Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mirana wakes up wishing she were still skybound, where the ship’s gentle swaying might rock her back to sleep.

As if there’d been much chance for rest on this build. Moogle counts have even infiltrated her dreams, with half-finished, nonsense orders still clumsy on her tongue. The smallest of their technicians tended to work in the most out-of-the-way places and so required a bit more minding, but on a ship the size of the Alexander everyone was small.

A full-time job, just to keep track of every tech and tool. The last thing they needed was for some poor fool to be left banging away at a stabilization unit when it was reconnected to the main, or lost wandering down some switchback corridor of the vast ship’s core. It wasn’t the first airship she’d worked on too large for dry dock, but the scope of the task and the materials at hand had made it an undertaking like no other. Nethicite was volatile enough without installing it while the Mist was flowing, the engines never allowed to drop below quarter power, and that wasn’t even counting the amount of crystal they’d needed for such a massive undertaking. It had required nearly six months of careful, constant growth just to have enough for the installation.

It was rather unlikely they’d blow the ship and everyone on it out of the sky, even in a worst-case scenario, but that hadn’t kept the crew off tenterhooks from the moment Draklor had come aboard.

Leave it to the artificers to be at their unhelpful best. Every day Mirana had to convince at least one panicked officer that no, he wasn’t carrying a piece of dangerously malfunctioning equipment just because it beeped twice and yes, she was certain that he didn’t have to hold it over his head or hop in place or hum distressingly off-key.

A never-ending enmity between the soldiers and the labs, and not entirely undeserved.

The thought of leaving Team Draklor to its own devices is what finally opens her eyes, and Mirana smiles, looking up at the ceiling of her rather unremarkable room. The space is small and cluttered and only a short walk down the corridor from where she spends the rest of her time - and it’s home. The air with its familiar scent of metal, chemicals and industry, though Mirana’s surprised to slip out of bed and find the floor silent beneath her feet. Usually it trembles to one beat or another, and she can tell who’s working on what in which lab from which books spill out of her shelves first.

It makes sense, though, for things to be this quiet - the Alexander had pushed them all past their limits. No one had even bothered celebrating on the trip back, too weary to remember how. It wouldn’t surprise her if half the team were still at home asleep, and if there’s a sky worth flying in the other half will be out with their bikes. Mirana can hardly begrudge them - she’d had half a mind to take a vacation of her own, before the Doctor’s unexpected leave of absence.

At least Cid has sent word, the first missive she received the moment she stepped off the Alexander. If her sense of time hasn’t gone completely out the window it means he ought to be back today - which means it’s her job to make sure Draklor is ready for his arrival.

Convincing her brain of the idea still takes a little while, her muscles aching and magicite dust wedged in dark, glittering lines beneath her fingernails. Stupid of her to let that slide, it’d be murder if she went to cast a spell - and the vague sense of propriety is what finally gets her up and moving to the tiny shower, scrubbing the last of her sleepiness away.

Artificer’s coveralls aren’t particularly flattering, but at least she had enough sense not to schedule any meetings for at least the first day back, if only to get a running start at the next great task. Mirana isn’t expecting to see much of anyone, even those they’d left behind as Draklor’s skeleton crew as she makes her way down to the main room - and more importantly, the coffee machine just beyond. The calibrations team on the third floor prefers it to their own, always a back-and-forth squabble for where it might be on any given day, but hopefully they’ve been too busy to bother holding it for ransom.

“Kupooooooooooooooo!”

The moogle misses her by a span of nothing, so close Mirana swears she can feel the brush of his fur against her nose. He’s flapping madly, but the forward velocity is too much to overcome and she watches the little creature bounce once, twice and then skid to what at least seems to be a gentle halt in the hallway behind her.

“You all right?” A voice yells, and Mirana watches a tiny, furry hand raise in a thumbs up before she braces herself to turn around.

Up until a week ago, the build floor was stacked nearly end to end with boxes of equipment and various mock-ups of the Alexander’s systems for testing and training. In a few days they’ll be back to having the teams fighting each other for floor space and engaging in that most Archadian of habits, dreaming of how to knock down the buildings around them in order to expand. Draklor doesn’t build full ships on-site, but it hasn’t led to a surplus of breathing room.

In this moment, though, the floor is more than half-empty. Which is fortunate, or the dozen mechanics currently waving all manner of brooms and mops and - is that a fishing net? - might damage something, although the longer she looks the more Mirana’s convinced the damage has already been done.

“So are we counting where he landed or where he bounced?!”

It’s the exact opposite of surprise, finding Weys and Daimery in the middle of this, and it must be Weys’ moogle who’d misfired into the hall because Daimery’s voice is full of triumph, wearing some sort of - well, Mirana can put together how the mechanism fires when the moogle it seemed he might be wearing as a hat suddenly launches up over all their heads in a dramatic arc, the men on the floor jostling and shouting and the moogle - one of their better engineers - goes directly through a hoop that’s been thrown together from what looks like some packing crates and a vent stabilizer.

Half the artificers groan while the other half cheer, high-fiving and smacking their brooms together as Weys yanks his goggles off, his hair sticking out in all directions, more the demented window-washer than any kind of scientist, let alone one of their best. Of course, the man he’s scowling at is just as brilliant, and currently frowning at the trajectory on his… moogle flinger.

Ladies and gentlemen, the Draklor Laboratories.

“I think that’s proof of concept.” Daimery says proudly.

“Needs work… on the aiming… kupo.” The moogle slowly wobbles aloft, adjusting his eighth-scale helmet, with a special notch cut out for his pom. Mirana can’t remember just why they had the helmets made, but this was probably not the reason.

Daimery shrugs, twisting a few knobs and giving the entire slapdash machine a good shake. It’s likely built around some small fragment of a wind crystal, set to overcharge as its firing mechanism. The sort of idea that must have seemed either brilliant or magnificently stupid at some juncture, and so impossible not to try. It would seem an insult to the moogles, even if they were volunteer projectiles, but Mirana is rather certain this will all end with them watching Weys pitch himself headlong into a wall. He’s usually the less foolhardy of the two, but that’s hardly much of a compliment.

By now a few of the build team have noticed her presence, and most have the decency to look a little sheepish, if they’re not already doing their best to wander away as if they were never really involved.

“Morning, Miri.” Weys salutes her with a little flick of his fingers. “We’re just, ah… you know… Science.”

“Trajectory experiments.” Daimery doesn’t even bother to look up. The argument could be made either way, which one of them has the least right to be here - a girl from Rozarria or a thief from Old Archades. “I figure we hammer out the kinks and then we can just fire the Judge Magisters at the Rozarrian fleet.” He cackles. “Bastards won’t see that one coming.”

“Bergan’s not that aerodynamic.” Mirana points out.

“That’s what I said.” Weys concurs, just before he finds himself at the business end of Daimery’s wind cannon, too slow to dodge the blast of air that leaves his hair looking equally mad, if in a more leftward-leaning direction. Mirana continues her journey toward the now necessary coffee as she listens to Draklor’s head of development try to beat Draklor’s chief artificer senseless with his latest invention.

The Trouble Brothers, Draklor’s shining pair of genius delinquents. One more impossibility that only exists in the labs, where nothing matters so as much as a love of science and a disdain for common opinion. A collective arrogance they all share, the abject refusal to accept what is, when what could be is so much more interesting. Draklor means freedom, and a future that isn’t waiting only to deny them, defined by more than who they were when they were born.

Weys is the outlier - noble born, with the name to prove it - or at least it used to be his. Fourth son of a powerful House and swiftly disowned, when he’d cast aside the life they wanted for this, when he refused to ‘serve as befit his station.’ Mirana can only imagine their horror, to learn he is now thick as thieves with an actual thief.

Daimery’s past is etched all across his skin, tattoos from quite a few of the gangs that run Old Archades crowded in between the notes he jots down on his hands and arms. Three identical scars stretch along the inside of his right arm, long-healed burns. Branding is the first punishment for stealing skybikes, reserved for the younger offenders. A steep learning curve for thieves in Archades, with little time to grow before the Judges start taking limbs or lives instead.

He is much too handsome for his own good, as if all the scars and ink are only part of some master plan to send hearts fluttering beneath all those layers of Archadian modesty. Daimery no longer has the need to pilfer bikes, and so prefers to steal his way into and out of the noble beds of Archades instead; leaving a trail of perfumed tokens and wistful sighs in his wake - along with furious fathers and husbands and the occasional band of hired thugs.

So when he finally does look up, sprawled on the floor with Weys, giving and receiving the occasional half-hearted punch, Daimery should know better than to throw the sly grin her way. Mirana doesn’t hesitate to kick what seems an important button on the side of his little machine. She’s pleasantly rewarded when the whole system goes into reverse and does its best to eat his head. Daimery flails, swearing in a steady torrent while Weys helpfully refuses to stop laughing.

“It’s got a kick, doesn’t it?” Daimery manages to slap the right button at last the machine humming to a halt. “It’s not even full crystal in this, just castoffs.”

“So you’ve found another way to make a bomb.” Scraps of magicite are useful for little else, too unstable for any real power. If the machine were any larger… well, that would hardly stop them. Half the walls in Draklor carry shrapnel marks of one kind or another.

“It’s not a bomb.” Weys protests. “Well, sort of. Bombish?”

“I’ve made far better bombs.” Daimery scoffs, and then grins at her again. “So, is it time for the post-Alexander review? I’ll take my glowing praise by the bottle, if you please.”

“Nothing formal until the Doctor arrives but… we do need to talk, about what’s going to happen now that Lord Vayne is gone.” The Brothers may prefer to be fools, but they are as loyal to Draklor as she is, and just as invested in its future. “We all know that things have been… tense lately. I’d like to hope that our success with the Alexander has given us some breathing room, but…”

“The Doctor has lost his muse.” Daimery says. He might mean Vayne, he might mean gods or ghosts or all of it. Either way, they’ve all noticed that Cid does not speak to the air the way he once did, and there’s no telling what really happened to the other half of those conversations. No one here in the heart of Draklor has ever believed him mad - madness doesn’t pay dividends in Nethicite, though it seems something vital has changed, and not for the better.

