Chapter Text
The hum of the city had long faded into the lull of late-night silence, a rare hush that draped itself over Blitz’s apartment like a heavy curtain. Outside, the hellish skies dimmed to a moody crimson, the stars above more like dying embers than lights. Inside, Blitzø lay tangled in his sheets, his breath shallow, twitching under the weight of another dream turned nightmare.
In the dream, the world wasn’t fire. It was fire.
The circus tent snapped in the wind like it had life, like it was screaming with the rest of them. Blitz’s feet sank into blackened dirt, and no matter how fast he ran, the air around him thickened with smoke, clogging his lungs and weighing down his limbs. Screams echoed in every direction, warped and distant—like they’d been dragged through years of regret.
He turned toward the center ring, heart lurching as he saw Fizz, the way he remembered him—whole, grinning, proud, and perched on stilts with his arms thrown wide. Blitz tried to call out to him, to warn him, but his voice turned to ash in his throat. Flames licked up from the ground and coiled around Fizz’s legs like serpents.
“Don’t just stand there!” Fizz shouted, reaching toward him. “Help me! Please, Blitz! Please!”
Blitz tried to move. His boots wouldn’t budge. His hooves had sunk into the scorched earth like it wanted to keep him. His arms were lead. His mouth wouldn’t form words.
Fizz screamed again.
And then—horribly, inexplicably—Fizz changed.
Charred skin. Cracking porcelain. Glass eyes filled with pain.
Fizzarolli burned before his eyes, and Blitz could only watch.
He turned, and the flames reshaped.
Now it was Loona in her bedroom, asleep, choking on smoke.
Now it was Stolas, wings blackened and crumbling, lying on a ruined ballroom floor, his talons reaching toward Blitzø as feathers scattered like snow.
Now it was him—Blitz himself—sitting alone in the ashes, surrounded by pieces of his life, all of them scorched and whispering his name like a curse.
And in the heart of the flames, a single voice cut through the others:
“You leave everyone, Blitz. You always do.”
He woke up with a shout, drenched in sweat, curled up like a kicked dog beneath his sheets. His chest ached. His breath rasped.
The silence was too loud.
He didn’t notice Stolas until the mattress shifted beside him. The prince had stayed over again—had curled up in Blitz’s shitty bed like royalty belonged there—and had now stirred awake at the sound.
“Blitz?” came the groggy, half-panicked voice. “What is it? A nightmare?”
Blitz pressed a hand to his face, digging his knuckles into his eye sockets like that might push the memories back where they belonged. “Yeah. Just… one of those nights.”
Stolas reached for him, talons brushing gently down his back. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” Blitz lied. His voice was too raw to make it convincing.
Stolas didn’t push. He just leaned in, wrapped his wings gently around Blitz like a weighted blanket, and rested his chin on the top of his head.
They stayed like that for a long time. No words. Just warmth.
Eventually, Blitz whispered, “It’s always the fire. And Fizz. And sometimes you. Or Loona. Or my mom. I don’t even know if it’s a memory anymore or just guilt dressing up in people I love.”
Stolas’s grip tightened a little.
“I can’t stop it,” Blitz went on. “I keep thinking I’ve outrun it, you know? With the missions. With sex. With booze. With jokes. But it always catches me.”
Stolas pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, and Blitz hated how gentle that look was—like it saw all the cracks and didn’t mind them. “You don’t have to outrun it anymore.”
Blitz scoffed bitterly. “What, you got a magic spell for trauma now?”
“No,” Stolas said, almost laughing, but his voice was soft and low. “But I can stay with you through it. That much, I can do.”
Blitz blinked fast. His throat tightened again, but he didn’t cry. Not this time. Instead, he leaned forward, buried his face into Stolas’s neck, and just breathed.
For once, someone stayed. Didn’t vanish in smoke. Didn’t burn.
Morning in Hell wasn’t exactly soothing.
The sky still boiled with ember-colored clouds, sulfur clung to the breeze, and even the pigeons outside screamed like they were being murdered — which, knowing Imp City, was probably true.
Blitzø groaned as consciousness clawed him out of sleep. His mouth tasted like guilt and whiskey. His head throbbed like he'd headbutted an emotional freight train. And worst of all, Stolas was still there.
The prince was draped across the mattress like a divine stain, too pretty for the cheap room around him. His feathers ruffled in his sleep with every slow exhale, and he looked — Blitz hated this — peaceful. Like he belonged here. Like he’d always belonged here.
