Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blood dripped down his forearms, trailing the curve of his palms before falling from his fingertips. The ground was coloured with a grotesque splatter of red and purple. His own hands too, he observed.

He blinked slowly. The flame had died down, its body limp and bare.

Jimmy was numb, unfeeling as his slick, clammy hands reached for it, driving the knife in deeper—striking the creature's heart again and again.  

A rustle caught his attention. Swivelling around, his brother, who he thought to be laying behind him—sick and injured—was missing. He twisted the knife, desperately prying it from the creature's corpse. 

He stumbled to his feet, heart leaping into his throat. 

His brother was gone and in his place were these purple, pulsing veins of corruption, writhing and squirming over each other like fat, bloated worms. 

A shatter akin to broken glass rang out through the haze of his muddled mind. 

He flinched, unable to step back from the noise, watching with numb intrigue as the creature turned to ash, disintegrating, spreading out from the wound, until what had once existed of it blew up and into the wind. 

What remained lay on the ground before him, in pieces. 

The shards were a vibrant crimson, though they caught the golden light of the sun in such a way that made them sparkle like the sun itself.

With nothing left to call his own, he approached them, each step slower than the last. 

He dropped onto his knees, pants soaked through with its blood. Slowly, he reached a shaking hand towards them, fingers brushing the sharp ridges. 

He grabbed them. They held a surprising, yet soothing warmth, seemingly sparkling even brighter in his hold. 

They grew warmer too. And brighter yet again. 

And brighter still as their light seared into his eyes, rendering him blind by their radiance. 

No longer was its warmth soothing—the shards flared. Igniting. 

And the flame. It burned, it consumed.

It ravished every part of his being—taking what he was and turning it to fire. It swept him away by its brilliant, golden fury. Currents of swirling, flickering fervour seeped and stirred from his every pore. 

He was no more, only blinding, beautiful agony. 

And he burned. 

He burned bright. 

He was no one. He was nothing. 

Nothing but pure, radiant fire.

Chapter Text

There is a dead man on the floor. 

Bdubs reaches down, palm caressing the earth, and calls back his vines, watching in disturbed fascination as they shrink back into the ground, leaving a bloody, gaping hole in their wake.

He looks at it. Stares. Commits every detail to memory. 

He feels a thrum near his heart. 

He turns away.

The king gestures him over, staring irritably down upon the remaining three envoys. The men looked stark out of place within the regal grandeur of the throne room, shivering and whimpering like scared mice, making complete fools of themselves in front of his majesty. 

The day was dull, with only the dimmest rays of cloud-covered sunlight shining through the arched stone windows that lined the room. 

“Is there—” Bdubs starts.

“—Another?” Ren offers, before nodding, once more glancing towards the three, “Yes.”

The man furthest left of him seemed to catch their meaning, his face going from pale to paler. In all his idiocy, he turns tail and runs—only, he doesn’t make it far, as Bdubs drops to his knees, palms connecting with the ground, centering to the earth. 

Gnarled vines sprout from the ground, impaling the man where he stands. 

Bdubs stares. 

He is dead in seconds. His associates know this too, as they silence themselves instantly, hands shaking and eyes glassy. 

“Bdubs,” Ren calls. 

He rises, but not before retracting the vines, now seeped with blood, watching as the man’s corpse falls to the floor with a loud thump. Dusting the earthy grime from his hands, he folds them behind his back and makes his way towards the foot of the dias. 

Ren pinches the bridge of his nose, his frustration evident, “Have the rest imprisoned.”

Nodding, Bdubs starts towards the two men, feeling both sympathetic and annoyed by their incessant trembling.

There is a tug near his heart. 

“Stop.” 

And what else is there to do?

Bdubs stills as Ren’s advisor steps down from his place to the left of Ren’s throne, his black cloak billowing in the low breeze, with its gold embellishments reflecting the fiery torchlight emanating throughout the room. 

“The blonde one,” The advisor nods in his direction, “He’s an illusionist.”

Bdubs follows his gesture, turning to actually look at the man, rather than just a glance. 

The man is straw blonde and blue-eyed, fitted in a nice leather tunic, paired with blue pants and black shoes. 

“You,” Bdubs barks, “Show us.” 

A series of emotion flits across his face, morphing from shock, to anger, to resignation. Conceding, the man raises a hand, with his palm facing the roof. For a moment, nothing happens, but just as Bdubs was about to voice his impatience, from the man’s hand poured a vibrant display of colour and light, painting the room with an otherworldly shimmer, with colours tumbling, twisting and swirling, littered with sparkling dots of white, making the whole display resemble that of the night sky. 

Ren sniffs, “Common, but I suppose we’ll take it.” He waves a hand, “What is your name?”

The illusion fades in an instant, with the blonde man evidently unsure on how to proceed. 

“Zed—“ He coughs, nervously wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “—Zedaph. Er—Sire.”

“And how, I should ask, did you find yourself working for two Grimlands spies, Zedaph?” 

“I’m not! I mean—“ Zedaphs eyes near-bulge with how fast he shakes his head, “—I didn’t know! We both didn’t!” He cries, weakly gesturing over to his associate, of whom does not seem happy to suddenly be brought under the scrutiny of the royal assembly. 

“Which is something I’m sure you can convince us of, in time,” The advisor intercedes before Ren can reply, “For now, the both of you will follow our guards, lest you wind up like the others.” 

With amazingly perfect timing, two guards march into the room through the grand, intricately carved wooden doors that marked its entrance.

The man—Zedaph, apparently—manages one last, terrified look in Bdubs’s direction, before trailing behind his escorts. 

Bdubs rolls his eyes, and turns back towards the King. The advisor stalks back up the steps, his dark boots leaving imprints on the red velvet carpet. 

“The Grimlands are scared—that much is obvious. If we just play this right, Direfell will have her land returned.”

“What I want to know is why?” Bdubs snaps, “Why ruin our nation's relationships? What motive do they have other than greed?”

“It’s that new Emperor,” Ren scoffs in response, “Merely one generation passes, and they already forget our kindness.” 

