Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The rain fell like a benediction and a curse.

It whispered over the marble spires of the kingdom, over the obsidian bridges that hung suspended between towers, over the faint green glow that pulsed from the throne room windows like a heartbeat. The banners of a god’s dominion—black trimmed with molten gold—snapped in the wind, wet and heavy with stormwater.

At the gates, a lone man dismounted.

Zuka’s boots struck the stone with a soldier’s weight. His cloak clung to his frame, soaked through; the faint glimmer of his dog tag caught the light of the torches that guttered in the wind. Beneath the hood, his eyes—cold, sharp, and too weary for his youth—flicked upward toward the highest spire.

He had long since stopped being awed by the castle, but it still managed to unsettle him. It was not built for mortals. Its angles were too sharp, its corridors too long, its ceilings carved with constellations that didn’t exist in the mortal sky.

Inside, the scent of candle smoke and iron greeted him. The guards—faceless in their masks of glass and bone—bowed their heads wordlessly as he passed. They knew his name. Everyone in Darkheart’s service did. Faction Ambassador by title, mercenary by practice, executioner by the will of a god.

The doors to the throne room opened of their own accord.

Inside, the throne room stretched like an abyss. Its ceiling disappeared into darkness, its floor was polished to a mirror’s gleam. At the far end, upon a dais of black marble,  reflected by a hundred suspended braziers that burned with green fire, seated upon a throne that was not crafted but grown, living and dark, pulsing faintly with a light that came from nowhere and everywhere at once—

was Darkheart.

Their crown was alive—a green glow wound around their horns like serpents. Their voice, when it came, carried from everywhere at once.

“Our Hand returns.”

Zuka stopped a few paces before the throne and went to one knee.

“You summoned me.”

“We did,” Darkheart murmured, his tone velvet and venom both. “It has been some time since we’ve seen that face unmasked.”

Zuka didn’t rise. “You see everything. Don’t pretend you missed me.”

A low sound rippled through the room—something between laughter and a sigh. Darkheart rose, descending from the dais with liquid grace. His robes trailed like smoke, whispering across the floor until he stood before Zuka.

The deity’s many reflections shimmered across the polished walls—each one watching Zuka from a slightly different angle, slightly different emotion.

A clawed hand reached forward, the tip of a blackened talon tracing the sharp line of Zuka’s jaw, light enough to threaten but never draw blood. Zuka did not flinch—he never did. His pulse, however, betrayed him, a subtle tremor in his throat.

“A mortal who kills like one of us. Who breathes between duty and delight. Tell us…” The talon tilted Zuka’s chin upward. “Does it ever tire you, to belong to both the living and the damned?”

Zuka’s frowned. “Does it ever tire you, ruling both?”

“Alas, still defiant,” he mused, “wholly ours.”

Zuka’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t pull away. He’d grown used to the deity’s touch—cold, deliberate, almost tender in the way venom could be.

“You call every mortal that,” he said, voice low.

“Not every mortal earns our interest,” Darkheart replied, and the claw traced the faint scar that cut across his cheek. “You do.”

For a moment, the air between them thickened, something dangerous simmering beneath the stillness.

Zuka couldn’t quite put a finger on it—didn’t want to. The faintest twitch of his mouth might’ve been amusement, might’ve been discomfort.

“If this is about interest,” he muttered, “you didn’t summon me for conversation.”

Darkheart’s lips curved—an echo of a smile that could despawn empires.

“No. We summoned you for purpose.”

He turned, walking back toward the throne, his voice lowering until it reverberated through the air itself.

“The balance between our lands trembles. A fate so interesting, yet so unfathomable. Unraveling by the second, it does.”

A sigh, “And from what you seem to be letting on, I will be the one to test the waters?”  Zuka had long grown used to Darkheart’s undescribably eerie rambles of fate, so this was simply another day for him.

He gestured for Zuka to rise, and the shadows seemed to shift with the motion.

“Perhaps, but not yet. You, Zuka, will do what you do best.” Zuka bit the insides of his cheek, willing down even the slightest tremor in his fingers.  “We would speak of it… when this ongoing storm quiets.”

Zuka stood, straightening, his silhouette a dark reflection against the pale firelight.

“Then I wait,” he said. “Though I’d rather the storm not end.”

Beneath the shadow cast over his face, Darkheart’s eyes gleamed like stars caught in ink.

“You always did look your best in ruin.”

The deity’s voice softened, almost affectionate, as his gaze lingered on him—a mortal bound to his will, yet somehow untamed.

Zuka inclined his head, the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Careful,” he murmured. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was flattery.”

Darkheart’s claws tapped once against the armrest of his throne.

“We never flatter, Zuka,” he whispered. “We claim.”

The sound echoed through the hall, soft and final, like the closing of a door. Zuka’s lips twitched—the faintest ghost of a smirk—though his eyes remained cold and unamused.

“You claim a lot of things,” he said dryly. “Lands. Crowns. People. Doesn’t seem to stop trouble from crawling back.”

The deity’s laughter was a low ripple that seemed to shake the floor beneath him. It wasn’t loud—just consuming.

“Ah,” Darkheart murmured, rising from the throne. “There it is again.”

They descended the dais, each step resonating through the stone. The light from the braziers shifted, curling shadows around them as they approached. The air grew colder, thicker.

“Tell us, Zuka,” he continued, voice threaded with silk and smoke. “Do you think we keep you because you are useful… or because you are entertaining?”

“You’re not that hard to entertain,” Zuka replied, his tone flat, unbothered. “I’ve seen the sort of people you surround yourself with.”

A clawed hand tilted his chin up again. This time, Darkheart leaned close enough for him to catch the faint scent of stormfire and iron that clung to their robes.

“Careful,” he murmured, each word deliberate. “We might begin to think you enjoy provoking us.”

Zuka met their gaze—the deity’s eyes gleamed like a galaxy in eclipse. He didn’t flinch.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them, strung tight as a blade’s edge. Then Darkheart’s smile deepened—too many teeth for it to be a normal demon, too deliberate for it to be kind.

“So bold,” they breathed. “Very well, little soldier. If you crave something to challenge that tongue and hands of yours, we have a gift for you.”

Their hand drifted away, and with it, the pressure in the air eased—just enough for Zuka to breathe again. The deity turned, gesturing toward the great window behind the throne. The glass rippled, the storm outside shifting to reveal a far, faraway view, over seas and islands: a colossal floating island, fractured by rivers of light and shadow.

“Not there.” Darkheart said, a hand hovered below to reveal—“The grounded cities of Playground,” Darkheart said, almost fondly, “along the Splintered Skies, this too, is looked over by my sister; long has it been known that she allows her mortals to tear each other apart for sport and survival, but her carelessness has long been a given. A new problem arises.”

Zuka’s expression hardened. “And?”

“There festers a nest of wretches—devotees of something we did not permit to live,” Darkheart replied. “They’ve begun meddling with the flow of ether between our sister’s lands. Small disturbances, yet persistent ones. The type of irritation we find… inconvenient.”

He turned back to Zuka, claws tracing idle patterns in the air.

“We would have sent an army, but armies are messy. And this requires precision.”

“So you’re sending me,” Zuka said, tone dry.

Darkheart’s grin widened. “Precisely.”

Zuka adjusted his gloves, gaze flicking to the window and back again.

“You know,” he said, “for someone who can do all the dirty work himself, you rely on me a suspicious amount.”

“We could unmake them with a thought,” Darkheart said, mockingly thoughtful. “But where would be the fun in that? We prefer to see how you do it. You always make a spectacle of our will.”

“So I’m your entertainment and your executioner,” Zuka hummed, sarcasm easy on his tongue. “Nice to know I wear two titles.”

Darkheart’s hand brushed his shoulder as he passed him—lightly, deliberately. A gesture both dismissive and possessive.

“You wear many things well, Zuka. Power, especially.”

He didn’t move, though his jaw tightened. “I’ll bring you your silence, then. Anything else?”

Darkheart paused at the foot of his throne, head tilting slightly.

“Do not die,” they said simply. “We would find it… inconvenient.”

Zuka barked a low laugh, sharp and humorless. “Touched by the concern.”

“Oh, it is not concern,” Darkheart murmured, settling back onto the throne. “It is ownership.”

Their eyes glowed like distant stars.

“Go now, little soldier. Paint us a story worth watching.”

Zuka’s lips twitched into a frown, and yet he still bowed—not out of reverence, but habit—and turned toward the door. As he walked, the echo of his boots was the only sound that dared disturb the throne room’s silence.

Just before the massive doors closed behind him, Darkheart’s voice curled through the air once more, soft and intimate as a whisper against his neck.

“And do not forget, Zuka… chaos answers to no one—but it listens to you.”

The doors slammed shut, and the storm outside swallowed him whole.

Zuka let the roar of rain be the castle’s last word on him for the moment. He moved through the corridors as one who knew every echo—each step a practiced note in a song of passageways and purpose. Torches bowed their flames as he passed; shadows obediently arranged themselves around his shoulders. The throne room receded behind him like a memory best left to thrum in the bones. He lets (tries to) it leave him the moment he climbs atop his mount.

Beyond the Citadel, the world unspooled in stitched secrets. The seven lands hung like different faces of the same coin—each a kingdom shaped by a deity’s temper and taste. Some were bright and choked with laughter; some were quiet enough to hear old wounds breathe. Borders there were, of course—lines traced in treaties, in burned villages, in the bones of bridges—but more powerful than ink were the habits of the people who lived under those gods. They learned to tilt their heads to favor, to bow where thunder fell, to keep their hands where the light could see them. Zuka had always found the map more interesting for what it hid than for what it declared.

He had been born on the underside of that map. Not noble, not titled—just a boy who learned early that a quiet mouth and a quicker blade kept you in the world. War, or the embodiment of it, taught him grammar: how to read a man’s bootprints and hear the lie between words. Faction Ambassador by paper—an unlikely crown for a man who smelled of smoke and hard steel—he walked in corridors where diplomacy wore armor and courtesy had teeth. His actual name was something simple, something that wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny, so people called him by what he did instead: Zuka , B. Zuka, the Hand that moved when gods needed a smaller, sharper solution.

He wore that reputation like a second skin. Across the faction’s halls his face was a rumor made flesh: the envoy who could smile while arranging an assassination, the soldier who negotiated truces with one hand and readied the noose with the other. Merchants cleared space for him at table. Spies took notes as if a lesson were being taught. Children learned to stop their games when the name ‘Zuka’ was spoken—less because they feared him and more because stories of him filled the quiet spaces adults needed to explain away the darker corners of their loyalties.

Yet none of that told the whole truth. There were places even he did not travel on purpose: the half-sleep memories of a man who had been taught to obey by a world that liked its orders neat. There was the small, ridiculous ache—carefully folded and hidden—that came from the way the god on that throne pressed the tip of a claw under his jaw, as if testing which parts of him were brittle enough to be played with and which parts refused to snap. He had called that god friend, the word softened by years of leaning toward the only ally he’d had in immortality’s court. Darkheart had smiled and called that alliance entertainment; Zuka had kept his mouth shut and his weapons close. It was a balance he had learned to walk: a sort of intimacy measured in commands and small kindnesses that tasted faintly of possession.

Now he was riding toward the land of endless breath—the province where wind shaped the stone and people learned to speak in violence to keep from being swept away. The sky over that region was never quite still; ribbons of cloud moved like torn sails, some houses were built low and chained to bedrock. Travelers there carried maps folded so many times they were reduced to memory. Zuka had crossed this stretch before, once as envoy, once as rumor, and both times the wind seemed to take his name and scatter it like a leaflet with the edges singed.

His mount was patient—less a horse than a cliff-bred beast with lungs like bellows and hooves that cradled itself on the gusts. He rode alone because most things that required his kind of solution did not lend themselves to company; a god’s problem, after all, did not appreciate witnesses. As a floating island’s silhouette yielded to the horizon, he checked his gear with fingers that moved like prayer. Blades—sharpened and oiled—sat close to his ribs; a vial of sleep caught in a band at his wrist; a small charm folded into his palm to keep the mist from rotting his sense of direction. Practicalities. Rituals. Small things that kept a mortal unmoved in the orbit of deities.

He thought of Playground in the same way one thinks of a festering room: obvious trouble with teeth. The reports had been small at first—smuggling of ether, fights that bent the invisible lines gods cared none for—but the kind of accumulation that made even a god raise an eyebrow. They could have sent a storm or a curse. They could have unmade the trouble with a flick. Instead, they sent him.

There was comfort in that, strange as it sounded. To be called upon was to be recognized; to be chosen was to be given a script. He resented it in one breath and lived for the next. The hand of a god reached far and pulled harder than any commander’s order; it also kept him necessary, and necessity was the only thing that had anchored him when everything else had drifted.

He rode on. The wind grew louder—less a sound than an argument. Far below, the land unrolled: fields where crops bowed without pleading, cliffs like the ribs of the world, villages clinging to ledges by thick ropes and stubborn hands. Caravans moved like slow thoughts across the plains, their flags snapping and folding as if in constant conversation with the sky. People watched him go, but they did not stop their rhythms; they had learned the price of interference.

Zuka’s jaw set. He had been given orders in language meant to charm or command; Darkheart’s words were both. He had been given a destination, a mission that reeked of persistent mortals. And he had been given the rarest boon for a man in his place: a chance to move through the world again as more than rumor.

He inhaled wind and thought of claws and braziers and the way the throne room had looked when the deity rose to speak. Entertainment and ownership. Claiming and commanding. He had learned to borrow those contradictions, to turn them into tools.

Ahead, the land of wind waited—open, dangerous, and unquiet. He tightened his grip and let the storm be the only thing that rushed him.

Somewhere in the drifting distance, Playground hung like a bruise beneath the sky. Zuka thought of it—and of the small, sharp amusement he had left behind on a throne—and for the briefest instant, something like anticipation sharpened in his chest.

The wind clawed at his cloak as if trying to unmake the man beneath it.

By the time Zuka reached the lowlands—the foot of the great air columns that tethered the Splintered Skies to the world below—his armor had been muted beneath roughspun fabric. The polished lines of a soldier became the worn silhouette of a traveler. In this land, anonymity wasn’t just disguise; it was survival. Names had weight, and his was heavier than most.

Playground stretched before him like a scar carved into the continent—mud, smoke, and fragments of what used to be villages now crowded into settlements of opportunity. Everything here seemed temporary, as if the wind might someday sweep it all away and no one would remember. Yet people persisted, because people always did, even when their god had turned her face elsewhere.

He passed through the bazaar first. Stalls leaned against one another like drunks after battle, and the air carried the sour perfume of dust and fruit gone too ripe. The language here was a dialect of barter and bluff—every smile a test, every gesture a small gamble.

He moved through it quietly, eyes hidden beneath his hood. To most, he was another wanderer looking for work or shelter from the storm. To those who knew what to look for—the subtle hitch in his gait, the way he carried his hands near his belt—he was something else entirely. Something that belonged to no one, but could belong to anyone with enough coin or cause.

Zuka stopped at a spice merchant’s cart. The man behind it had eyes like dull coins and a voice that cracked with age. A casual exchange began—salt, pepper, dried sage. Harmless things. Then Zuka dropped the first pebble into the water.

“Storms seem stronger these days,” he murmured, as if to no one in particular. “Wind’s tearing through even the old trade roads.”

The merchant’s gaze flickered once, then steadied. “Storms come and go. But the ones that never leave? Those are the ones you watch.”

A response. The first thread in the code. Zuka slid a coin across the table, fingers brushing the surface in a pattern that meant continue.

“I heard of a place where they don’t mind the storms,” Zuka said softly. “Where they welcome them.”

The merchant’s lips thinned. “Too many ears here,” he said, voice suddenly rough. “If you want to talk about that, go to the glassmaker’s by the edge of the quarter. Ask for something unbroken.”

Zuka inclined his head once in thanks, no words wasted. The merchant turned away, rearranging jars that didn’t need rearranging.

He moved on, weaving through the crowd. Beneath his cloak, he could feel the subtle vibration of the islands above—a low hum that trembled through the earth whenever Windforce’s dominion shifted in the heavens. The people below claimed it was the sound of the god breathing. Zuka knew better. The sound was tension. It was power waiting to be used.

The glassmaker’s hut was easy to find: a narrow structure leaning against a wind-torn wall, its windows hazed with ash. The craftsman behind the counter barely looked up when Zuka entered. He was young, soft-handed—someone who hadn’t seen war, though the war had certainly seen him.

“Looking for something?” the man asked.

“Something unbroken,” Zuka said.

A pause. Then the young man’s eyes darted once toward the back of the shop before settling on Zuka’s hands. The faintest nod. He gestured to a shelf of pale, empty bottles.

“Not many left,” he said. “But you can take one, if you don’t mind cracks.”

Another code answered, another layer of trust—or caution—earned. Zuka approached the shelf, pretending to examine the glass. He spoke quietly.

“I heard there are gatherings at the base of the floating bridges. Unmarked. No traders, no guards. Wind’s strange there. People too.”

The glassmaker’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t go sniffing around, outsider. They don’t take kindly to questions.”

“I don’t ask questions,” Zuka said, choosing a bottle and setting it down. “I just end things.”

The glassmaker’s hand hesitated above the counter, then slowly pushed a small piece of folded paper toward him. A mark inked on its surface: an eye, drawn tight and violent.

“They wear that,” the glassmaker whispered. “Call it a prayer to the god of shatterings. But it’s not Windforce they serve. It’s something older. Or so they say.”

Zuka’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to know what older meant. Not yet. He wasn’t here to unravel myths, only to clean up the mess they left behind. He slipped the paper into his cloak and turned to leave.

Outside, the air had shifted again. The wind that came down from the skies was sharper now—colder, almost metallic. The floating island above caught the sun like shattered glass, and its shadow stretched long across Playground, cutting through the slums like a blade.

Zuka tightened his cloak around him, merging with the crowd. His path took him toward the outskirts, where the hum of the floating bridges could be heard through the ground. He knew he was being watched—eyes from alleyways, from rooftops, from behind the thin veil of curiosity and fear.

It didn’t matter. He’d spent years under sharper gazes. Years walking beside deities who smiled like sinners and spoke of ownership as if affection were a kind of leash.

He would find these devotees soon enough. The wind was already whispering their trail.

And when he did, he’d silence it—quickly, cleanly, without ceremony. Just another job. Another mess cleaned before it reached the throne.

The only thing he hadn’t decided yet was whether he’d bring their corpses back to Darkheart as proof… or as warning.

He had not planned to linger on the moral ledger of dead men. He never did. The paper would be added later, stamped and folded into some file that smelled of ink and old smoke. For now there was only the hideout—an overturned granary half-buried beneath the shadow of a tethering pylon, its roof spiked with rusted iron flanges and prayer-ribbons—and the thin, sour tang of sweat and oil that marked where the devotees nested.

Zuka slipped through the ragged curtains of the granary like a rumor. Inside, the air was close and full of voices—low, practiced chants tangled with the clink of makeshift armor. The eye mark he’d been handed was everywhere: painted on a post, stitched to a sleeve, etched into the rim of a broken bowl. They were small, furious things, fit for breaking rather than building. Children of chaos in miniature.

He paused, listening. Footsteps on packed earth. The scrape of leather. Someone laughed, short and hard, as if trying to teach themselves courage. A cluster of candles burned under a battered banner, and the smoke smelled faintly of something resinous and old. They were not Windforce’s children; they were something else pretending to be frenetic, to be powerful. Annoyances. Which was exactly why they warranted Darkheart’s Hand.

Zuka’s hands went to the inside of his cloak, fingers working a pattern the gods had taught him to move like prayer. The fabric sighed, the spell catching—the old trick. With a sound like a gulp of thunder, his gear bled into being: heavy and obscene in its realism, a launcher born more of iron and oath than mortal smithing. It rested against his shoulder as if it had always been part of his silhouette — a weapon that laughed at subtlety.

The smell changed the instant he hefted it. Oil, warm metal, the faint chemical twinge of powder and promise. He did not cock it at once. That would be theatrical. Instead, he walked.

A scout on watch made to raise an alarm and found their throat cut off by a gesture—Zuka’s blade, a whisper in the candlelight. A man in a scrap-plate helm lunged and found his ribs split by a spinning knee that moved like a pendulum. Another tried to flee; Zuka’s boot planted in the small of his back and the world tilted while bone remembered its place. Close, precise, almost surgical. He moved like someone taking down a map of men—tearing at labeled corners until the design was gone.

Then the others noticed.

They surged, a tide of anger and crude weapons. They were many. They were loud. They had made too much of themselves for their own good.

“Soldiers,” a voice sneered from the shadows, and a man stepped forward—tattoos crawling up his neck like ivy, the eye burned into his palm. He wore a grin full of bad promises.

Zuka offered him one back, then let the other’s grin hang in the air between them. “You lot like playing with wind,” he said, voice low and dry. “It’s a pity you never learned how to stop it.”

That was the last sentence any of them heard in full.

The bazooka sang. He braced it to his shoulder with the rhythm of someone steadying a heartbeat. In the granary’s close quarters the blast would have been reckless—except Zuka had other understanding of space; he threaded the rocket through a fissure in the roof and let the explosion bloom above the angry congregation like a comet folding in on itself. Wood splintered; dust and prayer-ribbons turned to ash; the sound of it was a rip in the world, half-god-roar, half-machine howl.

Shouts turned to screams. Men were thrown like rag dolls. The candlelight vanished under a new, harsher brightness. Splinters rained down in slow, glittering arcs; the air filled with a wet, metallic tang. Someone tried to throw a bottle—an old, sacred sort of incendiary—and watched it disintegrate in the heat like a child's toy.

Zuka let the launcher fade away into a spark and moved in a way that made the granary seem small and wrong. He was everywhere—there and not-there—sending motions that were as much deception as attack. He ducked under a blade and let the wielder stumble past him, then his knee came up and took that man's wind. He pivoted, blade flicking once, twice: precise cuts that spoke of training, of years spent carving contracts into throats and promises into silence.

One of them—a tall thing with the eye scarred across his forehead—tried to rally them, shouting about revenge and false gods. Zuka heard the tremor in the man's voice and answered it with a single step forward. He closed the distance like a sentence, and then the man’s words expired on the smell of blood.

The fight was not long. It did not need to be. Practise pared it down to a scale that looked almost tidy amid the chaos: a shoulder dislocated with a twist, a throat slit that was almost polite, a rocket that punished the foolish who had clustered near an exit. There were moments of brutality that did not seem to occur in sequence but folded over one another—a flurry of fists, the sound of a bone giving, the metallic ring of a blade finding a post rather than a man.

At the center of the room, the man with the eye on his palm tried to make for a back exit—an attempt to flee through a secret passageway. Zuka intercepted him without theatrics. He pressed the barrel of the bazooka against the man’s temple, the weapon’s weight a declaration.

“What gives you purpose?” Zuka asked, voice low, as if they were haggling over a poor coin.

The man’s mouth moved. It made noises that could have been names. He spat defiance, then fear. Fear won by a wide margin.

“Old things,” the man croaked. “Old… before—”

“Older,” Zuka corrected automatically, and the man’s eyes widened. He tried to speak again. Zuka shoved the barrel, and the sound of his life snapped like a branch. The granary was suddenly too quiet, a place emptied of heartbeat and ritual.

He stood among them, dust falling like pale rain, breathing even and slow. The bazooka was warm in his hands, a heated beast that had eaten men and left explanation in ashes. Around his boots lay bodies and the scattered remains of their makeshift piety. The eye marks were still visible in places where blood had smeared them into darker eyes—a grotesque iteration of their belief.

The air shivered. Something was wrong.

Zuka’s head tilted a fraction to the left. The wind outside had gone eerily still—too still, as if the storm had been caught holding its breath. The faintest scrape came from behind him, softer than a sigh but sharp enough to cut through his instincts. He turned—but not fast enough.

A sudden crack—like bone against iron—the world blurred, colors smeared into the metallic tang of afterburst. He managed one curse, half-formed and useless, then the world tilted and sank. His fingers loosened around the bazooka’s grip as a blur of motion slipped from the periphery—a shape in tattered robes, whispering something unfathomable, something he couldn’t quite make out before darkness took him whole.

When he opened his eyes again, the light was wrong—thin, greenish, the kind of light that comes from glassy lamps and the gathered breath of people who have prayed too long. He tasted iron and smoke. His wrists and ankles were bound with cord that felt like woven roots. Around him the hideout breathed in low, a network of whispers and the dry rustle of paper charms. He had been carried; the ground beneath him was packed earth, not the splintered floor of the granary.

Faces leaned over him—pale, fervent, young and old in messy unison. The eye mark was everywhere: seared into forearms, traced around eyes, painted on the inside of lids. They watched him like a congregation studying a relic that had finally moved. One of them—taller, wrapped in tatters of ceremonial cloth—spoke in a voice that tried for authority and landed somewhere between sermon and plea.

“You were loud,” the man said. “We thought 'ye were a storm.”

Zuka’s tongue felt thick. He tested his jaw; his teeth were intact. He pushed at the binds with his shoulders, making them scrape; the cords held. He let his gaze flick across the room, cataloguing exits, numbers, the placement of crude altars—a pot, a bone, a glass bead threaded on twine. Their eyes were bright, fanatic yet small.

“We don’t want your false gods,” the man continued, voice soft as a knife. “We want the things beyond their reach. We—” his throat closed with some private triumph at saying the name, but he didn’t say it. He smiled instead; the smile asked Zuka to be something other than what he was.

Zuka answered them the way he always answered: with a question he didn’t intend to be rhetorical. “Who are you calling to?” he rasped. He didn’t care for myths; he cared for motives. Names were useful. Gods were distractions.

The taller man hesitated—too long—and the others leaned in, eyes hungry. That was a mistake. Heat and training built in Zuka's limbs like a coming tide; he tested the cords with his knuckles and found the knots were old, poorly tied. They had tied him quickly, in celebration, not with the care of someone who expected him to be useful later. Pride, or perhaps just inexperience, always faltered against cold hands.

He flexed. The cords gave a little. He let them think the motion was pain and not calculation. When he pulled, the first knot slid. When he eased, the second followed. He moved the way a man who had been taught to appear still while everything uncoiled around him—small, controlled motions until the bindings were slack and then gone. In the space between breath and action, he allowed a look at their altar: a bowl of blackened salt, an upturned shard of mirror, and a small, wrapped thing that hummed faintly like a trapped insect. Something old had been called here, or nearly called. That was the part that bothered the god in the throne; that was what had earned him a summons.

By the time the cult member realized he was free the room had already erupted. Zuka’s movements were not theatrical—they were efficient, brutal, and economical. He rolled, rose, and used the nearest man as a shield in a way that bent the crowd without giving ground. A blade came for his throat; his forearm caught it, a hard block that jarred through bone and set the world to ringing. He twisted, closing distance, and the first man in reach found himself on the wrong end of a broken strap. A second lunged with a rusted spear and found his ribs met with an elbow that moved like a lever.

They had numbers and fervor and the dangerous illusion that faith could replace skill. Zuka had training and experience and the kind of coldliness that made him keep counting limbs and openings like a merchant counting coins. He moved through them and between them, a set of practiced counters and strikes that left little room for pity.

But then something else happened: bells, suddenly clattering, a chorus sounded as the cultists tried to call their prayers back into focus. The taller dove for the small wrapped thing on the altar and tore the bindings—too late. Zuka reached in with a hand when the follower faltered and felt the thing hum hotter than it should, a pressure rising that made the hairs on his arms stand up. “No,” he said, but the words were drowned out by the clamor of a dozen throats raised in panic.

A net—weighted—fell from the rafters. Half the room was caught in it. A spike strapped to a pole caught Zuka across the shoulder, driving the wind from him. Someone smashed a bottle against the back of his head; hot black stars blossomed, and then the world was again a slow, soft darkness.

When he woke the second time it was to the scent of rot and oil and the sound of chanting muted by a cavern of earth. He was back in a quieter place: a cellar this time, not the main hall. Light leaked through a crack overhead like a blade of day. His bindings were gone—but his legs were heavy, his head a drum. His hand found his belt by habit and named absence: his blade was missing. So was the little charm he kept pressed to his palm.

A woman moved in the dim, her eyes wide with something like religious rapture upon seeing him awake. “You will be offered,” she whispered, as if speaking from memory, then left. The phrase landed with very little reverence.

Zuka pushed to his feet. He moved slow enough to seem dizzy and not dangerous. He needed time to count, to plan, and to find where his weapons had been hidden. The cultists were thorough in some ways: they had blindfolded him while tying him earlier and had stripped him of obvious tools.

However—the air changed—small, like breath before speech—and then one by one the sounds of the cellar shifted. Above the dull thrum of chanting he heard a different music: a metallic slide, a click, the whisper of something being remade.

Steel bled back into being beneath his fingertips. The familiar shape of his gear formed as if pulled out from the dark itself: a heavy, obscene weight that made him legendary, that promised ruin, destruction—and everything bloody in the palm of his hands. The smell of oil stitched itself to his clothes. He cradled it with the affection of a seasoned thing knowing its maker. It was not subtle; it did not pretend to be anything but a thing that erased distance and complicates cause.

The cultists’ voices rose in triumph upstairs—no doubt whoever looked over them planned some crescendo. Good. Let them sing. Zuka tested the launcher’s balance, feeling the heat of its entirety. He had been careful earlier with a measured shot; now there would be no measured anything but the precise application of overwhelming.

He didn’t tiptoe. He walked up the stairs like doom in a cloak.

The main room saw him come back into the open: banners aflutter, offerings scattered, the wrapped thing now unbound and laid across the altar like a miracle about to be born. The cultists froze because in the space of a heartbeat the light in a man’s eyes can delineate whether you are a god or something else entirely. Zuka aimed the bazooka as if he were lining up a photograph—two careful breaths, then the decision to unmake what stood.

He fired into the center of their congregation.

The blast did not whisper. It tore through the room with a sound like the world being rewritten. Timber exploded outward; the altar convexed in a brief, obscene bloom of flame and ash; glass and bone and prayer-ribbons became confetti in a wind that answered the call of metal and powder. The shockwave collapsed roofs and made the cultist’s chants into ragged fragments. Those near the point of impact were gone in a way that left no room for later myths. Windows were nothing but ragged teeth. The floor buckled and threw people like dolls; some were knocked into corners and stayed very still. Others, farther out, were flung against posts or dragged into the sky’s roar when a tether snapped and the wind took wanton interest.

He fired again, not out of rage but for speed—two, three launches into choke points and clustered rooms where they might have hidden more of their talismans. Each shot ate a room and left behind an answer. When the smoke thinned and the ringing in his ears dimmed into a low eager hum, the hideout was a ruin that smelled of iron and something older, raw and bitter. The small wrapped thing had vanished in the first bloom of heat; whether it had been unmade or sent somewhere else, he could not tell. He did not slow to wonder.

Bodies lay where they had fallen; a few moved, coughing, trying to draw breath through the dust. Zuka moved through the smoke with lethal calm. He picked men off as they scrambled from beneath beams—one foot to the jaw, a blade to a throat, a rocket where the others had gathered to crawl and make plans. He took no pleasure in it; he removed a problem. That was all.

At the far edge of the wreckage, one that remained tried to crawl away, hands clawing at the earth. Zuka walked to him and stood over the man, the bazooka bisecting the dim between them like a promise. For a second the fool stared up, and the fanaticism in his eyes had become a desperate, mortal thing—fear stripped of ceremony.

“You called for something older,” Zuka said, voice flat. “Did it answer?” He did not wait for an answer. He brought the launcher down at the nearest support beam and fired a point-blank salvo that turned the final hiding place into a column of collapsing wood and dust. The follower’s scream was swallowed in the bloom.

When the last echo faded, Zuka lowered the weapon. He was unbloodied more by design than fortune—his style was to leave the mess to the earth and cover his hands with smoke, not gore—but the scent of everything burned clung to him. He had desecrated their altar, their faith, and their capacity for interruption. The hideout was not only destroyed; it was rendered a warning: do not gather here anymore.

He moved through the ruin, extinguishing stray embers with his boots and stamping out a few still-smoking offerings. He collected the pieces of the cult’s talismans that had not been wholly consumed—fragments of glass with symbols scrawled, a bone flicker—and crushed them underfoot. It was a small, private ritual of his own.

Then—noise.

A crash, muffled shouting, the frantic thud of something striking stone. It came from deeper within the collapsed structure—one of the surviving chambers where the blast hadn’t quite reached. Zuka’s head lifted, the sound drawing his focus sharper than any map could. He slung the bazooka back into its fold of smoke and strode toward the noise, bootsteps heavy and certain against the scorched floor.

The air thickened as he descended the half-collapsed stairwell. The smell of burnt incense mixed with the acrid sting of metal—blood, dust, something mortal and terrified. Another shout—high-pitched, defiant. Young.

“Let go of me, you freak! You smell like mold!”

Zuka paused at the doorway. The voice was too raw, too furious to be rehearsed. He kicked the door open.

Inside, the remnants of the cult had built a mock sanctum—a circular room with runes smeared across the walls in ash and wax, a pit of coals at the center still sputtering red. A lone follower, robe torn and hair wild, was dragging a struggling blue-horned inphernal, no older than twelve was across the floor toward the glowing circle. The boy kicked viciously, heel connecting with the man’s shin. The impact drew a strangled hiss of pain.

“The offering resists!” the follower shrieked, half to himself, half to whatever god still listened. “Our god will take what remains—”

He didn’t finish.

Zuka’s blade—summoned from his belt with a flicker of air—found the space between his ribs cleanly. The man’s words broke into a wet gasp before collapsing into silence. He fell, heavy, his blood seeping into the grooves of the chalked runes. The glow sputtered out.

The boy—small, with grime streaked across his cheeks—stared at the corpse, breath harsh. Then he spun on Zuka, eyes blazing.

“You—! You could’ve warned me!” he snapped, voice cracking but sharp. “What if you missed?!”

Zuka blinked once. The kid’s first thought wasn’t fear. It was irritation.

“Didn’t,” he said simply, wiping the blade against his sleeve before dismissing it back into his belt. “You’re welcome.”

“Welcome?!” The boy’s hands balled into fists. “You just killed someone right in front of me!”

“Someone,” Zuka said, tone dry as dust, “was about to kill you.” He took a step closer, slow, deliberate. “Not that you seemed too helpless.”

The boy glared up at him, chin raised despite the height difference. His shirt was torn, one knee scraped, but he looked more offended than frightened. “I would’ve handled it,” he shot back. “He was slow.”

Zuka almost snorted. “That right?”

“Yeah. I bit him.” The boy lifted his chin higher, defiant. “And I was gonna throw him in the fire.”

That earned him a brief silence—then a low hum from Zuka, half amusement, half curiosity. The kid had that fire, that much was certain. The wrong kind for attention, maybe, but the kind that made him survive.

He crouched, just enough to meet the boy’s gaze. “What’s your name, bite-sized?”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Name, then.”

“Rocket.”

The word came like a spark—quick, hot, and unflinching.

Zuka tilted his head. “I take it your gear is the very thing?”

“Dangerous as it can sound,” Rocket shot back. “And powerful, loud. Better than being quiet and boring like you.”

That earned him a faint, almost imperceptible curve at the corner of Zuka’s mouth. He reached out, grabbing the front of Rocket’s shirt in one smooth motion and lifting him off the ground like one might appraise a stray animal. Rocket thrashed, arms flailing, but Zuka held him easily, eyes narrowing as he examined the boy’s face in the dim red light.

The kid had a streak of dried blood at his temple—someone else’s, not his. His eyes, bright and sharp, had that look Zuka knew too well: the refusal to break, even when it would’ve been easier to.

“You’ve got more bite than sense,” Zuka muttered.

“Put me down, you—! You—overgrown scarecrow!”

Zuka’s grip didn’t loosen. He studied him another moment, as though trying to understand what kind of creature he’d just dragged out of this ruin. The boy kicked once more, catching his thigh. Zuka barely flinched.

“You got family here?” Zuka asked.

“Do I look like the kind to get kidnapped if I actually had one?” Rocket snapped. “Now let go!”

“Fine.” Zuka set him down—roughly, but without harm. The kid landed on his feet, arms crossed, glaring.

Zuka looked around the chamber one last time. The runes were gone, their power extinguished by blood and heat. Only smoke lingered now.

“They took you for an offering,” Zuka said, almost to himself. “Wrong kind of fire.”

Rocket’s eyes flicked to the fallen cultist, then back up. “You done killing people, or should I duck again?”

“Depends if anyone else’s stupid enough to come at me.”

Rocket scoffed, rubbing his wrist where the ropes had chafed. “You’re scary, old man.”

“Not old.”

“You sound old.”

“And you talk too much.”

Their gazes met again—one cool and unreadable, the other young and burning with rebellion. Somewhere above, the ruined beams groaned, ash drifting down like snow. The wind outside had changed; the storm had moved on.

Zuka sighed through his nose, then turned toward the exit. “Let’s go, Rocket.”

“Go where?” the boy demanded, trailing after him anyway.

“Away from this mess.”

Rocket hesitated only a heartbeat before hurrying to keep up. “I’m not going anywhere with a guy who just blew up half a mountain.”

Zuka didn’t look back. “Then keep up.”

“You’re not the boss of me!”

“I will be if you fall behind.”

The boy huffed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “You already act like one.”

Zuka allowed himself a faint smirk as they stepped out into the storm’s fading light. The ruin burned behind them, and the wind carried away what was left of the cult’s whispers.

The storm had dulled to a restless wind, the kind that still carried the scent of smoke and iron long after the fires had died. The path ahead was nothing more than broken stone and tangled roots, winding toward the far edge of the valley where Zuka had left his mount tethered around the cliffs.

Rocket followed half a step behind, kicking at bits of rubble with unnecessary force. He’d scavenged a stick from somewhere, using it to jab at the ground as if punishing the dirt itself.

“So,” the boy started, his voice slicing through the quiet, “what exactly are you? Some kind of witch? Or a bounty hunter with no social skills?”

Zuka didn’t turn. “Neither.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

Rocket huffed, clearly unimpressed. “You’ve got the whole mysterious loser-loner thing going, huh? Bet you think it’s cool.”

“I don’t think,” Zuka replied dryly, “I just am.”

The boy snorted, grinning in spite of himself. “That’s the most boring thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Then stop listening.”

Rocket shot him a look, but the edge of it softened. He was limping slightly—his left leg must’ve taken a knock—but he refused to slow down. Every few steps, he glanced at Zuka’s weapon holsters like he was trying to memorize their make.

“That thing you used back there,” he said, nodding toward the faint outline of the bazooka’s strap over Zuka’s shoulder, “the big one—how does it work? Is it magic? No—Your gear? Tech? Both? It looked like it made fire out of smoke, which is kinda unfair, by the way.”

Zuka’s gaze flicked down at him, unimpressed but faintly amused. “You ask too many questions for someone who almost got sacrificed.”

“Hey, I was holding my own.”

“Sure.”

“I was!” Rocket jabbed his stick at Zuka’s leg. It hit solidly, and he immediately yelped when Zuka grabbed the end and snapped it clean in half with one hand.

“Next time,” Zuka said, dropping the splintered wood, “pick a better weapon.”

Rocket stared, indignant. “You didn’t have to break it!”

“You were wasting your energy.”

“I was making a point!”

“Poorly.”

For a moment, Rocket just stood there, glaring daggers. Then, with a muttered “You’re impossible,” he jogged to catch up again. The clouds above them shifted, cutting thin ribbons of light through the smoke-stained air.

They walked in silence for a stretch—long enough that Rocket’s restlessness began to show again. He glanced at Zuka, studying him openly now.

“So… who sent you?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you just go around blowing up cults for fun.”

Zuka didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were on the horizon, where the peaks met the fractured remains of the floating island far above—its faint glow still visible through the mist.

“Orders,” he said finally. “Nothing more.”

Rocket squinted. “You take orders from someone?”

“That’s how hierarchy works.”

“Bet you don’t like it much.”

Zuka didn’t respond, but something in his jaw tightened. The boy caught it, smirked, and decided that counted as a win.

They reached the ridge, and the wind hit harder here—cold and high, carrying grit that stung the eyes. Below, in the shadow of the cliff, Zuka’s mount waited: a sleek, dark-scaled beast with eyes that glimmered faintly green. It snorted when it saw them, the earth trembling under its claws.

Rocket’s eyes widened, sparkling in the remains of what childish glee. “Whoa. You ride that?”

Zuka vaulted down the slope without answering. “Get on.”

Rocket hesitated. “Wait, you mean, like, on it? While it’s moving?”

“No,” Zuka deadpanned. “We’ll carry it instead.”

Rocket gave him a flat look. “You’ve got jokes now.”

“Only bad ones.”

“That’s the only kind you know, huh?”

Zuka mounted first, settling easily into the saddle. He looked back once. “You coming or staying?”

Rocket hesitated another beat, then scrambled awkwardly up behind him. The beast shifted beneath their weight, muscles rippling like coiled metal. Rocket gripped the edge of Zuka’s belt instinctively.

“Don’t fall,” Zuka said.

“Don’t crash,” Rocket shot back.

Zuka made a quiet sound—almost a laugh, but too faint to confirm. Then, with a low whistle, the beast lunged forward, leaping from the ridge and diving onto the sweeping plains.

The ground ran beneath them. Wind roared around their ears, tearing through Rocket’s hair. He whooped once—half fear, half exhilaration—and Zuka could feel the vibration of it through his back.

“Still think I’m boring?” Zuka called over the wind.

Rocket grinned fiercely. “You’re getting there!”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Zuka reined the beast to a halt as dusk settled like dust over the plains. The light stretched long and gold across the grass, casting their shadows ahead—one tall and steady, one smaller but restless, twitching with unspent energy.

They rode until the last sliver of daylight bled out and lanterns began to glimmer in the distance—a trading stop, no more than a scattering of low, crooked houses around a weary inn. Smoke curled from the chimney, thin and pale against the darkening sky.

Rocket was the first to speak. “Please tell me we’re stopping,” he said, his voice muffled by the scarf Zuka had given him to block the wind. “Because I’m like, two minutes from falling off and dying dramatically.”

“Dramatically,” Zuka repeated, deadpan.

“Yeah. I’d make it look good!”

Zuka glanced back just long enough to see the boy’s half-grin—cocky and exhausted all at once. He didn’t answer, only steered the beast toward the innyard, its claws crunching against the gravel.

Inside, the inn was dim but warm. Old wood, low ceilings, a faint smell of stew that had been simmering too long. A few travelers hunched over their drinks, but no one looked twice at a cloaked soldier and a dirty, half-wild kid trailing behind.

Rocket sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “Smells like socks and boiled sadness.”

Zuka gave the innkeeper a few coins and didn’t dignify that with a response.

They were given a narrow room upstairs—two cots, a cracked window, and a basin of water that looked only slightly cleaner than the floorboards. Rocket dropped onto one of the beds immediately, boots still on, arms crossed behind his head.

“This is luxury,” he announced. “I could get used to this.”

Zuka set his pack down with a thud. “Take your shoes off.”

Rocket didn’t move. “You’re not the boss of me.”

Zuka raised an eyebrow. “Want to sleep in the stable?”

Rocket glared for a moment, then kicked off his boots with exaggerated defiance. “There. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

Zuka knelt by the basin, washing the soot and grime from his hands before tearing a strip of cloth to clean a shallow cut along his forearm. Rocket watched, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You got hit,” the boy said. “Didn’t even flinch.”

Zuka didn’t look up. “Would it have helped?”

“Would’ve made you seem normal.”

Zuka gave a quiet snort. “I’ll pass.”

Rocket grinned. “Figures. You bleed like everyone else, though.”

Zuka wrung the cloth out and tossed it aside. “You planning to start a lecture on mortality?”

“Maybe,” Rocket said, sitting up. “Or maybe I just think you’re bad at taking care of yourself.”

Zuka looked at him then—one brow raised, an expression that clearly said You’re one to talk.

Rocket caught it immediately. “Hey, I’m fine! Little bruise, little scratch, nothing I can’t handle.”

Zuka reached for the kit on the table. “Show me.”

“No.”

“Show me.”

Rocket hesitated, scowling, then grudgingly rolled up his sleeve. His arm was scraped raw from rope burns, with a purpling bruise near his wrist. Zuka didn’t comment—just dabbed ointment onto the skin, careful but firm.

Rocket hissed. “Ow! You trying to melt my arm off?”

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still!”

Zuka’s tone didn’t change. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Rocket made a noise halfway between a growl and a whine. “You’re awful at bedside manners.”

“I’m not a medic.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Despite his protests, Rocket didn’t pull away again. The room was quiet save for the soft scrape of cloth and the distant murmur of the inn below. When Zuka finally tied the last strip of gauze, Rocket flexed his fingers experimentally.

“Good as new,” he said, smirking. “Maybe I’ll punch someone tomorrow to test it.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not? You’d probably approve.”

“I’d have to fix you again.”

Rocket opened his mouth to retort—then shut it, clearly unsure if that counted as a threat or something else.

Zuka leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. “Get some sleep. We leave at first light.”

Rocket lay down, still watching him through half-lidded eyes. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

“Bet you scare everyone off before they get to know you.”

“That’s the point.”

Rocket huffed from his cot, twisting so his arm hung over the side. The bruises along his wrist caught the lanternlight, blooming violet and gold against his skin. “You sound like them,” he muttered.

Zuka opened one eye. “Them?”

“The gods.” Rocket’s voice carried a bitterness too old for a child. “Deities, rulers, whatever you call them. You talk like you don’t need anyone. Like you’re all just—” He snapped his fingers, searching for the word. “Untouchable. And better than the rest of us.”

Zuka tilted his head back, the faintest hint of a smirk ghosting his lips. “You’ve met one, then.”

“Met her? Lived under her.” Rocket sat up, his silhouette sharp against the dim window. “She’s all storms and destruction and big speeches about pleasure through destruction.” He scoffed. “Pleasure, my ass. You know what she did when I tried to use my gear for the first time? Kicked me out.”

Zuka didn’t reply. He didn’t look surprised; he’d heard hatred before—men and women who had been carved by gods and left raw. But the voice that said it was thin and young, and it carried the kind of private hurt that made a man listen a little closer.

“I blew a hole in a tether line once. I used my thing.” He said the name like it was both a sin and a confession—my thing—and Zuka heard the weight behind it—then the child continued. “Yeah. I used my gear. Just once. For fun. I thought it’d be funny to see which way the wind would pick the pieces up. It was—” Rocket made a face that was part pride and part shame—“—wild. It was loud enough to drown out the bells in Splintered Skies. People screamed. Tethers went boom! Then, some idiot on the bridges got knocked off and didn’t stick. Windforce had to come down and fix the lines herself.”

He flicked a finger, as if that image was an insult hurled at a god’s dignity. “She looked at the mess like it’d embarrassed her. Then she pointed at me. ‘Out,’ she said. Just like that. No trial. No mercy. Out.” then a loud, exasperated scoff. “She does worse things! What the hell!” Then after a second, he drops back onto the cot with a loud ‘fump’.

Zuka listened. He had seen the way deities behaved—he’d stood in the same throne room where Darkheart toyed with ownership and amusement—and he’d been called to tidy up the mess over and over. He’d thought himself practiced at not caring; Rocket’s fury was small, fresh, and therefore honest in a way that old cynicism never was.

“Hence the name,” Zuka said.

Rocket’s grin returned, twitching like a lit fuse. “Yeah. Gear picks you as much as you pick it, maybe.” He wiggled his fingers as if remembering a weight. “My launcher’s loud. It’s stupid and huge and it scares my enemies. I don’t bring it out unless I want an entire province to know I exist. I used it once and, well—” He shrugged, unapologetic. “They all think I’m violent. Which, fair. I am. But when has anyone not been? Especially up there.” he jabs a finger up above.

Zuka let a faint, amused sound escape him. “You and my bazooka would get along,” he said. The comment was casual—an observation born from habit; he’d carried his own heavy weapon into the last ruin. The comparison was not lost on him: two monstrous things that enjoyed rewriting distances with thunder.

Rocket’s eyes lit dangerously. “You’re saying we’re similar?” He sat up again, this time, holding excitement akin to that of normal twelve-year-olds, something Rocket couldn’t experience, Zuka notes. Rocket had propped himself on an elbow, the old street-rough cockiness returning full force. “I’ll have you know my launcher is better-looking! My baby is huge!”

“Different aesthetics,” Zuka said dryly. “Yours has flair. Mine is utilitarian.”

“Both explode things,” Rocket snapped, delighted by the simplification as if it were a truth that settled every quarrel. “Both make a mess. What’s the difference?” He paused, sudden seriousness undercutting the bravado. “...I didn’t want to leave. I had nowhere else to go. Nobody.”

Zuka rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly. The soldier in him catalogued the danger of a boy with nothing left to lose; the small, hardened tenderness he very rarely allowed himself registered the rawness in Rocket’s voice. “You survived,” he said simply.

Rocket shrugged, but the motion was brittle. “Barely. I learned how to fight with whatever I could carry. Used a hammer for a while before I got kicked out. Did some stuff, beat people senseless to get food, or a place to sleep, or just to prove I hadn’t been broken. I liked the noise of it. Liked when other people stopped, ya know? Made me feel—” His voice stalled, as if what he felt didn’t have a name. “—not empty.”

Zuka watched him in the half-light. “People survive in many ways,” he said. “You survived by being violent.”

“Yeah,” Rocket said, unapologetic and oddly proud. “And I’m not sorry!” He gave a grin that was half challenge, half dare. “If someone tries to take me back to a god who’d kick me for being me, I’ll—” He flexed his fingers, looking pleased with the imagined chaos. “I’ll make sure they regret calling anything ‘pleasure’!”

Zuka’s mouth softened without his permission. “There are worse pledges than not being sentimental about gods,” he allowed.

Rocket’s snark softened a fraction, like a blade dulled just enough to show a nick. “Don’t get too sappy on me, scar-man. I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like anything that makes you small,” Zuka said. Not a threat; almost an insight. “That’s useful to know.”

Rocket watched him, chest rising and falling with a rhythm the night soon flattened into sleep. “So what about you?” he asked after a while, voice hollowed with curiosity he often let surface. “You said you don’t take orders for fun. But are you happy with who you possibly could take them from? Does it matter to you? Huh, scar-man?”

Zuka paused. The question brushed against a part of him he usually kept wrapped—Darkheart’s clipped touches, the edge of possession that had drifted into something like attention. He didn’t answer fully. He never would, not tonight. But he supplied the shape of an answer. “It pays,” he said. “And it keeps me moving.”

Zuka’s voice lingered in the air like smoke from an extinguished candle—quiet, blunt, self-contained.

Rocket shifted under the blanket, the sound of rough fabric brushing against the creak of the cot. He didn’t speak right away.

He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling beams. “Keeps you moving, huh,” he murmured, softer now, as if he wasn’t really asking anymore. “That’s… kinda dumb.”

Zuka looked over. “You’re still talking.”

“I talk when I’m bored,” Rocket mumbled, words slurring a little from exhaustion. “Or when it’s too quiet. Hate quiet. Makes me feel like I’m falling.”

The lamp flickered once. The wind outside thudded against the shutters, heavy with dust and memory.

Zuka leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Then keep talking.”

Rocket yawned, the fight in him softening into something small, unguarded. “I don’t like the way quiet feels,” he said, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “Like everything’s waiting for something bad to happen.”

Zuka made a low sound—agreement, maybe, or just acknowledgment. He’d felt that same edge too many times. The stillness before blood, the calm before an order.

For a while, the only sound was Rocket’s breathing, slowing but still stubbornly awake. Then, through the dim light, came a muffled voice:

“…Hey.”

Zuka turned his head. “What.”

Rocket’s eyelids drooped halfway, lashes dark against his cheek. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

Zuka blinked. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t,” Rocket said, instantly. Then, quieter: “Just… seems weird. Talkin’ to someone and not knowing what to call them.”

Zuka exhaled through his nose, almost a sigh. “B.—Zuka. Just… Zuka.”

Rocket squinted, as if testing how it sounded. “Zuka…” He hummed, like he was rolling the name around on his tongue. “That’s not bad. Bit weird, though. Sounds like something sharp.”

“Fitting,” Zuka said.

“Yeah, I guess.” Rocket turned onto his side, his voice muffled by the blanket. “Zuka.” Another pause. “You… you work for someone very much like those deities, right? No…maybe… even one of them entirely, ‘cuz I can tell from how much of an ass you are—so it must be the case.”

Zuka’s eyes narrowed faintly. “You don’t sleep easy, do you?”

Rocket snickered—half-asleep, half-impish. “Just wonderin’… if you kill people for gods, and I hate gods… does that mean I should hate you too?”

The corner of Zuka’s mouth twitched. “You can try.”

“Mm. Don’t feel like it.” Rocket’s words dragged slower now, fading with every breath. “You’re not… all bad, I think. You didn’t let me die. That’s somethin’.”

Zuka didn’t respond. He just watched the boy’s head sink deeper into the thin pillow, the restless energy ebbing until his breathing evened out—steady, alive.

For a long time, Zuka didn’t move. The room smelled faintly of aged wood and smoke; the light cast soft lines across Rocket’s face and horns, cutting the edge off his usual sharpness. In the shadows, he looked smaller. Younger. Innocent.

And something unfamiliar tugged at Zuka’s chest. Not pity. Not sentiment. Just… recognition.

