Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once, in a time long before us, there was a woman known as the Sun. 

The Sun was the most radiant woman in all the world. She had long golden hair and a golden heart that burned with warmth. Her soul shone so brightly that it lit up the whole world, and each day she would sing out to the sky, dazzling all the heavens with her light. 

The world heard her song, and was enchanted by it, honored to have witnessed her lonely lullaby. Each time the Sun sang, the forests bloomed with color, the trees and flowers growing to new heights, the seas sparkling like jewels for her eyes alone. And so, though the Sun hung alone in the skies, she found comfort in watching the world below, and was happy despite her loneliness.

But one day, as the Sun slipped below the hills to rest, she saw a beautiful woman dancing on the seas…

.

.

.

 “Are you nervous?”

Corona Kingdom at sunset is a sight to behold. High above, on the tallest hill just before Corona’s great border wall, the whole kingdom sprawls out below them. As the sun sets and the shadows lengthen, the sky colors from red to midnight purple. The stars peek out from the horizon edge, and the far-off setting sun casts dark shadows against the mountainous hills, painting the roiling bay a deep shining gold. Against the slowly darkening sky, the capital city of Corona seems almost like a mountain itself—a twisting spiral of ancient stonework and cobbled roads, lights dancing up and down the streets, turning the fabled trading city into a beacon in the fading sunlight.

Together, their small group huddles in the shadows, watching that distant sunset fade away. Their eyes track the meanderings paths of the light, the clusters of villages and the beaten roads. The wind whistles low and crooning through ice-laden trees, snow pooling at their feet, slushy from the warmth of the coming spring. The scent of salt blows in from the far-off harbors, the smell so strong it’s like standing right by the sea. 

Rapunzel closes her eyes to the sight, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Not really,” she replies, in answer to Eugene’s question. She takes a breath and opens her eyes, her gaze distant and dream-like. She isn’t so much looking at the city as she is looking beyond it, through the sunset and past the horizon, onwards into the stars. The last rays of sunlight catch and gleam in her heavy braid of golden hair. “I’m just…”

She doesn’t finish, the words trailing off into silence. Beside her, Eugene reaches out and hooks his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. He looks as tired and disheveled as Rapunzel feels—his usually styled hair rumpled from sleep, his traveling vest turned a dusty gray from the road, a wan pallor to his usually unwavering megawatt smile. The three days of rushed traveling hasn’t done him—or anyone, really—any favors. Rapunzel is well aware of how badly he smells right now, and just as aware of how bad she must smell. Seventy feet of unwashed hair: a nightmare for everyone involved.

At the time, when they were still on the road, once they’d realized how close to Corona they actually were, the rush had felt only natural. Why wouldn’t they race back? But now, three days later and lacking sorely on much-needed sleep, feeling aches and pains in places she didn’t know could have aches and pains, Rapunzel has a very different opinion.

Even so, they can’t be blamed for their haste. Home— it’s like a siren song, an irresistible pull. To be so close to Corona, yet so far—the need had been irresistible. But now they are within reach of the walls, and Rapunzel’s mind is clear.

They are tired, sore, and dirty—and home, no matter how sweet it sounds, isn’t likely to be the dream arrival Rapunzel once hoped for.

Still, the warmth of Eugene by her side makes something deep in her chest unwind, lightens the heavy load of her thoughts. She lets herself be drawn back into his hug, making herself comfortable in the nest of his arms.

Eugene laughs, rocking her back and forth. “You’re weirdly cuddly when you’re tired, Blondie, I ever tell you that?”

Rapunzel smiles into his arm. “No,” she says. “Because I’m always cuddly.”

“Oof. A solid rebuttal. Can’t argue with that.” He rocks her again, and then his head lifts, tired eyes trailing back to the horizon. Rapunzel follows his gaze. They look at it together for a long moment. 

“Drinking it in?” Eugene says, after a pause.

“Overwhelmed,” Rapunzel decides. She tucks her head under his chin, breathing in the faint scent of pine from his vest. Dusty and dirty they may be, but Rapunzel has long since gotten used to the trials and troubles of living on the road. The smell comforts her, in its own way. She sighs against his chest. “It’s not nerves , really…”

Footsteps crunch in the snow behind her. Cassandra slips into view by Rapunzel’s left side, her short hair stuffed up under a winter cap and the soles of her snow boots caked with wet mud.

“Packing is all done. Maximus and Fidela are set to leave when we are,” she announces, smacking stray specks of ice from her coat. She glances up, casting a brief side-eye at Rapunzel. “Though to be honest, we could’ve left hours ago. Gotten back before sunset, even.”

Rapunzel dithers. “I’m sorry, I was just so tired—”

“Raps.”

Rapunzel looks away, shame hot in her throat. Her excuse sounds weak even to her. Rapunzel can be clumsy, yes, but her “mishaps” during their last break—dropping the water pail over the saddles, tripping dirt into the fire, losing her pack—well. In hindsight, it’d been a very, very obvious attempt to stall. She’s not surprised they caught on.

Nevertheless, Cassandra’s prodding makes Rapunzel shrink back. Her smile is forced and thin, her eyes dropping down to the dirt. Her gloved hands twitch with the urge to reach up and tug at her hair—an old habit, a nervous tick—her hands rising up before Rapunzel can even think about it.

But Cassandra has already noticed. She reaches out and takes Rapunzel’s raised hands in a grip that is light yet firm. She brings both their hands back down by their sides. 

Rapunzel blinks fast, looks down at their joined hands—and her smile flickers.

“You are nervous,” Cassandra observes, ever merciless, bringing back that question from earlier. She squeezes her hand, a gentle pressure above the wrist. Her pale eyes search Rapunzel’s face intently, as if looking for the answer. “Aren’t you?”

It’s not really a question. Rapunzel bites at her lower lip, half-pulling away from Cassandra’s hold. She wraps her arms around herself in a makeshift hug, and looks aside, not wanting to see the knowing expression on Cassandra’s face. 

 “Well,” Rapunzel says softly, and shrinks a little more into Eugene’s arms. He holds her up without comment. “…Can you blame me?”

Cassandra doesn’t answer that. Her lips press in a thin line, and her eyes dart away, a quick glance over to the burning horizon. She makes a face at the air.

“Yeah.” Rapunzel understands the sentiment almost too well. She looks back over to Corona’s shining, distant light, and gives a heavy sigh. “Oh, I hate feeling like this. I spent all that time missing home, and now…!”

Cassandra gives a wordless hum of agreement. Eugene’s arms tighten around Rapunzel, a quiet hug. They don’t say anything more, but then—they don’t really need to.

Behind them, a loud snap rings through the woods, a branch broken under the weight of iron horseshoes. Maximus trots up to their side, huffing white steam from his nose as he swings his head around to take in the view. Pascal, perched up like a king on the white horse’s head, is wide-eyed and watching. In the shadow of the trees, Fidela grazes quietly at the few grasses poking up from the melting snow.

Rapunzel smiles at them, reaching out. Pascal leaps off Maximus’s head and into her hand without mishap, and she brings him to her chest, cradling him close. “Sorry,” she says, stroking a finger down Pascal’s spine. “Didn’t mean to leave you all waiting.”

Pascal gives her a scolding sort of squeak and races up to her shoulder. Rapunzel laughs.

“Yes, yes,” she says. “I know.” She scratches at his chin and hums lightly under her breath. “What do you think, Pascal? Doesn’t Corona look just as we left it?”

She keeps her voice light and airy, and her smile stays strong. But Pascal stares at her with an uncertain expression, and next to them, Cassandra looks up and exchanges a glance with Eugene, wordless and indecipherable. Rapunzel doesn’t bother trying to translate the look, though she does resist the urge to roll her eyes. She hates it when they do that. It’s one of the things that followed them out of the Dark Kingdom—Pascal’s constant worry, Cassandra and Eugene’s wordless communication, and Rapunzel’s… 

Well.

“Are you sure you want to wait until midnight?” Cassandra asks, finally. It’s a tactful change of subject, but Rapunzel’s frown only deepens. She doesn’t really want to talk about this either. “It’s not too late. If we hurry we can arrive by the last evening bell. I’m sure the people would love to see your return.”

“I’m sure.” About this, at least, Rapunzel is certain. She fiddles with her gloves, the leather stiff and warm against her skin, a new addition to her wardrobe that Rapunzel is still getting used to. In lieu of messing with her hair, tugging at her gloves is quickly becoming Rapunzel’s newest bad habit. 

Sure enough: Cassandra zeroes in on the fussing. Her eyes narrow, her scowl disapproving.  Rapunzel smiles faintly at the sight. 

“Cass,” she coaxes, drawing Cassandra’s attention back to her. “I’m sure. I miss them all so much, but…”

She trails off again, and her eyes draw back to that distant silhouette. On the black horizon of a now dusky evening, Corona’s distant capital city shines like a pale star. The late hour means most of the light probably comes from only the castle and the streetlamps, now, as the rest of the city slowly falls asleep—but still, the light remains. Even if dulled by distance and half-swallowed by the rolling hills and great woods, there is no mistaking that light and the city it belongs to. 

In this light, in this view—Corona is beautiful. But for all that some part of her is singing home, home, home at the sight… despite the beauty, Rapunzel feels cold in a way that has nothing to do with the winter wind.

“The rumors,” Eugene realizes, and he stills as he says it, a careful sort of stillness he only gets when he’s bracing himself for a blow.

Rapunzel looks down again. “…Yeah.”

There is a long silence. Their breathing is almost too loud in the night air, quiet but for the distant chitter of birds. 

“It could be nothing,” Cassandra offers, carefully neutral, but even she doesn’t sound like she really believes it. “I mean— rumors of this sort are commonplace in politics. It could simply be an attempt to… to make Corona lose face. Nothing more.”

“Maybe,” Rapunzel allows, and turns to meet Cassandra’s eye. Her handmaiden, guard, and dearest friend looks haggard, and the press of her lips doesn’t speak of optimistic thinking. “Do you really think so?”

Cassandra’s mouth twists. She looks away.

Rapunzel folds her hands in front of her, fighting the urge to lace her fingers. “Still,” she says, after a pause. “I mean… even so…” The sun has almost set now. The sky is stained a beautiful ruby red, and Rapunzel smiles to see it, wishing not for the first time for some canvas and paint. “I—I am glad. To be here. To be home.” She almost sighs the word, and her breath catches on a sudden giggle. “I almost didn’t think we’d ever make it back!”

“Hah!” Eugene says, and he squints at the distant city. “Doesn’t feel quite real, does it?”

Cassandra scoffs. “‘Course it doesn’t feel real,” she retorts, dry as a desert. “It’s been—what, over half a year since we’ve been gone? Six extra months to make it back! I’d consider it weirder if it didn’t feel off.”

Over a year, Rapunzel thinks to herself, and her smile slips. She looks down and rubs absently at the palm of her hand. Eight months in total, she knows, give or take a few weeks. Eight months away from home. Eight months, come and gone. What has changed in her absence? Is it better or worse for things to be different?

Eugene must notice her mood turn, because he squeezes her to his side, his hand rubbing circles against her shoulder. “C’mon, Blondie, don’t look like that. It’s not your fault it took this long. We were in way less rush to return, anyway. Racing ourselves to the ground to get back, the same way we did leaving? Man, we’d be miserable.”

Rapunzel hums, unconvinced. “I know, I know.”

“Snow makes it hard to travel,” Cassandra adds, pointedly. Rapunzel eyes her. Cassandra refuses to back down. “There’s plenty of reasons why we were delayed. The King will understand.”

Maybe. Hopefully. The lack of communication after Rapunzel informed him of her late return doesn’t speak well to that. That isn’t really what worries her, though.

Rapunzel presses a little harder at her palm, feeling the rough pull of scarred flesh through the glove. It hurts, a little. Even after all this time, the wounds still ache, even if the scar tissue has built up after the months of careful care. Her fingers feel stiff and tight. “Mm,” she says. “But… I didn’t really help there, did I?”

“Don’t look at it like that!” Eugene protests, shaking her a little, as if to chase that thought from her head. “Don’t you remember what the doctor said?”

“Which part?” Rapunzel asks, smiling a little at the memory. On her shoulder, Pascal shakes his head, still annoyed over it. The doctor had said many things upon seeing Rapunzel’s hands, most of them rude and unrepeatable. 

“Damn impossible!” Eugene quotes, pitching his voice in an unconvincing falsetto. “Meaning, in normal circumstances… Our return should have taken even longer, so! Six months? Blondie, we were speeding.”

Rapunzel snorts despite herself, biting her lip hard against a fit of giggles. “I wouldn’t say that!” 

But she’s smiling now, truly and honestly, her heart lightened, and she can tell by Eugene’s pleased grin that was his goal all along. She lifts on her toes and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “But thanks for making me feel better. You’re right. You’re both right. I’m home! That’s the important thing. I really am being silly, aren’t I?”

They both smile at her—Eugene, dopey and sweet; Cassandra, exasperated but fond. Rapunzel smiles bravely back and slips out from under Eugene’s arm, stepping up towards the lip of the hill. 

The grass is cold and frozen under her bare feet, still wet from melting snow. The salt on the sea breeze burns in her nose. Rapunzel wriggles her toes in the dirt and looks down over her sleeping kingdom. “And I know that. I do.”

Pascal nudges her cheek. She turns into the touch, and her smile fades. “I know that,” Rapunzel repeats, quieter now. “I know . But still, I…” 

She sighs again, long and heavy, the sound dredged up somewhere deep in her chest. She turns away from the horizon and looks beside her, reaching out to press one hand against dark stone. 

Even with her leather glove as a barrier, blue light sparks bright at Rapunzel’s fingertips, traveling up the length of a towering spike. Crosshair patterns glow white-hot and deadly. The tip of the spire, a perfect edge, pierces the sky like a sword. They scour the hills, clutter under the trees, break up through the road—enough to turn the whole Coronan countryside into a spiny deathtrap, tearing the horizon in two.

Caught in the dim red glow of the setting sun, the black rocks burn with a sinister light.

“I just can’t help but worry,” Rapunzel says sadly, and finally turns away.

.

There is darkness all around him, cold and cruel. It presses against his eyelids like a lead weight. His dreams are formless and golden. There is pain prickling up his leg, searing from his ear, lightning under his skin that burns him alive. A pressure sits heavy on his chest, pressing down. He can’t breathe. He can’t speak. He can’t even scream.

“Hey, you.”

The darkness breaks open, shattered by pale light. The silent dream gives in, replaced by the faint whistling of the wind. There’s a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Child. Little boy. Hey!”

When Varian blinks his eyes open, the world is blurred, a mess of color and shadow and light. Burning sunlight silhouettes the vague form of a stranger standing over him. There’s a buzzing in his ears, a fog sticking to the edges of his thoughts. 

Even in the midst of the haze, though, Varian recognizes enough to know the stranger is annoyed with him. His own nose scrunches up on reflex. Hey yourself, he almost snaps, but then he notices the heavy weight of Ruddiger sleeping curled up on his chest, and his irritation fades. Ruddiger will be fussy if Varian is mean for no reason. He suspects it’s the raccoon’s way of scolding him.

“You cannot be here. Wake up, boy. Wake up!”

This shout is accompanied by a soft nudge to the ribs, like he’s been poked by someone’s shoe. It’s not a painful blow, but it’s enough to effectively break the last of Varian’s dozing. He lurches up with a yelp, sending Ruddiger falling into his lap and the stranger—a small woman about Adira’s age, with sun-darkened skin and a heavy scowl—leaning back, hands on her hips. 

“Well?” she says shortly, her accent clipped. “Are you up? Go on, then.”

“What?” Varian says blankly. He blinks and rubs hard at his eyes. The strange woman is still there. He has… no idea who she is. “W-what?”

“What do you mean, what?” the woman snaps back, like she isn’t an absolute stranger yelling at Varian for no good reason. Her dark hair is cut short, curling wildly about her face; her eyes are as black as ink. Her foot taps restlessly against the dock. “You cannot sleep here, it is not allowed. You are lucky that I am the one who found you. Go , before the dockhands come and chase you out.”

“What?” Varian repeats, bewildered, but even as he says it the fog has lifted, the tinged exhaustion of sleep bleeding away. He rubs again at his eyes with one bare hand, pushing up from the wall to stand unsteady on his feet. Ruddiger rolls off his stomach to fall in a heap by Varian’s toes, snuffling sleepily in the sun.

Varian squints up at the woman, yawning absently into the sleeve of his arm. His mind feels stuck in molasses. “I…” Her words finally register, and Varian shoots bolt upright. “Oh. Oh .” 

He scrambles to regain his presence of mind, sweeping Ruddiger off the ground and cuddling the pile of sleepy raccoon close to his chest as he edges his way out of the corner. “Oh, um, sorry. I didn’t…”

He looks around, wincing in the light. The docks are alive with life and light, people shuffling back and forth on wooden walkways. The small corner Varian had slept in—a shaded space wedged between a cargo hold and a warehouse—is one of the few places left untouched by the sun shining high, high above.

… Very high above.

Oh, damn it. Last thing Varian remembers it was morning, the sun barely starting to rise, but judging by the heat and that shine, it’s now either noon or a few hours past that. He’s screwed up. He’d only meant to lay down for a little bit, just rest his eyes, but by the looks of things, he’s severely misjudged his own exhaustion. 

Adira, too, is nowhere in sight. She’s left him here on his own, once again. 

Varian takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His teeth grit. His fingers curl deep in Ruddiger’s thick fur, holding tight, his hand shaking—then slowly, slowly steadying, the tremors easing away with every calming breath.

“Sorry,” Varian says again, to the woman. A thought strikes him, and he sucks in a sharp breath, one hand slamming down to check his satchel; the weight of the wallet at his hip, still heavy, nearly makes him wheeze with relief. Oh, bless, he hasn’t been robbed. “Um, I’ll go.”

“Good,” the woman says shortly. She looks severely unimpressed with Varian’s everything, and she’s still tapping her foot. “You are lucky no one tripped over you. Very lucky indeed. What sort of fool…” She trails off, and abruptly squints down at him, her scowl falling into a frown.

Varian eyes her warily. “…Look, I said I was sorry, I really didn’t mean to—” 

“What’s your name?” she asks abruptly.

A flash of fear strikes through him, and he has to take a moment to regain his breath. “W-what? I’m—V-Vell. Why?”

The woman is still frowning. She pushes one hand back through her hair and scratches at her scalp. “Vell… hmph. Do I know you?”

He blinks blankly back. “Uh. No? I just got here.”

She considers him, chewing on the inside of her lip, and for a moment—for a moment, despite the sunshine and the chatter and the crowd, Varian no longer feels warm, and no longer feels safe. There is something about the look in her eye, the angle of her head, that makes him feel bizarrely targeted.

Then the woman shrugs, and the strange intensity breaks, the threat gone as if it’d never been. “Hmm, well. Do avoid sleeping on the docks in the future, yes? The shop fronts are much kinder.” She gestures, waving on hand to the streets. “Off you go.”

Varian takes a shaky breath and leans down to brush off his coat, trying to hide the tremor in his hands. “Okay,” he says. He feels faintly ill. What on earth was that?

He pushes past it and straightens up, turning away so he doesn’t have to look at the woman, shading his eyes from the sunny glare. It’s still achingly cold out, but this far down south the coming spring season is both brighter and hotter than anything Varian’s used to. His borrowed clothes, leftover winter wear from caravans and cheap merchants, are practically scorching him. “Okay,” he repeats, quietly, to himself. He takes one last breath and turns back to the woman. “U-um, where’s—where’s the market?”

He gets his directions in-between bouts of scolding and suspicious squinting, and then skips off the docks before the woman can think to question him again. Behind him, he can hear a sudden intake of breath, as if in realization, and a sharp “Wait!”—but Varian is already gone, vanished in the crowd.

He hurries through the throngs of people, keeping his head low. His breath rattles in his chest. Ruddiger is silent in his arms. Thankfully, the woman doesn’t reappear again, and after a little while Varian relaxes. He must have gotten away successfully, then. 

He’s not sure what she wanted, or what she realized—but he’s glad he didn’t stick around to find out. 

Safe and now firmly awake, Varian tugs up his coat collar to hide his face better and moves back into the heart of the crowd. The once-empty harbor is now bursting with life—dock-hands and merchants and ports stuffed full of ships, sea spray soaking the aging wood and colorful banners waving high in the air, their colors mingling into a mish-mashed rainbow. The pound of feet and raised voices creates a steady drumming din in his ears.

The harbor of Port Caul is one of the busiest in the country, if Varian remembers correctly. Small, close-knit, and placed securely between miles of flat farmland, the coastal city is apparently well-known for shipping fresh and bountiful fruit out and bringing in just about anything. If you wanted something strange, out-of-the-way, and downright bizarre without having to leave the western continent, you went to Port Caul. 

Varian hadn’t known this before maybe three hours ago; everything he learned about this town had been in the dead hours of yesterday night, so late his eyelids had drooped and his head felt fuzzed, as Adira lobbed random city facts at him and repeatedly mused aloud on his inattention. There had been plenty of other facts about the city in her spiraling story, but whatever color the war flag and whatever the decoration in the churches, all Varian can remember now is the bit about the harbor.

This is, of course, probably because Varian was just sleeping on it.

For all that it was a rather comfortable sleep, dreams aside—the dock had been so, so warm; no matter how brisk the winter chill or how merciless the sea spray, those wood planks, warmed from the glaring white winter sun, had made for a nice and cozy place to curl up and nap—Varian wishes he’d managed to stay awake. Or, perhaps more accurately, he wishes Adira had actually cared enough to wake him up.

This isn’t the first time she’s left him behind, given him a job and then skipped off to let him fail alone, but it doesn’t get any easier no matter how many times she does it. It doesn’t make waking any less horrible, and it doesn’t make dealing with her any easier either.

He doesn’t even know why he’s even here. He knows Port Caul is a nice town, he knows there’s a bookstore he has to find and a package he has to pick up, but why he needs it and why they came here now— the things he needs and wants to know—these things, Adira does not tell him.

He hisses under his breath at the memory and aggressively dodges pedestrians as he marches onward. At his shoulder, Ruddiger gives a big yawn and blinks sleepy eyes at their surroundings, more and more awake as they head away from the docks and into the city proper. When Varian reaches up to pet him, the raccoon’s pelt is warm from hours in the sun, and Ruddiger chitters in his ear. Varian almost smiles. 

“This place got busy, huh?”

Ruddiger gives a sad little coo at that. Which, yeah. The city isn’t looking any better than the docks—the streets are crowded, the air buzzing with noise and life. 

And to think. Varian isn’t even at the market street yet. 

Varian sighs, already dreading it. Damn Adira and her useless errands anyway. “Yeah, I know. Hang in there, buddy. It’ll be quick.” 

Ruddiger curls up and settles, and Varian goes back to navigating his way through the streets. Port Caul, while smaller than other cities Varian’s seen, has become something entirely new under the midday sun. The amount of people walking around could rival the busyness of even Corona’s capital city, the market stalls flung open and the shops stuffed full of people. 

Despite himself, Varian cannot help but compare it to Corona. If not for the strange styles of dress and the heady scent of foreign spices on the breeze, it would be almost a mirror image. The patterned brickwork, the way the streets spiral out like a conch shell, the buildings built tall and close like clusters of towers. It is not entirely the same: the banners flapping in the wind are black and blue rather than purple and gold, the houses built taller and the ground too flat, the horizon empty and endless, but even then—

It looks like home.

The thought, unbidden, sends him stumbling to a stop. He lurches on suddenly frozen feet, his hands rising to his head, tugging at dark hair. He pulls hard and vicious at the strands, furious with himself. No, no, no. Corona again. Damn it, he’d thought he was past this!

The slip darkens his already sour mood. Varian shoves his hands back through his hair, inhales sharp through his teeth, and then tears his way through the streets as if he can outrun his own nostalgia. 

His jaw is clenched so tight it aches, his head lowered, his eyes drilling holes into the cobblestone. He can’t—he needs to stay focused. He’s not here for sight-seeing: he’s here for a reason, no matter how useless or uneventful the errand is. He doesn’t have time to waste on—on silly things like memories of Corona. 

This is all Adira’s fault. He wouldn’t be here if not for her.

Port Caul is a beautiful town, belonging to a beautiful country. But like all the others, all it does is remind Varian once again of the places he’s left behind. Corona, mainly. But also…

His hands tremble, and he shoves them deep in his pockets. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, worrying the skin between his teeth. Even now, after all this time, the memory makes his heart seize up, sends fire burning up his leg and pain sparking in his half-ear.

Even places like this, sunny and bright—the sheer contrast draws these memories to the forefront. Memories of a darker place. The Moon’s tower. The labyrinth. That dead, withered wasteland, and the monster that lived there.

Has it really only been six months?

It feels like a joke, sometimes. Six months is so long, and yet, in a way that time feels as if it’s passed by as quickly as days. In comparison, the two months he spent traveling with Rapunzel and the others should be nothing. The week in the labyrinth…

Varian shuts his eyes at the memory, breathing deep through his nose. No. No, he’s not going to think about that right now. He has a job to do, after all, and he’s already six hours behind as it is. As nice as that nap was, it’s put him way behind schedule. Adira will be insufferable when he finally gets back.

Varian shakes his head and sets back his shoulders. He grips his satchel in one tight fist to ground himself. Okay. No more day-dreaming. It’s time to get to work.

For all his determination, it still takes him another half-hour to find his destination. The many market streets are bustling and the signs difficult to read. In the end, it’s Ruddiger who spots it first. It takes Varian himself a few more tries to spot it in the swelling crowd, but eventually the mob eases and he gets close enough to see the sign: the image of an open book painted on an old sign.

Varian pumps a quiet victory fist into the air, and then slips inside the shop with a sigh of relief.

The old bookstore is a quiet, crowded place—cramped and cool in comparison to the midday heat. The dark wood shelves cast long shadows, the shop smelling strongly of salt, aging paper, and ink. When Varian pushes open the door, an old woman snaps around to face him, moving so fast her neck creaks . Her eyes are milky and pale, and wrinkles line her dark skin. She looks Varian up and down and her mouth puckers, one eyebrow raised high at his attire.

Varian tries not to bristle at her look. Really, he does. He can’t even blame her for it, because he’d be the first person to admit what a mess he is: his hair is down to his shoulders and tangled from his impromptu nap at the harbor; he’s wearing oversized clothes made of cheap weave and threadbare cotton; and, of course: Ruddiger. Ruddiger, who while fantastic and wonderful and absolutely awesome… is also a raccoon.

But just because he understands the judge-y eyebrow doesn’t mean he has to like it. He shuffles on his feet, shrinking back, then realizes what he’s doing and straightens deliberately, trying to make himself seem taller. “I’m here to pick a package,” he says. “For—Adira?”

Another eyeball. The old woman looks him up and down again. “…You sure you got the money for that?”

He tries not to sound offended. He tries. “Yes!” A whole wallet-full, even. 

“I don’t take dirty money.”

“It’s Adira’s money,” Varian says, trying to quell the sudden thrill of fear in his gut. What if she turns him away? What will he do then? Returning empty-handed—the idea makes him feel sick.

God. It’s been one stressful thing after another today; doesn’t Varian deserve a break? He has bad days and good days and then days like this, the in-between, which are almost worse. He’d been up early to feel rested, he’d been left alone and abandoned to pass out on the docks, woken up from dark dreams to the scowling face of a stranger and then nearly driven himself into having a breakdown in the middle of the street and—and he’s tired. He’s so tired. He’s sick of this.

Adira’s fault, all of it. In the early days of traveling, he’d thought she had the key to what he had to do next. He thought she had the answers, the direction, a purpose to give. But all this time, and he still has nothing to show for it. Nothing at all.

He is sick of this most of all: of being left in the dark, of feeling useless and small. 

“I’m the carrier-boy,” Varian tells the shopkeeper, nearly desperate. “I don’t know what it’s for, okay? I’m just here to pick it up!”

She glares at him for another five seconds, as if to judge whether Varian is actually unimpressed or just faking it to steal her stuff, then grumps under her breath and turns away, shuffling into the back. “Stay there.”

He shuts his eyes tight in relief.

From there on, thankfully, the exchange is quick and painless—ten minutes later Varian exits the bookstore with an empty wallet and a heavy package in his arms, the tome wrapped securely in paper and water-proof oilcloth. It’s big and heavy, too large to fit in the satchel, and Varian hefts it in his hands with a sigh. 

It’s only been two hours, and he’s already narrowly avoided having a breakdown over a book. This day is shaping up great . 

Ruddiger coos at him, batting at his hair. Varian tries for a smile, and playfully shrugs his shoulder, sending Ruddiger rushing to his other side with a squeak and an earful of fretful chattering. Varian’s smile grows, settling into something stronger. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and tilts back his head to the sun. “I’m okay, buddy. It’s okay. Let’s just go.”

Ruddiger croons at him. Varian keeps smiling, but when his eyes fall back to the busy street, his smile falters and then falls.

He hefts the package in his hands and gives the streets a weary look. Six months. How strange it all looks. How bizarre. Some days—most days—he wonders if he’s even here at all.

Six months, he repeats, to himself. Hard to decide if it feels more like a lifetime or just days ago. It’s been so long, in a way. His hair is longer. His clothes are different. He’s taller, a little bit. Stronger in some ways, but… weaker, too.

His left ear burns at the thought. Varian lifts a hand to rub at it, and the uneven edge catches under his fingertips. It’s long healed, perfectly sealed, but he can almost feel the painful prickle of a raw wound.

Everything—everything is different. Everything is new. He no longer has a home, now, no house and no proper bed; his life is spent out on the road, cities experienced and left behind in less than a day. His whole world has shifted on its axis, and yet—despite everything—

He still feels exactly the same. 

He’s gone to more places than he can bother counting. He’s spent six months living on the road, traveling from place to place to place. So why, then, does it feel as if he hasn’t gone anywhere at all?

It’s been almost half a year, and still—sometimes when Varian wakes up, he can see iron bars. Stone walls, prison-cell cold. On the worst days, the worst nights, when he opens his eyes, he sees the darkness of the labyrinth instead.

And despite the warm sun, despite the midday heat, a chill crawls across his neck like the press of an icy hand. 

A loud noise in his ear drags him away. Ruddiger is chattering up a storm, his little claws pulling hard at Varian’s hair. The world swims into focus, the darkness beaten back. Busy streets. Murmuring crowd. The book in his hands, and sunlight in his eyes.

Varian shakes his head, taking a deep breath through his teeth. The icy touch at his neck fades away. He rolls his shoulders, shaking off the ache, and finally slips back into the crowd. 

It’s probably better not to think about it. 

.

Rapunzel’s return to Corona is made in silence.

By the time they reach the gates of the capital city, it’s so late in the day it’s practically tomorrow morning already. The sky is pitch-dark, and the city, once bustling, is now silent and tranquil. The few lamps still burning are dim and flickering, and a heavy fog has drifted in from the harbor, low enough to tangle at their heels. The whole world has turned fuzzy and distant in the midnight darkness, vague shadows flicking at the corners of her eyes. 

There are guards at the city gate, of course, and they see her enter—Rapunzel doesn’t want to sneak her way back home. Their eyes go wide when they spot her, their faces slack, and though they look surprised and confused when Rapunzel asks for their silence, they obey with little complaint. These are not the guards she knows; none of them will question an order from their Princess.

As Maximus and Fidela clop their way up the winding uphill roads, Rapunzel tilts back her head and soaks in the sleeping city. The gray cobblestone and the echoes of Maximus’s horseshoes on the ground; the painted shop signs and wooden houses; the flowers hanging from the iron-wrought balconies. The ivy crawling sideways up the houses has turned withered and brown in the winter chill, but some flowers are still blooming—droopy-headed snowdrops, a few pale sprigs of daffodils. It looks—it looks just as Rapunzel remembers it to be. It looks just as she left it. 

But Rapunzel is not blind. It looks as she left it, yes—but she remembers the black rocks, tall and gleaming, right on the city’s edge. Not quite at the capital, not yet… but not gone, either. A danger delayed, rather than ended.

Her heart clenches in her chest at the reminder, and Rapunzel has to look away to catch her breath. Her mouth is dry, stomach wound tight. She’s sitting up high on Maximus’s saddle with Eugene just behind her, and yet she has never felt smaller. She has never felt so alone. 

There’s a touch at her lower back, light and warm. Eugene rubs at her shoulder, and his arm loops around to tug her back into another hug. “Hey, Sunshine, you doing okay there?”

She lets out her breath in a shuddering sigh. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet, for a bit. Still holding her, just breathing. Rapunzel closes her eyes and sinks back into his arms, drawing strength from the beat of his heart in her ears.

“You don’t have to talk to them alone,” Eugene says at last, into the air. “No one’s asking you to. I can—”

But Rapunzel is already shaking her head. “No,” she says. “No, I—thank you, Eugene. Thank you. ” She sits up, turning in the saddle so she can cup his cheek. “That means so much to me. But I—I don’t want to be protected. If they’re… if they’re mad, then, I don’t want it to be at you.” She can hear Cassandra inhale as if to speak, from beside her, and adds, quickly, “Or you, Cass.” 

Even in the dim light, she can see Eugene frown, the way his brow furrows. His exhale tickles through the leather of her glove. “Well, all right,” he says finally. “If you’re sure. But—even then, we’ll stay close, yeah? Even if you won’t need it.” His eyes search her face. “They… I’m sure they’ll understand. They won’t be… that angry, you know. Normal parent outrage at worst, I’m positive.”

“Upset, then.”

This, he cannot deny. Eugene doesn’t even try—just reaches up and cradles Rapunzel’s stiff hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. His touch is so gentle it doesn’t even hurt, and Rapunzel smiles despite herself. “I—”

A voice calls through the fog, cutting her off. “Princess?”

The words catch in her throat. Rapunzel jolts, spinning back around—even Maximus lurches, missing a step, surprised by the call. Eugene catches her around the middle, and Pascal, falling from her head, catches himself on her hair. He swings back and forth by her face, his beady eyes wide with surprise.

“Princess, is that really you?”

This time, she recognizes the voice. “Xavier?” She peers down the street, squinting hard through the fog. Barely within view, she can see a dull silhouette, the fuzzy outline of a large man shadowed by a distant blacksmith’s flame. Her eyes widen. “Xavier!”

The figure moves away from the distant forge-fire, drawing closer to where the fog is thinner. She can see him fully, now—the moonlight glinting off the tools he still holds in one loose fist, his wiry beard streaked with soot, his apron blackened with ash and spotty from flying embers. Xavier the blacksmith, the storyteller, the one who helped guide her through that strange winter storm almost a full year ago.

Xavier laughs, short and soft, that familiar raspy chuckle. “Ah! I know that voice. So it is you.” His eyes are alight with a smile. “What familiar faces, though it’s been a while since I last saw you. Princess Rapunzel, Eugene Fitzherbert, Cassandra of the Guard… you have returned!”

“I…” Rapunzel stops, shaking her head, her smile glowing. She’d meant to avoid anyone she knew this night, but Xavier’s presence is soothing rather than nerve-wracking. There is something about him, ever calm, that makes it a relief just to see him. 

It hits her suddenly how dearly she’s missed him—missed everyone. How could she have forgotten how kind he was, how reasonable his advice and his counsel? “Yes! This very night. Oh, it’s been so long—how are you? How are things? Has—”

In the background, Cassandra pointedly clears her throat. Rapunzel stops herself mid-word, feeling the heat climb to her cheeks. “Ah. I, um, probably don’t have time to chat right now. But—everything’s okay, right?”

Xavier’s smile is warm and fond. “Of course! There is always need for blacksmiths, Princess, and I am in good health. Even got myself an apprentice!” 

“Really!”

“Yes! Skittish child, but she’ll do well in time. She’s new to the town, came in when the rocks…” His smile flickers, the good humor fading from his face. His eyes go wide. “The rocks. I— Princess, it has just occurred to me, but—if you are back—did you find a way to destroy the rocks, as you promised? Are they truly gone?”

It’s like a flash of icy water, like a slap to the face. The happy glow of returning stamped out by the reality. Rapunzel’s smile slips and falls. 

Xavier doesn’t miss the shift. His eyes widen, and he looks back and forth between the lot of them, seeing the truth writ across their faces. “Ah,” he says, suddenly hushed. “I see.”

She has to answer him, Rapunzel knows. She must tell him why. Xavier—her parents—all of Corona deserves an answer. But the words stick in her throat, too heavy to speak. 

“Not yet.” 

Xavier looks up, away from her. Rapunzel startles.

Cassandra doesn’t quail under the weight of their attention; her chin lifts, her voice clipped and firm. Her eyes brook no argument. “Not yet,” she repeats. She says the words like a dare. “But we’re working on it. Sorry, Xavier, but we really should go. We need to report to the castle as soon as we can.”

“R-right, of course. But if I may—”

Something in Cassandra’s face turns calculating. “Just a thought,” she says, abrupt. “…Xavier. In these times, with what’s being said… would you be late to the castle?”

Realization flickers across Xavier’s face, followed by something much darker. He nods slowly, and doesn’t refute this; his frown is almost troubled, his glance back at the castle wary. Rapunzel’s heart drops to her gut. 

It could be nothing. It could just be a coincidence. But it could also not be, and that possibility leaves her cold.

“…I understand. My apologies. This old man won’t keep you any longer.” Xavier steps back into the firelight of his shop, and the glow casts his whole face in shadow. She can see him hesitate. “I—please, tell me one thing. Men like me, we put too much faith in old myths… it would ease my mind to know.” He glances between them, his eyes lingering on Rapunzel. “Princess, if nothing else, at the end of that road… did you find your destiny?”

Cassandra sits up straight, pale eyes flashing in the moonlight. Behind Rapunzel, Eugene has once more gone carefully still, his hand heavy on her shoulder. “She doesn’t have to—”

“Yes.”

Cassandra’s mouth snaps shut. She glances back, but Rapunzel can’t meet her eyes. She looks at Xavier, instead, and wills her hands to stay steady. “Yes,” she says. “I found it.”

It’s the truth. It’s the truth as she knows it. The Moon said it herself, after all: the Dark Kingdom, finding the Moondrop—this was the beginning of Rapunzel’s path. This is the start of her destiny, whatever it shall be.

It still feels like a lie.

The smile that breaks over Xavier’s face—the sheer relief— only makes it worse. “I see,” he says. “I see. Thank you, Princess, for humoring me.” His smile is wide and bright. Rapunzel feels ill. “And—ah, forgive me for not saying this sooner—welcome home!”

She forces herself to return it. “Thanks,” she says. Her voice is a whisper, scraping in her throat. Eugene’s arm tightens around her waist. Cassandra’s eyes are a weight on her back. Pascal nuzzles her cheek. “Thank you, Xavier.”

They leave Xavier there, the firelight of his shop dim and his smile glowing. Maximus nips gently at Rapunzel’s skirts in comfort, but everyone else is hushed. No one seems to know what to say, or how to say it. The silent night around them, once comforting, now seems stifling. The cobblestone houses close in like a cage. The fog, a trap. The winding roads: a labyrinth.

Her skin itches, the back of her neck crawling with cold. A dull ache throbs in her hands. Rapunzel forces her fingers to curl into her skirts, but even that can’t stop her from shaking.

Why does she feel this way? It hadn’t been a lie, what she told Xavier. It hadn’t been untrue. But it feels as if she’s given something away, or maybe hidden something else, and it makes her hurt all over.

How funny. To think—only six months ago, leaving the Dark Kingdom behind had felt like a victory.

Even now, it makes a lump rise up in her throat to remember it. Upon first leaving the Dark Kingdom behind, seeing that tower and mountain of black rocks destroyed, Rapunzel had assumed—hoped, prayed, pleaded—for that to be the end of it. The black rocks broken, the tragedy finally ceased. It wasn't until they made their way home, and found the way still marred by unnatural black stone, that Rapunzel finally understood that things wouldn’t be so simple.

I left to take care of the black rocks. I left to save my kingdom. To set things right. Instead she found her destiny, but even that, Rapunzel has cast away and scorned. 

She doesn’t regret it. She can’t, not when that destiny would have destroyed her every moral belief, left Varian dead and Moon the victor. So she doesn’t regret it, but—still, it burns. She’s found the Dark Kingdom. She’s faced the Moon, she’s faced herself, her own fears, and conquered both. She’s done so much, and yet—it feels as if she’s accomplished nothing at all.

A low warble in her ears pulls her from her thoughts, and Rapunzel looks beside her. Pascal, perched up on her shoulder, rubs his small head at her cheek. His little face is pinched, his eyes knowing. 

Rapunzel lifts her hand and cups his head. She forces her fingers to bend, to curl inward, a careful hug. He leans into the touch. Her smile trembles.

“It’s been so long,” Rapunzel whispers to her friend, her voice shaking. “Hasn’t it, Pascal?”

She hadn’t wanted to say it to Eugene and Cassandra, even though she knows they’re eavesdropping on her now regardless. Eugene’s arms are secure around her waist, and she can feel him stiffen at her back. But it’s okay to admit this to Pascal, to pretend the others won’t hear. Pascal alone will understand what she really means. He spent all those years in the tower with Rapunzel too.

And it matters, in this moment. The tower matters. She has spent eighteen years locked away and only one full year in this kingdom. The rest of her freedom, she spent it out beyond the walls, in these past eight months of pain and discovery and healing. 

Compared to that… Rapunzel doesn’t really know Corona at all.

Her eyes prick with tears. Things have changed. Of course they have. But Rapunzel doesn’t know this place well enough to tell, and it makes something stick in her throat to realize that.

“It’s been a long time,” Rapunzel says, voice cracking, and Pascal closes his eyes and leans against her cheek, silent comfort.

She’s not sure if this feeling is homesickness or fear or exhaustion. In the few times she has daydreamed her return, she always thought it would be triumphant, victorious, a relief. And yet—

And yet. All she can feel is ill.

She doesn’t say anything more, though, and the rest of the journey to the castle is in silence. But Pascal’s comforting weight on her shoulder, Eugene’s grounding warmth at her back, Cassandra’s unfaltering and watchful gaze, the echo of Maximus and Fidela’s hooves against the cobble—they keep her company amongst her fears, and their support gives Rapunzel strength.

They approach the main gate to the castle, and Rapunzel pulls herself tall, pushing back her hood, letting the guards’ lantern light catch in her hair. She buries her fears in the back of her mind, and leaves her gloved hands folded in her lap. She meets the eyes of the guards and doesn’t look away, watching their faces as Cassandra dismounts and presents their papers, the proof of their identity.

Their eyes go wide. Their faces slack. The lamp-light flickers, and Rapunzel looks up into the shadow of the castle and ignores her pounding heart.

She’s home, now, for better or for worse. Her journey to the Dark Kingdom, her search for the Moondrop, is no longer. That road has finally come to a close.

This chapter of her story has ended. It’s time for her to start anew.

“Hello!” Rapunzel says, and gives the guards the brightest smile she can muster. Even if her fingers shake, they won’t ever know. “Please, if it’s not any trouble—Could you let the King and Queen know I’m back?”

.

 Adira waits for Varian outside the city.

He sees her long before they’re close enough to speak. She’s leaning against a tree on the edge of the city limits, her arms crossed and eyebrow raised, face paint in place and dressed in almost the exact same outfit she wore when he first met her. A little ways away from her, off to the side, there is a loose circle of traveling carts and caravans, a makeshift camp of canvas tents and horse-drawn carriages. 

Once a strange sight, these off-city camps have now become almost familiar to Varian—a grouping of merchants and travelers, come together to share food and stories around a fire. For all that they’d left behind a merchant caravan only just this morning, it seems Adira has already found another one to slip into. Around the fire at her back, there are as many as ten others, a cooking pot set over a pale flame and blankets spread out for seating. The people themselves are engaged in their own dealings; playing cards and taking drinks, stealing food. One man in particular is already rubbing his wrist, looking sullen and scowling at Adira’s back, no doubt already realized the folly of trying to best Adira at anything.

Rather predictably, once Varian is close enough to hear her, the first thing Adira says is, “What happened, Moony, did you get lost?”

Varian stares dully back, too tired to rise to the bait. None of Adira’s jokes ever strikes him as funny; from the awful nicknames to the sly sarcasm, everything about it feels condescending, like she’s laughing at a joke at his expense. The months they’ve spent travelling—and wow, isn’t that a trippy notion, because it sure doesn’t feel like months—have done nothing to endear them to him.

“I fell asleep,” Varian admits, a little sour. Adira lifts one eyebrow, silent and judging, and he bristles. “I was tired! We left that last caravan really early.” 

This last bit he adds pointedly, with all the irritation he can muster—but all Adira does is shrug, looking like she wants to laugh at him.

He’s not getting anywhere with this, Varian knows, and drops the conversation with a scowl, kicking the toe of his boot against the ground. What little he’s learned of Adira over the past few months—and it is, quite infuriatingly, very very little—has taught him enough to know that he just can’t win any argument against her, mainly because Adira doesn’t seem to care about Varian’s grievances one way or another.

“I got the package,” Varian says, instead, and hefts up the book. His arms are killing him. “Um, can I ask—why do we need this?”

Adira hums absently under her breath and turns her back to him, heading back to the main glade, set up with tents and a few camping fires. The trees here are few and sparse, and horses and the caravans line the horizon. She heads towards the biggest fire and calls, “That’s for me to know and you to find out, Moony. Consider it training.”

Varian considers throwing the book at her head. He really, really considers it. “Was getting the book and lugging it over here ‘training’ too?”

“You catch on slow! Didn’t you already figure that out?”

Varian takes a deep breath. His fingers tighten on the book, and for a moment his vision blurs, faint with sudden rage. It would be so easy. Just lift the book and throw it, right at her stupid head, how hard can it be—

Adira looks over her shoulder at him. Her smile is all teeth.

The fantasy fades, driven back by that smile and Ruddiger’s fearful chittering. There’s a burning phantom pain in Varian’s left ear. No. He couldn’t. No matter how much he hates her, Varian knows this well: Adira is a better fighter than he is.

He lowers his hands. The weight of the book drags at his arms. Ruddiger fusses at his hair and Adira’s smile curls into something smug. 

“Hm,” she says. She turns away and sits down by the fire, effortlessly inserting herself into the conversation and company of the merchants. Varian looks around the camp and falters at all the people looking back, but reluctantly approaches the circle, unsure of what else to do but follow her. 

“Are we staying here tonight?” he asks finally, sullenly, but even as he says it he casts his eyes around, trying to find their stuff—the answer is almost always yes. But instead of their usual camp, he finds their bags in a pile off the side. He blinks blankly at it, confused.

“No,” Adira replies, light as the weather. “Just for lunch.” She looks him up and down. “Drop off the package and get some food. You are skin and bones, kid.”

There’s no bite to the words. Whatever Varian’s violent thoughts, all has apparently been forgiven, if Adira cared about it at all. It should comfort him, but instead—it feels like dismissal, like a mockery. It burns sour in his gut, angry words pressing against his tongue. He swallows it back, rolls his eyes instead, and marches away. “Whatever.”

“Such a teenager,” Adira remarks, and laughter follows after him, mingled in with the snickering of the nearby merchants. Varian’s cheeks burn. His chest is tight.

After everything he’s done, this is apparently all his life amounts to: vague errands and mocking laughter.

He stomps over to their stuff, piled in between two wagons, and sets both package and Ruddiger on the bags so he can change. This far out of town, the air is colder, the sunlit warmth lost somewhere in the endless plains. Where the city was too hot, here he is too cold—the chill sinks deep in his bones, stiffens his fingers.

It’s a relief to put on something warmer. Varian changes quickly into the heavy and warmer cloth clothes Adira bought for him weeks ago from one of the caravan merchants, and slips back on the heavy overcoat once he’s done. His shoes, also spares from Adira, are too big for his feet, and he rolls on two pairs of socks before slipping them back on. The end result is rather ridiculous—a small, unkempt boy with pale skin and twig-thin limbs practically swallowed whole by draping and oversized clothes—but at the very least, he’s no longer so cold.

Ruddiger jumps up on his shoulder, and Varian manages a smile, petting Ruddiger’s head absently as he makes his way back towards the fire. The sky has gone dim for now, the clouds moving over the sun, and it makes the already frigid air even icier. Adira passes him a bowl with the day’s stew and he nods in mute thanks before taking it. He has to wrap his hands in the sleeves of his coat to keep the heat from burning him.

Around them, the mix of merchants, traders, and travelers speak together in low voices. This sight has become commonplace to Varian, after six months of living with Adira’s weird looping travel techniques. He sips at his bowl of broth and does his best to ignore them, letting the conversation wash over his head. 

 “—see the harbor? Less boats every day.”

“Now, that’s the thing, I went by Echo’s Pass just last fall and it wasn’t nearly so—” 

“—winter storms have been a problem in Arendelle for almost twenty years, didn’t you hear—”

“Port Caul may be booming but it won’t last, they must know…”

“…gonna reach Corona at some point. Has to. No way around that—”

Varian pauses mid-slurp, his interest spiked. He puts the bowl in his lap, turns towards the current speaker—an older man, with a full beard turned white from sea salt, his eyes solemn and voice gruff. 

“I mean,” the man is saying now, “awful as it is to say it—sea-faring routes are closing up, all around. ‘S not only Valencia anymore. Even the Southern Isles are starting to pull back, not to mention Wesselton…”

The group titters around them, low murmurs of agreement. Varian stares down at his bowl. His fingers are white around the wood.

“Still,” another adds, “Corona’s the main trade kingdom… that capital city’s trench-deep in water. If it reaches that far— well. ” She makes a sign over her heart. “Sun bless us. Hope they don’t get those guards of theirs to start taking ships.”

“Hah! Just what we need, right? Soldiers searching the boats.”

“What if they close their harbors?”

“What! You kidding? They wouldn’t dare. A trade-kingdom like that, closing harbor… it’d be tantamount to suicide.”

Adira’s hand falls heavy on his neck. Varian freezes. “Finally listening in?”

He sips at his stew to keep from snarling at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She hums, nonchalant. “They’ve been talking about this issue for weeks. It’s a growing concern.” She waits. Varian doesn’t say anything. “I just find it a little interesting, Moony, that you’ve only started paying attention to the conversation now.”

He scowls down at his bowl and shrugs her hand off. “It’s—fascinating, that’s all.” She snorts, and his eyes narrow. “By the way, you going to tell me what that package is for?”

“Haven’t figured it out yet?”

“ No.” He hasn’t even been thinking about it. He has better things to do than play Adira’s games. 

She sips at her broth, not even bothering to meet his eyes. Varian could snarl. “Bribery.”

The admission is so startling that Varian can’t help but stare. Adira— Adira never admits things that easily. She hasn’t—six goddamn months and all he’s gotten out of her is that she used to know his dad and knows something about the Moondrop, and now she just—

She gets a kick out of frustrating him, he’s almost sure of it. “ What?”

“Bribery. As I said. Are you having trouble hearing? Infections can cause nerve damage if—”

His torn ear prickles, and Varian glowers at her. It’s only the prick of Ruddiger’s claws through his jacket that keeps him steady. “My hearing’s fine.”

She shrugs. “If you say so.”

He waits. Adira sips at her broth. Varian— Varian breathes. Even Ruddiger’s calming croon isn’t enough to quell the rising fury in his belly. Adira is just… infuriating. Six months, and he still knows almost nothing about her. 

He’d thought, back then, when he first met her—when she ambushed him on the side of the road, thrown his dad’s name out like a lifeline and called him Moondrop with such surety his heart stopped in horror—he’d thought, then, that if he waited her out, he could learn what she knew and then leave. He could do something. And yet—he’s still here. Training and running errands and doing whatever he can to prove he’s worth the answers, because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Who is it a bribe for?” Varian asks, and he means for it to sound angry but he just sounds tired instead.

Something must bleed through his voice, because this time Adira actually looks at him. Her gaze is scrutinizing. “An old acquaintance,” she says, a little softer now. “I’m afraid I’ve probably upset her, so this is— a bribe for forgiveness, I suppose.” She sighs and sets down her bowl. “That’s where we’re staying tonight, with any luck. You know, after lunch.”

It is an answer, but it’s not much of one. Even when she tells him things, there are always holes in the stories, obvious lies in the gaps and pauses. Varian rubs the strap of his satchel between his fingers, trying to keep calm. The worn leather is soft against his skin. This is Rapunzel’s satchel, and she gave it to him. Rapunzel wouldn’t get angry.

But instead of calming him down, this thought only fuels the growing pit swelling up in his chest. Rapunzel would not get angry—but Varian, Varian is not Rapunzel. He is not forgiving.

And he’s tired.

And all at once, he doesn’t care to pretend otherwise.

“No training today?” Varian asks sarcastically, and he can’t help the bite. He hates training. He doesn’t want it. Like most things, it’s something Adira decided he needed on her own. 

Adira is— blank. Calm. Always, always, calm. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

This last word is a shout.

Adira pauses. Conversation around the fire stalls. Everyone is looking at them now, and Adira’s eyes are dark with warning. “You all right?” she asks, mild, but her expression has gone cold. “You’re in quite the mood today.”

“I’m in a mood? ” Varian repeats. His voice is rising, almost shrill. “ I’m in a mood? You’re the most—” He can’t even finish, he’s so angry. There are no words strong enough to describe Adira.

Adira is outright scowling now. Her glance at the surrounding merchants is quick but pointed. She rises to her feet and tugs at Varian’s arm to pull him up with her. “Let’s take this elsewhere, hm?”

But Varian isn’t in the mood to comply with her wishes, and he doesn’t give a damn about whatever secrets she wants to hide. He’s tired of following her lead. He’s tired of not knowing. He wrenches his arm from her grip and stays stubbornly seated. “No.”

“Listen, kid—”

“ No.”

“Varian!” Adira snaps. She grabs his arm and drags him roughly to his feet. He fumbles on his footing, his half-eaten bowl dropping to the ground. Ruddiger screeches loud and alarmed in his ears. Adira’s voice is rising too, now. “This isn’t the place for this. We’ll talk later. Whatever issue you’re having—”

“Whatever issue I’m—my only problem here is you!”

“What!?”

“You’re always like this,” Varian snarls, the words torn rough from his throat. “ Later? When’s later? I’ve been—I’ve been traveling with you for almost six months  and you’re still a stranger to me! I don’t know anything about you, or what you know, or—you promised me answers!”  He feels raw, worn thin. He’s almost shouting. “You promised me answers but you haven’t told me anything!”

Adira scowls right back. “You aren’t ready for answers,” she snaps, sounding furious. “This little—tantrum—is only proving my point, kid. If you can’t even handle this—”

“I don’t even know you. What gives you the right to—to come into my life and tell me what to do—”

“I’m not talking about this with you.” Adira slashes her hand through the air, ending the conversation where it stands. “Go—watch over the package or something, I don’t care, but we are not yelling about this in the middle of the day—”

“ You,” Varian says, suddenly, furiously, “are not my Dad.”

Adira stops cold, just as Varian knew she would. It’s an awful card to play. It’s a terrible thing to throw into her face, not in the least because it hurts Varian to bring it up as much as it must hurt to hear it—but this is all he has against her. This is the only thing he knows: that whoever Adira is, once upon a time, she knew Quirin of Old Corona.

“You’re not my dad,” Varian repeats. The anger has deadened, turned cold and ashy on his tongue. “So stop acting like you are.”

Adira stares at him, utterly unreadable, pale under her face-paint. The fire is utterly quiet, the strangers silenced, dark eyes flickering between them. For this one second—one brief, blink-and-miss-it moment—her breathing stutters. 

The moment stretches… and then it breaks. Adira steps back and draws herself up tall with effort, steady once more. Whatever effect his words had, she buries under an icy mask, a blank anger. Her eyes are burning; her mouth unsmiling.

In less than a second, her weakness is gone, as if she’d never faltered at all.

“I see,” Adira says. Her voice is flinty. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, if you’re done throwing a tantrum, can we get back to the matter at hand? We’re leaving in three hours tops. Do whatever the hell you want, just be ready to go.” 

Varian stares at her, open-mouthed in shock—but before he can even think to argue, she has already turned away, turned her back to him. She sits back by the fire and ignores him entirely, shutting the conversation closed with a resounding slam . 

Varian stands there, alone and helplessly aware of all the eyes boring into his back, the strangers looking back and forth between them. His jaw works, angry words rising up, but this time he swallows it back.

Of course this is her response. Of course she just—brushes it off, just like that, like she does everything. 

He’s not sure what he was expecting. 

 “Fine,” Varian says and the bite is gone, now. His limbs feel heavy. His eyelids hurt. It seems to take all his strength to stand. The flash of anger and hurt that fueled his outburst has cooled into something dull and disappointed. So stupid of him. So foolish. So goddamn pathetic, the fact he was expecting anything from Adira at all. 

“Fine.”

He’s so tired.

Varian turns away without another word and makes his way back to their pile of stuff, the two bags and one paper-wrapped package. He curls up on the blankets, the book beneath him, his boots still on and jacket still heavy on his shoulders. It helps, to have the coat. It helps, to have the shoes. It helps, to have open air and the fire flickering in the corner of his vision. It helps to have Ruddiger there.

But even then, Varian still cannot bring himself to close his eyes. The silence around the fire, muted and faltering, makes his skin crawl. Adira’s distant and clipped responses make his fingers curl. But most of all it is this: the ashy taste of anger on his tongue, the rasp in his throat from shouting, the quiet way Ruddiger curls around him in comfort, as though afraid to upset him further—it is this that makes his throat close up, tight with shame.

All these months. All this time. 

So why, then, does it feel as if he hasn’t changed at all?

The day passes by, and Varian does not sleep.

.

Here is the thing: despite Eugene’s fears, despite Cassandra’s worry—Rapunzel isn’t afraid.  Not really.

There are—there are things she is bothered by, yes, and things she doesn’t want to face. This is true. But fear is not the same as worry, and despite it all—despite the answers she’ll have to give and the fallout that will come from it— despite everything, Rapunzel is simply just delighted to be home.

So when she sees her parents—when they rush out of the palace doors, wide-eyed and still rumpled from their beds—Rapunzel doesn’t flinch, or look away, or falter. She doesn’t even think to hesitate. She sees her parents at the gates and it’s like seeing the sunrise for the first time: perfect, bright, and unfathomably wonderful.

It takes all she has to dismount safely from the horse. It takes all she has to approach the gate slowly, to avoid crashing into the guards. But the moment her feet are on the ground, the second she’s within reach, Rapunzel throws herself forward and into their arms, and knows that everything is going to be okay.

In this moment, Rapunzel’s fears are nothing more than ashes in the wind. Her uncertainties and anxieties are dissipated, gone without a trace. Even that lingering knot in her throat from speaking with Xavier has unraveled. In this moment, nothing else matters—because they’re here, her parents are right here. 

She’s home.

She’s crying, Rapunzel realizes distantly. Her face aches from the effort to hold the tears back; her cheeks are wet. But that’s okay, because her parents are crying too.

“I’m back,” Rapunzel says, choked. “M-Mom, Dad, I—I’m so sorry, it took me so long, and I—but I’m back. I’m back.”

“That’s all that matters,” her mother says. Her arms are tight against her back, long hair soft against Rapunzel’s cheek. She is hugging Rapunzel the same way she hugged her when they first met, when Rapunzel first returned to them, almost a full two years ago.

“My dear girl,” her father says, and pulls back to cup her face. His smile is disbelieving and warm. “Oh, my dear girl, you have no idea how overjoyed I am to see you.”

Her father’s hug is warm and safe. Her mother’s laughter echoes in her ears. “Oh, Rapunzel,” she says. “You took so long!”

“So much happened,” Rapunzel admits. “A lot—a lot happened.” Her hands itch. “But I’m back, I came back.” A sudden realization like a hit between her ribcage, and she sinks deeper into the hug to hide her face, the growing despair. “Mom, Dad, I… the rocks. The black rocks. I’m sorry. I couldn’t…”

This time, it’s her father who shushes her, stroking gently at her hair. “It’s alright,” he says. “It’s—they have stopped growing as quickly, at the very least, and any other issues can be dealt with.” He thumbs a tear from her cheek and smiles. “Oh, my dear. Welcome home.”

Rapunzel can’t trust herself to speak. She makes a small noise and sinks into their embrace, drinking in the warmth and security of their arms around her. Home. She can finally believe it. The smell of her mother’s perfume, the soft silk of her father’s fancy robes—these simple things, these whispers of familiarity, convince her in a way nothing else could. Home is here, right in her arms. She has finally, finally made it back.

She buries her face into their shoulders. She doesn’t cry. She just—stays there, holding them, letting them hold her. Letting the truth of it settle in her bones.

“I’m here,” Rapunzel says, quiet as a whisper, and some knot of tension within her finally falls loose.

 When they draw out of the hug, they are smiling, all three of them. Rapunzel wipes at her eyes and her mother dabs at her face, and her father shakes his head, his cheeks wet, his smile worn and oddly old. He gestures towards the doors. “Let’s head inside, then? You… probably have much to tell us.”

“Yes,” Rapunzel admits. She keeps the smile on her face, trying to ignore the growing pit in her gut. Questions, and the answers she doesn’t know how to give. “Yes. I, I can… Can we go inside?”

“Of course!” her mother says, smiling, and Rapunzel smiles back—but she doesn’t miss the stiffness around her eyes, or the way her father’s smile has almost become a grimace.

They turn away, heading back to the doors, arms linked. Rapunzel moves to follow, but a hand touches at her arm. Rapunzel pauses, dropping back—and turns to meet the eyes of her friends. 

In the nighttime hour, most of the castle staff are gone—beyond the two guards at the gate and the two with her parents, the courtyard is empty but for them. Eugene is alone in unsaddling Maximus, and Fidela is still loaded with their bags and travel gear. 

She meets Cassandra’s eyes and understands the wordless question. Cassandra and Eugene are busy here. They cannot go with her.

Rapunzel holds her gaze and nods once. 

Cassandra searches her face and then steps back, silent acquiescence. Eugene frowns down at the bags he’s holding but says nothing, just lifts one hand to give her a thumbs up. Pascal, still riding on her collar, nudges at her cheek.

“We’ll unload the horses and get things settled,” Cassandra says, lowly. “We’ll wait for you in—the main hall?”

“Main hall,” Rapunzel confirms. “Yes. Yes.” She is struck with a sudden wave of gratefulness, and takes Cassandra’s hand, squeezing it tight. “ Thank you, Cass.” She lifts her head, meeting Eugene’s eyes again, and beams at him, hoping her meaning comes across.

His eyes crinkle at her, bright with love. Cassandra gives Rapunzel a thin half-smile. “You’re welcome.” She squeezes back. “Chin up, Raps.” You can do this, her eyes say, and behind her Eugene is smiling, soft and sure.

“Yes,” Rapunzel says again, and sucks in a deep breath. Pascal puffs up proudly on her shoulder. She lets go of Cassandra’s hand and smooths down her dress. Pascal’s weight on her shoulder, slight and near-unnoticeable, makes it easier to breathe. This time, her hands don’t shake. She smiles tremendously back and then turns away, walking with sure steps after her parents. 

She can do this. She can do this. She must.

They go to one of the sitting rooms, the usual one for debates and treaty signings, with plush red couches and wide doors. Rapunzel pretends it’s a good sign, as she gingerly sits herself down, her parents seated together across from her. It’s not an interrogation. This is not a room for interrogations. This is treaties, conversation, compromise. It’s only—questions, for all the things Rapunzel hasn’t said and hasn’t known how to properly put into words. 

Only questions. Nothing more. Nothing frightening.

Rapunzel is so exhausted she can barely keep her head up, but she still gives them her best smile. She’s missed them. Even with all this—she’s missed them so much.

Her mother smiles back, ear to ear, and even her father’s eyes are warm despite his serious expression. “Oh, my dear,” her mother starts, warmly, “you have no idea how happy we are to have you back.” 

Rapunzel matches her enthusiasm. “You have no idea how happy I am to be back!”

Her mother’s smile widens, her hands clasped before her. “I’m sure. When I traveled alone for the first time—oh, the homesickness I felt then…!” She shakes her head in memory, and her eyes cast down, something shadowed passing over her face. “And you were… gone for a long time. I assume coming home was even more of a shock.” She lifts her head, but her smile has gone pale. “Oh, I hate to ask this of you so soon, but… Rapunzel, what happened out there?”

Rapunzel takes a breath. Pascal gives her an encouraging little poke with his tail. “A lot. A lot happened . It was—” She grimaces. “You… you must have a lot of questions, don’t you.”

“Among other things,” her father sighs. He sits back in the chair, rubbing hard at his brow. “Rapunzel—I truly hate to ask this of you so soon. But you have been gone eight months. The black rocks are still here. That boy—Varian—is missing, after the last report says he attacked you, and you have given no reason, location, or explanation of his absence. You—communication with you and your group cut out for a whole month, and you have given no reason for that beyond a mention of ‘complications.’ None of your letters since have been written by you. And—and there’s reports, Rapunzel, of bright lights and explosions and—and it took you six months to return.” He drags his hand down his face. “I don’t want to sound accusing, but…”

“It doesn’t paint a pretty picture,” her mother finishes, her face creased with worry. Her lips are pressed thin. “It—to be frank, dear, it doesn’t paint much of a picture at all .”

Rapunzel swallows hard, looking down. “I—that’s—” She stops herself. “Mom, Dad… I’m sorry. I know our letters were—less than helpful. And I… I know I said I’d go out to stop the rocks, and—and obviously that didn’t. U-um. Happen. I—I—”

She takes a breath, and starts from the beginning.

“I guess… I guess it started maybe a month after the start of our journey. When we found the ruins.”

She tells them—the warning, the cryptic song telling of the Moon’s tower. The dying land. The rocks, and the makeshift mountain.

She doesn’t tell them who translated the poem—she doesn’t mention Varian’s attack, or the strange symbols she found in the ruins and the labyrinth, the mirror image of her tower. But what she does say is more than enough. Her throat is sore. Her head feels stuffed full.

But her story is not even close to being finished, and Rapunzel steels her heart. “We approached the… the mountain of rocks,” she says, breath shuddering on the memory. “And—a-and then…”

Her voice catches, and she has to stop. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe, gritting her teeth past a blinding spike of pain. She’s so tired. Her eyes feel hot.

There is a long, painful silence. Her mother sighs.

“I… It’s all right, Rapunzel. You don’t have to tell us the whole story right now.”

Rapunzel looks up, startled. Her father’s eyes are wide, just as shocked.  “Arianna—!”

Her mother gives her father a sharp look, then turns back to fix Rapunzel with a comforting smile. “You don’t have to tell us now,” she repeats. “Just, before you go— tell me one last thing, please. Rapunzel, darling, are you all right?”

Rapunzel stares at her. She swallows, and her shoulders slump. “Yes,” she says, soft and shaky. “I am. Just… tired. It’s been, um, a—a long few months.” Her voice cracks halfway. She tries to smile through it. 

Her mother’s eyes are hurting for her, but when she reaches out to touch Rapunzel’s cheek, her hand is soft and her face is gentle. “I understand,” she says.  “Go, Rapunzel. Rest. We can talk more tomorrow, whenever you’re ready.”

Rapunzel manages a weak smile. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.” She lets herself lean into her mother’s gentle touch, her quiet concern. Then she stands up. “Good… good night, then.”

Her mother smiles back. Her father is frowning. “Good night, my dear. And welcome home.”

Rapunzel nods and moves away. She is not quite smiling but she wants to, in a way—can feel the pull of it at her lips, the way her heart lifts and soars. The chance to sleep, to think things through, to rest… that they will let her tell them when she is ready… it appeases that final lingering fear.

But just as Rapunzel is reaching for the door, her father’s voice stops her in her tracks. 

“Rapunzel, wait. Please.”

Rapunzel hesitates. Her heart sinks. She closes her eyes and takes a breath for strength, and then she meets his eyes. Her stomach is twisting itself into knots, and her throat is tight—but she can’t understand why, not really. She doesn’t know why she braces herself, except that something in his voice makes her every instinct scream.

A distant memory echoes in her ears, another mother’s shrill command.

Wait, Rapunzel!

Her father notices. She can tell by the way he winces, the way his eyes shut as if to prepare himself. His jaw works on the words, his voice tight. “Rapunzel, daughter, I— I know you aren’t ready… ready to talk about what happened out there, not yet.”

She watches him. He manages a weak smile. “And that is fine . Take as long as you need. But… there is one issue we must resolve post-haste.”

Her mother is frowning too, now. “Frederic—”

“No, Arianna. This is a matter of kingdom security. It cannot wait.” He turns to Rapunzel, grave-faced and grim. “I have asked you, ordered you, again and again through the letters of the last six months. You have ignored this order.” He looks old, tired. “Rapunzel, I—please. I do not wish to fight with you, not again. So tell me. The boy alchemist. Varian. Where is he?”

Rapunzel stares back. Her mouth opens. She says nothing.

“I do not know why you insist on covering for the boy.” His expression is grief-stricken. “Rapunzel, please. Will you not answer?”

She should answer. She should tell him. But her throat closes up, and all she can think of is labyrinths and gods and the weight of a dead boy in her arms, and nothing comes out. 

