Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“In a Prince, the Gods entrusted the fate of all of humanity. The Gods placed their hopes of peace, of breaking an unending cycle, into the body of a boy. 

Innocuous, curious— nobody understood why the youngest prince of Aurum was cursed, more so by the very Goddess of War that blessed the cobblestone roads the people walk on. Oracles predicted it— he , rather— was a symbol for something great; a change unseen before, to rival that of the Creation.

When that change could be, or what would happen— no prophet could determine, no matter if the use of magic was involved.

It was a matter of watching clock arms tick in slow, unnerving circles; counting down the seconds.”

Cheers erupt from the crowd as the musician settles back, a smile on their face as they bow— it’s one of the most famous stories in all of Daiafara, let alone Aurum. Kids always beg to hear it all over again from their parents, but it never feels the same when it’s not told in the exact way.

Impulse folds his arms over the balcony’s railing, watching as the musician begins another tale. His cheek presses against his arm as he rests his head, his crown tilting with him. He hears a soft clink before he notices a flash of gold—

“Might want to be more careful with this thing.” Martyn holds the crown in his hand, smiling as Impulse takes it. “Father would see red if he found out it was damaged.” He rests his elbows on the balcony, blonde hair tied back in a haphazard ponytail.

“Father will see red when he sees how long your hair is getting,” Impulse remarks, dusting off the golden shine. He adjusts it before looking back at the musician. He hums, watching as children surrounding them begin to clap along.

“Pretty talented, eh? Think you could do that, with all the violin lessons our tutors have put you through?” Martyn shoves him playfully, and Impulse snorts.

“Heavens no— I can hardly play the violin as is, let alone do all of that and sing.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have the voice of a choir boy in the Goddess Temple.”

Impulse rolls his eyes, huffing as he grins. He taps his fingers against the iron bar before turning his attention to his room. It’s as tidy as can be— many people wouldn’t even think a child lives here, with how little toys are scattered around. He settles at his desk, overlooking some of the papers from his lessons.

“Martyn, what is that song about anyway? I mean, there’s no recorded evidence of a boy who was a vessel— at least not in our libraries, and I’m sure Father would have some kind of book on it—“

“It’s just a kid’s story, little devil,” Martyn chuckles. “That’s what Father always said— it’s nothing more than that.” He pats his shoulder before stepping out of the room, hovering at the doorway.

“By the way, we have dinner with the Sacrean family tonight, so wear your best.”

“ Ugh , but that stupid thing is too tight!”

“We have seamstresses, Impulse— you know where the sewing rooms are.” The door closes as Martyn’s footsteps retreat, and Impulse sighs, putting his head down on his desk. He supposes he should get used to all the formalities of royalty— he won’t be able to escape a dinner when he’s a prince with the crown.

He gets up and grabs the outfit he always wears to dinners, adjusting the buttons and managing to squeeze into the tight shoulder pads— Father or Martyn will have to help him get out of this thing afterward— before he exits his room, adjusting his cufflinks.

“…boys can’t be at dinner tonight.”

Impulse stops, sinking behind the nearby wall, ears perking as he listens in.

“Xisuma, they are boys now, but one day, they’ll be kings. They need to know how diplomacy works— for the sake of Aurum and every other kingdom in our region and beyond. Barring them from this is only going to set them back.”

Xisuma sighs. “Impulse is only nine years old— Martyn is twelve in a week. They have time before either of them should be taught kingship. It’s not a duty they should look at with rose-tinted glasses— you and I both know this.”

There’s a pause.

“You don’t believe they’re ready yet, do you?”

“Xanthos—“

“If something were to happen to both of us, Aurum would be leaderless just because you think your sons have too much to learn before they attend a simple dinner. Martyn won’t have guidance, no lessons to look upon because his father believes he wasn’t ready— and if Impulse takes the throne? The boy won’t even understand what that means!”

A chair falls back with a thud, making Impulse flinch. He forces himself to hold his breath, swallowing dryly. There’s quiet, for all but a moment.

“Tell them to get ready. Syre and Wynn will be here within the hour.”

As footsteps approach, Impulse hurries along, rounding the corner before Father spots him. He reaches the door to the garden, his hand on the doorknob as Xisuma steps into the hall.

“Oh, Impulse. I didn’t think you heard about the dinner just yet,” he smiles. “Martyn told you, then?”

Impulse nods. “He, uh, just told me it's dinner. Nothing else about it, really— only that the Sacrean family would also be there.” He watches as Xisuma steps closer, his hand settling on his shoulder.

“Good. Then you’ll be ready to attend your first diplomatic dinner.” He pats his shoulder. “Go fetch your brother— Syre is likely at the gates as we speak.”

Impulse watches him walk away, his shadow disappearing from behind the wall. He relaxes before going to Martyn’s room, knocking on the door.

“First one to the dining hall wins!”

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Forks and knives clink against the porcelain plates. A roast with bread rolls, some beef and broth stew, a selected dish of Aurumian desserts— all scatter the table, cut and proportioned healthily.

Xisuma sits on the furthest end, and on the other is Xanthos. Syre and Wynn are across from another, and the children are grouped together. Syre sets his silverware down before wiping his mouth with a napkin, clearing his throat.

“I greatly appreciate the abundance of food you always offer us, Xisuma. Aurumian chefs are envied by most others in the region,” Syre hums.

“Well, our kingdom was weaved by war— we understand what having a proper meal is, rather than whatever slop is made by the coast,” Xisuma muses. He wipes his hands before taking a breath. “I understand you wanted to speak to us about our current trade deals?”

“Of course, of course,” Syre smiles. “Well, if I am to be blunt, Aurumian steel has been a little… lacking in quality. While we do value every piece of silver and gold, bronze and copper we receive, it is hard to find good prices for them when the copper is half-cooled, the silver sheets warped.”

He stands from his chair, tossing a coin in the air and catching it. “Your mines make up almost all metals in our region alone, not to mention how many currencies are forged in their respective towns by it.” He slides the coin to Martyn, watching it spin until it falls on one side— heads up.

“Well, there have been strikes and unions created as of recently,” Xisuma replies. “Working conditions have worsened, according to some of my advisors from the industrial sector— canaries do not chirp at the first scent of smoke anymore. They’ve grown immune to it, they believe. There was also the incident in the southern mines—“

“Moss unfortunate,” Syre cuts in. “Twenty men buried under rubble because of faulty dynamite.” He takes a breath, thinking. “I believe the solution to this problem is simple: increase the workforce in your mines— encourage younger, healthier people to join in. I’m sure Aurum has plenty of families that work the forges; they could spare a few hands down at the source, yes?”

Xisuma opens his mouth to speak, closing as he thinks over his words. Impulse watches, his leg bouncing as he studies the room— it feels wrong, he thinks. Another kingdom’s money shouldn’t cost lives; another kingdom’s imports shouldn’t rely on whether a son comes home or a daughter doesn’t get sick. He stares at his plate as the conversation grows muffled, unable to focus

“…settle it then. I’m sure your advisors in the industrial sector will appreciate their headache of strikes going away very shortly.” Syre shakes Xisuma’s hand before settling back in his seat.

“Ah, kids, why don’t you go to the gardens? Impulse can show you the new orchard we have been planting,” Xisuma stammers. He looks pale, Impulse notices— sweat beads on his brow, and he almost sounds afraid . Like a caged animal watching its owner, waiting for the next hit.

Impulse is walking, he realises— he doesn’t remember getting up and leaving the dining hall, but the gardens welcome his eyes. Blossoming roses and trees scatter the grounds, mixtures of violet and yellow, some white— the colours of the Aurum banner. He sighs as he looks around, watching as Martyn points Oleyn to the trees.

Impulse settles on the edge of the fountain, his arms folding over his knees as he watches lilypads sway with the breeze. Someone sits beside him, fluttering wings breaking feathers off, into the crystal blue waters clouding his vision.

“All that king stuff is weird, huh?”

Impulse studies Skizz as he fidgets with a token, a soft smile on his face. “I mean, a whole dinner across the region for— what, some steel? Letters wouldn’t have been faster, sure, but it feels so pointless. Doesn’t it?”

“Maybe.” Skizz hums, tossing the token up before catching it.

“Hey. Did you catch them fighting again?” He asks in a whisper. Impulse stares at Martyn and Oleyn, watching as his brother tries to charm her— her wings flutter with the flowers weaved into the wings, their laughter echoing in his mind.

“Father doesn’t think neither me nor Martyn are ready to be kings,” he answers, standing from the fountain. “Xanthos thinks we should’ve started learning about kingship years ago, but Father…” he trails off, sighing.

“Maybe he’s just scared?” Skizz offers. “I mean— it’s kind of a scary thought, when you realise your kids aren’t little anymore. That’s what Mom says anyway, at least when she looks at old pictures of me and Oleyn. Maybe it’s the same for your father.”

Impulse thinks, looking at the statue of the fountain— his grandmother, who he never met. Father always said she was a bad person, that she used to be so loving before greed corrupted her; it clouded her mind, out of fear that her son would be lost before he could rise to the throne— her only heir.

“Kids, we’re going back!”

Skizz hums, standing. He claps Impulse’s shoulder, smiling.

“I’ll see you when I see you.” He hurries off, Oleyn following close behind. Impulse watches them disappear from the windows, studying the fountain again.

“You and an angel princess, huh?” He grins as Martyn approaches. “Now what would Father think if he found out you’re charming Syre’s only daughter?”

“Don’t say a word , Impulse, or I’ll—“

Impulse rushes to the door, laughing. “You’ll have to catch me first!”

“Ugh, Impulse !”

Chapter Text

There was an attack at the northern gate. Ideas of it being an enemy kingdom or even one of Aurum’s own are circulating already— the town square is awfully quiet that morning. No music, no laughter, no bartering.

Impulse watches from behind his balcony doors. It’s almost like looking into a dream, some old childhood memory you can’t forget but never remember when it happened. He was forbidden from unlocking the door by his father— guards are stationed outside every door to the palace, and more outside the walls.

“First day it snows and nobody can even enjoy it,” Martyn whispers. He sits on the corner of Impulse’s bed, hair hanging far past his shoulders. “Sucks, doesn’t it?” He looks at his brother as he sits down, studying his hands.

“Who do you think it was?” Impulse asks— it’s all there is to speak of, really. There’s no musician playing outside, singing a tune about a grand warrior of Aureola, or a Dawn inventor. There’s no festival to mark the winter solstice, no celebrations and laughter.

“Some of the workers have been insisting it’s from Sacre, especially after that diplomacy dinner, and all the cutbacks against unionising,” Martyn answers. “But, honestly? I hope it was one of our own— some weird, horrific sign of revolution, of going against the awful, tyrannical king!” He chuckles, shaking his fist in feign anger.

Impulse huffs, looking out the window again.

“Hey,” Martyn elbows him lightly. “Don’t think too much about it, okay? We’re safe here— nothing will reach us as long as Father and Xanthos are around. Plus, you have me, little devil. I won’t let anyone lay a hand on you.”

Impulse relaxes, leaning against Martyn as he sighs.

“…have sons, Xisuma!”

“And they will not be on the front lines, but I will not allow the Domain of Wolves to terrorise our people!”

Impulse looks at the door, catching Martyn’s gaze. He steps closer to his bedroom door, opening it by a crack.

“This was one attack by one individual from there— you can’t let this get to you. We are not starting a war, we are upheld to the Great Oath more than any other family!”

Xisuma sighs, pinching his nose bridge.

“That does not stand when my people were massacred by a man looking to make a statement against us. Children were at those gates, Xanthos— children that were Martyn and Impulse’s age. I am not going to let more children suffer, lose their parents, when I can prevent it.”

He turns away as Xanthos remains cemented in place, watching as disgust and horror mix into his expression.

“Captain, inform the docks that our navy will be embarking by dawn— have every squadron ready and weaponised.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

Martyn closes the door as Impulse sinks against it, his gaze a thousand yards away. He clenches his arms, panic settling deep into his chest, gnawing at his ribs and stomach, churning until he runs to the bathroom, heaving into the toilet. He gasps, spitting out whatever was left.

“Impulse—“

He smacks Martyn away, panic lingering in his eyes as he gasps, forcing himself to take deep breaths. Claws nearly break the counter as he grasps onto it, horns larger than before, fangs razor-like— he closes his eyes, focusing on his breathing.

“I’ve got you, little devil,” Martyn whispers, his arms tight around him. “Everything will turn out fine, I swear.”

“If Father goes to war, the Goddess won’t be happy with him— he swore to her, remember? No more fighting, no more use of whatever power she spoke of!” Impulse whispers. He sighs shakily, pressing his face into Martyn.

“I know, I know,” Martyn whispers. “Well just… have to take this one day at a time, yeah?”

Impulse nods, taking slow breaths. He settles on his bed, closing his eyes as he lays back.

“That’s the worst it’s ever been,” he finally says, staring at his hands. “It felt… bad. Like it was another person entirely, trying to fight their way in.” He lowers his hands, looking at his ceiling.

“We’ll figure it all out, little devil.” Martyn messes with his hair as he sighs. “I’m sure of it.”

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“He’s growing up too fast, don’t you think?”

“He is the oldest prince— he’s living up to the first part of that title, I guess!”

Guests mingle as Martyn watches from behind the throne room’s curtains, studying the crowd for familiar faces. He sighs, turning to walk back before he bumps into his father.

“There you are,” Xisuma hums. “Some guests are looking for you, Martyn— you should go greet them, no?” He places his hand on his back, between his shoulders. Martyn thinks before nodding, letting his father guide him to the main ballroom.

“Mar!”

Someone throws their arms around him, making him stumble back. He pulls back, a smile tugging at his lips immediately. He returns the embrace, laughing as he spins around.

“It’s been too long, Grian,” he smiles. “Ever since Avivain’s 250th celebration, at least!” He laughs with her, studying her. “Still haven’t hit that growth spurt though, eh?”

She shoves him playfully, her wings flaring. “Was that disrespect against the princess of Avivain? I could have you detained for that!”

“I’d like to see you try!”

They’re off before Xisuma can stop them, sighing fondly. His hand settles on his hip as he watches them catch up with Oleyn, and a handful of other people their age. He studies the crowd himself before spotting Syre, catching up to him and grabbing his shoulder.

“We need to talk.”

The war behind the thrones is quiet, muffled. It hasn’t seen use in decades, with the last figure standing behind the table being the very woman behind the Traitor’s War. Xisuma studies the map before he sighs, watching as Syre sits in the wooden chair, drink in hand. He can’t help but crack a smile as he studies Xisuma.

“You have definitely looked better,” Syre muses.

Xisuma huffs. “Well, try looking your best when half your navy was wiped out within days.” He fixes his hair as he paces the room. “I don’t understand— they aren’t a strong kingdom, they have barely an army to scrape by, and yet they wiped out my men like it was nothing.”

Syre studies him, tapping his hand against the table.

“Have you considered that maybe the Gods aren’t too pleased with your sudden violation of the Great Oath? You were the one who wrote it, after all,” Syre suggests plainly. Xisuma whips his head to look at him, glaring.

“The Oath only stands for when war is not justified—“

“This war was an overreach of power, Xisuma. One attack does not mean innocents on another land should suffer for what one of them did— you do not generalise the enemy, you specify.”

Xisuma stares at him, unreadable emotions furrowing in his brow. He covers his mouth as he thinks, frantic eyes darting over the map, the notes, the recordings— all of it, and yet, none of it makes sense.

“Why would the Goddess of War go against me?” He whispers.

Syre hums, standing and walking to his side, looking at him. “Gods don’t disapprove of many actions humanity takes— that I’ve learned over years of studies. Gods will applaud acts deemed unforgivable by us, but if even they believe you have done something irreparable, well…” he gestures to the map with his hand, to the markings of where men have been lost.

