Chapter Text
Harry had always been a strange sort of kid.
He did the same things any village child would do, of course—helped with chores, took up odd jobs when he could, and occasionally earned an extra coin or two if the weather and the grown-ups were kind enough. But he was never quite like the other kids. Not exactly.
They would run around with sticks pretending to be knights or argue over who would be king of the hill that day. Harry, on the other hand, once tried to dig a moat around the baker's house because he swore it would "protect her bread from invasion." He also claimed, quite confidently, that if you shouted at a well long enough, it would shout back.
He waited there for six hours. It never did.
Still, people liked him. He was funny. He made even the old folks laugh, and in a village where laughter came at the cost of weather and work and war rumors, that was something to be grateful for.
The first job he ever took was as a chicken chaser.
The baker's wife had a dozen or so hens that thought the road was a better home than the coop, and every other day she'd send Harry off to wrangle them back. He got good at it, eventually. Named them, too. Called the meanest one Beatrice. She pecked him every time he got close—but never hard enough to scar. Just enough to remind him he could feel.
He started keeping score. Beatrice: 17. Harry: 14.
Then he was a goat detangler.
No one really knew why L'manburg was so obsessed with goats, but they were. Some said it was good luck. Some said they were sacred. Harry figured people just liked them because they made funny noises and chewed on clothes.
Merchants would tie goats outside their stalls as walking advertisements. The blacksmith lined them up like statues beside his anvil. The tailor even tried dressing them in ribbons once.
But goats got stuck. A lot.
In fences. In windows. In each other's horns. There was once a day where Harry had to climb onto a roof because one particularly determined goat had managed to wedge itself halfway into a chimney.
And he remembered—vividly—the day he tried to help one who'd caught its horn in the crack of a wooden barn door. The second he freed it, the goat bolted with Harry still gripping the rope. He got dragged across the grass, through a muddy puddle, and finally headfirst into a wheelbarrow. The bruises that were left across his delicate skin lasted for at least a few weeks.
When he demanded hazard pay from the shoemaker who'd hired him, the man only laughed and patted him on the back, tossing him two golden coins like a prize.
He must've thought Harry was joking.
And there was the herbalist. A woman who ran the flower stand near the edge of town and made her own experimental healing pastes. The problem was that she was a little too experimental.
Sometimes, she'd call Harry over on a Saturday to test something, since he was the only one willing to. He'd sit obediently while she dabbed the green mush on his cheeks, murmuring things like, "This one's good for headaches. Or it's deadly nightshade. We'll see."
He never died. But his face did burn a little redder than it probably should've.
More than once.
Still, he always came back.
Not because he was brave. Not because he liked it. But because it made her smile, and that seemed like reason enough.
And also because he got paid.
A few coins could make anyone brave. Or stupid. But in Harry's case, it made him resourceful.
So when he got his first gig as an errand boy at a place as towering and terrifying and rich-smelling as the royal palace, of course the first thing he did was behave. He played his part, kept his head down, polished what needed polishing, and smiled at the nobles just enough for them to stop looking at him.
Once he was properly invisible, then he could explore.
And oh, did he explore.
The winding halls, the sprawling staircases, the way the ceilings didn't even seem real—how they could be that tall without falling on anyone's head was beyond him. He was sure the palace had rooms that hadn't been entered in centuries. Rooms full of history and secrets and possibly expensive cheese, which he still planned to find.
Working at the palace was a privilege. A golden-threaded honor, so the village elders had said. Some of the other boys back home had even committed crimes on purpose just to be offered servant work besides the crystal chandeliers and silver-veined columns.
Not a very smart tactic, if Harry had to say so himself.
And not a very smart empire, either, if that's what it took to get people in.
Still, he understood the appeal. Until you looked closely.
Because once you actually got inside, once you saw how the servants were treated—how their tasks were piled high like towers of plates that could never be set down—you'd start to realize the palace was far prettier from a distance.
He didn't keep up with the daily servant duties, not closely, but he knew one thing: the work was hard. The chamberlains were harsher. And the rules were just outright inhumane in his opinion.