The advisor nods, his hood dipping lower, casting his silver mask in shadow. 

“It's selfish—an affront to your fathers generosity.”

Ren sighs, hunching over in his seat as he grasped his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Sitting there, stooped and resigned, Ren does not look like a king. His exhaustion aged him several decades—an array of silvers tumble down his shoulders like a glittering waterfall. 

Bdubs can almost believe that Ren was a man. 

He let that thought slip by just as fast. 

To the people, Ren is their god. Untouchable. 

Righteous in his judgement—unopposed in his vengeance. Like the sun. 

Almighty. 

The advisor steps closer to the throne, placing a gloved hand upon Ren's shoulder. 

“He was a great King,” He says, “But time moves on regardless of legacy—even one as grand as his. People forget their past, they grow arrogant and proud. It is hard to reason with those who do not see your worth.”

Ren straightens, as if set in motion by the advisor's kind hand. After a moment, he speaks. 

“Bdubs.”

He looks to his King.

“Yes?”

Ren doesn’t look back—doesn’t deign him a glance. 

“Call for a meeting.”

“With who, Sire?”

Finally, Ren returns his gaze, eyes red, glassy and distant as they bore into his own.

“The Grimlands Emperor,” He said, “They will see us.”

Bdubs only nods before taking his leave, stalking down the length of the velvet carpet, and out the tall arched doors. 

The last thing he sees is the advisor, hand still firm on Ren's shoulder, leant towards him, speaking in a hushed whisper. 

As the doors click closed, a rush of warm air pours back into the world, sealed shut inside the chamber. 

And Bdubs can finally breathe.  

It’s strange, he wonders. 

There is a pain near his heart, and in a moment, that thought is gone.

The land is dry and brittle. 

It seems, he supposes, that the days serve as a countdown to their total starvation. 

It’s distant, coasting the horizon—but by squinting, Bdubs can just make out the Grimlands shores, now painted with a purple hue. 

The corruption. 

It lines the coast, festering, feeding on the lush vegetation. What remains is a hollow shell of its past, the soil now tainted.

Bdubs returns his gaze to the Direfell shores. 

There are veins of corruption scattered across the land, but not anywhere near as many as the Grimlands. Those within the city walls are safe for the moment, but it is simply a matter of for how long? Corruption is in the air—the ground, creeping and infecting as it winds its way through the earth. The villages outside of the city borders grow sicker each day that passes. The palace tries its best, but earth mages are a novelty, with the few who actually know how to heal safely hidden away. 

Despite his rank, Bdubs never mastered the ability to heal— he never needed to. Ren would rather die a long, miserable death than live in defeat, and Bdubs would never burden him with that failure. 

In any case, the advisor always spoke of his ability to connect with the earth, to control and manipulate it, as inherently more valuable—and Bdubs sees no true reason to disagree. 

Bdubs turns away from the arched windows that line the passage. 

It was dark, illuminated by the cloud-covered sun, torches unlit. He started onwards, his footsteps echoing loudly, reflecting off the smooth stone bricks. 

Further down, Bdubs comes to a stop in front of the arch that leads directly to the courtyard. 

Peering out, he spots the advisor in the centre, standing in front, seemingly assessing the new mages. The mages were lined in neat rows, all supplied with garb coloured to their abilities and adorned with the royal crest—a wolf and a sword. 

He spots Zedaph in the first row as the advisor approaches him. Zedaph—unsurprisingly—is  shaking and jittery, his eyes darting around nervously at his neighbours. Though he calms when the advisor places a hand on his shoulder, talking to him softly enough that Bdubs isn't able to decipher his words. 

After a moment, he steps back—Zedaph remains calm, looking off into space, not moving from his position. 

Bdubs steps forward, more into the open light. The advisor—spotting him almost instantly—turns from the mages, and strolls down the cobbled path, over to where Bdubs stood, halfway in shadow. 

“We’ve been summoned.”

“I’m aware,” He replies calmly.

The began down the corridor, the advisor to Bdubs’ right. The walk in silence for a short while, with nothing but the sound of the bustling city to fill the quiet. 

“Are you grateful, Bdubs?”

Bdubs stills for a moment, before continuing.

“Why do you ask?”

He tilts his head, the silver of his mask reflecting the dim light, 

“There are many who do not see all the Kingdom has done for them. I am simply curious to hear where you stand.” 

Bdubs is quiet, thinking for a moment.

“Of course,” He says, “Of course I’m grateful. It’s an honour to serve the crown,” He lifts his gaze to the window, staring out at the distant, glistening sea, “And Ren is a good man—has been since we were young.”

The advisor hums in acknowledgement, “It’s a pain that people cannot see it.” 

Bdubs simply nods, and the two continue down the remainder of the corridor in silence, eventually approaching a set of large wooden doors, stained a deep red-brown, and littered with intricate floral carvings, and a large, circular sun stretching out between the two doors. 

The advisor pushes them open, revealing a large, dark chamber, walls draped in fine silks and tapestries, with six stout marble pillars lining the corners and walls, all alight with a flame, writhing and nesting on their peaks, illuminating the whole room with a warm glow. In the center of the room, encircled by a fine embroidered rug, is a long wooden table, covered with maps so large that they sprawl across the tables’ width, the dark timber almost completely smothered by the various tools and stationary. 

Sitting at the head of the table—face enshrouded by shadow, silhouetted by the flickering light—is Ren, in all of his might. 

They take their seats beside him, Bdubs to the right, while the advisor pulls out the chair to the left.

They do not speak for several moments, watching as Ren sits there, staring at the minuscule wooden pieces placed on the map, as if his very gaze might conjure the force to knock it over. 

Unfortunately for Ren, he is not a mage. 

Though hardly does he look a man as he raises his burning gaze. 

A form begins to flicker and sputter to life in front of them, hovering slightly above the table itself—its silver glow emanating, contrasting heavily with the brilliant orange of the firelight. A dazzling array of sparks and silver embers dance and swirl from the shimmering cloud, slow as it gradually assembles itself into two, distinctly recognisable figures. 