Xisuma sighs, burying his face in his hand. He closes his eyes, the phantom aches of a headache burrowing itself into his head. He sinks into his chair, and Syre slides him his glass, sitting back down.

“Worry about your son’s party, Xisuma,” Syre smiles. “They don’t stay this young forever.” His footsteps retreat, a quick reminder of the party outside before the room goes quiet again. Xisuma takes a swig of the glass, wiping his mouth as he stares at the map again.

“They don’t stay this young forever,” he whispers.

“That they don’t, Xisuma.”

Xisuma gasps as he turns, seeing the figure for only a moment before—

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“I want to show you something.”

Martyn takes Grian’s hand, leading her to the gardens. He pushes the doors open before he motions her to follow. It’s a cooler evening, some snow spotted on the ground as they walk through the cobblestone path. He leads her off the path to a new addition to their gardens: the orchard.

“Because of the volcanic ground here, trees don’t really lose their leaves— thermal heat keeps them from transitioning between autumn and winter,” Martyn smiles. He grabs a fruit from one of the trees; a golden apple, moonlight reflecting off its skin. Grian cups it in her hands, studying it carefully.

“I didn’t know Aurum had golden fruits as well,” she muses. Martyn laughs, shaking his head.

“This is a specialised product— it didn’t exist until a few years ago, back when the scientists of Calces were giving us thanks for funding their intentions.” He takes another one from the branches, patting the bench underneath. She settles close, thinking.

“Is it bitter at all?”

“Quite the opposite. These are the sweetest apples you’ve ever tasted; I thought these were candy when I first tried them.” He takes a healthy bite, juice spilling from the apple— despite its golden skin, it looks the same white-yellow on the inside.

Grian hesitates before she takes a nibble of it, her eyes lighting up as the taste hits her tongue.

“I didn’t believe apples could be so sweet,” she whispers in awe. “Calces scientists work miracles, I swear.” Martyn snorts, smiling at her. He looks at the fountain ahead of them, watching as marble reflects the silver light of stars and the moon.

“Do you think they’d make statues of us when we’re in power?” He finds himself asking. Grian thinks, taking another bite.

“Maybe,” she answers, “but only if we did something proving our legacy— maybe winning an impossible war, aiding a town ravaged by bandits, or saving another royal family. Something like that.”

“Proving our legacy, huh?” He mumbles. He stands, leaving his apple half-eaten on the bench. He studies the statue carefully, unmoving eyes, fierce and defiant, looking ahead of him, at the doorway to the interior of the palace.

Maybe this is what he needs to do— to prove to his father, to Xanthos, he can handle it. He can be king, he can fight in wars and bring peace. His brow furrows as he crosses his arms, the wind whipping his hair around as he reads the name beneath the statue:

Queen Calliope I

Warrior of Aurum, Victim of Greed’s Fatal Grasp

“Everything okay?” Grian’s voice cuts in. “You’ve just been staring at the plaque for a while now. I thought I was talking to a wall for a second!”

He shakes his head. “I’m alright. Let’s head inside, yeah? It’s getting colder out.” He leads her back inside, shaking off the snowflakes from his outfit. He adjusts his crown and hair before starting to walk back to the ballroom, Grian in tow.

The portraits pass him by, but he stops suddenly. Grian bumps into him, shaking her head.

“What? What is—?”

He holds his hand up, looking at the floor. It begins to rumble, growing louder and more violent. He turns his head to the windows, eyes widening as a catapult ammunition flings itself towards them.

“Get down!”

The crash shakes the entire west wing, rubble piling from the impact site. Dust from the wreckage begins to settle as he stands, coughing and covering his mouth. Martyn looks around, grabbing Grian and hurrying along as guards rush in.

“Get the Prince and Princess to the safe room!” A captain barks out. “Draw your weapons, now!”

Right as they rush along the halls, another catapult hits, destroying some of the portraits, glass shattering at their feet. Martyn holds tight onto Grian’s hand, covering his head as more ammunition is flung at them. He stops as an arrow lodges itself into the wall, mere inches from his face, slicing his nose.

“Martyn!” Grian grabs his face to look, but she’s pulled along with him. The ballroom is long evacuated, but Martyn stops at the glimpse of someone.

Impulse.

He rips himself away from Grian, hearing her yell as he rushes inside. The chandelier shudders above Impulse, frozen in place as he watches, hands trembling. Martyn picks up speed, hearing the chandelier creak before the bolts finally break loose. He tackles Impulse aside, watching it crumble into the earth. He pants, looking at his brother.

“Are you hurt?” Martyn asks, holding his chin. Impulse shakes his head, eyes wide. He scoops him into his arms, running along the halls once more, to the safe rooms. He covers Impulse’s head as he runs, panting as he watches for arrows, catapults— anything that could hurt his brother.

He skids to a stop at the door, letting Impulse inside. He stops before he enters, looking at the approaching sound of soldiers. Martyn looks back, seeing Impulse staring at him.

“Mar? What are you doing? Martyn?”

Martyn thinks, worrying his lip. He grabs a spear from a displayed suit of armour, studying it before he looks at him.

“I’m proving I can be a king.”

“No, no! Martyn, no! Don’t leave! Don’t leave me, please—!”

The door shuts before Martyn can hear the rest of it. He swallows whatever bile builds in his throat, steeling his nerves as soldiers quickly approach. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes before he points the spear at the enemy, watching as they charge in.

He rushes forward, yelling out before he tries to thrust the spear point into a soldier—

They grab it, tossing him into a wall. He coughs, grabbing his shoulder as the spear is broken into two. He gasps, stumbling back as they approach. They stop, dispersing as a figure cuts through the crowd, a bloodied crown hanging between two wolflike ears.

“The oldest prince of Aurum,” they smile. “A fighter. I’m impressed; although, it’s clear your father or Xanthos trained you well.” He kneels in front of Martyn, red eyes staring through him. He tilts his head curiously. “You do not know me, do you?”

Martyn can’t speak, unable to form a word as he stares.

“A shame, really,” they say. “Your father should’ve taught you history, little one.” He grabs the broken spear end, a sharp metal end catching his eye. He looks at Martyn, tapping the spear against his hand.

“You may call me the Red King,” he grins. “King of the Domain of Wolves. Vassal of the Blood Moon Demigod.” He points the spear at Martyn. “And, unfortunately, our meeting shall be brief— your father is already gone, so is Xanthos.” He sighs.

“But, the Demigod isn’t satiated just yet.”

Martyn gasps, struggling to his feet to only be pulled back. He sobs, trying to claw away as the Red King looks over him, the spear lifting further into the air. It pierces through him, and Martyn chokes, blood spurting from his mouth as he gasps, the muffled roar of fire and rubble falling filling his ears.

“A shame, really.” He pulls the weapon out, watching Martyn go limp. “He would’ve been such a wondrous king— if only his father was here to defend him, or that little demon brother of his.” The Red King waltzes away, ordering his men to follow.

“Leave the boy to be found. I’m sure it’ll be quick.”

It’s quiet until sunrise, when Impulse finally wedges his way out of the safe room. He crawls to Martyn’s body, a sob escaping him as he clutches him.

“No— no, Mar, please— Martyn! Don’t leave me!” His sobs roar against the broken halls, blood staining his clothes and hands. Tears drop down his chin into empty blue eyes, blood stained on Martyn’s lips.

“MARTYN!”

Chapter Text

Wind chimes sing in the winter breeze, birds chirping with the melody. Leaves sway along the pathways and roads, moved as three chariots trot by.

King Xisuma, Xanthos, and Prince Martyn were all murdered in the siege against the palace.

Impulse sits in the fourth chariot, black clothes covering him. He hugs his knees tight, a green headband clutched in his hand. He hasn’t said a word since that evening, when Grian found him over his brother’s body, unable to speak. He stares out the covered window at the crowds of people— people who entrusted that the family would be protected from such an attack.

“Your Highness, we have arrived at the Temple’s Memorial Grounds,” the driver calls out. Impulse gets up, waiting for the door to open as he steps out. He sees the figure told to be waiting for him: Sovereign Cleo. She kneels as he approaches her, a veil covering their face.

“I’m sorry we had to meet in these circumstances,” they whisper. “I’ll lead you to the Memorial Grounds.” She takes his hand as Impulse walks beside her, averting his gaze from the people around him. He bites his lip, refusing to shed any tears in front of them. The mausoleum doors are all held open by guards as the family is settled inside. A long line of citizens awaits, ready to sprinkle petals of Aurum’s flower— the white rose— on them.

Impulse visits each mausoleum, clenching the headband tighter before he places down the flowers for each one. He sighs shakily, rubbing his eyes before he goes back to Cleo’s side, their hand settling in his hair.

“Let’s go sit inside the Temple.”

Tranquil waters run from the statues of priests and priestesses, their hands cupped toward the large statue of the Goddess of War, her signature shield and bow and arrow on her, her eyes fierce. Impulse studies the statue, the red drapery covering her shoulders made of marble. He remembers visiting when he was younger, how beautiful this looked.

How his mother came here when she had him, losing her life in the process. He shakes his head, wiping away the tears that began to slip as he looks at the statues again.

“Your father was a wonderful man. Your brother was a smart child,” Cleo says softly. “Xanthos was always full of ideas,” she adds with a laugh. They look at him, soft eyes studying him.

“I can still hear them,” he manages. “Martyn. Father. Xanthos. Their voices are still there— but they’re not.” He hugs his knees, burying his face into them. She guides him closer, wrapping an arm around him as he sniffs.

“There will always be a void in you that will never be filled,” Cleo says, “but it will get smaller, easier to handle. It feels impossible right now, like facing a Titan with no weapon, but time will ease your wounds.” They embrace him, and he all but crumbles, sobs shaking his shoulders as they echo in the Temple’s chambers.

The procession ends at nightfall, the mausoleum doors finally closing. Impulse stands outside of Martyn’s in particular, tears welling in his eyes.

“You didn’t need to prove anything, to anybody,” he chokes up. “I thought you were strong, and brave, and—“ he cuts himself off, sighing. He places a flower down outside the doors, kneeling beside it. “You were the best big brother I could’ve asked for.”

He stands, taking Cleo’s hand as a chariot to Exspiravit pulls closer. Until he’s old enough to be a king, and until the palace is fully repaired, he’s supposed to stay with Cleo— they’ll raise him from now on, teach him how to be a king. He lays down on the opposite seat from Cleo, his coat acting as a blanket.

He can try to get some rest on the way there, he supposes.

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Exspiravit— a kingdom of the undead, the forgotten. The abandoned, the betrayed.

It had never held a powerful position, nor amongst the largest kingdoms in the south. Yet, it stands as a bastion of refuge for all, no matter who or where they’ve come from. A perpetual fog glooms over the gates, moving as the iron doors swing open, mechanisms clicking in place as the chariot trots inside.

Impulse begins to stir at the sound of voices, rubbing his eyes as Cleo watches from the window. She waits until they reach the manor, nodding as a guard opens the door, assisting them out of the chariot. She takes Impulse’s hand and leads him inside, their footsteps reverberating against the walls.

“It’s so quiet here,” Impulse whispers. Cleo chuckles, stopping to look at him.

“Peaceful, isn’t it? I’ve always liked the quiet myself— it gives you time to reflect,” they answer. They continue on, down the hall to a bedroom set up for Impulse. “This is your room— we can change it however you’d like, of course.” She pauses, softening. “I know it’s not as warm and familiar as Aurum, but it is not safe there right now. At least not in the palace.”

Impulse doesn’t say anything, instead looking at the windows and bed. It’s cool, a perfect enough temperature to curl under the blankets and forget. He settles on the edge of the mattress, looking at the headband still in his hands. Cleo settles beside him, studying the object.

“We can make that into something, if you’d like,” she offers. “Maybe jewellery, or even a handkerchief. My spouse can work on it, if you’d like— they won’t do anything to it that you don’t want, of course.”

Impulse thinks, his thumb running across the fabric.

“Jewellery. I want a piece of the fabric in a pendant,” he answers. “The rest of the fabric can be turned into a handkerchief.” He hands her the headband carefully, as if it’s a fragile rose. Like the ones back home, the ones covering Martyn’s memorial, the ones weaved into wings and hair, the ones—

“Impulse, breathe.” Hands cup his own, claws extending and piercing his skin, drawing blood. He sniffs, hiccuping as sobs tumble out of his throat. They hush him gently, hurrying to grab some cloth to clean the blood. “I know it’s painful, I know. You have all the support here and more at your disposal— use it. It’ll help, even if you don’t believe it will.”

He sniffs, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve as he nods. His claws and horns shrink back down, his tail no longer thrashing. He hums, shuffling to lay down. Cleo adjusts the blankets over him, dimming the lantern beside the bed before letting him rest again.

“If you need anything at all,” Cleo starts, hovering in the door, “my chambers are the first door on the right. Don’t be afraid to get me if you need me.” Their footsteps fade as they close the door, letting him drift. He curls into himself, wrists curled into his chest. It feels safer, like this— being small, tucked away where nothing can reach you.

His eyes grow heavy, and he hums. All he can do is hope that he can feel a little less tired later.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“The King of Aurum is gone. His oldest heir and the advisor, too. Such a monumental loss has been felt all over the continent, but especially in this region. However, the injustice cannot be ignored— the Red King will return to finish off the lineage. We must ensure the safety of the youngest prince if we want Aurum to survive.”

The council members listen as Syre speaks, his hands folded as he scans the room. Had he known that would be the final night he would see Xisuma, he’d have done so many things differently— if anything, he would’ve grabbed him out of that room himself, allowed his sons to see him again. He clenches his fists, taking a deep breath.

“Currently, he is sheltered by the Sovereign Cleo in the Exspiravit Manor. They were entrusted to raise him in this exact scenario by Xisuma himself, and undermining the wishes of a man now gone would be sacrilege.” He stands from his seat, looking at the maps of Aurum scattered across his part of the table.

“I recommend he remains there until he can reclaim the throne when he is of age. Until then, we must ensure Exspiravit does not become a target for the Domain, especially the Red King.” He looks around, his gaze falling to Yareli— the other angel kind, across the mountain range from Syre and Sacre itself.

“My archers can be sent to Exspiravit to guard the gates. They would never miss a shot no matter how big or small the target,” Yareli says. “And, if need be, I can send some of the finest Guardians Aureola has ever witnessed.”

A figure raises their hand, and the light shines on them. They stand, and Syre nods.

“Pathos is the closest kingdom to Exspiravit in terms of relations— he and Cleo have been longtime friends, and I trust that if anybody will get their approval of more defence, it’ll be Pathos,” Syre says. “We will meet again soon to discuss Aurum’s reconstruction.”

As the members leave, Pathos approaches, bowing his head.

“I’m sorry for the loss for your closest friends,” he says quietly, “but I will ensure that the boy has as much protection as necessary. We cannot allow it to happen again, for our sake, and our children’s.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Syre thinks, squeezing his shoulder. “How is your little one?” Pathos hums, a smile hidden under his mask.

“Too smart for his own good, but just as selfless as his mother. Maybe he could teach yours a thing or two about redstone.”

“Perhaps. I’ll see you again soon— travel safely.”

Syre watches Pathos exit, sighing as he overlooks the maps again. He could draw a map of the entire kingdom blindfolded, and yet, he cannot understand how the Domain managed to breach such strong defences, let alone so easily get access to a hilltop that would strike only the palace.

He crumbles up a paper and tosses it aside, his hands pressing against the table as he hangs his head. He clenches his fist until his knuckles are white, wings flaring as he huffs.

“You’re gone and now, we all have to clean up the mess you started,” Syre curses, glaring at the seat once occupied by Xisuma. “I’ve done this since we were children, X, and yet—“ he laughs, sighing— “I can’t seem to escape it. If you hadn’t started this goddamn war, your boy would be alive, you would be alive!”

His voice grows louder as he approaches the chair, grabbing the arms of it. Xisuma stares at him, expression unreadable as he folds his hands in his lap.