To serve royalty was to change everything about yourself. Your walk, your speech, the way you looked someone in the eye—or didn't.
It wasn't the kind of job Harry would wish on just anyone.
Even the simplest task felt heavier there, like lifting a spoon in the palace meant lifting a sword back in his village. Especially when someone else was watching.
He'd learned that the hard way when Tommy had forced him to take over one of his chores without telling anyone.
Ah. Tommy.
He'd met the golden-haired mess about five months into the job.
Back then, he still tried to keep out of trouble—tried to mind his steps, wipe his boots twice before stepping into the main halls, and nod respectfully at anyone who looked remotely important.
...Or maybe he didn't.
Maybe he was already in that phase—the phase where he started risking it a little, pushing the rules just far enough to make things interesting. He couldn't quite remember anymore. Everything blurred together when you worked in a place this big and your days belonged to other people.
Did it matter now? Not really.
What he did remember was the rain.
Gods, the rain that day had been relentless. It came down in thick sheets, like the sky had finally gotten sick of being ignored and decided to scream instead. You couldn't hear anything else. Not the footsteps in the courtyard, not the bell tower chimes, not even your own thoughts.
He'd made a run for it—cloak pulled tight, head ducked, determined to get inside before the wind knocked him over.
The water soaked him before he made it halfway across the outer gardens. His cloak had stopped helping somewhere near the stables, and his boots had started making that awful squelch sound with every step.
He was just trying to make it inside. Just trying to get warm and dry and maybe find something sweet to sneak from the kitchens if he looked miserable enough to justify it.
That's when he saw him.
Just sitting there. On a bench.
Looking quite pathetic, really.
Tommy was completely soaked. Rain had pressed his clothes to his skin, plastered his hair to his forehead, and run in quiet streaks down his face.
Harry had paused, uncertain if he was interrupting something private. But something in Tommy's eyes—wet, red-rimmed, distant—made him stay. And it wasn't just the rain that had caused it, he knew that much.
He'd seen grief before. He'd grown up watching people lose things, or people, or themselves. He recognized that look.
Tommy might've said it was the weather, that the cold wind had made his eyes sting. Or that it was simply the rain running down his face. But Harry knew. Harry always knew.
The boy was crying.
Or had been.
Or perhaps he was just too tired to tell the difference anymore.
And Harry—Harry didn't know why, or how, or what it meant yet—but in that moment, all he wanted was to make him laugh. Even a little.
Because sad people shouldn't sit in the rain alone.
Not if he could help it.
"We're almost there."
Baron Quackity sat at the edge of the carriage bench, just as he had the day before—and the one before that too, legs crossed, posture loose in that careless way that still somehow looked deliberate. One arm rested along the window's frame, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the finely-carved wood, while his gaze remained fixed on the road ahead.
He watched the path curve with the land, the cobbled stones slowly growing cleaner, straighter—signs they were nearing the plaza. Buildings rose in clusters, quiet and dignified in their stone stillness. There was something solemn in the way they passed by, like remnants of a story that had already ended.
Quackity's eyes lingered on them, unmoving. Like he was looking at ghosts. Or perhaps something that once belonged to him.
Maybe it did.
Tubbo sat across from him, arms drawn to his chest for warmth even though the weather had warmed since the morning. The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was familiar now. A quiet that they had come to wear like a shared coat, stitched together by the miles they'd crossed and the conversations they hadn't needed to say out loud.
The road had been long.
And angry.
Endless roams of fury—that was what the journey had been. Not from them. Not always. But from the storm of everything else around them. From the arguments they overheard in taverns, to the guards who asked too many questions, to the dreadful knowing of not knowing what kind of news awaited them next.
But now?
Now the road was quiet.
No wheels skidding against mud, no shouting at uncooperative vendors, no heated muttering under breath. Just the muffled clatter of the carriage, the creak of wood, and the faint whinny of the horses as they pulled forward.
And in the distance—just past the thinning trees and soft haze of morning light—was the outline of the city's walls.
The spires of the palace began to bloom into view like a long-forgotten painting.
L'Manburg.
It was in sight now.
And whatever peace they'd borrowed on this journey was about to run out.