He vanishes with increasing frequency these days, gone into the deepest parts of his labs for days at a time for reasons he has not seen fit to share. It isn’t entirely unlike him to be so secretive - but the Doctor’s never seemed this sad, either, all his efforts bringing no joy. Whatever is going on, it seems less like a grand discovery and more like a desperate race, the sand slipping from some unknown hourglass.

“We’ll keep our eye on him, Miri, like always.” Weys says. “Besides, Vayne gave us permission to cut the power if he tries for another forty-hour build.”

Daimery snorts. “He’ll just reroute. It’s what he did the last time. And the one before that.”

Cid might complain of aches and pains and his advancing age, but he’ll still outwork them all given half the opportunity. They’ve all stumbled upon him more than once in the early morning hours wondering why they’re working so late, unaware he’s already well into a new day.

“Has he mentioned anything about Rabanastre?” Weys asks. “Any idea who they’re going to send?”

Mirana shrugs. “I suppose that depends on what’s left standing.”

The Lord Consul is unharmed, which likely means he’ll get the full team he asked for as soon as the Doctor returns to give the order. Vayne has ambitions for Rabanastre, and despite the chaos quite a few in Draklor are curious to at least see the place.

“I hear they’ve got some real space to run out there.” Weys says wistfully. “We could throw the Notos up to full power and not have it crash into any mountains at the far end.”

Mirana frowns. “Is that the one with no brakes?”

“Brakes add weight.” The Brothers say in tandem, while Mirana rolls her eyes.

“Lord Vayne has quite enough to worry about, to waste his time apologizing for you.”

The Brothers are much too valuable to even consider risking there, along with Mirana herself and anyone else who knows their way around a piece of Nethicite. It might be a form of house arrest, how closely they are watched, if anyone cared about much outside of the lab. Daimery does makes the occasional visit to Old Archades, dodging the problem of gaining permission by never quite bothering to ask, but apart from the occasional well-guarded trek to the Graylands, there’s not many places in the world that any of them would rather be.

Mirana sighs, and kicks at Daimery again when he reaches up for her coffee. “We have other matters to discuss. I think it might be prudent to clear out one of the Nethicite testing labs. A clean room, with the heavy shields.”

“It’s true, then?” Weys says. “Dalmasca had the Dusk Shard all along?”

“No way we’ll ever see it.” Daimery shakes his head. “If they found it, it’s not the Doctor who’s got it. Ghis gives it straight to the Emperor, and you think we’ll get our hand in? No chance.”

“No choice.” Weys replies.

One’s as true as the other. No one wants to cede Draklor a single inch more power, let alone such a treasure, but if the Emperor wants to wield that weapon himself he’s low on other options. Certainly, there are other artificers in the city - but Draklor is the best. Gramis does not like them and does not trust them, but he trusts the rest of the world even less. Until now, there’s been a tenuous balance, with Lord Vayne ever their shield against the Senate and the Emperor both, deftly maneuvering that they might continue their work undisturbed - but Vayne is gone now, Draklor’s strongest advocate banished as far as they could throw him, and only a fool would fail to see the danger there.

Mirana would risk a great deal for the chance to study the Dusk Shard. Any of them would, but she’s nowhere near foolish enough to think this will be a matter of research or discovery. Nethicite has little to do with pure science for most of the world. The ability to dodge the jagd sands is a cute afterthought compared to the true ambitions of those in power - no less than wielding the gifts of the gods, the power of the Dynast-King ten times over, a hundred times over.

Cid has always argued the Nethicite is too unstable to be used in such a manner, and with no Shard to study there was no way of even knowing where to start in attempting its duplication. Of course, fools with more ambition than brains will always assume they’re simply not trying hard enough, as if Deifacted is just another word for extra effort.

If it’s true, though, if Ghis does have the Dusk Shard, then Draklor has just lost its best argument against those avenues of research, and a future that seems equally grim.

The Doctor loves the sky. Cid loves knowledge for its own sake, he loves beauty and craft and a well-executed design - a simple glance at any of his ships is proof of that. Draklor is no weapons factory, they are more than a forge for such indiscriminate destruction. It is one thing to defend the Empire, to strengthen them against Rozarria and do what must be done - but Nabudis was an abomination, and it is not their duty to fill the world with further horror for the glory of lesser men.

“Cid will know what to do next. I’m sure Lord Vayne has a plan. He always has a plan.” Weys says, a troubled look on his face that says his thoughts are on a similar path, and even Daimery’s grown quiet. “Nothing much we can do but wait.”

“Nothing but write up all the reports you’ve been putting off.” Mirana says, to a duet of pained groans. Motherhood must be something like this, perhaps with less of a desire to set one’s offspring on fire. “Unless you have pressing business elsewhere?”

Daimery shrugs. “Distill something questionable and go blind?”

“Just don’t pass out on anything that’s been calibrated.”

“No deal.”

Chapter Text

Mirana first joined up with Draklor on the strength of her work with mist flow outlays, channeling the right power to the proper places and bypassing cross-current contamination, or worse. It’s a simple enough matter on a skybike, but far less so on a dreadnought.

An important field of study, though not the usual path to becoming chief of staff. The position rightly belonged to Weys, Draklor’s heir apparent and one of the only ones who can keep up with the Doctor at his most frenetic pace. Unfortunately, the Brothers show an uncanny knack for scenting responsibility in the air and getting out of the way. The most qualified among the moogles simply prefer to hide.

So here she is, facing down the rewards of responsibility in triplicate carbon copy, and the only alternative to leave it for the Doctor to clean up, which is no real option at all. Mirana grits her teeth, sighs, and finally plunges into the morass of invoices and agreements and reports, all the projects coming in or going out or caught in the middle. At least Draklor can avoid the endless, circular arguments that crop up around new ships, new designs - theirs is always the final word on what they will or will not do.

Of course, that doesn’t keep every single client from marking every single project urgent.

Two coffees and several thrown pens later, she’s at least a few inches through the worst of the mess. Try as she might to stay focused, though, her thoughts keep drifting back to far more interesting places, mostly the lower decks and deepest corridors of the Alexander.

It had been a marvel, her first chance to see the inner workings of the Empire’s greatest airship, and even more so to spend much of her time at Cid’s side. The ship stood among his greatest accomplishments - no one has ever managed to put its equal in the sky, and standing at its heart felt a bit like slipping right into the Doctor’s mind, his very thoughts wrought into steel and beauty. A strange respite there, despite the constant demands on their time. Moments with nothing but the two of them and the thrum of the engines and the pure simplicity of the build.

Cid was nostalgic, telling long, rambling stories while he worked of the early days. Tales of a youth spent learning mainly from the moogles, refining their ideas and experimenting with his own - and then those first days of the new designs, his first airships - though there’d been no sense then of just how much he would come to change the world.

No one became an artificer to make history. It had all been to no greater end at the time than work and more work, with every new invention meant to solve the problems the last one created. A matter of innovation purely for its own sake, to satisfy his curiosity and then one day Cid looked up to find the whole world changed and everyone giving him the credit.

All of this before she’d been born, he’d said, and laughed. A reminder Mirana didn’t need, though he’d never noticed when she couldn’t quite smile. At times, the Doctor’s preoccupation truly was her greatest ally.

As the hours pass, Mirana’s work pile slowly evolves into a many-headed hydra, a half-dozen smaller stacks fanned out all around her. Fortunately, a good deal of those need to be signed off by other floors, which means she can get out of the chair and still call it work. Mirana makes her way up the floors slowly, lab to lab and office to office, signing off reports and double-checking results while answering questions about Rabanastre as vaguely as she can, moving higher and higher until she’s swinging open the hatch to the roof.

It’s a spectacular view from the top of Draklor, and a clear enough day that she can see past the Imperial palace and down across all the lower levels, out beyond the farthest wall to the mountains beyond. The air is crisp and clear and it all reminds her a little of flying, the way most everything beautiful reminds her of flying.

“You actually bothered being vertical today? Well done.”

MT is leaning against the railing just ahead, long hair trailing in the wind and a pair of binoculars in her hand. Looking down, and when Mirana follows her gaze she can see the cluster of tiny figures, Akademy trainees running through drills in the midday sun. One more benefit to Draklor’s position in the middle of the city, never a shortage of athletic young men around willing and able to sweat in the open for their country.

“I can leave,” Mirana says, equally dry. “Wouldn’t want to break your concentration.”

“I am but a loyal citizen utterly overcome with patriotism.” MT never looks up from the field. Combine her usual cool reserve with her height and slenderness, and it’s difficult not to search for a long pair of viera’s ears, or a tail. She proffers a bag, half covered in scribbled calculations. “Cold meat and engine oil sandwich?”

Mirana takes half of it, and they spend the next few moments eating in silence, passing the binoculars back and forth as the soldiers switch from drills into laps, a long run around the perimeter of their training ground.

Marie-Therese is Draklor’s lead materials analyst, one of those responsible for making sure the laboratory’s grand experiments will actually stay up in the skies. It seems to mainly involve a good deal of swearing at vendors, throwing things at Daimery and eating while standing up. Among its myriad dangers, Nethicite also has some rather impressive corrosive properties if not properly balanced and shielded, and that’s to say nothing of the lab’s enduring propensity for building engines too powerful for the ships that are supposed to hold them.

Mirana might feel sorry about that, if she didn’t know how much MT loved the challenge. The bulk of her work on the Alexander took place at the start, and so while the rest of the team argued over who would stay behind for the inevitable last-minute emergency, MT had flown out, attending to a handful of Draklor’s clients in those cities between the border and Archades.