“Do you not understand what you have done? You have kickstarted a cycle, and if your only son left follows the same path as you—“ he jabs his finger into Xisuma’s chest, eyes growing more angry— “we will see wars unheard of by humanity.”

He closes his eyes, and Xisuma is gone. He huffs, pushing the chair away before he gathers his papers, putting them in a folder before leaving the council room.

“Your son would’ve been a wondrous king, if you hadn’t so recklessly told him otherwise.”

Chapter Text

Cufflinks in the shapes of sunflowers sit beside his hand, his eyes focusing on his hair. He hasn’t had a proper haircut since summer— the most he can do is tie it up, he supposes, but even then he wouldn’t look at all put together. He sighs, grabbing the hairbrush beside him and combing it through his hair.

“Do you want me to tie your hair up for you, Impulse?” He nearly drops the brush, cursing under his breath as he huffs, a hand on his chest.

“Skizz was right— you simply do appear out of thin air,” Impulse muses. He sets the brush down as Cleo approaches, grabbing a hair band from the desk, carefully pulling his hair back as they hum.

“This is the longest your hair’s ever been,” she says. “Even when you were younger, you never liked it growing out so much— always something about it touching your shoulders you didn’t like.” They grab the brush to fix some of the strands, working quickly before adjusting the ponytail.

“Well, it’s still not my favourite, but I’ve decided to try something different.” Impulse stands as he grabs the cufflinks, clasping them on his sleeves. He looks at Cleo as their hand settles on his shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Good luck. I’ll see you after the coronation,” they squeeze his shoulder before she walks off, boots clicking against the floor. He hums, smiling softly as he glances back at his desk— a picture is wedged into the gap between the frame and the mirror itself, folded in the middle and worn. He grabs it from its place carefully, studying the familiar faces that make up the photo.

“I’ll see you guys when I get home,” he whispers. He pockets the photo in his suit jacket, taking one last look at himself before he steels his nerves.

The coronation has been his life for the past summer and autumn. Practice and rehearsal flooded his mind until every last syllable of every last word was ingrained into his memory. He still remembers when it began, when Cleo guided him through it all, even when frustration and reminders that he is only earning this crown because his brother will not.

Impulse takes a deep breath, adjusting the white gloves on his hands as he reaches the entrance to the throne room. Anxiety rises deep within his chest, weighing him down like shackles on his ankles. He swallows before closing his eyes, pushing the doors open.

Applause erupts in his ears, and he forces his shoulders to relax, keeping the solemn expression tight on his face as he begins to walk to the throne. The carpet is that familiar violet and white lining, patches of gold fleece and threads mixed within. He steps up to the priest ahead of him, taking the ceremonial sword and holding its hilt against his collarbone. He kneels as the sword’s blade clinks against the marble floor, eyes closing as the priest starts the ceremony.

He spaces out here and there, he’s sure— some sentences about glory, some great tragedy. He’s heard it all before, over and over until he was used to it droning on. He blinks as he feels a weight on his head, the crown being adjusted as he rises to his feet. The crowd rises from their seats, applause and cheers roaring in the sanctum.

Impulse tightens his grip on the sword, taking a deep breath before he bows his head, expression unreadable as he sets the sword on the throne, walking to the podium ahead of him. He studies the room before he clears his throat, adjusting the papers in front of him.

“When I was a child, I never gave much thought to being a king,” he starts. “I always knew from early on that my brother would wear this crown before me— he would be the next in line as the older brother, and I was content with that.” He stops for a moment, grabbing out the picture from his pocket. His expression softens, sighing quietly. He looks back up, sunlight beginning to pool into the room.

“But the enemies of the Domain ripped that life from my brother. They cut him down— a child, not much older than some of your children now. They slaughtered my father, his most trusted advisor. Their actions started a war that has raged on in the ten years since.” He steps away from the podium, beginning to pace the stage.

“As I inherit this war and its weight, my vow to all of you in this room and beyond…” he trails off, taking a breath as he grabs the sword again. He studies the blade before he raises it to the ceiling, a light in his eyes never seen before.

“I will defend this kingdom and its people. I will bleed for every single soul we have lost since this war began with my father. I will fall in battle, a warrior’s death, if it means this kingdom and its people— the Aurumians of tomorrow— will remain free and without worry for their safety, for their children’s future.”

The crowd erupts in roars of cheers, and Impulse huffs, lowering the sword back to its scabbard, settling it on his belt. He studies the crowd once more before he bows, disappearing behind the throne room’s curtain as the echoes of applause lighten on his ears.

“Already taking up the charismatic king personality, huh?”

Impulse huffs a laugh, stopping in his tracks.

“Says you. You’ve been a king longer than me, and you’ve had that trick up your sleeve since your own ceremony,” he retorts, a grin tugging at his lips. “Besides, the people know I’m not usually a charmer, but first impressions matter, don’t they?”

Skizz steps out from the shadows, arms folded as he grins.

“I suppose.” He clasps Impulse’s shoulder, chuckling. “Can’t believe I get to be on the same council as my closest friend— heavens, we’ll be their nightmare, won’t we?”

Impulse laughs, shaking his head as he wraps an arm around Skizz’s shoulders, guiding him to the new, reconstructed chambers of Aurum’s royalty. There’s more yellow than there once was, overrunning the violets and shades of white on the banners; a sign of a new leader, a new era, is always shown by one particular colour change in a kingdom’s banners.

Yellow was the choice for this coronation.

Impulse grabs some wine from the cabinets, two glasses clinking against the table. He raises his glass after pouring some of the liquid in, crimson swaying around in the cup as he hums.

“To a new Aurum.”

Their glasses clink together before Impulse takes a hearty swig, sighing softly as he leans against the table. He studies the wine for a moment, watching it stir as he moves the glass. His father loved red wine— it’s a staple of Aurum’s vineyards in the hilltops, the best location to ferment grapes. The only time he’s had wine before this was during ceremonies involving the Temple; he never liked the taste then, but things always change.

“How’s it feel to be back here?” Skizz finally asks. “I’m sure you’ll have to relearn every inch of this place again.”

Impulse chuckles, thinking. “It’s… confusing. I feel relieved to be home, in the palace I was born and raised in. All the same, I can’t shake that feeling of dread. I haven’t been able to face the ballroom door once yet, or even stand in it.” He sets the glass down as he sighs, staring out the balcony window.

“Is that weird?” He finally asks. “A king can’t even go into the one room where he’s needed most, all because of some great tragedy that’s stuck with him since he was a kid.”

“Hey,” Skizz chastises, although it’s gentle. “Like you said: you were a child. Things that happen to you then will always stick with you— you can’t blame yourself for anything that happened that night.”

Impulse hums, keeping his lips sealed instead of instigating anything further. He studies the glass in his hand before dumping out the rest, setting it aside. He lightly elbows Skizz as he starts to leave.

“We have a party to attend, and you and I both know Tango will have your head if you don’t show up soon,” Impulse grins. Skizz curses, hurrying alongside him. The ballroom’s doors are propped open for the ceremony, crowds filling the room as the orchestra takes the stage. Impulse hesitates at the entrance as Skizz hurries along, his eyes drifting to the ceiling.

No chandelier. No crackling beams. No rumble of an aftershock of a catapult.

Impulse takes a deep breath before he steps inside, putting on a warm smile as people greet him, congratulate him, hand him gifts— all appraisal for taking on such an honourable role. He puts all the gifts aside, watching as Tango ropes Skizz into a dance, their laughter incurable over the music.

“You did good.”

Impulse startles, seeing Cleo beside him. He relaxes, smiling as they pat him on his back.

“I mean it— your father would be proud,” she nods. “Now go have fun. The new king can’t be seen as anti-social at parties, not when he has a new, clean slate to defend.”

He thinks, the words repeating in his head.

A clean slate— a restart from the orphaned prince to the King of Aurum. A second chance at being remembered for glory than for tragedy. He studies the ballroom again, scanning for familiar faces amongst the crowd—

A head of dirty blonde catches his eye, and he stops, watching the cloaked figure slip through the dancing pairs. They looked over their shoulder at him, and he quickened his pace, following them out of the ballroom, down the hall and right to that safe room.

He pauses in his tracks, furrowing his brow as his hand reaches for his sword, swallowing down whatever dread dares to boil over at the sight of this hall, that door.

“Who are you? How did you get in here?” He questions. “As the king, I demand an answer.” He unlocks the sword from its scabbard, in preparation of a fight. They slowly turn, hands reaching for the hood of their cloak before it falls against their shoulders.

“Hey, little devil.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Avivain was attacked last night. The Domain was behind it, and I’m sure it’s because I knew Martyn.”

Impulse paces the war room, pinching his nose bridge. He should’ve known that when he was so easily distracted, they’d slip right under his nose and strike where he didn’t anticipate it. He should’ve understood they wouldn’t strike Aurum directly again, especially only after a decade.

“Was anyone hurt?” He asks finally. Grian hums, thinking.

“Nobody in the family, no, but some guards were killed. Others gravely wounded— father’s wing was nicked by an arrow, if anything,” Grian answers. She rises to her feet, overlooking the map of Avivain.

“How did they manage to even reach the castle? Avivain is in the skies— at least when it happened here, there was the coast and not many hilltops stopping those weapons,” Impulse remarks. “The only way I could think of is they somehow developed another weapon, some kind of transport to strike targets higher up.”

“If that’s the case, then the Mountains might be their next target,” Grian adds. “We should prepare for that, in case the Red King feels so emboldened to strike so soon after.” Impulse nods along, folding his arms.

He’s amazed he’s only heard of this now— a direct attack against the avian’s kingdom would’ve spread like wildfire. He pauses at her side as she looks, his gaze softening.

“It’s good to see you again, even if this isn’t how I thought we’d meet again,” he mutters. Grian relaxes, smiling a little.

“At least I know you’ve become a good man, Impulse.” She follows him out of the war room, shedding the cloak she’s had on and holding it in her arms. 

The ballroom is quieter now, later guests finally departing. The few who remain are all members of the council— with a new council room added to the palace since its reconstruction, Impulse is sure Aurum will see more meetings here than under his father. He nods at the group of councillors, motioning them to follow.

The room itself is lined with gold— the table in the shape of the shield that flies on the Aurum banner. Marble with gold lining, violet and gold chairs to match. Name plates are positioned at each seat, in the middle a podium to address a broader audience. A different chandelier hangs above the centre, a piece to bring the room a warmer feeling.

Impulse stands at his seat while the rest settle in, his chair at the centre of them all.

“The attack on Avivain was not the first time the Domain has felt it could get away with an injustice like this,” Impulse begins. “Although this is my first meeting as king, I’m well aware of how we must decide things.” He looks around the room, spotting Skizz and Wels— opposite of each other, an unending feud that once led to civil war amongst angels.

He takes a breath. “If the Domain can somehow reach Avivain’s palace, at the highest point of this continent, then it’s safe to assume the Mountains and the Undergrowth will not be as safe as they once were. I’ve spoken with Queen Grian, and we’ve decided preparations in case of another attack are necessary if we are to minimise any potential loss of life.”

“Why are we being dragged into this war?” Wels cuts in, standing from his chair. “The Mountains have always been a refuge— even during the Traitor’s War, they were mostly untouched.”

“Mostly,” Skizz argues. “That does not mean they were indestructible.”

“Oh, please, your grandfather was the very reason that war was brought upon us, and how that civil war began.”

“He was a Traitor, yes, but if your grandfather hadn’t stolen that artefact from the museum of Sacre, it would never have reached that point—“

“We returned that damned object to your grandfather within the week and he still instigated it!” Wels slams his hands on the table, wings flaring. “He incited that rebellion attempt in the town square, and blamed it on one of the best generals Aureola knew!”

“Enough!” Impulse snaps. “We do not have time to quarrel about old wars when a new one is at our doorsteps, and our people are all at risk, no matter if they are enemies.”

Wels sinks back down, folding his arms as Skizz looks away. Impulse sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, reflecting.

“If I may, Impulse,” Etho chimes in. “Gelu Hiberna is within the most densely-forested region. We haven’t had a need for most of our guards in a while— I can send some troops over to the kingdoms that may need the protection most, while having others on standby for when a potential attack might happen.”

Impulse blinks, looking at Grian. She shrugs, exchanging her glance.

“Yes, of course,” Impulse answers. “If you have the arms to spare, that’d be greatly appreciated. Thank you, Etho.” He takes a breath. “We’ll meet again soon. Let’s hope we don’t come back to another attack on another kingdom.”

The group disperses, and Impulse sinks into his chair, his face pressed into his hand. He looks up at Skizz as he approaches, gaze softening.

“Sorry about that,” Skizz mutters. “It’s still difficult between Aureola and Sacre.”

Impulse waves his hand. “Not your fault.” He settles back as Skizz sits on the table, wings twitching every so often. “First council meeting as a king and it’s about whether I need to ready the entire continent for war or if I need to hope things will quiet down.”

Skizz huffs a laugh. “Yeah, not the best first day, is it? I thought mine was rough with all the proceedings and the inheritance, but I think this tops mine by a long shot.” He stands eventually, grabbing his crown from beside his chair.

“Don’t stress yourself out too much, Impulse— Aurum can’t lose its first king in ten years just yet.” 

Chapter Text

“Dawn’s naval power once rivalled ours, long before the war against the Domain. Both being kingdoms of elves, collaboration was imminent— thermal energy was provided to Dawn’s citizens in exchange for naval ships, made of the most durable wood, with the strongest cannons on board. Both kingdoms relied on each other extensively, and when trade was near impossible during the Traitor’s War, they convened with some of the top inventors of Dawn to make the underground tunnel system, blossoming into the Undergrowth it is today…”

He tinkers with the small machine on his desk, a screwdriver head digging into the gap between the rings. He uses another tool to press the bolt further in, just enough to keep it stabilised for testing. The radio beside him hums along with the usual educational broadcast, influenced and funded by none other than his parents. 

He curses when the screwdriver snaps, sighing in frustration as he tosses the tool behind him. Now he has a screwdriver head stuck with no working pliers, given they all also snapped, and—

“Watch where you throw these things, fWhip.”

He looks over his shoulder, his sister standing in the doorway. fWhip leans back, eyebrow raised as she approaches, tugging at his ear lightly.

“Maybe don’t stand in the way of objects coming directly at you, Gem,” he retorts. Gem rolls her eyes, settling on the stool beside him. She leans over his shoulder as he grabs the broken tool piece, managing to yank it out with enough strength.

“A screwdriver isn’t the right tool for this, you know.” She rummages through his boxes, making him jump from his seat. She turns to him with a pair of unused pliers, smiling. “Maybe use the tool known for pushing things in place before trying to take out your eye or something.”

He huffs, forcing back a smile before he grabs it out of her hand. He turns back to the object, studying the blueprints again before he wedges the bolt inside, forcing it to click. He sighs, scanning over it again to make sure nothing else is wrong— if anything was even wired incorrectly, it’d end in disaster.

“So, what’s this one do?” Gem questions, sitting on his desk.

“Well, it’s supposed to work as a set of wings for people who don’t have them,” fWhip explains. “It can even work with avians or angels who’ve lost a wing or both of them, though it would need some reworking before then.” He presses the middle of the circular object, holding it away from his face as metallic feathers unfurl, bending and dogs churning to work almost like joints. He hums in satisfaction, clicking them onto his back, on the harness he’s wearing.

“Want to watch me test it out?”

The rooftop of fWhip’s study is windy enough to not cause interference, but enough to keep the wings from snapping back or breaking. He stands on the edge of the tower’s pointed roof, arms held out as he balances on it. Gem sits on the windowsill, ready to grab him in case things go wrong— if anything, just to ensure he doesn’t slip.

“Don’t go too far with those. I don’t want to find you crashed into the forest nearby,” she warns. He laughs, catching her gaze.

