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Chapter Text

The Astral plane was not a place (if one could even call it a place) that could be mapped or even easily described. It was nothing so much as formless potential; a mere thought or passing whimsy could sculpt the ether into anything without limit, provided imagination wasn’t lacking.

Unfortunately for the resident Astrals, who were possessed of unbounded power, their imagination was decidedly unimpressive. Their chief creation, the mortal plane and the world of Eos, was merely a fluke. After they breathed life to the planet, they watched for a few hundred years (a mere blink of the eye to one that is endless), but quickly grew bored and forgot about it. Nothing was happening! There was not much amusement to be found by watching the simple lifeforms float around in the primordial soup. The Astrals moved on to other diversions.

It wasn’t until many, many millions of years later that one of them happened to glance at their forgotten, and now unrecognizable, creation. The planet teemed with a diversity of life. Plants, animals, fungi, bacteria… Most interesting of all to the Astrals were the humans. The humans who loved and laughed and warred, and most importantly, were unpredictable.

A new mode of entertainment was born. The gods were bored, so they got involved. At first their acts were brazen and direct. They pretended to be both villain and savior. One would threaten the humans with a devastating cataclysm just to watch them scramble and pray, another would save them from it, all in a carefully orchestrated act of punishment and salvation. That too began to pale. Their actions grew more subtle as they sought to determine how far the fragile beings could be pushed without realizing it.  At the same time, the Astrals began to learn from the humans, to absorb their culture, their mannerisms, their language, some even modelling their appearance after them. Unwittingly, the humans even gave them names.

“What is it they’re doing down there?”

“It appears they are setting the fish alight on that flat stone, although to what purpose? Would it not be burned to ash in that manner? They cannot eat ash, can they?”

“Cease your blathering. The one in the white robe speaks.”

Leviathan, Goddess of the Sea, in your name we pray. The ocean is your domain and we humbly beg your favor. Accept this offering and bless our nets with a bountiful catch and favor us with kind winds and calm waters.

Amused, an Astral took it upon herself (for she had decided she was, indeed, a she) to grant their prayers. She began to watch this small tribe of humans that dwelled near the ocean and adopted the name they had given their sea goddess.

Eventually the chief Astral pastime of manipulating the mortals turned to wagering on their actions. It had started small.

“Feast your eyes on this delicate lass.” In the viewing portal Ifrit had created, a lovely young peasant woman sold vegetables at the small village market. “Her mien is flirtatious and immodest. A scant few months and she’ll be with child out of wedlock.” 

Ifrit had claimed the dominions of fire and burning emotion, chiefly anger and passion. His understanding of the latter, however, was somewhat unsophisticated. The acts of passion were easy enough to grasp, but the associated feelings were still beyond him. Love, in particular would always remain outside his comprehension. He knew this and resented it. How could one such as he fail at anything? He pushed those thoughts aside and focused on what he did understand.

Leviathan sprang from a pool of clear blue water she materialized behind him. Lately it amused her to appear as a giant winged serpent, scales shimmering in blue and teal, with streaks of deep purple appearing only when the light was just right. She thought herself very beautiful. “Hmph. All women are flirts and slatterns to one such as you. She is merely friendly. Marriage, I predict in her future very shortly.”

“Care to make a wager of it, dear Hydraean? Before their moon waxes full six times, she will either be wed or carrying a bastard.”

“Intriguing. When the humans wager, the victor receives a prize of some sort. What will you grant me when I win?”

This gave Ifrit pause. He had not considered thus far. “I suppose that would depend.”

“I should enjoy snuffing out one of your volcanos with a tsunami. You have always been far too precious about those.”

Ifrit bristled at the thought of one of his lovely creations being destroyed for Leviathan’s amusement. However, he was confident in his assessment of the village lass. In turn, he made a suggestion he knew would rub her the wrong way. “So be it. And with my victory, I should think a seaside village smothered in lava would be a sight without parallel.” A wave of his hand changed the image in the portal to that of her favored village, the first to worship her.

Her eyes narrowed. She, too, was confident and accepted the wager.

In just under six months, it was revealed that Leviathan’s confidence was not misplaced. Unbeknownst to the village lass, she (and her descendants, for the Hydraean’s memory is long) was blessed by the Astral whose first victory was claimed on the day the young woman spoke her solemn vow to forsake all others.   

Ifrit was also possessed of a long memory and an ability to hold grudges that could very well outlast the universe itself. He did not forget the sight of the destruction of his favorite volcano, though he had been pleased to note that a tsunami alone wasn’t enough to quench the bubbling inferno. In the end, Leviathan enlisted the help of Titan, who had claimed dominion over rock and earth. (Once they had divvied up the elements of Eos, the Astrals were careful to stay within their own lanes. None of them cared for the thought of a heavenly war, when there were so many other more amusing diversions.) As a favor to the Hydraean, the Archaean rearranged the tectonic plates to eliminate the fissure through which the magma poured forth. This did not endear him to the Infernion.

Which brings us to the most recent Astral wager. This time the scope was somewhat larger---the fate of all of the people of Eos. It would rest on two men of the same family, though separated by countless generations. 

It was a long, complicated negotiation, but eventually Bahamut and Ifrit came to the terms of the wager. Their Astral colleagues, gathered to observe their arguments, found themselves dragged into the game, though none would side with Ifrit. Befitting his nature, he was quite skilled at burning bridges and over the millennia had managed to alienate nearly all of the other Astrals.

“You shall have no contact with your champion until he is trapped within the Crystal, which you shall grant to his ancestors. You will work solely through intermediaries, through your Astral allies, through the Oracle lineage you will create, or through Messengers. I however, shall be permitted unfettered access to my champion.”

“It is a twisted game you play, Ifrit, to dangle divinity before a human to so rudely snatch it away.”

“Sanctimony ill suits you; you speak as if your plans for your champion are any less perverse.” Ifrit shrugged. “Besides, it is more interesting this way. Every villain should have a taste of heroism. For what is a victory if it is not hard-fought, hard-won, and bittersweet? Though with two thousand years to prepare, to gather power, to fester resentment, versus a mere thirty? I suspect hard-fought will not be the case. You are vastly overconfident, my friend.”

“Never have I been your friend, and never have I lost. I have no intention of either. Odin shall be arbiter. I trust you shall abide by his word?”

Ifrit bowed mockingly. “I swear it.”

“Odin, what is to be the punishment for breaking the covenant of this wager?”

The one-eyed god looked up from the tiny galaxy he created, floating gently above the palm of his hand. Stars, no more than pinpricks of light, swirled around in a miniature spiral in shades of blue and aqua. He had initially styled himself a god of war, but found the realities of battle to be somewhat distasteful. (Too bloody, too messy.) After only a few hundred years of involvement, he retreated back to the Astral plane entirely, largely ignoring Eos and quickly forgotten by her people. Odin instead contented himself with creating elaborate and petite galaxies and universes, which he flung out of the Astral plane to take root in the nothingness beyond. His lack of involvement with the mortal world led the other Astrals to turn to him to mediate their disagreements and referee their endless games involving the humans.

“Hmm?” He pondered for a minute. “I think it only fitting that a wager involving two thousand years require castigation in proportion. Interference will result in two millennia as an animal of the wronged party’s choosing.” He returned to his diminutive diversion, cupping it in his hands, and then gently stretching it to the size of a large melon.

Bahamut’s smile was grim and confident. “A carrion bird is only fitting.”

“Count not your chickatrices before they are hatched. Trust I have the patience necessary.”

“Three wagers in sequence have you lost, Infernion. Only a fool would bet on you.” Shiva scoffed, a dozen sprites crossing their arms in unison. While the goddess of ice and winter was no fool, were even his victory guaranteed she would never side with Ifrit. One awkward assignation to experiment with the activity humans seemed so preoccupied with was enough to convince her she was disinterested in further exploration. Ifrit, however, felt very differently and took any opportunity to remind her of that fact. She had grown weary of his advances.  

“Ah, you may not bet on me, but shall you bed? It would be a pairing for the ages. Fire and ice are without equal in all the Astral realm. Come, be burned again,” he reached a hand to the nearest, which she batted away in annoyance as all twelve merged into one.

“Try not my patience, wretch. I ally with the Draconian in this contest.”

Ifrit sighed heavily. “The flame of ardor shall continue to burn brightly, my frigid paramour. I will await at your pleasure.” Smirking, he added, “Which it would assuredly be.” (She disagreed vehemently with that assessment based on past experience.)

Finally, after a few years of hashing out the minor details (and they were truly minor, even down to the smallest piece of jewelry), the terms were fully outlined and the stakes decided. The prize was merely the victory, for by this point there was no other reward valued more than smugness granted by besting their peers. Ifrit believed his victory was assured, the deck was stacked so heavily against the one they called the King of Light in the Astral-composed prophecy that would set the game in motion.

It would be an interesting two thousand years.

