Post by Elcie on Jul 31, 2014 17:53:44 GMT -5
Courdon has declared war on Kyth and everything quickly goes downhill. The Courdonians subdue and occupy much of Corvus and Kine, and are steadily pressing their way northward. Many of those who stand against them are killed or taken as slaves. But the Kingdom of Kyth will not fall - not without a fight.
This thread is where I'm going to put stories relating to the Bad End AU! They will be written out of order, but will hopefully all fit together in the same timeline. We'll see.
#1: Reunion
#2: Kirin
#3: Brand
(warning for self-harm on this one)
#4: Return
#5: The Fall of Solis (part 1)
#6. The Fall of Solis (part 2)
#7. Malik's Prisoner
(violence warning - no blood though)
This thread is where I'm going to put stories relating to the Bad End AU! They will be written out of order, but will hopefully all fit together in the same timeline. We'll see.
#1: Reunion
Xavier warily stepped into the old barn. He and Frederick had had the luck of stumbling upon an abandoned farm near nightfall, and it looked as if it was going to make a good shelter. The barn was the most intact structure in the place, the only building that hadn’t been burned by the Courdonians. He’d gone to investigate while Frederick was still foraging for any supplies they could scavenge from the burned farmhouse.
Without warning, someone grabbed him from behind. Xavier let out a strangled yelp as the stranger grabbed his wrist and held a knife to his throat. “Who are you?”
Xavier swallowed, feeling the cold edge of the knife scrape his throat. “I-- we don’t mean any harm,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “We are only travelers, looking for a safe place to spend the night--”
His assailant loosened their grip on him, and the knife withdrew from his throat. Then they spoke, shakily, in much more familiar tones. “Xavier?”
Released, he whirled around to face his assailant and saw that it was Elin, still standing with her knife outstretched. Her eyes were wide. “It is you,” she whispered, slowly lowering the weapon and tucking it safely back into her belt. Xavier held himself back until she’d put it away, and then threw his arms around her.
For a moment, they stood silently in an embrace, clinging to one another as tightly as possible. Then Elin stepped back, seizing Xavier’s hands in both of hers. Her eyes were bright with tears. “I didn’t know what had happened to you,” she said. “Didn’t know if you were alive, or…”
“Slave-hunters found me,” he said. “Did you…” But he trailed off, his gaze falling on the neckline of her tunic. Despite the fact that it was mostly hidden by her clothing, the scar just beneath her collarbone was unmistakable. She’d been branded. Xavier met Elin’s gaze, and the look in her eyes prevented him from saying more. Wordlessly he squeezed her hands in a gesture of comfort he knew was inadequate.
The door to the old barn slammed open. Both of them turned sharply. Elin jumped, badly startled; Xavier heard her sharp intake of breath, and her hand went to her knife. But when he saw who the intruder was, he put a hand out to touch her shoulder reassuringly. “It’s all right,” he said quietly.
It was Frederick standing in the doorway. “I heard someone else, I thought…” He trailed off uncertainly, staring at Elin with his eyes narrowed. She frowned, not taking her hand off her knife.
“She’s a friend,” Xavier said. “Elin Ryer, from Medieville.”
“I know who she is. I saw her there before the war. One of the Shadows. What’s she doing here?”
“Looking for shelter,” Elin said defensively. “Who are you?”
“Frederick Arcanus,” Xavier said. He squeezed Elin’s shoulder, realizing that despite the aggression in her voice and her stance, her eyes were fearful. “He’s traveling with me, Elin, we escaped together.”
Both of them looked at each other, still wary. Xavier couldn’t really blame them given what they’d been through, but he didn’t know what he would do if one or both of them decided that the other couldn’t be trusted. Finally, though, Elin took her hand off her knife. Frederick glanced at Xavier, searched his face closely, and nodded. Xavier relaxed, feeling relieved that he wouldn’t be asked to choose between his friend and the girl he loved. And it would be a waste to fight amongst themselves when Courdon was the real enemy.
It went without saying, after that, that the three of them would share the shelter of the abandoned barn. Elin had no supplies with her, so Xavier and Frederick shared what they had. It wasn’t much. Frederick hadn’t had much luck foraging at this farm; the Courdonian army had destroyed too much of it. He’d found no survivors, but no bodies either - meaning that the family who’d lived here had either escaped or, more likely, had been taken. It was something both Xavier and Frederick had grown used to seeing.
Elin sat close beside Xavier as they ate, their shoulders touching. It was a relief to be close to one another after so long. Frederick had found a torch to light the dark interior of the barn, and the flickering light showed bruises on Elin’s arms and on her face that he hadn’t noticed before. She was thinner than he remembered, as well. Silently he reached out and grabbed her hand, entwining his fingers with hers.
“So where are you headed?” Elin asked after they’d finished the scant meal, looking between Xavier and Frederick.
“Solis,” said Xavier. “We’ll join with House Jade, if we can…”
Elin gave him a strange look. “Xavier…”
He frowned, nervous. “What?”
“Solis fell. The Courdonians took the city. Didn’t… didn’t you know?”
“We haven’t heard anything,” said Frederick. “How did you find out?”
“I… I heard some of them talking about it,” Elin muttered, looking away.
“What about the Jades?” Xavier said, a new panic squeezing his chest. Leif, Jeniver…
“I don’t know,” Elin said miserably. “I’m so sorry, Xavier.”
“It’s… it’s okay. At least we know…” Xavier trailed off, staring at the ground. With Solis gone, their best hope had been taken from them. Medieville wasn’t necessarily safe anymore; for all he knew, the Keep had already fallen as well. Of course, there was always Destrier… Xavier felt certain that Ambrose and Alain would help them, and he didn’t think that the Courdonian army had made their way that far north yet. But that was assuming they could make it that far. Just travelling through Corvus had been painfully slow going, and they’d been barely scraping by, surviving on what they could manage to steal…
“If we return to Medieville…” Frederick’s voice shook slightly as he spoke, and Xavier knew he was thinking of how they’d left it. He composed himself, though Xavier knew him well enough to see the agitation in his stance. “If any of my contacts are still alive, we may be able to find supplies and information there.”
There was Ilsa as well, and Elin’s aunt. Xavier nodded slowly. “It’s… it might work… though we may not be able to stay. I think continuing on to Destrier may be our best option.”
Elin looked at him. “We could go through Kine.”
“Rindfell would be safer,” Frederick objected, and Elin frowned. Her family was from Kine, Xavier remembered.
“We’ll find a way,” Xavier said. “And if we go to Medieville, maybe we can learn more.”
“I might be able to make contact with some of the Shadows,” Elin said. “If they’re… if any of them are still…”
She trailed off, and swallowed hard. Xavier put his arm around her, rubbing her back comfortingly. Elin started to relax against him, but then he felt her flinch in pain under his touch, letting out a sharp gasp. He drew back, looking at her with concern. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s okay, Xavier, I’m fine.” But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Cautiously, Xavier reached out.
“Can… can I see?” he asked, gently.
Elin hesitated, then nodded once, jerkily. Xavier carefully lifted up the back of Elin’s tunic, and winced. Her back was badly bruised, and marked with half-healed whipmarks. Xavier clenched his fist, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe. He could all too easily imagine what state she must have been in when the injuries were fresh. At least none of the cuts were too deep.
She'd tried to bandage her own wounds as best as she could, but it must have been difficult for her to do by herself. Xavier looked at the loose wrappings, and then tried to meet Elin's eyes. "We can tear up spare clothes for bandages," he said. Frederick had been badly hurt after their own escape, and Xavier had grown used to taking care of his wounds when he was unable to do so himself. They still had some of the cloths and herbs they had used.
She nodded again. "Okay," she said softly.
As he helped her change the bandages and used a few drops of precious water from their flask to clean her injuries, he couldn't help but notice that some of the cuts did not look as if they had come from a whip. Some kind of bladed weapon maybe; he'd glanced at Frederick to ask, but one look at his face and he didn't have to. Frederick knew what he was looking at, all too well. Xavier swallowed. She'd fought someone wielding a knife, maybe... or...
Elin looked at him when they were done, pulling the back of her tunic back down. "Thank you."
Xavier could only nod. He wished she would say more. She’d been so quiet all evening, and it worried him. But then, he knew how hard it was, living as a fugitive alone. And based on the state of her injuries, it hadn’t been too long since her escape. At least she no longer had to try and make it on her own
The three of them settled down for the night, and Xavier volunteered to take the first watch. Elin and Frederick were soon asleep. He leaned up against the rough wooden wall of the barn, watching the flickering torchlight play over the sleeping forms of his friends and listening for any strange noises. There was nothing. Given that they had next to no information about the progress of the war, their luck in evading the Courdonians had been good… maybe it would hold.
A couple of hours after the others had gone to sleep, he heard a faint whimper and looked up. He’d grown used to the nightmares that Frederick sometimes had, but the elf was not the one twitching and making small noises in his sleep. It was Elin.
Xavier went over and crouched next to her, putting one hand gently on her shoulder. That light touch was all it took. She jolted awake with a sharp gasp, looking disoriented. When her gaze fell on Xavier, she stared at him as if she was not quite sure he was really there. “Xavier?”
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s safe.”
Elin took a deep breath and sat up, running a hand over her face. The torch had gone out hours ago, leaving her a shadowy silhouette in the gloom. It made it hard for Xavier to read her expression. “I… I’ll take watch with you,” she said quietly.
He gave her a concerned look. “You should get some sleep while you can.”
She shook her head quickly. “I don’t want to.”
Xavier didn’t question this. He nodded and went back over to his spot against the wall. Elin joined him, sitting forward with her arms around her knees. He was alarmed to realize, a couple of minutes later, that she was quietly crying. “...Elin?”
She looked up at him silently. What he could see of her face made his chest tighten painfully. He’d never seen her cry like this before, and it scared him. Cautiously he edged closer to her and she leaned against him, letting her head drop to his shoulder. She was shaking. Xavier carefully put his arms around her and held her, trying not to put too much pressure on her injured back.
He wanted so badly to ask her what had happened, what they’d done to her. But he didn’t want to push her. The last thing she probably wanted right now was to relieve those terrible experiences. Between her injuries, and Xavier’s own past, he could begin to guess at what she must have gone through. It made him feel sick to think about.
“I didn’t think I would ever get away from him, Xavier,” she whispered, barely audible. The words sent a chill through Xavier’s body. He didn’t ask who Elin was talking about. The name didn’t really matter. He put one hand on the back of her head, stroking her hair as she huddled in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry, Elin.”
“You mentioned slave-hunters,” she said quietly, looking up at him. “Did Duval…?”
“...Yes.” He didn’t need to say more. There was a look of painful understanding in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, pulling him close. For a long time neither spoke.
When Frederick roused himself for the next watch shift, he saw that Elin had fallen asleep in Xavier’s arms, her head nestled against his chest. Xavier, at first, did not seem to notice Frederick’s approach. He was watching Elin’s face as she slept, with a look in his eyes that put a hollow ache deep in Frederick’s chest. He’d never seen Xavier look at someone like that before.
He coughed, quietly. Xavier looked up, startled, his arms tensing around Elin. “Frederick?”
“My turn for watch,” Frederick whispered simply. He didn’t look at Elin, didn’t say anything else. There was no point.
“Thank you,” Xavier said softly. Carefully he eased himself down, gently laying Elin’s sleeping form on the straw that covered the floor. Frederick turned away and went to lean against the opposite wall, not looking at them, only having to briefly squeeze his eyes closed once. He’d never been Frederick’s, and he never would be. This changed nothing.
Without warning, someone grabbed him from behind. Xavier let out a strangled yelp as the stranger grabbed his wrist and held a knife to his throat. “Who are you?”
Xavier swallowed, feeling the cold edge of the knife scrape his throat. “I-- we don’t mean any harm,” he said softly, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “We are only travelers, looking for a safe place to spend the night--”
His assailant loosened their grip on him, and the knife withdrew from his throat. Then they spoke, shakily, in much more familiar tones. “Xavier?”
Released, he whirled around to face his assailant and saw that it was Elin, still standing with her knife outstretched. Her eyes were wide. “It is you,” she whispered, slowly lowering the weapon and tucking it safely back into her belt. Xavier held himself back until she’d put it away, and then threw his arms around her.
For a moment, they stood silently in an embrace, clinging to one another as tightly as possible. Then Elin stepped back, seizing Xavier’s hands in both of hers. Her eyes were bright with tears. “I didn’t know what had happened to you,” she said. “Didn’t know if you were alive, or…”
“Slave-hunters found me,” he said. “Did you…” But he trailed off, his gaze falling on the neckline of her tunic. Despite the fact that it was mostly hidden by her clothing, the scar just beneath her collarbone was unmistakable. She’d been branded. Xavier met Elin’s gaze, and the look in her eyes prevented him from saying more. Wordlessly he squeezed her hands in a gesture of comfort he knew was inadequate.
The door to the old barn slammed open. Both of them turned sharply. Elin jumped, badly startled; Xavier heard her sharp intake of breath, and her hand went to her knife. But when he saw who the intruder was, he put a hand out to touch her shoulder reassuringly. “It’s all right,” he said quietly.
It was Frederick standing in the doorway. “I heard someone else, I thought…” He trailed off uncertainly, staring at Elin with his eyes narrowed. She frowned, not taking her hand off her knife.
“She’s a friend,” Xavier said. “Elin Ryer, from Medieville.”
“I know who she is. I saw her there before the war. One of the Shadows. What’s she doing here?”
“Looking for shelter,” Elin said defensively. “Who are you?”
“Frederick Arcanus,” Xavier said. He squeezed Elin’s shoulder, realizing that despite the aggression in her voice and her stance, her eyes were fearful. “He’s traveling with me, Elin, we escaped together.”
Both of them looked at each other, still wary. Xavier couldn’t really blame them given what they’d been through, but he didn’t know what he would do if one or both of them decided that the other couldn’t be trusted. Finally, though, Elin took her hand off her knife. Frederick glanced at Xavier, searched his face closely, and nodded. Xavier relaxed, feeling relieved that he wouldn’t be asked to choose between his friend and the girl he loved. And it would be a waste to fight amongst themselves when Courdon was the real enemy.
It went without saying, after that, that the three of them would share the shelter of the abandoned barn. Elin had no supplies with her, so Xavier and Frederick shared what they had. It wasn’t much. Frederick hadn’t had much luck foraging at this farm; the Courdonian army had destroyed too much of it. He’d found no survivors, but no bodies either - meaning that the family who’d lived here had either escaped or, more likely, had been taken. It was something both Xavier and Frederick had grown used to seeing.
Elin sat close beside Xavier as they ate, their shoulders touching. It was a relief to be close to one another after so long. Frederick had found a torch to light the dark interior of the barn, and the flickering light showed bruises on Elin’s arms and on her face that he hadn’t noticed before. She was thinner than he remembered, as well. Silently he reached out and grabbed her hand, entwining his fingers with hers.
“So where are you headed?” Elin asked after they’d finished the scant meal, looking between Xavier and Frederick.
“Solis,” said Xavier. “We’ll join with House Jade, if we can…”
Elin gave him a strange look. “Xavier…”
He frowned, nervous. “What?”
“Solis fell. The Courdonians took the city. Didn’t… didn’t you know?”
“We haven’t heard anything,” said Frederick. “How did you find out?”
“I… I heard some of them talking about it,” Elin muttered, looking away.
“What about the Jades?” Xavier said, a new panic squeezing his chest. Leif, Jeniver…
“I don’t know,” Elin said miserably. “I’m so sorry, Xavier.”