Tubbo hadn't asked Baron Quackity what he planned to do once they arrived.
He only realized that now.
Quackity had said he knew Tommy, sure—said it so casually, like it was just a given, like knowing Tommy meant he'd earned some place in this whole mess. But that was it. There'd been no mention of what came after. No talk of where they'd go, what they'd say, who they'd have to answer to.
Would Baron Quackity spend the next few days elbow-deep in negotiations with stuffy nobles and bitter merchants, arguing over crumpled maps and long-forgotten borders, trying to claw back scraps of land he once called his own?
Maybe.
Or maybe he'd wander the townsquare instead, sizing up new stalls, indulging in pastries he'd pretend not to enjoy, examining whatever new wares had made their way into Pogtopia since he left. Tubbo wasn't sure.
The truth was—he didn't know Baron Quackity all that well.
Not really.
He knew his sharp tongue, his heavy rings, the way his laughter always had something behind it that never quite reached his eyes. He knew the way he threw coins without glancing at the amount, and how he wore his titles like he did his clothes. But those weren't really Quackity, were they?
Still, for all the things he didn't know, for all the questions he hadn't dared ask—he'd stayed.
Even when Quackity gave him every reason to walk away, every excuse to be wary, to run, to not look back... he didn't.
And maybe the strangest part was: he didn't even know why.
Not fully.
Maybe he'd just drop Tubbo off and vanish again. Back to Essempi, back to luxury, back to being a baron wrapped in velvet and gold who didn't belong in a place like the very village he grew up in. Maybe this had all been a favor, just a fleeting moment of soft-heartedness from a man who smiled too wide and lied too well.
And Tubbo,
Tubbo would be alone again.
The thought sat uneasily in his chest.
He didn't mind the idea of returning to the streets—he'd done it before, after all. If it came to that, he'd find a way. He always did. He'd steal bread from those stalls again, he'd take veils and medicine from Mr. Halo when he wasn't looking.
He'd do it. Especially if Tommy was with him.
But something about that possibility stung more than he expected.
The thought of that little shack, the one with the leaky roof and the creaky window latch—the one Ranboo had patched up with fabric scraps and that stupid smile—felt hollow now. The way it had once been theirs. The way it had once been home.
It felt wrong to picture it without Ranboo in it.
And he never thought he'd be back in Pogtopia, not like this. Not under this sky, not after all that had happened. Not after Tommy had once promised him the world, only to vanish like he hadn't meant it. Not after Tubbo had nearly given his life just to find a trace of him again.
He'd held onto the idea that maybe the next time he saw this city, things would feel different. Safer. Better.
But they didn't.
They just felt heavier.
And the closer they got, the harder it became to breathe.
It would always be hard to breathe.
"What's on your mind?"
Tubbo's gaze trailed back to him. The way Baron Quackity sat, the carriage itself, the trees blurring past outside, the steady rhythm of hooves on dirt—it was all something he'd described to himself countless times before, if only to pass the hours. He was doing it again.
It bored him now.
So instead, he focused on the sound of his voice.
"I'm just nervous to see him, I guess."
The words slipped out under his breath. Quiet enough that, had it been any merchant or townsfolk, they would've told him to speak up. They always did. And then Tubbo would either snap and tell them off, or raise his voice just enough to be heard—but never enough to be understood.
But Baron Quackity didn't say anything. He just nodded slowly, thinking. Thinking of a response like the words actually mattered. And that was strange. Because Baron Quackity always knew what to say. Tubbo had learned that early on. The man had an answer for everything.
"How long did you say you knew him for?"
"Six years," Tubbo replied.
He didn't hesitate. Not even for a second.
Even though they hadn't spoken for the last year—for all its worth—he still counted it. He had to. He liked to think that when you cared about someone enough, time didn't cut ties. You just kept knowing them. Even without attendance.
Like brothers were supposed to.
"I see."
Baron Quackity hummed, his gaze shifting momentarily to the passing treeline. "You'll be fine."
It was something he'd said before. Countless times, in fact. But Tubbo couldn't help but wonder—would he?
Because, truth be told, he wasn't sure anymore.
