychically bound to me.” 

“That place is a fortress, guarded to the teeth,” Haraldur frowned. “She wouldn’t have a prayer getting inside undetected. Let’s hope for her sake she stays hidden. Mollengard would love to get their hands on someone like her.”

Ari brought the goblet to his lips and drained half the wine’s contents in one gulp. “Yes. Let us hope. By your admission, we can do nothing else for her if the mines are, as you suggest, impregnable. Even staging a harmless search for her there would be akin to a declaration of war. So,” he slid the now-empty goblet on the fireplace mantle, “that’s that, I suppose. I shall have to locate her before she crosses Mollengard’s border. No simple feat, but I will do what I must. …Thank you, Commander Sorde. I shan’t take another minute of your precious time.”

Upon exiting the Canaveris villa, Haraldur mounted his Night steed and immediately made for the palace. No detours, no loitering. He operated on a strict schedule that allowed no room for lollygagging or sitting idle, for every moment wasted took him away from his most important duties: to his wife and kids.

He arrived at the palace front entrance shortly after nightfall, and without a second to lose. No sooner had he dismounted than an envoy shuffled to his side to inform him that his wife needed to speak with him. Immediately.

He was going there anyway, but the message's urgency prompted him to make a sprint for the council chambers where she wanted them to meet. They never brought business into their private suite if they could help it, mindful of the stress it might cause their children.

When he entered, the expansive space was empty and unpeopled, save for Vega, who crunched a letter in her rage-shaking fist. She looked beyond upset, a volatile marriage of fury and distraught, and it prompted him to tread with care lest he set her off. “Vega. What,” he glanced at the letter, recognizing the broken wax seal of Eyraille’s coat of arms on the back, “what…does it say?”

She unfurled the letter and read it out to him, and it took all of his self-control not to react as explosively as Vega. Someone had to offset the mood by keeping a calm head about their shoulders. “Is he serious? He can’t be serious. Caris is wrathful and moody. He’s not thinking straight. Has he even read my letters explaining the situation? I point blank told him everything going on in Galeyn and why we couldn’t return. Unless Locque intercepted the letters, he should have received them all!” A snap of an irritated grumble snagged his throat. He shook his head, clearing his rising anger and opting instead for disbelief. “Is the envoy from Eyraille still here? I want to give her a message. A last-ditch effort to appeal to your moronic brother and his latest lapse in judgment. If he can’t see reason at this stage, then he’s truly a lost cause and I’ll have lost all respect for him. I’ll get through to him,” he vowed, but it was born from denial rather than logic. Haraldur couldn’t yet dismiss the grumpy boy-king, who eventually opened up to the idea of a commoner-born suitor and ladled him with support and advice for marrying his sister. Hells, he’d even paid for Vega’s wedding ring! 

Fetching the scribe, Haraldur sat him down and dictated his message, word for word. 

“Your Grace. We have been nothing but transparent with you concerning our current situation in Galeyn. We recently dealt with a powerful tyrant’s insurgency and the fallout left behind when she died. I almost died. Twice. Our infant children are too young to travel and require more time to mature and gather strength for the long journey to Eyraille. As it stands, the roads from here to Eyraille wind through Mollengardian-occupied territories, leaving our only safe mode of travel by roc. So consider my surprise when I heard the news secondhand from my wife stating your plans for excommunication. I advise you to reconsider, if not for our sake, then for yours. Eyraille remains a target for Mollengard. If you cut off your allies, you won’t have a fighting chance when Mollengard strikes. And they will strike. Sooner, too, once they hear you’ve crippled your support. 

If you go forward with our excommunication, you will lose my Forbanne army. You will lose Galeyn, Stella D’Mare, and all their affiliated alliances. This is not a threat, but reality. We can’t help you if setting foot in your country means our imprisonment. And what if we don’t comply as your prisoners, your Grace? Will you execute us for treason, and leave our children orphaned? Think carefully about your next move. I don’t need to tell you twice how extraordinarily short-sighted it is. You don’t trifle with Mollengard. I thought I made that stance quite clear to you in our countless discussions on the subject. Don’t be an idiot. You’re better than this.

Signed, Haraldur, former prince of Eyraille.

Postscript: if you care at all about your sister, then please note she would have died if she had given birth on Eyrallian soil. Miracle children require miracle solutions and the Night Garden provided her the only chance at survival. But I see that instead of rejoicing, you seek to punish. I hope this mentality serves you well in the difficult battles to come.”

With the letter freshly drafted and sent to the Eyrallian envoy, Haraldur pulled out a chair and slumped down on the seat, his initial spike of adrenaline spent from translating all his frustration into writing. “Did I go too overboard? Will it even matter to him, what I said? Or is he nothing more than a ball of pride and resentment? …Dammit; what more can we do?” Rising from his chair, he went over to Vega and took her into his arms. “Eyraille’s your home. He can’t do this to you. I’ll make sure of it. We’ll make sure of it—alright?” 

She was positively not qualified to help someone like Bronwyn. Sigrid Sorenson was not qualified to help anyone, and had felt as much, in this learned helplessness that had followed her since she had died (in a physical sense), and then come back, again. Yet, with no one else reaching out to the faoladh woman who had been nothing but kind and understanding toward her, she couldn’t help but try and find something to say that would lift her spirits and give her hope. It was for this same reason that she automatically agreed when Bronwyn asked to remain in close quarters with her, citing that her headaches diminished in her presence. To Sigrid, it made perfect sense: her headaches had gotten worse, the more lost and detached from others she had become. Didn’t everyone feel and function better when they had concrete support? If merely spending time around her ameliorated her well-being even slightly, then that was enough. Because the former Dawn warrior certainly wasn’t of any use to anyone else. Not since she was now seen as the former witch’s thrall, and her hands were forever stained with the blood of innocents she had ever wanted to kill.

And it wasn’t as though Bronwyn was much of a bother. Sigrid genuinely enjoyed her company, and if she were being honest with herself, it felt better not to be alone with her thoughts and feelings, either. To wake up in the middle of the night from flashbacks and nightmares… and notice that she wasn’t alone. It was reassuring, and she found herself able to fall asleep again relatively more quickly than before.

Bronwyn was helping her, too, even if she wasn’t as vocal about it (perhaps for shame of needing someone), so when the faoladh woman asked her to accompany during a visit that Hadwin had suddenly requested, she agreed right away. “It’s not a lot to ask. I’m not sure what terms I’m on with your brother… to be honest, I’ve never been sure. But if he’s asking for you, that’s got to be a good thing, right? He’s coming back to himself. And I can’t imagine that he’d be wasting his energy on anyone that he doesn’t want to see. So,” she opened the door to their co-quarters, and held it for Bronwyn to pass through the doorway. “Let’s go see what he wants. If it’s too stressful and you need an out, I’ve got your back.”

She had no idea how she would create the appropriate diversion, should Bronwyn find it all too overwhelming to speak to Hadwin, but it felt like the right thing to say at the time; and she’d figure it out, if the situation called for it.

“You’ve been dealing with your own struggles, you know. And I think… Hadwin knows that, too.” The blonde warrior pointed out, tossing her braid over her shoulder as they made for the tower, which Hadwin purportedly inhabited on this day. “He understands more than you think. In fact, a lot of times, I think he counts on us assuming he pays less attention than he actually does. Something tells me he isn’t asking for your audience to berate you.”

Fortunately, Briery Frealy had been spearheading Hadwin’s care, of late, and he somehow seemed less likely to experience outbursts in her presence. Something about the acrobat and their long history did appear to keep him sufficiently grounded; not as much as Teselin, perhaps, but sufficiently, nonetheless. And, to Sigrid’s surprise (and relief), Bronwyn’s brother was far more coherent than she had last heard. “I don’t think you’re crazy.” She heard herself saying, following his comment about hearing ‘her’ (Tesellin, without a doubt) on the wind. How many times had she thought she heard Naimah on the wind? Or mistaken a warm breeze for the Kariji woman’s touch? It had been… some time, since she’d experienced either of those phenomena. But she understood it all too well.

But this rendezvous wasn’t for her. It was between Hadwin and Bronwyn, and she was merely present for support. Respectfully, the former Dawn warrior stepped off to the side, to let the siblings have their moment. And it was an uplifting moment, after all. Both he and Bronwyn needed to stay connected to family. Both she and Briery… well, what more were they than crutches?

“You are going to relocate to lower ground at some point, though, right? Kind of a pain in the ass if you’re going to ask Bronwyn to climb those stairs everyday.” Sigrid couldn’t help but quip to lighten the air a little bit more, and even flashed a smile that made it clear she was merely picking on him playfully, not critically. Kind of like old times; a time that hadn’t been more than a few years, but seemed so distant to Sigrid, at this point. Almost like the memories she had of a time before Bronwyn, before Naimah, before Gaolithe or Locque, had occurred in another world entirely, and that those memories weren’t hers, at all.

Ari was slowly but surely returning to his former self, but only insofar as his mannerisms and habits had gradually returned. Somehow, Nia couldn’t help but feel that there was still something missing from the elegant and well-spoken Canaveris lord. It didn’t require much thought to realize that it wasn’t exactly what was missing, but rather, who. Laz hadn’t been just another servant or bodyguard to Ari; hells, she hadn’t been yet another friend. Ari tempered the loss of staff and of friends. He was certainly taking Isidor’s disappearance far better than she was, processing it with a temperate balance of reason and sorrow, while she still remained awake in the wee hours of the mourning wondering if there was anything she could have said to change his mind and get him to stay. But losing a part of yourself was entirely different, and he and Laz had been connected for so long that Nia now understood how Ari’s psychic link to her had been like having another limb that he was now learning to live without.

Or, rather, that he refused to live without… and would do anything to get it back.

She couldn’t (and didn’t) blame him, and as such, did not interfere when he reached out to both Lilica, Haraldur, and the Dawn Warriors for help in locating Laz, wherever she was. Sadly, both the Galeynian guard and the Dawn Warriors conceded defeat rather early on, on the grounds that they simply didn’t yet have the resources or the manpower to conduct a sufficient search for a missing person. Haraldur, on the other hand, was not so quick to give up. In the weeks that followed, he amassed his army of Forbanne, as well as Sigrid Sorenson and Bronwyn Kavanagh, who had agreed to lend their specialized skills to the cause. And when the Forbanne Commander finally reached out to Ari to deliver his report, Nia knew it wasn’t good news. She knew that Ari knew it, as well, and as much as she wanted to protect him from the details that Haraldur would inevitably impart, the Ardane woman realized he needed to hear them from the source. 

It was difficult, letting the Canaveris lord carry out that meeting alone, barely masking his nerves. The Master Alchemist had the decency to grant him his space, but she made sure to remain nearby, should he need her at any point during Haraldur’s debriefing, or after. On the surface, Ari was skilled at maintaining his composure under duress, but Nia knew his tells well enough. The way he held his wine glass with a stronger grip than was necessary. The amount of sips that he took from his wine glass, which increased with his escalating stress all told her what she needed to know at a glance, without hearing much of the conversation.

When Commander Sorde finally took his leave, and Ari took a seat upon the settee looking particularly helpless, Nia emerged from a nearby corridor and sat across from the deflated Canaveris lord. “It wasn’t good news.” She sighed; a statement, not a question, because Ari’s posture and expression said it all. The Master Alchemist listened silently as Ari divulged the details: that Lazuli had not been found, but that Haraldur Sorde was convinced she was making her way toward West Mollengard, where she would inevitably be caught. As to why Laz had wandered off in the first place remained a mystery that no one could quite explain. Had she been connected to Ari because of his curse? Or had his coma severed the bond between them, causing her to wander away because she didn’t know what else to do? Perhaps it was irrational, but Nia couldn’t help but feel even partially responsible for it. Ari was alive, and healthy, and no longer at risk of succumbing to a curse… but what did that matter if he wasn’t happy?

“We’ll find her, Ari. Especially if we know where she’s headed, we can send others in that direction. Intercept her before she gets to Mollengard. This is good news; it means we have something. Some idea of where she can be found. If you can’t reach her psychically anymore…” Nia reached across the decorative table between them, and took one of Ari’s hands in her own. “What if you created another golem? Or two? Something similar to Laz, that could maybe hone in on her energies and bring her home? I could help. You make them, and I’ll equip them with an imperviousness beyond what they already have. They will be practically invincible, to physical and magical attacks; not indefinitely, but at least for the duration of their trip. Let’s work together to find a way to bring her home.”

With his wine glass once again empty, Nia reached for it and put it down on the table before the Canaveris lord’s knee-jerk reaction to refill it once again could kick in. “I know how hard it’s been for you without Laz. We’ve already defied the biggest odds because we’re both still here: alive and well. I promise, Ari.” Leaning forward, she took Ari’s face in both of her hands. “We’ve already beat death. We’re unstoppable.”

This wasn’t news that Haraldur needed to hear. He was already so busy with his multiple positions as both a Gardener and a Commander, and when one problem resolved, another always cropped up soon after. He didn’t need this stress, but… there would be no keeping it from him. Eyraille is--was--his home, too. He would be expecting to return sometime soon, when they children were old enough, just like she had. This sour turn of events, and her brother’s erratic anger, was not a secret she could keep.

So she sent word to a palace envoy to relay to him her need for a rendezvous in the council chambers, where he spent the next handful of hours sobbing, pacing, and wanting nothing more than to punch something. She had dismissed the Eyraillian envoy, because that woman didn’t deserve her ire. This wasn’t her fault; she was merely the messenger, relaying a message that clearly left her feeling very uncomfortable. Tissa would return to Eyraille in the morning, after some rest, and to her credit, she offered Vega any amount of her time she desired to ask detailed questions about Eyraille. What had transpired in her absence, how her brother was really doing, any changes that had occurred, but Vega knew the more she learned about the place that was no longer her home, and the people and family she had let down, she would only feel worse. Not to mention, she couldn’t guarantee the Eyraillian envoy wouldn’t end up an innocent victim of her line of fire, and knew better than to subject her to any harsh words that she would rather deliver to Caris,

When Haraldur arrived later on, Vega had spent enough time ruminating and processing the news and what it meant that she had found her composure a bit, but only to an extent. As soon as her husband found her pacing the council chambers, clutching Caris’ letter in her white knuckles. “It doesn’t feel real. I’ve read it over and over again, and this letter… it doesn’t feel like it should be real. But, it’s in my brother’s handwriting… and there is no mistaking his words.”

Reading it once again, for Haraldur’s sake and to ensure he understood what he knew, it still didn’t sound real. It didn’t feel real. That her brother, her only surviving flesh and blood family from her tumultuous past, had given up on both her and Haraldur… This had always been a possibility. In the peripherals of her mind, she had always known Caris had the fiery impulsivity and the power to excommunicate her at the snap of his fingers. It had been naive of her to assume that he would never actually act upon that. 

“He is serious. But even if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He is King of Galeyn, and we cannot question him. Not in person, anyway.” Deflated, the former Eyraillian princess took a seat, and deposited the letter on the table. It was crumpled, and spots on the parchment had grown thin and soft from the oil from her perspiring fingers. “I’m sure he received your letters, Haraldur. I don’t think it is because of them or in spite of them that he made this decision. It’s because…” Because of me. Because I abandoned him. Because Caris is still young, and vulnerable, and in his eyes, I left him alone for another family and another life. And there is nothing I can say at this point to make him change his mind… or to make him understand.

Haraldur was far more optimistic than she was, and while Vega was already convinced that any attempt to appeal to Caris would be in vain, she didn’t have the heart to trample upon what little hope Haraldur held for the future of their relationship with the Eyraillian king. He and Caris had developed something of a bond; this betrayal hurt him as much as it hurt her. Was there anything Haraldur could say to make her petulant younger brother change his mind? …no. But, she would not stop him from trying.

“The envoy from Eyraille leaves in the morning. I am sure she is more than happy and willing to deliver a message.” No sooner did she say as much that Haraldur left to fetch their scribe. Vega knew he had chosen not to ask her to write his words out of respect for her own mental turmoil. She had already been dwelling upon this for hours, and she couldn’t guarantee she’d write it without smearing the ink with tears. But she sat nearby as her husband articulated his words to the scribe; words that were far more eloquent than what she would have suggested. He had a way of keep a cool head when hers was full of fire, and of the two of them, he was definitely the one more qualified to reach to Caris with another letter. Had it been her, and had she had the mental stamina to pick up a quill with some ink, her own letter most likely would have contained too much profanity to suitably present to anyone as an attempt to make them change their mind on a decision, let alone a king.

Vega sat, slumped over the table, with her forehead resting in both of her hands while Haraldur drafted this letter. By the time he finished, he sounded as deflated as she felt, and he asked questions that she couldn’t answer. “I don’t know. I… don’t know. If we are too soft, he will brush us aside. If we are too harsh, he will disregard us completely. I don’t know what it will take to convince Caris that we are better to keep close as his family--his allies--than as his exiles. And it’s… this is all entirely my fault.”

The former Skyknight sat upright and raked her hands through her brought locks. She looked positively exhausted, pale and with shadows beneath her eyes, much like she had looked during the twins’ early months, full of days upon days of little to no sleep. “I left, Haraldur. In the middle of the night, I left my brother, without saying a word. Without asking permission, because I knew I would never get that permission, for so many reasons. I don’t regret what I did; because our children are born, and they are healthy and strong. Because I am still alive, and able to nurture and raise them, and I know… I know that wouldn’t be the case if I had stayed in Galeyn. Had I stayed, they wouldn’t have had a mother. You wouldn’t have had a wife, and I don’t know… depending on the circumstances, if you would even have had children. And knowing all that now, for sure… how could I possibly regret my decisions? But all of that… Even if what I did was right, it’s not without consequences.” Vega drew a deep breath to maintain what little composure she had left. “Effectively, I knew that I had to choose. Between Caris and Eyraille… and you, and the twins. Except that it wasn’t really a choice, in the end. Because had I stayed, I wouldn’t have lasted to exist for anyone. But how do I make my younger brother understand that, Haraldur? Why should I even expect him to believe me, when I up and left in the middle of the night, with little more than a written ‘goodbye’ and some vague explanation of my gut feeling?”

With a sudden, desperate need for proximity, Vega took one of Haraldur’s large hands in both of her own. Together, they had already been through so much and survived all of it. “...I left you, once. Alone, mourning of my dead body. I couldn’t do it to you again. Even if it meant losing all ties to, and a future in, Eyraille.”