Chapter Text

Two thousand years later, give or take a few…

Ifrit enjoyed his human seeming. He often amused himself walking anonymously through the streets of Insomnia or occasionally Atissia (Never Gralea. Too drab.), immaculately dressed in a crisp charcoal-gray pinstriped suit, his hair neatly slicked back. Only the most sensitive humans sensed the divine in his presence. They were the ones usually drawn to him. To these, he was magnetic, electric, irresistible, even without having to invoke his power. Who needs the attention of Shiva when there were scads of willing humans?

Today his visit to the mortal plane was not for idle amusement. He toyed impatiently with an obsidian cufflink as he waited, a half-drunk gin and tonic sweating on the sleek marble bar. His missive to the Accursed, the words lightly scorched into heavy vellum, had stated he should have arrived 15 minutes earlier. It was, of course, unnecessary that they meet at all, or indeed that Ifrit should wait (the Accursed could be made to appear before him in less than the blink of eye, should he wish it) but part of the enjoyment of playing at humanity was to abide by the associated limitations. This was a momentous occasion and should be observed. So he waited.  

Ifrit had finished his first drink and had started on his second when the Accursed strode through the door of the bar. Despite the warmth of the warm summer evening, the man was dressed as he always was, shrouded in many layers to ward off the ever-present icy chill of the daemons churning within. That particular detail had been Leviathan’s idea; it was a nice touch, the Infernion thought. Just a sprinkling of added discomfort to plague him over the millennia. (Ramuh had suggested an unreachable, incessant itch in the center of his back, but the consensus among the Astrals was that it would be better to avoid driving him completely insane.)

“You’re late.”

“My deepest apologies,” Ardyn replied sardonically. “Some assistance would have facilitated a more punctual arrival.”

“Trust the journey was worth your while. Have a seat.” Ifrit gestured to the bartender to bring a gin and tonic for his companion. Leaning against the backrest of his stool, he observed the Accursed. There was a renewed energy to him that had been flagging in the past century or so. The Infernion had been watching this man with for two millennia with varying levels of detachment and interest as the weight of the years gradually wore him down, hollowed him out, leaving nothing behind but despair. It had reached the point a decade or so before that Ifrit was actually concerned for Ardyn. Not for Ardyn’s well-being, but for the sake of the wager. When Bahamut’s champion arrived on the scene, it would not do to have the Accursed so consumed by ennui as to be useless. It had been time to intervene directly. Ifrit knew the words that would inject new life into the man.

“The next king of Lucis will be the last.”

It wasn’t the first time he had appeared to Ardyn. That had been shortly after the Crystal had rejected him and Bahamut declared him too befouled by daemons to ascend to the Astral Realm (as if that had ever been an option anyway, but Ardyn didn’t need to know that). There was delicious cruelty in the symmetry of it all. The very reason he had been denied ascension by the Gods was the mission they had charged him with: absorb the Starscourge and cure the masses of the daemonic affliction. Ifrit waited to seek out the man until he had reached his lowest point, driven out by the people of Lucis, hiding himself in the deepest recesses of a daemon-infested cave. 

“What fresh grief do the Astrals inflict upon me now?” the man had wearily asked of Ifrit, unmoving from the pallet on which he lay.

“No love is lost between myself and the other Hexatheon,” the god replied. “They rested the blame of the scourge at my feet and cast me out, while charging you with the eradication of the same yet deny you the light of heaven for it. They have wronged us both.”

Newly interested, Ardyn sat up. “I would hear more,” he said. In Ardyn’s view, a partnership was formed. In Ifrit’s, the Accursed was set on the path that would culminate in the god’s long-awaited victory over Bahamut. All that was left to do was wait for the King of Light.

Two thousand years later, Ardyn drummed his fingers impatiently on the bar as he gulped his drink. He finished quickly, and eyed Ifrit expectantly.

“I have a gift for you,” the god said after a leisurely silence, sipping his drink.

“Your gifts are not the boon you seem to think they are. Your most recent has me working harder than I have in centuries. Though I must admit, there is a sense of… satisfaction in it,” Ardyn replied. “That an army derived from daemons should contribute to the undoing of Lucis.” 

“It is rather poetic in a way.” Ifrit set his glass on the bar, empty but for a few clinking ice cubes. “Come. We have places to be and people to see,” he said as he stood.

Outside the bar, the city was buzzing with life despite the late hour. August in Insomnia was scorching, with many residents escaping to the seaside for respite from the heat. At night it finally become cool enough (or at least not quite as oppressively hot) that those who were forced to remain in Insomnia ventured forth, granting the city a vibrant and colorful nightlife. It was during the summer that the city earned its name, as revelry lasted until the light of dawn. They walked a few blocks north. Ifrit stopped in front a large multi-storied building.

“I wait with baited breath to learn what brings us to St. Ajora’s Hospital,” Ardyn drawled.

“Your gift. The promised one is finally here,” Ifrit said.

At the door to the maternity ward, uniformed guards were stationed on either side of the entrance. One moved to halt their approach. “This area currently has increased security measures. Only authorized personnel are allowed beyond this point.”

Ifrit raised an eyebrow, and the guard relaxed, bemused. The pair continued walking, drawing no attention from the nurses at the station or the plain-clothed crownsguard waiting outside the door of a private room at the end of the hall. A bearded man, somewhat disheveled in rumpled slacks and untucked black dress shirt, spoke quietly on a mobile phone.

“Aulea lost a lot of blood and may be in the hospital a few days longer than expected; she and the child sleep now. I will stay with her tonight and return to the Citadel in the morning. Please inform the communications director the press release may go out.”

Inside the room, a pale young woman slept. Attached to her bed was a small crib so that she might have easy access to the newborn.

“How long have I waited…” Ardyn bent over the crib to observe his counterpart more closely. Small and red-faced, with that slightly squished look all newborns seemed to have. His head was crowned with fine black fuzz. It had been a long time since Ardyn had been so close to one so young.

The village, nestled against the meteor shard high in the mountains, had taken him weeks of travel on chocobo-back to reach. Inside the tiny cottage was a crying infant, her face blotched with black streaks like spilled ink. The mother, clutching the babe to her chest, was similarly afflicted. The Starscourge had infected her late in pregnancy and had spread to the unborn child. In the months it had taken for the message to reach him and for him to travel to her cottage, Ardyn could see the scourge had become too advanced to save the woman. All he could do was ease her suffering and allow her to die without the fear of returning as a twisted wraith that plagued the night. He stretched a glowing hand toward the pair. The darkness writhed and lifted away from their skin and flowed toward their savior. He bit back a pained cry when the first oily tendril sank into his flesh. As the last of the scourge drained from the child, her wails abruptly ceased. She looked up at him in wonder with large round eyes, the pale blue of a midwinter sky. 

He reached a hand down to brush the baby’s cheek with the back of a finger. The infant woke suddenly, flinching away from his touch with a loud squall. The small limbs flailed. The sleeping woman began to stir.  

“Hardly a formidable adversary. How simple it would be to end it here.” Ardyn’s voice was soft and filled with disdain.

Ifrit stood back, arms crossed, waiting. It mattered not to him whether Bahamut’s champion died in his crib, the dates on his tombstone identical for birth and death. A win is a win, though it certainly would lack any sense of elegance.

Turning toward the door, the Accursed walked away with a smirk. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Chapter Text

Eos has Ramuh to thank for the wide variety of strange beasts that populate the world. When the Astrals rediscovered Eos, the flora and fauna were already well-established. All it took was a little tweak here, a little nudge there. As he presided over the skies, the birds were naturally among Ramuh’s favorites and he could not seem to leave those alone. Some were stretched to enormous size, some were crossed with other animals as the mood struck him. He often followed his fancy. A giant tortoise disguised as a mountain. Cacti that pulled themselves free of the earth and ran frantically to and fro (and occasionally shot a barrage of needles at unsuspecting foes). Large, spotted cats that electrocuted their adversaries with prehensile whiskers. He spent a fair amount of time as one of these, prowling for prey, terrorizing the occasional passerby. As the millennia passed, he spent more and more time as myriad animals till eventually he spent more time on Eos than in the Astral Realm. In fact, there was a span of nearly a century in which he was perfectly content swimming around a lake as an impressively large fish.

The amount of time Ramuh spent as animals on Eos mystified most of the other Astrals, but not Carbuncle. Though fully as powerful as his divine colleagues, he had no interest in being worshipped as a god. He chose as his primary form that of a small, green-furred creature, complete with bushy tail and large, expressive ears. He completed the look with a small horn in the center of his forehead, the color of ruby. Carbuncle appeared to the humans in their dreams, mostly, happier as a sprite that brought good fortune and eased suffering. He may not have been worshipped, but he was loved by many. Mothers told stories to their children about him. Not like the tales they told about Ifrit, who would carry naughty children away and turn them into daemons if they didn’t mind. No, tales of Carbuncle were about his cleverness, or how he rescued those who became trapped in the dream world, leading them to freedom and keeping them safe from their worst fears. One small village took to leaving small gifts of food out for him on nights of the new moon, the superstition being that without the light of moon to lead them to safety in their dreams, sleepers were more vulnerable to becoming trapped in the dream world. Gifts to Carbuncle would ensure his protection through the night.