Nearly all their large-scale jobs, and all of the Nethicite work is of course purely for the Archadian military, though there is no shortage of private buyers happy to spend a good deal for Draklor’s seal on whatever over-gilded nonsense they prefer to fly.

“How was the scenic route?” Mirana asks, and she can see the face MT doesn’t make.

“His Lordship Sir Routh has recently discovered the wonders of bankruptcy.” It’s no real problem to consult with nobles whose ambitions are larger than their coin purses, as long as enough of the payment comes in advance. “Good news - I think I’ll be able to get all his materials back at cost.”

A half-ton of wood petrified via magicite, if she recalls right, the remains of an ancient forest uncovered right in the middle of a crystal deposit. It’s beautiful stuff, light to work with and Mist-conductive, rare and expensive and probably the entire reason MT signed on for the job in the first place.

“We’re looking at a six-month delay from Wesling, at least. No one can commit to a final design, and there’s been so many corners cut it’s practically a hexagon anyway. I’m this close to just sending them wheels.”

A familiar, slight squeak turns into a louder, grinding noise as MT shifts her weight, turning, and Mirana winces. “Your leg’s not still broken, is it?”

The woman lets out a sigh of disgust, slapping at the hinge. “Seems so. No time or tools to fix it right.”

MT isn’t noble, comes from no House of rank, but she’s not from Old Archades either. Squarely in the middle, an artificer born from artificers back to the days when the moogles used humes for hired help. Set to inherit the family shop along with her cousins and uncles and brothers, one build like any other until the day a small mistake went unnoticed long enough to become a large mistake. One of those occasional disagreements between magicite and gravity - and she’d lost her right leg past the knee.

As part of her recovery, the family had pooled their resources and enrolled her in the college at Rienna. An opportunity to visit Archades properly, to pick up some accreditation and make her name known - a few builds on the right teams at the university races and some rather spectacular thesis prototypes and MT had quickly been welcomed into Draklor’s band of castaways and thieves.

“You should have Daimery take a look. He’s always looking for more work to not do.”

“I don’t even want him touching the parts of me that come off.”

It’s not exactly true, MT and the Brothers all treating her prosthetic as a perpetual side project. Simple issues of mobility and function were mostly solved years ago - now it’s more a matter of ammo storage, or giving her a new place to slot a few wrenches or - from what Mirana can gather - figuring out which crystals to attach and how, in case she ever feels like using the limb as a long-range cannon.

MT cocks an eyebrow, glancing over at her. “You know, I hear they’re planning quite the celebration for Lord Larsa’s birthday.”

“Hm.”

“Naturally, we’ll all be expected to attend.”

“Mm.”

“… and then, while you and the Doctor are dancing underneath the stars, you can shamelessly declare your love, and drag him off into the bushes like you should have done ages ago.”

The clouds are moving so slowly they might as well not be at all, and the only sound comes from the distant soldiers, a cadence call echoing faintly from far below.

It’s not Cid’s fault that their first meeting was a fairy tale - swept up and rescued from a thankless job in a shop that barely tolerated her. One chance encounter, a polite conversation while Mirana had helped him hunt down an odd part that had turned into a discussion of her own experiments, and a particular hypothesis she lacked the materials to test. Cid wished to see the results, and just like that, he had made it the first task of her new position at Draklor. One impossible moment, and he’d given her the world.

Mirana idolized the Doctor, they all did, though working with him every day should have put some tarnish on her hero worship. Inside a lab, or on one of his ships Cid was a creature of confidence, calm and certain no matter how great the impending disaster. Indomitable in his element - but remove him from it, take away his tools and papers and he was nearly a different man. Reserved, hesitant and shy - even awkward, though he could manage some measure of impeccably mannered small talk until he might make his escape.

Mirana’s watched him duck away from those obligations - she’s covered for him, more than once, reminding him of those meetings he couldn’t avoid and attending others on his behalf. She’s been the one to deal with it, when he’s forgotten entirely about the outside world, when his work has taken precedence over all else.

Yet she’s also been there for all the quiet times, the way he regards his ships with such gentle pride and admiration, as if they were living things. The moments of fierce inspiration, when Cid seems to all but crackle with excitement, firing off new ideas like fresh-charged stone. His laugh has long since been her favorite sound - a low, pleased chuckle when he finally brings some elusive answer out into the light.

It had all caught up with her one cool and cloudless afternoon outside the city, a day on Draklor’s private test track, running the newest Nethicite-enhanced bike through its paces. Theoretically the fastest ship in the world, and of course Cid had the honors of being the first to fly it carefully around the track. It wasn’t the first time she’d been there to record the results - though it was the first that she’d done so from the back of the bike, one arm around the Doctor’s waist and taking careful notations against his shoulder as he sped and slowed and moved through the turns.

Mirana had never quite realized just how bad it was, how foolish she’d let herself become until that moment, beneath a shocking blue sky, when Cid looked over his shoulder and grinned, a smile that went through her like overcharged magicite.

“Let’s try a hot lap. Hold on to me.”

Mirana had only the barest glimpse of the rest of the team as they passed, picking up speed, even the Brothers looking panicked. No one wanted to be responsible for seeing the most valuable mind in Archadia reduced to a smear on the asphalt, but Cid didn’t care, and in that moment neither did she. Mirana only wrapped her arms around him, her cheek to his back, listening to him laugh as the world blurred by.

He’d set quite a respectable time that day, for a man of any age.

“I’m not-“

MT shakes her head. “- and don’t you give me any of that about being too young for him. Everyone knows Bergan’s tumbling a seventeen-year-old. You know it, I know it. Occasionally, I imagine even she must know it.”

Mirana makes a face. “You’re horrible, she’s nineteen - and it’s not at all the same.”

“I don’t see how. If anything, you’re doing him a favor. A girl like you? It’ll make him look virile.”

“Yes,” she says flatly, “I imagine that’s exactly what’s been missing from his life.”

“I just don’t understand it. What’s the problem?” MT shakes her head, long hair swaying. “You’ve been there all this time, taking care of him when he can’t be bothered. We all know you’re more married to him than half the wives in this city. Why not just tell him?”

Mirana’s hands clench. “It’s not so simple. I am too young for him, and even if… if it didn’t work out then everyone else in the lab will suffer for it. It’s unprofessional and irresponsible. He’s too busy for it to even matter, and let’s not forget where I come from. I’m sure no one else will.”

MT scoffs. “So what? The disapproving still won’t approve? What a loss. Tell him you won’t take his name, if it bothers you that much. Just be his exotic Rozarrian mistress. As if he cares.”

“I care.” A dignified widower is no longer so dignified with a girl half his age, dalliance or no. “I will not shame him.”

“Gods,” the mechanic rolls her eyes, “you’re more Archadian than I am.”

Nothing Mirana’s said is a lie. Each is a good, solid reason to keep her silence - but they’re not the truth, not in full.

The Doctor has already lost the love of his life, and everyone knows it. An Archadian woman as noble-born as any could be, by all accounts as beautiful as a goddess and as caring as a saint. Cid still wears his wedding band on a chain at his throat, as constant companion and solace. Mirana could not hope to compete with such a woman in life, let alone in death.

It’s a fool’s errand, to want him to feel for her what he feels for no one. The Doctor has never looked her way - or anyone’s way. He treats her with respect - always the utmost respect, but nothing more, and he’s not to blame for her ridiculous heart.

“The only thing that matters is that I don’t hurt him. He has too much to deal with right now to worry about anything so stupid, and the best thing I can do is keep my silence. If it doesn’t make me happy… it’s close enough.”

MT blinks back at her.

“… and that’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard since the last time I talked to Weys before his morning cup. If you think I’m letting you off this balcony without-“

She trails off without warning, and frowns, leaning forward against the rail.

“Wait, do you hear-?”

Yes, Mirana does. It’s a familiar enough sound, Archadia ready to line up their soldiers and have them parade at the barest hint of an excuse, but this isn’t some distant echo, or training from another level, and as they step into view Mirana’s heart drops as if caught in a bad patch of Jagd.

An entire platoon of soldiers marches toward Draklor in two perfect rows, led by Judge Magister Ghis.

Chapter Text

It’s nothing new, the Judge Magisters storming in to terrify the junior staff and knock over whatever looks breakable before demanding a tally of every nut and bolt in the inventory just because they can. It would have been nice, if they’d waited a week or two, but Mirana supposes she ought to be thankful Ghis didn’t sack the labs while they were still on the Alexander.

So much for Zargabaath putting in a good word for them with the Emperor. Not that they’d counted on it, lucky enough that he’d been the one commanding the flagship, the only Judge Magister who doesn’t hate them on sight. Zargabaath is mostly indifferent, and from there the spectrum runs from Drace’s cool, distant suspicion to the occasional insult from Bergan, though he seems to torment them only to pass the time, doing damage because he can but just as quick to lose interest.

It would have to be Ghis here and now, swift on the heels of Lord Vayne’s departure. The only question that remains - is the Judge Magister here on Senate business, or is this of his own design?

Ghis loathes Draklor, in that fine Archadian tradition of coveting grudges like sworn oaths. Mirana’s never been certain of exactly how it started or if Ghis ever needed a particular reason. It’s enough that the Judge Magister believes they’ve stolen his due, and cost him some rightful measure of glory. If there is little he can do to stop their progress he will do his best to make them suffer for it.

MT is behind her in their not-quite run down the back halls and corridors, and when Mirana reaches the next staircase the other woman takes off along the side hall, back to start the timers on every lab she can reach. Auto-locks, so no one will be able to open them for the rest of the day, which is usually more time than even Ghis wishes to endure in the labs.