It took the better part of a week, but Hadwin, with help from Briery and frequent visits to Rowen’s flower, managed to exchange his dissociative periods for lucid ones, although it wasn’t always a perfect, one-for-one trade-off, and a sluggish process at best. More often than not, he was plagued by lapses in reality and gaps in memory large enough to drive a carriage through. Far from operating independently, he relied on Briery to arrange his day. Every morning she would wake him, remind him to bathe, evacuate his bowels, and eat, usually having to all but shovel the food into his mouth by the spoonful for him to register the intake of sustenance. At this delicate stage of transition, he was slowly but surely becoming self-aware again, but it wasn’t enough to solidify the gossamer wisps of questionable existence that fluttered around his orbit like space dust, refusing to settle or allow him to grasp, run his hands over, and confirm as firm and grounded and…here. Not there. Not out in the ether where Teselin’s scattered form inhabited. But that was real, too. He couldn’t see it, sense it, or interact with it, but just because it had departed from his immediate surroundings didn’t mean it ceased to exist. 

…Which made it much harder to reconcile truth from reality. How could he accurately depict his lived experience as objectively sound if no one could confirm nor deny its objectivity? They only had their senses to guide them, but human-based senses, not bolstered by magic or animal instincts were faulty and inferior. People like Briery didn’t have a wolf’s nose or intuition and could easily reject his episodes as delusion. But she didn’t. Of course she’d never discount or dismiss him outright, but neither did she humor him if she found his rationale harmful, either to himself or to others. As was often the case, weighing his sanity and lunacy was a tenuous tightrope balance, and no one better negotiated it than Briery Frealy, who safely guided him to the other side with her practiced acrobat’s grace.  

During one of his more lucid moments, he turned to her after recovering from another of his frequent bouts with nightmares; the kind that seized him in bed and throttled him until he choked on his own spittle and sat up, spluttering in fits of coughs and gasps.

“We’re not what the other wants most in this world. Not really,” he confessed, taking tentative sips of water as his racing heartbeat regulated to a relatively normal resting rate. “It’s not a slam on you, Brie. It’s the dead opposite. You’re not whole without Cwenha, and…is it any wonder I’m a fucking mess without Tes? You’re second best. I’m second best. That’s just the way it is between us, isn’t it? It’s shitty to play favorites, but it’s true. Even so,” he smiled like a ghost failing to pass as a corporeal being, “I’m glad you’re here, Brie. And I’ll make it up to you when I’m better. If I’m better,” he gurgled a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t think I ever, at any point, had a solid head on my shoulders. My body knows it, too; it’s why it’s always trying to toss me away any chance it gets. It knows it’s better off headless. Whenever I’m feeling like that, like I wanna…disappear,” he worked his mouth around the word, almost ashamed to look Briery in the eye, “can I…count on you to bring me back?”

He brought a shaky hand to rest on her arm, an anchoring point as warm and welcoming as any safe harbor this side of the known world. As for the hidden and as yet undiscoverable, he didn’t have the answers nor the means to plot a course for uncharted territory. Not when there was any guarantee of finding the shoreline.

Around the same time he extracted the promise from Briery, he realized he couldn’t rely solely on her to keep his feet rooted to the ground. There was Nia and Nico, Elespeth, once she returned from her sabbatical with her husband, and…Bronwyn. If he reached out to multiple people instead of clinging to just one, their collective weight would stand a greater chance of preventing him from drifting to the sky in spirals of smoke and ash as he departed the site of his self-made destruction. Let others hold his bindings taut, but only if they could handle the tug. Briery, after all, deserved relief from his ceaseless dragging and thrashing.

A few days later, he sought out Bronwyn and invited her to join him at the observatory, a place where, since its grand reopening, he could not part from for very long. The updrafts that often blew in from the Night Garden sported a fresh, crisp breeze, and sometimes, if he pitched his ear just right, he heard the distinct pop of Teselin’s magic sizzle across his skin. 

“Don’t you know this by now, Siggy? I am a pain in the arse. I’d forfeit my position as annoying younger brother if I didn’t raise hell for my sis any chance I got, you know,” Hadwin said with a wink, not missing a beat. Smart retorts and witty comebacks were so embedded in his blood, he recited them in his sleep. They acted as an independent entity at this point, separate from the rest of him. “Gotta keep you both on your toes; literally. But since I’m nice,” he snorted, “next time, I’ll spare you the workout since you obviously can’t handle it. I guess this scrawny, out-of-shape fellow has got you breathless.”

“Goddammi—we can’t have one wholesome moment without you talking shit and spoiling it?” Bronwyn groaned and rolled her eyes, shoving playfully at her brother, who laughed and danced away from her reach.

“Until next time, then,” Hadwin waved them farewell when they were ready to leave. “I’ll barge in when I’m ready for you. Keep your doors unlocked and your eyes looking constantly over your shoulder in fear of my imminent arrival. I for one look forward to the haunt.”

But Hadwin’s tune changed immediately once Bronwyn departed with her close companion in tow. The furrow returned on his brow, and he rubbed at his mouth as if wiping blood from an unexpected assault to his jaw. “Something’s up with Bron,” he said to Briery when they were alone again. “I can’t really explain it and I could be overreacting or, you know, delusional, but…I think we should watch her very carefully. And observe how she acts around Siggy.”

Another breeze swept through just then, and a different shift took place in Hadwin’s mind. The light in his eyes snuffed out like a candle, and the smoky remains of his clarity drifted away with the wind. “There you are,” he said to no one in particular, raising his fingers to pluck an ephemeral critter from the sky. “I knew you’d show up, sooner or later…”

Ari was failing at the one thing he promised himself not to do; succumb to despair in front of Nia. He used to be better at masking his feelings. When afflicted by his curse, it became a matter of survival. Now, free of the flare-ups that bloomed from times of stress and bundled-up nerves, he found himself even less equipped to deal with harsh news. Whether because his old coping mechanisms no longer applied, or because Laz was no longer present in his mind to act as a comforting buffer, he couldn’t say. What mattered was that Nia could see all his open sores as clearly as if he were naked in front of a crowd, and no amount of smiles and reassurances were enough to fool her. Gone was his mastery over artifice, his easy-going manner and deceptive calm. In place of that once-dignified Canaveris Lord was a man gripping desperately to an empty goblet of wine. Never did he think he would miss his flare-ups; the familiar tickle of heat stimulating his flesh, the welcome numbness as skin hardened to unyielding stone, Laz’s inner voice echoing in his head, reminding him to breathe…

The curse would have ended his life if Nia didn’t save him, he reminded himself. He was only struggling because the world since he reawakened was new and foreign to him—and Laz was unavailable to guide him through the most challenging parts of his readjustment period. What Ari had before done with effortless grace—dressing in finery, delivering eloquent speeches, hosting elaborate dinner parties—came off differently, like a desperate attempt to shield his vulnerability from the public. Funnily enough, he lost his tough skin, and fronted as more doughy and raw than before his life-saving operation. He would never choose death over the freedom he’d gained, of course not, but…

He couldn’t ignore the monumental sense of loss he felt, either.

“On the contrary; this is good news,” Ari sat up in his seat when Nia arrived, plastering on his most agreeable, affable expression. Even if she didn’t believe his manufactured optimism, he needed to believe in it. The persuasion was more to trick himself into a productive state of mind than to mollify her concern. “Not ideal news, but we’ve learned where Laz is likely to be headed and will deploy volunteers to that projected direction posthaste.”

Only, Nia proposed a different idea, an amendment to his half-formed plan. Instead of reaching for a refill of wine, he sat back in the settee, perching a few fingers under his chin in thought.

“It has been close to a month since I sculpted. My hands haven’t recovered their full strength. The statues would be a rough construct at best, and I must first determine if I have not lost the ability to create golems, considering what happened with Laz,” his gaze drifted to the far corner wall where his missing companion preferred to station herself; an ideal vantage point for the watchful and cautious golem. “Yet, you pose an intriguing plan. If we send out golems to locate Laz, I would not need to request human volunteers. Given our target is not human, we must consider non-human solutions. Not to mention, it would be dangerous to send people close to the Mollengardian border when it might imply a message of aggression, were they to be apprehended. This is strictly a fetch mission, and we must place discretion above all else. If you are confident of your ability to outfit my golems with invulnerability and perhaps also stealth—and I have no reason to doubt your skill—then let us welcome the inception of this plan, together.”

Closing his eyes, he invited Nia’s touch, feeling more relaxed under her gentle, humming hands. “Unstoppable, are we?” Fluttering open his eyes, he quirked a smile. “Perhaps we shall test this theory for later, hmm? In the meantime,” he politely withdrew from Nia as he rose from his seat, “I must first speak with the queen tonight regarding the revision of your sentence. When I return—at which time I hope to bear you the most fortunate of news—we shall commence our operations. I look forward to working with you again,” he pressed a quick kiss upon her lips, “my savior.”

Vega and Haraldur’s relationship could be best described as an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. One would assume that put them at a constant impasse, disadvantageous and disharmonious, but together, they tempered each other’s greatest weaknesses. Vega introduced more passion and drive into Haraldur’s structured, regimented life; in turn he kept her grounded and curbed her impulses. Despite their balanced partnership, both had reached the pinnacle of their limitations. Vega was too strung out to care about addressing Caris’s letter with cold, reasonable rationale, and Haraldur was too dispirited to rely on righteous anger when only disappointment remained. In fact, he already distanced himself from Eyraille at a speed so swift and dismissive, it should have given him pause for concern—but it didn’t. Pessimistic by nature, he learned since a young child never to yearn for home. Eyraille had been the closest place to test his convictions, throwing every scenario at him to buy his loyalty. A wife, children, a title, a gaggle of refugees who hailed him as a hero. …A brother.

He should have known better. Home was a concept that no longer applied to him. He thought he’d made peace with the idea. The woods and forests served as a better environment for his growth, anyhow, and the twins required the Night Garden’s proximity to fortify their strength and resilience during the formative years of their development. Galeyn was what they needed; all of them. And if need be, they could travel elsewhere and make wherever they settled their newest base of operations. He was nothing if not adaptable.

But that was him. For Vega, she had lost an essential piece of her identity. Seeing her so shattered in the wake of her brother’s idiocy was something he could not abide. If it affected only him, he would leave the matter alone and move on, but Caris’s decree affected Vega and their children.

…Perhaps he had a little anger in him, after all.

“You can only blame yourself for so much, Vega, before you need to admit your brother’s hand in this, too. He’s a young man now and responsible for his own terrible decisions. So let him take responsibility for them. If he was a king worth his salt, he would understand not to let his resentment get in the way of his rulership, but as we can see, that’s obviously not the case. If he wants to throw a temper tantrum every time he doesn’t get his way, then…maybe he’s not fit to rule.” He said that last bit quietly, afraid the Eyrallian envoy was listening to his treasonous speech through the door. “If we can’t get him to see reason, then let’s make ourselves deserving of his excommunication order. If it’s to save Eyraille from Mollengardian rule, that’s what I would do. He gets no more mercy from me.”

With his jaw set and pressed at an angle advantageous for biting down on and twisting metal, Haraldur almost walked away from his wife to pace around the room to plot his vengeance in stewing silence, but when her hands reached for his and anchored him in place, he relaxed. 

“I’m getting ahead of myself, I know. I’m sorry,” he sighed, expelling some of his latent frustrations in favor of running his thumb gently over her palm. “But I have no patience for morons who refuse to take the threat of Mollengard seriously. So to me, it doesn’t matter that you left in the middle of the night without a note. All of this is so incidental, so…ridiculously petty, in the face of the greater evil. So what if he was slighted and left alone to lick his wounds? He truly will be left alone, and worse, if he isolates us before Mollengard even gets to him. This is so much bigger than family and he knows it. He can deal with his vendettas later, but now isn’t the fucking time.” He gave Vega’s fingers a taut, meaningful squeeze. 

“I…get where he’s coming from,” he conceded, shaking his head as if disgusted at himself for drawing comparisons to the person he most wanted to punch in the face. “He doesn’t react well to your impulsive behavior. I did the same thing, Vega, if you recall. When I first saw you in Galeyn, I was so angry you put yourself at risk without saying anything to me or your brother that I refused to associate with you for weeks, and it took my near death to snap me out of it.” He hated reliving the single worst mistake of his life, but pretending like it never happened wasn’t a possibility. He forever would live with the dark sigil carved into his flesh by the necromancer’s hand, for the rest of his days. “Caris wants order and control, and he can’t control you, his only family, and it makes him want to lash out, blinding himself to the consequences. He refuses to see the big picture. He wants justice now, Mollengard be damned. They’re not a tangible enough threat to him, yet. But they will be.” 

“This is what we’ll do.” He knelt beside Vega so he was level with her on the chair. “Approach the situation in stages. Send out the letter and wait to hear back from him. If the answer is what both of us are expecting…perhaps we can still resolve this diplomatically. There are a number of ways to approach this. Send out Alster, if he’s available. He’s a diplomat. Maybe he can bridge relations where we can’t. Failing that, appease your brother with a marriage arrangement. Distract him with the prospect of starting his own family. Something is bound to work. We won’t give up. We can’t.” A crinkle of desperation appeared in his eyes. “Not after all the sacrifices you’ve made for this family, Vega. For me…” He kissed her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “I won’t let you lose your home. This isn’t your fault; I can’t emphasize that enough. It’s a family squabble and I get that, but your brother is a king.” His expression hardened like stone. “And I expect him to act like one.” 

Caris Sorde had more than any man or woman in Eyraille, sitting atop a throne upon which his family had historically built from tyranny and dystopia. But sitting alone in a tavern, completely incognito in peasant’s attire and with his face partially obscured, he had never felt more alone, and like his life and existence had ever been less meaningful than it was now. Coming here no longer offered him the reprieve it once had; funny, how just a few months ago, it had given him hope… So, why did he continue to come?

The morning after Vega had left, the Eyraillian king didn’t know what to do with his anger. Yes, he understood that his sister had been unhappy of late without her husband around. She had been lonely and depressed, and there was nothing he could say or do to change that. He knew it--and so did she. So Caris didn’t even need to guess as to where she had disappeared to with one of the Eyraillian rocs that were not mysteriously missing from their fleet. She had gone to wherever Haraldur happened to be; and there was no telling when she would come back.

To say he was angry was an understatement, but above all of his fury and resentment, Caris Sorde was hurt--deeply so. Because his family was gone. Dead, or worse--willingly displaced. And this was after he promised Vega he would help to provide anything and everything she and her children needed. She already had her pick of whatever unoccupied room in Eyraille’s grand palace to make into a nursery. All four of them, Haraldur included, were wont for nothing. He had even already gifted her intricately-made, Eyraillian newborn clothing, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t happy if she wasn’t with her family; and, evidently, her family was Haraldur. Not him.

He knew that this time, irreparable damage had been done, because try though he may, he couldn’t convince himself to forgive her. When the kingdom asked where their princess and revered Skyknight had gone, he could not lie on her behalf. “Home; she went home. Because home is where the people are who matter the most.” Why sugarcoat it for his citizens? For years, he had done what he could to justify his sister’s absence, tried to reassure the people of Eyraille that she was not the deserter queen that some claimed her to be. He wouldn’t do it anymore. Vega made her decision, made her bed, so now she could sleep in it. 

But the magnitude of her absence put that much more pressure on him to fill the void that Vega left behind, all the while knowing he could never compensate for her absence. Eyraille was hurt; at least, those who looked up to and admired her were. Those who didn’t rolled their eyes and muttered that they were not surprised. After all, a refusal to take the throne, like she should have, was as good as a promise to prioritize herself over this kingdom. So Caris spent his days being angry, when he wasn’t required to be poised. He trained, long and hard with his guards and Skyknights, as the only suitable reprieve for his anger… but it wasn’t enough. So some months later, in the dark of night when the palace was asleep, the Eyraillian king did the most defiant thing he could think of, and took off his crown. And he took off his silvers and blues, and donned common, neutral garb worn by peasants and labourers in the towns and cities. He covered the lower half of his face with a rag, like the primitive Skyknights of old as they sought to filter the air they breathed while flying upon their rocs, and he took one of the giant birds within his fleet and flew an hour to a distant town. It was one situated atop Eyraille’s cliffs, and was well-known for casual roc-riders who conducted trade with other kingdoms.

Indeed, no one batted an eyelash at the tavern when a man clad in simple rod-riding attire walked in, ordered an ale, and took a seat in a far corner. There Caris sat, for several hours that evening, surrounded by the people his sister had forsaken. And although he never removed the rag from his face, and not once did he touch his ale, the young king felt a sense of… peace. The peace that came with being someone else, other than Caris Sorde, for an evening. A peace that came with blending in, for once, as opposed to standing out. No one knew him, and no one expected anything of him. No one so much as noticed him, and it was… well... 

So, it wasn’t life-changing. It didn’t really make him feel better, and it didn’t do much for the anger and resentment toward his sister ever roiling underneath his skin. Particularly not when he overheard the conversations among drunken patrons: regarding the Eyraillian monarchy, regarding disappointment in the kingdom, possible threats and whispers of Mollengard targeting their home… and, of course, of Vega. Those conversations were the worst, because Caris had to fight the simultaneous urges to agree with those berating her, and defend her actions… because she was family.

Nonetheless, it was a reprieve from life at the palace; from his life. And so, night after night, he would forego sleep in favour of escaping from his own identity.

“Something wrong with the ale, here?” Things changed one evening when he was no longer just part of the background. Someone approached him; one of the waitstaff, a young woman he had seen serving frequently these past months. Her hair was a dark auburn, curly and often braided in a wave, and her eyes were a slate blue; two very common Eyraillian traits, and pretty in the rather generic way most Eyrailian women were. She wasn’t remarkable--but, then again, neither was he. At least, he had been trying so hard not to be.

“I just see you here, almost every night, and you buy a stein of our barley ale. But not once have I seen you touch it; not even a sip.” She furrowed her eyebrows and planted a hand on her hip. “So why buy it at all?”

“Maybe I just enjoy the atmosphere.” Caris shrugged. He couldn’t ever drink the ale; not without removing the rag that obscured his face, and giving himself away. “I’m not going to assume I’m welcome to take up space at a tavern without buying something.”

