Chapter Text
Athanasia screams a scream she’d never thought herself capable of before as the wind whips at her face and blows the white skirts of her dress this way and that. Some of the decorative feathers bid her adieu and disappear, but she couldn’t give less of a shit about her clothes right now. The most pressing matter is the sight of the ground rapidly approaching, spelling her doom.
She clenches her eyes tightly shut and braces for the impact, praying to all religious figures known to her. Surely one of them’s free? Please? Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Elohim, Bhagavan, Zeus, anybody…!
When she falls, she plops on something distinctly bony.
“Oww,” she whimpers, her face planted on what seems like grass? Wincing, she shuffles, her hand holding the side of her disoriented head.
“Ugh,” says a soft voice that’s not hers from beneath her.
“Gah! I’m sorry—” Athanasia scrambles to sit up, her hands resting on someone’s chest—
Her breath catches. Gold eyes. A youthful, handsome face.
She knows who this is.
Ijekiel Alpheus peers up at her with naked disbelief. “An angel?”
Athanasia looks at his silver hair and the colour of his eyes and tries not to gape at his misunderstanding. Dude, aren’t you the angel here? Why are you so good-looking?
He blinks quickly like he’s re-adjusting his worldview, but his voice comes out firmer the next time he speaks. “Not an angel,” he says crossly, as if she betrayed him somehow.
Sorry I’m not an angel, I guess, Athanasia thinks nervously.
“How did you fall from…”
“Ijekiel! We have geopolitics now!”
The shout comes from beyond the hedges hiding them from view, the voice sounding young —probably the male lead’s friend. Athanasia raises her head to the sight of a magnificent sprawl of buildings looming over the hedge. The closest one has an inscription in Common Pascal on the wall: “learning only dies at time of death” she translates with a growing sense of hysteria.
Wait a moment. Ijekiel Alpheus. Geopolitics.
No way…! Did that idiot Lucas send her to Arlanta Academy?
“좆됐어,” Athanasia spits breathlessly, stumbling off Ijekiel and ducking behind the hedge just in time to slip detection from the boy.
He cranes his head around the hedge to find Ijekiel lying on the grass. “What are you doing?” He asks, puzzled but somewhat amused. “You’re gonna be late, you know?”
“Cabel,” Ijekiel says after a second, his gaze trailing away from Athanasia to his friend. Gracefully, he stands up, brushing grass blades from his immaculate uniform. “I’ll be there in a second. You can go ahead first.”
“Fine. You’re Professor Jontera’s favourite anyway, I doubt you’d get in trouble. See you there!”
She hears his footfalls receding in the distance, releasing a relieved breath. Before it even fully escapes, it catches at her throat when she opens her eyes, meeting Ijekiel’s immediately.
“...I’m sorry I’m lacking and couldn’t catch you properly,” he says. His voice is soft-spoken, but assertive, like he’s weighed every word thrice before letting them touch his lips. “Are you hurt, my La—”
“A-Angels don’t get hurt by things like this!” She blurts out in a hurry. Instantly, she wishes for swift death.
“...An angel?”
Goddamn it, the disbelieving tone magnifies her humiliation tenfold. But she can’t very well tell him she’s a princess, can she? That’s going to lead to a host of other questions. What are you doing here? Why did you fall on me? How did you fall from the sky?
Athanasia only has the answer to one of them. That bastard Lucas will pay, she promises herself, her hands curling into tight fists.
“Yes, so keep your distance,” she grits out, feeling her face heat up from sheer shame. This ridiculous lie…! Ugh.
He didn’t see my eyes, did he?
“I see, so you’re an angel.” His voice is shaking the way people’s do when they desperately try to keep from laughing. Of course he doesn’t believe me.
Athanasia hates Lucas a bit more, but she sticks to her guns. “I thought you knew? You just called me an angel yourself.”
“That’s…” Ijekiel turns slightly pink, and he shyly rubs the back of his neck. “Y…You’re right.”
Oh my gosh, he’s so cute! What the hell? He really is a child. What a breath of fresh air after interacting with that decrepit dolt Lucas, her sour father and Raziel.
Instantly, she feels a bit contrite, sending a telepathic apology to her brother. I’m sorry, Raz! I just miss company that doesn’t communicate in ten syllables or less!
“I’ll stay over here since you seem to prefer that I don’t come too close,” Ijekiel stammers, fiddling with his hands.
Ijekiel! You gentleman, you! If it were Lucas he’d just intrude on her personal space regardless. Though to be fair he doesn’t initiate physical contact very often, she admits reluctantly. He’s sparing with affection —she suspects it’s because he was never really given any himself. She is very careful about who she hugs as well, and even then she’s always monitoring their reactions in case she’s being annoying. Lucas is insufferable and an idiot, but she understands him very well.
“How did you end up here, Lady Angel?”
Lady Angel. Fuck me, this is embarrassing as hell.
“That’s a secret,” she squeezes out through a full-body reaction of cringe.
“I see.”
A breeze flits through the garden, sending leaves rustling.
“Err… shouldn’t you be going to class? What were you doing all the way in the gardens anyway?”
“I was sending some letters.”
Athanasia looks around in confusion, and Ijekiel chuckles quietly.
“I have a falcon who sends them,” he explains with a faint smile.
Her eyebrow quirks up. “Isn’t that pretty old-fashioned?”
“Maybe. But Jenne— the recipient insists on the falcon.”
Jennette’s awfully picky with her means of correspondence, huh. How cute. At least they seem to be getting along nicely.
“Where is it anyway?”
Ijekiel smiles at her and lets out a sharp whistle. Soon enough, a falcon with gloriously pepper-white plumage descends with a piercing shriek, landing on his arm. It sets its beady eyes on the stranger in their company immediately.
