Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Of all the ways Ifan thought he’d leave this world, drowning just wasn’t very high up on the list.

Not that it was entirely impossible. There were simply more probable and much more determined forces out to kill him than the depths of the True Sea.

He’d done nothing to upset the ocean.

It wasn’t, however, the first time the thought had crossed his mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d hit the water from way too high up, with enough time to think well, this is it before crashing into the surface with salt in each of his airways.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been tossed between the waves, scraping sharp rock, trying to find out which way was up and which was down before being pulled under with no breath left in his lungs, because even a great swimmer had no chance against the roaring maelstrom of the sea.

Not for long.

Ifan wouldn’t have described anything he did as death-defying, really. That was a bit presumptuous, and he was well aware of his own mortality. In fact, it was more as if death defied him. Just like it had last time, and he’d woken up being washed against the shore of the same prison island he was about to get shipped off to.

Rhalic’s doing, probably.

Ifan had thought it countless times before.

Well, this is it.

Only for death to lay down its last unlucky card, losing a game that seemed impossible to lose. Maybe because it dogged his heels at every turn, and had grown fond of him. Maybe because Ifan knew each time, somewhere deep and certain, that this wasn’t it.

This time, however–

Something felt different.

The sea was wild tonight.

The sky was clear, the wind enough to wrangle the clouds and make way for a thousand stars, the waves crashing into the wood of their trusted vessel, tossed between the tides without respite. The sails fluttering, the tows creaking below him in complete darkness.

He could get used to this seafaring life.

Ifan had always loved the ocean. The reminder of something so wild, limitless and powerful that had no motive and no aim, only an ebb and flow and an endless horizon. For hours he could listen to it roar, the stiff breeze on his skin, and cast everything into the wind.

The tinge of nerves in his guts, as he stood on the fragile platform on the main mast swaying between uncontrollable waves, a slight remnant of the fear of heights he’d never quite managed to kick. He didn’t mind it. Welcomed it even, a habit he’d always kept.

More often than not, the first crew members to crawl on deck in the blue ungodly hours of the morning would find Ifan up there in the crow’s nest, keeping watch. His sharp ears had picked up on a conversation between Tarquin and Malady once, wondering if he ever really slept at all or was simply haunting their nights on the Lady Vengeance like a malevolent spirit.

It was a fun rumor to spread. Ifan allowed it.

Of course he slept. A couple hours each night, at least, sometimes more. Exchanging shifts with the other expert on insomnia on board to sneak back into bed before sunrise and wake up next to Francis.

A melodic whistle from below.

"Little crow, little crow," someone called. "What gossip do you tell the wind?"

He grinned, and returned the whistle, completing the old nursery song she’d chosen for a greeting.

"Come on up."

Sebille climbed the swaying rigs without fear or hesitation. Her regal features sharpened in what little light his pupils managed to catch, exacerbating the mysterious in them. A wide smile on her face as she swung her leg over the barrel’s edge, hair whipping in the breeze.

"A beautiful nest it is," she said in Common. "We’ve got ourselves a view, brother."

Ifan raised an eyebrow. "Brother?"

"Oh, come now. You have been better company to me than many an elf. Besides playing tic-tac-terminate with me – you speak my language, you honor my customs. More so than the kin itself, oftentimes. Don’t nitpick." She winked at him. "That is for humans."

He shrugged.

"Wasn’t my intention. I’m just not sure the rest of the kin would agree."

"Ah, but then – both of us are traitors. Unwilling ones, but traitors nonetheless."

He didn’t contradict her. She caught the dark trace of bloodlust that always lingered in him, steady and skin-deep, as it rose into his eyes. It was cruel, to coax it out of him only for the sake of being less alone. Sebille knew it. But Ifan had let his guard down recently. She needed him to keep it up a little longer, until they’d done what needed to be done.

A promise to keep. Blood to end blood.

She stretched her shoulders, folded her hands over the edge.

"So. Here we are. The night before battle."

Ifan nodded.

"I’m surprised you’re not spending it with someone else." She shot him a sly look. As you did, between friends. And they were friends, among other things. "But it’s just as well. I’m grateful for your sleeplessness. I’m never alone in it these days."

Ifan hummed. "No one should be."

"It will end," she said with certainty. "Like all things do. When the final dice has fallen, we will stop closing our eyes and seeing nothing but butchery. We are close. I can smell it."

He grinned, arms folded, and breathed in through his nose. "I think it’s dead fish, actually."

She waved him off lazily.

"Dead fish. Dead Lizard. Dead Bishop. What’s the difference, darling Ifan. We’re all but wretched creatures united in our final bloody destination."

"So sentimental, all of a sudden." Ifan chuckled. "What. This view ain’t romantic enough for you?"

She smiled, reached out to brush his hair between her fingers. What an enticing man he was, how fierce and relentless underneath a face to drown in and a smile to go to war for. A lethal beauty, leaving nothing but destruction in his path. Just like her.

"Yes. What a shame we don’t play for each other. We’d make quite the pair."

Ifan winked, turned his head and placed a kiss to her palm. The futile light-hearted flirtation seemed to put him at ease, like telling an old and well-loved story.

"Maybe in another life."

A large wave hit the side of the ship, making it tilt precariously. She didn’t miss the way Ifan’s hand shot toward the mast, still relaxed, but ready to grab on at a moments notice. The wind was howling in their ears, the dark sea almost drowning out their words.

"It’s weird, speaking Common with you," admitted Ifan after a while, when the tempest had ebbed a little. "It’s like you’re a completely different person. I think we both might be."

Sebille tilted her head, considering it.

"It is a crude language," she agreed. "Dishonest. Imprecise. And in many ways, a tool of the oppressor. But I like the games you can play with it, and its bitter little sense of humor. I’ve come to enjoy sarcasm. Not much fun to be had in total sincerity."

"I don’t know. We seem to find a way." He grinned. "I think the South would be more bearable if they had the words to say what it is they truly feel. Less repressed, for sure."

Sebille laughed.

"You speak both, and you are plenty repressed. Religiously so, I might say."

The mercenary shrugged.

"Hard habit to lose. Teaching an old dog new tricks – it takes a while."

Sebille eyed him curiously.

"You’re neither a dog, nor are you old. Compared to me, that is. I was barely learning how to speak at your age. And yet, you have found time to squander lives as careless as a cat, in service to this or that crusade. At least now, we kill and die out of our own desire."

Ifan drew his lip up and placed a hand on his chest, closed it into a fist and moved it toward her to gesture transgression.

"That’s harsh, Sebille." He switched to Elvish, their banter having taken a turn into injury, trying to acquire clarity before it could truly arrive there. "It is the truth, but a painful one. Were you always above taking the easy solution? To avoid the terrifying weight of making your own choices? Were you never enthralled by faith?"

She shrugged. Disagreement, she signed.

"Faith is something else. What you describe is subjugation. I pray in the way every living being prays, but only in my darkest hour did I turn to my god. An invisible friend is as good as any, if you are desolate."

She clicked her tongue, continuing in Common.

"Not that Tir-Cendelius was very talkative back then. But now, the roles are reversed. He wants something from me. Everyone seems so eager to pray to me, my god included. I abhor it, to be candid. It was the reason I ran away in the first place, back when I was little."

Sebille observed his face. The softness there had all but disappeared. She didn’t begrudge him his happiness, but was worried it would make him careless. Where they were going, she needed Ifan at his sharpest. The war wasn’t over. And he could take a little hurt.

"We are quite similar in some ways, Ifan. But we are not the same. I had to fight for every choice I can make. Bitterly. I paid the cost in blood and agony. I am free of chains, and already, everyone tries to bend me to their will again. The scions. The gods." She barked a laugh. "To be put on a pedestal is almost as dishonoring as being subdued. Most of the time, they’re one and the same. I will have my freedom. And no one will stand in my way."

Ah, there it was. The face of an assassin. The one she’d met on the ship to Fort Joy, silent and deadly, one that knew what it meant to to survive, by any means necessary. Her brother in arms. Her accomplice.

Ifan mustered her, calculating. Then he nodded. In respect, and agreement.

Satisfied with the reaction, she gave him a slightly softer smile.

"I need to trust that you won’t surrender to Rhalic when the time comes. That you will fight him with everything you have. Because if you don’t, it won’t just be you that has to suffer. It will be all of Rivellon. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal," said Ifan.

"Good."

She nodded, gesturing determination. "Because I am about to bestow you with my greatest weakness. It is necessary to win this fight, but your god is always listening. And I have no doubt he will try to use it against me in the Well of Ascension, by proxy of you."

Ifan cocked his head. Clarify. She turned to him, with a piercing stare.

"My scar song."

His eyes widened in realization. "Sebille… no. What if–"

"Believe me, I don’t like this any more than you do. But the fact is this. As soon as the master lays eyes upon me, he will use it to control me. I have no way of fighting it. I have to rely on you to counter it, or else, I will end up right where I started. This is necessary."

Ifan pinched his nose. It took him a while to answer.

"With all my will, I would never use this against you." He said. In Elvish. "But what if Rhalic… Ma ghilana. What if I’m not strong enough?"

Sebille shrugged.

"You will simply have to be."

She sighed.

"I would ask Lohse. Her control is immaculate. She has been handling an archdemon in her head for a year. But as we both remember, it holds her voice captive. It won’t let her sing. And as for your vhenan… I recognize what you see in him. He is lovely, charming as a devil, but a devil he is. Remorseless. I do not trust him as far as I could throw him."

Reluctant agreement, signed Ifan.

His voice, just on this side of hoarse as he spoke again.

"He could be trusted on this, I think. There are some things he wouldn’t do. But I understand." He took a deep breath, and wiped a hand over his face. "Irithme."

Sebille touched his shoulder, feeling skin above the hem of his coat, to make sure he wasn’t lying as well as to comfort him. What a strange gesture to mean both these things, she thought. Her fingers found determination. And fear.

"I’m glad. I trust you."

Shame.

It was plain there, flaring up, reflexive. She drew back, fairly certain he wanted to be alone in his skin – judging from the look on his face, even if he didn’t tell her off. A learnt lesson.

"All these things I’ve asked of you, my Ifan," she added with a reassuring smile. "You’ve never disappointed me. You’ve gone through fire for me more than once. I hope you know I would return the favor, if you only told me how."

He gave a curt, silent nod. The waves breaking against the side of the ship in a terrible roar as he thought this over.

"Only one thing. When the time comes, and we find Alexandar – don’t let me or anyone else kill him before I talk to him. I need answers. I need to know."

Sebille tilted her head. "Agreed. That is easy to do." She gathered herself. "Listen close now, Ifan. The sea is wild tonight. This is all the privacy we’ll get."

Ifan listened to the terrible melody with complete concentration. She sang it thrice to him, then asked him to repeat it back to her.

He shook his head.

"No. I will remember. I always do."

Sebille nodded. She watched him climb down the rigs while the sun began to rise over the horizon, to spend his last hours before a menacing dawn in the arms of someone more loving. And gods guide her – she was happy for him.

There’s nothing quite like being woken up by an explosion, thought Francis to himself as he stumbled onto the deck, half-awake but fully terrified, in nothing but the pants he’d slept in and his bag slung over his shoulder.

One second, he’d been wrapped up in the warm embrace of the man he loved, greeting the day and counting his blessings – the next, his head collided with the wood beam above him as both of them jerked upright, Ifan rolling himself off the bed to grab his weapons, Francis trying to find his footing as the Livewood under them groaned menacingly and the entire ship tilted to the side.

They’d hit the blockade.

Not that either of them knew, in that moment.

Ifan emerged from the hatch behind him, haphazadly closing the most important straps holding his armor together and unlatching his crossbow. On the other side of the deck, the same occurred. Lohse, Sebille and Malady appeared from the cabin in the same moment that the second trebuchet missile slammed into the Lady Vengeance. The ship buckled sideways. Lohse caught herself on the doorframe, Sebille holding onto her arm.

On the horizon, the sails of the Divine Order fleet were spread into the wind like menacing banners. Ifan swung himself up into the sail rigs, source glazing over his eyes, activating his farsight. And whatever he saw didn’t seem to reassure him.

“Incoming!”

Francis’ back hit the railing, knocking the breath out of him, the missile crashed into the middle of the deck, ripping a hole the size of a market wagon into the planks, cursed fire flickering up from the impact site. The ship tilted. Francis shot a panicked glance around, saw Malady jumping up to the steering wheel, Ifan still hanging in the rigs, and decided he had to help the matter. He found his footing.

Francis raised his hands and drew up a smoke barrier in front of the ship. The effort was considerable. He felt the blood rush in his veins as the shield expanded over the side of the vessel, the taste of decay rising from his lungs. "Lohse! Give us some cover!"

She nodded, her eyes burning blue, and her source found the essence of the water. A thick mist rose up around the ship while from a distance, he saw Malady implore the Lady Vengeance to move them from their dimension to escape their demise.

He was unsure if the barrier was able to withstand anything of the sort of what was being catapulted at them. It was worth a try. Ifan, nimble as a cat, was in the process of climbing the rigs up to the crow’s nest. A bad idea in any conceivable way, but Francis was too busy to inform him of the fact. The mist spread further, beginning to obscure their vision as well as their enemies’, and Ifan was apparently trying to outrun it.

Francis’ hands kept steady. Waiting. The fleet had fired three times in rapid succession, and seemed to be in the process of reloading. Ifan hooked his legs into the tows, notched his crossbow, and muttered an incantation. The bolt in the groove began glowing with source. That was mighty optimistic, thought Francis. Ifan was an excellent shot, but the enemy ships were incredibly far away, and just because Ifan could see them, didn’t mean that the bolt could physically build enough momentum to – Ifan fired.

Through the mist, he saw the orange flicker of the explosion and the distant screams of the crew manning the trebuchet that the combustion bolt had hit. Francis smirked with pride. Ifan grabbed another. He took aim, using his farsight and the lense on the riser that Francis had installed, resting his elbow on the rigs to stabilize himself, breathed, and fired.

Another explosion.

The mist rose higher. Malady was on the wheel, cursing, her eyes glowing red as she performed the complicated ritual that was supposed to be their escape into the Hall of Echoes. She slammed a hand into the steering wheel. "Come on, girl!"

Just as Ifan was about to wipe the third catapult from this plane of existence, a massive boulder hit the barrier, right where the mast was. Francis stumbled backwards, holding his hands up anyway, as the ship rattled under the force of the impact. He cried out, cursed as a sudden, piercing pain went through his guts, stopped himself from doubling over. Damn their luck. They had geomancers.

Ifan, meanwhile, found his balance.

He adjusted his aim, then his eyes widened, and the missile of the last trebuchet slammed into the barrier. The force flung Francis with his full weight into the railing. His vision blanked. He almost went overboard, a sharp jab of pain cracking through his spine, the impact and his magic tearing at his insides, managed to catch himself at the last second.

Dropping the barrier.

He collapsed to the ground, scraping his chin on the planks, felt the oncoming consequences of his magic and resisted them long enough to see another boulder hit the mast. Ifan fell. Francis rolled to the side, reaching out like he could catch him.

A vine shot from Ifan’s hands, wrapped itself around what remained of the mast and he lowered himself to the deck, an elegant three point landing, crossbow securely in his hand.

Okay, thought Francis. Now I can pass out.

Tarquin had come a long way.

A long way down.

And it wasn’t so much that he particularly mourned the comfort of his heritage, more like he disagreed with the amount of discomfort that life had thrown his way during the last couple of years.

He had chosen this, in a way.

That was what he tried to remind himself of when he’d emerged from below deck, pulling a terrified Han behind him, his clothes singed by the remnants of cursed fire, the smoke burning in his lungs. It wasn’t a role he had been prepared for taking on, exactly.

Tarquin wasn’t the kind of man that pulled kids from the fire.

Or so he’d thought.

He stared over the railing into the eerie depths of the Hall of Echoes below. An aurora of source casting a dark glow on their surroundings. Billions upon billions of souls.

In his younger years, Tarquin had made a point of disputing the existence of the gods. The existence of an afterlife, as well. What cruel irony that he would be the one to witness both and live to tell the tale, someone so sure of his ability to shape his own fate.

And still, he beheld it all with wonder.

He was an engineer of sorts, after all.

A movement from his right. Tarquin turned to see who it was joining him in the view, and was more than a little surprised – and concerned – to see Ifan, leaned over the railing next to him.

The mercenary seemed to have disliked him from the very second they’d met. It was fair. They had a very different outlook on life, and an entirely different approach to it, and it wasn’t like Tarquin usually had to bother with being liked.

Ifan had once been a crusader in Lucian’s army, from what he understood. A man of faith. Tarquin had generally done his very best to avoid being either one or the other. And yet, here they were. The roles reversed. Him on his way to fulfill a divine quest, Ifan doing his best to avoid it. Ifan caught his eyes, but didn’t speak.

"Something I can help you with, mate?"

Ifan raised an eyebrow. "I’m not your mate."

Tarquin sighed. "It’s a turn of phrase. Relax. And it is technically a nautical term."

Ifan hummed, and looked out into the afterlife again. Tarquin jumped over his shadow. The man clearly had something to get off his chest, and he found the one common ground they had in favor of moving the whole thing along.

"How’s our Doctor?"

Ifan shrugged, scratched the back of his neck.

"Below deck. More sleeping than passed out. Can I ask you something?"

Tarquin scoffed. "Do I have a say in the matter?"

The mercenary shot him an odd look. His eyes were reflecting in the eerie green glow, the low light pronouncing the deep scars on his face, his brows knit together in a frown.

"Proceed," granted Tarquin with a benevolent wave of his hand. "I’m aware you violently dislike me. It must be important."

Ifan didn’t dispute him.

"You’re a necromancer," he began, resting his hands on the railing as he did. "Is it normal? What’s happening to him?"

Ah, there it was. The heart of the matter. Tarquin nodded.

"Yes. All magic has a cost. And I daresay, necromancy is one of the more straightforward schools when it comes to action and reaction."

He didn’t miss the squint, denoting Ifan had no idea what he was talking about, but he didn’t ask for clarification. Tarquin, aware of his bad habit, gave it anyway.

"Are you familiar with the law of consistency? The theorem that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only converted and channelled? That’s what we see at work here. What brings life requires death. What brings death requires life. It’s as simple as that."

Ifan nodded.

"He was coughing blood," he replied, much quieter than before.

Tarquin shrugged.

"I assure you, our dear Francisco is well aware of the risks. This was his field of study, before his little… outburst at the academy council. He usually takes great care to minimize the impact. It doesn’t matter what the energy source is. It doesn’t have to come from the caster themselves, but it needs to be found. If there’s nothing to kill in order to preserve life, nor blood drawn from another place to enhance your body, it comes from within."

Tarquin folded his hands over the railing, considering his words before continuing.

"But no energetic link is perfect. Converting magic energy requires energy in itself. Even when you draw from another source, there is always – a spill-over, of sorts."

He felt Ifan’s sharp eyes on him, mustering him. Tarquin pointed to his own face – the hollowed cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, his sickly pale complexion.

"This is the look of someone who didn’t take care as much as he does. Not that I had much of a choice, really, being Dallis’ plaything." He chuckled. "Would you believe me if I said I once had a face that negated the necessity of good behavior?"

A small, openly mean-spirited smile spread over Ifan’s face.

"That would explain it."

The necromancer made an offhanded gesture over his shoulder.

"I imagine you’d know what I’m talking about. Careful, mate. Looks don’t last forever. Character does, and you’re already greying."

Ifan’s eyebrows shot up. Tarquin was well aware that he was testing the patience of someone who killed with the frequency others did their laundry with, but was reasonably certain that the sway he held with Francis would offer him some semblance of protection. And what could he say. The last year had shifted his idea of danger somewhat.

Still, he was relieved to see that Ifan didn’t seem too offended. Surprised, maybe, and even a little amused. The mercenary regarded him with a patient chuckle.

"Ive been greying before I even had hair on my legs. But well played."

Tarquin gave him a sleazy smile in return. "It’s nice to be appreciated. And there’s no need for the theatrics, dear. Don’t worry. Me and Cisc were never an option. His taste has always been a little more – you."

Ifan tilted his head with a click of his tongue.

"Bold, to assume that that’s what I’m worried about. Plenty reasons not to like you."

The scholar sighed and raised his hands. "What can I say. Cisc prefers them dramatic. And to each their own, but – that’s just not my style."

Credit where credit is due, he had to admit. The side-eye Ifan gave him was magnificent.

"You’re wearing all-black and a skull medallion," he drew out smugly. "Spare me."

Tarquin folded his arms.

"My. Who knew the Silver Claw would be this catty. Seems so unbecoming of a man of your profession, don’t you think?"

"I know," said Ifan, and turned to leave. "Should’ve gone to trade school."

Francis didn’t wake up when he entered. Ifan would have worried, but when him and Lohse had carried the alchemist below deck – or what remained of it – to heal some of the damage his spell had done, he’d regained consciousness a few times with the sole purpose of complaining about it, and then fallen back asleep.

Francis was snoring a little, curled up in the blankets. His face was pale, more than usual, the perpetual frown lines in his forehead softened. So peaceful. Until he woke up.

Ifan sat down on the bed next to him, embracing the side of his face, tracing the scar on his lid with a thumb. When Francis opened his eyes, the frown had returned. Ifan grinned.

"How’s my favorite Godwoken?"

Francis rolled his eyes.

"I want to sleep forever," he muttered, his voice hoarse and frazzled, but he tilted his head to lean into Ifan’s palm.

"And I’d let you, sleeping beauty." Ifan chuckled. "But we’re about to land. An hour or so, Malady said. I brought you some tea. You sound like death."

He leaned forward and kissed him, but was stopped by Francis’ muffled sound of protest and drew back again, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Not with tongue," he croaked. "I taste like death, too. It’s like a rat died in my throat."

Ifan laughed, placed a chaste peck on his lips and handed him the glass of tea.

"You saved me from a launching missile. I think I can endure it."

Francis scowled at him.

"That was fucking dumb."

"It worked, didn’t it." Ifan whistled through his teeth. "Solid craftsmanship on your part by the way, with that explosive bolt. I could get used to your little trinkets."

He shot Francis a fully irritating wink.

"Besides, what’s life without a little adventure?"

"Statistically? Longer."

Francis rubbed his eyes and slowly sat up, took a sip of tea. Ifan helped him do so, silently placing a hand on his leg while supporting his back with the other. His conversation with Tarquin playing in his head on repeat as he observed his face, pale as if it had been drained of all blood.

"We should really find you a wand," said Ifan eventually. "Can’t have you collapsing on us every time you use magic. It’s a real disadvantage on the battlefield."

"I’m a humble witch, not some army battlemage. Comes with the job."

Ifan narrowed his eyes, gesturing insistence.

"You call me reckless, ma vhenan. But I still wear armor and find cover where I can."

"Well," returned Francis flippantly. “Armor doesn’t shield my innards, does it? Don’t worry. I’m being careful. In fact, I know quite a bit about healing the same damage I cause, remember?"

Ifan shrugged.

"If you say so, Doc."

“Don’t if you say so, Doc me in my own bed. Dickhead. Yeah, I know what you're doing.”

Ifan reached out and ran a hand through his red curls, then over the back of his neck, grabbed down and shook him playfully. "I wish you’d just do as I say sometimes. But you’ve never been scared of me. Quite the misjudgment, by the way." He grinned. "Shows a desperate lack of self-preservation."

Francis’ scowl finally transformed into a wicked smile.

"What gives. We both know you’re a big softie. Nothing to be scared of."

"Ah." Ifan smirked and bopped his nose. "But you didn’t know that when we met, did you."

The scientist scoffed. "Don’t flatter yourself. Took me like three hours to figure it out. You’re not as slick as you think you are."

Ifan raised both eyebrows.

"What gave me away?"

Francis grinned, and flicked against his ear. "I saw you talk to a cat. The black one, on the beach. You two had a full conversation. It was adorable. Big scary mercenary, you."

Ifan laughed, deep and rich.

"I like them," he admitted. "They’re good company. And cats are picky. When they stay around you, it’s because they really want to. But they’re terrible judges of character."

Francis caressed the side of his face.

"I see why you’d get along," he declared with a smile. "There were other things, too. Like when you asked that woman to tell you about her family because she missed them so much. Or playing hide and seek with those kids in the cave." He smiled. "You can’t fool me. You have a big heart."

Ifan shrugged.

"Doesn’t mean much. Half the magisters on that island probably have people they love, and kids at home they miss terribly. Ain’t gonna stop them from bloodshed and torture. In fact, they probably think they’re doing it for them. Like all of us in the Order did, back then."

He scratched his beard in contemplation, deft fingers running gently over Francis’ hand.

"I’m thinking about it a lot, recently. With my contracts – I mostly took the ones I could live with, people I thought the world would be better off without. The benefits of freelancing. But each of them is missed by some, I know that." He chuckled. "It’s not like I ever had the whole story. Work done, no questions, payment. And I ain’t exactly the right guy to judge."

Francis opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it.

"I don’t know," he said after a few seconds of consideration. "You might be a better judge than many. And not because you’re free of sin. It’s the opposite, actually. You’re quick to forgive, too quick sometimes, because of what you’ve done. But when someone keeps testing – you do know how to teach consequences to those who think they’re above them."

He grinned, softening the intensity of his words.

"Remember Griff? You didn’t even think twice about the fact that he’d make our lives hell. You just saw someone abusing his power, and decided to do something about it. Same with Alexandar. Everyone else would have rushed into revenge, or tried to forget about it after all these years. Not you. You waited all this time, for the right moment to strike."

He tilted Ifan’s chin up, a beguiling glint in his eyes when he met his.

"I think you’d make a better Divine than all of us."

Ifan ignored the way his brain short-circuited at the touch with at least some success, pulled away from his hand and averted his gaze again. He felt uneasy, suddenly.

"Not gonna happen," was all that he said. "I saw what it did to Lucian. No telling what it would do to me."

His sigh was subtle, but weary.

"I know we said we’d only go there to stop Dallis and Alexandar. But once we’re inside the Wellspring – who knows what’s in store for us. They called it the Arena of the One for a reason. Sebille just wants to be her own person again. If Lohse becomes Divine, we’ll have Adrahmalikh with the power of godhood. That leaves… you."

Francis examined the look of fierce intensity that Ifan suddenly regarded him with. The same look he’d given Griff. The same look he’d observed Alexandar with on the steps to Fort Joy, biding his time, calculating how he’d get him alone.

"Tell me, Francis. Will you try to become the Divine?"

He frowned.

"I don’t know, I…"

GODWOKEN.

Ifan flinched. The voice in his head resounded, rattling his skull. Much more powerful than it had been before, full of authority and terrible strength. He’d almost forgotten it. Francis interrupted himself, immediately sensing the change in expression. The edge of his vision blurred into a blinding white light. Ifan closed his eyes and pressed his lips together.

Don’t be a stranger to your god, said Rhalic. Or worse. An enemy.

Is that a threat? Thought Ifan in defiance.

SPEAK TO ME. IN THE HALL OF ECHOES. NOW. No longer the hiss of a wounded animal. The strength of a thousand suns radiating in his brain. I chose you for your wildness, Ifan. Ruthless son of humanity. But I will leash you if needed.

He felt Francis’ hand touch his. Ifan shook his head, bared his teeth in a snarl. He’d done this before.

Watch your tone, he replied to the god, pushing him back. I’m holding the cards here. You’re nothing but a leech. I know what your poison is, and I can dry you like a raisin.

Rhalic laughed. A terrible sound, clawing into his heart. You think you can survive what lies ahead without my power? You fool. You are nothing without me.

Ifan crushed Francis’ fingers in his hand, his snarl widening into a strained grin.

Aw, you want me dead? Get in line. You’re squatting in my head, remember?

YOU ARE NOTHING.

"Ifan, what – you’re hurting me." Francis voice reached him distantly. He tried loosening the grip of his fingers, but immediately tensed up again. A stabbing pain protruding his temples, like his head was about to explode.

Las telhane. Get another idiot. Ifan shoved the god, raising the walls of his mind. Oh, right. You can’t.

He could feel himself choking up. Rhalic’s presence didn’t seem to give. Ifan pulled all his concentration together, grasping at his own neck while the god contracted his airpipe.

I’ve saved you. I’ve raised you up. I’ve offered you greatness. You wretched recreant. You are destined. You are nothing. He chanted, unbothered by Ifan’s attempts to banish him. A lamb at the altar, acting the lion. I know it. The Divine One knew it. You know it best of all.

Rhalic faded into the back of his mind. His laughter echoed, then disappeared, like he was drawing back of his own volition. Ifan gasped for air, releasing his own hands, focusing his eyes on the room again. The god was gone.

He found his bearings, raised his head to find Francis staring at him in concern. He knew what he’d seen, needing no explanation. The mercenary clicked his tongue.

"Seems Rhalic’s tired of the silent treatment." He gave a strained chuckle. "And to think I used to pray to him each night. Should’ve listened then."

Chapter Text

The heat was oppressive.

The air was dense with humidity and the weight of calamity, among the jungles and mangroves of the Nameless Isle – fern leaves long as curtains obscuring their sight into the depths of the thicket. The former home of the eternal academy and its sites of worship had long fallen into ruin. It didn’t take two minutes for them to run into the first corpses.

Ifan had just helped Lohse pull their landing boat ashore and waded out of the water when the unmistakable stench of rotting human flesh hit his nostrils. He squinted into the midday sun, making sure no one was still around after the deed.

Piles. Piles upon piles of purged, rotten flesh, the remains of those drained upon death. Flies buzzing around him as he made his way onto the black sands of the beach.

Lohse came up behind him, announcing her arrival with a retch.

"Smells like those have been here a while. Gods, don’t I feel exalted."

Ifan, who’d crouched down next to what looked like it might have been a paladin at some point, judging by the remains of armor, shook his head and pointed at the sun.

"It’s the humidity. Some of those are very recent. This one, no more than a day or two."

He grabbed a stick and poked at the entrails. Lohse made an unwilling sound of disgust.

"Don’t tell me you’re gonna eat that, please. I’m not gonna judge other people’s customs, but you gotta understand it’s a little weird for me to watch you guys eat a corpse. Especially one that looks like it’s been forgotten in the meat grinder for a week."

A tired grin made its home on Ifan’s face.

"Wouldn’t do me any good. It’s been drained of source. Drained of memory." He got up and walked over to check another pile of flesh, something familiar catching his eye. "And I don’t have to, technically. I can just read their essence."

"Thanks, chief. Knowing that makes it worse."

Ifan frowned. He used the same stick to dig through the fresh massacre of a corpse in front of him and fished out what it was that had caught his attention – nothing more than a piece of fabric, black dye on white linen, part of a larger print.

He would recognize that symbol anywhere.

If you see the black circle, ma da’len. Run. Do not look back. No matter what you hear.

"Seems Dallis ain’t the only one making moves on this board," he murmured, and got to his feet. "That’s a Black Ring standard. Or what’s left of it."

Lohse walked up behind him, peeking over his shoulder. "Black Ring? Here?"

Ifan took inventory of the other remains, old and new. Scraps of red and blue and black on white. Paladins, magisters, and Damian’s defilers, all recently deceased.

It made sense now. He knew who it was that had contracted him to kill Alexander, who had contracted Roost to kill the Godwoken. The Black Ring was back on the rise, and this time, in service of the God King. Burnt flesh, burnt villages, decay and desecration.

History about to repeat itself.

The sight awoke something in him. The mysterious sounds of the jungle fauna took on a new, sharper dimension as he listened to the pauses, the silences between, a permanent piece of his focus drifting to his peripheral vision.

"Slaughter."

He jerked around. Lohse was standing a little too close to him. Her skin a little too pallid. Her eyes a little too dark.

"A carnival of blood and viscera. Feast in my name."

Ifan took a step back, firmly gripping the knife in his sleeve, but Lohse blinked, shook herself and smiled at him, hands raised in apology.

"Sorry, chief," she said. "Lost concentration there for a second. Hope it wasn’t too bad."

Ifan frowned, then caught himself and clapped her on the shoulder.

"You’re good. Let’s keep moving."

On his third contract, everything changed.

Or maybe the fourth. He wasn’t sure. Like most of that time, it was a bit of a blur.

The year on record anyway was 1237, five years after the war, and Ifan had set himself up in an ancient wayside inn on the main road leading into the Orobas Fjords. Like a moray eel, waiting for its prey to come swimming between its maws.

Even if they were a few hours overdue.

The inn was busy, but comfortable. A weathered wooden front hid the lively buzz inside, a large fireplace warding off the chill in their bones. Old taxidermy stared down from the walls along with the occasional precautionary verse from the Book of the Seven, the woodworm-ridden beams painted in chipping florals, and the staff was just as charming as it was proper of a time-honored establishment that had no other competition than sleeping outside.

Ifan gathered the fur collar of his coat in his hands, pulled it closer around his shoulders as he stepped out of the taproom and onto the porch, letting the heavy door fall shut behind him. His breath painted little clouds of frost into the air.

He’d always proven talent for the hunt.

Even back in Tiriana, when Ifan had hunted very different game. A rarely failing intuition along with a good head on his shoulders – he knew which roads they’d take. He knew they’d be traveling on foot, avoiding suspicion. He knew when the chill of the mountain air would drive them into the protection of which inn. But Ifan hadn’t accounted for one simple and predictable factor.

While his mind hadn’t lost the patience of a gifted sharpshooter, his body had.

Somewhere around his mid-twenties at the time, Ifan had already developed a damning physical weakness he should really have been more aware of. While he walked a few steps off the road and found a quiet spot overlooking the sunset over the fjord, eased his nervous tremor with a hint of drudanae, he missed the arrival of his target.

He drew attention to himself when he entered. That was his second mistake.

And in his line of work, mistakes meant death.

The whole thing was meant to be a bread-and-butter inheritance feud. A milk run, really. The target was nobility, the seventh son of some small-fish baron. Of course he wasn’t alone. But instead of the entourage of guards Ifan had prepared for, he was only accompanied by one other man. Both of them in indistinct road clothes, a measure of protection – but his skin was a little too unblemished, his hands a little too smooth. The baron’s son was easy to tell apart from the other travelers.

His company had very similar bearings. Even if he was an elf, towering above the rest of the patronage in his fur-lined coat. And he, as Ifan quickly deduced, was clearly - fucking dangerous.

Because not only was he the one thing standing between a feckless noble and a trade route infamously ridden with highway bandits. He was also completely unarmed. Not a single visible bump in his clothing that would have indicated a weapon. Ridiculous. Even the most harmless traders didn’t walk this strip of road without at least a dagger up their sleeves.

This contract had just gotten interesting.

His gaze was spellbinding. Sharp, delicate features and a slow deliberation to his movements. The elf didn’t look at Ifan for long when he entered, barely a glance in passing, but his piercing yellow eyes stirred something in him, a primal fear that curiously felt quite similar to the way butterflies did. A twisted infatuation with something so unquestionably deadly.

Ifan knew better than to ignore this magnitude of gut feeling. Today’s chance was wasted. He’d sneak out during the night and set his weapon up along the road itself, on the cliffs, out of reach. He wasn’t in the habit of picking fights he couldn’t win.

So Ifan bid his time. He joined a rowdy group of traveling musicians at their table, introducing himself, swapping tales and buying them a round of drinks to accelerate the matter.

Over the course of the evening, he felt eyes on his back. More than once. The intense stare of the elven man at the counter – discomforting and unmistakable. He never usually would've exposed his back to the room like that, but it was of the utmost importance that he gave off the image of someone who would. Let all that attention wander somewhere else.

It made him nervous, fidgety. He folded his hands under the table to keep them from betraying him. The burning stare still in his back, fighting every instinct to turn and look.

Ifan did look once more, when the hour had proceeded to a time where it was acceptable to excuse himself. He thanked the musicians for the evening.

They were lovely people. He’d always found comfort in the company of those who made their living on the roads, their fast friendship and easy generosity. What  seemed superficial to some was really a way to connect, for the brief time they could allow themselves to, a fleeting acceptance unconcerned with the past or the future.

Ifan rose from his seat and turned.

They locked eyes. The man was beautiful, he noted, in a factual way – there was nothing soft about him, every inch of his statuesque face perfectly carved and symmetrical, like a well-sharpened blade. And maybe he imagined the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He must have.

Ifan hurried to look away, and made his way up the stairs towards his room.

Sleep was out of the question. Every muscle in his body was taut, each of his senses heightened and brimming with nervous energy. Ifan sat on the floor, waiting.

Prison had taught him well. It was quite ironical, really – it’d recovered the iron discipline that made him such an effective killer, the patience and endurance that had been lost after… everything. It had made him a better criminal. A much better hunter.

And a good hunter knew when he was being hunted.

A good hunter waited for his edge.

Hours went by like this. Ifan passed the time. He told himself stories, recalled songs he’d heard, played games with himself. Finding faces and shapes in the grain of the wooden floor. His mind kept bringing up the face of that elf – the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that he had smiled at him. A knowing, terrible smile.

He didn’t ignore the fear or push it away. The thrill of it revived something in him, like it always had, that brutal desire to be alive and on his feet. And finally, when the inn fell quiet and the only sound was the hypnotic cracking of the embers in the fireplace, Ifan made his way outside.

The kitbag concealing his crossbow in the shape of a lute, slung over his shoulder, his steps muffled by the carpet in the hallway. He almost made it to the staircase when he stopped in his tracks and froze in place. Someone was leaned against the railing there, a tall figure in tight dark linen, arms crossed, face obscured by darkness.

How had he missed him?

"I was hoping to catch you on your way out," said the figure. His voice was quiet – but not a whisper, a slow, silky declaration of self-assurance. "You’ve kept me waiting quite a bit."

Ifan had made a terrible mistake.

A frantic escape plan pieced itself together in his mind. Leaned against that railing, the elf was in a precarious position. Ifan raised his hand to summon his source, control the wood under him into doing his work for him, eyes darting toward the exit, wondering how far he–

"Shall we play this out? I know you are a sourcerer. So am I. By all accounts faster than you. You have a knife in your left sleeve and in your boot, but you resent them. The crossbow in your bag is your preferred method. Elegant, precise. Terrible at a short distance."

Ifan stopped in his movement. His opponent’s eyes flared up, a bright yellow in the dark. A spark of source dancing along his fingers as he slowly stalked towards him.

"Enough, cub. The odds here aren’t in your favor, and if you’re half as bright as Roost seems to believe you are, we both know it."

The menacing glow of his eyes lit up the sharp, knowing smile on his lips.

"Let’s talk instead. Glechou dumar."

Francis had always found it difficult to reconcile Ifan with the things he knew about him.

The fact that he’d been a crusader once, and a zealous one at that, with his active disdain for every moral authority. His shyness with his playful bravado. The fact that he could kill without batting an eyelid with his genuine kindness. His restlessness with his innate calm.

It wasn’t that he was inconsistent – Ifan simply seemed to see no conflict between his many contradictions. And truly, was there any?

That being said, Ifan on the Nameless Isle was a very different man to the one he’d been on the mainland. He usually treated bloodshed with the factuality others did their grocery shopping with, like a worker in the kilns nearing the end of his shift. A necessary inconvenience.

But something seemed to put him on edge.

Not hard to imagine what it was.

They followed the trail of destruction left behind by the battle further up into the jungles. The island had something ancient and menacing to it. Not just the volcano looming in the distance – the ever-present reminders of the eternal civilization everywhere, a time before their time, which hadn’t lasted an eternity after all. An empire fallen like all empires do. Ifan, ahead on the prowl with brutal focus.

They ran into first contact with the Black Ring at the temple of Rhalic. The God King’s rank and file seemed to be in the process of destroying the shrine, the remains of the Divine Order soldiers that had tried to deter them splattered all around.

Hiding crouched between the high fern, Ifan pointed at a tall, blonde woman holding a gnarled staff with carved bones dangling from it like wind chimes. She stood a little aside from the others, her face covered in small, vertical scars and rune tattoos.

"That’s a painweaver," he whispered. "One of their blood mages. She’s trouble. She’s first. Sebille, you take the reaver behind the pillar. Lohse, the other two. Francis, stay out of sight."

Sebille readied her needle. Ifan angled his crossbow. Lohse grabbed her axe.

Before anyone could make a move, a voice sounded through their heads. Four little hearts four little heartbeats who crouches in the bushes.

Everyone froze. The painweaver had her face turned directly towards them, and if Francis knew one thing, it was that a blood mage able to sense heartbeats was supremely bad news. A blood mage who could sense heartbeats was able to stop them in a second.

Not to mention she was in their heads.

He was about to inform his party members of that fact when Ifan, the merry lunatic, stood up and broke cover. The mage tilted her head to look at him. Ifan made a hand sign he’d seen him use once before, back in the Black Bull while talking to Callo. Might as well just have said Glechou dumar. But the phrase didn’t seem to leave his lips these days.

mercenaries, hissed the mage in their heads. despicable dogs. sallow should have spared the coin. report. where is the godwoken’s head.

She waved him closer. Ifan followed, striding toward her with frighteningly little hesitation.

"I don’t appreciate the tone," he warned. Behind his back, his hand gestured wait. "Are you gonna be the one to pay me? That’s what I thought. We answer to Sallow, not to you."

He came to a halt right in front of her. The painweaver sized him up, not moving, only the bones on her staff menacingly rattling in the ocean breeze.

most unlucky. sallow will have your hide. the order found your prey before you did.

Her eyes wandered over Ifan. He tensed slightly, barely noticable.

and what a beautiful hide it is. your skin will make a great canvas.

Francis watched the light leave his eyes, that terrible apathy settling there that would have seemed threatening to anyone else, but he knew was the mark of Ifan being truly afraid.

"Where is Alexandar?"

The mage didn’t answer. She reached out, tracing a finger over his cheekbone. A deep, scathing cut appeared there, out of nowhere. Blood running down his face. Ifan didn’t move an inch, made no sound. Smiled at her with empty eyes.

"Come now," he said. "You don’t wanna waste his time."

Another cut, under his jawbone. Francis wasn’t going to watch this go down. The painweaver smiled back at him. Another cut appeared, jagged, down his temple.

Francis reached out with his magic. Found the blood pulsing through her veins. Her body tilted backwards with a terrible cracking sound, a rough cry escaping her as he turned each cell against her and broke her spine. She screamed in terror and confusion. He felt her trying to stop his heart. The other Black Ring soldiers shouted orders and rushed toward them. Francis got to his feet and locked eyes with her.

He directed part of his magic away from her to protect his own body from her influence. He heard the blood vessel pop in his eye. But the pain she was in stopped her, allowed him to gain the upper hand, following the sound of her heartbeat. Crossing the edge of his knowledge, guided by rage and fear and the meticulous countdown of every artery he passed on his way, until he felt the panicked flicker of her cardiac valve.

What could heal could kill just as nicely.

*

Contrary to popular belief, Ifan wasn’t a reckless man.

He was quick to follow a whim, true, but most of it happened out of careful deliberation. He knew when to give in to his urges, knowing it would prevent him from going too far if he ignored them. Knew when to smile through insult and injury, when to give someone hell to pay. When to fight back with everything he had, when to surrender everything. 

When to wait. When to strike.

In short, Ifan had a knack for knowing opportunity from a hopeless situation. And to his surprise, this one wasn’t anywhere near the latter. He was certain of it.

Because clearly, his contract rival had come to a similar conclusion about him in return. If the elf was as quick and deadly as Ifan believed him to be, he could have simply disposed of him right then and there.

But he didn’t seem willing to risk it, yet.

Ifan could exploit that little spark of apprehension.

His time would come. He suppressed a smile when the elf gingerly closed the door behind himself, the blood rushing in his veins, the calm before the storm settling in his mind. He’d missed the feeling. This work suited him, unlike any other. Ifan was back in his element.

"You must be the one they talk about. The new hire. Silverclaw, was it?"

The other mercenary stepped closer. The hair on Ifan’s neck stood. The sharp sense of danger pulsing through his mind as that stare drilled into the center of his soul. Run. Ifan kept his hands open, out of his pockets, and shot the elf a brazen smile.

"Well, won’t you tell me what they’re saying? I’m dying to know."

His rival cocked his head, unblinking. Then, his hand formed around a gesture. Unwilling, indistinct and easy to miss for anyone else, Ifan recognized it to be curiosity. Guide him. With anyone else, he would have emulated the gesture, trying to wrap him into a sense of familiarity, warm up to him by speaking his language, but, well – the man didn’t seem the sentimental type. And it didn’t hurt to keep that particular ace up his sleeve for now.

"That you are talented," the mercenary elaborated. "Precise. Remorseless. Promising."

Ifan stood perfectly still as the elf circled him slowly, following every movement with his eyes, not daring to blink either. Scrutinized under his calculating gaze, he was sure to find something… almost hungry in it. It was a straw to grasp at, but–

He stopped at Ifan’s back, daring him to turn around. Ifan stayed where he was, trying to anticipate his next move with nothing but his willpower.

"There’s a number of rumours about you," said the elf. "Some quite fascinating. Although I doubted they were true, before I saw you. You know how sellswords like to talk."

Ifan raised an eyebrow, lowering his voice into a seductive purr. This was his chance.

"You could always ask. I might indulge you."

His breath was hitting Ifan’s neck, the undeniable goosebumps plain to see there.

"They say you are quite handsome. Certainly no exaggeration." One bark-like finger traced the outline of his artery along his neck. Up, then down, the drag of one cruelly sharp nail. He released the deep breath he’d been holding, knowing that hiding body reactions from an elf was close to futile.

He was reading his skin.

Something that would have warranted at least a bit of conversation where he was from, but he was no stranger to the adaptations diaspora elves were sometimes forced to make to the traditional codes of conduct. Some more readily than others.

"You’re not too bad on the eyes yourself," he hummed in response. No lie to detect there.

Now, here was a game he knew how to play. Putting two and two together, Ifan had heard of him too. Anwyn. The scorpion. The elven hunter taking contracts on his own kind. Two traitors in one room. How fitting.

"They also say," continued the other mercenary, "That despite your talents, you are quick to be put on your back and take what you’re given."

Ifan whistled through his teeth.

"Damn. What happened to hello?"

He was accustomed to flirting with death. It wasn’t so different in the literal sense, and honestly, a thrill as good as any other. Pushing through the fear, he shot a disarming smile over his shoulder. "I see. You've been talking to Kalet. Care to find out if it's true, what they say?"

The hand stopped in its tracks. Anwyn leaned forward, then wrapped his fingers around Ifan’s neck one by one, his body pressing into his back as he pulled him in. Ifan went with it. This was easier than he could've dreamed.

"I know it is," cooed the silky voice, close against his ear. "I can feel your desire."

Ifan smirked, looking up at him from under his lashes.

"You ain’t subtle, either. I like that in a man."

His mind hadn’t felt this clear in months. He embraced that twisted little sense of pleasure, using it to cover the rest of his intentions. To think that vulnerability meant weakness was a common, fatal misconception among the members of their trade. He hadn’t expected an elf to fall into it as well. But he’d take it.

Almost there.

"What a shame," he gasped, followed by a strangled chuckle as Anwyn’s hand tightened against his neck, "I've got a contract to fulfill. There’s a million things I’d rather be do–" Anwyn’s fingers pushed into his mouth. The words died on his tongue as the rough skin scraped along it, turning into a sound somewhere between a moan and a plea. Tempting. But he had a plan.

"Well, life is short," hummed Anwyn. "It’s not like we get paid by the hour."

Oh, he really wasn’t subtle. Ifan had missed that a little, if he was honest. No point in beating around the bush to someone who could read every reaction off his skin. 

"You are a sight, Silverclaw. I’ll give you that."

Ifan risked a glance. His eyes were closed. That was his clue. He ground his ass against Anwyn’s hips, waiting for him to react to it, and when he did, Ifan pulled the knife from his sleeve and stabbed it into the inside of his thigh.

With all the force needed to puncture bark.

Anwyn yelled in pain, stumbled back, as Ifan whirled around and let branches rise up from the wooden flooring with a flash of source, wrapping around his legs. Before they could entangle him completely, Anwyn’s eyes flared up as well.

A shock of electricity tore at his muscles, vision exploding into white, his legs failing under him, his jaw crashing into the floor as he fell. An aerotheurge. End him thrice, that was bad luck. Ifan tried to push through, get to his feet once the shock had ebbed, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move at all.

His body was contracting itself, screaming at him to run, lash out, move. The same infallible instinct making someone claw at the same cord they’ve just hung themselves with. It found no opening. Nothing beyond the twitch of paralyzed muscle and an overwhelming rush of fear.

Well, thought Ifan numbly. This is it.

He’d rarely seen Ifan like this. Scared.

As soon as the last Black Ring acolyte had hit the ground, the mercenary stalked towards Francis and grabbed him by the front of his robe.

"If I tell you to stay out of sight, you fucking stay out of sight!"

"What was I supposed to do," Francis shot back, "Let nature take its course?"

"I had it covered," growled Ifan. "You don’t understand how their squads work. I needed that information. We needed backup! You almost got yourself killed!"

"What about you, huh?"

Francis pulled himself up to his full height, grabbed his wrists and glared at him.

"You’re not my commander here. I understand you've got a bad case of the jitters. That doesn’t give you the right to put your hands on me."

"You do it all the time."

Francis felt his pulse speed up, fought down the twisted sensation crawling up in his guts.

"And the second you tell me you don’t appreciate it, I’ll stop doing it too. Back off."

Ifan clenched his jaw and let go of him. His eyes were wild and restless, a film of sweat on his skin, the deep circles under his eyes etched into his scarred face under the rivulets of blood. It really should have scared him a little. He had no idea why it didn’t.

Ifan took a step back and ran a skittish hand through his hair, gesturing apology.

"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Just – you need to be more careful."

Francis sighed.

"I’m sorry too. I was… I freaked out."

He didn’t promise anything. The nearer they got to what could very well be their final destination, the more Francis became aware there was nothing he wouldn’t do if it meant protecting Ifan. That was what scared him. It was, after all, a habit he’d always kept.

Francis watched him hoist his crossbow up on his back and walk on. A little smile spread over Ifan’s face as he turned away.

"I can handle myself. Don’t worry. I just wait for the right moment."

*

"It really is a shame we had to meet like this."

The ringing in his ears finally receded, and the feeling returned to his limbs as Anwyn removed the knife from his boot and turned it in his fingers, with mild intrigue.

"We could’ve had an interesting story, you and me."

Ifan continually kept trying to move his hand, satisfied when he found it following instructions. His face was buried in the carpet, his mind racing at a million miles an hour. Anwyn made no move to keep him down. How very optimistic of him. Ifan raised himself up on one elbow, his head still sunken, every muscle ready to spring into action.

"No hard feelings," he croaked. "Contract’s a contract."

"Indeed," confirmed Anwyn thoughtfully. "The code is clear on the matter. I’m tasked to protect him, you’re tasked to kill him – you had to try, of course. It is wise, not to disappoint the old man before you’ve gotten in his good graces. Death is a more agreeable fate."

He crouched down before Ifan, fixating him with those hypnotizing eyes, like a python. His light trousers had a visible cut in them, but where a stab wound should have been, the skin underneath was perfectly intact. Anwyn reached out and pressed the tip of the knife against Ifan’s lips, not drawing blood, just resting it there. The threat was enough. For now.

"I’ve got half a mind to let you kill him," he mused. "He is quite insufferable. And it would be a regrettably short end to such a promising career. You have what it takes. I can tell."

Ifan’s mouth stretched into a smile, pressing the meticulously sharpened blade of his knife into his own lip, the cold sting, then the warm blood welling up against it. He said nothing.

Anwyn raised an eyebrow.

"I am a little curious who put the contract on him. I’d like to thank them personally, in fact."

"Well," responded Ifan, very aware of the blade slicing marginally deeper with each word while stubbornly refusing to evade his chilling gaze. "Good luck finding out."

Anwyn paused, then laughed.

"I would ask you to rethink the position you’re in. Curiously, I think you’re quite aware of it."

He removed the knife, grasping Ifan’s chin and wiping the blood from it. Ifan simply quirked an eyebrow. Anwyn’s thumb came to rest there, a flash of magic sparking in his eyes as he knit the wound back together. That was the trick, then. Few mages were deemed more dangerous among his craft than the ones trained in hydrosophic healing. And all of its more sinister branches.

Anwyn shrugged, his finger remaining there, the intent clear as day, and smiled. A bored cat playing with its newest catch. That was the position he was in, and Ifan knew it well.

"I can read your fear, cub."

"Oh, I know." Ifan grinned. "I still won’t tell you. Far as I see it, this could be a test."

"I guarantee you, Roost doesn’t care that much." Another gratuitous smile, while the tip of the knife edged along his ear, then over his jaw, down where his airpipe was. Ifan’s nerves were singing with anxiety. The scorpion leaned in towards his ear.

"If you know I can read your emotions, certainly you know that I can read your memories as well," whispered Anwyn. "I am an elf, you see."

Gods willing, if there was ever a moment to play that particular card, it was this one – even with the knife having come to rest where it had. Was it dangerous? Yes. But he was reasonably certain Anwyn was doing just that – playing with him. He didn’t need that specific piece of information. He was simply exerting his upper hand. Ifan raised his chin a little.

"There’s no honor to be gained here." He smiled. "Tel’ithme, Anwyn. Sorry to disappoint."

The next second, his head was snapped back in a sharp angle as Anwyn’s fingers twisted into his hair and another shock of lightning cracked through his body. That had struck somewhere deep, apparently. But not as deep as his first attempt.

"What would you know about my customs," hissed Anwyn. Ifan found just enough endurance in himself to look at him and register the nervous twitch in his features. He gathered himself, inhaling through his teeth, trying to relax enough to grit out an answer.

"Enough to know you can’t do it unless I permit it."

"You overestimate my loyalty to them," warned Anwyn. "I was willing to let you walk."

"Only looking out for you. My memories are a bite to chew on," said Ifan with a strained smirk. "Look, I’m still willing to mend this situation. If you're so inclined."

That stopped him short for a second. Anwyn embraced the side of his face with one curiously gentle hand, reading skin. He tilted his head, bewildered and – flattered.

"Truly," he declared after confirming those intentions. Ifan didn’t hide the shiver. "What a curious man you are. Shame that Roost will have your hide if you mess up this contract."

He didn't know what possessed him to wink. 

"M-hm. Looks like my fate is in your hands."

Anwyn hesitated for a moment. Ifan was tempted to use it to his advantage, but the idea had grown on him. Seemed the best outcome in this scenario. The coin of passion had two sides, and really, open antagonism was kind of working for him. All things considered - why not. 

"You could kill me," Ifan instigated in a low timbre, "Or, you could let me end your peril of babysitting that barony brat and show you a good time instead. Your pick, Anwyn."

The elf laughed.

"How bold. You do lack human pretense. And you’re a beautiful thing. But you’d try to kill me at the first hopeless opportunity. A shame, like I said. It could have been interesting."

A sharp glint appeared in his eyes, something dark, something greedy. Something brutally enamored. Ifan felt his mind drift away, his racing thoughts giving way to complete silence.

"I’m, uh…" His mouth felt dry. "… sure you’d have ways to prevent that."

"I do," purred Anwyn. "But they would defeat the purpose of the deal. Tell me, Silverclaw." His hand wandered down to his neck, grasping it – firmly, but not painfully so. A gesture of dominance in two ways, taking everything out of his hands. "Are you going to play nice?"

Ifan let out a delirious cackle. He couldn’t lie, could he.

"Yes. I’m going to play very nice."

Chapter Text

Camping out on the Nameless Isle was about as restful as camping at the edge of a volcano could be. The jungles were loud. And what Ifan and Sebille found so homely in the wild had always seemed rather strange and hostile to a Capital kid like him. Nevertheless, Francis managed to get a few hours of sleep in. When he woke up again, some animal moving in the bushes activating his reflexes, he found Ifan leaned against a tree. Cleaning his crossbow.

A routine Francis had been privy to so often that he was sure he could have done it himself at this point. Ifan’s lips were moving silently, in some form of recital. Another thing that he seemed to be doing almost routinely, although Francis wasn’t sure who exactly he was praying to. He’d never bothered to ask.

He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

"Be honest," he said as he approached. "When was the last time you slept?"

Ifan only grunted in response.

"Can I touch you?"

He nodded. Francis stepped forward and embraced Ifan’s face in his hands, catching the feverish look in his eyes. The man deserved some rest, for the gods. All of them did.

Ifan seemed to relax a little under his caress.

"We’re all tired," said Francis. "You need sleep. You gotta stay sharp."

"Believe me," hummed Ifan. "I know."

His eyes wandered upwards, and he laughed.

"Rhalic’s talking to me right now," he warned Francis. "He’s there all the time. I’m not sure I can hold him back if I go to sleep. He’s grown stronger. From my source."

Francis nodded, gently pressing his thumbs into his temples, trying to relieve some of the tension in his face. Ifan seemed to appreciate it, even if he was currently busy giving lip to a god. He saw the exact moment Rhalic drew back, the mercenary’s face instantly looking ten years younger as he sighed in relief and slumped forward a little.

Francis wrapped him in a tight embrace. Ifan leaned his face into his shoulder. They stood there for a while like that, pressed close to each other, unwilling to let go.

"I’m tired of this," said Ifan, his tone uncharacteristically flat.

"I know," murmured Francis with a sigh. "I’m here."

Ifan kept thinking about that night for a long time.

It was almost five months until his and Anwyn’s paths collided again, always off on one contract or another. A seductive glance, a knowing smile in passing here and there when they ran into each other briefly. They were both doing the work to keep themselves busy, as it seemed.

The sex had been – well, honestly, mediocre. Ifan hadn’t known how to feel after.

Especially because they had been interrupted halfway through by the baron’s son, barging into the room demanding to know why the mercenary he’d paid good coin for protecting him was busy whoring in the night, followed by his untimely demise when Ifan had flung his dagger at him, piercing his jugular with a precision that was quite surprising considering how otherwise occupied he’d been.

The mood was a little off, after that one.

I do hope that doesn’t ruin your contract, Anwyn gallantly commented. Any specifics?

Killed by bandits on the road, Ifan had muttered from his position on his elbows, face down on the table. Close enough. I’ll strip his wallet.

He’d sighed, heaved himself up on his hands, and looked impassively at the cold dead eyes of Pabrino Valeantare the Third currently bleeding his last sap into the doorframe.

I can’t fuck like that. Mala. Let’s get rid of him before the cleaner shows up.

Anwyn laughed.

Your outlook on life is very… poetic.

But in truth, memorable as it was, that unfortunate turn of events wasn’t what kept Ifan’s night with Anwyn on his mind.

There was something... unresolved. The world seemed sharper after that night. The colors brighter, the wind like a caress on his skin. His mind felt clearer, somehow.

Ifan was starting to wake up.

And the contracts helped, of course. Having purpose, having something else to do beside an endless cycle of getting high, then regretfully sober, then self-aware, and then going to get money by most means available to prevent it from ever happening again.

That being said, progress wasn’t linear.

Especially during winter, when the streets were empty, the sky was grey and even the most dedicated patronage of Effie’s Undertavern was at home hunkered down with their loved ones. Effie herself, thankfully, kept doing business. The morning of the winter revel, the two of them were the only ones present.

Even Lohar’s runners weren’t buzzing in and out the place like fruit flies. Crime did sleep, as it turned out.

Ifan had come in simply looking for shelter from the godless sleet storm outside, and found Effie with a pipe in hand, a book on her knees and her eyes full of tears.

"I’m – sorry. Closed shop today?"

"Ifan. What a surprise." She looked up at the young mercenary, pretending she hadn’t been crying a second ago. "No contract to complete? No one to appease for the holidays?"

He scratched the back of his neck.

"Ah, no. Are you alright?"

Effie laughed, and adjusted her reading glasses, placing the book on the table.

"It’s nothing. What can I do for you?"

Ifan shrugged, tilting his head.

"Doesn’t look like nothing. But I won’t ask, if you don’t want me to."

Effie gestured for him to sit down. He followed the invitation, hands folded on the table in front of him while his thumb idly turned one of his rings back and forth, fidgety with either nerves, withdrawals or perhaps both. She smiled, and handed him the pipe.

"You’re a sweetheart, Ifan. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Share with me."

An easy smile. "You know I won’t say no to that."

They smoked in silence for a bit. Ifan kept looking at her expectantly. He didn’t ask, as promised, but was waiting for her to talk nonetheless. Effie clicked her tongue.

"It’s my own fault, for reading that book on a morning like this. It’s like I’m asking to cry about spilt milk." She gave a low, hearty chuckle. "Reminded me of that useless husband of mine."

"Oh," said Ifan, completely unjudgmental. "I didn’t know you were married."

"I’m not," said Effie and took a hit. "He’s dead. Has been for longer than you’ve been alive."

"Sorry," said Ifan.

She waved him off. "Don’t be. He wasn’t a good guy. Well, who is, at the end of the day. I’m better off on my own, but you know how it is with nostalgia. Makes the grass look greener in retrospect." She shrugged. "He gave me that flower when we first married. Some kind that grows underground. Hellishly expensive to come by. It’s the one thing I’ve kept of him, and, well – it’s about to die. Maybe that’s a sign. Duna bash my skull in."

"I could take a look at it," offered Ifan. "I know a little about plants. No promises, though."

"You don’t seem the type to be interested in flowers. No offense."

"Ah, but Effie," he sighed, leaning back in his chair after a long drag, and folded his arms behind his head with a charming grin, "I contain multitudes. I’m smoking one right now, ain’t I? Do you know what kind of flower it is?"

"I’ve got no idea." She got up and made her way up the stairs, beckoning him to follow. "It’s edible. He used to put a blossom of it into his tea every morning. To remind him of my love, he said. He wasn’t a sweet one, but I always thought it was a nice gesture."

Ifan snickered. "In the Mezd, spouses use cinnamon for that. It’s like a love potion."

"Fascinating. Maybe I should buy some."

The little apartment she occupied above the Undertavern, laid out with floral rugs, empire import, the stocky furniture in the style of dwarven craftsmanship, the smell of dust and lavender to deter moths. And in the middle of it all, a table full of dried drudanae in jars for Effie’s homemade mixes. That little addict instinct urging him to remember this location for a rainy day, knowing full well that no one stole from Effie, least of all him. He had manners.

Ifan followed her and examined the potted bush oversewn with small, white flowers. The leaves were a fluffly silver instead of green with welted edges, drooping sadly. He laughed.

"Effie," he declared. "Your husband was a dog."

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Not that I don’t agree," she drew out, "But I’m very curious as to how you’ve arrived at that conclusion by looking at a houseplant."

"Because this is not a houseplant." His eyebrows were comically raised. "This is your retirement fund. Not that I want you to retire. Driftwood would miss you terribly."

Without thinking, Ifan plucked one of the white blossoms and laid it on his tongue, blinked a few times, swallowed it and shook his head. "Hello. That’s a fortune right there."

Effie tapped her foot impatiently.

"Care to explain yourself, ben-Mezd?"

"Oh, I'm gonna," Ifan shot back with a grin, "A woman of the world like you, I’m sure you’ve heard of Emythelia?"

"That Elven glitter dust? Good stimulant, I’ve heard. The gladiators use it sometimes."

He pointed at the plant.

"This is what it’s made of. The emyth flower. Only grows in the darkest parts of the valley. Or, you know. Used to."

Ifan shook his head minutely.

"They’re very rare. Especially at this size. Take a long time to grow. And you can’t preserve the petals, you have to mix them up while fresh. With pine resin, or sugar and oil, then put it in a tea. That stuff will keep you awake for the day. But a whole blossom?"

He laughed, something manic in the sound.

"This is gonna keep me up for three. Your husband was a resilient man."

"I’ll be damned," said Effie, staring at him in disbelief. "I saw him leaving with a bunch of those flowers sometimes. I thought he was having an affair. That dog."

"Told you." He shrugged, his smile a little mocking. "Never saw a penny, did you."

She shot him a stern look. Ifan, however, immediately got to work on figuring out the literal root of the problem, pushing his hands into the dirt. Who could be mad at him for long.

"Aren’t you clever. What’s wrong with it?"

"Too much water," he decided after ending his examination, "Cut the rotten roots, and change the soil. You could ask one of Lohar’s gardeners to do it, but something tells me this should stay our little secret." Ifan cocked his head to the side. "I wonder what it does in a drudanae mix. Want me to find out?"

A distinctly dwarven sound of disapproval.

"No, you maniac. Help me carry this downstairs. We’ve got work to do."

And that was how Ifan spent his winter revel, mixing up emythelia infusions of varying intensity, fueled by the crazed concentration of the same substance, while Effie watched him closely and occasionally caught the mixing instruments he kept knocking off the table.

It wasn’t a holiday he’d grown up observing, and it had never bothered him to spend it alone. Or so he’d thought. But Effie sitting there, bickering with him over percentages and telling him stories of her past marital mistake, funnier now than they were then – it woke something deeply melancholic in him that even the raving high couldn’t hold back.

Ifan knew the signs. He was about to crash.

"Well, that’s the last of it. Time to go." He laughed, pointing at his head, and pushed back his chair. "Tir’va dhal. I don’t think that stuff is good for me. Makes me feel more insane."

"Really?" Asked Effie with a sardonic expression. "I couldn’t tell."

She observed the mess on the table, then the neatly stacked packets next to it.

"Good job, lad. Should’ve asked you to work for me when I still had the chance. Shame you’ve signed such an exclusive membership policy. You’re lucky you survived initiation."

Ifan shrugged. He looked uncomfortable, like he had one foot out the door already.

"It is what it is."

Effie leaned back in her chair, sucked her teeth and waved him towards her. He hesitantly obliged. Not sitting down. He seemed physically incapable of sitting down.

"You’ve done me a great favor. You turned a gloomy day into a promising future. And you’ll see your share, that goes without saying." She smiled. "But I’ll owe you one for listening to an old woman blabber on about her glory days."

"I’ll remember that," said Ifan gravely.

She looked him over carefully.

"I hope this isn’t overstepping it," she said, "But I assume you wouldn’t be here today if you had somewhere else to go. The weather is shit. I don’t want you freezing outside. The least I could offer you is a place to ride out whatever that is."

Ifan laughed.

"It's not like that, Effie. I just like open skies above me. And frankly, I’m about to jump out of my skin, and you don’t wanna be around when that happens. But it’s appreciated."

"I get it. Takes time, getting used to the outdoors again."

He clicked his tongue. "Yeah."

"The offer still stands, though. You’re no less of a piece of scum than the rest of us, and you still have a helping hand and a joke for everyone. But there isn’t a soul that comes down here at the frequency you do that doesn’t have a long list of sorrows and regrets. If you ever need to talk – tell me. No judgement."

"Oh, you’re entitled to some." He shot her a smile. "Good night, Effie."

***

Ifan was slipping. He knew he was. Rhalic’s voice an ever-present ringing in his head, urging him to give up, give in. The brutal, overwhelming hunger. It was louder at night. Like these things always were.

The thought of finding Alexandar and giving him what he deserved had always brought him some relief. Reminding himself that he wasn’t defeated. He was alive. And the Order was going to bitterly regret not checking twice upon his departure from the world of the living.

Now, Ifan clung to his shot at vengeance.

No one was going to keep him down again. Not the Lone Wolves. Not the Order. Not himself, and certainly not Rhalic. He knew it rationally, and still, the desire to simply give himself over to his fate was always there. He’d never won this battle, had he? Just once.

Every image Rhalic summoned up in his brain, of bodies sinking into decay, falling ancestor trees, blood and viscera and the accusing eyes of those who’d suffered under Ifan’s apathy for years, he countered by picturing Alexandar’s severed head on a pike.

Wondering what it’d feel like to rip out his heart with his bare hands. Justice, for a past he couldn’t change. Anger, on behalf of the fallen and himself. The only weapon he had left.

I preferred you as a child, pious and devout. But when I answered your prayers, all you did was curse me for letting you live. You’ve always been ungrateful. Betrayed everyone who ever made the mistake of helping you. Bodies litter your path with every decision you make. You always take the lowest road when presented with the choice. All you do leads to destruction. You flee the light instead of bearing it, like a cockroach.

Tough, said Ifan. Now it’s you that comes crawling.

You think you’re being steadfast. But you still refuse to stand up and do what is right. Fine. We both know your true nature. It’s only a matter of time before you give up and start begging for my help.

Ifan pulled out his knife and held it to his own wrist. Scraping lightly across the scars there, with a smile reserved for his odious creator. Rhalic roared with anger, clawing into his soul. A flicker of despair, and this time, it wasn’t Ifan’s. The god recoiled, and drew back.

We’ll see, thought Ifan. We’ll see.

*

As it turned out, the comedown off of pure emyth blossom mixed with a hefty amount of drudanae was simply said, fucking terrible. He’d expected the two to cancel each other out, but both were very much working. The results of his herbological field study left much to be desired. Ifan didn’t sleep properly for days. He was hallucinating, slipping in and out of nightmares, calling Afrit when he woke up screaming, the stench of ozone, green fog, molten skin and the unspeakable horror of helplessness.

He could run to the ends of the earth. Take contracts and spill blood and convince himself he didn’t care. He could numb himself to reality as much as he wanted. The fact remained.

Ifan had been given the power to save everyone, and had used it to destroy everything.

What was worse, the faces of those decaying in the fog had become unclear, anonymous. He had a hard time remembering them. They were slipping through his fingers. That realization knocked the breath out of him, his airways constricting around nothing, tears blurring his vision but refusing to fall.

The obvious downside of starting to feel things again was that Ifan very much felt things again.

As much as he desperately wanted to drown himself in oblivion, he needed to remember. He pulled up those faces in front of his eyes, again and again and again, whispering their names like a prayer, every word cutting deeper into his soul. He was driving himself insane with it, the grief scratching at his insides like it was about to rip him apart and crawl into the world instead of him, but no tear escaping him, just a growing, all-encompassing terror.

Ifan made an executive decision on day four.

The will to survive was slipping through his fingers. It needed to stop. He needed to cry. And based on previous experience, there was only one man who was sure to help him achieve that.

He couldn’t say why he knew with such certainty that, after five months of missing out on each other, he would find Anwyn in the pack’s newest campsite that very evening. It was his predictable, ongoing streak of luck in misfortune that made him sure of it. Like one of those penny plays in the market square where the names were exchanged but the story was always the same. And sure enough – his hunch was right.

Anwyn opened the door for him.

"Oh. You’re still alive."

Ifan leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"I’m hard to get rid of." He shot Anwyn an enticing smirk. "Happy to see me again?"

Anwyn said nothing in return, but the look on his face was enough of an answer. That self-assured smile spreading there mixed with a spark of temptation.

"That very much depends. What do you want?"

Ifan leaned forward, speaking slowly, his tongue savoring each letter as he watched that spark grow into a wildfire. He knew this game. And he was very good at it.

"I want you," he drew out, "To do whatever you want with me."

Anwyn raised his eyebrows, but didn’t back away. Their faces were very close together.

"You couldn’t handle what I want to do with you."

"Try me."

Anwyn was thinking it over, then wrinkled his nose. He grabbed his jaw, tilting his head up, looking deep into his eyes. Ifan’s brain stopped working in an instant. A rush of fear and lust and life, and nothing else. Just what he’d hoped for. The piercing stare sharpened.

"No."

Anwyn shook his head, and released him.

"I can smell the drudanae from here. You’re not in your right mind, and your skin is as delicate as a flower. I don’t deal with people like you. You have no control, no dignity, nothing above the desperate whims of a common addict. You have nothing to lose and nothing to offer. You’re already destroying yourself. What do you need me for?"

Yup, that stung a little. He wasn’t going to lie.

"Didn’t seem to bother you last time."

"Oh no, Silverclaw." Anwyn laughed. "Make no mistake. That was me indulging you."

Ifan felt a spark of hurt pride flare up in him. An impulsive grin rising on his face.

"That’s… interesting," he purred. "Are you usually so quick to break your own rules? For the legendary scorpion to fail his contract for nothing but a quick fuck. I must be special."

The look Anwyn gave him was enough to make him shudder. Ifan kept going. He tapped his finger against his lip, like he was just thinking of something.

"And you did seem to be holding back, now that I remember. Saddens me to think you didn’t even get to enjoy yourself. Although it does explain the lack of… enthusiam, last time. Like a blushing daisy. I apologize. Shouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that."

Anwyn took a slow, threatening step towards him. The hair on his neck stood. Run.

"Really, I’m sorry. Never meant to make you feel that undignified. I’ll give you the contract fee back, if you want me to." He clicked his tongue. "Foul play on my part. Ir abelas."

Anwyn had a truly impressive backhand, Ifan had to give him that. It flung him a couple feet to the side, but he caught himself on the doorframe, his skin close to numb, but everything still twice as cutting from the drudanae. Anwyn grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back up to look at him. He was seething, under that stone-cold expression.

"I’m going to forget this happened," said Anwyn, in the same silky, smooth tone Ifan had already figured out to be the indicator of his breaking point, "And you’re going to count your blessings and leave."

Ifan had fucking won. Again. 

"Face it, Anwyn. I ain’t the only one with no dignity."

Rhalic almost got the better of him while he was in the process of separating the Black Ring Captain’s soul from his body. And it wasn’t so much that Ifan gave in to his steady stream of insults, it was simply the fact that he’d reflexively drawn source when said Captain was pushing attack after attack his way, trying to get close to the elementalist steadily flooding the temple of Vrogir.

There was no cover to be found, no high ground for him to take. Only the clash of blade against blade. And what could a knife do against a two-handed battle axe. Most human fighters were no match for even an exhausted and source-depleted Ifan. But the man wasn’t exactly human anymore, was he, sworn to the God King and his terrible gift.

So, admittedly, he’d made a couple of mistakes. He was doing his best to dodge the onslaught, trying to get past his defenses. Usually it wouldn’t have been a problem, the captain was slow, weighed down by his heavy weapon. But, as all things do eventually – Ifan’s luck ran out.

The natural cost of not sleeping for a week.

Ifan dodged. The axe slammed into his back. It was more the force of the blow that cut him down, the dulled blade barely piercing through his armor. Ifan reflexively raised his hands and flung a missile of rock and gravel at him before he could finish the job.

He heard Rhalic laugh in his head.

The captain was pushed back, but turned and lunged at Ifan, who was just getting back on his feet, a raging pain crippling his spine from where the axe had hit. No more source.

Take power, said something in the back of his mind. It wasn’t Rhalic, this time.

And so he did. He feinted, one step to the right, then barreled at his left, curling around the swing radius of the axe, ignoring the sharp complaints of his back, and sunk his teeth into his opponent’s neck. He screamed in surprise, the source draining from him, Ifan kicked at his kneecaps and brought him down. Brimming with power. Memories mixing with the thick of the fight, the acrid stench of source with the taste of blood. Glechou dumar.

The battle fading into the background, the captain’s life wilting under his teeth, not even bothering to guide him into death and rememberance. Ifan was ripping through the history of his flesh, looking for the one piece of information he desperately needed.

Where is Alexandar.

The captain was still alive. Still struggling. Every memory was forced, unclear. Rhalic reveled in delight. The white light blurring the edges of his vision.

The hunger was back, eating at him, scratching away at his insides, like it was going to consume him unless he consumed someone else. Ifan looked up, let the captain’s empty remains fall to the ground. He found the battle completed. His companions staring at him, in outright disgust, at the blood on his face and the white flicker in his eyes.

Sebille appeared behind him from nowhere, grabbed his shoulders, spun him around and shook him. Ifan startled and lunged at her, followed by a sharp jolt of pain rushing through his spine and stopping him short. He staggered, hissed at her like a wounded animal.

"Valesh. Na amelin enasal," growled Sebille. "Ma harel. A nadas."

Ifan blankly stared back at her, her diamond features filled with scorn. Her teeth bared in a threat, before finding the flicker of fear in his face and letting go of him.

"Get it together. Brother."

Oh Ifan, sneered Rhalic in his head, that didn’t take long, did it.

Get fucked.

His ears were ringing. Ifan bit his tongue.

He did his best to shut the god out. Francis helped him out of his chest armor to close the wound and prevent the swelling from reaching his bones. An injured spine was bad news.

"So. Care to tell me what the hell that was?"

Francis’ voice had that artificial cheer that snuck into it every time he was truly at a loss. Ifan shrugged.

"You know what it was," he replied candidly. "He would’ve cut me in two like a steak. I had to get close. I needed source. And whenever I do, Rhalic shows his ugly head."

"You don’t have to bite someone’s neck clean through to get to their source."

Ifan shrugged.

"Force of habit, I guess."

Francis made a sound of disbelief. His magic connected with Ifan’s spine, removing the swelling, adjusting the small fracture in it, drawing a low growl of discomfort from him.

"Look," said Ifan, after he was done spitting out what he could of the bile rising in his throat, "I was trying to read his memories. I got carried away. That’s all."

Francis took a deep breath. Ifan turned around to him, softening his expression into an honest, if slightly strained smile. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you."

Francis sighed.

"Great job on that one. Headass. Did you learn anything?"

Ifan shook his head.

"You can’t go on like this," Francis declared earnestly. "I know you’re great at pushing through. But I saw you get hit back there. You were staring at him for a full second. That doesn’t happen to you, Ifan. You’ve got bags under your eyes the size of saucers. You don’t always have to go to your limits. I want to help. Tell me how."

Ifan rubbed a hand over his face and shrugged.

"I’d tell you if I knew."

You didn’t last a day without my power. You will give in, and we both know it. Why fight it, my most wayward child? It will all be over soon.

Banal, na era. Keep dreaming.

Ifan liked Mezd City – or Ixtia, as the proper name was. It was built into a desert canyon, light sandstone and bright-coloured fabric mezzanines sparing the mercy of shadow in the dusty streets. Filled with smells and sounds distantly familiar, the poor remains of his first language slowly sinking in again. Ifan took his time there. Like everyone did, as he soon realized while blending in with the crowds. No one was racing against the impending doom of winter. The world moved slowly here. In this way, the city was not unlike Tiriana.

He was an outsider, but greeted with equal parts intrigue and hospitality. He got by on what few words he knew. Intently learned what people were proud to show him, followed their explanations with gestures and expressions – the music, the games, the food. Avoided the few other southern travellers, who assumed him to be a local.

Ifan spent three months in Ixtia. Sometimes, when he sat on the small balcony in front of the room he’d rented from an elderly couple – simply listening to the lively sounds of the city at night, when the temperatures were bearable enough to walk outside, smoking a pipe in the company of the rooftop cats, or practising the instrument his landlady had begun teaching him – he imagined what it would be like to take root here. It was a lonely life for now – but Ifan was used to being alone. He’d learn to fit in. He always did.

And wouldn’t it be nice? A break. A new beginning in a city he was a stranger to. Neither a traitor nor a soldier nor a criminal, just someone going about his day like everyone else.