“It’ll be fine. Trust the process, Gem! Besides, how many inventors nearly destroyed their labs and half their towns by simply mixing chemicals wrong?” Before she can respond, he steps off the ledge, the wings quickly calibrating and launching him upward, metal flapping and bending— from a distance, someone would think an avian was visiting Dawn from afar.

She watches in awe as his laughter echoes in the clouds, cutting through the haze as he breathes in the air, far above the walls of Dawn. He makes a landing on the windowsill and Gem beams, applauding.

“These are incredible! These could change people’s lives, fWhip— imagine, bandits can’t attack merchants because they’re in the clouds. Trading routes would be the safest they’ve been in years.” She huffs, sitting beside him as he thinks.

“I’ll have to make more of these, then, won't I?”

“Your Highnesses! Your parents are looking for you!”

fWhip looks down from the windowsill, seeing one of the advisors below. He sighs, rolling his eyes before he climbs back through the window, Gem in tow. Whatever they’ve done now, he’s sure it has to do with the wings.

“I’ll make sure they don’t try to stop your work this time,” Gem assures. “We can work on these together, lessen your workload, you know?” She pats his shoulder before she walks out of the room. fWhip hums, taking off the wings and watching them fold back into the machine casing.

If he’s learned anything, it’s that you can never fly too close to the sun— but who’s to say that Icarus’s wings were as glorious as they were told to be?

Metal doesn’t melt at the sight of the sun.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“They found fragments of these feathers at the impact site in Avivain.”

Impulse inspects the feathers carefully, a magnifying glass in front of his eye. It’s not Aurumian metal— it’s not dark, more sun-stained than anything. He taps his finger against it— hollow, more lightweight. Considering it’s in the shape of a feather, his mind only goes to a few inventions that could replicate avian wings, let alone so fluently.

“The Domain clearly has the innovation to recreate avian wings, down to the joints, too,” Impulse mutters. He sets the metal piece down, overlooking some of the old patents from Aurum’s former scientists, but no matter how often he looks, there’s no blueprints remotely similar to the invention he had in mind.

“Maybe this is a recent creation?” Grian grabs the feather, studying it again. “There’s a couple towns and kingdoms with this kind of metal, closer to the southwest. They don’t have many mines out there, but enough that they can produce inventions once unheard of.” She pockets the piece, studying the map of Daiafara pinned to the bulletin on the wall.

“Here.” Impulse joins her side, looking where he finger is pressed against the paper. “Dawn— kingdom of Sun elves. It would explain why the metal looks stained.”

Impulse furrows his brow, shaking his head.

“I saw the Princess at that first meeting— why would they work with the Domain?” He whispers.

“Maybe it’s not her,” Grian reasons. “She has a brother. He’s the royal engineer, appointed by his parents after he created those muskets with just cogs and whatever metal he could bend together.”

Even then, Impulse doubts that a kingdom so close to Aurum would try to jeopardise the long-standing relationship between them— unless some kind of deal was struck, something that the Domain has that Dawn needs or wants; something that neither Aurum nor any other kingdom could offer.

“We should make a summons for them,” he says after a moment. “Maybe they can explain things— maybe the Domain stole the blueprints from the kingdom, managed to recreate it somehow on their own.”

Grian hums, folding her arms as she sighs. Her eyes are distant, and Impulse softens, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Your son will have a safe kingdom to grow up in. I’ll make sure of it, and so will everyone else,” he promises. “Get some rest.” She opened her mouth to argue and he huffed a laugh.

“I’m saying that for Mumbo’s sake, not yours. The poor man is more stressed than you are about the infant,” Impulse muses. Grian snorts, shaking her head before gathering her cloak, putting the hood over her head.

“Safe travels— take the same path as before. Bandits don’t know it exists.” Impulse watches as she exits the room, the sound of her chariot riding off muffled by the window. He turns to his writing desk, grabbing a quill and ink pot, the wax and seal stamp set aside.

He taps it against an unused page before beginning to write.

Chapter Text

To the Princess of Dawn,

I am requesting an urgent summons to the council room in Aurum. There is suspicion that the Domain has a hand on Dawn-made steel. I wish to clear your name, abstain from the accusation, but I can’t do so until things are cleared by your word.

If possible, bring your brother as well— as the royal engineer, he’s become the prime suspect behind this newfound evidence. If there’s deals being made with only him and the Domain, we should see fit that he is held to the Great Oath’s code.

Best wishes,

King Impulse

Gem stares at the parchment in her hands, brow furrowed. It’d only been a handful of weeks since fWhip perfected the wings— there’s no feasible way the Domain managed to steal the patent, even from public records. He hadn’t even published it yet.

She folds the letter and pockets it in her coat, taking a deep breath. She turns to her advisor, arms folded on her desk.

“Call for a chariot. I need to make an emergency trip to Aurum,” Gem requests. “While I’m gone, keep watch of my brother.”

“May I ask why, your majesty?”

“No, and if he asks, tell him nothing, only that I requested the extra security.” Gem walks to the palace doors, stepping into the carriage. It’s a moment before it’s off, watching as the castle vanishes from view. All she can hope is her brother isn’t behind this— any of it.

She thinks back to a conversation they had a few nights ago. fWhip always went on late-night walks to clear his head, but they grew more frequent recently— she’s not sure why, whether the wings were causing him problems or something else was on his mind entirely.

She caught him before he made it to his study, standing in front of him before he could grab out his keys.

“Where have you been?” She questions.

“On a walk? In town?” He remarks. “You know I go on walks in the evening, why are you questioning me now?”

“You haven’t been on this many walks since that gateway invention completely failed and nearly took your assistant's life. Of course I’m going to ask again, because you were in a horrible state back then. I’m worried, fWhip.”

“Everything's fine. I just… needed to think about some new designs, that's all.”

“What are you hiding?”

“What?”

Gem snatches his keys, clinging to them as she steps back.

“You’ve never been a good liar. What are you hiding? If you’re making deals, and this comes out, it could destroy the reputation of this family— you, me, our parents. Whatever you’re doing, it needs to stop, or else—“

“You’re not in charge, Gem, so stop acting like you run this place!” fWhip snaps. He yanks his keys out of her hand, storming into his study and slamming the door. She jumps at the sound, staring at the door in shock.

“Your Highness, we’ve arrived,” the driver cuts in.

Gem blinks, seeing the door opening. She thanks them quietly, hurrying to the palace gates. Impulse is in the doorway as they swing open, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it before guiding her inside.

“Thanks for coming on short notice,” he says. “I didn’t anticipate your arrival so soon.”

“This is important to both of us. We’re both coastal kingdoms, our people are staring danger in the eye constantly since this war started,” Gem replies. “Besides, I do have my suspicions about him, too.”

The study is littered with evidence connecting Dawn to a deal with the Domain. Gem tenses as she studies the pictures of the damage done to Avivain, to Aurum ten years prior. She sits on the extra chair Impulse pulls towards her, catching his gaze as he settles down.

“What have you found?” She almost doesn’t want to ask— the idea alone of her brother working with someone so evil , someone who hurt so many others, makes her feel nauseous. Impulse grabs a piece of metal from the desk, placing it in her hand.

“Does this look familiar?” He asks quietly. She swallows, nodding.

“fWhip’s work,” she admits. “He wanted to make travel safer for our merchants, and prevent bandit ambushes from happening as often. He also wanted to rewire some mechanisms to make prosthetics for people who lost their wings.” Gem sighs, shaking her hand. “I don’t know if it’s exactly the Domain he’s directly contacting, or why or how, but if I can prevent another strike, then you can trust me to investigate this further.”

Impulse moves closer, taking her hand in his. She looks at him, studying him.

“I know it’s not easy to feel like this— losing your brother, that is. He might not be gone physically, but there’s still grief,” he whispers. He settles his hand on her arm, and she hums, her thumb running across the metal.

“Princess! There’s been an emergency at the palace!”

Gem rises from the seat, hurrying over.

“What’s happened? Is my brother okay? My parents?”

“It was your brother— he started attacking the guards watching over him. They lost sight of him in the woodlands behind the town, but squadrons are searching for him as we speak.” Gem’s brow furrows, and she curses.

“Grab my bow. I’ll meet with the captains as soon as I’m back,” she answers. She looks at Impulse and he stands, offering his hand.

“Let me help you. We can nip this in the bud before another region is targeted,” he insists. She nods, taking his hand and shaking it. She leads him to the carriage, but he stops, holding the door open.

“I’m going on horseback. I’ll meet you in Dawn.”

Gem hesitates before nodding, the door shutting before the chariot is off. He whistles as his horse is taken out of the stables, petting its snout.

“Hey, Titan,” he whispers. “Ready for some travel, girl?” The horse nudges him lightly before he hops on the saddle, snapping the reins before he’s off. If Dawn is under attack, if its own prince strikes his home, the kingdom would face scrutiny unheard of. He follows the path of Gem’s carriage, crouching as Titan picks up speed, pebbles tossed up by her hooves.

Nip it in the bud.

Stop it at the source.

Stop the war tonight.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Skizz rubs his eyes as he sits up in bed, watching as snow dances across the window. He stretches, loose feathers shedding themselves from his wings. He adjusts the blankets over Tango, kissing his temple before moving strands of blonde out of his eyes.

The hot springs welcome him the moment he steps inside, sighing softly as he holds his palm out, snowflakes melting from the warmth. He looks at the cloudy skies above, relaxing further into the warm water.

“Someone’s up early.”

He looks over his shoulder, seeing Tango shuffling over, a red silk robe loosely tied around his waist. He settles his legs into the water, his claws hands running through black strands.

“You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to stir you,” Skizz mumbles. He rests his head on his lap, wings fluttering as Tango hums, scratching his head carefully.

“I appreciate the offer, pretty boy.”

Skizz chuckles, his arms wrapping around his waist as he presses a kiss to his palm, sinking into the warmth around him. He’s startled by a guard stepping inside, saluting before he grabs out a message.

“Your majesty, there’s reports coming from Dawn that a suspected attack is taking place. The Domain may be involved.”

Skizz sits up immediately, eyes widening as he exchanges a glance with Tango.

“When was this?” He questions.

“It was reported last night, but official confirmations have been coming in since this morning.” Skizz curses, dismissing the guard and grabbing the robe nearby, covering himself before he hastily gets ready, checking his bow and arrows for dullness before he hums.

“Wait, hang on,” Tango interrupts. “Do you have to go?”

“What? Of course I do— we’re at war with the Domain too. If Impulse is there already, then I need to be there now.” Skizz begins to walk, only to be stopped by Tango again. He thinks of what to say, opening his mouth and closing it again.

“I— I just think this is too risky, even for you. I know you can handle a lot, but this might be all-out war at our shores, and the last thing I want is for you to come back covered by a cloth,” Tango finally says.

Skizz softens his gaze, cupping his cheek as Tango huffs, leaning into the touch. He kisses his palm, linking their fingers together.

“I’ll be safe,” he promises. “I need to be going, though.” He turns to a guard next to him. “Tell Oleyn to join me when she’s ready— we’re leaving as soon as she has her weapons.” The guard nods, saluting Skizz before his footsteps retreat. Tango watches, brows furrowed before he settles back in bed, sighing.

It’s hard to convince a stubborn man out of a dangerous idea.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“No signs of him yet,” Impulse starts, “but Skizz sent a messenger pigeon— he’s on his way.”

Gem nods, scanning the woods once again. If fWhip isn’t there, it’s possible he made it to the docks hours ago, on a boat destined to the Domain. Using his engineering skills would put the entire region at a disadvantage, and who knows how long it might be until he perfects his other ideas, weaponises them on behalf of the Domain.

She hears a twig snap and draws her bow, arrow aimed at the source. Her brow is furrowed, anger and hurt coursing through her. Impulse keeps his hand on the hilt of his blade, waiting for any other movement.

Skizz steps out, hands up in surrender. “It’s just me. Bad landing spot, I know, but…” he trails off. “I spotted a Domain ship, just off the shoreline. If anything, fWhip is already on his dream trip to an island paradise.”

Gem curses, tossing her bow aside as she storms off. Impulse sighs, putting his sword back in its scabbard and picking up her bow, aligning it over his chest. Skizz watches as she shoves some soldiers aside, looking back out through the forest line.

“Why would fWhip work with them? He knows what’s happened because of them,” Skizz mutters.

“He wanted to protect her,” Impulse answers. “He saw potential for peace, and snatched the opportunity the moment it was presented to him— he’ll make the wings and weapons for the Domain, so long as Dawn is spared from a massive attack. It’s why the Domain didn’t strike the palace when they were already so close.”

Skizz hums, scanning the grass before he takes a breath.

“Go talk to her. I’ll keep watch for now,” Skizz says. Impulse nods, following the path Gem took. He spots her behind one of the larger trees on the path, taking the bow off his chest and setting it down next to her.

She glances at it before seeing him, scrubbing her eyes as he kneels beside her, sighing.

“That’s not fWhip,” she mutters. “He would never betray his kingdom, his family—“

“Sometimes the people you think you know the best end up being the ones hiding the most secrets,” Impulse whispers. He settles his hand on her shoulder, and she sighs shakily. She leans against him, pressing her cheek against the crook of his neck. He relaxes, his cheek pressing against her head.

“All we can do now is wait.”

“Until what? They attack Skizz? You, again?”

“As much as I hate to say it, yes. It’s the only way we’ll be able to capture him, and get a lead on how the Domain contacted him in the first place— what they promised him in return for his skills.”

Gem goes quiet, looking out to the shoreline. A distant shadow of a ship on the horizon taunts her. She stands eventually, offering her hand to Impulse.

“Let’s wait, then.”

Chapter Text

“Hiberna isn’t really known for metal production. You have birthright to the throne that pushed us into the greater stages of an industrial revolution because of your metal.”

Etho flips the fragment in his hands, red and grey eyes overlooking every minute detail— ones that Impulse can’t see, ones that no avian guard could look into. The ones, however, that a fox can. He places the fragment down before flipping through some pages in the book on his desk, humming.

“It’s better to check anyways,” Impulse replies, folding his arms across his chest. “Anybody could be harbouring a project with another kingdom. It’s best to make sure it’s not the kingdom that is trying to wipe every last one of us out.”

Etho huffs a laugh, adjusting the cloth mask covering his mouth and nose. He scans over the text again, looking back at the metal piece.

“It’s definitely from the Domain— dull, worn down faster by the saltwater on the coast, flexible in a way that metal hardened by thermal or permafrost isn’t.” He places the metal back into Impulse’s hand, closing the book on the page.

“Certain trading laws between Dawn and Aurum prohibit the sale of offshore or inland metal that isn’t from Aurumian mines. It was put into effect just before the Mountainside Civil War took place, between the Guardians and the Warriors.”

Impulse hums, looking at the shelves of herbs surrounding Etho’s study— some bugs put on display too. Gelu Hiberna is well-known for its herbalists, its healers always assisting in wars and battles. It’s the reason Aurum and Gelu Hiberna have always been closer than most other alliances— Hiberna has medicine that can’t grow in Aurum, and Aurum has metal that won’t shatter at the first frost of winter.

“How long have you been at this?” Etho asks. His eyes scan Impulse, scrutinising him for exhaustion, fatigue— anything that would give it away. “You seem fine, at least, but remember to not focus entirely on this. You still have people who look up to you— their first king in ten years, just about.”

He lightly taps his hand against Impulse’s chest, a soft smile covered by his mask. “I remember when our fathers would fuss over each other like that, you know? Pathos was always on your dad’s back about worrying over every last detail— maybe we’ll be the same, somehow.”

Impulse chuckles, his hand wrapping around Etho’s wrist carefully, amber eyes studying the fur covering his clothes.

“You were the same when we were kids, Etho,” Impulse replies, a smile stuck on his face. “You always had that little bag of herbs with you, always waiting for someone to need your help.” He raises Etho’s hand to his lips, kissing his pale knuckles. “It’s admirable— you always have been.”