Carbuncle thought he understood his friend’s (Ramuh and Carbuncle were the only Astrals that considered themselves friends) preoccupation with animals. Millennia of bickering and constantly shifting alliances and hierarchy amongst the Astrals grew tedious. Though entertaining, the humans were not much better. Animals were simple. To exist solely in the present, with no thoughts to the past or future, to abandon (though temporarily) the capacity for abstract thought and to merely feel – feel the warm updrafts lifting wings ever higher, feel the movement of water over one’s scales and through one’s gills, feel sharp teeth tearing effortless into the haunch of freshly-slain prey. It was exhilarating.

In the months since the appearance of the King of Light, Ramuh had avoided his Astral fellows. Curious as to why, Carbuncle sought out him. Perched atop a sprawling rock arch, Carbuncle spread his awareness outward, seeking a sign of his friend. Feeling Ramuh’s presence halfway across the world, he leapt from the rock, shifting his location in space to appear alongside a small bird that darted after a dragonfly.

Carbuncle ran alongside Ramuh, his small paws striking the air as if it were as firm as the rock arch he just left.

“He is born,” Carbuncle said.

“So I am aware,” Ramuh replied without interest.

“The game will reach its conclusion soon.”

“Aye.”

“I have visited the Savior. He is small and helpless. I fear he will be no match for the Accursed, even once grown.”

“That is Bahamut’s concern, not mine.” Ramuh alighted on a tree branch, Carbuncle following.

“Will you grant him your power at least, should the Oracle supplicate?”

“Perhaps,” Ramuh replied, shrugging. (It turns out birds can shrug. Or at least bird-shaped Astrals can.) “I cannot stomach the cruelty of it all. Accursed, Savior, these labels mean nothing. They are both damned by the ill luck of being chosen by the Infernion and the Draconian. I very much dislike those two. They are, in the vernacular of the age, asshats.”

At Ramuh’s choice of epithets, Carbuncle very nearly fell off the perch. “The wheels are in motion; there is naught we can do to stop this sadistic pastime without inciting the wrath of the asshats, as you call them.”

Ramuh shifted his weight from foot to foot on the branch, his eyes tracking the insects that flew by. “Keep a watch on the little one, would you please? Arbor-”

“Ardyn,” Carbuncle interjected.

“Ardyn has Ifrit to protect and guide him, mores the pity. The babe has no one. I would do it myself, but well…” Ramuh paused before shrugging again. “I just don’t feel like it, and you’re so much better at that kind of thing than I am.”

Carbuncle rolled his eyes. “Fine. I probably would have done it of my own accord anyway.”

“Thanks. You’re a peach.” Ramuh launched himself from the branch, flying swiftly after another insect flying by.

Carbuncle sighed, watching his friend depart. “Asshats. Where does he pick these things up?” He shifted his location in space again, landing softly inside the crib of the future King of Light. He curled up at the boy’s feet and went to sleep.

Chapter Text

Ardyn stood before the corkboard in his office, the one room in his home that was kept securely locked behind a steel door, off limits to the staff that maintained his household. An elaborate web of colored string crisscrossed the board, drawing connections between the people and places of Eos. Tipped off by Ifrit, Arden had spent the last 22 years whispering in the ear of the Niflheim Emperor, rising within the ranks to become his most trusted advisor. While tedious, it gave him grim satisfaction to lead the Emperor and his lackey Besithia into the creation of an army infected by daemons. The decades he spent healing hundreds of hapless peasants in his youth would be undone by a thousand fold with the expansion of the Magitek Infantry program unwittingly spreading Starscourge across the globe.

At the center of the board was a photo of a young boy. Black-haired, blue-eyed, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and shorts, he looked like any child that could be found playing in one of the many playgrounds that dotted the city of Insomnia. Yet this child had never set foot in a public park, instead he was kept safely within the walls surrounding the Citadel. The future King of Lucis, prophesied to lead the world out of darkness. To Ardyn, the young Prince Noctis represented everything that had been taken from him. He was the personification of Ardyn’s stolen birthright, his stolen place in history as humanity’s savior. The entire world would suffer, but none more than this boy. Everything and everyone he loved would be reduced to ashes.

In other words, Ardyn’s attitude was “Fuck Eos and fuck that kid especially.”

He tapped the photo thoughtfully. Though it had only been eight years since the birth of his nemesis, it felt interminable. It was time for some direct action.

Ardyn scribbled on an index card, his handwriting large and unnecessarily embellished with loops and flourishes. (It was also borderline illegible.) He affixed the card to the board with a pushpin before rearranging the strings to make a new connection.

He bided his time; intel, at which he excelled, would dictate the place and time. While he allowed the various imperial intelligence agencies to provide him with the data and analyses they gathered, Ardyn would not rely on them for this.

Every so often he would cross the border into Lucis and make his way into Insomnia, impersonating whomever necessary to infiltrate. It was a delicate balancing act; those he posed as would need to have access but be forgettable, unnoticed background characters in the grand drama of the Citadel. On this occasion it involved a minor member of the Crownsguard in order to enter the city unobstructed, a delivery man unloading a shipment of foodstuffs to the Citadel kitchen to gain entrance, and a member of the night custodial staff to move about without drawing suspicion. Being able to mimic the appearance of any person was certainly a handy skill to have.

Several days passed in which he continued to shift between impersonating low-level aides and scribes, servers at state dinners, kitchen staff, and maintenance workers. Much information could be gathered simply by eavesdropping on conversations or flipping through files carelessly left unattended on a desk. In one particularly fruitful instance, he was able to log into networked computer and download a variety of a classified files, thanks to a new staff member who helpfully left their username and password a notepad in an unlocked drawer. Still, nothing quite jumped out at him as the opportunity he was looking for.

Late one afternoon a week following his arrival, Ardyn carried a tray laden with silver pitchers of water into a conference room used when the full Council was not in session. He set the tray on a side table before removing a pitcher and approaching the conference table.  

“Your Majesty, the outer lands of Lucis, especially Duscae, Liede, and Cleigne churn with dissent and resentment. The people feel abandoned by the Crown,” said a woman Ardyn recognized as the Secretary of Internal Affairs as he refilled her water glass. “It doesn’t help that Niflhiem has managed to sneak propaganda across the border into towns such as Lestallum. These pamphlets lay the blame for the recent increase in daemon activity at the feet of the royal family, implying that the Crown only cares about the lives of those within Insomnia.”

Ardyn approached the King with the pitcher, who waved him away. “The fact that the Empire has found a way into Lucis undetected is quite troubling,” King Regis replied. “However, the Crownsguard Intelligence Division has been making progress in tracking the source of the propaganda. I am more concerned with the growing dissatisfaction of our people.” His fingers drummed the table thoughtfully.

“Perhaps a tour of the outlying regions, Your Majesty?” suggested a young man, a placard on the table declaring him to the Undersecretary of Local Government. “According to our records, the last one was undertaken before His Highness was born. I believe the people would feel more connected to the Crown were they able to see their King in person.” Ardyn continued to linger, tiding the side table, wiping the condensation from the pitchers, rearranging the trays of fruit and cheese.

“Yes, it is far past time; if I recall correctly, King Mors made these trips nearly every year,” the King said, and then smiled. “In fact, I would have the Prince accompany me. Some of my fondest memories were when my father would allow me to tag along and he would personally show me the sites of the Kingdom. I will never forget the first time I saw the Rock of Ravatogh. It will do Prince Noctis good see the lands outside of Insomnia.”

They had yet to even make it beyond the Wall before the motorcade was attacked. It was night, several hours later than the departure was planned; the King had been held up by Crown business. Regis sent Prince Noctis ahead, instructing the nanny, Ina, to take him to the Queen Aulea Memorial Gardens just inside the Wall until the King was able to depart.

Ardyn waited in the car, posing as one of the royal chauffeurs. To simplify matters, Ardyn strangled the man the night before and disposed of the body; it would not do to have two of the same man running around for the length of time the excursion required.

Hours passed. The Prince’s nanny kept him entertained with games and the Crownsguard on duty humored the boy by pretending to fall for the simple tricks he attempted to play on them. As the sun went down, Prince Noctis endeavored to catch fireflies. It was night when the small party finally received word that the King and his retinue would soon join them and they should depart for the Wall. The Prince was bundled back into the car, where he sleepily leaned against his nanny.

“The fireflies were so pretty. Shoulda brought a bottle…” the boy mumbled.

“Your father will be happy to hear about your day, Prince Noctis,” Ina replied, squeezing his hand. It’s such a pity he couldn’t make it today.”