Blitz sat up and winced. His body screamed in protest. Not from the sex this time. They hadn't done anything last night, not even a sloppy make-out session. Just him sobbing into the fur of a very patient owl-demon, whispering half-truths and old regrets.
He rubbed his face with both hands and stumbled toward the kitchenette, grabbing a glass of water and ignoring the part of his soul that wanted to stay in that bed. That part was always dangerous — the one that whispered this could be safe.
Safe was a myth. Like loyalty. Like forever. Like Stolas giving a shit once he finally saw the rot underneath Blitz’s armor.
Behind him, feathers rustled. "You left the bed," came Stolas's morning-rasped voice.
"And you noticed. What is this, a rom-com?" Blitz snorted, sipping his water like it was vodka.
Stolas yawned and sat up, looking unfairly elegant in a tangle of limbs and royal sleepwear. "No, but you were shivering again."
Blitz rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, that happens when you dream about flaming corpses. It’s not the temperature, your majesty.”
He didn’t mean to sound so bitter.
Stolas didn’t react the way Blitz expected — no ruffled pride, no sarcastic jab. Just… silence.
Then, softly: “You dreamt of Fizz again.”
Blitz’s spine stiffened. He hadn’t told Stolas that part, not really. Just fragments. Just screams.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “You were there, too. Burning alive. Real romantic.”
Stolas stood and walked toward him. Blitz expected pity, maybe concern. He didn’t expect the prince to roll up his sleeve and offer his arm.
Long, pale feathers gave way to skin near the joint. Beneath them were faint, cruel marks. Jagged. Old.
Blitz’s breath caught.
“I’ve burned before,” Stolas said. “Not like you. Not in fire. But enough to leave marks.”
Blitz stared. “What is that?”
Stolas let out a long breath. “Part of a punishment. Long ago. For daring to love outside my class. My father was… less merciful than my daughter.”
Blitz blinked at him, stunned into silence.
The prince dropped his arm and shrugged. “We all carry ashes, Blitzø. Some we breathe in. Some we wear.”
Blitz set the glass down a little too hard. “So what? We’re a couple of well-dressed trauma goblins now? You wanna cuddle over matching scars?”
Stolas tilted his head. “I think you want me to go.”
Blitz opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
The words didn’t come easy. “I don’t… I don’t know what I want.”
“That’s all right,” Stolas replied, and Blitz hated how gentle he sounded. “But let me stay until you do.”
And fuck. Blitz didn’t have the strength to say no.
Later that day, Blitz wandered into the office looking like the corpse of someone who once gave a shit. His crop top was askew, sunglasses hiding eyes swollen from tears and not enough sleep. Loona looked up from her phone and immediately gave him The Look.
“Are you dying or just hungover?”
“Can’t I be both?” Blitz slumped into his chair. “Multitasking.”
She stared a second longer before setting her phone down. “You had another dream, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
She reached beneath her desk and threw a small, suspiciously familiar object at him. He caught it clumsily — a tiny stuffed bear, burnt at the edges, one ear half-ripped.
He blinked. “Is this—?”
“You dropped it when you passed out drunk the other night. Don’t act surprised. I’ve seen you talk to it.”
Blitz held the charred bear like it might turn to dust. His chest caved in just a little.
“I kept it from when Fizz and I were kids,” he admitted. “It was the only thing that didn’t burn.”
Loona didn’t tease him. She didn’t even make a face.
She just said, “You gonna go see him?”
Blitz looked up. “Fizz?”
“Yeah. You keep dreaming about him. Maybe it’s time.”
Blitz hesitated. “He hates me.”
Loona folded her arms. “Maybe. But maybe he misses you, too.”
That night, Blitz found himself standing outside a club he hadn’t dared approach in years. Flashy lights. Glitzy signage. The unmistakable sound of Fizzarolli’s voice booming from inside, mid-performance.
Stolas had offered to come.
Blitz had said no.
Some things, he had to do alone.
The bouncer gave him a skeptical once-over but waved him in. Inside, the music was pounding, the crowd electric. And there, center stage, flipping through the air like a blazing comet, was Fizzarolli. The real one. The prosthetic limbs glinting like trophies, that damn charming grin still intact.
Blitz’s heart clenched.
Fizz landed in a superhero pose, winked at the crowd, and blew a kiss.
For a moment, Blitz thought he wouldn’t see him. Thought he’d get away with this silent pilgrimage.