Emperor Fwhip, and his sister, Princess Gem. 

The two stand there—or rather, float there—expressions unpleasant and stern. Fwhip wears a humble, yet proper leather tunic with dark brown pants, paired with a vivid red scarf, goggles and gloves—looking much like he had just walked out of a factory. Gem, on the other hand, is holding a grand, silver sceptre, adorned in sapphires and amethysts, swathed in matching robes with sparkling purple sashes, and a pattern of the sun stretching up from the bottom of her robe. 

Ren grits his teeth, “If your empire had any dignity left, you would meet with me in person.”

“And be killed by your guard dog the moment I set foot in your land? I’d rather not.” 

At this, Bdubs scowls and crosses his arms.

Fwhip sighs—a long, tiresome thing—and swipes a hand down his face. 

“Look, we don’t want conflict,” Fwhip says, “I just cannot see any value in continuing our relationship. You reek of greed and contempt—first, you demand our borders remain unguarded, then, you take our mages under the guise of rescue, all the while you demand our cooperation.”

“We did not take your mages, ” the advisor interjects, “We merely offered those in dire circumstances the chance, resources, and training needed to fend off the corruption—with their support, we may be able to keep it at bay.”

“Tell that to their families,” Fwhip says, scathing.

“We were trying to help,” the advisor speaks, “Your empire is poisoned—your people are suffering. Why punish them more by refusing our aid?”

Fwhip directs his angered glare over to the advisor. 

“You have no respect for the land or her maker. Why should we align ourselves with someone who’ll inevitably be our downfall?” 

A hand slams loudly onto the table. Bdubs turns to see Ren, risen from his chair, eyes alight with burning hate.

“You speak of the land as if my father did not gift it to you only twenty years ago—without us, your empire would be nothing more than a poverty-stricken settlement. We laid the foundations for your wealth and trade—do not talk to me about respect. ”

“My people have been living on the land for centuries,” Fwhip raises his voice in return, “All your father did was relinquish Direfell’s hold on the coast, and by his standards, drop us a handful of spare change—how very generous.”

“Even his spare change is more than you deserve,” Ren spat.

The advisor stands up quickly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. He places a hand on Ren's shoulder, staring at him, seemingly communicating through his gaze—the only visible part of his face. After a few moments, Ren scoffs and bows his head, arms resting heavily upon the table. 

The advisor turns to Fwhip. 

“We can help,“ he says, “We can destroy the corruption.”

Fwhip shakes his head and folds his arms neatly.

“Tell me,” He says, calmer now, “Where is your priest?”

Ren drags a hand down his face and lifts his gaze.

“Where is yours?” He says, tone biting. 

Fwhip simply gestures to his sister.

“Standing beside me.” 

Gem steps forward. Bdubs can see the subtle, flickering luminescence of her vaguely transparent form. 

“Zenith approaches—did you know that? ” She says, cold and precise, “Or has it been too long, that you’ve forgotten?”

Bdubs blinks, and shakes his head. 

“What?” He feels a pang near his heart. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the advisor stiffen, his grip on Ren’s shoulder tightens. 

“Zenith isn’t real,” he hisses, “And to place the fate of your empire in the hands of a god long dead is beyond foolish.”

“The star mages see it—you must know—the universe whispers to them her return,” Gem glares, but her voice contains nothing but passioned determination, “She will rise as the sun on the first dawn of the new summer. Until then, we will persevere. The people are strong—resilient. We can survive this corruption, and we will do so without your help.”

Gem turns away, seemingly staring at something in the distance.

“She will heal the land. Her roots stretch far beyond our borders. All poisons will be vanquished. That is her way.” 

Bdubs isn’t sure what to think. He listens to her talk with such faith and reverence—but he simply cannot differ her bold claims from the brazen ramblings of a fanatic. Sure, he's heard the stories, and he knows of the sun tree—never having seen it in person, but to claim a new Zenith approaches is absurdly out of the question.

“Surely your people aren’t falling for this? Have you even told them?” 

“The people are well enough aware,” Fwhip says, eyes narrowing, “We are a land of loyalty and freedom—of which Direfell and its citizens clearly wouldn’t understand. Even your people don’t believe you to be competent—at least the Grimlands doesn’t have its own personal pack of rebels.”

Bdubs sees Ren twitch, then scowl, clenching his fist so tight that it appears to be white. 

“They are the few,” he says through gritted teeth, “And will be dealt with in time. You best look out for yourself in that regard, there is no telling what a man does when he’s desperate—even one as loyal as you say.”

Fwhip remains silent for several moments, and the air around Bdubs seems to thicken and curdle. Though beneath them, Ren towers over the two opposing royals—tall and looming in his anger. Even so, Fwhip stares him down, unblinking nor flinching, nor wilting under the weight of his presence. 

Bdubs could only sit as he struggled to stay afloat, blanketed heavily by shifting tides. Decisions made—pride and betrayal. 

“Whatever happens, the land is ours,” Fwhip says, quiet but sure, “And the Grimlands will have nothing to do with Direfell—not anymore. The sun will rise, and the land will be restored. So long as you continue to steal our people, dominate trade routes and question our integrity, we will keep our borders closed to you. I would ask that you respect our wishes, but I shouldn’t waste my breath on deaf ears.”

With that, their images flicker and vanish, leaving a tense silence in their wake. Bdubs remains still, unmoving, watching his king and awaiting his next command. 

The advisor finally lets his hand fall from Ren's shoulder, returning it gently to his side. 

“What should we do?” He asks, eyes alight with the surrounding flame.

Ren does not move when he responds, his voice cold and flat as he stares at where Fwhip had just stood.

“Prepare a dinner with the kingdoms’ powers,” He says, “Invite all with any semblance of wealth or jurisdiction. We’ll need their assistance.”

“With what?” Bdubs dares to ask.

He finally moves, looking up at Bdubs, Ren's glassy, hollow eyes boring into his own. 

“Tomorrow, we declare war,” He says simply, “The land will again be ours, in my fathers name.” 