Athanasia loses it just a bit. “That’s so cool,” she breathes, stars in her eyes as she looks at the majestic bird.
She forgets all about her anger and her anxiety about the male lead for a minute. She’s never had the opportunity to see a falcon before, especially not this close. The bird’s neck straightens, as if preening at the attention, and Ijekiel runs an affectionate finger from its head down its back, smiling with quiet pride.
“What’s its name?”
“His name’s Aziel,” Ijekiel replies shyly, and Athanasia’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “He was a birthday gift from my best friend.”
“You mean that boy, Cabel?” Or maybe…?
Ijekiel shakes his head. I knew it! It’s you! You’re Raziel’s Mun-eo! The Octopus! For a moment, she’s tempted to ask if he really is flexible enough to walk on a bar using his hands alone, and if Lucas really is correct and Raziel puts the barest amount of energy into every practice bout. Athanasia never even saw him hold a sword, nevermind fight with it.
“Huhuhu,” Athanasia chuckles nefariously under her breath. When Ijekiel sends her a slight frown, she beams at him instead, making him blush and look downward. “What kind of person is your best friend, then?”
“He’s kind,” —Athanasia nods agreeably— “confident” —nod— “knowledgeable,” —nod— “and always knows what to say to make you feel better.”
“Yes, I agree,” Athanasia affirms, crossing her arms. She could give the falcon a run for its money, the way she’s preening.
“...You do?”
Fuck. “Um, well, you seem like a good judge of character,” she jabbers out, “so your best friend would certainly have those qualities.”
She could have sworn Ijekiel muttered something like “...Are you sure you’re five?” just then, but that can’t be. He’d sound like he recognised her and knew her age.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
For a while, Athanasia wishes she was back at the Palace already. She’d rather drown at the lake again than drown in this awkward silence.
“Pri… Lady Angel, how do you think you stop people from crying?”
What a completely random question. For sure it has absolutely nothing to do with Jennette de Alger Obelia, no sir!
“How should I know?”
“Ah, was that too difficult of a question—”
“I don’t cry,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Do you know how old I am?”
Silence. Then— “Is that so?” in that same godforsaken, trembling voice.
He’s laughing! “What, what are you laughing at?” She says in outrage.
“I beg your pardon. It’s just that you’re so cute, Lady Angel.”
Huh? What am I hearing, coming from this child? What am I doing right now?
“You’re going to miss your geopolitics class at this rate,” Athanasia points out desperately. “Why don’t you go learn about the influence of the Black Desert on the Quadruple Alliance or whatever you have to study?”
“...Pr–Lady Angel, you know about the Quadruple Alliance?” Ijekiel gapes, his golden eyes wide.
“Yes,” Athanasia groans, “so why don’t you go back to that now?”
“It was a good guess,” Ijekiel says, still looking amazed, “but we’re actually studying Emmanuel Opal’s far-spreading influence in governance using a model of foreign land investment.”
Huh? Who? What the fuck is that?
“Hey,” she says, her voice like steel, “how much Syncansian can you speak? God said ‘Thou art born from my blood toned milk thou shalt never escape thy corrupted paradise—’”
“‘But when time has passed thee like grains of sand at the beach, I shalt save thee, so until thy faithful day of destruction, raise thy glass of blood for all,’' Ijekiel recites smoothly. Zero hesitation, no pauses. He looks at her with an impressed gleam in his eyes. “Goodness, you’ve already memorised up to Chapter 12 Verse 41 of the Sycansian bible? People typically learn that at fifteen. You’re incredible.”
I’m not! I’m really not! I’m mentally of age, damn you, you’re the abnormal one, Athanasia seethes. It can’t be —an eight year old, more well-read than her!
So this is the male lead.
Unacceptable. She needs to go back and start picking up the slack. No more resting and fooling around. She shifts, cursing Lucas again and wishing she could go home already.
“Lucas, you little—”
Snap! Purple mist engulfs her, and suddenly the hedge at her back is gone, replaced with her mattress back at the Ruby Palace, and Ijekiel is nowhere to be seen.
Instead, Lucas looms over her, looking pissed. “Have a nice trip?” He asks with a thin-lipped smile, his ruby-red eyes squinted. “You must have been having fun, seeing it took you this long to call me—”
Wham! The noise of her fist hitting his face is the most musically satisfying thing she’s ever heard in both lifetimes.
“What took you so long, idiot?”
Lucas’ jaw drops open, and he snarls up at her as he rubs at his head. “You’re the first person to ever hit me. But why? I’m the idiot? You ended up there by yourself! That spell takes you to the first safe place you can think of!”
She freezes, her arms over her head like she’s about to swing at him again.
I thought of Ijekiel…? She casts her mind back, trying to remember —then her face colours, and her arms drop back down her sides. I did, she thinks, mortified.
“Why did you think of Arlanta Academy first?” Lucas asks moodily, crossing his arms.
“I…um. I don’t know.”
“Bullshit,” he mutters, but then he backs away toward the door. “Whatever. Just stay in your room. I’ll tell that nanny of yours and the Emperor you’re back. I’ll make up some bullshit about your mana fluctuating to save you, so remember that if your father asks. Bye.”
Athanasia opens her mouth to say something —what that is, she doesn’t know, but it doesn’t stop her feeling disappointed when Lucas leaves, the door banging closed behind him.
I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Ijekiel.
Lucas picks up another cookie with a tendril of his magic and dunks it in his teacup, watching it absorb the chocolate and slowly turn brown. It raises itself from the cup and bobs toward him, straight into his mouth. He closes his eyes, savouring it.
Sweet perfection. A treat he deserves for his kind, benevolent actions as of late.
But then a shuddering gasp fractures the tranquil silence from the bed in the corner of the room, and his chewing stops.
“So, you’re finally awake,” Lucas sighs, pointedly fixing his eyes on the wall opposite. “Who do you think you are, Sleeping Beauty?”