But then Fizz turned. And saw him.
Time stopped.
The smile faltered.
Then vanished.
Fizz finished his bit, waved to the crowd, and disappeared backstage.
Blitz stood there, holding the little bear in his jacket pocket like a talisman, waiting to be kicked out, cursed out — something.
But then a voice cut through the chaos behind the curtains.
“Holy shit, Blitz. You’ve got some nerve.”
Blitz turned slowly.
Fizzarolli stood with his arms folded, expression unreadable. The makeup didn’t hide the steel in his gaze. “What do you want?”
Blitz pulled the bear from his pocket.
Fizz blinked.
Blitz held it out. “You forgot this.”
Fizz stared at the bear for a long time. His jaw tightened. His eyes flicked up to Blitz’s face.
And then — without a word — he took it.
No forgiveness. Not yet.
But not rejection, either.
Just… a shared memory.
The club lights faded behind him, but the memory of the spotlight lingered — not the stage light on Fizzarolli, but the one Blitzø had spent years imagining. A harsh, unforgiving glare that caught every flaw, every fuck-up, every piece of who he used to be, frozen in fire and guilt.
He walked home slowly. The bear was gone — back where it belonged — and his jacket felt lighter for it, but his chest heavier.
Fizz hadn’t said more. He didn’t have to. That one look had carried enough weight to flatten a lesser imp. Blitz wasn’t flattened. Just cracked.
Cracked enough that when he pushed open the door to his apartment, he didn’t bark out a joke. Didn’t make a snarky comment to the shadows.
He just said, softly, “You still here?”
From the couch, Stolas looked up. He was curled in a blanket, reading something that was probably tragic poetry or porn — Blitz couldn’t tell the difference with him.
Stolas smiled — not wide, not indulgent, but real. Small. Soft.
“Of course,” he said. “I told you I would be.”
Blitz stood in the doorway like a man deciding if he deserved warmth. The air smelled like candles and something herbal. Not too strong. Not the sharp tang of magic, but the kind of scent that said I tried to make it feel safe here.
Blitz crossed the room, slow and dragging, and dropped beside him on the couch.
Stolas said nothing.
For once, Blitz was glad for it.
They sat in silence for a long stretch of hell-minutes. Blitz picked at the edge of the throw blanket with one claw, watching the threads unravel. Eventually, he muttered, “Saw Fizz tonight.”
Stolas turned his head, not startled — but focused. Listening.
“He didn’t kill me,” Blitz added with a sardonic smirk. “Didn’t hug me either.”
“Progress?” Stolas offered gently.
Blitz’s laugh was short and bitter. “Hell’s version of it, maybe.”
Stolas shifted, one wing brushing Blitz’s shoulder. “How did it feel?”
Blitz didn’t answer right away. He stared down at his hands like they’d betrayed him. “Like I was fifteen again. Helpless. Stupid. Burning.”
A beat. Two.
“He kept it,” Blitz added. “The bear.”
Stolas made a soft sound — something like hope.
“I thought if I gave it back, it’d feel like closure. But now I just…” Blitz shook his head. “Now I’m back to square one. Screaming in my own head. Seeing things.”
Stolas folded a wing more fully around him. A cocoon Blitz could’ve fought. Didn’t.
“You’re not at square one,” the prince said quietly. “You’re facing it now. That’s not nothing.”
Blitz sagged into the warmth, just a fraction. “It still hurts.”
Stolas nodded. “Of course it does. Wounds don’t heal clean in Hell.”
For a long time, they just breathed.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was thick, like something sacred. Blitz didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to need to move. But eventually, like a scab picked by curiosity, he asked:
“Why haven’t you left yet?”
Stolas blinked. “Do you want me to?”
“No,” Blitz said, far too quickly. Then, quieter: “But you’re not exactly known for sticking around when shit gets messy.”
Stolas didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat.
“I used to believe affection had to be clean. That love was something royal, elegant, unblemished.” He looked at Blitz with eyes that carried centuries of ache. “Then I met you.”
Blitz snorted. “Wow. That sounds like the opening line of a bad play.”
“It is,” Stolas said, mouth curling. “One I wrote when I was young and stupid and thought I understood longing.”
He paused, voice quieting again.
“I know you think I’ll vanish. That if I don’t text, don’t call, it means I’ve stopped caring. But that’s your fear talking, Blitz. Not the truth.”
Blitz looked at him sharply. “Then what is the truth?”