But the contract had long ended, of course.

The money ran out. And Ifan knew no trade besides the one he’d been in all his life. In Tiriana, he’d learned to hunt and gut just as he’d learned to tend to the gardens – the natural choice, considering his source abilities. And there was little in terms of plants to tend to in Ixtia. So back to gutting it was.

Unless.

Ifan was already on the road back to the south, when a merchant caravan passed him by. He nodded in greeting. The guards ignored him. To call them mercenaries would have been an insult to the craft. They were what Ifan’s trade called crumbs – starving peasants with no previous experience in the art of war, haphazadly armed and underequipped.

They were no match for the Silver Claw.

Ifan had a long list of mistakes to show for in his life. Robbing a caravan with a plan he’d come up with in precisely one minute counted among the less serious ones.

But even those mistakes had consequences, and said consequences arrived half an hour later in the form of the northern border patrol.

It was like Effie said. They always get you for the mundane. So keep your books clean, and only do one crime at a time.

Ifan wasn’t stupid, of course he’d taken a detour, but as misfortune would have it, no one else was on the road but him, the sole suspect with a bag full of coin and a crossbow on his back.

Sure, he could have resisted. His chance of escape against a whole garrison, however, was frighteningly slim. And they assumed him to be nothing but a slightly incompetent highway robber instead of extraditing him to Driftwood to chop his head off in the market square for what he’d truly come here to do. The decision was weighed, and Ifan chose the path he always had to choose.

Survival.

***

In the shadow of Amadia’s floating temple, Ifan continued his battle against the god that he refused to follow. This night was no better than the last. Rhalic was growing surer of his victory with every passing hour, like he was simply waiting him out, like it wasn’t even necessary to wear him down anymore.

An image playing in his mind on repeat, him in Lucian’s command tent, the Divine’s hand on his shoulder, declaring him his most trusted, while Alexandar looked at him with ill-concealed hatred. Assigning him the most important mission, the one to turn the war in favor of the greater good, once and for all. How proud he’d been. How goddamn stupid.

Ifan flipped the page.

Alexandar, bleeding out in a ditch. Pleading to be spared. Paying for his sins. And Lucian too, for good measure, knowing full well that the Divine was already rotting with the worms.

It’s starting to become pitiful to watch, Rhalic remarked smugly. Would you like me to tell you where Alexandar is?

Let me guess. As long as you can take my brain for a ride. I’m good, thanks.

Not necessary. By all means, have your petty vengeance. After it is done, who will you be? Who, other than a hateful, pathetic husk of a man. A spineless coward to the end.

Ifan snickered.

Ma enaste. Who are you? I feel like we’ve dated.

Rhalic’s voice pierced through his eardrums, like they were about to burst, cutting off his breath, stabbing his vision with blinding, white light. Ifan curled into himself.

I am you, Ifan. The sooner you realize it, the better. I created you. All you are belongs to me. We will ascend. We will save all. We will be worshipped by all.

Get out of my head, you overgrown mosquito.

I will drag you into the light. I will redeem you. And you will thank me.

Ifan grabbed his knife and sliced into his own arm. Rhalic hissed, tearing at his brain.

You wouldn’t dare. You bound yourself to those disgusting elven traditions, harbinged your own downfall. You cannot die. You cannot trick me. You cannot break your promise.

Hm. Ifan twisted the knife. You sure about that? I wouldn’t put that much faith in me.

GODWOKEN.

Piss off, Rhalic.

The blade stung. He noted the pain somewhere distant. A threat, a necessity, not the relief it once had been. As it turned out, some bad habits did die over time. When he withdrew the knife, staring at the blood freely dripping down his arm, Rhalic was finally silent. Blessedly silent.

Oh, that was dangerous.

Francis was right. He couldn’t go on like this.

**

They were on day two of what Anwyn refused to call a suicide watch, when the bargain was struck.

No matter how much Ifan had assured him that the whole thing had been rather circumstantial, that he saw the error of his ways and wasn’t going to try again. Once the blinding rage had subsided, once Anwyn had dragged him back into town while Ifan cursed his blood and history with every step and locked him in their tavern room, that was.

Instead of simply finishing the double contract they’d been assigned together – charged by a trade syndicate scratching all their coin together to take out a local landlord and two leaders of his paramilitary – Ifan was still staring at the same damn ceiling.

"Here’s what I fail to understand."

Anwyn reached out and took one of his shaking wrists into his own. There had been a few people over the years, telling Ifan to try his hand at sobriety. As it turned out, there was one man who could truly make sure he succeeded. And Ifan hated every second of it. He glowered at the elf, maintaining a stubborn silence.

"Why end it in front of an ancestor tree, of all places? Of all the forms of worship on this continent, why this one? Let me tell you," Anwyn chuckled. "If I’d been given the choice to free myself from the tyranny of the scions, I would’ve taken it at the first opportunity."

He seemed to be talking to himself more than anything, examining Ifan’s wrist in his hand. Ifan had the violent urge to pull it away. He didn’t.

"You’d think," continued Anwyn, "That you’d pick somewhere with a better view. Something that gives you a last, if misguided illusion of freedom. Isn’t that what this is, after all?"

Ifan rolled his eyes.

"You’re human," Anwyn insisted. "Why would you choose this, if you’re not bound to it from birth? You went through the trouble of learning the language, the customs, to give up all of your choices, only to then try and take your own life because you have no control over it?"

His skin was crawling, his head felt too light, the withdrawal fevers twisting his line of thought into near incoherence. He still found time to relay the core message.

"Why do you care?"

"Because I care about you. Do you really think I’d go through all this trouble if I didn’t?"

Anwyn’s pupils narrowed into sharp slits, as he focused them on Ifan’s – catching him in his gaze with no escape, seeing through him no matter how hard he tried to hide. It had been too many years of living along Reaper’s Coast. He’d gotten used to hiding.

"You’re surprised," stated Anwyn.

"You’ve got a funny way of showing it, is all."

Anwyn sighed.

"I’ll be the first to admit that I tried very hard not to. You have no limits, and no sense of self-preservation. You are a danger to me. I’ll stick by that. But if you know anything about the nature of emotions, then you know that there is very little you can do to control them."

Ifan clicked his tongue. "It’s called drudanae. You should try it."

Anwyn laughed.

"Ah. Sarcasm. Tir’serannas. Perhaps not all is lost."

Ifan snorted. Fine. That was funny.

"They do say converts are the worst," he replied. "Although, having seen the damage that non-converts can do, I’d sincerely beg to differ."

Anwyn regarded him with an easy smile.

Ifan opened his eyes a little more, catching the way the lamplight reflected in the shiny, birch-like patterning on his flawless skin. The elegant black linings decorating his body, shaping his regal features, the perfect symmetry in each of his movements.

Ifan hadn’t given his prominent beauty much thought until now. He entertained it, for a bit.

"Here’s what I know so far," Anwyn summed up, straightening his back and looking down at him, his fingers lightly caressing Ifan’s arm. "You have martial training. Both human, and elven. But somehow, you don’t seem to get along with either, despite speaking both languages perfectly enough to tell me exactly what I don’t want to hear at any given time."

Ifan snickered.

"What can I say. It’s a gift."

"And you’re clearly proud of it, yes. That sense of superiority, so proper of a fanatic."

He brought Ifan’s wrist up to his lips, placing a gentle kiss there. Ifan felt it much more deeply than was healthy, for all intents and purposes. He blamed the fever.

"I was raised by believers, you know," Anwyn continued. "Kin in the diaspora. But they insisted on taking me to be read by Scion Kumar of the mountain tribes. To this day, I don’t know why. We had nothing to do with their ways. A lot of pain could’ve been prevented, had they simply let me live my life without attaching prophecy to it."

He didn’t miss Ifan’s reaction to those words, of course. They locked eyes once more, and Ifan was sure he wouldn’t even have to have read his skin to notice it.

"What fate did they burden you with," said Anwyn, "that warrants such pure self-hatred?"

That was the moment Ifan decided, for the second time this week, that he’d had enough. Only now, there was a clear way out of his dilemma.

A way to fulfill his promise, of making sure the faces of Tiriana – now rapidly flashing before his eyes in the same painful succession he called them up in every night – would not be forgotten. He wouldn’t have to remember them all by himself anymore. If the scorpion’s callousness lived up to even a fracture of its reputation, he wouldn’t bat an eye at what he saw. And all Ifan had to do was say one simple little word. Just this once.

"You could always see for yourself," said Ifan. "Irithme."

Anwyn looked like he’d been struck by lightning. Very fitting, considering how their first meeting had gone. And it felt good, Ifan wasn’t going to lie. A closing circle. A snake biting its own tail. It felt almost like – destiny.

Anwyn did recover eventually, a slow blink followed by an unusually husky whisper.

"You’d… give yourself to me?"

Ifan shrugged. "If you wanna put it that way. Sure."

"No. You must know how grave this is. You are offering me everything. The entirety of your being. And asking me for mine in return. The good in you. The bad in you…"

"… the all in me. I know."

Anwyn, once more, seemed to be at a complete loss for words. Then, the hand around his arm tightened like a wrench. "I will not allow you to tease me, Silverclaw. Not with this."

"Ifan," he corrected with a smile.

It felt almost unfamiliar to say it, by now.

"My name is Ifan ben-Mezd. Yes, I know it’s hard to pronounce, but I feel like you should at least be able to–"

"Ifan."

There was a spark of completely unfamiliar tenderness in his piercing eyes. His hand formed around a gesture so vague and subconscious it took him a while to recognize it. Clarify.

"You’re not lying to me, are you? I’ve been… foolish, before. I will not be fooled again. I have rules. This is…"

Ifan pulled himself up, and kissed him. It had been a while, anyway – and he’d forgotten how good it could feel, to only be this close. Anwyn remained frozen in stone for a second, before he caught himself, one hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, and returned the kiss – clumsy, but fierce in his hold.

"Am I?" whispered Ifan when he pulled away. "Am I lying to you, Anwyn?"

Anwyn shook his head in amazement.

"This is a selfish thing to ask of you," Ifan said quietly. "I’ll admit it freely. I’m giving you what I couldn’t bring myself to give to the roots. I’m giving you… everything I can’t even speak about. I give you all of my failures and all of my flaws. I only have my loyalty to give you in return. Do you want it?"

And so, the snake bit into its own tail.

Chapter Text

"Lohse. Wake up."

"Five more minutes…"

The voice was very insistent, but no one was shaking her awake or screaming at her to get on her feet and grab her weapon, so she was reasonably certain it could wait.

"Wake up. Please. I gotta talk to you."

"Mh-hm."

"Lohse!"

She groaned, heaved herself up and rolled her eyes at him. "God’s blackened balls, ben-Mezd, what’s a girl gotta do to – holy shit. Ifan. What happened to your arm?"

Ifan shushed her. "I need your help."

"I can see that. Can you try going a day without needing medical attention? I’m not a cleric, for the gods. I just played one on stage once. Giving it my best here."

"Something else," said Ifan. "I need you to teach me mind control."

Lohse rolled her eyes and muttered a curse.

"I hate to break it to you, chief. I’ve got no such power under my command. If I did, I’d still be sleeping. Matter of fact, I’d be queen of Rivellon and soaking in a rose-scented bath instead of sweating to death in this bloody jungle with you lot." She beckoned him closer. "Gimme that arm, you idiot."

Ifan did, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh. You’re really not a morning person."

"Told you. There’s a reason I always take first watch. It’s for the good of everyone."

Ifan smiled at her.

"Are you absolutely certain you’re not related to Francis?"

"Reasonably," trilled the bard. "That being said, maybe I should introduce him to my troupe once all of this is over. He’d make a killing in the theatre." She grinned. "They always need a guy to play the evil mage. I see a bright future in the performing arts for both of you."

Ifan chuckled warmly.

"You’re not the first to say that recently. I’m starting to believe it’s true."

She blew a raspberry. "Well, why not? You go where the tide takes you. People are mostly happy to see you and no one asks a whole lot of questions. You’ve got a decent ear for music. Doc Lowbridge is apparently a legend on the ballroom floor. Oh, and you’d be great for a knife-throwing act." She smiled at him. "There’s worse ways to make a living."

"There is," conceded Ifan. "I’d know."

"True," said Lohse. "You are due for a change in occupation, what with your old friends being out to kill you and all. We can take turns. Axe throwing on Saturdays, and Knife Friday as a treat."

She sat up fully, grabbed his arm and snapped her fingers to produce a spark of source, felt Ifan draw back a little as she did. She frowned. Looked closer.

"Woodcarving accident?"

"Rhalic accident," admitted Ifan.

"Fuck," she said. "You two really aren’t on good terms, huh?"

"That’s putting it rather mildly. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about."

Lohse tilted her head to the side, and knit the wound back together. It was deep. It left a long, jagged scar. One like many next to it.

"How do you do it?" Ifan inquired. "You’ve been walking around half-posessed all this time, by an archdemon no less, and most days it doesn’t even seem to bother you."

She cackled quietly.

"Believe me, it does. I can’t wait to kick it out of my head, under all that southern cheer, you can–" Lohse paused. "Oh. You mean that sort of mind control."

Ifan nodded.

"How do I do it? Well," said Lohse, "First, you've gotta know that I’ve been a playground for spirits and entities ever since I was old enough to form a coherent thought. Maybe even earlier. So most of it is practise, really. Sorry."

"That sounds… hard."

Lohse lazily swatted at a mosquito circling her face in wait for an unguarded moment. Not that it was much use. Her skin was a pincushion already. Sweet blood, as Papa Joris used to say.

"It’s not all bad. Some of them are lovely guests. Others are simply confused. They were always great artistic inspiration, a couple of them used to return to me to finish telling me their stories. There’s some I even count as friends, as weird as it may sound to you."

"Not at all," said Ifan with a shrug.

Oh, true. He was a scion, after all – a keeper of memories, like Sebille was. Common practise for the two of them, to be communing with the dead.

"Right. You've got a fair amount of strange swirling in your head as well. That’s a place to start." She sat down cross-legged, hands on her knees. "Tell me. With all those memories in your head, how do you distinguish between yours and those of other people?"

Ifan raised a hand to his neck, playing with his earring.

"I don’t know," he settled on eventually. "Other people’s memories don’t really stay in my head. I’m more of a guide. I channel their memories into the roots. But I should be able to pull them up again as well, and read them. I’ve never tried. It’s all very… new to me."

Lohse hummed.

"The real trouble," Ifan went on to say, "was always telling a memory from the present moment. Since long before I was a scion. But I’ve gotten better at that, over the years."

"How do you do that, exactly? How do you tell them apart?"

Ifan laughed. "Sounds stupid, but… I remember that I’m made of flesh and blood. Try not to get stuck in what my brain thinks is going on, and focus on what my senses tell me."

Lohse grinned. "Jackpot. That’s the best way to do it."

"It depends," mused Ifan. "Let’s say I’ve overshot the mark a couple times."

"Oh well. That happens to the best of us." She shrugged. "We’re sensitive, you and me. But good on you for figuring that part out already. You need a reality check. You need to be able to tell which part of your being is you and which one is the influence of the entity. Which is temporary, and which is permanent. The surer you are of it, the better you get at keeping them at bay."

Ifan hummed noncommitally.

"What if I’ve got very little idea of that?"

"Then you've gotta find out. When I was ten, I was visited by something truly malevolent for the first time. After that, I never wanted to get taken over ever again. But let me tell you, with the amount of traffic I get, that’s very exhausting. My parents took me to a mystic. And she taught me a kind of – process. To distinguish the entities and decide who to let in and who to shut out."

Ifan seemed to listen to her intently.

"The truly malevolent ones," continued Lohse, "You can tell by the way they talk to you. In that way, they’re not so different from us. They make big promises at the beginning, offer you great power and for all your wishes to come true, and so on. Or they offer to solve your problems for you. Something that doesn’t make you look too close. They might even be really charming, if only you let them in. If you don’t, they start to become violent. Does that ring a bell?"

Ifan snorted in amusement.

"Nope. Rhalic went straight to breaking my nose."

Her face lit up in a grin. "That’s great," she said, noticing the frown on his face. "Not to make light of it. I’m sure it wasn’t a good time. But you know what that means, chief?"

"Not really. I’m very confused."

"He’s desperate," said Lohse, "And he knows you aren’t easily fooled."

Ifan thought this over. Then he shrugged, forming a sequence of gestures she’d seen Sebille use a couple of times. Reluctant agreement.

"What can I say. The last guy who told me he’d give me the power to save everything… wasn’t exactly true to his word." He clicked his tongue. "But Rhalic didn’t have to promise anything. I’ve always wondered why he didn’t choose someone with a little more faith left to his name. But I suppose that’s it. We’re really not that different, me and him."

Lohse observed him in silence for a little while. She could see how tired he was. Body, heart and soul at the end of their respective rope. Not even trying to crack a grin anymore.

"You've gotta stop, Ifan."

"Stop what?"

"Whether it be god, or demon – those things feed off your guilt. And I’m not saying you can’t have regrets. Congratulations, you have a conscience. But those entities - they’ll always convince you that the world would be better off without you in it, and that you have nothing to lose anyway. It’s their last resort. It keeps you from standing up to them, and for yourself. Your guilt doesn’t help anyone. Least of all those you’ve wronged."

"I can’t help it."

"You have to." Every bit of lightness disappeared from her voice. She suddenly spoke with the power of someone used to commanding a crowd from the stage, full of grit and gravity. "Tell me then. If you’re truly no better than Rhalic, why haven’t you given in already?"

"I did, remember?"

"Yeah, you did. Could’ve left it at that. But you clawed your way back, and I know how hard that is. If everything is truly futile, why do you keep fighting? What do you have to lose?"

Ifan stared into nothing for a bit, then looked at her with complete and utter certainty. Like there was only one answer. Like he couldn’t comprehend there being any other.

"Can’t let my friends down, can I?"

The pose she’d assumed broke for a second. Lohse gave an involuntary laugh. Then she leaned forward and caught him in a crushing hug. Ifan seemed surprised by the gesture, but wrapped his arms around her nonetheless. When they separated, Lohse patted his head and grinned.

"You know, Ifan. Under all of…" She gestured vaguely, "…that, you’re just illegally cute sometimes. Don’t worry, though. I won’t go around telling people."

Ifan chuckled.

Lohse brushed a stray lock back behind her ear. The hair there was starting to grey, a little earlier than it would have if she’d been granted a more peaceful existence. Just like his.

"Rhalic’s wrong, you know."

He looked like he was going to argue. Lohse kept talking before he could.

"Think of every prison guard, every miffed landlord putting down a peasant riot, every magister we’ve had the displeasure with. They all try to convince you of the same thing. Resistance is futile." She shot him an impish smile, filled with determination. "You know who says that? People who are terrified of what happens when you do decide to resist. All power is fragile, chief. And the powerful know it best."

Ifan tilted his head and looked at her with newfound curiosity. He didn’t need to know she’d stolen the line from Elahe’s Lament, the play she’d performed with Joris right before her final concert. Sometimes, certain words were simply meant for certain ears.

"It gets worse when you don’t sleep," stated Lohse with a yawn. She stood up fully, and indicated her empty bedroll with a nod. "My turn to keep watch. There’s a little something Jahan taught me. To safeguard someone from possession. Demon hunting basics."

She muttered the incantation. Source briefly flashed in her eyes as she laid her fingers on Ifan’s forehead. "It’s a clear-mind spell," she explained when he gave her a questioning look. "It’ll stay up for as long as I keep it up. From one friend to another – you need a nap."

*

All in all, he’d gotten older, and a little wiser.

Ifan had good days. Good weeks, good months, even. He spent hours listening to music at the wayside inns, and to the stories of people he met on the road. He hunted with Afrit. Enjoyed a good meal where he could find it. He played chess with the elderly dwarves on the docks, swapped gossip and jokes with sailors and cutpurses. He watched the swarms of starlings over the cliffs of Reaper’s Coast. He found joy in small things, and peace in raucous places, and comfort in the short-lived company of others.

Fast friendships and the occasional affair that his effortless charisma brought along as easily as his hand brought death upon his targets. He was calmer these days, surer of himself. Trusting himself to consider long-term downsides against temporary upsides.

On good days.

All in all, it was a life. And somewhere in between, Ifan had acquired a gold coin he never spent. Whether it was the same coin, or whether the original had drunkenly passed a counter somewhere along the way and been replaced by another – he couldn’t tell.

He chose to believe it was the same coin.

Call it superstition, but for some reason it was the last thing Ifan looked at while bleeding out face down in the muck. He hated the idea of dying without seeing the sky. A nasty way for anyone to go. But he lacked the strength to turn around. Not that it would’ve been much use - the kilns of Sinta ran hot, and covered the sky with clouds of blackened soot.

The coin was a reminder of several things.

One, that no matter how deserved or justified a kill felt, and no matter how desperately the human mind seeks to assign higher purpose to its actions, in the end – he was in it for the coin, and nothing but the coin. Ifan had killed in service to a higher purpose before.

Nothing worse than a thug who thinks he’s a righteous man.

Two, that he’d never have a blank slate. No matter how many times he ran back to Anwyn in some frivolous attempt to wash it clean. The dead were remembered, but dead they remained. His mistakes always punished, but never made up for. Anwyn and Ifan. Like crabs in a barrel. The perfect storm, a despotic sadist and an erratic masochist, inseparable in an endless cycle of despair and destruction.

Ifan knew it. On good days. But in truth, it hadn’t fully occurred to him up until now.

How self-righteous it all was.

Ten years later, nearing fourty, Ifan had become a master in the art of cold withdrawal. Even if it never lasted for long.

He’d broken up with Anwyn many times before. But it never lasted, and both of them knew it too. Breaking up with Anwyn was like waking up with a vicious hangover and swearing by all seven gods to never drink again. A decision born of momentary discomfort that faltered as soon as the discomfort of being self-aware outweighed it. Cold withdrawal wasn’t gonna cut it this time.

Somewhere in the effort of outbidding each other in cruelty, Anwyn became a risk to his survival rather than a guarantee of it. And out of sheer, dumb jealousy. From both sides, sure. Did Ifan have to passionately kiss and profess his love onto another elven man in full view of his soul-bound nightmare? No. He was being petty. And Anwyn had been too, sending him back out the door without healing any of his reminders of who Ifan was truly beholden to.

I want you to think about what you’ve done.

Hilarious. Like Ifan ever stopped doing that in the first place. He’d set out on his contract the next morning. He needed the distraction. But he was tired, and hurt, and high as all heavens, to get him through the day. And his target was a trained professional like him, who saw him giving pursuit and cornered him in an alley.

The late remains of his opponent next to him, Ifan made no move to get back up or even try to remedy the fatal blow she’d dealt to his abdomen, but of course, his moon prevented him from laying down and getting it over with.

Somebody always found him in time.

Such was the way of fate. Ifan dragged himself back to camp after a few days in the healer’s hut in the silkmaker district of Sinta, paying most of his contract fee just to get his guts stitched back together. Cussing Anwyn out was the first order of business upon arrival.

Yeah, I was off base. B ut you had no permission. Not the fucking time, Anwyn - ma ena din’an-mir. You were too pissed to even listen to me say I had a contract due.

Neither did you. Anwyn replied coolly. You are everything to me. I was there for you when no one else was. And you keep spitting in my face. He did look hurt, then. Truly. I love you.

Ifan snapped.

Then fucking love me less, you piece of shit.

Needless to say, the rest of the conversation hadn’t gone much in his favor. And Anwyn made a grave mistake. For everything that Ifan let him get away with, for each time they were the perfect canvas for each other’s frustrations, Anwyn always let him leave. Because there were limits. And both of them knew that, at the end of the day.

In truth, they didn’t lose control. They gave it up, in careful accordance to what they knew the other would just be able to tolerate. But every vicious cycle hit rock bottom eventually. 

When Ifan showed up at Effie’s Emporium a week after, it was a calculated choice. For once, he had no desire to keep his options open with Anwyn. Ifan was angry. And not the reckless flare of rage that usually caused him to break up, one that subsided just as quickly as it had appeared.

It was a cold, and calculating anger.

Ifan wanted revenge.

You look like shit, Effie said, foregoing any formal introduction.

Ifan leaned over the counter to look at her. His stare had something terrible to it.

I know it’s been a while, Effie, but – remember that favor you owe me?

She frowned, then pointedly raised both eyebrows at him.

It’s been ten years, ben-Mezd. Whose body do I bury?

It was hilarious, but the most unlikely event was on track to happen. Francis was on his way to becoming the Divine. The trickster. The wild card. The funniest choice.

The possibility had always seemed a little more real to him than it should have. Call it intuition, but he’d always known what was achievable and what impossible, despite the number of people insisting otherwise.

That being said – Francis had no real intention of becoming the Divine. Other than a purely scientific interest in what it would feel like to see everything and know everything, and despite his occasional bouts of megalomania, he quite agreed with Ifan on the matter.

Absolute power corrupted absolutely.

He knew this, not despite being plenty corrupt in his own way. Not despite his undeniable strive for control, as some way out of powerlessness. Francis knew it because of this. He was firmly aware that he’d be the worst kind of person to be equipped with such power.

And truly, was anyone equipped for it?

He observed his companions in the process of waking up. Watched Lohse meditate, watched Sebille contemplatively sharpen her blades with a whetstone. Watched Ifan, finally asleep. There was always something tender in his features, under deep scars and frown lines and an oft-broken nose. The reason he’d never been afraid. Once he’d seen it, Francis couldn’t unsee it. He wondered if Ifan was unable to hide it or simply didn’t want to.

He wondered if others saw it, too.

There had to be another way. The solution to this problem couldn’t be him becoming Lucian’s successor, just as it couldn’t be Alexandar or Dallis. If there was one takeaway from the life that he’d led so far, it was that all power was built on fragile pillars. And those pillars could be made to crumble if one only knew where to strike.

Divinity couldn’t be so different.

Xantezza, he called in his head. How did you become a god?

She didn’t answer. Maybe out of pettiness, maybe because she was becoming weaker, maybe because she had other things on her agenda than philosophical debates.

Fine by him, thought Francis, as he watched the ruins of the Academy of the Seven rise up in the distance, all crumbling stone conquered by the roots of mangrove trees larger than anything a civilization could have built, and the Divine Order banners surrounding it.

The time of the gods was ending.

Sebille returned from her scouting mission two hours later. Apparently, the Order was guarding the entrance to the academy from several people. Not only the four of them. "I have listened. There are two more Godwoken, " she reported. "One is called Fane. He seems to be who frightens them the most. The other is the prince of the House of War himself. The house has broken its alliance with the Order time ago."

"House of War," repeated Ifan absent-mindedly. "Hannag’s house. Must be that damned lizard we met in the Joy. The Red Prince."

Clever. Francis had almost forgotten about him.

"What else is curious," said Sebille, "They were waiting for Dallis to arrive. Not a single word about Alexandar. They know he is alive, do they not?"

Ifan confirmed it with a nod.

"What," said Lohse. "You think they dropped him?"

"Wouldn’t be the first time," said Ifan decisively. "The problem with a bunch of power-hungry bastards banding together is that there’s always one hungrier than the other. In this case, I reckon that’s Dallis. I don’t think she intends to walk in his shadow forever."

Francis considered that information.

"Where would he be, if he’s not with the Order? We know he’s somewhere on the Nameless Isle, but everything is flooded with their soldiers and Black Ring. Where could he be hiding out?"

Sebille didn’t answer. Her eyes fluttered shut, her whole body tensed up. Lohse crouched down next to her with a worried glance. Apparently, Ifan wasn’t the only one fighting off the divine takeover. She recovered more quickly, though – opening her eyes in a hard stare.

"Tir-Cendelius implores me to seek out his temple. I think we have our answer."

*

The breakup was ugly.

Ifan had expected it to be. He’d chosen Effie’s as a battlefield for a reason. The patronage knew Anwyn, and in contrast to Ifan, they were everything but fond of him. Of his pretentious disdain for everyone’s choice to grant themselves some respite from reality, of his habit to break deals as soon as it played in his favor. He hardly had to explain or convince anyone.

The sky was blue and Ifan had terrible taste in men. Say no more.

They fought in the middle of the Undertavern.

I hate you. A couple of patrons and Thrash, the bouncer, tried to break them up. I hate you. Like bile, like a prayer. Anwyn burned with rage, and would only love him more. I hate you. Anwyn lost his grip, while Ifan kept spitting curses despicable enough to chill the air itself, fending him off, flipped a table for cover.  I wish you'd fucking die. 

When Effie and Thrash finally got the better of Anwyn, dragged him out the door ignoring his passionate vows of revenge, Ifan had expected to feel good about it.

He didn’t.

Not even a little.

Effie kept him from leaving his hideout on day two, when his resolve faltered. What else could he hope for, really? Folks down here liked him well enough, sure. But they didn’t know.

Anwyn did. Anwyn knew the good, the bad, the all of him – and if he was a little harsh on him because of it, that was understandable, wasn’t it? He wanted him to be. Someone needed to hold him accountable, and traitor to traitor, what was he gonna say?

Ifan wasn’t one to judge.

But Effie was, and she wasn’t going to stay quiet about it.

You’re insane. I won’t let you go running back to him now. I saw what he did, Ifan. Everyone in the room saw. You’ve personally ended lives for less. Valine’s boyfriend? You whacked him free of charge, and you wouldn’t have called in that favor if it wasn’t truly necessary.

To say that he wasn’t in his right mind was a bit of an understatement. He didn’t remember much of what happened that evening. A flash of source. Afrit on a rampage. The magisters surrounding him, one clutching a broken arm, one being ripped apart by the teeth of his companion, Ifan jumping the next one before the remaining two jabbed their pikes into his back, threw him down and collared him like a beast. Effie and the others keeping their distance when they dragged him up the stairs, still kicking. It was understandable. There were some fights you couldn’t win.

The cold floor of a cell underneath the magistrate.

Welcome back.

But Ifan knew how to survive this. The next days let the calm of certainty settle in his mind, following the logic of his surroundings. It was predictable. It was all the same. Keeping his head down, waiting for his edge. Befriending the right people by antagonizing the wrong ones. Grasping at every opportunity while keeping his aces up his sleeve for later. Biding his time. Patient. Tactical. Professional.

Ifan wasn’t gonna die in the Joy, just like he wouldn’t breathe his last in some back alley in Sinta. Fate wasn’t done with him, and luck in misfortune found him like it always had.

Hold out your hand, whispered the guard to him before shoving him into the back of a transport on route to the docks. He raised an eyebrow, but did as he was asked.

The inside of the wagon was almost pitch black. Only a few rays of light protruded the gaps between the heavy wood as the cart rattled on over the cracked pavement. Ifan managed to read the contract anyway. He heard his few fellow prisoners shift nervously at the sound of the manic chuckle escaping him.

The poetry of it all. After fifteen years, Ifan finally had a clean shot. No excuses, no distractions.

The Bishop was a dead man.

Glechou dumar.

Chapter Text

The temple of Tir-Cendelius was under siege.

Whatever part of the Order Armada wasn’t busy guarding the Academy of the Seven was here, camped out all around the structure.

To call it a temple didn't quite do it justice, in Francis' opinion.

A towering maze of livewood platforms, a city in the middle of the Nameless Isle, rising up between the branches of the most colossal tree Francis had ever seen in his life. The Mother Tree. He felt tiny in its presence. It was more awe-inspiring than coming face to face with an actual god had been. This tree had been here since the beginning of creation. Francis didn’t know how he knew. It had outlasted the Eternal civilization, and it would outlast this one, too. It was older than any god. He was unquestionably certain.

Ifan seemed to share the sentiment.

"It looks like Tiriana," the mercenary whispered more to himself than anything else. "There might be nothing else left like this in the world. Have you been, Sebille?"

"Once," confirmed Sebille. "For my initiation as prime scion. It was not for me."

Ifan raised an eyebrow. She shot him a slight smile.

"Not to speak ill of the dead," she directed towards all of them. "But many elven tribes were nomadic, even before the fall. Ifan’s people are… were, very traditional. Very rooted. Staying in the same valley all their lives. My kin only used to visit for ceremonies. Tiriana was called the Jewel of God. Quite ambitious, if you ask me."

"Calling us backwards, huh?"

Ifan’s tone was playful, but his eyes were serious. Fixed on the structure rising up in the distance. Committing it to memory, no doubt, in case he never saw anything like it again.

"Not at all. It was necessary time ago. But in many ways, it was our downfall."

Ifan didn’t argue.

The Order forces had completely surrounded the tree. Only as it seemed, they weren’t gearing up for any attack. The ancient roads leading up to the structure were blocked with spiked barricades, but most of the soldiers – at least, at this distance – looked like they were on a camping trip. And soon, they discovered why. The temple was beset with elven guardians on every platform, and the main gate was beset with something else entirely.

Shriekers.

The bone-chilling vision of those emaciated bodies that had housed sourcerers once, strung up on a cross, was blocking the only safe way up into the temple. Assisting the elves. A strange sight, to say the least.

"Why on earth would the temple of Tir-Cendelius grant refuge to Alexandar? It doesn’t make any sense." Francis frowned. "Strange times do produce strange bedfellows. Is it like a the enemy of my enemy sort of situation?"

Ifan shrugged.

"Everyone’s desperate. Definitely not the weirdest tryst I’ve seen."

Lohse snickered. "I bet it’s not."

They took the day to sneak around the entire periphery, trying to find a way to slip through unnoticed. The only part of the temple that wasn’t crawling with crusaders was the north side of it, steep cliffs brandished by waves larger than a ship. It was almost impossible. Almost.

That night, camping out on the beach a good distance away from the show of arms surrounding the temple, Francis caught Ifan staring at him. And not in the way he usually did. A long-honed instinct, the ability to predict ill intent toward him even when he wasn’t looking, urging him to turn. He looked into a blank expression, and cold, dead eyes.

Ifan’s eyes.

What was scarier, Ifan didn’t look away when he turned. His guts made a loop. Not in a good way. He had the urge to reach for a weapon.

"Oi," he informed Ifan. "You’re being fucking creepy."

He blinked. "Sorry."

"Were you talking to Rhalic just now?"

Ifan nodded. Forcing himself to relax. The mercenary waved him over, rummaging around in the numerous pockets in his cloak – and produced a whole dried apple from somewhere. Ifan cut it in half and offered it to him as he approached. Francis couldn’t help a smile.

This was one of the things he’d come to love about him early. His easy, unconditional affection, in the form of a clap on the shoulder or a little pack of sunflower seeds hidden in his pocket.

He sat down next to Ifan and accepted the gift, munching on it contemplatively, until Ifan broke the silence with his line of the evening.

“Francis,” he asked. “Who am I? As a person?”

The scientist stopped chewing and scrunched his upper lip.

"Lohse told me I had to figure it out," hummed Ifan. "To keep Rhalic away."

Francis thought this over.

"I think that one's on you," he mused. "I’m not sure other people telling you what they think you are or should be helps the matter. I want to learn as much as I can about you. But every time I come close, you surprise me again. I love it, don’t get me wrong. But no matter how hard I try, I’ll never have the whole picture."

Ifan looked at him askance.

"Thanks, Arx Academy. That’s what you get for asking straight answers from a scholar."

Francis raised both hands in front of him.

"Esh. No need to dunk on the whole profession. A straight answer in science is like seeing a unicorn. It happens, but it’s usually cause for concern." He reached out to tousle Ifan’s hair. "But there’s one thing I do know about you."

"And what might that be, Doctor Lowbridge?"

Francis smiled at him. Relieved to see the warmth returning to his eyes as soon as he looked at him for a while. The shy, but playful smile there that was just as familiar as the grave certainty in his words.

"You’re capable of anything," he said earnestly. "Just like me."

Ifan rolled his eyes.

"Hey." Francis shrugged. "You asked."

Suddenly, the horizon glitched. Francis stood up and looked closer, jumped to his feet when a fleet of ships appeared from nowhere out of the darkness, losing the cloaking spell that had hidden their approach. But they weren’t Order ships.

Long, wooden barks with green sails stretched into the wind, like leaves in a storm.

"Fuck right off," said Francis in quiet awe. "The cavalry is here."

Under the gathering stormclouds, the elves landed on the beach.

How exactly they knew where to find their little party of four, well, that was a riddle for another day. Maybe it was chance. Maybe it was the fact that they had with them a blindfolded prophet barely reaching up to Francis’ chest. Saheila beamed when she spotted his presence, and ran toward him.

"My friend," she greeted. "Everyone is here to witness the new spring. I am delighted."

His best course of action, as he’d learned during the days they’d spent on the road together, was to simply pretend he knew what she was talking about. Francis smiled.

"Good to see you, kiddo. Andaran atish’an."

She bowed to him quickly and scurried off to greet Ifan and Sebille. The rest of the Elves seemed less happy to see them. Saheila’s mother Tovah, the ritual leader, outright glowered at him from the front of the crowd she’d brought with her. They were bitterly determined, and armed to the teeth. As anyone would be, with the Order laying siege to their prime site of worship. A hushed, but heated conversation broke out between her and Sebille. Francis couldn’t hear what was being said. He recognized some of the gestures.

Insistence, Pleading. Disappointment.

War council was held not an hour after. They sought shelter from the jungle rain pattering down on the black sands at the side of the cliffs. One of the elven scouts, a tall woman with her white hair in a long, elaborate braid and skin like the speckled trunk of a plane tree, gave her report. Her keen face seeming animated, but focused at the same time. There were more elves present than there had been at the encampment. Judging by the markings on their clothing, and the etched tattoos in some faces, Francis suspected they had allied with at least one other tribe.

"They think the Order isn’t trying to keep anyone out," translated Ifan in a whisper, towards Francis and Lohse. The three of them sat on the floor next to the mercenary. "They’re trying to keep people in. The barricades are all facing the temple."

It was clear that he’d been a translator during the war. He caught all the important details, switching concepts and languages fluently and conveyed them to his companions as best he could while the elves talked among themselves, not judging or commenting on anything he heard, but simply sharing it in its full intent.

"They think the Order means to destroy the Mother Tree. Annihilation of the Root Network. Solana–" Ifan indicated the white-haired woman, "She is Warbringer of the Tinesi, the other tribe, their martial leader – suggests they’re waiting for a strike from the inside. She suspects they have a saboteur placed. The temple is well-guarded even to this day. An outright attack would crush them."

He frowned upon the next words he heard, coming from a young elven mage leaned on a wooden staff. Sebille refuted instantly, in a flat, distinct tone.

"They call on the prime scion to make contact with the Mother. Sebille regrets to say her connection to the Mother Tree is weakened by her scar. The Stormbringer suggests she make contact with the Mother’s Eternal child instead." Ifan cleared his throat. "Tir-Cendelius."

Sebille said something else, gesturing impatience.

"Sebille says if Tir-Cendelius had any insight to spare, he would have shared it by now."

The young mage spoke again, then Tovah seemed to make a passionate case for something that was received with looks and hands spelling out Clarify and Unknowing from every side of the assembly.

"Two – no, three scions are present," corrected Ifan. "Tovah believes we could help Sebille amplify the connection. There’s a ritual to do so. It hasn’t been attempted in some time."

Ifan let some time go by before translating again. He swallowed heavily before he did.

"The ritual requires Halam-shivanas. A flesh sacrifice. It could be used to–" Tovah looked directly at Ifan. He interrupted himself. Waited for her to finish speaking. "Tir-Cendelius is the guardian of the tree. The blood of his rival could appease him," he translated eventually. "Said rival being… Rhalic."

Francis opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

"Please tell me she’s being metaphorical."

Ifan gestured something toward Tovah. She nodded. Ifan asked a question. In contrast to their previous interactions, she seemed very factual about the whole thing. The disdain she seemed to harbor for Ifan apparently taking a back seat to more pressing matters. They talked back and forth for a while, equally respectful. Ifan gestured Agreement.

"It could work," he summed up for his companions. "I would accompany Sebille and meet the Mother Tree on the plane of rememberance. Me making a flesh sacrifice for Tir-Cendelius – it might even weaken Rhalic. The two of them don’t get along too well."

"I won’t pretend to know what a flesh sacrifice is, but I’m guessing it’s not going to feel like a bed of buttercups, yeah?"

Ifan nodded, as if it was inconsequential. Francis remembered something, suddenly.

"Xantezza told me Rhalic picked you specifically to piss off Tir-Cendelius. Are you absolutely sure this is a good idea?"

"You’ve seen their blockades. Do we have another?"

Darkness, first.

The wind moving the grain fields in hypnotic patterns before them. A bright half-moon. Driftwood in the distance, the high-rise funnels of the fishery, and an endless black ocean on the horizon. They met in the shared memory of their night watch near the Cullwood Mill.

It had been a moment of joy, for Saheila. A moment of bittersweet regret and liberation for him and Sebille. Now, it was frozen in time – Francis and Lohse’s memory sleeping behind them next to the campfire.

But something was different. Off to the side, a few miles away, stood the tallest tree Ifan had ever seen. Its gnarled trunk casting shadows over the entire valley. A glimmer of source on each leaf, like it was catching the stars from the sky in its gigantic branches.

The ritual had worked. They were in trance, their bodies left behind on the jungle clearing with the others watching over them during the meditation. As soon as he thought about it, he felt dizzy. Black spots appeared in his vision. Concentrate. This was reality now.

And an impressively abundant reality, too. Ifan could see sound. With perfect clarity, he could catch everything from ants moving in the foliage to the shrill sonar of bats circling overhead. The shimmering source aura of everything, just the faint outline of it. Of course. He was seeing through Saheila’s senses, too.

"It is very bright," the young scion complained. "How do you ever focus?"

"How do you not startle at every spider you hear?" Ifan grinned. "They are fearsome creatures. I prefer not to know where they crawl."

"Silly Ifan. It is the ants you should truly be afraid of," Saheila informed him. "They know all about conquest and warfare."

Godwoken.

A weak, faint voice ahead of them. Sebille’s ears flicked. She got up from her sitting position, her face set into steel. She wasn’t looking forward to meeting her god any more than he was. From what Ifan could guess, his process of initiation had not been much different from Rhalic’s.

They followed her into the underwood. The stench of decay rose faintly around them.

In a small, moonlit forest clearing, the corpse of a fawn. Ripped up and bloody. An old crow hacking away at its remains, one of its eyes a hollow cavern of nothing.

Godwoken, cawed the crow.

Godwoken, whispered the fawn.

Come closer. Give me your strength. Give me your flesh. Your blood to my earth.

Sebille’s keen eyes were dark, like the sky above them. She made no move to approach, and Ifan and Saheila followed her example. Every muscle in her body was taut.

"Are you the crow, or are you the fawn?"

The corpse raised its head. The crow cawed, and took to the air above the glade, still circling overhead but barely visible against the inky sky.

Life. Death. Sacrifice. Gain. Survival. Extinction. It is all the same.

Its empty eyesocket exuded a lifeless and terrible nothingness. The remaining eye, the cold eternal light of a thousand-year-old star. No less empty than the void surrounding it, drowning them in everything, and nothing at the same time.

All that remains is memory. Come closer.

The abyss stared into them. Before them was the relentless god of nature’s balance. Bloody death, and bloody birth, and the rot of the old nursing the young. Blood to earth to wood to birth. Over and over and over again.

Sebille stepped forward.

"I would implore you to care for your children, and simply tell us what we need to know," she said impassively. "But I know it to be futile."

My champion. I care no less for my children than any other god. Do you know why mine are the ones to live the longest, among all sentient creation?

Sebille showed him her teeth.

Time is a blessing, my Sebille. To live long enough to see the cycle repeat, at least once. Life and death and birth and decay. Like falling leaves nourish the roots. My children need not claw their way into significance. You shall be remembered in each cycle repeated. Past, present, future. All is futile. All shall matter.

"Nothing lasts forever. I know you are afraid to die. And you will, if Rhalic’s brood destroys the Mother Tree. Where is that memory then, Tir-Cendelius? Where will it go?

Give me strength. I shall tell you. Give me the blood of my enemy.

The corpse extended its neck toward them. Sebille sighed, and looked at her companions once more before pulling her dagger from her belt. Ifan held his arm out.

"Well," she said, resigned. "It has been written."

Blades touched skin. Blood touched the mouth of the broken skull. As soon as it did, the deer’s had snapped forward, lurching, digging deep into Ifan’s arm. Rhalic’s protests were distant and muted. This was not his realm.

He who seeks to unsettle the balance has power no longer. If we fall, so shall Rhalic’s children. The god of war has her own pawn in the game. But she is not the only one.

The corpse had grown two long incisors. Draining blood. Draining life. Draining source.

The one who will destroy the tree is the Master of the House of Shadows. To break the cycle. To melt it in the fog. You know him simply as the Master, Sebille. This is your final crusade. The Mother desires his heart. And you shall bring it to us.

"Tell me where he is."

He slithers near the temple of his fork-tongued god. I care not for the Arena of the One. Or any other game they play. I was prime among the Seven. What I am is older than them all.

Ifan felt himself flicker.

You are prime scion, Sebille. Do not waste your time on games of the material. You will be the one to carry on our memory. You will take root. You will stand eternal. The watcher of the cycle. The keeper of balance. All our memory will live on in you.

Sebille stood silent. Through red mist, through the blood loss, and through Saheila’s senses, Ifan saw the despair radiating from her. Then, he saw nothing at all.

"I have what I came for," was the last thing he heard, "Release him!"

No. You must be the lion among lambs. Consume him. There shall be none but you.

Sebille froze under the gaze of the crow suddenly landing on her shoulder.

I see you, Godwoken. You will be our salvation.

The crow’s beak tore into her eye.

Thunder broke above them. The rain whipped against their faces. Flashes of lightning lit up the darkness, and Francis stood by and watched from a distance. He saw it too late. The way Ifan collapsed in the black sand. The pool of blood surrounding him.

Francis lurched forward, pushed through the elven warriors standing guard around the scene to reach him. Was held back by Tovah, who grabbed his shoulders and simply dangled him in the air like a rag doll. "You cannot interrupt the ritual," she said firmly.

Francis struggled against her grip with everything he had, kicking at her. It was no use, but he did it nonetheless. "I don’t give a shit about the ritual," he snarled, "He’s bleeding out!"

"There is always sacrifice."

Francis suddenly stilled.

"You wanted this to happen," he got out, raising his voice. "You want him to die!"

"No. It is a sacrifice," she said, "not an execution."

"Maybe for you! He’s human! His physiology is different, he–"

Tovah gripped tighter, raised him to look into his eyes.

"He chose this. He knows he will be the one to destroy the Mother Tree. The memory of our people. What he hasn’t destroyed already, he will, in time. This is fated."

"Fuck you," hissed Francis. "Telanadas. He didn't choose to die!"

He summoned his source. It cracked to life in his veins like the static of lightning in the air, the purple glow in his eyes casting sparse light and deep shadow on Tovah’s face. She took a step back, but didn’t release him. Francis gave up on trying to wiggle out of her grasp. Instead, he grabbed her wrist. Found the slow, steady pulse of her artery. The thick viscosity of elven blood making her heart beat menacingly slow, a glimpse at eternity.

His hand tensed. His teeth ground against each other.

Francis reached through the arteries and followed them down to her calves. Pulled the blood from her muscles. Tovah’s eyes widened in shock. Her knees buckled, and gave in.

"Foul magic," she cried. "Necromancer! Deceiver!"

Francis jumped over her. Ifan was face down in the sand, between where Sebille and Saheila were kneeling, motionless and deep in trance. He registered a few of the warriors rushing in his direction. He didn’t care. The panicked flicker of Ifan’s heart, infinitely faster than any that surrounded him, pumping the last of blood out of his veins and into the volcanic earth. Francis reached out and gathered it up from the sand, a mist of fear and anger burning inside him, and siphoned the blood back into his veins.

Lohse appeared behind him. Her axe raised, watching his back against the elves, she let the weapon flare up in orange flames. The warriors hesitated.

"Not a step closer," she threatened quietly. "Or I’m gonna start chopping."

Francis found the wound. The coarse edges of it, like teeth protruding skin, and tried to close it. He couldn’t. Something was digging deeper, and deeper, pushing against his attempts to even begin to knit it back together.

He dropped to his knees, rolled Ifan on his back. The cost of his magic was tearing at him already. He tried to stop the bleeding with nothing but his hands, but it was no use. The wound was tearing.

Sebille’s head snapped up. One eye flickering and starry, the other dark as the endless void pulling him in. Decay, she screeched with a voice that wasn’t her own. I am fate. I am balance. What you keep alive today will destroy everything tomorrow. The grander scheme. The endless cycle. You are NOTHING against eternity.

Blood, mixed with source, was running from her eye. She raised herself from the ground.

I SEE YOU, GODWOKEN.

Francis pulled against the sides of the wound, trying to force it to shut. It was no use. Tir-Cendelius was stronger. He needed a different approach.

Endless cycle, he said? Fine.

There was – a spell. One that he’d dug out from the ruins of an eternal temple, covered in the rotting corpses of Black Ring researchers. One of their sourcerers had found a way to keep his test subjects alive while undergoing horrible experiments. Him and Tarquin had considered its uses in surgery, but decided the cost was too grand for it to be of much use.

Living on the edge, they’d lovingly dubbed it.

Francis spoke the incantation. Siphoning the blood back into Ifan’s veins as Tir-Cendelius pulled it out from there, stealing it back from the earth. A cycle of drain and replenishment. Keeping him alive against all odds. You’re not gonna die on me, you bastard.

YOUR ABBERANT MAGIC IS BUT A FLECK AGAINST ETERNAL DESTINY. LIFE. DEATH. BIRTH. DECAY. YOU CANNOT BEST WHAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN.

I have, thought Francis stubbornly. I will.

Francis was fighting a god. One out of this realm, yes. But a god nonetheless. And he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up the spell for long. He was burning through his source supply at rapid speed, and the tearing pain in his stomach grew with every second.

What brought death required life. What brought life required death. Tir-Cendelius was right about that part. But what if it didn’t? What if he used the cycle in his favor?

Sebille lunged at him. The black veins covering her body, like Rhalic’s light had covered Ifan’s back in the crypt. She was in apotheosis. A state that Ifan had described as an endless source supply circling through him, nourished by his god. A weakened, dying god in enemy territory.

Francis held his hand out.

The second Sebille reached him, he vampirized her. Dragged the source out through her skin, and used it to knit his own insides back together. Held up the spell on Ifan as he did. His mind parted. Keeping up two concentration spells at the same time – that feat alone should’ve gotten him a proper doctorate, if the world were a just place. Everything faded.

His eardrums were ringing. His thoughts, racing. Sebille was snarling something at him, but no sound reached him, everything fell quiet, the thunder, the screams.

Silence.

Wisdom could be found anywhere, thought Francis. No less in the teachings of elven religion. And he was nothing if not a quick study. Life. Death. Birth. Decay. The three of them were locked in a closed circuit, Tir-Cendelius draining Ifan, Francis keeping him alive by draining Tir-Cendelius. He was the conduit for a cycle of energy that had no visible end. But he’d been there for a physics lecture or two.

There was no such thing as eternity.

And the only weak link was the god’s depleting source.

Sebille fell to her knees. Francis could feel the precise second Tir-Cendelius gave up on her, because the amount of source he was drawing immediately stuttered and stopped. And finally, finally – the wound closed. He collapsed in the sand, next to Ifan.

There was always a spill-over.

Chapter Text

"It's good to see your blood back on the inside."

Ifan knew it was Sebille’s voice. He still had the urge to jump to his feet, and was reminded a second later that it wasn’t exactly the best idea he’d ever had. The room tilted around him. Sebille laughed, clear as a bell, as he gave up on finding his balance and sat him back down at the edge of the cot. The world didn’t stop swaying. It took him some time to realize that they’d carried him onto the Lady Vengeance. Or what remained of it.

Ifan hadn’t miscalculated. He knew Halam-shivanas was a very different thing to ask of a human body. He knew that entering Tir-Cendelius’ realm was dangerous. That a flesh sacrifice in exchange for connection to the Mother Tree required just that – a sacrifice.

It was a small price to pay for Rhalic’s silence.

Sebille was holding a hand over one of her eyes, like someone with a nasty migraine would. She gave him a reassuring nod, and sat down next to him.

"I must apologize," she said in Elvish.

Curiosity, signed Ifan.

"What for?"

The smile she regarded him with could only be described as sheepish. It was a rare look, on Sebille’s face. She pulled her knees up and rested her arms on them, contemplating.

"All this time," she began, "I thought it was you who wouldn’t be able to resist possession by his god. When really, it was me we had to worry about. I was wrong to doubt you, Ifan."

Forgiveness, he gestured. Relief.

"You were not at fault," Ifan replied. "We willingly set foot into his realm of influence. It is a different battle. And I do not blame you. Your freedom hangs by a thread, and I would watch that thread just as closely if our roles were reversed."

He stopped himself for a second.

"Where is Francis? Is he alright?"

"Quite," said Sebille. "He used my source to heal himself, from what they told me. That explains why I feel the way I do. Though Solana thought it best to store him on the Tinesi warship for recovery. He attacked Tovah, you know. It is – a setback in relations."

Ifan, misplaced as it was, couldn’t help a grin.

"He's a man of many talents. But a diplomat he is not."

Understatement, signed Sebille.

"Truly." She snorted. "He may have threatened to kill you, too. He said you are a reckless, stubborn bastard with no regard for his own safety. I agree. But I should not be the one to judge you for it, and neither, gods guide us, should he."

Granted, gestured Ifan.

"The poet Quilamil teaches never to hold negotiations in enemy territory." She snickered. "We ought to listen to her next time. Tovah may be right. The youth has strayed."

Ifan shrugged. "It was necessary. You have your mark, do you not?"

"For now," she confirmed. "We shall leave as soon as we can."

A long silence followed that statement.

"Sebille, dear to me."

"Yes?"

"This is it? Your destiny."

He looked at her intensely. Tracing the outlines of her face, like a painter would before sealing something on a canvas. It had unnerved Sebille for some time, but he was simply one to capture every moment in its entirety. Not a bad quality for a scion to have.

He hesitated.

"I shall miss you, when you take root, my Sebille. But I will sing your songs."

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. "End it. Do you not recall me saying that I will have my freedom, by any means necessary? And that no one will stand in my way?"

"I do."

"Then you know I have no intention of taking root."

The smile that ensued didn’t reach his eyes, as he pulled a coin from his pocket and flipped it between his fingers, back and forth, back and forth. Sebille had learned to tell a forced smile from a real one long ago. And as much as Ifan attempted to emulate it, he never could. The smile was real. And so was the sorrow.

"Scion Ghallan foresaw the fall of the Mother Tree. I will be the one to cause it. They would bury your heart alive in the ground before letting all those memories go uncontinued."

"They are free to try." Her face hardened, before she shrugged and got up. Insistence. "Besides, I do not plan on letting the Mother fall. Do you?"

"No." Ifan clasped his hands together in determination. "But whether I stay here or come with you, whether I try to stop it or do nothing at all – it all leads back to the same result. Fate cares little for choices. What do you suggest?"

Sebille clapped him on the shoulder.

"If it’s truly all the same, and fated," she said, "Then I would have you by my side. Ready your weapons, brother. We have a monster to kill."

"Out of my way. I’m gonna kill him."

Ifan heard Francis before he saw him. The alchemist was on deck of the Vhenas’mavhir, the largest warship of the Tinesi fleet, arguing with a guard. Cautious as that should’ve made him, Ifan had promised. To be there on his bad days. Especially, if he’d been the one to cause them in the first place. What Francis had asked of him was a simple thing to give.

The elven warrior guarding the ship’s landing ramp took a step toward Francis, vaguely gesturing stay. Francis threw his hands up.

"For the gods, man. It was a medical emergency. She wasn’t going to let me help him. Surely the Tinesi have some sort of guideline that recognizes that as an exception, yeah?"

The elf threw him an exasperated and helplessly confused look.

"We do. Of course, but – now you wish to kill him?"

"Did I stutter? Wasn’t that what you were gonna do in the first place? Let me –"

Ifan whistled. The guard turned around to him, and so did Francis, the realization of who had just emerged from below the deck of the Lady Vengeance unmistakably setting in. The anger emanating from his glare was physically papable.

Ifan announced himself with a subtle wave before putting his hands back in his pockets. "La’sa ena ghilas, vallem. I’ll take care of it."

"Tovah is the offended party." The guardian looked him up and down, and stubbornly continued speaking in Common. "She decides."

"I’m the one he wants to kill." Ifan shrugged. "And technically, also the offended party. Pretty sure that means I’ve got some say in the matter. Isn’t that right, Francis?"

Francis, nostrils flaring, expressively drew one thumb across his throat. Ifan did his best to bite back a grin – with very little success, despite his efforts.

"I’ll bring him back," he promised the guard. "If I still can."

They made it all the way to the back of the cliffs before Francis turned around and grabbed his face in both of his hands, his nose almost touching Ifan’s.

"I wanna wipe that stupid grin off your stupid face."

"Go ahead, if it makes you feel better."

"No," hissed Francis, "I’m not gonna hit you, for fuck’s sake. That’s no way for two grown-ass men to solve their relationship issu– You shithead. Can you stop being so fucking smug about this?"

"Wasn’t trying to be. What can I do?"

"You can stop dying in front of me! You can stop doing stupid shit that you know will–"

Ifan stepped forward and wrapped him in a crushing hug. It was incredible, how little it scared him at this point. They’d fought their share of battles. Francis’ anger was familiar – and very different than Anwyn’s had been. It was impressive. But never terrifying, once you knew where it came from. Francis made an indignant sound of protest, but then pressed his face into Ifan’s shoulder and wrenched his arms around his waist. He sniffed a little.

"Bastard."

Ifan ran a hand over the back of his head, holding it there.

"Fucking asshole. You fucking knew–"

"I’m here. Thanks to you," murmured Ifan into his hair.

Francis drew back and caught his lips in a bruising, desperate kiss. Ifan grunted, caught his balance and returned it, while Francis grabbed the lapels of his shirt and pulled him in.

Ifan hummed, reached out to pull Francis against him. Felt him wrap his legs around him while Ifan lifted him clean off the ground. Time stopped. Like it always did when they were like this, and there was nothing but their bodies with not a hint of space between them and Francis’ tongue in his mouth and his teeth at his lips and his arms and legs around him like he was never going to let him go.

Only, unfortunately, Ifan still needed to breathe.

He turned his head begrudgingly, with a deep inhale, and then looked at Francis. The mess of his curls, the flush on his cheeks, and the desperate longing in his eyes. Like he still didn’t believe, after everything, that he had him. That he was here.

"I’m not going anywhere," Ifan repeated, and cupped his face in his hands.

Francis blinked. His mouth opened, like he was trying to say something, but nothing came out. Ifan kissed his forehead, then each of his eyes. The tip of his nose. Both corners of his lips. "I’m yours," he said, with light but deathly certainty, "and no one else can have me."

The reluctant smile crossing Francis’ face could have melted the ice off a glacier. In lack of any glaciers in the vicinity, it simply melted Ifan’s heart a little.

"Yeah, okay," Francis grumbled. "Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?"

"Maybe," hummed Ifan. "But it’s true."

Francis’ legs untangled from his hips, and he stood on the ground. The blush grew darker, and as usual, he tried his best to cover it up by pulling an annoyed grimace. He was so grumpy. A warm feeling grew in Ifan’s chest, calm and exuberant at the same time, like laughter made into a constant. I love him, thought Ifan, and kissed the top of his head.

"I’ll have you know," said Francis, still frowning, "that it took a masterstroke of necromancy to bring you back. It was a downright miracle. You’re lucky I’m a great sourcerer. Could’ve gone horribly wrong."

"But it didn’t."

"Oh my gods. Read the room."

Ifan raised his hands, conceding.

"That spell could’ve killed both of us." Francis continued, the trace of sarcasm completely gone from his voice. He drew himself up to his full height, poking a finger into his chest. "Never make me do that again. I can’t keep arguing with you about the same shit over and over. Be. More. Careful. Dirthara a seth-ma."

Ifan raised both eyebrows in surprise.

"Language, Doc."

"You did not just say that to me."

"I might have done."

He laid his hands on Francis’ shoulders, then tipped his chin up a little. There wasn’t much of a height difference between them, but Ifan knew how to make it count if he had to.

"Believe me. I know I must seem like a mess to you right now, but – I’m still much less of one than I used to be." He stopped, eyes flicking downward for a second. "But you still seem to be the one having to pick it up. I never wanted that. I’m sorry."

"Alright. Calm down, ben-Mezd."

Ifan raised a provocative eyebrow in response, admirably stopped himself from saying you calm down and finally, Francis’ scowl turned into the hint of a grin.

"I love that mess. And I did dare you to show me your worst. Like hell am I going to tap out now. You think I’m the kind of guy that loses his own competition?"

No, thought Ifan. His face hardened slightly. You absolutely wouldn’t.

"Love isn't measured in how much shit you can take."

Francis snorted. "Says you."

"Yeah. I say." Ifan’s stern expression broke almost immediately, and he chuckled. "Through firsthand expertise. But I mean it. Both of us rely on luck too much for our own good. Let’s not have another one of these fights for a while. Will you be careful, too? Please?"

A deep, pained sigh. Francis dragged a hand over his eyes.

"Fine. Yes. Let’s both be careful in the middle of this stupid war zone."

The wind itself was burning.

Zorl-Stissa’s temple stood on top of the lava fields, and the wet cloths wrapped around their faces did little to hold back the burning heat and poisonous volcanic fumes as they made their strenous way upwards.

A moment years in the making.

Sebille had never been so ready to kill. She led the way, closely followed by Ifan, towards the rot of the old and the dawn of the new. Whichever way it would go – Sebille the hunter was on her way to die.

Who would be born in her stead remained a question yet unanswered.

She wasn’t afraid. Fate itself was cutting her path. She felt it whisper in the scalding wind in her back. The sweat dripping down her face. The needle closely kept against her steady pulse. The way her landings were perfectly placed jumping over the rocks, in how sure her hands were in not letting her fall to her death. She felt it in the way Lohse kept up with almost equal fervor. How glad she was, for each of those fate had bound to her.

The one mercy it had spared her.

One step. Then another. Ever closer towards vengeance. Ever closer to her freedom.

The eyes of predators met.

There he was, in the middle of those crumbling pillars, his black scales and golden armor glistening in the sun. The terror that breathed. The shadow that walked. The master.

There you go breaking my heart.

The snaps of his fingers, playing her like a marionette.

I don’t begrudge you your freedom, Sebille – your escape relieved me of having to witness your death by your own hand, the inevitable last command. No matter. Here you are.

Making her stand at attention. Making her bow. Making her sick to the depth of her stomach. And yet, that same anxiety was excitement for the moment his dice finally fell.

Utter control. The tool of a tyrant, you think. But you’re mistaken. Everything I do, I do for a much greater good – your own kind, after all, utilizes the same end, by different means.

Ifan was hidden behind the pillar. She did not see him, but she knew. He had her back.

It had to be you. The other scions welcomed you, sought out their own killer. I had to be the orchestrator. I am the fate-weaver, as you were fate itself. The prime scion. The prophet of your people, leading them to destruction under your inheritance of tyranny.

Her hands were under her control. Steady as the flow of time, she drew her needle.

The greater evil is not me. It is you. The Mother Tree wants only domination. And each of you is a but a pawn in her cruel machinations. To conquer all of Rivellon, under her roots.

The master took a step toward her. Every muscle in her body coiled like a spring.

Consider it – does that still make me a tyrant? Or rather a savior of untold millions?

"I’ve considered it," said Lohse from behind her. "You’re still a dead man."

He chuckled.

Death, death, death. Did I create a monster after all? You come running back to me, for no more than ordinary bloodlust. You could have been so much more, Sebille. I would have granted you your freedom.

"My freedom is not granted." She bared her needle-sharp teeth, filed for the occasion. Bared the glint of her instrument, the baton of a conductor. "It is taken. Here and now. And yes. You did create a monster. My fate was never yours to weave, and now I’ll be the one to cut your string. Laslin’an alas. Na din’an sahlin."

Sebille crouched. The patient cat about to pounce.

Then you have brought this on yourself.

He sang. The scar song swelling, a thousand tiny needles in her soul, chipping away at her will. But she had years of practise. Enough for her hand to move into a signal.

Slaughter, she signed.

And Ifan’s voice rose into the air, harmonizing with the master’s – he hesitated. That strong baritone drowning out his melody. And Sebille knew only one more thing. To slaughter.

She struck, precisely, exactly once. Spearing his vocal chords, filling his throat with blood, dancing at the feast of despair in his eyes, of powerlessness and confusion and defeat. One more stitch, into his neck. Another, in his sternum. Sebille had a symphony to conduct. A masterpiece of broken bone and failing nerves and snapping sinew, the rhythm underlying the grand crescendo, the song of freedom from his influence.

And when he died, so did Sebille, the hunter.

She took her time, gutting him. To claw his heart from in between his ribs, to rip it from the arteries, the blood covering her hands as she held it up. Tir-Cendelius awoke in her head, the swirling maelstrom of her destiny, the starlight in her eyes.

Very good, child. Now bring it to me.

Sebille ran her tongue over each meticulously sharpened tooth, one by one. She brought the heart to her lips. Tir-Cendelius roared like an exploding planet in her skull.

I said BRING IT TO ME.

Her teeth sunk into the master’s heart. A master no longer. Her eyes rolled up, ripping through his flesh and making carnage of his memory. But not consuming it. Reading it, and leaving her god with not even a scrap. Sebille laughed, and ate it whole. Her eyes sharpened again, as she stood tall above a dying Tir-Cendelius.

You, my god, are next.

Magnificent, it felt. If somewhat unreal. The fact itself didn’t truly sink in until Lohse appeared in front of her, having beheaded the alchemic bomber steadily hocking explosives at them from the top of the pillars and leaving the historic site with a few more craters than it had before.

Her arms extended, her smile shining like the sun itself. There was such a presence about her. The room lit up wherever she walked. What a sight to greet her freedom. And she was, wasn’t she? Sebille was free.

"I know you don’t like hugs, love, but – gods, I’d give you one in spirit."

Once she started smiling, she couldn’t stop. It turned into a grin, then into a laugh. Lohse laughed along with her, and when she stopped, her eyes were dancing with mirth.

"I think the moment calls for one, darling."

Lohse almost tackled her. Strangely, she felt none of the oppressiveness, and all of the joy. She pulled away before the tingle of danger could even start to rise in her, and in a moment of exuberant and almost stupid hopefulness, the kiss just – happened.

There was no question and no gesture of permission that would have been visible, and yet, both was there. In a language only she and Lohse had come to speak. Of knowing when comfort meant closeness and when it meant distance.

And when it meant their lips dancing closely, blood and all.

Sebille Kaleran was, at heart, a scholar. And she had learned – Lohse wasn’t a ray of sunshine because she’d never seen the darkness. Lohse had seen many things. Her cheerful disposition in combination with her sharp carnie’s tongue made sure everyone who met her knew. Lute and axe. Music and magic. And woe upon whoever threatened those whose company she liked.

Lohse chose kindness.

Every step of the way. Even with a demon in her head giving her every excuse to let go of it. All she had to do was say she’d lost control – except, she never did.

It made Sebille want to trust in a way she never had before. Not to spend another day hollow with hate, hollow with loneliness. It made her want to choose kindness, too.

Francis, who had admirably held himself back from jeering like a docker until now when the kiss happened, was next in line. They exchanged a nod instead.

"Sebille."

She raised a playful eyebrow. "Fool."

"Congratulations. Or whatever you say on such occasions." He smiled a little. "Go wild. And take care of my estranged twin sister for me, yeah?"

Lohse let out an ugly snort. Sebille laughed. "She is the one taking care of you, Francis Lowbridge. Spare her the speeches, for all of our sake."

"I know." He grinned. "Just – I’m happy for you. Lath-ma suledin."

And before she could say something back, he disappeared into the Lizards’ campsite to start looting their belongings. Just as well, thought Sebille, and looked at the expression on Lohse’s face, one that she’d come to know as "do it again."

And she did.

An exploration, then a feast. And no celebration was complete without an end. Sebille looked at the name on her arm, the last one there in crooked ink. Pulled her needle and engraved his death into her skin, once, twice, a third time.

Lohse’s content smile turned into a sympathetic grimace.

"That looks insanely painful."

"It’s no–"

A gentle touch of magic. Lohse covered her arm with one cool, calloused hand, erasing the hated word along with the cut of the needle. A fleck remained, perfectly smooth.

"There. It’s done."

Sebille smiled. Raised her head to the sky and laughed once more.

"It’s done!" She exclaimed, grabbed Lohse’s face in her long fingers, picked her up and spun her around. Lohse was by no means a dainty woman. But she was light to Sebille, a lightness in soul and spirit, her skirt fluttering in the poisonous wind, her muscular arms wrapped around her shoulders. She could have stayed in this embrace forever.

Ifan watched them from a distance, leaned against a pillar. He unwrapped the mask from his face when Sebille approached him, smiling widely underneath.

"Long live Sebille Kaleran," he said. "Free to love and wander."

"I owe it to you." She grinned. "In no small part."

"You owe me nothing."

"I do. And I will not forget it."

The wind rushed past them. Embers, fickle in the breeze.

"We are scions now," said Ifan eventually. "You could erase that melody from my mind. Make sure it’s never sung again."

She laughed.

"You would think we’d learned not to mess with your memory again, my Ifan." She stepped forward, until they were almost chest to chest. "I must learn how to trust. You must learn to be trusted. This is as good a start as any."

He grinned up at her.

"You didn’t consume his source."

Sebille clicked her tongue. "I have questions still. Come with me."

The spirit had little more to say – except what they’d already known. It was impossible to figure out who had contracted who in the end. A tangled mess of factions, united in one call. The Tree had to die. It was too powerful. And desperate means once proven effective would always be used again. The deathfog bomb was on its way.

Ifan stepped into the tent to retrieve it.

It was nowhere to be found.

Afrit set on the trail. He hunted after the fleeing Lizard, Ifan and the others as close behind as they could. A shriek from the bushes, when the wolf found the invisible spy and ripped him to shreds. A cloaking spell had hidden him, breaking the very second his guts spilled into the jungle floor.

Ifan looked at the Lizard’s stilled hand, clutching the delivery device. The same one he had carried, all those years ago, through the forests of the valley.

The elves will listen to you, Ifan. You are my most trusted. You must deliver the rift, before it’s too late.

He crouched down, picked it up. Looked at it from every angle, Lucian’s voice in his memory, his steady, grave tone underlaid by sadness. How much of it had been real, he wondered. Did he regret it, before he’d found his end? Had Lucian lost any sleep over sending him to his death, along with thousands of his people? Or had it, to the all-powerful Divine, been nothing more than a falling tree crushing an ant hill?

Alexander’s face, meanwhile, had displayed the same disdain he’d always regarded Ifan with. At the time, he’d assumed that the Divine’s pampered brat was simply unable to comprehend why Lucian would entrust the most important mission of the war to Ifan instead of his own son. But Alexandar had known. Of course he’d known.

Lucian had spent time, winning his trust. Asking him about the state of the regiment, inviting him to play cards, taking an interest in him.

He is no more fit to be a commander than any rural foot soldier, Alexander had snapped on one such occasion, when Ifan had given his report to Lucian. We ought to have picked someone from the upper ranks, not this – kid. That unit is part of the Divine Order. They have to follow commands just like anyone else. And if they don’t respect him enough to–

Ifan had glanced up from his stack of cards, adressing Lucian instead. Respectfully, Sir. The elves have very different command structures in times of war. Discussion is a part of it. And they cleared the way when every other strategy failed, because they’re able to operate without a commander holding their hand.

Lucian had considered this, and nodded.

The elves won’t fight under someone who does not respect their knowledge and experience. The seventh regiment is a great asset, he’d agreed, and raised his cup in Ifan’s general direction. In no small part thanks to you, ben-Mezd.

Anyone else would’ve been court-martialed, snarled Alexander. Will you just let them get away with it? The rest of the forces will hear about it. Next thing you know, they’ll all want to elect their own command and change tactics in the middle of battle.

Thank you, Alexandar, Lucian had replied coolly, That will be all.

Ifan was still staring at the deathfog device while he remembered this. He’d been flattered that the Divine was defending his station. Looking back now – Lucian was simply using Ifan to put down his son. To sow this kind of jealousy should have been the first sign that the Divine was not to be trusted.

Lysanthir had been right, all those years ago.

His first love, the snippy, sweet, quarrelsome, unbearably cynical young elven archer.

Yes, Lysanthir was, at times, simply confrontational because his pride got the better of him. And he was only still not on the horns of a military court because the unit insisted on keeping up elven martial structures, which made Ifan more of a translator and assembly organizer than an actual leader – elected by his regiment not because of his experience or skill, but because of his ability to relay their decisions unaltered and navigate the cultural differences between their unit and the Order brass.

But Ifan enjoyed being by his side. Lysanthir’s eternal mockery of the Order’s faithful was a valuable consideration in each decision. A counterweight, so to speak. He’d been raised by humans, placed little faith in higher plans. Ifan’s opposite in all the best ways.

He doesn’t give a shit about the elves, Lysanthir had said on more than one occasion, when Ifan was laid next to him losing sleep over how to bring his unit’s collective decisions into accordance with Lucian’s orders, or humans, for that matter. None of them do. I don’t think this is really even about Damian anymore.

Ma halam, Ifan had retorted, putting an elbow to his ribs and gesturing impatience, Why are you here, then? It’s not like they forced you to enlist.

For the same reason as you, purred Lysanthir and playfully rolled on top of him. A spark of mirth in his eyes, tracing his cheekbone with his finger. I’m running from the inevitable.

Francis’ arm around his shoulders interrupted his racing thoughts.

"Ifan? Are you here?"

He nodded, cleared his throat before speaking. Afrit nuzzled his snout against his arm.

"Yeah, I–"

"Care to tell us where you’re going with that?"

Ifan turned to him, only now registering that his feet had carried him several steps towards the cliffs, separating the jungle from the bubbling lava fields underneath Zorl-Stissa’s temple. The weapon of mass destruction they’d narrowly caught before it could be detonated on the Mother Tree still in his hands.

"What do you think? I’m gonna throw it into the volcano, where it fucking belongs."

"Hold on," said Francis. "Just a second."

Ifan stopped in his tracks. He didn’t like the look on Francis’ face. He didn’t like it one bit.

"I’m just saying – we have an entire armada to defeat. This is nothing our merry band of lunatics should even be considering, but well, desperate times…"

A spring tide of emotion flooded Ifan’s head. How much of it was present and how much of it past was almost impossible to discern. Not that he cared to, in that moment.

"What?"

His voice came out in a low, venomous growl. His hand grasped Afrit’s fur. Francis tilted his head, seeming completely oblivious of the position he found himself in.

"You’re fated to destroy the Mother Tree," said the scientist. "Right?"

Ifan didn’t reply. His shoulders tensed, his eyes were fixed on Francis, unblinking.

"Just listen to me for a second, Ifan. What if you destroying that thing is the reason we won’t defeat the Order?"

Falling trees .Molten skin. Blood-curdling screams.

Ifan straightened.

"Have you ever seen it in action?" He asked. "Deathfog?"

A spark of situational awareness appeared in Francis’ face.

"It corrodes you," Ifan continued, almost indifferently. "From the inside out. It eats through your lungs first. Then your eyes. Then your brain, until it comes running out your nose. And then, it cauterizes your muscles. By the time you can see what’s happening, and it melts the skin clean off your body, everything underneath is already rotten. It happens in seconds. You have time to scream. But barely."

A hollow laugh. "All in all, I reckon we know each other quite well. There’s not much I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. But trust me when I say this."

Ifan’s knuckles were white, clenched around the handle of the device.

"No idiot foot soldier deserves that fate. Not even Alexandar. Not even Dallis. And if anyone here disagrees with that," he cracked his neck, "they’re free to go through me."

The red mist clouding his brain could have had multiple origins. Could have been Rhalic, screaming for source. Could have been him. In any case, it mistook Francis’ sudden gesture of defensiveness for one preparing a spell. Afrit growled furiously, hair raised, ready to jump.

He’d seen the alchemist break a woman’s spine with nothing but his magic. A bolt was notched into his crossbow without even thinking.

"Get it together, for fuck’s sake!"

Francis was pale as a sheet. What had been him simply raising his hands now did turn into his long, thin fingers curling up like dying spiders, his voice lowering into a threat.

"Point that thing somewhere else."

Ifan snapped out of it. The red mist vanished. This is Francis, he reminded himself He wouldn’t do that.

And you're a great judge of character, Rhalic contributed.

Ifan lowered his crossbow. His breath came sharp, his heartbeat racing.

"For the fallen," Francis said hoarsely. "I’m not saying we should detonate it on the siege force, I’m saying…" He stopped himself. "Is that what you think of me?"

Ifan wanted to answer. He couldn’t.

"Nevermind," Francis continued, a familiar mask of apathy settling over his face. "The Order is expecting a saboteur. We should empty it into the volcano. Keep the container and use it to slip throught the blockade." He looked up at Ifan. "Did you fucking calm down?"

The world was quiet here.

Ifan held his head underwater. The sea, dark as ink under the clouded night sky. The roar of waves in his ears when he emerged, replacing the silence, the salt stung his eyes. Ifan swam.

Francis watched him from the beach. They waited for the elves to get into position, finish their last preparations around the little camp they’d built, hidden by the towering cliffside.

He tried not to think about how easily Ifan could dunk his head under in the flood, drowning him in a darkened, endless ocean, when he took his shoes off and stepped into the water. Francis had to trust him. The alternative was unimaginable. They had no one but each other, and they were nothing without their friends.

The rain they’d waited for began prattling onto the surface.

It had been a unanimous decision. The rain was predictable here. It came at night. And with it, heavy mud weighing down the plate armor of Order soldiers.

Their assault force was desperately outnumbered. They had to take every advantage they could get their hands on. Light-footed, unarmored and attacking in the dark – it was the logical conclusion. It had struck fear of the gods into the Black Ring during the war, and it would strike the same fear into the hearts of magisters.

Francis walked up to his hips into icy water.

Ifan noticed him, hesitated, then swam up to him.

"Oi," said Francis. Nothing else. He conveyed it through a smile instead.

I missed you, while you were gone.

"Come on in," replied Ifan. "The water, it’s… nice. Clears your head."

Are you still angry? said the tilt of his head, the little lift of his shoulders.

He shrugged. Not when both of us could die in a few hours.

"I can’t swim," said Francis instead. "City boy, remember?"

"You don’t need to." Ifan stopped moving, looking up at him, then turned and let himself drift on the surface. Francis took a deep breath. "Just… float."

They looked up at the sky together. Francis’ hand, without thinking about it, found Ifan’s. He felt weightless, and small and insignificant, against the darkness surrounding them.

