Chapter Text
His routine with the Mayor did not truly ever change, not now and not then. As his superior and mentor, their relationship had been sealed in cold, hard red wax from the moment his desperate father brought him to the camp.
Then again, the words of the Chairperson of the Snezhnograd Veche were law, and that meant Ajax’s life was owed to the Tsaritsa’s will, to be used as she wished—as punishment for his actions. Becoming her weapon of war, her personal vanguard, was simply one more step in his atonement for the transgressions of his youth.
Still, he still held his pride, Despite the snide remarks and quiet ridicule from his comrades in the barracks, in training fields, and within the classrooms of the Royal Military Academy, he endured. He knew the names they gave him—reckless, intruder. They questioned his origins, his family, his name, even the way he fought, all of it foreign to the rigid traditions of Snezhnograd’s nobility. His commanders had tried, more than once, to correct his posture, to reshape his stance, to force him into something more acceptable—but none of it ever held.
After all, he would not tolerate any disrespect be wielded unbeknownst to her. At his master's ways, or his master’s master’s ways, nor toward the chain that bound them all together for all he was concerned. And least of all from those who could not bring him to his knees, even with both hands armed when standing against him together.
He truly did not despise the weak. But he could not deal with them. They lived in completely different worlds him and them.
He felt the distance in each exchange and conversation and even as he grew older and more serene that feeling did not change, however, he knew better than to force others to keep up.
It was not knightly or proper as his sister would say.
At times though, it felt lonely. But he knew it was worth it for many reasons; One being the income brought home. Ajax was not a man tempted by money, and knew well since he was small that gold was the true cause of calamity and chaos—but back at home it brought valued time, specially for the expensive treatment for his sickly father, as well as the needs of all his siblings still with them, a good aid to accompany the few scraps of mora that could be earned by the work by the uncertain yield of the sea.
That alone would have been enough, and yet there was a deeper and a tad more shameful reason why, one he acknowledged less willingly. It surfaced now and then, in passing words from his mentor, in tones not meant for him. He remembered once hearing the fae speaking, perhaps to himself, perhaps to someone unseen beyond the doorframe from his inner circle.
“Who could have thought,” Pulcinella had said, with his voice drunk of pride.“that a poor peasant boy from a godforsaken town could be honed into such a fine shashka?”
Ajax had moved on before he could hear more, but the words stuck close to his heart. It showed itself in quieter ways too, such as sudden promotions, replacement for older praporshchiks, in assignments given without hesitation, in expectations set higher than those of his peers, in the way success was never praised directly, only assumed as the natural outcome.
He might have sounded not quite like a parent would, like one who just witnessed his son winning a competition. But in a way, it was exactly that.
The operation with the Dalegrad had been one of those moments and even when the attempt at upheaval there had barely warranted the name of a coup, but it had been enough to justify celebration among his unit, to strengthen the Mayor’s standing in the months that followed. A needed push before the rises of prices on the provisions required for each month.
It was not uncommon for young—and not so young—recruits to mistake him for something more than what he was. The assumption came easily, passed in low voices across barracks and corridors, dressed in curiosity more than malice. Some said he had to be the Mayor’s son. If not by blood, then by adoption. A way to honor the life of their Majesty, perhaps. There was no other explanation, they thought, for the way he was placed, for the way he was used, for how quickly he had risen without being broken down first.
He heard it often enough but neither of them ever entertained it. Pulcinella dismissed the idea with the same ease he dismissed most things—lightly, almost amused, as though it were a passing joke, if he bothered to answer at all. Ajax’s answer was simpler, more direct. He had a family. That fact alone stood firm, and Pulcinella, for all his peculiarities, had no interest in claiming one. Not at his age and not where such ties could be turned into leverage, which is why Ajax was always grateful to the Mayor for keeping his family safe through the years of service, insistent as only he could be on visiting his family despite his busy days.
Still, after being named a Harbinger, Ajax waited restless in his room, his feet tapping again and again onto the white marble floor. Minutes felt like hours but finally and as was custom for every three weeks, the warmth from Pulcinella’s pale blue flames would call his attention from the privacy of his own room, the ghost light calling him to see his mentor’s office as soon as possible.
He knew the way just fine, and as his pace quickened, the light faded. A knock broke through Pulcinella’s annoyed musings that could be heard even from down the hall with enough attention and thanks to the quiet of the early morning routine — something about the Regrator and the word “silver”—, followed almost immediately by the door opening with a creek.
“If you intend to knock,” he said without looking up, “you would expect to wait for an answer before entering, boy.”
Tartaglia paused just past the threshold, glancing down as he scratched the back of his head. “Well… I already knew you’d let me in,” he said, a bit awkwardly. “All those rules feel a bit unnecessary.”