How can she tell him? How can she put this into words? It’s not that Varian became better, or even an ally. It’s not that she’s forgiven him, or him her. She has no proof beyond her own experience, her own belief. She has no real name or explanation for what she did or why, just the feeling that it was the right thing to do—the only choice Rapunzel could make.

Not the choice of a princess, in the end. Not the choice of a Sundrop vessel or a figure with a destiny. Just Rapunzel, the girl from the tower, the simple nobody with a hopeless dream—and how can she tell them, this King and Queen, her newfound parents, such a thing as that? That she made the choice not as their daughter, but as herself?

Not a princess, in the end. Not the Sundrop. Only a girl.

She can’t tell them that. She can’t.

“…I see,” her father says, and he sounds very old, then. He leans over the chair and breathes out slow, his back bowed, his head in his hands. When he finally straightens, his eyes are dark and his face is set. 

It’s not quite anger. But it’s close enough.

“If I asked it of your guard Cassandra,” he says, coolly. “Or Eugene Fitzherbert. Would they tell me?”

There’s an awful pressure building behind her eyes. She feels choked. Even Pascal’s presence can’t keep her steady. “I—”

“Rapunzel.”

“I asked them not to say,” she whispers, and the look on his face is terrible.

“Oh, Rapunzel,” he says. He rubs his face, a momentary pause, but when he opens his eyes again, his face is cold and his tone unyielding. “I am sorry to do this when you’ve—” His voice stutters, a momentary break. “—you’ve just returned. But for your silence, and your friends’ compliance in your deceit, for the threat that boy poses to this kingdom and to ensure our continued safety, I must take action.”

“Frederic—” her mother starts. 

“Your restrictions within Corona limits will be reinstated,” King Frederic says. “You cannot travel beyond the walls. Excursions from the castle must be with an escort. Cassandra will have to be reassigned; for now, a new guard will be assigned to you indefinitely. Eugene—”

“ Frederic! ”

The king stops mid-word at her mother’s shout, blinking fast. He stares at Rapunzel, momentarily mute, and Rapunzel stares back, all the blood drained from her face. His breath shudders. “I— never mind. Never mind. These… these conditions are non-negotiable. Until you give me a viable reason—”

Rapunzel’s horrified silence finally breaks. “Dad,” she blurts out, “Dad, please you can’t, I—I don’t need a new guard! Cassandra didn’t do anything wrong!”

“She gave her word to keep you safe and to keep that boy under watch. She has failed at both, and your refusal to elaborate on what’s occurred, and her complicity in your silence, is proof enough. I cannot have untrustworthy guards in my castle.”

“Dad—!”

“That is enough , Rapunzel,” he thunders, and Rapunzel’s mouth snaps shut. She flinches back, and his lips thin into a grave line. “I—we can talk more on this in the morning, if you wish. But it is late, and you are tired.”

“You can’t—!”

“Good night, Rapunzel.” The ice in his tone is damning. Any warmth in his face has turned hard as stone. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns his back to her and sweeps out the opposing door, and he doesn’t look back.

Rapunzel stares after him, horrified, and turns to her mother, but her heart is already sinking. She is not surprised by the angry look in her mother’s eyes… but neither is she surprised by the shake of her head, the silent refusal. 

Rapunzel closes her eyes. She ignores Pascal’s desperate tugs at her hair, his futile attempt to distract her, to keep her calm. She waits until the door has shut behind her mother, then turns and exits through the opposing door, into the main hall. 

She closes the door neatly behind her, sinking back against it, her hands loosely curled around the doorknobs. Her fingers ache like a bruise from her grip on the slick metal, old wounds searing like fire across her palm.

Eugene and Cassandra are waiting for her in the hall, as they said they would—Cassandra, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed; Eugene, pacing back and forth, leaving indents in plush carpet. The floor-to-ceiling windows are pitch black, moonlight painting the hall a ghostly silver. It catches on their eyes, highlights the fretful edge to their expressions. When the door clicks closed, they startle and turn to face her.

“Blondie?” Eugene asks, turning from his pacing. He looks frazzled, hair sticking up from where he’d run his hands through it. Cassandra looks up from the wall. Rapunzel can’t meet her eyes. “How—how did it go?”

“Raps,” Cassandra says, quiet and wide-eyed. She looks stunned, her face white with anger or maybe horror. “Raps, are you—crying?”

“I’m fine,” Rapunzel whispers, but the words stick in her throat. She folds her hands, linking her stiff and shaking fingers. She closes her eyes against the burn of tears, and tries to forget the distance she had felt in that room, that awful sense of being alone, even with her parents right there with her. 

She lived in Corona for only a year. So little time, in hindsight. Can she really say that she knows them , either?

Eugene reaches out, his face fallen open and hurting for her. “Rapunzel,” he says. He sounds helpless.

“I—I guess I just hoped—” she starts, and swallows the tears back. “Just—those tall tales, those s- stupid stories about—about how the King’s angry all the time and arguing with the Guard, the in-fighting, the—the fear, it’s, I guess it’s—”

They’re silent. Pursed lips and grim faces. They all suspected. They all knew there would be fallout from their choices, consequences for their secrets. They all knew that coming home would not be easy. It’s not a surprise. 

It’s not a surprise, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I guess they weren’t just rumors after all,” Rapunzel chokes out, and runs for her room before they can see her cry.

.

.

.

The world turns slow on its axis, and in the blinding sunlight they go unnoticed. Settled in the shadows of her in-between world, bare feet brushing an endless sea, the Moon weaves her plots and smiles with every one of her knife-like teeth. In a dark cage beneath a shining castle, the prisoner in the dungeon shifts in his shackles and hisses threats beneath his breath. The pirate checks her maps with pen in hand, bold black marks crossing out the coast. The man in the woods guards a Great Tree, his cunning mind consumed by a terrible plot. The schemer in Vardaros rolls gold coins between gloved fingers and hums.

And in the deepest depths of the world, chained beneath the endless sea, Zhan Tiri sits back and smiles.

Chapter Text

One day, as the Sun slipped below the hills to rest, she saw a beautiful woman dancing on the seas. 

Dark like a shadow, and eyes glowing bright, the woman danced alone to the raging waves. Entranced by the sight, the Sun drew closer, unable to look away. But it was more than beauty, more than curiosity that caught her so. For the woman on the seas was lovely, yes, but she danced to no music. Here, even the wind was silent, and it struck the Sun as unbearably lonely. She watched the woman twirl to nothing, and was reminded of herself.

And as the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing…

.

.

.

Rapunzel can’t sleep.

It is three hours after her disastrous homecoming, and Rapunzel is finally ready to admit defeat. She just—can’t. She can’t sleep. She’s been lying here for hours, she’s been trying with all her might, because she’ll never convince Cassandra and Eugene things are fine if she looks like the living dead—but despite the exhaustion weighing at her body, despite how heavy her eyes, Rapunzel is wide awake. 

She turns her face into her pillow, smushing her nose, breathing deep to stave off another wave of tears. Oh, she hates this—being sad and being tired all at once. It just clings , the tangle of emotion dragging her down despite her best attempts to ignore it, to stay positive. 

It’s not that Rapunzel hasn’t been let down before, hasn’t been hurt, hasn’t been betrayed. She has. Gothel, Varian, her father… No. It’s not the first time, as much as she hates to think that. But she knows how to laugh despite it—to force a smile, and laugh, and turn her back to the things that seek to cut her open. She knows, but something about this—something about being right, about having expected it, about it hurting anyway—digs in deeper than usual. 

After that disastrous conversation with her parents, Rapunzel had fled. She had locked herself in her room and gone through the motions of preparing for sleep in a furious, half-distraught daze. Changed into her nightgown with a solemn grit to her teeth, even as her cheeks burned hot with fresh tears. Brushed her hair with stiff hands and got barely a quarter done before she had to stop. For those first few hours, Rapunzel had breathed and she had cried and she had paced, restless and alone. She had let herself feel, then. She was alone here, in this room, and that meant it was okay to cry.

It’s not that Eugene and Cassandra didn’t try to stay with her, of course. They did. They chased after her down the hall, and knocked quietly on the door when she locked it behind her. But in the end, they had listened when Rapunzel waved them away. They had left. Even Pascal, though still with her, is quiet in his support, nudging at her cheek and staying curled on her shoulder, but leaving her otherwise alone. In this moment, the distance is needed. Rapunzel doesn’t want to talk right now. She doesn’t want comfort. She wants to throw a tantrum behind closed doors, without the worry of what others will think of her for it. She wants to be angry, she wants to scream, and she doesn’t want to be talked down from it—not yet. Soon, maybe… but not yet.

Even now, hours later—the very idea of soft words and useless placations makes her want to break something. Her face is hot from her crying fit, a headache pulsing behind her eyes from the pressure, but her tears have finally run dry. It is practically morning already, but Rapunzel still cannot sleep.

Lying piled under her bed covers, Rapunzel turns her head into her pillow and sighs. The covers are heavy, pressing down like bricks, fabric tangled in her fingers and twisted around her legs like a web. When she moves, she can feel every weave, every knot, every thread, the silk rough and itchy against her skin. There’s a blood rush to her head, or maybe just heat, a pressure like she’s been holding her breath until she’s fit to burst, a painful ache building behind her gummy eyes, burning like a fever. It’s both too quiet, and too much all at once—Pascal, silent in rest, even the birds asleep; the wind, beating at her balcony windows, her own heartbeat roaring in her ears and rushing through her head. 

She can’t stop thinking about it, is the thing. She’s so stupid . She knew it couldn’t end well. She knew it was coming, and it still hurts. She knew, and yet—she feels like she can’t breathe right, like the air has gone thin and Rapunzel is still adjusting, like her gut has been hollowed out and her heart’s been twisted in her chest, wrung dry, strangled quiet. The press of her thoughts, the weight of everything, leans unyielding on her shoulders. If she thinks about it for too long, or too closely, she can feel her breath catch, her eyes prickling with tears, less from pain and more from stress. God, it’s so much. It’s just so much. She doesn’t—she doesn’t want—

She is aware, distantly, of her breathing beginning to pick up speed, wheezing in her chest; when she opens her eyes, the world blurs, dark and shadowy and too close, labyrinthine, her tower all over again, the roof caving in on her.

Her panic sharpens to a needle point. She throws off her covers, a scream stifled in her throat, and hunches over her middle with a choked gasp. Her eyes are hot and swollen, and it hurts to cry. Her hair hangs heavy around her like a shroud, sticky with sweat. Her hands are screaming stiff, pins and needles stabbing into wooden fingers.

The roar of wind outside her window is like thunder. Everything roars, her ears blocked, her pulse hammering through her skull. She feels sick and dizzy, and the longer she stays under the covers the more she feels like she’s being swallowed up. Rapunzel squeezes her eyes shut against the prick of tears, and opens them with a sigh, hissed through her teeth. 

...She can’t do this.

She rolls out of bed, slow and careful, pulling on a shawl. Every movement, every sound, every brush of her hand against the covers… it’s all too loud, too much. Getting out of bed feels like walking through the tide. Standing takes time and effort. 

She finds her feet, and the world spirals. She makes her way to the balcony, and the fact she doesn’t fall over is something of a miracle. Her footsteps pound, and the balcony door squeals when it opens, the glass burning cold to the touch. As she pushes open the door, the wind picks up and nearly slams it closed again, whistling fit for a storm. 

She steps out into the freezing air, and the stone is frigid against her bare toes. By this point, it must almost be the cusp of dawn: the sun still hangs low below the horizon, but the sky is slowly staining a mystical kind of blue, the clouds above gray and soft.

Rapunzel takes a moment to look at it, to breathe it in—tilts up her face to the cold air, her cheeks sticky from tears, her eyes sore—and lets it calm her. After the sleepless night she just had, hot from tears and restless turning, the winter touch is almost soothing.

Rapunzel steps up to the balcony, reaching out to brace herself against the metal railing. Even through the gloves, the chill strikes through. 

Below her, all of Corona sprawls at her feet. She’s so high up she can see the whole city, all the way to the distant mountains and the shining sea, and while normally this sight would comfort her, tonight it makes something small and nasty curdle in her chest. Rapunzel, alone in her room. But who is she fooling? It’s gentler, perhaps, but it’s still the same: Rapunzel, alone in her tower. 

...She’s not being fair, she thinks, finally. It’s different. She knows it is! She can leave, after all. She can leave whenever she wants, but in this moment, Rapunzel finds herself struggling to remember the differences. It’s still a tower. It’s still a cage, in its own way, and she’s already learned from painful experience that prison bars can be put on these windows too. 

She stares blankly down at the city, her hair dragging like a train behind her, and her fingers flex on the metal in sudden thought. If she wanted to. If she really wanted to—she could leave, right now. Loop her hair around the balcony and slip down to the ground. She could. Who would know? Who could stop her?

For a moment Rapunzel stands there and really, truly considers it—and then steps away, releasing hold of the balcony and her breath. She backs up to the wall, away from the ledge. Her will falters and then firms. No. No, she’ll stay. Leaving now, after that conversation, after just returning, with the situation as it is… it would only make things worse, add a new layer of drama to the whole mess. 

No. She’ll stay. 

She’s staying.

Still—the possibility, the open chance, the fact she could— just this eases some of the tension building up in her chest. Rapunzel closes her eyes and slides down to sit against the balcony doors, tilting back her head to rest on the cold glass, her face turned up to the cloudy skies.

She breathes. One breath. Two breaths. Slowly, her claustrophobia fades, eased away by the soothing cold. Rapunzel wipes her cheeks dry and rubs at sore eyes, the silk gloves itchy against her skin. She makes a face at the feeling and pulls it away, holding out her hand to see it properly in the moonlight.

Her hands are gloved, now, and even after all this time, Rapunzel is still not quite used to it. The gloves are pretty and embroidered, white silk stitched with delicate flowers and lovely detail—Cassandra’s idea, Cassandra’s gift. She’d bought them so Rapunzel could hide, so that her healing hands wouldn’t be left bare and aching in the chill. And the gloves, they are beautiful, they are lovely… but in this moment, all Rapunzel can do is frown at them.

She tugs them off on impulse—just one, just her right hand. Her exposed skin aches in the searing cold, her fingers curling in away from the icy air, looking almost like claws. 

Even in the dim morning light, the scars are unmistakable, pink and shiny and pitted on her skin.

Rapunzel stares are them for a long time, turning her hand to and fro. The scar cuts up her inner wrist, slicing neat across her palm and into the curl of her inner fingers. The cut is straight, precise—but the edges of the scars pucker and tear at her palm, little lightning lines across her hands. The consequences, the result, of Rapunzel using the hand too soon, stressing the injury before it even had the chance to heal. She curls her fingers into a fist—easier than straightening them, most days—and remembers the golem’s gruesome blade.

“I’ve survived worse,” Rapunzel reminds herself, looking at the scars. She tries to keep her voice bright, positive; in the cold, it shakes. “I— I made it! I made it through.” Her fingers flex and close again, grasping on the air. “And I can make it through this, too.”

The wind whistles in answer. Rapunzel looks to the clouded sky, and finally pushes herself back up to her feet. There is an itch in her fingertips, a restless sort of pacing in her soul. Not from injuries, or claustrophobia—no, this feeling is one she knows. This is inspiration. 

She heads back inside, pulling off the other glove as she walks, and throws the silk to a side table as she makes for her desk. She gathers up an armful of her paints and brushes, the tools untouched for over half a year, and curls her fingers tight around the slick wood handle of her favorite paintbrush. Her hands are scarred, and shaky, and aching… but they are hers. Her hands. They may be a little less secure, but she can still work with this, and she can still make something beautiful.

She takes up her supplies, goes back to the balcony, and kneels down to paint anew. The icy stone presses hard against her knees; the moonlight is faint, but bright enough to work by. She settles the jars of paint by her side, and splashes color across the rocks. 

She paints like a man possessed, her mind soothed and consumed by the idea. Colors and shapes take form for each worry on her mind. She thinks of the scars and how she got them, and splashes red across the stone. Remembers the labyrinth and paints swaths of darkened blue. Thinks of the Moon, of Varian and the Dark Kingdom, and black fills the corners of her makeshift canvas. Her parents—a bright spiral of amber-orange, murky and dim. The changes in Corona become tall silhouettes of buildings and gray paint dragging down her balcony floor. The memory of Cassandra, of Eugene, of Pascal—gold flecks of light, dancing across her stone canvas.

By the time the painting’s complete, her hands are screaming and her back is sore from the time spent bent over the balcony. Rapunzel sits up, and though she still can’t bring herself to smile, she no longer feels like she’s drowning. Something has settled, heavy but secure, in the hollow of her chest. Her breathing is soft and steady. There is paint in her hair, the rainbow flecking from her fingers—and finally, clarity.

Across the whole length of the balcony, a new artwork sprawls across the white-washed marble stone. She’s painted a dark silhouette of the Corona capital, turned shadowy and indistinct from the vivid red-orange sky burning behind it. High above, an eclipsed sun sits over the city, red light trailing down like faded ribbons to shatter the city into segments. At the edges of the piece, great shadows swirl and surround the city like a makeshift border, and the blank white space of unpainted stone looks like reaching hands, thin and sinister. 

It is a gloomy, twisted piece—as complicated as her feelings. Yet… there is light, too, even in this darker artwork. Golden streams coiling up the roadways, dancing in the streets. Small little lanterns shining bright and strong in the shadow city, burning bold against the emptiness.

Rapunzel twirls her paintbrush one last time. Her hands ache. Her hair shrouds around her face like a veil. The sun is starting to rise, now, distant light turning the world blue and dreamlike, and in this new dawn the world seems a little bit brighter. Easier to breathe. Easier to face.

Rapunzel closes her eyes, and leans heavily against the balcony doors. And at long last—for the first time since that disastrous homecoming conversation—she finally manages a smile.

.

True to Adira’s word, they leave the merchant camp behind by sunset. 

They leave it, also, in awkward silence. Varian packs his bags, and Adira leads the way—both of them seething, and neither willing to speak first. Adira is frowning slightly as they leave the camp behind them. Varian follows in her wake, glaring at the ground, and pets Ruddiger with more rigor than usual in an attempt for calm. He gets only an annoyed fwap to the face for his troubles, and Ruddiger’s usual scolding chitters.

Varian still doesn’t know where they're going—but after that fight, well, he’s no longer in the mood to ask.

So he doesn’t question it, when Adira leads them back through the city, past the main gate and through the streets once again, heading inland. He doesn’t question it, but he does wonder,for lack of anything better to think about. (He misses alchemy. The lack of distraction makes his fingers itch.) 

It’s his second time walking through these streets, but in this later hour, Port Caul is like another place entirely. The crowds have thinned to barely a trickle, the doors latched shut, the streetlamps just beginning to burn. The docks of the port city are still bustling, but with the earlier conversation of the merchants in mind Varian keeps a sharper eye out. This time, he sees the empty ports where ships should be, the closed stalls and stiff smiles of the dock workers, their frequent glances to the water. 

It’s… subtle. Hard to see on his own. But there’s something in the air, something he can finally identify. Something that reminds him, uncomfortably, of Old Corona. It’s the same feeling—a tension, almost, a building pressure, that feeling he got when the rocks first began growing in the village, closer and closer each day.

The comparison unsettles him, and he slows, eyes darting around for more clues. The shops, the amount of guards walking about… those lights in the distant ocean, more merchant ships or a patrol? “Something’s off,” he murmurs to himself, half under his breath. Thinking aloud. He curls his hand into Ruddiger’s fur to keep grounded, his mind spinning circles.  “It’s all… wrong, but why…?”

“Finally noticed, have you?” 

He almost trips, and it’s only Adira’s quick reflexes that save him from face-planting the road. She hauls him back to his feet, dangling him by his collar like a cat. He yelps, and she drops him. “The merchant groups have been talking about it for nearly a month,” she continues. Her tone is mild and blank. “It’s been a daily concern. Trade is, after all, the livelihood.”

He hefts the wrapped package up against his chest like a shield and backpedals out of her reach, staring hard at the ground. His face is hot, his cheeks red. He hadn’t known she’d been listening. He hadn’t known this was something he should have noticed sooner, and he’s not sure whether to feel ashamed he missed it or irritated that she had these stupid expectations in the first place. He’s an alchemist— or at least he used to be—not a spy. “Is that why we came here?”

Adira eyes him, looking annoyed again, but shrugs and turns away without further comment, continuing on through the darkening streets. Varian has to scramble to keep up. “No,” she says, over her shoulder. “More of a bonus, really. But we did well to come here when we did. Any longer…”

She shakes her head, and doesn’t elaborate. Varian’s mood darkens further. Typical. That stupid fight, all for nothing—she’s still keeping secrets. Still saying nothing. He looks down at his feet, and by his side, his hands clench into white-knuckled fists.

A small paw bats his ear, and his focus shatters, his thoughts derailed. He turns, and Ruddiger baps at his face, cold nose nudging at his cheek. A bushy tail brushes by his other ear, restless sweeping. He looks at Ruddiger and sees worry in the raccoon’s eyes, and his heart drops to his knees.

He swallows hard, and slowly unclenches his fists again. Stares down, silent, at the streets, and this time follows Adira without complaint. Ruddiger croons in his ear, soft and forgiving, but the knot of tension remains.

By the time they leave the city behind, the sun is far below the horizon and the sky is darkening from red to a rich purple-black. Beyond the port town, the roads trail off from cobblestone to dirt, and long lush fields of green stretch on for miles. The flatlands are dotted with fence lines and lantern-lights, distant houses built low and wide, near invisible in the long grass. Faint specks of light float up from the waves of greenery, winter-light fireflies native to this region. In the distance, a great fog broils over the fading silhouette of Port Caul—a low, heavy sort of fog, as dense as a cloud, slowly but surely creeping in over the farmlands. It’s as lovely as it is freezing—an endless field, summer greenery in the winter cold, like a fairytale. 

It’s beautiful, and unlike anything Varian has ever seen. Corona is all hills and forests, and any farms are village-bound and limited, the town reliant on outside trade from the capital city. He’s never seen farms like this: large-scale and endless, rolling fields of flatland tilled and maintained by human hands, enough food to feed a whole city. He can see for miles, all the way to the ocean, and the sheer stretch of distance dizzies him.

Still, despite the beauty, despite the shadowed land and ruby red skies like something from a picture book, Varian can’t help but feel uneasy. It goes on for miles, and miles, and miles . No walls, no hills, no natural landmarks—he could wander for days and remain utterly lost. 

And it’s getting dark, now; evening trekking on into nighttime, and—and he can’t see anything, can’t see where the road leads, where it ends. They’re heading out far, the city distant and dim behind them, and the houses here are few and far between. He sneaks a glimpse at Adira and worries at his lip. Are they going to be traveling all night?

He doesn’t feel comfortable asking her. She’ll just mock him, probably, and won’t give a straight answer anyway, and he’s too tired for that—so he focuses on his feet and on keeping steady. His oversized boots sink in the soft earth, the grass brushing at his knees. His breaths puff out in front of his face like a little fog cloud of his own. Ruddiger, sitting prim on his shoulder, leans up to bat at a few fireflies; he nearly falls off in the attempt, and Varian watches him play with a faint smile.

They keep going. The road gets harder and harder to see, and when Adira takes them off the main path, down a little side-trail that’s more footprints than actual paved walkway, it becomes near-impossible. He keeps his eyes on her retreating back, afraid to lose her. If he stops, if he stumbles and she doesn’t notice, could he be left behind in these fields, wandering lost until dawn?

Another hour passes. It’s pitch dark, now, the fields black with shadow and the only light coming from the moon high above. Varian tries his best not to look at it. His skin crawls under the blue glow, shivers wracking his frame. Every brush of the wind feels like icy fingers around his neck. For a moment, he swears he can almost hear a voice—soft laughter on the wind, vengeful whispers in his ears. Lost again, little boy?

He’s so distracted by this sensation, he doesn’t notice Adira has stopped until he runs right into her. He smacks into her back and reels back with a yelp, sitting hard in the dirt. 

Adira looks down at him. Even in the darkness, he can see that raised eyebrow.

“Why—why did you—”

“We’re here.”

“—what?” He pushes back to his feet. “What do you…” The words trail off. The clouds move past the moon, and in the growing brightness, he realizes the wall of shadow in front of them is not the same dark fields but a house. A tiny cottage, nestled between countryside and pasture; a small, modest thing, barely two floors, with a heavy wooden door and a small porch. Even now, he can barely see it—the house is built low to the ground, dark and seamless with the black horizon, near invisible in the great expanse of the landscape.

His throat locks. Varian shrinks away, clutching the package to his chest. Ruddiger curls around his neck like a shield. The windows of the house are dark, the porch empty. There’s nothing here to be afraid of, but he’s unsettled by how hard it was to find.

Adira holds no such reservations—she seems amused by his fear, a ghost of a smile on her face as she steps up to the door. The cottage is too small for her; her head would brush the doorframe if she wasn’t careful. This quiet, muted place, hidden by the dark—it is strange to see her there, standing on the steps like she belongs. She doesn’t. She is too big, too noticeable , out of place with the picture, and it makes Varian shuffle on his feet, abruptly uncomfortable in a way he cannot name. Like the house itself, in its own way, rejects them for being here.

It is not the first time he has felt this—like the world itself is aware of him, and disproves of where he steps. He doesn’t look at the sky, but the moonlight burns against his neck regardless.

Adira knocks on the door, and the sound rings low and heavy, shattering the quiet night. For a long moment, nothing happens. The windows remain dark, the house silent, seemingly empty.

And then, behind the door—the soft thud of footsteps. A pale glow flickers through the window. An eyeglass on the door glints with a brief candlelight—and then the door swings open, flung gaping wide. 

“Adira. I thought you were dead.”

Backlit by dim candlelight, the shadowy silhouette of a woman leans against the open doorway. She is older, at least Adira’s age, with dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair streaked with gray. Her small mouth is pinched in a frown; her eyes, lined with crow’s feet, peer out into the night. Her short hair, cut to her nape, curls and coils about her head. Varian leans in for a better look—and freezes, caught, when the woman’s narrow gaze pins on him with startling intensity. 

The stranger stares at him, and her eyes go wide. Her lip curls, face drawing tight with fury. “What,” she says, sudden danger in her voice, “is this?”

Varian’s heart drops. The woman, now illuminated by candlelight, finally clicks into place. He almost drops the package right on his foot. Her face—her voice—the slight accent— Oh.

Oh,  Varian thinks. Oh no.

“You!” he yelps.

“ You,” says the woman. 

“Who?” says Adira, and looks between them rapidly with a scowl. 

“Rude boy from the docks!” says the woman— the woman, the woman from earlier today, the one who woke him on the docks and urged him to get moving before he got arrested for sleeping there. Her eyes are bright with recognition, and she glances between him and Adira with a swiftly darkening frown. “What is this!?”

Adira is frowning too, now, looking displeased. “You two… have met?”

“That is my question,” snaps the woman, irritably. She runs a hand through her hair, fingers bunching in the short curls. Her expression is frazzled, her foot beginning to tap. “Do not ask a question that I should be asking you, that is very rude, do not. I have—you—the amount of questions I have, goddamn you! It’s near midnight, you absolute… Who are you to come barging in here!? Why now, even, what are you doing here—”

“I’m not allowed to visit?” Adira asks.

The woman stomps her foot and crosses her arms, looking serenely unimpressed. “No,” she says. “No, you are not. Five months, damn you! No letters, no word, not even a whisper, and now you think you can come to my city and knock on my door and pretend you are visiting?” She glances between them again, her eyes lingering on Varian, and her scowl darkens into a glower. “No. Get out!”

“I brought a gift,” Adira counters, recovering, mild at the rejection. She pushes Varian forward, into the light. He stares at her, and at her pointed glance to the package, startles bolt upright and sticks out his arms, holding the package aloft. Right! Right. The book.

He keeps his mouth shut, though, even as he offers it to the stranger. Something about the situation unsettles him—and not just that the woman has recognized him. This is the friend Adira was talking about? And yet, this whole conversation… the tense line to Adira’s shoulders, the way they are talking—there is something wrong here, something he’s missing. It unnerves him.

The unease only deepens when the woman stares back at him. She eyes the book briefly and then glares right at Varian, her jaw tightening. She eyes him for so long he almost thinks she won’t take it—but then her hand snaps out and snatches it from his grip, so quick he almost misses it.

The woman has set the candle off to the side; she tears into the package with both hands, ripping off the wrapping paper with one sharp tug. In her hands, she hefts a large tome, almost as long as her entire forearm. The furrow between her brow deepens. She flips through the pages with quick and precise movement. 

“A book,” she says, finally, sourly, snapping the tome shut. “A book ? You think a book will buy you my favor? You have been gone so long your brains have addled, Adira, if you truly think—”

“You’re welcome,” Adira says, and the woman gives a truly impressive scowl.

“It is a very nice book,” she says, after a long moment of wrestling with herself, the words stiff. “But frankly? I do not care. Get out. I will not ask again.”

There’s a long pause. Adira’s amused expression fades, her smile near a grimace. She seems to come to some sort of decision, because her stance shifts, her head lowering. “…I need your help,” she says, finally, and the words are strained. 

The woman barely bats an eye. “Hah! Tough.”

“I wouldn’t come if it weren’t serious.”

“So you visit me only when it suits you, is that it? No hellos, only business and bribes?” She crosses her arms. “And here I thought us friends. Well, no matter—I shall not do business with you. Too bad, so sad. Go away.” 

Another pause. From the corner of his eye, Varian watches Adira take a deep breath. Her smile is gone entirely now. By her side, her hands clench into fists. Her expression, twisted with something almost like pain. 

“Please,” Adira says.

Varian nearly jumps from the shock. He stares outright at her. He has never once heard Adira say that before. He can hardly wrap his mind around it. It must be just as surprising to the woman, because she goes quiet at this, pensive. She watches Adira like a hawk, and her lips press in a thin line. She says nothing. 

The silence stretches. Adira exhales, shaky, and adds, “There’s something I need to tell you. You and Ella both.” Her mouth works. For a moment Varian almost think she will say— that word —again, but once is apparently all Adira can take, because she shakes her head and leaves it at that. 

The woman’s face is blank. Her eyes, unreadable. Her lips press tight and thin, her brow furrowed, and then she turns and looks at Varian. He stills. Her face is blank, and yet—for a moment he feels pinned, judged, his worth weighed and discarded in a single moment. (The moon, high above them—his skin crawls. )  

“…Adira,” she says, at last. Her eyes stay fixed on Varian, cold and piercing. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Adira is looking at Varian too. Her voice is quiet. “Yes.”

“…I see.” The woman’s jaw clenches, and she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, her expression is resolved. “We will discuss this further inside. You will owe me.”

“We won’t be here long,” Adira promises. “Five days at most.”

“I am still debating on if I want you here tonight,” counters the woman, cold. “We will discuss it later. If you are lucky I won’t kick you out by dawn.” She doesn’t seem best pleased with the situation, but she steps back and gestures them inside regardless. A long hallway stretches behind her, shadowy and featureless, leading into the dark.

“Well, then,” the woman says, shortly, giving Varian the evil eye. “Come inside, unwanted guests. I am Yasmin. Please, do not bother to make yourselves at home—I, for one, cannot wait until you leave.”

.

For a moment, Varian is still. Frozen in place, staring up at the woman with wide eyes, thrown off-balance by her scowl and rude invitation. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t like her. The open door of her home feels like walking into a lion’s den.

But when the woman—Yasmin—steps back to welcome them into her house, however reluctantly, Adira smiles and walks in without faltering. Varian follows with much more hesitation. He steps over the threshold and looks into the darkness with a heavy feeling in his gut. Yasmin’s unfriendly expression, the house’s lonely placement, the memory of the merchants and the city’s unease—it feels like danger. It feels like a secret, waiting to break open into the world.

“Hurry up, would you, the cold air’s blowing right in,” Yasmin says, and Varian jumps in his skin and nearly trips in his haste to get inside.

The door closes heavy behind him. Yasmin picks up her candle and sweeps past him before he can even think to react, heading off down the hall. Varian scrambles to catch up, Ruddiger swinging heavy on his shoulders.

“You’re the one from the docks,” he says again, trying to place her mood. He slows at a trot by her heels, watching her carefully; Yasmin makes a face at the air when he speaks. 

“And you are that stupid boy I kicked awake, yes, I recognize you.” She turns to scowl at him, and then her eyes fall on Ruddiger, still curled like a scarf around his neck. “What is that?”

Ruddiger clamors into his arms, and Varian clutches him protectively to his chest. “He’s Ruddiger.”

“…That is a raccoon.”

“He’s Ruddiger,” says Varian, for lack of anything better, and Yasmin closes her eyes and pinches at her nose, turning away. 

“Raccoons,” she mutters darkly, striding off. “Raccoons and liars, all in my house, should have moved to the arctic, see if anyone can find me there… ”

There’s a creak on the floorboards, somewhere behind him, and Varian turns. It’s probably Adira, he thinks—she’s vanished somewhere in the house—but when he looks behind him, it’s to find himself face-to-face with a stranger.

Another woman blinks down at him, standing high above on a dark stairwell. Like Yasmin, she seems Adira’s age: near ageless in appearance, but clearly older, laugh lines carved deep into her black skin. She’s dressed in a pale-yellow nightgown, a heavy shawl pulled up around her shoulders, dark hair dreaded down her back. An opal clasp necklace hangs low around her neck. 

She stares down at Varian, her expression blank, and eyes slowly widening. “Oh,” the new woman says. “Oh! I—oh dear, Yasmin, do we have guests?”

Yasmin steps up behind him. “No,” she says, annoyance heavy in her voice. “It is nothing to worry about, Ella, go back to bed. I’ll be up soon enough.”

The second woman—Ella? —blinks again at this, pulling her gaze away from Varian. “I… Are you sure? I could hear voices from upstairs; you sounded upset. Has someone—” She cuts herself off, suddenly. She stares out over their shoulders, and exhales a shocked breath. Her hand rises to her mouth. “My god. Adira? ”

“Damn it all,” Yasmin mutters.

Sure enough: Adira stands at the end of the hallway, exiting from the other room. She meets the new woman’s gaze and smiles. “What, no hello?”

The woman seems stunned silent. “Adira,” she repeats, disbelieving. “My god. Is that really you?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Yasmin announces, sounding sour. “But she won’t be staying long. Ella, please, just ignore her, probably better to forget she came by at all—”

But it is quickly apparent that the newcomer, Ella, is no longer listening. She is already sweeping past Yasmin and Varian both, one hand over her mouth. “Adira!” Unlike Yasmin, she sounds delighted rather than upset. She stops, hands outstretched, like she wants to hug Adira but knows better than to try. “It’s been so long, we almost thought you were dead! How are you? How have you been?”

“ Ella— ” Yasmin starts, aggrieved. 

“I’ve been fine,” Adira says, with a vague smile. “It’s good to see you again, Daffodil.”

“Must we go through this every time? Just call me Ella, please , you’ve known me long enough.” She is laughing, though, smiling ear to ear, and is still grinning when she turns back to Varian. “Ah, I understand the situation now. You’ve brought another with you—how unusual! And who is this?”

“This is Varian,” Adira says, before he can answer. Varian awkwardly returns her smile—and then freezes. Behind Ella, leaning against the wall, Yasmin stares right at him, expression unreadable. Her eyes are cold.

Varian’s breath catches in his throat, his smile stuttering. This is Varian, Adira had said, and that—that’s his name. His real name.

This morning, when he’d run into Yasmin for the first time, he’d told her his name was Vell. 

It’s—it’s stupid, he’s being silly; who remembers the name of some random stranger they encountered on the street? And yet—he feels sick, his heart dropped to his knees. Doubt creeps in on him. The darkness in her eyes, the ice of her expression—there’s something frightening about the look on Yasmin’s face, and Varian shrinks back, even as his gut goes hot with anger. He… he hasn’t even done anything. He hasn’t met her before today, so why, why is she—

A hand sticks in front of his face, and the thought snaps off into nothing, broken apart by surprise. Varian jolts back to the present. The other woman, Ella, is standing before him now, smiling so warmly he finds himself wrong-footed. She leans down to his level, and the quiet warmth of her smile blocks out Yasmin’s distant glower. “Hello, Varian,” she says. “My name is Elmira.” 

Her hand stretches out closer, and Varian finally remembers to take it. Her grip is dry and firm; her hands are soft. Her smile is small but bright, and something about her—something about the gentle way she speaks—

“Everyone calls me Ella, though,” she adds, sounding sly, and the whispers of Rapunzel fade away. Ella gives a sideways glare to Adira. “ Most do, anyway.” 

Adira shrugs, and Ella sighs, shaking her head. Her eyes turn back to him. “Well, regardless. It’s wonderful to meet you!”

“Nice… nice to meet you too,” Varian stutters out, and steps away as subtly as he can manage. Her smile makes old guilt stick in his throat. “Um, I—thanks for having us…?”

“Oh! Are you staying the night?” Ella turns. “Yasmin, you didn’t tell me were having guests.”

Yasmin shrugs, unmoving. Ella’s smile never wavers—she laughs, brightly, as if the other had told a joke instead, and puts a hand on Varian’s shoulder, turning him away, pushing them all down the hall. “Come along, then,” she says, guiding them forward. “You must have had a long journey—have some tea before you sleep. Adira, have you already put the kettle on? Ah, you read my mind. Please don’t tell me I’m that predictable, old friend…”

Varian lets himself be dragged, the soft conversation washing over him. The warm kitchen, the quiet candlelight—with Ella’s entrance the fear has broken, uncertainty chased away by the scented tea and the heat of the ceramic cups. Even Adira is as close as she gets to friendly, speaking in length of odd stories and happenings, indulging Ella’s every question.

And it’s almost enough—almost, almost, almost enough—for him to overlook the way Yasmin slips out of the room, the way Adira smiles and doesn’t drink the tea, and the way Ella very carefully doesn’t ask why they are here, either.

Varian sips his tea, and he wonders.

.

It is four hours into his first day back in Corona, and Eugene is already sick of it.

It’s—the little things, maybe, the everything. All the dread that came with coming back, and then having all those worst fears proved true when he saw Rapunzel walk, shaking, out of that talk with her parents. Cassandra’s reassignment— god, the thought makes his blood boil. The stilted nature of the castle, the weird way people talk, whispering, as if afraid to be heard…

Eugene isn’t one to judge, really. In fact, for all his faults he likes to think he’s rather good at the whole “no-judging” thing. Going with the flow has always been more his style. But recently, his good opinion towards Corona has soured. It’s a lovely place, but it’s not home—home, to Eugene, is a little orphanage off in a different country, a place he’ll never see again. There’s no loyalty here, not to this kingdom, not to this castle. And with recent events, seeing how they’ve hurt Rapunzel, again, and now Cassandra, too…

Eugene’s starting to think it warrants a little bit of judgement, here. And, well, hey. He knows he’s not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, especially when it comes to all these silly political debacles, but it’s not like he’s blind , either. This thing? This weird thing happening with Corona? He knows , if nothing else, that it’s not normal. 

Sure, he doesn’t know what it means, to see the servants and maids whispering amongst themselves, only to stop when they hear footsteps. He doesn’t know how to interpret the way royal advisor Nigel looks pale and stressed, and treats every letter like its either precious gold or a live explosive. He doesn’t know what to think about the way he’s summoned to an audience with the King and Queen the very morning after their re-entry to Corona, except that maybe their voices are a little colder than they used to be, their tone a little cooler.

He doesn’t know what to make of it—but Eugene still notices.

It’s the dawn of his first morning back inside Corona’s walls, and as he strolls up the north tower staircase to Rapunzel’s room, Eugene keeps his ears open and his eyes peeled. It’s a beautiful day, all things considered. Sunlight streams bright and golden through the wide windows, the carpet soft and giving under his cleaned boots. The air is crisp and cool, the halls almost empty. The morning light brightens up even the dreariest of rooms.

It’s a beautiful day, and Eugene hates it almost on instinct. It’s all he can do to force a smile and hello to the castle staff as he goes, his spirits so low every grin feels like a grimace. He’s finally gotten a semi-decent bath after eight months of river water, but a headache pulses at the edge of his thoughts, the late night and his constant worry leaving dark circles under his eyes. He feels awful, and the day is so stupidly chipper. Didn’t anyone tell the world to knock it off?

But still—even with the headache, even in the midst of his annoyance—Eugene watches. Those off-duty guards, ducking into a side hall, their voices cut short by his approach…just frisking, or perhaps discontent? The kitchen potato peeler, normally upbeat and now silent and paranoid about every loud sound…just a bad week, or perhaps something more?

There’s something here, he thinks. There’s an answer for all their questions, if only he knew where to look.

It’s the reason he watches the shadows, and the reason he’s still smiling as he approaches Rapunzel’s door. The answer is here, somewhere. Maybe in the shadows, maybe in the halls. Maybe it’s in the whispers he doesn’t hear. Or maybe it’s here—in the weak greeting from Stan and Pete, standing guard by Rapunzel’s door… and beside them, standing small: another guard. A young, weedy boy with dark skin and a shaky smile, amber eyes wide behind his shiny helmet. 

Elias, newly instated—Cassandra’s replacement and Rapunzel’s new permanent escort.

But there’s no hard feelings here! None at all, nope, and even if there were, Eugene isn’t petty enough to blame the boy for the king’s decisions. So he keeps smiling, keeps on grinning, wondering about secrets and plots even as the kid jolts at his arrival, grabbing at his halberd when Stan and Pete move to open the door.

“W-wait,” Elias says, eyes wide, darting back and forth between Eugene and the others. “Why are you—w-who is—” The halberd swings down to point at Eugene’s chest. “State your—your—your business with the Princess of Corona!”

Eugene backpedals out of range, throwing up his hands in the universal symbol for please no stabbing . Stan and Pete have already lunged forward, dragging Elias back. “Woah, Eli!” Stan says, and his laugh is high and awkward. “It’s fine, it’s fine! He has a pass, he’s—”

“Eugene Fitzherbert,” Eugene supplies, flashing what he hopes is a charming grin. This situation is bringing back all sort s of bad memories. He keeps his eyes on the halberd. “I’m Rapunzel’s—”

“—intended!” says Pete. “Future intended!”

Way fancier term for it than what Eugene would have chosen—talk about aggressively committed and political, yikes —but who is he to complain? “Yes! Yes, sure, that, exactly.”

“O-oh.” The halberd drops, Elias’s cheeks flushing dark with mortification. “Oh, I—I—I—sorry, I didn’t—I’m—”

“It’s fine!”

“I’m new,” Elias says finally, miserably, and his eyes drop to the ground. Behind the boy, Stan and Pete wince. 

Eugene lowers his hands, feeling a little more secure now that the threat of bodily injury has passed, and has to hold back a grimace himself. The look on the kid’s face is painful to witness. New to the job, stationed to guard the princess to his kingdom, and replacing Cassandra—the Captain’s daughter and an unparalleled fighter. It’s an absolute joke of a situation, and something about Elias’s expression tells Eugene that the kid knows it as well as he does.

Eugene softens a little at the sight, and he gives the poor kid an easy smile. “It’s fine,” he repeats, and this time almost means it. No hard feelings, he reminds himself, and it’s easier to remember when seeing Elias right there in front of him. “Nice, uh… guarding!”

If Elias had looked downtrodden before, now he looks near-despondent. He gives a very tiny nod, and his helmet makes a sad little creak as he moves. 

Well, hell. “Great!” Eugene announces, bright and desperate, and escapes through the doors before he can dig himself into a deeper hole. Gods, it’s like with Varian all over again; he never says the right thing. Someone please save him from all these mopey teenagers. 

(And if the thought of Varian pangs a bit—well. Eugene shakes it away with all the determination of a man with six months of practice.) 

The door shut behind him, the terrible conversation escaped, he turns into the room. It’s clean in a way that seems anathema to Rapunzel—eight months of being kept neat by castle maids—and he’s not surprised to find her outside, sitting on the balcony. 

Eugene heads out to join her, pausing briefly in the doorway. A new painting lies sprawled across the balcony floor, the image taking up almost the entire space, a mess of dark blues and grays. He tilts his head, seeing an image of Corona in the drooping gray buildings, a solar eclipse hanging over the city like a guillotine blade. The painting is violent, and twisted, but not without light—tiny specks of gold float around the dark space, turning a depressing image into something a little more complex.

Well, then.

“Nice new addition,” he remarks, careful to skirt around the edges of her artwork, keeping clear of the drying paint. He joins her on the balcony, leaning next to her against the railing. She doesn’t answer, and Eugene doesn’t press; looks away, instead, giving her time to compose herself. 

He looks out over the railing, trailing his eyes across the kingdom. In the midday sun, Corona is awash with pale winter brightness. Snow piles haphazardly on the distant rooftops, the hills a mix of dark green pine and slushy white. The sea seems to glow in the sunlight. 

“You know, of all the places I’ve been, Corona is one of the most portrait-worthy. I ever tell you that? I mean, look at this. What man could see this kind of view and not immediately want to buy an island? God damn.”

A quiet huff of laughter, a giggle bit back by a quickfire smile. Eugene grins broadly at the sky and checks her with his shoulder. “No?”

Rapunzel looks at him from the corner of her eye, still red-eyed but playing along. “I can’t say I’ve ever wanted an island,” she says, finally. The ghost of a smile lingers at her lips. “What would you do all day?”

“Well—” He stops, considering. “Swim, I guess?”

“… All  day? Every day?” Ah, such a doubtful tone. She tries so hard not to judge, but he can almost see the raised eyebrow, even without looking. 

Eugene closes his eyes to the sun and feels his smile broaden, laughter shaking in his chest. “Blondie, no one ever said it had to be a well-planned dream.” 

She flounders, at that. “Well, no, but…”

He shrugs, snickering, and laughs aloud when she elbows him, coughing hard in his elbow to keep under control. They fall together in a comfortable silence. Eugene’s smile gentles into something a little softer, a little quieter; he tucks his hands under his armpits to keep warm, and finally looks over at her, bracing himself against the chill. 

It’s better than he feared: Rapunzel looks worn, but instead of despairing she just seems tired. Her expression is distant and near-empty, but the calm seems hard-won: her eyes are troubled, and there are deep shadows lining her face, a hint of redness around the eyes, a flush to her cheeks. She’s been crying, and crying hard. 

Eugene thins his lips. “…Any better?”

Rapunzel’s eyes flicker to him and then away. She leans against the railing with a gusty sigh, and the sound sinks her whole body, like a weight pressing on her shoulders. “Not really.”

He works his jaw. He knows, now, about the labyrinth, and what happened there—some of it, at any rate, the story pieced together in fits and bursts over the last few months. For Rapunzel, telling the story is like pulling teeth: something painful and unfortunately necessary, that aches even hours after the deed is done. 

“You were supposed to have breakfast with them today, right?” he tries. “They take it okay?” She’s silent for a bit too long, and Eugene winces at the look on her face. “…Ah.”

Rapunzel looks away again, rubs at her eyes. “I—I just, I couldn’t. Not today, not after… you know. And last night, they… they tried to make it easy on me, but—”

“Yeah.”

“And I—I mean, I can’t—obviously I left things out. I mean.”

The Problem of Varian. No, yeah, Eugene can already see how that went down. It’s all around terrible, because even without the secrecy, he’s not sure the King and Queen would react any better. It’d been a huge source of debate between the three of them during their journey home, and while silence on Varian’s fate is perhaps the better option… well. It doesn’t make it any easier. 

Rapunzel freeing Varian was… Eugene isn’t sure what to think of it, and frankly, he doesn’t think he has the right to judge. But still. Even he can tell that those were not the actions of a princess, but rather the actions of Rapunzel herself. Justice not in the way of Kings and Queens, but rather, justice for the girl in the tower—for the person who knows, intimately and painfully, what it’s like to live behind bars.

A bitter pill for some to swallow? Yeah, sure, but they’ll have to accept it sooner or later. But for the King and Queen, who got their daughter back and thought she would be a princess in due time, as if one year of instruction could override eighteen years as a normal girl locked away…

Yeah, no. There’s no good way to say it, and there’s no way it ends well. Eugene doesn’t blame her one bit for trying to avoid the situation entirely. If it had been him… well. He’d be running for another country, flat out.

“It’ll die down,” Eugene says, for lack of anything better, and shrugs. “I mean—speaking as a former, ah, rogue here—outrage always does. The sooner you stick it out, the more they’ll just… uh… get used to it, I guess?” He hopes, anyway.

“You’re probably right.” Rapunzel rubs at her face. “I just… I hate this. I feel so— useless.”

The words hit harder than she probably intends, and Eugene has to struggle to keep his face blank. Bitterness is a lump in his throat. Useless. He knows what she means too well, now. Their journey to the Dark Kingdom had it put in perspective, in that way. Painful, ugly perspective. Rapunzel’s destiny is unavoidable, but just because it’s destiny doesn’t make it kind. He could lose her. He could lose them all. He could lose everything, and there would be nothing Eugene could do to fight that.

Useless is right, he thinks, and looks away before she can see his face twist. “…Yeah.” He clears his throat, voice rough. “Yeah. I know the feeling.” He reaches out, taking her hand in his. Her hands are bare, the gloves gone; he squeezes her palm very softly. “But… you’re not, okay? I know it feels that way, but Blondie—if there’s anyone that can change things around here, it’d be you.”

Her smile is dim and faint. “Because I’m the princess?”

He snorts. “Because you’re you , obviously.” Pauses. “Though, I suppose political leverage never hurt either.”

This time, when she smiles at him, the expression is real.

Eugene grins back. “Still, though.” His smile fades, and he casts a sour look back at the door. “I’ll admit, they trapped you pretty well this time, didn’t they?” He scowls at the memory. “And here I was, thinking your old man had finally learned his lesson, go figure—”

But Rapunzel is already shaking her head. “No, that’s… he has, I think?”

Eugene stops mid-complaint, frowning down at her. “Hm?”

“About keeping me safe. I mean—Elias—”

“Nervous kid.”

“—yes,” Rapunzel agrees. She rubs her hands together, lacing stiff fingers like a knot. “And—and I’m sure he’s great! I’m sure he’s very good, but I mean… if my dad really didn’t want me to go out…  there’s not a shortage of guards, y’know? He could have gotten anyone.”

Eugene searches her face. “Wait, wait. You think he chose Elias for a reason?”

“Maybe?” Rapunzel bites her lip. “I think… Elias is new. Young. Closer to my age, kind of—five years off, but compared to the other guards…” She shrugs. “And he’s nice. I’d feel bad about getting him into trouble, so I’m probably less likely to leave him behind, I think? So he’s an escort rather than a guard. And—” She cuts herself off, rubs at her hands. “I think—I can’t remember well, but Elias… probably hates Varian.”

Eugene straightens up at that. “What, really?” He has to admit, he finds it hard to imagine that fearful kid hating anyone.

“I can’t—I mean, I can’t be sure. But that’s the crucial issue, right? Varian’s escaped, and we aren’t talking. So…on the off-chance Varian comes back, if there’s anyone who will stop me, who can’t be convinced to listen…”

The logic tracks. “…It’ll be someone who already has a grudge.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, dropping her head down into her arms. “Oh, maybe I’m just paranoid. I don’t know.”

“No, no, I think…” Eugene hesitates. “No, that feels right. I mean…” He stops again, considering her. She’s been through so much, and he doesn’t want to put more on her shoulders. That’s the last thing he wants to do. But secrets and lies have never brought them anything but pain. 

“Look,” Eugene says, starting slowly, deciding to chance it. “I… your parents are great, Blondie, okay? No complaints here! But listen—they’re royalty. And my experiences with royals have been…” 

He trails off, unsure of how to word it nicely, and pulls a face. He lifts one hand and wavers it in the air in a see-saw motion, and leaves it at that. He’s “forgiven” the hanging incident, if only because holding a grudge seemed like useless and needless drama at the time, especially since all the charges against him had been cleared. But he still remembers, clear as day, the sight of that noose. He still remembers, always, in the back of his mind—the stories of King Frederick, kind and fair right up until you slipped. 

The royal family of Corona had always hated thieves the most.

“People are on edge here,” Eugene says, finally, bluntly. “There’s so many plots going on I can’t go one step without stumbling into something sticky. Whispers, jumping at shadows… hell, you know that kitchen girl, Adeline?”

“Addy?”

“Yeah, her, the spunky one. Saw her as I was walking up, and she looked scared of her own damn shadow. There’s something—off. More than just rumors, or the problems with Varian, or the King’s temper. There’s something wrong.”

Rapunzel stares at him. Her eyes turn back to the railing. “They’re afraid,” she murmurs. She sounds—muted, maybe, and Eugene winces in understanding. What they’ve heard from Corona… it hadn’t been good, no, but it hadn’t been this bad. Closing trade routes, more sea-faring attacks; harsher laws and punishments enacted, yes, maybe. In-fighting in the castle… mild, but enough to make note of. But if the people of the castle are afraid, if all of Corona is worried— 

“I can’t tell you what it means,” Eugene says, at last. “But—while we were gone—we missed something. Okay? We missed something. Bigger than just the King’s… temper. And that something? It’s still there. It’s still happening.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “It’s still happening,” she echoes. Her lips twist, an expression almost pained. “And… and my parents aren’t going to tell me what it is, are they?” 

It’s not really much of a question, not when they both already know the answer. They’ve gone through this song and dance before, after all. The King and Queen won’t share a thing with Rapunzel—not if they want her to stay here, not if they are angry with her… not if the King is worried once again that his daughter might disobey orders, might risk her life for the kingdom. They’ll try to keep her in the dark as long as possible.

Eugene’s heart pangs at the thought. He puts at arm around her shoulder and tries to rub some warmth back into her arms. She deserves better. She’s always deserved better, and it never fails to make him angry, the way the world always tries to throw her off her feet.

“It’s not all hopeless, Blondie. I mean, think of it this way! If there’s something wrong, still going wrong, then that means there’s a chance to change it.” He hesitates, watching her, and carefully squeezes her against his side. “…Which, uh. I—I wanted to talk to you about something.”

She turns to him, immediate, and he almost smiles. “What is it?”

He takes a breath. “I… I’ve been thinking.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “…Okay.”

“Cassandra’s been sent to the dungeons, yeah?”

“ Guard the dungeons,” Rapunzel corrects. Her smile falters. “But, um, yes…?”

“And you’re here.” 

“Mm-hmm…” She’s watching him closely, now. “Eugene, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s… ah…” It’s no use. All his stupid pick-up lines and charming grasp of language, and he’s fumbling tongue-tied like a teenager again. Best to just get it over with. “I think I need to go.”

There’s a long silence. Rapunzel’s face has gone blank. 

“Not—not go, go, I mean… not far. I’ll stick to the main city, stay in Corona if I can, and… damn it.” He rubs at his neck. “I’m saying this all wrong. It’s just—Rapunzel, I can’t do anything here.”

“You’re leaving?” Her voice is very quiet.

“I’m never far.” He takes her hand. “But I need to do this. Like you said—about being useless—I can’t help here.” He squeezes her hand. “But I can help elsewhere.”

He doesn’t know how else to say it; how else he can explain. Because the Dark Kingdom had done what nothing else could: it had showed Eugene where he stood. It had showed him how, in this game of destiny and plots, Eugene was little more than a side thought. Pushed aside. Made helpless. Made to watch. 

He almost lost her, there, in that labyrinth. He has never forgotten that. If Eugene keeps playing by the rules, he’s going to lose her again.

So he won’t play by the rules. He won’t play with destiny, or kingdoms, or powers he doesn’t understand. Doing this—going away, and playing to his strengths—this is Eugene’s answer. This is his stand. He needs to go. He needs to find Lance, and find the people that only Eugene Fitzherbert, former thief, can find. 

This, he can do. Eugene may not know politics, but he knows people—knows the shadows, knows the lies, knows what hides beneath the pretty, polished surfaces. He can’t find answers in the castle… but perhaps he can find them somewhere else.

So he takes her hands in his, and kisses her cheek, soft in the way that has always come easy when it’s with her. “You can do this,” he whispers, quiet, in her ear. “Sunshine, you can do absolutely anything. And if you ever need me—I’ll be there. Always. ” He pulls back. “But please. I need—I need to do this. Trust me?”

She stares at him. Slowly, she clutches his hands back. “All right,” she says. Just as hushed. “Okay.” A careful squeeze at his fingers. “I trust you, Eugene. If you say you need to do this… then do it.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ll be okay. I will be okay.”

He smiles at her, helplessly warm. The relief he feels is almost dizzying. “I know,” he says, and squeezes her hand one last time before pulling away. “And it’s not—for long, I promise, I’ll visit whenever I can. You won’t even know I’m gone!”

“I don’t know about that, ” Rapunzel says, but she’s smiling now, and even if it’s a little pale, it’s still a smile. She shakes her head. “…Where are you going?”

“Snuggly Duckling, to start.” He grins a little, excitement building in his chest. “I mean, if Lance is still working there…”

“Oh, Lance!” Rapunzel brightens immediately, her face glowing. “That’s a wonderful idea. That way you won’t be working alone, either.”

“He’s the best,” Eugene agrees. He’s missed Lance like a missing limb these past eight months, and even in this whole rotten scenario, getting to see his brother again is like a balm. “I’ll bring him by too, make sure he says hello.” 

Rapunzel smiles. “Please! Oh, it’ll be so nice to see everyone again…Tell him I say hello! And that I miss him.” 

Eugene winks. “Of course.”

Rapunzel nods to herself. “And—when you go… do you mind giving Cass a message from me?”

He settles against the balcony railing to listen, noting her words to memory. It is only a day after their return—the shadows still cling heavy to their eyes, the exhaustion weighing on their shoulders. Cassandra’s been demoted and Eugene himself is on thin ice. Leaving Rapunzel alone here, in this situation—it should sit ill in his gut. But it is a new day, a bright day, a beautiful day… and as he looks over Rapunzel’s face, the determined tilt to her head and the steel in her spine, he knows she’ll be okay. She’s not alone, either.

It has been a long, tiring eight months. But they are back, now, and he knows: they are tired, but not beaten. Not Cassandra, who took the news with a tense jaw and a determined look. Not Rapunzel, who smiles and laughs despite her awful homecoming. And Eugene?

He’s going to fight too. The only way he can. The only way he knows. No more watching the bad things happen. No more waiting on the sidelines.

This time, when the fallout comes, Eugene is going to hit back.

.

Varian wakes up screaming.

There is ice in his veins, in his heart, in his lungs. Whispers clouding at his mind like cobwebs. His limbs locked stiff like the black stone, unmoving. He tries to move and can’t, tries to scream but his breath won’t respond—there’s a hand in his chest, in his heart, and a voice that hums cruel insults in his ears, rising, rising, rising. 

Tick tock, child. Weren’t you going to prove me wrong?

His eyes fly open, breath seizing in his chest. His heart is pounding, drumbeat staccato in his bloodstream. The scream locks in his throat, cut off to a strangled gasp. He doesn’t know where he is. Behind his eyelids: black. The world around him: dark. He can’t see. He can’t see anything. He is—

His eyes catch a faint sliver of light, a pale glow pooling through the open window. Moonlight. Light.

He’s not in the labyrinth. He’s not—

Varian holds himself still, breathing hard, trying to remember where he is. He is—inside, in a cot, blankets tight around his shoulder—Ruddiger by his side—a roof?

Memory returns to him in fragments. The house hidden in the countryside. The woman, Yasmin, and her wife. Drinking bitter tea at a warm kitchen table. Falling into his borrowed bed, even with all his paranoia, because something may be off here but he was so tired…

His breathing calms, his hammering heart slowly settling. He grits his teeth, squeezing shut fever-hot eyes. Exhaustion feels like a lead weight within him, dragging him down to the floorboards. He’s not angry. He’s not even upset. He’s just woken up, but even now, Varian feels so, so tired. 

It’s still dark out: the sky black, the world silent, the only glow coming from the moon shining high up in the sky. He can see the room in vague black-and-white detail—the distant dark corners, Adira’s empty cot, the slim desk and dresser shoved off to the side. Books, their covers and colors obscured in the dark, pile high on shelves and create leaning towers against the walls. A study turned to temporary guest bedroom.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to breathe, blinking fast so he doesn’t have to close his eyes. He feels hot in his skin, feverish and ill, his bones aching and his lungs small. His chest slowly compacting, like a weight on his ribs pressing down and in, smothering his every breath. He is hyper aware of every part of him—his eyes hot and achy, his fingers and toes tingling pins and needles. His breathing finally calms… but Varian still feels wide awake.

He won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

After a moment of thought, Varian sits up, slowly levering himself out of bed. He sits off the side of his cot and tugs on his coat as quiet as he can. Straightens his socks on his feet. He sees Ruddiger snuffle, little eyes squinting open, and pets him gently until the raccoon’s eyes slide shut again.

He pads his way carefully across the room, almost shuffling. He pushes open the door gingerly, already making a face, hoping against hope the sound won’t rouse Ruddiger—but for once, he’s lucky. The door doesn’t squeak at all, the hinges silent as the grave. It opens with nary a sound. Home free. 

Varian straightens his coat and casts one last look at the illuminated window, the moonlight pooling on the floor. He flips the distant moon the middle finger, flicking the rude gesture with all the feeling he can muster. 

 His chest feels cold, his veins tight like a chokehold. He rubs hard at his heart, chest and hand stinging alight with fresh pain as he slips out the door and softly makes his way downstairs. It’s nothing,  Varian tells himself. Nothing at all. Just echoes, maybe, of the death that didn’t stick.

Still—he nearly flees from that room. The moonlight makes him feel ill.

He doesn’t really have a plan beyond get out get out get out, hopes for a break from this claustrophobic pressure of the house walls boring down on him. He slips down the stairs, hoping they’ve left the front door unlatched, and he is almost at the bottom step when he finally sees it. 

There’s a light pooling beneath the closed kitchen door.

Varian pauses on the stair. He watches the light for a long moment. Its dim, small and contained, candlelight at best. The glow it casts under the door is very faint. He listens, carefully, and this time he catches it—the murmur of low voices just behind the door.

Varian stills on the steps. The room upstairs, set aside for both him and Adira. Adira’s empty cot. Stupid, stupid . He hadn’t even thought twice about it. She’s awake. 

Later, Yasmin had said, when she’d let them in. To Adira: we will talk about this later. How had he forgotten?

Varian makes his way to the kitchen door, taking extra care to step softly. He keeps one hand on the wall for balance, inching his way closer, sliding his feet so the floorboards won’t creak. He’s learned something of stealth these past few months, and feels almost smug as he sits down against the wall, undetected. He’s right by the door, his ear pressed to the crack. 

Even this close, though, it’s hard to hear them. They are quiet, and the walls mute them further. Varian can just barely hear the murmur of their voices above the silence. Adira’s voice, muffled and low, and another, responding. Sharper, tinged by a stranger accent… the scowling woman, he thinks. Yasmin.

“…kingdom died over twenty years ago, for Ella and I both,” Yasmin is saying now. “Though it is clear to me that for you, the death is recent. For that I am sorry.”

“You talk like it doesn’t bother you.”

“Just because I helped you in your efforts doesn’t mean I believed in the same delusions, Adira. The Dark Kingdom…”

Their voices dip low again, out of his hearing. He closes his eyes and tries to focus.

“Do not play coy with me,” a voice snaps, suddenly, the loudest they have been thus far. Yasmin, again. “You said you had news, I have heard it, it was nothing I didn’t already know. I am in no mood for your games.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“Fuck you. Do you take me for an idiot? To bring that—him— here —”

“I hardly think an underfed teenager is any threat to you,” Adira retorts, talking over her. “You’re overreacting. I get that you’re upset…”

Varian freezes, his breath catching as their voices trail off once more. Wait a moment. Are they—are they talking about him?

He’d thought it was odd, sure, that Yasmin had hated him so immediately—that she had looked at him all throughout that conversation, as if trying to banish him with glares alone. But for the first time it occurs to Varian that maybe the reason Yasmin was so upset—the reason she was so angry… the reason she nearly shut the door in their faces—

Had it been because he was there?

But that doesn’t make sense, Varian thinks. He doesn’t even know her. He’s never even been to Port Caul before today! And while maybe his first run-in with her wasn’t the best, it hadn’t been terrible, either. She’d been brusque; he’d been moody. But he’d left feeling unsettled, not like he’d made an enemy.

Yasmin’s voice rises again. Varian presses back against the door, eyes narrowing in the dark. Maybe, maybe if he can hear a little more, just get a clue of what’s going on here…

This time he barely has to strain his ears. Yasmin is no longer trying to be quiet. Her voice rings out clear and cold. “If you so insist on playing the fool, then I will treat you as one. Let me make this clear to you.”

“I understand perfectly—”

“In these last twenty years,” Yasmin snaps, cutting Adira off, “I have helped you. I have given you information, items, knowledge, secrets. I have guided you and I have tolerated you, despite your secrecy, your irritating arrogance, and your frankly insulting delusions of the Dark Kingdom being rebuilt.” 

There is a sudden, icy silence. Yasmin snorts. “Didn’t like that, did you?” There is bite to her voice, her words unkind. “Well. Too bad. I am talking now, so listen. All this I have done for you, and I asked little else in return. But now. Now, after everything, you bring into my house—into my city—a threat?”

Another long silence. Varian lifts his hand and presses it flat against his mouth, trying to stifle his breathing. His heart is pounding in his chest. He feels cold, frozen still with budding anger. Who does she think she is? This stranger, this nobody, calling Varian—talking about him like he’s—

“Silence is no better than your jokes,” Yasmin is saying now, practically glacial. “Let me spell it out for you, Adira, what you have done this day. You have brought—to me! —a criminal wanted by one of the most powerful trade kingdoms in this continent. A criminal with five charges of attempted murder, assault, treason, regicide . You have brought this boy into my home , walked him undisguised through the town, led him right to me—and still, you ask me why I am angry ? Anyone after him with be led straight to me!”

Varian is frozen. Locked in place, his fingers turned numb with pins and needles. The icy understanding flooding through him, because somehow—somehow, despite all the miles between him and Corona, despite all this time—

He remembers the way she looked at him, fury and disgust and icy rage, and his mouth goes dry.

She knows. Yasmin knows him. She knows who he is.

She knows what he’s done.

Adira’s voice has gone cold and flat. Dangerous. So low that Varian can barely hear her through the door. “What are you trying to say?”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you both to the wolves.”

“ You —!”

The walls are closing in on him, the memory of the city pressing down on his head. This woman, this stranger—she knows him. She knows him, and he remembers walking through the city with a rising lump in his throat. All those people. All those eyes—

The midnight darkness seems oppressive, suddenly; the low ceiling and narrow walls of the hallway too small, too tight, too little. His breaths feel cut short, thin and useless. His skin crawls, icy fingers down his spine, and all he can think of is running, running, running through the labyrinth, the Moon’s golem at his heels and the Moon herself watching through every wall, every mirror, every dream—

He thinks: I didn’t even want to come here.

There’s no point in listening further, even if he could focus beyond the roaring in his ears. He stands and stumbles for the door, no longer trying to be quiet—hears the voices stop, the conversation cut short as his bare feet thud on the floor. 

He doesn’t care. He refuses to care. He makes for the front door and throws the door open hard enough for it to bounce. Who gives a damn? He’s going to get thrown out anyway, so why bother being nice?

The air is—fresh, cool, a relief. He sucks in a deep breath, and feels like he can breathe again. The wind blows cold and crisp against his skin, a swift breeze drifting out over the empty plains of flat farmland. Beyond the house’s tiny garden and little porch, miles and miles of grassy lowland roll out to the distance, from his feet all the way to the distant horizon, far off in the sea.

It is still pitch dark out, but now Varian can see the edges of light beginning to build—the night sky blushing the pale blue of early dawn, gold gathering at the edges of the horizon, the small trees and houses turned to black silhouettes against the budding glow. 

Still, though—high above, through the dark clouds, the moon shines bright and mocking. A waxing gibbous like a sideways smile.

His fingers curl into the wood of the doorway, and he slams the door hard behind him. The sound slams, echoes, dies off. Nothing follows it.

He breathes hard, and almost thinks to open the door just so he can slam it again —and realizes, abruptly, how silly that sounds. The anger withers in his chest. His mouth feels dry. He stares out and the empty landscape, and doesn’t recognize a single inch of it. 

The sudden surge of emotion turns dead and leaden in his chest. Varian sits, defeated, on the porch, hiding his head in his hands. This was stupid. What was he going to do, run away?He doesn’t know this place. He doesn’t know this country. He doesn’t even know the currency yet, if they even use the same coin as Corona. Adira might have told him when they crossed the border, but if so, he’d shut her out. He’s starting to regret that now.

“Good going,” he whispers to himself. “Great going, Varian, you absolute genius, make the already angry lady have more reason to think bad of you…”

He swallows hard, and presses his palm against the hollow of his eyes, breathing deeply. “Bet Dad’s real proud of me now. Bet he’s looking down and thinking, ah, that right there, there’s my stupid murderous s-son— ”

He can’t finish the thought, feels gutted as soon as he starts it. His dad wouldn’t say that. He’d always been better than Varian in that way; he never said a mean thing about anyone, even if he thought it sometimes. Varian, in contrast, feels as if he never learned how to keep his mouth shut. He grits his teeth and lifts his head, and the moonlight glow is so soft and blue he wants to cry. 