The same sharp anger, the same refusal to kneel. The same way of biting back at the world before it could bite first. He saw himself in the boy’s curled fists, in the way Rocket slept like someone ready to fight even in his dreams.

Zuka leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes half-lidded. “You don’t know when to stop talking,” he murmured quietly, more to the dark than to the boy. “And you don’t know when to be afraid.”

His gaze lingered a moment longer, then he reached to blow out the lamp.

The room fell into darkness.

Outside, the plains sighed beneath the stars. Inside, a soldier sat watch over a snoring, snarky boy who reminded him too much of a younger version of himself—untamed, dangerous, and far too alive for the world they lived in.

Zuka closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let the quiet come.

This time, it didn’t feel so empty.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Morning broke through the cracks in the shutters, pale light pooling across the inn floor like spilled milk. Zuka was already up—weapons wrapped and slung across his front, his expression its usual unreadable slate.

Rocket, on the other hand, looked like he’d been woken by a war drum. He sat cross-legged on the bed, hair sticking out in every direction, eyes half-glazed with sleep. “You always look like that in the morning?” he muttered, squinting up at Zuka. “All… soldier-y?”

Zuka fastened the last strap on his gauntlet. “You always talk this much before breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Rocket said, defiantly. “You should get used to it.”

Zuka grunted—a sound that might’ve been amusement if you listened hard enough—and tossed a small pack at him. “Eat while we move.”

“Move where?” Rocket caught the pack, fumbling slightly before tearing it open. “You didn’t tell me where we’re going. You said you’d tell me when I woke up.”

“I said no such thing.”

Rocket blinked. “You definitely did.”

Zuka started toward the door. “You talk in your sleep. Maybe you dreamt it.”

Rocket groaned dramatically, shoving a dried strip of meat into his mouth as he stumbled after him. “You’re the worst adult I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not an adult,” Zuka said, deadpan. “I’m working.”

“That’s not—” Rocket scowled. “That’s not even an answer!”

⋆

Rocket trudged behind Zuka, mumbling about how disappointed he was at the fact that he couldn't ride 'Zuka's super-duper cool fast mount' again, to which Zuka replied with 'it ran away cause you were being so loud.' (when in truth, Darkheart had just provided them with an easier route that doesn't take hours, and took back the mount.) He was kicking at pebbles and muttering under his breath. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” he said for maybe the seventh time that hour. “You just wake me up, say ‘move,’ and start walking. What if you’re taking me somewhere to get eaten or something?”

Zuka didn’t even turn around. “You’d already be dead if I was.”

Rocket scowled. “That’s not reassuring, old man.”

Zuka snorted. “You talk too much.”

“I’m twelve, what else am I supposed to do? Just—what’s the point of walking if I don’t even know where we’re going?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

Rocket threw his hands in the air. “That’s not an answer! That’s nothing! You’re the worst—”

“—navigator?”

“Person!” Rocket snapped.

Zuka’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the edge. The boy’s energy was endless, loud, grating—and, somehow, comforting in a way he couldn’t quite define.

The minutes, or an hour stretched, the horizon rolling endlessly ahead until a silhouette began to rise out of the heat: a dark, skeletal structure half-buried in shadow and cloud. The wind grew colder the closer they came, biting through Rocket’s sleeves.

He slowed. “...Wait. That’s not—” He frowned, realization dawning like an unwanted headache. “That’s not normal demon territory, is it?”

Zuka didn’t answer.

Rocket grabbed his sleeve. “Hey. You’re not taking me to some deity’s place, right? Because if you are, I swear I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Zuka said flatly.

Rocket hesitated, then puffed his chest out in mock defiance. “I’ll bite ‘em.”

Zuka gave him a sidelong look. “You’ll bite a deity.”

Rocket’s eyes widened, “I’ll do worse if they try anything!” Rocket said, jabbing a finger toward the horizon. “They’re all the same—crazy, violent, and think they own everything! I already told you! You’re not dragging me into some temple or whatever, you hear me?!”

“Too late,” Zuka said, and without ceremony, he reached out, grabbed the back of Rocket’s collar, and started dragging him forward.

“HEY—HEY, WHAT—PUT ME DOWN!” Rocket twisted, kicking at the air and slapping at Zuka’s arm. “You can’t just—! You don’t even ASK? You’re insane! You’re— you’re kidnapping me again!”

“Relax,” Zuka said dryly, walking as if the boy wasn’t thrashing like a feral cat in his grip. “You’ve got nowhere else to go. You’ll live.”

“I’d rather go literally anywhere else!” Rocket protested, still clawing at Zuka’s wrist. “You can’t take me to a deity—do you want me to die?! What if they decide they hate me on sight?”

“They probably will,” Zuka said. “You’re loud.”

Rocket made an outraged noise, the kind that cracked slightly at the end—half fury, half panic. “Then why are you taking me there!?”

“Because I’m not leaving you on the plains to starve.”

That shut him up for a moment. Just long enough for Zuka to find a secluded stretch of ground—flat and quiet, the kind of place where the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Rocket looked around, wary. “...This better not be some sacrifice thing.”

Zuka ignored him. He stepped forward, boots crunching over dry grass, and said—low, clear, deliberate—“Darkheart.”

The air shuddered. The sound rolled through the world like a silent quake, bending the light around them. The space ahead of them split—not like tearing, but like ink spreading through water—until a dark portal unfolded, edges rippling with faint, crimson light.

Rocket stumbled backward, eyes wide. “What the—no, no, no, no. I’m not going in that thing.”

Zuka looked down at him. “You are.”

“The hell I am! That’s—I know that! Same thing Windforce came out of when she kicked me out—that’s a deity’s door! The kind that looks like it eats people!”

“It only eats the ones who annoy him,” Zuka said, entirely too calm.

Rocket glared at him. “Then you go first!”

“I always do.”

And before Rocket could react, Zuka grabbed him again by the collar, lifted him like an unruly kitten, and stepped straight into the portal.

Rocket’s yell was swallowed by the dark—

a bright flare of protest,

a boy’s voice against the roar of shifting worlds—

and then, with a violent twist of gravity, they were gone.

When the world reshaped itself, it did so in silence—stone pavements stretching beneath a bleeding sky, shadows moving like things alive. Rocket’s knees hit the ground with a dull sound as he staggered forward, dazed, eyes wide at the vast black doors before them.

Zuka stood beside him, unbothered, dusting his hands off.

“Welcome,” he said quietly, “to Darkheart’s castle.”

Rocket looked up, the color draining from his face. “...You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The hall stretched before them like a corridor through the ribcage of something ancient. The air hung heavy—thick with smoke, metal, and the faint pulse of magic humming through the stone. Shadows crawled where torches burned green, and the vaulted ceiling disappeared into the dark.

Rocket stared, his small form rigid beside Zuka. “You weren’t kidding,” he muttered, voice wavering. “This place reeks of… those.”

Zuka’s hand closed on the back of his collar again (Zuka swears its muscle memory now at this point) before he could take a step backward.

“Move,” Zuka said.

“No! Absolutely not!” Rocket twisted, heels scraping the polished floor. “I’m not going any further—what if he eats kids for breakfast or something?! I heard they do that!”

“He doesn’t,” Zuka said flatly, dragging him anyway.

Rocket kicked uselessly at the air, his voice rising with every word. “You don’t know that! You’re just—augh, you’re just walking me into a deathtrap!”

“Calm down.”

“Calm down?! You’re dragging me to a literal god’s house!” Rocket tried to grab at the pillars as they passed, his fingers slipping off the smooth obsidian. “Zuka! Zuka, I swear, if I die in here, I’m haunting you forever!”

Zuka didn’t slow. His expression didn’t even flicker. “You’d have to die first.”

“That’s not the point!”

“You never have one,” Zuka muttered.

“I always have one!” Rocket kicked again, hitting nothing but air. “I hate this! I hate you! I hate—”

“—walking?”

“YES!”

Zuka’s sigh was long-suffering. He adjusted his grip so Rocket’s collar wasn’t choking him—barely—and kept going. The boy’s feet scuffed and slipped, and his constant stream of complaints echoed down the dimly lit corridor like the world’s smallest thunderstorm.

They passed statues carved from black stone, their faces obscured by hoods and their hands clasped around burning orbs of light. The air grew colder the deeper they went, the sound of Zuka’s boots landing steady against the marble while Rocket’s dragged in protest.

“Zuka, seriously, this place is giving me nightmares already,” Rocket grumbled, trying to dig his heels in. “What kind of person decorates like this? What’s he compensating for, huh?”

“Watch your mouth,” Zuka warned quietly.

Rocket huffed. “Why? You scared he’ll smite me? Go ahead—let him try! I’ll actually—actually bite him first!”

Zuka’s mouth twitched—half irritation, half disbelief that the kid had that much gall. “You’re lucky Darkheart has a sense of humor,” he said.

“I doubt that!” Rocket snapped, still squirming. “He’s probably one of those cold, cryptic, scary types who just—looks at you and you die.”

“Mm,” Zuka said, the smallest trace of amusement leaking through his tone. “You’re not wrong.”

Rocket froze for half a second. “What—?! WHAT?!”

“Move,” Zuka repeated, tightening his grip just enough to haul him over a threshold of dark glass.

They entered another hall—vast, echoing, lined with massive doors that loomed like monoliths. The floor was veined with molten red light that pulsed faintly beneath their feet, as if the castle itself were breathing.

Rocket’s protests turned into mutters. “This place is cursed. I can feel it. I’m a kid and I know better than to step foot in a deity’s house. Which means, since you’re an adult, you’re STUPID!”

Zuka ignored him, as always.

“Are we almost done?” Rocket groaned. “Please tell me this guy’s not gonna make me do, like, kneeling or bowing or chanting or whatever weird ritual stuff deities do.”

“Just kneel and don’t talk,” Zuka said.

Rocket shot him a glare. “That’s basically death for me.”

“I know.”

They stopped before a set of colossal double doors—each carved with swirling shapes that shifted if you looked too long, the edges glowing faintly like embers in the dark. The air here was different—thicker, heavier, as if it carried the weight of watching eyes.

Rocket swallowed, voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s… the throne room, isn’t it?”

Zuka gave a slow nod. “He’s waiting.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

Rocket took one tiny, instinctive step back, already turning around. “You go ahead. Tell him I said hi. I’ll… stay here and, uh—guard the doors, y’know?”

Zuka’s hand found his collar again before he could bolt.

Rocket’s feet left the ground. “Zuka, no—no, no, NO—”

Zuka’s patience was a steel thread, stretched but unbroken. “You can walk in or be dragged in. Pick.”

“Neither!” Rocket yelped, grabbing the doorframe with both hands as Zuka pulled. “You monster!”

Zuka raised an eyebrow. “Big words for someone hanging from a door.”

“I mean them!” Rocket hissed, voice cracking with sheer panic. “If I die, I’ll possess your bazooka and make it explode on you!”

“Sure.”

And with one firm tug, Zuka pried him off the frame and hauled him across the threshold as the great doors groaned open—light spilling through the widening gap like molten shadow.

Rocket’s voice echoed through the chamber as they entered—

“I hate this place!”

Zuka’s grip held steady. “Get used to it.”

The throne room yawned open before them, vast and alive in its silence. Shadows clung to pillars like silk, the air trembling faintly with the hum of unseen power. At the center, high upon an obsidian dais, Darkheart sat sprawled upon their throne—a figure of molten regality draped in dark gold and smoke, their eyes burning twin-red behind the veil of their crown.

Their voice curled through the space, smooth and deep, threading through the air like a low melody.

“Ah,” Darkheart murmured, claws drumming once against the armrest. “Our Hand returns.”

Zuka released Rocket, who immediately stumbled forward, regained his footing, and crossed his arms in tight defiance. His glare—small but fierce—met the god’s gaze without a shred of reverence.

Darkheart’s smile curved slow and sharp. “And you’ve brought… a guest.”

Rocket opened his mouth—likely to say something profoundly stupid—but Zuka’s hand landed on his shoulder, heavy enough to silence him.

“Found him at the cult’s hideout,” Zuka said, stepping forward. “They were preparing him as a sacrifice. Cult’s gone now.”

Darkheart’s head tilted, eyes glinting brighter. “Gone,” they echoed softly. “We expected nothing less.”

They leaned forward, the dim light gliding along their clawed fingers as they rested their chin upon their palm. “You did well, little soldier. Again.”

Rocket’s eyes darted between them, confusion tightening his expression. “Wait, that’s your boss?” he whispered to Zuka, not quietly enough. “He’s so creepy.”

Darkheart’s laughter rang low and rich, rippling through the chamber. “How delightful,” he purred. “He speaks boldly for one so small.”

Rocket bristled. “I’m not small.”

“Mm,” Darkheart hummed. “We disagree.”

The boy’s mouth twisted in indignation. “Well, I disagree with you.”

Zuka pinched the bridge of his nose. “Rocket.”

“What?!”

“Stop talking.”

“I’m defending myself!”

Darkheart rose from his throne in one fluid motion, descending the steps with the slow, regal grace of a predator that had no need to chase. The air shifted—the weight of their presence pressing against the walls, thick and electric.

Rocket went rigid but didn’t step back.

When Darkheart reached them, he circled once, studying the mortal child as though inspecting a rare, unruly creature. Their hand lifted—a talon tracing idly along Rocket’s neck, the faintest graze that made him flinch but not retreat.

“Sharp eyes,” Darkheart murmured. “And sharper words. Tell us, child—what name do you answer to?”

Rocket swallowed but squared his shoulders. “Rocket.”

“Rocket,” Darkheart repeated, tasting it like smoke. “A fitting spark for a child that once belonged to our sister’s. We can smell the destruction clinging to you.”

Rocket scowled. “You got a weird way of giving compliments.”

Zuka couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped him—half a grunt, half amusement. Darkheart’s eyes slid toward him.

“You approve, Hand?” they asked.

Zuka’s tone was even, light. “He’s loud, reckless, and stubborn. But he survived. That’s worth something.”

A soft chuckle rippled through Darkheart’s voice. “You’ve brought us something more entertaining than your usual spoils.” They looked down again, eyes gleaming. “Tell us, Rocket—do you fear gods?”

Rocket lifted his chin, defiance flaring bright and reckless. “Only the ones that deserve it.”

Darkheart’s grin spread, too wide, too knowing. “Remarkable.”

Zuka cleared his throat before the deity could press further. “The mission’s complete,” he said, voice grounding the room again. “The cult’s leader and their altars are gone. No remnants left to resurrect their worship.”

Darkheart turned to him fully, their amusement deepening into something darker, slower—satisfaction that bordered on fondness. “Ever efficient,” they murmured. “We had no doubt.”

Their hand—clawed, elegant, and cold—lifted to Zuka’s chin, a gesture he knew too well. The faintest scrape of nail against skin, a mock caress.

“You’ve pleased us again, little soldier,” Darkheart whispered. “And yet, we sense your distaste for praise.”

Zuka met their gaze without flinching. “You sense correctly.”

Darkheart laughed softly, drawing back. “Still so unbent. We adore that about you.”

Rocket, meanwhile, muttered under his breath, “You two are weird.”

Darkheart’s head snapped toward him, eyes flashing, but instead of anger, his expression bloomed into delighted curiosity, hands clasped together like a proud mother. “We like him,” they decided.

Zuka exhaled through his nose. “Figures.”

“Keep him,” Darkheart said, then, while gesturing lazily, “we are curious to see what becomes of this spark under your watch. Perhaps he’ll either temper your silence—or burn himself out trying.”

Rocket blinked. “Wait, what?”

Zuka looked down at him. “Congratulations. You’re my problem now.”

Rocket gaped. “That’s not—! I didn’t sign up for this!”

Darkheart’s laughter followed them like a spell as Zuka turned toward the exit, one hand already closing around Rocket’s collar again.

“Oh, but we think you did,” the deity purred, the sound echoing down the hall.

Rocket kicked at the air as he was dragged once more, voice cracking with outrage. “Zuka! I swear—I’m not living with your stupid ass—!”

Zuka didn’t answer. But there was the faintest hint of a smirk as he replied, low, almost lost to the distance—

“Watch me.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Time blurred after that.

Days folded into weeks, weeks into months—each marked by the echo of footsteps across marble halls and the faint hum of a god’s laughter lingering where light didn’t quite reach.

It began with an agreement—spoken in Darkheart’s velvet tones, signed not with ink, but with the weight of inevitability.

Whenever Zuka was summoned to the field—to purge, to hunt, to remind the mortal world what divine wrath looked like—Rocket would remain in Darkheart’s domain. A temporary ward, the deity called him. “A guest of our house,” they said, though their grin carried too many teeth for comfort.

Rocket, predictably, had opinions.

“You mean prisoner,” he muttered the first time Zuka left, arms crossed, eyes sharp as flint. “A gilded one, maybe, but still a prisoner.”

Darkheart had only laughed, a sound like smoke slithering through silk. “If you wish to think so, little spark. The gilding is quite fine.”

And so it went.

Whenever Zuka rode off into the storm, Rocket would linger in the vast halls—restless, suspicious, a coil of unspent energy. He hated the silence, hated the way the walls breathed with unseen life. Servants gave him a wide berth; even the shadows seemed to watch.

Except one shadow, which always watched.

Darkheart had a way of keeping close. Never fully visible, never far. A low whisper trailing through Rocket’s own silhouette, a flicker in the corner of his eye. Sometimes it was only a voice, rich and teasing—other times, a shape rising from the dark at his heels.

“We see you pacing again,” the voice would murmur from the stone beneath him.

Rocket would glare down at his own shadow. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking through my feet!”

“Ah, but your feet are where you wander,” Darkheart mused. “It’s only polite we accompany you.”

“Yeah? Well, next time, trip me and get it over with.”

The deity’s laughter would ripple through the air, warm and cold at once.

Rocket pretended not to shiver.

When Zuka returned—always through the same great gates, always with dust and blood clinging to his coat—Rocket was the first to spot him. He never said it aloud, but he counted the days, marking them in his head like quiet prayers he’d never admit to making.

“You look worse,” Rocket would say, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Again.”

“Job got messy,” Zuka would reply, voice steady as ever.

Rocket scowled. “You say that like it’s normal.”

“It is.”

That answer never failed to irritate him. “You work for psychos,” he grumbled.

Darkheart’s laughter would ripple through the hall before Zuka could respond. “We heard that.”

Rocket didn’t even flinch anymore. “Good.”

Every mission brought Zuka back with new scars—some shallow, some deep, all wearing that quiet inevitability that frightened Rocket more than he’d ever admit. And with every scar, something in him twisted tighter.

He hated gods. Hated what they made mortals do.

He told himself that every night he slept in the velvet-draped guest chambers of Darkheart’s castle—the ones that felt too large for one person, too watchful. He told himself that every time Darkheart’s voice coiled out of the dark like amusement made flesh.

And yet—he stayed. Because when Zuka wasn’t there, no one else knew how to make the world outside the castle sound less terrifying.

So Rocket filled the space with noise instead.

He stomped through the halls, picked fights with armored sentinels that couldn’t feel pain, complained about the castle’s food (“Who eats soup that glows, seriously?!”), and threw glares sharp enough to cut stone whenever Darkheart’s laughter followed him.

And Darkheart, ever indulgent, only watched—through mirrors, through shadow, through the very flicker of the boy’s defiance.

“We see so much of him in you,” they murmured once, voice rippling from the ground beneath Rocket’s feet.

Rocket froze. “Who?”

A pause. Then a whisper: “Our soldier.”

Rocket glared at his own shadow. “I’m nothing like him.”

Darkheart chuckled, low and knowing. “No, little spark. You burn brighter.”

Rocket didn’t have a retort for that. He just kicked at the marble and stormed off, muttering something about “creepy shadow stalkers.”

But when night came, and the castle went quiet, he’d sit by the great windows, staring out toward the storm-churned horizon—where he knew Zuka was, somewhere under Darkheart’s orders, fighting for gods Rocket swore he’d never bow to.

And yet, when he heard those boots again—heavy, steady, familiar—Rocket always found himself at the door before Zuka could even knock.

Each time, his words were the same.

“Took you long enough, old man.”

And each time, Zuka would smirk just slightly before answering, “You talk too much, kid.”

Then, there was a time after that.

A few days had passed since Zuka had recently left (once again) for a ‘mission’ that was not Darkheart’s.

Darkheart had noticed the change on the fifth day.

Rocket wasn’t sleeping much—restless footsteps echoing down the marble corridors, a small shape pacing and pacing, muttering sharp words under his breath that he thought no one could hear.

The boy who used to fill the castle with noise—arguments, sarcasm, challenges—had gone quiet in a way that gnawed at even a deity of shadows.

By the seventh day, Rocket had taken to sitting at the foot of the grand staircase, chin in his palms, glaring at the front gates like he could force them to open.
Darkheart’s shadow spilled beside him, faintly amused but tinged with something heavier.

“He’ll be fine,” the deity’s low voice said from Rocket’s shadow, curling lazily like smoke. “Your mortal is tougher than he looks.”

Rocket kicked at the ground. “He’s not my mortal,” he muttered. “And I don’t care if he’s tough—he’s late.”

There was silence for a moment, then the faintest whisper of sympathy. “You’re worried.”

“I’m not!” Rocket snapped too quickly, rubbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “He’s probably off doing his stupid important, top-secret missions, blowing stuff up, shaking hands or somethin’, and being all… stoic.” He scowled, voice cracking halfway through the word. “...Idiot.”

Darkheart didn’t press. He only watched the boy sulk and sniffle and pace until the moon rose high and pale over the castle’s black spires.

Then—

The doors groaned open.

Zuka stepped through, limping slightly, armor scratched and smoke-stained. His bazooka hung across his back like an exhausted limb. He looked—tired. Alive, but tired.

Rocket froze for half a second. Then, with a sound halfway between a yell and a sob, he bolted forward.

“You absolute moron!” he yelled, voice cracking as he collided with Zuka’s chest. He hit him with all the force his small body could muster—tiny fists beating against Zuka. “You—stupid—useless—idiot!”

Zuka froze, stunned—then his hands found the boy’s back, awkward, unpracticed in gentleness. For a breathlong instant he held him like one holds something precious and uncertain, feeling the tremor under the boy’s grip. The soldier in him catalogued the ache: raw throat, the slick rash of tears on the boy’s cheek, the small, fierce animal breath. He didn’t move to push Rocket off. He did not scold. He let the boy be loud and furious. Zuka allowed him the weakness he wasn’t up in the skies. “...Rocket—”

“I thought you were left me for good!” Rocket shouted, tears streaking down his face as he tried to shove him. “You didn’t even send a message or—or something! Not even once! You just went quiet, and I had to listen to that stupid shadow telling me you were fine—” He hiccuped. “And I hated it!”

Zuka caught the boy’s wrists mid-swing before he could punch again. His voice was quiet, gentle even through the exhaustion. “Hey. I’m here.”

Rocket squirmed for a second longer, then gave up and just clung to him—face pressed against his chestplate, shoulders shaking.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Rocket mumbled thickly, muffled by metal and embarrassment. “Or I’ll—blow you up or something.”

Zuka huffed a low laugh. “I’d like to see you try, little man.”

From the corner of the room, Darkheart’s shadow rippled faintly along the wall—amusement coiling through the air like smoke.

“Touching reunion,” the deity murmured, tone teasing but soft. “Try not to destroy the castle while you’re at it.”

Rocket glared over Zuka’s arm, cheeks still damp. “Shut up, shadow creep!”

He then tightened his grip on Zuka’s cloak, muttering something about “idiots” and “never doing that again,” voice small but alive.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Afterwards then, Rocket had finally learned, over the months,  that Darkheart’s castle was a place that existed between hours. Stayed there long enough for Rocket to memorize the pattern of the stone ceiling above his bed in Darkheart’s castle. Long enough for him to stop flinching at the flicker of shadows that whispered like voices, or the cold, wordless hum that meant Darkheart was nearby. It didn’t matter if the sun was up or the moons were out—inside, the air always had the same half-lit hum, the same weightless feeling like time didn’t dare touch the place.

He hated that feeling—but he just… ignored it now.

Or at least, he said he did. In truth, he’d grown used to it. Used to the whisper of his own footsteps echoing back from vaulted ceilings, used to the constant murmuring of Darkheart’s shadow following him down long corridors. He’d learned which hallways creaked, which stairs bit your ankles if you took them too fast, which of the servants were actually alive and which were illusions Darkheart kept around because they found them “decorative.”

When Zuka dropped him off, Rocket always put up a fight—snarling, threatening, throwing curses like knives—but in the end, he always went. Because every time he’d see the look on Zuka’s face, the one that said I’ll be back, kid, Rocket knew there wasn’t a real choice. He wasn’t being abandoned; he was being protected. That didn’t make it any easier to watch him leave.

If Darkheart made a remark, Rocket answered with a snide comment and a roll of his eyes. If the god laughed through his shadow, Rocket would stomp on it. If Darkheart teased him for missing Zuka, Rocket would snarl something like “shut up, I don’t miss him, I just want him not dead.”

Still, dangerous work didn’t wait for sentiment.

So when Zuka packed up again—this time with quieter armor and longer blades, the kind he only took on diplomatic or delicate assignments—Rocket found himself being dragged back to the shadowed halls. He didn’t fight as hard this time, but the twist in his face could’ve curdled milk.

“You’ll stay out of trouble,” Zuka said, pushing open the carved iron doors that led into the grand hall.

Rocket clicked his tongue. “You say that like it’s an option.”

And so, again, Rocket trailed behind the pair of them that morning—Zuka, walking with his usual silent confidence, and Darkheart, gliding beside him like a shadow that had learned how to speak. They were talking about something complicated, something about negotiations and plans, but Rocket wasn’t really listening. His hands were in his pockets, his stride just shy of a sulk.

He had grown a little taller since Zuka had first found him, a little sharper in the eyes, though his mouth was still as quick as ever. His snark had become a second language of survival—half shield, half habit.

“Diplomatic mission?” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. “Yeah, right. Probably off to blow something up and call it ‘talks.’”

Zuka, ever attuned to Rocket’s muttering, gave a small huff of laughter without turning. “You’d be surprised. Sometimes diplomacy is explosions.”

“Cool,” Rocket said dryly. “Remind me never to let you talk to people on my behalf.”

Darkheart’s voice came, smooth and amused. “He already does that for you, little spark. It is much safer that way, and therefore you must be gratefu—”

Rocket didn’t look at them. “You mean safer for you.”

“Of course,” Darkheart said, as though it were obvious.

They walked like that for a while—the grand hall was enormous—ceiling lost to dark crystal arches, banners swaying from drafts that shouldn’t exist. Zuka walked beside Darkheart, the two murmuring about routes, emissaries, and coded messages. Rocket trailed behind, hands in his pockets, eyes darting everywhere because the castle liked to move when you weren’t watching.

He was half-listening to their talk when movement caught his eye.

At the far end of the corridor, one of the great double doors had been left slightly ajar. Beyond it, the light shifted—warmer, gold-tinged, like sunlight trying to seep into Darkheart’s cold domain. Two figures stepped through.

The first was tall, regal—dressed in deep greens and golds that gleamed even in the dimness. His posture screamed command, sharp and upright, with the subtle menace of someone who didn’t need to prove power. Ram-like horns curved from his head, polished like obsidian. A general, Rocket guessed immediately. Someone used to being obeyed.

The second figure was smaller—shorter, leaner, trailing behind with bright red horns and a set wings on his back and head that fluttered with careless rhythm. There was something effervescent about them, a kind of reckless warmth that clashed with the solemn air of the castle. The red one’s voice—high, cheerful—bubbled through the half-open door, though Rocket couldn’t make out words.

They didn’t come closer. The two figures passed the hall’s end, their outlines flickering briefly as the door swung wider, then closed on its own with a deep, resonant thud.

Zuka and Darkheart didn’t even glance that way.

But Rocket had stopped walking. His gaze lingered on that door, on the echo of those strangers’ footsteps fading into the castle’s veins. His jaw set, and something in his expression—half suspicion, half curiosity—twitched into place.

He didn’t know who they were, but he already didn’t like them.

Deities. Probably. The way they moved—too fluid, too certain. The kind of people who’d look at mortals like scenery, like toys.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and muttered under his breath, “Great. More freaks.”

Darkheart’s voice hummed through his shadow. “You judge quickly, little storm.”

Rocket glared down at his own feet. “I don’t need to know them to know what they are.”

Zuka half-turned, brow raised. “Still talking to shadows?”

“Still ignoring you,” Rocket shot back, glaring at the door once more before stomping after them. “Just saying—if another god shows up, I’m not bowing.”

Darkheart chuckled low. “We would expect nothing less.”

And as the grand doors shut completely, Rocket couldn’t shake the faint, electric pull that those—or one particularly red stranger had left behind—like static under his skin. He didn’t know it yet, but that single glance would come back to him later.

It always did.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Chapter Text

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Rocket watched Zuka ride away until the dust swallowed him whole, then let out a long, theatrical sigh that could’ve been for show or for real—probably both. The castle closed itself around the place where Zuka had stood: doors thudded, banners shifted, and the hush of marble settled like a blanket. Darkheart’s shadow peeled away in the same moment and drifted off with the rest of the court’s business…only Rocket expected the voice, the edge of amusement, the little prod through his feet. That little prod never came.

“Where the hell is everyone?” he muttered, kicking at a loose flagstone. The echo of his own words slid down the corridor and came back polite and lonely.

He started toward the wing where the two strangers had disappeared—not because he believed he’d find them, but because curiosity is an itch Rocket always scratched. The door they’d passed through was shut, its seam a dark line of polished metal. He eased his shoulder against it like a kid checking whether a closet was locked. Nothing but a low, indifferent hum on the other side.

So he wandered.

The castle’s corridors were a maze that liked to change faces with every turn. Rocket knew enough to keep his hands to himself around relics—unless he wanted to explain why a royal sword now had a dent shaped suspiciously like his boot. He didn’t, so he tested smaller mischief: he pressed the nose of a statue, watched dust puff from its lips, then stuck out his tongue at the stone’s stony expression. A shadowy servant peered from a doorway and blinked at him like he was a squeaky toy that had misplaced its battery; Rocket grinned and sprinted on.

He found the kitchens before the library—huge, warm rooms where cooks moved like waves. One of them tossed him a crust of bread without asking, and Rocket took it like a saint accepting absolution. He sat on a step and chewed, eyes rolling lazily as he listened to the clink and clatter of pans. No Darkheart there, of course; gods didn’t usually overturn stew kettles for fun (except Windforce, and Rocket didn’t bring that up). He could almost hear the missing shadow in the corners—gone. It felt…weird. Untidy.

The gallery was better. Portraits of the family—siblings and spires and people who carried thunder like a pocket watch—stared down with the patient boredom of old things. Rocket walked the line like a bored inspector, making faces at a duke with a particularly furious mustache until his own reflection in a gilt frame laughed at him for being rude.

He tested doors more than he should have. One led to a greenhouse where plants sighed and drooped under the castle’s faint, unnatural lights. He poked at a leaf (it smelled like metal and rain) and then pulled back, satisfied that the plant didn’t bite. Another door opened to a small pool with water so black it ate light; Rocket peered over the edge like he expected to see his own trouble-colored ego. The water looked back like a wound.

Every time he paused, he half-expected Darkheart’s voice to bloom from the floor under him—some cozy, barbed comment about propriety or the quality of his insults. Nothing. No velvet thunder. No tendril of shadow curling at his boots to mimic him. The silence felt like a room with a missing picture: wrong.

He drifted up to the battlements, because rooftops are for thinking badly and throwing pebbles farther than intended. The wind fussed at his hair and tugged at his scarf, however the prickling static he’d felt when the red stranger passed at the door was still under his skin—tiny, electric—like an itch he couldn’t finger. He frowned, worrying at the feeling with his lip.

“Talk to me or don’t,” he told the empty air, half-challenge, half-entreaty. “If you’re hiding, come out. If you’re out doing grown-up deity things, at least leave a note or something.”

Silence answered him properly this time—no amused ripple, no teasing shadow. For someone used to non-stop prodding by a deity, the absence was louder than the presence had ever been.

Finally, bored of grown-up mysteries, he went back inside and flopped into a low window-seat that looked over the inner courts. He idly chipped at the paint with a fingernail, watched a pair of sparrows make a mess of a fountain below, and let the castle hum around him. He made faces at his own shadow and stomped hard to see if it jumped—only a dull, unhelpful wobble.

Minutes sloughed into an hour. The quiet hung a little longer than Rocket liked, which made him fidget and poke at everything within reach—the tassel of a curtain, a rope on a rail, a book’s spine. The little electricity under his skin writhed sometimes, making his jagged teeth feel like they buzzed.

Rocket huffed and leaned back against the cold stone, glaring at his own reflection like it had offended him personally. The castle stayed quiet—too quiet—and the silence dug under his skin like an itch.

“Okay, fine,” he muttered, half to the walls, half to himself. “Maybe fresh air would be nice. Not ‘cause I’m bored or anything. Just—need to breathe. Or punch something.”

He shoved himself off the window seat and stalked toward the spiral stairway that wound up the tower like a ribcage. His boots echoed sharp against the steps, the sound hollow in the high places where the air grew thinner, colder. The climb was long enough for him to start muttering under his breath—complaints, swears, insults directed at gods he didn’t even believe were listening.

When he reached the top floor—the open parapet that ringed the highest spire—he pushed the door open and let the wind slap him full in the face.

It was loud, endless. The world stretched out beneath him, every kingdom a smear of green and silver, clouds like bruises under the sun. He breathed deep, jaw tight, watching the horizon shudder with lightning far away.

“Not bad,” he said, mostly to convince himself.

He leaned his arms on the balustrade, squinting at Splintered Skies floating so very faint in the distance, as faint as a mere speck in the sky. His old home. His old mistake. It shimmered like a wound that refused to close.

He was just about to spit over the edge in symbolic defiance when—

“Hi!”

Rocket jerked.

A voice right behind him—bright, cheerful, entirely too close. He spun, boots slipping against the slick stone—and the world tilted violently. Air screamed past his ears as his stomach dropped. His hands clawed at nothing.

Then—

A grip caught the back of his shirt, hard and fast, wrenching him upright before gravity could finish the job.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Gotcha! You okay?!”

Rocket blinked up—or down, technically—into a grinning face framed by a shock of white hair. The stranger’s red horns gleamed faintly of the gold that wrapped around it in the light, curling neatly from his head. One set of wings fanned out behind him, colorful feathers catching the light, and another smaller pair fluttered at the sides of his head like impatient hands.

The stranger from the hallways?

Rocket blinked, breath caught halfway between fury and panic and awe. “What—who—what the hell are you doing sneaking up on people like that?!”

“Would you stop squirming?” the boy said, tugging him back onto the terrace with surprising ease. “You almost made me drop you, and then I’d have to jump after you, and then we’d both have to explain why we’re splattered on the front gates.”

Rocket stumbled forward, glaring even as his heart beat loud in his ears. “Who the hell sneaks up on people at an edge?! Are you insane?”

The boy blinked, then laughed—actually laughed, light and unbothered. “Maybe a little. You okay?”

Rocket jerked his arm free, brushing off the invisible dust of embarrassment. “Yeah, fine. Thanks for almost killing me, by the way.”

“Almost saving you, you mean,” the boy corrected, folding his wings primly behind him. “You were the one who nearly decided to fly without permission.”

“You made me need saving!”

That shut the other up for a beat. Then he laughed—a clear, ringing sound that felt completely out of place in the storm-dark height. “Fair. My bad. Guess I didn’t think that far ahead.”

Rocket’s pulse was still hammering as he yanked his clothes straight. “You’re an idiot.”

“Probably,” the stranger said easily. “But I’m an idiot who just saved your life, so you’re welcome.”

“You’re one of them,” Rocket said, his tone dropping to a growl. “A deity.”

“Demi-deity,” the boy corrected easily, tilting his head. “Technically. But I prefer Sword.”

Rocket stared. “…So I take it you use a sword, Sword?”

“Yeah.” Sword leaned back on the railing, wings twitching idly. “You look like you don’t believe me.”

Rocket crossed his arms, scowling. “You look like someone who’d be named after kitchen utensils.”

Sword’s grin faltered for half a second before returning, even brighter. “Ouch. That’s harsh. You’ve got a sharp tongue, huh?”

“Better than being a winged idiot who doesn’t know how to introduce himself properly.”

“I said I’m Sword!”

Rocket’s lips twitched, “Cute. You got a halo hidden somewhere with your wings, too?”

“No halo,” Sword said lightly, leaning against the parapet beside him. “Just wings. Want one?”

Rocket side-eyed him. “I’ll pass. Don’t need extra parts weighing me down.”

They stood there for a moment, the wind threading between them, tugging at Rocket’s hair and Sword’s feathers. The air smelled like iron and rain.

Sword’s grin softened into something quieter. “You really almost fell, you know.”

Rocket huffed. “Yeah, well. You really shouldn’t sneak up on people. Especially not from behind.”

“Duly noted.” Sword tilted his head. “You always this angry?”

Rocket looked up at him then, chin tilted, eyes sharp but young. “You always this nosy?”

Sword smiled—bright, easy, the kind that didn’t know how to be offended. “Only when I meet someone interesting.”

Rocket blinked. “You think I’m interesting?”

Sword’s grin softened into something lopsided. “You almost fell off a castle and yelled at the person who saved you. Yeah. That’s pretty interesting.”

Rocket’s chest tightened—something like embarrassment. “You’re weird.”

“Thanks!”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Still taking it as one.”

Rocket groaned and dragged a hand down his face. Sword’s laughter spilled into the wind again, bright and disarming.

It scraped against Rocket’s patience like flint. He turned away sharply, muttering under his breath, of course it’s a deity. That word alone made his stomach twist. He’d almost forgotten for a second—forgotten the horns, the wings, the way the air around Sword shimmered faintly like heat.

Rocket clenched his fists. “Should’ve just let me fall,” he grumbled. “Would’ve saved me the headache of being rescued by one of you.”

Sword blinked, still smiling, though a faint pout tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You mean someone nice? You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Didn’t ask,” Rocket shot back, stomping past him.

Sword tilted his head, falling into step beside him like a particularly cheerful shadow. His footsteps were lighter, too—more a glide than a walk. “You always this cranky, or do I get special treatment?”

Rocket threw him a glare. “You following me for a reason, feathers?”

“Maybe.” Sword shrugged, utterly unbothered. “You looked lost.”

“I’m exploring,” Rocket snapped.

“In circles?” Sword asked, leaning forward slightly to peer at Rocket’s face. “Pretty sure we passed that tapestry like, two times.”

Rocket stopped, turned, and squinted at the nearest wall. Sure enough, there was that same painting of a horned figure holding a sword—ironic. He kicked at the floor with a scowl. “Maybe I like circles.”

Sword laughed again, the sound light and warm like the first flicker of sunrise. “You’re weird.”

“Better than being a deity,” Rocket said, quick and sharp.

That should’ve stung—but Sword only hummed, wings twitching once as if in thought. “You don’t like us?”

Rocket shoved his hands in his pockets. “You burn things down, throw people out, act all high and shiny. What’s there to like?”

“Not all of us do that,” Sword said quietly, and for a moment, the boyish playfulness dimmed. “Some of us are just… trying.”

Rocket rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, try harder.”

Sword didn’t take the bait this time. Instead, he walked a few steps ahead, turning to grin over his shoulder. “Come on, grump. If you’re gonna wander, at least do it with someone who knows where he’s going.”

“I don’t need a tour guide,” Rocket barked.

“Cool,” Sword said, already heading toward another corridor. “You can just pretend I’m not here, then.”

Rocket gritted his teeth but ended up following anyway, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like annoying featherbrain.

Sword’s laughter trailed ahead of them again—bright, careless, impossible to ignore. And even though Rocket wanted to stay mad, his shoulders felt a little less tight as he stomped after him.

Just a little.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The great doors opened like a held breath.

Venomshank entered the hall with the slow, inevitable authority of tide and iron—ram-horns sweeping beneath a crown set over his cap, his cloak a dark river threaded with brass. Where he moved the light bent politely; the air felt steadier, as if some balance had been nudged back into place by his passing. His face was half-hidden behind a mask—plague-doctor in design, its beak locked tight to his jaw—but his voice, when he spoke, was all measured warmth and the weight of command.

“Brother,” Venomshank said, and the single word carried both greeting and summons.

Darkheart’s shadowed eyes watched him from the dais with that slow, amused attention that always made courtiers forget how to breathe. They rose, descending the steps like a shadow poured in silk. Around them, the throne room listened.

“We were expecting your tempest,” Darkheart replied, their voice a chorus that folded itself into the stone. “Sit. Tell us what trouble you bring wrapped so neatly.”

Venomshank bowed with the grace of a soldier who has learned courtesy for reasons of state rather than gentleness. He did not offer theatrics; his power was the kind that negotiated with the shape of things.

“Lost Temple frays,” he said bluntly. “The merchant houses have broken into lines. Markets blockaded each other. Bridges between the spires—tethered trade routes—have become choke-points for raiders. Our envoys were intercepted; two returned with spear wounds, one of them will not bear children again.” The words landed flat. “I cannot step in openly.”

Darkheart’s fingers drummed, barely noticeable. “You—Venomshank, deity of rule—cannot step in?” The amusement sharpened into interest. “We do not often hear such a complaint.”

“There is a covenant, old and binding,” Venomshank answered. “The merchants of Lost Temple swore by an oath older than treaties: no divine banners may be raised within the Market Circle. It was sealed to protect commerce from the caprice of gods—so that trade would flow despite our tempers. To break it would be to unmake the wards that hold the floating precincts. The wards protect not only coffers but lives; if they crumble, the spires could fall, the warehouses would sink, and famine would spread across the lands before the smoke clears.”

Darkheart’s smile thinned to something like a blade’s reflection. “A ruin that begins at coin and finishes at bone. How poetic.”

Venomshank’s voice was gentled by sorrow, the true ruler beneath the regalia of divinity. “If I act plainly, I risk the seal. If I wait, the civil war grinds the city to ruin. I have tried envoys—men of prudence and steadiness. One was struck down while bearing a white flag. Another’s gait is forever altered. However—Firebrand has stepped in with overt aid—he sends mediators and supplies, and his banners are a shield. But our other siblings simply watch the tide. And Illumina is yet to lend aid—an open show of force from me would be read as favoring one merchant faction and give a pretext to escalate. The Lost Temple’s wealth binds more than its own people; it binds our economies. We must not be the cause of its collapse.”

Darkheart inclined their head slowly, the expression in their eyes not unkind. “You bring us the softest problem disguised as iron,” they observed. “You wish counsel, brother—because you cannot be overt, yet you are not content to let the fire burn.”

“Yes,” Venomshank said. “I thought you might advise on the edge of influence. Firebrand leans to charity and repair; he has the public’s favor. But the factions are old with grievances stitched into trade routes. If a mediator falls, the other side will cry foul. We cannot merely send soldiers. I asked for your counsel on how to unbind a knot without cutting the rope.”

Darkheart’s laughter threaded through the hall—soft, amused, and strangely hungry. “We adore such puzzles.” They stepped closer, voice trailing like a promise. “So, you bring your boy. For whatever reason?” Their eyes flicked toward the balcony where a shadow stirred.

Venomshank’s reply was immediate and fierce in its gentleness. “Sword is with me in spirit but not in council. This matter is not for his ears.” His hand tightened briefly at his side, an unconscious guard. “I left him free to wander here, as you usually wouldn’t mind—this talk would not suit him. He is not orphaned of attention; he will not be harmed.”

Darkheart’s gaze lingered on him in a way that read like a private joke shared between old wolves. “We shall watch his mischief from the corners. We do not mind the noise of youth; it is often entertaining.”

A pause—courtly politeness wrapped around kinship—and then Venomshank shifted to the practical. “Firebrand requests permission to set a neutral cordon at the temple’s edge: sufficiency of food, sanctuary for civilians, and an open market line under his oversight. He proposes a neutral magistrate drawn from the courts. I’m hesitant, for such a magistrate must be beyond reproach.” He drew breath. “I cannot touch the city with my force. But I’d hoped that I could lend shadows—subtle influence, not banners. If you counsel me on the thin blade of intervention, Darkheart, I will follow.”

Darkheart folded their hands, eyes gleaming in slow approval. “We shall not. Yet we will not watch a city tear itself to bone. We will offer threads.” Their voice deepened—mischievous and darkly elegant. “Send Firebrand the cordon; let him be the face of succor. We will whisper to merchants who owe us old favors. We will supply you—quietly—with those who can unbind bargains and stitch new ones without raising a standard. We will give you returned envoys who walk with steady hands.”

Venomshank’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. “And if the factions refuse the magistrate?” he asked.

“We seed doubt and favor with coin, with contracts, with the spectacle of inevitability,” Darkheart said. “We arrange the stage so that refusal means self-ruin. The merchant classes will not gamble their warehouses on a lost cause. And if they try—then your forces move at the cost of a sealed word, but only as a last stroke.”

The ram-horned ruler bowed his head. “Then I shall trust you, as ever.”

Darkheart’s smile was a slow thing, pleased and secretive. They turned their head a fraction, and in the floor-shadow at Venomshank’s feet a voice, silky and amused, unfurled as if catching at a thought. “And how about Sword?” they asked lightly. “We’ve wondered of his wellbeing.”

Venomshank’s face softened in a way that would have been unreadable on lesser rulers. “He has a spark,” Venomshank said simply. “He will be kept from councils.” There was pride and something almost paternal that softened the edges of his words. “Sword is… a child—my child. I’d rather him see the world than inherit its blood.”

Darkheart’s many eyes gleamed. “Good. Let him run. We will keep watch.”

As Venomshank prepared to take his leave, his voice dropped to something more private. “If this fails,” he murmured, “it will not be for lack of will.”

Darkheart inclined their head. “We like that courage,” they said—not quite a compliment, not quite a jest. 

“Go then, brother. Tend your soil. We will tend ours.”

When he was nearly out of the door, Venomshank stills. “...Wait,”

“Hm?”

“I have a favor to ask of you, Darkheart.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Sword kept following him.

Rocket felt it before he saw it—the soft flutter of wings like a page turning, the faint patter of light footsteps that didn’t belong to a servant. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. If anyone could trail a person like a particularly persistent echo, it would be Sword: bright, impossible, and annoyingly close.

“You know,” Sword said from somewhere behind his shoulder, voice too cheerful for the murderous look Rocket was aiming at his own boots, “if you stomp like that you’ll bruise the floor. And your shoes are dramatic.”

Rocket glared over his shoulder. “If you talk like that I’ll bruise your face.”

They slid past a line of statues—hooded figures that stared as if bored. Sunlight sliced through a narrow slit in the wall and caught on Sword’s gilded horns so they flashed like a coin. It made Rocket’s jaw clench without him meaning to. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and grunted.

“You following me because you like my company or because you want to see what I steal next?” Rocket asked, because there are only two acceptable reasons to be tailing someone: food, or arms-worth. “Pick one.”

Sword actually laughed. “Neither! I’m curious. You never sit still. It’s like watching a storm try to be polite.” He hopped down a step to fall into step beside Rocket, wings tucked like an impatient shrug. “Also, it worries me when you wander the outer walls.”

Rocket spat between his teeth. “Worrying about me is the one thing you’re not supposed to do.”

“I already do it badly,” Sword admitted, unbothered. “I like you being inconvenient.”

That would have been a line to annoy someone else into brawling. For Rocket it landed like a graze—irritating, oddly flattering, and the kind of thing that made his chest feel odd and tight. He scowled and quickened his pace.

They threaded the service corridors where servants moved like shadows and the air smelled of soup and polishing oil. Sword matched his steps silently more often than not, but then would drop a question—small, probing. “Do you miss your father when he’s gone?”

Rocket’s answer came out a little too fast. “Don’t pry.”

“I’m not prying,” Sword said, not hurting, just curious. “I just… notice things. And uh, my dad mentions your dad sometimes.” He reached out and shoved a shoulder at Rocket’s—playful, unweaponized, mortal. “Y’know, you bite the world too much.”

Rocket wanted to snap back that the world denied him first. Instead he grunted and shoved Sword away with the flat of his palm. “I’m not—don’t you dare make me sound pathetic.”

Sword didn’t flinch from the shove. He smirked, that ridiculous grin that made Rocket want to punch him for being annoyingly unshakable. “You’re dramatic,” he said. “And loud. And you have an excellent scowl!”

“Thanks,” Rocket said, dry as dust. He tossed a pebble at Sword’s boot. It bounced off harmlessly; Sword didn’t even bother to look down. “You can stop following now.”

“But I won’t.” Sword’s tone had the lightness of a kid who thinks rules are suggestions. “Also, I brought you something.” He produced a square of bread wrapped in a napkin like a present. “Food?”

Rocket blinked. The bread looked suspiciously like actual bread and not Darkheart’s castle-conscripted gruel. He snatched it before he could think about why a deity would bother carrying his lunch. “Why’d you bring me food?”

“Because someone should feed you before you cause an international incident,” Sword said, earnest. “And because you fell off the terrace earlier.”

That prickled—memory of the fall, of the hand that had dragged him in, of the warmth of that grip. Rocket barked a laugh and bit into the bread like he’d been starving for weeks. It was stupidly good. He chewed, trying to preserve his scowl. “Don’t get soft on me,” he muttered.

Sword’s wings ruffled. “Am I being soft?”

They rounded a corner and, just like that, Sword slowed and tilted his head, eyes suddenly attentive. A shadowy footman passed them and blinked—then hurried away with a nervous curtsy. Sword followed the boy’s retreating back with a small frown. “They’re whispering about the meeting,” he said. “About my kingdom. I don’t like the way they say it.”

Rocket’s mouth tightened. Names and markets tangled with danger in ways he’d seen too often. “Sounds like adult trouble,” he said, voice flat. “Leave it to them.”

“I don’t like adults making trouble, either,” Sword answered simply. “They should get better snacks and less gossip.” He sounded genuine, not childish. Rocket found himself sharing the impulse to stomp at the idea.

They continued like that—barbs and bread, snide remarks—until the corridors widened and the bustle of the court grew thicker. Rocket’s chest hummed, uncomfortable and alive. He hated that Sword made him feel off-balance, that the kid paraded around in wings and gold and somehow still managed to seem less monstrous than most gods he’d met.

“You’re annoying,” Rocket muttered at last, pushing past Sword to put space between them.

“And you’re interesting,” Sword called after him, cheerful and unabashed. “Try not to fall off anything else today, okay?”

Rocket half-turned, hand curled into a fist more in reflex than intent. His jaw eased, just a fraction. “I might,” he lied. “And you can mind your own wings, feathers.” and then skidded off.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Rocket really didn’t mean to find him again.

Really, he didn’t. He’d told himself—very clearly, out loud even—that once he finished the bread, he was going to avoid the winged nuisance for the rest of the day. Maybe forever. But an hour later, there he was, slouched in the shadow of a wide stone pillar near the east balcony, watching Sword balance on the railing like some bird too confident in its own wings.

Sword turned his head before Rocket could duck away. Of course he did. His hearing was probably as sharp as his smile. “Oh!” he said brightly. “You again!”

Rocket grunted. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” Sword repeated, grinning as he hopped off the railing and with a light bat of his wings to steady himself, landed with light steps that made Rocket feel heavier just watching him. “You sound like you missed me.”

Rocket scoffed, tugging at the edge of his sleeve like it might hide his face. “Yeah. Like a splinter.”

Sword chuckled, a short, melodic sound that made the air in the corridor less stiff. “You have a terrible way of saying nice things.”

“I’m not saying nice things,” Rocket snapped back, but it didn’t carry its usual bite. He kicked at a piece of loose marble and turned away, pretending to examine a tapestry.

Sword, undeterred, followed him again—always a few steps behind, never close enough to touch. “You really don’t like us deities, huh?” he asked, tone soft, not accusing.

Rocket froze for a heartbeat. “You say that like it’s weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Sword said quickly, wings fluttering. “It’s just… you don’t even try to hide it. Most people do.”

“Yeah, well,” Rocket muttered, staring at the patterns on the wall, “most people don’t get thrown off a floating island by one.”

Sword blinked, the grin fading into something quieter. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Rocket shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw tightening. “Don’t pity me. I hate that.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Sword said simply. “I was going to say… you’re still here. That’s something.”

Rocket shot him a suspicious look, as if the words might be a trick. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you swallowed sunshine and regret.”

Sword snorted. “That’s… weirdly accurate, actually.”

Despite himself, Rocket’s lip twitched. He didn’t notice Sword notice it—but Sword did, and his own grin returned, smaller this time, more genuine.

They walked in silence for a bit, through a wide hallway lined with crystal sconces that shimmered faintly with starlight. Outside, the horizon was darkening. Darkheart and Venomshank’s trusted servants who came with him whispered in passing, glancing curiously at the mortal boy pacing beside a divine. Rocket ignored them all, but Sword saw how his shoulders stayed tense, how he seemed ready to bolt at any moment.

“You don’t have to be so jumpy,” Sword said, finally. “No one here’s going to hurt you.”

Rocket’s laugh was humorless. “Yeah? You sure about that? You gods are unpredictable.”

“I’m sure about me,” Sword replied without hesitation.