And what else is there to say? 

War is here, and Bdubs can only nod and stand, pushing back his chair with a quiet scraping sound. Yet just as he began to make his way to the doors, the loud slam of the grand doors hitting the wall reverberated throughout the chamber, causing Bdubs to stop short just at the table's edge. 

Stumbling through the doors—adorned in metallic armour, frenzied and drenched in sweat—is Wels, leader of the guard. Normally, Wels is a refined man of few words, so it's a shock to see the man staggering to the table, leant up against it, desperately catching his breath. 

“Sire,” he says through gasps, “Sire, we got one—” he gasps again, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, “–We have her.”

Bdubs turns to see Ren immediately alert. 

“What?” Ren says, eyes wide as he stalks around the table to where Wels is standing, “Are you sure?”

Wels nods frantically, finally straightening up, pushing off from where he was leant against the table. 

“Wait,” Bdubs shakes his head, stepping towards them in disbelief, “Who?”

Wels looks at him, half of his face lit by the orange fiery glow, and the other cast in darkness. 

“One of the leaders,” He says, “False. Their warrior.”

Bdubs watches as a vicious, snarled imitation of a smile crawls across Ren's shadowed face. 

“Take me to her,” He whispers, eyes gleaming with something dangerous—something predatory.

He grins like a hound.

Bdubs can only thank the sun god herself—as dead as she surely is—that he is not the prey in Ren’s clutches. 

There is a pain near his heart, and in a moment, that thought is gone. 

Chapter Text

Tango can barely hear himself think over the chugging machinery and whistling pipes. Narrowly managing to dodge a plume of pale hot steam that shoots out of the busted seam in the metal, he tightens his grip on the rim of the pipe, the rubber palms of his thick leather gloves just keeping him from slipping. His similarly rubber-leather boots balance on a thicker rim beneath him. He doesn’t look down.

It's hard, sweaty, unforgiving work, but it's his, so he grits his teeth and tightens the bolt, only to curse as the wrench abruptly slips from his hand and drops all the way to the floor with a loud clang. 

“You alright there, dude?” A voice to his left calls out, obviously amused. 

Tango curses again and looks over to the voice, irritated as Impulse leans against the dark metal railing lining the stairs leading to the second floor, eye-line with Tango. 

Currently, Tango was situated awkwardly beneath the balcony that made up the second floor of the factory, balancing precariously on the metal pipes that run down the side of the wall. Unfortunately for him, because of the factory’s open plan, that means that everyone working and rushing around beneath him–or standing on the staircase, in Impulse’s case–has an undisturbed view of all of his mistakes. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, tilting his head back to stare dejectedly through the glass gaps in the roof, “I’m fine.”

Impulse snickers, “Sure.” 

If he could do so without risk of falling, he would have directed a particularly rude gesture towards his friend, but due to present circumstances, he could only call out to his head of staff.

“Ruth!” He yells. 

In the small, bustling throng of people, he watches as one person stops short at his yell. Her short, dark red curled bob falls back from her face as she looks up, her large brass goggles gleaming in the small amount of sunlight peeking through the paned windows scattered across the walls. 

“What are you doing?!” She cries, eyes wide.

Tango nods towards whistling steam. 

“Fixing the pipes,” He says, smiling sheepishly in an attempt to keep himself in her good graces, “Wrench fell down.”

She groans, before frantically sending an apprentice to go fetch Tango his wrench. 

“I mean–obviously you’re fixing the damn pipes! But why are you doing it!” 

“It needed doing!” He yells back cheerfully, to the sound of Impulse chuckling.

The apprentice—a small boy with ginger hair and round glasses—arrives with his wrench, leaning over the rails to very carefully drop it down to him. Tango thanks him briefly, and continues on with his work, tucking the wrench into his supply belt when he finishes the job. 

Carefully, scales the pipes and hauls himself up and over the railing, eyes flitting over the open space, watching people running to and from the scattered workbenches and projects, with the many various contraptions littered across the floor all in differing stages of progress. A few of them look up at Tango's unusual arrival, laugh, and get back to work.

His gaze eventually lands on a very irritated Ruth, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

“You should have gotten one of the apprentices to do it!” She barks, “What if you fell? The factory would have to cease all production, and what then? No one else knows how these things run!”  

“I don’t know..” He says, a regretfully amused smile gracing his lips, “Impy and Skizz are pretty capable–I’m sure you’d manage.”

She lets out another groan, and aggressively rubs her face. Her gloves clearly hadn’t been cleaned in a while, as they left big red, dusty smears in their wake—to Tango’s increasing amusement. 

“That's not my point—It's the principle!”

“Yeah sure. It’s the principle,” He says, grinning and making a vague gesture with his hand, “But why should I have others do for me, what I can just do myself—easily, might I add.” 

“But why do it when you have so many people working for you,” she laments, before sighing and shaking her head, “I was looking for you anyway. A new redstone shipment came in, but there's some trouble at the borders.”

She shrugs at his confused expression, “Not sure what. Suppose they’re getting even fussier with what they’re allowing through the borders—the pricks.”

Tango laughs, but internally agrees. Tensions within the kingdom seem to steepen on the daily, with more and more scuffles and angered protests popping up by the hour. 

It's the corruption, he thinks bleakly, it slowly crept its way into their lives. Trade was obviously impacted greatly, but Tango could only worry about necessary resources like food and water. The people were already hungry, and the kingdom could only be concerned with providing for its mages.

“They best let it in one way or another,” she says off-handedly, “We practically carry this kingdom on our backs—without redstone, we’d be far worse off than we already are.”

Tango nods his agreement as they make their way down the steps to the main floor. He spots Impulse at one of the stations ahead of him, talking with one of the new-hires. He briefly contemplates disturbing him, but ultimately decides to be the bigger person—for now. 

“Have you seen Skizz around, by the way?” He asks abruptly, completing an entire three-sixty rotation while they walk, barely avoiding knocking into someone (he quickly apologises).

Ruth just hums and looks around, “I can’t say that I have. He probably just went out to get something.” 

