Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Ironwood felt was pain, a dull, throbbing weight pressing against the side of his skull, reminding him he was still alive. The second was the echo of footsteps. Sharp, deliberate. He forced his eyes open. A blurred figure descended the grand staircase of the vault chamber.

Cinder Fall.

The smirk on her face was almost relaxed. She moved like she had already won. In her hands, cradled with infuriating grace, were the Staff and the Lamp. The Relics. The very keys to shaping reality and unraveling truth.

Ironwood tried to rise. His body betrayed him. His aura was flickering, barely a pulse left. All he could do was look up from the cold floor, his fingers twitching toward a weapon that wasn’t there.

But then, something changed.

Cinder stopped. Her smirk faltered. Her gaze shifted upward, and Ironwood followed it with his own tired eyes. A roiling cloud of black smoke poured from the elevator shaft above, descending like a plague. It circled her in wide, deliberate arcs before twisting itself inward, coalescing into a human shape.

Salem.

Materialized like a waking nightmare, her eyes gleamed with eerie calm as she took in the scene.

Cinder fell to one knee.

“I… I failed you again, master,” she said, her voice catching between fear and frustration. “They used the Staff… to save thousands. Before our allies fell, Neopolitan… killed Ruby.”

Ironwood’s head snapped up. The words cut deeper than any wound.

Cinder didn’t stop. “And before Ruby and her team fell, they used the Lamp’s final question.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Salem stood still, her face unreadable. Ironwood couldn’t tell if she was amused or disappointed. Maybe both.

“I couldn’t stop them,” Cinder continued, desperation creeping in. “I couldn’t even stop the Maiden from escaping without risking the Relics… I’m sorry.”

She extended the Lamp and Staff toward Salem with trembling hands.

Salem bent down slowly. Her fingers wrapped around the Relics with care, like they were ancient treasures—fragile, dangerous, and infinitely valuable.

“In pursuit of a new world,” Salem said, her voice smooth as glass, “no cost is too great.” A pause. “You’ve done well, Cinder. Our work here is done.”

Just like that.

Cinder stood, some of the weight lifted from her face. She followed after Salem, a smirk sliding back into place like armor.

Ironwood turned his head weakly and saw it: his revolver, Due Process, lying only feet away. Hope bloomed bitterly. He began crawling, inch by inch. His fingers reached out.

Behind him, Salem spoke again.

“You said they used the Staff. I assume you rid the world of their creation.” Her voice was calm, clinical. “What did you create in its stead?”

Cinder’s answer didn’t come in words at first. Her smirk was her prelude.

“I merely added more flames,” she said. “To the fires of Atlas.”

Salem smiled.

Ironwood wrapped his fingers around the revolver’s grip. Shaky. Weak. He cocked the hammer, the sound sharp and metallic.

Cinder turned her head, just slightly, catching the noise. Her smirk widened.

“And that’s…” she said, eyes gleaming, “checkmate.”

Then the temperature spiked. A wave of heat radiated outward as Cinder ignited her Maiden powers, golden fire wrapping around her like wings. In a blink, she was gone—soaring into the sky with Salem trailing behind, darkness swirling in her wake.

Ironwood’s arm fell to the ground.

He watched them disappear.

Watched his last move fail.

Watched Atlas die.

The tremor hit like thunder. A slow, grinding shudder as the entire landmass began to tilt. The Academy groaned under the weight of the collapsing kingdom. The sky outside flickered with red and orange, smoke curling into the air like the city itself was exhaling its last breath.

“I… failed,” Ironwood whispered.

He couldn’t feel his legs at first. Then, like a dying engine catching one last spark, his aura flared, just barely. His Semblance. Mettle. That unbreakable will, that stupid, stubborn fire that refused to give in. It surged through him, not in triumph, but necessity.

He stood.

One broken step at a time, he stumbled out into the open platform of the Academy. The wind howled around him. Far beneath him, the floating continent of Atlas gave its final breath.

He watched it fall.

Watched as the city of Mantle, now deserted and silent, welcomed its ruin in a bloom of dust and debris.

Atlas slammed into Mantle with a sound that defied imagination. A roar so deep it rattled the bones. The shockwave rolled outward, a pillar of smoke rising high into the heavens, blotting out the sun.

Ironwood stumbled back, shielding his face.

Everything was ending.

But Mettle moved first.

Even as the ground fractured beneath him, Ironwood ran.

He dodged burning wreckage, leapt over shattered glass, ducked under collapsing beams. His lungs burned. His muscles screamed. The air smelled of ash and ozone. But he ran. There had to be something—anything left.

He saw an opening in the chaos. A narrow stairwell leading back down into the bowels of the vault complex. He dove for it.

Then came the explosion.

A blast of heat and force threw him sideways. He hit the wall with a sickening crack, bounced once, and landed hard. His revolver skittered out of reach. His aura shattered completely—he felt it die, felt the coldness seep in.

His limbs barely worked, but he crawled.

Back to the vault.

Back to some semblance of cover.

He limped through the half-destroyed hallway, clutching at railings and torn cables. Everything was trembling. Atlas groaned again, tilting further. A great creaking, screaming sound echoed through the stone.

Then he stopped.

His strength gave out.

He collapsed near the base of the vault.

And he cried.

It wasn’t loud. There were no sobs or wails. Just shaking hands and silent tears. A man who had given everything, and lost it all.

He buried his face in his hands.

“Forgive me…” he whispered. “I wasn’t strong… enough.”

He didn’t hear the roar until it was nearly on top of him.

A low, deafening rumble. Then a massive rush. The far end of the corridor turned white with mist and light, and then the tidal wave crashed through. Water from the shattered remains of Atlas’s inner reservoirs, from broken pipelines, from the ocean itself, whatever it was, it surged through the halls like judgment.

Ironwood tried to move.

He didn’t make it.

The wave hit him like a freight train, swallowing him whole.

He tumbled, weightless, spun around like a ragdoll. His head struck something—maybe debris, maybe part of the vault—he couldn’t tell. The water stole everything: breath, sight, thought.

In those final moments, all he could do was float.

The world around him vanished.

All that remained was the sky.

Through the chaos, through the bubbles and broken light, he saw the sun.

Its rays cut through the surface of the water in streaks of gold, dancing on the currents.

And the sky beyond so blue.

So impossibly blue.

A memory stirred. One from a life long past. A peaceful morning in Atlas before the war, before Salem, before the fall. He remembered standing on a balcony, watching the sunrise over the mountains.

It had looked just like this.

And then—

Nothing.

Ironwood awoke screaming.

His chest arched off the mattress as if pulled by invisible strings. He gasped, desperate, ragged breaths and clawed at the air, still convinced he was drowning. Water. Fire. Smoke. The weight of failure still pressing against him.

His arms flailed until pain shot through them like lightning. He gasped again, but this time, the panic paused. Pain?

He looked down.

Flesh. Skin. Muscle. Real arms, no prosthetics. No metal plates. No cybernetic joints. His left hand trembled as he lifted it to his face. His fingers flexed freely.

This wasn’t possible.

He looked around, blinking the blur from his eyes. The room was… familiar. The colors, the furniture, even the faint smell of paper and cleaning solvent. He rose shakily to his feet and turned in a slow circle.

His room.

His old apartment room.

The one he’d lived in as a cadet, before the rank, before the burden of command and duties. The bed neatly made. Small desk under the window. A half-empty bookshelf filled with training manuals. The creaking floorboard two steps from the door, still there.

“No,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

He bolted for the mirror.

He stumbled past the bed and caught himself on the sink edge just beneath it. For a moment, he couldn’t look. His breath came short and sharp. Then, slowly, he raised his eyes to the reflection.

A stranger stared back.

Younger. His face untouched by scars. The silver in his hair was gone. His jaw was tight with that same resolve, but there were no crow’s feet, no wear. He looked barely older than those kids had been. Newly graduated. A fresh huntsman.

The weight of Atlas hadn’t yet carved its name into his bones.

Didn’t make him metal yet.

He stumbled back, hitting the wall.

His mind recoiled from the scene. Panic surged. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

But Mettle moved first.

That familiar current. That iron in his spine that refused to let chaos win. It steadied his breathing. Slowed the pounding of his heart. Pulled him together, piece by piece.

He dressed and stepped out the door.

The hallway was exactly as he remembered. Gleaming tile. Pale blue lights humming faintly above. People passed him, none sparing him a second glance. As if he belonged here. As if this was normal.

He climbed the stairs two at a time.

Then he saw it.

Atlas.

Whole. Floating strong above Mantle, untouched by flame or war. The sky above it was clear and crisp, the air cold in that familiar high-altitude way. Ships passed peacefully across the horizon. No lockdown. No evacuation sirens. No dread in the air.

This was Atlas in its prime.

Ironwood leaned against the railing outside the Academy. His knuckles were white against the cold metal.

Below, people strolled between buildings without urgency.

Peace.

He couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t right.

It couldn’t be.

“Why…” he muttered. “Why am I back here?”

No answer came.

His thoughts turned, cycling through possibilities. A hallucination? A trick? A simulation from Salem? But it felt too vivid. Too real. The weight of his breath. The ache in his chest. The warmth of the sun on his skin. This wasn’t an illusion.

And yet he could remember it all. The Relics were lost. Atlas had fallen. He had failed. He had died.

Hadn’t he?

He gripped the railing harder, trying to anchor himself. This place, this time, wasn’t where he belonged.

But it was where he was.

Was it punishment?

Redemption?

A second chance?

His instincts screamed that nothing about this was safe. Yet no threat revealed itself. Not yet.

“Mettle…” he whispered. It had always driven him forward. Even when the path collapsed beneath him. Even when there was no hope left. That stubborn defiance that turned survival into duty.

It had saved and ruined him.

He was in a world that shouldn’t be.

His body restored. His past reborn. And no idea why.

He needed answers.

If this was truly the past, his past, then perhaps someone else could help him understand. Ozpin? Glynda?

But could he trust them?

Could he trust anyone?

He stared up at the massive tower, at the Academy’s center.

Another part hesitated.

If this really was his past… did he dare change it?

He had tried to do what was right once.

He had sacrificed everything to protect the people of Atlas.

And in the end, he had burned and drowned with the kingdom.

Now, Atlas stood.

And he was here.

But why?

And more importantly…

What was he supposed to do now?

Chapter Text

James Ironwood found a bar down in Mantle. The kind of place you don’t go to unless you want to disappear for a while.

It was tucked into a side alley off an industrial block, wedged between a maintenance depot and a graffiti-ridden wall warning of corporate overreach. One flickering sign, one cracked window, and a door that groaned every time someone came through. No uniforms in here. No protocols. No eyes watching for decorum or rank. Just the hiss of old heaters, the clink of glasses, and the hum of tired people trying to forget something.

He sat at the far end of the bar, back to the wall, coat still on.

His Scroll had rung over two hundred times by now.

He hadn’t picked up once.

It vibrated again on the counter. He didn’t bother checking the caller ID anymore. He just turned it over.

The bartender, a woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that had seen too many nights like this, raised a brow as she poured another round. She didn’t ask questions. People like him came in with too much weight. Best to let the glass do the talking.

He stared at the drink for a long time before taking the first sip. Then the second came easier. And then the third didn’t even register.

All he felt was… lost.

Not just confused. Not just shaken. Gone.

He didn’t understand where he was, or how, or why he was still breathing when everything he cared about was ash beneath a ruined sky. At least in the future. The future he knew. Atlas had fallen. Mantle was crushed beneath it. The Relics were in Salem’s hands. Everyone was gone. The others… he didn’t know.

His Scroll buzzed again.

He ignored it.

The thought came.

He could start over.

Again.

Rebuild. Reform. Repurpose. Make Atlas great again. Take the lessons of the past and turn them into action. Learn from his mistakes.

But then that thought died before it could finish forming.

Betrayal crept in.

That bitter, sharp memory of every person who had turned their back on him when it mattered most. The ones who looked him in the eye and said they stood with him… until they didn’t.

They abandoned him. Vilified him. Called him a tyrant for doing what they wouldn’t, what they couldn’t.

And still… he had given them everything.

He might as well have made himself out of metal. Maybe then he wouldn’t have felt the sting of watching his people crumble beneath the weight of their fear and his own resolve. Maybe then he wouldn’t have felt the blade twist in his back every time someone walked away from him.

For what?

To be drowned, buried, and crushed under the very kingdom he tried to save?

All of it. Everything.

For nothing.

He took another drink. Let it burn down his throat. He wanted it to hurt.

He stared down at his glass, jaw clenched. A thousand emotions collided and fell away before they could stick.

Why am I still alive?

What more do they want from me?

He had nothing left to give.

James Ironwood, no, just James now felt like he’d had enough.

Atlas, the great shining city in the sky, had failed him just as surely as he had failed it. He stood when no one else would, held the line when others flinched. And in the end, he was the one left behind to die in the rubble. Left alone with ghosts.

So much for peace.

He finished another bottle.

He was at that age already. The one where regrets come faster than dreams.

And just as he was raising the glass again, a tap landed on his shoulder.

He didn’t react right away. Didn’t care who it was. Not until a familiar voice cut through the haze.

“Well, well, well… James Ironwood,” the man said with a rough chuckle. “Soldier boy himself. Drinking like he’s got nothing left to conquer.”

James turned slowly.

The face was younger than he remembered, but the wild orange hair hadn’t changed. Nor the cocky smile. Nor the voice that always felt like it was half-laughing at you.

Sion Greymoon.

For a moment, James froze. His mind flickered. The past and present tried to sync, but something didn’t quite click. Was Sion dead? Had he died in the fall? Or had he never even been there?

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sion said, sliding into the seat next to him without waiting for an invitation. “Don’t tell me I’m the one haunting you now.”

James blinked. “You’re…”

“Alive? Apparently,” Sion said, leaning back. “And look at you. Finally, showing some humanity. About damn time. Thought you’d die before letting loose a button.”

James didn’t respond right away. His mind was still spinning. This was too much, too soon. He looked away, stared at the rows of liquor bottles lined up like soldiers on the shelf.

“What’s with that stupid look?” Sion asked. “You get cold feet or something? Place was buzzing when you didn’t show up for the assignment. Heard a lot of noise. Council types were asking questions about why the golden boy failed to show up.”

James said nothing for a while. “I’m not interested anymore.”

Sion blinked. The playfulness slipped from his face, just a little.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Officer trouble? You piss off an Atlesian Elite? Or was it something more interesting? Don’t tell me… you got a girl?”

James gave a small, humorless laugh. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

James looked down at his hands. They still shook, slightly. “I just don’t think I’m fit for it.”

Sion nodded, like he’d been expecting it. “No argument here.”

James frowned at the quick agreement.

And then Sion kept going.

“You’re the kind that tries to control everything, because you don’t trust anyone else to make the right call. You’re prideful. Stubborn. You act like if you’re not in charge, the whole system will fall apart. And when someone challenges you? You tighten your grip. You think you’re the only one who can be right. That you have to be right.”

James didn’t speak.

“You’d probably shoot someone just for disagreeing with you,” Sion added, dryly.

The words hit harder than any punch. But James didn’t flinch. He didn’t have the energy to.

Sion raised his hands. “Relax. Don’t hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you.”

“Then what are you gonna do?”

James didn’t answer right away. He swirled the last of the drink in his glass. Watched it catch the light.

“I’m done with this place.”

Sion tilted his head. “You quitting Atlas? Actually?”

“I don’t know.” James looked up at the cracked ceiling, voice hollow. “I don’t think I’m hoping for anything right now.”

Sion studied him for a moment. All the jokes were gone now. Just silence.

“You planning to disappear?” he asked, quieter.

James didn’t say yes.

Didn’t say no.

Sion sighed. “You know, when you first got that commission, you told me something. You said Atlas needed leaders who wouldn’t run. Who’d stand firm even when it hurt. Said you wanted to be the man that Atlas could rely on.”

James mulled

I gave them everything. And Atlas still fell. Because of me.

James set the glass down. “I’m not fit for service. Not anymore. Tell them that.”

He stood, slowly.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t look back.

He stepped out of the bar into Mantle’s cold, industrial wind and walked down the alley like he was leaving something behind.

He had already given his life to this kingdom once.

He had done his duty.

Now?

He didn’t know what was left to do.

James sat on the balcony of his apartment, unmoving. A half-cold mug of coffee sat untouched by his side, forgotten the moment he’d placed it there. The air was crisp, just like it always had been up in Atlas, tinged with faint traces of exhaust and cooling steel. From this height, you could see everything, the glimmering towers, the fields, the slow, circling ships overhead.

It should’ve brought him comfort.

But all it did was remind him that something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the sky.

It was too blue. Too perfect. The clouds too soft. The light too warm. The world around him was whole again, clean and sharp, but in his chest it felt like broken glass. Like he was walking through someone else’s life.

Like this wasn’t his world.

And worse, like he wasn’t really in it.

He stared down at his hands. His fingers trembled slightly. No metal. No servos. No ports or calibration nodes. Just flesh and bone and blood. He flexed them, slow and uncertain, like they might break under pressure. He rubbed his arms. Phantom pain lingered there, at the elbow joints, where the prosthetics used to begin. Where the skin should’ve been alloy.

He wasn’t used to being human anymore.

That reality haunted him more than the pain did.

He’d spent so long fused with metal, with maintenance protocols and power charges and recalibrations, that his brain had written off the old sensations as obsolete. But now he was back. Completely. Flesh and blood. And it felt wrong. Like someone had glued his soul back into the wrong body.

He remembered something someone once told him an older engineer with a drink in one hand and an opinion in the other. “As you change the way your body functions,” the man had said, “your soul starts having trouble keeping up. You push it far enough, it stops recognizing you. You lose the tether.”

James hadn’t believed it at the time.

But now?

Now he wondered if that man had been right. Maybe the connection really had severed. Maybe he’d lost something back then and never noticed. And maybe this pain, this hollowness inside him , was the price for trying to piece it all back together.

He ran a hand through his hair.

A part of him tried—weakly—to whisper about duty. About purpose. That familiar voice that had once driven him through every storm, every moral compromise, every sacrifice. That voice still told him he had a responsibility. His Mettle was in there somewhere. That he couldn’t sit on a balcony forever while the world turned without him.

But then came the sting.

That old sting of betrayal.

Of fear.

He was afraid. And admitting it, just thinking it, tasted like acid in his throat.

James had never let fear stop him. Not in the field. Not in the Council chambers. Not even when the sky fell.

But here, in this strange, quiet version of the past?

It paralyzed him.

What if it all happened again? What if no matter what he did, no matter how hard he fought, the result would be the same? Atlas would fall. He would fail. And this time, there’d be no one left to try again.

He reached for his Scroll.

His fingers hovered over the screen for a long moment before unlocking it. Notifications, missed calls, unread messages, all lined up like accusations. He scrolled past them. Names flicked by.

Will Scarlatina.

Sion Greymoon.

Johann. Trish. Plum Greenwood.

Each name was a reminder. Each one carried weight. Old connections. Friends, comrades, people who might still be out there, who might recognize him, help him.

He couldn’t.

He just… couldn’t.

He scrolled further.

Then he saw it.

A number he hadn’t touched in years.

His mother’s.

He stared at it. The screen seemed to burn with it. The idea of calling her felt almost foolish. What would he say? That he’d been thrown into some twisted version of the past? That he was living a second life after watching everything he loved turn to dust?

Still, his finger moved.

He pressed “Call.”

The line rang.

Once. Twice.

Then—

“Darling?” a warm voice answered, tinged with static and years of memories. “James?”

He nearly choked.

His mother.

Still alive.

Still her.

“I—yeah,” he said. “It’s me.”

“Oh thank goodness. I had some Atlesian officers come by earlier asking why you missed your orientation. Said you never reported in. I nearly fainted, I was so worried!”

He didn’t know what to say. His throat felt dry.

“I… I got cold feet,” he said, the words falling out before he could polish them. “I changed my mind.”

A pause.

“That doesn’t sound like the boy I raised,” she said gently. “But then again… maybe all that stubbornness finally caught up to you, huh?”

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

“I guess so.”

She noticed it.

“James,” she said softly, “what’s wrong?”

His hand gripped the scroll tighter. The edge in her voice, the concern, cut through him harder than any blade. And his voice... when it came trembled.

“I failed at something.”

Another pause.

He didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t say how he’d once tried to saved the world and lost.

Didn’t say how he’d held a gun to a child, or how he’d shot a friend.

Didn’t say how he’d died.

His mother’s voice came again, even softer now. “You’ve always been hard on yourself, James. Too hard. Maybe it’s time to come visit. Take a breath. Be around people who don’t expect you to save the world.”

“I don’t know if I deserve that.”

“Well,” she said, “maybe it’s not about what you deserve. Maybe it’s about what you need.”

James swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For backing out. For being afraid.”

She paused. Then her voice came, strong and steady.

“I understand.”

And in that moment, something inside him cracked, not in a way that broke him further, but in a way that let something out. Pressure he hadn’t realized he’d carried. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cold metal railing of the balcony.

It had been so long since he heard anyone say they understood him.

He wiped his eyes.

“I’ll visit,” he said quietly.

“I’d like that, darling.”

They said goodbye a few minutes later, after she made him promise to eat something, and to take care of himself. The call ended.

James sat there for a long time.

He looked up at the sky again.

Still too blue. Still too peaceful.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he’d figure out what came next.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over Atlas’s sprawling hills, casting long shadows across the pale-green fields that surrounded the suburbs like a silk ribbon. James Ironwood hadn’t seen this place in years. Not like this. Not so quiet, so undisturbed. It looked the way memories always did, too clean, too still, like someone had pressed pause on time.

He stood in front of the house for a long moment, suitcase in hand, coat buttoned too high. The yard hadn’t changed. Same trimmed hedges. Same little wind chime by the door that played a soft, crooked tune when the breeze caught it. Same wreath on the front. Blue and silver, the colors of Atlas. It was faded now, sun-bleached. But still proud.

He wasn’t sure he could do this.

Then the door flew open.

“James?” his mother called, a hand on her hip, her eyes squinting against the light. The moment she spotted him on the walkway, she didn’t wait for him to reach the door, she hurried to him, shoes clacking across the path. “Oh, for Brothers’ sake, you didn’t even message me you were coming early—”

She stopped just short of throwing her arms around him.

Instead, her nose wrinkled.

Then came the deep inhale.

“James Ironwood,” she said, voice sharp. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” he said, which was a half-truth. The edge had worn off, but it lingered in his blood like smoke in old fabric.

She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and scanned him top to bottom. “You’ve been drinking. You’ve definitely been drinking. What’s gotten into you?”

“I…” He started, but the words stuck.

She stepped back, her concern now painted clearly across her face. “Why are you acting like this? What happened? Is this why the officers came by? James?”

He couldn’t answer her.

Not with words.

So he did something he hadn’t done since he was a child.

He stepped forward and he hugged her.

Tightly.

His arms wrapped around her, and his head leaned into her shoulder, and for a moment, he stopped being the man who had carried the weight of a kingdom. He wasn’t General Ironwood. Wasn’t a Soldier. Wasn’t a failure. Just her son.

He cried, quietly.

And she panicked.

“Oh, no, no—hey now—hey, sweetheart, what’s this?” She held him, unsure whether to scold or soothe. “What’s going on? What’s happened? You never cry, James!”

He couldn’t speak. Not yet.

Her arms tightened around him, gently rocking. “Okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. Let’s get you inside.”

He let her guide him in like he used to when he scraped his knees in the garden. They sat on the living room couch, the same old cushions with the floral print, the same dent on the left side where she always sat with her tea.

He didn’t remember falling into silence. But when he came back to himself, he was holding a warm cup of tea, steam curling under his nose. His mother was watching him from across the coffee table, arms crossed, foot tapping.

“You’ve always been a bit too serious,” she said, eyeing him. “Even when you were little. Always giving yourself missions. Marching around with that toy sword. Took everything so personally.”

He said nothing.

She nodded toward the untouched slice of cake beside his cup. “You’re probably sitting there wondering if there’s a protocol for eating cake during an emotional crisis.”

That pulled a breath of a laugh out of him.

She grinned. “There’s not. But the protocol in this house is eat the damn cake.”

He picked up the fork awkwardly and took a small bite.

She waited.

Then—

“Spit it out.”

He looked up, confused.

“I mean the real stuff,” she said. “Whatever’s going on. You don’t come back here crying like a ghost unless something’s seriously wrong. You’re brave. You don’t get scared easy. So what the hell was so bad it scared my boy back to his mother’s house?”

He set the fork down.

His voice was low. “I failed at something.”

She didn’t speak, letting him carry the weight of it out loud.

“I can’t talk about it. I just… I failed. And I feel lost.”

A long silence.

She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms again. “What about your career?”

“I’m not doing it,” he said. “I’m not joining Atlas’s officer corps. Not anymore.”

That caught her off guard. “You’re… not?”

“I’m going to be an active huntsman instead.”

She blinked. That was a pivot. “That’s… a big change.”

James nodded. “It is.”

She tapped her fingers on her mug, her mind clearly working something over. “I know there’s more to this. You don’t have to say it, but if you want my advice… I can’t help if you don’t share.”

James stared into his tea for a long time. Then he spoke.

“If you knew the future… and in that future, you fail, and not just fail, but cause something so terrible that thousands die… would you follow it, anyway?”

She frowned. “Of course not. If you know it’s a bad road, you avoid it. If you know it leads to pain, you turn around.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is, James,” she said, suddenly firm. “You soldiering types, you act like everything needs to be some big sacrifice. Kingdom this, honor that. But I’m a simple woman. And all I want is for my boy to be safe, happy, and fine.”

He looked up at her.

She kept going.

“You say it’s not simple, but it is. You’re afraid. And that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re not weak because you’re scared. You’re human. That’s the problem with you boys, you think you owe this kingdom something. You don’t.”

She leaned forward, voice soft but unwavering. “It’s noble to love Atlas. To fight for it. Even to die for it. But if you don’t feel any love in return, if you’re just carrying it because you think you have to, then maybe it’s time to let go. Because duty without love isn’t noble. It’s punishment.”

He went silent.

Her words settled into him like a stone dropped in water. They sank, slowly, stirring everything beneath.

“I always worried about this path of yours,” she added. “And now… I worry even more. Because I think you’re not running toward something, James. I think you’re running from it.”

He didn’t argue.

Because she was right.

He had given everything to Atlas once. And it had cost him everything.

And now, in this strange, twisted second chance, he didn’t know what to give. What to hold on to. What not to repeat.

But something was different now.

He wasn’t the General anymore.

Just James.

The tea had gone lukewarm in James’s hand, but he still held the cup like it was anchoring him to the room. There was a rare, weightless kind of quiet he hadn’t felt in a long time. The kind that only existed in places like this. Safe places.

He looked over at her. She was watching him with that same expression she’d always worn after a scraped knee or a failed exam, unshaken, patient, loving, but not the type to smother.

His voice came softly.

“Can I stay here?”

The words were quiet, unsure, but she heard them as clearly as if he’d shouted.

She blinked, just once. Then smiled gently.

“Of course you can, darling.”

Then she added, “Though fair warning, you’ve outgrown your old bed.”

A small breath escaped James. Maybe it was a laugh. Maybe it was just relief.

“I think I can manage.”

She stood with a creak of the chair and started gathering the mugs. “Well, you’re welcome as long as you like, but you’ll have to fend for yourself till dinner. I have to head to work.”

James looked up at her, puzzled for a second. He had almost forgotten about her job, some part-time position at a local community office, if he remembered right. A quiet civic job. The kind that meant paperwork and city forms and planning events for people who mostly wanted to be left alone.

“You still working down at the office?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, rinsing cups in the sink. “Even if the job’s mostly listening to people complain about light fixtures and zoning codes.”

She turned, drying her hands on a towel.

“I’ll be back around six. Try not to disappear again before then.”

“I’ll be here,” he said.

She stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You need anything, just holler. There’s soup in the freezer, coffee in the tin, and a laundry basket that you’re welcome to pretend you don’t see.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

She gave his shoulder a final squeeze, then grabbed her purse and coat. “Don’t mope too much while I’m gone.”

He didn’t respond. Just smiled faintly.

Then came the knock at the front door.

Three short taps.

She walked over, unlocking it without hesitation.

Outside, a voice called brightly, “Silva Ironwood?”

His mother’s voice was already warm and casual. “Coming!”

She looked back one last time, then slipped through the door with a “Be good!” tossed over her shoulder.

James stayed seated.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And then there was silence again.

Not cold. Not empty.

Just quiet.

He stayed there, sunk into the old couch, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of the wind chime outside, the ticking of the hallway clock that hadn’t changed in decades.

For a moment, he let his mind go blank.

He didn’t have to be anywhere.

Didn’t have to carry anything except his own tired breath.

He closed his eyes.

The night crept in quietly.

James sat alone in the living room, hunched slightly forward on the couch with a blanket draped lazily across his shoulders. The lights were off. The only glow in the room came from the flat screen in the corner, flickering softly across the walls. His mother had gone to bed hours ago after a brief check-in and another gentle warning not to stay up too late.

He hadn’t listened. Sleep still felt like a luxury he didn’t deserve.

Or maybe just something he didn’t trust anymore.

He flipped through the channels idly, not really watching. Commercials, cooking shows, late-night comedies with laugh tracks too loud for the hour. All of it white noise. All of it distant.

Then something caught his eye.

A gossip segment, late-night news trying to be relevant. The anchor’s voice was syrup-smooth, smiling while talking about serious things like they were menu items. The headline beneath her read: FAUNUS RIGHTS DEBATE REIGNITES AS COUNCIL SPLITS VOTE.

Footage followed, crowds protesting near a council building in Atlas, security drones hovering, familiar signs in both human and faunus hands. The usual discourse, still unresolved after all these years. He watched the clip quietly, sipping a reheated cup of tea that had long lost its flavor.

Then the segment changed.

A new face appeared.

“Vale’s Iron Lady: Glynda Goodwitch Reflects on the Future of Huntsman Leadership”

James didn’t move.

The screen showed her in full academic attire, posture perfect as always, her voice calm and measured as she answered the interviewer’s questions with practiced precision.

“If we want peace, we need to educate a generation that understands more than combat,” Glynda said. “We need discipline, yes. But we need empathy more.”

James watched her for a long time.

Not the answer, not the context. Just her.

She hadn’t changed much. Same sharp eyes, same severe bun, same way of speaking that made everything sound like it came from a lectern. Textbook Glynda. Polished. Controlled.

Stubborn.

Gods, she was stubborn.

He remembered her in Vale, before the fall. Before the fight with Salem. Before all the broken pieces. She was the only one who challenged Ozpin’s authority without flinching, the only one who threw her voice around a room full of Huntsmen and never hesitated. The backbone of the Beacon staff, the enforcer, the one who stood tall when others bent under pressure.

If he had to bet on anyone still standing after all the chaos, it was her.

And unlike him, she probably was still alive in his original timeline. Still fighting the good fight. Still holding the line.

James lowered his head and rubbed at his temple.

He remembered Beacon’s dance.

Their dance.

One of the few memories he had that was… soft. He remembered how awkward it had started, him stiff as ever, her rolling her eyes as she practically dragged him into rhythm. He’d tried to lead, and she’d responded by stepping on his foot on purpose. By the end, they were laughing, quiet and close, just a little less guarded.

It was one of the few memories that still felt real. Untouched by duty or failure or the fight.

Here, back in this version of the past, Glynda probably still hated his guts. Still thought of him as arrogant. Too rigid. Too proud. She wasn’t wrong.

He didn’t want to see her.

Not now.

Not like this.

He didn’t want to see Ozpin either. Not yet. The man had answers, sure. But he also had expectations. And secrets. And a habit of making everyone around him choose between morality and practicality, something James no longer trusted himself to navigate. And not after learning what that man kept. His secrets.

The interview wrapped with Glynda giving a perfect, poised closing statement. Something about leadership being service, not command.

James turned the TV off.

The room went quiet again, the screen fading to black. He sat there in the glow of the hallway light, just breathing. Still holding his tea. Still not drinking it.

Then he picked up his Scroll.

If he wasn’t going to become an Atlas officer, then he needed a new path and soon.

He browsed the job listings. His credentials were active, and he had the combat history to back it up. The system flagged dozens of postings within minutes. Grimm sightings on the southern outskirts of Mantle. Escort jobs for dust shipments. Missing person reports from villages off the radar.

He tapped through each one with tired eyes.

Familiar.

Simple.

Efficient.

He could make do with killing Grimm.

That was one thing he was still good at.

No leadership. No council rooms. No weight of the world on his shoulders. Just a threat, a mission, and results.

And maybe that was all he deserved now.

He bookmarked a few listings and set the Scroll on the coffee table. Leaned back into the couch.

Somewhere outside, the wind picked up, rustling the hedges in front of the house. The chime on the porch danced its lopsided tune.

James closed his eyes.

He still didn’t know what he was trying to become again.

But maybe tomorrow, he’d take his first step toward surviving without needing to save the world.

Just surviving.

For now, that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

James wasn’t used to being out of uniform.

For years, it had been second nature for polished boots, white coat with navy trim.

The image of authority.

The armor of command.

But that man wasn’t who he was anymore.

Not today.

He stood in front of the mirror in his mother’s hallway, checking the fit one last time. A brown overcoat, high-lapelled and dark-trimmed, hung open over a light blue vest, buttoned clean and snug. Beneath it, a white-collared shirt, the top buttons left undone, not sloppily, but without the rigidity of protocol. He wore brown trousers, tucked into black boots. A utility belt sat firm around his waist, lined with pouches and secured with a brass buckle. Across his chest, a bandolier strap carried dust rounds—red, yellow, and icy blue glinting faintly in the morning light.

Both hips were armed. Two revolvers, holstered in dark leather. One of them, he rested his hand on now. Due Process, black and white steel, weighted just right.

His black gloves flexed faintly as he adjusted his stance. He stared at himself for a long moment in the mirror.

Still James Ironwood.

But something different in the eyes.

They were sharper now, but not with ambition. With clarity. Maybe even caution. The man looking back at him wasn’t here to lead armies or defend kingdoms.

He was here to do work. To stay moving. To survive.

Behind him, his mother’s voice called from the kitchen.

“Well, don’t you look like something out of a Mistrali detective serial.”

James turned. Silva Ironwood stood in the doorway, a steaming mug in one hand, raising an eyebrow as she gave him the once-over. She smiled, small but sincere.

“You look good, James. And—” she took a breath, eyes softening, “you look like you’ve cleared your head.”

He stepped closer, adjusting his coat with a slight tug. “Mostly.”

She sipped her coffee. “That’s more than I expected from you after you curled up on my couch like a broken toy.”

James smiled, faint but real. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“I’ve already done it,” she said, walking past him and setting her mug down by the couch. “You had about a dozen missed calls, most from names I couldn’t recognize and didn’t bother to learn. I made sure to wipe the more persistent ones from your queue.”

He blinked. “You wiped them?”

“James, I taught you how to use a Scroll, remember? I’ve been raising boys longer than those officers have had clearance.”

He stared at her for a second, then shook his head with a breath of amusement. “Thank you.”

She waved him off. “Don’t mention it. I figured whatever mess you were in, it could wait until you weren’t halfway to a breakdown.”

He glanced around the house, knowing this might be the last quiet morning he’d have in a while.

Silva reached for her mug again, cradling it with both hands now. “You’re going to be busy again, aren’t you?”

James nodded. “Probably.”

She didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Just watched him for a moment, weighing something in her expression.

“I won’t stop you,” she said finally. “I know better. But every once in a while, I’d like to see your face again. Preferably without blood on it.”

He nodded again, more firmly this time. “You will. I’m not military anymore.”

Her lips quirked, a little bitter and a little proud. “No, you’re not.”

She stepped forward and reached up, tapping his cheek gently with her fingers, soft, motherly. “Just stay safe, James. I’m done burying dreams. Don’t make me bury my son.”

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

It wasn’t much. But for her, it was enough.

They stood in the doorway as he slung his bag over his shoulder. The sky was still streaked with morning color, the clouds thin and gentle above the quiet suburbs.

The bullhead was already at the terminal when he arrived.

It wasn’t one of the military ones, no gun placements or turrets or patrol logs. Just a transport shuttle. Civilian, beat-up, and noisy. There were workers aboard. Couriers. A couple of early-shift huntsmen already dressed for fieldwork.

He climbed in, choosing a spot near the back.

The engines rumbled to life.

As the bullhead lifted off the pad and began its slow arc toward Mantle, James sat still, resting one hand lightly on the handle of Due Process.

He was no longer General James Ironwood of Atlas.

Just a huntsman now.

Starting over.

James hadn’t hunted like this in years.

Not in the huntsman sense. Sure, he’d killed more Grimm than he could count from operations, purges, strategic strikes with precise objectives. Everything had always been mapped out. Drop zones, backup teams, evacuation procedures, intel briefings. Controlled. Organized.

But this?

This was raw.

There were no one to call in, no dispatch teams checking in every hour. Just a mission listing on his Scroll, coordinates near a stretch of snowy woodland east of Mantle, and a fading trail of carnage leading to somewhere people didn’t want to name.

The snow fell steady and soft, not quite heavy enough to obscure his vision but enough to silence his steps. His coat flared behind him in the wind, dusting white at the shoulders. His revolvers sat holstered, the metal cold against his hips.

He moved through the old road slowly, keeping an eye on his surroundings. Ahead was a scattered settlement known as Spanned, a village that didn’t even know exist in or was wiped out in the future..

That fact alone made him wary.

The houses here were crude, some made from scrap paneling, others repurposed out of abandoned Atlesian outposts. Chimneys spat black smoke into the grey sky, and the people watched from behind makeshift fences as he approached. No one offered a greeting. Most didn’t even move. Just stared.

He approached the largest building, a diner, maybe once a checkpoint station, and stepped inside. The moment he opened the door, the cold was pushed back by warmth and the thick smell of burnt coffee.

He walked up to the counter and leaned on it, nodding to the older man behind it.

“You the one who put out the job?”

The man glanced up, giving James a quick once-over before returning to his drink. “You look too clean to be from around here.”

“I’m not,” James replied. “But I’m here to help.”

“Help, huh,” the man muttered.

Others in the diner took notice. A few grumbled. One spoke up, voice bitter. “Another Atlesian thinking they can shoot their way into relevance.”

“I’m not military,” James said evenly.

The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow. “You sure dress like one.”

James didn’t answer that.

They started talking. Slowly, grudgingly. At first, it was complaints. About Atlas, about broken promises, about rations that never arrived and protection that always showed up after the blood dried.

James listened.

And as much as part of him itched to respond, to correct them, to explain, to defend what Atlas used to be, a quieter part of him said shut up.

So he did.

He listened.

They talked about the Grimm, specifically, the ones circling the ridge trail two days to the south. Manticores, they said. Fast. Big. Unusually aggressive.

James knew the type. Spiked tails, thick wings, heavy shoulders like armored battering rams. A real threat, especially to a place like this, with walls made of sheet metal and patched wire fencing.

“They don’t usually come this close to people,” one woman said. “But lately, they don’t care. They just come.”

James asked about the trail. Got what little direction they could give. Then, once the firewood talk turned to Atlas politics again, he stood quietly, nodded his thanks, and stepped back into the cold.

He walked in silence.

The trail was easy enough to find with upturned trees, deep claw marks, snow melted where the Grimm’s presence still lingered. But something else sat in the back of his mind.

Neglect.

Had Atlas really abandoned these places?

He wanted to believe there was a reason. A strategic redistribution. A temporary setback. But even as he tried to justify it, he could feel the edges of the truth pushing in. These people were left behind. Forgotten. And now they survived in spite of the flag he used to wear.

His hand dropped to his revolver.

The wind howled.

And then he saw them.

Dark shapes moving ahead through the trees. Wings outstretched. Long tails dragging along the snow. A pack of Manticores, five, maybe six, stalking slowly through the forest, tracking something.

James crouched low behind a snowdrift, eyes narrowing.

He studied their movement, how they flew in formation, as if waiting for something. He reached slowly into his bandolier, fingertips brushing dust rounds, choosing the right type for the cold air and heavy white bone plating.

Then he heard it.

A low rumble in the distance.

Steady. Growing louder.

His head snapped up toward the ridge.

The train.

Of course. The transport lines between Mantle’s remaining outposts still ran through these passes. And the Manticores, they weren’t just wandering.

They were waiting.

The train’s horn cut through the forest like a warning, loud and sharp.

And the Manticores took off.

Wings flapped like thunder, snow blasted from the ground as they launched into the sky, streaking through the trees toward the ridgeline.

James swore under his breath and ran.

He felt lighter.

It hit him as he sprinted through the snow, boots thudding rhythmically, not sinking. Not dragging. No servos to recalibrate. No joints to jam in the cold. Just legs. Just breath.

Just him.

And something else.

He couldn’t explain it fully, but his aura, it felt bigger. Deeper. Like it stretched further than before. Like it echoed inside him. Like he had two souls pushing at the seams of one body.

He didn’t feel tired.

Not even close.

Mettle, his Semblance, was running on pure instinct now, locked in, sharpening every thought into a single point of purpose, just hunt down the Grimm.

He wasn’t a soldier.

Not now.

He was a weapon.

The thunder of the train wheels grew louder ahead. Steel against steel, slicing through the mountain pass like a blade. Snow whipped up in gusts as he crested the last ridge and saw it, a train crawling through the frozen trees.

And above it dark wings, circling.

The Manticores had already begun their assault.

James surged forward, his aura-infused legs eating distance like it was nothing. The rear of the train came into reach. He didn’t slow down. His coat flared behind him like a cape, his body pure momentum as he leapt—

One hand caught the rear guard rail.

The other braced.

He swung up, momentum carrying him into a forward flip, landing on the roof with a roll that cracked snow and scattered frost on the roof.

The wind hit him like a wall. Screaming past his ears. Cold. Brutal.

Ahead, shouts. Movement. A figure waved in panic.

Then came the shadow.

One of the Manticores peeled off from the pack, wings folding as it dove toward him.

James didn’t hesitate.

He ran into it.

The Grimm screeched and snapped its jaws toward him. James dropped low, rolled right beneath its maw, and drew Due Process, the white revolver gleaming in the half-light. The first shot blasted straight into its mouth. The second missed the eye by inches.

The creature reared back, but James was already moving. He spun the revolver, gripped it by the barrel, and slammed it into the beast’s temple with the full force of his momentum. Then he drew the black Due Process in a smooth motion and fired twice at the base of the neck. The Manticore howled, wings flailing.

Another shadow.

James ducked under a claw swipe just in time, his coat sliced by inches. The second Grimm landed hard, shaking the train roof. Its mouth sparked with blue static.

“Electric breath,” James muttered. “Great.”

He fired thrice which hit center mass. One round caught the charging one just as the Grimm opened its jaw.

Boom.

A burst of dissonant light spilled from its throat, cut short.

He didn’t stop.

He pointed his black revolver back, pulled a special round, purple, and fired. A gravity shot. The recoil was harsh, but it served its purpose.

He launched forward, flying across the roof. Holstering the white revolver mid-air, he reached out, grabbing onto one of the Grimm’s large fur as it passed.

James swung around its neck, using momentum to land on its back, digging his boots in deep.

With one hand gripping the spine, the other raised the black revolver to the base of the skull.

He emptied the cylinder.

The Grimm shuddered once. Then spiraled downward into the trees.

He jumped off mid-fall, hit the train roof, rolled again, just as another one lunged from behind.

He didn’t have time to dodge.

He raised his left forearm and took the hit full-on.

His aura flared bright blue as the claw scraped across it. Pain surged up his arm like fire, but he didn’t budge. Mettle took over. His mind ignored the shock. Focused.

The Grimm stumbled forward from its own momentum.

James adjusted.

Barrel to throat.

Pull.

The creature exploded into black mist.

The last one was flying overhead, mouth glowing again with that same deadly electric charge.

James didn’t wait.

He holstered both revolvers.

Stood straight.

Aura surged into his forearms as he localized his defenses to the front.

Boom.

The blast struck him full in the chest. Electricity danced across his aura like a lightning cage. He grit his teeth. Aura blocked wounds, but not pain.

His knees nearly gave out.

But Mettle said no.

He stayed up. Steady.

The charge faded.

James inhaled sharply, drew both revolvers again, and sprinted forward like the breath never hit him.

The Manticore dove, trying to flank the train. He fired once, wing. Twice in the shoulder. A third shot hit the base of the joint.

It dipped.

Spiraled.

Crash-trajectory.

It was about to hit the cabin.

James saw it.

Did the math in his head.

Then he ran harder.

Thirty meters.

Fifteen.

Ten.

He jumped.

His boots landed against the train’s edge, and he dropkicked the Grimm mid-dive, slamming his heels into its skull with enough force to redirect the beast mid-air.

It slammed into the trees behind the train in a messy explosion of snow and shattered bark.

James landed hard on the roof.

His breath came in clouds.

He slid down the side of the cabin and dropped lightly onto the platform near the conductor’s door.

It slid open with a hiss.

“Is anyone hurt?” James asked, holstering both revolvers in one smooth motion.

The conductor, an older man in a thick coat and panicked expression just stared at him for a second, wide-eyed.

“You’re just in time, Huntsman.”

James exhaled.

And nodded once.

"Good, that's... good."

Chapter Text

The aftermath was clean.

The passengers, shaken but alive, gathered near the rear of the train while James walked the length of the cabins, checking for damage. No major injuries. A few broken windows. One man had a cut on his head, another had passed out from the shock. But they were alive. The conductor was still muttering something about miracle timing when James stepped back outside into the cold.

He stood by the cargo hold, watching the horizon.

The Manticores were gone reduced to smoke and scattered embers on the snow. He confirmed the last one had disintegrated with the impact into the trees.

Clean kill.

The conductor approached again, holding out a small, metallic chit. “Transfer’s ready. Standard bounty rate. Manticores pull a decent purse.”

James nodded once. Took the Lien without a word.

It was enough to live off for a while. Not comfortable, but manageable.

The train stopped at the next Mantle depot, a rougher part of the industrial district. The kind of place where rust was more common than paint. People didn’t look twice at a man stepping off a train with weapons on his hip.

He didn’t have a plan. Not yet. But walking helped.

The cold bit at his skin as he moved through the streets of Mantle, his coat billowing slightly with the wind. Pipes hissed, steam coiled upward. Signs buzzed overhead, flickering with age. Markets bled into alleys.

Then he saw the crowd.

A slow-building protest outside one of the government offices. A mix of Faunus and humans, though mostly Faunus. They held signs. Chanted. Held ground. A few Atlas Security officers stood by—tense, watchful, but not intervening. Yet.

James stopped across the street.

He scanned the signs.

“We Are Not Disposable.”

“Equal Pay, Equal Rights.”

“Atlas For All.”

And there, barely visible on the far end of the gathering, fluttering on a cloth pinned to someone’s jacket—

The White Fang insignia.

His stomach twisted.

His Semblance, Mettle surged, unbidden.

Kill them. Now. End it before it starts. Before it happens again.

Intrusive. Cold. Tactical.

Put them down like rabid animals.

He inhaled sharply, grounding himself.

No.

He clenched his fists at his sides, forcing his aura to recede. Making it inactive.

The instinct was there, like a second voice in his head that efficient, brutal, whispering futures best avoided through preemptive strikes. But he wasn’t a general anymore. Wasn’t a judge. He didn’t know what this future held. He wasn’t here to fix things, nor control them.

He turned to leave.

Then the shouting began.

Not from the protesters, from the other side.

A group of locals, humans, hurling insults from across the street. Snowballs. One threw an empty can. The words came sharp and venomous.

“Go back to Menagerie!”

“Stop whining and get a job!”

“You want rights? How about you stop shitting stuff up first!”

James slowed.

He shouldn’t get involved.

Not his fight.

Walk away.

Then a rock flew.

It hit a Faunus boy square in the temple. He dropped. Crying.

Another rock sailed.

James moved before he could think.

He stepped between the next rock and the crowd, his aura flaring blue.

It caught the projectile mid-air and bounced off him.

The street fell dead silent.

James stood in the middle of the street, his coat catching the wind, both hands at his sides. He didn’t say a word. Just stared down at the group of agitators.

They hesitated.

One of them, a kid barely old enough to shave, started to open his mouth.

James’s aura spiked again, brighter this time.

They backed off.

Muttering. Dispersing.

The Faunus crowd was silent now too, watching him. No one moved for a long beat.

Then someone stepped forward.

A woman.

She moved with a quiet authority, her stride deliberate but calm. Her complexion dark, her amber eyes sharp and golden like sunlight through autumn leaves. Her hair was black, wild, cut into an asymmetrical bob that only amplified her confidence. Tattoos resembling tiger stripes coiled down her arms, shoulders, and collarbones. Her sleeveless white-trimmed top revealed muscle without flaunting it, and her gray thigh-high boots gleamed under the streetlights. Four golden earrings sparkled, one in each human ear, and two more in a Faunus ear on the left side. A small bindi-like jewel shimmered on her forehead.

“You’re not exactly what I expected,” she said, voice low and amused.

James blinked. “Excuse me?”

“An Atlesian,” she said, nodding toward him. “Stepping between a mob and some Faunus kids. I figured you people only showed up to restore order yer with bullets.”

He shifted. “It wasn’t about race. It was about violence.”

“Still,” she said. “It means something. Not a lot of you humans like us enough.”

She offered her hand.

“I’m Sienna Khan.”

He stared at her for a second.

Then shook it.

“James.”

“Just James?”

“For now.”

Sienna’s grip was firm. “Well, just James, I don’t know where you came from, but you might want to be careful. There are eyes everywhere, everyone’s watching everything.”

He glanced once more at the crowd, then back to her. “I’m not here for politics.”

She gave a wry smile. “Too bad. Politics is here for you.”

He didn’t answer.

Sienna looked at him for a beat longer. “Still. Thanks.”

“It’s nothing,” James said.

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s not nothing.”

And with that, she turned and walked back to the protesters, who had started murmuring again, some clapping quietly. James stood still, letting the tension in his body bleed off.

He hadn’t come looking for attention.

But the world had a way of finding him, anyway.

The diner was tucked between a half-functioning repair shop and a store that sold secondhand dust cartridges. Not a place for tourists. Not even for locals with a few spare Lien. But the burger was hot, the fries were greasy, and James was too tired to care about anything else.

He sat alone in the corner booth, coat slung over the seat beside him, fingers lightly stained from salt and oil. The light above him buzzed quietly. Static, like everything in Mantle. Music hummed from a tinny speaker, something old and tired, forgotten by time but still playing on repeat.

He took another bite, chewing slowly, when someone slid into the seat across from him.

Sienna Khan.

Same sleeveless top, same sharp amber eyes, same bindi on her forehead, catching the light.

“Don’t worry,” she said, stealing a fry off his plate. “Not here to recruit.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Not worried.”

She leaned back in the booth, stretching slightly, her boots bumping against his beneath the table. “Place reeks of grease and despair. But hey, burger smells edible.”

He didn’t answer.

She stole another fry.

“Asswipes,” she muttered, shaking her head. “That’s what they are. Every time we try to raise our voices, someone shows up to throw bricks instead of listening.”

James sipped his water. “I noticed.”

“I’m used to it,” she said, arms folded. “People like the idea of equality until it threatens their convenience. Then suddenly we’re a threat. We’re ‘too loud.’ Or we’re part of the nosy White Fang.”

James stared at her for a second. “You’re not?”

She snorted. “Hell no. Not yet, anyway.”

That gave him pause.

Sienna caught the hesitation in his eyes and smirked.

“I know how I look. But I’m not stupid, Just James. Not yet a ‘species supremacist,’ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He kept quiet.

She waved off her own joke and rested her chin on her hand. “I’m here because my people live here. In these gutters. Under Atlas’s heel. If I have to stand out in the cold for six hours chanting slogans just to get someone to write a headline, I’ll do it.”

James set down his burger, wiping his hands slowly. “You’re not from Mantle.”

“Nope.” She popped the ‘p’ and leaned back again. “Menagerie-born. Came here six months ago. Wanted to see how the other half lived. Spoilers, they live in shit.”

James nodded slightly. “Not news.”

“Still pisses me off.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

There was anger in her, yes, but not bitterness. Not yet. Her voice was heated, but hopeful. Her words weren’t sharpened into weapons. They were still tools, trying to build something.

This wasn’t the Sienna Khan from the files he remembered.

That Sienna had been militant. Cunning. Ruthless. A species supremacist with a tongue and a following.

A revolutionary more feared than respected.

But this one—

She was young.

Still believed in things.

James leaned forward slightly, setting his arms on the table. “Why not go back? Menagerie needs leaders.”

“Menagerie needs reality checks,” she replied. “They’ve isolated themselves too long. Pretending the world doesn’t matter as long as they keep their own safe. It’s cowardice wrapped in tradition. Comfortable, sure. But it doesn’t help anyone out here.”

James said nothing.

Sienna took a long breath. “You don’t agree.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

She picked another fry from his plate, at this point it was less stealing and more claiming, and chewed thoughtfully.

James didn’t push. He didn’t argue. He just watched her speak, listened as she laid out her frustration with Atlas, with Mantle, with Faunus leaders more interested in playing it safe than changing anything.

She wasn’t radical.

She was hurt.

And still trying.

He felt something in his chest tighten.

From the dossier, she was supposed to become the storm. Another name on the list of people history would judge. Another spark that would burn too hot, too fast.

But right now?

She was hope in the shape of a woman.

Hope that might still survive, if no one crushed it.

“I’m surprised you sat down,” James said finally.

Sienna raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“You said you don’t trust Atlesians.”

“I don’t.” She grinned. “But I trust my instincts. You didn’t pull that trigger earlier because it was protocol. You did it because it was right.”

James looked down at his half-eaten meal.

He didn’t want to be anyone’s symbol.

But part of him… appreciated that she saw more than a gun.

She stood up.

“Thanks for the fries,” she said.

James tilted his head. “They weren’t free.”

“I’ll owe you.”

She winked, then turned to leave, sliding her hands into her pockets. Her steps were light. She walked like she wasn’t afraid to be noticed.

James watched her disappear into the crowd outside the diner window.

Chapter Text

For the next few days, James Ironwood lived like a machine.

He hunted.

He killed.

He got paid.

Then he did it all again.

The rhythm became everything. Wake. Load his weapons. Read coordinates. Track. Engage. Eliminate. Return. Collect. Repeat.

It wasn’t discipline. It wasn’t duty.

It was compulsion.

His every waking moment tunneled into one singular focus was Grimm. Find them. Kill them. End them before they could spread.

Before they could become worse.

It wasn’t just his huntsman’s drive. It was Mettle, his Semblance, whispering constantly in the back of his skull. Heightened him, locked him in. It honed his reflexes, sharpened his instincts, and left little room for anything but forward motion.

The more he hunted, the quieter the world became. And the quieter the world became, the harder it was to remember who he’d been before the killing started again.

Every now and then, he’d catch a sliver of himself again, sitting alone at a booth, chewing a burger with no memory of ordering it. Fries cold on the tray. Scroll buzzing faintly in his coat pocket.

He’d feel conscious, just long enough to realize how disconnected he’d become.

Then it’d pass.

And the next hunt would begin.

The texts came intermittently.

SION GREYMOON
yo you alive? heard you’re up north. my unit’s finally active. thanks for the promotion, man. lmao.

SION GREYMOON
no seriously, you good? we should get a drink sometime. assuming you’re not off chasing Grimm in the woods.

James never answered.

He read them. And sometimes he almost typed something. But every time, that invisible barrier slammed down.

They knew him. Or rather, they thought they did. The version of James Ironwood they remembered, the disciplined, determined, golden boy, he no longer existed. And the person left in his place didn’t know how to talk to old friends without feeling like a fake wearing his own skin.

He couldn’t afford to be vulnerable.

So instead… he hunted.

Now, he was tracking Beowolves near Essen, east of the crater valley.

The snow here was thicker. Coarser. The trees were older, bark dark and twisted like veins reaching out of the earth. There were no villages in sight. No roads. Only the remnants of abandoned watchtowers and signal posts that hadn’t seen maintenance.

His boots moved silently over the frost-bitten ground. His coat, now scuffed and dust-marked from the days in the field, barely shifted as he stalked the treeline. Every motion was smooth. Measured. Automatic.

He found the tracks easily, Beowolf claw patterns etched in snow, the drag of heavy paws, half-melted black ichor marking the path forward.

He crouched low behind a ridge, scanning the clearing ahead.

There they were. A small pack.

Six of them.

Circling a fallen tree, their bone masks gleaming in the moonlight. Tails flicking, jaws gnashing at the air, agitated by something unseen.

James didn’t care what it was.

He just knew they had to die.

His hands moved with surgical efficiency. Revolvers out. Rounds loaded. Aura pulled taut beneath his skin like iron wiring.

He didn’t feel nervous.

He didn’t feel anything.

Just move forward.

Just eliminate the threat.

The first Beowolf never even had time to growl.

James exploded from the treeline like a bullet from a barrel, his revolvers Due Process already blazing.

White flash—black muzzle.

First shot took the beast’s throat.

Second hit it between the eyes.

The third tore clean through its hindleg, spinning it into the snow like a ragdoll.

The rest of the pack roared in unison, lunging, but James didn’t stop moving.

He holstered his guns mid-stride.

He met the first charging Beowolf with a shoulder slam that cracked its ribcage and sent it flying into a tree. Another snapped its jaws toward his throat, he caught it by the snout, wrenched its head to the side, and with a crack like thunder, ripped its jaw off.

Black blood splattered across his chest. Evaporating.

He used the jaw like a blade, driving the serrated bone into the side of another Grimm’s neck. It shrieked—James grunted. He spun, using the dead creature’s body as a shield to absorb two pouncing Beowolves, then hurled the corpse into a third with enough force to snap its spine on impact.

They tried to regroup.

Didn’t matter.

He was already in the middle of them.

One lunged, he caught its arm, broke it at the joint, and used it like a club, hammering another in the skull until it shattered beneath the weight. Another bit down on his left arm, his aura flared blue and hot as he growled through the pain, kneed it in the throat, then slammed both fists down on its back, crushing it like a bug.

Claws raked his coat. Fangs snapped past his ear.

He welcomed it.

He wanted it.

Mettle surged in his soul like fire through steel, turning every muscle into a weapon, every instinct into a killing edge. His aura screamed with blue-hot light as he grabbed a Beowolf by the spine, lifted it, and drove it back-first onto a jagged tree root.

Another leapt at him.

He met it with his elbow.

Then his knee.

Then his fists.

Then boots.

His fingers on its neck, not because it would kill it, but because it was there, and the creature panicked, shrieked, and tried to retreat.

He didn’t let it.

The snow was soaked with black blood now, evaporating bones scattered like discarded scraps. The last Beowolf tried to run.

James was faster.

He sprinted low, grabbed the beast by the hindleg, and swung it into a tree hard enough to leave a dent in the bark. It crumpled.

Still twitching.

He walked up.

Drew one revolver, the white one.

Put a single bullet through its eye.

Silence.

Steam rose from his shoulders. James breath hitched in broken intervals.

He stood in the middle of a clearing full of evaporating bodies.

The forest was silent.

And then—

It hit him.

His aura dimmed. Inactive. Mettle loosened its grip  on him.

And all that rage, all that raw, unfiltered focus, faded just enough for him to realize what he’d done.

His revolver clicked softly as he spun the chamber.

Only then did he remember how quiet the world had become.

And how out of control he’d been.

Mantle’s air always had a certain weight to it.

Cold and dry, but heavy. Like the city was carrying its own exhaustion, and it leaked into your bones the longer you stayed.

James sat in the same corner booth of the same rundown diner. Same burger. Same basket of fries. Same chipped mug of cheap black coffee steaming faintly in front of him. The routine helped. Anchored him.

He chewed slowly, staring at the table, not really tasting the food. His knuckles still ached from the Beowolf hunt. Cuts scabbed over. Bruises settled beneath his aura. He hadn’t talked to anyone since the job. Didn’t plan to.

Then—

A rustle. A clatter. A blur of motion.

A hand reached over the table and stole a fry.

James didn’t have to look up.

“You again.”