Rocket turned to him then, brows furrowed. He wanted to argue, to say you don’t know what you’re saying, but Sword’s face was too open—too earnest. There was no deceit there, no power-hungry malice like Windforce’s or the distant indifference of what he pictured of other deities. Just this ridiculous boy with gold-framed horns and too much warmth for his own good.

“Whatever,” Rocket muttered finally, looking away. “You’re still weird.”

“I’ll take weird,” Sword said, smiling again. “It’s better than scary.”

Rocket gave him a long look. “You should be scary. You’re a deity.”

“Correction—demi-deity. And you should be polite, I am of royalty after all,” Sword said with a teasing tilt of his head.

Rocket rolled his eyes. “Touché.”

It was… easy, strangely. Easier than it should’ve been. They ended up in the gardens somehow—Rocket didn’t remember deciding to go there, but Sword seemed to like the way the light hit the fountains, so he followed without realizing it. Sword talked a lot, mostly about trivial things—the shape of the clouds, the terrible taste of tea, how boring the council meetings were when Venomshank dragged him along. Rocket grunted responses here and there, but didn’t walk away.

When Sword turned to make another joke, he caught Rocket looking—not glaring this time, just looking, like he was trying to figure him out.

“What?” Sword asked, soft, curious.

Rocket blinked, caught. “Nothing. Just… you’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Annoying,” Rocket said automatically, but it lacked the venom it usually carried.

Sword’s grin returned, all bright edges and light. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Rocket rolled his eyes. “Don’t.” But the corner of his mouth twitched again, traitorously.

Sword’s grin widened like he’d noticed—because of course he had—and he hopped up onto the fountain’s rim, balancing on the narrow marble edge like a tightrope walker. “You’re smiling,” he teased, pointing a finger at Rocket. “I saw that.”

“I’m grimacing,” Rocket shot back. “There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is,” Sword said, spinning once on his heel, wings twitching for balance. “So what is your name, anyway? I just realized I’ve been calling you hey you in my head all day.”

Rocket blinked. “You seriously followed me around for hours and never thought to ask?”

“I was distracted,” Sword said easily, crouching to trail his fingers along the water’s surface. The ripples caught in the light, scattering tiny reflections across his gilded horns. “So, what is it? Don’t tell me it’s something boring like ‘Rod.’”

Rocket snorted. “Do I look like a Rod?”

“I don’t know,” Sword said, pretending to squint at him thoughtfully. “You do have that perpetual scowl thing going—wait—”

The teasing cut off with a sharp yelp. Sword’s foot slipped on the slick marble, and he tipped backward, arms flailing. The splash never came, though—because Rocket lunged forward, catching him by the wrist just as the deity’s heel skimmed the water’s surface.

“Hey!!—”

For a second, everything froze—the fountain’s bubbling seemed to hush, the air thick with surprise. Sword’s eyes were wide, bright, his wings fluttering reflexively to steady himself. Rocket gritted his teeth, hauling him back onto solid ground with one sharp pull.

“Careful, feathers,” Rocket said, voice low but threaded with adrenaline. “You’re about one second away from learning what it’s like to drown in your own reflection.”

Sword blinked at him, then—unexpectedly—laughed, breathless and genuine. “You caught me!”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Rocket said, releasing his wrist and brushing water off his own sleeve. “You deities really can’t go five minutes without making a mess, huh!?”

Sword shook his hands out, still chuckling. “Guess not. So, are you going to tell me your name now, or do I have to fall again? Please do the first option.”

Rocket huffed, crossing his arms. “Rocket.”

Sword tilted his head, smiling. “That’s a good one. Sounds like trouble.”

“Maybe I am,” Rocket said, smirking faintly. “So watch your step next time, or I’ll let gravity teach you manners.”

Then suddenly—Rocket crossed his arms, frowning like it would make up for the fact that he’d just saved a deity from an embarrassingly wet demise. “Anyway—you’ve got the balance of a stunned pigeon,” he muttered.

Sword gasped in mock offense, flicking a few droplets of water his hand had caught mid-fall in Rocket’s direction. “Excuse you, I was graceful until you distracted me.”

Rocket sidestepped, wrinkling his nose. “You’re calling me a distraction? You’re the one doing ballet on a fountain ledge like an idiot bird.”

“I’m not an idiot bird,” Sword said, feigning deep thought. “More like… a majestic, slightly clumsy eagle!”

Rocket snorted. “Majestic my ass. Eagles don’t trip over their own feet.”

“I didn’t trip,” Sword said indignantly, fluffing the small wings near his temples. “The marble’s slippery.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rocket drawled, kicking at a pebble. “Keep telling yourself that, gold-horns.”

Sword blinked, then grinned like Rocket had just given him a compliment. “Gold-horns? I kinda like that.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Rocket said flatly.

“Still like it,” Sword replied cheerfully, plopping himself down by the fountain’s edge and leaning back on his hands like the near-death tumble had been nothing. “You’ve got a real talent for names, Rocket. Do you just make fun of people professionally, or is this a hobby?”

Rocket huffed. “Depends on how annoying they are.”

“Ah,” Sword said with mock solemnity. “So I’m special.”

“You’re something,” Rocket muttered, though his tone had softened by a fraction. He sat down a few feet away, pretending it was just to rest and definitely not because the air up here felt lighter when Sword wasn’t talking.

For a few moments, they both just watched the wind scatter droplets from the fountain, sunlight catching them midair like shards of glass. Sword’s wings twitched idly, feathers glinting gold at the tips.

“You’re odd,” Rocket said finally, not quite meaning it as an insult.

“Thanks,” Sword said, genuinely pleased. “You’re mean.”

Rocket cracked a small, reluctant grin. “You’re slow.”

“You’re short.”

“Of a few inches!”

Sword laughed, tipping his head back. The sound carried through the courtyard, bright and alive, like it belonged somewhere sunlight never faded. Rocket rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint curve of his mouth this time.

For a second—just a second—it didn’t feel like a mortal and a deity sitting across from each other. Just two dumb kids sharing the same patch of sun.

Sword nudged his shoulder against Rocket’s, eyes bright and unguarded. “What’s it like… out there?” he asked, voice small for once. “Like, really out there. Not the maps or the stories—what is it when you wake up and it’s only the wind and whatever you brought to keep warm?”

Rocket blinked, surprised at the softness in the question. He chewed the inside of his cheek, gathering the answer the way he gathered stones—quick, practical, no polish. The sun warmed the side of his face; the fountain hissed; somewhere a servant’s footfall echoed like a metronome.

“It’s loud,” he said finally, blunt as a knife. “Not loud like music — loud like people trying not to die. Markets shout, tethers creak, and there’s always someone making a plan that involves other people not living.” He shrugged, trying to make the picture small. “You get used to the noises. You get used to not sleeping through them.”

Sword’s face tilted as if cataloguing that—curious, not horrified. “And dangerous?” he asked. “Like, could you… describe dangerous?”

Rocket snorted. “You mean like monsters? Meh. Most of the time it’s men with bad ideas and knives. Or a god with weird mood swings.” He spat the last word, quick and sharp. “People get mean when they’re hungry or frightened. They break things because it makes them feel like they can fix something, even if all they do is hurt someone else.” He dragged a thumb along the rim of the fountain, watching the tiny rings trail across the water. “Sometimes you pick up a hammer ‘cause no one else will give you one, and then you learn to use it on faces.”

Sword’s laughter was small but honest. “You sound like a storyteller.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I get stories in books—grand ones about heroes and fights that end nicely. That’s not the thing you’re telling.” His tone was interested, gentle. “Do you… miss anyone there? Like, other inphernals?”

Rocket’s jaw tightened. He looked away, toward the far horizon. “Nobody who didn’t choose to leave me,” he said, low. “Not family—family’s complicated where I’m from. Lots of empty rafters and nobody checking if you ate. I learned early it was hand-to-mouth and teeth-to-people.” He said it without poem. Cold facts that left a small burn in his throat.

Sword’s eyes softened, not with pity—Sword didn’t do pity—just an honest, fierce kind of concern. “That sounds… lonely.” He tucked a stray lock of hair behind an ear, wings fluttering like a small comforter. “I don’t know what that’s like, really. We get rules about being careful. But you—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “You sound brave!”

Rocket barked a laugh that forced out the heat behind his ribs. “Brave? More like stubborn, glue-for-the-soul kind of thing. Brave sounds noble.” He tossed a pebble into the fountain, watching the splash. “But sometimes, yeah. You survive ‘cause you don’t listen to the part of your head that says it’s okay to stop.”

Sword nodded, eyes serious in a way Rocket hadn’t seen before. “Do you ever want… not to fight?” the deity asked, no shame in the question—only curiosity and a little hope. “To find a place that doesn’t make you prove you’re worth keeping?”

Rocket didn’t answer right away. The wind picked up, lifting loose hair from his forehead. For a moment the boy looked like a weather-beaten thing caught between two seasons. When he spoke, the words came quieter than before. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Then I remember how quiet can be like a trap.” He forced his mouth into a crooked grin that was half joke, half warning. “And then I punch someone. Helps.”

Sword laughed—pure and bright—then sobered. “If it helps,” he said, almost fiercely, “you don’t have to do it alone. Even if I’m… well, me. A—a deity.” He tapped his chest, where the gold on his horns caught the sun. “I can be loud and clumsy and say the wrong thing, but—if you ever want less noise, I can try? I guess, to be part of the quiet.” Then a beat. “That is, if we have enough time for that!”

Rocket’s snark came out on reflex, a shield that had kept him safe too long to drop easily. “You’d be terrible at quiet.”

“And you’d be terrible at asking for help,” Sword shot back, smiling but steady. “So we’re even.”

Something like a truce hung between them, small and fragile: a joke, a pact, an acknowledgement. Rocket muttered under his breath, “Fine. Don’t get soft on me,” but he didn’t push Sword away. He let the possibility sit there—awkward and new—as the sun slid lower and the castle’s stones turned a deep shade of gold.

Then the sun had already slipped low enough that the fountain’s water gleamed silver instead of gold. The castle’s shadow stretched long, swallowing the courtyard inch by inch. Rocket kicked his heels against the stone lip, pretending he wasn’t enjoying the quiet beside Sword—pretending he wasn’t thinking about how weirdly normal it all felt.

Rocket eyed the way Sword was kicking idly at a loose petal floating across the fountain’s rim, his boot tapping with an absent rhythm that meant he was thinking—which was dangerous. Thinking usually led to talking, and talking usually led to Rocket’s patience leaking out of his ears.

Still, he found himself asking, “Shouldn’t you be gone by now?”

Sword blinked up at him, halfway through flicking water at a curious dragonfly. “Gone?”

“Yeah,” Rocket said, trying to sound casual. “Back to your shiny halls or whatever. Thought deities didn’t linger this long around mortals. Bad for your glow, right?”

Sword tilted his head, feigning deep contemplation. “Hmm. I don’t think I have a glow.”

“You do,” Rocket said dryly. “It’s annoying.”

Sword’s grin lingered for a moment, then softened. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m actually staying here for a bit!”

Rocket frowned. “What?”

“A week, maybe,” Sword said with a shrug, wings fluffing slightly at the mention. “Dad’s got some big council thing. Royal duty stuff.” He said it like he didn’t quite understand what royal duty stuff even meant. “He said it’d be boring, and I’d just get in the way if I tagged along. So—” he gestured vaguely around, “here we are!”

Rocket blinked at him. “A week?”

Sword nodded, almost sheepishly. “Yeah. A whole one. Guess you’re stuck with me!”

Rocket scoffed, trying to disguise the sudden weird twist in his chest. “Oh, great. Just what I needed—a glowing stalker.”

“I’m not glowing,” Sword said, looking down at himself. “Okay, maybe a little glowing. It’s the light!”

“It’s always the light,” Rocket muttered. He leaned back against the stone, tapping his foot. “So what, your dad just dropped you here like a package? Doesn’t sound very royal.”

Sword shrugged. “He worries. He says Darkheart’s castle is one of the safest places for me right now. And...” his expression softened a little, “he thinks I’ll learn something here. About... people.”

Rocket snorted. “Yeah, ‘people.’ You’re doing great at that.”

“I am, actually,” Sword said, too cheerfully. “You count as people.”

Rocket gave him a flat look. “Barely.”

Sword laughed again, that same bright, unguarded sound that Rocket was starting to recognize—the kind that made him both want to smile and punch something. The deity propped himself up on his elbows, eyes catching the faint glimmer of the fountain.

“Besides,” Sword continued, “I kinda like it here. It’s quieter than the kingdom. Less rules. Fewer people calling me ‘Your Highness’ like I’m going to smite them if they sneeze too loud.”

Rocket raised an eyebrow. “You mean people don’t get smited for that?”

“Smote,” Sword corrected absently. “And no. Not usually.”

Rocket made a face. “Of course you’d correct me on that.”

“Someone has to,” Sword said with a grin. “Otherwise, you’d sound like a delinquent forever.”

“I am a delinquent,” Rocket shot back.

“See?” Sword said, feigning exasperation. “You’re admitting it now. Growth!”

Rocket groaned and threw another pebble — this one at Sword, who yelped as it bounced harmlessly off his boot. “Stop talking.”

Sword laughed again, brushing imaginary dust off his leg. “Make me.”

“Gladly.” Rocket leaned forward, glaring, but it was half-hearted. His glare didn’t have its usual edge tonight — not when Sword’s laughter kept cutting through the dark like that.

The fountain gurgled quietly between them, its reflection rippling gold from the last traces of daylight. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of guards’ footsteps echoed through the halls. It reminded Rocket, annoyingly, that this place was a cage dressed in beauty — and somehow, Sword didn’t seem to notice the bars. He looked like he never did. Rocket envies that.

Rocket studied him for a moment, then looked away before his thoughts got too loud. “You really don’t get tired of talking, do you?”

Sword tilted his head, thoughtful. “I do, sometimes. But you make it fun.”

Rocket’s voice came out sharper than he meant. “Don’t do that.”

Sword blinked. “Do what?”

“Say things like that.” He clenched his jaw, eyes fixed on the water. “You talk like you actually mean it.”

Sword was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “I do mean it!”

The words hung between them — too heavy, too simple. Rocket exhaled sharply through his nose, standing up like he could walk away from the conversation. “You’re a weird one, you know that?”

Sword smiled faintly. “You keep saying that.”

“Yeah, well,” Rocket said, turning his back but not quite leaving, “if you’re gonna be here a whole week, you better not start thinking I’m your friend.”

Sword leaned back again, wings folding loosely behind him. “Too late,” he murmured, just loud enough for Rocket to hear.

Rocket paused, shoulders tense. He didn’t respond—couldn’t, maybe—but the faintest shake of his head betrayed himself.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Rocket had just finished unpacking his things — which, granted, was a generous term for dumping several pieces of materials he could tinker with and a cracked journal on the nearest table — when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the sconces.

“Guess who’s your new roommate!”

Rocket didn’t even have time to groan before Sword bounded in, bright-eyed and trailing dust from the hall like he’d just sprinted through the entire castle. Right behind him, Darkheart leaned lazily against the doorway, the picture of smug satisfaction.

Rocket’s voice came out flat. “No.”

Sword blinked. “No…?”

“No,” Rocket repeated, pointing accusingly, “whatever this is, the answer’s no.”

“But yes!” Sword beamed, dropping his bag on the second bed like it had been waiting for him his whole life. “Darkheart said it was fine!”

Rocket slowly turned toward Darkheart, every word coming out like it had been dragged over gravel. “You did what?”

Sword lifted a small travel bag that was very clearly overstuffed with clothes and snacks. “Surprise?”

Darkheart raised an elegant brow. “We merely just heeded the prince’s orders,” he said, voice smooth and teasing. “Would’ve been terribly rude of us to deny our brother’s fledgling some hospitality, would it not?”

Rocket threw his hands up. “You can’t be serious. This— this is my room!”

“Correction,” Darkheart said mildly, crossing his arms, “it is our guest room. You’re merely borrowing it due to your father being unable to tend to you as of the present moment.” His smirk deepened, the kind that made Rocket want to throw something. “And now, so is his.”

Sword, oblivious to the nuclear tension, was already bouncing on his new bed, testing the springs. “This is as soft as the ones back at home! Oh— Rocket, look! There’s a window! You can see the courtyard from here!”

Rocket stared at him, deadpan. “Congratulations. You’ve discovered basic architecture.”

Sword turned to grin at him, completely unbothered. “You’re welcome.”

Darkheart chuckled under his breath. “You two will get along just fine.”

Rocket shot him a death glare. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Perhaps we are,” Darkheart said, smiling like a cat who’d just tipped over a vase.

Sword flopped onto his bed, arms spread out. “This is great! It’s like a sleepover.”

“It’s not a sleepover,” Rocket snapped.

“Could be,” Sword said cheerfully, rolling onto his side. “You bring the snacks, I’ll make forts!”

Darkheart actually laughed at that, a quiet, rich sound that made Rocket’s ears burn. “We’ll leave you two to bond,” he said, pushing off the doorframe.

Rocket lunged forward. “Don’t you dare—”

But the door had already closed, locking with an echoing click that sounded way too final.

For a moment, there was silence. Just the sound of the fire crackling in the corner and Sword humming some tune that was far too chipper for Rocket’s liking.

Rocket exhaled through his teeth, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Sword grinned. “And yet here I am.”

Rocket glared at him for a long second… then flopped onto his bed with a groan loud enough to shake the mattress.

Sword peeked over at him. “See? You’re warming up already.”

“I’m planning your downfall,” Rocket muttered into his pillow.

“Good,” Sword said brightly. “Team-building.”

Rocket threw the pillow at him. It missed. Sword caught it easily, still smiling.

“Fine,” Rocket grumbled, staring at the ceiling. “But if you snore, I’m throwing you out the window.”

Sword laughed, light and easy. “Deal.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The night had all the right ingredients for sleep—heavy curtains, a hush that sat soft against the walls, the distant croon of the castle settling into its bones. Rocket had rehearsed the exact moment he’d drift off: breathe, count, pretend the world was one long, boring march. Instead, someone sounded like they were trying to imitate a cannon.

It started as a little flutter — a soft, wheezy pffft-hhhnn — like someone quietly testing a flute that wasn’t tuned right. Then it deepened. Gained rhythm. Confidence. It boomed in Rocket’s skull like someone had decided to house a small herd of disgruntled beasts in the next room and forgot to tell him.

Rocket blinked. Once. Twice.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Across the room, Sword was starfished over the blanket, one wing hanging off the side of the bed like it had lost the will to exist. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, each exhale vibrating into a snore that sounded like a dying trumpet being played through a wall. Every now and then, he’d shift, mumble something unintelligible (“...no...I dun wanna go home...”), and roll, making the bed creak like the shipwreck of Rocket’s patience.

Rocket rolled onto his side, pressed his face into the pillow, and groaned.

“You’re supposed to be a prince, not a portable thunderstorm.”

Rocket lay rigid, jaw clenched, watching the dark fold over the boy at the foot of his bed. He had every weapon in his arsenal—temper, sarcasm, the ability to bolt like a startled animal. He had practiced all three and filed them neat and sharp for an occasion like this. Bedroom etiquette was not one of the things he’d planned to negotiate at midnight. Yet here he was, muscles coiled and furious.

First he tried glaring. It didn’t help. Then he tried muttering insults under his breath that would have been cutting in daylight but felt small and useless against the rhythm of the snore. He propped his head on a fist and calculated retaliation strategies: pillow assault, water-dunk, silent death by smothering with a cushion. The plans were dramatic and satisfying in his head and cowardly in practice.

Rocket finally sat up, feet finding the floor with noiseless familiarity. He crept over, the room shrinking and softening around him as he neared Sword. Up close, the chest that had been rattling like a drum moved easier; the sharpness in Rocket’s chest loosened by a hair. He poked Sword once, hard enough to be annoying, not traumatic. “Oi. Snore factory,” he hissed.

Sword’s response was immediate and ridiculous—an unintelligible murmur, a half-smile against the pillow, a sleepy, “Huh? Only a little… majestic.” He blinked open one eye, then another, groggy and grinning like the world was still a joke he liked. “Sorry,” he mumbled, as if apology could unsound a trumpet.

Rocket wanted to snarl. Instead he found himself shoving the spare pillow half under Sword’s head, arranging it with the fussy care of someone who'd never admit to caring. “Quit it,” he muttered. “Sleep properly or I swear I’ll—” He gestured vaguely at the things he used for insults and prevention of being emotionally soft.

Sword fell quiet, breathing evening-soft now. The snore returned in tiny, harmless hiccups that made Rocket want to roll his eyes and punch a wall. He didn’t. He sat on the edge of the bed, boots dangling, listening. In the dark, the small sounds—the flip of a page in a distant room, the castle’s slow exhale—felt like a secret just for them.

Annoyance sat heavy in Rocket’s chest, but beneath it something thinner and noisier tried to make space: the embarrassment of being touched by a kindness he hadn’t asked for; the urge to be small and safe for a moment. He shifted, wiped his hand across his face like it would wipe the heat away.

Rocket didn’t mean to look.

He really didn’t.

He told himself it was just to make sure Sword was actually asleep—that the kid wasn’t faking it just to torment him—but his eyes lingered longer than they should’ve. The candlelight from the window’s faint crack barely reached the bed, but what it did catch was unfairly… soft.

Sword’s hair, usually braided and prim like he’d stepped out of some royal portrait, had come undone in his sleep—white strands spilling across the pillow in loose waves, catching the faint shimmer of gold from the night lamps. A few pieces clung stubbornly to his cheek, brushing against the faint scar that cut just beneath his right eye. Even his horns, freed of their golden bands, looked gentler somehow—short and curved, the red fading brighter near the tips.

His wings had folded around him like a blanket, half unfurled where Rocket’s pillow adjustment had shifted them. The feathers gleamed faintly, fading from brown to white to a burnished red that ended in gold-tipped edges—each layer perfect in a way Rocket didn’t want to admit he noticed.

The whole picture was annoyingly peaceful. Like Sword had never had to fight for quiet in his life. Like the world itself hushed when he slept.

Rocket caught himself staring, jaw tightening.

Great. Now he was losing sleep and self-respect.

He tore his gaze away, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath—too low for anyone but the dark to hear. “You don’t even know how to sleep like a normal person.”

But even as he turned back to his side of the room, the image stayed—uninvited and bright. The loose hair, the slow rise and fall of Sword’s chest, the soft, steady breaths that filled the quiet where Rocket’s noise used to live.

He lay back down, scowling into the pillow. The castle hummed low around them.

It was infuriating how pretty peace could look when it wasn’t yours.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Morning came quiet, thin light spilling through the curtains and brushing across the stone floor. Rocket stirred first—old habit, sharp and efficient, even in a bed that wasn’t his. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, sitting up slow, the memory of the night before tugging at him like a thread he didn’t want to pull.

Sword was still out cold, sprawled in the same ridiculous way as before—hair a mess, wings tucked like he’d been sculpted into comfort itself. One arm dangled off the bed, fingers brushing the floor. He looked too peaceful for someone who’d nearly driven Rocket insane hours ago.

Rocket stood, stretching out his shoulders. His eyes flicked to Sword for a fraction too long—long enough to remember what it had felt like, sitting there in the dark, watching. The realization hit him like a slap. A quiet, creeping heat crawled up his neck, and he scowled before it could reach his face.

“Stupid,” he muttered, grabbing his pack.

He paused at the door, risked one more glance. Sword shifted in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent and smiling faintly—like even in dreams he found things worth grinning about.

Rocket’s mouth twitched, betraying a half-second of softness before he forced it into a sneer. “You drool in your sleep,” he said under his breath, as if it would balance the scales, then slipped out.

The day passed like most others did for him—quiet, half-bored, half-alert. He scavenged a small ration pack from the kitchen, dodged overly polite followers, and found solace in solitude. By the time noon hit, he’d claimed one of the best spots in Darkheart’s garden: in the midst of his grand garden, beneath an arching tree, shade dappling the stone, air heavy with the hum of distant fountains.

Surprisingly, for a deity much like Darkheart, he seemed to enjoy the greenery—with the amount of flowers beneath the tree, that is.

He stretched out with his hands behind his head, letting his thoughts dissolve into the slow rhythm of the wind and the rustle of leaves. It almost felt like a real day off.

Almost—until footsteps padded across the gravel behind him, light and familiar.

Rocket didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Sword’s voice—bright, fresh, and terribly awake—broke the calm.

Rocket didn’t move at first, just tilted his head slightly toward the sound of wings brushing air. “You’re loud for someone who was practically snoring himself into the next realm last night,” he muttered, eyes still on the sky.

Sword made a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Hey, I don’t snore that bad.”

“You shook the bed.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Is it?” Rocket asked, finally glancing over his shoulder. Sword stood there in the sunlight, hair still a little mussed from sleep, wings catching gold where the light hit them. He squinted at Rocket like he was the unreasonable one.

“I was tired,” Sword said defensively, walking over. “Fun can tire you out, you know!”

Rocket snorted. “Right. ‘Fun.’ Like falling off fountains and invading people’s guest rooms.”

Sword grinned, unbothered. “Hey, it worked out, didn’t it? You got a new roommate, I got a bed that doesn’t squeak every time I roll over!”

Rocket leaned back on his elbows, giving him a flat look. “You talk too much in the morning.”

“You complain too much in general,” Sword shot back, settling himself against the other side of the tree trunk. They sat parallel now—Sword in sunlight, Rocket in shade—separated by a few feet of bark and the steady hum of insects.

Sword tilted his face toward the light, wings twitching lazily as they caught the warmth. “You should try sitting on this side,” he said. “It’s nice.”

Rocket scoffed. “I’m good here. Don’t need to melt before noon.”

Sword peeked around the trunk with a grin. “You sure? I think the sunshine might fix that permanent scowl you’ve got going.”

Rocket picked up a pebble and tossed it in Sword’s direction without looking. “You really enjoy testing people’s patience, don’t you?”

“Only yours,” Sword said cheerfully. “Everyone else just smiles politely. It’s boring!”

“That’s because they have sense,” Rocket muttered, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest twitch upward.

Sword caught it. Of course he did. “You’re smiling,” he said, leaning just far enough around the trunk to catch Rocket’s eye.

Rocket made a face. “I’m not. You’re seeing things.”

“Denial,” Sword said knowingly, leaning back again. “Classic symptom of secretly having fun.”

Rocket rolled his eyes, letting silence settle for a few breaths. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting Sword in gold and red. It made him look even more unreal—like someone built from light instead of skin and bone.

“You’re weird, you know that?” Rocket said eventually, tone low, but not cruel.

Sword hummed, hands hovering over a flower. “Takes one to know one.”

Rocket huffed through his nose. “Touché.”

The quiet stretched between them—lazy, unhurried, the kind that almost felt comfortable. Rocket let his head fall back against the trunk, eyes half-closed. The garden hummed softly around them, leaves whispering in a language that didn’t need translation. For a moment, it was easy to pretend Sword wasn’t there. Easy to breathe.

Then came the rustling.

Rocket’s brow twitched. He ignored it at first. A breeze, maybe. The wind could make noise if it wanted. But the sound came again—softer, deliberate. A shuffle of leaves. The snap of a stem. Then more of it. Persistent.

He cracked an eye open.

Sword was sitting cross-legged in the grass, surrounded by a small massacre of flowers. His tongue poked slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration. His hair caught the light in strands of white and gold, wings half-open like a lazy cat stretching in the sun. In his hands were flowers—reds, whites, little sprays of pale blue—twisting together in a loose, uneven circle, his fingers quick but clumsy.

“What,” Rocket said flatly, “are you doing.”

Sword glanced up, smiling like this was perfectly normal behavior. “Making something!”

Rocket stared. “Yeah, I figured that part out.”

“It’s a surprise,” Sword said mysteriously, then immediately ruined the effect by giggling when a petal stuck to his wrist. “I used to do this all the time back home—well, not exactly here, but close enough.”

Rocket blinked. “You’re making flower crowns.”

“Obviously,” Sword said, looking proud. “What, you’ve never made one before?”

“No,” Rocket said, deadpan. “Because I’m not five.”

Sword gasped in exaggerated offense. “Excuse me, flower crowns are art. They take patience. Skill. An eye for—hey, don’t roll your eyes, this is serious craftsmanship!”

Rocket rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” Sword said, clearly taking it as a compliment.

He went back to weaving, humming under his breath—a light, tuneless sound that somehow filled the whole space. Every so often, a breeze would lift the petals into the air, scattering white and red around him, sunlight catching on his hair and wings. It made the whole scene look too… soft. Too bright. Like the kind of thing Rocket was supposed to be immune to.

Rocket sighed, turning his head away—but not far enough to stop watching.

Sword eventually let out a triumphant hum, sitting back to admire his handiwork. The flower crown—if one were generous enough to call it that—was a lopsided circle of reds, whites, and blues, a little too wide and uneven but bursting with color and pride.

He brushed a few stray petals off his lap and, with all the ceremony of someone crowning a king, placed it on his head. The flowers wobbled dangerously to one side, but he grinned anyway, tilting his chin up. “Behold,” he declared, “the finest work of floral engineering you’ll ever witness.”

Rocket looked over, unimpressed. “It’s crooked.”

“It’s character,” Sword corrected, adjusting it with both hands. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Rocket snorted. “You look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously majestic, maybe.”

“Ridiculously something,” Rocket muttered, turning his attention back to the clouds. He could still feel Sword’s gaze flickering toward him every few seconds—like the guy was plotting something. And when Sword started humming again, that same low, content tune, Rocket knew he was right.

The rustling started up once more. Stems snapped. Petals fell.

Rocket frowned. “Don’t tell me you’re making another one.”

“Mhm,” Sword hummed, too busy concentrating to elaborate. His fingers worked deftly through the stems, looping them in that same uneven way, half-careless and half-determined.

Rocket’s eyebrow twitched. “You already have one.”

“This one’s not for me.”

That earned Sword a slow, suspicious look. “Then who’s it for?”

Sword didn’t answer, just smiled to himself, head bent low over his work. The breeze lifted his hair again, carrying the faint scent of crushed flowers between them.

Rocket stared at him for a beat too long, realization dawning, and scowled before the warmth could hit his cheeks. “Don’t,” he warned.

Sword didn’t even glance up. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“Thinking what?” Sword said innocently, threading another blue petal into the growing circle. “That maybe you’d look good in one?”

Rocket groaned. “I swear if you—”

“Relax,” Sword said, voice bright with mischief. “It’s just flowers. It’s not like I’m asking you to eat it.”

Rocket gritted his teeth, but there was no real bite in it. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re grumpy.”

Sword finished tying the last stem and sat back, holding up the crown for inspection. It was better done than his, a bit sturdier, with the colors arranged more neatly this time. He looked at it, then at Rocket, then back again with that unmistakable glint in his eyes.

Rocket sighed, already resigned. “Don’t even think about it.”

Sword only grinned wider.

Rocket was already shifting his weight before Sword even moved—muscle memory, instinct, pure survival. He saw the grin forming, saw the mischief spark in those gold-flecked eyes, and immediately knew he was in danger.

“Don’t you dare,” Rocket said, standing up slow, every inch of him ready to bolt.

Sword tilted his head, the flower crown dangling between his fingers like bait. “Come on. It’s a gift!”

“I don’t want it.”

“You haven’t even tried it on!”

“That’s because I don’t want to try it on!”

Sword took one step forward.

Rocket was gone.

He darted around the tree in a blur, boots scraping against the stone. Sword lunged, laughing so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Get back here, coward!”

“Not a chance!” Rocket shot back, cutting sharply around the trunk. He heard Sword’s footsteps right behind him, then the sound of wings flaring—unfair, cheating, deity advantage.

“No flying!” Rocket yelled.

“I’m not flying,” Sword said, voice far too smug, “I’m just assisting my running!”

“You’re hovering, that’s cheating!”

“It’s called style!”

They circled the tree again, the chase looping into something absurdly cinematic—Rocket darting left, Sword spinning right, the two of them weaving between shafts of sunlight and scattering petals everywhere. The flower crown in Sword’s hand fluttered dangerously, half the flowers barely holding together under the chaos.

“Hold still!” Sword laughed. “It’ll look good on you, I swear!”

“I’ll jump into the fountain before I wear that thing!”

“Fine! I’ll chase you into the fountain!”

Rocket dodged around the trunk again, half laughing, half swearing under his breath. “You’re insane!”

“You’re boring!”

“Good!”

“Come on, Rocket,” Sword taunted, slowing just enough to make it worse, “what’s the worst that happens? You look—” he gestured broadly with the crown, nearly tripping over a root “—adorable?”

Rocket stopped dead, glaring daggers. “Say that again.”

Sword froze too, breathless, hair sticking to his forehead, grin wide and bright. “Adorable,” he said, deliberately.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Rocket ran.

Sword yelped, laughter spilling out as he gave chase, spinning around the tree again. “You’re faster when you’re angry!”

“I’m always angry!”

“Then you’ll be great at tag!”

“It’s not tag!”

“It is now!”

They tore another half-circle around the tree, Rocket dodging, Sword lunging, the two of them a blur of limbs and laughter and indignation. Sword’s wings caught the air in little bursts, not quite flight but enough to give him those infuriating bursts of speed that kept him just out of reach.

“Stop hovering!” Rocket barked.

“Stop running!” Sword shot back.

“Stop existing!”

“Rude!”

Sword ducked just in time to avoid Rocket’s swipe, skidding through the grass with a triumphant grin. The flower crown was somehow still intact, though a few petals had sacrificed themselves to the cause. He straightened, breathing hard, and smirked. “You can’t dodge forever, you know.”

“Watch me,” Rocket growled, circling the tree again like a feral cat sizing up its prey.

Sword mirrored him, both of them pacing in opposite directions, the air between them electric with stubbornness. They met halfway around the trunk—Rocket diving in low, Sword dodging again, twisting just enough to throw Rocket off balance. For a heartbeat, Rocket’s boots slipped on the soft grass.

That was all Sword needed.

With a burst of movement that was far too graceful to be fair, Sword ducked under Rocket’s arm, spun behind him, and—before Rocket could even curse—slammed the flower crown neatly onto his head.

“There!” Sword declared, triumphant. “Perfection!”

Rocket froze. Just… froze. His hands flew up too late, fingers brushing the uneven petals now sitting crookedly in his hair. He turned slowly, eyes wide with the kind of disbelief usually reserved for witnessing disasters in progress.

“You,” he said, voice dangerously low, “did not just—”

“Oh, I absolutely did,” Sword said, grinning from ear to ear.

Rocket’s glare could’ve curdled milk. “Take it off.”

“Nope.”

“Sword.”

“Rocket.”

“I will burn this thing.”

“Then you’ll burn art,” Sword said with mock gravity, stepping back and framing Rocket with his hands like a painter admiring his masterpiece. “Hold still, I need to appreciate this. You look—” he squinted playfully, “—less angry already!”

Rocket ripped the crown off, petals raining down like a tiny, tragic storm. “Happy now?” he snapped, holding it like evidence of a crime.

Sword clutched his chest dramatically. “You monster.”

“Monster? You attacked me!”

“With joy and flowers!” Sword protested.

“With violence and humiliation!” Rocket countered, though the sharpness of his tone was ruined by the flush creeping up his neck.

Sword laughed—an open, genuine sound that filled the garden and made even the air seem lighter. “You wore it for like five seconds,” he said, teasing. “That’s progress.”

Rocket glared at him, but his voice had lost some of its edge. “You’re unbelievable.”

Sword just shrugged, grinning as he bent to pick up a stray petal. “Maybe. But you looked nice!”

Rocket blinked, thrown off guard for a second too long. “…Shut up.”

Sword only chuckled, spinning the mangled crown between his fingers. “Next time, I’m making one with thorns. More your style.”

Rocket sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you into the fountain.”

Sword beamed. “Then I’d call it even.”

And despite himself—despite everything—Rocket faintly grinned.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The next four days fell into a rhythm neither of them planned but both of them somehow kept.

Rocket would wake up early, thinking he could finally get a quiet morning alone. Then Sword would appear out of nowhere—always loud, always smiling, always dragging the day somewhere Rocket hadn’t agreed to go.

The first day—Sword convinced him to help feed the castle’s messenger birds. It should’ve been simple. Instead, Rocket ended up with birdseed down his shirt and three overly affectionate doves fighting for space on his head. Sword, of course, was uselessly laughing the entire time.

“Stop laughing and help me!” Rocket hissed, trying to pry one off his shoulder.

“I am helping,” Sword said, doubling over. “You’re—oh gods—you’re like a walking birdhouse!”

“Keep talking and I’ll add you to the birdseed pile.”

Sword only laughed harder, plucking a stray feather from Rocket’s hair with a grin. “There, now you’re perfect.”

Rocket swore under his breath but felt his face get a little too warm to argue.

Day two, Sword decided Rocket “needed more sunshine.” Which apparently meant dragging him outside to climb one of the taller garden trees.

Rocket, hanging from a branch and regretting every decision that led him here, glared down. “You said it wasn’t that high.”

“It’s not!” Sword called from below, sprawled out on the grass, arms folded behind his head. “You’re just dramatic.”

Rocket looked down at the very faraway ground. “Dramatic? I’m one wrong move from becoming fertilizer!”

“Then don’t move wrong!” Sword said cheerfully.

Rocket muttered something extremely unholy under his breath and finally jumped down—nearly tripping over Sword’s wing in the process. Sword only gave him a wide, smug grin. “See? Easy.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m grimacing.”

“Uh-huh,” Sword said, not believing it for a second.

By day four, Rocket had stopped pretending to hate it. Not completely—he still complained, still rolled his eyes, still called Sword ridiculous at least five times an hour—but the sharpness had dulled. His insults were softer now, more automatic than angry.

That afternoon, Sword showed up at Darkheart’s garden again, juggling three apples.

“Catch,” he said, tossing one at Rocket without warning.

Rocket caught it on instinct, barely. “Stop throwing things at me.”

“Then stop catching them! You’re encouraging me.”

Rocket bit into the apple with deliberate slowness, eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky you’re not as annoying as your uncle.”

Sword blinked, pretending to think. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m still taking it as one.”

Rocket groaned, leaning back against the tree, but there was no real bite to it. Sword plopped down in the grass beside him, humming some aimless tune while shredding blades of grass between his fingers. The sunlight pooled warm around them—Sword bathed in it, Rocket just close enough to feel it.

“Hey,” Sword said after a while, glancing at him sideways. “You don’t actually hate hanging out with me, do you?”

Rocket hesitated—too long for comfort. “…I’d rather you than Darkheart,” he muttered finally.

Sword’s grin split his face instantly, bright and unrestrained. “A confession!”

“It’s not a confession.”

“It is! You said you’d rather spend time with me!”

“Because you don’t piss me off every five minutes!”

Sword pressed a hand to his chest, feigning wounded pride. “Wow. You wound me.”

“Good.”

Sword only laughed, wings flicking lazily behind him. “Admit it, Rocket. You like me.”

Rocket turned his head away so quickly it was almost comical. “I tolerate you,” he muttered.

“Tolerate me a lot, though.”

“Keep talking and I’ll bury you under the roses.”

Sword beamed, utterly unbothered. “See? You do care.”

Rocket threw his apple core at him. Sword caught it midair, looked impressed, and bowed dramatically. “Excellent aim.”

Rocket sighed. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re fun when you’re pretending not to be.”

For a long while after that, neither of them spoke. Sword leaned back into the grass, staring up at the drifting clouds, and Rocket sat beside him, listening to the quiet buzz of the garden.

And though he’d never admit it out loud, Rocket found that—for once—silence with someone else didn’t feel like an intrusion.

It just felt… good.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Sword’s voice carried through the guest quarters before Rocket even reached the door.

“—no, no, that one goes there, and—ow! okay, okay, I got it!”

Rocket pushed the door open and froze.

The room—their room—looked like a linen storm had hit it. Blankets were draped from chair backs and curtain rods, pillows stacked into precarious towers. A lantern glowed faintly inside a sprawling structure in the middle of the floor—an uneven, crooked blanket fort that looked like it might collapse at any moment.

Sword’s head popped out from under the folds, hair mussed, eyes shining. “Oh, good! You’re here!”

Rocket stared, deadpan. “What did you do to the room?”

“Improved it,” Sword said matter-of-factly, ducking back inside to adjust something. “Darkheart’s rooms are so boring. All gloomy and symmetrical. Needed some personality.”

Rocket pinched the bridge of his nose. “You turned royal quarters into a children’s den.”

Sword’s voice floated out cheerily. “Exactly!”

There was shuffling, a soft thud, and then Sword reappeared at the entrance of the fort, sitting cross-legged and looking pleased with himself. The lantern light made his wings shimmer faintly, throwing soft shadows across the fabric walls.

“Well?” Sword said expectantly, patting the space beside him. “You coming in or what?”

Rocket hesitated in the doorway, arms crossed. “Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s cozy,” Sword said as if it were obvious. “And because I spent forever making sure it wouldn’t fall on our heads.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Rocket muttered.

“Also,” Sword added with a grin, “I have snacks.”

Rocket blinked. “…Snacks?”

Sword held up a small plate of fruit and bread like he’d just solved world peace. “Fresh out of my uncle's kitchen!”

Rocket sighed, staring at the fort. The fabric glowed softly from the inside, a dim golden light flickering against the folds. It looked… stupid. Childish. Unnecessary.

But also kind of—he hated admitting it—nice. Warm.

Sword tilted his head. “You can keep standing there if you want. But the floor’s really comfortable.”

Rocket groaned under his breath, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and finally ducked under the flap.

The fort was smaller than it looked from outside, the fabric ceiling dipping low enough that Rocket had to slouch a little. Sword had arranged the blankets unevenly but thoughtfully—soft ones layered underneath, pillows everywhere, the lantern at the center casting a lazy, golden glow. It smelled faintly of flowers and sun-warmed fabric.

Sword grinned at him from across the little space. “See? Cozy, right?”

Rocket didn’t answer right away. He sat stiffly, arms folded, like if he relaxed too much the fort would swallow him whole. “It’s… fine.”

Sword gasped theatrically. “Fine? That’s practically a compliment!”

Rocket shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

Sword laughed anyway, leaning back on his hands, wings brushing lightly against the blanket wall. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

“I’m plenty fun,” Rocket said automatically.

“Name one time you’ve been fun.”

Rocket opened his mouth, closed it, frowned. “…You’re impossible.”

“Ah, there it is. The daily declaration.” Sword smiled, reaching for a grape from the plate. “You say it so often I’m starting to think it’s your way of saying goodnight.”

Rocket rolled his eyes, but his tone was softer this time. “If I say it is, will you finally stop talking?”

Sword pretended to think. “Mmm… probably not.”

There was a pause then—a quiet one, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. The lantern light flickered lazily, throwing shapes on the ceiling. Sword hummed under his breath, low and tuneless, and Rocket found himself listening without meaning to.

Finally, Sword spoke, voice lighter, quieter. “You know… when I was little, I used to make forts like this all the time. Back in my father’s halls. It felt like… having my own little world, just mine. Safe.”

Rocket glanced at him sidelong. “And now you’re dragging other people into it.”

Sword grinned. “Exactly.”

Rocket exhaled through his nose, trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

Sword’s voice was soft now, almost thoughtful, like the glow of the lantern had peeled away his usual mischief and left something gentler underneath.

“Y’know,” he said after a while, eyes tracing the shifting light on the blanket ceiling, “I wasn’t really… allowed to go out much when I was younger.”

Rocket glanced at him from where he sat, one knee pulled up, arms loosely draped over it. Sword’s tone wasn’t sad, exactly. Just distant. Like he was remembering something from a world far away.

“My father said it was for safety,” Sword continued. “Said there were too many things outside the palace walls that could hurt me, or—” he smiled faintly “—‘taint my innocence.’ Whatever that means.” He plucked at a loose thread on the blanket beside him, twisting it between his fingers. “So most of the time, I just stayed inside. Big halls, polished floors, guards everywhere. It was… beautiful, I guess. But also kind of empty.”

Rocket didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered.

“I had playmates,” Sword went on. “Handpicked by my tutors and attendants. They were always polite. Perfect posture, perfect smiles, perfect everything. They’d bow before sitting down, talk about the weather like it was fascinating, and ask if I wanted to play chess.” He made a face. “Chess.”

Rocket’s mouth twitched. “I’m guessing you didn’t.”

“I did,” Sword admitted, chuckling. “Once. It lasted five minutes before I knocked over the board pretending there was an earthquake.”

That earned him a quiet snort from Rocket.

“I wanted to climb trees. Run down the corridors. Sneak into the kitchens and steal pastries. But they always acted like they’d get struck down by lightning if they got dirt on their clothes.” Sword’s smile softened, eyes drifting downward. “So I… stopped asking them to play. Found my fun elsewhere.”

“Where’s elsewhere?” Rocket asked before he could stop himself.

“The royal library,” Sword said immediately. His expression brightened just a little. “It was massive—rows and rows of books taller than me. I used to sneak in after lessons and read until someone dragged me out. Stories about heroes, explorers, old gods, mortals who could outrun fate itself.” His fingers stilled on the blanket thread. “Those were my friends for a long time, I guess.”

Rocket hummed, the sound low. “Figures. Explains the way you talk sometimes.”

Sword blinked. “What way?”

“Like you’re narrating a bedtime story to yourself,” Rocket said.

Sword grinned, teeth flashing in the soft light. “Well, someone’s gotta make life sound exciting!”

There was a pause then, quieter but not awkward. The kind that hummed between them like the air after laughter fades.

“My father used to say I was too much,” Sword said, the words softer again, eyes lowering. “Too loud, too cheerful, too curious. But then he’d laugh and say the kingdom needed that. A little light. Said I reminded people there was still something good worth protecting.” He smiled at that—small, genuine. “I liked that. I liked being that.”

Rocket studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Sword didn’t notice. He was still lost somewhere between memory and candlelight, legs drawn up, wings tucked close, the blanket fort turning the world into a quiet, safe little cocoon.

“Guess that’s why you never shut up,” Rocket said finally, voice gentler than his words.

Sword snorted. “Guess so.”

Rocket leaned his head back against the pillow wall, eyes half-lidded. “...Could be worse things to be,” he muttered.

Sword turned to him, a faint, warm smile tugging at his mouth. “You think so?”

Rocket shrugged, refusing to meet his eyes. “Yeah. Could be worse.”

Sword’s grin widened, the soft, unguarded kind that made the lantern light seem a little brighter. “Then I’ll take it.”

Sword blinked at him expectantly, like he’d just been handed the next turn in a conversation he didn’t realize was supposed to keep going. The lanternlight caught on his hair and the faint gleam of his wings, soft and waiting.

Rocket shifted, uncomfortable with that kind of attention. He wasn’t used to being looked at like that—open, patient, like whatever he said might actually matter.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “My story’s not as shiny as yours,” he said finally.

Sword tilted his head. “That’s fine. Doesn’t have to be shiny.”

Rocket gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Good thing.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. The silence pressed closer, but not in a bad way—more like it was giving him space to choose his words.

“Mine’s… different,” he started. “Didn’t have fancy walls or tutors or chess sets. I didn’t even have time to think most days. It was just—move. React. Survive. That kind of thing.”

Sword’s smile faltered, not out of pity but because he listened—really listened.

“Markets that smelled like spilled oil and anger. Roofs to sleep on when you could find them. Knuckles split from learning to take a piece of bread that wasn’t offered. Guys that laughed at your face until you learned to break their teeth instead.” He spat the words out like bitter seeds. “You don’t get time to think when you’re seventeen paces away from getting cut. You survive by moving first, asking questions later—if at all.”

Sword frowned, but didn’t interrupt. Rocket’s jaw worked; the words loosened with the telling. “People out there learned to read me as trouble, so I made sure I was trouble. Better to be a thing to fear than a thing to pity. You pick a hammer off the ground once and it becomes part of your hands. I kept one for a long time. Didn’t need anyone else’s approval to swing it.” He said it like it was practical, like survival had been a simple grammar of cause and effect.

He coughed, and the sound was half-laugh, half-bark. “And, uh… Windforce—” The name caught on his tongue. His hands curled into fists without him meaning to. “She—she’s the reason I’m even down here.”

Sword tilted his head slightly, brows furrowing at the mention of his aunt. “You mean—?”

Rocket cut him off with a shake of his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s done.” His voice had gone sharper, colder. He stared at the lanternlight like it had offended him. “I learned quick not to stick around when gods decide they’re tired of you.”

Sword didn’t push. He could’ve—Rocket could see the questions behind his eyes—but he didn’t. He just stayed still, soft expression steady, letting the silence speak instead.

After a long beat, Rocket snorted quietly, trying to pull the edges of himself back together. “So yeah. Not exactly bedtime story material.”

Sword smiled gently, the kind that didn’t pity, didn’t apologize—just understood in his own way. “Maybe not. But it’s still yours.”

Rocket looked at him then, half expecting to see mockery or sympathy. But Sword’s face held neither—just warmth, simple and sure.

It made something uneasy twist in Rocket’s chest, that kind of warmth that felt undeserved. He rolled his shoulders, looking away with a scoff. “You’re terrible at being quiet, but you’re good at listening.”

Sword grinned. “Thank you!”

“Yeah?” Rocket muttered. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” Sword said easily. “But I’ll remember it, definitely!”

Rocket groaned under his breath, throwing himself back against the pile of pillows. “You talk like a poet sometimes, you know that?”

Sword only laughed, the sound light and genuine, spilling through the little blanket fort like sunlight sneaking through the cracks.

And though Rocket scowled like he always did, his body didn’t feel as tense anymore. The danger, the habit of readiness—it lingered, sure, but for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t all there was.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The last day of Sword’s stay.

Morning spilled through the castle windows in ribbons of gold and pale heat, catching the edges of the marble floor and the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air. The halls were quiet—too quiet for a place that usually rang with attendants’ footsteps and polite conversation.

Rocket had chosen a seat by one of the grand windows, a plate of toast and fruit pushed close to him, elbows on the table. It wasn’t one of the enormous dining tables reserved for the high and mighty; this was just a smaller side table near the corridor, tucked close enough to the morning light to feel private. He liked it that way—silent, unbothered, his reflection faintly staring back from the glass.

He had almost managed a full minute of peace before the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps approached—light, uneven, and way too cheerful for breakfast hour.

“Rocket!”

He didn’t even have to look up. “No.”

“Yes!” Sword’s voice came with a laugh, and then the deity flopped down into the seat beside him like he owned the entire castle—which, technically, he sort of did. His wings tucked close to avoid brushing Rocket’s shoulder, though they still caught a shard of sunlight that scattered gold onto the table.

Rocket blinked at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Eating breakfast,” Sword said simply, already reaching for the extra plate a servant had left nearby. “What’s it look like?”

Rocket gestured vaguely toward the far end of the grand hall, where an impossibly long table stretched out beneath chandeliers and carved archways. It was empty—polished, pristine, untouched. “Don’t you have… I dunno, a royal table for that?”

“Yeah,” Sword said brightly, buttering his toast. “But it’s boring.”

Rocket frowned. “It’s literally made of gold.”

“Exactly!” Sword said through a grin. “Everything tastes weird when you’re sitting three miles away from the nearest person. Besides, you’re here.”

Rocket froze halfway to his next bite. “…So?”

“So,” Sword said with a shrug, “I’d rather eat with you.”

Rocket stared at him, trying to decide if this was a joke or some kind of elaborate trap. Sword only hummed, swinging one leg idly under the table as he piled fruit onto his plate. The morning light made his hair look almost white, the tips of his horns catching little gleams of red and gold.

“You’re ridiculous,” Rocket muttered finally.

“Thanks,” Sword said easily, like it was a compliment. “You want some of the jam? It’s the good kind.”

“I—no, I don’t—”

“Too late,” Sword said, leaning across and plopping a spoonful of bright jam onto Rocket’s toast before he could protest. “There. Adds color.”

Rocket gave him a long, deadpan look. “You’re supposed to be a prince or something. Don’t you have etiquette lessons about personal space?”

“Oh, sure,” Sword said, taking a bite of fruit. “But I think they got bored of teaching me.”

Rocket huffed, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Figures.”

For a while, they ate in easy silence—Sword humming some tune under his breath, Rocket pretending not to notice that he was eating slower than usual. The big table across the room stayed empty, plates gleaming untouched under the chandelier. But their small one by the window felt warmer somehow, the sunlight spilling over their plates and the soft scrape of cutlery filling the air.

Sword finished first, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “You know,” he said, turning toward Rocket, “I think breakfast tastes better like this.”

Rocket didn’t look up, but his tone was softer when he replied, “You’d probably think eating in a dungeon tastes better if I was there.”

Sword grinned. “Maybe. Depends on the company.”

Rocket snorted, shaking his head, but didn’t tell him to leave. He just kept eating, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth as the light shifted across the table and Sword started telling him some story about the last cook who accidentally set fire to the royal tea set.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The afternoon sun slanted lazily through the tall glass windows of the royal library, scattering across old shelves and rows of heavy, dust-scented books. The air was quiet—peaceful in the way only sacred places of knowledge could be—but that peace had been utterly obliterated the moment Sword started talking.

“…and then the hero pulled the celestial blade from the stone—no, wait, it wasn’t a stone, it was a sleeping dragon, which technically counts, right?” Sword said, half-laughing as he flipped through an oversized tome that looked older than Rocket’s patience. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of books he’d clearly dragged down from several shelves at once. His wings twitched every so often, brushing against the carpet as he read aloud with dramatic flair.