“Better hope he’s not slacking.”

She just laughs, and the two of them continue to walk down the length of the factory, stopping every once in a while to help those who seem to need it. 

Tango is in the middle of helping someone with a particularly tricky circuit, when he feels a firm tap on his upper arm. He turns and pushes himself up from where he was hunched against the workbench, coming face to face with a tall, wiry, black-haired man with rich, brown skin; one of their technicians— Markus, if he’s remembering correctly. 

He really should get better at names, Tangos already messed up at least six this week, and it's only Tuesday!

Even so, he pushes that thought away and greets Markus. 

“Hey,” he says brightly, “What do you need?”

The guy looks a bit sheepish in the way he keeps shifting from one foot to the other. Tango can only offer him a friendly smile.

“I’m really sorry to bother you,” he says, sounding appropriately apologetic, “It’s just–” he sighs, “The boilers busted again. I know I should just try to fix it myself, but I was told you’d get it done in half the time it’d take me.”

Tango blinks, and opens his mouth to reply.

“—It’s totally okay if you don’t want to though! What am I doing?” The guy starts muttering to himself, dragging a frantic hand down his face, “You’re going to get yourself fired for being too lazy! Apologise and leave!”

Before he can berate himself any further, Tango plants a gentle gloved-hand on his shoulder and gives the man a grin.

“Hey-hey,” he interrupts, “No worries man! I’ll head over there now. You just go back and do whatever it is you need to do.” 

“Oh–” Markus shakes his head, “–No! I can’t just leave and let you do it by yourself. Maybe if I help you, it’ll take even less time!”

At this, Tango winces. Slightly. Near imperceptibly. Subtly enough that he’s sure Markus didn’t notice. 

“Ah..” he says, with hesitant enthusiasm, “I’ll be okay, I think. No need, really.” 

The guy just shakes his head.

“No really! It’ll be no trouble, see!” 

WIth that, Markus just starts walking, steps filled with joyful gusto. Tango has no choice but to follow nervously behind. The two of them weave in between the flock of people travelling up and down the length of the factory, many of them offering Tango a respectful smile, or a quick word of greeting—of which he politely returns.

Eventually though, to Tango’s steadily increasing dismay, they reach a pair of metal, windowless doors, hidden in one of the back corners.

Markus pushes them open, to reveal a long, dark, spiralling staircase leading down to the basement. 

He turns to Tango, his face bright.

“I’ve never actually been down here before,” he says, “Never needed to!” 

He leans over, looking down into the darkness.

“Y’know,” he starts, a puzzled expression flitting across his face, “It’s pretty dark down there. How do you see anything?”

“Gas lamps,” Tango replies, “Anyway–”

“–Do you think it’s the same issue with the boiler? I kinda hope so, then you can show me how you fixed it.”

“It's likely,” Tango says, suppressing a groan, “Look dude, you shouldn’t waste your time with helping me, I’ll be–”

“Nonsense!” He waves Tango off, pushing the door open some more, “Come on, let’s–”

“–Really, I think you should go–”

“–It’s fine! No bother, at all. I mean—”

“–Markus, ” Tango finally says, voice stern and precise, “I need you to go do your job. I can handle this efficiently enough, on my own.”

Markus freezes, still grasping the door’s handle.

Tango feels awful. 

And he feels awful some more as he watches Markus’s face slip from determined to crestfallen in an instant. 

Without another word, Markus leaves, slipping through the crowded commotion of people. 

Tango audibly groans. 

There was definitely a better way to approach that, Tango berates himself internally, In his brain-stupefying panic, it was all he could do to just raise his voice.

He’ll apologise later, he decides. 

Tango approaches the basement doors, slipping through them and pulling them firmly shut behind him. The atmosphere goes from eerily dark to pitch black in a second. Tango has to lean over, scrabbling for the bricked wall just to keep his balance. Taking a second to readjust, he weighs his options, however, in this dark he sees no other choice. He raised a slightly shaky hand, holding it out in front of him, palm facing the roof.

From it sparks a flame no larger than a candle, but in this void of empty nothing, it shines like a beacon. 

Tango takes a hesitant look back, staring at the door like it might come alive and open itself. When that doesn’t happen, he continues onwards by the light of his flame, flickering and shimmering a golden glow, painting the stone walls with the colours of dawn. 

After a short while, the winding steps eventually open out into a small room of wooden arches and dusty stone floors. Tango spots the boiler off to the side, next to a pair of shelves. As he approaches, he squats and quashes the flame in his fist and relights it on his left, using his dominant hand to remove the boiler’s cover. With that out of the way, he sits back and sees the issue. 

Its coal supply has run dry, therefore providing no heat. Tango sits back on his heels and shifts over to the shelves on his left. Tango opens one up to reveal an old box of coal, so, grabbing a small shovel situated against the boiler, he begins to heave as much coal as he can manage with one hand—the other still his only source of light. 

Once complete, he leans towards the pile sitting inside the boiler, and with no small amount of hesitation, holds his left palm up to it. 

It doesn’t catch instantly, in fact, it remains cold and dark. There is no kindling nor matches nor any kind of fire starters—there is only himself. 

And that shouldn’t scare him as much as it does.

Slowly–so slowly–he grips a lump of coal with his left, watching as his flame is near-stifled—with the only proof of its remaining existence being the jagged orange sparks that escape from the gap between his palm and the coal.  

He takes a shuddering breath and the flame burns bright.

Tango fights his instinctual impulse to snuff the flame, to destroy it before it consumes him. He lets it fester, he lets it burn. It is hot on his skin, but not painful. It swirls and dances, growing bigger, brighter and beautiful. 

The fire is hungry, ravenous, for it has not been fed in months. 

So Tango lets it feast, revelling in its glory.

In an instant, the pile is up in flames, expanding in a surge of heat and unrivalled, violent power. The blaze flickers and dances, scattering its frenzied light upon the darkness of the basement, licking at his arm, clawing its way up and out of its cage. 

Sweat beads on his forehead. 