Sienna Khan dropped into the seat across from him like she owned the place—hip tilted, boots knocking against his under the table. Her wild black hair bounced with the motion, and her amber eyes were sharper than ever. She popped the fry into her mouth with a grin that could melt glaciers.

“Aw, c’mon, man. You never finish them.”

“I was getting there.”

“No, you weren’t,” she said, already reaching for another. “You eat like you’re rationing out flavor.”

He let her steal the next one. It was easier than arguing.

She leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in one hand. Her voice was lighter today, more animated with a glint of brightness under all her edge.

“You know, I’ve been out all morning trying to get some city rep to even look at the proposal for Faunus housing reform, and guess what I got instead?”

“Static?”

“Worse,” she scoffed. “A shrug and a ‘we’ll review it when the next budget cycle clears.’ Like that means anything.”

James took a sip of coffee, watching her talk over the rim.

“I swear,” she said, leaning in, “half the people who run Mantle still think Faunus eat dust for breakfast and reproduce in the mines.”

“Do you?”

She grinned. “Only on weekends.”

He almost laughed at that. Almost.

Sienna stole a third fry, speaking with her mouth half-full now. “I’m serious though. I know it’s not gonna change overnight. I’m not dumb. But, y’know… I still think peace is worth fighting for. Real peace.”

“Big ideal,” James muttered.

“Big goal, big girl,” she shot back, then leaned in a little, lowering her voice. “I know it sounds cheesy. But, like—I just want a world where people don’t have to earn basic respect. No masks. No proving we’re not threats. Just… existing.”

He nodded, slowly. “Idealism like that doesn’t survive long in Mantle.”

She shrugged, her smile softening. “Maybe. But I think someone has to try. Or else what’s the point of all this?”

For a moment, James just looked at her, how bright she still was, how sure. She had the kind of hope that hadn’t yet been broken into compromises. That hadn’t been buried under years of hard choices and political maneuvering.

And for a moment, he envied her.

He set his mug down and met her gaze.

“That’s going to be a hard battle,” he said. His voice was calm. Measured. “A long one. You’re going to face people who’ll pretend to agree just to slow you down. People who’ll smile at you and gut your movement from behind closed doors. You might never see the world you’re trying to build.”

“Sounds like you’ve been on the other side of that.”

James gave a thin smile.

“I’ve been around.”

“So where do you stand, then?” she asked, voice light but eyes watching. “Atlas? Faunus? Revolution? Reform?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he tore a piece off his burger, ate it, wiped his fingers on a napkin, and said.

“I stand where I can still see the whole board.”

It wasn’t an answer.

But it was the truth.

Sienna snorted. “Gods. You talk like a Councilor who just got back from a war zone.”

James didn’t flinch and simply shrugged.

She raised an eyebrow, curious, but didn’t pry. Not yet.

Instead, she leaned back in the booth, arms behind her head, boots tapping lazily against his under the table.

“Well,” she said, stealing one last fry. “If you ever do pick a side, just don’t end up on the wrong one.”

James nodded.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chapter Text

Shit shit shit shit shit—

The bandit sprinted down the dim hallway, boots slamming against the warped wood of the outpost floor. Everything reeked of smoke and blood. Gunfire had stopped. Screams hadn’t.

He slipped on something, didn’t look. Just ran.

“Where’s Voss?! Where’s—” someone had shouted moments ago, right before a crack echoed from down the corridor.

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

They were being hunted.

The bandit turned a corner, nearly colliding with the door at the end of the hall. He grabbed the handle—locked.

“Shit!”

He slammed his shoulder into it.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“C’mon, come on—”

Something crunched behind him.

He turned.

Down the hall he saw it.

One of his own. Big guy. Carrick. Heavy axe and heavier temper.

Being held.

Lifted off the floor.

The figure holding him, brown coat, cold eyes like a machine. Mechanical precision. Carrick thrashed and kicked.

Didn’t matter.

The man slammed him against the wall hard enough to leave a crater. Carrick’s weapon fell to the ground, clattering.

Another voice screamed from deeper inside the compound.

“HUNTSMAN FREAK!”

The bandit shrieked and turned back to the door.

Fourth slam.

It cracked.

Fifth, it burst open.

Snow and wind spilled in. Cold air smacked his face.

He lunged for it, freedom just a step away.

Then—

A crack.

A fist punched through the wood beside him like paper, splinters flying outward. A gloved hand snaked in like a viper and hooked around his neck.

And pulled him back inside.

He screamed.

Kicked. Elbowed.

Nothing worked.

His elbow struck something solid. Not flesh, aura. It sparked off with a sharp crackle of energy, doing absolutely nothing.

His feet kicked uselessly at the air.

He was dragged backward, spine scraping the ground.

Then he was lifted.

The man stood above him, brown coat fluttering, eyes devoid of anything human. Cold. Precise. Calm.

“Give up,” the Huntsman said.

Then he tightened his grip.

The bandit’s kicks slowed.

Vision swam.

And finally—

Darkness.

James let out an easy breath as the bandit went full unconscious beneath his boot.

He turned slowly, scanning the warped and rotting structure with cold calculation. His eyes drifted across the bullet holes in the walls, the black scorch marks left by his dust rounds, the blood smeared across the floorboards like spilled ink.

Then his attention narrowed.

The basement.

He could feel it the subtle tremors underfoot, like rats scurrying in a cage. Five of them clustered below. Hiding. Armed. But too afraid to make the first move.

His aura pulsed, sharpening, focusing.

He exhaled once, slow.

Then moved.

James braced his stance and gathered aura down through his right leg. It coiled like steel cable, tightening until the energy nearly hummed.

Then he slammed his foot down.

CRACK.

The floor shattered beneath him in a spiderweb of splintered wood and jagged cracks. With a controlled drop, he fell through straight into the basement like a thunderbolt from the ceiling.

The moment his boots hit the floor, his brown coat flared, and he was already spinning.

White revolver in his right hand.

Black revolver in his left.

Due Process thundered.

He opened fire.

Twin blasts of Ice Dust rounds slammed into opposite walls, freezing the exits in jagged sheets of frost. The five bandits barely had time to react, one tripped trying to pull a gun, another shouted in panic as frost crawled up the only escape route.

One of them managed to roll away from the first volley and lunged forward, a knife in hand.

James sidestepped the swing.

Without hesitation, he kicked upward, his boot striking the bandit’s chin with a sickening crack, sending him flying backward into a stack of crates. Before he could hit the ground, James reached out, caught him by the wrist, and slammed him flat into the floorboards hard enough to rattle the support beams.

He cocked the hammer of his revolver with a cold click.

“Don’t,” he said.

The others froze.

That was it.

He holstered the revolvers in a smooth, practiced motion and pulled out his Scroll.

A few taps. One call.

“Mantle PD,” came the voice.

“This is Huntsman Ironwood. You’ve got five suspects unconscious in the basement of the old crawler depot. They’re armed. Two may have broken bones.”

A pause. Then: “We’ll dispatch a unit. Stay on site?”

“I’ll wait.”

Fifteen minutes later, the squad rolled up with two cruisers, four officers in winter gear, and one very surprised sergeant.

They made their way down into the basement, flashlights cutting through the shadows, guns drawn, but it was already over.

One of them let out a low whistle as they checked the room.

“Damn,” the sergeant muttered. “Didn’t expect a huntsman to cooperate, let alone do half our job for us.”

James stood near the exit, revolvers holstered, coat clean except for a streak of soot near the collar.

“They’re all alive,” he said flatly. “Hopefully. One tried to stab me.”

“Looks like he failed.”

James didn’t answer.

The sergeant turned toward his men, who were zip-tying the groaning suspects. “We’ll take it from here. You did good work, Huntsman.”

James nodded once. “Where do I pick up the bounty?”

“Commissioner’s office,” the sergeant said, thumbing toward the west district. “Tell ’em I sent you. They’ll sort the Lien.”

“Copy that.”

James turned and stepped up into the cold Mantle air without another word, coat trailing behind him.

He didn’t wait for thanks.

Same booth. Same burger. Same fries. Same corner of Mantle’s only diner that didn’t ask questions when someone came in with dried blood on their coat and a reputation for silence.

James Ironwood chewed slowly, methodically. He stared ahead at nothing in particular, eyes half-lidded with fatigue that even his Semblance couldn’t suppress forever.

Then—

Clink.

A chilled soda bottle hit the table in front of him, condensation already beading on the glass.

“Brought you somethin’ cold this time!” chirped a familiar voice.

Sienna Khan dropped into the booth with all the grace of a cat, no, of a tiger who owned the entire block. Her wild black hair bounced around her face, her asymmetrical bob catching the diner’s cheap fluorescent light. Her earrings clinked as she sat. Her tiger-stripe tattoos peeked out from under her sleeveless top.

She helped herself to a fry. Again.

James raised an eyebrow, glancing at the soda. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“You never ask for anything. That’s why I bring it.” She popped the fry into her mouth and pointed at the bottle with a red-tipped nail. “You look like you’ve been chewing dust pellets all week. That burger needs a plus one.”

He didn’t argue. He cracked the soda open and took a drink.

Sienna, meanwhile, glanced around the diner. The other booths were sparsely filled with factory workers, off-shift patrol officers, nobody particularly interested in them. Still, she leaned in and said, more to herself than to him, “Kinda surprised this place lets me in.”

James didn’t look up. “There are people out here who don’t care what you look like. Long as you pay.”

She leaned back, folding her arms under her chest. “Yeah, well—most people do care. And they don’t hide it, either.”

Her tone was light, the same bright-eyed tone she always used. But he could hear the edge under it.

“I mean, sure, we won the war,” she continued. “We fought to stay out of Menagerie cages. We resisted all that ‘relocate to your homeland’ crap. Pushed back hard. And we got the right to live wherever the hell we wanted.”

James nodded, quietly.

“But that doesn’t mean jack when you walk into a shop and they tell you ‘we’re closed,’ even though the open sign’s still lit,” she said, tossing another fry in her mouth. “They didn’t lose the war. They just changed tactics.”

Her voice wasn’t angry. Not bitter. Just tired. Resigned.

James looked at her for a moment, then said, “The treatment you get depends where you are. Some places are worse. Some are better.”

“Yeah, and most of ‘em land on ‘worse.’”

Silence hung for a moment.

He stared into his soda, then spoke, calm and flat.

“You can’t expect people to forgive and forget. Not yet.”

Sienna turned her gaze to him.

“The wounds from that war don’t close easy,” he continued, his voice more hollow than cold. “For either side.”

For a second, she didn’t answer.

Her fingers tapped against the side of her drink.

“...You’re not wrong,” she said finally. “I hate that you’re not wrong.”

Her voice wasn’t as bright now. Not dim, either. But quieter. Grounded.

She pulled her legs up into the booth, resting her chin on one knee. “I know it’s gonna take time. But I guess I just get tired of waiting for people to stop hating us.”

James gave a small nod. “Some never will.”

“Think I should just give up?”

“No.”

She blinked. “That’s it? Just ‘no’?”

He looked at her, expression unreadable. “You’re still trying. That’s more than most.”

She studied him for a second. Then smiled—softly this time. “You’re such a weirdo, you know that?”

He drank more soda. “I’ve heard.”

They sat there, two people cut from different worlds, sharing food, silence, and truths neither one liked but both understood.

Outside, the wind howled. Snow picked up. Mantle went on.

And inside the diner, they ate.

The night was colder than most.

Mantle’s streets were draped in frost and quiet fatigue, lamps flickering overhead like tired sentinels. Snow crunched beneath James’s boots as he walked, coat buttoned high, shoulders squared.

Beside him, barely keeping a straight line was Sienna, practically bouncing with residual energy.

“I mean, you should have seen the look that cop gave me when I asked about the protest permit? Like I was speaking Mistrali or something—‘Ma’am, we don’t issue documentation to unauthorized organizations,’ like what does that even mean, right?”

James said nothing.

Sienna didn’t seem to mind.

“I swear, half these guys wouldn’t know a law book if I slapped ’em with one. And don’t get me started on that contractor, I called about fixing the shelter roof. ‘You people’—he actually said it. You people. Like we’re walking infestations—”

She stopped mid-rant.

So did James.

A group of four men stood in the corner up ahead. Work coats, buzzed hair, steel-toe boots. No weapons, but enough hate to make up for it. The kind that never needed an excuse, just a target.

One of them leaned off the wall, eyes locking onto Sienna like she was a neon sign.

“Well, well,” he drawled, “what do we got here? Another faunus fucker on patrol?”

James didn’t flinch.

Sienna’s eyes narrowed instantly, hand twitching toward her hip.

“You lost, little pet?” another chimed in, grinning like it was clever. “You walkin’ your owner or is he walkin’ you?”

James kept walking. Didn’t break stride. Eyes forward. Sienna slowed, but matched him, barely containing herself.

“You’re just gonna let that slide?” she hissed under her breath.

“Let them talk,” James said flatly.

Another insult flew. Louder. Harsher.

Still, he didn’t react.

But then—

Something flew.

A half-melted slushball of ice and mud hit James square in the side of the face.

That was enough.

The cold washed off his skin, but not from his eyes.

In a blink, he stopped.

In the next, Due Process was in his hand, black barrel gleaming under the streetlight.

BANG.

The gravity dust round hit square center mass. Not lethal, but hard.

The man who threw the ice was launched backward, spine-first into the brick wall, bouncing off like a ragdoll before hitting the ground with a choked wheeze.

The street went silent.

The remaining three stared, stunned.

James’s aura flared bright blue, flickering violently as his coat lifted slightly from the surge. His voice didn’t raise, it didn’t need to.

“Huntsmen are legally permitted to use force in the defense of themselves or others under Section 22.5 of the Four Kingdom’s civilian law,” he said, slow and clear. “And I am well within my rights. Just you know.”

He stepped forward once. The other men didn’t move.

“You’re lucky I didn’t fire harder,” James continued, tone clinical. “At full output, that gravity round would’ve collapsed his chest cavity.”

The man on the ground groaned, unable to speak.

James holstered the revolver with a smooth, practiced motion. “Get up if you want to fight.”

No one did.

He stared them down.

“If you’re going to pick a fight, try it with people who don’t have aura. You’re lucky.”

Then—

Another flare.

This time from beside him.

Sienna let hers burst to life, hot amber and streaked with orange, forming a feline shimmer around her frame. Her tattoos lit up faintly, and her amber eyes narrowed with unblinking intensity.

The remaining men ran.

Fast.

James exhaled once and wiped his cheek, brushing off the last of the slush.

Sienna didn’t move.

She just stared at him, brows raised, grin forming slowly.

“You really took your sweet time.”

“I needed justification,” James said calmly. “If you’re going to fight first. You fight smart.”

Sienna tilted her head, studying him.

Then she gave a small, almost shy smile. “You’re a good person, y’know.”

James shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

Mettle whispered to him seconds ago, deep inside his skull, to walk away, let it pass, let it be.

The cold logic. The instinct to disengage, to push everything down.

But he ignored it.

He didn’t walk away.

He didn't want to run from a fight.

He started walking again, slow, deliberate steps.

Sienna fell in beside him, humming lightly under her breath.

Following him.

Still talking.

Chapter Text

The wind swept low across the snowy basin of Tumak, whispering through the narrow passes like a ghost remembering names long since buried. James Ironwood stood on the edge of what should have been a graveyard, at least, in his mind.

He remembered Tumak as nothing but ruins. A cratered valley half-swallowed by snow and time, where collapsed mining platforms jutted from the ground like broken ribs. In the future, this place would be an empty wound in the earth, long abandoned before the catastrophe that fell Atlas in the future.

But for  now Tumak was still thriving.

The valley buzzed with activity. Massive crawler-loaders trundled across the compacted ice, their engines roaring as they hauled dust by the ton. Elevated rails fed into processing silos built directly into the frozen cliffs. Every few minutes, another shuttle descended from the sky to collect cargo or drop off new personnel. Hundreds of workers, human and Faunus both moved across the site in clearly marked hazard suits, their boots kicking up mist in the thin air.

James passed under the shadow of an armored snow hauler and made his way across the cleared ice road toward a large mobile operations base, half steel, half temporary scaffold. The outer walls were lined with heavy plating, and the roof bristled with comms gear and anti-Grimm scanners.

He knew who he’d be meeting here.

And he wasn’t disappointed.

A tall man stood near the edge of the command deck, flanked by two workers, giving rapid updates on cargo throughout and safety protocols. His presence was unmistakable. He had long, white hair—natural, not from age—paired with a full beard and sharp, noble features. His blue eyes gleamed with intensity, and though his face bore the weight of years, it didn’t sag. It commanded.

He wore a heavy, ornate suit of armor, polished and regal over a black underlayer. A red cloak trimmed in fur hung from his shoulders, secured by a thick gold cord.

Nicholas Schnee.

James approached without announcing himself. The older man turned, smiling as if he’d sensed him from the start.

“Well, well,” Nicholas said, his voice deep and smooth. “I didn’t think you would take the commission.”

James stopped a few paces away. “A lot of people say that lately.”

Nicholas folded his arms, grin wide. “Can’t blame them. Word travels fast in Solitas. First, you drop off the military radar, then start showing up wherever the Grimm numbers spike. Huntsman Ironwood, now, is it?”

James didn’t blink. “You said this job was urgent, Sir.”

“It is. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.” Nicholas stepped forward, voice lowering slightly. “May I ask what happened?”

James’s answer came flat. “No.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Nicholas gave a deep laugh and thumped James on the shoulder with a hand like a stone block.

“Ha! Fair enough! I like a man who doesn’t waste time.”

He turned and motioned for James to follow. “Come. Let’s talk where it’s warm.”

They passed through the command center’s front gate, security nodding them through without pause. As they walked, James studied the surroundings, the way the crew moved, the way Nicholas moved with them. There was no barking of orders, no posturing. When a cable snapped from a loader, Nicholas was the first to shout for clearance and grab a replacement spool.

He worked.

James remembered the man clearly now. Nicholas Schnee, the founder of the Schnee Dust Company. A titan in the Dust trade. A man who built an empire from frost and ambition. But unlike those who came after him, Nicholas didn’t build it on backs, he built it with them.

He wasn’t just ambitious. He was respected.

Fair pay. Fair conditions. A rarity. Especially here in Atlas, who heavily discriminated Faunus. He was the only man who opened its doors towards the Faunus after the war and, in turn, following his steps, allowed other companies Faunus workers in.

Still… James knew. As honest as Nicholas was, he was not the best businessman. Not the kind who manipulated markets or twisted arms in backroom deals. His empire thrived on sweat and stubbornness, not political finesse. If this was Jacques, he’d see less safety here.

Eventually, they reached a large steel platform that overlooked the newest shaft site. Below, machines churned and sparked, carving into the ice like metal ants.

James stood beside him, arms crossed. “You said this was urgent. What do you need?”

Nicholas nodded, eyes still scanning the activity below.

“We’ve been getting reports,” he said. “Unusual Grimm activity. Circling. Staying just far enough to avoid scanners, but close enough to make workers disappear when they wander too far on break.”

“You’re sure it’s Grimm?”

“Positive. The attacks are too brutal to be human, and too precise to be random.” He paused. “I’d handle it myself, but I’ve got over six hundred lives working here. I can’t be in two places at once.”

James nodded. “You’ve got security.”

“I’ve got men,” Nicholas corrected. “Brave ones. But not huntsmen. And definitely not you.”

James didn’t flinch, but his brow furrowed slightly. “You seem to know a lot about my record.”

Nicholas grinned, arms behind his back. “I like to hire the best. And right now, Huntsman Ironwood, you’re the best Solitas has.”

James said nothing. He simply stared, impassive.

Nicholas chuckled again and raised a brow. “Still the silent type. You haven’t changed as much as you think, boy.”

James finally uncrossed his arms. “You can’t protect them all on your own.”

Nicholas nodded once. “And I’m not stupid enough to try.”

James followed his gaze toward the dust shaft as a new group of workers emerged from the tunnels. The wind picked up, howling through the structures like a warning carried from miles away.

“Show me the last known attack site,” James said.

Nicholas looked at him, then gave another satisfied nod. “You’ll have it. We’ll brief you fully before nightfall.”

James turned to go, but Nicholas stopped him with a hand on his arm—firm, not forceful.

“You know,” the older man said, his voice quieter, “I respect what you’re doing. This path. It’s not easy, walking it alone.”

James glanced back. “I’m not doing it for respect.”

“No,” Nicholas said. “You’re doing it because you think you have to.”

James didn’t answer. He stepped off the platform and disappeared into the din below.

The tunnels of Tumak breathed old air.

James walked slowly beneath the craggy ceiling, boots clicking against the metal-plated walkway laid over rock and frost. The further he went, the quieter it became. Machinery gave way to dripping water. Lights spaced too far apart cast long shadows.

The air was thick—still. Waiting.

The mining shaft behind him stretched for over a mile, and now only three workers remained in his periphery, clutching their gear, glancing nervously toward him. None spoke. They didn’t need to. Their eyes said everything.

James stopped.

He crouched, one gloved hand brushing a trail of blackened liquid streaking across the floor. It sizzled faintly, melting shallow grooves in the rock.

His eyes narrowed.

Acid.

James stood slowly. His voice was low, precise. “Centinel.”

The miners looked at each other, then back at him.

One of them spoke, voice tight. “You sure?”

“I don’t guess.”

The leader of the trio stepped forward slightly, squinting into the dark ahead. “What should we do?”

James didn’t turn to face them.

“You should leave. Now.”

“But what about you? It’s dangerous down here.”

He looked back over his shoulder, not unkindly. “It’s not my first time in the mines.”

That was all it took.

The three exchanged one last glance, then turned and headed back toward the main shaft—fast, but not running.

Smart.

James turned forward again.

He followed the trail—thin lines of corrosive fluid stretching into the dark like veins under ice. The deeper he went, the more he could feel it. The silence sharpened. Mettle, his Semblance, was already beginning to stir, tightening his senses, guiding him forward without hesitation.

Then the tunnel widened.

James stepped into a massive chamber deep beneath Tumak’s surface. The cavern pulsed with glowing veins of raw Dust embedded in the walls—blue, red, green, even faint streaks of rare Dust shimmered near the far corners. It was a glittering shrine of elemental power. Untouched. Untamed.

And something else was here.

He heard the hiss first. Wet. Gurgling.

Mettle snapped to full.

James’s heart slowed.

Focus tunneled.

He didn’t think. He acted.

CRACK—!

His white Due Process was in his hand, already raised, the trigger pulled.

The Centinel that had begun to emerge from the wall—its acid glands already swelling—had its mouth blown open before it could spit. It thrashed once and collapsed into a twitching pile of glistening tiny limbs.

James spun, already drawing the black revolver with his other hand.

Another hiss.

Three more Centinels emerged from the shadows above, limbs clinging to the ceiling.

He fired a gravity Dust round at the open air.

BOOM—!

The recoil hurled him upward.

His body twisted mid-air. Boots hit the ceiling structure, and he landed, hanging upside down from the crossbeams. Without pause, he raised both revolvers and crossed his arms, eyes narrowing.

Mettle surged.

The world slowed.

Not time. Just him.

Every threat in the chamber was locked in.

Six Centinels total. Four with their acid sacs already swollen. One climbing the wall. One moving fast across the floor.

James marked them all.

He exhaled—

And fired.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four.

The white revolver barked in sharp rhythm, each explosive Dust bullet shattering the lower jaws or glands of the creatures, cutting off their acid attacks before they could begin. One shrieked. Another thrashed and retreated behind a glowing Dust spire.

He dropped.

Hard.

His boots cratered the floor from the impact, sending a blast of ice and stone outward.

Before the Centinels could recover, he charged.

Not recklessly.

With purpose.

He fired a shot mid-stride, piercing the midsection of the nearest Grimm, sending black ichor splattering against the wall. Another leapt from the side, he pivoted, rolled beneath its body, fired two rounds upward through its abdomen as it sailed overhead.

It hit the ground and didn’t move again.

A third lunged from the left.

He spun too close for a clean shot.

So he ducked low and kicked upward, launching the creature off-balance, then slammed his elbow down into its skull.

It screeched.

He holstered the white revolver, drew a piercing round from his belt, loaded it into the black Due Process, and fired once through the back of the skull.

Gone.

The last two retreated briefly, circling behind Dust columns.

James stepped into the center of the chamber, aura flickering blue and steady across his body.

Breathing calm.

Movements deliberate.

He holstered both revolvers.

“Come on,” he said.

As if obeying a command, the Centinels lunged from opposite sides.

He sidestepped the first, grabbing its clawed leg and using its own momentum to swing it into the second with a crack like snapping bone. Both hit the wall. He closed the gap with five swift steps and leapt onto the downed creature’s back.

Pointed the barrel directly into the base of its spine.

Bang.

The other screamed and scrambled backward.

Too late.

He raised his revolver.

Bang.

Silence.

Only the glow of Dust and the faint drip of ichor evaporating

James exhaled slowly. His aura dimmed to a low flicker.

Mettle loosened its grip, retreating back into the recess of his mind, satisfied.

His revolvers hissed as they cooled, steam rising from the barrels.

The chamber smelled like acid, metal, and ozone.

James stood alone among the evaporated dead, centered in the carnage with unshaken eyes. He didn’t check for wounds. He knew there were none. His aura had held. The fight had been clean. Efficient.

He holstered Due Process, turned his gaze back to the glowing Dust deposit and stepped away.

Chapter Text

Two days.

That’s how long it took to clear Tumak.

Two days of crawling through tunnels half-lit by flickering halogen lamps. Two days of acidic stench and bone-deep silence, broken only by the screeches of dying Centinels and the echo of Due Process barking death into the dark.

James moved like a shadow through the mine network, Mettle tightening its grip on his mind, reducing everything to a pure chain of decisions of threat, distance, angle, terminate. He slept barely four hours total across both nights, catching brief, functional rest between sorties, his coat still dust-covered and his gloves stained black from Grimm ichor.

By the end of the second day, nothing moved in the dark that James hadn’t already killed.

And Mettle… loosened.

Just enough.

The ache came back to his muscles. The cold bit a little harder. His mind returned, clear and calculating, but heavy.

He emerged from the tunnel just before sunset. The light from the valley’s rim painted the loading rigs in gold and red. Dust loaders churned, hauling fresh-mined crystal out by the ton. The Schnee Dust Company’s heart beat strong beneath the ice.

Nicholas Schnee stood near the edge of the rail platform, arms crossed over his chest, waiting like a man who knew good work would always surface.

He looked James over once, then exhaled through his nose, amused.

“Atlas lost a man of focus,” he said. “But… maybe that won’t be so bad after all.”

James stopped beside him, silent.

Nicholas smiled, subtle but genuine, then turned on his heel. “Come. Let’s square things proper.”

James followed without question.

They crossed the loading area, the roar of conveyors and the hiss of Dust containment lines surrounding them like industrial thunder. Workers moved aside without being asked. No one stopped Nicholas. No one stopped him.

They entered a makeshift command office, a sturdy prefab structure overlooking the mine floor, walls lined with maps, manifests, and security reports. It was built for function, not comfort.

Nicholas stepped behind a steel desk, opened a heavy drawer, and pulled out a pen and an old-style checkbook. Real paper. Not digital. It had weight to it.

“I don’t deal in half-favors,” Nicholas said. “You did the work. You get paid.”

He wrote the amount quickly no hesitation and tore the check clean.

Then he paused.

“Or,” he said, holding the paper just out of reach, “we consider something a bit more long-term.”

James raised an eyebrow.

Nicholas leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the desk. “I want to sponsor you.”

James said nothing.

“You work when you want. Take the contracts that matter. No uniforms. No quotas. Just backing. Dust, ammo, transport—whatever you need. You keep doing what you’re doing, but with the support of the SDC behind you.”

James didn’t speak right away.

He looked at the check. Then back to Nicholas.

He thought about ammo. Dust rounds. Food. Travel. All of it cost Lien. His reserves wouldn’t last forever, not at the rate he was burning through it all taking on every commission.

Sponsorship made sense. All Huntsman that did it.

But…

James knew the future of the SDC. He knew what it would become under Jacques. What would be twisted. Hollowed out. What it would cost to let his name be wrapped in theirs.

And Nicholas, he was honest, yes. But even honest men had ambitions.

“You’ll have your Dust,” James said. “Your return. Your safety.”

Nicholas leaned forward, sensing the shift.

“But you don’t get my allegiance,” James finished.

That stopped the older man cold for a second.

“You’ll take our money,” Nicholas said slowly. “Our resources.”

James nodded. “I’ll use your weapons to fight the things that threaten your workers.”

“But not fly our banner?”

“Yes,” James said, voice like iron. “I’ve worn enough colors. And I’ve seen what happens when men confuse money with loyalty.”

"Have you? I don't recall anything like that from what they told me about you, James."

The room held the weight of his words for a long moment.

Nicholas studied him. The easy charm had faded now, intimidating, uncompromising, this was the businessman, the negotiator. The founder of an empire trying to thread the needle between values and victory.

Though James wasn’t a politician here. Not anymore. He’d dealt with the worst of them, Atlesian elites, military snakes, and power-hungry leeches like Jacques Schnee. He’d sat in polished offices with men who sold freedom like a brand.

He knew how to see through people.

And Nicholas Schnee, to his credit, didn’t press.

Like he had seen already what James wouldn’t agree.

Instead, he slowly smiled.

“Fair enough,” he said.

He handed James the check. Their hands didn’t touch.

“I’ll make sure your name isn’t used. You’ll get your gear. Take what you need. Just… keep doing what you’re doing. I need a good Huntsman around, nonetheless.”

“I plan to.”

They stared at each other for a beat longer.

Then they shook.

Not a firm, trying-to-prove-something handshake. Just a single, professional agreement between men who understood each other, even if they didn’t fully agree.

The office door opened a second later.

A young woman stepped in, a secretary, sharp suit, short black hair pinned tightly behind her ears.

“Apologies, Mr. Schnee,” she said, bowing slightly. “Your daughter’s arrived.”

Nicholas straightened, a flicker of warmth passing through his otherwise composed features.

“Let her in,” he said.

The woman nodded and disappeared.

James didn’t speak.

James remained by the window of Nicholas Schnee’s office, watching the twilight fade over Tumak’s mining platforms. The white mountains in the distance looked like still waves caught mid-rise, motionless and ancient. The air was thick with cold and steel and the faint scent of Dust kicked up from the loaders.

He heard the door open behind him.

“Father,” came a woman’s voice, smooth, clipped, and laced with well-practiced Atlesian polish.

James turned slightly and saw her.

Willow Schnee.

She entered the room with poise that bordered on performance. Fair-skinned, with slate-blue eyes sharp as polished glass. Her white hair was styled into a neat side bun, the bangs falling in an elegant frame around her cheek, a curled lock grazing her shoulder. Her outfit was noble but efficient—navy and white, a red-lined collar, high boots, and a brooch gleaming just beneath her throat.

At this moment, she looked composed. Beautiful. In control.

But James didn’t see that.

He saw her, years from now.

A wreck of a woman, slouched on a couch with an empty glass in hand and a full bottle on the table. A woman who spoke in whispers behind locked doors. Whose spark had dimmed to embers under the crushing weight of a husband she’d once loved and had learned to fear.

She hadn’t always been that way.

And now, in front of him, was the Willow from before it all slipped away.

“James Ironwood,” she said, her lips curved in a practiced, aloof smile. “I didn’t expect you to be the type to abandon ambition.”

Her voice carried the clipped pride of an Atlesian noblewoman, perfectly placed pauses, and just the right amount of dismissive lilt.

James, unbothered, stared at her and replied in his usual flat deadpan. “People seems to say that a lot to me.”

Willow blinked once, then smiled wider.

“Oh, you are still every bit the soldier they said you’d be.”

She stepped closer, hands behind her back, posture picture-perfect. Her eyes, however, flicked quickly over his coat, the scorched collar, the slight tear in one glove. She didn’t comment. Not yet.

Nicholas remained silent, watching.

Willow kept going, walking the perimeter of the room like she owned it.

James didn’t follow her movement with his eyes.

He was still thinking.

Still watching that ghost of her future, watching her spiral inward as Jacques Schnee carved out the parts of her that glowed, leaving only the shell. He remembered the files. The briefings. The way she had once fought to make the marriage work, despite every instinct telling her it was a transaction. A calculated move. And when Jacques had snapped, when he finally revealed that truth in anger, she’d collapsed inward.

She stayed. For years.

And in those years, James had watched her disappear, bit by bit.

She had not only handed Jacques the company, she had turned a blind eye to what he’d done with it. Not because she was complicit.

Because she was tired.

Because she hated herself for letting it happen, and no one ever pulled her out of that pit.

James knew that as a friend, he could have done something. But then again, he had done of mistakes in his first life.

And now, this version of her stood before him, untouched. Unwounded. Not yet trapped in that frozen house with a man who would rot her from the inside.

“I do believe you’re not listening,” Willow said, halting near his side, her voice smooth and teasing. “That’s twice now.”

Nicholas chuckled from behind the desk. “He’s been clearing tunnels for two days straight, Willow. He’s earned a moment to stand still.”

Willow turned back toward her father, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Jacques was wondering where our good friend vanished to. And now it seems the rumor is true that he had become a huntsman.”

James responded with dry timing and an expressionless stare.

“Well, tell him it’s true. I’m not his property, and I haven’t missed his company.”

Willow raised an eyebrow at that.

“Interesting,” she said, the amusement gone from her tone. “You speak of him like a man speaks of a leech he finally pulled off his leg.”

James tilted his head slightly. “Jacques is what happens when you mix ambition with oil and pour it over good intentions.”

Nicholas snorted, agreeing.

Willow blinked. Just once. Shocked.

James turned his attention back to Nicholas. “The air down there, your main tunnels those deposits are massive. The Dust is raw. Dangerous. Just standing in that glow for too long without filtration could ruin your lungs.”

Nicholas crossed his arms. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you do,” James said calmly. “I also think you’re the type to ignore it if it means pushing output a few percent higher.”

Nicholas’s smile faded into something more thoughtful. He nodded slowly. “You’re not wrong.”

James stepped forward, brushing dust off his gloves. “Aura protects the body. It doesn’t filter air. I’m saying it would be bad if the man who built this place dropped dead because of pride.”

Nicholas looked at him squarely for a moment, then gave a short laugh.

“Thanks for the concern, Ironwood.”

“I’m not concerned,” James said flatly. “I just want you functional, Sir. You’re the only thing standing between this company and someone like your future son-in-law.”

Willow’s head blushed at what James implied, then turned sharply, but she didn’t interrupt.

James could feel her eyes on him now. Sharp. Measuring.

She walked closer, slowly, less performative now.

“You really don’t plan on going back?” she asked, voice less aristocrat and more serious. “No career. No command. No grand title?”

“No,” James said.

She stared at him for a beat, as if waiting for a qualifier. There wasn’t one.

Eventually, she turned toward Nicholas and gave a dry little sigh.

“Well, he’s grown up quite a bit. More backbone than when I last saw him.”

Nicholas nodded once, looking pleased. “Got some mettle on him now.”

James didn’t reply.

He simply walked to the door, paused, then glanced back once.

“Take care of your lungs, Sir,” he said to Nicholas.

Then he was gone.

Willow followed after.

The wind had picked up outside the Tumak compound, its shrill bite dragging long shadows across the frost-coated valley. James stood near the main gate, coat collar turned up, a simple satchel at his hip. His revolvers were holstered but never far from thought.

He was ready to leave.

He’d done the job.

Gotten paid.

And now he wanted out, before this place, with all its what-ifs, began to weigh more than the Grimm ever did.

Footsteps behind him. Light, measured, deliberate.

Willow Schnee.

Of course.

“Already leaving so fast, James?” she said, her voice smooth as ever, though tinged with something sterner underneath. “Not even a goodbye?”

James didn’t turn. “I said what I needed to.”

“Well,” she said, falling into step beside him, “that’s unfortunate. Jacques has been eager to see you.”

James kept walking.

“I’m not interested.”

She stopped walking, folding her arms.

“You weren’t this evasive last time I saw you,” she said. “You were having a fun time with him last time, disrupting my time with him..”

James finally halted.

The wind tugged at his coat, howling between the metal towers behind them.

He didn’t face her. “People change, Willow.”

She studied him. Something uncertain crossed her face, like she was beginning to feel that same edge of cold creeping into her well-practiced facade.

“You’ve changed,” she said softly. “You speak like someone who knows something I don’t..”

James said nothing.

Willow pressed.

“I want to know why,” she said, voice rising slightly. “You’ve had nothing but disdain in your voice since I mentioned his name.”

James took a step forward.

Willow followed.

And then, something inside him—snapped.

Or rather, something let go.

Mettle.

It slid over his mind like a cold steel plate locking into place. And suddenly James, for all his restraint and patience, turned toward Willow Schnee with eyes void of heat. Not angry. Not even disgusted.

Just… dead.

He stepped forward, closing the distance. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. The stillness in him made the words hit harder.

“I don’t want to associate with Jacques Gelé anymore,” he said flatly.

Willow tensed, her arms still crossed. “Why? What has he done to earn this kind of contempt?”

James was quiet for a long breath.

Then he spoke, with the cold wit of a man who’d held back for far too long, laced with sarcasm as dry as desert bone.

“Because beyond that mask, Jacques Gelé is a callous, snide, arrogant, vindictive, and overbearing man. He’s the kind of man who would enter a loveless marriage with a Dust dynasty purely to take control of it, because conquest is the only romance he understands.”

Willow blinked, then gasped in shock.

James’s words kept coming, sharp, surgical, ruthless.

“He’s the sort of man who would sully a company’s name with unethical practices while smiling for the cameras. A snake in a silk cravat, hiding behind corporate philanthropy while he bleeds miners and laborers dry.”

Willow took a small step back, stunned by the sudden flurry. But James wasn’t done.

“He’s cold. Calculating. A man more concerned with perception and power than people. The sort who speaks of legacy with reverence and ethics with disdain. He’ll lie to your face while donating to your funeral. And if altruism spills from his mouth, it’s only because he’s figured out how to write it off as a tax break.”

Willow’s expression cracked.

“You don’t know him!” she snapped, defensive now. “He has ambition! He has vision!”

James didn’t flinch.

“I’ve seen his vision,” he said. “He’s a—”

She slapped him.

Hard.

The sound echoed in the empty lot.

His aura flared in reflex, cool blue light wrapping his jaw for a flicker of a second, absorbing the strike without injury.

Willow’s voice shook now, angry and raw. “You think you can talk about him like that? You think you know who he is? Who do you think you are!?”

James looked down at her, then spoke with the same sharp deadpan voice. “I have no intention of hiding what I think about Jacques. So long as he keeps his distance, I’ll consider that professional courtesy.”

Then, tone shifting back to the hardened professionalism that had once commanded armies.

“Good luck with him, Willow.”

He turned on his heel and walked.

Willow stood frozen in place, her hand still half-raised, stunned and breathless from the whiplash of his words.

As James left the facility, walking through the steel gate and past the edge of the snowbound compound, Mettle slowly peeled back from his mind.

And suddenly, it hit him.

A sharp breath escaped his lips as he stumbled for half a step.

His hands curled into fists.

The truth of it, the real reason he didn’t want to see Jacques ever again, had nothing to do with ideology or even because of that man’s nature..

It was because he’d killed him.

In the future, when everything crumbled, when the final lines broke and James was all that remained, he had stood before the unarmed Jacques Schnee, who was still smug like a snake, and had vaporized the man in cold blood.

With Due Process’s cannon.

No trial. No speech.

Just… ended him.

And he couldn’t forget it.

Couldn’t unsee the way Jacques’s body evaporated in a flash of green plasma.

He hated that man.

And worse, he hated the man he had become when he did the deed.

James didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.

He simply walked, through the snow, through the cold, into the wind that refused to let anyone forget the past.

Chapter Text

The diner was half-empty, as usual. Warm enough inside to forget Mantle’s bite for a while. The heater hummed softly. Outside, snow fell in lazy spirals. Inside, James Ironwood sat in his usual corner booth, same seat, same tray of burger, fries, coffee. A quiet routine. A grounded ritual.

But this time, he wasn’t just eating.

Laid out on the table beside his tray was a small case, matte black, folded open to reveal a grid of tightly packed dust rounds. Red for Fire. Blue for Ice. Yellow for Electric. Purple for Gravity.

Each one slotted into its lined cell, neatly labeled in his own handwriting.

James chewed a fry slowly as he checked over the count, eyes flicking over each row like a soldier inspecting his gear before a mission.

Fire: three.
Ice: six.
Electric: two.
Gravity: one.
Standard kinetic: twelve.
Penetrating rounds: four.

He set the tray down, reached into his coat, and drew out one of his revolvers, Due Process, white-barreled. He popped the cylinder open and began methodically swapping out spent rounds, his movements smooth, practiced.

Then—

Clink.

A cold soda bottle landed beside his tray.

“Look at you, JJ,” came Sienna’s voice, cheerful as ever, “all serious and gloomy, loading bullets like you’re prepping to kill winter itself.”

James didn’t look up. “You really need to stop calling me that.”

“JJ,” she repeated with a grin, sliding into the seat across from him. “Short for Just James. It’s cute. Own it.”

James didn’t respond. He finished loading the white revolver, then clicked the cylinder shut and set it down with care.

Sienna leaned forward, chin resting on one hand as she peered over his inventory. “Gotta say, kinda lacking that classic Huntsman pizzaz, y’know? Where’s the sparkly dual-mode scythe or fold-out Dust bow that turns into a Odachi or something?”

James raised an eyebrow. “I need it practical.”

“Practical’s boring, JJ.”

“It keeps me alive.”

“Maybe. But you gotta admit,” she said, gesturing to the second revolver, the black twin of Due Process, resting on his belt, “two revolvers that turn into one giant cannon? It’s a little much.”

James glanced at her, calm. “It’s effective.”

Sienna leaned over the table and pointed at the metal hinge visible between the two holsters on his belt. “You literally combine two guns into a bigger gun. It’s like...a gun gun.”

James couldn’t help it, he exhaled slowly through his nose. Almost a chuckle. Almost.

“It’s big. Slow. Cumbersome,” Sienna continued, taking a sip of her soda. “If you’re up against anything that moves faster than a drunk Beowolf, it’s not gonna be your best look.”

James didn’t argue.

He remembered.

Winter Schnee, in his first life, had proven that. She’d dismantled him with speed, precision, and better footwork. The moment he’d pulled the cannon, she’d danced past the barrel and made him pay for every second he spent setting up the shot.

He hadn’t made that mistake again. For now.

“I’ll use it when I need to pack a bigger punch,” he said flatly.

“Mmm,” Sienna said, pretending to weigh the words. “Still sounds like the excuse of a guy who’s compensating for something.”

James glanced at her.

She grinned. “Kidding. Mostly.”

He set the revolver aside and reached for his coffee.

Sienna extended her arm across the table, showing off the length of chain coiled loosely around her wrist. Thin but reinforced, each link custom-forged and polished like dark silver. At the end, three slender blade heads gleamed, each etched with Dust channels.

“This,” she said proudly, “is Cerberus Whip.”

James looked over it, giving a small nod of respect.

“Six feet of Dust-tipped bad ideas,” Sienna continued. “Three detachable blades. One for fire, one for lightning, one for ice. Throw it, swing it, coil it, stab with it. Button on the grip launches each head like a spear if I’m feeling extra spicy.”

“Versatile,” James admitted.

“Damn right. I’m basically a walking hazard sign.”

James leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Control?”

Sienna twirled the grip at her side, then tapped one of the clasps with her thumb. The blade clicked loose—only to retract instantly with a magnetic snap as she flicked her wrist.

“Synced to my aura,” she said smugly. “Fast recall. Only backfires if I screw up, which I don’t.”

James nodded. “Not bad.”

“Coming from you? That’s practically a medal.”

He reached out and picked up the black Due Process, raised it, and looked down the iron sight, lining it up with the salt shaker across the table. His expression didn’t change. Just calm calibration.

Sienna watched him for a moment, her expression softening just a little.

“You’re different when you’re like this,” she said.

“Like what.”

“When you’re working. You’ve got this… tunnel vision. All sharp lines and heavy silences. But there’s a calm to it, too. Not angry. Just... efficient.”

James lowered the gun and checked the sight adjustment. “It’s how I survive.”

She leaned back, fiddling with a straw wrapper. “Do you ever...do it for fun?”

James looked at her, confused. “What.”

“The hunting. The fighting. Do you ever enjoy it?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Eventually, he said, “No.”

Sienna nodded like she expected that. Then tossed a fry into her mouth.

“Too bad. You’re kinda scary good at it.”

He holstered both revolvers and closed the ammo case, sealing it with a quiet click.

“I’m not here to enjoy it,” he said. “I’m here to make sure people like you can.”

Sienna looked at him for a long moment.

Then smirked.

“That’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

James didn’t respond.

But he didn’t deny it either.

“Y’know,” Sienna said between bites of her third stolen fry, “I should totally join you on a hunt sometime.”

James didn’t look up from his coffee. He tapped the dust case once, sealing it shut. “Shouldn’t you be helping the White Fang?”

Sienna pouted, leaning on her elbows. “Ugh, Ghira and Kali are so busy playing politics, I’m like, completely left out. And it’s not like I want to be the awkward third wheel while they plan ‘diplomatic engagement strategy’ with frowny faces and tea for people who hate us.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Would that be alright?”

She waved a hand casually. “Totally. I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna sign a treaty without them. One hunt’s not gonna derail the Faunus cause.”

James gave it a moment of thought. He looked down at his notes on his Scroll, from scrawled location tags, Grimm patterns, bounty notices.

“Sphinxes,” he said finally.

Sienna blinked. “Is that, like, a fancy Grimm or something?”

“Flying. Sharp. Heavy. Territorial. Aggressive if disturbed. I’m tracking a few nesting near the outer valley.” He folded the paper once and tucked it into his coat. “Might take a day or two.”

She hesitated, then crossed her arms, tapping one finger against her elbow.

“Okay, but are you bringing rations? Because I’m not eating bark or squirrel stew if that’s your idea of survival.”

James nodded. “I have rations. Naturally”

Sienna grinned, flexing one arm dramatically and grabbing her bicep with the other. “Good. ‘Cause I’m bringing the muscle.”

James stared flatly. “It’s on you, then.”

“Pfft. You’ll be thanking me when I save your cold, stoic butt.”

James didn’t answer. He simply stood, holstered his weapons, and swept his satchel shut in one motion.

Sienna grabbed her coat and followed him outside, still buzzing with energy like a sparkplug on two feet.

They walked down a short flight of cracked steps into Mantle’s back alley.

The snow hadn’t stopped despite the city’s heating system. Streetlights flickered above them, casting pale orange light against the frost-covered walls. The sound of a low hum preceded James as he approached his parked vehicle.

A sleek, black-gray Speeder sat in the narrow lane, tucked beside a rusted dumpster and shielded by a slanted sheet of reinforced steel. The lines of the bike were angular and clean—built for speed, but reinforced with plating designed for weather and impact. The grav-lift beneath pulsed faintly with Gravity Dust.

Sienna whistled low.

“Damn, JJ. That’s a wicked ride. Didn’t know you were rolling in style now.”

James set his gear into the rear saddle compartment. “It’s a field-class Speeder. Meant to handle.”

“Gravity-dust powered, right? That means no skidding on ice. No bogging down on snowdrifts. Just whoosh.” She made a hand motion like a rocket taking off.

“Terrain doesn’t matter,” James said, powering the bike on with a soft vmmm as the grav-units hissed beneath them. “Speed’s consistent.”

“Neat,” Sienna said, running her fingers along the side of the frame. “This thing’s got better handling than half the bullheads back in Menagerie.”

James mounted the Speeder and flicked a few toggles. The dashboard lit up. Silent, clean readouts. Wind direction. Hull integrity. Dust reserves.

Sienna, without waiting for permission, slung one leg over the back and perched behind him, her arms wrapped loosely around his waist.

“Let’s go, JJ.”

James revved the engine once.

Then they were off.

The bike soared through the back alleys, the hover unit gliding effortlessly over cracked pavement and slush. They emerged from Mantle’s edge, heading straight into the snowy flatlands beyond the perimeter wall.

James kept the Speeder steady, low to the ground, threading through open ridges and around frozen brush.

The wind hit hard. But the windshield field kept the worst of it off their faces.

Sienna leaned in slightly, speaking over the soft roar of the bike. “Sooo—Sphinxes? They’re, like… flying lions with blades for wings, right?”

“Close enough.”

“And we’re gonna go poke one?”

“We’re going to track one. Then kill it.”

She grinned, hair whipping slightly in the wind. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

James didn’t answer.

But he didn’t shake her off either.

The world passed by in a blur of white and gray. The sun dipped behind low clouds. The terrain grew sharper. Wild cliffs. Hidden caves. Wind-carved spires of ancient ice rose like forgotten statues.

James adjusted the Speeder’s angle as they approached a ridgeline.

Sienna shifted behind him. “Hey,” she said casually, “just for the record… I haven’t done a proper Grimm hunt in, like, a month. So if I get a little too flashy, try not to be too impressed.”

James’s voice was calm over the wind. “Just don’t get in the way.”

Sienna smirked.

“Oh, JJ, I plan on being the main event.”

Chapter Text

The sun had dipped well below the jagged horizon, leaving the frozen plains of northern Solitas in a dim, silvery twilight. The cold was immediate once the Speeder stopped, biting and sharp, the kind that clawed through even the thickest coat if you stood still too long.

James crouched near the base of a wind-cut ridge, clearing a patch of snow from the rocky floor. He moved with quiet, efficient grace, setting up a small coil-burner campfire, the kind that relied on Dust ignition instead of wood. A soft click, a brief spark, and the flame caught, throwing out a small circle of orange warmth.

The Speeder was parked a few meters away, covered and set to passive mode. Snow collected lightly along its armored frame. The only sound was the distant howl of wind sweeping across the valley basin.

Sienna sat cross-legged across from James, her chain weapon Cerberus Whip coiled beside her like a sleeping snake. Her coat was unzipped halfway,. She looked far too relaxed for someone out in the wild.

James pulled a vacuum-sealed ration from his satchel and passed one across the fire.

“Here,” he said, voice low.

Sienna blinked, then grinned. “Ooooh, JJ cooked for me? What a luxury.”

He gave her a look.

She tore open the pack, sniffed it, and made a face. “Smells like sadness.”

“It’s protein.”

“Tastes like the concept of regret,” she muttered, chewing anyway.

James bit into his own ration. Mechanical. Dispassionate. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting a tired hollowness beneath his eyes.

Sienna poked at the coil-burner with the tip of a stick. “Y’know, kinda surprised you lit a fire. We have aura.”

James didn’t look up. “It’s obvious.”

“Oh?” she asked, tilting her head. “You get cold too, big guy?”

“It’s to avoid Grimm. Aura attracts Grimm.”

Sienna raised a brow.

He continued, voice matter-of-fact. “Low-level fire keeps some Grimm away. Most avoid heat unless provoked. Safer to draw them into a space you control than get surprised in the dark.”

“Huh.”

She chewed slowly, then shrugged. “Or we could just kick their asses.”

James made no comment.

He didn’t need to.

Sienna smirked. “Right. Of course. JJ doesn’t do trash talk. Just lets the revolvers speak.”

He still didn’t react.

She leaned back, resting on her elbows. The stars overhead were starting to pierce through the curtain of cloud—cold and sharp, like needlepoints in the dark.

“Actually,” she said suddenly, “I looked you up.”

James’s chewing slowed. He glanced at her, silent.

“Don’t act so surprised,” she said, grinning. “You think people don’t talk about you in Mantle? Some old military folks at the bar practically admire you and is shaking their head cause’ ya quit. And I was curious.”

James said nothing.

Sienna kicked her boot against a nearby rock.

“So. James Ironwood. Rising Atlas officer. Top of his class. Model soldier. Had the whole military career lined up... and then one day, poof, you’re gone.”

James swallowed the last of his ration, wiping his glove on his coat.

Sienna squinted at him through the firelight. “Why?”

“I’m not for it,” he said flatly.

She tilted her head. “That’s kinda vague for you.”

James folded the ration wrapper slowly, deliberately.

Sienna crossed her arms. “Y’know, it’s kinda hard to believe.”

He raised an eyebrow, finally.

“You look like it,” she said, gesturing at him. “All stiff spine and focused eyes. You walk like you’re checking corners. You eat like you’re on a timer. You reload your guns like someone’s gonna ambush you any second. You are military.”

James stared at the fire. “It comes with responsibility. Real responsibility. After everything, I know now… I can’t handle it.”

The words came out flat. Not bitter. Just final.

Sienna blinked, surprised by the honesty.

Then, predictably, she smirked.

“Cold feet, huh?”

James looked up at her.

She leaned closer, grinning. “Did JJ get stage fright? Big scary Atlas uniforms too tight?”

He shook his head, but didn’t push her away.

“Not cold feet,” he said. “Clarity.”

She sat up straighter, expression shifting. Still teasing, but softer now.

James reached for his revolvers. He checked the white Due Process, thumbed the cylinder, then slowly cleaned the sights with a cloth.

Sienna watched him for a moment. The way he moved. The weight in his shoulders. She poked at the fire again, letting the silence sit between them like a third traveler.

“Whatever reason you left,” she said, voice softer now, “it didn’t leave you.”

James said nothing.

She exhaled, lay back in the snow beside the fire, staring up at the stars, arms folded behind her head.

“You’re intense, JJ. Not gonna lie. But... I don’t hate it.”

James holstered the revolver, checked his belt, then looked toward the horizon.

Snow clouds rolled far in the distance. The wind had died down. But something was coming.

He didn’t say it.

Sienna, somehow, seemed to sense it anyway.

She closed her eyes. “Wake me up if we get company.”

“I will.”

She grinned. “Better.”

James let the fire crackle and burn.

After a while, the fire had burned down to low flickers, barely more than embers now. The cold pressed in at the edges of the small camp, but James didn’t feel it. Not through his coat, and not through his aura.

Sienna lay curled beneath her cloak near the other side of the fire, her breathing steady, her chain weapon still wrapped around one arm like a security blanket. Her hair spilled out like a shadow across the snow. Even in sleep, her expression was relaxed, loose, unguarded, free.

James sat cross-legged, his elbows resting on his knees, the revolver holsters at his sides.

He stared at the fire.

Not quite seeing it.

Of all people in Remnant, Sienna Khan was the last he thought he’d end up traveling with. Sitting beside. Sharing rations. Letting in.

The name had always carried weight in his world.

A moderate terrorist. A charismatic leader. The woman who weaponized hope for the Faunus and sharpened it into teeth. Who once held a movement together with conviction and defiance, before it was all torn away by someone even more extreme.

He’d read reports. Briefings. Interrogations. Dossiers.

In his first life, that was Sienna Khan.

And yet… this girl, this woman, now, was laughing. Teasing him. Sticking fries in her mouth and calling him JJ like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Was she always like this?

Or had he just never bothered to look?

James lowered his eyes to the fire again.

And what about him?

What would he have become if he had stayed the course? Officer. General. General of Atlas. Walking that upward path, doing everything expected of him.

Impressing superiors.

Making hard decisions.

Crushing rebellion.

Following orders.

He still owed Atlas. That much hadn’t changed. He still wore that weight, even now. The position might be gone from his shoulder, but it still lingered like a scar beneath the skin.

He would die for Atlas.

He had planned to.

And yet, here he was, sitting in the snow, wandering the wilds, taking bounty contracts like some lone mercenary. No chain of command. No title. No cause beyond the next threat, the next Grimm, the next sin to balance.

He wasn’t running, was he?

No. That wasn’t right.

…Maybe.

He looked over at Sienna, her shoulder rising and falling with each breath. She murmured something in her sleep—something incoherent—and shifted, pulling her cloak tighter.

James looked away.

He thought of the people he had helped so far. The outpost he cleared. The train he saved. The Grimm he destroyed. The criminals he beat down.

To anyone else, it might look like redemption.

But to him, it was just self-satisfaction. A way to feel like he was still doing something for the kingdom he’d failed. That he was still serving Atlas.

Because Gods knew, he’d stopped leading it.

He gritted his teeth.

I tried to blow up people in Mantle...

That thought came like a punch in the gut. Raw. Undeniable.

He almost did it. He stood there, finger on the trigger, willing to kill everyone in a final act of twisted logic to save what was left and raise Atlas to the sky.

He would have done it.

And if he hadn’t been stopped?

They’d be dead.

Innocents. Allies. Children.

How do you come back from that?

The fire cracked softly. A gust of wind blew past, kicking snow through the embers.

He couldn’t forgive himself. Not for that.

Not ever.

Even if he could do more, sitting in some office, commanding from a throne of iron and smoke, he knew he didn’t deserve it. A sinner like him had no place in the halls of power.

Sion Greymoon was right.

James rubbed his gloved hand across his face.

He wasn’t made for those rooms anymore. The war rooms. The councils. The marble halls of judgment where people pretended to be noble while dealing in shadows.

He couldn’t be trusted there.

Not when his own Mettle once told him to press the button.

Was he seeking redemption?

He didn’t know.

Atonement?

Maybe. But the line was thin. So thin.

Maybe he just didn’t want to feel useless anymore.

He stared down at his hands, calloused and bloodstained. Hands that had built and destroyed in equal measure.

He thought of what they’d said, his critics. The whispers.

“He doesn’t have a heart anymore.”

“More machine than man, that one.”

Was it true?

Had his own Mettle replaced his soul?

Was he just a walking, thinking weapon, waiting for the next task?

What would that change?

Would it even matter?

He closed his eyes.

James drifted in darkness.

No cold. No pain. No sound.

Then water.

He felt it before he saw it. The sensation of floating. Of pressure easing against his limbs, as if the world had decided to let him go for a while.

His eyes opened slowly.

The sky or whatever passed for a sky here was dark green. Not the color of mold or decay, but the color of forests at night. Deep, rich, and endless. Glowing orbs of light floated overhead like fireflies caught in a still wind, pulsing faintly with life. Beneath him, water stretched in all directions, clear and mirror-like, reflecting the sky in perfect symmetry.

He didn’t know if he was standing, sinking, or flying.

Then he heard it.

Clang.

A hammer on metal.

Rhythmic. Steady. Like a heartbeat that echoed through the very soul of the place.

He turned toward the sound, drawn by instinct more than curiosity.

There, standing just above the water’s surface, was a Blacksmith.

She was unlike anything James had ever seen.

Mechanical in nature, her skeletal form shimmered under the green light. Her limbs were long and sharp, built like an artisan’s tools—elegant, brutal, functional. Her eye sockets were hollow, yet something behind them watched. Her head was formed from segmented metallic plates, shifting ever so slightly, as though they could part to reveal something within.

Behind her, sprouting from her exposed spine, was a contorted wooden trunk that branched outward, reaching up like a gnarled tree. Its limbs bore leaves that shimmered and vanished with every shift of the air.

She wore a simple leather apron, stained from use, tied behind the neck and cinched tight with a heavy belt. Her gloves were thick and soot-streaked. A blue bandana rested on her forehead, and a silver chain hung from it like a braid.

She was not human.

But she was not heartless.

Even motherly.

He thought.

Clang.
Clang.
Clang.

Her hammer struck a glowing shape on the anvil. Sparks leapt with each impact—bright gold against the green air.

James stepped forward without a sound.

The Blacksmith didn’t look up.

“Sometimes,” she said, voice echoing through the plane like song over still water, “a broken heart is hard to mend.”

Clang.

“But take the heart away…” She paused, lowering the hammer. “And it makes it impossible.”

James stared. “So I’ve lost it, then.”

She turned, slowly. Her face was unreadable. Hollow, yet somehow warm. “No. You’ve given it away. A piece at a time. You chopped your limbs. Your body. You just didn’t notice until it was gone.”

James looked down. He saw no reflection in the water.

“Am I more machine than man?” he asked.

The Blacksmith’s head tilted gently.

“You’re not made of parts,” she said. “You’re made of choices. And yours… cost more than most.” She stepped forward, towering over him, but there was no malice in her gaze. “Your heart is in the right place. It just got lost.”

James felt something tighten in his chest. An old ache. The one that never quite left.

“Then why am I here? Where is this?”

The Blacksmith’s lips curled into a faint, motherly smile.

“The waters brought you to my workshop, Tin Man.”

