Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Schpood’s private office glows silver with moonlight, the candles half-burnt out. The fire is nothing more than embers, and the air smells of ink, wax, and sleeplessness. Hundreds of unopened letters lie scattered across the ornate desk, glaring at the emperor and his consul like accusations. Schpood sits propped up on one elbow, head in his hand, the other loosely holding a quill.
Spyder sits diagonally from him, sorting the never-ending documents that need to be signed. Some are trivial—trade agreements, invitations to parties, acknowledgments of petty crimes—but others are in dire need of attention. Namely, the ones that Schpood continuously puts off for days, and even weeks, claiming, “It can wait.”

Schpood snaps the quill in his fingers without looking up, splattering ink across the treaty in front of him. Spyder glares at the man.

“That’s the third quill you’ve broken tonight,” Spyder snaps, his nerves frayed from having to gentle-parent Schpood more than usual the past week.

Schpood doesn’t even look up at him, yawning into his hand instead,
“Then stop counting.”

Spyder bristles, conflicted as to whether he should scold Schpood’s carelessness and give him a futile lecture… or do his best to remain composed in case Schpood is in one of those frequent moods where he feels compelled to spill blood. He grips the papers in his hand so hard they wrinkle as he takes a deep breath. After a moment, he decides to take the safe route, despite his mind screaming at him to reach across the desk and throttle some sense into the emperor.

“You still need to officially sign the marriage arrangement from Tricolor,” Spyder informs him curtly through gritted teeth, sliding the contract from Tricolor across the table until it sits right in front of Schpood.

Schpood exhales and waves his hand, eyes darting around as he looks anywhere but the papers,
“I’ll do it later.”

“You’ve been saying that since the letter arrived nearly a week ago. It cannot wait any longer,” Spyder informs him with a frown, barely keeping his temper under control.

Schpood finally picks his head up so that Spyder can see his face. Dark purple bags hang gaunt under the emperor’s eyes, his mouth imperceptibly turned downwards. Spyder’s stomach drops at just how…well… horrible Schpood looks. He had noticed over the past few days that the man had been more irritable, and certainly more tired, but had simply written it off as Schpood being Schpood. But looking at him closely now, in private, for the first time in days, with only the soft glow of candles to light up his face, it is unmistakable that there’s something deeper going on—something gnawing away at the emperor. His eyes are blank, face colorless, devoid of the wit or joy that usually rest on his features.

Spyder’s stomach drops—he hadn’t realized just how hollow and exhausted Schpood looks. He feels a pang of protective concern well up in his chest as he lays the letters down on the table.
“What’s going on?” Spyder asks gently, surprising even himself with the sincerity of his tone.

Schpood looks away from Spyder, then down to the engagement contract on the table before finally sighing and leaning back into his chair.
“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, avoiding Spyder’s stare. “Just tired of all these bloody documents.”

It is incredibly unconvincing. There is no irritation, no anger. Just hollow emptiness. It’s definitely not the Schpood that Spyder knows; the one who is demanding, charming, and vaguely unstable. Spyder leans forward instinctively, wanting to reach out and comfort him, but thinks better of it at the last minute, instead laying his hand awkwardly on the table.

“It’s clearly not nothing. You haven't been yourself for a week now. You barely eat, you don’t sleep, you refuse to go to any political meetings, and you normally go to at least a few…” Spyder trails off as he hears the volume of his voice increase. He takes a deep breath and withdraws, leaning back in his chair to force himself to calm down.

It pains Spyder to see Schpood look something so close to sad; it feels unnatural. The only time he has ever seen Schpood act even remotely similarly to how he has been acting this week is when Owo was assassinated. And as far as Spyder is aware, nobody has died recently. Or at least, nobody Schpood cared about.
He feels incredibly awkward as he observes Schpood. Spyder’s good at a lot of things—orders, duty, negotiations…but he’s horrible at feelings. But he’s also willing to try simply because of how pitiful the emperor looks.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. No false pretenses are necessary. Not a word will leave this chamber. I swear on my life,” Spyder promises, gesturing around the cluttered, albeit empty, room.

Schpood glances up at him briefly before looking away again with a pout. Spyder sighs, tapping his fingers on the table impatiently.

“Schpood. It’s both unhealthy and unwise to refuse to share whatever is causing you to act this way. I am your second-in-command and most trusted advisor. I’ve been here from the very beginning of your reign; you can trust me. I have seen you half-starved and covered in the blood of your enemies. It is all the same to me now. There is absolutely no reason to refrain from sharing what’s bothering you. I mean, for Ish’s sake! Some might even say we’re friends.”

Schpood’s dark eyes finally return Spyder’s gaze, holding it for a moment as if weighing the sincerity behind the words. Then, the corners of Schpood’s mouth twitch, and an abrupt, unrestrained laugh spills out, taking on an almost maniacal edge.

Spyder blinks, caught off guard.“What?” he protests, voice tense.

Schpood’s laughter returns, louder this time, as he wipes away imaginary tears. He straightens in his chair, letting the candlelight catch the glint in his eyes as a wolfish grin tugs at his face.
“Some might say…we’re friends?” he parrots, voice playful but sharp, running a hand through his tousled brown hair.

Spyder’s face heats up. He had half hoped that the Emperor hadn’t really been paying enough attention to realize Spyder had even said that. It had slipped out, the word foreign on his tongue. However true that label may technically be, Spyder avoids using it to describe his relationship with anyone, especially the emperor, who is his superior. Trust, loyalty, companionship, duty: yes. Friend? No. And never out loud.

“Well…we’re not—I mean, you’re…we’re…I’m—” Spyder stammers, flustered, awkwardly waving a hand as if that somehow explains himself, still uncertain as to whether Schpood is displeased or not. He isn’t even sure if friend is the right way to describe the emperor, after all, they had only become close since Owo’s death and primarily spoke about diplomatic matters.

Schpood’s grin widens, amused, leaning back in his chair with arms crossed, studying Spyder like a cat watching a mouse.
“Some might say, hmm? You are my friend, Spyder. You know it, I know it. For Ish’s sake, the entirety of Westhelm knows it! And yet here you are, fumbling like a child.”

Spyder flushes, jaw tight, words failing him.
“I—well…I mean—friends… It’s…it’s not really…it’s not something I…we…” He trails off, cheeks burning as he tries his best to avoid Schpood’s amused gaze.