“This is your fault,” Varian tells the moon, and his voice cracks, and he hates it. Nothing happens. The world is still silent. The house dark and empty. The air, cold and crisp. “This is—this is—”

It’s my fault.

His fault his dad is gone, dead to the amber. His fault he’s alone.

His throat feels very tight, suddenly. Varian squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden swell of tears. He’s—he’s—he’s so stupid, he’s so stupid. Missing Rapunzel and the others now, after all this time. Didn’t he choose to leave? Didn’t he choose to walk away?

And yet. He misses them, suddenly and fiercely. At least he knew them. At least he knew why they hated him, at least he could understand that. And even then… Rapunzel’s smile, Eugene’s constant posturing, Cassandra’s dry wit… he misses it. All the things he thought he hated about them, now the things he misses most of all.

He wonders if Adira is still angry at him. He wonders if he should be bothered by the thought she might be. Shouldn’t he care more? He’s traveled with her for—for a while, right? So why does it feel like he knows her less than he’s ever known anyone?

“You and your stupid tests,” he says, to the ground. His fingers tighten in his sleeves. “Stupid secrets, stupid lies, not giving any straight answers…”

He’s not sure if he’s talking about Adira or the Moon, now, or maybe even his dad, and goes quiet. Hides his head in his arms. Sits there. The moonlight burns against his skin; his right hand aches, bone-deep. His heart feels cold and empty.

And slowly, surely, under the light of the moon, Varian finally slips back to sleep. 

.

His dreams are blurry and thin, vague and distant like a fog. The same old whispers, the same lost feeling, wandering an empty plain without direction. Varian walks and he walks and he walks, getting nowhere, and when he opens his eyes, he feels as if he hasn’t slept at all.

Sunlight glares into his eyes—he winces, rubbing hard at a crick in his neck. His shoulder feels sore and stretched from leaning against the porch frame, his back all twisted up in knots. It’s morning— late morning, even. He wonders how he managed to keep snoozing even through the sunrise.  

“Finally awake now, are you? Tell me, boy, do you make a habit of sleeping in odd places?” 

The voice is so sudden, Varian just about jumps out of his skin. He shoots bolt upright from his slouch, lurching forward in his fright—and smacks his head right into the porch pole.

“ Ow !” He grips his head, reeling back—and then jolts, again, nearly screaming when he turns to see Yasmin standing right next to him. “Holy—!”

Yasmin doesn’t even blink. She’s standing above him on the porch, leaning against the open door; her arms cross over her chest, her eyebrows lifted up by her hairline. “You have a bed,” she remarks, tone unreadable. “A lovely cot that I set up for you and everything.”

Varian’s hand freezes in his hair, last night’s events rushing back to him. He looks away. He… he doesn’t know how to talk to her, now. He doesn’t know her, but she knows him—and if her words were any judge, her opinion is sour. And some part of him wants to fight that, still, wants to argue—if she knew why he did it, maybe if she knew his reasons…

But that’s a silly thought too. Should he fight it? Why should he explain himself to her, anyway? (And, secretly, in the back of his mind—does he even deserve to argue? Do his reasons matter, when his actions hurt others either way? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t…)

“I… I thought you didn’t want me here,” he says, at last, and leaves it at that.

Her eyes narrow further. “I do not,” Yasmin confirms, crisp and cold. “But luckily for you, Adira has a decent argument and a long-standing friendship. You are in my care, now. Three days.” Her chin lifts. “Which you would know if you had eavesdropped on the whole conversation, silly child. Nothing good comes from leaving in the middle of something.”

Varian’s train of thought smacks into his skull and goes flat. For a moment he is speechless. “Are—are you telling me to eavesdrop on you?”

Yasmin gives him a disapproving look. “I am telling you to eavesdrop better. ”

Varian stares at her, blankly, waiting for the punchline. She doesn’t move. Her eyebrow raises. She gestures, once, as if to say: Well?

He doesn’t get her, he thinks, and instead of angry he just feels young, threadbare, worn to a string. He hides his head in his arms so he doesn’t have to look at her and so she won’t see his face twist. 

“I don’t understand,” he says miserably, and hunches his shoulders, bracing himself against the tremor he can feel starting in his arms, shaking through his voice. “I—I don’t even know you, and you just…”

There is another pause, another silence. “Adira did not mention me?”

He almost laughs, and has to stifle the giggle in his elbow before he gets hit with the stupid urge to cry. “Are you kidding? Adira doesn’t tell me anything.”

“…Do you know why you’re here, boy?”

His fingers fist in his coat sleeve. He curls into himself, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds small. “No.”

Another silence.

Yasmin heaves a gusty sigh. There’s a thud as she throws herself down to sit beside him, sitting side-by-side on the porch steps. Varian jumps, reeling back in surprise, and beside him Yasmin laughs. Her smile is all edges, a bladed sort of amusement. “You are like a scalded cat,” she observes, and sounds weirdly delighted with the find. 

“What—why—”

“You truly do not know?”

The whiplash from humor to solemnity makes his head spin. “What—I, I mean, no? She just said we were seeing an old friend of hers, I didn’t…”

Yasmin is frowning, now, but for the first time Varian gets the feeling that it's not directed at him. She turns her head towards the sunrise, and in the growing light her expression is cast in shadow. “…Interesting.” 

Varian has no idea what to say to that. He’s never met an adult like this one—Yasmin is weird, serious and moody in equal measure. Not quite like his dad… but not as eccentric as Adira, either. There is something strangely ageless about her, and at the same time something strangely old.

Yasmin is still thinking; she tilts her head back, eyes moving to the dawn. “Hmph,” she says, muttering. “I get the feeling that I have been asking the right question to the wrong person this entire time. How utterly vexing. Well, never mind it.” She sighs, again, and turns back to him. “Well, here we are. I will yell at Adira for you, boy; I have more leverage and this whole situation strikes me as rather stupid, so this will be a free favor for you. No need to thank me. But in return, answer me this.”

Varian squints, suspicious. “…Answer you what?”

“Why are you here?”

He stares at her.

“It is a simple question,” Yasmin remarks, and it’d almost be casual if not for the weight of her gaze. “Why did you come here? Why did you follow Adira all this way? What are you looking for? What do you want?” She taps her finger against her knee with each question, counting them off one by one. “Why are you here?”

Varian gapes at her. His mouth feels dry. His throat is painfully tight. He swallows hard and bites at the inside of his cheek, his mind spinning circles in his head. “I… um, I…”

The words trail off. Varian can’t finish. His throat has closed up, and he is struck with the sudden realization that—that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know.

He snaps his mouth shut, his teeth clicking. Heat crawls up the back of his neck, humiliation hot in his gut. He—he can’t say it. He can’t. It feels shameful, almost, to have nothing. To have no answer, not even a reason. To have come all this way for nothing at all. 

Varian looks away. His eyes prickle, and he hides his head in his arms, curling up tight on the steps. Maybe if he’s lucky, she’ll think he’s throwing a tantrum. Maybe this stranger will finally leave him alone.

There’s a long stretch of silence. In the distance, birdsong breaks through the morning air. Yasmin mutters a curse under her breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Yasmin says, at last, sounding a little awkward. Her voice isn’t kinder but it is, in some way, a little less hostile than before. “Sleeping in odd places. Is this a habit of yours?”

He doesn’t answer. Yasmin sighs again, much louder this time. “Fine, I will guess. Are you not sleeping well?”

He doesn’t move. He feels tired. “Maybe,” Varian mumbles, at last. “So what? There’s not much I can do about it.”

“Very defeatist talk, for a supposed alchemist.” She stands up, brushing the dust from her pants. Her footsteps thud dully on the porch, moving away. Varian looks up, caught off guard by the almost-insult. What—is that it? A snappy comment, and now she’s just leaving?

“What—why are you—” He doesn’t get her at all. “Did you come out here just to yell at me?”

“Of course not,” Yasmin scoffs. “Well, no, it was funny. But I did not come out here just for that.” She’s leaning in the front door, now, rustling around the entryway; she snatches something off a hook and throws it his way. Varian throws up his arms in meager defense, and a bag smacks him right in the face before falling with a thud in his open arms. 

He nearly drops it anyway, he’s so surprised. “W-what—?”

“Carry that for me, would you?” Yasmin calls back, moving back to the door again. She leans inside and then leans back with his boots in one hand, shutting the front door behind her. She tosses him the boots, and this time, Varian lunges to catch them. He fumbles, nearly dropping them on his own feet before he gets a grip. He clutches the shoes and bag close to his chest, blinking rapidly in shock. 

“This is why it is best to eavesdrop on an entire conversation,” Yasmin is saying, donning her own winter coat. “Because then you would know what I am doing, yes? For these three days, I have agreed to help you; your wellbeing is now my responsibility, at least so long as you remain here.” 

She locks the door behind her, testing the handle once before she goes. She thuds down the steps, starting on the road, long strides and brisk walk—stops, a few feet away, and frowns at Varian from over her shoulder.

“What are you just standing there for?” Yasmin asks, sounding genuinely curious, and gestures him forward. “Get your shoes on, boy. Did I not mention? You and I, we are going to the market.”

.

.

.

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Her fingers drum on the wooden table in an uneven rhythm, and with every click of her nails the men wince. The walls rock with the swell of the sea, her ship pitching through darkened waters. The unsteady lurch, however, leaves her untouched—her feet settle firm on the floor, one hand braced against the table and the other tapping at the map: again, and again, and again.

“You’d better have a reason for coming back empty-handed.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Or is this map all you have to offer?”

She pinches the weathered parchment between two fine, filed nails, and smiles with all her teeth. Before her, one of her men stands tall and uncertain, his eyes flickering to and fro. Her fingers thud on the desk. He flinches.

“I… the port towns, they, they’ve gotten wary. Less ships coming and going—we couldn’t—” 

Tap.

“We… I… we ran. I’m sorry. But I—the map, I swear, it’s not just—look, look, see? It has the routes for the patrol ships, we can slip around, resupply…”

His voice withers, goes small. Her hand stills on the desk. The rest of her crew, clustered around the walls, watch the proceedings with wary eyes and mouths tightly shut, hardly daring to breathe.

She reaches out. She takes the map in her hands, and unfurls it in-full across the desk—traces the plotted patrol lines with her finger, the crisscross guard lines that have kept them barred to sea. She considers. The crew hold their breath.

“What did you say it was called, again?”

“P-Port Caul,” her man stutters, and clears his throat. “Nice little trading town. Lots of lazy guards.” His chin juts up, confidence slowly regaining ground. “Full of overconfident little townspeople, sleeping certain in their beds.” 

Her smile grows, the edges curling, her teeth bared. This time, the men match her smile, nervous but hopeful. “No attacks at all? My, my. Like sitting ducks.” She smooths out the map with both hands, and circles the point of her nail around the icon of the town in question. “ Well . Perhaps not so empty-handed after all.” 

She hears the near muted sigh of relief, sees her crew relax. Her smile warps and grows, all teeth. She leans back from the table and pulls free her knife, and flips the blade deftly in the air, unimpeded by the rocking of the waves. 

“Contact our ally in Vardaros, would you?” She flips the blade, catches it one-handed. “An opening just might be coming that way.” She throws the blade once more, and this time, catches it mid-flip to slam down on the table, pinning the map flat, Port Caul speared through by her sword.

“What do you say, boys?” 

The knife glints in the wavering lantern light. Her smile stretches gruesome like the gallows. In her eyes, there is the promise of gold—and in the back of her mind, a whisper, a voice that croons of possibility and power to come. 

Lady Caine lifts her head.

“Let’s give that little town something to talk about.”

Chapter Text

As the stranger danced to silence, the Sun opened her mouth and began to sing.

It was a song unlike any other, a melody created on a whim for this lovely woman and her lonely dance. For a single moment the song hung in the wind as the woman twirled upon the seas; for a single moment they were in harmony, and all the world held its breath at the sight.

Then the stranger realized what had happened, and froze upon the raging waters. At last, for the first time, she saw the Sun. Her dance stilled; the song, too, fell silent. In an instant their eyes met.

The Sun reacted first, an apology rising to her lips—but it was too late. The stranger, frightened by her audience and her heart moved by the beautiful song she had so briefly witnessed, was overwhelmed and fled. The Sun reached out and cried for the stranger to stop, but already the woman had vanished away into the dark, gone as if she had never been.

And so it was that the beautiful Sun met the lovely Moon, and chased her away…

.

.

.

For the second time in under a day, Varian makes his way through the fields back to Port Caul.

It’s early, still, and the whole world reflects it: dew and frost weighing heavy on the long grass of the fields, the sky bright with the pale colors of sunrise. The clouds above, wispy and thin, are lined with a delicate gold; the breeze still carries the heavy chill of the midnight ice. Despite the misty night, the ground is frozen solid from frost. With each step, the iced greenery crunches underneath his worn boots.

Still struggling to wake up, Varian pulls the collar of his coat closer and shivers. The fields outside of Port Caul are endless and sprawling, and in the light of the rising dawn, near breathtaking. The far-off silhouette of the city is gilded by the sunrise, the blue buildings shining soft with a pearly glow in the creeping dawn. Despite the bite of cold and the frosted edges, there is something soft about it all—a winter tempered by coming spring, ice thawed to a chill, something brisk and fresh and clean.

It doesn’t make it any less fucking cold, though.

They must make quite a sight, the two of them, to any strangers who see them: the woman, Yasmin, older and stern, with short dark curls and a confident stride—and a boy, Varian himself, tripping behind her, ragged and worn and trying desperately to keep up.

“How much farther?”

To say Varian is exhausted is a gross understatement. He is bone-cold tired. Numb to the world. A walking dead in the making. His late night has done him no favors, and this long walk back through the twists and turns of Port Caul’s farmlands drains what little remaining energy he has. His mouth is dry and sickly, his head stuffed with cotton, his limbs heavy and shaking with fever chills. The winter sun burns down on the back of his neck, the sunshine bright and as piercing as ice. Before him the wide expanse of the world unfurls at his feet, the fields of the Port Caul countryside near infinite to his eyes. Every time he looks to the horizon, to that distant shadow of the city proper, he feels even more tired than before.

Farther ahead, Yasmin walks with sure strides, making a confident pace through the overgrown paths. Despite her age and small size, she is damnably spry. Varian, still lagging behind despite all his best efforts, squints blankly in the sun and hurries to keep up. It’s ridiculous. He’s barely a head shorter than her, so how does she keep getting so far ahead?

“Hello?” he tries, when she doesn’t answer right away. The exhaustion frays his already thin temper; his fatigue makes him bold. “…Are you ignoring me?” he asks, and frowns as he says it. He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at that or not.

Yasmin, still a few paces ahead, heaves a very pointed and visible sigh.

“We’ve been walking for hours,” Varian points out, refusing to be cowed. He’s tired, she’s a jerk, and he does not care about what she thinks of him. Not at all. Nope. He’ll be as rude and spiteful as he wants to be, damn it. “Seriously, how much farther?”

Yasmin gives another heavy sigh. “Until we reach the city.”

“…Seriously?”

“What, was that not funny? I thought moody teenagers were all about sarcasm.” Yasmin stamps the ground with her foot, crushing stray grasses flat. She doesn’t even bother looking back at him. “We will get there when we get there, boy, now stop asking and start walking. Bah, these roads are awful…”

Varian gives the distant horizon a desperate look. It is so far. “Why couldn’t we take a cart?”

“Because I do not own one, clearly.” Yasmin shakes her head. “Walking is good for you.”

“You sound like Adira.”

“Vexing though she may be at times, she is, unfortunately, also often right.” Yasmin pinches at the brow of her nose. “…We will reach the city in another half-hour or so, if we make good pace. May you cease pestering me now?”

Considering the fact they’ve already been walking for about two hours, Varian thinks he deserves to be put-out by that—but he bites back the rude comment rising on his tongue before it can slip free, and takes a moment to breathe. She’s awful, but he’s better than this—or, well, he’s trying to be—so Varian settles for a dark scowl at her back, instead.

Still. He is so bored with walking. He turns his scowl to the ground and kicks a pebble on the road with all his might, smacking it with all the anger and force he can muster. The pebble rolls three measly times and then gets caught in the grass. It’s barely moved an inch.

Typical.

Varian scowls harder.

He misses Ruddiger. He wishes he’d thought to run up and wake the raccoon before he left, but the rapid exit and Yasmin’s swiftly retreating figure had panicked him, and he hadn’t realized he’d left alone until they were already ten minutes down the road. Now Varian is stuck here with a stranger he doesn’t know and doesn’t like—with no raccoon to keep him company.

The day has only just started, and Varian is already certain it’s going to be a miserable one.

Which sucks, because it’s looking to be a lovely day—not a glimpse of clouds on the horizon, a day so blinding and bright it nearly hurts to look at. The sheer shine of the morning is so intense he almost expects a summer heat to match it, but in contrast the wind blows cold, bitingly numb against his exposed face. The grasses sway and bend in the breeze, the fields awash in dark green and winter blue, frost scalding the pebbled wagon road.

In any other circumstance, probably, the view would be beautiful. But Varian’s head is aching and his eyes are sore from lack of sleep, and so instead of appreciating the sight he rubs his bare hands together and shoves them in his sleeves, and thinks only of how goddamn grateful he is that he didn’t forget his coat, too, along with his raccoon.

“Chin up, boy,” says Yasmin, at his silence. “We will be there before you know it.”

Varian directs his bleary frown to her back.  Easy for her to say. She barely looks bothered by the cold at all—is it that she’s used to it, Varian wonders, or is it that she’s just pretending to be unaffected to annoy him more? He… really wouldn’t put it past her.

Still, though, Varian knows better to speak those thoughts out loud. “Why are we even going to the market?” he asks, instead, curious despite himself. “And why do I have to be there?”

Yasmin doesn’t answer right away. Like Varian, she is dressed for the cold, in a long trench coat buttoned up to her neck and a heavy dress lined with fur; she tucks her hands in her sleeves and takes a moment to fuss over the fabric. “That is a rather layered question. I am not sure where to start. Let us say… Adira has somehow convinced me to help. Doubtless this is not what she meant, but she is paying me to do my job, not to listen to her. My help takes many forms. For Adira, it is information. For you?” She shrugs. “Market.”

“I don’t need help,” Varian snaps.

“Nonsense child. Who on earth taught you that silly lie? Everyone needs help. Do not take it personally—I still do not like you. This is not pity, or whatever your knotted mind has conspired. This is simply what I do. If it helps, you may consider my help as part of my job to you.”

…Varian doesn’t even know where to begin responding to that. “That’s…” He throws up his hands. “That doesn’t make sense! What even is your job?”

He gets another side-eye for that one. Yasmin scowls at him, her eyebrows drawn low and twisted. “…Let me guess. Adira did not mention that either?”

He stares at her. “No.” Obviously.

“Bah, of course she didn’t. Why do I bother?” Yasmin slows a bit, letting Varian catch up, and glances down at him. “I am… I am not sure how to explain this. I suppose I am something of a dealer of information, and of rare goods. I know many things, and can find a great many more things, and for the right prices I can be encouraged to share them.”

Varian frowns at her, mind whirling. “Like, an information broker? Or a spy?”

“Hm. You make it sound so ill-advised. But yes, both, that is about right.”

“…Isn’t that illegal?”

Yasmin blinks at him, slow and deliberate. “Yes,” she says. “But so says the wanted criminal.”

Varian turns red, and for a moment he thinks to argue—it’s not like he actively chose to become a criminal—except, well, maybe, yes he had, but…

He gives up. There’s nothing he can truly say against that, though he thinks he is starting to understand Yasmin a little better now. He doesn’t know much about spies or information dealers, just that they exist, but he imagines they tend to be pretty secretive. And if Varian really is a known wanted criminal to the rest of the world…

He turns his head away, not wanting to follow that train of thought any longer. “Is Ella, too—?”

“No.” Yasmin’s voice is curt and cold, shutting down the question before he can finish. “Ella is… she is not involved in my work, though she knows of it. She is a singer, actually. Perfectly legal.” For the first time, something of a smile touches her lips. “My dear wife can hold quite the tune.”

Well, okay. But something she’s said stands out to him. Varian frowns. “How do you know Adira, then?”

“Boy, for Moon’s sake. You have traveled with her for months. What about that woman makes you think she cares one lick for legality?”

Varian briefly flashes back to the last six months. Jumping carts, breaking into caravans, sneaking into cities guarded by soldiers who weren’t convinced by Adira’s sheer force of authority… yeah, no, stupid question. “Is that how you met her? Breaking the law?”

Yasmin snorts. “Nothing so grand. I met Adira through other circumstances.”

“What other circumstances?”

“Tsk. Question after question with you, isn’t it? Yet rarely any answers in return. This is why I despise scientists.” She rolls back her arm, an absent-minded stretch. “It is none of your business, frankly.”

His head drops. “I was just curious,” Varian mumbles, and at his side, his fists clench. He feels a little shamed. It probably was too rude a question, but—this is more than Adira has ever told him. For all of Yasmin’s prickly answers, they are answers.

Yasmin is quiet for a long moment. Then she mutters something, the words too low for Varian to catch, and raises her voice for him to hear. “We were… Adira and I came from a similar place, you could say. Running from the same thing. I always thought her plans foolish, but… well. What are friends for, if not to encourage foolish ideas?” Yasmin glances away. “Though I am beginning to regret that. I have been too accommodating, I think. But that is how I know her. I find her whatever strange item or legend she needs, and in return she keeps me updated on the comings-and-goings of whatever country she’s tromped through this time.”

“Oh.” Varian’s mind whirls, putting together the slim pieces he’d eavesdropped from Adira’s conversation with Yasmin just last night. Their talk of a kingdom… Adira’s frustration. Yasmin, her voice low, to Adira: The kingdom died twenty years ago for me and Ella, though I see for you the death is recent.

He’d known Adira was from the Dark Kingdom—it wasn’t exactly hard to guess, what with that stupid symbol on her hand and all—but for the first time, Varian looks at Yasmin and tries to imagine her there too. Yasmin, and Ella, and their little house in the fields… he thinks of the labyrinth, and the ruins he and Rapunzel found in the depths, and still cannot fathom it. Even for someone as prickly as Yasmin or Adira, it’s hard to picture anyone once calling such a desolate place home.

Unaware of his thoughts, Yasmin’s voice lowers to a mutter. “Of course, this arrangement works much better when she bothers to stay in touch. A little head’s up, a small warning, hello, Yasmin, sorry for the year-long absence, just letting you know I am not dead, and also I am forever grateful for your friendship and the many favors you do for me—” She cuts herself off and clicks her tongue. “Ah, never mind. But that is how it goes. In the end you are just another odd job she has thrown my way.”

Varian hums, distant, and the conversation drops into silence. He lowers his eyes and watches his feet, step after step after step. It’s easier than looking at the horizon. The sheer distance to the city is just starting to depress him.

“…That reminds me, actually,” Yasmin says, apropos of nothing. “I forgot to ask her, and Adira did not mention it—did she say anything to you about a flute, boy?”

Varian looks up, his face scrunching in confusion. “Um… what?”

“A flute.” Yasmin gestures, miming an object far longer than any instrument has a right to be. “Grand old thing, carved from amber, looks quite pretty in sunlight? Lovely music, curved a bit like a hook, so big it is frankly ridiculous? Loaded with religious importance? Took me months to find and secure? Yes? No?”

Varian stares at her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he admits.

Yasmin’s lips thin. “I see.”

There is a beat of silence.

“If that woman has left my priceless religious artifact in that goddamn kingdom, I am going to strangle her with her sash,” says Yasmin, thoughtfully, and then she turns back around and marches on down the road without another word.

Varian hurries to catch up. Despite himself, and despite the wariness Yasmin still inspires, he finds his lips almost twitching in a smile, a vague sense of relief. It’s good to know he’s not the only one Adira drives bonkers.

…He’s probably being a bit unfair to her, Varian thinks, with sudden flash of guilt. Adira isn’t that bad. She… she has helped him, in a way. Maybe not the way Varian wanted, or the way he expected, but she has. She’s tried to teach him fighting. She’s kept him clothed and fed and moving in these past six months. He thinks he should maybe thank her, at least for that. As frustrated as he is, Varian is—here. He’s here.

That simple fact means more, now, than it ever did before. After the labyrinth, Varian hadn’t… he hadn’t known what to do. Where to go. What next, or where to now, or even if he wanted that. He’d been free, but he’d been lost, too—and maybe Adira hasn’t given him the direction he wanted, but she has at least gotten him moving.

Varian’s smile fades at this thought. He looks down at his feet, throat suddenly tight. He remembers the way he snapped at Adira, barely a day ago, and squeezes his eyes shut. A headache pulses behind his temple. He—he should apologize, probably. Maybe. He doesn’t think he can, now, but maybe later… maybe if she apologizes first…

 His thoughts drift. The wind picks up, a chill striking through him. Varian shivers under the layers of his coat and yawns into his elbow. He feels tired, worn, too aware for the exhaustion dragging at his bones—like the wind itself is all eyes, watching and waiting, boring into the back of his skull.

One step, then another, then again. The wind howls in his ears. The shadows stretch and warp in the sunlight. His heartbeat feels very loud, all of a sudden—like the droning thud of the drums of war, pounding like marching feet against his skull.

All at once, a sudden dread overcomes him. A chill that strikes down to his bones. Each step sends his stomach plummeting. His ears ring. He feels as if ice has been dumped down his back, and his breathing has gone shallow. His heartbeat is rapid-fire, faster than a bird’s.

Don’t go.

He steps toward the city. He moves through the fields. He walks.

Don’t go there.

His mouth is dry. His vision swims. With each step, his heart beats out of tune. Varian looks up in the direction of Port Caul, and thinks, for one blinding moment of clarity: You don’t want to be here.

“Are you alright?”

He startles, near-jumping out of his skin. Yasmin is frowning at him. She stands silhouetted against the sunrise, the shadows cast long and deep across her face. Her brow is furrowed. She is looking down at his right hand.

Varian follows her gaze. His hand is—he’s holding it, he realizes, he’s gripping it tight in a vice, his thumb digging into the soft flesh of his palm as if to burrow beneath the skin. It hurts. It hurts with a dull, solid ache, like pressing on a bruise.

As soon as he realizes this, Varian snaps his hand away. His veins feel tight and cold, stone under his skin. He blinks fast. “W-what?”

“Does your hand hurt?” Yasmin almost looks concerned, in her own irritated way. “This is the second time I have seen you do that. Is that why you cannot sleep?’

“That’s—I—I don’t know.” He hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Varian hunches under the attention, and hides his hand behind his back. But even as he does it, his skin crawls, his right palm itching terribly. He has to fight not to claw at his skin. “How did you—wait, why does it matter if I can’t sleep?”

In the distance, the city looms closer than before—they are practically upon the city gates. The wall towers over him, a cold shadow, and beside them a horse and cart rumbles by through the wrought iron gates. The road, beneath his feet, has turned from soft crushed grass to actual paved stone. Varian’s head spins. How long had he blanked out for?

Yasmin scans him up and down, her brow knotted. “That is why we are here, of course,” she says, at last, looking a little reluctant at the shift in subject. “You said to me this morning you have issues with sleep, and I have little remedies for such in my house… so to the market we go.” Her lips press—but then she seems to let it go, shaking her head with a weary breath. “Well. If not an injury, then what is it? Can you not fall asleep, or is it that you cannot stay asleep?”

Varian scowls at the dirt path and stubbornly does not think of dark hallways and darker rooms, the moonlight streaming through the window. “Why does it matter?”

“I have agreed to help you, but I cannot help if I do not know what is wrong.” Yasmin is scowling, but it is a distant thing, not directed at him. She looks vaguely frustrated. “I do not like you, I have made no secret of it; you dislike me too, and you have made no secret of that, either. This is fine. We do not have to like each other. But I have tried to be honest with you, thus far—so please, do me the favor of being honest with me.”

She is frank, she is annoying, she is a bladed voice and angry words—but she has told him more in one conversation than Adira has in months. And it is this honesty that makes Varian duck his head, but it is this truth that finally makes him admit it: for all that he dislikes her, Varian is terrified of the idea of continuing to face the dark alone.

Still. It is so hard to admit it, to put voice to the fears inside him. His words come out a teeth-clenched whisper. “It’s—it’s just—” He doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s just too dark.”

It’s shameful, almost. Childish, certainly. Varian is afraid of many things, but the dark, oddly, has never been one of them. He has always felt so secure in the science of the world that the monsters of myth had been dismissed as easy as breathing. And he still feels that certainty. He still feels utterly secure in the fact there is nothing in the closet, nothing under the bed. It’s just—

It’s just too dark, now.

It’s just too much.

“I see,” Yasmin says. Her voice is quiet too. Another cart rumbles by them, the creak of the wheels almost deafening in the silence. The murmur of voices and the rasp of the sea breeze drifts in from the city gates. Varian looks away from Yasmin and up at the gate, and shivers in the shadow. The whisper comes back to him again. Turn back. Go away. It’s not safe here.

“I see,” Yasmin repeats, and her voice breaks Varian from the spell. “Well then. Just to be sure—you are an alchemist, yes?”

Varian lifts his head, blinking echoes from his eyes. “U-um, yeah.”

“I do not own any alchemical equipment, but I have enough bobbles to get you by, I think, if you choose your ingredients wisely.” She turns to the gates and Varian follows, reluctant, as she pushes through the iron doors. “Come along, boy. In the end it may do little, but if darkness is your issue… then I recommend building yourself a light.”

.

Eugene leaves the castle that night.

His reasoning is simple: there’s no real reason to delay. Eugene has no desire to draw out this parting any longer than he has to. With his goodbyes to Rapunzel said and her letter weighing heavy in his vest pocket, Eugene returns to his allotted rooms and picks up the travel bags he hadn’t even bothered to unpack. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone, but it’s best to be prepared.

That isn’t to say he rushes, oh no—Eugene takes his sweet time. It’s almost like planning a heist, in that way. The devil is always in the details, and Eugene considers details to be the most important step. Missing one crucial item in a theft can be deadly, and in a way, well… this isn’t all that different.

The preparations take him the rest of the day. In the hours following his talk with Rapunzel, Eugene repacks his bags and prepares to leave the castle behind. He chooses new clothes, picks up fresher food, slips in a few items he thinks will serve as a welcome gift for Lance. He finds the daggers he’d stashed away when he first moved in and hides away the finer cloths that would get him mugged five feet out from the castle walls. He has a job to do, after all—and for all that Eugene isn’t the most serious individual, he is most certainly a professional. Either he does this right, or he does this not at all… and doing nothing is no longer an option.

By sunset, he’s all ready to go. Eugene hides his belongings in one of the castle’s many nooks and crannies, goes to bother Maximus in his own silent way of saying goodbye—and, when the daylight has faded and the shadows cover his path, slips inside the guard barracks and goes to find Cassandra.

He finds her in her room, thankfully—he’s not sure he could sneak by her new post in the dungeons without being caught, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with that kind of drama right now. But his luck is holding true: he’s managed, from the sounds of things, to catch her right before she heads off for her post. Her door is half-open, the lock unlatched, and Eugene knocks on the wood frame with one hand as he toes the door open.

The room is as empty as his was; the evidence of an eight months absence. It’s cleaner than he’s ever seen it, no stray weapons lying about or anything, and her bed is made so well the cover corners look sharp enough to cut. For all that Cassandra served as a palace maid, and took her duties seriously, her own rooms are usually where she throws all tidiness out the window. This, more than the shadows under her eyes, tells Eugene all he needs to know. Apparently Rapunzel isn’t the only one with insomnia today. Cassandra probably hasn’t slept one wink since they got back yesterday morning. 

She looks it, too. He’s caught her in the middle of preparing for her shift, armor half-on and hair an absolute bird nest. She’s always been pale, but today the pallor is almost ghastly, the shadows of her eyes rivaling even Varian’s. There’s a new scab on her lower lip, a wound never quite healed: she’s bit her lip hard enough to bleed.

Cassandra glances over at the open door, helmet in one hand like she’s trying to decide whether it’s worth trying to pry it over her bush of curls. It takes her a moment to realize he’s there, but as soon as she realizes her face twists in a scowl. Her glare is practically automatic, but whatever sting it might have held is dulled by the bloodless pall of her face.

“What do you want, Fitzherbert?”

Bad mood, then. The last name thing is always an indicator. Eugene’s lips thin. He’s not upset. He can’t even blame her. She looks…

She looks how he feels, really. What a mess. “Long day?”

Cassandra gives him a dirty look for that. Eugene winces. “Yeah, okay. Too soon?”

She throws the helmet on her bed, looking about to snap… and then sighs, her shoulders slumping. Her eyes squeeze shut. In the darkening sunset light streaming through her narrow window, the shadows under her eyes seem bright as bruises. “Sorry.”

Eugene snorts and leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s fine. You realize I’ve dealt with your prickly temper before, right?”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Oh, ha-ha.” She rubs at her face and turns away, sitting down hard on the bed. “Still, sorry. I’m not… I just…” She shakes her head, her teeth gritting.

Eugene can only imagine. Demoted to prison duty, after once having been the top detail of the future Queen? It’s more than a slap on the wrist—it’s a bona fide royal punishment, and it’s going to give her a bad rep, too. And that would be bad enough, perhaps, but that she’s being punished because of the situation with Varian…?

Yeah. Yeah, no. There’s no good ending to that story.

They haven’t talked about Varian, really. They’ve barely said his name at all these past few months, beyond the whys and hows of his disappearance after the labyrinth. There is an understanding between all three of them—a looming fight that Eugene can almost taste in the air whenever the topic is broached, and all three of them have been ignoring the problem of Varian entirely rather than risk the argument it might spike. So while Eugene can’t say he knows how Cassandra feels about Varian… well.

He has a pretty good guess that it’s nothing good.

He doesn’t blame her; some days, Eugene feels much the same himself. His nightmares have come and gone these past few months, ebbing and rising like a tide, but though most are filled with dark stone and the knife-like smile of a terrible god, some are older still. A campfire, halfway burning. Arrows in firelight. The way Rapunzel fell back, the sound of her skull snapping against the stone, and most awful of all: that brief, terrible moment when he thought she’d never get up again.

He knows Cassandra dreams of much the same.

“It’s a bad situation,” Eugene settles on, finally. “As expected.”

“Being right about it doesn’t make it better, Eugene.”

“Uh, yeah, no. Yep. Bullseye on that.”  He sags his weight against the doorway, heaving a sigh so heavy it makes his body sink with the sound. He rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, by gods, I sure didn’t miss this. Politics! Hah!”

The briefest hint of a smile curls at Cassandra’s mouth, almost reluctant. “Oh? And here I thought you liked the idea of being king.”

“Yeeeeeah, about that. Sneaky.” He points a warning finger at her. King, hah. It’d been Lance who’d finally told him how succession worked in Corona. Rapunzel gets crowned Queen—and Eugene, marrying into the family, would not be a king, but rather a Prince Consort. Which is a fine fancy title in its own right, but still. “When were you going to tell me that isn’t how it works?”

“When it was funny.”

“Oh-hoh! Fuck you.”

That pale smile flickers to a true grin. Eugene leans back against the door again, pleased with his work. “But seriously,” he says, humor fading to sincerity. “Things may seem like a shitshow now, but… It’ll blow over. Eventually.”

The grin fades. Cassandra looks away. “Sure.”

“Still sucks, though.”

She exhales hard, pointedly. “Eugene. Why are you here?”

This time it’s Eugene who looks away. He taps his fingers against his arm, the uneven rhythm of a bar song that’s been stuck in his head since winter began. His lips press in a thin line. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then pushes up against the doorway, bracing himself.

Well. No more stalling it, he supposes.

“I’m leaving.”

He senses rather than sees Cassandra go still. “...What?”

“I didn’t come here to get lectured,” he warns her, straightening up, finally meeting her eyes. She looks as furious as he expected. “I already told Blondie. I’m heading out tonight. If you need to get in touch, the Snuggly Duckling is your best bet.” He hesitates, then exhales heavy through his teeth. “Look, I—I get it. I know what you’re going to say. But I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I… I need to do this.”

“We just got back.” Cassandra’s voice is low. “Just got back, and with things as they are— and I can’t even see her— and you’re leaving her alone?”

“I can’t help her here.” Eugene tries to keep the words even, accusation-free, but he can’t quite keep the coldness out of his voice. He knows this already. He knows, and it's already eating at him, and he doesn’t need Cassandra digging in the knife. “I can’t— I won’t sit here and be useless.” Not again, he thinks, but he bites that part off behind his teeth.

Cassandra scowls at the ground. Her expression has turned dark.

Eugene looks away too, hating the knot in his gut. He rubs at his chin and sighs, leaning back heavy against the doorframe. “Besides,” he says, finally, trying to keep his voice light. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that whole ‘no-contact’ clause part of the punishment. This is Rapunzel we’re talking about. I’d bet good money she’ll find a way to break out of that room and into here in about… oh, three days. Tops.”

“She shouldn’t.”

“Well. It’s Rapunzel.”

Cassandra hums at that, tuneless. She still isn’t meeting his eyes.

Eugene holds back another sigh and shakes his head, dipping one hand in his pocket. “...I didn’t just come to say goodbye, either.” He draws Rapunzel’s letter from his vest, holding it out. “For you.”

She goes to take it, but Eugene pulls it back out of reach. “Cass, before you read it—”

She glares at him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eugene says, undeterred. “Not if you don’t want to. I know how much this job means to you.”

Something in the tone of his voice must get through, because her hand stills. She’s quiet for a long moment.

“…Will it help?”

He’s not sure how to answer that. “It’s something.”

“Then yes.” Cassandra meets his gaze, her expression tense. “I want to help.”

He thins his lips, but hands it over. He’s not sure what to make of the look on her face—the odd pinch to her eyes. Cassandra takes the missive warily, breaking the seal and scanning the page within seconds. Eugene watches her face, trying to put a name to what he sees there.

Cassandra’s expression doesn’t even twitch. After reading, she folds the letter carefully and lays it flat on her lap. With one hand, she rubs the corner of the parchment between her fingers, her eyes dark in thought.

“You understand, don’t you?” Eugene says finally. His voice is quiet. His eyes unwavering. A flash of clarity has struck him. “Standing aside, watching everything happen… I never want to be there again.”

At long last, Cassandra looks at him. She doesn’t move, but in this moment, he can finally read her. In this, he knows for sure. The labyrinth has left its mark on all of them, in its own way—and for the two of them, it has left the same scar. It has united them in the horror of being left behind and helpless.

Cassandra’s eyes drop. The anger has faded from her face—now, she just seems tired. “...I’ll look out for her.”

“She doesn’t need it, I think. But thanks. I hate the idea of leaving her alone.” Eugene straightens, waves one hand in a mocking salute. “Good luck,” he says, gentling into something genuine. “Cass.”

She meets his gaze again. A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth, and this time, it’s almost real. “You too, Eugene.”

Eugene gives a winning smile back and slips out the room without another word—no need to make this sappy, after all. He closes the door soundlessly behind him, and feels something almost like pleased. The conversation didn’t quite go as he wanted—but he thinks it was a success regardless.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and slips back in the comfort of the shadows.

It is child’s play to get back outdoors undetected. He picks up his bag from the hiding spot and slip it over his shoulder, tilting back his head in the night air. He’s got a long walk ahead of him—a long few weeks to go—and he takes one last second for himself, to settle, to be sure. Taking one last moment to breathe.

Oh, gods. Is he really going to do this?

He looks up behind him, one last look at Rapunzel’s tower room. The window is dark, all the lights gone out. But he can still see the silhouette of a figure on the balcony, the flickering shine of golden hair swept up in a breeze.

He lifts his hand, wondering, a quiet wave. He thinks he sees the figure wave back.

He already misses her. But Eugene turns away from the castle regardless. He slips by those castle gate guards without any issue at all, and just like that: there he is, on the road once again.

His heart is tight, but Eugene manages a smile anyway. Rapunzel will be okay. Cassandra, whatever she decides, will be there for her regardless. They have things handled here—and Eugene’s place, for now, is elsewhere.

He’s got work to do.

It takes him an hour to leave the city behind. By the time he reaches the woods, it’s gone completely dark outside. The woods are all shadow at this time of dusk, foreboding and eerie, but Eugene palms his dagger and continues on without worry. Even without a sure light, the moon and stars are bright above him—and he’s always been an old hand at sneaking in the dark.

He walks for most of the night, well on to midnight. The time makes no difference, however—even at this hour, he can hear the Snuggly Duckling before he sees it. Laughter, and roaring music, and then distant light through the trees. Eugene shades his eyes against the startling shine and has to physically bite back a grin when he hears the singing. Oh-hoh, he knows that voice.

He rushes to reach the doors before it’s too late, moving fast as the song and music begin to reach its finale. He makes it just in time.

Eugene throws open the door just as Lance finishes a truly impressive solo, and lifts a hand to his ears with no time to spare. “Good gods, men!” he says, as loudly as he can. “I came here to get a drink—but who let a banshee in this place?”

The music stops. Someone’s cup drops and rolls. The Snuggly Duckling falls into a hushed and reverent silence, and Lance falls off the table.

Eugene stares at the stunned room of thugs. The stunned room of thugs stares back.

“...Surprise?”

Lance’s head pops up from the floor. “Eugene!” he shouts, delightedly, and tackles him in a hug.

Like Lance’s word was the stone to break the glass, the whole bar erupts into noise.

“Hey!”

“It’s Fitz!”

“Welcome back!”

“Where the hell have you been, you slippery bastard?”

Lance spins him around, cackling loudly. Eugene yelps, arms suddenly pinned, torn between laughing and hissing at him. “Hey, hey, hey—!”

“You’re back!” Lance drops him on his feet, beaming fit to burst. He looks—he looks good, Eugene realizes, and it makes some secret weight on his heart lift. It’s just been bad news after bad news for so long, that he’d worried… but Lance is here, his smile wide and true, and he looks happier than Eugene has seen him in a long time. He’s dressed in a new outfit, a snazzy black vest with a red cotton undershirt, a new piercing in his left ear. There’s a glow to him, a veil of health that speaks of regular meals and good care. In contrast to the gloom that haunted the castle, Lance’s presence lights up the room. His hand on Eugene’s shoulder is warm. “Long time no see, Eugene.”

“We’ve gone longer,” Eugene says, an automatic answer, but inside, he agrees whole-heartedly. It has been—too long. Far too long. His returning smile is helplessly fond. He is so glad to see Lance. “How are things?”

“Oh, booming,” Lance says, and he says it casual, but there’s a smile on his face that Eugene knows well— that beaming pride, curdled warm, but this time there’s something softer to the edge of it. “It’s, uh—going really well, actually. I meant to say in the letters, but—well, I got the bar!” He gestures to the Snuggly Duckling. “The whole lot of it.”

“Done good work too!” one man yells, and the tavern shakes with the ensuing roar of agreement. Lance laughs again, looking touched. Eugene looks around at the sea of bright and drink-rosy faces, the warm lantern light and crackling fire of Lance’s Snuggly Duckling, and grins back.

“Lance!” he says, punching his shoulder. “Buddy! That’s wonderful!”

“It’s been a journey,” Lance says, trying for humble, but there’s a brightness to the words, a disbelieving joy that hasn’t quite faded. “I’ll tell you later. What about you, eh? It’s been ages since your last response!”

Eugene’s smile flickers. Lance immediately pauses. “Oh—”

“You’re never going to believe this, Strongbow, old buddy, old pal.” Eugene slings his arm around him, cutting off the inquiry before the rest of the bar can catch onto the shift in mood. “The number of things I saw across the sea, good man, I could fill a book!”

Lance blinks, rapidly, and for a moment his face is terrifyingly blank—and then his eyes go wide in realization. Thank gods. It’s been a while since they used that code, but the memory of childhood bonding over Flynn Rider books reigns eternal even now.

Lance slings an arm around his shoulders and grips him in a one-armed hug. “Then I, Strongbow, shall most definitely help you write it!” The word-for-word quoted response. Then Lance winks, and the next bit is all him. “After a drink, of course.”

“Of course,” Eugene echoes, wryly, and manages to grin back.

Lance pushes him through the bar, somehow keeping Eugene from the crowd without making it suspicious, laughing and cheering and chattering like it’s a normal Tuesday. Before Eugene even knows what’s happened, he finds himself in a back room of the tavern, drink in hand and Lance sitting across the table, the room as quiet as any rooms in the Snuggly Duckling can get.

“This is as private as I can give you,” Lance says, sitting back in his chair. His smile is bright as ever. His voice, warm as Eugene remembers. But there is a tightness around his eyes, a worry Eugene reads clear as day, and when Lance leans in, he is as serious as he ever gets. “Okay, buddy. Spill. What happened? And how can I help?”

This is why Eugene came here. This is why Eugene needed to leave. Because he’s good. He’s really good. But he’s always been better with someone at his back—and he’s at his best with Lance by his side.

Gods, he’s missed him.

Eugene drinks deep from his flask, sets down the empty cup, and prepares to tell Lance everything.

.

“What do you need?”

The sun is high in the bright blue sky, and the Port Caul market in full unbridled swing. Stalls line the main city road, stretching on from the docks to the shopping district, their owners shouting wares from across the street. Vegetables, cheeses, smoked meats and cloth and flowers and trinkets—everywhere Varian turns, there is something new to see, some new dizzying sight to catch his eye. He’d thought the crowd from yesterday had been intimidating, but this one puts it to shame. The sheer amount of people and goods makes his head spin. This is nothing like the market in Old Corona—this is more like the capital than anything, or even the science fair. The amount of people out and about for a daily market is mind-blowing.

“Child, eyes on me.” Yasmin snaps her fingers in front of his face. Varian looks to her reluctantly, fighting the urge to keep gaping at his surroundings. “What do you need?”

“What?” Varian asks, too dazed to follow her questions. His eyes drift to the market again.

Yasmin frowns down at him. “Keep up, boy. For a light. What do you need?”

Oh. Varian blinks fast, thoughts muddled by the market, his own exhaustion, and the constant dread that is still beating away at the edge of his mind. He says the first thing he can think of. “Matches?”

Yasmin stares at him. Varian slowly flushes, scrambling to get his thoughts in order—nope, nothing. He tries again. “…Fire?”

“That was not a trick question. I meant—a more permanent light, a manufactured one. A nightlight. Something to help keep the dark at bay without being too bright to wake you.” Yasmin rubs at her forehead. “What do you need to make something like that?”

“Oh.” Well, that makes much more sense. Varian blinks hard, rubbing at his eyes, trying to get his thoughts in order. He feels like he’s wading in molasses, an exhaustion that drags at his thoughts and eyelids. A permanent light… something he could hold, maybe. Something bright enough to let him know he isn’t in the dark but quiet enough not to keep him awake. A soft glow. Unwavering…

“A vial, maybe?” Varian murmurs. “No, glass, breakable, bad idea. Stone… too opaque. Gem, too expensive—”

“Crystal?”

Varian blinks, startled from his thoughts. Yasmin is frowning again, but not at him—just off to the side, looking lost in thought. “Would that work?”

“I…” His mind whirls, thoughts tangling. “If it could hold something—was hollow inside—I think so? I need a space to put in the materials, and then I gotta seal it up after, so—”

“Yes, yes, let me handle that—I am not completely bereft of supplies. I am sure Ella has a jewelry clasp somewhere. We will figure something out.” Yasmin tilts her head. “What would you need to make the light?”

He lists ingredients in his head, remembers the likely lack of equipment, and shoves aside all but a few. Lists down his fingers. “Let’s see… um, distilled water, definitely. Probably some sodium carbonate, luminol… ammonium carbonate, copper sulfate pentahydrate… maybe some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, or would just using zinc sulfide work better?” He frowns at his hands. “I should probably test that, the zinc sulfide might be too weak to last, but the other mixture might—” 

Varian cuts himself off, his hand dropping. At once he realizes he’s been rambling. He flushes, his confidence faltering. There in the market cheer he feels abruptly out of place, too obvious, too seen. His skin crawls. He swallows hard. “Um. But I… I don’t think I’ll find all that here, it’s—”

“Do not worry,” Yasmin says, surprising him silent. She looks almost bemused by his sudden bit of word vomit. “Port Caul markets sell many things— and things like that for rather cheap. You would be surprised at how many children like to play at alchemy.”

Varian splutters. “It’s not playing—”

Yasmin has already turned away. Her coat flaps at her heels as she strides deeper in the market crowd. “Hurry along, boy. Let us go! I haven’t got all morning.”

Varian yelps and rushes to keep up.

It must be market day, he thinks; the place is busier than it was yesterday, and the crowd is nearly dizzying. People shouting, people selling, laughter high and bright in the frozen winter air. They’ve arrived early enough that the sun’s rising warmth hasn’t thawed the streets yet—the cobble roads are slick with frost and sea-spray salt, the wind brisk against his skin, the breeze as sharp as knives.

Varian tugs up his borrowed coat collar and follows Yasmin best he can, tripping in his too-big boots even with his layered number of socks. In contrast to Varian’s hesitation, Yasmin maneuvers the market like a king in court, eyes sharp and scanning, seeing all the market has to offer and dismissing it just as quickly.

“This way,” she says after a minute, and tugs Varian to the side, near a small stall off the corner. The covered wagon has a table with a velvet cloth, small glittering gems and jewels shining on the dark red fabric. The man minding the stall is tall and round, and when he sees Yasmin approaching he sits up with a smile.

“Yasmin! Been awhile. How’s it been?”

“Lovely, Marin, thank you. Have you any crystals?”

The man hums. “All sorts. What are you looking for?”

Yasmin puts a hand on her hip and turns to Varian. He stares back, blank, then jumps when the man looks at him too. “O-oh. Um.” Their eyes make his skin crawl. Yasmin has already recognized him for what he is. What if this man, too—? “A, a hollow… hollow center. If you have that. And, um… clear would be—be best—”

“Of course.” The man’s interruption is kind, his smile unsuspecting. He leans down and rummages at his feet, the clink of precious stones in the air. “I've got a few like that. Take your pick.”

Varian surveys the offered collection of crystals, ranging in sizes from small to unwieldy, and finally selects one near the middle—not the cleanest cut, but a nice size, fitting well in his palm. It has a hollowed center like a shallow shot glass, the opening just barely big enough for a finger. Hopefully easy to seal closed, once he’s made the light. “T-this one’s fine.”

“Great. That’ll be five gold crowns, then.”

Varian freezes, color draining from his face. Five gold crowns? He doesn’t even have copper. Oh, gods, he’s forgotten money was a thing that existed again. “I—uh, I—”

“I have it.” Yasmin sets the gold down with a sharp click, the coins stacked in a perfect tower. “Take care of yourself, Marin.” To Varian: “Come along. Next stop.”

“Come back if you need any more!” the shopkeeper calls. “I’ll have a lot more next week, if those trading ships finally make it to harbor!”

“I will think about it!” Yasmin is walking away, but Varian doesn’t move, and after a moment she glances back at him, eyebrows raised. “Hello? What is wrong. Why are you not moving.”

He stares down at the ground, eyes burning. “I didn’t ask you to pay for me.”

Yasmin tilts her head. “I am the one helping you, and this is my idea. I would not make you pay for it. In a roundabout way, I am being paid to help you. There is no loss here.”

“I—”

He can’t find the words, the anger rootless, his frustration smarting. He is sick of feeling helpless, of feeling like a drain; he hasn’t asked to be taken care of, to be treated like a child. But he doesn’t yet know how to put it into words, and all he can do is glower at the ground and seethe.

Yasmin considers him. Something in the hard lines of her face softens.

“…Come here.”

He goes reluctantly, stepping out of earshot from the shopkeeper. Yasmin places a hand on his shoulder, steering him away, and when she speaks, her voice is not softer but somehow gentler. “Listen. I do not know what brought you here, nor do I care. But you are here. And it is clear to me that you need help.” She looks down at him. “Boy, you do not need to like me. I still do not like you. But I am not here to hurt you, or slight you, or whatever it is you think I am doing. My dislike does not mean I cannot do you a kindness.”

Varian doesn’t answer. Yasmin draws her hand away. “If it bothers you so deeply, you can plan to pay me back in your own time. But for now—can you accept this?”

He looks down. The anger, rising, turns ashy on his tongue, cold and empty. “…Okay.”

He sounds tuneless even to himself. In the back of his mind, the dread hums like a lightning strike. Turn back. Go home. It’s not safe here.

He swallows back the anxiety and shuts his eyes tight. He hears Yasmin exhale, soft and tired.

“Chin up, boy,” she says, half-way to gentle. “I am sure you will like this next part. Come along.”

Varian, doubtful, sets his jaw and bravely follows after her.

She leads him further into the market, closer to the docks. The scent of salt and sea fills his nose. The crowd is a little thinner here, easier to navigate, and the sudden breathing room helps unwind some of the tension from his shoulders. He tilts his head in the breeze and breathes deep.

It’s the smell that hits him first. The burning hiss, the sudden bitterness on his tongue like ash—

His eyes snap open. He sees it almost at once.

The small wooden stall. The bright pink banner. The small jars, the neat little labels. The smell in the air, even in this crowded and clustered market place, a sour snap like citric acid, like the tang of metal—

He knows the stall even before he sees the sign. This—this is an alchemy store.

Varian races ahead, pushing past Yasmin and nearly running right into the stall. It has been so, so long since Varian has seen alchemy, even longer since he’s done it properly. The road isn’t appropriate for intensive experiments, and Adira never willing to buy materials, and Varian never quite confident enough to ask for them. After six months of nearly nothing, the sight of the stall is enough to make his eyes prick with tears.

Even the memory of his last alchemy experiment can’t bring down his mood. In the labyrinth, this skill was the one thing that brought Varian some comfort. Some denial of fate, some way to fight. Through alchemy, Varian found a chance to breathe. Through alchemy, Varian defeated Moon’s golem.

And now, this alchemy stall—the sight of those elements, neatly bottled, the equipment, newly shined—it makes his vision blur. Varian’s smile nearly splits his face in half. He puts his hand on the table and leans up, beaming at the shopkeeper, a woman with a heavy afro pulled back in a bun and a no-nonsense alchemical smock. “Is this all yours!?”

“Every bottle of it.” The shopkeeper puts down a vial, a latest experiment of some sort. Her gloves, heavy and dark and made of solid stitched leather, make Varian’s own now-bare hands itch with envy. “Why, you interested?”

“Yes.”

 She grins. “Well, then. Nice to see someone who appreciates the art! What are you looking for?”

“Something for a light, if you have got it.” Yasmin walks up from behind him, sounding bemused. “What was it? Zinc sulfate?”

“Sulfide,” Varian corrects, automatic. “Zinc sulfide, and also some distilled water, and I was thinking maybe…”

He lists the ingredients off from memory, counting them off his fingers to be sure he doesn’t forget any. “…and some 3 percent hydrogen peroxide, if you have any?”

“Easy enough.” The woman tugs off her gloves, nodding thoughtfully. “How much of each?”

Varian does quick math in his head—some extra needed if things go wrong, enough to make two batches if things go right—and rattles off the amounts in grams. The shopkeeper hums when he finishes, looking vaguely impressed. “Can do. It’ll be a blue-ish light, in the end—should last you a couple of months before you’ll have to remake it.”

Varian abruptly pales. The shopkeeper blinks. “Is something wrong?”

Blue, Varian thinks numbly. Blue light. Right. He hadn’t thought of that. He struggles to answer. “Um—I—that is—”

Yasmin touches at his shoulder. Varian looks up at her, but Yasmin is speaking to the shopkeeper instead when she says, “Is it possible to change the color of the light?”

Something like pride smarts in his chest.

“Of course,” says the shopkeeper. “Easy,” Varian scoffs, pointedly, at the same exact time.

There is a beat of silence. Yasmin rolls her eyes. “Scientists,” she says, disgusted. “Would you need an ingredient for that?”

“Alchemists,” Varian corrects, annoyed, and then blinks as the rest of her words sink in. Oh, right. He turns back to the shopkeeper. “Do you have any pigments?”

“I have all the pigments. Could even mix a few powders, but you’ll have to be exact on the color if so.”

Varian bites his lip, considering. Yasmin looks down at him. “It need not be a difficult discussion,” she says. “The intended use already removes a few options. White, too bright; black, destroys the purpose of having a light at all. Red would be… garish, I think. Sort of bloody. Hmm. What about orange?”

He makes a face, unable to help it. Orange has never been his favorite color, and after the amber… “No.”

“Tsk. Green? Violet?”

Violet is too close to blue; green reminds him of the automatons beneath the castle, and what he did with them. Varian shakes his head.

“…Yellow?”

Golden shine and searing heat, the numbness broken apart by a light that burned as bright as a sun—

Some of his thoughts must show on his face. Yasmin stops herself before Varian can even think to interrupt. “Not yellow, either. Hmph.” She considers, cupping her chin in one hand. “…What about pink?”

Pink. Varian considers it. It’s a pale color, and a soft color, like they wanted. If he makes the glow very quiet it won’t hurt his eyes at all. And pink… there is nothing he associates with the color, no light-based trauma to invite nightmares. Pink is sunrise and sunset, soft flowers in spring fields. It’s a color that reminds him of happy things.

“…Pink would work.”

“Pink it is.”

The shopkeeper nods. “I’ll wrap it up.”

They get the ingredients wrapped in small paper bags, and as Yasmin counts out money for the cost Varian shuffles through the wrapped ingredients with a giddiness he’d almost forgotten. He feels renewed, refreshed, the ever-present exhaustion dulled by a joy that could almost burst out of him.

He tucks the packets away in the satchel and tilts his head into the wind with a soft sigh. His smile is a small thing, barely there—quiet and thin, hidden in the light of the winter sun. The market moves around him, warm and whispering. The noonday sun is melting the frost.

And it is then, in this moment, as the crowd swells silent and the market murmurs soft—that is when the screaming starts.

.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Cassandra closes her wardrobe hard, hearing the weapons knock around inside. It is three days after their return to Corona, and Cassandra’s patience is nearing its limit. Outside of her window, the setting sun burns gold at their backs, casting a long shadow across Cassandra’s entire room. “Yes, Raps. I already said I was.”

“I know. I just—”

“You worry. I know.” Cassandra takes a breath, holds back a sigh. She’s not annoyed. She’s not. She’s just—

Gods, she wishes Rapunzel could just let it go.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the gesture—to be honest, she’s fully expected this. Of course Rapunzel would come to check in on her, especially after the last few days. Eugene’s skipped out of the castle with a plan he hasn’t even told Cassandra about, Rapunzel has been avoiding her parents best she can, and Cassandra—

Cassandra is right back where she started.

She supposes it could be worse; the king could strip her of the guard title entirely. Being demoted to the dungeons, being forced to avoid Rapunzel… these things aren’t good by any stretch of imagination, but as far as limitations go, they aren’t so bad. Take this, for example—for all of the King’s grandiose orders, here Rapunzel is, only three days later having already discovered a path through the tunnels that leads right to Cassandra’s quarters.

It could be worse, Cassandra thinks, and ignores the way it feels like she’s trying to convince herself. It could be worse.

“I just… I want to be sure.”

Cassandra turns, straightening up in full as she pulls on the last piece of armor, strapping her arm guard in place. Clunky, bronze, degraded, demoted. She misses the golden shine of the armor for Royal Guards. “And I’m telling you exactly what I told Eugene. It’s fine. There’s obviously something wrong, and—and you need my help. And if what you overheard was true…”

It’s the reason for Rapunzel’s visit, after all. Cassandra had woken up to sunset, blearily about to get ready for yet another awful night shift—only to find the resident Princess and future Queen leaning over her face like a fretting hen, eyes bright with a stolen secret.

“I’m almost certain,” Rapunzel says at once. “I know it was Nigel talking, he’s got… a distinctive voice. And he sounded worried.”

According to Rapunzel, just this morning while on her way to meet with her parents for yet another awkward not-quite-conversation, she’d passed by a hall and heard Nigel talking with a messenger. Which isn’t anything unusual—advisors talk with messengers literally all the time—except the contents of this conversation had been a little… stressed. A deal in the making, a big agreement between the King and another party—only whoever and whatever this deal was about, it didn’t seem to be about anything good.

Still, Cassandra is content to play devil’s advocate for this. “The kingdom makes deals all the time, Raps. Compromise, trade, agreements… that’s what running a country is all about.”

Rapunzel isn’t swayed. “Trust me, okay? This wasn’t like the usual. The way they were talking…” She bites her lip. “Cass, it sounded… bad. Almost like they—Corona, my dad—were running out of other options, but also like accepting the deal would be…”

“Like a deal with the Moon?”

“Or Zhan Tiri. Just. Bad.” 

“I believe you,” Cassandra says, finally. She places one hand on her sword. “But that’s why, if it’s really as big as you say, we need more information, if anything we do is going to stick. So, if this is what’s needed…”

I want to help, she doesn’t say this time. She’d already said it to Eugene, two days and a night ago, when he stopped by her room and pressed a letter in her hands.

“You don’t have to do this, Cass,” he’d said then, letter in hand but holding back. “I know how much this job means to you.”

“Will it help?”

“It’s something.”

“Then yes,” Cassandra had said, cold and trying hard not to seem desperate, and she’s spent every night after thinking about that letter and what it meant, and the look in Eugene’s eyes when he gave it to her. Like he knew. Like he suspected.

King Frederick had been cold when he’d demoted her, near icy in tone. In contrast, beside her, Cassandra’s father had been spitting mad on her behalf, only just holding his tongue, his face dark with an anger that the King hadn’t even batted an eye at. Cassandra had taken the sentence with her head high and her heart burning. She’d known what this was really about, even then. It’s not about the secrets. It’s not even about Rapunzel’s silence, not really. It’s this—Rapunzel, flinching and quiet and different behind the eyes, the attack Cassandra can’t elaborate on and the prisoner who escaped, Varian vanished into the wilds.

In the eyes of the king, Cassandra has failed. Never mind that Varian got a chance to attack because Rapunzel let him. Never mind it was Rapunzel who let him go. Never mind that—

But even then. Even then, that hadn’t shaken her. But when the King had demoted her, when that golden shine of royal armor was replaced by lesser bronze—Cassandra had stared down at gloved hands, and wondered what the hell she was doing there.

Standing in line, she thinks. Guarding locked doors. She’s traveled across two continents, she’s traversed the ruins of a kingdom long dead, she’s looked a god full in the face and snarled—

And here she is. Back again in the kingdom, with armor that doesn’t fit quite right and a restless burning beneath her skin, the whisper of opportunity lost.

When did I outgrow you? she wonders, absently, picking up her halberd, putting the helmet under her arm. She draws the sword and looks at it, the person staring back. When did I lose this?

But she doesn’t say that. She can’t, not really—she hasn’t the words, and a little bitter voice in her gut says that Rapunzel won’t understand anyway. Besides, Rapunzel has her own issues to deal with. Her own struggles. Cassandra doesn’t want to become another burden—not any more of a burden, at least.

When did I become so weak as to be used against you?

But those are quiet thoughts. Cassandra shoves them away, locked back in the corner of her mind where they belong, and turns to face Rapunzel with both hands on her hips. Rapunzel is sitting quiet on the bed, head bowed, gloved hands folded in her lap, and at the sight something in Cassandra’s chest eases. She crosses over, and kneels down before her. “Hey. Raps.”

Rapunzel looks up. Her eyes are dry, the green of her irises cold and clear. Her mouth is set in a mulish sort of stubborn. That tight knot in Cassandra’s chest eases further, and she manages the barest hint of a smile. “Look,” she says. “I get it. I do. And you’re right. It’s—a lot.” Which is a nice way of saying basically treasonous, but hey. “Look. It’ll work out, okay? I’ll do a scan on the dungeons when I can, get info like you requested—” As per the letter still in her pocket, anyway. “—and yeah, sure, it’s… dangerous.”

“Treason. If you get caught. And my dad—”

“Yeah. But Eugene has the right idea. Don’t tell him I said this, but… look. You can eavesdrop on the nobles. Eugene is doing…whatever he’s doing. And me?” Her lips thin. “I can see what the prisoners say. I can walk around and listen, and see what they know. And maybe it’s dangerous, but if it gets us what we need to know, gets us where need to go…” She trails off, pointedly.

Rapunzel dips her head. “I’m worried,” she admits, quiet. “And you’re right, I don’t know enough. But—Cass, what if you’re right about this, too? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s not worth it? What if we just make things worse?”

“Yeah, okay. Good point. But you’re doing this anyways, right? So… I—I don’t want—” Oh, how to word this. Cassandra blows out a breath through her teeth, hard and hissed. “I can’t just sit here, Raps. I can’t do nothing.” Her hands curl, unbidden. “Don’t shut me out again.”

The set to Rapunzel’s jaw eases, just a bit. She reaches out and squeezes Cassandra’s hand, brief and firm despite how the pressure on her injuries makes her face twitch with an echo of pain. “I won’t,” Rapunzel says, and a pale smile flickers across her face. “I… I did promise, after all.”

“You did,” Cassandra replies, neutral.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll lay off. If you’re sure.”

“Very sure.”

The smile on Rapunzel’s face settles, a little stronger. “Thanks, Cass.”

“It is literally the least I can do,” Cassandra informs her, dryly, and stands up with the creak of new armor. “Now get out of my room before your new guard realizes you're missing, yeah? Elias is skittish, but he’s going to realize you used your hair as an escape route sooner rather than later, and if I have to go guard the sewers we’re all going to suffer.”

Rapunzel’s smile widens. “Right!” she says, and scampers up, heading back for her newfound secret entrance to the tunnels. Seriously, how does she keep finding those things? “I’ll try and visit again soon. There’s this dinner party with my parents, and I think I might be able to ferret out a few details on this mysterious deal. I’ll let you know!” Something in her face gentles. “…Please take care of yourself, Cass.”

“Only if you do.”

Cassandra watches her go, and manages a small wave and a weak smile when Rapunzel looks back. She waits, patiently, until the stone door of the secret entrance latches shut, and then lets her hand falls with a sigh.

For a moment she just stands there, basking in the silence. Her hand goes to her pocket. The missive Rapunzel wrote and Eugene gave her sits heavy by her side.

I’m sorry to ask this of you. I know my father is your King. But I need you, Cass. I need to know if you’re with me. You don’t have to say yes now. You don’t have to answer at all. And I will never, ever be angry if you say no. You’re my best friend, now and forever. But whatever you’re willing to give. Whatever secrets you find willing to share with me…

If the time comes to choose, if circumstances force us to make a stand—will you stand by my side?

Cassandra has never been readier. But still—

For some reason, the knot remains, cold and heavy in her chest.

She marches out of her room to her new guard shift with her chin up and back straight and proud. Some heads turn when they see her pass; some faces creases in sympathy, others tight-lipped. Odd, she thinks, and remembers vividly Eugene’s offhand comment on the castle’s reactions. She thinks again of her father’s face when the King stripped her of rank, the anger he didn’t even try to hide, and her lips thin further. There’s something wrong here after all—she just hopes it’s not the internal battle she’s starting to suspect it might be.

She turns another hall, pushes open the last door. Cold, rank air blows against her face. Her nose wrinkles.

Once, in a different age, the dungeons of Corona had served as part of the castle proper. In the start of Corona’s great history, King Herz der Sonne had walked these halls and eaten in these empty rooms, enjoyed food and rest in the grand circular hall that has become the main prison pit. These stone walls were filled with history and majesty, until an unfortunate winter earthquake fifty years after his reign brought the whole castle tumbling down.

The castle was rebuilt, of course—better this time, and it has withstood every earthquake since for the remaining hundreds of years. But of that first, lonesome castle, only the tunnels and this hall remain—the tunnels locked down for fear of constant collapse, and the rubble of the first castle become one of the worst places in the whole kingdom.

The point is that the dungeons are a place of history—and at the moment, Cassandra feels as if she’s experiencing each one. As she marches through and down the enclosed halls, the cold deepens, the stone growing soft with age and dark with a grime built up over centuries. Voices murmur low and bitter through the grates as she passes, and the stench of rot and mildew and waste is so heavy she almost struggles to breathe. There’s a slick moss crawling stubbornly through the cracks in the mortar, and as she passes down to the last and final floor, the old stone sagging and heavy, the ceilings low and strained under the weight of the years, even the voices fade out. There aren’t many prisoners here. In truth, there’s very little here at all. Something wet and watery drips down the wall. The cells are silent and empty. Cassandra, standing all and alone in a dark corridor, takes a deep breath and regrets it almost at once.

She’s in full guard armor, the bronze polished and shining, her curls forced under the tight helmet. Her gloves are crisp on her hands, the halberd stiff in her palms; her stance is straight and her eyes unwavering from the door. Every few minutes she’s to turn from her post to pace up and down the corridor for a routine check before she returns back to the door at the end of the hall.

It’s a joke of a job. It’s a job for newbies and rookies and guards with their heads too full of pride for sense, and here she is. Stuck here until Rapunzel either breaks her silence—unlikely—or until the King cools his temper, which…

Well.