The woman snorted. “Can’t imagine anyone enjoys sitting among bickering and complaining old men. But…” She shrugged her shoulders. “I s’pose we all like getting away. Being ‘out’. Can give a different perspective. Well… enjoy your ale. Or,” She raised an eyebrow, “whatever it is you enjoy, here.”

It was a brief interaction, with questions warranted on the waitress’s part, but it wasn’t an isolated exchange. Every time Caris took a nightly excursion, she greeted him with gentle sarcasm and teasing. Their exchanges had gone from a handful of words to full-fledged conversations, to the point where he finally faced the question: “So, what’s your name?” The auburn-haired young woman asked him one evening, delivering the stein of ale personally, knowing well that he would leave it untouched. 

“You require the names of your patrons?” Caris asked flatly, underplaying the panic he felt for not anticipating this question.

“Well, I will say, I know the names of our regulars. Just something you pick up. Except for you: but, if you’re the closed-off, mysterious type, then I’ll just call you ‘Friend’. So, Friend…” Tucking her washrag into her apron, she sat across from the incognito king. “What are you getting away from, night after night?”

“What makes you think I’m ‘getting away’?”

“Aren’t we all? Come on, people don’t come here because we’re happy and all is well. That’s not what ale is for. Hells, if I could get away, you know I would. But it certainly wouldn’t be here.”

Caris sat back in his seat, hoping she wasn’t too close to recognize what few features he had on display. He and Vega had the same fierce, blue eyes, after all. “And where would you go? If you could get away.”

“...Ilandria, probably.” The server tapped her fingernails upon the table thoughtfully. “Been thinking about it for a while.”

“Ilandria? With its sickly king and the merciless Prince of Blades? What… could you possibly hope to find there?” He almost slipped up; almost forgot to keep his frustration in check when she hit that sensitive nerve of his by suggesting Eyraille was, somehow, not good enough. Just like Vega.

The auburn-haired woman shrugged. When she creased her brow, it drew his attention to the smattering of freckles from her forehead to her chin. Somehow it made her seem more endearing. “Guess I figure it can’t be much worse? Rumours that Ilandria’s king is on his deathbed, and his merciless son will take his place on the throne sooner or later… then again, there are murmurs of Mollengard’s intent to infiltrate and take over Eyraille, just like they did Stella D’Mare, recently. And there are rumours that our own king condemns his elder sister for her decision to leave and have her children elsewhere.”

The Eyraillian king felt his face heat beneath his makeshift mask as he watched the waitress shake her head. Ashamed of her home--and her king. He didn’t even register mention of Mollengard. “You mean the woman who abandoned her family and kingdom in the middle of the night? With no prior warning?” I won’t defend you anymore, Vega.

“Yeah, well… not like I know what her reasons were. I’m not in a position to judge. I just hope she and her children are alright, wherever they are. But that really rubbed you the wrong way, didn’t it?” She tilted her head to the side. “Trouble with your own family?”

“...something of sorts.” Caris avoided her eyes and drew away. This conversation no longer intrigued him. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does, or it wouldn’t have bothered you. Hey, I get it, you know. My pa left me and my ma alone when I was only ten. Family can be shit. Sometimes you have to find what you need elsewhere. Hey, you’ve got a roc.” She nodded to his mask, and the strips of fabric wrapped around his hands to protect his palms from the chafing ropes of rocriding. “You’ve got everything you need to go find what you need elsewhere! Why come here, night after night? There’s a whole world out there.”

Caris heaved a sigh without meaning to. It was quiet, but no less obvious. “If only… it were that easy.”

“...yeah. Yeah.” The waitress stood, less enthusiastic than before. “I get that, too. That’s why I’m still here, scrubbing tables and slugging ale.”

It was perhaps the first time in his life, as far as he could remember, that Caris had truly felt heard. As a person: not as a king. Not as a Sorde. He didn’t know her name, but he decided he liked that auburn-haired waitress, and she was perhaps the closest thing to a friend he had ever known. His nightly excursions became less of a distraction and more meaningful thanks to the young woman whose name he didn’t know. He enjoyed their conversations and her attitude, a healthy balance of optimism and realism, and it provided something of a temperance to his daily frustrations. When he received the first correspondence from Haraldur Sorde in what felt like ages, his first thought was to give the man a piece of his mind for all his excuses. Instead… he simply chose not to reply. Certainly, the man claimed valid reasons for their silence, and it brought him a modicum of relief to know that his sister and her family were alive and safe, but a reply… wasn’t worth his time. Vega wasn’t worth his time since she had decided he wasn’t worth hers. She could have sent a letter upon her arrival, before all hell had broken loose in Galeyn. She could have said something, or at the very least, apologized for leaving without a word of warning, but she couldn’t spare a single word to him. And so, he decided not to spare one for her.

Just as Caris was beginning to feel less affected by his sister’s absence, finding new meaning and validation in visiting the tavern on the cliffs, his world was shaken by another abrupt change.

“Friend! I’m glad you’re here. I was afraid I wouldn’t see you tonight.” Caris had barely sat down before the auburn-haired woman met him at his usual table. “I need to tell you something. I’ve been thinking a lot, after we talk… I’m leaving. Tonight. This is my last shift at this rundown, hops-smelling hole.”

Leaving. Tonight. Leaving… “...where?” Caris could hardly find his voice, buried somewhere deep in his shock. “How?”

“Ilandria. I convinced one of the blokes here to take me since he’s headed in that direction for trade, anyway. Going with nothing but the clothes on my back… and hoping for the best.”

“But you can’t.” The words scrambled out of Caris’ mouth before he could think better of them. He realized he could make her obey. He was the king: and if she knew as much, she wouldn’t dare defy him! But, if she knew that… it would ruin everything. And she’d feel this ‘friendship’ had been nothing but a farce.

The server furrowed her eyebrows. He watched her freckles collect in the middle of her forehead. “Huh? Why?”

“It’s… it could be dangerous. Ilandria isn’t Eyraille’s ally; just a neutral party. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“A little, but… I’m not feeling so safe here, either. Earlier, today…” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Two Mollengardians came in. They didn’t say as much, but I recognized their accents. Said they were only visiting, but I don’t believe that for a second. It may only be a matter of time before Eyraille falls, the same way Stella D’Mare did.”

“Mollengard wouldn’t dare. The king would never let that happen. Not with our infantry. Not with our Skyknights.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows. “You’ve got a lot of faith in our king. I hope you’re right. But with our most capable Skyknight commander gone to another land, and the fact Eyraille hasn’t faced any threats since its civil wars decades ago…” She trailed off, and switched to another train of thought entirely. “You could come with me. You’ve got a roc; and you’re not happy here, either, are you?”

Caris was too dumbfounded to respond. Of course, that would be impossible; but it didn’t stop him from entertaining the idea for a moment. He imagined hopping back on his roc that evening and flying away, following this woman whose name he didn’t even know. Establishing himself in Ilandria as a nameless foreigner, getting through day after day with honest work. Ilandria was renowned for having arguably the best weapons in the world, and he knew his way with a sword. He could teach swordplay; he could repair, refurbish, maintain a good blade. Fortunately, he spoke Ilandrian because it was necessary for trade, but the majority of the kingdom was well versed in the Common Tongue, anyway. He imagined getting to know this waitress, better; learning her name, and her learning his. Perhaps something could become of them: true friends, or even more. Maybe he could have the life, the family, that he had only ever entertained as an unattainable, distant fantasy…

But, that was the problem: it was only a fantasy. He would have to remove his mask, at some point, and as soon as she learned his identity, she would treat him differently. Their relationship wouldn’t be genuine, because how could it possibly be, with such a power imbalance? He wasn’t a commoner; he never would be. Not here, and not in Ilandria.

“...if only it were that simple.” Caris quietly declined. “I… wish it were. All the time.”

The auburn-haired woman’s hopeful expression fell, replaced with one of sympathy. “Me too. Not that I’m saying it’s so simple for me, but… sometimes, you’ve just gotta take a chance. Regardless of the repercussions. Well,” she drew back with a disappointed sigh. “I’m gonna miss this. It’s been refreshing, talking to someone here who isn’t drunk.”

“Can you… will you send a letter? When you’re settled. So I’ll at least know you’re safe.”

The waitress appeared stunned, for a brief moment, and then she smiled. Touched by his request. “Sure thing, Friend. You’ve got it. Maybe I’ll see you again someday.”

That was the last time he saw her, but he didn’t stop coming to the tavern late at night, in anticipation of her letter. Weeks passed; a month. Two months. Finally, one late night in the summer, the barkeep slammed a sealed parchment on the table in front of him. “I shouldn’t even care to do this; but it’s clearly for you.” The man mumbled, and walked away. The letter was simply addressed to Friend; face always covered, never drinks his ale.

Caris tried not to look too eager as he peeled way the wax and read the shoddy handwriting inside: Dear Friend. As per your request, I’m alive. I’m safe. Working at another ale-smelling shithole, but it’s honestly a lot more fun. The owner’s young and has been really great; I don’t feel so unsafe, here. He looks out for me, I think I might even be in love! Who’d have thought. Write me back? If for no other reason, then so I know you got my letter. I wouldn’t put it past the arsehole at my old job to toss it out without a care. Hope you’re taking care of yourself. Your friend, Corinna.

Corinna. Only after she had gone, no longer a constant in his life, did he learn her name. Perhaps it was his own fault, for never asking. But despite that he had gotten exactly what he wanted, the letter and to know she was alright, Caris felt… wretched, and he didn’t know why. Shouldn’t he be happy his friend had found a better quality of life? Didn’t she deserve it? He had really, secretly been hoping her plan would be an abysmal failure, and that she would admit her regret and her mistake in a letter? If that were the case, at least he wouldn’t be the only one feeling miserable. For a while, he had really felt that kinship, relating to someone who was also unhappy with their situation… but they had power that he didn’t. The power to change their situation, and to find fulfillment elsewhere…

…just like Vega.

Caris did not write a reply, and did not return to the tavern after that night. A new anger simmered in his veins, keeping him up at night, and eventually prompting him to make a firm decision. If Vega and Haraldur thought their decision would be without consequences… then they had something else coming.

After writing his brief and to-the-point letter to Vega and Haraldur and sending it along with an envoy to Galeyn, Caris made it very clear to the palace staff (but not the public at large) that should his sister and her husband set foot in Eyraille again, they were trespassers, and to be arrested. No one questioned his decision, save for a single Skyknight; one who he recalled to be quite loyal to Veag. “ Your Grace. I will not dispute your decision, but… the timing concerns me. Our scouts have of late spotted more and more Mollengardians in the vicinity. We could use Sir Sorde’s expertise as to how the Skyknights should position themselves, and how they should prepare.”

“And what makes you think ‘Sir Sorde’ will come running back to us? She is rather preoccupied with her infant children. One cannot be a fulltime mother and a Skyknight Commander. I will be reassigning the position permanently, posthaste. Furthermore…” Caris narrowed his eyes and squeezed his hands into fists. “I will not cower in fear of Mollengard. No one fucks with Eyraille and comes out unscathed. Should they so much as attempt to make a move… they will soon come to regret it. That is what you can prepare for, Skyknight.” He faced the nervous man. Fire glimmered in his fierce, blue eyes. “Prepare to make Mollengard regret ever setting foot in my kingdom.”

Over the weeks, Nia had come to realize that Ari’s most formidable enemy was, currently, himself. After confirming their plants to send golems after Laz and hopefully bring her back, the Canaveris lord had approached the task with uncertainty, considering it had been a while since he’d sculpted. His confidence was battered and bruised, and it was deeply affecting his ability to work efficiently. For days upon days, Nia saw little of him, as he spent the majority of his time in his studio, trying for perfection when he was slightly out of practice. The Master Alchemist gave him the space he wanted and needed, but feared that on his own, he was only getting more discouraged in his endeavours.

With Queen Lilica now confirmed to be working toward quietly lifting her sentence, Ari was the only thing that Nia now had to worry about… and, she did worry. He pretended like he wasn’t frustrated that he wasn’t able to jump directly back to perfection, but she knew him too well to be fooled. So one afternoon, she finally decided to take a look at his progress, and to see for herself if his frustration with himself was warranted.

“Are you not dying of heat in here? It’s like a greenhouse.” Nia had the decency to knock once, just to let him know that she was there, but otherwise didn’t wait for an invitation. Ari’s studio was off-limits to most people, and she respected his need for solitude, but the world was still turning and life was still going on without him. The Sorde twins, Klara and Kynnet, turned one year old, today, and she and Ari had been invited by Vega and Haraldur themselves to attend--which certainly came as a surprise, considering her relationship with the couple was distant, at best. She hadn’t responded to the invitation, because she and Ari hadn’t had a monet to discuss it. If they went, certainly he would want to offer a gift, either for the couple or their children. So that was the excuse she used for her sudden intrusion into his workshop.

“Just wondering what we’re doing for this evening. The Sordes do deserve a heads up, either way.” The Master Alchemist scanned the workshop, and sure enough, two brand new statues, massive in height and stature, were finished with just as much detail and finesse she would expect from Ari and his renowned skills. “Hey--these are amazing. You can’t possibly tell me you’re unhappy with them.” She resisted the urge to reach out and touch the clay creations out of respect. Ari divulged that, no, he wasn’t unhappy with them, but rather with how long it was taking. Months ago, before his condition had deteriorated, before Nia had saved his life, he claimed he could have been finished by now. And maybe, just maybe, that was the case… But he was being so hard on himself, and for what? Not bouncing back right away?

Nia pursed her lips and folded her arms, looking from the sculptor to his creations, and back again. “If you ask me, and I know you didn’t… this is ridiculous. You are ridiculous.” Before he could register his words as weapons, and feel wounded as a result, she went on. “I don’t know art, but I’ve never seen anyone more skilled in what you do than you. Sure, you’re a little slower, your hands are trying to remember what to do, but these are perfect for the purpose we’re intending for them. Here, I thought I’d walk in and just see untouched lumps of clay, because you’ve been so down on yourself, but once again, you completely surpass my expectations. So let go of that perfectionism and take a moment to appreciate what you’ve created. A few more of those, exactly as they are, breathe a little bit of life into them, and we’ll have what we need. C’mon, Ari, pick yourself up! These aren’t just good, they’re perfect. You don’t deliver anything less!”

There was only so much words could do to get through to someone convinced they were not as good as they used to be, though. And while Ari should have known by now that she wasn’t one to embellish her opinion just to make him feel better, sometimes uplifting sentiments weren’t enough. She had to think outside the box.

“...you’ve been focused on this, and only this, for weeks. No wonder you feel like you can’t see the worth of your work with your own eyes. You need a change of scenery, but since I doubt I can convince you to do that… maybe you just need a change of focus.”

With a glimmer of mischief in her brown eyes, Nia unbound the sash around her waist, which in turn loosened her light, summer dress enough that it easily slipped from her shoulders, and pooled around her feet like liquid silk. “Enough with the golems, for now. Sculpt me instead.” The Master Alchemist reached up to pull a few pins from her hair, and her half-braid unraveled and dropped around her shoulders. “You’ve said you wanted to, so why not now? Redirect your focus. Feel inspired again. I’ll pose however you want…”

Boldly stepping forward, she tucked straight, black strands of Ari’s hair that had escaped his low ponytail behind his ear, and purred. “No pressure, though. If you’re not feeling it… there are other things we could do. Either way, you need a different focus. Get your mind off the golems, and onto something else.”

There had been no reply to Haraldur’s letting decrying their plea to Caris in hopes he would rescind their exile. It had been weeks since the Eyraillian envoy had left; unless something had befallen her and she hadn’t made it back to the kingdom of cliffs and rocs. Vega knew her brother, though, and intuition told her her brother had received their letter, and simply decided he would not dignify them with an answer. Haraldur badly wanted to go to Eyraille and set the wayward king straight, but had promised they could first approach this with more diplomatic tactics first, but the question was… what could they possibly do to change the stubborn young man’s mind?

“We shouldn’t send Alster. He had withdrawn for a reason, and we need to respect his decision to lay low until he decides to put himself forward again. He has already done so much for us… and I know he grieves the sudden departure of the other Master Alchemist.” Vega closed the door to the twins’ room, so as not to wake the two feisty one-year-olds up from their nap, and kept her voice low. Today was supposed to be a happy occasion, with a small, intimate celebration planned for that evening on behalf of the children’s first birthday, but she couldn’t put away her concern for the status of her family, of her kingdom… and of her brother. 

“It’s possible we could make a request of Queen Lilica and Chara… but it’s the first time either of them have had a reprieve in, well, years, and they are planning a wedding. I just… don’t want to make this problem someone else’s, when it is clearly our problem.”

No doubt, Lilica would help in a heartbeat, and perhaps it would come to reaching out to another monarch to bridge relations with Eyraille, and convince Caris to reinstate his sister and Haraldur as prince and princess of Eyraille. But while it was diplomatic, Caris would see it as a direct tactic for Vega and Haraldur to try and get what they wanted, in his eyes. He was too stubborn to have his mind changed; if they were to sway him, then the decision would have to be one where he did not feel as though he had been influenced or manipulated.

Feeling defeated, the former Skyknight took a seat on the settee. “...if only Caris believed it would be possible for him to have his own family. Something to care about, and protect. I think he would be a different person, and he wouldn’t feel like he is going through the motions of a king, day to day. But he’s never shown interest. He’s said he refuses to ‘drag someone else into this life with him’. Like there really is no joy in his position… it’s ridiculous.” Vega raked a hand through her fiery hair and sighed in frustration. “He is a king, and a young man in his prime. My foolish little brother could have his pick of any companion… but he is too stubborn to even entertain the idea of falling in love. The idiot is angry because he is unhappy, and he won’t let himself be happy! I don’t know, Haraldur.” She leaned forward in her seat, catching her forehead with her hands. “I don’t know how to make him see how foolish he is acting. I can’t… we can’t convince him to just be happy.”

“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again; you’re underutilizing me.”

His bold (but true) declaration earned Cas nothing but the whip, a smart series of lashes across his lower back. New additions to the impressive collection already marring the area with pink, ropey scar tissue.

When the overseers finished slashing him to ribbons, they tossed his bloody, half-conscious carcass down the rambling path to Oblivion, a quaint name for the pit too fathomless to determine where, or if, it ended. Clad in leaden iron shackles, Cas shambled under the oppressive weight of the sediment-rich atmosphere, every breath taken another pasty layer cementing his lungs. 