There’s a muttered curse as Raziel unravels himself from the blanket and settles his feet on the floorboards. Lucas doesn’t even need to see him do it, since Raziel’s every move is broadcasted in sound —violently getting up, discarding his sheets and setting the floorboards creaking when he tries to climb out of bed.
“I need to go home,” he hears him say between pants.
Lucas rolls his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. Not even a second after he awakens and the bastard already can’t keep still. “Your brother’s already gone home, so you’re not going anywhere. He subscribed you to my expert care.”
The expert care in question refers to Lucas gorging himself on desserts on the sofa and playing the deadbeat husband to Raziel’s ailing wife, but that’s not anybody’s business. He’s done enough work for another century.
“Not—home. My world,” Raziel wheezes out before dissolving in a bout of dry coughing that chafes Lucas’ throat just hearing it.
This is when Lucas knows something is wrong. Raziel never lets on he’s in pain. He’s seen the asshole burning up from third degree fever with a face stonier than an Ancient Obelian bust. One day he broke his arm in a swordsmanship lesson and Lucas had been the only one to even notice, even when he’d been jeering and mocking him from the sidelines while eating blueberry crumble. He’s by the bed by the next blink after blending into a glowing purple circle and through the folds of space, running an analytical eye over him, taking note of the sweat on his brow, the ghost-like complexion, and the fatigue limning his slumped figure.
He snaps his fingers. “You’re such a nuisance,” he grumbles as a set of white magic circles begin to oscillate around Raziel’s heaving chest, absorbing his pain for him.
His eyes are more exhausted than usual, following the magic drowsily like he’s half-drugged. The bags under his eyes are deep and dark enough to set Lucas’ teeth grinding. “Hey,” he grits out, “Do you enjoy pain? Huh? Do you like destroying your body like this? Are you incapable of sitting still?”
Raziel frowns like he’s offended. Faintly, he coughs out, “I’m the best at sitting still—”
“Bullshit!”
Lucas grabs his shoulders and shakes him like a maraca, but stops when Raziel turns slightly green. Furious, he looks around for something else to hit.
Lucas has been trying to control his blood pressure for the past day or so, so his temper’s like a vat of gunpowder ready to explode. I’m sorry Lucas, I’ll consult you next time, would have been like a cooling jet of water dampening the ticking bomb. ‘I’m the best at sitting still’ is like Raziel lighting up a match and dropping it nonchalantly over the top.
Raziel “I am a bad person” Robaine is the same idiot that told the family chef to always make Lucas’ favourite blueberry-flavoured desserts, feigning irritation when he saw him magicking them up to the attic to eat. Raziel “I want to be a slacker” Robaine is the same idiot that is actively improving the quality of life for everyone in his immediate vicinity —only to end up injured or worse, all for the sake of some dusty mortals that will end up dying in the next couple of decades anyway.
Hissing, Lucas strikes the magic circles away with such force that they go spinning like dinner plates into the wall, crashing into oblivion. They whine as they disappear, but he’s still seething, hands curling into fists at his side.
“What possessed you to break through an augmented specificity ward with a locked locus without me?” Raziel’s eyes widen, and in their reflection Luzas sees his own glowing with fuming rage. His magic whips around him like writhing snakes. “If you have a death wish, go die in some other world, not mine!”
Craaash! Raziel flinches, hands coming up to protect himself when he sees the window breaking above the bed’s headboard, but the shards hit an invisible shield of air before they can touch even a sliver of his skin. Lucas jerks his hand and the falling glass vanishes instantly. Slowly, Raziel lowers his arms and turns to look at him, but he stubbornly turns to the direction of the door.
For a tense second, there’s nothing but silence.
“I can be a bit stupid,” Raziel says. His tone is more sad and wistful than regretful, as if he’s said the same words before.
Lucas snorts with derision and steps back.
“Lucas.”
Lucas crosses his arms, fixating his gaze on the luminous stones worked into the wooden panelling of the room in glowing, swirling shapes and constellations. Should he transfigure the bastard into a crystal and put him in the wall? At least then he wouldn’t be running around stealing and doing other dangerous, fun things without him.
“I won’t get hurt anymore if I can help it.” A pause. Then— “I promise.”
It’s not a magic or divine oath, but the gravity with which he said it makes Lucas lower his hackles. “You better not, Raziel,” he mutters moodily. “If you die, I’ll drag you back from the circle of life myself.”
“Cale.”
Lucas quirks an eyebrow. “What? Are you hungry or something after all the trouble you caused me?” His magic snatches the cookie jar and floats it over to them, shaking it in his direction. “Have a cookie and shut up. I refuse to summon vegetables.”
He’s treated to an eyeroll that makes Lucas briefly reconsider letting him off the hook.
“No, not kale. Cale. That’s my name.”
An olive branch, sealing the promise with something more important than magic —trust. Lucas finally looks at him again, at the straightforward way he returns the stare, the awkward apology written in the dark amber hue of his eyes. He tries to find his anger again, but it’s lost to him.
He’s known this person for six years. Just like him, Lucas is not the type to apologise.
He sighs, plopping himself next to him on the bed. “I see. It suits you better than Raziel, anyway. What does ‘Raziel’ even mean?”
Raz—Cale frowns, turning to face him. “You don’t know?”
“How the hell would I know? No language in this world translates that.”
He stares at him in silence for a while. Long enough that Lucas defensively snaps at him. “What are you looking at?”
“It’s from a language in my original world,” Cale says flatly. “It means ‘God’s secret’.” Distaste is written all over his face.
Lucas gives a sharp laugh. “Isn’t that a bit too on the nose? That death god of yours lacks creativity as well as common sense.”
Cale’s lips twitch as if he might smile, but then he frowns. Lucas narrows his eyes at him. “No. No way,” he says gleefully.