Rocket was sprawled out on one of the couches nearby, an arm thrown over the backrest and his head tilted toward the ceiling. He’d given up pretending to read about an hour ago. Instead, he’d settled for watching Sword’s endless stream of commentary.

“Do you ever stop talking?” Rocket muttered.

Sword looked up, grin wide. “Not when there’s this much to talk about! Look—this one says some mortals once built a flying city powered by starlight. Isn’t that amazing?”

Rocket raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a great way to fall to your death.”

“You have no imagination,” Sword said, mock-offended. “You’d love it if you saw it. Come on, floating cities, winged heroes, sky beasts—this is peak adventure material!”

Rocket smirked faintly. “I get enough of that just watching you trip over air.”

Sword laughed, a bright, unbothered sound that echoed softly through the library. “Rude.”

Rocket shrugged, leaning further into the couch. He watched as Sword started flipping through another book, his voice dropping into a softer, more fascinated tone as he read about constellations that supposedly whispered to chosen mortals. Sword had that glow again—eyes bright, words tumbling over themselves in excitement, completely lost in the world of fantasy and lore.

And Rocket—against his better judgment—found it a little endearing.

After a while, his stomach growled, cutting through Sword’s ongoing lecture about some heroic demigod’s tragic love story.

Sword blinked mid-sentence. “...Was that you or the library ghost?”

“Don’t start,” Rocket said flatly, pressing a hand to his midsection. “I’m starving.”

Sword tilted his head, thinking. “Lunch was hours ago…”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Rocket said, glancing toward the door. Then, a slow, dangerous grin crept across his face. “Hey. You’ve got access to all the royal places, right?”

Sword blinked suspiciously. “...Define access.”

“You know what I mean.” Rocket sat up, eyes glinting. “You think we could sneak into the royal pantry?”

Sword’s mouth fell open. “Sneak into—Rocket, that’s literally where Darkheart keeps his private snack stash!”

“Exactly.”

“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t!”

Rocket leaned forward, smirk widening. “C’mon. You’ve been talking about adventure all day, right? Let’s make one.”

Sword stared at him, torn between horror and excitement. “…You’re insane.”

“And you love it,” Rocket said, standing and stretching. “So what’ll it be, your highness? You staying here with your dusty books, or coming to do something actually fun?”

Sword opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue—but then he caught the mischievous spark in Rocket’s eyes and groaned. “Oh, stars. You’re rubbing off on me.”

Rocket grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

“Fine,” Sword sighed dramatically, snapping his book shut and hopping to his feet. “But if Darkheart finds us, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair,” Rocket said with a smirk as they started for the door. “I’ll tell him you forced me.”

Sword laughed under his breath, wings flicking in amusement as he followed close behind. “No you won’t!”

“Oh yes I will,” Rocket said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But we’re gonna go down together anyway.”

And just like that, two figures slipped out of the quiet royal library—on their way to commit what would surely become the great pantry heist of the century.

When they got there, the royal kitchens were quiet this time of day—warm, dimly lit, and smelling faintly of cinnamon and freshly baked bread. A few shadowy attendants drifted through the far end of the room like wisps, silent and unbothered, too used to strange palace happenings to care that two figures were sneaking—well, one was sneaking—around the pantry doors.

“Okay,” Sword whispered, pressing his back dramatically against the wall. “We move on my mark.”

Rocket, arms crossed, stared at him flatly. “You realize no one’s even looking at us, right?”

“Stealth requires commitment, Rocket,” Sword hissed, peeking around the corner like a spy in a play. “We can’t just walk in.”

Rocket sighed. “We literally can just walk in.”

“Shh!” Sword held up a finger, eyes darting to a servant gliding by with a tray. “If we get caught—”

“We won’t,” Rocket interrupted. “They literally don’t care.”

Sword darted between counters, ducking behind barrels, and rolling across the floor like some kind of action hero. Rocket, on the other hand, just walked—picking up the occasional fruit or pastry along the way, inspecting it, and setting it aside as Sword whispered stage directions to himself.

“Rocket! Cover me!” Sword said, crouching behind a crate of flour.

“Cover you from what?” Rocket asked, unimpressed.

“Suspicion,” Sword whispered fiercely.

“The shadows aren’t suspicious, they’re chopping carrots.”

Sword peeked out, squinting dramatically at one of the servants. “They’re pretending. I can tell.”

Rocket almost laughed—almost. “You’re unbelievable.”

Sword glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “It’s called tactical agility.”

“It’s called being loud.”

“You wound me,” Sword whispered dramatically. Then, without missing a beat, he turned the handle and eased the pantry door open.

Inside was heaven—shelves lined with jars of preserves, trays of cookies, golden pastries glistening under the faint light of the storage lanterns. Sword’s eyes practically sparkled. “Oh my stars, it’s beautiful!”

Rocket walked in like he owned the place, scanning the treats. “So this is what Darkheart hides from everyone.” He reached for a flaky tart, taking a bite without hesitation. “Worth it.”

Sword gasped, scandalized. “You can’t just eat it! We’re supposed to make this a covert operation!”

Rocket blinked at him mid-bite. “Sword, we’re stealing snacks, not storming an enemy fortress.”

“But where’s the fun if we don’t pretend it’s an enemy fortress?”

Rocket rolled his eyes, chewing slowly. “Fine. What’s the plan then, oh brilliant commander?”

Sword beamed. “Glad you asked. I’ll handle reconnaissance. You—uh—lift me up to get the good stuff.”

Rocket arched a brow. “You can fly.”

“It’s cheating indoors, Rocket!”

“You cheated outdoors, Sword.”

Sword ignored him completely, gesturing toward the top shelf where the fancier pastries sat in perfect rows. “Up there. Darkheart always hides the best ones where he thinks no one will reach.”

Rocket groaned but crouched down anyway. “Fine. Come on, your royal highness.”

Sword grinned triumphantly and climbed onto Rocket’s shoulders—nearly knocking over a basket of bread in the process. “Ow—watch your hair, it’s poking me!”

“Maybe if you’d stop shifting like a toddler—”

“I’m trying to balance!”

“Try harder—ow, quit kicking—”

“I’m not kicking, I’m adjusting—okay wait—yes! I see them!” Sword reached, fingers brushing the box of pastries. Rocket steadied him, muttering under his breath.

“Got it!” Sword cheered quietly, holding the box up like a trophy.

“Congratulations. Now get down before you drop it—and me.”

Sword laughed, jumping down far too suddenly, and Rocket stumbled backward into the counter with a quiet thud. The two of them froze, staring at each other for half a second before bursting into muffled laughter.

“Operation: Pastry Success!” Sword declared in a whisper-shout, punching the air triumphantly.

Rocket shook his head, a small grin tugging at his lips despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”

Sword popped open the box, offering him one. “And yet, here you are—my accomplice!”

Rocket took one, biting into it with exaggerated annoyance. “You owe me for this.”

Sword hummed happily, crumbs on his lip, eyes soft in the warm light. “I’ll pay you in pastries.”

“Not enough,” Rocket muttered.

“Then smiles?” Sword said teasingly.

“Even worse.”

Sword laughed, leaning against the counter beside him. “You say that, but you still stay!”

Rocket didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him—at the crumbs on Sword’s cheek, at the way his eyes shone when he smiled, at the ridiculousness of it all—and snorted softly. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Guess I do.”

Sword grinned at that, warm and golden and entirely too bright for the quiet kitchen.

And for a moment, the whole world felt small and soft and theirs.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The castle was quiet that night—too quiet. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, pooling silver across the floor between the two beds. The air was soft and still, except for the occasional rustle of sheets or the faint sigh of someone pretending to be asleep.

Rocket lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He’d been doing that for what felt like hours. His body was tired, but his mind refused to shut up. The silence made it worse—every thought seemed louder, sharper. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and muttered, “You’re still awake, aren’t you?”

From the other bed came a muffled sound. Then Sword’s voice, small and a bit sheepish: “...No.”

Rocket rolled his eyes, turning his head toward him. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Sword huffed, his messy hair visible in the dim light as he sat up slightly. “I could say the same about you. You’ve been sighing like you’re in a tragic play.”

“I don’t sigh.”

“You do,” Sword said, grinning now. “You’ve done it at least five times.”

“Because someone keeps moving around,” Rocket countered, sitting up too. “You toss more than the wind.”

“I can’t help it,” Sword said, flopping back dramatically. “It’s too quiet. It’s like the castle’s holding its breath.”

Rocket smirked faintly. “Maybe it’s tired of you talking.”

Sword gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, my voice is a gift.”

“Then return it.”

Sword threw a pillow at him. Rocket caught it with one hand and tossed it right back, hitting him square in the face. Sword sputtered, laughing through it. “Unbelievable! Violence, at this hour?”

“You started it.”

“I was merely expressing my feelings.”

“Well, your feelings are loud.”

Sword chuckled, but the sound softened after a moment. He shifted to look at the window, where the moon hung huge and bright above the horizon. “...You really can’t sleep either, huh?”

Rocket followed his gaze, shrugging. “Guess not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just heavy with the kind of tiredness that wasn’t about the body. Then Sword spoke again, quieter this time. “Hey. Since we’re both awake…”

Rocket raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

Sword turned toward him, eyes glinting with a familiar spark. “Let’s go stargazing.”

Rocket blinked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Exactly,” Sword said, throwing off his blanket and hopping to his feet. His voice carried that warm, reckless energy that always seemed to drag Rocket along whether he wanted to or not. “Perfect time for it. The sky’s clear. You can see everything.”

Rocket gave him a look. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re coming,” Sword said simply, already reaching for his hand to tug him toward the window. “C’mon—it’s my last night here. You can’t make me stargaze alone.”

That stopped Rocket for a moment. Last night. The words lingered heavier than they should’ve. He looked at Sword—the soft moonlight outlining his hair, the quiet smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes—and sighed, long and defeated.

“Fine,” he muttered, getting up. “But if we get caught—”

“Then it’ll be a great story!” Sword said brightly, already halfway to the window. He pushed it open with a small creak, cool night air sweeping in and carrying the scent of flowers from the garden below. “See? Perfect.”

Rocket climbed up beside him, muttering under his breath about bad ideas and reckless idiots. But when he looked up—really looked—he fell quiet.

The sky stretched wide and endless above them, freckled with stars that shimmered like spilled light across dark velvet. The moon hung pale and full, washing the world in soft silver. Sword was already perched on the window ledge, wings faintly glowing, eyes reflecting the constellations as he tilted his head back in awe.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sword said softly.

Rocket leaned against the frame beside him, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Not bad.”

Sword glanced at him with a teasing grin. “The sky or me?”

Rocket snorted. “You’re so full of yourself, dude.”

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t like it when someone makes things interesting for the both of us!”

Then, for a beat, Sword’s grin widened when Rocket didn’t immediately answer, the kind of grin that meant he was planning something. Rocket caught the look and groaned under his breath.

“Don’t even start,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything,” Sword replied, far too innocent.

“You’re thinking something. I can tell.”

Sword tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well… now that you mention it…”

Rocket squinted. “Don’t.”

“…We could get a better view from the top balcony.”

Rocket blinked. “No.”

“Yes!” Sword leaned forward, eyes bright. “It’s higher up—less light, more stars. You can even see the mountains from there if the air’s clear enough!”

Rocket stared at him flatly. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Which means no one will catch us.”

“Or it means we’ll both fall to our deaths because someone wanted to play astronomer.”

Sword crossed his arms, pretending to think hard. “Hmm. Worth it.”

Rocket rubbed his temples. “Why do I even bother arguing with you?”

“Because you secretly enjoy it,” Sword said cheerfully. “Now come on—what’s the worst that could happen?”

Rocket gave him a long, unimpressed look. “You’ve said that every single time before something goes wrong.”

“And every single time,” Sword countered, already climbing out the window, “it turned out fine!”

“Fine?” Rocket hissed, watching him swing his leg over the ledge. “You nearly fell into a bird bath last time!”

Sword’s laugh drifted through the cool night air. “Nearly being the key word!”

Rocket muttered something extremely unholy under his breath, then followed anyway. Of course he did. Because at this point, resistance was just wasted energy.

They crept through the silent corridors, the marble floors gleaming faintly under the moonlight. Sword was practically bouncing with excitement, wings twitching as he whispered dramatic commentary about their “mission.” Rocket trailed behind, grumbling the whole way but still keeping close enough to make sure the idiot didn’t walk straight into a suit of armor.

When they finally reached the staircase to the highest balcony, Sword turned to him with a triumphant smile. “See? Easy. No guards, no angry deities, no falling.”

“Yet,” Rocket said darkly.

Sword only grinned and pushed open the heavy doors.

The balcony stretched wide, framed by tall, curling pillars and draped with vines that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. Beyond it, the night opened up—stars scattered like jewels across the sky, endless and bright. The view really was breathtaking, Rocket had to admit. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

Sword stepped forward, awed silence falling over him for once. “Wow,” he breathed, tilting his head back. “It’s even better than I remembered.”

Rocket leaned against the railing beside him, arms crossed, pretending not to notice the way Sword’s hair caught the moonlight like it was spun gold. “You’re lucky no one saw us,” he muttered.

Sword glanced at him, smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe luck just likes me more.”

“Or maybe luck’s just stupid.”

Sword laughed, the sound echoing softly through the open air. “You really can’t enjoy a moment without insulting something, can you?”

Rocket shrugged, eyes flicking to the horizon. “Keeps me grounded.”

“Noted,” Sword said, stepping closer to the railing. The wind ruffled his hair and feathers, and for a moment, his grin softened into something quieter—content, almost wistful. “Still… worth it, right?”

Rocket sighed. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “It’s… fine.”

Sword turned to him with a teasing glint. “Fine?”

Rocket smirked. “Don’t push it.”

Sword chuckled softly at Rocket’s answer, then turned his attention back to the stars. The night stretched endlessly above them, a tapestry of silver and shadow. The wind brushed gently past, carrying the faint scent of the gardens below—roses, rain, and something warm and nostalgic.

Rocket leaned his elbows against the railing, pretending to study the constellations, but his eyes kept drifting back toward Sword. He told himself it was just because Sword wouldn’t stand still—because the way the moonlight reflected off his wings was distracting, or because his hair was catching the breeze in that stupidly cinematic way. But that wasn’t quite it.

There was something quiet about Sword now. Not the usual chatter or bright teasing—just silence, soft and full. His expression had gone thoughtful, almost sad, as if the stars themselves were stirring something he didn’t want to say out loud.

Rocket’s chest tightened unexpectedly. He looked away, jaw tensing.

Sword noticed, of course. “You starin’?” he said, voice light but his eyes glancing sideways.

Rocket blinked, caught, then scoffed. “You wish.”

“I saw you,” Sword said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You looked very enchanted. Don’t tell me the mighty Rocket is finally moved by the beauty of the cosmos?”

“I was trying to see if your head’s blocking any of it,” Rocket shot back, but the words didn’t carry their usual bite.

Sword snorted and leaned on the railing beside him. “You’re awful at lying, you know that?”

Rocket raised an eyebrow. “Says the guy who can’t even sneak down a hallway without tripping on air.”

That earned a laugh from Sword, soft and genuine—the kind that made Rocket’s pulse skip in a way he really didn’t appreciate. The sound lingered in the cool air, and for a while, they just stood there in comfortable silence.

Every so often, Sword would tilt his head up, tracing constellations with his finger. “That one,” he murmured once, pointing to a bright cluster of stars. “It’s supposed to be the Seraph’s Crown. Legend says whoever sees it clearly will be blessed with a journey worth remembering.”

Rocket followed his gaze, then muttered, “That’s… weirdly fitting for you.”

Sword smiled faintly. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like to believe in pretty things!”

Their eyes met again then—brief, accidental, but neither of them looked away right away this time. The distance between them felt smaller somehow, the world quieter. The stars reflected faintly in Sword’s eyes, and Rocket wasn’t sure if it was the light or something else that made them look so damn bright.

Sword blinked up at the sky again, the faintest spark flickering in his eyes—an idea taking root. “You know,” he said suddenly, glancing at Rocket with a sly grin, “I could show you something cooler than that crown.”

Rocket frowned, suspicious. “If this ends with me covered in glitter again, I’m leaving.”

“Relax,” Sword said, laughing. “No glitter. Promise.”

He lifted his hand, palm up. For a moment, nothing happened—then a soft golden light began to bloom across his skin, gentle and flickering, like sunlight caught in water. Tiny specks of light rose from his palm and hovered in the air, swirling into familiar shapes—a cluster of stars bending into a little bird, its wings fluttering faintly as if alive.

Rocket blinked, mouth parting slightly. “You’re—wait. You can just… do that?”

Sword grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself. “Of course. It’s just light. I used to make these when I was little. Father said it was a waste of energy, but—” he shrugged, watching the glowing bird circle his wrist before landing back in his palm, “—it made me happy.”

Rocket leaned in despite himself, the golden light casting faint reflections in his dark eyes. “Huh,” he muttered, trying to sound unimpressed but failing miserably. “Show-off.”

Sword gasped dramatically. “Show-off? This is art!” He snapped his fingers, and the bird dissolved into a flurry of tiny stars that reformed into something new—a crown, then a sword, then a small, lopsided planet. He grinned at Rocket, proud. “See? A whole universe in one hand.”

Rocket crossed his arms, fighting a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Universe in your hand, whatever. I could do that too if I had—uh—wings. And divine magic.”

Sword tilted his head, amused. “You sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You are.”

“I’m not!” Rocket’s voice cracked just a little, which only made Sword laugh harder.

“Don’t worry,” Sword said between laughs, holding out his glowing hand toward him. “I can share.”

Rocket hesitated but finally leaned closer. The little lights drifted toward him, some landing softly on his sleeve and hair like tiny golden fireflies. They shimmered for a moment before fading away, leaving only a faint warmth behind.

Sword watched his reaction carefully. “See? Not so bad, right?”

Rocket ducked his head slightly, pretending to examine his sleeve. “It’s… fine.”

“Fine?” Sword said, pretending to be scandalized. “That was celestial-level beauty!”

Rocket gave him a sidelong glance, lips twitching. “You sound like one of those fancy paintings that talks too much.”

Sword chuckled and shrugged, his tone gentler now. “Maybe. But if I can make you look at something other than the floor for once, I’ll take that as a victory.”

Sword’s words hung in the air, soft and teasing, but Rocket barely heard them. His mind was somewhere else—half focused on the fading warmth on his sleeve, half on the glowing specks still hovering between them like fireflies refusing to die out.

Sword was smiling again, that easy, sunlit grin that always managed to get under Rocket’s skin. It was the kind of smile that made it hard to stay scowly for long—and Rocket hated that.

He shifted his weight, clearing his throat. “Victory, huh? You act like this is some kind of game.”

Sword tilted his head. “Isn’t it?”

Rocket clicked his tongue. “Tch. You’d think everything’s a game.”

“Well,” Sword said, stepping a little closer, the stars still reflecting in his eyes, “you never know when you might find fun in the boring parts.”

Rocket rolled his eyes but found himself smiling despite it. His gaze flicked down to Sword’s hand—the same hand still faintly aglow with light. And then, suddenly, his brain did that thing it sometimes did, where his mouth moved faster than his thoughts.

“You think you can make stars,” Rocket muttered, half to himself, “but can you dance?”

Sword blinked, startled. “Dance?”

“Yeah.” Rocket straightened, trying to sound nonchalant, though his ears burned just a little. “You know, move to rhythm. Twirl around. Fancy stuff. Don’t tell me you’re too holy for that.”

Sword laughed softly. “I can dance.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it?” Sword echoed, amused. “There’s no music.”

Rocket smirked. “So? You’re a walking light show. Make your own.”

Sword raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now. “You’re serious?”

Rocket shrugged, already stepping forward, that spark of boldness—childish, reckless—igniting in his chest. “Unless you’re scared.”

Sword gasped in mock offense. “Me? Scared? Of you?”

Rocket grinned. “Then c’mon.”

He reached out before he could stop himself and took Sword’s wrist—not roughly, just enough to tug him closer. Sword stumbled a little, laughing in surprise, and Rocket held on, pretending it was all part of the plan.

“See?” Rocket said, tone light but pulse quickening. “You follow my lead.”

Sword blinked down at him, surprise giving way to a smile so bright it could’ve outshone his own stars. “Oh? So you’re leading?”

Rocket lifted his chin defiantly. “Obviously.”

Sword chuckled, letting his hand relax in Rocket’s. “Well then,” he said softly, wings shifting behind him, “lead away, feathers.”

And for a fleeting moment, with the golden constellations still flickering around them and the night stretching wide above, Rocket thought that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Sword froze halfway through a laugh when Rocket suddenly glanced toward the balcony railing—eyes glinting with something reckless. He knew that look. It was the same look Rocket got before every bad idea that somehow turned into a memory neither of them could ever forget.

Sword narrowed his eyes. “What’s with that face?”

Rocket smirked. “Nothing.”

“That’s a lie,” Sword said immediately, stepping back a little. “I know that look. That’s your ‘I’m about to do something stupid’ face.”

Rocket ignored him, already moving toward the railing. “Relax. I’m not gonna fall.”

“That’s exactly what people say before they fall!” Sword protested, watching as Rocket climbed onto the ledge with the grace of someone who definitely didn’t care about safety. The wind tugged at Rocket’s hair and cloak, making him look smaller but sharper all at once—a shadow against the moonlight.

Sword fluttered his wings, hovering just off the edge, the air shimmering faintly around him. “Rocket, get down before I tell Darkheart you died doing interpretive dance!”

Rocket snorted. “Oh, come on. You were saying I couldn’t dance, right?” He grinned, balancing with surprising ease. “Let’s see if you can keep up this time.”

Sword blinked, confused, until Rocket extended his hand. “Wait. You want to—”

“Yeah.” Rocket’s grin widened. “Dance.”

Sword’s jaw dropped. “While you’re on the railing?!”

“While you’re flying.”

“That’s insane!”

“Scared you can’t keep up?” Rocket challenged, voice teasing.

Sword’s wings flared, feathers catching silver light. “Oh, it’s on.”

And just like that, Sword pushed off the balcony, hovering a few feet away while Rocket took his hand. Their fingers met midair—warm and solid, the faint pull of gravity tugging at both of them. Rocket leaned back slightly for balance, one foot shifting as he guided Sword into a spin, the deity’s laughter trailing through the night like music.

“You’re actually doing it!” Sword called, spinning effortlessly, his wings scattering faint motes of gold in the moonlight.

“Of course I am,” Rocket said smugly, his boots scraping the railing as he twirled Sword again. He moved clumsily but with purpose, his grin wide, his balance steady in a way that made no sense for how dangerous it looked. “Told you I could lead.”

“You’re out of your mind!” Sword shouted through his laughter.

“And you’re talking too much!” Rocket replied, tugging him closer and then pushing him back again, sending Sword into another spin. The air caught the deity’s wings just right, making him glow faintly like a falling star.

Sword was laughing so hard now he could barely breathe. “You’re gonna fall!”

“I won’t, especially not with you hovering over me like a mother hen!”

“Mother hen?! I’ll drop you!”

“You won’t!” Rocket shot back, his grin daring and bright. “You’d miss me too much!”

Sword’s wings faltered for half a second—then he laughed, a sound that rang clear and bright and real. “Maybe I would!”

Rocket blinked when something shimmered behind Sword—soft trails of light weaving through the air like stardust caught in motion. He almost missed a step on the railing, his grin faltering into awe.

“Whoa, wait—what’s that?”

Sword tilted his head, still laughing, wings beating steady. “What’s what?”

“That!” Rocket jabbed a finger toward the space above them.

Sword turned—and realized the air behind him was glowing. Threads of light curled and tangled, forming vague shapes that pulsed with a soft golden hue. The movement of his wings seemed to leave glowing strokes in their wake, sketching fleeting constellations that lingered just long enough to shimmer like something alive.

“Oh,” Sword said, blinking. “Oops.”

“Oops?” Rocket echoed, nearly tripping again. “That’s your ‘oops’? You’re literally painting the sky!”

Sword looked around sheepishly, then laughed when he noticed the faint outlines of stars forming in his trail—some clumsy, some detailed. “I—uh—didn’t mean to! It just happens sometimes when I’m… really excited.”

Rocket smirked, trying not to look too impressed. “You get this excited over dancing with me?”

Sword shot him a look. “You’re standing on a railing. Of course I’m excited—and terrified!”

“Terrified’s not an excuse!” Rocket said, puffing his chest, then jumped slightly in place to match Sword’s height, the railing wobbling under his boots. “Come on, make more!”

Sword raised an eyebrow. “Make more what?”

“The star things!” Rocket said, waving his hand through one, giggling when it flickered and swirled around his fingers like dust. “It’s cool!”

Sword blinked at him, then grinned, his earlier nervousness melting away. “You really think so?”

“Obviously! Now, c’mon, do it again!”

Sword laughed, lifting his hands. “Alright, alright—hold still.”

He twirled once midair, his wings flaring out fully now, and the night responded. Trails of gold and pale white burst behind him, scattering like shooting stars, swirling into familiar shapes—a fox, a sword, a cluster of tiny flowers—all connected by faint, glowing threads. The constellations pulsed, slow and alive, reflected in Rocket’s wide, childlike eyes.

“Holy crap…” Rocket whispered. “You’re like—making the sky move!”

Sword smiled down at him, floating just close enough that the light washed over both of them. “It’s not the sky,” he said softly. “Just a bit of borrowed starlight.”

Rocket grinned, reaching up to grab one of the glowing threads. It slipped through his fingers like warm air. “Bet I could make a cooler one.”

“Oh, really?” Sword teased. “Go ahead then—show me your ‘cooler one.’”

Rocket frowned, concentrating very hard, like he could force the stars to move with his sheer willpower. “Uh… okay, wait—give me a sec—”

Nothing happened.

Sword snorted. “Impressive start.”

“Shut up! I’m manifesting or whatever you people call it!” Rocket shot back, trying again. Still nothing.

Sword laughed so hard he nearly lost his balance midair. “You look constipated!”

“I’m focusing!” Rocket said defensively, though he was laughing now too, the sound sharp and bright.

The railing creaked beneath him as he spun in another clumsy circle, pretending he could control the lights by waving his hands dramatically. Sword humored him, subtly weaving new shapes behind him—tiny rockets and little stars—just to make him think it was working.

“See?” Rocket crowed, pointing proudly at the shapes forming above them. “Told you I could!”

Sword bit his lip to keep from laughing too hard. “Oh, yes. Definitely all you.”

Rocket turned to him, chest puffed out with mock pride. “That’s right. Bet you’re jealous.”

“Jealous of your imaginary starlight powers?” Sword teased.

“Jealous of my style,” Rocket said smugly, spinning once more. He nearly slipped, and Sword darted forward instinctively, catching his wrist before he could topple off.

“Careful!” Sword said, heart skipping a beat.

Rocket blinked up at him, still smiling. “Told you I wouldn’t fall.”

Sword didn’t let go right away, his grip steady and warm. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Guess you didn’t.”

Above them, the sky continued to shift and pulse with the remnants of Sword’s magic—dozens of glowing constellations slowly connecting into one wide, luminous sprawl. The wind tugged at their hair and clothes, their laughter echoing faintly through the quiet halls below.

It didn’t feel like royalty or destiny or any of that mattered.

By the time they stumbled back into their room, they were both a mess—hair sticking up, clothes rumpled, cheeks flushed from laughing too much and running through the halls before anyone could catch them.

Rocket flopped face-first onto his bed with a groan. “Never. Dancing. Again.” His words were muffled into the pillow.

Sword laughed breathlessly from the floor, where he’d collapsed in a heap of wings and limbs. “You said that last time you tripped over your own feet.”

“I tripped because you spun too fast,” Rocket mumbled.

Sword tilted his head, still smiling. “I spun because you stepped on me first.”

“Lies.”

“Facts.”

They stared at each other for a moment before breaking into another fit of laughter. Sword’s wings twitched weakly as he tried to get up, and Rocket tossed a pillow at him without looking. It hit Sword square in the face.

“Hey!” Sword protested, his voice cracking halfway through.

“Target practice,” Rocket said smugly.

Sword retaliated with the same pillow, and soon the room was full of muffled thumps and laughter again. Eventually, though, exhaustion won. Sword collapsed on Rocket’s bed this time, wings half-folded and glowing faintly at the tips. Rocket didn’t shove him off.

For a while, they just lay there, catching their breath. The moonlight spilled in through the curtains, soft and silver, painting everything in a calm kind of glow.

Rocket turned his head toward Sword, who was staring up at the ceiling, tracing invisible constellations in the air with his finger.

“You’re glowing again,” Rocket said quietly.

Sword blinked and glanced at his wings. “Oh. Guess I am.”

Rocket rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t any bite in it. “Show-off.”

Sword smiled lazily. “You think it's cool though.”

Rocket didn’t answer right away. He just stared at him, studying the faint shimmer across Sword’s feathers, the way the light reflected off his hair. It should’ve felt strange—unnerving even. Sword wasn’t just Sword, not really. He was a deity. A celestial being. Someone above all this mortal stuff. He was supposed to hate him for that.

But right now, sprawled out with messy hair, laughing at dumb jokes, and stealing half his blanket… he didn’t feel distant. He just felt like Sword.

Rocket sighed, turning back toward the ceiling. “You know… it’s weird.”

Sword hummed. “What is?”

“That you’re—” Rocket waved his hand vaguely in the air, “—all glowy and divine and whatever, but you’re still you.”

Sword tilted his head, curious. “Did you think I’d stop being me?”

Rocket shrugged. “Kinda thought you’d get all serious. Float everywhere. Start talking in ancient riddles or something.”

Sword laughed softly. “You mean like, ‘Behold, mortal, your destiny awaits’?” He said it in a dramatic voice, making Rocket snort.

“Exactly that,” Rocket said, grinning. “Would’ve been annoying.”

“Good thing I’m not that kind of deity, huh?” Sword said, smiling into the pillow.

Rocket was quiet for a moment, fiddling with a loose thread on the blanket. “Yeah,” he said finally. “You’re… okay.”

Sword’s eyes softened. “Just okay?”

Rocket glanced at him, pretending to think. “Maybe a little better than okay. Don’t get used to it.”

Sword chuckled, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “Noted.”

They fell into silence again, a comfortable kind this time. Sword’s glow dimmed as he grew sleepy, and Rocket found himself watching the faint light fade until it was just the two of them in the soft quiet of the night.

And for the first time since learning what Sword really was, Rocket didn’t feel small or out of place. He just felt… okay with it.

Because Sword wasn’t some unreachable deity in the sky.

He was the same idiot who tripped over his own feet, who laughed too loud, who made constellations dance in his palm.

And Rocket—well, he could live with that.

“Hey,” Sword murmured sleepily, voice muffled. “Still awake?”

“Maybe,” Rocket said.

Sword smiled, eyes already closing. “Good. Don’t disappear, okay?”

Rocket smirked faintly, his voice soft. “Not planning to.”

And as the night stretched on, the room quiet except for their breathing, Rocket found himself thinking—maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind the stars so much anymore.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The next morning came far too soon.

The castle halls that had been filled with laughter the night before now felt strangely empty—quiet in a way Rocket didn’t like. He stood by the window, arms crossed, trying not to look at the carriage waiting at the gates below. The sunlight caught on the sleek, ornate cape of the figure standing beside it—Venomshank. Of course. The guy looked like he’d been carved from shadow and sharp edges, and the sight alone made Rocket’s stomach twist a little.

Sword was talking to him now, probably getting his usual lecture about responsibilities and “celestial conduct” and all that boring stuff. His wings twitched restlessly, catching the light with every movement.

Rocket scowled and turned away from the window. “Whatever. It’s not a big deal.”

Rocket scowled at the floor. “It’s not like he’s leaving forever,” he muttered under his breath. “Just… going back for a bit. That’s all.”

But his chest still felt weird. Tight. Uncomfortable.

He can’t be upset. Not even close. Why would he be? It wasn’t like Sword belonged here anyway. He was a deity. He had other worlds to fly to, other people to talk to. This was just—temporary.

He didn’t go to the main hall until the sound of footsteps echoed closer. Sword was there, bidding goodbye to Darkheart while he was already dressed in travel clothes, his big pack caught in two folded fists. Venomshank waited in the distance behind him.

Sword’s wings caught the light in a faint shimmer as he turned and spotted Rocket. His smile brightened instantly. “Hey!”

Rocket leaned against the wall, arms crossed like he hadn’t been waiting. “Took you long enough.”

Sword laughed a little. “You could’ve come earlier, you know.”

“Busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Stuff.”

Sword just smiled knowingly. “You’re gonna miss me.”

Rocket scoffed. “You wish. I’ll finally get some peace around here.”

“Oh, sure,” Sword said, stepping closer. “No one to steal your snacks, talk your ear off, or show you cool constellations. Sounds awful!”

Rocket rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll survive.”

Sword’s grin softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You will.”

For a second, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t comfortable this time—it was waiting, full of things neither of them wanted to say out loud. Venomshank gave Sword a small nod from the gates, and that was the signal. Time to go.

Sword looked at Rocket one last time. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, smiling like it was a promise he meant to keep.

Rocket shrugged, eyes fixed stubbornly on a crack in the floor. “You better be.”

“Guess I’ll see you around, partner.” Sword laughed under his breath, the sound a little shaky. He took a few steps back, then turned to leave—walking beside Venomshank toward the gates.

Rocket tried to roll his eyes, tried to make his voice sound steady. “Yeah. Whatever. Don’t crash into any stars or something.”

He told himself it was fine. Sword was fine. Everything was fine.

But then, just as Sword reached the carriage, something shifted. He stopped. Turned. And before Rocket could even process it, Sword was sprinting back—his wings flaring slightly as he launched himself forward.

“Wait—!” Rocket started, but then Sword collided with him, throwing his arms around him in a tight, impulsive hug.

For a split second, Rocket froze. His brain short-circuited completely. He could feel the warmth of Sword’s laughter against his shoulder, the faint shimmer of light that always clung to him. And then, just as quickly, Sword pulled back—grinning that same reckless, radiant grin.

“I’m really gonna miss you,” Sword said quietly, voice small but steady, before pressing his face back against Rocket’s shoulder.

Rocket’s heart did something weird—like it skipped a step before catching up. He stood there, stunned, his hands hovering uselessly in the air before he awkwardly patted Sword’s back once. “You’re… you’re so dramatic.”

Sword laughed softly, pulling back just enough to grin at him. “What did you expect? It's me we’re talking about.”

Rocket rolled his eyes, but his voice came out quieter this time. “Yeah. Whatever.”

“Well, bye, Rocket! I promise to see you again!” he said, voice breathless, and before Rocket could say anything—anything at all—he was gone, running back down the path, wings catching the sun like they were made of gold.

Rocket stood there, stunned, heart hammering, “Yeah. You better.” Then, his face burned in a way that had nothing to do with the sun.

“…What just happened,” he muttered under his breath, but the words came out softer than intended.

That’s when the shadows at his feet stirred.

A dark ripple spread across the stone, and from it rose a familiar shape—tall, cloaked, and smirking like he’d just walked in on a secret.

“Well, well,” Darkheart drawled, his tone dripping with amusement. “Didn’t know mortals could go that red.”

Rocket scowled instantly, crossing his arms to hide his flushed face. “Oh, shut up.”

“Touching scene,” Darkheart said, pretending to wipe an invisible tear. “A farewell between worlds. You going to write poetry next?”

Rocket groaned. “You’re unbearable.”

“Mm, We will take that as a ‘thank you.’” Darkheart leaned lazily against the wall, smirk widening. “Admit it—you’ll miss him.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“I won’t!”

“Your face says otherwise.”

Rocket turned sharply away, muttering something under his breath about annoying shadows and loud deities. But when the courtyard fell quiet again and the gates shut with a soft echo, his expression shifted.

The corner of his mouth twitched—just a little, but enough.

Because maybe Darkheart was right.

Maybe he would miss him.

But if Sword could promise to remember,

then Rocket figured he could, too.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Chapter Text

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“I made a new friend!”

Venomshank looked up from his folded hands, the faintest crease of surprise crossing his masked face. But Sword could tell, he always had. “A friend?”

Sword nodded eagerly. “Yeah. He was in Uncle Darkheart’s castle while waiting for his Dad, the ‘Zuka’ person you mentioned. Kinda small. Kinda loud. Talks a lot. And bites back—literally.”

The corner of Venomshank’s mouth, barely visible beneath the mask’s lower edge, lifted just slightly. “Sounds like you found quite the companion.”

“Yeah!” Sword leaned back, wings rustling. “He doesn’t like deities, though.”

That earned a pause. Venomshank’s gaze turned thoughtful, concerned. “And how did he treat you?”

Sword grinned, a touch proud. “Like I wasn’t one!”

Venomshank’s eyes softened—warm even from behind the neon lenses of his mask. “Then perhaps you showed him something worth trusting.”

Sword blinked, then laughed lightly. “Maybe. He’s kinda mean, though.”

“I imagine you can handle that.”

“I can!” Sword said, grinning wider, but his tone softened after a moment. “He was funny! Brave, too. And he caught me when I almost fell into a fountain.”

Venomshank gave a quiet hum of amusement. “It seems your visit was worth something after all, fledgling.”

Sword turned his gaze back to the window, chin propped against his hand. The city lights began to shimmer below as they rode down from the upper terraces.

“I hope I see him again,” he murmured.

Venomshank didn’t answer immediately, but the gentle weight of his hand came to rest briefly atop Sword’s head—a quiet, wordless reassurance.

The carriage rolled on, carrying them through the heart of Lost Temple, toward home.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The room smells of cedar and candle wax, the sort of scent that says you can buy comfort if you can afford it. Sword paces the length of it like a caged thing trying to map an exit. His boots make soft sounds on the rugs, careful and regular—a rhythm that steadies the rush of thoughts in his head. Behind him, the tapestry of the Lost Temple ripples as if a breeze moved through the threads; beyond that the city stretches in his mind like a story he’s never read in full.

Rocket’s voice keeps replaying, rough and bright in his memory: loud, loud, loud, too loud to be ignored. He tries to pin the cadence of it, the way the boy spat out that list of survival—the words make little fires under his skin. He had thought he knew what the world was from books and lessons, from the maps his tutors laid out and the careful accounts his father showed him of tithes and trade routes. But Rocket spoke of ordinary noise in a way those books never did: the particular ache of being up at dawn with your palms raw; the cheap pride of a fist that made someone else stop.

Sword stops at the window and presses his forehead to the cool glass. The city’s lights are already bright below, and he can see, dim through the distance, the glint of market roofs, the sweep of bridges—places that to him are shapes on a page but to Rocket are places that bruise. He imagines the weight of a hammer in small hands, the scrape of a whetstone, the sting of a bargain gone sour. He imagines hunger as a constant companion, not a story plot device, and it makes something hollow in his chest he hasn’t had words for before.

He thinks of his own hands—gilded, unscarred, trained for ceremony and the weight of a blade—regalia that the palace polished and put away. He flexes his fingers and wonders how different it feels to hold an idea versus holding a loaf of bread or a hammer. How do you measure what it means to be “part of the quiet,” as he promised Rocket? Is it sitting still and being polite? Is it intervening with gifts and polite words? The answer keeps shifting every time he tries it on.

There is, too, the thing his father had said at the gates—a half-sentence about balance and messy mercy. Venomshank’s hands were firm and warm when he rested them on Sword’s shoulder; the gesture felt like a benediction and a command. Sword thinks of that steadiness now and wonders if steadiness can ever cross the street into the market and mean anything to men bent on breaking things to feel less afraid.

He paces again, the movement a way of walking around the questions. He remembers Rocket’s scowl when someone suggested pity, the way the boy hated being made small. That makes Sword tighten his jaw. He doesn’t want to pity; he wants to understand, and understanding feels like a task with tools he hasn’t been taught to use. He’s used to being told what to wear, what to say to guests, how to bow. He’s not used to being taught how to listen without turning the whole thing into an audience.

A gust of air slips under the shutters and ruffles the curtains. Sword watches the ribbons on his own sleeves move and thinks suddenly of the fountain—of the splash of water, the way Rocket had hauled him up with one quick, real pull. That moment loops with a clarity he didn’t expect: a mortal hand closing on his wrist, warm and messy and real. He had felt steadied by it, which surprises him, embarrasses him even.

He settles on the window ledge and presses his palms flat to the glass, feeling the chill seep through. Down below, the city is a scatter of lamps and tiny lives. Somewhere in those lights, men bargained and didn’t argue, children played safely and not on roofs, and hammers found nails, not faces. Somewhere, perhaps, Rocket moved among the opposite of what those lights contained. Sword doesn’t know how to reach that kind of life without sounding like a god with a ledger. 

He only knows he wants to try.

He makes a little plan in his head—small, clumsy, like one of the games he used to play with boys who weren’t gods: walk farther, ask fewer questions in the wrong tone, listen more than he declares. It sounds ridiculous when he shapes it into words, but the idea sits there and warms like a seed.

He thinks of the promise he’d made, the soft, foolish vow to be part of someone’s quiet. Then he thinks of the night, of the way Rocket’s face had looked when he’d left—stubborn, stubborn, a smudge of defiance and something that might be trust if he didn’t recoil. The thought comes without warning: if he wants Rocket to trust a deity even a little, he will have to give up being only a deity. He will have to get… smaller.

The city below hums. The night outside the window is full of potential and risk, and Sword sits very still, palms flat on the glass, making lists in his head of all the ways he could be clumsy and sincere at once. He counts them on his fingers, and the list is embarrassingly long, and then he starts again, because sometimes the only way to learn how to be mortal is to try and then try again.

Sword tipped his head back and groaned softly, pressing both palms to his face. “Okay,” he muttered through his fingers, voice muffled, “so… what now, genius?”

He slid his hands down and stared at his reflection in the glass—horns gleaming faintly, the gold catching the candlelight. His own reflection stared back, unimpressed.

“You can’t just sit here forever,” he told himself, pushing away from the ledge and pacing again. “You’ll end up like one of those marble statues downstairs. All posture, no point.”

The thought made him grimace. He turned toward the window again, looking down at the sprawl of the city below—the maze of roofs, the curls of chimney smoke, the thousand pinpricks of orange light, the sand beyond it. It felt alive in a way the castle never did.

“Rocket makes it sound easy,” Sword muttered, half to himself, half to the empty room. “‘Just go out there. People yell, people fight, people live.’” He mimicked Rocket’s rough tone, then sighed. “Sure. Except people don’t start screaming when he walks by.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, pacing a tight line in front of his bed. “Father would probably say it’s unsafe. Or irresponsible. Or—” He deepened his voice mockingly: “‘Sword, the world’s teeth are sharp, and you are not yet armoured enough to be bitten.’”

Sword scowled. “Well, maybe I want to get bitten a little.”

The words hung there, and he blinked, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, that sounded cooler in my head,” he admitted.

He turned toward the window again, the idea beginning to solidify in the back of his mind. It felt wild, reckless—like the spark right before a fuse caught flame. “What if I just… went?” he whispered, voice low but trembling with thrill. “Not far, not stupidly. Just… out. A peek.”

His wings twitched, feathers brushing against the stone. The night beyond the glass looked impossibly wide, impossibly free.

He straightened, glancing at the door, then back at the window. “They wouldn’t even notice,” he reasoned. “Father’s probably in council till dawn, and the guards don’t check the top halls unless I set something on fire again—”

He caught himself, blinking. “Not that I’d do that again. Probably.”

The corners of his lips quirked. His heart began to drum faster, half panic, half excitement. “Just one night,” he murmured. “See what it’s like. See what Rocket meant.”

He glanced at the gold wrapped around his horns in the mirror, then reached up and brushed a finger over them. “You’ll give me away in a heartbeat,” he whispered, frowning at his reflection. “You’re too shiny.”

A chuckle slipped out, quiet and conspiratorial. “Guess we’ll need a hood then.”

Sword rummaged through his wardrobe with the precision of a hurricane. Velvet capes, embroidered coats, silk shirts—every piece of fabric that screamed royalty went flying over his shoulder in a flurry of color and sighs.

“Too shiny,” he muttered, tossing a gold-trimmed tunic onto the floor. “Too fancy. Too red. Way too red.”

He paused, clutching a soft white shirt, then frowned. “...Still too clean.”

The more he looked at his clothes, the worse it got. Everything was polished, pressed, or embroidered with some ridiculous crest that shouted ‘Hello, I’m someone important!’ He groaned, tugging at his hair in frustration. “How do normal people not look like walking jewelry displays?”

Finally, buried in the back of his wardrobe, he found an old cloak—plain gray, a little frayed at the edges, and slightly too big. He shook it out and threw it on, the hood falling low over his brow. “Okay, okay,” he breathed, checking himself in the mirror. “That’s… almost not suspicious.”

He took a few steps back, studying his reflection. The cloak helped, but the rest of him didn’t exactly cooperate. His horns gleamed faintly even under the hood. His eyes still shimmered in that telltale celestial way.

“Right,” he said flatly, reaching for a scarf. He wound it once, twice around his neck until it covered the lower half of his face. “There. Mysterious traveler. Totally normal.”

He blinked, then snorted softly. “Yeah, that’s not suspicious at all.”

Sword fidgeted with the hem of his cloak, bouncing on his heels as nerves crept in. The castle was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that made every sound—his heartbeat, the creak of the floor, the rustle of fabric—echo too loudly.

“What do people even do outside?” he whispered to himself, pacing again. “They buy food, talk to each other, maybe… yell a little? I can do that. Probably.”

He imagined walking through the marketplace like Rocket had described—maybe the smell of smoke, the noise, the life. The thought made his chest tighten, both excited and terrified all at once.

His gaze flicked to his boots next—spotless, polished, and so obviously not made for muddy roads. He hesitated, then grabbed an older pair from under his bed, ones scuffed from sparring practice.

“There,” he muttered, tugging them on. “Less princely. More…” He trailed off, tilting his head. “...questionably employed?”

He laughed quietly under his breath. The sound echoed against the stone walls, bright and secret. “Okay. You’ve got this,” he whispered, pulling the hood up again. “In and out. No one’s going to notice one weird kid in a crowd.”

He took one last look in the mirror—and for the first time, he didn’t quite look like a prince. Still too bright around the edges, still too clean maybe, but different.

His fingers brushed the edge of the cloak nervously, fidgeting. “Rocket better be right about this whole ‘outside world’ thing,” he murmured, his voice caught between excitement and doubt.

Then, with a steadying breath, Sword turned toward the window, heart hammering like a secret he couldn’t hold any longer.

Sword lingered by the window, the night air creeping in through the half-open shutters, cool and sharp against his skin. The cloak fluttered slightly with every breath he took — uneven, shallow, uncertain.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the dark stretch of sky beyond the towers. “It’s not that far. Just a quick flight, quick look around, and back before anyone notices.”

His wings twitched—the smaller pair at the sides of his head ruffling instinctively, the larger ones at his back pressing close, tense. The golden edges on the tips of the red feathers glimmered faintly in the moonlight, betraying him.

He groaned softly. “Right. Subtle. Totally subtle.”

Sword rubbed at his arms, pacing again. His thoughts spiraled faster than his steps—What if someone saw him? What if Father found out? What if he got lost? He’d never been beyond the city walls without permission. Every time he’d asked, Venomshank’s calm, steady tone would follow: The world isn’t kind to those who wander without knowing where they stand, my son.

And here he was—about to wander anyway.

“What if I just— peek?” he said, holding up his hands like that made it reasonable. “Just one little peek at the world. Not leaving, just… looking over the ledge. That counts, right?”

The wind answered by rattling the window latch, and he flinched.

Sword exhaled a shaky laugh, trying to shake off the nerves crawling under his skin. He flexed his wings experimentally, the muscles aching from how tense he was. The sound of feathers brushing against each other filled the quiet—soft, rhythmic, steadying.

He—as much as possible—silently exits through the balcony doors, and while doing so—he ran through the checklist in his head like he’d seen Venomshank’s guards do: cloak secured, scarf tight, boots fastened, hood low. He even tugged at the edge of his sleeve like it would somehow make him less noticeable.

“Alright,” he whispered, shifting his stance. “If I fall, I can glide. Probably. Wait—no, Sword! You can fly! So this should be eas—”

He glanced down at the distant courtyard from the gaps of the railing, and his stomach immediately flipped.

“—y-peasy…? Definitely shouldn’t look down,” he added quickly.

Sword spread his wings at last—the motion wide, hesitant, but deliberate. The air caught under them, cool and alive. His heart thumped louder, faster. He could feel the thrill bubbling beneath the fear, the same kind of excitement he’d felt when Rocket had spoken of the world beyond—messy, dangerous, mortal.

“Okay. Okay, Sword,” he whispered, giving himself one last pep talk. “You’re not running away. You’re… learning. Experiencing.”

He hesitated. Then, quieter,

“Rocket would think this is stupid.”

A small grin tugged at his lips anyway. “Guess that’s why I want to try.”

The wind swirled around him, tugging at his cloak and hair as he crouched on the ledge of the balcony. His wings lifted, trembling slightly—not from weakness, but anticipation.

He took one last breath, heart in his throat, and whispered to himself,

“Here goes nothing.”

Sword stood there for a heartbeat too long — toes on the cold marble edge of the balcony, the air below stretching into a dark, endless drop. The weight of the memory — the last time he’d tried this — pressed at the back of his mind like a bruise he couldn’t quite ignore.

The crash. The shouting. The days grounded, wings aching not from the fall but from being unused.
Venomshank’s quiet, disappointed sigh.
“You must respect the sky before you touch it again.”

Sword swallowed hard. “Respect,” he muttered, flexing his hands on the railing. “Got it. Totally respecting it right now.”

The wind tugged at him like a dare. He took it.

He jumped.

The air punched against him, rushing fast, cold, exhilarating — his cloak snapping wildly as gravity yanked him down. For a split second, panic seized him. Too fast. Too low. Not again—

Then instinct kicked in. His wings snapped open.

The force caught him, dragged him upward with a sharp pull that stung his shoulders, but then — he was gliding.

For the first time in months, he was flying.

The sensation flooded him, fierce and dizzying — like light in his veins. The wind whistled through his hair and between his feathers, and the city’s glow sprawled beneath him like a living thing. The castle’s towers rose behind him, impossibly tall, but Sword ducked under their shadows, beating his wings hard to gain speed.

Below, the faint glow of guard torches flickered along the courtyard paths. Sword sucked in a breath and tucked his wings in tighter, gliding low and fast past a row of parapets.

“Please don’t look up,” he hissed under his breath. “Please, please don’t look up—”

He zipped past a window — one of the servants inside looked up just a second too late. Sword’s heart thudded painfully. He swerved, nearly clipping a gargoyle, biting back a startled yelp.

“Okay, okay— steady, steady—” He breathed through gritted teeth, pulling upward into the open air, farther from the watchful eyes below.

The night stretched wide and open ahead of him now — the castle’s pale stone fading behind him, its sheer walls falling away into the dark, whispering forests that framed Lost Temple. His wings steadied, their golden sheen catching faint threads of moonlight.

He dared a small laugh — breathless, half-crazed. “Still got it,” he whispered, though his arms trembled and his pulse was thrumming.

The higher he climbed, the freer it felt. The castle — his gilded cage — shrank beneath him, smaller with every wingbeat.

But the nervous part of him still whispered reminders: If they catch you, you’re grounded for eternity. If Father finds out…

Sword winced but pressed onward, darting through the air like a spark. The cold wind nipped at his face; the sky stretched endlessly, pulling him forward.

Sword squinted against the rush of wind, his wide eyes catching the glow of the city below—and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.

Lost Temple at night was alive.

The streets shimmered like veins of gold, lanterns swinging gently above the marketplaces that never truly slept. Bridges arched over rivers of molten light; distant towers gleamed with jewel-toned windows. Tiny silhouettes moved below—merchants closing stalls, couples laughing under lamplight, kids darting between alleyways.

It was so different from the view out his window.

“Whoa…” he breathed, voice small against the wind. “Okay. Okay, that’s— that’s really pretty.”

He blinked hard, wings fluttering unevenly before he corrected his balance again. “Focus, Sword, focus. You’re not sightseeing, you’re— uh— field exploring! Yeah. That’s cooler.”

He angled lower, careful to stay in the folds of the shadow where the city’s glow dimmed. The guards’ patrol torches looked like drifting fireflies, and Sword kept just high enough to stay unseen, holding his breath every time he crossed open light.

His eyes darted over rooftops, courtyards, canals—searching. Somewhere far, far beyond the city lights, the pale sand dunes glimmered faintly under the moon. They looked lonely, quiet. Far enough, he thought. Perfect.

Then his stomach dropped.

“…Oh stars, that’s really far,” he muttered, wings faltering for a beat. The desert stretched endless and empty, with no comforting lights, no castle walls—just wind and silence.

He hovered midair, gnawing on his lip. “Okay, okay, it’s fine. It’s just sand. Soft. Sand can’t hurt you. Probably.”

He looked down again. The dunes rolled like waves of gold and black. Beautiful—and terrifying.

“C’mon, Sword,” he mumbled, giving himself a light slap on the cheek before tugging his cloak down. “You’re not a kid. You can do this. You’re— you’re literally you! You’ve fought bigger things than sand! …Well uh, no, you haven’t, but— still!”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of him as he adjusted his flight. “Father’s gonna kill me if I crash again,” he whispered, grimacing. “So, let’s not crash, yeah? No crashing. Smooth landing. Easy.”