“Not what? Not something you say? Not something you…feel?” Schpood leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and teasing. “You do realize how ridiculous you sound right now, right? Hesitating to call me your friend?”

Spyder wants to sink into his chair or hide behind the desk.
“I… I just… I—” He can’t finish. The word sticks in his throat, heavy with a type of vulnerability he rarely allows himself to feel these days, one long buried under the cloak of responsibility.

Schpood laughs again, soft this time, more genuine, shaking his head at Spyder with an affectionate grin,
“Ah, yes. My fearsome second-in-command, the man who corrals my chaos and singlehandedly keeps the empire from burning down, is terrified of saying he has a friend.” He leans back, tapping a finger against his lips thoughtfully. “I should find that endlessly entertaining. And I do.”

Spyder blinks, uncomfortably aware of the warmth creeping into his chest. He has spent years protecting Schpood from an arm’s distance, keeping the emperor steady, hiding behind the armor of duty. Yet somehow, after all these years, in this dimly lit office, Schpood has managed to make Spyder feel irrevocably, horribly seen. It’s embarrassing.

Schpood leans closer, voice dropping low, intimate, a tender smile on his face as he points a finger at Spyder. “And yet. And yet…it is also somehow endearing. You are somehow endearing.”

Spyder swallows hard as the words reach him, breath catching in his throat. The air between them feels charged with something that Spyder doesn’t dare name as Schpood looks at him in a way that few ever have.

Seeing Spyder’s obvious bashfulness and discomfort, Schpood leans closer, tone vulnerable as he reassures him,
“Spyder, I trust you more than anyone else in this bloody empire. If that isn’t the very definition of a friend, then I don’t know what is.”

Spyder swallows hard. He wants to say something, anything, but the only sound that emerges is a soft, hesitant, barely-there,
“Ok…I mean…I guess…”

Schpood’s grin returns, full and wolfish, and he leans back in his chair with a satisfied hum.
“There. Finally. A friend in words as well as in deeds. It’s been years. Took you long enough. ”

Spyder’s mind races, heat creeping up his neck. He can’t tell if he’s angry, embarrassed, or something else entirely. The whole situation is new territory, yet he feels strangely pleased. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then, without any real malice, finally mutters,
“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Never,” Schpood responds smoothly, eyes glittering with mirth. “Well…maybe just a little,” He grins. Then, he suddenly claps his hands loudly, the sound echoing around the office, making Spyder flinch.

“Ah, thank you! I so desperately needed a laugh. Now, enough of this bore. Let’s have some wine and talk, yes?”

Schpood abruptly pushes himself out of his chair, moving across the room to where several bottles of expensive wine sit on the bookshelf. Schpood hums as selects one before shuffling back to the desk, setting down two glasses. He opens the bottle unceremoniously, pouring one for himself, then one for Spyder, who sits frozen in a state of awe and chagrin. Spyder stares at the overfilled glass of wine skeptically, unsure if he should take it or if it’s proper to drink in the presence the emperor despite the fact they’re…friends.

Schpood plops back down in his chair before proceeding to knock back his entire glass of wine in one gulp then promptly pouring himself another. He looks up at Spyder, who hasn’t even reached for the glass.

“Drink,” he commands with a frown.

Spyder hastily obeys, heart racing as his lips brush the rim of the glass. He hums as he tastes it, pleasantly surprised by how sweet it is.. He cannot even recall the last time he had wine, afraid even the smallest amount might impair him from fulfilling his duties.

Schpood grins at him, raising his eyebrows,
“It’s good, no? I had it imported from Elysium. No matter how annoying and useless that nation is, I have to admit they produce the only tolerable wine on the continent, and trust me, I’ve tried it all.”

Spyder lets a soft smile ghost his lips as he takes another sip of wine, his eyes meeting Schpood’s, who grins back at him. A warm feeling wells up in Spyder’s chest. He can’t place it. Something less like the protectiveness or anxieties he typically feels…and more like a peculiar feeling of comfort.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The second bottle of wine is half-empty by now, or half-full, depending on who’s counting. Most of it ended up in Schpood’s glass, but Spyder still has had more than he has in years. His head is buzzing with ease, or perhaps just alcohol.
The wine is sweet and rich, the kind that stains the tongue and makes laughter seem like second nature. Sometime between the first and second bottle, Spyder and Schpood have somehow migrated away from the desk and to the low couches near the balcony.
The air is warm and honey-thick with humidity this late in the night, the fire long dead in the hearth. Somewhere in the distance, the guards change shift, and below them, Westhelm hums with sleep. The citadel feels more distant than it ever has—the senator’s never-ending concerns fade into the background, as does the constant pressure of expectation and duty.

Schpood is sitting next to Spyder, half-sprawled across the couch, his crown discarded on the floor at his feet, cape covering him like a blanket, one boot dangling from his foot. He runs his hands through his disheveled hair as he laughs loudly and brightly. Not the laughter that he uses in public, or with the senators—the kind intended to charm or persuade. It’s ridiculously unguarded and real.
Spyder has never seen Schpood look so human before. In the past few months, since he has been promoted to second-in-command, he has never actually spent time alone with Schpood. Even before that, the emperor typically did this Owo—not him.
Now, alone with the emperor, in the dead of night, Spyder is finally able to truly see the man that he has pledged his life to. Here, he isn’t the untouchable, immortal ruler he makes himself out to be. He is completely stripped of anything that could signify that he is the same terrifying and eccentric Emperor who demands blood to be spilled in his name.

For the first time ever in Spyder’s eyes, Schpood is just another man. And he enjoys it immensely.

“Look, say what you will about Elysium and that Benji Button,” Schpood rants, sloshing the wine in his cup, “but they really do make a good vintage for being a nation of ‘peace’ or whatever. I’d start a war just to secure the trade routes, honestly.”

“You nearly did,” Spyder reminds him with a grimace, recalling the ridiculous number of meetings he had to hold with the senate about it.

“Nearly,” Schpood echoes with a grin, holding up a finger proudly. “Which means I showed restraint. You should commend me for that.”

Spyder snorts, taking a long sip of wine. “You didn’t show restraint. You got bored.”

“Same thing. I forgot how much paperwork is necessary to start a war,” Schpood waves him off.

“You are aware that I’m the one who does all the paperwork, right? I was half tempted to go throw it all in the volcano people’s ‘holy lava.’”

Schpood laughs lightly, swirling his cup. “That’s at least the third joke you’ve made tonight that wasn’t at the senators’ expense.”