There was a time he thought he knew everything. Knew who he was, what he was capable of, what the world looked like. But over the last year, all of that had unraveled.
Now it felt like he was relearning everything.
Like the world was bigger and crueler than he remembered. Like it had changed while he wasn't looking—or maybe he had.
And how was he supposed to survive in it, really? If he barely recognized it anymore?
Still. He leaned back into his seat, pulling his knees slightly to his chest, letting the tension ease from his shoulders.
Whatever came, would come. And he'd face it. Just like he always did. For now, he'd just think of Tommy. Seeing him again. Hearing his voice again.
He'd figure the rest out later.
"Yeah," He said finally.
A soft breath. A quiet pause.
"I suppose."
As a child, Harry used to count the stars before he went to bed.
Not because he wanted to in particular, but because he couldn't fall asleep unless he did.
His mum had said it was because of his nerves. His dad insisted it was all in his head. "Just a silly habit," He'd mutter when Harry snuck back in from the window, his eyes glazed with sleep and small particles of leaves that had flown by stuck in his hair. They never really agreed on too much, but they both thought the stargazing was harmless enough. Strange, maybe. But harmless.
The truth was, Harry wasn't even that interested in stars. He just needed to keep track of them. Like a little headcount of glowing dots that reminded him the world was still turning even if everything around him was loud and confusing and tiring.
He'd tell his parents he counted them because he liked the sky. But really, he just felt safer when he knew something was where it was supposed to be.
Even during the day—when he got sent to the market for raw goods or off into the woods to collect firewood—he still tried to count them. Not visibly, of course. But in his head, in the parts where his thoughts lived too loud to ignore, which were a lot, he'd remember their placements. Try to trace them in the daylight haze, relocate them in the sky even when the sky looked empty. Even when the clouds stretched too thick for him to make out where they used to be.
"The stars don't go away just because you can't see them," He'd once told the baker's son. The boy had called him mad.
When Harry would finally drag himself home, mum would roll her eyes and dad would sigh and say he'd only stayed out so long to avoid chores. They'd mutter about how, "Maybe next time he'll be faster if we send him out hungry," And, "Next time, make sure he's back before the goats start screaming."
And then he'd be handed a new mental list of tasks, and everything would start over again.
He'd see the same stars, the same street, and he would wear the same worn-out shoes his dad had bought him when he'd achieved his next growth spurt.
He'd see them anywhere, doing anything.
He'd even see them in the rain.
Through those silver droplets, blurred and bending in the water's surface, he'd catch them—those tiny figurines in the sky the villagers liked to say were guardians or the deceased or ancestors watching over them. He'd see them even when the clouds tried to hide them, even when they camouflaged behind storms.
Harry liked rain.
Rain was like a blanket thrown over his thoughts. It muffled the noise in his head, soaked through every sharp edge until it was too soft to cut. It gave him cover—let him exist without anyone bothering to notice.
Salesmen would be busy shielding their crates of fruit and sacks of grain from the downpour. Women would clutch at their skirts to keep the hems from dragging through the mud. The blacksmith would curse under his breath about his forge cooling too fast, and the children—always the children—would be shrieking in delight, stomping through puddles deep enough to swallow their ankles, daring each other to jump in the ones so wide they might as well have been lakes.
And Harry could be himself.
Because on rainy days, no one was looking at him. No one cared what he was doing. No one was keeping tally. He could hum to himself. He could wander into side streets. He could stare at the sky for too long.
Even the stars weren't watching.
And maybe that was the best part.
Because in the rain, his thoughts were hidden from everyone.
It wasn't just the cover it gave him—it was the way it drained things out. The noise, the little sparks of thought that never seemed to stop sparking. He had too many of those, his mother always said. Too many thoughts. Too much to say.
His employers told him so. The salesmen told him so. The old ladies muttered it under their breath. His father would shake his head over it, and even the other village kids—who had their own fair share of odd habits—looked at him like he was some strange creature washed ashore.
Furiosus Harry, they'd called him.