Stolas met his gaze unflinchingly. “That I love you. Not as a possession. Not as entertainment. Not because you’re broken — but because you keep going. Even when it hurts. Even when it burns.”
Blitz’s breath hitched. He turned his head, jaw clenching, hands twitching.
“That’s…” He swallowed. “That’s not what I’m used to.”
“I know.”
Another silence, heavier than the last.
Blitz finally muttered, “Sometimes I think you’re too good for me.”
Stolas chuckled — not mocking, not grand. Just fond. “That’s the first time someone’s called me ‘too good’ in centuries. My ex-wife would die laughing.”
“Maybe she should.”
That earned a real laugh. A sharp one. “You do have a charming cruelty.”
Blitz shrugged. “One of my few marketable skills.”
Stolas’s smile faded into something more solemn. “Blitz. Look at me.”
He did. Slowly.
Stolas reached forward, resting a clawed hand over Blitz’s chest. Right over his heart.
“You’re not too much. You’re not too broken. And if you fall apart again, I’ll still be here.”
Blitz swallowed hard. “You say that now. But when the next explosion hits…”
“Then I’ll pick up the pieces again. If you let me.”
That was the part that wrecked him. Not the promise. Not the poetry.
The if.
The choice.
No one had ever let Blitz choose how he was loved before.
He reached up, hesitant, and placed his hand over Stolas’s. Their claws didn’t quite fit. The shapes were wrong. But the grip was warm.
Steady.
Blitz exhaled a long, shaky breath. “Okay,” he said.
And he meant it.
Blitzø dreamed of fire again.
But this time, it wasn’t flames tearing through the circus tent or licking at the walls of his shitty apartment. It wasn’t Fizz’s screams or the thick scent of burning fur. No. This time, it was his voice crying out.
And no one answered.
He jolted awake with a gasp, sweat-soaked and tangled in blankets he didn’t remember pulling up. The room was dark, lit only by the city’s glow bleeding through the cracked blinds. His chest heaved like he’d run ten blocks. His heart ached like someone had reached into it and twisted hard.
“Shit,” he muttered, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand.
He could still feel it — that panicked helplessness. The silence that followed the fire.
The silence of being left behind.
And just like clockwork, his mind whispered the name that hurt most when it stayed unspoken.
Stolas.
Blitz glanced at the couch.
Empty.
The throw blanket was folded neatly. A note lay atop it, scrawled in purple ink.
Had to return to the palace for morning court. Didn’t want to wake you. Call me if you need anything. Or just… call me. – S.
Blitz stared at it too long. Like it was a test. Like it would change if he blinked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. The ache there had become a permanent fixture lately, along with the acid that lived behind his ribs and the thick knot of dread that curled in his gut every time things started feeling too good.
He didn’t call.
Didn’t text either.
Instead, he pulled on yesterday’s jeans, yanked a tank top over his horns, and grabbed his keys with all the grace of a raccoon escaping a trap.
Time to run some errands, he told himself.
Time to avoid emotions by pretending coffee was urgent.
He was halfway down the block when Loona’s voice cracked in his memory like a whip:
“Do you fucking love him?”
Blitz flinched.
He hadn't answered her. Not really.
He still didn’t have one. Or maybe he did, but it scared him too much to say.
By the time he hit the café, the sky was bleeding red-orange over the industrial skyline. The barista gave him a wide berth, as usual — Blitz wasn’t exactly subtle when he was emotionally imploding.
He grabbed a coffee, didn’t taste it, and sat at the far end of the patio with his back to the sun.
And then he saw the flyer.
Pale pink. Flapping lazily on the corkboard like it knew it had no business catching his eye.
Fizzarolli & Ozzie: LIVE — A Special Night of Fire & Forgiveness.
His stomach flipped.
Forgiveness.
Yeah, right.
Blitz tore his eyes away. Too late.
The fire in his dreams wasn’t content to stay in sleep anymore.
He downed the rest of the coffee like it could drown the image.
It didn’t.
✦
When he got home, Stolas was waiting.
He wasn’t lounging. He wasn’t preening. He was pacing — which for Stolas was saying something, because Blitz had never seen him do anything less than regally recline, even in the middle of a kidnapping.
“Hey,” Blitz said, surprised and not hiding it.
“Hey?” Stolas echoed, voice tight. “You didn’t respond.”
Blitz blinked. “Didn’t know I had to check in with my babysitter now.”
Stolas flinched like the words hit. Blitz immediately regretted them.