Oblivion was reserved for the most problematic laborers, the ones who hadn’t yet abandoned their wits or ceased drumming up elaborate plans to escape. All workers assigned to Oblivion were separated, confined to individual caverns and given nothing but a glowstone as dim as a firefly’s bulb to pierce the impregnable darkness. Rendered effectively blind, one had no choice but to grope along the walls and locate pockets of precious ore by some intuitive reach, like a lode-seeking mole who required no sleep, air, or a goddamn droplet of unspilled blood to their name.

Despite its punishing and maddening conditions, Oblivion was preferable to the work up top. For one, earth mages drew power from the underground. The further into the earth Cas descended, the more attuned he became to his surroundings, and his grisly injuries no longer bothered him as much. A numbing balm washed over his torn flesh, encouraging faster healing to stitch his wounds closed. For another, he welcomed the solitude of his surroundings, a significant departure from the clanking, roaring, explosive cacophony in the upper layers of the mine. As a reprieve from the constant screaming from irate overseers, he often cajoled them into sending him to Oblivion. A whipping was a small price to pay for sweet relief—and they always rose to his bait.

Needless to say, laboring in the mines as a slave for Mollengard was not where Casimiro Canaveris envisioned himself to be. Everything had gone so smoothly at the time, his plan, foolproof, if a tad simple: go off to war, fake his own death, and escape on the first boat from Harbana to a new life as a free man, uninhibited from responsibility as Canaveris head, a father of seven, and a respectable member of high society—all roles he abhorred and adopted out of obligation to his family. Faking his death came easier than expected when Prince Messino razed the D’Marian camp to the ground using a magical flame that incinerated everything it touched. He narrowly escaped the conflagration before the flames devoured his tent and ran for the nearest rock outcropping for safety, where he tunneled into the earth and remained hidden until the worst had blown over. Not one to squander his golden opportunity, Cas fled from the front, deserting the war, his city, the Canaveris name, and anything else associated with his legacy. His fine clothes, lengthy curls of raven hair, and any other defining features that screamed Canaveris were the first to shed from his person, traded for passage across the Bismuth sea to the Far Continent.

Save for one little bauble. A tourmaline ring, which he never removed from his ring finger. Its match lived in Stella D’Mare, occupying the hand of his only daughter. They used the rings to correspond with each other—short, cheery messages trussed up in lace and broken promises. I eagerly await your return, father. Please come home safe.

Not to worry, briolette. We shall reunite soon.

Soon…

Although he deactivated the ring, effectively severing all communication and any means of tracking his whereabouts, he didn’t dispose of it. How unlike him to carry sentiment around like a precious keepsake, but he argued in favor of its usefulness. One day, he never knew when it would come in handy. So long as Sylvie never disposed of its counterpart.

For all his lofty plans of early retirement living in lazy obscurity, he never got around to realizing them. Not long after disembarking from Harbana harbor, the Mollengardian fleet, en route to Tadasun, intercepted the ship and captured everyone on board.

“We control the harbor now,” the captain of the fleet announced, a giant of a woman whose eyes brimmed with childlike glee, as if she’d been gifted a new set of toys. “Tadasun is ours and all those under her banner. Rejoice, for you are our first spoils of war. You should be so proud!”  

Fuck. Of all the times for Mollengard to step in and block his route to freedom, why now, when he just scarcely inhaled the brine of distant shores?

“It sounds like you are feeling rather generous,” Cas ventured, gauging the best method to sway the captain to his side. Forget the others on board the requisitioned vessel. They could forge their own negotiation tactics. “If you release me, I will gladly spread the message of Mollengard’s glory and herald your joyous arrival to the peninsula. You have my sacred word,” he swept into a reverent bow.

The captain chewed on the inside of her mouth before bursting into a spirited guffaw. “Now why would I go and do that? Not when you’re made from such good stock?” She circled him, predatory and hungry. “You crackle of magic, good sir. Strong magic. The kind that can move mountains. Good thing we chained you good and proper when we had the chance!” She rattled his chains, crafted from the magic-nullifying stones from which the conquering nation had become so famed. “I know just the place for you, a wondrous place where you will strive toward your truest potential and do good works for our glorious nation.”

Cas paled. He knew the very place of which she spoke. “And if I were to arrange a gentleman’s agreement, would you defer my potential indefinitely?” He lowered his voice meaningfully.  “I don’t think you understand just who you’ve captured, Captain.”

The gargantuan woman gave Cas a onceover, unimpressed by his stature. Given her size, he didn’t think anyone would awe her. “And praytell, who have I captured? Tadasuni royalty? A D’Marian nobleman? Short of handing me the keys to your castle, what can you possibly have that I don’t already possess?”

Cas reconsidered his next step. If he revealed his full name, the name he desperately sought to distance himself from, he would invoke his right to the Canaveris seat anew, which was tantamount to a second death. He availed himself of his family ties, and making good on that promise meant committing to his new, unaffiliated status as a free agent who answered to no one.

He stood a little taller before the gargantuan captain, though it only granted him a paltry gain in height. “I’m a damn powerful earth mage, that’s what,” he said, replacing his polished dialogue with a rougher chip. “And my talents are wasted in the mines. Put me where I’m actually useful, and you won’t regret it.”

The captain—Solveig, as he had come to learn, did accede to his request…and put him where she thought he would excel.

He had been slaving and wasting away in the mines ever since. Earth mage resilience prolonged his life when he otherwise would have died months ago, but it was more a curse than a blessing. On arrival at the mines of Mount Simiya, the southernmost outpost of West Mollengard, the overseers confiscated all his personal effects, including the tourmaline ring, and left him with nothing more than a burlap sack for clothes and no shoes. His feet had become as hard as diamonds before long, subjected to the endless pressure and scrape of abrading rocks and jabbing stone. They heavily regulated his magic, slapping on those infuriating manacles whenever he was off duty, a mere six hours reserved entirely for sleep. The rest of the time, Forbanne guards accompanied him everywhere, to eat, piss, shit, and travel topside during the rare moments when Mollengard chose to treat them as humans—and it always coincided with a visit from a high-ranking official, usually from East Mollengard. Consequently, it was the only time they were allowed to bathe. 

Oblivion was the sole place the Forbanne did not follow. Rife with nullium ore, the bottomless pit acted as a natural magic suppressant, a veritable vacuum where time, space, and existence ceased to exist. An apropos name for the geological aberration, and an evil which Cas embraced. While mostly separated from the hum and verve of his magic, not to mention his innate sense of direction and hawk-like vision, what he lacked in everything else he gained in pinpoint clarity. Across the event horizon, lightyears from the watchful gaze of the Forbanne and the overseers, Cas plotted his newest method of escape. 

Ari was no stranger to artistic slumps. He experienced them quite often, once or twice a month, and knew how to navigate the worst of them through the time-honored strategies of taking a break, shifting to a different project, approaching the issue from another angle, or investing in an artist-adjacent hobby, such as planning the menu for his next dinner party, cleaning the workshop, or reorganizing his wardrobe by color. However, none of his reliable methods bore any fruit. While still able to sculpt, albeit with a slower, faltering hand, his projects no longer breathed life. He failed to connect with the golems under his exacting touch, felt no heartbeat, no thrum of a pulse. The work was drudgery, passionless and stale, and he hated every minute of it.

“The temperature does not bother me, no.” Disposing of his smock and sculptors’ tools, he welcomed the distraction in Nia. He not-so-covertly wiped the sweat from his brow. “Tonight…yes, of course we shall be there. I would be most aggrieved to miss the Sorde twins’ first birthday. I will send my RSVP promptly, and I’ve already a gift packaged and ready to present.” Talk of the twins’ birthday alerted him to a glaring detail he almost overlooked. His own birthday was a few days hence. Typically, such news would bring him a dash of excitement. Canaverises exalted birthdays. No matter the age, every year provided an excuse to throw an impromptu celebration, each more lavish as one advanced in age. However, this marked the first year where Ari didn’t feel as inclined to celebrate. Not when there was much to do; golems to sculpt, Laz to locate.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Ari didn’t realize Nia had shifted the subject to the two disappointing works-in-progress posing at attention on the elevated platform like two armed soldiers about to march off to war. Try as he might, he could not match her enthusiasm for the subpar pieces. “I am ridiculous?” It took a bit of restraint not to react viscerally to her rather innocuous comment. He blamed his current mood on lack of sleep, spending all night toiling away in the workshop, making incremental progress on the sculptures—if one could dignify his glacial strokes as progress. “Thank you, Nia, for your unerring belief in me. Unfortunately, I cannot share your opinion. The sculptures,” he turned his back on them, too ashamed to interact with what he equated to no better than two mounds of untapped clay, “contrary to your generous assessment, do not breathe. If they do not breathe, they cannot become golems. Thus, they are incompatible with our specific purpose. Kind as you are to bolster my fragile ego, my inability to create goes beyond simple aesthetics. These are perfectly serviceable statues if viewed in a nobleman’s home and strictly used as decoration, but we need them to do more, and,” he balled his hand into a fist behind his back, “they do not.”

Nia, stars bless her, spun a different tactic, one he already attempted to employ, but to no avail. Only, he never tried this method on her. “Nia,” he breathed, uncurling his fist as her unbound and naked form took a few confident strides forward. She cradled his face, her deft fingers like whispers gliding across his overheated—but no longer flare-up prone—skin. He closed his eyes and, despite the uncomfortable heat, embraced her nearness. “You know I could never capture your likeness in stone or in clay. Not even on canvas. I am woefully unequipped for the task. But perhaps I…perhaps if…”

A brusque knock snapped Ari from his reverie. “Uncle Ari! Are you busy? Grandmama sent me to deliver you a message!” Steeped with regret and apology, Ari whispered, “To be continued,” helped Nia back into her dress, and when she was decent, opened the door.

“Sylvie. Forgive my delay in responding. What is Lady Nadira’s message?”

Ari’s eldest niece passed a suspicious glance between him and Nia, but chose not to pry. Since Ari’s recovery, she hadn’t yet apologized for her unsavory behavior around Nia, and had kept a wide berth from her, as of late. She clasped her hands together and nodded. “It pertains to tonight’s festivities. If we are still intending to go, we must RSVP within the hour; otherwise, it will be considered short notice and look poorly on us.”

“Yes. You pose an excellent point, as usual, Sylvie.” Ari smiled, genteel and unruffled. “I shall be with you shortly. Nia, why don’t you go with Sylvie to inform my mother about tonight? I shan’t be much longer here, I promise.”

When the both of them had left, and Ari was again alone in his workshop, he whirled on the two nearly-completed statues. Perfectly inoffensive, well-proportioned, technically sound. …An eyesore beneath the ecru flesh. “I am sorry,” he told them, bowing his head in defeat. “I have failed you.” At a touch, the two serene, sentinel statues warped and crumbled into an amorphous heap at his feet. 

Weeks of uncertainty and eerie silence passed between the two exiles of Galeyn and the king of Eyraille. At first, Haraldur elected to give Caris the benefit of the doubt and assume he never received the letter, but time made a fool of his cautious optimism and forced him to admit the silence had been intentional. By saying nothing at all, Caris made his stance abundantly clear: You are no longer worth my time.

Haraldur never spoke the truth aloud, too stubborn to let Caris’ impulsive decision get to him, but his lack of response, his flagrant and casual dismissal…stung.

To pretend the ache didn’t exist, he threw himself into his work, which didn’t amount to much nowadays save for running routine patrols around the border and shadowing Senyiah whenever she performed her Head Gardener duties. He spent his ample downtime preparing for Klara and Kynnet’s first birthday, a relatively intimate affair involving just a handful of friends and acquaintances. Considering the enormous celebration of their children’s birth and the resulting fatigue that swept over Galeyn in the aftermath of the neverending travails from the past year, they thought it best to let the aggrieved kingdom recover by downsizing the festivities. Out of respect for Alster and Elespeth’s privacy, they chose not to reach out with an invitation, fully knowing the Rigas couple would drop everything to attend, but decided to invite the Canaverises and Nia instead, despite having minimal relations with them. And with Sigrid, Bronwyn, and Briery added to the list, it stood to reason that Hadwin would come, too. Much as he disliked the mongrel, he had been on his best behavior since the wildfire incident, and Haraldur almost felt…bad for the half-lucid, half-mad faoladh.

But contemplating the list of attendees was about the last thing on his mind the day of the twins’ yearly celebration. Sharing in Vega’s guilt over denying their children the attention they deserved, he followed her to the living quarters after bedding the twins for their afternoon nap. In hushed whispers, they continued to obsess over Caris’ decree, furiously brainstorming ideas as they sat together on the settee.

“If it’s for an emergency, Alster will come to our aid, and I’d argue this is for an emergency,” Haraldur countered. “I already threatened to withdraw aid from Eyraille—as if I had any executive power to do so. But seeing as Caris hasn’t deigned to call my bluff, I’ve gone ahead and proactively involved Galeyn and Stella D’Mare into this shit-hole of drama, whether they like it or not,” he sighed, slouching against the cushions. “Not for no good reason. Mollengard is everyone’s problem. We can’t afford to divide our allies. We must be on the front lines when Mollengard inevitably descends on Eyraille. So yes, our excommunication might be our problem, but the consequences affect everyone.”

“Either way, you’re right about one thing.” He stared up at the whitewashed ceiling. “He’ll interpret our diplomacy talks as a tactic for reinstatement, and suspect our threats of Mollengard are just an excuse to fall back into his good graces. And if he’s really so determined to be miserable, then no number of marriage prospects are going to help him. I hate to say it, but I’m having trouble trying to figure out a—“

A sharp knock on the door startled Haraldur to his feet.

The person on the other side of the door startled him even more.

“Let me talk to him,” Tivia said, walking into their quarters without awaiting an invitation. Seeing the confusion and alarm pass between the couple, her hand twisted the air in frustration. “Sorry, did you have the conversation yet, or is my timing shit as usual?”

“The conversation?” Haraldur crossed his arms over his chest. “…Were you eavesdropping?”

Tivia huffed and pointed to her ears. “And how would I do that, Haraldur?”

“Ah,” he lowered his head, contrite. “My apologies.”

“Keep your faces to me; I need to see your mouths,” Tivia instructed as she stood directly across from them. “Let me start over; I’ll go to Eyraille and talk to King Caris. I’m about as anti-diplomatic as they come and my history with the two of you is fraught and complicated.” She gave them both a knowing look. Haraldur tried not to lower his head again. “He’ll never suspect that you sent me—because you didn’t.”

“That may be true, but,” Haraldur cleared his throat, “and excuse my bluntness, but what would your going there accomplish?”

She shrugged, readjusting the strap on her eyepatch. “Misery loves company, doesn’t it? I’ll sing that little cherub his own lullaby. Besides, he might like to hear—and summarily disregard—the advice of a star seer. Oh, but let me make one thing clear,” she jabbed a finger at them. “I’m not going to advocate for your reinstatement. Best I can do is offer myself to his court and watch over him in your stead. I don’t have the power to force anyone to do anything, and his mind is made up about his decision. But I can at least grant you peace of mind, and report back on my findings.”

Haraldur wrinkled his brow, still confused…and a little conflicted. “Why, though, Tivia? Why do you want to go there? It can’t possibly be for our sake. What did the stars tell you? Are you following their guidance?”

Again, she shrugged, a mysterious glint in her eye. “Who knows? I’ll leave in the morning. I don’t pretend I’ll be well-received at your celebration for the twins, but…if you and Sigrid have a moment, there is something I must tell you two before I depart. Well,” she turned back to the door, “I’ll see you tonight.” She gestured to the nursery, where Klara and Kynnet were sound asleep. “Happy birthday to your little ones.”  

“You told me I would have anything I ask for, in exchange for my services. My request is not an unreasonable one.” The Master Alchemist clasped her hands together in front of her and stood tall before the Mollengardian official. Not as tall as him, but even with her slight stature and overall quiet countenance, there was something distinctly unsettling about Celene Ardane, and it was difficult to put a finger on exactly why. She wasn’t one to throw around threats, and no one had borne witness to any acts of violence or destruction by her hands. She did not appear physically strong, and chances were, couldn’t hold her own in a good old-fashioned fistfight. 

And yet… there was still something. It was in her eyes; brown, a colour that was supposed to lean warm, but Celene’s eyes were far from warm. They were steely, chilly, calculating. The eyes of a person you simply knew not to cross… and, thus far, no one had crossed her.

“I need someone on the ground for me. To bring me what I need, when I need it, without going through some unnecessary chain of command. You know the nature of my work is time sensitive.” She unclasped her hands and turned them palms up. Silver runes like tattoos spun of new steel glimmered on her otherwise unscathed palms. “Mollengard values efficiency. I’m asking you to help me to be more efficient. Haven’t I come through for you all, thus far?”

She raised a thin eyebrow and tucked her wavy, brunette locks behind her shoulder. “Is this a matter of trust? I’ve been here for a long, long time--and of my own volition. I feel as though all of my requests thus far have been reasonable. If I wanted to double cross you…” She took a bold step forward and met the official’s gaze. She could have sworn she saw him flinch. “Don’t you think I’d have done so, already? I’ve already had ample opportunities.”

Sometimes, asking nicely wasn’t enough. But in those situations, a small reminder of the power she held, even if no one had seen it at full force in its entirety, didn’t hurt.

The Mollengardian official said nothing, and left her in her fortress without an answer. Usually, that meant she was going to get exactly what she wanted. It was when they argued and pitted petty excuses against her reason that she had to find other ways. But today, Celene was convinced she would get what she wanted.

One way or another, she always did.

She was patient, though, and often her patience paid off. Nothing good came overnight; in fact, it took an entire week, before there was a knock on her door early one morning. Mollengardian officials took stock of their workers in the mines monthly to decide if any were to be reassigned (which could be as bad thing, as much as it could be good), or if they were no longer of use to them, at which point… Well, that wasn’t her concern. All that mattered was that they were giving her the opportunity to attend this monthly inspection to take her pick of whatever overworked soul she wanted. 

Admittedly, this didn’t leave her feeling ecstatic. She’d have preferred to have her pick of a lackey with a little more… poise. Not some bloke who dug around in dirt all day. But, the Master Alchemist was willing to give it a chance. Find someone who fits the bill, who could string a sentence together and had half a mind to still function like a human being… see how they pan out. If, ultimately, she wasn’t happy with the selection they provided for her, she would come back at a later date with a revised request. Who knows; maybe she’d end up surprised? After all, there was always bound to be a diamond in the rough. They just happened to be incredibly hard to find.