“You’ll find that in this building, it always does.” Pulcinella huffed. “I am merely teasing you.” He gestured toward the single chair facing the Mayor’s desk. “Sit.”
Tartaglia obliged, though not without a hint of suspicion. The expensive velvet textile was pleasant for the touch and was as welcoming as his mentor’s laugh, despite the sting of cold felt even through his clothed fingertips. “Why did you call me this time? If this is about the lessons, I thought I was done already.”
“I did not call you for that.”
“Oh?” His mouth let out the sound before he could avoid it.
Pulcinella let the silence stretch a moment before continuing. “I only wished to see how you’ve settled.”
A small shift in the chair. “You could’ve just asked that.”
“…If you mean the name,” he said, more carefully now, “it’s not much of a problem.”
“Not much,” Pulcinella repeated, almost thoughtfully. The old man continued, voice even. “You wore the other one for a long time. It would be strange if it vanished overnight.”
“It doesn’t change anything,”
“No,” Pulcinella agreed easily. “Not immediately.”
The boy leaned back slightly, watching him now. “Then why bring it up?”
Pulcinella’s gaze lifted to meet his. “Because names have a way of deciding which parts of a person are allowed to remain.”
Tartaglia looked away for a moment. He knew what it meant to leave things behind. He had done it before— more than once, in ways that mattered. Names were only the most visible part of it. Old name, old self. Tartaglia knows very well how it is to leave something in the past, he has done it many many times.
That shy and timid boy left in the abyss. That good and proper son left in the blood tainted snow of Morepesok. And now, the awe inspiring soldier left in the top of a dragon lair before the announcement of his ascension. Starting all anew. He can manage, surely. When he looked back, his expression had settled again. “The Palace is fine. No issues.”
Pulcinella watched him a second longer than necessary as he trailed Tartaglia’s eyes wandering off . “No difficulties with the staff? With your peers?”
“No.” A small shrug. “It’s all the same. A room, orders, work. A soldier can’t be too picky,” After a moment, the boy exhaled. “I’ll get used to it.”
“I have no doubt,” Pulcinella said, almost gently. “You are… adaptable. Still I must say, Tartaglia, they are not fond of… surprises,” he continued, pacing slowly. “And you are a rather significant one.”
The boy huffed lightly, his chest puffing high and cocky. “I didn’t ask for their approval.”
The Mayor “I know. That is precisely why I am asking.”
He frowned slightly, not quite following. “I don’t need anything from them.”
Pulcinella stopped behind his desk, studying him. “Not yet.” The words hung there, quiet and deliberate. “The Harbingers are not a unit, they might share a title but they all choose for themselves what they seek to obtain from them. Each holds their own interests, their own… methods.” A faint pause. “Cooperation, when it occurs, is rarely without cost.”
The boy’s posture shifted, attention sharpening. “You’re saying I shouldn’t work with them.”
“I am saying,” Pulcinella corrected gently, “that you should be mindful of what is asked of you—and what is offered in return. You might have to be willing to give a piece of your spine for the Doctor’s curiosity. Your family’s income caught in the Regrator’s games. Your color for a piece of mind of for the Damslette’s blessing, yo–” A faint pause, just enough to let the implications take root. “You understand.”
Pulcinella watched him as Tartaglia’s gaze had already shifted, no longer meeting his. The change was slight—his shoulders remained squared but something in his eyes dimmed, focus turning inward, measuring, recalling.
“I know these past months have not been simple,” he continued, quieter now. “A great deal has been placed upon you in very little time, may Her Majesty curse me, I do.” A breath, almost reflective. “I am not blind to that.”
“Especially after what took place along the Zmeya’s river and through its mountains,” Pulcinella added, pacing slowly as he spoke. “Your conduct there has been… noted. Everyone can serve as witness as to how well you carry yourself as much as how you carry your subordinate soldiers. “But I would be remiss if I did not speak plainly.” he went on, voice steady, “…Ajax.”
His head jumped at the mention of his name, it lifted just a fraction too quickly, attention snapping back into place before he could stop it.
“Your current position,” he continued, as though nothing had changed, “is not without its risks. You are higher than you've ever been, but now—with the Harbingers—you’re once again down the list. I’m ranked higher but even then I can only do so much to protect your safety. They won’t test you openly,” he added. “Not at first, at the very least. They will observe you. Measure. Wait for you to step where you should not.”
“What if I do, then?” the boy asked. “Will they try to get rid of me? Is that what you’re implying?” They can try was left unsaid in his frown.
Pulcinella’s smile was faint, avoiding looking him in the eyes. “Then they will decide where to place you themselves.”
The boy leaned forward slightly, resting his arms against his knees. “So what, do I just stay out of their way at all times?”