He drew in a breath, wings trembling from the altitude and adrenaline. “Alright, dunes,” he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing like a challenger facing an opponent. “Prepare to be heroically landed on!!”

And with a sharp tilt of his wings and a little squeak that he hoped no one heard, Sword shot toward the vast, silent stretch of sand waiting beyond the glowing city.

Tilt, glide, flap— and then—

Sword hit the sand with all the grace of a dropped apple.

“Ow—!” he yelped as he tumbled down a small dune, wings flailing and scattering fine golden dust into the air. By the time he stopped rolling, his hair was full of sand and his cloak looked like it had been through a glitter storm.

For a moment, he just lay there, dazed and blinking up at the endless sky. The stars burned sharp and close out here—no lamps, no towers, no castle lights to dim them. The night was huge. The horizon looked like it went on forever, painted in deep indigo and faint silver dunes that shimmered when the wind breathed over them.

“…Okay,” he finally muttered, pushing himself up and brushing sand off his sleeves. “That was not my smoothest landing. But! I didn’t crash into anything solid this time, so technically—” He pointed at the air triumphantly. “—I nailed it! Perfect. Amazing. You’re a natural, Sword.”

His grin faltered a bit as he turned slowly, scanning the wide desert. The castle’s distant glow had shrunk to a flicker on the horizon—tiny, unreachable, like a star that had decided it didn’t care about him anymore.

“…Huh.” His voice came out quieter. “It’s… kinda nice out here.”

He crouched, running his fingers through the sand. It flowed between them like liquid moonlight, soft and cold. There was something alive about it—something that whispered. Something that didn’t exist in the castle’s perfect halls or polished floors.

For a while, he just watched the way the wind drew faint ripples across the dunes. Then his mind kicked back in, loud and panicky.

“Okay, Sword, think. You can’t stay here. Someone’s gonna notice you’re gone. And if Father—” He stopped mid-sentence, picturing Venomshank’s unimpressed expression. “Oh stars, he’s so gonna kill me. Not even yell—like, quiet disappointment, no! Impossibly quiet disappointment! That’s worse.”

He spun around, peering across the horizon. Somewhere—he remembered—there was another city. Smaller, not too far from the kingdom. One he’d overheard guards mention when they talked about patrol routes. The name sat fuzzy in his head, but he could almost picture it: lanterns, trade posts, travelers. A place that didn’t know him. Well, as much. He guesses— and hopes.

“Right,” he muttered, puffing out his chest a little. “That’s the plan. Go… there. Wherever there is. Totally fine plan. Great plan!”

He adjusted the strap of his satchel—he’d brought a few things, just in case—then fixed his cloak and squinted at the horizon like he could see the path waiting.

“You’re doing great, Sword,” he told himself. “You haven’t gotten caught, you didn’t break anything—well, how could you when you’re in sand, and matter of fact! You only ate, like, one mouthful of sand. That’s— that’s pretty good for my… First runaway attempt.”

Then, under his breath, with a nervous laugh,

“…Father’s gonna kill me.”

But he smiled anyway—because beneath the fear, beneath the sand still sticking to his face, there was this wild, fluttering excitement in his chest.

The world was huge, and for the first time in his life, he was in it.

Okay. Uh,

It turned out that the world—when you were actually in it—was a lot louder than Sword expected.

He had barely gone ten paces from the dune before something rustled nearby. He froze. Every muscle in his body went stiff, his wings flaring wide with a soft whump of feathers.

“…Hello?” he called out, voice breaking halfway through.

The rustling stopped. The desert went quiet again.

“Okay. Cool. Probably just… sand,” he muttered, even though that made absolutely no sense. He crouched, staring suspiciously at a patch of dry brush. “Totally harmless. Definitely not a—”

A beetle scuttled out. Big. Shiny.

Sword screamed.

He flailed backward, tripped over his own feet, and landed flat on his back, wings wrapping over him like a panicked blanket. The beetle paused, unimpressed, then wandered off in a completely different direction.

Sword peeked out from under his wings, eyes wide. “…You better run,” he whispered weakly at it, voice shaking. “You’re lucky I’m merciful!”

After a long pause, he sat up again, brushing himself off, muttering, “I hate this already.”

He trudged forward, the sand crunching under his boots. The night wind howled around the dunes, and each sound felt like it had teeth. A tumbleweed rolled past and Sword nearly took flight on instinct.

“Okay, so,” he told himself through gritted teeth. “Not scary. Just nature. Totally normal. The merchants do this all the time!” He held his wings closer now, wrapping them tight like a feathered shield. “You’re just—experiencing nature. Up close. Way too close.”

Something hooted in the distance.

“Nope!” Sword spun around, wings puffed out, and glared at the darkness. “That’s enough nature for one night, thanks!”

Still, he kept walking, muttering as he went. “It’s fine. Totally fine. I’m brave. I’m just… slightly on edge. Which is healthy.”

He tripped over a rock, caught himself, and whispered furiously at it, “Don’t do that.”

The desert didn’t reply, obviously.

Sword sighed, shoulders sagging. The night stretched endlessly around him, and his wings drooped at his sides. “Maybe this was dumb,” he mumbled. “Maybe I should’ve waited. Or brought a map. Or more food. Or, you know—literally anyone else.”

Then he looked back at the direction of the distant castle, barely a glimmer now on the horizon.

“…But I’m already out here,” he said, quieter this time.

And despite his trembling knees, the sand in his hair, and the faint buzz of panic under his ribs—he squared his shoulders and started walking again, whispering, “It’s fine. I’ve got this. Totally got this.”

A shadow moved somewhere far off. His wings immediately came up like a living shield.

“…I don’t got this,” he added under his breath, and kept walking anyway.

Sword had been talking to himself for at least fifteen minutes straight—mostly apologies to the sand for tripping over it and to his wings for making them do all the work—when he saw it.

At first, it was faint: a flicker. A soft cluster of gold and orange lights pulsing in the far-off dark.

He froze mid-step, squinting hard. “…Wait—wait, is that—?” His eyes widened, his wings flared open again. “That’s a town! Oh, yes—yes, yes, yes!”

Excitement overrode his exhaustion instantly. He nearly tripped on his own boots as he tried to take off, stumbling forward before finally catching enough wind to lift. His flight wasn’t elegant—it was chaotic. Feathers puffed everywhere, his wings kept catching stray gusts of air, and he almost screamed when he nearly collided with a sand dune.

“Too high—too high—nope! Nope, this is fine!” he shouted at the air, wobbling midflight like an unbalanced kite. “Totally under control—aaaand not under control!”

He dipped sharply, barely managing to land in a half-roll behind a jagged rock formation. His shoulder hit the sand first, and he groaned, sitting up and rubbing at it. “Ow. Okay. That could’ve gone smoother. Ten out of ten landing once again, though. Stuck the pain part.”

When he peeked over the rock, the lights were clearer now—still far away, shimmering faintly in the desert haze. It wasn’t a huge city like home, but it was alive. He could make out tiny shapes—movement, lights.

Sword grinned despite the sting on his palms. “I did it,” he whispered, chest puffing up with pride. “I actually found something. All by myself.”

The thought lasted about three seconds before panic started whispering at the edge of it.

“…Okay, but what if it’s… I don’t know, bandits? Or… or a cult?” He frowned, tapping his chin. “Or worse—people who don’t like deities?” His wings instinctively ruffled tighter around his shoulders. “But, but maybe they could just be like, Rocket-type-dislike towards deities?”

He looked down at himself—formal royal attire, gleaming gold trimmings, not exactly discreet.

“Oh, yeah, no one’s gonna notice me,” he muttered sarcastically, tugging at the cuffs. “Totally blending in. So subtle. Just a glowing red kid with wings. Perfect.”

He sighed, leaning back against the rock. “Maybe I should just… watch for a bit,” he told himself, nodding firmly like it made sense. “Yeah. Just watch. From here. Where it’s safe. Not cowardly. Just… strategy.”

A desert breeze brushed past, cool and dry, carrying the distant hum of laughter and life from the lights beyond. Sword hugged his knees to his chest, eyes fixed on the glow.

“Still counts as adventure,” he mumbled under his breath. “Even if I’m… y’know. Hiding behind a rock.”

Sword had been watching for a while now—long enough for the cool air to bite at his fingers and the hum of the desert to lull him into something close to comfort. From behind his little rock, the world beyond still shimmered softly: warm lights, faint laughter, the glow of hearths in the dark. It looked peaceful. Safe.

He hugged his knees tighter and smiled to himself. “See? Nothing bad. Just normal people doing normal things,” he whispered, as though reassuring both himself and the universe. “Told you, Sword. You can totally handle this.”

He squinted down at the town again, eyes half-lidded. “When I see Rocket again, I’ll tell him I saw a whole town all by myself. He’ll be so impressed—”

And then the night split apart.

It started small—a single crack of light, sharp as lightning, bursting somewhere near the heart of the town. Then another. And another.

Sword straightened, heart tripping over itself. “What—”

The glow turned ugly. Red instead of gold. It rippled outward like a spreading wound, and the next thing he knew, what he assumed was the far-off laughter turned out to be screams. Flames clawed up into the sky, swallowing the shapes of houses, the delicate lights, the silhouettes of people running.

Sword froze. The air punched from his lungs.

“What’s—what’s happening—?” His voice broke as he crawled up the rock further, wings half-flared, eyes wide in disbelief.

From above, he could see it now—two banners clashing in the smoke. Armored figures moving through the chaos, blades drawn, spells sparking in bursts of fire. The smell of burning wood reached him even from this distance, thick and bitter.

“No, no, no…” His words trembled. “Why are they fighting?!”

The sky bloomed with another explosion, scattering ash like snow. He flinched back behind the rock instinctively, covering his head with his arms.

His heartbeat was wild—too loud, too fast. He could feel it in his throat. Every part of him screamed to move, to do something—but what could he even do?

He swallowed, eyes darting across the flames, searching for anything—someone to help, anyone who wasn’t running or falling or burning. But the fire didn’t leave much behind.

Until—

There.

A shape moved through the smoke. Someone was crawling, dragging themselves out from the edge of the inferno—clothes singed, one arm clutched to their side. Sword’s breath hitched. “Someone’s alive—!”

He scrambled down from the rock before he could think twice, sand slipping beneath his boots as he half-ran, half-stumbled toward the light. His wings tucked tight under his cloak, heart pounding against his ribs. I can help them. I can—

The closer he got, the worse the heat burned. Smoke clawed at his throat, stinging his eyes. He pressed an arm over his nose and mouth, squinting through the haze. “Hey—hey, it’s okay! I’ll—”

The figure didn’t answer. Their arm dropped limply into the sand.

“Please,” Sword muttered, picking up his pace. “Don’t—don’t die, okay? I can get you out—”

But then something heavy and cold struck the back of his head.

The world blinked white.

He stumbled forward, catching himself on his hands, sand grinding into his palms. His vision blurred—flashes of light, movement, a voice shouting something he couldn’t catch.

A rough hand grabbed his cloak, yanking him backward.

“Who’re ‘ya?!” someone barked. Sword tried to lift his head, but his ears were ringing, the world tilting violently. He could barely make out the shapes—shadows moving through the smoke, one of them holding a weapon slick with soot.

“I—I’m—” he tried, voice weak. The answer never came.

He feels something warm trickle down from his head, and the world goes completely dark.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Medkit didn’t know how it happened, but it happened.

The explosion tore through the lab like the roar of a dying god, all sound and light and heat in one blinding instant. One moment he was shouting—something about stability, about control, power—and the next, the crystals flared white-hot, and Subspace’s face vanished behind the surge. Then came the pain. The unbearable, searing kind that didn’t even feel real until he was already on the floor, clutching at the side of his head, slick warmth dripping through his fingers.

The air smelled like burning ozone and melted steel. The walls cracked with frost as the containment chamber’s power collapsed, shards of glowing ice tumbling from the ceiling. Medkit staggered up, half-blind, his vision a red blur on one side. His boots slid on broken glass and crystal dust, every step leaving behind a streak of blood and frost.

“Subspace!” he croaked, his voice raw. “You—You fool—what have you done—”

No answer. Only the hum of ruptured reactors and the distant wail of sirens echoing through the corridors of Blackrock. The Korblox Administration would come soon—his own people, his own guards—but not to save him. No, not after this. Not after the entire east wing detonated.

He stumbled toward the emergency hatch, cradling his face. His left eye was gone—he could feel the empty space where it used to be, could taste the metallic tang of blood in his throat. The cold air outside bit deep when the hatch slid open, stinging his lungs as he gasped.

Snow stretched endlessly across the horizon—sharp peaks like jagged knives under a gray sky. The city below pulsed faintly with blue light, towers jutting from the ice like spines. Beautiful. Cold. Unforgiving.

He pressed a trembling hand to the wound, forcing himself to breathe. He couldn’t stay. Not when Subspace was gone. Not when the Council would demand answers he couldn’t give.

“Survive first,” he muttered to himself. “Then think.”

His breath came out in shallow white bursts as he stumbled down the slope. Every step crunched through frost. His heavy coat was scorched on one side, and his vision kept swimming in and out of focus. The wind howled, tugging at his hood, whispering through the ruins behind him like ghosts.

He didn’t dare look back.

The further he went, the quieter the world became—just the wind and his uneven steps, his heartbeat pulsing against the pain. Somewhere behind him, Blackrock burned with pink fire, the icy peaks flickering under the auroras. His home. His lab. His partner.

Gone.

The word pulsed in his skull like an echo he couldn’t shake off. Gone. His home. His research. The only person who could ever match his mind—and destroy it just as easily. Subspace’s laughter still clung to the inside of his head, high and fractured, the kind that cut deeper than any blade.

“Come on, Meddy,” Subspace had said once, back when the lab wasn’t a battlefield. “You’re thinking too small again. You always think too small.”

And then—boom.

Medkit grit his teeth, shaking his head to drown it out. The cold bit into him mercilessly, but it was better than the heat of memory. He pressed forward, boots sinking into snow as the slope stretched endlessly beneath him. The northern lights rippled above, throwing ghostly colors across the white expanse. His body screamed with every step, but stopping meant dying.

He had to get out of Blackrock territory. If the Korblox Administration caught him, they’d tear him apart before asking why. He was already a dead man walking in their records—a traitor, an arsonist, a failure. The only direction left was south, toward the warmth he’d only ever heard of in the maps—Lost Temple.

He’d read about it once: golden markets, sand seas, and trade routes that pulsed with life instead of static. A place where people bartered words and goods, not power. If he could make it there, maybe—just maybe—he could disappear.

But every time he blinked, Subspace was there again—smiling through the flames, eyes glinting wild behind fractured goggles. The memory of his laughter cracked through the silence.

“Can’t run forever, Meddy!”

His breath hitched. “Shut up,” he hissed into the wind. “You’re not real. Not anymore.”

He trudged forward, wrapping his coat tighter around himself. The wind grew harsher, slicing through the seams. The fire burning behind the mountains dimmed with distance, but the guilt didn’t. His left eye socket throbbed with each heartbeat, a reminder of Subspace’s last gift.

He didn’t even remember striking back—only that there had been blood, two screams overlapping, and then the explosion.

The further he went, the less solid the ground felt beneath his boots. Ice gave way to rock, rock to frozen dirt. He was leaving the domain of snow, heading for the barren edge of the world where the air grew warmer and the sky less cruel.

He collapsed once, gasping into the snow, then dragged himself up again. His gloves were stiff with dried blood. His breath burned in his chest. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Because somewhere beyond the icy ridges, the desert waited—a land untouched by machinery, a place where maybe no one knew his name.

“I—” he muttered under his breath, tasting the words like a promise. “I’ll make it there. I’ll… I’ll survive—I have to—”

The wind howled in response, but he took it as agreement.

So he kept walking.

Hours bled into days. Some food that he had stolen from desecrated carts from merchants of Lost Temple had gone frozen, and his wounds scabbed beneath the fabric. But he pressed on, chasing the faint glow of the southern horizon—until the snow turned thin and the ground cracked underfoot, and he saw it at last: the faint shimmer of sand under starlight.

He stopped on the ridge, chest heaving, one hand braced against the cold rock.

Below him, far beyond the frozen mountains, stretched the dunes of Lost Temple—gold and endless, waiting.

He exhaled, long and trembling. Then, without looking back, Medkit started his descent.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The world had changed around him. The snow gave way to cracked stone, and the cracked stone to dunes that shimmered like molten glass under the sun. He’d long stopped counting the days. His steps had become quieter, his mind duller. The pain behind his ruined eye had faded into something distant—an echo more than a wound.

That was when he heard her.

“Well, now, ain’t this a surprise.”

Medkit froze mid-step. The voice came from behind a sand-colored boulder, smooth and lilting—almost singsong, with that lilting southern drawl that curled every word like smoke. A figure stepped out of the shade, her cloak deep green and tattered at the ends, sand slipping off the fabric like blood off steel.

She smiled at him—too wide, too sharp. “Didn’t think I’d find another soul wanderin’ this far from the markets. You look like you been through hell, sugar.”

Medkit’s hand twitched toward the tool belt strapped across his hip. “Who are you?” he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse.

“Oh, names don’t matter much out here,” she said with a lazy twirl of her wrist, her long braid catching the dying light. “But you can call me Scythe. Everyone does. And you—” her head tilted, her remaining eye glinting beneath the shade of her hood. “—you don’t look like no merchant, nor a drifter. You’re too… sharp around the edges. Too cold in the… eye.”

“I didn’t ask for your assessment,” he muttered, turning away. “Leave me be.”

“Oh, darlin’, I would—but see, that’d be a mighty waste.” She followed him, boots crunching softly in the sand. “You’re hurt, lost, and somehow still alive after crossing the wastes. Either you’re real lucky or you’re real talented. And we could use some talented folk.”

He stopped then, slowly turning. “We?”

Scythe’s grin widened. “The Church of the True Eye,” she said, voice softening into something reverent. “New, a small congregation, nothin’ fancy. We try n’ tend to those who’ve fallen through the cracks of kingdoms and gods. Offer them somethin’ more meaningful than kneelin’ before deities who don’t listen. Maybe grow into somethin' more should we have the chance.”

Medkit’s brows furrowed. “A cult, then.”

“Oh, sugar, such an ugly word,” she drawled, placing a hand over her heart as though wounded. “We prefer family. You help us, we protect you. You give us knowledge, we give you safety. Seems fair, don’t it?”

He studied her carefully—the gleam of a blade strapped at her hip, the faint shimmer of strange symbols painted on her cloak, the glint of sincerity that looked almost… convincing.

“I’m not interested in your gods,” he said flatly.

She laughed, the sound echoing off the dunes. “Oh, honey, neither are we.”

He hesitated. The desert wind bit against his burns, his throat dry as bone. He’d been running for days, and he could feel the weight of exhaustion settling in like a sickness.

Scythe tilted her head, tone softening. “Ain’t no one gonna find you out here. Not ‘yer little organization, not your ghosts, not whatever it is you’re runnin’ from. You come with us, you get shelter, food, maybe even somethin’ worth believin’ in again. Ain’t that better than dyin’ on some forgotten dune?”

Medkit’s lips parted, but no words came out.

She smiled knowingly. “Ain’t no shame in survivin’, sugar.”

The wind swept between them, carrying the scent of ash and incense from somewhere unseen.

Finally, Medkit said quietly, “If I say yes… I get protection?”

Scythe’s grin softened into something almost gentle. “You get protection. And a place to start over. That’s a promise.”

He looked past her—at the endless stretch of dunes, the distant shimmer of Lost Temple’s outer lights, the faint smoke rising from war-torn cities. There was nowhere else to go.

“…Fine,” he muttered.

Scythe’s smile bloomed like a knife unsheathing. “Atta boy.”

She turned on her heel, gesturing for him to follow. “Welcome to the family, sugar. Let’s get you patched up before the sands eat you whole.”

And for the first time since the explosion, Medkit followed someone without looking back.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The desert burned again that night. Not with heat, but with remnants of war.

The air above Lost Temple shimmered with firelight, and smoke rolled across the dunes like waves—heavy, choking, the kind that sank into bone.

Medkit moved through it with mechanical precision, coat flaring behind him, mask pulled tight over the lower half of his face. The light of the burning city carved long shadows through the wreckage. Behind him, the cult’s banners fluttered—black silk painted with the green scribbles of the True Eye.

It had been a year since he joined them. A year since Scythe’s grin and the quiet promise of survival. A year since he learned that “family” in her tongue meant useful hands that obey.

Now, he followed those orders like clockwork. Scythe led at the front, her silhouette cutting sharp against the inferno—red cloak trailing, voice low and easy even amid chaos. Broker trailed near her, a bundle of scrolls and half-burnt ledgers under one arm, humming an off-key tune as though they weren’t walking through the aftermath of carnage.

Medkit walked last, a field kit slung across his back, instruments clinking softly. His task was simple: clean, collect, catalogue. Anything alive or interesting.

“You’re quiet tonight, sugar,” Scythe drawled over her shoulder, voice smooth as oil. “Don’t tell me the smell of char’s finally got to you.”

Medkit’s reply was muffled by his mask. “I don’t talk when I work.”

She smiled, unbothered. “Oh, but that’s when it’s best to talk. Keeps the silence from chewin’ you up inside.”

Broker chuckled lowly. “Let the doc have his focus, love. Not all of us enjoy a bit of screaming with our sermons.”

Scythe snorted and kept walking. “Hush, you.”

They split when the fires grew thicker. Scythe went deeper into the wreckage—harvesting, she called it—while Broker slipped between the smoldering ruins, hands greedy for papers, devices, anything valuable.

Medkit veered off into the quieter ruins, following the edge of a collapsed alley. His boots crunched over blackened glass and ash. The air was thick with the stink of smoke and blood.

He’d grown numb to it.

Until he saw movement.

A flicker—too weak for an ember, too true to ignore.

He moved closer, crouching low. Beneath a half-fallen archway, two figures lay tangled in the soot—one slumped over the other, barely breathing. The first was an adult, scarred and dusted in ash, one hand protectively curled around the smaller body beneath them. The second…

Medkit’s eye widened.

Wings.

Not the fakes you’d see in costumes or mechanical prosthetics—real, feathered, luminous even under grime. Two sets, one folded limply against a small back. Feathers catching the flicker of firelight at their edges, shimmering faintly despite the soot.

The child—because that’s what he was, no older than fourteen—was unconscious, face streaked with blood and sand. His breathing came in shallow bursts.

Medkit’s throat went dry. Deity-blood. Royalty.

Even among the True Eye, that kind of discovery meant chaos. They’d sell him, use him, tear him apart for relics or power or something worse.

Behind him, faint laughter echoed—Scythe’s voice, closer than he liked. “Find anythin’ good, doc?”

He glanced once at the bodies—the man above the boy, already cold—and then made his decision.

“Not... not much,” he called back, keeping his tone flat. “Just more dead.”

“Shame,” she said. “Keep lookin’, ‘Kit. There’s bound to be somethin’ useful in this mess.”

Her footsteps faded, swallowed by the storm of fire and shouts.

Medkit exhaled shakily, then leaned down. The older man’s arm was too heavy to move easily, but with effort, he shifted it aside. The boy stirred faintly at the touch, wings twitching.

“Quiet,” Medkit muttered, not sure why he said it so softly. “Stay quiet, please, or they’ll hear.”

He slid his arms beneath the boy and lifted. He was lighter than he looked. The feathers brushed against Medkit’s burnt coat, leaving faint smears of soot.

The house nearby was half-collapsed, but the walls still stood, and the roof had only half-caved. He slipped inside, careful not to leave prints in the soot, and lowered the boy onto what remained of a couch.

The child’s breathing was shallow, his pulse unsteady. Medkit dug through his bag, pulling out a vial, a strip of cloth, a few old stimulants from the True Eye’s supplies. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, but his mind kept looping on one thought.

What was a royal god-child doing here?

Outside, Scythe’s voice echoed through the dunes, lilting and bright. “Finders keepers, boys! Anything that glows, bring it home!”

Medkit’s hand tightened around the syringe. He looked down at the boy again—at the gold-flecked horns curling faintly from his head, the light pulse beneath his skin.

“…You’re not dying here,” he muttered. “Not if I can help it.”

He pressed the stimulant into the boy’s arm, checked the wound, and sat back against the cracked wall, listening to the fire die outside.

For the first time in years, he didn’t feel numb.

He felt… protective.

Medkit sat with his back against the cracked plaster, the boy’s breaths shallow and ragged on the couch beside him. The room smelled of smoke and iron and the bitter tang of the stimulants he'd forced into the child’s arm. Night pressed against the broken window; the city beyond it shuddered and groaned as fires died and looters argued in the ruins.

The wound at the base of the wing had bled bright at first, then gone dull and ugly. He could feel the splinters under skin when he probed gently; there was a hairline fracture in a wing bone, and something deep and rotten already tried to set up house in the torn tissue. The crude salves the True Eye carried would only slow rot for a little while. If he left it, the infection would eat muscle. If the bone set wrong, the kid would never fly properly again—and a deity-child who could not fly was both less valuable and far more vulnerable.

Medkit had been chewing on that fact all evening. He could jury-rig something here—he had tools enough to stitch and make splints—but he knew what “jury-rig” meant in the long run. He needed a proper sterile table, anesthetic that didn’t smell like kerosene, and a place where questions either didn’t get asked or were worth trading for.

He propped the boy’s head onto his knees and listened to his shallow rasp. The small, gold-fringed horn at the temple glinted under soot. A sick part of his brain flicked through possibilities—sell, ransom, experiment—then recoiled. He hadn’t come with the True Eye to barter children. He’d come because Scythe had promised protection, and because in some bent corner of his mind he still thought there were things worth saving. That he could live up to his purpose.

He rose on stiff legs and padded across the room to the doorway. Scythe and Broker had spread through the ruins, harvesting and interrogating in their separate rhythms. He could call them back and argue the point, but they’d both made their priorities clear when they took him in: profit first, inconvenience tolerated so long as it produced value.

Medkit found Scythe near a collapsed market stall, a red silhouette against an orange wash. She was speaking to two of the other cultists, laughing with a sound that didn’t match the heat around them. Broker was farther off, knee-deep in a pile of ruined crates, turning papers over as if the right ledger would sing him a fortune.

He cleared his throat, he had to atleast... earn a favor. He had no choice if he wanted to save this kid. “Scythe. Broker.”

They turned. Scythe’s smile sharpened when she saw the cloth bundle he carried. Broker’s grin was almost boyish until he saw the faint glint of gold and the sway of crippled feathers.

“You got someone pretty,” Broker said softly, not unkindly. “You bring me the shiny bits later, right?”

Medkit didn’t smile. “Not for selling.” He kept his voice flat but steady. “He needs more than what we have. Wing base is fractured. Infection’s taking. I can splice it here for now, but it won’t take. If I don’t set it properly and sterilize, I’ll be killing any chance he has to recover. I need a proper table, an anesthetic that doesn’t taste like death, and maybe a surgeon who knows how to set wing bones so they don’t heal crooked.”

Broker’s expression shifted—interest, quick and sharp. “You want to cart a godling into a market clinic in broad daylight? That’s either bravery or very bad math.” He clicked a finger. “Where ‘ya thinking?”

“Marrek,” Medkit said before he could rehearse the name. “Small trade city. Has a field surgeon—Quiet. Works the caravans on the south routes. He owes me favors from… a long time ago.” He set his jaw. “They will set the bone right and swap me sterile gear. Then we can come back. It’ll be clean, fast, and I’ll bring the kid back whole.”

Scythe watched him with a tilt of her head. The dunelight painted her profile like a knife. “Why should we trust you to bring him back, Medkit?” Her voice was warm and deceptively small. The cult’s rules were simple: things taken out must either return more valuable or not return at all. An absent asset had a way of becoming someone else’s.

“Because I’m the one who found him,” Medkit said. He had to stay quiet about him earlier, otherwise Scythe would’ve picked up the kid as her own. “And if he dies on the road, it’s a loss to us—we lose leverage and leverage is currency. Because I need his wing to be able to fly or he’s useless for what you like to barter.” He didn’t say the last part; the implication hung in the air. He looked at Broker, meeting that dangerous, easy smile with a frown. “I’ll be back before the next moon. Two days. Maybe three depending on the roads.”

Broker whistled softly, eyes glinting. “Three days? That’s a long trip across the dunes with bandits n’ militia. You sure you’re not trying to run?”

Scythe laughed, a soft, dangerous sound. “He won’t run. Doc’s mysterious, but he’s not stupid.” She turned to her people, barked a short order for two saddled animals and a crate of spare cloaks. “Take our doc nowhere without escort if he’s not returning.” Her hand brushed Medkit’s arm. The gesture was oddly paternal, not entirely unkind. “Bring him back with wings, or bring us a reason why not. And don’t come back with an army at your heels.”

Broker nodded, folding a charred paper into his sleeve as though tucking away an acquisition. “If you bring back something useful—intel, tech, a name—well, you know how we like to reward that.” He smirked. “If you come back empty… Father has ways of making that unfortunate.”

Medkit’s mouth tightened. He was grateful for the restraint in their threats; their permission would have been worse in the other direction. He exhaled slowly. “I’ll go. I secure him for travel, cover the signs that mark him as… special, and we leave in one hour. I’ll take two of your riders as escort, but I’ll keep the distance.”

Scythe’s eyes flicked to the boy just inside the threshold. She moved closer without ceremony, crouched, and ran a gloved hand across the child’s brow with a gentleness that contradicted her voice. “You heal him, ‘Kit. Don’t make me regret letting you out here alone.” She stood and clapped a leather gauntlet over Medkit’s shoulder. “Bring him back. And if ‘ya find a way to make him speak? Bring that too.”

Medkit felt a wash of something like relief. He bowed slightly—a habit more than reverence—and gathered his pack.

They worked with the efficiency of those who had made violence an art. Broker produced a loop of muted coins and a ledger with names: routes, safe houses, a contact at Marrek who’d taken a small, painful bribe for silence in the past. Scythe supplied a hooded cloak and a flask of something sweet and potent for the night crossing. Two of her riders came forward, silent as wolves, straps creaking with supplies.

Medkit wrapped the boy in blankets to hide the gold ornamentation and the arcuate horns. He padded the wing with splints and firm cloth, bound it closely, then muffled the worst of the bloodstains. He worked quickly, hands moving with practiced, brutal tenderness — a stitch here, a splint there, the quiet humming of a man who had spent his life fixing things that others broke.

As he hoisted the boy into the saddle before him, med kit felt the weight — not just of the child, but of the decision. The dunes outside the ruined quarter glared under moonlight, a long white path toward Marrek and questions he did not want to answer.

“Medkit,” Broker murmured as the trio lined up beneath the ruined arch. “You bring him back alive, you become our little miracle. You don’t—well.” He shrugged, a dangerous, casual motion.

Scythe’s grin was thin in the torchlight. “Be clever, Kit. You’re good with things. Don’t get sentimental.” Then, after a beat, almost quieter: “And don’t lose him.”

Medkit mounted. The rider to his left nodded once; the other took the rear. The night swallowed them as they moved away from the ruin, hoofbeats a steady, private drum. The city behind them burned low, and the desert breathed ahead, indifferent.

He kept one hand on the child the whole way down—a silent oath that whatever he would answer for later, he would not abandon this body under his watch.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The desert was silent except for the rhythmic crunch of hooves over sand and the low, uneven rasp of Medkit’s breathing. The wind had calmed by dawn; the dunes stretched like pale bones under the rising sun. Behind him, the two True Eye riders trailed close, black cloaks fluttering against the morning light.

Sword’s weight was a faint, constant pressure against his chest. The boy hadn’t stirred since they left. Every so often, Medkit could feel a flutter of breath against his collar — weak, but there. He’d checked his pulse three times already, and every time, he told himself it was still steady. It had to be steady.

They crossed the border out of the wastelands by midday, when the dunes softened into cracked earth and the silhouettes of low walls appeared ahead—Marrek, just as he’d said. A dull, sun-baked city of dust-colored stone and narrow alleys. A place that didn’t ask questions, because it had learned what happened to those who did.

One of the riders whistled when they saw it. “Didn’t think we’d make it before nightfall,” he said, voice muffled under his scarf. “Guess you were right, doc. You do know your roads.”

Medkit didn’t answer. His fingers had been resting near the strap that held the vial at his hip — the one laced with paralytic agents.

The other rider laughed. “Don’t look so grim. We’ll rest, find your medic, patch up the pretty little thing, then head back home to Scythe, aye?”

“Yeah,” Medkit said quietly. “That’s the plan.”

They reached the city gates without trouble. The guards barely glanced at them — the True Eye insignia carved into the riders’ bracers was warning enough. Once inside, the noise of the streets wrapped around them — merchants hawking old wares, bells chiming, metal clattering in the forges.

Medkit guided the horse through the main road, scanning the faces that passed. Nobody looked too long. Nobody ever did.

Then, as they turned down toward the inner quarter, Medkit slowed. “There’s a shortcut,” he said evenly. “Through here. Marrow’s clinic isn’t far.”

The first rider squinted at the alley. “Looks like a thief’s den to me.”

“Less crowded,” Medkit replied. “Faster.”

They followed him in without question. The alley was narrow and shadowed, boxed in by tall, cracked walls. A stray cat darted out and vanished under a heap of crates. The air smelled of rust and rain that hadn’t come in years.

Medkit slid off his mount first, steadying Sword’s limp body. “He’s getting worse,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Need to get the bindings off. One of you — give me a hand.”

The first rider swung down, muttering under his breath. “You better not let him bleed on me—”

That was when Medkit moved.

A quick twist of the wrist — the hidden injector slid from his sleeve and plunged cleanly into the rider’s neck. The man’s protest turned into a strangled gasp. His body went rigid, then slack, collapsing like a cut marionette.

The second rider barely had time to draw his blade before Medkit turned, another vial already in hand. He hurled it against the man’s chest. The glass shattered; vapor hissed out in a burst of pale green. The rider staggered back, coughing violently, eyes watering.

“You—traitor—!” he rasped, before Medkit caught him by the throat and pressed the edge of a surgical knife just beneath his jaw.

“You don't have to tell me twice,” Medkit said, almost gently. “Now, close your eyes.”

The blade slipped once, quick and efficient. The body hit the wall and slid down silently.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of Medkit’s breathing — slow, steady, trembling around the edges. He wiped his knife clean on the nearest cloak, tucked it away, and exhaled through his nose.

“Sorry,” he whispered, though it didn’t sound like he meant it. “Orders don’t matter when they’re wrong.”

He glanced back at Sword. The boy hadn’t stirred — still out cold, head lolling against the horse’s neck. The torn wing had bled through the bindings, faint shimmer of gold peeking through the gauze.

Medkit untethered the horse, dragging both bodies deeper into the alley until they disappeared under broken crates and tarps. He didn’t have time for anything cleaner. Scythe would notice they never came back, but by then, he’d be long gone.

When he emerged again, he was just another traveler leading a tired animal and a bundled, sleeping passenger.

By dusk, he’d found a small inn tucked in the city’s quieter quarter—the sign half-broken and its windows dusty. Perfect.

The innkeeper, an older woman with a sharp eye and no patience, didn’t ask questions when he slipped her extra coin. She saw the wrapped figure and assumed he was transporting a wounded relative. That was good.

Medkit carried Sword up the narrow stairs himself, the boy’s weight light but constant. The room smelled faintly of soap and candle smoke. He laid him gently on the bed, checked his pulse again, then drew the curtains closed.

“…you better be worth this,” he muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to the sleeping figure.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Sword stirred at first like someone surfacing from a dream—slow, reluctant, his lashes fluttering against the dim, amber light that pooled across the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of smoke, iron, and the strange, bitter tang of medicine. Something cool brushed against his cheek.

When he tried to move, pain greeted him—dull but deep, threading through his ribs and wings. He winced and sank back into the bed, confusion fogging his thoughts. The sheets were coarse, the room quiet save for the faint crackle of a candle.

His hand found the bandages wrapped tight around his head. His wings twitched beneath the blanket — sore, heavy, the right one bound in careful layers of clean gauze.

“…what…” His voice came out cracked, dry as the dunes. “Where…”

“Finally,” a voice drawled from the corner. “I was starting to think you were just decorative.”

Sword turned his head — slowly, painfully — toward the source.

A man sat slouched in a chair near the foot of the bed, half-shadowed by the curtain’s edge. His coat was dark, frayed near the cuffs, and one side of his face was partially obscured by an old burn scar that reached up toward a patch over his left eye. He was cleaning a syringe, movements sharp and practiced.

Sword blinked, trying to make sense of the stranger. “…who are you?”

“Someone who didn’t let you die,” the man replied dryly, setting the syringe down. “Medkit. Call me that. You’re in Marrek—small town, no royal banners, no nosey patrols.”

“Marrek…?” Sword repeated faintly, his eyes drifting around the room. The walls were cracked but solid, the single window curtained tight. There was only one chair, one bed, and a stack of medical instruments neatly arranged on the nightstand.

He tried to sit up, but Medkit’s hand shot out, firm and steady. “Easy. You’re lucky your head still works, kid. Something hit you real bad.”

Sword frowned, dazed. “The… fire…” His voice dropped. “There were people. I tried to—”

“Yeah,” Medkit interrupted softly, not unkindly. “Didn’t go so well, did it?”

Sword swallowed, the memory flashing in pieces—the shouting, the flames, the loud ‘thunk’ as something hit his head, someone dragging him, and then nothing but heat and darkness. He gripped the blanket tighter, his gaze flicking back to Medkit. “You… helped me?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Medkit muttered, glancing at him with his one good eye. “You were lucky I found you first. The others wouldn’t have been so charitable.”

Sword’s brow furrowed. “Others?”

Medkit hesitated for half a heartbeat before waving a hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re alive. I stitched up what I could and set your wing. You shouldn’t fly yet.”

Sword looked at his bandaged feathers, the edges faintly golden where the light hit. He flexed them weakly—pain flared, but they still moved. “You… did this?”

“I patch things up,” Medkit said simply. “People. Machines. Sometimes both.”

Sword’s lips parted, as if to say thank you, but the word came out smaller than he meant it to. “…thank you.”

Medkit shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Literally. Ever.”

Sword blinked at that. “What—why?”

“Because,” Medkit said, leaning back in the chair, “if the wrong people hear I’m hiding away a godling, I’ll end up missing a lot more than an eye.”

The statement was so casual that Sword almost missed the weight behind it. He fell quiet, glancing toward the curtained window. The faint hum of the city drifted through—muffled chatter, cart wheels, distant bells.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The candle flickered between them, throwing shifting shadows against the wall.

Finally, Sword said quietly, “You didn’t have to help me.”

Medkit looked at him for a long time, unreadable. “…Yeah,” he said, voice flat but softer than before. “I didn’t.”

He stood then, pulling his coat tighter, and moved to the table to check the vials laid out in neat rows. “Try to rest. I’ve got errands to run before sunrise.”

Sword hesitated, studying him—the sharp way he moved, the exhaustion under his voice, the faint tremor in his gloved hand that betrayed something more mortal.

“…Medkit,” he murmured, barely audible. “Why’d you help me?”

The man paused by the door. “Let’s just say I’m trying to make better decisions,” Medkit’s answer hung in the air—blunt, unfinished, the kind of thing that left more questions than it solved.

Sword frowned at his back. “Better decisions?” he echoed, shifting against the sheets. “Like, saving random people from fires?”

Medkit grunted. “Something like that.”

Sword tilted his head, squinting. The man clearly wasn’t one for conversation, but that never really stopped Sword before. “Well, if you’re in a good decision-making mood…” He paused, his wings twitching slightly beneath the blanket. “You could help me get back home!”

Medkit didn’t even turn around. “No.”

“—Wait, what do you mean no!?”

“I mean no,” Medkit said flatly, collecting a small pouch and slipping it into his coat. “You can barely stand, kid. You’d drop out of the sky before you got past the gates.”

Sword scowled. “I’m not a kid. And I can fly fine—” He tried to swing his legs off the bed, only to hiss in pain as the bandages pulled at his ribs. “Okay, maybe not fine, fine. But I’m not staying here forever.”

Medkit sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re alive because I dragged your half-cooked carcass out of a fire. You’re welcome, by the way. Now stop trying to undo that.”

Sword pouted, crossing his arms—carefully, since his bandages protested every motion. “You don’t get it. My father’s probably losing his mind right now. He’s—he’s gonna send people. They’ll think I’m—”

“Dead,” Medkit finished, deadpan. “Yeah, that’s the safest bet for you right now.”

That shut Sword up for a second. He stared at him, wide-eyed, before muttering, “You’re horrible at comforting people!”

“Not my job.”

“Then what is your job?”

“Keeping idiots alive long enough to stop being idiots,” Medkit said dryly.

Sword’s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “You—! I am not an idiot!”

Medkit arched a brow, unimpressed. “Says the deity who flew straight into a warzone.”

That earned him an indignant squawk. “I didn’t fly into it on purpose! It just—happened!”

“Right. Fire just happens.”

Sword threw him an exaggerated glare, his red eyes narrowing. “…You’re mean.”

“Accurate.”

He deflated a little, shoulders slumping. “You could’ve just said no nicely, you know.”

Medkit huffed under his breath, moving toward the door again. “Go back to sleep, kid. You’ll thank me when you’re not coughing up blood.”

But Sword wasn’t done yet.

He leaned forward, wincing slightly, and tried the ultimate tide-turner for whenever he couldn’t get his way—puppy eyes. He widened his gaze, tilted his head a little, and even let his lower lip wobble a bit. It was dramatic. Calculated. Deadly.

“Pleeeaaase?”

Medkit froze mid-step. Turned around, and the muscle in his jaw twitched. “…Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Sword said innocently. “I’m just asking nicely, I don’t know what you mean…!”

“That’s not asking nicely. That’s weaponized guilt.”

Sword pressed on, relentless. “Come on, you can’t just leave me here! You said you’re making better decisions—well, helping me get back is definitely one of them!”

Medkit rubbed his temple, muttering something under his breath about never rescuing teenagers again. “You can’t even walk without wobbling.”

“I can wobble very effectively,” Sword insisted.

“That’s not a brag.”

“Sounds like one,” Sword chirped, trying to hide a grin.

Medkit exhaled slowly, long and tired, like he was bargaining with himself. “You’re impossible.”

Sword’s grin brightened a fraction, sensing the faintest hint of victory. “That means you’re thinking about it.”

“No,” Medkit said quickly. “It means I regret every life choice that led me here.”

But Sword only smiled wider, his childish persistence leaking through the exhaustion. “You’re already halfway to saying yes.”

Medkit gave in finally, leveling him with a sharp, unimpressed stare. “You try that face again, and I’m sedating you.”

Sword blinked, unfazed. “…Does that mean maybe?”

For the first time since Sword had woken up, the corner of Medkit’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to make Sword’s heart jump.

“Sleep, kid,” Medkit muttered, turning toward the door again. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Sword flopped back onto the pillow with a smug little hum, his wings rustling softly.

He’d take that as a maybe.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Venomshank’s night had been long, even by his standards.

The council chamber was still thick with the aftertaste of incense and arguments when he finally dismissed the guards and strode through the palace halls alone. His cape trailed behind him in a soft, tired sweep—the color of storm clouds catching faint glints from the torches.

The temple slept. Even the wind outside seemed to hush when he passed.

He was used to this — these hours where the kingdom was silent, and all that was left to rule was the dark.

Still, habit drew him to the western wing—to the room with the carved door with many markings from his son and dubbed it 'awesome territory'. Sword’s room.

He told himself it was just to check in—nothing more. Sword had been quiet lately, but that was normal now. Though he missed it no less. But he was growing. Training. Learning the hard edges of power. Venomshank knew what it meant to hold your tongue.

Still, when he reached the door, something in him hesitated. The torches along the corridor flickered low. His reflection in the polished metal of the handles looked… weary.

He exhaled, low and slow, and pushed the door open.

The room was dim—the candle on the nightstand long melted down to a stub. The bedcovers were half-pulled back. Empty.

Venomshank frowned.

He stepped inside, boots silent against the marble. The curtains fluttered faintly in the breeze, and that was when he noticed—the balcony doors were open. Wide open. The cold night air drifted through, carrying with it the scent of rain and something faintly metallic.

“…Sword?”

The word left him before he could stop it. It sounded too small, too mortal, in the vast stillness of the chamber.

No answer.

Venomshank’s gaze swept the room again—the desk, still scattered with quills and half-written notes; the practice sword resting neatly by the window. No signs of struggle. No noise. Just… absence.

Then his eyes caught something at the balcony threshold.

A feather.

Small, brow-white — one of his son’s. The edges were singed.

For a moment, Venomshank didn’t breathe. His chest went still, his thoughts blanking into white static.

Then the sound tore out of him—a single, raw crash as he shoved through the doors and out onto the balcony, his voice echoing against the temple’s hollowed cliffs.

“SWORD!”

The word broke apart in the wind. The horizon answered only with silence.

He gripped the stone railing so tightly it cracked beneath his claws. The cold air bit into his skin, and still he leaned forward, searching the endless night—the courtyard below, the distant lights of the streets flickering like embers in the dark.

Nothing.

His breath came sharp, uneven. He turned back into the room, scanning for any trace—footprints, disturbance, a note, anything. But there was only that feather, still trembling faintly where it had fallen.

Venomshank bent down and picked it up with a shaking hand. His thumb brushed over the down—still warm.

Too recent.

He stared at it for a long, wordless moment. Then the crack spread across his composure—the faint, imperceptible fracture of something he had kept locked tight for years.

“…no,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “Not him.”

The air outside began to shift. The torches along the hall flickered and bent as if the entire palace itself felt the weight of his fury.

The ruler of the Lost Temple straightened, the feather still in his hand. Two sets of wings unfurled—vast, black-veined, cutting through the candlelight.

And a loud caw from behind—

He wasn’t tired anymore.

“Guards,” he said — voice low, dangerous, trembling with the effort to stay steady. To stop the poison from seeping underneath his tongue. “Wake the watch. Now.”

And beneath it all, the whisper that was not for anyone to hear but himself—a vow, almost broken, almost prayer:

“Hold on, Sword. Just hold on.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Morning came slow — a thin, pale light creeping between the cracks of the shutters.

The room still smelled faintly of medicine and burnt cloth. Medkit was already up, sorting through a satchel of vials and tools with the kind of precision that came from habit, not rest. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair a mess, and there were dark circles under his one good eye.

Behind him, Sword stirred again — blinking at the sunlight with a groggy scowl.

“…you’re still here,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Unfortunately,” Medkit muttered without looking up. “Try not to sound too happy about it.”

Sword pushed himself upright slowly, wincing when his legs protested. His wings twitched weakly beneath the blanket, the bandages catching the light. “How long was I out?”

“Day and a half.”

“...Oh.” He paused, then frowned. “You stayed the whole time?”

Medkit shrugged, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. “Didn’t have much choice. You weren’t exactly in travel shape.”

Sword smiled faintly, his expression soft and too unguarded for someone in hiding. “That’s… kinda nice of you.”

Medkit shot him a flat look. “Don’t ruin it.”

Sword grinned despite himself, but when he tried to swing his legs off the bed, his knees buckled. He caught the frame with a quiet yelp, the pain flashing across his face.

Medkit sighed. Of course. “You’re useless.”

“I can walk!” Sword insisted — immediately tripping over the blanket and nearly face-planting.

“Sure you can.”

Medkit rubbed his temple, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘I’m too old for this.’ Then he crouched down, his tone clipped. “Get on.”

Sword blinked. “…What?”

“Get on,” Medkit repeated, voice edged with irritation. “Unless you plan on crawling all the way to the caravan.”

Sword stared for a beat too long — and then his eyes brightened. “You’re offering to carry me?”

“Begrudgingly.”

“I’ll take it!”

Before Medkit could change his mind, Sword was already climbing onto his back, wings tucked carefully and a grin on his face like this was some kind of game.

Medkit groaned under the weight — not because it was heavy, but because it was Sword. “If you start flapping those things, I’m dropping you.”

“Relax,” Sword said cheerfully, wrapping his arms loosely around Medkit’s shoulders. “You’re surprisingly comfy for someone so grumpy.”

“Don’t push it.”

They left the inn quietly. The streets were waking up — merchants calling, the smell of spice and dust drifting through the air. Sword kept his hood low, cloak pulled tight to hide the gleam of his feathers.

Medkit moved with purpose, heading for the caravan station at the edge of town — a line of old wagons hitched to bulky desert beasts. If he played it right, they could blend in and ride north without question.

Sword rested his chin on Medkit’s shoulder. “So… this caravan goes to the capital, right?”

“Eventually.”

“Good. I can find my dad from there.”

“Great. Then maybe he can deal with you instead.”

Sword grinned. “You say that, but you’d miss me.”

Medkit gave a dry snort. “Like I’d miss an infection.”

Sword laughed quietly, but before he could reply, Medkit suddenly froze mid-step.

The shift was subtle — the way his shoulders tensed, his hand instinctively drifting toward his belt. His good eye swept the street.

“…Stay quiet,” he muttered.

Sword blinked. “What? Why—”

“Quiet.”

Two men in silver-and-blue armor were moving through the market, showing a parchment to vendors. The crest on their chests — a golden sun over a desert— was unmistakable. Royal guard insignia.

Sword couldn’t see them clearly from where he was perched, but Medkit could. And he didn’t recognize the sigil.

To him, they weren’t guards. They were hunters.

His pulse spiked. Scythe sent them. She found out.

He turned abruptly, cutting into a narrow alley between stalls. Sword jolted. “Whoa—hey! Where are you going? The caravan’s that way!”

“Change of plans,” Medkit hissed.

“Change of—what’s happening?!”

“Keep your hood down.”

Sword’s confusion only grew as Medkit’s pace quickened — turning corner after corner, ducking under awnings, weaving through crates and lines of drying cloth. Behind them, the faint sound of armored boots echoed closer.

“Medkit!” Sword whispered harshly, clutching tighter as they ducked behind a wall. “You’re acting weird!”

“I’m keeping us alive,” Medkit snapped back, scanning the street. His mind raced — how did they track him? Did Scythe put a tail on him?

Sword, thoroughly lost, frowned. “Alive from what?!”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Uh, I’m kind of worrying about it!”

Medkit cursed under his breath and pressed a hand to his face. “Why do I get stuck with the loud ones…”

Sword pouted, tugging his hood lower. “You’re being mean to the injured kid who can barely walk. That’s like—criminally mean.”

“Stop talking.”

“I could make you feel bad.”

“You already do.”

“…what if I give you the eyes!”

“What eyes—”

Medkit turned his head just enough to see Sword’s wide, pleading puppy eyes peeking from under the hood. It was ridiculous. His wings even drooped slightly for dramatic effect.

Medkit froze. Blinked once. Twice. Then sighed in sheer disbelief. “Unbelievable.”

“So it’s working?” Sword asked hopefully.

“No. It’s making me regret my life choices, per usual.”

Sword giggled softly. “Still counts.”

Medkit tightened his grip on the cloak and started walking again — fast. “If we make it out of here, I’m getting you your own legs back just so I can make you walk next time.”

Sword smirked. “You like me.”

“Keep telling yourself that, kid.”

And as they disappeared into the maze of backstreets — guards still searching, unaware that the boy they sought was right there — Medkit’s jaw clenched.

He had no idea who those men really were. But one thing was certain:

Whoever they were, no one was taking this kid. Not while he was still breathing.

The market had thinned into the kind of silence that wasn’t natural — a stillness that pressed heavy against Medkit’s chest. He moved quickly, weaving through the narrow lanes until the smell of hay and oil reached his nose. The caravan yard.

A cluster of wagons rested near the gates, their drivers huddled by a fire pit. The closest one was a sturdy sand-worn transport, its sides patched with metal plating, its banner half torn — the mark of someone who’d travel anywhere for coin.

Perfect.

Medkit adjusted Sword’s hood before setting him down gently behind a stack of crates. “Stay put,” he murmured.

Sword blinked. “What are you—”

“Just stay.”

Before the boy could protest, Medkit was already moving. He approached the caravan master — a stout man with a sun-scorched face and an expression that screamed ‘no favors without payment’.

“Need passage,” Medkit said flatly. “Two passengers. No questions.”

The man gave him a lazy look. “Town’s over capacity, friend. I don’t take in strays unless they pay well.”

Medkit exhaled slowly. Of course.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, glinting vial — one filled with faintly glowing liquid. “You’ll take us,” he said quietly, setting the vial on the edge of the man’s crate. “And in return, you get this. Pure cryolite serum. Worth more than ten of your trips combined.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly, suspicion flickering through them. “Cryolite? Never heard of it.”

“You don’t need to,” Medkit said, voice low. “Just know that if you don’t take us, I’ll make sure your wagon never moves again.”

He held the man’s gaze, his gloved hand subtly brushing the handle of the syringe tucked into his belt — the implication clear.

The man swallowed. Then forced a laugh. “Ah—hah, no need for threats, stranger. You’ve got a deal.”

“Good.”

By the time Sword limped over, the wagon was already being loaded. Medkit gave him a curt nod and helped him climb up.

“...You’re scary,” Sword muttered, settling into the corner beneath the canvas.