“He doesn’t care.”

Eavesdropping on the conversation, Ardyn smiled to himself at the hurt in the Prince’s voice. An unplanned bonus. He flashed the headlights to signal the attack.

The car in front of them burst into flames. Ardyn swerved hard to avoid hitting it, sending the boy and his nanny tumbling in the back seat. He pulled the car to a stop and got out. Slowly a daemon emerged from behind the wreckage, revealing the face and torso of a woman that merged seamlessly with the body of a snake. Six arms sprouted from her shoulders, each holding a sword.

The Marilith.  

The Prince and his nanny had crept out of the car; upon seeing the daemon they began to run. The Marilith darted towards them, sword slicing them both across their backs. They fell to the ground, blood pooling beneath them. She was slithering closer to the prone figures when a sword of blue crystal struck her. The King stood several yards away, a glittering arsenal circling him slowly before he launched them toward the daemon driving her back.

Satisfied, Ardyn departed. It was not his intention for the Marilith to kill the prince (that satisfaction would be reserved for himself), merely terrify the child and remind the Lucian king that his boy was vulnerable and could be taken from him in a heartbeat. These were, however, not the primary motivation for the attack. No, he had other plans in mind. At Ardyn’s request, Ifrit planted the seed that the boy should recover in Tenebrae, sending a tendril of thought to lodge in the mind of the current oracle, Queen Sylva of Tenebrae.

“It pained me greatly to hear the news of the attack upon the prince’s person.” She wrote. “I would be honored for the His Highness to undertake his recovery in the serenity of Fenestala Manor. My daughter, Lunafreya, sends her wishes for a swift recovery and offers her companionship should he wish to recuperate in Tenebrae.” 

She was a kind, caring woman, well-suited to the task of healing; it was not out of character for her to reach out to the king and open her home to his injured son.

As Ardyn intended, Noctis and the future oracle grew close in the months he spent in the care of the Nox Fleuret family. Lunafreya was unfailingly kind and hopeful, belying the steel at her core. The grievous injury inflicted by the daemon required daily physical therapy so that Noctis could regain the strength and mobility he had lost; she accompanied him to each session and would brook no argument or resistance to the exercises prescribed by the therapist. When not in the seemingly endless series of medical appointments and physical therapy sessions, Lunafreya wheeled the young prince about in his wheelchair, a necessity, though a temporary one as the orthopedist and neurologist assured the anxious king.

Several months passed in this manner, with Noctis gradually growing stronger and able to stand and walk for longer periods of time. The pain from the injury slowly subsided. While the prince was reluctant to leave Luna, as he called her, he missed his home and his father.

It was at this point that Ardyn set into motion the second part of his plan. He waited until there was a moment in which Iedolas could be approached without interruption. Though Ardyn had served the Niflhiem Empire for decades, he was not popular with the other members of the small circle of aides and advisors that the Emperor relied on. To successfully direct Iedolas toward Ardyn’s preferred course of action would be easier without interference from those who would see his influence with the Emperor be lessened.  

He found the Emperor in his private office within the Imperial Palace. There was a stark contrast between the home of the Emperor of Niflheim and that of the King of Lucis. While latter was elegant and stately, relying on materials such as marble, mahogany, and jade to communicate grandeur, the Imperial Palace was borderline gaudy with elaborate carvings, extensive murals and frescoes, and excessive gilding. The office of the Emperor was no exception, with a high ceiling painted with the Hexatheon and a large, ornate desk with gilded feet shaped like the heads of behemoths.

“Your Excellency, there is reliable intelligence to suggest that our dear friend King Regis plans to personally fetch his son from Tenebrae,” Ardyn began. “An opportunity presents itself that is irresistible.”

Emporer Iedolas flung aside the report he was reading and leaned back in his chair to observe his advisor.

“After your failed assassination attempt with the Marilith? We almost lost a significant weapon in our arsenal with that little misstep. I hesitate to take on any more of your plans.”

It was all Ardyn could do to restrain his smirk at Iedolas’ characteristic lack of vision. “Consider this, Excellency. Plans to invade and annex Tenebrae are already underway; to accelerate the timeline and attack while Regis and the prince are in residence provides an opportunity to eliminate the line of Lucis while they lack the protection of the Wall and the full complement of Crownsguard and Kingsglaive. Even should they escape… well, to have Tenebrae and the Oracle under our control would be a worthy consolation prize.”

Iedolas leaned forward, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. “Were Regis to fall, the Crystal would be vulnerable…” he mused.    

“Indeed. It is unlikely a better opportunity will present itself for some time,” Ardyn replied. Satisfied he had piqued the Emperor’s interest, he strode toward the door. Pausing, he turned to glance at Iedolas over his shoulder. “Speaking of time… to attack quickly is rather imperative in this situation. I would suggest making up your mind on the matter with haste.”

The Astrals were not omniscient. While they were capable of turning the awareness to any corner of the globe at any given moment, or expand their consciousness to cover vast distances, it required they actually make an effort (however minor) to do so. As a result, they didn’t know everything unless they were actively paying attention.

Shiva was paying attention.

At least, that’s what Ardyn learned as the Niflheim troops invaded Tenebrae and he sat safely in his spacious office, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up, nursing a scotch and enjoying the reports of the carnage that trickled in. Enjoying them until his office filled with softly falling snow and a woman with long, dark hair appeared before him. Her eyes closed, she caressed his face lightly with a hand so icy-cold it burned like fire against his skin. He, too, closed his eyes, only opening them again when the force of her slap sent him sprawling to the floor.

“You cause the Princess grief at your own peril,” she said, her dark eyes open and narrowed. “The foolishness of mortals can be forgiven once, but try not my patience a second time.” 

The snow began to fall harder, piling up around him. A high wind whistled through the room. Ardyn remained silent as he pushed himself up from the floor to stand.  

She circled him slowly as the snowstorm within his office intensified. “There are things you should know,” she murmured in his ear. “Regarding Ifrit and his plans for you. You blame the Draconian for your plight? Know that equal blame should be laid at the feet of the Infernion. Perhaps more than equal…”

“What do you mean?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the stinging ice and snow.  

The winds reached a howling pitch as she dissolved into a cloud of snowflakes that pulled at his hair and clothes before flinging the windows open wide. He could just make out her parting words as the swirling winds carried away every last snowflake and ice crystal. “Look not to Bahamut for the perversity of your situation.”

The only trace of the Glacian to remain was the chill in the air, but that too quickly dissipated in the warm summer breeze floating through the open windows. Ardyn grimaced and picked up the phone, dialing a number from memory.

“It’s Izunia. I believe the time has come to test that weapon of yours… And I have the perfect target in mind.”

Chapter Text

Some years earlier…

“Mama,” the boy said, tugging at Sylva’s sleeve. “Mama.”

“Not now, Ravus,” she replied, looking down at her small son and uncurling his fingers from her blouse. “Please go play with Nanny Olena.” She turned back to the reports she had been pouring over. Small pockets of Starscourge outbreaks had been occurring near the border.

“Mama!” he repeated more insistently.

She sighed. “Sweet pea, if Mama can’t get work done with you in her office, you will have to go play in the nursery.”

“But Mama, there’s a lady.”

“Of course, sweet pea. Nanny Olena is a lady.”

“No, Mama. There’s a lady over there,” he said, tugging again at her sleeve with one hand and pointing with the other. Sylva turned her head to gaze where Ravus directed. A dark haired woman sat on an armchair on the far side of the room, eyes closed and hands folded neatly in her lap. Her posture was stiff, yet her face was serene. Upon being noticed by Sylva, she stood.

Sylva moved quickly to place herself between the boy and the stranger. “Olena, please take Ravus to the nursery.” Not wishing to frighten her son, she kept her voice calm and even.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Olena turned to the four-year-old and took his small hand in hers, leading him away. “Come on now, Prince Ravus. Let’s go see what the Princess is doing.”

Ravus twisted to pull his hand free, but Olena held fast. “All she does is sleep and cry! Mama, I want to stay with you!”

“Go with Nanny Olena, sweet pea.” Still resisting, Ravus was led out of the room, leaving Sylva alone with the intruder.

As Sylva approached the stranger in her home, she reached out with her power, encountering… nothing. No soul, no aura. The woman was not human.

“It is said that, in the beginning, the Six fought side by side with mankind. Even so, the deities themselves seldom appeared before mortals, and instead sent loyal servants to convey their divine will to the Oracle. These servants are known as Messengers, and they number twenty-four,” Sylva recited.

The stranger nodded once, slowly. “By will divine, I alone among twenty-four have been sent to watch over the last of the line chosen to commune with the Gods.”

“The time draws near?” Sylva asked.

“The child, Lunafreya, young though she will be upon her Ascension, shall usher the King of Light through the divine trials.”

“Young though she will be…” Sylva repeated. “How young?”

The Messenger remained silent.

“She will be ready.”