She gestured to the space around them, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.

“This place is where the pieces drift,” she said. “Where echoes find form. Not all who come here get their heart back. Some forget they ever had one.”

She reached out, placing her gloved hand lightly over his chest. Her touch was warm.

“You haven’t forgotten. Not yet.”

James nodded slowly.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “My heart. I won’t let them take it again.”

He wasn’t even sure who they were.

But he meant it.

The Blacksmith smiled again.

And then—

Light.

Sound.

He awoke with a jolt.

The fire was a whisper of cinders now. Snow fell in a lazy dance around the campsite. The sky was still dark, just beginning to hint at dawn.

And Sienna Khan was inches from his face.

Poking his cheek.

With a grin like a tiger who’d found something soft to bat around.

“JJ,” she said sweetly, “did the soldier boy sleep well~?”

James blinked. “...Don’t do that.”

“You were mumbling,” she said, poking him again. “Something about… hammers and hearts. Sounds poetic. You dreaming about a girlfriend or a forge?”

He sat up, rubbing his face. “Neither.”

Sienna rocked back onto her boots, arms behind her head, grinning wider.

“You’re lucky I didn’t draw a mustache on you.”

James gave her a tired look. “You’re too immature to be a terrorist. How do you end up one?”

“Dunno what that means, buuut, besides, I’m already know what I am!”

He sighed and reached for his canteen. “What?”

She struck a pose, one fist on her hip, the other pointed to the sky.

“Sienna Khan, Professional Grimm Smasher and Local Faunus Rights Manager.”

James took a sip. “Gods help me.”

She laughed, bright and open.

He still didn’t know what that Blacksmith in his dream meant...

But one thing for sure.

He hadn’t lost his here yet.

Chapter Text

The Speeder surged over frozen terrain, twin grav-lift hums keeping it smooth as glass across ice, rock, and scattered scrub. Cold wind snapped across their coats. The world ahead was nothing but gray cliffs, white drifts, and the jagged teeth of half-buried ruins.

James Ironwood leaned slightly forward over the handlebars, eyes sharp.

Behind him, Sienna Khan leaned into the turn, the wind tossing her hair wildly as she shouted just over the engine’s pitch, “You sure we’re close, JJ?”

“Trail’s fresh,” James said. “About twenty minutes ahead. But there’s a problem.”

“Of course there is,” she muttered.

James glanced at the ridge to the left, checking the terrain. “Sphinxes don’t usually travel alone. Especially not near civilian zones.”

“More Grimm?”

“They command Manticores.”

Sienna grinned, voice bright even as it cut through the cold. “Bring it. I’ve kicked Manticores before breakfast.”

James nearly said something like -Follow my orders- but stopped himself.

She wasn’t a recruit.

And she didn’t need his chain of command.

Not that he was a soldier either.

He let the moment pass.

“Just be careful,” he said instead.

“Oh my Gods, JJ, you’re being so dramatic,” Sienna said, teasing. “We’re not even kicking ass yet.”

Minutes later, the trail crested into a shallow basin. James slowed the Speeder and killed the engine, letting it hover quietly as it lowered near the base of a snow-covered hill.

He dismounted without a word.

Sienna followed, boots crunching lightly over frost. She was still bright-eyed, but her energy dimmed quickly once they spotted the bodies.

Five of them.

Two human.

Three Faunus.

Scattered among shattered rocks and bloodied snow.

James moved first, steps deliberate, unflinching. He crouched beside the closest corpse of a man in his mid-thirties, impact trauma visible at the neck and back. A fall from height. But there were more signs—burn patterns. Talon slashes.

Sienna stood over the bodies. Her grin was gone.

Her eyes fell on two rings, one worn by the human man, the other by a Faunus woman. Matching designs. Interwoven metal, hand-forged. Lovers. Maybe more.

She shook her head slowly. “They were running.”

James didn’t respond. He moved to the next body, scanned for details like minor burns, ash at the edges of the clothing.

Grimm damage.

Likely airborne.

He tapped his Scroll, dialing a direct Mantle operations line.

“This is Huntsman Ironwood,” he said, calm and clear. “Found civilians. Two human, three Faunus. Area nine-point-twelve near Atlas Ruins Ridge. Confirming fatality.”

There was static on the other end, then a voice. “Receiving. Sending coordinates. Names?”

James pulled two identification tokens from the pockets of the deceased. “Perry Ulrich. Anya Sol.”

He paused. Then gently reached into the pocket of the Faunus woman.

“Sari Vem,” he added.

“Copy that. Pickup scheduled. We’ll notify next of kin.”

James ended the call, stood, and brushed snow from his gloves.

Sienna crouched beside one of the bodies. “You think the Grimm did this?”

James studied the rock patterns, the angle of the blood spray, the scorched marks where black ichor and Dust residue met.

“Looks like it.”

Sienna’s eyes narrowed. A low growl slipped out—tiger-like. Feral. “Damn thing’s dead when I find it.”

James looked up. “Cool down.”

Her head snapped toward him, surprised. “What?”

“Anger leads to fear. Fear leads to Grimm,” he said. “You know that.”

“They’re dead, JJ. They didn’t get a funeral. They got the sky and the rocks.”

“I know,” James said evenly. “That’s why we move fast. Get ahead of the trail. Do the job.”

She stared at him.

His eyes were cold. Unshaken. Practical.

Sienna grumbled, crossing her arms and glaring at the snow.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But next time I see wings, I’m ripping them off.”

James gave a short nod.

He stepped back from the bodies and took in the area.

Landmarks.

He marked a dead tree at the top of the ridge. Two fractured rock spires just north of the basin. Wind patterns in the snow.

All of it spoke.

The Grimm had moved north-northeast.

Fast.

He mounted the Speeder again, boot clicking into the side rail. “Let’s move.”

Sienna climbed on behind him, eyes still burning with quiet fury.

“Next time,” she muttered, “you don’t get to tell me to cool down while standing over five corpses.”

James didn’t reply.

The Speeder cut across the tundra like a blade. A dark streak over white silence, kicking up waves of snow as it surged past forgotten ridges and rusted mining pylons. James coat flared behind him, cold wind hissing past his ears.

Then he saw it.

Another settlement.

Low buildings, half-buried under frost. Concrete foundations. Brick walls blackened by time and fire. No patrols. No lights.

Forgotten or abandoned. Either way, Atlas hadn’t sent help in a long while.

James slowed the bike, and the engine dropped to a low hum. Sienna leaned forward slightly, squinting.

“Place looks dead.”

“Not quite,” James said, calmly narrowing his eyes.

He spread his aura outward, subtle but practiced an invisible ripple pulsing from him like sonar.

Then he felt it.

Movement.

Stillness pretending not to be.

He closed his eyes. Counted.

“…Fifteen,” he said flatly.

Sienna glanced around. “Where?”

“Ten, aboveground. Five ducked down, probably in a basement. Probably saw the snow we kicked up and got nervous.”

“Can’t blame them. We’re not exactly subtle.”

James dismounted and adjusted his coat, resting one hand lightly on the right holster. Due Process, white-barreled and clean, sat quietly in its holster.

Then he stepped forward.

He lifted his voice, controlled, clear, and just barely carrying a jovial tone, the kind of practiced charm that sounded polite but carried sharp edges beneath it.

“If anyone’s listening,” James said, “we’re not bandits. And we’re certainly not Atlesian goons. You’ve got yourself a Huntsman today. Lucky you.”

He gestured toward one of the brick houses walls visibly clawed, the stone gouged by talons the size of hunting knives.

“And I could use a bit of help killing whatever left those marks.”

Silence.

Then—

A door creaked.

Slowly, someone emerged.

A woman, maybe early forties, with hard eyes and wind-chapped skin. She wore a patchy parka, the edge torn at the sleeves, and carried a coil-hammer across her back. Her eyes scanned Sienna first—lingering a little too long on the tattoos and chain, and then flicked to James.

James kept his face neutral, courteous, calm.

Sienna leaned toward him and muttered with a smirk, “See? You can look approachable when you’re not frowning.”

He ignored her.

To the woman, he said, “I’d appreciate it if you could point us in the direction of the Grimm.”

The woman didn’t speak at first. Then nodded behind her.

An elder, wrapped in three layers of mismatched coats, stepped forward, supported by a long-handled cane.

“They went west,” the old man rasped. “Toward Gehen.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “That’s close to the train line.”

“Exactly why we’ve stayed quiet,” the woman said.

“Smart,” James admitted. “But risky.”

Sienna tilted her head. “Grimm aren’t usually that coordinated. They roam. Smash. Roar. Repeat.”

James corrected her, calm as ever. “Newly-born Grimm are like that. Sphinxes… not always. The older ones show intelligence. Tactics, even. Especially when they act as leaders.”

The woman looked past them, toward the north. “The one we saw… it wasn’t like the others.”

“How so?”

“Bigger. Bone plating across the wings and head. It didn’t just attack. It circled. Watched. Waited. Like it was thinking.”

James hummed. “An old one, then.”

Sienna’s smile faded. “Great.”

“Means it’ll be harder to bait,” James said. “But more likely to control nearby Grimm.”

He stepped back and glanced at the structures. “You have a secure location?”

“We’ve got basements,” the woman said. “Cellars reinforced under the old barracks. If we have warning, we can lock down.”

James nodded once, then reached for his Scroll.

He dialed Mantle’s emergency dispatch. It rang twice.

“Dispatch, this is Huntsman Ironwood,” James said, voice shifting.

It wasn’t his usual calm now, it was command. Sharp. Precise. Absolute.

“I have a remote civilian settlement just south of Gehen. Recently attacked. No fatalities yet. Confirm local census and initiate contingency fallback. Atlas never cleared this zone. I want a medical drop and a perimeter scan. ”

The operator stammered. “Sir—I—this isn’t logged in our—”

“I don’t care what’s logged,” James cut in. “Send someone. You don’t want a place near a train track destroyed, now, have? You have their location.”

There was a pause. Then a quiet, “Yes, sir. Understood.”

James ended the call.

The woman watched him, surprised.

James offered a small nod. “Stay safe. They’ll be here soon.”

As if on cue, the Speeder lifted from its idle hover and glided toward him like a loyal steed.

Sienna climbed aboard first, settling into place with a short, “The General voice suits you, JJ. Almost made me stand at attention.”

James mounted behind her, calmly adjusting the throttle.

“I’d rather not use it,” he said, “but some people only hear orders.”

“I’m surprised they agreed.”

“Atlas takes care of their supply lines. I just gave them a reason to actually care about this place.”

“That so?”

They turned the Speeder around.

The villagers watched them go, silent, huddled near damaged homes and broken fences.

James didn’t look back.

But just before the engine roared, he called out, “Stay inside. Stay smart. Don’t give them a reason to circle back.”

Then the bike fired forward, and the white tundra swallowed their tracks again.

James hovered the Speeder just behind a snow-laced rock formation, engines in silent mode, the low hum of Gravity Dust cycling through the coils beneath them. The terrain ahead opened into a long, shattered gorge, train tracks twisted and blackened by old wreckage. An overturned truck lay half-buried in snow, rusted and stripped, no blood, no burn. Abandoned long ago.

But what truly drew his eye was the rock shelf just beyond the tracks.

And the Grimm gathering there.

A Sphinx—large, bone-plated, massive, stood with its wings partially open, watching the skies. Beneath it, clustered like beasts waiting for a command, were over a dozen Manticores. Young, judging by their uneven armor plating, but still large enough to rip a civilian transport apart.

James narrowed his eyes.

“This is it.”

Sienna crouched beside him, eyes gleaming. “They’re just waiting out there…”

“They’re coordinated. Sphinx is giving orders.”

James scanned the area again. Minimal cover. Stone outcroppings, some frost-choked ledges. Not much room for a full brawl.

“We’ll need to stay mobile,” he said. “Pick off the Manticores as they rush, and I’ll break the Sphinx.”

Sienna raised a brow. “You’ll break the big one?”

“You’ll hit it first.”

She blinked. “Huh?”

James turned to her. “I’ll draw its attention. You strike once it’s exposed.”

“I can do that,” she said easily, resting a hand on her whip. “But you sure? You don’t exactly bounce like I do.”

“I’ve got the stronger aura.”

“Oh?” She leaned forward and, before he could pull back, placed a hand over his chest.

Her expression shifted.

“...Oh, wow,” she said again, more quietly. “You’ve got enough aura for two people.”

James didn’t answer.

“Well,” she shrugged, “can’t argue with that. Where do you want me?”

He pointed toward a snow-packed ridge near the gorge wall. “There. Enough elevation for a clean strike. Can you infuse the whip?”

Sienna scoffed, already moving. “Obviously.”

James checked his guns, rolled his neck, and stood.

Time to draw the wolves.

He stepped from cover and flared his aura.

Blue light erupted around him, sharp and controlled, his soul laid bare in the cold.

The Grimm turned.

The Sphinx’s head snapped toward him, bone-plated wings flexing with sudden aggression. The Manticores followed a heartbeat later—snarling, twitching, coiling like a pack unleashed.

James didn’t move.

He just waited.

Then, two meters from him, the lead Manticore lunged—

And Sienna struck.

From the ridge, her Cerberus Whip lashed out, glowing with aura and Dust. It struck the Sphinx clean across the flank, cracking the bone plate. The beast roared, staggering, its wing flinching open.

“Not enough,” she growled.

The Manticore horde surged forward.

Mettle activated.

James’s focus sharpened to a razor point. Time didn’t slow, but he moved like it had.

Got you.

His hands blurred.

The white Due Process was in his right, the black in his left. He rolled, fired twice—mouth shots, stopping fireballs mid-cast. One of the Grimm took its own blast to the face, spiraling back in flames.

The others didn’t stop.

James flicked his cylinders open mid-dash, slamming in fresh rounds. Snow exploded around him as Manticores crashed into the ground, flanking from both sides.

He didn’t break stride.

Sienna dropped from her perch, whip snapping around one’s throat. She mounted it mid-fall, grinned, then beheaded it with a twist of the chain.

James ducked under another charging beast, grabbed it by the horn, twisted, and slammed it into the ground. It screeched, then he fired three explosive rounds into its skull.

Another Grimm lunged, but James was already moving.

The Sphinx turned to retreat, wings beating furiously.

Not this time.

“COME, NOW,” James barked to his Scroll, triggering a preset.

The Speeder roared across the field, flying low.

James turned and ran, sprinting so fast his outline blurred.

Sienna whipped another fireball clean in half, then grabbed a Grimm by its wing and used it to vault onto the Speeder.

She landed foot-first on the saddle, balancing like it was a street board. Her chain twirled around her wrist, the three Dust tips humming with energy.

“Back’s covered,” she shouted.

“Good.”

James kicked the Speeder into full thrust.

The Speeder screamed forward, dodging fireballs, ducking around boulders, snow launching behind them in walls. Rocks blurred past. The Sphinx flapped higher, trying to escape.

Not fast enough.

Sienna leapt off the Speeder to strike Grimm in the air, climbed their backs, beheaded one mid-flight, then landed back behind James with finesse.

The Speeder hit a ramp.

They flew.

Mid-air, James flipped the bike forward.

Sienna landed back on the saddle like a pro.

“Few more!” she shouted.

James didn’t respond.

He holstered the white revolver, drew the black Due Process again, and loaded a Gravity round.

Sight locked.

He fired.

The round hit a rock, bounced, and then slammed into the Sphinx’s wing.

The beast roared as it spiraled mid-air.

“Hold the Speeder!” James shouted.

Sienna grabbed the handles. “READY!”

He counted down.

“Three. Two—One!”

He jumped.

Mid-air.

Spun.

Pointed Due Process behind him.

Fired.

The gravity blast launched him like a cannonball.

He slammed into the Sphinx with full momentum, shoulder-first, tackling it from the sky.

The Sphinx shrieked.

Its massive, bone-plated wings flapped furiously, dragging wind and snow as it tried to lift back into the sky, but James was already on it.

Still airborne, he holstered his revolver mid-fall, caught the edge of the creature’s wing with both hands, and yanked.

The Grimm twisted mid-air.

James roared silently with effort, his aura flaring blazing-blue around his body. The beast flapped harder, shrieking, its body veering off-balance.

James dug his boots into its shoulder blade and pulled, wrenching backward with full force.

The Sphinx’s wing gave with a crack like a splintering tree.

Bone snapped.

Flesh tore.

The creature howled as it spiraled lower.

Still holding on, James let go with one hand and drew Due Process, the white revolver.

He shoved the barrel into the creature’s wing joint—point blank—and pulled the trigger.

BOOM—

A white blast of kinetic Dust slammed into the joint, shattering the socket. The wing dropped like dead weight.

The Sphinx crashed.

It plummeted like a boulder, its body slamming into the ice-packed ground below, sending up a shockwave of snow and shards of rock. James dropped beside it, rolling with the impact. He stood immediately.

No hesitation.

No delay.

His eyes were locked in, Mettle keeping him hyper-focused. Every movement of the Sphinx mapped in real time across his vision like targets marked in blood.

The Sphinx tried to rise.

It beat its remaining wing once. James stepped forward, grabbed the base of its extended leg, and snapped it at the joint.

CRACK.

The Grimm shrieked again.

He reached for the other leg and broke that too.

The Sphinx writhed, twisted, its long, serpentine tail rearing up behind James like a scorpion stinger.

He turned just as it struck, and backhanded it with his left fist, aura flaring.

The tail recoiled.

James drew his black Due Process, flicked open the cylinder, and loaded a blue round.

Ice Dust.

He spun, leveled the revolver, and shot the tail mid-air.

CRACK—

The tail froze solid on contact, the last few feet of its length now a frozen, jagged club.

The Sphinx screamed in pain, bucking wildly.

James narrowed his eyes, Mettle still burning hot, focus slicing the creature into joints, tendons, vulnerabilities.

He deadeye’d the limbs, firing rounds into key pressure points, shattering bone plate after bone plate.

Each shot deliberate.

Each strike surgical.

Above, Sienna was pure motion.

She swung between burning fireballs, chain lashing in arcs of light. Her aura flared red, streaked with sparks from Dust charges. Cerberus Whip howled through the air like a predator.

A Manticore flew toward her.

She vaulted from a snow-covered ledge, flipped mid-air, wrapped her chain around its neck, and with a growl—

Sliced clean through it.

She landed on another flying Manticore, stabbed her chain into its wing, and swung again. Fireballs passed inches from her boots.

She was grinning.

Ferocious.

Ferality sharpened into artistry.

Then she saw James.

The Sphinx was flailing, but slowed. Broken.

James stood over it, revolvers smoking.

She flipped again and landed nearby.

James didn’t even look back. His voice was loud, calm, surgical.

“Chain around its neck. Decapitate.”

Sienna didn’t ask questions.

She moved.

The Cerberus Whip extended in one smooth arc, each Dust-charged blade spinning.

James grabbed one end of the chain as she looped the other around the Sphinx’s throat.

Together, they pulled.

The chain tightened, cutting into the bone plate. The beast roared, tried to buck them off.

James planted his boots.

Sienna leaned back, heels digging into the snow, pulling with all her might.

Aura surged between them. The chain flared red, then gold, then white-hot.

The Sphinx’s bones cracked.

Then—

CRUNCH.

A wet, meaty pop echoed across the tundra.

The Sphinx’s head tore free with a final shudder, the long neck snapping beneath the pressure of the dual pull.

Its body slumped.

Black ichor steamed in the snow, thick and slow like tar.

Sienna stumbled forward, panting. “Gods… that was awesome.”

James stood, steady.

His revolvers holstered.

Aura still flaring, fading slowly.

The area around them was littered with Grimm corpses in the process of evaporating. A dozen Manticore bodies. Scorched snow. Broken wings.

Silence settled.

The threat was gone.

Sienna leaned against the side of the Speeder, hair matted, breath fogging in the cold.

She looked over at James, grinning widely.

“You’re insane, JJ.”

James didn’t answer.

He simply walked over, wiped his gloves clean, and said, “We’re done here..”

Chapter Text

The bodies were still where they left them.

Five forms laid side by side, covered with thick canvas from the Speeder’s emergency kit, their silhouettes visible under the thin shroud of snowfall. James and Sienna stood guard in silence as the air chilled around them again, the adrenaline of battle burned off and replaced with cold reality.

It was always quiet after a fight.

James stood with his arms crossed, posture rigid, eyes scanning the snowy ridges. His aura still lingered faintly around him, reflexively active to keep the cold out. He couldn’t switch it off completely, not yet.

Sienna sat nearby, arms resting over her knees, Cerberus Whip coiled at her side. She wasn’t smiling now. Her expression was still, serious. Respectful.

The low hum of the transport bullhead cracked the silence.

Mantle had responded faster than expected.

The airship touched down a few meters away, kicking up snow and dust, its floodlights bathing the clearing in stark white. Medical personnel disembarked quickly. They moved with quiet urgency, no questions, no hesitation. They recognized the grim business of recovery.

James approached the lead coordinator, exchanged a few clipped words, then stepped back.

Once the bodies were tagged, lifted, and respectfully loaded, he turned to the Speeder.

Sienna joined him without a word.

They mounted the vehicle and rode.

The ride back was shorter, or maybe it just felt that way. There was no rush now. No immediate threat. Just wind, snow, and the dull hum of the gravity-dust engine beneath them. James guided them through the terrain with practiced ease until the forgotten settlement came into view once more.

The same patchwork buildings. The same old walls. Same lookouts watching with wary eyes.

The villagers came out slowly as the Speeder stopped.

They remembered.

James dismounted, coat still dusted with flakes along the edges of his boots. He approached the elder from earlier, the man with the cane and the quiet dignity.

“They’re gone,” James said plainly.

The elder nodded once, not asking what they meant. He knew.

One of the women came forward. “You two took them all down?”

James didn’t answer directly. “They won’t be circling this settlement again.”

There was a pause.

Then quiet murmurs of thanks. Handshakes. A few claps on the shoulder.

James held up a hand. “I don’t need thanks. I need this place secured. And I know Atlas won’t send support unless it sees an angle.”

The villagers tensed slightly, old wounds showing in their posture.

Sienna raised a brow, watching James now.

He looked over the crowd, then said, “You want them to care? Don’t beg for help. Make them see value.”

The elder frowned. “You want us to lie?”

James shook his head. “I want you to write up an infrastructure request. Emphasize the settlement’s position. Tell them you’re sitting on untapped Dust veins. Say that you’ve identified routes that make this place a viable relay station for Mantle-based trade.”

Another villager blinked. “We’re not.”

“Doesn’t matter,” James said, arms crossed. “Atlas doesn’t care what’s true. It cares about return on investment. Give them a reason to believe this outpost can serve the Kingdom. That it’s worth protecting. Worth resourcing.”

Sienna stared at him.

“You’re… telling them to scam Atlas?”

“No,” James said flatly. “I’m suggesting.”

The elder grunted, one brow raised. “That sounds like the same thing.”

James’s expression didn’t change. “Call it what you want. But if it gets you supplies, patrols, and backup the next time Grimm show up… you win.”

Sienna let out a low whistle at the idea.

James gave her a glance.

The elder mulled it over. “We’ll draft something. You think they’ll believe it?”

James nodded once. “Enough people in Atlas want a win on paper. Just give them the right numbers and use the right phrases.”

He paused. Then ‘suggested’ what to say.

I hope this works,” the elder said.

“It will,” James asserted.

And without waiting for more questions, he turned back to the Speeder.

Sienna stood there, arms folded. “You learned that from Atlas Academy?”

“I read a lot of reports.”

“Sure you did.”

She mounted the Speeder. James followed.

As the engine kicked up again, snow swirling around them, James looked back at the small crowd one last time. He sat steady on the Speeder, eyes forward, shoulders squared. The cold pressed against his coat, biting through as he lowered his defenses. Sienna leaned behind him, silent for once, her arms loosely hooked around his waist, head low as they rode.

But James’s mind wasn’t on the road.

He was still thinking about the settlement.

His advice.

His suggestion.

Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

There were Dust deposits under that stretch of land he remembered that much. In the future, it had taken years to extract, and even then, the yield wasn’t spectacular. But it was something. Enough for the SDC to justify establishing a mining outpost. Enough to interest Atlas, especially when backed by the right numbers and the right narrative.

And with Nicholas Schnee still the head of the SDC, they’d thrive and get paid fairly.

All they had to do was frame it right.

Spin it.

Dress survival up like opportunity.

James didn’t believe in luck anymore. But he still believed in leverage.

And if Atlas could be nudged into protecting those people, even for the wrong reasons, then the result was still the same.

He could live with that.

They reached Mantle by nightfall.

Snow clung to the rooftops despite the city’s heating system, the city lit in pale halogen and flickering signage. The streets buzzed with movement, tired but alive. People walked with their shoulders hunched, their eyes wary. Grimm didn’t roam the streets, but fear still did.

James parked the Speeder in its usual spot behind the diner’s alley, half-sheltered, half-forgotten.

The same booth waited inside.

Same cracked vinyl seats. Same coffee-stained menus. Same soft hum of overhead lights and the occasional hiss from the kitchen.

James sat down first, wordless, placing his weapons at the table. He didn’t bother removing his coat. Just leaned back, one hand resting over his belt buckle, eyes scanning the table without seeing it.

Sienna flopped into the seat across from him, cloak hanging loose, chain whip wrapped around her waist like a lazy belt. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at him.

James remained quiet, sipping water.

Then Sienna smirked, her voice breaking the silence like a firecracker tossed onto snow.

“So,” she started, bright-eyed, “are you always this wild durin a hunt?”

James glanced at her, tired but alert.

“Standard protocol.”

“That was not standard,” she said, grabbing a fry off his plate without hesitation. “You jumped off a Speeder, used a gravity round to slingshot yourself, and tackled a Sphinx out of the air. Then you did what? Ripped its wings off like you were peeling a damn potato?”

“It worked.”

“It was awesome,” she said, grinning. “You’re scary, JJ. In a cool way. And here I thought it just as Faunus who fight like animals.”

He didn’t respond.

Just kept eating.

Sienna leaned back, stretching her arms. “Seriously, though. I’ve been around fighters. Good ones. Seen cocky idiots who could cartwheel through Manticore swarms and drunks who could punch through a deathstalker’s armor. But you?”

James raised an eyebrow.

“You’re surgical,” she said, watching him. “Cold. Precise. Like every move’s already happened in your head before your body even gets there.”

“Training.”

“Try obsession. No one gets that good without it.”

James didn’t deny it.

She studied him a little longer, then said, “You okay?”

He blinked and took a sip of his coffee.

“I don’t know.”

Sienna didn’t push.

Instead, she looked down at the table, quiet for a beat.

Then said, “I meant what I said, though. I’m impressed.”

He raised an eyebrow again.

She smiled, softer this time. “I mean, yeah, you’ve got the whole mysterious stoic thing going on, and you’re emotionally repressed as hell—but you’re good, JJ. You saved people today. Again.”

James sat back slightly, shoulders finally loosening.

“Wasn’t enough.”

Sienna shrugged. “It was something. And trust me, out here, that means more than most people realize. Solitas is a cold place, you know?”

James nodded, finally.

The warmth from the diner’s old heater hummed like background music, a faint drone behind clinking silverware and the quiet shuffle of late-night customers. The overhead lights cast everything in a soft yellow haze, the kind that made the outside snow look even colder by comparison.

James sipped his coffee in silence. His food sat mostly half-untouched, a few fries pushed to the side of his plate in neat lines, more habit than hunger. Across from him, Sienna leaned forward, chin resting on her knuckles, idly stirring her soda with a straw.

Her eyes stayed on him.

He didn’t have to look up to feel it.

“You’re too harsh on yourself, y’know,” she said, finally breaking the silence again.

James didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. He didn’t even respond right away.

He just sipped the coffee again.

Sienna tilted her head. “Seriously, JJ. You act like the whole kingdom’s collapse is riding on your shoulders. You ever take a breath that doesn’t involve saving everyone or punishing yourself?”

Still nothing.

She leaned back, her voice softening—but not losing its edge.

“At this rate, you’re gonna give yourself wrinkles.”

That made his eyes shift. Barely.

“And you're way too young and handsome for that,” she added, then quickly followed it up with, “I mean—you, but like… y’know… you still got the whole soldier look going for you and all—”

She stopped.

Mouth still half-open.

Realizing exactly what she’d just said.

James raised an eyebrow, slowly lowering his coffee cup.

Sienna blinked, straightened up, and waved her hands slightly. “Okay, wait—not what I meant.”

“You think I’m handsome.”

Her mouth opened again. “That’s—”

“You said I’m young and handsome.”

“JJ—”

He leaned forward just a fraction, breaking his usual flatness with a glimmer of something sly—barely a smile, more of a quirk in the corner of his mouth.

“Should I be worried this is a workplace flirtation?”

Sienna’s face flushed, not entirely red, but definitely warmer than usual. Not expecting James, brooding all the time, Ironwood to tease her suddenly, breaking character.

She crossed her arms and turned her head slightly, trying to hide the blush pulling at her face.

“That’s not fair.”

James took another drink.

Then said, deadpan, “You started it.”

“I did not start anything,” she huffed. “I was trying to stop you from emotionally imploding over a plate of fries, thank you very much.”

He nodded. “I appreciate the intervention.”

“Do you?” she muttered, barely meeting his gaze. “Because if you do, you’re a really mean tease about it.”

James sat back.

And he actually smiled.

Just a little.

Quiet. Controlled. But real.

“You’re not wrong, though,” he said, voice low. “I do need to ease up on myself.”

Sienna tilted her head, watching him.

“Maybe stick with the handsome part,” she added, half-joking.

James looked at her.

Didn’t say anything.

But that look said enough.

Then—

Sienna’s Scroll buzzed against the table, the screen flaring with a message she didn’t bother hiding. A name James didn’t recognize blinked across it in bold white text. She looked at it a little too long. Not like it was urgent. More like she was deciding whether to care.

She finally sighed and stood, stretching her arms overhead with a sharp pop of her shoulders.

“Looks like I gotta bounce,” she said casually. “Some folks from the community need me to yell at a councilman or something. Y’know, the usual.”

James didn’t look up from his now-empty cup. “Go ahead.”

Sienna slid on her coat, wrapped Cerberus Whip loosely around her waist, and gave him a quick glance.

“You good?”

“I’m always good,” James said quietly.

Sienna raised a brow. “That’s code for ‘absolutely not good,’ but fine. You wanna sit here and brood in peace, I’ll allow it.”

He nodded, and for a moment, there was nothing else. Just the low hum of the diner’s lights and the faint clink of plates in the kitchen.

She left without a dramatic exit, just a casual wave and a small grin.

James watched her go, just long enough to be sure the door closed behind her—then stood, tucked his gloves into his belt, and stepped into the cold.

The ride to the bullhead station was uneventful.

Mantle’s night sky was a sheet of frost and pollution, painted with the dull glow of streetlamps and the sharper burn of air traffic trails. James guided his Speeder through the access port and paid the transport fee without flinching.

The worker scanned the serial, lifted a brow at his outfit, but said nothing. Just logged the Speeder into the manifest and motioned him toward the passenger deck.

James boarded with nothing but his satchel and the weight in his holsters.

Back at his building, the elevator rattled as usual.

Reaching the floor, walking down the hallway.

He keyed in his door code, stepped into the familiar dimness, and shut the world out behind him with a quiet click.

His apartment wasn’t large. Just clean. Utilitarian. A couch. A desk. An unused kitchenette. Half the place was taken up by weapon maintenance gear and folded tactical packs.

James set the satchel down by the door and crossed to the weapons rack.

He removed Due Process, one revolver at a time.

First the black. Then the white.

He checked both, always checked. No matter how many times he’d done it.

The black went into its case. The white followed.

His gloves came off next, then his coat, unbuttoned with care. He hung it with quiet precision on the hook by the door.

Boots unlaced. Belt unclasped.

Pieces set aside, one after the other.

By the time he stepped into his bedroom, he was willing indoor clothes.

He sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment. Stared at the wall. Thought about nothing in particular.

Then he slid under the covers, flat on his back, and closed his eyes.

Thinking about how he teased Sienna, wondering if he could allow himself to be vulnerable.

The last time he tried.. he got lied to, betrayed, went mad, and drowned.

Still—

He wanted to gamble.

That’ll be okay.

Chapter Text

The market was quiet, a rare thing in Mantle during early hours. Most of the foot traffic came from night-shift workers trickling off duty and morning runners dragging their feet to their first job. James moved through the aisles with quiet efficiency, shopping basket tucked under one arm.

He wasn’t in gear today.

Just a thick gray jacket, worn cargo pants, and gloves to fight off the wind.

No one looked at him twice.

No one recognized him.

It suited him fine.

He scanned the labels, narrowing in on what he came for. Mistralian products. His mother’s favorites.

Bamboo rice, vacuum-packed and tied with green thread, slightly sweet when steamed and good with the pickled radish she used to make from scratch. He grabbed two.

A jar of fermented plum paste, dark red and nearly impossible to find unless you knew the import stalls. He spotted one tucked behind a newer brand and plucked it out.

Next was Mistralian roasted tea leaves. The kind that steeped deep brown and had that nutty, earthy scent his mother used to call “real comfort.” It wasn’t cheap. He didn’t flinch at the price.

He passed by a corner with bundled vegetables wrapped in paper. Mistralian mountain greens, pickled lotus root slices, strips of preserved burdock root—he grabbed each in measured amounts.

Then came the sesame oil, thick and deep in color, the good kind, not the blended knockoffs with no weight to them.

He tossed in a small bag of red-bean mooncakes, wrapped in a thin wax paper stamped with gold characters. Not practical. Not necessary.

He bought them anyway.

By the time he made it to the register, his basket was full but not overflowing, efficient. Balanced. Just like he always packed his gear.

He paid in Lien, thanked the vendor with a small nod, and stepped out into the wind.

His mother’s house was where it always was, just off the edge of the residential flats near the old fields. Far enough to be peaceful. Close enough to the city for comfort. White siding. Weathered fence that needed repainting.

James unlocked the door with the spare key under the plant pot and stepped inside.

“Ma,” he called out, voice level. “I brought some groceries.”

From another room, her voice called back—half scolding, half amused.

“You could’ve called, James. I don’t need you buying out the entire market.”

“I didn’t,” he said, already taking off his boots. “Just enough for the week.”

He made his way to the pantry, passing by the living room—neat, cozy, shelves still filled with old photo frames and ceramic knickknacks.

He set each item in its place.

Tea in the jar rack.

Plum paste on the second shelf.

Mooncakes near the rice bin, slightly hidden so she wouldn’t complain about him spoiling her.

The labels were all lined outward. Every jar squarely pressed into place. When he finished, he closed the pantry door with a quiet finality.

He paused in the hall.

The house was still.

There was no mission waiting.

No call buzzing his Scroll.

No Grimm report. No commission.

Nothing.

James looked out the window.

The small backyard had grown a bit wild. the grass curling over the garden path, the hedges reaching unevenly against the fence.

He rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

He pulled the small push mower from the shed, old but clean, the blade still sharp from the last time it had been tuned it up. He checked the dust compartment, the wheel alignment. Then started on the lawn.

His movements were smooth, precise.

Each strip of grass cut in clean rows.

No wasted energy.

He worked the mower in horizontal passes first, then diagonals—crosshatching like he was back on a training field, every action intentional.

When the grass was done, he trimmed the edges by hand.

Then moved on to the hedges.

Shears in hand, he clipped them level, working from the center outward, shaping the bushes until they were evenly balanced. Not decorative. Just clean. Controlled.

He swept the clippings into a bag, sealed it, and set it beside the compost bin.

Then raked the walkway.

Then cleaned the window sills.

Then scrubbed the back porch where moss had started to claim the wood grain near the edges.

Inside, he ran the laundry.

Wiped down the kitchen counters.

Polished the tea kettle.

He found a loose hinge on one of the cabinet doors and tightened it with the old toolkit from the basement.

He patched a hairline crack on the bathroom sink with sealant.

He didn’t stop until the sun had dipped low and the clouds outside turned amber-orange.

By the time he finally sat down, his shoulders ached, but not in the way he was used to.

It wasn’t combat strain.

It was the ache of a life that still needed care.

He leaned back in the kitchen chair, exhaled once through his nose, and let himself look around.

His mother stepped out from the hall, arms crossed, watching him.

“You really don’t know how to rest, do you?” she said, lips twitching in amusement.

James shrugged, faintly.

“I had a free day.”

“You say that like it’s a rare disease.”

He didn’t argue.

She walked over and gave him a once-over. “You cut the lawn?”

“Yes.”

“Cleaned the gutters?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll take it.” She placed a cup of roasted tea in front of him. The same kind he bought earlier. Already brewed.

He looked at it. Then at her.

She smiled faintly. “I knew the moment I saw the jar.”

James lifted the cup and took a quiet sip.

It was bitter.

Nutty.

Warm.

He held the cup between both hands, letting the warmth soak through his fingers.

The scent, earthy, roasted, unmistakably Mistralian import lingered in the air.

His mother, Silva Ironwood, sat across from him in a comfortable house robe, her slate-gray hair pulled into a loose twist, eyes sharp despite the softness of her presence. The plate between them held two uneven slices of tea cake, one already half-eaten.

James was halfway through his.

He didn’t rush.

Neither of them ever did when the kettle was on.

“So,” Silva asked after a few minutes of quiet, “how are you, really?”

James didn’t look up right away.

Instead, he finished his sip, set the cup down gently, and leaned back just slightly in the wooden chair. The window beside them caught the last of the afternoon light, gold bleeding across the walls of the kitchen like it belonged there.

“I’m fine,” he said, flat but not distant.

Silva gave him a look.

James allowed himself a small smile.

“Still hunting Grimm,” he said, glancing at the steam rising from his cup. “Mostly Manticore lately. A few Beowolves last week. Nothing unusual.”

Silva raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re talking about weeds in the garden.”

“I try to keep the descriptions polite.”

“Polite or nonlethal?”

James exhaled faintly through his nose. “A little of both.”

She hummed, reaching for her tea.

“I usually spot the trail first,” James continued, resting one arm on the table. “Claw marks, disturbed snow, scent. Manticores are louder than most, they spout fire. ”

“Fire?”

“They throw it,” he said calmly. “From their mouths.”

Silva blinked. “Lovely.”

James shrugged, cutting a bite from the cake with his fork. “They’re predictable. Loud. Too confident in groups. If you isolate one, it’s not hard to take them down with a few Dust rounds and—”

He stopped himself.

Then took a small bite.

Silva smiled over the rim of her cup. “You are trying not to scare me.”

“I’m moderating the language.”

“That’s my boy.”

James allowed himself the quiet moment. No armor. No revolvers. Just warm tea and a plate of cake that tasted almost exactly like it had when he was a boy.

He didn’t know what kind of sugar his mother used, Mistralian brown, maybe, but it gave the cake that subtle richness, earthy and just a little sweet.

She broke the silence again, her tone casual. “Anyone interesting on these little Grimm escapades of yours?”

James tilted his head. “Define interesting.”

Silva gave him a knowing smile.

“I’ve met people,” he said. “Some who needed help. Some who didn’t.”

Silva sipped her tea. “You saved them?”

James nodded once. “When I could.”

“Anyone stick around?”

He hesitated.

Then, after a pause. “There’s a girl. Faunus Woman. Sienna Khan.”

His mother lifted an eyebrow. “Khan? That sounds... familiar.”

“She’ll probably be a politician someday. Or a rebel. Hard to tell.”

“She trouble?”

“Always.”

“And you like her?”

James didn’t flinch. “She’s good at killing Grimm. Resourceful. Has energy.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He sipped his tea. “We work well together.”

Silva’s lips twitched. “That’s still not what I asked.”

James gave her a look.

But there was no sharpness in it.

He set his cup down again, leaned back slightly, and let the moment stretch.

Silva watched him for a few seconds longer, then smiled softly.

“You seem... steadier,” she said.

James glanced up.

“Like your balance is coming back,” she continued. “Like being out there, being active, has done you some good.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Just stared at his reflection in the tea for a moment. No medals. No military. No titles.

Just a man.

Scarred, tired, but... here.

“Maybe,” he said.

It was the closest thing to peace he’d in a while.

Eventually, the light outside had dimmed into soft dusk, the golden tones fading into cool gray. Streetlamps flickered on one by one across the neighborhood, their quiet hum mixing with the rustle of wind against the windows.

Inside the house, the tea had been finished, the cake eaten down to the last polite slice, which Silva insisted James take. He did, without arguing.

The warmth of the kitchen lingered.

And for a few minutes, neither of them moved. They simply sat, content in the stillness.

Then James stood, quietly collecting the plates and cups. Silva made a soft sound of protest, but he was already rinsing the porcelain under the tap before she could finish.

“I can handle that,” she said.

“I know,” James replied, rolling up his sleeves.

He washed without rush. The cloth moved in smooth circles, each plate turned twice before being rinsed and placed on the drying rack. Silva wiped down the table with practiced ease, working around his motions without stepping in.

They moved like a team without speaking.

When the last cup was set beside the others to dry, James took the dish towel and dried his hands.

Silva folded the tablecloth, patting it flat with her palms.

“Thank you,” she said.

James gave her a faint look. “For what?”

“For not leaving it to me,” she said. “And for coming by. Visiting. I like this new you.”

James folded the towel and hung it on the handle by the sink.

He looked around the kitchen one last time. Everything in its place. Lights warm. Air still.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

They turned off the lights together, the kitchen dimming behind them.

No final words were needed.

He helped her lock the front door. Gave a nod before stepping out.

And as he walked back into the night, jacket zipped, collar up against the cold, he carried none of the day’s usual weight.

Just stillness.

And the quiet memory of home.

James Ironwood walked with his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders squared, his steps steady and deliberate. Streetlamps cast long shadows along the narrow residential path as he made his way back toward the city edge, back toward his apartment.

He wasn’t far when a voice broke the quiet.

“Ironwood!”

The tone was sharp. Accusatory. Unpleasant in every way.

James stopped mid-step, slowly turning his head.

A man was striding toward him from the other side of the sidewalk. Black hair, slicked neatly to the side. A narrow face. Thin mustache. Too loud for this hour.

It took James a second to recognize him.

Then it clicked.

Jacques Gelé.

Not a Schnee. Not yet.

Still a man chasing doors.

“What the hell did you tell Willow?!” Jacques barked, his voice carrying down the empty street like a dog yapping at a storm.

James didn’t flinch.

He stood calmly in place, eyes steady, shoulders relaxed.

“I told her nothing,” he said evenly.

Jacques scoffed. “Bullshit.”

James said nothing.

Jacques stormed closer, now gesturing wildly with one hand, his other shoved into the expensive coat of a man trying too hard to look composed.

“She’s saying things,” Jacques went on. “About how I’m just after her for her father’s company. Like I’m using her! You told her that, didn’t you?!”

James stared at him for a long moment.

Then, in that same flat tone he’d perfected in war rooms and interrogation halls, he replied.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

Jacques blinked.

His jaw opened slightly, then shut, then opened again.

The pause gave him just enough room to twist it in his mind.

His voice came quieter now. Almost triumphant.

“I see,” he said. “You didn’t lose your ambition… You just changed it.”

James raised an eyebrow.

Jacques nodded, suddenly smug, as if he’d uncovered a conspiracy. “You’re setting yourself up with her. That’s it, isn’t it? You dropped the officer career to chase her instead. Thought you’d play the gallant soldier. Earn Nicholas Schnee’s approval the long way. You know he'd like Huntsmen!”

James exhaled through his nose and shook his head. “You’ve misunderstood.”

“Have I?” Jacques hissed.

“You see whatever suits you,” James said. “Think what you want.”

That struck a nerve.

Jacques took another step forward, jabbing a finger toward him. “You think you’re better than me?”

James didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But then Jacques flinched.

“…Tch,” he sneered, “you can’t even hide it, can you?”

James’s brows furrowed slightly.

Jacques gestured at him again. “That look. That face. You’re looking at me like I’m some insect—”

James blinked.

And slowly, deliberately, brought a hand up to his face.

He felt it.

Tension in the jaw. Eyebrows slightly pinched. Lip curled, just barely.

Disgust.

Not from intent. Not from calculation.

Just reflex.

He dropped his hand.

“…You should leave,” James said.

Jacques straightened, scoffing. “You think this is over? You think you’ve got the upper hand?”

James turned away, already done.

“You won’t get what you want,” Jacques called after him. “Whatever angle you’re playing, it won’t matter. You don’t belong in their world. She’s mine, James! Mine!”

James didn’t look back.

He just kept walking.

Chapter Text

James had just finished his first cup of coffee and was skimming through a commission board on his Scroll when the sound of a luxury engine purred around the corner.

He didn’t look up at first. Not until the shadow of the vehicle passed over the sidewalk and settled in front of him.

Black. Long. Floating a few inches off the ground with a subtle hum of high-end gravdust-lift coils. Custom matte panels. Silver trim. The kind of car that didn’t belong in Mantle, not because it couldn’t be here, but because it didn’t need to be. It was the sort of thing you brought when you wanted people to remember who you were.

Only one family flaunted Dust-fueled excess like that.

Schnee.

The rear passenger door clicked open with soft mechanical elegance, and stepping out came a man James remembered even more clearly than the car.

Klein Sieben. Younger than he recalled.

Brown hair neatly parted, a modest mustache trimmed to the exact millimeter. He wore a white-collared shirt, black vest, and cyan tie, a rather classic butler attire. Black shoes polished enough to reflect the light.

Klein gave a short bow, smiling warmly. “Mr. Ironwood.”

James nodded. “Dr. Sieben.”

“The young lady wishes to speak with you. If you have a moment, that is.”

James narrowed his eyes. “I was about to find work.”

Klein folded his hands, his tone still pleasant. “She asks most kindly. It would mean a great deal.”

James sighed through his nose.

And despite every instinct telling him to walk away, he found himself stepping toward the door.

“Klein,” he said flatly, “I’m only riding because you asked.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, sir.”

James ducked into the back of the limo, setting his gloves in his coat pocket as the door hissed quietly closed behind him.

Inside, the temperature was perfect. Dim lights cast the interior in soft tones of white and blue. A screen glowed faintly in the partition. The air smelled faintly of rose and expensive upholstery.

Willow Schnee sat with her legs crossed, one gloved hand resting against her cheek, the other delicately holding a glass of mineral water.

Her posture was practiced, effortlessly haughty, with her head slightly lifted, eyes half-lidded, chin tilted just enough to look down at him without needing to move.

“Mr. Ironwood,” she said, her voice crisp and elegantly clipped. “You were right.”

James raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

Willow looked out the window, speaking like someone used to not being interrupted. “About Jacques. Or rather… Gele, as I should call him. Perhaps he was using me. Perhaps I allowed myself to be used.”

She looked back at James. “It’s unpleasant when the truth feels so obvious in hindsight.”

James said nothing, but she continued.

“I was fond of him,” she said. “I thought… foolishly, that our arrangement could be more than a merger. But your words, blunt as they were, unsettled me.”

James nodded once. “I wasn’t trying to meddle.”

Willow snorted softly, lowering her glass. “Meddle or not, you did. And I cannot say you were wrong.”

James studied her quietly.

She was composed.

But her voice held an edge, something sharpened behind the silk. This was the Willow of the past, the still-sharp, not wholly blinded, but the heiress of the SDC, Willow.

“I suppose,” Willow went on, “I was too charmed to see the obvious. Gele has talent, yes. He understands business. He knows numbers. He has ambition. But what he lacks—”

She lifted one gloved finger. “—is capital. And more importantly: connections. My connections. My family’s name. Marrying me would have given him the fast-track to legitimacy.”

James’s voice was low. “You would’ve opened the front gates of the SDC to him.”

Willow leaned back, her tone cool. “And handed him the keys on a silver plate. The Schnees are not a stepping stone. I forgot that.”

James watched her for a beat longer. Then said, “You sound like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

Willow exhaled, turning her head toward the tinted window.

“…But I did care for him,” she admitted, almost reluctant. “Gele was… attentive. Calculated, yes. But he played the role well. I let myself believe it.”

James remained still.

Not cruel. Not sympathetic. Just listening.

Finally, he spoke. “That’s not really my concern.”

Willow turned to face him again, narrowing her eyes.

“No. But you made it your concern when you started lecturing me in front of my father.”

James blinked slowly. “I simply spoke my mind.”

“And in doing so,” she said sharply, “you created a fracture. One that Gele, in his fragile ego, interpreted as a challenge.”

James shook his head. “Your relationship problems existed before I opened my mouth.”

Willow lifted her chin, haughtiness reasserting itself. “So you claim.”

James’s expression didn’t shift. “If a man crumbles under one conversation, he was never stable to begin with.”

Willow looked at him for a long time.

The car was still moving, but the silence inside it felt heavier than the engine.

Then, finally, she chuckled.

Dry. Elegant.

“You haven’t changed,” she said.

“Didn’t have a reason to.”

She swirled her glass absently. “You’re colder than I remember.”

“I was polite.”

“Polite men don’t tell women their suitors are predators.”

James looked out the window now, voice calm. “Polite men let people walk into disasters without saying a word.”

Willow studied him, the muscles in her jaw tight behind the practiced poise.

Then she sat back and said simply, “I don’t know whether to thank you or be offended.”

James gave her a sideways glance. “Do both. It’s a free world.”

Willow didn’t smile, but she didn’t scowl either.

Klein’s voice gently buzzed through the intercom. “Young Lady? We’ve nearly arrived.”

Willow tapped her glass once on the armrest and looked back at James.

“I wanted to speak to you directly,” she said. “Not through gossip. Not through Jacques. Just... face to face.”

James nodded. “Understood.”

“And for what it’s worth,” she said softly, “you were right.”

James blinked.

The hum of the limousine settled into a low, seamless drone as they glided across Mantle’s elevated roadways. Willow sat with her legs crossed, her hands resting lightly on the armrest of the seat, her head tilted as if bored, but her eyes were sharp. Watching. Measuring.

“I could end him, you know,” she said, tone breezy and distant. “One word from me, and Jacques Gele’s career as an entrepreneur would be... over.”

James didn’t blink.

Willow went on, voice lifting slightly. “The Schnee name does not wield its blade lightly. But when it does, it cuts clean. And cold. No doors. No partnerships. No loans. The Four Kingdoms would never hear of him again.”

James looked ahead through the windshield, posture relaxed but alert.

“That’s your call,” he said flatly. “Not mine.”

Willow turned back to him, studying his face.

“You’re very careful,” she said. “Always have been. Even now.”

James glanced at her.

She swirled her glass again, watching the light dance through it. “We’ve only met a handful of times. And each time, you were the same. Military. Officer. Polite. Tactical. Like talking to a wall dressed in medals.”

James gave a quiet nod. “That’s what the job needed.”

“But this,” Willow said, gesturing toward him, “this Huntsman Ironwood, this is new.”

James didn’t reply.

“You’ve taken quite a few commissions lately,” she continued. “I read things. You’re being referred to as one of the top Huntsmen in Solitas. Quiet, fast, efficient. A reputation forming, whether you like it or not.”

James gave a noncommittal shrug.

Willow looked down into her drink.

“When Jacques came begging for forgiveness,” she said, her voice softening just enough to betray the edge beneath it, “he accused you of wanting me.”

James turned slightly toward her now, his expression unreadable.

“He said you were circling,” Willow added. “That you played the long game. That all of this was just positioning.”

James slowly shook his head.

“He’s desperate,” he said. “That’s a lie.”

Willow tilted her head, watching him again.

“Probably,” she said. “You certainly haven’t made any dramatic gestures. You’ve never stood up and said ‘forget that man, I’m here.’”

James raised a brow. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

Willow gave a short, dry laugh. “Clearly.”

They sat in silence for a beat. Then Willow leaned back against the seat, her tone shifting again—back to cool detachment.

“Well. This has been a thoroughly unpleasant experience.”

James said nothing.

Still polite. Still guarded.

Still the professional.

Willow glanced at him, expression unreadable.

“Where are you going now?”

“Work,” James said.

Willow’s brows lifted, slightly amused. “So cold.”

He didn’t comment.

She tapped a nail against her glass. “Then allow me to give you work.”

James looked at her now, directly.

She smiled, just faintly.

“I’m commissioning you for personal protection. Today. I have engagements, appearances, and I’d like someone nearby who doesn’t faint at the sight of Manticores.”

James gave her a flat look. “I hunt Grimm.”

“Yes, and lucky for me, so do bodyguards,” she replied, sipping her drink. “Besides, while the Schnee Dust Company doesn’t have exclusive rights to your services, we do have a contract.”

James frowned slightly. “That was for Dust protection.”

“And I’m made of it,” Willow said dryly. “Legally speaking.”

James exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms. “Fine.”

Willow turned slightly and gave the front intercom a tap. “Klein, take us to the Atlas pier. We’re flying up for lunch.”

“As you wish, Miss Schnee,” Klein’s pleasant voice returned through the speaker.

The limousine adjusted course without a bump, veering toward the private Mantle bullhead port.

James leaned back slightly, settling into the seat with reluctant acceptance.

Willow studied him a moment longer.

“…You’ll need to change.”

“No.”

Willow blinked. “You’re wearing Huntsman gear.”

“I’m not here to impress Atlas socialites.”

She sighed. “Fine. Be a moody Huntsman, then.”

James said nothing.

Willow sat back, sipping her mineral water like it was wine.

Outside, the bullhead waited to lift them above the clouds.

The restaurant sat on one of Atlas’s highest platforms, a  spire of glass and steel that pierced the clouds like a blade wrapped in velvet. Every corner gleamed with excess. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Waiters in white gloves and designer vests moved like clockwork, their smiles curated by years of training.

James sat opposite Willow Schnee in a room full of old names and new money.

And he didn’t say a word.

His clothes, battle gear, layered armor panels muted beneath his long coat clashed with the tailored suits and satin dresses that filled the room. But he moved with precision. Sat straight. Elbows in. Napkin folded across his knee. Cutlery held with flawless form.

He ate like he’d been built for this place.

Willow watched him across a long-stemmed glass of wine, brows raised in amused disbelief.

“Good manners,” she said, voice crisp. “Though I’d argue they’re wasted under that outfit.”

James cut his steak with a surgeon’s touch and didn’t look up. “I didn’t come here for appearances.”

“No,” she said. “You came because I told you to.”

James finished chewing, set his utensils down, and raised his glass in a motion so clean it could’ve passed military inspection. “And because there’s a contract.”

Willow smiled faintly, swirling her wine. “Indeed.”

The conversation died again.

She talked, though, airing her grievances with quiet venom. About Jacques. About suitors and opportunists. About Atlas boardroom parasites who wanted a piece of her family name. She wore her bitterness like jewelry—well-set, polished, impossible to ignore.

“…They think because I smile, I’m weak,” she said, tone light but icy. “But I promise you, James, hell will freeze over before I let anyone take what belongs to me.”

James quietly shook his head, still chewing, gaze lowered to his plate.

But internally, the words curled in his mind.

If she cuts Jacques off completely...

Would her children even be born?

Would Winter Schnee exist?

The thought lodged like a shard of ice behind his ribs. Winter, the girl who’d betrayed him in his other life, turned her back, sided against everything he gave his life to build.

And yet...

I’m relieved, he thought bitterly.

Relieved that maybe she wouldn’t grow up in this twisted family. Relieved that she might not be there to stab at him when everything fell apart. Relieved that—

You’re disgusting, another part of him whispered.

She was a child. A product of this place. Of this woman sitting in front of you. Of a child who you turned into a soldier.

He pressed his fingers lightly to his face.

Willow raised an eyebrow. “Why the long face, James?”

James lowered his hand. “Nothing.”

She didn’t push.

The rest of the dinner passed in practiced silence. Willow kept drinking, voicing threats with a smile. James kept eating, every movement a reflection of his training. Polite. Silent. Calculated.

Afterward, he followed her from one appearance to the next.

Public forums. Fundraisers. Board meetings.

Willow Schnee, daughter of Nicholas, roared across the room with the same elegance as a lioness in silk. She schmoozed, shook hands, made pointed barbs with the same smile she used to thank donors.

James stood behind her like a shadow, unmoving, unreadable.

The media, curious, circled like flies.

“A new bodyguard?” one reporter asked.

James turned, met the man’s gaze, and said in a voice that hadn’t lost its edge.

“I’m not here for interviews.”

The tone was calm, crisp, commanding hit like a slap.

The reporter backed off.

Most of them did.

Wordless and towering, James didn’t need weapons to be dangerous.

He only needed presence.

By the time the last engagement ended, and the limousine hummed back to the Atlas terminal, James was exhausted, not from the threat of Grimm or the weight of his gear, but from politeness.

From posturing.

From smiling without sincerity and greeting men who had never earned their titles.

He didn’t say it out loud.

But as the car floated through the clouded night, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a second.

Tiresome day.

Chapter Text

Commission work from the SDC came steady, and with it, a strange new routine. James had found himself regularly at Willow Schnee’s side, not guarding her so much as keeping the noise away. Boardroom sharks. Tabloid mongers. Opportunists who mistook silk snow gloves for softness.

Willow let him handle the loud ones. She handled the rest.

Sometimes, they head to the mines.

And their trips to the mines were the quietest.

The lift clanked down deep into the caverns where Dust glimmered like fire trapped in stone. The walls pulsed with faint light, and the air was dry, sharp. Dangerous.

James stood beside Nicholas Schnee in full gear, observing. The old man, still walking with the dignity of a n despite the growing rasp in his lungs, now wore a filtration mask at James’s insistence.

He hadn’t wanted to. Until the medical scans came back.

Dust inhalation was slowly eating his lungs. It would have been fatal if they hadn’t noticed. It was expensive to treat. But Nicholas didn’t flinch. He didn’t cut corners. His workers were already being outfitted with similar equipment.

James respected that. Deeply.

It made him wonder… would this change Nicholas’s fate?

In his other life, the SDC patriarch had been buried under the weight of his own goodwill and naivety, manipulated by Jacques until there was nothing left. But now?

Jacques had made an enemy of both Willow and her father. And Nicholas Schnee was not the kind of man to forgive someone who tried to leverage his daughter and company in one move.

Jacques might have just dug his own grave.

James didn’t smile at the thought.

He couldn’t.

Because he remembered another Jacques. One whose body he had melted behind the recoil of Due Process’s cannons, the twin revolvers still holstered at his side. Remembered how the man’s face twisted as the charged shot hit center mass, how his body melted under the green heat. It hadn’t been this Jacques.

But it didn’t matter.

Murder, even righteous, left a taste.

“Absent-minded,” Willow’s voice snapped him back. Haughty, amused. “No—always elsewhere, you.”

James turned, professional mask intact. “Just a few thoughts, Ma’am.”

She was in white today.

A high-collared suit, cleanly pressed. Red tie with the Schnee crest, tucked just so. A long skirt that brushed against her heels, snow-fur wrap around her shoulders. Hair pinned with an atlesian elegance.

He blinked once. It shouldn’t have surprised him, he knew Willow Schnee had potential. Talent, presence, fire. But so much of it had been buried in another life, beneath Jacques’ shadow. It was Willow who kept Nicholas’s connections alive in the early days. Jacques may have earned the elites’ trust, but it was Willow who got him in the door.

Now, free from that shadow, she moved with precision. Her smile, still cutting. Her posture, rather imperial.

She might just make the SDC something else, James thought. And unlike Jacques, she had inherited her father’s grace and some of his ruthlessness.

Willow caught him staring.

“What?” she asked.

“You’d make a good president,” James said simply.

Willow snorted, flipping her wrap over one shoulder. “Will be one,” she corrected. “They can squabble over candidates, I’ll just take the seat.”

There was bitterness in her voice. Not rage, just the weight of everything she nearly lost. James had seen it. The spiral. The way parties, meetings, and boardroom games always ended with a half-full glass.

He’d nudged her away from the edge more than once. Not with speeches. With presence. With simple, consistent resistance to her worst impulses. Klein helped. Nicholas helped. But it had been James who didn’t blink when she was heading to her worst vices.

Now she drank only socially. Still too often, but no longer to forget.

“I’ll go back to my regular commissions after this,” James said, watching the snow fall beyond the window.

Willow nodded. “I can handle this much now.”

“You have Aura,” he said. “You should be able to handle more than that.”