The constant struggle between the labs and the greater powers of Archades is a feedback loop, ugly and inevitable. The Senate pushes against them, annoyed to have such rabble encroaching on their power. Draklor pushes back just as hard, victory after victory leaving them wealthier and more powerful, with less reason to listen the next time . Doctor Cid sets the tone, though his indifference is not as calculated as they might think. He’s ignored her reminders just as often as those formal summons from the Senate.

Of course Draklor could be more open, rather than bury themselves under a pile of jargon as incomprehensible as the most arcane of magicks. Clarity, though, has only brought further demands and restrictions, so instead they are secretive. Which makes the Senate nervous and encourages the labs to be opaque even when it serves no real purpose but to annoy the Judge Magisters.

Ghis brings the worst of it on himself, entitled and humorless, a caricature of every stuffy, pompous House and Draklor has always been happy to trade his scorn for an equal serving of mockery. Mirana has ignored many stories of the extra ‘work’ done on whatever ship the Judge Magister captains - elevators stuck mid-floor for hours at a time, or doorways inexplicably shrunk to a half-inch less than the width of a soldier’s shoulders. How Ghis’ private bathroom aboard the Leviathan mysteriously vanished between shifts, walled away so well there was not even a seam to mark it.

Lord Vayne’s patronage has ever been their best defense against all criticism and consequences, no one as skilled as he at maneuvering the tenuous compromises of Archadian politics - but he is not here, and the Doctor is not here and there is no chance this is a coincidence.

Mirana allows herself one quick, steadying breath at the bottom of the stairs, and opens the door.

-------------------------------

The goal, of course, is to catch the Judge Magisters at the outer doors of Draklor and stall for time in the public spaces, away from the labs and any actual work. Except there’s no telling how long they would have to keep him at bay for the Doctor to arrive, and Ghis is already well-versed in that trick. By the time she’s reached the floor his soldiers are already past the main door and fanning out, taking positions by every elevator and door. A few of the younger interns look surprised and worried, though the older crews are simply annoyed at being thrown off-schedule. At least there’s no sign of the chaos of earlier - at the moment they almost seem half-reputable.

Across the hall, Mirana catches the eye of one of the senior artificers, the moogle sketching a few gestures in the air. Another one of those secrets Draklor keeps for itself, the particular sort of sign-language they’ve developed for working over the engine noise. It has other uses in moments like this, and she quickly learns that Weys and Daimery had enough warning to start tucking away their own work, and shutting down all the Nethicite labs.

He wonders what this is all about, and of course Mirana has no answer. The artificer is cursing as she turns away - short, sharp jerks of his fuzzy paws, an impressively vulgar incantation - they even have a sign for ‘kupo.’

Mirana shares the sentiment. Ghis has taken her for questioning more than once, enduring tedious discussions of her work and her past and of course her loyalty to Archadia. Interrogated by fools who see her olive skin and dark eyes and can only imagine treachery. As if she has not spent the best years of her life training their aim on the land of her birth. Her grim satisfaction was the same as anyone’s, as they’d parked the Alexander on Rozarria’s doorstep.

It’s useless to be polite, to pretend Ghis is here to be civil but there’s nothing else to do.

“Judge Magister, we were not expecting you.”

No answer. The soldiers disappear down halls and through doors, forcing out those who’d thought they might weather the storm in a doorway or stairwell and Mirana can only hope that everything dangerous or fragile is packed away. Narrowing down the possibility of some armored idiot leaning on a button and putting a crater in Tsenoble.

“We were informed the Ifrit proved itself quite useful in Dalmasca. It was good to hear there were no serious losses.”

On Archadia’s side, at least. Mirana does not like to think about what a ship like that could do to a city the size of Rabanastre. Dalmasca must hate them for every show of force, every ounce of their conceit. Mirana has seen the numbers for Nalbina, the sheer impossibility of fighting back against the Archadian fleet there. What would they think of this, to see the Judge Magisters that threaten them are no more a friend to her?

Ghis doesn’t stop moving forward, until finally Mirana has to. She’s half-certain he’s just going to knock her aside, march right through as if she’s not even there. All she can do is dig in her heels and tense for the blow.

At the last moment, the Judge Magister comes to a halt, towering over her in a way that would be intimidating if she could bother with being afraid. Lord Vayne would expect her to handle this - the Doctor needs her to handle this, and so she will.

“Once again,” he says, “I am presented with accusations over the shipments coming in and out of this lab. Theft. Sabotage. Treason.”

Ah, Ghis, who always pretends at being the Senate’s watchdog, as if it is their urging that has forced his hand.

“I assure you, Judge Magister, we’ve been far too busy of late for much of anything to pass through the doors of Draklor.”

It’s the truth, all shipments not deemed vital had been held back a week or more in either direction, and most of what did come went straight to the Alexander. A shame he doesn’t actually care about that, or anything else she might say. Mirana can see a distorted version of herself in the reflection of his armor, a small and shrunken shadow. It helps to remember the man beneath the helm - old and pale, with disdainful eyes and a sour expression. A man who has known victory all his life, and finds no joy in it.

“I do not see how you can counter such allegations. As I understand, you were conveniently absent for much of the time in question.”

The bastard, to make her sound negligent and culpable in the same breath.

“I have gone through the reports by those left to supervise, and have found no reason to be suspicious.” Mirana says evenly. “Of course, our ledgers stand full open to any official investigation, and-“

The cheerful bing from the nearest freight elevator leaves Mirana fighting back a grimace.

Of the many bragging rights for those who join up with Draklor, perhaps the most coveted is the use of non-classified equipment for the building and upkeep of racing bikes. Team D, with enough wins stacked up between all those who fly under their colors that there have been several petitions against letting them compete at all.

The Alexander proved a fine trial for their latest batch of interns, and for all the fun of putting them through their paces it’s just as satisfying to see them succeed. Official Draklor jackets dropped on their shoulders and the proper keys passed over, so they might spend all their off hours in workrooms a dozen paces from their daily routine, shaping and shining their own ships into champions.

No real surprise then, that a few of those fortunate souls had returned to the labs eager to start, and that they hadn’t received this warning in time. The doors open on two of the youngest techs, with their bike hovering in the space just behind them. Mirana sees one of them try to close the doors but it’s far too late for that. A more sensible group of soldiers would not care, would simply wait for them to step out, but these soldiers have not come here to be sensible. The argument is swift and loud, the techs doing their best to make a human wall between Ghis’ men and their fragile racer.

Mirana winces as a soldier shoves past them, knocking one man down and yanking the bike out by its handlebars, twisting sharply in a way that sends the whole machine skidding sideways, banging hard against the elevator on both sides, shearing off one of the rear stabilizers with a spray of coolant. It’s fixable, but if they weren’t such damned bullies it needn’t have happened at all. Mirana steps toward the soldiers, her voice hard.

“How dare you-“

The sound of the Judge Magister’s sword is something very like a scream, the blade drawn to block her, hovering inches away from her fingertips. It echoes around the room, cresting like a wave as other soldiers follow suit and someone does scream then, sharp and short and panicked. In the absolute silence that follows, Ghis’ voice seems quiet, almost thoughtful.

“… you would tell me what I dare to do?”

The world is fragile. Laws of science and magicks are not so swift to crumble, but the rules of men? The certainty that tomorrow will be at all like yesterday?

Ash and air.

It is a terrible truth to learn, and leaves its mark on all those who have survived the lesson. Daimery understands it well, growing up as he did, powerless and unwanted in a world where obedience hardly meant survival. No rules to keep him safe, no gods or lords to follow. An odd twist of fate that Lord Vayne is much the same, even born to such ascendant heights, where laws are made to be loosed like arrows on those below. Mirana does not claim to know his mind, but she knows enough, has heard the tale of his sixteenth year.

Argue a sane and rational world, to a prince who has slain princes, to a brother who has killed his own.

Mirana knows it like a whip weal across her own skin, scoring down through her memories. Only fragments of Rozarria remain for her, images like shadowboxes, long hallways and tiny gardens in inner courtyards, intricate as jewel boxes. Mirana’s father was a tall figure in a long coat who paced back and forth in his study, reading over the day’s work. Her mother, a pair of soft hands that smelled of violets, gentle fingers that braided her hair and the soft voice that called her ‘my little Marita.’

Her memories of the markets are almost too alive - the recollections of a child, a sea of cloth and noise and chaos, the thick scent of spicy stews and saffron rice and almond tarts. Men with fiddles and monkeys or brightly colored birds performed between the market stalls, and Mirana would always run ahead, scarf trailing behind her and her sister at her heels, scolding as she tried to catch up.

Until that day in the crowded market, with the men in masks like carnival players, and their knives dripping with her parents’ blood.

It feels much the same now, watching the edge of Ghis’ sword rise and fall with every slight shift in his grip, nothing ceremonial to that blade. Mirana studies the slight nicks and dark patches in the metal and wonders how many men his sword has slain. What is this? Why this absurd show of force now, and what does he think to gain? She looks up, to where his eyes should be behind the helm.

“I’m worth more than you are, Judge Magister.”

Draklor brings in more coin than half the highest Houses combined, their skills have made the military what it is today - but Ghis could still run a sword through her here, with no real lasting repercussions. The Doctor would regret her loss, and Lord Vayne might send a formal protest and there would be some outrage, some disbelief but at the end of it Ghis has the protection of his title and his years of service and the Emperor would pardon him, surely, over one dead Rozarrian.

Still, it is call his bluff or cower and this is her home and he is a damned bully. Ghis is no fool, but he is incurious and brutal and and she will not bow to that, not ever. This cannot be happening, but here it is.

At least they are rather good words, if they are to be her last.

—————————————————

“Judge Ghis, I do not mean to criticize, but this seems a few more soldiers than necessary.”

Mirana does not recognize the voice, but there’s no mistaking the Senator’s robes, and the last bit of sense to be had in this day gutters out to darkness.

Senators never come to Draklor, not even the outer halls. Mirana or the Brothers are summoned to them, or they send proxies. Never this.