Shiva was somewhat protective of Lunafreya. Many years had she spent in the guise of Gentiana, divine Messenger, guardian of the last Oracle. That there even was an Oracle was thanks to Ifrit’s sour disposition. When the other Astrals agreed to grant their power to Bahamut’s champion, should he require it, Ifrit threw a fit.

They were gathered in a region of the Astral Realm that remained unclaimed by any of the gods and therefore neutral. Though the contest was nominally between Bahamut and Ifrit, others had been dragged along, some more willing to participate than others. The Astrals in this instance numbered eight, seated in a circle to create a semblance of equality. The negotiations had already dragged on for years, Odin serving as arbiter. He was largely silent, observing as his fellows argued and needled one another.  

“Five-and-a-half against one is scarcely equitable,” Ifrit lamented.

“A half?” asked Bahamut.

“I refer, of course, to the diminutive Carbuncle.”

“Perhaps you should partake of horizontal refreshment with a goat, as you mother clearly did.” Carbuncle retorted, zipping across the circle to hover in the air at the Infernian’s eye-level. “I take no further part in this asinine wager.” Carbuncle spun quickly in a tight circle, exiting the Astral plane with a soft ‘pop.’

“We can leave?” Ramuh stood. “Finally.”

“Sit down, Ramuh,” Bahamut commanded. Grumbling, the Fulgarian obeyed.

“Five against one is scarcely equitable,” Ifrit amended.

“How unevenly must the deck be stacked in your favor before you are satisfied?” Bahamut asked. He, too, was weary of the endless negotiations.  

“I fail to see how it is stacked in my favor; you rally the other Astrals to your cause, leaving me with naught. Even my beloved Shiva—”

“Not your beloved,” she interjected.

“—Chooses to ally with you,” Ifrit continued.

“Compromise: We offer assistance only when certain conditions are met,” Titan offered. “He must ask in the right way.”

“Again I ask, why must it be a ‘he’? Why not a Queen of Light? There remains time to correct this detail,” Leviathan said, annoyed. (She was nearly always annoyed, but after an eternity of dealing with her fellow Astrals, can you blame her?)

“Mayhaps we can satisfy you both. Create a lineage responsible for communing with us and supplicating on behalf of the Chosen, with the power to be passed down through the female line.”

“Oh, so the only role of women in your game is to assist the male?” Leviathan said.

Ifrit ignored her. “If we pursue this path, merely asking is insufficient. He must work for it.”

Bahamut nodded. “Let it be done. However, it must be up to each to decide for themselves the conditions that must be met before they will grant their powers or allow themselves to be summoned.”

“He will not find my assistance easy to claim,” Leviathan glowered. 

“I do not believe that goes far enough. The Draconian made a promise to refrain from interfering with the humans for ‘till his champion is trapped in the Crystal. I would request the same from all who side with him.”

Bahamut groaned. “Will you never be satisfied? Further, this promise? I recall it not.” He gestured to one-eyed god seated halfway around the circle, equidistant between Bahamut and Ifrit. “Can you verify, Odin?”

Odin summoned an image of the Astrals, a window on the past really. With a wave of his hand, the figures in the image moved in reverse at high speed, until, arriving at the point Odin was seeking, another wave ceased the motion. “So you spake, six years, 12 days, and 14 hours previously. Give or take a few minutes.” He banished the image.

Shiva spoke rarely during the negotiations, and then mainly to rebuff the advances of the Infernian. (Which occurred at predictable intervals like the chiming of a particularly annoying clock.)

“I do not agree to refrain from interference,” she said.

“What of the remaining three?” Bahamut asked.

“Whatever it takes to bring this to a close,” Ramuh replied. He had begun creating tiny trees on the arm of throne that he subsequently zapped with miniature lightning bolts from his fingertips. One of the trees was shaped suspiciously like Ifrit.

“I am with the Fulgarian on this. If it will end this ridiculous back-and-forth, I will acquiesce to most anything at this point,” Titan said.

“Leviathan?” Bahamut turned toward her.

“Aye. I will refrain,” she said, her voice flat with boredom.

“The others have agreed. Shiva, you remain the only holdout,” Bahamut coaxed.

“And so I will remain. I will not relinquish communication with the mortals.”

“Perhaps another compromise,” Titan ventured. “The Oracle will speak with us on behalf of the humans, and we shall have Messengers in turn to relay our will.”

“I do enjoy symmetry. Darling?” Ifrit asked.

“Not your darling. But yes, I can agree to work within these constraints.”

And thus, the stage was set. Interference by the Astrals in the game would be limited, with the exception of Ifrit and Ardyn. There was nothing to say that Astrals couldn’t also be Messengers, Shiva argued when she exploited that loophole to watch over the last Oracle as the Messenger Gentiana. She and Leviathan had both taken an interest in the Oracle lineage, though by the time Lunafreya ascended Leviathan had soured toward her.

“She would give up her life for that boy. He isn’t worthy,” she had said.

“Lunafreya is free to cast off the chains of duty, should she wish it,” Shiva replied. “That she does not demonstrates her piety and strength of character.”

“Hmph. Mores the pity for her piety. Faith in the Six has brought naught but grief for far too long. Their lives were better when the humans laid fish for me on an altar and not one of we divine thought to tinker with their lives.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Shiva said with a sigh. “Perhaps when the game has reached its conclusion, we can all agree to cease torturing the mortals.”

“Sometimes, my dear sister, you are very naïve,” Leviathan replied.

Had Ifrit not gloated incessantly over the death of her corporeal form, she might have left well enough alone. Her little excursion to speak directly with the Accursed was punished (though fortunately not by being required to spend two millennia as a toad) with her very public death, the corpse to lie in Ghovoras Rift as a reminder. Though it was merely a shell and essentially meaningless, the slight to Shiva angered her. Furthermore, now that one of the Six had been slain in the mortal plane, Bahamut and Ifrit were inclined to allow the humans free reign on that front. If they had the means, why not allow it? Let them think they had power to take on the Gods. After this error, she would have to be more discreet.

The next time Shiva approached Ardyn, she took more care to avoid detection. The pocket universe she created was carefully hidden, constructed so that her Astral brethren would be unable to perceive it without her express permission. Within the universe, she created a small planet, giving it oceans and forests, mountains and deserts, a warm yellow sun and a comfortable level of gravity.

Satisfied, a twist of thought had Ardyn standing before her in a field of blue flowers.

He fell to his knees, hands clawing at his throat. “Can’t… breathe…” he gasped out with the last of the air in his lungs.

She waved a hand, giving the planet an atmosphere palatable to a human. She couldn’t be expected to remember everything they needed.

“I may be… immortal… but dying is still… somewhat unpleasant,” he said between breaths, sucking air into his lungs greedily. “You aren’t put out by the small matter of being slain, are you? I can see it didn’t really take.” He pushed himself up off the ground to face her again.

“Not as such, no,” Shiva replied.

 “What brings me here, Glacian?” he asked. “More of your cryptic words regarding the Infernian and Draconian?”

“Indeed. She replied. “Though perhaps less cryptic on this occasion.” She turned and began to walk away. Ardyn followed, quickening his stride to walk beside her.

“O'er rotted Soil, under blighted sky, A dread Plague the Wicked hath wrought. In the Light of the Gods, Sword-Sworn at his Side 'Gainst the Dark the King's Battle is fought. From the Heavens high, to the Blessed below, Shines the Beam of a Peace long besought. "Long live thy Line, and this Stone divine, For the Night when All comes to Naught.””

“I am well familiar with the prophecy, courtesy of Bahamut, that has mocked me for millennia.”

“The broad strokes perhaps. The Accursed,” she said, inclining her head towards him, “That’s you—

“So I am aware,” he interrupted dryly.

“—versus the King of Light.” An image of Prince Noctis appeared briefly in the air. “The details, however… The details regarding you especially can be attributed mainly to Ifrit. He wanted you angry and resentful, enough so to drag the entire world down with you.”

“The account given to me differs somewhat from your description. Forgive me if I am skeptical. Assuming for a moment that you speak the truth, to what purpose?”

“Amusement. To pass the time.”

“How disappointing. One wants to believe one to be part of some grand plan for the universe, not merely the plaything of a bored deity. And the rest of the Hexatheon?”

“Complicit, to some extent. The game is between Ifrit and Bahamut, though we others chose sides.” She paused briefly. “Well, we chose a side. The side of not-Ifrit. He’s not exactly popular.”

“I do love an underdog.”

The field of flowers gave way to a sandy beach, waves lapping at the shore. Shiva’s feet did not sink into the sand as she walked. They stopped at the water’s edge, silent for a time. Ardyn skipped rocks across the water. It was a ludicrous sight, the large man in his many layers and heavy boots flinging stones into the sea.

After a time, he turned to Shiva. “While the scenery and company are most palatable, I believe it past time I am returned to my residence. Be a dear and see to that, would you?”