“I can,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But why would I? Better to leave the messy parts to professionals.”

James nodded once, turning to leave, but Willow’s voice stopped him.

“Oh and I will need you again when my schedule frees up. To hunt something.”

He looked back. “A threat?”

Willow smiled like a cat with a secret.

“No. A collection.”

James’s brow rose.

“I want something better than a Boarbatusk on display,” she said with mock offense. “A Nevermore. Manticore. Maybe something rarer. Something with bite.”

He blinked once.

“That your new hobby?”

“A girl has to unwind somehow,” Willow said, lifting a glass of water like it was wine. “Besides, a little Grimm here and there adds flair to my Semblance.”

James gave a slow nod. “Understood. I’ll take a note.”

Willow’s smile turned faintly victorious as she stepped past him, heels clicking on marble.

James didn’t say anything more, but quietly filed her request away inside his mind.

James left the SDC building alone, stepping into the crisp air of Atlas. The wind bit at his face. Snowflakes swirled gently from the sky. He stopped for a moment to look up, not at the clouds, but at the skyline, then at the edge of the city, where Mantle flickered below like a hearth under glass.

He kept walking.

Past storefronts. Past statues. Past polished streets that masked the elitist rot beneath.

Sometimes he flinched, suddenly and uncontrollably, phantom flashes of Atlas breaking apart, streets collapsing into the ground, the sky filled with wings and screams and dust.

The worst were the flickers.

Grimm. Not real. Not here. Just his mind looping back—replaying the fall.

James slowed his breathing, but his hands were already curled into fists.

Was he wrong?

That question never left him.

Trust. Unity. Love.

They had preached it. And turned on him the moment he took steps they didn’t like. They painted him as a villain, called him paranoid, power-hungry. Maybe they weren’t wrong. Maybe he had cracked. But it wasn’t unprovoked.

They lied to his face. Over and over.

And what did it accomplish?

Atlas—gone. Mantle—gutted. Thousands dead, scattered, broken.

And all for what?

To send humanity’s last defenses to a desert kingdom that didn’t even have running water, whose credo was survival of the fittest.

Was he bitter?

Yes. He could admit that.

He shook his head, banishing the thoughts, and found a bullhead heading down to Mantle. He brought his hover bike with him and rode silently through the lower city. Streets lit with artificial heat, shadows long in the alleyways. The engine purred beneath him. His mind didn’t quiet.

Near the square, a White Fang demonstration was underway—peaceful, for now. A circle of Faunus held signs, demanding rights, regulation, protections. James stayed at the edge, watching. He didn’t interfere.

He just watched.

Then he left. Got coffee from a corner stall. Black. No cream. No sugar.

That’s when Sion Greymoon found him.

“You ever take a break?” the younger man muttered, leaning against a lamppost, coat dusted in frost.

James raised a brow. “You look like you need one.”

Sion grunted. “Maybe if I was as lucky as you. You’re not even an officer anymore, and still the General can’t shut up about you.”

James gave a tight nod. “You’re doing good work.”

“Save it.” Sion waved off the compliment like it like it physically stung. “Good work gets you a medal. Great work gets you a longer leash and no sleep. No wonder you want out of this work. Should have guessed.”

James took a slow sip of his coffee.

“How’s General Chopper?” he asked flatly.

Sion shrugged. “Alive. Still strict. Probably sharpening knives with your name on them just in case you ever try something again.”

James didn’t blink. “He’s thorough.”

“He’s waiting,” Sion corrected, then eyed him sidelong. “But between you and me… he’d rather you lead the charge than anyone else.”

James kept his expression neutral. “You didn’t come here to gossip.”

“No,” Sion admitted, standing straighter. His tone changed—clipped, official. “There’s a faction. You’ve probably heard the name: The Tower.”

James froze.

Just a moment, but his jaw clenched, the grip on his cup tightened. The cold coffee inside rippled.

Sion didn’t notice.

“They’re surfacing again. Here. Vacuo. Mistral. And not like before, this time it’s organized. Religious tones. Some kind of cult. Worshipping a goddess or something.”

James felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.

He remembered that name. The Tower.

Back in the other life, he’d written them off at first as just another insurgent group. Until he knew what they truly were. Part of Salem’s web. Part of the rot. The black threads running deep under Remnant’s skin.

He remembered the raids. The black eyes and veins resembling Salem’s skin. The sacrifices.

The blood.

James said nothing.

His ears buzzed as Sion kept talking, the words blurring until James forced himself back to focus. Mettle demanded it.

“…and that’s why I’m here,” Sion said finally. “The Councilman, Headmaster, and General of Atlas wants your help.”

James’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Sion shrugged. “You’re the best Huntsman in Solitas. That’s not flattery. That’s data. You’ve taken more high-tier contracts in the last six months than some do in a decade.”

James didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he recited, coldly, “Under the Huntsmen Regulation Statute 47A, I retain the right to refuse any commission not tied to immediate regional threat or contracted prior to formal request.”

Sion didn’t blink. “You could invoke that. You’d be in the right.”

“But?”

“But we’re not forcing you,” Sion said plainly. “We’re asking. Because we know you’ve proven to be a good Huntsman.”

James looked at him then. Really looked.

Sion’s face wasn’t suspicious. It wasn’t challenging.

It was tired.

Tired and stretched thin. Like someone trying to hold back a storm with a bucket.

James exhaled through his nose. Turned away, looking back toward the streets of Mantle.

Snow dusted the ground. His hover bike hummed faintly behind him.

He could walk away. Disappear into more Grimm hunts. Bodyguard work. Go back to his quiet routine of pretending the worst was behind him.

But The Tower was rising again.

And James knew exactly what that meant.

After a long pause, James spoke.

“I’ll need a dossier. Names. Locations. Known assets.”

Sion blinked, surprised. “So you’ll—?”

“I didn’t say yes.” James looked him dead in the eye. “I said if I’m doing this, I want to know everything.”

Sion nodded slowly. “Understood. I’ll get you the files. I hope you can spare time to mee the General, James.”

James handed him the empty coffee cup. “And get me something stronger next time.”

Sion cracked a dry grin. “Got it, Sir.”

James walked past him without another word, coat catching the wind as he mounted his hover bike.

He had a bad feeling.

The Tower didn’t rise without something pulling it up from below.

And he knew exactly what that something was.

Chapter Text

The bullhead hissed as its doors opened.

James stepped out with his boots, striking the landing platform with a crisp thud.

He was in full huntsman gear and was armed to the teeth.

Atlas Academy stood tall before him, pristine as ever with  steel, glass, and snow.

Perfectly maintained like An emblem of order and power rising above Mantle’s flickering glow.

He looked across the campus.

Drills were underway on the south field. Cadets were in rigid formation.

Instructors were barking orders with militarized precision.

From Semblance tests. Dust calibration. Aura tests.

James allowed himself a brief moment of nostalgia.

This had once been home.

The halls were always cleaned. He crossed the corridor in silence, heading to the central elevator. A familiar path burned into muscle memory.

The lift opened with a soft chime, revealing a grand steel door.

James pushed it open.

The Headmaster’s office hadn’t changed much. High windows overlooking the training grounds. Heavy bookshelves. Tactical monitors embedded in the walls. A faint smell of oil and snow.

It was different when he took over the position.

And there at the far end stood Headmaster Nick Chopper.

Stocky. Gray at the temples. Muscular despite the weight of age. His back was to James, hands folded behind him, broad shoulders squared like a fortress. At his side leaned his weapon, the Lumberfeller a massive hybrid of axe and shotgun, forged for brutal practicality.

“You know,” Chopper rumbled, “when I heard you were coming, I wasn’t sure if I should be proud or disappointed.”

James stood silently, posture rigid.

The Headmaster turned, sharp blue eyes settling on him. “I was disappointed, for a while. Thought you backed down. Couldn’t handle it. Walked away from the officer’s path because it was too steep.”

He stepped closer, his boots like anvils on the polished floor.

“But then,” Chopper continued, “I kept hearing the reports. Huntsman James Ironwood. Dozens of missions. Scores of confirmed Grimm kills. Bandits routed. Settlements cleared. Efficient. Disciplined. Surgical.”

He tilted his head. “It seems you didn’t retreat. You simply redeployed elsewhere on your own.”

James nodded once. “Sir.”

Chopper studied him. “You should’ve taken the commission. With your record, you’d already be commanding your own operations by now.”

“I know.”

Chopper frowned. “Then why?”

James cut him off, calmly. “Because this gives me freedom. I’m not bound by politics. I choose where I go. Who I help. How I fight.”

He looked out the window, voice even. “In a seat of power, you carry a crown of rules. Out there, I can move faster than the red tape.”

Chopper grunted. “You sound like a man avoiding accountability.”

James didn’t flinch. “I’ve had more of that than most.”

Chopper folded his arms. “You’re wasting your reach.”

James turned toward him, slower this time.

“No,” he said. “Atlas is.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut steel.

Chopper narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

James walked closer to the window, pointing with a gloved finger toward the southern horizon. “All I see from this office is Atlas. And Mantle. Nothing beyond. Nothing beneath. We have an entire continent covered in untapped ground, vulnerable settlements, lost Dust lanes. And the Kingdom acts like it doesn’t exist.”

“You think we’re negligent?”

“I know it.”

Chopper’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand the politics—”

“I do,” James interrupted. Calm. Flat. “I’ve walked those frozen roads. Eaten beside starving and cold civilians. Atlas doesn’t govern Solitas. It hides from it.”

The Headmaster said nothing.

James turned fully, hands behind his back now. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

“You think this Kingdom can survive by looking inward forever?” he asked. “You build strength by stretching it. You conquer ground, not just guard it. All that unused power. All those untouched people. Left to rot because the council and the Kingdom fear getting their hands cold.”

Chopper scowled. “You know what kind of resistance that would draw.”

“I do,” James said simply. “And I know they’ll fold.”

Chopper blinked. “What?”

“The elites,” James said. “The boardroom generals. The politicians with velvet gloves. They’re nothing without us. Their security contracts, their tax havens, their infrastructure, they all lean on the Atlesian military’s protection. On our enforcement. One well-timed push? They’ll cave.”

Chopper stared at him.

James pressed the point. “Under Statute Nine-Forty, Section C, Clause Sixteen, any civilian organization operating under Atlesian charter is subject to enforced cooperative deployment in times of border instability.”

He let that sink in.

“We apply pressure,” he added. “We get movement.”

Chopper took a long breath, then sighed. “You almost sound like a man who’s done this for years. I could still give you a chance to be in this organization, James.”

James’s eyes flickered, just for a moment.

He looked away. “The seat’s not meant for me.”

Chopper didn’t press.

He just gestured to a chair. “Sit down, James Ironwood. Let’s talk about the Tower.”

The office had gone quiet after James sat.

Headmaster Chopper stood by the window, arms folded behind his back, as if preparing himself to break a long-standing silence. The overhead lights hummed. The wind outside pressed against the glass. Atlas stood still, polished, frozen, watching.

“I’m going to offer you something rare,” Chopper said, turning. “A specialist designation. On record, you’d be an agent of Atlas, not tied to its chain of command, but still operating under its authority.”

James’s eyes didn’t change. But inside, his pulse skipped.

“A license to act independently,” Chopper continued. “You pick your missions. You travel as you see fit. You’re accountable only to the Headmaster and the General of Atlas. You’ll have access to certain funds, resources, and classified intelligence. But the decisions, your path, that’s yours.”

“That’s quite a lot of power,” James said, voice even. “And a lot of trust.”

“It is.”

James leaned back slightly, his professional mask never cracking. “And if I argue against this role? This trust?”

“Then I’d be more convinced you deserve it.”

James didn’t smile, but he gave the faintest nod.

Chopper stepped closer to his desk. “I’m getting old, Ironwood. And while I’m not out of the fight yet, we both know what the future looks like. Greymoon’s promising, but still green. Stubborn. Needs mentorship. He respects you and won’t try to get rid of the position once I’m out.. If we groom him right, he could be a fine general one day.”

“Maybe.”

“But before that,” Chopper said, voice growing heavier, “I need someone to handle a problem. A problem too dangerous to give to the standard forces.”

James tilted his head. “The Tower.”

“Yes,” Chopper said. “But not just that.”

He took a breath, moving behind his desk.

“There’s a story you need to know,” he said, lowering into his chair. “Old. Not a fairy tale old, but close enough. A girl. Locked in a tower.”

James said nothing.

“Her father was once kind. A good man. But grief warped him, losing his wife in childbirth broke something. He became obsessed with keeping the girl safe. Overprotective. Isolated her in a tower surrounded by magic. No doors. No stairs.”

James folded his arms slowly, his gaze sharpening.

“The father would visit,” Chopper continued, “but only to bring her gifts. Possessions. Trinkets. No real affection. No freedom. He thought he was protecting her. But all he did was imprison her.”

Chopper leaned forward slightly. “The girl had a nanny. Someone brave. That woman gave her books. Stories of the outside world. Adventures. Love. Struggle. Triumph. Everything she’d never experience.”

“She began to want more.”

James watched him silently.

“One day,” Chopper said, “the girl threw one of her books out the window. She wanted to see if it could pass the magical barrier. It did. That changed everything.”

Chopper’s voice grew quieter, more deliberate.

“She convinced her father to give her pen and paper. Wrote a letter. Tucked it into a book. Tossed it into the wind.”

“And people came,” James said.

Chopper’s eyes met his.

“Yes. Dozens. Hundreds. Heroes. Adventurers. Saviors. All drawn by her story. Most died. Her father’s forces slaughtered them. Each one who came to help her… became a casualty.”

James clenched his jaw. He didn’t have to pretend to know this part.

“Eventually,” Chopper said, “a hero made it. Broke through. Killed the father. Freed her.”

James inhaled quietly. “And what did the girl do?”

Chopper smiled without humor. “She asked, ‘What now?’ And the hero said, ‘Whatever you want.’”

The silence after that stretched long.

James looked down at the floor, arms still crossed. He could hear his heart. Steady. Loud.

Nick leaned back in his chair, then let out a slow breath. “Some think it’s just a fable. But others see it as a call.”

James looked up.

“They call her The Lady in the Tower. Or simply… the Witch.”

He tapped a key on his console. A hologram flickered up.

Map coordinates. Red flags scattered across regions. Signs of cult activity. Strange patterns. Missing persons.

“They believe she can control the Grimm. And worse… they believe she’s divine. A force of nature. A goddess wronged by men.”

James didn’t say anything.

“She’s gained followers over the years since her re-appearance,” Chopper went on. “Hundreds. Maybe more. Most are local radicals. Some Huntsmen gone rogue. Some just desperate people who want a god to believe in.”

He folded his hands.

“This is confidential, James Ironwood. You don’t have to do anything. You can walk out now, and no one would question you.”

James stared at the hologram for a moment longer.

Then looked away.

He crossed his arms.

And despite everything in him screaming not to, he said. “Tell me.”

Chopper nodded, face grim.

“Her name… is Salem.”

James blinked.

And after a pause so slight it could have been missed, he allowed his eyes to narrow, his mouth to part just enough to look surprised.

It was a decent act.

Chopper didn’t seem to notice.

James leaned in. “And what do you need from me?”

Chopper locked eyes with him.

“I need someone who doesn’t flinch. I need someone who’ll burn their own fear if it means keeping the flame lit for the rest of us and that man seems to be you.”

James’s mouth was dry. His arms remained folded. But he nodded once.

Always professional.

Always cold.

“Then… you’ve found the right man.”

Nick Chopper didn’t move from his seat as James studied the holographic map.

But his next words came low. Firm. Almost fatherly.

“I’m doing this because I believe you can do more.”

James kept his gaze forward. “You said that before.”

“I meant it.”

A pause.

James turned slightly. “So why now? Why the title? The autonomy? Why this mission?”

Chopper hesitated, not out of doubt, but out of weight. “Because you made a show that made believe so.”

James blinked once.

Chopper leaned forward, voice heavy. “You’ve been quiet, but not invisible. Clearing out Grimm, saving settlements Atlas abandoned, marching through the snow with nothing but your guns and resolve. The people talk. The elite talk. Hell, command talks.”

He rested his elbows on the desk. “And I’m tired of watching good men die while politics spin their wheels. So I want a person who saw through it all and is willing to do the job.”

Silence passed again.

Then Chopper added, more quietly, “And maybe… I want assurance.”

James tilted his head.

“Atlas must always rely on Atlas, not on some centuries-old fairy tale,” Chopper said. “That’s our pride. Our curse. But out there… in the dark corners where Atlas’s lights don’t shine? We need someone who isn’t chained to the council.”

He tapped a few keys. The hologram flickered again, showing a small fortress nestled in the northeast quadrant of the Solitas map.

“This is Fort Arrowfell. Remote. Cold. Understaffed, but not incompetent. They’re loyal. They’ve been briefed about your role as Agent of Atlas.”

James studied the image. “They’ll assist?”

“They’ll back you,” Chopper confirmed. “So long as it’s the Tower… or Grimm.”

James nodded once, then turned toward the door.

He was almost gone when Nick called out. “I’m counting on you, James. The rest will be sent to you on the usual channels.”

James stopped. His back straight. His hands behind him.

Then, quietly. “Yes, Sir.”

The elevator ride down was quiet.

Too quiet.

The hum of gears. His own breath.

No one else.

When the doors slid open, James walked the halls of Atlas Academy like a ghost.

Some students passed him, saluting, whispering.

He ignored them.

He stepped outside.

The wind cut against his coat.

Snow swirled above the rooftops of the city. The towers gleamed under the weight of the sky. He looked upward, past the clouds, into the endless pale light and unto the shattered moon.

His breath steamed as he muttered to himself. “I couldn’t walk away.”

No one heard it but him.

And it wasn’t pride in his voice.

It was disgust.

“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath. “Why can’t I just walk away?”

Chapter Text

James walked the streets of Atlas in silence.

The wind was gentler here than on the outskirts. Polished. Controlled. The city’s infrastructure hummed beneath his boots with quiet energy, Dust-fueled heaters, humming lights, self-cleaning streets. The illusion of control.

The illusion of peace.

Atlas always looked perfect on the outside.

As he passed, he saw all kinds of people.

A man in a long navy coat, face red with laughter as he shared lunch with colleagues. A young couple, arguing about the cost of a new home in the central ring. A sanitation worker adjusting his gloves, nodding quietly to each passerby. Students from the academy drifting past in pairs, buzzing with nervous excitement about exams.

The elites walked briskly, shoes echoing against steel. Soldiers stood tall at checkpoints. Workers huddled in cafés with their hands wrapped around mugs.

And James, tall, armed, and quiet, just walked.

He didn’t stand out. Not here.

Not unless you looked too closely at his eyes.

He stopped in front of a storefront. Display windows framed shining toys, little mechanical models of Atlesian airships and soldiers. Inside, a child—barely eight was speaking with bright eyes and rapid excitement, hands flailing as she described her dreams to her parents.

“…and then I’ll be the best pilot in all of Atlas! I’ll protect the sky with my team! Just like Captain Rowan!”

Her parents smiled, indulgent, proud.

James didn’t smile.

He only watched.

And wondered if the girl would survive the future.

If she’d grow up into a war, she didn’t ask for.

If she’d become another name buried in a collapsed street, or another light extinguished under black wings.

He looked away before he had to face the answer.

The streets shifted as he walked.

The crowds thinned.

The lights changed.

Voices dimmed.

James passed people speaking without noticing him. Shopkeepers sweeping. Retired soldiers playing cards on a quiet bench. A girl crying quietly behind a building, talking to someone on her Scroll. Her words were raw—about bills, about hunger, about a job that hadn’t come through.

He didn’t speak.

But he stayed long enough to be sure no one else would take advantage of her.

Then he kept moving.

Eventually, the city faded behind him.

James walked until his boots touched soil until stone turned to the path and the sky widened. He stepped into the wheat fields, far from the city center.

The golden stalks swayed gently in the wind, whispering their own language. The air smelled of dust and warmth and cold earth. No engines. No voices. Just the sound of wind bending wheat, again and again.

He stood there for a long time.

Letting the silence settle over him like a cloak.

Letting his heart slow.

But the quiet didn’t bring peace.

It brought the questions.

Am I walking the same path again?

That was the first one.

And once it came, they didn’t stop.

Will I end up like before? That man... cut off, broken, drowned by fear, consumed by duty? A man who sacrificed so much for a kingdom that spat on him?

James looked down at his hands. Flesh. No steel.

But the ghost of the old limbs still ached.

He remembered the cold metal. The constant calibration. The weight. The loss. He remembered what it meant to give pieces of himself for a cause.

And what it meant to be thrown away when the cause changed shape.

Was I wrong?

The thought hit like a hammer.

Was I wrong about them? About what I did? Did I break first, or was I broken from the start?

James clenched his fists. Mettle stirred in his chest, trying to anchor him, trying to force the feeling down. It helped. But it couldn’t smother the truth.

He was afraid.

Afraid of what agreeing to this path again meant.

Afraid that every enemy he killed was just another step toward becoming him again.

Afraid that no matter how many people he saved, it wouldn’t wash away what had already been done.

Afraid of redemption.

Afraid of hope.

His thoughts twisted like wire inside him.

In another life, he’d tried to save everyone. Tried to hold the line while others gave speeches about unity. He had cut himself into pieces for a future that never came.

And in the end?

He’d pressed a button that would have ended everyone, because he believed no one else would save them.

He hated that version of himself.

But he understood him.

And it terrified him to know that man was still inside, still whispering in his ear.

You can’t trust them.

They’ll turn on you again.

You know what needs to be done.

Mettle hissed against the thought, but even it couldn’t deny how familiar the road felt.

He was young again.

But the old man, the desperate general drowning in ghosts wasn’t gone.

He was just asleep.

James knelt in the wheat.

Let the wind pass through his fingers.

He had spent every day since returning trying to make things right. Hunting Grimm. Helping settlements. Working with Willow. Holding the line quietly.

He told himself it wasn’t atonement.

But that was a lie.

He had been trying to bury his sins under service. Trying to forget the faces. Trying to be better.

But how could you ever forget?

He had once given his entire life to mankind’s victory.

He had sacrificed everything, his body, his friends, his heart.

And still, the world bled.

Still, children like that girl in the toy shop would grow up into battles they didn’t start.

Still, monsters gathered in the shadows.

James stood in the silence, unable to move.

Because he knew now.

Knew that even in a second chance, he could never walk away.

The Tower would rise.

The Grimm would swarm.

Atlas would tighten its borders.

And those he once called friends, those he had bled for, would trust strangers before they trusted him.

He had lived through it once already.

He remembered their faces. The betrayal carved into every expression. The doubt. The cold distance. How they whispered behind closed doors while he fought to hold their world together. How they looked at him like a weapon that had turned inward.

They’d called him paranoid.

Called him broken.

Maybe he was.

James stared at the horizon, unblinking. The ache behind his eyes was not from fatigue, but something heavier. Loneliness. Regret. And a deep, sadness that no time could dull.

Perhaps only by waking in this new past did he realize just how far he had fallen in the last life.

Back then, the path had seemed clear.

But clarity had a price.

I wasn’t ready.

The thought was raw. Blunt.

I couldn’t prepare for the unthinkable. For the unfair.

No one could.

He had tried. Gods, he had tried.

Tried to carry the kingdom. Tried to save the world.

And when it didn’t work?

He had prepared to sacrifice everything.

It had been cruel. But it was life. Unforgiving. Unrelenting.

James clenched his jaw, forcing the weight of it down.

Through that sadness… a flicker remained.

A light. Not hope. Not quite.

But something close.

James had always believed in one thing above all else:

The indomitable will of mankind.

He had seen it in cadets pushing through fractured limbs and bitter cold. In soldiers holding the line when Dust ran out and aura cracked. In civilians digging through rubble with bare hands, trying to find one more survivor.

If you endure, you prevail. Not always today. Not always soon. But eventually.

That was the truth he lived by.

The human spirit endures.

Even when bodies break.

Even when allies fall.

Even when kingdoms betray themselves.

Resolve outlasts ruin.

But knowing the future now…

Knowing what he would become...

It twisted something inside him.

In the end, he had become a warning.

A man consumed by duty.

A man who believed so deeply in the mission that he forgot the people.

He had told himself it was necessary. That Atlas needed someone unflinching. That sacrifices had to be made.

He still wasn’t sure he had been wrong.

But it didn’t make it right.

And the worst part?

Even now, armed with knowledge, given a second life, he could still feel that version of himself deep inside. The general. The martyr. The weapon waiting to be pointed.

Waiting for an excuse.

James closed his eyes, breathing deep.

Trying to believe he could choose differently this time.

Trying to believe that even if the path led to the same place… he might walk it better.

And if not for redemption…

Then, at least for something resembling peace.

James stood in the wheat, alone beneath the wide and silent sky.

The golden stalks rustled around him once more, pushed by a wind that couldn’t care less who lived or died.

Nature did not weep for broken men.

And for the first time since waking in this new life, James allowed himself to feel it fully.

Exhaustion.

Not of the body.

Of the soul.

Maybe I’m just looking for an excuse, he thought bitterly. A reason not to do this again. A reason that feels noble enough to fool myself.

Maybe all this reflection, all this walking, all this mourning is just a lie I’ve polished to look like virtue.

The thought cut deep.

And that made him angry.

No. Furious.

James clenched his fists until the leather of his gloves strained.

He screamed at the sky at no one and nothing, because there was no one to hear.

“I HAVE GIVEN UP ALL I HAVE!”

His voice cracked through the air like thunder, echoing off the small hills.

“WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!”

His hands shook now, jaw tight with rage and grief.

“PLEASE!” he shouted. “LET ME WALK AWAY FROM THIS!”

His voice dropped, softer, choked by something deeper.

“Just let me be…”

The wind blew through him like it was answering. But it wasn’t kind.

It was hollow.

Because even as the words tore from his throat, James heard the lie inside them.

He dropped to his knees, breath ragged.

The wind pushed the wheat against him, brushing his shoulders like ghosts.

Because he knew.

He knew that the man who had bled for Atlas, who had offered his body, his future, and his sanity for humanity’s survival, that man was still in him.

And that man?

That man couldn’t let go.

He wouldn’t.

Because even now, cut down, remade, returned, he still believed in duty.

He still believed people deserved someone who wouldn’t flinch when the darkness came.

And that man, the one everyone called broken, the one the world spat out…

He was the only one who had stayed when everyone else turned away.

That wasn’t madness.

That was conviction.

James looked up, tears he would never admit to brimming in his eyes.

He hated himself for being unable to run.

But the truth was clearer now than ever.

The good man, the true man inside him, still lived.

And he couldn’t believe in surrender.

Not now.

Not when there was still work to be done.

But James didn’t stand.

Not yet.

He knelt in the wheat, head bowed, shoulders heavy beneath invisible weight. The world around him was golden, glowing in the dying sun. And yet everything he saw felt colorless. Dim.

That scream… it hadn’t helped.

It never did.

Because now came the part that always followed as always… the silence.

And with it, sorrow.

Not the kind that weeps loud and dramatic.

But the kind that sits.

Deep.

Still.

And endless.

I was supposed to be the strong one.

That thought came first.

The one who made the hard calls. Who held the line. Who bore the burden so others wouldn’t have to.

He’d trained for that.

Lived for that.

And in the end… that’s what he’d been. That’s all he’d been.

A man-shaped shield.

And when he finally broke, they didn’t see the pieces. They only saw the failure.

A General turned man.

James felt his throat tighten.

Not from grief.

But from guilt.

Because for all the people who had died, all the places that fell, all the screams beneath crumbling skies… the one life he couldn’t forgive losing was his own.

Not death.

His life.

The one he gave up inch by inch, compromise by compromise.

Trust traded for necessity.

Hope traded for strategy.

Love… traded for war.

The memories came too fast now.

Steel limbs. Empty halls. The reflection of a revolver in blood-streaked glass. The sound of an old friend’s voice calling him paranoid. The silence that followed after. The explosion he ordered. The weight of a city in freefall.

Atlas…

Gone.

And no matter how far back he’d gone, how many lives he saved now, he could never forget that.

Never forgive himself for it.

Not really.

He pressed his palm to his face, trying to breathe.

But even now, Mettle, his Semblance, was failing.

Not because it wasn’t working.

But because even it didn’t know how to protect him from this.

This wasn’t pain. Or fear. Or anger.

This was sorrow.

And it sat with him like an old friend.

One who never left.

James didn’t rise for a long time.

He just stayed there in the wheat, like a man carved from stone, remembering everything he wished he could forget and realizing that this was the cost of caring.

That for all the strength he had, all the precision, all the resolve…

Even he was not immune to mourning.

But he no longer tried to stop the storm inside.

No Semblance.

No armor of will.

No whispered discipline telling him to rise.

For once, he simply allowed it.

He let himself feel.

The sorrow came like floodwaters, slow at first, then all at once.

Just a weight pressing on his chest, pulling the breath from his lungs. His eyes burned. Not because he forced them shut, but because he didn’t.

He let them stay open, let the tears well, and fall in silence.

No battlefield.

No audience.

No judgment.

Only the wind. Only the wheat. Only the truth.

He had loved them.

All of them.

His soldiers.

His students.

His friends.

Even the ones who left him. Even the ones who distrusted him. Even the ones who failed him when he needed them most.

He had loved them so completely, so foolishly, that it had torn him apart.

And in another life, that love had twisted into something cold. Something armored. Something that made him press a trigger.

He had justified it.

It was the only option. The last resort. Necessary.

But now here sitting in a world that hadn’t ended yet, James could finally say what he never allowed himself to admit.

He was sorry.

Sorry he couldn’t be more than what he was.

Sorry he wasn’t strong enough to carry the world the way he wanted to.

Sorry he didn’t let others carry it with him.

He let the sorrow roll through him in waves, every regret, every loss, every moment of silence that should have been filled with a voice he never heard again.

And through it all, he didn’t break.

Because this was the breaking.

And once it had passed, something else would come.

Not peace.

But… clarity.

James wiped his eyes with the back of his glove.

His shoulders still trembled faintly, but the storm had passed.

He hadn’t drowned.

He had survived it.

He stood slowly, the wind brushing over him like a farewell.

There was still a war to fight.

Still lives to protect.

Still paths to walk.

But before that...

He had allowed himself to be human.

And that mattered more than he expected.

Chapter Text

Mantle was colder than usual.

James wondered if the heating system was currently in maintenance. He walked its streets with quiet steps, the clink of his boots lost in the low hum of heaters and the chatter of tired workers. Steam curled from sewer grates. The wind carried the smell of dust, oil, and something metallic.

He didn’t know why he was walking.

Maybe to clear his head.

Maybe to remind himself of what he was fighting for.

Or maybe… he just didn’t want to be alone in his thoughts anymore.

That’s when he heard it.

A familiar chant that was rather soft, measured, respectful.

Turning the corner, he saw them.

A small Faunus protest, huddled near one of Mantle’s government offices. They were calm. Focused. Banners painted by hand. Their expressions were weary but determined. Every motion designed to seem peaceful, nonthreatening.

Trying so hard just to be heard, James thought.

He was already turning to leave when a voice cut across the street.

“Yo! JJ!”

James blinked, then looked up.

Sienna Khan stood a few meters away, arms crossed, hip cocked, the wind tugging at the edges of her gray-red coat. She grinned at him like she’d been waiting there all day.

Hands on her hips, she asked, “What, you protesting now?”

James allowed a faint exhale of amusement. “Just passing by.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re stiffer than usual.”

“I’ve been… in deep thought,” James said, his voice quieter than usual.

Sienna raised a brow. “Aren’t you always?”

A dry chuckle slipped from him, but his face stayed unreadable.

There was a beat of silence.

“…How are you?” he asked.

Sienna tossed her hair, then folded her arms again with a playful pout. “Surprised you remember me, honestly. Figured you were too busy playing fancy bodyguard for Willow Schnee. I keep seeing your mug on the screens! ‘James Ironwood seen accompanying heiress Schnee to gala,’ blah blah.”

James winced. “Apologies.”

Sienna squinted. “You’re way too polite sometimes. It’s suspicious.”

But her tone softened. She tilted her head slightly. “You okay?”

He hesitated.

She noticed, but didn’t press. Instead, she rubbed the back of her neck and mumbled, “Actually… I’ve been thinking.”

James looked at her.

She cleared her throat, then spoke louder, quicker, like ripping off a bandage.

“I might want to… become a teacher.”

James blinked.

Sienna rushed to fill the space. “Like, for real. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but it’s just—ugh—I dunno, I wanna do something that’s not just yelling. I used to think all humans were, well… jerks.”

She gave him a half-glance.

“But then you showed up,” she went on, cheeks pink. “And, I mean, you’re still a bit of a stiff-ass, but… you’re not a bad guy, JJ.”

James stayed silent.

“I realized it’s not about sides,” Sienna said, voice softer. “It’s about ignorance. Faunus who can’t see past their scars. Humans who don’t even try to understand. I’m not saying I’m giving up on my people—but if all we do is stay bitter, stuck on Menagerie, then we’ll never change anything.”

Her voice trembled slightly with how much she meant it.

“I wanna teach the kids better,” she said. “So they don’t grow up angry like I did.”

She looked up.

“…Say something, JJ.”

James didn’t.

He just stared at her.

Not in shock. Not in judgment.

Just… seeing her.

The light in her eyes. The fight in her voice. The quiet hope most people never noticed in time.

A warmth sparked in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in months.

Maybe longer.

Sienna turned beet red. “Ugh, you’re such a asshole! Don’t just stare at me!”

James gave a rare smile.

Not a half-smirk.

Not the flat, professional curve he used to defuse tension.

A real one.

Soft.

Unmistakable.

And maybe even a little dangerous in how charming it was.

Sienna’s jaw dropped.

She fumbled her words. “Wha—hey—y-you can’t just do that with your face!”

James let the smile fade slowly from his lips, but something stayed behind in his expression—gentler than before.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low but genuine. “It’s just… seeing you like this—so full of optimism—it’s… embarrassing.”

Sienna blinked. “Embarrassing?”

James glanced away, gaze drifting toward the quiet protest still murmuring behind them.

“Not in a bad way,” he clarified. “Just… I don’t know. You have this spark. And it made me realize how tired I am.”

He looked back at her.

“How easy it is to forget what it’s like to hope out loud.”

His voice was quiet. Not melancholy, just honest.

Gods, they’re still so young, James thought. Still full of fight. Still believing they can change the world with their hands alone.

And maybe they could.

Maybe that was what he’d lost sight of after coming this time.

He didn’t know what he’d done to make her look at him and reconsider her path, but that small, impossible part of him, buried beneath duty and regret—was glad.

So James nodded once, earnestly. “I support you. Whatever it takes. I hope you make it.”

Sienna stared at him.

Then she groaned, covering her face. “You are so annoying sometimes!”

James blinked, startled.

“I tell you something sweet and personal, and you cheer up watching me squirm. I should punch you—”

She swiped at him playfully, a wide backhand.

James dodged with a quiet laugh, steps light. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re being smug!”

His face had brightened, just enough to show.

Sienna stopped, arms crossed again, looking off to the side.

“…You really cheered up, huh?”

James shrugged. “Thanks to you.”

They both paused in the streetlight’s glow.

Then James tilted his head slightly. “Does this mean you’re going to study?”

Sienna groaned louder. “Ugh, don’t remind me. Yes. I have to. Teachers can’t just, y’know, show up and start being awesome.”

James smirked slightly. “Qualifications.”

“Bureaucratic nightmare,” she muttered. “But yeah.”

James looked thoughtful. “I might be stepping away from Grimm hunting myself. Got… other duties.”

Sienna’s ears twitched. “Hah. Not surprised.”

She shot him a look. “You’ve always looked like someone who carries too many jobs and not enough sleep.”

James sighed. “That easy to read me?”

Sienna narrowed her eyes, mock-serious. “No. You’re a stiff-faced, bullheaded, emotionally repressed jerk.”

James raised a brow.

She smirked.

He stared again.

But this time, she didn’t flinch. She simply met his gaze, chin lifted slightly, one brow arched in familiar challenge. She then turned to the sky, and saw a flake landed on the cuff of James’s coat.

A fragile dot of white against the wool. Others followed in gentle spirals, drifting from the slate-gray sky, settling on the cobblestones with the soft hush of winter’s breath. The city of Mantle slowed in the cold. Footsteps dulled beneath slush and salt. The chatter of protestors across the square had softened to murmurs, voices wrapped in breath clouds and knitted scarves.

James stood at the edge of the protest line, his broad frame still, hands tucked into his coat, revolvers hidden beneath layers of tailored fabric. For a moment, he looked like just another bystander, watching from the fringe with unreadable eyes.

Beside him, Sienna stood firm, arms crossed, her tiger-strips hidden beneath a cloak and her breath visibly steady in the frigid air. Her Faunus ears twitched slightly with every chant, with every new voice that joined in. Despite the cold, despite the quiet hostility from some passersby, she stood tall, bright-eyed, and unshaken.

James took it all in as he stood beside her.

Every detail.

The chipped paint on protest signs. The cautious stares of Faunus holding hands. The shivering child clutching a thermos as her father adjusted her scarf. He saw them not as blips on a mission board, not as statistics, but as people.

People he’d once promised to protect.

“Do you believe in redemption?” he asked suddenly, surprising even himself.

Sienna blinked. “Heavy question.”

“Is it?”

“Depends who’s asking,” she said, tilting her head toward him. “You looking for forgiveness? Did something bad, JJ?”

James didn’t answer right away. “Maybe.”

She stopped. Glancing to face him. “Then yeah. I think people can change. I think mistakes are supposed to hurt. But if you don’t try to be better... then what’s the point?”

He stared down at her.

No longer seeing the leader of a future radical movement. He didn’t see her dossier, her criminal predictions, or her political volatility. She was just the Sienna Khan he knew.

He saw someone trying.

Trying to understand. Trying to grow.

Trying not to let the world turn her hard.

It made something twist inside him.

“Sienna,” he said softly. “You’re going to be a good teacher.”

She flushed. “You can’t just say that with that face, JJ.”

He blinked. “What face?”

“That face! The one that’s all serious and earnest. It’s not fair.”

He gave low chuckle that came from somewhere warm and buried.

She huffed, grinning despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

James’s smile faded, but only slightly.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re changing. You’re choosing to change. That’s more than most ever do.”

Sienna shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I’m not still angry.”

“You should be.”

They started walking again. The protest chants behind them rose in harmony, then softened with the wind.

“I’ve seen what happens when anger is all someone has left,” James said after a long pause. “They stop caring about the people in front of them. Everything becomes about the next fight. The next loss. The next justification.”

Sienna’s voice was quiet. “You’re not talking about me.”

“No.” He glanced sideways. “I’m talking about the man I used to be.”

She didn’t ask.

She didn’t have to.

“Then maybe it’s a good thing you’re someone else now, right?”

He looked down at her, her face lit by the amber glow of a street lamp.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it is.”

James then glanced at her.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “seeing you out here… standing up for what you believe in... it’s inspiring.”

Sienna turned her head, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Coming from you, that’s saying something.”

He allowed himself a quiet chuckle, a rare sound that hung between them like a flicker of warmth in the cold.

“I’ve spent so much time buried in protocols,” he said, “in war tables and fallback scenarios, in command decks and data feeds… I think I forgot what it means to fight for something with nothing but your own voice.”

Sienna smirked. “Well, conviction’s all some of us ever had. That, and stubborn hope.”

James nodded, his eyes tracking a distant airship drifting above. “Hope,” he echoed. “It’s fragile. But maybe… it’s what keeps us from collapsing entirely.”

“Do you ever think about the future?” Sienna asked. Her voice was softer now, as if she wasn’t sure whether to ask him or herself.

“All the time,” James said. He exhaled a slow, visible breath. “It’s both a burden and a beacon. You move toward it, even when every step hurts.”

She nodded, arms tightening around herself. “Sometimes it feels like we’re walking blind.”

“We are,” James admitted, even though he knew a path he walked, he still felt unsure. “But that doesn’t mean we stop walking, it seems.”

Then, with that same spark of sudden resolve she always carried, Sienna turned toward him, fully facing him.

“Alright, that’s it! Let’s make a pact.”

James blinked. “A pact?”

“Yeah,” she said, and though her voice was firm, he saw the nervousness tucked behind it. “No matter where our paths take us… we hold on to hope. We believe that change is possible. And we cheer each other, even if it’s from a distance.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

Not because he didn’t believe in her.

But because a part of him didn’t believe he deserved it.

But he raised his hand, anyway.

“Deal.”

They shook on it. Her grip was warm, strong, unflinching.

He’d held the hands of dying soldiers, trembling children, political backstabbers, and hardened criminals.

But this was something different.

When they let go, Sienna surprised him again.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest. James froze—stiff, unsure, questions rising instinctively in his mind. But she didn’t pull back.

And slowly, slowly, he let the walls fall.

His arms closed around her shoulders.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

“Be safe, JJ,” she said into his coat. “I’d be real troublesome if my human friend just loses his way after being being all inspiring.. I know you won’t, but still. See you later?”

“See you later, Sienna.”

She pulled back, cheeks flushed from cold and something else. Her golden eyes shone with quiet fire. Then, like a gust of wind, she was gone, already weaving back into the crowd.

James stood there a moment longer, hands in his pockets, the snow collecting in his hair, watching her disappear into the cause she believed in and walk to a future she hoped.

A smile touched his face.

And the road ahead didn’t look so lonely.

James Ironwood felt hope.

Chapter Text

The sky above Solitas stretched wide and colorless, a pale sheet smeared with gray. Snow drifted in slow spirals across the tundra, ghosting past the canopy of the military bullhead that cut through the cold air like a razor. Inside, James sat silent, arms crossed over his chest, Due Process holstered at his sides. His breath fogged faintly as the interior struggled against the chill.

They were almost there.

“Approaching Fort Arrowfell,” the pilot called back.

James leaned slightly to look out the window. The shape rose slowly from the horizon a squat, broad silhouette, steel and concrete blending into the frost-bleached world around it. Arrowfell had been built to last.

And it had. But the world had moved on without it until Bram Thornmane decided to plot against him.

It wasn’t always like this, James thought.

Arrowfell had once stood at the edge of Atlas’s expanding dominance, holding fast against the storms and Grimm of Solitas. It had served as a proving ground, a nexus point for experimental tech and elite deployment.

Now it was half-forgotten. Obsolete. A relic tucked away in the snow, locked behind outdated crystal nexus keys and manned by skeleton crews who probably thought their time had come and gone.

Why here? James wondered. Why now?

Sion Greymoon came to mind, young, proud, hungry. A man fast-tracked to sit in the chair James had once occupied, if only in another lifetime. Their paths had diverged. And that was fine. Sion would carry the flag. James would walk this new road.

The bullhead hissed as it landed, skids touching down on a cleared pad just outside the base’s primary gate. From inside, steel walls stretched high and uninviting, topped with rusted deterrents and motionless turrets. James stepped out, boots crunching ice. Snow immediately bit at his exposed cheeks.

Personnel were already assembled in a tight line. Uniforms freshly pressed. Faces guarded.

He saw it in their eyes, the doubt.

Too young.

Too unknown.

A huntsman, not a commander.

They didn’t say it. But they didn’t have to.

Then he saw her.

Leading the group with clipped steps and a frown deep enough to crack concrete — Trish Rust.

James recognized her instantly, even without the bark of her voice. Long blonde hair tied back tight. Olive skin kissed harsh by cold air. Brown eyes narrowed in skepticism. She wore a mauve and white uniform that clashed with her severe expression, jacket flared like she’d marched out of an older era.

Trish Rust.

She hadn’t changed much.

He remembered her. Temper like a blade, sharp and fast. Action-oriented, control-driven. In another timeline, she became one of the Saints, one of the best soldiers and researched he ever worked with.

But right now?

She looked like she wanted to rip the stripes off his coat.

“So,” she said without preamble. “They really did send you.”

James didn’t blink. “They did.”

“I don’t know who you charmed to get this post,” she said, “but I’ve led this base for three years. I know the systems, the protocols, the field patterns. And now I’m supposed to take orders from a—what? An ex-Academy-Officer huntsman who doesn’t even wear a rank?”

James met her gaze, calm and neutral. “If you feel the need to file a report, I’ll make sure it reaches General Chopper himself.”

That made a few of the junior officers flinch.

Trish stared him down for another beat, then clicked her tongue.

“You’re lucky I respect the chain of command.”

“I appreciate the feedback,” James said, professionally and without sarcasm.

Her scowl deepened. But she didn’t push it.

“Follow me,” she said tightly.

He did.

Inside, Fort Arrowfell hadn’t aged with grace. The hallways were lined in bronze and burnt orange plating, a style that dated back to when Mantle was still the heart of the kingdom. Panels flickered with uneven light. The hum of outdated generators filled the air like a constant whisper.

Despite the age, the base functioned. That alone spoke volumes.

James followed Trish deeper, past labs and offices, until they reached the lower levels, the old tech division, now modified and sectioned off. These halls were cleaner, crisper, lined with white-blue glow strips that cast long shadows on the floor.

He recognized some of the faces that turned to glance at him.

Technicians.

Analysts.

Even a few R&D officers.

The Saints, he realized. Not named yet. Not formed yet. But here they were, his organization, unknowingly gathered years before he ever brought them together.

Was this destiny too?

A bitter taste touched the back of his throat.

So many of his decisions, his sacrifices, had come from not knowing this place had what he needed all along.

No, not this place.

These people.

James’s jaw tightened.

We could’ve stopped so much earlier…

They reached a central control room, blue-lit and humming with soft machine code.

James turned to Trish, who stood with arms crossed, her foot tapping lightly with impatience.

“Chief Officer Rust,” he said, no longer just a visitor now, his tone shifting into command. “Gather all staff to the main deployment floor. I want a full briefing in twenty minutes.”

Trish’s eyes flicked upward.

Then narrowed.

And then… she moved.

“Yes, sir.”

The rankless title was said like acid, but it was said.

James remained in the lab as her footsteps echoed away, already mentally preparing what needed to be done.

This was Fort Arrowfell.

His new duty.

His responsibility.

The deployment floor of Fort Arrowfell was cold. Not because the heaters failed, though some groaned with age, but because the weight of expectation hung heavy in the air.

Atlas soldiers stood in rows, backs straight, armor crisp, eyes sharp. Technicians, analysts, specialists stood among them, whispering between breaths. A few glanced at James Ironwood, unsure what to make of the man now placed above them. He had no stars on his shoulders. No medals on his chest.

Just the coat.

James stood before them all. Behind him, the bronze walls of the fortress groaned with the weight of their history. His shadow stretched long across the floor as he stepped forward and began to speak.

“For too long,” he said, voice measured and low, cutting through the hush, “we have stood wrapped in biting wind, our hearts hardened, not from malice, but from necessity.”

Every head turned.

“Some believe that in this frostbitten land, warmth is a luxury. Something we gave up long ago. They look upon our discipline and call it cold. They see our sacrifice and call it blind.”

His eyes swept the crowd, faces tense, skeptical, expectant.

“But they do not understand,” James continued, a steel edge sliding into his voice. “They do not see what we see.”

He paced, slow, deliberate, letting the silence build behind his words.

“We stand in a world where fear and grief threaten to swallow hope whole. Where dreams freeze in the minds of those too tired to dream. Where even a heartbeat feels like rebellion against the silence.”

He stopped. He thought of the Faunus.

“And yet, in this bleakness, we endure.”

There was no fanfare in his tone. No dramatics.

Just truth.

He thought of the people he had seen during his months back in Solitas. Those left behind. Forgotten by a Kingdom that should have stood taller. Villagers who huddled in basements when the Grimm came. Children who learned to run before they learned to speak. And also… the bleak future ahead.

He thought of their faces. The way they still looked at the sky, even when it never looked back.

“We endure,” he said again, firmer now, “because pain is not our enemy. Pain is our reminder that we are alive. That we feel. That we care.”

He clenched his fists behind his back.

“It is the blade that cuts through the apathy of a world on the brink. It rouses the weary. It shakes the foundations of fear.”

Murmurs fell silent. Even Trish Rust’s ever-present scowl faltered slightly.

James took a breath. Then raised his voice, not with volume, but presence.

“So I say this to you now, not as your commander, but as a man who has walked and fought in the Tundras of Solitas. Who has seen what we left behind.”

And as a man who fell with Atlas in another life, he thought.

He stepped forward.

“Wield your weapons to carve a path through the storm.”

Several in the front row visibly straightened.

“To rend the clouds that hang heavy above our heads and show the sun the way back in.”

He turned, addressing the entire room.

“The only warmth left to us is the strength of our unity, hands clasped together in defiance. The only fire still burning is the courage in our hearts.”

It wasn’t rhetoric.

It was belief.

It was James’s new hope.

“The world may not change its seasons for us. But we are Atlas.”

His voice hardened. “We change the world.”

His gaze met theirs, one by one.

“We have made our choice.”

Boots shuffled slightly. Eyes held a new edge.

“We will not surrender to despair.”

He let the words sit, ice-crisp and immovable.

“We will fight because we refuse to accept a future dictated by fear.”

A ripple moved through the crowd that was silent, but undeniable.

James raised his chin. “Forget the old rules. Forget the broken laws carved in stone and long forgotten by the cowards who wrote them.”

Trish blinked once, expression unreadable now.

“We are the chasers of light now.”

He stepped forward.

“We will find our way. Or we will forge it.”

The words landed like a hammer on steel.

“We cannot always know where the path leads. But we must see the light.”

A pause.

“And no matter how thorned the path, no matter how distant the glow…”

He raised his voice one final time.

“We march forward.”

The silence that followed was deep. Alive.

“Whatever comes… we will be ready.

Whatever arrives… we will face it together.

Because we have made our choice.”

He looked across their faces.

Some afraid.

Some unsure.

But many, more than he’d hoped, stood with their jaws set and shoulders squared.

“We will fight against this fate. And we will not go quietly.”

No one spoke for a long time.

Then someone, he didn’t see who, clapped.

And another.

And then the whole floor echoed with it. Not thunderous, not a roar—but steady. Focused.

Earned.

James didn’t smile.

But he felt the weight in his chest shift.

A little lighter.

A little stronger.

And more than anything else—

He was filled with a new resolve.

Let me believe, James hoped truly. That I could do better.

Chapter Text

James stood before the locker mirror, the cold dust-powered fluorescent light overhead buzzing faintly. He looked at the reflection of his coat, scuffed bandolier, utility belt slung low, and the black and white twin guns holstered on his hips.

This was who he had become lately. 

A huntsman, shaped by grit, by failure, by fire.

There was a quiet weight to the coat, to the gear. It felt like armor in more ways than one. Familiar. Trusted.

He didn’t want to take it off.

But formality called for it. And structure.

Though he was given control, autonomy in many ways, the nature of the Saints still operated under Atlas jurisdiction. Officially, it was Research and Development. Off the books, it would become something more. Again.

James knew weapons. He knew how to wield them, how to maintain them. He’d learned to rebuild his own body more times than he could count, back when prosthetic upkeep had been second nature. But the deeper mechanics, the physics, the engineering blueprints, the design of dust-weapons and dust matrices that had always belonged to others. He’d led them, trained with them, fought beside them.

But they were the minds behind the machines.

That was what this place would be again.

If he could do this right.

And maybe… something more.

James didn’t lie to himself. This world needed weapons. The Grimm weren’t going anywhere. They were a disease, a curse buried into the earth’s marrow. No kingdom, no armory, no idealism could wish them away.

But James also believed there had to be more.

A different kind of power.

A different kind of path.

He closed his eyes, letting himself imagine, for just a second a different Solitas. One where tundras weren’t carved with trenches or graves. One where every settlement was connected by clean roads, safe rails, secure outposts. A world where Mantle wasn’t Atlas’s shadow, but its partner. Where Atlas didn’t only guard its walls, but fortified the entire frontier.

He exhaled.

To build that… I would need to be a General.

James knew he had no claim to that seat. Not in this timeline. Not after what he’d done in another. But he could guide it. Shape it. And in Sion Greymoon, he saw possibility. The boy was rough compared to the Captain of the Saints he knew, but was still decisive. With Headmaster Chopper’s mentorship, he could become the kind of leader Atlas truly needed in those dark days.

A better one than James had ever been.

There was a knock at the door.

He turned as it hissed open and paused.

A young woman stepped in, lab coat fluttering behind her. She had long mauve hair that reached her waist in sleek waves. Purple eyes behind white glasses, bright with focus but not yet tempered by experience. Red lipstick, neat and precise. A fitted purple dress and black tights beneath the coat. She moved quickly, precisely, heels echoing on the metal floor.

She was younger than he remembered.

Less weathered.

Less guarded.

But still unmistakable.

“Plum Greenwood,” she said, stopping before him with a straight back and practiced professionalism. “Reporting as your deputy, sir.”

James nodded once, holding her gaze. “Deputy Greenwood.”

His tone shifted unconsciously, slipping into what others once called his general voice . It was calm, unwavering, so natural in its command that Plum’s posture stiffened involuntarily.

Then he saw it, that flicker of discomfort in her eyes.

He blinked, realizing the weight of what he projected, and softened slightly. A rare, apologetic smile touched his lips.

“At ease,” he said, more gently. “No need to brace like we’re under fire.”

She blinked. “Sorry, sir. Force of habit.”

He gestured to the side room with a flick of his head. “Let’s get to it.”

Inside, James found the workstation already prepared, reports stacked, screens flickering with real-time feeds. He took a seat, not relaxing, but settling into the kind of focus he could trust.

Plum followed him, fingers already tapping through security protocols.

James looked over the files. “I need a full overview. Operational capacity, personnel evaluations, current deployments, and an equipment audit.”

Plum blinked, caught off guard by the speed of his request.

“You think we’re not operational?” she asked, not defensive, but close.

“I think,” James said calmly, “that it’s natural for the new man in charge to personally assess the system he’s expected to lead.”

There was no edge in his tone. No challenge.

Just a fact.

Plum hesitated, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

She turned, began pulling reports from the terminal.

James sat in silence for a moment, watching her move.

She wasn’t yet the woman he remembered, the one who stood unflinching as Atlas’s troubles came one after another, who braved dust explosions and system hacks and political sabotage with the same calm she now used to shuffle data pads.

But she would be.

If this timeline stayed the course… or if it didn’t.

James didn’t know.

But for now, she was his deputy.

The room was quiet save for the occasional flick of a data pad and the hum of fluorescent lights. A low whine from the overhead vents reminded everyone that this was still Fort Arrowfell, half-forgotten, half-frozen, and wholly alive with new purpose.

James sat hunched forward at the table, sleeves rolled, eyes scanning over terrain maps, deployment schedules, and red-marked dossiers. His presence filled the room not with noise, but with gravity. The kind that bent even silence into submission.

Beside him, Plum Greenwood moved with practiced precision, her long mauve hair tied into a loose tail and her glasses reflecting the pulsing blue of the screens. She handed over information with fluid professionalism, answering James’s sharp questions with clinical efficiency.

There was a rhythm now.

Long hours. No wasted movement.

She watched him, subtly, behind her lenses, behind her cool demeanor.

He was relentless.

Focused.

The cadence of work should have been exhausting, but neither of them faltered.

Then, without a word, James let the papers in his hand drop onto the desk. He leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed on the glowing screens ahead. His shoulders tightened, not from fatigue, but from something else. Something colder. He watched the map of Solitas flicker under blue light.

“Deputy Greenwood,” he said suddenly, “let me pose a hypothetical.”

She looked up, fingers hovering over her scroll.

“I’m listening.”

“Let’s say… there’s a coordinated Grimm invasion,” he began. “Not a surge. Not a spontaneous breach. A full-scale assault. Coordinated to the point that it overwhelms outposts and garrisons across the kingdom.”

Plum blinked, brow furrowing behind her glasses.

“That’s impossible. Grimm doesn't coordinate. They’re mindless.”

James raised a hand, calm and professional.

“It’s hypothetical. Assume a Semblance exists one capable of influencing Grimm on a mass scale. Directing them. Herding them. What would you do?”

Plum was quiet for a beat.

Then her eyes dropped to the map, scanning it as if seeing it with new eyes.

“We’d need aerial superiority over Solitas,” she said at last. “If they’re coming from every direction, airships, fast ones, loaded with sensor-guided flak turrets, and strafing support would be a necessity.”

James nodded slowly.

“And on the ground?”

“Heavily fortified emplacements,” she continued. “Artillery stations and hard points. Grimm are fast, but not smarter than concrete. If we can funnel them, we can crush them.”

James tapped the map. “And if they are smarter?”

She didn’t answer. He wasn’t really asking.

“Our reliance on Huntsmen might break us,” James said, his voice like iron drawn across frost. “We put too much on individual power. It’s time Atlas looked at war differently.”

“A more… traditional military doctrine?” Plum asked.

“Precisely,” James said. “A mixed force doctrine, infantry, mechanized armor, artillery, and sustained air support. Focused fire. Flexible deployment. Constant movement.”

Plum pushed her glasses higher. “Sheer volume of fire from standard rifles alone can disrupt Grimm formations. If we focus them right, we create openings—for strikes, retreats, repositions.”

“And artillery,” James added, “can soften the advance. But if Grimm breaks through that line…”

“They hit population centers,” she finished, nodding grimly.

James leaned forward.

“Solitas offers defensive terrain. Mountains. Ice valleys. Chokepoints. Barricades, trenches, old roads turned kill zones. We make them our ally.”

He paused.

Then looked at her.

“But you see the problem, don’t you?”

Plum looked again at the map. Her eyes narrowed.

“There’s no designated kill zone. No staging ground. No designed place where Grimm numbers are intentionally culled.”

“Exactly,” James said, voice low. “Atlas holds Atlas. Mantle. A few major routes. But these outlying settlements—”

He pointed to a cluster of dots, blinking in faded light.

“—have been abandoned. Forgotten. And they sit atop Dust, clean water, and rare minerals. Untapped.”

Plum’s eyes met his.

“You intend to appropriate them?”

James gave her a long look. “General Chopper assigned me here to reinforce the security of Atlas. That means all of Solitas. Not just the parts that shine high in the skies.”

There was a pause.

James knew it sounded ambitious. Audacious, even. But it was also true. He had watched an entire kingdom collapse from the inside out, a paper tiger wrapped in steel, with rot at its core.

In another life, that collapse had taken everything with it. He had died with it.

“That’s… quite an ambition,” Plum said, folding her arms.

“Perhaps,” James admitted. “But it’s not blind ambition. Every step we take to reinforce these zones reduces Grimm presence. It stabilizes the region. It unifies Solitas under Atlas, not as a ruler, but as a guardian.”

Plum stared at the map for a long moment.

And then… she nodded slowly.

“That would be quite… wonderful,” she said softly.

"But it’s a hard dream to reach."

Plum glanced at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but the air around him had grown heavier. Not with exhaustion, but realism.

“To unify Solitas… It’s not just logistics,” James continued, eyes still on the map. “It’s politics. It’s power games. Elitism. The grandeur and arrogance of our Atlesian elite. They don't look down on the rest of the world, they pretend it doesn't exist sometimes.”

Plum exhaled through her nose, adjusting her glasses. “Bureaucracy. Council meetings. Petty votes.”

“They’d choke on their own pens before agreeing to help anyone who doesn’t show up in a black tie and an airship,” James muttered. “To reach a consensus, we’d have to dance through that mess. Sell the idea in their language.”

Plum sighed. A tired, bitter sound. “And their language is lien.”

James looked up, meeting her gaze. “Exactly, Deputy Greenwood.”

He sat back in his chair. The metal creaked faintly beneath the shift of weight.

“But because they’re greedy… because they’re obsessed with returns… we might have a chance,” he said. “Not through honor. Through opportunity.”

Plum’s eyes narrowed slightly, curious. “You intend to spin this as profitable?”

James nodded. “It’s not a lie. Resources sit untouched. Dust veins deep under neglected snow. Strongholds with defensible terrain and natural crystal clusters, Atlas could profit. They would thrive .”

“So,” she said slowly, “you have your plans already, Commander?”

The way she said the title, soft, deliberate caught his ear. He didn’t correct it.

“I have,” James said simply.

But inwardly, his thoughts were already circling the next step.