Donning a form-fitting, albeit conservative gown, and boots equipped to handle the dust and muck near the mines, Celene accompanied the Mollengardian official to a carriage, and within only a couple hours, she found herself in Mount Simiya. This wasn’t her first time visiting the mines where Mollengard sought and extracted the infamous nullium ore that was a key component in their successful conquering of various nations. But the Master Alchemist spent the majority of her time inside, and such could be discerned by her pale complexion. She had no reason to venture into the rough to retrieve what she required: it was always brought to her, while she set to work in her workshops. As soon as she stepped out of the carriage, she remembered why she so rarely set foot on raw Mollengardian soil. It was so… dusty. Filthy, and completely bereft of life. As a Master Alchemist who specialized in living organics, these surroundings drained her of motivation and inspiration. She very much hoped the labourers they selected for her benefit did not evoke the same atmosphere, or this simply would not work.

“This is further into mining territory than I’d hope to tread in these boots,” Celene commented offhandedly, knowing the Mollengardian officials who accompanied her couldn’t care less that she felt unprepared to brave the dust and mud. It appeared as though it had rained recently; not enough to bless these barren lands with any form of vegetation, but enough for it to be messy and miserable. She should have requested that potential candidates be brought to her… but, she also knew better than to push her luck. 

“I’ll wait here.” When the labourers were within both sight and range of hearing, the Master Alchemist decided she had muddied her boots enough. “Bring them over as you see fit. Preferably someone with an education. Literacy is the absolute minimum requirement; if they can’t read, they are useless to me.”

Celene waited patiently as officials rounded up anyone who fit her description; and wait, she certainly did. The Ardane woman stood for over an hour in the early spring muck before the Mollengaridan officials returned… only to parade five men before her. Five. All filthy and pale from working the mines, with torn clothes and sunken faces.

“You have hundreds… no, thousands of miners. This is really all you could find to fit the most basic request of literacy?” She should have known better; they didn’t put useful, or intelligent people in the mines. Just people with functioning arms and legs and who were still capable of drawing breath. Whether or not they were keeping better candidates from her for their own purposes, this was what she was left with, and would have to make the best of it. If it didn’t work out, well, then they would simply be hearing from her again.

This would have to do for now.

Reaching inside her fitted coat, Celene extracted a pristine piece of parchment with a list of different substances, ores, and other ingredients she most frequently required in her endeavours. She held the list up to the first man in line, with dirty, sandy coloured hair. “Read the words out loud.”

He couldn’t; it wasn’t in a language he was familiar with. So she held it up to the next man in line, who was able to read them (albeit poorly). “Do you know what they are? Tell me where you might retrieve them.”Another roadblock; he wasn’t familiar with the materials. Such were the same cases for the third and fourth man, and when she reached the last--a tall man with long, dark hair, dark eyes, and warm-toned skin. Fully expecting she was going to return to the fortress empty-handed, Nia handed her last option the sheet. “Well, I expect you know what to do.”

He did; and not only was he literate, he was fluent. Celene wasn’t expecting this, and she certainly wasn’t expecting him to be able to identify all of the items on the list, as well as where to retrieve them in West Mollengard. He looked like hell, but by the gods, he was educated. At least insofar as he fit her low-ball standards. How he panned out, however, remained to be seen. “...he’ll do.” Nia said to the Mollengardian officials without taking her cool eyes off the dark-haired man. “Clean him up first, though, if you will. I can’t have the filth of these mines contaminating the fragile environment I’ve created.”

Vega had explicitly asked not to be disturbed for the time being. First she had to soothe the twins into taking a nap so they weren’t hellions later on, and since receiving that first (and last) letter from her brother, she hadn’t wanted much company, aside from that of her husband. Who could possibly be thinking to interrupt them at a time like this? Just ignore it, the red-haired former Skyknight was about to tell her husband, but the unplanned visitor decided to stride in without a welcome.

“...Tivia.” Her relationship with the star seer had certainly improved, but it was still tenuous, at best. She could be civil, and wasn’t so foolish as to not put the past behind her, but she found it curious that Tivia saw fit to see herself into their private chambers for any reason that wasn’t an emergency. “May I ask why you are here?”

It was impossible to know just what Tivia knew, or how much she knew about things that weren’t her business at any given point in time. Despite that she was mostly deaf, and relied only on one eye to see, she was more attuned to the affairs of others than he had been beforehand. But her offer… well, it was as suspicious as it was curious. “You want to go to my brother. To… what? Offer your services? To tell him everything he is doing wrong? I don’t doubt your abilities as a star seer, Tivia. But you don’t know my brother. You’ve already seen me at my worst. Caris and I are apples fallen from the same tree… but the difference is, he has power. And I don’t think I need to exemplify what he is capable of doing if rubbed the wrong way. So why? You aren’t doing this for us.”

They might never know her reasons, but… Vega couldn’t deny that beyond her anger towards her brother, she worried about him. She worried about Eyraille. Even if Tivia couldn’t make a difference in the end, having somewhere there to watch over Caris would be significant. Tivia wasn’t illogical; if he or Eyraille was in danger, she would let them know. “It sounds as though you, too, have made up your mind, Tivia. Haraldur and I have been excommunicated; we have no authority to deny you access to Eyraille.” The red-haired Eyraillian lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t care about being reinstated; I have a lifetime to regain access to my home. But while you are there, if you have any reason to believe that my brother or my home is in danger… then I hope you will not keep that information close to your chest.” 

When Tivia took her leave, Vega frowned and exchanged a confused glance with Haraldur. “You have no idea what he could possibly want to talk to you and Sigrid about, do you?” She asked her husband, who shook his head. “Coming from Tivia Rigas… I doubt it could be anything good.”

“How long do you think they’ll last? I don’t want Kynnet to get overwhelmed, or Klara to become overtired and cranky…” Later that day, just outside the Night Garden, the Sordes took their children to the small tent that had been set up exclusively for their birthday celebrations. As one-year-olds, the twins clearly hadn’t much of an idea what was happening, but they were rather amused by the brightly coloured ribbons  and other decorations. It would also be the first time the two, who hardly nursed more than once a day at this point and had more than a handful of their baby teeth, would try cake.

This occasion should have been a happy one. Vega’s babies were one year old, a milestone they would never have another chance to celebrate… but it was still so weighed down by the possibility that they might never see their own homeland of Eyraille. But Klara and Kynnet were too young to be troubled by political affairs, so the stress was entirely that of their parents. Perhaps it was for the best. Who cared where the children lived, so long as they thrived and were happy?

Haraldur wasn’t concerned for Klara and Kynnet’s energy levels, however. They were clearly happy, playing, excited by their surroundings. And they would get all the attention they could possibly want, considering the company that surrounded them.

“I feel like it’s been an eternity since I saw these two… Vega, Haraldur, congratulations on one full year with your beautiful little family.” Alster and Elespeth were some of the first to arrive. It had been some time since anyone had seen either of them, as well, but the time away from others and their problems seemed to have done Alster well. He looked better rested, and there was colour to his skin.

“Thank you for coming, Elespeth. This means a lot to us.” Vega replied in earnest. While some of their close-knit friends and allies knew of the issues regarding her relationship to Eyraillen and her brother… she wasn’t sure if that news had reached Alster and Elespeth. And if it hadn’t, she wouldn’t burden them with it tonight. “And to the children; they get tired of our attention. But they love to receive it from others.”

“We wouldn’t have missed it; here.” Elespeth handed her a box. “For your twins. I hope you expected them to be spoiled today, because I guarantee, they will be.”

And spoiled they would be. Alster and Elespeth weren’t the only ones to bring gifts; Ari wouldn’t have dared arrive without something for the Sorde children. When he, Nia, and those in his family who’d been invited arrived shortly after the Rigases, it wasn’t with just one gift, but a few, from different family members. “I love you for your generosity, Ari… but how much do you think a pair of one-year-olds need?” Nia teased as they approached the small tent, with its colourful ribbons. A few guests had already arrived, by the looks of it. “I mean, they’re already royalty; I doubt they’re lacking for much. Then again, I suppose the first children born in Galeyn after over a century of stagnation deserve an over the top first birthday.”

While Ari was dressed in his finery, as he always was, Nia still sported her simple summer gown from earlier, and donned a pair of earrings that matched the tiny flower pendant Ari had made for her. Laz was usually the one to steer her in the right direction in terms of what to wear, or select her attire altogether, but since she had gone missing, the Master Alchemist could only do her best to decide what was appropriate for any given occasion; and while he would never in a million years say as much to her, she had a feeling Ari’s opinion of her attire would be that of underdressed. 

“Well, it’s been a while since we were all in one place, huh? It’s great to see you, Your Highnesses. And your adorable twins.” Nia grinned down at the Sorde babies, who were picking at buttercups and deciding how they tasted. “And Alster. Elespeth. You both look great! It’s been too long. Al…” Nia’s bright smile faded to something a little more subdued as she approached the Rigas mage. “I feel like… I never got the opportunity to properly thank you. For… well, honestly, everything. But mostly, for making it possible to… save Ari.”

Some guests, such as the Canaverises, most definitely overcompensated, but it was all balanced in the end, since others, such as Sigrid, had no idea what was customary to bring to a baby’s birthday. “Maybe I should go back. I can grab something better from a shop in the village central… this just doesn’t seem like enough.” The former Dawn warrior purposely dragged her feet while, accompanied by Hadwin and Bronwyn, worrying over the package in her arms. Wrapped in colourful paper were matching outfits for the twins, carefully tailored in Eyraillian deep blue and silver. They were a little big now, but the twins would grow into them, and would get some longevity out of the clothes. “I don’t know what babies want. I’ve never been to a child’s birthday, let alone a royal child’s… should I have bought toys instead? There’s still time; I could go back.”

Sigrid glanced nervously at the colourful tent on the hill. People had already arrived. It wasn’t as though her absence would be missed for another half hour or so… “I’m Klara’s guardian… this is embarrassing. I don’t even know what that little girl likes. Or what any babies like. Maybe you two could cover for me? Tell Haraldur and Vega I’m on my way?” She bit her lower lip nervously and turned to Bronwyn and her brother. “This is… I know it’s important for Haraldur. And I haven’t exactly been much of a presence in his children’s lives, despite being a guardian to one of them. I really don’t want to mess this up and disappoint anyone.”

Cas awoke to the sound of yelling.

While far from an uncommon occurrence, it usually portended something different than yet another start to their wretched work day. Overseers preferred physical contact, kicking and shoving laborers out from the sorry excuse they called a bed; a pallet under-filled with straw that had long turned brown. Men slept four to a bed, huddled together for warmth to combat the chilly cave air. All sense of modesty or dignity vanished when wedged in between a group of filthy, drooling, snoring sleepmates.

When none of the laborers received a boot to the face upon waking, Cas knew the reason for the gentler treatment.

“Inspection!” Cried the overseer, firing his bombastic voice at every angle of the cavern. The acoustics were incredible. He could have conserved the extra lung power by letting his surroundings do the brunt of the transmitting.

The laborers, Cas included, perked up at the news, their suspicions confirmed. Inspection meant a bath—a sponge soaked in dirty water, technically—a hearty meal of two slices of bread and an extra chunk of potato in their soup, and a trip to the surface. However, it also meant stripping down naked and being fondled and prodded as officers scoured every inch of their bodies for signs of disease and deterioration. Whoever didn’t pass inspection was dragged away, never to be seen again.

After their feast and luxurious bath, the overseers proceeded to corral them to the surface, shafts of warm sunlight beckoning from the mouth of the cave. Cas closed his eyes, anticipating the searing yet welcoming onslaught of light unbearable to the eyes…but an officer came hurrying down the tunnel, forcing them to a sudden stop. Cas flicked one dissatisfied eye open. What now?

A brief argument passed between the overseer and the officer, with the former finally relenting to the latter. Grumbling, the overseer whirled on them, gripping the handle of his whip. “Which one of you fucking morons knows how to read? Our visitor only wants ‘educated folks,’” he shot a gob of spit at his feet. “And if I hear one of you is pulling a fast one just to get up top, you’ll never see the sun again,” he smacked the whip for emphasis. “I won’t repeat myself; literates only. The rest of you lot are coming back down with me.”

Cas didn’t need to mull over his decision. Without hesitation, he raised his hand, and found he was among four others who claimed literacy. Huh. And here he thought he was the only educated one out of the bunch. Ability to read or not, the selection the officer herded up top, minus himself, were fucking morons.

Then again, he was the fucking moron who got caught sailing out of Tadasun and refused to use his Canaveris name to negotiate a better outcome for himself. If he could do it all again…perhaps he would have blabbed to Captain Solveig.

Hindsight was a real kick in the teeth like that.

Topside, the sun beat down, overbearing in its sharp, stinging rays, forcing Cas’s eyes to close and for him to navigate using the subtle dips in terrain instead. The parched and cracked earth slid beneath his feet, informing him where and how to walk. It was a skill he honed working nearly blind in Oblivion for so long, coupled with his innate senses as an earth mage. He didn’t need to see to get around, but unfortunately, eyesight was required to read.

By the time they reached their destination, Cas had slit his eyes open just enough to check out the woman who made the specific request. Even from a limited and cursory overview, he could tell she was a woman of means, judging by her well-tailored gown and high-end leather boots. So what did the likes of her want with a literate slave?

As long as she got him out of this cesspit, he didn’t give a fig about her intentions at the moment.

And so he waited patiently for his turn to read the parchment, trying not to tsk under his breath at the other poor sods who failed miserably at the most straightforward instruction. You’d think they hadn’t been extracting ore for how clueless they sounded about mining. When his turn came around, Cas not only read the parchment effortlessly, but he railed off the locations of the items written on her list; all substances that could be found in the earth.

He didn’t need to gauge her expression to know he passed her elementary assessment, and was doubly pleased to hear she had chosen him. But he knew better than to hope for an escape, or freedom, and this exchange only proved his disposability. He might have changed hands, but not his status. He was still someone’s property; hers.

But it was world’s better than chipping away one's sanity in the mines.

The officials complied with the woman’s order without complaint—she must have had a great deal of influence among Mollengard’s ranks—and led Cas not to the mines, but into the barracks surrounding them. In silence they threw him into an empty chamber, drew him a steaming hot bath, and pushed him inside while the water was practically scalding. With a wide bristle brush they scrubbed the dirt and grime from his body until his skin peeled, and took a pair of shears to his matted mass of hair, hacking it to just past his ears, the only place not mired by tangles. Drying him off with an abrasive towel that aggravated his light burns, they dressed him in a simple dusty brown tunic and slacks. No shoes—he was too lowly for shoes. They did it all while never removing the nullium-laced shackles from his wrists. Smart, for if they had, he would have used the last of his magical reserves to summon a high-magnitude earthquake and bury this accursed place to the ground with everyone in it. Why don’t you all fall forever into Oblivion? His fingers curled ever-so-slightly.

They returned to the carriage not an hour later and presented Cas as if he were never a dirt-caked miner, but a house slave fresh out of the steward’s quarters. Before the transfer was finalized, they handed her a key. “To his shackles, ma’am,” the officer said. “Watch out for this one, here. He’s a magic-user. I recommend you keep his shackles on at all times.” Not granting him the opportunity to walk on his own, they grabbed him by the shoulders and manhandled him into the carriage, wiped the mud from his feet so as not to offend the clean-conscious woman, and slammed the door with a force that rattled in his ears. Good riddance, he almost muttered under his breath. Shifting around in the cushions in an attempt to grow reaccustomed to comfort and luxury, Cas’ light-sensitive, half-slitted eyes naturally drifted from the sun angling into the windows, and downward to her lap, where her loosely clasped hands revealed a glint of silver. Runic inscriptions. He had seen their like before…

“You’re a Master Alchemist,” he said bluntly, dispensing whatever proper dialogue existed between master and servant. Don’t speak unless spoken to! He didn’t care, as long as it earned him some credit with the discerning, haughty woman. “I knew a few of them, before,” he gestured to the window, shackles rattling, “this. Through correspondences, mostly. It’s a pleasure to meet one in person. I have a great deal of respect for the craft. It saved my brother’s life, once, so,” he bowed his head, “consider me at your willing service.”

“That’s why we’re hosting the party outside. The twins do better when they’re close to the Night Garden,” Haraldur said, reassuring his wife of their children’s longevity. “Whenever they’re feeling fussy, we’ll have the nanny take them inside. No trouble at all.” He placed a hand over Vega’s shoulder. Since learning of their excommunication from Eyraille and how it affected Vega, he overcompensated by granting her plenty of physical contact. A touch of the shoulder, a clasp of the hand or kiss on the cheek. It was all he could do for her—and all he could do for himself. While he tried to banish Eyraille from his thoughts, it arrived to haunt him every night. The home, wrested from his grasp. The refugees who looked to him with eager eyes when he promised he would return. Young Thora, eyes trained skyward in search of their roc, forever wondering why he betrayed her trust yet again. Caris, his cold, furious eyes embedded in a knife dangling over his heart. It was all a lie, the king, his eyes, the knife said, gleeful in their condemnations. You were never welcome here. Never, never, never…

“Haraldur?” He blinked, realizing he’d been staring off into the Night Garden and ignoring the two first-to-show guests, who he and Vega hadn’t seen in quite a while.

“Alster. My apologies,” Haraldur shook his head, rubbing an imaginary spot on his brow. “I didn’t mean to zone out like that, but—“

“—you don’t have to explain,” Alster interjected, a knowing glint in his eyes. Haraldur frowned. Did he know about Eyraille? “Fatherhood is exhausting. I can’t fault you for drifting off like that. I do it all the time and I don’t even have a good excuse.”

Haraldur’s shoulders relaxed. He didn’t know. Not yet, anyway. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect to see the two of you here today,” he nodded to Elespeth, who stood beside her husband. “We didn’t want to disturb you with an invite, but I hope you didn’t take that to mean you weren’t welcome to come. As Kynett’s guardians, you don’t need permission to see him. All of this is to say, I’m glad to see you here. Time away has done wonders for you,” he acknowledged Alster in particular, who sported a dewy complexion and smooth, untroubled wrinkles on his sun-kissed face. “And all things considered, you really didn’t miss much.” If excommunication from Eyraille can be perceived as ‘not much,’ he thought. 