Blush dusts Etho’s cheeks as he averts his gaze, squeezing his hand in his. He looks as an attendant steps inside, bowing their head.

“Excuse me, your highnesses, but there is a visitor— she wishes to speak with you both, privately.”

“Thank you. Tell her where to find us in the study,” Etho replies. He watches as they leave the room, his hand settling on Impulse’s chest, sighing softly. “When this war is over, I want to make things official— join our kingdoms together, under one family.”

Impulse blinks, his hand cupping his cheek. “Are you sure? The processes behind that all, it—“

“I’m positive, Impulse. Nothing can convince me otherwise.” He lowers his mask, pressing a light kiss to Impulse’s lips. He hums softly, his hand settling on his hip.

“As much as I think you guys are cute, we have a war on our shores that needs to be stopped in its tracks, before you two can make things official,” Gem cuts in. 

Impulse pulls back suddenly, bright red covering his cheeks as Etho huffs, pulling his mask back up. He clears his throat as she steps in, looking over the research Etho has on his desk.

“I’ve heard that Skizz is looking into something, just between the valley of Aureola and Sacre. There’s a trading post there, lenient with what’s sold there,” Gem explains.

“When did he go?” Impulse questions.

“A few hours ago. Supposedly, there’s a merchant from a fishing town selling the metal in Wyrm, probably to make some pretty pennies for the people who can’t afford Aurumian steel.” She grabs out some of the papers from her bag, setting them on the desk.

“I’ve had some archers scout the roads— they picked up these routes from a Domain’s encampment on Dawn’s shoreline, where they have boxes full of metal, all of it directed into the heart of my palace.”

Etho grabs some of the papers, humming as he reads it over. “Their routes go as far north as here, but stop just before the border of Aurum and Avivain’s farmsteads. They’re smart enough to know that they won’t convince anybody within that region to buy metal outside of their usual vendors.” He hands Impulse some of the maps, studying him.

“I’ll get more watch parties to scout the routes, check any cargo coming in from the coast,” he whispers. “If we can start to shrink their supply routes, they won’t have much wriggle room.”

“A pincer manoeuvre,” Gem mumbles. “Oldest trick in the book of war— easiest one to pull off, too.” She thinks for a moment, looking over the map of Daiafara on Etho’s wall. “I can send a dozen archers to look over the cliffs outside the walls— if anyone tries to flee the guards, they’ll be shot down before they reach the gates.”

“It’s the best we can do,” Impulse mutters. “All we need to do is wait until that pincer manoeuvre kicks in, shrinks them down into a small part of the continent.”

“You mentioned that Skizz was looking into something in a trading post near his border,” Etho chimes in. “What exactly led him there?”

Gem thinks, folding her arms. “Something about a metal shop in the village— it’s not illegal to sell different metals there, especially offshore sources. Wyrm is lenient about who comes and goes; who sells and who buys— it’s how the family in charge has run the place for decades, but with Norman in charge now, it’s gotten more tight.”

“Surprising. Norman never struck me as someone to try to make rules in a lawless land,” Impulse mutters. “Did Skizz ask for any help going in?”

Gem shakes her head.

“He said he knew someone there that would be willing to help him.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“The chariot is ready, your majesty.”

Skizz steps outside, grabbing his bow from where it once sat. He hasn’t used it much since that initial fight a few weeks prior— but, really, he should get some practice in. If not to protect himself, then to protect his people, if things get worse.

He settles into the chariot, nodding at the charioteer.

“To Wyrm. I have business to tend to.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

The reins snap and the horses are off, trotting down the cobblestone path as Sacre’s palace fades from view. Skizz leans against the door, watching as woodlands begin to cloud the window— green and white, a wintry mix he’s grown up seeing.

He hopes she gets his letter before he arrives.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Nightfall comes and goes, the roads grow muddied and rougher. Wyrm is bustling as ever, barters and market stalls set up through the main square. Skizz steps out in front of the Lord’s Manor, reaching the front doors before they fling open, narrowly knocking him down the steps.

“Oh, my gosh! I am so sorry, I should’ve—“ The woman stops, eyes widening when she recognises who Skizz is. “Skizzy?” She settles her hand on his cheek, violet eyes scanning his face. She begins to beam, throwing her arms around him in a sudden embrace.

Skizz huffs a laugh, settling his hand on her back as she laughs. “Hey, Zed.”

She pulls back, looking at the white halo settled above his head.

“Finally wrangled over that throne?” She muses. “It’s all you used to talk about when we were little— you’d be a king long before Oleyn would be Queen!” She laughs fondly, folding her arms. “What brings you to Wyrm?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard of the attack on Avivain, and that fWhip of Dawn is involved in some way,” Skizz answers, shifting in place. “There’s some suspicion he’s getting the metal from here somehow— through spies of the Domain or some traitors to Dawn, I’m not sure. I wrote a letter to you, but I’m assuming it hasn’t arrived yet if you didn’t know I was coming.”

Zed nods solemnly, her hand resting on her chin. “Well, if anybody would know of any suspicious vendors, it’d be my brother. He’s sitting at that desk inside.”

Skizz blinks. “Norman’s the Lord of Wyrm now? But didn’t your mother—?”

Zed waves her hand, shaking her head. “Lady of Wyrm wasn’t ever a dream of mine, no matter how much my mom insisted it was me. I abdicated the manor to him before I was supposed to inherit anything.” She elbows him lightly before opening the doors to the manor, grinning. 

“Besides, being able to freely do whatever I want, when I please, without some code to hold me down? That’s more my style.”

Skizz smiles, softer than before. He looks as Zed approaches a chair beside the fireplace, hiding the person in the seat. She whispers something to them before they suddenly stand, eyes wide as Norman catches Skizz’s gaze.

“Skizz, welcome!” Norman beams. “You should have told me you were visiting— this is sudden, even for you.” He bookmarks the book he was reading, leaving it on the table next to his chair and shaking Skizz’s hand.

“What brings you to Wyrm?” Norman questions.

“I’m looking into some connections Wyrm vendors might have to the attack on Avivain— the metal found at the palace wasn’t from Aurum, it was too dull for it to be forged by their tools.” He grabs out the piece of the metal feather, and Norman scrutinises it, squinting his eyes as he thumbs over it.

“It’s definitely not Aurumian, you’re right about that,” he mutters, “but I don’t recall seeing this in Wyrm either—“

“There’s that shopkeeper from a nearby coastal town, remember?” Zed cuts in. “He always has metal sheets with him— a sweet man, I’ll give him that, but if there’s anybody they’d get it from, it’d be him.”

“Where’s his stall located? Maybe he has currency from the Domain to prove it’s him, or some of Dawn’s currency,” Skizz says. Norman thinks, looking at Zed as she nods.

“I visit his stall whenever I’m looking for more paint. He sometimes has it made from crushed seashells,” she answers. “I’ll lead you there, but let me talk— he might get too scared by the Skizz— Archer of the Heavens, King of Sacre,” Zed laughs.

Skizz huffs, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t go by that anymore, I was a kid, Zed—“

“Oh please! I see that bow on your back— that’s not some regular old bow you used to train with. That’s the very bow your grandfather once fought with.”

“Uh-huh, yeah. Can we go?”

“Fine, fine— I’ll stop reminiscing, your majesty .”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The marketplace’s gateway is bustling with crowds, all the way from Cerasum to Aureola. Skizz spots some Sacreans amongst the crowd, a cherub in their arms as they let them pick out a plush toy— a rabbit, the ears of it flopping against its head as they laugh.

“Easier times, huh?” Zed mutters. Skizz hums, watching as the cherub hugs the toy tight to their chest, a bright smile stuck on their face as their mother laughs, eyes soft and warm, like the cherub is her world.

Zed nudges him lightly. “Your mom would be proud, you know.” She continues along, and Skizz blinks, hurrying to join her side, wings tucking into his back as he shuffles between the crowds. He keeps his eyes on Zed, making sure not to lose her before she stops, turning to her left, towards a metal shop.

“…shipments?” She grins. The vendor sighs, shaking his head.

“That war’s made it impossible to get anything off this continent to any other. My customers in Bassire are getting impatient with me as is, but I’ve told them plenty of times before that civilian ships are barred from leaving the shore unless it’s to get food supplies.”

Zed tsks , shaking her head. “A shame, huh? Speaking of, who else have you traded with? I’ve studied my brother’s trading maps well enough to know this isn’t Aurumian steel— who exactly is your source?”

The vendor shrugs. “I get this from pretty much anywhere nowadays. It used to be some village in Bassire, with an old mine and forge— hell, you can tell it’s old by how bent these sheets are still.”

“Interesting. What about here in Daiafara? Any ideas?”

“Nope. But I did get some currency I haven’t seen before, if this is anything.” He puts the bag on the counter and she hums, untying the rope and pulling out coins— red and black in colour, some gold lining the portrait in the middle.

“Mind if I take this? I’ll have payment sent to you in our currency instead,” she offers. “I’ll even double it, make sure you can get your daughter that plush teddy bear I heard her asking for last time I was here.”

“I can’t say no to that— thank you, my Lady.”

“Don’t mention it.” She winks at him before she slips away, meeting up with Skizz again, hanging him the bag. “There’s your evidence— that's the currency of the Domain. No other kingdom, not even in Bassire, has this.”

“Are you sure?” Skizz mutters.

“I’ve visited Bassire ten times over since Norman became Lord— he’s quite fond of the royal inventor of the largest engineering city over there. His name’s—“

“Hey! Stop them!”

Zed whips her head to see someone running off, diving into an alleyway. She opens her mouth to see Skizz already ahead of her, his bow in his hand as he flies above the crowd, arrow in hand as he scans the alleyways. He pulls back, blue and white flashing in the arrow before he releases, the arrowhead lodging itself into the escapee’s thigh, forcing them to fall.

Archer of the Heavens , echoes in his head.

Skizz keeps his bow drawn, watching for any sign of a knife or dagger— hell, even a sword is still possible— before he grabs the fabric of their cloak, the hood falling from their head.

A woman, wolf ears pinned to the back of her head. Her hand tightens on Skizz’s wrist as he scrutinises her.

Zed finally catches up, stopping just before she reaches Skizz. He forces the woman to her feet, letting her go when it’s clear she’s not going to run off.

“What did you steal?” He questions. She hesitates before revealing some food— bread, a few apples, some sweets. He narrows his eyes before she looks, a young girl hiding behind one of the houses.

“Sweetheart, stay there— mama’s going to be okay,” the woman says gently. Skizz steps back, putting his bow down before he helps her settle. He works the arrow out, watching as Zed patches up the injury before it bleeds too much.

“There’s a medic nearby. I’ll walk you there,” Zed assures.

“But, my daughter—“

“She’ll come along. Let’s hurry before that bandage comes undone.” Zed hurries off with her, and Skizz huffs, staring at the arrow in his hand. He breaks it against a nearby wall, eyes wide as he stares at the blood droplets leading to the nearby medic’s home.

He should leave, before he hurts someone innocent.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“When you inherit this throne, there’s some things you will do that will haunt you for the rest of your life. Things that go against everything you know, everything you believe in.”

His father sharpens an arrowhead as he speaks, thumb pressing against the blade he’s using. A quiver sits against his leg, moving ever so slightly as he adjusts his posture. He looks over his shoulder when he’s done, seeing his son standing in the doorway.

“When that day comes, you can never lose sight of who you are— you can’t let what could happen consume you,” he continues. He grabs the bow beside him on the workbench, turning around fully as Skizz approaches. He studies the bow— it’s forbidden for him to touch it until he sits in the throne; an old family tradition.

“This bow has taken many lives, some our own citizens,” he whispers, “but we must use it, no matter the cost. When the day comes, use it with no second thought— it may save your life.”

“Yes, father,” Skizz whispers.

Skizz grips the bow in his lap, white wood scraping against his palms. He swallows the bile in his throat, eyes narrowed on the etchings in the bow’s body.

He’s only used this bow against enemies— never against a civilian. He sighs as he presses his forehead against his hands, the bow balancing on one end against the ground. He closes his eyes for a moment, brow furrowed.

Footsteps approach from his left, settling beside him. He looks at the figure next to him, seeing Zed looking right back at him.

“You didn’t know,” she finally says. “You acted on the spur of the moment, there was no idea you would have known—“

“I still shot a civilian, Zed,” Skizz cuts in. “In front of her child, no less. That act alone could have started a war if it was anybody else, so why would things be different for a mother trying to feed her child?”

He rises to his feet, latching his bow onto the harness between his wings, grabbing his quiver as well.

“If you find out anything, you know where I’ll be,” Skizz mutters. He starts to walk away, turning to the main road to find his chariot. Zed thinks before she’s after him, grabbing his sleeve.

“Let me walk you back, at least,” she insists. “If anything, it’s more dangerous if there’s people from the Domain here— they know exactly where to find you, when you least expect it now. It’s better if I’m with you, just in case.”

Skizz hesitates before he sighs, relenting and letting her walk by his side. The chariot door opens and Zed watches as he steps inside. He stops to look at her, a small smile on his face.

“Thanks for at least dealing with this,” Skizz mutters. Zed shrugs it off, her hands settling on her hips.

“Don’t mention it— and like you said, if I find anything out, I’ll know where to find you.” Skizz nods, waving quickly before the chariot is off. He settles back, his eyes catching something shining on the seat beside him. He squints, grabbing what looks like a coin—

“Quite the sharpshooter, aren’t you, your highness?”

Skizz looks, and an unfamiliar face looks back at him. He gasps, attempting to grab for the knife under the seat, only to find it gone.

The figure holds that very knife in their hand, humming as they grin. “She wasn’t even one of my spies, and yet you shot her down like she was cattle— what would your people think if they discovered their king injured a civilian baselessly?” They lean forward, red eyes staring right back at Skizz.

“You— how did you—“

“I have eyes everywhere, Skizz,” the Red King muses. “An angel as respected and loved as you won’t escape my watch, especially one so insistent on finding my new engineer.”

“He nearly killed the queen of Avivain,” Skizz snaps. “He’s no more criminal than you’ve been for years— you slaughtered families, raided homes, killed the royal family of Aurum—“

“And here I am, open and… mostly unarmed. Yet, you haven’t tried to end this war in this chariot, here and now.” He leans closer, the blade of the knife threatening to slice open his throat. “We’ll see if angels really are all bark and no bite, won’t we?”

Skizz growls, lunging forward. The chariot stops suddenly, the doors swinging open as he struggles. A cloth presses against his nose and mouth, the world growing hazy as he stumbles. He slumps in the guard’s arms, and the Red King huffs, tilting his head.

“He’ll be on the first boat back to the Domain. Ensure that he’s under strict guard watch,” he orders. “Make sure that bow can’t be used, either.”

Guards drag Skizz onto a different chariot, leaving his own behind. His eyes are half-lidded, blurry vision clouding him as he blinks, muffled voices surrounding him. 

“Don’t let anyone trail behind us— we don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Chapter Text

“My scouts have been spotting some of your sister’s friends at our most important ports. Any idea how she located them so easily?”

fWhip stands with his arms behind his back, shaking his head. “No, I don’t know, sir. Luck, or maybe deduction—“

“Some of your inventions were found in Avivain, that’s how,” he cuts in. He grabs the supply routes from the desk, waving them in the air. “Copies of our routes were left behind. I’m sure you told our men to gather everything, yes?”

fWhip nods, holding his breath.

“I did. They must have missed those,” he answers. The Red King sighs, looking at one of the ports. “Maybe we can try to cut off their plans? Nip it in the bud, maybe?” He motions to the port he was studying, thinking.

“Wyrm and Sacre are especially close,” fWhip explains. “If anything, Skizz might visit eventually to find out where the metal is coming from— how my inventions are being circled back into Daiafaran trade routes.” He grabs some pegs and sets them on the table’s map, placing them in differing locations.