Spyder smirks, pleased with himself, though his heart is beating too fast for it to be considered normal. “Even I have moments of mercy.”

“Ah, mercy,” Schpood says, leaning back into the pillows with a faint, weary smile. “That’s what they call it when you spare someone from your ceaseless wit?”

“When they deserve it,” Spyder replies with an alcohol-emboldened smirk, tipping his cup toward Schpood. “Which you currently do not.”

Schpood snorts into his wine at the jab, nearly spilling it. “You wound me.”

“Not fatally.”

After that, the air in between them lapses into a comfortable silence. The realization settles deep in Spyder’s chest, just how comfortable he is—how easy this is. How much he actually enjoys spending time with Schpood outside of their duties.
Spyder seldom talks like this. Without an audience, without performing, without the weight of duty crushing every word that leaves his mouth into something placating and approved. Tonight, he only has that clumsy honesty formed from too much wine and too little sleep.
It’s strange to let go of titles, even if it’s only for a few hours. He doesn’t have to be the consul, and Schpood isn’t the Emperor. They’re just two people sitting a bit too close, half-drunk on something that feels a little bit like freedom.

Schpood’s gaze drifts toward the window, to the faint glow of the city below, as the silence lapses into thought. His hand lingers on the rim of his glass as his eyes turn glassy and distant. The humor drains slowly from his face until something raw and reflective is mirrored on it. It’s not an expression that he sees the emperor wear often.

Spyder observes the slight change in demeanor and frowns,
“Schpood?” he says softly.

The emperor hums in response, eyes still unfocused as he stares at the night sky. He readjusts himself on the couch, sitting up on the pillows as the glow of the candlelight paints his sharp jawline amber.
There’s a rhythm to Schpood’s typical moods: boldness, humor, deflection. But tonight there’s something twinged underneath all of his normal bravado, a mood that feels a little too close to the truth. Schpood pauses for a moment before turning his gaze to Spyder, eyes lidded with a mixture of exhaustion and drunkenness.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” Schpood asks softly.

“Of what?” Spyder frowns at him.

“The pretending. The smiling. The performance.” Schpood says with a sigh, looking into his mostly empty cup as if it holds the answers.

Spyder blinks, taken aback at the confession, “I wasn’t aware you were performing.”

“Of course I am,” Schpood smirks slightly, though his sadness evident in his eyes doesn’t quite match the practiced expression. “That’s what makes me so good at it.”

The answer slips out much too easily, rehearsed and bitter. The words hang there for a moment, Spyder unsure what to do with this revelation. He’s not quite certain how to process the fact that his notion of the emperor is based on nothing more than a carefully crafted facade.

As soon as his thoughts make their way through the haze of wine and he opens his mouth to offer a response, Schpood waves a hand as if swatting away the comment before it can even be uttered aloud. He glances back at Spyder.

“Don’t look so grim,” Schpood scoffs, reaching for the bottle of wine. He pours them both another drink, successfully emptying the bottle. “This is a party, after all. A very sad, quiet, two-person party, but still a party! And I love a party.” He says with less conviction than he probably intends.

“Is this considered a party?”

“Everything is, if you try hard enough.” He lifts his glass in a mock toast. “To the empire, and to the fools who keep it running.”

Spyder raises his cup, but doesn’t drink, concern laced between his eyebrows. “That includes you.”

“Unfortunately.”

Schpood drinks deeply, the motion sharp and desperate, as he lets out a sudden, harsh bark of laughter. It’s full of something biting, so heavy with spite that it seems to cut through the air. Spyder flinches despite himself, something in his chest twisting with a feeling he’s too drunk and anxious to name.

Instead, he settles for a small, controlled frown. “You’re drunk.”

“And so are you,” Schpood replies, poking Spyder’s shoulder, slurring his words slightly. “Which is probably why you’re significantly more tolerable.”

They both laugh, though Spyder has to force the sound past the lump in his throat. It comes out awkward and choked. His eyes don’t leave Schpood’s face as the silence creeps back in, quieter than before and filled with something tense.

Schpood finishes his glass of wine before setting it down on the low table next to him with an excessive amount of force. Documents scatter, quills rolling onto the floor as his eyes glance back at the desk where documents and treaties lay abandoned. His face sours, lip twitching.

“Jophiel sent another letter,” he says abruptly, voice distant.

Spyder’s head lifts in surprise. “You actually read those?”

“Yes, yes of course. She’s my… fiancée.” He says too quickly, like the very word burns his tongue. His lips twist as if the syllables taste wrong in his mouth. He glares at his glass of wine as he grumbles, “Very proper, very formal. Full of blessings for the union and optimism for the shared future of our nations and all that nonsense. The kind of thing that makes my stomach ache.”

Spyder watches him, the room spinning a little as the words sink in. The realization hits hard, making him feel sick. For all of their discussions about the state of Westhelm, or all of the wine consumed in the past, the emperor has never discussed his feelings on the union before.

“You…” Spyder hesitates. “You don’t want to marry her?”

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. I mean, after all, Schpood has never even met the woman, and the marriage wasn’t his idea in the first place. But still. She was pretty, powerful, and extremely wealthy. It would benefit Westhelm, and by extension, Schpood. And he had agreed to it. Schpood, who never did anything he didn’t want to do.

Schpood just shrugs loosely, his lips curling into something between a smile and a wince. He briefly glances over at Spyder, “I don’t want to marry anyone like this—just because the senate and the diplomats decide I should.”

Spyder studies him quietly, wine in his stomach turning sour. Pity makes its way up his throat like bile, stinging his throat. He feels partly responsible. “You aren’t in love.”

“Of course I’m not in love with her.” Schpood lets out a scoff under his breath. “Love’s a luxury I was never promised. When I ascended to the throne, I was warned that love is nothing more than the sin of lesser rulers. That my feelings were second to the Empire.”

There’s no humor in his voice now; tone full of resentment and longing. He doesn’t try to hide his disdain; there is nothing more than a rare, overwhelming weariness stripped of all charm or pretense. There is only the weight of cruel duty, the kind that Spyder knows all too well—though he has never seen Schpood wear it plainly before.

“You should refuse,” Spyder blurts out before he can stop himself. It comes out low and raw, his voice clumsy and childish. As soon as the words slip out, he regrets them. Diplomatically, he is consciously aware that it is an impossible, disastrous suggestion. Emotionally, however…well.