“That’s good to hear. We’ll catch up when we get the chance, but today is about the twins. May we see them?”

“By all means,” he gestured to the wide enclosure under the tent, an extensive play area reserved just for Kynett and Klara. After offering up their present, Alster and Elespeth took their polite leave and headed for the tent.

No sooner had they left than the small Canaveris party swept in, Nia in tow. Among the guests, he identified Ari, Lady Nadira, and Ari’s teenage niece and nephew who he met in passing, all impeccably dressed and daubed in jewels. The presents they offered, the boxes themselves wood-carved works of art, felt heavy, as though weighed down with gold. Considering the opulent generosity of the Canaverises, actual gold wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest.

“That may be so, Nia, but,” Ari countered, fixing his cravat, “view it more as investing into their future. We Canaverises celebrate birthdays differently. It is age we revere, not youth, so we usually do not bother with overlarge celebrations until one reaches adulthood. From there, each celebration becomes increasingly grandiose. You have not seen a true bacchanal until a Canaveris reaches two-hundred years of age, of that I can attest,” he chuckled as if enjoying a private joke, before turning his attention to Vega and Haraldur. “But I digress. In case I do not see your charming children in the coming years, consider these gifts an amalgamation of the dozens of birthdays to come.”

“Uncle Ari’s birthday is in three days,” Ari’s teenage niece blurted, a twinkle in her eye. “And he says he does not wish to celebrate! Is that not a travesty?”

Ari cleared his throat, polite as ever despite the indelicate spilling of what he considered to be private information. “Nonsense. I am happy to share it on this day, with the twins. Speaking of, it is high time I greet them before they quickly tire of all this company. If you would excuse me.” Bowing to the parents of honor, Ari made a beeline for the enclosure under the tent, with everyone quick to follow after him.

“They’re a…little less wrinkly now, aren’t they?” Alster supplied, his smile awkward as he waved at the little ones, who were more interested in digging holes in the ground than noticing their guests. In the year since he and Elespeth were named guardians, Alster hadn’t yet gotten over his apprehensions around children and preferred to keep a wide berth, irrationally fearing that proximity of any sort would either cause injury, or for the babies to scream their little heads off at his company.

His concerns weren’t unfounded. Babies typically squirmed out of his arms the second he held them, most animals either fled at the sight of him or attacked with tooth and claw, and plants outside of Galeyn shriveled and died under his care. Nature intrinsically felt his alien otherness and smartly retreated at his approach, granting him space. Out of respect, he did the same for Kynnet and Klara, but encouraged Elespeth to step into the enclosure and play with them while he waited by the wooden railing.

But he wasn’t waiting alone for long. Nia joined him to express her gratitude for his role in saving Ari. “I don’t need a formal thank you when I have eyes to see how and Ari are faring together,” he said, and smiled. “All the same—thank you. I only wish…” he trailed off, smile fading. “Nevermind. All the people who can be here are here. That’s what matters.”

“That’s the thing about babies. You can’t go wrong with what you get them. They’re still growing and developing their personalities.” Bronwyn, accompanying the blonde warrior as always, stalled her descent into town by standing in front of her. “What are they going to do if they don’t like the gift? Tell you, ‘I hate this’ and throw it aside? Even if they do, they’re children, Sigrid. Not even they know what they want. Your gift is thoughtful. His, on the other hand,” she thumbed over to Hadwin and snorted.

“You’ve got a problem with my gift, huh?” Hadwin crossed his arms. “No one will let me near an open flame. On one hand, understandable, but on the other, I can’t bake, so I had to improvise.”

“Just spare yourself the embarrassment and I’ll put your name on the box and say it’s from you and me.”

Hadwin stammered a laugh. “I’ve sunk this low, Bron. No one’s gonna bat an eye at my behavior. Besides, I don’t get embarrassed.”

Shrugging at her brother’s usual antics, she turned back to Sigrid, who hadn’t stopped second-guessing her offering. “You can’t still be thinking about running into town for a last-minute gift? By the time you return, the children will be fast asleep and you won’t get the chance to interact with them. To me, that’s more important and meaningful than any present you could give.”

“The gift of your presence. So then why, Bron, when I do it, you scoff and say it’s not enough?” Hadwin retorted and shook his head, acting as if Bronwyn was speaking in riddles.  

“Because you’re not their target audience. Also, shut up; you’re not helping. Sigrid,” she pleaded her case, hands beseeching. “You’re enough for them. Just being there is enough.”

“Yeah, let’s face it; Fancypants is here so you’re not gonna win the best gift competition.” Hadwin threw his hands up in the air when Bronwyn glared at him. “Just saying.”

“If you don’t believe us, and yes I said us because Hadwin actually has a point,” Bronwyn sighed, “then we’ll go with you. It’ll be faster searching for a gift with more heads looking.”

“Excuse me, we? I’m staying right here,” Hadwin dug his heels into the ground. “Not going to zip all over creation on a fruitless errand. I’m not the bloke I once was, y’know.”

Bronwyn shot him an annoyed look. “You can’t be left alone.”

He gestured to the tent on the hill. “I won’t be alone. So go.” In his golden eyes read a challenge. I dare you to go.

And for some reason, she rose to his bait. “Fine,” she grumbled and jerked her head in the direction she expected him to go. “But I’ll be watching you this whole time to make sure you go there, and nowhere else.”

In response, a secretive smile bloomed on his lips, as if he just won a bet with himself. “Gotcha, Bron. Have fun ditching Haraldur’s party, you two!” and bolted up the hill before Bronwyn could say anything else.

Contrary to his MO, Hadwin didn’t make a loud or flashy entrance. Instead, he appeared in front of Haraldur and Vega like an apparition, tipping an imaginary hat to them in greeting. “Hey there Mama Roc, Papa So—well, gotta work on something else to call you,” he said, but chose not to announce his uncanny insights for all to hear like he usually did. For that, Haraldur and Vega seemed grateful. “Siggy and Bron are coming. They just got a little sidetracked. Oh hey, so my gift’s not a what, but a who. I wasn’t pulling your leg when I said I’m great with kids. Here, I’ll show you what I mean.” Neither parent could conceal their spikes of fear concerning a notoriously unstable man approaching their kids. “Relax,” he waved a dismissive hand at them. “I’m not alone. Looks like Elly is in the pen.”

Sure enough, when he stepped into the enclosure, Elespeth was keeping the little rapscallions company. “Hey Elly. It’s been a minute. Wherever you went did you a deal of good. Can’t say the same for me,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “These are the two tots, huh? I bet you I can get them to wrestle. Watch and learn.”

He wasn’t wrong. The next time the twins’ apprehensive parents looked over their shoulder, they witnessed a curious scene. With squeals of delight, Klara and Kynett had launched themselves upon Hadwin’s back, reveling in pinning him to the ground in submission.

While Celene Ardane didn’t make a habit of flashing her identity at the first opportunity, neither did she shy away from it when called out. This wasn’t Ilandria; there was no witch hunt in West Mollengard for those with her skills. No cutting off hands or torturing into submission; in fact, she was arguably safer there than anywhere else. Mollengard benefitted from her work, and made strides to protect her, hence housing her in a guarded fortress. That said… while her kind might have been easily recognizable, by the markings on her hand, it wasn’t often she heard of anyone having had dealings with a Master Alchemist. Especially not a labourer from Mollengard’s mines.

“You are, in fact, at my service; I requested an assistant.” Celene clarified. “Which, I can only assume, is willing, considering the alternative.” The Master Alchemist vaguely gestured toward the general direction of Mount Simiya. He certainly wouldn’t find anything more than what he’d already experienced back there; by that logic alone, this man should be grateful for any opportunity that didn’t have him posted in the mines. That said, the fact that he already had an established (and favourable) opinion of those with her abilities was no less beneficial.

Small-talk was not the Master Alchemist’s forte, but she did have some questions, and wasn’t afraid to oblige her own curiosity. After all, the only thing she knew of this man was that he was literate, educated, and--most likely--had come from wealth. “The poor and impoverished couldn’t possibly have acquired the help of a Master Alchemist. Our services are never affordable due to the considerable danger to our well-being as a result of our skills. So tell me: where and what was ‘before this’?” Celene asked, referencing the man’s own words. “If you come from affluence, it strikes me as odd that you wouldn’t mention as much to the officials. They certainly wouldn’t have put you in the mines”

When Celene had cleared her mind of questions, the remainder of the ride back to the fortress was silent, save for whatever questions or comments her new assistant had. Small talk was a waste of time for issues of business, and on Celene’s part, there was only so much she was willing to divulge. When they arrived, the Master Alchemist was the first to exit the carriage, and waited patiently for the warm-skinned man to meet her at the entrance. Even cleaned up as he was, and no longer coated in the grime of Mount Simiya’s mines, it was clear that servitude to Mollengard had taken its toll on him. He squinted against the daylight, and looked as though it had been far too long since he had last had a decent, healthy meal. But, he was able to stand on his feet, had full use of his hands, and could understand basic instructions. How well he followed through on them remained to be seen, but for now, he was the best candidate for her needs. “I’ll show you to your room, and anyplace else you’ll need access to. But, bear in mind, this place is first and foremost my workshop, and there are places to which you are not permitted access. I expect you to adhere to these rules, as my work is sensitive in nature, and my progress cannot in any way be disturbed. I trust you haven’t any difficulty understanding that.” 

Pressing a key into the heavy door’s lock, Celene pushed it open and granted the man access inside. This building was no less a fortress, and had all of the barren chilliness that one would expect. Little to no decor or windows, stone from floor to ceiling, and high ceilings that echoed every footstep without fail. No sooner had the door shut behind them that what appeared to be a child--a girl certainly no older than 10, ghostly pale, with faint blue eyes and stark white hair--approached and held out her hands to take the Master Alchemist’s coat. She didn’t speak a single word, and the Master Alchemist did not acknowledge her. “You can call me Celene. Do you have a name?” Celene turned to address her new assistant. “Or however you prefer to be addressed; it matters little to me.”

“...your birthday is in three days?” Nia’s jaw dropped--not only in response to this sudden enlightenment, but for the fact that in all the time she and Ari had been together--months, at this point--she had never even thought to ask about his birthday. And now, right after explaining just how big a deal birthdays and celebrations were to the Canaverises… he wished for no acknowledgement of his own birthday. He’d gone out of his way to celebrate her birthday, taking her to the grotto for an intimate, romantic evening, and it was the closest to a birthday celebration she had ever had in her entire life. Somehow, she’d just assumed that she would have the opportunity to make Ari’s day special for him, as well. “Ari…”

But the Canaveris lord had already changed the subject, and was making for the tent to greet the twins’ parents and deposit the gifts. Only one year old, and those children were spoiled beyond what she had ever seen for little ones their age. Elespeth had already taken it upon herself to greet the Sorde twins with far more enthusiasm than her husband, but Nia had to hand it to Alste for leaving the comfort of his temporary home in the countryside, only to step into a situation that made him rather less than comfortable. Kids weren’t for everyone, afterall, but he knew what this meant to Haraldur and Vega. The man was nothing if not there for his friends when they needed it the most.

“I couldn’t not thank you for your help, though. I wanted to thank you sooner, but… I realize you and your wife needed a break. It looks like it’s done you well.” The Master Alchemist smiled, but so, so badly, she wished they could take a moment on this otherwise joyous occasion to acknowledge their shared sadness of Isidor’s departure. She hadn’t brought up the topic again with Ari, considering that Laz’s disappearance had been weighing more heavily on his mind and heart, but that ache was very much still there. Nia knew Alster felt it, too; he had been so close to Isidor. But… it felt as though there was never room, never a good time, to talk about it or feel sad. Not when there were other, more pressing priorities; and not during the first birthday of the first children born in Galeyn in over a century.  So all that Nia could venture to say was, “If you ever need to… or, you know, just want to talk… I’m not far.”

While Ari was preoccupied with presenting his gifts to the Eyraillian prince and princess, Nia took it upon herself to find Sylvie, just outside the tent. She didn’t blame the girl for not being particularly excited to entertain a couple of toddlers, when she already spent so much of her time caring for her younger brothers. “Is it true? Ari has actually decided not to celebrate his birthday?” She couldn’t help but doubt that he had celebrated it the year before; the D’Marian settlement was still largely under construction, and while the Canaverises were known to be over the top, they were also practical, and wouldn’t have sacrificed precious time and resources on a party when D’Marian citizens were still without a proper roof over their heads. If anything, now was the time to make up for a year of missed celebration. “That’s just not going to fly. This year, of all years, deserves to be acknowledged. This year, when he… when he almost didn’t have another birthday.” The Master Alchemist felt her throat go tight at that realization. That alone was enough to convince her that Ari was going to get a birthday acknowledgement, whether he’d planned for it or not.

“I know you’ve gotta be on the same page, Sylvie. Ari deserves this. Will you help me out? We might not have a lot of time, but we’ve got to plan something. You Canaverises are nothing if not resourceful. So,” Nia looked over her shoulder to make sure Ari wasn’t in earshot. “Any ideas?”

The tent was already beginning to fill up, much to the delight of the Sorde children who seemed to enjoy the company. Vega, for one, was beyond happy at how many people had decided to attend. Alster and Elespeth really needed time away to themselves, and yet had determined not to miss this once in a  lifetime milestone for the twins. And the Canaverises, despite that neither she nor Haraldur was particularly close to any of them, arrived in all of their finery, with gifts above and beyond what anyone would have expected for two young children. These people knew what today meant to Vega and her husband, and the kindness she witnessed was almost enough to take her mind off of the anxiety surrounding Eyraille and her relationship with her brother.

But then, her anxiety spiked anew when none other than Hadwin Kavanagh made his entrance, so fast that she could hardly register the time between registering him at the front of the tent, to when he came right up into their faces. “...Hadwin.” Vega breathed slowly through her nose to calm her nerves. Word had spread that it had been Hadwin who’d set fire near the Night Garden not so long ago; word had it he was barely stable, requiring the assistance of not only the Gardeners, but also Briery Frealy and his own sister, Bronwyn, to get by day to day. Admittedly, that was the last the former Eyraillian princess had heard of the erratic faoladh, and it had been quite some time ago, so it shouldn’t have been any surprise that Hadwin might have made strides toward recovery at this point. Before them, right now, he seemed very much his old self, much to Vega's relief… and also, concern.

“Mr. Kavanagh. Thank you for coming to celebrate our children’s first year of life.” She said cordially, with a small smile. “And for letting us know about your sister and Sigrid. See, Haraldur? I told you she would be here.” She gently nudged her husband, who she knew was starting to wonder if his cousin was going to show up for his children’s birthday. Alster and Elespeth, Kynnet’s guardians, recognized the importance of being a familiar face to the little boy, but Sigrid… Well, she had to acknowledge that Sigrid had been trying. The former Dawn warrior was still very much nervous around children, and wasn’t entirely comfortable picking up and holding young Klara for extended periods of time, but she did stop by from time to time for Harldur’s sake. She recognized how important it was to him that she was Klara’s guardian… even if she didn’t know exactly what being a guardian entailed. 

And then, Hadwin hinted at his “gift” for the twins… and Vega was on edge all over again. “But… gifts, they’re really not necessary. In any form.” She hastily insisted, while trying not to look as worried as she felt. “They’re only a year old; they’re hardly cognizant of any gifts. We’re simply grateful you’d take the time out of your day to wish our children well…”

But, in typical Hadwin fashion, the faoladh insisted on delivering, and made his way to the loosely gated area where the Sorde twins could safely crawl around without getting into any trouble. Just like he’d pointed out, Elespeth was already in with them, entertaining young Kynnet who was sat upon her lap.  When she looked up to see that Hadwin had joined them, her face was also a mix of surprise and concern. “Hadwin… maybe now’s not the best time,” The Rigas woman said quietly, all the while trying to maintain a smile to hide the fact she, too, was concerned.

But it seemed that nothing was going to change Hadwin’s mind. He certainly must have recovered a great deal of his strength, because before Elespeth could react, Hadwin had both of the children playfully pinning him to the ground. Klara’s little squeals of delight were more piercing than that of her brother’s, but Kynnet tended to be the more subdued of the twins, and his happiness was often less obvious. No one was getting hurt, and the twins… well, they were having the time of their life. There was no debating  that he was right; Hadwin was good with children, at least insofar as he could get a laugh out of them.

“By the sounds of it, we’re missing the best part of the celebration.” Amid Hadwin’s harmless antics, both Lilica and Chara passed through the tent flaps,with a couple of boxes in hand. The Galeynian Queen couldn’t help but smile at the unbridled glee coming from the Sorde children, who Hadwin Kavanagh of all people was entertaining with care. “I hope we’re not too late. Apologies for being some of the last to arrive, but I hope you know we wouldn’t have missed this.”

“No apologies necessary; thank you so much, Your Majesty. Chara.” Vega nodded to the two women, who themselves were likely preoccupied planning their own future celebration, which was to be their wedding. There was no date yet, and no details to the Sordes’ knowledge, but between whatever expectations Galeyn had for their queen, and whatever D’Marian traditions Chara would be set on, anyone could only imagine that the planning process was likely nothing less of a nightmare.

Lilica’s dark eyes fixed on the twins, who had grown so accustomed to Galeyn as their home, and were so at ease in the Night Garden. This was something that was not lost on the Tenebris woman, and while she and Chara had brought tangible presents for the twins and their parents to enjoy, she felt the need to mention one last thing. “Vega, Haraldur, I hope you know… well, rather, I want to clarify that Klara and Kynnet are not only always going to be welcome in Galeyn, but they may consider this their second home to Eyraille.”

She reached into the folds of her robes and withdrew a piece of paper, folded three times and sealed with wax at the seams. “Please keep this, and keep it safe. Traditionally, anyone born in Galeyn is welcome to consider it their home. That has been well understood for centuries, apparently, and I am sure that it goes without saying at this point. But I still want you both to have this: written documentation that your children may be considered citizens of Galeyn. Should they ever require sanctuary here in the future, or should they wish to establish a second home, this will never face questioning or backlash. I know it may not sound like much, but… your children gave this desperate kingdom so much hope. It is the least I can do, in return.”