The Schnee Dust Company.

He’d seen what they could do. How deep their influence went, not just through the economy, but through the very infrastructure of Remnant. Dust powered it all from weapons, shields, mobility, communication. Dust built kingdoms and razed them just as fast.

And Nicholas Schnee, for all his pride and principles, had influence. If Willow was serious about stepping into leadership as well.

James leaned forward again and pressed his palm against the flickering surface of the Solitas map.

“Dust rules the world,” he said aloud, almost absently.

Plum looked at him. “And you plan to use that rule?”

James didn’t answer immediately.

But in his mind, a new kind of frontline was forming.

Not built on blood and steel.

But on routes, resource nodes, stabilizers, and sustained settlements. Places where Dust could be mined and refined, where defense could be automated, and where people, Faunus, humans, all of them could live without fear of freezing or falling prey to the Grimm.

A network. A grid of resistance against the dark.

Built not from orders.

But from design.

And if the Council wouldn’t fund it? 

If the military wouldn’t reach that far?

James would find someone who would.

Chapter Text

James adjusted the knot of his tie, staring at the mirror as though the reflection might strike back at him.

The dark-blue collared shirt, the red tie, the white coat with its silver buttons and blue cuffs. The belts, the steel-toed boots, the gloves. Every piece of the uniform sat against him with a cruel kind of familiarity.

It was the same outfit he had worn at the end.

When Atlas fell.

The same outfit that had marched through fire, drowning in his own decisions. The ghost of the man he had become.

For a flicker, he saw that ghost staring back at him in the glass, eyes wild, beard unkempt, the iron mask cracked under impossible weight.

No.

James shut his eyes. He forced the image away. Mettle’s presence stirred at the back of his mind, a cold hand against his thoughts, pressing down like a command to steady himself.

He suppressed it. He didn’t need a crutch. Not now.

Hopefully never.

“Sir, we’re here.”

The soldier’s voice drew him back. James straightened, nodded politely, and adjusted his tie once more. The gesture felt ritualistic, a small wall between him and memory.

When he stepped out onto the mining grounds, the air hit him like glass shards. The snow fell thick, but activity kept the fog dispersed. Machinery groaned, miners shouted over the roar of drills, Dust-laden carts scraped across ice. And yet, as James passed, the noise seemed to thin. The miners noticed him, his attire, his bearing. They shifted aside, making space.

He walked into the office where Nicholas Schnee was waiting.

The man was as indomitable as the last time James had seen him. His lungs had once nearly drowned in Dust, doctors certain he wouldn’t last, but Nicholas Schnee had a will that ignored odds and after that he seems to have learned his lesson and would probably enjoy more years and with aura? He might be able to sniff out any Jacques that might try to control the SDC. 

The man himself sat at his desk like a man who commanded not just a company, but the land itself.

He looked up. His sharp eyes flickered over James’s uniform, then narrowed with dry humor.

“So. The Atlas Military dragged you back after all.”

James didn’t blink. “I’ve taken on… extra responsibilities,” he said evenly. “But I haven’t stopped from being a Huntsman.”

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, lips twitching into a grin. “Even with that position?”

“Yes.”

The word landed with the weight of iron.

Nicholas studied him for a moment, then nodded once. Approval, perhaps, hidden under his usual bluster. He leaned further back, hands resting on his stomach, and launched into a tirade that was half complaint, half confession.

“My workers won’t leave me alone,” he grumbled. “Every other day it’s some gripe about quotas, tools, or breaks. And don’t get me started on my daughter. She’s a pain in the ass lately. More than me at her age, and that’s saying something. Now she’s shouldering half the Schnee affairs, dragging relatives into meetings I didn’t even know still drew breath. Always talking, always planning.”

The corner of James’s mouth twitched, but he kept his expression flat. Nicholas thrived on filling silence.

Then, as abruptly as a blade cutting through snow, Nicholas shifted. His shoulders straightened, the grin faded, and his tone sharpened into professionalism.

“What brings you here, James Ironwood?”

James blinked. He let his gaze roam the office.

It smelled faintly of oil and Dust. Maps of Solitas dotted the walls, charts of veins and mines scrawled over in thick pencil. Nicholas Schnee, was a man who made the room feel smaller by his presence alone.

“You didn’t come all the way out here just to admire my décor,” Nicholas said, leaning back in his chair. “Speak.”

James inclined his head. “Very well. I want to talk about Solitas. About its future.”

Nicholas raised a brow. “Bold opening. Go on.”

“You know better than anyone that this land is harsh,” James continued. “Settlements are scattered, under-defended, often abandoned the moment Grimm pressure rises. Entire veins of Dust lie untapped because the people there can’t hold long enough to extract them. And those that stay?” He paused. “They live in constant danger.”

Nicholas tapped a finger on his desk, unimpressed. “You’re telling me what I already know. What’s your point?”

James met his gaze. Calm, steady. “With your company’s reach, and with military support from Arrowfell, we could change that. Reinforced settlements. Defensive infrastructure. Fortifications that would keep Grimm at bay. Your miners would work in safety, Dust production would increase, and Atlas as a whole would become stronger.”

Nicholas let the silence linger, studying him. Then he gave a short laugh. “So that’s it. You want me to bankroll fortresses across Solitas. Interesting pitch.”

“I’m not asking you to bankroll them outright,” James replied smoothly. “I’m asking you to see the mutual benefit. More settlements surviving means more Dust. More Dust means more profit for the SDC, more power for Atlas, and safer lives for the workers you’ve built this company on.”

Nicholas’s grin thinned into something sharper. “Ah. There it is.” He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “The workers. That’s your angle. You know damn well I care about them. They’re the backbone of my company. But don’t insult me by pretending this is about their safety alone.”

James did not flinch. He had expected this. “It is about their safety. And your profit. Both truths exist at once.”

Nicholas chuckled low in his throat. “You’ve got a politician’s tongue, James. Careful with it, or you’ll end up worse than the Council.”

James inclined his head slightly. “If truth sounds like politics, then perhaps it says more about the world than me.”

For a moment Nicholas simply stared, measuring him. Then he gestured at the chair opposite his desk. “Sit. If you’re going to try and sell me on this, at least do it without looming like a ghost.”

James sat, posture impeccable. 

Nicholas steepled his fingers. “All right, James Ironwood. Let’s break this down. You want to expand into the tundra, secure settlements, protect miners, and in turn, increase Dust output. Sounds fine on paper. But every fortress costs a lien. Supplies. Manpower. Time. Who pays?”

“The Atlas Military will bear the initial cost of construction,” James said without hesitation. “What I’m asking is logistical support—supplies, coordination, and your miners’ expertise on the ground. You know Solitas’s land better than anyone. Without that knowledge, we waste time building in the wrong places.”

Nicholas grunted. “So you want me to risk my people, my equipment, on an unproven plan. And in return I get… safety?”

“And profit,” James added. “Increased yield. Access to veins previously abandoned. Safer routes mean faster transport. You know better than I that every day a mine runs uninterrupted is a day of profit.”

Nicholas tilted his head, lips quirking. “You speak the language of business well for a Huntsman and a Soldier.”

“I’ve had to learn.”

The older man leaned back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Here’s the problem. You talk about securing settlements, but Grimm are relentless. You fortify one place, they attack another. You spread yourself too thin, the whole line cracks. Then what?”

James folded his hands on the desk. “That is why the key is not endless expansion, but strategic strongholds. Each one placed to cover critical routes and resources. Each one capable of housing civilians, defending itself, and reinforcing its neighbors. A network, not a sprawl. If one is attacked, the others can respond.”

Nicholas let out a slow breath. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not. It will take time. Years, even. But in the long term, it shifts the balance of Solitas. It ends the cycle of abandonment.”

The older man studied him with shrewd eyes. “And what does this earn you , Commander? Besides Atlas’s gratitude.”

James hesitated only a fraction before answering. “Stability. A Solitas that endures. Atlas cannot survive by walls alone. It must strengthen its foundation.”

Nicholas smirked faintly. “A fine line. You’re asking me to believe this is about ideals, but you make your case with ledgers and logistics. Smart. But I’ve been in this game longer than you’ve been alive, boy. I see what you’re doing.”

James met his gaze evenly. “Do you?”

Nicholas’s grin widened, but he didn’t elaborate. He tapped the desk instead. “Say I agree. Say I lend you miners, transport, coordination. What guarantee do I have that this isn’t another military project doomed to be forgotten when the Council changes its mind?”

James’s tone remained calm, professional. “The guarantee is me. Arrowfell is under my command. I am not the Council. I will see this through.”

Nicholas barked a laugh. “Bold. Very bold.” He leaned forward again, eyes sharp as blades. “You remind me of myself when I was younger. Thinking conviction alone could move mountains.”

“Conviction doesn’t move mountains,” James said softly. “But it does build them.”

For a moment, silence stretched. The snow outside battered against the window, the wind howling across the tundra.

Finally, Nicholas exhaled. “You play your hand well. Appealing to profit, to strategy, to my workers. You’re calm, you’re sharp, and you don’t back down. But don’t think for a second I don’t see the truth in your eyes. You’re not just building strongholds for Atlas. You’re trying to rewrite something that’s already broken.”

James didn’t deny it. He simply held his gaze, calm and steady.

Nicholas smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll consider your proposal. But make no mistake, if I commit, it will be because it serves the Schnees, not because you tugged on my heartstrings.”

James inclined his head. “Of course. Profit and safety are not mutually exclusive.”

The older man chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re a dangerous one, Commander. Careful you don’t end up believing your own speeches.”

“I only believe in what I’ve seen,” James said quietly. “And I’ve seen what happens when Atlas forgets the people it’s supposed to protect.”

Nicholas’s grin faded, replaced by something more solemn. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Nicholas leaned back, waving a hand.

“Go. I’ve got thinking to do. And paperwork.”

James rose smoothly, straightened his coat, and offered a small bow of respect. “Thank you for your time, Nicholas.”

As he left, James could feel the weight of Nicholas’s gaze on his back. The man had seen through his rhetoric, of course. James had counted on that.

But whether Nicholas admitted it or not, he also knew the truth, protecting his workers and growing his fortune were, in this case, the same path.

And that was all James needed.

As the door shut behind, the faint echo of James’s boots swallowed by the snowstorm outside. Nicholas stood still for a moment, stroking his beard, before letting out a grunt that might have been amusement.

“Always another dreamer,” he muttered. “Or perhaps a realist?”

The door swung open again, brisk and impatient. Willow swept in with her bodyguards close behind, the mauve in her coat flaring against the pale light. She didn’t bother with pleasantries.

“Father, what are you doing here?” Her voice was clipped, her eyes narrowing at the sight of him still dressed for the field rather than a boardroom. “You promised you wouldn’t bury yourself in the mines anymore. That’s what the others are for.”

Nicholas grinned, leaning against the edge of his desk. “I agreed not to stay in them, girl. Doesn’t mean I can’t be near them. A man ought to know where his fortune comes from.”

Willow folded her arms, exasperated. “You could at least act like the head of the largest company in all of Remnant.”

“I am,” he said simply, then waved a hand. “But that’s not why you came storming in here, is it? Ah, yes, James Ironwood just paid me a visit.”

Willow raised a brow, her irritation cooling into interest. “James did? Why?”

Nicholas told her, calmly, evenly, laying out James’s proposal without embellishment. A network of fortified settlements across Solitas. Military support. Safer mines. More Dust.

When he finished, Willow blinked once, then leaned against the opposite wall. “That’s… quite a lot.”

Nicholas chuckled. “It is. He speaks well. But proposals are like gems, shiny at first glance, full of cracks once you hold them to the light.”

Willow tilted her head. “And you’ve already started finding the cracks.”

“Of course,” he said. “There are pros. Safer routes, steadier yields, stronger ties with the military. But there are holes big enough to fall through. Fortresses don’t come cheap. They take time, manpower, and every minute we spend waiting on the military to honor its promises is a lien not earned. And if one collapses, all the others are dragged down with it.”

Willow frowned, chewing on that. “…Is there a but?”

Nicholas’s grin widened. “Clever girl. Always listen for the but.” He pushed off the desk and paced slowly. “Tell me, Willow, what’s the most troublesome thing about Solitas?”

She didn’t hesitate. “The tundra itself. The sheer distances. The cold. Supply chains choke before Grimm even arrive.”

Nicholas pointed at her, satisfied. “Exactly. The tundra swallows everything from profit, people, plans. Even with the train, input is limited. Airship cargo is tighter still. But if he really means what he says, if they start laying roads…” He let the thought hang.

Willow’s eyes widened slightly. “That would mean faster traffic. A proper supply chain, beyond just the train. A highway across Solitas.”

Nicholas nodded, his voice steady. “Not immediately profitable. Roads rarely are. But if the military is desperate enough to ‘assist’ the SDC, that means they’ll prioritize us over anyone else. Faster transport. Safer mines. Less wasted time. Long-term advantages.”

For a moment, Willow said nothing, weighing his words. Finally, she asked, “So… will you accept?”

Nicholas exhaled through his nose, returning to his chair. “Not so simple. James Ironwood is young, untested. His vision is ambitious, but ambition alone won’t keep men fed or Grimm at bay. I’d be a fool to gamble without consulting the family and the shareholders first. Whatever I think of him personally, business and personal matters must remain separate.”

Willow studied him, then nodded slowly. “I suppose… you’re right.”

Nicholas smiled faintly, eyes still sharp. “I usually am. Still, it’s been a long time since I’ve heard someone from the military speak with that much conviction. Almost makes me want to believe him.”

Willow’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Almost.”

Nicholas chuckled, leaning back. “Almost.”

Chapter Text

The snow-clad beast came fast. A blur of black tarry fur, bone plating glinting pale in the snowstorm. James pivoted, raising his left arm. The claw slammed into him, aura flaring on impact, the force rattling through bone an steel. He didn’t flinch. His other hand came up steady, barrel pressed almost to the Grimm’s skull. He squeezed the trigger.

The shot tore through its mask with a thundercrack, fragments of bone spraying like shrapnel. The body twitched, shuddered, then collapsed in the slush at his boots, steaming as darkness began to dissolve into nothing.

James lowered his weapon. His gaze swept the horizon.

The tundra stretched endless and merciless, a flat sheet of white broken only by jagged ridges of ice. The wind cut low and sharp, dragging snow in veils across the plains. To the west, the waters of the great Solitas lake churned, a dark wound against the white world, mist rolling off its surface. Near its frozen edge clung a small, nameless village, little more than clusters of cabins, smoke rising in thin trails. Further east, a caravan crept through the drifts, trucks and sledges groaning, villagers huddled in thick coats, their beasts pulling against the storm, bound for Essen.

Behind him, soldiers were already working with precision dust—rounds popping, blades flashing, clearing stragglers that prowled too close. James walked through it all as though he were crossing a street calm  and unhurried.

The man at the head of the caravan turned at the crunch of James’s boots. His eyes caught on the white-and-blue greatcoat, the sigil of Atlas stitched across the breast. His mouth curled with bitter humor.

“Well, well. Look who decided to come down from their flying city. Must be a fine day in Atlas if you’ve time to bother with folk like us.”

James blinked once, letting the words pass without a change of expression. His tone remained level. “Tell me what happened.”

The man scowled, but years of surviving Solitas gave him pragmatism. “What happened? Same as always. The roads are garbage, if you can call ’em roads. Snow fills the ruts faster than we can dig ’em. Grimm circle like vultures. You soldiers never look beyond Mantle’s gates, and when you do, it’s just to remind us who’s in charge.” His voice cracked with anger, but also exhaustion. “Half my people would be dead if you hadn’t spotted us.”

James inclined his head slightly. “Your caravan, why take this route? Why not the train? Or an airship?”

The old man barked a humorless laugh and motioned him toward the rear of the truck. James followed, the sharp stink of fish hitting him as the tarp was pulled back. Packed crates, half-frozen, stacked to the brim.

“We’re traders, boy. From the south. Nets full, wagons heavy. You think the train’s waiting for folk like us? You think we can afford to load airships with fish when merchants are lining up with dust and steel? No. We haul it ourselves. Overland.”

“Why Essen?” James asked evenly.

The man squinted at him, then gave a low grunt. “Essen sits on the lake’s east shore. Gateway to the coast. Folks come and go through there, it’s the only halfway point worth a damn between north and south. Fish sells well. Gets salted, dried, shipped off across Remnant. Without it, half the villages around this lake would starve in winter.”

James listened. Each word carried weight, knowledge built from years of living in the cold that Atlas never glanced at. He was impressed at the clarity of the old man’s assessment. But behind it, a familiar heaviness pressed at his chest. In his time, Essen would remain what it always was… just a minor town that shipped fish. No great hub of trade. Just another name on the map that survived because it was too small to crush.

His face betrayed nothing. Deadpan.

The old man caught it anyway. He leaned closer. “Why’re you asking, then? Don’t look like a man curious about the fish trade.”

James straightened, his tone firm, clipped, his posture professional. “Because I am now responsible for Solitas. In the stead of the Headmaster and the General of Atlas.” He met the old man’s eyes without wavering. “I want to know if there are people who will speak with me, about keeping Solitas safe. Properly safe.”

The old man snorted, shoulders rising with a bitter chuckle. “Took you long enough. Years we’ve been left out here, Mantle fattening itself while Atlas polishes its toys. And now, suddenly, you remember it ain’t just Mantle and Atlas under your care.”

His words had teeth, but James didn’t flinch. He only nodded once, then turned to his men. “Secure the caravan. We stop at Essen.”

The old man said nothing, only gave him a long, measuring look before pulling the tarp back over the fish crates.

James stood in the snow, coat snapping in the wind, eyes on the east.

The road stretched there, rough and broken, but a road nonetheless.

The trip to Essen was quiet compared to the open tundra. Snow packed under tires and boots as the convoy rolled in. James’s eyes moved constantly, absorbing the place.

Essen was no city. Shacks of wood stood in uneven rows, their roofs thatched with straw darkened by frost. A large windmill creaked slowly in the wind, blades heavy with snow. Silos, squat and rimed with ice, rose above the shacks, filled with grain. The smell of smoke, wood, and salt lingered in the air. Along the streets, crates of seafood, fresh from Dormir were stacked and traded. The sheer bustle of people startled James. He hadn’t expected such density here, not in a place that Atlas maps barely gave more than a footnote.

He wondered how many of them had survived the Fall in the timeline he came from? Did Essen still stand? Or had it been wiped from the map, swallowed by Salem’s Grimm?

The thought struck like a hammer. Guilt pressed heavy, and for a moment he brought a hand to his head, standing still while the snow gathered on his shoulders.

A child brushed past him, wrapped in layers too large for his small frame, his face hidden by a fur hood. The boy stared wide-eyed at the airships James’s soldiers were trying, futilely, to keep the villagers from swarming.

That was when James caught the smell of fish. He turned. The old caravan leader was there, guiding another man through the street. This one was older still—lean, weathered, with hair the color of ash and a face carved deep with lines. His eyes were pale and sharp, like frost, and though his expression was polite, the look he leveled at James was flat, appraising, and edged with contempt.

The man’s voice carried calm authority, each word clipped and exact. “So. An officer of Atlas, walking among us in Essen. Forgive me if I fail to see the occasion. We’ve gone decades without such… attention.”

The barb was buried beneath courtesy, but James felt it all the same. He gave the man a crisp nod. “And you are?”

“Coldfen Azure,” the man replied without hesitation. “Guardian of this settlement, though I found the title… ceremonial, most days.” His tone carried no pride, only a matter of fact bitterness. “Now tell me, what business does Atlas have here? Essen does not often find itself at the center of your concerns.”

“This isn’t the place,” James said evenly, gesturing at the crowded street.

Coldfen held his stare for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. He led James across the packed thoroughfare to a squat wooden hall, shutters drawn against the cold. Inside, the air smelled faintly of grain dust and firewood.

James remained standing. “I’ll be direct,” he said. His voice was calm, professional, the tone he had used with Plum and Nicholas. He laid it out clearly.

Solitas was vulnerable, scattered. Settlements like Essen were too isolated, left to fend for themselves. If Atlas relied solely on Huntsmen and elite soldiers, the kingdom would collapse under any concentrated threat. His plan was simple in concept, though costly. 

Build infrastructure to connect Solitas, fortify key positions, and create layered defenses combining infantry, artillery, tanks, and air support. Roads would allow caravans and supplies to move faster; fortified towns would reduce Grimm presence and spread Atlas’s reach. Trade would increase, and Essen itself would benefit from safer routes and priority security.

He did not sugarcoat it. The cost would be immense. Bureaucrats would fight it. Elites would balk. Dust and manpower would be stretched thin. But it was achievable, and it was necessary if Solitas was to endure a Grimm future.

Coldfen listened without interrupting. When James finished, the old man clasped his hands behind his back and spoke slowly, his words cold and precise.

“You speak well, Commander James Ironwood. Sincere, even. I’ll grant you that. But your argument rests on a foundation you do not admit.” His pale eyes narrowed. “Cost. You call it immense, I call it crippling. You expect villages that have survived without Atlas for generations to believe that, suddenly, the Kingdom will bear such a burden? Forgive me, but I have lived long enough to know that promises from Atlas are like smoke. Words vanish. Actions rarely follow.”

His tone sharpened, though never rose above civility. “We are still here, Commander. Without your fortifications. Without your soldiers. Without your care. You speak of safety, but what you truly bring are chains of dependency. You may believe otherwise, I can see it in your eyes, but belief is not enough. We’ve endured the tundra’s cruelty longer than Atlas has looked down from above.”

The contempt was measured, not shouted. Not anger, but conviction honed by years of neglect.

James absorbed it in silence, then nodded once. “You’re right to doubt me. Words are nothing without proof. And I cannot ask you to believe what you’ve never seen from Atlas. But when the time comes, when there is action, not words, I hope you’ll cooperate. For Solitas’s sake, if not Atlas’s.”

Coldfen studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he inclined his head. “Perhaps. If it comes. Until then…” His voice softened, almost polite again. “…I thank you for the aid you’ve given our people today. Truly. But Essen has no more time to spare for speeches. You and your men should leave.”

The dismissal was gentle, but final.

James accepted it with a professional nod, turned, and walked out into the snow once more.

James sat on a frozen bench outside the hall, boots planted firmly in the snow. His men had scattered across the village, some warming their hands near fires, others bartering with locals or simply watching the bustle with guarded eyes. The airships loomed above like great steel birds, but here on the ground, in Essen, James felt very small.

Arrowfell’s command structure also gave him breathing room. There was no crisis other than the usual Grimm infestation. Here, he was not being pulled in three directions. And so he sat, a silent sentinel, as villagers passed him with wary glances, some quickening their step, others staring a heartbeat too long before moving on.

James did not resent them.

He understood.

He understood deeply.

But it stung all the same.

Not rejection, that he could shoulder. What cut deeper was realization. Essen was larger than he had believed, more alive, more integral than the maps and reports had ever suggested. He had walked into this place with a half-formed understanding, thinking he knew Solitas. 

He had not.

“I’ve always promised to defend this kingdom,” he muttered under his breath.

The words rang hollow, carried away by the wind.

The kingdom was not walls of steel, nor fleets of airships, nor the ivory towers of Atlas. It was here. These villages. These people. The faces that stared at him with equal parts distrust and weary acceptance.

And in truth, he had not defended them. Not when it mattered most.

James closed his eyes. His breath came slow, steady, fogging in the frigid air. Memories pressed in, the horrible tremor of Atlas as it fell, the screams, the chaos, his own actions giving orders that damned thousands. He had sworn he fought for humanity, but what humanity? 

The lofty “Atlas” of his imagination, a shining beacon raised on a pedestal.

What a joke.

He had forgotten who mattered. He had mistaken the fortress for the people it was meant to shelter. And in his blind zeal, his single-mindedness, he had even turned his weapon against those very people.

James swallowed hard. He could admit his failings. He could face them now without denial. That clarity burned, bitter but clean.

This, sitting in the snow outside a nameless hall in Essen, this was not an attempt of redemption.

He wasn’t foolish enough to believe in something so easy.

No. He wasn’t looking for redemption.

He just wanted to do better.

Not to cleanse the past, not to erase the blood, but to make the future he saw less cruel than the one he had already lived.

James stayed there a long time, unmoving, the snow gathering faintly on his greatcoat, blending him into the tundra like a statue left behind.

Chapter Text

Plum Greenwood sat across the office, legs crossed, her fingers tightening slightly around the folder in her lap. Behind her glasses, her beautiful eyes narrowed as she watched James Ironwood work.

It irritated her.

Not because he was fumbling or lost, no, that would have been easier. What gnawed at her was the opposite… he was good . Too good. He sifted through reports, delegated tasks, signed orders, and sent soldiers moving with sharp efficiency. His words carried weight. Not through raised voice or false bluster, but through a natural authority that people responded to.

As if he had been born for this.

Arrowfell had been a complicated mess when she first stepped in. A blend of research projects, soldiers without clear directives, and civilians awkwardly stitched into the system with no direction. But James hadn’t blinked. He had sorted it piece by piece, slotting chaos into order, with a confidence that frustrated her.

He rejected the position once, she had called it foolish, even disappointing. She had introduced herself as his deputy with professional detachment, almost pretending the Academy years hadn’t existed. At the time, she thought it was the only way to keep her respect intact.

And yet, here he was now different. Still stiff, still carrying himself like Atlas’s uniform had been stitched to his skin, but there was something else. Calm. Composed. Even mature. He wasn’t the pompous cadet she remembered, barking about duty and patriotism towards Atlas. He was steadier, more deliberate. She had to admit, even to herself, that it made him… admirable.

And frustratingly attractive.

Tall, broad-shouldered, hardened yet dignified. The kind of man who carried the weight of command as naturally as he carried his weapon. Plenty of women in the Academy had admired him. She had dismissed it at the time. Now, she wondered if maybe they hadn’t been wrong.

Pushing the thought aside, Plum stepped forward, laying the thick folder onto his desk with practiced precision.

“Commander,” she began briskly. “Report from Solitas operations.”

James looked up, his face unreadable as ever, and gestured for her to continue.

“Grimm activity across the northern routes is steady,” she said, flipping open the folder. “Scout teams report clusters forming near the tundra passes, nothing organized, but numbers are higher than seasonal averages. Local extermination units have already been dispatched.”

James nodded once. “Continue patrol rotations. Rotate squads out after seventy-two hours. Fatigue lowers efficiency.”

“Understood.” She turned the page. “Civilian incidents, three accidents involving supply convoys. Two weather-related, one due to mechanical failure. Fatalities limited. Repairs underway.”

James tapped his pen lightly on the desk. “Double the mechanical inspection crews. Send an advisory for caravan masters to delay departures in whiteout conditions.”

Plum tilted her head slightly. “That will slow down deliveries.”

“Better a late delivery than dead civilians,” James replied simply.

She swallowed her retort and continued. “Weather reports: incoming blizzards along the western edges of Solitas. Minimal disruption to the central routes for now.”

“Alert the border posts,” James said, voice steady. “Shift airship patrols along the safer corridors. Ensure emergency shelters are stocked.”

Next page. “Grimm infestations, two nests near the mountain ridges have been neutralized. Extermination teams reported heavier resistance than expected, but casualties were within projections.”

“Noted,” James said. His tone betrayed no flicker of emotion. Just calm, measured responses, each logical and precise.

“On production matters,” Plum added, “weapon development has moved forward. The new rifle prototypes passed field testing. Artillery modifications are still pending. Ammunition supply holding steady.”

“Good. Continue prototyping. Push artillery priority up the schedule.”

Plum closed the folder. “That concludes operational reports.”

James leaned back, fingers steepled. His eyes were still unreadable.

But Plum didn’t move away. Instead, she added, carefully, “There’s one more thing. The SDC has contacted you.”

James’s gaze flicked toward her, then lingered. He didn’t answer immediately. The pause stretched long enough that Plum felt the weight of it.

She adjusted her glasses, her voice sharpening with a mix of professionalism and doubt. “What are your intentions with them, Commander?”

James remained quiet for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. “The same intentions I’ve had since taking this post. Solitas needs more than weapons and soldiers—it needs infrastructure, settlements, and stability. I spoke to Nicholas Schnee about it directly. I told him strengthening Solitas strengthens Atlas. Not just the capital, not just Mantle, but every town and village in between.”

His voice didn’t rise. It carried weight by being plain.

“I told him the truth. That we cannot keep neglecting these people. The Grimm thrive on isolation, on despair. Connecting Solitas means reducing Grimm numbers, securing resources, and giving the settlements a chance to grow. Nicholas understood. So did the people of Essen, even if they don’t trust me yet.”

Plum absorbed that, lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s… a long road you’re taking.”

James nodded. “Someone has to walk it.”

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then gave the faintest of nods. “…Very well.”

Turning the report back into order, she made an offhand remark. “I hear Vale is planning expansion again. Talks of Mount Glenn.”

James nodded absently, already glancing at the next set of papers on his desk. The weight of her words barely registered with him. His mind was elsewhere, on roads, convoys, and settlements.

Plum allowed herself a quiet sigh, finishing her duties. “That concludes everything from me.”

“Thank you, Deputy Greenwood,” James said, his tone perfectly professional.

When she stepped back, James reached for his personal stack of mail. Formal Atlesian invites. He skimmed the envelopes quickly, until one in particular caught his eye. The seal was unmistakable, the Schnee Dust Company.

Inside was a message.

A place. A time.

Where he was to meet the SDC’s representative.

James sat still in his quarters, dressed sharply in a dark charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt and a deep navy tie. The coat hugged his broad frame perfectly, but he didn’t move to adjust it. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deliberate.

He was rehearsing every argument he had.

The Schnee Dust Company was no ordinary client or partner. It was the backbone of Remnant’s Dust industry, the artery through which half the world’s lifeblood flowed. He knew their language wasn’t sentiment, but numbers. Their gods were not ideals, but balance sheets and profit margins.

So James thought carefully about safety, logistics, expansion, protection. He built the argument in layers. Protection of convoys meant fewer losses, fewer delays. Roads meant more reliable trade routes across Solitas. Cooperative ventures with Atlas military gave them not only infrastructure, but legitimacy. He reminded himself to appeal to their pride, but in terms of practicality. Persuade with stability, not with lofty promises.

If they see the military not as a chain, but as insurance… they’ll listen.

The Bullhead jolted as it landed. James opened his eyes, the calm mask sliding into place. He stepped out, entered the waiting black-matted car, and let it ferry him into the heart of Atlas.

The restaurant greeted him like an insult draped in velvet. It was pure Atlesian Elite with crystal chandeliers glittered like frozen tears, polished marble floors gleaming white as snow, every table draped with silk cloths, the silverware catching candlelight in perfect shine. A string quartet murmured softly in the corner, their notes carrying refinement and arrogance in equal measure. The air smelled faintly of wine and imported spices, the sort of wealth only Atlas could flaunt.

He was guided to a private table near a vast window wall, Atlas sprawling beneath it like a jewel set in ice   and clouds. Snow whipped the glass, but the warmth inside was comfortable, almost decadent.

And there, waiting, was Willow Schnee.

She sat with languid grace, a glass of wine poised between delicate fingers. The dress she wore shimmered like liquid silver, cut to reveal curves, shoulders, and just enough cleavage to be deliberate. Opulence wrapped around deadly elegance. She looked every inch the aristocrat meant to make men stumble over themselves.

But James… saw only her future look.

The reclusive Willow who drowned herself in alcohol, who withered in silence within Schnee Manor’s gilded cage. That image burned away any temptation the present tried to stir.

Willow smiled as she rose, her eyes catching the dim light. “My, my,” she teased, her voice smooth, mocking, almost sultry. “I was expecting someone else. Perhaps a man with less… rigidity about him.”

James straightened his tie once. “And I was expecting someone with a suit and tie,” he answered calmly. “Should I assume I’ve been brought here for a date?”

Willow’s chuckle was low, melodic. “In a sense, Commander James Ironwood, you are.” She gestured gracefully for him to sit. As he did, she leaned just slightly forward, the perfume she wore rich and intoxicating, the cut of her dress drawing attention like a trap laid with care to rattle one's mind.

James sat unmoved, his face composed as stone.

The faintest flicker passed over Willow’s lips, amusement tinged with weary honesty. A smile that looked practiced, yet tired beneath the polish.

James caught it. He tilted his head slightly. “You wear charm well, Lady Schnee. But that smile… it says you don’t wish to.”

Her brows arched faintly. For a moment, the tease dropped. She swirled her wine, then set it down with a soft clink. Her tone shifted like ice forming over water, smooth and hard. “You’re perceptive, Commander. But rest assured, I’m not here to seduce you. It's business.”

The change in demeanor was striking. Gone was the sultry aristocrat. What replaced her was Willow Schnee, SDC heir, calculating and sharp as a blade. The elegance didn’t vanish, it sharpened, refined into something even deadlier.

She felt like a different person when she was talking about business.

“The Schnee Dust Company has reviewed your proposal,” she began, her voice calm, controlled. “Viable, yes. Ambitious, certainly. But not enough. First of all, do you truly grasp what the SDC is, Commander? We are not a regional supplier, not a provincial name.”

Her chin lifted slightly.

“We are Remnant’s Dust. Our reach extends from small-town distributors to mines spanning continents. From laboratories in Vacuo to paramilitary outposts in Mistral. We are an empire of Dust, and you propose roads and soldiers. That is… a fraction. A sliver. Beneficial, perhaps, but not sufficient .”

James met her gaze evenly. “Then let us speak plainly. The SDC already knows what it means to work with Atlas. And you know what it means to have Atlas protecting your lifelines. Convoys. Supply lines. Strategic assets. It’s not just a matter of soldiers, it’s insurance. Insurance no other kingdom can provide.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice still calm, controlled. “And let’s be honest, Lady Schnee. If the SDC wants more profits and I say this with full respect to Nicholas Schnee, he is not a great businessman. Constant debts. Overextensions. Expansions bleeding lien. These ventures are dragging the company down. This is not just an investment for me. It is a chance for the SDC to secure itself as well.”

Willow’s lips curved upward in a thin smile. “You do your homework, Commander. Almost as if you’ve been dealing with the SDC for years.” She rested her chin against her hand, studying him with an amused, calculating air. “You’re right about Father. His stubborn pride is… expensive. But unlike him, I intend to make the SDC not merely vast, but singular . The Dust brand everyone in Remnant relies upon. No second names, no competitors, just Schnee.”

Her tone was ruthless, but not cruel. Business sharpened into ambition, ambition polished into inevitability.

James listened carefully, and as she spoke, a thought gnawed at him. The vision she painted of total control, universal reliance, it sounded eerily like Jacques. Ruthless expansion, domination through Dust. And yet… There was no venom here. No spite. No rot. Was Jacques truly the architect of the SDC’s merciless growth in the future or had he stolen that from Willow herself?

James didn’t linger on the thought. He pressed forward.

“Then you see the advantage clearly. Agree to this, and the SDC doesn’t just keep dominance. It gains expansion routes, secured mines, untapped veins. Roads mean more than traffic they mean profit. And the military can offer something else.”

Willow raised a brow. “Oh? And what would that be?”

James’s gaze sharpened. “Information. Locations of Dust veins hidden beneath Solitas. Large ones. Combustion Dust, naturally occurring. Gravity Dust more abundant than recorded. Sites your company could never access without military surveys and without Atlas's might.”

Willow’s smile returned, this time with a predatory curve. She leaned in just enough for her perfume to trail between them. “Now that ,” she purred, “is worth elaboration.”

James didn’t flinch and got what he prepared from his coat. He began to outline the locations, the research, the maps, laying bare just enough to prove he wasn’t bluffing.

Spreading a set of documents on the table, the faint glimmer of data readouts and survey maps reflecting in Willow’s wineglass. “Here,” he said, voice flat, precise. “Projected veins. Untapped, unregistered. We’ve confirmed composition through long-range scanners and ground-based resonance sweeps. What I’m offering is exclusive access, in exchange for the SDC’s support in infrastructure. Roads. Transport. Dust allocations to Arrowfell.”

Willow studied the documents, her lips pursed in thought. Then, slowly, she smiled again, sharp, knowing. “You are giving me a feast, Commander. But you are asking for the SDC to eat it with a plastic fork.” She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate grace, silver fabric shifting to reveal pale skin along her thigh. “Roads and military protection… necessary, yes. But they do not build empires. They build dependency. And the SDC has no interest in being dependent on Atlas.”

James’s face remained unreadable. “You misunderstand. The SDC wouldn’t be dependent, it would be invested . You’d have a direct stake in the safety and expansion of Solitas itself. More roads, more settlements, more commerce. Every caravan, every shipment, every crate of Dust through Solitas would bear your mark.”

Willow’s chuckle was soft, dangerous. “Admirable spin, Commander. But if you want this deal to be taken seriously by myself and the board, you must give more than promises and maps. The SDC does not gamble with half-measures. If you want us to risk investment, we require guarantees. Dust output percentages. Mining rights co-signed by Atlas.”

James’s tone didn’t shift. “Then what you’re asking is a military-corporate merger, thinly veiled as a contract.”

Willow tilted her head, eyes glimmering. “And? What is Atlas, if not a city built on mergers between military ambition and economic necessity? Think of it as diversification.”

For the first time, James allowed a faint breath through his nose, not quite amusement. “Diversification for you. Leverage loss for me. What you’re asking borders on a monopoly.”

Willow leaned forward now, hands folded, her perfume and warmth cutting through the chill of the restaurant’s glass window. “Commander. That is precisely what makes it work. Atlas cannot fund every initiative alone. The SDC cannot maintain dominance without new ground. Together, we reduce costs, reduce risk, and maximize yield. You call it monopoly, ” her smile sharpened, “I call it stability. Investment. ”

The word hung between them like bait.

James’s gaze narrowed, the weight of calculation clear in his eyes. He knew she was winning the argument, he could see the angle she was pressing, the careful balance of profit and logic. And yet, the truth was she wasn’t wrong. Atlas did need the SDC. He knew that from the future. He could spin it as cooperation, but the reality was much closer to entanglement.

Finally, he gave a small nod. “Investment, then.”

Willow’s lips curved in satisfaction.

“But,” James added, his voice cold steel again, “any contract will not pass through me directly. My deputy will oversee the paperwork and pass it to the General. After the CEO and shareholders agree, you’ll have your signatures. Until then, nothing is binding.”

Willow waved her hand as though brushing off dust. “The shareholders will defer to me. The family as well. They understand that both sides benefit here. Atlas gains strength, the SDC gains reach. I assure you, Commander, no one will oppose it.”

James’s eyes didn’t waver. “They’ll also agree so that, if this deal fails, they have ammunition against me. And against you.”

For the first time, Willow’s laughter rang clear and bright, carrying through the chamber. It wasn’t the demure chuckle she had used earlier, but full-bodied, sharp, musical. She tilted her head back slightly, shoulders trembling as her silver dress caught the light. “Hah! Oh, Commander… you’re not wrong. And yet you’re still willing to play. Perhaps you are more of a businessman than you admit.”

The sound faded, replaced with that same wry, weary smile she had worn earlier. “Well, then. Business concluded.” She lifted her glass, sipping the last of her wine with elegance. “Shall we return to the pretense of a date?”

James sighed softly, almost inaudibly. He lifted his own glass, letting the wine settle on his tongue before speaking. “If this is a date, Lady Schnee… then let me ask the only question that matters. Are you alright?”

The question cut through the air like a crack in ice. Willow blinked once, her smile faltering, not disappearing, but trembling at the edges.

Her eyes lowered to her glass. “I am,” she said softly, though her tone carried a heaviness. “Despite the drama of late. Despite… believing once upon a time that the man I loved would give me a happy life and a family. That I’d be more than a pawn, more than a wife trotted out for galas.” Her jaw tightened. “And in the end, he was nothing but an asshole. A scum who trying to trick me into believing he could give me what I want.”

She swallowed her wine, her throat moving in a delicate line. Then she set the glass down carefully. “Jacques is gone. Missing. Presumably fled Atlas before the family could… respond to his betrayal. Before the wrath he earned came to him.”

James sat still, his face calm, unreadable. No judgment. No pity. Just silence. He held no opinion about Jacques, no comfort to offer, no condemnation to give. Only the quiet acknowledgment that Willow had spoken.

Willow’s lips curved again, this time faint, almost bitter. “Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not asking for your sympathy. Only your company tonight. And perhaps,” her voice softened just slightly, “your honesty. It is… rare, in Atlas.”

Willow swirled the last of her wine in the glass, her voice sharp and biting as she slipped into yet another story about Jacques. How he undermined her, how he’d ignored her judgment, how he paraded himself as the SDC’s probable savior while burying it in debt, telling her he would succeed.

James knew he would succeed.

He saw it after all. 

But perhaps not in this life.

James sipped quietly, eyes calm, posture unbothered. He let her vent, his silence neither encouraging nor dismissive, just steady.

Every so often, she’d lean toward him, a mischievous lilt creeping into her words. “You know, Commander, you’re terribly handsome when you sit there brooding like that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to charm me.”

James lifted his glass again, deadpan. “I do know better. You’re looking for a rebound.”

Her scowl came fast, like a whip-crack. “You’re no fun at all.”

“I’m here,” James said flatly. “That counts as fun.”

Willow scoffed, but her lips twitched at the edge of a smile.

The restaurant’s band struck up a slow, jazzy tune, notes of saxophone and piano filling the air. Willow glanced toward the floor where a few couples had begun to dance. Then her gaze slid back to James, gleaming with challenge.

“Tell me, Commander… Do you even know how to dance?”

James set his glass down with deliberate calm. “I know.”

She leaned in, her perfume brushing against him. “Prove it.”

Without hesitation, James rose. Willow blinked as his hand found her waist with firm precision, pulling her to her feet before she could mask her surprise. A startled yelp escaped her lips, quickly drowned in a laugh. “My, my… bold, aren’t you?”

James said nothing, his other hand settling against hers as he guided her onto the floor. The moment their feet touched polished wood, his steps were confident, controlled with each movement deliberate, every shift of weight practiced. Willow followed, though not without mischief.

She pressed closer, letting her hand brush along his chest, her fingers grazing the lapel of his suit. Her body curved into his with playful insistence, her laughter soft as he spun her. James remained unshaken, expression cool, though his hand stayed at her hip steady, careful, respectful even as the closeness demanded more.

The jazz swelled, the dance taking on a rhythm equal parts seductive and elegant. Willow tried to tease, tried to pull him into the performance, but James never faltered. His strength was subtle, guiding her with a sure hand, every turn and step flowing seamlessly into the next.

As the song slowed into a softer waltz, Willow rested against him, her chuckles warm against his ear. “You surprised me, Commander. That was… more than I bargained for.”

James allowed the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Then we’re even.”

Willow tipped her head back to look at him, eyes glimmering with that dangerous charm, then sighed with something almost genuine. “You really are a good friend, James. Truly.”

His low chuckle rumbled. “Then as a good friend, you’ll make sure this deal passes easily.”

Her smirk returned instantly. “Personal and business must remain separate, James. That way, we stay good friends for a very long time.” She drew back just enough to meet his eyes, her tone playful again. “I’ll handle the business. But if I ever need a date…” she let the words hang, teasing, “I’ll know who to call.”

James’s reply came dry and immediate. “Please don’t.”

Willow laughed, bright and genuine this time, her head falling lightly against his shoulder as the waltz ended.

Chapter Text

James escorted Willow out of the restaurant, his stride measured, his composure as fixed as ever. The air was crisp, the night wind carrying Atlas’s chill, but Willow hardly seemed to feel it. Her heels clicked lightly against the pavement, every movement poised and deliberate, as though the street were just another stage for her. A sleek black car waited at the curb, its lights glowing faintly.

She stopped short of the car and turned to James with an elegant smile, the kind only an heiress could manage, refined, aristocratic, tinged with playfulness.

“I’ll deliver your proposal to the family. The shareholders will have their say.” She tilted her head, her voice smooth, almost teasing. “Consider it… a performance review, Commander.”

James inclined his head, calm as ever. “Then I wish you well in your presentation.”

Her smile faltered for half a heartbeat, then sharpened again. “So formal. You know, James, you have this irritating ability to make me smile more often than I’d like.”

“I’ll take it to heart,” James said. The way he delivered it was professional, even in jest, like someone checking off a line item in a report.

Willow gave a soft snort, her laughter spilling into the night air. “You make it sound like you’re used to handling women, Commander. Perhaps too used to it. Am I to assume you have a wealth of experience in such things?”

James shook his head once, steady. “I have not. The last time I danced with someone… was a long time ago.” His voice grew faint, not soft but inward. It was at Beacon’s dance. With Glynda Goodwitch. For that single evening, the world wasn’t pressing down. It wasn’t trying to break him.

Willow studied him, her skepticism plain, but there was a flicker of curiosity behind it. “You expect me to believe that?”

She glanced around once, ensuring no one else was close enough to watch too closely. Then, without warning, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his left cheek, leaving a sharp red imprint of her lipstick. “Consider that… proof that you do have experience, Commander.”

Before he could respond, she stepped back gracefully, hand on the car door. “Until next time. Goodnight.”

The door closed with a polished click, and the car slid into motion, carrying her away.

James stood for a long moment, hand lifting to touch his cheek. He pulled a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the mark away with precise movements. His thoughts, however, were less clean. Willow adapting this ruthless edge so early, without her heart tangled up in Jacques, without that weight dragging her, meant the SDC would change. For better or worse. She could sharpen the company into something Remnant had never seen even in his previous life.

James exhaled once, tucked the handkerchief away, and turned on his heel.

One of his soldiers, rigid and professional, approached. “Sir. The vehicle is ready. We should return.”

James nodded, saying nothing more as he entered the transport. The streets of Atlas blurred by through tinted glass, glittering towers giving way to the flight deck where his bullhead awaited. The transition was quick, without fanfare, as though the meeting had been nothing at all.

By the time he stepped back into Fort Arrowfell, the military air swallowed him whole again. The cold stone halls, the hum of generators, the clipped calls of soldiers moving to and fro, this was his rhythm. He returned to his quarters only long enough to shed the suit, dressing once more in his military attire, crisp lines and polished buttons restoring him to his armor of routine.

Then he crossed into his office, desk buried in neatly stacked reports and glowing terminals.

“Diligent as ever,” Plum remarked dryly from the doorway, pushing her glasses up.

James didn’t look up from straightening the edge of a file. “The deal with the SDC should be ongoing by now.”

“Not passed?” she asked, stepping closer, her tone a blend of curiosity and testing.

James finally looked up, eyes calm. “The Schnees, despite their wealth, are among the stingiest companies alive. They’ll weigh every ounce of benefit before they commit. Even when they do, they’ll make sure to drag their feet long enough to claim they were cautious, prudent. It’s a reputation they’ve cultivated, being everywhere, while appearing conservative in their spending. It keeps their hands clean.”

Plum tilted her head, considering. “You’d take to the SDC’s affairs well.”

“I only know what I know,” James replied evenly.

“How was Willow Schnee?” she asked next, voice professional, though the faintest edge of curiosity lingered under the surface.

“She has more business sense than her father,” James said plainly. “Without Jacques scheming her wits out of her, she might take the SDC to greater heights. Whether that’s good or bad… depends on where she aims.” His tone remained neutral, yet the weight behind his words made clear it wasn’t dismissal, it was recognition.

Plum accepted it with a nod, her expression unreadable. “Then I’ll move the matter along. But there’s also a request from the General.”

James set down the file he was holding, gesturing once for her to continue.

“It’s about Mt. Glenn’s opening,” she said.

James froze. The steady rhythm of his movements, the disciplined calm in his face, it all halted, as if time itself had cut him off mid-step.

James’s stillness didn’t last long. He exhaled slowly, forced the rigidity from his shoulders, and gestured toward Plum with a flick of his fingers.

“Continue.”

Plum adjusted her glasses, flipping open the neat folder in her hands. “This is Vale’s attempt at expansion. Mountain Glenn. The council is pouring resources into it, the people are hopeful, and the General believes it may open the door for closer ties between kingdoms. Hopes are high.”

Her eyes caught his expression mid-report. His face had stiffened, not with anger but with memory. “Is something wrong?” she asked carefully.

James leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His voice carried no heat, only the weight of analysis. “Mountain Glenn is Vale’s first serious attempt at expansion. They’d build an elaborate underground metro, connecting the settlement to Vale proper. Efficient, safe from Grimm. On paper, it bypasses the dangers of overland travel. They can also set up perimeter defenses, aggressive ones to keep thousands of settlers secure in their new home.”

Plum raised a brow. “And?”

James’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Mountain Glenn lacks Vale’s natural barriers. No cliffs. No mountain choke-points. The defenses will hold for a time. But every day, the Grimm will gather. They’ll adapt, they’ll press harder. Attacks will increase, each worse than the last, until the defenses are strained beyond repair. And once the line buckles even slightly…” He shook his head once. “The city will be overwhelmed. It’s too exposed. Too unsecured.”

Plum crossed her arms. “That’s… harsh.”

“It’s fair,” James said plainly. “An expansion like this cannot rely on optimism. Not when the stakes are human lives.” His gaze returned to her, sharp and deliberate. “Does the General want me there?”

Plum nodded. “Yes. You’re to represent Atlas’s interests while also surveying Mountain Glenn’s progress firsthand.” Her tone carried the weight of an order, even though it came through her lips.

James tapped a finger once against his desk, then asked evenly, “Am I permitted to bring men?”

“You are,” Plum confirmed. “Within reason. A formal escort, nothing more. The General wants to present Atlas’s support without overshadowing Vale’s efforts. But it’s still an important event, politically and strategically.”

James’s eyes lowered briefly to the scattered reports across his desk. Then he gave a small nod. “Very well. I will accept the General’s orders.”

Plum closed the folder, satisfied. “I’ll see to the arrangements.”

James leaned back, but his gaze lingered on the map of Solitas pinned on his wall and then to the map of Vale.

Mountain Glenn’s Expansion.

The word tasted bitter, familiar.

He gave no voice to the memory gnawing at the back of his mind because he already knew how that story ended.

Chapter Text

The trip to the Kingdom of Vale was a long one. Endless paperwork, signatures, and the endless grind of bureaucracy followed him at every step. Preparing arrangements, securing documents, and getting the General’s approval, it drained him more than combat ever could. Fort Arrowfell and its operations were buried under layers of confidentiality, and prying open the right channels to make the journey legitimate tested even his patience.

By the time he finished, James was ready to head straight back to Arrowfell. Then his Scroll buzzed.

The notification lit up his screen, and for the first time that day, the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. On it was a picture of coursework, thick binders, a laptop crowded with documents, each page labeled with her name, Sienna Khan. A second photo followed. Sienna, inside a library, flashing a peace sign at the camera with a tired but proud look in her eyes.

James stared at it longer than he should have. It was peculiar, amusing, even, that she, the fierce woman who once swung a weapon without hesitation and direction, now looked so at home surrounded by books.

She had made her path clear. 

And that path was Education. 

To be an instructor, a teacher, someone who could guide her people to a better future.

It was a long road. A harder one than what she had taken in his previous life, perhaps. But James supported her dedication. In a way, he wanted her to carve a path free from the blood-soaked ending he remembered seeing in some footnote of a classified report he got from Menagerie. That version of her deserved to be overwritten.

He typed simply, “Good luck. I’ll be in Vale for a while, so I hope you do well.”

A minute later, her reply lit the screen. “Be safe, JJ.”

He stared at the words before closing his Scroll. They were both going to be busy, walking roads that pulled them in opposite directions. That was life. When people found something worth doing, when the path felt right, it was a blessing just to cross each other’s way without resentment.

Slipping the device back inside his coat, James was about to leave when a sudden weight clapped his shoulder.

“Saw you there, Ironwood.”

James turned. Sion stood beside him, that usual mix of weariness and rough energy in his expression.

“How are things?” Sion asked.

“Good,” James said simply. “You?”

Sion exhaled sharply, half a laugh, half a groan. “Old Chopper’s ruthless. Keeps drilling me like I’m still a cadet, but I’ll admit he’s instilling some discipline in me. Getting good lessons out of it. Still—” he scratched the back of his head, “sometimes I wish it was you, not me here.”

James shrugged once. “It’s not my position. And I think you’ll do fine.”

Sion eyed him, searching for any trace of encouragement beyond the plain words, then sighed. “I hope so.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to go.”

James gave a small nod and watched him disappear into the halls. For a moment, he lingered in the Academy, the faint murmur of cadets in the distance stirring memories. But those halls were no longer his world.

Stepping outside, he crossed the grounds and boarded his airship, where a soldier stood at attention and the pilot already prepped the Bullhead. Without fanfare, they lifted off, the spires of Atlas fading into white clouds as he flew back to Fort Arrowfell.

Back in Arrowfell, the cold stone of the fort felt heavier than usual. James stood by the tall windows of his office, looking out at the endless snow, before turning his attention back to Plum.

“As much as I’d like to take you with me,” James said, tone clipped but calm, “Arrowfell needs to be watched. I’ll have to rely on you.”

Plum adjusted her glasses, the faintest pinch of irritation flashing behind her professional mask. 

“Of course. I’ll continue the workload you’ve left behind.” Her words were precise, but her tone betrayed the edge of annoyance. “The contract with the SDC has arrived, and I’ll be having talks with the General, the Council, and Atlas’s lawyers on the specifics.” She let out a small sigh, controlled, but audible. “All in addition to the daily reports, logistics, and defense oversight.”

James didn’t so much as blink. He didn’t apologize, nor soften his words. “Do the job well,” he said evenly. His voice carried authority, iron pressed into every syllable. Then, after a pause, added. “But not so much that you collapse under it.”

Plum’s lips tightened into a line. She made no comment, neither protest nor gratitude. Instead, she straightened the folders in her hand and shifted to the next matter. “Regarding the airship you’ll be riding, the crew and personnel have been selected.”

James’s gaze flicked to her. “You followed the order?”

She pushed her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose, eyes narrowing. “I did. Though I don’t understand why the warship is fully loaded and armed for what’s meant to be a diplomatic observation. I’ll have to assume the Commander’s judgment is sound.”

“Trust me,” James said, firm and unyielding.

Silence hung between them for a breath. Then Plum gave the faintest incline of her head. “Very well.” She turned on her heel. “If that’s all, Commander, I’ll excuse myself.”

James gave no objection.

The door closed behind her, leaving James alone with the paperwork stacked high across his desk. 

The Headmaster’s office in Vale  was tall with arched windows letting in daylight, green-tinted glass that bathed the room in a muted hue, bookshelves half-filled, and a broad mahogany desk stacked with neat folders. But the space reflected a younger Ozpin, one not yet weighed down by centuries of losses. His hair was white, his features sharper, his movements brisk rather than weary. Still, when he looked up from his paperwork, his eyes carried a weight beyond his years.

“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly, voice measured but firm. He set his pen down, folded his hands, and gestured toward the four figures standing before him.

Summer Rose stood tall, though not without effort. Her white cloak shifted as she crossed her arms loosely over her chest. She wore the faintest smile, the kind that said I’ll keep the peace as long as I can. But behind her silver eyes burned a fierce promise, if her teammates kept acting out, she would personally beat them into line with the blunt edge of her beloved weapon, Sundered Rose.

Beside her leaned Qrow Branwen, slouched with arms stuffed into his pockets. He carried himself like he didn’t care, though his sharp crimson eyes gave him away, always watching, always measuring. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and already he looked bored.

Raven Branwen mirrored him in posture but not in mood. Her arms were folded tightly, expression closed off, like she’d rather be anywhere but here. A scowl shadowed her face, dark hair falling across one eye as she shifted her weight, boots tapping the polished wood floor in impatience.

Taiyang Xiao Long, by contrast, was relaxed, broad shoulders loose, hands resting on his belt. He wore a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but tried anyway. Where the Branwen twins radiated storm clouds, Tai radiated easy sunlight. He shot Raven a grin that was half-challenge, half-flirt, clearly enjoying needling her just enough to spark a reaction or a kiss.

Ozpin, of course, noticed it all. He always noticed.

“You’ve all been briefed,” he began. “But allow me to impress upon you the importance of your continued missions in and around Mountain Glenn.”

Raven gave a soft, audible scoff. Qrow glanced at her with a grin like he’d been waiting for it.

Ozpin’s tone did not waver. “As you know, Vale’s Council has approved Mountain Glenn as our kingdom’s first serious expansion project. Thousands of settlers already call it home. They rely on huntsmen like yourselves to secure the surrounding territory.”

He paused, studying them. “Which means that the four of you must remain vigilant, coordinated and utterly professional.”

Qrow finally opened his mouth. “Professional, huh? You want professional, maybe don’t send us.” He gave a lazy shrug. “Plenty of shiny do-gooders at Beacon chomping at the bit for missions like these.”

“Plenty of naïve do-gooders,” Raven muttered, her voice flat. “We’ll clean up, but let’s not pretend this place isn’t doomed from the start.”

Tai gave her a sideways glance and leaned in slightly. “Careful, Raven. Keep frowning like that and you’ll scare the civvies before the Grimm gets the chance.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Keep talking, Taiyang, and I’ll give you something to really be scared of.”

He only smirked wider. “Promises, promises.”

Summer exhaled through her nose, that weary smile flickering. She looked between them, then back at Ozpin. “We’ll do our best, Headmaster,” she said simply. Her tone was calm, polite. But her silver eyes cut toward her teammates with a warning sharp enough to slice steel. Qrow’s grin faltered a little. Raven, though, only met Summer’s gaze for a moment before looking away, jaw tight.

Ozpin’s hands tightened slightly where they rested. He had seen enough huntsmen teams splinter from arrogance or rivalry. Team STRQ was powerful, brilliant, but was somewhat rough. And he didn't event want to go through the strange love quadrangle they have going.

“Do more than your best,” he said quietly. “Do what is necessary. The Grimm will not give Mountain Glenn time to stabilize. Its defenses, while formidable, are not Vale’s walls. If you lapse in discipline, it will be the people who pay the price.”

That sobered them, if only for a beat. Even Qrow’s smirk faded as his eyes shifted aside. Summer nodded once, firmly.

Ozpin leaned back in his chair, studying them. “Good. Then I will not waste more of your time.” He gestured toward the door. “Report to your huntsman contact and continue your sweep around the outer perimeter. Focus on the forested areas first. They pose the greatest risk of Grimm migration toward the settlement.”

Summer dipped her head respectfully. Tai gave a casual salute, still grinning like it was all just another spar. Raven gave a curt nod. Qrow, of course, only raised two fingers in a mock salute before shoving his hands back into his pockets.

They turned to leave and the door opened.

Glynda Goodwitch stepped in, posture straight as a steel rod, clipboard tucked under one arm. She was younger, yes, but already carried herself like she had been carved from authority itself. Her blonde hair was tied back in a neat bun, a few strands framing her face. Her green eyes were sharp, but not yet hardened with the bitterness of years and she still looked fresh, though the crisp lines of her outfit and the confidence in her stride made it clear she was already trusted by the Headmaster.

She glanced at Team STRQ, unimpressed. “Well?” she asked, voice crisp. “Are you planning to stand around all day, or are you going to get moving?”

Qrow made a low whistle. “Always a pleasure, Glynda.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Branwen.”

Raven smirked faintly at her brother’s expense but said nothing. Tai only chuckled under his breath.

Summer gave Glynda a polite nod as she brushed past her, cloak trailing behind her like a wisp of snow.

“Let’s move,” Summer said to her team, her tone brooking no argument.

Reluctantly, they filed out after her, Qrow dragging his feet the loudest. Glynda’s eyes followed them with a sharp, critical weight before she shut the door behind them.

Only then did Ozpin allow himself the faintest sigh.

Ozpin leaned back in his chair, hands folded loosely, expression unreadable.

Glynda lingered by the door a moment longer, clipboard pressed to her chest, eyes narrowing faintly as though she could still hear the Branwen's dismissive tone echoing back. At last, she turned toward him, a frown touching her lips.

“Do you truly think they’ll do well?” she asked.

Ozpin’s gaze slid to her, calm, patient. “They will.”

“They’re fractious,” Glynda pressed, her words crisp, every syllable carefully measured. “They bicker constantly, undermine one another in front of authority. Raven clearly despises this assignment. Qrow looks like he’s trying not to care. Even Taiyang only tempers the situation by pretending it’s all a joke. And Summer…” she paused, her frown softening only slightly, “...she’s the only one truly holding them together, but there’s only so much one woman can do.”