Cale tenses, hoping Lucas didn’t pick anything up. Like hell. He may be hard to read but he’s been around this motherfucker for too long to be duped.
Relish bubbles inside of him like champagne, and then Lucas is laughing harder than he has in a while. “You’ve done it too. Who is it that carries the curse of your naming skills?”
Cale silently climbs back in bed and pulls the blanket over his head, as if it will block him out. Lucas grabs the blanket and tugs it away, having to grope around for purchase because he’s laughing hard enough that his entire body’s shaking. A gruelling game of tug-of-war ensues until the blanket finally comes free and falls to the ground in a heap, revealing the idiot laying facedown on his pillow. It’s hard to see through the ruddy mess of curls but he thinks he saw his ears turn a bright red. His stomach starts hurting from all the sniggering.
“Dr..g..n,” he hears him mumble through the pillow.
Lucas braces a hand against the mattresses and takes a moment to compose himself. “W-what was that?”
“A…gon.”
It takes a while for it to register into an actual word, but when it does Lucas is lost again, reduced to wheezing like Cale in peak pollen season. “A dragon? A fucking dragon?”
His head nods, just barely. At this point his lungs are put under so much stress that Lucas is actually half-panicking.
“You fucker, stop, I can’t fucking breathe.”
Despite his embarrassment, Cale uses his elbows to pull himself up and shoot him an irritated look. Lucas reads the outraged how is that my fault perfectly, but he finds himself slightly distracted by the sight of Cale’s curls tangled in a towering footlong structure on top of his head, and the pillow creases on the right side of his face. This is God’s mighty Messenger. This is the messiah sent to save Lucas’ world.
He doesn’t see the exasperation on Cale’s face because he starts howling, collapsing into loud guffaws and wheezes interspersed with curse words filthy enough to make the Emperor give him the side-eye. A solid minute after, he ends up on the ground, holding his stomach and feeling slightly sick. Cale mutters away from somewhere overhead, his tone distinctly waspish.
“It’s not like I’m the only one with something like that as my name. ‘Asrar’ Bontafe literally means secrets and mysteries.”
“No… it doesn’t…” Lucas pants, and a couple of chortles are still forcing themselves out of his aching ribcage. “That… spineless worm… his name doesn’t mean anything.”
Cale frowns. “What do you mean? It’s ‘secrets’ in A…” An interesting look crosses his face. “Arabic. Of course.”
“What’s that?” Lucas asks, heaving a great, steadying breath and sitting back down on the mattress next to Cale’s prone form.
“A language from a different world,” Cale answers absently, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “I need to talk to him later…” Lucas wants to snap his fingers in front of his blank eyes. How irritating. The Master Magician from the legends is right before this fool and he zones out.
“Why does Bontafe have that name?” Cale murmurs.
He shrugs. “Either it’s happenstance or your god—”
“Not my god.”
Lucas rolls his eyes. “Or the god messed up somehow and sent someone to help you. They do that sometimes. Though if that old man is your damage control he’s doing a poor job of it. Forget that. How’s the pain? Did it go away with that spell?”
There’s a period of silence and Cale gets that distinctive glassy look in his eyes that tells Lucas he’s gone somewhere inside his mind and gotten lost there.
He ponders the value of smacking him, then—
“Shut up,” Cale says.
Lucas must have misheard. Maybe after the Yaksha’s remarks his hearing has become permanently damaged. He asks just in case, smiling a bit too widely, with too many teeth: “What?”
His eyes refocus on Lucas. “Not you,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “The voices.”
“...What?”
Cale sighs and tiredly looks heavenward. “Nevermind.”
“Give me that,” Lucas says with a frown, snatching his hand where it limply laid next to him. “Razi—Cale, you fucking idiot. What voices? Did someone curse you?”
“No, I—”
He places three fingers on the inner side of his wrist, ignoring Cale’s protests. His mana sinks through skin and veins, coursing along like blood into the heart, frantically sensing for damage. Curses are metaphysical, but they anchor themselves to the physical body to cause harm —and usually the anchor is at the heart or the brain. It’s harder to remove that way. The most annoying bits of magic, given that nearly all ways to expel them are invasive. If Cale still had his magic to mindlessly defend him from any invader, Lucas would never be able to do this.
His heart is clean, though, and beating stronger than ever. Lucas’ mana follows the aorta and the carotid to inspect the brain. He pauses, one part of his senses still inside the bloodstream through that wisp of mana, and looks at him in warning.
“This,” he says grimly, “might sting a bit.”
Cale’s eyes widen. “What—”
The magic swoops in, encasing his brain and rushing through neural webs and structures, surveying every inch for malicious mana. Some faraway part of Lucas hears Cale’s speech cut off into a strangled wince. The majority of him, however, is still looking, examining, picking apart. Wherever his mana touches, fractured memories rise to the forefront like smoke, bringing with them faint impressions —screams of pain, monstrous roars, battlecries, childish peals of laughter, purrs, the clink of a teacup against ceramic. But Lucas doesn’t wander, doesn’t look too close. Trust is a fragile thing to possess. Even if Cale had not been aware of everything his mana did, like a wary guard standing at attention, Lucas would not have taken liberties.
But this was important. He only just saved the fool. If he perished because of some curse he’d set fire to the Palace and kill everyone in it.
It’s only when he’s fully certain there’s nothing there that he disengages, relaxing where he’s sat.
“Well?” Cale asks, staring at him flatly and massaging his temples.
“You’re fine,” Lucas says, sighing with relief— no, not relief. Irritation, that must be it. Frustration at how high-maintenance the Princess and this Messenger both are. Yes. “Unless the curse is powerful enough to worm its way into your soul instead, you’re fine.”