The woman is young, perhaps only a few years older than Mirana herself. A foolish mistake, that she doesn’t know her by name, that she hasn’t paid closer attention to politics. The Senate may be dull and ridiculous, but the decisions made by those tedious old men lead directly to moments like this. Are they working together, Ghis and this woman? It doesn’t look that way, the Judge Magister seems as surprised as any to see her here, but who can say?

Lord Vayne would know. Gods, and some stupid part of her keeps expecting him to sweep in like always, bring Ghis to heel and stop this foolishness. Stupid, stupid, to think that things could not change this fast simply because she didn’t want them to.

“I was not aware the Senate had business here.” Ghis says. The Senator’s brought her personal guard, only a few men but even that seems to tilt the subtle balance in the room, no longer fully under the Judge Magister’s control.

“I am here on my own behalf, and much of that is only curiosity. I was passing by and noticed this… disturbance. We were given to understand that Draklor had recently completed a great service for the Empire. I hoped no unfortunate setback might tarnish that victory.” A slight smile in Mirana’s direction, and who knows what that means? “Archadia’s strength relies in no small part on the continuing industry of Draklor. It is my duty, I assume, to ensure that they continue to be as productive as-.”

An explosion from the far end of the hall drowns out the Senator’s last words. Mirana’s been working at Draklor far too long, she doesn’t even flinch - mostly flash-and-bang, Daimery perfectly capable of picking a lock instead of blowing the door off its hinges, but why bother being dull?

He’s the first one to step out of the small cloud of smoke, ignoring the soldiers who brandish their swords awkwardly while still gathering their wits. Daimery tosses a shock sink lazily from hand to hand - a mist core stabilizer, lightning crystal and completely harmless, but it still flickers alarmingly, glinting off hard eyes and a very unfriendly smile. No Judge has ever been his protector.

Thankfully, Weys is only a step behind.

“Forgive us, Judge Magister. We would have been here sooner, but there was a bit of trouble with the door.”

All good humor and courtesy, his ‘harmless upper noble’ act. MT is a step or two behind them, the tallest of the three and her arms out like a scarecrow’s, draped over the massive wrench that rests across her shoulders.

No one is being subtle anymore, and Daimery doesn’t stop moving until he’s right at Mirana’s side, in the space between her and the Judge Magister’s blade. It’s stupid and chivalrous and stupid and exactly the reason she puts up with him, a better man than he’d ever admit to. Mirana knows he keeps a knife in his boot as a matter of course, the way another man might carry a handkerchief, and there is no way the long screwdriver hanging from his belt is there by accident.

He’s been in brawls with Akademy boys, perhaps some of the soldiers standing here, but of course any sort of fight here would get them nothing but slaughtered… most of the other scientists are still pale and silent in disbelief, certain this must be some sort of misunderstanding.

Daimery does not bow his head or avert his eyes, watching Ghis with the tense readiness of a pit dog. His eyes flick over to the Senator for the briefest moment, and then to Mirana, looking for an answer she can’t provide.

“Senator.” Weys gives the woman a short, polite bow, as smooth as if he’d invited her himself. “It is an honor.”

“The Senator was concerned we might be off schedule. Judge Magister Ghis believes there may be holes in our security, since our return to the city.” Mirana cuts in, finally finding her polite smile again. “It seems only wise that we do our best in the Doctor’s absence, to accommodate them both.”

The actual conversation is, of course, happening in the hidden gestures at the margins of their words - they’ve locked down everything they can, but Ghis already has soldiers in the stairwells going up, it was close - is she all right? MT asks, a flick of her fingers, and as she nods back Mirana sees the Senator watching.

“I could take your men to the storage bays, Judge Magister.” MT offers, a shrug that doesn’t seem quite so casual with a wrench in the way. “What we do have of the last two weeks’ worth of goods are there. It’s a good bet most of the crates haven’t even been opened.”

“All the shipping logs are there too.” Weys says, and gestures to Daimery. “Chief Artificer, if you’d like to accompany them?”

It’s not a question. No one’s going to be left alone with the soldiers, not with most of them still with unsheathed blades, and Mirana does her best not to think about that, or anything else as she steps into one of the freight elevators, followed by Ghis, the Senator and her cortege.

Daimery already has his back to them, whistling a jaunty little tune, a child’s story of sparrows overcoming eagles from perhaps the least subtle minstrel ever. It is an old song of revolution, to commemorate the day Old Archades had banded together and rushed the gates, a rebellion that had actually breached the Imperial Tower, if briefly. As close as they ever came to taking the upper levels for their own.

The doors close before he’s managed more than the first few bars, but there is no way Ghis did not mark it.

Weys’ hand brushes against hers, and she looks down to see the same gesture as MT had thrown - you all right?

Fine. Mirana stares at the Judge Magister’s back, more embarrassed now than anything, angry at her fear. She satisfies herself with thoughts of how to dump enough industrial-grade epoxy on him to keep him in that armor permanently. Any other disasters?

It seems unlikely, but Weys blinks, the gesture unmistakable - Nethicite - and then, impossibly - missing.

A good thing Ghis and the Senator aren’t looking at her expression. Mirana’s fingers feel stiff with surprise, even the simple word taking more than one attempt. … who?

All these years, there’s never been a security breach, far past what most everyone even thought was likely. The Rozarrians have gone so far as to buy Draklor’s trash from the cleanup crews and bribe support staff out of their uniforms for a shot at any Nethicite dust, though it’s done them little good, not the kind of weapon to be reverse-engineered from a few scattered flecks. Still, if it were going to happen, Mirana can’t understand who could have had the access and not managed it a long time ago.

Larsa Solidor.

Well, then.

—————————————————————

“How marvelous.”

The Senator’s eyes are wide as they enter the room, one of the Brothers’ labs that’s more or less curated for days like this, full of all sorts of dangerous looking projects that could keep a snooping soldier busy for hours without being vital or irreplaceable. The woman’s good humor is no more welcome or less threatening than Ghis’ open hostility, and Mirana still has no idea what it is she wants.

So far, all they’ve been doing is trailing Ghis in a slow, methodical survey of room after room, while the Senator asks frustratingly benign questions, as if playing the part of a harmless tourist. Weys is acting as personal escort for the Judge Magister, an outcast noble better than none at all.

Mirana’s still not sure what to make of the news that Lord Larsa’s run off with a bit of Nethicite - a few ounces at most, though more than enough to cause problems. It seems he even left them a note - a rather civilized theft, if counterproductive. Making the most of his trip to Bhujerba, and if it were anyone else Mirana would be first in line to deliver a hefty punishment but Lord Larsa has a way of seeming proper even in his mischief. He did it on their behalf, with the best of intentions, and if there is anyone in this world beyond the laws that govern other men, it is that boy.

Mirana certainly isn’t going to be the one to tell Lord Vayne what his brother’s up to, and either way, there’s nothing to do but wait for him to return and pray he brings the Nethicite back with him.

“What a terrible oversight, that I did not visit long before this.”

“I imagine you are quite busy, Senator.”

The woman smiles. “Do call me Thea. Thea Iachnel.”

Mirana doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to stand here and make nice, or allow the Senator any chance to believe it might be genuine, as if the simple virtue of being women could somehow make them friends. Lord Vayne would likely treat this as an opportunity, and find some way to shift it to his advantage, but Mirana is too busy being nervous and annoyed by it, still unsure what this Thea wants, let alone how to keep her from getting it.

House Iachnel. One more name Mirana ought to know, the first thing she will look up when all this is through.

“Mirana Larmecie.”

It does not always please everyone to use her House name, but Thea is too much the politician to show anything but a smile.

“House Larmercie… you have an elder sister? I believe congratulations are in order. A new nephew, yes?”

Of course she knows.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Mirana had penned a letter at some unknown moment snatched between tasks, feeling vaguely guilty the entire time and vowing to make it up at some later date, which is mostly the way it’s been for years. Thankfully, Mirana’s sister is possessed of the sort of patience that comes from having six children - seven now, and seems willing to let the prestige of a position in Draklor justify Mirana’s inability to send presents at anything close to the proper date.

It takes an excruciatingly long time to walk the hall, with Ghis demanding odd details at inconvenient moments and directing soldiers to peer in each crate and corner, but at last they are moving down to the next floor. Thea raises an eyebrow when they pass by a door without stopping.

“The Doctor’s top-secret research?”

Cid’s personal quarters are many floors below, and have always been off-limits. Mirana has rarely been inside, and never alone. The Judge Magister did not even bother asking.

“Only a shortcut to the cafeteria. Of course, that may be the best place to find our productivity.”

Mirana makes a weak joke of it, but she’s rather glad the Judge Magister hadn’t decided on a closer look. Draklor was meant to be autonomous from its very inception. A security measure for Tsenoble, the labs all but impenetrable with the right switches flipped, and its own sources of water and crystals for purification. The cafeteria is kept well stocked, not just fresh food but field rations that taste of nothing but last eons, enough to keep them alive for months even with the doors sealed. Lord Vayne had insisted on it, to have Draklor contained in the event of any great catastrophe, that the city beyond could not be harmed. Yet if they’d closed the doors today, before Ghis had arrived…

Draklor is also a fortress, for a very specific kind of war, and Mirana knows that at the moment they are actually overstocked. Cid had signed off on more supplies than usual, and she’d assumed it had just slipped his mind, that he hadn’t even noticed the surplus - but she wonders now if it was a mistake at all. What Cid knows that they do not. If even now he’s returning to them with the kind of orders Vayne couldn’t give him until they were far outside the borders of Archades.

The laws of men. Ash and air.

“Ah, now this looks dangerous. Or fun.”

Thea’s stopped in the next room, in front of what will either be one of the Brothers’ greatest triumphs or a spectacular piece of folly - likely both, and Mirana’s convinced one of them will end up in traction by the end of it. The skybike’s slightly larger than the usual slim-line models they prefer for speed tests - still fast, there’s nothing in Draklor that isn’t fast - but this particular bike is meant for more than speed.