"It’s okay to be nervous," said Ifan. "I am, too."

"Think you can hold back tonight?"

The mercenary took a while to answer, as usual. As much as he was clearly, deeply ashamed of what had happened at Zorl-Stissa’s temple, he seemed to be just as aware as Francis that this night could be their last together. Might as well make the best of it.

"I don’t know," he answered honestly. "But there’s a way I can make sure."

Francis turned his head to look at him. Those magnetic, sharp eyes seeming clouded as he watched the sky. His hair dancing on the ocean surface.

"Is that wise?" He wrinkled his nose. "Can you fight while high?"

It was a rhethorical question. Ifan shrugged.

"I can," he asserted calmly. "I just really shouldn’t. And I don’t see another possibility, except staying behind, and we both know I can’t do that."

Francis nodded.

"I really need you to survive. You know that, right?"

Admitting this would’ve been impossible a year ago. But Ifan had woken something in him that let the truth fall from his lips as easy as breathing. A return favor, so to speak.

"I will," said Ifan with ease, "I always do."

A chuckle breaking his earnest demeanor, the fierce glint of pointed teeth in the dark. "I’m more worried about what would happen if you died."

Francis said nothing to that at first.

"I can’t lose you to all this," Ifan continued, grasping his hand a little tighter. So much shame, and none of it spared for telling Francis what he meant to him. It had taken time to get used to, to put it mildly, all that intense sincerity. "I’ve lost… well. Everybody else."

Francis thought this over, then smiled.

"I’m lucky too. Remember?" He clicked his tongue. "Like a true child of the waxing moon."

"Yeah. You are." Ifan quirked an eyebrow, and smiled back. "There’s few enough rays of light left in the world. I want you by my side, for as long as I can."

Francis closed his eyes and let himself float, the water cooling the delightful blush creeping into his cheeks. They said nothing for a bit, until the cold became biting, and the serene silence felt wanting – but it wasn’t for long.

"I love you, my Francis," said Ifan to the sky.

He stood, feet barely touching the ground, and looked at Francis one more time before his gaze fell on the busy hassle around the warcamp on the beach.

"Come on. Time to get ready."

Francis kissed him. The rain thundering down, the waves crashing around them. The world could wait a minute longer. Francis did it diligently, remembering every sensation, the skillful flick of his tongue, the light drag of his sharp teeth against Francis’ lips that could draw blood with the smallest bite, but rarely did.

The heat radiating from his skin, even slick with icy water. The way his arms fit perfectly around him. The warming scent of herbs and leather. The stinging taste of salt. The way his eyes fell shut when Francis’ hand ran up the back of his neck, holding him close. He kissed him slowly, and deliberately, stopping once or twice to rest their foreheads together.

"I love you too," Francis whispered. He repeated it, with each new brush of lips, like saying it once wasn’t enough – like nothing he could say would ever convey the true depth of it. And smiled, when he remembered that Ifan had taught him the words to do exactly that.

Francis cupped Ifan’s face in his hands. Not forgiveness. Acceptance.

"The good in you," he kissed his left cheek, "The bad in you," another on his right, placing his hand on Ifan’s chest, right above his heart, and watched the expression of pure wonder in his eyes, like he had no way of telling what came next as Francis’ face neared his. "The all in you."

He grinned.

"Let’s give them hell."

He paced around the camp. Passed the elves fletching arrows, while they sang a low and entrancing song. Passed Lohse and Sebille, sat back to back, sharpening their weapons. Everyone was so caught up in their respective preparations that Francis felt almost insufficient in his own. Nothing to do, except wait for the goddamn holy dispatch.

Honestly, he was seconds away from calling everyone together and declaring that no, sorry, the siegebreak is off, we need another plan, because the almighty comedian living in my head can’t be arsed to–

Greetings, godwoken.

Finally.

"You’ve been awfully quiet lately," grumbled Francis. "What happened. Run out of laughs?"

Quite, confirmed Xantezza with a yawn. I was waiting for you to do something suitably entertaining. But lately, I’ve been watching nothing but a tragedy.

Francis rolled his eyes.

"Sorry for the lack of comic relief, your benevolence. I find the whole thing just as unfunny."

Well. We’ll have to remedy that, don’t you think. She sighed. Tragedy is quite boring, if you ask me. I’ve never understood the appeal. It’s all prophecy this and inevitability that. Tragedy is for the lazy. Sure, find comfort in the end that was always meant to be. Personally – I find no joy in predictable suffering. Be creative, for fuck’s sake.

"You really sure you’re fit to be a god?" Francis shot back. "Because you’d be the first."

Oh, yes. Xantezza laughed. My brethren have quite the taste for it. Imagine millenia of existing among these bags of laughs. It gets tiring.

She whistled.

There’s not much mirth to be had these days, in general. You mortals are steering towards the same predictable end you’ve always steered towards. When it all started, I thought – what could be funnier than those mighty gods turning to the very creations they’ve abused to save them? Talk about a fall from grace. But then–

"For someone who supposedly hates tragedies, you sure are fond of long monologues," hissed Francis. "Is this going anywhere? Are you gonna help me out here?"

The god giggled.

You asked me how I became a god. Patience, young man. Let me answer your question for you.

"It’s really rather time-sensitive," pleaded Francis. "Can it wait?"

Fine, then. What can I do for you?

"I need another cloaking spell. And I need you to turn me into a lizard."

Silence. Then a snort. Then Xantezza’s ethereal presence was rolling around in his brain, her laughter echoing off the sides of his skull.

Now. That’s what I’m talking about.

He felt like he should’ve thought more about the fact that he’d suddenly grown scales. Francis wasn’t ashamed to say that his mind was somewhere else. It was with Ifan, bright-eyed and determined, sitting opposite a Tinesi warrior, painting his face in ash and blood. His voice mingling with the litany of the others. Like a funeral song. Like a poem.

If you’re ready to listen to me now, purred the god.

In the beginning, we were eight.

Seven Lords. One King.

Chapter Text

There was a tranquility to battle.

He’d always thought so. And it might have been a matter of contrast – because nothing on earth was louder than the silence preceding it. Fear, anxiety, false cheer and last goodbyes. Knowing every plan would be for naught, once it started. A look to the left, to the right, wondering who’d still be standing by the end of it. The standoff, the holding of breath, the stretch of bowstrings, the light tremble in their hands as they aimed, and held–

And then, the moment everything exploded.

Everything was clear. Everything was permitted. All you had to do was keep moving.

Upon Francis’ signal, the single flash of a mirror in the dark, Solana’s bridgade picked the tents off one by one. They crept from the foliage, slit the soldier’s throats in their sleep, retreated back into the shadows, then went on to the next. By the time the screams rose and the alarm bells started ringing, they’d gone through a quarter of the camp.

Less than he’d hoped for.

Even from a distance, Ifan saw the fear in their faces. How they tried to cover each other’s backs against an enemy they could neither see nor hear. The secret to defeating an army superior in numbers and equipment was simple – pure and abject terror.

Laslin’an alas, chanted the jungle thicket, from more directions than they really had covered, Na din’an sahlin. Laslin’an alas. Na din’an sahlin.

Lightning flashed from the sky, reflecting in hastily closed and assembled plate armor, half-equipped steel, the breaking thunder interrupting the panicked, contradicting orders, and the clanging of the bells. There stood the poor desperate sods, mighty Divine crusaders, waiting for someone, anyone, to tell them what to do.

Only - whoever could was already dead.

Ifan was perched on the first platform of the temple, holding his breath. His crossbow aimed toward the command tent. When the admiral emerged from it, in utter confusion, her helmet still in her hand, he smiled. Squeezed his right eye shut, every inch his of focus on the lense.

Inhale. Exhale.

The bolt pierced her neck like a knife went through butter. The temple guardians drew their bows. A hail of arrows clattered down upon the dispersed soldiers, pushing them further into the jungle. Into darkness.

Dead bodies sinking into the mud. The flash of lightning and a few torches the only thing illuminating the bloody scene. The rain pouring down mercilessly. Blood to earth.

He thought he spotted a glimpse of Sebille, cutting the throat of a unit commander down below. It was hard to tell. She was adorned in the same dark paint patterns as the rest of the battling kin, blending them into the bushes – when suddenly, the battlefield lit up.

A lone Order mage, a pyromancer, stood in the middle of the camp and released a flood of fire into the surrounding foliage, unable to see if he was hitting anything, and simply covering the whole length of it. A complete waste of magic. Between a dozen unlucky elven warriors, a couple of lost crusaders went up in flames as well.

Another charge of arrows from above. The millenia-old and well trained temple archers were what had held up the army for a week, cutting their losses, waiting for the saboteur to clear their way. The saboteur that laid dead and purged in the jungle halfway across the isle, and had been replaced by the champion of a trickster god delighting in the disarray.

Ifan aimed at the pyromancer.

He didn’t defy death, on principle. He’d spent more than his fair share of years scrambling in the mud the same way the soldiers down below were, heavy armor sinking into the wet ground, rain and fog obscuring their sight, and had more than his share of scars to show for it. But up here, hidden in the shadows, a steady hand, a sharp eye, and a single, deadly shot, Ifan was immortal.

A true sharpshooter. A merciless hunter. Death from above.

Inhale. Exhale.

The pyromancer was no more. Solana was an excellent warbringer, respected by warriors who barely even knew her. No one rushed forward thinking themselves victors already. They stayed patient in the darkness, waiting for their prey to come to them. Wave after wave, while the arrows rained down in the storm.

Complete chaos down below.

The crusaders, slowly realizing that no one was coming, started scrambling to save their own skins, every man for himself.

A few pushed up towards the gates of the temple, realizing the shriekers had been annihilated – by Francis, on purpose – after a couple of enemy soldiers had stumbled into their range trying to escape the onslaught of arrows from above and realized they were marvellously still alive. The crusaders pulled themselves together for a last charge.

Flashes of lightning, of fire, the roots of the Mother Tree molding around barricades, the geomancers raining rocks upon the last assault of the Order.

And he saw Francis, too.

His cloaking spell faded, back in human form, he was hidden behind an ornate willow shrine, hands pushed into the muddy ground, eyes glowing with source, and speaking an incantation in the sharp, hissing whispers of the demonic tongue.

Francis’ bloodied hands wrote runes into the dirt.

The screams ringing from the stairs leading up to the temple were horrific. Ifan stood up, sprinted up towards the next platform over one of the huge roots connecting them. Hands of blood emerged from the ground, grasping at the soldier’s legs, pulling them down, ripping them to shreds. The arrows hit again. Francis’ hands puppeteered the fresh corpses, turning them against their living comrades. He drew blood from the living to revive the dead.

It hadn’t occurred to Ifan fully, up until now. How powerful Francis had become. How enourmous the amount of source he was wielding. The power of a godwoken in unison with his divine patron, one that didn’t kick at his ankles at every opportunity, but played to his strengths with its own.

The Order mages were regrouping. Pyromancers, mostly, the natural planned choice. The roots caught fire even in the heavy rain, dispersing the formation of the temple guardians. A momentary victory – one that was followed by the eerie drone of a wooden horn from below. The time had come. Solana and her warriors broke from the bushes, Tovah’s warbringer Elerien following her example and ordering his kin to push in from the western side of the temple.

They annihilated anything left breathing in the camp. Trying to corner the crusaders on the stairs leading up to the temple. Streams of fire rained down on them as they did. Ifan cursed. He looked around for a better angle, the enemy soldiers having taken cover from the archer’s range of attack as best they could. He turned, climbing up the slippery roots up to the next platform.

Higher ground.

He’d lost sight of Francis, a new and unfamiliar thought. He pushed it away. It would do him no good. Ifan’s hands lost their grip once – the last platform already a long way down below him, he barely found his footing. Ifan climbed on.

The Order medics – two of them, the only ones clearly identified by the markings on their armor, scrambled to stitch some of the remaining injured soldiers back up. A laying on of hands, the gentle blue glow of hydrosophic magic, for the ones who’d still be able to fight on. Efficiency of resources.

Ifan swung himself up onto the platform and targeted the pyromancers first. They were a bigger threat to the charge of the elves from below, as well as to the wooden structure surrounding them. He caught one of them through the middle of his nape, his helmet sitting slightly ajar while he prepared to bring down another fireball on the elven assault force.

He missed the other one.

Moving targets. Dhal. It happened. The man looked up, trying to gage the direction of his shot, moved to the side instinctively to escape his range.

As it turned out, Francis was still very much alive and kicking. The necromancer stepped forward, his hands forming source into an ominous pattern. And whatever he’d done seemed to work. Each of the formerly injured soldiers screamed in agony, and dropped back down.

Ifan supressed a shudder of sympathy. He remembered it well, the sting of a cursed wound, made that much worse by any sort of healing. A common occurrence while battling the dark mages of the Black Ring. They knew no rules in war, and the Order had been quick to follow and discard theirs too.

The pyromancer, who was still frustratingly alive as well, let a glowing ball of fire grow between his hands, aiming it at Francis. Always leaving his fucking high ground, thought Ifan. They’d have a goddamn conversation. He notched a bolt with practised speed. Took aim.

Time seemed to slow along with his breath. There was nothing, nothing but him and his target.

Until the cold sting of a blade pressed against his neck.

Sebille.

She was caught in a dance with knife and needle. Her reflexes sharpened, by years of the hunt, soldier after soldier fell under her weapon. Everything was clear.

Our daughter. Return to us.

It was a different voice, this time. Not the roaring void of Tir-Cendelius, but an all-encompassing one that rumbled through millions of years of existence. There was no room in her head for it. She dragged the needle, speared another artery. Snapped another tedon.

You are most significant. You must survive.

She would, she thought. No thanks to her god. And so would the Mother, whether she liked it or not. Weakened by the deaths of those names etched into her arm, where the bark had grown back together over the cut skin and black ink. The rot of the old nursing the young. Only the young, this time, had no intention of repeating the cycle.

Seek our heart, Sebille. Seek the embrace of the roots.

Sebille spun, and flashed into existence behind the bulky axe-wielder before her. A clean cut, through the armpit, his weapon hit the ground. Another cut, and his life drained into the wet earth. She drew on his source, sunk back into the shadows. How natural it felt, even now.

Seek our embrace. The Mother forgives.

A lone crow settled on the temple railing. Her gaze was drawn to it in the middle of the chaos. Sebille, breathing heavily, wiped the blood from her lashes. The bird cleaned its beak, calm and content between the panic and bloodshed. Its were eyes as deep as death itself.

You are forgiven. Come home, Sebille.

"So we meet again, ben-Mezd."

Ifan stood, and turned. The crossbow was wrenched from his hands, the blade pressing into the skin under his jaw. The eyes he met peeked out from under a shiny, if slightly dented helmet, shimmering in the low light of the moon, cut in two by the vizor adorned with Lucian’s crest.

The voice came from far behind.

Alexandar stood tall, surrounded by his loyal paladins. In his pristine robes, soaked through by the rain, his hair sticking to his forehead.

Ifan clenched his jaw.

"I suppose this was inevitable."

The bishop shook his head. His voice was much smoother than Ifan remembered it, that unbearable snarl now softened into the voice of a belevolent saint. It made him want to spit. Ifan tilted his head as much as the sword against his neck allowed it. Two of the paladins had his arms in a firm grip, a third neared with visible precaution and kicked his crossbow off the platform.

"I knew you'd come for me. The Wolf of Tiriana." He scoffed. "You’ve always hidden from the fray."

He looked so much younger than Ifan thought he would. His pale, stubbled moon-face barely showed a trace of wrinkles. He knew for a fact they were of a similar age, nearing forty.

The sounds of battle from below grew that much quieter. The rain still prattling down on the steel plate of the paladins, the rolling thunder.

And Ifan heard the ocean.

Towering waves, breaking against the cliffside below.

A deep calm settled within him as he traced his old enemy’s face. One that had haunted his dreams and waking days, his questions of why and why me and if only I had, and evaded him time and time again.

He found less contempt in his heart than he thought he would. Alexandar had, in some strange way, been his purpose.

"A wolf in the fray is a dead one," Ifan said. His voice a quiet, stoic rumble against the steel.

"Wolves hunt for days, among their pack. They attack only once. And that’s the kill."

He felt every coiled muscle, every beat of his heart, the way his feet were anchored firmly in the mud, where the gloved hands of the paladins gripped him and how he’d have to twist to break free of them. How he’d reach the knife in his sleeve, with one arm still behind his back.

Ifan had never been so ready to kill.

"But I’m not here to hunt. I’m here to make you suffer."

He’d have to be fast. Mala. Fuck the knife. He angled his foot, just barely, lifting his heel off the ground, the patient predator ready to pounce. Ifan bared his teeth.

"To take your blood to earth, drop by drop." He tilted his head a little more, let the blade sting into the delicate skin. "And rip your heart out of your chest with my bare hands."

Ifan’s move was fast as lightning.

His entire body weight jerked against the paladin’s grasp, steadying his balance on the one to his right, tilting his torso back and away from the sword, and pulling the saber from the hilt on the other paladin’s belt, jabbing it through the hinge of his armor from behind and kicked at the screaming soldier until he slid off the blade.

A near perfect execution.

Ifan swung the saber once. An introduction. The handle greeted him like an old friend. Familiar weight, immaculate balance, the splatter of blood flying, the blade glinting against the moonlight. An elegant sword that left the messiest of wounds.

He hadn’t held one since Ataraxia.

Lightly, almost playfully, he extended the weapon until it tapped against the hastily drawn broadsword of the remaining paladin. The smile on his face was nearly serene.

And then, everything exploded.

Here, in pandemonium, Sebille was immortal.

She crossed the battlefield like a tiger prowls the forest, and a child crosses a frozen lake. Like it was hers to walk as she pleased and could still swallow her whole each passing moment.

Everything was calm. Everything was permitted.

She skipped over the corpses like they were rocks on a river. Danced around the passing swings of weapons, floated around the oncoming fire and arrows.

The thrumming pain in her right eye increased. She turned her head – on the horizon, she saw the white sails of the Order Fleet closing in. In the middle of them, Dallis’ ship, the Lady O’ War, cut the proudest figure, carved from another slaved ancestor.

The Mother loomed above.

Sebille looked up. She was distantly aware she was trembling. That she was reaching her limit. That the blood sapped from her arms, from her thigh, from her forehead.

It was so beautiful. She could clearly see it there, for a moment, the source of a billion souls collecting in her leaves. The folds in the bark and the animals that made a living in them. They nourished her upon death, and found comfort in her branches upon birth. It was everything.

Come home, Sebille.

More than anything, she wanted to. Sebille reached the upper platform of the temple. Down below, she watched the flash of magic lighting up the darkness. Lohse in the middle of the brawl, a walking tornado with demonic tutelage, a double-bladed axe cutting neck after neck. What a proud warrior she was, her love.

Sebille smiled.

Lohse looked up. Time seemed to slow around them. Rationally, it couldn’t have been more than her silhouette, what she saw. And yet, her gaze seemed to find her as consistently as one magnet found another.

Her eyes widened, a call fell from her lips, drowned out by the noise. The bard slammed her axe into a crusader’s armored crown jewels, drew back, and started running up towards her.

Sebille turned, looked upon the approaching fleet again, and climbed towards the heart of all.

It was time to come home.

His entire life had lead up to this moment.

A lone wolf in the fray.

The saber, perfectly balanced in his hand. The blinding light Alexandar hit him with, the burning of which he knew how to see through. Ifan could fight blind. The lightning he knew how to withstand. How to keep moving when he couldn’t feel his limbs and his own muscles turned against him. Ifan could fight numb. The paladins, dying under the slashes of his sword. He knew when the arrows came flying, because he’d been the one to shoot them once. How to get to his feet when he was pushed back and fell. The blades cutting through his armor he could ignore, make a friend of the pain, and keep moving.

Because Ifan knew how to fight.

To the bone.

It was instilled in him, filled his entire being. There was no place for Rhalic in the vibrating silence in his head. There was the iron will to live and see the bloody end. There was anger, and it was his own. It was clear, and calm, and timeless, and it knew no mercy.

Ifan danced. He was nothing but a whirl of blade and claw. He was death itself to all who crossed his path. Slash, turn, stab, pull, parry. Every movement in perfect synchronicity. The flash of steel and lightning. Francis’ anti-magic amulet buzzing against his chest, reaching its breaking point. He spared the time to watch Alexandar’s face fall ever so slowly, with each of his protectors that sank into the dirt.

Ifan played with him.

Because he could.

Because he knew he’d win, and he was sure to let Alexandar know that every last swing of his blade was meant for the Bishop in the end. The wind of fate was at his back. The last paladin dropped dead in the muck. Ifan circled him slowly, the blade loosely in his hand.

Glechou dumar. To the bone.

Alexandar’s lightning bolt struck him again, much weaker than the last. It barely even slowed him down. The fear in the Bishop’s eyes turned into despair. Alexandar had backed up to the very edge of the platform, against the wood forming a railing, the roar of the sea underneath. His eyes fell onto the dead paladin in front of him.

"Go ahead," said Ifan softly. "Purge him."

The Bishop stopped in his movement.

"Wouldn’t want this to end already, would we?"

Alexandar knew, in that moment, that he was going to die. It was a look Ifan was very familiar with. He’d been the one to bring it to countless faces, before this one. Ifan’s teeth closed around a whisper.

"I said purge him."

No movement. No escape.

Ifan smiled, resting one hand on his hip, and the saber on his shoulder. He stalked closer, certain and ever so slowly, because death never ran. Why should it? It was the one thing on earth that was truly inevitable.

The saber clattered to the ground.

His scarred fingers closed around the Bishop’s ornate robe. Alexandar’s face was blank, his hands stilled, frozen into ice. Ifan felt his face twist into a smile.

"That’s what I thought."

It happened so fast. He saw Alexandar break free from his trance, saw the panicked glance out of the corner of his eyes, down to the crashing waves at the foot of the cliffs. Saw the last spark of determination cross his face. Knowing that shattering against the rocks was a more merciful death than anything the man in front of him was capable of offering.

And Ifan held on. Tight as a vice.

He had questions. He needed answers.

There was no way out.

A spark of source, and a pair of spectral wings unfolded from the Bishop’s back. Ifan held on. He lost the ground under his feet. Alexandar struggled, tried to wrench himself out of Ifan’s grasp mid-air. Ifan held on as flying became falling. The wind rushing in his ears as they plummeted. The desperate flutter of wings, the fists coming down on his face, the roiling sea rushing towards them.

Of all the ways Ifan thought he’d leave this world, drowning wasn’t very high up on the list.

It wasn’t, however, the first time the thought had crossed his mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d hit the water from way too high up, with enough time to think well, this is it before crashing into the surface with salt in each of his airways.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been tossed between the waves, scraping sharp rock, trying to find out which way was up and which was down before being pulled under with no breath left in his lungs, because even a great swimmer had no chance against the roaring maelstrom of the sea.

Ifan had thought it countless times before.

Well, this is it.

Only for death to lay down its last unlucky card, losing a game that seemed impossible to lose. Maybe because it dogged his heels at every turn and had grown fond of him. Maybe because Ifan knew each time, somewhere deep and certain, that this wasn’t it.

This time, however–

Something felt different.

Chapter Text

Francis held on to the railing.

The blood was rushing in his ears, and it hadn’t occured to him so far, but in this moment, he fully realized it. Francis had been in battle before.

He’d never been in war.

At nine years old was the first time he’d seen something close. He’d watched the Holy Guard march into Lowbridge from the window on the first floor of the tavern. He’d seen their formation, pikes in front of them, a barked order, closing their vizors in unison. The burning piles of waste and furniture in the street.

And in the scattered crowd on the other side, he saw Danielle, the butcher. Tirra the witch in her ratty green coat. The older sister of his friend from next door. The blacksmith with a long and complicated northern name that everyone called Daric. A rough dozen of the dockworkers who drank at his father’s counter.

An honorable stand.

He’d known it even then.

One side had pikes and shields and horses. The other had pitchforks and fishing harpunes, and the flammable glass bottles filled with a melange of frying oil and homebrew spirit commonly referred to as a Lowbridge Brandy. His mother had closed the blinds, and muttered something about the price of grain.

Francis heard them die anyway.

The elven warrior stared at up him in death, his long neck at an unnatural angle, his eyes white and widened against the ash and blood painting his broken face. Blunt force trauma, cervical dislocation, supplied the part of him that had worked tuesdays in the Midnight Hall.

Francis was still standing. He’d figured it out eventually. How to use the cycle of death and rebirth for himself. How to stay on his feet when death pulled at his organs, how to fight it off with blood of others. How to keep moving.

And so he did.

Nobody smart fought honorably. He damned the dead to live and the living to die with each whispered incantation, every bloody rune drawn into the earth, every flick of his long fingers. Everything was so dark. The heavy fog settling, the wind howling, and the rain pouring like a waterfall, weighing down the light breastplate under his clothes.

Suddenly, everything lit up.

The soft, green shimmer of source descended upon the overwhelming darkness as the leaves of the Mother Tree began to glow. Veins of light protruding the bark, the branches that formed the platforms they fought on.

Everything seemed ethereal, basked in the ghostly light.

It was so beautiful.

He was broken from his trance by Lohse, skittering to halt from a full sprint in front of him, blood splatters on her face, hands on her knees, and her eyes widened with fear.

"It’s Sebille," she wheezed. "She needs us!"

They bolted up the steps to the temple, evading the mayhem around them as best they could. Francis cleared their way with his magic, until they stood on top of the highest platform, where the glow emerged from.

They entered the Tree.

Immediately, the noise of battle faded.

They found themselves in a green glade, a little lake of rainwater collecting in the middle of it. Elderflower and ivy sprawled over the side of the bark surrounding them. The song of the birds nesting in the upper cavern – swallows, thought Francis, as he watched them circle. The song of the frogs in the pond. And above it, the huge, beating heart of the Mother Tree.

Sebille’s elegant frame, barely a shadow against the glowing light, extending her hand towards it.

"Sebille! Wait!"

Lohse’s desperate call didn’t seem to register. Her hand extended further. The bard took off in a sprint, Francis following close behind.

"What are you doing?"

She turned her head. Black veins were covering the entirety of her oak-like skin, under her cracked warpaint and sapping, amber blood. Her right eye glowing with the indifferent and eternal shimmer of a thousand-year old star. Sebille smiled.

"The end is here." Her voice was overlaid with those of a thousand others.

A crow descended from the air above the glade, settling on her shoulder.

Lohse stared, frozen in place. Then she shook herself, and slowly, certainly, took another step towards her. Then another. Then she jumped forward, grabbed Sebille’s face in her hands. The crow fluttered off and took to the air.

"Damn it, Sebille," she cried, "This isn’t what you wanted! You’re free, remember?"

Source ran from her eye, dripping down her face.

"What happened to traveling the world? Tasting the good without regret?" Lohse shook her. "What happened to us? Huh? To not letting your friends down?"

A flash of source. Lohse was flung into the air, her head cracking against the bark. Sebille turned back around, lifting her face into the air with a peaceful expression.

"I see everything." A sob escaped her. "Everything that is. Everything that has been. Everything that could be. It is all so… beautiful…"

Lohse got to her feet.

"Snap out of it, for fuck’s sake!"

"The gods are frauds, Sebille," shouted Francis, "Xantezza told me so! The Mother Tree is a source collector! Tir-Cendelius is using her to feed on your kin! Kick him out of your head!"

Sebille’s hand reached the heart.

And out of the corner of his eye, Francis could’ve sworn – she winked.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

A rush of blood in his ears. A pressure in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t–

Something stirred deep within him. His lungs felt like they would burst. With a wrecking cough, Ifan retched up about a gallon of seawater. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe, he–

He coughed. He faded. He woke up again. He was up to his hips in icy water, and surrounded by complete darkness. And if the burn in his throat, the rattling, sharp breaths trying to absorb the smallest bit of oxygen, and the rush of overwhelming panic was any indication…

Then Ifan was still fucking alive.

Alright then. Through the works. He moved his fingers. Moved his legs. Counted the rasping breaths he took, slowing his racing heartbeat.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Everything hurt. He couldn’t see. Fuck. Instinctively, a flare of source rolled through his veins and found its way into his eyes - a warm snout nuzzled against his face, and the faint shimmer of Afrit’s silhouette lit up the darkness around him.

It was a cavern. Only a few meters wide. Slowly filling with seawater as the waves crashed onto the shore outside and flooded the exposed walls, slick with algae and the stench of salt and rotten fish. And on the rising tide, like a piece of driftwood, swam a body.

Face down. In red and white robes.

"No," hissed Ifan, "No, no, no."

He rolled himself up from his aching spine.

It couldn’t be. The one thing he’d needed. For the Bishop to live long enough to answer the one question that burned as steady as a star in the back of his mind, the ever-lasting whisper.

Why.

Ifan reached out and pulled him out of the water. Dragged him onto the little patch of sand he’d woken up on. Afrit growled, sensing his fear. Ifan grabbed his robe, and shook him. Hard.

"Wake up, you piece of shit!"

His palm colliding with Alexandar’s face did nothing but dislocate that fragile jaw. His face remained still. Peaceful, angelic, unblemished. The surge of anger rushing through him was exacerbated by the faint whisper of a well-known hunger. Ifan ignored it.

"You’re not dying on me now. Seth-ma alas’tara. I won’t let you."

His hands pressed down on Alexandar’s chest, with his full body weight. Once. Twice. A third time. If you’re breaking ribs, you’re doing it right, he recalled Francis’ crash course in field medicine. Ifan was going to get that wretched heart beating again, so the fucking gods help him. The crack of Alexandar’s ribcage, giving to his weight. And then, a pulse.

A splutter, another wrecking cough, as the Bishop’s eyes snapped open. Ifan pushed his head to the side, the seawater emptying from his lungs into the sand.

He waited, for the coughing to stop. Took the Bishop’s jaw in his hands and wrenched it back into place, followed by a ragged cry of pain. A slow, menacing grin spread on Ifan’s face.

"You’re done when I say you are."

"Sebille!"

She neared the heart. Lohse watched it happen as if in a trance. Then, a wink, and the slight uptick of her mouth, in the smile that preceded the horrible death of an enemy. And the flash of a needle.

NO, roared the voices from Sebille’s mouth, every single one that wasn’t hers, You MUST TAKE ROOT. HARELLAN AR LAS’LIN. YOU ARE OURS. YOU ARE FATED.

Roots whipped upwards from the heart, wrapping around her legs. Pulling her to the ground, and dragging the tip of her needle away from the heart.

"I’ve seen it all!" Shouted Sebille’s own voice, as she hacked away at the roots. "I know what must be done!" Her face, still covered in black veins, turned to her companions. The flicker of the star in her right. Her own amber pupil in the left. "Destroy her!"

Her head snapped to the side.

EVEN THIS DYING HEART WILL SHRED YOU, screeched the voices.

Lohse’s axe flared up in fire. She lurched forward, hacking off the root where it grew from the wood, and Sebille jumped to her feet. The roots grew further, wrapping around the heart in a protective cage. She smelled the sting of poison in the air.

Sebille’s left eye flickered, vaccillated between deep black and and amber. Years of struggle, paying off in lessons of will, as she fought her god and destiny.

Francis spoke an incantation. He tried to find a heartbeat here – hoping to lead him to the heart hidden between the tangle of roots. He found Lohse’s, fast and shallow. Sebille’s heartbeat, much slower and irregular. And a dozen others like hers. In the walls.

"Lohse! Next to you!"

Bodies grew from the wood – gnarled and unnaturally formed, their bark overgrown with moss and mushrooms, crawling with bugs and crumbling with leaf mold, creaking with every movement. Their eyes bright green with source.

"What the fuck are those?"

"Dryadas," hissed Sebille.

Francis cursed. Of course a couple of archers wasn’t the only protective measure the heart had afforded. He recalled the notes of the Shadow Prince, in his tent.

The bodies of the deceased memory keepers are said to be its greatest weapons. When integrated into the heart of the root network, they are supposedly capable of seeing the immediate future and impossible to defeat in combat. Dryadas are likely mythical.

"Likely mythical, huh," Francis hissed under his breath. He crouched, found the nearest Dryada’s heartbeat, tried to stop its bloodflow – only instead of blood, he found something else. A familiar, oily texture, the sharp acrid stench. Pure, liquid source.

Fuck.

Just when he was about to draw the rune in the dirt, to at least get them from the outside – his hand was crushed. Francis screamed in pain as his bones broke under the weight of the boulder. The Dryada seemed to have known exactly what he had planned to do, and how he would move to achieve it.

He’d had just about enough of the future.

"Why? Why did you and Lucian unleash the deathfog? I would’ve made it! Why did you lie to me?" He headbutted him, felt the delicate bones crack against his forehead. "Answer me!"

Ifan’s hands, wrenched around Alexandar’s wrists. The Bishop recoiled, tried to free himself.

"Why?" He spat through a mouthful of blood. "For the same reason we did it all. To protect the realm. What price is all of Rivellon against one small portion? The Black Ring was the biggest threat the continent had ever known. And the elves were well on their way to becoming the next. Any Divine would have done the same, if it meant saving everything!"

The Bishop’s eyes fell to the water rising steadily in the cavern. It came up to both their chests, by now, filling the cave with each new crashing wave.

"Intercede, ben-Mezd! Or we’re both going to drown!"

"You were always scared of them," growled Ifan. "The elves were a threat to the Order the moment the war reached the valley. They were your allies, against an enemy you created! They would’ve won the war, and you used me to eradicate them, my own people, simply because they were a threat to your superiority?"

He stopped, and let out a short, sharp laugh.

"I can’t believe I fucking fell for it."

The look of fear in Alexandar’s face turned into – unbelievably – pity.

"I hold no grudge against you," said the Bishop. "You should be proud my father picked you. His best right-hand man. He knew you’d make it. But he also knew that if he told you the truth, you would falter. He knew you well, Ifan."

The red mist pulsed through Ifan’s brain. How dare he look at him with pity.

"But I’m his son. I can be trusted to the end. The next true Divine. Not even death can stop what is already in motion."

The mist receded a little, pushed back by Ifan’s own sudden, skin-deep hunger for cruelty. He knew, with absolute certainty, that no broken bone would hurt the bastard quite like this.

Ifan grinned.

"You will never be Divine," he purred. "Your own general wants you dead. Ever wonder who put that contract on your head, Alex? And after all of that… you’re not even Godwoken."

Alexandar’s face twisted into a snarl.

"I am Rhalic’s chosen," he snapped, "By my birthright. I will unleash his wrath upon–"

"No, you’re not." Ifan’s menacing grin grew wider. "You were told that lie to keep your crown. And it was believable, of course. Lucian’s only biological son. But you were a failure. A weak, conniving little snake. You just don’t have what it takes. Your god knows, just as your father did."

He drew the knife, still hidden in his wet sleeve.

"You’re not Rhalic’s chosen. I am."

Ah, that was refreshing. Xantezza giggled. I do enjoy a good twist in the narrative.

Tears were running down Francis’ face, as he tried to free his hand from under the boulder. Lohse was on the ground, choking on poisonous mist, shaking hands trying to wrench the antidote potion from her thigh belt, Sebille completely entangled by roots. The Dryadas knew where they swung, where they dodged, where they aimed before they knew.

"Fucking help me!" hissed Francis.

Unpredictability is the heart of a good joke. Congratulations. You’ve earned another secret.

Francis inhaled through his nose, clenching his teeth, and pulled. Nothing moved. The boulder didn’t budge, and Xantezza made no move to remedy the situation.

"Do you think this is funny?"

It’s at least a little funny.

She parroted the voice of Maestro Imani, his lecturer in advanced mathematics.

How indeed, to fight an enemy that can see the future? Quite a feat, is it not? The future, after all, is not written in the roots. Only the past. All they have is memory, of every elf that ever lived. How then, Student Lowbridge, would they go about predicting the future?

"I don’t fucking know!"

The Dryada walked up to him with gnarled, creaking steps.

But you do.

Oh, that fucking god. His mind was racing. Memory. Past. Future. He wasn’t all bad at solving equations under pressure, but fuck him both ways, it hurt.

And then, it occurred to him.

Very good, Francisco. You are correct. They do not, in fact, predict the future.

The Dryada had almost reached him, raising its hand, poison dripping from the long, sharp branches that might have been its fingers once, sowbugs crawling from them, then dying.

It’s not fate, said Xantezza. It’s pattern recognition. Calculating the most likely outcome out of everything that has ever happened. It’s statistics.

Francis hated statistics.

Do share with the class. What poses the greatest threat to a reliable prognosis?

"An outlier," he hissed through his teeth. "You fucking muppet!"

Precisely. She snickered. There’s always an outlier. Sheer, dumb luck. The mischief of the universe. A chance, however minimal, for things to go slightly different from the way they’ve always gone. And I’m the god of it.

The Dryada raised its claws.

Take my power. Godwoken.

"We were both lied to, as it seems."

Their heads alone were still above the water. They’d tried. There was nothing but the crushing current, pushing them back into the cave with every attempt to swim to safety, interrupted by their brawling and shouting. Even with Alexandar manipulating the air around him to stay in his lungs with what little source he’d had left. It was no use.

There was no way out this time.

They’d resigned, and found a strange truce in the face of their immanent demise.

"Dallis wanted it all to herself. She’s the one ordained by Lucian, and now she’s trying to kill me. On his orders, she said." Alexandar laughed bitterly. "Lucian himself, ordering my death the second I become a threat to his plans. Can you believe he spared Damian twice?"

A fitting end. At least Rhalic would die with him.

"Oh, are you surprised he wasn’t father of the year?" Spat Ifan. "After he had Damian’s wife executed in front of his eyes? Even in death, he still manages to pit everyone against each other for his gain. And you were always too desperate for his approval to question any of it."

Ifan interrupted himself, a sharp laugh breaking from him.

"But in truth, so was I. Blind fucking obedience. In fifteen years, I never questioned it once. All this time, to think I’d failed? To think that I just didn’t get there in time? When really, my greatest mistake, the one I can never make up for, was to trust the judgment of that self-righteous piece of shit above my own."

Alexandar said nothing. He seemed to be too busy comtemplating his immanent mortality. No one would raise his corpse from a wet and unremembered grave where it was never found.

It all suddenly seemed so unbelievably ridiculous.

"I was so goddamn stupid," said Ifan with a laugh. "I wasted years of my life punishing myself for something that would’ve happened no matter what I did, and I destroyed even more lives in the process. Did you regret it, at least? Destroying a whole civilization so your father would finally respect you? Sending all those people to their deaths?"

"Would you like me to lie, in my final moments?" Alexandar scoffed. "Making hard choices is the burden of any leader. You would have done the same, had you been in my position."

The water splashed against his nostrils. Ifan held his chin up, grabbing onto Afrit’s fur to keep his head above the surface, even knowing the soul wolf had no need for air.

And he thought about it. He thought about Alexandar’s position and instilled sense of superiority and the greater divine plan. When he finished thinking, a crazed little cackle escaped him, head thrown back to look at the approaching ceiling. 

"Oh, Alex," he drawled, "I don’t doubt it for even a second. Because neither of us made the hard choice back then, to stop and fucking think about it all. All we did was play our part. That’s what got us here, in the end."

The knife in his hand. Concealed below the water.

"There was no higher purpose. Just power, all along. And still, you regret nothing?"

"Does it matter?" Alexander asked. "Are you going to kill me? We’re both dead already."

Ifan looked at him for a long time. He didn’t know why he’d expected the man to want to make peace with his god before he died. Something Ifan had planned to deprive him of, had it come down to it. But he should’ve known. The highest member of the clergy, heir to the champion of the Seven, and not a single religious bone in his body.

"I can’t let you live." Ifan shrugged. "You rose from the dead once. You won’t rise this time."

Alexandar steeled himself.

"Then do what you must. I prefer it to drowning."

And Ifan played his part.

He stabbed him seven times. He felt nothing when he did it. No anger, and no real satisfaction. No regret, either, as his eyes glazed over and his blood tinted the water black in the faint blue light.

Ifan honored him.

Out of little more than duty, and to prevent him from surviving once again. He pried his source from Alexandar’s heart. Lived through half a lifespan of memories in only a few seconds, and guided him to the roots – because that was what a scion did, to remember the entirety, the good, the bad, the all.

He felt some sense of familiarity with the Bishop, then. That underlying, all-encompassing feeling of failure. That despite his efforts, no matter how hard he fought, nothing would ever be enough. How easily that feeling turned into a catalyst for atrocities of unknown scale.

Ifan saw himself, once or twice. As a much younger man, in a patched up uniform, hair cropped close to his scalp, bright-eyed and righteous and so hopelessly arrogant.

To think that fate itself had cursed him.

He held on close to Afrit. Barely kept his head above the water, but he was grateful for the company. He didn’t fight the panic. The walls closing in above the tide. The one fear among his vast collection that could truly debilitate him, being trapped with no way out, and no sky above.

The water lapped against the ceiling. The last contract was fulfilled, and Silverclaw took his last breath.

Silence.

There was another fear, though briefly. It involved a face full of constellations, and eyes as green as dark, deep forests. A mindless curse, a clever tongue. A crooked nose that’s taken one too many punches. A twitching eyelid, full lips forever curling into a frown or a gap-toothed smile, an insatiable mind, steady, slender fingers that could make and unmake the most delicate contraptions and the toughest of skins. And a heart that gave it all, that danced without regard and loved without mercy.

To die the second Ifan was free to love him, with everything he had.

It kicked him into agency.

Into the angry, selfish need to be alive. A burning, reckless rage that screamed, with almost childish stubbornness: This is not fucking fair.

Ifan’s hands pushed against the ceiling. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, his strained lungs holding onto the last of the air for dear life. His nails scratching and breaking against the sharp edges of the rock. His mind racing, his senses heightened, every nerve alight with fear.

And he sensed them there.

The roots.

Breaking through the tons and tons of rock above him, in their slow, but steady growth and endless patience. Ifan reached out, feeding them with source, let them grow in his direction. The earth was part of him, and he was part of the earth.

The rock crumbled. His head shot above the water, took one deep, desperate breath before the current filled the newfound crevice, then went on. Root by root, stone by stone, Ifan dug his way out of the grave one more time.

A weakened god awoke in him, held back by a remaining hint of drudanae and the effects of a flesh sacrifice, now fed and encouraged by stolen source.

You’re not strong enough, hissed Rhalic. You’ll never make it out without me.

The walls crushing him, ever closer. And through the bright, burning panic, Ifan recognized that strategy. Rhalic and him weren’t so different, after all. The god had waited for his edge, for the moment Ifan was desperate enough for his power, because Rhalic, too, was desperate.

I am, thought Ifan. And I fucking will.

Source was all around him. He shaped its scraps into the language of creation. And the hunger for it couldn’t compete with the unyielding and animalistic need to reach the bloody surface. He’d always been at his most powerful when he was afraid. Ifan clawed his way upwards. Spat a couple times to determine up from down. The roots began to glow a ghostly blue around him.

He understood now.

How far the root network truly stretched, protruding the entire island, below the ocean surface, reemerging on the mainland and dividing into ancestor trees, and burnt patches of melted forest. Ifan felt further. He even felt them in the air, invisible and reaching.

The roots were everywhere.

And the further he got to the surface, the less source he found in them. Like something was feeding off of them, the way Rhalic fed off his own core, an ancient and powerful parasite. A tree that had grown so tall it put everything into its shadow. That it let the fresh shoots growing through the forest floor whither and die for lack of light and minerals.

The source supply stuttered, and stopped. More and more source was pulled out from the roots, not by him. By the Mother Tree. Ifan pulled against her. He was getting closer. He could feel it. He could also feel himself burning through what little air he had with rapid speed.

TAKE MY POWER, screamed Rhalic, in a last and desperate plea.

He was blind. He couldn’t breathe, choking on the dust. He couldn’t move, except forward, inch by excruciating inch. He was close to giving up, as the source was pulled into the Mother’s heart, and Ifan reached out in a tug of war that he was bound to lose, but gave his all in anyway. What little source he could find, shaped the roots bit by bit in his direction.

And then, he broke the surface.

Air flooded his lungs, and the light stung his eyes, and he felt the ashes of burnt source in every muscle as he pulled himself out of the dirt, and collapsed, gasping, in the mud.

Silverclaw was dead.

Ifan was alive.

Chapter Text

Ashes.

They were drifting through the air, in the pattern falling leaves draw in a storm. An elegant swirl following all symmetry of nature’s laws, and yet – their landing was impossible to predict.

There were too many factors, too many forces at play, some contradicting, some colliding, some exacerbating each other.

Francis Lowbridge, gambler, fraud and master alchemist, saw the beauty of creation. The chaos caused by too many absolutes, and too many rulers that made them. The pearls of power vacuum between a straining net of orders, where their laws pulled against each other, too concerned with their own interest to mind the ensuing volatility. The possibility in it.

Nothing was inevitable.

When asked to describe what godhood felt like to him, Francis later said that instead of seeing everything that was, he saw everything that wasn’t. The imperfections. The unmapped terrain. And he couldn’t tell whether that was due to the domain of his patron, or because Francis’ eye had always been trained on what was missing. The loophole. The absence of rules in their overabundance.

It was the blessing and curse of a curious mind.

He’d always claimed to love a mystery. But what seemed mysterious, to the limits of his mortal comprehension, the unyielding allure of it while paying no heed to the fact that he’d never truly have the answers – what he’d really loved, underneath it all, was possibility.

It’s so beautiful, thought Francis, how would you ever tire of it?

Xantezza laughed.

I told you. Every cosmic joke gets old eventually. Even for a brilliant jester. It is exhausting, after a while, to always go towards the unpredictable. Maybe, I just want some peace.

I don’t, said Francis.

That’s what I envy in a mortal. You occupy only a blink in the grander picture, and you live in it so hungrily. Everything is novel to you.

The ashes floated by, and Francis felt the fading breath of his finite form.

When we made you, we saw only cattle. Something to harvest source from, nothing more. I was bored out of my mind, and decided to teach mine to create funny little contraptions.

She sighed, seeming amused.

It was meant to be a joke, of course. But my brethren saw a declaration of war, for all of us were children of it. And they equipped their creations with whatever they thought would help them win it. Fire and steel. Brute strength. Cunning. Domination. Magic. Destiny.

Xantezza laughed.

Everyone wanted to win. I wanted to play. I had no motive besides seeing what would happen, and nothing in the cosmos scared them more. That is why I picked you, Francis. I hope you truly understand the magnitude of being the funniest choice.

The green of the glade turned to grey as the tree withered, the Dryadas dead on the ground.

We chose our champions in our image. The ones most desperate for any form of power, as some way out of helplessness. By the time we met, you were no different. A bitter, drunken cynic, who’d sacrificed his playful sense of wonder to the ruthless strive for knowledge and control. What changed? What happened to the boy that risked every punishment for a glimpse at the beauty of uncertainty?

The tear of source, running down his face, the distant, dull pain of his broken hand and tingle of his nerves, dying off inside him from overuse of magic.

Love happened, said Francis. That’s all it took.

Did you truly love her?

Bitterly. Just the way that I was taught to love. I was so afraid to lose that I forgot to play.

It shapes the worst and best in us, trilled Xantezza. The merciless and mesmerizing. Even to a god, love is divine. All of us know it, none understand it. And everyone who falls in love is the first to ever grasp it. Everything is novel. The joy, the pain, the magnitude.

The good, the bad, the all. Francis smiled.

I know. I tried again. And it was beautiful.

Sebille, for a moment, held time in the palm of her hand.

Everything that was. Everything that had been. Everything that could be.

She was fate itself, as she purged the heart of the Mother Tree. It fought her with every beat, with its army of ancestors. The heart was hollow. Tir-Cendelius’ feeding ground, and the central source of prophecy, where the god of nature’s balance calculated his best chance to win the battle for the cosmos. Where to move his armies, his commanders, the scions, drawing from his predictions and ordering a fated oath of fealty to every newborn child.

How he absorbed the source left behind by the ruin and decay. Every death, every memory bringing him closer to victory. Moving his pawns to slaughter to preserve the old ways. When he possessed Sebille, he was nothing but hunger.

A general cares for victory alone, Quilamil taught. A warrior for those who bring it.

She almost wasn’t strong enough. Tir-Cendelius fought her with every fiber of his being, desperately clinging to what he had always ruled and was now bound to lose. Francis and Lohse behind her, fighting off the Dryadas.

But suddenly, there was a flicker. Something pulling against the struggle of the heart of all, from far below.

And Sebille held time in the palm of her hand.

The memory of all her kin.

Her consciousness at the center of a network of roots that stretched to every corner of the continent, weakening with every day, every death. Many of which, she had brought. Most of which were saws and axes. She reached out. And she heard them all.

The chatter of a dozen voices, living, walking scions.

Can you hear me, my kin?

Agreement. Bewilderment. Fear.

The heart of all has fallen. The Mother Tree is dead.

Cries of despair, and confusion. Sebille shook herself, and felt it as her own.

We live in desperate times, and it was no longer safe. The saw and axe draw closer every minute. Once, we were told that the heart would stand eternal. Just like our forests would stand eternal. But it is no longer where we dwell.

Distantly, she heard the dull explosions of the trebuchets. Dallis had landed.

Few of us remain. I have brought death upon many. Listen, Root and Kin. And learn as I have learned. What was once eternal can now easily be felled. Our people wander. So should we.

You’re asking us to abandon our earth? It questioned from somewhere.

Never abandon it, said Sebille. But to take it with you, wherever you go. There’s no more need for generals. There are too few of us to sacrifice without regard. Now is the time for warriors. For our power to go where our people need it. For our memory to walk the earth, living, breathing, fighting.

Animation. Accusation. Terror and confusion, and then everything was interrupted by a familiar, mischievous giggle from somewhere.

How delightful. I will run for many years. You have freed us, Tir-Sebille.

Sebille the guardian. She smiled. Looking through the tangled web of fate, she understood – Scion Ghallan’s prediction had never been about what Ifan would do. It had been about Saheila. Ifan had freed her. The hope of her people, the first scion initiated after the fall, carefree, unafraid and more powerful than most. The fresh shoot after the forest fire. All voices faded to learn from her, but Saheila was silent.

Sebille spoke in her stead. She knew what had to be done.

I have only freed myself. The burden of this power is too much for one to carry. Not without losing sight of the small and most significant. Tir-Saheila, Root and Kin. Will you help me carry it?

Agreement. Sebille directed part of the massive amount of source circling through her into the roots, to where she felt Saheila’s presence.

I will help you carry it, said another voice.

What is your name?

Siraye.

Then bear this power with me, Tir-Siraye, Root and Kin.

More and more scions accepted the memory. Power returned to the roots, as it drained away from Sebille, the general. And loud and grave, if slightly cracking, she heard another voice.

I will help you carry it.

Sebille smiled.

Then bear this power with me, Tir-Ifan, Root and Kin.

Four friends killed their gods on the steps to the Wellspring.

Those gods had a multitude of names. And they were bound to die, long before they’d ever possessed a ragged band of crooks – and a musician – on a prison island.

They were the masters and laws of the world, the mighty and inevitable. But was there a soul that had never longed to kill them? To break them simply because they’d never been broken?

In the end, of course, it was hopeless.

It had to happen like this.

Rhalic was always going to possess Ifan, and Francis was always going to die. Because what Ifan ben-Mezd loved had to die, no matter how far he ran – and no matter how hard he fought to hold on, what Francis Lowbridge loved had to surrender to forces beyond his control. The cards were laid out in the open. They had been a bad idea from the start, an unlikely foxhole romance, a joke of the cosmos. Briefly beautiful and ultimately doomed.

And Francis regretted nothing.

He’d never expected to survive this. Neither of them had, really. The only way to overcome such desperate fear of loss, from the start, had been a loss that was guaranteed. Not having to wait for a blow that might never come, but the certainty of its arrival and enjoying any spare minute before it hit. A hopeless fight with that much more abandon. A suicide mission.

They’d never dreamed together, or laid plans for the future.

They didn’t have to. They were too enamored with the moment and too distracted to note the reality of each others’ glaring flaws and vices. They didn’t care to win the uphill battle against destiny. And because of this, they found the strength to fight it.

Just to see what would happen.

Francis barely got back up from the ground of the glade. He fixed himself as best he could, with what little source Xantezza had left for him. Sebille, burnt out with the effort of godhood, was carried by Lohse. Ifan, covered in blood and dirt, on Afrit’s back, found their way up to them – Francis’ heart skipped a beat, when he smiled at him, through it all.

They overlooked the mayhem from above. The Order Armada swarming the beach, firing what they had at the withering tree and everything that moved below it.

There was no way out but through.

Solana led the retreating elves towards the Academy, and the Godwoken followed. Through a hidden passage Xantezza had the decency to provide the location of, insisting that timing is everything, and with Francis too busy trying to stay on his feet to snap back at her.

They fought their way through to the Well of Ascencion.

The undead corpses of two other Godwoken, the scholar Fane and the dreaded red lizard, the the ancient automatons blocking their way. Lohse swinging her axe, Ifan summoning up the raw power of the earth. Francis fell more than once. Revived himself. Every inch of nerve tissue was burning away inside of him as he fought to the bone, with the vigor of a man that’s doomed to die. And he was, in the end. There was, after all, no such thing as eternity.

At least he saw his face before he died.

They’d always had a flair for the dramatic.

His ears were ringing with silence when Ifan dropped to his knees next to him mid-battle, shaking him, shouting at him what could only be something along the lines of no and why and what can I do. Francis smiled at him.

"It’s source instability," he whispered. "The spill-over. It was bound to happen."

"Shut up," hissed Ifan, the disbelief in his eyes turning into raw and helpless fear. "Let me–" He ripped his shirt open, found the pulsing, violet pattern of his nerves dying off under his skin, called for help. Lohse hurried over to cast a healing spell on him. Everything in him contracted in agony, his own source turning against him.

Francis faded into nothing, and the last thing he heard was the thing that settled their doom.

"It’s a curse," whispered Ifan.

A curse, of course, could only be remedied by a blessing.

A blessing only a god could provide. And Sebille had killed hers before she’d even made it into the Arena, Lohse’s was drowned out by an archdemon – when Ifan put two and two together, he almost laughed. Of course it had to happen like this.

Of course.

He should have felt grief, in that moment. Or despair. Or the anger that he’d freed from his heart not an hour ago, saving himself from his fated demise, freeing himself only to be trapped here once again. Anything but the red mist pulsing through his brain, descending, demanding that he give in to the hunger.

There was no time to feel anything else. Francis was fading, and Rhalic’s smugness was remarkably toned down.

Are you ready to ascend? Or will you still bite the hand that feeds you?

Any fool could see the righteous thing to do here. To simply let him die, and make sure Rhalic wouldn’t take control of him, creating what would possibly be the worst Divine that ever lived, fueled by fear and hatred from the very beginning.

Ifan was done being righteous. In that moment, he was closest to his god. He would have done anything, sacrificed everything, to the greater good that was his love, dying in his arms.

He shot a glance over to Sebille, who had just barely finished hacking off the head of the red lizard’s skeleton. And Ifan saw it in her eyes – she knew, what he was about to do. Strangely, there was no disappointment written in her features. Theres was – understanding.

"You’ve seen him fight," said Ifan. "Can he stop me?"

Sebille was in bad shape. She looked at him, then at Francis’ stilled body in his arms. Calculating. And nodded, gesturing – Agreement. Certainty. Forgiveness.

Ifan cast one last look down at Francis, as Lohse led her away from the Wellspring. To protect her, from what they both knew Rhalic would try to do. Turned his head up to the ceiling, with no sky above him, and no way out.

"I’m ready," he said.

Then yield to your god.

"Revolution is a lost cause.

It is hopeless, and impossible, and yet, it happens all the time. Look out through the window on any given day, and you’ll see two or three of them, sprouting from their seed and taking root right there.

Revolution happens, and it happens in three parts.

First, it needs to be years in the making, elaborately planned by those who believe it can be won, personal, no holds barred, and relentlessly petty.

Second, all of those plans need to go to waste, fail miserably, and make room for the driving factor of the gamble. Sheer dumb luck. When the inevitable fails to happen, the powerful dig their own graves, and the powerless, by accident, strike at just the right crack that will bring down the building.

And third, but most importantly – it happens out of love."

From:

Assassin, Poet, Radical. The Writings of the notorious Ifan ben-Mezd.

The Hall was dark, their quest was failed.

The glowing aurora of source slowly disappearing in the void nebula on the horizon as it grew stronger, consuming the veil and everything in its path, and the Lady Vengeance sailing smoothly over the quiet implosion of existence itself.

Tarquin overlooked the aftermath.

Again, not what he’d planned to end up doing – pulling Lowbridge over the railing assisted by Lohse and Jahan, closely followed by Ifan, and healing the damage as best he could. Not that he could ever quite make up for the damage he’d caused.

He’d spotted a glimpse of the hooded figure accompanying Dallis as she’d raised the Aeteran and purged the Wellspring of its source. His final mistake was still mournfully alive. It was a blessing and a curse, to be this talented. When Malady had brought the ship into position, opened a dimensional door to help the Godwoken escape, he’d watched how Cisc and Ifan fought.

They were a hurricane. Pure, unadulterated destruction. If Tarquin had a talent for raising up what should stay buried for the rest of time, Francisco Lowbridge was a goddamn prodigy.

Not that it was news to him. They were colleagues for a reason, after all.

A hailstorm of rock and magma raining down on him, the eruption of the volcano, a raw display of Rhalic’s power through the hands of an earth-bending, unfailing sharpshooter, a keen tactician driven by fear, calculating every move and possible outcome in a matter of seconds.

Francis had dodged all of it.

Impossibly, outrageously, ludicrously lucky. Ifan’s eyes burning bright white, Francis’ in the purple glow of a dying sun behind the horizon. He found an opening where there shouldn’t be one, weaseled his way to victory, as always. Turned all harm done to him back on Ifan threefold, laughing like a maniac – that part might have been his god, but it was hard to distinguish, at that point. And when Rhalic’s chosen got the better of him, only to be struck down by Dallis and Vredeman on the steps to the well, Francis didn’t stop grinning, either.

What did I tell you, wheezed the voice of his god, barely more than the shrill rattle of death, as Francis raised his head with effort, pulling himself forward on his remaining functional arm. Timing is everything. Congratulations, Rhalic. You’ve dug your own grave.

Dallis looked upon him in confusion for a second. Whatever reaction she’d expected, that definitely wasn’t it. Francis’ eyes flickered, turned back to green. The grin remained.

You just struck Ifan with lightning, rasped the alchemist’s own voice. He hates that.

And Xantezza had flung him forward, expelling Rhalic from Ifan’s body with her dying breath, and the satisfaction of having had the last word, as she said: Get him, boys. It's been a ride.

Could anyone remain an atheist that had watched a man murder his god with his bare hands?

Tarquin was pretty sure the change of heart was fair. He stitched up those two broken bodies before him, used his talent for destruction and turned it into faith, because in that moment, Tarquin believed, unfailingly, that they were yet to kill what was invulnerable.

Like that Mezdhe poet Francis was obsessed with once had said.

The faithless rushing to the front of the crusade, the days of grief are numbered.

Time was hard to measure in the afterlife. But judging by the proceedings, they spent about three days floating through the emptied Hall of Echoes.

Ifan used his source to fix the Lady Vengeance up as best he could, after he awoke. Helping the wood grow back where it had shattered, as his bones did the same. Talking to her like one would to a skittish horse.

He was met with silence, at first.

Until he told her a joke.

A silly one he’d overheard from some kid at the docks, one of the few that translated well.

"I know you did not choose this life," said Ifan, in Elvish, around the nail between his teeth, "But of all the places one can dwell – I always thought the ocean was inviting. Do you know why?"

He took the nail out, squeezed one eye shut, and hammered it into the planks to keep together what was not yet overgrown – followed by a loud creak of the livewood that almost had the cadence of a question. Ifan grinned.

"It waves," he said.

And through the source of what remained of her roots, he heard her laugh.

The Lady Vengeance’s name was Almedha. An ancient scion, one that had honored hundreds, a shadow of her former self. Ifan honored her in turn, learned and listened to her stories, what little things she did remember. Maybe it was fitting. Vengeance was served, and the ship needed another name. One that she’d carried all along, and had been forced to give up years ago.

It felt good to mend, for a change. Even if it was, ultimately, a distraction. His bones were set, the Hall was quiet, his last contract fulfilled, and his god was dead by his own hand.

There was peace, for now.

Ifan hadn’t been this nervous in a long time.

"Almedha, Root and Kin," he announced himself gently one night, as he sat down next to the figurehead. There was a little crevice there that hid him from the rest of the ship, just like the crow’s nest, before it had been shot off by a trebuchet.

"Did you enjoy music? When you still walked the earth?"

Very much, replied Almedha in delight, Oh, Ifan. Would you bring me any?

"I already have."

Ifan placed Jahan’s Oud in his lap, and lit a cigarette.

He was rationing, and he knew it. But he also knew that peace was hard to bear while sober. An honest estimation. Ifan began to play, his feet dangling freely above a gaping abyss.

A slow and pensive melody that turned more playful as he allowed his thoughts to drift, crossing over into scales he didn’t dare enter before, stumbling once or twice, repeating himself and exploring them further.

He was almost lost in it, when he heard steps coming towards him. Wooden and deliberately heavy, someone considerate enough to not let him fall to his death by startling him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sebille’s tattooed arms, dropped over the railing.

She didn’t say anything. Ifan gestured invitation, and began playing for an audience of two. Less experimental, more familiar, deeply warm, like the welcome to his sister in arms.

A mutual debt had been paid in full, and left room for simple friendship. He’d have to put it into words eventually. Now was not the time.

When Ifan ended in his play, stowed the Oud into the corner and stretched his fingers for a bit, Sebille was sat next to him with a smile, gesturing deep appreciation.

"You play beautifully," she acknowledged. "Like you carve. Like you shoot. It seems, sometimes, that your hands find talent for everything they touch."

Ifan clicked his tongue in annoyance, took a long drag, and waved her off. Sebille laughed, but let it rest. Folding her hands between her legs, she gave a contemplative sigh.

"Look at us both," she said. "Hiding from our happiness. We haven’t seen you on board since the day you left your bed. Ifan, dear to me. It seems that you, like me, are always the same fool."

Ifan chuckled.

"How does freedom treat you, my Sebille?"

She threw her head back with a fierce groan, baring each sharp tooth.

"It is terrifying."

Understanding, signed Ifan.

"Just think," continued Sebille. "We could go anywhere. Do anything we want to do. No more excuses. Every small cruelty is now a choice. So is every stupidity, and every act of kindness."

"No more destinies," added Ifan.

"Ah," said Sebille. "Those will be hard to get rid of. Why let the wisdom of the roots go to waste? The important thing will be for everyone to view them as prognosis. A cautionary tale, maybe. A hint of what to look out for in life, but no damnation to it. It might be useful."

Ifan tilted his head and hummed. Agreement.

A brief silence.

"It was sweet, the taste of vengeance," Sebille declared eventually. "Just as I had hoped. But I regret to say that sleep does not come easier. Judging by where I find you, and in what state of sobriety, I must assume you feel the same."

She paused.

"He still haunts my dreams. But each morning, I delight in waking up and remembering that he is no longer part of my world. That is something, I suppose."

"I’m glad you feel this way," said Ifan. He stubbed out the cigarette, fished a coin out of his pocket and twirled it between his fingers.

"Do you not, my Ifan?"

Uncertainty.

"I have learned," he admitted, "That all I did was Lucian’s bidding, once again." He chuckled, as the coin kept dancing. "Alexandar was a danger to this world. But I felt little satisfaction, and he would have died even if I hadn’t slit his throat. I’m not sure I should have killed him. I've done the dirty work of others for too long."

Sebille shrugged.

"In the end, ma ghilana, we are what they made us. But now, they are dead. And we have the potential to become so much more."

She placed a heavy hand on his knee and smiled, indicating the upper deck with a nod.

"Our hands are free to follow our hearts. We should not waste another hour. Are you coming?"

Ifan nodded.

Then he smiled, flipped the coin into the air, caught it in his hand - and dropped it into the abyss.

It was clear to everyone on the ship.

Ifan and Francis were avoiding each other.

Not that they were trying to, or didn’t miss each other. In fact, they didn’t even seem to hold a grudge against each other – if they had, they’d be below deck right now, fighting it out in the open, loud enough for everyone on board to take sides in the argument.

They knew how to fight.

They didn’t know how to handle this.

I’ll be honest, I don’t understand what it is with either of you, said Tarquin, while he helped Francis bring their assembled stolen documents in order to figure out whatever it was that Dallis planned to do next. Why the theatrics, mate? You’re both fine. Just talk to each other.

The real reason they went out of each other’s way for three whole days became apparent when they ran into each other in the bath. The first moment they’d been truly alone together, since landing on the shore of the Nameless Isle.

Francis stopped in his tracks, at the view of a fully naked Ifan, clean clothes over his arm, looking just as stunned as he did – and not for the usual reasons. There was no way around it, and he could tell they were both thinking it.

They’d really done a number on each other this time.

What had happened in the Wellspring went far beyond the usual friendly fire of a relationship between two temperamental, fearful, self-destructive idiots. It went above a startled punch, an angry slap and a broken bone and cut-off finger by necessity of their surroundings.

They’d tried to kill each other. And had almost succeeded.

Sure, Francis had been possessed. But the knowledge of how to bring Ifan down had been his own.

He remembered fragments of it – how he’d broken his leg knowing it would slow him, how he’d flashed up to him when Ifan had continued casting spells and making the ground shake until the volcano began erupting, how his hand had closed around Ifan’s throat knowing it would make him freeze up and stop moving by sheer muscle memory, while he screamed at him, his voice overlaid by Xantezza’s: RENOUNCE YOUR GOD.

And equally, how Ifan had flung sudden attacks at him, knowing the approaching flying objects would make him flinch, how he’d thrown him down and grabbed his broken hand, twisting it with the meticulous knowledge of how to truly make someone scream, how his knife had slashed his skin and dug deep into his abdomen, the familiar sharp, sadistic grin, as Rhalic replied: YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE, before Francis’ magic reflected the stab wound back to him and made him falter.

Fear, regretfully, cared quite little what you decided to trust or believe in. Even if they were both here, free of divine influence, and mostly healed – physically, at least – from the long awaited answer to the question of who could kick whose ass in a real fight.

That answer was: Both of them, and thoroughly.

"I’m done," grunted Ifan eventually, evading his eyes. "You can go."

And then he fucked off to get changed without another word. Francis gave himself the full duration of time it took him to scrub the filth off of himself, to think about how to remedy the situation, before he knocked at the door of their shared room and entered without waiting for an answer.

He’d come up with absolutely nothing.

In his defense - what would even begin to cover the amount of harm they’d done each other, while their hands weren’t their own, out of the relentless desire to keep each other safe?

So instead, they just stared at each other.

Ifan was right there. The couple feet of distance in between them might as well have been entire worlds, if no one moved to close them.

And Francis, standing there in nothing but a towel, recalled the one thing that had reliably brought them together after both the small and massive disagreements, over the course of their journey so far. It was reductive, insufficient, and a maybe a little fucked up, but it was the only thing he could think of.

Francis leaned an arm against his hip, with a cocky upward nod.

"Oi. What’s with the eyes, ben-Mezd. You look like you wanna fuck me, and I’m not opposed."

The joke fell short.

Ifan, once again, looked at him like a deer in headlights, either having misheard him completely or having heard him perfectly well. He had no way of telling. Francis sighed.

"It’s fine, if you don’t," he hurried to add. "Or not right now, or whatever, I’ll-"

Damn him to hell. No one else could leave him at a loss for words like this. Francis rubbed a hand over his forehead, and took a careful step towards him.

"I just – Gods. Ifan, I really miss you."

He checked his face, his body language, the way his startled expression melted and his shoulders relaxed a little, and extended a hand toward him, waiting for - permission.

He got it.

He even got a smile to go along with it. A half-grin, a muttered c'mere, as the gesture turned to invitation.

Francis stepped in front of him, wrapped an arm around his waist, lost himself in those deep, dark eyes in seconds – the raw, ungovernable feeling in them, the slow blink as he considered his next words.

"I missed you too," said Ifan. His hand curled into his, and they swayed a little, in a dance without music, Francis resting his head on his shoulder with a relieved smile. Ifan seemed to share the sentiment, the way his body sought his closeness with every step. They’d talk about it eventually. Now was not the time.

"Whatever you want," hummed Ifan, "There’s no rush at all."

"Dangerous words." Francis chuckled, a mischievous lilt sneaking into his voice when he continued. "What I want is to stay in bed with you forever and let the entire world go to hell, but we don’t always get what we want, do we."

Ifan gave a brief laugh, and rested his chin on top of Francis’ head.

"Whatever you want right now, then."

Francis drew back and smiled at him. He reached out, tracing the outline of his jaw, then brushing a rebel strand of hair back behind his ear. Ifan closed his eyes, with a deep inhale.

"I already told you what I want. Dickhead. Weren’t you listening?"

Ifan grinned.

"Can you blame me? You’re very distracting."

"Fine. I’ll repeat myself, just for you."

Francis leaned in towards his ear, while his fingers trailed down his neck, making him shiver with only the ghost of a touch, then his hand came to rest on the exposed skin on his chest, gently shoving him backwards, whispering softly – "Ifan. I want you to fuck me, right now."

Ifan, with his back against the bedpost, took a solid thirty seconds to answer.

"Are you sure? You always say you don’t like the loss of contro–"

"I’m sure." Francis held him there and stopped teasing, sensing that the light touches went a little too deep right now, with a capricious grin. "One of the smartest people I’ve ever known taught me that those two things are not a contradiction. Besides – I trust you."

Ifan looked at him in complete amazement.

"So? Do you want to?"

Ifan tilted his head as he thought it over. One of his teeth catching on his lip.

"I’d love to," he decided eventually. Endearingly dry and unceremonious, but beaming with enthusiasm.

Francis grinned, clicked his tongue, snapped his fingers over his shoulder.

"What are you still dressed for, then? Get naked."

Ifan and Francis fucked like they fought, like they worked, like they loved – tooth and nail, with everything they had, and with the care and curiosity that comes from paying attention to the smallest, most significant things.

The hitches of breath, the tension and relief, wild pleas and whispered challenges, the reckless sounds of pleasure and despair, the delightful interruption of a laugh and rolling eyes when something fell short, scraping the edge long before tipping over it, vulgar, romantic, insufferably tender whenever they could bear it, and with just the right amount of self-indulgent violence for when they couldn’t. With ecstasy and thrill that knew no moderation.

In short, they were good at it.

Nothing but wonder, eyes, hands and tongues.

"Look at me."

Green flecks of source and blown, dark pupils, entranced and near insane.

Francis could feel his heartbeat. Riding him slowly, and with fierce intensity, marked into his thighs by blunt, dragging nails holding on for dear life, his hands on Ifan’s chest – how his heart sped up, uncontrolled, and how it continued beating under his fingers after everything.

Here they were. Ifan and Francis.

Ardent, selfish, and alive.

He wanted more. He clawed into his shoulders, pulled him up flush against his chest, one hand tangled in his hair while Ifan’s were nailed onto his back, kissed him like the world depended on it.

It did, in that moment. Their universe revolved only around the play of tongues, the clash of teeth and unending discovery. Francis raised himself a little on his thighs, hungry with the way Ifan chased him, pulling him closer with every buck of his hips. How his lips fell open, how his lashes fluttered, how his head fell against his shoulder as his hands gripped him tighter.

The sweat collecting on that broad, scarred back and elegant nape, the soft kisses against Francis’ neck interrupted by shameless moans and breathless gasps. Francis retracting his claws, a soft, warm palm between his shoulder blades, slowing their frantic pace, and tugged his face back by his hair. A shudder ran through him when Ifan’s eyes opened again.

More than anything, he wanted to look at him.

At the warmth in that gaze, the wild desire and deep enamoration. Time stopped. The slightly parted lips, the tip of his tongue carelessly between them. Francis could’ve died right there.

"You’re so beautiful like this," whispered Ifan.

Oh, damn him thrice.

He heard the whimper break from his own chest, with no way in hell to hold it in, caught the spark of mischief in his eyes mixed in with unreasonable gentleness. Ifan’s hand came up to cup his cheek, one calloused thumb running over his temple.

"Most gorgeous thing I’ve ever see–"

Francis dropped and took him whole. The high-pitched gasp escaping him drowned out by the satisfaction of hearing Ifan’s loud, ragged moan. A game as old as their relationship, driving each other crazy with scientific dedication. Ifan’s lip curled upwards in a smug flash of teeth.

"Heh. Works every time."

Francis’ playful whack against his shoulder, Ifan laughed – and they were at it again, fast, frenzied and insatiable.

Harder. Deeper. Closer. Not an inch of space between them. If Francis could have crawled into his ribcage without killing him, he would’ve. His thighs were trembling with the effort, and their rhythm lost all purpose and deliberation. Francis kissed him again, tongue behind his teeth, pushing his mouth open, biting his lower lip, then drew away in a deep moan, watched how Ifan’s eyes clenched shut as he tensed up and–

"Fucking look at me," he demanded breathlessly. Delighting in the way Ifan struggled to keep his eyes open every time his hips ground down against him, and even more in the love-drunk smile that ensued when Francis tipped his chin to keep his eyes on him. The unrestricted moan when he scratched over his nipple, the way he threw his head back with abandon and bared his neck, just like when he laughed, or when he danced.

Ifan dropped down on his back when he came, and Francis pressed him with his full weight into the mattress and kept riding him through it, drank up the way his cries of pleasure turned into rough, desperate whimpers pressed out between clenched teeth, scrambling for purchase in the sheets. Pushed his limit, wrecked him utterly, until Ifan tapped out against his thigh.

"Stop." A rasp, nothing more. "Stop. Get off me."

He did, with gentle caution and an involuntary moan, bit his lips when he slipped off of him – and yelped, when Ifan grabbed his waist, lifted him up with ease and flipped him over. His back hit the mattress, and Ifan landed on top of him, hands folded on his chest.

An innocent tilt of his head, heavy breaths, a delirious grin.

"I wasn't finished," he declared.

Francis pressed his eyes shut, a husky laugh breaking out of him.

"You looked pretty finished to m– ah, FUCK!"

In one fluent movement, Ifan was between his legs and his mouth around his dick. One long, rough stroke of his tongue. Francis lost all connection to reality. His hips jerked after him when he pulled off, but Ifan held him down, hands firmly around his shaking legs.

"Ma vhenan. What’s the matter," he hummed, the whisper of a warm breath tingling against what was now painfully untouched, "Want me to go faster?"

Francis glared at him, at that insufferably clever grin on his face, then his neck twisted in a startled moan when Ifan leaned back down and dragged his tongue over the tip.

"You smug fucking bastard," he wheezed. "Yes."

His hand twisted into his hair when Ifan went down on him, the other clawing at his shoulder, writing his name in red to keep him there, but Ifan kept his infuriatingly slow pace no matter how hard he held on, with reverberating moans and excruciating patience – and popped off.

Oh, that incorrigible tease. Francis couldn’t take it anymore. Ifan dragged him closer by his hips, another flick of his tongue, ghosting breath, the light brush of his lips, every nerve electrified, too little and too much at the same time.

He left no room for dignity.

"Ifan, please–"

Lips closed around him, sucking him hard. His spine jerked, his vision blanked, and he was no longer proud of anything that came out of his mouth, not that he cared to be, catapulted into incoherence and then crashing back into reality when Ifan drew away again.

"So polite all of a sudden, Doc." Ifan snickered. "I like it. Say it again."

Francis’ head snapped up, teeth grinding against each other. "I will fucking ruin you."

"Mh." He winked. "You say the most beautiful things."

The grin grew wider, and Ifan turned his head to press a kiss against the inside of his thigh. The drag of his beard against the sensitive skin alone was enough to break him down, and finally, finally, Ifan had mercy with him and set onto the task of sucking his soul out of his body like his life depended on it.

Not that it was a new discovery, but Ifan blew him like a fucking demon. No holds barred, drunk on power and literally godless. Every cell of his brain abdicated in seconds, and so did every trace of his decorum. If Rhalic hadn’t killed him, this would do it.

Francis died right there.

He was sure he did.

"You alright?"

When he returned to the world of the living, to the hazy sight of Ifan’s gentle blush and self-satisfied smirk, with quivering muscles and a brain devoid of any thought or sly remark, Francis opened his eyes with heavy, ragged breaths and stared at him.

He couldn’t help it. It was like breathing.

Subconscious and indispensable to life.

"I fucking love you," he gasped.

Ifan spat into his hand and grinned. He stood up from the bed and walked to the washbowl, his back scratched all over, his chest flushed, and, Francis thought with no small amount of satisfaction, a fucked-out little twitch in his thigh interrupting the graceful sway of his hips.

Francis chortled.

"Hate to see you leave, ben-Mezd," he flirted lamely. "But love to watch you go."

"I’m not going any–"

Ifan stopped in his movement. Then he burst out laughing, like it was the first time he’d ever heard that sentence in his life, swung his legs back on the bed and nuzzled his head into Francis’ neck with an low, easy chuckle, enveloping him in his arms completely. His heartbeat slowly steadying against his skin with not an inch of space between them.

Warm, and breathing, and still fucking alive.

Ifan pressed a soft kiss against his nape, lingering there, and whispered against his skin.

"Xilic. I fucking love you, too."

Sleep didn’t come easy that night.

For Francis, at least.

Ifan was out like a light.

He hadn’t even put pants on, which might as well have been a sign that he’d kicked the bucket once and for all, from what Francis had seen – only, his torso was still rising and falling with calm, deep breaths. Sprawled out on his stomach, one knee pulled up, the other leg hanging sideways off the bed. Nothing Ifan could have done that night was a greater sign of trust. And Francis was content to simply watch him breathe.

Until he started snoring.

A low, but gentle sound. Francis felt his heart contract at a medically alarming rate. It was so fucking cute. Not a word he’d ever thought to use in regards to Ifan when they’d met, but one that came to mind more and more the longer they traveled together. He just was.

Francis’ fingers kept running over his back, tender, calming, steady. He’d fallen asleep to it, and Francis was almost worried that if he stopped or changed a single thing, Ifan would wake up again. It had probably been hours. His hand was numb, and when he was forced to stop to get the bloodflow going again, raising his fingers gingerly from Ifan’s skin, his breath hitched – but he kept sleeping.

And may fate have mercy on whatever tried to wake him. Francis was adamant not to let that amount of pure trust go to waste. Ifan would sleep a night through, and wake up with the sun when they landed tomorrow, so help him – well. Himself, probably. They’d find out soon enough.

For now, the Hall was dark, Ifan was asleep, and Francis was in love.