Everything he did was 'peculiar.' His father warned the mothers of children he played with to keep a close watch. His own mother would hover while he ate, as if she thought he might choke on a crust of bread if left to his own devices. He still thought she really did. The other kids stared at him like he was about to turn into the next village tale.
It was all just the usual childhood stuff, he supposed.
Aside from the stars.
And his work, of course.
His father had been the one to suggest he start. At first, it was under the excuse of "getting experience." Later, it became about bringing in a few extra coins for the table. But as Harry got older, he realised there had been another reason entirely.
His father wanted better for him.
Not better in the way nobles talked about giving fine clothes or shiny trinkets to their many children, no. A better name. A cleaner name. He wanted his boy to be remembered for chasing goats and delivering parcels across the entirety of Pogtopia, not for being the odd one out in every room.
Harry suspected that, in his father's mind, every job was a little thread weaving him into the fabric of the town—each errand a stitch pulling him tighter into place. And maybe, if he worked enough, people would stop calling him Furiosus Harry and start calling him something else.
Something respectable.
Even if Harry never cared much for titles, he figured it was better to be known for what you did than for what you were.
And he didn't mind. Not really.
It was better than having nothing to do. Better than being still long enough to start thinking too hard. Better than having to admit to himself that he couldn't sleep unless he knew every star was still where it was supposed to be—still watching him from their far-off perches in the dark.
Still waiting.
And oh, how they'd waited for him.
Because now he was fourteen, and the ceiling of the ballroom was laced with star-shaped crystals that caught the midnight glow just right—glimmering like constellations frozen in time, staring right back at him.
They were too high to reach, too pretty to exist. And yet they were there. Still waiting.
He didn't even know how it happened. One moment he was outside, lingering by the palace gates, fingers brushing against the iron railings just for something to touch—and the next, he'd seen people moving through the entrance, gowns brushing the floor, voices muffled with velvet and drink.
He hadn't meant to follow.
Or maybe he had.
But one foot stepped in front of the other, and before he knew it, he was inside. He'd stumbled into Tommy—of course it was Tommy—and a few drinks later, one of which was very much not supposed to be theirs, a bottle had tipped over and shattered on the marble. Tommy had laughed, wide-eyed and flushed, and suggested they go find another.
From the ballroom.
It was stupid. It was such a stupid idea.
But Harry had never been inside the ballroom before.
The walls were unlike anything he'd ever seen. Covered in rich swirls of deep blue and gold, carved patterns that looked hand-spun by the gods themselves. The marble floor gleamed under the low candlelight like water, and every step echoed, not loud, but important. Like the room remembered every foot that had once walked through it.
The ceiling stretched far, far above him—higher than he could've imagined. Taller than the tallest rooftops in the village, taller than the bell tower that used to ring him awake every Sunday morning. It glittered in silver, cut by thin trails of gold and draped silks that shimmered whenever the breeze stirred.
And the windows. Oh, the windows.
They were so tall they touched the ceiling, like pillars of glass. He almost thought you could fit an entire family in them and still have space left to dance. And maybe you could. Maybe they could. Maybe people had.
He remembered pressing his palm against one of them, just to see if it would smudge. It didn't. The glass was too clean. Too perfect. The perfect thing that made you feel out of place.
The room had been so spacious—far more spacious than any of the quarters he'd swept by and delivered carts of paperwork and pre-stamped parchment to, or the kitchens he'd lingered in, or even the grand halls he sometimes ran down when no one was watching. And that was saying something. The palace was all height and grandeur and echoing footsteps.
But this?
This felt like walking inside a secret.
He'd explored a lot during his time at the palace. Far more than an errand boy was supposed to, even if no one really kept count. Nooks and corners and storage rooms filled with dusty old robes and rusted heirlooms. Once, he'd even hidden behind a tapestry just to see where it led.
But the ballroom?
That had always been off-limits. Special occasions only. Official. Untouchable.
He never dared to enter it before. Never wanted to risk his job for something as fleeting as a look at a fancy room. He'd always assumed it would be boring anyway. Empty. Cold.
Figures he was wrong.
It was warm in the strangest way. Not like fire or sunlight or summer air, but like memories. Like something was supposed to happen here. Like something had happened here.