Somehow, though, Lucas is hesitant to ask Cale to cast meridian’ima. One’s soul is an incredibly private and vulnerable thing. Lucas himself hasn’t cast that spell since his teacher died. Cale has cast it in front of him carelessly, but it feels uncomfortable to request it of him.
“Anyway, you should be fine. Just stay in bed for once in your stupid life,” he says sharply, pushing him back into his pillows with a hand.
“I could have told you that myself.”
“And I wouldn’t have believed you.” His glare is harsh enough to cut diamonds. “You always say bullshit like ‘I’m fine’ and then I see you with a broken limb—”
“It was one time—”
“Shut up. And take this, you pillock. So that this doesn’t happen again.”
Something gold is thrown his way and Cale catches it and holds it up to his eye. Lucas releases a quiet breath. Good. His reflexes are alright, nothing like the tremors he had when he first woke up. He seems more settled in his own skin than Lucas has ever seen him.
Karna’s Kundal gleams between his fingers, more brightly than any normal full-carat gold should.
Lucas expected him to not know what it is, but it still ticks him off when he says, “Thanks,” quizzically. What an anticlimactic reaction. After all the trouble he went through to get it. The Yaksha will not welcome him back anytime soon, that’s for certain.
Though, that’s no skin off Lucas’ back. In fact, the further away from that guy, the better.
“That,” he explains through gritted teeth, trying to be patient, “is Karna’s Kundal, part of a demigod’s artefact pair.”
Cale’s eyes go curiously cold and robotic for a second, but then there’s a spark of comprehension. “A chestplate and earrings?”
Lucas nods, eyeing him with interest. “You know of the legend?”
“Hindu folklore and poetry,” Cale says, kindly explaining nothing. “For monster analysis.”
“No, you empty-brained ninny. It’s a Siodonnan legend.”
Unless…? Interesting. Even in other worlds… but who created the stories first —or rather…
“Where do they all stem from?” He mutters absently.
The Underworld is the realm of the demonic race, while the Heavens is the realm of the divine —there are bound to be gates at both. The myths and legends of the surface prove it, because they are ancient remnants of those beings’ influence. But what of the other races? The stronger existences, or those more spiritually tied to the fabric of worlds? The faerie, the nearly-extinct dragons, Lucas himself?
Cale named a dragon back in his world. There’s dragons there too. There must be a way for the divine race to talk to those of higher existence there, just as there is one here.
A medium —a gate.
And suddenly Lucas understands. He knows. A way for Cale to finally return like he wants to.
“Lucas.”
A way for him to leave.
He raises his head to the sight of Cale’s eyes probing him. Amber eyes. A shock of wine-red hair tangled beyond belief. Pillow creases on his stupid face. A personality so frustrating and sour he knows he’ll never find another person like him. Who else won’t bat an eye at his power, won’t baulk at his selfishness? Who else accepts it all?
A small part of him thinks of blue eyes and a quick temper.
No, not yet, Lucas decides, swallowing tightly and looking away. I won’t tell him yet. He still hasn’t fulfilled his mission. He might not fulfil it for years.
He runs a hand through his hair, sighing loudly. “By the Gates, this is giving me a headache. Just put the earrings on already.”
Cale does so even though he doesn’t take his eyes off of Lucas, as if he sensed something amiss. Sharp bastard.
But then his hands come away after securing the earrings, and no doubt he feels the new, foreign strength coursing through his body, reinforcing, supporting and —to Lucas’ relief— distracting him.
Karna’s earrings were studded at the lobe with a small precious stone of a slightly lighter colour than Cale’s eyes, set into gold. Secured to it was a circular frame from which lines protruded —creating an intricate suggestion of a sun below each lobe, honouring Karna’s godly heritage from Surya. The whole thing was yanked from the brink of extravagance by the thinness of the metal, though the craftsmanship of such a delicate design was a statement in and of itself.
Some centuries ago, Lucas used to wear dangling earrings in the shape of a circle, inlaid with a big, fat ruby that was bordered by engravings in the metal... those had been more ostentatious by far.
Cale frowns, raising his hands to touch them. “They’re heavy.”
“If you take them off, I will eviscerate you.”
His hands slowly lower to his lap and Lucas nods, satisfied.
“What about when I go to sleep?”
“They’re a divine artefact,” Lucas glares, “how the fuck do you think Karna slept with them on? They’ll be fine, so stop yapping.” A leaden stare is levelled at him. “I will know if you take them off.”
There’s a sigh, but he leaves them alone. “What do they do?”
“They should provide immunity against permanent curses with physical anchors. Also increase strength, agility and speed of healing… what, what is it? What’s with that look on your face?”
The bastard’s eyes are shining nearly as bright as the beam that rises across his face. “Master Lucas, where did you get these?”
Shameless…! “You greedy punk, do you have any idea what I went through to get these?”
Cale clears his throat like he’s about to present his arguments in crisp-clear persuasion formatting. “If you tell me where you got them, perhaps I can go with you next time to help,” he says brightly.
“I will never go there with you,” Lucas vows, because the thought of Cale meeting the Yaksha is simply too much. Either the Yaksha will flirt with a new “pretty face” or Cale will somehow manipulate the fucker into doing his bidding. Or both simultaneously. He never wants to find out.
Lucas hastily continues, “Regardless, it’s hard to know how strong its effects will be since you won’t have the chest guard. But it’s better than nothing.”
Cale nods in understanding. “You’re giving the chestplate to Athanasia?”
“Yes. The idiot took a dip in the lake while you were out playing robber. Did you know?”
Judging by the frown on his otherwise emotionless face, he did not. But even if his features gave nothing away, his legs were already swinging to the side, as if he was going to go straight to the Princess in his pathetic state.
Lucas rolls his eyes, sending a blanket of magic on top of him. He watches with no small amount of amusement as he flails around under its heavy weight before stiffening to a standstill like a log.