For some strange reason, the idea of Schpood being forced into a future he doesn't want, with someone he doesn’t love, feels utterly unbearable.

“I could refuse, I suppose.” Schpood agrees, looking thoughtful, glancing longingly at Spyder. Then, tilting his head, he looks away as he scoffs: “And then what? Watch trade falter? Face hostility from other nations? Subject the empire to more attempted coups or assassination attempts? It would be my fault.”

Spyder doesn’t answer. His hands are tight around his wine glass, knuckles quickly turning white.

He reasons with himself that Schpood is right, that he is simply being a noble leader. This is how it must be: that duty comes with sacrifice. That it isn’t personal, it isn’t a big deal. It isn’t about him.
And yet, in the quiet of the night, with the candlelight making Schpood look more enchanting than normal and wine clouding his judgment, his pulse refuses to steady.
He scolds himself mentally that this feeling is simply loyalty. It is a dutiful concern. It can’t be anything else. He won’t let it be anything else. But the truth threatens to suffocate him anyway.

Schpood smiles again as if to comfort Spyder—that practiced and precise smile he uses when trying to placate the senate. But Spyder knows Schpood better than anyone, and it’s too slow, too forced. He sees the effort it takes to paint it across his face, the tremor at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s strange, hm?” Schpood muses. “How quickly duty begins to look like sacrifice, and how sacrifice starts to look like an inevitability.”

Spyder frowns, “Are you quoting something?”

“I can’t remember. Perhaps I am. Or maybe I’m simply trying to convince myself this is wisdom and not cowardice.” Schpood’s laugh is small and bitter as he rubs his forehead. “Everyone keeps asking about the engagement. The alliance. The future of Westhelm. And I just tell them what they need to hear.”

He looks up at Spyder then, making eye contact that feels charged the way a storm is right before lightning strikes. For a heartbeat too long for it to be considered casual, they simply look at each other. The room feels small all of a sudden, and Spyder is incredibly conscious of the way that his knee is just inches away from Schpood’s.
His breath catches in his throat before he can stop it. Schpood’s eyes, which are usually sharp and confident, look uncertain and timid in the firelight. The sight of it sends shivers down Spyder’s spine. He hesitates for a brief moment, his heart in a barfight with his brain. He knows he’s not supposed to care like this—so deeply, so personally. He would never ask normally, but the casual intimacy of the night makes him feel reckless enough to dance in the storm.

“And what do you need to hear?” He whispers, finally.

The question lands between them like a confession.

Schpood blinks at the uncharacteristic earnestness from his second-in-command. His lips twitch into a fragile smile, his poise faltering at the genuineness on Spyder’s face. He softens, licking his lips uncomfortably. “That it’s fine,” he murmurs, voice cracking on the word. “That it doesn’t matter. That it’s all for the good of the nation. That love has nothing to do with it. That I cannot follow my heart.”

He closes his eyes, expression pained as he reaches blindly for his empty glass next to him, just to have something to hold. It does not escape Spyder’s attention just how hard Schpood’s fingers are trembling.

“Is that what you believe, though?” Spyder asks, the words coming out tender and slightly too personal. He doesn’t sound like a soldier, or a politician, or even the Consul. He sounds like a friend. Or maybe something else entirely.

Schpood exhales slowly, clenching his fingers reflexively around the empty glass. His gaze lifts once more, finding Spyder’s. His eyes are full of conflict and yearning. “I’m really trying to.”

The silence that follows is unbearably thick, filled with words unspoken. Ones that have the potential to irrevocably change everything. Ones that both men refuse to say. The fire crackles, and someone laughs far in the distance. It all feels far away to Spyder as he studies Schpood.
He looks utterly exhausted. The slouch in his shoulders, the raw vulnerability. For once, he is trusting himself to be truly seen. No placating smile or performance. He is just another man trying to convince himself that he’s doing the right thing. Spyder wonders if he looks the same. The thought makes him feel nauseous and comforted all at once.

“Do you think you could love her eventually?” Spyder asks at last. The question feels fragile as it slips out. But he wants to know. He needs to know.

Schpood’s eyes flick up — startled, sharp, as though the question itself is one that he has never prepared to answer. His expression flickers as he fights an internal battle, biting his lip in thought. But after a moment, they soften as he looks away, avoiding Spyder’s eyes.

“I don’t even know her, Spyder.”

The confession settles somewhere deep in Spyder’s chest, and suddenly, he doesn’t trust his voice enough to respond. He can only watch as Schpood looks away again, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, as if he’s waiting to be condemned for his honesty.
Spyder swallows hard. The air feels heavy, pressing against his ribs, and his heart stutters. He ignores it as he tries to find an acceptable response to the revelation.

“She seems nice,” he says finally, the words flat and unconvincing. The words taste sour on his tongue, yet he manages to spit them out, “I’m sure she’ll make a good Empress.”

Schpood’s mouth twists into something like a grimace. “Perhaps,” he murmurs hollowly, eyes catching Spyder’s once more. “But it won’t be because of love.”

He leans back in his chair at that, resigned, glancing back towards the paperwork on his desk like a man being led towards the gallows. For a moment, he looks like the untouchable emperor again, an eccentric and terrifying man formed from duty and responsibility. But Spyder knows better now. He’s seen the man underneath, the real Schpood—the fragile, conflicted one.

Spyder wants to reach for the emperor. He wants to wrap his arms around the man. But Spyder reminds himself that he cannot—there’s an invisible line drawn by their positions, one that he is ridiculously aware of. It is not one he dares test more than he already has.

Schpood’s smile returns after a moment, faint and uneven, as he turns back to Spyder. His eyes are clouded as he chuckles deprecatingly at himself, holding up his empty wine glass.

“Forgive me, I’m just drunk and melancholic. A terrible combination for an emperor.”

Spyder manages a small, timid smile. “Could be worse, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“Could be drunk and honest.”

Schpood laughs ruefully despite himself, observing Spyder with a thoughtful look. It makes something twist pleasantly in Spyder’s gut.

Schpood responds after a moment, the words whispered so softly that Spyder almost misses it,
“I think that’s what I’m afraid of.”

The honesty hangs between them, suspended in the stillness of the night as they search each other’s eyes, not fully daring to cross that line.
Spyder feels a lump in his throat as the words rush through him. He tells himself the feeling is nothing more than loyalty. He doesn’t want to ask if it’s more.