And maybe something was happening now.
Maybe it was this. Maybe it was just two boys, wandering drunk and wide-eyed under crystal stars they would never be able to name, laughing over spilled wine and the ridiculousness of being alive at all.
He'd always thought magic looked like spells and potions and glowing hands.
But maybe—maybe sometimes it looked like this.
Now he was standing there—talking to nobles about things he couldn't quite remember anymore. The words, the conversations, even their names had blurred around the edges. He'd smiled, nodded at the right moments, laughed when they did. Tommy had told him to, so he'd done it.
He always did what he was told.
Probably.
He remembered that part, at least—Tommy getting their drinks. Something red, or maybe gold. Champagne, or wine. Something that fizzed a little in his throat, something warm. He remembered the way Tommy's eyes had caught the light as he walked out the door, just like that. No announcement. No warning.
Harry had taken that as a signal.
An unspoken cue between two people who, maybe, weren't supposed to be there. So he'd followed suit, waited a few beats, then excused himself with the kind of grace they'd rehearsed once in the corridor mirror. Shoulders back. Chin up. Use your hands when you speak. Walk like your shoes cost more than your life.
He remembered the cool air on his face when he stepped outside. He remembered them finding a quiet place—a hall, a corridor, a balcony, maybe. They passed the bottle between them. Or maybe there were two. He remembered the laughter, the soft slur to Tommy's voice. Maybe his own, too.
He remembered Tommy's eyes.
That broken look. Like he wasn't really there anymore. Like he'd already walked away hours before his feet ever moved.
Harry had seen that look before—on old men in the village who sat in silence too long. On shopkeepers who talked to the air behind you. On the fathers who never came home from war but somehow still walked around after.
He felt a bit guilty for leaving him like that. Maybe.
He hadn't meant to. It was late, and the wine—or whatever it was—had made him dizzy. And Tommy had said he needed a minute. So Harry had let him have it.
He wasn't even sure how they said goodbye.
Maybe they hadn't.
Maybe he was already gone by the time Harry turned around.
But that night still stood in his mind like a candle's flicker behind stained glass. Warm, blurry, and too far to touch.
L'manburg.
The heart of Pogtopia. The center that every map, every trade route, and every little story eventually circled back to.
It hadn't changed all that much since the last time he'd been here.
Quackity remembered it all like it was yesterday: the carts lined up in uneven rows, wheels creaking because they'd carried the same weight for decades. The benches scattered along the plaza, their wood polished more by restless hands and gossiping mouths than by any carpenter's brush. The trees still stood in their orderly rows, half-pruned, half-wild, reaching out over the silver linings of the palace fence as if to remind the royals that nature couldn't be contained forever.
The stone roads glittered, slick with polish. Always the roads here—smooth, immaculate, a neat grid that reflected the image Pogtopia wanted to sell. Not like the ones in the villages, where the earth fought back, stones jutting out like broken teeth, mud swallowing boots after one heavy rain.
Salesmen still hollered their pitches into the air, each voice sharpened to cut through the next. Promises of silk from the far east, of iron blades tempered twice over, of spices that would burn holes in your throat. None of them new, none of them honest.
Even the blacksmith hadn't changed—Quackity caught him skulking out of his workshop, apron still dusted with soot, pretending to stretch while his eyes darted toward the crowd. Always watching, always stealing a glance at what the market deemed valuable that week, so he could rush back to his forge and copy it before anyone else had the chance.
The guards, too, were the same. Boots striking the polished stone in measured rhythm, hands heavy on the hilts of their swords, their gazes too quick to settle. Pogtopia loved its pageantry of safety—rows of militants standing tall as if each passing mother and child might pull a blade from their bread basket.
Quackity smiled faintly at the thought. He'd like to think of himself as one of those threats they were always preparing for.
Not a new one, no. An old one. A threat they'd half-forgotten, like the old scars most of them tucked under their sleeves. Familiar enough to sting the moment they recognized him, but distant enough that it would take the royal court a second look to remember why their chests had tightened in the first place.
That was what he wanted to be.