No longer is the flame welcoming, no longer is its warmth soothing. As it swells, so too does its appetite.

It pushes itself forward. 

It lunges out of its fiery prison. 

Tango yelps and stumbles back from where he was crouched, yanking his arm out of the blaze and falling down with a loud thump. 

The fire recedes, shimmering and swirling in such a way that it seemed to be mocking him, taunting him. 

Ridiculing his cowardice.

He pushes himself up on shaking legs, and slides the cover back over the boiler, obscuring the light and heat. He does not relight his flame, instead choosing to blindly stumble up the stairs. Miraculously, Tango only trips twice.  

Somehow, he makes it to the top of the stairs, and pushes the doors open as quickly as he can without slamming them, nearly blinding himself with the sudden change from pitch-blackness to brilliant daylight. 

He stands at the doors, taking a moment to calm the rapid pounding in his chest. 

Logically, he knows that he’s fine, but his heart always refuses to listen to his head. He shuts his eyes, and just breathes, rubbing at his face. 

He can still feel the fire in his throat, stinging and burning—he can see it in his mind, longing to unleash its fiery wrath. 

What scares him most, is that, somewhere deep down, something deep in his soul, underneath the spiny grit of his exterior, underneath his fear and resentment for what he is—something in him longs to let it burn. 

How he longs to set it free. 

Yet, instead of burning up and out like a wildfire, instead of baring his brilliantly blazing soul to the world, he simply opens his eyes, and gets back to work. 

Or, he would, if he didn’t hear a familiar voice yelling his name from the other side of the factory. 

“Tango!” A voice that sounds suspiciously like Skizz’s cries out, impressively audible over the constant buzz of people talking. 

Skizz yells again, only this time, Tango can see him stumbling through the busy walkways. Eventually though, he comes to a hurried stop, planting himself directly in front of Tango.

“Tango,” Skizz says quickly, leaning over, hands on his knees as he takes big gasping breaths, "Tango, buddy, you’re going to want to see this.” 

Skizz, still hunched over catching his breath, reaches out a clenched fist to Tango. In it, appeared to be a very crumpled letter, of which he drops on Tango's newly outstretched hand. 

Confused, Tango opens it to reveal a very expensively crafted sheet of paper, detailed with thin layers of gold.

‘To,

Lead Redstone Engineer, Tango Tek. 

The King is hosting a banquet. He requests Tango Tek’s presence tomorrow night, starting at eight. Do not be late. 

Regards,

The Royal Assembly.’

Tango is stunned for several moments. 

“What?” Tango says, not really expecting an answer as he reads and rereads the letter again and again. 

“That’s what I was thinking!” Skizz exclaims, having finally caught his breath, “I don’t think it's a joke either. I was talking to some of the workers down the street, and apparently their guy got invited too!”

“This is crazy,” Tango mutters, rubbing at his eyes as if it would change anything, “What do you think they want?”

“Not sure, man,” Skizz shakes his head, “Maybe they wanna partner up? Maybe they have some big news? All I know is that it won’t just be you.” 

Tango lets out a short bark of laughter and looks away from the page, “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I guess that’s something.”

As much of an honour as this could be for him, Tango can’t help but remain skeptical. He has never really had any strong positive feelings towards their current monarchy. King Ren isn’t by any regards gracious or selfless, and by no means does he seem the type to take advice or seek intellectual assistance from anyone outside of his Royal advisors. 

It's not as if Tango is their biggest fan either, in fact, the Royal Assembly always seems to be causing more problems than they’re worth, completely blind to any of the current, pressing issues within their world. 

They hoard their wealth and crop to grow their army—all trades are facilitated through them, and by them, and they remain willfully ignorant to the real risk of poverty within their walls. 

What's worse, is that the corruption grows every day. Tango has only been out once since it began to critically worsen (he was hired to automate a silo for a farm just outside the kingdom’s walls), and he can still see the purple, pulsing veins of sickness when he shuts his eyes. 

Tango will go to this feast, yes, but he will not be quiet. 

The fire stirs in his chest. 

He does not make it settle. 

Chapter Text

When Bdubs first sees her, he is shocked at how… unflinching she seems to be. The woman is blonde and well built, her muscled arms held above her head, secured to the wall by thick iron chains. Her features are angular and poised, sharp in every manner of speaking—whether by the impressive edge to her jaw, or the cutting fury in her gaze. 

She does not move when they approach, she merely follows them with her eyes, tracking their every step, her loose hair falling in clumps across her face and shoulders. 

Bdubs’s gaze falls down along with it, catching on a marking engraved onto her belt. Two stars overlapping one another. One crimson, one gold. 

The Daybreak calling card.

Ren stops about two feet away from where she sits, and crouches down to her eye level. 

“Your people really know just how to mess things up.”

She doesn’t respond, though her glare sharpens.  

“It’s almost impressive,” he snarls, leaning forward, casting his face in shadow, “How long you’ve remained a thorn in my side.” 

Silence, but she doesn’t look away.

“To think, all those people you truly believe you’ve saved,” Ren's voice softens slightly as he turns to gaze out of the small barred window, “How they must hate you.”

It's not quite a flinch, but something similar as her calm begins to crack. It brings a near imperceptible, twisted smile to Ren's face. 

“All you’ve done is shatter their privilege of serving the crown,” at once, Rens snaps his gaze back to her, growing louder with each word, “Think of all the wealth and honour you’ve stolen from their families—the poor, poverty stricken people that you’ve condemned in your foolish, half-baked, righteous indignation.”

She lunges at him, stopped only by the chains, breathing heavily, anger seeping from her every pore. 

Ren just leans closer, so close now, that Bdubs can only see the back of his head, half cast in shadow, made only visible by the stream of light through the small window.

“Pathetic,” he says, “All of you.”

False spits.

Bdubs feels a thrum, and at once his vines snake up her body and around her face, wrapping around her mouth and nose, constricting all breath and movement. 

He didn’t even have to think. A voice in his head cried abhorrent, repulsive disrespect, and who was he not to obey?