Ozpin allowed her the vent, his hands still folded neatly on the desk. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted at last. “They are volatile. Young and prone to arrogance.”

“Then why them?” Glynda’s tone sharpened, a flicker of frustration breaking through her professionalism. “Mountain Glenn is too important to gamble on a team with their kind of troubles.”

Ozpin’s eyes softened, though his tone never lost its steady cadence. “Because Mountain Glenn is important,” he said quietly. “That is why I sent them. They are not merely powerful, they are talented beyond their years. Where they lack discipline, they possess innovation. Where they lack cohesion, they have the potential to grow into something formidable. And when the Grimm come, and they will, raw talent may prove just as critical as unity.”

Glynda’s lips pressed thin. She shifted the clipboard under her arm. “You sound as though you are convincing yourself.”

Ozpin allowed the faintest smile. “Perhaps. But I believe it. You will see. They will adapt, because they must.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, filled only by the muted ticking of the antique clock behind his desk. Then, with a quiet exhale, Glynda stepped forward and set her clipboard on the desk.

“There are… visiting agreements to discuss,” she said, moving briskly back into business. She tapped a page, her eyes lowering to scan the list of dignitaries and representatives expected to visit Mountain Glenn in the coming months. “Council members, a few delegates from Mistral… some from Atlas as well…”

Her voice trailed off. A single line caught her eye. Her brows furrowed sharply, lips curling in a restrained scoff.

“Commander James Ironwood?” She read aloud.

Ozpin looked up, his expression betraying the faintest flicker of amusement. “Ah. Yes. It seems James has returned to the Atlas military after his… brief tenure as an indepedent Huntsman.”

“Brief?” Glynda snorted, unable to hide the bite in her tone. “That’s one way to put it. He didn’t last long.”

Ozpin chuckled softly, shaking his head. “On the contrary, I would not call his time wasted. His record as a Huntsman was remarkable. His missions were not only successful but efficient. You could argue he was the best active huntsman during that time.”

“Best?” Glynda raised a brow, disbelief heavy in her voice. “Really, Headmaster. I remember James Ironwood. Stiff as stone, pompous as any Atlas patriot I’ve met, and utterly incapable of blending in outside of his own rigid framework. Huntsmen need flexibility. Creativity. He lacked both.”

Ozpin sipped from the coffee mug beside him, utterly unbothered by her sharp tone. “And yet he survived assignments that would have claimed most others. He commanded respect. He made difficult decisions without hesitation. Those qualities have their place even if they sit uneasily with some.”

Glynda crossed her arms, exhaling through her nose. “Is it really wise to have him here? He’ll hardly be impressed with Vale’s expansion. No doubt he’ll find a dozen ways to lecture us about Atlas’s superior methods.”

“That may be,” Ozpin allowed, setting his mug down. “But James is not coming merely as a soldier. This is a diplomatic mission as well. And diplomacy requires that we extend courtesy, even to those we find… rigid.” His smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth. “Be nice, Glynda.”

Her eyes narrowed, the barest flicker of irritation tightening her posture. “I am always professional.”

“Professional, yes.” Ozpin’s tone warmed with something just shy of amusement. “But ‘nice’ is another matter entirely.”

She let out a quiet scoff, shaking her head. “I don’t see the point in coddling Atlas officers.”

“You and James were always somewhat rivals, were you not?” Ozpin teased gently, his voice carrying the same infuriating calm. “Perhaps it will be good for you to see him again. Catch up. Trade perspectives.”

Her jaw tightened, though her reply was as respectful as ever. “With due respect, Headmaster, that is not your concern.”

“Mm.” Ozpin shrugged lightly, eyes glinting as though her denial amused him. He returned his attention to the list, scanning it with unhurried care. “Regardless. This is an official visit. As such, I will ask again, try to be nice.”

Glynda’s tone was clipped, her composure intact, but her eyes betrayed the faintest irritation. “I am a professional, Headmaster. I will act accordingly.”

“I hope so,” Ozpin only smiled faintly, turning another page as though her irritation were a familiar companion.

Chapter Text

The airship bay was colder than he remembered, the steel walls humming faintly as power lines thrummed with stored energy. He then recalled that it was only later that they reconfigured the heating grid.

James stepped through the gangway, boots clicking against the grated floor. 

Then he saw Trish Rust waiting for him.

He hadn’t expected company on this particular mission, not like this.

“Chief Officer Trish,” he greeted evenly, voice clipped as always. “Going to accompany me to annoy Vale?”

Trish Rust fell into stride beside him, her gloves tugging at the hem of her coat. 

“I’ll be in charge of the Saint flagship,” she replied coolly. “Matters below the Commander’s responsibility fall to me. Arrowfell may be the fortress, but Saint is our mobile base. Consider this… a transfer of weight.”

Her words carried a faint bite, professional but edged. James made no response beyond a faint grunt, eyes forward as they walked down the narrow corridor.

It was Trish who broke the silence, her gaze catching the unusual bulk behind his waist as they passed into the lift chamber. “A hand cannon?” she asked, brow arched. “Seems… impractical.”

James glanced down at the weapon’s matte finish, its steel and Dust-infused barrel heavier than any standard sidearm. “Powerful, though,” he answered. “But I’ll admit… it is heavy.”

He had lost to Winter carrying this around. But he could use the extra firepower.

The transport elevator shuddered as it engaged, rising slowly toward the flagship’s central deck. Trish shifted her weight, studying him sidelong, and then shook her head faintly.

“You’ve become melancholic.”

James turned to her, expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not as boring. Not as rigid. Not… Mr. Try-Hard,” she said, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips before vanishing as quickly as it came.

James met her eyes for a long moment, then looked away, his tone calm and even. “We all have to grow up.”

Trish leaned back against the elevator’s cold wall, arms crossing. “I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or not. But I can see why the General picked you. It’s like you’ve been doing this for years.”

Her gaze narrowed, studying him with a critical edge. “Leadership suits you, James Ironwood.”

His eyes shifted downward, and for a fraction of a second his composure cracked. The faint shadow of pain passed across his face before he reined it back. 

“I disagree,” he said softly. “If anything, I’m incapable of discerning people’s hearts and minds.”

Trish snorted, lips twitching upward in faint disdain. “Unless your semblance lets you read minds, nobody has that figured out.” Her voice softened only slightly, her posture still tight. “For the record. I don’t like you, James Ironwood. Never did. Always thought you were a patriotic, pompous prick. Everything about you screamed ‘Atlas first, humanity second.’ You’re the kind that might bomb a few to save many.”

James’s tone didn’t waver, but he felt called out. “You’re not wrong. I still think that.”

She tilted her head, studying him, the faintest note of respect threading through her words despite herself. “Maybe. But at least you’ve learned flexibility. That matters.”

He said nothing at first. His gaze fixed on the ceiling of the lift, listening to the quiet thrum of the machinery and the gale outside of the lift. I died watching Atlas burn and drown, his mind echoed bitterly. If I can’t learn to bend, if I can’t learn to listen, then what’s left of me deserves nothing more than exile. And I’d be… a hermit of my guilt.

“Hopefully,” James said at last, his voice flat but carrying weight.

The elevator clicked to a halt, its heavy doors sliding open with a hiss. The Saint flagship stretched before them, its interior polished steel and clean lines marking it as one of Atlas’s finest designs.

“This way,” Trish said, straightening. Her tone was professional again, but the earlier edge hadn’t vanished. “I’m confident I can lead this crew. But don’t mistake that for complacency. I’ll be observant. Always.”

James nodded once. “As you should.”

She led him through the wide corridor where uniformed officers saluted sharply as they passed. Trish took the time to introduce each of the primary crew from the navigation, gunnery, communications, logistics, her voice crisp, and efficient. James responded with curt nods, his gaze lingering longer on the younger faces, the ones still eager, and still green.

Finally, they reached the captain’s cabin. Trish stopped at the door with her arms folded. “This will be your quarters, Commander. I’ll oversee liftoff. Rest while you can.”

James inclined his head slightly. “Thank you, Chief Officer.”

Without another word, he stepped inside. The cabin was sparsely furnished but functional. A desk, bunk, terminal, a narrow viewport showing the looming clouds of Solitas beyond. He set his coat across the chair, placed his weapons carefully within arm’s reach, and stood a moment in the silence, watching the faint reflection of himself in the window.

Outside, the flagship hummed to life, engines rumbling with restrained power.

James sat down at the desk, spreading all the documents in his hands, before he steepled his hands. 

His thoughts were shifting to Vale, to Mountain Glenn, and to what waited ahead.

The reports sat neatly stacked before him. Topographical assessments, dust consumption projections, Grimm migration studies, Vale’s optimistic budgets, and the overconfident language of bureaucrats who had never set foot beyond their city walls. He had read them twice already. Now he read them again, not for new insight, but to test his resolve.

He knew how important Mountain Glenn was to the Kingdom of Vale. Their first great expansion in decades. An ambitious gamble to prove that humanity could carve out a second bastion beyond its old walls. The politicians called it “a beacon of progress.” 

The Huntsmen were treating it like a frontier to be tamed. The people of Vale were told it was a fresh start.

And five years from now, it would all burn to hell.

He leaned back in his chair, hands folded. The memory wasn’t a vision, not prophecy. It was knowledge, future knowledge he carried with him. 

In five years, Mountain Glenn would be overrun. The Grimm would tear through the defenses, drawn to the growing unrest. The metro tunnels would become deathtraps, and the survivors would scatter or die.

And worse, beneath that failure lay another truth.

Merlot Industries. 

Their experiments, buried beneath Mt. Glenn, would accelerate the disaster.

James exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. He didn’t have the luxury of pretending ignorance. That was the curse of foresight.

So what do I do?

There were two approaches.

The first was to be diplomatic. Smile politely, point out “areas of concern,” and phrase his objections with the kind of restraint Vale’s politicians preferred. He could talk of resource distribution, long-term sustainability, the burden of securing supply lines. He could even offer conditional support. 

It would win goodwill, but it would also mean nothing. The project would proceed unchanged. Vale was too far committed, too desperate to prove itself.

The second was to be critical. Brutally critical. He could cut through their optimism with steel, pointing out every flaw with merciless precision. No softening, no compromises, no false encouragement. If Vale wanted an ‘observation’ from Atlas, then they would receive a verdict written in iron.

His jaw tightened.

The first option would gain him friends. The second will give him enemies.

But only the second had the chance, however slim, of sparing them from the disaster.

James rose from his chair and paced the narrow cabin. 

Vale’s leadership wasn’t blind, they had to know some of the risks. But they were indulging in wishful thinking. The Grimm’s behavior was not static. Aggressive expansion into hostile terrain would only agitate them further. He had seen it before. Mountain Glenn lacked natural barriers. No cliffs like Vale’s outer walls. No ice plains like Atlas. No seaways like Mistral’s coasts. It was flat, open, exposed. Defenses would need to be constant, and constant defenses meant constant pressure. Pressure that never relented until one side broke.

And Grimm never broke.

He paused at the viewport, staring at his own reflection. For a moment, the stern face in the glass looked older than it should have.

Even if he persuaded them to reconsider, there was another obstacle… pride. Vale’s Council would not abandon the project without a fight. They had invested millions of lien, years of planning, and the lives of hundreds already relocated. Telling them it would fail was more than pessimism, it was a direct attack on their credibility.

Which raised the question… could he persuade them by appealing to reason alone?

Unlikely.

If reason was useless, then what weapon was left?

Arrogance.

James’s lips pressed into a thin line. He could already hear the tone he would use. Stern, dismissive, clinical. Arrogance was a weapon, and wielded carefully, it could cut through optimism like a blade. If Vale thought Atlas was condescending, then fine… he would be condescending. He would paint their vision as a folly, their optimism as delusion, their investment as doomed to failure. And when Mountain Glenn fell, as it inevitably would, those words would linger like an echo.

The tactic was cruel. It would alienate them. It would earn him resentment.

But resentment was survivable.

The loss of lives was not.

He returned to his desk, pulling the latest Grimm distribution map into view. Dozens of red markers glared back at him, each representing a confirmed sighting. Herds in the forest. Packs migrating south. A cluster moving near the planned metro entrances.

His eyes tracked the lines Vale’s engineers had sketched for their defense grid. Incomplete. Overconfident. He could already see the failure points. Too few fallback zones. Too many chokepoints. No redundancy for when the grid went dark.

His mind dissected it ruthlessly, one flaw after another.

The metro was a liability. It bypassed Grimm in theory, but it also created a perfect corridor for Grimm to flood into the city if breached. And he saw that when Beacon Fell.

The perimeter walls were too thin, too fragile, and reliant on weapons platforms that would fail the moment supply chains staggered.

The Dust reserves were expensive, limited, and positioned dangerously close to residential sectors. One breach, and the entire stockpile would be lost. That’s what the White Fang use to breach Vale.

And also.. the Huntsman allocation was insufficient. Vale Huntsmen were ‘free and independent’. They operate differently than Atlas Huntsmen and those who are actually willing to patrol the Mountain could not cover Mt. Glenn, not with Grimm swarming daily.

He made notes in the margin, cold and precise. Each critique sharpened his tone further.

And then there was Merlot. He grimaced, fingers tightening slightly on his pen. Merlot Industries had dressed itself in the language of progress, of “understanding the Grimm.” But James knew better. Their research was reckless. Unchecked. Dangerous. And though their involvement was hidden now, it would not remain so. When Mountain Glenn fell, Merlot’s sins would amplify the destruction.

To confront Vale with that truth was impossible. They wouldn’t believe him. He had no evidence as of the moment. All he could do was cut their pride deep enough that, when failure came, his words would sting. Perhaps then, next time, they would listen.

James leaned back again, folding his hands.

He could already imagine the scene of Vale’s Council, trying to mask their irritation behind polite smiles, asking for his professional opinion. And he, deadpan, would deliver it.

Mountain Glenn is indefensible. Your metro is a deathtrap. Your perimeter will crumble. You are spending millions of lien to dig your own grave. Atlas will not waste its soldiers protecting a vanity project destined to fail.

Cold. Sharp. Arrogant. But true.

He closed his eyes briefly.

There was another side to the tactic. If he was too soft, they would ignore him. If he was too harsh, they would dismiss him as an Atlas elitist sneering at Vale. The balance had to be deliberate. Arrogant enough to wound their pride, precise enough that his critique couldn’t be written off as bluster.

He would frame it as a strategy. Not a warning, but a verdict. Not emotion, but reason. He would not plead. He would not beg. He would state, and let the weight of certainty carry the rest.

James opened his eyes again, resolve settling in.

He had seen the future once, and it had broken him. He would not waste this chance by playing diplomat.

When Vale asked for Atlas’s perspective, they would get it in full. Tactical. Rational. Pragmatic. Merciless.

Arrogant, yes. 

And even if his tactic fails, at least they might try to prove him wrong and do better.

If anything, James was hoping they’d do that. It was very unlikely that Mt. Glenn expansion could be stopped now, but if he could provoke them into shifting in a favorable direction, it would be better.

Chapter Text

Somewhere in Mistral’s skies, the Saint cut through the clouds, its engines steady as a metronome. Inside the command transport, Trish Rust leaned back against the padded bench, her eyes fixed on James Ironwood. He had just finished his analysis, his cold verdict of Mountain Glenn, and she blinked twice before letting out a short laugh.

“Tell me you hit your head,” she said dryly.

James didn’t flinch. “No. I’m telling you the truth. Mountain Glenn is a catastrophe waiting to happen. Every line in these reports screams of overconfidence. Their walls, their supply chains, their defense grid… none of it is sustainable in the long run. And that’s without mentioning the other factor.”

Trish arched a brow, unimpressed. “The very idea that Mountain Glenn was built without accounting for past mistakes is unrealistic, James. The Four Kingdoms exist because they learned . Vale, Mistral, Atlas, Vacuo… humanity as whole  didn’t just stumble into this level comfort by doing nothing. We endured because our ancestors figured out how to adapt and fight against the Grimm.”

Her voice sharpened, measured but laced with disdain. “Vale’s walls were raised higher and thicker every century. Mistral carved strongholds into its mountains. Vacuo adapted from nomadic settlements. Atlas built on iron discipline and technology. The kingdoms are still here because people smarter than either of us made sure their foundations were unshakable. And you’re suggesting that the Kingdom of Vale forgot all of that in a single expansion project?”

James didn’t immediately argue. He nodded once. “They didn’t forget. But we know they’re desperate to expand. Desperation leads to shortcuts. And there’s another variable, one I expected you of all people to acknowledge.”

Trish crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look. “Which is?”

“Merlot Industries.”

The name made her pause, but not for long. She tilted her head, smirking faintly. “Merlot? They’re leading in Grimm studies, James. You’ve seen the results. Their cybernetics division alone is revolutionary. If anyone understands what they’re dealing with, it’s them.”

James pulled a folder from his satchel and pushed it across the table toward her. “Then explain this.”

Trish raised an eyebrow but accepted the file. The seal was unmistakably high-clearance documents. She flicked it open and began to skim.

“Containment cages designed for live Grimm capture,” she read aloud, tone slowing as she scanned the details. “Dust stockpiles requisitioned in quantities that could sustain an entire outpost for years… excavation reports,” She stopped, frowning. “...showing significant Dust veins beneath Mountain Glenn itself.”

Her eyes narrowed as she flipped further. The data wasn’t conjecture. It was meticulous.

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint rumble of the Saint’s grav-dust engines. Then she closed the folder with a snap and exhaled. “I understand your apprehension. And your… ‘tactic.’ But I disagree, wholly. This isn’t our jurisdiction. We’re here on a diplomatic mission, James. If you sour it by tearing down Vale’s expansion project, it reflects badly on Atlas. Relations could take a hit.”

James leaned forward, his hands clasped, his tone unflinching. “If I let this go unchallenged, then relations will take more than a hit. They’ll collapse along with Mountain Glenn. And they want an observation of their expansion, and that’s what they’ll get. My observation with no holding back.”

Trish studied him for a long moment, then leaned back. She drummed her fingers lightly against the bench. “You’re suggesting Merlot’s goals aren’t aligned with Vale’s? That they’re… what, planning something reckless? Exploiting the expansion for his experiments?”

James didn’t look away. “Yes.”

“Why?” she pressed. “It would be reckless and unprofitable. No corporation undermines the very project they’re being paid to sustain. That’s bad business.”

“Unless profit isn’t the goal.” His voice was flat, certain.

Her smirk faltered, and she tilted her head. “That’s a bold assumption.”

“It's a deduction,” James corrected. “Merlot’s research requires Grimm. Not just data on Grimm, not just theories but specimens . They’ve proven willing to risk containment breaches to advance their work. Now Vale has given them a part of the city sitting atop Dust veins with Grimm pressing on its perimeter. For a company like Merlot, it’s not a settlement, it’s a laboratory and I assure you that they will continue to do this.”

And he knew because years later he'd hear about Merlot's Islands and his mutated Grimm from Opzin.

Trish’s eyes narrowed again. She didn’t deny the logic, but she didn’t confirm it either. “Unless you have Merlot themselves saying this, James, it’s not viable proof. It’s an accusation. And this isn’t about your deductions. This is about the Kingdoms. Atlas’s interests come first, remember that. The General wants results, not suspicion.”

Her voice was firm, but James could see the faint crease at the corner of her brow. Half-convinced.

He straightened, his words deliberate, sharp. “Then let me put it plainly. If Mountain Glenn fails, Vale falters. If Vale falters, Mistral and Vacuo will feel the strain. Trade falters, Huntsmen are stretched thin, and Grimm pushes harder. A single crack spreads across the whole board. Atlas doesn’t exist in isolation, Trish. If Vale falls, so will we, sooner or later. It might take years, but we will.”

His tone was iron, pragmatic, no room for sentiment.

Trish didn’t interrupt. She let him speak, her eyes fixed on him, unreadable.

James continued. “We’re not just here to observe. We’re here to prevent disaster. Every decision we make now will cascade into the future. That’s why I cannot afford just simple diplomacy. Not here. Not with this.”

Silence lingered. The air inside the cabin seemed heavier, the weight of his words sinking into the steel walls.

Finally, Trish exhaled slowly through her nose. She didn’t nod, but her shoulders eased slightly. “You’re impossible to argue with, you know that? Or is this Mettle again?”

James raised a brow.

She tapped the folder with one finger. “No evidence. No confession. Just deductions and paranoia. And yet...” she gave a short laugh “I can see why the General put you in charge. You don’t care if people like you. You care about being right.”

He didn’t answer.

For a moment, her gaze lingered on him, thoughtful, weighing. Then she pushed the folder back across the table. “Fine. We’ll play the game your way when we reach Vale. No guarantees, but you’ve got ample time to prepare the crew. If you’re going to be the hammer, I’ll make sure the anvil’s ready.”

James inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Trish snorted, standing and brushing her coat back into place. “Don’t thank me. Just hope you don’t blow a hole in diplomatic relations with this move. Still,” she shot him a sidelong glance, almost amused “... if we can spin this into a benefit for Atlas, I won’t complain.”

James gave a faint smile, brief and hollow. “Then let’s be prepared for both outcomes.”

James then spent the next few days in the Saint drilling his soldiers with a precision that bordered on obsessiveness. Every order came sharp, clipped, designed for efficiency but with a secondary intent. He wasn’t just preparing them for potential combat, he was shaping how Vale would see them.

Uniforms pressed to perfection. Boots polished until they reflected the floodlights. Every movement rehearsed, from marching in file to disembarking the airship in lockstep formation. Even their posture, their eye contact, their silence calculated to project the aura of an Atlas military machine that tolerated no weakness.

“Arrogance,” James told them, pacing the line of soldiers like a drillmaster. “Polished. Disciplined. Absolute. When Vale looks at you, they should see not men or women, but the will of Atlas given form. That is the impression I want burned into their minds.”

A few soldiers looked uncertain, but the Commander’s tone left no room for doubt.

Later, when the men were dismissed, Trish Rust lingered against a railing, watching with her usual blend of cynicism and curiosity. She folded her arms, tilting her head as James ran through another mental checklist.

“You really have been thinking about this too deeply,” she muttered.

James glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “Lives are at stake, Trish. I’m not about to risk them.”

Her mouth twitched into a grin that was half amusement, half mockery. “So your brilliant plan is to order your men to act out a bad military flick. You know the kind, the one with arrogant soldiers looking down on the spear-chucking natives? I can already hear the dramatic soundtrack.”

James ignored her barb and turned back to his datapad.

Trish rolled her eyes. “Seriously, you should take it easy. You’ll win hearts and minds by being useful, not by stomping around like a pompous ass. No too late to back out from this.”

Still nothing from James. His stoic silence only egged her on.

“This is going to make Glynda hate your guts even more,” she added sweetly. "Especially with how that fling you two had ended back when we were exchanged there for a while."

That stopped him. James froze mid-scroll, his brow furrowing as though a splinter of memory had jabbed him. He lowered the datapad, his gaze distant. "Did we?"

Trish caught the shift instantly. Her smirk widened. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

James stayed quiet, his eyes narrowing faintly, clearly reaching for something buried under years of discipline and hardened soldiering.

Trish sneered. “Unbelievable. You men really are assholes. You get what you want and then conveniently forget. You and Glynda? Back at Beacon? The two of you were like cats and dogs, snapping at each other every other day. Everyone could see it building. And when it finally boiled over—”

James tried harder, the corner of his mouth tightening as he searched his memory.

“You really don’t remember,” Trish said, in mocking tone. Then her smirk returned, sharper. “You’re scummy for forgetting your first times.”

His head snapped toward her, frown deepening. “How would you know that?”

Trish rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Please. Even a fool could guess what happened after that rowdy, alcohol-drenched night when we were there as temporary exchange students. You two practically radiated sexual tension every time you shared a time together. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to imagine what followed once enough drinks were in the mix.”

She paused, then noticed the way his expression shifted, still confused, but flickering. The faintest trace of recognition.

James pressed his temples with a groan. The memories came in fragments, blurry, then clearer. The taste of Glynda’s lips, heady and sharp like the wine they had shared… the heat of skin against skin as they moved with an urgency only youth and recklessness allowed… alongside the mingled sweat, the ragged breathing. The blurred stumble through Beacon’s dormitory halls at dawn. And the worst of it, Trish’s incredulous face waiting at the stairwell, arms crossed, when they’d been caught in the aftermath of that walk of shame.

“Oh,” James said flatly. “Right. You caught us.”

“Yup.” Trish snorted, thoroughly enjoying herself.

James sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face.

“Fair warning,” Trish said, her grin all teeth. “If you pull this military arrogance stunt, Glynda might truly hate your guts. And this time? No alcohol to soften the edge.”

James lowered his hand, his tone resigned. “It can’t be helped then.”

For a moment, Trish studied him, her smirk fading into something more calculating. She had been testing him, probing for hesitation, for weakness in his resolve. Instead, she found iron. His sigh wasn’t doubt, it was acceptance. He was committed, even knowing the personal fallout.

She nodded once, the gesture sharp. “Then do it properly. Dress uniforms. Full decorum. And,” she pointed a finger at him “have them wear hard-light shield generator belts. Extra annoyance. Show them they don’t have that. Make them feel… poor?”

James allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Agreed.”

Trish leaned back, satisfied. “Good. If you’re going to piss people off, at least do it with style.”

The clatter of heels against stone echoed through Beacon Academy’s courtyard. Glynda Goodwitch, Vice-Headmistress and disciplinarian of Vale’s most prestigious Huntsman academy, cut across the space with her usual air of unshakable authority.

Two students froze mid-duel, their personal weapons still buzzing with aura-infused glow. They had been laughing, sparring more for show than discipline, but the moment Glynda’s shadow fell over them, their mirth drained.

“Combat class ended sixty minutes ago,” she said, voice sharp enough to slice. Her riding crop tapped once against her palm. “And I don’t recall authorizing the courtyard as an arena. Should I assume you’ve decided to rewrite Beacon’s schedule without my consent?”

The students stammered apologies. One nearly dropped his sword in his haste to bow.

“Detention,” Glynda declared, final as a gavel. “Both of you. Report to Professor Port tomorrow morning. And if I see this nonsense again, you’ll wish your discipline ended there.”

They scurried off, leaving her alone in the courtyard. Glynda exhaled slowly, adjusting her glasses with practiced precision. Students were easy and predictable. Children playing at war, needing only the sharp hand of discipline to keep them from tumbling into chaos.

But what loomed above her now? That was something else.

Her gaze drifted upward and the breath caught in her throat.

A shadow stretched across the courtyard, vast and imposing. Cutting through the clouds, a ship descended, its hull gleaming steel-white, trimmed with Atlas white and blues. It wasn’t the usual Bullhead transport, nor even one of Vale’s supply airships. This was something larger and deadlier. 

A flagship destroyer, its bulk blotting out the sun. The kind of ship only Atlas could manufacture, an unmistakable silhouette of military engineering and arrogance only they could have.

The Saint Flagship.

Her jaw tightened.

So it was true. Headmaster Ozpin hadn’t been exaggerating. Atlas had indeed sent a warship to Beacon. Not a diplomatic shuttle. Not a civilian vessel. A weapon designed to remind the world that Atlas never walked softly, and alway pressed down harder.

And if the reports were accurate, then aboard that ship… leading them was… him.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

She turned sharply on her heel, cloak flaring behind her, and began her walk toward the cliff docks. Each step measured, deliberate, though beneath her crisp stride, tension coiled.

Her mind flicked to her appearance. Unconsciously, her hand smoothed the sleeve of her blazer, adjusted the hem of her skirt. Her fingers brushed against her blonde hair, ensuring it stayed immaculate.  She found it ridiculous. She shouldn’t care. This was diplomacy, not a school dance back then.

And yet, curse it all, she did .

Because the last time she had seen James Ironwood…

Glynda exhaled through her nose, sharp and annoyed at herself. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with unnecessary force. Professionalism. That was her shield. She would not falter. Not over a man, and especially not over that man.

The cliff docks came into view, winds whipping stronger here at the edge of Beacon. Already gathered were Vale’s representatives and council liaisons in their neat civilian garb, alongside Huntsmen instructors there to add symbolic weight to the reception.

Glynda slipped into formation, posture flawless, arms folded behind her back. Her eyes fixed ahead, waiting. Trying not to fidget. Trying not to betray the unease simmering beneath her stern mask.

The flagship’s engines roared, a thunder that rattled the cliffs themselves. Slowly, the massive ship rotated, its armored belly looming overhead before descending with calculated grace. Its docking legs extended with mechanical precision, each hiss of hydraulics echoing like a declaration that Atlas has arrived.

The ramp extended.

And then what came first were soldiers.

A double column, pristine in dress uniforms, boots gleaming, hardlight shield belts clipped to their waists. They marched in perfect unison, movements synchronized like clockwork, the thud of boots, a rhythm of discipline. It wasn’t just a disembarkation… It was a theater performance. 

A display. 

A message.

Atlas showing off, as always.

Glynda’s mouth thinned further. She hated how effective it was. Even the Vale councilmen shifted uneasily, their eyes betraying intimidation.

And then… him.

Commander James Ironwood descended the ramp, flanked by the officers who had organized the display. And at his right, Trish Rust, unmistakable, that same sly yet aggressive poise she carried years ago when she had been in their young and reckless days as temporary exchange students.

But Glynda’s eyes couldn’t leave James.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. His uniform immaculate, every line crisp, the buttons of his greatcoat catching the sunlight just enough to gleam without ostentation. His movements were precise, confident, yet unforced like a man who carried the weight of command as naturally as breath. His hair combed neatly, clean shaved, lending him an air of distinguished authority.

And damn him… he looked pleasing to the eyes . Dreamy, even. Like some vengeful charmer that had marched out of her reckless youth to torment her present.

Her pulse betrayed her, a subtle quickening beneath the armor of her composure.

And then, the memory struck her, hot, vivid, and truly unwelcome.

Her reckless younger self clinging to him in a haze of drink and adrenaline, lips crushed against his, the heat of his hands at her waist, her own gasps mixing with his low growls. The reckless abandon of their reckless night together. The sweat, the whispered curses, the way she had fallen asleep against his chest only to wake mortified hours later. The walk of shame that followed, her head down, hair disheveled, her dignity in tatters while Trish’s smirk cut her down worse than any Grimm claw.

She shoved the memory down viciously, her nails digging into her palm until the sting anchored her back to the present. Professionalism. That was what remained. Professionalism, and a burning curse for her foolish, reckless younger days.

James reached the platform, his soldiers halting in perfect precision behind him. He came forward, expression remaining calm, formal, and measured. His eyes met hers briefly, not long enough to linger, not soft enough to betray familiarity.

“Professor Gylynda Goodwitch,” he said, voice deep, clipped with military formality. He inclined his head just enough to acknowledge her, no more. “On behalf of the Kingdom of Atlas, allow me to thank you for hosting this delegation.”

At his side, Trish Rust mirrored the motion, her tone equally polished. “Chief Officer Trish Rust, representing the Saint flagship. It’s an honor, Glynda.”

It was all professionalism. Formality. The distance of two soldiers who knew their duties and wore them like armor. No warmth. No crack in the mask.

Good. That was how it should be.

Glynda inhaled slowly, steadying herself, then stepped forward with impeccable poise. Her voice carried the exact balance of authority and welcome required of her role.

“Commander Ironwood. Chief Officer Rust. On behalf of Beacon Academy and its Staff, and the Kingdom of Vale, welcome.”

Her words were smooth, crisp, nothing betraying the tumult beneath.

Only when her gaze flicked past James to the pristine ranks of soldiers behind him did her mood sour again.

The display. The arrogance. 

The theater of intimidation. 

It was typical of Atlas. 

But her face did not betray her annoyance.

She pushed her glasses up once more, drew herself taller, and concluded, “We are honored by your presence. Beacon Academy extends its full cooperation for the duration of your visit.”

Chapter Text

Glynda’s voice carried ahead of him, crisp and sharp, every syllable perfectly enunciated as she guided the delegation through Beacon’s halls. She spoke of schedules, accommodations, and the formalities of their diplomatic stay. Her tone was professional, the same as the sharp edge of her stride.

James only half-listened.

Because he was watching her.

Glynda Goodwitch… her younger self.

Her hair caught the light as they passed through tall windows, golden strands shifting like tempered steel. She hadn’t changed. Not truly. Not to him. She carried herself the same as she always had, shoulders squared, chin high, walking like the world was hers to discipline into order.

And she was beautiful.

Not the shallow, fleeting beauty of youth, but something cut deeper, honed sharper. She had always been formidable, always commanding, but now… now there was a gravity to her. A weight that matched the title she bore.

In another life, he had seen her older. Graceful, dignified, still standing unbroken even as the world around them cracked. A pillar when others crumbled. In that life, James had always found himself breathless whenever she entered a room, outpaced no matter how rigid his stride, no matter how high his rank.

And now, seeing her here, younger, stronger, eyes sharp and steady, he felt it again.

James had fought on countless battlefields. He had faced Grimm in endless swarms. He had even faced Salem herself. But Glynda Goodwitch was the one he could never outpace.

A Huntress beyond measure.

How had she done it? How had she stood on the front lines of Vale, day after day, when the Wyvern had petrified itself above Beacon? The Grimm that statue drew had been endless, waves upon waves that would have broken lesser Huntsmen. Yet she had stood. Always. Without faltering.

And when Atlas fell, when the sky itself turned red and the earth split under Salem’s assault, where had she been? James wondered. Had she fought then too? Had she held the line even after everything else fell away?

He could see it in his mind.

The Staff of Creation taken. Salem descending upon Vale. Cinder at her side, smirking in cruel triumph. And Glynda standing firm. Her weapon drawn, her eyes sharp, refusing to bend even as darkness swallowed the light.

He could see her facing them.

Salem’s endless malice. Cinder’s fire. Tyranny and chaos both. And Glynda Goodwitch did not flinch. Not once.

She wouldn’t have. Not Glynda.

Because she was the best of them. The one who never wavered. The one who faced evil not with vengeance or desperation, but with duty. With resolve. Without prejudice.

The shame burned low in his chest.

What was he compared to her? A soldier who had tried to shield Atlas, who had grasped so tightly at control that he strangled what he meant to protect. A man who thought he knew what was best for humanity, yet never saw the people themselves.

He had fallen. He had failed.

And she had endured.

Now, walking behind her, he felt it more keenly than ever. Shame. A hollow, gnawing weight.

He stood in front of Glynda Goodwitch, but it felt like standing before judgment.

And in his heart, James Ironwood knew he was not worthy.

In his other life, she had pushed him. Harder than anyone. Pushed him to be more than the soldier, more than the rigid machine of discipline and procedure. She had challenged him, sometimes furiously, sometimes quietly, but always with the same cutting truth that people were not assets, not tools, not chess pieces to be moved on a board.

She had told him to trust.

He had listened. Truly, he had.

Because it was her.

It was because of Glynda that he had chosen to place his faith in others. Qrow with his erratic loyalty, Ozpin with his endless secrets, and those bright young Huntsmen and Huntresses like Team RWBY, Team JNPR. He had let himself believe. That together, they could weather the storm. That unity would be enough.

And then betrayal.

Ozpin with his silence. Qrow with his foolishness. The children with their naivety, their recklessness, their unwillingness to see what war demanded.

He had given them trust. And they had broken it.

So he steeled his heart. Hardened himself. He told himself never again. Never again would he let sentiment guide him. Never again would he allow ideals to weaken his judgment.

And in doing so… he had thrown away her words.

For a moment, walking behind her now, James faltered. His tactic, his carefully prepared arrogance, his plan to sour Vale’s pride, to push back hard on Mt. Glenn and force them to face the risks and fix it wavered his mind.

Because this was Glynda.

Did he truly want to offend her? To stand against Vale, knowing she was here, knowing she would see it as condescension, as yet another Atlas officer trying to impose control?

The doubt scraped at him. Unwelcome. Dangerous. But real.

And in the back of his head, he realized something else. Something colder.

He was falling again. Back into the same pit. Hiding his intentions. Planning around his "best judgment" without ever laying bare the truth. Believing he alone could see the bigger picture, that he alone could act for the greater good.

It was the same cycle. The same mistakes.

He told himself it was tactical. Pragmatic. Necessary. But in truth, it made him feel… lost.

Like even now, he was still chasing the ghost of who he used to be.

James’s thoughts churned, so much so that he barely noticed the delegation splitting ahead. Only when Glynda’s voice cut sharp into the fog did he blink back into the present.

“Are you even listening?”

Her tone was clipped, professional as always, but the look in her eyes was sharper, narrowed in quiet scrutiny.

James stopped short. They stood at the base of the elevator, its doors reflecting back the polished buttons of his uniform, her green eyes catching the faint shine.

For a heartbeat, James hesitated. Then, with the same bluntness that had carried him through battlefields, he answered without armor.

“You’re as beautiful as the day we parted.”

The words slipped out with the weight of truth, unvarnished, uncalculated.

Glynda froze, brow arching high, her lips parting as if to rebuke him, but no sound came. Color crept unbidden to her cheeks, betraying her far more than she would ever allow in words.

She turned swiftly, facing the elevator doors as though the cold steel could shield her from his gaze. One hand adjusted her glasses, the other clenched faintly at her side.

If this was the older Glynda, she’d just roll her eyes at his flattery… but this Glynda.

She was still young.

“Stop with the nonsense,” she said at last, her voice steadier than her posture. “We need to meet with Ozpin. Now.”

The elevator chimed. 

The doors opened.

And James, his chest heavy with shame and longing, stepped inside beside her.

And there he was.

Ozpin.

The Headmaster of Beacon. Young still, his face smooth, his hair not yet streaked by time or strain. He sat behind his polished desk with that same deliberate posture, his hands folded neatly, his cane propped against the armrest of his chair as though it were nothing more than a casual accessory. The light from the great clockwork gears behind him cast long shifting shadows across the office, framing him in a halo of steady motion.

James stopped cold.

For an instant, everything in him buckled. His breath shortened. His chest constricted.

He felt it… the rage was sharp and immediate, rushing to the surface like a storm breaking.

It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t even tied to the man who sat before him, not this Ozpin, not yet. But James remembered. He remembered the lies, the half-truths, the endless burden of secrets carried until they crushed everyone involved. He remembered Salem’s endless game, the relics hidden, the staff lost, the war that consumed them all. 

He remembered Oscar, the farm boy who became Ozpin’s next vessel, a boy too young to shoulder the weight, too trusting, too foolish. He remembered Team RWBY, Team JNPR, their starry-eyed idealism, their reckless defiance. He remembered their mistakes, their failures, their betrayals.

He remembered Atlas falling.

And in that moment, standing there in Beacon’s shining heart, James felt like a ghost staring at the man who had killed him.

His jaw locked. His hand clenched into a fist, the leather of his glove creaking faintly. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t step forward.

Control. Control.

James brought his gloved hand up, pressing the heel of it against his face as if to steady himself, as if he could force the trembling in his chest to still. His fingers brushed over the bridge of his nose, the edge of his brow. He inhaled slowly, carefully, his lungs pulling in the measured rhythm of a soldier trying to stave off collapse.

Not here. Not now.

He forced his hand down, made his body obey.

When Ozpin finally spoke, his voice was smooth, even, maddeningly calm.

“Commander Ironwood. Atlas’s presence is always… formidable.”

James’s answer came automatically. Words without weight, tone without inflection. A dull, emotionless recitation.

“Beacon appreciates the effort. We intend to fulfill our responsibility.”

He wasn’t processing what he said. His mind wasn’t even on the conversation. He was going through the motions, his voice steady, but hollow, stripped of cadence. Like a machine.

Across the desk, Ozpin’s brow rose ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of curiosity breaking his composed mask.

At James’s side, Glynda turned her head fractionally, her green eyes narrowing as she studied him. She knew the difference. She remembered his voice when it carried conviction, when it cut sharp and decisive through a room. This wasn’t that. This was something else.

James could feel her scrutiny like a weight on his shoulder, but he couldn’t turn to meet it. Couldn’t acknowledge it. His whole body felt wrong and his throat tight, his breath ragged in spite of his calm exterior.

He was fighting. 

Not Ozpin. 

Not Glynda. 

But himself.

The memories clawed at him, unrelenting. The boy, Oscar, standing small and wide-eyed. Ruby Rose, looking at him with betrayal in her gaze. Yang, furious. Blake, quiet and condemning. Nora, Ren, Jaune, all of them turning against him when he needed unity most.

And above them all, Ozpin’s voice, in Oscar’s mouth, always insisting on patience, secrecy, faith.

Faith that had cost them everything.

And yet James felt disgust at his own disgust.

He hated the rage boiling in him. Hated that he could not separate the man in front of him from the ghost of what was to come. Ozpin, here, now, was not that man. Not yet. He hadn’t lied to him. He hadn’t hidden the lamp. He hadn’t failed Oscar, or led Team RWBY into disaster. And yet James could not silence the bile rising in his chest.

He wanted to speak. To lash out. To demand. To accuse.

Instead, he forced himself through the rote responses, one after another, his voice dull, stripped of humanity.

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“Atlas is committed to cooperation.”

“We’ll observe the expansion at Mt. Glenn.”

Ozpin’s gaze lingered. Watching him. Measuring. That infuriating calm, the same calm James had seen when kingdoms burned and children wept.

It made his skin crawl.

But he didn’t break.

He couldn’t.

Because Glynda was there. Because soldiers waited outside, carrying the weight of Atlas’s name. Because if he faltered, it would not be James alone who suffered, it would be Atlas.

So he clung to control like a drowning man to driftwood, every word that left his mouth another step down a path he could barely see.

Yet inside, James was breathless.

Every inhale a fight. 

Every exhale a war.

He didn’t realize he had shifted his stance, didn’t realize how rigidly he stood until his knees ached from locking in place. His glove felt hot against his palm from how hard he’d clenched it. His throat burned from holding words he couldn’t afford to say.

When Ozpin leaned back slightly, studying him, James almost thought the Headmaster had seen through him.

And perhaps he had.

But Ozpin only said, with that infuriating calm:

“I’m glad Atlas could spare someone of your… caliber.”

The words were neutral. Polite. But they scraped against James like sandpaper.

He dipped his head in the smallest of nods, voice still flat.

“Atlas serves.”

Mettle kept screaming at his head-

Then silence.

And when it settled... all James felt was exhaustion.

Chapter Text

James made a mistake.

He’d kept himself calm inside Ozpin’s office, at least outwardly. His words had been steady, his voice controlled. But that cloak of rage and hate had wrapped itself around him tighter than armor, and now it suffocated him.

The moment he stepped out of the office, his breath hitched. He muttered some excuse, any excuse, and made for the restrooms. The door shut behind him with a hollow thud, and he entered one of the stalls.

His fist lashed out before he could stop himself.

The wall cracked under his punch, and his arm buried itself halfway to the elbow, aura pushing through steel and plaster alike. He felt the vibration all the way up to his shoulder. For a second, he wanted to leave it there, to keep smashing until the wall collapsed on top of him.

Instead, James forced himself to deactivate his aura.

Mettle receded instantly, like fire deprived of air, leaving him with a dull ache in his knuckles and the raw sting of flesh against fractured concrete. It hurt. And because it hurt, it grounded him.

James pulled his arm out slowly, flexing his hand. His knuckles were red but not broken. The wall looked worse.

At the sink, he leaned forward, letting cold water run over his skin. He raised his head to the mirror and froze.

The man staring back at him looked carved out of stone. Face locked, jaw clenched, eyes as lifeless as a corpse. He hated seeing himself like this. He hated that he could recognize this face.

The one he’d worn before Atlas fell.

James shook it off, splashing water across his face. The cold didn’t help. He still felt unsteady, his chest tight, his mind buzzing. Could he even go through with what he’d planned? Could he stand here in Vale and play the game he had decided on, while his past actions screamed in his ears?

He couldn’t imagine what would happen if he saw Qrow now.

How he'd act.  

He dried his face, straightened his uniform, and left the restroom.

Glynda was waiting near the corner, posture straight, gaze sharp as she kept watch over students passing through the halls. A boy nearly ran into another, laughing as he carried a stack of training gear. Glynda’s glare hit him like a hammer, and he froze mid-step, offering a clumsy apology before scurrying off.

James stepped up beside her. His voice came out dull, stripped of its usual force.

“Where to next?”

Glynda turned, arching a brow at him. Her glare lingered a moment, then her mouth quirked into something biting.

“Constipated?”

James blinked. That pulled him out of his haze for a moment, like cold water poured on his thoughts. Was she… serious? Or was that her idea of a joke? He couldn’t remember her being this blunt in the past. Or maybe he’d simply forgotten.

“I think we should get the show moving,” he said stiffly.

She crossed her arms, unimpressed, eyes narrowing in protest.

James hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to deal with that look, wasn’t sure how to read her when she’s at this age. The two of them stood there, caught in a silent contest neither wanted to admit was happening. The air thickened with discomfort.

Finally, Glynda broke it. Her voice was quieter, almost thoughtful. “It’s been a long time.”

James inclined his head. “It has.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quite as heavy, but it was no less awkward.

Glynda coughed, smoothing down the front of her dress. Without looking at him, she started down the hall. James fell in step beside her.

As they walked, Glynda began to speak, her tone crisp, matter of fact, the voice of a teacher cataloging her students.

“Beacon has grown since you last visited. The current year’s students are… spirited, to say the least. Managing them requires as much discipline as it does guidance.” She gestured toward a classroom as they passed. “The ones inside now are talented, but prone to arrogance. The boy with the blond hair, for instance, his aura awakened late. He lacks skill, but believes otherwise. Hardheaded.”

Her stride was brisk, heels tapping against the polished floor. Her eyes flicked toward a balcony where a group of students trained in mock duels.

“Miss Rena,” she continued, “is exceptional. Polished. Natural talent and discipline in equal measure. But I worry she shoulders too much responsibility. She’ll carry the weight of others without complaint until it breaks her.”

They passed the training hall, and she pointed with her riding crop toward another group sparring. “Miss Ky and Mister Enle. Stubborn in their own ways, but balanced together. She has energy without direction. He has discipline but lacks confidence. Together, they complement each other.”

James listened quietly, watching the way Glynda’s eyes softened slightly as she spoke, even as her tone remained sharp.

“They are frustrating, every last one of them. Talented, reckless, willful… but they remind me why I stay here. They need structure. They need someone to keep them grounded. Huntsmen and Huntresses are too often allowed to grow wild. Not here.” She tapped her crop lightly against her palm, voice firm. “Not under my watch.”

Her words carried weight. Strict, yes. But James could hear something beneath it. Fondness. Unjaded. She hadn’t yet borne the full years of disappointment, the attrition of war, the endless losses. She still believed in what she was doing. Still believed these children could grow into something worth all the effort.

For a moment, James found himself listening more closely than he meant to. Her voice was sharp, sure, dedicated, and pulled him out of the fog he’d been drowning in since Ozpin’s office.

It cleared his head.

And with that clarity came the question again.

Could he really do this?

Could he take the plan he had forged, the criticism he was preparing to level at Vale and Mt. Glenn, and see it through? Or would fear make him repeat the same mistake, holding his “best intentions” close, never trusting anyone until it was too late?

He thought about what would happen if he faltered. If he let tragedy repeat itself. If Atlas and Vale and the world fell because he had been afraid.

It was supposed to be for the greater good. It was. But looking at Glynda now, listening to her speak about her students with that raw conviction, James felt the question sink deep into him.

Can I really do this?

They reached the courtyard. Students milled about in the open air, sparring in corners, laughing in groups. The sun glinted off the white stone of Beacon’s towers.

James hadn’t said a word since she started speaking.

Glynda stopped, turning to face him fully. Her brows knit slightly.

“You’ve been silent for too long,” she said.

He looked at her. Her expression was firm, expectant, the faintest crease in her brow betraying her slight irritation.

“I was considering how best to answer,” James said finally, his voice even, low, the tone of a man who weighed every word before he spoke it.

Glynda tilted her head slightly. “Answer what, exactly?”

“What I thought of the expansion project of Mountain Glenn,” James replied.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

James drew in a slow breath and began, calm and steady.

“On paper, the project has merit. Vale has long considered expansion impossible without exposing its people to Grimm. The location of Mountain Glenn, far enough from Vale to feel distinct, close enough to maintain ties makes sense. The underground metro system is clever. It bypasses the wilderness, mitigates surface danger, and ensures that supply and population transfer can occur with limited risk. From an engineering standpoint, it’s impressive.”

His tone remained neutral, measured, like he was delivering a report.

“Furthermore, the city’s construction has already generated industry. Contracts with Atlesian companies, mining rights, labor distribution. There are economic benefits. Vale gains breathing room, the perception of growth, and a chance to prove it is not stagnant. If it succeeds, it will inspire confidence, not only for Vale, but for humanity as a whole.”

Glynda folded her arms, studying him closely. “But you don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not,” James admitted. “The flaws outweigh the strengths.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

James clasped his hands tighter behind his back, posture straight as a line.

“Vale’s geography protects it. High cliffs, the natural sea barrier. Grimm are dangerous, yes, but the terrain does much of the work in funneling them, limiting their approach. Mountain Glenn has none of those advantages. It is exposed on nearly every side. Your proposed defenses are walls, sentry towers, patrols. Effective in the short term, but not sustainable. Grimm  numbers accumulate. The longer a settlement exists, the greater the swarm that will gather.”

He let the words hang, his voice calm but unwavering.

“In a matter of years, Mountain Glenn will face daily attacks of escalating scale. That requires constant resources of huntsmen rotations, military presence, and dust ammunition. Every resource spent holding Mountain Glenn will be a resource pulled away from defending Vale proper. If Grimm breaches the perimeter, you risk not only lives, but the morale of the entire Kingdom. Failure would be catastrophic, not just locally, but symbolically.”

Her eyes flashed with a mix of irritation and thought, but James continued before she could speak.

“There is also the issue of infrastructure. An underground metro may protect travel, but it creates a choke point. A collapse, an attack on the system, or even a malfunction would sever Mountain Glenn from Vale. The very thing that makes the metro clever also makes it a liability.”

James’s voice had grown firmer, but not heated. He spoke like a tactician laying out a map, pointing to inevitabilities.

“Then there is Merlot Industries.”

Glynda stiffened, her arms lowering slightly. “Merlot?”

“Yes.” James reached into his coat and withdrew a folded dossier. He didn’t hand it to her yet, only kept it in his hand, like a weight. “Your contractors are not all clean. Merlot Industries has been granted far too much leeway. Their Grimm studies are ambitious, yes, but bordering on reckless. And I suspect, based on the intelligence Atlas acquired, that they are using Mountain Glenn as more than just a settlement. It is a testing ground. Grimm capture protocols. They have dust excavations beneath the site. Proposals for containment facilities that are… concerning.”

Glynda’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Those are serious accusations.”

James met her gaze, unflinching. “Accusations based on documented shipments and budget allocations. Merlot’s research on Grimm is not strictly academic. Their experiments aim to manipulate, to alter, to weaponized them. If even a fraction of those experiments are being conducted under the soil of Mountain Glenn, then this city is not only exposed to external Grimm, it may be breeding threats within.”

He let the weight of that statement sit.

Glynda didn’t flinch, but her silence betrayed that she was listening more carefully now.

“I understand,” James continued, softer but no less firm, “why Vale wants this. Expansion is a dream. Growth is hope. But hope is not a strategy. You are investing millions of lien, labor, and lives into a city that, statistically, tactically, pragmatically cannot hold. At best, you buy a generation of time. At worst, you accelerate disaster.”

His voice had dropped lower now, more deliberate, almost grim.

“I believe Mountain Glenn will fail. Not immediately. Perhaps not for five years. But eventually, inevitably. And when it does, the loss will cost more than doing nothing at all.”

James finally fell silent. The students’ voices seemed louder now, laughter ringing in the background. He realized how heavy his words sounded against their energy.

Glynda’s arms were crossed again, her gaze sharp, her posture taut. For a long moment, she said nothing.

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

James allowed himself the faintest flicker of dry humor. “I don’t make a habit of speaking without it as of late.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line again. “And yet you’ve painted a bleak picture for us. Too bleak. Mountain Glenn isn’t a military outpost. It’s a city. A home. People want more than survival, James. They want to live.”

He nodded once, conceding the point without conceding the argument. “I know. But it is my duty to remind you of the cost. If you want Mountain Glenn to succeed, you will need more than optimism. You will need contingencies. You will need to prepare for the worst.”

Her eyes flicked toward the dossier still in his hand. “And Merlot?”

James hesitated for the first time, then extended the folder to her. “Read it yourself. Then tell me if I exaggerate.”

Glynda took it, but didn’t open it, not here, not now. 

Her jaw tightened as she tucked it under her arm.

The silence between them stretched again, heavy, and uncomfortable.

But James felt like he needed to do it.

So he won’t make the same mistake.

He wanted to hear her first.

Glynda’s silence stretched long enough that James almost expected her to walk away. But then she shifted the weight of the dossier in her arms, her eyes narrowing as she set her stance firm.

“You’ve built quite the case,” she said at last, her voice clipped, and sharp as glass. “But allow me to address it point by point, Commander.”

The use of his title was deliberate. Formal. A reminder of the line she was drawing between them with this.

James inclined his head faintly, bracing.

“First… Vale’s geography.” She gestured with a sharp flick of her hand toward the cliffs visible in the far distance. “Yes, the city is naturally protected. And yes, Mountain Glenn lacks those barriers. But that has always been the case with expansion. By your logic, humanity should never have moved beyond the first walls it built. If Grimm truly accumulate, if every settlement is doomed, then what’s the point of any of this? Mountain Glenn isn’t meant to be eternal, James. It’s meant to prove that humanity can push forward. That we must.”

James watched the set of her jaw as she spoke, the faint flush of color on her cheeks, the restrained passion in her tone.

She went on without letting him interject.

“Second, your claim that daily attacks will escalate beyond containment. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Huntsmen are trained for this very thing. Vale’s militia too. Beacon exists to provide these very people. And contrary to your implication, Vale has more than enough talent to rotate through Mountain Glenn’s defense. We are not Atlas, but we are not fragile either.”

Her arms crossed again, posture stiff as if bracing against the weight of her own words.

“Third… the metro. You call it a liability. I call it redundancy. Should the surface routes be compromised, the metro allows safe transfer. You are right, it is a choke point. But it is also an artery. One failure does not mean total collapse. And don’t pretend Atlas would not use the same solution if it were theirs to build.”

James’s lips tightened, but he said nothing. She caught it anyway, the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, and her eyes sharpened, satisfied she’d struck true.

“Fourth is Merlot Industries.” Now her tone cooled, her words deliberate. “I know their reputation. I know their ambition. And I know Atlas has its suspicions. But suspicion is not proof. Contracts with them have been reviewed, their research has oversight, and their work, reckless or not, has advanced Grimm studies further than any other group in Remnant. To say they are a liability is premature. To treat them as a threat is paranoia.”

James noted the way her fingers flexed against the folder, though. The tension in her hand. She didn’t fully believe what she was saying.

She drew herself up straighter, her heels clicking against the stone as she shifted her stance.

“And finally… your conclusion.” Her eyes met his squarely, silver-grey and unwavering. “That Mountain Glenn will fail. That it is inevitable. You may be right. Or you may not. But the purpose of Mountain Glenn is not simply to stand. It is to inspire. To show the people of Vale and of Remnant that fear does not bind us to walls forever. If we abandon it before it  truly begins, without even trying, then the Grimm have already won. Not by strength. Not by number. By making us too afraid to even try.”

Her tone softened, just faintly, though her eyes did not.

“You see only risk. I see the necessity.”

James felt the words land. They didn’t sway him, not entirely, but they carried weight all the same. She wasn’t blind. She wasn’t naïve. She knew and could see the stakes. And yet she still pressed forward.

That was Glynda Goodwitch.

He studied her for a long moment. The rigid line of her shoulders. The heat in her gaze. The faint rise and fall of her chest as she drew breath through the restraint of her composure.

Professional. Determined… and so beautiful in her conviction.

James exhaled slowly, gloved hands tightening behind his back.

He hadn’t swayed her.

But part of him… part of him wondered if he even wanted to.

Chapter Text

Vale had a unique pride. A quiet sort of pride, not gilded and loud like Atlas’s, but bone-deep, and lived-in. It wasn’t polished into pageantry, it wasn’t dressed in elitism either. It was grit. It was stubbornness. It was knowing you could walk into the wild with nothing but your aura and steel in hand and walk back out alive.

That was what Valeans carried. Independence. Self-reliance. A culture that didn’t care much for chains of command or the rigid ranks Atlas was addicted to. Huntsmen here? They were fierce. Individualistic. The kind that didn’t want orders, only missions they believe they choose themselves.

James knew this. He’d studied them long ago, back when his work required him to understand not just how to move soldiers but how to handle Huntsmen too. To convince a Valean, you couldn’t batter them into compliance. You couldn’t bury them in protocol or threaten them with logistics. You had to make them convince themselves. You had to plant the seed and let their own pride water it. Otherwise, they’d dig in their heels out of nothing more than spite.

Glynda was Vale to her marrow. But was practical, pragmatic, sharper than most, and with discipline that made her a natural bridge between Vale’s free-roaming Huntsmen and the structure of Beacon’s halls. She had the patience to wade through nonsense, and a presence of mind to sort out truth from bluster. But James also remembered, knew, that she had a fault. She followed Ozpin too blindly. Trusted him too much.

That was the paradox that made her who she was. Compassionate, but unyielding. Opinionated, but selfless. A woman who bore responsibility like it was stitched into her aura itself.

Ever since James had handed her the documents, she had taken it upon herself to chase answers. She didn’t let his words sit in her lap, she didn’t accept the report at face value. She questioned, pulled threads, and demanded to hear from those working on the project firsthand. Foremen, huntsmen stationed at Glenn, engineers, Valean representatives… all of them.

James could read her intention easily enough. Her personal opinion, he could guess. She was still young. She didn’t have that perfect perpetual frown she wore yet.

But it wasn’t about that. He could tell that Glynda wanted to see. To test. To measure things herself rather than lean on Atlas’s ink. That was her. Hot-blooded, thorough, unwilling to let another shape her conclusions.

James respected it. Appreciated it. In another life, he would have simply stamped his heel down, shattered their pride with raw criticism, buried them in the weight of his authority until they relented. Atlas could do that. Force the council of Vale to make amends. James had done that.

But here, standing in Vale’s city, he couldn’t shake the gnawing thought that it was the same path he always walked. Dominate, bulldoze, justify with words like “necessity” and “greater good.” That was the road that had broken him once already.

So, he let Glynda work. He trusted her.

It wasn’t easy. Every day she spent investigating, James knew, was another day Vale doubled down on Mountain Glenn’s foundations. Time lost. Resources wasted. Pride reinforced. But he forced himself to give her that space.

Because if she brought the warning forward, not him, it stood a chance of taking root. Valeans might dismiss an Atlas commander out of reflex. They might bristle and laugh behind his back. But Glynda? She had the credibility he never would here.

While she was busy with that, James did what he knew best. Doing his duty. Inspections of Atlesian assets across the city of Vale. The SDC depots near the industrial quarter, packed with crates of Dust under the watch of sharp-uniformed Atlas soldiers. A small research facility tucked discreetly into the city’s bones.

Everywhere he went, the sight of Atlas uniforms drew whispers. Murmurs of curiosity, suspicion, sometimes both. His presence here was more than symbolic, it was political. The General had sent him. That alone turned heads.

He hadn’t refused the handshakes. He hadn’t turned down the invitations. Vale’s partners from merchants, local Dust distributors, politicians orbiting the council wanted a word. They wanted to measure him. To test Atlas’s stance, to catch a hint of what role Atlas meant to play in Vale’s future.

James played along. He kept his face unreadable, his words polite but measured. He let them talk about Dust prices, about the fluctuations of the market, about shipments moving between Vale and Atlas. And he listened. Quietly, carefully, absorbing the rhythm beneath their chatter.