“It’s… it’s okay. At least we know…” Xavier trailed off, staring at the ground. With Solis gone, their best hope had been taken from them. Medieville wasn’t necessarily safe anymore; for all he knew, the Keep had already fallen as well. Of course, there was always Destrier… Xavier felt certain that Ambrose and Alain would help them, and he didn’t think that the Courdonian army had made their way that far north yet. But that was assuming they could make it that far. Just travelling through Corvus had been painfully slow going, and they’d been barely scraping by, surviving on what they could manage to steal…
“If we return to Medieville…” Frederick’s voice shook slightly as he spoke, and Xavier knew he was thinking of how they’d left it. He composed himself, though Xavier knew him well enough to see the agitation in his stance. “If any of my contacts are still alive, we may be able to find supplies and information there.”
There was Ilsa as well, and Elin’s aunt. Xavier nodded slowly. “It’s… it might work… though we may not be able to stay. I think continuing on to Destrier may be our best option.”
Elin looked at him. “We could go through Kine.”
“Rindfell would be safer,” Frederick objected, and Elin frowned. Her family was from Kine, Xavier remembered.
“We’ll find a way,” Xavier said. “And if we go to Medieville, maybe we can learn more.”
“I might be able to make contact with some of the Shadows,” Elin said. “If they’re… if any of them are still…”
She trailed off, and swallowed hard. Xavier put his arm around her, rubbing her back comfortingly. Elin started to relax against him, but then he felt her flinch in pain under his touch, letting out a sharp gasp. He drew back, looking at her with concern. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s okay, Xavier, I’m fine.” But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Cautiously, Xavier reached out.
“Can… can I see?” he asked, gently.
Elin hesitated, then nodded once, jerkily. Xavier carefully lifted up the back of Elin’s tunic, and winced. Her back was badly bruised, and marked with half-healed whipmarks. Xavier clenched his fist, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe. He could all too easily imagine what state she must have been in when the injuries were fresh. At least none of the cuts were too deep.
She'd tried to bandage her own wounds as best as she could, but it must have been difficult for her to do by herself. Xavier looked at the loose wrappings, and then tried to meet Elin's eyes. "We can tear up spare clothes for bandages," he said. Frederick had been badly hurt after their own escape, and Xavier had grown used to taking care of his wounds when he was unable to do so himself. They still had some of the cloths and herbs they had used.
She nodded again. "Okay," she said softly.
As he helped her change the bandages and used a few drops of precious water from their flask to clean her injuries, he couldn't help but notice that some of the cuts did not look as if they had come from a whip. Some kind of bladed weapon maybe; he'd glanced at Frederick to ask, but one look at his face and he didn't have to. Frederick knew what he was looking at, all too well. Xavier swallowed. She'd fought someone wielding a knife, maybe... or...
Elin looked at him when they were done, pulling the back of her tunic back down. "Thank you."
Xavier could only nod. He wished she would say more. She’d been so quiet all evening, and it worried him. But then, he knew how hard it was, living as a fugitive alone. And based on the state of her injuries, it hadn’t been too long since her escape. At least she no longer had to try and make it on her own
The three of them settled down for the night, and Xavier volunteered to take the first watch. Elin and Frederick were soon asleep. He leaned up against the rough wooden wall of the barn, watching the flickering torchlight play over the sleeping forms of his friends and listening for any strange noises. There was nothing. Given that they had next to no information about the progress of the war, their luck in evading the Courdonians had been good… maybe it would hold.
A couple of hours after the others had gone to sleep, he heard a faint whimper and looked up. He’d grown used to the nightmares that Frederick sometimes had, but the elf was not the one twitching and making small noises in his sleep. It was Elin.
Xavier went over and crouched next to her, putting one hand gently on her shoulder. That light touch was all it took. She jolted awake with a sharp gasp, looking disoriented. When her gaze fell on Xavier, she stared at him as if she was not quite sure he was really there. “Xavier?”
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s safe.”
Elin took a deep breath and sat up, running a hand over her face. The torch had gone out hours ago, leaving her a shadowy silhouette in the gloom. It made it hard for Xavier to read her expression. “I… I’ll take watch with you,” she said quietly.
He gave her a concerned look. “You should get some sleep while you can.”
She shook her head quickly. “I don’t want to.”
Xavier didn’t question this. He nodded and went back over to his spot against the wall. Elin joined him, sitting forward with her arms around her knees. He was alarmed to realize, a couple of minutes later, that she was quietly crying. “...Elin?”
She looked up at him silently. What he could see of her face made his chest tighten painfully. He’d never seen her cry like this before, and it scared him. Cautiously he edged closer to her and she leaned against him, letting her head drop to his shoulder. She was shaking. Xavier carefully put his arms around her and held her, trying not to put too much pressure on her injured back.
He wanted so badly to ask her what had happened, what they’d done to her. But he didn’t want to push her. The last thing she probably wanted right now was to relieve those terrible experiences. Between her injuries, and Xavier’s own past, he could begin to guess at what she must have gone through. It made him feel sick to think about.
“I didn’t think I would ever get away from him, Xavier,” she whispered, barely audible. The words sent a chill through Xavier’s body. He didn’t ask who Elin was talking about. The name didn’t really matter. He put one hand on the back of her head, stroking her hair as she huddled in his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry, Elin.”
“You mentioned slave-hunters,” she said quietly, looking up at him. “Did Duval…?”
“...Yes.” He didn’t need to say more. There was a look of painful understanding in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, pulling him close. For a long time neither spoke.
When Frederick roused himself for the next watch shift, he saw that Elin had fallen asleep in Xavier’s arms, her head nestled against his chest. Xavier, at first, did not seem to notice Frederick’s approach. He was watching Elin’s face as she slept, with a look in his eyes that put a hollow ache deep in Frederick’s chest. He’d never seen Xavier look at someone like that before.
He coughed, quietly. Xavier looked up, startled, his arms tensing around Elin. “Frederick?”
“My turn for watch,” Frederick whispered simply. He didn’t look at Elin, didn’t say anything else. There was no point.
“Thank you,” Xavier said softly. Carefully he eased himself down, gently laying Elin’s sleeping form on the straw that covered the floor. Frederick turned away and went to lean against the opposite wall, not looking at them, only having to briefly squeeze his eyes closed once. He’d never been Frederick’s, and he never would be. This changed nothing.
#2: Kirin
Leif Jade was in enemy territory.
It galled him to think about it that way. This was Corvus, this was his home. But the Courdonians had been encroaching steadily into Kyth, and the southern provinces were no longer safe. Solis was one of the only places in Corvus that still held out against the invaders, and Leif was not going to cower there when there was something he could be doing to aid in the fight against Courdon.
When he wasn’t needed for a major working he’d been travelling alone; as the archmage, Leif could cast some spells on his own that would have taken the strength of several lesser mages, and this way there was less risk of causing collateral damage to his own side. At least, that was his excuse. He knew that Lord Everett did not entirely approve of his taking off on his own like this, but Leif ignored his objections as much as possible. He had to be doing something. Privately, he knew it was less about feeling useful and more about keeping himself moving, too active to stop and think for long.
It was about having less time to think about Kirin, and having plenty of targets at the ready for the times that he did.
Leif’s face was grim as he cast the protective wards for his camp. Thus far, however, he’d managed to keep himself hidden from the Courdonian army using magic. They hadn’t shown any signs of being able to predict his movements, and he’d been using spells of misdirection to try and ensure that it stayed that way. Even so, he didn’t dare stay in any one place for more than a night. The camp, as a result, was simple. He preferred travelling light, and with his magic to defend him, he didn’t need to carry much in the way of weaponry.
With the wards set, Leif allowed himself to relax for a moment, sitting on the bedding he’d unrolled and leaning back with a sigh. It was a peaceful night. Looking at this quiet clearing, no one would have been able to guess the horror and chaos that filled Corvus even now. The families torn apart, the losses they’d sustained…
Kirin.
He’d been an early casualty; by now, it had been months since his death. But the ache of his loss remained with Leif, strong as ever. Leif’s hand drifted to his chest, where beneath his clothes on a leather cord hung the worn wooden figure of an owl. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d sat with Kirin at the festival and watched him carve it…
Leif squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Not now. Forcing thoughts of Kirin out of his mind, he started preparing to light a fire by magic, one that would remain hidden within the bounds of his wards. He was interrupted by the faint sound of footsteps outside the wards. The mage froze. Someone was moving near his camp. The wards were meant to prevent anyone noticing his presence, but he sat very still anyway, listening to the sound of boots crunching through the grass nearby. After a moment they’d passed, but Leif remained still, waiting in case he could hear anything else.
At first, there was nothing. Then, farther off than the footsteps, he heard a scream. Leif jumped to his feet, held his wand at the ready, and left the safety of his wards to follow the source of the noise. He didn’t use magic to conceal himself; he’d gotten good enough in the past months at remaining hidden without needing to waste magic he might need later to defend himself. It was late, and he needed to rest, but that scream had set him on edge. If there were Kythians under attack somewhere near here…
Instead of finding an attack, however, Leif nearly stumbled into a small Courdonian camp. Hastily he drew back, concealing himself in the undergrowth before he could blunder in and reveal himself. It wasn’t a large contingent; only three soldiers, probably on their way to meet up with a larger battalion. And...
Leif grimaced. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the source of the scream he’d heard. In addition to the three soldiers was a fourth man, thin and shirtless and kneeling in the center of the camp. A length of rope had been tied around his neck as a makeshift leash, and the end fastened to a short stake driven into the ground. Two of the soldiers stood over him, and he was cringing. Quite a few Courdonians had brought slaves into Kyth and he’d witnessed similar scenes before, but he would never get used to their brutality with their captives. As he watched, one of them kicked the man in the side with an armored boot, and he yelped, doubling up. Leif gritted his teeth. He was outnumbered, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He’d figure out a plan of attack, get the slave away… it wouldn’t be the first slave he’d freed on these excursions.
As he watched, one of the Courdonians said something to another, who laughed and unfurled a whip. The slave cried out under the blows and tried to curl up, hiding his face. After a few vicious lashes the soldier lowered his whip and leaned forward, snarling something angrily at the slave and grabbing him by his pale hair. He forced him back up into the upright kneeling position, pulling his head back, and--
For a second Leif had to turn away, certain he was imagining things. When he looked back, however, he could see that he was not mistaken. Despite the short hair, the fact that he was thinner, the shadows from the campfire partially obscuring his features - Leif had spent hours lying awake at night trying to remember that face, trying to memorize it. He knew. It was impossible… but it was Kirin. Hot anger flared in Leif’s chest as he saw the way Kirin cringed, the terror in his face…
And then the soldier raised his whip again and Leif saw red.
He broke cover, drawing all three Courdonians’ eyes to him. One of them reached for his sword, and the one who’d been striking Kirin stopped short, his eyes widening. Leif didn’t break off his pace as they went for their weapons, heading straight for them as he drew his wand. He didn’t even think about it. Aiming his wand at the man who held the whip, he shouted something that seemed to shake the earth, two words he’d once read in an ancient spellbook and had sworn never to use. The man was dead before he hit the ground. Another of them charged forward, brandishing a sword, and Leif turned to him, snarling another spell. Lightning crackled from his wandtip and hit the soldier square in the chest. He convulsed as the electricity pulsed through his body and then collapsed, motionless.
Eyes blazing with fury, he turned to the third Courdonian. The soldier’s nerve broke and he ran. It was fortunate that he did, because that was when the pull hit Leif, making him stumble. The surge of adrenaline and rage could only carry him so far, and casting a major elemental spell on the heels of something as powerful as the Killing Curse was enormously draining even for an archmage. The ache was fiercer than anything he’d felt for a while.
But his last foe had fled, and there were far more important things to worry about. Leif turned and half-ran, half-stumbled to where Kirin was tied. It was Kirin. He was much thinner than he’d been when Leif last saw him and his long hair had been hacked off, but he was alive.
Leif collapsed to his knees in front of him, and Kirin flinched, not looking up. “Kirin,” Leif said softly, leaning down to try and meet the man’s eyes. “I- I’m here.”
His voice cracked on the words. Kirin didn’t even react. His condition was even worse than Leif had thought; so thin that Leif could see the outlines of his ribs, his face badly bruised, welts and bruises from lashes and beatings marking his chest and arms. There was the ugly scar of a brand on his right shoulder - more than one, Leif realized with a jolt. Apparently, he’d already been resold once. His neck was rubbed raw by the rope tied around it, and Leif felt a pit of cold anger in his stomach. How long had they kept him tied like this?
“I’m going to untie you now,” Leif said quietly. He wasn’t sure if Kirin heard him, but he didn’t want to frighten him with any sudden movements. The mage kept his movements slow and gentle as he reached for Kirin’s neck, but still Kirin tensed and hunched down, clearly expecting to be hurt. Leif’s throat tightened. Raising his wand, he whispered a simple spell and then reeled, gasping. The rope fell away from Kirin’s neck, but for a moment Leif had to fight to stay conscious. He was more pulled than he’d even realized. Furiously, he swore under his breath. Idiot that he was, he hadn’t even thought before using that spell, and now he was without the use of magic that could have helped Kirin. There was nothing he could do for Kirin’s wounds until he was rested; it would take an extraordinary amount of effort just to get him back to Leif’s protected camp.
Despite the fact that he was unbound now, Kirin hadn’t moved. From the man’s earlier behavior, Leif wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt to see the dull, hopeless expression in Kirin’s downcast eyes. Quietly Leif reached for his hand, and felt sick to his stomach when he realized that not all of Kirin’s fingers were intact. “Kirin,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stopped this, I should’ve protected you, I…” He swallowed, and lifted his hand up to the side of his face. Kirin flinched from the touch with such fear in his face that Leif drew his hand back sharply. “Sorry,” he whispered again.
They couldn’t stay here in the Courdonian camp; Leif had to get him back to camp, and the wards that would keep him safe. “Can you stand, Kirin?” he said in a low voice. “We need to get somewhere safe.”
Kirin could, although the movement was so slow and painful that it hurt to watch. He was shaking, and small wonder; he was so starved and thin that it wasn’t surprising he didn’t have much strength. As he stood, Leif caught sight of his back, bloody and torn apart by a recent punishment, and had to take a couple of slow, shaky breaths to force his anger under control. Because of his own rashness, it would be a while before he had the strength to heal that. Kirin’s balance seemed shaky and Leif wanted badly to support him, but the man showed so much fear at being touched that Leif was still wary. At least it didn’t seem to hurt him to walk, any more than any other kind of movement.
He guided Kirin back to his camp and Kirin still didn’t say a word, still didn’t raise his eyes from the ground, even as he sat down mutely on Leif’s bedding at the mage’s request. Leif crouched in front of him, trying and once again failing to meet his eyes. “Can you hear me?” Leif said quietly. “Do you… do you even remember me?” It hurt worse than the pull to think that the memory of Leif, maybe the entire memory of his life in Kyth, might have been somehow beaten out of Kirin. But he’d shown no signs of recognition at all, hadn’t responded to Leif’s voice except to silently obey requests… Maybe he was just too scared, maybe he didn’t trust that this wasn’t somehow a trap. Leif clung to that thought, that there would be some way to bring back the Kirin he remembered. Or what was left of him.
An idea struck Leif, and he reached inside his tunic to pull out the little wooden owl that Kirin had given to him. He held it out, tucked it into Kirin’s mangled hand. “You gave this to me, Kirin,” he said. “Remember that day at the festival?” His voice shook, and he folded Kirin’s remaining fingers around the carving. He could still remember Kirin’s bright eyes, his smile…
Kirin stared down at the owl carving, the paint faded and worn from how often Leif had touched it. Then, very slowly, he raised his head. The moment felt so fragile that Leif wanted to hold his breath. Kirin’s eyes met his, wary and frightened, and Leif’s breath hitched. “Kirin,” he whispered, and once again reached out to brush his hand against the side of Kirin’s face. This time, though he tensed, Kirin didn’t flinch away. A shudder suddenly passed through his body and he lowered his gaze again, leaning his head into Leif’s hand. Tears sprang into Leif’s eyes, and he didn’t bother to blink them away.