“If you can,” Pulcinella said. Then, after a brief pause, “But that is rarely an option.”
“You are valuable,” he said. “Not because of your title, but because of what you are capable of. That makes you… useful.” A slight tilt of his head. “And usefulness invites attention.”
The boy exhaled through his nose, something between annoyance and thoughtfulness. “Sounds like you’re telling me to hide from them.”
“I am telling you,” Pulcinella replied, “that not all attention is worth accepting.”
The boy shifted in his seat, the earlier ease gone now, replaced with something more restless. “You didn’t bring me here just to try to scare me, did you?”
Pulcinella stopped, turning just slightly toward him. “You will find that few within that circle offer anything without expecting something in return. Not all of them are willing to tend their hand to any boy with a runny nose— and a loud mouth.”
“…No,” he admitted at last.
A pause. “If you ever find yourself uncertain,” he added, almost lightly, “you may come to me.”
The boy held his gaze for a second longer, “…Right,” he said at last.
Tartaglia then hurried to stand, jerking back and dragging the velvet chair aside with hi,— its legs letting out a harsh screech as it scraped across the tile. He continued to stare back at him but refused to utter a word, hand in front of his mouth as he struggled to let out a small groan.
“...Tartaglia, don’t say anything you’ll—”
“What I need right now is paper and ink. I want to write home now. Maybe Windrest Flower perfume too. If that’s not much to ask.” He snapped back.
He received no answer in return, however, and thus walked away. It’s not until he closes the door behind his back that he hears a faint breathless “Have it your way”.
...
Annoyed, frustrated and as if throwing a fit he felt his face light up in red. “Senile old man—” he mutters. He urgently bites his lips, feeling the slight bit of taste of iron on his tongue as his steps grow sloppy and heavy, luckily without any of his pesky colleges or attentive servants to trail by his back. He barely reached his room before stopping dead on his tracks. The faint scent of burning fire and the light glow of blue radiating from the front of his door like a guarding door, waiting for him.
He can’t just leave me alone, he thought. Now, that I was supposed to fulfill my end of the bargain with Our Majesty The Tsaritsa.
Only when he felt himself choke on the burnt scent of that ghostly smoke, when the scent thickened was when he felt himself moving away further and further from his own room— without any clue where to go now, far from the comfort he carefully had started to build for the past days. The main hall is too open, anyone might see me and is much too well-trodden. The training fields are used for practices at these hours and it will be the first location he’ll search for. The icy gardens are tranquil and quiet but that girl is always there, muttering to herself…
Tartaglia’s feet carried him quickly across the halls tirelessly. The white-tiled halls stretched ahead of him as his pace quickened, frustration bleeding into motion, his steps finding a rhythm, sharp and fast, carrying him further away from the door.
“Lord Tartaglia—!”
The voice came from behind, breathless. He didn’t slow until he collided with something solid and small enough to stagger. He stopped short, hands lifting instinctively to steady both himself and the figure he had run into. “You—,” ought to be more careful he almost too quickly, the word coming out cutted and more abrupt than intended.
The girl in front of him looked as though she might fold in on herself. Young and with white cold hair, her eyes hidden away with the standard service mocking mask. Her hands trembled as she clutched what she had nearly dropped. “Please, my Lord—I was told to give you this—please forgive me—” Her words rushed together, her head bowing too quickly, shoulders drawn tight with fear.
He exhaled through his nose, the edge in him dulling just slightly. “It’s fine,” he said.
She hesitated only a moment before extending what she carried toward him with both hands, careful, reverent in a way that made the objects seem more important than they were.
A feather quill. Three sheets of textured paper. A bottle of ink.
Prepared already. Of course. He took them without comment, his grip steady again, the familiarity of the items grounding in a way the conversation earlier had not. Then the scent reached him—pungent and refreshing yet gentle, accompanied with a still cool light as it resonated with his own hydro vision. Lakelight Lily.
He stilled for half a second, recognition settling in. Pantalone had mentioned it once, in passing— the same azure flower gifted by the Noble Navigator to her The knight with sea-colored eyes, the High King of Aremorica Erinnyes. A farewell token and everlasting promise waiting and of returning to their side.
Tartaglia let out a quiet breath. “Tasteless,” he muttered under his breath.
The girl flinched as if the word had been meant for her. He quickly clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head. “Not you. You’re fine.”
She nodded quickly, relief flickering across her face before she stepped back, bowing again. “Thank you, my Lord.” He didn’t answer and her tranquility left as fast as his eyes rose from the paper, open and blank; she stared in worry and perhaps fear before bowing and running along the wide passages of the palace. Unbeknownst to him, as his attention had already drifted elsewhere, settling instead on the weight in his hands and the faint scent rising from the paper. It lingered longer than it should have, clean and deliberate against the colder air of the corridor.