He doesn’t dare name the feeling love.

Chapter Text

Schpood signs the formal marriage agreement the next afternoon.

The Senate chamber hums with restrained anticipation, as if the air itself is holding its breath for the momentous occasion of the first-ever cross-island alliance. The long obsidian table gleams beneath the chandelier’s light, reflecting the faces of the prominent people from all over the empire who are seated around it. Their faces are arranged in various masks of solemnity, ambition, and barely concealed satisfaction.
At the head of the long table sits Emperor Schpood, his posture impeccable, expression carved from the same polished stone that lines the walls.
Spyder stands a step behind his chair, as always, hand on his sword as the quiet shadow beside the throne. His gaze flicks over the assembled senators: Lizzie with her meticulously arranged notes, Bardun’s practiced diplomatic half-smile that Spyder knows all too well from Blue Cross meetings, the rest of them each representing a small but vital slice of Westhelm’s fragile governmental order.

The parchment lies before Schpood, its ribbon untied, the colorful banner of Tricolor catching the light. The marriage decree. With only one single, final signature necessary to bind the two nations together.

“Your Majesty,” Legate Bardun says smoothly, “this union will ensure stable trade with Tricolor. Their trade routes and resources are essential, and Queen Jophiel and her counsel have already approved the terms. It is an act of peace and prosperity for not only Westhelm, but all of Island One.”

Peace and prosperity. The words ring hollow in Spyder’s ears, rehearsed a thousand times in council chambers, whispered through clenched teeth at diplomatic meetings. He knows their placating and practiced cadence intimately, how noble they sound despite the biting and bitter taste they leave every time he utters them.

Schpood nods once in acknowledgement, his expression unreadable as he reaches for the quill. His fingers are steady—but only barely. Spyder notices the faint tremor, the almost imperceptible hesitant pause before ink touches parchment.
He wonders if anyone else notices, yet doubts it. If they had noticed, they wouldn’t care the way he does.

Senator Lizzie clears her throat as Schpood signs his name, “This will also strengthen our diplomatic leverage against the Requiem alliance, Your Majesty. Westhelm is grateful for your commitment to ensuring prosperity for its citizens.”

Commitment. Another word for sacrifice. Another word for insurmountable loss.

Spyder manages to keep his face still, but he feels the pulse in his temple, the quiet flush of rage that he has no right to feel. He reminds himself of his role. He is the Consul. The silent blade of the Empire. He is the man who ensures Westhelm stands, no matter what must be given up to keep it alive. No matter if the very thing being sacrificed is Schpood’s happiness.
And yet, watching Schpood’s hand set the future in stone, he can’t help but feel something quietly crack in his chest.

He should be proud of this. This is the diplomacy he has worked for his whole life; it is proof of Schpood’s leadership and Westhelm’s endurance. But the thought curdles as soon as it forms. He cannot celebrate when it feels like this is nothing more than loss arriving early.

Schpood finishes sighing his name with a defeated flourish.

The echoing sound of the quill scratching across parchment is deafening in the silence of the chamber full of Senators holding their breath. When he sets the quill down, Schpood exhales—quiet and measured, like the resignation of a man who has just buried something.
Polite, relieved applause breaks out around the table. The senators slowly rise to their feet, murmuring congratulations and blessings to the Empire. The air fills with the rustle of papers and the clinking of glasses as servants pour the same expensive wine that Schpood and Spyder shared just last night.

Spyder stands frozen behind Schpood, set apart from the celebration, fighting the nausea he feels at the scene.

Schpood accepts the congratulations from his chair with a diplomat’s grace, his facade strong and resilient. Only Spyder, who knows the emperor better than anyone, is able to notice the slight cracks in his performance— how his smile falters when no one is looking, how tightly his fingers are gripping his goblet, the distracted glaze in his eyes.

Lizzie approaches Schpood with her usual briskness, extravagant robes billowing around her, “This is truly a momentous day, Your Majesty. The empire will remember your sacrifice for decades to come.”

“Sacrifice,” Schpood repeats softly, almost to himself, face falling momentarily. He recovers just as quickly, flashing that infuriatingly perfect smile that could charm even the coldest senator, “Anything for Westhelm.”

Spyder’s stomach knots as he watches the exchange. The words have more meaning to Spyder than any of the Senators are aware of. He knows the smile on Schpood’s face—he helped build it. Craft it. Perfect it. He is the one who taught Schpood how to wear conviction like armor, how to let the people see strength instead of the truth. He told him once, long ago, that people don’t follow men—they follow the illusions they build around them.

Schpood had laughed at Spyder’s words then. He had still been certain and bright and confident about the future. He had never tasted the bitter sacrifice of what being a leader meant.
But he had tasted it today, and it was evident to Spyder that any of the remaining naive brightness the emperor once held had been completely diminished the second he signed his name on the marriage contract. Schpood is suffocating inside the illusion Spyder helped him create.

A few hours later, the senators had dispersed, leaving the echo of polite conversation behind in order to prepare for the celebratory banquet to be hosted later in the night. But Spyder remains in the Citadel meeting hall with the Emperor. The parchment still lies on the table, the ink barely dry. It is a fragile, flammable thing that simultaneously holds the fate of millions of lives in its signature.

Schpood finally stands from his chair, rubbing at his temple. Any decorum has vanished and been replaced by the heavy truth. The emperor’s posture collapses,
“Do you ever wonder, Spyder, how much of peace is built on the bones of choice?”

Spyder hesitates. He knows the diplomatic response to this question. The right answer is easy—he’s said it a hundred times before—but today, the words catch in his throat as he says them, “Peace requires sacrifice.”

He hears the lie in his own voice. It sits bitter on his tongue, heavy and sharp. Schpood laughs wryly; he knows it’s a lie too.

“That’s what they say.” Schpood’s tone is breezy as he leans against the table, arms crossed. But his eyes betray him–his gaze is fragile and bitter as he stares at Spyder. “Do you think that’s true, Spyder? That peace and sacrifice are the same thing?”

Spyder opens his mouth to tell the Emperor the truth, but no words come out. For some reason, he cannot find it in himself to force a placating lie out of his lips when he looks at Schpood. Schpood who has the fate of an entire Empire resting on his shoulders, Schpood who deserves more than what he is allowed.
Spyder wants to tell him the truth—that any peace worth having shouldn’t come at the expense of love—but he can’t. Not here. Not to him. Instead, he bites his tongue and flails for a response that doesn’t sound like treason.