“Please,” Leif whispered. “Please tell me you know me, Kirin.”
Kirin didn’t move for a second, but then slowly he leaned forward and buried his face in Leif’s chest. At that point, Leif could not stop the tears from flowing in earnest. For the first time since he’d gotten word of Kirin’s death, he cried, resting his head against the side of Kirin’s. Carefully he wrapped his arms around him, cradling the man’s trembling frame and stroking his short, matted hair. Kirin tensed, and he didn’t move any closer… but he didn’t pull away.
“I swear,” Leif said, quiet and fierce. “No one’s going to hurt you again. Never.”
It galled him to think about it that way. This was Corvus, this was his home. But the Courdonians had been encroaching steadily into Kyth, and the southern provinces were no longer safe. Solis was one of the only places in Corvus that still held out against the invaders, and Leif was not going to cower there when there was something he could be doing to aid in the fight against Courdon.
When he wasn’t needed for a major working he’d been travelling alone; as the archmage, Leif could cast some spells on his own that would have taken the strength of several lesser mages, and this way there was less risk of causing collateral damage to his own side. At least, that was his excuse. He knew that Lord Everett did not entirely approve of his taking off on his own like this, but Leif ignored his objections as much as possible. He had to be doing something. Privately, he knew it was less about feeling useful and more about keeping himself moving, too active to stop and think for long.
It was about having less time to think about Kirin, and having plenty of targets at the ready for the times that he did.
Leif’s face was grim as he cast the protective wards for his camp. Thus far, however, he’d managed to keep himself hidden from the Courdonian army using magic. They hadn’t shown any signs of being able to predict his movements, and he’d been using spells of misdirection to try and ensure that it stayed that way. Even so, he didn’t dare stay in any one place for more than a night. The camp, as a result, was simple. He preferred travelling light, and with his magic to defend him, he didn’t need to carry much in the way of weaponry.
With the wards set, Leif allowed himself to relax for a moment, sitting on the bedding he’d unrolled and leaning back with a sigh. It was a peaceful night. Looking at this quiet clearing, no one would have been able to guess the horror and chaos that filled Corvus even now. The families torn apart, the losses they’d sustained…
Kirin.
He’d been an early casualty; by now, it had been months since his death. But the ache of his loss remained with Leif, strong as ever. Leif’s hand drifted to his chest, where beneath his clothes on a leather cord hung the worn wooden figure of an owl. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d sat with Kirin at the festival and watched him carve it…
Leif squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Not now. Forcing thoughts of Kirin out of his mind, he started preparing to light a fire by magic, one that would remain hidden within the bounds of his wards. He was interrupted by the faint sound of footsteps outside the wards. The mage froze. Someone was moving near his camp. The wards were meant to prevent anyone noticing his presence, but he sat very still anyway, listening to the sound of boots crunching through the grass nearby. After a moment they’d passed, but Leif remained still, waiting in case he could hear anything else.
At first, there was nothing. Then, farther off than the footsteps, he heard a scream. Leif jumped to his feet, held his wand at the ready, and left the safety of his wards to follow the source of the noise. He didn’t use magic to conceal himself; he’d gotten good enough in the past months at remaining hidden without needing to waste magic he might need later to defend himself. It was late, and he needed to rest, but that scream had set him on edge. If there were Kythians under attack somewhere near here…
Instead of finding an attack, however, Leif nearly stumbled into a small Courdonian camp. Hastily he drew back, concealing himself in the undergrowth before he could blunder in and reveal himself. It wasn’t a large contingent; only three soldiers, probably on their way to meet up with a larger battalion. And...
Leif grimaced. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the source of the scream he’d heard. In addition to the three soldiers was a fourth man, thin and shirtless and kneeling in the center of the camp. A length of rope had been tied around his neck as a makeshift leash, and the end fastened to a short stake driven into the ground. Two of the soldiers stood over him, and he was cringing. Quite a few Courdonians had brought slaves into Kyth and he’d witnessed similar scenes before, but he would never get used to their brutality with their captives. As he watched, one of them kicked the man in the side with an armored boot, and he yelped, doubling up. Leif gritted his teeth. He was outnumbered, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He’d figure out a plan of attack, get the slave away… it wouldn’t be the first slave he’d freed on these excursions.
As he watched, one of the Courdonians said something to another, who laughed and unfurled a whip. The slave cried out under the blows and tried to curl up, hiding his face. After a few vicious lashes the soldier lowered his whip and leaned forward, snarling something angrily at the slave and grabbing him by his pale hair. He forced him back up into the upright kneeling position, pulling his head back, and--
For a second Leif had to turn away, certain he was imagining things. When he looked back, however, he could see that he was not mistaken. Despite the short hair, the fact that he was thinner, the shadows from the campfire partially obscuring his features - Leif had spent hours lying awake at night trying to remember that face, trying to memorize it. He knew. It was impossible… but it was Kirin. Hot anger flared in Leif’s chest as he saw the way Kirin cringed, the terror in his face…
And then the soldier raised his whip again and Leif saw red.
He broke cover, drawing all three Courdonians’ eyes to him. One of them reached for his sword, and the one who’d been striking Kirin stopped short, his eyes widening. Leif didn’t break off his pace as they went for their weapons, heading straight for them as he drew his wand. He didn’t even think about it. Aiming his wand at the man who held the whip, he shouted something that seemed to shake the earth, two words he’d once read in an ancient spellbook and had sworn never to use. The man was dead before he hit the ground. Another of them charged forward, brandishing a sword, and Leif turned to him, snarling another spell. Lightning crackled from his wandtip and hit the soldier square in the chest. He convulsed as the electricity pulsed through his body and then collapsed, motionless.
Eyes blazing with fury, he turned to the third Courdonian. The soldier’s nerve broke and he ran. It was fortunate that he did, because that was when the pull hit Leif, making him stumble. The surge of adrenaline and rage could only carry him so far, and casting a major elemental spell on the heels of something as powerful as the Killing Curse was enormously draining even for an archmage. The ache was fiercer than anything he’d felt for a while.
But his last foe had fled, and there were far more important things to worry about. Leif turned and half-ran, half-stumbled to where Kirin was tied. It was Kirin. He was much thinner than he’d been when Leif last saw him and his long hair had been hacked off, but he was alive.
Leif collapsed to his knees in front of him, and Kirin flinched, not looking up. “Kirin,” Leif said softly, leaning down to try and meet the man’s eyes. “I- I’m here.”
His voice cracked on the words. Kirin didn’t even react. His condition was even worse than Leif had thought; so thin that Leif could see the outlines of his ribs, his face badly bruised, welts and bruises from lashes and beatings marking his chest and arms. There was the ugly scar of a brand on his right shoulder - more than one, Leif realized with a jolt. Apparently, he’d already been resold once. His neck was rubbed raw by the rope tied around it, and Leif felt a pit of cold anger in his stomach. How long had they kept him tied like this?
“I’m going to untie you now,” Leif said quietly. He wasn’t sure if Kirin heard him, but he didn’t want to frighten him with any sudden movements. The mage kept his movements slow and gentle as he reached for Kirin’s neck, but still Kirin tensed and hunched down, clearly expecting to be hurt. Leif’s throat tightened. Raising his wand, he whispered a simple spell and then reeled, gasping. The rope fell away from Kirin’s neck, but for a moment Leif had to fight to stay conscious. He was more pulled than he’d even realized. Furiously, he swore under his breath. Idiot that he was, he hadn’t even thought before using that spell, and now he was without the use of magic that could have helped Kirin. There was nothing he could do for Kirin’s wounds until he was rested; it would take an extraordinary amount of effort just to get him back to Leif’s protected camp.
Despite the fact that he was unbound now, Kirin hadn’t moved. From the man’s earlier behavior, Leif wasn’t surprised, but it still hurt to see the dull, hopeless expression in Kirin’s downcast eyes. Quietly Leif reached for his hand, and felt sick to his stomach when he realized that not all of Kirin’s fingers were intact. “Kirin,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stopped this, I should’ve protected you, I…” He swallowed, and lifted his hand up to the side of his face. Kirin flinched from the touch with such fear in his face that Leif drew his hand back sharply. “Sorry,” he whispered again.
They couldn’t stay here in the Courdonian camp; Leif had to get him back to camp, and the wards that would keep him safe. “Can you stand, Kirin?” he said in a low voice. “We need to get somewhere safe.”
Kirin could, although the movement was so slow and painful that it hurt to watch. He was shaking, and small wonder; he was so starved and thin that it wasn’t surprising he didn’t have much strength. As he stood, Leif caught sight of his back, bloody and torn apart by a recent punishment, and had to take a couple of slow, shaky breaths to force his anger under control. Because of his own rashness, it would be a while before he had the strength to heal that. Kirin’s balance seemed shaky and Leif wanted badly to support him, but the man showed so much fear at being touched that Leif was still wary. At least it didn’t seem to hurt him to walk, any more than any other kind of movement.
He guided Kirin back to his camp and Kirin still didn’t say a word, still didn’t raise his eyes from the ground, even as he sat down mutely on Leif’s bedding at the mage’s request. Leif crouched in front of him, trying and once again failing to meet his eyes. “Can you hear me?” Leif said quietly. “Do you… do you even remember me?” It hurt worse than the pull to think that the memory of Leif, maybe the entire memory of his life in Kyth, might have been somehow beaten out of Kirin. But he’d shown no signs of recognition at all, hadn’t responded to Leif’s voice except to silently obey requests… Maybe he was just too scared, maybe he didn’t trust that this wasn’t somehow a trap. Leif clung to that thought, that there would be some way to bring back the Kirin he remembered. Or what was left of him.
An idea struck Leif, and he reached inside his tunic to pull out the little wooden owl that Kirin had given to him. He held it out, tucked it into Kirin’s mangled hand. “You gave this to me, Kirin,” he said. “Remember that day at the festival?” His voice shook, and he folded Kirin’s remaining fingers around the carving. He could still remember Kirin’s bright eyes, his smile…
Kirin stared down at the owl carving, the paint faded and worn from how often Leif had touched it. Then, very slowly, he raised his head. The moment felt so fragile that Leif wanted to hold his breath. Kirin’s eyes met his, wary and frightened, and Leif’s breath hitched. “Kirin,” he whispered, and once again reached out to brush his hand against the side of Kirin’s face. This time, though he tensed, Kirin didn’t flinch away. A shudder suddenly passed through his body and he lowered his gaze again, leaning his head into Leif’s hand. Tears sprang into Leif’s eyes, and he didn’t bother to blink them away.
“Please,” Leif whispered. “Please tell me you know me, Kirin.”
Kirin didn’t move for a second, but then slowly he leaned forward and buried his face in Leif’s chest. At that point, Leif could not stop the tears from flowing in earnest. For the first time since he’d gotten word of Kirin’s death, he cried, resting his head against the side of Kirin’s. Carefully he wrapped his arms around him, cradling the man’s trembling frame and stroking his short, matted hair. Kirin tensed, and he didn’t move any closer… but he didn’t pull away.
“I swear,” Leif said, quiet and fierce. “No one’s going to hurt you again. Never.”
#3: Brand
(warning for self-harm on this one)
They always arranged watches in shifts just to be safe, but Xavier was a light sleeper. Elin was keeping watch close enough to where he was sleeping that her muted whimper caused him to jerk awake. Xavier rolled over so he could look up at her, and what he saw made him freeze. She was holding her knife lengthways against her collarbone and cutting carefully into her own skin, her head tilted back and her face twisted in a tight expression of pain. As he watched, her other hand suddenly clawed into the ground and she let out another small, strangled noise, her jaw clenched shut.
Xavier jumped up from where he was sleeping and scrambled over to her, grabbing her wrist and pulling the knife away. Elin gasped and instinctively threw a punch at him, only barely managing to check the blow when she saw who he was.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“I saw… I thought you were…” He trailed off. There was a thin line of blood on her collarbone, just above her brand.
“I wanted to get rid of the brand.” Her jaw was clenched, and there was a look in her eyes that scared him, almost fever-bright. “I… I know what you’re going to say… but it’s fine, I was going to be careful, I know how to take skin off from working with Aunt Clare…”
“You know how to skin a carcass,” Xavier said, his voice tight with worry. Her arm had not relaxed and he did not dare let go of her wrist lest she continue hurting herself.
“I’ve thought it through, Xavier!” She pulled against his grip, trying to free herself, but Xavier held firm. “If the brand is gone, it’ll be easier to hide. No one can prove who I belonged to.”
“You can hide it under your clothes,” Xavier said. “Like I do.”
“But then I can still… I still know it’s there,” she said, her voice fierce and shaking. “It’ll still be… I’ll still be…” Her free hand moved to her chest, fretfully tracing the shape of the scar. He’d seen her do that before, when she was worried or thinking, but suddenly it became more than just an absent gesture when her face twisted in distress and her fingers clawed into the brand, opening her cut further. Blood started to trickle down over her chest, staining her fingertips.
Xavier grabbed her wrist, dragging her hand away. “Elin, stop,” he pleaded. He could feel her hand shaking under his grasp. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“How do you stand it?” she gasped, wild-eyed. She clutched at his wrist with her bloodied fingers, trembling. “Having him burned into your skin…having that reminder forever--” Her grip on her knife had slackened, her hand shaking. “N-no matter where I go, he’ll always be… I’ll always be…”
“No,” Xavier said. “No.” Carefully he let go of Elin’s knife hand and took the blade from her, setting it aside. She didn’t fight him for it. The look in her eyes made his throat tighten up, and sent a fresh surge of hatred through him toward the Courdonians who had hurt her. “You got away, Elin. It’s over.”
“It’s not really,” she said quietly. “I... still dream about that place, I’m still there.” She raised her hand and Xavier tensed, but she only touched her own cheek lightly, tracing the thin scar that had been left there by a knife. “It’s not… going away.”
“I know,” Xavier whispered. He’d been haunted by his memories of Talvace years after getting away and it was worse now, after he’d been recaptured once, only a couple of months since he and Frederick escaped… He didn’t know the extent of what Elin had gone through in Courdon. She still wouldn’t talk about it. But of course it lingered. He knew what that was like. “But… you don’t have to do this alone.” He pushed up his right sleeve, showing his own brand, and looked at her, squeezing her hand. “I’m here.”
Elin put her hand on his shoulder, tracing the shape of his brand with her fingers. For a moment she didn’t speak, but her eyes were filling with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, barely audible.
Xavier reached out and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder. He could feel the dampness of her tears against his neck. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly, stroking her hair. “Not your fault.”
For a moment, they sat like that in silence, so close that Xavier could feel Elin’s heart beating, her shaky breathing. After a while, he spoke. “Elin…” His hand trailed down her shoulder lightly. He still would not ask her about something she clearly wasn’t ready to talk about, but there was one thing he needed to know. “Is he dead?”
A shudder ran through Elin’s body. “Yes,” she whispered simply.
Xavier nodded, his eyes hard. His arms tightened around her. “Good.”
Xavier jumped up from where he was sleeping and scrambled over to her, grabbing her wrist and pulling the knife away. Elin gasped and instinctively threw a punch at him, only barely managing to check the blow when she saw who he was.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“I saw… I thought you were…” He trailed off. There was a thin line of blood on her collarbone, just above her brand.
“I wanted to get rid of the brand.” Her jaw was clenched, and there was a look in her eyes that scared him, almost fever-bright. “I… I know what you’re going to say… but it’s fine, I was going to be careful, I know how to take skin off from working with Aunt Clare…”
“You know how to skin a carcass,” Xavier said, his voice tight with worry. Her arm had not relaxed and he did not dare let go of her wrist lest she continue hurting herself.
“I’ve thought it through, Xavier!” She pulled against his grip, trying to free herself, but Xavier held firm. “If the brand is gone, it’ll be easier to hide. No one can prove who I belonged to.”