“Excuse me.” Cas cleared his throat, his demeanor the picture of gratitude so there could be no doubt to his ‘rescuer’ how he felt in the moment. “I may have muddied my words. It’s been a while since I’ve spoken with someone intelligent, so you can imagine my wits aren’t the sharpest right now.” He laid his shackled hands on his lap. The iron manacles vised his wrists; any tighter and they would cut off circulation, but he learned to live in discomfort. So much so, that the cushioned lining of the carriage interior agitated his spine and shoulder blades. Accustomed to sitting on hard slabs of stone, he shifted his position every ten seconds, searching for the sweet spot to no avail. “I meant only that you will find no resistance from me. Our interests are aligned. I wouldn’t even need the threat of being sent back here as incentive to behave.” Rusty as he was, slipping back into his old Canaveris persona was like donning a well-worn pair of socks. Riddled with holes and in desperate need of darning, or replacing, but sturdy, nonetheless. And more than adequate in keeping one dry.

Considering how he’d presented to the Master Alchemist thus far, her next question didn’t surprise him. While he pegged her as a woman of few words, with little tolerance for time-wasting nonsense, he piqued enough of her curiosity to get her to fish for more information. He’d nibble on her line a bit, gauge her reaction, and swim away before she could reel him in. Better to know what kind of person he was dealing with before he shared anything personal…or traceable.

“You would be correct,” he said, ignoring the cries of his numerous injuries as an initiatory jolt jerked the carriage forward. “The ‘where’ isn’t important, seeing as it’s currently under Mollengard’s banner and no longer exists. As you well know, we are living in a nation that rewards based on merit, not pedigree. They couldn’t care less about my family lineage, or my standing among the peerage. I wasn’t born into royalty; ergo, not high status enough to matter. Fortunately, my magic had some use to them, which is why I was sent to the mines and not killed on sight. So in short, no, my name won’t save me, because it didn’t save me.” Lies, it turned out, served and flattered his feet better than his Canaveris fit. Not that he had lied. Not really. Mollengard had no love for traditions steeped in blood rites and crusty, generational privilege. The strings of rebellions once rampant in Central Mollengard made short work of the monarchy half a century ago, establishing the former kingdom as a military junta. Had he revealed himself as a Canaveris, they likely would have executed him. Best case scenario, they would have first squeezed every last ounce of his influence in a bid to infiltrate and secure Stella D’Mare for conquest. While nothing would bring him greater joy than to watch the institution that defined his upbringing crumble at his feet, he wasn’t delusional enough to believe he held the power to cause the wholesale downfall of his city. A Rigas, on the other hand, and a specific Rigas at that, would no doubt have some bargaining sway over Mollengard’s executioner’s axe. But a Canaveris? Dead in the water before sundown. 

In hindsight no longer clouded by the heady fumes and unrelenting clamor of the mines, he was glad to have played the smarter move and revealed nothing to his captors.

Respecting her reticence, Cas happily accepted the lull in conversation to appreciate the glorious gift of silence, a commodity so precious, he purposely sought a brutal whipping for the honor of being banished to the far quieter Oblivion as “punishment.” Outside of the mines, it was handed around like it cost nothing. To that end, he would never take such basic indulgences for granted again.

On arriving at their destination, Cas squirmed out of the carriage doors, minding his injuries as he struggled to catch up with the Master Alchemist’s grueling and purposeful gait. Instead of shielding his current physical deficiencies, however, he made a greater show of them. Hobbling to the doorway of the imposing fortress, he hunched against the wall to catch his breath.

“…Understood,” he said wearily, with a wilt of a nod. “Contrary to how I may…appear, I haven’t yet lost the ability to comprehend your clear and precise instructions.”

As they entered the building, it took everything in him not to grimace. From one prison to another…

Although born a Canaveris and thus accustomed to the lavish, abundant lifestyle, Cas wasn’t a stickler for luxury like Nadira or his brother. Sure, he enjoyed his creature comforts like the next nobleman, but never sought to decorate a room with more than essentials and a few artful baubles to make Ari happy.

This wretched place, on the other hand, brought out the inner Canaveris in him. It demanded light, color, anything, to differentiate it from the hellish pit he had just left.

It was clean, at the very least.

Cas took note of the strange child standing by the entryway and took even greater note of how the self-important woman with the stick up her ass responded—or rather, didn’t respond—to the little girl. Something about her seemed off. Golem-like, even. Perhaps it was the lack of light in her dead, blue eyes.

“Celene. You must be an Ardane, then.” Cas didn’t miss a beat. Forced to participate in Nadira’s obsessive research for Ari’s cure, Cas not only knew the names of the active and publicly-known Master Alchemists by heart—an admittedly short list—but had even corresponded with one on a semi-regular basis. Up until ten years ago, at least. …What a curious development. “I thought they had all been tragically murdered by the Ilandrian crown. Good to know one from your illustrious reputation survived. And doing quite well for herself, too. …You are free to call me Cas. Short and sweet. My full name has far too many syllables, anyway.”

Not five steps into the foyer, Cas stumbled. It was not an entirely orchestrated stumble, either. “Celene. Forgive me, but could I trouble you for a meal and a short nap before I officially begin work as your assistant? I have an abundance of knowledge on the subject of alchemy, but to access the full range of my mental faculties, I should first clear out the clouds that a year of drudgery work has done to my mind. I’ll be of much better service to you once I can satisfy my base needs.”

It pained Alster to be gone for so long, but after much deliberation, he and Elespeth agreed that for the sake of his mental health, it was necessary to step away from his responsibilities for a few weeks. They didn’t venture far, keeping to the farmhouse at the borderlands of Galeyn. Still, on days when Alster felt adventurous, he would convince Elespeth to walk with him through the ether realms to where the air folded on the other side, and make a day of exploring wherever they ended up. The range was seldom extravagant in distance, keeping to a general radius from Galeyn, but sometimes they’d appear near Braighdath, or even to some of the little-known neighboring towns west of Galeyn. It was to this effect that their lighthearted sojourns and lazy farmhouse days amounted to, by definition, their honeymoon.

Despite the relaxing few weeks away, the reprieve was a bittersweet one. Isidor’s whereabouts were still uncertain. He hadn’t returned, and Alster could only hope the aggrieved Master Alchemist was safe and unharmed—wherever he might be.

When Nia hinted at their mutual missing companion, Alster sighed and nodded, tapping his steel fingers against the railing of the twins’ wooden enclosure. 

“Even after having a month to process, I haven’t yet forgiven him,” he admitted, figuring Nia deserved his honesty, ugly though it was. “It’s petty, but I don’t care. I’m still angry. It’s easier than the alternative. I’m sick of always feeling the alternative. Of being the bigger person, always forgiving and understanding. And I do understand. Of course I do. But this just hits differently for me. He was my best friend, the closest to a brother I ever had, and…he just left, and I don’t know if I’ll see him again.” 

“You don’t want to hear this right now. Neither do I.” He slapped on a hurried smile, all slapdash pleasantness and awkward cheer. “We’ll catch up later, I’m sure. For now, I need to be here for Kynnet and Klara. Until then…take care, Nia.”

Sylvie, meanwhile, after presenting the Canaveris gifts to the Sorde parents with her uncle and grandmother, kept a wide but polite distance from the tent. At first, she stayed close to Nico, not out of love for his company, but to appear occupied and engaged. When Hadwin Kavanagh converged on the scene, however, Nico gravitated toward the recovering faoladh out of some unspoken commitment to monitor him in Bronwyn and Briery’s absence, while Sylvie remained behind. Since the…incident at the masquerade ball, she thought it prudent not to be seen near him. Alone, she shuffled around the vicinity in a swish of skirts, trying to appear purposeful in her gait, like she was going somewhere and couldn’t be bothered to stop and chat.

Until she practically ran headlong into Nia.

“Miss Nia. Forgive me. I must watch where I am going. Please excuse me.” She dipped into a curtsy and almost left it at that, but apparently Nia wasn’t through with her. They weren’t on the best of terms at the moment, with Sylvie generally avoiding her out of shame for her outburst on the eve of Ari’s life-saving operation, not quite finding the courage to apologize, or pretend like the dynamic between them hadn’t changed beyond recognition. It had been a long time coming, anyway. Sylvie already felt the Master Alchemist pulling away from as long ago as the trial to exonerate her name and stay her execution. The two had been on shaky terms ever since, especially when Nia began to take a shine to Nico and plot conspiracies based on their mutual interest in Teselin. She, naturally, wasn’t included. 

Despite her hangups, Sylvie still respected and admired Nia, in no small part due to her instrumental role in securing her uncle’s life, and her persistent support and love for him. …Even if it meant that Sylvie saw less of him, less of them, and was left even lonelier than before.

“I am afraid it is true.” Following Nia around the corner to a shadowed area cast by the tent, she dropped her voice into a whisper. “It will be the third year he has declined from celebrating. Last year, it was because we needed to focus on building the D’Marian settlement. And two years ago…” she hesitated, swirling the tourmaline ring around her finger. “We received news of my father’s death just days before we were set to celebrate. In lieu of a party, Uncle Ari held a memorial service in his honor. It is a…particularly fraught time of the year for us all, and now with Laz’s disappearance, I feel like Uncle Ari has given up finding joy on his special day altogether. Little does he realize, making room to celebrate would be to everyone’s benefit. If nothing else, it would help to lift the shroud of tragedy that pervades our family whenever this particular date draws near. At any rate, you are absolutely correct, Miss Nia.” She pressed her hands together, equal parts hopeful and…conspiratorial. It is my turn to hatch a dastardly plan with Miss Nia, Nico, she thought, almost giddily. “Uncle Ari must be reminded of life’s sacred contract and the second chance it has bestowed upon him. Surely, even he should find it a cause worth celebrating. And I am glad you asked me because,” her face erupted into a grin, “I have an abundance of wonderful ideas.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Haraldur, who hadn’t stopped watching the twins from the corner of his eye since Hadwin waltzed into their enclosure, couldn’t suspend his disbelief. Klara rode upon the faoladh’s back like a horse, yanking his hair as if to control the reins, while Kynnet flopped on his belly and watched lazily, happy to be included in the shenanigans without needing to follow his sister’s boisterous lead all the time. “The bastard was telling the truth. Sometimes I don’t know if he’s overconfident and lucky or if he truly has the skills he claims.” In the midst of speaking with his wife, he didn’t quite catch Hadwin referring to Klara as “Rowen” for the duration of their play.

He never found out exactly what the faoladh was saying before Lilica and Chara stepped into the tent, armed with yet more presents. These kids are going to be spoiled rotten. It’s inevitable.

“I have to second Vega on this one. We’re grateful enough to have the turn-out that we do. People making time in their busy schedules to celebrate with us and the twins is more than we can ask for. So thank you, your Majesty. Lady Chara.” He bowed, feeling even more unqualified to stand before royalty and nobility when the only thing that gave him clout—his title—had been stripped from him before the paint could even dry. Soon, they would all know what transpired with Eyraille’s king. How would they proceed once hearing the news? And would it affect how they regarded them? The twins? Here I am again, as nothing. No name. Enginn…

He almost didn’t register Lilica’s speech until she was handing them both a signed documentation, which he could only assume contained written proof of the Queen’s verbal proclamation. Second home. Citizens of Galeyn. Sanctuary…

As carefully as if he were handling one of his children, he took the wax-sealed document into his hands. “You actually mean it. I wasn’t expecting…” He closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. It doesn’t matter if I’m forever homeless. As long as the two of you have a home. And you do. For now, you do.

“Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to us,” he said at last, opening his eyes and offering a shaky smile. “They have their trees here, in Galeyn. A strong, unmistakable bond. They come alive whenever they’re outside, like they’re blooming. They…have a greater connection to this land than they do Eyraille,” he said, looking shamefully away from Vega as he took her hand. “And I’m sure they’ll always want to maintain and cultivate it, even when they’re older.”

A little further away, in town, Sigrid and Bronwyn were hard at work searching for a last-minute gift for the twins. The latter tagged along to speed along the process so they wouldn’t invariably miss the festivities in the pursuit of finding reasons not to participate. Try as she might to sway Sigrid into abandoning her frenzied shopping and get them to the party, nothing she said would convince her to change course. Still, she kept at it. 

“Look, it’s getting late. We can’t delay this any longer. What’s the point of getting the perfect gift if it sacrifices your being there when it matters?”

“I would listen to Bronwyn, Sigrid.” Appearing on the other side of the marketplace stall where they presently scoured for trinkets ranging from semi-precious jewelry to simple wood-carved toys, Tivia Rigas caught their eye. As usual, she was donned entirely in black, but for the occasion, she had styled her blonde hair half up in lieu of the severe bun she typically wore. The loose portion hung past her back, golden and fluttering in the waning afternoon light. “I’ll tell you the greatest gift you can grant that family right now. A sense of home. And I’m not talking about Eyraille. I’m talking about the people who make it feel like home. And if you still insist on a gift, draw from your own experiences. Make it personal. Share something of yourself. Something meaningful to you. Oh, and I shouldn’t need to tell you to hurry it up.” She pointed at the sun, which was making its quick trajectory toward the western horizon. “Your window is shortening.”

If Celene was surprised that her new lackey was struck with sudden familiarity at her name and the infamy attached to it, her expression did not betray it. Celene’s eyes and face seldom betrayed any form of emotion. The Master Alchemist casually checked her appearance in a small, nearby mirror fixed to the wall; one of the only semblances of any decoration in this place and tucked her well-kempt, wavy locks behind her ears. “And it hasn’t occurred to you that I could simply be anyone? That there is not more than one ‘Celene’ with skills and abilities similar to my own? That there exist far more lineages than Ilandria’s Ardanes?”

That was as close to confirmation that she was willing to bestow upon someone who was still little more than a stranger to her. It was telling that he was familiar with her family and the tragedy at the hands of the Ilandrian crown over a decade ago. Fortunately, she had not been around or that: she’d long since disappeared by the time the rest of the family had met their end, along with most other Master Alchemists in Ilandria. That news had of course spread to Eyraille and beyond, and any peasant was familiar with what was now referred to as Ilandria’s ‘Dark Day’, but this man seemed somehow more familiar with her family than by name. Names upon names had crossed her desk over the years, before and after leaving her family. People requesting various and sundry services, all of which were declined, because Celene Ardane worked on what Celene Ardane wanted to work on: her own vision. Not some meager task from a desperate soul. Could this ‘Cas’ have been one of those names in correspondence? Celene didn’t commit those names to memory. They weren’t worth the space they kept in her mind.

The Ardane woman hardly noticed when the tall, haggard man stumbled behind her. He was tired, weak, malnourished; all facts that Celene was aware of, given the circumstances from which he had come. But none of those facts registered to her as any reason for concern… or, sympathy, at that. “You will be shown to your room and provided with a meal, rest assured.” She told him, straightening the collar on her blouse. “Do take note that I do not have you here as a consultant on alchemy, ‘Cas’. I have you here because I am tired of the time it takes to request materials that I require and actually receive them from the lugheads that have no idea what they are doing. You are here to make my job easier and expedite my projects as a result. You can read, which leads me to believe you can also write. You seem familiar with common materials and components in my research, and you have an inkling as to where to find them. So you will instruct these lugheads as to what it is they need to bring me, and where they can find it, because I will no longer be wasting my time spelling it out to them. So.”

Celene turned to Cas, looking him up and down as if to reevaluate her decision in bringing him here. “If your role here is clear to you, and you don’t have any more questions, you may retire to your room. I won’t have any particular use for you today; the real work will start tomorrow.”

With a final nod from the Master Alchemist, the same pale-haired, pale-eyed girl appeared once again for orders. “She’ll take you to your room. We will talk again tomorrow.”

Sure enough, the young girl led Cas through corridors and up multiple winding stairwells, all the way a tiny, albeit clean room with a single bed, a small window, a mirror and a washbasin. The stone walls provided little comfort for a place meant for rest, but even Cas couldn’t deny that this was far better than what he’d experienced in the mines of Mount Simiya. A bed all to himself, clean blankets and sheet, and a means to keep himself clean. The pale-haired girl left without a single word as soon as the newcomer was shown to his room, but not ten minutes later--not even long enough for Cas to acclimatize to his new settings--there was a knock on his door. In the place of the pale haired girl, this time a pale-haired boy around the same age stood before the doorway, holding a platter of food. Day-old bread, an apple, a hunk of dry cheese, and a bowl of soup that was closer to warm than it was hot at this point. Certainly nothing fit for a king, but a step up from what he was used to. He had requested rest and nourishment: Celene had provided. 

“Before dawn.” The pale-haired boy told Casimiro--two simple words, no more--before he left the man to eat his meal and rest. If Casimiro did not understand that he was referring to when he would be expected to awaken, well… then he would most certainly have a rude awakening, come morning.

So, this wasn’t a recent decision, or necessarily one that resulted from Laz’s disappearance. If what Sylvie said was true (and she couldn’t think of a reason why Ari’s niece would lie, regardless of what she thought of Nia at this point), then negativity upon negativity had been piling up on what was supposed to be a special day for Ari. No wonder he couldn’t bring himself to celebrate: he’d lost two very important people in his life, roughly around the same time, two years apart. But… that didn’t mean his birthday had to be shadowed with sadness forever.

“Shit… his brother? I didn’t realize Casimiro--your dad… I mean, so close to his birthday. A memorial certainly sounds like that Ari would do, at the time. It’s a noble change of plans.” The Master Alchemist wasn’t going to outright proclaim that what Ari had chosen in the past hadn’t been the right decision, especially not in front of the girl who’d lost her father around the same time as his uncle’s birthday. “It’s just like Ari to want to hold space to remember the people who are important to him, who are no longer here, for one reason or another… but, he doesn’t have to let go of that by finding a reason to celebrate. Especially if that’s what his brother would want, right? I didn’t know your dad, but…” The Master Alchemist trailed off and took a moment to stare off into the distance, looking at nothing in particular. Searching for someone she would never find. “I know it’s what my sisters would want for me. Not just to survive, but to thrive. Ari’s brother would want that for him, as well. To have the happiest and most fulfilling life he could ever wish for. Especially in light of being curse-free. This year, on his birthday… I refuse to let him be unhappy.”