He settles on, “It’s what keeps empires standing."

Schpood scoffs without any humor at the thinly veiled platitude, “Then I suppose I should be grateful my knees haven’t buckled yet.”

Spyder feels immensely guilty. He desperately wishes he was allowed to be honest. He wishes he was able to comfort the emperor, wishes he was able to stop the marriage, wishes he had burned the first message from Tricolor when it arrived all those months ago. Above all, in this moment, Spyder desperately wishes he wasn’t the Consul.

But he is. And that means making painful choices. It means putting aside personal feelings, not allowing himself to be selfish. Still, this knowledge does not make Spyder feel any better when he looks at Schpood, who has disappointment written plainly across his face.

Schpood pushes off the table abruptly, dragging a hand down his face with a shuddering sigh. He takes a few steps towards Spyder before whirling around as if he can’t bear to look him in the eye. Spyder feels a pang of self-loathing. He wishes he could say something, anything, to fix the situation. But it is done now, and words cannot erase the actions of the past.
He debates walking over to Schpood, laying a hand on his shoulder. But he doesn't.

Instead, he suggests carefully, “Perhaps you should rest before the banquet.”

“Rest?” Schpood laughs softly, spinning around. His eyes look panicked and slightly deranged, like an animal trapped in a snare. “The ink isn’t even dry, and I’ve already condemned myself to a lifetime of loathing, a lifetime of lovelessness!”

Spyder looks down at his hands. It is too painful to see the pained expression on the Emperor’s face. It is too painful to reconcile with the truth. So instead, he settles back into the comfort of the cold, dutiful Consul role. It is safer than compassion.

“It was necessary.”

“Of course it was,” Schpood murmurs, stalking towards Spyder, something raw flashing in his eyes. It looks strangely like unbridled despair. “Everything I do is necessary, isn’t it? After all, that’s what you’ve always told me.”

He stops just inches away from Spyder, his voice ragged. Schpood’s fingers are twitching, deep brown eyes locked on Spyder’s guilty green ones.

“I never had a choice in this. I never do. You never let me.” Schpood accuses Spyder, venom laced in his words.

Spyder flinches. Schpood is right—he never had a choice. Spyder and the senators had decided that this was necessary months ago, only consulting Schpood after negotiations were half complete. Spyder had been so preoccupied with duty and fulfilling his role of securing the nation that he had sacrificed Schpood’s happiness to achieve it. It was cruelty wrapped in reason.

Spyder doesn’t answer the accusation. He can’t. He doesn’t trust his voice to remain steady in the face of the knowledge that he cared too little too late. He wishes he could comfort Schpood—not as the Consul, bound by duty, but as someone who understands the fragile balance of the world they live in. But he doesn’t move. There are rules carved into his very bones, a thousand unspoken boundaries that bind his hands.

Instead, he looks up at Schpood with trembling hands hanging loosely by his sides. Schpood searches his guilty eyes with desperation. Spyder holds his gaze, lets the Emperor see what he is too afraid to say out loud. Recognition. Permission. Understanding. Spyder allows his true feelings to mar his face for once, hoping that Schpood will read between the lines and understand what Spyder cannot say aloud.

Schpood nods then, face crumpling at the unspoken apology. He steps back with an exhale, the air around him easing,
“It weighs on you as much as it does me.”

Spyder swallows heavily as he confesses, “Every day.”

Schpood smiles faintly, weary, but the first real smile he’s had all day, “Then I suppose we’re damned together.”

There’s an intimacy to the words that leaves Spyder motionless, even as the Emperor turns to leave. The world feels smaller, quieter somehow.

He wonders if this is what trust is; not the clean certainty of loyalty, but the dangerous and fragile honesty that you lay at someone’s feet, giving them the power to wield it as a weapon.
He should remind himself that Schpood is the Emperor. This honesty, this closeness...it cannot be anything but dangerous. His empathy is inherently selfish.

But all he can think about is just how human Schpood is when he stops performing.
And how utterly beautiful he is.

Chapter Text

The bells of the Citadel toll twelve times in a slow, deliberate rhythm, sending a resounding peal rolling through the city streets. Below the Citadel’s balconies, hundreds of banners bearing the scarlet and gold Westhelm crest ripple in the humid air, incense smoke rising in pale spirals, coating the city with the thick smell of something holy. The air is thick with voices humming with reverence and celebration.

From his position on the side of the dais, Spyder can feel the excitement and hunger of the people vibrating the very floor he stands on. Spyder watches the enormous crowd from the gallery overlooking the square. People jostle for better positions, their expressions ravenous as they scream ecstatic cheers and chants. High above the chaos of the citizens, Spyder stands dutifully next to Schpood, one hand on his weapon, expression taunt.

Today, the people would rededicate themselves to Westhelm—to Schpood. This frivolous display is a declaration of spectacle, a demonstration of the Emperor’s strength.
But, for the first time, there is a sinister undercurrent in the celebration. Today is not just about celebration. Today is about control. It is irrefutable roof that Schpood belongs not to himself, but to Westhelm—to duty, to sacrifice. And certainly not to Spyder.

The sundial on the top of the citadel casts single golden beam of sunlight onto the dais, where Schpood stands in his crimson ceremonial robes, the crest of Westhelm emblazoned across his chest like a brand. The light catches his hair and makes his head look like it’s on fire. The clothing was impeccably crafted by the best designers on the island in order to paint Schpood as someone invincible. His golden laurel gleams with divine pretense. His robes scream wealth and power. To the citizens, he must look like something holy.

Spyder knows better. Now, the excessive regalia only makes Schpood seem smaller, like he is drowning in the enormity of what he must represent.

Five days have passed since Schpood signed the marriage agreement.

Five long days in which Schpood has somehow managed not to break down publicly. He has bit his lip instead of screaming at the guards, kept his compose in front of the senators, and only punished the appropriate amount of criminals.

And yet, in the few quiet hours between dusk and dawn, Spyder has seen firsthand the way the Emperor is slowly collapsing. He lets Spyder linger longer now, trust growing quickly in the comfort of their silent understanding. He doesn’t bother to hide the way he is unraveling anymore, which both pleases and worries Spyder immensely.