“I was worried,” Stolas said, gentler. “You’ve… had a hard few days.”
“You don’t say.”
There was a beat. The kind that stretches between two people deciding whether to fight or fold.
Stolas folded.
“I brought food.”
Blitz eyed the bag. Something gourmet, no doubt. Probably too many vowels in the name for his taste.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You never are. But you need to eat.”
Blitz turned away, pacing to the window, hands twitching.
“I saw a flyer today.”
“Oh?”
“Ozzie and Fizz. Doing a show.” His voice was dry. “About forgiveness.”
Stolas winced. “I see.”
Blitz laughed. It wasn’t funny.
“They sure moved on fast. Good for them.”
“Blitz…”
“Don’t.”
“Let me—”
“Don’t.” Blitz rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You don’t get it. You never lost someone like that.”
Stolas straightened, his expression sharpening. “Don’t assume.”
Blitz scoffed. “What, you think your rich little drama counts? You lost a fucking house, I lost my life. I lost Fizz. I lost—everything that ever mattered.”
“You didn’t lose me.”
Blitz froze.
The silence cracked between them like a fault line.
And then Blitz whispered, almost too quietly:
“But I will, won’t I?”
Stolas stepped closer, his voice low and serious now — no teasing, no poetry.
“I’m still here. After everything. I’m still here, Blitz.”
“But for how long?” Blitz backed up. “Until the next scandal? Until some royal pain in the ass threatens to take Octavia away again? You gonna choose me then?”
Stolas faltered. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Welcome to my world.”
They stood there. Neither willing to speak first. Blitz’s fists were clenched. Stolas’s feathers twitched like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare.
Finally, Blitz’s voice cracked open.
“I keep dreaming about the fire. About losing him. About hearing screams and not knowing if it’s now or then. And I wake up alone.”
Stolas exhaled. “You don’t have to be.”
Blitz looked at him like that was the cruelest thing he’d ever heard.
“Yeah, I do. Because if I let you in, and you leave… that’s just fire all over again.”
He expected a rebuttal. Expected Stolas to walk away.
Instead, the prince crossed the distance and placed a hand gently on Blitz’s shoulder.
“I won’t make promises I can’t keep. But I’ll keep showing up. As long as you let me.”
Blitz swallowed hard.
His voice was hoarse when he said, “I’m not good at this.”
“I know.”
“I might fuck it up.”
“I expect it.”
Blitz let out a breath that sounded more like surrender than anything else. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against Stolas’s chest.
It wasn’t a hug. Not yet.
But it was close.
“Stay tonight?” Blitz asked.
Stolas’s voice was soft. “Of course.”
No fanfare. No fuss.
Just comfort.
Just enough.
The next morning broke in silence. No dreams this time, just the cold residue of memory clinging to Blitzø like ash.
He didn’t open his eyes right away. He could feel Stolas breathing next to him—slow, steady, too still to be sleeping. Blitzø stayed motionless, pretending for both their sakes that neither of them had cracked open last night. That there weren’t tears dried on his cheeks and feathers on his floor.
“Are you awake?” Stolas asked, voice soft, barely stirring the air.
Blitzø grunted. “Define ‘awake.’”
Stolas let out a faint, breathy chuckle. “Cognizant? Conscious? Contemplating the nature of the universe?”
“Ugh,” Blitzø groaned, rolling onto his back. “Then no. I’m tragically dead. Do not revive.”
But Stolas didn’t laugh. Not really. The silence stretched again—too long. Blitzø cracked one eye open.
Stolas was watching him with that same damn look. Not pity. Worse. Tenderness. Like Blitzø was something worth mourning before he was gone.
“I meant it,” Stolas said. “What I said last night. About being here.”
Blitzø rolled out of bed like the mattress had burned him. “Cool. Thanks. Duly noted.”
He rubbed his face, ignoring the sting in his ribs where emotions had apparently built a nest. He wandered to the kitchen like a zombie, opening cabinets he had no plans of using.
Behind him, he heard the soft click of talons on wood.
“You don’t have to run,” Stolas said.
“I’m not running.” He pulled out a mug, paused, put it back. “I’m pacing very aggressively in a forward direction.”
“Of course.”
Blitzø sighed and leaned on the counter. “It’s not you.”
“I know.”
“It’s me.”
“I know that too.”
Blitzø turned, finally facing him. “Then why the fuck are you still here?”