His mind left him to its own devices, wandering without direction as his feet carried him further and further from the Mayor’s office. Corridor after corridor blurred together—identical halls, identical turns—until he reached a dead end. Only then did he stop. He let himself sink down against the wall, setting the things in his hands aside without much care. His arms folded in on themselves instinctively. The stone at his back radiated an unnatural warmth, sharper than the steady heat of the palace furnaces, pressing through fabric and skin alike. It didn’t offer much comfort. Slowly, his legs gave way, sliding forward until he was seated fully on the floor.
The paper, ink, and plume rested beside him, slightly askew. His coat slipped from his shoulders, the dark fur softly tickling against his cheeks.
He closed his eyes for a moment. He used to spend hours meditating before writing home—quiet and still. A kind of meditation that would have always come easier by a riverbank, hands steady over a fishing line beneath the ice, but those are the privileges he could not have. At least until a few months in.
Not here. Keep face, he had been told.
He exhaled softly through his nose. Bullshit.
All these rules, plots, webs. Politicians, bankers, shadowy figures each waiting for the right moment to close in on their hunting prey. Where was the honor in any of it? Where was the face they all claimed to uphold?
Did none of them remember what it meant to stand plainly before another? To speak without angles, without traps? Not even now—when they claimed to be building something new, something meant to tear down the injustices of the old world?
He frowned faintly, gaze unfocused. Does no one know the first thing about chivalry and heroism anymore?
What kind of world would that be, if no one could look each other in the eye while it was being made?
His fingers found the ring at his hand, turning it absentmindedly, over and over again. The motion steadied him, just barely. For a while, it was enough.
He reached for the writing materials instead, pulling them closer, the quiet routine grounding in a way thought alone could not. He stared at the page longer than necessary but he let himself imagine the perfume accompanying its paper be not the Water Veins of Fontaine but instead the salty scent of his hometown. The quill hovered for a moment before finally touching down.
Dearest sister,
I hope things are well at home. The weather must be turning worse by now—make sure the roof holds if the winds pick up again. I remember how it sounded last winter. I’ve been assigned new duties. They keep me busy, but it’s nothing I can’t manage. You don’t need to worry about me. The work suits me well enough.
The accommodations are better than before. Warmer, too. It’s quieter here, which I suppose is a good thing. Gives me time to think. But you know how I grow restless when life turns ordinary and boring, so I am trying to always find ways to keep my excitement alive.
Make sure Father keeps up with his treatment. Don’t let him brush it off and don’t let him convince you otherwise—if he says he’s fine, assume he’s simply playing dumb. Use what I sent last time if you have to. Your brother will make sure more reaches you soon.
That part came easier. It always did.
Keep an eye on the others. Teucer especially. He’ll say he isn’t causing trouble, which usually means he is. Don’t let him wander too far on his own. And tell Anthon and the others I expect them to listen to you while I’m gone.
I am not sure when I will be able to visit for some time. It’s nothing bad. Just… not what I’m used to. Things here are different now. It may take a while before I can leave but rest assured everything is under control. You know I wouldn’t let it be otherwise.
His hand stilled before the final line.
I’ll send word again when I can. Until then, take care of things at home like you always do. I know you will. And don't forget to take care of yourself and have fun with all the gifts I left for you.
—
Ajax
He didn’t move for a moment after finishing, the quill still resting lightly between his fingers as the ink settled into the paper. His gaze remained on the last line longer than necessary, as if expecting something there to change if he gave it enough time but of course, it did not.
The quiet streched uncomfortably, but said moment didn’t last. Not when, beneath it, the sound of the sharp, measured steps of heels against stone drew close, carrying just enough weight to announce presence without demanding attention. His fingers stilled, and he decided not to turn immediately. Instead, he set the quill aside with more care than he had used to pick it up before crossing out his name from the letter, his posture straightening almost unconsciously as the moment closed in around him.
He stilled for a moment. A small attempt to uphold his back again to earn a few inches of heigh back, even from the ground below.
By the time the steps stopped, he already knew who it was.
“What are you doing here, Tartaglia?”
Her voice settled into the space without effort, even and composed, cutting cleanly through the quiet he had tried to keep for himself.
He exhaled softly through his nose, the faintest tension slipping into his shoulders before he pushed it back down. For a second, his gaze dropped to the paper again—the ink not yet fully dry—before he finally turned his head.
“…Writing,” he said.
It was a simple answer, given as if it required no further explanation, though the slight pause before it betrayed more than the word itself.
He shifted just enough to face her properly, one arm resting loosely against his knee, the other hovering near the scattered pages without quite touching them.
“I could ask you the same,” he added after a beat, quieter now, but steady.
“Knave.”