A statement. A living, breathing reminder. Something that could not be ignored, not with all the polish and silver fences in the world. A presence meant to inflict pain, yes, but also to carve itself into memory—to shift perspectives, to crack apart the delicate illusions Pogtopia built around itself. To cause chaos so thorough that even when the rubble settled, the echo of it would follow them for the rest of their sorry lives.
Royalties didn't take threats lightly. He knew that better than most.
But neither did he.
When the royals drew their swords, prepared their horses, and sent guards storming across the pavement, Quackity had always been there—watching, listening, taking note. Every command barked, every bootstep echoing against stone, every flicker of hesitation in the eyes of men who thought themselves loyal. He collected it all like coin, stashing it away, waiting for the day it would pay him back.
A very dangerous thing, a threat. Too many men believed the danger ended once the words left your mouth. They thought it was only the response — the steel, the blood — that made a threat real.
Quackity knew better.
The danger was in the silence afterward.
In the waiting.
In the knowledge that a promise, once spoken, was already halfway fulfilled.
And he was not inexperienced in giving them.
Not at all.
However, now he wasn't here as a threat. Not today.
Now, he was here for Tommy.
Simply to see Tommy.
The thought alone felt strange in his chest, like a coin turning over in his palm. He wasn't here to gamble, wasn't here to barter or to carve his name into another deal that would spiral through the markets. No—this time, it was simpler. Quieter. He'd crossed borders and burned bridges for far less, yet somehow this boy was the reason he found himself walking these polished stones again.
When his boots touched the pathway leading to the palace, he felt the guards' eyes pin to him the way blades pin cloth to wood. A glance, another, then the subtle ripple of recognition. He carried on regardless, shoulders squared, gaze forward, as if their judgment meant less than dust beneath his heels. He had never been one to flinch beneath a watchful stare.
And yet, in the back of his mind, he could see it already: Tommy's grin splitting across his face, that wild, unpolished joy breaking through whatever royal etiquette tried to smother him under. That look alone would make the glares worth it.
Having seen Tubbo so eager, so bright when he'd first spoken of seeing Tommy again—that had stirred something, too. A warmth Quackity didn't often allow himself. It was a feeling that made all of this—the journey, the risks, the whispers he'd often receive and share back onto others—feel less like his usual strategies and more like, well. More like something human.
"Are you sure I'm supposed to just be here?" Tubbo's voice cracked through the air, hesitant and small against the unbreathable weight of the stone towers. His shoulders hunched in on themselves as though the stares of the militants pressed heavier than their armor, dragging his gaze down to the neat cobblestones.
Quackity cast a glance over his shoulder. His eyes flicked once to the guards, sharp and deliberate—and just like that, their stares faltered, peeled away as if they'd never been there at all. It was a small trick, really. One that didn't need words, only the presence of his own.
"Perhaps it's your appearance," He mused, letting his tone drip casual as he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. "You don't exactly fit into the courtly standards."
"Rude."
The word shot back quick as a pebble, and it made Quackity's lips curve before he could stop himself. The faintest snicker slipped past, low and easy, softening the edge of his words.
Without breaking stride, he let his feet carry him straight toward the great doors of the palace. The stately home loomed ahead, silver-lined and sharp against the sky, yet he walked as though it were simply another tavern's threshold, another game waiting for him inside—like they usually did.
But when he stepped foot inside the palace, it wasn't the lineup he was used to.
No servants neatly arranged in rows, no polite curtsies or rehearsed bows. Instead, they darted across the marble like startled birds, their hurried steps echoing too loudly for a place that prided itself on grace. Their eyes flicked sideways, their voices kept low—hushed whispers that carried the familiar tone of worry no matter how carefully they tried to disguise it.
If he hadn't known better, he might have mistaken it for chaos.
The guards, usually a constant presence in their gleaming breastplates, were scarce. Barely visible at all, as though someone had swept them off the board in the middle of a chess game. The few he did see looked restless, shifting their weight from foot to foot, hands brushing the hilts of their swords out of habit more than duty.
And the nobles—ah, the nobles. They were the strangest of them all. Such as himself, but different.