The political state of Vale was… stable, for now. Their council still enjoyed the people’s favor, though James noted a streak of weariness behind the optimism. Grimm pressure never ceased. Resources, no matter how steady, always strained when a kingdom tried to stretch its reach. The merchants were eager. Hungry. They wanted Glenn to succeed because they wanted the contracts, the trade, the new flow of lien that would follow.

James recognized it for what it was… a tide of optimism. Not reckless, but heavy. Vale needed Mountain Glenn to work. It was more than expansion… it was an answer.

Because that city wasn’t just stone and steel. It was a message. To Grimm. To other kingdoms. To their own people. A statement carved into Solitas’s frozen air and Vale’s green earth as if to say: we are not afraid.

James understood the importance of symbols. He wasn’t blind to it. He knew how much weight they carried, how much people could be moved by the sight of something bold, something proud. Atlas itself was proof of that itself, the floating city that declared humanity’s brilliance with every pass across the sky.

But James also knew symbols could become coffins.

That was the heart of his dilemma. To let Glynda carry the argument, to put faith in her voice, meant gambling with the timeline. To cut it short, to crush it the old way, meant walking back into the man he swore he wouldn’t be.

For now, he waited. He let her dig. He let Vale’s pride wrap itself around her words. And in the meantime, he cataloged everything.

The faces of the merchants. The undercurrents of politics. The way Valeans spoke about Mt. Glenn, not as an experiment, but as destiny.

A symbol they needed to believe in.

And James wondered, for the hundredth time, if he could truly tear it down without becoming the very man he despised again.

James had been waiting for days, earning him Plum’s complaints.

Glynda had disappeared into the machinery of Mountain Glenn’s project like a whetstone thrown into the gears. He had given her the documents, the cautions, the suspicions. And then he had stood back, biting his tongue, forcing himself not to push.

Now she had returned after her own investigation.

The two of them sat across a polished wooden table inside one of Beacon’s smaller meeting rooms. The wide windows behind Glynda caught the light of Vale’s afternoon, setting her glasses glinting whenever she shifted her head. 

James folded his hands in front of him, waiting. He didn’t offer words to fill the silence. Glynda hated being rushed, and James didn’t have the patience for useless chatter anyway.

Finally, she began.

“I went through what you handed me,” she said, her voice clipped but even. “The documents. The reports from your contractors. The concerns about Merlot Industries.”

James gave a short nod. “And?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “There are faults. I will not deny it. The supply lines are stretched. The Grimm presence is higher than initial reports admitted. And Merlot Industries… their involvement is far more direct than most public documents would claim.” She tapped a folder she had brought with her, fingers crisp and deliberate. “There is enough evidence that they’re running trials too close to the site. Dangerous ones.”

James waited. He had learned to read her long ago. The pause wasn’t hesitation, it was a prelude.

“But,” she continued, “it is not enough.”

James felt no sting of surprise. He expected this. Vale would never cut off its own arm so easily. Glynda straightened her shoulders, her tone flattening into a lecture’s cadence.

“Merlot has connections. Political ones. Some of Vale’s council has invested interest. Some in the merchant guilds are more concerned with the dust yields beneath Glenn than any risk your papers cite. Evidence, yes, but not enough to uproot that.”

James inhaled through his nose, steady, his jaw tightening only slightly.

She held his gaze, unflinching. “And you should know this already.”

James let the weight of her words sit. He expected resistance. What came next, though, was heavier.

“Mountain Glenn represents something more than a project. More than Dust or walls or trade routes.” She leaned forward, her gloved hands steepled neatly. “It represents survival. It represents expansion. For Vale, it is not just a question of whether it is feasible. It is a question of whether there is anywhere else for us to place the displaced, the scattered, the settlements that bleed people to Grimm every month.”

Her voice, still professional, still sharp, carried an edge of something harder. Resolve.

“We have settlements everywhere, James,” she said. “Settlements too small to defend, too far to supply. They are always raided. Burned. Entire families vanish in the night. Even with our numbers, Vale Huntsmen cannot be everywhere. Our non-huntsmen Militia cannot be everywhere. Every report I’ve read is filled with names, gone. There is no place for them in Vale proper. No room… and that’s why Mountain Glenn is the answer.”

James shifted slightly in his chair. She wasn’t wrong. That was the problem.

“Evidence or not,” Glynda pressed, “Mountain Glenn will happen. There is too much at stake. Too much momentum. Even if you stand in that council chamber and deliver your criticisms point by point, all you will achieve is their dismissal. They will tell you off, James. They will thank you for your concern, then turn back to the project.”

Her words were precise, not cruel. Not meant to wound. But they landed like hammer strikes all the same.

James’s fingers curled against his gloves beneath the table. His instinct was to argue. To dismantle her reasoning, to point to every line in his documents. But Glynda was not finished.

“I can try,” she said, tone softening just slightly. “With the Headmaster’s help, I can press for changes. Improvements. Adjustments to how Glenn is fortified, supplied, managed. Some of your concerns can be woven into that. But beyond that…” She shook her head faintly, the motion tight. “Beyond that, fault or not, the project will continue.”

The words hung between them.

James stared at her.

He had expected defiance. He had expected pride. He had expected Vale’s stubborn refusal to yield to anything stamped with Atlas’s seal.

But hearing it from her, hearing her outline it, not as blind optimism, but as necessity, was something else.

For a long moment, James said nothing.

He studied her face. Her expression was controlled, professional. Her eyes were steady, though he caught the faint flicker of weariness in them. She believed what she said. Every word. And not out of political loyalty, not out of some council’s pressure. She believed it because she had seen it. Because she had lived it.

James let out a slow breath through his teeth. His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“You’re saying I can’t stop it.”

“I’m saying no one can,” Glynda replied flatly. “Not you. Not me. Not even Ozpin. This is Vale’s will, James. If you’d come a year earlier, then maybe there could have been adjustments.”

James leaned back slightly, feeling the weight settle in his chest. For all his foresight, all his preparation, here it was, the wall he couldn’t climb.

He had told himself he would trust her. That if anyone could carry his warning to Vale in a way they’d accept, it would be Glynda. And she had. She had carried it. She had given it weight. And then she had told him, with that same unwavering conviction, that it wouldn’t be enough.

The rational part of him understood. The pragmatic part even respected it. He could read the calculus behind her words as easily as he read the terrain of a battlefield.

But beneath that, his chest burned with the quiet knowledge of what would come.

James let the silence linger a little longer, his eyes lowering to the documents she had pushed toward him. His voice was clipped, controlled when he finally spoke again.

“Then at the very least,” he said, “you’ll push for those changes.”

Glynda’s lips tightened into something just shy of a frown. But she nodded once. “At the very least.”

The silence stretched.

James sat still in his chair, his eyes fixed on the grain of the table as if the polished wood could hold his temper together. He had heard Glynda’s reasoning. Every word of it had been sharp, measured, logical in its own way. But silence had always been his shield. The kind of silence that settled like solitas frost in a room, leaving the other person to fill the void.

Glynda did not fidget. She never did. She adjusted her glasses with a slow, precise motion, the light catching against her lenses before she lowered her hand again. She knew his silence was not consent, but neither was it rejection.

“This is not,” she began carefully, her tone steady, “because we are stubborn to a fault.”

James raised his eyes to her. Her back was straight, posture perfect, but there was a sharp glint in her eyes. The kind of glint she had when she wanted to cut through his armor and force him to listen.

“It is not because Vale is too blind to see the risks. Or because we are too foolish to recognize flaws when they’re placed in front of us.” Her voice had the edge of a whip now, words snapping in the quiet room. “This project is larger than one council meeting, larger than one headmaster’s approval, or one commander’s criticisms. There are too many lives tied to it. Too many hopes. That is why the momentum cannot be stopped.”

James said nothing. He didn’t even blink. His silence was his discipline.

Glynda exhaled slowly, just enough to keep her tone from fraying into something sharper. “It is not stupidity, James. It is not arrogance. It is a necessity.”

Her hands folded together neatly atop the table, gloved fingers interlaced, her chin tilting forward as she leaned slightly closer. “And you know as well as I do that necessity carries its own weight. A weight heavy enough to crush logic under it.”

Still, James didn’t answer.

For a moment, the room hung with that frozen tension, the way it always had between them when they were younger, whenever his stubbornness clashed against her precision. But Glynda pressed on, her voice lowering, quiet but firm.

“We may not be able to goad the Council of Vale into abandoning Glenn. That is true. But that does not mean there is nothing to be done.”

At that, James’s gaze sharpened.

She caught it, and she pressed the opening.

“Merlot.” Glynda’s eyes narrowed just slightly behind the lenses. “If there is a weakness in this project, it is not in Vale’s resolve. It is in theirs. Merlot Industries is already moving too close to the line. Your documents point to it. My own inquiries support it. If we can find evidence, physical, audio, the complete set, we could force their hand. We could remove them from the equation entirely.”

Her words weren’t speculation. They were delivered with the same tone she used when commanding Beacon’s students. A clear instruction, an expectation.

James’s jaw tightened, his hands unclasping slowly from each other. He shifted, leaning back slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing in thought.

“Evidence,” he repeated, voice low.

“Yes,” Glynda said. “Irrefutable evidence. Not speculation. Not inference. Proof that can withstand the scrutiny of Vale’s council and Ozpin’s silence. Proof that even Merlot’s allies could not shield them from.”

The glimmer of her conviction was there again, pragmatic, yet uncompromising.

James studied her for a long, quiet moment. His instinct was to dismiss it. Evidence would take time. Time that Vale did not have. Time that Mt. Glenn did not have. He had always believed in striking first, in cutting through the knot rather than wasting effort untangling it. 

But here, Glynda was offering him a compromise. Not yielding Vale’s pride. Not yielding his warnings. 

A path between.

Slowly, his eyes narrowed, the sharp edge of calculation sliding across his expression.

Merlot.

If there was one factor that could turn Glenn’s momentum against itself, it was them. He had the suspicions. He had the preliminary documents. But Glynda was right that suspicion was not enough. If he wanted to stop the project from collapsing into disaster, he needed something Vale could not deny. Something even Atlas could not ignore.

James exhaled through his nose, steady, his fingers tapping once against the table before falling still.

At last, he gave the smallest of nods. “Merlot, then.”

James leaned forward now, his gloved hands folding once more in front of him. His voice was calm, measured, as it always was when he turned toward the tactical. “If we are to do this, it must be thorough. Paper trails. Testimonies. Facilities. Enough that even Vale’s council cannot claim ignorance. Enough that even Ozpin cannot hide behind his riddles.”

Glynda inclined her head and said smugly. “Then you will have to lend me your help, Commander James Ironwood.”

James raised his head. “Asking me to work with you?”

“You brought this up, so obviously you’ll help me deal with it too. Isn’t it fair?”

“When do we move?”

“Soon, I have an idea where Merlot might be. We’ll use your airship to locate the place, is that alright?”

“It is.”

It was clear to James. This was exactly where she intended this to all go. 

After all, she was always a decisive woman.

Chapter Text

Plum’s office in the temporary Atlesian headquarters of Vale smelled faintly of ink and paper. Not because she lacked order, Plum was one of the most disciplined officers James had ever worked with, but because the stacks of files, documents, and transcriptions seemed to multiply on her desk every day since they arrived.

James stepped inside quietly, the door shutting behind him with a muted click. Plum didn’t look up immediately. Her pen scratched across the page, quick, exacting strokes that never wasted a motion. When she finally glanced up, she only raised a brow.

“Commander.”

“Plum.” James’s voice was even, as always, but this time there was a certain finality in it.

She noticed. Her pen stilled. “Something’s decided,” she said flatly.

James nodded once. “I’m planning to personally investigate Merlot.”

The silence afterward was heavy, though not entirely unexpected. Plum placed her pen carefully against the desk, aligning it with the edge of the paper before folding her hands together. Her eyes, sharp behind rectangular frames, locked onto his.

“You mean to abandon the diplomatic mission.”

James didn’t flinch. “I mean to delegate.”

“Delegate.” Plum repeated the word like she was testing the taste of it. “To me.”

James inclined his head. “You’ve proven more than enough capable of handling the delegation’s matters. You understand the tone I set with Vale. They will expect professionalism, measured restraint, and presence. You can embody that. While I…” He let the thought finish itself.

Plum’s lips pressed thin. “You are Atlesian first, Commander. Atlas sent you here to represent them, not to chase shadows across Vale.”

James did not bristle. He only looked at her, calm as a stone wall. “I know. But you also know why I cannot ignore this. Glenn will rise or fall on Merlot’s influence. If I sit here and let that root grow unchecked, then all our diplomacy, all our courtesies, will be nothing but ceremony before collapse.”

Her brow tightened faintly, but her voice remained level. “And what of your soldiers? What of the impression Vale has of Atlas if their guest of honor vanishes mid-mission?”

“That,” James said, “is why I trust you.”

The words landed like steel. Not flowery. Not flattering. Just direct.

Plum inhaled through her nose, gaze flicking away from him, then back. There was sharp criticism in her silence, but beneath it, a glimmer of reluctant understanding. She knew what Merlot represented. She had read the documents, seen the contracts, skimmed the surface of research reports that looked too neat to be honest.

Finally, she sighed and leaned back in her chair, pushing her glasses up with a single finger. “I dislike it. Intensely. But I understand why you would chase this thread. You’ve always had a… dangerous fondness for trying to carry the weight of Atlas and its affairs on your own shoulders.”

James almost allowed himself a smile. Almost. “It’s not fondness, Plum. It's a necessity.”

Her glare sharpened briefly, but the sting softened after a moment. “Then at least be swift. The General entrusted you with a mantle you cannot discard for too long.”

James nodded once, firmly. “I’ll return before this delegation is concluded. That is my word.”

Her mouth pressed thin again, then finally she inclined her head, slow and measured. “Very well, Commander. The matters of Vale, the council, and the SDC contracts will be my responsibility. You will have your shadows.”

James straightened, exhaling quietly. “Thank you, Plum.”

She didn’t respond. Not with words. Just a curt gesture of dismissal, her way of saying she’d already accepted the burden, even if it left a sour taste in her mouth.

When James left her office, he did not head immediately for the hangar. Instead, he went to his quarters.

He opened the wardrobe slowly, his hands passing over the stiff, cold lines of his dress uniform. Polished white, high collars, medals and insignia catching the light. Too formal. Too rigid. Not suited for where he was going.

Instead, he reached for the brown overcoat. High-lapelled, dark-trimmed, worn open. It hung with weight, a commander’s coat, but softened by time and purpose. Beneath it, he buttoned his light blue vest snug over a white collared shirt, the top two buttons left undone, not sloppy, never sloppy, but unbound from the strictness of parade ground formality.

He fastened his belt, a firm utility strap lined with pouches and secured with a brass buckle, heavy but practical. His trousers were brown, tucked neatly into black boots polished enough to pass scrutiny, worn enough to be comfortable. Across his chest, the bandolier caught the light faintly, dust rounds secured in their slots, red, yellow, icy blue. At his sides, two gauntlets rested, metal gleaming under the cabin’s light.

When he adjusted the coat, letting it settle across his shoulders, James caught his reflection briefly in the small mirror bolted to the wall then left.

Outside of Vale, the air smelled faintly of dust and salt, the wind carrying the tang of the sea across the cliffs. The Bullhead’s engines thrummed in idle, its frame shivering faintly as the turbines shifted.

Glynda Goodwitch stood before it, posture perfect as ever. Not the dress and heels of the classroom, but practical attire, a fitted leather pants, a jacket snug against the breeze, and at her side, the riding crop strapped firmly to her waist. She looked the part of a huntress rather than the deputy headmistress she would one day become.

James approached with quiet steps, his coat brushing against his legs as he stopped before her. His voice was professional, steady. “The island is north-east of Vale, around Mistral’s trade waters. Hidden in flight logs, but not entirely invisible. Merlot’s records leave traces.”

He didn’t tell her how he knew. He didn’t tell her that in another life, years from now, students would stumble across Merlot’s island and bring him down. That he only had the coordinates because history itself had handed it to him. That was his burden to carry.

Glynda’s expression was skeptical, but she held the data scroll steady, scanning. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she cross-checked against Vale’s logs, her thumb flicking through entries.

“Flight logs do note irregularities,” she said after a moment, voice clipped. “Supply shipments unaccounted for, unexplained dust transfers. Airship traffic avoids that vector despite no noted Grimm migration. This could be… plausible.”

James inclined his head. “It is.”

Her gaze lifted to him, one brow arching. “And you’re certain of this?”

“As certain as I need to be,” James answered evenly.

There was a brief pause as Glynda studied him. The wind caught her blonde hair, pulling strands loose from her braid, but her face remained stern. At last, she gave a small, sharp nod.

“Then it’s go time,” she said.

James’s lips pressed together, a ghost of grim approval flickering across his face. “Agreed.”

The Bullhead’s engines began to rise in pitch, the deck vibrating underfoot. James adjusted his bandolier, his gauntlets secure, before stepping up onto the ramp.

Glynda followed without hesitation, her boots striking metal with sharp precision.

Inside, the doors began to close, sealing out the Valean sky.

“Let’s go,” Glynda commanded the pilot.

The Bullhead hummed through the Valean sky, its turbines a steady thrum beneath the floor panels. Beyond the windows, the clouds stretched like pale sails across the horizon, the sun dipping low and painting the world in shades of gold and violet.

James stood near the side window, his hands resting absently on the heavy bracers of his gauntlets. His thumbs traced over the mechanisms, the dull scrape of metal on metal faint under the engine’s growl. He wasn’t looking at Glynda, but he could feel her watching him.

Her eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing him with that half-closed, razor sharp look of hers. Not hostility, but quiet appraisal. Like she was dissecting him silently, weighing him as though he were one of her students, caught out of place.

It was Glynda who broke the quiet first. “You’ve really changed.”

James didn’t glance up.

She tilted her chin slightly, eyes narrowing further. “No, that’s not precise enough. You’ve become… professional. Mature.”

Her tone was even, but there was a faint edge of surprise, as if she hadn’t expected those words to leave her mouth.

James’s hands flexed once against the gauntlets, then stilled. He had the gauntlet made to remind him of his metal arms. Glynda waited. He said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed on the sky outside, the shifting hues of the sunset blurring against the metal frame of the glass.

Inside, though, the words struck harder than he wanted them to. Professional. Mature. He almost scoffed. If only she knew. If only Glynda Goodwitch knew how much of his maturity was nothing but scar tissue over mistakes. Failures that dug into his chest like broken glass. She could only say this because she hadn’t seen what lived beneath it all. The rage. The ruin. The desperate, clawing fear of becoming the man he had already been once before.

Yet, a fragile part of him hoped, against all logic, that what she was seeing was real. That the image Glynda carried of him now could hold. Could endure.

James rolled the gauntlet against his palm once, the joints clicking faintly. “I’m just… doing my duty.”

Glynda’s eyes sharpened at that, her lips curving into the faintest of smirks. “Duty,” she repeated, not mocking, but with an edge. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised. That you’d do this with me. That you wouldn’t take the chance to pompously show off that Atlas can handle this on its own.”

That finally made James turn. He studied her face, her steady stance, her hair shifting faintly with the cabin’s draft. He asked quietly, and with more honesty than he expected of himself, “Am I truly that, in your eyes?”

Her eyes widened just a fraction. Then, with unflinching candor, she answered, “You’re the kind of man who answers everything with a triumphant display of military bravado. Who treats every situation like it’s a contest of measuring di—”

She cut herself off, her cheeks warming faintly. She pressed her lips together, a quick shake of her head dispelling the lapse.

But then she continued, tone softer, steadier. “But you’re a good person, James. You’ve always done what you thought was best for the people. Even when it was against strong protest. It’s admirable. But…” her eyes narrowed again, though not unkindly. “,trusting others has never been your strong suit.”

James crossed his arms, the coat pulling taut against his chest. For a moment he was silent, then a small, wry chuckle escaped him. Familiar. So familiar. He tilted his head back slightly, closing his eyes for a breath.

Glynda, clearly expecting him to defend himself, leaned forward slightly, ready for the rebuttal. But James did not give it. Instead, he exhaled and said, “Lately… I’ve been reflecting. I quit the military for a time. Took up work as a huntsman. Wandered Solitas.”

Her brows arched, genuine surprise breaking through her composure. “You? Soul searching?”

“Yes.” James said it simply, without hesitation.

Her lips pressed thin, but the faintest hint of curiosity flickered in her eyes. “And?”

He turned back to the window, his voice quiet but unwavering. “I devoted myself to fighting Grimm. That was my creed. Every breath, every choice. But I was so fixed on the idea of Atlas and its survival, its triumph, that I missed the trees in the forest. I thought only of protecting the whole… and cared little for the parts. For the people.”

His reflection in the window looked back at him, cold, lined, older than he should have been. He breathed in once, steadying himself, and continued.

“In Solitas, I saw them. The ones who lived outside Mantle, outside Atlas. Wrapped in biting wind, frozen in exile. Banished from warmth and light. They carried grief like a second skin, their dreams restless, their children waking in the night crying from hunger, or from nightmares they couldn’t name. And still they fought to breathe. To live.”

His gauntleted hand curled faintly against the glass, but he did not strike it. He only let the words out, low and earnest.

“In them, I saw something Atlas had forgotten. Not military strength. Not Dust-powered might. Just… people. Fragile. Enduring. Trying. And I realized, if I kept going as I was, I would protect the project, the walls, the fleet, the system, but I would not protect the people inside of it. Not really. And if that’s all Atlas became… then what was I fighting for?”

The silence that followed was different from before. It wasn’t heavy with unspoken judgment. It was quiet, still, as if the Bullhead itself gave him the moment to finish.

Glynda blinked once, then again, her sharp eyes softening in increments. She parted her lips slightly, closed them, then finally exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“…I’ll admit,” she said, her voice quieter, “I thought you were doing this to prove a point. To make Atlas look better. To prove you could be the one to expose Merlot, to play savior before Vale and show us how ‘superior’ Atlas is.”

Her lips pressed together, her gaze shifting away briefly, then back to him. “But I can tell… you’re really worried about people. This isn’t a military triumph to you, isn't it?”

James didn’t answer immediately. He only watched the sky, the clouds streaking past, the faint light of the horizon fading into the oncoming dark.

At last, he said simply, “Yes. Please believe that.”

Glynda studied him for another long moment, her eyes narrowing again, but this time not in suspicion. More like she was searching for the truth beneath the words, testing if there was any façade left.

Then, she smiled, looked away, and tucked her hair behind her ear.

Chapter Text

The island rose out of the sea like something that should have stayed buried.

From the air, James had thought the landmass strange enough, the shifting pale sands, the sparse vegetation that seemed more withered than alive. But as their Bullhead circled lower, the terrain came into view in unsettling detail. Craters and pools broke the ground like festering wounds, and within those pools glowed a sickly, phosphorescent light. Viscous and unnatural, the substance bubbled faintly, glowing green and violet as pipes, thick, industrial, and deliberate ran across the ground like arteries, carrying the ooze toward a sprawling complex of steel and glass at the island’s center.

Merlot’s laboratory.

James’s jaw clenched. Beside him, Glynda crossed her arms. Her posture was calm, composed, but her eyes were narrowed at the scene with visible distaste.

“With our approach, they’ll know we’re here already,” she said flatly. “There’s no way that much infrastructure can exist without surveillance.”

James didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the pulsing pipes, the glow that poisoned the sand. “That depends on who you think is watching,” he said evenly. “Merlot doesn’t trust kingdoms. If anything, he’s more concerned with keeping his experiments from turning on him than outsiders stumbling onto his island.”

Her gaze flicked toward him, sharp. “You think he’s even here?”

James exhaled, slow. “For everyone’s sake, it’d be best if he isn’t.”

Because if Merlot was here, then they weren’t dealing with just surveillance and Grimm. They’d be walking into the den of a man whose obsession had driven him beyond reason and whose creations might already be stronger than they could guess.

James turned toward the cockpit. The pilot stiffened at his approach, already waiting for orders. “Keep close to the water,” James instructed. “Maintain a low altitude once we disembark. No signals. If you see hostile movement, retreat out of sight and wait for recall.”

“Yes, sir.”

James nodded once, clipped, then moved to the loading bay. He dragged the kayak to the open hatch, muscles tensing with the weight as he braced it against the threshold. The sea air gusted in, sharp and cool against his face. He leaned forward, preparing to lower the boat.

“Really now,” Glynda’s voice came, cutting across his intent.

He turned and froze as her riding crop extended, her Semblance shimmering faintly at its tip. With effortless control, she wrapped her Semblance around him, the kayak, and the descent itself. His boots left the deck with no sound. The air shifted around him as his weight was carried downward, controlled by Glynda’s telekinesis.

James allowed himself to glance at her once midair. She was as composed as ever, lowering herself alongside him as if this was routine, her jacket tugged lightly by the wind. When they touched water, the boat landing with barely a ripple, she released the force as neatly as cutting a thread.

James steadied the kayak as they took a seat. “Efficient,” he allowed.

Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smirk. “You’re welcome.”

He signaled the airship. The Bullhead pulled away, vanishing into cloud cover. The sea stretched silent around them, save for the faint lap of water against the hull.

James turned to Glynda, voice low. “Can you keep watch while I row?”

Glynda tilted her head, eyes steady on his. “I assume you’re ready for anything?”

James drew a slow breath. He opened his coat, showing her the neatly arranged belt of pouches, the sidearm gleaming under the fading light, the cartridges lined across his bandolier in reds, yellows, and blues. His gauntlets locked into place with the faint click of magnets, heavy but precise. Then he raised his other hand, showing the compact recording device nestled in his palm.

“Prepared to document everything,” he said.

Her gaze lingered a fraction longer, then she nodded once, silent.

James rowed, the kayak slicing quietly across the water. The dock came into view. Crude wood, weathered by salt, half-abandoned yet functional. James’s muscles coiled as they neared. The boat scraped against the edge. He rose in one smooth motion, vaulting onto the planks with ease. His pistol slid into his hand. Aura spread outward from him, a practiced flare, his senses sharpening for the faintest ripple of life, movement, hostility.

Nothing yet.

Behind him, Glynda lifted the kayak effortlessly with her Semblance and drew it up onto the dock. She stepped onto the planks.

The island greeted them with silence first.  Then in the distance, they could hear the faint scrape of metal, the churn of machinery, the guttural cries of Grimm distorted into something unnatural.

And then they saw them.

Shapes in the sand, half-shadowed, prowling. Beowolves, yes, but not as they knew them. Their backs were studded with jagged shards of Dust, glowing faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the ooze that poisoned the island. Their claws cut shallow lines into the sand, but their movements were jerky, unnatural, as if controlled by something other than instinct.

And scattered between them were androids. Not Atlesian models. Bulkier, Merlot-made androids who seem to be leading them.

James froze in cover, his body taut against the wood. Slowly, he lifted the recorder, its lens peeking just above the dock. The device clicked faintly as it captured the sight from Grimm fused with Dust crystals. Machines emblazoned with the Merlot ‘M’ symbol walking alongside them. Abominations neither wholly natural nor artificial.

Glynda’s jaw tightened beside him, but she said nothing. Her eyes narrowed.

James lowered the recorder carefully, slipping back into cover. He drew a silent breath, controlled, before speaking low. “This isn’t just research. It’s weaponization alright.”

The words left his mouth like a verdict.

Glynda didn’t argue. She only looked at him, her silence weighted, her expression unreadable save for the faint flicker of distaste in her eyes.

James steadied himself, forcing his hand not to tighten on the pistol grip. Every instinct screamed to act, to burn this place, cleanse it. But that wasn’t the mission. Not today. Today was documentation. Proof. Evidence they could drag back and force Vale to see.

And so he crouched lower, motioning to Glynda. The two of them slipped into shadow, following the cover of jagged rock and half-buried pipe as the island’s guardians prowled above. James kept the recorder raised, documenting every sight.

The interior of the laboratory reeked of sterility and rot.

The outer corridors looked clinical at first glance, polished atlesian-style walls, humming lights overhead, the faint whir of generators pulsing through the floor. But beneath that veneer of order was a wrongness that pressed against James’s instincts like a knife at the ribs.  The scent of antiseptic was strong, but it couldn’t quite mask something else underneath, a faint, metallic tang, like blood too long dried.

James moved silently, every step controlled, his pistol low but ready to be aimed and used. His Aura pressed outward, scanning for disturbances. Beside him, Glynda walked with unnerving poise, her riding crop angled slightly forward, her Semblance stretching invisible fingers into the machinery around them. Every camera that might have turned, every sensor that might have pulsed, fell silent under her unseen grip. Screens flickered to black. A turret mount sagged lifeless.

She barely twitched as she did it, just the faintest narrowing of her eyes, the subtlest gesture of her wrist. To anyone else it would look like simple calmness, but James could feel the exact precision she was wielding. Nothing wasted. Nothing sloppy. She was dismantling Merlot’s security as neatly as James would dismantle a firearm for maintenance.

They reached a junction. James pressed his back to the wall, peering past the corner.

The room beyond was massive.

Rows of cylindrical tubes stretched outward, each one taller than a man, filled with luminous green fluid that pulsed faintly under the dim light. Inside them floated Grimm or things that had once been Grimm. Beowolves with distorted frames, their bones jagged, their muscles overgrown in unnatural symmetry. Creeps with plated hides, their spines protruding in crystalline growths that glowed faintly with Dust. And others, shapes James couldn’t even categorize, too warped and too incomplete to belong to nature.

The tubes hissed faintly, bubbles drifting upward as the abominations twitched in suspension. Some were awake. Their eyes glowed red through the liquid, watching, blinking. Their claws twitched against glass that should never have contained them.

James’s gut twisted. He forced himself still, recorder sliding up into his hand, its lens capturing the sight with cold precision.

“Brothers,” Glynda whispered, voice tight but controlled. “How many have he made?”

James didn’t answer, crouching closer to the console banks. Each station pulsed with readouts, chemical balances, neural activity. Data streams calculated like equations of life itself. Merlot hadn’t just been studying Grimm. 

He truly was building a new version of them in his image. 

Oz really did hide most of the info, James thought.

They crept further into the chamber. Glynda’s crop flicked once, and a camera’s glow died. She brushed her Semblance across the far console, silencing the beeping of an alarm line before it triggered. Her movements were clean, deliberate, but her jaw was tense as her gaze flicked from tube to tube.

“This isn’t random movements,” she said under her breath. “Look at their eyes. They’re aware.”

James’s own gaze lingered on a larger tube at the chamber’s end. Inside floated a Beowolf unlike any he had seen. Its skull was elongated, its maw lined with teeth like broken glass, and its eyes… its eyes tracked them. Not instinctively. Not hungrily. Intelligently.

A slow, deliberate blink.

“They’re more intelligent,” Glynda murmured.

James felt his chest tighten. He had known, on some level, that this was where Merlot’s ambition led. He had read the reports of experimentation. He had seen the notes scattered through Atlas intelligence, weaponized Grimm, cybernetic fusion, neural augmentation. But seeing it in flesh, twisting, bubbling in front of him, it was something else.

He spoke low, his voice controlled. “Indeed, he’s trying to make his own Grimm.”

Glynda’s eyes narrowed. Her Semblance flicked again, dimming another security node. She didn’t speak immediately. When she did, her tone was sharp, cold, as though the words themselves were hard to form.

“But why?” she asked. “Why would he ruin himself for this? No people in Remnant would ever accept Grimm as a weapon or a product. What does he want with these?”

James paused. For once, he didn’t have a neat, tactical answer.

He thought back to reports of Merlot, a respected scientist, brilliant, innovative, ahead of his time in. His early works had been lauded with his contributions to Huntsman academies, insights into Grimm behavior. But obsession had warped that brilliance into something monstrous.

James’s voice was low, flat. “Some men think survival means control. He couldn’t accept that Grimm is a chaos incarnate. So he convinced himself he could master them. Bend them. And the deeper he went, the less he cared who was trampled underfoot.”

At least that’s what he had read.

He felt his lips tighten. He hated the reflection staring back at him in those words. A man who had once believed Atlas could control everything, control kingdoms, control huntsmen, control fate itself, because survival demanded it.

Glynda glanced at him, her expression unreadable, though her eyes lingered a moment longer than usual. Then she turned away, surveying the rows of tubes with a face that betrayed nothing.

James forced his attention back to the mission. He swept the recorder in a slow arc, capturing every detail, the tubes, the data screens, the machinery feeding Dust into the systems. Every second of footage was another nail in Merlot’s coffin. Evidence Vale couldn’t ignore.

They moved deeper. A side corridor branched off the chamber, narrower but lined with workbenches. Scattered across them were tools, notes, half-assembled android frames. Some were grotesque hybrids, limbs grafted with Grimm bone, mechanical spines lined with Dust shards. Others were purely synthetic, but their cores hummed faintly with energy that James recognized instantly. Aura. Artificially bottled, refined, shoved into machines that should never have held it. It reminded him of Polendina’s work.

Glynda’s lips pressed into a thin line. 

They moved soundlessly. Glynda flicked her wrist, the soft hum of a scanner died mid-pulse. James crouched beside a workstation, flipping through a logbook. He skimmed quickly, trained eyes filtering the scrawl, notes on neural capacity, behavioral triggers, aura infusion trials. One entry caught his attention.

Subject 47 displays capacity for mimicking Huntsman tactics. Pack coordination exceeded baseline Grimm patterns.

James’s stomach twisted. He snapped the recorder on the page, capturing it.

“Intelligence,” he said under his breath. “Not instinct. Learning.”

Glynda’s gaze hardened. She studied one of the frames, her fingers tightening faintly on her crop. Then, without warning, she crushed the scanner beside it with a flick of her Semblance, sparks bursting silently as the machine collapsed inward.

James gave her a sidelong look. She met it evenly, her voice clipped. “I won’t let him finish this.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t need to.

Still, his mind churned. They hadn’t been detected yet. But the deeper they went, the greater the risk. And the more he saw, the more he was sure that Merlot’s creations must never be released again.

James’s jaw clenched. He looked at Glynda, her face lit faintly by the glow of the containment tubes. She moved with perfect calm, every gesture precise, every word measured. But he could see the tension in her shoulders. The weight pressing on her as much as on him.

He exhaled quietly. “We’ve seen enough. This is proof.”

She nodded, curt. Her hand flicked, and the cameras along the corridor fizzled out, their lenses shattering silently. Together, they moved back toward the main chamber, keeping low, every sense straining for the slightest shift.

The tubes hissed faintly as they passed. One of the abominations stirred, its claws pressing faintly against the glass. 

Its eyes followed them.

Chapter Text

The night sky over Merlot’s island had been dark enough to swallow sound, but the moment James and Glynda broke cover on their retreat toward the dock, the illusion of safety collapsed.

Shapes moved in the periphery, cutting through the half-light with the precision of soldiers. Glynda’s eyes narrowed, her exhale controlled, a faint fog curling in the air before her lips. She didn’t need to speak the words for James to know they’d been detected by the enemy.

The first android stepped into view, red paint lit faintly by the unnatural glow of the toxic pools. It was tall, almost awkwardly so, the bulk of its chest and shoulders outpacing the legs beneath it. The Merlot Industries logo burned bright across its sternum like a brand of ownership, its edges traced in glowing neon lines that ran through its frame like veins. Its weapon was a glaive — long, held as though it weighed nothing despite its size.

The red android was not alone. More emerged, stepping from the shadows of the facility’s outer structures in synchronized formation, their movements deliberate, mechanical, but not without a certain eerie rhythm. Behind them came the heavier units.

White armor, thicker and broader. These androids looked built for sieges rather than patrol. Their torsos were slabs of reinforced plating with the same Merlot insignia stamped across them, but where the red variants had almost theatrical grace, these had only brutality. In their hands they carried rotary cannons, weapons so massive their barrels gleamed even in the poor light, a faint shimmer of dust-charge visible in their feed-lines. Some of those barrels were tipped with grenade attachments, fat rounds designed to scatter infantry like chaff.

Their faces or what passed for faces were shaped vaguely like human skulls, but stripped of everything recognizable. Hollow sockets glowed faint blue, lines of circuitry feeding into cheekbones that didn’t belong to men. The suggestion of a mouth existed, but it was only an indentation in the metal, a cruel mockery of expression. They weren’t designed to imitate humanity. They were designed to remind people of its fragility.

“Guess it was too good to think we’d get away unseen.” Glynda’s sigh was sharp, her tone flat as she placed her hand on her hip. Her other hand curled around her riding crop. In her grip, the Disciplinarian was poised like a conductor’s baton waiting for a symphony of destruction.

James said nothing. He drew both pistols, black and white in his hands, his aura curling faintly around him as he leveled the twin barrels toward the android line. 

From the shadows beyond, heavier sounds echoed. Gravel  and sand shifting. Breathing

wrong, heavy, too deliberate for Grimm, but unmistakably Grimm.

The first of them stepped into view.

The Beowolf was massive, its body hunched as if weighed down by its own mutation. Green light pulsed through its body, striping across its limbs in jagged patterns like scars of neon fire. Shards of glowing Dust jutted from its shoulders and back, crystalline growths that didn’t belong on flesh, yet somehow moved with it, as though the Grimm’s body had accepted them as bone. Its skull mask was thicker, armored almost like a helm, its usual burning orange eyes replaced by a flickering blue-green light that watched with predatory patience.

And it wasn’t alone.

Others flanked it, circling, claws scraping lines into the sand as they fanned into formation. They weren’t rushing blindly, weren’t snarling and lunging as wild Grimm always did. They moved with coordination, cutting off angles of retreat, herding.

“Encircling us like this,” Glynda observed tightly, her eyes flicking from android to Grimm. “Intelligent. Controlled. Seems like someone's watching.”

James hummed, a low grunt from his chest.  

One of the red androids stepped forward, its glaive braced across its chest like a ceremonial weapon. Its voice was flat, synthetic, but programmed with authority.

“Drop your weapons. Surrender. Resistance will be met with lethal force.”

Glynda raised an eyebrow, the expression sharp behind the glint of her glasses. She tilted her head toward James, her words dry. “What do you think? Care to surrender?”

James’s pistols didn’t lower. His voice was steady, clipped. “Not really.”

Glynda rolled her shoulders once, then slammed the tip of her crop against the ground. A wave of her Semblance pulsed outward in visible ripples. The earth cracked, fragments of stone and concrete breaking upward as if summoned. With a flick of her wrist, they sharpened into deadly projectiles.

The shards launched forward in a storm, slicing through the night with the force of crossbow bolts.

The Grimm flinched but endured. Dust shards embedded in their bodies glowed brighter as though absorbing the impact, their monstrous frames staggering but not breaking.

The androids did better. Octagonal panels of hardlight dust shimmered into existence, interlocking into shields that braced against the assault. Sparks hissed across the barriers, but they held, the fragments deflected harmlessly into the sand.

Glynda’s eyes narrowed. She flicked her crop again, the projectiles reversing direction midair, darting back toward their targets with renewed force.

The Grimm lunged, throwing their mutated bulk between the shards and the Androids. The crystals on their backs splintered with the impact, glowing brighter with every strike. Behind them, the white androids spun their cannons.

The roar was instant.

Tracer fire ripped through the air, orange and yellow lines cutting the night apart. Explosive rounds peppered the sand around them, bursts of shrapnel tearing into cover, forcing both James and Glynda back.

Glynda clicked her tongue, her crop snapping upward. A translucent shield shimmered into place, the impacts slamming against it in heavy bursts, the shield groaning but holding.

“Coordinated,” she muttered under her breath, her voice flat but edged with disdain. Her eyes flicked sideways toward James. “Well? Aren’t you going to fight?”

James exhaled through his nose, calm. “Seems you’ve got it handled.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but James’s pistols barked before she could reply.

The first round was the Fire Dust round. Fire ignited on impact, the bullet slamming through a Grimm’s temple, its skull-mask erupting into sparks and flame. The Grimm fell with a choking snarl, green light flickering out.

The second was aimed at a red android, a precise shot toward its torso. The round struck hardlight instead, dispersing harmlessly in a ripple of neon.

James holstered one pistol, swapped the chamber on the other. His voice was calm, low, almost casual. “I’ll distract them.”

The gravity Dust round detonated with a pulse,  recoil hurling James forward like a projectile. His boots slammed into the sand as he closed the distance, the momentum carrying him straight into the android’s shield.

The barrier shuddered violently with the impact, neon lines straining against his weight. James twisted, his other pistol flashing out, another shot at close range, point-blank against the android’s head.

The shield flickered, not breaking but wavering, the glow unstable. The android reeled back, glaive swinging in a wide arc meant to cleave him in half.

James ducked low, rolled beneath it, and came up firing.

Behind him, Glynda’s shield flickered as she redirected her focus. Her crop snapped through the air. The shrapnel she’d suspended earlier surged again, whipping into a new barrage. This time she didn’t aim for kills. She aimed to scatter.

Projectiles hammered into the barrels of the miniguns, cracking them, bending them, forcing the heavier androids to stagger back under the rain of force. One tried to fire through it, only to have its grenade detonate prematurely, the explosion tearing its own frame in half.

The Grimm roared, lunging past their mechanical counterparts. Their claws slashed at Glynda, but she moved with grace so practiced it looked rehearsed. A flick of her wrist, and a slab of stone rose to intercept the strike. Another flick, and the slab shattered into shrapnel that embedded deep into the creature’s chest.

It staggered, but didn’t fall. Blue-green eyes flared brighter.

“Persistent,” she hissed,  adjusting her glasses, her crop striking the ground again, sending a wave of force that hurled it backward.

James fought with clinical brutality, every shot deliberate, every move designed to disrupt the cohesion of their enemies rather than chase raw kills. He pivoted, gravity round firing to throw him sideways out of the sweep of another glaive, his boot catching the android’s leg on his slide. The machine toppled, its hardlight shield flickering out long enough for him to empty half a clip into its chest. Sparks erupted. Circuits screamed. The glow in its eyes went dark.

“Keep moving!” James barked, his voice sharp but even. His pistols reloaded in a fluid motion, cylinders spinning with a click of precision. “We can’t get bogged down!”

“I’m aware,” Glynda snapped, though her tone was less irritated than it was focused.

Their retreat was controlled chaos. Grimm pressed harder, machines adjusted tactics, their formation tightening as though guided by an unseen commander. For every one they felled, more filled the gaps, encircling again, driving them toward the dock.

James’s mind raced even as his body moved on instinct. Every bullet counted. Every strike mattered. But what cut deepest wasn’t the enemy in front of him. 

It was what their precision meant.

Then–

A hulking Beowolf lunged at their flank. Its crystalline spines shimmered in the gloom, claws flashing as it swiped for James’s throat.

James reversed his grip in an instant. The black pistol flipped backward, the barrel pointing down his forearm like a tonfa. He caught the Grimm’s strike with the barrel, the shriek of claw on metal echoing sharp through the night.

The creature snarled, pushing. James snarled back. His trigger finger flexed, the pistol coughing once into its stomach. A gravity round tore straight through, imploding its insides with a wet crunch. The Grimm folded in on itself, the weight dragging it down with a choking screech.

James twirled the pistol again, bringing it into line with his other hand. Both weapons flipped backward now, barrels jutting out past his knuckles like extended brass knuckles. He slid into a boxer’s stance, shoulders tight, legs bent.

Another Grimm slashed wide. James ducked under, shoulder brushing the dirt, then came up inside its guard. His right hand lashed out, the white Due Process cracking across the side of a red android’s helmet. Sparks burst. The blow staggered it, shield flickering.

The android reeled, its glaive already rising for a cleave. James twisted the black pistol again, angling it like a hammer, and swung. The grenade round screaming toward them caught the pistol’s butt instead, deflected wide with a sharp detonation in the sand. Heat scorched past his cheek, but James didn’t flinch.

He spun, snapping the white pistol up mid-motion. A single round cracked out, catching the Grimm behind the android right between the eyes. Its head detonated in a blossom of bone and blue-green light. The body crumpled, lifeless before it hit the ground.

Holstering the black pistol with practiced speed, James caught the glaive shaft mid-swing. He yanked it forward, dragging the machine off balance. His boot slammed down hard on the android’s knee. Metal shrieked, buckled.

The machine dropped. James’s white pistol smashed down across its head, then reversed again as he drove his fist through the glowing “M” of Merlot’s logo stamped across its chest. Metal caved inward. Circuits sparked out in showers of light.

He ripped his hand back, gripping the ruined android’s frame. Gunfire rained down from the white android units. James hauled the broken android up like a shield, its body shaking as the minigun rounds tore into it, the shield flickering before finally shattering.

“Pesky bastards,” James hissed, sidestepping as another glaive hissed through the space he’d just vacated. He blocked with his forearm, shoved hard, then kneed the attacker straight in the torso. The impact staggered it just long enough for him to hook its arm over his shoulder.

With a grunt, James threw the android across the sand. It landed hard, joints shrieking. Before it could rise, two quick pistol shots drilled into its chest. The machine convulsed, sparks coughing from its eyes. James stepped over it, his boot slamming down on its head until the glow went dark.

“We need more firepower, Glynda!” he barked, ducking another stream of suppressive fire.

“Tch, working on it.”

Her crop whipped upward, the motion precise, commanding as she shot a telekinesis blast imbued with Dust. Above them, shards of Ice Dust bloomed like tiny frozen stars. She gestured sharply, her aura and Semblance igniting the Dust in a storm of ice. Shards poured down in sheets, a blizzard that hammered into the white androids with a relentless barrage.

Their hardlight shields crackled under the onslaught, but Glynda wasn’t finished. With a sharp twist of her wrist, the storm broke apart, the ice shards converging into cone-shaped blasts. They hit like shotguns, hammering into joints and optics.

The androids staggered.

Glynda’s eyes narrowed. She clenched her fist. The wounded machines rose, lifted off their feet in invisible hands of force. Then, with a snap of her wrist, she slammed them back down. The earth shook. Shields shattered.

James didn’t hesitate. He surged forward into the chaos, his pistols barking with controlled violence. The nearest android’s head erupted in sparks as a round pierced through its fractured plating. Another lost an arm to a point-blank shot before James wrenched the limb free entirely.

The severed arm became a weapon. He swung it like a club, smashing into a Grimm’s jaw with a sickening crack. Bone mask shattered. The Grimm crumpled.

Another lunged. James pivoted, jamming the severed android arm straight through its torso like a spear. His white pistol fired over his shoulder, dropping another machine even as he ripped the arm free again, crimson fluid mixing with oil.

One android charged, glaive sweeping. James stepped into it, caught the shaft with one hand, then drove the broken limb into its optics with the other. The machine screeched, flailed, then fell silent as James tore it apart, wires hanging like entrails.

Behind him, Glynda’s storms raged. Her crop slashed arcs through the air, each gesture precise, each strike crushing. Rocks rose, broke, then rained down. The white androids fell one by one under her command, their bulk no match for the precision of her Semblance.

But for every one that dropped, more appeared from the shadows of the compound. Red and white, glaives gleaming, barrels spinning. And with them, more Grimm, their eyes glowing in the dark, spines shimmering green, their snarls coordinated, purposeful.

James stood over the wreck of a downed android, his chest rising and falling, pistols heavy in his grip. His face was calm, but his jaw was tight, eyes scanning, calculating.

Glynda landed beside him, her crop dripping with frost. Her breathing was sharp, measured. She didn’t need to say it.

They’d cut through dozens. And still, the tide pressed in.

The air hummed with the whine of charging weapons. The ground shook with the tread of Grimm.

James exhaled, steady, a soldier’s calm before the storm. “More are coming.”

“I can see that,” Glynda said dryly, twisting aside as a grenade clattered at her boots. Her crop flicked once, the explosive lifted from the dirt, and then snapped back across the battlefield, detonating among the clustered Grimm with a hollow boom.

Another storm of bullets spat their way. Glynda’s crop whipped down. An indigo shield flared around her in perfect  glyph circle, rounds sparking harmlessly against it. With a sharp, clean gesture, she reversed the momentum, hurling the projectiles back with a telekinetic blast. They tore through Grimm skulls, slicing through black flesh and splattering the sand with shards of mask and ichor.

Patience finally left her. Her hand clenched. One of the red androids locked mid-stride, joints creaking as its frame screamed against invisible force. Glynda twisted her wrist, and the machine came apart. Plates ripped free. Wires snapped. Limbs tore loose in a shriek of metal. With another flick, she hurled the pieces outward. They exploded like shrapnel into the advancing line, a shotgun spread of jagged steel that chewed through Grimm eyes and split through android plating.

James crossed his arms, pistols barking in measured cadence, blasting down targets that closed the gap. Each round was deliberate, never wasted, Grimm skulls bursting, android cores sparking out. 

Enemy number swelled, pressing like a tide.

“Retreat,” James barked.

Glynda nodded once, stepping back with precise, measured grace. She snapped her crop into a Grimm’s jaw with a loud crack, the Grimm’s head whipping back. Another lunged from her flank. She ducked, her boot catching it with a brutal heel kick. Her leg twisted, another sharp kick smashing its ribs, and she rose into an axe kick that slammed the creature into the dirt hard enough to split its spine.

A glaive whistled for her ribs. Glynda’s left hand rose, a single finger pointed outward. An indigo shield flared just in time. Sparks burst across the barrier. Her crop slashed up, her Semblance igniting the earth below. Rock cracked, heaved upward, then sharpened into a spike that drove clean through the android’s chest. It twitched once, then went still, impaled.

“Glynda,” James warned, his voice low and urgent. “Look up.”

Her eyes flicked. Above them, a water tower loomed. She reached with her Semblance, invisible threads seizing the steel. With a smooth, lethal motion, she ripped it free, water bursting downward in a wave. At the same time she flung Ice Dust into the air. They caught the spray, froze it, then sharpened it into bullets of jagged ice. A single snap of her wrist and they rained down like a storm of arrows, shredding the pack below.

The open area beyond the rubble gave no mercy.

The earth shook.

From one side, a mutant Beowolf charged. It was larger than the rest, towering even over the other Grimm, its back bristling with jagged Dust crystals glowing sickly green. Its breath came in ragged huffs, too human in its rhythm, its eyes glowing a toxic cyan.

From the other, a mutant Deathstalker barreled forward, claws cracking stone as it surged. Its carapace gleamed with embedded shards of violet crystal, its stinger glowing with a faint radioactive sheen.

Glynda’s eyes snapped to it first. With a snarl, she tore a massive chunk of rock free and hurled it with bone-shaking force. The Deathstalker hit the stone head-on and smashed straight through, sending shards flying.

Glynda leapt back, her crop flashing. The broken shards rose around her, sharpened, and streaked like spears into the creature’s carapace.

James, meanwhile, holstered both pistols. His hands flexed, aura flaring hot across his knuckles. The Beowolf thundered toward him. James met its charge head-on.

He ducked under its first swipe, stepping inside its reach. His fist slammed into its ribs like a piston. Bone cracked. The Grimm howled, staggering. James didn’t stop. His other fist snapped up in a short, brutal hook. The jaw snapped sideways, teeth splintering against the impact.

The Beowolf swung wild, claws whistling. James caught its arm, wrenched down, and drove his elbow into the joint. Bone shattered. The limb hung limp.

He stepped back, pivoted, and delivered a body shot to the gut,  his knuckles infused with aura, breaking the ribs inward. Another cross to the temple. Another hook to the solar plexus. The Grimm reeled, every blow hammering it down with steady strikes.

It lunged desperate, jaw wide. James ducked, rose with a savage uppercut that snapped its skull back, crystals shattering from its spine. His pistol flashed back into his grip in one smooth motion. He pressed the barrel to its temple.

CRACK.

The mutant Alpha Grimm dropped, body twitching, skull bursting in shards of crystal and bone.

On the other side, Glynda struck with her Semblance. The Deathstalker’s stinger lashed. She caught it mid-strike with her Semblance, the air vibrating with strain as the appendage locked midair. Her eyes narrowed.

The stinger snapped.

She wrenched it free in a single savage pull of her telekinesis. The Grimm screamed, ichor spraying. Glynda didn’t flinch. She whirled the stinger in her grasp like a spear, then drove it down into the soft plates beneath the monster’s head. Once. Twice. Over and over until the armored head cracked, until the stinger punched through, until the Grimm convulsed and went limp beneath her.

She ripped the bloody stinger free, tossed it aside, hitting a Grimm trying to lunge at her, and landed lightly on the ground, her crop snapping back into her hand.

James stood over the broken Beowolf, chest heaving, pistols back in his grip. Glynda stepped beside him, breath sharp but controlled, her hair settling against her shoulders.

The battlefield blurred.

Grimm poured in, androids marching with weapons raised. James’s pistols barked, Glynda’s crop cracked, her Semblance tearing the earth itself into blades and shields.

But their numbers only swelled.

The night became a haze of muzzle flash, shattered earth, broken steel.

Chapter Text

James drove his knee into a Beowolf’s ribs, spun, and planted the butt of his white Due Process against the creature’s skull. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each impact sounded like a small, mechanical bell in the night, the last one dulling into a wet silence as the Grimm shattered and its body collapsed into a dispersing black mist.

When he pushed himself upright the world looked like something chewed and spat out. Sand stuck to evaporating blood and oil. Broken metal and shattered Dust crystals littered the ground. The toxic-green stains from the island’s seepage glimmered in the low light like the ghost of something living.

Glynda, with her Semblance, lifted two androids and slammed them together until their implausible joints screamed, then she dipped, sidestepped a glaive sweep that could have taken her spine, and finished the move with a clean, clinical axe kick that snapped the shoulder plate of a red unit like a brittle shell. She adjusted her glasses as she stalked across the debris-strewn sand and came to him.

“A mess,” she said, voice flat. Her eyes swept the battlefield with the trained appraisal of a teacher counting head injuries in a drill. “I did not expect to be fighting an army of robots and Grimm tonight.”

“And yet you did,” James said. He was not merely exhausted, but stripped. He glanced at Glynda and felt awe. Even young, she was terrifyingly good. No wonder she could hold Vale even without Oz.

Glynda’s brow twitched. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he lied, his hands moved to reload both pistols with a measured economy of motion. The cylinders clicked familiar and ritualistic in his palms.

An android, one of the red models, rose clanking a short distance away, its optics glowing a clinical blue. Glynda’s hand tightened on the crop, telekinesis tensing in the air like a held breath. The machine raised its hands in a programmed supplication, palms flat and uselessly human.

A voice, smooth as polished glass and just as cold, came from somewhere inside the compound. It had the cautious politeness of a man used to people deferring. The voice carried across the sand and made both of them still.

“Now now,” it said. “Take it easy. I did not expect to find my island ransacked like this. My security reduced to… scrap.”

They both turned.

“Dr. Merlot,” James said. “You’re here?”

“I was on a trip, and look who’s here?”

A figure stepped forward at the edge of the lab’s lights, thin, a silhouette tipped with arrogance. He was exactly the sort of man whose intellect had once been applauded in glass-lined auditoriums, keen-eyed, pale, and present like a scholar who’d fallen in love with his own theory. 

He smiled without warmth.

“James Ironwood,” the man said, pleasure faux-polite. “Glynda Goodwitch.” He pronounced both names with the exact cadence of a person cataloguing specimens. “What a curious intrusion. You’ve trespassed upon my island and done a great deal of damage. Not merely to my property, though the property is considerable, but to the security investments of Merlot Industries. Millions of Lien in hard, quantifiable loss. My investors will be very displeased with this.”

Glynda stepped forward, posture formal. “As Huntsmen it is our duty to pursue and remove threats posed by Grimm,” she said. She kept her voice even, the diplomat’s edge rubbing the huntsman’s iron. “You know, as well as we do, that Grimm endangers lives. We will not allow uncontrolled experiments that turn Grimm into instruments and we have jurisdiction.”

Merlot’s smile hardened into something that might once have been amusement. He pursed his lips, inspecting them as if savoring an aftertaste. “You should also know your jurisdiction is thin, Ms. Goodwitch. This island lies outside the clear authority of the Four Kingdoms. Private property. Your sovereign claims are messy out here. And from what the fragments of your little raid suggest, it is clear you two have knowledge of my research. You were looking. Or you were sent. Was it Ozpin?”

James’s jaw tightened. “We saw your work. We saw the tubes—” He paused, thumb caressing the recorder hidden in the folds of his coat. “—we saw what you’re making. We will not let you use Mt. Glenn as a staging ground.”

“I see that Mt. Glenn is compromised too,” Merlot laughed then, short, sharp, and genuinely pleased with himself. “But Mr. Ironwood, you do understand that you are stopping the cure. You would stop a project that could end Grimm as an ungoverned plague. Imagine, turning the enemy upon itself. Cannibalize them. Reduce numbers until the packs can no longer form. This is efficiency, Huntsman. A scientific elegance.”

Glynda’s mouth thinned. “You are improving them, making them—” her voice faltered for an infinitesimal heartbeat as she chose the word. “—you’re weaponizing Grimm.”

Merlot’s eyes glittered. “I’m refining systems of behavior. I’m giving structure to chaos. I am, if you will, engineering a solution that many are too afraid to do.” His hand fluttered as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “Think of the calculus if I succeed. Survival rates for settlements would increase. Loss of life could plummet. It is… effective.”

“If you succeed, that’s the difference,” James looked at him the way a fevered surgeon studies a heart that has stopped beating for reasons he cannot accept. “You are talking about using people as a laboratory’s moral afterthought. You reduce them to data points, numbers on a ledger. For all your equations, you cannot measure the corpses you leave behind.”

“Corpses are indeed inconvenient,” Merlot agreed, with a scholar’s detachment. “But sometimes, inconveniences are the anvil on which progress is forged. Your objection is sentimental. But the mathematical result is clear. If we teach Grimm to fracture themselves, to cannibalize their own, then the variable of uncontrollable swarm collapses and the only ones left are those we can easily kill with a switch in their genetics.”

Glynda’s eyes snapped. “And what of autonomy? What of agency? You would create monsters that can be controlled and then call it salvation. You’ll hand the keys to anyone with a commission and watch them lock entire lives away.”

“It’s a small price to pay for survival.” Merlot’s voice went cool. “You’ve seen all the villages around Remnant. You know the attrition. You see the innumerable small villages burned and the farms taken. What is the worth of sentiment when entire populations vanish into the night? Tell me, both of you, do you prefer a long, agonizing decline, or a sharp incision that saves the rest?”

James felt the old arguments coil under his ribs. The man’s logic was elegant, and intentionally brutal and it had the terrifying clarity of someone who could reduce ethics to a series of mechanical steps and then walk away from the bodies. If anything, that was what made him more dangerous, not madness, but the careful application of genius without conscience.

“You speak of ends and ignore the means,” James said, voice tighter than he intended. “You pretend the cost can be abstracted away. It cannot. Countless innocents, soldiers, civilians, children, become variables to be optimized. We are not toys. We are people.” He felt exhausted by the simplicity of what he’d said. It should have been obvious. Merlot would argue it away.

Merlot tilted his head, eyes shining with a mixture of amusement and pity. “Ah, the old cry of the humanist. Noble. But sentimentality sows ruin.  Admirable. But perhaps naive.”

Glynda stepped forward, unbothered by the condescension. “You will not use Mt. Glenn,” she repeated. “We will not let that happen.”

Merlot’s smile folded inward, becoming something like a blade. “You are brave, Ms. Goodwitch,” he said smoothly, “to stand against a tide you cannot see whole. But you fail to understand the scale. My contracts, my private investments, the corporate shield, these are not insignificant. Pull one thread and the whole tapestry resists.”

James’s hand brushed the strap at his hip, the weight of the two pistols a small, familiar comfort. “Then perhaps you should consider how quickly corporate shields crumble under scandal,” he said. “If the evidence we take back can be made public, if photographs and logs and samples make the rounds, Merlot Industries will not simply shrug it off.”

Merlot’s expression sharpened, the genial mask flickering. For the first time James perceived a small, dangerous annoyance. “Threats,” Merlot said softly. “How pedestrian. You realize, of course, that you have no jurisdiction here. You have trespassed and destroyed property. You admit as much.”

“You built a private army of  Mutated Grimm,” James said. “That’s not just property. That’s a threat to every kingdom alive.”

Merlot snorted at them. “You could not stop progress. You can slow me with headlines, perhaps. You can arrest my technicians, seize a lab, but the idea… the idea persists. Ideas are viral.”