“You can hide it under your clothes,” Xavier said. “Like I do.”
“But then I can still… I still know it’s there,” she said, her voice fierce and shaking. “It’ll still be… I’ll still be…” Her free hand moved to her chest, fretfully tracing the shape of the scar. He’d seen her do that before, when she was worried or thinking, but suddenly it became more than just an absent gesture when her face twisted in distress and her fingers clawed into the brand, opening her cut further. Blood started to trickle down over her chest, staining her fingertips.
Xavier grabbed her wrist, dragging her hand away. “Elin, stop,” he pleaded. He could feel her hand shaking under his grasp. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“How do you stand it?” she gasped, wild-eyed. She clutched at his wrist with her bloodied fingers, trembling. “Having him burned into your skin…having that reminder forever--” Her grip on her knife had slackened, her hand shaking. “N-no matter where I go, he’ll always be… I’ll always be…”
“No,” Xavier said. “No.” Carefully he let go of Elin’s knife hand and took the blade from her, setting it aside. She didn’t fight him for it. The look in her eyes made his throat tighten up, and sent a fresh surge of hatred through him toward the Courdonians who had hurt her. “You got away, Elin. It’s over.”
“It’s not really,” she said quietly. “I... still dream about that place, I’m still there.” She raised her hand and Xavier tensed, but she only touched her own cheek lightly, tracing the thin scar that had been left there by a knife. “It’s not… going away.”
“I know,” Xavier whispered. He’d been haunted by his memories of Talvace years after getting away and it was worse now, after he’d been recaptured once, only a couple of months since he and Frederick escaped… He didn’t know the extent of what Elin had gone through in Courdon. She still wouldn’t talk about it. But of course it lingered. He knew what that was like. “But… you don’t have to do this alone.” He pushed up his right sleeve, showing his own brand, and looked at her, squeezing her hand. “I’m here.”
Elin put her hand on his shoulder, tracing the shape of his brand with her fingers. For a moment she didn’t speak, but her eyes were filling with tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, barely audible.
Xavier reached out and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder. He could feel the dampness of her tears against his neck. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly, stroking her hair. “Not your fault.”
For a moment, they sat like that in silence, so close that Xavier could feel Elin’s heart beating, her shaky breathing. After a while, he spoke. “Elin…” His hand trailed down her shoulder lightly. He still would not ask her about something she clearly wasn’t ready to talk about, but there was one thing he needed to know. “Is he dead?”
A shudder ran through Elin’s body. “Yes,” she whispered simply.
Xavier nodded, his eyes hard. His arms tightened around her. “Good.”
#4: Return
He was jolted from sleep by the sounds of shouting, of people running. At first, Tony didn’t quite comprehend what was going on; then he heard Briar’s scream, and sat bolt upright.
The Courdonians had found them.
Their safehouse had remained safe for a while after the Courdonians took the city, and the Shadows had turned to fighting back in whatever ways they could, rescuing others if they were able, striking against the invaders while remaining in hiding. But perhaps it was inevitable that it couldn’t last… and now what was possibly the last holdout of the Shadows was going to fall.
They hadn’t come into Tony’s room yet. Still somewhat disoriented, he scrambled for a weapon, his urgency increased by the shouting he heard outside. Someone - it sounded like Arthur - was screaming for them to run, his warning coming too late. And there were the sounds of a struggle just outside Tony’s door. “No! Get off me!” Clarissa’s voice.
Where was that knife?
And then there was a hand on his shoulder, and a low voice in his ear. “Time to go.”
Tensing, Tony whirled around, his hands balled into fists - but it wasn’t a Courdonian. Suddenly, he wasn’t in the safehouse at all. Bright sunlight shone down on his face, and he was vaguely aware of the sound and smell of the sea, but most of his attention was focused on the man standing in front of him, the man who’d sent him into the past. Steve Magerage.
His first and immediate reaction was fury.
“What did you do?” he shouted. “Send me back! They’re going to get slaughtered--”
“Sorry, Tony,” the time-traveling mage said, his face unusually grim. “But I can’t let you die alongside them. The timeline’s not as fragile as most people seem to think, but getting you killed in the past would be more of a paradox than I’m prepared to deal with.”
“Then why the hell did you send me there in the first place?” Tony demanded. “If you’re a time-traveler, you had to have known--”
“I didn’t,” Magerage said grimly. “This timeline was never meant to happen. You, Tony, were supposed to help the Shadows take the throne. The Courdonians are driven out, Aldrich ascends to the throne, happy endings for all and prosperity for Kyth. But something’s gone wrong. Something went very, very wrong.”
“Then let me help,” Tony said. “They - they were my friends--”
“No,” the mage said. “Enough’s gone wrong without adding your death to the mix. Your part in this is over, Tony Rayne. Go home.”
“No! Send me back!” The world around him shifted, and Tony found himself standing on the sidewalk by a busy street, surrounded by tall buildings and the smell of exhaust and the sound of rushing cars. But Tony couldn’t process any of it, his mind still consumed with the images of a much smaller city, the Courdonians, and the Shadows - his friends - Clarissa and Arthur and Briar and all the rest of the survivors being dragged away, doomed to captivity or worse-- “Send me back!”
But Magerage was gone, and Tony was left screaming his plea to the empty air, oblivious to the stares of passersby.
The Courdonians had found them.
Their safehouse had remained safe for a while after the Courdonians took the city, and the Shadows had turned to fighting back in whatever ways they could, rescuing others if they were able, striking against the invaders while remaining in hiding. But perhaps it was inevitable that it couldn’t last… and now what was possibly the last holdout of the Shadows was going to fall.
They hadn’t come into Tony’s room yet. Still somewhat disoriented, he scrambled for a weapon, his urgency increased by the shouting he heard outside. Someone - it sounded like Arthur - was screaming for them to run, his warning coming too late. And there were the sounds of a struggle just outside Tony’s door. “No! Get off me!” Clarissa’s voice.
Where was that knife?
And then there was a hand on his shoulder, and a low voice in his ear. “Time to go.”
Tensing, Tony whirled around, his hands balled into fists - but it wasn’t a Courdonian. Suddenly, he wasn’t in the safehouse at all. Bright sunlight shone down on his face, and he was vaguely aware of the sound and smell of the sea, but most of his attention was focused on the man standing in front of him, the man who’d sent him into the past. Steve Magerage.
His first and immediate reaction was fury.
“What did you do?” he shouted. “Send me back! They’re going to get slaughtered--”
“Sorry, Tony,” the time-traveling mage said, his face unusually grim. “But I can’t let you die alongside them. The timeline’s not as fragile as most people seem to think, but getting you killed in the past would be more of a paradox than I’m prepared to deal with.”
“Then why the hell did you send me there in the first place?” Tony demanded. “If you’re a time-traveler, you had to have known--”
“I didn’t,” Magerage said grimly. “This timeline was never meant to happen. You, Tony, were supposed to help the Shadows take the throne. The Courdonians are driven out, Aldrich ascends to the throne, happy endings for all and prosperity for Kyth. But something’s gone wrong. Something went very, very wrong.”
“Then let me help,” Tony said. “They - they were my friends--”
“No,” the mage said. “Enough’s gone wrong without adding your death to the mix. Your part in this is over, Tony Rayne. Go home.”
“No! Send me back!” The world around him shifted, and Tony found himself standing on the sidewalk by a busy street, surrounded by tall buildings and the smell of exhaust and the sound of rushing cars. But Tony couldn’t process any of it, his mind still consumed with the images of a much smaller city, the Courdonians, and the Shadows - his friends - Clarissa and Arthur and Briar and all the rest of the survivors being dragged away, doomed to captivity or worse-- “Send me back!”
But Magerage was gone, and Tony was left screaming his plea to the empty air, oblivious to the stares of passersby.
#5: The Fall of Solis (part 1)
It was a few hours before dawn when Leif awoke with a start. He lay in bed for a moment, breathing heavily and trying to remember what had startled him. Then he felt it again, and his stomach clenched.
The manor wards had been breached.
Leif only stopped to throw on a dressing gown before hurrying out into the hall, heading straight for Lord Everett’s chambers. When the man answered the door in response to Leif’s urgent knocking, Leif didn’t bother with any preamble. “I just felt the wards starting to fall,” the archmage said. “The Courdonians are here.”
The wards around Jade Manor were an immense spell, cast in concert by Leif and a group of the other House mages. For them to have been breached meant that the Courdonians must be on the verge of breaking through their defenses. The spells would buy them some time, but both Leif and Everett knew what this meant. The siege on Solis was coming to an end. They would have to fight.
“Wake the captain of the war-mages,” Everett said, but before he could issue further instructions, they heard footsteps in the hall. He looked over Leif’s shoulder. The archmage turned and saw Lord Charles with his arm around Jeniver’s shoulders, looking grim. The girl was pale and frightened, leaning against her father.
“Jeniver had a vision,” Charles said. “The Courdonian army is attacking the manor.”
“I know,” Everett said. “The wards have been breached. Jeniver, did you see what direction they’ve come from?”
“I- I don’t know,” Jeniver whispered, and shivered. “There were so many… I think they must be coming from more than one side. I saw fire on the edge of town… they’ve got gryphons…”
“Then we do not have much time.” Despite the situation, the Lord of Embers was remarkably calm and composed, a steely look in his eyes. “Leif, the war-mages, if you please. Charles, assemble the knights, and wake my son. I want all of you and my captains assembled in the great hall as soon as possible.”
They gathered in the great hall, a small and hastily formed council of war. Outside, it was still dark, and the night felt deceptively peaceful. Everett presided at the high table, easily the most composed out of all of them; his face was a picture of icy calm. Joffery was seated beside him, and the resemblance between father and son would have been striking if not for the fear in Joffery’s eyes. Leif took a seat beside the captain of the war-mages, across from Lord Charles and his family. He’d brought Helena, and Jeniver was leaning against her mother’s shoulder, looking exhausted.
“The Courdonians are attacking the manor,” Everett said. “Master Leif, how long do we have before the wards fall entirely?”
Leif swallowed. “Perhaps an hour,” he said. “They’re using… a lot of force.”
“Then time is of the essence.” His eyes swept across the table, briefly pinning each one of them with his gaze. “We need to muster our defenses.”
It didn’t quite feel real to Leif. He listened quietly as Everett calmly outlined the defense plans, sketching lines with his hands on the tabletop to illustrate the movements of his knights and the war-mages moving to defend key areas. Though he tried to attend, it was difficult when he could still feel the Courdonians battering away at their defenses in the back of his mind. Occasionally he saw the mage-captain wince and knew he must be feeling it too. He’d been one of those involved in the original casting.
They’d held out under siege for nearly a month, but the Courdonians were at last breaking down their defenses and all of them knew it. Their supplies had dwindled, and they were unlikely to be receiving any reinforcements. Everett had tried to send word to Nid’aigle, only to learn that the elven city had already fallen by the time Courdon closed in on Solis.
They were all tired, and their numbers had fallen. And now it seemed more and more likely that the Courdonians would break down their defenses and be inside the manor by dawn.
“Jeniver,” Everett said, turning to his niece. “I need to know the position of the Courdonian mages. Can you see them?”
The girl shut her eyes tightly. “I see them,” she said slowly. “They’re on the… I think it’s the east side… they have knights shielding them, I think that's them, I don’t really understand what they’re doing but I guess they’re trying to get through the--”
There was a low rumbling sound from somewhere outside. Leif could feel it vibrating in his chest. Jeniver broke off, her eyes snapping open, looking scared. “What was that?”
“You didn’t see?” Everett said, frowning. Jeniver shook her head mutely. “Try.”
“O-okay…” Jeniver closed her eyes again, clutching at her wand as if it could keep her safe from the army she could see surrounding her home. “I don’t see…” There was another distant, muffled explosion, and Jeniver stiffened. “No, I do see them. They’re on gryphons - the mages - doing some kind of… big fire spell, all at once.”
They’d divided their forces, Leif realized. Chipping away at Jade Manor’s defenses through both counterspells and brute force. The wards were protecting them from the fireballs for now, but once those fell, and the Courdonian mages continued to rain fire on them from above… Leif shuddered. The damage would be devastating. And they were outnumbered.
Jeniver opened her eyes, obviously trying to remain calm, but her trembling gave her away. “Uncle Everett, what are we going to do?” she said.
The Lord of Embers was quiet for a moment, before turning to the captain of the guard. “How many war-phoenixes are still in fighting condition?”
“Not many,” the knight said, looking at him warily.
“Saddle as many as you can and try to draw the gryphon-riders’ fire,” Everett said. “And I want mages backing up the defenders on the east and south walls. Create an opening in the Courdonian magical defenses and take out as many of their mages as possible.”
“We’re heavily outnumbered,” the war-mage captain said quietly, looking at Everett. “A lot of our mages are already getting pulled--”
“I know,” Everett snapped. “But there’s no time for rest. Put our mages without combat experience on shoring up our defenses, so those trained for war can focus on the offensive.” He looked around the table. “We are not giving Solis to Courdon without a fight,” he said. “We have centuries of magecraft behind us. We are the most ancient and most magically gifted House in this kingdom. So show them.”
The mage dipped his head respectfully. “Yes, my lord.”
Everett nodded grimly. “Now go. We don’t have time to waste.” The captains bowed and turned to leave. Leif and the others stood as well. The archmage started to follow the war-mage, but then Everett turned to him. “Leif.” At the sound of Everett’s quiet voice, Leif looked up, ready for orders to be given. But he didn’t expect what Everett said next. “I need you to take Joffery and Jeniver out of the city. Take Kirin and Ambrose with you, get them to Bern. You’ll be safe there for the time being.”
Joffery cast his father a startled look. “Father, I can’t just leave you--”
"You are the heir to House Jade, and you have a duty to this kingdom," Everett said sharply. "Go to Destrier, get word to House Stallion about what’s happened."
“Lord Everett,” Leif said quietly. “Are you sure you want me to be their escort? I could be helping the war-mages--”
“I have other mages,” Everett said. “House Stallion does not. They’ll need an archmage’s power, I imagine… and I do not want to give Courdon the satisfaction of taking out all of Kyth’s most powerful mages in one strike.” Before Leif could respond or fully process this, Everett glanced at Jeniver. "Is there a clear path outside the back gate?"
The young seer nodded nervously. "I think so," she said.
"Then you'll leave that way," Everett said. "I will try to ensure that you are given cover by our forces."
As Leif turned to go, he heard Jeniver ask anxiously, "But you're coming too, right? Mom? Dad?"
"Come along, Jeniver," Helena said, wrapping her arm tightly around her daughter's shoulders. "We... we should get you ready."
He heard Jeniver's continued protests until the family was out of earshot. Leif walked quickly in the direction of Kirin's room, almost flinching again as he sensed another barrage against the wards. When he swung open the door, he was greeted by the sound of a terrified whimper. Kirin was awake, his sleep probably disturbed by the sounds of the explosions that the Courdonians were hurling against the wards. He was curled up on the floor, pressed into the corner and trying to make himself as small as possible. Leif crouched down in front of him, holding out his hand.
"Kirin," he said, and before he could say anything more Kirin half-lunged, half-fell forward and clutched at Leif, leaning his head against the archmage's chest. Leif put a light but protective hand on the back of his head, and thankfully Kirin did not flinch or object to the touch. "We need to go now, Kirin," he murmured. “Will you come with me?”
Almost imperceptibly, Kirin nodded, still leaning against Leif. Getting him upright and dressed was something of an ordeal, but he followed Leif out the door readily enough once he was suitably prepared for travel, clutching tightly to the wooden owl which hung on a cord around his neck. Leif woke Ambrose next, explained the situation as quickly as possible, and left him to get ready while he went back to his own chambers with Kirin.