“Lucas—”
“Shut up. Do what I tell you for once and stay in bed. The Princess is fine.”
“...She was with the Emperor,” Cale says, and something in his eyes goes flat and cold. If he still had magic, they might’ve flashed. Lucas had no such restriction; at the mention of that bastard, he’d felt the mana boiling beneath his skin again, frothing at the mouth for something to bite.
“Yes,” he says venomously. “Fat lot of good he did for her.”
“He did nothing.” It isn’t a question, but Lucas nods anyway. “I’m going to kill him.”
“That’s what I told her, but she said no.”
Cale sits up straighter. “Can you teleport her here? I need a report of what happened.”
Their eyes meet. Lucas doesn’t ask why he didn’t just pester him for the details —he can read the answer on his face. This idiot hides behind excuses and commands all the time. Why can’t he just say he’s worried?
Tsk-ing in disapproval, Lucas snaps his fingers, and a purple, smokey gateway looms in the middle of the air. Soon after, the gate spits out a swearing, frilly, pink, polka-dot wad of fabric with blond hair and a voice that could out-shrill a banshee straight onto the bed.
Cale and Lucas watch silently as the Crown Princess of the Empire splutters, pulling strands of hair out of her face and trying to set her clothing to rights. A litany of what must’ve been curses fall from her mouth, though Lucas understands none of it, frustratingly enough.
Finally, after a while she manages to catch her breath and calm her shock a bit. “What the hell made you think that was a good idea, you fucking bastard? Stop doing that without warning all the time!” She snarls, her blue eyes piercing Lucas through a curtain of messy hair. “It’s at least one in the morning!”
Lucas shrugs, grinning at her. Somehow, he feels much better than before. His magic calms down to a satisfied murmur, an explorative tendril latching around her ankle, another still blanketing Cale’s body. He senses the warmth of their skin through his mana like it’s a part of him.
“He wanted to talk to you,” Lucas replies flippantly, his back falling back against the mattress to reveal Cale sitting behind him with his characteristically deadpan expression.
Instantly, her expression clears up. Blatant favouritism! The injustice astounds. It seems she just likes everyone except him, even that white-haired kid.
“Raz! So this was your dormitory!” Athanasia beams, batting away her hair and crawling closer to Cale and basically bulldozing Lucas as a result. Her knees dig into his thighs, and she in no way acknowledges his ensuing groan of pain. “Thank god you’re okay.”
“Why would I thank him?” Cale says, wrinkling his nose. Lucas would tease him about how he scrutinised her, checking for injuries and signs of distress where there’s none, if his legs weren’t cramping up from pain.
“By the way, you’re flattening Lucas.”
“Oh.” Athanasia looks down, meeting Lucas’ glare with an innocent, astonished look, as if she hasn’t realised her knees and palms were drilling holes on his legs. “Right. Oops.”
She doesn’t move. In fact, she makes a show of losing her balance just to dig her elbow into his stomach. Lucas oomphs, reflexively gesturing in the direction of the bottom-end of the bed. Ever compliant, the bit of magic around her leg tightens, tugging her off him, and Athanasia elicits a shocked, strangled scream that brings an embarrassed flush to her face.
“Good princesses apologise, you know,” Lucas says pompously. He winces as he pulls himself up, back resting against the wall and legs spread out before him, but soon enough a white circle with runes inscribed on the inner ring sinks onto his legs, and the pain is syphoned off like it never existed.“I can’t believe this disrespect.”
“Believing is optional,” Athanasia says, her tone insufferably smug. “You just have to accept it.”
“Oh, I’ll show you believing,” Lucas retorts with a venomous glare. “By the time I’m done you’ll invent a new deity to pray to.”
“Athanasia. The report?” Cale interjects drily, in a tone that very pointedly said I’m still here, you know.
In sync, they petulantly turn their backs to each other to look at him.
“Right,” Athanasia sighs, sitting back on her heels and smoothing out her nightgown. “Here’s what happened.”
And she explains. When she gets to the part where her useless father sat and watched as she drowned, Lucas is totally unaffected. He’s the Master Magician of the Tower, eternal and invincible.
“Lucas, I can’t breathe,” a heaving voice says, and Lucas snaps from his reverie to the sight of Cale smacking the invisible weight over his chest. Belatedly, he eases the pressure of his mana and pretends he meant to do that.
Cale casts him a knowing look that Lucas blatantly ignores. Then he asks, “Athanasia, what are you going to do about your father?”
She chews on her bottom lip, her brows furrowed.
“Why don’t you just kill him and be done with it?” Lucas pipes up. “I’ll do it, just tell me the method you prefer.”
“Two main reasons,” she mutters, counting them with her fingers. “For one, I don’t trust the nobility to govern fairly until the Regent is elected. I’m not of age, so I can’t take the position. For another, Obelia is not the most well-allied in continental politics. So far Father’s been keeping them in check with his… um.” She gestures vaguely.
“Well-known propensity to violence?” Lucas supplies.
“Yes, that. He’s quite good at scaring people away, not so good at keeping friendly relations.”
Lucas feels Cale’s gaze piercing the side of his face. “What?” He snaps.
His eyes slide away to rest back on Athanasia, feigning complete ignorance. “Nothing.”
“I hate you both,” Lucas mutters, slumping back on the wall ruefully.
Athanasia chuckles, that furrow between her brows easing out. “Anyway, that’s why. It’ll be a headache if he dies.”
Lucas peers up at her through his lashes, bored. “I’m surprised, you know. I thought you just didn’t want your father to die.”
“I’m not that desperate for his attention,” she replies, shifting on the bed and raising a hand to brush her hair behind her ear.
Lucas hums thoughtfully, shooting a quick glance to his right. Cale’s gaze is probing her, roaming over her face like he’s picking it apart.