Once returned to his home, the daemons within Ardyn surged to the surface, marring his face and turning his eyes into glossy pools of darkness. A game. Nothing but a game. Everything, every daemon he purged from helpless townsfolk, every rock thrown and spear jabbed at his person to drive him into hiding, every year in shivering agony, every moment denied the comfort of oblivion was to amuse indifferent Gods.

He strode to his office, his handprint on the sensor opening the door. Standing before the elaborate plan laid out on the wall, he gazed at the photo of the young prince in the center. A new plan began forming in his head. There would be no elaborate corkboard for this one, not when his adversaries could be anywhere or see anything. He would have to plan and plot carefully, all in his head.

The daemon visage slowly receded as he stared at the photo of Prince Noctis. “The blood royal share the blame,” he muttered darkly. “I will have my pound of flesh.”

Chapter Text

It was a Friday night in late fall when three young men entered the loud and crowded bar. They elbowed their way through the throng to a corner where, improbably, a small table with two stools remained empty. As they approached, they had to turn sideways to squeeze past a very clearly drunk man, whose stool partially blocked the aisle. The man ignored them.

“You two go ahead and sit, I’ll see if I can scrounge up a couple more stools,” the largest of the three said.  

“Nah, it’s okay Gladio,” said the one with black hair, craning his neck to peer around the room. “I don’t think you’re going to find any. Me and Prompto can stand.”

“Where is he anyway?”

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he glanced at the screen. “Prom just got off work, but he said he’d be here in five.”

“I’m surprised to hear that he is working on his birthday. That you had his work ethic, Noctis,” the sandy-haired man interjected, pushing glasses up his nose. “In that case, Noct and I will procure drinks from the bar while we wait. Gladio, you’ll see that no one attempts to commandeer our table?”

“You got it, Iggy. Get me a beer, alright?” the tall one replied, taking off his jacket and draping it on the empty stool. Underneath he wore a simple green tank that did nothing to conceal a heavily muscled form or the elaborate tattoo stretching down his arms.  

“Yeah, no one’s gonna mess with Gladio,” said the black-haired man.  

A few minutes later, they weaved carefully through the crowd, a drink in each hand. As the two men scooted past the drunken stranger, he stood unsteadily, bumping into the smaller of the two and splashing them both with cheap liquor.  

Rather than draw attention to himself, the young man brushed it off with a quick “Sorry.” He set the two beers he was holding onto the table. The drunk, though he was in the wrong, was not so willing to let it go.

“You made me spill my fucking drink, bro,” the drunken stranger slurred, grabbing the young man’s shoulder. Everything about the stranger was average and unremarkable. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair. He was the kind of man that would be impossible to pick out of a line-up.

Another young man, slender and blond, with a smattering of freckles walked up at that moment. “Dude, he said he was sorry.”

“Sorry ain’t gonna give me my drink back.”

“We are not interested in any trouble. Perhaps you’d accept one of our beers and be on your way,” the one with glasses said as he inserted himself between the drunk and his friend, proffering one of the bottles he held.

The drunk, swaying slightly, accepted the bottle from him. Satisfied that this ended the matter, the young men turned back toward their table.

The sound of glass breaking drew their attention again, just as the drunk lunged forward with the jagged bottle, slashing wildly. Heedless of the improvised weapon, the large one tackled the assailant, the glass connecting as the drunk was slammed into the wall. A large hand, rough and callused from years of wielding a sword, gripped his throat.

“You got a problem with my friend, buddy?” Blood from a long gash dripped from his chin onto the face of the drunk. The man did not acknowledge his wound.

“N-n-n-no problem.”

“You gonna get the hell out of here without causin’ a scene?”

“Y-y-yeah.”

“Then get the fuck out,” the man growled, releasing the drunk. As he staggered toward the door, the black-haired man rushed to his protector’s side.

“Shit, Gladio are you okay? You’re bleeding like crazy.”

“Yeah, it’s nothing.”

Outside, the drunk weaved into a dark alley. Once out of sight, his posture straightened and his gait became steady and purposeful. He became taller, broader, his clothes melted into long coat, a fedora perched on hair that had lengthened and turned an unusual shade of red.

“Well, well... the boy has friends,” he said to himself. “Such charming devotion presents intriguing opportunities.”

As he strolled away, the man began to sing.

“When the night has come,
And the land is dark,
And the moon is the only light we’ll see.
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me”

From a window high above him, a strident voice interrupted just as he was about to launch into the chorus.

“Hey man, could you kindly shut the fuck up!”

Chapter Text

Though it was somewhat out of character for him to pay attention to the actions of his representative on Eos, Ifrit had taken to watching Ardyn of late. Something was amiss and the Infernian could not quite identify how. He lounged in the fiery villa he had constructed for himself in his corner of the Astral Realm, eyes narrowed as his watched his lackey through the viewing portal he had trained on the Accursed.

The man was striding into a large room dominated by a sweeping staircase leading up to a throne. It was interesting design, Ifrit thought approvingly. How better to display elevated status than by literally looking down on everyone? He wondered if supplicants addressed him from the foot of the stairs, yelling their grievances to the king, or if they were forced to climb the staircase and gasp out their requests, out of breath from the climb. Ifrit chuckled at the thought. Ardyn doffed his hat and bowed before the bearded man seated on the throne. King Regis, sovereign of Lucis and father of the spoiled brat the Accursed would soon vanquish.

Ifrit’s eyes glazed over as the Chancellor laid out the terms of the de facto surrender of the kingdom of Lucis with his usual flamboyant flair until one clause caught his attention.      

“How foolish of me to forget. There is just one more trivial thing. It concerns your son. The fetching Prince Noctis of Lucis and the fair Princess Lunafreya of Tenebrae...” The Chancellor paused for dramatic effect.

"They are to be wed.”

He hadn’t really paid much heed to the human politics, well, ever, but he was under the distinct impression that this was a rather odd and outdated stipulation. As he mulled over this confusing detail, Bahamut appeared behind him, gazing over his shoulder into the portal. Though the Draconian’s face was obscured by the helm he had taken to wearing a few thousand years prior, Ifrit didn’t need to see his expression to pick up on the air of smug satisfaction.

“Surprised to find you watching,” Bahamut said. “I recall distinctly the phrase ‘I would rather spend a thousand years in Titan’s armpit than pay attention to human politics’ being uttered by you at some point.”

“I should think this barely counts as politics, what with a marriage contract being proposed. Why should Izunia play matchmaker?”

“You really have not been paying attention, have you? While I suppose it against my own best interests, allow me to explain your champion’s patently transparent actions.”

A gauntleted hand gestured vaguely at the portal, shifting the image. A young man Ifrit recognized as Prince Noctis was seated next to a freckled blond man about the same age, video game controllers grasped in their hands. Despite the width of the sofa, they sat pressed against each other, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. The blond bounced excitedly, crowing his victory. “Dude, admit it! You can’t beat me at this game!” Noctis elbowed the blond in the ribs, who elbowed him back. A playful tussle ensued, as they shoved and tickled each other until the prince had his friend pinned beneath him, both half-reclining on the couch. They lay there staring into each other’s eyes for several moments, faces inches apart. Blushing, they both abruptly scrambled back into a sitting position, this time at opposite ends of the sofa.   

“The prince has yet to confess his love to this young man. Once he is betrothed to the Oracle, he never will. The Accursed seeks to twist the knife, robbing my champion of the joy of first love and instead coloring his remaining days with sadness and regret.”

“I am quite impressed at the cruelty of this. Well done, Izunia.” Ifrit remarked.

Ardyn leaned back in his chair, and propped his feet up on the desk, thoughtfully surveying the increasingly elaborate plan depicted on the increasingly colorful wall. New photos had been added following his encounter with the prince at the bar a year prior: Gladiolus, the tall, imposing man that was unmistakably an Amicitia; Ignis, the sandy-haired bespectacled one that had been guiding the young prince for years; and Prompto, the slender blond man, his love for whom the prince could not conceal. While he had been aware of the first two for some time, Ardyn was unsure how deeply their loyalty extended. The kind of self-sacrifice and fealty those two were expected to display toward the prince could have easily led to resentment. Their genuine devotion resulted in several new lines of colored string connecting their photographs to potential means of princely torture.

His goal was to cause the prince to suffer as he had suffered, though anything he inflicted could never hope to match 2000 years.

Plotting against Prince Noctis was a relatively simple procedure. Plotting against the Astrals, on the other hand, provided a bit more in the way of a logistical challenge. His brief visit with Shiva had given him a few ideas and in the meantime he had done what he could to assess the limits of their divine awareness. He was not certain what the consequences would be were any of the gods to discover his underlying motives. Considering all that he had experienced thus far, he did not particularly want to find out.