Where there should have been laughter—a hollow, grating noise that spilled from men too fat with power and women too eager to be heard—there was only silence fractured by small, uneasy murmurs. There were no forced chuckles at the jokes of whoever held the highest seat in the room. There were no sycophantic nods or smiles stretched too wide.
Instead, confusion hung over them like a fog. Some faces twisted into quiet disgust, others pinched in suspicion, like the air itself had soured and they weren't sure who to blame.
It was not the palace Quackity remembered.
And that, perhaps, was the most intriguing part.
Something must have happened.
The shift was too obvious, too heavy in the air.
Quackity glanced down at Tubbo, who hadn't noticed in the slightest. The boy's wide eyes were fixed on the vaulted ceilings, on the gilded trim of the pillars and the polished floors that mirrored the chandeliers. He looked enchanted, mesmerized, as though this was the palace of a fairy tale and not one dripping with tension in every corner.
He didn't even realize that this wasn't how it was supposed to be.
Quackity wasn't about to ruin that wonder for him. Not yet. If the world was going to sour, let Tubbo keep his sweetness a little longer.
With a subtle touch, he placed his hand against the boy's back, steering him forward with a soft nudge. A silent command to follow his lead.
A servant hurried their way, skirts swishing with the speed of her step. She stopped short before them, bowing quickly, though her eyes betrayed her nerves.
"My Lord," She greeted, then flicked her gaze toward Tubbo, uncertain. "Is... this a companion of yours?"
Quackity tilted his head toward the brunette, lips curling into the faintest smile, then let his eyes return to the servant with deliberate slowness. "Yes. He is. Would you be so kind as to show us where His Majesty Prince Wilbur is?"
The servant stiffened, her hands tightening in her apron. Her gaze slid away, anywhere but his. "Well, actually... I fear it may not be such a great time to visit His Highness at this moment—"
She didn't get the chance to finish.
"And who are you," A sharp voice cut in, "To tell this man of power what he may or may not do? Do you even know who stands before you?"
Chamberlain Manifold swept into view, his presence loud enough to make the servant shrink back at once. His voice rang like a scold across the marble, his expression curled with disdain.
The poor girl muttered a hurried apology, bowing so quickly she nearly stumbled.
"Depart at once," The chamberlain snapped, his tone final. "You are dismissed."
The servant's retreat was fast and silent, her figure vanishing down the corridor.
Only then did Manifold turn back to Quackity. His stern face melted into something softer, though not by much. He bowed low, his words carrying the precision of ceremony.
"My lord," He said, voice dipped with deference. "I must apologise for the behaviour of my servant. She knows not whom she was addressing."
“That’s quite alright, Chamberlain,” Quackity said smoothly, brushing off the earlier outburst as though it hadn’t happened at all. His gaze, however, drifted back toward the great oak doors ahead, the ones flanked by pillars that seemed to scrape the ceiling. His eyes lingered there like he could already see through them.
“Please, how can I be of assistance?” Manifold asked, his tone a sudden shift from scorn to honey.
Tubbo had to fight back a snort. The hypocrisy was almost laughable—the way the man had snapped at the servant like she was dirt on his boots, only to bow and scrape now as if Quackity were a god carved out of marble. It made Tubbo’s stomach twist, though he kept his expression tight. He wasn’t supposed to laugh here.
“You could begin,” Quackity said, each word deliberate, “By showing us where the prince is.” His smile thinned, sharp at the edges. “The youngest one.”
“Ah.” Chamberlain Manifold straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. “Of course. I will let him know that you are willing to speak with him.”
Quackity inclined his head in approval, though his eyes were unreadable. “Excellent.”
The chamberlain bowed once more before hurrying off, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Tubbo watched him go, frowning slightly. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. The palace felt strange—too hushed, too unsettled, too polished, too polite, too fake, too real, too everything—and Quackity’s calm presence was the only thing keeping the air from swallowing him whole.
Quackity adjusted his cuffs and let the silence settle around them, his expression unreadable as ever. Only when the chamberlain’s footsteps had faded completely did he lean slightly toward Tubbo, his voice low and steady.
“Now,” He murmured, “We’ll see what kind of welcome they’ve prepared for us.”