“I’m effective,” Medkit replied, sitting beside him. “Try to sleep. We’ll be out of the city before noon.”

Sword smiled faintly under the hood. “You’re not as grumpy as you think.”

“Don’t test that theory.”

The caravan started to move — wheels creaking over dirt, the sound of beasts snorting under the driver’s command. For a while, the road was quiet. Sword’s breathing evened out as the sway of the wagon lulled him toward rest.

But then, the shouts began.

“Inspection! Stop your wagons!”

Medkit’s head snapped up. Through the cracks in the canvas, he caught the shimmer of armor — silver and blue, just like before. Royal guard colors.

He felt his stomach twist.

Sword stirred at the noise, blinking groggily. “What’s happening?”

Medkit pressed a hand against his shoulder, keeping him still. “Quiet. Don’t move.”

“Are those—”

“Shh.”

Outside, the caravan slowed to a halt. Medkit peeked through the slit of the tarp — soldiers moving between wagons, checking manifests, pulling open crates. One by one. Systematic.

They were looking for someone.

And now Medkit knew who.

Prince.

Medkit leaned back, heartbeat thudding in his ears. Not cult. Not Scythe. Not Subspace’s remnants.

Just the world he’d stopped believing in — still turning, still cruel.

Sword tilted his head, whispering, “Medkit… you look like you just swallowed glass.”

“Keep your hood down,” Medkit muttered.

“…I didn’t do anything!”

“Exactly. Let’s keep it that way.”

The tarp suddenly lifted halfway — a guard’s shadow blocking the light. “Inspection. State your cargo.”

Medkit didn’t breathe. The caravan master stammered something about dried goods and passengers heading north. The guard’s eyes flicked toward the wagon’s interior, narrowing.

Then, Medkit moved.

He shifted slightly, gloved fingers slipping underneath his eyepatch—letting the light hit the burn scar on his face—an ugly, melted mark that made people look away without wanting to. His good eye fixed on the guard with just enough cold to make the man hesitate.

“You really want to dig through here?” Medkit asked, voice low and smooth as gravel. “There’s enough medical waste in these boxes to make you sick for weeks.”

The guard blinked, wrinkled his nose at the faint, acrid smell seeping from one of Medkit’s crates.

After a pause, he muttered, “Move along.”

The tarp dropped back down. The wagon creaked forward.

Medkit didn’t move until the sound of boots faded behind them.

Sword finally exhaled. “That was—”

“Don’t,” Medkit muttered. His tone wasn’t angry — just tired. Bone-deep tired.

The silence stretched for a long while after that. Sword fidgeted, watching him. “You knew they were looking for me, didn’t you?”

Medkit said nothing.

“You could’ve told them. You didn’t even know me before this.”

Still nothing. The wagon rolled on, the wind brushing through the small gaps in the tarp.

Sword’s expression softened. “…Why help me, then?”

Medkit leaned back, eye half-lidded, watching the sliver of sunlight shift across the floorboards.

“…Because I don’t want to fail another one,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Sword tilted his head. “Huh?”

Medkit shook his head. “Nothing.”

The wagon rattled to a stop near the edge of the outpost — the smell of dry clay and smoke thick in the air. Medkit was the first to move. He tugged the tarp aside just enough to peer out. The sun had already dipped low, washing the streets in copper and shadow. Soldiers still patrolled the main square — too many of them.

“Out,” he murmured.

Sword blinked, rubbing his eyes. “We’re here?”

“Not quite. But we’re getting off before someone decides to get curious.”

He pulled the hood further down over Sword’s head and gestured for him to follow. The boy stumbled a little when he landed on the dirt road, legs still unsteady. Medkit steadied him with one gloved hand, scanning the surrounding rooftops.

The city stretched like a maze — clay walls, narrow alleys, and flickering lanterns casting long shadows. It was quiet, but not empty. Every echo of a bootstep felt too loud.

“Stick close,” Medkit muttered.

Sword nodded, trying to keep his cloak tight. “Are we hiding again?”

“Not hiding,” Medkit said, pushing him into a side alley. “Just avoiding trouble.”

Sword frowned. “That’s the same thing.”

Medkit didn’t answer. His boots hit the cobblestones fast and sure, cutting between narrow walls where the sunlight barely reached. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of dust and spice. He could hear distant voices — guards, shouting orders to spread out. The tone in their voices told him enough.

They were closing in.

He cursed under his breath and grabbed Sword by the wrist, pulling him through another turn. “Faster.”

“But—wait! You’re hurting my arm!”

“Then move your legs!”

Sword huffed, stumbling but keeping pace. “You could’ve just said that!”

A shout cracked across the alleyway behind them. “There! By the fountain—someone with wings!”

Medkit froze for a split second — too long. The sound of armored boots pounded against stone.

“Damn it.”

He shoved Sword ahead, voice sharp. “Go!”

Sword tripped forward, cloak flaring. For a heartbeat, the light caught the faint outline of his wings — the curve of feathers glinting beneath torn bandages. The guards’ shouts rose, weapons scraping free.

Medkit’s pulse spiked. “Down!” he barked, pulling Sword into a narrow gap between two market stalls.

They ducked beneath a hanging tarp just as the first guards stormed past. Medkit’s breath came harsh and shallow, his hand gripping Sword’s shoulder to keep him still.

Through the slits of fabric, he saw the glint of spears — the way the soldiers scanned the rooftops, the alleys, the air. They were hunting him specifically.

Sword’s whisper broke the tension. “They saw me, didn’t they?”

Medkit nodded once, curtly. “Yeah. They saw enough.”

The boy’s face paled beneath his hood. “What do we do now?”

Medkit’s good eye darted around — calculating, fast. There was an old aqueduct that led beyond the city walls, half-buried and forgotten. Risky, but their best chance.

He exhaled slowly. “We run.”

Sword blinked. “Run?”

“Yeah.” He glanced back toward the patrol, already looping around the corner. “And if you trip, I’m not coming back for you.”

Sword’s mouth dropped open. “You so would!”

Medkit didn’t answer — just grabbed his wrist again and bolted.

They tore down the alleyways — the world a blur of color and noise. Sword’s hood flew back for a split second, feathers catching the dying light like molten garnet. Gasps rose behind them — the guards shouting again, the clatter of pursuit echoing off stone.

Medkit veered left, vaulted over a low wall, and half-dragged Sword into the open wash of the aqueduct’s shadow.

“In here!” he hissed.

The boy hesitated at the pitch-black tunnel. “It’s dark—!”

“Better than probably getting grounded for your stupidity, ain't it?”

“I hate that you have a point!”

They plunged into the tunnel. Cold air swallowed them whole. The sounds of the city dulled behind them — replaced by the echo of their own footsteps and the steady drip of water.

Medkit slowed finally, listening. The voices above grew distant. Fading.

They were safe. For now.

Sword slumped against the wall, panting hard. “That was—ow—fun!”

Medkit shot him a glare. “You’ve got a strange definition of fun, kid.”

Sword’s grin was weak but real. “Still… thanks.”

Medkit turned away, pretending not to hear. His pulse was still racing, his mind already calculating where to go next.

He hadn’t meant for this to become a rescue mission. He’d sworn he was done saving anyone. But now—

He looked back at the kid, wings trembling faintly in the dark, eyes wide but stubbornly bright.

—he knew he couldn’t stop now.

After navigating through the tunnel, it spat them out into the light — a jagged burst of afternoon sun that stabbed at Medkit’s eye. He raised an arm to block it, lungs burning from the run. The open field stretched before them, dry grass waving in the wind. For a fleeting second, it felt like freedom.

Then the sound of boots closed in.

“Hold!”

Medkit froze.

From the ridges of the old road, shapes emerged — armored, deliberate, glinting silver-blue in the sun. Lines of royal guards stepped out from behind the rocks, shields raised, weapons steady. They’d been waiting.

“Drop your weapon!” one of them barked. “Hands where we can see them!”

Medkit’s mind went blank for a moment. Then his instincts kicked in — the old kind, carved into him from years of surviving worse things than soldiers. He moved without thinking.

A flick of his wrist, a pulse of light — and the revolver materialized in his hand. The glow of teal shimmered against his glove, the faint gold accents catching the light just enough to make the air hum.

The guards tensed instantly.

“Don’t,” Medkit warned, voice low and steady. “You take one more step, and—”

“Medkit—!” Sword’s voice cracked through the air, breathless, alarmed.

He turned slightly, enough to see the boy clutching his cloak, eyes wide, feathers twitching with panic. Medkit’s own heart stuttered for a beat — just enough hesitation for one of the guards to step forward.

“Lower your weapon,” the man said, calm but firm. “We are not here to harm you.”

“Sure,” Medkit muttered. “That’s what they all say before the shooting starts.”

The guard didn’t flinch. “We’re under direct orders from Lord Venomshank — ruler of the Lost Temple. We’re here to retrieve his son.”

The words hit like a stone dropped in still water.

Sword’s head jerked up, disbelief flickering across his face. “Father?”

The guard nodded once, helmet tilting slightly. “He’s been searching for you since dawn, my prince.”

Medkit’s grip on the revolver tightened, his mind caught between disbelief and the quiet ache of inevitability. Around them, the wind carried the faint rattle of armor — the sound of control, of a trap set carefully and well.

Sword took a step forward, blinking hard. “He—he sent you?”

The guards didn’t move, didn’t lower their weapons — but their stance had softened, reverent even. The tension hung in the air, fragile as glass.

“...He came for me?”

Medkit said nothing, just watched — the glow of his weapon flickering faintly against his scarred hand as the circle of soldiers tightened, careful, unthreatening, but inescapable.

Then the sky split open.

A crack of wind and light tore through the clouds, scattering dust across the field. Every guard dropped to one knee instantly, heads bowed. Medkit flinched against the sudden rush of air—the scent of ozone, steel, and something ancient that made the ground hum.

He looked up.

Descending through the swirling dust was a figure wreathed in shadow and light — a towering presence with two vast sets of black wings, feathers edged in faint green luminescence. His crown gleamed underneath the sun, his sword pulsing faintly in his grip, and perched on his shoulder was a single black crow, Sisyphus—its eyes the same sickly, knowing green.

Venomshank.

The ruler of the Lost Temple.

Sword’s father.

He landed hard enough to rattle the earth. His wings flared once — immense, sharp-edged, a storm given form — before folding in with a sound like silk tearing. The crow on his shoulder croaked once, low and rough, as if echoing his fury.

“Who dares—” his voice was a command, thunder rolling low in his throat, “—to take what is mine?”

The guards trembled, their composure shattering under the sheer force of him. But Venomshank’s gaze found only one person — the man with a teal revolver drawn, standing protectively before a cloaked boy.

Medkit didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“You,” he breathed, and his voice was the slow, cold roll of a thing that can split stone. He didn’t bother with questions. Power gathered at his fingertips, coiling like a living thing around the sword, making the air tremble. “You, who took my son—”

“—will pay for this insolence.”

And then—

“WAIT!”

Sword’s voice cracked like a whip through the tension.

“No—don’t—Dad, don’t you dare!”

Venomshank froze mid-motion, his blade halting inches from igniting fully. The boy stumbled forward, throwing off his hood, wings flaring out behind him in a tangle of bandages and red-feathered light.

“He saved me! He—he dragged me out! He didn’t—he didn’t—” His words tumbled over each other, frantic, breathless, wholly adolescent in the way only a child trying to protect a friend could be. “Please! Don’t—don’t hurt him!—he saved me, he saved me!”

Venomshank blinked. For a second, just a second, his wrath faltered.

He saw him.

Something happened then that had nothing to do with ceremony: Venomshank’s whole face from underneath his mask went brittle and then melted. The storm, the thunder, the anger — all of it drained away in a single, impossible blink. The crown and the cap and the plague-little beak of his mask: they became detail instead of armor. He dropped the sword as if it had burned him; the green light faded from its edge. The two great wings folded in on themselves slowly, not with discipline this time but with the shuddering relief of someone letting down a defense.

“My fledgling!” The name tore out of him raw and ungoverned, and it was no longer the measured tone of a ruler. It was everything he had been holding in for a night too long — fear, fury, love, the sudden, exposed ferocity of a parent who had found what he feared most.

Sword hesitated for a heartbeat, looking at Medkit for a brief moment— and then he ran.

He sprinted across the field, ignoring the guards, the dust, everything. Venomshank dropped to one knee as his son crashed into him, wings half-spread, clinging to his chest like he used to as a child.

Sword’s face crumpled the instant he was in Venomshank’s arms; there was a near-childish unravel — tears and breath and the full, ridiculous relief of someone who had scared himself silly. He hung on, small and fierce, burying his face in the dark cloth of his father’s chest. “Please,” he hiccuped, voice muffled. “I’m—Medkit saved me—don’t—please.”

“I thought—” Venomshank’s voice broke, unsteady, the cracks showing beneath all the layers of clothing. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Sword buried his face into his father’s shoulder, feathers shaking. “You didn’t. I’m right here.”

Behind them, Medkit finally lowered his revolver. He said nothing — just stood there as the ruler of the Lost Temple held his son, as the air settled and the storm quieted, and for once, no one at present was trying to kill him.

Sisyphus let out a single, soft caw, as if in approval.

Sword didn’t let go for a long while — just clung to Venomshank’s chest like the world might take him away again if he loosened his grip. The ruler’s hand rested protectively against the back of his head, taloned fingers trembling ever so slightly as if reassuring himself his fledgling was real.

The storm had gone quiet. Even the guards stood frozen, heads bowed, afraid to speak. The air was thick with the sound of breathing — two heartbeats syncing after too long apart.

Then, Sword finally looked up. His face was pale under the moonlight, eyes still glassy but sharp with sudden resolve. “Father,” he said, voice small but clear, “we can’t leave yet.”

Venomshank pulled back slightly, confusion cutting through the relief. “What do you mean?”

Sword turned — his wings shifted painfully as he twisted to look behind him. Medkit was still there, a few paces away, revolver lowered, gaze hard but wary. He hadn’t moved an inch since the prince’s intervention.

“He’s coming with us,” Sword said.

Venomshank blinked. “What?”

“Medkit,” Sword repeated, more firmly this time. “He’s the one who found me. He fixed me up. He—he carried me when I couldn’t walk.” His voice cracked a little, the edges softening. “Please, Father. Don’t leave him here.”

The guards stirred at that, exchanging uncertain glances. Venomshank’s expression darkened again, though not with anger — more a grim, silent calculation.

“Sword,” he said quietly, “you don’t understand who this man is. Or what he may have done.”

“I don’t care what he’s done!” Sword blurted out before he could stop himself, startling everyone within earshot. His wings fluttered once, feathers scattering faint golden dust into the air. “He saved me when no one else did! Isn’t that enough?”

Venomshank looked at him — really looked at him. His fledgling, scraped and bandaged, trembling but unbroken, standing between him and the man who once pointed a weapon at his guards.

There was a flicker — a strange, quiet pride beneath all the fear.

Medkit met Venomshank’s gaze across the space between them. Neither flinched.

Venomshank’s wings drew in slowly, the tension easing just slightly. “You trust him.”

Sword nodded. “I do.”

For a long, taut moment, only the wind answered. Then Venomshank exhaled — a low, weary sigh that made the crow on his shoulder ruffle its feathers.

“Very well,” he said finally, voice softer now, resigned but still kingly. “Your word is enough for me, my fledgling.”

Sword’s eyes brightened instantly. “You mean—?”

Venomshank nodded once. “He comes with us.”

The guards looked at one another in stunned silence. Medkit, for his part, just blinked — disbelief flickering across his face for the briefest second before it hardened back into his usual calm.

Sword grinned, tired but radiant. “See, told you he’s not as scary as he looks,” he whispered sideways toward Medkit, who gave a long, exhausted sigh in reply.

Venomshank turned his gaze toward the medic again — sharp, warning, but not cruel. “You saved my son,” he said, tone solemn. “For that, you will not be harmed. But should you betray that trust…”

“I won’t,” Medkit interrupted evenly. “I didn’t the first time.”

Venomshank studied him for a beat longer before nodding once, almost imperceptibly. “Then come. The Lost Temple awaits you.”

Sword smiled faintly at that — and for the first time since the fire, since the chaos, since waking in an unfamiliar bed, he felt safe.

And beside him, for the first time in years, Medkit almost did too.

Because Medkit didn’t say a word as the guards closed in around them, as Venomshank’s wings cast half the field in shadow, as the boy — that damned kid — stood in front of him like he mattered.

But something in his chest shifted.

It wasn’t relief, not really. Relief was clean, sharp-edged. This was heavier, slower — like the ache that came after a wound started to knit shut.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not with royals. Not with guards. Not standing in the open, watching his own name risk becoming a bounty again.

He’d promised himself once — when the cult dragged him out of the dunes and branded him “useful” — that he’d keep his head down. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t step out of line. Don’t care.

Healing had been a curse since the day he discovered he could do it. The way it burned through his veins, the way it made people stare like he was some divine mistake — too dangerous to waste, too valuable to free.

So when the True Eye took him in, wrapped their false faith around him, called him a “miracle worker” and locked him in the mortar between the blocks of ethical and unethical, he’d stayed. Not because he believed. Because he was tired. Because the cult’s walls, for all their rot, kept Subspace’s reach away.

Protection in exchange for obedience. That was the deal. That was all it was supposed to be.

And then came the boy.

Sword — wide-eyed, reckless, far too stubborn for his own good. He should’ve left him to die in the ruins. Should’ve walked away when he saw the wings.

But when he saw him lying there, breathing shallowly through ash and smoke — something inside him snapped. Whatever the reason, he had wrapped the boy in bandages and lies and stolen him away under cover of the dunes. Medkit told himself the truth with the same bluntness he used on a wound: he did not do it for virtue. He did it because he could not bear, again, to be the person who let someone die when, with his hands, he could keep them breathing.

Now, as Venomshank spoke — that voice heavy with command, the kind of voice that made men kneel — Medkit realized this was it. His way out. His first, real way out.

He didn’t owe the cult a damn thing. Not Scythe. Not Broker. Not the whispers of the True Eye that treated him like a scalpel they could point at whatever they wanted fixed or destroyed.

He owed them nothing.

If he went back, they’d call him a deserter. A traitor. They’d find him, drag him under again, make him patch up the same monsters that tore others apart.

He could already hear the sermons. The accusations.

He could already feel the noose of obligation tightening around his throat.

But if he left — if he stayed with the kid, with the prince who looked at him like he was more than the sum of his damage — then maybe, just maybe, he could outrun the past long enough to feel real again.

For once, he didn’t want to survive because of someone else’s orders.

He wanted to survive for himself.

Relief came first, hot and illegal, sliding down him like molten iron. Then a cold wash, the self-attack he’d rehearsed a thousand times: you’re still a coward for running; you’re still a traitor to the rules you pretended were the only path.

There was guilt—sharp, immediate—because he had lied and killed, because he had stolen a child from the tidy ledger of exploitation and turned him into a breathing variable. He could catalog the consequences. He could speak of them clinically. But none of that changed the simple, brutal truth that rose now with the sweep of the field: given a sliver of escape, he would take it.

So he stepped forward when Venomshank offered. It wasn’t a dramatic vow; the man in him measured everything in angles and distances, in the time it would take them to reach the palace and the routes they would have to take to avoid Korblox eyes.

He felt the old paranoia like a weight in his pocket, the scars like maps under his skin. He tightened his grip on the satchel at his side, felt the revolver light against his palm, and let the smallest, most dangerous thing happen: he chose.

He would leave the cult. He would accept the uncertain protection of a god rather than the sure collar of the True Eye’s “family.” He would carry Sword’s small, stubborn breath across territory that still smelled of ash, and he would try—quietly, clumsily—to be useful in a different way. Fear sat at his shoulder like an old friend, whispering debts. But under that fear was something steadier: resolve. If Subspace came for him, he would not be a tool. If Korblox named him traitor, he would already be beyond the cages they’d set.

No questions. No second-guessing.

Medkit had never wanted to be a healer by destiny or design; science and gears had always sung truer to him than prayer. But sometimes you are a surgeon because only you will cut. Sometimes you save a life because your hands remember how. He had failed enough to know the taste of failure. For once, given a choice, he would gamble on saving. He would choose to run, not because it was safe, but because it felt like something like courage—and because, for reasons he could not entirely name, Sword’s life lodged in him like a splinter he refused to let fester.

He’d been a tool, a fugitive, a weapon, a healer — everything but free.

And maybe, with the boy at his side and the storm finally behind them, freedom didn’t feel so impossible anymore.

But the weeks that followed blurred into the kind of quiet that sits uneasily over a kingdom.

After the warfront incident—after the smoke and the chaos and the sight of Sword bloodied in his father’s arms—Lost Temple changed. Venomshank changed.

Where once the ruler’s presence had been distant, unshakable, now it carried an edge of fear he could not hide. His decrees came sharper, his orders heavier. Patrols doubled overnight. The black-armored guards of the temple city marched through the streets like a new heartbeat, their wings cutting dark shapes against the skies. The city’s gates, once open to trade and song, became teeth.

Sword, the prince, was no longer allowed beyond those teeth.

Venomshank had nearly lost him once—and that was enough.

The boy’s chambers became both sanctuary and cage. The balcony doors that had once framed his escapes were sealed tight with wards; the training grounds, visible through the windows, were now filled with silent sentinels. Venomshank himself, who used to spend hours in council or among his people, was often found nearby, lingering in doorways longer than he should, his gaze flicking constantly toward the faint rise and fall of his son’s chest.

Venomshank did not so easily trust those beyond those marble walls anymore.

And so Medkit stayed.

He was not royal, not divine—he was a shadow of another world entirely—but Venomshank had seen what he could do. The healer’s quiet hands, his calm in the face of chaos. Sword trusted him, and that was enough.

“Stay close to him,” Venomshank had said once, voice stripped of its usual command. “If anything happens—if you see anything—you tell me.”

And Medkit, still wearing the coat that smelled faintly of desert sand, had only nodded.

So the healer made himself at home in the prince’s chambers—patching wounds, refilling salves, adjusting bandages, all while Sword grumbled and pouted like any fourteen-year-old who’d rather be anywhere else. Sometimes he’d try to sneak out of bed. Sometimes he’d ask Medkit if Venomshank was “still mad.” (He was obviously not.) Sometimes he’d talk about a boy named Rocket—his grin small, hopeful, wistful.

Rocket.

Far from the temple’s walls, somewhere on a balcony, Rocket waited.

He wasn’t one for patience, but lately, he’d found himself glancing toward the skies more often—watching for a flicker of wings he knew too well. The last time he saw Sword, the other boy had been laughing, teasing, alive in a way Rocket hadn’t forgotten.

Now, there were only rumors. Talk of the prince’s injuries. Talk of how Lost Temple had sealed itself off.

Sometimes, Rocket would pass by the fountain—just to check. Just in case. He’d kick at the stones, mutter something about stupid princes and promises, and look at the horizon like he was trying not to care.

But he did.

And somewhere behind the sealed walls of Lost Temple, Sword sat by his window—his wings bandaged, the candlelight catching the faint smile tugging at his mouth—as Medkit quietly replaced the wrappings on his arm.

“You’re thinking about him again,” Medkit murmured.

Sword’s wings twitched. “…No, I’m not.”

“Mm,” Medkit said, the faintest curve of amusement touching his voice. “Sure you aren’t.”

Sword huffed and looked away, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. His wings twitched beneath their bandages. “I’m serious. I probably can’t even visit him for a while…” His voice softened, guilt tugging at the corners. “Not with how things are now.”

Medkit didn’t answer right away. He finished securing the last wrap, tugged the bandage tight enough to hold but gentle enough not to sting, then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “You mean because of the border fights?”

Sword nodded. “And Father’s patrols. He’s… scared.” He swallowed, his expression small in a way Medkit rarely saw. “Every time there’s shouting in the halls, he looks at me like I’ll disappear again. I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You’re a good kid,” Medkit muttered.

“I just—” Sword’s hands curled into fists on his knees. “Rocket’s probably wondering why I’m not showing up. He’s gonna think I forgot him or something.”

Medkit tilted his head, studying him quietly. “You think he’d believe that?”

Sword blinked, thrown off. “What?”

“If he’s really your friend,” Medkit said, his tone softer than usual, “he’s not gonna think you forgot him. He’ll wait. Maybe he’ll even be mad about it, sure—but he’ll wait.”

Sword frowned, his gaze falling to the floor. “…You think so?”

“I know so.” Medkit’s voice carried a quiet certainty, one forged from too many nights of running and hiding, from knowing how hard it was to hold on to people. “Trust me. The ones worth keeping—they don’t stop waiting just because things get rough.”

Sword looked up at him then, eyes glimmering faintly under the morning light filtering through the curtains. “…You sound like you’ve done a lot of waiting.”

Medkit let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah. More than I’d like.”

A silence settled between them—comfortable, this time.

Sword shifted, leaning back on his palms. “Then maybe he’s waiting for me too.”

Medkit gave a small nod. “Maybe he is.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Rocket was quiet.

That alone was enough to make Zuka glance up from the tangle of gears and tools spread across the table. The quiet didn’t fit him. Not the boy who usually spoke with too much fire, who filled the halls with sharp laughter or short-tempered remarks just to remind the silence it wasn’t welcome.

But tonight, the silence had won.

Rocket sat by the window of Zuka’s home — a neat, well-tidied place in the midst of Blackrock, earned from his title of faction ambassador. His elbows rested on his knees, his fingers fidgeting with his necklace.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Zuka said finally, setting down his wrench.

Rocket didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere past the smoke-choked horizon — toward where the sky turned bruised and red.

Zuka leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “This about the prince?”

Rocket’s jaw tightened. “...Maybe.”

That was all the confirmation Zuka needed.

He whistled low under his breath. “I never thought one mere royal could knock you out like this, thought ya hated em’.” He paused, watching Rocket’s expression — or rather, the lack of one. “You’ve only known him for a week. What’d he do, cast a spell on you or something?”

Rocket let out a faint exhale — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “No. He just... didn’t treat me like I was supposed to be someone else.”

Zuka blinked at that, unsure what to say. Rocket wasn’t the type to talk about himself, much less sound small while doing it.

The younger boy leaned his head back against the cold stone wall, eyes half-lidded. “Most people either want something from me or want me gone. He didn’t want either.” His voice faltered for a second, then steadied, quieter. “He just stayed.”

Zuka studied him in the flickering orange light — the way Rocket’s usually sharp eyes softened when he said that. There was a weight behind it, something old and cracked.

“You got it bad,” Zuka murmured, almost amused.

Rocket huffed. “Shut up.”

“Hey, I mean it. For someone who prides himself on not needing anyone, that’s a big deal.”

Rocket didn’t answer, only turned back toward the window. The molten rivers far below shimmered faintly — like veins of light through the darkness.

The truth was, Zuka was right. He did have it bad.

Because once, Rocket learned that trust was just a slower way to get hurt. He’d built himself out of walls and distance, out of not reaching for hands that might let go. And yet — one meeting, one boy with too much light in his eyes and too much hope for someone who should’ve known better — and suddenly, Rocket found himself wanting to believe again.

Not in destiny. Not in heroes.

Just in the idea that maybe, someone could stay.

Zuka sighed, the sound loud in the quiet. “Well… you’ll see him again, right?”

Rocket didn’t answer. His reflection in the glass looked like someone else entirely — softer, uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “But I hope so.”

And for a boy who’d stopped hoping a long time ago, that single sentence felt heavier than anything else.

But days turned into weeks.

Weeks into months.

And Sword never came back.

The first few days, Rocket waited by the cliffside that overlooked the bridge to beyond Darkheart’s castle — pretending he wasn’t waiting, pretending he just happened to be there whenever the sun dipped below the black horizon. He’d stay until the wind bit through his hoodie, until the shadows stretched too long, until Zuka yelled from the halls for him to return home.

But the skies stayed empty.

The air stayed still.

And the prince never appeared again.

No letters. (Sword surely had time to spare to write, right?)

He didn’t.

No messengers. (Or better yet, Sword could’ve came personally.)

He didn’t.

Nothing.

The silence built its own weight in Rocket’s chest, heavy and constant.

At first, he told himself Sword was just busy — royal duties, maybe, or training, or whatever it was that princes did behind those marble walls. But as the days passed and the rumors around Blackrock and Darkheart’s castle changed — whispers of conflict, of unrest in the east, of “something happening” in Lost Temple, where Sword supposedly lived—that flimsy hope began to rot into something else.

Zuka didn’t tell him anything. Neither did Darkheart.

Nobody did.

And that was what drove him mad.

Because Rocket knew something had happened. He could feel it in the way the world had gone quiet about the prince, the way guards started taking different routes, the way Blackrock’s border patrols doubled overnight. Everyone was keeping something from him. Everyone was treating him like a kid — like someone who couldn’t handle the truth.

But what hurt most wasn’t the secrecy. It was the silence from him.

Sword.

The boy who’d stayed. The boy who’d smiled at him like Rocket wasn’t something broken or dangerous. The one person who made him think maybe trust wasn’t a trap.

Gone.

Just like that.

Rocket tried to bury the ache under anger. It was easier that way. He threw himself into work with Zuka, tinkering with machines until his hands blistered. He picked fights in the lower alleys just to feel something. He told himself he didn’t care, that Sword was probably too busy pretending Rocket didn’t exist.

But every time he passed by the balcony, every time he saw the faint outline of the path that led to Darkheart’s gates, the same hollow thought echoed through his mind —

He said he’d be back.

Rocket clenched his jaw and forced his eyes away.

He didn’t need another person to disappear on him. He already has so little.

He tells himself he isn’t surprised, this wasn’t new to him after all, as Zuka would say. Rocket tried to listen, he tells himself a dozen grown-up words — wary, practical, realistic — and repeats them until they knock the raw edges off the truth. But the truth is shorter and meaner: he trusted something he knew he shouldn’t, and it hurt.

So why did he?

When trust for Rocket was built like a trapdoor. He learned to sleep with one eye open, to fling a fist before he asked a question, to measure everyone by how fast they reached for a knife. People in the Splintered Skies taught him the lesson with their boots and hammers; Windforce taught him the lesson with one kick out the door. Those teachings lived in his muscles — twitchy, ready. So when a bright thing called Sword laughed and stayed and didn’t look away, it felt illegal. It felt like breaking a rule he’d spent years carving into bone.

Then he waited. He waited like a kid who’d been promised candy and got nothing but the wrapper. He waited until waiting turned into remembering — the tilt of Sword’s grin, the way he caught himself when he almost fell, the ridiculous way he hummed at the fountains. The stupid, silly times they shared together. Those were small things. They weren’t big enough to deserve a throne. But they were big enough for Rocket to mistake for shelter. He let himself sit in it for a second. 

Gods, he let himself sit in it.

And then the silence fell — sudden as a door slammed in his face. No letters. No crowded, stupid visits. Nothing. Not even a hint of the laugh that had made the castle’s marble less scary. Rocket tried to name it: gone, busy, lied. None of those words fit right. All of them sat like stones in his throat. He could feel the shape of a promise that no one acknowledged, and that was worse than a clean lie. At least a lie looks like a lie.

So he snapped. He learned to wear scorn like armor. Gods, he decided, were the worst kind of selfish: big, bright, and able to walk away with a shrug. The idea of Sword — a deity-child who’d been gentle — abandoning him didn’t compute. It shouldn’t have. So instead of asking why, Rocket decided to be furious. Rage was honest; it didn’t ask for anything back except to be felt. He spat at shadows now, at Darkheart’s gold-toed shoes and at the way the dark king’s shadow slid over him like a hand. He called gods names in the castle halls. He threw rocks at the air when the wind smelled anything like royalty. It made him feel less small.

Around Darkheart he grew meaner. He perfected a snarl that said, Don’t touch me, but also, Don’t look at me like I might break. Whenever Darkheart’s shadow slid close — teasing, amused — Rocket sharpened his voice until it stung. He learned to bite before he could be bit. If deities were supposed to be dazzling, he’d be the splinter in their crown. It was easier to be a thorn than to be a bruise.

Inside, it was a tantrum: flung things, slammed doors, fists on the walls until knuckles ached. He’d throw a spiteful grin at people who tried to be kind and then lie awake tracing the outline of Sword’s laugh in the dark, feeling embarrassed at his own memory. He hated that he missed it. Hated that his chest tightened when someone mentioned Lost Temple like it was an ordinary place. Hated that the emptiness left by Sword’s absence felt like a hand that had once been warm.

And everything about it pissed him off —

more than anything ever had.

The fact that one stupid week — one stupid, bright, unreal week — had sunk its claws so deep into him that it still hurt. That he could still remember the warmth of a laugh, the flick of feathers, the way someone looked at him like he wasn’t something broken. It was ridiculous. Pathetic. Infuriating.

Rocket had met hundreds of faces in his life — liars, thieves, braggarts, a god. He’d survived them all without caring. But somehow Sword, this 14-year-old deity kid with sunlight in his hair and naivety in his eyes, managed to wedge himself into Rocket’s head like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

And Rocket hated it.

He hated that he could remember the sound of Sword’s voice, clear and unguarded, cutting through the courtyard noise like something meant just for him.

He hated that when he walked past the castle’s marble corridors, his chest ached — like a bruise you forget about until someone presses on it.

He hated that he caught himself waiting. Waiting for a miracle. Waiting for wings. Waiting for something that wasn’t going to come.

But his mind didn’t care. His heart didn’t care. That one day had burned itself into him like a brand — warmth, laughter, trust.

And he didn’t even know why.

He didn’t want to care about a deity. Deities were cruel, untouchable things — all shining smiles and rotten insides. He’d built his entire beliefs around hating them, around never needing them, and Sword had shattered that foundation in less than a month.

So now, away from Darkheart—he stomped around Zuka’s house like a thundercloud, muttering curses under his breath whenever someone said the word Lost Temple. He threw things. Tools, rags, sometimes his entire temper.

When Zuka asked what was wrong, Rocket’s answers were all bite and venom:

“Nothing.”

“Who cares.”

“He’s probably off playing royalty again.”

But deep down, under the snarl and sarcasm, Rocket knew the truth — it wasn’t just anger at Sword. It was anger at himself. For being so damn weak. For trusting someone who’d smiled once and left. For letting himself feel something, for one stupid day, that felt like trust. For someone he was supposed to hate, for somebody who made him feel equal.

He wanted to tear the feeling out of him, to scrape it clean, to burn it away until nothing was left. But feelings didn’t die like that. They sat under your skin and waited.

Exactly. That was the part Rocket couldn’t shake — and the part that hurt the most.

Because Sword didn’t flinch. Didn’t sneer. Didn’t meet his anger with more anger, or his barbs with disgust. Sword had looked past it — past the teeth and the walls and the way Rocket struck first before anyone else did.

Sword had seen him like he was just himself.

Maybe that’s why Rocket missed him so much. Not because Sword was kind, or royal, or radiant — but because Sword saw him in a way no one else ever had. Everyone else saw a problem to fix or a threat to avoid. Sword had looked at him, heard the venom in his voice, and still smiled like he understood.

Like he knew Rocket wasn’t cruel by choice — just cornered by life.

That one moment of being seen, understood, felt too real to forget. It lingered, a quiet echo in the back of Rocket’s head every time he told himself he didn’t care. And the more he denied it, the sharper it got.

So now, when he caught himself remembering Sword’s voice — that steady, disarming warmth — Rocket would curse under his breath, throw something across the room, and pretend it didn’t matter. But the truth burned through every denial:

He missed being seen like that.

It wasn’t just rebellion anymore. It was defense.

If caring once had hurt this much, he’d rather never do it again.

And yet, in the quietest moments — when the lights at home dimmed and Zuka had gone to sleep — Rocket’s gaze would drift toward the sky, wondering if Sword was still out there.

He’d scowl right after, muttering, “Stupid deity,” under his breath.

But he’d keep looking anyway.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Sword stood by the window, the glass fogged from his breath, his wings half-folded and restless. Outside, the skies over Lost Temple glowed dim with the distant fires of another skirmish—gold and red clashing against black. The faint hum of storm wards rippled across the skyline.

He hated it.

All of it.

“I just…” he started, voice low and strained, “I just want to go. Just once. He probably thinks I’ve forgotten him.”

Medkit didn’t look up from the desk. He was adjusting the dial of a small device, something that hummed faintly as it purified the air. His expression stayed calm—that practiced kind of calm that wasn’t peace, but exhaustion.

“You step out there,” Medkit said evenly, “and your father will have my head on a pike before breakfast. He barely lets me breathe around you as it is.”

Sword turned, eyes flashing with frustration. “He’s worried. I know that. But I’m fine now! The rest of the healers cleared me weeks ago, and the fighting hasn’t even reached—”

“The fighting doesn’t need to,” Medkit interrupted quietly. “It just needs one mistake.”

Sword’s jaw tensed. He looked away, fingers curling against the window frame. “Rocket’s going to think I abandoned him.”

That name again—Rocket. Medkit had learned not to say anything when Sword brought him up. It wasn’t the kind of attachment you could scold away. Still, he sighed, setting the tool down and finally looking at the boy.

“You think he’s sitting around counting the days?”

Sword hesitated. “...Maybe.”

“He’s a tough kid,” Medkit said, softer now. “He can handle himself.”

Sword shook his head. “That’s not the point. He trusted me.”

There it was—the ache, the guilt Sword tried to bury but couldn’t. It showed in the tremor of his voice, in the way his wings shifted uneasily. “I told him I’d come back. I promised. What if he thinks I lied?”

Medkit leaned back in his chair, studying him with that tired, lopsided look. He saw the sincerity in Sword’s eyes — the same warmth that made him worry for the kid more than he should.

“Sometimes,” Medkit said finally, “not breaking a promise isn’t about showing up. It’s about surviving long enough to keep it.”

Sword frowned. “That sounds like something someone says when they’ve already broken it.”

Medkit gave a small, humorless smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The boy went quiet, looking back at the distant horizon — the fires, the banners, the dark clouds rolling in. Somewhere far beyond that, beyond the borders of the world, was Darkheart’s castle. And maybe Rocket, still waiting.

Sword pressed a hand against the glass, his reflection wavering in the flickering light. “I’ll go back,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “When this is over, I’ll go back.”

Medkit didn’t answer. He didn’t have the heart to tell him that the world didn’t stop for promises — that time would twist them into something sharp if you waited too long.

All Sword could do was look at the horizon and whisper, almost like a prayer:

“Wait for me, okay?”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Two years had passed.

The wars had quieted — not ended, never ended — but the skies above Lost Temple were, for once, free of smoke. The banners that once whipped violently in the wind now hung limp and tired, like even the air itself was catching its breath. The silence that followed was heavy, stretched thin across the marble halls like a thread ready to snap.

Sword had grown. Not by much in height, but in the subtle ways: his wings broader, his voice steadier, his smile harder to shake even when the world looked bleak. Sixteen now — almost grown, though still prone to pacing the throne room floor like a restless child.

And today, he wasn’t giving up.

“Please, Father, just this once,” Sword insisted, following Venomshank as he strode down the corridor lined with dark green banners. “You said things were calmer now. The front’s holding, the outer walls are safe, and Medkit will be with me! He always is!”

Venomshank didn’t slow. The soft coo of Sisyphus perched on his shoulder the only sound breaking the tension. “You think I don’t notice when you try to soften me up with flattery, fledgling?”

“I’m not flattering you,” Sword argued quickly. “I’m begging. There’s a difference.”

Medkit, walking several steps behind with his hands in his coat pockets, stifled a sigh. “You’re not making this easier for me, you know.”

Sword shot him a look. “You’re not helping either.”

Venomshank paused at the end of the hall, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips before it faded into something heavier. He turned to face his son fully. “You want to go back to Darkheart’s castle.”

Sword nodded, hopeful. “And to Rocket! You know, my friend. He’s—” he hesitated, looking down. “He’s probably still waiting.”

The ruler of Lost Temple studied him for a long moment. The boy before him was no longer the fledgling who once followed him through corridors with a feathered crown too big for his head. This Sword carried the weight of battles he was too young to have seen. The calluses in his hands from all the training, the steadiness in his hands when he spoke — he had changed.

But to Venomshank, he would always be his fledgling.

Finally, he sighed — a sound that seemed to echo off the hall’s vaulted ceiling. “You’ll take Medkit.”

Sword’s head snapped up, wings perking. “You mean—?”

“A week,” Venomshank said, his tone firm but not unkind. “No more. The borders are quiet for now, but it’s only a lull. Storms like these always circle back.”

Medkit folded his arms. “You’re letting the kid walk straight into another’s territory after two years of lockdown. You sure you’re not regretting that already?”

Venomshank gave him a look that could have silenced the wind. “I trust you to keep him safe. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Yeah,” Medkit muttered, looking away. “No pressure.”

Sword, though, barely heard the exchange. His wings fluttered — the excitement he’d buried for years now lighting up every part of him. “Thank you, Father!”

Venomshank’s expression softened despite himself. He rested a hand briefly on Sword’s shoulder, his touch cool but grounding. “Go on, then. Before I change my mind.”

Sword grinned — a flash of the boy he once was — before running off to grab his things.

Medkit watched him disappear down the hall, then turned back to Venomshank. “You really think this peace’ll last?”

Venomshank looked toward the distant horizon, where the sunlight bled faintly through gray clouds. “No,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m letting him go now.”

Outside, the wind began to stir again, whispering through the temple’s high spires. The banners shifted, just slightly.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The carriage touched down on the obsidian landing platform with a hiss of air, and before Medkit could even step off, Sword had already leapt out — wings half-spread, boots skidding slightly on the polished stone.

Darkheart’s castle stood tall ahead of them, spires spiraling into the dim sky, its windows glowing faintly with red-gold light. Despite its brooding silhouette, Sword’s eyes gleamed with nostalgia. Two years — two whole years since he’d last been here. Two years since that one short visit that had carved itself into his memory.

“Still looks the same,” he murmured, a grin flickering onto his face as he turned to Medkit. “He’ll probably be so surprised to see me!”

Medkit didn’t look as convinced. He adjusted his satchel, giving the looming gates a wary glance. “If he remembers you fondly, sure.”

Sword frowned but ignored the jab, bounding up the steps as the gates groaned open — Darkheart’s guards recognizing the son of Venomshank immediately.

The throne room was as he remembered it: cavernous, lit by firelight that danced along dark marble floors, the throne itself a monolith of black and crimson metals. And on it, slouched with lazy confidence, was Darkheart.

“Sword,” the older deity boomed, his grin wide and too knowing. “You’ve grown. What’s this? No grand entrance? No lightning? No trumpet of celestial fanfare?”

Sword laughed breathlessly, running up to him. “I didn’t think you’d want me wrecking your halls again.”

“We liked the chaos,” Darkheart replied, pushing himself up from the throne. “What brings my nephew all the way from that dusty temple? Surely not to visit us.”

“Of course I came to visit you!” Sword said, then hesitated, his tone softening. “And, um… Rocket. Is he here?”

Darkheart stilled for a moment — just enough for the silence to sharpen around the edges. Then that easy, mischievous grin slid back into place, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Oh, he’s here,” Darkheart said, leaning on the armrest casually. “Though ‘here’ might be more emotionally complicated than physically present.”

Sword blinked. “…What do you mean?”

Darkheart chuckled — low and unnerving, the kind of laugh that hid something behind it. “Let’s say the boy’s learned to keep his distance. You made quite the impression on him, We hear.”

“That’s good, right?” Sword asked, tilting his head slightly, hopeful.

“Depends on how you define impression,” Darkheart said, and though his words were delivered playfully, there was a hint of pity in them — the kind he rarely showed anyone. “The boy talks less now. Doesn’t cause as much trouble as he used to. Almost like you took something with you when you left.”

Sword’s smile faltered.

Medkit glanced between them, feeling the air shift.

Darkheart continued, his grin faintly razor-edged now. “If you want to see him, though, We will not stop you. He’s been spending most of his time at our courtyards, more so specifically—the fountain. You’ll find him, if you look hard enough. Just—” he waved a hand airily “—don’t expect the same welcome as last time.”

Sword swallowed, guilt coiling low in his chest. “Did… I do something wrong?”

Darkheart’s gaze softened for the briefest moment, a flicker of something like sympathy cutting through his usual smirk. “You didn’t do anything wrong, little prince. You just didn’t come back.”

And that — said so casually, so lightly — struck Sword harder than any dull end could’ve.

Medkit shifted beside him, quietly watching Sword’s expression crumble into uncertainty.

Darkheart stepped closer, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder with deceptive warmth. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough. But remember — not everyone waits forever.”

Sword blinked up at his uncle, brows furrowed, that stubborn light flickering back into his eyes. “You’re wrong,” he said, too quickly, like if he said it fast enough, it would sound true. “Rocket wouldn’t just— he’s not like that. He wouldn’t forget me.”

Darkheart tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smirk touching his mouth. “Forget?” he echoed. “No, little prince. That’s the last thing he’s done.”

But Sword barely heard him. He shook his head, feathers trembling faintly as he stepped back, determined. “Then I’ll just remind him,” he said, his voice breaking through the quiet like a flicker of flame. “I’ll make him remember. We’re friends.”

Darkheart’s smile turned distant, almost melancholy. “…You always did believe in the best of people.”

“I know he remembers,” Sword insisted, already turning toward the corridor that led deeper into the castle. “You’ll see. He’ll be happy I came back.”

Darkheart said nothing more, only watching as Sword hurried off — his boots echoing down the hall, his cloak catching the light like a shadow that hadn’t learned how to fade yet.

Medkit made a move to follow, adjusting his coat and giving Darkheart a brief nod. “He shouldn’t go alone,” he said quietly. “He’s still—”

“Stay.”

The single word was soft, but it cut through the air like the scrape of a blade. Darkheart’s hand rose slightly, stopping him in his tracks.

Medkit hesitated, his brow furrowing. “With all due respect, I don’t think—”

“This isn’t your story to witness, healer.”

Darkheart’s tone wasn’t cruel — it was something colder, older. Final. His eyes glinted like tempered metal, and though his grin lingered, it no longer felt teasing. “You’ve walked with the boy through fire and war. You’ve done your part. What comes next… isn’t meant for you.”

For a long moment, Medkit said nothing. He only studied Darkheart’s expression — that strange blend of fondness and warning — before exhaling through his nose, the fight draining from him.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping back. “But if he breaks again because of this, don’t expect me to stitch him back together twice.”

Darkheart chuckled lowly, his gaze following the faint echo of footsteps vanishing down the hall. “If he breaks,” he murmured, almost to himself, “it won’t be your hands that can fix him.”

The words hung heavy in the chamber.

Medkit turned away, jaw tight. Somewhere deep in the castle, Sword’s voice echoed faintly — calling out for Rocket with a boyish hope that sounded far too bright for the silence that waited to answer.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The fountain’s rhythm was the only sound that filled the courtyard — the slow drip of water breaking the stillness, the faint hum of wind through the marble archways.

Rocket sat at the edge, boot pressed against the stone lip, kicking pebbles into the rippling pool below. The water reflected the dull sky, fractured by each restless movement. His reflection didn’t look like him anymore. He wasn’t sure when that started.

He’d stopped asking.

Two years was a long time to rehearse a moment. Two years to build armor out of words he didn’t even believe, to shape anger into something he could hold, something sharp enough to protect the ache sitting deep in his chest.

He’d told himself what to say if that boy ever showed up again.

How to say it — cold, distant, unaffected.

How to make it hurt.

And then —

“...Rocket?”

That voice.

Soft. Uneven. Older, but still him.

Rocket froze. The world seemed to fold in on itself, air thinning in his lungs. He didn’t have to look to know — his chest already knew. His pulse already knew.

He turned slowly, every practiced line dissolving into static when he saw Sword standing there — cloaked, taller, wings folded tight like he didn’t belong in his own body anymore. His face held that same naive brightness that Rocket had wanted to forget.

He’d imagined this moment so many times. None of them felt like this.

The silence stretched long enough for the fountain to sound like thunder.

Sword took a hesitant step forward. “I—”

Rocket cut him off before he could even breathe another word. His voice came out steady, but his jaw trembled with it.

“You’re late.”

It wasn’t a shout. It wasn’t a sob. It was just… raw.

Sword flinched, guilt flickering across his face. “I wanted to come back sooner. I— things happened—”

Rocket laughed under his breath — bitter, quiet, and a little broken. “Yeah? Guess I wasn’t worth knowing about, then.”

“Rocket, no—”

“I waited,” Rocket snapped. He didn’t mean to. The words spilled out like a crack in glass. “You said you’d come back, remember? I thought— I thought you were different. I thought you got it. But you’re just like the rest of them.”

His chest hurt. He wanted to hate the way Sword’s eyes softened — the way he looked at him, like Rocket was still that boy by the balcony, still worth something. It made it worse.

Sword stepped closer again, slow, careful, like he was approaching something fragile. “I never meant to leave you—”

“You did.”

That stopped him cold.

Rocket’s voice shook now, but he refused to look away. “You left. And I waited. And you didn’t come back. So don’t—” he bit his tongue, forcing down the tremor threatening to betray him. “Don’t act like you care now.”

The air hung heavy between them. The fountain’s steady rhythm filled the gaps neither could speak into.

Rocket clenched his fists at his sides, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hit him.
But what scared him most was that he wanted to forgive him.

That he wanted to run to him like he used to — like he trusted him.
Like he still did.

So instead, he looked away, kicking another pebble into the water.

“Just go back to your temple, your father, whatever,” he muttered, voice thin, almost trembling. “I’m not someone you can keep picking up and dropping whenever you feel like it.”

And yet, even as he said it, even as he tried to bury every soft thing that still lingered, he couldn’t stop himself from glancing back — just once — hoping, hating that he hoped, that Sword wouldn’t listen.

Sword stepped forward another hesitant pace, palm lifted as if to bridge a distance that had been made of years. “Rocket, please—listen to me. I didn’t mean—”

“Save it.” Rocket’s voice snapped like a twig. He pushed himself up from the fountain’s lip so fast his boot skittered on the marble. The movement was sharp, childish—too sharp. “You don’t get to hand me excuses like they’re gifts.”

Sword’s face folded in on itself, the kind of hurt that made him look ten years younger. “I kept thinking I’d go when it was safe—”

“You waited until it was safe for you,” Rocket cut in, bright, furious, the words spat out like a challenge. “Safe for you.” He jabbed a finger at Sword’s chest. “Do you even hear yourself? You think the world waits around for princes to decide when it’s convenient?”

Sword opened his mouth, closed it. He tried again, softer: “I wanted to tell you. I tried—”

“You tried?” Rocket echoed, mocking. He stalked a slow circle around the fountain, boots kicking up tiny sprays of water with each pass. His hands were fists now, knuckles white beneath the leather. “You tried and failed. I sat there thinking you were the only one who might not leave me. You don’t know what that feels like.”

Sword flinched as if struck. He looked at Rocket not with anger but with pleading. “I know I hurt you. I know that. But I never stopped thinking about you. I would have come if I could—”

“That’s what everyone always says.” Rocket’s laugh was brittle. “Everyone has a reason. Everyone wants an excuse.” He paused, the veneer cracking for a breath. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to expect someone and get nothing? To tell yourself you’re fine until your stomach grows knots at the sound of wings?”

Sword’s eyes shimmered. For a second his composure cracked and the boy underneath came forward: less prince, more frightened. Of Rocket, or losing Rocket—he couldn’t tell. “I remember the way you nearly fell one time,” His voice broke on a laugh that was almost a sob, “and I remember that you once let me fall and then caught me too—without making me feel like I was weak.”

Those words landed like a fist against a locked door inside Rocket. It should have been balm; it should have been the thing that pulled him in. Instead it shoved all the sore places open. He hated that Sword remembered. He hated how those tiny, ordinary memories threaded through him and made the anger ache less like armor and more like something alive.

“You think I don’t know that?” Rocket hissed, voice tighter now. “You think I haven’t been replaying the same day a thousand ways? How I wanted to swear at you the first hour and then ask you if you’d stay the next?” He laughed, a sound with no humor in it. “You don’t get to be the soft thing that yanks me out in the middle of being hard. Not after you left.”

Sword’s hand dropped, helpless. “I’m sorry,” he said so small it could have been a prayer. “I’m sorry I—”

Rocket’s jaw moved. He wanted—more than he wanted any revenge, any insult—to fling himself at Sword and never let the boy go. He wanted to forgive so badly it hurt: because Sword had seen him, had treated him like a person instead of a problem; because for the first time someone his age had met his bite with a grin and not a shove. Those memories sat like coal under his ribs, hot and refusing to go out.

But Rocket pushed that warmth down with the practiced hand of someone who’d learned to hide bruises. He shoved his shoulder against Sword’s chest, forcing distance, forcing the truth down. “You’re late,” he repeated, quieter now, but firmer—stone against water. “You had your reasons. Maybe they were real. Maybe you mean it now. Maybe you didn’t mean it then. It doesn’t change what I felt. It doesn’t change what I learned.”

Sword’s face crumpled in a way that made Rocket want to vomit and pull the boy into him at the same time. “Please. Rocket—”

“No.” The denial came out as a stomp, childish and absolute. “Don’t do that thing where you look like you can be convinced. I’m not an answer you can fix.” He spat the last word like a curse and turned away, the motion jagged and young.

He started to walk off, boots striking the stone with the hollow rhythm of someone rehearsing the finality of leaving. His shoulders shook a fraction—anger and something else—grief maybe—making the movement uneven. He did not look back for a long time, though his ears strained for any step, any sound that might mean Sword followed.