She’s probably going to be here for a while, she knows, and as she stops before her new post, she closes her eyes, breathing in deep through her teeth.

Gods, she has no idea what she’s doing here. Cassandra is skilled and she knows it. She’s wasted here, and the fact she’s only been posted here as punishment for Rapunzel’s actions only furthers the insult. She’s not—resenting it, really, or at least she’s trying not to. It’s not Rapunzel’s fault. That the King is punishing Cassandra in order to punish Rapunzel… it’s more than insulting. It’s downright infuriating.

Not to mention being replaced by Elias, of all the guards. The boy is… new is almost too kind a term. He’s barely not a trainee, and while he’s not a bad kid, Cassandra suspects that kindness won’t stop him from reporting Rapunzel’s every action to the King.

They’ve been back for only a scant three days, and already, most of Rapunzel’s worries are proving justified. If this is destiny, Cassandra wishes she could punch it into submission or something. First the Dark Kingdom, now this—for gods’ sake, don’t they all deserve a break?

But no, of course not. And so Rapunzel’s confined in the castle and Eugene’s walking on so many eggshells he decided running was the better option, and Cassandra is here: stationed in the deepest, darkest, most boring corridor in the dungeon, waiting for nothing.

She closes her eyes. “Look around,” Rapunzel had said. “Keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll find something everyone else missed.” But gods, how is Cassandra going to find anything if she’s stuck miles underground for eight straight hours a day? She’d mentioned the idea of wandering around to listen in on the prisoners herself, but in the secret depths of her mind, even she can admit it’s basically a worthless task. Who on earth would spill the beans when guards lurk around every corner?

She wants to help, but this—

It feels terribly like being shunted. All. Over. Again.

Cast aside and left in the dark, something in her whispers, dark and bitter. Cassandra sets her jaw. There isn’t even a guard on duty to take over once her shift ends— there’s nothing here to guard at all. This job is a joke.

She turns hard on her heel, walking away. To hell with it. If she’s stuck down here, she thinks grimly, she can at least explore. As useless as it is, at least those cells aren’t empty.

The air is like ice around her; the winter cold turned something subzero in the freezing hold of the underground stone. Each breath puffs like fog before her. In her armor, the metal is so chilled her fingers flex on impulse to get blood flow going. She turns down the twisting halls, eyes passing blind over the shadowy cells and water-rusted metal, the withered skeletons of the ruins of the ancient castle. She breathes in, breathes out. Nothing appears. Nothing happens.

Nothing’s ever going to happen.

Who is she even kidding? She’s going to be down here for hours, for days, for weeks. She wants to help but she couldn’t even see Rapunzel herself; the princess had to find a way to her instead. Rapunzel may be trapped in her room, but she already knows how to slip free— and Cassandra’s chains are so much tighter. She has so much more to lose.

And if things do go wrong, guess who’s going to suffer for it? Her, probably. Definitely. She loves Rapunzel, gods know she does, but so much of this mess is just—!

Why did she let Varian go? Why didn’t she ask them? Why hasn’t she explained? What little Cassandra knows of the labyrinth is just that—just a little. Just the bare minimum. She’s not asking for a play by play, but if Rapunzel is going to release known criminals, couldn’t she at least give a real reason? She’d said it was because it didn’t feel right, but what had that even meant? Feeling has no place in politics. No place in acting queen, or princess…

Even after everything, she’s still weak.

Cassandra stops mid-step.

She feels struck, stunned still by her own thoughts. Her hand rises to her head. A wave of dizziness overcomes her, shame like a blooming poison in her gut. The cold of the dungeon bites at her skin like a beast.

That’s… that’s a cruel thing to think. Sure, Rapunzel is a little much at times, but she’s been growing too, changing, becoming more and more sure of her place every day. More confident in herself, even if Cassandra doesn’t agree with all her choices. And—and Cassandra knows that, she understands that, so why—?

“…Cassandra? Is that you?”

She jumps, just barely avoiding dropping her halberd. She whips around, breath caught, weapon raised—and the confused face of a guard blinks back, almost bemused.

She stares at him, mouth open in shock—lowers her weapon rapidly, heat climbing in her cheeks. “I— sorry. You snuck up on me.” She pauses, abrupt. “Wait, what are you doing down here?”

The other guard frowns at her. “Cassandra, this is my post. Aren’t you stationed in the lower dungeons?”

“I…” She looks around, rapid, and realizes he’s right—the walls are lighter, the stink stronger. This isn’t her post at the lower dungeons. This is the first sector—the private prison, for top-priority prisoners, serious threats to the kingdom. Once upon a time, Varian had been kept in this sector, only one floor above her. When had she…? “Apologies. I got lost in thought.”

His scowl deepens. “Look, I know the demotion must sting, but that’s no reason to leave your post. What would the Captain say?”

Cassandra flushes, her lips pulling away from her teeth. “Look, I didn’t mean to—”

The guard is glaring.

Abruptly Cassandra remembers herself. She cuts herself off, breathing in deep through her nose. Her fingers clench white-knuckled under her gloves, curled tight and shaking around the halberd. “…No, never mind. You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

She turns away hard before he can say anything more, marching off down the stairs. She doesn’t look back. The guard shakes his head and turns away, pulling the door latched behind him, back again at his post.

She leaves the private dungeon behind, and slams the door tight behind her. She walks quick, her stride furious. Her footsteps echo off the walls. Just like that: alone again.

Water drips uneven on the withered stone. The darkness slithers and seeps in the corners. The lanterns flicker. Unknown even to herself, Cassandra shivers once, and hugs her arms tight.

And in the darkness of a cell just out of view, someone else watches her seethe—and smiles.

“Oh, yes,” the prisoner says. Their voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper; their smile bares feral in the lanternlight. “I agree.”

Cassandra opens the final door, the exit to the prison floor. A sharp, foul gust of air howls through. The lantern flickers. For one shining moment, the prisoner’s eyes glint bright and green.

“She’ll make a wonderful disciple.”

.

For a moment, Varian doesn’t understand what he’s hearing.

He stands there, before the market stall, hands cold and heart growing colder; the screams, distant, are indistinct to him. It could be cheering, he thinks. It could be celebration. It could be nothing at all.

Except then Yasmin grabs his arm and yanks him back, and people have started to run, and then all at once he hears a boom like thunder and sees shrapnel fly, and he thinks—cannons—and he realizes.

The harbor is under attack.

A whisper drifts by his ears, paranoia crystalized to reality. The wind hisses like a curse. I warned you, child. Now it is too late.

The ground rocks with the force of the explosives; Varian stumbles sideways and just barely keeps to his feet. He can hear laughter, distantly, in the crowd, faint above all the screaming, mingling with the shrieking steel of sword against sword as the guardsmen of Port Caul rush in. But that doesn’t make sense, he thinks—how could it all happen at once, so soon? Or had these attackers planned this, had they snuck in with the market crowd and waited amongst the people for the attack to begin?

Another blast of cannon fire shakes the stonework, cutting his thoughts short. This time Varian isn’t so lucky—he falls hard on his knees, unable to stand on the shaky ground.

A hand grips his arm, nails digging into his shoulder—Yasmin drags Varian to his feet, supporting him against her. In the alchemy stall, the owner has vanished. Varian lists sideways in her hold. “What—”

“Pirates,” Yasmin hisses, and they both stumble when the ground rocks again. Cracks line the street. “I knew they were getting bold, but this is—!”

The jeering grows louder, closer to them. Yasmin pulls him up to his feet, and this time Varian needs no instruction. The pound of blood in his ears, a looming threat coming ever closer—he knows this feeling, this metallic tang in the air.

The labyrinth has etched this lesson into his bones.

He runs, and Yasmin runs with him. The crowd, once comforting, has turned confining; bodies shifting like a living thing, people on the ground, someone crying. Varian shoves his way through, trying to get away. A piercing scream makes him falter, then push on, but Yasmin turns back, vanishing momentarily in the crowd.

Varian stumbles, stopping too, turning back less because he wants to and more on instinct. Panic coats his tongue. He pushes through the mill of people, searching—and finds Yasmin on the ground, kneeling down to help someone up.

“To your feet!” Yasmin is saying, pulling the poor bystander upright. “Hurry! Get others off the ground! We will all be trampled at this rate.”

“Yasmin—!”

“Boy, what are you standing there for? Go hide!”

“I—” He wants nothing more than to run, but her moment of altruism has sent a cloud of shame through him. She’d stopped at the screams and cries for help. He had not. “I can, I can help—”

“I think not.” Yasmin grabs his arm, pushes him away; the crowd swells and ebbs around them. “Go to the buildings, you are small, hide by the crates—this crowd will kill you if the pirates don’t get there first, now hurry and—”

A shrieking sound rets the air, the awful screech of metal sliding against metal. Yasmin cuts herself off, whipping around; Varian stares over her shoulder, numb and horrified. There is a body in armor fallen to the ground, and red smeared across the cobblestone. Above the body there is a pirate, pale like a fish’s belly and smiling with teeth like tombstones, pulling free a crude sword dripping with blood and gore.

Varian claps a hand over his mouth, bile sour in his throat. The sight of blood makes his head spin. He’s never—he’s never seen someone die before, he realizes. Not like this. Not so brutally. He’s never…

Yasmin grips his arm so tight her hand spasms, hard enough to bruise. The pain grounds him, and Varian pulls his eyes away from the dead guardsman with difficulty, swallowing back the sick. Yasmin tugs him behind her, as if to shield him, and herds him back as she steps away from the scene, moving out of the pirate’s line of sight slowly and silently—

And the money pouch in her pocket, still untied and hanging out from her pocket from when she’d opened it, minutes ago, to pay for Varian’s alchemy ingredients—dips, opens, and spills bright golden coins all across the street in a clatter.

Yasmin freezes, her eyes going wide and horrified. Varian’s breath slams shock-still in his throat.

The pirate’s head snaps up. He stands, sword in hand.

He looks right in their direction.

Yasmin says a foul word in a language Varian doesn’t know, grabs his arm, and turns to run.

Varian scrambles to follow, his heart stuck in his throat. He can hear the pirate behind them, beginning to laugh, cackling with a bright and bloodthirsty sort of glee, drunk on something far worse than wine. “Pretty lady!” the man coos over the screams of the crowd and the cannon fire. “Pretty lady, you look like you might have gold!”

“Fuck,” Varian says, distantly, and then Yasmin shoves him into an alleyway. Crates and barrels and open buckets of produce line the dirty side-street, and despite the lack of people it’s nearly a maze to his eyes. Varian dodges crates and spilled fruit, following Yasmin’s sprint best he can—and he thinks, in that moment, he will make it. He can see the other side, the open street, and he is close, so close—

He bursts out of the shadowy alley into the sunlight—and then the ground tremors with a force more than cannon fire, and sends Varian crashing to his knees.

His vision flips. White bursts like stars behind his eyes. The ground rushes up to meet him and he catches himself badly on the stone, cobble scraping up his hands, the street rocking beneath his palms like a bucking horse. Small cracks break through the rock. He doesn’t understand. This can’t be from cannon fire. This is—this is—an earthquake?

He can’t see Yasmin anymore. His head is spinning. Varian pushes dazedly to his feet, and feels so turned around he falls right back down again. His breaths rasp distant in his ears. His hands are shaking. He gets to one foot and lists hard to the side, stumbling sideways until he falls heavy on the thick glass window of a shopfront.

Varian fumbles blindly for purchase, and his fingers catch on the window frame. He gets one hand on the shopfront wall and pulls shaking to his feet, standing hunched and wheezing in the burning daylight. The glass of the shop window shines cold in the sun. He looks beside him, and the shop window reflects back at him, a distorted image of himself. In his reflection, he can see the blood on his face, the shadows under his eyes. The fear and confusion clouding his expression.

And behind him. Behind him—

The man. The pirate. Blood on his coat and a smile like death. He is still laughing. Still standing. It’s as if the earthquake hasn’t touched him at all. His eyes burn green in the windowpanes. His hand is raised, and his sword glints bright in the winter sun.

Varian should run. Varian should fight. He doesn’t, though. He can’t. He feels cold. He feels frozen all the way to his bones, all the way to his navel. Like an icy cord has been pulled taut—like a hand on his neck, holding him in place. A weight in the air that is more than fear… an anticipation that is almost supernatural.

All those dreams. All those sleepless nights, trying in vain to fight the exhaustion and the dark. All those whispers in his ears. The memory of it chokes him. The memory holds him still.

The pirate lifts his blade. In the window, Varian’s reflection shimmers like a ripple effect. For a moment, someone else stands in his place. A woman, terrible in her familiarity, with stone-dark skin and eyes glowing yellow like a moon.

Hello, child.

The pirate swings.

Did you miss me?

His right hand is searing with pain. His veins feel like molten metal. The world flashes white, and the pirate’s laughter, behind him, cuts off into a scream.

And like something from Varian’s deepest nightmares—the black rocks begin to grow.

They come out of nowhere: the dark rocks bursting all at once, a starburst of deadly intent. They spear through the cobblestone like a hot knife through butter, crisscrossing and tearing up and down the street in a deadly wave. Dust bursts up in the air like a fog, the streets turned to rubble and ruin. Through the distant ringing of his ears, Varian can hear the rising screams like a final curse.

In the mirror, the Moon smiles. The icy touch at the back of his neck burns like a brand. His hand spasms with a pain white-hot and bleeding, and Varian drops to his knees.

His vision whites. Exhaustion hits him like a physical blow, the drain so sudden it makes his head spin. He blinks, and then—just like that—she’s gone. It is just him in the mirror, now. Just Varian, staring wide-eyed and horrified at his own reflection, blue eyes gone empty and cold with remembered terror.

“—get up!”

A hand pulls at his shoulder, and Varian fights on instinct, struggling to pull away. His limbs are weak, his body aching—he bites back a sob and tries to throw himself back. He hears someone curse.

“Boy, snap out of it! We need to go!”

At last, familiarity seeps through. That voice. He recognizes it.

“Varian!”

Yasmin.

His eyes clear, and he finally recognizes her. Her grip on his arm is almost bruising in its force. Her eyes are wild. There is blood on her cheek.

“Hurry!”

This time, when she pulls him up, he does not fight her.

Varian stumbles to his feet, wavering back and forth. He feels very far away. He feels like he’s drowning. He’s barely breathing at all.

Yasmin is running. Yasmin is dragging him with her. The satchel thumps heavy against Varian’s side like a promise, or a reminder. His hand hurts, but the pain is fading, needle-like piercing turned to dull aching. He feels cold. He feels so cold. He doesn’t want to know.

He looks behind him anyway.

People are crying. People are still screaming. It rings in his ears like the distant toll of a bell. Smoke and dust cloud in the air and drift soft like a fog onto crumbling streets. People are lying still. People are lying silent. He cannot see the pirate at all.

There are rocks, too. Black rocks torn up through the ground like a spiny crown, ripping apart the streets. They are everywhere. They are tearing through the city like they once tore up his home. Needle-like and deadly, and each and every last one of them is pointing right at the sea.

His hands are numb. He feels so cold. In the back of his mind, he can hear laughter on a distant breeze, and for the first time he’s not sure if it’s only a memory, or perhaps something more.

Something worse.

Hello, child.

Varian looks away.

.

.

.

In a grand ship by the eastern coast, Lady Caine watches the distant sprawl of Port Caul go up in smoke.

Her hand is outstretched, reaching—her fingers curled as if to grasp the air itself. Her lips have peeled back from her teeth; her dark scowl cuts into her pretty face. The ship is empty but for her, her crew gone out to battle—armed only with their swords and a spare vessel for cannon fire. She is alone here. She is the only one watching. The only one to see exactly when the battle started… and the only one to see how it ends.

It is only Lady Caine that sees the rocks rise up, black towers hanging heavy over the city skyline. Only Lady Caine that sees her crew fall back to the sea, their numbers gutted, their white shirts turned red from bleeding.

She drags her hand away from the water, and her scowl turns to a snarl. She watches, white-knuckled and furious, as the black rocks rise up over the city. Tens upon tens of deadly spears, that lethal black stone slanted and sure, each and every needle-tip edge pointing right towards Lady Caine in her ship.

“Is that a threat?” she hisses, and turns away from the sight, pacing furiously across the deck. “No one said the gods would be involved.”

She pivots on her heel, the wind whipping at her hair. Her eyes fix bright and poisonous on Port Caul. Her muttering darkens. “What happened to the Moon being too weak to make an appearance, anyway? I thought she needed a conduit for that. But that fucking moonstone is gone, and all reports say she’s an avid hater of mortals, so how…?”

She trails off, the words falling short. Her pacing stills. She holds herself tall and stiff in the shine of the winter sun, and her hands clench tight into fists. Her nails cut deep in her palm.

Something shudders across the deck. A shadow, a cloud over the sun. The boat creaks and groans like a rusty hinge. Frost crawls along the side of the boat. The wind whispers. Lady Caine closes her eyes in thought.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, the rage falling slowly to contemplation. “Maybe she did choose a mortal vessel. For some reason. Against all reports of her personality.”

A pause. Lady Caine tilts her head.

“And, say, if the Moon did choose a conduit...”

Her eyes open. She looks at Port Caul with fresh eyes. She traces the path of the black rocks. That deadly slant. That unbreakable sword. Those cruel, uncontrolled towers, and the unerring accuracy of their direction, the blade pointed right at her.

Slowly, surely, Lady Caine starts to smile. She watches as her men flee like cowards, running from the dark rocks like cities from a plague, and laughs under her breath. “Someone who can summon the dark rocks, hm…? Sounds like someone we could use.”

Another pause. She tilts her head. She turns to the shadows, to the empty air beside her, and smiles with all her teeth. In the midday shine, the green of her eyes nearly seems to glow.

“Well?” says Lady Caine. “What do you think?”

Chapter Text

At last, the radiant Sun met the lovely Moon—but in her excitement, she had unwittingly chased her away.

In the days that followed, their failed first meeting haunted the Sun, dimmed her light and joy. Though she had never been bothered by her loneliness before, now it ached deep within her, an arrow to her heart. No matter what she did, her mind drew back to the woman from the water, her soundless dance and her peaceful face. That instant in which they were in harmony—that single, breathless moment when song and dance were one—tortured her throughout all the coming days and nights.

The world did its best to comfort her, but Sun could not be consoled. Even singing could not ease the ache, for when she sang, her thoughts turned always to the lovely stranger, and her voice would falter and catch. And soon the Sun could not deny the truth any longer. She wanted to apologize. She wanted to explain herself.

But most of all, she wanted nothing more than to see that lovely moonlight woman once again.

The lovely Moon, however, did not agree…

.

.

.

Varian doesn’t know how long they run.

Time passes him by in a blur, the world distant and fuzzy to his eyes. Yasmin drags him forward, and Varian follows, his mind blank, his thoughts dead and cold. He is aware, distantly, of what’s happened—the pirates, the black rocks, Moon, escaping—but it’s a distant kind of awareness, as if belonging to someone else. He feels numb and uncomfortably far away, floaty without the freedom.

It must take ages to return to the house, but Varian isn’t cognizant of any of it. He blinks and the city is gone, replaced by dirt roads. Blinks again, and the sun is low in the sky, the coastal sand fading to farmland. Blinks yet again, and the sun is dark red against the horizon and evening is swiftly approaching them, and Yasmin is shoving open the door of her home, the shadows long and stark against her face.

She pushes Varian inside roughly, turns on her heel and closes the door with a bang. The sound makes Varian jump, but Yasmin drags him down the hall before he can even think to speak. The kitchen is backlit by a warm sunset glow through the windows, Ella and Adira both sitting down with food before them, and the quiet peace of it all makes Varian’s head spin.

It is a peace, however, that is swiftly shattered. Ella looks stunned by their rapid arrival, frozen still in surprise, but Adira stands outright, alarm flashing across her usually composed face. She looks between Varian and Yasmin, the blood on their clothes and the dust in their hair, and inhales sharply. “What—”

“Sit,” Yasmin says to Varian, ignoring her, and pushes him down in a chair before striding to the stovetops, a whirlwind of motion and focused intent. Varian slumps in the chair, feeling dazed. Ella’s eyes dart back and forth between them, and something in Varian’s expression must give him away, because she stands too, rushing to the cupboards.

“I’ll put on some tea—”

“Thank you, Ella, and if there is any food left, the boy needs to eat something before he passes out—”

Adira raps her hand against the table, her eyes flashing, drawing attention back to her. “Yasmin. What happened.”

“Pirates,” Yasmin snaps back, taking Ella’s offered cup of tea and downing it in one swallow. She snatches a heavier winter coat off a nearby hook and throws it over her shoulder, then goes to rummage through a kitchen drawer. From the depths she draws out a sheathed dagger, wicked sharp in the light, and hitches it to her side. “Pirates and cannons and unfortunately timed earthquakes, and your little Moondrop proving he is very much haunted by the gods after all, you goddamn liar.” She slams the drawer shut. “I am going out. I cannot say when I shall return.”

“Haunted?” Adira repeats sharply. Her eyes flash to Varian. He stares blankly at the floor, feeling her gaze bore into the back of his neck. A small loaf of bread is forced into his hands by Ella, and he picks at the crust and says nothing.

“Black rocks have sprouted all over the city. Few in the farmlands, from what I saw coming back, but Port Caul itself?” Yasmin shakes her head, as if unable to put the sight into words. “Watch him. He has not spoken since.” She turns to Varian. “Do not leave. Do not do anything to push yourself past your limits. If you summon the rocks out here, who knows what will happen?” Her eyes flash to Adira. “Keep an eye out for him.”

Adira stands, hand white-knuckled on the hilt of her sword. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you will do no such thing.” Yasmin tugs on the heavy coat, leaning down to relace her boots. “If this is what I think it is, what we discussed, then it is more important than ever that things continue as planned. There is no time to waste, Adira.” She straightens. “Please, old friend. I understand your feelings, but I would feel infinitely better if you stayed here.”

A tense silence. At long last, Adira gives a short nod, mouth twisted half-way to a grimace. “…Of course. I’ll keep them safe.”

Yasmin’s shoulders drop, a near-invisible relief. “Thank you.” Preparations seemingly complete, Yasmin steps towards Ella, pressing a brief kiss against her lips. The other reaches up and tangles her hand in Yasmin’s hair. For a moment they linger, foreheads pressed together.

“…Be safe,” Ella says, at last, voice tight. Her words are nearly a whisper, something soft and pained, and Varian looks away, feeling like an intruder.

“I will.” Yasmin presses one last kiss to Ella’s cheek, then pulls away, marching off to the door. “Stay close to the house, all of you! Watch the windows. It is unlikely the pirates will come this far out, but more unlucky things have already occurred today. I will be back as soon as I can.”

And then, just like that—the pound of her footsteps cut short; the door, swinging shut. Yasmin, gone again.

The others go quiet once the door shuts, caught in a stillness. Adira looks at Varian briefly and then shakes her head, marching away. Ella exhales soft and shaky and leans against the wall, eyes closed in something like prayer. Then she too pushes herself upright, inhaling deep and steady before walking out of the kitchen, her footsteps pounding up the stairs, her voice a distant murmur as she begins to mutter.

Varian alone is left in the kitchen. He stays there, feeling weak, chewing half-heartedly on the bit of bread still in his hands. It’s fresh, sort of salty, not too hard or too soft—and yet. It tastes like blood and ash in his mouth, and it takes all he has to keep eating it. It’s that or pass out, and—

Well. Varian can’t risk dreaming, not right now.

(If he has to see the Moon again, so soon, after all this—)

The world fades in and out of awareness again; he finishes the bread sometime between spacing out and waking up. Varian stares at his feet, breathing shallow and heart aching. His hand hurts. He is so tired he can barely stand, exhaustion like a stone tied around his neck, bone-deep and striking. He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t understand what’s happened. The satchel—Rapunzel’s satchel, and for some reason that fact is at the forefront of his mind right now—is heavy on his shoulders, the strap digging uncomfortably snug against the side of his neck. Inside, the hollow crystal and the alchemical materials still rest secure in their neat packaging. It’s—it’s almost laughable. This morning feels like something from a dream. His conversation with Yasmin—the market—

It feels like a different world, now.

It’s been so long. Six months! Six months since the labyrinth, since the Moon, since Varian took Rapunzel’s hand and the Opal with it. Six months of waiting, of moving on… of dreaming, of hearing that whisper in his ears, of feeling that echo of a presence by his side.

He can’t deny magic, anymore. Can’t deny that this is all way, way more than anything Varian’s ever dealt with, no matter the miracles he’s made through alchemy. But… he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want any of this. Six months ago, when that whisper first started and the dreams first began… he’d felt a terror so deep and endless that he hadn’t known what else to do except ignore it.

And so. For all these past few months, Varian has pretended otherwise. He has ignored the way pain spasms up his hand—the hand he took the Opal with, the hand marked with magic, veins so blue it no longer looks natural—ignored the whispers in his ears, the presence by his side, the chills down his spine. Has ignored, for months, that—that feeling, that strange, immeasurable distance within him. The sense of a cliff-edge, of a darkness, and if he looked too far and for too long, he’d fall, and never be able to drag himself out…

Months upon months of pretending he was fine, and now it’s all come crashing down on his head.

That feeling—that awful pit, the hollow, the power unnatural—is gone now. Varian gets the awful, looming sense that whatever happened today, whatever happened in Port Caul… he has already fallen.

The voice, he’s heard. The—the sense of someone else there, he’s felt it. But this is the first time he’s seen the Moon. The first time her voice has rang clear and cold in his head, instead of distant and ghostly. The first time Varian has ever, ever summoned the rocks.

I did that, he thinks, remembering the way the pirate’s scream cut off, the way the rocks tore through the city. I did that.

His eyes itch. His tears burn down his face. Varian stares at his closed fist, white knuckles and red-half circles from where bitten nails are clawing into his palm, and thinks: I can never go home again.

Stupid thought, really. He can’t go home in general. But he can’t shake the feeling that this is it, the last line crossed. The final—hah! —black mark. The rocks that destroyed his life and his hometown, the thing that started it all… and now, they’re his. Varian’s problem. Varian’s fault. Varian’s.

It’s all very ironic, Varian thinks, half-hysterical, and lays his head down on the kitchen table in a useless attempt to stop shaking.

“Varian.”

He flinches, curling in on himself. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to deal with Adira right now. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone.

“Varian.”

Oh, good. The No-Nonsense tone.

Varian forces himself to lift his head, well aware that ignoring her won’t make her go away. Adira, back from wherever she’d wandered off to, stands tall in the kitchen doorway, frowning down at him, her arms crossed. She looks the same as ever, despite everything—annoyed at him, bored with the rest of the world, etcetera—yet, somehow, there is something strangely off about her too. Something in the set of her shoulders, maybe, or the pull of her mouth, or the tension around her eyes. If Varian didn’t know better, he’d say she looks troubled, oddly restless, her eyes flickering back over Varian’s shoulder like the weight of her gaze can bore through the wall and reveal the rock-invested image of Port Caul on the horizon.

Varian stares dully back at her, unsure of what to make of it. Her heavy gaze makes him self-conscious; he shifts, uncertain, and scrubs at his face with his sleeve to wipe away the tears. To his surprise, his cheeks are dry. He’s barely cried at all, Varian realizes. It just hurts—a tension in his face, behind his eyes, like a dam built up full to bursting. He is—quite hilariously—apparently too anxious to cry.

Adira still hasn’t said anything. Varian drops his eyes to the floor. “What do you want?”

A pause, and then the soft rustle of her footsteps. Her shadow falls over him. “How long have you been moping here, Moony?”

The nickname, usually just annoying, makes him flinch. He grits his teeth.

Adira’s cheek twitches, an aborted wince. Something almost like regret shadows her face, but it’s gone by the time Varian blinks. “…I know this may be a hard concept for you to grasp,” she says, recovering neatly. “But overthinking this will just make things worse.”

“Oh, yeah?” Varian lifts his head, something bitter twisting in his gut. “What else should I be doing, then? If you know so much.”

Adira’s expression doesn’t even twitch, the spoilsport. Her jaw is tight, her expression firm and decided. “Not this,” she says, and steps back, gesturing him up with one lazy hand. “Head out to the backyard. I’ll bring the staffs.” She nods to herself. “Training will help.”

Training has never helped, but Varian is too tired to argue with her. Besides—even training must be better than his own thoughts, right now. He pushes up from the table and follows her to the backyard garden.

Still, his mouth goes dry. When Adira tosses him the training staff—dense, wooden, and blunt due to Adira claiming Varian would sooner stab himself on live steel than excel at it, in her own exact words—he almost fumbles the catch, his hands clumsy and slow. The staff weighs heavy and awkward in his inexperienced hands, still as graceless as he was six months ago when these training bouts first started. This is going to be a disaster.

Across from him, Adira slides into a stance. Varian mutely copies her, feeling like a puppet in his own body. The weight of the staff pulls hard at his aching arms.

“Begin,” Adira says, and swings her staff for his head.

The world falls away again, confined to this small patch of grass and the trading of blows. Adira hits him more than he dodges her, and Varian never manages a hit against her at all. The sharp rap of her staff against his knuckles and side are harsh but not painful. The worst he’s ever gotten from these sessions are faint bruises and sore muscles.

Still, every failure strikes him all the harder. He can’t dodge right. He can’t even hit her. He misses alchemy, he misses not fighting. His head spins. Adira’s staff smacks against his ankle, his forearm, his back. He’s doing worse than usual. He can’t remember what he’s supposed to do. He forgets how to block, the right way to parry. He can’t…

Varian misjudges a swing, and Adira’s next hit sends him crashing to the ground, flat on his back. He gasps for breath, dizzy and sick, and closes his eyes against the sting of tears. Oh, look, there’s the waterworks. Too little, too late.

Adira raps her staff against the ground. “Get up.”

He throws a hand over his eyes. “No.”

“Moony—”

“It’s not helping.”

“You aren’t even trying to let it help.” She sounds irritated. “What the hell happened at the market?”

“…I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tough.” Adira bears down on him, and Varian only just rolls out of the way from a hit that would have ended with him wheezing face-first in the dirt. “What happened?”

“The rocks—the Moon—” Soft laughter in his ears, an echo of the wind—he almost trips. It’s his imagination. It’s his imagination. “There, there was this pirate, and she was in the mirror, the Moon was, and then—and then—the pirate—” He stops mid-motion, understanding striking him numb. His eyes burn. His words tremble. “I think I killed him.”

Adira pauses, then pulls back. Her expression is unreadable. “Moony—”

He turns his face away.

“You didn’t kill him.”

“I heard him scream.”

“If the rocks got him, if the rocks got anyone… then it wasn’t you.” He looks up, reluctant. Adira stares down at him, her expression grim. “It was the Moon. Maybe she used you as a conduit to do it, but it wasn’t your hand, and it wasn’t your fault.”

“But I was—”

“Summoning enough rocks to cover a whole city, on your first try, when you didn’t mean to or want to?” Adira scoffs. “Trust me, Moony. With a power that new, the only way that’d be possible is if it wasn’t you who did it at all. It wasn’t you.”

Varian looks away.

Adira sighs, and he sees the tip of her staff lower, digging into the dirt. “What else.”

His fingers curl. “That’s it.”

“You’re so goddamn tense you’re actually shaking with it. What else?”

He glowers at the ground, stubbornly silent.

Adira’s lips press in a thin line. “…Did the Moon say anything, when she appeared to you?”

Varian twitches, unable to stop himself. Hello, child. He tries to hide his flinch with a scowl, but by his side, his fists clench. “That’s… who gives a damn what she says, anyway?”

Adira shakes her head, frustration bleeding through her tone. “There must be a reason. Why now? Why not sooner? Why was this event the spark?” She scowls. “It’s been six months—so why did she show up today?”

Don’t go. Don’t go there.

You don’t want to be here.

The memory of this morning, that strange whisper, hits him suddenly. He turns his head away, unsettled, but the words echo, persistent in his ears. Soft and ghostly, and, if Varian is being honest with himself—familiar.

Hello, child.

Varian picks himself off the dirt and brushes the loose soil from his shirt. The sun has fallen entirely behind the horizon by now, only the faintest hue of burning red left to illuminate their not-quite training session. The shadows stretch long and thin, like reaching fingers—Adira and Varian both cast in darkness.

“I don’t know,” he says, finally, his voice quiet. “I don’t know.”

He wishes he knew. He mulls over the echoes, the dreams, the flashes in the mirror. Thinks back on that odd, ghostly whisper in the back of his mind at all hours of the day, the sudden shock-cold warning. This morning, as he walked to the city with Yasmin… he cannot deny it any longer. The Moon had tried to warn him away from the market—away from Port Caul.

He’s almost certain it was her. Varian just doesn’t understand why.

To be fair, though, he’s never understood the Moon. The tower, the Moondrop… the labyrinth, and why she trapped them there—whatever her reasoning, whatever her goals, Varian hasn’t a single idea.

Adira searches his face, then steps back. Her staff thumps hard against the ground, frustration given form. “Well. Don’t beat yourself up about it. I’ve been chasing stories about that stupid god for years, and even I don’t have much clue.” Left unspoken, but clearly implied: if even Adira doesn’t know the answer, then Varian has no hope at all.

“Mm.” He hates not knowing, though. How annoying.

Still. It’s not his only worry, and… and Adira’s being oddly talkative today. Oddly helpful, in her own frustrating way. He peaks through his bangs at her, wondering. Yasmin’s comment on him being the Moondrop… the way Adira’s acting… he wishes he hadn’t run away, that night. Yasmin’s right. He should have stayed and eavesdropped on all of their conversation, if all this change is what came of it.

He dares to ask. “Adira…?”

She turns to him.

“…What are we going to do now?”

Adira considers him. Settles back on her heels. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” The merchants’ talk, the pirates, the attack on Port Caul. The way everyone in the market seemed terrified when the pirates had attacked… but not surprised. “This is happening all over, isn’t it? And now Port Caul’s been…” His throat closes up. “You’ve been chasing this, haven’t you?”

Adira tilts her head, expression oddly unreadable. “…I have.”

“So—” Varian bites his lip. “We didn’t get to Port Caul in time to help. So what now?”

Adira looks at him for a long moment. In the growing evening gloom, it’s difficult to read her face, but in the fading reaches of light, her dark eyes almost seem to glow.

“I didn’t come to Port Caul to stop an attack,” Adira says, at last. Varian almost falls over. Is she—actually telling him!? “I admit, I didn’t think one would happen this soon. I just came for the information.”

She pauses, grimacing briefly. “There’s something about all this that rings—false, to me. Yasmin agrees. The attacks on the port cities read less like a battle and more like…” She trails off, hesitating—then sighs. “Like practice.”

“Practice?” Realization strikes. “You mean—the market was just—?”

“A test run? Probably. You may have noticed it yourself. The pirates come in, kill a few guards, burn a few homes… and then they’re gone. Nothing stolen. Nothing gained. Just… brutality for the sake of blood.” She taps her staff against the ground, tracing a route through the dirt. “Yasmin’s sources all collaborate. The pirate attacks—instead of riches, they’re gathering threat, credibility, danger. Countries all across the continent are beginning to panic. Trade is life. These pirates are threatening that… and so far, they’ve yet to be caught.”

His mind races. Varian doesn’t know much about politics, but in this, he doesn’t have to. It’s like a logic puzzle. There’s really only one true conclusion. “They’re gearing up to take on a bigger target. A… large-scale attack.” Something in his own words chills him. “Worse than the market?”

Adira’s expression is grim. The sunset turns her bright face-paint to a bloody red. “Far worse,” she says, cold and certain. “Given what happened today… when the real battle starts, it’s going to be a bloodbath.”

Varian swallows hard. He feels like a heavy stone has fallen and sunk straight to his belly. His mouth is dry. He can imagine it all too easily. The chaos and destruction of the market, blown up to a city-wide scale. For a moment his mind flashes back, vivid and violent: the guard on the ground, newly dead, and the way the pirate looked up and smiled.

He bites his tongue against the bile, lightheaded from the memory. The wind howls up a storm around him, and Varian shivers in the evening air. “…What’s the real target?”

Adira doesn’t answer.

“Adira? Do you know?” Something cold settles in his chest. “Do, do we have to find out? But—if we don’t figure it out in time—”

“You seem oddly invested in this,” Adira interrupts, toneless. “Playing hero, Moony?”

“I—I’m not—” Varian flushes. “Well, you’ve dragged me into this, haven’t you?” Besides. “And after today, I don’t—I don’t want to see that again.” The pirate, smiling. The guard’s still form, blood scattered across the cobblestone. Like something from a memory.

It’s different. It’s different. It has to be. Varian’s attack on Corona’s capital with Ruddiger’s beast form may have ended in a lot of injuries, but no one was killed. Hurt, yes, but no one died. It’s not the same—

But still. His heart is lodged in his throat. “I don’t want that to happen again. Not to somewhere else. And, and if I can help…”

Adira looks down at him. There is something heavy about her gaze. Something oddly judging. “I see,” she says, and something firms in her voice. Her jaw tightens. And then—

“It’s Corona.”

Varian opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

“Yasmin is certain. So am I. Corona Kingdom is the greatest trade power on the western side of this continent, and further, the pirates are closing it in on all sides. Scuffles are already being reported on the Coronan border. The capital hasn’t been attacked just yet… but then, it’s only a matter of time.”

“Wait. Wait.” Varian can’t breathe. “That’s—it can’t—I—”

“What’s the matter?” Adira’s voice is light. Her eyes are hard. “I thought you wanted to help.”

“I—I do, I just—I can’t—!”

“Can’t what? How does Corona being the target change anything?” Adira slams her staff against the dirt, as if in emphasis. “I don’t plan on making my presence known. If you do as I say, you won’t be caught—so there are no worries there.”

“That’s not it! I just—”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“That’s—”

He fumbles for the words, not even knowing what it is he wants to say. The beginnings of fury flashes bright in Adira’s eyes, and deepens with every second of silence, a storm clouding her face.

“I can’t,” Varian says, at last, uselessly, and Adira’s patience finally snaps.

“This is your problem, Moony!” Adira whips the staff up and points it right at him, smacking him lightly in the chest. The force is enough to send Varian rocking back on his heels, stunned. “This, right here! You get upset—you get angry—and then you run, and nothing gets solved!” Her voice sharpens. “It’s been months. I gave you space, I gave you time to come to grips with things, but all you’ve done is ignored them more. Well, Moony, we’re both out of time. I’ve bought three days of sanctuary from Yasmin. Then I head to Corona. That is fact.” Her chin rises. “The question is, boy, are you coming with me?”

Varian is silent, struck speechless. His head spins. Whatever calm he’s managed to regain is lost, fallen through his fingers like loose sand. Trying to put these feelings into words is like trying to catch rain with only his hands; no matter how hard he tries, it slips away from him. All he knows is this—the sudden grip in his chest, the breath strangled in his throat, his dry mouth and his aching head and his sudden clammy palms. Corona. Corona, Rapunzel, Eugene, Cassandra—Old Corona. The King and Queen.

Dad.

It’s too much. First the pirates—then the Moon—the black rocks… and now, this? He can’t do this. He just can’t.

“Varian.” For all that Varian has always hated Adira’s nickname for him, somehow hearing his actual name from her is worse. “Are you coming with me?”

“I—I—”

The pirates. Corona. A bloodbath, Adira had said. Images dance behind his eyes. Blood on the cobblestone, still bodies in the streets.

I didn’t kill anyone!

But he’d hurt them.

(They hurt me.)

It’s too much, too soon. His vision swims. Varian backs away from her, shaking his head. “I—I don’t know.”

“Look, kid—”

“I don’t know, okay!” His hands rise, tangle in his hair. He tugs hard enough for it to hurt, but it’s not enough to distract from the sudden burning pain in his ear, the awful awareness of his own scars. “I don’t care!”

Something flashes in Adira’s eyes, an emotion halfway between anger and grief. “You should care. This is—”

“I don’t care!”

“Varian!”

“I don’t care!” He yanks at his hair, fingers catching on the knots, pulling hard. “I can’t—I don’t want—I don’t know!” His blood is burning. His torn ear tingles. “I don’t know, I don’t want to know, I—”

“Varian!”

Later, he will think—she probably didn’t mean to do it. Likely did not intend. Maybe she was reaching for his wrist, to stop him from yanking his hair; maybe she simply meant to shake him. Or maybe, he will consider, hesitant, unsure: maybe it was this. Maybe Adira was frightened too, and simply reacted.

It changes little of the facts.

In the end, the backhand takes Varian completely by surprise.

Adira’s hand cracks so hard across his face his head snaps to the side, his shouting cut off to a gasp. Everything blanks, his thoughts and emotions all snapped away by the shock. The force of the blow makes him stumble, just barely keeping his feet, and already, pain starts to creep across his face, bright and searing.

Varian touches at his face, his cheek already stinging, and feels numb. He doesn’t even breathe. She’s never—for all her training, for all their fights, Adira has never, ever hit him—

He looks up, and—he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand the expression on her face. She’s gone pale, wide-eyed, and yet, that emotion—it’s not anger. He has seen Adira angry before, rolling eyes and snapped insults. This is something else.

Fear, Varian realizes suddenly, and ice bleeds through his veins, a sudden shock of cold. It’s fear. She is looking at him like she’s seeing something else in his place. She is looking…

…right past him.

Behind him.

No.

But already, Adira’s eyes have fallen to her hand, horror bleeding in her blank expression. She looks as surprised as Varian feels. Her eyes go wide. Her hand drops. She steps back. “I—”

But Varian isn’t listening anymore. Some awful shadow has fallen over him, a budding suspicion creeping its way through his lungs. He turns around, following her gaze, and the sight nearly brings him to his knees.

Oh. Oh.

The black rocks.

He can’t breathe. His cheek hurts, but this is so much worse. Horror snakes down his spine. It’s—it’s nothing compared to the city, but that almost makes it worse. Only three, only small, a tiny starburst cluster growing at his feet, but the rocks are glowing bright and blue and he had—had he—?

It’s too much. Tears burn in his eyes. Varian backs away from her and the rocks both, his head shaking, his hands trembling.

“I can’t do this,” he tells her. “I don’t know why you keep thinking I can do this!”

The back door is still open, and Varian almost crashes right into it in his haste to get away. The kitchen, now lit by soft candles, seems almost mocking in its warmth, a false sort of serenity. He practically slams into the room, running for the guest room, shoving past Ella as he makes for the stairs. Ella calls after him, her voice high and alarmed; Varian does not answer.

Adira doesn’t call after him at all.

Varian bangs through the guest room door, ignoring Ruddiger’s chittering. His breathing is loud and raspy in the room, and his crying has reached an almost wheezy pitch. He ignores it, falling to his knees by the cot, rifling through his small bag of stuff with shaking fingers. His thoughts are a mess, tangled like loose thread, looping around again and again. The black rocks. This stupid power. He’d almost—and if Adira hadn’t stopped him—

This lovely, tiny cottage nestled in the fields. That warm kitchen. The distant, endless horizon. Would he have destroyed that too?

He hates this. Corona. The Moon. The pirates. Adira is right, damn her, and he hates that most of all. Why now? Why him? Why is this happening to him?

He digs through the satchel—Rapunzel’s satchel, don’t forget that, don’t forget—with an almost mindless fervor, unaware of the way Ruddiger paws at his side. He brings out the crystal and the materials for the nightlight with shaking fingers. The memory of this morning is a warmth he clings to.

Alchemy. He still has alchemy, despite it all. Alchemy will help him. Alchemy will give him the answer he needs. Mistakes are easy, when its science. If he fails here, he can always try again. It’s the real world that isn’t so forgiving.

(Are you coming with me, Varian?

But maybe it is this, instead. Maybe it’s Varian who isn’t so good at forgiving.

Or at being forgiven.)

He shoves the intrusive thought away viciously, focusing desperately on the items in hand. The crystal, hollow; the paper packets of materials. He gathers them in his arms and sits down in the coat, laying them out in his lap. He barely even notices when Ruddiger climbs up his back and settles around his neck like a scarf.

He fumbles with the packets, tearing them open, measuring with only half a mind. He goes through the motions of making with numb hands. His mind whirls. His fingers won’t stop trembling. His cheek is really starting to hurt.

The pirates are going to attack Corona. Like the Port Caul marketplace, only worse. They’re going to attack, and Varian…

He thinks of the voice in the back of his head, whispering warnings on the breeze—the Moon, distant and spectral, right up until this morning. He thinks of the way all his tantrums and all his anger never once woke up the black rocks—not until today. Not until the pirates.

Varian doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand any of it. Why would the Moon try to warn him? What was she warning him of? How did she even know? They were pirates. Awful, sure, cruel and terrifying and only going to get worse—but they were just pirates. Only pirates.

Only human.

But suddenly he is not so sure.

Varian curls up on his cot and works on the nightlight without stopping. He hears Adira come back inside, but she doesn’t come up. No one enters the room. Ruddiger is heavy on his shoulders, grounding and firm. Slowly, his wheezing breaths start to ease. Slowly, the tremble in his hands starts to fade.

And far outside his window, in the growing evening gloom, the moon slowly but surely begins to rise.

.

“Not hungry, Rapunzel?”

Rapunzel startles from her thoughts, just barely managing to avoid dropping her fork. Curse her shaky hands. “Oh!” she says, and looks up sharply. “Oh, no, mom, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

Her mother smiles back, but there is something thin in it, almost fragile. This whole night Rapunzel’s parents have been looking at her like that: like she’s something distant and unknowable, and they can’t quite make themselves believe she’s back.

Rapunzel doesn’t really blame them for it. It’s nearing a whole week since she’s returned to Corona, and yet, this is the first meal Rapunzel’s deigned to join with them. Or perhaps, to put it better, it’s the first family meal Rapunzel has felt strong enough to sit through. Alone, unfortunately. She wishes Pascal were here with her, but… right now, he is the only one of them with any freedom in wandering the castle, and that means all the spy stuff is falling to him.

Even now, even here, Rapunzel still isn’t free from scrutiny. For all the finery of the dining hall, it’s hard to ignore Elias’s presence at her back. The poor boy is practically shaking in his boots.

It’s understandable. The tension is palpable, as heavy as their silences. Beyond the scrape of their forks against the fine china plates and muted pleasantries, conversation is sparse and awkward. Rapunzel’s father is unbearably silent, his words curt and oft one-syllable. Her mother is… doing her best, and usually Rapunzel would be grateful for that, except she’s too focused on trying to hold her fork properly to appreciate it.

It’s not that she’s… chosen to lie to her parents about her hands, exactly, her scarred palms and now limited mobility. She just—hasn’t told them. And after all these days, she has simply continued to just… not mention it. Let them think the gloves are fashion. Let them think her clumsiness nerves. It’s not that Rapunzel doesn’t trust them, but—

(She doesn’t really trust them. Cassandra, delegated to the dungeons; Eugene, only safe once he’d left. If they knew she’d been injured—if they knew how close Rapunzel brushed with death—

She doesn’t know what they’d do.

And she isn’t willing to risk it.)

Still, they are her parents, and they love her—and they are trying, Elias’s presence notwithstanding. Case in point: the determined cheeriness in her mom’s voice when she replies, light and airy, as if nothing is wrong. “Well, make some time for the food, Rapunzel. Thinking can always wait.” She reaches out and smooths a strand of Rapunzel’s hair behind her ear, and then shoots the King a pointed look. “Is dinner okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Rapunzel enthuses brightly. In truth it doesn’t taste much like anything; a lingering nausea has made eating harder than usual, and every bite feels like swallowing a spoonful of ash. But it is actually good food, even if she can’t really taste it, and besides. Rapunzel doesn’t want to worry her parents any more than she already has. “I really missed this.”

Her mother’s smile flashes bright. “Us, too,” she says warmly. She draws back her hand, looking across the table. “Right, Frederick?”

Rapunzel meets her father’s gaze with thin lips. He catches her eyes and sighs heavily, then straightens, refusing to look away. “Every day,” he says, with quiet genuineness. His expression is open, bare with regret and resignation, worry knotted into his brow.

Rapunzel knows they did. It doesn’t make this any easier.

She looks away first.

She’s missed them, too. In a funny way, she thinks she’s still missing them—missing the easy dinners, the casual conversation, the bask of warmth from being trusted and loved and uplifted. She hadn’t realized how deeply she’d relied on that until it was gone, and even now, the distance between them makes her chest ache.

But she’d promised. And she’d decided. She is their daughter, she is the princess of Corona… but she will always be that girl in the tower, too, and that time matters more than they know. Because it’s that time, it’s that girl, who looks at the castle and whispers, this is wrong. That girl who looks her parents in the eyes and thinks, I don’t know if I can trust you, after everything. That girl, that simple girl, who followed the floating lanterns, who broke Varian’s chains, who looked the Moon in the eyes and demanded a different fate.

I want to be happy.

And Rapunzel knows anger. She knows tension. She knows lies, and this castle is steeped in them. There is something wrong, something coming… and Rapunzel refuses to ever be taken off guard again.

She knows they love her—but she never wants this castle to become another tower.

Her hand tightens on her fork, the painful pull at her scars grounding in its own way. She takes a breath, remembering last night, her promise to Cassandra. The answers are all right there under her nose, and Rapunzel is certain she’s getting close. If she could just know what concord or deal that has Nigel and the castle so up-in-arms…

Well, Rapunzel thinks, trying to stay positive. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? She clears her throat before the quiet can turn awkward again, and lifts her head with a determined smile. “Um, actually…”

“Hm?”

How to broach the topic without making them suspicious? Cassandra’s voice echoes through her head. Start small, Raps. “I never really got the chance to ask—how are things, since I’ve been gone?”

There’s a beat of silence, an awkward halt. Behind her, Rapunzel can hear a sudden creak as Elias shifts in place, as if startled. Interesting. He might know something, too…

But right now, her focus is all on her parents. In response to the question, her mother pauses, glancing back at the King. He takes a moment to sip at his wine, and sets the glass down gingerly, every movement slow and careful. The moment stretches.

“Under control,” her father says, at last.

“Well.” Rapunzel keeps smiling, but her fingers tighten on the fork. Right. Of course it won’t be that easy. “Um, okay!”

Her father eyes her. “Why do you ask, Rapunzel?”

“I’m just curious.” Rapunzel’s eyes drop. She feels bizarrely shamed, which is ridiculous, because she wouldn’t have to do all this if they would just tell her. “Things have been… tense, these past few months. I keep feeling like… I’m seeing it everywhere else I go, too.”

The words are a little too honest, and Rapunzel winces. She forces a laugh. “Never mind! It’s, um… probably just my imagination.”

Her mother pauses. “Well—”

“Arianna.”

Her mother stops, and gives her father a dark look. “Well,” she says, pointedly. “It’s been a while, my dear. Give yourself time to adjust back to home.”

Right. Okay.

There’s a game to politics, Rapunzel has found. And it is a game that everyone’s playing. It’s sneaky and underhanded and quiet, things implied but never said, and—

And Rapunzel is terrible at this game.

If she’s going to get anything out of this dinner, then she’s got to stop playing.

Rapunzel takes a deep breath and puts down her fork. Tilts up her chin. Looks them right in the eyes, and dares them to tell her the truth.

“What’s this deal that’s got the castle so upset?”

Silence. Behind her, Elias makes a choked wheezing noise.

Rapunzel meets their gaze head-on, and waits. She suspects they didn’t expect her to ask outright. Maybe once she wouldn’t have. But if Rapunzel’s time in the labyrinth has taught her anything, it’s how to stand her ground.

Her father’s voice is blank. “How do you…”

Rapunzel smiles at him. It’s almost genuine. “Ah, it wasn’t hard, actually. I just… looked.” Her smile fades. She meets his gaze and does not falter. “What is it?”

Her mother takes a deep breath. “Rapunzel—”

“Where is Eugene Fitzherbert?”

Her mother cuts herself off, and Rapunzel looks back to the King. Her hands tighten on her lap. The scars pull. “He left.”

That, at least, catches her father off-guard. “He—?”

“He didn’t feel safe here.” Not exactly a lie, even if it isn’t the whole truth. Gods, she hates this. Once she would have never considered keeping this from them. How did it all come to this?

Rapunzel steels herself. There’s no use in wondering. Here they are, and she has to make the best of it. She continues, merciless. “I’ve come to agree with him, actually.”

For a moment he almost seems to falter. “…Rapunzel, I—”

“What’s the deal about?”

The moment passes. Her father grits his teeth. “We are not here to talk about politics. We are here to have a nice meal, and—”

Rapunzel is undeterred. “What if I want to talk politics?’

“Rapunzel!”

“It’s my kingdom,” Rapunzel insists. “If it’s so important, don’t I have a right to know? How can I learn to rule if you won’t even let me—”

Her father stands up. His chair scrapes loud against the tile floor, and Rapunzel’s mouth snaps shut at the look on his face.

“It is none of your concern,” the King says, and his tone brooks no argument. “I have the matter handled. There is no deal, there is nothing to be concerned about, and until you can prove to me you can be trusted with state secrets—I’m afraid, daughter, that you simply have no room to talk about them.”

The rebuttal hits her hard. Rapunzel flushes. Her fingers curl. “Then be mad at me,” she cries, momentarily losing her composure. “Not Cass, not Eugene! I—I was the one who decided Varian’s fate, not them!”

Her father has already turned away. “Eat your dinner, Rapunzel.”

Useless, all of it. Pain radiates up her hands, a sure sign she’s pushed them too hard. Her head aches from sleepless nights, insomnia and nightmares both. But worst of all is the sudden flush, the awful shame, the sense of being small and childish and dismissed. After everything—after all she’s been through—and this one thing is enough to topple it, this one small thing—

Hasn’t she proven herself by now?

Can’t they trust her?

(Do they really think she would have let Varian go without thinking?)

But there’s no nice way to ask, no means to explain her reasoning in a way they’d understand. Cassandra and Eugene hadn’t really understood it either, after all. All these months, all her lessons, and still Rapunzel is searching for the words—how to explain that the girl from the tower and the princess aren’t so easily separated after all.

Her mother reaches out, placing a cautious hand on her arm. “Rapunzel, dear…”

Rapunzel tosses her napkin on her plate, pushing away from the table and her mother both. She can already feel the tell-tale burn behind her eyes, and the last thing she wants is for them to see her cry. She hates crying when she’s angry. “Excuse me,” she says, stiff, and marches for the door without so much as a goodbye.

Her mother stands too. “Rapunzel, wait!”

Rapunzel pushes through the doors, and two sets of footsteps follow her—Elias, breathless, looking fearful and shaking… and her mother too, standing tall, eyes wide and concerned.

Her father stays at the table. Head bowed. Shoulders slumped. Looking almost tired, old in a way that makes Rapunzel flinch to see it. She turns away from the sight of him, continuing down into the hall.

“Rapunzel!”

She wants to leave, so bad, but still—she stops. Elias, following after her, stops too; he is between her and the Queen, and looks terrified about it.

Her mother waits. Rapunzel doesn’t move. Behind them, pushed by a breeze, the dining room doors swing shut with a muffled thump, leaving them isolated in the hallway.

The Queen moves first, sighing heavy. “Guard,” she says, to Elias. “Leave us.”

Elias hesitates. The young teen looks spooked near out of his boots, but still, he glances to Rapunzel, wide eyes almost worried. His hands are shaking on his halberd, but still, he stays where he is, as if to hide Rapunzel from the Queen. “Um, y-y-your Majesty, I-I-I’m not, not supposed to—”

“It’s okay,” Rapunzel says, softly, almost touched. Elias stops mid-word, staring, and she offers him a weak smile. She hasn’t been sure what to make of Elias—he’s kind, but still meant to watch her, and is Cassandra’s replacement besides—but this odd act of support helps soothe some of the roiling tension in her gut. “I’ll… I’ll just be a minute.”

He bites his lip hard, but nods, reluctant. Giving one last glance between Rapunzel and the Queen, Elias hurries away down the hall to wait for her, out of earshot but not out of sight.

 Rapunzel watches him go, and exhales softly through her teeth, trying to calm down. Her mother clears her throat, drawing the attention back to her. For once, the Queen doesn’t look nearly as composed—her brows are knotted, her lovely face set in a frown, seeming almost as troubled by Elias’s actions as Rapunzel is touched by them. Then that frown turns to Rapunzel.

“Oh, daughter,” the Queen says, at last, and the disappointment in her voice makes Rapunzel want to hide. “What has gotten into you?”

Rapunzel looks away, unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about this,” she says, before the Queen can speak further. “Please, can I just be alone for a bit?”

“No. This has gone on long enough. Talk to us!”

“I have! I tried.” Rapunzel crosses her arms over her chest, trying to hide the tremor in her hands. “You guys just—you don’t listen.” She grits her teeth. “I’m… I don’t want to do this right now.”

She turns away, trying to flee before her mother can catch her in another argument. But for once, Rapunzel’s mother is faster.

Her fingers close around Rapunzel’s wrist, and pain flares bright as a spark.

The yelp is entirely involuntary. Rapunzel snaps her hand back purely on autopilot, pain radiating up her arm, down her palm. She backs away, arms held protectively to her chest—then goes still, horror flashing down her spine, as she realizes what has just happened.

Her mother is frozen. “R-Rapunzel?”

Rapunzel clutches her aching hand to her chest. Her eyes are hot. She blinks past the pain, and her fingers tighten on the glove. Oh, no. No.

She forces her voice steady. “…What’s the deal about?”

Her mother seems stunned. She stares wide-eyed at Rapunzel’s wrist. “I… Rapunzel, what—your hand, are you—?”

“Mom.” Her voice is tight. “Please.”

The Queen stutters to a stop. Behind her eyes, Rapunzel can almost see her storm of thoughts. “I… That is…” She trails off. Rapunzel waits. Her mother’s eyes fall back to her hand, and for an instant her expression tightens, almost pained.

And then she shakes her head, and Rapunzel’s heart drops down to her feet. “Your father is right,” the Queen says, sad, certain. Rapunzel feels ill. She looks to the ground. “Dear, it isn’t your concern. We can handle these attacks ourselves. You don’t need to get involved.”

And Rapunzel stills.

Attacks?

 Rapunzel looks away, doing her best to keep her face blank. Attacks. But the streets, that night when she returned… it hadn’t looked that bad. No new houses being built, no signs of battle on the road. And she would have heard if such a thing had happened recently. But then, if not the city, what kind of attack could force anyone into an unwanted agreement…?

Think, Rapunzel! All those lessons on being a Princess have to pay off sometime. What part of Corona is the most crucial to the kingdom?

The answer comes to her in a flash of inspiration. The closed merchant roads. The lack of boats back to Corona, the closing seas; they hadn’t been able to catch a ferry across and there’d been a reason for that, because the waters weren’t safe anymore…

The boats. Corona is a trade kingdom. If someone had enough power to cut off the trade routes—

A hostage situation? No, maybe not—maybe it’s more than that. The castle is divided, and they wouldn’t be if there was a common enemy. So…

The deal. Take that, think it through logically. The docks might be attacked… and if Corona couldn’t handle it themselves…

A third party. Someone offering protection?

Rapunzel meets her mother’s eyes, stunned by her own conclusion. Could it be? “Someone’s blackmailing Corona into working with them?”

Her mother’s eyes go wide and shocked—and then narrow, her surprise hidden. She’s not quite fast enough. Her reaction is all the answer Rapunzel needs.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Rapunzel realizes. She frowns. But then—why the division in the castle? Who could the guards possibly be so against working with? And why? “Who is it?”

Her mother draws back, linking her hands before her. “It isn’t your concern, Rapunzel,” she repeats, firm. “Your father and I have it handled. More importantly…” She takes a deep breath. “Why are you wearing gloves?”

This time it is Rapunzel’s turn to look away.

“You flinched from me, just now.” Her mother’s voice is hushed. Not quite scared, but close to it. “Rapunzel—”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” Rapunzel says, voice tight. She still can’t meet her mother’s eyes.

“Rapunzel. Listen to yourself! You ask for information but refuse to give it, surely you see—”

Yes, it is pretty hypocritical of her, isn’t it? And yet. Rapunzel looks up. “And what would you do, if you knew?” she asks quietly, cutting her mother off. “Ground me? Have more guards follow my every move?” She swallows hard. “Lock me away in a pretty tower, all in the name of keeping me safe?”

Her hands curl, involuntary. Her voice shakes. “I-I’ve heard that one before.”

Her mother exhales hard, as if she’s been hit. Her eyes are wide and stunned. “That’s not fair,” she whispers.

“Maybe.” Rapunzel closes her eyes. Her nineteenth birthday. Her coronation. Even now, even this, Elias’s presence by the hallway doors, ordered by the King not to let Rapunzel out of sight unless she’s in her rooms. “But you’ve done all that before.” Her throat is tight. “You’re doing it now.”

The Queen seems struck silent. Her hand falls. For a moment she looks at a loss for words.

“I don’t understand,” her mother says, at last. She almost seems to be pleading. “We love you. We aren’t doing this to hurt you. Rapunzel, why can’t you just trust us?”

And Rapunzel finally meets her eyes.

“Why can’t you trust me?” she returns quietly, and watches with a sinking heart as her mother falters to a stop.

The silence stretches between them. The Queen’s mouth opens. Her mouth closes. She takes a deep breath, a shuddering exhale, and in the end says nothing at all.

The moment passes, the last chance left untaken. Rapunzel gives her a watery smile, twisted lips and aching heart. “Thanks for the information,” she says, brightly, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. “It’s really helpful. I—” Her voice cracks. “I just wish you guys could have told it to me yourselves.”

Her mother has nothing to say to that. That’s okay. Rapunzel doesn’t have much left to say, either.

“Night, mom.” She turns to the end of the hall, where Elias is waiting, feeling tired, feeling trapped. The anger and hurt has faded. Now she just feels worn. “Let’s do this again at breakfast, I guess. See—see you tomorrow.”

Her mother says nothing.

Rapunzel leaves the dining room and her parents behind, and doesn’t look back.

.

Yasmin returns halfway to midnight.

Varian doesn’t see her; he knows only because the front door slams loud enough to reach him upstairs. He stays still and silent, sitting numb on his cot, listening to the murmur of voices turned indistinct and wordless by distance. Yasmin, sounding stressed and snappy; Ella, softer and sure; Adira terse and clipped. Footsteps thump. Lamplight flickers by his door.

With effort Varian drags his eyes away, back to his hands. The nightlight is half-way assembled, items spread out on the floor. The shimmering liquid is ready to be poured, glowing a soft and delicate pink, a pastel dim color like spring flowers. His hand tightens on the crystal. He finished the solution hours ago. He should have gone downstairs, talked to Ella, asked for something to seal the hollow crystal. He hadn’t. He’s been sitting here, fiddling with a finished product, waiting and waiting and trying not to fall asleep.

He hears footsteps on the stairs, approaching the room. A second later, and there’s a knock on the door. Varian lifts his head. He doesn’t speak. His throat is abruptly tight, strangled shut. If it’s Adira—

The door cracks open. Yasmin looks in. 

Varian slumps, but doesn’t relax. Something in Yasmin’s expression gives him pause. He remembers the black rocks he summoned in her backyard and feels cold. There’s a shadow to her, to Yasmin—a darkness in her eyes, a tension to her shoulders. She meets his gaze and juts her chin. “Up,” she says, simply. She doesn’t sound angry, but he doesn’t know her well enough to really tell. “With me.”

Then, a pause. She frowns. “…What happened to your face?”

Varian brings a hand to his cheek, still tender. It’s bruising, he thinks, though it doesn’t feel too bad—molted green, maybe, instead of black or blue, but still unfortunate. He looks down and shrugs.

“…if Adira struck you—”

“We were talking.” His voice is dull. “I got upset, and… a-and the black rocks…”

Something like realization flashes across Yasmin’s face; she looks aside and grimaces. “Still. That is no excuse.”

Varian shrugs. He can’t put into words, really, his thoughts on it all—how the fact he summoned the rocks at all, of his own accord, had struck worse than the blow. He doesn’t even think Adira meant to do it. But still—he understands the logic of her worry, the emotion. He nods again, but he can’t quite bring himself to reply.

Yasmin looks him up and down, and her sigh is almost soundless. “As expected, I suppose,” she murmurs, and then gestures for him to stand. “Well. I will deal with it. Come, boy—I doubt you’ll be getting any sleep tonight, so might as well put the time to use.”

Varian stares at the glowing nightlight. Stares at the crystal. Stares at his hands, and slowly levers to his feet. Ruddiger winds around his ankles.

“The raccoon can come too, but do not pick him up.”

Varian doesn’t have enough energy to wonder about that. He nods, silent, and follows her beckoning hand.

She leads him across the hall into a large room, one he hasn’t seen yet. Judging by the big bed and stacked bookshelf, it must be her and Ella’s bedroom. He doesn’t have long to look around before Yasmin pushes him into the bathroom, a smaller room with dark wood walls and stone flooring. A bathtub sits in the corner, and a vanity with a mirror is set up to the side. She sets him down on the vanity chair, facing the mirror, and hands him a towel already soaking.

“There’s soap on the side table,” she says, turning away. “Wash your face. We’ll have to draw you a proper bath later, you are filthy, but for now this will do.” When Varian just looks down at the towel, blank and still, she sighs.

“Clean off the blood, boy,” she says to him. “You will feel better once it is gone. It’s hard to heal when you carry all the grime of the past with you, yes?”

“It’s too early for philosophy,” Varian mumbles in reply, and hides his face in the towel so he doesn’t see her laugh.

He scrubs the blood and dirt of the market from his face, hearing the clink of metal tools as Yasmin rummages through the bathroom drawers. When his face is clean she takes the towel back from him, and ties a new, dry towel around his neck, knotting it behind his head.

This, at least, gives Varian pause. “What…?”

“Your hair is a mess. Have you never heard of a brush?” Yasmin peers down at him, her gaze critical. “Do you have any problem with haircuts? You can do it yourself, if my holding the scissors makes you uncomfortable, but I refuse to have you walking around my house with a bird’s nest for a head.”

Ruddiger pats his foot, then scurries up onto his lap. There’s a beat. Varian looks at Yasmin. Yasmin makes a face.

“…Ugh, fine, the raccoon can stay, whatever. I give up. But do not let him on your shoulder, I refuse to cut your hair with that raccoon in my way.”

“His name is Ruddiger.”

“Wonderful for him. Haircut, boy. Your thoughts?”

Varian looks down. “I don’t have a problem with it.”

She hmms. “Good. Any preferences? I can keep it long, cut it short…”

He shrugs, and keeps his eyes on the ground. “I don’t care.”

A moment of silence. Yasmin exhales hard. “Very well,” she murmurs, and doesn’t push, just spins him to face the mirror and tilts his head down. Silver flashes in the mirror, and a lock of hair falls on the towel as Yasmin gets to work.

For a few minutes silence is all there is: the snip of Yasmin’s scissors and Varian’s blurry stare at his socked feet. The candlelight flickers bright and yellow on the countertop; the mirror is awash in a golden tint. Locks of hair scatter across his shoulders, soft and itchy against his skin. The back of his head already feels lighter.

“You should know,” Yasmin says, apropos of nothing. Her hands are secure and warm, holding his head in place. The press of her fingers is oddly grounding. “They are still gathering information, but… it seems as if there are fewer casualties than expected. The rocks chased many of the pirates away… and though the rocks’ appearance is unfortunate, it looks as if no townspeople were further harmed in the outburst.”

Varian’s hands are white-knuckled on his knees. “That’s…” His throat catches. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“About the rocks? Hm.” The scissors snap. “Adira is vexing,” Yasmin remarks absently, “but not so vexing as to keep dangerous information from me. She mentioned you had the Moondrop. It was not hard to assume from there…” Another snip at his hair. “Regardless. If you are blaming yourself for the city, I implore you, do not.” She sighs. “Though the rocks now in my backyard… well, we will deal with that later.”

Varian’s throat is tight. “I don’t understand.” 

“Truly? I thought I was being quite forthright.”

“No, I—I don’t—” He gets the sense she’s laughing at him, but Varian can’t find the humor in it. “Why are you telling me this? Why are you being so…”

Yasmin is quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is soft. “Why do you think you are here?”

“I told you—I don’t—”

“Don’t know, yes, I remember. But you are clever, child. A little foolish, perhaps, but no less clever.” She tugs a strand of hair straight and snips it. “Well? Why did Adira bring you here?”

His eyes drop. The shopping trips. The nightlight. Even this—the haircut, and Yasmin’s constant presence. She said she’d been paid to help him, but then, this is all help of a different sort. Good deeds that don’t quite fall under Yasmin’s job description, things that can’t be explained away as a whim.

“She brought me here to get me help.” He can’t help the bitter twist to his lips. “Intervention from a stranger.”

He is still looking down, so he doesn’t see Yasmin smile, but he can almost hear the echo of something amused in her voice. “See? Clever.” She tilts his head down further, starts cutting his hair closer to his scalp. “Though of course, that is not the only reason.”

Something unpleasant coils in his gut. “She came for information.”

For a moment, the snip of scissors by his ears goes quiet. “...Ah. She told you? Well, I suppose that explains my backyard.”