Even if he hadn't been able to sense the steady ebbing of the wards, the way the building shook with every impact from the fire-spells would have been enough of a reminder for haste. Kirin flinched at each vibration, his body tense and trembling. Leif had to force himself to step away from him to go get dressed and prepare for the journey.
He knew there wasn’t much time, but all the same, it was hard not to linger in the room that had been home to him for the past five years. The spellbooks he had been studying, seeking some edge against the Courdonians, were still spread out where he'd left them, older projects shoved unceremoniously to the side to make room. He left them where they were; they were too bulky to carry with him. With a slight pang, he passed over the Books of Woo on his shelf as well. In the end, the only thing he took from his room was the feather pendant. He hadn't worn it since he had been told that Kirin was dead, back when all this started what seemed like a lifetime ago... but something made him pick it up after he'd put on traveling clothes, tucking it under his shirt.
In the corridor outside his room, Leif hesitated. The mews. If he had time-- but even as the thought crossed his mind, he could feel the wards waning, and a low rumbling vibration made Kirin whimper and clutch at his sleeve. He’d be risking his life if he went back now… and he was not willing to risk Kirin’s.
“They’re not going to find you,” he murmured, putting his hand lightly over Kirin’s where it rested tremulously on his arm. “I promise.” Courdon would get their hands on Kirin over his dead body… and he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
When they reached the gate, the others had already gathered. Jeniver's protests at this point had died away and she was clinging silently to both of her parents, her shoulders shaking. Joffery was wearing a sword, which looked somehow incongruous against his fine traveling clothes. Leif didn't think he'd ever seen the carefree young lord armed before. He was facing his father with a stubborn set to his face. Ambrose, standing a few feet apart from the others, stepped forward to meet Leif and Kirin as they approached, busying himself with helping to comfort Kirin in order to avoid intruding.
"I'm not a child," Joffery was saying as Leif and Kirin approached them. "You can't just send me away, not now! I want to do something--"
"And what exactly would you intend to do?" Everett snapped. "Sing at the Courdonians?"
Joffery flinched, a hurt look flashing across his face. "Better than running away," he said, his voice shaking.
A crease appeared between Everett's brows. "Joffery," he said, more gently.
The young man wasn't listening. "You've told me that being a noble means responsibility," he said hotly. "How can you ask me to abandon my House when--"
“Listen to me,” Everett said, and there was something in his voice that made Joffery stop and stare at him. “You are the heir to House Jade. You need to survive.” As he spoke, he slowly pulled his signet ring off his finger and put it into Joffery's hand. "I am not telling you to abandon this House, Joffery. On the contrary. No matter what happens in Solis today... they will need someone to lead them."
Leif's mouth went dry. It hit him that Everett did not expect to survive the coming battle. Perhaps he should have already realized that, after how the man had been talking before. His hands closed into fists. He could understand how Joffery was feeling; much as he understood Everett's reasoning, it went against his every instinct to be leaving now.
The meaning of Everett's words seemed to hit Joffery hard as well. His eyes went wide, and he clutched the ring so tightly his knuckles were white. "I- Father, I don't... know if I..."
Everett gripped his son's shoulders in both his hands. "You are my son," he said quietly. "I know you will not dishonor this House." His voice shook slightly. For a moment he stood there, looking into Joffery’s face. Then, to Leif's surprise, he pulled his son into a tight embrace. Everett cared for his family, Leif knew that, but he was not given to showing physical affection like this. Joffery looked about as surprised as Leif, but he didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around his father in return, burying his face in Everett's shoulder.
Everett murmured something Leif couldn't quite catch, and Joffery nodded mutely, his grip tightening and his hands clutching Everett’s cloak. Then they pulled apart. Everett's face was as controlled and solemn as ever, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. Joffery was not as composed, his breathing shaky. As he stepped back, he swiped one hand across his eyes.
Another explosion hit the wards, shaking the building even worse than it had before. Leif shivered. “We have to go,” he said, his voice tense. “The wards…” He was starting to be able to feel the Courdonians' spells if he felt outward for them, and couldn't focus too hard on them before he started feeling ill. They were a cloying darkness at the edge of his awareness, clinging to the wards and eating away at Jade Manor's protections like acid. They had very nearly done their job; the wards felt brittle. Much more of this and they would shatter.
Everett nodded. “Go,” he said in a low voice to Joffery, stepping back from him. “Look after your cousin.”
Jeniver pulled away from her parents hesitantly, looking back over her shoulder at them as she did. She was standing straight, no longer crying and trying to be brave, but her face showed she was still fighting back tears. Lady Helena gave her an encouraging nod.
“It will be all right, Jeniver,” she said quietly. “We love you.”
Joffery took the girl’s hand, and she clung to him tightly as if holding on for dear life. He walked over to the gate and unlatched it, his hand shaking slightly. There was no more time to linger. Leif brought up the rear, one hand on Kirin’s back to reassure him.
“Lord Everett…” Despite his own urgency, Leif hesitated at the door, looking back at the Lord of House Jade. What could he say to the man who’d changed the course of his entire life? At last he could only bow, his throat tight. “‘Woo be with you,” he said quietly.
Everett nodded solemnly. "And with you, Master Leif."
Pulling his cloak around him and keeping one hand protectively on Kirin’s shoulder, the Archmage of House Jade stepped out into the night.
The manor wards had been breached.
Leif only stopped to throw on a dressing gown before hurrying out into the hall, heading straight for Lord Everett’s chambers. When the man answered the door in response to Leif’s urgent knocking, Leif didn’t bother with any preamble. “I just felt the wards starting to fall,” the archmage said. “The Courdonians are here.”
The wards around Jade Manor were an immense spell, cast in concert by Leif and a group of the other House mages. For them to have been breached meant that the Courdonians must be on the verge of breaking through their defenses. The spells would buy them some time, but both Leif and Everett knew what this meant. The siege on Solis was coming to an end. They would have to fight.
“Wake the captain of the war-mages,” Everett said, but before he could issue further instructions, they heard footsteps in the hall. He looked over Leif’s shoulder. The archmage turned and saw Lord Charles with his arm around Jeniver’s shoulders, looking grim. The girl was pale and frightened, leaning against her father.
“Jeniver had a vision,” Charles said. “The Courdonian army is attacking the manor.”
“I know,” Everett said. “The wards have been breached. Jeniver, did you see what direction they’ve come from?”
“I- I don’t know,” Jeniver whispered, and shivered. “There were so many… I think they must be coming from more than one side. I saw fire on the edge of town… they’ve got gryphons…”
“Then we do not have much time.” Despite the situation, the Lord of Embers was remarkably calm and composed, a steely look in his eyes. “Leif, the war-mages, if you please. Charles, assemble the knights, and wake my son. I want all of you and my captains assembled in the great hall as soon as possible.”
They gathered in the great hall, a small and hastily formed council of war. Outside, it was still dark, and the night felt deceptively peaceful. Everett presided at the high table, easily the most composed out of all of them; his face was a picture of icy calm. Joffery was seated beside him, and the resemblance between father and son would have been striking if not for the fear in Joffery’s eyes. Leif took a seat beside the captain of the war-mages, across from Lord Charles and his family. He’d brought Helena, and Jeniver was leaning against her mother’s shoulder, looking exhausted.
“The Courdonians are attacking the manor,” Everett said. “Master Leif, how long do we have before the wards fall entirely?”
Leif swallowed. “Perhaps an hour,” he said. “They’re using… a lot of force.”
“Then time is of the essence.” His eyes swept across the table, briefly pinning each one of them with his gaze. “We need to muster our defenses.”
It didn’t quite feel real to Leif. He listened quietly as Everett calmly outlined the defense plans, sketching lines with his hands on the tabletop to illustrate the movements of his knights and the war-mages moving to defend key areas. Though he tried to attend, it was difficult when he could still feel the Courdonians battering away at their defenses in the back of his mind. Occasionally he saw the mage-captain wince and knew he must be feeling it too. He’d been one of those involved in the original casting.
They’d held out under siege for nearly a month, but the Courdonians were at last breaking down their defenses and all of them knew it. Their supplies had dwindled, and they were unlikely to be receiving any reinforcements. Everett had tried to send word to Nid’aigle, only to learn that the elven city had already fallen by the time Courdon closed in on Solis.
They were all tired, and their numbers had fallen. And now it seemed more and more likely that the Courdonians would break down their defenses and be inside the manor by dawn.
“Jeniver,” Everett said, turning to his niece. “I need to know the position of the Courdonian mages. Can you see them?”
The girl shut her eyes tightly. “I see them,” she said slowly. “They’re on the… I think it’s the east side… they have knights shielding them, I think that's them, I don’t really understand what they’re doing but I guess they’re trying to get through the--”
There was a low rumbling sound from somewhere outside. Leif could feel it vibrating in his chest. Jeniver broke off, her eyes snapping open, looking scared. “What was that?”
“You didn’t see?” Everett said, frowning. Jeniver shook her head mutely. “Try.”
“O-okay…” Jeniver closed her eyes again, clutching at her wand as if it could keep her safe from the army she could see surrounding her home. “I don’t see…” There was another distant, muffled explosion, and Jeniver stiffened. “No, I do see them. They’re on gryphons - the mages - doing some kind of… big fire spell, all at once.”
They’d divided their forces, Leif realized. Chipping away at Jade Manor’s defenses through both counterspells and brute force. The wards were protecting them from the fireballs for now, but once those fell, and the Courdonian mages continued to rain fire on them from above… Leif shuddered. The damage would be devastating. And they were outnumbered.
Jeniver opened her eyes, obviously trying to remain calm, but her trembling gave her away. “Uncle Everett, what are we going to do?” she said.
The Lord of Embers was quiet for a moment, before turning to the captain of the guard. “How many war-phoenixes are still in fighting condition?”
“Not many,” the knight said, looking at him warily.
“Saddle as many as you can and try to draw the gryphon-riders’ fire,” Everett said. “And I want mages backing up the defenders on the east and south walls. Create an opening in the Courdonian magical defenses and take out as many of their mages as possible.”
“We’re heavily outnumbered,” the war-mage captain said quietly, looking at Everett. “A lot of our mages are already getting pulled--”
“I know,” Everett snapped. “But there’s no time for rest. Put our mages without combat experience on shoring up our defenses, so those trained for war can focus on the offensive.” He looked around the table. “We are not giving Solis to Courdon without a fight,” he said. “We have centuries of magecraft behind us. We are the most ancient and most magically gifted House in this kingdom. So show them.”
The mage dipped his head respectfully. “Yes, my lord.”
Everett nodded grimly. “Now go. We don’t have time to waste.” The captains bowed and turned to leave. Leif and the others stood as well. The archmage started to follow the war-mage, but then Everett turned to him. “Leif.” At the sound of Everett’s quiet voice, Leif looked up, ready for orders to be given. But he didn’t expect what Everett said next. “I need you to take Joffery and Jeniver out of the city. Take Kirin and Ambrose with you, get them to Bern. You’ll be safe there for the time being.”
Joffery cast his father a startled look. “Father, I can’t just leave you--”
"You are the heir to House Jade, and you have a duty to this kingdom," Everett said sharply. "Go to Destrier, get word to House Stallion about what’s happened."
“Lord Everett,” Leif said quietly. “Are you sure you want me to be their escort? I could be helping the war-mages--”
“I have other mages,” Everett said. “House Stallion does not. They’ll need an archmage’s power, I imagine… and I do not want to give Courdon the satisfaction of taking out all of Kyth’s most powerful mages in one strike.” Before Leif could respond or fully process this, Everett glanced at Jeniver. "Is there a clear path outside the back gate?"
The young seer nodded nervously. "I think so," she said.
"Then you'll leave that way," Everett said. "I will try to ensure that you are given cover by our forces."
As Leif turned to go, he heard Jeniver ask anxiously, "But you're coming too, right? Mom? Dad?"
"Come along, Jeniver," Helena said, wrapping her arm tightly around her daughter's shoulders. "We... we should get you ready."
He heard Jeniver's continued protests until the family was out of earshot. Leif walked quickly in the direction of Kirin's room, almost flinching again as he sensed another barrage against the wards. When he swung open the door, he was greeted by the sound of a terrified whimper. Kirin was awake, his sleep probably disturbed by the sounds of the explosions that the Courdonians were hurling against the wards. He was curled up on the floor, pressed into the corner and trying to make himself as small as possible. Leif crouched down in front of him, holding out his hand.
"Kirin," he said, and before he could say anything more Kirin half-lunged, half-fell forward and clutched at Leif, leaning his head against the archmage's chest. Leif put a light but protective hand on the back of his head, and thankfully Kirin did not flinch or object to the touch. "We need to go now, Kirin," he murmured. “Will you come with me?”
Almost imperceptibly, Kirin nodded, still leaning against Leif. Getting him upright and dressed was something of an ordeal, but he followed Leif out the door readily enough once he was suitably prepared for travel, clutching tightly to the wooden owl which hung on a cord around his neck. Leif woke Ambrose next, explained the situation as quickly as possible, and left him to get ready while he went back to his own chambers with Kirin.
Even if he hadn't been able to sense the steady ebbing of the wards, the way the building shook with every impact from the fire-spells would have been enough of a reminder for haste. Kirin flinched at each vibration, his body tense and trembling. Leif had to force himself to step away from him to go get dressed and prepare for the journey.
He knew there wasn’t much time, but all the same, it was hard not to linger in the room that had been home to him for the past five years. The spellbooks he had been studying, seeking some edge against the Courdonians, were still spread out where he'd left them, older projects shoved unceremoniously to the side to make room. He left them where they were; they were too bulky to carry with him. With a slight pang, he passed over the Books of Woo on his shelf as well. In the end, the only thing he took from his room was the feather pendant. He hadn't worn it since he had been told that Kirin was dead, back when all this started what seemed like a lifetime ago... but something made him pick it up after he'd put on traveling clothes, tucking it under his shirt.
In the corridor outside his room, Leif hesitated. The mews. If he had time-- but even as the thought crossed his mind, he could feel the wards waning, and a low rumbling vibration made Kirin whimper and clutch at his sleeve. He’d be risking his life if he went back now… and he was not willing to risk Kirin’s.
“They’re not going to find you,” he murmured, putting his hand lightly over Kirin’s where it rested tremulously on his arm. “I promise.” Courdon would get their hands on Kirin over his dead body… and he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
When they reached the gate, the others had already gathered. Jeniver's protests at this point had died away and she was clinging silently to both of her parents, her shoulders shaking. Joffery was wearing a sword, which looked somehow incongruous against his fine traveling clothes. Leif didn't think he'd ever seen the carefree young lord armed before. He was facing his father with a stubborn set to his face. Ambrose, standing a few feet apart from the others, stepped forward to meet Leif and Kirin as they approached, busying himself with helping to comfort Kirin in order to avoid intruding.
"I'm not a child," Joffery was saying as Leif and Kirin approached them. "You can't just send me away, not now! I want to do something--"
"And what exactly would you intend to do?" Everett snapped. "Sing at the Courdonians?"
Joffery flinched, a hurt look flashing across his face. "Better than running away," he said, his voice shaking.
A crease appeared between Everett's brows. "Joffery," he said, more gently.
The young man wasn't listening. "You've told me that being a noble means responsibility," he said hotly. "How can you ask me to abandon my House when--"
“Listen to me,” Everett said, and there was something in his voice that made Joffery stop and stare at him. “You are the heir to House Jade. You need to survive.” As he spoke, he slowly pulled his signet ring off his finger and put it into Joffery's hand. "I am not telling you to abandon this House, Joffery. On the contrary. No matter what happens in Solis today... they will need someone to lead them."
Leif's mouth went dry. It hit him that Everett did not expect to survive the coming battle. Perhaps he should have already realized that, after how the man had been talking before. His hands closed into fists. He could understand how Joffery was feeling; much as he understood Everett's reasoning, it went against his every instinct to be leaving now.