However, first things first. It would all be moot if the treaty signing did not go off without a hitch. The antique grandfather clock (that had only ever had one owner—Ardyn) chimed the hour, prompting Ardyn to stand and collect his coat, hat, and mantel from the armchair where they had been hastily tossed some hours earlier. Though it was the source of absolutely astronomical heating bills, his well-insulated office was kept at a comfortable (to him) 108° F, just barely warm enough for Ardyn to discard his coat without shivering. He reluctantly adjusted the thermostat to a more cost-effective setting before leaving, knowing it would be some time before he would return to Gralea, let alone his safe haven.

A few hours later, Ardyn found himself at a party, imbibing champagne and leering at the wait staff to pass the time. He found himself watching the young Oracle, who had struck up conversation with a guard. Ardyn smiled and raised his glass to her. She was a pretty and intelligent young woman, though Iedolas had privately expressed that she was too smart for her own good; keeping her corralled was far more troublesome than expected. Iedolas had needed to enlist Ravus to make sure she was present in Insomnia for the treaty signing. It made no difference to Ardyn, though it did simplify matters for him somewhat. He needed her in Lucis, after all.

Chapter Text

Ardyn had developed many powers over the millennia, but teleportation was sadly not one of them. While he certainly would have made use of it (particularly in his frequent visits to Insomnia to spy on the prince) it was particularly galling to him that he could travel no more quickly than the average human as he had a strict timeline to follow. Immediately after the party to welcome the Niflheim delegation to Insomnia for the treaty signing, he had to make a brief appearance in the tiny resort town of Galdin Quay. While this jaunt was not exactly required as part of his plan, he could not resist the opportunity to taunt the young prince. King Regis, despite his many failings, was no fool and had sent his only son away before the signing of the treaty. He suggested to Noctis that he take a road trip with his friends, a bachelor party of sorts. Every young man needs a last hurrah before marriage, why not drive to Galdin Quay and take the ferry to Altissia? Some of the best moments of my youth had been spent on a similar trip with my friends, Regis said. You needn’t be present for the treaty signing. It will be boring diplomacy, I know how you hate that.

While it took very little cajoling by his father to persuade Noctis to take a road trip, Ardyn did not have similar luck convincing the sleeper agent Glauca to allow the prince to leave the city. In the end, Glauca arranged for the vehicle the prince was to take, the Regalia, to be sabotaged and Ardyn merely had to sabotage the sabotage. It worked out quite well for the Accursed, as it left the prince and his retinue stranded on the side of the road just outside of Insomnia. The four young men were forced to push the car to the nearest service station to be repaired, the delay allowing Ardyn just enough time to arrange for the ferry service to be shut down.

Hastening to Galdin Quay after the party allowed Ardyn to be waiting for the prince’s arrival.

“The boats bring you here? They’ll not take you forth,” taunted the man of no consequence.

 How many years had it been since his friend had asked him to watch over the infant prince? Fifteen? Twenty? Thirty? He knew it was somewhat more than a decade and somewhat less than a half-century. Carbuncle had never been very good at gauging the passage of time; what meaning did time have in the world of dreams, where he spent much of the last few millennia?

As such, he was uncertain how much time had passed since Noctis and his companions set out from Insomnia on their roadtrip-turned-quest. It may have been days, weeks, or months, though almost certainly less than a year. So far, he had followed them the breadth and length of Lucis, all while the Accursed hindered and helped in turn.

Carbuncle was there when the prince and his companions received the news.

The night before, it would have been unthinkable. They sat in their hotel suite, a splurge to celebrate their departure on the ferry to Altissia in the morning. The suite was bright and spotlessly clean, with a view of the bay through enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. They gathered in the sitting room talking late into the night.

When the conversation turned to the wedding night and the honeymoon, Carbuncle heard many words he was unfamiliar with. He would need to check with Ramuh as to their meanings.

Finally, the young men dragged themselves to bed, in the arrangement they had adopted since setting forth from Insomnia: Noctis and Prompto in one bed while Ignis and Gladiolus shared the other. Unware, they slept through the destruction of everything they held dear.

Despite the late night, Gladiolus woke early and dressed quietly in the dark to avoid disturbing his friends. Sleepily at first, then more alert, he jogged along the beach as the sun rose, keeping a wary eye out for any daemons that braved the dim light. Every morning it was the same, Carbuncle had observed. A brief morning run, then yoga to stretch and loosen his joints. Walking briskly through the lobby of the hotel he caught a glimpse of a stack of newspapers on a table near the front desk. Startled, he did a double take and snatched one off the pile.

“No,” he whispered. “Please no.”

Heedless of decorum, he sprinted the rest of the way to their suite. Inside, Ignis was shaving in the spacious bathroom.

“Iggy…” Gladiolus said, with a voice full of despair. He thrust the paper at Ignis, unable to continue as he turned to hide the tears welling up in his eyes.

Insomnia Falls

Ignis scanned the front page quickly, brow furrowed.

“We mustn’t panic,” he said, outwardly calm. “There may yet be some error. Wait here, I’ll gather more information before waking his highness. Perhaps this is all a great misunderstanding.” Ignis folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm.

By the time Ignis returned an hour later, Gladiolus was composed and Prompto and Noctis were awake and dressed.

 “It’s in all the papers,” Ignis said, handing one to Gladiolus.

They needed to see it with their own eyes and so they turned back toward their home, finding themselves on a hill overlooking the narrow channel that separated Insomnia from the rest of Lucis. Great plumes of smoke rose from the city in the distance.

That night, Carbuncle visited Gladiolus’s dreams.

Gladiolus was wandering through a desert like none he had even seen before; the sand glittered a soft purple under his feet as he trudged toward the oasis on the horizon. Around him, strange, sinewy plants reached twisted limbs toward the sky, magenta and teal. Squat cacti with orange spines huddled around rock formations that looked like the jungle gyms he had climbed as a child. Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of movement. Quickly turning his head, he saw a fluffy, pale green tail disappear behind a cluster of rocks. 

The sun was beginning to set behind him, a glowing ball of fire casting long slanted shadows. His own shadow stretched out in front of him. He attempted to make shadow puppets, but inexplicably, unsettlingly, no matter what he tried, sabertusk, garula, bennu, the shapes all brought to mind skulls. The shadows of the spindly trees had begun to resemble skeletons. He was relieved when the sun sank behind the hills and the shadows disappeared, though there was still light enough to see by. The gloaming, his mother had called it.

He walked on. As the twilight eased into night and the oasis grew closer, a pulsating light peeked out from the between the large leaves of lush greenery. He jogged the last half-mile or so, finally pushing his way through the plants to the pool at the center of the oasis. Beneath the surface, luminescent fish flitted to and fro, causing the strange glow he had seen from afar. Overcome with a previously-unnoticed thirst, he fell to his knees to drink from the pool. As he dipped his hands in the water, the fish scattered, leaving the oasis to be lit only by the rising moon. The water was crisp and teeth-achingly cold. He could feel the iciness sliding down his throat as he swallowed, settling in his stomach, the cold spreading outward. As the surface of the pool began to still, the reflection of the sky above came into clearer focus. Though he did not consider himself a particularly vain man, Gladio had an urge to view his own reflection in the pool. He leaned forward slowly, but the face that came into view was not his own, but his father’s.

“You should have been here,” Clarus said. “Insomnia fell while you were off having fun with your ‘bros’.” It reached a watery arm toward Gladiolus and seized him by the front of his shirt. Gladiolus struggled to pull away, but he found he was no longer a man of 23, who had been able to best his father in arm wrestling for almost four years, but the small, slender boy he had been before his training began. The reflection easily pulled him under the water, as Gladiolus twisted and kicked, reaching frantically for the surface.

“You only care about saving your own skin.”

Gladiolus was dragged deeper and deeper, until his whole world consisted solely of darkness and cold.  

Carbuncle watched the young man drown in the dream world and wake shivering, his covers thrown off. Gladiolus pulled the blankets close around him. He reached for his phone, tucked underneath his pillow. With the volume turned low to avoid disturbing the others, he replayed the last voicemail he had from his father over and over until he was once again overcome by sleep. 

While Ifrit had attempted to stack the deck toward his champion in one way, the Draconian had his own methods. By bestowing the Crystal upon the line of Lucis, he granted Noctis, and by extension his ancestors, the ability to tap into a well of magical power.

Bahamut’s favorite was the Armiger, stemming from a long-standing (some would say excessive, considering his very wings were made of swords) love of weaponry. Ghostly, crystalline weapons that were summoned on command, a deadly arsenal that encircled those of the blood royal, ready to be flung at a foe. Theoretically, there were 113 arms in total, one for each dead monarch. In reality, many were lost to antiquity and no ruler had ever managed to wield all of them. Before his death, Regis had his own complement of royal arms, inherited from the kings and queens ensconced in the mausoleum beneath the Royal Cathedral of St. Ajora. (As did Ardyn, though his were claimed directly from kings he assassinated periodically out of boredom. Everyone needs a hobby.)