Behind him, Sword whispered, so soft Rocket could have missed it if he’d wanted to hear—“Please.”

Rocket’s chest tightened at the words, a knot of want and fury and small, childish hope. He hated that they found purchase in him. He hated that somewhere, under all the venom, part of him wanted to believe it was true. He hated himself for wanting it.

So he walked faster until the echo of his own boots swallowed the rest. He kept his back straight, his face a mask, mouth tasting like marble and salt. Inside, where no one got to see, he pressed his palm to his ribcage and tried to muffle the sound of a boy who had once felt seen, who had once let himself be small — and now, refused it as survival.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Sword didn’t remember walking out of the courtyard.

He barely remembered the sound of Rocket’s voice — sharp, frayed, full of something that cut deeper than any blade. The words You’re late echoed in his skull until they became a pulse, a rhythm, a wound.

He pushed past the gates, past the guards who bowed and pretended not to stare at the trembling prince. By the time the heavy doors of the castle opened before him, the only thing holding him upright was momentum.

Medkit was already waiting at the archway. He’d been pacing — coat half-buttoned, one hand flexing at his side in restless habit. When Sword stumbled through, eyes red, chest heaving, Medkit froze.

“What happened?” he asked, low, cautious, like someone approaching a wounded animal.

Sword didn’t answer. His steps were fast, uneven, his hands shaking as he wiped at his face. “I’m fine,” he rasped, voice cracking. “It’s fine. I just need—”

He brushed past Medkit. The older man reached out instinctively, catching his shoulder — and that was when Sword broke.

His breath hitched mid-stride, catching in his throat like he’d swallowed fire. He gasped, hands clutching at his chest as his knees buckled, the sound of air struggling to come out tearing itself raw.

“Hey—hey,” Medkit said quickly, dropping to one knee beside him. “Sword, look at me. Breathe. Slowly, alright?”

“I can’t—” Sword wheezed, pressing a hand against his sternum. His other hand clawed weakly at the cobblestones, trembling. “I—I can’t—”

Medkit grabbed both of his wrists, firm but not harsh, grounding him. “Look at me,” he said again, steady now. “You’re breathing too fast. You need to slow it down. In through your nose. Right now. Do it.”

Sword tried, but his chest only convulsed harder, air shuddering out in sharp, painful bursts. His tears smeared across his face in streaks, salt mixing with the dirt on his cheeks.

“Alright,” Medkit murmured, softer, his voice gentling the edges of the panic. “Listen to me, kid. You’re not dying. You’re safe. Just… match me, okay?”

He exaggerated his own breaths — slow inhale, slow exhale — the sound of it deliberate, solid. One of his hands moved from Sword’s wrist to his back, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades.

Sword tried to follow. The first few attempts failed — too shallow, too desperate — but eventually, something gave way. The air came in, rough and uneven, but it came.

“Good,” Medkit said quietly. “That’s it. You’re doing fine.”

Sword’s breathing started to hitch less violently, though every inhale still quivered with leftover tremors. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against Medkit’s shoulder, words spilling out like cracks in a dam.

“I tried,” he whispered hoarsely. “I tried to make it right. I thought if I just explained—he’d listen—and he didn’t—he just—” His voice broke. “He hates me.”

Medkit didn’t reply right away. He just let the boy’s shaking soak through his coat, feeling every tremor against his ribs. He’d seen people die. He’d seen people beg for life. But grief — grief in a child’s voice — that still gutted him every time.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Medkit finally said, tone low, even. “He’s hurt. And when people hurt, they build walls so no one can see where it bleeds.”

Sword pulled back just enough to look at him — eyes red, raw, shining. “But I caused it.”

Medkit’s expression tightened, his single eye softening. “Maybe, maybe it was because you two are still young,” he admitted. “But you don’t fix something like that overnight. Sometimes you have to let time do what you can’t.”

Sword swallowed, his hands still trembling. “Then what do I do now?”

“Breathe,” Medkit said simply. “Breathe, and don’t let this break you too.”

The courtyard was silent except for the sound of their breathing — the slow rhythm of Medkit’s steady, the uneven echo of Sword’s catching up to it.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Far off the beaten roads and the courts of two warring brothers, a different heart began to change its rhythm.

Firebrand had been a sun everyone gathered around—warmth, steady light, the kind of easy charity that made small children hold out their palms for a coin or a blessing. People loved him because he made things soft: festivals where embers laughed instead of bit, harvests that came on time, hands held rather than clenched. His name had been a lullaby in markets and a promise in letters. To the world he offered bright, forgiving law.

Now the lullaby thinned.

Grief is a slow weather, and in Firebrand it began like a relentless drizzle under a roof. Not the single, shattering storm one expects in tales, but the steady, corrosive seep of water into wood: small stains spreading into rot, soft places giving way to ache. The wars in Lost Temple had been a distant drum at first, something his priests marked on charts and councils debated over. Then reports came closer; then closer still. Small embered tragedies arrived in his dispatches until the tally of cost weighed on him like ash.

He did not storm the heavens in a way the balladeers would sell as fury. He unmade himself a little at a time—manners fraying, patience thinning, that easy smile folding inward until the face that greeted petitioners was thinner, the warmth that had bent like sunlight now a surface crack. His courtiers noticed a different cadence when he spoke, a pause where once there had been an easy joke. Children still waved when his banners passed, but shepherds felt a chill on the breeze that had no right to be there.

Somewhere, private and unsaid, there sat a hollow his hand could not close. Whether a promise broken, a child taken by smoke and siege, or a silence that answered a cradle’s empty place, it settled beneath his ribs like a coal. It made him raw. It made his charity ache like an unused tool. The thing that kept him gentle began to feel like a liability—an indulgence he could no longer afford.

That slow fever pushed at the edges of his temper. Small mercies became rationed; thrones of comfort grew less accessible to supplicants who once felt his benign good grace. Where he had soothed, now he questioned; where he had warmed, now he tested. Even his softest pronouncements carried a new kind of edge, as if his voice were trying out a sharper metal and finding a way to speak through it.

The land took notice because when Firebrand shifts, the weather listens. Markets felt colder at midday; hearths that had been reliable cooled a degree. There was no single declaration—only the sense that a guardian was peeling his skin back to see what hurt beneath. People looked up and found the sun’s face less forgiving, as if a hand had cupped it and squeezed.

And beneath that slow unwinding, something taut and terrible gathered: not the righteous fury of a vengeful god so much as the steady, inexorable preparation of a force that had been a refuge now deciding it could no longer hold. The warmth that once knitted wounds could, in other hands, blister the land. The same fire that saved a village can, when bent by sorrow into a hard, bright thing, become a weapon. The thought moved through the tongues of those who watched: if he who loved most can be torn, what will he do when the tear has bled long enough?

Not yet a storm. Not yet the end. But the first flint had been struck, and the wind that would carry the spark was gathering.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Interlude. - ???

Chapter Text

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The summons came before dawn — a ripple through the shadows that brushed against Zuka’s mind like a cold hand. He hadn’t even finished tightening his gloves before the voice of Darkheart coiled low in his ear: “You’re needed in Lost Temple. Now.” No further context, no pleasantries. Just urgency. However, with what little time to spare, he had left Rocket a quick, messily scribbled-on note that he would be back soon.

And by the time Zuka arrived, the air already burned.

By the time Zuka crested the final ridge above Lost Temple, the city looked as if it were made of embers and shadow. Plumes of smoke rose in ragged columns; rooftops smoked like sore wounds. The air tasted of iron and ash and the sharp, wrong tang of something holy being mangled. Below, streets that had once thrummed with trade and song snarled with fleeing carts, overturned stalls, and bodies—some scrambling, some frozen mid-step, some already crumpled and still.

He jumps down, and navigates through it carefully, his cloak cutting through waves of heat that shimmered up from the ruined city. Inphernals—civilians, soldiers, healers—were flooding the streets, faces streaked with soot, dragging carts, carrying children. Some were running, some simply stood frozen, staring at the distant column of light that rose like a wound in the sky.

Zuka stood before what had once been a marketplace — now a mosaic of shattered stone and molten glass. The air reeked of burning oil and grief. He barely had to look to see the destruction’s source.

At the heart of the ruin, Firebrand moved like a storm unchained.

Every step he took carved the earth open, flame searing up through the cracks. His aura—once radiant, golden, and soft—had curdled into something violent, flickering between red and orange, each pulse bending the air around him. The ground near him was littered with scorched armor, half-melted armor and decimated banners.

Zuka’s chest tightened. Firebrand had always been the steady one. The gentle one. He had blessed crops, carried wounded children from wreckage with hands that never shook. Seeing him now—incandescent with rage, divinity cracking at the seams—felt like watching the sun turn on its worshippers.

“Evacuate the southern wards!” Zuka barked to a passing patrol, his voice sharp enough to cut through the panic. “Keep them away from the square!”

The guards hesitated only a moment before obeying. He could hear more screams down the avenue — people trapped, calling out names swallowed by the roar of fire.

Zuka clenched his jaw, eyes never leaving the burning figure in the distance.

He didn’t know what had broken Firebrand — didn’t know what could possibly drive the most beloved deity to tear through a city like this. But he could see it in the way Firebrand moved: this wasn’t madness without cause. This was grief turned catastrophic, mourning so deep it had split into rage.

Still, none of that mattered right now.

He pressed forward through the flames, muttering under his breath, “What happened to you, old friend…”

And above the roar of collapsing towers, Firebrand looked over his shoulder. For one fleeting second, his eyes — bright, feverish gold — locked with Zuka’s.

It wasn’t recognition that passed between them. It was warning.

The plaza shook as another wave of heat ripped through the city — the air splitting apart like it was trying to scream. Firebrand’s blade came down with a roar that could’ve split the sky, carving molten furrows into the stone streets.

Zuka dove aside, the shockwave hurling him into a wall that was no longer entirely there. He grunted, shaking off the ringing in his ears. The world was a blur of gold and red — flame climbing the sides of temples, more banners disintegrating in their wake.

“Yeah,” he muttered, pushing himself upright, “definitely not the Firebrand I knew.”

His hand flexed — and with a snap of his fingers, the air shimmered beside him. A launcher materialized from the distortion, long and jagged, veins of blue light crawling along its barrel. Zuka swung it up onto his shoulder with practiced ease, expression unchanging despite the heat singeing the ends of his bandana.

“Hey, ‘Brand!” he called out over the chaos. “You burnin’ your own sermons now, or is this just your new brand of divine therapy?”

Firebrand turned toward him — slowly, like the motion itself was restrained by the weight of his rage. His glowing eye cut through the haze, locking on Zuka with the same brilliance that melted through walls.

When he spoke, his voice was nothing but echo and heat.

“Leave.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing,” Zuka said, tilting his shades up just enough to meet the deity’s gaze. “I don’t take orders so easily, ‘specially from folks who torch half a city before breakfast.”

Firebrand’s wings flared wide, scattering embers in a spiral around him. The ground glowed under his feet. Then he moved.

The first strike hit faster than Zuka could breathe — a streak of molten light that obliterated the cobblestones he’d been standing on. Zuka dove, rolled, and fired. The rocket streaked through the smoke — a beam of blue cutting through red — before Firebrand’s sword cleaved it from the air in a burst of shrapnel and flame.

Zuka swore under his breath, the blast throwing him back again. He slammed his launcher against the ground, using it to steady himself. “You know,” he coughed, “for a deity, your aim’s—” another explosion forced him to duck “—kinda sloppy today.”

Firebrand advanced, every step turning the ground molten. His face was a mask of fury and grief, the burn scars along his temple glowing brighter. The flames didn’t just follow him — they obeyed him, spiraling upward like soldiers waiting for command.

Zuka fired again. Then again. The detonations tore the air apart, blue colliding against orange, shockwaves flattening what few structures still stood. But the deity walked through the blasts as if they were mist.

When Firebrand swung again, Zuka blocked with his launcher, the impact sending sparks in every direction. The heat crawled down the weapon’s frame, searing against Zuka’s gloves. His knees nearly buckled from the force.

“Dammit, Firebrand—” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Snap. Out of it!”

For a split second, Zuka saw it — a flicker of hesitation, the barest pause behind that glowing eye. Then the flames flared higher, burning that hesitation away.

“You don’t understand,” Firebrand said, voice shaking now — not from weakness, but from something breaking. “They took everything.”

Zuka’s brow furrowed. “Then take it out on the right people, not your fucking brother’s!”

The next strike sent him flying backward again, landing hard against what was left of a collapsed archway. He could feel the bones in his shoulder ache, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

But still, he pushed himself up, launcher glowing as energy pulsed through it.

“Fine,” he muttered, spitting dust from his lip. “You wanna play god? I’ll play pest control.”

He fired again — a volley this time — the explosions blooming in rapid succession. Firebrand raised his hand, and the blasts curled harmlessly around him, swirling into a cyclone of golden fire. The deity’s expression twisted, half-anguish, half-fury.

And still, Zuka kept moving forward through the inferno, grit cutting through the smoke in his voice.

“Come on, Firebrand! You really think I’m gonna let the golden poster boy of virtue throw a tantrum without someone calling him out for it?”

For the first time since the chaos began, Firebrand froze. His eyes flickered. Something — pain, maybe — surfaced beneath the burning light.

Zuka exhaled slowly, his voice low but steady.

“I don’t care what they took from you. But if you keep this up… you’re not the one they’ll remember. Just another monster.”

Firebrand’s expression faltered.

Zuka’s grin sharpened — the kind of stupid, hard smile that meant he’d found the sliver of a chance. He shouldered the launcher, aimed, and let the barrel sing. The world narrowed to a hot, blue line.

For a breath the deity looked hollowed-out, something private and catastrophic showing through the mask of godhood. Zuka didn’t wait for the mercy of hesitation; he moved to press it, to drive his advantage into the crack he’d found.

Then the air convulsed.

It wasn’t a counter like the others — not a blade, not a wave that could be ducked. Firebrand’s palm opened as if to plead, and the light that answered was terrible and pure, pouring like a sun from the god’s hand. Zuka’s shot shredded against it and folded into ash.

He felt it before he saw it: heat like a furnace shoved into bone, a pressure that peeled the world into searing light. Something screamed — not just Zuka’s voice, but the metal song of his launcher as it snapped from his shoulder and skittered away across the cobbles. The sound cut clean through the roar and left an aching silence behind.

For a heartbeat Zuka’s instincts were still snark — a cracked, stunned humor on the edge of his lips. Then he looked down.

Where his sleeve curled was a thing that no training could have readied him for. The fabric hung, smoking and damp, an empty line of cloth that moved with the wind as if past fingers had been pulled away. The smell of copper and singed wool filled the air. He blinked, as if expectation might put weight back where weight had just been. His other hand went to grab, to steady — and closed on nothing but the ragged inside of a cuff.

The launcher lay a few breaths away, a dark, useless shape. Zuka’s jaw worked; a sound like a curse — half gasp, half pain — ripped out of him and then broke into a ragged choke. He tried to rise, to shuffle forward, to grab the weapon, and his motion betrayed him: the balance was wrong, the rhythm gone.

Firebrand’s face shifted as the heat eased — not triumph now, but something raw and ragged. The glow in his eye stuttered. For an instant that could have been called pity, his whole figure tightened like a man who’d done something irreversible without meaning to.

Zuka’s voice came back, thin and brittle. “Well,” he rasped, tasting blood and iron.

“That’s one way to ruin my day.”

Zuka’s legs gave out before he knew it. The world smeared into a bleeding horizon of color — golds and reds collapsing inward, heat roaring in his ears like a dying sun. His vision tunneled, the edges of the burning city folding into darkness.

He barely noticed when his knees hit the stone. The pain had gone strange — distant, muted, a rhythm that didn’t quite belong to him anymore. He dragged a breath in through his teeth, shaking, but the sound came out as a laugh that cracked in half before it reached the air.

The world swayed. His head felt too heavy. His body, too light.

Somewhere above him, Firebrand’s silhouette loomed, sword burning like a second dawn. The god’s hand trembled, but his eyes — that one, furious eye — still glowed with divine ruin. He looked ready to finish what he’d started.

Zuka tried to smirk again. Tried to say something clever. But the words didn’t make it past his throat. Just a thin, broken hum. His gaze flicked toward his launcher — smoking, cracked, impossibly far away. Then, farther still, to the rising shapes cutting through the ash-filled sky.

Black wings.

A storm slammed down with the force of judgment. Firebrand’s next blow never landed. The ground split under the impact as Venomshank descended, his sword clashing against Firebrand’s in a burst of dark-green light that split the smoke.

“Enough,” Venomshank’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade itself — low, sharp, commanding. “You’ve done enough!”

The shockwave of their collision sent embers spiraling upward, scattering like dying stars. Firebrand faltered — just for a heartbeat — and the flames around him wavered.

In that fragile pause, the air behind Zuka tore open in a ripple of shadow. Two clawed hands reached through — familiar.

“We got you,” came Darkheart’s voice, almost apologetic.

Zuka felt weightless as the shadow swallowed him whole, pulling him from the battlefield. The world of smoke and ruin fell away, replaced by cold and quiet. His vision flickered—once, twice—colors draining out until all that remained was gray and blur.

Something wet hit his cheek. Rain? No… it was too warm.

His breathing slowed. His mind, however, refused to let go just yet.

Images flickered: a kid with bright eyes and a louder mouth, sitting on the edge of a bed; a laugh that wasn’t mocking for once; a moment that shouldn’t have mattered but somehow did.

Rocket.

The name surfaced, unspoken, like a ghost slipping through the cracks of his fading consciousness.

Heh, Zuka thought hazily, his lips twitching into something that almost resembled a smile. That brat’s gonna be pissed if I don’t make it back.

And with that, his world finally went dark.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The hallway outside the sanctum was too quiet.

Not peaceful — the kind of quiet that felt heavy, like the air itself didn’t want to make a sound.

Sword sat on the stone steps opposite the great doors, hands clasped tight between his knees. The light leaking out from the cracks in the doorway pulsed faintly — sometimes gold, sometimes blue, sometimes nothing at all. He’d been staring at that light for what felt like forever.

“Do you think they’re still arguing?” he asked finally, voice low, almost careful, like speaking too loud might make things worse.

Beside him, Medkit didn’t look up from where he was sitting — calm, legs stretched out, elbows on his knees. He didn’t fidget, didn’t sigh, didn’t move much at all. Just kept that steady quiet that Sword wished he could copy.

“They’ll argue until they’ve said everything they need to,” Medkit said. His tone was soft, like a blanket over glass. “That’s how they figure things out.”

Sword frowned, eyes flicking back to the doors. “But it’s been hours.”

“I know.”

He kicked lightly at the floor, scuffing the edge of his boot against the stone. “You think Uncle Firebrand’s… in trouble?”

That earned him a look — the kind that wasn’t annoyed, but serious enough to make him stop moving. Medkit’s gaze softened a little afterward. “They’ll handle it,” he said. “Your dad’s in there. He won’t let anything happen that shouldn’t.”

Sword nodded, but it was the kind of nod that meant I heard you, but I don’t believe it all the way.

He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. “He didn’t even tell me what happened. Just said we had to come with him.”

“Probably didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m already worried,” Sword muttered, arms crossing tight over his chest. “Everyone in the halls was talking about one of my cities burning, and that it was Uncle ‘Brand’s fault. But Uncle Firebrand wouldn’t just—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “He wouldn’t do that.”

Medkit looked away, watching the torchlight flicker across the corridor. “Sometimes people we know do things we don’t expect,” he said after a long pause. “Doesn’t always mean they wanted to.”

Sword was quiet for a while. His foot tapped the ground again, a nervous rhythm that didn’t match the soft thrum coming from the sanctum. “Dad seemed… scared,” he said finally. “When he told us to stay out here. I’ve never seen him look like that.”

Medkit’s expression flickered — something between agreement and understanding — but he didn’t let it show for long. “He’ll be fine,” he said, and his voice had that steadiness again, the kind that made the silence feel less sharp.

Sword nodded again, this time slower. “Yeah. I just…” He trailed off, biting the inside of his cheek. “I hope Uncle’s okay. Even if he messed up. He’s… he’s still family.”

Medkit smiled faintly. “He’d like to hear you say that.”

Sword huffed out a weak laugh. “Not if he’s grounded by, like, six gods right now.”

“Then you can say it after.”

That made Sword grin — small, uneven, but real. He leaned his head back against the wall again, the glow from the sanctum painting faint patterns across his face.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t so heavy. Just waiting.

Sword’s voice came quieter this time, almost sleepy. “Hey, Medkit?”

“Yeah?”

“When they come out… if Dad looks mad, you think we should just act like we didn’t hear anything?”

Medkit’s lips twitched. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all morning.”

Sword snorted softly — a quick, quiet laugh that didn’t echo too far in the hall. The silence that followed wasn’t so tense anymore; it just… sat there, like the two of them had finally made peace with waiting.

But Medkit’s gaze drifted, drawn by movement near the other end of the corridor — someone else was standing by the grand doors. He hadn’t noticed him before, maybe because the guy stood so still, arms folded and head tipped slightly back like he had all the time in the world.

The armor caught the torchlight first — polished, clean, clearly expensive — stood with his arms crossed, chin tilted upward like the air around him owed him respect. His armor gleamed faintly under the torchlight, polished to perfection, trimmed in deep violet and silver. There was a faint shimmer to his stance, something perfected and practiced, like he’d been told all his life to stand tall and be seen.

Medkit blinked, then leaned a little closer to Sword. “Who’s the guy pretending he’s guarding the place?”

Sword followed his gaze, and his eyes lit up. “Oh. That’s Ban Hammer.”

Medkit raised an eyebrow. “That his name or his job title?”

“Both, kinda.” Sword’s voice dropped a notch, like sharing a secret. “He’s my cousin.”

“Your cousin?” Medkit repeated, skeptical.

Sword nodded, fiddling with his sleeve. “Mm-hm. Aunt Windforce’s kid. I didn’t think she’d bring him here, though.”

Medkit hummed under his breath, still watching the other boy. “He looks… like someone who practices his smirk in the mirror everyday.”

Sword tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway. “That’s… not wrong.”

Medkit looked back at Ban Hammer, who had shifted his weight lazily against a marble pillar, looking about as comfortable as someone could while waiting outside a divine council. His mouth curved into that confident half-smile — the kind that screamed he didn’t think anything bad could ever touch him.

“…Yeah,” Medkit said finally. “I see the resemblance.”

Sword frowned, caught between confusion and indignation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Medkit’s answer was just a quiet hum, eyes still on Ban Hammer. “Nothing. Just… he looks like trouble wrapped in fancy metal.”

As if on cue, Ban Hammer turned slightly — maybe hearing them, maybe not — just enough to acknowledge them. Even from across the hall, his grin carried that unmistakable confidence, the kind that said I know I look good, and you know it too. Medkit blinked, then sighed through his nose.

“Yeah,” Sword admitted. “That’s about right.”

Medkit leaned back, muttering, “I’m betting he calls himself your ‘favorite cousin’ every time he shows up.”

Ban Hammer, still standing with the perfect posture of someone raised under a banner, glanced at them again — like he knew they were talking about him, and didn’t mind one bit. His grin widened, effortlessly smug.

Sword sighed, muttering under his breath, “Yeah… definitely my cousin.”

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The morning light over the palace was pale and hesitant — the kind that didn’t quite know whether to stay or leave. It filtered through the high windows of Sword’s room, spilling across the polished floor and catching faint motes of dust that hung in the quiet. Too quiet.

Sword had been sitting at his desk since dawn, chin in his hand, half-listening to the faint hum of the city below. He wasn’t reading the reports stacked in front of him — he hadn’t turned a page in an hour. His other hand toyed absently with a little mechanical bird that perched on the corner of the desk, wings twitching every now and then like it wanted to fly but didn’t dare.

The knock on the door came sharp, once, then twice.

Sword looked up. “Yeah?”

The door opened without waiting for permission — only one person ever got away with that. Medkit stepped inside, and the moment Sword saw his face, the easy smile he’d been practicing fell apart.

Medkit’s expression wasn’t angry or even solemn. It was something worse — controlled. Like he’d already had time to react, to process, to decide how much to tell. He held a folded newspaper in one hand, the print still fresh, the ink smudged on his fingers.

Sword stood up immediately. “What happened?”

Medkit didn’t answer right away. He shut the door behind him, quiet, then walked over to the desk. When he placed the paper down, it landed with a soft slap of weight — the front page already saying more than words could.

“BLACKROCK’S LEGEND FALLS — GENERAL ZUKA GRAVELY WOUNDED IN LOST TEMPLE CATASTROPHE.”
"THE RULING DEITY OF CROSSROADS BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN THE CAUSE OF THE DESTRUCTION IN LOST TEMPLE? WHERE IS HE NOW?"

Sword’s breath caught. He didn’t even realize he’d said the name out loud. “Zuka…?”

Medkit didn’t meet his eyes. “They got him out alive.”

“That doesn’t sound like good news.”

“It’s the only kind I’ve got.”

Sword’s hands gripped the edge of the table. The article blurred before his eyes; he could barely make out the lines, only pieces — deity conflict, uncontained divinity, severe injuries. His throat felt tight. “He—how bad?”

Medkit hesitated. That was answer enough.

“Medkit.”

Finally, Medkit exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between tired and resigned. “He lost an arm.”

The words hit like cold water. Sword blinked once, twice, as if his brain refused to arrange them into something real. “Lost… as in—”

“As in gone,” Medkit said quietly. “He’s in critical care. Darkheart and Venomshank pulled him out before Firebrand leveled the rest of the district.”

Sword didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stared down at the paper, eyes fixed on the black-and-white photograph of smoke rising from the ruins.

When he finally spoke, his voice was thin and dry. “Rocket doesn’t know yet, does he?”

Medkit’s silence told him everything.

Sword pressed his lips together, trying to steady his breathing. He turned away from the desk, pacing to the window — not to look outside, but to not look at the headline. His reflection in the glass looked pale, younger somehow.

“He’s gonna lose it,” Sword said under his breath.

“Yeah,” Medkit agreed softly. “He will.”

The room went still again. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled — clear, steady, detached from everything Sword felt pressing against his chest. He kept his back turned, fingers pressed against the cool windowpane, watching the city blur beneath the morning haze.

“He’s strong,” Sword said finally, his voice a little too quick, too rehearsed. “Rocket’s tough. He’ll… he’ll handle it.”

Medkit didn’t answer. He just studied him — the set of Sword’s shoulders, the way his reflection didn’t blink as often as it should.

“I mean, he’s mad at me,” Sword went on, forcing a light laugh that didn’t quite make it out whole. “Probably still is. So it’s not like he’ll want to see me anyway. I’m sure someone else’ll—someone closer—will help him through it.”

Still, Medkit said nothing. It wasn’t because he didn’t care — it was because he knew Sword wasn’t talking to him anymore.

Sword rubbed at the back of his neck, muttering, “But… I should still check on him, right? Just… see how he’s doing. That’s normal. People do that.” He stopped, catching himself. “Or maybe that’s weird. I don’t know.”

When he glanced back, Medkit was watching him quietly, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

“You don’t owe him anything,” Medkit said after a moment.

“I know.”

“But you want to.”

Sword hesitated, then looked down at his desk again — at the little mechanical bird still perched there. Its clockwork wings twitched, as if waiting for permission to move. He reached out, thumb brushing its brass feathers.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess I do.”

He flicked the switch at its base, and the bird gave a tiny whirr, wings fluttering once before settling still again. Sword smiled faintly — not his usual bright grin, but something quieter.

“He’ll be okay,” he said after a long pause, as if saying it enough might make it true. “Zuka’s… Zuka. He doesn’t stay down long.”

Medkit nodded, though the faint crease between his brows never eased. “If anyone can survive it, it’s him.”

“Right.” Sword’s tone brightened just enough to sound like him again. “And Rocket’s got people. He’ll… he’ll figure it out.”

He said it with conviction, but the silence that followed was heavy — like both of them heard what he didn’t say.

Medkit stood after a while, tucking the folded paper under his arm. “If you need to step out or… clear your head, I’ll cover for you,” he offered quietly.

Sword blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? No, I’m fine.”

Medkit didn’t argue. Just gave him a small, knowing look before heading for the door.

When it shut behind him, the quiet returned — too large for the room, pressing at the edges of Sword’s thoughts.

He sat back down, turning the little mechanical bird over in his hands. Its reflection in the window caught the morning light — a glint of gold in a gray sky.

“Hang in there, Rocket,” Sword murmured under his breath, words too soft for anyone to hear.

Then he set the bird down again, straightened the papers on his desk, and tried — really tried — to look like someone who believed everything would be okay.

Even if he didn’t.

The palace at night was a different creature altogether.

Gone was the brightness and warmth of the morning — in its place, the marble halls were bathed in a thin wash of moonlight, pale and cold. The torches along the corridors burned low, their flames small and uncertain, throwing long, shifting shadows across the walls. The air hummed faintly with enchantments, the kind Sword wasn’t supposed to notice but always did — quiet wards, divine signatures, all the things meant to make the place “safe.”

Sword moved anyway.

He crept down the corridor barefoot, boots dangling from one hand, cloak half thrown around his shoulders. Every step was measured, each pause longer than it needed to be. His heart thudded against his ribs like a guilty drum. The mechanical bird — his latest “don’t-worry-I’m-just-studying” project — sat in the pocket of his cloak, ticking softly.

He’d waited until the servants’ quarters went silent, until even the guards changed shifts. Rocket’s name had been stuck in his head all day, refusing to leave, circling every thought like a storm that wouldn’t pass. And though every logical part of him said stay put, logic never really stood a chance against the ache in his chest.

He just needed to see for himself. Maybe get as far as the skyports. Maybe ask the couriers if anyone had flown toward Blackrock. Maybe nothing at all.

But when he reached the balcony doors, the world promptly reminded him of last time.

There, bolted across the carved frame, was a thick, gleaming warding seal — etched in runes that shimmered faintly when he came near. The memory hit like a splash of cold water: the last time he’d decided to “borrow” a glider past curfew, the storm that had rolled in out of nowhere, and his father’s voice — calm but colder than the rain — when he’d been hauled back by the palace guard.

Sword sighed through his nose and muttered, “Right. Forgot about that part.”

He pressed a hand to the seal; it buzzed faintly against his skin, reacting to his divine aura. It didn’t hurt — just felt like the air itself telling him, don’t even try.

So he turned back toward the hall, the long corridor stretching out like a dare. Maybe he could use one of the service exits near the courtyard. Maybe—

“Going somewhere?”

The voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to.

Sword froze mid-step. His stomach dropped faster than gravity should’ve allowed.

“Uh,” he said intelligently, turning slowly. “...No?”

Venomshank stood at the end of the hall — silent, immovable, a shape cut clean from the darkness itself. The faint silver light from the windows caught on the edges of his armor, tracing the sharp lines of his form. His presence filled the corridor without effort, not loud or cruel, just there — the kind of authority that didn’t need to announce itself.

He took a slow step forward, and Sword felt every nerve in his body light up in panic.

“I was just… walking,” Sword said, voice cracking somewhere between bravery and the very opposite of it. “You know, stretching my legs?”

Venomshank tilted his head slightly. His expression was unreadable, the kind of silence that made Sword think of storms before they broke.

“At midnight?” his father asked evenly.

“...Uh. I couldn’t sleep?”

The air between them felt heavy — not tense, just filled with unspoken things. Venomshank stopped a few paces away, studying him. Sword tried to read him like always, searching for anger in the set of his shoulders or the tilt of his head. But the man’s stillness gave nothing away. Sword’s mind filled in the blanks on its own, twisting neutrality into disappointment.

“I wasn’t gonna go far,” Sword blurted, guilt bleeding into his tone before he could stop it. “Just—just outside. I swear, I wasn’t trying to cause trouble or—”

Venomshank raised a hand, cutting him off. “Sword.”

That was all it took to shut him up.

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the wards and the quiet drip of water from a fountain somewhere deeper in the palace. Then, softer than Sword expected, Venomshank said, “You were going to leave the palace.”

It wasn’t a question.

Sword’s mouth opened, then closed again. “...Yeah,” he admitted finally. “Just for a bit.”

Venomshank’s head inclined a fraction. “To go where?”

Sword hesitated. The truth balanced on his tongue, sharp and heavy. To check on Rocket. To make sure he’s okay. To see for myself that Zuka’s still alive. But saying it out loud felt like peeling open something private.

“I don’t know,” he said instead, eyes fixed on the marble floor.

Venomshank watched him for a moment longer before sighing quietly. It wasn’t an angry sound — more like someone trying to weigh patience against worry.

“You’ve been unsettled all day,” he said finally. “Medkit told me.”

Of course he did, Sword thought bitterly. Medkit always did.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Just… thinking.”

“About Zuka.”

Sword froze again.

The name in his father’s mouth made something tighten in his chest. He didn’t trust his voice enough to answer, so he just nodded once.

Venomshank’s tone stayed calm — level, but firm. “There’s nothing you can do for him right now. The council has sent healers. The situation is under control.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sword said, voice cracking before he could reel it back in.

Venomshank blinked — not in surprise, but in that small way that meant he was trying to understand. “Then what did you mean?”

Sword clenched his jaw. He didn’t have the words for it — not the right ones. He wanted to say Rocket needs someone. He wanted to say I can’t just sit here while people I care about are breaking apart. But what came out was smaller.

“I just… I don’t like waiting,” he murmured.

Venomshank’s silence stretched again — thoughtful this time. He stepped closer, his voice softening around the edges. “You care deeply,” he said. “That’s good. But you must learn when to act, and when to trust others to do what you cannot.”

Sword didn’t answer. His throat ached with everything he wasn’t saying.

For a moment, the faint glow of the warding runes lit both their faces in pale blue. Venomshank’s gaze softened, though Sword couldn’t see it — he only saw the shadow, the shape of his father’s restraint, and mistook it for sternness.

“Come,” Venomshank said finally, turning toward the end of the hall. “You should rest.”

Sword hesitated. “You’re… not mad?”

Venomshank paused mid-step, then looked back at him — something faintly confused in his stillness. “No,” he said, quiet but certain. “Why would I be?”

Sword blinked, caught off guard. “I just thought—”

“I know what you thought.” Venomshank’s voice eased, almost fond despite itself. “But wanting to help is not a crime, Sword. It just isn’t always wise.”

Sword’s cheeks burned, and he looked away, embarrassed.

Venomshank didn’t turn away immediately. He lingered there for a moment, the silence stretching thin between them — quiet, but full of thought. Sword shifted, uneasy beneath that stillness. He wished his father would just say something, anything, to fill the air that now felt too heavy to breathe.

Then Venomshank spoke, voice calm but gentler than before. “You’ve been restless,” he said. “Not just tonight. For weeks, no, months now.”

Sword stiffened, caught off guard. “I—” he started, but Venomshank continued, his tone even, not accusing.

“I’ve noticed the way you listen to the guards’ reports. The way you linger by the council chambers after meetings you’re not supposed to attend. You think I don’t see it, but I do.”

Sword’s head dropped, his hand tightening around the edge of his cloak. “I just… wanted to know what’s happening,” he said quietly. “People are scared. Half the trade routes are still shut down, the border towns keep sending letters asking for help, and now with Uncle—” He cut himself off before he said too much. His voice trembled anyway. “I just don’t like sitting here while everyone else gets hurt.”

Venomshank’s eyes — hidden though they were — softened in that moment. He stepped closer, his armor whispering faintly as he moved, and the weight of his presence became less like a command and more like quiet understanding.

“You are not your people’s shield yet,” Venomshank said, his voice deep and deliberate. “There are wars being fought that you cannot see — not all of them with swords. But they are being handled.”

Sword forced a small, unsteady smile. “Handled,” he repeated, the word catching in his throat. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Sword looked away, staring down at his bare feet against the cold marble. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Venomshank let out a faint breath — not quite a sigh, more like the sound of a man choosing his next words carefully. “It never does,” he said. “Not when you care.”

Something about that — the simple honesty in it — made Sword’s chest tighten. He didn’t trust himself to answer, so he just nodded slightly. The silence returned, but this time it wasn’t as sharp.

Venomshank studied him a moment longer before he spoke again, quieter. “Come. Sit.”

Sword blinked as his father gestured toward the room behind him. He hesitated, unsure if this was an order or… something else. But Venomshank had already turned and stepped inside, his footsteps soft despite the armor.

Sword followed, slow and uncertain, the heavy doors shutting with a quiet click behind him. The moonlight spilled through the tall windows, painting the room in silvers and shadows — half-dream, half-memory.

Venomshank sat on the edge of the bed, careful, composed. Sword stood awkwardly for a few seconds before joining him, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. It felt strange — this closeness. They hadn’t done this in years.

Neither spoke at first. The mechanical bird on Sword’s desk ticked faintly, the only sound breaking the stillness. Then Venomshank said, “You think too much for someone your age.”

Sword gave a weak laugh. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Venomshank said. “But it can be dangerous, if you let your thoughts outrun your patience.”

Sword didn’t respond right away. He picked at the edge of his sleeve instead, the fabric fraying between his fingers. His mind wandered — back to the headlines, to Rocket, to the promise he hadn’t kept. He swallowed hard. “I just hate that I can’t do anything,” he said finally, voice low. “Every time something happens, I feel like I should be out there. Helping. Fixing it. And I just—”

He stopped, words breaking before they could finish themselves.

Venomshank didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he looked at his son — really looked — at the way his shoulders hunched, at the guilt that trembled beneath every breath. To Sword, his father’s silence felt like judgment. To Venomshank, it was a moment of quiet recognition. He faintly remembered being that young, that certain the world’s weight could be carried by will alone.

“I know the feeling,” Venomshank said at last. “Wanting to bear everything. To protect everyone. It doesn’t fade easily.” He paused, voice lowering slightly. “But you must learn to trust others to stand where you cannot.”

Sword glanced up at him, the moonlight catching in his eyes — bright, uncertain, searching. “What if they fall?”

Venomshank turned his head toward the window, as if watching the city beyond. “Then you help them up when you can,” he said simply. “That is what we do. But not by running into every fire yourself.”

Sword let the words sit for a moment. He wanted to argue — to say he’d rather be burned than wait — but the exhaustion in his bones spoke louder. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

“I thought things would be different by now,” he said, almost to himself. “Peace was supposed to mean something. But it’s like the world’s just... waiting to break again.”

Venomshank’s voice softened. “The world always breaks, Sword. What matters is how you choose to mend it.”

That earned a small, tired smile. “You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t,” Venomshank said, and Sword could hear the quiet truth behind it — the years of command, the centuries of burden. “But you don’t have to carry all of it tonight.”

Sword exhaled slowly, a breath that left him lighter somehow. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little.

Venomshank leaned back slightly, resting one hand on the bedframe, the faintest curve of gentleness in his tone. “You’ve been holding too much inside,” he said. “If it weighs on you, then speak to me. Not as a deity. Not as a prince. Just as my son.”

Sword froze. He hadn’t heard his father call him that — my son — in so long it almost startled him.

For a long while, neither spoke. The night air drifted through the curtains, carrying the faint scent of rain and earth from the gardens below.

Finally, Sword said quietly, “You think everything’s gonna be okay?”

Venomshank looked at him — or maybe through him — as if measuring the weight of the question. Then, with quiet certainty, he said, “Yes. It will be. Not easily, and not soon. But it will.”

Sword nodded, a small sound caught in his throat. “You promise?”

“I do,” Venomshank said, and though his voice was calm as ever, there was something unmistakably mortal in it. “I have it covered. Rest easy.”

Venomshank stayed quiet for a long time after that, his gaze steady on Sword — not sharp, not prying, just watchful. The kind of silence that waited patiently for truth to come on its own. Sword shifted again, fidgeting with the hem of his cloak, pretending not to notice how heavy that quiet felt.

Finally, Venomshank spoke. “Sword,” he said softly. “What really happened?”

Sword blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been carrying something heavier than worry,” Venomshank said. His tone wasn’t stern, but there was a weight behind it — the kind that came from seeing too much and recognizing the same shadows in someone else. “It isn’t just the wars or the news about your uncle. It’s something else.”

Sword swallowed hard. His throat felt dry. “It’s nothing, really. Just—”

“Sword.” Venomshank didn’t raise his voice, but the sound of his name alone was enough to unravel what little composure he had left.

Sword’s gaze fell to the floor. “It’s… about…My friend, Rocket,” he said finally, the name breaking apart halfway through.

Venomshank inclined his head slightly, giving him space to continue.

“He hates me,” Sword said quietly. “Or—he probably does. And I can’t even blame him.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His chest tightened as memories flooded back — sand, heat, light too bright to look at. He pressed his palms together as if he could hold himself steady.

“Two years ago,” Sword began, his voice trembling at the edges, “I went out past the dunes. I wasn’t supposed to, but I wanted to see what was beyond the temple walls. I wanted to see the world beyond the castle for the first time—and I also thought… maybe if I understood what was out there, I’d understand why people fought so much.”

Venomshank didn’t interrupt. His wings shifted faintly, the feathers catching the silver light like moving shadow.

Sword rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You know what happened afterwards.”

Venomshank’s voice was low. “You were injured. You barely survived the desert, and had Medkit not been there… I’m not going to risk losing you again.”

“I know,” Sword said quickly, shaking his head. “I know. It’s not your fault. I just—” He drew in a shaky breath. “Rocket, he... He was the only one who didn’t treat me like some… prince or something. He was my friend. I told him I’d come back for him. I promised.”

The last word cracked in his throat.

Sword’s fingers tightened on his knees. “But then I couldn’t! For two whole years, I couldn’t even send a message. And when I finally got to see him again, when you finally let me go—”

He bit down on his lip hard enough to sting. His next words came out small. “He wouldn’t even look at me. He must’ve thought I abandoned him. That I broke his trust. And maybe… He’s right.”

His breathing hitched as he tried to hold himself together, but his voice betrayed him — a sharp exhale, then silence. The mechanical bird on his desk ticked faintly, marking every second that stretched too long.

“I didn’t mean to,” Sword whispered. “I just… didn’t know how to fix it.”

Venomshank watched him, still and quiet, the way a storm holds its breath before breaking. Then, slowly, his wings unfurled — great, dark shapes that swallowed the moonlight, their shadow falling across both of them.

Sword didn’t notice at first. He only realized when the edge of a wing brushed gently against his shoulder, a soft nudge that felt both strange and familiar. Venomshank didn’t pull him in outright; he gave him time to decide whether to resist.

Sword didn’t.

He leaned into it, almost involuntarily — and that was all it took. The wings closed around him, vast and warm despite their color, forming a quiet shelter from the cold. Venomshank’s hand rested lightly on the back of his head, a careful, deliberate gesture — the kind he rarely allowed himself.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The palace was utterly still, the world outside reduced to distant wind.

Venomshank broke the silence first, his voice low and steady near Sword’s ear. “You were a child then,” he said. “And the choices that kept you here were mine, not yours. The world was not safe beyond these walls. It still isn’t.”

Sword shook his head against his father’s shoulder. “But I made him wait,” he said, his voice muffled. “He thought I didn’t care.”

Venomshank’s tone softened, threaded through with something almost fragile. “Then show him that you do. You cannot change the past, but you can decide what to do with what’s left of it.”

Sword sniffled, wiping at his face quickly. “You make it sound easy.”

“It isn’t,” Venomshank said. “But you’re not alone in it.”

Sword gave a small, shaky laugh, half-choked with the effort of not crying again. “I don’t think Rocket wants to see me right now.”

“Then wait,” Venomshank murmured. “Wait until he does. Sometimes forgiveness needs space, not words.”

Sword hesitated, then whispered, “Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

Venomshank didn’t answer right away. His wings tightened slightly around him, an unspoken reassurance. When he finally spoke, his words were slow and deliberate. “I think he will understand,” he said. “Maybe not today. But he will.”

Sword stayed quiet, breathing unevenly against the dark feathers that surrounded him. For the first time that night, he didn’t feel like a prince or a deity or someone who had to hold the world together — just a boy who’d made a mistake and didn’t know how to fix it.

After a while, Venomshank drew back just enough to look at him. His voice softened further. “You care, Sword. That is both your greatest strength and your greatest burden. But don’t let it break you before you learn what it means to use it.”

Sword nodded, eyes red, voice small. “I’ll try.”

Venomshank’s hand came to rest briefly on his shoulder — firm, steady. “That’s all I ask.”

The moonlight pooled across the floor, pale and quiet. The mechanical bird ticked once more before its tiny gears stilled, as if even it had fallen asleep.

Venomshank stood slowly, his shadow stretching tall across the room. “You should rest,” he said gently. “We’ll speak more in the morning.”

Sword looked up at him, eyes glassy but calmer now. “...Thanks, Dad.”

Venomshank paused at the door, glancing back. For a heartbeat, the faintest hint of warmth crossed the stillness around him — not seen, but felt.

“Always,” he said simply.

When he was gone, Sword sat there for a long time, listening to the quiet. The night outside was still restless, full of storms waiting to break, but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel so small beneath it.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Rocket waited like a coiled spring — pacing the stone floor of Darkheart’s inner hall until the soles of his boots were slick with sweat and the hem of his coat smelled faintly of candle smoke. He’d sharpened his temper into a kind of armor over the last two years; the snark was easier to wear than the worry. Still, even the snark couldn’t hide the way his hands trembled when he folded and refolded the same scrap of cloth between his fingers.

He told himself he was ready. He told himself Zuka was fine. He told himself a lot of things in that hall because saying them out loud made them sound real enough to hold onto. The torches guttered. The tapestries whispered. Darkheart’s castle hummed with a thousand small, patient sounds — the steady footfalls of servants, the muffled scrape of armor, the distant drip of water from some unseen spout. None of it mattered when the door opened.

Darkheart came through like a shadow that knew the shape of despair before Rocket did. He wasn’t alone. Behind him, slumped over one of Darkheart’s broad arms, was Zuka.

At first Rocket couldn’t parse what he was seeing — a wrongness like a picture cut and pasted slightly off. Zuka’s face was streaked with soot and ash, his hair tangled and singed at the edges, and his horns damaged and scratched. His cloak was torn, scorched in places, and the breath coming from him was shallow and wet. But it was the absence that punched into Rocket’s chest with enough force to double him over before his brain had a chance to translate.

Where an arm should have been there was only the ragged cuff of a sleeve and a dark wetness seeping into the fabric. The cloth didn’t move with a hand. The shape was wrong; it was empty.

Rocket’s knees buckled. The scrap of cloth he’d been twisting slid from his fingers and thudded to the floor. Sound peeled back out of him — a raw, animal sound that had nothing of his practiced snark in it. “No,” he breathed, and the word was small and fragile at first, like a match trying to take in a blizzard.

Then the sound broke.

It wasn’t a measured shout. It wasn’t even fully formed. It started as a single, ragged inhalation and detonated into a scream that filled the vaulted hall, ricocheted off the stone and splintered into a dozen smaller echoes.

“DAD!” his voice tore into the name before he could stop it. “ZUKA!” The syllables came out mangled, raw.

The shadows froze. Torches flared. Darkheart’s shoulders hunched, the single arm supporting Zuka tightening in a reflexive clamp. Zuka’s eyes flickered — once, then again — not fully aware, as if the world had narrowed to the cadence of Rocket’s breath.

Rocket’s legs gave out completely and he dropped to the floor, one palm slamming the stone as if to anchor himself. For a beat he made an animal noise that wasn’t quite a sob and wasn’t quite a bark, and then the air left him in a useless, heaving sob. His face crumpled; collapsed into something that looked untidy and honest.

He reached out with trembling fingers before his mind could forbid the motion. They hovered, then lashed forward, desperate and furious, to touch the empty sleeve — to prove it was real, to prove it wasn’t. The skin at his fingertips recoiled as if burned, and he hissed, more in reflex than pain.

“No. No. No, no, no,” he spat, each word a tiny blade. He raked his hair with both hands as if he could claw order back into the world. Tears burned his eyes, and for the first time in a long while his voice broke into the wet sound of someone who’d been holding back an ocean and finally let it go.

Darkheart’s cloak rustled behind him. Someone murmured, uselessly, and the hall stilled as if the walls themselves were listening to the fallout of Rocket’s scream. Rocket didn’t hear any of it. Every noise around him became a smear, a distant background to the only thing that mattered — the shape of Zuka, the terrible gap where an arm used to be.

“Why—why did you come back like this? What happened? Dad?” The words were half-formed, a demand spat through tears, a childish, painful plea for the universe to make sense. He wanted to blame someone — the gods, the city, even Zuka for surviving at such a cost.

His body shook. His breath came in ragged, jagged sobs. The castle seemed to wait with him, every ear pivoting to the sound of a boy losing the hard edge that had kept him safe.

Darkheart hadn’t said a word since he stepped into the hall. He stood there still, Zuka’s limp form braced carefully against his side, his usual grin gone — replaced by something unreadable, something almost… muted. The air around him shimmered faintly with his divine signature, that strange, electric energy that always made mortals uneasy. But Rocket wasn’t uneasy — he was furious.

The scream still echoed faintly when Rocket’s eyes lifted, burning through the tears, and found Darkheart. The realization hit all at once — His chest heaved once, twice, and then he snapped.

“You—” Rocket’s voice cracked like glass. “You did this!”

Darkheart blinked, slow. “Rocket,” he started, his tone maddeningly smooth, “we think you should—”

“Don’t—don’t do that!” Rocket’s voice broke again, louder, rawer. He scrambled to his feet, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve, only to have fresh tears spill over anyway. “Don’t you dare do that calm thing—” His breath hitched, half a sob, half a growl. “He’s like this because of you!”

“Rocket,” Darkheart tried again, a thread of quiet restraint in his tone, “We sent him to defuse the situation—”

“You sent him,” Rocket snapped, stepping forward, jabbing a trembling finger at him. “You sent him! You knew it was dangerous, you knew that wherever you were sending him to wasn’t stable, and you still— you still let him go!” His voice wavered into another cry, tears streaking his cheeks. “He was supposed to come back!”

Darkheart’s jaw tightened, though his expression didn’t change. “He did,” he said simply. “Barely, but he did.”

The flippancy — the deliberate steadiness — snapped something deep inside Rocket. He lunged forward, shoving at Darkheart’s chest with both hands. “Don’t you say that like it means something! He lost—” his voice caught, throat burning, “he lost his arm, and you’re just— you’re just standing there like it’s some game!”

The shove barely moved Darkheart. His stance didn’t waver. The only sign of impact was the faint twitch of his fingers at his side, the barest flicker of divine restraint keeping him from reacting. He looked down at Rocket, and for a moment — a flicker — something cracked through his composure. Concern. Guilt, maybe. But then it was gone, masked behind the same calm veil he always wore.

“Don’t do that,” Rocket rasped out, his voice breaking again. “Don’t you pretend you don’t care— you always do that!” He kicked at the floor, at the broken bits of glass near the torches, like the world itself was to blame. “You act like nothing ever gets to you! Like— like people are just… just pieces you gods get to move around!”

Darkheart exhaled slowly, as if trying to remember patience. “Rocket,” he said, and this time there was weight beneath the word. “You need to calm down.”

“Calm—?” Rocket laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh; it was a sharp, strangled sound, torn through tears. “You— you nearly killed him! You might as well have!”

The hall went deathly quiet. Even the torches seemed to draw back, their flames dimming.

Darkheart’s eyes — deep and dark, flickering faintly with divine light — met Rocket’s. For a second, just one second, he looked mortal. Pained. Then the front settled again. “You think we wanted this?” His voice was low, almost too calm. “You think we’d send our most belo—Our hand, Zuka. You think we’d—”

Rocket didn’t care about reason. He didn’t want reason. He stopped needing reasons after Sword. His chest ached, his throat burned, his tears stung. “You always do what you want! You never think! You just—” He kicked again, fists clenching. “You just throw people in your games and then— and then act like it’s fine when they come back hurt!”

Darkheart’s gaze softened slightly, but Rocket didn’t see it. He couldn’t. The world was too blurry.

“I hate you! I always have,” Rocket shouted, his voice cracking into something younger, more broken. “You— you’re supposed to protect people like him! You’re supposed to protect us!” He threw the words like knives, though each one trembled on its way out. “And now he’s— he’s—”

His voice gave out completely. He couldn’t finish. The sound that escaped was small and jagged, barely a whisper. “He’s like this.”

For a long time, neither moved.

Then Darkheart, quiet and unreadable, shifted slightly, lowering Zuka’s unconscious form into the waiting arms of a healer who had appeared at his side. His motions were careful, deliberate. Reverent, even. When he looked back at Rocket, there was something in his eyes — something tired, old, and raw, as if the guise itself had cracked just enough for the boy to glimpse what was underneath.

“We are protecting him,” Darkheart said softly. “In ways you don’t understand yet.”

Rocket shook his head violently. “No. You’re just saying that so you don’t feel bad!” His voice pitched higher, angrier, but thinner now — desperate. “You always pretend everything’s fine, and everyone believes you, but it’s not fine! It’s never fine!”

He slammed his fists against Darkheart’s chest again — smaller, weaker this time, the blows swallowed by armor and exhaustion. “You could’ve stopped him,” he whispered. “You could’ve done something—”

Darkheart didn’t stop him. He stood still, letting the punches fade into trembling pushes, then into nothing at all. When Rocket’s hands finally dropped, Darkheart’s own hand moved — slow, hesitant — resting briefly atop the boy’s shoulder.