“A flank. What exactly do you want us to do if he’s there?” The Red King questions. “We can’t take his life in a crowded portside town.” fWhip nods, his hand settling on his hip.

“We can’t take his life, but we can take him . If he vanishes, it’ll throw off the investigation into the trade routes— all focus will go into finding the missing king of Sacre. Plus, his sister won’t take over; she might even find herself on our shores to find him.”

The Red King grins, folding his arms.

“Smart. Let’s get some men around then, explain the plan.”

“Before you do,” fWhip interrupts. He grabs a bottle from the shelf nearby, as well as a cloth. “This is a mixture of some chemicals— it won’t hurt him, but it’ll knock him unconscious. At least until he’s on a ship back to the Domain.”

The Red King takes both items, humming. “Good. I’ll be heading out by dawn, then. I trust you won’t blow up my castle while I’m gone?”

“Of course, your majesty.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Hooves trot against the muddied roads, raindrops pattering against the saddle and her hood. The last time anybody saw Skizz, it was down this road— and yet, she hasn’t spotted a single thing. No signs of struggle, no hidden weapons— nothing.

Her grip on the reins tighten as she snaps them, hurrying her horse’s gallop. He took a chariot, she knows— it’s been missing for days now, and so has the horse he took with him. She slows as something looms in the distance, stopping and dismounting her horse.

“Stay here,” she whispers. She grabs her bow from her back, an arrow lodged into the bowstring. Her pace is slow, holding her breath as she approaches— the chariot, as she anticipated. No sign of the horse, though she doubts whoever ambushed Skizz would kidnap a horse at the same time.

She stops at the door, seeing the handle broken. The only way in would be through the driver’s window, but it’s covered by a tree branch. She steps back, focusing before she kicks the door in, watching it swing helplessly on its hinges. Her bow is aimed into the interior, but no movement makes itself known.

She lowers the bow, sighing before she steps inside. The scent of chemicals fills her lungs and she coughs, covering her mouth and nose as she squints, but whatever’s inside stings her eyes. She swallows back the pain to try and search it, finding currency she doesn’t recognise. She grabs it, pocketing it.

Something else catches her eye, and she huffs, grabbing a broken necklace chain, the charm hanging on by a thread— Skizz’s necklace, a gift from their mother. She steps back to catch her breath, keeping her distance as she looks over the roads. It’s been too long to look for footprints, but maybe there’s a chance they might be indented—

“Oleyn!”

She pulls out her bow, watching as a horse catches up to her. She pauses as Zed steps down, lowering her hood.

“How did you know I was here?” Oleyn questions.

“Some of the watchmen saw you riding by. I knew you’d probably be on this road,” she explains. She sees the chariot and sighs, pressing her lips together. “When he first went missing, I tried to find him that same night— but there was a storm. It probably washed away any evidence to find where he was taken.”

She walks closer to it, but Oleyn stops her, her hand on her shoulder.

“There’s something in there, some kind of chemical mixture— cover your face if you try to look inside,” she insists. Zed takes a breath, nodding. She adjusts the scarf around her neck, pulling it over her nose and mouth before she steps into the chariot. She feels around the floor, trying to find any semblance of evidence.

Her hand catches on something, and she stops, squinting as she grabs whatever it is. She steps out and Oleyn is immediately at her side, studying her for a moment.

“What did you find?” Zed cradles an object in her hands, thumbing over the handle.

“A knife from the king himself,” she whispers. Her gaze steels as she grips it, seeing some droplets of blood— if it’s Skizz or someone else’s, she doesn’t know, but it’s enough to put her on edge. She places it in Oleyn’s hand.

“The port outside of Wyrm— we need to get there within the next few days.”

“We need to go now, then,” Oleyn argues. “If he’s there, who knows what could be happening to him— if they were willing to use something unheard of, then they might do worse.”

“We can’t charge in with no plan. It’ll put us and him at risk,” Zed counters. “Besides, there are others already searching for him outside of this road. Maybe he’s not at the docks, but it’s where I have men scouting.”

Oleyn curses, taking a breath. She thinks, her hand pressing against her chin. Getting Skizz back needs to happen fast, but all the same, she can’t risk herself or anybody else, including him. She sighs, massaging her temples.

“Who else is looking for him?” She asks.

Zed hums, whispering to herself. “Impulse, Gem, and a handful of their scouts. They’ve been looking in the woodlands’ perimeter and in the Valley, trying to see if he escaped himself and hid.”

Oleyn nods, her hands settling on her hips as she starts to walk back to her horse. She latches her leg over the saddle, steadying her posture before Zed quickly joins her.

“Let’s meet up with them— maybe they’ve found something,” Oleyn suggests. Zed nods, leading her towards the campsite set up by scouts; a headquarters of operation. She remembers when Impulse first arrived, that distant look in his eyes— worry. It’s something nobody had ever seen in that man before, not since he rose to power.

She looks ahead in the road, snapping the reins as Oleyn catches up. Impulse should be the one to worry about, she thinks— he and Skizz were hooked at the hip, and his disappearance won’t aid in the stress he already had about the war itself.

If he finds out the Domain is behind all of this—

“We can’t tell Impulse it was the Domain,” Zed finds herself saying, hitching her horse.

“What? Why?” Oleyn questions. “He’ll figure it out himself, I’m sure he already has.” She studies Zed, folding her arms.

“We’ll have an all-out war on our shores if he knows,” Zed whispers. “I saw that look in his eye— worry, anger. The moment he has a proper reason to send out his ships, the continent and the Domain will both remember why Aurum’s foundation is woven by war.”

Oleyn takes a breath, swallowing as she sighs. She nods, grabbing her bow and quiver before she walks closer to the tents. She catches a glimpse of a familiar face, seeing Impulse beside some training stands set up. His hands grip the hilt of his sword as he swings, grunting as he steps back, sweat beading on his brow.

“We found a chariot on one of the roads— abandoned,” Oleyn says suddenly. Impulse stops mid-swing, sword hovering in the air as he lowers it, turning to face her. “We don’t know who it was, though— but it was the chariot Skizz was seen in.”

He huffs, wiping his brow as he sheaths his blade. “Did you find anything? Any evidence?” He questions.

“No, but it’s clear chemicals were used.” She leans against one of the tables, crossing her arms. “He might’ve been knocked out, taken somewhere— the docks are the best bet, but charging in—“

“Will risk Skizz’s life and ours, I know,” Impulse interrupts. “Zed gave me that same talk when I got here.” He grabs some of his other weapons, his dagger tucked away in his belt. “Gem and I are planning to sneak into the docks tonight. Not to attack, but to see if he’s there— if he’s hurt, and if we need to act fast.”

Oleyn straightens, staring as Impulse sits on the table across from her. He shuffles as he settles, wrapping his hands with adhesives to protect his palms.

“What’s the plan if we find him there?” She asks.

He thinks, studying the ground. “We come back and make a plan. Even if he’s hurt, he could be killed if they spot us, or kill us if we charge in.”

“He’s my brother, Impulse,” Oleyn snaps. “We can twist around until we find him with his throat cut and his blood drained out of him to save him!”

“And he’s my closest friend, I know how you’re feeling—“

“You don’t, because you lost your brother before you could begin to feel this kind of fear!”

Silence cuts through the air, and Impulse stops. He frowns, standing as he walks off, taking his sword with him. Oleyn sighs, trying to stop him before he storms off.

“Look, I—“ she stops. “I just want my brother back, and you want to end this war. We have a reason to both be angry right now.” Impulse stops, looking over his shoulder as she speaks. “I’m sorry. It was a dumb thing to say.”

Impulse thinks, his gaze distant.

“Well try to attack tonight, but be ready. Three of us against who knows how many Domain scouts won’t be pretty,” he finally says. He heads off, stopping again before he enters a tent. “Don’t tell Zed.”

Oleyn hums, nodding. She heads over to some archery targets set up, grabbing some old arrows left on the table— Skizz would talk her ear off about how poorly her bow looks, how she needs to change it out entirely.

(“Half your arrows are broken, Oli!” Skizz sighs, hurrying around the workshop. “If you get caught in a bad place, then how can you defend yourself?”

“It’s fine, Skizz, I promise,” she smiles. “But I will take the new arrows if it makes you feel better.”

“It does, so take them.” He also grabs an extra dagger, as well as the holster. “And this. In case that bow breaks— gods, we need to change the string on it, fix up the body—“

“Skizz,” Oleyn grabs his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere. It’ll be just fine.”)

She sighs as she thumbs over the dagger in her hand, studying the faded insignia on the handle. It was supposed to be a ceremonial dagger— for decoration, for a symbol of the Goddess of Wisdom— but it’s been used for anything but.

Oleyn looks at the horizon, ships so far but so close.

“Hold on just a little longer, Skizz. For me, for Zed— for everybody.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Let me go! You’re making a mistake!”

Skizz struggles against the restraints, clenching his jaw. The pain from his wrists is numbing, raw skin rubbing against rope. He huffs, his head hanging low as guards pay him no mind. He doesn’t know how long he’s been on this ship— if he’s even in a dock or out on the water— but he has to escape.

Before the war reaches either shoreline.

“Please, let me speak to him! Your king!” He yells. His throat is raw, the lingering taste of whatever chemicals were on that cloth never fading no matter the water. “The Domain will be destroyed if I’m taken there!”

The doors swing open and Skizz grunts, watching as the Red King steps closer. He winces as he tugs at his hair, wings flaring in response to the movement.

“What do you know?” He questions. “If you tell me, maybe I won’t take a wing for being so disruptive. ”

Skizz swallows, steeling his nerves as he takes a breath.

“Impulse isn’t a forgiving man. He knows how you are, that you killed his brother, his father— he’ll send ships to your shores, he won’t hold back.” He yells as the Red King tugs, tears stinging his eyes. “I’m telling you the truth! Aurum is forged in war! They have the navy of Dawn ready at their docks!”

The Red King sighs, letting him go as he sighs shakily. He swallows as he paces the room, humming.

“Get ready to sail by dawn,” he says. Skizz gasps, watching in horror as he leaves.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No! You’re making a mistake!” He watches as a guard approaches, their hand on the handle of their blade. “No— no please— stop this! Ren—!”

The blade cuts through the joint of Skizz’s left wing, all but slicing it from its stump. He screams, the pain overwhelming him entirely. He feels himself slip in and out of consciousness, blurry visions of blood staining the floor beside him etching into his mind.

“Take that wing, leave it by the docks for them to find.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Red King steps onto the bow of the ship, overlooking the water. He hums, looking to his right.

She stands beside him, her arms folded over the bow.

“Things are going smoothly, I see.”

“Of course, my Goddess. I promised you I would bring you greatness, didn’t I? We have the king of Sacre trapped in this ship, flightless— the others know we’re here, but they have yet to find him. It’s like watching them chase a headless chicken.”

The Goddess huffs a laugh, smiling. “Continue your work. Make sure that war is all but on our shores soon.”

“Of course, my Goddess.”

Red flashes through his eyes again and he grins, looking towards the Domain.

“Glory will come to the Domain again. I’ll make sure of it.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Skizz blinks, finding his wrists free as well as his ankles. He groans, yelling at the sharp pain in his back. Blood stains the floorboards as he gasps, stumbling to his feet. He leans against the doorway, tripping over the imbalance he can feel.

“There’s something interesting about angel wings,” a voice says. Skizz sobs as a boot digs into his back, tears slipping down his cheeks. “When they lose one, their balance itself is altered— they cannot stand, walk, or run without stumbling. One shoulder is weightless, but the other…”

Skizz manages to look, seeing the Red King above him. He holds an axe against his shoulders, and he attempts to free himself, feeling a blade threaten to take his other wing.

“I wouldn’t do that, Skizz,” he whispers. “Unless you want to be the first wingless king of Sacre.” Skizz slumps, gasping as the Red King lifts his boot from his back. He forces him to stand, blood still spilling from the untreated injury.

“That bastard,” Oleyn growls. Impulse stops her from moving, keeping his eye on them. “I’ll take his head from his shoulders, destroy that entire fleet myself—“

“If he sees us, Skizz will only be dead and so will we,” Impulse whispers. “We have to stay put.”

Oleyn shakes her head, but stills herself. She stares as Skizz limps, held up by his arm as he struggles to stand. When he falls, all that happens is the Red King tugging him back up— a threat inaudible as Skizz huffs.

All she can see is her little brother, aching, begging for help from anybody. She white-knuckles her bow, swallowing her anger.

“I can’t—“

“You seemed so confident back when you had wings,” the Red King coos. “But, oh, a flightless bird can’t catch up with the flock.” Skizz forces himself to try and hold things together, but all the same—

“Stay away from him!”

Skizz’s eyes widened.

Oleyn.

Chapter Text

“Suddenly, there’s pirates! They’ve captured the king, but you— the Bandit of Thymeria— have a plan to save him, and redeem yourself as the hero you are!”

A paper boat floats in the creek, along with some smaller makes. Skizz watches in awe as he hurries along, Oleyn walking beside him. A larger boat stops the smaller ones in their tracks, and she gasps.

“You’ve recruited the help of the Sacrean navy!” She beams. “With their help, you rescue the king, and become a loyal knight!” Skizz laughs as he claps, a grin with missing teeth stuck on his face. She laughs at his amusement, kneeling to pick up the boat models.

“What happens to the Bandit of Thymeria after that?” He asks, tilting his head. She thinks, looking over the ships.

“Well, after he becomes a knight, he serves the king of Sacre loyally. He becomes the most-renowned fighter in their ranks— and retires peacefully with the king’s daughter. They say that his armour is on display in our very palace to this day.”

Skizz hums, grabbing one of the boats and the figurines attached to it. He cradles it in his hands, smiling. Oleyn messes with his hair, looking as a voice calls them.

“The Queen is asking for you!”

“Be there in a moment! Come on, Skizz.” Skizz hurries along, his laughter distant as she smiles. She stops, grabbing her bow and adjusting the string. She spots an old target, left behind from her practice. She stops to pull back the string, no arrow in hand, holding her breath before letting it go.

Multiple arrows fire at the Red King, aimed at wherever they can hit. She launches herself off the boat’s railing, yelling as she keeps firing. The Red King grins, grabbing his sword and swinging it, catching her leg.

“Skizz! You need to go, now!” She yells amidst the fighting.

Skizz stares, and she hurries in front of him, grabbing out the dagger from her belt. She blocks his blade, slicing into his chest plate. He huffs, a flash of crimson overtaking his eyes again.

She swings again, dodging the blade once again—

“Your form isn’t strong yet,” Oleyn smiles. Skizz groans, tightening his hold on the wooden sword in his hand. “Your foot stance is off, and your swing isn’t targeted—“

“Why do I need to know how to swing a sword? We’re archers, not knights,” he sighs, kicking his feet. He taps the wooden sword against the ground.

“It’s important because you might not always have that bow,” she says softly. “One day, it might save your life— or mine.”

He sighs, nodding. He readies himself again, grabbing the wooden sword as he adjusts his feet, raising the weapon into the air.

Skizz tries to swing at the Red King all the same— a distraction against Oleyn’s fighting. The Red King all but shoves him aside, and he winces as he lands on his back, the knife falling from his hands again.

Oleyn’s eyes widened. “Skizz!” She narrowly misses a swipe from the sword, forcing herself to focus back on the fight again.

She dodges the blade, her wings flaring as the Red King slashes. Oleyn stumbles once, fumbling with her dagger and trying to get a good grip. In the moment, her arm rests as a brace in case he attempts to hit her.

The Red King thinks before grabbing her arm, watching as her eyes widen. She tries to pull back before the blade plunges into her stomach, a yell ripping from her throat.

“ No! ” Skizz yells. He finds himself standing, flying without a wing as he plunges a knife into the Red King’s eye, landing in his shoulders and ensuring it damages his eye. He bellows out a yell before Skizz lands on his side, watching as he yells for his men to fall back, blood droplets trailing away from the ship and onto a lifeboat.