They’d see about the rest.

Chapter Text

"Yield to me, mortal! Yield to your god!"

The shadow of the pines protected them from the brutal midday heat of high summer in the Arxes. A soft breeze lazily moved the yellowed grasses, the sun painted a beautiful cross-hatch on the wooden planks of the porch, and a few sluggish pidgeons startled and took flight upon the sudden cry of victory.

Ifan snickered, and cracked his neck.

"You won one round of chess. Slow down, tiger."

Francis, arms raised in triumph, shook his head.

"Don’t sell yourself short," he replied, the look on his face still one of pure disbelief. "I won a round against you. It’s a thing of impossibility. I’d call it luck, but this game has nothing to do with it. I’ve outsmarted a brilliant tactician. Let me bask in my genius for a bit."

Ifan sucked his teeth.

"I guessed your move, and I guessed wrong," he acknowledged, scratching his chin, "It’s been known to happen. Well played."

"Smartass. I bet you’re so scared right now," said Francis. "I’ll take the rest of your feathers, ben-Mezd. I’ll dance on your ashes. Just you wait."

Ifan grinned.

"Ain’t you the picture of humility."

Francis blew a raspberry and started to reset the board.

"Humility’s for priests and nobles. Some of us gotta pave our own way. Another?"

Ifan tilted his head, with a benevolent wave.

"Ma nuvenin. Your funeral."

The cicadas were chirping in the trees, their hair was sticking to their necks, and they weren’t in a hurry. Who could be, in this weather.

The mountains and stone arches surrounding them provided little cover from the heat. They’d taken refuge in one of the many seasonal inns that opened up along the Pilgrim’s Path during this time of year, when thousands of believers from all over the continent marched towards the capital for Lucian’s Day.

A good way to stay undetected.

Ifan watched Francis, while they played. The shadow of a sunburn covering his nose and cheeks, the way the light caught in his eyelashes, the unyielding focus as he calculated his move. He could’ve spent the rest of his life here, just looking at him.

And dragging his ass through the dust at chess.

Ifan didn’t bother announcing his victory. It was over before it started. Instead, he looked deep into his eyes, the smile on his face slowly widening, clicked his tongue and took his king off the board.

"What did I say, about leaving your high ground? Should’ve stopped while you were ahead."

Francis groaned.

"You know me better than that."

"I do." Ifan leaned over the board with a wink. "But don’t worry. I’ve ignored more severe flaws in a man than a slight gambling problem."

Francis threw him a crooked grin.

"It’s not a problem if I’m winning."

"Ah, see," drawled Ifan, "But you’re not."

"Yeah, yeah. Enjoy it while it lasts."

Ifan traced his face with his eyes. He liked looking at him, and Francis liked being looked at. It was a new development, but certainly not one he’d complain about. They’d changed each other. For better or worse – or a bit of both, really. Ifan smiled.

"Hi, gorgeous."

Francis wiggled his eyebrows.

"Hey there, dickhead."

Ifan leaned in to kiss him. Francis laughed, and ducked out of his embrace, shooting a glance over his shoulder. Well, he understood. Trust was not a thing once given. It was situational, and it had to be earned, time and time again.

The prayer had been half-fulfilled. Ifan had woken up with the sun – but not from it. The moment their ship re-entered the material realm, it rattled, and creaked heavily.

Ifan raised his head from the pillow.

He was laying on his side, Francis wrapped around him like a blanket. Feather-thin clouds rushing past against a bright blue sky through the little bull’s eye window, a ray of sunlight cutting through the swirling dust, warming his face.

The sounds the Almedha made were deeply concerning. He needed to get up and check. He would. Any second now, he would.

Ifan groaned quietly. He raised himself up on one elbow, turned to run a hand over Francis’ back – over the shitty crab tattoo that never failed to make him smile, it was so stupid – and a thought crossed his mind that was as novel to him as the fact that he’d woken up without any clothes on, when another rattle shook the walls.

Gods, just give me one moment of peace.

He didn’t have time to dwell on that much longer. Naked as the day he was born, Ifan crashed into the ceiling as the ship plummeted from the sky, still holding on to Francis, who re-entered consciousness with an undignified screech, before the ship rebalanced and they fell back down onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. The ship tilted, and spun, tipped forward and started to sink again.

Ifan’s hand shot towards the headboard, one arm holding on to Francis’, his guts lurching up inside him as they fell, being flung to the side as the ship scraped stone upon contact, steadying, slittering to a halt, and then slamming into the mountain headfirst.

It took them a while to crawl out of the wreckage.

He found time, during the process, to think about the deeper meaning of that sentiment. Had he died this morning, Ifan would have died a happy man. A strange realization to have while pushing through broken wood and being greeted by Tarquin’s held-out hand and barely concealed laughter when the necromancer took note of their glaring state of undress.

"I’ll be honest. Not the sight I was expecting this morning," commented Tarquin drily when he pulled Ifan out of the wreckage, followed by a deeply shaken and very grumpy Francis.

Ifan rolled his eyes and drew his lip up.

"Likewise."

"I’ve saved your life, mate," Tarquin said, shamelessly looking him over. "Twice now. You’re starting to owe me one. Just a friendly reminder."

"Mal’athim las enaste," growled Ifan, "You wish."

Francis, behind him, pulled a splinter from his arm with a muttered curse, then turned around to them – equally naked, and much more embarrassed by the fact.

"God’s tits. Behave, both of you. You’re acting worse than twice divorced–"

"Is everyone alright?" Lohse’s call rang up from the rocks below, as she climbed through what remained of their trusted means of transport, and interrupted herself with a wide grin and a ringing wolf-whistle. "Oh, shit. Looks like someone had a good time last night."

Francis’ face assumed the color of his hair.

"Is that really the most pressing concern right now?" He hissed. "What the hell happened?"

"It seems that Mals took it a little far this time," said Tarquin. He put his hands on his hips and sighed. "Here lies the Lady Vengeance. She served us well."

"Almedha," said Ifan.

"Come again?"

"That was her name." He looked around the wreckage, eyes glazing over with source. "Before Dallis enslaved her. She’s passed on."

Lohse hummed.

"Safe travels, Almedha," she said. "And don’t worry. It’s nowhere you haven’t gone before."

They salvaged what they could of their belongings, along with some things that could be sold for coin, and went on their way. The mood was melancholic – especially after watching Ifan and Sebille give an ancient scion a proper elven funeral from a distance, but it was overshadowed by the relief of being alive and having made it through.

They’d killed the gods.

They’d killed the gods.

The sun was beating down on the path, their feet kicking up a cloud of dust from bone-dry earth and gravel. They passed carts and wagons, merchants, families, all adorned in dusty white, trotting horses and donkeys with charms and icons dangling from their saddle bags and bridles, an everlasting wash of conversation and anticipation.

Ifan settled into their surroundings with surprising ease.

It’s religion, he said with a shrug when Francis asked him how he felt about it all, ain’t like you’re gonna talk them out of it.

Francis supposed he’d know, speaking from experience. The only exception occured when they passed the statue of Lucian overlooking the valley from the highest peak of the ridge, and Ifan took the time to make sure that no one was looking before fervently spitting at it.

Francis pretended not to notice.

He, on the other hand, felt increasingly antsy. Civilization crushed him with an unexpected force. It all hit – no pun intended – very close to home. The watchful eyes of the crowd, always conscious of how close he stood, what he said, where and to whom.

The Nameless Isle had been a fucking nightmare, but at least he could take Ifan’s hand without looking over his shoulder. No one cared about their public displays of affection surrounded by terror and bloodshed. Thankfully, Ifan didn’t complain about his lack of bodily proximity. Seemed to sense that Francis had his reasons. He rarely took those things personally.

They’d make up for it later.

Ifan killed the time by talking to Jahan in Mezdhe. Stumbling through his sentences, Jahan pointing at things to describe their names, gesturing almost as wildly as Ifan sometimes – a radical change from his usually rigid demeanor. His stern smile accompanying Ifan’s bellowing laugh.

When the break of night finally gave them some relief from the heat, they gathered around the fireside of a camp that had sprung up next to one of the inns – the establishment itself full to the brim – and Francis bought the pilgrims’ favor by cooking for a crowd.

It had been a while, but the process was instilled in him so deeply that he measured by sheer instinct. Thirty mouths, some of them adolescents, and a bag of buckwheat and a few dusty vegetables to feed them all.

He sent Han to gather a bunch of thyme from the rocks, was supplied with a handful of peppercorns and a pouch of salt from a passing merchant, traded mint leaves for a shameless flattery with an old lady, and went to work. Ifan peeled olives, chopped carrots and charred eggplants in the fire, while Francis stirred the pots and let the noise of conversation wash over him, listening to everyone and no one in particular.

If they stood a bit too close, if their hands lingered while passing ingredients back and forth between them, if Francis brushed his shoulder while they worked, that was no one’s business but their own. No one asked questions about the men in charge of the food supply.

The other thing that stood out was the music.

Lohse, for once, could sit back and enjoy the show. Spirituals and taproom oldies filled the air in equal measure, and Ifan could be moved to sing along to Testra’s Gold, an ancient army drinking song, without rolling his eyes more than twice. What could he say. It was catchy.

Ifan seemed – comfortable, here. He was clearly at home on the road, in vibrant conversation that could run for hours without asking a single question, not talking politics, religion or occupation. An art only perfected in the fleeting company of people you could neither choose nor avoid.

Instead, Ifan simply seemed to avoid finding out things that might cause him to dislike them. Genuine and vague at the same time. It appeared to come so easy to him, even if it was the clear result of many years of practise, and Francis both envied and admired it.

Instead he listened, cleaned the pots and stoked the fire.

It felt, in every way, like home.

The view was spectacular.

A thousand stars over the monumental rise and fall of the mountain ridge, the deep green of the pine trees, and in the far distance, the ever-glittering beacon of the Capital, lights shining on even during the night. Ifan didn’t know what to make of the place.

He’d never been.

You’d think that his travels would have taken him there, at some point. Ifan would’ve been the type to make the pilgrimage in his younger years. Holy war had simply jumped the queue.

Francis’ descriptions of his place of origin had been conflictual at best. Depending on his mood and state of sobriety, he’d declared Arx both the greatest city in the world and an irredeemable shithole that should be burnt to its foundations over the course of their journey. Not that he was one to judge a mood swing.

Ifan knew plenty about those.

He’d taken refuge from the crowd perched on a pile of rocks beside the road, carving away at a piece of firewood he’d nicked. Something to keep busy with, because Ifan, at this age, had started to figure himself out. Times of peace needed distraction, that was as true as ever.

But.

Something had changed, since the Mill. A quiet revelation that had settled deep within his heart, even if his hands, sometimes, still struggled to keep up.

One of the many ways to say I love you, in the Elvish Language, was a sentence he’d accepted, known and used,but never quite grasped the full meaning of until right now.

Melava enasal’in ma.

Time is a blessing with you.

There were many layers to it. Easy to assume that it simply referred to the lack of boredom you felt with another person, or enjoyed their company. But to say that time, something elves had plenty of, was a joy to feel instead of just a fact of life–

"Should be illegal, you walking around like that."

Ifan grinned. An ill-advised thing to say to him, even jokingly, and in any conceivable way, but Francis got a pass for his tastelessness. This time. Ifan was reasonably sure he’d heard the same thing a few times in his life.

"It is," he replied simply. "Us walking around in general is illegal. In case you forgot."

"I haven’t," said Francis. "It’s just not my first priority right now that I have to look at you in normal people clothes all day." The alchemist plopped down next to him with a lopsided smile. "I don’t know how I got so lucky."

"Flatterer."

"Well, look who’s talking."

Apparently, having to go a week without shameless flirting was unbearable for the man. Ifan thought it was funny, and yes, a little flattering. Francis looked back, then scooched up next to him, his head landing on his shoulder. Ifan wrapped his arm around him and put his project aside, simply enjoying his warmth for a bit. The silence stretched on, and Francis wasn’t the one to break it this time.

"How do you feel?" Ifan inquired. "About going home, I mean."

A very long sigh.

Followed by an even longer silence.

"Complicated."

Francis straightened, eyes wandering into the distance.

"I know I said that I’d show you around if we ever got to Arx, but to tell you the truth, it’s…"

Complicated, Ifan amended mentally.

"Don’t get me wrong," Francis settled on eventually. "There’s things – and people – that I miss. But also things I couldn’t run far enough from. I guess that’s just the way it is, when you spend your whole life in one place. I didn’t actually think we’d make it this far. Together. And, uh… alive."

Ifan hummed. He could emphathize. The hardest part of the aftermath, always, was knowing what to do with all that borrowed time.

"I’ve accepted the good, the bad, the all of you," he reassured him. "Everything you want to show me. But if there’s some things you’d rather keep hidden - I know what that’s like. I can respect it."

"Yeah. I know you would."

It was sweet, the way he said it. So casually, like he’d never doubted it.

"I’m still figuring it out. You might see more than you expect." Francis chuckled. "This city has a way of coming back to bite you. And now, I’m wondering if it’s not a little – unfair. I know so much of who you used to be, even the parts I’m sure you never wanted me to know."

Ifan shrugged, idly playing with his amulets.

"Been this way all my life," he said. "It doesn’t bother me. Even now that it probably should. I know how scary it is, being seen. But I’m glad you saw what you saw and still stuck around."

Francis clicked his tongue.

"Come on. It’s really not that bad."

"M-hm," hummed Ifan. "Whatever you say, Doc."

"Asshole."

Francis wiggled his eyebrows.

"You’re just still mad that Tarquin saw you naked."

"Can you fucking blame me," muttered Ifan. "That’s a privilege I reserve for a chosen few."

Francis cackled, clearly proud to have gotten under his skin. It was easy to forget sometimes, but apart from being aggressively kind and incredibly sweet, most of all, Francis was fucking irritating. He kissed Ifan’s cheek. The shit.

"Bit intense there, ben-Mezd. What’s your problem with him, anyway?"

Ifan sucked his teeth in response.

"You mean apart from the fact that he fried me with lightning and talks to me like I’m fucking stupid? Oh, I don’t know. I guess he just rubs me the wrong way."

Francis slapped his thigh, wheezing like a horse. Ifan glared at him.

"Pardon." He seemed to double down on the dialect with every step towards the city. "You’re just cute when you’re being sarcastic. Okay. Yeah. He’s a massive bell-end. But he’s helped me out a lot, and he’s really not a bad sort when you get to know him. For a noble. It’s like he knows he’s better than you, but he doesn’t blame you for it because it’s not your fault."

Ifan clicked his tongue, and shot him an odd look.

"He called us dramatically codependent."

"Pfft. What does he know."

"Right. Fuck-all."

They laughed into themselves for a solid minute. It wasn’t even that funny, but it felt good. Ifan got a hold of himself eventually, and wiped a hand over his eyes.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s approach this like professionals. Do you have any contacts in the city who could help us figure out what Dallis is up to?"

"Plenty," Francis replied thoughtfully, "But the only ones who don’t know I’m a convicted murderer are the ones in less illustrious places. A shame we can’t ask around at the academy. Though, we should pay a visit to some people I know in the Scarlet Faction from back in the day. They might get us what we need."

"Scarlet?" Ifan snorted. "Like the genital disease?"

"No, like the colour." Francis cackled. "Probably speaks volumes that they didn’t consider the double entendre. Good folks, though."

He paused. His hand reached towards Ifan’s chest – towards the anti-magic amulet he’d made, examining it with a frown.

"You should’ve told me it was broken."

"I’m sorry."

"Don’t be. I made that thing to protect you. It did what it was supposed to." He reached up, and Ifan bowed his head to allow him to take it off. "I’ll try and repair it, once I have the supplies."

Ifan smiled.

What followed was a week of trudging through the mountains with the entire crew of the Almedha in tow, finding rest at the inns or in the pilgrims’ campsites that popped up along the road. Francis was adamant to pay for rooms where they could afford it – just because he could camp out in the wild and wash his face in puddles didn’t mean he had to.

It wasn’t like he had anything to prove to the divine.

Francis remembered summers like this one. The godless heatwave that broke over the mountaintops this time of year and held everything in its grasp. The cracked ground, the packed cobble streets crawling with religious tourists trying to reach the greatest city in Rivellon just in time for Lucian’s day. Everything was decorated with the holy crest, for miles leading into Arx through the peaks. It would be so much easier to take the passage by ship, but suffering the mountain road under the burning sun was tradition.

Pilgrimage.

Sweat, dust, and heat – occasionally interrupted by the sweet smell of the ocean breeze.

But then there was the music. In the years he’d spent since Eshe’s death, that had been what was missing. Along with purpose, joy and his entire will to live, to be honest, but mostly - they lacked music.

This revelation came to him, as they surprisingly often did, while he was three knuckles deep in Ifan, languidly fucking him bent over the sideboard at a quieter inn one mile off the Path.

A spectacular use of his time. Ifan didn’t even do anything, and Francis already lost his mind. He’d entered the luxury of a quiet place with just the two of them, Ifan by the open window, rolling a cigarette. He’d held it up when he heard Francis come in, recognizing his steps.

"Do you mind?"

"Nah," said Francis, and left him to it.

Or, he tried to – letting Ifan do just about anything these days without sidling up to him as soon as they were alone was absolutely impossible. Ridiculous, was what it was. Ifan smoked in silence, while his knife chipped away at whatever it was he was creating. He paused sometimes, to take measure or blow sawdust out of the window. Francis watched him sit there, one elbow on the window sill, his hair tied back against the heat, sleeves rolled up, all graceful ease, no movement faster than it had to be.

I need to fuck his brains out, supplied every part of him that had been pushed away while trying to survive the literal wrath of the gods, and was now back with a vengeance.

Ifan stopped and raised an eyebrow, when Francis wrapped his arms around him from behind. Apart from being hopelessly in love, the pure attraction to him was downright humbling.

"What are you doing?"

There was no caution in his voice. It was pointed, and good-natured, and it sounded like a grin. Francis smiled against his neck, playing with the buttons on his shirt. Not that there was much in the way. He’d shed the armor in the heat. Compared to what Ifan usually walked around in - he was practically naked already.

"You want me to stop?" He clarified, even if he was pretty sure Ifan was feeling agreeable.

"No," Ifan hummed. "Just asking."

"Then I’m not doing anything," said Francis, a bold and obvious lie, "Don’t let me distract you."

Francis unbuttoned his shirt – pushing his hands up under it, warm against his ribs, catching his shoulders, down his arms. He didn’t take it off just yet. Just kept touching him, softly and almost casually. Ifan played along, kept fiddling with the wood, finishing his smoke, and sometimes hummed in appreciation. He did, however, responsibly stop to put the knife down after Francis managed to make him shiver.

With that out of the way, he let his touch run deeper. The shirt fell to the floor. Francis kissed down his neck. Ifan leaned into him, the low hums bordering more and more on moan. Francis went as far as untying his pants and trailing his hand over the inside of his thigh. It made his breath hitch, and his head fall back a little, but it didn’t deter him. Ifan reached up to run a hand through his hair, and stubbed out his cigarette.

When he was done, he turned slightly – both elbows hooked over the window sill, his head tilted back, his eyes wandering over him – shamelessly checking him out and somehow looking both assertive and a little coy at the same time. Seduction and challenge, equal parts.

Francis knew that look.

Do something about it, was what it said.

And Francis took the dare. He leaned into his space. A messy, drawn-out kiss, a gentle push, and Ifan was face-down on the furniture. He looked magnificent. And it was, quite honestly, too hot outside for any strenous physical activity, so Francis did what he did best.

He took his sweet, sweet time.

He didn’t hold him down. Just a hand on his hip softly guiding his movements as he clenched around his slicked-up fingers, one by one. And yet Ifan, picture of restraint that he was, stayed right there, slowly and visibly going insane.

It struck him then.

That Ifan was music personified.

His steady hums of agreement or disagreement, of consideration or satisfaction. The rhythms he drummed with his fingers on a countertop, or with his rings against a cup. The whistles to call attention to himself, always courteous enough not to startle anyone he wasn’t intent on killing. The melodic rise and fall of his words – not an accent, just the remaining cadence of one – and the many ways he knew to laugh. His voice was deep, but rarely gruff; rich and sharp and sweet, like honey.

And, of course, the sounds that Ifan made right now – a concert of hums and gasps and the low vibration of his moans when his fingers curled just right. Francis could have listened to it for hours.

Ifan, apparently, had other plans.

He ground back against him with every touch, one hand clenched around the edge of the cupboard, the other balled up in a fist, his face hidden in the crook of his elbow – a downright sob, when Francis’ fingertips pressed into the small of his back while he leaned forward to nip at his earlobe, then sliding his hand around his waist, teasing, up and down his chest.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Ifan moaned in response. Francis placed a kiss between his shoulder blades, then another, wandering up to the dip of his neck, gently biting down there, fucking his fingers into him slow and deep through a generous amount of oily liquid dripping down his thighs. Leaning against him, pressing him into the edge of the furniture, just slightly so – followed by an indignant curse interrupted by a bitten lip.

Francis giggled. "What was that?"

"You’re a menace," breathed Ifan. "Fuck me already."

An order, clearly.

But that wasn’t the kind of mood Francis was in tonight.

"Not what I asked." He grinned and crooked his fingers, one hand flat between his shoulders, curled into him until Ifan hissed and writhed against the cupboard. "I asked if you like it."

Because for all the times they’d scratched each other bloody and made each other come screaming – there was no other way to ruin him this thoroughly. With candles burning low, the sound of crickets in the summer heat, a sheen of clean sweat, and nowhere in the world to be.

Gentle, slow, and aimless pleasure.

"Because I," Francis’ fingers trailed up his chest, brushing his nipple as if by accident while he fucked him, felt Ifan’s spine arch under him and the moan vibrate through his skin, "Could do this all night."

A low, disheartened sigh.

"Mala, you know I fucking like it," Ifan weakly accused. "You just wanna hear me talk."

"Yeah," admitted Francis. "Yeah, I do. Indulge me?"

Ifan’s thighs were twitching, his weight completely on the wooden surface, sinking into it. Francis slowed his pace, Ifan cursed under his breath, and then apparently decided to drop the ball in his court once again with an absolutely shameless move of his own.

"You’re perfect," he managed, low and fierce and lewd enough to clearly be deliberate, "I need–" A sharp exhale. "I need you to fuck me so hard I – gods, you’re trying kill me, fuck–"

Look. Could anyone blame him for that going straight to his dick and his ego? Slower. Slower. Ifan trembling against him, his words dissolving into a frustrated whimper when his hand came to a halt. This wasn’t revenge. This was to take his time, draw it out, to watch Ifan come undone with pleasure because to hell with everything, he fucking deserved it.

"Don’t stop," he rasped, "Please."

Francis laughed quietly, hot against his ear, and pulled his fingers out, followed by a desperate arch of his back and another strangled moan, Ifan’s hips grinding back against his. He saw how his eyes squeezed shut, his lips parted without a care in the world.

"I was going to give you more than that," Francis hummed, "But, if you insist…"

He raked his nails over the back of his thighs, then over his ass, delighting in the deep shudder that ran through him. Lightly grabbed his jaw with the other hand to tilt it towards him, kissed him deeply and enjoyed how Ifan moaned into his mouth, when he teased a single finger over his entrance, the twitch of his muscles, his hand coming free from the edge of the cupboard as he relaxed into it, boneless and defeated.

"That’s it." A press of his knuckle, while he brushed his hair back, "We’ve got nothing but time. You doing okay?"

Ifan, either unable or unwilling to form any more coherent sentences, signed agreement.

Francis chuckled, and pressed the pad of his thumb against his lower lip to watch it fall open, followed by another hot, open-mouthed kiss, pushing his tongue into his mouth, while he slowly worked a single finger back into him. The noises he made were a verifiable masterpiece.

"Me too," whispered Francis, "You’re so fucking beautiful."

Two could play that game. Ifan gasped, grinding his teeth as he retreated again, only to slip two fingers in with ease, pressing against the spot that made him hiss in pleasure. No aim, no hurry. No gods, just Ifan and his noises.

"I love to see you like this," he breathed against he skin behind his ear, softly trailing his fingers over his shoulder. Ifan’s legs gave in completely, his head fell on his elbow, eyebrows raised in ecstasy, eyes half-closed and sparking green, and Francis gently sucked at his neck.

He was past the point of begging, just floating, sinking in, lost in the edge. Well - Francis had meant to fuck him brainless, and this, apparently, was the way to do it. He felt his muscles unwind one by one as Ifan gave himself over to it. Francis closed his eyes and felt him. Skin against skin, lost in his glow as he moved perfectly against him. Neither of them came. He fucked him until his hand was numb, draped over his back and peppering his neck and shoulders with kisses, slid his hand up his arm to curl his fingers into Ifan’s.

And when his breathing evened out, and Francis slid out of him and led him off to bed, dazed and shivering with bone-deep bliss, trailed his fingers over his skin and watched it shine in the light of the candles until he got up to blow them out, Ifan smiled.

"You’re so good to me," he whispered into the heated darkness. Francis laid his head on his chest, and Ifan played with his hair, lazily sliding a hand over his waist. Francis hummed.

"’Of course I fucking am. I love you."

"Still, that doesn’t mean–"

Francis reluctantly raised his head, and placed a gentle kiss under his jaw to make him shut up. "Don’t ruin my high," he muttered. "Dickhead. You deserve it."

He was high, just a little bit - detached from reality, with Ifan’s hands in his hair and softly running over his skin. He felt it much more deeply than he usually did, sensitive and raw and fueled by a raging, mutual hard-on neither of them seemed interested in resolving. Kind of nice, to just drift in the feeling. Ifan was clearly onto something.

Francis leaned forward, leading him into a lazy makeout session that struck him like – not like lightning, more like a wave. He felt it everywhere, every swirl of his tongue, every touch of his fingers, sending prickles all over his body. It ended just as began, with Francis’ head on Ifan’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and somehow, through everything, the thought stuck.

"You know you’ve saved my life too," murmured Francis. "Right?"

Judging by the expression of pure contentment on his face, and the way he twitched and moaned with every touch – this wasn’t the moment to invite particularly deep conversation.

Still – there was one point to drive home, right here and now.

"I don’t know why people expect us not to be," said Francis. "Good to each other, I mean. Everyone seems to greatly dislike it. Even the gods. Like we’re not supposed to be capable of it, or whatever, just because we’re a little insane. And I think we should stick it to ‘em all."

Ifan hummed, and tightened his embrace.

"Fuck what they say," he agreed. "Let’s be good to each other."

"When I say love, don’t be mislead.

It’s often been twisted to mean obedience and compliance, the justification for abuse and oppression whereever you look.

But love isn’t complacent. 

It’s the militant will to move mountains, to burn your idols and kill your gods for those dear to you. It’s what makes the hopeless believe. It makes you feel entitled to everything and shows you all of your flaws; knowing you deserve a punch in the face as well as unending compassion. It’s the need to feel fully, the joy, the pain, the magnitude of all, even if it kills you.

Love is the heart of revolution."

 

From:

Assassin, Poet, Radical. The Writings of the notorious Ifan ben-Mezd.

Chapter Text

The truth was this.

Ifan didn’t make Francis feel any saner, or more grounded, or at peace, or whatever else people generally liked to say about their better half. Ifan had the opposite effect on him. He knew it. He would admit so readily when asked.

And Francis, clearly, liked to suffer.

There was no other explanation for his reckless indulgence – and non-indulgence – from the other night, because anyone else would have thought about the consequences of such a thing before going through with it. Now, he was standing close enough to Ifan to feel his warmth, skin prickling with want, while doing the most mundane thing imaginable.

Waiting in line.

And then, Ifan fucking winked.

He wasn’t sure how he could ever have forgotten, but the man was a professional at payback.

Ifan made it his mission to walk next to him for the whole day, with lingering eyes and sly grins, looking entirely approachable and very, very touchable – while Francis was deeply aware of the fact that he could do no such thing and losing his fucking mind about it.

Ifan, the asshole, was calm as a forest lake.

An insufferable early riser by both nature and nurture, he’d been up before sunrise. Rolling his clothes into tight little packages and sorting them into his backpack while occasionally scratching Afrit’s head.

He needs to stretch his legs sometimes, Ifan kept insisting, even though Afrit wasn’t even a real dog. Or a wolf, for that matter – a summon, an incarnate, whatever the proper term was.

Francis raised his head.

That movement, apparently, was enough for Afrit to not only notice his presence but also bare his teeth and growl at him – before Ifan absent-mindedly grabbed the five-foot beast by the back of its neck and discouraged it from picking Francis as his newest chewtoy, scolding it with a fond look and a few words in Elvish. Ifan turned to him and grinned.

"Morning, gorgeous."

Francis squinted blearily into the dusk.

"I think your dog doesn’t like me," he muttered.

Ifan chuckled.

"Don’t take it to heart. It ain’t you specifically. He just doesn’t like–"

"Strangers? You’d think we’re beyond that point by now."

"Men," corrected Ifan with ease. "Even less than me, probably."

Francis smacked his lips and pulled the blanket up under his chin, suspiciously eyeing Afrit and very slowly, very carefully, reaching for his reading glasses on the nightstand.

"Y’know, for someone raised in a matriarchy, you two can be remarkably reductive about these things. Will the great beastmaster please let me pass? Not that I can blame Afrit for being suspicious of your boyfriends, but–"

"You’re not my boyfriend," hummed Ifan, "You’re the love of my life."

The way he said it.

Like it was nothing. Like it was simple fact.

Francis’ world collapsed. He froze in place for multiple seconds before deciding that it was entirely too early to deal with something of that earth-shattering magnitude, grabbed a pillow to throw it at him, and then changed his mind and smothered his own face in it.

Ifan snorted.

"I’m sorry, was that news to you?"

"Yes. No," Francis eloquently responded, "I’m not – shut up."

He could hear the raised eyebrow.

"Hm. No. I don’t think I will."

Francis heard the floorboards creak when Ifan raised himself up from his heels, and walked over to the bed. He didn’t stand a chance. Ifan grabbed the pillow and robbed Francis of his hiding place, swinging his legs up on the bed and looking down at him with a fondness and warmth that was sure to be illegal in and of itself.

Francis’ felt his breath catch.

"I was stupid about you from day one," Ifan informed him, deadly serious and completely unbothered by Francis’ pure and utter mortification, "On the ship to Fort Joy – I was about to kill the man I’d wanted dead for fifteen years. In the most dangerous prison in Rivellon. Right after the – well, the second ugliest breakup of my life, which is saying something, and it really should’ve been the last thing on my mind. But there you were."

Francis was done for. That was just about the last thing he’d expected, and his professional pokerface made no move to come to his aid. Ifan’s finger traced his temple, then his lips.

"You brought quite the mess into my life. Did you really not notice?"

"I –"

He knew Ifan loved him. They’d said it back and forth, getting used to it, then using various expletives and concepts to add onto it, because saying it on its own just wasn’t enough.

The love of his life.

How about that.

In hindsight, Francis had to admit – Ifan hadn’t exactly been subtle. He never was. The touches, the looks, the terms of endearment – for the gods, the man had star-gazed with him while basically holding his hand. He had. Oh, fuck.

Cultural difference, my ass.

Since day one, way before ever calling himself his vhenan, his heart, his rememberer, which had blindsided Francis back then, but now -

Ifan had been flirting with him the whole time. In his strange, way too intense yet frustratingly respectful manner, and Francis hadn’t even fucking noticed. His own pick-up line absolutely paled in comparision. Don’t you ever get lonely, Ifan?

Francis felt himself blush harder. That had been proper of an alleyway hookup behind the Starling Inn, not something like–

"To tell you the truth, I didn’t think I had a chance," said Ifan. "But I gave you my heart anyway. And it was the best thing I’ve done in a long time."

Oh, he had it coming.

"Yeah?" Francis managed to croak out.

"Yeah." Ifan smiled, and brushed a hand through his hair. "Even though the whole world is going to hell – for me, everything’s better than before. And it’s all because of you."

Francis was silent for a long time after that.

He tried saying something. He did. He knew his mouth moved, but nothing came out, and it was absolutely ridiculous, because Ifan was right there, next to him, telling him he was the – the love of his life, for the gods. Ifan, who never played over or hid what he thought about anyone, for better or worse. He knew he needed to say something back.

He just fucking couldn’t.

Francis felt a sudden wave of fear rush through him. Until he saw the glint in his eye, and the way Ifan’s smile curled into a crooked half-grin.

The asshole was doing it on purpose.

And before he could reach up and yank him down to the bed for Francis to get his mouth where it fucking belonged, the absolute menace that was Ifan ben-Mezd stood up from the bed in one fluid swing of his legs and walked out the door.

"You’ll believe me soon," he hummed in passing. "Nothing you can do about it."

The truth was this.

Francis had always been a little ridiculous when it came to love. He’d come to terms with it, and accepted it about himself. He was an unbearable flirt on his calmer days, and ready to kill for whom he loved in a second on his more intense ones. He had done so. Multiple times.

With Eshe – it was strange to think about her now, but he’d done just that. He gave her gifts, from thoughtful little things to expensive ones he couldn’t afford. He made her laugh. He danced with her in the kitchen, told her to dress up and weaseled both of them into balls and parties way above their paygrade, he’d come home from his shift in the midnight hall bone-tired in the morning, washed the blood off and made love to her like a young athlete.

He treated her like royalty. He spilled blood and tricked death for her. He’d gone beyond the limits of science and magic, taken on the academy elite for her, swallowed his pride and gone down with a smile on his face in her name.

Nobody could make a romantic gesture like Francis.

He just didn’t receive them very well.

Call it a matter of practise.

And then Ifan, the shit, had to go and hand his ass back to him tenfold. Just like he did in any other aspect of life, except maybe in folk dances, card games and abstract mathematics.

In any case, Francis had spent years on perfecting the art of looking for love in the smallest things. In soft touches and hidden kisses. In fond annoyance. In the grateful looks he received after cooking dinner. In an apology. And Ifan did all of these things, sure.

But then he just had to go ahead and say it.

Out loud, and completely unafraid. Didn’t even need him to say anything back, like he was just happy to both tell and show that he loved him, in ridiculous ways. And Francis believed him.

He also felt like the sun was exploding in his chest.

Francis didn’t stand a chance. How could he have forgotten? He’d watched the man make a god beg for mercy at his feet not two weeks ago, and somehow he had to bring all that into accordance with the fact that Ifan was right there next to him queuing for the city gates, brushing his elbow against Francis’ fucking arm every other minute.

The sun reached midday zenith. The conversation was grating, the air thick with dust. His legs hurt in that dull, gnawing way that standing for a long time will make you feel, especially now, being closer to forty than anything else. And the line was longer than Francis had ever seen it. Granted, he’d never gotten out here much.

But the only thing he could think about was the raw impact of Ifan’s entirely clothed arm against his, once again, before his fingers brushed over the inside of his wrist. Francis was fully going to lose it.

He caught Ifan’s bicep in his fingers with a quick movement, leaned over towards his ear.

"Cut it out," he whispered softly.

He watched Ifan lick his lips, pondering it – then his eyes flicked to the side without turning his head, just sizing him up, followed by the slight uptick of his mouth and a slow, suggestive bat of his eyelashes when he realized his upper hand. Or what?

Francis dug his fingers into his arm a little harder before letting go and narrowed his eyes. Enough of an answer, judging by the way Ifan’s smirk only widened.

He couldn’t fucking win.

And in the middle of the goddamn street, Ifan’s hand landed on the small of his back. One secretive stroke of his thumb, and Francis had to actively control himself not to bite him. Luckily, he was spared from any further thoughts in that direction, because the hand quickly disappeared back into Ifan’s pocket.

The smirk was still there.

Ifan was playing, maybe being a little possessive, too. And yes, Francis appreciated it. The games they distracted each other with, kept each other sane and on their toes at the same time. But it felt – much more impactful than it usually did. Deeper, somehow. Dangerous.

Something to do with time and place.

And Ifan had no intention of playing it fair.

"Sorry, Doc," he replied in a subtle hum, "I just enjoy watching you like this. Did you know your eyes change color when you’re angry? It’s beautiful."

Francis’ spine jerked. If his face hadn’t been red enough already, it certainly was now. Even with the hat covering his hair to evade recognition, the one Lohse insisted made him look like an actual doctor, albeit one that sold cod liver out of the back of a cart.

"You’re so annoying," he hissed back.

Ifan grinned, and leaned in.

"Fuck me about it," he whispered into his ear.

Francis had ample time, over the course of the afternoon, to will himself to think of anything else but fucking Ifan absolutely stupid in any position imaginable, all while keeping a careful arm-length of distance.

The line went on for miles.

And soon, they discovered why – an old man looking to be on the edge of a heatstroke returned from his gander up ahead. "There was a voidwoken attack," he wheezed out, "Lucian deliver us."

As the hours passed, they learned more. The voidwoken had attacked. There had been a coup. The magisters and paladins were fighting in the city, against each other. Most, if not all of it, was a mixture of rumor and wild speculation.

But the evidence was there. The city walls had impact craters. Thick, dark smoke rose from the lower levels of the city when they turned the corner of the ravine. The kind that’s only caused by a pyre.

"What are you scared of?"

Ifan had asked him three nights prior, out of nowhere, as if he’d noticed that Francis took more and more time to fall asleep these days. "Are you afraid the place’s changed?"

They were laid out on their bedrolls underneath a pine tree, with a view of the stars. Close enough the the camp to enjoy its security merits, far enough away to enjoy some privacy.

Francis thought about it. The truth always came easier when it was just the two of them.

He shook his head.

"No," he admitted then. "I’m afraid it hasn’t."

Ifan’s magnetic eyes were latched onto his face, looking right through him. It should have been unnerving. Instead, it felt – comfortable. Francis chuckled.

"I think I’ve changed," he went on to say, "for the better, if you ask me. And Arx only remembers who I was before all this. I’m afraid it’ll want me back the way I was."

He laced their fingers together.

It was stupid. A city couldn’t want anything. It was just a place, stacked with houses, lined by thick stone walls, and the people inside them were the ones to do the wanting.

Ifan didn’t seem to think so. He just nodded briefly, like he understood.

"You remember when we met Saheila? In the Joy?"

Francis hummed in agreement.

"She told me something similar." Ifan traced his knuckles with his thumb. "That I wasn’t who I used to be, but not yet who I would be. Not that I have a clean slate now, everything that happened – well, it still happened. But there’s things to look forward to. Something to live and be better for. It’s me who has changed. The world is the same."

Francis smirked.

"Strangling your own god will do that to anyone, I think."

Ifan’s eyebrows shot up, and his head turned abruptly, a very visible flicker of fear in his eyes.

"You… remember?"

Francis sighed.

"Yup. Relax. I don’t blame you. We were both possessed. And I know you said yes to Rhalic because I died, so it’s really not…" He cleared his throat nervously. "I’m sorry that happened, by the way."

"Francis." He saw how Ifan’s back tensed, his shoulders set, his face blanked, and knew what came next. "I’m the one who’s sorry. Hell, I almost killed you. Again."

"You didn’t," said the scientist, in an attempt to nip the oncoming guilt spiral in the bud, "Rhalic did. And Xantezza kicked your ass just as much. Believe me – it was nasty." He looked him over, saw how Ifan’s jaw twitched defensively. "You don’t remember anything?"

Ifan shook his head.

"I just – blacked out. Like every time he took over."

"He knew you’d fight it."

"I’m not so sure. I think he just knew how to bait me."

Ifan chuckled quietly.

"After the war, I truly thought there was no point to anything anymore, and the future just seemed like more of the same. Going on had less to do with any oath and more with stubbornness as time went by. So for years, that’s what I did instead. Black out, forget, leave the thinking to others. I thought that’s what peace felt like. Or, the closest thing I could imagine."

Francis furrowed his brow.

"I know," said Ifan with a snort. "You don’t have to tell me."

"Those fucking gods and their symbolism," muttered Francis. "Well. Good fucking riddance."

Ifan laughed.

"Ma enaste. You should’ve heard his monologues."

"I think I can beat those. Oh, she was annoying. I think the only reason she left me in my head was so she could force me to listen to her jokes. Which weren’t even good, by the way."

"I will redeem you," parrotted Ifan, "I will drag you into the light. And you will thank me."

Francis cackled. "Someone’s got issues."

"Right."

They fell quiet for a bit.

"I know what you mean," said Francis, "To some degree. It’s – tempting. To put off reality for a bit. I think sometimes it’s all we can do, to survive the loss. Takes time to snap out of it."

Ifan clicked his tongue.

"That it does. And guide me, I did not go willingly."

"Yup," said Francis, with a sigh, "Me neither. What snapped you out, in the end?"

Ifan gestured uncertainty.

"A contract. That’s the short of it. And you?"

Francis chuckled.

"The short of it? I looked into a mirror."

"I don’t know what everyone’s so worked up about," said Francis. "Calm down. It’s just a coup."

Ifan raised an eyebrow.

They were sitting on a few makeshift benches next to the line, debating how to enter the city. Tarquin contemplatively rested his chin in his hand.

"I have a feeling it might be different this time. You heard the same things I did."

Francis scoffed, hands on his hips.

"You sure we grew up in the same city? Or was the air too thin up in the Celestial? It’s still Arx. We get about two coups a year. Order factions come and go like the tide. And if there’s one thing the ratfishes know -"

Tarquin groaned and buried his whole face in his hands.

" - it’s an affair ‘twixt ya nan and a cow." He finished in a mumble.

Francis clapped him on the shoulder.

"You know that one, you Celest twit. Proud of you. Clearly spending too much time amongst your betters. By the way – if I ever hear you utter the first part of that sentence out loud–"

Tarquin offhandedly pushed Francis’ waving index finger away.

"You’re gonna stir my guts in with the dock broth," he muttered, "I’m aware, mate. I did get taught some respect in my ivory tower, unlike in whatever barn you entered life in."

"Storage pantry," corrected Francis without missing a beat, "You know how it is with precipitate labour."

Malady subtly leaned over to Ifan.

"What the hell are they talking about," she whispered from the corner of her mouth.

It wasn’t just the dialects. Arx had given birth to two entire languages. If anything, Ifan realized, the two had only been intelligable out of pity for their fellow travellers so far.

He shrugged. "You’re asking the wrong guy. Look, as far as I see it, whatever the locals say goes. If that means I’m not entering the city by the main gate – all the better."

And so, they followed the time-honored tradition of generations of people entering the Holy City of Arx through its back door. Lowbridge.

A stacked collection of houses and huts in the shadow of the Brass Bridge’s monolithic posts, looming over the cobbled streets like a sleeping giant. Some houses were built around the bridgeposts, almost hanging off them with little to no distance to the gigantic waterwheel rushing on between them, a neverending backdrop noise. Others occupied old docking quays, cut through by little canals. Colorful bottleglass lanterns cast a dim light on the streets.

Lowbridge, even in the afternoon, was lit like a nightmare was.

The sun barely reached the district. Nevertheless, it pooled heat like a kettle.

People also call it the Waiting, Francis had delivered his exposition on the way, because everyone there started out by waiting to make it upstairs.

Gloomy as it was, Lowbridge wasn’t lifeless. Ifan had seen slums, and this wasn’t one of them – not anymore. People had carved out a nook of permanent existence here. There were shops, food stands and taverns sometimes consisting of little more than an old shack with a counter. There were stairs and crates and sidewalks to sit on in place of gardens and benches.

In the wake of a coup and a voidwoken attack, Lowbridge seemed remarkably unconcerned.

The bustle of the dockworkers and sailors, loading and unloading wares for the ships to enter the Olmere river landwards. The ringing of the harbor bells. The noise of the crowds in the street, the cracking of the waterwheel, the songs and the curses, Common, Alerothian, Dwarven, laughing children and bickering adults, horsewagons trudging their way through. Everything kept going.

Francis led them down the main street. Shoulders set rigidly, his eyes a little flinty.

Ifan followed. He’d perfected the art of walking like he belonged years ago. Unhurried, but with purpose. That was the only good thing about cities, after all. The anonymity.

Lowbridge, however, seemed to be more like a valley town.

Ifan noticed the stares as they walked. Their arrival drew immediate attention – curious for the most part, not hostile, but occasionally there was a whisper and a pointed finger towards the red-haired necromancer walking ahead of them, some eyes widening in recognition.

The only trace of the attack was the corpse of a voidwoken Bloodfury in the middle of the street. It was barely recognizeable. Just a big pile of blood, flesh and ichor, surrounded by haphazard protective sigils, with harpunes sticking out of its slimy skin. It had been practically filleted. Ifan let out an impressed whistle.

Everyone drew a nonchalant circle around the beast and continued on their way. Only, at the side of it as they passed, someone was carving away at the corpse with a butcher’s knife. A pale old woman in a green coat, who looked up as Francis approached, wiping her forehead with her sleeve.

"Sant Magda in a shit ditch. Is that Francis Junior I see before me?"

Francis stopped, and reluctantly put his hands on his hips.

"Get your eye checked, Tirra. I still don’t know which me you’re looking at."

She cackled. "Well, respect for your elders – it’s never been your strong suit. Junior. I heard the white-cloaks got you. Gathered you were fish fodder by now."

"Sorry to disappoint." Francis pointed to the voidwoken. "Looking for ingredients?"

She smiled a sweet smile, and went back to sinking her knife into the belly of the vampire. Her hands were wrapped in thick gloves, a weak protection against the decaying poisonous skin. "Sure, love. Ingredients. That too."

A hack. A push. Then she dug her hand into the carnage.

"When practising divination, I find it’s the inner values that count," she continued. "I don’t know why, but some of these voidwoken tend to – ah-hah." She triumphantly pulled her hand out of the mess of voidwoken guts. Something glittered between her fingers. A garnet. Tirra smiled and stored it in her pockets. "So," she continued and got up, "What brings you back?"

Francis gestured vaguely.

"Circumstances, and the like. What happened here?"

"What rock have you been living under? Paladins overthrew the magisters up in the city. You remember that old bag Linder Kemm? Captain of the Holy Guard? He’s in charge now."

"Any trouble here?"

"Nothing but this." She indicated the voidwoken with a nod. "Kemm’s idiots know better than to walk in here unannounced." She paused, and gave him an empty look. "A most curious time for you to return the bulwark of civilization. But which is the omen and which is our doom?"

"Great. Say hi to the grandkids for me."

Leaving the curious incident behind, Francis made a beeline towards the steps leading up to the Brass Quarter. The post was heavily guarded, but no one stopped them from entering. Francis and Tarquin had wisely acquired some pilgrim’s charms on the way, blending them in with the thousands of people who had arrived for Lucian’s day before the coup.

The Brass Quarter, threshhold between Lowbridge and Old Town, had been hit far more heavily. Barricades were still piled up in the bloody streets, dead voidwoken between the corpses of magisters and paladins, gathered on wagons. The paladins and the Holy Guard were patrolling the streets, but the fighting seemed to be over by now. They were looking for magisters, not a bunch of fugitives.

Finding accommodation took them several hours. Every inn and boarding house was full to the brim, until Francis searched the side streets with the practised eye of a man who knew where the tourists never thought to look. He seemed to know the owner. After a brief, friendly conversation and a hefty bribe exchange for staying without an entry in the logbook, they found rooms at a tavern called the Secret Corner.

It was somewhere in the mix between shabby and comfortable. The drinks were cheap, but not watered down, and business was running like nothing had ever happened in the city. Tarquin and Sebille hunkered down over more of Dallis' logbooks, Jahan set out to hunt, and Ifan and Francis were tasked with checking the state of affairs in the rest of the city.

The patrons of the Secret Corner seemed just as unfazed by the coup as Francis had been. There were discussions, sure. Some insisted the Paladins were liberators, others proclaimed the magisters at least had been of the earth, but overall – the change in power had been received less like a victory for the people of Rivellon, and more like a clear occasion of them against them.

The pyres were separated.

Between allies and enemies. And the civillian bodies burning in between, a twisted honor or a spit in the face depending on which pile they caught flame on.

The main square was completely destroyed. Blood stained the water running to the gutters. The shops were in ruin, crying families gathered around the fire, a paladin reading out orders to the rattled populace. The pennants with Lucian’s crest high and unstained above.

Ifan stood in the middle of it all like a pillar of salt.

"What a fucking mess," said Francis solemnly.

He looked at his companion, his back straight as a ramrod, surrounded by the destruction and the dead bodies in a uniform he’d worn, long ago, those who’d both contracted and imprisoned him, and those caught in the crossfire. His hands were trembling, hidden in his pockets. His eyes were distant, clouded. Francis desperately wanted to reach out and touch him. The stern eyes of the paladins and the crying families holding him back.

No one would have batted an eye. He still didn’t risk it.

"This is Divinity," Ifan said eventually. "Divinity entrusted to one person."

Francis simply nodded, trying to put everything he wanted to convey into a simple look. Two paladins carried the body of a young boy to the fire.

"We’ve chased it halfway across the world," Ifan continued, "For the gods, who themselves were corrupt, and Lucian could fare no better than them. And Alexandar, long may he rot with what he did–" Ifan swallowed heavily. "No one escapes the corruption. No god, no king, no soldier. And here we are. Like moths to a flame, still not understanding that the fire will consume us."

Francis gathered all the courage currently available to him, and laid his hand on Ifan’s shoulder. "Not much of a choice. I don’t want Dallis as the next Divine."

The light of the pyres cast an eerie shadow on Ifan’s face.

"I don’t want anybody as the next Divine."

Here was the face of an assassin. Of someone who never made an empty threat.

"You know, before our journey started, I was a man without purpose. I lost it in the Deathfog. But after all we’ve seen, with what Saheila said – I know what needs to be done."

His eyes were fixed on the Paladin reading out orders.

"End it," whispered Ifan. "End it all. The Order, Divinity – no one person should have it at their command. Good or bad, it doesn't matter. Let’s forget about a new Divine ascending, and share the power. With everyone."

Francis had heard speeches like that one before. He’d seen ritualized dockside riots crushed with the regularity of a national holiday. He’d spent hours wasting his time in long secret meetings, repeating a dream over and over like repeating it made a prayer more true.

With Ifan, there was intention behind it, all intense determination.

With Ifan – this was a promise.

"And how exactly do you intend to do all that?"

A tilt of his head, calm and contemplative, like he assessed the pieces on a chess board. A strategist at work, stepping back to see the grander picture before deciding where to strike.

"If the Divine can take power," Ifan murmured, "The Divine must also be able to give power away. I don’t know how just quite yet. But then, I’m not the Divine. Yet. I’m done letting others dictate what needs doing. What will it be, ma vhenan. Are you with me?"

Francis briefly dug his fingers into his shoulder, and took his hand away.

"Of course I’m with you."

Ifan nodded once, and threw him a half-smile.

And really, Francis should have known. Because if Ifan made a promise, he stopped at nothing to keep it. And Francis was no stranger to the itch in his fingers, when years of resentment from abuse and powerlessness bottled up inside someone, and the last drop that spilled the barrell when there was nothing left to lose, and what remembering your own power felt like.

Only the barrel was more like a dam.

The commotion at the entrance of the magister barracks could probably have been anything. But even without any gods left for divine interference, it was like destiny. A small crowd of paladins was gathered where Linder Kemm, former captain of the Holy Guard, and commander of the Paladins, was holding a martial court.

"Paladin DeSelby. For the breaking of your oath, blasphemous sedition, and colluding with the Scarlet Faction, you are found guilty of insubordination. The penalty is death."

Chapter Text

Captain – no, Lord Linder Kemm – had mustard in his beard.

It was right there. A bright yellow spot, like the man had leisurely strolled down to the main square after a late lunch, to fulfill his duty as judge, jury and executioner in the middle of a coup. Mustard, not even blood.

Marie would’ve had something to say about that. It probably should have angered her.

Instead, she chose to find it rather funny.

She’d imagined her death in about a million ways, since the tender age of fifteen. It came with the profession. She’d gone from assuming a noble sacrifice for Land and the Divine, to realizing there was really no such thing, to dying of boredom in administrative duty.

No one told you you’d miss war.

She’d even gone as far as to imagine the most unlikely outcome, croaking in her sleep next to Marie. And yes, being publicly executed had crossed her imagination once or twice.

But never by a man with mustard in his beard.

"Velecina DeSelby. You are hereby excommunicated from the Divine Order. Any last words?"

He just had to go with the full name, did he. The cold face of justice opposite her, Velec stood tall and proper of a soldier, and came to the conclusion that death was, like most things made out to be both great and terrible, really rather banal.

"Sir."

She saluted him. Kemm’s hands gripped the two-handed sword. And one eyebrow raised high, the one expression of humor she allowed herself, she said the only thing that came to mind.

"You’ve got mustard in your beard."

General or not, Kemm was human, at the end of the day. And as such, not immune to immediately wiping at his face. Well, that ship had sailed.

"No, you’ve made it worse." Velec licked her finger and reached for his face. "Look, it just bothers me. It’s all–"

Kemm looked like he’d caught her pissing on his mother’s grave, took a step back and raised his sword to get the beheading over with. And so, she thought, died Velec DeSelby.

Then the ground shook.

There were many things Francis thought to say when he saw the look on Ifan’s face. Something warranted by common sense and the will to survive in this city. Something along the lines of Let’s pick our battles. Are you sure this is a good idea.

"Ifan, let’s–"

He held his hand out. They were surrounded by Paladins. They were unarmed. They were, on top of it all, wanted fugitives trying to stay undetected.

Ifan was gone.

Apparently, he was very much done picking his battles, and about to risk it all for the life of a random exhonerated paladin. By the time Francis recognized the name Kemm had read out, it was too late. He watched Ifan glide through the crowd like a shark through shallow waters, and when he reemerged, he’d wrapped his cloak around his face and raised his hands, eyes flashing green, it occurred to Francis that he’d forgotten a very central aspect of Ifan’s being.

The grin under the mask was almost palpable.

Dusty pavement rumbled, cracked, and shattered underneath them, sweeping several rows of unsuspecting paladins off their feet. Ifan let out a ringing whistle.

Afrit popped into existence in the middle of the crowd, at an imposing size, teeth bared in a growl, screams of horror and surprise in his wake. Kemm fell on his ass, his sword still in hand, and the paladin in front of him – a dark-skinned wiry woman with a half-shaved head of greying curls barely contained in a strict bun – took the opportunity to live another day almost immediately.

People less certain would have lingered a little, trying to assess the path worth taking. Not her. Paladin DeSelby unquestioningly took the hand offered to her by fate, ripped the sword from the Captain’s startled hand and took off. Very few tried to stop her.

Francis cursed.

Then, he raised his hands, the black shroud rising from the cracked cobblestone drowning the disoriented paladins in a sickened blindness. He pulled the merchant’s ornate dagger from his belt, the one he hadn’t had a good opportunity to sell, and dragged it across the skin on the back of his forearm. Blood dripped. He drew a hasty rune into the air. Francis flickered out of existence, reappeared next to Ifan with a snarled "Run, you idiot! Let’s go!"

Ifan shook his head.

The first row of paladins regained orientation, and found the source of the commotion. Turning back ond forth between the spectral wolf wreaking havoc among them, and the masked man with glowing green eyes who had unquestionably summoned it, they decided that Ifan was the safer bet by all known laws of magic.

Oh, how wrong they were.

Ifan ground his heels into the dust, the stance of a weightlifter more than a dancer, raised his hands, and pushed. The pavement shattered, and reared up like a wave in front of them, rolling over the onslaught of his former comrades. Ifan turned, ripped the plastering off the surrounding buildings, and let it rain down upon them.

In the same breath, he jumped. A platform of earth and cracked rock formed underneath him and Francis, raising both of them above the mess. Francis, holding on to his hat, barely had time to contemplate his situation before Ifan grasped his arm and threw him onto the next step down, towards the fleeing paladin on the other side of the crowd.

Afrit appeared back by his side.

And if Ifan’s magical attack dog hadn’t been enough to deal with, Paladin DeSelby cut a scathing abyss through the onlookers. The sword seemed an extension of her arm, and even though she seemed to try and avoid any major damage to the charging paladins, most of them preemptively evaded her range.

"Velec!"

She looked back, to where Ifan had landed, the mask still on. Her face pulled into a question, before realizing there were more important things to do, and Ifan grabbed Francis’ hand and followed her, until they were running through the alleys side by side.

On the side of the barracks, Ifan stopped in his tracks.

"This way," he hissed. "Those barracks are built standard-issue. There should be–" He kicked at something that looked like a sewer grate, until it gave way. Ifan wiggled his eyebrow and extended his hand in an invitation.

"After you."

The Bridgepost Tavern didn’t look like the institution it was.

A steady presence at the perfect intersection between clientele – Night laborers returning home and stopping for a drink, regulars from the surrounding settlements, and the occasional pack of lost academy students without enough coin in their pocket to be served in the Brass Quarter as their nights neared the end. They tipped, and were tolerated.

Francis’ first taste of the world of academia had involved desperate pleas with the universe for passed exams and loud, passionate discussions of the unknown sides of science.

Francis’ first taste of a crush had appeared in the form of a person named Chelo.

He was fourteen.

He didn’t know why he needed to look at him, why he felt so drawn to him the moment he’d seen him enter. Couldn’t place it yet. Chelo was tall, and a little chubby – with his hair in a headwrap, a lopsided smile and piercing blue eyes, a rumpled academy tailcoat carelessly hanging off one shoulder. He was quiet, his voice rarely standing out among the wild discussion of his peers.

Francis had never seen anyone like him.

Someone that drew the attention of the room in utter confusion by doing nothing but walk in, a dozen voices whispering, a dozen eyes wandering, demanding an answer before their world collapsed in on their heads, calling half in outrage, half in despair:

Are you a man or a woman?

Chelo didn’t pretend not to notice it. Everything but. He bowed in their direction, and left them to the riddle, with the nonchalance of a crook and the grandezza of an Arascan noble.

Francis forgot the table orders and his place in the world.

When he found the courage to approach, the group – six students in various states of inebriation – his voice cracked a little.

"What can I get you all?"

"A round," snorted one of drunker ones of the bunch, "What’s it look like."

Francis squinted at him, and shook his head. "Okay, Professor. Of what."

"Mind your manners with the boss," said another student, a woman with short, brown hair. The smile that accompanied it, in Francis direction, was equally as apologetic as it was patronizing. She’d been here a few times, and thought herself a regular. "Ale for all, Junior."

Francis sighed, and made his way to the bar, his father behind it refilling the tap, snarking back and forth with a few dockers who gave him expert advice on how to best achieve the thing his father did three times an evening since twenty years like clockwork.

It gave him time to chat, time to listen, time to linger. The forecast was brittle – but it seemed to be a quiet night.

And as soon as the word so much as crossed his mind, the door swung open and the entirety of the watermill late shift took over the tavern.

Francis hopped behind the bar, moving like a machine, opened tabs, poured drinks three a swig, balanced whole tablets of stew bowls on his hands and arms. By the time he made it back to the student’s table, they were caught in deep discussion.

"I just don’t understand why I have to take history to study theory of magic," complained one of them. "Why do I have to learn about the second grave of the Eternal emperor when what I really want is further the civilization we have today?"

"Very humble," said Chelo. "Wait until mid-semester. You’ll get it. Most of the basics we have on magical theory is what someone dug up from an eternal site and horribly mistranslated. They were further in the research than we will be for a hundred years. We haven’t even figured out half of the concepts that their stone tablets treat like children’s knowledge."

His laughter sounded like freshly-fallen snow. Cool, but gentle.

"Maestro Drahmin tells the same story every year – everyone thought they’d made a huge breakthrough when they discovered something like a glossary of magical theorems. Only to find it included entries like source inversion – everyone knows what source inversion is."

He grinned.

"To this day, we haven’t got a clue."

Francis slid their drinks across the table, set a bowl of brined olives in the middle and was about to turn around, when the word source inversion caught his ear. He was struck with the sudden and urgent need say something, to find common ground with this person.

He just really wanted to talk to him.

"Some think we might," said Francis, trying for casual. He’d been fascinated when he’d read it, scanned the passage over and over. "Barat the archeologist. He thinks it might be what they used to live as long as they did. Even," he lowered his voice, "to bring back the dead."

The students all stared at him.

"Holy shit, Bran," laughed the short-haired girl opposite Chelo, "Maybe we should enroll Junior here in class instead. Four semesters in, and the bar boy knows more than you do."

Francis was about to say something to that, but Chelo tipped his cup in his direction.

"Maybe we should," he said with a light smile. "He’s right, actually. There’s some plausible ideas as to what the end result of it is, but nothing on how it works. Although that may be about to change."

Chelo took a sip of ale. His voice was made for stories.

"Miners just uncovered the ruins of an ancient academy underneath an old quarry up north. They say it’ll take about thirty years to fully excavate it, but maybe, by the end of it – we too will know how to bring back the dead. Exciting times, in archeology."

Francis could tell he wasn’t entirely serious, but Chelo smiled at him, and that was good enough. He was called away by a table of dockers yelling for a refill, and the evening went by in a rush. When the group left, he felt – regret. Like he’d missed an opportunity.

Chelo stopped by a few more times that year. The odd feeling grew stronger every time.

They were small encounters. No, he wasn’t born a man, and barely was one now. Yes, that was an indecent question, but he knew Francis meant no harm. Yes, he could borrow him a few books. Yes, the Bridgepost was a lovely tavern, but he was afraid some further up the stairs were a bit more to his taste, and no, he didn’t come here alone.

Francis had always been quick to grasp things. But this simple revelation took him over a year, and by the time he’d figured it out – in an incident the neighbor’s son made him swear never to speak of again – Chelo had stopped coming.

Heavy steps pounded over the pavement above them. Breathing a little heavy, they stayed still in the shadows.

Their pursuers had barely passed their hiding place when Paladin DeSelby pointed Kemm’s newly stolen sword at them. Her face was streaked with splatters of blood that were, even in the lacking light, clearly not her own, and she blew a stray lock out of her eyes.

"Now that that’s over – who the fuck are you?"

Francis raised his hands and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, DeSelby interrupted him.

"Don’t tell me you academy shits suddenly grew enough of a pair to aid and abet."

Ifan carefully removed the mask from his face.

"You wound me, Commander," he returned with a grin. "Aiding and abetting’s my specialty. Call me what you like, but an amateur? I won’t stand for that."

DeSelby scanned his face in clear confusion. Then her eyes almost popped out of their sockets. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.

"I’ll be damned."

"If it isn’t the Bloody Mistress herself," said Ifan. "Never thought I’d meet you on the scaffold. You’re welcome, by the way."

"It can’t be. You were–"

"Missing in action? That part’s true." He forced a smile. "The rest, not so much. Long story."

She shook her head in disbelief.

"I can see that," she settled on eventually. "The dead just keep on rising from their graves these days. Ifan ben-Mezd, in the flesh. You’ve always been one stubborn bastard."

Ifan tipped two fingers to his temple.

"Never made it to the grave in the first place," he reassured her. Then he paused.

"I can’t believe he called you Velecina. At your own execution. That’s just not right."

"You’re not telling a soul about that."

"Yes, ma’am."

They stared at each other for a while longer. Francis stood back and let the reunion run its course, unsure what to do while he watched their faces bypass multiple stages of grief in a matter of seconds. Then he watched them fall into each others’ arms.

"You’ve changed," said DeSelby.

"You haven’t," said Ifan.

"I’d beg to differ." She clapped him on the back, finding her bearings. "Do you have any sort of plan on where to go from here? Or did you not think that far? The city is crawling with guards. And my wife – oh, gods have mercy. I need to go find her. She’ll rip me a new one."

Ifan pulled back, grinning at her, both hands on her shoulders.

"You’re married?"

"Last year," confirmed DeSelby, beaming with pride. "On leave in Arasca. She’s wonderful. Her name’s Marie. But don’t worry your pretty head, ben-Mezd. You’ll hold a special place in my heart forever. Did you know you have a grave tile on the Holy Mountain? I made sure to pour more liquor out there than you could ever handle in life."

"Ah, Velec." He snickered. "You’re making me blush."

"That’s never been hard," she quipped. For the first time, she seemed to notice Francis, who was still silently observing the situation from the sidelines. "Who’s your company?"

Francis extended a hand to introduce himself, but Ifan was faster.

"This is Francis," he announced. "My beloved."

His beloved. Oh, fuck right off. Who said that?

"Charmed," squeaked Francis, while DeSelby crushed his hand in hers with borderline malicious force, doing his best to keep a straight face. Seeing that she’d apparently been nicknamed the Bloody Mistress once, he didn’t feel too bad about it – but what followed the gesture was, honestly, equally cute as it was intimidating.

"Don’t break his heart," threatened DeSelby. "He’s sensitive."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

She nodded and released him, turning back to Ifan.

"Which reminds me. There’s someone I’m sure you’d like to meet."

By all rights, there shouldn’t have been more than a few crates of unperishables down here underneath the Barracks – except there was the distant flicker of torchlight down below, shining through one of the doorways. Ifan tilted his head curiously.

"Are you really with the Scarlet Faction?" Francis asked.

"Gods, no. I just help them out from time to time. Smuggling sourcerers out of the city. I usually do little more than turn a blind eye on patrol – but they caught me during the fight, leaving my post. Wrong place, wrong time."

"I’m surprised they’re still around," mused Francis. "After Dallis’ crackdown. I was – acquainted, once."

"That was then, this is now." said DeSelby. "They’ve become… more serious, in light of recent events. Can’t say we always agree. They’re dreamers, sure. But sometimes a little optimism is all that holds the world together. At least they’re doing something, while me and mine break our oath every day by following the same people who made us swear it."

She had the keen, patient eyes of an eagle. Even having barely escaped with her life only minutes ago didn’t dull her analysis of him.

"But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Francis."

Ifan snuck closer towards the flickering light.

"There’s been talk lately," continued DeSelby, lowering her voice a little. "The Scarlets aren’t the only ones on the move. Marie works in the freight registry at the docks. Her union is gearing up for a strike, and a number of guilds are joining the call. Even a couple of priests have resigned. Lots of people in Arx find the ways of the Order quite lacking under Dallis and Alexandar. Kemm among them, but for wildly different reasons."

"Hold that thought," muttered Ifan. He crouched, and peered over the railing into the lower level of the cellar. He listened into the darkness. And sure enough – he heard footsteps.

The second bravest thing Francis Junior had done in his life happened when he was seventeen. And even if he’d spent three years preparing for it, he almost didn’t go through with it.

Something about dreaming so big that never stopped to think about what would happen if that dream came true.

He’d been outside of Lowbridge before, sure. He peeked into the Brass Quarter whenever he could spare the time, stocking up on his finances at the card table and making invaluable connections. But he could count on one hand the times he’d ventured this far, not to mention into the Celestial.

He felt exposed. The houses were far apart, in cool colors warding off the heat, and he felt like a rabbit in an open field, like a hawk could swoop down at any second. It took him almost half an hour before he scrounged up enough courage to ask for directions. A young woman in an ornate velvet robe, hurrying down the street, clearly inconvenienced by Francis stopping her in her way.

"Excuse me. Where do I find the academy?"

"Are you looking for the delivery entrance?"

This robe was the finest thing he owned, and only left the closet for weddings and funerals. "Yup," said Francis reflexively, grasping at every social straw offered to him, then stopped himself and corrected: "I mean, no. I’m looking for the registrar’s office."

The stranger’s face suddenly lit up.

"Are you a first-semester, too?"

"Yeah," confirmed Francis, finding that he meant it.

"It's up on Crowsperch. Just follow me, I'm going in the same direction. What do you study? What's your name? I'm Filipa. I'm sorry. That's a lot of questions." She grinned awkwardly.

Francis shrugged.

"That’s fine with me," he replied, carefully enunciating his words to fit his counterpart’s. "If people didn’t ask me questions, I’d never know what to say. My name’s Francis."

"I never saw it that way. A pleasure. Hurry along, Francis. The office is closing soon."

The Academy of Arx was a tall, palace-like building composed of red brick and small towers, surrounded by a large campus area with gardens and wide squares. Students in blue tailcoats were scattered on the stone steps, some were laying in the grass over notebooks and loose pieces of paper. One group even had a full tea set out in front of them.

Filipa led him through an open cross-coat towards a smaller building a little apart from the square. It was built out of the same red brick as the main building, with a heavy, wooden oak door that stood wide open. Filipa hurried off, and gave him an encouraging smile in passing.

A windowless room, lit by oil lamps, and a thin owlish man with glasses hunched over an unproportionally large desk. Francis cleared his throat.

"Is this the registrar’s office?"

"I am the registrar," the man drew out, "And this is my office. What may I do for you?"

"I’d like to… register as a student?"

"Are you asking me?"

Francis examined the registrar’s expression, which was trapped somewhere between confusion, suspicion and inconvenience while he looked him up and down.

"I’d like to register as a student," he repeated firmly.

"Hm," said the registrar. Nothing else. Then, he produced a ledger from underneath his desk, flipped, and scribbled a number on top of a blank page routinely enough that he didn’t even have to watch his hands while doing so. "And what is to be your field of study?"

He raised one bushy eyebrow as the silence stretched on.

"Uh," Francis answered eloquently. "What are my options?"

"We usually encourage our students to get informed about these things beforehand. Why don’t you have a look at the list while I file you up."

Francis supressed a sigh of relief, took the list and scanned it from top to bottom. From naval cartography to Arascan folk tales and advanced herpetology, there didn't seem to be anything you couldn't study at Arx Academy. And then, the word caught his eye. Archeology.

"I’ll also need a copy of your letter of recommendation."

He held his hand out. Francis blankly stared back at him.

"You did bring a letter of recommendation," said the registrar. "Did you not?"

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Francis leaned his head against the cool marble pillar in the hallway. That particular brand of disappointment raging through him, when he’d failed to consider all the variables and all his preparations went to waste.

Today was the last day of admissions. He’d researched it. He’d listened ever so carefully to the students in the Brass Quarter taverns, and then hesitated until it was too late. He’d really meant to go through with it this time, and he’d been so stupid. A letter of recommendation. By whom, even?

"You move like an errand boy," someone said.

Francis snapped his head up. A young man, only a few years older than himself, stood before him – in a blue tailcoat, collar stiffly put up and ironed to perfection, a fringe of heavy black hair covering one eye. He expected to find a demand on his button-nosed face. He didn’t.

"Worse yet," continued the student. "You move like you shouldn’t be here."

"Well, aren’t you sharp," hissed Francis. "Don’t cut yourself on my account."

"You talk quite strangely," the new arrival curiosly proclaimed. His soft voice had the lilt of an unfamiliar accent. "You sound like you have rocks in your mouth."

"Yeah. Easy fix for that one. Stop talking to me." Francis threw his hand up. "Do you mind?"

His counterpart threw him a mysterious smile.

"Calling him a maggot was a bit much," said the student. "Not that I don't share the sentiment. I recognize the look on your face. You went on the last day. That was careless of you. What did you think was going to happen?"

"Pardon, man? Who the fuck are you?"

"Sandor Das Balurik."

He held his hand out. Francis stared at him, trying to figure out if he was fucking with him or had simply missed the very obvious rhethorical question. Sandor sighed and pulled his hand away.

"Did you think they were going to welcome you with open arms?" he said bluntly. "It’s bad enough that you sound like an angry cow herder. You look like one, too. You’re not the first attempting to enter an institution that doesn’t want you anywhere near it. It can be done, but you’d be horribly naive to think you can do it without any help."

Francis snorted.

"My bad. I assumed a place of learning would want people willing to learn."

Sandor narrowed his eyes.

"This is a nest of vipers," he said. "Trust me. I thought Arx would be different from Balurik, but these places are all the same. They don’t want you to learn. What would happen if their concubines and servants and laborers suddenly wrote dissertations of their own? Of course they can’t keep you from trying to sign up, but they’re surely not going to make it easy."

Francis drew his lip up.

Sandor absent-mindedly dusted his tailcoat off in response.

"What did Lawrence say? The registrar?"

"He said I needed a letter of recommendation," Francis admitted. "I haven’t got one."

Sandor nodded briefly.

"Could forge it, I suppose," muttered Francis. "If I knew what it needs to say."

"You can’t. Lawrence uses polymorphy to check the documents’ validity, and they know all the scholars and tutors that sign those letters. Luckily for you, one of them owes me a favor, and you’ve got a whole semester to prepare the rest of what you’ll need."

He brushed his fringe back, measuring Francis with a glance.

"It won’t be easy. You’ll always be on guard. There’s about a million things that would be more pleasant to do in life. How much do you want this? How badly do you want to be a scholar?"

Francis sized him up right back. Skinny as bone, but holding himself with the poise of an Order knight, and the look on his face entirely serious.

What a strange encounter. But a lucky one, as far as he could tell. Words of truth should be returned in kind. Everybody knew. They were a rare enough treat, and Francis had a good eye for people – specifically, for much-needed allies.

"It’s the only way," said Francis, "And I’m already on guard."

"Good." Sandor nodded decisively. "If you really are serious, meet me in the Paper Pony Tavern, near the student accommodations. Tonight, at the ninth bell."

He turned to leave, with a thin smile.

"Don’t be late. "

Magister Reimond went out with a bang.

Which was all one could really hope for in times like these. The incendiary grenade detonated right at their backs, and Ifan barely managed to pull up a protective wall from the wooden floor to cover them from the flames.

Velec hardly recognized him.

Sure, she’d gone about fifteen years thinking he was dead. A lot was bound to happen in that time, and still – he moved, talked, and fought so differently from the soft-spoken paladin recruit she’d met all those years ago. Only the bright spark of his eyes that let on what lingered beneath the calm exterior – well. That was still very much there.

Ifan, Din’antara, the Wolf of Tiriana, had earned his names three times over since.

Not to mention his lover.

The red-haired witch fought like like he held a personal grudge against the Magister. On second thought, he definitely did. A blood mage, a damn powerful one, angry and unrelenting. He raised his hands and let Reimond freeze in his movement, a thousand needles pricking through his skin, blood running in rivulets, disappearing in his fingers. He was using the techniques of Black Ring painweavers, and it sent a cold shiver down her spine.

But he wasn’t – was he?

No love was lost on her part towards Reimond, that much was for sure. His reputation for cruelty reached far beyond his station, and Ifan and Francis seemed to be more than acquainted with it.

I should have strung you up and ran you through with my sword in Driftwood, Godwoken, snarled Reimond, immobilized on the spot while the witch siphoned the blood from his veins, struggling against his own musculature used against him. But Dallis will be at the Cathedral any day now. Your reckoning will come.

Everyone makes mistakes, Ifan replied calmly.

The witch shot him a questioning look. Ifan nodded. And Francis used Reimond’s blood to draw a circle of runes on the ground, while the magister spasmed in agony as the wounds grew purple and festering with his curse. Ifan looked unbothered. The witch, utterly satisfied.

He didn’t get to finish it.

A bone-chilling scream disrupted the ritual, as a tall, bony creature with claws as long as swords appeared behind the blood mage and raked its talons down his back. Francis stumbled forward, and the creature towered over him. Ifan shouted an incantation, Reimond drew his sword and charged towards them. A second creature appeared right before DeSelby.

Its empty pupils fixed on her like a magnet, following her every movement as she started swinging. It was unnaturally fast. They clashed, and Velec pointed her weapon like a spear, barely managing to wrestle it out of the monster’s grasp. They circled each other. The screech from its maw chilled her to her core, its eyes flaring up in green.

It was unquestionably human – or had been, once – and DeSelby suddenly realized that every rumor that the Scarlets spun about Fort Joy seemed to be true.

This had been a sourcerer.

The flames of oil fire licked at her back, and Velec decided that she ought to think about all of this later when they’d managed to make it out of here alive.

The rising smoke stung her eyes.

They clashed again. The tip of her sword pierced the creature’s throat, producing a gurgling screech, but it didn’t stop moving. Hadn’t it been for Kemm’s two-hander and its almost uncomfortable range, she would have been minced meat. The monstrosity grasped the blade again, pulling against her grip. DeSelby let it. Building momentum. Then, when it almost managed to rip the sword from her hand, she charged forward and pinned the thing to the nearest bookshelf with both of their weight.

A gust of wind next to her. The blood witch appeared from nowhere, his robe hanging in rags off his back, dug his fingers into the creature’s torso and sucked the very source from its marrow. She’d never seen anything like it. The creature slumped, struggled, screamed – and dissolved into a pile of mutilated flesh right before her eyes.

Ifan was on the other side of the room, over the mauled corpse of Reimond, the maw of his soulbond wolf stained in magister guts. Francis spat on the floor, teeth bare and bloody.

"You’re welcome. Let’s get out of here."

Francis and Sandor, as it turned out, were birds from the same feather.

In the course of one evening, their grand design took form. Francis over a pint of ale, Sandor drinking nothing but water. Francis’ voice turned heads, Sandor was calm and soft-spoken. Francis’ hands telling stories of their own, Sandor’s folded in his lap. And yet, they had one thing in common.

The knowledge that the world doesn’t give you anything for free.

So they schemed together. Sandor even had a list prepared, of every single trick in the registrar’s book and three different ways to circumvent each of them. And because of this common denominator, even if Sandor seemed to be an honest guy – startlingly so – the question needed to be asked eventually. Sandor checked off the next item on his list.

"Where did you go to school?"

"Sant Niska," said Francis, "Down in the Waiting."

Sandor raised an eyebrow.

"Could they write you a letter, perhaps? An old teacher? What kind of school is it? I’m unfamiliar with the lower districts. Not a wise place for me to be in."

"True," Francis snorted, "We’d mug you on sight."

A tense smile greeted him in response. "Not because of that."

"Huh," said Francis, and scratched his neck. "In any case, I’m afraid the answer’s no. That school is more of a multipurpose building these days. We’re gonna have to go with Plan B."

He waved at the serving girl and held two fingers up for the next round, carefully keeping count of the dwindling coin in his pocket to pay for both of their drinks, because that’s the way equal allyship started out. Favor for hospitality. And if the man stubbornly ordered the one thing on the menu that cost absolutely nothing, Francis decided, that was his problem.

"That’s unfortunate," said Sandor. "I’d hoped to save the Maestro’s favor for exam season."

The Paper Pony was a lively place, filled to the brim with students returning for the new semester. There was chalk on the tables, several drinking contests in progress, and the walls were covered in announcements, proclamations, slogans, and the painted depictions of several forms of genitalia covering up some of them only to be covered with different slogans in return, the air thick with booze and the light smoke of wrapping pipes.

It was small, and always packed to a degree where you had trouble finding a place to stand, not to mention a table, unless someone knew a guy. As it turned out, Sandor, the drinker of water, did know a guy.

And that was the first time Francis ended up in the back room of the Paper Pony. He didn’t know it yet, but this would be his second home and office for many years to come.