He grits his teeth. “Why did you tell her that Corona—”

“Because it is true.” Yasmin tugs hard at his hair— not painful, just firm, like a warning. “I know not how much Adira told you, but trade is being cut off at all corners of the continent, by pirates or natural disaster or both. Pirates attack one city, earthquakes take out the next… and one by one, little by little, the attackers cut off Coronan trade routes.” She puts down her scissors. “I have traced the paths myself. It is only Coronan trade routes. If Corona is not the main target, I will be truly astonished.”

Varian hisses a breath through his teeth, caught by something he cannot name. His throat feels strangled silent. He stares at his knees until his eyes water, and clenches his fingers in Ruddiger’s soft fur. The raccoon quietly licks at his hand.

Yasmin sighs, and when she speaks again, she almost sounds apologetic. “Listen,” she says. “I will tell you what I have told Adira—of all the trade powers, Corona is the kingdom that thrives on the sea. If it is not hit next, then it will be hit soon. Of this, I have no doubt.” 

“I can’t—” His voice is hoarse. The words wither on his tongue, dry and aching. He clears his throat and tries again. “I can’t go back.”

“No one says you must. It is not necessary for you to go. But Adira thinks to warn them—I know the look in her eyes. She will go there, sooner or later.” Yasmin takes up the scissors again. “And you cannot stay here forever, I would go mad. So the real question, little criminal of Corona, is this—if you do not go back, then where else will you go?”

“I—” The words fail him. “I don’t—”

She is silent. Patient. Waiting. Something nasty curls in his chest. “I can’t go back,” Varian whispers, but instead of angry, the confession comes out—small. Aching. “I just… I can’t.” 

Rapunzel, letting him go. Eugene, turning away. The echo of rage on Cassandra’s face, the hatred. And beyond even that—beyond the criminal charges, the King’s hatred, his own actions—his dad. His dad, dead in the amber, buried in the ruins of Old Corona. 

No. He can’t ever go back. Not like this.

Yasmin is toneless. “I see.” Her tool scrapes down the back of his neck, cutting hair close and neat. “Is it that you do not wish to make amends, or that you are too scared to?”

The sheer audacity of the question momentarily mutes him. Rage loosens his tongue. “You don’t— you don’t even know me! What do you care?”

“Oh, I don’t.” Yasmin’s voice is cold. Her eyes, in the mirror, are dark. “But it matters not.”

“I can’t go back,” Varian insists, tight. “I don’t want to go back!” Never mind the ache in his chest. Never mind the fear. For all that he’s come to understand his own fault, this still rings true: Corona, Rapunzel, Cassandra and the others—they hurt him. They hurt him, and even now, Varian is not willing to forgive. “What they did—” 

Yasmin tugs hard at his hair again; Varian’s mouth snaps shut. “I will stop you there,” she says, simply. “Do not tell me. A waste of breath, that’s what it is. Boy, I do not care why. I have no interest in your story. I am sure it was very interesting—but it has nothing to do with me.” She waves her hand dismissively through the air. “But really. It is not about what they did to you, is it?” Varian stills. “I think the problem is, instead… what you did to them.”

The scars on Rapunzel’s hands. The amber. The arrow. 

“Am I right?”

His fingers curl tight into the arms of the chair to keep from pulling at Ruddiger’s fur. Ruddiger coos up at him anyway, a comforting weight on his knees, a grounding warmth. “…You don’t know anything about me.”

“True.” She pulls a strand out as if to measure it and lops it off with a casual twist of her scissors. “But I have known many people like you. Angry people. Prideful people. So certain they were right, and always struggling to be wrong, and so sure they could fix the world just by telling it sorry. Or, alternatively, by doing nothing at all.” She frowns down at the back of his head. “You know, Adira tells me that you want to be better. That you have reasons and need to become more. Is that it? Do you want to do better? Be better? Do you think going back will ruin that?”

He stares at his feet, lips thin, heart hollow. The scissors snip by his ear. 

“Or perhaps,” Yasmin continues, merciless, “you want to find a way to make it up to people—to undo what has been done, and you refuse to return until you’ve found it. A usual narrative. See, I am guessing well, aren’t I? But I do wonder.” Varian looks up, sees a flash of her eyes in the mirror, dark and knowing. “What will you do, if when you finally return—good deeds under your belt, praise to your name—telling the people you hurt that you are sorry, so sorry, please forgive me…” 

Varian sits up straight, suddenly afraid. Ruddiger whines at him, looking upset. “Stop it!” he says. “Stop—”

But Yasmin is undeterred. “What happens,” she says, so soft, so dangerous, “if their answer is no?”

He can’t breathe.

“What will you do if you cannot be forgiven?”

Ruddiger whines again. Varian stutters. “I—”

Nothing comes. The silence stretches. His eyes burn.

“Oh, child,” Yasmin says, and she sounds almost tired. “Why on earth did you think any of this would be easy?”

Varian says nothing. His throat bobs as he swallows. He has to resist the urge to hug himself, or hug Ruddiger to him; either action feels too much like showing weakness.

After a long moment, Yasmin shakes her head and pulls away. “I have met many like you,” she says, at last, quiet. “Do you want to know something? In the end, it was not going back that undid them. It was what they sought.” She pulls back his hair, and starts to brush it. “They wanted forgiveness, and when they did not get it, they fell back into every awful habit they had tried to outrun. Because forgiveness is never owed, boy… and if you depend on other people to redeem you, then you will never truly change yourself.”

She pulls up his hair, twists it back. He can feel the tug of a ribbon as she ties it up. “If you want to do better, boy, then it is my opinion that you must do better. Always. Every day. Every hour. Whether you are forgiven or not.” She tugs the hair tie secure. “To try again and again, without end, without resolution… it is not as pretty as forgiveness. Not as rewarding. But it is far better, I think, then to never try at all.” 

Varian closes his eyes. He swallows hard, struggling not to cry. He curls his fingers back in Ruddiger’s fur, but even this softness is not enough. His torn ear burns sharp with remembered pain.

Yasmin sighs, heavy, and steps away. “Well,” she says, some of the hardness fading from her tone. “There are two days left, still. You need not decide what you’ll do right now. Just… think about it, yes?”

Varian stares at the ground. He nods, short and shaky. His hands are cold, and he brings them close to his chest, trying to rub feeling back into numb fingers.

A soft sigh echoes behind him. A hand threads through his hair, and tugs his head up. “Look,” Yasmin says. 

Varian looks, despite himself. For a moment he doesn’t recognize the boy in the mirror. His clean face. His tired eyes, shadowed and bloodshot, irises bluer than he remembers them to be. The red mark on his cheek, the dark scatter of freckles against otherwise colorless skin. But it is his hair that draws his eyes most.

His hair has been cut near unrecognizable. A sharp and clean undercut in the back, while the rest of his hair has been kept long and trimmed, pulled into a high ponytail. A section of hair has been loosened from the tie, framing the side of his face opposite to his torn ear. He looks—older, like this. More controlled. Surer. Less like a boy crushed under the world, and more like someone surviving in it. 

He doesn’t know what to think. His eyes fall, his chin lowers—but Yasmin takes his face in her hand and slowly tilts his head up again. “Look,” she says. “Look, boy.”

Reluctant, he does. 

“Every time you see your face, you turn away.” Yasmin’s voice is quiet. “I have noticed this. And I understand. But one of these days…” She pulls back his hair, and meets the eyes of his reflection. “We all have to face the mirror at some point.”

Varian stares. He doesn’t say anything.

Yasmin lets go. 

“Something else for you to think about,” she says softly, and then she turns and walks away. She pauses at the bathroom door, and looks back at him, and the usual snap is back again in her voice. “I will be back in a moment. Your nails look terrible, I cannot leave them like that, the hangnails alone make me shudder. Stay there.” 

The door closes heavy behind her, and then Varian is finally alone. 

He doesn’t move. His head falls, eyes lowered to his lap, his mind spinning. There are so many things to think about; so many thoughts swirling about in his head. The Moon, Adira, Varian. Corona, most of all. The questions ring around in his mind, a ceaseless echo. Can he go back? Does he want to? 

He’s not sure if he can. If he’s ready. If he’ll ever be ready. If he can really go back as—him.

The rocks are a part of him, now. And more than that… that angry boy, that hateful boy, that boy with the arrow in his hand. He doesn’t want him. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be Varian, Moondrop, haunted by a goddess. Doesn’t want to be Varian, boy criminal, attempted murderer and dangerous alchemist, his father’s killer. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want this person to be him.

He's not sure if that person, if that boy, can ever go home again.

…And yet.

We all have to face the mirror at some point. 

He takes a breath. He braces himself. He hugs Ruddiger to his chest, fingers curled in soft fur, drawing comfort from the raccoon’s soft crooning. He lifts his head and meets his eyes in the mirror, wondering all the while what it is that he’s supposed to see. The Moon, maybe. She’s done that before. Stared at him from amber and crystal and shopfront windows, smiling out from his reflection, cruel and cold.

But when he looks into the mirror, all he can see is himself. 

It’s him.

It’s just him.

And when Varian closes his eyes, his cheeks are wet with tears.

.

It’s kind of funny, Eugene thinks, absently lifting the lantern a little higher. When he first left the castle, he thought it would take him weeks to find a lead.

Well, he supposes he wasn’t too far off. It has, at least, been a week. But still. This is perhaps the fastest amount of time Eugene’s found himself a spooky island, and frankly it’s freaking him out a bit. The creepy island is supposed to be the last clue he finds, not the first!

And yet, here he is: only a week after he left the castle behind and met up with Lance in the Snuggly Duckling, and very, very much stuck on a spooky island somewhere in Coronan trade waters.

It’s a weird place, to be sure—a small island lost somewhere between the Corona mainland and the sea, so small even the maps don’t bother to mark it. Beneath his boots, the ground is half sand and half stone, alternatively hard as rock or soft and giving beneath his feet. There’s no real border between sea and land, and the trees here grow thick and clustered, so close to the shore Eugene wouldn’t be surprised if even their sap was salty.

It’s an island abandoned, an island lost and left to grow wild and free… and that is exactly why Eugene is here. Because a place like this, so close to the capital and easily able to provide at least some harvest, fish, or lumber, would only be empty if people had paid to keep it that way.

Lance however, though Eugene knows for a fact he agrees with this logic, seems to be having some second thoughts. He’s a few feet ahead and looking like he dearly regrets that, shivering in the air like someone’s just walked over his grave. In the dim morning light and heavy fog, Lance looks near-ghostly himself.

And sure enough: “Eugene!” Lance says then, high and bright. He gives Eugene a smile that is half terror and 100% pleading. “Eugene, old buddy, pal, my best bud, are you… sure this is the place?”

“Ye-ep,” Eugene says, utterly unsympathetic.

“Because, you know, on second thought, my sources are terrible. Terrible, no good sources. This is probably a complete dead end, and our, ah, real lead is somewhere nice and warm and very public… like a beach! A nice beach, full of people, where the chances of brutal undiscovered murder are…” Lance glances at the trees, stick-thin and half-consumed by fog, and swallows hard. “Less. Less than here.”

“We’ll be fine!” Eugene dismisses, but notably doesn’t touch on their chances of being brutally murdered, because… Lance is probably right on that one. He switches tactics. “I trust your sources, Lance.”

Lance gives him a look. “You are very obviously flattering me, and I appreciate that greatly, but also.” He clasps his hands, almost a prayer, the lantern held between his palms. “Please. For the love of all the gods, please, let’s just… decide, this once, to not trust my sources?”

Eugene rolls his eyes and pushes past him, walking up from the beach into the trees. Behind them, the small boat they’d taken to get here sloshes silently on the shore. “Look, Blondie said she thinks Corona’s being blackmailed, right? We need to find out who before things get even more complicated. So: spooky island.”

“I mean, that’s a good point!” Lance follows after him, voice lowering to a hissed whisper. “You know what’s also a good point? Not getting murdered on a deserted island.”

“Lance, my friend! Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“With all my common sense, apparently,” Lance mutters, and sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. “Oh, why did I agree to help you again?”

Eugene lifts the lamp a little higher, squinting off through the gloom. Are those the three trees he’s looking for, or are they just a random bunch of three trees? Only one way to find out. “Our long and undying days of backstabbing friendship.”

“Oh, yes, that. Hmm.”

Eugene grins despite himself, drifting further into the thicket of trees. He doesn’t blame Lance for his hesitance—it is creepy. But the men in the bar had sworn up and down that this was the island where they’d met their mysterious employer. One man got stuck with an illegal smuggling job. The other, paid to look for information on entrances and dock shifts in the capital city.

One meeting on a deserted island? Interesting. Two meetings, though, and both involving details that may or may not help an outside force attack the city…?

Well. Two is not quite yet three, so there’s no ruling out it could be a coincidence, but Eugene trusts his gut, and his gut says there’s something downright fishy about all this. Witness: the fact the thugs talked at all. No self-respecting freelance mercenary refuses a job, but to talk about the details after? Ohhhhh no. That’s a black mark on the mercenary name, and only done if the shady job completed in question is a whole new level of shady.

When the casually morally corrupt start getting cold feet, that’s when Eugene knows things are going wrong.

Plus, Lance had vouched for them. And, for all that Lance has a habit of making ill-fated judgments, he’s also got a good head on his shoulders. He’d promised Eugene his help in a voice gone serious and cold with all the weight of an oath, and Eugene believes him. Believes in him.

And so, here they are—on the empty island in the dead of blue early morning, hidden by the fog and the dark. A low mist tangles at Eugene’s ankles as he steps up; the lantern casts a dim and golden halo in the fog. The shadows seem almost endless, deep and dark like the pit of well. Eugene brings the light closer to a tree and hums. “What do you think?”

“What do I think? Three big creepy trees, big rock, spooky forest…” Lance trails off and shivers. “This was the meeting ground, that’s what I think.”

“My thoughts too.” It matches with the reports from the mercenaries, at any rate. Eugene drifts closer to one of the big trees, leaning in to check the bark. If they’re lucky, maybe there will be a symbol carved in here somewhere. “Anything catch your eye?”

Lance hums. “Not yet. The ground’s pretty clear… even the footprints are gone. Whoever hired them, they cleaned up good.”

“Mm.” Eugene scowls at the trees. “Bark’s clean, too. No convenient carvings.”

“Damn.” Lance straightens up, hissing a heavy sigh through his teeth. The lantern light casts a long shadow across his face. “We aren’t going to find anything here. If there are any clues left, it’ll be…” He shivers. “Deeper… inside… the creepy forest.”

“Took you a bit to get that out.”

“Gods, I regret ever saying it. I take it back. Dead end! Let’s leave!”

Eugene cackles at the look on his face, grinning out into the darkness. “Well, well… bar owners first.”

“Ha! Ha!” Lance places a hand square against his back and shoves. “Absolutely not.”

Eugene shrugs, hiding a grin in his sleeve, and lets Lance push him deeper into the woods. He even plays it up a little—fake staggering and stumbles, little tricks to try and trip Lance ahead of him. He’s a professional, okay, he can be sneaky and still have fun with it.

And it is, bizarrely—despite the creepy island and likelihood of murder—fun.

It’s been a week since Eugene left the castle behind, and as much as he misses Rapunzel and Cassandra… he can’t deny this week has been a breath of fresh air. He’s missed Lance. He’s missed this. The ease of talking, of not hiding secrets. There’s a freedom here the castle has lost in the time they’ve been gone, and as Eugene makes his way through the woods he makes a mental note to drag Cassandra and Rapunzel out here as soon as he can. Cassandra can suck a lemon if she doesn’t like it. Maybe what they’ve needed all along is a life-changing field trip with Lance.

The thought makes Eugene grin, and he is still smiling, even then, as he steps through the trees and lifts his lantern—and the light falls not on trees, but on a small, half-hidden house.

It’s just barely not a shack, and Eugene means this in the nicest way possible. The wood is pale and bleached and peeling, moss crawling up the sides, the door looking half-rotted off the hinges. It looks about big enough for one person to live in and three to stand, but too small to fit more than four through the door. The place is tiny, but also on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere, and it’s that fact more than anything else that makes Eugene’s eyes go narrow.

Behind him, Lance gives a low whistle. “Jackpot.”

Humor cools to a razor edge, and this time when Eugene walks forward, he is careful and conscious—where he steps, where he’s going. Lance is a silent shadow behind him.

He creeps his way to the door, lifting his lamp for a better look. No windows. He glances back at Lance, and gets a slow headshake in response.

Eugene puts his ear to the door. Nothing.

Lance slices his hand across his throat and then makes an ‘X’ with his arms, mouthing “NO” over and over.

Eugene ignores him, and pushes the door open.

It opens slowly. Extremely slowly. Slow, and with a long rising creak like nails on a chalkboard, and Lance covers his face and Eugene shifts his grip on the lantern, ready to strike—

The door swings open to a bare, empty room.

Eugene pauses. He and Lance exchange glances, and then as one, enter as silently as they can.

At first glance, it seems like a useless find. Small shack, barely big enough to fit one person… like a honey trap, Eugene thinks. The house to tempt—the truth to disappoint. But that doesn’t explain why it’s here in the first place.

Lance drops to his knees and starts feeling around the floor. Eugene blinks, and hisses a breath between his teeth. Trapdoor. Of course!

He kneels besides Lance, setting the lantern by his knees as he runs his fingers over the aging, splintered wood. Dust and leaves coat the ground, the shadows hiding any revealing marks. For a moment all is silent but for the shuffle of their feet and the whisper of their fingertips across the floor.

Five minutes later, Eugene’s fingers catch in a dent.

He inhales sharply, biting back a noise behind his teeth. Lance is by his side in an instant. Together they hook their nails beneath the floorboards and begin to pry the door up, except— it doesn’t budge.

Lance brushes a hand over the top again and mutters a low curse. “There’s a lock.”

“Could not make it easy for us, could they,” Eugene gripes, tasting dust, and starts digging for his lock pick.

The lock, small though it is, is high quality. Not a good sign. This isn’t just a random hideout—it’s a rich man’s random hideout. Someone paid good money for this, and it shows: it takes Eugene an extra ten minutes just to jig the lock, and it is, in truth, ten minutes way too many.

The sun is going to rise, soon. They’ve been here too long.

But they’ve come this far, and when Eugene looks up, it’s to see Lance looking back, grim and sure. Reluctant about it, to be fair, but in this they are agreed: they see this through.

They slide their fingers under the floorboards. This time, the door opens.

Eugene steps down first. The ladder creaks beneath his boots, dust drifting down around him like a dirty snow. He climbs down, lantern held high above him, and when the light falls on what’s inside, Eugene’s breath just about catches.

“Jackpot indeed,” he breathes, and Lance nods mutely beside him.

The underground room is small and cluttered, but also clearly lived in. There’s a bed and a locked chest by the foot of it, all dark wood and shiny brass décor. The bed is furnished with dusty but well-made sheets, velvety and rich. On the other side, shoved against a far wall, is a small desk and chair, papers strew along the top, a few drawers latched shut.

“Desk,” Eugene calls immediately, and makes for the papers. He can almost feel Lance rolls his eyes; where Eugene sorts through the papers, Lance heads for the chest by the bed, pulling out his lockpicks as he goes.

Eugene tunes him out, shuffling through letters and journals scrawled with unreadable code, flipping quickly through the stiff parchment. Legal jargon here, legal jargon there… a small book marking up current transactions, the two deals with the thugs who’d led them here marked out in neat ink script. Which, actually—

Something about the handwriting makes Eugene frown, makes a little alarm in the back of his mind twitch with recognition. He bites his lip, uncertain, flipping through some more, trying to see if the writings will jog his memory. A few drafts of an official letter catch his attention, words scribbled out and then torn apart. One scrap in particular catches his eye, and he reads, the city of Vardaros is eager and willing to offer you extra guard against possible harbor attacks at any point, King Frederick, if you—

The rest, lost to rage. The page is ripped beyond recognition.

Eugene’s lips thin further. “Looks like Rapunzel was right after all,” he says grimly, waving the letter scrap through the air. The uneasy feeling only increases. “Sounds like it might be a group in Vardaros—maybe the city itself, from the sounds of things. Though, if it’s just aid from another country, I don’t see why Corona is so averse to…”

A strangled gasp cuts him off. Eugene looks back, alarmed. “Lance?”

Lance doesn’t answer. He is staring wide-eyed and gaping at the chest, now open, looking pale around the eyes. He backs away briefly, then covers his face, swallowing hard. “Oh, man,” he says, in a tight, small voice. “You said… Vardaros? Oh, wow. Wow. That’s bad. That’s… this is really bad.”

A chill crawls down his spine. Eugene hesitates, then cautiously makes his way to the chest. He looks down.

His mouth runs dry. His fingers clench around the torn paper, crumpling it even further. His exhale is a shaky hiss through his teeth. All at once, Eugene knows exactly where he’s seen that neat little script before. He used to tease her about it, once upon a different time.

Because there in the chest, nestled between fancy clothes and gold-edged jewelry, a sheathed dagger lies gleaming—and a symbol, bright and bold, lies stamped ruby red into the sheath.

A spider inked in gold.

The seal of the Baron.

.

.

.

“A message for you, Miss.”

Gloved hands take the letters with a quick motion, waving the messenger away just as fast. The envelope is stiff and flaky from salt, turned crumbly and fragile from the sea. She unfolds the paper along the stiff creases, pressing it flat against her palm, her sharp eyes scanning the cramped handwriting.

The letter is short and to the point, much like the woman who wrote it. Two weeks. Be ready to open the door. –LC

The second letter is standard: another official decline of aid, signed by a no-name advisor. As stubborn as ever.

Her eyes narrow. For a moment her lips press tight, caught somewhere between smug and displeased, before easing out into more professional detachment.

She turns away from the garden, lush and green against the desert backdrop, marching back inside her mansion home. Her heels click sharp against the white marble floors. She walks through the winding halls with her head high and shoulders straight, little queen of the makeshift castle.

When she pushes open the door to her father’s study, she doesn’t even bother to knock.

“I’ve got news,” she says, sing-song poison, and waves the letters through the air.

Her father looks up from his desk, his brow creasing. His frown is set deep in his face, eyes dark with disapproval. “Manners, my dear,” he replies, ignoring her comment. “I taught you better than that.”

Her fingers go stiff on the doorknob. It takes effort to pry them away. “There are more important things to discuss, I think,” she snaps back, and her father gives her a sharp look. She backs down first. “…Sorry, daddy. But this is important.”

His sigh is heavy, but he turns to face her regardless. “And what matter would this be?”

She looks up. “I’ve received word from Corona about my offer of aid.”

“My offer,” he corrects, not unkindly, but his eyes are sharp. “And?”

“They refused,” she says, and stands up straight, lacing her fingers behind her back. “Quite rudely, in fact.”

“As I warned you. Your plan is ambitious, my dear, but it is foolish to assume—”

“I know.” Her voice goes sharp; her fingers clench. She takes a deep breath. “But I’ve received word from my ally, too. And you know? I think Corona will be changing their minds… very, very soon.”

She pauses, mulling over the words. She needs to step carefully, here, if she’s to get what she wants. She has a hideout prepared on that island, but she doesn’t want to go behind his back unless she has to. Not yet, anyhow.

“Though,” she starts, slowly, “I do think… all this could go much faster if one of yours could go there to help… persuade them. Someone you trust to sweet talk the kingdom, maybe?”

He looks at her, frowning deep in thought. All at once, a light steals over his face; something almost like a smile pulls at his lips. He sits up straight and turns to face her, looking pleased with his own idea. For the first time since the conversation began, he sets down his book.

In the pale glow of the lamp, a ring glints ruby red on her father’s bare hand, stamped with the symbol of a golden spider.

“Well, daughter,” says the Baron, “if that’s so… and you do seem to have a vested interest in this… why don’t you go to convince them?”

Her fingers curl to a fist around the paper. Finally, she thinks, and lets none of her thoughts show on her face. For a moment triumph burns bright as fire in her chest. Her shadow, cast long and thin in the dying daylight, flickers deep and dark.

Behind them, unnoticed by both, the lamp abruptly flickers and blows out.

“That sounds wonderful, daddy,” Stalyan replies, sweet poison, and smiles back with all her teeth.

Chapter Text

The lovely Moon, however, did not agree.

For three mornings and nights, the Sun lingered at the edges of the sky, hoping desperately to see the woman once again. But Moon was not there, hidden away with the shadows, and each day Sun left the horizon a little dimmer, a little more heartbroken. Still, she did not give up hope. Her heart, forever filled with light, rallied against her despair.

And on the other side of the great sea, concealed in darkness like a cloak, the Moon hid still, not wanting to be found. For the Moon was a secret being, often reclusive, and dancing was as dear to her as her own heart. That she had been seen embarrassed her terribly. That she had been seen dancing by a beautiful stranger, who had looked upon her with such awe…

And though the Moon thought she should simply run away, and hide from this stranger forevermore, something bid her to stay. Maybe it was the honest wish in Sun’s eyes, visible even from a distance. Or the lingering warmth of Sun’s smile, before Moon panicked and ran.

Perhaps it was the memory of her song.

And so the Sun continued her fruitless search, and deep in the shadows, unable to pull away, the Moon too slowly began to fall…

.

.

.

For the first time in months, Varian wakes with the sun.

Light streams through the guest-room window, falling bright and clear across his face. Beyond the frosted glass, the early morning sky blushes pink and new, clear and cold but for a few distant swaths of cloud. Though the wind rattles at the panes, it’s locked up tight, and the room is warm and cozy. When Varian rises to press his hand against the window, it is icy, and his touch leaves a faint imprint behind, the heat of his palm melting through to the frost.

It’s… peaceful.

Varian wonders at that thought, turns it over in his head again and again, examining it at all angles like a shiny new toy. He feels—not great, technically. His eyes are hot and gummy from lack of sleep, and his cheek still aches with a faint bruise, and his body is sore from the market… and yet. There is a stillness to it all. A sort of softness. Not like something has settled, but as if, for a moment, it has hushed.

He’d cried last night. Like a child, Varian thinks, with some secret curl of shame. When Yasmin had returned to the bathroom Varian had been hunched over Ruddiger, almost hiccupping from the sheer amount of tears. It hadn’t been all her fault—hadn’t been sparked entirely from her words, or her questions. Part of the breakdown had simply been from everything. In that moment in the middle of the night, it had all finally struck him, and sunk in.

Yasmin had said nothing upon seeing him. She had pushed him no further. The rest of that midnight makeover had gone almost mind-bogglingly mundane. After the haircut and impromptu lecture on proper nail care, as well as a long-overdue bath, she’d sent him off back to bed without any more comments about Corona or the attacks or anything. And when Varian had returned to the room, tired and reluctant and secretly terrified he’d open the door and see Adira sitting there… he’d entered to find her cot untouched and the room empty.

He’s not sure when he passed out—sometime around three in the morning, maybe—but now he is awake again, facing the day, and there is something lighter in his chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the bath, or the drowsiness that comes from crying all the conflict right out of you, but for once, Varian’s sleep had been completely and utterly dreamless.

He exhales hard, watching his breath fog on the glass. His eyes are still sore from crying, and he rubs at them preemptively, sucking in a deep breath. With the dawn all his fears feel lighter, farther away. His head isn’t as fogged.

Day two, start, he thinks to himself. Gods.

Varian turns back to his cot, and sits to give Ruddiger a good head scratch, and then finally sets about getting dressed. He waits for Ruddiger to find his usual perch on Varian’s shoulders, then snatches up the yet-unfinished nightlight—hollow crystal and unpoured glowing solution—and heads down to the kitchen.

Ella is already there, cooking breakfast, and she looks up with a smile when she sees him. “Just in time,” she says, and goes to hand him a plate full of cooked eggs and fresh-cut ham, still sizzling slightly from the pan. She pauses when she sees the crystal in his hands. “Oh?”

“Um… Yasmin said you had something to seal it…?” 

“Ah, the nightlight! Yes, she mentioned it.” Ella holds out her hand. “I can do that right now. Watch the eggs?”

Varian hands it over, biting back any fretting—the nightlight solution is already mixed and glowing, no extra steps necessary, she can pour the damn thing without issues, he’s just being silly—and hesitantly takes the spoon she offers him. Bacon and eggs. Shouldn’t be too difficult, right? Surely he’s gotten better at cooking since two years ago, when Dad banned him from the stove.

Ella returns five minutes later to three burned eggs and extremely crispy bacon, and Varian standing bright red in front of it all.

“So,” Varian says. “Bacon, um, bacon does not cook better with 300 degrees—trying to concentrate the heat was a bad idea—it does, uh, cook faster though, but. Um. Sorry.”

Ella is badly trying to hide a smile behind her hand. “…I’ll salvage it,” she says, muffled laughter in her voice, and hands him the sealed crystal. “Go, go, eat.”

Varian settles down at the table, still red in the face, and distracts himself by turning the finished nightlight over in his hands. Ella has put a lovely silver clasp on top, sealing it shut, with a little loop so he can hook it on a necklace chain or on his belt. The nightlight itself has a soft pale pink shine, warm and comforting, and it radiates quiet warmth in Varian’s hand, the crystal comfortable in the curve of his palm.

Varian eats his breakfast slowly, rolling the crystal absently against the table and keeping one eye on the stairs. He hasn’t seen Adira at all yet, not since yesterday, and he’s not really sure if he can face Yasmin yet, either.

It’s not that he’s avoided thinking about what Yasmin said to him yesterday, Varian tells himself. That question of forgiveness and redemption. It’s just… he doesn’t really want to think about it right now.

(He doesn’t really have an answer.)

Still. For all his watchful wariness, he jumps when he sees Yasmin stomping downstairs, and goes absolutely still when she marches up to him.

“Awake at last, are you,” Yasmin says critically, and eyes him up and down. “Well, I see the night has done you well—and you are clean at last, with a nice haircut to boot, if I do say so myself. Fantastic.” She claps her hands. “Come along. I have one last thing for you, and then I must be off. Chop chop.”

Varian hurries to his feet, ruefully thinking on how this is already becoming a habit. He’s only been here for two days, come on. “Wait, where are you going?”

“The city, obviously—with luck, the authorities should know much more by now, and I hate to miss on information. Now, hurry up!”

He follows her upstairs, wondering, but this time instead of her bedroom Yasmin shoves her way in a smaller side room squeezed in at the end of the hall, thus far unexplored. Varian peaks his head around the doorframe, interested despite himself. It’s a small, cluttered room, devoid of proper furniture, with only the bare frame of a bed stripped of sheets and mattress, and boxes piled up underneath. Yasmin is kneeling by the bed, and as Varian watches she picks out one chest and drags it out with a grunt of effort.

“Must be something useful still in here,” she’s muttering, pawing through the chest. “Hmph, too fancy, too old, too big… ah-ha.”

Varian likes to think himself adaptable, but even he has to take a moment to blink at the… thing Yasmin is holding up to him. “Uh… what is this?”

“New clothes. Obviously.” Yasmin stretches the shirt out, tilting her head critically. “You are nearly exactly the size Devdan used to be at your age. Yes, this will work. I will barely have to tailor these at all.” She tosses the shirt at him; Varian fumbles to catch it. She turns back to the chest. “Hmm, let’s see…”

“I don’t need new clothes,” Varian protests, half-hearted. He looks down at the shirt. It’s soft in his hands, off-white with a high collar and stiff sleeves. It looks… fancy. “And who’s Devdan?”

“I suppose you could call Devdan my nephew. Unofficially speaking. The son of a dear friend of mine. They stayed here, for a time, much as you are doing now.” Yasmin holds up a vest, now, and squints at it in the light. “Does not matter, you are not meeting him, he is in Arendelle with his father and none of your concern.” She eyes Varian up and down, gaze lingering on his threadbare hems, and sighs. “And you most definitely need new clothes. Those do not fit you at all.”

Varian picks at the hem of his shirt, unable to argue with that. His shirt, his pants… even his boots are all either cheap hand-me-downs or whatever he and Adira could find on the road, and none fit him properly, or even really keep him warm. Still. “I want to keep the coat.”

Yasmin gives the coat in question a stink eye. Varian shoves his hands in the pockets, offended on its behalf. “It’s a great coat!” he insists. “Heavy trench coat! Lots of pockets! It looks awesome!” If it were made of stronger stuff it would even be perfect for alchemy, like his old one was, but as it is this coat works just fine. He likes the pockets, the way the sleeves pool over his hands; it’s something he can hide in, and there’s a comfort in that.

“It is practically eating you,” Yasmin says, scornfully.

“I—I’ll grow into it!”

Yasmin’s whole face scrunches up at that, doubtful, but at last she shakes her head. “Fine, whatever, they are your bad fashion choices.” She shakes out the vest she is holding. “But I am getting you at least one nice outfit before you go, boy, so help me gods.”

Varian rolls his eyes.

The morning passes quickly after that. Varian tries on three pairs of boots and finds two that are both sturdier and better fit than his current ones, and Yasmin hands them off immediately, waving off Varian’s protests like smoke in the air. “I am being paid for this,” she snaps, at last, when Varian’s hesitance apparently gets too annoying. “I would have bought you new clothes entirely if not for the damn pirate attack; be grateful I have now been limited to hand-me-downs only. Honestly!”

Another few minutes of hemming and hawing over clothes later, at last she and Varian come to an agreement. Yasmin takes up the new outfit with the promise to have the clothes tailored and ready for wear by the time he leaves, and then pushes him out of the room without fanfare.

“That’s that,” she says, when Varian stares at her blankly. “The last of what I needed to do with you. The rest of the days are yours. Have fun, or whatever you angsty teenagers like doing these days.”

Varian splutters. “Angsty—?”

And all too soon, Yasmin is gone again, out the front door and into the unknown without any set time to return. With nothing more to do and the rest of his stay looming over him, Varian stands at the cusp on the staircase and hesitates for a long while. He’s been left here again, in the house with only Ella and Adira—who he has still not seen—for company.

He thinks he should probably find Adira. He thinks he should probably say something to her. Varian thinks very hard on this. He brings a hand to his bruised cheek—now molted green and pale yellow in the daylight—and in the end he goes to sit outside, back out on the front porch, watching the waving grasses and the wind play around the garden.

It’s not running away, Varian tells himself. He draws his knees up to his chest, inhaling the crisp morning air. It’s not running away if he has nothing to run from. He doesn’t even know where Adira is, right now, so there’s no real way this is running from her. Really.

He buries his head in his hands and groans. Oh, who is he fooling? He… he doesn’t want to see her.

She’s never hit him before.

He’s not entirely sure what to do about it—what to think about it. Nothing about that moment seems quite right to him. He’d panicked and summoned the rocks, all utterly without thinking, and then Adira had… but at the same time, he thinks, she hadn’t seemed angry. He’s pissed her off before; he’s broken down and yelled and been a brat, and the most she has ever done is snap back at him. So this—this wasn’t anger, he thinks. But in a way that is almost worse. Anger Varian can understand. But—fear?

He doesn’t know how to imagine Adira afraid. Something in him recoils at the very idea. Adira can’t be afraid. She can’t be. She’s too—confident, boastful, annoying—she’s too strong. She can’t have been afraid. Because if she was… if she hit him out of fear, of either Varian or the rocks… if Adira was afraid…

From the moment he met her, all those months ago at the edges of the Dark Kingdom, Varian had always thought Adira knew what she was doing. For all that she bothered him, angered him, infuriated him—he could trust in that. Adira would know what to do. She may not tell him what that was, but she still knew it. But now… now he isn’t so sure. Now, with yesterday in mind, everything comes into sudden focus.

What if, Varian thinks. What if Adira is just as lost as he is?

What if she doesn’t have the answers?

That terrifies him most of all. Before, the question was how to get her to give him the answers. Now it is a question of whether there is an answer at all—and he hates that. He hates that. He doesn’t even want to think about it, and at that thought his fingers tighten on his sleeve, and Varian buries his face in his arms.

Adira was right, he realizes, sudden, cold. I really do just run away.

Not just from her. Not even just from Corona. He’s running from everything else, too. The Moon—the rocks. Varian is still trying to run away from it all. The Moon is stronger than him. The rocks are stronger than him. The pirates, definitely. It’s all so much, all so big, and Varian is just one person. Fifteen years old, nearly sixteen, and yet in these past few months he has felt so small.

He doesn’t have that surety, anymore. That old, fanatic confidence in what was right and wrong and what had to be done. He doesn’t even have alchemy, or his gloves. And worst of all—

What will you do if you can’t be forgiven?

(The mirror, bright and silver, and every time he sees a flash of himself in the reflection his eyes turn away. We all have to face the mirror at some point, Yasmin had said, and she is right— but it is easier, still, to look away. To pretend he isn’t there. To pretend that person staring back isn’t him.)

Worst of all, Varian thinks, is that he doesn’t know what he’ll do. If—if he goes back, and apologizes, and is hated anyways. He’d like to be—better. He doesn’t want to be the person he used to be. But can Varian even trust himself anymore? How does he know what the right thing is? He’d thought he’d known before, and look where that had gotten him. He’d hurt people. He’d been… cruel.

And at the time? Varian had wanted to be that person. Varian had liked it.

What is to stop him, he thinks to himself, cold all the way to his bones—what’s going to stop him from becoming that person again?

Maybe this is why he’s running. Maybe this is why Varian can’t face Corona, or the rocks, or the Moon. Maybe it’s because he knows, deep down, that this dream of redemption is probably never going to last.

Maybe. Maybe. The very idea makes his throat go tight, his eyes burn. Varian presses his hands against his eyes, breathing deep. Ah, stupid. So stupid. This is what happens when he thinks about stuff—this is what happens when he stops running from his thoughts. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

“Something wrong, Moony?”

The thought ends, his mind abruptly blank. Varian flinches, going stiff, and snaps his head back to stare. His breath catches. Adira. She’s standing in the front door, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking down at him. Her head tilted in question. He—he hadn’t even heard her come up—but he’s been so out of it lately, that’s probably no surprise.

It doesn’t matter. She’s here. She’s… here. She’s here, and she’s waiting for an answer.

His mouth goes dry. His cheek throbs with a fresh ache of pain, and Varian fumbles for his words, struggling to wrench his mind back to conscious thought. “U-um, I…”

Nothing. The words die off.

Varian presses his lips in a thin line, and looks away, staring hard at the ground. The silence stretches.

Adira sighs, so soft he almost misses it. Her feet thunk heavy on the porch steps; she sits down beside him, gingerly, and Varian would flinch, except—she’s not next to him. Not really. She sits a few feet away, and the distance makes it easier.

Varian peeks out at her from the corner of his eye, trying not to move his head. He thinks he should probably say something, but his mind is abruptly free of thoughts, and anything he can think to say… isn’t very kind.

Adira isn’t looking at him either. She sits with her elbows propped on her knees, staring grim at the horizon line, her gaze distant and seemingly lost in thought. Blue breaks bright across the morning sky; sunrise is almost blinding. Even now Varian’s every breath mists like he’s breathing fire and smoke, but the sun shines so bright that he can feel the touch of warmth, beating through even the chill.

She doesn’t speak. The silence settles. Varian watches Adira and Adira watches the horizon, and slowly but surely, Varian relaxes. He rubs his shirt hem between his fingers and then settles Ruddiger more firmly on his lap, hugging the raccoon to his chest, and finally looks away, not quite willing to turn his back to her but feeling at ease enough to turn his gaze.

“Well?”

Varian jumps. His head snaps around to stare. His shoulders hunch. “What?”

Adira snorts. “I wasn’t just asking to start the conversation, Moony. You seem like you’re…” She eyes him, up and down, and shakes her head. “Spiraling,” she decides.

“I was thinking.”

“Hm. Well, don’t do that, then.”

“Don’t think?” He wants to be scandalized; bizarrely, instead, he has to bite back a laugh. It’s just so ridiculous—even when trying to fall asleep, Varian’s mind has always run at a million miles per hour.

“Don’t mope on whatever is making you look like someone stabbed your cat,” Adira corrects.

“I don’t own a cat.”

“Gods.”

“No, but I don’t—”

“Varian.”

He shuts up, turning away. He has to bite back a tiny smile.

“And now you’re feeling well enough to mess with me,” Adira mutters, but she sounds more bemused than truly annoyed.

“I don’t feel well at all, actually.” His voice is light, airy. Varian ruffles his fingers through Ruddiger’s fur. “I couldn’t sleep. I cried all last night.” He scrunches Ruddiger’s face between his hands, scratching under the racoon’s chin. “And my face really, really hurts.”

Silence.

There is a long pause. Adira shifts. “Ah. I deserved that, I suppose.”

“Mm-hm.”

“… I didn’t come out here just to bother you.” Varian squints at her. Adira raises a judgmental eyebrow back. “No, I didn’t. Honestly.” She shakes her head, the words trailing off, and there is another long, awkward pause before she finally speaks again.

“I came out here to apologize.”

Varian goes motionless, caught off-guard. He eyes her, sideways, and his lips press thin. This is uncharted territory, and he isn’t sure if he likes it. “…What?”

Adira’s eyes drift away, fixing back on the horizon. She shrugs. “You heard me,” she returns, mild. She leans back, stretching out her legs, her elbows propped up against the porch steps. Her expression is resigned. “But I’ll say it again, if you need to hear it twice.”

Varian watches her. Adira sighs, then turns and looks him square in the eye. “I’m sorry, Varian,” she says. Her voice is strong, each word intent. “For yesterday. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

Varian looks away first, unsettled. He’s not sure what to think of this—not sure what to make of the ease of it all. She says it so plainly. Like it’s easy. It makes something small and petty deep inside him go tight with a weird kind of envy.

But all he says is: “You hit me all the time in training.”

“That’s different,” Adira says, simply. “And you know that.”

 It is, and he does, but he’d still wanted to hear her say it. Varian draws up his knees, resting his chin against his legs. His cheek aches. He feels suddenly very tired. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, almost mumbling the words. He stares out at the rising dawn. “Not really.”

Adira’s voice is firm. “It matters.”

“I was summoning the rocks. If you hadn’t—”

“There were better ways to handle that.” This time, it is Adira who falters. For a moment she almost seems to stumble, fumbling for the words, and the sight is so bizarre—so unlike her—that Varian can’t help but stare. Adira looks away. “I—I will admit that I… panicked. Forgot myself. Whatever.” Her voice hardens, frustration turned inward. “It’s no excuse. It should never have happened, but it did, and I’m sorry.”

Varian turns back to Ruddiger, curling fingers into soft fur. Ruddiger noses at his palm. “I thought you were too great to make mistakes,” he says, only slightly sarcastic, and he can hear Adira roll her eyes.

“Moony, half the reason I’m so great is that on the very rare occasions I make a mistake, I own up to it. The other half is that, yes, I rarely make mistakes.” She clears her throat. “And… that was one. So.”

“Uh-huh.” Typical Adira. But still— the note of her usual confidence makes him relax. Thank gods. She hasn’t gone completely weird, then.

But then… that does, in hindsight, make her apology uncomfortably genuine. Varian rubs at his hands, feeling something like cold, and tries to forget the look on Adira’s face when she’d hit him. The way she’d looked right through him. “…What does that mean, anyway? Forgot yourself?”

Adira says nothing for a long moment. Varian kicks at the dirt, his chest tight. Typical, he thinks, but this time the thought has no fondness.

“…It’s a long story,” Adira says, at last. She sounds tired. Varian’s head snaps up. “And not a happy one.”

“I don’t really care.” He watches her, intent. “I, I want—” He bites his lip, mentally backtracking. “If you’re really sorry… then tell me. I want to know why.”

“Still manipulative, I see,” Adira says, dryly, and she seems almost resigned. “But… fair enough.” She tilts back her head, watching the sky, and takes a deep breath.

“I have—experience. With the black rocks. What they are… and what they can do, when out of control.” She sighs, heavy, for once sounding almost weary. “You remember the labyrinth? The Dark Kingdom?”

He has never forgotten it. Not even when he really wants to. “…Yes.”

Adira nods. She links her hands. “I grew up there,” she says, simply. “I lived there. I swore to protect it with my life.” She tilts back her head. “And then I watched it fall.”

She waits. Varian says nothing. Adira shrugs, and looks back to the skyline. “As I said. I… panicked. For all of my many, many talents… I am… not good at this.” Her mouth twists like she’s bitten into a lemon. “But again. That’s no excuse.”

Varian pulls up his knees, wrapping his arms around them. Ruddiger scampers up his back, settling warm on his shoulders, but for once the comfort is muted. Varian links his fingers to keep from rubbing at his torn ear, and sighs into his arms. The anger has faded in him, turned ashy and dull, drifting away like smoke. She told him. He asked, and she gave him an answer. He rests his head in his arms.

“It doesn’t really hurt,” Varian announces, at last, to his elbows.

“Hm.”

“Seeing the rocks hurt more.”

“…Varian—”

“But it did hurt, a little,” Varian says, and finally lifts his head. “So. Thanks. For the apology, I guess.”

“…Of course.” Adira shifts, looking uncomfortable. “I… I meant it.”

Yeah. He thinks she really did. Varian nods, and Adira looks away, and this time when the silence returns, it feels a little lighter than before.

Varian stares out into the fields, watching distantly as the grasses bend and break to the breeze. The sunlight is starting to warm the crown of his head, near-uncomfortable. He feels—calmer, now. Like a peace has fallen over his thoughts, a tension unraveled from his shoulders. He looks back to the horizon, the burning blue sky, and wonders which way Corona is from here.

“Are you…” He trails off, hesitating, then tries again. “After you leave here, are you—going to Corona?”

Adira stills. “…Yes.”

Varian ducks his head in a nod, studying his fingers. He remembers the mirror, from yesterday. He remembers staring into his own face, and crying, not even really sure why. He remembers Adira smacking his chest with the staff, pushing him back, her voice like a snap.

This is your problem! You run away!

Is he running away? Maybe. Probably. Yes. But is he right to?

If the pirates really will attack Corona… then shouldn’t Varian be running to Corona? Shouldn’t he want to help?

…He doesn’t know.

And more than that. More than anything else.

Does Varian want to go back?

(He thinks about it. He thinks about all of it. The people of Old Corona, who walked away and left him alone; the King, who lied, who was responsible for the rocks in the first place. He thinks about Cassandra, who gave him a chance and hated him when it all went wrong; thinks about Eugene, smile gone, anger in his voice. Find someone else to lie to you! He thinks about Rapunzel—Rapunzel, who turned him away in the snow; Rapunzel who—who stood tall, and strong, and unwavering between him and death.

Cassandra, who gave him a chance— who wanted things to get better. Eugene, who sat Varian down and told him the truth long before Varian ever wanted to admit it. And he thinks about Rapunzel, who cried in that cave and for a moment must have hated him as much as he hated her, who still held him when he broke down and who offered him her hand in that awful, lonely tower.

Will you come with me?

He thinks about it.)

Varian closes his eyes. He swallows. I’ll go with you, he thinks. How easy those words should be. How simple it should be to say them. And yet.

And yet.

The wind howls. The grasses bend. Adira sighs and stands, and her hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezes not gentle but firm, strangely comforting even so. His cheek burns. He doesn’t flinch.

“You still have time to think on it,” Adira says, quietly. “If not Corona, then Port Caul… or anywhere you’d want to go. Yasmin won’t let you stay here, but she’ll make sure you’re settled, wherever you choose to go. There are other options. Corona isn’t the only road to take.”

Adira pauses. Her hand tightens. “But Moony?”

He doesn’t move.

“Sooner or later, you really are going to have to choose.”

His head lowers. Varian doesn’t answer. And Adira’s voice drops, bitter with something he cannot name, something almost like regret. “You can’t outrun anything forever.”

He wonders what she ran from. He wonders when it caught her.

He doesn’t ask.

Adira walks back inside without another word, and Varian stays there—sitting on the porch, knees to his chest, watching the sun rise and the horizon burn, thinking of home.

.

As rain sleets the darkened streets, Cassandra shivers in the cold and draws her coat closer.

Corona at midnight is a picture of silent beauty, even in the midst of a storm—lit by a soft lantern glow and utterly silent but for the distant whisper of the waves and the wail of the wind through the spiraling streets. But Cassandra is in no mood to appreciate the sights—the sky above is dark and clouded, pouring rain, and the winds are sharp with a lingering winter bite. The mist makes her hair frizz, and even in her warmest coat, she can’t quite defeat the chill starting to nip at her fingers. She smacks her hands together and grits her teeth, and gives her companion an icy glare.

“So,” she says, “mind explaining to me why exactly you called me out here at the coldest goddamn time of the day?”

“Personally, I thought you were immune to the cold…” Leaning against a darkened storefront, Eugene gives her a smile that is almost a smirk, humor bright in his face. “Ice queen! Don’t tell me! Could it be your cold heart is thawing?”

She glares at him, because it is raining and she’s cold and he’s the one who called her out here in the first place, with a rambling letter full of nothing. He’d underlined must tell in person three times, and then written TOP SECRET in the largest letters possible, and for all that Cassandra had rolled her eyes she’s here anyway—and now what, he’s mocking her?

She puts a hand to her sword, and lifts a brow. “I will cut you.”

“Hm. Guess not, then.”

“Eugene.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He straightens up, yawning into his arm. “Don’t get all in a twist; this isn’t fun for me, either. Gods, if only spring could come faster…” He trails off with a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry about all this, but this kind of information—” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t trust it to a letter.”

Cassandra stiffens, clenching her teeth at a sudden flare of heat in her gut. “You—found something?” Bitterness is a sharp bite on her tongue, weighing in her chest. Her thoughts twist and turn. Already. He’s already found something. It’s not just Rapunzel. All of them—in this twisted game they’ve found themselves in, Rapunzel and Eugene are stumbling upon all the answers, while Cassandra…

Her fists clench. Useless. She swallows it back. “What did you find?”

“Well.” Eugene runs a hand down his face. “Lance and I… we got a lead sooner than I thought.” He pauses. Exhales a shuddering, shaky breath. “It’s, um… not good.”

Cassandra watches him. Waits. The rains drums behind them, swept into a downpour by the wind. It pounds at the ground like a hail of arrows.

“You know what Blondie told us about? The people trying to back Corona in a deal?” Eugene meets her eyes. “Well. Have you ever heard of the Baron?”

Cassandra stares at him. The Baron. The biggest crime lord on the continent, with enough power and prestige to have a known name and a whip-tight false legal business. Everyone knows he works shady, but no one can prove it, and it’s made him one of the most dangerous enemies of Corona for that reason: enough power and cruelty to do whatever he likes, and clever enough to escape the law as he does it.

The Baron. Blackmailing Corona. Oh, god. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Eugene holds out a slip of torn paper, and Cassandra takes it, eyes scanning over the words. “This was written by his daughter, Stalyan. And if she’s a part of this, then he is most definitely involved.”

“…This just says Vardaros. How do you—”

“I’m… familiar with her handwriting.” Cassandra stills. “And Lance found a dagger with his crest in a drawer. We’re sure. Like, 99.99 percent sure, but if you doubt the .01 percent—”

“Why are you familiar with her handwriting?” Cassandra straightens. “Wait, how do you even know his crest? If we could identify his shipments from the get-go, the guards would have…”

Eugene winces. “…Oh.”

“Eugene—”

“Well, okay, first off, his crest is a golden spider against a red background, so jot that down. And, uh, I… Lance and I, I should say, we have… experience with—the Baron. Past experience.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Fine fine fine, I was set to marry his daughter, okay!?”

Um. What? “Stalyan?”

“Yes! But I freaked, I left her at the altar, and man oh man, I do not regret it, that family is… anyway, that doesn’t matter. Just, trust me when I say they are definitely involved, okay?”

Usually, such a story would make Cassandra roll her eyes, pinch the bridge of her nose and groan. Of course Eugene was set to marry the Baron’s daughter; of course she is involved in this whole tangled mess of political calamity. Why not? But something about the whole situation grates on her.

Barely two weeks out of the castle, and he’s already—!

The whispers are growing. She feels cold. The distant light of the streetlamps almost seems to flicker, and the rain hums like a song, a mutter of helpless disappointment.

Why does everything go easy for him?

Something in her snaps. “Why didn’t you bring this up sooner?” Cassandra snarls, and steps in close, one hand reaching out to fist in his shirt. She drags him forward. She just barely remembers to keep her voice low, hidden by the downpour. “Why didn’t you say—”

“Excuse me?” Eugene looks startled. He puts a hand over her wrist, his grip tight, trying to pry her off. “What are you— gods, Cass, it wasn’t important!”

Her hands seize up. “Of course it was—!”

“No, it wasn’t!” Eugene looks thrown, caught somewhere between hurt and anger. His hand tightens on her wrist; he twists her off, but doesn’t follow through with the move, prying her hand away from his collar and then holding it up, almost in warning. “It was a long time ago. And it was my business. My past. Stalyan was important in my life, sure, but that was both five years ago and also now not my life. I wanted to move on. So yeah! I didn’t mention it!”

He hesitates, then lets go, stepping back out of range. Cassandra watches him, eyes narrow. Eugene crosses his arms. “Look,” he says, a little quieter. “I get it, okay? I’m sorry for not bringing it up sooner. But it wasn’t important then. It is now, and I realize that, and I’m telling you. Get off my case.”

“I—”

“Seriously, what’s with you today?” He shakes his head, looking her up and down, something like concern furrowing his brow. “Are you… doing okay?”

“Excuse me!?”

“Well, you don’t usually bite my head off at the drop of a hat,” Eugene says, almost wry. He frowns. “And you look… uh. Hey, no, seriously, is everything okay?”

Cassandra’s hands curl, but something in his words strikes home. He seems genuinely concerned, and she turns her face away, shame a sudden spark in her gut. What is she doing? He’s—he’s right. She’s being unfair. He seems as out-of-breath and soaked as she is freezing, which means he must have rushed here as soon as he got the news. Without a coat, even.

He’s right. But that still doesn’t stop the sudden lock in her throat, or the sharp twist of jealousy in her chest, bitter as poison. How can it be that in all this time, she’s found nothing, whereas he and Rapunzel so intimately and effortlessly stumble across the answers? How can she possibly hope to protect them—to stand against the next labyrinth—if she can’t even help them with this?

It’s like they are leaving her behind, like being left in the dark, and the whisper rises again, beating in the back of her mind like a mantra. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

But that’s no excuse. It’s not Eugene’s fault that Cassandra is useless—she shouldn’t have taken it out on him. He of all people… he’d stood outside that labyrinth too. He’d understand.

“Cass…?”

Her jaw clenches. She turns her face away. Yes, she thinks. Eugene of all people would understand. She could tell him. She thinks, after all this time, all they’ve been through—he might even listen.

But her throat locks up. The whisper curls. He was useless then, but he isn’t now, is he? He’ll just pity you.

And—and just like that, she can’t say it.

“No,” Cassandra says. She shakes her head, taking a deep breath, and meets his eyes again. “No. I’m fine. And—I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Eugene looks hesitant. “Look, if you need to talk…”

“I’m fine.” She takes another breath. “Just… just tired. Night shifts are hell on earth. And lately, the dungeons have been… bothersome. Everyone’s been fighting, and it’s just… ugh.” It’s not even entirely a lie. Just last week, two prisoners had almost murdered one another for near no reason at all. Strangest of all was that they were usually pretty friendly with one another. Prisons are typically high-temper places, but lately… Cassandra doesn’t know. It’s just exhausting, whatever it is.

“Well, that’s no surprise.” But the joke seems weak, almost lackluster. He’s still watching her. Damn it, he’s not letting this go.

Cassandra fishes for a distraction—and finds it. “Hey,” she says. “This Stalyan thing. Have you told Raps yet?”

Bingo. Eugene looks away. Cassandra crosses her arms. “Eugene.”

“I was hoping you could,” he says, weakly, giving her a hopeful sort of smile. It’s the same smile he uses to con people. Cassandra lifts a brow, unimpressed. “There’s still some stuff I need to check out. Weird jobs floating around, an island to stake out… I can’t come back just yet. But soon.”

Cassandra sighs, suddenly tired. “You should tell her.”

“Cass—”

“Look, I know it’s really the least of our issues, but Raps… really cares about you.” Cassandra looks away, the words heavy. “If you and Stalyan have this complicated past, then she’d like to hear about this from you. Personally. Especially on the off chance we actually meet this lady.”

Eugene slumps. “I know,” he says, sounding tired. “But I’m not sure, if I go to the castle, if I’ll… be able to walk out as easily as I did the first time. Or worse, on the other hand— if I get banned for good…”

Cassandra looks away. She can’t argue with that. Who knows what the King is doing? Rapunzel is holding her silence, and they’re both getting caught in the middle of it. The chains chafe. “That said. I’m not exactly in a good position to talk to her, either.” She isn’t really sure if she wants to, right now, but she keeps quiet on that. It’s not—she doesn’t blame Rapunzel. She doesn’t. She’s just… she just needs some space. From both of them, apparently, given how this conversation is going.

Cassandra comes to a decision. “Write a letter, then. That’s a bit easier, isn’t it? And in that way, it’d still be from you.” She meets his eyes. “She needs to hear this from you, Eugene.”

Eugene looks away first, shuffling on his feet. He pushes a hand back through his hair, still dripping from rainwater. His smile is rueful. “Going for the throat with that guilt-trip, huh.”

“If it works, it works.” Cassandra smirks, for a moment truly holding back laughter. “You should have expected this, anyway. I always go for the throat.”

“Oooh, guard joke.” Eugene rolls his eyes, then sighs again, leaning back against the wall. “I hope we don’t meet Stalyan. Really, I do. She isn’t exactly known for… reasonable action. Or moral rules.” His head drops. He looks tired. “But… you’re right. I should tell her. Uh. Wait a minute for me to write it?”

 “It’s not like I have anywhere better to be,” Cassandra says, and she rolls her eyes as she says it, even as the words make something pit in her gut.

Eugene just grins. “Hah, good point. Okay.” He hesitates—and then, awkwardly but sincerely, claps a hand on her shoulder. “But… I mean it. Thanks, Cass. And if you need anything…”

“I know.” Cassandra manages a smile, almost fond. “I got it.”

It’s a happy moment—something warm despite the midnight hour, something bright despite the pouring rain. A moment with a friend. She should be happy. She should enjoy this. She should take comfort in the fact that for all she isn’t contributing, she’s as much a part of this team as before.

And yet. And still.

Her throat is tight. Her eyes fall to the ground. Useless, the wind seems to whisper. The rain drums on in the back of her mind. Always useless. Do you really think you can protect them like this?

Can you protect them at all?

And by her side, unnoticed, her hands curl into fists.

.

Despite Varian’s disdain for it, he has heard tales of magic all his life.

Before alchemy, before logic, before the wonders of science convinced him magic was misconception and the truth lay only in the beakers, Varian was a young child enchanted. Every night, once the sun went down, his dad used to sit him down on the house steps and talk, quietly, of fairytales. Of magic and heroes and long-ago adventures, of daring and clever trickery. But the stories his father had loved most of all, the tales his father told quiet and hushed like a secret—were the stories of radiant Sun and her devoted, lovely Moon.

The tales had never really appealed to Varian, even then. The romance bored him, the magic made him frown, and the happy ending made him sigh. Where was the excitement? The swords? The great battles? But at this his father’s face would crease, would pull into a frown and a faraway gaze, and Varian soon stopped asking.

Of course, he knows better now. Most of Corona—most of the continent—knows not the tale of romance but a tale of mortal enemies, Sun and Moon fighting to the death over the fate of humanity, enemies from the very start. Why Varian’s dad knew and told a different story is a question that, even now, Varian has more guesses than actual answers for—but it doesn’t really matter. That’s not the point.

Days after his talk with Adira, with the sun just set and Varian alone back in the guest-room, he paces back and forth across the cluttered floor and thinks. He is alone in the room but for Ruddiger, whose little head follows Varian back and forth across the floor; Adira is downstairs with Yasmin and Ella, discussing Port Caul. It’s a conversation he’s not keen on hearing about, and so he is here—thinking. Weighing his options.

Varian thinks about Corona, about Rapunzel; he thinks about the labyrinth and the ruins of the kingdom buried beneath it, the symbol on the wall and on his father’s hidden helmet; his dad, dead in the amber. And he thinks about stories. He pivots before he hits the wall, ponytail swinging by his face, and thinks about magic, about legends, and how much Dad’s midnight tales could get wrong.

Magic, he thinks. Magic. He’s never liked it. Can, unfortunately, no longer deny it. It’s the lingering warmth in his chest from his Sundrop reversed almost-death, the icy cold pain in his hand from taking the Moondrop opal. It’s here, it’s part of him now—and it is, also, the rocks.

The rocks, which are now Varian’s. The rocks, which he can’t control.

He grits his teeth, thinking hard, pivoting again before he hits the wall. His fingers itch for chalk—he wants to write—but also, he’s pretty sure Yasmin would murder him in his sleep if he wrote on her walls, so that’s a no-go. Unfortunately.

In contrast to the last few days’ unending trauma conga line, the last few days in Yasmin’s home have been almost dull. After his talk with Adira, that morning of the second day, nothing more of note happens. To make matters worse, this also happens to be the last night. Tomorrow, Adira leaves for Corona. This is it—his last chance. There is nothing more to do. Nothing he can do. Except think, and pace, and wonder.

He has to make a choice.

Varian isn’t sure what choice that is, yet; where he’s going to end up is one, and Corona is most definitely the other, but somehow that doesn’t feel like enough. It’s more than Corona, somehow, and that’s where the problem lies—it’s a choice about the rocks, and Moon, and Adira, and redemption. It’s a choice about mirrors. It’s a question of where he’s going to go next, and all the alchemy in the world can’t help Varian here, as much as he hates to admit it.

It’s a choice about magic.

Because Varian knows: the rocks aren’t going away. He knows this better than anyone. He tried to run; they got him anyway. And if the disaster in Port Caul and the mishap in the gardens was any clue, then the rocks are here to stay.

He squeezes his eyes shut at the reminder, and mid-pivot his hand seizes with a sharp stab of icy pain. Varian stops, winces, and grips his wrist. The Moondrop power, again. It’s always ached more in the nighttime hours, but these last two nights it’s been near-unbearable.

He exhales a harsh breath, looking down at his hand, stretching out pale fingers. There’s nothing there. No mark to prove he ever took the Moondrop in his hand. Except for the missing half of his ear, there is very little to prove he even went on that journey with Rapunzel and the others; of his trial in the labyrinth, there’s nothing at all. Some days, bizarrely, he wonders if maybe he dreamed the whole nightmarish scenario up, those endless days of torture nothing more than a fever dream.

He almost wishes it was a dream. But he knows better.

And he’s been running from that too, Varian realizes then, with a sudden flash of exhaustion. The labyrinth. That awful, nightmare place. The place where he broke. The place where…

(Rapunzel’s offered hand, bandaged and bloody. Her pale smile. The distant glow behind her eyes, and her quiet plea. Will you come with me?

And this, too. Varian, who rose to his feet and took her hand.)

He closes his eyes, breathing deep, and turns away to sit on the cot. His hands are shaking, now—both of them. Not from power, or the cold. Just from memory. Ruddiger curls up by his side, crooning comfort, but Varian can hardly feel it.

A glint of light catches his eyes, sudden illumination. He lifts his head. There’s a break in the night-time cloud cover, and with the passing of shadow the moon seems brighter than ever. Varian looks at it for a long time, hands lowering in sudden thought.

If he needs to start somewhere… why not start with the source? The cause of his fears, of this panic. The rocks, at the root of everything. The rocks—which he has no control over. And he needs control, Varian realizes suddenly. He needs control, or the next time things go wrong because of the rocks, it really will be entirely his fault.

And more than that—he is afraid to sleep. Not just because of nightmares, now, but because of the Moon herself… and he hates that. Fearing his own dreams was fine, but being afraid of someone else’s? No. He’s sick of her games, her twisted dreams; he’ll stick to his nightmares, thanks. But… he has to sleep sometime. He has to dream sometime. If he’s going to have to face her eventually, then why not on his terms? His way?

The thought is… really, really tempting.

Still—for a moment, Varian is utterly frozen. His next exhale is shaky and thin. Oh, gods. Oh no. He isn’t really thinking of doing it, is he?

He lifts his head. His eyes catch on the window—on his reflection. Wide eyes. Pale face. Clenched fists.

…Oh, gods, he’s really thinking of doing it.

No, no, no. Varian takes a deep breath. He’s not going to panic. He’s not. Adira is right. So is Yasmin. He can't run away anymore. If nothing else, he thinks, remembering the rocks, Old Corona, his dad— he has to try.

His fingers clench, tight fists, and he uncurls them slowly, watching the crescent imprints of his nails fade away. He looks back at his reflection. He takes a breath. Then another. Something burns in his chest—the echo of Sundrop fire, searing away the cold touch of death.

“Moon.”

One heartbeat. Two. His hand stings. His eyes, in the reflection, are a blue so bright it seems almost unnatural.

“Are you there?”

The inside of the house is warm. The candlelight soft and golden. But for a moment his hand aches with an icy chill, and something like a shiver crawls down his spine. The air is weighted. All at once, it is so much harder to breathe.

How interesting.

In the window, his reflection wavers. Tired blue eyes and a grim expression, replaced now by a cruel grin.

Calling upon me so soon, little boy?

Fear seals Varian silent. He has to fight to think. His chest feels numbed, disconnected. He can’t believe she really… she really came. She’s here. He’s forgotten how she felt— her presence like a physical weight; power so strong and malevolent it seems to twist the very air.

He forces the words through numb lips. “I…” He clears his throat. His terms. This is on his terms. He called, and she answered. The thought steadies him. “I—I have some questions.”

Moon barely blinks, but her thoughtful hum distorts the air like static. So demanding. I never promised you answers.

The whispering taunt strikes at something deep within, lost beneath the fear. Varian’s lips curl back, and his hands grip tight at the cot covers. “Tough,” he snaps, before he can think better of it. “I’m going to ask anyway.”

The reflection shimmers. He gets the impression, suddenly, of a person right behind him—the grin bearing down at the back of his head. An icy hand grips his shoulder, fingers curling like claws into his collarbone. White hair, glowing soft as starlight, drifts by his head. This time, Moon’s voice rings clear and cold in his ears. Such rudeness. Such anger. Have you no thanks for your savior?

“Savior?” She is so close it is abruptly hard to breathe, and the walls feel closed in all at once, the labyrinth re-created. Even the window cannot banish the sense of darkness, closing in. Still—his hands clench. The outrage grounds him. “You ruined my life!”

Oh no, child. I’m afraid you did that all on your own. I just came in the aftermath. She circles him, ghostly afterimages fizzing in her wake, like a skip in time. The labyrinth was months ago for you, honestly. Don’t tell me you’re still upset?

Varian grits his teeth. His hand fists in his shirt. He forgets, in this moment, to be afraid.

“You—” he splutters, cold with fury. “Of course I’m upset! You tried to kill me—you practically did kill me! You hurt Rapunzel! You trapped us! You impaled me! And, and everything else—”

Aren’t you over it by now?

He snarls at her. “Are you?”

For the first time, her smile wavers. The Moon’s eyes narrow, and her lips thin, and she turns her head away.

Varian watches her, breathing shaky, and leans back, deliberately putting space between them. He breathes in, a longer inhale. He—he needs to calm down. It’s a bad idea to snap at an immortal goddess, no matter how awful she is. Probably a worse idea to sass her.

But still. The Moon gets to him. Everything she does—everything she is—the labyrinth, the rocks, Port Caul—!

No. No, Varian has to stay calm. He has to try. She’s here, as terrible as this is, and he can’t miss this chance for answers—for the truth. So long as it gets him what he needs, he can sit through almost anything.

When he opens his eyes again, the Moon is looking back at him. In the mix of shadows and moonlight she seems almost ethereal; her eyes glow like spotlights, her hair drifting as though underwater, coiling across her shoulders. Her smile, as ever, is fixed perfectly in place, but… there’s something grim in the expression, now. Something bared, and furious, and seething.

If you called me here just to whine to me, I feel it is important to express a warning. She leans in, and her smile widens; in the glint of moonlight he can see the serrated edges of her needle-like teeth. If you invoke my name in vain again, trial or not, you will not escape the experience in one piece. Her form wavers, beginning to fade. Learn some respect, child, or I will teach it to you.

Varian freezes. Her form is turning ghostly. Through her, in the window-reflection, he can see his eyes flicker back to blue.

“No, I—w-wait!”

Pressure bears down on him. Do not dare to—!

He wheezes, the air abruptly thin. “I didn’t—invoke—in vain or whatever, I—I just wanted to talk!”

A pause. The pressure eases, slightly.

…Talk.

“Y-yes.”

Are you fucking with me, boy?

“A-am I—?” His voice squeaks. Despite everything, he almost laughs. Somehow, he never imagined an immortal goddess knowing modern cuss words. “N-no, no, no. I—I’m not.” His hand seizes in pain; he winces and grips at it. “I really did… just want to talk.”

You have a very funny way of showing it.

He bows his head. He should let it go, he shouldn’t rise to her taunts, but—

But he doesn’t want to let it go.

“You locked me in a labyrinth with someone I—hated. At the time.” His voice is quiet. “You hunted me down, you, you almost killed me—did kill me… and the black rocks, your rocks, they… from the moment they entered my life, it’s all been one big downward spiral.”