Once, after midnight, Spyder had watched as Schpood lay sprawled on the cold stone floor of his office, surrounded by dozens of maps. He had traced the borders of Westhelm with his finger, whispering the names of the many integrated factions as if to remind himself that they were real, that they were worth enduring a life devoid of love for.
Spyder hadn’t said anything—hadn’t stopped him. He had only quietly draped a quilt over his shoulders and sat beside him on the floor until dawn, affection blooming in his chest.

His mind drifts to last night, to Schpood sitting on the low couches in his private office, the way the man so obviously flinched every time the fire crackled a bit louder than usual.
They sat in silence, the office filled with that unspeakable dread that comes before the march to the gallows. Schpood pretended he wasn’t bothered, and Spyder pretended to believe him. Several times, Spyder had looked up to check on the Emperor, only to find Schpood already staring at him. Once, the Emperor’s hand had purposefully brushed against his for a moment, seeking comfort.

Spyder had wanted to reassure the man that he was not alone, that he understood more than anyone else possibly could. But he had bit his lip and said nothing. He had only pulled his hand away and poured Schpood more wine. The words he wanted to say were too dangerous. It was too late to say them anyways.

But now, the hazy quiet of the past few nights is gone. All that remains is the heavy armour of duty. Today, Spyder is the Consul and Schpood is the Emperor.

When the Head Senator, Jett, steps forward on the dias, his arms outreached, the citizens below fall silent in anticipation.
“By decree of the Emperor and in service to the gods” he announces ceremoniously to the crowd, voice rich booming across the square, “we gather to consecrate the alliance between Westhelm and Tricolor. May it bind our nations in faith as well as policy, in spirit as well as trade.”

Schpood bows his head slightly, and Spyder’s hand tightens reflexively on the hilt of his sword as he grits his teeth. The words that Jett speaks are ritual, prewritten, but he the weight of the words presses heavy on Spyder’s shoulders.

They make it sound like something noble—but even a gilded cage is still just a cage.

He watches Schpood’s face carefully out the corner of his eye. The Emperor’s features are composed, devoid of any emotion as he recites the vows written for him by the senate. They are the same words that Spyder patiently helped him memorize just last night. Now, the words ring heavy and hollow as Schpood proclaims them in front of the entirety of Westhelm, voice stoic and stripped of the softness Spyder has grown accustomed to.

“I swear to serve Westhelm in the sight of gods and men, I bind my will to that of the Empire, to lay down my desires on the altar of peace in exchange for a fruitful alliance and a secure future for all.”

The phrasing is old, probably inspired by Westhelm’s founding oaths, but Spyder still feels something twist in his gut when Schpood says "lay down my desires."He has to clench his fists to keep himself steady as he hears the waver in Schpood’s voice. He wonders if it is just overthinking, if anyone else noticed the slight tremble in his voice. If they had, they certainly wouldn't care.

The senators on the balcony beam and murmur their approval as they raise their hands in blessing. The crowd below them erupts with pride, screaming and clambering to show their love. They can only see the facade that Schpood wears; the radiant, unshaken Emperor who is saving their nation. It is the same facade Spyder had fallen for until just last week.
But now, Spyder sees the man beneath the performance. He can see the faint tremor in Schpood’s jaw, the way his throat works as he swallows the silence after the oath. Spyder knows what that look means. It’s the one Schpood wears when he’s teetering on the brink of breaking down.

When Jett anoints his forehead with burning oil, Schpood doesn’t even flinch. To the rest of the senate, it is a reminder of his strength. To Spyder, it is a reminder of his own helplessness, resignation hollowing its way into his heart as the oil scorches the Emperor.

“May the light of the gods shine through you,” Jett proclaims. “May your hand never falter, may your reign never waver.”

The Emperor recites the response that has been drilled into his head, “May Westhelm endure.”

And for the first time, Spyder’s gut sinks as he understands the unspoken double meaning buried beneath the words: even if I do not.

The crowd erupts in cheers once more, thousands of voices melding into a single demented creature formed of unwavering devotion. Spyder’s gaze does not waver from Schpood’s profile as the people celebrate, the golden light of the sun catching on his eyelashes. Schpood looks both like something holy and doomed.
For a brief second, the Emperor glances over his shoulder and his eyes fall on Spyder’s pained expression. He blinks, his smile faltering, before turning back to the crowd and raising his hand to wave at the adoring faces below.

Spyder’s heart stutters and he has to remind himself to breathe. He remembers Schpood’s soft laughter two nights ago, tender and disbelieving, when Spyder had helped him untangle one of the numerous ceremonial chains from his cloak. The laughter had broken halfway through into something fragile as Schpood stared into Spyder’s eyes, searching, begging.
He hesitantly laid his hand over Spyder’s, immobilizing it where it lay on Schpood’s chest.

“Do you think the gods are laughing at us, Spyder?”

Spyder hadn’t known how to answer then. He had simply scoffed and removed his hand from under Schpood’s, looking anywhere but at the man’s face as he resumed attempting to untangle the golden chains. He had the sinking feeling that he would do something inappropriate if looked at Schpood.

But now, in this moment, Spyder finally has an answer to Schpood’s question. He comes to the realization bitterly. This is the result of a cruel joke played by the gods.
To watch him create his own undoing, to watch him come to the sharp realization that he has irrevocably doomed himself.

He thinks he can hear the gods laughing somewhere among the crowd.

Chapter Text

The ceremony stretches on for hours—the excess celebration Westhelm is famous for. There are offerings of grain and gold laid at the feet of marble statues, speeches from Senators whose words blur into monotony after the first twenty minutes.

Spyder’s focus drifts more than once as the sun beats down on him. He’s heard all of this too many times. He watches the people in the crowd, their faces upturned, eyes bright and fervent, hands clasped over their hearts in awe of the power they would never have the privilege to touch.

He used to envy those on this very same dias. But now that he’s the one standing here, sweat rolling down his back, teeth gritted at the facade, he only envies their ignorance.
When the ceremony concludes after several hours, Schpood descends the steps with practiced and careful grace, acknowledging the senators’ bows and the people’s smiles. He uses that cursed smile, the one that Spyder taught him years ago—warm and cocky, yet utterly unknowable and fake.

Spyder takes his place directly behind the Emperor, eyes instinctively darting around the crowd to search for anyone with weapons, anyone out of place. The procession makes its way through the Forum: Senators in billowing robes and content smiles, elite soldiers bearing the Westhelm crest proudly, bright-eyed children scrambling to catch a glimpse of the man they revered as legend. Schpood walks at the center of it all, hand raised, golden laurels glittering atop his carefully tamed curls.