He gasps, breathless as he tries to stand on his knees. He hears a cough, and his eyes widen, shaking his head before he manages to hurry to Oleyn’s side, holding her hand as his other hand rests on her head.

“Oli, Oli, hey,” he whispers. He cradles her cheek, and she wheezes, her hand covering the wound as blood slips between her fingers. “Stick with me—“

“You’re alive,” she coughs. “You’re okay—“

“And you’re not,” he counters. He looks around, seeing Impulse and Gem hurrying to the ship. He looks around, shaking his head. “I don’t— I don’t know how to help—“

“Skizz,” she cuts in. She winces, her hand settling on his. “It’s okay.” She swallows down the blood in her throat, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Stay— stay alive, for me.”

Skizz watches as her hand goes limp. He gasps, shaking his head as he mumbles to himself, watching the light dim in her eyes. A sob rips from his throat as he crumbles, clinging to her body.

Footsteps approach, and Skizz can barely acknowledge them as he cradles his sister, tears falling onto the floorboards under them. He looks as a hand settles on his shoulder, seeing Impulse beside him.

“Let’s take her off this ship.”

Skizz nods, trembling as he lifts her, despite the ache in his back. The world is blurry, cotton muffling his ears as he carries his sister back to the camp. He can see Zed in the distance, and he blinks— she’s in front of him now, and Oleyn isn’t in his arms—

“He’s lost a lot of blood— to a tent, now!” She drags him to the nearest tent, medics quick to take over. He blinks, watching as they hurry to tend to the untreated wounds. He feels himself drift in and out of consciousness, sighing as he lets himself finally drift.

Oleyn sits in front of their mother’s memorial, a veil covering her face as she holds the flute their mother used to play. Her lip trembles as she sighs, tears beginning to slip again as her wings slump with her shoulders.

Skizz approaches from nearby, standing as he sets his hand on her shoulder. He settles beside her, saying nothing. Instead, he holds the umbrella over both of them, the first raindrops beginning to pour.

“She’s at peace now,” he whispers. “She won’t be in pain anymore— that illness won’t control her anymore.” He kisses his hand before pressing it against the stone doors, sighing softly.

“Skizz?”

He looks, seeing Oleyn’s veil off, tears dried on her cheeks.

“Promise me— I won’t lose you so soon, not after mom.” He softens, lowering the umbrella to embrace her. She sobs, pressing her face into his shoulder.

“As long as you promise the same, Oli.”

“I do— I promise.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Skizz’s eyes flutter open, the sight of his room adjusting in his vision. He groans, a dull ache perpetuating in his right shoulder. He reaches and feels bandages against his palm, seeing they’ve been replaced recently. It takes a moment to sit up, leaning on his knees.

A small plate of food and a glass of water sits on the table beside his bed, and he chugs the water, sighing as he wipes his mouth. It feels like he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink in months— though he doubts he’d be up and able to move if that was the case. 

He looks up as the bedroom door clicks open, seeing Zed stepping inside. She has some clean bedsheets in her hands, and she stops when she sees him, eyes widening.

“Skizz,” she breathes. She drops the basket in her arms and hurries to him, her arms wrapping around his neck. She pointedly avoids his back, cradling the back of his head instead. Zed steps back only to look at him, studying the bandages covering him before she hums, settling on the chair pulled beside the bed.

He takes a breath, swallowing before he meets her eyes. “Is Oleyn—?”

Her relieved smile falters, and she nods solemnly, taking his hands in hers. “Yes. I’m sorry. We tried to save her, but by the time she got back to the camp…” she trails off, squeezing his hands. “We hardly saved you, even. The blood you lost, I thought we’d…“

Her voice is deaf to Skizz’s ears, his gaze a thousand yards away. She’s speaking, he knows this, but all that runs through his mind is that night, that battle, the blood of his sister soaking his chest and arms, the exhaustion and grief overwhelming him—

Zed’s hand brushes his cheek and he jumps, feeling something wet fall against his face. She softens, her thumbs brushing away his tears as he sniffs. He all but sinks into her, his grip tightening on her as a sob hiccups from him, the ache in his chest tightening with each sharp breath he takes.

“They haven’t held a procession yet,” she whispers. “They were waiting for you to recover.” She pulls back and grabs a handkerchief, dabbing the corners of his eyes as he leans into her touch, closing his eyes.

“I need to see her,” he chokes out, “before the procession. Just one last time.” Zed nods, helping him stand as he grimaces, using the bedside table for balance.

“The medics said you might feel imbalanced for a while,” she explains. “With the loss of your wing, they anticipate you having to use a crutch or a cane.” He sighs, forcing himself to stand straight— or as much as he can, anyways. He lets Zed lead him to the end of the wing, where royal bodies are held until processions are ready.

The doors swing open, and Skizz takes a breath, swallowing back the ache in his throat as he walks over to the table in the centre of the room. 

Oleyn lays with her hands folded, a branch from the wisteria trees of Sacre tucked in between. A flower crown made of blue hyacinths and tulips is woven into her hair, a veil covering her eyes, matching the ceremonial dress she’s wearing. Skizz sighs shakily, his hands clasping over hers as he manages to kneel, despite the ache.

Zed settles her hand in his hair, her head hanging low as she closes her eyes.

“She’s left the Midasa Estate to you,” she whispers. “It’s located in Bassire, where—“

“She was exiled for putting an end to my father’s crimes,” Skizz cuts in. “And despite coming back, despite saving my life and so many others, she’ll be viewed as a murderer rather than a saviour.” With Zed’s aid, he stands, leaning against the table.

The growing ache is beginning to succumb to anger, to revenge— Sacreans are never violent; a kingdom of healers, of education rather than weapons. Yet, that won’t fix what’s been done— a scholar cannot negotiate a war, a medic cannot revive the soldiers fallen in fields.

Skizz squeezes Oleyn’s hand one last time, whispering a prayer of rest before he nods, looking at Zed.

“Tell them the processions can begin,” he requests, “and tell them I’ll be speaking— on behalf of Oleyn and of every life lost to the Domain’s horrific crimes.”

“They still want you to rest,” Zed counters.

“I’ll be fine,” he insists. “I’ll see you at the memorial soon. Let me help prepare Oleyn for the ceremony.”

Zed nods, squeezing his hand before she leaves the room. Skizz watches the door close before he turns to Oleyn, sighing.

“I’ll make sure that bastard suffers and bleeds out, just as he forced you to do,” he whispers. He grabs her crown from the nearby table, placed on a velvet pillow to protect it. He rests it on her chest, the gemstone taken out for a future heir or spouse to inherit.

“Rest well, Oli. May your next life be peaceful.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Fire crackles as the ship sails out of the harbour— the ship Oleyn asked to be made in honour of their mother. Her body sits wrapped on the deck of the vessel, blue wisteria leaves falling into the waves. Skizz stands at the end of the pier, arms folded around himself as he stares.

Anger mixes with grief, revenge overcomes heartache. The ocean breeze grows louder in his ears, whistling through the feathers on his remaining wing. His brow furrows as he shakes his head, looking at the waves crashing against the pier’s legs.

“Everyone’s ready for you.”

Skizz looks, seeing Impulse standing a few feet away. He hums, lips pressed together as he looks back out to the boat— it’s long since sank, the smoke pillar dimming to a soft white rather than an angry grey. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he nods, squeezing Impulse’s hand.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Impulse whispers. “I know you don’t like resting, but pushing yourself like this is only delaying the inevitable.”

“I have to be— I can’t let fWhip or that king of his get away with this any longer,” Skizz answers. He steels his gaze, starting to walk to the podium nearby. He pauses, looking over his shoulder.

“Make sure all your ships are ready for sailing soon.”

He steps onto the stage, using the podium as a crutch— if his back didn’t ache as much, he’d be able to stand for longer without needing to lean against something— before he adjusts things, sighing.

“What happened to my sister was another violent act against a person of Daiafara,” Skizz starts. “She is one of hundreds of people lost because of the cruelty of the Domain, and her memory will be a blessing on Sacre for generations to come. In her honour, the gardens of the capital will be renamed after her.”

He takes a breath, tightening his hold on the stand to keep them from shaking.

“But, keeping her memory alive won’t settle the score. The Domain has gone unchecked for far too long— and with the alliance between them and the Prince of Dawn, as well as their invasion of the port outside of Wyrm, I believe that a war is where we must head.”

Murmurs begin to fill the garden, people exchanging worried glances. Impulse looks at the ground when Skizz glances at him, his hands folded in his lap.

“Within the next few months, Aurum and Sacre will join the navy of Dawn to sail for the Domain’s shores. The war will end on their shores, where it once began. Until then, the kingdom of Sacre will have the following week to mourn the princess, and we will be joined by the people of the Midasa Estate in a time of silence.”

He bows his head before he steps off the stage, heading out of the garden before Impulse is quick to follow. He catches up with him quickly, his hand settling on his shoulder.

“Sit down,” he scolds him. Like he’s a child. “You’re not fully recovered, you know this—“

“I’m a king. I don’t get to rest when the last of my family was murdered,” Skizz snaps. He winces before he sinks into the bench nearby, trying not to lean forward and pull more on his back. Impulse softens, settling beside him.

A moment passes before Impulse thinks, folding his arms.

“I know how you’re feeling right now,” he says. “It’s— it’s a pain I’d never wish on anyone else. I wanted to charge into the Domain myself and take that man’s life when he killed Martyn, my father. I know you want to finish what your sister started, make sure her blood wasn’t shed in vain, but Sacre can’t lose you.”

He grabs Skizz’s hand, squeezing it carefully.

“Let me take care of things. Let yourself grieve, and mourn— before that pain boils over and you get yourself killed.”

Skizz sighs shakily, leaning back as he swallows down a lump in his throat. He blinked back tears, looking out to the shoreline.

“I don’t remember anything from that night,” Skizz confesses, “but all I can see when I look down is her blood, her body in my arms— she looked so scared, and I—“ he chokes up. “I’ve never seen her so scared.”

Impulse wraps his arms around him, and Skizz hiccups, his face pressing into his shoulder.

“She’s at peace, remember that,” Impulse whispers. He hums, being careful to not brush against any bandages on Skizz as he consoles him. He eventually pulls back, watching as Skizz wipes away his tears.

He blinks, brow furrowed.

“Is Gem here?” He questions. “I heard she helped set up that camp, but I never saw her— not that I know of, anyways.”

Impulse hums. “She said she had something to deal with after we set up everything— I haven’t heard from her since, but she’s strong; she’s trained by the Dawnian fighters. If anything, bandits or assassins should be scared of her. ”

Skizz laughs, shaking his head.

“Let’s hope that’s the case then.”

Impulse smiles, patting Skizz’s good shoulder as he stands. He sees Etho in the walkway, arms folded. Impulse stops in his tracks, watching as Etho marches towards Skizz, shoving passed him.

“Etho, what are you doing?” He questions.

Etho grabs the collar of Skizz’s shirt, pulling him close to his face as Skizz gasps.

“This war is going to kill so many innocent lives on that island and you waved your hand without a second thought, all because you want the upper hand in some sick fight,” Etho growls, his grip tightening on the collar. Skizz’s hand grasps at his wrist, eyes wide.

“Not every person in the Domain likes Ren, but they can’t escape— that island is a death trap, and your war would only make it worse.” Impulse hesitates before trying to touch Etho, backing off when he glares at him, eventually letting go of Skizz as he steps back, hands clenched to prevent them from shaking.

“It’s either that or he comes to our shoreline,” Skizz counters, “and innocent lives are lost here. Our defences—“

“We have more defence in this region combined than the Domain could dream of! My family is from there— you don’t think I know exactly what I’m talking about?” Etho scoffs, not giving Skizz a chance to respond.

“Figure things out,” Etho mutters, “or else I rescind my support for the council and demand your resignation as its leader. I’m not the only person willing to do exactly that right now, either.”

He marches off, Impulse wanting to go after him. Skizz sighs, settling back down as he pinches his nose bridge.

“Go after him. He’ll listen to you more right now than me.”

“Skizz—“

“It’s fine, Impulse.” He stands, settling his hand on his back. “He’s your partner first.” He gives him another look, watching as Impulse debates it himself.

Impulse presses his lips together, looking at Skizz before he’s off, disappearing behind the garden’s gates. He waits until he’s gone before he approaches a guard, watching as he hurriedly kneels.

“Get my horse. I’m going on a ride.”

“Yes, your highness.”

As Skizz saddles up, his mind drifts to Gem— he can only wonder what she’s doing, if she’s trying to stop something else. He shakes his head, lifting himself onto the horse with his better shoulder before galloping off.

Whatever Gem is doing— he hopes it can lead to an end.

Chapter Text

The spear stands lopsided as a piece of yellow and pink fabric dances in the breeze, attached to the end of the handle. A hand grips it before pulling out the spear point, blood dripping and splattering on the ground around her.

She grabs a cloth from one of the spies’ bodies, cleaning her spear with it as well as her face. The blood on her clothes will have to just dry— she’ll wash them up when she can. She sighs, leaning back against the tree she’s settled under, closing her eyes for just a moment.

It’s sunset, and if this was any other day before she was forced to act in this war, she’d have celebrated the end of autumn in her kingdom with her people. By moonrise, she’d have prayed to the Goddess of Nature for a peaceful winter and an easier gale on the waters. By morning, she’d find fWhip to go bother, distracting him from whatever he was planning.

She grunts, pressing her forehead against her knee.

Gem rises to her feet eventually, stopping when something catches her eye. She kneels, grabbing out a letter from one of the spies’ pockets, unfolding it— the wax seal on the paper is all too familiar, the very insignia of Dawn itself.

She skims over the parchment, brow furrowed— the writing is quick, like he was rushed. Some words she can’t make out at all, as much as she squints and attempts to tilt the paper to see if another angle will help, to no avail.

Gem—

I’m sorry things have— this way. I didn’t want it to come to this, to betray my ho—, my family.

I want to speak with y—. You know where to find me.

Always your brother,

F

Gem sighs, the parchment crumpling in her grip. She hasn’t been home in months— the idea alone of seeing that palace makes her stomach churn, a stone of anxiety dropping deep into her chest. She tosses the letter aside, hesitating before she whistles for her horse, watching it approach from the nearby creek.

“Let’s start heading home, girl,” she whispers. “We’re needed there— we have some final things to tend to.” She pats the horse’s shoulder before she hikes herself over the saddle, starting a trot before she snaps the reins, turning rapidly into a sprint.

Dawn is a full day of riding out from these roads, but she can always stop at the old inn just outside the gatehouses— gods, she hasn’t been there since she went hunting with her father. Who knows if the old man who owned it still runs that place, if it’s even open…

She shakes her head, focusing back on the muddy roads ahead. 

That’s a worry for when it’s dark and Gem can’t see a mile ahead of her; the only light source is the moonlight, but the trees cover almost all of it from reaching the ground. She takes a deep breath, squinting as a warm light begins to approach.

A sign hangs above the inn, swaying in the autumn breeze:

Escent’s Inn

All Travellers Welcome!

Her shoulders slump before she hitches her horse, taking her weapons off the saddle.

“We’ll be up and gone early, okay?” She whispers. “Get some good rest.” The horse whinnies and she chuckles, turning to enter the building. The door creaks before it swings shut behind her. 

Travellers and merchants are gathered in the common area, laughter reverberating against the walls. Some pints of beer clink together, a handful of card games being won and lost— it’s just how she remembers it, though it’s clear things have changed.

“Welcome!” A voice chimes in.

Gem turns, seeing a woman behind the bar counter, cleaning out a couple of mugs. 

“Looking to stay a night or two?” She smiles, long hair tied up into a neat ponytail. There’s a crescent-shaped birthmark on her face, dots branching off like stars. Gem’s eyes widen as she steps closer.

“Pearl?” She whispers.