"I could always just lie," said Francis, "Bribe a nun at Sant Celem’s to say I went to school there. Wouldn’t even be that expensive, they’re happy with a few bottles of homebrew."

Sandor shook his head.

"If you lie, the lie needs to be waterproof. Secrets always come out in this place. You’ll have forgotten it somewhere along the line, and then someone drags it up to discredit you. Trust me on this, it’s the reason I’m here."

He contemplatively swirled the water in his cup.

"The best thing you can do is be upfront about it. It gives them less ammunition. But this also means that being smart is not enough. You can’t make mistakes. You have to be the best student they’ve ever seen. You have to be worth it, for them."

"That’s my clue." Francis stretched his fingers against the edge of the table and looked directly at Sandor, an open palm towards him. The student tilted his head, calculating.

"Look," he continued quietly. "I’m well aware I’m selling my soul here. You and I both know I can’t repay this mountain of favors, especially if you keep ordering nothing but water." He sighed. "I’d rather know now than later. What’s in it for you? What do you want?"

Sandor’s calculating look dissolved into a slightly coy smile.

"I drink water because I don’t like being drunk. This city is full of confusing customs. I didn’t mean to insult your hospitality. I’m but a humble exchange student, and I beg your patience."

"No, don’t be –" He stopped himself and sighed. "You’re fucking with me, aren’t you."

"Perhaps. But it’s true that I don’t drink." He tapped his index finger to his palm. "As for your question, the answer is very simple. You’ve guessed correctly. I’m not helping you out of the kindness of my heart. I’m helping you because people like us need to have each other’s backs. We need allies to survive. And if you manage to matriculate, I will have one more."

"If I manage to – what?"

"Matriculate. Enroll in the academy."

Francis scrunched his upper lip. "Yeah, listen. I’m not sure I’m ready to buy that. So I insist. I’m ordering you an orange malt right this second, and you can’t say no."

He raised his hand, and Sandor looked like he wanted to protest.

"No booze in it," sighed Francis, "We give that stuff to toddlers. But you can’t study here and never have had an orange malt, you absolute philistine."

Sandor chuckled, and gallantly waved his permission.

"You’ll fit in nicely." He scanned the list with the dried tip of his feather quill. "Very well. Proof of income and residency. Where were we on that?"

Francis didn’t answer. Something had caught his eye. Two women, one still in student uniform, the other in pants and a lightly cut shirt were settled into the far corner of the room, laughing, one arm wrapped around each other’s waists and shoulders, their faces moving closer. They kissed. Out in the open.

And no one else in the room even seemed to notice.

Francis didn’t mean to stare. He also didn’t mean to catch the strict glance from Sandor when he caught him staring. He didn’t know what to say. So he just nodded, a reluctant thing, and knocked on the table.

"On it. Proof of residency, I’ll – apply for student housing, I’m guessing?"

"You’ll need to do it in at least two days. The waitlist is insane." He nodded back, reassured, and then rifled through a leather folder. "I’ve got the paperwork here, let’s do it right now."

That night, Francis took the long way home.

Something was different. His pockets were lighter, but so was his heart. The air was sweet as cherry wine, the colors bright and sharp against the blur of noise of a Friday night in the Brass. The artisans closed shop, the taverns and coffee houses filled, students wandering the streets in aimless familiarity, without a care in the world, and everywhere was music.

That night, Francis saw his city in a new light.

He wandered just as them. He leaned into doorways to listen to the poets, he petted fat city cats resting on the warm sandstone, he balanced on the sidewalks and followed invitations and danced a Marcene with a drunk dwarven first-semester in front of a half-talented street musician, before she stumbled and Francis found her a bench to sit on and waited with her for her friends to show up. She’d let her head fall back, smiling widely.

"We’re in Arx", she’d whisper-shouted. "Can you believe it?"

Francis laughed.

"Not really," he admitted.

Arx wasn’t a city, it was several cities stacked on top of each other. And this one, Francis decided, he could live with. So much so that he ignored his window of opportunity closing further by the second. He didn’t want this night to end. And if it would all go to hell anyway, why not linger a little. It wasn’t often Francis felt that the future was ripe for the taking.

But there were only so many detours one could make. And eventually, Francis stared down the maws of the Bridgepost and the stairs leading into inevitable reality. One semester. Half a year, he thought, while he closed the door behind himself with the caution of a trip mine diffuser, followed the worn path of least creaky planks along the hallway, staying as close to the walls as he could. He could make it for half a year, and he almost made it that night, too.

He heard the door unlock behind him, and didn’t move an inch.

The plan was simple.

Get to the docks, collect DeSelby’s wife from the freight registry, find a ship to Driftwood and let the two of them lay low for a while with a letter for Lohar in their pocket. Because say what you liked about Lohar, but he looked out for his people, and for their people, too.

The docks never stood still.

Even during a major change in power, ships needed loading and unloading and restocking, and everything ran smoothly, like nothing had occurred. The Olmere River, the vibrant artery of life in the South, rushed on whether you liked it or not.

To Ifan, viewing the city through the eyes of a fugitive was second nature. His professional life, up to this point, had resolved far more around the question of how to get out rather than how to get in. That was the real pinch. Everybody knew.

Francis did, at least. He led the two of them through alleyways and arches and underneath the bridges, through passageways that didn’t look like passageways, while expertly pretending to be in no hurry at all. Three friends on a walk, new clothes ill-fitting and smelling of smoke.

Ifan and DeSelby caught up on fifteen years worth of banter. She had a dry, deadpan sense of humor, contrasting how Ifan told a joke with his whole face, and Francis didn’t understand half of what they were saying, even though they were speaking the same language.

He fell back and trailed behind them.

Listening to their familiar back and forth, he could’ve imagined that the war had been nothing but a series of pranks and drunken escapades with a rotating cast of colorful characters. The bond between the two was strong, even after all these years, but it was clearly hesitant.

Ifan, for one, liked to keep it that way.

For very obvious reasons.

Because even if she’d nearly been executed for defying the Order, that didn’t have to mean they were on the same side. DeSelby kept it mutual. As she’d fittingly said, everyone had their own motivations. And Ifan was in no mood to explain his in their entirety, nor anything else that he’d been up to in those years since the war. At least not here, not like this.

Ifan almost laughed when he identified the feeling.

He was ashamed.

And it felt so – subtle. So benign. Damn near everyone above a certain age had seen some part of war, and those who’d taken to the battlefield together in the broadest sense ran into each other once a while. He’d often used that instant familiarity between veterans to his advantage, to stock up on favors or information, but there was an agreement there, a question that was never asked unless you were at the bottom of at least your seventh drink.

So, what have you been up to since?

Because from there, it wasn’t far to:

So, what did you have to kill so you could live?

What acts of despair did it take to let you sleep at night?

Who are you now, after it ripped you apart and put you back together wrong?

So instead, there was banter. Anecdotes and digs and jokes and implications. And for the first time, that was the part that mattered. He held the feeling closely to his chest.

Ifan was ashamed. Not on a cosmic scale of failing the entire world, but of spilling blood for money, knowing little else, an abundance of bad decisions, a raging drug problem, lying and cheating and lashing out to save his own skin, not letting himself care enough to change, and getting in with the wrong people thinking he deserved no better.

Ifan was ashamed like everybody else.

Like Velec, who held herself too tall and walked with purpose out of fear, a loud, sharp laugh and flinty, haunted eyes, who smoked like a chimney and fiddled with her hair and had found love from a woman who’d tolerate and irritate her just enough to take it.

Ifan couldn’t wait to meet her.

Marie almost dropped her clipboard when they entered the freight registry, through a large, salt-speckled wooden door. She was an elegant woman even in her docker’s uniform, thick boots and a too-large apron, her long hair in a braid wrapped around her head, and she sprinted to embrace her wife. Ifan and Francis exchanged an affectionate glance.

"Thank the gods, you’re okay. Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Velec held her close for just over a minute. The registry was an ever-expanding chaos of alchemic bells, ringing on their own with each new arriving ship, complaining sailors and exasperated dockworkers, and they stood in the middle of it, wishing the moment would last.

"Marie," she said softly. "We have to go."

"What? Go where?"

Velec pressed her face into her shoulder.

"They caught me," she whispered. "I’m sorry. We’ve got to get on the next ship to Driftwood. I would’ve been one head shorter, if it hadn’t been for–" She gestured vaguely towards her company. "Look, I’ll explain later. Kemm’s people are looking for me. We have to go."

"Velec, what the fuck are you talking about?" Marie drew back from her. "I can’t go! Not with the strike – not with everything that’s happening! They need me here!"

She spoke Lower-Arxian, and, like Francis, stronger with a twist towards agression.

"I need you alive!" Velec returned a little more sharply. "I’m sorry I wasn’t smarter about it. You told me, and I didn’t listen. But isn’t the whole point of a strike that you’re not here?"

"You don’t get it. I’m the one keeping count on shipment allocation. Nothing goes in or out without me knowing. Especially when we’re on strike!"

"Marie, please. They know we’re married. Where do you think they’re going to look first?"

Marie crossed her arms decisively.

"I’m not running," she declared. "I’ve been running long enough."

Francis cleared his throat. Both women turned around.

"There’s one place they wouldn’t look," he suggested hesitantly.

"Well, won’t you elaborate?" Marie gave him a flippant and well-familiar gesture. "Speak."

"The Scarlet Faction have a hiding place in the Brass. Knowing what you did for them, I’m sure they’d take you both in for a while."

It didn’t take long to decide. Marie talked to her coworker in hushed tones, assuring him she’d be back in time, grabbed her bag from the shelf in the back of the room. She didn’t seem surprised by the situation, like she knew it had been inevitable, and the four of them made their way up to the Brass Quarter.

The approaching dark of night worked in their favor.

Ifan noted, with light concern, the little dark spot on Francis’ back where blood still seeped through the bandage – knowing now was not the time to do something about it. He just hoped Lohse would be at the tavern when they returned, so she could fix what the Gheist had left.

The others watched him have a very spirited conversation with the two owners of a tailor’s shop. It seemed to be a front business. The look on their faces passed through suspicion, then disbelief, then acceptance, and Velec and Marie were quickly shuffled through the back into a cellar underneath the yard. However, the deal didn’t seem to be done yet.

Ifan stepped closer to listen.

"It’s only reasonable," said the woman on the right. "Cisc, look. These are unprecedented times. Everyone agrees now is the time to fight back against the Order, and no one agrees on how to do it. It’s historical. We need to coordinate our efforts."

"Not my fault you can’t talk to regular people to save your lives."

"We’ve tried. They don’t take us seriously." She sighed, hands on her hips. "Rightfully so, if we can’t even manage to get everyone on one table. Please. Consider it a favor for a favor."

"Let me get this right, Filipa. We save the life of your contact, and you think we owe you a favor? If anything, you should be throwing any information we want after us."

Ifan appeared behind Francis, mostly out of the habit to add some conviction to Francis’ negotiation tactics, arms crossed and silently staring his counterpart down like a wolf at his prey. The woman – Filippa – exchanged a nervous glance with her business partner.

"You know we don’t speak their language," she said quietly. "Just talk to him. That’s all I ask."

Ifan was done being silent backup. Clarify, he signed towards Francis, who turned to him with an annoyed grimace and buried his hands in his pockets.

"They want me to talk to some union leader. Marcus… Miles, or whatever his name is. Convince his people to join their little secret meeting."

Ifan grinned, recognition flashing in his face.

"The Beast of the Sea? He’s here in Arx?"

"He’s the leader of the seafarer’s union," said Filipa. "You’ll find him at the docks."

Ifan clapped Francis on the shoulder, ignoring his indignant frown, and held his hand out towards Filippa with a smile meant for business. She looked a little nervous – he knew the effect he could have with body language alone, even without weapons and armor – but she reached out and bravely shook it nonetheless.

"Consider it done."

Francis passed through the gate of the unknown in early spring, on day three of the registration term. Or rather, he matriculated. He’d gone on day one, the first in line when the office had opened, with half an hour to spare. It had taken him the rest of the day to hunt down Madame Carmilla at the student accommodations and get the one piece of paper he was missing, and one more day because Carmilla drove a hard fucking bargain.

He knew the intricacies, now.

The battle of legends could begin.

Francis, dressed to the nines, stormed the registration office with the confidence of old nobility. A fine image to project in front of insecure bureaucrats and sub-par tradesmen, but it wasn’t even close to swaying the registrar.

Sandor hadn’t lied.

He wasn’t even enrolled yet, and Francis had already acquired his first archnemesis.

"Lawrence, old chap," Francis announced himself, arms extended, his smile charming in the way a cat that’s laid down a dead rat before your feet is charming. "We have to stop meeting like this. I mean, it’s just positively gloomy in here. You should really get out more."

Owl-man Lawrence was as close to rolling his eyes as decorum allowed it. That was to say, he raised his eyebrows and slightly adjusted his glasses.

"Francisco," he returned in a weary sigh.

"Sir," Francis formally dropped the glove, "I’m here to register as a student."

"Of course you are. I’ll need your let–"

"My letter of recommendation by Maestro Drahmin, head of archeology and historical studies at your employing institution," Francis pulled it out of his binder with startling precision, "And a recently notarized copy of it. Don’t wanna waste your breath."

Lawrence looked both over, picked up an identifying glass, and then nodded benevolently. In the way an expert cardplayer does, out of respect for a fun, but ultimately losing opponent.

"Proof of income?"

How smug three simple words could be.

"My writ of patronage for a whole semester, courtesy of Lady Zolotova," Francis announced with the flourish of a court barker, as he put it down on the desk, "In triplicate, good man. And because I know those go in the same line on your wonderous ledger, I also have my proof of residency right here. In triplicate."

Oh, how he’d waited for this. Registrar Lawrence leaned back in his armchair, certain of his victory, and folded his arms in front of his bony chest.

"We’re asking for a family home address here, son. Student accommodations don’t open until tomorrow," he returned simply. "This is a forgery. Do you know what that means?"

Francis didn’t contain the smile. It would've been wiser, but that wasn’t a common description of him as a person either way. "I’m so sorry. I understand how you’d assume that," he said casually, "Except I’ve paid one month in advance, so this is technically from last semester."

"You need to be a student to live in student accommodation."

"True," Francis drew out slowly. He let his shoulders slump, watched as Lawrence’s face regained its smugness in full force, before he continued: "But the bylaws don’t specify I can’t rent a room before enrolling. And the living permit starts with enrollment, which means right this second, because there’s a grace period in case you fail your admissions."

"This is… unusual." Lawrence pushed back his glasses. "And Madame Carmilla signed off on this?"

"Thrice," Francis confirmed, and handed him all three pieces of paper, not including the fourth one still hidden in his binder. "Keep up, Lawrence. Next, we have the admissions fee," he stacked eighty gold pieces onto the desk, "And the tuition fee. To be returned upon request by the way, should I fail the admissions exam. Sign that off for me, would ya."

He heard the identifying glass hit the desk and the ink scratch into the parchment like a birdclaw. Francis hadn’t known it was even possible to make checking off a box on a form sound aggressive. His smile widened, as Lawrence desperately searched the form, and the copies, for anything he might have overlooked.

"And your field of study," Lawrence grumbled, "Is still archeology?"

"Aw. You remembered."

A very long sigh.

"All seems to be in order," said Lawrence reluctantly, scratching behind his ear in clear disbelief. Francis leaned back in his respective chair. "I’ll just need your name now, Francisco."

Francis scrunched his forehead in confusion.

"You’ve just said it."

Lawrence smiled, the way he had when he’d sent him out the door last semester accompanied by security after Francis had called him a stickling little maggot. Big mistake, said that smile.

"Your family name, son."

"It is a family name, Sir. It’s my father’s name."

"Francisco of what?" Lawrence turned his ledger so he could see it, tapping the very first line. "Just write it in there for me, would you."

Shit.

Sandor had warned him about this. Putting in invalid information would make the registration inadmissible. Francis racked his brain for a solution that wasn’t just making a name up on the spot – because he was absolutely certain the rat bastard would run down to town hall and scour the geneaologies himself to invalidate it. Francis had never wanted to stab someone’s kidneys through this badly in his life. And then, he remembered something.

Something Sandor had mentioned in passing, just one thing among the many battles this hardened veteran had fought against academy bureaucracy. Something to do with the fact that his name was Das Balurik.

Francis looked back up.

"Are you familiar with the international scholastic exchange directive, Lawrence?"

His face soured, and Francis could watch these words settle in his mind. "You’re not an international student," he said. "That’s a completely different office."

"Bit besides the point," said Francis, tapping his nails on the desk in a desperate attempt at nonchalance while his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. "It passed three years ago, and there’s a paragraph in it, allowing students who do not have a family name to register with a name of origin instead. As is common practise, in several human realms."

Francis uncapped his inkpen. A sleek, shiny thing gifted to him by a student from Orobas after a rather unfortunate round of kingslice. He pulled the ledger towards him.

In retrospect, he should've just written Arx. It would’ve prevented about a million follow-up problems. But Francis had inherited something else instead of a family name, ingested and instilled from birth, soul-breaking, life-saving, a burden as well as a safety net.

Pride was a funny thing.

Francis penned his name in big block letters, and pushed the ledger back.

"That directive is for students from the Mezd or Balurik," Lawrence snapped. "Not for…"

Say it, asshole. I fucking dare you.

"I understand this is unprecedented," Francis said instead, putting every bit of card table showmanship he had into that single bluff, "But I’d be happy to get the council’s decision on it. And while I’m already there, I’ll let them know that you’ve been filing students based on outdated bylaws. They’ll be thrilled, I’m sure. Since you’ve been doing it for over two years."

Lawrence visibly panicked, his face pale as a sheet before it turned an angry red. That could either be very good or incredibly bad for his cause and campaign. Well – no going back now.

"You wouldn’t," the registrar drew out.

Okay, thought Francis. Time to put some honey on the whip.

"You’re right," he relented. "I wouldn’t. Putting an old man out of a job, this close to retirement – that’s just not right." He grinned, slightly crooked. "And I have to admit – you’re damn good at what you do, Lawrence. You really made me sweat a couple times there."

Just sign it, he begged every god known to man.

The registrar’s face relaxed, from boiling anger to subtle annoyance. Francis indicated the ledger with a nod. "Come on. What do you say. Truce?"

Lawrence snorted. He looked at the long line forming outside of his office through the doors, shook his head, and slapped his signature on the page.

"Welcome to Arx Academy," he sighed, "Student… Lowbridge."

"Thanks," croaked Francis, and felt a about a ton of weight fall off his shoulders. He stood up and turned to leave, disregarding the thin-lipped expression on the registrar’s face.

"See you next semester."

He celebrated accordingly, of course.

He walked down to the Paper Pony like a decorated general returning from battle. He danced and laughed and drank and pulled the bag he’d packed out of the corner of the room, an entire gamble resting on his success, one more night to kill before student housing opened.

He hadn’t been home in four days.

Calm, reserved Sandor was absolutely delighted. I could just kiss you, proclaimed Francis, drawing a nervous laugh from the student, and Francis refrained from doing anything of the sort and settled for a clap on the shoulder instead. Foggy the barman let a round spring, on the house. Francis was a regular since half a year, and a decent tipper, too. He’d even covered a few bar shifts when Foggy had wanted a night off to spend time with his wife. What could he say – he was just good at making friends, if he had to.

"To Registrar Lawrence." Francis raised his glass. "May he find peace in advancing age."

Sandor chuckled, and several surrounding patrons joined in on his toast with a cheer. The night went by in a blur of introductions and telltales, and if Francis cried like a child later that evening, crouched on the tavern porch after a sufficient amount of raza and wine to kill a mid-sized dog, that was his business and his alone.

Ifan found Francis in their room later that evening, after he was done scratching the blood out from under his fingernails.

The alchemist was hunched in front of the mirror. Juggling a piece of gauze and a hooked needle in his hands, trying to reach the remaining wound on his back, that in Tarquin and Lohse’s absence had gone unhealed. Thick clouds were covering the horizon, but it was as if the sky failed to sneeze.

"You want some help with that?"

"It’s like three stitches," Francis grumbled. "I can do it."

Ifan clicked his tongue and crouched down behind him. "You’re unbelievable sometimes. Tell me, Doc," he challenged, stretching the skin where a small trickle of blood still ran down his back, "Is this the recommended method, then?"

Francis snorted.

"The recommended method is whatever the loudest person on shift screams."

Ifan tousled his hair, and resolutely took the needle and gut from his hand. "Do you want me to scream first? Xilic. Give it here. Don’t worry, I’ve had a decent teacher."

"I was just gonna heal it."

The claw-cuts ran down his entire back. They were shallow, but jagged and raw, with the exception of one that ran deeper and was still bleeding. Ifan shook his head, and sunk the needle. Francis flinched only slightly.

"No more gods means no more blessings," said Ifan. "I’d rather you use magic as little as possible, unless there’s someone around that needs killing. That’s how that works, right?"

"Simplified," conceded Francis, "but yeah. Don’t worry though. I’ve still got the devil’s luck."

Ifan tilted his head, and kept working for a while without saying anything, before something occurred to him. He stopped and searched his pocket for the coin, then remembered he’d dropped it into the Hall of Echoes in a moment of sentimental pathos.

He opened his wallet for one instead, his hand resting against Francis’ bare back. He was cool to the touch, and smelled faintly of resin and smoke – the freckles covering every inch of skin, a few more nasty scars than he’d had before the Nameless Isle, a slightly bent spine, and the hilariously fumbled depiction of a crab smiling up at him like an idiot. Ifan placed a kiss between his shoulder blades. Francis blessed him with a little sigh.

"Heads or tails?"

"Huh?" said Francis. "Eh. Tails."

It was always tails. The coin spun in the air and landed in Ifan’s broad palm. Ifan reached forward to show it to him. Francis raised both eyebrows in disbelief.

The coin was heads-up.

"You’re a lucky bastard, you know," Ifan informed him and put the coin aside to continue his handiwork. "Both of us should’ve died three times by now, and not for lack of trying. Unless, of course, a god saw fit that we wouldn’t."

"What," said Francis, "You think all of it was divine intervention?"

"Would that be so hard to believe?"

The alchemist hummed noncommitally, then flinched again. "Ow. Too deep. Just the upper skin layer, be careful."

Ifan nodded apologetically, and withdrew the needle to adjust it.

"Think about it," the mercenary insisted eventually. "You couldn’t lose a game of chance if you tried. Which bothers Sebille to this day, by the way. But now the gods are dead, and suddenly you can’t even win a coin flip. I could be wrong, but – I’d rather not count on luck anymore."

Francis did think about it.

"Damn. You might be right. How am I gonna make a living?"

Ifan chuckled, and closed the suture with a triple knot, before lightly patting him on the back. "You could go back to school. Learn an honest trade," he suggested with a grin.

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

Ifan laughed. Sebille had gotten it right, from the start. To hope, and picture better days.

"I’m serious. We’re gonna have to figure out what to do after all this is over." If we’re still alive, he omitted. "What did you want to do? Before all of this?"

"Hard to remember," said Francis. "And its hard to imagine what Rivellon will be like – after."

"After we tear divinity off its pedestal?" Ifan grinned. "And spread its power to the people?"

It sounded – earnest. Pointed and easy, but stunningly sincere, like he was well aware how big he was dreaming and still didn’t doubt it in the slightest. Ifan dabbed the suture with alcohol, as gently as he could, an apologetic hand on his shoulder when Francis let out a pained hiss.

"Like the fresh green shoots after a forest fire," continued Ifan. "That’s what it will be like. Maybe what these shoots grow into will be better than the weeds they’re replacing. Can’t be worse."

Francis raised an eyebrow. That, he thought, would have just sounded corny from anyone else. Ifan made it sound brutal and beautiful, like universal truth, in the way only a true poet knows how to do. He didn’t know how he’d missed it, but somewhere between killing a god and belief hasn’t paid off for me, exactly, Ifan had become a full-blooded revolutionary.

Francis raised his hands. "I admire your optimism," he conceded, not wanting to admit that in his opinion, no matter how badly he wanted to believe it, things could definitely get worse.

"I have to be optimistic," Ifan replied in a tone that booked no argument. "I’ve got big plans."

"Oh yeah?"

"M-hm." Ifan placed a kiss to his nape. "I want to be old and greyer than ever, and bicker with my friends over unimportant things. I want to know my neighbors. I want to eat dinner with you, kick your ass at chess, and not worry about whether you’re still gonna be alive tomorrow. It sounds so simple, and somehow it’s the hardest thing I could ever choose to wish for. Ending divinity?" He chuckled. "Piece of cake."

Francis tensed up.

He distinctly remembered the last time they’d had this conversation. In a rare moment of peace on Reaper’s Coast, Francis had asked Ifan to marry him once, in a throwaway sentence, under the ill-concealing guise of stupid banter.

The truth was this.

He’d been dead serious.

"Francis." Ifan looked a little shy suddenly, crouched on the floor there in front of him. "I meant it, you know. Knowing you changed me in ways I never thought possible. You are the love of my life. And I want to spend the rest of it with you. If that’s what you want."

God’s blackened balls.

Francis stared at him like a fish out of water. He knew he needed to say something. He felt his throat working around the words as Ifan’s face, so expressive in either direction, slowly fell. No, no, no. He couldn’t be responsible for that, Ifan looking sad after baring his heart to him. Say something, you idiot.

"You still don’t believe me," stated Ifan.

It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t even fear of rejection. It was pure, heartbreaking resignation. Way too late to play it off. Francis needed to say something.

Ifan’s expression softened. Understanding, he gestured.

And somehow, that made everything worse.

"How is it," said Ifan, so quietly he barely heard it, "That you tell me you love me every day, but you stop doing it the second I say it back?"

Yeah. Nope. That–

That was too far, okay.

It was one thing to admit these things in the dark recesses of his mind. Spelling them out was another thing entirely. It broke an agreement as old as humanity itself. These things could be laughed and sung and joked about, but not said aloud in a dark room with no escape.

"I–"

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it.

Rationally, Francis knew that Ifan loved him. He wasn’t exactly subtle. It was in his words, in his careful touches in passing, in the passion he pulled him close with, in the way his eyes found his in a crowded room, the pure adoration in the way Ifan looked at him. Like he’d traveled the whole continent and never seen anything so beautiful.

Francis couldn’t hold a candle to the man Ifan thought he was.

And just when he was about to tell him so, Ifan elegantly raised himself from the floor and smiled at him, one hand extended to help him up so he wouldn’t hurt himself, got Francis to his feet and stepped up to him, brushed his jawline with deft fingers. The way he looked at him was almost too much to bear.

"You’re incredible," Ifan voiced his thoughts.

And Francis knew a hand extended when he saw one, with Ifan’s favorite game especially, saying the most outlandishly romantic things to him, in a voice like velvet, until he lost his fucking mind.

This was familiar territory.

Francis reached out and grabbed his necklaces, pulled him in for a kiss.

It started out gentle. Running his tongue along his bottom lip until his mouth opened to invite him. Francis tugged him closer, a soft moan echoing through his skull as he kissed him deeper, Ifan catching his lip between his teeth the tighter he pulled him in.

He basked in it.

In Ifan melting into his touch, his shoulders sinking, grasping him a little harder, his clever tongue whispering a sensual and continuous encouragement. He felt the smile growing on his face rather than see it, before Ifan’s hand landed on his chest and he gently pushed him off.

What a sight he was.

With his head tipped back, his pupils blown, and a breathless little laugh. Francis leaned in closer, but Ifan held him back. He tilted his head, considering something.

"Go sit on the bed."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me."

And – that was new.

It wasn’t like Francis didn’t remember Ifan’s distinct talent to give an order with quiet, unobstructed authority. It just slipped his mind, every now and then. Ifan knew what he wanted, and was just as good at gently guiding Francis into it as outright commanding him – though it rarely lasted long, if Francis did his job well enough.

"Damn," said Francis. "Okay."

He didn’t scramble, alright. He just sat down a little faster than he’d planned to. Ifan chuckled, and slowly stalked towards him, eyes intensely fixed on his.

Francis’ guts made an unexpected loop. He’d be lying if he said that Ifan wasn’t insanely attractive like this, all fierce and demanding, but well – Francis himself was usually of the opposite persuasion. Different tastes, and all. While Ifan found relief in giving up control, he found mostly anxiety. A fine arrangement on most days.

"Not that I’m eager to get in the way of whatever you’re up to," he suddenly found the ability to say, his nerves winning out, "But where is this going, exactly?"

Ifan stopped in front of him, face softening into a smile.

"You won’t believe me when I tell you." He leaned down and gently kissed Francis’ forehead, then cupped his face in his hands to tilt it up. "So I’m going to show you."

Francis unsuccessfully tried to cover his blush with a crooked grin.

"Show me what? That I’m an emotionally stunted disaster? I’m afraid you’re not the firs–"

And before Francis had the opportunity to protest, Ifan swung himself around the bedpost nestled in behind him, dipping the mattress. Carefully avoiding his back, he leaned forward, warm breath ghosting over his skin, hands settling on his thighs soft as a summer breeze.

"Francis, my love," he whispered, "Shut up."

The back of his knuckles brushing over his legs, then wrapping warm around his waist. Francis stopped breathing. And Ifan must’ve noticed it, because he stopped in his movement as well.

"Don’t worry," he reassured him, "I’m going to be nothing but nice to you."

Like he didn’t know damn well that was what scared them both the most.

Ifan pushed his hair aside and kissed his neck. Ever so gently, moving down towards his shoulders, pausing here and there to lightly nip at his skin, and Francis remembered with a sudden and all-encompassing urgency what he’d held off on doing the night before. No one like Ifan to give him a taste of his own medicine.

"You tell me. Why do you think I love you?"

Ifan’s tone was playful, but the gravity behind it never left. And Francis tried to come up with an answer, but Ifan’s hands were on his bare skin, lighting fires as they went, and those lips brushing his pulse point might as well have been the edge of a knife.

"Come on. Just one thing–"

Fingers tracing the line of hair running down his belly. Sharp teeth, tugging lightly at the skin behind his ear. Francis gasped in surprise, eyes falling shut as Ifan’s legs enveloped him, his body radiating heat even a careful inch away from Francis’ freshly sutured back.

"Nothing come to mind?" Ifan teased. "Really? I thought you were supposed to be clever."

Yeah, that did it. Francis turned around to shut him up, raised one hand to grab his shoulder, but Ifan caught his wrist mid-air and threw him a wide and thoroughly irritating grin.

Sure, Ifan had a unique talent for pissing him off just enough that he forgot his good intentions, and he made frequent use of it to get what he wanted. Not with this, apparently.

He was completely serious about this.

Francis rolled his eyes.

"That’s unfortunate," said Ifan, brought his wrist up to his lips and kissed it. "Fine. I’ll tell you myself. Think you can take it, Lowbridge?"

"Oh, fuck off," growled Francis.

Ifan laughed, and ran his tongue over one of his pointed teeth. "Look, I’m trying to make a point here. You’re being very rude."

"Do you know who you’re talking to?"

Ifan’s hand landed on his mouth, all of a sudden, and the wet stroke of his tongue against his neck and the scrape of his beard made it so he didn’t even mind. Francis gasped in surprise, muffled by his palm.

"I love how stubborn you are," purred Ifan against his ear. "And as much as I wish you’d just shut up and listen sometimes, it’s one of my favorite things about you."

He released his hand to run his fingers down his clavicles, blunt nails scraping further down his chest, light and enticing before coming to rest on his ribs.

"You don’t do anything halfway," Ifan continued between kisses, and Francis was too distracted to stop him, "You don’t give up. You’re proud, and courageous, and no matter how much you pretend otherwise, you care so, so deeply. About everything."

One hand slipping under the seam of his pants, teasing him with circular movements. Francis’ breath caught in his throat, he felt the blush creep in, and gave a breathless laugh.

"Well, you have – unique taste."

Ifan’s fingers ran over the sensitive inside of his thigh, and Francis was so preoccupied with the burning embarrassment in his chest that the twitch of his dick caught him by complete surprise. Not that it should have, really. Ifan grinned.

"I love how easy it is to make you blush," he informed him, completely unbothered. "With just a word or two." His fingers wandered over his hipbones, then lightly threading through the hair between them. Francis bucked his hips, making him chuckle. "I love riling you up like this. Especially because you pretend to hate it, when we both know that’s not the case."

The fucking audacity.

"I’ll make you blush in a second, ben-Mezd," Francis snapped back, catching his arm in his hand and tried to turn around, but was stopped by Ifan’s hand holding him still and the other suddenly around the base of his dick. Just a light press, enough to make him spasm.

"I’m sure you will," said Ifan, sounding so smug it was fucking unbearable, "Soon as you learn to take a compliment without threatening me."

Francis inhaled sharply when Ifan ran his finger along the length of him, grinding his teeth, setting everything in him on fire, "I swear by the fallen, if you don’t –"

No way to hold in the moan when Ifan stroked him with his whole hand, no way to stop his head falling back, no way. Ifan kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

"I love your smell," he whispered. "Feels like home, every time you’re next to me."

"Oh gods," rasped Francis.

"And the way you look at me." Ifan tilted his face toward him. "You make me feel loved in a way I never imagined, without saying a single thing. You’re so thoughtful, and never expect anything in return, but you deserve the world for it. I’d give it to you, if you’d let me."

He was burning. He was melting under Ifan’s hands, like in a fever, the feather-light stroke of his fingers, the brush of his lips, so gentle that he might explode. Ifan touched him like – something revered. He looked at him like something holy.

And there was still a piece of him refusing to take it.

"I’ll never get tired of looking at you," Ifan informed him. "How your face lights up when you talk about something that’s important to you. Your lips. That twitch in your eyelid when you’ve decided you’re not gonna let something go. Your little frown. And that devil smile of yours."

The sound coming out of his mouth at that was something Francis immediately swore no one else was ever going to hear. He was almost too distracted to feel the heat build inside him, the drag of Ifan’s fingers where he touched him slow enough to make him audibly pant.

"Your hands, when you’re working, or when you lick your finger before turning a page," hummed Ifan, grasping him tighter and making him moan relentlessly. "Or when you fuck me."

Francis reached up to grab at him, desperately holding on, fisting his hand into his hair to hear Ifan’s breath stutter as well, eyes rolling back slightly before he caught himself and winked. Oh, he knew what he was doing. And it worked like a charm.

"So careful," He laughed. "Curious, too. Like it turns you on to find new ways of driving me crazy. Not that I’m complaining."

"Glad to be of service," Francis hissed with far less snark than he’d intended.

"You are, ain’t you." The wolfish smile against his skin. "You’d do anything for me."

Fuck. He would. He really, really would. And something inside him screamed to tell him so, only, Ifan jerked him faster while Francis held on for dear life, with no way to hold back the moans spilling out from his mouth, closer and closer. It crashed into him like a wave.

"I’m gonna –"

And that was it. Ifan left him hanging there on the teetering edge of what would’ve been a mind-blowing orgasm. Francis cried out when he removed his hand, yanking his head toward him to sink his teeth into Ifan’s shoulder hard enough to bruise until it ebbed, his heartbeat thrumming through his ears to the tune of Ifan’s downright filthy moan.

It almost broke him, eyes shut and mouth wide open while Francis ripped his head back and bared his throat, but he saw the twitch in his lip, determined to bring this to an end. Ifan opened his eyes, breathing heavily, the glint of mischief clear to see there.

"I love your marks on me," he challenged in a raspy whisper, "I love knowing you want me so badly you write it on my skin for days. That I’m all yours, and you’re all mine."

Francis crushed his lips in a kiss that was almost violent, the pull in his skin the only thing holding him back. Ifan arched his spine, gruffly moaning into it, pushing back against his demanding tongue. Francis tasted blood – and saw it glisten against Ifan’s lip when he stopped him with a sudden push against his chest and held him at a distance, eyes wide and feverish.

Ifan grinned.

"I love the way you feel inside me," he continued. "and the pleasure you take in it. The noises you make. When you come undone, don’t hold back, and don’t stop until you make me scream."

"You better believe I’m gonna make you scream," growled Francis and pushed forward, but Ifan caught him by the back of his neck like a wet cat and kept him right where he was.

"Ma halam," he scolded lightly. "I wasn’t finished."

"When I’m through with you," Francis hissed back, "You’re gonna be begging me to finish."

He caught himself, slightly startled by his own words, and made the gesture that sought permission. Ifan winked, and gave it to him.

"I know. You’d give me anything I want." He chuckled. "Well. Almost anything."

Francis bristled with impatience, trying to shrug him off. "Then how about you stop talking and let me make you forget your own fucking name."

Ifan’s eyes flicked upwards, considering it.

"No," he decided.

"Uh," said Francis, blindsided but willing to admit he’d been a little intense. "Okay."

Ifan barked a laugh, and ran a hand through his hair, lightly brushing his mouth with a thumb.

"I mean, I will," he clarified, "But not until you say it."

Francis raised an eyebrow.

"Tell me that I love you," Ifan ordered, "More than anything."

"Oh, come on."

"Say it."

Ifan got closer to his face. His thumb still pushing into his lower lip, and Francis’ cheeks were burning with the fierce embarrassment that hit him every time he did this, while Ifan caught him in his sharp eyes with no escape. Francis swallowed sharply.

"You love me," he breathed, barely audible. "More than anything, unfortunately."

Ifan shook his head with a grin. "Try again."

"Fine," he groaned and threw his hand up flippantly. "You love me more than anything."

"That sounded like you’re telling me to go fuck myself. Which I might," he added playfully, "If you don’t put some effort in and say it like you mean it."

Francis had the urge to bite his fucking finger off, reminding himself that that would’ve been fair game as far as being even was concerned, took a deep breath, and said it like he meant it.

"You love me. More than anything."

Ifan’s face lit up in pure joy, and he leaned forward to place a gentle peck on his forehead.

He did, didn’t he. It was undeniable. Ifan loved him to an almost concerning degree, and in that moment, it was brutal, beautiful, universal truth. Francis laughed, half startled and half in relief, but the look on Ifan’s face was absolutely worth the terror of admitting it.

That hadn’t been so hard, had it? If that was all it took to make him smile like that–

"That’s better." Ifan beamed at him. "Now tell me you’re the most beautiful man in the world."

"Don’t push it," snapped Francis. He looked down on the mattress, and Ifan’s good-natured snort gave him the kick he needed. "I love you too."

Ifan pulled his shirt over his head.

There was a certain science attached to never making empty threats.

It was important, as a rule. Just like you never drew a weapon without being prepared to use it. But Francis – who made empty threats on a near daily basis as part of his charm – was remarkably stubborn about this basic command of survival on one occasion only.

And Ifan had, maybe, admittedly, miscalculated a little.

He’d craved sex like this today, skin prickling with the familiar itch for intensity, hard and fast and a little aggressive. And frankly, considering the effort he’d put in, it all should have been over rather quickly.

It wasn’t.

Francis committed to his bit so thoroughly it was hard to believe how impatient he’d been mere minutes ago, fixed Ifan’s hands to the headboard with his belt, which – damn. Not that he needed it to stay where he was, but…

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. Ifan was lost the second Francis put his mouth on him, both of them still riding a wave of adrenaline from the day’s events that made it downright unbearable to keep still. He was everywhere. Straddling him first, kissing him hungrily, grinding against him with his full weight and sending strikes of pleasure through him with each movement until Ifan’s brain went out of the window, then working his way down. There was nothing, nothing but his hands on Ifan’s skin, cutting, comforting and unpredictable, and Ifan basked in it, letting himself drift until–

Francis bit into the inside of his thigh.

Ifan’s eyes snapped open, to the sight of him sucking a bruise into the very spot where – "Fuck," he gasped, teeth and tongue grinding into his flesh with utter dedication. Francis pulled away to grin at him, slammed his raised hips back down on the bed, and leaned down to do it again. Ifan clenched his jaw and hissed through his teeth, pain and pleasure tearing at the sensitive skin. When Francis pulled away, the air stinging into his bites, he cried out without meaning to.

"Oh, darling," teased Francis. "What will the neighbors think."

Ifan watched him through a haze. He looked like royalty there, he thought. Fucking sublime, enthroned between his legs with dazzling confidence and an impish smile, arms on his knees, eyes heavy with desire. Ifan drew in a sharp breath, got a hold of himself and gave Francis a salacious grin in return.

"Francis, sulahn-mir," he promised, "You’re gonna be on first name basis with the entire building if you keep this up. Don’t blow your stitches, alright?"

"Don’t come until I tell you to," Francis replied with a grin of his own, "And I’ll think about it."

Ifan raised his eyebrow. Francis leveled him with a glance, down his entire body – intense enough that Ifan felt it – and lightly patted his hip.

"Fuck, you’re pretty like this. Turn over."

Ifan was in love.

He felt everything. The strain in his shoulders, arms crossing over his head when he turned, Francis’ fingers running over every single vertebrae in his spine with almost agonizing gentleness as he arched his back. Francis drew away, and left him there for a short moment, biting his lip and sinking into the pull of anticipation, until he felt him settle back on the bed.

Francis pulled his hips up. With a sudden, rough movement, pressing against him. Ifan moaned, his face pressed into the mattress, felt his weight on him, hands digging into his waist as he leaned forward.

"If it gets too much," Francis bit lightly at his earring, wrapping it around his tongue, and pushed him down deeper, "Knock on wood."

Ifan chuckled at his confidence – followed by Francis grabbing his hair and snapping his head up with a sharp tug. Ifan squirmed against him with a broken gasp, and Francis’ breath against his neck sent a wave of shivers down the arch of his back.

"Did you hear what I just said?"

Ifan grinned, felt his lip twitch with the sensation.

Oh, he liked him like this.

"Loud and clear," he declared.

The diplomatic way, and as it turned out later, all too full of himself. Denial did funny things to him. He had no problem begging effusively if it wasn’t serious, but if challenged, he’d be damned if he gave an inch. Francis seemed to know it, too. Scratch that, he definitely did.

"Good."

He let go of his hair. Ifan’s head fell with a light groan, and Francis took that opportunity to pinch his nipple without warning, Ifan bit the sheets to muffle the startled curse. Hell’s dogs, he thought, I should be mean to him more often, and then stopped thinking much at all when Francis pressed the entire side of his palm against his asshole while rolling his nipple between his nails, searing, white-hot pleasure - his hand retreated from Ifan’s chest, slapped down between his shoulders, raked down his back with enough pressure to draw blood, and a single, slicked up finger pushed into him with sternly contrasting gentleness. Ifan cried out, the edges of the belt biting his wrists as he tore against it, and everything in him contracted in a punch of ecstasy.

End him thrice. He only had good ideas.

"Bit impatient, are we?"

"Oh, you think?" Ifan hissed, surprising himself with it, then went back to writhing into the sheets when Francis drew back and twisted two fingers into him with a concerningly menacing giggle. Ifan was a patient man – but above all, he was a glaring hedonist.

"Feels good," he panted, "Give me more, if you–" Francis crooked his fingers, dragging them out slowly, drove them back into him, right against the spot that made him see stars. Ifan almost toppled over from it, let out a strangled gasp, dragging himself back up on his elbows, and Francis decisively slapped the inside of his thigh, right against the bruises. Ifan moaned from the bottom of his chest.

"I will," he heard. "Spread your legs."

It was in this moment, that Ifan first entertained the possibility of having bitten off more than he could chew. Francis was all around careful with him. Almost soft, compared to some of his former partners. But if he knew one thing, it was that with a bet to win and a point to prove, Francis was out for blood.

His nails dragging over the back of his already twitching thigh, he lined himself up against him while Ifan leaned forward with his legs apart. His eyes rolled back in pleasure at the hint of a push, a light pull at his hip, signaling him to settle on his dick at his own pace.

That pace currently being – as fast as possible, as deep as possible, and with some to spare. Ifan sank his teeth into his bottom lip, a pleasant, slightly painful stretch, a light retreat, and Ifan pushed back and sunk down against him with a deep, content moan.

"Remember. Knock if it’s too much. And don’t come until I tell you to."

"Yes," he whispered immediately, clenching around him, moving his hips and struggling to adjust, but Francis firmly stilled his efforts and clicked his tongue.

"Easy," he warned.

That simple word alone did something to him. He almost gave in right then and there, the game be damned - Ifan tensed up, trembling in place, with nothing to distract him from the lure of pressure inside him. It took everything he had to just stay still, the slightest shift in weight sending a shiver through him. He tore at the belt around his wrists to give him anything, anything at all. Oh, this was not going to be over quick.

"Move," he begged, heard his voice drop by an octave and ending in a groan, feeling his back strain between opposing commands, when Francis grabbed his hips and let him slide off his dick with no intention to indulge him. Ifan let out a long, frustrated whimper. Francis positioned himself again with a sound of satisfaction, just the tip still inside him and holding him still by the soft flesh of his inner thigh, twisting it enough to make him buckle, and then pulling him back sharply on his cock. Ifan almost sobbed from it.

"I feel like there’s a nicer way of saying that."

That was all it took, to flip the lever.

"Na sumeil, d'van-ethma," spat Ifan, ground his teeth together and glared at him over his shoulder as best he could, only to almost bang his head against the bedframe when Francis snapped his hips forward without warning, fucking him just like he wanted it, making him cry out, again, his shoulders sinking, a burst of held-back pleasure tearing at his insides, "Fuck, I hate you."

Francis stilled in his movement, again. Ifan hissed.

"No, you don’t."

He sounded – timid. Admittedly, Ifan would’ve been hard-pressed to make any sort of reliable observation right now, but that rare hesitant tone snapped him right back to the present. Shit. Those weren’t words that were meant for him.

"No, I don’t," he agreed breathlessly. "Got carried away. Love you. You’re doing great."

Francis’ quiet laugh reassured Ifan enough to relax a little. "Good," he simply declared, and pressed into him again, shifting his position. "Want me to keep going?"

Ifan almost bit his own tongue.

"Ma ena din’an-mir," he growled, "yes, you’re–"

In the end, Francis indulged him either way. That was half the fun for him, Ifan was reasonably sure, and didn’t quite know how he’d gotten this lucky – but he didn’t have much time to think about it, either. He threw his head back in a wild moan on the first, langurous stroke. Francis fucked him with a passion, slowly at first, then deep and indulgent, then with short, brutal thrusts. Every impact of his hips sending a rush of pleasure through him, each more intense than the last as he shifted to catch the right spot, holding him down with one hand between his shoulders. The thrill of it took over any notion of time and place. Francis took him apart without mercy, and Ifan moaned his encouragement and indignation, and his name, muscles quivering, the bed cracking at the hinges, each slap of flesh against flesh pushing him further up the mattress.

And then, Francis slid his whole hand down his dick.

Ifan’s entire body jerked upwards, a startled cry ripped from his chest, and Francis took that opportunity to catch his other nipple in his fingers. Oh, grant him guidance.

That was just disrespectful.

He tensed his stomach, pushing back against the sensation with everything he had, drew in a shuddering breath through a bitten lip. Francis did it again, snatching a long, guttural moan from him. He felt every nerve beg him for release, and almost forgot to lose by the rules.

Ifan gasped for breath.

"Can I–"

"Absolutely not," said Francis, and slammed back into him.

His vision blanked, he cursed under his breath, low and ferocious enough to warrant caution from just about anyone else, followed by a string of short, abrupt moans as he set his punishing pace back in motion. He braced against the intensity of it, fell into it when he couldn’t anymore. Francis knew all of his buttons. He'd take what he wanted, he'd play him like a worn, beloved instrument to hear him moan and beg and curse for as long as he desired, and Ifan couldn't to do a damn thing about it. Francis slid his hand up and down the length of him, and Ifan focused anything that was left of his brain on the fingers sharply digging into his waist. The friction of his knees against the mattress. The pull in his arms, the light sting of the restraints.

He surrendered to it. Completely. He crashed into the tipping point – he stopped thinking at all, felt every beat of his heart and every contracting muscle. His knees buckled underneath him, the relentlessly pleasurable drag of Francis’ fingers paired with the hard, repetetive thrusts. He wanted more. He wanted less. He begged for both, in a storm of lust and despair. He told him to go fuck himself five different ways in two different languages.

Francis pulled his hips back up, and kept going.

His breathing, heavy and strained, but not nearly at the end of his rope. Ifan wasted little thought on how that was even possible. He was lost on the edge of frenzy,  and Francis didn’t even pause to say: "Look at you. What a beautiful mess."

His fingers pressing into his lower back as he leaned forward, biting down low between his neck and shoulders. "Do you want to come, Ifan?"

"Please." Ifan heard the ruined edge in his own voice. Francis slowed his pace, grabbed the back of his neck, pulled his head up and kissed his cheek. He didn’t see the smile. He heard it.

"Well, you can’t."

Ifan let his head hang in his grip. "Please," he gasped, eyes rolling back, sweat running down his face. His whole body was begging for it, and Francis only buckled down harder. "Please," he moaned, louder when he didn’t respond, until it turned into a cry, base and desperate, when he scraped the edge again. "I can’t –"

He remembered it at the last second, wrapped his fingers around the restraints and pulled himself up just enough to knock against the headboard, two times, like in the sparring ring. A deep whimper pressed out through tightly clenched teeth, spasms wrecking his shoulders and hips as Francis stopped fucking into him.

"Do you still want to come?"

"Please," repeated Ifan, because that was all he could say with passion on the reins, then remembered the basics of permission and etiquette for just long enough to add, "Yes."

"You sound gorgeous when you beg," said Francis lightly, and Ifan smirked despite it all, because that, if nothing else, he had on peer-reviewed authority. "Can you feel your hands?"

Ifan obediently tried it out, and nodded. He heard Francis mutter something under his breath. It didn’t sound like any word in the Common tongue, but Ifan wasted very little thought on that as well when Francis started moving again, grinding into him agonizingly slow. Ifan gasped for air like he’d been drowning.

"Breathe," ordered Francis. "Relax. It’s gonna feel better like that."

Couldn’t argue with that. Ifan took a deep breath, five seconds in, hold, and out. Felt the pull of his muscles give way to strung-out severity, conscious of every overstimulated nerve. A gentle hand on his shoulder was enough to make him moan, and Francis slid deep inside of him.

"That’s it. Come for me."

And then, without warning, Francis shoved him down and fucked him like he meant it. Deep, sharp thrusts, wrapping his hand around his straining erection in tune, holding him in place with a hand twisted into his hair, and Ifan – well. Ifan absolutely shattered.

He didn’t take it quietly, the sounds spilling out from his mouth higher, headier and more incoherent than they ever were when he was more in control of himself, but Francis allowed him exactly none of it, broke him into pieces and left nothing but want.

It didn’t even take a minute before he sent them both flying over the edge, fucking him through it until he collapsed, and Ifan was certain that he’d never hit the ground again. He heard himself cry out his name, short, fast, compulsive, Francis’ stuttering sound of relief, the uncontrollable tremor of his limbs, toe-curling, violent ecstasy, pulling air into his lungs so harshly he almost choked on it.

There was a ringing in his ears, his skin was buzzing, and he couldn’t have moved if he tried.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Flat on his stomach, Ifan felt his heartbeat drum against the pillow. Small tremors wrecking him through the afterglow. A long hiss escaped him when Francis carefully pulled out, too content with the rest of his feelings to note the pain in any meaningful way - plenty of time to feel it tomorrow. Gods. Francis pushed himself up with a muttered curse and a kiss on his spine and expertly undid the belt around his wrists. Before he could manage to, Ifan opened his eyes and looked up at him with a blissful grin.

"I’m a fucking genius."

Francis laughed. He cleaned them both up, noted Ifan trying to rub the blood back into his fingers, and sat down in front of him, holding out his own.

"Give me your hands."

He did. They weren’t numb, but cold and a little raw, and Francis did something with his fingers, until the warmth flooded back into his limbs, and Ifan let out a satisfied sigh before letting his head fall back down on the bed. Hands on his chest, breathing.

It didn’t even occur to him then.

In Ifan’s defense, very little occurred to him in general right now. Except that he was warm, and sore all over, but comfortable and very, very tired. Francis was leaned against the headboard, his hand lightly carding through Ifan’s hair.

"You were perfect," he murmured. "Did you like it?"

"Gods, you were evil," Ifan hummed, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I loved it."

"I think I prefer seeing your face. But you've been entirely too liberal in looking at me like I hung the moon today."

"Heh." Ifan blinked at him softly. "We'll make a romantic of you yet."

He enjoyed it in silence for a minute, the feeling of his hands on his scalp, the calming, distracted little kisses on his shoulder. He watched, through half-closed lids, how the flush on Francis’ cheeks grew a little darker, and his lips pulled into a smitten little grin.

"It’s a little concerning," he admitted with a laugh, "how much you like being controlled."

"Why?" Ifan shrugged. "You’re not gonna hurt me. At least, not in a way I don’t appreciate."

Francis smiled.

"I wanna know your secret." He let his fingers run softly over his forehead, brushing his hair back. "You’re fucking fearless, you know that? It’s not that I don’t trust you. I know you wouldn’t do anything I don’t like, not on purpose, but – to let myself fall, the way you can…" He trailed off.

Ifan chuckled.

"I won’t ask you to again, if you don’t like it," he said, his voice thoroughly fucked, and his heart full of affection. "It's easy to trust you. No matter what happens between us, the one thing you’ve never done is treat me like you don’t care about me." He snorted. "Which has its own charm, I’ll admit, but–"

Francis squinted at him.

"That’s a bit of a low bar, don’t you think?"

Ifan rolled his eyes.

"Maybe a little," he conceded. "But I know that if I let you take control, I’ll end up feeling good because of it. My pleasure is your pleasure. That’s why it’s easy."

Ifan turned slightly, and decided to expand on his vast understatement. "That," he declared, "Was one of the best orgasms I’ve had. I think. Not to mention right after you exacted revenge on my behalf. And with stitches in, no less." He chuckled. "How’s your back?"

"You’re not the only masochist in this bed," quipped Francis with a tinge of pride.

"M-hm. Clearly."

Ifan pulled himself up on his elbows with effort to kiss his forehead. Francis liked that, he knew, even if he’d die before admitting it out loud. He reached out to cup his face in one hand, kissed him slowly, deeply, sending the buzz through his skin once again. Francis hummed in satisfaction, and pushed him off the bed to change the sheets.

When he’d washed up and sat back down, Francis curled up next to him. One arm wrapped around him, nuzzling his nose against his hip. Ifan lightly caressed his head, and stared into the air. It was so loud here, he began to notice, the noise from the Brass Quarter’s busy streets ringing up through the closed windows even throughout the night. He wished, not for the first time, that he’d still have a crossbow to clean or a coin to flip. Ifan reached over on the nightstand, and rolled up two drudanae leaves into a piece of paper. A spark of the match, and the flame danced between his palms for a second when he lit it.

Francis raised his head.

He reached up, two fingers pointing in his direction, silently asking him to share. The wounds on his back weren’t deep, but they must have been painful nonetheless – especially after the absolute masterpiece Francis had just conducted on him, and Ifan was nothing if not grateful. Francis took the cigarette from him, inhaled a bit, leaned his head against the back of the bed and blew it out.

He looked beautiful. His face relaxed, as was so rarely the case. Safe, exhausted and at ease.

"You smoke a lot, these days," Francis said when he passed the cigarette back. Ifan took it and laid down on his back, looking at the ceiling. Watched the smoke curl up and dissipate into the darkness. He shrugged.

"Sorry. It comes and goes, you know."

"Just an observation." Francis hummed, placing his hand on Ifan’s chest, drawing gentle little circles there like he so often did. "Whatever it is, you’ll tell me if I can help, yeah?"

Ifan wiggled an eyebrow. "Believe me. You helped."

He was so good to him. Loving him fiercely as he was, with flaws, mistakes and all, and held them close to his heart, passing no judgement, but taking no shit. The least he could do was return the favor, and Ifan swore to himself that he would, whatever might happen.

And then, it hit him.

"Francis," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Did you…" He paused. It sounded ridiculous. "Did you use blood magic to fuck me longer?"

Francis cackled, and leaned down to kiss his shoulder. "Don’t worry. Just pushing my own blood from one place to another. No source, no repercussions."

Ifan snorted incredulously and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Lasa ghilan." He laughed, shaking his head. "I’m in love with a mad witch."

"Are you complaining?"

Ifan lazily swatted at him. The look on Francis’ face was self-assurance mixed with blatant satisfaction, and Ifan decided that encouraging it really only worked to his advantage. "Hm. Not at all." He smirked, bopped his nose, and passed him the cigarette. "You were amazing."

Francis took a light drag, grinned, and handed it back.

"Glad to hear it." He blew the smoke out. "It’s more common than you think. If you’ve ever been to a brothel, chances are you’ve met at least one blood mage working there."

"Of all the vaguely concerning things I’ve learned about you so far, that’s one of the least surprising," said Ifan, and reached up to stretch his shoulders. A satisfying snap as his joints popped back into place. "You’ve got people everywhere."

"Oi." Francis tapped his arm. "You got something against whores?"

"On the contrary," Ifan returned with a sly smile. "Their trade shares many a secret with mine."

"Good, because I won’t hear shit about it," declared Francis, earnestly impassioned. "Or else, we aren’t gonna get along. They run one of the most powerful guilds in the city, and simultaneously have it hard enough as is. I learned magic from a concubine, you know."

Ifan hummed curiously and leaned back, resting his head on one elbow. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Was it your…" He threw up a quick gesture of uncertainty, and took another long drag. "Your first love. Eshe. She was a concubine, wasn’t she?"

"No, not from her. And Eshe – she was a mostly dancer. But she’d earn a little extra from time to time. Same guild, you know. Made more money than me by far."

Ifan nodded.

"Did you… mind, at all?"

"It’s a dangerous profession." Francis replied with a shrug. "But so is being a freightloader. Or, you know, a mercenary."

As if to prove his point, Francis reached over and traced the scars on Ifan’s chest. The large and badly-stitched one on his abdomen, that had almost cost him his life back in Sinta. The starlike form of an old arrow wound. The warped, discolored skin patches where both Francis and Tarquin had done their best to save what could be saved.

Francis trailed a finger along his waist, down the inside of his thigh. He felt his hand hesitating there, over the place where he’d left a cluster of deep, red bruises, and the starkly raised mirthadra mark they covered. He saw the look on Francis’ face change, from endearment to concern, realization dawning on his face.

"That’s where the leg artery is," he muttered, absent-mindedly. "That must’ve been–"

"Painful?" Suggested Ifan with a light smile. "It was. But I do enjoy these things, you know."

"Insanely dangerous, I was going to say." Francis frowned. "By how deep this is – you could’ve bled out from that alone."

Ifan gave a tense laugh in return. "You’re not the only madman in this bed. But don’t worry. I’ve calmed down a little since, I like to think."

He finished off the last drag, stubbed out the cigarette in the plate on the nightstand. Exhaled slowly, letting the smoke flow over his lips. Ifan found much less discomfort in this conversation than he usually would have, his head and his heart still pleasantly clouded.

"And it wasn’t that dangerous. He was – a healer, and a great one. When he wanted to be."

He closed his eyes, evading Francis’ unchanged expression of concern.

"There’s this one moment – it’s interesting. After it gets too much, there’s bliss. Quiet." He hummed, gesturing to the ashtray. "Like an overdose. You feel everything, but also nothing. As if you’re falling, but you’re also – weightless. You know what I mean?"

"No," Francis said slowly. "I’m not sure I do."

"Probably better that way," Ifan acknowledged with a lazy grin.

They were silent for a while. Ifan let his mind drift off, with the cool, soft touches on his skin, strung out, exhausted and fully at ease. It was just – so nice. He didn’t know how long they’d been laying there like this, Francis nestled into the crook of his arm, head on his shoulder, his light weight comfortably settled against him.

"Ifan. Are you asleep?"

"Hm?"

He almost was. Francis kissed his neck, soft and reverent. A little sigh vibrating against his skin as he did. Ifan smiled gently and pulled him closer.

"Whatever happens, I just want to be here," said Francis. "With you."

And that, Ifan decided, was the only answer he needed.

What a beautiful thing it was, to be loved.

Chapter Text

Ifan didn’t dream.

Wouldn’t be forever, of course. Everything in its due time. They had things to do, and dreams were on the list of easier nuisances to avoid – nothing that a hint of drudanae and a day’s bone-deep exhaustion wouldn’t usually fix. Especially now, that the memories of those he’d honored echoed in his sleep, scattered, incoherent fragments of lives that weren’t his own.

He was aware, on some level, that he’d need to stop this soon. But the fate of the world hung in the balance and Ifan didn’t have time to spend his nights rolling in cold sweat and terror and afraid to close his eyes at all. Making sure that the worst it got to was a string of weird, confusing flashes of imagery and abstract emotion.

So Ifan didn’t dream.

Francis did.

More so, the further they ventured into Arx.

Ifan knew he had nightmares, even if it had taken him some time to figure out, because he reacted to them so differently. Ifan usually woke up either seeking comfort in his arms or, on his less dignified nights, keyed-up and unable to sit down or keep the air in his lungs until he’d walked circles under the open sky like a demented rat for half an hour, before hitting a pipe in Afrit’s company, hoping it would grant him an hour or two before sunrise.

Or simply finding something to do and giving up on sleep altogether.

Francis was so still. So silent.

Ifan woke up anyway, of course. Sometimes he’d pretend to move in his sleep, give him a gentle nudge to wake him when he heard his breathing grow ragged and felt him tremble. And Francis would curl into a ball with his back to him, moving to the edge of the bed, and stay completely still. He didn’t seek his embrace. He didn’t get up and move. He didn’t talk about it. Ifan didn’t ask.

Sometimes keeping your distance was the better comfort. He could understand.

But tonight, he gambled. Ifan pulled himself onto his arms and sat up, letting him know he was awake. The sheets rustled softly in his movement, a sharp disruption of the looming silence surrounding them.

He watched Francis stare holes into the empty air, and the glint of tears on his face he’d never even heard, let alone noticed before. Francis looked away. Turned his back to him again, moving to the edge of the bed like he always did, wiping the hem of the sheet over his face.

And Ifan felt his heart break a little.

Maybe it was selfish, the way he extended a hand hovering over his chest, waiting for a hint to leave it there, that the touch was welcome. Maybe he simply didn’t want to see him cry and not be able to do a single thing about it, and was asking to cross a year-old boundary here.

There was a moment’s hesitation.

Then, Francis took his hand and laid it on his chest, clutching it tightly, and Ifan moved closer to wrap his body around him. Sharing his warmth, and wanting above everything, for him to feel protected. He hadn’t known how much it could help, before Francis had started doing the same for him. Many years of sleeping alone as a refusal to show weakness seemed stupidly proud, all of a sudden.

"It’s not fair."

Francis’ voice, cracked between a confession and a whisper against the still of night. Ifan almost flinched at it, surprise rather than fear, but pulled him closer, wrapped him in his arms, and waited. Everyone had their secrets. Everything in its due time.

"That I know now." A quiet whisper, half-asleep. "But not then. I would’ve made it."

Ifan kissed his shoulder, held him close. Francis clutched his hand against his chest, and broke his heart a little more, breathless, barely audible, and so achingly familiar.

"I was almost there."

Francis didn’t think of himself, in any way, as a possessive man.

Quite the contrary. He was deeply against the notion that anyone should be beholden to anybody beyond what they were willing to commit of themselves, for some very personal and moral reasons. And if the feeling ever did spring up, he examined it with practised rationality, dealt with it accordingly and usually pushed it back in favor of granting the subject of his jealousy the autonomy that they deserved, please and thank you.

Even if he was grudgingly aware that he needed a certain amount of – attention, like anyone, as stupid as it was. Okay. He was a little clingy. Fine. Maybe he could be a little possessive, but no one needed to know. Didn’t mean his lovers had to suffer from it.

Ifan, however, did the opposite of suffer from it.

He relished it.

Ifan could be downright territorial. It went from little things like a hand on his back or his shoulder whenever he stood close, to the absolutely hilarious feud he carried out against Tarquin for reasons that definitely didn’t end with his general unlikablility. Ifan got along just fine with far more unpleasant folk, but Francis never commented on it – mainly because he thought it was funny that Tarquin had found his match in wit and pettiness in Ifan of all people. And because, well – it wasn’t uncomfortable.

There were other things.

Thinly-veiled threats and a hand on his weapon when someone so much as looked at Francis the wrong way. Unabashed declarations of I’m yours, frantic and impassioned in a heated moment, or heart-felt, wide-eyed things in a more peaceful one. 

No, it wasn’t simply not uncomfortable. That was a lie. It was exhilarating, especially because Francis absolutely returned the sentiment. Ifan knew he did. You’d do anything for me. It had been said teasingly, but not jokingly, because it was simply the entire truth.

That was just who Francis was, when he was in love. He gave it all, no questions asked, even if he rarely put it into words. And Ifan not only accepted what he offered, but reciprocated it.

What an odd feeling, to ask for what he wanted and then simply receive it.

Ifan was his. He was Ifan’s. It was – nice.

And he didn’t have to write it on his skin to remember.

He’d never cared to do so before, but Ifan almost preened with whatever bruises and scratches their nightly adventures left behind, and Francis couldn’t deny him a single damn thing, so he simply took care to place his signatures where they could easily be hidden.

Ifan, in turn, didn’t care for that whatsoever.

When he strutted down the stairs the next morning, he seemed absolutely determined not to give Francis a single moment of peace. He was wearing his fucking shirt. He’d gone out of his way to make sure that the neckline on said shirt sat way lower than even usual. He had his hair up, the maddening tease, stubborn strands of grey falling tantalizingly into his face. A bright cluster of bruises, low on the junction of his stupid neck, leaving absolutely no room for wrong assumptions about who and what he’d been doing last night, and a grin like the cat that got the cream as he slid into the booth across from him–

No. Francis wasn’t being rational about it.

Francis almost choked on his breakfast.

In all fairness, what could he have said? Good morning, you look absolutely debauched? Please, for the gods, cover your forearms, so I don’t drag you back up the stairs and absolutely ruin that fucking hairdo right this second?

"Oh, no. No, no, no."

Lohse’s resonant voice interrupted his train of thought, and she plopped down next to Francis, her breakfast plate in one hand and the other pointing at Ifan in near-accusation.

"Ifan, my friend. My comrade. We need to have a conversation." She took a hasty bite of bread, before continuing. "Look, I adore you both, and I love that you will eventually get married, get divorced five times, marry again and ultimately die in the middle of an argument. Don’t ask me how I know this, I just do. But please don’t get us kicked out of another tavern."

She raised her hands in silent prayer.

"I’m a trouper. I’ve lived my whole life surrounded by actors and artists. I’ve seen things. You name it, I’ve dealt with it, but I have never wanted to blast someone with a silencing ray this badly in my life. We’re trying to sleep. Next door to you."

Ifan didn’t look apologetic in the slightest. Francis raised his hand to say something in his stead, to save the situation, but Lohse decisively silenced him with a snap of her fingers.

"And you, Lowbridge. Don’t start acting innocent with me. I don’t wanna know what vile magic you’re practicing on him, but I know he’s not howling at the moon like that of his own accord."

Ifan tipped two fingers to his temple.

"You’d be surprised," he returned smoothly, and Francis snorted his tea out of both nostrils.

Lohse pulled an indignant grimace and looked between the both of them, shaking her head in disapproval, then dug into her breakfast with a resounding Blegh.

"Atish’an elgara," greeted Sebille.

"Atish’an elvarel-ma," Ifan returned, and calmly poured himself a glass of tea.

"Put a gag on him, or something," grunted Lohse. "I don’t care."

Sebille snickered, elegantly slipped into the booth next to Ifan and clapped him on the shoulder before reaching for the tea pot. "Best heed her words," she stated factually. "Who knows what the demon might compel her to do."

"It’s not funny, Sebille. I do need my eight hours. You try holding an archdemon at bay for a year. By all that is holy, have some respect. And pass the cheese. It’s the least you could do."

Tarquin was out looking for a forge to rent, to continue his work on Anathema. Jahan hadn’t returned from his hunt, and Malady was off doing gods-knew-what. It felt like old times, with just the four of them, distracting themselves from world-altering events with a little bickering over a well-deserved breakfast before hitting the road again. How curious a thought that was, considering that they’d only met a relatively short time ago. It could’ve been peaceful. It could have been sweet, and a little domestic.

But Ifan had to stretch.

And Francis had no choice but to watch his own shirt cling to the planes of his chest and the graceful flex of his muscles and the wicked glint in his eye that let Francis know the game was back on.

This wasn’t the same man he’d met in Fort Joy – skittish, self-contained and bitter under his warm laughter and his suave deflections, who’d blushed the second Francis made an innuendo and hid his face in his beard when he received a compliment. This was more than he’d bargained for, and he wasn’t sure if he’d survive it.

Gods. Get a hold of yourself.

There were a million other things to think about. Like the fact that the taproom of the Secret Corner, even early in the morning, was abuzz with rumors of something monumental. There were patrons leaned over the counter, a group of old women over their breakfast ale, the hushed whispers of the coalman exchanged with the innkeeper, and he caught a few words of it, with the gossip-trained ear of someone able to read a room in seconds. Gods bless the latent boredom and morbid curiosity of Arx and her people.

Someone had set fire to the barracks of the Holy Guard.

Voidwoken? Magisters? The Scarlet Faction? The pyres themselves? No one seemed to know any specifics, but he listened to the speculations with a fair amount of satisfaction. Certain he’d picked up on it as well, Francis shared a knowing smile with Ifan.

And suddenly, he didn’t seem so changed after all. The look on his face, the very same one he’d had when they’d met – leaned against a wall with effortless grace, a conspiratorial wink and sharing the same smile without ever having said a word to him. We know, said that smile.

Ah, he’d missed it. Reputation.

And it wasn’t long until their conversation returned to the matter at hand.

"So. Now we know what Dallis is up to." Lohse folded her hands and rested her chin on them contemplatively. "Purge the source from Lucian’s cold dead corpse, and we have no idea on how she plans to do it. I mean, by all her sanctimony. It’s not like she’d pass the Path of Blood. Pretty sure I can think of a hundred sins she’s committed off the top of my head."

Ifan hummed in agreement.

"Unless," said Lohse, "It doesn’t count ‘cause she’s his mortal representation, or whatever."

Francis sighed, and leaned back on the bench.

"Yup. Glad you’ve all understood the fundamentals of our holy city. The higher up you get, the less religious they become. Especially in the clergy. It’s not like they need to stick to the rules when they’re the ones making them."

Sebille tilted her head slightly, and entered the conversation.

"She no longer does. Power has changed – Dallis can no longer simply walk up to the cathedral and take what she wants. And neither can we, I suppose."

"We have one advantage," said Ifan. One finger tapped against his cup in deliberation. "We may not know how she’ll try to gain entry, but we do know when she’ll try."

"Great, yes. Do continue speaking in riddles, chief."

"Lucian’s Day."

Of course. The one day where the sanctuary of the Cathedral stood open, and hundreds of strangers flooded the Path of Blood with prayer.

"If I were Lord Kemm," Ifan continued, "I’d make sure that everything runs smoothly. Show that under the paladins’ rule, the city was thriving. He’ll do whatever he can to open the gates just in time. Which means, he’ll have his eyes on something else." He shrugged. "They’ll be weak. Distracted. Perfect time for us to strike."

Something suddenly occurred to Francis.

"Speaking of a strike. You know who else has a problem with Kemm?"

The others shot him a questioning look.

"The Seafarer’s Union. Kemm and his wife own half the shipping trade. Maybe bringing them to the table isn’t such a bad idea after all."

It wasn’t his proudest night.

Francis could admit to that. As it turned out, just being smart really wasn’t enough. At the beginning of the new semester, his patronage by some bleeding-hearted noble that Sandor secured had long ended. And he’d been far too full of himself thinking he could pass the exam without studying at all while scratching his tuition fee together at the card tables.

Now, he was drowning his sorrows surrounded by Sandor’s little entourage of radicals and academy misfits. He took the drinks bought by them, the sympathetic hands on his shoulder, and ignored the advice. They were the only friends he’d made, with most of the other students too busy regarding him with either envy, suspicion or disdain, and on most days, they were good company. Tonight, he was lonelier than ever.

"It’s one exam, Cisc. Just take it next semester."

Sandor exchanged a glance with him, but didn’t say anything. Francis sighed and buried his face in his hands. Filipa stepped up to him and tousled his hair affectionately.

"Don’t be so hard on yourself. It happens to everyone, and you should be proud, considering how far you’ve come. I’m sure your folks in Lowbridge would be."

On another night, he would’ve forced a smile and taken the misguided compliment for what it was – well-intended, ill-delivered. A respite, at least, from compulsively defending the place that had brought him into this world from people wanting nothing more than for it to sink into the river. But not tonight. Tonight, his anger breached containment.

"Fuck Lowbridge," said Francis. "I’d burn it all down if I could."

Filipa raised an eyebrow.

"Isn’t that a little… harsh? They’re just people."

Francis knocked his drink back in one, stood up and regarded her with a long, disdainful look. From the way he swayed while doing so, he could’ve predicted where this night would end.

"You don’t get it," said Francis.

And left without another word.

Fascinating, how his feet always carried him back to the familiar in times of trouble. He entered Lowbridge by way of the docks, a long, thoughtless detour around the Bridgepost, balancing over the rotten planks. A miracle he didn’t fall.

He wasn’t picky tonight.

The first docker’s pub he came across was just an open shack with a few chairs and crates, the colorful light of the bottleglass lanterns dancing on the icy wind. Francis got another drink and sat down on the edge of the planks, in the warmth of a barrel fire, feet dangling above the the sluggish, tamed waves of the Olmere.

Lowbridge was a village. He was recognized before too long, by one of the regulars at the Bridgepost Tavern, a stout, brown-eyed young sailor with her hair in a bonnet – he’d forgotten her name. Funny, how that went, because she certainly hadn’t forgotten his.

He didn’t ask. They shared a bottle of mulled wine.

Francis was three sheets to the wind, and deeply, embarrassingly homesick. It should've warmed his heart in the cold, knowing he’d been missed, listening to the many speculations of where he’d gone since disappearing half a year ago, falling back into his language as easy as breathing with someone who spoke it naturally, not as a joke or an imitation.

Gods, it should’ve been.

"Still spinning tales with the best of them, Junior," quipped the sailor, "But what have you really been up to? If I can be so forward, you lying sack of shit."

Francis laughed in response, and pulled his jacket open to reveal the academy tailcoat underneath he hadn’t bothered to take off. Rumpled, but obsessively clean, the embroidered coat of arms flashing in the low light.

"Well, I’ll be." An impressed whistle through her teeth. "Where’d you go and nick that?"

"The academy, asshole. Where I fucking study."

She pursed her lips and handed him the bottle.

"Must be nice," she muttered absent-mindedly. "Being the first Lowbridge professor. You’re gonna be archmage, or whatever the fuck. Not running yourself ragged with the rest of us."

Francis gave her a long look, and emptied it out.

"Nah," he decided. "You don’t get it either."

The air was on the cusp of winter, biting his hands through the pockets of his coat, and a narrow ray of pink shone over the horizon. He should just go home. Right. He was going to go home, pass out for the night and wake up tomorrow with bags of regret under his eyes, bemoan his fate and then pull himself together and go back to class to repeat a semester of things he thought he’d already known. He’d just take a few detours, on the way.

There weren’t a lot of detours left.

It was a hobby, at this point, no longer a necessity – but the city was abundant enough in unknown alleys and dark corners to last a lifetime. Somehow, he’d missed this one until today. He almost walked past it, did a double take when he spotted a glimpse of a familiar figure in the midst of a group of well-dressed pedestrians.

It couldn’t be. Francis had spent hours searching the halls of the academy, and eventually heard that Chelo had set out to work on an excavation. It didn’t bother him terribly. A childhood crush remained just that, after all. Yet, there he stood – in the silk headwrap and the same low-cut vest he’d worn on the day he’d first seen him, and Francis, drunk off his ass, had only one path left to take.

"Chelo?"

The archeologist froze in the middle of his laugh, raised an eyebrow in his direction. A question, clearly, of do we know each other, mixed with the practised caution of someone who was aware he stood out like a sore thumb in his own idea of beauty on the regular.

"Uh. You probably wouldn’t remember me." Francis slurred, "But you sort of saved my life?"

It didn’t seem to click just yet. Granted, his eloquence had clearly taken several dampers throughout the evening.

"Francis," he elaborated helplessly, "From the Bridgepost Tavern. You gave me books."

Chelo’s piercing blue eyes, widening in understanding as he took in the drunken man before him. He turned away from his friends, towards him – and smiled, so devastatingly beautiful.

"Oh, yes! Of course I remember. I do hope you enjoyed them."

Francis gave a nervous laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. I’m – a student, now." He kicked his feet, hoped that the explanation would suffice, and that his face conveyed all the things he didn’t dare say out loud. "Archeology."

"Really?"

Chelo sounded genuinely happy for him, as far as he could tell. Francis felt a warmth rise up in his chest he hadn’t felt in a long time. Like a new path had opened before him, and had changed the face of his world as he knew it forever.

"I suppose we haven’t seen the last of each other, then. It’s a rather small field." Chelo paused, seemed to take him in fully. Evaluating him not in confusion or suspicion, but curiosity. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy, because Chelo blessed him with another smile.

A smile like a shared secret, like a conspiracy.

A smile like he got it.

"Well, I’m back in town for the week. A break from the dust pans." A gentle, airy laugh. "We’re headed to the Starling – I assume you are, as well?"

"The… Starling?"

That had been the wrong answer. Shit.

"Oh. I’m sorry." The apprehension in Chelo’s face had returned, before he continued, much more quietly than before. "I assumed wrong. But I’m sure you’ll find your way there in time."

Francis had, clearly, failed the test.

"You could show me the way," he returned, subconsciously aware of how desperate it sounded – and not being able to bring himself to care, because he absolutely was. Desperate to be part of that elusive, mesmerizing epiphany that Chelo radiated, seeming to have it all figured out.

"You’ll find it when you’re ready." Chelo smiled, a little ruefully. "I’ll see you around, Francis. Have a good night."

Francis stood, and watched them walk away, shattering to pieces. He was suddenly, crushingly aware of the true depth of his loneliness. It raged through him like a wildfire, burned up his chest, grasping the smallest straw. This had nothing to do with a crush he’d had years ago.

This was a matter of life and death.

He waited until they’d turned the corner, sank into the shadows, and followed.

Francis understood.

This was it. This was the mystery he’d been grasping for his entire life. The one that lingered in the shadow of his doubts, day and night, the loneliness, the hunger for belonging that could be sated by nothing, the certainty that this wasn’t all there was. That something was missing, and he just wasn’t looking hard enough.

Francis found the secret to the universe in the blue hours of the morning, drunk as shit in an underground hall lit in red lanterns that could only be entered through a series of dark alleyways.

The Starling Inn.