He obviously doesn’t buy it.
As he thought, it’s not that easy for regular people like Athanasia to let go of familial ties. Even if the family in question is rotten to the core. His own parents were pathetic sobs who were unlucky enough to accidentally give birth to their son on the strongest ley line in the world. His mother died in the birth due to the difficulty of such a magically-intensive pregnancy, and it was a once-in-a-millennium miracle that he even survived in the first place.
Lucas was a difficult child to handle, especially since he didn’t always know how to control his magic. His father dumped him at the doorstep of the closest Magic Tower with a card placed on his blanket the first chance he got.
All it said was “I’m sorry. Please look after him. His name is Lucas.”
Family… at some point he’d thought that had been his instructor. But he’d found a partner and then had children, wasting away into nothing after they passed. Lucas had never been considered family by anyone.
Even so, he didn’t need such a thing. Lucas was born an anomaly.
“Blood doesn’t make a family, Athanasia.”
The words came from Cale, snapping them both out of their reverie. He should’ve looked ridiculous with his hurricane-blown hair, but somehow the weight of his stare outweighed anything else. Tired, but knowing, almost prophetic.
Lucas wonders, not for the first time, what Cale’s childhood was like.
“Claude is a right bastard,” he states, matter-of-fact. “Put blood ties out of your head. Think only about the type of people you want to keep in your life. Does Claude fit into that?”
She doesn’t answer for a long while, but neither Lucas nor Cale break the silence. The room is dimly lit by the warm yellow light of the winking crystals in the walls, a pocket of light and intimate stillness in an otherwise silent Tower. They watch the way the light casts soft shadows across the planes of her face, patient in the face of her hesitation.
“...I… suppose I’ve never thought about it,” Athanasia whispers. “I’ve never had to.”
“You didn’t have family in your previous world?” Lucas asks.
She shakes her head, muted.
“Well, I’ve never had one either,” Lucas says cheerfully, fracturing the despondent air in the room instantly. “We’ll survive, I’m sure.”
Athanasia smacks him in the arm, but not even her hair can hide the way her lips curl into a grateful smile despite herself. After a second, their eyes turn to Cale expectantly.
“What?” He sighs, already resigned.
“What about you?”
“I do have one.”
They wait.
And wait.
“That’s it?” Athanasia demands.
Cale shrugs unrepentantly.
“Is it the Robaines?”
He hesitates. “Yes.”
“That’s a no,” Lucas tells her, and she nods back in agreement. “And now that I think about it, he’s never called Felix ‘brother’ or the Duke ‘Father’.”
“Did that god separate you from them?” Athanasia asks hesitantly. “Is your family back in Korea?”
“There was nothing left for me in Korea.” Something terribly haunted darkens his eyes.
There’s a weighty pause. Then, realisation dawns on Athanasia’s face. “I asked you once if you were going to return there, but you said no —you’d said ‘somewhere else’.”
“...When I was on Earth,” Cale says, “I read a book. The god used it as a medium to pull me inside the world it depicted.”
“Shit, really? Me too!” Athanasia beams, lounging across to grab Cale’s hands excitedly. “It was this cheesy novel called ‘The Lonely Princess’. I liked to read it on my breaks.”
Lucas frowns. “...Transmigration through a medium? That doesn’t sound right for you, Princess. What were you called in your previous world?”
“Oddly enough, my name was the same,” she says brightly, completely missing the way he stiffened at her words, the way a dark expression settled on his face. “It’s what made me interested in the book in the first place. Well, anyway. So, Raziel, your family is in the world of the book?”
“Yes. It’s Cale, by the way.”
“Huh?”
“My name. It’s Cale.”
Lucas tries not to snigger as he watches her brain short-circuit.
“Oh,” she says dumbly, setting Lucas’ laughter off. She doesn’t even look as she shoves him lightly, blushing. “Shut up, Lucas. But, um, Cale, huh… that name fits better somehow, now that I think of it… Forget that, though. What is your family like, Cale?”
“Loud. Strong,” Cale states after some consideration.
“Wow, um. Your family sounds … intense.”
“Do you collect powerful people for fun, perhaps?” Lucas drawls.
Cale shrugs. “It just always turns out that way somehow.” He mutters something about a zoo under his breath and Lucas suddenly imagines him surrounded by a collection of deadly beasts in an enclosure, feeding them emotionlessly and calling them family.
He snorts, hastily feigning innocence when Cale shoots a quizzical look in his direction.
There’s a sigh. “Let’s stop talking about this.” Athanasia opens her mouth to speak, but she picks up something in his expression and falls silent instead. “I’m going to tell you the plan.”
“Apparently, this one actually involves me,” Lucas says sarcastically, not even batting an eye at the twin glares of exasperation aimed at him.
Cale’s jaw tenses, that familiar clinical and unfeeling glaze covering his eyes again. Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, thrice is something else entirely. He must be using one of his abilities. Lucas aches to know what they all are —he’s a magician through and through, incessant curiosity included.
“In two days, I’m going to the Alpheus Estate to talk to Ijekiel about his father’s guest.”
Athanasia raises her hand silently, chewing on her bottom lip. When Cale nods at her, she asks, “Can I come with you?”
Lucas stiffens. Subconsciously, his magic lies poised over the room like a thunderstorm about to strike. “Why? Do you want to talk to that octopus again?”
“No,” she says defensively, but she doesn’t meet his eyes. The temperature falls a couple degrees, his mana sapping the warmth from the air without him meaning to, and her breath comes out misty in front of her face.
“L-Lucas,” she says through stuttering teeth, curling her body inward, “stop it.”
A firm hand falls on his shoulder, and Lucas follows it up to find Cale looking at him, features like granite, his other hand holding aloft a scorching, rose-gold fireball that flares threateningly.