Stolas blinked slowly, eyes like deep wine and winter. “Because ghosts don’t scare me.”
Blitzø’s breath caught in his throat.
Stolas took a slow step forward. “And you’re not the only one haunted, Blitz.”
There it was again—truth, carved with gentle claws.
Blitzø scoffed, but there was no heat in it. He looked down at his hands. Scarred, twitchy, too used to being fists.
“I used to think fire was the worst part,” he said quietly. “But it’s not.”
Stolas waited.
“It’s what comes after. The stillness. The fucking silence. The way you wake up and remember everything’s gone. That’s the part that chews on you.”
“I know,” Stolas said softly. “I know it far too well.”
Blitzø studied him. “Yeah?”
Stolas didn’t flinch. “I lost my daughter. Not physically. But every time I see her eyes darken when I speak… I feel like I’ve lost her all over again.”
Blitzø’s throat went dry.
“I would burn everything down to get her back,” Stolas said, voice cracking, “but she’s standing in front of me, and I still can’t reach her.”
They stood in the middle of the kitchen like the world had paused to listen.
Blitzø broke first, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit, we’re pathetic.”
“A royal disaster,” Stolas agreed, lips quirking. “Pun very much intended.”
That earned him a weak snort. Blitzø sat on the edge of the counter.
“You ever think about going back?” he asked. “To the palace. To her.”
“I do,” Stolas said. “But there’s no going back. Only forward. And she doesn’t want to walk that path with me. Not yet.”
Blitzø looked away. “Yeah. I know that one.”
Stolas approached, slow, offering him space to flinch or flee. Blitzø didn’t move.
“Have you… ever gone back?” Stolas asked carefully.
Blitzø frowned. “Back where?”
“To the circus.”
Blitzø’s body stiffened.
“Never.”
“Why not?”
Blitzø barked a hollow laugh. “Because I don’t hate myself that much.”
Stolas was quiet for a moment. “Maybe it would help.”
“Help what? To go dig up the bones I already wear around my neck?”
“To see that you survived it. That you’re not that boy anymore.”
Blitzø narrowed his eyes. “No offense, but your therapist voice is creepy.”
Stolas smiled faintly. “Duly noted.”
There was another silence. Not heavy this time. More… considerate. Like a door not fully closed.
Finally, Blitzø muttered, “I don’t even know if it’s still standing.”
“Then let’s find out.”
Blitzø’s eyes widened. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“Painfully so,” Stolas said, already pulling out his phone.
“Whoa whoa—no maps. No spells. Don’t be weird about it.”
Stolas tilted his head. “I thought I was the dramatic one.”
Blitzø groaned and grabbed a jacket. “You wanna see a haunted house? Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Stolas followed with a smile that was almost fond. “I’ve walked through worse.”
Blitzø didn’t answer. He didn’t say that he wasn’t so sure of that.
✦
The lot was empty.
Empty in that way only places once full of life could be. The circus sign was still there, warped and rusted, one of the letters missing. The striped fabric of the Big Top had long since decayed, flapping in ghostly strips like old skin.
Blitzø stood at the edge of the field.
He didn’t move.
Stolas waited a respectful distance behind, silent.
The wind kicked up. Blitzø took a slow step forward.
Then another.
The ground crunched underfoot—dead leaves, old memories.
He passed the burned-out husk of the old concession cart. The broken post where the lion cage used to sit. The ringmaster’s stand—his stand—still crooked like someone had tipped it and never bothered to fix it.
His breath hitched.
He remembered the laughter. The music. The crowd gasping as he balanced on that high wire. The fire-eater’s act. Fizz’s flips.
Fizz’s scream.
Blitzø clutched his stomach and bent double.
Stolas was there instantly, but he didn’t touch him. Just stood close, close enough.
“It still smells like smoke,” Blitzø choked out.
“I know.”
“I left him.”
“You were a child.”
“I didn’t save him.”
“There was nothing you could do.”
Blitzø shook his head violently, like he could shake the past loose from his spine. He stood upright again, wiped his eyes, and turned back toward the tent’s remains.
And there—half-buried in the ashes—was a small, charred toy.
A clown doll.
Blitzø stared at it for a long time.
Then, slowly, he picked it up.
Stolas stepped beside him.
“Fizz would want you to live,” he said softly.
Blitzø didn’t answer.
But he didn’t let go of the doll.
He stood there with the prince, surrounded by ghosts and ash, until the sky turned gold again and the ghosts—for once—stayed quiet.