The meaning of Everett's words seemed to hit Joffery hard as well. His eyes went wide, and he clutched the ring so tightly his knuckles were white. "I- Father, I don't... know if I..."
Everett gripped his son's shoulders in both his hands. "You are my son," he said quietly. "I know you will not dishonor this House." His voice shook slightly. For a moment he stood there, looking into Joffery’s face. Then, to Leif's surprise, he pulled his son into a tight embrace. Everett cared for his family, Leif knew that, but he was not given to showing physical affection like this. Joffery looked about as surprised as Leif, but he didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around his father in return, burying his face in Everett's shoulder.
Everett murmured something Leif couldn't quite catch, and Joffery nodded mutely, his grip tightening and his hands clutching Everett’s cloak. Then they pulled apart. Everett's face was as controlled and solemn as ever, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. Joffery was not as composed, his breathing shaky. As he stepped back, he swiped one hand across his eyes.
Another explosion hit the wards, shaking the building even worse than it had before. Leif shivered. “We have to go,” he said, his voice tense. “The wards…” He was starting to be able to feel the Courdonians' spells if he felt outward for them, and couldn't focus too hard on them before he started feeling ill. They were a cloying darkness at the edge of his awareness, clinging to the wards and eating away at Jade Manor's protections like acid. They had very nearly done their job; the wards felt brittle. Much more of this and they would shatter.
Everett nodded. “Go,” he said in a low voice to Joffery, stepping back from him. “Look after your cousin.”
Jeniver pulled away from her parents hesitantly, looking back over her shoulder at them as she did. She was standing straight, no longer crying and trying to be brave, but her face showed she was still fighting back tears. Lady Helena gave her an encouraging nod.
“It will be all right, Jeniver,” she said quietly. “We love you.”
Joffery took the girl’s hand, and she clung to him tightly as if holding on for dear life. He walked over to the gate and unlatched it, his hand shaking slightly. There was no more time to linger. Leif brought up the rear, one hand on Kirin’s back to reassure him.
“Lord Everett…” Despite his own urgency, Leif hesitated at the door, looking back at the Lord of House Jade. What could he say to the man who’d changed the course of his entire life? At last he could only bow, his throat tight. “‘Woo be with you,” he said quietly.
Everett nodded solemnly. "And with you, Master Leif."
Pulling his cloak around him and keeping one hand protectively on Kirin’s shoulder, the Archmage of House Jade stepped out into the night.
#6. The Fall of Solis (part 2)
The door shut behind Leif Jade with an air of finality. For a moment, Everett allowed himself to close his eyes. It was done. His son was safe, or as safe as he could ensure under the circumstances; Leif, and the valuable information on Courdonian magic that he carried, was on his way to Bern. And he’d done what he could for the two Stallions who had briefly sheltered under his roof. It was the least he could do for his old rival, ‘Woo rest his soul, to look after two members of his family.
They were in the talons of Lord ‘Woo now. Everett found himself murmuring a prayer under his breath, almost begging for the ‘Woo’s protection over his son. If he had been in his private chapel now he would have fallen to his knees.
But there was no time for prayer. He turned back to Helena and Charles to find his sister weeping quietly in her husband’s arms, clinging to him for comfort. Guilt twisted Everett’s stomach. “Helena,” he said. “I should have sent you with her--”
She shook her head, pulling away from Charles. “No,” she said. “We have been over this. I’m not leaving Charles, and I’m not leaving you.” She reached out and took his hand. He wondered if she could feel that it was shaking. Helena smiled at him through her tears. “I’d have only slowed them down, Everett,” she said quietly. “You know that.”
It was true. It was easy to forget that Helena was not well; she was in her own way as good as Everett at controlling herself, and had put so much energy into the appearance of strength so she wouldn’t worry Jeniver. But the siege had not been easy on his sister. Her coughing fits sounded painful, and even Leif had not been able to do much to ease the symptoms of her illness.
He caught himself thinking that at least it was better for her to go down like this, quickly, fighting for her home - he wouldn’t have to watch his sister waste away to nothing in front of his eyes - but quickly shoved those thoughts out of his mind. No. He was the Lord of House Jade, and so he could not think like this; even in the face of his terrible certainty that Solis would fall, he had to keep hold of some shred of hope that some of them would survive. However slim that hope was.
Everett squeezed her hands tightly before letting go. There was not enough time to say all the things he wanted to her, to Charles, just as there had not been time with Joffery… so he didn’t try. Instead he stepped back, felt his face setting into that cool and composed expression that he was so used to wearing. There was no time to comfort his sister, or to dwell on the fact that neither of them was likely to ever see their children again. He didn't have that luxury. But Everett was more than used to the fact that his duty to his family often meant he had to hold them at arm's length. Helena understood that.
(He was not sure that Joffery ever had; his son was so unlike him, and Everett was well aware they had not always understood each other. He had a feeling that Joffery had often taken his lack of sentimentality for a lack of affection. But that was something else he didn't have the luxury to dwell on; he shoved the thought to the back of his mind, ignoring how it hurt. At this point it did not matter how Joffery felt as long as he was alive.)
Helena gave him a sad smile as she saw his expression change. Charles stepped up beside her, taking his wife's arm. "We're behind you, Lord Everett," he said. "To the end. What are your orders?"
Selfishly, he was glad they'd stayed. He would never admit it, but he needed them; Charles's magic and strength, Helena's clever mind, the fierce loyalty they both had toward House Jade - and toward him. Everett took a deep breath. Right now all any of them needed to focus on was the Courdonian army, and defending Solis with everything they had. There was a strange kind of clarity to that. Everett felt his back straighten almost imperceptibly.
"Make sure the defenders have organized," he said. "The war-mages should have already assembled... I don't want any gaps in our defenses." He glanced between his sister and brother-in-law, his face turned cold with the anticipation of the coming struggle. "Be ready. I will join you on the walls shortly."
Lord Charles bowed, and Helena swept a graceful curtsey. He looked at them a moment longer, warmth stealing into his eyes for just a second before he turned away. He had to prepare.
In his private chambers, Everett slowly and meticulously put on armor that he had not worn in years. It still fit him, the engraved phoenix on the breastplate gleaming brightly. There would be no mistaking who he was. As he strapped his sword to his waist, he could almost tangibly feel the weight of of his responsibility to Solis and to House Jade on his shoulders, but it was a weight he had always been willing to bear.
Everett drew his sword. If the Courdonians wanted to claim Solis... he would stand in their way as long as there was breath in his body.
---
As they left the manor, Leif drew his wand and murmured a camouflage spell. It wasn’t foolproof, not a complete invisibility spell which would have taken more time and effort to cast, but hopefully it would be enough to allow them to slip past the invading Courdonian forces. Jeniver’s vision had been accurate, however; there were no Courdonians in the immediate area. They had an opening to get away, at least for the moment.
They didn’t get far before Kirin froze up, staring with horror into the sky. Leif followed his gaze, unsure whether he was really staring at the gryphons wheeling overhead or if he was simply overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the battle around them. When he grabbed Kirin’s shoulder the man’s whole body jerked with fear, a more violent response to being touched by Leif than he had shown in some time. Leif felt a rush of guilt, but he didn’t let go. If Kirin didn’t move soon, he’d be killed.
“Come on, Kirin,” Leif pleaded, having to raise his voice to be audible. Kirin didn’t react, his eyes wide and staring. “We have to go, you have to trust me.” Panic beat at Leif’s chest when Kirin still didn’t move. There wasn’t time. He was all too aware of the other three standing around them; standing still wasn’t just endangering him and Kirin.
Throwing caution to the wind, he threw his arm around Kirin’s shoulders and held him tightly. “Close your eyes, Kirin,” he said quietly into Kirin’s ear. “Don’t look. Just hold onto me.”
For a second, Kirin didn’t move, and Leif was afraid he’d made things worse. But then he felt three fingers curling tightly around a fold in his tunic, and Kirin leaned into him, shutting his eyes tightly. Not being able to see the battle did seem to help calm his panic, though he still flinched at the sounds of the bombardment against Jade Manor.
Leif took a deep breath.
“This way,” he said.
He knew a route that would take them out of the city, and only hoped they would not find themselves blocked by Courdonian troops or the destruction they’d left behind. Most civilians this close to the manor had already fled, but Leif could still hear screams in the distance. Kirin wasn’t the only one who flinched at the sounds of those panicked, faraway voices. Only once did Leif dare to look over his shoulder at the manor; he could see their few remaining phoenixes wheeling overhead, green winged shapes flinging themselves at the duller-colored gryphons which far outnumbered them. He was too far away by that point to see the Jade defenders, but Leif could tell they were there by the faint, glowing wisps of spells flung at the attackers, alongside a hailstorm of arrows both enchanted and mundane.
As he turned away, the already-tenuous wards went down at last. Leif felt it, a great shattering and tearing that shook him to his core, and unconsciously he found himself clutching Kirin more tightly for support. After a moment, he’d shaken it off and kept moving, but the heaviness in the pit of his stomach remained. He knew it had nothing to do with his magic.
The back roads were, as Leif had anticipated, safer. Even so, there was a tense moment in which a group of Courdonian soldiers passed by them in an alley, and they’d all huddled in the shadows, hardly daring to breathe and hoping against hope that the camouflage spell would hold. Joffery unconsciously pressed up against Leif in his fear, and Jeniver buried her face in her cousin’s shoulder to muffle the sound of her breathing. On his other side Leif could feel Kirin trembling hard against him, and prayed that the Stallion would manage to keep silent even in the grip of his terror. Fortunately Kirin did not cry out, and none of the Courdonians looked in their direction. Leif let out a shuddering sigh of relief when they were gone. If any of them had looked in just the right way, or had enough magical ability to see through the spell…
Leif hardly dared to speak after that, directing the group through silent gestures and occasionally light touches when the camouflage spell made it difficult for them to see him. But they never came so close to the Courdonians again. By the time they reached the outskirts of the city Leif was almost daring to breathe freely again. They’d almost made it.
And then Leif heard a terrified, piercing shriek behind him. Jeniver.
Joffery whirled around, looking horror-stricken. “Jeniver!” Leif turned sharply, raising his wand in preparation to defend her, only to find her standing stock-still behind the rest of them, alone and unharmed. He hesitated and Joffery reached Jeniver before Leif did, grasping her shoulders. She was shaking, her eyes wide and filled with tears, clutching her wand tightly with both hands. It took Leif a moment to realize she was not seeing any of them; she was using her powers. Whatever had scared her was in a vision.
She was sobbing, and his blood ran cold when he realized there were words in her desperate cries. One word. “Daddy!”
Jeniver came out of the vision with a violent jerk and a gasp. After a moment of reorienting herself, she tried to pull away from Joffery’s grasp and tried to run back the way they’d come. When he held her fast, she struck out at him blindly. “No, no, NO--”
“Jeniver, it’s me, it’s me,” Joffery said, forced to let go of her with one hand so he could fend off her desperate blows. “Calm down!”
At the sound of his voice she did calm down, recognition dawning in her face. She lowered her hands, still clinging to her wand. “Joffery,” she whispered. Fresh tears trickled down her face. “I just wanted to see what was happening, I thought I could help--”
The party was clustered around her now. Glancing across at Ambrose, Leif saw that the Stallion’s eyes were fixed on Jeniver with a look of intense sympathy. The visceral reaction and disorientation was strange, for Jeniver - her visions didn’t usually involve so much discomfort, but given what she had been crying out before she came out of it…
It was a question he did not really want to ask. “Jeniver,” he said, as gently as possible, “what did you see?”
“...I saw Daddy,” she whispered, and then slumped forward and buried her face in Joffery’s chest. Her shoulders were shaking silently as Joffery put his arms around her, looking as lost as Leif felt. The archmage’s mouth was dry, knowing they needed to move on but feeling paralyzed as Jeniver’s words sank in. Charles… He’d been so focused on getting them out of the city safely that he’d almost forgotten who was being left behind.
It was Ambrose, finally, who put a bracing hand on Leif’s shoulder. “Come,” the Stallion said quietly. “Time enough for grief when we’re away from all this.”
Leif nodded mutely, and forced himself to start walking again. Ambrose went to Joffery and Jeniver, speaking softly to them; out of the corner of his eye, Leif saw Jeniver shy away from Ambrose’s attempts at comfort, clinging even harder to her cousin. But they started moving.
---
Smoke was curling into the sky over the ruins of Jade Manor. Lord Duval’s eyes were alight with triumph as he walked through the battlefield, stepping around the corpses of a phoenix and its rider where they had fallen out of the sky. His soldiers were busy rounding up the surviving defenders, preparing them to be sent back to Courdon where most of them would be put to market and sold. The mages in particular would go for an excellent price; he was considering keeping some of them for himself.
That could wait, though. Right now, there was one person in particular he wanted to find. Lord Jade had been a thorn in his side for years, refusing to accommodate the return of Courdonian property. If he was dead, Duval wanted to confirm that for himself, and if he was not - well. It would be far more enjoyable if he was not.
At last, one of his knights approached him, bowing low. “Lord Duval,” he said. “We’ve found him. He’s still alive.”
They had not taken Everett Jade with the other prisoners, and when Duval reached him he saw why. He’d apparently fallen in the final stages of the struggle after the Courdonians had breached the manor walls, and at first glance he looked much like the corpses that surrounded him. Only upon closer examination did his shallow breathing and nearly inaudible gasps of pain prove that he was still clinging to life. He had been armored, but he’d lost his helmet, and much of the metal plate along his left side was twisted and melted in a way that could only have come from being hit by a spell. One of his legs looked like it was nearly severed; with the amount of blood he’d lost, Duval wondered for a moment if he was even conscious.
Then the knight strode over and kicked at him, and Everett gave a low agonized moan, his fingers twitching and clutching uselessly at the stone beneath him. Duval beamed.
“I doubt he’ll survive long, m’lord,” the man said. “Certainly wouldn’t survive the journey south.”
“Pity,” Duval murmured. “I would have enjoyed breaking the Lord of Embers. Ah, well.” He made a gesture. “Get him on his knees.”
It was a position Everett would have been too badly hurt to hold without assistance. As it was, he made a strangled noise of pain as the knight roughly pulled him up onto his knees, forcing his injured leg to bend and twisting his arms behind his back. In spite of the fact that he was clearly struggling to remain conscious, the Lord of House Jade lifted his head defiantly to look up at Duval, clenching his jaw. The look in his green eyes was one of sheer hatred.
Duval cupped his hand beneath Everett’s jaw, leaning in towards him. “You’ve lost,” he hissed. “Look around you, Lord Jade. This is what happens to those who defy us.”
“And we’ll keep defying you,” Everett said hoarsely, his eyes steely. “I can promise you that.”
“Who, exactly, will be left to do that?” Duval grinned wolfishly, gesturing at the battlefield around them. “Your House has fallen, your city is mine. There is nothing left.”
Everett was trembling slightly with the effort of holding his head up, but he held Duval’s gaze stubbornly. “You really think House Jade is all that stood in your way?” He made a sound that was almost a laugh, though it emerged more as a hacking cough. “I’m flattered, but… y-you’re wrong. We will not submit--”
He was cut off by Duval delivering a hard kick to his side with an armored boot, the blow connecting directly with the weakened, damaged section of the Kythian’s armor. Everett cried out and doubled up in agony, his breathing harsh and shaky. If the Courdonian knight had not been holding him firmly on his knees, forcing his injured leg to bear most of his weight, he would have collapsed. Duval’s hand shot out, grabbing Everett and hauling him back up by the neck. It was impossible for Everett to hide the agony in his face now, and despite what was clearly a fierce effort to repress them Duval could see unshed tears of pain glistening bright in Everett’s eyes.
“Kyth will not submit to tyrants and murderers,” Everett whispered, his voice strained.