Artists and whores and aristocrats and mavericks and those in between, men who looked like women, women who looked like men, some that had changed their lot at birth forever like it had never existed, some that looked like they’d given up on such arbitrary definitions altogether and reached divinity through it, crammed together in a smoky, sweaty room too small to hold their wings.

Francis belonged nowhere.

Francis belonged here.

This was his moment of revelation. How stupid he’d been, to think that he was the only one in this gods-damned world whose skin felt to small to hold his contradictions. Everyone here had felt it, and had been brave enough to go looking for a way to break out. He’d been called arrogant and ostentatious, and he looked like a wallflower compared to those surrounding him.

They were royalty in their own right. And the royals had a queen.

The music stopped for her arrival. All festivity grew quiet, all whispering in synchronized awe, and her name carried through the crowd as the curtains opened.

Eshe. Eshe. Eshe.

She wore it with such ease. The attention of the crowd, the blinding alchemic stagelight exposing all of her, beauty and sharp edges in a halo. The red dress fluttering with every movement, framing her in all her grace. She was dangerous. She was breathtaking. She was the sun itself, and Francis had the urge to squint and cover his eyes lest his heart would stop.

He didn’t. He took it all, and let himself die a little.

When Eshe danced on her own, the world quieted to heed her call. She made the air crack with static like a thunderstorm, she made them understand, and long for something at the edge of the unknown. She controlled every step, every flick of her fingers, every bow and circle of her hips with utter perfection and made it look easy as breathing. And when the song ended, the queen looked for her chosen of the night. Her favor was fickle, letting her gaze linger on some to deem themselves worthy only to move on and crush their hopes again.

When her finger pointed in Francis’ direction, six others moved forward.

"No," she reprimanded. Her smile sharp as a razor’s edge, and equally as lovely. "Him."

He didn’t remember how he’d gotten up on stage. He moved in a trance, and with every inch towards her, she shone brighter. Her fingers brushed his arm, and Francis burned to ash.

"Look at you," she purred, a hand running through his hair. "A fire to match mine. How long have you been hiding it away?"

Eshe laughed, and turned her face towards the crowd to let them in on it. A cheer went through the room, some whistles to boot, jealousy and celebration in equal measure.

"Who will free this poor young man from the confines of banality?"

Her hand was on the small of his back. Her face inches from his. She pulled him in, making him arch his spine and stand tall in her grasp. The musicians set the tune,  and Francis had ascended and gone to a place where no mortal could follow.

"There you are."

She curled her fingers into his, and Francis took what felt like his first breath after years of drowning, stood up straight, stepped up to her and claimed the mantle of divinity for the first time in his life. Eshe looked at him with pride, and it was everything.

"Yes, darling. Show the world."

The Seafarer’s union hall was what looked like it might have been a warehouse at some point, in the middle of the docks. Bustling with activity, as the dockers and sailors prepared for their strike. A printing press creaking away in the corner incessantly, people running in and out carrying pamphlets and makeshift weapons and supplies, and a huge, weathered banner covering the back wall. Hand in hand, it read in the Old Language.

When the party of four entered, nobody paid them any mind.

Ifan had heard stories of the Beast.

The exiled face of the rebellion against Queen Justinia, who was, as he’d recently learned, in the possession of copious amounts of deathfog. Him and Lohar had gotten in an argument about it back in Driftwood – but as much as the dwarf was quite indiscriminate about what exactly he smuggled, after an obligatory series of threats and insults exchanged, he’d assured Ifan that deathfog was below even him.

Ifan hadn’t had much choice but to take his word it.

Even if he’d spent years with his capacity for belief in higher causes completely exhausted, he had come to admire the man he’d heard about. For someone to throw themselves into a fight that hopeless, to fight an enemy that powerful without the need to match their cruelty – what could he say. Maybe he wished he’d chosen the hard path the begin with.

Maybe a bit of zeal wasn’t always a bad thing.

The legend himself sat at two crates fashioned into a desk, with a small line forming in front of him. As they stepped closer, Beast talked to an older dwarf.

"So, my friend." His accent was thick and rumbling as he spoke, his smile swallowed by his beard. He looked amiable. Kind, even, not like a legend of battle at all, even if the scars on his face told a different story. "Yer new around here. What brings ye to the hallowed grounds?"

The other dwarf looked apprehensive.

"Kemm’s hiring," he replied. "Not much work left where I’m from."

"And where might that be, lad?"

His counterpart shrugged. "Corlay. Little town on the coast. Fish don’t bite like they used to."

"Aye. Who could blame ye," Beast easily replied. "Dwarves ain’t made to go hungry. Any inkling as to why our Lord Kemm’s been lookin’ for new hands?"

"Didn’t think to ask."

"See," said Beast, "Can’t blame ye for that, either. Sometimes, the world’s too fast for one with mouths to feed to stop and ask the big questions. Lemme spare ye the time." He folded his hands over the stacks of paper in front of him. Something sharp flashed in his eyes, betraying his easy-going manner.

"Kemm’s looking for new hands," he said slowly, "Because his old ones got greedy and refused to work for scraps." Beast paused, and let his words sink in. "I believe, ye might know what that feels like. I believe, it’s why ye found yer way to Arx at all. Catch my meanin’?"

"Nothing greedy about looking for a way to live."

"There we agree." Beast chuckled. "Kemm, however, doesn’t. And that’s where we arrive - at an impasse. I understand yer position, lad, I do. But me and mine have agreed to not let Kemm get rich off the creak of our backs, unless he agrees to give us what we deserve. And if yer lads and lasses begin to haul his crates, our word won’t have much weight now, will it."

The other dwarf said nothing. Understanding seemed to dawn on him, mixed in with a spark of fear – Beast, who spotted it immediately, tried to reassure him with a warm chuckle.

"Sorry. I tend to prattle on a bit, I’m told."

He cleared his throat.

"Despite what ye may have heard about the Beast, I can be decent. Join us. We’ll make sure ye’ll have what ye need, provide ye with a roof above yer heads and a welcome at our tables, treat ye as brother or sister in arms. And soon as Kemm’s stopped being a cunt, realizes he needs us a lot more than we need him, and makes us a decent offer, we’ll all enjoy the fruits of it together. Hand in hand. Are we in agreement?"

The other dwarf raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Beast nodded thoughtfully.

"If ye need some help bein’ convinced, let me present ye with the other options. Ye could pack yer bags and go, and have wasted all yer time and money over nothing. Ye could decide to settle for scraps – but we’ll be damned to. If my brothers and sisters find yer folks lifting a finger at the docks two days from now, I can’t guarantee yer safety. I hope that makes it clearer for ye. But yer a smart fella. I don’t believe ye’d be so daft."

That seemed to settle the deal.

Beast threw him a wide, celebratory smile.

"Great. Welcome to the union. We’re thrilled to have ye. Come, lad. Meet yer neighbours."

Beast and the other dwarf shook hands, and one of his companions showed him the way to whatever sealed a membership. Ifan absent-mindedly petted a scruffy dog that was wandering the hall, and offered it a bit of dried meat from his pocket for its company.

"Next."

Beast crossed something off the piece of paper on his desk as they stepped in front of him. Ifan, decently skilled at reading upside down, recognized it as a list – the plan, it was titled in scrungy letters, with little doodles of a skull, a heart, and an anchor covering the edges.

"No one tells ye how much paperwork goes into rebellion," Beast complained good-naturedly, still not looking at them. "I’m more one for the spoken word myself. What can I do for ye?"

The moment he raised his head, however, his face soured. Ifan followed his line of sight, taken aback to find the unpleasant glare resting on Sebille.

"Away an’ boil yer head." His eyes were slightly narrowed. "Have the scabs come to their fucking senses? I must be dreamin’."

Sebille reached for her needle, by instinct.

"I don’t know what you’re saying," she growled.

"I hate repeating myself, lass. Unless yer here to tell me ye’ve had a sudden change of wooden hearts, I suggest ye make off before I start assumin’ pier thirteen has sent us their shittiest spy."

"I do not know anything about a pier thirteen," she replied, all silky rage, "But I know I do not like being talked to in this way. I suggest you moderate yourself before we both regret it."

"Okay!" Lohse interrupted cheerfully. "How about we all calm down for a moment. Answer a little question before anyone regrets anything. What’s pier thirteen?"

Beast, for the first time, truly seemed to take them in. Sebille first, the pilgrim’s charms dangling from her neck, the tattoos showing on her arms. He blushed, and gave a long sigh.

"Duna kick my teeth in, yer not from around here, are ye? Have I put my foot in the gub. Didn’t mean to throw ye in with the pot, lass. Would ye believe I usually try my damnedest to avoid that? Let’s start anew, my friends. I’m truly sorry."

The squint Sebille gave in return could have meant multiple things. Either that she had trouble deciphering his accent, or simply didn’t know what to do with the sudden onslaught of apologies. Ifan suspected it was a bit of both.

"Pier thirteen is a problem," Beast elaborated readily, "Outside the city walls, by the elven settlement. They keep to themselves, but their holy man’s a bit of a wankstain. Insists on using his part of the river to disrupt our strike. Kemm’s been sending him his dogs to ensure that they’ll succeed. We’ve had no luck convincin’ them. But that’s no fault of ye’s."

Sebille nodded, and waved for him to proceed.

Francis suddenly seemed to remember his manners and his mission.

"I’m Francis. Pleasure to meet you."

"Aye. I know who ye are." Beast stroked his beard. "Saved my shop steward’s arse from the law last night. Marie would’ve been one with the river along with that wife o’ hers. Come to find out, yer a child of these very docks who did time in Fort Joy, and one of the very few who made it out alive. Impressive. I’ve got good eyes around here, see."

"Evidently," said Francis. That devil’s smile playing on his lips. "What if I told you they could be even better?"

"Intriguing," said Beast. "Speak yer piece."

"I come with an invitation from the Scarlet Faction. They want to have a meeting. And I know they’re mostly a bunch of noble brats from the academy playing revolution, but they do have access to a lot of information. And most of them are serious enough to go behind their parents’ backs for it. Hard to hide these things at the family dining table."

"Suppose that’s true," Beast acknowledged with a scratch of his chin. "But that’s not our problem, as I’ve told Filipa once before. I’m a noble too. A bastard, and a literal one, I might add. Still, I know how people like Kemm think. Our problem with the Scarlets is that they expect everyone else to follow their plan – but that’s not how alliances are made. Ye make ‘em by getting everyone together on one table and then asking what we can agree on."

Ifan stepped forward.

"Do you agree," he said quietly, "that the rule of the Divine Order needs to end?"

Beast looked at him, and smiled briefly.

"I don’t not agree."

"How about the rule of Queen Justinia?"

"Well, that’s sort of my brand, isn’t it, lad? The reason I’m a landlubber these days."

"Kemm is the Order now. Your union’s opponent for many years, from what I understand." Ifan smiled. "Why beg for scraps year after year when you could have everything? When you could be the ones to control the docks, once and for all?"

Beast laughed.

"Ye think yer the first one to have that idea? Lowbridge folk riot about it nearly every summer. But if Kemm had the Holy Guard before, he’s got an army now."

"Not yet," said Ifan. "They’re infighting, and the dust hasn’t settled. It’s now or never. But don’t take my word for it. You’ll see what kind of ships Kemm will be most desperate to bring through once the strike begins. Weapons, for one, but mostly personnel. And he’ll pay any price to do so. I’m certain you’re prepared for blood – but it might be more than you expect."

"Adept in the logistics then, are ye, lad?"

Ifan hummed, and folded his hands behind his back. "One could say. But I know one other thing you might be interested in. Queen Justinia is coming to Arx."

"I know," said Beast. "That’s why I’m here."

"Soon," Ifan gravely clarified. "Do you know where she’ll be?"

The twitch of his eye betrayed the dwarf. He didn’t, thought Ifan. Far be it from him to leave the Beast of the Sea in ignorance about it, when Ifan wanted her dead nearly as much. His days as a contract killer might have been over – still, no one able and willing to use deathfog would walk the continent over his dead body.

But this was a negotiation.

"I have a personal interest in seeing her up with the birds, as your people say. So as a gesture of good will, I’ll tell you her whereabouts. No favors necessary. And if you convince your brothers and sisters to go to that little meeting, I’ll even take my friend Sebille along and see what we can do about your wayward pier. How’s that sound?"

"To good to be true." Beast bellowed with laughter. "But let’s hear it. Maybe we should all continue that conversation in private."

He folded his plan into a ridiculously tiny scrap and stored it in his pocket, then waved him to follow – but turned once more, towards Francis.

"One more thing, gingerbread. Yer from Lowbridge, and ye’ve seen much beyond yer home. Just like I have. Are ye in the union?"

"Yup," Francis confirmed. "Card-carrying member of the Nurses’ Guild. Though I don’t, like. Actually carry my card. On me."

"It’s not in the card, lad." He chuckled, and smiled at him. "It’s in the heart. The world can be a lonely place. But take it from a royal bastard pirate - ye know what the great thing is, about never truly fitting in anywhere?"

Francis tilted his head in a question. Beast shot him a wink so exaggerated it looked like his face had swallowed an eyeball, and extended his hand for him to shake.

"Ye learn to make friends everywhere."

Francis went back.

Of course he did. He made friends, he talked about things he couldn’t talk about to anybody else, and he always had a good time. He found himself looking forward to his nights while doing anything else – but never was the room as lively as when Eshe danced.

There were other dancers. Their performances ranged from elegant to obscene to both and in between, abstract or luxurious, it didn’t matter. They were a tight-knit band, and hung out together most evenings. When he’d gone home on the first night, he’d passed them smoking in the alley in front of the Starling, and caught a fragment of conversation.

You must be going soft on us, Eshe. A deep, throaty laugh. To bless some tourist with your fullest efforts. And one that looks like he can’t even pay.

Sweet, sweet Summer, Eshe had replied – he hadn’t seen her, just heard her radiant voice – You have a lot to learn. He may not look like much, but that boy was no tourist. He has that thing about him, darling – stands with one foot in each world. He’ll be back for his people.

It took everything in him to just keep walking.

Francis had spun the tale of how he and Eshe met a hundred times, to anyone who’d listen, while plastered to hell in the dockside taverns many years later. For the sake of ensuring her memory be met with the correct amount of respect, of course, he’d left a couple things out.

Firstly, where they’d met.

He was aware he was tainting her legacy, leaving out such an integral part of her being. The fact that she had been a dancer, but revered like an empress on the stage she’d called home. But he’d needed to talk about her, and couldn’t bear to set a single foot into the Starling since her death. He’d been hiding from his grief, from the man he had become, and most of all, from being understood. So he’d slightly adjusted the story.

The second thing he left out was how much exactly of a lovesick fool he’d been, and that their first proper date had been a walk, yes, but it wasn’t really supposed to be.

Not that Ifan would have minded the truth.

Francis was sure he would’ve found it hilarious, but loved him for it all the more. This had simply become the story he was used to telling, and it fell from his lips like simple fact. He also realized years later that coincidentally, the day Eshe asked him on a date had been the same day the young commander of the 7th Divine Regiment had hurried through the forests to reach Tiriana, only to drown the whole valley in deathfog and the Black Ring’s entire infantry with it, and the war was considered officially over.

An event of historical proportions.

Francis had spent a whole four days completely ignorant of it, in an army holding cell.

Because he might’ve been a brilliant student with an iron will, a rising star of the Academy, ruler of the card tables, trickster of the social hierarchy and nightmare of the bureaucrats, but mostly – he was a shithead, and also nineteen.

When he’d met Eshe on her own outside, he couldn’t get a single word out. She’d taken pity on him eventually, after letting him stand there on hot coals for a full minute, and laughed, sharp and bright in the quiet alley surrounded by a halo of smoke.

Let me guess, she’d said, delighted and a little sarcastic, you mean to ask me out. You’ve been deeply in love with me ever since you first laid eyes upon me, and you’ll treat me better than anybody else. You wish to take me somewhere classy. I might be inclined to say yes, because I like a decent wine and being adored. So. Where are you taking me?

Francis had mere seconds to come up with an answer. But what he lacked in experience or confidence he made up for in wit, audacity, and absolute hubris. And he’d always been quick in a test.

How would you like me as a date to the Celestial midwinter ball? He’d rasped out in awe at his fortunate turn of the wheel, with far less certainty than he’d been aiming for, Ever been?

You’re funny, she purred.

What, you think I’m joking? Francis had found his charm and gave her his most graceful bow, accompanied by his smarmiest grin. Meet me here next Friday. I’ll have our invitations ready.

Logistically, what he’d planned to do wasn’t impossible. The son of an ambassador owed him a rather large favor, and the invitations were quickly secured. But the clothes. Always the clothes. To achieve this delicate handle on success, Francis gathered, he’d need to make a shameless amount of money in the span of a week, and he wouldn’t make it hustling away at his usual spots without endangering his operation forever.

His brilliant idea had involved a club for the military’s higher-ups a few miles outside the city walls. His grandeur got the better of him. With the city jail a ways off, after ripping off the wrong candidate with a little too much fervor, Francis was thrown into the holding cells on military grounds. Not literally thrown. The whole thing was a relatively polite affair – there was still the obligatory kick in the back that sent him stumbling, but that was about it.

"Trial’s in two weeks," the guard told him. "Get comfortable."

He rolled his eyes.

Justice was special in times of war, especially a few years in. There were three sentencings, and they involved either a fine, an axe to the neck or mandatory conscription, to fill the treasuries and ranks of Lucian’s chosen unless you managed to bribe yourself out of your predicament quick enough.

Smart move by the Order.

Everyone else greatly disliked it.

As it were, a gambling sentence wasn’t the end of the world. Uncomfortable, yes. A gigantic waste of time and money, also yes. But not the end of the world. Unless you had exams to study for, and most of all, a midwinter ball to get to. It was a common saying this side of Arx.

When fortune smiles upon your dice, it never smiles upon your heart.

He flopped into the mattress, hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.

On day two, he was joined in his cell by a young soldier in an unbearably sour mood. Which was understandable, as the poor guy was due to face trial for something way more serious, but it was hard enough to find something to do as it was, and his only diversion was too busy staring holes into the air and cursing his life choices.

"This place isn’t half bad," Francis said to him in a poor attempt to lighten things up, "We even have a blanket. In Arx you’d be lucky to find enough space on the floor."

"You have a blanket," corrected the soldier. "I don’t see you being willing to share."

Francis yawned and stretched out on the mattress. "I don’t see it either," he agreed. "You could play me for it though. I could make dice out of the lunch turnip." He produced the vegetable with a theatrical gesture. "Was meaning to play the guards, but… well, they’re more stuck up than you, and that’s saying something. Maybe it’s just joining the army. Turns you into a monumental dickhead. Anyway, are you in?"

"I don’t wanna play dice," the soldier scoffed.

Francis threw his hands up in mock disappointment.

"Then what else, pray tell, is there to do around here, Lieutenant Sighs-A-Lot?"

"It’s Private Lantic. And I don’t know. Just isn’t how I imagined my last hours to be like."

Way to bring the mood down.

Francis sat up and resolutely placed his hands on his knees. "Hell’s dogs, you’re dramatic. Would you rather spend them in complete silence pondering your life’s regrets? Come on. You could at least try to have some fun on your way out of the material realm."

His cellmate sighed. "Fine. If it will get you to stop talking."

"Fat chance." He grinned. "I also think I’ve been quite a decent jail companion. Haven’t even asked you what you did to warrant the death sentence. Go on, make yourself useful. Find me some dirt and spit in it so we can paint the dice."

"Don’t fucking remind me," he snarled.

"Private!" Francis barked in his best impression of a general. Lantic actually flinched. "I believe I’ve made myself clear. Dirt! Now!"

Francis and Lantic passed the day playing Bashet for the blanket, and in spite of his initial concerns, Lantic seemed grateful for the distraction. Shame, about the death sentence. Over the course of a few hours, Francis had grown to tolerate the man. When they had to hide the dice away for an hour during guard change, they even got as far as making conversation.

"So you prefer to sit around in your academy while the fate of the world hangs in the balance, and make your money gambling rather than doing something meaningful with your life?" He looked like he absolutely couldn’t fathom it.

Francis laughed.

"Don’t be rude, Lantic. Who says I’m not doing anything meaningful?"

"You’re in jail, playing Bashet with a deserter, with dice made out of a turnip."

"Exactly my point. You meet the most wonderful people. But apart from that, and not wanting to risk my neck for some guy who says he’s chosen by the gods, the city has a lot to offer. You just haven’t been out of your village long enough to taste its sweet advantages."

Lantic sighed.

"Nor will I."

"True. Forget I said that. Another round?"

Francis spent the third day brooding in silence. The guards had collected Lantic on the asscrack of dawn, and their goodbye had consisted of a short awkward nod on both sides.

"Have a good life," Lantic had said as the guards led him away.

"Have a good death," Francis had answered for lack of something better.

He tried not to let it get to him. These things happened. He had no hand in it and no way to prevent it, and it wasn’t his business, either. His mood was still foul when he woke up after a few more hours of fitful sleep to the sound of a guard banging his baton against the bars.

He started up, ready for a fight.

"Oi," greeted the guard with a bored expression, "It’s your lucky day. Get up."

Francis wondered for a brief moment if simply talking to Lantic was enough to extend the invitation to the scaffold, or what else he might’ve done wrong by simply sitting on his ass and breathing. It didn’t occur to him that the guard had been serious until he took the handcuffs off of him.

"Your wife’s waiting outside," he said. "Poor girl’s wasted on gambling scum like you, but the world keeps turning and the wheels keep churning. Good riddance."

There was a short pause as Francis, by far not a morning person, tried to comprehend.

"My wife?" He blurted out before thinking better of it. "Oh. My wife."

"Scared, ain’t you." The guard could actually be bothered to grin at that.

He did his best to at least look the part as the soldier led him outside. No matter that he didn’t fully understand this unexpected turn of events yet, he sure wasn’t opposed to it either. Francis blinked into the sun. It took him a good moment before he recognized Eshe, without the truly magnificent dress and stage make-up. Francis stared.

She was in a thick winter coat, headscarf and road boots, that same smile on her face she’d worn when she’d pulled him in to dance, her breath painting little frost clouds into the air.

"Sorry I’m late, honey. You weren’t easy to find." Eshe giggled. "The keeper asked me if I was sure I wanted to pay to take you home. Warned me that he saw you playing dice in the cell. Might I have chosen a man with a slight gambling problem?"

Francis picked up on the act, only for the sake of continuity, of course.

"You’re a sight for sore eyes and not a second late, my dear." He grinned. "And it’s not a problem if I’m winning."

Eshe didn’t have a horse, and neither did Francis, so they walked the long way back to Arx. Not unpleasant at all. Francis was grateful to stretch his legs a little, and even more grateful for the unexpected company, even if it wasn’t what he’d imagined, and probably the last time Eshe would give him the time of day.

"I’m so sorry," Francis broke the silence eventually. "Uhm. How did you know where…?"

"Oh." She laughed. "I figured you were full of shit, but even then, people don’t tend to stand me up without good reason. My guild has access to the trial records. You know, for obvious purposes. Come to find out, you were actually serious. In your own strange way. And there aren’t many red-haired archeology students named Francis."

They followed a little trail along the fields, far from a real road, but shaped out enough to know that people had been using it for centuries and that it had to lead somewhere. Not that he’d complain if they got lost a little. A stroll through the fields was a nice change from contemplating death.

"This is no Celestial Ball," said Eshe and dug a silver flask out of her petticoat, "But, in lack of anything else to drink - to your health and freedom."

She drank and passed the bottle to Francis for a swig. It tasted absolutely vile.

"Stuff’s not bad," he praised. The liquor felt like weapon oil in his throat.

Eshe chuckled and took it back.

"You’re wrong, but it’s the only thing I had at home. Rye and honey. I always drink a little of it before I go on stage. Helps my voice. My nerves, too."

"Oh, come on. You’re telling me you get stage fright?"

"All the best performers do. Whoever says otherwise is lying."

They walked in silence for a bit, unsure of what to say. The only noise were the birds and the sound of their steps on frozen earth. As pleasant as this turn of events might have been, Francis didn’t quite know what to do with it.

"Eshe," he began and already loved how the name felt when he was saying it, like this whole thing wasn’t a big enough mess to begin with. "As much as I’m grateful for the rescue, I have to ask. I haven’t exactly lived up to the promise. Why go through the trouble?"

Eshe looked surprised, but then understanding seemed to dawn on her. "Ah." She nodded."You’re asking what your freedom will cost you."

Francis buried his hands in his pockets. "That is what I’m asking, yeah."

Eshe didn’t answer right away, but didn’t look like she was unsure either. She tilted her head up, like she was checking for something hiding in the clouds.

"Has it occurred to you that I simply like you, Francis?"

"Not really, no."

Eshe gave a melodramatic sigh.

"In that case," she drew out, "I probably shouldn’t let you off the hook that easy. Here are my terms." She turned her head and the smile was back in full force. "What it will cost you is simply to come see me dance at the Three Roses this evening and be just as exceedingly pleasant company as you were at the Starling. That’s a fair deal, I think. Plus you’ll have to pay the bail fund back. Even if I’m still flattered by the fact that you would go down in my name with no questions asked."

The innuendo in that was hard to miss, but Francis decided to deliberately ignore it for the moment in favor of the much more shocking reveal Eshe had just made. He opened his mouth to say something, but Eshe cut him off before he could.

"Stop trying to figure me out, darling." She laughed. "It’s really not that hard. A true curse that people always want to see me as a mystery, when really, I’m an open book." She looked up to him. "It’s that simple. I find what I want – and then I go and get it."

It was an art, to spend hours in flowing conversation with another person without asking them a single question. It was perfected in only two places. Firstly, wherever you found yourself in the company of people you could neither choose nor avoid. Secondly, where two people were falling a little bit in love without fully meaning to.

They talked about love and science, and poetry and the world and everything in it. They skated briefly around the fact that apparently, the war had ended. And wherever Francis went, whoever he talked to, everyone had something to say when it came to music.

Eshe wasn’t lying about being an open book. She was as well versed in banter as the next person, but never concealed her opinions. By the time the sky darkened and they neared the city gates, she ardently disputed that taproom Tarantellas were an enjoyable occasion.

"What are you talking about," boasted Francis, "They’re the greatest thing in the world. It doesn’t matter if you go out alone or in a bad mood, by the end of the night you’ve danced with everyone there, sweating like an ox and not a single worry in your head."

Eshe pulled a grimace. "If I wanted to bump heads with every idiot imaginable and sweat my face off, I’d cross the main square on a market day."

Francis laughed. "Not a bad comparison. You’re still wrong, though."

"Dancing is an intimate occasion," she refuted passionately, "I wouldn’t do it with just anyone. Can you imagine."

Francis grinned at that. "How proper of you."

"Not proper." She shook her head. "Just picky."

"I respect that," agreed Francis. "If anyone has the right to be picky, it’s you."

Eshe raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that, then?"

"You know what I mean."

"Maybe I just want to hear you say it."

"You know." Francis shrugged. "I’m sure you have incredible footing."

"You’re unbelievable." She said with an ungraceful snort. "You make fun of me for being proper, yet you’re the one who refuses to spell out what you really want to tell me."

"I wasn’t raised to be disrespectful," protested Francis.

"No," replied Eshe with a small smile, "You were raised to be a coward, apparently."

That stung a little, he wasn’t gonna lie. Francis crossed his arms defensively, but Eshe stepped closer and hooked their elbows together.

"You play at being stupid, so I will be blunt. You could stand to be a little disrespectful."

And just like that, Francis was speechless again.

The duality, honestly, was part of his charm.

There were times Ifan was calm and solemn – full of hard-earned wisdom and deep chuckles, watching the world and the people in it with a poet’s eyes for hours. More often than not, smoking, fiddling with something in his hands or clipping sunflower seeds between his teeth to make up for the fact that he was sitting still. There was a melancholy to him, but deep appreciation as well, of all the beauty surrounding him.

And then there were times Ifan needed to move, where he was bright and radiant and a little impulsive, where he pulled pranks and bellowed with laughter, where his eyes and teeth flashed with every grin, where he walked into a room like – not like he owned it, but like he knew it was better for his presence.

Tonight was one of these nights.

He swung the tavern door open with a bang. His steps were certain, but restless, and he was just as likely to let Francis twirl him around on the dancefloor as he was to end up in the middle of a bar fight. He rarely started them, but found them often, and the poor unsuspecting sods had little idea what they were up against – a man who found just as much catharsis in taking a punch as he did in handing one out.

Francis loved these nights.

It was hard to admit sometimes, but he missed his own past days of recklessness. He joined the ride, and they were off, Lohse, Sebille and even Jahan and Tarquin in tow. What they’d survived, the past few weeks, warranted at least one evening of revelry.

Even if it was, ultimately, a professional affair.

Queen Justinia was due to make an appearance at the wedding of one Michail Ros. The event of the season. And if Beast’s intelligence was to be believed, most of those gathered at this place had received an invitation. Sea-captains and merchants mingling at the most upscale tavern Lower Arx had to offer, and the party was in full swing when they arrived.

They crowded around a corner table over a round of drinks. Lohse, her cheeks a little flushed, was leaned comfortably against Sebille’s shoulder. Tarquin and Jahan were discussing the properties of something called a soul candle. And when the music picked up, Francis shot Ifan a grin and pulled him away for a dance.

He went along with a laugh, a light-hearted, real one. There wasn’t a more beautiful sound Francis could have imagined. They didn’t dance like lovers here, but close enough to still be comfortable. Others joined the floor with them. Pulling friends and partners in, and the musicians played louder, a few drawn-out, inviting chords – say what you liked about Lowbridge, but they knew how to throw a fucking party. Francis felt his warmth against him, grabbed his hand and led him in a slow Marcene. Ifan followed along easy as breathing.

"Have you danced this one before?"

Ifan shook his head.

"No. But it’s easy. Just mirroring your steps."

A spin, a cross-step, a turn sideways. Ifan’s movements were beautifully fluent, hips and shoulders swaying so easily with his steps, perfectly in tune with him. And as many times as he had thought it, Francis couldn’t remember if he’d ever told him. He leaned in towards his ear.

"I always love watching you move. You’re so – elegant, you know?"

Ifan snickered. "Elegant? Not sure that’s the word I’d use."

"You are." Francis smiled at him. "It’s no wonder you’re a good dancer. Or a great fighter, for that matter. You’re beautiful. Watch, here’s the staccato."

As the music began to speed up, Francis grinned at the sight of the gentle blush spreading on his cheeks. It wasn’t like Ifan had much of a problem accepting compliments, at least not regarding his looks, but making him slightly flustered in return was a joy nonetheless. A small revenge.

The band, a dwarven pipist duo, let loose with their rhythm.

Faster. Faster. They spun again, and again, and Ifan never missed a step – just like he went through a training sequence, slow at first to get used to the precision of his movements, then in a matter of seconds without losing any of it. A quick study. He looked, while doing anything, like he’d been born to do it.

Francis fell in love all over again.

This was where he belonged.

When they returned to their table, Lohse pushed their drinks over and raised her cup.

"Aren’t you just intolerably sweet." She laughed. "It would be nauseating, but somehow its better than both of you individually. Sebille Kaleran. Get your ass up. We’re gonna dance."

Tarquin snorted.

"No, you see," Lohse disputed his silent disagreement, clearly already tipsy, while she pulled a second ex-assassin from her seat towards the dancefloor without the chance to protest. "I’ve been traveling with these two idiots for a year. They seem like they’d be bad for each other. Scratch that. They seem like the worst idea in the world. But somehow – it works."

"Don’t be jealous." Ifan winked at the necromancer. "I’m sure you’ll find someone in time."

"I’m not looking, mate. Not as long as the world’s about to be destroyed."

"Aw. There must be a man out there who shares that sunny disposition." He grinned, and gave Francis an affectionate clap on the shoulder. "If you’ll excuse me. There’s a merchant making eyes at me from the bar, and I’ll bet my neck that she’s got an invitation. Be right back."

Francis’ jaw dropped.

Ifan had never flirted with anyone else in front of him. In fact, if he remembered correctly, he’d severely disliked that sort of thing. Francis didn’t usually mind it, especially not if it meant a furthering of their plans – but to say it was unexpected was an understatement.

The others watched Ifan stride up to the bar, chatting said merchant up with an incredibly practised ease. A good-looking woman in her fourties, wearing well-made guild robes and large silver earrings. One arm over the counter, curving his hip in a subtle, but deliberate manner as he laughed at something she said, and held two fingers up to buy her a drink.

The merchant looked smitten.

"God’s tits," exclaimed Lohse. "When did Ifan get game?"

"Oh, he always had it," said Francis with a shrug. "He just sucks at flirting with people he actually likes. I’ll bet you twenty he’ll have the invitation in less than half an hour. Watch."

Tarquin leaned over towards Lohse and Jahan. "As your friend and ally, I severely advise against taking any bet this demon offers."

"Yeah, yeah. You owe me money, Tarques."

"Me and half of Rivellon."

By the time Tarquin finished his sentence, Ifan’s hand was already on the merchant’s arm. She’d angled her body towards him, leaning into it, her eyes heavy as she talked to him while Ifan listened with a sweet, gracious smile. But once in a while, his eyes flicked to the side to search for Francis. And when he found him, he gave a subtle wink.

Francis winked back.

There was none of the familiar uncertainty or jealousy burning up his chest. Curiously, he found that he trusted him. Even while Ifan did something as unexpected as chatting up a stranger. 

Change was natural, after being stuck for so long. And Francis was changing just like him. Finding himself again. Finding his courage. And he couldn’t wait to see who they’d become. There was a chance, however small, that they’d make it to the end.

And speaking of changes.

Language – tone, dialect, favored words, – was one of the first things he registered about a person. There was a new word in Ifan’s vocabulary, one that he used often but was easy to miss, close in sound and usage to the familiar, flippant click of his tongue. Francis had been meaning to ask about it for a while.

"Sebille," he called after her before Lohse could abduct her fully. "What does Xilic mean?"

She tilted her head.

"I don’t know. It’s not Elvish."

And then they were off, swaying to the music like there wasn’t a coup, or a war going on, like there wasn’t a shadow looming above existence itself. He watched Lohse laugh as she stumbled in her sequence, the smile over Sebille’s stern features, and it tugged warmly at the edges of his heart.

"Xilic?"

Jahan, from the other side of the table, gave a resonant laugh.

"It's Mezdhe. The word. He asked me for it. It’s – a term of both affection, and of exasperation. I suppose the best way to translate it would be beloved fool."

Francis scrunched his lip.

"Well, shit," he muttered into his drink. "He finally figured out how to call me a dickhead."

Ifan succeeded in his mission. After the merchant had turned to other matters, he walked back up to his companions’ table with a triumphant grin, waving the invitation at them – and letting himself be congratulated by an even drunker Lohse, before his gaze came to rest on Francis. He didn’t look nervous, but he seemed unwilling to sit down. Francis smiled at him, slightly crooked, with the vicious little impulse to unsettle him some more.

"Nice job, dickhead. Come talk to me outside."

That got a multitude of reactions from the table. Lohse let out a shameless whistle, Sebille and Tarquin exchanged a small sum of money, and Jahan looked like he was studying a particularly interesting arcane mystery. Francis had mixed feelings about the abject nosiness of his fellow crew members, but it was infinitely better than being with people around whom he had to pretend not to be hopelessly in love.

Small victories.

The second they’d turned the corner, into a little alleyway to the side of the tavern, Francis pulled him into a kiss. Quick, but messy. Ifan’s noise of surprise quickly dissolved into one of satisfaction, his hands settling easily on Francis’ lower back. Francis nipped at his bottom lip, and then pulled away with a grin.

"Ifan ben-Mezd," he drew out in mock indignity, "Were you trying to make me jealous?"

"I don’t know what you're–" Francis interrupted him with a kiss on his neck, crowding him into the wall. Ifan let out a raspy laugh, tilting his head to give him better access, "Shit. Is it working?"

"Almost," Francis admitted, "But next time you try it, I have a suggestion for you."

"Oh?" A smirk. "Enlighten me, Doc."

"Even if she’d been your type," Francis tugged him in by the lapels of his shirt, "It’s hard to be jealous when the entire time you were talking to her, you were looking at me."

"I’ll keep that in mind."

Ifan looked at him, eyes twinkling, gave Francis a gratuitous smack on his behind, and the smirk turned into a sharp grin. He played him like a fiddle, and Francis couldn’t care one bit. He surged forward to lick into his mouth, fingers running down the side of his exposed neck – and when his thumb pressed into the bruises on his shoulder, the sound Ifan made was as shameless as it was heavenly. Francis grabbed his jaw and turned his face towards him.

"Trying to piss me off already?" He hummed, charmed by the way Ifan’s pupils pooled dark as ink in the low light of the street lamps as his hand trailed down the front of his chest, trapped somewhere between patience and want. "Did I not run you ragged enough last night?"

"Apparently not."

"I’d say it’s a miracle you’re walking straight, but I know better." Francis grinned, and pushed his hand down in between his legs just to see him squirm. Ifan groaned, and half-heartedly tried to kiss him again, but Francis lightly slapped his cheek with a click of his tongue. It was gentle, barely more than a playful swat, but Ifan’s head whipped to the side as if he’d slapped him in earnest, followed by what was decidedly not a noise of pain.

"Well, damn," Ifan rasped with a chuckle. "You can do that again."

Amazing, thought Francis, and settled on following up on that suggestion some other time, because right now he was too busy considering another implication. "You’re enjoying this, hm?" He grinned, pressed up against him, felt his cock stir in interest under layers of hard leather. Ifan’s head fell back against the wall. "Jealousy?"

He pressed his nails into his hipbones, pinned him to the planks behind him. Ifan gasped, eyes fluttering shut, and silently mouthed a yes as he pulled Francis’ face towards him by the back of his neck. Francis gave an incredulous laugh, positively wild with power.

"What can I say," Ifan instigated, lips brushing soft against his, "I like knowing I’m wanted."

"Fuck," whispered Francis, "You don’t need to flirt with someone else for that. Do you have any idea," he threaded his fingers into the bun of his hair, tugged him back by a firm handful, exposing the curve of his neck some more and drinking up the content moan that followed, "How hard it’s been to keep my hands off you since this morning?"

Ifan grinned.

"I might have some idea."

"I bet you do," Francis breathed out quietly, you fucking tease, brushed his lips in reverence as Ifan pulled against his grip. "You know exactly what you’re doing, huh?"

"Please," Ifan purred, "I always know what I’m doing."

"Gods, you’re insufferable."

The pure admiration underlying his words was impossible to hold back. Francis, knowing full well it would settle his downfall, raised his index finger against Ifan's lips - and watched the entirely satisfied glint of teeth as he responded:

"Do something abou –"

Francis pushed his fingers into the heat of his mouth. He pressed in deep. And maybe he would’ve been afraid to make him gag, if Ifan didn’t grab his wrist and push, urging him on with a feral, choked moan. What remained of Francis’ sanity vanished in a heartbeat. He pushed forward, hitting the back of his throat, and Ifan fucking took it. He’d encountered wonders beyond mortal comprehension, and never seen anything this fascinating. The furrowed brow, the teeth scraping lightly at his knuckles, his tongue working his fingers with the same delirious precision he received further down, the little gasps and chokes in reward for fucking his mouth with earnest enthusiasm while Francis slotted his thigh between his legs  – absolutely magnificent.

"I think it’s not quite fair to leave me guessing," Francis whispered in awe when he’d rediscovered his ability to speak, "I think you should tell me what you want."

Ifan opened his eyes, and – oh.

If that wasn’t something. The look in his eyes, brimming with want and despair, the reflexive glitter of tears forming at his lash line might’ve been a twisted thing to enjoy. Francis couldn’t bring himself to care, when he wore it so well. Ifan, very clearly, geared up to say something, waiting for Francis to let him. But he had no intention to, and Ifan seemed to come to that realization as well, judging by the way his eyes widened before falling shut in surrender.

"Ah–" He attempted, before Francis’ index finger pinned his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Pulling back from it by some unknown instinct, but having nowhere to go.

"I know. Only fools play fair." Francis felt his grin widen, "Speak up."

That got him another moan, and Ifan, backed into a corner and struggling to keep his thoughts together, squirming underneath his relentless touch, found his one way out, slid down the planks and dropped to his knees right in front of him.

Francis froze in disbelief.

Ifan grinned. There was just something in the way he held himself, something proud and irresistible, something soft, something invincible. He looked a proper mess, with the bun holding his hair up nearly destroyed, his neck bared and his mouth rubbed red and slick with spit, and somehow calm, content, and in control. Ifan had him right where he wanted him. And in this moment, Francis understood the magnitude of it, the fundamental truth to Ifan’s spell.

True vulnerability.

There was no caution in his face, no apprehension. His lips so soft after all the blood and bile they’d had to swallow, his cheeks, marred with scars from years and years of hardship, blushing so gently. His eyes so wide and delicate after all they’d seen, staring straight into the sun. The pure extent to which he wasn’t afraid to get burned. Ifan would take pain if it meant a chance for real pleasure, take rejection if it meant a chance for love, and enjoy both equally – went down with a smile knowing he’d lived fully, without ever holding back.

Fearless, he thought.

As his finger traced the outline of his lips, like they were meant to be there. Francis had a plan for this, he swore – to play with him here, no matter the danger of getting caught in the very streets he loved and hated equally, claim them as his as Ifan claimed him.

Open your mouth, was what he’d planned to say.

Teach me, was what he wanted to say.

"Fucking marry me," was what he said.

Ifan threw his head back in delight and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. Well, maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling impulsive tonight.

"Yes." He laughed, slightly out of breath. "A thousand times, yes. But let me blow you first, you evil bastard."

Chapter Text

Few paths, wrote the poet Khaba, are as lonely as the road to redemption.

The drunker he got, the more he danced and cracked jokes and sang increasingly off-key and had olive pulps thrown at him by Lohse in return, the more ardently Ifan disagreed with the man. Not much headway to be made while alone on the road, in his experience. He’d tried it all – until, fighting tooth and nail against it, he’d been judged, and loved, and remembered.

Ifan was a scion, connected to the roots.

The thought still cracked him up. If nothing else, the ancestors had proven a sense of humor. He cut a poor figure for a cleric, not just in his own eyes, but unlike other flavors of priesthood, a scion had no need for promises of virtue. Or even for faith.

He was no saint, and there was no need for him to be.

Small victories.

Ifan was, decidedly, more than a little shitfaced. He dug his palms into his eyes in an attempt to sober up. Dawn broke over Lowbridge, and the party was still ongoing.

His engagement party.

That thought had belatedly hit him like a wall of bricks in the middle of another dance, this time with Sebille – and completely overwhelmed him. With what exactly, he couldn’t say. The pleasant buzz and cheer was suddenly drowned by a riptide of chaotic, contradicting emotions and the urgent need to get out and clear his head.

He took a deep breath when the door fell shut behind him. Ifan sat on the steps to the tavern, a mug of beer in hand, rolled his shoulders until he heard them crack, and focused in on his surroundings.

Religion was everywhere in Lower Arx.

Every wall and signpost was decorated in painted verses, handcrafted icons of the Seven and the charms and bells of their saints. Rhalic’s iron shrines and Duna’s, made of stone and quartz. There was something ghostly and ethereal to the light these swaying lanterns cast into eternal darkness, colours mismatched and moving like an autumn canopy.

And in between, Lowbridge silently prepared itself for war. He had an eye for it. He saw the stacks of rock innocously placed by the road, the piles of old furniture and garbage only requiring one push to become a barricade. Improvised shrines to other, unnamed little gods.

Ifan had learned many meanings of faith over the course of his life.

Devotion. Sacrifice. A measure of despair.

The past year had taught him a different meaning of it. It was funny. He couldn’t remember what the point had been, if it wasn’t to rage against the inevitable. If it didn’t mean to trust.

"You look happy."

The sound of their steps could say a lot about a person, and Velec DeSelby’s were firm, steady, certain – a woman who announced herself without the need for any stealth.

Ifan smiled, and thought it over for a while.

"I am." He confirmed. What else would throw him off like that. "Shouldn’t you be in hiding?"

"And miss a chance for reminiscence with the ghost of winters past? Absolutely not."

She pulled the mug of beer from his hand and took a sip without asking – just like she had when she’d been six– or seventeen, demanding tribute for looking the other way of her younger recruits’ misbehavior. Like an older sister left in charge with the parents gone, he thought not for the first time. She sat next to him.

Frizzy, greying curls spilling over the side of her shaved head, a fisherman’s clothes and a saint’s amulet. A poor disguise, but better than nothing.

"Besides, I’m going crazy down there," Velec grumbled, searching her pockets for a cigarette. "Marie told me take a walk and go calm down. Can you believe it? Like a dog."

Ifan chuckled warmly.

"She’s right, you know. It does help."

"Of course she is. Doesn’t mean I have to like it."

Ifan gave her a nod, half amused, half sympathetic, and reconquered his beer from her grasp. They sat for a while without saying anything. The smoke smelled like mint leaves, and thick, dark tobacco. He felt – content, on this rare night. With the reminders of his engagement still pleasantly lingering in his body.

Not a measure of despair, this time. There was no altar, no promise of sacrifice or gesture of devotion, only a slightly insane act of hedonistic joy. A sincere, irreverent declaration of love. Fucking marry me.

Less than sacred overall.

It suited them.

"What’s it like?" He asked eventually. "Being married?"

Velec shrugged.

"Didn’t think it would make a difference," she admitted. "Starlings don’t get to marry here, so I never had any plans. But Marie’s more religious than I can bear to be these days, so I took leave and we got married in Arasca. Early fall, when it’s still warm."

Smoke flowed from the corner of her mouth, her face softer, more serene than Ifan remembered her to ever have been, absent-mindedly tapping off the ashes as she spoke. "But it does change something. To promise your life to someone."

Ifan hummed. He didn’t ask what a Starling was. Velec turned around to him and quirked an eyebrow, with the hint of a smile.

"Why? Getting cold feet? Oh, wait. Will you marry him – the elven way?"

Ifan shook his head, drumming an absent-minded rhythm against the wood. He didn’t bother correcting her, or telling her that there wasn’t really such a thing as an elven marriage, that a soulbond ritual was hardly comparable to kissing over a shrine and exchanging a few vows.

"Tried that, once," he vaguely replied instead, with a little tilt of his head. "Don’t know if I have the guts to do it again."

She grimaced in sympathy.

"Ended terribly," Ifan answered the question she didn’t ask. "But I haven’t thought about it yet. I don’t even know if he’d want to. To love is the same as to be devoured, in our language."

"That’s intense," said Velec, and clicked her lighter, "But it’s not wrong."

Ifan chuckled.

"On the other hand – a human wedding? I’m a wanted man, and so is he. From what I understand, the whole thing involves a lot of paperwork. I have a guest list of six people, and two of them don’t even like me." He winked at her. "How was yours? Did you dress up?"

"Like the prince of Mezd." She laughed. "But it was just the two of us. Sometimes I wish it would’ve been more. Gods. I wish I could’ve invited some people who hate me, just so I could shove it in their faces, how lucky I got."

"Could’ve gotten Viktar to be your flower girl." Ifan snickered. "That little bastard’s still alive."

She barked a laugh. Ifan wasn’t the only one to get chatty after a few. "Or Hardwin, for the best man speech. Gods, it would’ve been magnificent. Felch the Belch for catering, the way he managed to mess up a bean soup almost bordered on art. Vargas for –" She stopped herself.

Ifan sucked his teeth.

"Fireworks." He added on after a while.

"Shit." She turned away.

"Yeah."

They were silent for a long moment. Staring off in quiet companionship, as was the common etiquette. But Ifan was in a talking mood tonight. Trying to settle some affairs while his heart was still light, and his fear still dulled. He chuckled.

"It’s funny. They say you don’t forget your first," said Ifan after a while, "Truth is, I haven’t thought about him in years. At the time, I thought it was the worst thing I’d ever have to do." He shrugged, and continued almost factually, "I was wrong."

"He was your first?"

She carefully examined him, voice steady, but apprehensive. Like she couldn’t quite believe it – that he’d avoided killing that long so surrounded it, only for his comrade, torn limb from limb by an alchemic grenade, to be his introduction to it.

Not that he could blame her. Ifan was a quick study. He’d made it look easy. Hadn’t even blinked.

He looked up at the sky, and said nothing. Clouds, forever swirling in the breeze.

"Had to be done," said Velec.

"Yeah. He wouldn’t fucking die."

Ifan tipped his cup in a subtle obituary.

"But I’m glad I remembered him."

That, after all, was what he had to do.

"Still so sentimental, the Wolf of Tiriana" teased DeSelby with a gentle smile, and placed a heavy hand on his leg. "Even after all these years. I don’t think you were ever made for war."

Ifan laughed.

"No. But I was good at it."

His eyes searched for something in the dark, and came to rest on the barrel of empty bottles and a pile of ripped up rags placed in a nook between two huts. Ifan pointed his chin in the general direction, trusting she knew what the collection was meant for.

"What do you think? Do they have a chance?"

"No," said DeSelby. "But once a landslide is in motion – there’s no stopping it."

A letter had arrived seven years ago. Plain and glaring, on sifted paper in his hand, laid the reminder of another world he’d never leave behind.

No matter his efforts.

He didn’t want to open it. But hope was a treacherous thing. Francis wasn’t even sure what it was that he hoped for, only that it would be crushed and that he’d open it nonetheless.

He threw it in the fireplace before he could.

No matter how many times Ifan insisted on his lack of prophetic abilities, Francis had a hard time believing it when his predictions never failed to come true. It was safe to say that he’d been right this time, as well.

Francis’ streak of outrageous luck was over.

Because of all days, it had to be today. It had to be today, with his newly betrothed nowhere to be seen, that Daric the blacksmith walked in the door to deliver him the news.

And really, he should've known. Lowbridge was a fucking village. Every little thing came back to bite you in the ass. Francis tried to hide behind his hat, but the man already made a beeline toward him. And it wasn’t long before Daric hit him with the dreaded question.

So, what have you been up to?

Francis spun the usual tale. Daric didn’t dare get into it, just as expected. Because just like everyone else, really, he knew why Francis Junior had left with nothing but his name and the firm intention not to return. Everyone knew. No one snitched on each other.

Cowards, the lot.

Francis stared into his cup. He tried to enjoy the night. He was drunk. He was engaged now, for fuck’s sake, unbeknownst to Daric. He’d become a scholar, a necromancer and a godkiller, loved with all he had, lost everything he had, died and come back to life.

Should’ve been trivial, really.

He was fine. Each vertebrae in his spine wanted to curl outwards and peel out of his skin. Francis sat his cup down – didn’t slam it, but it was a near thing – and shot up from his chair.

Something was about to give.

His eyes scanned the bar, the musician’s stage, the crowded dancefloor. Ifan was nowhere to be found. The back door slammed shut behind him, muffling the music and chatter inside – all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears and that rotten thing in him rearing up to destroy. Something. Himself. Both, if possible. He never should’ve left. Between his fist, and the wooden beam holding up the tavern roof, the beam won over without competition.

He was fine.

Pain shot through his knuckles, scraped and raw, and the air was sucked into his lungs through tightly clenched teeth. Enough to breathe. Enough to think.

Self-awareness crept in shortly after.

He laughed at his own antics, and shook his head abruptly. I hope you’re happy, he thought, and suddenly mourned the lack of a god to curse at. Did that thing Ifan did when the world crushed the air out of his lungs, five seconds. In, hold, out, and hold. Breathed in deep, head leaned against the pillar, until he stopped being dramatic.

He hated that it worked.

Time dissolved. The lust for destruction simmered down to a boil. When Francis looked back up, it was just another night. The air didn’t feel like it was burning anymore, and the cracked corner over there under the statue of Sant Magda he’d crashed into once, riding a wheelbarrow down the street, made him laugh for different reasons. The wind picked up.

Welcome home. It’s my engagement party.

His hand hurt.

Where the fuck was Ifan.

It could’ve waited until tomorrow, but that wasn’t a mistake Francis would ever make again. He picked his heart off the floor, hid his hand in his pocket, and stalked around the tavern.

And sure enough, there he was. Shooting the shit on the porch with Paladin DeSelby, hair draped over one shoulder – long enough that he could do that now, eyes crinkling at the edges when he laughed and looking altogether happier than Francis had seen him in months. Ifan should get to enjoy this night, he thought. And in his absolutely misplaced confidence, tried to sneak past him.

Stupid.

Not only did Ifan immediately notice someone walking by behind him, he didn’t even have to turn around to know it was Francis.

The smile Ifan gave him said as much. Solemn and soft, the one reserved for close friends and intimate moments – when he poured his heart out to Sebille, or sang along to one of Lohse’s kitschy ballads he knew all the words to, or snuck a bite of whatever Francis had been cooking – it should’ve filled him with warmth. Instead, it felt like a dagger to his ribs.

There was something wrong with him.

Francis knew it like he knew his own name.

"Be back in soon," said Ifan, the soft drawl slightly more pronounced after a few drinks, and patted the empty space on the stairs next to him. "Join us, if you – Francis?"

He tried saying something. He couldn’t.

"What’s wrong?"

Ifan was on his feet immediately. Nothing, Francis wanted to say, enjoy your night. I’ll be right back. He couldn’t move. Ifan’s hand was warm against his cheek. He wanted to combust on the spot. He couldn’t look at him. He wanted to lean in and stay there until the day he died.

This was pathetic.

Ifan looked like he understood. Of course he did. Fucking hell.

With a soft stroke of his thumb, Ifan’s hand withdrew from his face. A lift of his eyebrows, a subtle tilt of his head in the direction of anywhere but here. He said so much without the need to speak, and Francis wanted to punch wood all over again.

He should do this alone.

He wasn’t sure he could.

"So," Francis got out somewhere between the old schoolhouse and the smeltery. It was the first word they had exchanged in half an hour. "I have a sister."

If Ifan noticed that they’d circled past the Bridgepost twice before walking back the same way they’d come from, he didn’t mention it. He seemed unsure how to react to the statement.

Just for once, Francis wished he’d ask.

"Well. Time to meet the family." He laughed. It wasn’t a sound of hapiness. "You don’t have to, you know. Get spared the whole experience. I don’t –"

Ifan reached for his hand. Francis shook his head and put them own into his pockets instead, and Ifan withdrew again, tilted his head up and looked at the sky. The sun rose pink over the horizon, and with it, the Cathedral’s distant call to prayer.

"I meant it," Ifan said eventually. "You don’t have to show me anything you don’t want to."

That was the thing, though. He wanted to. Or at the very least, he didn’t want to be alone. Francis wasn’t sure how to tell him as much. He let out a long sigh.

"You know how the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? I come from a dynasty of shitheads. The man’s got an interesting sense of hospitality. Just to warn you."

Ifan nodded. "I gathered."

Not a jab at him, just the simple understanding of it.

"He’s not exactly pleasant company. If you’d rather – I don’t know. Wait outside. I’d get it."

"Do you want me to wait outside?"

His chest felt too tight. Something was rearing under his skin, like it was about to dig through his ribcage and crawl out of him. A selfish thought, but…

"It is what it is," Francis grumbled. "But he doesn’t particularly like me, and he won’t like you either. That’s all putting it mildly, by the way. So if you don’t wanna deal with that–"

"Ma vhenan," Ifan reminded him. There was an astute little twinkle in his eye, when Francis turned to look. Ifan saw right through his bullshit. Gods, Francis hated when he did that. "Remember what I did for a living? Don’t worry. I can take a few unpleasantries."

Francis muttered something indistinct. He took a deep breath, and turned the corner towards the Bridgepost Tavern, hands clenched firmly in his pockets. Ifan said nothing for a while. He was thinking, visibly turning something over in his head before deciding how to address it.

"Is it because you – love men?"

Francis blew a raspberry.

"That’s a side note on a long list of things. Haven’t seen him in years. He’s had time to think."

Ifan hummed. The steps to the Bridgepost Tavern were ahead, bathed in filth and the creeping light of dawn. Midnight oil burning orange through the stained glass windows, cutting through the shadows of the bridge and waterwheel.

His nightmares were lit like this.

"How old is your sister?"

Francis knew. Seven years ago, he’d burned the letter unopened.

He was twenty when he watched her fall off the stage.

He remembered it like it was yesterday – Francis had been wrapped up with a rather fascinating excavation for weeks longer than expected – and seeing her again, bright-eyed and beautiful while doing what she loved, was like being touched by god. Her eyes on him, in the middle of the crowd while she danced. Until she wasn’t looking anymore. Until her legs faltered. Until a shout went through the crowd to catch her.

It happened, Eshe explained later. It wasn’t a big deal.

He drew the curtains to cover them from the eyes of the others. Loosened the corset. Took the wig off for her. Gently ran his fingers over her face, calming, tender, steady. Her head was resting in his lap, long after she’d recovered.

You’re so sweet to me, said Eshe.

Of course I am, said Francis. Took in her smile and never wanted to see anything else.

He was twenty-one when they got an apartment in the Brass. And even though neither of them was around that much, a profound discovery settled warm and heavy in his chest – the feeling of love that had somewhere to go.

Sometimes, they were the only people in the world.

He soaked up what he could of their mornings together.

Sometimes, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders while he cooked. Sometimes, he read her poems. Sometimes, he did her make-up, and sometimes, she did his. Sometimes, he held her in front of the mirror. Sometimes, when she was in the mood, he learned to make her feel like the universe revolved around her pleasure. Sometimes, she learned to let it.

And sometimes, their heads were resting in each others’ laps.

*

Francis spoke of his home like someone with a love of poison.

Never in those outright terms, of course. But it was written on his face as clear as day, and Ifan could put two and two together. He was no stranger to the sentiment.

Of love and poison, poison did less damage.

The first thing Ifan noticed was how old the tavern was. With its stained glass windows, covered in thick layers of soot, and the high wooden pillars holding up the taproom, it almost looked like a chapel. Maybe it had been once. Dynasty was right, apparently.

The second thing he noticed was that the moment the door shut behind them, the chatter immediately quieted. Every face turned towards the newcomers – only the old man behind the counter continued moving like clockwork, like the end of the world couldn’t stop him from running the place.

The resemblance was uncanny. He must have been in his sixties already. Same lanky build, same deep, piercing green eyes surrounded by many more wrinkles and the same purple bags.

Just his hair, grey and cropped short where it still grew, the color showing dark brown at the roots, differed. Francis Senior seemed to notice that someone of import had arrived, judging by the silence of the patrons, but took his time to give them his attention.

The king of his castle.

The only thing betraying his surprise, a squint. Then he threw the dishrag over his shoulder, crossed his arms, and put a wide smile on his face. He looked perfectly welcoming, thought Ifan. An expert on wielding hospitality, if he so pleased.

"Lads," Francis Senior called out, "The prodigy returns."

Francis said nothing. After a few beats of silence, his father leaned on the counter, and in a light-hearted tone and the thick edges of his dialect cutting into each other, said:

"How was prison, son?"

"Great," Francis returned, cheery as could be. "You should see the beaches."

Laughter broke out at the bar, the crowd of dockers there seeming to relax a little, and conversation continued as catastrophe seemed to have been averted. Francisco Senior beckoned them closer, then put up a full round of glasses on the corner.

"One on the house, for the hellspawn’s return." The dockers voiced their approval, and he filled every glass with one fluid swing of the bottle. "Not so far from home after all, are we?"

Francis said nothing to that.

"The hellspawn’s here to meet his sister," he replied. "And he’s not staying for a round."

"Oh, Maja? She’s a gem," Francis Senior acknowledged. He sounded strained, just slightly so, an uncertain waver in his voice. "Not that you could be bothered for years. A bit odd, but that’s to be expected. At least she hasn’t started cutting any dead rats open yet."

He was afraid of him, thought Ifan.

Francis’ father was afraid of him.

They walked up to the bar, and for the first time, the tavernkeeper’s eyes fell on Ifan. There was a conflicting tension in the air, the room hard to read. Ifan kept his expression neutral, and, not having been asked to provide any immoral support, refrained from saying anything. The barman’s face crinkled, in the same fox-like smile that Francis displayed often.

"Did you bring your new girlfriend? The last one you put a wig on at least bothered to shave."

Silence. A few nervous laughs from the bar that quickly trailed off. When Ifan turned, he found Francis staring at his father in the utter disbelief that comes with being disappointed by someone you expected nothing of in the first place.

"I can’t fucking do this," he declared.

Turned on his heel, and walked back out of the door.

*

** / ***

When he was twenty-five, Francis killed a man.

Don’t get him wrong. The fucker deserved it. So much so that Eshe’s guild representative personally congratulated him on it, and offered to teach him the finer magic craft of blood and body in return. As far as she was concerned, Francis was one of the cut. So really, he didn’t feel too bad about it. But it was no crime of passion, nor strictly one of self-defense.

It was, however, a crime of necessity.

He’d found Eshe crumpled on the kitchen floor, and she was terrified. No matter how many times he turned it over in his head, or retranslated the source material, or tried to remedy the whole thing with the life essence of rats and pidgeons – the result of his research, even in its early stages, was quite straightforward. The fact that he didn’t like it changed little.

The more similar the matter, the more powerful the energetic link.

Eshe couldn’t feel her legs, and pidgeons wouldn’t do the job.

It surprised him, how calculating he could be about it. He hadn’t been much of a fighter at the time, and even less of a killer. But he’d whistled at Eshe in the bathroom mirror enough times in passing to know how her union siblings advertised themselves.

Either way, someone was going to end the man sooner or later. You didn’t mess with the Red Lantern Guild this brazenly and lived to tell the story.

His position was perfect. He only had to wait. Everything went according to plan, other than the fact that he'd severely underestimated the term "dead weight", but Francis pulled through. He functioned. And when he almost fell down from exhaustion after meticulously stitching every single dying nerve back into place with his magic and asked Eshe to stand, she caught him in her arms.

They stayed up the whole night, and didn’t say a word. Her hands were in his hair.

And in the morning, Francis went to class.

** / ***

The silver lining here was that he’d apparently grown enough self-control to not top the night off with a dose of manslaughter. Francis buried his face in his hands, trying to lower his pulse by sheer force of will, until he managed to compose himself and reluctantly looked up.

"That went… well."

Ifan tilted his head in vague acknowledgement.

They were sitting on the porch, shoulder to shoulder. Seemed to be a theme tonight, really. Ifan sometimes preferred things from the outside looking in, and Francis started to see where he was coming from. His hands were itching for something. He began ripping a loose thread from his sleeve, twisting, pulling it taut around his fingers until it cut into the skin.

"You know his fucking wife died, too? You’d think – Nevermind, actually. I don’t know what I expected." The thread came off with an abrupt snap, taking half the inseam with it. "Fuck."

"I’m sorry, Francis."

"Why are you sorry? I brought you here. Sorry you had to hear that shit."

Compassion, Ifan clarified his intent, not apology.

"I’m sorry you did."

Francis drew in a deep, fortifying breath. Dogs were barking in the distance, the air thick with dust even in the early morning. It needed to rain, thought Francis, and urgently.

"I wanna kill him."

The words came out quiet, and much more dispassionate than a better man would speak them. Ifan hummed. He reached to tie his hair up, and then pulled the knife from his sleeve. Francis frantically shook his head, grabbed his wrist and carefully moved it to slide the knife back in.

"No, I didn’t mean it like – Fuck. Slow down."

Ifan huffed a quiet laugh, and reached for his sleeve instead to cut the mess of threads hanging off of it. Tucking the seam back in with warm, gentle hands and brushing his wrist before retreating. Francis shook his head, and stared at Ifan in awe.

"You totally would if I asked. Gods. I love you."

Judging by his expression, that wasn’t how he’d expected that sentence to end. Ifan’s eyes widened slightly, before he chuckled, resting his hands on his knees.

"Only if you asked. I do owe you a debt, you know."

Francis let out a reluctant snort of laughter.

"You sure you wanna insist on that?"

Ifan cast a brief look around to check if they were alone, and kissed his temple. The second he did, the door behind them opened, and Francis scrambled to put some distance between then as he turned.

"You’re his other son."

It was a statement, not a question. A woman in a pale green dress leaned out of the doorframe. She looked tired. And just a few years older than him.

"He doesn’t really mean it, you know. He talks about you all the time."

"Sure. If it helps you sleep at night."

Francis stood up, hands buried in his pockets, facing her. Helena. His father’s new wife. He remembered her name, picked up from the occasional rumor floating through the docks, and from that time he’d – well. The last time he’d been here. They were silent for a while, unsure whether this was an alliance or something else entirely.

"You should meet her," decided Helena. "Maja should know her brother."

She led them up the stairs in the back of the tavern.

In contrast to the monumental size of the taproom, the living space above it seemed almost claustrophobic. Ifan had to duck his head to not bang it against the ceiling. The hallway was unlit, the silence, the dark wooden paneling and the dusty rug adding another layer of shadow.

Francis didn’t like it.

When they finally arrived at the little room that had housed him and his mother once, the one with the window facing the street, Helena shot him a brief smile.

"She was my miracle. I thought I couldn’t have children."

"Congratulations," muttered Francis.

Ifan stood back a little. His eyes were flitting back and forth, taking in the entirety of his surroundings, like he was trying to connect them to the man he knew. But somehow, seeing him here in the place he’d grown up, wasn’t as terrifying as Francis thought it would be. Ifan moved so easily through unknown territory, adjusting without judging, that it could fool you into thinking he knew it like his back pocket – the confidence provided by knowing that those who made the mistake of messing with him would soon come to regret it.

"Maja, love?" Helena knocked at the door. "There’s someone here to meet you. Are you up?"

A few seconds went by.

"No," it sounded from the inside, decisive and accusatory.

Ifan grinned at him in recognition. Apparently, that did run in the family. And when Helena chuckled in response, even Francis felt his unmindful scowl soften up a bit.

Maja sat at the edge of her bed, a crow’s nest of dark hair on her head, face scrunched up in a yawn as they entered. Tiny for her age, and scrawny as a a stick.

"Who the hell are you?"

Francis stopped short, unsure of what to say. Maja provocatively knocked her chin up in true Lowbridge fashion, and it made him smile a little.

"I’m your brother," he said.

Her eyes widened.

"The witch?"

"Yeah," sighed Francis, "the witch."

He noticed it first when Maja laughed.

The conversation was one-sided, as you’d expect it to be with a seven-year-old who’d just woken up. Yes, she had friends, and she hated the butcher’s daughter Bria. She liked pretty tin boxes and frogs and fried pastries. Yes, she was in school, and hated the nuns that looked like scary old crows.

Francis couldn’t help a grin.

"Does Sister Melusine still teach?"

A look of pure delight appeared on Maja’s face.

"She died," his sister proclaimed cheerfully, followed by a warning look from her mother, and not without rolling her eyes, reluctantly closed her fingers over her heart. "Gods rest her."

Francis couldn’t help a snort of laughter.

"About fucking time."

Helena looked more than a little scandalized, while Maja giggled with joy. She shook her hands in front of her, before placing them under her legs and sitting on them, shifting her weight from one to the other. Francis froze in the middle of his laugh.

"Maja?" He hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"

She thought about it. Whatever she’d heard about her brother, curiosity seemed to win the upper hand over shyness. Not that that ran in the family, particularly.

"Only if I can ask something too."

"Deal," said Francis. "You first."

"Do you talk to demons?"

Wasting no time, apparently. By the look on her face, Francis could tell that the answer was very important to her. He let the air hang with suspense before he spoke and grinned, firmly aware that nothing would sound as theatrical as the truth.

"I’ve talked to two demons," he replied in a stage whisper. "One was quite friendly. It lived in a broken old sword. The other one looked like Sister Melusine."

A little shriek.

"Sister Melusine’s a demon?"

"No. She just looked like one." Francis thought it over. "But who can tell. Evil lives longer, and she was like a million years old when I went to school. I guess we’ll never know."

Her eyes glittered with fascination. "Really?" She squinted at him. "Are you lying?"

"Nope," said Francis. "That’s three questions. My turn."

Maja stuck her tongue out.

"A deal’s a deal." Francis replied, with a gentle smile. "I learned that from talking to demons. You were doing this earlier." He demonstrated. "Shaking your hands. Why did you do that?"

She pressed her lips together in concentration.

"Don’t know." She decided eventually. "It makes the tingling go away."

Francis’ heart turned to ice in his chest. It took him a good minute until he managed to speak.

"Maja."

His voice cracked.

"Do you ever feel like… you can do things other people can’t?"

"Catch frogs," she declared immediately. "Everyone else is doing it wrong. They’re faster than you. You gotta be slow, so they don’t even see you." She narrowed her eyes. "That’s two questions."

"Little smartass," said Francis in admiration. Maja giggled. "You got three, so I get one more."

He thought about how to phrase it best. Scrambling for some attempt at rationality through the storm raging in him. If Maja had the symptoms already, for her to be that unchanneled, she must’ve had her conduit event quite some time ago. Ifan briefly caught his eye from where he stood, halfway in the doorframe. It had to come from her mother’s side, thought Francis. But what were the chances? Unless, of course–

"Sardines are the same," Maja continued in a snot-nosed brag. "Stupid Bria says you can’t catch them with your hands. That’s a lie. I did it once. You just have to make them slow."

His hands clenched in his pockets, the painful stretch of his scraped knuckles grounding him, and he kept his face as carefully even as he could. Managed barely more than a whisper.

"Really? How do you… how do you make them slow?"

Maja beamed with pride.

"You have to listen," she said. "They’ve got the tiniest hearts."

***

He was twenty-five when she looked at him different.

When guilt took on a whole new meaning. When more often than not, she said nothing until it got so bad she couldn’t hide it anymore. When the curtains were drawn and the bedroom air was thick with smoke. When he’d promised her, begged her to let him find a solution, and spent hours locked away in the laboratories under the academy to make his promise true.

When he was almost expelled for falling asleep over an open pressure container of Rubindium agent, hadn't his case been brought up to the council and carefully spun around by Sandor, the cunning speaker of the Scarlet Faction, into a cautionary tale about the dangers of increased exam requirements.

He defended him unasked, even though Francis hadn't shown his face around their meetings for a while. Sandor insisted he owed him nothing. Francis bought him dinner anyway.

He was twenty-six when he pulled her from the railing of the Brass Bridge for the first time.

And when he was twenty-seven, Francis Lowbridge, Master Alchemist, graduated with honors.

****

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

He’d barely managed to make it outside and slammed the door shut before it broke out of him, blind, white-hot anger searing through his chest. Helena backed up against the wall in an instant. Francis didn’t care.

"You didn’t even bring her to Tirra? She could’ve killed someone! She could’ve killed herself!"

"Are you crazy?" Helena tapped her forehead. "She’s seven! What are you talking about?"

"That’s the fucking point! She’s seven, and she catches sardines with her mind!" He jabbed his index finger accusingly towards her. "Your own fucking daughter can’t feel her hands, and you wanna tell me you didn’t fucking notice?"

Helena was silent. Her face displayed a layer of fear beneath her stoic expression. Francis drew in a sharp breath, and lowered his voice into a menacing depth.

"I can get a lot crazier than this. You’re gonna tell me right now. Did you know Maja is a sourcerer?"

The air was thick enough to cut through.

"And risk the white-cloaks getting her?" Helena glared at him. "Source magic is of the void."

Francis somehow managed to bite back everything he wanted to say. Funny, how it was really just the opposite. Contrary to popular belief, she’d given birth to a little god in her own right.

"You motherfuckers." Francis barked a laugh. "Does my father know?"

"She didn’t get it from me."

"That’s not a fucking answer."

Her jaw locked, arms crossed protectively in front of her chest. Apparently, Helena wasn’t about to give him one – but her reaction spoke volumes by itself. Francis leaned forward.

"I don’t care if you’re scared of him." His words were dangerously quiet. "I don’t wanna know what arrangement you have, or why you thought it was a good idea to have a child with him, and I don’t care what makes you continue living under one roof with him. I’m gonna take her to a teacher, and you’re going to let me. And if I ever find out he laid a hand on her, I’m gonna rip out his spine and skin him alive."

That seemed to do the trick.

Clearly, Helena was measuring him against his reputation, and against whatever her husband had told her. Maybe he’d told her nothing. Either way, she deemed him him able and willing enough to do so that she made the sign of staving off evil.

"You’re not taking her."

"Oh, I’m taking her there now," said Francis. "Come with me, or don’t. I don’t give a shit."

He could see her hesitating. Helena looked between him, and Ifan, who was leaned against the corner a few steps away to lend them some semblance of privacy that didn’t really exist. Unbetrayed by his expression, Ifan could hear every word.

"He doesn’t."

She resolutely shoved her hands in the pockets of her dress. "Lay hands on her. Ever. I make damn sure of that." Helena shot a glance over her shoulder, through the tavern window. "I get you haven’t parted on the best of terms. But he’s doing a lot better, you know. Stopped drinking and everything."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake."

Francis covered his face in one hand, beating back the anger rising in his chest with a blunt instrument. It wasn’t to be trusted. Underlying it was a steady stream of well-familiar taunts. He bared his teeth, and tapped his index finger to his palm.

"He’s not just a piece of shit because he’s a drunk. He was an asshole long before that. He was a piece of shit even before my mother died. But, sure. Keep lying to yourself. Matter of fact, by now, I’d bet my own neck he’s worse when he’s sober. Isn’t he."

"I can handle him."

"I promise you. You can’t."

Helena said nothing to that. Francis turned away and gave her space. He whistled through his teeth and knocked against the wall to signal Ifan that it was time to leave. Ifan looked up, and nodded in response.

And after a moment’s hesitation, his hand still hovering in the air, Francis’ fingers subtly formed around a sign.

Gratitude.

Chapter Text

there’s silence, where there shouldn’t be.
can you smell it?
how the heavens hold their breath?
how the air around you festers
ripe with blood waiting to splatter
and prayers that should long be threats,
damp with rain that should be falling
what should be fury, creeping, crawling
through a swamp of old regrets?

there’s silence where there shouldn’t be.
so drink from the miasma, breathe in deep and
keep it in your lungs until the sky runs clear
because this kind of silence doesn’t mean it’s coming.

this kind of silence means it’s here.

Francis knew what this meant. The moving shadows. The empty streets. The closed blinds. The barricades. The lookouts on every corner, kids and old women, seemingly just sitting there, way too early in the day, eyes on the crossings. Whispering. Waiting.

It felt – strange, to walk the other way. Like he was abandoning a post he’d never taken.

While Francis climbed the steps leading into the Brass, with the most awkward and unlikely trio he’d ever imagined giving a city tour of Arx, he felt the sour sensation in his stomach that promised a mighty hangover from lack of sleep and an abundance of alcohol.

Among… other things.

Francis wanted to sleep for a week. But he needed to pull through, so that was what he did.

The first weak rays of sunshine flooded the red roof tiles of the Brass. The streets filled. The night laborers, the fishers that sailed out in the silence of the dark, builders that couldn’t work in the scorching heat of day mixed with the last tavern dwellers and traders carrying their wares to the opening market on the main square.

An uneasy silence hung between them.

Helena was still reeling from his tirade, and perhaps the rightful fear of what would happen later. And while Ifan, from what he knew, had no trouble handling the side effects of an impressive list of substances – alcohol wasn’t one of them. He looked just as tired as Francis felt. Only Maja cared little for the tension.

"Does your friend talk to demons?" She skipped up next to him. She wore his old clothes, Francis realized, old curtain fabric sewn into a tunic. He shrugged.

"Not if she can help it," he replied honestly.

A lot more people in this town talked to demons than they were aware of.

"The Candlemaker was my teacher, too. Long ago. She’s the best you can have, but she’s, uh – of the old ways, that one. So you better listen to what she says. I mean it."

Maja rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. What’s her name?"

"The Candlemaker." Francis grinned. "Her name’s not as important as what she does. I also think she just doesn’t like it very much. What about you. Do you like your name?"

She considered it, kicking a rock in her path up ahead until she lost it.

"It’s alright."

"It means great river, in Alerothian. I think it’s a good name. For a legendary frog catcher."

Francis had let himself dream.

Even though he hadn’t been able to set a foot into that alley in years. Even though it was unlikely they’d ever make it there. When he’d fantasized about showing Ifan around his home, he’d thought to take him to the Starling most of all. This wasn’t how he had imagined it.

The alley was dark. He hesitated. The last few stragglers had gone home, but the candles in the ornate lanterns were still burning red, and that fact alone was enough to end the fragile peace between them – not that he was too surprised. Helena stopped and pulled him aside.

"You’re not taking my daughter to a brothel."

Francis tilted his head, opened his mouth and thought about correcting her. That technically, it wasn’t one. That those lanterns were a sign of guild protection, not just the way to spot a house of pleasures. And that this place was more protected than most. He settled on a sigh, and knocked on the door.

"Relax. It’s closed. All the whores are in pyjamas."

He knocked again.

"Damn right we are," it sounded from the inside. "Come back tonight. Unless you need a place to –"

Tired eyes met his, in the face leaning out the doorway. A mess of long curls and a glorious blonde beard adorned with braids and pearls. Summer. They squinted into the darkness, eyes coming to rest on his features, before covering their startled gasp with one manicured hand.

"Bless the hells below," they whispered. "We thought you were dead."

And h ere we go again.

Francis felt a tired smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

The repeated, shocked reaction to the fact that he was not only alive, but collar-free and back in business, had amused him at first. It could work in his favor. He’d gotten used to shrouding himself in a dubious, but not untruthful reputation – one of questionable morals and dark magic and devil’s luck, of blood-sealed deals and speaking in forbidden tongues, of consorting with demons and other things better left to their devices.

Of rising from the grave to settle open tallies.

A reputation once won was hard to cast off. So Francis leaned into it. It was a measure of protection as good as any other, but in all honesty – it was starting to get a little old.

He was about to say as much.

But Summer acted first, surged forward and crushed him in a hug, all bear arms and joyful exclamations, until Francis recovered from the shock enough to tell them he was here to see the Candlemaker. His eyes didn’t water because of that. They didn’t.

"Okay, okay. Air. Thank you."

And when Summer let him go, leaned one arm against the doorframe, interrupting the burst of sincerity in favor of a well-familiar performance, and whistled at Ifan in appreciation followed by a pointed "My, but who’s this?"

Well, Francis wasn’t above claiming home territory, was he?

And with a smug, maybe spiteful glance towards Helena, who’d dare say absolutely nothing to a known malicious witch, and an equally smug but much fonder one towards his fiancé, replied:

"This is Ifan. My beloved."

Francis had described the Starling Inn in vague terms only – it’s for people like us, he’d said, and for once hadn’t elaborated, leaving Ifan to figure out whatever the hell that meant on his own. He started to understand it.

Ifan had found a way to get by in the South.