“You’re acting like Claude. Get a grip.”
He says nothing else. Doesn’t even accuse him of anything. But Lucas flinches all the same, his magic recoiling at the very idea. The room’s warmth returns, and Athanasia shudders, relaxing, before shifting further away from him and closer to Cale. It brings a bitter, unpleasant taste to Lucas’ mouth.
“I’m… sorry,” he says, feeling more awkward than he ever remembers being in hundreds of years. “I didn’t realise. My mana is sensitive to my emotions, but it won’t happen again.”
“Whatever. You didn’t scare me anyway,” Athanasia snaps. “I was just cold. You think that was worse than drowning in that lake?”
“Princess,” Lucas starts, then stops. Fuck, how is he supposed to even handle this? He nearly turns to Cale for guidance before aborting the movement, knowing instinctively that it would make her even angrier. “Athanasia.” A scowling glance is thrown in his direction. “I swear my magic won’t hurt you. Ever.”
There’s a momentary blue glow coming from his ribcage, locking the oath to completion inside his heart, and the Princess stares at him in astonishment. Lucas knows no other way more effective for assuring her of her safety, but even still, he doesn’t regret making the oath. Especially when she finally shuffles back a bit closer to him. Instead, he sighs with relief. Relief! Gods be damned, what’s wrong with him these days?
“I’m really doomed,” he grouses. “You two are the banes of my existence.”
Cale’s fire winks out, and he retracts his hand from his shoulder. His eyes are bouncing from Athanasia to Lucas and back again, looking annoyingly sceptical.
“What I was going to say before Lucas freaked out was that I want to see the Duke’s ward,” Athanasia explains, stretching her arms over her head. “Jennette was the heroine in The Lovely Princess.”
Interest ignites in Cale’s eyes. “Explain.”
“Jennette de Alger Obelia was Claude’s beloved adopted daughter.” A finger taps at her chin as she combs through her memories of the novel. “Princess Athanasia was falsely accused of poisoning her, and that’s how she met her end in the book. She was executed shortly after begging Claude for mercy.”
Lucas’ magic begs him to let it loose on that bastard for the nth time in these two wretched days. Cale’s lips are starting to curl in that distinctively scammy smile of his, so he knows for a fact the same fury courses through both their veins.
They’ve both realised, then. Whatever Athanasia’s book was, it was nothing like the one Cale read in so-called “Korea”. Her soul didn’t get to this world through a medium, that’s for certain. Cale is a transmigrator —a loose thread waiting to fall off— whereas her existence is seamlessly weaved into the tapestry. Athanasia was referred to by name in the book, and it even mentioned her personal circumstances. That means only one thing.
All along she’d been reading about her past life.
“Should we just kill him?” Cale mutters.
“You have my vote,” Lucas says with venom.
Athanasia rolls her eyes. “It’s fiction, you know. Calm down.”
Lucas and Cale trade glances. “Is that why you collected jewels, Princess?”
A nod. “I knew it was a story, but I didn’t want to end up with the same fate as the body I possessed. My aim was to raise enough money to escape from the Palace without ever seeing Claude. I didn’t know what he was going to do, but...”
“...But he was hostile from the start,” Cale concludes. “So that made you certain that everything would be the same as the book. You tried to save yourself.”
Mutedly, Athanasia nods, her eyes downcast.
Lucas hated seeing her this way. Just as Cale looks better relaxed on his armchair shovelling grapes into his mouth, so does Athanasia look better smiling, unburdened.
He clears his throat loudly. “Listen up, Princess. You’re five, and with your mana, you’ll awaken one of these days. When you don’t need your magic beast anymore, I’ll make you stronger than your piece of shit father. Until then…” His arm disappears inside a purple pocket of mana for a second, only to resurface with something familiarly golden.
Casually, as if it’s a random piece of junk, he threw it on her lap.
“Keep that on you. Even when you’re sleeping. It should just transform into whatever you find more comfortable, as long as it sits on some part of your chest.”
Athanasia stares and stares and stares at the chest plate.
Lucas shifts, slightly worried despite himself. “It’s a divine artefact. It will protect you from most curses and magic attacks. Even the Emperor should have a hard time getting through that, but…”
He releases a long litany of layered spells, one after the other, watching the runes fill up the rings in the magic circles and the bright magic encircling Athanasia. A kaleidoscope of colours are reflected in her wide eyes, like the refracted light rays of a diamond.
When he finishes the casting, he smiles grimly. “Just in case. I’d love to see him try and get past those. Nobody gets past my shields.”
Athanasia looks at him with an expression like he’s pulled the stars from the night sky, and really it’s too much, but a small part of him kind of wants to see it again in the future.
“Thanks,” she tells him, and in return he generously pretends he doesn’t see her wipe her eyes with her sleeve.
Cale emotionlessly hands her a handkerchief from his bedside table. “May I continue, now?” He asks flatly.
“Oh, right. Yes. Go ahead.”
“Athanasia, your position in court is unstable,” he says firmly. “You can’t leave the Palace at a time like this to meet that girl. I’ll do the reconnaissance. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me everything you remember about the novel, and I’ll be the one to meet her when I visit Ijekiel.”
Athanasia looks like she wants to argue, but there’s no reason for her to refuse.
“I’ll stay here then,” Lucas sighs. “I’ll babysit this idiot,” —he expects the incoming smack, dodges it elegantly— “and keep her out of trouble.”
“I may not have magic right now,” she grumbles, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t become stronger in other ways.”
Cale smiles his shady smile. Duplicitous asshole. “I know.”
Her first plan when she came here was to steal gold and precious jewels under all these fuckers’ noses and escape on her own. It’d be stupid to think she’ll be satisfied under other people’s protection forever. Lucas would rather die than admit it out loud but…
It is rare that he meets souls with even half her hope and zest for life.