“Then we will break it,” Duval said coldly. “Those that won’t bend will die.” He bent closer to Everett and pulled his head back by the hair, so their faces were inches apart. “It’s already begun, Lord Jade… though I really shouldn’t call you that.” He grinned mirthlessly. “House Jade no longer exists. We’ve given up counting the corpses. And the rest, well, calling them prisoners may be too generous - it’s more like rounding up cattle--”
Everett spat into Duval’s face. The slave-lord instantly struck him hard in return, a snarl on his lips. Everett’s head snapped to one side, and when he lifted his face again there was fresh blood at the corner of his mouth. Duval grabbed him again, his grip on the man’s neck tightening, so Everett was visibly struggling to breathe. His fingers twisted in Everett’s hair, yanking his head back at an even sharper angle than before.
“Kythian filth,” he snarled. “We own Corvus, and everyone in it - including you, for whatever remains of your miserable life--”
Everett met his eyes and smirked. The expression was inexplicably infuriating; it was only later that Duval realized it had reminded him of Alain. “And how do you expect to keep them?” he whispered hoarsely. “An entire province of people who hate you… who will fight to their last breath…” His smile widened, grimly. “You can’t even keep your own slaves. You’ve been begging me for years to send them back.” With a great effort Everett leaned forward, closer to Duval, grimacing as the movement shifted his weight on his injured leg. “You haven’t won, you insufferable fool,” he gasped out, utterly contemptuous despite the strain in his hoarse voice. “You never will.”
Duval’s eyes blazed. He grabbed Everett’s chin and in one swift movement twisted hard with both hands. It was over in seconds. There was an ear-splitting crack as Everett’s neck snapped, and Duval let go, wiping his hands as he stepped back as if he’d just touched something dirty. The Courdonian knight let the man’s lifeless body fall to the ground at last, and Duval stared down at his enemy’s corpse with a hatred that had not even slightly abated with his death. Everett’s eyes were still open, sightless and staring, and his body twisted as if he was still in pain. It should have been an immensely satisfying sight, and yet Duval did not feel much triumph. In his last moments, when he should have succumbed to pain and defeat, Everett Jade had laughed at him.
He looked up at the knight. “I want that thing’s head on a pike outside the city,” he snapped. “Show Kyth what happens when they cross us. Their oldest House is no more.”
“Yes, m’lord,” the knight said, snapping to attention and saluting. You didn’t cross Duval when he was like this.
Duval paid no attention to him, stalking off in the direction of the front of the manor. This was a victory. Everett Jade was dead, and Duval would be bringing what remained of his household back to Courdon in chains. House Jade had fallen, and Courdon was here to take its place.
They were in the talons of Lord ‘Woo now. Everett found himself murmuring a prayer under his breath, almost begging for the ‘Woo’s protection over his son. If he had been in his private chapel now he would have fallen to his knees.
But there was no time for prayer. He turned back to Helena and Charles to find his sister weeping quietly in her husband’s arms, clinging to him for comfort. Guilt twisted Everett’s stomach. “Helena,” he said. “I should have sent you with her--”
She shook her head, pulling away from Charles. “No,” she said. “We have been over this. I’m not leaving Charles, and I’m not leaving you.” She reached out and took his hand. He wondered if she could feel that it was shaking. Helena smiled at him through her tears. “I’d have only slowed them down, Everett,” she said quietly. “You know that.”
It was true. It was easy to forget that Helena was not well; she was in her own way as good as Everett at controlling herself, and had put so much energy into the appearance of strength so she wouldn’t worry Jeniver. But the siege had not been easy on his sister. Her coughing fits sounded painful, and even Leif had not been able to do much to ease the symptoms of her illness.
He caught himself thinking that at least it was better for her to go down like this, quickly, fighting for her home - he wouldn’t have to watch his sister waste away to nothing in front of his eyes - but quickly shoved those thoughts out of his mind. No. He was the Lord of House Jade, and so he could not think like this; even in the face of his terrible certainty that Solis would fall, he had to keep hold of some shred of hope that some of them would survive. However slim that hope was.
Everett squeezed her hands tightly before letting go. There was not enough time to say all the things he wanted to her, to Charles, just as there had not been time with Joffery… so he didn’t try. Instead he stepped back, felt his face setting into that cool and composed expression that he was so used to wearing. There was no time to comfort his sister, or to dwell on the fact that neither of them was likely to ever see their children again. He didn't have that luxury. But Everett was more than used to the fact that his duty to his family often meant he had to hold them at arm's length. Helena understood that.
(He was not sure that Joffery ever had; his son was so unlike him, and Everett was well aware they had not always understood each other. He had a feeling that Joffery had often taken his lack of sentimentality for a lack of affection. But that was something else he didn't have the luxury to dwell on; he shoved the thought to the back of his mind, ignoring how it hurt. At this point it did not matter how Joffery felt as long as he was alive.)
Helena gave him a sad smile as she saw his expression change. Charles stepped up beside her, taking his wife's arm. "We're behind you, Lord Everett," he said. "To the end. What are your orders?"
Selfishly, he was glad they'd stayed. He would never admit it, but he needed them; Charles's magic and strength, Helena's clever mind, the fierce loyalty they both had toward House Jade - and toward him. Everett took a deep breath. Right now all any of them needed to focus on was the Courdonian army, and defending Solis with everything they had. There was a strange kind of clarity to that. Everett felt his back straighten almost imperceptibly.
"Make sure the defenders have organized," he said. "The war-mages should have already assembled... I don't want any gaps in our defenses." He glanced between his sister and brother-in-law, his face turned cold with the anticipation of the coming struggle. "Be ready. I will join you on the walls shortly."
Lord Charles bowed, and Helena swept a graceful curtsey. He looked at them a moment longer, warmth stealing into his eyes for just a second before he turned away. He had to prepare.
In his private chambers, Everett slowly and meticulously put on armor that he had not worn in years. It still fit him, the engraved phoenix on the breastplate gleaming brightly. There would be no mistaking who he was. As he strapped his sword to his waist, he could almost tangibly feel the weight of of his responsibility to Solis and to House Jade on his shoulders, but it was a weight he had always been willing to bear.
Everett drew his sword. If the Courdonians wanted to claim Solis... he would stand in their way as long as there was breath in his body.
---
As they left the manor, Leif drew his wand and murmured a camouflage spell. It wasn’t foolproof, not a complete invisibility spell which would have taken more time and effort to cast, but hopefully it would be enough to allow them to slip past the invading Courdonian forces. Jeniver’s vision had been accurate, however; there were no Courdonians in the immediate area. They had an opening to get away, at least for the moment.
They didn’t get far before Kirin froze up, staring with horror into the sky. Leif followed his gaze, unsure whether he was really staring at the gryphons wheeling overhead or if he was simply overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the battle around them. When he grabbed Kirin’s shoulder the man’s whole body jerked with fear, a more violent response to being touched by Leif than he had shown in some time. Leif felt a rush of guilt, but he didn’t let go. If Kirin didn’t move soon, he’d be killed.
“Come on, Kirin,” Leif pleaded, having to raise his voice to be audible. Kirin didn’t react, his eyes wide and staring. “We have to go, you have to trust me.” Panic beat at Leif’s chest when Kirin still didn’t move. There wasn’t time. He was all too aware of the other three standing around them; standing still wasn’t just endangering him and Kirin.
Throwing caution to the wind, he threw his arm around Kirin’s shoulders and held him tightly. “Close your eyes, Kirin,” he said quietly into Kirin’s ear. “Don’t look. Just hold onto me.”
For a second, Kirin didn’t move, and Leif was afraid he’d made things worse. But then he felt three fingers curling tightly around a fold in his tunic, and Kirin leaned into him, shutting his eyes tightly. Not being able to see the battle did seem to help calm his panic, though he still flinched at the sounds of the bombardment against Jade Manor.
Leif took a deep breath.
“This way,” he said.
He knew a route that would take them out of the city, and only hoped they would not find themselves blocked by Courdonian troops or the destruction they’d left behind. Most civilians this close to the manor had already fled, but Leif could still hear screams in the distance. Kirin wasn’t the only one who flinched at the sounds of those panicked, faraway voices. Only once did Leif dare to look over his shoulder at the manor; he could see their few remaining phoenixes wheeling overhead, green winged shapes flinging themselves at the duller-colored gryphons which far outnumbered them. He was too far away by that point to see the Jade defenders, but Leif could tell they were there by the faint, glowing wisps of spells flung at the attackers, alongside a hailstorm of arrows both enchanted and mundane.
As he turned away, the already-tenuous wards went down at last. Leif felt it, a great shattering and tearing that shook him to his core, and unconsciously he found himself clutching Kirin more tightly for support. After a moment, he’d shaken it off and kept moving, but the heaviness in the pit of his stomach remained. He knew it had nothing to do with his magic.
The back roads were, as Leif had anticipated, safer. Even so, there was a tense moment in which a group of Courdonian soldiers passed by them in an alley, and they’d all huddled in the shadows, hardly daring to breathe and hoping against hope that the camouflage spell would hold. Joffery unconsciously pressed up against Leif in his fear, and Jeniver buried her face in her cousin’s shoulder to muffle the sound of her breathing. On his other side Leif could feel Kirin trembling hard against him, and prayed that the Stallion would manage to keep silent even in the grip of his terror. Fortunately Kirin did not cry out, and none of the Courdonians looked in their direction. Leif let out a shuddering sigh of relief when they were gone. If any of them had looked in just the right way, or had enough magical ability to see through the spell…
Leif hardly dared to speak after that, directing the group through silent gestures and occasionally light touches when the camouflage spell made it difficult for them to see him. But they never came so close to the Courdonians again. By the time they reached the outskirts of the city Leif was almost daring to breathe freely again. They’d almost made it.
And then Leif heard a terrified, piercing shriek behind him. Jeniver.
Joffery whirled around, looking horror-stricken. “Jeniver!” Leif turned sharply, raising his wand in preparation to defend her, only to find her standing stock-still behind the rest of them, alone and unharmed. He hesitated and Joffery reached Jeniver before Leif did, grasping her shoulders. She was shaking, her eyes wide and filled with tears, clutching her wand tightly with both hands. It took Leif a moment to realize she was not seeing any of them; she was using her powers. Whatever had scared her was in a vision.
She was sobbing, and his blood ran cold when he realized there were words in her desperate cries. One word. “Daddy!”
Jeniver came out of the vision with a violent jerk and a gasp. After a moment of reorienting herself, she tried to pull away from Joffery’s grasp and tried to run back the way they’d come. When he held her fast, she struck out at him blindly. “No, no, NO--”
“Jeniver, it’s me, it’s me,” Joffery said, forced to let go of her with one hand so he could fend off her desperate blows. “Calm down!”
At the sound of his voice she did calm down, recognition dawning in her face. She lowered her hands, still clinging to her wand. “Joffery,” she whispered. Fresh tears trickled down her face. “I just wanted to see what was happening, I thought I could help--”
The party was clustered around her now. Glancing across at Ambrose, Leif saw that the Stallion’s eyes were fixed on Jeniver with a look of intense sympathy. The visceral reaction and disorientation was strange, for Jeniver - her visions didn’t usually involve so much discomfort, but given what she had been crying out before she came out of it…
It was a question he did not really want to ask. “Jeniver,” he said, as gently as possible, “what did you see?”
“...I saw Daddy,” she whispered, and then slumped forward and buried her face in Joffery’s chest. Her shoulders were shaking silently as Joffery put his arms around her, looking as lost as Leif felt. The archmage’s mouth was dry, knowing they needed to move on but feeling paralyzed as Jeniver’s words sank in. Charles… He’d been so focused on getting them out of the city safely that he’d almost forgotten who was being left behind.
It was Ambrose, finally, who put a bracing hand on Leif’s shoulder. “Come,” the Stallion said quietly. “Time enough for grief when we’re away from all this.”
Leif nodded mutely, and forced himself to start walking again. Ambrose went to Joffery and Jeniver, speaking softly to them; out of the corner of his eye, Leif saw Jeniver shy away from Ambrose’s attempts at comfort, clinging even harder to her cousin. But they started moving.
---
Smoke was curling into the sky over the ruins of Jade Manor. Lord Duval’s eyes were alight with triumph as he walked through the battlefield, stepping around the corpses of a phoenix and its rider where they had fallen out of the sky. His soldiers were busy rounding up the surviving defenders, preparing them to be sent back to Courdon where most of them would be put to market and sold. The mages in particular would go for an excellent price; he was considering keeping some of them for himself.
That could wait, though. Right now, there was one person in particular he wanted to find. Lord Jade had been a thorn in his side for years, refusing to accommodate the return of Courdonian property. If he was dead, Duval wanted to confirm that for himself, and if he was not - well. It would be far more enjoyable if he was not.
At last, one of his knights approached him, bowing low. “Lord Duval,” he said. “We’ve found him. He’s still alive.”
They had not taken Everett Jade with the other prisoners, and when Duval reached him he saw why. He’d apparently fallen in the final stages of the struggle after the Courdonians had breached the manor walls, and at first glance he looked much like the corpses that surrounded him. Only upon closer examination did his shallow breathing and nearly inaudible gasps of pain prove that he was still clinging to life. He had been armored, but he’d lost his helmet, and much of the metal plate along his left side was twisted and melted in a way that could only have come from being hit by a spell. One of his legs looked like it was nearly severed; with the amount of blood he’d lost, Duval wondered for a moment if he was even conscious.
Then the knight strode over and kicked at him, and Everett gave a low agonized moan, his fingers twitching and clutching uselessly at the stone beneath him. Duval beamed.
“I doubt he’ll survive long, m’lord,” the man said. “Certainly wouldn’t survive the journey south.”
“Pity,” Duval murmured. “I would have enjoyed breaking the Lord of Embers. Ah, well.” He made a gesture. “Get him on his knees.”
It was a position Everett would have been too badly hurt to hold without assistance. As it was, he made a strangled noise of pain as the knight roughly pulled him up onto his knees, forcing his injured leg to bend and twisting his arms behind his back. In spite of the fact that he was clearly struggling to remain conscious, the Lord of House Jade lifted his head defiantly to look up at Duval, clenching his jaw. The look in his green eyes was one of sheer hatred.
Duval cupped his hand beneath Everett’s jaw, leaning in towards him. “You’ve lost,” he hissed. “Look around you, Lord Jade. This is what happens to those who defy us.”
“And we’ll keep defying you,” Everett said hoarsely, his eyes steely. “I can promise you that.”
“Who, exactly, will be left to do that?” Duval grinned wolfishly, gesturing at the battlefield around them. “Your House has fallen, your city is mine. There is nothing left.”
Everett was trembling slightly with the effort of holding his head up, but he held Duval’s gaze stubbornly. “You really think House Jade is all that stood in your way?” He made a sound that was almost a laugh, though it emerged more as a hacking cough. “I’m flattered, but… y-you’re wrong. We will not submit--”
He was cut off by Duval delivering a hard kick to his side with an armored boot, the blow connecting directly with the weakened, damaged section of the Kythian’s armor. Everett cried out and doubled up in agony, his breathing harsh and shaky. If the Courdonian knight had not been holding him firmly on his knees, forcing his injured leg to bear most of his weight, he would have collapsed. Duval’s hand shot out, grabbing Everett and hauling him back up by the neck. It was impossible for Everett to hide the agony in his face now, and despite what was clearly a fierce effort to repress them Duval could see unshed tears of pain glistening bright in Everett’s eyes.
“Kyth will not submit to tyrants and murderers,” Everett whispered, his voice strained.