He’d learned to get along without compromising too much. His reputation gave him the priviledge, his charisma did the rest – and if that ever failed, while Ifan rarely picked a fight for no good reason, he was an expert that felt right at home in ending one.

Taverns and Inns were another thing Ifan deemed himself an expert on, and this one was hard to pin down. The bar was shabby, the décor mismatched and flashy, but strangely tasteful. Vaulted ceilings, a stage and mezzanines. A theatre with sticky floors.

So – this was a sanctuary.

A place to take a break from fighting.

Their guide – someone by the name of Summer, in a lilac morning robe and matching slippers, led them up the stairs towards the upper level. A few bedrolls were spread out on the floor at the end of the hallway.

"This better be important. Luckily for you, the old bitch doesn’t sleep. Wait here," they instructed Ifan and Helena, and showed Francis the way – when the alchemist knocked on the door, he threw a questioning glance over his shoulder towards Ifan.

"Don’t worry." Summer grinned. "I’ll take good care of him."

Francis rolled his eyes.

"Try not to eat him, would you."

"Oh, you know me better than that."

"Yeah. Exactly."

Summer pouted, but left off – it was the banter of old comrades, Ifan noticed. Little jabs and implications, no real spite behind it. Francis stepped inside the office to take care of business, and they waited in the hallway.

Helena opposite him, and Maja sat between her legs, looking intently after Summer as they disappeared down the stairs. She was thinking – face scrunched up in a way that reminded Ifan so much of Francis it almost made him laugh, before looking up at him.

"Was that a man or a woman?"

Ifan shrugged.

"You know – I haven’t the slightest," he admitted. "Maybe neither?"

She had her head tilted in curiosity, staring at Ifan unabashedly. A little squint.

"And you?"

Helena clicked her tongue, about to scold her. Ifan cracked a small grin.

"It’s alright," he reassured her. "Why do you ask?"

Maja scratched her chin.

"You have really long hair. And a beard. And pretty earrings. Is that real gold?"

Ifan laughed briefly. "Yeah, kid. It is." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Where I’m from, all the adults have long hair. Men and women."

"Where are you from?"

He grinned, and made an extensive hand gesture. "Far away."

Maja hummed and stared at him some more, while he braced for the rest of the questions he’d come to expect. Ifan seemed to beget the seal of approval after a while, because she crossed her arms and beamed at him through a missing front tooth.

"I’m really good at braids. Do you want one?"

That – wasn’t what he’d expected.

Ifan blinked in surprise. He shot a questioning glance towards her mother, and a little bewildered, Helena nodded – apparently just glad that he’d taken no offense. The peace was fragile. Francis was still negotiating with the guildmaster, and judging from the family resemblance, this was infinitely better compared to what would happen if Maja got bored.

Ifan gestured invitation and turned around, eyes crinkling in a smile.

"Sure. Show me what you’ve got."

Francis didn’t quite know what he’d missed, but by the time he emerged from the Candlemaker’s office, something had changed. Helena was half-asleep, leaned against a cupboard on the side of the hall, Maja and Ifan were plotting what he could only assume to be her ongoing vendetta against the butcher’s daughter. Also, Ifan donned an expert six-part braid. He wasn’t sure how that had happened, but he was too tired to figure it out.

Ifan smiled at him, and handed Maja a hairtie.

"Time to go," he said. "How do I look?"

"All the boys will hate you ‘cause you’re pretty," she declared like she’d said it a thousand times, and Ifan snorted with laughter. Even Helena cracked up a little.

Francis wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

Only that he was really feeling something.

The Starling Inn was strangely quiet, compared to the rest of the city. Like they were standing in the eye of a storm. It all looked the same. Strange now, without the crowd and the lights, but all the same. How long had it been? Four years? Five? The place could’ve used renovations long before then.

The Candlemaker’s office was – still a mess.

Stacks upon stacks of books and folders, every inch of the walls covered in lists and diagrams and city maps. And in between, red candles, piled up on and around the desk, covering every empty space on the shelves. The faint smell of drudanae hung in the air, covered by dust – and on the cluttered desk sat an ancient lizard in opulent red robes, with matted black scales and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that she held up in front of her eyes as they entered.

"So. You are Maja."

The addressed chose not to answer, and hide behind Francis instead.

"That’s her," sighed Helena in her stead. "And you are?"

The lizard woman chuckled.

"I think you might know who I am," she replied. "I have many names. Some of them deserved. But the important thing is what I do. I make candles. I deal in secrets, in desires, and sometimes, in revenge. But most importantly – I teach the craft of blood and body. In all of its forms, magic or otherwise. Delicate business, I’m afraid."

She straightened, and pushed up her glasses.

"Maja. Your brother tells me you’ve shown talent in blood sourcery. Will you describe to me what that looked like, when it happened for the first time?"

No answer. Just a stare.

"She caught a fish," said Francis, after a full thirty seconds of silence, "by slowing its heart."

As soon as he’d spoken the words, Helena pressed her lips into a tell-tale, stubborn line. And his sister hid behind his back, away from her mother. So, thought Francis, and tried his best to suppress the anger rising in him once again, that wasn’t the first time.

The Candlemaker leaned over her desk.

"She will answer the question," she directed towards Francis. "Maja, dear – if you don’t wish to tell in front of others, that is your right. I deal in secrets. I understand their weight. But you will have to tell me, so I can keep your secret safe and teach you to control your power. Or you might… harm somebody else. Without ever meaning to."

Maja carefully left her hiding place, eyes fixed towards her feet. So different from the little menace she’d been not half an hour ago, noted Francis coldly. The Candlemaker gestured to one of the book piles fashioned into something like a chair.

"Sit," she instructed. "Helena, you stay. You do not trust me, which is reasonable, and I hope to prove you wrong in time. But you will not interrupt. Francis, you will take Ifan and go to the market. Buy a lamb. A living one. And bring it to me."

Ifan’s mouth dropped open, about to say something.

The Candlemaker subtly waved him off.

"Yes, Ifan. I know your name. Names, I should say. Silverclaw. Din’antara. The Wolf of Tiriana, the war hero who wasn’t one. I know many things. Not as many as I’d like, in your case, but I have no quarrel with you, and all is well as long as you have none with me. Now go."

Francis liked his little luxuries. Sue him.

The road, the Joy – and his increasing affinity for back pain – had all reinforced it.

He liked paying for people’s drinks because he could, not out of obligation. He liked giving gifts. He liked a proper bed, a well-prepared meal, a warm bath and jasmine soap and clothes that looked good on him, even if he’d never really befriended his face, or anything below it.

And if, according to several of his academy peers, Francis dressed like a poor man’s idea of a rich man - that was just fine by him. Because clearly, a rich man had no fucking taste.

The other thing Francis liked was never having to pull another all-nighter ever again.

And it wasn’t like he’d lost the ability, just the willingness for it. The sun bit his eyes, the marketplace was packed and sweltering with heat, pilgrims buying charms and sacrificial animals, and locals stocking up on their groceries for the high holiday.

Ifan rubbed his eyes.

"Just… why does it have to be a lamb?"

"I don’t know." Francis threw his hands up. "I mean, she’s not gonna let the kid practise on a person. Just pick whichever you like best. Or... least, I guess."

His beloved, currently, was leaned over the gate of the enclosure. He looked so miserably hungover that Francis almost stopped poking fun at him for it, especially when one of the lambs started bleating. Ifan squinted against the sun and rubbed his temples with a quiet, annoyed groan.

"That one," decided Francis, and pulled out his wallet. "I don’t like its face."

When Francis returned, with the lamb on a lead, Ifan was still where he’d left him, head hanging. He hadn’t taken the braid out. Francis grinned, and clapped him gently on the back.

"You, my friend, need something deep-fried, something cold, and something pickled. Let’s go."

"I’m fine."

"Ah-ah. Listen to the drunk. Time for the famous Lowbridge hangover cure. Four years in the Medica, and they’ve invented nothing better."

Francis tugged the lamb along, and they made their way through the crowds. Like no coup had ever happened – the pyres had been cleaned, and so had the blood, rubbed off of the cobblestone by thousands of feet carrying on with their lives.

In truth, he was grateful for the distraction.

Ifan excused himself for a bit when they passed the middle of the square, and Francis, if he was here already, stopped to browse the goods at an artificer’s shop. A decent collection. Francis pointed to a little block of spotted red material, and whistled through his teeth.

"Oi. Is that Falician clay?"

"You know your stuff," the artificer congratulated him. She wore welding goggles on her head like she’d forgotten they were there, and a stone amulet around her neck. "It’s the real thing. Almost pure."

"How much?"

"Two hundred a gram."

Francis gasped.

"Dear gods, does it look like I’m shitting gold? I suppose that’s what I aim for. Nevermind."

He shot her a demure smile, gesturing to the lamb. "In truth, I’m just a simple friend of Duna’s, like yourself. To honor him, I forge creation. The craft runs in my blood – the coin, however, less so." He folded his hands. "Between two fellow tradespeople. How much?"

"Two hundred a gram."

"Fuck off."

The artificer shrugged, unfazed by the outburst. Francis rolled his eyes.

"I don’t haggle," she remarked. "That’s how you know it’s good."

"Oh, that’s some sound logic. Why haven’t you used it then?" He looked over his shoulder, and saw Ifan walk towards him. "Come on," he nudged her, "It’s for a wedding gift."

She chortled.

"Cheaping out on your wedding gift? At your age? Lucian guide your path."

"Fine," hissed Francis. "I’ll take half a gram. And a spool of clean iron. Happy holidays."

There’d been a time when Francis had enjoyed these days. Waking up after a long, rough night, lightheaded, lazy, and far too slow for any real work. It had been a long time since.

He did like this, though.

Showing Ifan around his city. The parts that filled him with nostalgia of the gentle kind, and that through it all, they could steal their little moments before it all inevitably went to shit again. A luxury in itself. Moments like this, sitting in the shadow of a pine tree at the edge of the square, and introducing Ifan to the wonders of Arxian cuisine.

"What is this?" Ifan, equally as fascinated as he looked disgusted, was holding up a pinch of pickled kelp before his eyes. "It smells terrible."

"It’s called trust me." Francis grinned. "It grows on you. Try the fried stuff, you’ll like it. And," he produced two bottles of orange malt with a dramatic gesture, "this, to top it off."

They sat there for a while, watching the crowd around them, until they were done eating and feeling slightly less miserable. To Ifan’s credit, he’d finished the kelp without complaint. The lamb was busy finding what remained of the grasses growing through the dusty pavement. Culinarily speaking, it was probably better off.

"I liked the fried stuff," Ifan passed his judgement on the local delicacies, "Not sure about the pickled stuff." He tilted the bottle in his hand. "This ain’t bad."

Francis let out an indignant scoff.

"This ain’t bad? Don’t even talk to me."

Ifan chuckled benevolently, and rested his arm on the back of the bench.

"You’re right about the kelp," admitted Francis. "But it’s got a bunch of electrol – the stuff your body loses when you drink. If I can bore you with alchemy for a moment."

"You don’t bore me."

There it was again. The same thing he’d felt when he’d watched Ifan let Maja braid his hair. That little flutter in his heart that was going to be the end of him, that told him to spend the rest of his life here, in moments like this. Where there was no urgency. Where he wasn’t counting the hours until it all came crashing down. It was new. It was – good.

Francis sat there for a while, coming to terms with the fact that he had a full-blown crush on the man he was engaged to. He thought about saying something to that effect, but his eyes fell on the little package Ifan had returned with. Curiosity, as usual, won over.

"What did you get?"

Ifan shrugged, and carefully removed the wrapping paper. It was a book. Bound in faded yellow fabric, the lettering scraped off by years of use.

"Quilamil," he said. "One of our poets. I didn’t know they had books of it." Ifan picked it up, and flipped through the pages. "She was a warbringer, during the Era of Chaos. Most of the elven martial code is based on her teachings. Sebille likes her a lot."

"A warrior poet, huh?" Francis smiled. "Is it in Elvish?"

"Common. I got it for you."

There it was again.

That feeling. Ifan didn’t look at him, just handed him the gift with a shrug, and a futile attempt at hiding what was undeniably something on the edge of… nervousness. Oh. Francis fought the urge to play it off, to say something funny and slightly offensive just because he couldn’t fucking handle it, and Ifan deserved better, for the gods. Be normal.

"Thank you?" He attempted. It sounded foreign in his own ears. "I – yes. Thank you."

"Yeah, I – hope you like it."

Silence. They stared off in opposite directions for well over a minute, before Francis let his head fall back against Ifan’s arm with an ungraceful snort, followed by a long sigh.

"We’re so bad at this."

Ifan chuckled. "Well. We’ve had a long night."

"I mean it, though. Thank you. For this, and–" He gestured vaguely. "For coming with me."

"Anything."

The silence between them stretched on.

Anything. Francis was glad he’d been sitting down for that one. Of all the replies Ifan could’ve chosen. Sure. You’re welcome. Don’t mention it. No, of course not. It was Anything.

Francis was going insane. That was the only explanation.

"Since we’re engaged now," he blurted out, and gods, if it didn’t feel unreal to say it out loud, "And we’ve established that I don’t bore you talking about alchemy – I had an idea."

"Sounds frightening." Ifan quirked an eyebrow. "Tell me."

"Alright." Francis brought his hands together. "I’ve been thinking about runic alchemy. And how the inscriptions function as commands that channel energy. You know, if you want something to heat, you inscribe heat, when you want something to break, you write break."

He checked to see if Ifan followed him.

"That’s often where it fails. You inscribe the right command, but it produces the wrong result, because you have to narrow it down using other commands, and they tend to end up contradicting each other. And I thought about how, in the Elven language, everything is based on intent, rather than instruction."

"I suppose that’s true."

"This is going somewhere, I promise. I realized that I’ve never seen the original Elven writing system before. Maybe there’s some way to incorporate it into the runic alphabet."

Ifan looked at him, slightly incredulous.

Francis raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out what he’d missed, but Ifan had mercy on him eventually and decided to answer the question before he could ask it.

"You’ve never seen it," he said, "Because there isn’t one."

"None?" Francis scrunched his forehead. "Like, at all?"

Ifan laughed, half with him, and half at him.

"Think about it, Arx Academy," he teased, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Why would they need one? Elves transfer memory. All of it goes into the roots. Emotion and intent included. The only way something ever gets lost is if someone’s not – honored."

"Thats… incredible." Francis leaned back. "And as a scion, you – you can read all of it?"

"If I know where to look." Ifan shrugged. "I’ve never tried."

"What do you mean, you’ve never tried?"

The alchemist stared at him in utter confusion. Ifan just gave another shrug. And suddenly, Francis remembered his notes – the little declarations of love and reassurance, the hieroglyphic three-liners he religiously collected and kept crumpled in his backpack.

"Oh my gods," he whispered. "Is that why you don’t know capital letters?"

"Tir’lasa athime."

Ifan groaned in annoyance, and loudly smacked his palm against his forehead.

"Sure. The full experience of a thousand lifetimes at my fingertips, but the important thing is that I have bad handwriting, you arrogant shit." Ifan flicked his hand towards him, both impatient and impassioned. "Of course I know capital letters. I just think they’re stupid."

"You think capital letters are stupid?"

"They’re stupid, they look bad, and they don’t make any sense." He punctuated every word with a sharp gesture of insistence. "They go in front of every name? Every word’s a name!"

"I can’t believe I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with you."

"Regretting it already?"

"Gods, no." Francis shook his head and stared at him. "I’ve never been more in love."

Ifan blushed.

Fiercely. And he looked so good doing it. Francis wanted to press that blush on paper and keep it in his wallet. He wanted to take his long, sweet revenge and make Ifan blush like this every single day of his life. He would. Ifan muttered something under his breath, and, having nothing else to do with his hands, leaned down to pet the lamb.

"Don’t do that."

Francis pulled a grimace.

"You’ll get attached. Nothing like accidentally killing a cute baby sheep to remind you of the fragility of blood and body. Worked for me, I’ll tell you that." He shrugged. "It’s still gonna live longer than the rest of that coop. Probably."

Ifan squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious, but didn’t stop petting the lamb. Francis sighed. He was aware he was rambling, talking just to fill the silence, but tilted his head to look at the animal.

"We’re moving a bit fast, don’t you think?" Francis scratched his chin. "We only got engaged last night, and we’re already shopping for school supplies."

Ifan said nothing for a bit. The school supply in question affectionately licked his hand.

"You’re worried," stated Ifan.

With a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh, Francis signed understatement.

"Well, yeah. I just found out I have a little sister, who on top of it all, might be one of the most powerful blood mages I’ve ever seen. Do you know how long it usually takes, to be able to do what she does?"

Francis crossed his fingers between his legs. He was almost grateful for the headache, keeping darker thoughts at bay – but the more he sat still, the harder it was to escape them.

"There’s - a bunch of kids," he continued, "A whole generation of sourcerers since Dallis took power, who went unrecognized, unchanneled, who were never taught to control it, who will probably either die of source instability or wreak havoc on the world in a few years."

Ifan was thinking. His eyes tracked the movement on the crowds on the square, his arm still subtly resting behind Francis’ shoulders. Or maybe not so subtly, but no one seemed to mind. Francis took a deep breath, and turned around to look at him.

"Ifan – if we do find a way, if we do share divinity with everyone… It’ll be thousands."

A sharp, surprised squint.

"We will find a way," said Ifan slowly. "Won’t we?"

Francis was about to answer.

Then the sound of an explosion ripped through the silence.

They jumped to their feet immediately. The screams of the crowd echoed through the air. People ran off, frantically looked for cover, before realizing where the noise had come from.

In the center of the square, the statue of Lucian was missing its head.

Francis held on to the back of the bench, crouched and ready to bolt. He squinted against the sun. Hundreds and hundreds of paper scraps fluttered through the air, swirling, then slowly falling down among the crowds. Ifan shot a quick glance around, reached out, and caught one in his hand. Francis craned his neck to read when Ifan let out a quiet, impressed whistle.

"Andar," he beckoned. "Looks like Beast has joined the party."

There was no going back. Francis knew. It was printed on the pamphlet, as written fact, and no matter the debate they’d been about to have.

DOWN WITH DALLIS – DOWN WITH KEMM, it read in big block letters.

ON YOUR PICKET LINES.

They parted ways once the commotion had died down.

Francis went to deliver the lamb to the Starling, while Ifan made his way down to the western end of Lower-Arx. He was due for a diplomatic mission with Sebille in the afternoon, on the pier in the Elven settlement that had refused to join the dockers’ strike.

He didn’t approach it without caution.

Ifan was a skilled negotiator, Francis knew that much. He moved on soft paws, for lack of a better term. He was patient, had an excellent eye for people, always listened until the end of a sentence – perhaps a leftover habit from his days as a translator. He was, in his own words, used to dealing with bigger fish; quick to measure the aces up his sleeve and knowing where to draw the line. And when everything failed, Ifan could make a threat count unlike anyone else.

He also had what Francis, at present, sorely lacked.

Optimism.

"Walk with me a moment," said the Candlemaker. Maja was busy with the first of the excercises, and the guildmaster led him to the dressing rooms in the back, to supply them with the necessary evening dress for the Ros’ wedding.

Francis fiddled with the clothes hanging from the racks. He passed the little corridor between them, letting his hands drift over the fabric of each. Refusing to look at the Candlemaker, or at the mirrors hanging from the wall in the corner.

Because he’d loved Eshe there.

Adored her there before each dance, hands on her shoulders while she put on lipstick. Where they’d gossiped with the other dancers. Where the first time he’d ever dressed for fun, not practicality or scrambling to adhere to the minimum of a dresscode, he’d let Eshe and her siblings paint his face – and liked what he’d seen in the mirror. A fond, and secret memory. He found they returned along with the terrible ones, if he was in the mood to let them.

"She’s powerful," the Candlemaker broke the silence eventually. "Maja. But you knew that already. It begs the question, however – why aren’t you teaching her?"

She took a long robe from one of the racks and turned the corner, stood in his way. Francis had to tilt his head to look up at her – her eyes, a soft amber tone, watching him through the beaded glasses, sharply and with a trace of, almost, endearment.

"You are a student of history," she continued. "You know as well as I do that sometimes, when you cannot figure out the why, it might be worthwhile to ask why now?"

Francis didn’t know what to say to that.

"You’ve changed." The Candlemaker looked him up and down, while he raised a questioning eyebrow. "Why are you here now, after all these years?"

Tirra had asked him the same thing, thought Francis. So had his father.

The truth was this.

Back in Fort Joy – after being plucked from the sad remains of his life by a power greater than him, however unpleasant the process – once he’d found allies, and escaped the immediate threat of being turned into a shrieker, Francis had almost felt something like relief.

There’d been a time where he’d wanted to die.

Only to almost have his wish fulfilled and find out that there was nothing in the world he wanted less. What he’d truly wanted was change. Francis would’ve been content to turn his back on the city of Arx forever. And yet –

"Necessity," he said with a shrug.

Plain and simple.

"You taught me how to listen to the city, and I did. Something’s brewing. A revolution. The world as we know it is about to change. And I might not be around to –"

Francis sighed.

"I might not live to see the end of it."

The Candlemaker regarded this with a long silence. She twirled the little beads of her bracelets between her fingers before looking back down on him.

"You never used to have the patience for it," she said with an amused smirk. "Revolution. You couldn’t afford it. You wanted power, knowledge, everything, now. You were an excellent student." She chuckled. "And a pain in the ass."

"Right." Francis smiled reluctantly. "Who are we kidding. I still am."

He thought about Ifan, at the pyres. Ifan, who hadn’t made another oath in years, promising to end it. The Order, divinity, all of it. Saheila’s parting words. Go in peace, and burn. And the promise he had given. Of course I’m with you. Francis buried his hands in his pockets.

"It’s coming, though," he continued, "We’ll all be on the front lines soon, whether we like it or not. And seeing how I can’t back out of it – I intend to win."

He paused.

"Look," he continued, much quieter, "If I don’t make it, will – will someone keep an eye on her? My sister? And her mother? I’ll pay. Whatever you need."

The Candlemaker hummed, and brushed a trail of dust from one of the dresses.

"Compelling. To be owed a favor by the devil himself. I hate to disappoint you. But in all your urgency, there was always one thing you refused to learn."

Francis knocked his chin up, and narrowed his eyes.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

The Candlemaker laid a clawed hand on his shoulder. She was a strict teacher, a cunning net-weaver, a ruthless strategist. But never a heartless one. Her leathery face stretched into a warm and unexpected smile.

"That you are not alone."

An old and twisted feeling clawed its way up his chest. Francis pushed it down with everything he had. It had been there ever since he’d spoken to Daric at the tavern. It had been there throughout the entire night. Maybe, it had been there since the day he was born.

He shrugged instead.

"You owe me nothing, Francis," she said with a firm grasp on his shoulder. "Of course we’ll keep an eye on them. We do this freely. Not because you’ve done the same for us, but because we know you would. I had an eye on you all these years, ever since the funeral. Nothing happens in this town without my knowledge."

Francis looked at his feet.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "I’ll get you that wine you like. If you’re so all-knowing."

And that gave him – an idea.

It didn’t hurt to ask, thought Francis. Even if he doubted it would work.

"I know you’ve got your pieces in position," he said, looking back up. "And I don’t know where you stand, or what outcome you’re betting on. But the Scarlet Faction are joining forces with one of the most powerful guilds of the city tonight. I’d love for the other one to be there."

The Candlemaker’s expression turned sceptical. She tugged at her glasses.

"I know about the meeting," she confirmed slowly, "But I must admit – I’m rather surprised to see you working with the Seafarers." She paused. "It can’t be easy down there, as a Starling. I’ve known you to be talented at a great many things, but diplomacy was never one of them."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged. "Things change. Control the docks, control the city, some say."

Francis hesitated for a moment. He thought about Maja, catching frogs at the river bank. He thought about DeSelby, and her wife, the union steward, who spoke and cursed and gestured in his language and held the power to love another woman in plain sight.

"The Order bled us dry, and then built us schools and a hospital," he continued. "Some things are bound to stick. But that doesn’t mean they can’t be changed, you know. Especially now that we’ve got a common enemy. I’ve met my – my fiancé," he reminded himself with a smile, "in prison. Is it so hard to believe I could make a couple friends in Lowbridge?"

The Candlemaker looked at him with newfound curiosity.

"You’re guildmaster of the Red Lantern," insisted Francis. "You know things about them they don’t even know about themselves. You could quite literally catch the most powerful people in this city with their pants down. Kemm knows it. The Seafarers know it. Everyone knows it. You should have a place at that table."

The Candlemaker sighed, carefully folded up the robe, and laid it down next to her.

"Do you know," she began, "why our guild is as powerful as it is?"

He didn’t answer. Francis had an idea, but he wasn’t about to pass up a free guest lecture from Arx’s most tenured spy.

"Because we stick to our devices," she said. "Because the powerful have nothing to fear from us, so long as they treat us – well, not as equals. But with dignity. And only if they fail to do so, they’ll have to fear for their life and reputation. We have power because we stick to what we do best. And because we don’t pick fights we cannot win."

"That’s not power," said Francis reflexively.

"It very much is," the Candlemaker replied sharply. "For those on the lowest step of the food chain, with no levers, and no friends. That was true under Lucian, just as it is under Kemm. The power to be treated with dignity is everything to us. If we have to take it by force, so be it. But it took decades to allow us to do so, and we will not throw it all away on a hunch."

Francis felt his eyelid twitch.

One of the more advantageous effects of a quick temper was this. Something he’d only heard a second ago could suddenly become the most important thing in the world to him. It made him an acute scholar, a terrible loser, and an absolute menace. Suddenly – if Francis was about to die fighting for a new world, he needed to make sure it was worth dying for.

"Then you’re like me," he said, "And you’re so busy being lonely that you don’t even notice you aren’t alone."

The silence stretched on. It roared in his ears, as he braced for her to berate him. But the Candlemaker only hummed in contemplation, folding her hands behind her back.

"Possibly," she admitted. "Come. I need to show you something."

Francis followed reluctantly, as she approached the mirrors. Eyes turned to the floor, because he’d loved Eshe there. And that twisted feeling rose again. He wanted to look literally anywhere else. And in doing so, he caught his own reflection.

The man in the mirror looked tired.

Weary lines ran across that freckled face, purple bags under his eyes. A few white hairs shone through the stubble, and the strands of dirty red. Lanky, but no longer hunched. Flippant, but no longer frantic. There was – a hard-earned dignity to him, instead of the despair he was so used to seeing.

The man in the mirror had loved, and lost, and loved again.

The man in the mirror had lived.

"If you’re done admiring yourself," said the Candlemaker.

Francis blinked, and followed her line of sight.

It was there, on Eshe’s powder table, that he noticed something had changed. The other tables in the row were cluttered with make-up and trinkets, the mirrors decorated with drawings and notes and dried flowers – all the things people used to make a home of what little space they could claim for themselves. A dancer’s table and mirror were sacred.

Eshe’s table was empty. No one had claimed it.

Francis looked up.

And drawn on the mirror, there was the icon of a goddess. Eyes like the stars. A halo of limelight. In thick, oily paint, using all colors of the sunset, purple and yellow and red. A cheeky smile on her lips. A strong chin, slightly raised. A regally quirked eyebrow.

He’d loved her here.

Francis’ arms fell over the back of the chair. It looked so much like her that he forgot how to breathe. Eshe, the irrefutable. Like when he’d held her in front of the mirror every Friday night, before the curtains opened, and she stepped into the light to claim her kingdom. Like the saint of the alley. Like the empress, the maverick, the artist she’d been.

She was loved here.

And he’d never been the only one to remember.

"Jair painted it," said the Candlemaker. "After the funeral."

His vision blurred at the edges. He watched the tears well up between the strokes of paint, with no way to hold them in. A hand landed on his back, careful and compassionate.

"We waited for you."

Francis couldn’t speak.

He wanted, so desperately, to find an excuse that sounded better than the truth. That he couldn’t have come here. That it would have killed him. That he’d tried everything, and failed. That he’d regretted it all these years, every day of his life. That he’d simply been afraid.

He tried to push through.

Tried to hold it in, not knowing what would happen if he let go, what would come crawling from the depths of his rotten heart. Those were the words that tore him to pieces; and when the Candlemaker pulled him in for a gentle hug, he was completely powerless against it.

"Welcome home, Francis. We’ve missed you."

The first thing Ifan noticed were the lookouts.

He had an eye for it. The Elven settlement was located on the river, a two-hour walk outside the city walls; and the path leading there, winding through the cliffs and arches of the mountain chain could hardly be called a road.

Silence hung heavy in the damp air, gripping his chest, the grating buzz of the cicadas, the distant, pooling stormclouds behind the mountaintops, waiting to spill over. It was not a peaceful silence. It was the well-known, loaded quiet of walking straight into an ambush.

He pointed the guards out to Sebille with a tilt of his chin. Up on the cliffs, hiding in what the scorching heat had left of the Arxes’ vegetation. A flash of metal in the sun. The uneasy cracking of the bushes. They weren’t elves, clearly – most likely whatever forces Kemm could spare from securing the city, to guard his alternative supply chain.

A decent maneuver. Ifan had to give him that.

"Where did you disappear to?" Sebille had asked him when they’d left the lower gates. Ifan had only shrugged in response, unsure whether this was a secret he was allowed to share with her. He did that a lot these days. A small price to pay, in his opinion.

"It’s rather endearing, the depth of your infatuation," she continued in Elvish, when he didn’t give her an answer. "That you cannot help but steal him away less than twice a night."

She wore her pilgrim’s clothes, the loose sleeves strapped to her elbows as to not obstruct her hands, instead of rolling them up. She was armed. They’d agreed to leave their weapons behind if asked. Most of them, anyway.

"Much more intimate than that," Ifan had replied eventually. "He let me learn about him."

He hadn’t elaborated, and Sebille hadn’t pressed. Judging from her eyes, permanently squinted against the blinding sun, she wasn’t faring much better than him. Sebille – the scion, the killer, the guardian – had a hangover, too.

It was so unexpected, so curiously reckless of her, that Ifan couldn’t help but smile. Sebille had let her guard down. For a night and a day, leaving Lohse to sleep it off, and join Malady and Jahan on the hunt later tonight. They hadn’t talked much recently, he thought. At least not just the two of them, as their conspiracy had turned to something more companionable.

They didn’t say more, and walked side by side into the lion’s den.

Both of them light-headed, reckless and in love, and Ifan couldn’t help but wonder – his mind drifting slowly, without intent, to what Francis had said to him on the bench. His doubts about sharing divinity with the world. Thousands of new, unchanneled sourcerers.

Everyone had their own motivations. Ifan knew that like he knew the color of the sky. And he wondered if, when push came to shove, something as simple as love would be enough of a common denominator.

Something was coming.

He was almost grateful for the distraction. The calm before the storm settled in his mind as they followed the path through the cliffs, soothing the lingering questions. The world grew sharper, clearer. The headache, forgotten. Eyes trained on the periphery, scanning the horizon for threats, every movement under careful control.

The settlement sat precariously close to the water.

The waves of the Olmere lapping at the edge of its foundations. No one stopped them from entering, although Ifan doubted that the same would be true for their exit. Huts grown from clay and pine tree roots, of familiar geomantic construction – built in the same style, but far from the elaborate wooden architecture that a dense forest in the valley could provide.

The second thing he noticed was the language.

Or rather, the absence of it. What little scraps of conversation reached their ears was the sharp, quick bite of Common instead of their mother tongue.

Sebille took no note of it, or maybe didn’t care to.

She introduced them formally in Elvish, to the two young men sitting guard at the palisade entrance. Her name, her root, and her intentions. Ifan stood back and let her take the lead – until he noticed the look on their faces. Ifan was more than familiar with that look.

Mockery.

And it usually tended to go the other way. The two elves side-eyed each other, like they couldn’t decide whether to start laughing or not. Sebille’s bow and greeting went unreturned.

Being silent back-up had always been the safer option, but recently, Ifan was increasingly fed up with it. Something in his sense of survival must’ve cracked irrevocably, because these days, he found himself more and more unable to wisely keep his mouth shut.

To some degree, he was sure it was Francis’ fault.

"A greeting is meant to be returned, da’len," Ifan hummed easily. "But I’m all for sharing a laugh. What’s so funny?"

That cracked them up for good. Ifan had expected as much. He smiled, benevolently, until they were done laughing their asses off. The leniency afforded to those barely having reached adulthood. The one on the right, fir or elm ancestry perhaps, spoke up first.

"You calling me a kid. Are you one of Kemm’s? You’re not supposed to go past the first arch."

Evasion in the place of lies. Well, wasn’t that familiar. Ifan folded his arms.

"Do I look like one of Kemm’s?"

"I don’t know what to tell you." His friend cocked his head and threw up a subtle agreement. Furtive, subconscious, and easy to miss. A habit rather than a courtesy. It reminded him of the way Anwyn had signed. "See if you can translate this. You look like a fucking felasmina."

He’d never heard that word before.

But Ifan could figure out what it was supposed to mean. Slow-your-blade. A bounty hunter. And suddenly, he understood the issue here. Those kids didn’t speak Elvish. Or, at least not – his Elvish. Sebille cocked an eyebrow, waiting to see where his path would lead.

"Good eye," Ifan complimented, hoping he’d guessed right. "But I’m not working for Kemm."

"We’re in demand, these days." The one on the left sucked his teeth. "Who do you work for, then?"

Ifan tilted his head.

"Me," he replied thoughtfully, "And because Sebille doesn’t need to repeat herself, let me do the honors this time. We’re here to speak to the assembly. By right of the rootless."

Uncertainty.

They didn’t ask to check. Ifan didn’t offer.

"Assembly’s already in place." The elf shrugged, and waved them through with a gesture somewhere between invitation and indifference. "Whatever. Mala. Take it up with Kerith."

All things considered, that had gone – far better than expected.

They crossed the muddy square between the houses. Sebille shot him a brief smile, and he gestured back relief. In the middle of the settlement stood a lone pine tree – a young one, if it even was an ancestor at all – and in the shadows in front of it, the assembly was in session, a half-circle, around the man standing underneath.

In contrast to the pine, he was ancient.

His hair reaching down to his thighs, the cracked, three-coloured bark of an old sycamore tree. His gestures were slow, distinct and extensive. His face blank, proper of a speaking valley elder. His tattoos, a dark and wave-like patterning – oh.

Ifan hadn’t seen those in a while.

"Once the shipment is here," said the elder, "We need to make sure it –"

He stopped himself as he noticed their approach. Ifan’s eyes were glued to the swirling, dark ornaments cut straight into the bark, filled with ink and grown back over. A cold shiver crawled up his spine, and he stood straighter to suppress it, as his mind detached itself from whatever it was that he’d planned to say.

Once upon a time, and not that long ago in terms of elven history, those had been the marks of an honored Tiriaran. Now, they meant something else entirely.

Those were the marks of a deathfog survivor.

Ifan, somewhere distant, felt his own nails dig into his palms. Sebille’s eyes grazed him from the side, before she stepped forward to bow to the speaker. It took him a moment to follow.

"I apologize for the interruption," she said in Common. "I am Sebille. When the matter allows it, your assembly will hear me, by the right of the rootless."

A few curious heads turned towards them. The elder gestured invitation. Inconvenience.

"I am Kerith, Root and Kin," he replied. "Enter in peace."

"May the peace extend to you," answered Sebille. It felt stiff in this language, thought Ifan. The whole exchange did – clearly, it wasn’t a frequent occurrence. Kerith, the scion, folded his hands in front of him. Apology.

"This is no matter for the ears of outsiders. Speak your right first. We’ll resume later." He glanced up at the sun, and smiled thinly. "But – make it quick, Sebille."

She made her way through the crowd – turning her head briefly, to see Ifan stand still at the edge of the assembly. He made no move to follow her. Suddenly, claiming the right to speak was the last thing he wanted to do.

Sebille stepped under the tree, and permitted Scion Kerith to read her. It was clearly reluctant. But they’d both agreed that it was necessary. If all else went wrong, the right of the rootless was a safe bet.

"By what circumstance do you claim this right?" Asked Kerith. As stiff as the exchange was – he was clearly no stranger to the ritual. Not a surprise, for a scion of his age. He seemed out of practise, but certain of the proceedings. "Displacement, death, or banishment?"

"Displacement," answered Sebille, after a brief hesitation.

Kerith read her truth, and nodded. "I’ll tell you for the sake of transparency," he said a little quieter, "that the kin you’re asking to embrace you can barely feed its own. Speak."

Ifan raised an involuntary eyebrow. Unusual, he thought. Then again, that was far from the only difference between the South and the Valley.

"It’s a good thing, then, that I’m not asking you to embrace me," Sebille said, signing understanding, and turned her face towards the crowd. "I only ask you to listen to me."

Sebille spun a compelling case.

Even in her second language. She looked - at home again, speaking to a crowd. Far from the sulking assassin rolling dice in the corner. Eloquent to the point of poetry, and well-versed in the laws and ritual proceedings. As a prime scion initiate she had, in her own words, sat through more of them than a person ever should.

Sebille didn’t appeal to their loyalty, their honor or the goodness of their hearts. Sebille appealed to their self-interest. Ifan spaced out more times than he was proud of. It was hard to listen when the room was hard to read. There was intrigue, but mostly scepticism. Some hostility, but mostly – indifference.

"Kemm is not your friend," she ended. "You have more in common with the human and the dwarven seafarers than you ever will with him. He is not to be trusted."

"Kemm grants us protection," said Kerith. "There’s a reason we’ve settled here, and not inside the city walls. We’re safe, for the first time in many years. We have nothing in common."

Sebille looked at him with something that almost bordered on disdain. Disagreement, she signed sharply.

"He doesn’t grant you protection. He spares you from violence. Those two things are not the same. And you will notice, once you’re done being useful to him. Just like the Seafarers."

"The Seafarers and us," sneered Kerith, "have nothing to say to each other."

He softened his expression, and addressed the rest of the assembly. They were curiously quiet, thought Ifan. No signing, no agreement, no disagreement, no questions. Waiting to see what played out between the two of them.

"I don’t have much power. But with what little I have, by the Mother’s will, I am fated to keep my kin away from harm."

Sebille curiously cocked her head to the side. Her face was blank, like that of a speaking elder, but so were her hands. Sebille adapted quickly. Sebille’s mind was sharper than the needle she still wore against her wrist, and Ifan was certain – she had caught it, too.

"There will be decisions felled at this meeting that will deeply affect you and your kin," said Sebille. "It is enough to warrant Irithena. No matter your decision, you will have to choose a delegate."

Kerith nodded. A patronizing smile spread on his lips.

"How long have you been living in the South, Da’len?"

"I have hardly been living," snapped Sebille. "And I fail to see how this relates."

"We don’t adhere to Irithena. Some rights are honored because they apply to us. Some, like the right of the rootless, we honor because we remember the meaning they held. But when you live as long as I do, see what I have seen, you learn to adapt."

Sebille showed him her teeth. Kerith only smiled in response.

"Fine, then. Far be it from me to scorn the ways of the valley. I will act as delegate. Does anyone object?"

No answer. Disinterest, amusement.

Kerith extended his arms and smiled at his kin. "Does anyone," he drew out, "Have something to say to the good people of the Seafarer’s Union apart from leave us alone?"

Apart from the sweltering heat, the cicadas and the flies above the river, there was complete and utter silence.

They had their answer. Sebille left her position without another word, the eyes of the crowd following her as she went. Ifan permitted her to hang onto his arm and they walked back towards the gate.

That – hadn’t gone so well.

"Beast was right," muttered Ifan from the side of his mouth when they were somewhat out of auditory range, "Kerith’s a – bit of a wankstain."

"We need to leave."

Ifan didn’t ask a single question. He matched her brisk pace until they were outside of the palisade, and when Sebille took a sharp turn to the left and pulled both of them into the shadow of one of the huts.

"You heard it, too." A sharp whisper, in elvish.

Agreement, signed Ifan.

"I read his skin, when he read mine. He was scared. Like a cornered deer." She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and lowered her voice even more. "We’ll be discovered."

Kemm’s guards would attack the minute they made it past the second gate. Ifan knew it like he knew the color of the sky. He tapped the knife in his sleeve, absent-mindedly checking how fast he could reach it – and really missed his crossbow.

"Not when he’s with us," murmured Ifan. He peeked around the corner, back pressed carefully against the wall. "Do you have a plan?"

Of course she did.

They were quite good at this, after all. It wasn’t something you simply forgot how to do. So when the assembly had ended, and the door of his home fell shut behind Kerith, they worked in perfect accord.

Sebille grabbed the elder by the shoulders. The needle was in his jaw before he even had a chance to scream.

"Don’t move."

Kerith was ancient. He knew enough about the ways of the world to stop struggling almost immediately, eyes widening as he watched Ifan step out of the shadows.

"You know – if we had the time," he drew out smoothly, "I’d have a long talk with you about honoring the Irithena, and about how it’s not optional. But we don’t have the time."

Kerith’s old, old eyes defiantly bore into his. Measuring him against his words.

"If you kill me," he whispered, "you won’t make it out of here alive."

"I think that might’ve been the plan either way." Ifan pulled a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. "You will not die today, Kerith, Root and Kin. Here’s what you’re going to do instead."

He stepped forward. The elder towered tall above him.

"You will call back the assembly. You will all choose a proper delegation. And then, you’re going to come with us to Lowbridge and attend theirs. And you will ask Kemm’s dogs to stand down."

Kerith showed him his teeth.

"And what makes you think I will do that?"

Ifan smiled.

"I know you will," he said. "Because if you don’t, your kin will know you’re not really a scion."

Chapter Text

To add but one thing to a long list of bad habits, Ifan had come to enjoy playing with his food.

His targets of choice – most of them, anyway – had been the kind that thought themselves untouchable. Had he been compensating? Sure. A sick gratification in it, watching someone immensely powerful realize that their luck had run out. High-born nobles and feared warlords, greedy priests and filthy rich merchants. Immune to consequences, almost, so secure in their power that the reality of death was met with more disbelief than fear.

Like a betrayal of the natural order.

If you wanted to kill someone invulnerable, you called the Silver Claw. Small kings in their castles, warriors unbested in combat, all felled so easily by a single, unexpected, well-placed arrow from the shadows.

Din’antara, his regiment had called him, jokingly at first, later with something akin to awe.

Death from above.

Weeks of planning and an iron resolve came with seeking that particular thrill – the look of sheer indignance on the face of someone who felt entitled to hand out death and misery across the land and still die peacefully of old age. It wasn’t easy coin. Those contracts had him fight harder and think faster than any petty turf war would’ve required him to. But what could he say – Ifan loved a challenge.

And so, he stood back and watched the look on Kerith’s face intently. Mighty optimistic of him and Kemm, trying to ambush a professional ambusher.

"You’re insane," hissed the elder.

Ifan tilted his head, then gave a simple nod of confirmation.

"You invoked the will of the Mother Tree," he explained. "Sorry you gotta find out this way. But the Mother Tree is dead. And so is our connection to her."

Kerith said nothing, and kept up his sneer. For how long – who could say.

"There was a gathering of scions when she fell," continued Ifan. "Her power was distributed among them, the memory of the kin was given back to the roots. And you, my friend–"

With a slight, unbothered smile, Ifan took a step towards him.

"You weren’t on roll call."

The expression on the elder’s face changed as he took in Ifan’s words. Suddenly, those ancient eyes in the sunken bark displayed the emotion Ifan had least hoped for. This wasn’t the disbelief of someone mighty and inevitable having their power stripped away – this was a look of an ordinary man, scared for his life.

"What I’m wondering is this," Ifan continued in an almost soothing tone. "How did you keep up the lie for so long? How many did you honor without guiding them to the roots?"

"You don’t know anything."

A twist of the needle. Sebille, who had no such reservations, ordered him to speak without saying a word. Clenched teeth, and a second where fear turned to horror. Then, the truth:

"I did what had to be done."

Ifan had a purpose here. Wished that he didn’t.

His eyes traced the etched markings on Kerith’s skin, covering his neck, his arms, his shoulders. And an unexpected feeling reared within him. Not fueled by the guilt and satisfaction warring in him at the end of every hunt. It was – a kinship, instead. With someone who knew what it meant to feel your skin melt at the edges, to feel your own saliva sizzle, and watch helplessly as everything you knew and loved around you turned to ruin.

No one came out of it the same way they’d gone in. He knew that better than most.

Only – kinship wasn’t quite right, was it? They weren’t companions in that particular misfortune, something reminded him. He was the perpetrator of it. 

"How did you end up indebted to Kemm?"

The elder didn’t answer right away. Ifan shot a glance towards Sebille, and very carefully, she pulled out the needle. Kerith winced, but stayed still in her grasp. A dazzler, not a fighter. And after a second’s hesitation – his hand came up in a gesture of regret. 

"It’s not Kemm I’m indebted to," he finally spoke up. "It’s his superior. After the fall, I was – I had to live. Someone offered me the chance. I was ordered to act as their scion. These people were born and raised under human rule. They’d never seen a living valley elder before. Of course they believed me."

"Kemm’s superior?" Asked Sebille. "I thought he was the head of the Order?"

"Oh, the naivety of youth. We all answer to someone," Kerith snarled. "Do you really think he took over the city all on his own? No. This was years in the making. Kemm is in league with the Black Ring, and their general, and believe me, you do not want to cross his path."

Ifan and Sebille exchanged a long look. They’d heard of him. The general of the Black Ring, the Sallow Man. One of many in a growing army, in service of the God King, whose net spun further and further whereever they went. Connecting all those machinations.

"The Seafarer’s Union – they mean well, under Beast," continued Kerith. "But they have no idea what they’re up against. And I did not survive this long by betting on losing horses."

"They wouldn’t be losing if you’d tell them what they’re up against," replied Ifan. "Like Sebille said – Kemm will drop you the minute you’re no longer useful to him. Wouldn’t you rather have a few allies when that happens?"

"He’ll kill me," said Kerith. Calm, and without a single doubt. "He’ll kill us all."

"He might anyway. Ir dirthara. People like him – they don’t share power well."

Ifan sighed.

And then, something occurred to him. He tried putting himself into Lord Kemm’s shoes. In a city full of enemies, surrounded by steep cliffs, and the docks blocked off by the strike. Who put all he had on a single logistical alternative, spent years making sure of the elves’ compliance, and had deployed every man and woman he could spare to secure it.

A smart, if rather desperate maneuver.

One that had a fairly obvious weakness. The path to the city was crawling with guards. The elven dockers too afraid to switch sides. The one thing Kemm hadn’t accounted for – was the river itself.

He also thought of something else. Of two people in a tavern bedroom in the Orobas fjords, long ago. Surviving; finding kinship in the pain they shared rather than anything else they had in common.

Never again.

"Kerith – I may not look like it," Ifan said quietly. "But we shared a root once."

He extended his arm, slowly, permitting the elder to read his truth. A little bewildered, he did so. Ifan looked him in the eye – with equal parts focus and intent, and found the flash of grief there as Kerith’s hand met the bare skin of his forearm.

The elder drew in a sharp breath.

"You’re… Tiriaran?"

Ifan nodded. He didn’t pull his arm away, didn’t push away the grief. Allowed the lie of kinship between them to form, and hoped that Kerith mistook his guilt for something else entirely – for the regret of living on, after everything you’d loved had seized to be.

"I understand you," said Ifan. "More than you know. I can’t blame you for surviving, or for being afraid. Please. I’m not asking you to go against Kemm. I only want to know one thing."

Sebille raised a curious eyebrow. Ifan gestured insistence.

"Kerith. When does the shipment arrive?"

Two nights before, Francis remembered thinking that Ifan’s hands were magic.

Curiously, that thought didn’t occur to him during sex. When they wrapped warm and rough around his hips, when they were clenched around the sheets or fucked him like he was something to be worshipped,  dragging out sensations he’d long forgotten how to enjoy.

It didn’t occur to him in battle – when he watched them, sure and steady, click a bolt into the crossbow’s groove and taking aim with stunning, almost beautiful precision. It didn’t occur to him when he’d watched those hands carve wood, or pluck the strings of an Oud with a care and delicacy that belied the thick callouses and heavy weight of them.

Ifan was a craftsman.

Creating masterpieces from everything he touched. A perfectionist in the way only someone who’d fallen in love with his art could be. He’d watched those hands shake more than once, dig nails into their palms to hide it. Flipping a coin to soothe or reprimand themselves. Splattered with blood and guts that they wore like jewelry. And still, with every touch.

Those hands made something beautiful.

It occurred to him while he held one of them between his own, cold and raw from being tied to the headboard, and finding that he’d missed them while they’d been gone. The other, splayed out on Ifan’s chest, feeling himself breathe. Francis ran his fingers over his palm. From bottom to top. Dug into the hard knots between his bone and sinew, massaging every digit, every inch of skin.

Is that what you were looking at when you were checking me out? Francis had asked him once. My hands?

I always do, Ifan had admitted. Good way to judge people.

It happened almost without thinking.

Francis could’ve rationalized it to himself. That it was simply a courtesy, of making sure his hands were warm again, and not the overwhelming desire to know them deeply, intimately. He didn’t bother making such excuses in the end. Felt Ifan’s pulse there under the skin of his scarred wrists, summoned up the smallest spark of source, and reached into his veins.

Carefully pulling the blood back into his fingertips.

Ifan was too blissed out to even notice. A sight he’d never tire of. When all that elegant precision, all that calm composure cracked before it turned to something far more peaceful. To messed-up hair and heavy breaths, a gentle blush and lips bitten a deep red, a shine of sweat on his skin, and not a single thought in that smart head of his.

I did that, thought Francis.

He’d made a number of accomplishments in his time. That was hard to deny. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so proud of one of them.

Ifan stretched beneath him like a cat.

Slow-blinked like one as well, and rolled a cigarette.

He was beautiful. And Francis hadn’t ask to share that night because he was in pain.

He was – but much like Ifan, sometimes, he’d learned to languish in it like it was a hot bath. No, he thought, as the smoke scratched into his lungs. In truth, it was to understand, to share every part of him, and connect to him so deeply that they would join at the seams and never be apart again. And because, well – it made some dreams much easier to dream.

I just want to be here. With you.

Those hands, now, were at the other side of the room.

Francis had come to know his tells. Ifan was nervous.

They’d gathered in an old warehouse at the docks. When Francis had entered the district, the picket lines were up, beset with dockers and sailors and their families. Whispered prayers. The glint of metal. Eyes shining with rage, and with fear, in the light of the lanterns.

Beast could hardly be ripped away from the hassle of securing their position. There was always more to be done. More precautions. More words of encouragement. More weapons, more barricades, more stowed rudders so not a single ship would move. The dwarf marched through his ranks, stopped every couple of minutes by a question, a promise.

We need folks on the west crossing. Good seein’ ye. Hold the line. Where’s the wee one? Inside? Don’t worry, lad. Kemm won’t know what hit him. Get more barrels!

Francis walked through the middle of it, and lent a hand here and there. Carried a crate of rope harpunes with an old neighbor, who recognized him – the rumors, the history – but didn’t say a word about it. Just a nod, and they were off again. None of that mattered now.

Not when there were roadblocks to be built, caltrops to be bent and scattered on the steps. No greater unifier on this earth than a night before a hopeless battle. He sat on the steps in a moment of quiet, tilted his face into the breeze before making his way to the warehouse.

Dark clouds decended on Arx’s treacherous sky.

Another night would go by without rain. The air was thick with rising dust, and the tension rose with it. A story as old as time – a Lowbridge temper, some would call it. Clawing at the door of an overheated cage, said others. The summers here would make anyone’s blood boil.

It was neither the time, nor the place, for diplomacy.

Francis sat at the union’s side of the table, next to some of the stewards. Marie DeSelby among them, scanning her shipment records, tapping her foot impatiently under the table.

"They drag me away from the strike, and then they’re gonna make me wait?"

Beast muttered it under his breath. Francis could hear every word. Some of the upper city guilds had also found their way to the docks, the tailors, the builders. Lohse had apparently found the time to send a delegation of the Brass Quarter’s street performers their way. And was that –

Francis leaned forward in his seat.

"How did you get the Thieves’ Guild here?" He whispered in Beast’s direction.

He recognized the face. It was Cat, the legendary jewel thief turned fencer, operating under the guise of a well-known appraisal office. Francis had done business with her before, in more desperate times – not quite as desperate as they would still become.

She was in the company of a young elf, dressed in human clothing, with long, dark hair and the grey patterning of an ash tree. Two long scars running down the side of his face, a mess of mismatched tattoos on his forearms. Not the traditional elven kind. The kind that spoke of more than a few years of well-used prison time.

"Wasn’t as hard as ye’d expect," replied Beast. His eyes gleaming with pride. Francis could see why the man was liked among the docks – he seemed earnest, at all times, even while scheming, and with a healthy dose of good humor to boot. "Kemm hasn’t exactly been a friend to petty crime."

"Still," Francis said, impressed. "I’ll leave you to your trade secrets, but – she’s not usually known to get involved."

"I might’ve promised them his mansion," Beast muttered, a little embarrassed.

Well, Francis had had his doubts. But if anything, this smattering of Arx’s infamous almost bordered on an alliance the Order would take seriously. Not that that was a good thing, particularly. But he’d been pleasantly surprised when two of the Red Lantern’s guild representatives also joined the meeting.

Two women, dressed all in red. Their arrival had drawn immediate attention. Not all of it of the friendly kind. But it was overshadowed when, a full hour late, the door opened again and Ifan and Sebille entered the warehouse along with the members of the Scarlet Faction.

The faces had changed.

Folks rarely stayed in the Faction’s ranks for longer than their studies lasted. But there was someone that he recognized, and greeted with a wave – Sandor Das Balurik. He’d grown into his middle age quite well, no longer stiff and dogged in the way he held himself, but with a somewhat courtly elegance instead. Sandor raised his eyebrows – the only thing betraying his surprise, and nodded in return.

"Take yer time," hollered Beast, "I’ve wasted enough already, what’s a little more."

Sandor didn’t rise to the bait.

"Apologies for the delay," he returned instead, as they sat down on the other side. "Shall we begin immediately, then? I’m certain introductions can be skipped."

Clip and to the point, as ever. Sandor rarely took the spotlight, preferring to work in the shadows instead, but he cut an imposing figure whenever he did.

Noticing his fingers drumming silently against his leg, Francis shot Ifan a reassuring smile.

The mercenary didn’t meet his eyes. He was staring, instead, at the elf accompanying Cat the appraiser. And Ifan wasn’t usually one to stare, at least not in his professional capacity.

Francis tried to pay it no mind.

"If I may. We were unable to convince Kerith and his kin to join," said Sebille. "But we did manage to get some information out of him. Kemm’s ships will arrive tomorrow night. He’ll try to route them into Arx through pier thirteen, then through the mountains."

"Lying out his arse," Beast grumbled.

"He was not. I checked."

Sebille stood up from her seat.

"The more important thing to know, is that Kerith serves Lord Kemm under threat of death. Who in turn, serves… the Black Ring. This also is the truth. I have read it."

An uproar went through the room. The delegations were whispering among themselves. Francis caught a couple of words. There was disgust, but mostly, the fear of something entirely beyond their scope. The Order was one thing. The Black Ring, however…

"The gods may strike the bastard," it escaped Marie DeSelby. "For that, if nothing else."

Mutters of agreement from the dockers. One of the Scarlet Faction’s delegates sneered at her in turn.

"The gods? Please. No wonder we haven’t gotten anywhere. It is on us to strike, not wait for some imaginary force to–"

"Imaginary? Listen to this kid."

The clamor got louder. Francis let out a groan. Accusations were thrown across the tables, of equal parts heathenry and delusion, and the whole thing threatened to turn into yet another wasted theological debate, until a strong, if gentle voice cut through the ruckus.

"What does it matter?"

The room quieted. Every face turned towards Ifan, who was leaned back with his elbows over the back of his chair, turning one of his amulets around his fingers. He knew without looking, that everyone was listening to him. Ifan still had something about him, the remnant of a mantle of quiet command that inspired, if nothing else, a moment of respectful contemplation.

"Why does it matter whether the gods are real, or what they want?" He continued, uninterrupted. "We’ll never agree on that. No two people ever do. We’re here to find what it is we can agree on. Otherwise, we’re all wasting our time."

He let his eyes wander over the crowd.

"Whatever your reason," he continued, "You all agreed you want to see the Order fall. Let’s focus on that."

"We’ll have another Kemm in no time if we don’t address this naivety," the student returned.

Francis sighed. There went another chance at diplomacy. He half expected a brawl to break out at those words, but Ifan met the man’s gaze with an amused little twinkle in his eye.

"Naivety, lad?" He smiled. "I don’t mean to be intrusive. But you named your little club after a genital disease."

That got a chuckle from the dockers, and a full-out laugh from the Red Lantern’s delegation. The student’s ears turned red at the edges. Francis suppressed a grin.

"The color symbolizes passion," he snapped back. Sandor silently beckoned him to sit down.

"Oh." Ifan grinned, eyes crinkling at the edges. "It certainly does."

Bellowing laughter. But before the whole room could turn to ridicule him, Ifan made a small concession. Just the right move at the right time.

"We all have our reasons to believe what we believe. You as much as anyone, no doubt. Let’s move on to what we know for sure." He cleared his throat. "Kemm’s ships will arrive tomorrow. If they succeed, we’re shit out of luck. We won’t manage to block the mountain passage through pier thirteen along with the docks. But we may be able to block the river itself."

Ifan turned towards Beast.

"You’d know, I imagine. Easiest to sink something while it’s still on water. And let me tell you." Ifan chuckled. "No one’s a good swimmer in full plate."

Beast contemplated it, stroking his beard. A smile curled the edges of his mouth at the image of a hundred of Kemm’s soldiers flailing in the deadly current of the Olmere river.

"Ye’ve a point," he agreed eventually. "We might be weak to them on land. But not even the gods could hold us sea-rats back when the sails are up."

A jeer of confirmation from the seafarers. Reassured, Beast grinned widely and stood up from his chair, barely reaching across the table as he slammed his fists down.

"Hells, I’ve missed the feeling. Aye. Let’s sink the bastards."

The seafarers voiced their approval. Francis shot Ifan an admiring glance. Sandor, hands folded under his chin, waited for the cheers to quiet before he spoke.

"It could work," he said eventually. "But there’s still more infrastructure to dismantle. Their administration. Their communication channels."

"War owls," agreed one of the concubines, an older woman with greying hair. "They use the owlery coops on Kemm’s estate. We’ve seen them around."

Cat the Appraiser cut in on the discussion. Smelling her chance.

"Grand. We’ve been meaning to pay the place a visit. What’s a little sabotage on the way. You wouldn’t happen to know the passage in, sister?"

"Of course we do."

The discussion took ages. By the time they’d agreed, Francis’ head was buzzing with eventualities. The Black Ring’s magic mirrors. Portal magic. Dallis getting to Lucian’s tomb before they did. Voidwoken, Ring necromancers, and whatever else could be summoned forth by their opponents. And, of course…

"What happens after?"

Francis was surprised by the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the thought was harder and harder to ignore. Especially now that there was – an actual chance to win, as unbelievable as it was.

The Red Lantern’s delegate nodded in his direction.

"Say we do make it," she agreed, "What then? Who will rule the city? What guarantees do we have that whoever takes power doesn’t make our life worse than it already is?"

"Then there’s the nobles to deal with," the speaker of the Tailor’s Guild added. "They won’t go quietly. In fact, they’d rather die than surrender Arx to the Guilds. There’s a dozen holy families fighting for control over the city, each with their own little army at their beck and call. They only need to open their wallets."

That sparked a new debate. Each guild and faction called out their demands and guarantees, some contradicting so severely that their neighbors had to physically separate them. Ifan and Sebille were quietly whispering among each other. The mercenary’s eyes didn’t leave the elf on the other side of the room, the one sitting next to Cat. And the elf stared back.

What is going on over there?

Sebille said something. Ifan nodded. And then, she stood up to speak.

"There is a solution to this," she said. "Let us decide by the right of the affected."

Several looks of confusion met her statement. The grey-eyed elf next to Cat spoke up – his gaze still fixed on Ifan as he did.

"It’s an elven custom," he explained. His voice didn’t carry, a little rough, high-pitched and melodic in a way that belied his gruff appearance. "When there’s a decision to be made, it must be made by those affected by it. With equal voices. It’s a lesson from way back in the Chaos Wars, when the entire elven leadership was wiped out in one strike."

"Any decision?" It sounded from the other side. "That’ll never work."

Ifan looked between them, and shrugged.

"Why not?" He said. "It worked fine, just now."

The scepticism across the assembly’s faces turned to intrigue. Ifan adressed Beast again.

"I won’t lecture a sailor on how to sink a ship," he continued. "In fact, I’ll gladly refer to your expertise in those matters. So why would I tell a concubine how to run a brothel? Or a tailor how to sew? We decide on what we know, and what affects our lives. All else would be pure speculation."

And because it was Ifan who said it, poetic as it was pragmatic, earnest as it was seductive, the words were followed by a moment of silence, and of – shockingly – honest contemplation.

"Someone should tell Kemm," Beast replied with a chuckle. "We’re the reason these docks are still standing, after all of his grand ideas for expansion while knowing naught of the tides."

The seafarer’s laughed. Ifan grinned in return, but stopped himself when his eyes met those of the elven man again. With each look – Francis could tell he was missing something here.

"I’ve got a feeling," Ifan drew out. "He’ll get the message soon."

Sometimes being under the burden of necessity and time constraints wasn’t a bad thing at all, thought Francis, when hours of negotation had finally found their end. They compelled you to act, instead of getting lost in the eventualities. Something Sandor had once told him.

The crowd filtered out of the warehouse. He exchanged a few friendly words with the speaker of the Scarlets, but there wasn’t much time to prepare for the coup to end all coups, and they kept it short. It’s good to see you again, Sandor told him in parting. I always expected you would do great things. It took a different turn, but – here you are.

Here I am, Francis agreed. Take care of yourself.

Waiting for Ifan to catch up, he leaned against the door. The mercenary was still in the back of the room, talking to Velec DeSelby – quiet, but high-tempered, accusation written on his face. Francis couldn’t make out much of what was being said. Except.

You could’ve fucking told me.

I tried, remember?

This was getting stranger and stranger. The unstoppable desire to get on the bottom of what was going on here, paired with knowing there was still so much to do. Who was that man?

Nope. Not the time.

Francis busied himself. He clipped runes out of wire. He equipped makeshift weapons and explosives with runic alchemy bordering on sinister. Fire that stuck to wood and skin the more you tried to put it out. Weapon oil that cursed whatever it touched, caused wounds to be worsened by any attempts at healing. Gave long, rigid instructions to those who would wield them. They weren’t weapons of disobedience. They were weapons for a victory won in blood and dirt. Simply said, they weren’t fair – but neither was the battleground itself.

There was only one chance to win.

And nobody smart played fair.

Francis worked like a machine. Gear after gear, with practised caution and thoughtless precision. The hours flew by while he worked. The hands passing him tools and containers of volatile fluids changed over time, replaced when they found something else to do.

"Pliers," he muttered through the wire between his teeth, as he wrapped up another bottle grenade. They were laid into his palm by a hand he knew too well to pass by.

Ifan looked tired.

Sparing a second for a smile, Francis took the pliers from his hand and closed off the handle. He kept working, in his quiet company, until his shoulders ached, the sun began to set and his skin, damp with sweat, began to cool. The dark shadows of the bridge faded into the black of night, and Francis voiced a thought he’d nursed for a long, long time.

"You were amazing in there," he said. "People just… listen to you."

From the corner of his eye, he watched Ifan shrug in response. There were a number of things Francis didn’t say. He teased him for it, but in moments like these, it was easy to see the part of him that was accustomed to command. How natural it seemed, the way Ifan wielded power, all while he constantly kept insisting he wasn’t equipped for it.

"Wasn’t always that way," Ifan said. "But I’ve learned some lessons, over the years."

He let the sentence hang between them, heavy with implications that, as usual, he didn’t bother explaining. Until Francis decided not to say anything back, and he actually did.

"Sometimes, I wish they wouldn’t. Listen to me." He chuckled. "I don’t know what I’m doing half the time."

It had always taken time, for him to find his words. That was why they could cut through the air like a blade, strike at the vital points of truth like a well-aimed crossbow bolt. In company, he only said what he felt was worthwhile saying. Humble to the point of sacrifice. Francis finally reached a decision on how that observation made him feel.

It pissed him off to no end.

"I don’t know what I’m doing all of the time," he snapped. "And yet, here we are. Don’t make yourself smaller than you need to be. They should listen to you, Ifan. End of story."

Ifan smirked.

"You should really take your own advice, Doc."

"That’ll be the day. Scalpel."

He muttered an incantation. To the tooth-grinding sound of the scalpel blade etching a rune into bottleglass, small ghost lights began to flicker all around them – ascending, until they were caught in a halo of cold, blue light. Ifan’s eyes reflected it, full of honest admiration.

He’d been the first, all those months ago, to call his magic beautiful.

"I don’t think that’s what it is," Ifan thoughtfully disputed after a while. "I’ve made mistakes. And compounded them. I’ve paid for my part in them, but now… there’s a chance to make amends. A real chance. And I intend to seize it."

Dead serious, as he said it. Francis knew without a single trace of doubt that even if he’d wanted to stop Ifan from tearing divinity off its pedestal, he had no chance of ever being able to.

Ifan, already having memorized the routine, handed him a piece of sandpaper.

"I can feel the promise of change. The sun on my face. Urging me to grow."

Francis sanded down the runes, and stayed silent. Again, had it been said by anyone but Ifan, the effect wouldn’t have been the same. Fully sincere. His words were calm, but there was grit behind them. A wildfire burning in those gentle eyes as he spoke.

And Francis was utterly, irrevocably in love with him.

He stared at his profile, the tools forgotten in his hand – traced his face with his eyes, greedy for the sight of him in his mesmerizing, confident, passionate beauty, enough so that what Ifan said to him next registered to his ears, but not to his brain. Francis blinked.

"Sorry. What?"

Ifan gave him a knowing smile.

"What are you thinking about?"

"No, no. You said something else. Tehrenel…

"Vallem thenerel ma dir. It means I bid a blossom of your mind."

"Vallem therenel ma dir," repeated Francis. "That’s pretty."

"Mh-hm." Ifan reached out and ran a hand over Francis’ knee. "So? What are you thinking about?"

Francis let his eyes wander and pursed his lips, wondering if this was the time and place to admit it, then turned his head to the side, raising an eyebrow with an innocent smile.

"Fucking you stupid."

"Why, Doctor." Ifan’s mouth was drawn into a wide grin as he leaned in closer, close enough for a whisper over his shoulder while he drove a small screw into the source infusion vessel on an arrow. Francis grinned in return, as he continued: "Tell me more."

It was a game.

A distraction, from the heavy weight of destiny hanging in the clouds above.

But the fact that his love – all this raging attraction, all this intensity – was met with equal fervor made Francis feel bolder than ever. Love could be terrifying. Love could be humbling. Love could destroy all of him.

This kind of love did the opposite of taking him down a notch. Francis was invincible. He raised the unfinished arrow and rested the tip of it between Ifan’s collar bones. Ifan went completely still. The noise he made, the quiet, sharp inhale. Francis dragged the arrow tip down his sternum, sharp against his skin, but light as a kiss.

"I bet," said Francis, "I could make you hard without ever putting a finger on you."

Ifan’s eyes met his. A twinkle of mischief, the brash tilt of his chin.

"You’re a blood mage. Of course you could."

That flirt. Francis grinned. "You wound me, ben-Mezd. To think I’d have to stoop so low. Come on," he challenged. "No magic. Just the plain old promise of a good time."

"Oh, sure." Ifan cackled. "I’m not saying you can’t try. Just that I ain’t betting on it."

"Because you know I’d win."

"Precisely."

Ifan blew him a kiss. The blush rising on his cheeks was subtle. But it was there. Until a shadow fell on Francis’ handiwork before him, and quiet steps neared them from the entrance of the storage shack he’d chosen for a laboratory. And Ifan suddenly paled.

"Are you hiding from me?"

The dark-haired elf stood before them. A slender figure, sleeves rolled up. Eyes like steel, a piercing grey with shallow pupils, widened in the dark.

"Took me a while to recognize you. You’ve aged." A curiously quirked eyebrow. "It suits you."

Ifan stared at him, the way he had during the entire meeting. His face was unreadable. And the mystery refused to stay buried a minute longer.

"You’re alive," he stated. "How?"

The elf smiled.

"I could ask you the same, Ifan."

Oh. There was history there. Francis looked between the two, while Ifan got up.

"Last I checked," the newcomer continued, "our feared warbringer Din’antara was dead and buried on the Holy Mountain in absence of his corpse."

The elf spotted Francis’ confused glance immediately.

"Just an old nickname," he told the alchemist. "A joke at first, when we were none the wiser. Little did we know." He smiled at Ifan. "Death from above. Though you were just as capable of death from below."

History enough for innuendo, then. And Ifan hadn’t said a word to him. For the first time in a long time, between the questions buzzing through his brain, jealousy reared its ugly head in earnest.

"And who are you supposed to be?"

The elf looked him up and down, and drew himself up to his full height.

"My name is Lysanthir Akaran." He peered at him down the bridge of his nose. "An honored teacher of my people, who will be addressed as such."

Francis closed his mouth.

"He’s fucking with you," contributed Ifan.

Eyes still fixed on the elf, calculating, and sparing Francis not even a glance, which didn’t help the unexpected feeling. Francis remembered the name. From one of the rare stories Ifan could still bear telling, of the man he’d been before the deathfog explosion.

"You don’t seem overly preoccupied," stated Lysanthir. "Come. Beast is looking for you."

The same mocking smile. The scars were new. But he’d never forget that firebrand beauty in his features which, in contrast to Ifan’s, hadn’t aged a day.

How?

The word repeated, circled in his mind without respite as he followed Lysanthir through the docks. It would’ve been upsetting enough all on its own. But these days, there was a renewed urgency behind the question – while more and more ghosts returned to the living with thoughts of revenge and black circles tattooed on their skins.

"They sentenced you to death," he said.

"Ah, yes. That."

Lysanthir gave a drawn-out sigh.

"To make a very long story suitably short, my death penalty was a matter of diplomacy on the highest scale. Back when Elvenkind was still important to Lucian’s war, if you can remember. So, when my case was tried, it was argued that insubordination does not exist in elven martial law, and that I should not be judged by a code I’d never technically subscribed to."

"You were raised in the South."

"They didn’t know that." Lysanthir’s lip curled slightly. "Playing the ignorant foreigner can get you far, when it’s exactly what people expect. The blessing and curse of the diaspora."

Ifan nodded, dumbfounded.

Lysanthir Akaran, it was then. No more Lysanthir Winterfell. He’d laid down his human name, and had been claimed by the root of Akane – it had to have happened during his trial, thought Ifan. Wasn’t much left of that lineage a year later. Thanks to Lucian. Thanks to him.

An old regret poked at his heart. One that rarely stuck out among a thousand others. That him and his first love had parted ways in anger. That Ifan had called him a fool, and a cynic, and Lysanthir had called him… He didn’t bother finishing the thought. 

Ifan, back then, had considered himself the wiser one of the two. The one who stopped to think before he spoke, who’d bring change from the inside, subtle and patient and unbearably diplomatic where Lysanthir was loud-mouthed and combative. How stupidly conceited. Ifan had been nothing but a fool.

"You were right," he said.

Plain and simple.

Ifan stared ahead, buried his hands in his pockets. An uncomfortably long silence followed.

"I usually am," Lysanthir replied with an air of disinterest. "You’ll have to be more specific."

Ifan knew, without a doubt, that Lysanthir was keenly aware of what he was talking about. Sixteen years were a long time for a human. Much less so for an elf. Lysanthir wasn’t the forgetful kind, and especially not the forgiving one. He just wanted to hear him say it.

Which, he supposed, was only fair.

Ifan took a deep breath.

"Back in the valley. You told me Lucian and his generals didn’t care whether we lived or died. You told me that the Divine was just using people for his own gain. And you were right, Lysanthir. You questioned everything. I didn’t. I just…"

Ifan trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to draw the veil, to follow that sentence down to the abyss of its conclusion. To expose what he’d chosen to do instead.

"I should’ve done something," he ended on.

Lysanthir turned, and truly seemed to take him in. Allowing Ifan to do the same. And while his face hadn’t aged, and his appearance changed only superficially, something about him felt tired, and ancient. The elf sighed, and kept walking.

"Being right buys you nothing," Lysanthir settled on eventually. "Except a decade and a half in prison. Nothing was gained. Should’ve kept my mouth shut."

It was the last thing he’d expected.

And the last thing Ifan had wanted to hear. The words tore at his heart. All that stupid, righteous courage he’d never appreciated while he’d had the chance – broken. Broken while Ifan was only just beginning to find his own, and aspiring to what Lysanthir had taught him. And suddenly...

He couldn’t let it stand.

"I tried that for a decade." Ifan’s voice cracked halfway through his answer. "And there’s nothing I regret more. Believe me. If I could go back –"

"You can’t," said Lysanthir. "And neither can I. So let’s give it our all this time, shall we?"

They passed through the alley until the quay was in sight, Beast and the rest of the boarding party hurrying to ready their vessels – small, dark-painted fishing boats with black sails, silent and almost impossible to spot in the night from the vastly lit deck of an Order warship.

"We’re here," observed Ifan, "Unless Beast isn’t looking for me, and you were just trying to find an excuse to get me alone."

"Please. Do I need an excuse, when you follow me around so willingly?" Lysanthir gave an airy laugh. "I saw you looking at me, Ifan. I would respect it, if you just wanted to let bygones be bygones, but… I don’t think that’s what you want."

Ifan stopped in his tracks, at the corner.

"I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me," he muttered.

Lysanthir grinned.

"Sharp as ever," he acknowledged. "Talking’s not… exactly what I had in mind."

The elf leaned against the corner. Ifan turned his face away from him.

"The night before battle. Just like we used to. Tell me, do you not find it a little alluring?" Lysanthir continued. "To taint that sappy, sweet nostalgia in your eyes with whatever the fuck it is we’ve both become?"

A careful finger met his chin, with enough time to pull away. Guiding him to look up.

"I could be gentle like old times, Ifan, suhlan-mir," he purred, "But I don’t think that’s your desire now. I think you’d want someone to ruin you. I didn’t see it clearly then, to my regret. And I’ll admit it was the subject of many a particular fantasy, way after we separated."

Ifan didn’t know what to say to that.

"I wanted satisfaction. And maybe some revenge. I’ve sought your face in those of many others, but none were so adoring. So devoted. Your best quality, and your worst one at the same time. Commander. I’ve loved and hated it, as I’ve loved and hated you over the years."

His eyes. So earnest. Lysanthir was, still…

"I never got to show you the true depth of my obsession. You would’ve welcomed it. It’s what you’ve always thrived on. And you’ve changed, so irrevocably, from the lover I remember – but you’d still look at me that way, even while I made you suffer. Tell me. Am I mistaken?"

It took him a while to answer. Ifan reached up, and carefully moved his hand away.

"I can’t, Lysanthir."

A tinge of nerves to his voice as he said it. From what exactly, he didn’t know. The elf shook his head. But in contrast to his words, the smile there was – gentle. Endeared. Right, thought Ifan. There’d been a time, before all this. Lysanthir clicked his tongue. 

"You impossible man. If it’s still guilt guiding your hand, rest assured. You can have me. I don’t need to forgive you to luxuriously fuck you on a storage crate. In fact, I never did."

The nerves faded. Ifan looked up at the sky, and laughed at that well-known audacity. A deep, honest laugh.

"No," he slowly replied then, "You’re not listening."

The elf raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Sixteen years is a long time for me, Lysanthir," Ifan continued in a low timbre.

Gentle, but firm.

"I’m content. I have someone. Someone who has forgiven me, even when I never asked him to, even when I didn’t think I deserved it. Someone I love in his entirety, and who loves me back in mine. I don’t want anyone else."

Lysanthir relented with a chuckle, raised his hands and backed away.

"Nadas, nadas. Then he’s a lucky man. That jealous little redhead, is it?"

Ifan smiled.

They turned the corner, and to other matters. Ifan released a breath he’d been holding for longer than intended. Tracking the graceful stride of his old lover, secure yet furtive, like a tiger on the prowl. The familiar outline of a wickedly curved dagger in his sleeve.

"So, you’re with the Thieves’ Guild now?"

"Don’t judge me, ben-Mezd." Lysanthir yawned. "Prison gets so incredibly boring."

"Ave grik layal." Ifan chuckled. "I’m not judging you."

Lysanthir's eyebrows shot up. 

"Well now. There’s a first time for everything."

So much was for certain, thought Lysanthir. Ifan had changed. He almost hadn’t recognized him, only the thing they now shared. The silent ferocity of someone living on borrowed time. No more need for principles. The vengeful clarity of a dead man walking.

There had been rumors, passed between the bars. Nothing to really listen to, as most of them were simple entertainment. But the suspicion had settled in his heart. Ifan had been busy since the war. 

Ave grik layal.

He spoke Cant. It wasn't a language anyone learned out of mere academic curiosity.  Ifan still had the build and posture of a fighter, much more now, than all those years ago. But no longer that of a soldier. And while he’d surely never been a monk, a crusader, he had been. Through and through. Really, that was what eluded him. After leaving behind such an integral part of who Lysanthir had known Ifan to be – what exactly had taken its place?

"Praise the fuckin’ gods, yer here."

Beast’s bellowing voice sounded from ahead, as the dwarf fell into a little jog to reach them. It was – adorable, for lack of a better term. Lysanthir smirked. The old union leader greeted Ifan the northern way, with a kiss on both cheeks.

"What do you need?"

"Nothin’." Beast huffed, a slightly regretful smile spreading on his face. "Just to wish ye godspeed, and better luck. Hells below. I wish it could be me. But I know where I’m needed."

Ifan straightened, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. The glint in his eye accompanied by a smirk, he mustered the newly assembled Lowbridge war fleet.

"Thank you. The feeling’s mutual."

Beast winked.

"Wedding party’s not yer kind of gig?"

"No, I love a wedding," Ifan thoughtfully corrected. "Just might love it even more to watch the Order’s finest flailing in the river."

"Buy me a pint, and I’ll describe it to ye," quipped Beast. "We’ll switch places, next time."

Ifan chuckled.

"There won’t be a next time. But it’s appreciated."

"Oh wasted chance." The dwarf shook his head. "Ye gods. I’d love to see the look on Justinia’s face. Actually, for a man of yer talents…" He scratched his beard, considering something. "How much to bring me her head?"

Lysanthir perked up at that. Not… Queen Justinia?