Skybikes have a fairly low stability ceiling, sometimes little more than fifty feet and rarely over a hundred before the Mist runs out and the stone can’t keep up. The taller buildings in Archades have been specially fitted with magicite to at least make the main paths a bit more stable, but there’s always some fool every year or so who climbs too fast in the wrong direction and ends up putting a new dent in the skyline. Airships contain enough skystone and their own supply of aetheric energy to avoid such problems, but there’s always been a limit to how small a ship can be and how high it can get.

Until now, until the Nethicite.

“We’re testing a new form of skybike, one that can maintain altitude at carrier height.”

What the Brothers really want to do is strap one of their test cannons to a bike and fly it full-speed through a firefight. A ship too fast and too small for Rozarria to hit, firing a weapon that can - at least under ideal lab conditions - melt steel like sealing wax.

“Is this Nethicite?” Thea points at one of the large, flat planes of crystal mounted at all four corners of the bike.

“No. We keep all of it in lockdown when it isn’t actively being tested or installed.”

Instead, the ship is insulated with panels of lightning crystals, because why try a test under ideal conditions when there are perfectly good thunderstorms to fly through? Fortunately, Cid remains less than convinced of the need to fast-track the Brothers' inevitable demise, and their project has been postponed, pending further tests at more reasonable altitudes.

“Will you be the ones charged with securing the Dusk Shard, then?”

How does she know it even exists? Mirana blinks, though the Senator does not act as if she’s said anything so shocking.

“… I’m not sure.”

Thea glances up, and Mirana looks to see Ghis and Weys and the soldiers clustered around another project at the other end of the room. The Senator looks back, and her guard retreats just slightly, enough to grant them a moment’s relative privacy, though to what purpose there is no telling.

“I wonder, as I’m sure you all must have, if the Shard is not the reason for this particular bit of grandstanding.” Thea rolls her eyes. “I doubt that Ghis will find any proof of wrongdoing here. Indeed, I think he knew it before he arrived. I must say, I have been impressed for quite some time with Draklor’s commitment to security, at no seeming cost to innovation. If the Senate moved half as fast, we might one day manage to accomplish something.” A rueful sigh. “I made many foolish assurances to Vayne Solidor, before I understood the true nature of what I was mired in.”

The woman’s exasperation sounds honest, and Mirana absolutely will visit the ledgers after her trip to the House archives, first to see who this Iachnel is and then to see the work she’s done.

“You have met with Lord Vayne?”

Thea smiles. “Not as often as I had hoped. He is a man who does not present many opportunities to ingratiate oneself. However, I believe now I might have the good fortune to yet be of some use to him.”

Mirana’s back stiffens. The Senator keeps her eyes forward, as if the skybike is of any real interest at all.

“I hear that Lord Vayne intends to send some non-essential personnel from Draklor to assist with matters in Rabanastre. I have a niece in the college at Rienna, here in Draklor as part of an internship. She is quite accomplished for her age, and I believe it would be rather beneficial to both sides if she were offered the opportunity to continue her studies abroad.”

A spy. Twelve hells be damned, and who cares if the girl’s in their ranks as a student? Iachnel has a spy in Draklor, and they hadn’t known until she’d told them.

Mirana steps back from the bike, measuring out her next few breaths as she paces carefully down the aisle, Thea placidly continuing to look through the room, waiting patiently. Is it some sort of threat? Mirana wasn’t made for this kind of triple-dealing, with no idea who is out for who and what damage even a single misplaced word might cause.

“The Doctor has the final say on all such decisions, though I could let him know of your interest.” As if that’s not the very first thing she’s going to do, the minute Cid is back.

Mirana waits for the argument, and feels the odd pull of gravity instead, as if she’s suddenly caught a few stray g’s, as the Senator’s expression goes tight and grim, lips thinning to a painfully straight line.

“… and what would happen here in Draklor, if the Doctor were to be detained?”

“Detained?” Mirana ignores a wild moment of alarm. “The Senate has no right.”

“No. Few do.”

It does not take much to follow her meaning.

“… Judge Magister Ghis? To what purpose?”

And how? Whatever favor he stands in with the Emperor, it cannot be enough for this. The Senator must be wrong, but she doesn’t look wrong - she looks worried.

“I believe they will tell you it is so he might study the Shard most effectively. It may even be true. I do not know as much as I wish to - only speculation. I may have troubled you for nothing. Yet there have been rumors, suggestions - forces are moving now, in Archades and beyond. If we do not stand together now, untrusting as we are, we may not have another chance. I am not asking you for blind faith - should the Doctor return, I pray that you speak to him of all of this, and send careful word to Rabanastre as well. But if he does not come back-“

“He will come back.” Mirana says quickly, as if getting the words out fast makes them more likely to be true. The Senator is watching her, and nothing she has done yet is quite as frightening as the note of sympathy in her eyes, before she turns away.

He’ll forget to shave.

Such a silly thought, but true enough. Cid may be brilliant, a mind without compare, but he is next to hopeless at remembering there is more to him than that. Lord Vayne had worried over leaving, Mirana knows. Whatever the Senate thinks, Draklor is about more than power, more than a simple bargaining chip. It is here to protect the Doctor, to provide him a world that makes sense when so little else often does, to surround him with those who might remind him of food and sleep and all the quotidian details of life.

The war with Rozarria is imminent, and they are vital and Cid will be fine. The Senator must be mistaken, she must.

Yet Ghis seemed so sure, when he’d drawn his sword on her. So confident.

“The Doctor must return to Draklor. How would Archadia win their war, elsewise?” Mirana says. It’s important to remember who she’s talking to, and how much damage a Senator might do even with an offer of help. “You need not worry on our behalf. Once he is back, everything will be fine.”

“I apologize. I am sure you are right.”

Thea is very good at what she does, that it almost sounds true.

Chapter Text

Two battles that Cid has fought for all of his life, the constant struggle against gravity and time.

He’s done his best to vanquish the former, and from his current vantage, looking down through wispy clouds from his seat in the Bailus, Cid can even claim some honest victory there. The ship runs as smoothly as the day he set her in the skies - a shame, really. He could use the distraction of even a minor repair. The notes in his hands are no use, and might as well be writ in ancient Kildean for all he can focus on them.

Time, though, seems ever poised to conquer him, a war of attrition against an infinite foe. The inexorable force that pushed at him when he did not want to go, and slipped from him no matter how hard he fought to hold on. No matter the hours spent free from sleep, or how fast he worked - never enough. No way to return, to relive - just forward, years to decades to this, and he is still startled by the aches in his hands and the gray in his hair.

He does not feel old, is the problem, though perhaps old men never do. Clinging on no matter the damage it does to their life’s work, but Cid has always sworn he would walk away if he believed he had lost his knack, if he ever managed less than his very best. He had put the work first and it cost him everything, the least Cid can do is keep that bargain for as long as possible.

Cid saw the end coming, and knew they’d ease him out with dignity and kindness, all the honors befitting Archadia’s greatest artificer, the man who’d given them dominance over the skies, and revolutionized… it didn’t matter. At the end of it all they would go away, his son off to live his own life and even Vayne moving on to the next great prodigy and there Cid would stand, alone outside the doors of Draklor. A respectable artifact put up on a shelf, to be dusted off and clapped at in the occasional celebration.

The trip to Giruvegan had been a fool’s errand, and had Vayne known what the Doctor was on about he never would have allowed it. Cid should not have done it and it should have killed him a thousand times over, but at the time such a fate had seemed no real consequence. What risk all the perils of the unknown, against the certainty of retirement? He wonders now if the Occurian had been watching him even then, protecting him - and there he’d seen the evidence of eons, technology so far beyond his understanding it might as well have been godcraft and if he had a thousand lifetimes, ten-thousand lifetimes…

Cid had better. He had Venat, and through that the Nethicite. No one else knew the Occurian’s secrets, the complex nature of its perilous gifts, and even with everything he’s told the best of his staff there’s little that happens without his direct supervision.

Venat had offered him time, a chance to be himself for that little while longer . He sold his soul for the knowledge, that’s plain - but what is Cidolfus Demen Bunansa, other than his work? It’s just as fair to say that Venat offered his soul back to him, and of course he’d all but tripped over himself to accept. His only real strike back against the ticking of the clock, perhaps - a few more years of challenge and discovery and then finally, to leave Draklor only when they wheeled him out feet-first.

How simple, and how foolish, and so terribly wrong.

A man of any honor would have ended it all with the first reports of Nabudis. He knows Vayne had kept close watch on him, those first few weeks, though needn’t have bothered. Cid is well aware he’s too much of a coward to end things as he should have. Even as the situation has progressed, as Rozarria’s fears over the Nethicite have pushed them closer to war, as the plans for that war led to more deaths at Nalbina - and then Cid, the ultimate fool of fools, had allowed Vayne to argue himself into the Necrohol, had watched the idiot boy put himself in the path of a punishment that should have been Cid’s alone.

He has always allowed others to handle his own responsibilities - first his wife, then Vayne. Now his chief of staff, a lovely and brilliant young girl who surely has far greater ambitions than babysitting the antiquated relic they all call Doctor. Cid is terminally absentminded, but fortunately he’s been able to pass it off as genius all this time. Vayne has indulged him, and seems to find it oddly endearing - even now, when Cid has set in motion a devastation beyond all earthly reckoning.

It was easier to consider the apocalypse with Vayne and his limitless sangfroid close at hand, but now Cid fights back a shiver. He cannot be surprised at it, truly. Ever since Nabudis had failed to finish them off, ever since that first moment, when Venat had cut its deal and Cid had wondered why, he’d known the Occuria would not give up. A defiance - his defiance - that had to be punished, and why would any god worthy of the name do less than wipe the slate clean, and begin anew with a more pliable world?