“Then we will break it,” Duval said coldly. “Those that won’t bend will die.” He bent closer to Everett and pulled his head back by the hair, so their faces were inches apart. “It’s already begun, Lord Jade… though I really shouldn’t call you that.” He grinned mirthlessly. “House Jade no longer exists. We’ve given up counting the corpses. And the rest, well, calling them prisoners may be too generous - it’s more like rounding up cattle--”
Everett spat into Duval’s face. The slave-lord instantly struck him hard in return, a snarl on his lips. Everett’s head snapped to one side, and when he lifted his face again there was fresh blood at the corner of his mouth. Duval grabbed him again, his grip on the man’s neck tightening, so Everett was visibly struggling to breathe. His fingers twisted in Everett’s hair, yanking his head back at an even sharper angle than before.
“Kythian filth,” he snarled. “We own Corvus, and everyone in it - including you, for whatever remains of your miserable life--”
Everett met his eyes and smirked. The expression was inexplicably infuriating; it was only later that Duval realized it had reminded him of Alain. “And how do you expect to keep them?” he whispered hoarsely. “An entire province of people who hate you… who will fight to their last breath…” His smile widened, grimly. “You can’t even keep your own slaves. You’ve been begging me for years to send them back.” With a great effort Everett leaned forward, closer to Duval, grimacing as the movement shifted his weight on his injured leg. “You haven’t won, you insufferable fool,” he gasped out, utterly contemptuous despite the strain in his hoarse voice. “You never will.”
Duval’s eyes blazed. He grabbed Everett’s chin and in one swift movement twisted hard with both hands. It was over in seconds. There was an ear-splitting crack as Everett’s neck snapped, and Duval let go, wiping his hands as he stepped back as if he’d just touched something dirty. The Courdonian knight let the man’s lifeless body fall to the ground at last, and Duval stared down at his enemy’s corpse with a hatred that had not even slightly abated with his death. Everett’s eyes were still open, sightless and staring, and his body twisted as if he was still in pain. It should have been an immensely satisfying sight, and yet Duval did not feel much triumph. In his last moments, when he should have succumbed to pain and defeat, Everett Jade had laughed at him.
He looked up at the knight. “I want that thing’s head on a pike outside the city,” he snapped. “Show Kyth what happens when they cross us. Their oldest House is no more.”
“Yes, m’lord,” the knight said, snapping to attention and saluting. You didn’t cross Duval when he was like this.
Duval paid no attention to him, stalking off in the direction of the front of the manor. This was a victory. Everett Jade was dead, and Duval would be bringing what remained of his household back to Courdon in chains. House Jade had fallen, and Courdon was here to take its place.
#7. Malik's Prisoner
(violence warning - no blood though)
"You wanted to see me?" Lord Duval stood in the doorway, and Malik looked up and smiled.
"Oh, yes. Come in, Rodin. I had a feeling you would want to see this."
Duval stepped inside. Malik watched him, his smile broadening as he watched Duval's gaze fall on the man chained to the wall beside the throne. It took a moment for recognition to dawn. Alain Stallion was injured and disheveled, sprawled on the floor, his hair matted with dried blood. Both of his legs had been deliberately broken and left to heal twisted, if they healed at all. And his eyes were gone, leaving him completely blind.
Duval stared into Alain’s sightless face for a full minute before his face slowly broke into a vicious grin.
“The great Alain Stallion,” Duval said, and started to laugh. “I thought he was dead! Oh, this is so. Much. Better.” He stalked over to Alain and leaned over him, grabbing his chin with one hand and forcing his head back. “I warned you I would not forget your insults,” he hissed.
“Ah, yes. Lord Duval.” Alain’s voice was slightly hoarse but otherwise perfectly calm, as if he was still on equal footing with the slave-lord rather than a chained, blinded prisoner of war. He smiled, fearless. “I recall having a few things to say about your behavior when we met. I can see now I may have been too generous.”
Duval released Alain’s chin and hit him across the face, as hard as he could. “Don’t disrespect me,” he snarled. “I’ll show you how we’re going to bring your kingdom to its knees.”
“Yes, do,” Alain said dryly. “Because beating up a blind man on a personal vendetta is certainly how wars are won.”
Duval stood, looking scornfully down at him. “You just can’t admit that you’ve lost, can you?” he said softly. For a moment he looked as if he would turn away, but then suddenly he stomped down on Alain’s leg, leaning his weight in and grinding his foot cruelly against the broken bone. The impact caught Alain off guard and he was unable to stop himself from crying out in agony, clenching his teeth and tensing against the pain. When Duval brought his foot down a second time, there was an audible crunch and and Alain nearly screamed. The slave-lord kicked him square in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. Before he could struggle back upright, Duval had planted his foot on Alain’s chest, leaning in with enough pressure that the Stallion struggled to breathe. “I can do anything I want to you,” Duval hissed.
With an effort, Alain lifted his head, turning his face toward Duval with uncanny accuracy. For a moment, Duval could almost forget that he’d lost his eyes; it felt as if the Grand Duke was looking straight at him. “And yet you will never make me submit to you,” Alain said, and the fact that he was gasping for breath could not undermine the confidence in his voice.
Snarling, Duval kicked his prone form viciously, his foot colliding again and again with Alain’s ribs. Stubbornly the Stallion managed to keep himself from crying out, even when a hard kick to the stomach left him partially winded. “And you… know that, don’t you?” Alain taunted him, gasping out the words as Duval’s attack continued. “You can… hurt me, but you’re not getting… what you really want.”
“Enough,” Duval spat. When Alain tried to push himself back upright, or as upright as he could manage, the Courdonian lord kicked him down again. He aimed a second blow at the side of Alain's head... and missed, as the Stallion pulled away just in time.
"Your temper doesn't improve your aim," Alain said hoarsely, a taut smirk on his face as he raised his head again.
Duval's face was livid with anger. He crouched down and seized Alain by the hair, and then slammed his head down into the floor. The crack of the man’s skull against the flagstones was audible. "You need to be reminded who you belong to now," he hissed.
“...if you think I’m going to call you master,” Alain said, his voice hoarse and barely audible, “you’ll be waiting a long time, Duval.”
"We'll see about that," Duval said through gritted teeth, his grip tightening on Alain’s hair and twisting cruelly. Duval's fist slammed hard into his jaw, and he hit him again before he’d fully recovered from the first blow. As Alain spat blood onto the floor, Duval's hand went to the knife on his belt. Then he heard Malik's voice behind him, sharp and cold as ice.
"Rodin."
Duval let Alain's head drop but kept his hand on the knife as he turned to face the king of Courdon. "Yes, my liege?" he said calmly.
"Do not forget yourself. I want him alive." He came up behind Duval to stare contemptuously down at the chained Kythian. "I intend to take his kingdom before I take his life."
Sulkily Duval got to his feet. Alain was breathing hard after the blows he'd received, but he tried to push himself back upright all the same, his arms trembling with the effort. He reached up to wipe the blood from his mouth and laughed hoarsely. "Go on, Duval, run along back to your master," he whispered.
Duval made a furious, jerking motion toward him but Malik caught his arm, his grip firm. "Wait, my friend," he said. "I haven't forgotten how this piece of filth has insulted you." With a gesture that Duval should follow him, he strode across the room, picked up a long metal object out of the fireplace, and handed it to the lord with a smile. "I thought you might like this task for yourself."
It was a branding iron, cast in the shape of the royal Courdonian sigil. Duval's grin returned to his face. On an impulse he bowed low, holding the iron as if it were a ceremonial blade. "You know me so well, your majesty."
Malik clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Just be patient," he murmured. "His death will come in time, once I've broken him as thoroughly as the rest of the North. In the meantime..." He gestured at the iron, invitingly, and Duval's eyes glittered with an anticipation that matched his king's.
He strode over to Alain, roughly hauled him upright into a semblance of a sitting position, and pressed the branding iron into his shoulder. This time Alain did scream, and Duval’s eyes lit up with a childish, cruel glee. He held the branding iron in place for a few seconds longer than was necessary before pulling it away. When he stepped back, releasing his grip on him, the Stallion curled forward slightly, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
Duval crouched in front of him, running his fingers over the fresh burn. Alain made a strangled, pained noise in the back of his throat, but lifted his head, once again seeming to fix Duval in his non-existent gaze. Despite the noises he was making, his face was stony and composed. The slave-lord tried to ignore this, examining the brand instead.
“It’s a shame you can’t see this,” Duval said quietly. “Perhaps then you’d believe you belong to us. Malik’s sign, the seal of the King of Courdon…” He traced the shape lightly with his thumb before pulling his hand away. Alain took a deep, shuddering breath.
“It’s just a scar, Duval,” he whispered, sounding exhausted, his voice tight with pain. “Nothing more.”
As Duval got to his feet Malik came up to stand beside him, one hand on his shoulder, staring down at Alain much as a wolf would stare at its next meal. “He’ll learn, Rodin,” he said softly. “He’s bound to.”
Duval left Rakine in a considerably better mood than when he'd arrived. It wasn't just the satisfaction of having an enemy at his mercy. The fresh burn seared into Alain's flesh, marking him property of the highest House of Courdon, seemed like a good omen, a physical proof of their conquest becoming reality. He could fight, but he’d give in eventually, just like the rest of Kyth. Duval had no doubt of that.
And Alain Stallion, left alone in the throne room of Malik’s palace, curled up on his side, clutching his burned arm with his other hand. His breathing was shallow and occasionally he trembled, but he made no sound.
"Oh, yes. Come in, Rodin. I had a feeling you would want to see this."
Duval stepped inside. Malik watched him, his smile broadening as he watched Duval's gaze fall on the man chained to the wall beside the throne. It took a moment for recognition to dawn. Alain Stallion was injured and disheveled, sprawled on the floor, his hair matted with dried blood. Both of his legs had been deliberately broken and left to heal twisted, if they healed at all. And his eyes were gone, leaving him completely blind.
Duval stared into Alain’s sightless face for a full minute before his face slowly broke into a vicious grin.
“The great Alain Stallion,” Duval said, and started to laugh. “I thought he was dead! Oh, this is so. Much. Better.” He stalked over to Alain and leaned over him, grabbing his chin with one hand and forcing his head back. “I warned you I would not forget your insults,” he hissed.
“Ah, yes. Lord Duval.” Alain’s voice was slightly hoarse but otherwise perfectly calm, as if he was still on equal footing with the slave-lord rather than a chained, blinded prisoner of war. He smiled, fearless. “I recall having a few things to say about your behavior when we met. I can see now I may have been too generous.”
Duval released Alain’s chin and hit him across the face, as hard as he could. “Don’t disrespect me,” he snarled. “I’ll show you how we’re going to bring your kingdom to its knees.”
“Yes, do,” Alain said dryly. “Because beating up a blind man on a personal vendetta is certainly how wars are won.”
Duval stood, looking scornfully down at him. “You just can’t admit that you’ve lost, can you?” he said softly. For a moment he looked as if he would turn away, but then suddenly he stomped down on Alain’s leg, leaning his weight in and grinding his foot cruelly against the broken bone. The impact caught Alain off guard and he was unable to stop himself from crying out in agony, clenching his teeth and tensing against the pain. When Duval brought his foot down a second time, there was an audible crunch and and Alain nearly screamed. The slave-lord kicked him square in the chest, knocking him flat on his back. Before he could struggle back upright, Duval had planted his foot on Alain’s chest, leaning in with enough pressure that the Stallion struggled to breathe. “I can do anything I want to you,” Duval hissed.
With an effort, Alain lifted his head, turning his face toward Duval with uncanny accuracy. For a moment, Duval could almost forget that he’d lost his eyes; it felt as if the Grand Duke was looking straight at him. “And yet you will never make me submit to you,” Alain said, and the fact that he was gasping for breath could not undermine the confidence in his voice.
Snarling, Duval kicked his prone form viciously, his foot colliding again and again with Alain’s ribs. Stubbornly the Stallion managed to keep himself from crying out, even when a hard kick to the stomach left him partially winded. “And you… know that, don’t you?” Alain taunted him, gasping out the words as Duval’s attack continued. “You can… hurt me, but you’re not getting… what you really want.”
“Enough,” Duval spat. When Alain tried to push himself back upright, or as upright as he could manage, the Courdonian lord kicked him down again. He aimed a second blow at the side of Alain's head... and missed, as the Stallion pulled away just in time.
"Your temper doesn't improve your aim," Alain said hoarsely, a taut smirk on his face as he raised his head again.
Duval's face was livid with anger. He crouched down and seized Alain by the hair, and then slammed his head down into the floor. The crack of the man’s skull against the flagstones was audible. "You need to be reminded who you belong to now," he hissed.
“...if you think I’m going to call you master,” Alain said, his voice hoarse and barely audible, “you’ll be waiting a long time, Duval.”
"We'll see about that," Duval said through gritted teeth, his grip tightening on Alain’s hair and twisting cruelly. Duval's fist slammed hard into his jaw, and he hit him again before he’d fully recovered from the first blow. As Alain spat blood onto the floor, Duval's hand went to the knife on his belt. Then he heard Malik's voice behind him, sharp and cold as ice.
"Rodin."
Duval let Alain's head drop but kept his hand on the knife as he turned to face the king of Courdon. "Yes, my liege?" he said calmly.
"Do not forget yourself. I want him alive." He came up behind Duval to stare contemptuously down at the chained Kythian. "I intend to take his kingdom before I take his life."
Sulkily Duval got to his feet. Alain was breathing hard after the blows he'd received, but he tried to push himself back upright all the same, his arms trembling with the effort. He reached up to wipe the blood from his mouth and laughed hoarsely. "Go on, Duval, run along back to your master," he whispered.
Duval made a furious, jerking motion toward him but Malik caught his arm, his grip firm. "Wait, my friend," he said. "I haven't forgotten how this piece of filth has insulted you." With a gesture that Duval should follow him, he strode across the room, picked up a long metal object out of the fireplace, and handed it to the lord with a smile. "I thought you might like this task for yourself."
It was a branding iron, cast in the shape of the royal Courdonian sigil. Duval's grin returned to his face. On an impulse he bowed low, holding the iron as if it were a ceremonial blade. "You know me so well, your majesty."
Malik clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Just be patient," he murmured. "His death will come in time, once I've broken him as thoroughly as the rest of the North. In the meantime..." He gestured at the iron, invitingly, and Duval's eyes glittered with an anticipation that matched his king's.
He strode over to Alain, roughly hauled him upright into a semblance of a sitting position, and pressed the branding iron into his shoulder. This time Alain did scream, and Duval’s eyes lit up with a childish, cruel glee. He held the branding iron in place for a few seconds longer than was necessary before pulling it away. When he stepped back, releasing his grip on him, the Stallion curled forward slightly, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
Duval crouched in front of him, running his fingers over the fresh burn. Alain made a strangled, pained noise in the back of his throat, but lifted his head, once again seeming to fix Duval in his non-existent gaze. Despite the noises he was making, his face was stony and composed. The slave-lord tried to ignore this, examining the brand instead.
“It’s a shame you can’t see this,” Duval said quietly. “Perhaps then you’d believe you belong to us. Malik’s sign, the seal of the King of Courdon…” He traced the shape lightly with his thumb before pulling his hand away. Alain took a deep, shuddering breath.
“It’s just a scar, Duval,” he whispered, sounding exhausted, his voice tight with pain. “Nothing more.”
As Duval got to his feet Malik came up to stand beside him, one hand on his shoulder, staring down at Alain much as a wolf would stare at its next meal. “He’ll learn, Rodin,” he said softly. “He’s bound to.”
Duval left Rakine in a considerably better mood than when he'd arrived. It wasn't just the satisfaction of having an enemy at his mercy. The fresh burn seared into Alain's flesh, marking him property of the highest House of Courdon, seemed like a good omen, a physical proof of their conquest becoming reality. He could fight, but he’d give in eventually, just like the rest of Kyth. Duval had no doubt of that.
And Alain Stallion, left alone in the throne room of Malik’s palace, curled up on his side, clutching his burned arm with his other hand. His breathing was shallow and occasionally he trembled, but he made no sound.
I promise I'm trying to write Bad End stories that aren't Kireif or Elivier.