“Enough,” Darkheart murmured. “We know.”

Rocket’s breath hitched again, and his shoulders shook. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, but the tears kept spilling through his fingers anyway. His voice came out small, hoarse, unsteady. “Then why didn’t you do anything?”

Darkheart didn’t answer. He just stood there, and for once, he didn’t have a clever line or a smirk to hide behind. Just silence.

Rocket sobbed harder, chest heaving. He crumpled halfway forward, the weight of it all dragging him down until he was just a boy again — crying for something he couldn’t control, hating so that he lived.

And after everything?

He believes that it will stay that way.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Zuka had never looked so small.

Not even when Rocket was a kid, looking up at him in awe (even if it was in denial), thinking there wasn’t anything in the world his father couldn’t do. Not when he came home bloodied after a mission, or when his voice cracked with exhaustion but still managed to tell Rocket a joke before bed.

But now, sitting in bed with one arm bandaged and his once-regal posture slumped, Zuka looked… breakable.

The light from the window carved pale lines across the room — soft, morning gold that felt almost too gentle for how heavy the air was. Trays of untouched food sat on the bedside table. Rocket had been trying to get him to eat for half an hour now.

“Dad,” Rocket muttered, spoon halfway between the bowl and Zuka’s face, “it’s soup. Not poison. I checked.”

He tried to make it sound like a joke — that sarcastic, snarky lilt that used to come so easily. But the words came out too thin, too tight, the sound of someone patching over worry with the only weapon he had left.

Zuka’s good hand twitched. He gave Rocket a faint look — the same tired, knowing sort that used to scold and reassure at the same time. “I’m not hungry,” he rasped. His voice was rough, barely a shadow of its usual warmth.

Rocket rolled his eyes, but his throat tightened anyway. “Yeah, and I’m not stubborn,” he said, dipping the spoon again. “Open your mouth or I’ll just—” He scooped a spoonful and hovered it threateningly close. “—snap your jaws wide. Don’t test me.”

Zuka sighed, the corners of his lips twitching just barely. He didn’t open his mouth right away, but Rocket’s glare — the exact one he’d inherited from sticking around — eventually won. The spoonful went in without another word.

“There,” Rocket said after a beat, setting the spoon back in the bowl with a clatter. “See? Not so bad, ain’t it, old man?”

Zuka’s eyes flicked up, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through the weariness. “You always were bossy,” he murmured.

Rocket froze. The words were gentle — teasing, even — but they landed harder than they should’ve. Because under all that teasing was something hollow. Something fragile.

He wanted to joke back, to say ‘and you always let me get away with it’, but instead he just muttered, “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t fall apart while you’re going off with your idiot missions.”

He busied himself with the bowl again, pretending not to notice how his father’s gaze softened.

It was easier that way.

Zuka’s appetite didn’t last long — two spoonfuls, maybe three. When Rocket lowered the bowl, Zuka leaned back into the pillows, eyes half-lidded. His breath came easier than before, but not easy enough for Rocket’s liking.

There was silence for a while, filled only by the faint hum of wind outside and the scratch of Rocket’s boot tapping the floor. Then Zuka spoke again, voice quieter.

“Darkheart’s been askin’ for me when you were gone for a bit.”

Rocket’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look up. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “I know.”

“He needs to send word to the upper factions. Someone has to handle the talks.”

“Not you.” The words snapped out before Zuka could even finish. Rocket’s tone was sharp — not disrespectful, but close enough that anyone else would’ve flinched. “You’re not his anymore.”

Zuka blinked, then frowned, faint confusion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Rocket—”

“No.” Rocket stood up, the chair legs screeching against the floor. “No, Dad. You’re not doing this again. I’m serious.” He started pacing, arms folded tight across his chest. “You almost died. You lost your arm. And you still— you still think you can go back to being his stupid, I don’t know, Hand — like nothing happened?”

Zuka’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” Rocket snapped. “It’s exactly that simple.”

He turned sharply, pointing toward the door — toward the world beyond this room. “You gave that place everything. Every bit of yourself, every stupid ounce of loyalty. And for what? So you could come back in pieces while he stands there pretending he did you a favor?”

“Rocket, it’s much more complicated than just—”

“No! Don’t tell me I don’t understand!” Rocket’s voice cracked on the last word. He raked his fingers through his hair, pacing faster. “I do understand. I was there, remember? I saw you. I saw what he did. I saw what he didn’t do.”

The silence that followed was heavy, like the air itself had sunk.

Zuka’s expression softened, but his tone stayed even. “Darkheart didn’t do this to me.”

“Yeah, right,” Rocket muttered bitterly, but the edge wavered. “You’re still covering for him. Even now.”

“I made my choice, Rocket.”

Rocket stopped pacing. “Yeah, and I’m making mine,” he said quietly. “You’re done with this.”

There was a finality in his voice that Zuka recognized — the same tone Zuka used to use when Rocket was the boy he met in the midst of rubble and tried to argue back. It startled him, almost made him laugh. But there was no amusement in Rocket’s eyes.

Zuka studied him, tired but still curious. “And what gives you that authority?”

Rocket’s lips trembled — not from defiance, but from how close he was to breaking again. “Because I’m the one who had to watch you bleed out on that floor,” he whispered. “Because I’m the one who keeps seeing it when I close my eyes. Because I don’t— I don’t want to lose you like I lost everything else, okay? I don’t wanna lose anything — anyone anymore, not when there’s… already so few.”

Zuka’s breath caught. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Zuka exhaled — a long, tired sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world with it. “You really have grown up, haven’t you?”

Rocket scowled. “Don’t say that like it’s a good thing.”

Zuka smiled faintly. “It’s not,” he admitted. “But I’m proud of you anyway.”

Rocket looked away quickly, blinking fast, pretending the sting in his eyes was from the candle smoke. “Yeah, well. Don’t get sappy on me now, old man.”

They fell into silence again — a quiet that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but wasn’t quite peace either. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it the low hum of distant temple bells.

When Rocket finally spoke again, his voice was steadier.

“I told Darkheart you were done,” he said simply. “Told him if he wanted another Hand, he could grow one himself.”

Zuka let out a slow exhale that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You did what?”

Rocket shrugged. “I told him you’re finished.”

For a moment, Zuka’s gaze hardened — not at Rocket, but at something far away, something that only gods seemed to notice. Then he smiled faintly. “You’re brave,” he said softly. “Foolish, but brave.”

Rocket smirked faintly, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “Wasn’t that already a given? Though I guess I learned from the best.”

Zuka watched him for a long, quiet moment — the kind of silence that said more than words ever could. The morning light had softened to a dull glow, and Rocket stood there by the bedside like a storm that had nowhere left to go, his arms crossed, his shoulders trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

He looked so much like a soldier trying to look brave in armor that didn’t fit.

Zuka’s gaze drifted down to his side — to the empty space where an arm used to be, still wrapped in careful bandages. The sight still jarred him every time he noticed it, but what struck him more was the look on Rocket’s face when he saw it too. The grief that kept flashing behind defiance.

Quietly, Zuka reached out with his remaining arm. The motion was slow, deliberate — more of a question than a command.

“Come here,” he said.

Rocket stiffened, looking at him like he’d just asked him to do something impossible. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, his voice cracking just slightly. “You should be resting, not—”

“Rocket.”

Just his name — but spoken in that soft, fatherly way that Zuka had always used when Rocket was younger, when nightmares of a past identity were the worst things in the world.

Rocket swallowed, hard. “Dad, seriously, you don’t have to—”

“Come here.”

The firmness in Zuka’s tone left no room for argument. It wasn’t the commanding voice of a faction ambassador or a warrior—it was the quiet, steady voice of a father trying to reach his son.

Rocket’s breath hitched. He shook his head, blinking fast. “You’re gonna— it’ll hurt your arm,” he muttered, eyes darting away. “I’m not a kid anymore, you don’t have to—”

But before he could finish, Zuka’s hand found his wrist. Warm. Calloused. Trembling, but sure.

Rocket froze. The strength behind that grip wasn’t much — nothing like it used to be — but it was enough to unravel him. The walls he’d spent two years building cracked at the edges, letting everything spill through.

Zuka gave a small tug, and Rocket didn’t resist this time. He stumbled forward, awkwardly, landing half against the bed, half against his father. The hug was uneven — one-armed, clumsy — but it was real.

Zuka’s arm came around him, pulling him close, steady despite the tremor in his fingers. His chin rested lightly against Rocket’s slightly mussed hair.

For a moment, Rocket stayed stiff, like his body hadn’t gotten the message yet. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, his breathing uneven. “I’m fine,” he whispered again, muffled against Zuka’s shoulder. “I said I’m fine.”

But the words broke halfway through, the bravado splintering into a sound that was more sob than speech. His hands twitched once, then found purchase in the fabric of Zuka’s blanket, clutching it like a lifeline.

Zuka said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just held him — quiet, patient, steady.

Rocket tried one last time to hold out, to be angry, to be strong. But strength, it turned out, didn’t mean much when you were shaking in your father’s arms. So he gave in — all at once, like a dam breaking — and buried his face against Zuka’s chest.

The tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. “You scared me,” he said, the words small and broken. “You— you really scared me.”

Zuka’s thumb brushed the back of Rocket’s head, a simple, absent motion that carried years of habit. “I know,” he murmured, voice rough but warm. “I know. I’m sorry, kid.”

Rocket shook his head weakly against him. “You always say that,” he whispered. “And you still go running off every time. Every time, Dad.”

“I won’t,” Zuka said — not a promise, not exactly, but a vow in his tone. “Not like that again.”

Rocket didn’t answer. He just stayed there, trembling, pressed against the faint rhythm of his father’s heartbeat, listening until the sound steadied him.

For a long time, they didn’t move. The room stayed quiet except for the small, uneven sounds of Rocket trying to catch his breath, and the faint rustle of Zuka’s hand carding gently through his hair.

When Rocket finally pulled back, his face was red and damp, eyes puffy and defiant as ever. “You’re not allowed to do that again,” he muttered, trying for his usual edge and failing miserably.

Zuka smiled — tired, soft. “You’re really bad at staying mad.”

Rocket sniffed. “You’re really bad at staying alive.”

Zuka huffed a small laugh. “Fair enough.”

Rocket wiped his nose with the back of his hand, muttering under his breath, “You’re feeding yourself next time.”

And though neither said it, both of them understood what the moment meant — that something between them, cracked and strained, had finally begun to mend.

Zuka leaned back against the pillows, still holding onto Rocket’s sleeve with his remaining hand. “Stay a bit,” he said quietly.

Rocket hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

He didn’t let go of that hand for a long time.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Eight years had passed, since then.

The world had shifted in quiet, imperceptible ways — the kind of changes that crept in over time until everything was unrecognizable. Lost Temple gleamed brighter than ever, banners of gold and white flowing down its marble avenues. The wars were... somewhat buried now, scars tucked beneath layers of prosperity and 'peace'.

And at the center of it all was Sword.

He had grown into his titles — tall, poised, his once boyish brightness bloomed into something more charismatic, more magnetic. The citizens of the kingdom adored him. He had the kind of smile that could pull sunlight through clouds, the kind that made the old believe in better tomorrows and the young believe they could be heroes.

He was warmth personified — bowing to elders in the marketplace, laughing freely with children who tugged on his cape, offering help to merchants as if he were no different from them. His hair caught the afternoon light like strands of fire, his wings broad and immaculate, feathers like shards of gold, bronze, and silver.

But beyond that warmth — behind the smiles and the laughter — lingered something quieter. The occasional look over his shoulder toward the horizon. The faint pause before the next cheerful word. The shadow of a memory he still hadn’t quite outgrown.

Because some people you don’t stop missing. You just learn to smile through it.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Far from the festival crowd, beneath the shade of a crumbling alley arch, Rocket stood with a hand resting against his belt, eyes narrowed beneath his hood. The years had changed him too — sharper, taller, the softness of youth carved away by hard years and harder choices. His father’s legacy followed him like a ghost, and he’d more than lived up to it.

A mercenary. One of the best.

And yet, even then, he somehow ended up here.

In this kingdom.

His kingdom, for a mission. However...

The sound of the festival reached him faintly from afar — the laughter, the distant music, the cheers echoing between stone walls. He was supposed to be watching a target, blending in with the crowd, eyes sharp and heart colder than the steel he carried.

But then the crowd shifted. A familiar sound rolled through the square — the joy that rose whenever he appeared.

Sword’s carriage turned the corner, gilded and radiant, drawn by ivory horses that gleamed in the sun. The people erupted with joy, calling his name as if it were something holy.

Rocket’s heart stuttered.

For a second — one tiny, traitorous second — his gaze followed the light like a moth.

And there he was.

Sword.

Older, yes — but not so different. His hair fell longer now, brushed back with ceremonial gold clips; his smile was the same, brilliant and unguarded. He waved to the crowd, eyes kind, voice warm enough that even Rocket could hear it over the distance.

He looked just like he did, ten years ago.

Something in Rocket twisted.

He scoffed under his breath, tearing his gaze away. “Still loves the attention,” he muttered, though his voice didn’t have any real bite as he had intended to.

The cheer of the crowd swelled as Sword’s carriage rolled closer, sunlight flashing against polished glass. For a fleeting moment, their eyes almost met — Rocket’s sharp, bitter glare against Sword’s bright and open gaze.

But Rocket looked away first.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw tight, every muscle in his body burning with words he didn’t say.

Because he cared. That was the problem. He still cared. After everything, after all the years and the distance and the ache — some part of him still couldn’t let go.

And he knows he has to.

“Should’ve stayed gone,” he muttered, voice low, almost lost to the crowd’s roar. “Stupid prince. Stupid deity. Still too bright for your own good, feathers.”

The carriage passed, the sound of laughter fading with it.

Rocket stayed in the alley’s shadow, watching the light move farther and farther away until it was swallowed by the city’s golden haze. His hand clenched briefly at his side, the faintest tremor running through his fingers.

Then he turned his back on the parade — on the sunlight, the music, and the ghost of someone he could never stop hating just enough to forget.

He walked into the dim streets of the undercity, the noise of celebration fading behind him like the echo of a life he no lost the right to touch.

But unbeknownst to both of them, fate, oh fate, always has a different plan for them.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Chapter Text

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

Sword had read the letter five times already. Maybe six. The paper was starting to crumple from how tightly he’d been gripping it, the royal seal smudged under his thumb.

He was pacing back and forth across his room like a caged bird — wings fluttering anxiously, every few steps punctuated with a low groan or a half-muttered “this is fine, I can totally do this, he’ll understand, it’s fine—no, it’s not fine!”

His boots squeaked faintly against the marble floors, his wings dragging behind him like a comet’s tail.

Medkit sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning back on his palms, watching the whole display with the flat, exhausted patience of someone who had seen this kind of panic a lot. His hair was slightly mussed — a rare thing, considering how neat he usually kept it — and his brow furrowed just slightly every time Sword passed too close to the window.

“Don’t even think about it,” Medkit said without looking up from the letter’s second page, which Sword had tossed at him a few minutes earlier in a fit of nerves.

Sword froze mid-step, wings half-flared. “Think about what?”

“You’re going to try flying out the roof again.” Medkit’s voice was calm, but the dry tone made it clear he wasn’t asking.

“I wasn’t—!” Sword began, then immediately grimaced. “Okay, maybe I was, but only a little! It’s not like I’d crash this time!”

Medkit raised one eyebrow. “You said that last time.”

“That was different!”

“You broke through two roof tiles and a chandelier.”

“Okay, fine, that was a learning experience!” Sword threw his hands up, pacing faster now. “But this is important, Med! This treaty — it’s between three major territories, and if I show up, I can prove to Father that I’m capable of more than just smiling at nobles and cutting ribbons at harvest festivals!”

Medkit let out a slow breath, lowering the letter onto the bedspread. His gaze softened a little — just a little. “Sword,” he said, tone even, “you weren’t supposed to read this. It’s marked confidential.”

“I know.” Sword winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it was just lying there! In the council chamber! On the table!”

“Because it wasn’t meant for you.”

Sword stopped pacing and faced him, his expression earnest, almost pleading. “But what if it should be? Medkit, I can’t keep standing around while Father and the others handle everything. The people—what remains of their trust, our people—trust me because I’m supposed to be their bridge. I can’t just keep waving and smiling while real decisions are made without me.”

His words tumbled out in a rush, like he’d been holding them back for too long. His wings twitched restlessly, the feathers catching in the lamplight.

Medkit sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re not ready for that kind of meeting yet. You know Venomshank’s reasons. He’s cautious for a reason.”

Sword frowned, crossing his arms. “He’s cautious because he doesn’t trust me to handle it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why won’t he let me do anything that actually matters?”

“Because,” Medkit said quietly, “he remembers what happened the last time you followed your curiosity into something dangerous.”

Sword’s shoulders tensed — his chest tightening at the unspoken memory of sand, pain, and Rocket’s voice calling his name through the heat. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “…That was years ago.”

“And it still nearly got you killed.” Medkit stood, stepping over to him with the slow steadiness of someone trying not to spook a nervous animal. “Look, I get it. You want to prove yourself. But running into a treaty conference without permission isn’t bravery, it’s suicide.”

Sword pouted — actually pouted — his wings drooping slightly. “You sound like my father.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Medkit chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m ambitious!” Sword corrected, his voice bright again, though the nervous energy still hummed beneath it. “And if I could just—if I could just be there, I know I’d make a difference. I’m not a kid anymore, Med.”

“I never said you were.”

“Then don’t treat me like one!” Sword’s wings flared slightly, frustration slipping into his voice. He looked so alive when he was like this — flushed, stubborn, eyes burning with that same spark that made people love him. “I know what’s at stake. I just want to help. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

Medkit was quiet for a moment, watching him. Then, finally, he said softly, “You already do.”

Sword blinked, thrown off. “What?”

“You help more than you realize,” Medkit continued, folding his arms loosely. “You think all those smiles and speeches don’t matter? You think the farmers and the traders and the kids you talk to every week don’t remember the way you listen to them? You keep this kingdom alive, Sword. Venomshank might not say it out loud, but he knows it.”

Sword’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He looked down, the edge of his stubbornness softening. “…You really think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

There was a long pause. The wind from the balcony curtains brushed against them, carrying the distant sound of laughter and music from the festival still echoing outside.

Then, predictably, Sword brightened up again, unable to hold onto the heaviness for long. “Still,” he said, his grin slowly returning, “if I happened to just sneak into the conference—”

Medkit groaned, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at him before he could finish. “Don’t even start.”

Sword yelped, catching it clumsily. “Hey!”

“You’re not sneaking anywhere, Featherbrain.”

“But what if—”

Medkit stepped forward, pointing a finger at him. “I swear, if I have to drag you out of the air by your wings again, I’m tying you to the bedpost.”

Sword’s eyes went wide, his grin widening mischievously. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Sword froze mid-laugh, the pillow still clutched against his chest. His grin faltered just slightly as Medkit straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves before fixing Sword with that look — the one that meant the older boy was done playing around.

“Or,” Medkit said evenly, “you could just ask him.”

Sword blinked. “Ask… Father?”

“Yeah. You know, instead of—” Medkit gestured vaguely toward the balcony, where the breeze teased the edge of the curtains, “—doing anything monumentally stupid.”

“That’s… boring.” Sword’s feathers fluffed in protest, his wings twitching with pent-up energy. “You make it sound like I can just waltz into his office and say, ‘Hey, Father, I read your private treaty letter by accident—well, not exactly by accident—but now I’d like to attend the meeting you banned me from because I think I’m ready, please don’t vaporize me.’”

Medkit sighed, rubbing his temple. “You could leave out most of that.”

“Which part?”

“The entire disastrous confession part.”

Sword huffed, collapsing into the nearest chair with all the drama of a swooning poet. “He’ll never listen. He’ll just say I’m reckless, or naive, or—”

“—‘Too impulsive for his own good,’” Medkit finished, tone dry. “Yeah, he’s said that before.”

Sword shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Then be less honest!”

Medkit crossed his arms, unfazed. “Sword, you can’t prove yourself to Venomshank by sneaking around behind his back. You’ll just give him another reason to keep you locked in council meetings about flower festivals.”

Sword groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t get it, Med. Every time I ask him for a real assignment, he gives me a speech about ‘responsibility’ and ‘timing.’ I’m ready now. I’ve trained, I’ve studied, I’ve—” He gestured wildly toward his sword stand in the corner. “—I can actually fight without tripping over my own weapon now!”

Medkit didn’t even look. “Barely.”

“I heard that.”

“Good.”

Sword slumped, wings drooping. The frustration bubbled under his skin, restless and hot. “I just want him to see me, Med. Not as the little kid who used to chase guards around with a wooden sword. Not as the prince who gives speeches and waves from balconies. As me. Someone who can do something real.”

The words hit heavier than he intended, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The air felt thick — heavy with candlelight and the faint echo of laughter from the streets below.

Medkit’s expression softened, his usual reserve cracking just enough to show something warmer underneath. “He already sees you,” he said quietly. “He’s just… careful with you. Maybe too careful. But asking him — talking to him — might actually work better than whatever disaster you’re currently planning.”

Sword stared at him. “You think he’d actually listen?”

“He might,” Medkit said simply. “You’re not the same kid who nearly got himself killed a dozen times. You’ve grown up. Show him that.”

Sword hesitated, eyes flicking toward the sealed letter still sitting on the bed. The gold wax caught the lamplight, the royal insignia staring back at him like an unspoken challenge.

“…You really think I can talk to him about it?” Sword asked, voice smaller now, the fight draining out of him.

“I know you can,” Medkit said. Then, after a pause, smirked faintly. “And if he throws you out of the room, I’ll be waiting with bandages.”

That earned him a snort of laughter, quiet but genuine. Sword rubbed the back of his neck, smiling despite himself. “You’re terrible.”

“Someone has to balance you out.”

Sword flopped backward onto the bed, wings spreading out like sunlight. He stared at the ceiling, mind spinning with possibilities and doubt. “Alright,” he said finally, exhaling. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Medkit said, picking up the letter and neatly folding it again. “Now, for the love of all things holy, sleep.”

Sword groaned dramatically. “You’re bossy.”

“Only because you’re impossible.”

He tossed a pillow at Medkit this time, but his aim was terrible — it hit the wall and slid onto the floor. They both laughed quietly, the tension finally easing into something familiar and safe.

When the laughter faded, Sword turned his head toward the window, eyes catching the glow of the city lights far below. “You really think he’ll listen?” he murmured again.

Medkit didn’t look up from where he was blowing out a candle. “If you talk like this? Yeah. He will.”

Sword smiled faintly at that. His heart still fluttered — half fear, half excitement — but for once, it didn’t feel unbearable.

“Alright,” he said, closing his eyes, his voice soft but full of that stubborn brightness that never really left him. “Tomorrow, then.”

Medkit gave a quiet hum in reply — a sound halfway between a sigh and a chuckle — before settling into the chair by the door to keep watch, as he always did.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The next morning came much too soon.

Sword barely slept — he’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, rehearsing what he’d say to Venomshank, only for his brain to throw the words back at him in a hundred nervous jumbles. Now, as sunlight streamed through the tall windows, painting golden stripes across his room, he sat slumped at his dining table, hair sticking out in about seven different directions, eyes glassy from lack of sleep.

Medkit stood behind him with his usual quiet composure, a tray in hand. He set down a bowl of oatmeal, a platter of fruit, and a steaming cup of tea, all while Sword stared at the spoon like it was a test from the gods.

“You’re shaking,” Medkit said evenly, pulling out the chair beside him.

“I’m not shaking,” Sword muttered — then promptly sloshed tea onto his sleeve. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Medkit sighed and picked up the spoon. “Open.”

Sword blinked. “What? I can feed myself.”

“You’ve been trying to butter your napkin for the last three minutes,” Medkit said flatly, scooping up a spoonful of oatmeal. “Open your mouth.”

Sword hesitated, glaring like a stubborn child, but eventually obeyed with a sulky grumble. “You don’t have to treat me like a baby.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t forget how hands work whenever you’re anxious.”

Sword chewed dramatically slowly, glaring at nothing in particular. “I’m not anxious.”

“You’ve muttered the same sentence seventeen times since sunrise.”

Sword froze, halfway through a sip of tea. “I have not.”

“You have. Word for word: ‘He’ll listen. He has to listen. Right?’” Medkit deadpanned, imitating his tone almost perfectly.

Sword’s wings puffed indignantly. “I don’t sound like that!”

“You do,” Medkit said, utterly unbothered as he moved to tidy Sword’s collar. “Tilt your head.”

Sword did as told, still muttering under his breath about exaggeration and unfair impersonations. Medkit’s movements were practiced — smooth, precise, a routine they’d done a thousand times. He fastened the prince’s cloak, brushed a few stubborn wrinkles from his tunic, then adjusted the sash across his shoulder.

Sword stared at his reflection in the mirror. The man looking back at him was regal — hair combed neatly, wings catching the light like polished ores, eyes bright but nervous. He looked like the prince everyone adored. But beneath all that shimmer, he could still feel his heart thudding in his throat.

“What if he gets mad?” Sword said quietly, almost to himself. “What if he thinks I’m overstepping again? I don’t want to—”

“Breathe,” Medkit interrupted softly.

Sword took a shaky breath. Then another.

Medkit’s reflection met his in the mirror — calm, steady, the perfect counterweight to Sword’s chaos. “You’ve faced worse than a conversation with your father,” he said. “You’ve handled disasters, you’ve spoken to crowds, you’ve made half the kingdom laugh and cry in the same sentence. You can handle this.”

“But this isn’t a crowd,” Sword murmured. “It’s him.”

“Then talk to him the same way you talk to everyone else — with that stupidly big heart of yours.” Medkit gave his shoulder a firm pat. “You’re not doing this because you want glory. You’re doing it because you care. That’s what will make him listen.”

Sword looked at him, eyes flickering with that hopeful spark again. “…You really think so?”

“I don’t think.” Medkit’s lips quirked into the smallest smirk. “I know. Now finish your tea before it gets cold — and for the love of the gods, stop fidgeting with your cuffs.”

Sword laughed softly, nerves easing just a bit as he reached for the cup again. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

“You say that every time.”

“And yet, here I am, still your favorite headache.”

Medkit rolled his eyes, but there was fondness in his voice when he replied, “Don’t remind me.”

Sword smiled into his tea. He didn’t feel entirely brave yet — not even close — but somehow, with Medkit there, it felt a little more possible.

It was NOT possible.

Sword was seconds away from combusting.

He was pacing — again — in front of the enormous gilded doors to his father’s chamber, muttering every worst-case scenario known to man. His boots clicked nervously against the polished obsidian tiles, his cloak flaring behind him every time he spun on his heel. The carved gold sigils on the door — the royal crest of their house — seemed to mock him with how imposing they looked.

“I can’t do this,” Sword hissed, tugging on the edge of his gloves like they might magically give him courage. “He’s going to look at me like I’ve grown a second head. Or worse — he’ll sigh. You know that sigh he does? The disappointed one that says ‘you’re my son but also my biggest migraine?!’”

Medkit, standing off to the side with a hand pressed firmly against his face, exhaled through his nose. “Yes, I’m familiar with the sigh. I’ve heard it directed at you and indirectly at me for enabling you.”

“I’m not being enabled!” Sword protested, his wings twitching nervously. “I’m being guided! Motivated!”

Medkit’s tone was utterly flat. “Right. Motivated. Like the time you were ‘motivated’ to throw yourself out your balcony and into an ongoing war.”

“I was ten!”

“You were sixteen.”

Sword groaned dramatically, dragging both hands down his face. “Why do you remember everything?”

“Because one of us has to.”

Sword stopped pacing long enough to glare at the door again. The faint murmur of voices and shuffling papers came from within — Venomshank was definitely inside, probably in one of his council discussions or reading another thousand documents that Sword wasn’t supposed to touch.

His pulse thudded in his ears. “Okay. Okay, I’ll just… knock. And then he’ll say ‘enter,’ and I’ll walk in, and he’ll be proud that I’m taking initiative and—”

Medkit, who’d been watching this spiral unfold for the last ten minutes, finally decided to end it.

He stepped forward, grabbed Sword by the back of his collar, and — with all the unshakable calm of a man who had reached his limit — shoved him toward the door.

“Wait—Medkit—no, I’m not ready—!”

“You’ll never be ready,” Medkit muttered under his breath, pushing the heavy door open with his free hand. The grand chamber beyond was vast, marble pillars lining the walls, light spilling from tall stained-glass windows. The air smelled faintly of parchment and steel polish — Venomshank’s domain.

Medkit straightened his posture, instantly shifting into formal mode. His voice carried through the space with a crisp, practiced cadence.

“Your Majesty,” he announced, releasing a wide-eyed, slightly panicked Sword by the shoulders, “Prince Sword requests an audience.”

Sword stumbled forward two steps, nearly tripping on his own cloak before catching himself. He froze, standing stiffly in the center of the grand doorway — his heart hammering in his chest, his mouth suddenly dry.

Across the room, Venomshank looked up from his desk. His piercing eyes from underneath his mask — sharp and unreadable — met his son’s.

And Sword, the radiant prince of the people, Venomshank’s fledgling, the tiny little dawnlight of the realm… squeaked out, “...Hi, Father.”

The chamber fell silent.

The three envoys standing before Venomshank turned as Sword’s nervous greeting broke the steady rhythm of their discussion. They were all robed in fine silks, insignias from neighboring territories embroidered across their collars — ambassadors of wealth, diplomacy, and patience. The air in the room was thick with tension; even the faint hum of the torches seemed to quiet down.

Venomshank didn’t move for a long moment. He sat tall behind his desk of black marble, hands folded neatly before him. The mask that concealed most of his face caught the morning light, its polished surface reflecting the faint shimmer of his son’s anxious wings.

Sword swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. His throat was dry. He knew those envoys — he’d seen them once during a court banquet. Important people. Smart people. People who didn’t squeak “hi” when walking into a room.

Venomshank’s voice broke the silence — deep, measured, calm as still water.

“...We will continue this discussion tomorrow.”

The envoys blinked, surprised, but none dared argue. One by one, they bowed — murmuring their parting formalities before turning to leave. The sound of their footsteps against the marble floor echoed softly, fading as the heavy doors closed behind them with a deep, resonant thud.

And then it was just the two of them.

Sword exhaled a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His father stood slowly, straightening to his full height — not imposing, but commanding, as if the air itself adjusted around him.

Venomshank regarded him for a moment, the mask betraying nothing. “You’re up early.”

Sword managed a weak laugh. “Oh, you know… couldn’t sleep. So I figured—maybe—uh, talk?” His voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through, and he tried to recover with a strained grin.

Venomshank tilted his head slightly. To Sword, it looked like confusion — or maybe irritation. It was hard to tell with that mask. But when his father finally spoke again, his tone was softer. “You look troubled.”

That threw Sword off entirely. “I—uh—” He blinked rapidly. “Troubled? Me? No! I’m—well—okay, maybe a little troubled.”

Venomshank stepped from behind his desk, his footsteps soundless despite the heavy armor lining his boots. He moved with quiet grace, stopping just in front of Sword. The prince instinctively straightened, but his wings gave him away — twitching, restless, betraying his nerves.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting,” Sword blurted out, words tumbling from his mouth faster than he could stop them. “I just—uh—wanted to—um—talk. About something. Important. Very important. Treaty-important.”

Venomshank’s head inclined slightly, and Sword froze. Was that disapproval? Curiosity? Amusement? It was impossible to tell.

Finally, Venomshank spoke again — his tone low, even, but carrying that strange gentleness Sword could never quite name. “You’ve been reading again.”

Sword’s eyes widened. “I—! Uh—” He fumbled, clearly cornered. “Define ‘reading.’”

Venomshank gave the faintest exhale — a sound that could have been a sigh or the ghost of a laugh. “You found the treaty.”

Sword winced. “...Maybe.”

“You know it wasn’t meant for you.”

“I know,” Sword said quickly, wings drooping a little. “But I wanted to help! I thought—if I could understand what’s going on, maybe I could—”

Venomshank raised a hand gently, not to silence him, but to slow him down. His tone stayed calm, firm yet kind. “Sword.”

The name alone was enough to quiet him.

Venomshank’s gaze — or at least, what Sword thought was his gaze — lingered. “Your heart is too restless for your own good,” he said, voice soft but steady. “You’ve always wanted to fix everything at once. That is not a flaw, but it must be tempered.”

Sword bit his lip, looking down. “I just… wanted to prove I could handle something. That I could be useful.”

“You are useful,” Venomshank said immediately.

Sword blinked up, startled.

Venomshank’s tone didn’t rise, didn’t waver. It carried that deep certainty Sword rarely heard — a weight that felt like truth. “You bring peace to the people when you walk among them. They trust you, even when they fear me. Even when they fear deities, as a whole. That is a kind of power I could never command.”

For a long moment, Sword couldn’t speak. His throat ached from how tightly his chest had gone. He wanted to see his father’s expression — to know if there was warmth behind the words — but the mask hid everything, forcing him to guess from the smallest inflection, the gentlest tilt of his voice.

Finally, Sword whispered, “So… you’re not mad?”

Venomshank’s head tilted ever so slightly, as though confused. “Should I be?”

“I mean—yeah? I read something confidential, I barged into your meeting, and now I’m… standing here… confessing.”

A pause. Then, very quietly, Venomshank said, “If I were angry, you would know.”

Sword blinked. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He tried to smile. “Good to know!”

The faintest huff — not quite laughter — came from his father. Then, in that same calm voice: “Sit down, Sword. Tell me what it is you wish to prove.”

Sword sank into the chair opposite his father’s desk, the air between them heavy with the echo of Venomshank’s quiet command. The desk itself was massive — carved obsidian with veins of gold that shimmered faintly in the lamplight — and it made Sword feel small, even now that he was taller, stronger, older. His knees brushed together under the table as he folded his hands, trying to sit still, but his wings wouldn’t stop twitching.

Venomshank watched him in silence. Behind that silver mask, Sword could feel the weight of his father’s gaze — the kind that saw right through the nervous smile he was struggling to keep in place.

“So,” Venomshank said at last, his voice low but steady, “you wished to speak about the treaty.”

Sword nodded quickly. “Yes. Well—sort of. Not just the treaty. More like… everything that’s been happening because of it.”

Venomshank said nothing, simply inclined his head for him to continue.

Sword swallowed hard. “I know I wasn’t supposed to read it,” he started, voice soft but gathering momentum, “but I couldn’t just ignore it, Father. The council might think everything is stabilizing, but it’s not. The civil wars—” He hesitated, glancing down at his clasped hands. “They never really stopped, did they?”

Venomshank’s silence was answer enough.

Sword pressed on, his tone trembling between conviction and boyish worry. “You tried to keep it from the people, but they talk. They know. Lost Temple may have closed its gates, but word still gets through. And it’s getting worse again, isn’t it? The desert borders are unstable, the southern towns keep reporting raids, and—”

He caught himself, lowering his voice. “People are scared again, Father. And it’s not just the wars.”

Venomshank’s head tilted slightly. “Go on.”

“It’s the deities,” Sword said quietly. “The people… They’re scared of… our blood. A-atleast that’s what I heard.”

Venomshank didn’t move, but Sword felt the faint tension in the room shift.

“The citizens trust me when I walk among them — they smile, they talk, they treat me like one of their own. But even then, when they whisper about the gods, about the divine bloodline— they get quiet. Like they’re afraid of what I might say. Like… I’m the exception.”

His fingers clenched, and he looked down at them. “They don’t trust deities anymore. Not after Uncle …Firebrand.”

The name dropped into the air like a stone into still water.

Venomshank’s shoulders remained perfectly still, though something in the air darkened. The torches flickered, their flames bending inward for a moment before steadying again.

Sword hurried to add, “But uh, for your case, dad, not in Lost Temple! They still love you here. You saved them. You stopped him before he could reach the capital.” He paused, voice dropping. “But even that made them fear you more. It’s like… they don’t know whether to thank you or worship you or stay away from you.”

He looked up then — his expression open, earnest, far too young for the burdens in his words. “I don’t want them to see you that way. Or any of us. I want to help change that.”

Venomshank was quiet. He leaned back slightly, his masked face angled toward the light, unreadable.

Sword took a shaky breath and pressed on. “That’s why I want to go. To the treaty. I don’t want to just stand there, looking like some—some ornament while the rest of you carry the weight of this kingdom! I know everyone just sees me as—” He hesitated, forcing a bitter little laugh. “—as the ‘pretty face of the kingdom’ or whatever the court calls me now. But I’m more than that, Father. I can be!”

Venomshank’s head turned toward him then, and though Sword couldn’t see his face, he swore he could feel his father’s eyes on him — heavy, contemplative, proud.

“You wish to prove yourself,” Venomshank said slowly. “Not only to me, but to the world.”

Sword nodded, straightening a little. “Yes!”

“And you believe attending this treaty will accomplish that?”

“I believe it’s a start.”

Venomshank was silent again — too long, long enough for Sword’s nerves to return in full force. The quiet filled every corner of the chamber. Sword fidgeted, rubbing his thumb against his palm. “If you don’t think I’m ready, I—”

Venomshank raised a hand, and Sword fell silent.

Then, after a pause, a soft sigh escaped him — not tired, but thoughtful. The sound filled the air with something Sword didn’t expect: pride.

“You have grown,” Venomshank said quietly. “Your words carry more weight than you realize.” He walked slowly around the desk, his cloak brushing against the marble. When he stopped in front of Sword, he placed one gloved hand on his shoulder. The touch was firm, grounding — and it made Sword’s chest tighten in surprise.

“You remind me of myself,” Venomshank continued. “Restless. Idealistic. Reckless.” His tone softened. “But where I carried anger, you carry light. That is your strength.”

Sword looked up, eyes wide. “Then… you’ll let me go?”

Venomshank hesitated — just long enough for the hope in Sword’s expression to flicker uncertainly.

“The world beyond our walls has not grown kinder,” he said finally. “You will find danger where you least expect it. But…” His voice lowered, a rare gentleness threading through it. “If you are certain of your purpose, I will not stand in your way.”

Sword blinked, hardly daring to believe it. “You mean—?”

“Yes,” Venomshank said simply. “You will attend the treaty. But not alone. Medkit will accompany you, and I shall arrange for a personal bodyguard, should circumstances be unexpectedly dire.”

Sword shot up from his chair, wings flaring in delight. “You mean it? I can actually—? Father, thank you! I won’t let you down, I promise!”

Venomshank almost smiled — almost. His hand lingered a moment longer on Sword’s shoulder before he stepped back. “See that you don’t.”

Sword’s grin shone brighter than the sunlight streaming through the high windows. And for the first time in a long while, Venomshank allowed himself to feel it — even knowing it might hurt him.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

The night was thick, a dark blanket over the spires and battlements of Lost Temple. Rocket moved like a shadow between the lamplight and the stone walls, boots silent against the slick cobblestones. The city slept—or tried to—but the militia patrolling the outer walls was wide awake, clueless about the predator weaving through their ranks.

He crouched atop a low parapet, eyes narrowing as two guards rounded the corner below, their armor clinking faintly in the night breeze. Rocket’s fingers flexed around the hilt of his dagger, a quick, fluid motion honed over years.

“Seriously,” he muttered under his breath, a dry hiss of irritation, “you clowns couldn’t patrol in a straight line if your lives depended on it.”

The first guard passed beneath him, unaware, laughing at some imagined joke with his partner. Rocket dropped silently, rolling into the shadows, blade flashing under the moonlight. A cut to the arm, a muffled grunt, and the first was down before the second even knew something was wrong.

“What the—?” The second guard spun, reaching for his sword, but Rocket was already moving, a blur of motion. He ducked under the swing, twisted his body, and shoved the man over the edge of a small staircase, where the sound of impact disappeared into the darkness below.

Rocket exhaled sharply through his nose, wiping the edge of his blade on the fallen guard’s cloak before sliding it back into its sheath. “That’s two. You’d think the militia’d hire people who can actually see in the dark.”

He straightened, scanning the long stretch of the walls. Beyond it lay the heart of the kingdom — lights flickering from windows, faint music carried from taverns below. Somewhere down there, the prince of Lost Temple probably slept soundly, with his stupid smile on his face, oblivious to the rot creeping under his father’s walls.

And that rot was exactly what Rocket had come to carve out.

His client had been clear; ever since Firebrand’s destruction, the strongman of one of the kingdom’s walls was taking bribes, selling defense routes to foreign agents, even pocketing rations meant for the city watch. It wasn’t Rocket’s problem who paid for the hit. Money was money. But hearing that inside the kingdom Sword resides? He almost felt obliged to take everything into his own hands, wanting to exceed that damned prince and the deity ruling over this land. Needing to put himself first and the other down — just so that he won’t have to feel this way every time he thinks of him. Even if it’s just for a fleeting moment.

He dropped down another level, landing in the shadows between two watchtowers. The sound of boots on gravel made him freeze — four steps, heavy, practiced. A patrol.

“Shit.”

He pressed against the stone, knives drawn. The guards came into view, armor clinking softly. Rocket let them pass — waited — then lunged.

The first fell to a quick slash behind the knee, collapsing with a grunt before Rocket’s elbow slammed into his temple. The second spun, sword half-drawn, but Rocket was already on him, driving his knife up beneath the man’s ribs. The blade came away wet and red.

The other two didn’t even get that far. Rocket’s throwing knife caught one in the throat, and before the last could shout, a hand clamped over his mouth and dragged him into the dark. The sound that followed was short, efficient.

When Rocket emerged again, he was breathing hard — but steady. He looked down at the faint blood smeared across his gloves and frowned.

“Should’ve worn the thicker pair,” he muttered. “Always forget the damn spray on these jobs.”

He pulled his hood lower, scanning the nearest tower. At the top — faint torchlight, shadows moving inside.

Rocket rolled his shoulders, flexing the ache out of his hands. “Alright, you bastard,” he said under his breath, voice turning sharp and cold. “Time to clock out.”

He began his ascent — climbing the outer wall using the grooves between stone slabs, fingers slipping occasionally against the frost-slick rock. The wind bit at his face, tugging at his coat, carrying with it the faint scent of incense from the city’s temples below.

When he reached the ledge beneath the window, he crouched low and peered through the narrow gap. The man he was supposed to kill was inside, standing before a map-strewn table, his armor half undone and his helmet discarded nearby. Two bodyguards stood behind him, bored, lazy.

Rocket smirked faintly. “Three. Easy math.”

He drew a small, thin vial from his belt, popped the cork, and tossed it through the open slit of the window. It shattered on the floor inside — a hiss, then a sudden cloud of grey smoke.

The guards coughed — one stumbled toward the window — and Rocket slipped in like a blade through silk. The first fell before he even knew where the attack came from. The second turned in panic, only for Rocket’s knee to drive into his stomach, sending him into the table with a crash.

The remaining man grabbed for his sword.

“Don’t bother,” Rocket said, voice low, slicing through the haze. “You’re already done.”

The captain froze mid-draw, eyes darting between the knives in Rocket’s hands and the bodies at his feet. “You—you’re a mercenary.”

Rocket tilted his head. “Sharp one, huh?”

“Who sent you?”

“Someone who’s sick of your shit.”

The strongman swung. Rocket sidestepped, letting the blade whistle past his shoulder before slamming his own knife into the man’s arm. The sword clattered to the ground. Rocket grabbed him by the collar, slamming him into the wall so hard the breath left his lungs.

“You sell out your own city,” Rocket hissed. “Steal from people who trust you to keep them safe. You don’t get to wear that crest.”

The man gasped, wheezing. “Please—”

Rocket twisted the blade. “Save it.”

When it was done, he stood over the fallen captain, breathing slow, steady again. Rocket wiped the last trace of blood off his knives, letting the night air carry away the faint metallic tang clinging to his gloves.

He let himself lean against the stone, a slow exhale shaking out of him, chest rising and falling in measured relief. Easy money. Clean. Quick. Efficient. He allowed himself a small, almost smug smile. Some nights, the work felt like an art. Tonight was one of those nights.

Rocket took a slow, measured breath and allowed himself the smallest smirk. The adrenaline was fading, leaving the dull burn in his muscles and the quiet satisfaction of a job done well. He crouched beside the fallen captain, checking each guard’s pulse with a professional thoroughness, even muttering under his breath like he always did when things went smoothly. Easy money, he thought, letting himself savor it. The coins would be heavier in his pocket tonight, a sweet reward for a few hours of precision work and minimal trouble. 

He could treat his dad to some good food.

He wiped the blades clean on the dark fabric of his coat, taking his time, savoring the ritual. Each swipe, each careful check of the room for stray guards or messes, was meticulous — the kind of pride only a mercenary, maybe just like Zuka, could feel. The bloodstains on the floor, on the walls, even a splatter on the desk, were methodically cleaned or covered; nothing left behind that could hint at a fight, nothing that could bring trouble to his client or him. He hummed low under his breath, a sharp, humorless tune, letting satisfaction curl around him like a warm cloak.

Then a sharp, urgent shout cut through the night: “Captain! The king requests your presence immediately!”

Rocket froze mid-wipe, eyes narrowing. He frowned, glancing over his shoulder. Wait… what? The guards were supposed to be dead, the captain already neutralized. He started to glance toward the open window, instincts flaring, but before he could process it further, the thudding footsteps grew louder, and a courier burst into the room.

The courier didn’t pause, didn’t check for names or faces — just grabbed him by the arm, yanking him roughly to his feet. “No time to explain! The king needs you!”

Rocket blinked. Then blinked again. And then muttered through gritted teeth, “Wait, what the fuck, wait a goddamn second—”

“You don’t have a second!” the courier barked, dragging him toward the carriage waiting outside.

Rocket fought, of course. It was instinct. Hands shoved, feet dug in, but the courier was relentless. “Ay, aye! Watch where you’re touching!!” he snapped, voice sharp and furious, though the muffled grumble in the back of his throat betrayed the panic creeping in. Still, there was no escaping. With a final tug, the courier shoved him inside the waiting carriage, the doors slamming shut behind him.

Rocket slid into the shadows of the carriage interior, hood pulled low over his face. The motion of the wheels over cobblestone, the faint creak of leather straps, and the distant night wind slipping through the cracks made him grit his teeth. I don’t live here. None of these people know me. Not a soul. Except for… ugh. And now I’m being dragged straight into the belly of the kingdom itself.

He leaned back, one arm across his chest, trying to calm his pulse while keeping low, muttering softly under his breath. “Fuck. Dad’s gonna be pissed when he finds out. So pissed… if he even hears about this.”

The carriage rolled on through the dark streets, wheels rattling over worn stone and past sleeping townsfolk. The glow of lanterns flashed in and out of the slats of the carriage, painting fleeting golden streaks across Rocket’s face. His mind raced, weighing options, calculating escape routes, considering ways to at least look like the captain they thought he was.

Hours — or at least it felt like hours — passed with the carriage rattling toward the center of Lost Temple. Rocket kept his hood low, breath shallow, trying to shrink into the shadows. Every turn of the wheels, every distant shout in the streets, reminded him that he was an intruder in a city that didn’t know him, in a palace that would demand obedience from a stranger, and that every wrong move could be the last.

The carriage finally slowed, rattling to a stop before massive, gilded doors that gleamed faintly in the now-shimmering dawn. Rocket pushed himself off the seat, still hooded, still tense, and followed the courier’s brisk pace across the polished stone courtyard. His boots clacked softly against the smooth surface, echoing in the silence of the dawn. Every statue, every torch, every glimmering mosaic made his chest tighten a little — the weight of grandeur pressing in from every angle.

Once inside, he was led down a cavernous hallway where the ceilings seemed to float impossibly high, adorned with frescoes depicting battles he didn’t know, victories he couldn’t name, and deities whose eyes seemed to follow him with every step. He avoided one particular shadowy deity, though. He kept his back straight, shoulders squared, trying to mimic the posture he thought a captain might hold. Every instinct screamed at him that this was absurd, that he didn’t belong, but his pride — the same pride that kept him alive — refused to bow.

Finally, the courier stopped at a set of enormous double doors carved from gold and inlaid with ruby. A servant, unseen until now, swung them open with a theatrical flourish that sent a shiver down Rocket’s spine. The hall beyond was… indescribable.

It stretched impossibly wide, the walls rising in perfect, unbroken arches that vanished somewhere high above, chandeliers dripping crystal like frozen waterfalls from the ceiling. Tapestries depicting ancient treaties and legendary victories lined the walls, and rows of gilded pillars framed the floor, polished so perfectly it reflected the light of hundreds of torches. Every footstep he took echoed in a way that made him feel small and loud all at once.

It reminded him of the bitter memory of a shadowy castle.

Rocket leaned against one of the pillars, hood still shadowing his face, surveying the room like a predator sizing up unfamiliar terrain. Courtiers in embroidered robes moved with quiet purpose, whispers floating across the marble like drifting smoke. The faint scent of incense, perfumed oils, and polished stone filled his senses.

He exhaled through his nose, muttering under his breath. “Okay. Rocket. You just got hurled into what probably will be the most craziest side quest of your life. Ugh! — Of course it wasn’t just a normal night mission.”

His fingers flexed around the hilt of a knife underneath his cloak, half out of habit, half for reassurance. The problem was, he had no idea what the fuck he was supposed to be doing here. This was a hall designed for kings and diplomats, not shadowy mercenaries dragged in by mistake — and Rocket could feel the eyes on him, curious glances that weren’t questioning yet, but could be.

He straightened his back, squared his shoulders again, and leaned lightly against the cold marble, trying to appear calm, in command, utterly unbothered. In reality, his mind raced faster than a blade in a knife fight. What the hell did a captain do when he had no troops, no orders, and no clue what the king wanted?

Rocket tilted his head slightly, scanning the crowd. Act natural. Look like you know what’s happening. Don’t panic. Don’t screw this up.

And with that, he took a deep breath, letting the cool morning air mingle with the heated panic in his chest. One hand brushed the edge of the pillar as if grounding himself. Yeah. Totally captain-y.

Except, of course, he had absolutely no idea what the hell he was doing.

Rocket had been leaning against that gilded pillar for longer than he cared to admit, the awkwardness of being “on display” gnawing at him. The hall was grand, intimidating, and beautifully useless to him in terms of actionable intel. Standing still was exhausting, boring, and frankly, beneath someone used to moving in shadows. He shifted his weight, then finally decided to wander, slipping along the edges of the hall, hood low, keeping to the less trafficked spaces.

Every step echoed too loudly in the cavernous expanse, and the whisper of silk and murmured conversation brushed against him, reminding him just how far from home, far from the underworld streets he knew, he really was. His eyes flicked to tapestries, chandeliers, polished marble, but none of it mattered. He was counting time in steps, plotting potential exits, memorizing shadows for cover, and cursing under his breath at the absurdity of it all.

And then—

“Medkit, I can’t believe it! I’m actually going! Can you imagine me there, really sitting at the treaty table? Father’s gonna see! He’ll finally see—oh, oh, I have to make a speech—”

The voice hit him like a warm breeze slicing through the chill of the hall. Rocket’s head snapped up. A boy, bright and golden, wings half-flared, practically radiating energy and sunlight, barreled around a corner. Words tumbled out of him faster than thought, arms flailing, excitement spilling over like a river breaking a dam. Behind him, Medkit trailed, still rubbing his eyes awake, shoulders sagging but a small, indulgent smile tugging at his lips.

Rocket barely had time to react before the boy slammed right into him. His hands went up instinctively, one flicking the boy off with a sharp, exasperated grunt. “Hey! Watch where you’re—”

The words caught in his throat. The boy froze, chest heaving, wings flaring slightly in a startled panic. And then Rocket blinked.

No.

No way.

It couldn’t be…

“Oh. You.”

The recognition hit both of them like a lightning bolt, sudden and unignorable. Rocket’s chest tightened, memories unspooling themselves in fragments: sunlit days running through the halls, laughter bouncing off walls, a smaller, lighter version of this same golden-haired boy, forcing a flower crown atop Rocket’s head with a smile that makes you forget everything horrible in the world for a split-second… and then the bitter edge, the distance Rocket had forced between them, the hurt he felt the need to push away so long ago.

Sword had brushed off Medkit to check on Rocket, and Sword’s wide, red eyes — still gleamed with something childish, back from when he’d shown Rocket the constellations, softened almost immediately, worry, confusion, and everything he couldn’t say ten years ago mingling with joy as he took in the familiar, blue-eyed figure before him. 

“Rocket?”

“Is it... you?”

Rocket’s hood slipped back, almost by accident, and for the briefest second, the torchlight caught his features — the same sharp angles, the same wary tilt of the jaw, hardened now by years that hadn’t been kind. He let a slow, sarcastic smile curl onto his face, a little cruel, a little mocking, like a challenge.

Rocket’s lips twitched. “Depends. Are you the kid who used to chase me around, tossing flower crowns like you were trying to catch the wind?” His voice was low, edged, the kind of tone that carried a warning. A threat. A memory.

Sword blinked, stunned for a heartbeat, then laughed nervously. “Well… I—”

“Save it,” Rocket interrupted, stepping closer, letting his shadow fall across the boy in the sunlight-stained hall. 

“Yeah, it’s me. Surprised? Shouldn’t be. You always had a knack for finding trouble.”

to be continued.