The cobblestone streets are slick with spilled oil and beer, the air thick with incense and oppressive heat. Schpood’s posture is perfect, every gesture rehearsed, but Spyder can feel the exhaustion from the last few nights radiating off him like a fever. There is a pang in his heart as he pictures Schpood’s face—the terracotta paint under his eyes that just barely covers the dark circles, the way his chapped lips crack every time he attempts to smile, the purple vein that swells in his neck when he’s upset.

Spyder wants to step forward, place a hand on his back to steady him, reassure him that the performance is almost over, that he is right here.

The crowd passionately chants the Emperor’s name as the procession passes them.
Schpood. Schpood. Schpood.

It sounds more like a plea than a celebration.

When they finally reach the entrance to the palace, Spyder exhales at the sight of the gleaming marble and stone. Inside the palace, there is still performance, but it is not as heavy. Especially when he is alone. When he is with Schpood.

As the procession walks through the gates, the noise of the city softens into a muted roar. The Senators do not linger, immediately heading for the Great Hall to celebrate with copious amount of alcohol, as if this is truly worth celebrating. They murmur banal congratulations to Schpood as they hastily depart. The guards and soldiers huddle together, faces beaming as they discuss their plans for the night.

Nobody checks on Schpood as he silently makes a beeline for his chambers. Nobody follows him except Spyder.

Schpood walks briskly through the dim halls, the servants in the process of relighting the candles in preparation for the swiftly falling darkness of the night. Several servants bow anxiously to him as he passes, eyes wide at the sight of the revered, golden Emperor.

Spyder hurries to keep up with the man, his footsteps echoing loudly against the stone as he quickens his pace. Schpood recognizes the familiar footsteps of his second in command and slows his gait slightly, ceremonial robe dragging across the floor behind him. When Spyder reaches the Emperor’s side, he immediately looks over at Schpood’s side profile, taking in the obvious discomposure on the man’s face, his breath shallow and uneven as he clenches and unclenches his fists.

It is all Spyder needs to immediately turn towards the servants who are idling in the hall, watching the pair with obvious interest. He dismisses them with a stern look and flick of his hand. They scamper away almost instantly, the heavy oak doors of the hall shutting loudly behind them.

As soon as they are alone, Schpood abruptly stops walking. He immediately strips himself of the facade, dropping his shoulders as he exhales sharply. There is disgust on Schpood’s face as he reaches up and removes the laurels from his head. He holds the golden crown with trembling fingers as he stares down at it with malice.

Spyder stands hesitantly beside him, lump stuck in his throat as he glances between the Emperor’s glassy eyes and the laurels in his hands. He isn’t sure what to say, or how to say it. He knows the grief that Schpood feels cannot be lessened by anyone, especially not him.

Schpood sighs wearily, the hand holding his crown dropping heavily at his side. Spyder shuffles on his feet guiltily as he takes this in, waiting for the Emperor to break the tense silence. After a moment, Schpood finally looks at Spyder, observing the way he is similarly disheveled; blonde curls frizzy from the heat, eyes rimmed with red, hands shaking.

Schpood’s expression is raw as he studies Spyder. He shakes his head briefly before turning his face upwards and closing his eyes.
“Tell me, Spyder. When you look at me, what do you really see?”

Spyder hesitates, heart stuttering, as he observes the Emperor. His eyes roam over the man’s figure briefly, noting the pained expression on his face, the crown dangling loosely from his fingertips, the stained hem of his robes, his dark eyelashes brushing against the flush on his cheeks.
He could take the easy way out and say "The Emperor", or "a leader who has done what must be done." But what Spyder truly sees when he looks at Schpood’s exhausted form is the most beautiful, selfless man he has ever met. He sees a man who is unraveling under the unbearable weight of expectation and duty.

“I see someone who is trying to hold the whole country together with his bare hands,” Spyder answers finally, voice timid and earnest. “And someone who shouldn’t have to bleed for it alone.”

Schpood’s breath shudders as he opens his eyes. He glances over at Spyder, his gaze soft and tender. For a moment, they simply look at each other, the two sides of the same coin. The air between them feels charged, an unspoken understanding passing between the two.
They stand there, unmoving, eyes locked as the last of the daylight fades, the dull roar of the celebration outside turning to static. Spyder can hear his own heartbeat in his chest, and feels the familiar and increasing urge to reach out to Schpood, to bridge the ever-shortening distance between what he feels and what he is allowed to do. As always, though, his hands remain by his sides.

Schpood finally speaks, his voice barely a whisper as he confides, “I’m afraid that I will lose myself in this. I’m afraid there will be nothing left of me but performance when this is over.”

Spyder swallows thickly, his voice coming out more confident than he feels, “I will make sure something of you endures.”

A fragile silence follows. Outside, the bells toll and the sound of fireworks echoes across the city, but it sounds softer now, somehow less threatening. Schpood exhales softly, a sound caught between grief and gratitude.

He nods slowly, eyes warming as the smallest amused smile flickers across his lips. “A week ago, I might have thought that was nothing more than an obligatory platitude.”

The words sting, however true they may be. A week ago, they were performing the illusion of friendship. Now, though, they hold something more between them—something deeper, something dangerous. They are the only people in the world who truly know the other. It sends a selfish thrill down Spyder’s spine to know that this version of Schpood is his alone.

“A week ago,” Spyder admits quietly, “we were afraid of the truth. But now that I have seen it, I would do anything to ensure it remains.”

Spyder meets Schpood’s tender gaze, where something unspeakable is thinly veiled— trust, guilt, devotion. It is a fragile kind of look, one that only exists in the cracks of an empire…or in the slow and dangerous unwraveling of a king.

At last, Schpood smiles softly, turning toward the window, gazing at the city below. The people cheer as torches ignite across the city, voices distant yet fervent.
Spyder stands beside him, content to simply be in Schpood’s presence. He watches the plebeians dancing, their faces ecstatic as alcohol is consumed and fireworks light up the sky. The sight of them being so happy should make him feel triumphant — the ceremony is done, the alliance secured, the people more devoted to the Empire than ever.

But when Schpood purposely brushes his hand against Spyder’s in wordless affection, a sinking feeling of dread forms in his stomach.

For the first time, he realizes that their inevitable downfall will not be born of rebellion or politics. It will come from whatever this is between him and Schpood. This unbearable, wordless loyalty between them—the kind that is too human to survive the weight of an empire.