Gone is her calm facade. She jerks and writhes, making muffled, desperate noises of protest as she struggles for the relief of breath. 

And Bdubs does not give in, not with the voice pounding in his ears crying angered insolence. He watches her with a murky cloud of disdain and confusion, for his mouth grows dry and his hands shaky, and with each of her agonised groans, the pit in his stomach deepens—but the stabbing pain near his heart silences all else, and he stands there, watching her, the conductor of her misery. 

“That's enough,” the advisor says.

A thrum.

Bdubs drops the vines immediately, leaving her gasping for breath. She heaves and splutters, curling in on herself as she’s wracked with violent coughs, shaking and debilitated. 

The three of them watch her for a moment, allowing her to catch her breath. 

Ren stands once again, rising from the dirty cobbled stone, dusting himself off as he returns to his place between Bdubs and the advisor.

“Tell us,” he says calmly, “Where do you hide them?”

Her breathing is slower now—less desperate, only littered with short, shuddering gasps. She remains hunched and curled, staring at the floor with all the strength she can seemingly muster. 

“You’ll never know,” she says, voice full of grit and hatred, “Kill me, see what difference that makes.”

Ren's lip curls as he bares his teeth— his crooked, vicious smile.

“In time.” 

“The army grows,” the advisor muses, blowing the steam from his tea. 

It was one of those rare moments where the advisor thought to remove his mask, situating it on the small wooden table by his side, though he remains carefully angled away from Bdubs and Ren—hidden by his dark, hooded cloak. 

“Not nearly enough,” Ren says bitterly, resting his clenched fist against the table. 

The day is bright, just meeting its crescendo as the sun beats down on the three of them. They sit, as they do somedays, at the top of the main tower that makes up the grandeur of the palace. It was open, like a balcony, with its arched entrance reaching the great height of about eight yards. 

They surround a small table just by the pale, carved railing, looking off over the kingdom. The advisor—as respectfully allowed by the king—sits directly opposing Ren, in front of them, though turned away, while Bdubs sits, situated to Ren's left. 

The advisor just gently shakes his head.

“She will speak, and we will have our answers. Do not let yourself be distracted—we have power, we have control, and we do not tolerate disrespect. A war is brewing by your hand—focus on that. Myself and Bdubs will handle rebel action.”

Ren sighs—one deep and laboured. 

“At least that is one thing this corruption is worth. Our enemies are weakened, and the settlements desperate. They practically hand off their mages.”

“Despite rebel interference, we persist,” the advisor raises his cup in gentle cheer. 

They quiet for a bit, staring out upon the kingdom, brooding in the turning of tides. After a moment, Bdubs finally thinks to ask.

“Is it true then?” His gaze bores into the advisor's black cloak, “Zenith?”

The advisor stills, teacup just at his mouth. He seems to be considering his reply as he places his cup down. 

“There has not been a Zenith in nearly two hundred years,” he says carefully, “If real —of which I have my doubts— I would not bank on its return, especially if my kingdom was in such dire straits as the Grimlands.”

Bdubs shakes his head, and turns back to his own drink, set neatly in front of him. 

“What did the princess say—his sister, the illusionist?” He wraps his hands around the cup, “The star mages see it… the universe whispers to them her return.”

He pauses.

“It doesn’t sound like blind faith.”

“Whether it be mere faith or true belief, none will matter in the face of corruption,” the advisor replies, “That is why this war is vital.”

He rises from his chair, grasping his mask as he approaches the edge of the balcony.

“If those in power cannot be trusted to support their own nation, others must take action—we will rescue the Grimlands from their own irrationality, and we will do so before their supposed Zenith arrives, lest the land be utterly contaminated.”

There is a thrum near his heart, and Bdubs can only agree. 

This village is larger than some of the others he’s visited. At this point in the day, the sun has begun to fall—meaning, Bdubs is very much eager to return to the Castle’s warmth. 

The Direfell winters bring both the scarcity of resources and the struggles of trade, but more personally, a constant, deep bone chilling cold that hinders him undendlingly—leaving him far more weakened and fatigued than what can be considered normal. 

He can tell Wels feels it too—if not as intensely as Bdubs—by the subtle clench in his jaw, and the way he keeps shifting from foot to foot.  

The advisor walks ahead of them— unperturbed —as they survey the area. 

Bdubs can tell this village used to be lively. Market stalls litter the streets, adorned with banners half strung and coin boxes empty and abandoned. People roam too– of course , but they keep their distance, knowing better than to interrupt ambassadors of the king. 

They follow along the dirt path for a while, before ultimately coming to a stop in the midst of the village square, right at the foot of what clearly used to be a beautiful fountain—only now, there stands a stone woman in the centre, swathed in silken robes and a spiked headdress, with layers and layers of carved detailing lost to time and erosion.  

The stone is cracked and brittle, and missing several chunks from all over the base. From what little of it remained, Bdubs can just make out what appears to be several carefully painted birds, all in flight, with their exceedingly long feathers trailing behind them. The birds are painted orange, but the colour is faded and chipped in places. 

Bdubs looks up once more, eyes meeting the stone heart in the statue’s outstretched hands. 

Upon closer inspection, Bdubs notices— with a grimace— a very carefully etched symbol right on the heart. 

Two stars overlapping each other—one red, one gold. 

“Dead center—very classy,” Wels crouches by the symbol, “I suppose we should have known.”

“It’s a pity,” the advisor says slowly, tall as he stares down upon the etching, “Their greed truly knows no bounds.”

“With any luck, False will talk soon,” Bdubs replies, pulling his gaze from the statue, turning to instead inspect the dreary emptiness of the square. 

A sudden noise draws his attention. 

Bdubs twists around to see a figure dash into the square, before turning to start down another alleyway. The figure is small and swift, seemingly frantic—urgency lacing their every step. 

Bdubs almost deigns to leave it well enough alone, when a hand suddenly grasps his forearm. Bdubs turns to see the advisors mask mere inches away from him.

“Catch them,” he says quickly, with bite, “I feel their magic.”