Glynda’s jaw tightened. “We’ll present the evidence to Vale, to Atlas, any court that will listen. We’ll make this too costly to maintain. People will choose life over profit.”

Merlot’s eyes glittered with a dangerous clarity. “You two are earnest. But the world is not a battlefield of virtue. It is a ledger. And ledgers are very difficult to reverse.”

He paused, looking at them in a way that was almost pitying. “Continue if you must. You will hear from my lawyers.”

James could feel that the scientist’s voice was cool and rational, like he’d have the ability to argue a moral eclipse into acceptability. It was what made him dangerous.

Glynda’s fingers tightened on her crop. She squared her shoulders, the corner of her mouth hard. “Then we will expose you,” she said. “We will bring the evidence we gathered here into the light.”

Merlot inclined his head. “You may try. As I said, you two, see you in court.”

He went back to his laboratory.

Glynda watched Merlot, before finally speaking. “He’s clever for a madman. He adjusted. He can’t kill us, so he changed tactics.”

James hummed in acknowledgment, lips pressing into a thin line. He knew she was right. “If he abandons Mt. Glenn, it’s not because we frightened him. It’s because he wants us to believe we’ve won something.”

“Exactly.” Glynda folded her arms, the leather of her jacket creaking slightly under the strain. She shook her head, the motion small, controlled, but weighted. “I guess this is why he’s considered a genius. Not because he builds his toys or tampers with Grimm, but because he knows when brute force will not serve him. He retreats, only to reappear where we least expect him. And worse still, people admire that sort of cunning. They call it vision.”

Her words cut deep into the silence between them, and James found himself staring down at his boots.

“You’re not wrong,” James said after a pause, his voice even. “Genius is a word too freely given to men who gamble with lives as though they were notes in an equation. He believes that by stepping aside now, he earns a way out”

Glynda’s eyes softened for the barest second, though her posture did not. “You sound almost weary of fighting him.”

James let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “To be honest, Glynda. I’d rather shoot the damn man and spare me the headache.”

Her lips pursed, and she regarded him with that same steady scrutiny. “I’d save us trouble, but we need to present these evidence first. We need to have a moral high ground on this, James."

“Merlot won’t stop,” he said. “Even if he pulls out of Mt. Glenn, it’s only a pause. He’ll resurface where oversight is weaker, where desperation makes people willing to accept him. ”

“Then we make sure everyone knows,” Glynda replied firmly. Her posture straightened, her voice sharpening into its usual command. “Evidence. Reports. Witness accounts. We’ve gathered more than enough here to cast doubt, and doubt is a seed that cracks even the strongest wall. We cannot stop him outright, but we can make him unwelcome.”

James nodded slowly. Her pragmatism was a balm, a reminder that battles were not always won with finality but with persistence. “Unwelcome is a start,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Text

The Bullhead hovered low above the dark water, its engines whirring in steady rhythm, scattering ripples that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. The air stank faintly of salt, and the drone of the turbines beat against the silence like a steady pulse. Ten feet away, the Bullhead floated just above the surface, and James leapt from the kayak. His boots hit the metal frame with a muted clang, his hand closing around the Bullhead’s edge before he pulled himself up in one clean motion.

He turned back without a word. Glynda stood below, her jacket rippling in the updraft, eyes squinting against the wash of light from the Bullhead’s belly. James extended a hand down toward her. For a heartbeat she only looked at it, her expression even, unreadable. Then, with a soft exhale that was half sigh and half surrender, she grasped it. His grip was firm, steady, and in a moment she was aboard, the two of them framed in the Bullhead’s open hatch as the sea receded beneath them.

“Pilot,” James said. His voice was low but carried the weight of command, practiced and precise. “Let’s go.”

The pilot gave a curt nod, his gloved hands flicking over switches. The engines deepened in tone, the hull trembling faintly as the Bullhead rose and tilted forward. The island grew smaller with every second, a dark silhouette against the vast, empty sea.

James sat, stretching his right arm once before resting both elbows against his knees. His gaze was distant, unfocused. Somewhere between exhaustion and thought. Glynda sat across from him, quiet, her riding crop resting against her shoulder, her eyes studying the horizon or perhaps him.

The hum of the Bullhead filled the cabin.

For a long moment, James simply breathed. The adrenaline that had driven him through the island’s horrors was gone, leaving behind something heavier, duller. A spirit-crushing exhaustion that sat deep in his chest. His hands flexed, fingertips brushing against the cold metal between his knees.

There was so much to do. So much that still lay ahead.

And in the midst of that weary calm, James felt a quiet realization settle over him… he was walking a road he had seen before. The same failures, the same doubts, the same inevitable returns of old enemies and old disasters. A cycle without a clear end.

He was grateful, in a strange way, for this second chance, if that’s what this was. Grateful to have seen what would become of Merlot’s madness, grateful that he had the power to change something before it began. But beneath that gratitude lay doubt, dark and sharp as a blade pressed against the back of his thoughts.

Was this the right choice?

The question sat with him like a stone in the gut. They had stormed an island, destroyed machines and creations that would never see sunlight again. They had gathered proof enough to condemn Merlot in the council chamber. They had done their duty.

But was it right?

He had learned, through bitter experience, that a man’s conviction could destroy him faster than his enemies could. That the single-mindedness he had once thought of as strength could blind him to what truly mattered.

His hands clenched once, then relaxed. The whispers of old instincts, of Mettle itself, stirred faintly in his chest. The familiar pull of certainty, that cold, commanding voice that told him this was the right path, that the end would justify every means. It came like a ghost at his shoulder, whispering in his own voice.

He drew a slow breath, fighting it down.

“Have a lot of thoughts?” Glynda asked suddenly.

Her voice was steady, cutting through the drone of the Bullhead engines. James turned toward her, startled out of the current of his own mind. Her expression was calm, one brow raised, though her eyes, keen, sharp, searched his face as if she could read the storm there.

He blinked once, then looked away. “Do you think we made the right choice here?”

Her lips pressed together briefly, as if she were weighing her words. Then she tilted her head. “Finding evidence against a madman?” she said. “I think we made the right choice.”

Her tone was even, almost dry, but there was conviction in it.

“James,” she continued, “though Merlot is a bit mad, his studies threaten the security of the Four Kingdoms. Whether or not his work has merit is irrelevant the moment it endangers lives. The moment he threatens the people, our people, it becomes our duty to stop him.”

James studied her face. She said it without hesitation, without the flicker of doubt that gnawed at him. There was strength in that, a kind of moral clarity that seemed to come naturally to her.

“Then,” he asked quietly, “do you really, honestly believe there’s no merit to his study of the Grimm?”

Glynda leaned back slightly, the faintest motion of her shoulders, and exhaled. Her eyes softened, not in sympathy, but in the cool patience of a teacher explaining a truth already known.

“There is merit to it,” she said. “There always is. Every terrible thing begins with a hint of merit. That’s why people like him find followers.” She paused, folding her hands neatly across her lap. “But the moment we start to think of ‘the greater good,’ of what we can gain at the cost of others, we step onto dangerous ground. The question stops being about merit and becomes about sacrifice, whose lives are spent, and who decides their worth.”

Her gaze found his again, level and unwavering.

“James, we are Huntsmen. It’s our duty to fight what endangers life, not to decide which lives are worth the risk. The moment we start measuring cost against benefit, weighing lives as though they were figures on a board… that’s the moment we lose the right to call ourselves Huntsmen.”

The hum of the engines seemed quieter now, the world reduced to her words and the faint vibration beneath their boots.

“We do what we do to save lives,” Glynda continued softly. “Not to balance ledgers. If there ever comes a time when we justify our actions by saying it’s for the ‘greater good,’ then that’s the time we need to step back and ask if we’re still on the right side of things.”

James didn’t speak. He only watched her.

He found himself… in awe, though he wouldn’t say it aloud. For all her youth, Glynda carried herself with a certainty most veterans lacked. She had conviction, not the blind kind that he had once wielded like a weapon, but something tempered, something human.

The kind of conviction that could stand firm without hardening into arrogance.

He didn’t have an answer for her. Not right away. He sat back, watching the faint reflection of himself in the glass opposite, the sharp features, the tightness in his jaw, the ghost of a soldier trying to forget the man he had been.

He thought of how far that grim determination had carried him. Single-minded, relentless, driven by duty and the weight of responsibility. It had built him into a weapon. A commander. A general.

But it had also blinded him.

He was only now beginning to see the cost of that.

For a long time, the only sound was the Bullhead cutting through the clouds. The horizon stretched wide ahead of them, the faint silhouette of Vale beginning to emerge from the mist that glimmered faintly even through the haze of distance.

James exhaled, leaning back, his hands finally unclenching. “You make it sound simple,” he said after a while, a quiet half-smile tugging at his lips.

“It isn’t,” Glynda said, meeting his gaze again. “But that’s precisely why we have to remind ourselves. Men like Merlot convince themselves that they’re saving the world. Men like you convince yourselves that the world can be fixed if only you work hard enough. Both forget that it’s not the world that needs saving, it’s the people in it.”

Her words landed softly, but with the weight of truth.

James looked down at his hands. The callouses along his palms, the faint trace of Dust residue on his fingers and the marks spent fighting. Marks that didn’t fade, no matter how much one tried to start over.

He drew in a long breath, let it out slowly. “You’re right,” he said finally. “It’s the people that matter.”

Glynda nodded once, satisfied, though the faintest hint of warmth softened her otherwise composed features. “You’re learning, James.”

He gave a short huff of amusement, though there was no mockery in her tone. Only familiarity.

The Bullhead began its descent toward Vale’s outskirts, lights from the docks glimmering below like scattered stars. The sky had begun to pale faintly, a suggestion of dawn brushing the clouds.

James straightened, the weight of fatigue still pressing on him but tempered now by focus. The doubts were still there, but quieter, pushed back by her words, or perhaps by the reminder that there were still things worth fighting for beyond his own sense of guilt.

He turned his head slightly, watching Glynda as she sat composed, her gaze steady on the city ahead. She was young, yes, but she carried herself as if she had already seen too much. 

“Glynda,” he said quietly, just as the Bullhead’s landing lights flicked on. “If I ever start speaking like Merlot, if I ever start saying it’s for the greater good, stop me.”

She looked at him then, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting across her lips. “Gladly,” she said. “I’ll pummel you straight to the ground.”

The Bullhead tilted forward, engines roaring as it made its final approach.

The Bullhead touched down just as the first fingers of dawn stretched over Vale. Pale gold spilled across the clouds, glinting off the canopy as the turbines wound down. The world below was stirring, lights dimming, workers rising, the hum of a city.

James unbuckled the harness and rose to his feet, his movements deliberate, his shoulders squared despite the quiet fatigue that lingered in his frame. Across from him, Glynda stood, brushing a faint smudge of dust from her sleeve before reaching for her riding crop. Her composure was unshaken, as if the night’s chaos had never touched her.

When the side hatch opened, the cold morning air swept in. James stepped to the threshold, looking down at the Valean dock stretching beneath them. Airships idled in the distance. The sea beyond glimmered faintly under the sunrise.

Glynda lingered beside him, arms crossed. Her expression was even, though her gaze carried a question he knew she was waiting to ask.

He spoke first. “You’ll be returning to Beacon, I assume.”

“I will,” she said, tone clipped, professional. “Someone has to inform Ozpin about Merlot’s operations. I’ll include the details of the encounter.”

James nodded once, then turned slightly toward her. “If it’s not too much trouble… I’d appreciate it if you tell Oz yourself. Say that I’ll send him the report once I’ve compiled the data.”

Her brow arched. “You’re not coming with me?”

He paused, his gaze shifting toward the horizon. The light caught the edge of his collar, his silhouette framed in soft gold and shadow. “There are matters I need to attend to first,” he said. “Atlesian matters.”

“Of course,” Glynda replied slowly. Her tone was polite, but her eyes remained fixed on him. “And here I thought you’d at least debrief with him directly. You used to make a habit of that.”

James’s jaw tightened slightly, though his voice stayed even. “Things change.”

Glynda tilted her head. “Do they? Or is it simply you avoiding him?”

He looked at her then, really looked. Her green eyes were sharp, steady, the faintest glimmer of curiosity beneath the professionalism. He almost smiled, almost. “Avoiding him?” he repeated. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” she countered lightly. “Your absence speaks loudly enough. Ozpin’s asked after you more than once these past few months. It’s unlike you not to answer.”

James’s gaze flickered down, his gloved hands adjusting the buckle of his belt. “There’s been work to handle,” he said. “Atlas doesn’t run itself.”

Glynda sighed softly through her nose, studying him for another moment. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth pressing further, she straightened. “You always were good at changing the subject, James.”

He gave her a faint, polite nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always were good at noticing.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The wind hummed through the open hatch. 

Glynda was the one to break it. “You’ll send your report, then?”

“I will,” James said. “Once I’ve verified everything. No sense in giving Oz incomplete data.”

Her lips curved, not quite a smile but close. “You and your data.”

He returned the look with a quiet, knowing glance. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

She let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh. “Perhaps not.”

He turned to the pilot. “Open the side door,” he said, and the Bullhead’s mechanical whine filled the cabin as the hatch lowered fully to the dock below.

James faced Glynda again. For a moment, words hung unspoken between them, a shared understanding that neither would voice aloud. Finally, he said simply, “Thank you, Glynda. For this.”

She met his gaze, eyes steady. “Just doing my duty, James.”

He nodded once, then stepped out of the Bullhead, boots hitting the metal platform below with a solid clang. He didn’t look back immediately. Only when the engines began to rise again, when the Bullhead lifted from the dock, did he glance up to see her still watching him from the hatch, the morning light catching the pale strands of her hair. Then the Bullhead turned, and she was gone, just another dark shape rising into the sun.

James stood for a moment longer, then turned toward the waiting transport that would take him back to his flagship.

The Saint was already awake when he arrived. The corridors thrummed with low, methodical activity, officers exchanging reports, engineers running maintenance checks, the dull clang of boots against steel echoing through the decks. The scent of coffee and machine oil filled the air, familiar, grounding.

He stepped into the command deck to find Plum standing over a console buried under data pads, screens, and scattered files. Her jacket hung loose over one shoulder, a stylus tucked behind one ear, and the look she shot him when he entered was half relief, half accusation.

“Sir,” she said, not looking up from the pad she was typing on. “You’re back. Finally.”

“Plum,” James greeted, voice even. “I take it that things have been busy.”

“Busy,” she said dryly, “is one way to describe managing a fleet without its commanding officer.” She glanced up then, eyes narrowing. “Did you at least get what you were looking for?”

James moved closer, removing his gloves as he spoke. “I did,” he said. “Documentation, recordings, and samples from Merlot’s facilities. Enough to confirm everything we suspected.”

Plum’s brow lifted. “Everything?”

“Everything,” he confirmed. “Grimm experimentation, artificial hybrids, android integration. All of it. Merlot’s been playing god.”

Plum set the data pad down with a sharp clack, exhaling through her nose. “So you were right, Commander.”

“I was,” James said simply.

“That’s the part that annoys me,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

He gave a faint smirk at that, but said nothing. The weariness in his expression softened only slightly under the bridge’s dim lights.

“You know,” Plum went on, tapping the console with her stylus, “most officers would’ve just sent a recon team. But not you. You had to personally lead the mission into a mad scientist’s island.”

“I needed to see it myself,” James replied. “You know that.”

“I do,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Doesn’t mean I have to approve.”

He didn’t answer. His gaze had drifted toward the panoramic glass that overlooked the Valean skyline in the distance, his reflection caught faintly against the morning haze.

Plum watched him for a beat longer, then leaned back against the console, crossing her ankles. “So,” she said casually, “you and Goodwitch. How’d that go?”

James turned his head slightly, brow furrowing. “It went as planned.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Plum said, tone light and teasing now. “But come on, you can’t tell me you two didn’t have one of those long, silent, brooding moments in the middle of chaos. Maybe even rekindled old flames?”

James gave her a flat look. “Plum.”

“What? I’m just saying.” She grinned faintly. “You two make a good team. You both have that same... stoic disapproval of everything around you. It’s charming, in a terrifying sort of way.”

He sighed, the faintest trace of amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stayed distant. “It wasn’t like that. Not anymore.”

“Mm-hm,” Plum said, pretending to believe him.

“Plum,” he said again, more firmly this time.

“Alright, alright,” she relented, holding up her hands. “No teasing. At least not until after I get some sleep.”

He nodded once, though his attention had already shifted back to the data she had spread out before them. “We’ll send a summarized report to Atlas Command and another to Beacon. Cross-reference the findings with the files we pulled from Merlot’s servers. I want full verification before the day’s out.”

“Understood,” Plum said, professional again in an instant, though the faint curve of her smile remained. “And what about you, sir? Planning on resting at all?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Of course not,” she muttered under her breath. “Wouldn’t want you acting human or anything.”

James ignored the jab. Deep in thought.

The bridge was quiet save for the low hum of machinery. Plum returned to her work, fingers gliding swiftly over the controls.

After a time, she spoke again, softer this time, without teasing. “You really did see something out there, didn’t you?”

James didn’t turn. “Yes,” he said simply. “Enough to remind me how far people can fall when they stop questioning themselves.”

Plum was silent for a long moment. Then she nodded once, though he didn’t see it.

“Then I guess it’s a good thing you haven’t,” she said.

He didn’t reply.

Chapter Text

James stood before the holographic display, the soft hum of the Saint’s command deck murmuring beneath the steady rhythm of the engines. The map of Mt. Glenn hovered before him in pale blue light, its wireframe contours gleaming with the precision of Atlesian projection. Beneath his fingertips, whole streets of the proposed settlement shimmered and expanded, revealing cross-sections of train lines, dust-energy conduits, and housing sectors that had yet to exist beyond blueprint and ambition.

He studied it in silence for a long time. The scale of the project, as always, was staggering, a self-sustaining extension of Vale, a monument to humanity’s defiance of the Grimm. But even as the projections glowed with promise, all James could see were fault lines.

“Expansion zones within a known seismic corridor, probably those dust mines,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “And their outer perimeter has limited evacuation routes. If the containment barriers fail…” He trailed off, his thoughts slipping into that dark precision he knew too well, the one that saw not people, but casualty numbers.

A soft chime broke through his thoughts. Plum’s voice followed a moment later. “You’re staring at that map again,” she said, stepping into the room with a datapad tucked beneath her arm. Her tone was equal parts amused and exasperated, slight concerned. “I swear, if you keep glaring at Mt. Glenn long enough, maybe it’ll fix itself out of sheer guilt.”

James gave no reaction to the jab. “What’s the latest?”

Plum walked closer, stopping beside the table and setting down her pad. “Reports came in from Vale’s central planning office,” she said, flipping through her files. “Construction’s ahead of schedule. Resource shipments from the SDC are flowing smoothly. Public opinion is…” she gave a small, almost incredulous snort, “...very favorable.”

James looked at her, one brow raised. “Favorable?”

“Oh, extremely,” Plum said, gesturing vaguely with her stylus. “Vale’s civilians are practically throwing lien at it. Especially the ones in the outlying villages. You should see the reports, Commander, families selling their land, pooling resources, even small local guilds making collective investments. Everyone wants a piece of Mt. Glenn. They’re treating it like a promise of salvation.”

She tapped her datapad again, and a cascade of figures appeared beside the hologram, columns of numbers, transaction records, survey data. “See here? These are community-led funding drives. Dozens of them. People think they’re buying their way into safety. They’re tired of being picked off by Grimm every other week, so the idea of a fortified place sounds like a miracle. ‘A home untouched by darkness,’ they’re calling it.”

James’s gaze stayed fixed on the glowing lines of the projection. “And the Council?”

Plum’s expression soured slightly. “The Council’s calling it a triumph of cooperation between Vale and private industry. They’re parading it as ‘a testament to the unity of the Kingdoms,’” she said, mimicking the pompous tone of a politician. “Merlot Industries got the lion’s share of the construction contracts, and now half the Council’s busy shaking his hand in public while trying to bury their own incompetence in private.”

James didn’t reply. His hands rested on the console, fingers flexing slightly.

“You know,” Plum continued, “I think you’re underestimating just how deep this whole thing runs. The second Merlot’s name got tied to Mt. Glenn, the entire public narrative shifted. If this project succeeds, he’s a hero, the man who gave Vale a new frontier. If it fails…” She shrugged. “Then the Council’s the villain. Simple as that.”

James exhaled slowly. “And if it fails, it won’t just be politics that collapse.”

Plum nodded grimly. “Exactly. You saw what his research was leading toward. If there’s even a trace of that work buried beneath this project, if he’s using Mt. Glenn as another testing ground, then they’re building their sanctuary on rot.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, heavy and sharp.

James reached forward, expanding the map’s perimeter field. The glowing outline of Mt. Glenn widened, revealing the expanse of Valean territory it connected to trade lines, outposts, and smaller villages that dotted the frontier. “If the Grimm breach this place,” he said quietly, “it won’t just be the settlement that falls. It’ll drag half of Vale down with it.”

“Which,” Plum said dryly, “would make for one hell of a press statement.”

He shot her a brief look, and she lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Kidding,” she said quickly. Then, with a sigh, “Mostly.”

Plum stepped closer to the hologram, her eyes reflecting the shifting blue light. “You know what’s really maddening about this, James?” she said. “There’s no clean way to stop it. The momentum’s too big. You pull the plug now, and thousands of investors riot. You try to expose the truth, and Vale’s Council calls it slander. Best case scenario? They sweep it under the rug, blame it all on bureaucratic mismanagement, and keep digging deeper.”

James said nothing, his silence an answer in itself.

Plum leaned against the edge of the console, folding her arms. “I looked through the internal correspondences between the Council and Merlot Industries,” she said. “They’re already scrambling. Word of the island incident got out faster than we thought. Merlot’s been summoned for inquiries, three separate ones, all in the last twenty-four hours. But get this: instead of taking the opportunity to actually investigate, the Council’s trying to pin the entire mess on him and keep the project afloat.”

She rolled her eyes. “They’re terrified of admitting they were duped. If they admit Merlot’s been experimenting under their noses, it makes them look like fools. So instead, they’ll just play the politics and condemn his ‘unauthorized actions,’ levy fines, squeeze whatever lien they can from Merlot Industries, and then move on like nothing happened.”

James’s gaze sharpened. “That won’t get rid of Merlot.”

“No,” Plum said flatly. “It won’t. It’ll just make him angry and a little poorer. And knowing men like him, that’s when they get dangerous.”

The hum of the Saint filled the silence that followed. Outside the viewport, clouds rolled past in thick gray layers, the Valean landscape spread far beneath them, a stretch of green and stone scarred by the ambitious construction site.

James’s reflection in the glass was still, his expression unreadable. “He’ll adapt,” he said at last. “He always does. The Council thinks they can buy their way out of this, but Merlot doesn’t care about the lien. He cares about legacy.”

Plum tilted her head. “You sound like you admire him.”

“I don’t,” James said, almost growling. “But I understand him. Men like Merlot don’t break when cornered. They evolve. And become paranoid.”

And James knew how paranoid men does things.

Plum frowned slightly, watching him as he spoke. There was something cold in his voice now, something that made her realize how deeply he’d thought this through. “So what do we do?”

“We monitor,” James said simply. “Every shipment, every contractor, every lab requisition that passes through Vale. If Merlot shifts anything, from funds, equipment, personnel, I want to know before the ink dries.”

“Already on it,” Plum said. “But you realize Vale’s Council won’t exactly welcome our involvement. The moment they catch wind of Atlesian oversight, they’ll cry interference.”

“They can cry all they want,” James said. “Our priority is containment. If this project spirals out of control, it won’t matter whose jurisdiction it falls under.”

Plum regarded him for a moment, then sighed. “You really think it’ll come to that?”

James didn’t answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the glowing city below, the perfect, impossible dream of Mt. Glenn. “I think,” he said quietly, “that the world doesn’t change because people want it to. It changes because someone pushes too far. And when that happens, it’s never the dreamers who pay the price.”

Plum studied him for a moment, then shook her head slightly. “You’ve gotten grim lately.”

He gave a faint, humorless smile. “Comes with hindsight.”

She snorted softly. “You and your hindsight. You talk like a man who’s seen all this before.”

James didn’t respond.

For a moment, the command deck was silent again, save for the low thrum of the ship. The holographic city continued to glow serene, intricate, and full of promise. 

A false promise. 

Finally, Plum pushed off from the console and straightened. “Well,” she said, “I’ll forward the reports to Atlas Command and start drafting a diplomatic notice for Vale. Though I doubt they’ll appreciate a lecture on accountability from Atlas.”

“Send it anyway,” James said.

She smirked faintly. “Of course you’d say that.”

As she moved toward the door, she hesitated, glancing back over her shoulder. “You know,” she said, “you keep warning people about the dangers of idealists, but I think you’re one too. You just hide it under steel and protocol.”

James looked at her, but said nothing.

Plum grinned slightly. “Don’t worry, sir. Your secret’s safe with me.” Then she was gone, the door hissing shut behind her.

James turned back to the holographic display. The map of Mt. Glenn flickered once before stabilizing again, the glowing corridors pulsing faintly like veins beneath the earth. He watched it for a long moment, his reflection hovering ghostlike over the city of light.

Then, quietly, he reached out and shut it off.

The days following that blurred. The Saint became less a warship and more a quick backdrop display orbiting Vale’s skies, where every communication that passed through Merlot Industries was dissected, logged, and traced.

James made sure of it.

He had ordered complete oversight of all Merlot-affiliated channels. Shipments disguised as medical cargo were rerouted for inspection. Corporate sub-contractors were quietly interrogated under the guise of “security compliance.” Valean customs were bribed, threatened, or both. Piece by piece, Merlot’s operations were boxed in, the proud corporate network that had operated unchecked for years now tangled in its own web.

Merlot fought back, of course. He shifted production lines, rerouted funds through false subsidiaries, used shell accounts buried beneath shell accounts. But every time he moved, Plum and her intelligence division were already there, tracing, intercepting, cutting him off before he could take a breath.

By the third week, even Plum was beginning to look drawn from the effort. She stood before James’s desk now, datapad in hand, her tone caught somewhere between satisfaction and fatigue.

“We’ve cornered him,” she said, tapping through the holographic feeds. “Financially, he’s boxed in. The Council of Vale froze half his accounts under investigation. Atlas Intelligence flagged his corporate ships for export violations. He can’t even purchase Dust shipments without us knowing where and how it’s being delivered. We have to thank the SDC for that.”

She paused, letting out a small, humorless laugh. “He’s got nowhere left to run, Commander. Even his own board of directors is starting to panic. They’ve been begging the Valean Council for leniency, trying to shift blame on ‘rogue scientists,’ saying Merlot didn’t know what his subordinates were doing.”

James’s gaze stayed fixed on the glowing chart above his desk,  a sprawl of lines and names representing Merlot’s industries. Each red node that pulsed was another intercepted operation. Another closure. Another nail.

He folded his hands behind his back. “And Merlot himself?”

“Silent,” Plum said. “No transmissions for a week. My analysts think he’s gone to ground, probably somewhere off Vale’s grid. But… he’ll resurface. They always do.”

James gave a quiet nod. He knew she was right. A man like Merlot wouldn’t accept being outmaneuvered. He would claw his way back, rebuild from the ashes if he had to.

Before he could respond, the intercom on the wall flickered to life. “General Ironwood,” the officer on duty said, his voice hesitant. “Message from Atlas Command. Priority level High. The Council requests an immediate conference.”

Plum and James exchanged a brief look.

James exhaled. “Patch them through to the CCT room.”

The officer acknowledged, and the line clicked off.

Plum’s expression soured. “This isn’t about congratulations, is it?”

“No,” James said, already moving toward the door. “It’s about politics.”

The conference chamber aboard the Saint was cold, all brushed steel and dark glass. When the holoprojector flared to life, it cast the room in the pale glow of seated figures of the members of the Atlas Council. Their faces hovered above the table like phantoms of authority, every line of their features sharpened by age and expectation.

The Chairwoman spoke first, her voice clipped and formal. “Commander  Ironwood.”

“Councilors,” James said evenly, standing straight, hands clasped behind his back.

“We’ve received multiple complaints from Vale’s Council,” another began, Councilor Bryn, Atlesian Elite, the youngest, and perhaps the most pompous. “They claim Atlas has been conducting unauthorized surveillance of private enterprises operating within their jurisdiction. You’ve effectively interfered in foreign governance, Commander. Do you deny this?”

“I don’t,” James said.

Bryn blinked. “You don’t?”

“I authorized the operation,” James said. His voice carried no apology, only fact.

The Chairwoman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re admitting to a breach of protocol.”

“I’m admitting,” James said, “to preventing a greater catastrophe.”

There was a beat of silence before Bryn leaned forward, sneering. “Catastrophe? You’re talking about Merlot, an eccentric, perhaps, but a citizen of Vale, operating under Valean oversight. You overstepped your authority, Ironwood. You’ve humiliated the Council of Vale and by extension jeopardized our diplomatic standing. Atlas cannot act as a self-appointed guardian of the world.”

James didn’t move. He didn’t so much as blink.

Another Councilor, a pale man with deep creases in his face,  spoke next, voice cold as frost. “You’ve made Atlas look like an empire, not an ally. Do you have any idea how many protests we’ve had to defuse? How many diplomatic requests for clarification we’ve had to field?”

Bryn’s voice rose again, laced with disdain. “You’re not a politician, Commander. You don’t understand the damage you’ve done. You can’t go storming into another kingdom’s affairs because you think you know better.”

Still, James said nothing.

His silence seemed to unnerve them more than any argument could have.

The Chairwoman exhaled, long and slow, her voice softening only slightly. “Commander, this isn’t about your competence. We all understand your… convictions. But this kind of unilateral action undermines the Council’s authority. It paints us as aggressors. It endangers trade, stability, and peace. Surely even you can see that.”

For a moment, the room was quiet save for the hum of the hologram. Then James finally spoke.

His tone was low, measured, not defiant, not emotional, but the precise cadence of command honed over decades. “With respect, Councilors… peace is already endangered.”

The Chairwoman frowned. “Explain.”

James took a step forward, his eyes level with the projections before him. “You speak of diplomacy as though it exists in a vacuum. As though Merlot’s actions are isolated and contained. But they aren’t. He’s building weapons, biological ones. We saw them. Grimm, modified, controlled, augmented with Dust. And Vale’s Council, whether through ignorance or cowardice, allowed it to happen.”

He paused, letting his words settle.

“You call it interference,” he continued quietly, “but I call it prevention. Because when those things escape  and they will escape, it won’t just be Vale that suffers. Grimm don’t respect borders. They never have.”

The room was still.

Councilor Bryn scoffed, but his voice lacked its earlier strength. “You’re speculating. You don’t even know if those experiments are still active.”

James’s gaze sharpened, cutting through him like glass. “I know the signs of a man who can’t stop his own obsession. I’ve seen it. Merlot isn’t just experimenting; he’s evolving them. He’s creating Grimm that can think, coordinate, strategize. You think the war machines of Atlas are dangerous? Imagine a pack of Grimm that can plan.”

The Chairwoman leaned forward slightly, her expression unreadable. “Even if that’s true, the matter lies within Vale’s jurisdiction. You had no authority to act.”

“Authority,” James repeated quietly, as if tasting the word. Then, very slowly, he looked up, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the cold steel of a commander who had long since stopped caring for politics.

“My authority,” he said, “is to protect Atlas and her people. And by extension, the world that sustains them. If Vale falls,  if its borders collapse under the weight of what Merlot has created, then Atlas will be next. The Grimm don’t care which flag flies over the walls they tear down.”

There was silence again.

The Councilors exchanged uncertain glances, the certainty of their indignation beginning to erode beneath James’s composure.

James continued, his tone even colder now. “You wanted to lecture me on interference. So let me ask, what happens if Mt. Glenn fails? What happens when thousands die in a city built on deceit, and Atlas stands by doing nothing because Vale claimed it was ‘their jurisdiction’? What do you think the world will remember then?”

His words landed like hammer blows.

“You think this is about pride,” James said. “It’s not. It’s about survival. The Grimm don’t negotiate, and neither should we when it comes to men who think they can master them. Merlot is not a Valean concern. He is a humanity concern.”

For a long moment, none of them spoke. The only sound was the low thrum of the ship.

Finally, the Chairwoman exhaled, long and weary. “You tread dangerously close to insubordination, Commander .”

“Then you’ll have to decide,” James said softly, “whether you want an obedient officer or a living kingdom.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even anger. It was simply the truth, delivered with the finality of a verdict.

Another Councilor, one of the elder members, rubbed his temples. “You’re walking a narrow path, Commander.”

James straightened. “Then I’ll keep my balance.”

The holograms flickered slightly. Bryn leaned back, visibly frustrated but silent now. The Chairwoman finally looked at James again, her voice cooler, more restrained. “You said you believe it is in our best interest that Mt. Glenn succeeds?”

“Yes,” James said. “If the project stabilizes, it becomes a model of coexistence, human ingenuity standing against Grimm. But if Merlot continues to operate unchecked, it becomes a tomb. And the first bones laid in it will belong to Vale’s people.”

The Chairwoman nodded slowly, studying him. “Very well. You will maintain oversight and quietly. No more direct action without Council authorization. Understood?”

“Yes, Councilor.”

The transmission dimmed.

The holograms dissolved into air.

James sat alone in his quarters, the lights dimmed to a dull amber glow. The table before him was a mess of reports from Valean Council correspondence, surveillance records on Merlot Industries, intercepted shipping manifests. All of it neatly arranged once, now scattered like the inside of a mind unraveling.

He had read the same paragraph half a dozen times, and still the words refused to make sense.

It was then that his vision blurred. His chest rose and fell in quick succession. Something in him was wrong, not the kind of wrong that came from exhaustion or grief, but something deeper, nameless, coiling in his ribs like an unseen hand squeezing the air out of him.

James leaned back, staring at his hands. They were steady at first, clean, human, untouched by steel or scars that hadn’t yet come to be. Yet when he blinked, for an instant, they weren’t.

For an instant, his right hand looked like it was iron again, segmented and cold, the joints and servos humming and clicking. He froze. His breath hitched. He stared harder, but the illusion flickered, and it was gone. Flesh again. Pale, veined, trembling.

He flexed his fingers once. They felt heavy. He flexed them again. Pain followed, sharp, electric pain that ran from his fingertips to his shoulder, phantom and real all at once.

His chest tightened. He pressed his palm against it, but the pressure did nothing. His lungs were drowning. He couldn’t draw air deep enough. The sound of his own heartbeat filled the room, faster, louder, frantic.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands. His skin burned cold.

He wasn’t sure when it began, the tremor, the shaking. But suddenly it was there, violent and unrelenting. The air felt thick, viscous, like he was breathing through water. Every breath scraped like glass in his throat.

The reports in front of him blurred into a smear of ink. The hum of the ship grew distant. Then gone.

For one terrible moment, he felt weightless.

And then submerged.

Cold, dark, heavy. Drowning.

He could almost feel the drag of water against his body, the sound of his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears, each thud slower than the last. His eyes shot open, but the room seemed too far away, the walls too close.

He gasped. No air. Only the choking, invisible pressure of panic.

He tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him, sending him stumbling against the table. Papers scattered to the floor. His hand gripped the edge so tightly that the tendons stood out in sharp relief. He wanted to shout, but the words died in his throat.

This isn’t happening.

The voice in his head was his own, but it felt distant. Detached.

He could feel his heart hammering like gunfire. The muscles in his jaw locked. His vision tunneled, the periphery dissolving into shadow until only the center remained clear, his trembling hands, and the faint light glinting on them.

Then another illusion. Another trick of the mind.

He saw metal where there was flesh. His arm, his chest, half of him made of cold atlas steel, humming faintly like a living weapon. Machinery grafted into muscle.

It was as though the future he dreaded was bleeding into the present.

He tried to breathe again, but each inhale was shallow, useless. The sensation of drowning returned,  a crushing, suffocating panic that blurred thought and reason alike.

For a moment, he wasn’t on the Saint.

He was somewhere else, somewhere darker, colder, where the water rose to his throat and he could feel himself sinking, his arms failing, the world going still.

Stop.

The voice cut through the noise. Sharp. Commanding. His own, but different, deeper, anchored in the instinct that had kept him alive through battle after battle.

Then, suddenly silence.

The panic stopped.

Every thought that screamed inside his head froze mid-echo. Every emotion dulled, every tremor ceased. His pulse slowed, regulated. His breathing steadied, no longer choking, but even.

His body obeyed before his mind could comprehend it.

His Semblance Mettle flared to life.

It had activated, unbidden, like a failsafe pulling him back from the edge.

The world around him regained its clarity. The dim amber light. The metallic hum. The mess of papers on the floor. His reflection in the glass pane of the viewport, expression unreadable, pale but composed.

Inside, he felt nothing.

That was the cruel efficiency of Mettle, the shutting down of fear, the suppression of doubt, the silencing of every human instinct that made one hesitate. It was a weapon, forged not from aura, but discipline.

And yet, in that moment, he felt the cost.

The silence inside him wasn’t peace. It was absence.

He took a slow, steady breath, the kind that came only when emotion was stripped away, and lowered himself into his chair again. His gaze drifted toward his hands, flesh again, solid, motionless.

James stared at them for a long time, unsure if he should trust what he saw. He flexed his fingers again, as though confirming they were still his.

They were warm. Human.

But somewhere deep in the marrow, he could still feel the iron.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, the minutes blending into each other like waves collapsing on a shore. The hum of the ship filled the room again, low and constant.

His eyes drifted toward the floor, where a single sheet of paper had fallen near his boot. He leaned down and picked it up, one of the surveillance reports on Merlot Industries. A list of assets seized, facilities dismantled. Victories, by every measure.

And yet, as he stared at it, all he could feel was an immense exhaustion.

It wasn’t just fatigue. It was the kind that lived in the bones,  the kind that came from fighting battles no one else could see.

He exhaled, a sound caught between a sigh and a growl. The taste of bile lingered in his throat, sharp and metallic.

He thought of Glynda, her steady composure, the quiet strength that never wavered even when the world trembled. He thought of Plum, buried in paperwork and sleepless nights, keeping Atlas afloat through sheer force of will.

And then he thought of himself, of the man who, in another life, had let the world turn him to steel.

Perhaps he was already on that path.

Perhaps this was how it began, the slow erosion of feeling, of doubt, until all that remained was his Mettle.

The silence pressed in again, heavy, suffocating in its own right. James stood, pushing his chair back with a dull scrape against the metal floor.

He walked to the viewport. For a long time, he simply stood there, breathing in rhythm with the steady thrum of the engines. His reflection stared back at him.

He pressed a hand against the glass. The surface was cold.

He let it stay there, fingers splayed, palm flat, as if grounding himself to something real.

But even then, he felt the faint pulse of that phantom ache again, crawling up his arm, whispering that he was more machine than man… even if it wasn’t true.

He closed his eyes.

Mettle stirred once more, instinctively suppressing the flicker of unease before it could grow.

Silence again.

He opened his eyes. Looked at his reflection.

It stared back, calm, collected, unreadable.

The ghost of panic lingered somewhere deep, muffled but not gone.

He turned from the window, the faintest hint of a grim smile ghosting across his lips.

His voice came out low, almost to himself.

“I need a drink.”

Chapter Text

Vale was quieter at this time.

The streets that once hummed with the easy rhythm of laughter and trade were subdued now, the echoes of a city preparing to sleep. The lamps burned low, their light falling across the cobblestones in fractured patches, orange bleeding into shadow. Somewhere far off, something rumbled through the heart of the city, its a lonely sound against the wind.

James walked with his hands in his coat pockets, boots clicking softly against the pavement. He had chosen not to wear his uniform tonight. He had left Due Process locked away in his quarters, holstered and sealed. The weight of those weapons and the title that came with them was something he couldn’t bear to carry tonight.

Instead, he wore what he once had, long ago, before he had returned to Atlas’s service. The same simple shirt, the same heavy duster coat that caught the wind and flared behind him with each step. 

He kept his head low as he passed a cluster of Huntsmen, laughing outside a tavern. They didn’t recognize him, not without the uniform. Good. He didn’t want to be recognized. Tonight, he didn’t want to be a commander or a strategist or even a Huntsman. Just a man trying to remember what it was like to breathe.

The streets wound downward toward the older part of Vale, where the air smelled faintly of smoke and salt from the sea. He knew this path well. His boots had walked it once before, alongside someone whose company had made the world feel, if not lighter, then at least clearer.

When he found the bar, it looked the same as he had remembered, small, tucked between two aging buildings, its sign hanging by a single chain that creaked faintly in the breeze. The same dim lights glowed behind the frosted window. The same soft murmur of conversation drifted through the door.

He pushed it open. The faint scent of alcohol, dust, and wood smoke met him like an old memory.

Inside, the air was warm, tinged with the low hum of quiet voices and the occasional clink of glass. James’s eyes adjusted slowly to the amber gloom. The bar had changed little since he had last been here. The same scarred tables, the same slow-turning ceiling fan, the same barkeep polishing glasses without ever really looking up.

He took a seat in the corner, the same one he and Glynda had shared once, years ago. It felt smaller now. Or perhaps he was simply larger, more burdened.

He ordered something simple. Whiskey. Neat.

When the glass arrived, he set it on the table and didn’t touch it for a long while. He only watched the way the amber light caught on its surface, refracting against the ripples. The ice had already melted.

Maybe, in some small, foolish part of him, he had hoped Glynda might walk through that door again, as if the night itself could circle back to a gentler time. She wouldn’t, of course. That would be too convenient. Life, he had learned, rarely offered such kindness. And considering what she was working on, she doubted she’d have the time.

An hour passed. The ice melted completely. The warmth of the bar pressed in, but did nothing to ease the chill that clung to his chest.

James lifted the glass finally, turned it once in his hand, then set it back down. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to drink it.

He leaned back in the booth, letting his head rest against the wall, eyes half-lidded as he listened to the quiet rhythm of the room. The murmuring voices blurred into a steady hum. It was almost peaceful in that heavy, distant way that made him ache more than rest.

Is this how Oz feels?

The thought came unbidden.

Carrying memories of a time that no longer exists.

The realization sat in him like a stone.

He could almost see Oz, calm, inscrutable, carrying centuries in his eyes and never letting it show. How many lifetimes had he lived? How many people had he lost, seen fade into dust while he remained? To endure that long and still hold on to purpose… that was something beyond strength.

James wasn’t sure he could do the same.

He felt small then, not in stature, but in spirit. Like a man who had borrowed someone else’s burden and found it too heavy to lift.

He thought he understood Oz before, the old man’s riddles, his distances, his silences that seemed both cruel and kind. But now, having glimpsed even a fraction of what it meant to live with so much memory, so much failure, James understood that kind of strength came with a cost he wasn’t sure he was willing to pay.

He rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers lingering against the bridge of his nose. He was tired, but not just in the way of sleepless nights. It was deeper, threaded through his bones, through the quiet spaces between thought and breath.

That exhaustion wasn’t from battle or work or the endless bureaucracy that trailed him. It came from within. From something broken and unresolved that no mission, no victory, could seem to mend.

He let his hand fall to the table, his gaze drifting toward the glass again.

It wasn’t the drink he wanted. It was the quiet it promised.

For a moment, he thought about Glynda, her steadiness, her sharp wit, her ability to stand tall even when the world tilted. He had always admired that in her. Still did. Maybe that was why he had come here. Not to drink. Not to forget. But to remember the last time things had felt simple, if only for an evening.

He reached for the glass at last, took a slow sip. The burn of it ran down his throat, sharp and familiar.

He set it down carefully, his reflection faint in the amber pool.

James’s thoughts drifted to the war that hadn’t yet come, to the kingdom he was still trying to save, to the man he once was and the one he was becoming.

Somewhere between those thoughts, he realized that part of him was still torn. That even now, standing between past and future, he didn’t know who he was supposed to be.

He had come back to Atlas to serve again that much had been clear. But what did service mean, now? When everything he believed in had already begun to crack beneath its own weight?

He thought of Oz again. The way the man carried secrets like they were chains, his calm voice hiding an unspoken exhaustion of his own.

James wondered if that was what awaited him too, a lifetime of endurance, of doing what had to be done even when it hollowed you out.

He wasn’t sure he could ask anyone for help with that.

He had thought, once, of speaking to Oz about what he felt, the sense of being displaced, haunted by memories of a time no one else could remember. But whenever he imagined it, the words caught in his throat. Because under that hesitation lay something else. Something sharper.

Repulsion.

Mistrust.

He hated himself for it.

Oz had given him purpose and guidance once. Even now, his mission, the one he carried, was shaped by that man’s faith in him. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, there lingered a shadow of betrayal. Of all the secrets, all the manipulations that had come to light in the years ahead.

It didn’t matter that this was another life, another timeline. The memory was burned too deep.

So he kept it buried.

He couldn’t face Oz. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

James closed his eyes, exhaled slowly. The sound of laughter rose faintly from the other end of the bar, light and careless. For a moment, he envied it, that kind of easy, fleeting happiness that came without weight.

He opened his eyes again. The drink was half-empty. The world beyond the window had turned darker, the rain beginning to fall in soft, rhythmic drops that ran down the glass.

He thought of the future of Mt. Glenn, of Atlas, of everything still waiting to unravel.

The weight of it pressed down on him again, quiet but absolute.

He didn’t know how long he sat there after that,  minutes, maybe hours. The drink grew warm. The bar emptied slowly until only a handful of patrons remained.

When he finally stood, the motion was slow, deliberate. He left a few lien on the table, enough for the drink and more, then pulled his coat close as he stepped back into the night.

The streets of Vale stretched endlessly ahead of him. James’s boots scuffed against the pavement as he walked without direction.  He didn’t know how long he had been walking. His thoughts drifted, the rhythm of his steps syncing with the churn of memories that wouldn’t still. The drink had warmed him but done nothing to quiet his mind without relying on Mettle.

He turned a corner, the lamps thinning until the street opened into a wider sidewalk that overlooked the docks below. The sea wind carried the faint tang of salt and iron. James stopped there for a moment, resting one hand against a rusted railing. The night air was cold against his face, the mist cooling the heat still lingering in his chest.

He thought he was alone until he heard someone call out.

“James Ironwood?”

The voice was light, lilting, surprised, curious.

James turned.

For a heartbeat, he thought he was seeing a ghost.

Clad in a one-piece red dress trimmed with white frills beneath the skirt, with black sleeves detached from the shoulders and bracers of matching red and black at her forearms, stood a woman who seemed to carry her own light into the night. Over her shoulders hung a white cloak lined crimson on the inside, fastened at the front by crossed black straps pinned by silver leaves. A black outer skirt flared over the red beneath, cinched by thick belts that gleamed faintly under the lamp. Her legs were covered in soft grey leggings, and her boots, high-heeled, black with red edging, clicked lightly against the concrete as she approached.

A rose pendant rested just below her collarbone, catching what little light the street offered.

“Summer Rose,” James said quietly.

She smiled. “So you do remember me.”

It was almost strange, seeing her like this again,  alive, radiant, her silver eyes glinting with the same unshakable warmth that had once made her such a force among Huntsmen. She was exactly as he remembered her, fierce, bright, and impossibly alive. Summer Rose had always been like that, as if she was sunshine given form. Ruby Rose had inherited so much of her mother’s spirit it almost hurt to think about.

James stood a little straighter, pulling himself back into composure, afraid she’d see the rotten iron inside. “Of course I remember you.”

Summer laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You look like you’ve been through a storm.”

“Something like that,” James admitted.

“What are you doing here, wandering Vale’s streets like some brooding detective out of a cheap novel?” she teased, grinning. “Don’t tell me Atlas ran out of things for you to control.”

James allowed the faintest smile to touch his lips. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah,” she said knowingly, crossing her arms. “That sounds about right. You never were good at resting, were you?”

James shrugged. “And you? What brings you here, Summer? It’s late.”

“Mission,” she said simply. “Short one. Routine check around the outskirts.” She tilted her head slightly, her cloak shifting with the movement. “But if I’m being honest, I was about to stop by for a drink. Not often I get to unwind without Qrow and Tai arguing over who can hold their liquor longer.”

“That sounds like them,” James said dryly.

“Yeah,” she sighed, smiling fondly. “Never changes.”

She stepped closer, the mist swirling faintly around her boots. “So what about you, really? You don’t strike me as the wandering around type.”

James hesitated. “Just needed to think.”

Summer studied him for a moment. Her silver eyes were gentle but sharp, the kind that saw through things people tried to hide. She didn’t push yet, only nodded as if she understood more than he’d said.

After a beat, she exhaled softly. “Qrow’s been talking about you.”

James arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Says you’re meddling again.” Her voice was light but not without weight. “Something about Mt. Glenn, Atlas oversight, and you making life difficult for Vale’s Council. He’s convinced you’re stirring up trouble.”

James’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes, weary resolve, maybe. “If this continues the way it’s going,” he said quietly, “a lot of people will die. And get hurt. I don’t want that. That’s all.”

Summer’s smile faded into something more thoughtful. The lamplight caught her eyes then, that strange, silvery gleam that had always seemed more than human. People often mistook her kindness for naivety, but James knew better. Summer Rose was no fool. She had the instincts and wisdom of a huntress, tempered by the rare courage to believe in people even when no one else would.

She looked at him for a long moment before saying softly, “I can tell you mean that.”

James’s gaze dropped to the ground. “Thank you.”

The words came out quieter than he intended.

For a while, neither spoke. The city murmured distantly, the whisper of passing airships, the faint honking of a car somewhere far below. The mist thickened slightly, curling between them.

Summer shifted her weight, one hand resting on her hip as she tried to find a thread to pull the silence apart. “You know,” she began, “it’s strange seeing you like this. Out of uniform. You almost look… normal.”

James glanced up, a wry edge to his expression. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” she said. “You should try it more often.”

He almost smiled again. Almost.

But then her expression softened. “Hey,” she said gently, “you okay?”

The question caught him off guard.

He blinked, then shook his head faintly. “I’m fine.”

Summer didn’t believe it, he could see that in her eyes. but she let it go. Instead, she reached up and adjusted the rose pendant at her throat, her cheeks flushed faintly from the cool air.

James cleared his throat. “How are things between you and Taiyang?”

That earned a sharp look from her. “What?”

James’s mouth twitched, the faintest trace of humor surfacing. “Is he still openly flirting with Raven?”

Her face turned pink almost instantly. “Was it that obvious?”

“Painfully,” he said, deadpan.

Summer groaned, burying her face briefly in her hands. “I swear, he’s hopeless sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” James echoed, arching a brow.

“Alright, most times,” she admitted, laughing despite herself. “But he means well. Even when he’s being an idiot.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“I do try.”

The laughter faded into an easy quiet between them. For a moment, it almost felt normal again, standing there under the lamps, two Huntsmen caught in a rare pause between battles.

Summer glanced out toward the sea, the mist rolling gently over the docks. “You know,” she said softly, “it’s nice to talk like this. Feels like everyone’s always running somewhere, fighting something. We never just… stop.”

James nodded. “Stopping isn’t something we’re good at.”

“No,” she said with a small smile. “But maybe we should be.”

He looked at her and saw, for a fleeting second, why so many had loved her. Why her loss had shattered so many. Summer had that rare light that refused to go out, even when the world grew dark around her.

James felt something in his chest ease, just slightly.

“Summer,” he said after a pause, his voice low, “take care of yourself. Please.”

She blinked, surprised by the sudden gravity in his tone. “You say that like you know something I don’t.”

He looked away. “Just a feeling.”

Summer tilted her head, silver eyes narrowing slightly, the perceptive instinct again. But she didn’t press. She simply smiled that warm, steady smile of hers. “You always were a terrible liar, James.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned his gaze back toward the street, the mist curling like smoke around the lamplight. “You should head back,” he said finally. “It’s late.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I’ll walk a little longer.”

Summer hesitated, then nodded. She started to step away, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. “James,” she said softly, “whatever it is you’re carrying you don’t have to do it alone, you know.”

He didn’t look at her. “I’ve been doing it alone for a long time.”

She sighed quietly, but there was understanding in her eyes. “Yeah,” she murmured, “I know the feeling.”

For a moment, neither moved. Then she smiled again, small, genuine, and utterly her. “Don’t let it eat you alive, alright?”

And before he could answer, she turned and walked off into the fog, her white cloak fading into the pale haze until she disappeared entirely.

James stood there long after she was gone, the sound of her boots on the pavement echoing faintly before it, too, faded into silence.

He exhaled slowly, watching his breath dissipate in the cold air.

Then, without another word, he turned and began walking again , down the long, empty street, his coat billowing faintly behind him.

James had turned to leave when a hand caught his wrist.

James stopped, his head turning slightly.

Summer stood there, her grip firm but not forceful, her silver eyes alight with something that was neither pity nor curiosity but a quiet resolve. Her white cloak fluttered around her boots, the red lining flashing briefly in the lamplight.

“Summer?” James asked, his brow furrowing.

“I can’t let you go like this,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried that unshakable warmth she always had, the kind that made refusal feel almost cruel. “You look like a rock that’s just going to sink. So, I’ve decided.”

James blinked. “Decided what?”

“I’m dragging you up the mountain.”

James stared at her for a long moment. “You’re what?”

She smiled, proud, almost triumphant. “You heard me. Come on.”

“Summer,” he began, trying for reason, “it’s late. And dangerous. There are Grimm out there—”

“I know,” she interrupted cheerfully, already turning toward the open road that led toward the outskirts. “But I can’t exactly leave a friend alone like this, can I?”

“Summer,” James said again, but she didn’t stop.

She turned back briefly, walking backward now, that grin still bright on her face. “Besides, I beat up Grimm for a living. I’ll beat up anything that gets in our way. Including your bad mood.”

He sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told that.”

And just like that, she was walking ahead again, white cloak fluttering behind her like a flag in the wind. She didn’t even look back to see if he followed. She didn’t need to.

James exhaled quietly, his breath clouding in the cold air. For a moment, he considered turning back. But something in the way she moved, determined, radiant, utterly unbothered by the darkness made him start after her.

He followed.

They left the main streets behind, the city lights dimming until only the glow of the moon remained to guide them. The road curved upward, becoming rougher, the stones uneven beneath their boots. Vale’s mountain range loomed ahead, black against the sky.

Summer walked with easy confidence, her weapon, Sunder Rose, folded neatly against her back. Every so often, she would hum softly to herself, a tune James didn’t recognize but somehow fit the rhythm of their climb.

When a pack of Beowolves appeared from the brush, their glowing red eyes cutting through the mist, Summer simply turned her head, her expression calm.

“Stay behind me,” she said, though her tone was more playful than commanding.

Before James could reply, the first Beowolf lunged.

In one fluid motion, Summer drew Sunder Rose, the weapon unfolding with a sharp hiss of metal. The blade flashed once, then twice, each strike cutting through Grimm like ribbons of smoke. The others howled, scattering, but she was already moving, her cloak a white streak as she darted through them with lethal grace.

James had seen countless Huntsmen fight in his time, but there was something uniquely effortless about Summer. Her movements carried no hesitation, no aggression, only precision and purpose. Every strike seemed part of something greater, like a dance only she could hear the music to.

In less than a minute, the path was clear again.

Summer spun her axe once, letting it fold back neatly, then smiled at him over her shoulder. “See? Told you I could handle it.”

James couldn’t help it, he smiled. Just a little.

They kept walking. The path narrowed as it climbed, winding along the cliffside. The wind grew sharper, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and distant rain. Summer didn’t slow, though, she walked as if she had done this a hundred times.

James followed steadily, his steps measured. He watched her from behind, the white of her cloak gleaming faintly even in the dark. He wondered what the point of all this was, dragging him up a mountain in the middle of the night. Maybe she thought fresh air would clear his mind. Or maybe she was simply trying to remind him of something he’d forgotten.

By the time they reached the summit, the horizon had begun to glow faintly gold.

Summer walked to the edge, her cloak billowing in the wind, and stood there silently.

James joined her a moment later, his breath visible in the cold. Below them stretched Vale, a patchwork of rooftops and streets, glimmering faintly in the dawn light. Farther out, he could see the outlines of small settlements and camps. The faint flicker of torches. The beginnings of homes being built.

They stood there for a long moment, neither speaking. The air was sharp, clean, filled with the sound of distant wind whistling through stone.

Then Summer said quietly, “Look at them.”

James turned his gaze downward.

“If Mt. Glenn succeeds,” she continued, “those people might be able to live good lives. Safe ones. Without worrying about Grimm”

James nodded slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

“You know… we  kinda suspected Atlas was trying to stop the project,” she said, her tone thoughtful now. “But after everything we’ve seen, the Grimm, the androids, Merlot and what Glyn gave us, it’s clear there’s more to it. Still…” She looked at him then, her silver eyes bright. “I don’t think Atlas means harm. Not really. Because I believe you.”

James blinked, surprised.

She smiled faintly. “You wouldn’t be here, doing all this, if you didn’t care. And I can tell, you’re doing this because you want to protect people. Not control them.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, where the sun was beginning to climb, painting the clouds in soft streaks of orange and gold.

After a while, he said quietly, “Do you like playing the hero, Summer?”

There wasn’t even a pause.

“I do,” she said brightly. “Someone has to paint the sunshine in the rain.”

James turned his head slightly, regarding her. Her words were simple, almost naïve, but there was no doubt, no hesitation. She believed it with every part of her being.

He nodded once. Slowly.

The sun rose higher, washing the mountainside in light. Below, the people continued their quiet work, lifting beams, building foundations, setting down stones for the promise of a new home.

James watched them, and for the first time in a long while, he remembered why he had gone back to serving Atlas.

Not for the power. Not for the control. But because he had seen people. ordinary, desperate people, suffering in the cold. He had seen Mantle’s children shivering beneath rusted roofs, seen Solitas’s wind tear through broken shelters, seen soldiers die believing in an ideal that had long since forgotten them.

He had joined again because he had wanted to change that. Because he had seen that people could change. Sienna Khan had proven that, once. The world wasn’t without beauty… it was just fragile.

And he wanted to protect that beauty. 

To keep it shining.

He exhaled slowly. The weight in his chest didn’t vanish, but it eased, just a little.

“Feeling better now?” Summer asked suddenly, glancing at him.

James smiled faintly. “A little.”

“Good.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being a good friend.”

She blinked, then smiled softly.

“And if you ever need help,” he added, his voice firm, “don’t hesitate to ask me. If you don’t,” he looked at her, his expression half stern, half amused, “then I’ll really get mad.”

Summer laughed, her voice bright against the wind. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

James chuckled, shaking his head.

They stood there together as the sun climbed higher, the light spilling over Vale, gilding the rooftops, the fields, and the distant sea.

Inwardly, James made a quiet note, an unspoken hope.

That this Summer Rose. this radiant, reckless, kind-hearted Huntress, would live to see her old age. That she would find peace and happiness with those she loved. That the world would be kind enough to let her keep her light.

And so she could always paint sunshine in the rain.

Chapter Text

James and Summer began their descent down the mountain just as the sun had climbed over the horizon. The world below shimmered gold, the mist thinning into ribbons that drifted lazily above the rooftops of Vale. The air was cooler now, touched by salt from the nearby sea. It was a quiet walk, the sort that stretched comfortably, with the soft crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the low whisper of the wind filling the silence.

James walked a few paces behind her, his coat brushing against the edges of the path. Every so often, he caught glimpses of Summer’s white cloak fluttering ahead of him, her hair catching the sunlight in flashes. There was something in her stride that was always carefree, light, unburdened by the weight that pressed so heavily on him.

When they reached the edge of the city, Vale’s early morning bustle was beginning to stir. Merchants opened their stalls, sweeping the dust from their doorsteps. The smell of baking bread drifted from nearby bakeries. Huntsmen-in-training, still yawning, crossed the square toward Beacon’s bullhead shuttle platforms.

For a while, they walked in silence through the quiet streets.

Then James stopped.

He looked at Summer, then at the morning crowd moving beyond her. His hand flexed slightly at his side, the leather of his glove creasing faintly. He hesitated, the words catching somewhere in his throat.

“Summer,” he said finally.

She turned, tilting her head with a smile. “Hmm?”

“There’s something you should know,” he said. His voice was low, almost too even. “About what’s really happening in Mt. Glenn.”