Yet even the impending apocalypse is not foremost in his mind, not when he had been there with Vayne and his brother and that one unguarded moment where Cid had surely seen Vayne shiver, even beneath the full weight of Rabanastre’s burning sun.

Venat had given him so much, more than Cid knows he will ever come to understand. He’d taken reams of notes, page after page of transcribing, diagrams and formulas riddled with question marks, places to fill in the answers when they came, when he could puzzle them out. The Nethicite, of course, always and first - but it was only one small fraction of what the Occurian knew.

It took a good deal of puzzling out, the first that Venat had explained it, for Cid to realize the Occurian was describing the process of putting Nethicite into a living body. It seemed impossible, a joke - he was an artificer, not a surgeon. Yet to Venat there seemed no difference, no more difficulty in altering a human body than swapping out engines in an airship.

Cid never asked for all the details. Of all the regrets of his life, this one stings most painfully now. At the time, it had simply seemed an avenue not worth pursuing, not for skills he didn’t have and had no reason to learn. It had been enough to work on the Nethicite, and after that there were ships to fit and new problems to solve and all the rest had faded into the background.

He’s gone over the notes since then, added to them - a mountain of research, and a charnel house’s worth of birds and mice and rabbits in an attempt to follow the ghost of those teachings, to do what Venat had assured him was possible.

If he can make it work, if he can figure it out he might yet be able to draw out the remains of the Midlight Shard from Vayne’s body. If not, perhaps more Nethicite in the proper fashion might counter the Shard’s effects, or at least buy them more time. He’d had a breakthrough, just before they’d left to work on the Alexander. Had it been any other project, Cid would have swept it to the side, but there are obligations to keep and appearances to maintain. It may be the only time he’s ever managed to keep a secret from Vayne, but Cid cannot say a thing until he is certain of success. He might not show an inch of fear at the thought of what is to come, but Vayne truly cannot be as calm as he seems. Cid will not give him false hope, not after all the damage he’s done.

At least for all of this insanity, they are now holding the Dusk Shard. Given a chance to study it, he may find the key to changing all their fates in one deft stroke.

———————————————————

“We have crossed the border, and shall arrive in Archades upon the hour.”

Larsa’s voice startles him from his dark reverie, as the boy settles into the seat across from him. Larsa has mostly occupied himself with a report for his father on all he has seen in Rabanastre - though perhaps with a few judicious edits. No doubt he will be looking for the opportunity at a return trip, though Cid doubts that will happen anytime soon. Now that the Emperor has his sons apart, it remains to be seen if he will let well enough alone. Or if this is but the opening move, the opportunity to convince the younger son of the elder’s sins.

Cid doubts even Gramis has the skill to implicate Vayne without revealing his own machinations. Despite concerted efforts on both sides to keep him ignorant of certain matters, Cid has often wondered just how much Larsa is aware of, the subtle edits of his family’s history, the careful maneuverings for power, all that Larsa must see but does not comment on. No one had thought Vayne would amount to much, either, a quiet, studious child - but he’d certainly shown them what he was capable of.

It will not happen again, Cid thinks. The Emperor will have to look elsewhere for his assassin, if he wishes for history to repeat itself.

Or he can simply wait. Gramis has no idea that Cid has already given him the victory he believes he desires.

“You miss her still.” Larsa says. It is only then that Cid realizes he is rolling his wedding band between his fingers, sliding it back and forth along the chain. A nervous habit he has never found the strength to rid himself of.

Cid nods. “Everyday.”

Gods, what must she think, watching over him now? He hopes he might have chosen better than to strive for glory, if she had remained at his side. He might have bowed out gracefully years ago, bid farewell to a long and respectable career. If she had been waiting, it might have been enough.

“How did you know it, when you met her,” Larsa says, “that she was…?”

“Oh, she picked me.” Cid chuckles. “Out of all the fools in the world, somehow I was the one she wanted.”

He’d been hiding in a corner at a party, his usual strategy for such events. Cid had the pedigree of his name but none of the grace, and little interest in bearing up under the weight of any expectations. His family didn’t know yet, that he had no ambitions to be Judge or Senator - bad enough that they thought he wanted to be a scholar. Cid had wisely chosen to face his fate as he always did, by distracting himself with whatever was convenient.

At least that night he’d been well provided for, a small, ornamental clock that did not play the tune it ought to have when the clock struck the hour. Cid was never without his tools, even back then, and he’d been tinkering his way through the problem, tiny gears and springs spread across the small end table, until a delicate hand had reached out, the cog she picked up catching the light like a jewel.

“I’d say I knew from the moment I saw her, but she was…” Enough to take Cid’s breath away, even in memory. “Anyone would have said the same. Anyone in that room would have wanted her by their side forever. Half the upper Houses were already making offers to her parents. All that I knew, the moment I saw her, was that I didn’t have a chance.”

She’d wondered what he was doing, and Cid had stammered his way through some short explanation - he’d known by then, at least, that most people preferred the briefest summary they could stomach, and he’d expected her to leave right after. Instead, she’d stayed, tucked away from the party and watching him quietly and when he’d wound up all the gears and set the little clock to chime and sing she’d laughed, delighted. She’d called it marvelous - she’d called him marvelous.

“Your family must have been pleased, then, when she showed an interest.”

“Oh gods, no. A girl of her House, of her quality, with me? My family name was noble enough, but I was aiming above my station and everyone in Archades knew it. My father was… well, baffled, frankly, and then quite angry. No reason we should make such a ridiculous scene, and I was behaving quite foolishly and her parents were absolutely furious.”

Cid had nodded and scraped and kept his eyes down, played the penitent son - but he’d still begged to see her, notes passed along in intrigues he’d never imagined he might be part of. When she’d said yes he’d been there with a skybike at her bedroom window, sneaking out into the darkness to watch the stars and speak of their dreams and a future he barely dared imagine, the two of them together. The bike had broken down only once, and she’d laughed while he’d fixed it and teased him with kisses, knowing he wouldn’t touch her with his hands covered in engine grime.

“I remember, she said that I loved her for who she was, and not for what she could do for me. That I was the only one of her suitors who listened to a thing she said, and thought her more than just a silly girl.” He smiles. “She was so much more. It was all her idea, when her family denied me, when they demanded we part - she was the one who insisted we elope.”

“Truly?” Larsa’s eyes sparkle at that, a bit of rebellion always preferable to the straight and narrow. He is so like his brother.

“Yes, even I was not always a boring old man.” It’s a lie, Cid had been in his dotage practically from the time he could walk, but it is nice to remember that when he’d had the chance to be young and brave he hadn’t faltered. He hadn’t failed her then.

“So what happened next? You ran away?”

He would have, for her. Cid could have found well-paying work in any corner of the Empire. It wouldn’t have been glamorous, but he would have done all he could to make her happy - and he can’t help but wonder, once again, where it all might have ended if there’d never been a Draklor or a Doctor to begin with.

“Fortunately, her parents realized she would not be moved, and finally saw reason. An elopement would be an even worse scandal than an artificer in the family. So there was an elaborate and awkward celebration that likely cost as much as a middle-sized cruiser, so that everyone who thought we were making a terrible mistake might wish us well.”

So they were wed, and Cid had made her all sorts of little trinkets with whatever happened to be around his workshop, anything that might make her smile, and he’d broken and then fixed all sorts of things around the home they’d been gifted, a lesser estate of some dowager aunt. They had been happy for a while, then, purely and simply happy and he had been too young to understand what kind of a gift that was.

Larsa frowns. “I never realized it was seen as such a terrible thing, to be an artificer.”

“It’s much better than it used to be, your brother’s helped see to that. I think mine was the last generation to treat it as an indelible black mark.”

Of course, this being Archades there’s always a few who prefer to live as if the last century had never happened. Cid discovered later than he would have liked that his current head of development had been disowned the moment he’d announced his intentions, and had lived much of his undergraduate life jumping from one cot to the next, paying his way through school by overhauling the ships of his still-wealthy friends.

“I was there to see it change - supposedly I played my part in it, but there were so many of us, and the whole world was changing. I think it would have happened on its own, sooner or later.” Cid grins. “A double-edged sword, at any rate - they invited me to more parties, bigger ones. It was much harder to find a curtain to hide behind.”

Larsa nods, as young as he is yet well-versed in the requirements of his station, hours of celebrations that are truly just presentations, where simply looking relaxed is a performance.

“My wife even knew your mother, for a very little while.”

“I never heard that.”

A story Cid has never bothered to mention, because like so many other times, he was not there to see much of it. The story of the second Empress is a pitiable thing, by any measure. A young girl, innocent and delicate - and ultimately no more than the means to an end. Did she know it? How could she not?

“It was not easy for her in Archades. The Empress was very shy, and the expectations of the court weighed quite heavily on her. My wife enjoyed their time together - I dare say it was as if she’d found a younger sister, and I know that the Empress spoke often of her hopes for you. She was so excited and proud to have a child - not for the empire, or her own family’s prestige, but for herself.”

… and then his wife had died, and the Empress quickly followed and Cid does not remember much of the year beyond that. Strange, how many years have passed since then - the whole of Larsa’s lifetime - and yet there are times Cid still thinks of himself as that foolish young man tinkering away in the shadows.

Larsa is quiet, thinking of the past, or perhaps even his current situation. Cid wonders if Larsa has spoken with Gabranth, and asked the Judge Magister to leave certain events out of his report for now. No one else could get away with such a request, but he very well might. Cid certainly liked the girl - she was bold, and yet careful with her words, a natural diplomat. The sort of person who might do very well for herself in Archadia, if Larsa continued to hold an interest and hers did not waver and the world refrained from spinning itself into the abyss.