So, Bdubs does. 

Without another word, Bdubs falls to his knee and digs his hands into the soil. A pulse runs up his hands and through his body, ringing throughout his mind and soul. 

Like a thousand tiny arms and legs, like a multitude of skittering, slithering creatures, vines shoot up from the earth, and they are one. 

The earth obeys her master just as he succumbs to it. 

The vines tumble and spiral, flying towards the figure at a speed near imperceptible to the eye. The figure turns—a young girl, small and dirty blonde—and stumbles to the floor in her haste. 

His vines near, and she shouts. 

At once there is a pulse in the ground. Not his own—significantly weaker, a feeble drum in the earth. Bdubs watches as with one hand, the girl clings to the mottled soil, and with the other, she throws up in protection. 

A vine, thin and withering, sprouts in urgency, lashing out at Bdubs’ own moments before they would reach her.

“Please!” She shouts, voice clogged and eyes watery, “My mother is sick—let me heal her.”  

She sits on the dirty, grimy floor, shaking and panting from the strain of the earth in her veins—bending her very will, but submitting to her desires all the same. 

That, Bdubs knows well. 

“No luck,” Wels shakes his head, “Your skills are needed elsewhere.” 

“Please,” she begs, blinking back tears as she attempts to meagerly push herself away from them, “She’s all I have.”

The girl wipes her face, and Bdubs’ heart thunders in his chest. 

“Why didn’t you leave with the rebels?” He asks simply, “Don’t lie. We know they offered to take all of you here.” 

She shivers and shakes, and with trembling arms, she pushes up from the ground.  

“She was too weak,” the girl rubbed her arms, a soothing motion, “She wouldn’t have survived the trip, and even if she did, she would have only slowed us all down.”

“Count your fortunes,” the advisor says idly, “The rebels do not wish to help you.”

The shocked glare she sends his way is fiery enough to burn. She takes a step back, face morphing in disgust. 

“My mother is dying, and you want me to count my fortunes?”

They are quiet for a moment. 

“Surely someone else will take care of her?” Wels asks.

She just shakes her head, a tear falling from her face. 

Bdubs sighs, raking a hand through his hair. They should take her and get out of this cold—they have every right, Bdubs reasons with himself as a cold shiver runs up his spine, It is an honour to serve the crown. If anything, her mother would be grateful. 

Bdubs couldn’t care less about the the straits of others, his mind a wall of impartiality as he holds firm.

But still his heart beats loud. 

“How proficient are you at healing?” He asks, even if just to quiet the loud thumping drone. 

“Very.” 

They should leave.

“How long will you be?”

There is a pain near his heart and a hand on his arm. He turns to see the advisor again by his side. 

Static grows in his mind. 

“Do not tolerate this,” the advisor says quickly, “We are leaving.” He turns to the girl, “Come—“

“—Is she far?” Bdubs interrupts.

Pain spikes in his chest, with each stabbing shock syncing with his beating heart. 

“We should leave, the banquet is soon,” the advisor hisses, his bony grip digging into his arm, surely leaving a bruise. 

“She’s just up this street,” the girl says with haste, cutting off Bdubs before he could attempt to respond. 

The wind is cold as it bites his skin, and the static in his mind only increases the ceaseless warping fog of his consciousness. 

“Go,” he says, his mouth a contradiction to his overcrowded mind. 

The pain winds him—so much so that he holds a hand to his chest, frozen to the spot by the pulsing, pounding thrum of his rabbiting heart. 

Bdubs takes a gasping breath, holding his hand there firm like a lifeline. In his peripheral, through the endless cloudy haze, he sees the girl turn and run up the street. 

The advisor's death grip tightens to a point of striking pain, before snatching his hand back with an irritated scoff.

“Follow her.”

All at once the drumming noise ceases and the fog lifts.

There is a thrum near his heart, and Bdubs follows. 

Up the street, they come to a house—small and shabby, with tattered windows for curtains. Bdubs approaches its battered wooden door, pushing it open to reveal a dimly lit room with a mattress on the floor in the corner, occupied by a sickly pale, black haired, slender woman. 

The girl sits by her side, a hand on her mothers chest, over her heart. 

With a blink, and a great, rumbling pulse in the earth, the girl’s eyes glow a solid white, lighting the entire room with an brilliant, opalescent glow. From where her hand connects to her mothers chest, a dazzling shimmer tumbles and swirls, dancing through the air, floating across the room. 

It’s weaker than others he's seen—but its luminance reflects off every surface in that small dark room.

It brings something to mind—something hidden within the far reaches of his brain, under the hulking shadows of memory. A familiar impulse, a familiar sheen and a familiar tenderly mystical aura. 

He sees sunlight for a moment—not now, in the present.

With a blink, he lets that thought be carried away as just another rippling notion in the stream of his consciousness.  

The magic fades, and the woman stirs slightly, her face now a healthier shade of pink. The young girl turns to the three of them once more. She looks at Bdubs.

She doesn’t thank him. 

He doesn’t expect her to. 

Instead, she rises from where she was seated, and allows herself to be walked from her home, taken back to the castle grounds. 

The journey is silent. When they arrive back, Bdubs carefully glances towards the advisor by his side. 

His mask, as it always is, remains an emotionless slate, revealing nothing. But his presence is stifling—Bdubs hardly considers himself short by any means, yet under his gaze, cold and dark, he is the smallest he’s ever been. All words die on his tongue. 

“Let this be a testament to brilliant wastes of time,” the advisor says, voice clipped, “Her feeble vine was as weak as her healing surely will be—give the woman a day or two, the illness will return tenfold.”

The sun sets a vibrant blood-orange hue. 

“You are stronger than them, by a significant margin, Bdubs— you are an important piece, an invaluable follower of the kingdom.” 

The advisor grips his shoulder, “Do not let yourself falter.”

There is a roaring rush of static in his ears and mind, clouding his gaze in a swirl of rumbling noise, before abruptly silencing itself.

“Of course,” Bdubs says as his heart beats loud, “Anything for the kingdom.”