Well, it turned out that it wasn’t so difficult to convince Sylvie to be on board with her wishes. They didn’t have a lot of time, with Ari’s birthday coming to pass in barely a handful of days, but if anyone could arrange a celebration fit for a king in that amount of time, it was a Canaveris--or, Chara Rigas, for that matter. But Nia wasn’t about to approach Alster’s cousin anytime soon for that kind of assistance. Not when she and Lilica already had plans mulling for their own wedding, for which they had yet to secure a date. This would have to be between her and Ari’s family. “Well, let’s hear your abundance of ideas.” Nia  prompted, glancing over her shoulder temporarily to ensure Ari was neither in sight, or within earshot. “And let’s see if we can get your grandma on board, as well. We can’t just throw a party; we’ve gotta convince Ari why his birthday, his life, is worth celebrating. I… can’t let him continue to be so unhappy for circumstances he can’t control, when there is so much to be happy about.”

“Of course I mean it, Haraldur. Why wouldn’t I?” Lilica smiled kindly on the couple, whose gratitude was so evident in their expressions that no words were needed. “Your children were born here, and… that gave the people of Galeyn more hope than I could ever give them at the time. It gave them a reason to hope, because your children are a symbol of brand new beginnings. They are citizens of Galeyn just as much as they are of Eyraille, and I want you--and them--to know that they are forever welcome here. Even if they don’t return to half a century after they leave, Klara and Kynnet will always be welcome here. You can count on the Gardeners tending carefully to their trees for as long as they live.”

“Lilica… this is…” While Haraldur was putting in effort to merely maintain his composure, Vega was… absolutely failing to maintain hers. The redhead’s smile quavered, and her eyes filled with tears. This was a mistake: inviting all of these people to celebrate the first birthday of her children had been a terrible mistake, because she was not in the right mind to keep this company. Not with everything that was going on, with her homeland, and… her brother. “I’m… sorry. Your Majesty. Lady Chara. Please excuse me.”

Before Lilica or anyone else could react, Vega rushed from the tent, one arm pressed to her eye as she completely lost control over her tears. Elespeth looked up from the Hadwin rough-housing with the twins just in time to see her friend exit the tent in tears, and immediately exchanged a concerned look with her husband. Without needing to speak a word (Alster was probably more than happy to find an excuse to leave the Sorde twins, considering his discomfort around children), the Rigas couple followed Vega outside, where she had wandered several yards from the tent: not out of sight of confused guests, but out of earshot, for the most part.

“Vega… Vega, are you alright?” Elespeth reached out, knowing that the Eyraillian princess was far from ‘alright’, but she had no idea what was going on, or what she could possibly say to get this otherwise strong and stubborn woman to stop crying. “I know Alster and I haven’t been around… but if something has transpired in our absence, you know we are always happy to help.”

“We can’t go back to Eyraille. Not me or Haraldur… not our children.” Vega scrubbed her hands down her face. She didn’t care who heard, at this point. All of Galeyn was bound to find out sooner or later.

Elespeth frowned and looked to Alster, as if he had the answers or knew more than she did. “Why, Vega? What’s going on?”

“Why? My brother--that’s why. He’s decided we’ve all been in Galeyn too long… and instructed us not to rush back home. Or come home at all.” The former Skyknight’s hands fell away from her face. “We received a letter some weeks ago, from an Eyraillian envoy. My little brother has exiled us from Eyraille. We are hereby excommunicated from the Sorde lineage… and we have no home to return to. My children may never know their home and their family. I’m… sorry. Elespeth. Alster.” Vega turned her red-rimmed eyes toward her friends’ concerned faces, looking genuinely remorseful. “We didn’t want to burden you or anyone else with this information. This is our problem. I thought… I really thought I had a good grip on my composure. I was wrong.”

Bronwyn had a point: Sigrid was wasting her time. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. What did one-year-old babies like? And what could they possibly want or need, with all of the gifts they’d already received by now? “I’m Klara’s guardian--I should know what the hell to get her, at the very least. But I don’t, and it’s embarrassing!”

And that may well have been the case, but… the blonde warrior was out of time. The sun was setting. The twins would be retiring soon, put down in their cradles to sleep off all the excitement of their first birthday. She was still empty-handed, save for the gift she had already chosen, and now she was running out of time.

As if Bronwyn’s reminder that time was running out wasn’t enough, Tivia Rigas somehow managed to locate the two in the town square, clearly dressed to attend the twins’ birthday as well. Was she too, late, and just on her way? Or had she been sent to retrieve Sigrid at her cousin’s request? Come to think of it, Haraldur and Vega were likely wondering where the hell she was, and whether or not she had chosen to completely stand them up on a very important day for their children… “...fuck. Fine. Maybe I’m overthinking this.” Wiping sweat from her brow (not from the end of summer heat, but her own nerves), Sigrid Sorenson conceded defeat. “Let’s go back. I’m not a creative person: I don’t know what could possibly constitute as meaningful for Vega and Haraldur, or for the twins. But… I really shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I know you really wanted to stay to keep an eye on your brother.” She turned a remorseful eye to Bronwyn and sighed. “I’m sorry, Bronwyn. This was a stupid idea to begin with… I just wasted my time and yours. Let’s go back to make sure your brother hasn’t managed to cause a scene, unsupervised. Are you coming as well, Tivia?”

It certainly appeared that way, with the star seer dressed in relative finery and with knowledge of the event and how much the former Dawn warrior was wanted there. She wasn’t exactly clear on Tivia’s relationship with Haraldur; something about the two of them seemed… well, a bit strained. The same could be said for Tivia and Vega, as well. Something that had probably transpired prior to Sigrid’s involvement with any of them, and she didn’t feel comfortable enough asking questions. But, Tivia was still very much an ally, and with both Queen Lilica and Lady Chara declaring they would make an appearance, it would have been rather awkward to leave her out, uninvited.  “I’ve already fucked up enough; let’s get going before Haraldur reconsiders ever making me Klara’s guardian. I’m in wonder that he hasn’t already reconsidered over the past year.”

Cas liked to observe people. Above vacuous, surface-level chats that revealed nothing but how boorish the gentry truly was, he learned more through fidgeting hands, roving eyes, and facial tics. The fact that Celene did none of these things was far more revealing than if she had soured her mouth or knit her brows together. Technically, she had reacted: checking herself in the mirror and fixing her hair before immediately devolving into a defensive retort? Oh, he had the correct person, indeed.

“Statistically speaking, the odds of another Master Alchemist sharing your given name would be astronomically high. Not to mention, Celene is not an uncommon name in Ilandria. By process of elimination, my educated guess is not so farfetched. At any rate, if I have made a wrong assumption or overstepped at all, you have my apologies.” He bobbed into a curt bow. “The reason I mention my familiarity in alchemy is not to consult, Miss Celene. I do not presume to be your intellectual equal in your field of expertise. However, would you rather have an assistant with a working knowledge of your craft, who needn’t be tirelessly told what needs fetching and what needs doing, than one who cannot tell the difference between a diamond and cubic zirconia? Is that not more efficient in the long run? If you disagree, then feel free to replace me with one of the ‘lugheads’ in the mines and see how far you will get in your research.”

He was testing the limits of her quick-trigger tolerance, endangering his cushy appointment as a high-end house slave, but it was important to know the type of person he was dealing with. And if she had any inkling of pride in her work and in herself, which she seemed to have in scads, then she would not oust him from her home just yet. To maximize her truest potential, she required not just an average assistant, but an exemplary one. Someone indispensable and reliable. Trustworthy. 

Someone who could one day seriously sabotage her research.

As the golem-like girl ushered him into his new quarters for the foreseeable future, he made a cursory sweep of the place. Unimpressive, clinical, painfully dull—but several hundred steps better than the dreadful accommodations at Mount Simiya. For one, he had a room to himself, a damn luxury at this point.

When the golem-like girl departed, he hobbled to the mirror and chanced a glance at his reflection. Predictably, he appeared haggard, an absolute wreck. There was no shine in his hollow eyes, his sunken cheekbones and skeletal frame held in place with a thin layer of skin the color of a bruised apple.

How much longer would he have survived at the mines? A season? A month?

Another knock on his door revealed a second golem-like child, this time a little boy with the same pale hair as his female counterpart. How many of these synthetic servants does she have? he wondered. But not for long. The moment the boy presented him with a meal, he eagerly took the platter from his equally pale hands, not even caring about the subpar quality of the dish. Compared to his bill of fare at Mount Simiya, he had before him a veritable feast.

Despite his preoccupation with supper, Cas heard the boy’s message loud and clear. Lapping his food with gusto, he set aside the empty tray, his belly sated and happy.

“Before dawn, hm?” No problem. The mines operated on the same stringent schedule. Nowadays, he required very little sleep.

Try as he might to find comfort in a regular bed, he tossed and turned under the mushy and unwieldy covers until, giving up, huddled on the hard stone floor with only a sheet and a pillow for cushioning.

It was the best sleep he had in years.

He awoke well before dawn, dressed, refreshed, and more than ready to worm his way into Celene’s good graces. He was used to adopting such a servile role. The dutiful son. The stalwart husband. The diligent father. The beloved leader who listened and provided, making their needs his needs.

He didn’t give a shit about their needs, but he had them all fooled into believing that Casimiro Canaveris was a god among men.

…And the devil himself to his most reviled enemies. 

No sooner had Nia finished uttering ‘ideas’ than Sylvie prattled off her master plan worthy of her uncle and his ceaseless generosity. “Uncle Ari would never celebrate for himself alone. As you’re well aware, he loves to spread the wealth. If he is to have a birthday worthy of his name, he would invite the entire D’Marian settlement to partake. Thus where my idea takes form. The D’Marians adore Uncle Ari. Were they to learn of his upcoming special day, I am confident they would gather around and honor him, as repayment for his tireless efforts in building, rebuilding, and protecting the village. This would grant them the opportunity to give back should they so desire it. Much as Uncle Ari would protest our going behind his back and against his wishes, if it’s the D’Marians who lead the festivities and the preparation, he would not be cross with anyone, and would less likely reject their offerings—and by extension, ours. So, were we to go door-to-door in the village, or send missives, I am certain we would receive a glut of affirmative responses. Which leads me to the next stage of my plan—“

“—Sylvie, while I applaud your ambition, I must stop you there.” In Sylvie’s excitement, she didn’t notice Nadira approaching from the tent. The Canaveris matriarch converged upon them, placing one hand on her hip, her expression unreadable. “So this is where the two of you gadded off. To conspire and gleefully plan a celebration Ari does not want.”  

“Grandmama. I meant no disrespect, but Uncle Ari—“

“—Hush, child. I am not done speaking.” Sylvie hunched her shoulders and nodded, chastened. “And you have decided to conspire without including me from the outset.” She tsked low in her throat. “That would have been a disastrous mistake.”

Sylvie immediately brightened, raising back to her full height, unfurling like a daffodil in springtime.“Then you shall help us, grandmama?”

Nadira scoffed. “Of course. My son has been moping around for far too long. If a grandiose birthday celebration will knock him to his senses, then I am all for it. But let us not get ahead of ourselves, Sylvie. I shall aid you in implementing ‘stage one’ of your plan. Once we drum up enough support, then we shall move on to stage two. Remember, we’ve only three days to compile a respectable soirée, so much of our steps will be hastily abbreviated. Let us do what we can, first and foremost, and if we have time for the bells and whistles, we shall add them.”

Sylvie nodded vigorously. “Yes, grandmama.”

Nadira turned her dark gaze to Nia, her severe features softening almost immediately. “My dear, after Ari’s birthday festivities, the next celebration I will be expecting is your wedding. Do not keep me waiting—neither of you.” 

Alster needed no excuse to check on his distraught friend, but it didn’t hurt to have a reason for leaving the twins’ enclosure without being perceived as rude. Alongside Elespeth, he followed Vega outside the tent. She stopped just shy of the tree line that heralded the Night Garden’s eastern boundary, not a far trek, but far enough to suggest her desire for privacy.

Bearing that in mind, Alster made a careful approach, keeping his voice soft and as unobtrusive as he echoed Elespeth’s concerned words. Despite her obvious distress, Vega tearfully and bluntly confessed the truth, sparing any preamble or hesitation. According to when it happened, the news had been brewing in her psyche for weeks, desperate for release. And all it took was a pair of sympathetic ears.

“That’s…ridiculous,” he sighed, frustrated on her behalf. “Does your brother not realize we had to close and secure the border for the better part of a year in preparation for a hostile takeover that very nearly killed us? I know Haraldur sent letters explaining the situation, so your brother’s decision must stem from somewhere deeper. I only briefly made his acquaintance back in Eyraille and he seems a little…vindictive when he doesn’t get his way. Is that accurate? I’m sorry,” he added, retroactively, laying a companionable hand upon Vega’s arm, both as a comfort and a means for balance. “I had a knee-jerk reaction. But I’m also sorry you had to go through that. The sudden loss of a home is no small thing. I think I speak for both Elespeth and me when I say we can relate. Except, the city of Stella D’Mare exiled only me. Not my entire family. And I wasn’t condemned by my own sibling, nor do I have any love for my home as you do, so it didn’t have that personal sting. If your brother is mad at you, he shouldn’t bring innocent children into it. None of this is their fault. Though, in matters of royalty, I suppose it preserves his line not to have his half-commoner niece and nephew vying for the throne when they’re older, out of a personal vendetta. If they’re illegitimized, then they’re no longer a threat.”

“I can talk to him,” he suggested, sliding his hand away from her arm once she regained enough of her composure to stand without support. “See him in person. Look for common ground. Get to the bottom of everything. This is more than just your and Haraldur’s burden, Vega. Even if you believe it is, I would never want anyone to hide their burdens from me. To lock them away, let them fester, take control, and then leave without a word.” The bitterness barbed his tongue, making obvious to anyone in the vicinity the resentment he still felt over Isidor’s departure. “Eyraille is an ally of Stella D’Mare and Galeyn. King Caris’ short-sighted decree threatens to burn bridges with his allies, so yes, this is a political move as much as it is a personal one. Were I him, I would reach out to those allies in an attempt to smooth over tensions; otherwise, he stands to lose far more than his sister and her family.”

It wasn’t long before Haraldur came upon the scene, sidling by his wife and landing a gentle, chaste kiss upon her tear-stained cheeks. He swept an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close, an unspoken show of his love and understanding. “I told Lilica and Chara before I left,” he said, breaking the silence. “They deserved to know after what they did for us. I assume Alster and Elespeth now know, too?”

“We do,” Alster confirmed. “I’m so sorry, you two. The Equinox Festival, your wedding…the citizens of Eyraille adored you. I’ve not seen such kingdom-wide solidarity since. You brought them so much hope. It kills me to see your king throw away something so beautiful in favor of turning his back to the world.”

“I agree, but,” Haraldur rubbed Vega’s back in small, soothing motions, “Caris is ignoring our messages. He doesn’t want to hear from us, or anyone affiliated with us who would attempt to turn over his decision. I overheard what you said, Alster. You want to go to Eyraille to try and change his mind. But if you go with that singular goal, you’re going to fail. For now, it’s best to…move on with our lives. We’ll monitor the situation in Eyraille and pay close attention to Mollengard’s movements, but that’s all Vega and I can do at the moment. If you still want a relationship with Eyraille, feel free, but you’ll have to leave us out of the conversation if you want King Caris’ cooperation.”

Much as she was happy to accompany Sigrid wherever she went—within reason because she was no stalker!—Bronwyn had to put her foot down at some point during their last-minute, time-wasting excursion. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Sigrid.” She shot the blonde warrior a quick, apologetic look. “Klara is one year old. One. Did you know what you wanted when you were fucking one year old? You know what I did at that age? Rooted around in the dirt, picking off bugs and sticking them in my mouth. At this early stage, it’s the parents you’re giving to, not the child. And the father is far from picky, so you could hand him a stick on a string and he would love it, because it came from you.”

As she didn’t know if she was getting through to the obstinate warrior, she welcomed the third party into their group with an appreciative nod of acknowledgment. While she had never spoken with Tivia Rigas, she owed her a debt for contributing to the rescue from her half-mad captor, who also happened to be the star seer’s father. “You’re definitely overthinking it.” Tivia, too, adopted a blunt tongue, but Bronwyn got the impression that the Rigas woman often spoke candidly to avoid misinterpretation.

“It’s fine, Sigrid.” Bronwyn smiled brightly in a bid not to make her feel worse about dawdling around town for the better part of an afternoon. “I was happy to come along. It would have been a slog if you went on your own, yeah? And it sounds like it’s not too late, so no harm done. Hadwin is fine, I’m sure. Everyone knows to keep an eye out if they see him, so if nothing else, he’s under strict supervision.”

“By the way, I’m not coming along quite yet.” Tivia stepped out from under the shadow of the market kiosk, getting a better and sunnier angle on their faces. “I wasn’t invited, but I’m going for an important reason. You’ll know why in a little while. But before you go,” she stretched out her hands, “let me see your gift.” Sigrid seemed confused by the request, but complied and handed over the bundle. “I‘ll be back in two minutes. Excuse me.” She dipped behind a building, essentially disappearing not only from view but the world at large. Just as Bronwyn and Sigrid began to express their concern, she returned from around the corner. Unruffled, like she had taken a leisurely stroll around town. She raised an eyebrow at them, almost amused. “Like I said, two minutes. Here.” She returned the packaged gift to Sigrid. “I made a few aesthetic changes to the outfits. They’re the same garment, but no longer the colors of Eyraille.” She cocked her head to one side. “You’ll understand why.” 

Stepping off to the side, she waved them onward, toward the tent on the hill. “I’ll see you later, but after that, it will be for the last time in a long time. Enjoy the party.”

After they left the unsettling woman’s vicinity, Bronwyn relaxed her shoulders, feeling the reflexive shivers receding the further they bridged the distance from the marketplace. “Is she…always like this?” she managed, out of lack of knowing how to revive the conversation. “You know…intense? I didn’t mean to pry, but I caught a few glimpses of her with my Sight and saw…I mean, the last thing I want is to spread any unsubstantiated rumors, but,” she leaned in and whispered in Sigrid’s ear, “Tivia and Haraldur were intimate at one time. I could tell that she loved him. He took her maidenhead, and it caused a few problems with Vega. She doesn’t love him anymore but I get the impression she still cares about him.” Drawing away, Bronwyn cleared her throat. To overcompensate, she raised her voice to slightly louder-than-normal levels to flush out the hushed echoes of gossip. “You don’t have to worry about losing your guardianship,” she assured. “You’re his family, and family is extremely important to him. He’ll never give up on you. That’s what I sense. What I see.”