Pearl tilts her head, grinning. “Yes?”

“It’s Gem! You remember me, don’t you?” Pearl narrows her eyes, scrutinising as she leans against the counter. Recognition flashes in her eyes as she beams.

“Gemmy! It’s been years! Where have you been?” She laughs.

Gem huffs a laugh. “Well, I’ve been trying to negotiate a war, and my brother—“

“Oh, right, I remember. The Domain is still bugging all the royals? I thought they’d stop after all the warnings,” she interrupts. She sets the mug down under the counter, the rag over her shoulder. “Now, what was that about fWhip? Is he still trying to invent the impossible?”

Gem thinks, looking around before she hums.

“Let’s talk somewhere with fewer people.” Pearl hums, tossing her a room key.

“Free of charge, of course.” She leads Gem into the back, where the hallway of rooms sits. She waits until they’re in the room before Gem takes a breath, her hand on her chin.

“My brother is working with the Domain. The attack on Avivain— he was a part of it. He made these metal wings that give anybody the chance to fly, and the Domain—“ she waves her hands around, sighing.

“He wants to meet with me in Dawn tomorrow,” she continued. “I’m worried he might try something, or it’s not actually him—“

Pearl sets her hands on her shoulders, and Gem blinks, studying her.

“Gem, out of anybody I’ve met in my life, you’ve always had the best instinct. If you feel that going will fix things, then I say do just that—“ she squeezes her shoulders, leaning closer— “but if going means that there’s another funeral for a princess in the same week, then you can stay here. I don’t mind the extra company.”

Gem relaxes, her hands clasping over Pearl’s as she thinks. She closes her eyes for a moment before nodding.

“If fWhip wants to fix things, I should go,” she reasons. “I don’t want to lose any more lives than what’s already been lost, not if I can prevent it.”

Pearl nods, hesitating before she wraps her arms around her, a tight squeeze bringing Gem closer.

“I’m so happy I got to see you again,” she whispers. Gem softens, leaning into the embrace as she sighs. It’s a moment of respite— a calm before the storm. The air itself feels electric, like a lightning bolt ready to hit the moment she lets her guard down.

It’ll be a restless night, but an attempt to get any sort of relief will be enough. She pulls back eventually, hearing merchants and travellers calling for more beer.

“Better satiate your customers,” Gem teases. Pearl snorts, patting her back before she starts to leave. She pauses, looking over her shoulder.

“If you need to hide, for any reason, come to me. I can keep you safe here,” Pearl whispers. She closes the door as she leaves, and Gem works her jaw, settling onto the single bed in the room. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s easier to lay on than the cots she’s had to for weeks now.

She turns to look at the ceiling, holding her hands close together. Her eyes grow heavy after a moment and she can’t recall dozing, exhaustion winning over anxiety.

“Papa, look.”

Gem stares at the buck, watching its ears flicker as it grazes. It looks in whichever way, one of its legs bent upward, as if pointing to something. She watches her father crouch, an arrow in his hand as he readies his bow. He stops before looking at her, motioning her to come closer.

She kneels beside him, watching as he guides her hands to the bow, helping her aim.

“A deep breath,” he whispers, “and a countdown from three…”

The arrow lodges itself into the buck’s torso, between the shoulder blade and the middle. It stumbles before it falls over, blood dribbling down its fur. Gem stands, hurrying with her father to collect the arrow.

He kneels, pressing his hand against the fur before whispering something— small, golden flecks spill from the buck’s mouth, and he hums, turning to her.

“Our family is blessed by the Goddess of Nature, gemstone,” he starts, “and in that blessing, we are tasked with honouring whatever gift nature gives us, whether it’s our hand or someone else’s. One day, you will inherit this blessing— and you will be the Goddess’s vassal, just like I am.”

Gem blinks, watching as her father readies the buck for storage. His words ring in her mind, echoing and repeating over themselves.

You will inherit this blessing.

“What about fWhip?” She asks. Her father pauses for a moment, clearly considering how to say this.

“Your brother does not have the same acclimation to nature you have, my dear,” he settles on. “He wants to defy nature, while you want to keep its order.”

She hums, watching as he lifts the buck’s carcass, hauling it to the chariot near the hunting grounds.

“Come along, then. Dinner tonight cannot be delayed any longer.”

Dawn’s gates creak open as Gem approaches, raindrops pattering against her hood. She nods as a handful of stable workers tend to her horse, letting her walk towards the palace. Her parents are likely away— somewhere in Bassire until the war is over, her mind bitterly thinks.

She shakes her head, both her weapons tucked against her belt and her back as she walks into the palace, the doors creaking open as she slips inside. She lowers her hood, studying the wake candlelight of the chandelier, hanging over the sanctum and its thrones.

Gem’s footsteps echo against the walls as she studies them, stopping at one of the many portraits of her and her family. She hesitates before her hand settles on the end of the frame, fingertips brushing over the names on the plaque beneath it. 

It feels like a lifetime ago when things seemed so simple— a war was nothing more than something she would play pretend about with her brother, always playing the hero; the vassal of order, the light in darkness. She curses under her breath, pulling away and hurrying to the gardens.

Laughter echoes in the doorway, figures of two kids chasing each other through the flowers catch her eye— their mother watches from the window, a smile on her face as they play out a battle they learned from their lessons. Gem swallows back her fear as she enters the garden.

She approaches the tree in the centre of it all, touching the long-standing bark. She’s spent days under this tree before, studying all the insects she could catch— sometimes their dog would join her, butterflies landing on the dog’s snout every time they tried to take an afternoon nap.

She’s also trained against its bark— wooden sword or spear slashing against it when she couldn’t train with the soldiers in the grounds. There’s still some old marks in the wood, she notices. Her hand brushes against it carefully—

“I still remember when you managed to beat a ranked officer in a fight when you were younger,” his voice echoes in the garden.

Gem looks over her shoulder, seeing fWhip standing with his hands at his sides. He’s dressed in the blood red and muddy brown of the Domain, white fur to contrast it sitting on his shoulders. Her brow furrows with anger, her hand hovering over the hilt of her sword.

fWhip raises his hands, stepping back to prove he’s not hiding anything.

“I want to talk, Gem. I don’t want to fight,” he says.

“You made your choice when you started sneaking off to make deals with the Domain,” she counters. “I didn’t even want to come back here today— I forced myself to.”

“Then I’ll make this quick,” fWhip insists. He sighs, his hand clasping a piece of parchment. “I made another deal with the Domain—“

“Shocker,” she mumbles.

“I want you to join me.” Her expression falters, eyes wide as he offers his hand out. “We can end this war together— we can talk to Ren, try to negotiate with the council—“

“Are you insane ?” She yells. “This is why you brought me here? To ask me to commit treason with you?”

“Gem, please— you won’t be in danger anymore! This war will be over if you just agree to help me—“

“Help you do what? Attack a port village or kidnap another king or queen? Kill a princess?” She unsheaths her blade, pointing it at fWhip. “I’ve heard enough of this.”

“No, Gem—“

“Shut up and draw your blade! We’re done talking. You’re not my brother anymore.” She tightens her grip on her hilt, watching as he slumps. He grabs his scabbard from nearby and pulls out his sword, watching as she steadies herself.

She takes a deep breath, counting down from three—

Her blade clashes with his in an instant, bouncing off before she strikes again, dodging him narrowly. Gem grunts as she sweeps his feet from under him, watching him scramble for his sword to block hers.

“We don’t have to fight!” fWhip strains.

“War isn’t about negotiating with criminals— especially traitors,” she argues. She shoves his sword aside, her blade about to plunge into him—

A dagger plunges into her side and she yells, dropping her sword as she stares at the blade in her abdomen. Her hands tremble as fWhip stands, eyes wide with panic before he frantically grabs his sword, attempting to flee.

Gem growls, tears welling in her eyes.

“ FWHIP!”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

His footsteps quicken as he shoves through the city square, eyes wide with panic as he stumbles. Finding the port in the busiest time of the day will be a nightmare— trying to get back to the Domain will feel like a betrayal he cannot beg his way out of.

fWhip skids to a stop ahead of an alleyway, muttering to himself before he runs through it, seeing the open water just ahead. As he reaches the road, he hears commotion around one of the ships. Sailors and dock workers turn to look at him, fear in their eyes as he approaches.

“Don’t stare, just keep working,” one of them whispers. fWhip huffs, catching his breath as he walks to the vessel. He watches as workers hurry along, fear and anxiety hidden behind their eyes. He’s never been feared before— it’s something nobody ever wants.

All the same, the feeling is exhilarating. Powerful.

He watches them unhook the ship’s ropes, more commotion coming from the alleyway he ran out of only moments ago. He swallows, seeing Skizz standing with his bow drawn. He doesn’t release it, only curses before he hurries some guards to the castle.

fWhip stares at the empty holster where his dagger once was, now embedded in his sister. He sighs shakily, closing his eyes for a moment before he shakes off the nerves, approaching the bow of the ship.

“Set a course for the Domain immediately. I have some business to tend to.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“He managed to get away before I could reach him. If i’d been just a little faster—“

“Don’t beat yourself up over this. We at least know where he’ll be when we try again. That’s better than anything.”

Skizz hums, folding his arms as he leans against the doorway. He studies Gem as she stands, taking a slow breath to ease back the pain of the wound— stitched up and wrapped, it makes Skizz only grimace at the idea of that pain again. He settles his hands on his hips as she approaches, nodding.

“We need to hold a council meeting soon,” she says. “I need to make Dawn’s war on the Domain official.”

Impulse hums, nodding. She grabs her cloak, adjusting it carefully before she looks at them.

“This is my fight as much as it is yours— once my declaration is sealed and signed, you’ll have the backing of one of the strongest navies on your side.” Her gaze is sharp, that fire of war burning in her eyes. “Well end this war and break this cycle of endless violence— before it takes someone else we love.”

“Then let’s get started— a victory won’t wait until tomorrow.”

Gem nods, leading the way to the council room in the palace. As she hurries ahead, her mind drifts to that fight, fWhip’s weapons— they weren’t the ones he’s had for years. They looked different, like he replaced them.

She shakes her head, cursing under her breath.

It’d better he replaced them anyways— if he tried to grovel to her now, he’d be met with iron bars in a jail cell and guaranteed exile. Maybe execution, if the council agreed to it.

The doors swing open, and Gem clears her throat, turning to Impulse and Skizz.

“Call the rest of the council members. Tell them that Dawn is officially at war.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Your highness, you have a letter from Impulse.”

Etho swishes the glass in his hands around, looking at the messenger. He motions, turning back to the fireplace, watching as the fire crackles and sparks. Winter is harsher than usual— he can’t doubt it’s because of the war, nature’s anger towards the people who live here.

“He says that there is an emergency council meeting in Dawn tomorrow evening, and that Dawn will be officially declaring war on the Domain after a sudden attack from the Traitor known as fWhip Orihice—“

Etho stands suddenly, taking the letter from the messenger. He curses, the parchment crumpling in his hand as he sighs, shaking his head.

“Write back to him and tell him I won’t be attending,” he mutters. He stops for a moment, closing his eyes. “Tell him— tell him we are done, and the engagement is off, until he realises how dangerous a war will be.”

“Yes, your highness.” The messenger exits the room and Etho sinks back into his chair, fox ears slumped as he sighs. He sets the glass down, looking at the ring on his hand— made with the best Aurumian gold, with a beautiful obsidian piece as its middle. He reaches and slips it off his finger, spinning it in his hands.

“Fire and winter. It wasn’t meant to mix.”

He grabs the bottle beside the glass and pours more of the alcohol inside, sighing as she takes a swig. The ring sits on the table, abandoned— a forgotten promise, a broken vow.

Maybe it’s better this way, Etho reasons.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The doors of the castle slam open, footsteps quick against the throne room’s hallway. There’s a letter clutched in Impulse’s hand, the ink half-dry as it stains his fingers. He finds Etho’s study and steps inside, the door slamming shut.

“You didn’t have the nerves to tell me this to my face?” Impulse questions. “Etho, you could’ve asked me to visit you, we could’ve talked about this—“

“I tried , Impulse, but I saw how you were looking at me at the funeral,” Etho snaps. “Your kingdom is renowned for war— I already knew convincing you to not go through with this wasn’t going to end well, so why would I bother?”

Impulse scoffs, hands falling to his sides as he shakes his head.

“I am not what my father was, or my grandmother— what they did does not reflect on my people or me. What the hell has gotten into you?” Etho folds his arms, averting his gaze as Impulse steps closer.

“I thought you’d be different,” Etho whispers, “but all I see when I look at you is the people you’re going to kill under the guise of justice— there is no justice in war, and of all people I’d thought you would understand.”

“That man killed my family, ” Impulse argues, his hands on Etho’s arms. His brow furrows, eyes glossing over with tears. “You were born there, I know, but you have to understand why this has to happen—“

Impulse groans as the hilt of a sword is punched into his stomach. He coughs, a gasp and a whine escaping him as he falls back, his arm over his stomach. Tears begin to slip as Etho’s lip trembles, facing away from him.

“You’re no better than your family,” Etho hisses. “I should’ve known.” He drops the ring from his hand as Impulse sobs, head hanging low. Etho walks out of the room, the study’s doors closing behind him. He stops in the hallway, hands trembling as he hiccups, hurrying along to his chambers.

Impulse grabs the ring eventually, tossing it into the fireplace in the study before he storms out of the palace, leaving Gelu Hiberna on horseback. As Dawn’s gatehouse comes into view, all that repeats in his mind is Etho’s voice, his words—

“ You’re no better than your family.”

He swallows back a sob as he hitches his horse at the stables, finding his way to Gem’s study. She dozed off at the desk, cheek resting against her chin. When the door closes, she startles, seeing Impulse in the doorway.

“I was wondering where you disappeared to after the funeral,” Gem mutters. “Skizz couldn’t find you either—“ she stops herself when she gets a better look at him, her brow furrowed. “What happened? Did you run into someone?”

Impulse sighs, shaking his head. He grimaces as he sits down and Gem softens, settling beside him. Her hand hovers over what he knows is a forming bruise, and he doesn’t stop her from checking on it.

She doesn’t say anything— instead, she stands and grabs something from her bathroom, returning with a cool cloth. She presses it against it and he winces, choking back a hiccup at the memory.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t know what you’re feeling but— it’s not easy, that’s all I know.” She moves his hand to hold the compress, standing as he averts his eyes. She can see the dried tear tracks on his cheeks and she sighs, wiping them away with her thumbs.

“He looked at me like I was a monster,” Impulse whispers. “Said I was no better than my family— I’ve never seen him so angry.” Gem hums, settling closer as tears begin to slip again. She’s careful as he embraces him, avoiding the bruise as he clings to her.

“You can stay in the spare room we have here,” Gem says. “Besides, the council meeting happened while you were gone— but I’ll debrief you when you’re better rested.”

Impulse opens his mouth to argue but goes against it, settling on a quick nod before he stands, despite the soreness on his side. Gem follows behind to make sure he doesn’t injure himself more on accident, stopping as he steps inside the room.

“If you need anything…” she trails off, thinking. “You know where to find me.” She squeezes his hand, closing the door as she leaves. He sighs shakily, taking off his jacket and boots before looking at the bruise in the room’s mirror. He curses when he brushes his hand against it, seeing the skin already turning that angry violet.

He lets his shirt fall before he takes off the ring on his hand, letting it sit on the bedside table before he tries to get comfortable, deciding to lay on his back to ease whatever soreness he feels. He tries not to let his mind drift to Etho— to anything for that matter.

For once, he’d like to turn off his mind and just let himself relax, even for a little while. It feels like he hasn’t had much of a break since he was a child.

He takes a breath, trying to at least get some rest before he’s restless. He already knows tomorrow will be long and full of work, so the least he can do for himself is catch up on lost hours of rest.

He only prays to the Gods something changes— anything.