Varian curls his fists in the covers. “So yeah. I won’t lie. I… I really, really hate you.”

Cold pricks at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes, willing himself not to flinch. He thinks of Adira, standing tall, staff pointed down—the first training lesson she ever gave him. It’s fine if you hate it, Moony, she’d said then. But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn from it.

And Yasmin, in the market, when he lashed out at her charity: I do not have to like you to do you a kindness.

He is not here to do Moon a kindness. He doesn’t want to help her. But Varian knows enough now to know that this power—the black rocks—aren’t going away. And Varian doesn’t know magic. He doesn’t know anything.

He doesn’t have to like the Moon, he thinks, to learn from her.

“But I don’t think you like me, either,” he continues, and lifts his head, offering a thin smile. Moon’s eyes narrow. “Just a guess. And that’s fine. Whatever your reason.” He meets her eyes, tired blue to unwavering white. “I just… figured if I couldn’t run, I may as well as try and ask you all my questions head-on.”

She doesn’t look convinced, still, her eyebrow lifted in an expression of great contempt, and Varian starts to panic. He lifts his chin, forcing confidence to hide his shaking hands, his mind casting back. The dreams, the dreams—gods, what had she said back then? He can hardly remember. Something about a game?

He chances it. “And you have to admit,” he says, chin up and eyes rolling, trying to force the old arrogance that once came easy to him, “whatever your plans, it’ll probably be way more fun if I actually know what you want me to do, right?”

Silence. The Moon’s eyes narrow further. Her smile is gone.

Varian refuses to look away. His mouth is dry. His throat is tight with the tension, the threat. He meets her gaze and holds it, and his palms are slick with sweat.

A long pause. And then, at last, the Moon shifts.

You are right that I do not like you. The flicker of a crescent smile. If I had my way, your corpse would be buried with my labyrinth… but the Sundrop challenged me to watch. To learn. To… see what I might have missed. I do think she’s delusional, and I cannot wait to be proven right, but… here I am.

For a moment Varian doesn’t understand what the hell she’s talking about—and then clarity strikes. Rapunzel’s comment to Moon in that other world, he realizes. Her declaration that there was no use in telling Moon why she’d saved Varian because the god would not understand. Had Moon—had Moon taken that comment as a challenge?

The idea is laughable. And yet—here she is. Here they are.

Moon reclines in the air, her attention distant, unfocused. And your boldness is amusing, I suppose. And your ignorance in these past few days has… already vexed me.

Her mouth works, as if feeling out the words. Her smile returns, pale, a bare of teeth. Oh, why not? Fine. Ask your questions. I cannot promise you answers… but I will at least hear you out.

Varian almost falls off the cot. He gapes at her. “Really? Are you serious?”

Ah, and now I find my patience waning…

He feels almost scandalized. “Is that a joke—”

Tick tock, child. The brief humor drops from Moon’s voice. Speak your mind or shut your mouth.

“I…” Varian trails off, taken off-guard. He swallows hard. He has so many questions, he has no idea where to even begin. What he wants to know most of all is about the rocks, but… best to start small, he thinks. “Why… why did you warn me about the pirates?”

Hmph. Isn’t it obvious?

“Um… no?”

Moon blinks. …Humans. So limited in their view of the world. She considers him, and tilts her head, gaze distant and thoughtful. Let us just say… in that human city, I sensed a danger too great for you to handle, and hoped to ward you off before I’d have to step in. She sighs then, heavily. As you can see, that worked out spectacularly.

“You… why?”

You think I like the idea of advising an annoying human whelp? The longer you stayed away from danger, the longer I could ignore you. I’d hoped to avoid this part for a while yet. But of course you didn’t listen. And now, here we are. Stuck with one another.

“That’s not my…!” No. No. Stay calm, Varian. He has to stay calm. “…Never mind.” He takes a breath, swallowing down the anger, and changes tracks. “But I don’t get it. Why the pirates? How did you even know they were there, or—or going to attack? It doesn’t make any—”

I could be in the middle of a burning desert at midday on the damn Summer Solstice, and I would still know the touch of that… foul magic. Her lip curls on the words. Her eyes slit, bright with hatred. Of course I sensed them.

“Magic?” Varian shakes his head. “What magic? They were—they were just pirates! Just human!”

Human? Certainly. But you are a fool if you think that it was all it was. Or do earthquakes usually strike a city right when a raid is underway? Such timing cannot possibly be coincidental. The Moon laughs. Dear, stupid child. You should have seen this coming. Why on earth do you think my labyrinth existed in the first place?

“I—” Varian blinks. Frowns. To test Rapunzel, to get what the Moon wanted, to prove Moon right about… something? About humanity? He’s not sure. He had only ever caught snippets. Because you’re a cruel, heartless person and you found it funny? But he can’t say that, she’d probably stab him again, and once was more than enough, thank-you-very-much. “…I don’t know.”

Typical. Well, I will tell you what I told the Sundrop. There is something coming, child. There is a rot that grows forever beneath the deep, and it lingers in this world like a curse, even in sleep. Her voice drops. But now, I fear… it sleeps no longer. It is here. It is coming. The rot’s reaching fingers have finally found our throats.

Her words are low, cold, serious with all the weight of an incantation. Varian stares at her. He doesn’t move. His breath shudders out of him. Realization washes over him, cold as ice. “The pirates,” he whispers. “Corona?”

I have no interest in the games of mortals, Moon remarks. For one, they are usually very boring. But recently, human politics have become… rather interesting. Unnaturally so. I have my suspicions. And I know what I felt, there in that city.

The meaning of her words finally sinks in. Varian looks down, his mind whirling. The attacks had terrified him. Corona at war had chilled him. But this makes something deep within him go small and tight with fear. This is more. This is like the labyrinth—a force more than science, or logic, or even magic. A force that Varian, slowly and reluctantly, is beginning to think of as fate.

“It’s aiming for Corona.”

The Sundrop’s own home? But of course it is. How better to draw her out? If I was not bound to my kingdom, to my Moondrop opal, I would have done the same.

He shakes his head, his mind spinning. “Wait, but—that doesn’t make sense—the labyrinth—”

I had more than my own reasons for the labyrinth. The personal benefits were just a bonus. Though. I admit, by the end, I perhaps got a bit… carried away. Her chin lifts. Fortunately, the situation is salvageable. I have my doubts the Sundrop is strong enough, yet, though she is certainly better suited for what's ahead after my labyrinth, but you…

She looks him up and down, doubtful, and her lip curls. Unfortunately for us both, my kingdom is gone, and so you are my only real conduit. For the moment, anyway. With luck, soon you will no longer be necessary, but for now… well. Do your best to not get speared anytime soon, boy. Replacing you would take more effort than I can spare.

Varian swallows, trying not to react. That—doesn’t sound good, though he can’t say he’s surprised to hear it. The Moon seems to need him, for now… but that probably won’t always be the case. If she made a place like the Dark Kingdom once, presumably she could do it again. Maybe. He thinks.

Ugh, magic.

Varian takes a breath, pushing the thoughts aside for later. Okay. All very interesting information, but… not what he needs, right now. He called for this conversation for a reason. “Okay,” he starts, careful, calm. He straightens his shoulders, and does his best to meet her eyes. “Actually, that was…something I was hoping you could help me with? The not-dying thing.”

Moon’s lip curls. She hooks her chin in her hand and regards him through narrowed eyes. Explain.

Well. Okay, then. “How do I… the, the black rocks.” He steadies himself. “How do I control them?”

A smile flickers across Moon’s face, sly and cruel. Your mishap yesterday. Hah, yes, I sensed that.

He doesn’t like the look of her smile. “…Right. H-how do I stop that from happening again?”

Moon considers him. Her smile widens. He can see the gleam of knife-like teeth, and then she leans back and stretches, laughing softly under her breath. Oh, who can say?

Varian’s eyes narrow. His fingers clench. He has to fight to keep his voice steady. “You, obviously.”

Moon is still smiling. Her eyes glow in the darkness. Don’t get smart with me, boy.

He grits his teeth. “I—”

Your distress over this silly power is amusing, and far more entertaining than your frankly dull nightmares. And I have been so bored… no, on this I don’t think I shall tell you. Have fun finding out.

Varian stares at her, breathless, feeling gutted. She won’t—? And then the rest of her words sink in, and his lips peel back in a snarl. Blood roars in his ears, and for a moment the whole world feels very still, cold and quiet. She is smiling. She is laughing at him. And suddenly Varian wants nothing more than to snap that smile right off her face. He wants to make her bleed.

“I was wondering something else,” Varian says, sweetly, the heat rushing through his head. His fingers strangle the cot covers. “Why do you look like that, by the by?” He gestures, casually, to his face. His hand is shaking. His teeth ache.

Moon’s smile drops at once. Her eyes go wide. Her lips peel back from her teeth. And Varian smiles where she does not, bright and poisonous and angry, and says, “I mean, I’ve already seen the scars!”

Pressure slams down on him. The air goes snap-cold, burning against his skin, and Varian just barely keeps from crying out. All at once, the Moon is no longer distant, no longer ghostly—she is here, she is right in front of him, so furious that the air warps around her very image. For a moment, that smooth façade drops. For a moment, he can see the scars in question—the great ruts that carve up her face and shatter her eye, the cracks crawling deep through her stone skin.

You— dare—!

Varian lifts his head with difficulty, struggling against the unyielding hand slowly crushing him to the ground. His smile has dropped, the sweet anger fallen, and now all he is is furious. “I hate you!” he cries, too incensed to be any more articulate than that. “I hate you! You and your stupid—tell me how to control the rocks!”

Moon’s voice shakes with a snarl. No.

“Tell me!” Varian shouts back. Something roars in his ears. Is it blood? The wind? Or most frightening of all—power? “Tell me how to stop this!”

The Moon leans close. Her smile is a bare of teeth. Her eyes are bright and vivid with rage.

FIGURE IT OUT YOURSELF.

Something shatters. Wind howls. For a split second, Varian is falling, dropping in free-fall—

His eyes snap open.

His throat catches on a scream, and he lurches half-way out of the cot before he realizes where he is. Yasmin’s house. The guest-room. His bed. The room is lit blue by the midnight; the air is cool, the candles all blown out.

Sweat plasters his bangs to his face. He feels feverish. The room is far too warm, but maybe that is because Varian himself feels as if he has slowly frozen solid. His heart beats unsteady and rapid in his chest. He has—he is—what?

Soft breaths. A warmth by his side. He looks down and reaches out, and—Ruddiger. Ruddiger?

Ruddiger is sleeping. Ruddiger is calm. He…. He’s not acting like either of them were ever in danger. Come to think—had he—had he been in the room at all, after Varian called the Moon’s name? He can’t remember.

It’s quiet.  Dead silent. Varian looks across the room, and sees Adira in her cot, blankets pulled up, still in sleep. She hasn’t moved. No, wait—when had she come in? Wasn’t she meant to be talking with Yasmin?

Varian turns to the window, his hands shaking. The sky outside is clouded and dark—no moon to be seen past the clouds. And the person looking back at him from the reflection is… himself. Varian.

It’s just him.

Slowly, his panicked breaths ease. Varian settles against the pillow, his mind racing. A dream. It had just been a dream.

And yet—he remembers it perfectly. He lifts his arm—the Moondrop one, the one that always burns whenever magical fuckery is abound—and looks at the hand. His veins are dark and blue. There is frost on his fingers, slowly but surely melting away in the heat.

Ah. Not just a dream, then. That is… that is… gods, he should have guessed. Moon and dreams. Maybe that conversation was never on his terms after all. Typical.

His breathing has gone very shaky. Varian falls back against the pillow. He stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, letting it all sink in. Breathes in. Breathes out. Rewinds the whole conversation back in his head, all the information bombshells and that disastrous ending, and slowly covers his face with his hands.

“Oh,” Varian says, weakly. “Oh, fuck.”

.

Morning comes almost too soon.

Varian doesn’t really sleep that night. After his conversation with the Moon, his mind is running too quick for rest. The information—the Moon herself—all of it is just so much, and he spends the rest of the night half-way between passing out and staring at the ceiling, his mind spinning, caught somewhere between regret for lashing out and a petty sort of inner voice that insists he probably should have insulted her more, that secretive conniving jerk. Watching you struggle is amusing, ha-ha-ha, Varian wants to punch a wall.

The night drags on, near torture, and Varian drifts in and out of sleep, until finally he blinks open fever-hot eyes to the crackle of distant birds and the morning rime on the gleaming window. Dawn, come again. He closes his eyes and sighs. Then he sits up.

Adira left sometime when he was half-way passed out; her stuff is gone, bags packed and cot rolled up. That’s right, he remembers, all at once. She’s leaving today. Last night was… the last night. Yasmin’s home is no longer open for shelter.

He sits there for a time, listening to Ruddiger’s sleepy snuffles and looking out the window with a distant stare. The sunlight sparkles over the frosted fields, crisp and clean, and he watches the light glitter for a long moment. He’s exhausted, but he feels oddly calm. The darkness is gone, chased away… and finally, Varian knows what to do.

He can’t deny the horror of it all—the fear creeping through. The sense that whatever’s going on, it’s something way, way more than he can handle. But if something like that is coming for Corona…. for Rapunzel and the others…

Varian looks down at his hands. He takes a breath. Takes another. And then he sets his jaw and gets to his feet, and starts packing.

By the time he pads downstairs, Ruddiger on his shoulders, his bags are packed and Varian himself is dressed in the new clothes Yasmin tailored for him. He fiddles with the sleeve as he thuds down the steps, unsure of how to clip the cuff, and Yasmin snorts when she sees him, the older woman standing at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in one hand.

“Dear gods, have you never worn a vest before?” She sets down her cup and goes over to him, tugging the sleeve from his hands. Varian watches intently as Yasmin buttons the cuff, memorizing the fabric fold as she steps back and pulls his vest straight, the heavy fabric sitting snug and fit on his shoulders. She surveys the outfit with a critical eye and hums. “Well. Not bad for a rush job.”

Varian makes a face, pulling at his hem. The clothes fit well, but they are unlike anything Varian has ever owned—and not just because he’s still missing his gloves and apron. He’s wearing a cream cotton tunic with buttoned sleeves, paired with a low v-cut blue vest embroidered with golden skeletal floral stitching and buttoned with small silver half-moons, the swirls of soft gold stark against the dark blue. The black pants are cut in a sailor-style, the ends tapered half-way down his shin to tuck in his boots. A dark magenta sash ties around his waist, the color so rich it nearly shines in the light. Above it all Varian’s oversized trench coat with its many lovely pockets envelops him, the pink nightlight swinging from one notch, the sleeves rolled up twice and still too long for him. Combined with the new haircut and the ponytail Varian is currently struggling to tie, he looks like an entirely different person.

He’s not sure if it’s a good look or a bad one, but it’s definitely troublesome. This stupid ponytail especially.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Yasmin snorts and pulls the ribbon from his hands. “At least you brushed your hair,” she murmurs, turning him around. “Pay attention. You will have to tie it yourself after this.” She pulls back his hair and secures it tight atop his head. “See?” She takes the end of the tail and loops it, tucking the strands away. “And do this to make a bun. Whichever style you please. Simple.”

Varian undoes the bun with a sigh, letting the hair fall as a normal ponytail. Ruddiger bats at it, letting it swing. He’s not used to having his hair tied back; the pull and weight of the ponytail on his scalp makes his nose wrinkle. It’s not uncomfortable so much as… odd. “I look like some nobleman’s kid.”

“Tsk. Nothing so fancy. Merchant schoolboy, perhaps. Apprentice wizard for the imaginative.” Varian scowls at the joke as Yasmin turns back to the table, sipping at her cup. “Regardless, it will help. The less you look like you, the easier it is to hide. Besides. New clothes and haircuts are a nice way to actually feel as though you are getting a fresh start.” She sips at the drink again. “It will help. Two birds with one stone, I believe the saying is? Like that.”

Varian hums, unconvinced but not really wanting to argue, and drops into a seat with a sigh. He takes Ella’s offered cup of coffee with a weak smile, then glances around the kitchen. “Um, where’s…?”

“Here.” Adira moves into the kitchen, taking a cup of coffee herself. “Thanks.” She turns to Varian and looks him up and down, and lifts one brow at the outfit change, but all she says is, “You seem tired.”

Varian shrugs, his eyes dropping to the mug. In the dim reflection of the drink, his irises seem almost unnaturally bright. He grimaces and looks away. “I…” He doesn’t want to discuss his talk with the Moon, not yet, and definitely not with Yasmin here—if she finds out he summoned and then insulted an immortal god in her house, she might strangle him with his new sash—so he shrugs as casual as he can. “Just, um, ah… t-thinking?”

There is a long pause. All three woman stare at him. Ella and Yasmin exchange a meaningful glance. Adira closes her eyes and sighs.

“Adira,” Yasmin says, conversationally, “he really is a god-awful liar. What on earth are you teaching him?”

“I take no responsibility for this.”

“Simply dreadful,” Ella murmurs sadly.

Varian sips loudly at his drink and ignores them. He’s a great liar, damn it. The best. He fooled Rapunzel down in Corona’s tunnels, hadn’t he? He just needs time to prepare, is all, that’s not his fault.

Ruddiger gives him a supportive chitter. Varian sighs.

“Well, regardless.” Yasmin sets down her cup. “Good morning, lovely weather we are having, etcetera —all pleasantries out of the way, I will get to the point. While I admit it was… interesting to have you both here, I must say it is time you moved on.” She looks between them, and her eyes linger on Varian for a long moment. “So. When will you be going?” The slightest of pauses. “And… where?”

The silence stretches, awkward, tense. No one moves. Ella is watching them. Yasmin sips at her drink, her gaze heavy on Varian’s head.

Varian pulls his mug closer, cupping the warmth in his palms, drawing strength from the weight of Ruddiger by his side. He keeps his eyes on the floor. “My bags are all packed,” he says, to the floorboards. He can feel, rather than see, all of them go still. “I’m…” For a moment he stutters on it. For a moment he fumbles.

Then he takes a breath, and says it anyway. “I’m ready to go,” he says, at last. “To Corona.”

In the ensuing quiet, Yasmin’s sharp and relieved exhale is clear.

Adira is quiet for much longer; she shifts slightly, and Varian’s eyes snap to her, searching, afraid. But Adira is calm, near-expressionless, and her voice is even when she replies: “Then we leave together.”

Varian ducks his head in a nod.

He hears Adira stand, but keeps his eyes down, and almost startles out of his seat when a hand abruptly finds his shoulder. He freezes, stiff—but all Adira does is leave it there, just for a second, her touch warm and grounding.

For a moment he thinks she’s going to say something—what, he has no idea—but all she does is squeeze his shoulder, once, then take her hand away. “…We’ll leave soon. Finish your food.”

Varian glances up through his bangs, watching her go. He feels a little wondering. That warmth in her voice—what was that? And the hand on his shoulder… he knows Adira isn’t big on physical contact. So then, what was the point of that?

He turns back to the room to find Ella with her face politely turned away and a smile on her lips, and Yasmin looking insufferably pleased with herself. He narrows his eyes, feeling the heat rise to his face. He grips his cup protectively. “What?”

“Nothing.” Yasmin sips at her drink. She is smirking. “Just… I am very good at my job.”

Ella smacks her arm without looking.

“I mean, we are all very proud of you, congratulations on your character development, whatever, make good choices.”

Varian rolls his eyes, and tips back his drink to hide a smile of his own. He finishes his meal quickly—when Adira says leaving soon she usually means leaving now—and sneaks away some bread for Ruddiger to snack on later, getting up from the table. He is half-way out the door before he hesitates.

He glances back. Yasmin raises an eyebrow at him, bemused, waiting. Varian chews at his cheek, deep in thought.

On his end: the market, the haircut, the clothes. But he remembers also the way Adira gave him answers that day in the field, when before there was nothing, and her new strange attempts at mentoring, odd but not unwelcome. He gets the sudden sense he isn’t the only one Yasmin has been bothering, and tucks his hands behind his back.

Yasmin is annoying and rude and cold, and still a stranger in many ways… but in these past few days, Varian knows, she has truly and honestly helped him.

“Thanks,” Varian says, rushed and hurried, and just barely looking Yasmin in the eye, and then he runs out of the room before Yasmin can laugh at him, or worse, look touched.

Packing takes no time at all, both Adira and Varian already prepared. Before Varian knows it, he and Adira have waved goodbye to Ella and taken up their packs, walking away from the little cottage in the fields for the last time. To Varian’s embarrassment, Yasmin goes with them, claiming to see them off, dressed in her heavy winter coat with a wrapped package under one arm.

Varian avoids looking at her best he can, his face red, regretting that moment of thanks with all his being, and pretends badly he can’t hear her laughing at him as they walk.

They reach their destination quickly, thank gods—a merchant camp nestled in-between two farms, a small circle of carts by the road. It’s apparently the same merchant camp as before, the one from Port Caul, just moved more inland to escape any drama from the recovering city. There are far less carts than before—most of the merchants having fled after the attack—but there is still a few lingering, and Yasmin approaches one at once, already bartering for their ride.

“Javon, yes? I have heard you are on your way to the west. I would like to discuss a deal with you—”

In less than ten minutes they’ve gotten safe passage assured and a deal made, Yasmin shaking the merchant’s hand with a grimly satisfied smile. She walks back to them with her head high. “There you go,” she says to Adira. “My final favor for you—free of charge, even.” She glances back, and they both watch as the merchant loads their extra bags onto his cart. “Lucky we came when we did. The others are going east and he is leaving now.” She turns back. “I suppose this is goodbye again.”

Varian looks up at her, surprised by the words and the sudden sense of loss. How strange, he thinks. He’s really only known her for a week or so—but what a long few days they have been. He feels as if he’s been here far longer.

Adira tilts her head. “This is it,” she says agreeably.

“So it is.” Yasmin crosses her arms and looks Adira up and down. “Well. It was far more excitement than I should ever like again… but it was good to see you, Adira.” She sighs. “Just, please. For the love of all the gods. Write to me next time?”

Adira almost seems to smile. “We’ll see.”

“Tsk, bothersome woman.” But Yasmin almost seems pleased, and when she looks down at Varian, she cocks an eyebrow and settles a hand on her hip, near-smiling. “Well, boy, I hope you remember what I have taught you.”

Varian meets her eyes with some difficulty, but manages. The echoes from their conversation still sting, but he takes a breath and refuses to look away. “I’ve, um… been thinking on it.”

“That is all I can ask.” Yasmin offers a hand. “You are a brat and a pest and more trouble than you are worth… but perhaps you are not so bad.”

Varian rolls his eyes, unable to help himself. “I really don’t like you.” But he takes her hand, and feels almost cheered. He manages a smile. “Um. But… uh…”

Yasmin snorts. “You do not have to thank me again. Once was enough. Uncomfortable for both of us. Do not.” She hesitates, then takes the package out from under her arm and holds it out. “Ella’s idea. From both of us. Blame Adira.” She pauses again, and then scowls at him. “Open it later, once you are gone and I cannot see. Got it?”

“Okay…?” Varian takes it. Tests it. It’s soft, so not a book… “What—”

“Once you are gone!”

“Okay, okay!” He stows the package away in the satchel. Ruddiger chitters up on his shoulder, clearly curious, and hangs down his back to sniff at it. Yasmin’s scowl turns to him.

“Goodbye, Yasmin,” Adira says, drawing the attention back to her. Yasmin fixes her with a frown.

“You will keep in touch?”

Adira shrugs. “I’ll try.” She hesitates. “It… was good to see you too.”

Yasmin makes a face. “Yes yes, goodbye, go already. You are going to give me hives at this rate.”

Adira briefly smiles at that, a hard sort of grin that is almost laughter, and turns away with one last wave over her shoulder. Yasmin, too, for all her annoyance, seems more fond than truly irritated. Varian looks between the two of them and shakes his head, turning to follow Adira to the cart. Ridiculous. He doesn’t understand them at all.

It feels almost anti-climactic, after everything. With every step, Varian waits for something to go wrong. He steps to the cart. He gets in the cart. He sits down in the back with Adira and watches the road. Nothing. The sky is cloudy but dry and the cold winds are beaten back by the warmth of his new clothes and heavy coat. It’s dizzying. Is he really leaving?

The merchant snaps the reins and calls the horses to a trot. The cart lurches into a roll. Varian draws his knees to his chest and watches as Yasmin slowly shrinks away against the gray skies and endless fields. How strange, he thinks. How funny. Leaving really is that easy.

He looks down at the satchel, and pulls out the package. He looks at it for a moment, and hesitates—but, well, if they’re going, isn’t that the same as being gone…? Technically?

Varian sneaks a glance at Adira, who is sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed. She opens one eye under the attention, and looks at him blankly for a full second—then snorts, softly, and closes her eyes again.

Well. He supposes that’s technically permission. Right? Totally. Yes. One-hundred percent.

He looks at Ruddiger. Ruddiger pats at the package with one paw and gives a meaningful look. Which—yeah, okay. There’s no saying no to that.

Varian opens the package.

It’s well-wrapped, sealed tight; it takes him a few tries to rip it open. He tears off the paper in one long strip, setting it aside for Ruddiger to play with later. There is an extra layer of tissue paper to get through, and he tests the thing in his hand, frowning. It’s light—soft, and malleable in his hands. He turns it over and pulls off the paper—

His breath catches. Varian goes absolutely still. In the corner of his eyes, he can see Adira is almost smiling.

Gloves.

Yasmin has given him alchemy gloves.

For an instant, all Varian can do is stare. The gloves are made from heavy leather, with stiff stitching and an oily waterproof sheen. They’re a little different from his old ones—a block maroon trim lines the ends—but still. Gloves. She’s given him…

And it hits him, all at once. Every question, every fear, every moment of struggle—every time he’s had to fight against the anger that burns constant in his chest, every instant of pushing back against the urge to run away. Nothing has changed, in the end. Nothing is very different. He’s still not sure what he’ll do—what he’s even doing now—or even the difference between forgiveness and redemption and why it matters.

But he holds the gloves in his hands, this gift he didn’t ask for and didn’t expect, and—he wants to. He wants to know. He wants, at the very least, to try and find the answer.

Varian blinks rapidly, feeling tears starting to well up. His breath hitches. His eyes burn. He lurches to his feet, standing shaky on the rocking cart, and leans over the back with his hands braced against the ledge.

“Yasmin!”

In the distance, he sees her head rise. He’s too far to properly read her expression, but she’s looking at him. She is waiting for an answer. Varian pitches his voice as far as he can. “I’ll—I’ll be good! I will!”

He lifts his voice, calling out, his words echoing across the fields: “I promise I’ll try!”

Yasmin’s form is growing distant, indistinct. She doesn’t yell back. But she raises her hand, a quiet goodbye silhouetted dark against the pale gray sky, and Varian almost thinks she might be smiling.

And then the cart turns down a bend in the road, and she is gone.

Varian sits back down in the cart and wipes the tears from his cheeks, pulling on the new gloves with trembling fingers. His smile wavers bright and thin on his face. The weight of the gloves makes a knot catch in his throat. For the first time in over a year, in a long, long time… Varian finally feels complete.

It’s not that things are better, really. He’s still afraid—still shaking with it. Going back to Corona still fills him with dread, and he has yet to learn how to deal with the rocks. But for the first time in a while, for all the problems ahead, Varian finally feels like he can face them. Adira’s presence by his side is almost a comfort; the cart, lurching down the road, is finally going somewhere. He finally knows where he’s headed. He finally has a start to this long road he has chosen to walk.

He reaches up and rests a hand on Ruddiger’s head, and the raccoon sniffs at the new gloves and squeaks, delighted. Ruddiger is warm and weighted on his neck, a soothing constant. Varian tilts his head back to that cloudy and bright sky, and his smile pulls hard at his cheeks. It’s a small smile, a fragile thing—but it is there, faint but real, and maybe that’s enough.

.

It’s not working.

Her head aching with the strain of staring at an empty canvas for far too long, Rapunzel blows a strand of hair from her face and settles back on her heels, one hand propped on her hip. She lowers the paintbrush almost reluctantly. The canvas is… it’s a mess. Colors an ugly swirl, a tangle of mish-mashing hues, and she changed her mind on the subject half-way through, and now…

Oh, it’s awful. A lost cause. She sighs and moves the canvas away from her frame, her heart heavy. Another one bites the dust.

Usually this works. Art has always been Rapunzel’s avenue of expression—her way of wants, of desires, of dreams. The new mural spread out on her balcony floor, for instance. But this time, something’s gone wrong. It’s not so much art block as it is something else—a restlessness, an itch, an emotion she can’t pin down. There’s something she’s feeling, something she needs to get down on paper, and yet…

She can’t figure out what it is, this time. It’s not working. For the first time in forever, Rapunzel has found an issue she can’t work through with paint. She isn’t exactly pleased with this astounding phenomenon.

Or maybe, Rapunzel thinks glumly, settling back on her bed, watching the rain pool outside her window—maybe it’s just too much. She’s had… so much to think about, these past few days. The attacks, the blackmail, Vardaros, the Baron…

Stalyan.

Rapunzel’s lips thin, her mouth twisting on the thought. It’s—she’s not stupid. She knows, she knows Eugene loved others, once, knows he was a rogue and a flirt and… well, she knows. Stalyan isn’t a surprise so much as she is… a name, at last, to put to the once many nameless faces. And she isn’t even really the problem. It’s just—

Rapunzel had to learn through a letter.

It’s that which grates on her most of all. This stupid situation—this stupid mess—and it’s so silly, anyways, because Eugene has written the exact same thing. I wish I could have told you in person. I’m sorry I couldn’t. And still, she can’t stop thinking about it—about all of it. Having to learn all this stuff through a letter, and then Cassandra hadn’t even been able to give the letter to Rapunzel. She’d had to sneak it through her window via Owl, because the secret passage route to Cassandra’s rooms only works so long as it remains undiscovered, and…

It’s—awful. It’s just awful. And annoying. And… ugh.

Rapunzel falls back eagle-spread on her bed, bare feet kicking in the air, hair loose and pooling on the floor of her bedroom. Beyond her window she can hear the soft drip of rain, a storm that has lingered over Corona for almost a week now, and she closes her eyes to the soothing sound. It’s only morning, but— she’s exhausted. And she’s already pushed her hands to the limit, from her frustration with the canvas. And she’s still in her nightgown. Maybe—she just needs a break. Maybe she should just go back to sleep…

A knock sounds at the door. “Um, Princess?”

Elias. She bites back a sigh and pries her eyes open, lifting her head. “Yes?”

“Um, your, your parents—um, uh, the King and Queen… request your presence gr-greeting some guests to the castle…”

Oh. Rapunzel closes her eyes. “The…um…” She should know this. “The merchant groups. Yilla. Renewing contracts.” More importantly—it’s busywork. All the politics are already figured out. She resists the urge to sigh again, louder this time.

The queen hasn’t pushed the question about her hands, even though she obviously wishes to. In that way, Rapunzel’s parting comment has left its mark. That doesn’t mean anything else has changed. Her parents are still, even now, trying to keep Rapunzel in the dark.

She scowls at her bedcovers, lowering her head to cradle her forehead in her palms. Pascal, on her shoulder, pats her face in quiet sympathy. “I’ll be right out,” she calls to Elias, exhausted with it all. “One moment!”

She gets dressed as quick as she can, in the stiff formal gown Rapunzel hates but her parents prefer for formal situations. Pascal helps wordlessly with the bodice, and while usually Rapunzel would braid her hair for this, she has neither the time nor ability—after her painting session her hands are stiff and frozen, tight with pain, and she grabs for the beads, instead. Pascal helps her with the clasp, and when Rapunzel pulls on her gloved she has to do so with her teeth.

She’s pushed it today, she thinks, somewhat mournfully, and massages gently at her palm to loosen some of the pain. Her fingers still won’t curl right. Pascal gives her a look.

“I know,” Rapunzel mutters, exasperated, and hides her hands behind her back when Pascal opens the door.  Elias stands in the door, hand raised as if to knock again, amber eyes wide—when he sees her he squeaks and hurries aside, hands scrambling at his halberd. 

Rapunzel sweeps out into the hall, right past Elias, and heads for the stairs. He scrambles to keep up, eyes wide behind his helmet. Despite everything, the sight almost makes her want to smile.

“We’re meeting in the throne room, right?”

“Ye-yes…”

She does smile at him this time, hoping to put him more at ease. She doesn’t dislike Elias—doesn’t really know him, honestly—but he doesn’t seem the bad sort, and his nerves are understandable. He’s stressed, too, and his support during the dinner conversation has endeared him to her a little. He reminds her, strangely, a little of Varian—less confident, and not at all angry, but… young. And trying his best, with all that’s been given. Quiet kindnesses.

The thought of Varian makes her smile falter. Rapunzel turns away. She hasn’t thought of Varian in… too long, she thinks. She’s tried not to. It’s—useless to worry about him, when he is so far away and she is unlikely to ever see him again, but sometimes thoughts like this crop up. It’d be a stretch to say she misses him—even now, after the labyrinth, she isn’t sure where they stand, and he’d been cruel to her for so many months before that—but sometimes she wonders how he’s doing. If he’s okay. If…

Useless thoughts, in the end. She tries to push past them. Quick, Rapunzel! Distraction!

“It’s—” Hello, train of thought, where did you go? Rapunzel clears her throat. “It’s… been a hard couple of weeks, hasn’t it?” She bites her lip, staring down at her bare feet. “I want to say, I’m sorry for all the trouble—”

“It—it’s no trouble!” Elias fumbles, then seems to blanch when he realizes he’s cut her off. He swallows hard. “It’s… it’s an honor, my princess.”

“Mm…”

He watches her, hesitant, and then slowly relaxes. “But…” His voice trails off, going small, and he takes a quick breath. “Ye-yes, it… it has been, um… quite a week. Haha.”

An understatement, really, and to such a degree she almost smiles, even though it isn’t really funny. Eugene’s letter had filled Rapunzel in on that, too. There’s been another harbor attack—the city of Port Caul, in the kingdom of Lencia, brought to its knees. It’s not at all near Corona—a two months journey at best—but it’s a major trade partner, and now it won’t be trading at all, not for a while. Another route lost.

“The castle has really been up in arms…” She glances back at him, wondering. “I meant to ask you—was it like this before I came back, too? It all feels so sudden to me, but…”

Elias hesitates. “It, um, it was… actually was kind of sudden,” he admits, voice small. “First it was a letter… and the routes started closing… and—and then—” He cuts himself off, looking away, and shrugs one shoulder. His lips are pressed thin and tight.

“…Oh.” There’s not much she can say to that. Rapunzel turns away, eyes fixing back on the hall. They move down the final flight of stairs, stepping out into the main wing of the castle. The grand hall stretches out wide before them, pale and blue in the dim light of the morning rain. The lamps burn small and golden, little haloes of light.

“Act-actually…”

Rapunzel blinks, looking back at Elias. The boy looks conflicted, his breathing quick and funny. “Hm?”

“I… I have a friend. Addy. Adeline. Um.” He shifts in place, his grip tight on the halberd. Rapunzel blinks, her attention focusing. He looks—afraid. Almost ill. She straightens. This is serious, apparently. “She… we—explore. Sometimes. Tunnels… and, and—dungeons.” He bites his lip, hard. “I’m, I’m sorry, I mean, I don’t know if it’s… um, im-important? But I know—you’ve been looking around—and all this, it happened… at—the same time. As the attacks. And, and everything else.”

Rapunzel watches him, closely, stopped fully now. Elias cringes under her attention. “Maybe? But my friend—Addy—she thinks—there’s s-something—in one of the cells, in the dungeons, and we heard them—and after that night, everyone started getting so angry, all the time, and Addy, she thinks—” Elias cuts himself off mid-word. His eyes go wide. His attention fixes over her shoulder, and stutters to a stop. “C-C-Ca—”

Rapunzel follows his gaze. Her breath catches. Pascal squeaks on her shoulder. “Cass?”

Down the hall, exiting through the other set of doors, is Cassandra. After a week of silence, seeing her is like a shock—for a moment, Rapunzel feels frozen, staring. Cassandra walks down the hall with her fists clenched and her eyes dark, mouth twisted on a frown. She’s not dressed for guard duty yet, and she doesn’t seem to have noticed them, her head bowed to stare unseeingly at the polished castle floors. But she’s here. She’s right here.

The conversation completely forgotten, Rapunzel races forward, almost tripping in her haste. “Cass!” she cries. “Cassandra!”

Cassandra stops in her tracks, her head snapping up. Her eyes widen. “…Rapunzel?”

“Cass!” She barrels into Cassandra for a hug, squeezing her tight. Cassandra hugs her back almost on automatic, and when Rapunzel pulls away she still looks stunned, blinking fast. “Oh, it’s so good to see you! I haven’t talked to you since—” Last week, she means to say, but then she remembers Elias at her back and the fact her father has banned her from seeing Cassandra at all, and blanches. “—sssssssince I came back! To Corona! Haha!”

Cassandra blinks and then gives Rapunzel a look, almost bemused, a faint smile pulling at her lips. She doesn’t seem to have seen Elias yet. “Since you’ve been back,” she agrees, almost a question, her eyebrows raised. She looks Rapunzel up and down and blinks again. “What’s with the get-up?”

“Politics,” Rapunzel admits, sighing heavily. She scowls down at the formal gown and then lifts her head with a weak smile. “Um, merchant contracts, I think.” Lower, she adds, bitter: “Busy work.”

Cassandra’s face is momentarily unreadable, but then she visibly shakes herself and frowns. “That’s… I’m sorry, Raps.” She squeezes at her shoulder. “Chin up, yeah? You’ll…” She trails off, suddenly, her eyes catching over Rapunzel’s shoulder. Something flashes through her eyes. She stops talking.

Rapunzel glances back, seeing Elias, standing small and nervous at the end of the corridor and trying desperately not to look at them, and sighs, her headache returning. Right. Elias. Replacing Cassandra, watching her for the King…

“It’s fine,” Rapunzel says, subdued. She tries for a smile. “He’s… he’s fine. He’s actually very sweet, honestly.”

“Sweet for a spy.” Cassandra’s voice is cold. Rapunzel frowns at her, and she shakes her head. “No. No, that’s good. I guess. Sorry.”

“Yes…” Rapunzel leans in, hugging Cassandra again on impulse. She’s missed her, missed having her by her side, missed just having a friend. “I mean it, though! It’s been a while. How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Cassandra steps away from the embrace, tone clipped. She rubs one hand at her upper arm, starting to look agitated.

“I’m glad.” Rapunzel steps back too, giving her some space. Her voice lowers. “Actually, um, I wanted to thank you—”

“Don’t mention it.”

“U-um, okay.” Rapunzel blinks fast and then rallies herself. She needs to go soon, but before she does— “I…” She drops her voice to a whisper. “I’ll try and get out tonight or tomorrow—I know we can’t really do anything, but maybe we could talk for a bit? Or visit Eugene? There’s some stuff I want to—to talk through, and—” She smiles, weakly. “I miss you guys.”

Cassandra doesn’t smile back. When she speaks, her voice is flat, and she is not whispering. “Are you serious?”

Rapunzel blinks fast, taken aback. “Um—”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“I—I just thought—”

“It’s not like I’ll have anything to report, anyway. Have I been any help at all these past few weeks?” She scoffs, cutting Rapunzel off before she can answer. “Besides, it’s not a good idea. Are you trying to get me into trouble?”

“I—no!” Rapunzel steps back, stunned. “Cass, of course not! I just thought…”

“We’re not even supposed to be talking right now,” Cassandra adds, poisonously, eyes snapping to Elias, and something in Rapunzel snaps.

“Cass!” Rapunzel shouts, and Cassandra’s eyes crack back to her. Rapunzel stares at her. She doesn’t say anything. The silence almost seems to echo. Cassandra’s eyes are wide.

“I don’t understand,” Rapunzel says, helplessly, her voice tight, and Cassandra outright freezes.

“You—!”

For a moment her face tightens, and she almost seems to snarl—and then the moment fades. Cassandra’s eyes squeeze shut. She brings a hand to her temple. Her lips curl not into a snarl, but a grimace. “…Sorry.”

“Cass…”

“Sorry. I just—haven’t been sleeping well.” Her hand drops. All at once she sounds tired, dull and worn thin. “It was good seeing you, Rapunzel. But let’s just… I’d rather not get into any more trouble than I’m already in, okay?” She turns away. “See you around.”

“Cass!”

It’s too late. Cassandra has already gone.

Rapunzel watches Cassandra go, feeling almost cold. Her breathing is tight. Her hands are aching. Her teeth clenched. Cassandra turns the corner and vanishes from view, and Rapunzel stares after her for a long time, something in her shaking. Pascal, on her shoulder, is frowning. His tail pats Rapunzel’s cheek. Rapunzel doesn’t move.

Hesitant footsteps approach her side, the clank of armor. “…Princess—are, are you okay?”

She breathes. “I’m fine.”

Elias is silent for too long. Rapunzel turns to him. “What is it?”

“You—you look—” He falters, his voice going small. “Um.”

The observation startles her. Rapunzel stares. “What?”

Wordless, Elias points a hand to his face.

Rapunzel raises a hand to her cheek, feeling numb. Her gloves come away damp with tears. She stares at it, wide-eyed, and thinks: Oh.

Oh.

The empty canvas, the uncertain emotion. The tangle of feeling in her gut. And this, too—the burn behind her eyes, inside her chest, in her heart. The roar in her ears. She knows this. She knows this.

Her mouth is dry. Her hands are shaking. She is struck with the sudden urge to—to break something, or scream, or just sit down and cry. Why is everything going wrong? Eugene, leaving. Stalyan—this part of his past he never shared, and he couldn’t even tell her to her face. Varian, missing, whose presence haunts her like a ghost—her parents—

She knows why Eugene can’t tell her. She knows why he didn’t want to. She knows it isn’t Varian’s fault that everyone is hounding her; she was the one who chose to let him go, after all, which is the main issue. Her parents are another story, but… she’d accepted this. She’d known this was coming. She’s fighting it. She was ready for this!

And yet.

Her hands shake.

Rapunzel stares at the floor, feeling cold, feeling flushed. She rubs hard at her face, trying to stop from crying. She hates this. She hates crying like this—her throat all twisted and her words all gone. She hates this.

Cass.

It’s not fair. She knows Cassandra is hurting. She understands why. But Rapunzel didn’t ask for this, either.

Why won’t you just talk to me?

A long time ago, after Varian nearly killed Rapunzel with the arrow and everything spiraled into pieces, Cassandra had sat Rapunzel down and asked her to be honest. To trust her. And Rapunzel had promised. She had promised, and she has—she has tried, over and over, again and again. She is trying so hard to be honest with them, even when it hurts, even when it’s about things she wishes she could lock away and never think about again. And it infuriates her. It rises in her like a burning wave, strangles her throat and makes her eyes hot, because—

I’m trying to be honest with you, Cass. So why won’t you be honest with me? 

Why won’t you talk to me?

Rapunzel swallows hard. She closes her eyes. She breathes through her teeth. She raises her hands and threads them through her hair, yanks once and yanks hard, and then smooths the strands back with shaking, aching fingers.

Elias’s voice is so quiet. “I’m—I’m—I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Rapunzel pries her eyes open, breathing past the wall of emotion beating against her chest. “I—it was always there, I guess, I just—I didn’t realize. Really.” She reaches a shaking hand and dabs away the tears with her gloves. “Sorry.”

Elias looks miserable. His eyes fall. “I…” He hesitates. “If there, there’s anything I can—”

“It’s fine,” Rapunzel repeats, quiet. She rubs her face dry and breathes in deep, pulling on composure like a cloak. Heat coils tight and bitter in her gut. She hates it. She hates this. “…We—we have somewhere to be, anyway. The merchants.”

Elias nods, hesitant. His eyes cannot seem to decide whether to stay fixed on the floor or on her.

“Right,” Rapunzel says. She takes another breath. “Right.” She rubs the last of her tears away and straightens. “Let’s go, then.”

His lips press. His head dips. But Elias does not argue, and he leads her to the throne room with his head low and his shoulders bowed almost in something like guilt.

She should say something to him, probably—but she’s tired. She’s so tired. She is so angry she aches with it. Her hands are shaking like a storm, and she has to fold them behind her back to keep her poise. Even her hair feels heavy, right now—a ball-and-chain, the weight of destiny. Awful, awful, awful. Her eyes burn. She wants to go home.

Rapunzel enters the throne room with her head high and her mind a million miles away. She is late, and the advisors look testy; Rapunzel’s mother meets her eyes for one second before her gaze flickers down to Rapunzel’s hands. Rapunzel moves them behind her back, poised, her expression unchanging. 

Her father watches the exchange warily, his lips pressed thin. He seems to realize something is wrong. He studies her face. “Rapunzel—”

She meets his eyes. “Yes?”

He quiets. He looks away.

Rapunzel bites back another sigh, and heads for her seat by their thrones, settling into the chair exhausted relief. She folds her gloved hands in her lap, half-hidden in her skirts, and Pascal jumps down to settle in her palms, the weight of him warm and soothing against the ache. Rapunzel forces a faint smile for him and then keeps her eyes on the great doors. As soon as this is over, Rapunzel is taking a nap.

She’s so tired.

Trumpets sound, loud and echoing, and the noise makes her flinch. The merchant caravan is announced by the herald, their issues presented… the doors, swinging open, admit a bald middle-aged man with sweat on his brow, dressed in dark red threads. Yilla, the merchant leader. He walks with wringing hands.

And then, stepping up beside him— a woman.

 Even from a distance, the newcomer is visibly striking. Long, dark brown curls frame a heart-shaped face, her clothes expensive and well-tailored. She is tall and smirking, her head high and proud, and she almost seems to be laughing as she leans over to the herald, whispering something in the man’s ear. Her smile is cold and bright and unwavering on her face.

Something washes over Rapunzel then. A warmth. A whisper. A hiss of threat. She straightens in her seat. Her head spins. Her eyes feel hot, burning. There is something here—something about this woman—that makes her every nerve scream in warning.

The herald is still listening to the woman, and when she finishes speaking he goes pale in the face. For a moment he fumbles. His glance back at the King is terrified.

“And—and if I may present,” says the herald, stuttering and shaking on his tongue, “with the merchant Yilla… his g-guest, Lady Stalyan of Vardaros!”

.

.

.

Deep in the dungeons of Corona, locked far away from the commotion above, a lone prisoner sits slumped against the wall.

His once-long and beautiful hair has gone ratty and grimy with time; his hands hang limp before his knees. His shoulders slump forward, his head bowed—in defeat, perhaps, or maybe sleep. In this dismal and empty dungeon hall, the prisoner rests with his eyes closed.

Water drips in the distance. Someone yells. The creak of metal armor from patrolling guards passes by and fades, again and again. And still, the prisoner does not move. Still, the prisoner does not speak. His shoulders are tense and taut. His fingers curled. His eyes closed, his ears straining. Not a man asleep at all—not defeated—but something else. He is listening. He is waiting. He has been waiting here for over a year.

And then, at long last: he hears the answer.

Something shifts in the shadows. An echo hums in the air, a low buzz like a swarm. The prisoner’s fingers seize and twitch at the icy touch trailing his shoulders, and then still at the whisper echoing in his ears.

His eyes burn. His smile pulls wide and cruel. The prisoner starts to shake, laughter wheezing through clenched teeth, and in the shadows of his eyes, his hatred shines bright and green.

“It’s finally begun, huh?” He crosses his legs at the ankle, lounging back against the wall. He exhales a long sigh. The air ripples at his breath—an echo, a whisper made manifold, a twist of magic like an oily rot. Halfway down the hall, a guard is struck with a blinding rage, his innermost anger set to boiling, and turns to strike his fellow. A sword is drawn with a shriek of steal. Someone screams.

The commotion catches an audience—another set of guards—footsteps pound on the stone, the men come running. The guard, down the hall, is apologizing. His sword is bloody. His fellow lies still on the cold floors. I don’t know what came over me, the first guard is saying, high and hysterical. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want— I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this!

And far away from the disaster, safely hidden in his cell, Andrew tilts back his head to the dungeon’s grimy ceiling and laughs.

“Finally,” he says.

I don’t know what came over me!

“Let the countdown begin.”

Chapter Text

As the Sun continued her fruitless search, deep in the shadows, unable to pull away, the Moon too slowly began to fall.

You might be starting to doubt me, by this point, but I assure you: She fell. How could she not? Lovely Moon, lonely Moon, who danced alone despite all the stars that cluttered around her. Yes, she fell. She watched from shadows as the radiant woman scoured the seas, and with every moment found herself drawn in ever closer, caught in the Sun’s brilliant glow. For although Moon did not linger alone in the skies, never had she seen a being quite like Sun. Sun was closer and brighter than any other star—great and grand and tall, her smile soft and glowing, her long train of tightly coiled hair like fire. The Sun was blinding in her radiance and the Moon knew not how to face her.

And there was this, too, of course. The Sun searched. She looked for Moon everywhere, and called apologies across the sea; with every day of failure her eyes fell and her expression went downcast. And slowly, something in the Moon’s stone heart began to stir. Little by little, she fell.

Until finally, one day, when the Sun had almost given up hope on ever seeing that lovely woman again— the Moon at last left her shadows, and approached… 

.

.

.

For a moment, Rapunzel is frozen still.

Her hands curl into her skirts, stiff and aching, the pain like lightning up her wrists. Her breath has caught, strangled, in her throat. The name almost seems to echo, and the whole court is struck silent—Rapunzel, choking on the shock; her mother, now white in the face; and her father—the King—

His reaction is most surprising of all. Because as Stalyan approaches, as her name rings out—the King looks not angry, or shocked, or afraid… but tired.

Then the exhaustion fades, and fury sparks, and he sits upright in the throne, eyes flashing. His fingers clench on the armrests of the golden chair; Rapunzel can almost hear his teeth grind. The court shifts back to life in the same instant— whispers echoing across the great hall, pale faces and gaping mouths hidden behind raised hands. The guards are stiff-backed, their hands tight around their halberds, eyes burning beneath the helmets. Rapunzel casts her gaze around the room, and is floored by the response. She knows the name only from Eugene—and yet, there is no denying this. At the sound of Stalyan’s name, the whole castle has drawn itself up in arms.

Stalyan, for her part, almost seems to bask in the attention. The throne room is pale and gray in the grips of the morning storm—the windows blurry with rain, the lights dim, the air freezing to the touch. The members of her father’s court are all dressed in heavy cloaks and dark coats to fight the chill, and in contrast Stalyan is a flash of brilliant color, bright red lips and swaying skirts, as if the cold hasn’t touched her at all. She saunters to the throne with a small smile playing at her lips, and when she kneels before the king, there is something mocking in the slow duck of her head.

She is nothing like Rapunzel has imagined her to be, and yet exactly as she expected. The smile that curls at her eyes; the sway to her walk, the laughter in every movement. There’s a control to her, a grace to her every action: like a performer on a stage, who knows exactly the role she’s playing. It strikes Rapunzel as sickeningly familiar.

There’s no question, really, of who Stalyan reminds her of, and Rapunzel hates that most of all. Because there is something about Stalyan that reminds her of Eugene, of Eugene-of-before, when Rapunzel first met him, and the resemblance digs into her insides like a splinter. All at once, it is so much harder to breathe.

Stalyan is still kneeling—head bowed, but even then, Rapunzel can see the smile curling smug at her lips. She is flanked from both sides by two men, tall and broad-shouldered and armored, stone-faced under the stares of the court. They stop a few steps behind her, arms crossed.

“Lady Stalyan,” says Rapunzel’s father. His voice is low and furious.

Stalyan lifts her head, just a little, at the address. If the King’s disapproval unnerves her at all, she doesn’t show it. Her eyes linger on the whispering court, on the queen, on Rapunzel—before fixing, at last, on the king. Her smile widens.

“King Frederic.”

“I don’t recall inviting you to court.”

“Well, then, I apologize for the lack of forewarning,” Stalyan says, raising her head fully. She’s still smiling—though now, in the dim light of the storm lamps, it looks a little more like a smirk. Rapunzel grits her teeth. “I hope I’m not intruding? Yilla here—” She waves one hand behind her, at the merchant who granted her entrance. The man closes his eyes, looking sick. “Well, he assured me his contract with the Kingdom was already set, so I figured I’d simply just… tag along. You know?”

“That contract is looking to be revoked,” Rapunzel’s father snaps, icy. Yilla the merchant cringes. “Lady Stalyan.What are you doing here?”

“I only want to talk,” Stalyan says, heedless of the danger in the King’s tone. She places a hand on her chest, over her heart. “It was a last-minute kind of idea. I just thought I would stop by and… see how negotiations were going?” Her smile grows. “On that previous matter we discussed.”

“There is no discussion.” His voice is flat. “I have given you my answer, and it is no.” 

“And talking as a concerned neighbor of your kingdom, I really must protest.” Stalyan tosses her hair over one shoulder, waving her hand carelessly through the air. “King Frederic, I’m not an enemy. I know things have been… hard for your kingdom, lately. With all the port cities falling to attack, I mean, I imagine you must be spread quite thin…?”

Rapunzel’s father doesn’t even twitch. Stalyan shrugs. “Well. The other Kingdoms may fall back, and selfishly guard their borders, but my father has other plans. Vardaros is only growing in power under our rule, and we have aid to spare for Corona.”

He speaks through grit teeth. “We did not ask for your help.”

“It’s a gift!” Stalyan’s smile is hard. Her eyes are laughing. “Well, and as far as I know… my father and I are the only ones offering aid. Really, now. Can you justify turning us down?” She clicks her tongue, sounding briefly disgusted, smile fallen to a scowl. “King Frederic, I thought you cared about your people, not your pride.”

Rapunzel inhales sharply, stunned by her daring. She looks at her parents before she can even think to stop herself. Rapunzel’s mother is tight-lipped and cold, fury in the set of her hands, but it is the King who Rapunzel watches the closest. All the color has drained from his face; his eyes burn like a banked fire.

Rapunzel bites her lip, waiting for him to snap. For the thunder in his voice, for the denials. She almost wants it. Stalyan—Stalyan is here. Here in the castle, in Rapunzel’s home. This woman is responsible for most—if not all! —that has been going wrong, and to see her—to hear her— to have her here, now, of all times—when Rapunzel’s head still aches and her hands still spasm, with the echo of Cassandra’s words in her ears—

She can’t. She can’t.

And so, for the first time, Rapunzel waits desperately for her father’s anger, for him to deny and defy and shut the doors. But the King does not move. His lips are a thin line, and his hands clench— and yet. He grits his teeth, and holds his tongue, and says absolutely nothing at all.

And Stalyan smiles.

“Really,” she says, starting again—but Rapunzel is no longer listening. She stares at her father with wide eyes, something sinking in her chest. He’s… he’s not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything? Why is he just taking it? If he knows—if her father recognizes Stalyan for what she is—then why?

Something cold strikes through her. Her breathing stutters in her chest.

“W-wait,” Rapunzel says, and stands, her voice rising. “Wait!”

The court has gone dead quiet, all eyes on her. Rapunzel barely notices. She feels feverish and thin, grasping for straws, trying in vain to understand. “That’s not true!” she cries, staring at Stalyan. “That’s not true!”

Stalyan sniffs, annoyed. Her glance at Rapunzel is dismissive and full of contempt. “Oh?”

“The King—” Stalyan raises an eyebrow, looking bored. Rapunzel’s hands curl into painful fists. “Corona is—!”

“Rapunzel!”

She cuts herself off, stunned. Her father stares down at her from his throne, his eyes bright with an emotion she can’t name. His next words hiss through clenched teeth. “Sit. Down.”

Rapunzel almost gapes at him. “But—”

“Yes,” Stalyan says, and Rapunzel’s eyes snap back to her. Stalyan is smiling again, but there’s nothing friendly in the expression—her eyes are narrowed, her lip curled. “Sit down, Princess. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Watch your tongue,” Rapunzel’s father says, coldly, before Rapunzel can reply. “The same can be said for you, Lady Stalyan. For all you claim your father is eager to offer aid, he has yet to come here and offer it himself, has he not?”

Stalyan’s expression flickers, quicksilver and bitter, a flash of fury before her head bows. “I… I only meant that this was a matter between us, Your Majesty. After all, I act in my father’s stead.” Her head lifts. She looks to the side, and meets Rapunzel’s eyes. “Does your daughter act in yours?”

Rapunzel turns to her father. She can hardly believe this, cannot understand it—cannot fathom what is happening. Why is he listening to this? Doesn’t he know who Stalyan is? Why haven’t they thrown her out? Why—

Her eyes catch over her father’s shoulder. Beside Elias, who has stood shaking and small ever since Stalyan walked in, is the Captain of the Guard, Cassandra’s father. He is dressed in full armor; he stands tall by the throne. But his eyes are dark. His teeth are grit. He—

He looks angry.

He looks resigned.

And something finally clicks.

Rapunzel casts her gaze around the throne room, horror climbing up her throat. The whispers. The way the whole room had reacted, the way they’d known—the way no-one had tried to stop Stalyan from approaching despite the hate in their eyes, not even the guards.

She’d known someone was attempting to blackmail Corona, but never in her wildest dreams has she thought they were succeeding. But the pieces come together, at long last, and Rapunzel can finally see the picture they paint. The pirates attacking the coast. The trade routes closing down. Money lost; jobs stalled. Revenue cut. Land trade would become all the more important—guards hired out for the long journeys on the roads—and that means—

My father and I are the only ones offering aid.

And there it is: the answer. Maybe the castle does know. Maybe they’ve known all along who Stalyan is, what this offer entails. But they don’t have the money or the people to spare, and there are no other offers. Corona has been caught, tangled in the web—

And they cannot afford to refuse.

Her father—the King—looks across, and meets Rapunzel’s eyes. “Sit down, Rapunzel,” he says. His voice is hard. His jaw is clenched tight with helpless anger. “And do not interrupt again.”

The feud between the guards and the King—smarted pride, helpless anger. The wariness of the citizens. The rumors.

Stalyan is smiling again. Her eyes gleam bright and burning, as violent as the storm outside. She stands below the throne, surrounded by glaring eyes, but there is a light in her face, and victory in her smile— as if, deep inside, she’s already sure that she’s won.

And the worst part is—

Maybe she has.

Rapunzel sits down, hands curled into trembling and painful fists, and grinds her teeth so hard she thinks she might break.

“Wonderful,” Stalyan says, soft and smug. How could Eugene have liked this woman? What could he have seen in her? Her smile makes Rapunzel sick. “Let’s talk business, then, shall we?”

.

The rest of the negotiations pass by in a blur.

Rapunzel barely listens, her head spinning, eyes hot and fingers wound tight from stress and pain. By the time Stalyan leaves—empty-handed still, though with a smile and a promise to return that makes something lurch ill at Rapunzel’s gut—the rain has stalled, the sky darkened to late afternoon, and the throne room is stiff with silence.

The door clicks shut behind Stalyan’s retreating back, and Rapunzel’s father waves his hand. “Go,” he says, cold in a way Rapunzel has rarely heard him, and his court scatters like breaking glass, vanishing out of the room. Only Elias remains, lingering small behind the thrones like he’d rather be anywhere else. Rapunzel’s mother, still sitting, shades her eyes with her hand and sighs.

Rapunzel stares at the doors for a long moment, her breath shaking in her chest, fluttery and fragile. Then Pascal jumps to her shoulder and chirps at her, and all at once the world snaps back into place. She inhales so sharply she almost chokes, and jumps to her feet, whirling on the throne. “Dad—”

His eyes have closed. He puts his head in his hands. “No, Rapunzel.”

“I haven’t even said—” Something catches and strangles at her throat. “What—you have to know who she is. What she wants! And the things she was saying, I— the Baron, we can’t let—”

“Rapunzel,” her mother says, bracing.

“Enough,” her father snaps, at the same time. His hand lowers. His expression is stormy. “I know, daughter.”

“Then why are you—”

His voice has gone flat. “It is none of your concern.”

“But—”

“No!” His hand slams down on the arm of the throne. His head lifts. “This is not a debate, Rapunzel! If I had known that— that she was here—then you would not have entered this room.”

Rapunzel steps forward, beseeching. “But I was here. And I know—who she is, what she’s doing! I’m already involved! Please, I can—I’ll be more careful next time, I won’t interrupt, I just— let me just try—”

“No.”

“She’s trying to hurt Corona!” Rapunzel cries out, her patience finally snapped. “She’s already hurt Corona!” How many trade partners have they lost, in these past few months? What does that mean for the people, for the merchants, the artisans and farmers and the people who depend on the sea? Something deep inside Rapunzel has cracked, a thread worn down to breaking. She’s losing hold of all of it—her emotions, her grip, this conversation. She remembers Stalyan’s cold little smile and feels sick. “I have to—”

The King rises to his feet, expression closed off, then pivots on his heel and heads for the door. He says not a word to her; he barely even looks at her. Rapunzel snaps her mouth shut, feeling slapped—and when she turns to her mother, it’s to see her standing to leave too.

It burns. A strangled cry rises in Rapunzel’s throat, and she lunges forward, chest tight, following after them. “Stop hiding things from me!” she shouts at their backs. “You can’t—!”

“As though you haven’t been hiding things from us?” Her father turns to her, his composure broken. He gestures at her—no, Rapunzel realizes, at her gloves, and she flinches back before she can stop herself. “You cannot demand honesty from others and then refuse to give it in turn in the same breath!” He closes his eyes, exhaling hard. “Not to mention whatever happened with—that boy, Varian—”

“I—” Her throat closes up. “That’s different.”

“It concerns our kingdom, and our people’s safety—so no. It is not.”

“Varian isn’t—what happened in the labyrinth— he’s not a threat!”

“And you have no proof of that!” The Queen puts a hand on his shoulder; the King inhales deeply, shaky, his teeth grit. When he opens his eyes again, his expression is calm and cold. “And I find it especially interesting, daughter, that you recognized Stalyan for who she was, when I have been explicitly clear that you are to stay far away from all of this.”

Rapunzel flushes, furious. “I—!”

“I’ve made my decision.”

Her eyes burn. Her chest is strangled tight, twisted to breaking. She thinks of Stalyan’s mocking laughter and the cruelty in her eyes as she insulted Corona, the king, her people—the way no-one dared say a word in protest, even as their eyes burned, and something deep inside Rapunzel’s heart gives in and cracks.

“Why are you just taking it?” she whispers.

There’s a moment of silence. The Queen looks away. The King’s gaze drops to the floor. He is quiet for a long time, and then his shoulders slump. His eyes close again. This time he does not look angry. He looks—he looks—

When he raises his head, and meets her eyes, his expression is grim—but his eyes are so, so tired.

“Return to your rooms, Rapunzel,” he says, and he says it low, says it softly, and this time when he walks away, Rapunzel doesn’t try to follow.

Her mother exits with him, quiet as a ghost, her lips twisted shut. She doesn’t look back at Rapunzel either. For a moment, though, her eyes catch on Rapunzel’s hands, the leather gloves—and something in her, too, seems to drop, her shoulders bowed.

“Oh, Rapunzel,” she says. “Get some rest.”

Rapunzel stares down at the throne room floors, waiting for the sound of their footsteps to fade. She feels very dizzy, and sort of sick; at the same time she is frozen, so cold she has to fight not to shiver. It’s not raining anymore, and in fact the clouds are thinning, letting in faded streaks of reddish light—and yet. She feels so cold.

She’s alone in this room, except for Elias—as always, ever by her side. The guards have gone, the advisors scattered. The thrones look small and fragile, swallowed up by the stone. The pretty tile floors are stained bloody and bright in the afternoon light.

Rapunzel stares at the door so hard her eyes hurt.

There’s a creak from behind her, the squeal of old armor. Elias. He approaches tentatively, carefully, and he stops just out of reach. She can hear him take a breath—deep, steadying. As though bracing himself.

“…Princess, a-are you—” 

She turns. “Let’s go.”

Elias says nothing more.

Rapunzel walks through the castle in something like a blur, her head hot, her hands shaking. She slams back into her rooms with a violence she hadn’t thought herself capable of. The doors smack against the wall and bounce back, and—she flinches. She doesn’t feel any better. It’s not enough. It’s like being bruised. She feels too small for her skin, like there’s lightning in her blood, shaking all the way through her. She wants to break something. She wants to scream. She wants— she wants—

For a moment Rapunzel just stands there, in this beautiful tower room. She takes it all in. Her painted walls, her soft bed, the open balcony with its lovely new artwork, Corona in eclipse. She looks at those lovely marble walls, the wide double-doors, and it feels like a chain around her heart.

She can’t stay here, Rapunzel realizes. She can’t. She can’t sit trapped in this tower a second longer, or she really will go mad.

She doesn’t bother to close the doors behind her. She heads for the balcony, drawing her hair out from the beads, and loops the long strands around the railing with trembling fingers. She can’t get the tie right. In the end, Pascal has to crawl down her arm and finish the knot for her, securing her hair for the descent, and Rapunzel closes her eyes against a sudden wave of tears. It’s not sadness. It’s not—she’s almost used to her hands by now, really, but—

It’s so frustrating. On top of everything else, it is just—so, so frustrating.

She buries her head in her arms. She breathes. Her head pounds.

“P-Princess…?”

She doesn’t move. Her breath is hot against her palms. She lifts her head and looks back at Elias.

His expression has gone drawn and fearful; his eyes are wide, lips tight and pale. His hands shake on the halberd. He looks between her and the railing and back again. Yes, Rapunzel thinks. That’s right. Elias, her new guard. Her father’s spy. Ordered to never let her out of sight.

“Yes?” she says, and there is a coldness to her that she has never felt before. She isn’t shaking anymore—she is still. Something curls in her heart, pulls cruel at her expression. (I’m trapped, something in her whispers, even then. A voice that sounds just like hers, only younger, only smaller, only afraid. Even now, still, I’m trapped.)

She keeps her eyes on him. Elias stares at her and then at his feet, unable to meet her gaze. His face twists, as though he’s about to cry. His amber eyes are glassy and wet. Then, his jaw clenches. His expression firms. He takes a deep breath, and lifts his head, eyes still bright but steadier, now, determined—

“It’s alright,” Rapunzel says, before he can speak. His mouth snaps shut. All at once the emotion has drained from her; she feels deadened, quiet. Her heart has sunk to her gut. She doesn’t want to know what he’ll say. She doesn’t want to hear it.

She looks down at the balcony floor, her newest mural painted bright and bold against the gray stone: Corona in shadow, the eclipse above, little lights still shining. The morning she’d painted it, all those weeks ago, the image had given her hope. Now it leaves her tired. “You can tell him.”

“I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Rapunzel says, gentle and dead. She turns back to the railing, looking up at the sky. The storm is truly over, now—the rain vanished, the sky slowly clearing up, and Rapunzel feels, bizarrely, as though it’s leaving her behind. Come back, some part of her wants to say. Come back here. But that, too, is a stupid thought.

Something bitter tugs at her upper lip. “He probably should have expected this,” she says, finally. “In fact… I want you to.” She looks back. Her expression firms; her hands tighten on the railing. “Tell the King I’ll be back when I feel like it.”

Elias’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t— I don’t have to tell him anything.” He swallows. “I don’t.”

Rapunzel’s lips press, a grimaced smile. “Oh.” It hurts. It’s kind. He’d be dismissed from the guard for sure, speaking like that, if anyone found out. Her eyes burn. “I— that’s— thank you. I mean it. Thank you, Elias. But—” She forces another smile, unsteady and weak on her face. “You don’t have to do that for me.”

He stammers. “But I—”

“Please.” She’s grateful, a little, but mostly she is just tired. Tired of things going wrong. Of people giving up the things that matter to them. Of people giving up these things up for her, especially. “Please, just… please don’t.”

Elias falters, and he looks down again. At last—slowly, reluctant—he gives a tiny nod. “Okay,” he says, in a small voice. “Then… I’ll tell him. If you say so.” His head lifts. “…Princess, are you— are you okay?”

Rapunzel almost laughs at him. She swallows down the hysterical giggle, feeling it flutter uncomfortably in her chest, and turns away. She leans her arms against the railing, and swings herself up to sit on the bar; the cold metal burns at her legs even through the dress. Her feet dangle over the ledge. She reaches up and grips her hair in shaking hands, wraps it secure around her arm. She stares up into the glare of the afternoon sun, the light breaking through the clouds—and all at once, she doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.

“Yes,” Rapunzel says, finally, dully, and slips down off the balcony before Elias can work up the nerve to call her out on the lie.

.

In the quiet grips of the morning fog, the Riesling woods are really quite lovely. With its soft rolling hills and towering trees, clustered so close that from above there’s no break in the green, the woods are peaceful in a way that seems almost unreal. The one road is dirt-worn and broken up by roots, barely wide enough for a cart. Any towns nearby are small and isolated; tiny thatch roof cottage houses with home-grown gardens and barely a market to speak of.

It’s peaceful, in these woods—sleepy, even. They’d entered three days ago, jumping off the latest wagon to make this trek by foot, and it still boggles the mind. It’s so gentle—all birdsong and scattered sunlight, like something from a kinder dream. It’s unreal.