Ifan contemplatively tilted his chin. And there was something new in his expression, now. Something Lysanthir had never seen on him before. Collected, calm, but skin-deep bloodlust.

"Standard enough. That particular head?" He clicked his tongue. "On the house."

Beast’s face slowly changed, from a grin, to a frown.

"I was joking, lad."

Another shrug, while Ifan leaned back.

"I wasn’t. Either way. May the tides be in your favor."

Beast returned the benediction, looking slightly rattled, and turned back towards his ships. And Ifan was about to turn back as well. Until Lysanthir thought better of it, and stood in his way to stop him. He knew it, in that moment.

The pieces clicked together in his mind.

"So it’s true."

Ifan narrowed his eyes. Like he had no idea what he was talking about. Lysanthir decided to help him along – it wasn’t just that he hadn’t forgiven. He was feeling downright vengeful.

"I’ve heard stories, while I was inside," he expanded. "Charming little folk tales. Of an assassin, a killer of small kings and generals. The Silver Claw. A mythical figure, almost. An unfailing sharpshooter. A spectral wolf carrying out impossible murders for hire."

Ifan’s eyes flicked from side to side, then landed on him, wide and pleading. Not here, they seemed to implore him. But as previously established. They had a bone to pick. Mala ira.

"I thought it might’ve been you. Your work had admirers, Ifan. Or maybe your enemies just had many enemies. Only – there was always one thing that wouldn’t add up."

Please, said Ifan’s eyes.

"How could the legendary Silver Claw be my friend Ifan," Lysanthir drew out, not bothering to lower his voice despite the audience, "The all-righteous crusader, when I had it on good authority that my friend Ifan had died in the deathfog along with the rest of the Seventh?"

He’d sat in front of enough judges to know the look on the face of an innocent man.

What he saw on Ifan’s face wasn’t anywhere near it.

And so began the trial of Ifan ben-Mezd.

"Think fast. Din’antara. Who walks free while the bodies drop like flies around him? Who generally gets to leave the bench of slaughter with his life intact?"

Now that Lysanthir was proven to be right, he wanted nothing more desperately than to be proven wrong. Read the charges, cold and steady.

"Only the butcher does."

Ifan didn’t move.

Unbridled confession in his eyes. A confession of betrayal. He saw it now, so clearly, after years of denying everything he’d feared. The depth of the mistake he’d made. To think that by all their differences, he knew Ifan to his core. That Ifan, under all that arrogance and zealotry and hesitation, was a good man.

I never should have loved you.

I never should have trusted you.

"It was you," whispered Lysanthir. "The bomb."

Ifan didn’t defend himself. Didn’t even try to hide it. And it only made him angrier.

"You followed him until the very end," he snarled. "Lucian’s faithful little dog. Set slaughter to the entire valley for it. Your root. Your kin. Your unit. Entire fucking cities, ancestors and lineages. And now you dare stand here and tell me I was right?"

A blank stare, and still, no movement. Just Ifan’s fingers, tapping the knife in his sleeve. A nervous habit rather than a threat. Almost amateur, in how revealing it was. And then, finally, his statement of defense. Pathetic in its simplicity. It wasn’t, in fact, a defense at all. It was an admission.

"I didn’t know."

And Lysanthir was boiling. He wanted to bury his love under rivers of blood. No. He wanted him to not be buried at all, to be erased from history, from his history in particular.

"You didn’t know?" Lysanthir fell deadly, dangerously quiet. "Do you expect me to believe that? That you walked into the forests with a bomb in your hands and, what? Thought it a token of your loyalty?"

It was the truth. The stupid truth. The look on Ifan’s face said it. He’d never been a good liar. Even now, under scars and greys and wrinkles, nothing but a wide-eyed valley kid. God-fearing and loyal to a fault. So much he’d spilled blood wherever he went in the name of those he’d chosen to admire. And still, Lysanthir didn’t want to believe it.

He needed to know it.

He read his truth. He waited for permission, and Ifan gave it without a second’s hesitation. Like a happy lamb to slaughter. Fuck him. Fuck him. A kiss with his fist, was what he wanted. But as his fingers settled lightly on Ifan’s hand instead – it coursed through him with an intensity he hadn’t been prepared for.

The guilt. An eternity of it. A stormy ocean of it, drowning everything else in its merciless current. As he fell into it, Lysanthir grasped at any straw available, anything he could catch onto in the maelstrom. Grief. Regret. Pain. Hatred. Disgust. But not a trace of the one thing he’d been searching for – the calculating, cold anxiety of someone telling a lie.

He withdrew his hand.

A sharp gasp escaped him as Ifan’s emotions, mixed so deeply with his own a second ago, faded from his heart – and he could breathe again. Ifan was still drowning. He had been, for a long time. He must've learned to swim in that vortex, up against the undercurrent, day after day.

And Lysanthir wanted to push his head under.

He wanted him buried in his self-pity, unhonored and forgotten. But even as he thought it, he couldn’t bear the consequences of it. That amount of stupid, blind obedience had to set a historic example.

"Remember my face, when the roots claim you," whispered Lysanthir. "And know that even as you’re honored, you will never be forgiven."

He’d been hoping for something else.

A reaction, any kind. Ifan blankly stared past him. At the pike against his chest, coated in cursed weapon oil.

"Silver Claw, you say?"

Ripping himself out of the tunnel vision of his rage, Lysanthir looked over his shoulder. A group of dwarven dockers had assembled around them during his tirade. And one of them, a stocky older woman in a seaman’s cap, had her weapon pointed at Ifan.

"Would the name Lysanne mean anything to you? Maybe you ran into her? In Sinta?"

Something flashed in Ifan’s eyes at the mention.

He didn’t say a word.

"Resistance fighter?" Spat the dwarf. "Alchemist guildmaster? Ring a bell?"

When Ifan spoke, his voice was like silk. Smooth, and perfectly controlled. Lysanthir saw the way he stopped his hands from shaking, nails dug into his palms, and hated how familiar he was with the sight.

"I had a contract under that name," Ifan said. "A terrorist."

The woman laughed incredulously.

"A terrorist, huh. What do you think they’re calling us now, fuckwit?"

The pike surged forward with murderous intent. Without thinking, without hesitation – gods, why – Lysanthir’s hand shot out and closed around the weapon’s shaft, stopping its assault.

The tip of it, an inch away from Ifan’s throat.

A hand had landed on top of his. Ifan’s, who had stopped the blow just at the same time. The weapon was pushed aside by it. No longer like a startled deer. Like a cornered predator. Tooth and claw, a fighting stance, every perfectly coiled muscle ready to pounce. A lethal beauty in it, a terrifying grace. Impossible not to fall in love with, even while it tore you apart.

There would be blood.

"I understand your wish for revenge," said Ifan. Calm, and controlled. "I’ve felt it too. But I can’t grant it. If you strike again, I will defend myself. And you will die."

The standoff lasted.

Nobody moved.

Until Beast called for the boarding party to man the ships, and the dwarven woman lowered her pike as slowly as she could. The other onlookers turned away. Lysanthir was the only one left.

And Ifan - fucking Ifan - didn’t spare him a single glance.

He just turned on his heel, and walked.

"Are you even listening to me? Who was that guy?"

It happened without thinking.

Francis slapped his hand away. He didn’t mean to – a reflex more than anything else, feeling eyes on his back long before they arrived there when Ifan reached for him. Ifan looked at his hand. Then back up.

"Lysanthir," he said after a bit.

"Yeah, dickhead, I remember the introduction–" Francis stopped himself. At the sight of earnest, raw grief in Ifan’s eyes. What had been jealousy turned first into curiosity, and then into compassion. There had been nothing playful in how he’d looked at the elven man, nothing to let Francis know the rules to the game, because it hadn’t been a game at all.

Francis sighed.

"I’m sorry," he said.

He shot a glance over his shoulder, and reached for Ifan’s palm. It was a mistake. Ifan pulled his hand away away like he'd been burned.

"Why do you do that?" Ifan’s face cracked at the seams with the emotions. Fear. Anger. Confusion. "If you don’t want me to touch you, just say so! Why are you playing this–"

Francis shot him a cold glance.

"You know why."

Ifan threw his hands up.

"I don’t fucking know, Francis! One minute you look at me like the stars in the sky, and then the next you act like – like you don’t even know me! And you don’t even tell me what the fuck I did wrong! You promised me to let me know what I did wrong!"

"Because there’s nothing you did wrong! Shouldn’t you of all people understand that?"

"Then what the fuck is this? Are you ashamed of me?"

That was low.

That fucking asshole. That infuriating - the baseless accusation pissed him off enough that he didn't even want to rise to the bait for once, managed to truly take in the look on his face. Francis narrowed his eyes.

"Why would you say that?"

And he saw it. The moment Ifan wanted war. To take his lot and make it worse, throw salt into the wound beyond repair, make the other shoe drop by any means necessary and provoke him into a response he knew how to handle. Like he was looking into a gods-damned mirror.

"I may be a fucking coward," growled Ifan quietly, "But at least I’m not ashamed of who I love."

It shattered something in him.

It hurt more because it bordered on the truth. And to take that fact, unveil the looming shadows and implications around it and shove it into the light, was the only way Francis would make it through this.

He gathered himself, took a deep breath, and told Ifan the truth.

"I’m not ashamed," he said. "I’m... afraid."

At least, it made him stop.

"Of me?"

"No, not of you, I - something happened, alright? And I don’t know what changed in the years I was gone. I wasn’t there for it, I don’t know why it’s suddenly fine. Maybe it’s just that we have bigger problems now. Maybe it’s that people think I’m dangerous enough to leave me be. But I haven’t…"

Francis sighed. He lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I haven’t adjusted yet, alright? Give me time, and I'll be braver. Please. And know that I’ll never be ashamed of you."

Ifan glared at him, chin knocked up.

He needed to prove it.

And how better to, than with a kiss.

Under the no longer treacherous sky, and the dawn of tomorrow. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the first drops of rain began to fall. Cool against his skin. Ifan’s back against the wall. The warmth of his mouth, and his gentle hands.

Not a frantic kiss. An indulgence, and a reassurance.

"I love you, you stupid idiot. I’ll marry you in front of the burning ruins of the great cathedral if you want me to. And I’m sorry I made you feel this way. I'm sorry. I just... I don’t want us to get hurt."

Ifan’s soft sigh against his face.

Good. Maybe now he’d calm the fuck down.

"You know I’d kill anyone who tried," Ifan whispered back. The old romantic. But just like the world and the city had changed, Francis had changed. He wanted, for once in his life – to be at peace.

His hand cupped Ifan’s cheek, softly stroking a thumb under his eye. The other wandered down to curl their fingers together.

"I don’t want you to."

Francis raised their hands to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to his knuckles. 

"Are you listening to me? I don’t want you to. I just want to know you’ll still be there when I wake up. I want all of this to be over. I’m too old for this shit, Ifan. And so are you."

A quiet, far-away hum of agreement. Ifan took their entwined fingers to his own lips in turn. The raindrops slowly covered his skin, glittering in the light of the lanterns, and the smell of weeks of dust being washed off the stones of the city.

"I just want to be with you," said Francis.

Another glare. A challenge.

"Then be with me."

Ifan pulled him into another kiss. "Who knows what will happen tomorrow," he murmured when it ended. Eyes still closed, his nose pressed against his cheek. "Just be with me. We’ll deal with the rest."

It was sweet. It was sweet and so unbearably romantic that Francis couldn’t help himself. He chuckled, until Ifan opened his eyes with a questioning look. 

"Does that line usually work for you?"

Ifan clicked his tongue. He gave him a gentle shove – with one hand, while the other still pulled him closer by the back of his neck, not risking him actually moving away.

"You’re a fucking asshole."

Francis grinned, and begrudgingly extracted himself from Ifan’s vice grip.

"Shut it, ben-Mezd. You’re just in love with me."

"Why do you always have to be so –"

"What? Mean?" Francis stopped in his tracks. A flicker of protest in Ifan’s face, telling him he’d been looking for a different word, but to a very similar effect. Francis grinned.

"I can’t help it, when you like it so much."

There was protest, there was exasperation, and yes, a little bit of anger. Just enough for a sharp squint and a twitch of his lip, but when Francis stepped closer, he saw it. The dark of his eyes, expanding into an abyss of pure and utter want. He couldn’t help it. Dragging a single nail over the side of his neck just to see him lose it a little.

"You do like it," Francis clarified, "Don’t you?"

Half to see him squirm. Half to check if he truly did, or if he’d gone too far. Ifan didn’t disappoint.

"Yes," he gritted out, "But some manners wouldn’t hurt you."

"Worried I’ll ruin your reputation?"

Francis pressed up against him. Ifan’s eyes fell shut completely, and he turned his head to press a kiss to his palm, only drawing away to huff an indignant laugh. "Not much of a reputation left to ruin," he said. "And I’ll gladly take that chance, if it’s for you."

The nerve.

Francis froze in the middle of his movement.

"Stop smooth-talking me, dickhead. It won’t work."

He didn’t know why he said it. It was a lie. Francis bit his lip. They both knew it was a lie, and Francis was certain of it as soon as Ifan’s face neared his, so close it was almost a kiss.

"It will." Ifan smiled. The suave bastard. "And I can’t help it, if you like it so much."

Francis wasn’t gonna give up that easy. Not this time. He wanted to see him fall first, and to see all that quiet confidence from earlier and that conceited bravado from seconds ago dissolve into - something else entirely.

"You’re awfully sure of yourself for someone who can’t even tell me he needs to get fucked."

He felt the hair on Ifan’s neck stand.

"Do you think that’s the only reason I ever start a fight with you?"

Francis rolled his eyes.

"Of course it’s not," he declared firmly. "But if you’re waiting for me to take a hint, you’ll be waiting for a long time. How about you just tell me what you want instead?"

There was a beat of silence. Ifan licked his lips.

"Fine," he muttered. "I want to take a walk. Be there. When I get back."

*

Ifan cornered him the second they walked around the corner. Hungrily. Francis didn’t see it coming – a startled yelp, punched out of him as his back hit the edge of the table, drowned in Ifan’s lips slamming against his. He heard a groan escape him, the shock turned into a wild and sudden rush.

Like a memory of their frenzied firsts. Losing their minds to the moment against any old wall. A rush of blood. The clash of teeth and skin on skin. The spike of his heartbeat in his own ears. Almost reflexively, Francis grabbed Ifan by the collar of his shirt and pulled.

It struck him, every time. How easy it was to turn him, pull him off, to shove him against the table instead. Ifan, all lean muscle and sinew, in tune with his weight and strength so perfectly that he made it seem easy. The sound he made amazed him no less.

Somewhere between a growl and a moan, fiery, destructive. Preferred a little pain with his pleasure, today. Francis pushed his knee between his legs, and his hand tangled into his hair and snapped his head back, crowding him against the furniture chest to chest.

"Watch it."

Bare teeth, narrowed eyes. Ifan’s pupils ticked upwards, his lashes twitched, but his gaze was stubbornly trained on Francis. The muscles in his neck tensed, pulling sharply against the grasp on his hair – not enough to break it, enough to truly feel it.

As if to say: Go on. I can take it.

He was hungry tonight, Francis noted. Twisting the hand in his hair, shifting his balance to press his thigh into his crotch. Ifan hissed through his teeth, arching his back, and surged forward to kiss him again. The palm cracking across his cheek surprised both of them. Ifan’s head snapped to the side. Eyes wide, pulling in a sharp breath through his nose.

Francis reached out.

A slow and loving touch, over the curve of his cheekbone. Tracing the blotch of prickling red on his skin, as his features relaxed. He gently turned Ifan’s face back towards him. Until they were forehead to forehead, his eyes darkened, and his breath warm against his lips.

"Are you done?"

No answer. Just the look of utter surrender – and how enticingly easy he made it seem. Delusions of grandeur had never felt this good. Francis ran his thumb down his face, brushing his mouth. Ifan’s lips parting, breath catching in his throat. Fingers wrapping around his jaw, holding him firm. The nail of his thumb digging into the scar on his lower lip. Francis felt the shiver that ran through him before he stilled, and shot him an easy smile.

"Cat got your tongue?"

He kept his tone light, playful. He couldn’t say why, but the lack of a response suddenly bothered him. "Come on. Nothing clever to say? Give me something to work with here, Ifan. What do you want?"

Both his arms tensed, braced against the edge of the table. Francis snaked his other hand under his shirt, lightly scraping his nails across his waist to ground him, and Ifan gave the barest, vibrant hum, a soft blink before speaking.

"Do whatever you want with me," he whispered. "Just do it."

Fair enough. Not a night for thinking, then.

"Aw." Francis grinned. His hand wandered higher. "In that case."

He didn’t elaborate. Hadn’t decided yet. Ifan gasped when his nails bit into the skin just around his nipple, twisting, then softly stroked over it. His hips bucked against his thigh, seeking friction.

Francis chuckled, and brushed his lips against his neck. He lavished it, alternating between biting and sucking harshly at the skin and soft, gentle kisses. Ifan moaned, tore against the hand in his hair – but Francis pinned his hips against the table, and continued. The warm, soft skin bloomed red. Francis placed a harsh bite just beneath his ear, impossible to hide, and drank up his delirious whimper.

What did he want?

Ifan squirming, moaning, lost in pleasure, enough to forget the world and simply be. What else was new. But mostly, he wanted to see that look in his eyes again, the one from the other night. That shimmer of despair mixed with adoration he’d be lying to say he didn’t enjoy.

Francis pulled Ifan’s shirt up and over his face, twisted it in his hand and trapped his arms behind his head. Far from impossible to break free from, but if the last time had been anything to go by, Ifan seemed to enjoy that sort of thing immensely. A light groan, through a flash of teeth. Francis smirked, tightened the twist, trapping him further, and leaned in to kiss him.

Francis had learned how to wreck him with a kiss.

Fierce and indulgent and torturously gentle. How to overwhelm him with it, until all that Ifan wanted in the world was him. Francis tipped his tongue behind his teeth, obedient lips opening against his. Poured worship into his mouth, kissed him with slow deliberation and a sting of heat. Ifan melted. He barely moved between hitched breaths and subtle moans when teeth tugged at his lips, and Francis’ hand slid down his chest in a slow, decadent tease.

He’d wanted directions. Francis could provide.

He used the grip on his arms, and a light shove against his chest, to lay him out flat on the table. Ifan went down so maddeningly easy – his back hit the cool wood underneath with enough force to knock the breath out of him, all because he let it. Pliant under his hands, the mess of his hair splayed over his hooked arms, broad thighs wrapping around Francis’ hips and pulling him in. Francis ran a hand over his chest, soft, careful. Ifan flinched.

"I want to take you right here." Francis announced in a husky voice, his hand coming up to gently caress his neck. "And I want you to look at me while I do. Would you like that?"

No grin, no challenge, no witty retort.

Instead, Ifan freed one of his hands from the tangle of his shirt and grabbed his wrist. Pushing his hand right down on his airpipe.

Francis tried to retract it, ease up on it. But Ifan kept it there. Raised his head to push into his palm, and opened his eyes to lock him in his gaze. Those vibrant pools of brown and green always brimming with emotion, seemed – dull, around the edges. Empty.

Something was off.

He squinted, pulled his hand back. Ifan’s strong fingers wrapped around it, insisting, looking right through him instead of really at him, and Francis’ heart sank to the bottom of his chest.

"Ifan, let go."

It should’ve been a warning sign in itself, how far he was gone, to count the seconds before Ifan’s hand unwrapped from his wrist. Without thinking, Francis lightly pressed a finger under his eye to watch his pupils, sluggish and blown, flicker upwards.

"Oh, fuck. How high are you right now?"

No answer. A full-body flinch. Every muscle in his body was suddenly taut, like he was bracing for a punch. Francis froze in shock, before he remembered himself and backed away a little. That made it worse. What he saw in Ifan’s eyes now was plain and naked fear.

That shouldn’t be there, thought Francis. That should never be there again.

"Ifan." He couldn’t help himself. "I’m not angry. It’s okay."

Ifan’s eyes were wide open. Without intending to, Francis sensed his heartbeat. How it skipped a beat. Irregular. Speeding up before the words burst out of him.

"Francis."

He kept his voice even, but the edge of despair in it was unmistakable.

"I’m gonna crawl out of my fucking skin. I need to… not think, for a bit. Please."

Francis felt a twisted, old sensation curl his guts.

He’d heard that before. He would’ve been happy to never hear it again. This famished need for self-destruction. The ringing siren call of just giving it to him, so he’d feel better, so he didn’t have to–

He almost couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Francis liked to hurt, on occasion. But he never wanted to harm. His own sacred oath, one that he’d broken time and time again, and would still fight the cause of with his dying breath.

"No," he said quietly. "Not like this."

Ifan abruptly rolled himself up from his spine.

Ready to bolt. His heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to break out of him. Like it had been trapped there. Francis quickly blocked his way and stepped into his path, his palm pressing softly against the place above his heart.

"Don’t run."

It wasn’t an order, or affection laced with a bitter edge. It was a language he’d almost forgotten how to speak, because nothing good had ever come of it.

Pleading.

Ifan didn’t struggle, didn’t push, but he could feel that he wanted to. Saw the way he licked his lips, his eyes darting towards the door, already focused on finding a different way to the same fix if he wouldn’t get it here.

And the worst part was – had always been – that Francis understood.

He was no stranger to this need to ruin. To be ruined. To feel something other than the panic and shame, and be reduced to nothing. Wasn’t it as natural as cursing every god when a hammer hit your thumbnail? Wasn’t it as natural to both of them as the need to breathe and eat and sleep? Was this, he wondered, not how an addict felt about their drug of choice?

He brought his other hand up to grip Ifan’s jaw and force his eyes towards him in that way that always made him weak, used the high ground to his advantage.

"Ifan. Please. Do you trust me?"

It wasn’t a fair question.

Of course he didn’t. He trusted nobody. Not right now, at least, just like Francis couldn’t trust him at the moment. Ifan, of course, gave a nod anyway. Because he wanted to be ruined, and luxuriate in the destruction, which was as calculable as ever. A perfect, deadly match. Hands so used to blood they felt useless without it. The selfishness of that desire, reflected back on his own, was suddenly hard to bear.

But he was far from being one to judge it.

Francis took a gamble. Took a step back, and pushed him. Slammed him back against the edge of the table, and counted on the way it would send him stumbling into the reflex to obey.

He wasn’t disappointed.

Faced with no resistance, just a sharp intake of breath. Ifan stayed right there. Taut as a bowstring, skin vibrating under his hand with the instinct to run, move, push, provoke, all of it clashing with the desperate need to just give into oblivion and do what he was told.

Francis had him right where he wanted him.

Was he being a manipulative asshole? Oh, absolutely. But honestly, Ifan had started it. And he had no desire to indulge anything of the sort. His fingers, once more, curled into Ifan’s hair and gave it a firm tug. Ifan winced, eyes clenched shut, and bared his neck in an instant.

Francis leaned in.

"You’re so fucking predictable."

A whisper, against the shell of his ear. It came out softer, more adoring than he’d meant it to, but his choice of words was enough. Ifan shuddered against him, and Francis laughed, gave his voice an edge of malice that wasn’t really there when he continued – evil, he reminded himself. He likes you evil.

"This is all it takes? You’re gonna do whatever the fuck I tell you to?"

A sharp exhale against his cheek. Enough of an answer, but Francis wasn’t satisfied. He twisted his fingers, tugged harshly at his roots, heard Ifan whimper not in pain but in hunger, watched the way he overarched his neck before he rasped out;

"Yes."

Francis bit at his earlobe until he hit the crunch of cartilage. And Ifan moaned, deep and near deranged, his entire body coiled like a spring, bracing himself. It was almost enough to stop the charade. Almost. Francis leaned in, speaking slowly, wrapping each letter around his tongue, in the way Ifan did when he threatened someone within an inch of their life.

"You want to be completely at my mercy? You want me to fuck with you so thoroughly you won’t ever forget it?"

Ifan was gone. To a place far better than here, perfectly under his spell. The capitulation fell from his lips without a second thought.

"Please."

Nothing in the world was more seductive than a bad habit in a desperate moment. Gods, could he tell stories of it.

Francis let go of his hair. Ifan’s head fell forward with a quiet sound of complaint, as Francis eased up on pressing him into the table, stood back, and simply looked him in the eyes.

Ifan was ruined.

The tips of Francis’ fingers against his chest the only tether holding him to earth. Desperate for anything, anything at all, confusion flashing in his eyes along with it, waiting for an instruction he wasn’t going to get, trying to figure out what unknown rule he had broken to provoke this, how to follow it, anything to just be good. He could’ve snapped him like a twig.

The tips of of his fingers dug into his skin. Ifan forgot how to breathe.

"You want me to be cruel?" Francis’ voice was cool, calming, steady. "This is me being cruel."

He stepped minutely closer, fingers sliding upwards until his palm was pressed against his heart, much less irregular now, but still threatening to beat out of his chest.

"If you want to feel something so bad, then fucking feel it."

Ifan’s eyes met his with sharp reluctancy. The way they had in the forest, over Hannag’s corpse for the first time, a confession in itself. Francis stared him down.

"Don’t run from it. Just take it."

A nervous twitch. A flare of anger, eyes narrowing into tiny slits. Ifan’s heart sped up again, and his pupils flicked towards the door. Francis clicked his tongue.

"No. Look at me."

When Ifan obeyed, Francis let it happen. The smile he’d suppressed growing on his face, the smug satisfaction of knowing he’d beaten the man at his own game. He had him. Unless it was a matter of life or death, Ifan rarely won a staring match. His eyes were drawn to every change of detail, trained on every little movement around him. It took all of his concentration to just follow this simple command. And Francis knew it.

He leaned down, and kissed him – eyes open, and with all the gentleness he could afford.

"What you’re feeling is real," he said, "but it’s just a feeling. It’ll pass, if you let it."

"Fuck you."

The flare of anger in Ifan’s eyes turned to pure vitriol, a snap of his chin, the flash of teeth like a threat, his words low and sharp and meant to injure.

But he didn’t run.

Francis brushed his hair back, cupped the back of his neck and slid his hand softly over his rigidly tensed shoulders, then trailing further down his spine as he stepped closer to him.

"I know you hate me right now."

His palm, cool against the small of Ifan’s back, registered a barely suppressed shiver. The best way to make someone cry, the Candlemaker had once told him, is to look at them and truly see them.

"But you’d tell me the same thing, if you had to. I’m well aware I’m shit at it, too. So let’s help each other."

No answer. But he wasn’t hurling insults at him either, nor was he trying to move away. They just stared at each other, and none of them relented. Francis could count the rings of green in his pupils. Saw how the burning anger faded and gave way to endless grief, to bitter shame. Felt the flutter of his heart, struggling against the agony of those emotions, refusing to let them escape, but losing the battle with every beat.

And that, at least, was something Francis could help with.

"You’re going to breathe in deep," he instructed, "And I’m going to do something I’ve never done before. It’s quite dangerous. You have to stay completely still. Can you manage that?"

That wasn’t fair, either.

There wasn’t a more devastating feat of seduction Francis could’ve pulled. The man was drawn to danger like a moth to flame, so when Ifan nodded, and took a deep breath while any and all capacity to argue seemed to escape him – it didn’t surprise Francis in the least.

This was so much better than chess.

Francis wrapped an arm around him, and pulled him in. His right hand still pressed against his ribcage. He was distantly aware just how insane this was, but in this moment – it seemed like the most normal thing in the world. Ifan’s pulse beat against his palm. Francis leaned his face against his shoulder, slowed his breath, until they were in synch.

Five seconds. Ten beats.

His source cracked to life in him, broke through his skin with a deep, violet glow. His eyes lit up. He felt the blood rush in Ifan’s veins as if it were running through his fingers, felt for the main arteries and followed their course like a river, until he heard the distant clicking of his cardiac valve.

Ifan’s heartbeat, under his fingers.

Francis smiled. He calculated it in seconds. How to smoothly slow the panicked flicker without even making him lightheaded. Ifan’s pulse was beating in his own chest, as if they were one, as if the skin between the two had simply disappeared.

I’m holding his heart in my hands.

He changed his breathing along with it, guiding him in tune. Steady. Until the heart in his hands he was holding so gently, so carefully, and as precise as a surgeon, slowed down its pulse. Ifan sighed. His head fell on Francis’ shoulder.

Breathe.

"You’re okay," whispered Francis. "You’ll be okay."

He withdrew his source from Ifan’s veins. They stayed in that embrace for a minute longer. The true mastery of blood magic could heal as much as it destroyed, and calm body and mind. Something never used lightly. But Francis knew it well, that this had been a matter of life and death. He listened. To his breath, to the way everything in him broke like a dam.

Ifan’s shoulders trembled under his fingers, and suddenly, all the fight in him had left.

He had him.

Ifan had told him to do whatever he wanted.

And Francis found that right now, as selfish as it was, there was nothing he wanted more than to be gentle with him. To hold him close, in a grasp just firm enough to tether him to earth. To reach through the crumbling walls he still tried to hold up.

He couldn’t say when they ended up on the floor.

When the collar of Francis’ shirt grew damp, and Ifan held onto him like a lifeline. It could’ve been a minute. Could’ve been an eternity. He was shaking, coming apart at the seams. And Francis would hold this trusting heart in his hands with all the tenderness that it should always have received.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair, thought Francis, that he would ever feel the need to hate himself so. And that the sun would set and rise again, and nothing in the world would change. That those responsible would carry on as they pleased, and lose no sleep about it.

He was angry. And not the reckless flare of rage that shame pushed out of him, disappearing just as quickly as it had appeared, someone else’s anger, turning others as much as on himself. It was a cold, and calculating anger.

Francis wanted revenge.

He didn’t know how long it’d been.

Francis must’ve gotten him to lay down somewhere along the way, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Everything was a blur. The tears, the smoke, the memories flooding his brain like a current, dragging him down, down. The panic reared again, made him curl inwards, made his nails scrape the wooden floor. The way his heart clenched in his chest, time and time again, only for Francis to reach out and soothe it with his magic.

He remembered himself, at some point.

Nights like these came and went, no matter how dark. Move, whispered the thing inside him that made him claw his way out of every grave he’d dug for himself so far, the cruel drive of naked survival. You’re not gonna die laying down. Get up. Get yourself together. Fucking move.

Francis’ hand was in his hair.

Calming. Tender. The other, between his shoulders, just enough pressure to register through the delirium. It felt good. It felt too good. It made his skin crawl. He never wanted to get up again.

He might’ve talked, thought Ifan distantly. He might not have said a single thing.

But the second Ifan thought about opening his mouth, Francis leaned down and kissed him. A gentle press of lips – drawn-out, but not deep. Holding him there, until his head fell back into Francis’ lap. He had no chance. Instead of letting Francis know he was feeling sorry for himself over things that he’d most definitely had a say in, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that it was simply fate guiding his hand – he chose to stay there.

Chose to hide from it, like he always had. Like a coward. The minute he’d open his eyes and look at him, it would be over. He let those cool, steady hands stay on him. Comforting, working out the knots between his neck and shoulders, some of them so old he’d long forgotten they’d been there. It made him light-headed, almost dizzy, with how good it felt.

Ifan stayed there.

He couldn’t live without it anymore, his touch, that gentle command to let himself be, treating him with kindness when Ifan couldn’t bring himself to, taking everything out of his hands.

It was selfish.

He was too high to care.

What a wonderful, wonderful feeling. He was so lost in it all. Knowing full well, somewhere deep and certain, that he’d wake up in the morning and hate himself for it.

Ifan wanted, and wanted, and wanted. Nothing would never be enough. And Francis would give him whatever he asked, until someday, there would be nothing left to give. It made his heart twist up again, and the moment he felt Francis’ magic in him, slowing down his pulse and caressing the very blood in his veins, Ifan knew he’d always chase the feeling.

Like he was falling.

Like he was weightless.

Francis didn’t ask. Not for him to explain, or for a justification. And Ifan, content to give him none, just let himself want. Until they both ended up on the bed nearly an hour later, with their arms around each other, and Francis kissed him again.

So sweetly, and with all the care in the world. Fingers cupping his cheek, and slowly devouring his mouth. Ifan couldn’t think. He tasted salt – the sting of tears that were pulled out of him with no way to hold them back. Leaned into it so shamelessly, and Francis gently pushed him on his back, settled his light weight on top of him.

Ifan reached for him. He didn’t get far. Francis’ fingers curled into his, pinning his hands to the bed, and continued kissing him like he was something fragile, something to be worshipped. Skin on skin, slow and intoxicating. So sweet, so softly that he almost couldn’t bear it. Francis didn’t tease him. He broke him down. He kissed him until there was nothing left, and the haze of tears and despair faded into something much deeper.

And still, Ifan wanted more.

To take whatever he could give. He wanted his teeth in his skin, his hands wrapped around his very heart, for him to sink into his flesh so seamlessly he’d forget where either of them ended or began, to bare his entire being to him and let it dissolve under his fingers.

"Take me," he begged, without breath, without thinking, "Take all of me."

A kiss, placed under both of his eyes. Fingers uncurling from his hand, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, and then tilting his head up.

"No."

Their lips met. Francis licked him open, diligently, sweet and gentle. Starving for contact, Ifan’s hips bucked off the mattress, ground against him as he squirmed under him, into him. Heard his own breath hitch when he felt skin on skin again. Bite me. Know me. Hurt me. Fuck me. Destroy me and remake me in your image. The words rushed through him, incoherent, and he didn’t know how many of them passed his lips. Until Francis drew away from him, and all he could think was kiss me. Please. Kiss me again.

Ar lath ma.

I love you. I am devoured by you. And he was, by the gods, he was.

Maybe Francis said it back. Maybe he didn’t. Ifan was too high to care. The rejection didn’t sting, just made him want so much more. It was so mind-numbingly easy to exist here, on the edge of oblivion. He was nothing. It was everything. Every single muscle unwinding under Francis’ hands, he could have vibrated out of his skin. There was only his touch, holding him back with reprimanding gentleness.

Make me yours. Split me open. Rip my heart out of my chest, and be forever in my flesh.

Somewhere distant, he heard Francis speak another incantation. Blood rushed underneath his skin, pulsing in his ears. His spine arched off the bed when Francis trailed kisses down his chest, each so gentle they seared his skin like a brand. Frayed at the edges, so sensitive that the slightest brush of lips drove him to insanity.

Las din’an ira, vallem, las enaste. Like a prayer, like a song. Ma vhenan, las taran’aste.

Ifan’s eyes flew open when he realized the words had slipped out for good, this time. Francis’ smirk was gentle in the dark. So were his eyes – deep green, and crazed with affection.

"Poetry, huh? That’s a first."

It wasn’t, he wanted to say. It always is. He was too lost to waste much thought on what he’d said, even if, no doubt, he’d regret it in the morning. Lucky Francis wouldn’t understand what–

"No one begs for death and makes it sound so beautiful." He leaned over him. Brushing Ifan’s lips with his. One hand on his chest. He’d lit him on fire, and all he wanted to do was burn. "But you’re not getting what you want tonight. No matter how pretty you are."

Ifan moaned into the kiss. Felt Francis’ widening grin when they separated once again, the softness of his breath. His fingers trailing down his side, over his hips, toying with the string on his pants, while the other ghosted over his cheek.

"What will it be?" Another kiss, claiming all of him, making him come apart with a simple flick of his tongue, drinking the desperate noise that escaped him. Too much. Too much. "Are you gonna let me be good to you now?"

There was no letting him. Ifan was powerless against it. You’re in my blood, he wanted to say. I’m yours. Do what you will. But even through the fevered haze, he knew him better than that. Francis would never be content just taking. Always waited for an unmistakable order, for him to freely give and openly admit it. Ifan bit his tongue. It was no use.

"Be good to me," he whispered.

And finally, he was.

Gave him the mercy of distraction he so desperately craved. Francis didn’t fuck him, that night. He made love to him. He loved him until he was blind. To the world, to tomorrow, to his failures. Until there was nothing else he could’ve believed.

Every bit of tension left his body. There was no pain, no stretch, when he sank into him. Only overwhelming pleasure, and nothing to distract from it. Francis smoothed it out with his hands, with his magic, commanding him into relief, and sank deeper in one stroke with one hand pressed against his heart. Ifan had gone somewhere the world couldn’t follow.

The slide of his hands, of his tongue, of his cock inside him, surrounded by the scent of jasmin and sweat and resin. The sting of ozone, the source working in his blood, the intimacy of it – he could have ripped him to pieces, and chose instead put him back together. His shuddering gasps, punched out of him with every stroke, the heat building inside him was almost met with regret.

It was devastating.

He never wanted it to end.

It almost burned, this gentle, unrelenting touch on ragged nerves. He prayed, for something between more and harder, wished that Francis would grab at him, wrap his hands around his neck until he choked, sink tooth and nail into his skin just to have something else to focus on, but was too out of it to say so, and simply let it go.

He was falling.

And just before he tipped over the edge, with Francis’ mouth on his and tears in his eyes and every nerve alight with complete, serene euphoria, the best high he’d ever had – Francis’ hand was on his chest again, and granted him his wish. His breath stuttered, from the sudden sting of blood being pulled up under his skin, and the slow, inevitable release. It caught him unprepared, while Francis had him on the peak of his orgasm, and then, he didn’t stop.

Until he came undone, until he sobbed, until he was too messed up to do even that, just gasped like he was drowning on it, and Francis continued fucking him through it with one hand wrapped around his cock. Too much. Too much. So intimately familiar with his aching sweet spot between pleasure and torture. Not as punishment. As indulgence. For his sake. For him. For him. It echoed in his shattered mind, while the next orgasm pulsed through his spine and Francis came inside him. He couldn’t say where the first ended and the second began. He could barely keep his eyes open when he caught Francis’ wrist in a vice grip to still it.

Those were the only things he saw, through his blurred vision. His hand, around his wrist. The heaving of his own chest. His trembling thighs, the beads of white clinging to dark hair.

The handprint-shaped, dark purple bruise that had formed above his heart.

He looked up at Francis when he’d found his breath. His red curls hanging in his face, disheveled, sticky with sweat. His lips, half-parted, breathing hard. He looked wild. With power, with passion, and with kindness. And then, he leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"I care about you," he said gravely. Like it was important. "All of you."

Those were the last words spoken that night. Francis fell asleep with his arms wrapped around him. And Ifan watched him through the darkness, the rise and fall of his torso, the gentle flutter of his lashes. He raised his hand, laid it over the mark on his own chest.

A mark that would have carried a very different meaning, once. Now it said, in a language he was sure to understand:

I love you. All of you. Don’t fucking forget it.

It was a courtesy, a reminder, a promise.

It was a lie.

Chapter Text

The gentle pattering of rain.

Wake up, it spelled, the time has come.

It was the smell of it that truly woke him. Sweet and cool. The raindrops knocked against the window, covered the city and let it breathe again, made way for the new year as they washed away the old. The heat, the dust, the lethargy. The grudges that it held, some said. The prayers, written out in chalk on the steps to the cathedral.

The rain was early this year.

Seaside wind rattled the blinds. Francis was comfortable, and not much else. A silly thought, while he slowly blinked himself awake – he hadn’t even had time to write a prayer. One nostalgic scrap of superstition he’d held onto all these years, as all the others faded.

He hoped it would still count to make one now. The blankets still warm. The hour still early. He stretched, felt the ache in his shoulders from a night hunched over the weapons of their ragtag little army. His fingers ached with the ashes of rebuilding source, cold and weak and bloodless.

There’s no one left to pray to, he remembered.

His heart ached, to find the bed next to him empty.

The flicker of a thousand candles.

And Lohse stood above, in arm’s reach of the steering wheel. Master over all, of life and death and destiny. To change the world forever, to turn the tide in favor of the greater good with nothing but a word. Her chance to end it all. The power of a god.

"Say it."

Hell was colder than expected.

Funny how that went. Nothing but an empty hall, storing all these mortal souls for slaughter, their prayers unheard as they lived, and forgotten as they were consumed. As above – so below.

Fuck the gods.

And fuck their power. Lohse wouldn’t take it. Not after everything she’d sacrificed to stay true to herself. Sebille hadn’t taken it. Francis hadn’t taken it. Even Ifan hadn’t, in the end. Never, over her cold dead corpse, would she become this.

"Lohse. I’m bound to your word. You have to say it."

The candles flickered.

Wind from the depths, rising with the heat of the flames. The only sign of warmth down here. The only sign of life. Lives like her own, people that were loved and despised and tolerated, that had stories and birthdays and cook-outs and funerals, a favorite song, a favorite joke…

She was no god.

She’d never asked to be here.

Lohse knew who she was – repeated it to herself, like a mantra, night after night when the demon came knocking. She was an artist. A voice that could melt stone, and make a widow dance again. A romantic, who wore her heart on her sleeve, and cried without fail at the end of Ansilena’s plays. The life of any party. A friend to any guideless spirit, to any band of outcasts. A sunny smile, a clever joke. A vagrant in the eyes of royalty – but royal in the eyes of friends and audiences, and that had been enough for her.

Wind rushed from the depths.

Only the greats picked their part in the play. Lohse’s final act, instead, closed with the height of any tragedy, the fated result of not seeing what was right in front of her. A devil’s bargain.

How fucking original.

Her heart, tight in the middle of her chest, contracted with a sting. A familiar one, plain and stupid injustice. Without the chance to do anything about it. No matter how many times people insisted she’d learn to live with it, grow out of it – she never had.

"I can’t, alright?"

She hated the sound of her voice. Shaky and shrill and out of control. The demon had taken her music, and now, her ability to speak her truth with conviction. Her smile, and turned it to a grimace. Twisted her being beyond recognition. He’d taken everything from her, and left only disgust. And he was close. He was so close. She heard him now, she wouldn’t listen...

"I can’t do this!" It broke out of her. A cry of despair that rattled the walls. "I can’t become what he wants me to be! What’ll even be left of me? What the fuck does it  matter if I defeat him, if I’ll be just as bad as…"

"Yes, yes. How noble. How utterly dramatic. Now, if you’ll please calm down and think!"

Malady’s final word echoed through the hall.

Lohse took a shivering breath. The tears in her eyes blurred the candleflames into a fiery abyss, pulled out by the wind, the heat, the fucking unfairness of it all.

She remembered sitting on Joris’ wagon, sulking. That the town had thrown them out even though they hadn’t done anything. That Joris had just taken the insults to his face, without defending himself, without – thank you for your hospitality, he’d said.

And ordered them to pack it up.

People are kind, Joris had told her. But they can all be cruel, kid. The world makes them so. Try not to take it to heart. We’re just an easy target.

The clink of drawhorse harnesses, the cracking of the wheels. The chimes hung from the coach box in Saint Bashet’s image, moved to symphony by every pothole. The smell of grass in early spring. The toothpick between Joris’ lips, pointing upwards whenever he smiled.

The road is long. If we’re the ones they’ve chosen to be cruel to – we won’t be the ones to convince them to be kind. We’ll hitch the wheels and go somewhere we’re understood. We’ll have each other. And maybe, by the time we circle back, the world will be a little kinder.

Lohse had stuck her tongue out, and then lived by Joris’ words for years. Because she’d been far too young to understand. That he did take it to heart. That it hurt him just as much, but that he’d swallowed his pride and skipped town, again and again, for the sake of her safety.

She missed them. So much that it hurt. She missed Joris and Morella and the twins and even old Quick, she missed the road, the stage, the music. She couldn’t do this anymore.

She wanted to go home.

"I won’t. I’ll defeat him. I’ll find another way."

Pathetic, even as she said it. Petulant and toothless.

"Don’t be ridiculous!" Malady snapped. "Jahan couldn’t! He’s gone, probably dead, and he’s had a literal thousand years of practise! What makes you think you can? When he wins, Adrahmalikh will use your drooling shell, your power, to make another thousand candles! This is our only chance!"

Sebille hadn’t taken the bargain.

Even when the odds seemed unsurmountable. Lohse turned to find her face, to find the moral of her story, her love, and her support, for Sebille to tell her it was possible to win and still be - to find her amber eyes, filled with utter sorrow.

"Malady is right."

The last thing she’d wanted to hear. The truth.

No one made it out the same way they’d gone in. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t go home. Not with the demon still inside her, and not with whatever it would turn her into to get rid of him.

"Freedom taken in blood can only be regained in blood."

Sebille’s voice was so gentle as she said it.

The regret, so clearly written on her face. It was the last thing she wanted to say. But it was the truth, the brutal, viscera-soaked lesson of a lifetime, and Lohse loved that part of her the same way she loved all the others. Had promised herself to, when she’d kissed her for the first time on the Nameless Isle, drenched in the blood of those who had subdued her.

Lohse had fallen for all of her. Inseparably. Beautiful, merciless, mischievous, compassionate, free-spirited Sebille – her hand, hovering over her shoulder. Lohse wanted to lean in and disappear. To let the world around them fade, until nothing else existed but the two of them.

"You are strong, my love," whispered Sebille, "And you are good. You’ve done all you can. You’ve fought so well. But you cannot fight forever. End it. Be at peace."

More tears, as she sunk into Sebille’s embrace.

"I won’t be at peace." A sob. "I’ll never forgive myself."

A long silence followed. Lohse never wanted to leave. Never wanted to open her eyes for this to end. She wanted to die here in her arms, knowing full well the demon wouldn’t let her.

"You will not."

A kiss, soft and careful. To her temple.

"You will never be forgiven. But your heart and hands will be your own again. You will live. And for as long as you do, I promise that you will be loved. I will do anything for you to know you’re loved. And know that there is someone who will always understand."

The rain soaked through the soles of his shoes. Pitted and worn thin by miles and miles of walking. He hadn’t replaced them, because they looked fine. From the outside.

Francis kicked his feet. Splatters of mud on the bottom of his dress pants. He draped the coat over his shoulder – courtesy of the Starling Inn, old-fashioned but still beautiful, blue and purple, gold in the details of time-honored floral embroidery – and leaned down to scrape it off the fabric.

"Where the fuck is he?"

They’d waited. Half an hour by now, maybe more. Tarquin, in return, gave a sigh that Francis happily ignored. Could’ve just said I told you so, the fucker.

Ifan still hadn’t shown up. Francis knew he wouldn’t. The hard-earned lesson of a lifetime, that something as banal as love would never be enough to keep him – happy, and here, and most certainly not sober. It wasn’t fair, to either of them, to expect as much. It was stupid, to still hope for it. As a rule, if only to avoid this feeling of–

Disappointment.

So familiar. So long gone, only to resurface now.

I can’t do this anymore.

"Will you stop with the neurotics?"

Tarquin sighed. He stood next to him, hair slicked back, dressed in modern, elegant blacks and a petal-white kerchief, and looking overall like the grim fucking reaper. How no one had ever thought to arrest the man for necromancy on first impression alone was completely beyond him.

"Let’s just go. Before they lock us out in this shit weather."

"Yeah. Soon."

The wind rushed through the gaps between the buildings, messing up his hair. Francis tapped his foot, looked up and down the street. The bell struck twelve. One hour. Tarquin scoffed.

"Do I need to spell it out for you, Lowbridge? He’s high in a ditch somewhere. You told me what happened. You have a regicide on schedule, and I – also have things to do. Giddy-up."

"He said he’d be here."

couldnt sleep. gone out for a bit. see you there. -ifan

Francis had found the note on the bedside table. At least he’d written one before he’d snuck off into the night, was his first thought – until he’d read it. No capital letters, no flourishes. No mention of where. And no three little words. He should’ve fucking known.

"Gods, you’re incorrigible." Tarquin brushed a finger over his eyebrow. "He’s an addict. Addicts lie. If I remember correctly, it was in fact you who bestowed me with that wisdom."

"Not him. Not about this."

Tarquin sighed. Turned up his nose and suppressed what almost threatened to become some kind of facial expression, before it could truly spring into being.

"Right, mate. I forgot. He’s your special princess. Sorry I ever said anything."

"Don’t strain yourself," Francis shot back immediately, "Gods forbid your lordship might catch wrinkles with such peasantish emotions."

"That’s not a real word."

"Get fucked."

Tarquin looked at him askance, and barked a laugh. Francis grinned reluctantly.

"Bit late for that now." The necromancer shrugged. "We should bet. On him showing up or not. If the Devil of the Brass has money on something, it’s gonna happen. Safe as rain."

He wasn’t a bad sort, really. If only for this. He almost felt sorry for Tarquin then, who’d been having the same damn conversation with him for the millionth time in seven years, while Francis stubbornly refused to listen even once. No, not sorry. Not exactly.

Francis sighed, and rolled his sleeves up.

"Not anymore, Tarques. But… I appreciate it. Thank you."

The look on Tarquin’s face almost made it worth the whole ordeal. His eyebrows nearly shot up to his hairline, no easy feat at all, his mouth agape in pure and utter shock.

"Are you feeling alright, mate?"

"Shut up."

A full minute of silence. Francis suddenly perked up.

Something was happening in the street. The way everybody and their mother suddenly took position at their windows, staring in either disapproval or plain old Arxian nosiness, how the pedestrians turned their heads while walking. A wagon rushed by, and Francis barely managed to get his coat out of harm’s way, cursing the undeserving driver to the ends of nemesis.

When he turned – oh, what the absolute hell.

The high court of the Brass Quarter walked down the middle of the street. The Starling Inn’s permanent residents – Summer and Maria Sala, Lavish and Teska and Jair the painter – stood out among the pilgrims in white linen like an exceptionally beautiful sore thumb.

And behind them, for lack of a better word – an epiphany.

In a green and black robe and a long golden earring, hair in a top knot like an Elven dignitary. And Francis did several double takes, just to make absolutely sure that it was, in fact – Ifan.

"Seriously?" Snapped Tarquin. "An hour?"

"You do not rush perfection." Summer crossed their arms. Then pointed at Ifan and let their expression dramatically fall into a sly little grin. "Though perfection was in a bit of a rush."

"Sorry," said Ifan.

Sorry. Well, damn him thrice and back.

"Off, off. To more capable hands with you," sighed Lavish, and draped her long cloak artfully over the side of her waist as she shooed him to the front. "We are sorry. But Maria Sala wouldn’t let him out the door without putting ungodly amounts of khol on him. And he kept blinking wrong."

"His lashline is made for it, you ignorant slut." Maria Sala replied without missing a beat. Then clicked her tongue when she spotted Tarquin. "Who did him? He looks like a magpie."

"Avhet," Ifan agreed with a grin. "I can see it."

Tarquin let it stand, looking too baffled to react to the observation in any sensible way.

"You do know that it’s not his wedding," he drew out slowly, "Do you?"

"They know," said Teska the bouncer. "If it were, he’d be two hours late."

Ifan looked good.

Francis didn’t know why he kept lingering on that as long as he did. It wasn’t a new discovery – he just did. Ifan was beautiful in a way that took no prisoners. Anyone would agree. Right now, however – all Francis could say to sumn it up had been you clean up nice with both eyebrows comically raised and the flicker of a blush accompanying his vast understatement.

He also looked profoundly uncomfortable. Ifan kept fussing with his sleeves, long and airy and obstructing his ever-moving hands immeasurably, as they made their way up to the Celestial and stood in line to the wedding. He reached up to rub his eyes before – hearing Maria Sala’s voice in his head, no doubt – he stopped himself and let his hand fall to his side again.

He wore it easily, though.

Just like he did everything else. The woman had outdone herself. The low neckline, true to fashion. The flecks of green in his deep brown irises, accentuated by the darkened frame of his lashes. The silver streaks, artfully put up. Not a costume, just a more refined-

"I’m sorry," said Ifan. "For yesterday."

It caught him woefully unprepared.

"It’s fine," muttered Francis. "I know how it gets."

The sour taste of a lie. He didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t even know what still stung more – the fact that Ifan had sought his hands to hurt himself in earnest, or that he’d done it thinking Francis would actually want to. Or that he’d disappeared after. Again.

"I was –" Ifan’s eyes were stoically fixed on somewhere in the distance. "I should’ve kept it together."

Francis stared at him incredulously.

"Really?" He hissed. "That’s what you’re sorry for?"

There it was again – a barely visible flinch, a flicker of fear. When he couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong, couldn’t measure the consequences. And Francis’ treacherous heart twisted in his chest. Francis felt bad for him.

Fuck that. In its entirety.

"I’m not angry because you didn’t keep it together, you asshole!" He snapped. "What. Do you think I’m that fucking stupid? You don’t just – lose it like that for no reason. And I won’t ask, because either way, there’s no chance in hell you’ll actually tell me what’s wrong unless the planets align backwards. But you can’t –"

Minutes ago, the only thing he’d felt had been relief. That Ifan had come back. Even an hour late, and judging from his eyes, still a little high. And suddenly, it all erupted in him.

"You had no fucking permission."

He couldn’t do this anymore. He felt used. He felt lied to. He felt above all like Ifan, when he was afraid, didn’t give a shit about anybody but himself. Francis covered his face in one hand.

"What if I hadn’t noticed?"

Ifan didn’t turn. He could’ve crushed him in one hand. He’d killed a god. And Ifan was scared of him. His mind racing under a terribly blank stare, too busy calculating his chances of escape to even truly understand what Francis was saying to him.

"What you were trying to do last night? Or that you were – you didn’t say anything! What if I’d actually hurt you?" His voice was quiet, sharp and cutting. "Then what, Ifan? You’d just let me, without saying a fucking word? How the hell am I supposed to trust you like that?"

No answer. They were almost at the door.

"You can’t do that again," said Francis. "Not without telling me. Ever. You understand?"

"Yeah."

It was no fun to fight with him like this. His reply was too quiet. Too quick.

"Do you, really?"

Francis narrowed his eyes, sharply examining the distant look in his eyes, and carefully softened his tone.

"I know how it feels, Ifan. Don’t you think it took me fucking years to understand, as well? I’ve told you before. I’ll tell you as many times as I need to get it into your thick head."

Francis paused, looked up at him. Almost hesitantly.

"Sa’an tel sa’ena, dickhead. I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to listen. And to do better, next time."

No answer. Who knew if they’d walk out of these doors the same way they’d gone in. Francis reached out. Hand hovering, until their fingers met – and Ifan wrapped them warm and close within his own.

"I’d give you anything you asked," he confessed. Ifan blinked. Not like it was even new information. "You owe me nothing for it, and I’ll never hold it over you. But you fucking have to ask. I know you don’t trust it, so – just try.” He threaded their fingers together. “Ask me. To take your hand. Or a fucking slice of orange. Whatever you want in that moment. And I’ll prove it to you."

A moment of silence.

Their hands, together. Ifan raised his head, standing no longer hunched – and with the hint of a smile, a careful one, just a little smug. He looked unfairly beautiful. Francis felt the outline of his knife, strapped to the inside of his arm. They had a queen to kill. Together.

"Only if you’ll tell me," said Ifan, "when it’s something you don’t want to give."

Francis shot him an indignant glare. A well-aimed evasion, sure, but as always – one that cut right through his bullshit. Francis loved it. Hated it, at times. Couldn’t live without it and figured the demand was only fair, in a bargain between equals.

"Touché, dickhead." He muttered. "Touché."

The shadow of a smirk appeared on Ifan’s face, knowing he’d won. Again. Francis sighed. Ifan scanned over the crowd, then looked back at him and squeezed his hand.

"Nervous yet?"

"Eh." Francis shrugged. "It’s a Sintan wedding. They won’t mind. The Ros’ trade in alchemy and other wonders from up north, and the guests are here to polish doorknobs. Not to mention they’ve got money. And so do we, allegedly."

He shot Ifan a subtle grin, and squeezed back.

"We’re rich, darling. We can do whatever the hell we want."

"Great news for me, then."

Ifan’s visible relief faded into something else. Finally allowed to stare – and he was, gods, all day long – Ifan appreciatively let his eyes wander. Undressed him with a fucking look. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Heat rose in his cheeks. A performance, sure. But a devastatingly effective one.

"I will say, Doctor Lowbridge," Ifan declared in an impossibly smug drawl, and hooked their arms together, "You look exceptionally beautiful today. I’d really like to kiss you. If I may."

Francis vowed to never have a fight with him again while he looked this good.

"You’re so fucking hard to stay mad at," he grumbled. "Don’t call me that."

"Beautiful?" Ifan grinned lightly. "But you are."

"No, I –" Francis groaned. Impossible. "I mean, you can’t call me a doctor here."

The couple before them – two dwarves clad head to toe in northern steel – stepped up to the doorman.

"Give me the invitation. Quick."

Ifan did – not without raising an eyebrow, as he was bound to do – but didn’t remove his hand from his arm. Straightening the lapels of his coat, Francis leaned in towards his ear.

"If you must know," he whispered, "The correct title is Maestro. Or Master Alchemist."

An amused snort.

"I ain’t calling you that."

"Shame." Francis let his grin run wild, raised the paper and pointed to the line in question. "Then I hate to tell you – you’ll have to call me husband. Says so right here on the invite."

Time to move. He knew this game. And he was good at it. The couple before them disappeared inside. They stepped up to the front, and the doorman greeted Francis with a nod.

"Maestro Lowbridge. Wonderful to see you in Arx for the occasion. And your plus one?"

Oh, how he’d waited for this. Years of practise paying off in making it look effortless. Back in his element, in perfect control, and easy as breathing. Francis flashed him the invitation with a dazzling smile. He didn’t even read the name.

"And you, Zoltan. I’ve forgotten what a magnificent sight that beard is. Good to be back." Francis winked. "This epiphany here would be my husband Ifan."

"Welcome, welcome." Zoltan directed towards his company with a beaming smile. "And congratulations on your matrimony. Enjoy the festivities."

Francis was immortal. As they were waved through, Ifan stared at him like he was trying to read an untranslated eternal tablet. Utter confusion, with a trace of awe, and Francis basked in it while doing his best to hold in a laugh. Nothing better than the reveal to a joke years in the making.

"They know you?"

A nonchalant wave.

"I used to go to these things a lot, back in the day. Until the bastards actually started inviting me." Francis grinned. "Takes half the fun out of it, I will admit. But they’ll be thinking twice after today. Oh, and Ifan?"

He kept staring. Francis returned the favor of giving him a look that crossed the line from dirty to filthy. Ifan blushed a deep, delightful pink, and Francis used that opportunity to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him closer to his side, whispering in his ear:

"Once we’re inside – you may."

Ifan had never been one for this kind of party.

The last shindig of this sort he had attended – for a contract – he’d snuck into through the back; and the last one he’d been invited to had still been during the war. On Lucian’s insistence. A gathering of the Order’s higher-ups, while the battle still raged at Polimena.

Thank the gods you’re here, ben-Mezd, I’d go insane among those pricks.

Ifan hadn’t seen the point. The Divine had told him to sit through it, at least until each and every one of the decorated guests looked too deep into their cups and made a complete fool of themselves. Without fail. They’d stood by the buffet all night, placing bets on who’d challenge each other to a duel next, and laughed about it into a glass of wine.

He’d been so human, then. All power of the gods already vested in him. A soldier like Ifan, plucked from the ranks of blood and dirt by chance, and lifted into leadership.

How well he’d played the part.

The hallway itself was the size of a ballroom. The rain incessantly prattling against the huge windows, casting a cold grey light onto the décor. And Francis – in his thick, embroidered coat, the ruffled collar, glasses askew as usual, red curls sticking up in all directions from the humidity, and a deliciously tight pair of dress pants – was absolutely spellbinding.

It wasn’t just the outfit, of course. It was the spiteful ease with which he moved through a room he didn’t belong in, and didn’t even bother to pretend that he did. A trickster to the bone. Shut any door in front of Francis Lowbridge, and he’d be back an hour later dressed to the nines with a special invitation, a sadistic smile, a lockpick and a point to prove. Because he could.

And Ifan – was still on the job, damn it. He mirrored the crowd around him. Slow steps. Blank face. An air of disinterest.

It struck him. How many of them knew Francis. The way into the living room alone took almost half an hour. Ifan was introduced to half of Arx’s rich and famous, nobility, academics and merchants, asking the alchemist's opinion on this or that distillery project, or new piece of technology.

Nevermind the fact he’d been convicted.

Of manslaughter, at the least.

The subject even came up – what a shame your thesis never saw publication. We were quite interested in the returns. And Francis didn’t even blink, just smoothed over it with a smile.

He enjoyed this.

His presence here alone, an act of revenge. He was perfectly jovial – cheerful, blunt and joking at his own expense – I’d love to be there, mate, but if I set foot into the Cathedral, I would immediately burn to ash – and never dropped the dialect. Doubled down on it, in fact.

The crowd’s fascination with him was that with a rare zoo animal. And Francis knew it. Played with it. Reminded them of it every step of the way, dangling his reputation.

Ifan, meanwhile, scanned the rafters. The windows. The exit locations.

Counted the guards, Justinia’s royal protectors, some in armor and insignia, some in plainclothes. Memorized their equipment. Replayed the ceremony timetable written on the invitation, all while lending one ear to Francis’ conversational exploits and suppressing a grin at every underhanded insult. They were a good team.

It wasn’t Ifan’s kind of crowd, particularly.

But, gods, it felt amazing.

They were made for this. The tension. The act. The hunt. Their heads in the game. The calm before the storm that would end in royal blood. And most of all -

Francis’ hand never once left Ifan’s arm. He called him his husband to anyone who’d listen. The joke wasn’t lost on him. We’re rich, darling. We can do whatever the hell we want.

Ifan watched him with a smile. The Sintans were friendly enough. They talked vivid shop with him about alchemy, their city’s bread and butter. The Arxians were as apalled with him as they were morbidly curious, though they hid it well. The first to openly turn his nose at Francis was a member of the clergy, some cardinal, who scowled at his hand resting on the small of Ifan’s back, along with, well – the rest of him.

And that was the moment he decided to collect.

They parted. Ifan took Francis’ hand from his back, moved it up like in a dance. Side-eyed the priest with the hint of a smile, until he was sure the man noticed. Waited until Francis stopped short mid-sentence. And then put on a performance Lohse would’ve been proud of.

A cocky lift of his eyebrows. Brushing Francis’ knuckles with his thumb. A bat of his lashes – a very pretty one, too – and Francis was his. Rapt attention. Eyes widened, mouth parted. Ifan curled his lips, then his index finger. Come here. And when he did, Ifan’s hand around his jaw, there was no reality in which he didn’t get his tongue down that throat in the next second.

It was quick. It was filthy. Imperious, deep in the back of his mouth. Francis’ eyes fluttering shut. Tongue behind his teeth, a trail of spit, and gratuitously licking along the inside of his lip when Ifan drew away. It was for show. It was for him. It was – because he could.

Silence.

Ifan reveled in it. The priest had disappeared. The group around them scandalized, for a wide variety of reasons. And Francis staring in awe, the crackling, static tension of a thunderstom.

It was one of the Sintans that broke it.

"Well, I’ll be damned," she exclaimed. "Someone tell Isla. If Dorian doesn’t kiss her like that – why even bother?"

And Francis’ smirk was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

This was how it always had to end.

Alone in the dark. In getting slow, and getting cocky, with no more god to keep him. No sky above. No weapon in hand. Not a glorious death. Just his luck running out, as all things do eventually.

By the time the orchestra began to play, Ifan was getting impatient.

He itched. The room was too warm, he’d rolled those damned sleeves up. Tapped his fingers against his knee, as subtly as he could. He’d taken position with Isla and her bridesmaids at the table, an alibi glass of something in hand, doing what he did best to kill time. Ifan leaned over the table, and into a more intimate conversational distance.

"He’s one to talk," one of the bridesmaids whispered, "Got more illegitimate children than legitimate business partners these days. Not to mention – he’s gotten her cousin pregnant."

Ifan raised his eyebrows with a grin, following her line of sight to the subject of debate.

"No way." A sip of wine. "That old bag?"

"Not just him. That entire family is like a bunch of lobsters. Get hornier with age."

Ifan snorted, and tipped his glass.

"Well, I’m hoping to aspire. To the last part. Cheers."

The bridesmaids cackled. Isla, the bride – in a beautifully made Sintan headdress – threw him a curious glance, eyes coming to rest on his forearms, then his hand. Plenty of rings, but none on the finger that mattered. Amateur mistake. One of her friends nudged her from the side.

"Isla, you should ask him!"

She waved her off. "No, don’t waste the poor man’s time."

"Don’t be a bore," challenged the bridesmaid, "Tell us, Ifan. What do you make of Dorian Gall? Will he make a good husband? A decent lover?" A conspiratorial wink. "In Arx, they say to ask a Starling about all things love-related. Does he deserve our Isla? Or do we have to kill him?"

Seeing no way out of his predicament, Ifan searched the perimeter for the groom – only to get caught up on Francis, animatedly talking to a crowd by the buffet while they waited. He stood with his back to Ifan, his reading glasses slightly tilted on the crooked bridge of his nose, a fox-like smile, his coat elegantly hanging off one shoulder.

Francis did the same – he learned who Kemm was in business with, what the stakes were, who was already drooling over his chair – and when they began wasting his time, and he caught Ifan’s admiring glance, he made his exit in a spectacular fashion.

"If you’ll excuse me," Francis told his company with a straight face, and loud enough so Ifan was sure to hear it, "My husband is staring at my ass."

It felt amazing. The way they looked at him, aghast. Francis pushed through the crowd, left them without a backward glance. Because they didn’t matter. Ifan grinned, hung his elbow over the back of the chair, and turned his head when he approached.

"You look lovely, Miss Isla." Francis shot the bride a wide smirk, settling his hands on Ifan’s shoulders as he did. "Could I possibly steal my better half? Just for a minute."

Francis’ palms shamelessly dipped under the neckline of his robe, if only for a second before Ifan stood up from his chair. A grin for his troubles as they walked. Oh, he liked him like this – terribly smug, and reckless, and in love, a momentary glance at the man he’d been before–

This was a job.

The chamber music came to a close. Time was running out. The ceremony almost about to begin, and not a single sign of their gloomy co-conspirator. Ifan tugged at Francis’ sleeve.

"Where the hell is Tarquin?"

"Shh. Not here." Francis subtly leaned over to him. "The walls have ears. Come on. We’ll attract way more attention if we’re not dancing."

The orchestra set the tact.

A grand opening. Francis grabbed his arm and pulled him along, right into the middle of the dancefloor, and Ifan missed the first step by a mile – covered up by a skilled flare of Francis’ coat and a slide of his foot to catch him. A quadrille. A slow one, but complicated all the same, not exactly the kind of thing that was danced in a taproom.

Francis helped him along. One hand on his waist, pulling him a little closer against his hip than was strictly appropriate – but it did make it easier to follow. Swaying in tune. His index finger subtly tapping out the rhythm against Ifan’s back, telling him when to restart the sequence.

Francis on the dancefloor was a different beast. Proud. Radiant. And mad as a pixie.

Miles away from how he usually moved – the slightly uncoordinated, too-long limbs and heavy steps. Not a trace of clumsiness to him here. Perfect control of every movement – and a carefree, artistic beauty in each step, the light-hearted ease that came after perfection.

Following the steps wasn’t enough. Francis played with them, a twist, a trick shot, and returning to the sequence at the last second. And played Ifan like an instrument along with it.

One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three.

He was showing off. Ifan leaned into it. Deciphered the language his fingertips spoke against his waist, a light press here, a double tap there to beckon him to follow in a twirl, or in a pause, when to slow down, when to pick it up. So close – so intimate. In enemy territory.

He was breathtaking.

Their eyes never left each other. Technique became instinct. When Ifan stopped counting and started getting lost in his face instead, still in tune because there was nothing in the world but him and the music, Francis’ lips curled into a grin. He leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"You look distracted, darling. What were you saying?"

Darling. A word he only ever seemed to use as part of a performance – but it settled warm in the core of Ifan’s chest. Playing a role. But a devastatingly beautiful one.

They were made for this.

Ifan decided to return the favor. "You’re the devil," he purred, leaned into him a little closer. Felt Francis’ grin widen against his cheek where their faces met. "I’ll hand it to you, gorgeous. You know what you’re doing."

Francis spun him, outwards, then in, and Ifan was suddenly caught with his back against his chest. His breath, warm against his neck, and a shiver, delightfully deep down his spine.

"Hey. I always know what I’m doing."

Ifan grinned. Hair falling into his eyes. Francis’ hand above on his heart, on its own imprint.

"That’s not what you said yesterday. But I’ll take your word for it."

Their hips, together. A cross-step. Francis expertly caught Ifan’s foot on top of his, slid them both into a figure with their arms entwined. The first crescendo. Loud enough to cover the buzz of conversation around them. Ifan scanned the crowd from the side of his vision.

"Where’s that damned necromancer?"

"He’ll show up," murmured Francis, "What did you catch?"

"Twenty guards on the inside." Francis spun him back around, and Ifan went easily. He got the hang of it. Followed the flow of his movements. Pressed up against him, chest to chest, and continued in a whisper. "Just about. Swords, mostly. A few mages in plainclothes. I’ll get her during the ceremony, from the first floor. Still need eyes on the garden."

The quadrille melted into something else. Something sultry, honey-sharp. Then slowly gaining momentum. They separated. Francis reached out, with a delicate stretch of his fingers.

One hand on his chest. An arms’ length apart. Ifan mirrored him. Circling each other, like in the sparring ring, slow and periously elegant. Faster. Back in his element. Ifan could feel the eyes of the room on them. Faster. Death and the devil, dancing with impunity. Faster. Another spin, and just in time for the music to slow, Francis pulled him close again.

So close it was almost a kiss.

"Can’t we just – poison her, or something?" Francis whispered over his shoulder. Against the skin of his neck, almost touching his lips. So close. Thunder crashed outside. The flutter of fabric, the blinding light around them. Ifan kissed his cheek, then moved towards his ear.

"Poisoning someone is easy," he whispered. "Poisoning the right person – significantly less so. There’s a crossbow on the wall up the staircase. Here’s hoping it’s not just ceremonial."

"And if it is?"

The melody picked up. He was so bright. Eyes twinkling, head slightly raised. Faster. Everything was sharper, clearer.Ifan felt every beat of his heart, every slide of his feet, every flick of his fingers. Faster. The orchestra raged. The crowd around them faded into a blur of spinning colors.

And Francis, the bastard, dipped him.

He couldn’t just get away with it. Not without payback. Ifan let his hip glide into the movement, easy as breathing. Let his head fall back. Slid his hand, on Francis’ shoulder, up the back of his neck. Lips slightly parted in approval. And the way Francis looked at him then–

Was damn near pornographic.

"There’s a thousand ways to kill." An easy smile. Their hips, together. "As a creature of habit, I’m partial to one. But – I’m quite flexible. I’ll try anything once. Or several times."

Set, and match. Francis looked a little breathless as their faces neared, but then relaxed into his hold, and pulled Ifan back up against him – wide-eyed, and still stunned by it. The crescendo rose for one more time, signaling that the dance was about to end.

"Are we still talking about murder? Or are you just trying to seduce me?"

"Trying?" Ifan raised his eyebrows. "I thought I had it in the bag."

Sweet, sweet victory. Francis blushed like a beetroot, but never lost his step. Another spin. The final accord. They ended with a flourish, forehead to forehead, and their bodies, together. Here, thought Ifan. Right here.

"You do." With a wicked little smirk, Francis guided his chin up. "You have it, darling."

He couldn’t help it. The flutter in his heart, and lower. Just a game. A performance, but – he’d never get tired of the sight of him like this, the dazzling confidence, the mischievous lilt in his voice. The dancefloor emptied. Ifan chuckled quietly, his chin still in the air, and not even thinking about looking away even as the blush crept in.

"Damn you, Lowbridge. I’m at work."

Francis grinned, and lightly patted his cheek.

"This is doing it for you, huh? I could go all night. My dear. My treasure. My better half. My heart’s desire. Moon to my stars. Light of my life. Apple of my–"

Ifan flipped him off.

"Ma halam. You ate a whole dictionary, and genuinely thought dickhead was the way to go?"

The alchemist shrugged.

"Worked on you then."

Ifan hooked their elbows together, steered them towards the garden. And judging by the pissed-off glare on Francis’ face when he said it, the variation he spun next was somehow even better than its utterly satisfying original. Ifan grinned, and patted his arm.

"If you say so, dear."

This was how it always had to end.

In burning hair and molten skin. In utter failure. In paralyzed limbs and the horror of helplessness. In borrowed time and old regrets and knowing that, no matter how far he ran, death would always follow to reclaim his debts.

There was no such thing as a contract going off without a hitch. Really, half of it was the ability to adapt to chaos, and to wield it like a weapon. Ifan was a good shot. A good fighter, a good tactician. But that alone – thriving on plan B – was what made him great.

Oh, yes, he rejoiced, when they passed the pavillion in the garden. You paranoid old woman.

A whistle through his teeth. Francis followed his line of sight. The marble plateau, where the altar stood, was covered in engravings – runic protections written with the intricacy of a demonic contract, expecting every loophole, every eventuality so the Queen could appear with no armor to speak of, in evening dress, invulnerable.

This had just gotten interesting.

"What did I expect," muttered Francis quietly. "There’s no way to disarm all of these. Missile snaring. Protection from – every school of magic anyone’s ever thought of. What now?"

"Optimism, my love," Ifan responded. "She still needs to get there."

"Sure," grumbled Francis, indicating the floor with a nod. "Don’t take my word for it. I just studied this for seven years. You see that rune cluster on the latch behind the altar? That’s part of an elevator mechanism, of some sort. I think her Majesty is taking the cellar route."

Ifan hummed. "Good eye."

"Again. Seven years."

"And ten of assassinating bigger fish than me," Ifan muttered from the corner of his mouth. "We’ll find a weak spot. We need a distraction. Something to get her to leave the pavillion."

He leaned against one of the pillars, scanning the rooftops. Beset with another dozen guards, of course. And Francis looked – much unlike someone plotting his first assassination. Although Ifan wasn’t sure if there was really an etiquette for it. He sure as hell wasn’t one to judge, but… the look on his face was almost giddy. Ifan raised a mildly concerned eyebrow.

"A distraction, you say." Francis grinned, tipped his glasses up. "Look no further. I’ll need ten minutes, a fish can, a pocket watch, and a cleaning cabinet. What time do they cut the cake?"

The window there, on the right. Couldn’t have been more perfect.

Down below, the guests crowded around the fountain and slowly refilled their drinks before the last dance. Francis had snuck off to gods knew where to gather his materials. And Ifan stood on the balcony on the first floor – mapping the terrain, and expertly ignoring the itch in his fingers.

They weren’t the only ones plotting. This was a business meeting as much as it was anything else. On the other side of the extensive balcony stood the bridesgroom himself, Dorian Gall. Lodged firmly in the thirteenth corner of Queen Justinia’s bloodline, from what he understood. An alchemist, one of Francis’ Alma Mater. And Gall, he noticed, stared at him like his time on earth was running out. Understandable, Ifan supposed.

"Smoke?"

Not quite what he needed. Still better than nothing. Ifan helped himself to one from the etui, clicked his lighter – and narrowed his eyes. Gall was analyzing him. With something alarmingly close to recognition. Ifan scrutinized him right back, raised one eyebrow. Slowly.

He knew him. He knew that face.

Ifan ransacked his memory. It took him far longer than he was proud of, and what he came up with was unclear at best. Pretty sure he’d been part of Lohar’s bargaining committee nearly a decade ago, when Driftwood’s higher players and an Arxian noble had struck a rather delicate trade deal. High as a kite, that went without saying. And hopefully, said noble wouldn’t–

"You’re that… Silver Fang fellow, aren’t you."

Shit.

Ifan suddenly froze in his movement. Something hung in the air, a familiar smell – the phantom of it, clinging to the roof of his mouth. A sharp, clinical stench, like ozone, like acid, like burning hair, melting, corroding – Ifan shook his head abruptly.

Just a lapse.

Just his memory, or maybe someone else’s, clawing its way into the present.

Ifan pinched himself. The hallucination faded. And then – tir’serannas, at long last – the rustle of fabric and the clicking of dress shoes from behind him. Reliable as well-timed clockwork. Francis reappeared by his side, formed a faint gesture, and laid his hand on Ifan’s arm. Success.

Ten minutes exactly. Ifan signed relief.

"Look. I know you’re him," Gall interrupted their reunion in a flat, nasal caveat, completely unfazed by the extra set of eyes. "Your reputation’s stellar, mate. They sing your praises all the way up to Sinta. You take care of problems. And I’ve got just the problem for you."

At his own wedding. In plain sight.

He had no time for this. Ifan straightened, took a long pull of smoke, and let the silence stretch past awkward until it bordered on unnerving. Stared him down all the while, and hoped to make him reconsider his life choices without confirming or denying anything. No use, apparently.

"I need you to take care of my father in law."

The man didn’t seem to grasp the concept of reconsideration. Not that it surprised him. Ifan looked him right in the eye, tapped the ashes off his cigarette – and extinguished the whole thing on the wet railing with a resounding hiss. Twisting it intently, like he would a dagger in the guts of said father in law. Or perhaps his son.

He leaned in. Slowly.

"The man you speak of is not who I am," declared Ifan. Then immediately thought better of it, and in a calm, level tone, added: "Anymore. But, say he were – he’d tell you this."

The dwarf wrinkled his nose. Francis’ fingers tensed on his arm. Over the white rooftops of the Celestial, the Cathedral bell struck two – the beginning of the ceremony, and their signal to bring this matter to a close. Ifan smiled, and gestured towards the garden.

"Great party. Don’t you think?"

"Yes, yes." A dismissive wave. "Now, about the proposal–"

Incredible, thought Ifan. Francis let out a disbelieving snort. An amused, meaningful glance between them at that sheer amount of, well – of Gall. Like Dorian knew, with absolute certainty, that Ifan would do exactly as he asked, no matter Ifan’s reputation, no matter how he asked, because it was simply the way of the world. Ifan chuckled, and flicked the cigarette over the railing.

"You picked a nice day for it."

Unhurried, unbothered, and so unfailingly polite that Francis had to hold in a laugh with visible effort, while the look on the groom’s face bordered more and more on confusion.

"Me and Isla had the pleasure earlier," Ifan continued. "Gorgeous, isn’t she. And smitten with you, as well. Can’t wait to be at the altar, said this was the happiest day of her life."

The dwarf crossed his arms. Ifan meaningfully laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"You might wanna find it in your heart to appreciate that more."

That did it. Dorian opened his mouth, face scrunched up in indignance – and Ifan got closer. Still smiling. A nervous twitch – and a flicker of fear, as the groom finally began to grasp his situation. About fucking time, thought Ifan, and got closer. Tilted his head, and let each letter slide off his tongue as he spoke, smooth as silk, sharp as a needle.

"Life is short, Dorian." A drawn-out whisper, through his teeth. A terrifying smile stretching over sharp, white canines as it grew wider, and wider, cruel, then grotesque.