“Doctor, I did wonder…” A slight frown furrows the boy’s brow. “My brother, did he seem…”

Cid will not enjoy this lie, but he will not say a word, less to do with respecting Vayne’s wishes than not wanting to hear the truth himself. As if he can avoid it as long as he stays silent. What a magnificent coward - and yet he will be the one to find a miracle cure? He will wrest Vayne’s life from the hands of the gods?

Yes. Cid is a coward, but a stubborn one, and there is no other outcome he can bear.

“No, nevermind.” Larsa shakes his head. “It is nothing.”

The ship shifts slightly, perhaps the very beginning of their descent into the city. He is looking forward to being back in his lab, back to being in control of at least some small portion of the world. He can - if he is very, very lucky - find some way to undo the damage done to Vayne, but even if by some impossible measure he manages to forge a true Treaty Blade, they do not have the Sun Cryst and their only path to it lies through a banished Queen who would surely prefer to destroy them all, no matter the cost.

At the moment, Vayne is counting on Cid’s son alone to keep them from such a fate. Balthier in the eye of the storm, though it may very well be where he soars highest. He is alive. He has his ship and his freedom, and knows better than to trust the Marquis or any of his lackeys, knows better than to let any of the Shards fall into ambitious hands. Cid taught him that, along with the mistrust of gods and of fathers. Balthier will surely argue Ashelia of Dalmasca out of wielding the Sun-Cryst, he will not believe it is a weapon without consequence and perhaps she might listen to him - he is charming. Or perhaps he will not give her the chance - he is a rogue.

Cid has too much to do already, to pay further mind to what he cannot change. So many possibilities, so many fates - and yet perhaps… he might see his son again. Far from a sensible wish, nothing he could say that the boy would believe, no apology he would want. Cid could only do more damage to their cause, especially now - after Nabudis, after the occupation and death and injustice his son had scorned his country for, had abandoned his name for. If they were to meet again, Cid might not come out of such a reunion unscathed, if at all. At any rate, better to keep his mind on what he can fix, and not borrow trouble when the present is hardly on his side.

And yet. Perhaps.

——————————————

Judge Magister Drace stands ready at the dock to greet Larsa and ignore Cid completely, but she is not alone. A second Judge stands a few paces away, stepping forward before Cid is even on solid ground.

“Doctor Bunansa. The Emperor wishes to speak with you at once.”

“Ah, and not even time to shake off the travel dust?”

Cid chuckles, forcing the smile even as his gut clenches, as the soldier doesn’t react. He’d known this was coming, the reason he’d informed the Emperor of his departure only after they were beyond the borders of the Empire, with no real way to call him back. His Excellency is always annoyed to be reminded of where the Doctor’s first loyalty lies, and Vayne had offered to send him back with some incriminating gossip, though Cid knows how this will go. He will bow and scrape and assure the Emperor of his obedience and then be sent back off to the labs, because his work is valuable and the Emperor isn’t truly concerned that the Doctor will betray him.

If he didn’t know better, Cid would think it far more petty than that. A simple jealousy, that Vayne would call and Cid would go and Gramis has no place in any of it.

Larsa bids him farewell, and from there it’s a short trip in a private skycab, Cid mulling over his apologies as the rooftops of the lower districts blur by below.

It may be more than simply a matter of groveling at this meeting. Having the Dusk Shard in their possession brings a whole host of problems in its wake. Surely the expectation will be for him to duplicate its power, to immediately bend his will to growing crystal of its kind, and the Emperor will not be pleased when Cid tells him it is impossible. Venat often expected greater wonders of him than Cid had any hope of achieving, and even it had never expected him to manage anything like the Dusk Shard. Trying to explain science to bureaucrats is quite like speaking to first-years at the Alchemical College - yes, these two crystals look alike, but one will do nothing while the other will happily set a room on fire. Or destroy half a continent. Nabudis. The world.

The Judge brings him in a lift to the largest of the Emperor’s meeting rooms - red walls and a stone floor decorated in chips of pale green, great sculptures along the border as much threat as adornment. Cid is quite familiar with counting the tiles in the floor, this room the one Gramis prefers for all his formal dressings down, and he is not surprised when his escort does not follow him in. Cid steps forward, eyes down, shoulders carefully bent in supplication.

“Good afternoon, your Excellency. I hope that I-“

He glances up. The Emperor is not alone. Judge Bergan stands on his left and Judge Ghis is on his right and on the table before him a large stack of books and an impossible, familiar bird in a heavy cage. Cid wonders if there are bloodstains on the desk. He wonders how many times the Emperor had to watch it shudder and twist its way back to life before he believed.

He wants to be mad. Cid wants to be every inch the foolish lunatic so many believe him to be. A man like that wouldn’t care about this, and insanity would free him from any further betrayal.

He wants to be mad.

“I am glad to see you, Doctor. I hope your journey was not too exhausting.”

Cid looks from bird to book to Judge and back again, but they are all patient enough to wait, to let him choke on his reply.

“I… no, Your Grace. I am quite well.”

It had to be Ghis who managed all this, it had to be - but how? Cid’s rooms should have been locked away, utterly impenetrable. He’s not that careless, not by half. Who could have bypassed the safeguards, and why? How could anyone have ever known to look?

“Excellent. I would have preferred it had you been slightly more cautious than to journey towards disaster, yet it seems all has turned out for the best.”

“… yes, your Grace.”

The Emperor is not a cruel man. Cid understands that now, more fully than he ever wanted to. He assumed a war between his sons was inevitable, and sought to spare his country the grief of it. Choosing the time and method for such a rebellion himself, rather than seeing what fate would bring to him.

Cid knows what it is to live in constant dread, and how heavy desperation can bear on even the smallest decision. Just look at all he has done to the world, without meaning any harm. Imagine what he might yet do, in trying to fix his mistakes?

Gramis is not evil, but an Emperor’s errors in judgment are those of a dreadnought, not a skybike. If he were a merchant, a man of letters it would only be a matter of a business failed, perhaps a fortune lost - but he is Gramis Gana Solidor, and so here they stand, with nothing left but murder and armageddon and the overthrow of nations.

“While you were away, Judge Ghis brought some rather fascinating research of yours to my attention. It seems you have made a marvelous breakthrough. Really, such exceptional work despite so many demands on your time. You truly are a gift to the Empire.”

“It is only one of many experiments, Your Eminence.” Cid watches the Emperor’s hand, resting upon the closest book as if it were a favored pet. It feels as if he’s swallowed water crystal, the whole world cold and wavering. “I had intended further study on my return from the Alexander.”’

The Judge Magisters remain silent, two warden-protectors of some forgotten crypt. Vayne had always known Ghis’ allegiance to be untrustworthy, that the Judge Magister would cross him at the first opportunity. Bergan, however - he’d thought he might reason with Bergan, though that is surely impossible now. He has found the better deal.

“I am no scientist, Doctor - but I would presume the next step seems rather obvious.”

He tries to smile, though it feels like the grimace of an animal in a trap, straining to break free.

“I did not bring this information to Your Excellency’s attention because I believed it would all end in nothing. Indeed, that beast before you is the only sign of success I have had thus far. I would never wish to disappoint-“

“I have always been a good Emperor to you, have I not, Doctor?”

Oh, hell.

“Yes, milord.”

“I believe I have tried, at least. Yet even on the eve of our impending conflict with Rozarria, it seems there may be those lurking in the shadows of our own halls who would seek even greater harm on our Empire.”

Yes, Cid thinks. They’re standing right behind you. Yet Gramis would never believe it, not now. Ghis has seen to that.

“Your Grace, I…”

“It is odd, don’t you think? I assumed my son would ask for reinforcements, for soldiers and armaments - and yet his first thought was to send for you.”

“Milord, there is no need-“

A vindictive, bitter flash sweeps over the Emperor’s features, all signs of age and weakness burning away.

“Do not presume, Doctor, that I am unaware of what happens in my empire, or that I have not wondered if perhaps your lab has long grown past its intended station. It seems to me that you all think rather highly of yourselves, that your position here has led you to believe you stand on equal footing with all, or that perhaps you have even surpassed us?”

“Draklor has never has any ambitions beyond those of pure science, serving the interests of Archadia and the throne above all. I have never-“

“Yet you would keep this from me!?” This?!” Gramis’ voice thunders like it hasn’t in years, and the bird startles in its cage as he brings his hand down against the desk. “I am forced to question where your true allegiances lie. It is not the first that I have done so.”

Maybe it is Bergan who moves, just enough to hear his armor clink.

“I swear to you, Majesty, I have concealed nothing. The research is half-formed at best, of no use to anyone in its current state. I would need time…”

“Then time I shall gladly grant you. You are to work on nothing else, Doctor, until you have perfected this process. Judge Magisters Ghis and Bergan shall be your first subjects.”

His throat is dry, with a thousand tiny aches tell him how hard he is cringing and this, this is what Vayne had lived through, and what he worked so hard to defend himself against. This is what it looks like when the Emperor sets all his will on the worst possible course of action.

“It will kill them both. I cannot-“

The Emperor shakes his head, tutting softly, as if at an impertinent child.

“I have funded your genius for too long to believe in such modesty. Any failure will only be on your head, Doctor. You and all those who follow you.”

Would he truly strike at Draklor now, with Rozarria poised to attack? Could he so easily wipe out the labs, all those who count on Cid to defend them, all those brilliant, irreplaceable minds? The Emperor he has served would never consider such a path - but this is no longer that man. Gramis sees eternity, the chance to wrest victory from Vayne and from death at the last possible moment, and no sacrifice is too costly for such a prize.

“Your Grace, I cannot advise on this course of action.”

“Do try again, Doctor.”

Stay alive, Cid. It’s Vayne’s voice he hears, calm and steady. Wait for it, have patience and they’ll give you the opportunity you need - but for now, just stay alive.

He swallows, the acid taste heavy on his tongue, and bows low.

“I am honored for this opportunity to serve the Empire.”