And it’s almost funny, in a way, Varian thinks, staring up at the mist. Because the last time he spent an inordinate amount of time traveling across a couple of countries, he’s pretty sure he hated it. 

“Moony.”

Of course, Varian reflects, he probably had his reasons for that. The chains—gods, he remembers those. The iron always chafed at his wrists, and he could never really get comfortable, and that iron ball, so heavy, he’d hated that most of all…

“Moony. Get up.”

And sure, he’s spent these past six months traveling with Adira too, but those early months after the labyrinth had never quite felt real. Not in the way that mattered. There’d been no destination to it, no meaning—and Varian hadn’t really been in a state to much care, either. This is the first time it’s really felt true—Corona, off in the distance, the looming goal. Suddenly the roads feel solid beneath his feet, and the travel and the time they’ll take to return needles at him like a ticking clock. He’s going back. After all this time, after everything, Varian is finally going… home.

“Hm. Have it your way.”

Adira swings her staff for his skull; Varian, lying flat on the ground and trying in vain to ignore her, yelps aloud and rolls away, scrambling for his own staff. In the misty sunrise the light is soft and scattered, almost blue, and the world seems dim and shadowed, dampened. The trees here are tall and dark and shaded, great bristling sugar pines with heavy spines now damp with dew, and it’s early enough in the day that even the birds are still singing hello. It’s wonderfully cool too, which is practically warm for this not-quite-springtime weather, and the most pleasant morning they’ve had in a while… so of course, Adira is using this time to train. Varian hates her.

“Head’s up!”

Varian curses again, and brings up his own staff just in time, scrambling back. Adira’s staff cracks against his block—he strains against the blow, his boots digging into the dirt from the pressure. His arms are already shaking, but Varian tries to push back anyway, straining against the staff bearing down for his head. His vision spins. His knees start to buckle—

Adira frowns and makes a dismissive noise, and then pulls back to swing for his ankles. This time, Varian isn’t fast enough to dodge. Adira’s staff smacks hard into his ankle bone, and his leg buckles—and Varian falls hard, flat on his back in the grass once again, groaning.

Adira, above him, shakes her head. “I keep telling you, watch your feet.” She raps the staff smartly against his still-smarting ankle, less a hit and more a warning. “Get a strong stance first, and then you can try defense.”

Varian catches his breath and forces himself upright. For a moment, he doesn’t understand why she’s stopped attacking. Then he sees the small glitter of glowing blue-black stone, rising up by his feet, and falls back on the ground.

Adira sighs again. “You’re distracted.”

Varian throws his arm over his face, trying to ignore the sharp twist in his chest. Every time. He’s stopped jumping at the appearance of the black rocks, if only because it’s become a distressingly common event, but…

Damn it.

“I need a break,” he mutters, and shoves his hand back through his hair, glaring off into the fog. His good mood has soured with this, the peace turned ill and vexing. Varian hates traveling. He’s lost the iron chains this time around, but gained something so much worse, and really, he’s starting to get tired of this. He remembers Moon’s smile, bright and furious and cruel—Figure it out yourself—and the memory curls bitter in his chest. “It’s not working!”

“It’s barely been two weeks. We have a month and more to Corona at this rate. We still have time… and you need to give it time.” Adira offers him the staff; reluctant, Varian takes the end and lets her pull him back on his feet. “Can you keep going?”

Varian brushes stray grass off the hem of his sparring clothes—mainly just his old clothes, because if he ruined his new outfit he’s pretty sure Yasmin would murder him, miles of distance between them none-withstanding. “I’m fine,” he says, and pulls out his hair from the ponytail, combing his hands through it. Augh, it’s all messed up. “Just give me a second.”

“You keep flinching,” Adira notes, leaning on her staff. She eyes him critically, frowning slightly as Varian pulls his hair back again into a neater ponytail.

“Wha— I thought reflexes were a good thing!”

Adira taps her staff against the ground, unamused. “That’s not what I meant.”

Varian looks up at that, his heart sinking. Adira raises an eyebrow at him. He flushes, and his eyes drop back to the ground.

She’d noticed, then. Damn it.

It’s been almost two weeks since they left Yasmin’s house and Port Caul behind. In that time, they’ve already left a few merchant carts, either catching new rides or walking the road in search of another traveler going the right direction. As far as Adira can tell him, Corona is a good two months journey away, if they make good pace— they won’t arrive until the true start of spring, at least, maybe even sometime near Varian’s birthday, though of course he hasn’t told her about that. In the time they have, though, Adira has apparently taken it upon herself to help Varian with training and controlling the black rocks both. It’s a good idea—logical, even. And yet…

The bruise on his face has faded, by now. They’ve talked it out, they’ve set the terms for training and traveling and everything— Varian even agreed to it this time, damn it all—and yet, he still can’t focus.

Part of it is the rocks. Part of it is the Moon, her cryptic warnings and piecemeal answers; part of it travel and trauma, his restless dreams and the endless road. And part of it—as she has no doubt noticed—is Adira.

Varian keeps his eyes on the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I—I just—”

“It wasn’t an accusation,” Adira says calmly, cutting him quiet. When Varian eyes her, she shrugs. “It’s fine. I expected this. There’s no reason for you to feel comfortable with it.” She lifts a brow. “Don’t apologize for things I’ve given you reason to fear. I just need to know if you can keep going. If not…” She shrugs again. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Though I will have you practice your stances, Moony. Honestly.”

Varian sneers. “You slapped me once.”

“Once is enough. Don’t blame yourself for logical things. I said, can you keep going?”

Varian picks up his staff, stubborn. Adira sighs at him, but slides back into a stance regardless. “One last round,” she warns.

“I can do this.”

“Hm.” She swings for him; this time Varian keeps his feet, remembering her advice. He leans back on his heels and slips to the side of her swing—tightens his grip on his own staff through the gloves and lashes out for Adira’s blind spot—is blocked by the sudden flick of Adira’s wrist, and has to scramble back to avoid getting kicked into a tree. “Regardless—” She swings for his ankles again, and Varian trips away, a desperate dodge. “We have a long journey ahead of us. Best not to exhaust ourselves.”

“Corona is—month and a couple weeks away, right?” He ducks a swing, already wheezing, out of breath.

“By merchant roads, anyway. Navigation gets funny across countries.”

He fumbles the staff, annoyed by his own poor dodging. Damn, if he could only hit her back once—! “If you’re saying there’s a shorter road and we haven’t taken it…”

She smacks the staff against his shoulder and he yelps. “Watch your left. You keep leaving yourself open.” She side-steps Varian’s wild swing and raps the staff against his knuckles next, the blow felt even through his new gloves. Varian hisses at her. She shakes her head at him. “Like a cat,” she remarks absently to herself, and then, louder: “Besides, I wouldn’t rely so much on that timeline. We have our own problems to deal with before we can get to Corona.”

Varian draws back, sour, slipping off one glove to rub at his smarting hand. “What do you mean?”

Adira looks at the ground, pointedly. Varian follows her gaze to the black rocks. He looks away. “Oh.”

The fight has fallen slow now. Neither one of them is really trying anymore. Adira straightens, yawning boredly into one hand, and tosses her staff carelessly by their packs. Ruddiger, sleeping snug atop Varian’s bag, doesn’t even twitch. Varian, for his part, drops his staff like it’s a hot coal and leans over his knees, fighting to catch his breath.

“It’s a bad idea to enter another city while that’s still not under control,” Adira says, not unkindly. “And since sparring isn’t working…”

“It’s helping,” Varian says, and makes a face right after, abruptly aware of the hypocrisy. He’d just said otherwise, ugh.

Adira’s lips twitch, an almost-smile. “Hm.”

Varian splutters at her. “I, I mean, it’s—it’s giving me ideas even if it isn’t exactly working—I’m coming up with new plans as we speak, okay—”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Varian mumbles an insult under his breath, shuffling on his feet, bright red—and then bolts for their bags, Adira’s laughter echoing at his back.

Their camp falls quiet after that, but it’s a comfortable kind of silence. Varian changes back into his nicer—warmer, too, which is most important—clothes and his coat over that, at first with sharp angry movements and then calmer once the embarrassment fades. He takes a moment to look down at the nightlight crystal, still hanging off his coat buckle. He takes it in his hand, drawing strength from the pale glow. He breathes in. He exhales.

“Set up the fire, Moony.”

“Got it.”

By this point it’s almost become routine, they’ve done it so often. As Adira stalks off into the trees to hunt, Varian clears out last night’s fire and rebuilds it for their breakfast, walking around their small clearing to gather up twigs and brush for burning. By the time he’s got a blaze going Adira has found their meal, and as the fire starts to crackle, Varian keeps his eyes on the flames and ignores her prepping the meat best he can, even now still a little squeamish at the sight of blood.

Ruddiger wakes up by this point, and scurries over to curl in Varian’s lap. Varian pets him, absently, as their breakfast cooks—Adira’s found some birds, and eggs too, and the smell is almost heavenly, especially with the spices Adira bought from the last merchant. Varian combs out the matts in Ruddiger’s fur and frowns off into the fog, sketching out possible experiments in his head. There’s still not quite enough money for him to buy alchemy equipment, but maybe one day, he’ll be able to bring them to life.

Adira takes the meat and eggs off the fire, and Varian takes his bowl with a mutter of thanks. He eats slowly, sneaking Ruddiger bites when Adira isn’t looking. The campfire is warm against his legs, and high above, the morning haze is starting to burn off under the sunlight. It’s soft. It’s nice.

But again and again, Varian finds his eyes drawn back to the rocks.

He hasn’t told Adira about his conversation with the Moon—hasn’t known how to bring it up, really. But he knows he should. That conversation has played in loops in his mind ever since, and with the distance of hindsight, Varian is starting to realize that whatever’s going on is… a lot more, he thinks, than just pirates. A rot that lies forever beneath the deep, Moon had said, and as fucking cryptic as that sounds—well. “It” is apparently waking up, if Moon is to be believed, and that’s…

And as much as Varian hates to admit it—he believes her. That attack on Port Caul… it wasn’t right. There’s too much that doesn’t add up. Moon’s attempt at warning him away from the port, the way the black rocks had all pointed at the sea, as if to threaten something—or someone—still on the waters, and… that earthquake. It’d been a small one, sure, but enough to knock Varian off his feet, and… and that’s not natural, is it? Earthquakes and pirate attacks all along the coast, and how strange that they would coincide…

He thinks he needs to tell Adira. He should tell Adira. It’s not like he can ask Moon, even if he wanted to; Moon herself seems intent on ignoring him after that night, beyond the occasional vindictive and vivid night terrors.

Varian takes another bite of eggs and considers it, turning the possibilities around in his head. He grimaces around his breakfast. Ugh. She’s going to yell at him for being stupid, and she’s going to be right, and—ugh, awful, nope.

Still. He’s got to do it. Varian swallows down his mouthful and puts down his bowl, exhaling steadily. He brings one hand to the nightlight, and grips it tight. “I… I am trying, you know.” When Adira looks up, he clarifies: “With, um, with the rocks. I’m trying.”

Adira tilts her head. “I know.”

“I’ve…” Varian clears his throat. “I’ve tried everything.”

“…Okay,” Adira says, a lot slower now. She looks Varian up and down. She closes her eyes. She sighs. She sets aside her bowl, and leans forward to link her hands under her chin. “Alright. What did you do.”

And yeah, okay, despite the fact he’d been deliberately leading her to that exact conclusion, Varian still splutters a bit. “Why do you always assume it’s something I’ve done!? Maybe I haven’t done anything. Maybe it’s—”

“Varian.”

“—okay, fine, yeah, whatever, I—I kind of summoned and tried to interrogate the Moon?” It comes out sort of like a question. “Definitely summoned.” Adira is making a face. “Only kind-of talked to though, because, um—I sort of—insulted her—at the end there, but she totally deserved it—”

Adira holds up a hand. Varian shuts up.

Adira is silent for a moment. Her jaw is stiff with tension; her knuckles are almost white. But then she relaxes, forcefully, deliberately unclenching her jaw. “…Right.” She rubs at her face, suddenly looking very tired. “Right.” A pause. “Damn it, Moony.”

“I know, I know.” He crosses his arms. “I—I get it okay? But I… I didn’t know what else to do. And I figured, if she was the reason all this was happening…” He doesn’t look back at the black rocks. He doesn’t.

Adira’s eyes draw back to the rocks too. She sighs. “And?”

“She… said something… odd.” Varian adjusts his posture, fidgeting with Ruddiger’s fur, and repeats as best he can the Moon’s cryptic comments on the pirates and the presence she felt in the city. “I’m sure it means something,” Varian concludes, certain. “I just… can’t figure out what.”

Adira is very quiet—deliberately quiet—and Varian narrows his eyes at her. “You can,” he realizes. “You know something. Don’t you?”

“…I’m really hoping I don’t.” Adira reaches back for her sword, and while she doesn’t unsheathe it, her fingers flex restless on the hilt. “Later.”

“No, tell me now.”

“I’m not even sure of what I know, kid. Later.” Varian curls up, teeth grit, and Adira gives him a glance. “I will tell you,” she allows, at last. “I will. But not now. Some stories… are best left undisturbed unless absolutely necessary, got it?”

His lips press, and Varian looks away. “…Later,” he agrees, grudging.

“Hm.” There’s another pause. “And the rocks?”

“What?”

“Did the Moon say anything on how to control the rocks?”

Oh. Varian stares a hole at the ground. “She refused to tell me,” he says, something bitter rising in his chest. He glowers at the dirt. “She said I had to figure it out myself or whatever. So the whole gamble was useless, on that front.”

Adira almost seems to twitch at those words, her brow furrowing. Varian looks up, searching her face. He frowns. “…What is it?”

Adira hums. Her gaze is distant, staring holes into the campfire. “She told you to figure it out on your own?”

“Yeah…?” He watches her. “She just—likes watching people suffer, I don’t know. It was stupid. But I mean—I don’t know if I can… before we get to Corona—”

“No,” Adira says, before he can finish. “No, actually… this is good.” She looks thoughtful. “Listen, Moony. If she said you had to figure it out yourself, that means there’s something to figure out. A trick to it. And if training isn’t working, then… maybe it’s something we haven’t considered? Something we don’t know.” She blows out a long breath. “…Damn.”

Varian blinks at her. “Um…”

Adira straightens. “Right,” she says, decisively. “Strike the merchant-caravan plan. We’re going off-road.”

“W-what? Why?”

“I have an idea. Something that might help. King Ed—” She snaps her mouth shut abruptly and grimaces. “…Someone I once knew told me about it. I’ve avoided it for my own reasons, but… now might be the time to change that.” She rises to her feet, heading for their bags. “Pack up once you’re done eating. We head out as soon as we can.”

“Wait, wait—” Varian snaps his head around to follow her, struggling to catch up to her train of thought. “Where are we going? What are you talking about?”

“Quirin ever show you a graphtic scroll?” Varian freezes mid-motion, his breath stuttering in his chest. “Old paper, ancient writing, showed a glowing flower and a stylized sun, maybe some of the moon, black rocks—”

“Yes,” Varian says. His own voice sounds distant to his ears. His head is pounding. He feels very cold. “Yes. I saw it. He—never showed me, but I— have it. Had it.” It’s with Rapunzel now, probably; he never saw it again after using it to translate those lines in the ruins, and it wasn’t in the satchel Rapunzel gave him either.

Adira considers him. “Could you read it?”

“I… not at first.”

“But later?”

“I figured a rough translation, but—” He stops. “Why? Why does it matter?”

Adira nods to herself. “Could you do it again?”

“I mean… maybe?” Varian puts a hand to his head, feeling a bit dizzy. “I’m missing—so much stuff, wow—” His books, his tools, his references—the last time he’d translated that odd writing, in those ruins, he’d had the scroll for reference and Eugene to help—

Something about that memory gnaws at him. Varian blinks, hand drifting away from his temple. His brow furrows. The ruins… he hasn’t thought of them in ages, but—hadn’t that translation, too, had something to do with the Moon? An odd little poem, and then that final phrase…

“But you have a better chance than most.” Adira seems to have come to a decision; she speaks firmly, sure and set. She slings her bag over her shoulder and looks off towards the dirt road. “Listen, Moony. There’s only one place I know that might have what we’re looking for—greatest store of information on the Moon and Sun and their powers than anywhere else on this continent.”

As she speaks, though, something odd shivers through him. Varian blinks fast, feeling dizzy. His blood is burning cold, all at once—his chest, seizing up. He blinks faster, and twists a hand in his shirt, over his heart. What?

 “Most of the scrolls there are still unreadable—never got translated because of the history of that place—”

What’s happening? Something is wrong. He’s freezing. He’s freezing. And the longer Adira talks, the more she says, the stronger it gets. Like a building realization—a growing horror. A memory that isn’t his own.

“—but if you put in the effort, it might pay off.”

There is something icy in his blood. A chill in his breath. There is a burning in the back of his mind, the distant tang of godly rage, and Varian realizes, all at once—

This isn’t me.

“I wonder,” Adira says, and the Moon’s power burns. “Did Quirin ever tell you about the Great Tree?”

It’s like something in his very soul has flinched. A sense of foreboding, like Port Caul but somehow so much worse—and inward, somehow, horror internal, like this is something the Moon had not meant for him to feel at all.

Adira is calling his name, but Varian isn’t listening. There is terror frozen still in his chest, a far-off echo of hatred and rage and fear, strangest of all. But already, he can feel it fading, the connection locked down, cut off—and almost without knowing why, Varian reaches back.

…Moon?

But she has already gone.

.

Rapunzel wanders Corona’s streets in a daze.

The storm has moved on, and in its wake the sky burns with color. It’s beautiful, in a very real sense—the light warm and golden-red, the houses back-lit by the rosy tint, the puddles on the streets shining golden with reflection. The sun is setting, and the streets are full, Corona taking full advantage of the last few hours of sunlight.

Rapunzel sees them as if from far away, the moving crowds hazy to her eyes. People are milling about—shopping, dancing, laughing. The stone walkways are warm beneath her bare feet, even as the air burns cold in her throat. And the crowds—the people—they press in around her, makeshift walls. She’s tied up her hair, but badly, and it’s clear who she is. Some people call her name across the street. Others run up to her. Xavier, in the shadow of his workshop with his new apprentice by his side, waves her a hello.

They falter, each and every one of them, when they see Rapunzel’s face. 

It’s cloying, and caging, and even outside the castle walls, their eyes press into her like chains. Her breathing quickens. There’s just so many people—all here, all looking at her—and Rapunzel doesn’t want to be seen, right now. She doesn’t want to be their princess. She just wants to be no one, invisible, safe in a crowd.

She misses Eugene.

“Princess!”

“Princess, over here!”

“Lovely to see you!”

She picks up the pace, trying to escape them, something buzzing in her ears. But they are too close—too near—a hand catches at her sleeve, tugging hard, and she jolts.

“Princess, if I may, I have an issue I’d like to discuss with you—”

“Rapunzel?”

Her breathing stutters at the familiar voice, and she stops mid-step, halfway to fleeing, and turns so fast her head spins. She scans the crowd, rapid, and stills when she sees him. And yes, she’s got it right—because there, at the end of the street, shopping bags in his arms and brow furrowed, is Lance.

“It is you!” he says, delighted, when she meets his gaze. It’s almost dizzying, how little he seems to have changed: beyond a new vest and a few fancier earrings, he looks just as he did when Rapunzel first left, all those months ago. “Ha! Who would have thought? What brings you to town on this fine evening, princess?”

Rapunzel beelines for him at once, her throat knotted. Her eyes tear down the streets. She can’t see Eugene. “Where—” she starts. It’s hard to speak. Her throat feels caught. “Is—is Eugene—”

Lance’s smile falls to a frown. He shifts all his shopping bags to the crook of one arm and carefully reaches for her shoulder, stopping just short of touching her. “Hey,” he says, and his brow furrows. “You look a little…”

“Is Eugene here?”

Lance shakes his head. “I just went out for groceries. He’s back in the Snuggly Duckling.”

“Oh.” Her heart falls. Her vision swims. “Oh. R-right. Right.” Of course he isn’t here. Of course he’s somewhere else. Of course…

The crowd has caught up to her. Their voices clamor in her ears. Someone touches her sleeve again and she flinches. Her hands curl. Despite herself, her lips pull back in a snarl. It’s awful—she’s awful—they just want to talk and here she is, acting like—!

But everything is hot and tight and roaring in her ears, and for a moment all Rapunzel wants to do is smack those hands away from her.

Lance draws beside her, close enough to touch, and shoots her a wink. “Come on,” he says, and glances up at the crowd, impatient and shifting, closing in. “It’s been a while—months, even! We should catch up.” His voice rises, directed at the small crowd that’s formed around her. “No busybodies allowed!”

“What—”

“You can’t just take all the Princess’s time, you—!”

“I’m catching up with a friend,” Lance says, and turns back to Rapunzel, offering his arm. She stares at it. After a moment’s pause, she takes it, and Lance’s smile dazzles. His voice lowers, for her ears alone. “That okay?”

She nods. Lance squeezes her arm—warm, somehow, grounding, and this time she doesn’t flinch—and then he steps boldly forward. “Coming through!” he shouts, sing-song. “Make way! Hungry people rushing through!”

He gets them out of the market, down a few more streets; guides her swiftly and easily through the alleyways until any pursuers have gotten lost in the tangle of side-streets. Rapunzel closes her eyes and doesn’t watch, just lets him lead her, and breathes in deep the whole time.

At last—when it’s silent again, calm again, safe to breathe again—she lets go of his arm, standing on her own. She smooths her skirt down with her hands— Pascal, curled up on her shoulder, brushes off his scales— and sighs, shaky and thin, an exhale that leaves her empty.

When she looks up again, Lance is watching her. Rapunzel gives him a weak smile. “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“Well, all right,” Lance says, easily enough. Rapunzel nods, relieved at the lack of argument. She glances back down the street from where they’d come, and stifles another sigh in her throat.

“But, um…” She studies her hands. “Thank you.”

Lance’s returning smile is almost blinding in its radiance. Rapunzel swears she can even see a sparkle in there, somewhere. Somehow. “Of course!” He gestures down the streets, giving a theatrical bow. “I know a good place for dinner around these parts, too. Not as fancy as your castle food, but, eh. You’re not much the type to care about that, are you?”

“No…” Rapunzel blinks. “Oh. I— what?”

“Did you think I was joking about dinner?” Lance rises from his bow, grinning. “I meant it. Hey, just this once, I’ll even say the meal’s on me!” He winks at her. “Partly because I don’t think you brought your wallet with you, princess, but also… I mean, really. Months! We’re due for a conversation, aren’t we?”

“But your groceries…”

He looks down at the parcels in his arm like he’d forgotten they were there, and hums. “I was planning on staying in the city tonight anyway. Bought too many duck antiques… there’s no way I could have gotten back to the Snuggly Duckling before sundown. And walking those roads at night?” Lance gives a full-body shudder and looks briefly scarred. “No. Oh, no, no, I don’t care what Eugene tells me, those roads are definitely haunted. No-thank-you. I’ll head back for the bar tomorrow.” He glances at her, and something in his face gentles. “You aren’t holding me up at all, Princess. Trust me.”

“I…” She searches for an excuse, for a reason, but her mind is blank and—and she’s too tired to think, let alone argue. “…Okay.”

Lance is looking at her again. It’s an odd expression on his face, thin and a little worried. He pats her on the shoulder, almost helplessly, and then links back their arms and guides her wordlessly back down the streets.

The silence, too, is unlike him—but for once there’s a comfort in it, in the quiet, in the not having to listen. Rapunzel closes her eyes and lets the streets blur past her, lets Lance lead her blind across the city. It feels as though all the world is fading in and out of focus, blessedly distant—sound distorted and soft, sight blurry and indistinct. Like falling asleep, without the nightmares, and as they walk, something unwinds in Rapunzel’s chest, loosens in her shoulders, eases up the stranglehold on her lungs. She inhales deep, and this time actually feels like she’s breathing.

Slowly, surely, twilight falls over Corona’s capital. Above them the sky turns from bloody red to a richer purple—bleeding slowly to a darker blue. Stars are beginning to show on the firmament. The horizon is a band of molten gold, the sun sunk low and vanished beyond the retreating storm clouds. The sea breeze has gone chill, without the sun to warm the winds, and Pascal burrows in her hair like it’s a blanket, his little chuff of annoyance soft in her ear. This time, it even makes Rapunzel smile.

The restaurant Lance takes her to is a small sea-side business, with tiny oak tables and windows of colored glass. He must be a regular—the owners greet him by name and with a smile—and he seats her near the back, where she can be half-hidden from the door, by a window overlooking the sea. There’s a small vase with cut flowers sagging in the center of their table; Rapunzel reaches out, and brushes the golden petals with one gloved hand. The fresh blooms are starting to wilt, but they’re still lovely. She’s always liked yellow flowers, but then, she’s probably a little biased.

Lance orders dinner, water and stew for them both, and flirts with the waiter as he settles in his chair. His laughter is bright and deep. His boasting is as familiar as the sunrise, and just as comforting. Rapunzel traces her finger across a wood-grain stain in the table, watching the flowers and letting their voices wash over her, and thinks of nothing at all.

When the waiter has gone, and they are alone, Rapunzel says: “You didn’t have to do this.”

Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “Uh-huh.”

“Really, you didn’t. I’m… I’m honestly fine.”

Lance winces. Looks away. Looks at her again, from the corner of his eye.

“…Really, I am.”

“Err.”

He’s got a terrible poker face, but then, Rapunzel is the same way. She buries her face in her arms. “Really,” she says, voice muffled, throat tight. Her eyes burn. Her sleeves are getting damp. “Really, really, I am…”

Lance is quiet for a long time. When he finally speaks, the drama has faded from his voice. He sounds gentle. He sounds tired. “Princess,” he says. “Uh, Rapunzel. I… I don’t think that’s true.”

She opens her mouth—but her throat is so tight it’s gone silent. She presses her lips shut and swallows so hard it hurts. Her eyes are itching. She doesn’t say anything.

“I mean,” Lance says, after a pause. “I… hm. I don’t know what I mean. I’m not very good at this, am I?” He clears his throat. “Err. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s…” She exhales. It trembles. “Maybe,” she says, finally. “Maybe.”

“…Maybe?”

“Maybe I’m… not okay.”

“Oh,” Lance says. He thinks on this. “…Oh.”

They’re silent, again, the both of them. The waiter brings their food, and Lance takes it with a murmur of thanks, his earlier flirtation gone. He taps the glass bottle of water against Rapunzel’s arm, and smiles faintly when she lifts her head. “Drink?”

She nods, mutely. He pours her a cup without comment. The glass is freezing in her hands; the water, when she forces herself to sip at it, is crystal cold. She presses the cup against her forehead, and exhales against the rim. The glass fogs. She wipes it away with the tip of one gloved finger, and watches the fog dew down the side of the cup like rain.

“Stalyan showed up in court today.”

Lance stiffens.

“She arrived unannounced.” Rapunzel runs her finger along the glass edge again, ignoring the tremble in her hand. Her lovely leather gloves are wrinkled and creased—a bad sign on its own, even without the building ache in her palms. She’s pushed her hands too hard today. “She… she wanted to discuss… a deal.”

Lance is quiet. He sinks in his chair, eyes wide. Sweat has beaded on his brow. His gaze darts around, rapid and nervous, and when he finally looks back to her it’s with an open expression of doom. “…Shit.”

Something about the way he says it almost makes her giggle, and Rapunzel chokes down the noise and presses the back of her hand against her eyes to keep from crying. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I mean—it’s, it’s not fine, but I can... I can.”

“Still. That’s awful.” Lance shakes his head. His face falls. “Gods, I should have made Eugene come with me today… maybe then—”

“No, it’s fine, you’re fine—”

“Haha! I’m not offended, Princess. You must miss him a lot.” Her throat has gone all tight again, knotted like thread, and at her expression Lance’s eyes soften. “Yeah, you do,” he says. It’s not a question, and in the next breath Lance has put a hand over his heart. “I’ll get him to visit you. Promise.”

Rapunzel stutters. “No,” she says. “You don’t have to—I know why he can’t—”

“Even so.” Lance crosses his arms. “It’s scary times, to be sure… But not so bad as that. He can stand to tell you what he finds in person, at least! Gah, I knew I should have pressed him on that— like a letter would be enough!”

“No, don’t— it’s not that simple!”

Lance blinks at her. He’s frowning again. “What? Why not?”

“It’s just—not!” Her stomach twists. She fights to breathe. “I—I don’t know—I can’t—”

The words leave her. Rapunzel shakes her head, mute and frustrated, and curls her aching fingers around the glass.

Lance considers her for a long moment, biting hard at his lip. He doesn’t understand, Rapunzel realizes, and the worst part is she has no idea how to explain it. How to even put it into words. “I can’t,” she says instead. “I can’t.”

“…Okay.” Lance hesitates. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“I—” She stops. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Lance says, again. “Would it help if I talked?”

She thinks about it. The easy cadence of Lance’s voice, rhythmic instead of jarring. All the time she’s been away, all the things she has to catch up on. The distraction. “Please,” she says, only a little desperate, and Lance nods just once before he launches into a story.

“Did I ever tell you I got the bar? No? Did I tell you how? Oh-ho, okay, sit back, Princess, because do I have a tale for you—!"

It’s a long story: meandering, wild, vibrant. She’s forgotten, Rapunzel realizes, listening to him speak, how good Lance is at stories. He embellishes a little—or a lot—but the story itself is solid, understandable. He tells her about his job, working as a cook at the Snuggly Duckling—the owner’s sudden retirement, Lance’s abrupt inheritance. “Old man sprung it on me at the last second, just to be funny,” Lance confides in a whisper, shaking his head in remembered disappointment. “Can you imagine!?”

He tells her about the Snuggly Duckling, what it’s like to run a tavern, about the regulars— “Hookfoot joined his brother in concert, did I mention that—no? Well, there you go!”—the people Rapunzel has missed, and the people she’s yet to meet, and the people she didn’t expect to hear from again. “Oh, oh, and guess what,” Lance adds, when they’re halfway through their meal. “Red and Angry—you remember them? They came back!”

“Really!?”

“Yeah! Right out of the blue, too! I was stunned, I tell you. Shocked! And you won’t believe what happened—”

He tells her about werewolves, about Keira and Catalina and family. The treehouse Lance helped build for them— “I mean, they refused to stay with me, when I offered, but I couldn’t just let them rough it in the woods—you know—my old orphanage matron would be horrified at me, and I can’t stand the thought of disappointing that lady—” and the meals the girls come by for sometimes at the Snuggly Duckling, when they’re feeling up for socializing.

Lance smiles when he talks about them. He beams. And by this point, with the sun set and the city winding down to a quiet drawl, dinner with a friend and all her troubles feeling so far away—this time, Rapunzel manages to smile back.

He’s happy, she realizes, watching Lance speak. He’s honestly, truly happy. It’s in everything he is, in every word, in every laugh, every fond gleam in his eye. There is something in Lance that has settled, that has found its place, and it almost takes her breath away to see it. He’s happy. He’s okay. He really, really is.

“I’m so glad for you, Lance,” she says, when he pauses for breath, and he startles and blinks at her. “I… I really am.” And she is. It makes something in her feel light and free and dizzy with relief: here is a life untouched. Here is someone who she hasn’t failed—who she hasn’t even helped—whose happiness has nothing to do with her at all. He found it on his own, she thinks. He found it all on his own, or maybe it found him, and it’s such a weight of her shoulders that Rapunzel could almost cry.

Lance beams back. “Well,” he says. He sounds almost flustered. “It’s… a bit of a shock to me too. I mean. Wow.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not what I’ve always dreamed of, admittedly, but… it’s really something.” He laughs. “It’s mine!”

Her heart feels full of light. Rapunzel laughs with him.  “Werewolves, though!”

“Gods, right!? And don’t get me wrong, that freaks me right out, but Catalina seems happy with it, so…”

And for the first time in a long time, Rapunzel finally feels like she’s home.

“I’m happy for you,” Rapunzel says, again, when Lance trails off. She’s smiling. Truly smiling, wide and bright. “I am.”

He grins at her. “Thank you, Princess. And what about you?” It’s a casual question—instinctual—and he seems to realize what he’s asked almost at once. Lance blanches. “Wait. Shoot. F—um. You don’t have to answer that, uh, sorry—”

“It’s okay.” She takes a breath. She looks at the drooping flowers, and stirs her spoon through her bowl of stew. “I… I’m…”

She trails off. She stops. She looks down at her hands, and she thinks.

And it’s funny, in a way. It’s strange. Because in all the time since Rapunzel has left the labyrinth behind—all these months, all this distance… Rapunzel has never once told the full story.

Not to Eugene. Not to Cass. Not even to Pascal. She has given pieces, given moments, forced them out through gritted teeth over the months, and tried to create an answer for their endless questions from the fragments.

But the full story, still—still, still. She has never said it aloud. She has never laid it out in full. She doesn’t know why. Is she afraid of it? Is she scared it will hurt her? Or maybe it’s just that she knows it would hurt everyone else. Eugene, who’s expression shuts down at the story. Cass, who falls into helpless anger at the reminder every time. And her parents—oh, her parents. It’d break their hearts, if they knew the whole truth. It’d scare them half to death. And so Rapunzel has never said it.

Now should be no exception.

Except— this is Lance. Her friend, sort of. A kind-of brother, in a way. She knows him through Eugene, mostly, but in the half-year before her journey to the Dark Kingdom she likes to think they’ve become friends in their own right. This is Lance, who is happy—whose life does not weigh on her shoulders—who is looking at her, calm, waiting, expectant, for whatever it is she has to say. There is something secure about him, Rapunzel realizes suddenly. In all the months they have been gone, something in Lance has resolved. There is a steadiness to him that was not there before—a certainty that will not break.

And she thinks—secretly, hopefully, almost afraid to dare—her story, she thinks, won’t hurt him.

And so Rapunzel starts to speak.

The story does not come easy, and it doesn’t come coherent. The travel—the journey—Varian—the arrow, the firelight, and the letter she ignored. The labyrinth she gives only segments, the things she can bite off behind her teeth. “It was dark. She—the Moon—had a thing, a creature. It hunted us. It nearly killed us. Varian—”

And Lance listens. He is a captive audience. He gasps at the right places. He shakes his head at the right times. He hisses in anger. He curses under his breath. He listens, and though there is horror in his eyes, there is no pain. The story will not hurt him. It doesn’t hurt him the way it hurts Eugene and Cass, who go cold when they hear; doesn’t hurt him the way the half-truths hurt her parents, who looked as if every word might drive them to tears. And it is—a relief. It is such a relief, a treasure she never knew she needed, that Rapunzel finds that for once—for the first time in six, seven months—the words are still there. She can still speak. Of the end, of the Opal, of the long journey back—of Stalyan, of her father, of her mother, of Elias. If she wanted to, she could tell him all of it.

So she does.

When Rapunzel has finally finished talking, her throat aches and the sky has gone dark outside the restaurant window. Tiny stars shining out in the black, the flowers wilting in the vase between them, the food finished and the restaurant almost empty. But the air is warm—the candlelight soft—and Lance is shaking his head. “Gods!” he says. He sits back in his chair, looking stunned. “And the King, he wouldn’t even hear you out?”

“They aren’t listening to me,” Rapunzel bites out, chest tight. “No one is… and Cass, she’s never—snapped at me like that before. Something’s bothering her, but she won’t…” Her fingers curl in her dress. “I get why she’s angry, but I don’t know why she’s taking it out on me! I’m doing the best I can, I— I’m trying! I’m trying.”

“Yeah, you are!” Lance crosses his arms, leaning back, looking disgruntled. “Man.”

“Yeah.”

Lance frowns. “And I’ll bet it doesn’t help that you only learned about Stalyan through a letter, huh?”

She looks away. Lance leans forward, eyes knowing. “Leave Eugene to me,” he says, firm. “I meant what I said before. I’ll get him to come visit.”

She glances at him. “Thank you. Really. But… I know why he can’t. The castle— my dad—” 

“Yeah, I know.” Lance sighs, slumping in his chair. “Oh, I don’t know. What a mess! Just…”

“Thank you,” she says again. “And—and you’re right, I do miss him. I want to see him again. So much.” She laughs, weakly, not really feeling it. “So, so much. I just… I can’t risk it.”

“Still.” Lance sighs again, heavier, resting his chin on his hand. “He’s moping too, y’know? Just seems like… it could be over so quick, if you guys could just…”

She looks down. It pangs at her heart, to know Eugene misses her too. Not that she doubted it, but—it’s nice, even so, to hear it. She exhales slowly, and tries to put it all into words.

“My dad, the King, he hasn’t been… I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I—honestly, I don’t really think he’d hurt Eugene. Or, or ban him away, or anything. At least I hope not.” She swallows hard. “But everything—it all keeps getting worse, everywhere I turn, all the time, and I can’t—I can’t risk it. I can’t risk him. Not if I’m wrong.”

“You should have more faith in yourself,” Lance says. “Princess, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… you’re a pretty good judge of character.”

She laughs. “It—it doesn’t feel like it.”

“Mm…” Lance is frowning now, thoughtful. He taps one finger at his chin. “I think,” he says, slowly, carefully, “that you need to talk to them.”

She looks down. “I’m trying—”

“I know! I know. But—” Lance hesitates. “Just… you’re not wrong, you know? Things have been getting pretty tangled up around here. And I mean, thinking on it…” He winces. “Well. How much… how much have you really told your parents?”

She looks away.

“I mean,” Lance says. “You don’t have to tell them everything. Or anything! Personally, I’m of the mind that they are way over-reacting to the secrets thing, to frankly appalling degrees, but—well, half a story leaves a lot of open endings.” He snorts. “Hell, for all they know, Varian could be plotting revenge at this very moment.”

“He’s not!”

“I know. I believe you. But with everything that’s going on, with the attacks, with Stalyan—well.” He rubs his chin. “I dunno. I mean, it looks bad, doesn’t it?”

Rapunzel can’t argue against that. She sighs.

“Plus,” Lance says, to himself. “Something about all this… what you and Eugene have been saying about the castle… I don’t like it.”

“It is pretty awful, seeing everyone fight.”

“I mean, yeah, but I meant— ah, I don’t know. It just feels familiar. It’s old tactics. Divide and conquer, right? Used to do it in heists all the time.”

Rapunzel blinks at him. “You think the in-fighting might be part of the plan?”

“Eh. Maybe? I dunno. Just—it’s weird that Stalyan showed up, isn’t it? Using her name and everything—and the guards know who she is! It’s a risk. They can’t arrest her publicly, but what if someone decided they didn’t care about the consequences, and attacked anyway?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just really doubt that lady came on a whim. She’s here for something, and I don’t know if the negotiations are the goal.” He holds up a finger, as if giving a lecture. “You don’t steal the big shiny on display—you take the smaller shiny the rich man forgot to booby-trap.”

Rapunzel frowns at the table. “Mm…”

“Anyways. Food for thought! What were we talking about? Oh, yeah. I get why you don’t want to talk about it. But— your parents aren’t like the Moon lady, you know?” Lance rests his chin in his hand, gaze distant. “This place isn’t a labyrinth.”

Her fingers curl. Her voice comes out tight. “Are you saying it’s all in my head?”

“Nah, of course not,” says Lance, so easily that Rapunzel’s budding anger falls flat. She blinks at him. “Just that it’s a different level of bad.” He sighs. “You’ve been through something awful, Princess. That can mess with your head sometimes, you know? Things are bad here, but… I don’t know. I’ve been wondering for a while. You guys… it sounds like you’ve been treating this situation like it’s going to go worst-case-scenario any second— and hey, maybe you’re right to! But…”

Rapunzel searches his face, stunned. She has never once thought about this, and the possibility leaves her blind-sided. “You think… I’m treating this situation like the labyrinth. But in reality, it’s…”

“Eh… maybe attempted arrow-murder level. But not much higher on the scale than that.”

Rapunzel snorts. She covers her mouth. “That—”

“Too soon?”

“That was awful!” But she’s laughing, and spluttering on it, and she feels like she can breathe a little easier.

Lance grins, looking pleased. His smile fades into something softer. “Just… think on it, okay? They might surprise you.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “I hope so,” she says, and she says it steady, even though some part of her aches to admit it. “But I don’t know if I… if I’m willing to take that risk. If I want to—know the answer, I guess.”

“Fair enough,” Lance says. “And hey—sometimes people just aren’t worth taking that risk for, anyway. It happens. But whatever you decide…” He pauses, and clears his throat. “Well. Things may be hard, now, and I know I wasn’t there for you on the journey, but…”

He stops again, shaking his head. “Look, Rapunzel. You’re not alone, okay? Eugene and Cass… you guys went through all that awful together, and while sometimes that can bring people closer—sometimes it can drive them apart too. It might just be you guys need a break, but that doesn’t mean you’re not friends! Better to take a breather than drown together, as I like to say.”

He must see something on her face, then, because he offers her another smile. “The important thing is, whatever happens… you aren’t alone.” The smile grows into a grin, bright and fond, and he winks at her. “You have a lot of friends here too, you know.”

Oh, Rapunzel thinks. Look at that. Her eyes have gone watery again. She clears her throat and tries to smile. “Yeah?”

“Of course!”

She gives another watery laugh, and presses her hands against her eyes again. She breathes into her palms. The gloves are getting damp. She can hear Lance stand—the dishes taken away, the clink of coins as he pays—and she stands too, still wiping at her eyes, unable, somehow, to stop smiling.

“I have to head out,” Lance says, a bit reluctant. “But—let’s do this again, yeah? Your treat next time.” He brightens. “Oh-ho, we can go shopping! There’s some lovely new stores—”

Rapunzel nods. Then she turns and hugs him, sudden and fierce. He’s warm—solid. “You’re a good friend,” she whispers. There is something settling in her. A decision made in the space between one breath and the next, bravery dredged up from the deep. She feels like she’s finally found something—ground to set her feet on, something she can hold onto. Something to carry her through.

She is suddenly, painfully grateful for him. Because Lance is right. Rapunzel is not alone here. He is her friend, too, and in this moment—she is so grateful for that. To have his friendship. To have met him. To have come back here, and seen him again.

She can feel him laugh. “I wasn’t always.” He hugs her back, hard. “You want to know something funny, Princess?”

In the warmth of his voice, she can hear him smiling.

“I think I learned this from you.”

.

It’s totally dark by the time Rapunzel returns to the castle, her heart settled and her hands no longer shaking. The wind blows sheer ice, now; the cobblestone is chill against her bare feet. It’s late—she’d stayed out longer than she probably should have, given the situation—but Rapunzel pushes that thought aside, and keeps going.

Her shoulders are pulled straight back—her chin, tilted up, subtle defiance. She doesn’t feel any stronger, really, nor any better, and in truth, not much has changed. The terrible things are still terrible; the danger, still present; her fears, undeterred. But Lance’s words linger on in her ears and in her heart, and Rapunzel looks at Corona with new eyes.

The people smile. The people wave. One of the maids, dressed in casual clothes and on the arm of another lovely young lady, smiles shyly at her and calls hello across the street.

You have friends here too, Lance had said. You aren’t alone.

Rapunzel lifts her hand and waves back. Yes, she thinks. She has friends here. She isn’t alone in this. She isn’t alone.

And so she walks with her head high.

When she reaches the castle, it’s with something in her chest gone hard and cold and certain, and she doesn’t flinch when she walks through those open gates. When she reaches the castle entrance—closed shut for the night—she meets the eyes of the night-watch guards and smiles.

“I’d like to see my father, please,” Rapunzel says, calm, and watches them nearly trip over themselves in their rush to open the doors. When she enters the castle it’s with her head held high.

There’s only one place her father would be at this time of night, too late for dinner but too early for bed. She already knows where to find him. She should maybe stop in her rooms—maybe do a lot of things, really—but instead Rapunzel heads right for her father’s private study.

If she’s going to do this—and honestly, she’s still not sure if she is—but if she is, then… she has to do it now. Before she loses her nerve, and the glow of bravery that moment with Lance has given her.  

She hasn’t been to his study all that often, but still, she knows the path like the back of her hand. The castle in the late-night hours is quiet and near-serene; beyond the occasional guard, no one is in sight. When she reaches her father’s study—the last room at the end of a long hallway on the second floor of the castle—his is the only room lit, light bleeding out from under the closed double doors.

To her surprise, the guard standing before the doors is one she knows, and Rapunzel falters mid-step, blinking at him. “…Stan?”

He startles, nearly dropping his halberd, and plays hot-potato with it for a second before snatching it back with a nervous laugh. “I—Princess!” She gestures franticly for him to keep his voice down, and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Princess!’ he says again, now muffled. “Oh, thank the Sun—you’re back!”

“I’m back,” she agrees, and winces. “Late, though.”

“Oh, better late than never!” But he seems nervous too, and his eyes flicker back to the door of the study. “That newbie Elias came by a little bit ago, and I—well, I didn’t mean to listen in, but…”

 She keeps her smile, just barely. So Elias had told the King after all—she’s glad. She wouldn’t have wanted him to get in trouble for letting her sneak away, no matter how much she’d appreciated the offer. Still… “He—he didn’t get in trouble, did he?” she asks, suddenly worried. “It’s not his fault, really, I was the one who left him behind…”

“Well, maybe a little scolding, but no punishments, I think—I mean, it is you he was guarding.” Stan winks at her. “No, uh, no offense meant, but—well, you’re hell to keep track of, Princess.”

Despite all the tension tying knots in her gut, Rapunzel has to smile at that. “Speaking from personal experience?”

“After the sixth time, the Captain didn’t even bother scolding us anymore…”

She feels a bit bad for laughing, but giggles anyway. “Still,” she says, and sighs. “Thank you, Stan. I’m glad he wasn’t in trouble…” Her eyes drift back to the door. “Um… did—did he…?”

Stan sobers. He winces, visibly, and looks back at the doors. “He was a little upset,” Stan admits. “But… not as much as I thought he would be, honestly. Still.”

“Still,” Rapunzel echoes.

Stan looks her up and down, and then steps a little to the side. “The King asked not to be disturbed, after that, but, if it’s you…” He pauses. “Er. If you want to?”

“I… yes.” Rapunzel steps forward, reaching out one hand for the doors. “Thanks, Stan.”

“Of course.”

Rapunzel nods. Her hand is on the handle—the door, already unlocked. And yet—

And yet.

She hesitates, at the doors—she can’t help it. As she stares down at the brass little handle to her father’s study, Rapunzel finds herself faltering. She finds herself wondering. Does she really want to do this? Is she ready to do this?

After all, it’s been… an awful month. A terrible day. And for all that Rapunzel knows, she knows the King and Queen aren’t Gothel, that they loved her for all the eighteen years she was gone and even more since she returned… she can’t deny that they’ve hurt her too. For different reasons, maybe, out of fear and out of love, but do the reasons really matter when the outcome is the same? Rapunzel, locked in a tower—locked out—locked away.

Just because they never meant to hurt her doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

And this, too, has always been a fear of hers, a secret and poisonous whisper in the back of her mind. Because once upon a time, Rapunzel had loved Gothel—some part of her, despite how much she wishes she could rip it out, still loves Gothel. And maybe, in her own twisted way, Gothel had loved Rapunzel too. It hadn’t made Gothel any less of a monster, but it does make Rapunzel wonder, in her darkest thoughts—what if she gets it wrong, again? What if she loves someone who is not worth loving? Would she even know? Could she even tell?

So Rapunzel hesitates. She lets herself hesitate. And she closes her eyes, and takes a breath, and for a moment just—lets herself breathe, lets herself really think about it. Does she want to give the King a chance? Does she want to try and fix this? Is she really willing to take that risk?

And could she walk away, and leave things as they are, instead?

She considers it. And to her surprise, she finds—she could.

It would hurt. It would break her heart, but Rapunzel has done such things before. She loves her parents. She has loved every parent she ever had, for better or for worse. But she is startled, almost, surprised by her own resolve—because somewhere along the way, she has found the strength to leave them behind. To not forgive the harm. To not let it go, without comment, without question, the way she always did before.

And somehow, strangest of all, the knowledge that she could walk away, that she really could just—let them go… it decides her. She closes her eyes and exhales, slow and sure, and when she opens her eyes again she is ready.

Behind her, Stan sounds hesitant. “Princess?” he says. “Are you okay?”

And despite everything, she smiles.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m fine.” And then, her back straight, her head high, her hands steady— Rapunzel knocks on the door, and gives her father a chance.

.

The door opens without resistance, and Rapunzel steps inside her father’s study.

As she’d thought, her father is sitting slumped at his desk. It’s a cozy room, this study—all red velvet curtains and bookcases for walls, pale yellow lighting and soft green carpet. Papers are scattered across the main desk, and stacks of books and discarded documents litter the floor. A cup of long-cold tea sits by his elbow, and thin spectacles rest on the bridge of her father’s nose. He’s in a soft red shawl he only wears when truly stressed—an old, tattered thing with golden sun embroidery that once belonged to Rapunzel’s grandmother.

His head rests in the shadow of his hand. Ink stains his fingers. He doesn’t look up. “Arianna, please. I know what you’ll say—”

He looks up. His voice cuts off.

“Dad,” Rapunzel says, quietly. She looks at him. He looks old. Tired. Worn to the fringe. There is a tension to his jaw, and his knuckles are white on the quill, but—

He doesn’t look so angry, like this. In this small lit study, surrounded by these crumpled papers, without even a crown… he doesn’t even look like a King. He is just a man—just her father—and he seems, in this moment, as defeated as she feels.

Rapunzel’s hand slips off the doorknob. Her anger has gone ashy in her mouth. The words, rehearsed in her head the whole way here, come out shaky and thin. “Hi,” she says, and it comes out very weak. “Dad.”

He puts down his quill slowly, eyes wide. “Rapunzel,” he says, half-greeting, half-questioning. When she nods, his expression flickers. “…You’re back.”

The automatic answer—sorry for leaving—she swallows back. She’s not sorry. “I’m back,” she agrees.

He waits. When she doesn’t say anything else, he blows out a heavy breath. “That was foolish,” he says, but he sounds more resigned than truly angry. “With everything that is happening—”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

She almost brushes it off, but hesitates. “I couldn’t,” Rapunzel says, at last. “The castle, my room…” His face is blank. He doesn’t understand. Rapunzel looks away. “The tower,” she admits, and can sense him go stiff. “I just… had to get out. By myself,” she adds, remembering Elias. “Just… just for a little while.”

He doesn’t say anything. The silence is almost deafening, a physical weight; all at once the month weighs down on her, the tension and the not-fighting and the sense of having lost even this, too, lost home once again.

“Can we talk?” Rapunzel asks, after a pause, and her voice has gone suddenly small. “Please. Please, Dad, can we talk?”

Her father—the King—Frederic stares at her. For a moment his expression stutters, and his eyes squeeze shut. He takes a deep breath, and puts down his pen, and opens his mouth as if to speak—closes it, again, and rests his head in his hand.

After a long pause, he finally nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes. Of course.”

Rapunzel closes the study door behind her, and walks carefully into the room. She settles down in one of the chairs by the bookshelves; scoots it closer to his desk and folds her hands in her lap. Pascal, still on her shoulder, tugs once at her hair in comfort and then hides away again. Rapunzel looks down at her knees. Her ankles cross.

The silence stretches. She thinks of Lance, of Eugene, of Cass—of Varian. She looks down at her gloves, feeling the tug of her scars underneath the cloth, and when she speaks her voice is small but steady. “I want to be there for the next talk with Stalyan.”

At once, his expression hardens. The exhaustion in his eyes, the brief vulnerability, is locked down and hidden away. When he speaks, his voice is tight and bitter with disappointment. “No.”

“I—” She takes a breath. “Please.”

“No.” His voice is harder, now. Exhausted and frustrated in equal measure. “This cannot continue, Rapunzel. I can’t—you say you wish to talk, but all you make are demands; you tell me nothing of your journey or your reasons but expect me to accept your decisions—”

“And why can’t you?’ Rapunzel says, still forcefully calm. Her voice shakes. “Why is it so hard—”

“Because your choices put Corona at risk!”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I?”

For all rights, this conversation should be angry—and yet, their words are even, tight, controlled. It doesn’t feel like a conversation between father and daughter. It doesn’t feel anything like it should. And somehow this hits Rapunzel in a way nothing else could—suddenly this hurts like a knife to the chest, and she can feel something burn behind her eyes. “I can do this,” she whispers, and it aches. “I can do this. I’ve done everything I can, I’ve tried to prove myself again and again, so why do you keep—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Frederic says, cutting her off. “I— I have given my answer, and it will not change. You cannot—”

“Listen to me!”

“No!” He stands, the chair skidding against the floor. “You listen to me. This cannot go on! This—”

He’s drawn himself up, now, drawn himself tall and towering—and it’s the same as before, as every time before—as everyone has always done, standing over her and talking over her and acting like they know best, always know better, know Rapunzel more then she knows herself. As if, in all these years, they think she’s learned nothing at all.

And all at once, Rapunzel is angry. She is sharply, blindly furious, near breathless on the rage. She matches him—stands just as tall, chin up—steps forward, defying, and brings her hand to her mouth and drags her pretty leather glove off with her teeth.

He goes still.

But Rapunzel doesn’t notice, and she doesn’t care. She snatches the glove from her mouth and grips it, working at the other glove with stiff and shaking fingers. When the second glove is off, she lets them drop, and glares as she stretches out her hands before her, baring the scars into the light.

“This is part of it, right?” Rapunzel demands. “Is this why you’re mad at me—because I didn’t want to tell you? Don’t you get why I didn’t want to?”

Frederic says nothing. He looks pale, muted… and he should. The scars are never a pretty sight, but today has been a bad day and they look even worse because of it. The old wounds are inflamed, the scars white and puckered, the skin surrounding pink and angry. It aches when she opens her fingers. The cold of his study makes the tension wind even tighter in her knotted palms. Uncoiling her fingers even this little is almost too much for her to bear.

“You said you trusted me to take care of myself,” Rapunzel says, tight. “You said. And guess what? I did. I’m here, aren’t I? I came back. We all—” Her voice cracks. “We all came back from that place alive.”

He stares at the scars. His eyes flicker away.

“I get it,” Rapunzel says, a little quieter. “I do. But you can’t—you can’t protect me from this. You can’t stop me from getting hurt. This, now, it’s not… it’s not going to work. It’s not what you think.”

Something goes stubborn in his expression. He takes a breath. “Rapunzel—”

“Look,” she demands. Her voice is shaking, just a little; her gut still clenches to see the scars. “Look. Dad, please, just—look.”

He looks. His eyes are old and tired and so, so sad. He stares at the scars and something seems to drain from him; something awful and old weighs on his shoulders. “I know,” he says. “I know. I should have never let you go—”

“You aren’t listening,” Rapunzel snaps, before he can finish. “You aren’t— I was always going to go. Okay, Dad? I was always going to follow that path. That’s not what this is about. Please, just— listen. Listen to me.”

He stops. He breathes. This time, he meets her eyes.

Rapunzel looks back without flinching. Her breath rattles in her chest. Her scars ache.

“Do you know how I got these?” she asks, and the room is so quiet. “Do you know how I got these scars? Can you guess?”

He looks weary, worn. Defeated. It makes something in her quail. “Someone hurt you.”

“No.”

His expression flickers. “…Then,” he says, strained. “Then no. I don’t.”

“I,” Rapunzel says, and the memory makes her chest hurt, her breath tight, and oh, she almost wants to laugh— “I caught a sword.”

Frederic is silent. He looks pale.

“I panicked. There was no time.” The golem, swinging for Varian’s head— “I wasn’t thinking. I grabbed the blade—barehanded. I caught it.” This time, she laughs, soft and a little shaky. “With my— with my bare hands! I caught it. And I held it. And I pulled it back, mid-swing.”

Any remaining color washes out of his face. His eyes flicker back to the scars. “That’s impossible,” he says, and—

“Maybe,” Rapunzel says, and she’s shaking, head to toe. “Maybe. But that doesn’t matter.” It is impossible, the way many things are. A concussion that heals in days instead of weeks. An infection that never comes. Golden hair that never splits, never breaks, always strong enough to carry whatever she wished. Sun-lit power that burns like fire in her veins. All impossible things. But that is not the point.

“I caught it,” Rapunzel repeats. “I caught the sword. I held it back.” In the moment it had felt painless; in hindsight it was agonizing, that split-second of aching pain as the blade slid through her fingers and carved deep into her palm. “I saved a life.”

He stares at her.

“I saved a life,” Rapunzel says, and it’s almost a plea. He needs to understand this. He has to know, because otherwise, she thinks, he’ll never really get it. She stretches out her fingers as much as she can, as much as she’ll ever be able. Crooked and scarred and small in the candlelight. Callous rough in the skin between her forefinger and thumb. “And I did it with my own two hands.”

The memory is a painful one. Bloody, and fearful, and cold. But victorious, too. A bitter sort of pride. Never mind what came before. Never mind what came after. In that moment, Rapunzel had been right where she needed to be. Not too late. Not then.

She has the scars to prove it.

“I know you want what’s best for me,” Rapunzel says. Her voice is soft, but in the quiet it feels so much louder. “I understand. I do.” She feels cold. “Every parent I’ve ever had has always wanted what’s best for me.”

At this, Frederic recoils, a full-body flinch. The last of the color drains from his face. Some small, bitter part of Rapunzel is glad for it. Gothel would not have even blinked.

“I understand,” Rapunzel repeats, gentler. She takes a breath, exhaling shaky and slow, and meets his eyes. Her back straight as if sitting on a throne. Scarred hands held loose by her sides. Shoulders squared, her chin tilted up. And gold, too, flickering in the corner of her vision, in the depths of her eyes. “But— Dad?”

She waits. He says nothing.

“You can’t stop me.”

He is staring at her now. Finally, finally at her. Seeing Rapunzel at long last. Seeing who she has become.

Rapunzel waits. He doesn’t move. She closes her eyes and the gold is gone, but the warmth remains, coiled like a flicker of fire around her heart.

“Maybe,” Frederic says, at last. “Maybe I… maybe I can’t. But that doesn’t make your actions any less dangerous—to you, or to the people out there, relying on you to keep them safe.” She opens her mouth, angry words on her tongue, and he shakes his head. “Like that boy, Varian. I know the two of you were once friends, but after all he’s done…! To let him go! To do such things without cause, without reason, to take such risks on a whim—”

“It wasn’t a whim!” But she understands. It is as Lance had said, after all—it does look bad. It does seem strange. And maybe she should have told him this, at least, from the start. Never mind she wasn’t ready then. Never mind she didn’t know how.

She still doesn’t know how, but she’s willing to try. “Dad, I… I let Varian go because I had to. Not because of our past.” In truth, she’d let him go in spite of it. Beyond those few brief moments in the labyrinth, for most of their time together Varian had been nothing but awful to her.

“Rapunzel—” Frederic gestures in the air, grasping for the words. “My dear, that wasn’t… that wasn’t your choice to make.”

“Maybe.” And yet. Rapunzel steels herself. “…But do you have any idea what it’s like to— to live in a cage?”

He quiets. His eyes narrow, and he sits back, looking her up and down. “No,” he says, and it’s almost grudging, reluctant. “No.”

“I couldn’t bring him back here,” Rapunzel admits, and it’s the truth. “I couldn’t. If I did, I— I don’t think I would have been me anymore, you know? If, after all that—after everything that happened, if I’d still…” She shakes her head, the words gone. “I couldn’t. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not after that.”

His lips press. He looks away.

“And it’s funny,” Rapunzel says, almost to herself. “Because, um, in truth, I— I still don’t know if I even really forgive him. Or if I even like him. So much happened, and changed so quickly…  I don’t know. But at the time, I just—I just wanted him to have a chance. No matter how I felt. I… I had to give him a chance.” Her hand lifts, and brushes at her heart. “And I’m sorry, but— I can’t regret that. I refuse to regret that.”

“…I understand,” Frederic says, and he sounds like he really might, like he’s really trying to. “But I cannot let you get involved with the Stalyan situation if you can’t keep yourself safe. I’m not shutting you out just because of the secrets, but also—” He cuts himself off, teeth grit. “A princess cannot afford to give in to emotion. I—I am aware, the irony of this coming from me, but… a princess must truly put her people first.”

Rapunzel nods. She drops her hand. She braces herself, because this is going to hurt him—and says, with only the slightest of tremors in her voice, “I’m afraid I’m still rather new to being a princess.”

It’s terrible, his reaction to that—the way his expression stutters, then drops. Rapunzel doesn’t look away, but something in her gut curls. She knows the words have hurt him, and for all it’s necessary—it hurts. It does. She doesn’t want this. She never wanted to tell him this, but then, Lance was right about that, too. They need to know. They need to understand that for all Rapunzel is their daughter, now, is a princess and a fighter and a girl with a destiny—before everything else, above all else, she has only ever been just Rapunzel.

It’d be nice, to pretend those eighteen years in the tower never mattered. That Rapunzel could be the princess they always dreamed their daughter would be. It’d be wonderful, but… it isn’t true. It isn’t her.

But then—this is true, too. “I’d like to learn how to be a queen, though. Someday.” She offers a fading smile. “And I—I am putting my people first. In a weird way. I think… some part of me already knows. I want to be the kind of queen who gives chances. I want to be the kind of person who— who doesn’t lock anyone away. Who lets people change, if they choose to, who creates that chance…” Her fingers curl. The scars pull. “I want to protect Corona, and the people—everyone—with my own two hands. In whatever way I can.”

Silence.

“You can shut me out all you like,” Rapunzel says, firm. “But I’ll never, ever give up.” She meets his eyes. “That’s a promise, too.”

This, at long last, seems to strike home. Frederic stares. When he finally speaks, his voice has gone dead quiet. “I can’t—we can’t—” He stops, looking stunned at his own stutter. His eyes close. “We… I can’t lose you again, daughter.”

“I know.” Rapunzel smiles. It aches. “And I’m sorry, but... I’m not a child.”

And heavy, unspoken between them, the echo of his own words: That isn’t your choice to make.

He bows his head.

Rapunzel exhales hard in the same moment. Her eyelids flutter, and she presses one hand to her temple, suddenly so dizzy it’s a wonder she doesn’t fall right over. She feels tired. She feels awful. But something in her has settled. Something in her has eased. Because it’s terrible—painful and pressing, and it tears at her heart—

But he is listening. She can see it in his face. He’s heard her.

“Thank you for listening,” Rapunzel says. Her voice is a rasp; she feels very tired, all at once. “Your Majesty.” But that is too cold, too much, and her voice shakes, just for a moment. “…Dad.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and Rapunzel nods to herself. She shuffles on her feet, picking up her gloves, and finally turns away, making back for the door. Not looking back is one of the hardest things she’s ever done.

She puts her hand on the door. She makes to open it.

“Rapunzel.”

She stops.

“I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She stares down at her bare hands, the pale scars. She blinks back the tears.

“Me too.”

She shuts the door behind her to silence. She walks back to her rooms. Her heart is tight. Her hands shaking. She doesn’t smile. It’s a victory, but there’s no real joy in it—just a strange, aching relief. Something she’d never wanted to do—something she’d had to do.

And despite it all, Rapunzel cannot bring herself to regret this, either.

.

.

.

The letter comes on the brink of dawn.

Lady Caine spies the hawk on her own, without help from lookout or spyglass, as has become common. Her eyes burn green in the rising sun as she unties the missive from the hawk's leg, and her crew stand silent and still and ready as she glances at the letter. It’s fine parchment, dark red ink—our ally in Vardaros, Lady Caine likes to say about these letters, but all the pirates know is that when the letters come, heads roll.

They are beaten and bruised, Lady Caine’s crew; wounded, still, some of them, from when the black rocks rose in Port Caul. Their numbers culled, but only for a moment—slowly, surely, Lady Caine has gathered her people back together again, replaced the old with the new. She barely seems to know, now, which of her crew are newly acquired or old hands. The ones that have been with her the longest have noticed. The ones that have been with her the longest are afraid.

Lady Caine laughs when she finishes the letter, bright and cold, and then she crumples the parchment in her fist and tosses it carelessly in the ocean. “Looks like it’s so far, so good, barring any unfortunate mishaps,” she says, and stretches out her arms, linking her fingers and stretching up to crack her back. “Pull up the ropes, boys. We have a journey to make, and revenge to enact.” Her smile is a cruel gleam of teeth in the light of dawn. “One last stop, and then we sail for Corona.”

They scatter at the wave of her hand, and Lady Caine turns back to the sea. The crew has docked in a small little alcove by some abandoned islands, the cliffs above her rising tall and weighty, slopping and ancient rock like a heavy fist jutting from the sea. As her ship pulls out from the cove—and then the next ship, and the next, and all the others she has gathered in these long months of conquest—Lady Caine turns her head to stare at them, those lovely cliffs silhouetted dark against the sea-line sky.

Beside her, the darkness flickers. In her ears, a whisper grows.

“No, no news on the Moondrop yet,” Lady Caine murmurs back, to the echoes. Something cruel curls at her lips. “We’ll find them soon enough. But, for now…”

Her eyes turn back to the cliffs. Her hand rises.

“I think… I should do a little more practice.”

Her eyes burn bright and poisonous. The air ripples around her outstretched fingers. The wind snaps. For a moment, the world almost seems to twist—almost seems to scream—

And as her earthquake rocks the distant cliffs, that ancient stone buckles, warps, and falls heavy into the churning sea.

Chapter Text

Finally, one day, when the Sun had almost given up hope on ever seeing that lovely woman again— the Moon at last left her shadows, and approached.

How frozen the Sun was then! The being who created song itself was struck speechless at the sight. Moon drew up to her and Sun could hardly believe her eyes; here she was, the lovely woman, the one who danced on the ocean waves.

For a moment the two gods stood, still and silent and each watching the other. At last, the Moon spoke. “Why do you chase me so?” asked lovely Moon. “Why did you sing that day? I cannot understand.”

“Oh!” said radiant Sun, overcome with having found the Moon at last. “I never meant to chase, not really. I simply wanted to see you again. And to apologize—I did not mean to frighten you. Your dance was so lovely, I couldn’t help but want to sing for you …”

The Sun’s words trailed into silence, and she flushed.

In the ensuing quiet Moon considered the Sun, secretly touched. For all that Moon loved to dance, she had never before had someone to dance with, nor to sing for her. Though the Sun’s song had startled her, for a moment it had enchanted the Moon as thoroughly as Moon’s dance had enchanted the Sun. In that song she had heard belonging; in that melody she saw a light that took her breath away.

And so the lovely Moon, her stone heart softening, offered her hand and said, “Tell me your name then, stranger, and sing for me again, and perhaps this time, I will dance for you…”

.

.

.

They reach the Great Tree just before dawn.

It’s been a week since that conversation in the Riesling woods, and since that day their journey has been a rush of travel. Adira has pushed them forward relentlessly, even as her own jaw winds tighter and tighter with tension. Varian follows her lead without complaint, even as his blood burns ever colder in his veins, the Moon’s displeasure near-physical. They are in agreement, Varian and Adira, and with their destination set everything else is secondary—he needs the knowledge in the Great Tree, no matter the risks. No matter how much the Moon hates the idea—no matter if there is someone there, guarding the Tree. No matter what.

Adira is right, in the end. So long as Varian can’t control the rocks, he can’t do anything at all. 

Varian doesn’t know where they are now, just that they’re close enough to the Great Tree that the Moon’s presence is like an icy needle in the back of his mind. It’s so early in the morning the sky’s still black, with only the barest hints of blue light to suggest dawn is coming at all. Adira has refused to light a torch, claiming stealth, and so beyond the very dim pink glow of the nightlight, they are completely in shadow.

It’s not as dark as it should be, though. Despite the heavy clouds and lack of light, Varian can see fairly well, enough to keep steady on the rocky path he would otherwise be tripping over. He wonders, for a moment, if night vision is another of the Moon’s side-effect powers—and then pushes that thought very, very far away, because that’s something he doesn’t want to think about right now.

Beyond the dirt road beneath his feet and the dry, crumbling cliffs looming beside them, the terrain is barren and cold. It’s still iced over from the winter season, lingering pockets of snow clumping at the overgrown paths. The shadows wind tight around his throat; night-vision or not, darkness still makes Varian’s skin crawl. Every once in a while, he has to reach out a hand to the empty air, just to remind himself there are no walls enclosing him. This darkness is not the labyrinth—it is Adira in front of him, not Rapunzel. Ruddiger is settled warm around his shoulders. This isn’t the Dark Kingdom. This isn’t the black rocks.

Nevertheless, as Varian steps up onto the next ledge, he has to take a moment to catch his breath. His hand gropes blindly for the nightlight, and he clutches it tight to his chest. Even Ruddiger’s weight on his shoulders isn’t quite enough to snap him out of it.

The silence, too, is getting to him. The Moon is quiet now. The closer to the Tree they’ve gone, the more her hissed cruelty has fallen to a seething silence. For the past three hours, she hasn’t said a word to him. And Adira, too, abrupt at the best of times, has become almost mute with every hour that passes, with every step closer to the Tree.

It grates on him. It gnaws at him. Varian adjusts his grip on the nightlight and grits his teeth.

 “…Are we there yet?” 

It’s not what he wants to ask, and in actuality, talking at all feels rather forced; there is a stranglehold in his chest that makes breathing difficult, and talking more so. But the darkness is heavy and the line of Adira’s shoulders is stiff. She’s standing a few feet in front of him, already making for the next ledge.

“Are you a child?” Adira wonders back, absently. Her tone is dry with mild reproach, and in the dim light Varian can just barely see her fingers flex, instinctive fists. She hefts herself up the next step, and her words come out gritted. “For the last time. We’ll get there… when we get there.”

He’s annoying her, Varian knows. But they are so close to the Great Tree his skin is crawling, so he tilts up his head and keeps talking, just to break the silence. “Even Yasmin gave me a time estimate,” he says, trying in vain to keep his voice steady. “She brought me to the city and it was all ‘half an hour left, boy, keep going,’ and blah, blah, blah.”

“Yasmin is more patient than her mouth would suggest. All bark, no bite. I am the opposite.” Adira looks back, her eyes a pale gleam in the dark. “Stop asking, Moony. I get that you’re nervous, but taking it out on me is just—do not.”

Varian bites his lip hard, near tasting blood, and slowly picks his way over to the ledge. He presses his gloved hands against the dirt and pushes himself up on the first try, wheezing faintly from the strain. Adira helps steady him as he stands, swaying on his feet.

“I’m fine,” Varian mutters and brushes her hand away. This new leg of the path is higher up, less a real road and more a thin line cutting up around the mountain. It’s rockier up here, all gravel and loose stone and sharp jagged edges, barely a blade of grass to be seen. Varian bites his lip at the sight. This is—going to be very hard to walk, even with his stupid night-vision. Actually, how has Adira not tripped yet?

Adira just shakes her head at him. “Watch your feet, Moony,” she says, and draws back to start up the path.

A moment’s pause, and then Varian picks up his feet, almost jogging, staying close to her side. Ruddiger snuffles by his ear. “Stop calling me Moony,” Varian says, instead of what he wants to say. “You make me sound like a sulky child.”

There’s a moment of silence. His shoulders hunch.

Then Adira snorts, and the silence breaks, and suddenly despite the darkness and the Moon and the looming danger, things feel a little more normal again. “Oh, yes,” Adira says, visibly amused. “Because it’s so inaccurate…”

Varian glares at her, even though he knows she can’t see it. “Come on!”

“Hm, you disagree? No, you might be right. I should choose a nickname more suited to your actual personality…”

Varian eyes her. She’s smiling. He does not like that smile.

“…Moonrat.”

Varian splutters. “What!”

“Oh? Don’t like it?”

“Aren’t you just insulting me now?”

“Have you ever seen a moonrat? Tiny things. Like a mix between shrew and raccoon, except you can hold them in one hand, and they always seem to be screaming.” The smile on Adira’s face curls into a smirk. “Well? Moonrat?”

“…I hate you,” Varian decides. “I’m going to give you a stupid nickname someday, and then you’ll be sorry.”

“I’m shaking in my boots.” Adira picks her way up the hill and then turns, offering her hand; Varian makes a face but takes it, and she pulls him up beside her. Her voice lowers. “Look, I get it. I do. But we’re getting close, so we need to be quiet now.”

Varian looks down. It takes him a moment to find his words. “…I know.”

“Good.” She squeezes at his shoulder and pulls away. “Any changes? With your, hm…” She gestures. “Godly houseguest.”

The ease, so hard-won, turns sour on his tongue. Varian swallows hard and then looks away.

“Varian.”

“I know.” He squeezes his eyes shut, biting his lip hard. He feels shaky, trembling on the inside. He rubs at his chest, over his heart, and tries to focus.

Ever since the Riesling woods, all those days ago, when the Moon flashed fury and ice-cold fear through his head at the mention of the Great Tree... she’s been closer than ever, and yet, even farther away. Beyond the occasional hissed threats and momentary tantrums, she’s been almost dead silent.

He understands now why she’d avoided interacting with him all those long months before Port Caul. In the aftermath of Riesling, Varian finally understands. In saving him, in awakening this power to control the rocks—she has linked them. The door is open, the way unbarred, his thoughts and her power tied irrevocably together. This is what it means to be the vessel of the Moon’s power: it is her power, and so she is there, a vague sense in the back of his head, looking out through his eyes and into his mind whenever it pleases her.

But Varian is lucky, though—because it doesn’t please her. He gets the sense Moon despises speaking with him as much as he does her; she is there, yes, like his shadow is stuck to his feet, but though the door is always unlocked there are still times, like right now, when Varian gets the sense she has slammed it shut in his face.

Lucky, lucky. If she wanted to, she could make his life a living nightmare. The only thing saving Varian is the simple fact the Moon needs him alive and cooperative. He knows that, too. It’s the only reason they’ve made it to the Great Tree at all, despite the Moon’s displeasure—she hasn’t tried as hard as she could to dissuade them from coming. The rocks are bursting up like weeds everywhere they go, sure, but neither Varian nor Adira nor even Ruddiger have been harmed. Adira had been suspicious of it, but… in a way, Varian understands that too. Like when he was traveling with Rapunzel, before the labyrinth—he had hated her, he had hated all of them, but he’d still played along. Because he needed them, and that meant he couldn’t make an enemy out of them.

The Moon hates him; Varian feels much the same. But she has said this outright: she needs Varian, at least for now. So of course they are not injured. Of course she hasn’t killed them. If she had hurt them even slightly, Varian would have never, ever listened to her again.

And so they have reached the Great Tree unhindered. 

Still—he can’t deny it unsettles him. His connection with the Moon means he can feel, vivid and violently, exactly how much she hates them coming here. It’s more than Varian defying her, and searching for answers—she’d dared him to, after all, and if there is anything Moon respects, it’s a game. No. Moon’s hatred, her presence, her hissing rage—in this moment, it has little to do with Varian at all. 

It has everything to do with the Great Tree.

The Moon’s hatred for the Great Tree bothers Adira, Varian knows, and frankly it bothers him too. The Moon is mercurial at the best of times, but this is uncharted territory. Whatever the Moon’s thoughts on the Great Tree, they’ve only made Varian even more determined to go— and yet.

He can’t forget that moment in the woods, either. The fury and the fear, that feeling almost like a memory, before she snapped the connection closed. And he can’t help but wonder. What is it about the Great Tree—former base of Zhan Tiri, now little more than a ruin of a library—that makes the Moon react so strongly?

For three days after that conversation in the woods, the Moon had been almost violent. Her whispers had been there in the forefront of his mind for hours—hissing, furious, cruel. Varian had dropped bowls and staffs at the sudden pain in his hand, had been struck with deafening static and blinding bursts of light behind his eyelids at varying intervals. The rocks bloomed vicious and vehement around the camp almost every night. And the less said about Varian’s dreams… the better.

But the closer they’d gotten to the Great Tree, the quieter the Moon has become. And now, in the dead of morning, as Varian reaches for that cold presence, he can feel nothing but an icy wall, a muted snarl like a door being slammed shut in his face.

He shakes his head, unsettled. “She’s not responding.”

Adira’s frown flashes across her face. But all she says is, “I see.”

They get moving again. This time, there is no banter. The sun is coming up, little by little—and they are close. Varian can practically feel it: a looming presence like a void, an absence, a gaping maw in the fabric of the world. They climb up together on the last ledge, and turn the corner—and then the mountains break, and Varian can see their destination in full.

There, in the distance, cast against the dark skyline, the Great Tree blots the otherwise pristine horizon like a warped and malevolent growth. The sun is just beginning to rise by now, and in the burgeoning glow the Tree is shadowed and cold and larger than even the mountains. It’s as big as a castle, wide branches twisting up in a mimicry of towers, the trailing ends reaching for the distant sun like grasping fingers. It is the only living thing for miles around, and even from this distance, Varian can see that the dirt around those giant roots has gone white and dead with poison.

There is something sick about the sight, grand though it may be—something awful and rotted. Varian holds a hand up to his nose, convinced for a moment that he can smell smoke, lingering heavy and acrid in the air. 

But when he breathes in again, all he can smell is the snow.

Adira’s hand falls heavy on his shoulder; he almost jumps. “You okay?”

Varian inhales sharply—but the air is crisp and clean, nothing burning for miles. After a second, he nods. His mouth feels very dry.

Adira grips his shoulder. Her jaw is tight again. “Careful,” she says, at last.

Varian swallows. “I know that.” His eyes draw back to the tree. His breath shudders on the exhale. “Is that…?”

“The Great Tree.” Adira’s voice is dark. “Ugly, isn’t it?”

“The land looks like… like it’s dying.”

“Old legends say that Zhan Tiri turned the place into a parasite. With that demon at the helm, the Tree sucked up everything. Life, power… even light.” Adira clicks her tongue, shoulders tense. “Tens of thousands of years later, and the world still hasn’t recovered.”

There’s something like a shiver—an icy presence, the afterimage of glowing eyes. He thinks he can feel a hand brush the back of his neck—and tighten, a brief and vicious warning, the sharp prick of claws in his skin before the Moon drifts back again, seething and cold.

Adira waits, lips pressed thin. Varian catches his breath, and squeezes his eyes shut. “She doesn’t like it,” he whispers. “At all.”

She squeezes his shoulder again. “…You don’t have to go in. It might even be safer. I still don’t know if someone might be… waiting for us there.” Her eyes draw to the Tree, before she forcefully drags them away, back to Varian’s face. “I can sneak in alone, look around—”

“No!” Varian sucks in a sharp breath. “I—no. No. I have to do this.”

“…All right.” 

“I have to,” Varian repeats. And he does. The rocks are his problem now. If he doesn’t do all he can—if he can’t say he did everything he could—then if things go wrong again, (and they will, they will, because they always do)—well. Varian isn’t sure he could ever forgive himself.

Adira searches his face. Whatever she sees seems to please her; she nods once, calm acceptance, and unhooks one of the training staffs from her back. “Take this, then,” she says. “We’re leaving our travel packs here. Gather up what you need, and be mindful—there’s no telling what we’ll find in there.”

Varian nods and takes the staff, and lets his packs fall back into the dirt. He stares down at the staff, just for a moment—the knotted wood, heavy in his hands. He sets his jaw and meets Adira’s eyes.

“Let’s go,” Varian says, with a bravery he doesn’t feel, and takes the first step down the cliff. Ruddiger chitters soft on his shoulder. Adira’s footsteps follow heavy behind him. Varian grits his teeth.

For over a year, he has been looking for answers. For months, he’s been left in the dark—and now, no longer. The sight of the Great Tree chills him, but Varian is decided. If the answers are there, he’ll find them. He’s done waiting. He’s done doing nothing.

He’s going to do better, Varian promises himself, and so he goes.

.

Rapunzel is watching the sunrise.

It is the morning after her talk with the King—with Frederic—and the storm that has plagued Corona for the past week and a half has moved on fully at last. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining hall, the sunrise is bright and clear and crystal, shining pale and crisp in a near-cloudless sky. The whole sea is shining with it, the whole room set ablaze, and there is a weird comfort to be found in closing her eyes and still feeling the echo of sunlight on her skin.

It’s over, Rapunzel thinks, which is in actuality a very silly thought. In truth, things have just begun. But she can’t help but feel some measure of relief. She is tired, and sore, and aching all the way down to her bones, exhausted fully—but this morning, when she’d woke, she’d stared at her ceiling and sighed, and then she had gotten up. And she had gotten ready. And there was no real change to it, no real difference, except that maybe getting up came a little easier to her, this morning, than it has in a very long time.

That’s a victory too, Rapunzel would say. And so she sits at the ridiculously long dining room table watching the sunrise, and has to hide a smile in the rim of her mug.

She’s the only one eating here, at the moment; she looks, Rapunzel thinks with some delight, absolutely ridiculous. One small girl with gloves and no shoes and a plain purple dress, nibbling on dry toast at a table so long it takes up the hall.

Behind her, Elias stands at the ready. She’s relieved to see him. When she’d opened her door and saw him standing there, apparently none the worse for wear, she’d almost hugged him. The poor boy still seems nervous, though—he’s been casting her glances for a while now—but while Rapunzel is curious, she’s content to ignore him, if only for a moment. She has toast to finish. Options to consider. Things to finally process, now that the sun is up and Rapunzel has gotten some much-needed sleep.

For instance: the issue of where Rapunzel now stands with the King.

She’s… fairly sure her father understands her side now. Less sure if he’s agreed to anything, and what might change in consequence. Eugene can probably come and go from the castle as he pleases again, but for Cassandra, and the problem of Varian—let alone Stalyan…

Rapunzel makes a face at her plate and puts down her toast, frowning slightly. Stalyan. Rapunzel still isn’t sure what to do about her, or what she’s planning. Oh, honestly. She doesn’t even know if she’ll be allowed into the next meeting! For all her talk the night before, she doesn’t really have a plan. She doesn’t know what to do.

She still has time, hopefully—she’ll be seeing Eugene soon, if all goes well, and he’s bound to have some ideas. The problem of Stalyan isn’t something Rapunzel has to tackle alone.

Rapunzel hums, and brushes the crumbs from her gloves. That reminds her. She twists back to look at Elias. “Can I ask you something?”

He blinks at her, a little startled. “I, um, that’s… sure?”

Rapunzel manages a smile for him. “I’m sorry, I meant to ask earlier, but—you didn’t get in trouble yesterday, did you? When I…” She trails off, unsure of how to word it. When she ran away? When she snapped? Hm.

Elias shakes his head. “N-no! No. Just scolded. I’m okay.” Rapunzel exhales hard at that, relieved, and he shifts on his feet. “Um, were you—did you get in trouble?”

“It’s fine.” Elias seems uncertain. Rapunzel looks down. “It… it is.” She smiles again, or tries to— it’s a weak thing, this smile, thin and fragile. But true. “It’s fine now. Things are going to be okay.”

She hopes.

“Okay…” But his shoulders slump, and this time he smiles back. “That’s good. I’m—I’m glad.”

“Thank you.” She looks away, ashamed for asking him this question, unable to keep from asking. “Have you… heard anything about, um— if Cassandra—”

 It’s a cruel thing to ask him, but Rapunzel can’t help it. She’s missed Cassandra, despite the tension between them recently. And she can’t help but hope, just a little, that maybe… maybe getting her old job back will help. If Cassandra can get re-instated, if she can get assigned out of the dungeons, then maybe…?

Maybe. Rapunzel is praying with all her heart. 

Elias catches on quick. “Oh. Oh. No, I… I’m still your guard detail, I— I think. I didn’t hear… anything about Cassandra.” She can hear the regret in his voice; he sounds truly upset at the lack of news. “I’m s-sorry.”

“…It’s okay.” But it settles a little colder in her chest. She should have known—not every problem will be solved with a conversation, after all. And Cassandra’s situation with the King, while not helped by Rapunzel’s silence… well, Rapunzel is starting to suspect the feud has very little to do with Rapunzel at all. She’s not even sure where to begin with fixing that.

Behind her, Elias shifts. “Um… about, about Cassandra…”

Rapunzel blinks, looking back at him. “Yes?”

Elias won’t meet her eyes. He’s staring at the floor so hard he could bore holes, brows furrowed. His hands are clenched so tight around his halberd, the leather of his gloves is stretched taut. “I—I’m sorry, it’s not my place, but… doesn’t she seem a bit—”

He stops. Rapunzel waits, but all Elias does is press his lips, head bowing even lower. He’s trembling, she realizes, with a strike of worry. Shifting on his feet, shoulders shaking, breathing starting to hitch. She leans forward, worried now. “Elias?”

“Just,” he says, but his voice is going small. “I, I think—I think there might be—!”

A knock sounds at the dining room entrance, the doors opening, and Rapunzel jolts around, startled. Her mother—the queen—Arianna, and as much as it hurts to think of her parents so distantly it’s the only thing she can really handle right now—is standing in the doorway, pale-faced and looking frantic. When she sees Rapunzel, sitting stunned at the table, Arianna almost seems to crumple.

“Rapunzel.”

Rapunzel bites her lip. “…Mom.”

“I thought I’d find you in here,” Arianna says, relaxing a little. Her smile is weak, though, pale and thin. “I… I’m sorry to just barge in. Your father told me—well.”

Oh, Rapunzel thinks. She swallows, looking away. Right. She closes her eyes, exhaling slow and thin. “Okay,” she says, and turns back to Elias before she can get truly distracted. “Wait, just, what were you—”

“It’s nothing.” Elias’s voice has gone quiet again. “Just… it’s nothing. I, I’m being silly.” He gives a short bow to the Queen and steps back, giving Rapunzel and Arianna space to talk, and Rapunzel watches with a tense jaw. Elias catches her eye and gives a weak smile.

“It’s r-really nothing,” he says, still small. Then, lower, so low she isn’t sure if she’s supposed to hear this at all, he says: “I doubt you would believe me anyway.”

“What—”

“Rapunzel, dear, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to speak with you.” 

Arianna’s voice, apologetic but firm, pulls Rapunzel away once again. She turns back to the doors, flustered. “Right, right, but—”

“Rapunzel.”  Arianna approaches the table, worry clear in her eyes, and settles down gingerly in the chair beside her. She leans forward, hand outstretched, and reaches for Rapunzel’s hands with a look like despair. “May I…?”

Rapunzel considers her. She bites her lip. She casts one last look at Elias—who ignores her gaze and shakes his head at the floor—and then finally faces her mother, reluctant but not sure what else to do. She thinks about it.

“Please,” Arianna says.

Rapunzel sighs. She offers her hand.

Her mother is careful—too careful, really—removing the gloves, and turns Rapunzel’s scarred hands to the light gingerly. Her face falls. “Your father told me,” she admits, staring quietly at the scars. “But I had to see for myself. Oh, Rapunzel.”

Rapunzel tries to offer a smile, but mostly she just feels tired. “It’s okay.”

“Does it hurt?”

“…Only sometimes.” And even that, Rapunzel is becoming accustomed to, but she doesn’t think her mother would be happy to hear that, even if it’s true. “It’s healed well.”

Arianna shakes her head. “You should have told us earlier. We could have—we must call the healers. Maybe—”

“I already saw a doctor.” Rapunzel tugs her hand back, gentle but firm. She’s sympathetic, but mainly her mother’s words just exhaust her. Rapunzel has heard this for months now, the horror and the pity and the false platitudes. Over and over and over again. But Rapunzel has had these scars for six, now near seven months; she’s gotten used to the sight, to the gloves, to the near-chronic pain that echoes through her fingers. It’s not fun, or pretty, or nice—but she’s becoming accustomed to the idea of living with this. She just wishes everyone else could, too.

But that’s unfair, she knows—her mother only just found out, after all. “It’s fine,” Rapunzel repeats. “Really. I have exercises to do, to help with the healing and the pain, and I’ve been careful. It’s just…” She looks down at her palms. “This is just how it is now. I’m okay, Mom.”

Arianna bites her lip. “Rapunzel—”

“I’m fine.”

“I— I’m sorry.”

Rapunzel stares at her lap. “I know,” she says, unable to look Arianna in the eye. “And I’m sorry too, for not telling you. But—” She closes her eyes. The words are lost. She can’t remember what she wants to say.

So she switches tracks, instead. “I... I wanted to ask, about Cassandra—”

One look at her mother’s face tells her everything. “You can’t,” Rapunzel says, helpless and starting to get heated. She’s my friend. And more than that— “She didn’t do anything!”

“Cassandra’s situation is different,” Arianna says, regretful but with an edge of steel to the words. “You aren’t under house arrest anymore, Rapunzel. No longer under watch, either, though,” she casts a sly side-eye to Elias, who straightens so fast he almost drops his halberd, “your father thinks keeping the new guard might help, if you insist on seeking out danger.” She grins a little, as if it’s a joke, but Rapunzel doesn’t smile back. After a moment, Arianna sighs. “Rapunzel. Cassandra—she gave her word to protect you, and it was broken.”

Varian, and the arrow. Rapunzel grits her teeth. How many times must that day come back to haunt her? “Because of me!”

“And because of her own choices, too.” Arianna’s look is soft and apologetic. “She mentioned it in the letter herself. She was lax on security. She left you alone with Varian, a breach of the protection protocol—and you almost paid dearly for it. That cannot be forgotten, Rapunzel.”

Rapunzel doesn’t agree. But she takes in the look in her mother’s eyes, and has to stare at the table instead, jaw tight.

“I’m sorry,” Arianna repeats, heavily. She presses her lips. “I know, what you must have wanted… but there are always consequences, Rapunzel. It cannot be forgotten, but perhaps one day it can be forgiven. We aren’t doing this to be cruel.” She reaches out, hesitates, then draws her hand back. “I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Rapunzel closes her eyes. “Me, either.”

There’s a stiff silence. After a moment, Rapunzel sighs, turning around, and finally opens her arms for a hug. Arianna gives it gratefully. She’s warm, and her grip is strong—her mother has always given the best hugs Rapunzel knows, tight and fierce and secure.

Rapunzel hugs her mother, head tucked in her shoulder, and admits, “I don’t like it.”

“I know.”

“I’m still a little angry. At dad. At you.”

“I… I understand.”

“But I did miss you.” Her eyes burn. Rapunzel hugs her mother tighter. “I missed you guys—so much.”

Arianna breathes in sharp. Her exhale is ragged. “We love you,” she says, voice shaking a little. “We do. And I—oh, Rapunzel. I’m so happy to have you back.”

Rapunzel nods against her shoulder and stays quiet, just soaking in the warmth, the comfort, the strength of Arianna’s arms around her. She takes a deep breath and pulls back first, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

Arianna has to take a minute to catch composure too; behind them both, Elias looks like he’s trying to sink into the shadows. Despite the tension, and all her questions, Rapunzel can’t help but giggle at him, and after a moment Arianna laughs too.

Elias splutters. His cheeks darken, and he waves his hands, looking frantic. “Sorry, s-sorry, I should leave, sorry…”

“It’s all right,” Arianna says, eyes shining, bright with tears but now, too, with laughter. “At ease, guard. It’s all right.”

Elias buries his face in his hands, looking overcome. Rapunzel ducks her head with a smile and then draws herself tall, straightening up. A weight has lessened from her shoulders—but there’s still something she has to know. “Mom, can I ask…?”

“Of course,” Arianna says, at once.

Rapunzel hesitates. Time to test it, she supposes. “When is the next meeting with Stalyan? Has she requested one yet?”

Arianna hesitates. Her smile fades. “…Yes.”

A pause.

“…Mom—”

“I know.” Arianna closes her eyes, looking frustrated, and visibly shakes herself. “I know. Yes. It’s—” She sighs. “Five days from now. Dawn of the second weekday.”

Rapunzel watches her, the struggle on her face. She understands. Her mother doesn’t want to tell her. Even now, Rapunzel’s parents can’t stand the idea of her getting involved, of stepping back into the danger. But they are telling her anyway, and that is—

It’s enough. It loosens something in her shoulders, uncurls the knot in her gut. Rapunzel reaches out and rests her hand over her mother’s, and smiles when Arianna looks up and meets her eyes.

They’ve heard her. They’re listening.

“Thank you,” Rapunzel says warmly, and smiles so wide it hurts.

.

It takes them an hour to reach the Tree.

It’s an hour gone tense and taut with silence, stiff and cold with waiting. Varian hardly dares to breathe the whole way there, and in the back of his mind, the Moon’s icy silence is like a magic-induced brain freeze. Adira too is wound as tight as a wire, eyes sharp and watchful, and the whole way there, she doesn’t take her hand from the hilt of her sword, not even once. She’s warned Varian, vaguely, of what they could expect—another former resident of Adira’s Dark Kingdom is supposed to guard the way to the Tree—but beyond his name, Hector, Adira hasn’t said much else.

Varian hasn’t asked, either. The only question that comes to mind, did he know Quirin too? —it isn’t worth asking. He’s not sure if he wants to know. The secrets Dad kept from him… it feels almost wrong, to search for them now. Now that Quirin isn’t here to tell him himself. Now that Varian will never get an answer.

Does it matter, Quirin’s past? Maybe. Maybe not. If Varian is being honest with himself, what bothers him the most about Quirin’s connection to the Dark Kingdom is that Varian had never known.

(That Quirin never told him.)

And so. Varian doesn’t ask, and Adira doesn’t tell him, and this final leg of their journey is made in silence, as the sun rises slow and burning behind their backs.

Yet, despite their caution—nothing happens. No shadows leap out to take them into the night; no monsters loom around the bend. They reach the entrance of the Great Tree—a hollow space that looks more like a gaping mouth than a door—with only the wind to haunt their footsteps.

The Great Tree is even more intimidating up close. It looms so high above it blocks out the light, and despite the fact spring has just barely begun, those bone-white branches are adorned with spiny, fragile leaves that look as brittle as glass and as sharp as needles. There are no birds in this tree; no life surrounding—even the wind has gone flat and dead, even the grass unable to grow in the sickened soil. On his shoulder, Ruddiger takes one sniff and then shrinks back, and Varian is suddenly and vividly struck with a memory from months and months ago, when they first stepped into the Dark Kingdom. His ear had been recently torn then, and he’d been half-out of his mind with guilt and confusion and hatred, but… he remembers, still, clear as day. Halfway to that mountain of black rocks, the animals had stopped stone-cold.

Varian’s steps falter, then slow, then stop. Adira stops too, frowning back at him—but Varian hardly notices. He stares at the Great Tree, that hollow entrance, and something in his chest goes cold.

The Moon.

It’s not like when he called upon her in Yasmin’s home. She hardly seems real at all, like she’s standing in some thin veil between reality and dream. He can just barely see her, distant and thin and faint like a desert mirage. She’s standing there, in the entrance, in their way—her eyes cold and shoulders stiff, like to have her back to the Great Tree is to have her back exposed to an enemy.

Varian doesn’t move. The Moon stares down at him, eyes bright and ghostly in the darkness, and for a moment there is nothing in her face at all.

This is my final warning to you.

Her voice is icy. Her eyes never leave his face.

Leave, now. Never return. Give up this foolish quest for answers, beg for my forgiveness or accept your fate—but leave this wretched place behind you, and perhaps I’ll be inclined to think more favorably of you.

Varian takes a deep breath. She needs him, he reminds himself. For now, at least, she needs him alive.

“I don’t care what you think.”

You know not of what you are doing. The risks involved. To enter this place—

“I don’t care.”

There is a long silence. The Moon’s eyes narrow. Varian hardly dares to breathe.

You will regret it, Moon says, simply. It is not a threat. She says it plainly, flatly, true—almost pitying. And when Varian blinks, and opens his eyes again, she has vanished once more into the wind, and his head is all his own.

Varian swallows hard, and brings a hand to Ruddiger’s head, petting him firmly. Ruddiger hides his face in the curve of Varian’s fingers, ears flat against his head and teeth baring at the empty maw of the Great Tree, and Varian turns, giving Adira a helpless look.

Adira is watching Ruddiger too, eyes darting between the entrance and Varian; her lips press thin. “Is she…?”

So Adira didn’t see her, then. Varian closes his eyes. Magic, ugh. “She, um… she’s gone.” For now.

Another pause. Varian takes a deep breath. Despite all he’d said to the Moon—

“Adira, um, should we—”

“I know,” she says, grim. Varian snaps his mouth shut. “But at this point…”

They can’t turn back.

“I know,” Adira repeats, again, and she says it quietly, almost to herself. Her teeth are clenched so tight it looks like it hurts, and her expression is livid, eyes fixed on the shadows. She looks—he almost can’t place it; the emotion is so strange to see on her. But she looks, Varian thinks, almost as if she is bracing herself.

 Varian steps a little closer to her, looking up at the shadow of the Tree, so dark the rising sunlight can just barely illuminate it. In a whisper, he says, “I thought you said someone you knew was here?”

“A former ally,” Adira says, tense. She grimaces. “Well. He should be.”

Varian bites his lip. They stare together into the darkness.

“The Moon?” Adira asks, finally.

Varian shakes his head. “She’s…” Pain flashes up his arm; he pulls his right hand behind his back, trying to breathe through it, the icy chill crawling up his hand. “I-ignoring me.”

Adira side-eyes him. “She’s hurting you.”

“Not seriously.” He curls his aching hand to a fist. “She’s just being p-prissy.”

The pain stabs at him, momentarily blinding, before fading to a dull ache, the Moon apparently losing interest. Varian hisses his next breath through his teeth.

Adira places a hand on his shoulder. For a moment they’re both silent, waiting, watching the darkness of the Great Tree, and then Adira sighs, soft and heavy, and takes her hand away.

“Come on,” she says simply, and pushes him through the door and into the first room of the Tree.

And it is, Varian realizes as he walks inside, a room—a space so big it must take up almost the whole base of the tree, so wide the light can only barely illuminate it. The floor is solid stone, smooth and slate-gray; pale dirt and withered husks of plants break up between the cracks. On the right side a whole section of the floor has completely fallen away into a solid drop. Pillars rise through the gloom, into a distant ceiling Varian can’t quite see. The air, stale and dusty, tastes as rotted as it smells.

It is like a living shadow. It is chill, and dark, and yet: there is something alive about it all. Something breathing, and watching, and biding its time. But maybe alive isn’t the right word—because there is rot here, too, heavy and lingering in the air, and the smell of smoke is so strong it nearly chokes him.

It feels like a dead place. It feels like…

He can sense the Moon, though only briefly—a flutter of cold, a catch of breath like pain. For a moment he thinks he can hear screaming, but when he goes to follow it, the sound has already faded away.

“What is this place?” Varian whispers, feeling sick. “What… what happened here?”

“It used to be a place of knowledge. A stronghold.” Adira lifts the torch higher; the firelight flickers, weak and thin in the whistling drafts of the tree. “Legends say Zhan Tiri took it for his own, when the demon tried to take the land.”

His vision spins. Varian stops mid-step, swaying on his feet, and has to steady himself against a nearby pillar. It doesn’t feel like wood, or bark, or anything natural. It is too smooth and slick, too false. It reminds him of bone, picked clean and polished. A shiver crawls down his spine. The screaming echoes in his ears again.

He snatches his hand away.

Ruddiger chitters in his ear. Varian shakes him off. “Zhan Tiri,” he whispers. Again, the name shudders through him. This time, the Moon speaks aloud, her voice hissing dark with warning.

Stop.

Varian closes his eyes. “Knowledge,” he says, voice unsteady, and when Adira glances at him he only shakes his head. She can’t—he can’t—they can’t do anything. There’s nothing they can do about Moon, except this. “K-Knowledge, um, is—a good place to start. About—the Sun and Moon and their powers, right? Do you know where we could find it?”

Adira never gets the chance to answer.

“Oh, it’s still here,” a new voice says, and Adira inhales sharp, hand flying to her sword. “But you certainly aren’t getting it.”

Adira just barely draws her blade in time.

Varian doesn’t even see the man move.

In an instant, the situation has shifted—and they are no longer alone. From the deep shadows of the tree, a stranger comes rushing into view, jumping down from above with a shout and a thin blade that shines deadly in their torchlight. He slams down between them, dust rising in a cloud, and before Varian can even think to scream that shining sword is swinging for Adira’s throat.

Adira blocks just in time. The man throws himself forward into the blow, and his silver blade catches and locks against Adira’s own dark sword. For a moment they are in a stalemate, and Adira makes to speak—and then the man laughs, high and vicious, and a second blade slips out from under his sleeve.

“Adira!”

 The man punches for her neck and Adira throws herself back, the second blade only just missing her throat, scouring up the bottom of her chin. She stumbles back and the man follows after her, blade flashing—and Varian finally snaps out of his shock, inhaling quick and lunging forward with a cry.

He doesn’t know what he plans to do—to help, to summon the rocks—but he doesn’t get the chance. Yellow eyes shine out from the shadows, and Ruddiger’s claws dig so deep into Varian’s shoulder they draw blood. Varian freezes in place, and now he can hear it too—from behind him, from in front of him: a low and rumbling snarl.

Varian steps back, involuntary, and two beasts stalk out from the shadows. They are—they are huge, as big as a horse, their teeth as long as his arm and claws clicking deadly sharp against the Great Tree’s stone floor. The beasts look like a mix between wolves and wolverines, and for Varian, who is already small for his age—they tower over him.

Varian steps back again, mouth dry. The beasts have begun to circle him, caging him in between them. Drool drips thick and rancid from white gums, peeled back to expose every one of the creatures’ yellowed teeth. Their eyes are wild. Their eyes are hungry.

 Ruddiger’s claws are starting to dig into the skin of his shoulder. Varian can’t breathe.

Across the room, Adira and the man are again in a stand-still. The man is smiling. Adira is not. Their blades are locked in place, stuck in unwilling truce, and already, both swords are slick and shiny with blood.

“Hector,” Adira grits out, and her eyes burn in the light.

“Adira,” the man replies, mild. He is tall, whip-cord thin with dark hair and skin so pale he’s almost translucent. His yellow eyes shine bright in the flickering light of the fallen torch. His smile is a bare of teeth, feral and cold. “So nice to see you again. It’s a shame to have to gut you like the traitor you are.”

.

One month after leaving the castle behind, Eugene returns with his heart in his throat.

He feels sort of nervous, and isn’t entirely sure why; his palms are clammy, and he keeps having to dry them off on his pantlegs. It’s noon on a clear day, and the streets are cluttered but not crowded, and the path up to the castle is like getting hit face-first with nostalgia.

Honestly, Eugene thinks to himself. A month! When he’d left the castle behind that day, he’d never thought things would go that far. Well, he’s learned his lesson: royals hold grudges, apparently, and maybe Rapunzel came by her stubbornness honestly. That’s the only reason he can think for why that tug-of-war standoff had lasted as long as it had.

 And it’s over now, apparently, at least according to Rapunzel. Still: Eugene walks up the winding road, into the shadow of the castle, looming ever closer, and can’t help but swallow hard. It’s not entirely because of the castle, or the guards—though after a month of hiding in the shadows convinced that he was going to get locked out for turning his back on the whole political soap opera scene, he can admit neither guards nor castle is a very welcome sight. It’s just… a lot of things, maybe. Everything.

Lance had told him directly, and Lance wouldn’t lie—not about this. But still, still, Eugene can’t quite wrap his head around it.

Stalyan is here.

Stalyan is in the city.  

It makes something in him go cold; it makes something in him go small. Eugene can’t find a name for the feeling. Shame, maybe. Guilt. Fear? He doesn’t know. It’s been years since he last saw Stalyan, and longer since he’s thought of her—of all the things in his past he’s been grateful to leave behind, she is most definitely one of them. Flynn Rider, rogue and scoundrel… but it hadn’t just been his reputation that bid him to run, that day at the altar. It had just been… the look on her face, maybe. The smile in her eyes. Like loving him was less about happiness and more about power, and all that could be gained from it.

Love isn’t meant to be like that—even then, he’d known that. For all the stupid masculinity jokes people make about marriage being a chain, in truth it is meant to be happy. Fulfilling. Freedom. Eugene hasn’t truly understood it until meeting Rapunzel, until looking in her eyes and knowing with his whole heart that staying by her side and seeing her smile was worth the world—but he’d got an inkling of it then too, seeing Stalyan that day.

Stalyan had loved him, albeit maybe in a twisted sort of way. And Eugene, fool that he was, had loved her too, once. But it wasn’t the kind of love that would make them happy. Great, sure, rulers of the criminal underworld; but Eugene had looked in her face that day and known, suddenly and sharply, that with her he’d never be happy again.

Stalyan must hate him for abandoning her—Eugene would expect nothing less, and he can’t even blame her for it. What can he say! At this point, it’s starting to become a trend: Flynn Rider, ruiner of lives and breaker of promises, useless in everything he did. In everything he does.

But even now, he can’t quite shake the feeling that she had left him first.

He can’t explain it. Like most things with Stalyan, just thinking about it gives him a headache. Whether it was the distance in her eyes or the cool chill of her smile, the way she gripped his wrists or the way she said his name, called him hers… who can say? It was a long time ago, and Eugene has left it behind him.

Still, though. Stalyan, here? He can’t deny it makes his skin crawl. Every passerby makes him jump; the distant echo of high laughter sets his teeth on edge. Eugene returns to the castle at long, long last—and because this is his life now, apparently, he can’t even be happy about it. So unfair.

Eugene blows out a heavy sigh and pushes the thoughts away as he approaches the castle gates. He looks up, a grimace tugging at one side of his mouth. Hello there, looming castle. Long time, no see.

The guards don’t stop him from entering, though they look surprised to see him. Eugene gives them a blinding smile and a wink-and-finger guns combo (devastating as always), and scampers on inside before they can stop him, or worse, ask him where he’s been.

The castle doesn’t seem to have changed much, really—a little greener, and covered in a whole lot more flowers, given spring is finally starting up. Eugene stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels, watching the castle gates with one eye. She’d said noon, right? Gods, he should have brought the letter to check.

He doesn’t have to wait long, thankfully. Five minutes after Eugene arrives in the gardens, the main doors push open, and Rapunzel slips out, bare-foot and smiling and hair braided behind her head, rushing down the stairs.

It’s cliché, maybe, but it’s true: for a moment the sight of her takes his breath away. His heartbeat stutters and thuds, and when Rapunzel meets his eyes, Eugene smiles so wide it hurts.

“Sunshine!”

“Eugene!”

He opens his arms and catches her when she leaps, spinning her around once, twice, and again until she’s laughing like she can hardly breathe and his smile has settled wide and true on his face. Her arms wrap tight around his neck; her cheek brushes his as she hugs him. “Eugene!” Rapunzel shouts again, right in his ear, and there’s laughter in her voice, laughter and tears and a smile so wide he can hear it. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”

He hugs her back just as hard, and spins her one last time before setting her back down on her feet. Rapunzel laughs, bright and loud, and leans in to hug him again, so strong his feet lift right off the ground. Eugene yelps, then settles, and laughs himself—then yelps again when Rapunzel spins him.

“Woah, woah—”

“You’re here!”

“—I am.” She puts him down, and he fakes a stagger, just to make her laugh again. She ducks her head with a beaming grin, and he straightens, smiling too, pulling back but leaving his hands on her waist, his eyes on her.

Eugene is smiling so wide, his cheeks actually hurt. He winks. “Miss me?”

She’s crying, but not in the bad way, thank the Sun—her eyes watery and wet, a little red, her cheeks flushed. She looks happy. She dabs at her eyes and laughs again. “You have no idea,” Rapunzel says, through her smile and the tears. “I am—I’m so happy you’re here, Eugene.”

“Me, too.” He brings a hand to her face. “I know it’s just for the day, but…”

“That’s fine. More than fine.” Rapunzel rests her head against his chest. “Things are—I’m figuring it out. You’ll come again?”

“Every day,” he swears.

“Eugene.”

“Fine, every other day—” She lifts an eyebrow. “Every three days—” Rapunzel tilts her head. “I’m coming at least once a week, Blondie, spy stuff doesn’t take up all my time, I can spare a day. For you, especially!”

“Mm-hmm…” But she’s grinning again, wide and pleased, and he knows he’s said the right thing.

Eugene sobers, looking her up and down. It’s been a while since he’s seen Rapunzel face to face, though he’s sent her letters every chance he could. She looks—tired, honestly. More worn than he can remember. There’s an exhaustion to her, a haggardness to her face, that speaks loads about how badly the stress of everything has been weighing on her.

And yet—even so. Despite her red-rimmed eyes, her expression is clear and focused. Her hands aren’t shaking, and neither is she. She’s holding herself tall—taller, even, back straight and chin tilted up, quiet and constant defiance.

“You’re okay?” Eugene asks, already half-sure of the answer, and when Rapunzel smiles, he smiles too. That right there—that’s a true smile. A real one. He can tell by the way it lights her face and crinkles, warm, at her eyes.

“I will be,” Rapunzel says, firm as if making a promise.

He believes her. “Okay.” Still, he draws her in again—and just holds her, for a minute, and lets her hold him, and soaks in the comfort of finally being with her. “I’m sorry,” he says, at last. “About not being able to visit before now. And for not telling you about Stalyan in person. And—”

“It’s okay,” Rapunzel says. He chances a look down at her face. Her eyes are closed. “You’re here now. We can talk about it later, and I—I forgive you, anyway. It’s fine. We’re okay.”

“…Are you sure?”

Her arms tighten around his waist. “Mm-hm.”

He considers this, and tucks his chin down in the crook between her neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent of flowers. “I missed you,” Eugene admits, quietly, muffled in her shoulder. “Every day, Sunshine.”

Her voice goes hushed too, like they’re sharing a secret. “I missed you too.”

And they stand there, for a moment, just holding on. Her arms are warm, and she smells like clean linen and flowers. The sun is soft at their backs. If Eugene closes his eyes, he can hear her heartbeat.

Then Rapunzel giggles, and Eugene exhales, almost laughing too, and they step away as one, grinning at each other.

“The day is ours, milady,” Eugene says, with pompous grandeur, and is gratified to see her giggle again at the title. “What do you want to do?”

Rapunzel loops her arm in his. “Maybe a walk around town?”

“As the lady wishes.”

She laughs again. The sound warms him.

Eugene leads her out the gates, and though the guards frown, they don’t stop them. Rapunzel spares a moment to wave back at Elias, lingering behind by the castle doors—the boy still looks totally spooked by everything, so at the very least that hasn’t changed—and Eugene grins and waves too. The boy waves shyly back, and noticeably doesn’t follow them.

 “Things have changed,” Eugene observes, relieved and a little surprised. Though not that surprised. He has full faith in Rapunzel to win any contest of wills ever, by pure virtue of being five feet of nothing but sheer determination. Still, he hadn’t been entirely sure the King and Queen would listen—or accept defeat quietly, or whatever the right political term for that whole mess was. But if Elias is no longer being ordered to shadow Rapunzel’s every move… that’s a good sign. A great sign.

Rapunzel curls her arm a little tighter around his. “Yeah,” she says. It’s not exactly a happy tone, and Eugene casts her a side-glance. Rapunzel shakes her head. “Oh, I’m just being silly. It’s nothing, really.”

He nudges her with his elbow, and she looks down at her feet, bare toes flexing against the pavement. “Just. Things can’t go back to the way they were before, can they? I mean, don’t get me wrong, things are getting better, but… even then. It’s never going to be the same.”

Eugene frowns at that, considering, unsure of what to say. Rapunzel pats his arm. “I said it was silly,” she reminds him, and before he can reply, is off with a flutter of fabric, hop-skipping down the street. “Ohhh, a cider stall!”

Eugene looks up to the sky—dear lovely Sun god, are you as stubborn as your Sundrop? —and then jogs to Rapunzel’s side, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. “Sunshine—”

“Raspberry pastry and cider, please,” Rapunzel says to the stall owner, and Eugene rolls his eyes and drops it. For the moment. They get their pastries (divine, as always, how does she find these places, dear gods), and drinks (apple, tart, yum), and for a moment, things feel almost normal—the sun and the Coronan streets, and them, sitting on the side of a bridge, their feet left to dangle towards the water.

But Rapunzel is more right than she knows, and so Eugene waits until she has a mouthful of raspberry pastry before making his move. “You know,” he tells her, nursing his cider absently, “just because things won’t ever be the same as before, doesn’t mean those times are gone forever.”

Rapunzel puts down her pastry very slowly. Eugene laughs at her glare. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, and holds up his hands in surrender. “Just. Er. I’ve been thinking about that too, actually.”

Rapunzel looks away, swallowing hard. She doesn’t speak—just fiddles with the edge of her sleeve, looking tired. Eugene scoots in a little closer, and rests his arm around her shoulders. “Really,” he says. “It’s not—a bad thing. You know. You, uh, you take what you can from everything, you know?” Rapunzel looks a bit confused. Eugene waves a hand, trying to put the thought into words. “Like… okay. Hah, confession time. You know how these past few years, ever since you settled back in the castle, I’ve been… well. Trying to put the past behind me, I guess. The thieving, the sneaking, the law-breaking and… yeah.”

Rapunzel squeezes his arm and leans against his side. “Mm.”

Eugene relaxes. “Right. But, lately… these past few weeks, going back into it…” He grimaces, and blows out a heavier breath. “I’ve spent three weeks digging up my old contacts and brushing off my old skills, and it’s like… it’s just like before, but also really, really not. I’m doing it for a different reason. It’s not the same. It’ll probably never be the same again, I mean, I’m different, so.” He shrugs. “But it’s still with me. For better or for worse. If that makes sense.”

“A little.” Rapunzel blows out a heavy breath, a stray strand of hair fluttering in the exhale. “I get what you’re saying, anyway.” She leans against him, a little harder. “…Did you miss it?”

“Hm?”

She’s watching the sky. “Using your old skills.” 

Oh. Eugene goes very stiff, and then, watching Rapunzel’s face, slowly forces himself to relax. There’s no judgment in her eyes, or in her voice; just honest curiosity, and a quiet sort of understanding.

Still. It drags at him, to admit this. It frightens him, just a little, because— “I missed it,” Eugene admits. The thrill of unearthing secrets, of sneaking where he’s not allowed, of slipping through the shadows. Of getting away with the target none the wiser. Yeah. “I missed it more than I realized.”

Rapunzel frowns at the sky, and then cranes back her neck to frown up at him. “That’s not a bad thing, Eugene.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t feel very funny. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” Her voice is firm. Eugene raises an eyebrow at her, and Rapunzel turns in his arms and straightens, leaning forward. “I don’t think so, anyway,” she says, a little quieter. “I mean, Cass might disagree, but—there are ways to help and defend and—be that aren’t always what people think. Locksmiths can pick locks too. The skills aren’t bad, it’s just… what you do with them, I guess. And why.”

Eugene laughs again, mainly to cover the fluttering in his chest. Is it really so simple? He’s spent so much time trying to distance himself from the past that going back felt like a betrayal, and liking it even more so. Hearing her say that—so plainly, so sure, with such strength—it nearly takes his breath away. It doesn’t mean she’s right, but…

He wants to believe her. Her faith is, as always, contagious.

“That’s—okay.” Eugene takes a deep breath. “We-ell, Sunshine, I don’t know if agree with that—”

“Hmm.”

“—but I’ll think about it.”

Rapunzel shakes her head, but smiles. “You’ll figure it out.”

Eugene has always had faith in Rapunzel, and so her faith in him shouldn’t be a surprise, really—but still.

He turns his head away, uncharacteristically flustered, and grins when he can feel Rapunzel giggling by his side. “Don’t mock me,” he complains, still unable to stop the smile, and swings his legs over the side of the bridge, hopping back down onto the road. He offers Rapunzel his hand, and when she settles back beside him, he checks her with his side. Rapunzel laughs even harder at that, gripping tight to his arm to keep from falling. Gods, he’s missed her laugh.

“Though, speaking of Cass…”

Rapunzel’s laughter drops off, and her smile goes quiet and distant. Eugene looks back at the road in front of them, feeling his heart sink. “You too, huh,” he murmurs.

Ever since that day in the rain, Cassandra has been avoiding him, and he hasn’t stopped her—Eugene of all people knows the value of respecting space. But even so, he can’t help but feel it isn’t the right move to make—and yet, he doesn’t know what else to do.

Cassandra doesn’t want them there. She doesn’t want to talk. And Eugene isn’t keen on forcing his way through regardless, because there’s a thin line between helping a friend, or stepping up and letting them flay you alive.

Rapunzel, too, looks drawn.  “I— she doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Eugene thins his lips. He’s of the mind that isn’t much of an excuse; he knows better than to voice it. He hugs Rapunzel to his side, instead. “She’s… having a rough time.” Or something. He sighs. “She might just need a little space, Blondie. You know how she is.”

“I know, I know, I just…”

He hugs her again. “…Yeah.”

There’s a moment of silence, weighty and awful and stiff, and finally Eugene shakes his head and the troubling thoughts away. They’re almost into the main square now, and it’s as bustling as ever, a welcome distraction. “Anyway! Sad friend times aside—ow, Blondie, don’t pinch me—what are you thinking? Cupcakes from Attila’s? Or, ah ha, I heard a new sweet shop opened in the time we were gone, they make these powdery chew candies and tiny chocolates that taste divine according to Lance—”

Rapunzel stops walking.

Eugene just barely stops in time to keep from dragging her forward. “Hm?” He glances at her, and his heart plummets to his gut. His smile drops. “Sunshine?”

Rapunzel has gone white in the face. Her fingers are digging painfully into his arm, trembling so badly there’s no way it isn’t hurting her, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes are wide open and shocked.

“What is it?” Eugene follows her gaze to the street. “What are you—” And then he stops, the words withering on his tongue, the world fading out into white noise. Because there, just down the road, walking in plain view as if she hasn’t a care in the world—

No.

“Stalyan,” Rapunzel whispers.

And so it is.

Bizarrely, his first thought is: she’s hardly changed at all.

Of course, Stalyan looks different now. Taller. Older, obviously. She’s grown out her hair again, and it looks good on her, wavy and soft. She’s figured out the makeup thing—her eyeliner looks sharp enough to cut, and less like she’s suffering from insomnia—and she’s got new clothes. But in every other way—

The cool look in her eyes, judgmental and dismissive. The slightest tinge of distaste as she walks through the streets. Anyone who gets too close gets a sneer and a hand brought to her blade. And this, too—when she turns, and sees them, and her eyes fix on Eugene with a fury that is straight from a memory.

Eugene clenches his jaw, refusing to step back, and curls his arm around Rapunzel, keeping her to his side. “Don’t—” he says, panicked, when Rapunzel makes to step forward. “Rapunzel, we can’t—”

“Hello, Flynn.”

The sound of his old name, in her voice, makes him wince. Hello, old memories. Wonderful of you to join us. Please go back into the locked box you belong.

Rapunzel is frozen by his side, and Eugene takes a deep breath. This isn’t the first time he’s been in this situation—old flame and new flame, and him in the center of the explosion—but this is the first time it’s… mattered, really. What Rapunzel thinks of him.

And, too—because Rapunzel’s hand is gripping his, almost possessive, but the anger in her face has little to do with Eugene at all. The problem with Stalyan is not because of Eugene. Stalyan is a threat not in romance, but in everything else—and that. That, Eugene doesn’t know how to deal with.

Stalyan is blackmailing Corona.

Why? For what purpose? Eugene doesn’t know, except for the fact it likely has little to do with him at all. He’s not a part of this feud, not really. He’s just an unfortunate shared connection.

“Stalyan,” Eugene says back, finally, not quite a greeting. It comes out a bit forced. It’s hard to muster the good ol’ charm when Stalyan is standing those few feet away with narrowed eyes. The idea of being charming, or even mildly flirtatious with her, is nauseating. “How… nice… to see you.”

Her eyes narrow further, but her lips curl in a smile. “It’s been so long,” Stalyan agrees, and it’s almost frightening, how quick her anger vanishes—hidden, now, behind a saccharine smile that makes something in him want to back away. “I’ve missed you.”

She’s ignoring Rapunzel completely, and Eugene is noticing that. Politics, politics. He swallows, mouth dry and aching. There’s no safe answer to that—he’s thief enough to know a trap when he sees one. So he stays quiet instead, and answers in actions: draws Rapunzel closer, and presses a careful hand to her back, a reminder.

Rapunzel exhales hard. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, quick and darting. Eugene just looks at her. He squeezes gently at her arm. There’s a pause, a moment of thought—and then some of the tension wound in her shoulders eases away.

When Eugene looks back at Stalyan, she’s no longer smiling.

“Stalyan,” Rapunzel says. Her voice is a little shaky, but there’s a force and control to her tone that almost makes Eugene duck his head to hide a smile. Rapunzel, setting her feet. This is about the time when the frying pans start swinging, hah. “What do you want?”

“How rude. Not even a hello?” Stalyan’s jaw is tight, eyes flashing. She tosses her hair, her hand settling on one hip, and eyes Rapunzel up and down. Her gaze lingers a little too long on Rapunzel’s bare feet, the flowers in her hair, the paint cracking on her gloves and the hem of her dress. Stalyan’s smile curls small and smug. “Don’t forget your manners now. I know you’re new to learning them, but after two years, that’s really no excuse, princess.”

Rapunzel’s jaw goes tight. Even Eugene is struck silent. That’s a goddamn low blow.

 “Just Rapunzel,” she corrects, at last, stiffly. “I don’t have much use for the titles. Also—” Her arm tightens around Eugene again. “His name is Eugene. Not Flynn.”

Stalyan scoffs. “Look, you—”

“She’s right, actually!” Bright, bright, bright. Poisonous. Stalyan’s eyes snap back to him. Eugene smiles with all his teeth. “I don’t use Flynn anymore. I’d appreciate it if you used my actual name.”

Stalyan laughs. It fades quick. “Oh, you’re serious? Please. That’s—”

“What do you want?” Rapunzel repeats, cutting Stalyan off again. Stalyan looks livid.

Eugene presses a hand against Rapunzel’s back, trusting in her, unable to keep his gut from twisting. Stalyan is dangerous angry. Stalyan is always dangerous. How many times had he and Lance snuck into a place to rob, trusting her to clear the way out—only to walk out to find all the guards poisoned and dying on the ground? It had never been overkill to her. Non-lethal is rarely an option in her eyes.

And more than that—Stalyan frightens him. The more he sees of her, the more unsettled he is. There’s something off about her, something odd, something biting and cruel. He has never known her to be jealous; normally she would just dismiss Rapunzel, not mock her so blatantly and so doggedly. She hasn’t even mentioned the fact he left her at the altar, not even once.

It hits him all at once. Of course. Of course. How obvious is that? Just as Rapunzel’s anger towards Stalyan has very little to do with Eugene, neither is Stalyan’s anger towards Rapunzel about him either.

Corona—it must be about Corona. This whole situation. The blackmail, the attacks, the Baron risking his neck and his empire for this impossible deal… and why? Why is the Baron backing this? Why does Stalyan want this? What is it all for?

He has no idea, not even an inkling, and yeah: Eugene will admit it. It scares the shit out of him.

“Can’t a girl walk around and shop in her spare time?” Stalyan’s voice is light. Her eyes promise a knife to the back. There’s a light in her face like a spark, maybe just from the midday glow, that washes her pale and bright and grim like a corpse. It reminds him of campfire nights from long ago—of sitting before a fire, crackling cold, and looking across to see nothing but the reflection of the flame in her eyes. “Silly me—I didn’t realize negotiations started today.”

Rapunzel watches her. Her lips press. Eugene squeezes her arm again, bouncing restless on his heels, and she glances up at him. Her brow furrows. Then her eyes harden, and she nods.

“Okay.”

Eugene blinks. Stalyan looks startled. And Rapunzel is already turning away, her back to them both, walking back up towards the castle. “We’ll be going, then. Enjoy the shops.”

Eugene casts one last glance at Stalyan and then follows after her. It makes his skin crawl to turn his back on Stalyan, and he is wound tight and ready for if she decides to draw her sword. He lingers by Rapunzel’s side, uncertain. They’re leaving? He looks at Rapunzel. She is shaking, faintly. She isn’t breathing right. The cool determination on her face is faltering.

He puts his arm around her shoulders. They’re leaving.

“Flynn.”

He doesn’t turn around.

“Flynn Rider.”

Eugene grits his teeth so hard he tastes blood. He looks back.

“You’ve gotten soft,” Stalyan says. It’s half-challenge, half-coaxing. An offer veiled and sharp. “Don’t you miss the game?”

Eugene searches her face. And he realizes, all at once, that he was wrong. She has changed. He knows because he knew her best; he knows because he once felt it too. And it horrifies him, to recognize it, to see it in her smile. It’s terrifying.

There is a hunger in Stalyan’s eyes that chills him to the bone.

Guilt is such an ugly emotion. He can’t ever bring himself to regret leaving that altar, but—he used to care about her, once. He regrets that it hurt her. Because he did love her—and he did miss her, once upon a time. He did miss the game. He still does.

But in this moment, all he can feel is cold—because she, too, is lying.

This isn’t a game at all. To either of them.

“My name is Eugene Fitzherbert,” he says. It’s all he has left to say to her. “Enjoy your stay in Corona, Stalyan. I get the feeling you’ll be leaving the city real soon.”

He turns around before he can see the fury in her eyes. He walks away.

Stalyan doesn’t follow. For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. But her eyes weigh heavy on his back, and when she finally speaks again, her voice is cold with promise. “We’ll see about that.”

Rapunzel reaches out and takes his hand. It’s shaking. She squeezes his palm. It probably hurts her, but she does it anyway.

A moment’s pause, and then Eugene squeezes back.

.

The sun is coming up, the beasts are closing in, and Varian doesn’t know what to do.

His breaths come in short bursts, and the darkness wavers before his eyes. The beasts approach, and Varian backs away, knees weak and hands trembling, and for a moment he doesn’t know if their eyes are shining yellow or a cold unfeeling blue, if those are claws he’s seeing or the hand of the golem, the Moon’s puppet, reaching out for him from the shadows once again.

He needs to get out of here, but he’s trapped. They are behind him, they are in front of him, they are everywhere he turns. There’s nowhere for him to go, nowhere safe to run, and for a moment the whole world feels whited out and thin, the walls closing in and Rapunzel’s hand crushing his, screaming at him to run—

Ice shocks up his hand.

The memory shatters. Varian cries out, almost falling to his knees, gritting his teeth against a cold so sharp it throbs in his head like a heartbeat. For a moment the air is weighted and heavy, and around the back of his neck, fingers curl with the prick of claws—not a threat but a reminder, a grounding force.

Wake up, you idiot child! The hand tightens. Her voice breaks through the fog. Do you not see the sun behind you? Do you not see your mentor there in the shadows? The little rat on your shoulder? Would such things be in my labyrinth? No!

“I—”

You chose to come to this wretched place, against all my attempts to drive you off, the Moon hisses in his ear. If you die here after all I’ve done to keep you alive, little vessel, I’ll throw you off that ledge myself!

But I’ll already be dead, something in Varian thinks, snide and sarcastic, and the irritation is a relief, something to ground him back to reality. The cold in his hand and Ruddiger on his shoulders, the beasts circling around him—the nightlight, pink and soft and swinging off his coat strap. He’s not in the labyrinth. He’s not in the labyrinth.

Varian sucks in a deep breath, shakes away the lingering echoes, the whispers of a scream, and yanks his training staff into his hands. He holds it out and in front, pointing the blunt end at the beasts encircling him. “Get—get back!”

Yes, because that is so intimidating.

 On the other side of the room, from the corner of his eye, Varian can see Adira still in the midst of a fight, pushing back against the newcomer’s sword. Her teeth are bared in a snarl. “Hector.”

 The man grins back, wide and furious, and pulls away only to cut in close again, blade flashing for her face, so quick Varian can barely follow it. “Traitor.”

“I didn’t come here for a fight!”

“I told you what would happen if you showed your face to me again. You betray your king!” The man—Hector—sets his feet and lunges, lashing for her ankles; Adira dodges back, just out of range. Blood is dripping a steady stream down her face, almost invisible against her red face paint if not for the way it stains her shirt collar. “It’s too late to say you don’t want to fight, Adira.”

A low growl rises behind him, and Varian jumps, attention torn back to his own problems. One of the beasts is approaching him, too close for comfort. He clutches his training staff to his chest and backs away, his heart in his throat. “Adira—”

Her eyes flash to him. She shoves Hector away, snarling openly now. “Varian! Fight back, kid!”

“I—!”

“And who’s this, anyway?” Varian stills, breath catching, as Hector’s bright eyes fix on him. In his head, the Moon snarls, and the shadows grow ever darker around them, a low mist beginning to tangle at their ankles. “Not the Sundrop girl you said you’d drag through here, unless the rumors of the Sundrop were greatly misinformed. A random child?” He laughs, high and mean. “You brought a kid, here? You?” He turns, eyes flashing. “In addition to disloyal, you’ve apparently gotten soft.”

“I have never been disloyal!” Adira snaps. For the first time since the fight began, she looks truly angry. Her sword holds steady, but her knuckles are near-white from tension. Her expression is livid. “Maybe you were content to let the Dark Kingdom die, but I—”

“I follow the word of our king!”

“As did I!” Adira takes a deep breath. Some of the fury fades from her; her sword lowers, just slightly, and her eyes flutter as if she is in pain. “Hector. You’ve been here a long time. You don’t know what—”

“I know enough.”

“Listen to me! King Edmund—the Dark Kingdom is already—”

But it is clear that Hector isn’t listening. He lunges forward, grinning again, and the clash of their swords scrapes so loud it aches. Metal against metal, stone against stone—

The golem—

But no, no, he already knows—he’s not in the labyrinth, he’s not. But each time their swords clash, his skin crawls, and Varian shakes his head and stumbles back, breath hitching, hands rising for his ears.

(And Yasmin had asked him once, weeks ago: Are you afraid of the dark?

Yes, he thinks. Yes.

I’m terrified of it.)

His hands clap over his ears. The screech of metal rings in his head. His knees feel weak, and the walls are spinning, and he almost loses his feet entirely.

And again, that icy hand—and her voice, rising in his ears, sharp with offense. What are you doing!? Snap out of it! The binturongs, boy!

Varian blinks fast. He feels dizzy. “I— the what?”

The beasts, you little idiot!

Oh, he thinks, shit, and the world rushes back just in time for him to see one of the creatures—a binturong? —lunge for him. Varian yelps, scrambling back. He only just manages to get out of the way, and he drops to his knees, hands fumbling for the staff again. Ruddiger is clinging so tight to his shoulder that it’s starting to go numb.

The binturong lunges again, almost testing, and Varian has just enough muscle memory in him to remember to dodge. His staff slams down on the beast’s nose—it yelps and recoils back, and then it peels back its lips and snarls.  

“Adira—!”

“Go, Moony!”

“But I can’t just—” He doesn’t want to leave her; Adira had mentioned an old ally, now possible-enemy, but she’d never said he was like this. But Varian clutches the staff close and knows his options are limited. He whips his head around, breath caught. The pressure behind his eyes is dizzying. He can’t think like this!

I don’t suppose you could help? he thinks at Moon, and gets a blinding spike of ice-cold pain through his temple in response.

His vision spins from the sudden shock of pain. He drops to his knees. The snarling rises to a howl, high and screeching. Varian snaps his head up just in time to see the binturong lunge for him, jaws unhinged and claws outstretched—

“No!”

Light flashes across his vision, burning and blue.

The first thing that hits him is the silence. He can no longer hear their fighting, or the metal shriek of the swords. Even the growling has stopped. Varian pries his eyes open, chest sore, heart aching—and already knows, on some level, what he’s going to see.

The black rocks have saved him.

They are tall, they are unmistakable; they have blocked the beast from reaching him. They are not his doing. In the piercing blue glow of the rocks, already fading, he can see a flash of white hair and yellow-white eyes, Moon’s snarl etched dark across her face.

You asked for help and received it. She sneers at him. Reap what you sow, little fool.

His hands are shaking. Varian backs away from the rocks, and looks to Adira almost on instinct. All the color has drained from her face. She looks horrified. Varian feels his heart drop to his knees.

“…What is this.”

Varian snaps his gaze to the side. The man—Hector. His mouth goes dry. Hector isn’t smiling anymore. His eyes have gone hard and flat, and for the first time, Varian feels a shiver crawl down his spine at the look in his eyes.

Hector’s hand clenches around his sword, his eyes wild, and rushes right for Varian.

Varian throws himself away—and backs right into the wall of black rocks. Ruddiger yips in his ears. His eyes widen. Oh, fuck—

But Hector never reaches him. Adira throws herself in-between them, swinging for Hector’s neck. This time, it is Hector who pales. His block is rushed and desperate.

It’s too late. The angle of the blade is wrong, and the black rocks are absolute. Adira’s black blade cuts right through his sword, the tip ricocheting away across the stone floors, cutting up across Hector’s cheek. Blood wells and drips down his chin.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just leans forward, fury in the set of his face, and hisses, “What have you done.”

Adira sets her jaw. “Moony—Varian, run!”

“I—I—”

“We came here for a reason, kid! Move!”

The rocks—learning control—the scrolls. Varian catches his breath and throws himself onto his feet. His eyes dart around. There, just to the side: a hollow pit of a tunnel, half-concealed in the rubble. Still, he pauses, something ill twisting in his gut. “I can’t just leave you here!”

“You can! And you will.” Hector haymakers at her temple; Adira ducks and then kicks him so hard he goes flying back. “This doesn’t involve you—let me fight my battles! You have your own to worry about right now.”

“I don’t think so.” Hector is climbing to his feet, a snarl twisting his face. He tosses away the broken sword and draws another from his belt. His expression is blood-curdling. “What power is that, boy? Where did you get that?”

“Varian!”

“What did you do!” Hector howls, and the binturongs scream and lunge again.

The room is spinning before his eyes. The Moon is a weight in the back of his mind that nearly cripples him. The world wavers, caught between reality and something like a memory—the Great Tree old and broken and rotting; the Great Tree new and cold and so utterly empty it makes him feel ill—and the distant screaming, once again, high and shrieking and pained, echoing in his ears on loop.

(And he thinks: he has heard this voice before. He has heard this once, long ago. In a tower, half-dead and half-awake, drawn back to life by a burning gold, and as Varian opened his eyes, that same light had twisted around Moon like a vice and she had—)

Varian forces the echoes away, breath rattling in his ears. He is in the Great Tree—he is Varian—Adira is fighting again, pushing Hector back, buying him time. She is waiting for him to run. She is waiting for him to leave, and that is—

And what is Varian supposed to do? What is he supposed to think about this? She’s not his dad. She is nothing like his dad. But Varian is frozen still and shaking with it, struck with the sudden and terrible fear that if he runs, if he leaves, he will come back and she will be gone too.

Don’t, son!

“Run, Varian!”

Varian takes one step back—then another—then again. Then he turns his back on Adira and Hector both and sprints for the tunnel, into the shadows, deeper and deeper into the twisting labyrinthine halls of the Great Tree.

Hector screams at his back. Adira matches him; the clash of their swords shrieks through the air. The mist that has tangled low at their ankles surges up in a wave, consuming the room in seconds, and Adira and Hector both vanish from sight. They are swallowed by the fog, by the darkness, and Varian—

Varian does not look back. Varian runs. On and on and on, until he can no longer hear them at all, and the only light left is the nightlight on his belt and the only sound is his breathing and Ruddiger’s low growling, harsh and ragged in his ears.

And in the back of his mind, quiet and grave, the Moon whispers. Foolish child. You should have left when you had the chance. You should never have come.

I warned you, boy. I warned you.

And now it is far too late to run.

.

.

.

Andrew is awake, when the footsteps come; he is always awake, always alert, before she even thinks to walk through the door. In these past few weeks her approach has become routine, and never fails to make him grin. His role in this part of the game is minimal—minor manipulations only, using this new power his partner has given him, to twist minds and wills with his words—but important, all the same. She passes by his cell and Andrew hisses soft poison for her ears, each moment, every hour, every chance he has.

Cassandra is not here for him. Of this, Andrew is well aware. But she is drawn to this cell block by a force more than she can comprehend, led like a lamb to the slaughter, forced to listen to the whispers Andrew has been ordered to cram inside her head. And Andrew is a simple man. He is easily pleased. The idea of that strong-willed guard now serving as a puppet to the same thing Andrew is partnered with brings him a feeling of sick satisfaction.

He delights in it—the show, the slow fall. Every day she walks by; never does she know why, if she remembers walking here at all. Each day, the shadows in her eyes are a little deeper, her scowl darker, her eyes glazed and exhausted. He can see the bitterness wound tight in her shoulders, can almost taste the hatred building behind her tongue and in her throat.

This day is no different—Andrew is awake and aware and watching as Cassandra stalks through the halls, half-hidden by the shadows and grinning so wide his white teeth look almost like tombstones. She looks so wretchedly terrible today, he thinks with glee. She is as composed and put together as always, a lie of control, but her expression betrays her: her face is drawn and her teeth are grit, her lips cracked and bloody from all the times she has bitten angry words back.

She never sees him—never looks—never will, because Andrew’s new helper is clever and quick and will not let Cassandra see until the time is right and she is on their side. So Andrew watches and Cassandra does not look, and his smile stretches wide and cruel.

“Soon, you think?” he says to the air.

Cassandra’s hands are curled to fists.

“I think so too.”

In the great depths of Corona’s prisons, Cassandra walks by the prisoner hall with a cold expression and trembling fists. She doesn’t hear Andrew’s whispers. She doesn’t see him smile.

But in another room, sitting cross-legged in the empty cell above Andrew’s, another does. A hand shakes and then curls tight around the halberd. For a moment the other, unseen, unnoticed by shadows and prisoner and Cassandra all, sits there in that open cell and takes in all he has overheard, all he has overheard for the months and months Andrew has been whispering. All the things this boy has seen, ever since that first day months ago, when he and his friend stumbled upon this empty cell by pure accident, and heard Andrew muttering underneath.

For a moment this boy almost seems to tremble. His head bows, shivers wracking his small frame. His hands shaking, fingers cold. For a moment fear grips him like a vice, as it has for all these months before, walking through the castle knowing a monster was sleeping beneath it. For a moment he is lost to it.

Then his shoulders set. His teeth grit.

And when Elias finally raises his head, his expression is cold, and his hands are no longer shaking.