Neither of these sources of royal arms were available to Noctis.  He would have to track down the few tombs scattered around Lucis and Niflheim.

Noctis and his retinue meandered from outpost to outpost, nominally searching for royal arms to add to his Armiger. In truth, they sought distraction, anything to keep heartache at bay.  The grief that lurked just below the surface was unmistakable, almost tangible, a constant companion that was hidden beneath banter between the friends. They avoided grieving, their despair manifesting in reckless hunts, misplaced anger directed toward the animals and daemons terrorizing townsfolk. They pushed forward, only talking about what was lost when they expressed resolve to take it back.

Ardyn grew impatient with their aimless wandering; it was time to take direct action. He tracked them to city of Lestallum, nestled in the mountains that overlooked the Disc of Cauthess. The crowded streets provided ample opportunity to follow them through the town, eavesdropping on their (mostly inane) conversations. Periodically, he would adopt a different visage so that they would be unaware of their tail. After a few days in which they ran back and forth between Lestallum and various spots around the countryside to run errands for the idiot townsfolk or slay beasts (Would they ever sit still for more than five minutes? he wondered.) finally their remarks yielded information he could use.

He was sweeping the steps of the hotel they had adopted as their base within Lestallum, the Leville, when Noctis returned having claimed another royal arm from a nearby cave. Waiting for him were refugees from Insomnia that the prince seemed to care about. A young boy, and old man, and the Amicitia girl he knew to be the bodyguard’s sister.

“Prince Noctis! Welcome back!” the boy said.

Noctis cried out in pain, grimacing and clutching his forehead.

“Not again…” he gasped.

“What’s the matter? You alright?” asked the small Amicitia. 

“He’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” the larger Amicitia said. “We oughta take a closer look at this so-called ‘Disc.’”

“Then look no further than the outlook. We can use the viewer things,” said the blond one.

 “No substitute for being on site, but it would be a start. Let’s see what we can glean of Noct’s condition.”

It would be simple enough. They needed to reach the Disc? He could lead them there and grant him passage. Now, all he had to do was beat them to the outlook. Running was undignified but warping would draw too much attention. At least he would be running under the guise of a hotel employee rather than himself.

“What a coincidence,” he said, when they approached the outlook in the Lestallum.

In their vehicle the foursome followed the Accursed, and Carbuncle followed the foursome, swaying and bobbing in the breeze. Titan watched all of this from the Astral Realm, waiting. The road twisted and turned, winding around the Disc of Cauthess, leading finally to a fortified gate guarded by Niflheim soldiers. Beyond the gate waited his corporeal form, kneeling in the Disc as he held the meteor aloft, a reminder of how he had saved Eos from certain destruction. (Or so the humans believed. Would the meteor have ever fallen to Eos without the interference of the Astrals? Doubtful.)

Titan generally kept a watchful eye on the Disc and its surrounding environs. The nearby residents worshipped him as their chosen Astral, so naturally he had minor interest in region. Throughout history, the Disc had been a spot of pilgrimage. A regular stream of visitors would climb to the edge to pay their respects to the god, to leave their offerings, to ask for the Archaean’s blessings. Like many things, this was ruined by the Empire in their effort to thwart the Oracle. They thought to prevent the Covenant? Well, Titan would certainly see about that. Irritating a god is a good way to ensure your plans amount to naught. 

It wasn’t long after the Oracle departed victorious that the Accursed waved the gate open for the prince and the Regalia drove on, careening down the narrow road toward the center of the Disc. Finally, they could drive no further and proceeded on foot. Jogging easily, they made their way through the narrow channels carved in the rock. It wasn’t long before they spied something distinctly out of place—a royal tomb.

Well, not so much a tomb as a royal sarcophagus incongruously in the middle of a small clearing ringed with pillars of stone. Noctis reached a hand out to claim the weapon. Slowly, it rose into the air above the sarcophagus before diving into the prince’s chest. The power of the arm acquired, it circled around him with the others he had collected, a glittering ring of death, before vanishing. The ring of death grew progressively more impressive with each subsequent weapon added to the Armiger.   

Waiting for maximum dramatic effect, Titan began to shake the ground, causing Noctis to fall to his knees. Behind him, the ground began to fall away and the prince dived and scrambled in vain. Sliding, his arms flailed as he attempted to slow his descent. Carefully, Titan choreographed the fall of rocks so that Gladiolus could grasp Noctis’s arm as his flew over the edge, saving him from the abyss. Behind them, Titan slowly rose to a standing position, his mountainous form still holding the meteor aloft. Massive fragments pierced his eye and chest, punctuating the “sacrifice” he had made to save Eos. 

A massive hand reached for Noctis, fingers curling as it attempted to pull the prince from the narrow ledge, just barely missing.

“Hey! Titan! What’s the big deal?” Noctis shouted.

Titan didn’t answer.

The prince and his shield continued onward, as overhead Imperial ships made an ominous approach. When they unloaded their cargo of MT soldiers, Noctis and Gladiolus dispatched them quickly.

“Hey, I’m here!” Noctis yelled at the god.

Titan’s response was unintelligible, but the pounding agony that doubled Noctis over in pain made the Archaean’s intent clear. To claim the power of Titan, Noctis must earn it.

The trial began in earnest, with Titan batting and stomping at the tiny mortal, allowing Noctis to block and parry his attacks. Enjoying the game, the god began grow increasingly careless as his toyed with the prince. Perhaps he should squash Noctis, just a little bit. Not enough to kill, but minor maiming should be fine.

Carbuncle, following along after the prince the entire trek through the Disc, made eye contact with the much larger god, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head.

Titan grimaced, acquiescing with a slight nod of acknowledgement. The prince would be safe; however terrifying the encounter may be, Noctis would survive (mostly) unscathed.

Very much to the Archaean’s surprise, the same could not be said for him. As Titan playfully buffeted the prince with blows, Niflheim made every effort to destroy the god before his power could be lent to the young man.

They half succeeded. Titan granted his favor to Noctis, but not before the Godslayer weapon could be deployed. The resulting shockwave knocked the hovering Niflheim ships from the sky, their task complete. Suddenly devoid of the god’s power, the ground shook and crumbled, lava surging from the fissures rent in the quaking earth. Trapped on all sides in a fiery hellscape, the prince and his companions felt certain that this was the end.

It seemed, however, that one ship survived the carnage. Descending slowly, it revealed salvation from the most lamentable source.

Ardyn.

“I guarantee your safe passage,” he assured them. “Though you’re always welcome to take your chances down there.”

The four young men found themselves beholden once again to Ardyn, who left them unharmed at a nearby chocobo stable. The next day, the fate of Titan was all over the airwaves.

The frequent quakes which rocked the Duscae and Cleigne regions in recent days have finally quieted. In response, the empire provided the following comment:

"The cause of the tremors was the "Archaean" who had awakened in a fit of rage. The imperial army took swift action and laid the unruly giant to rest, thus averting disaster."

Eyewitness reports confirm Titan has disappeared from the Disc of Cauthess.

Titan was not pleased. “The military? Really? That is some bullshit right there.”

“Hmm?” asked Ifrit, nonchalantly cleaning the long claws that tipped each of his fingers. If he was startled by Titan’s appearing abruptly before him, he didn’t show it. Since the last time Titan had visited, Ifrit had remodeled again. Whatever had possessed the Infernian to mix Gothic architecture with mid-century modern furniture and English country décor, Titan would never know. The overall effect was profoundly hideous, particularly the fiery throne modeled after the Eames chair.  

“Your champion sent the Niflheim military after my corporeal form and blew me to bits! There’s nothing left!”

“This is why you invade my sanctuary? To whine about how the little humans took out the big statue man? It is none of my concern.”

“At least your corpse isn’t lying in the Disc of Cauthess forevermore as mine does in Ghorovas Rift,” the voice of Shiva remarked.

“Woman, stop eavesdropping and get in here!” Titan yelled. “This is all your fault!”

“My fault? How, pray tell?” A thousand sprites appeared, crossing their arms and raising an eyebrow as one.

“If you hadn’t gone about interfering with the wager, the rest of us wouldn’t be fair game! Who is next?” He towered over the horde, raising a foot to stomp at least a few.

As the sprites merged into one, Shiva grew in stature until she was nose to nose with Titan. “Oh, so it’s a problem when they come after you? I don’t recall your making much of a fuss when you voted to the let the mortals free reign in this regard?” She shoved him lightly.

Not taking kindly to being pushed, Titan clenched a fist as though to strike the Glacian. He was stopped by a wet fin grasping his arm. He turned to see the Hydraean behind him, her fishy breath bathing his face. “I would reconsider, were I you,” she said.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you too, Leviathan?” He shook her off. Conjuring a stone throne next to Ifrit’s fiery one, he collapsed into it heavily. “I just can’t with you all right now.”  

“I think we know who is next,” Leviathan said, ignoring him. “The Oracle seeks out Ramuh as we speak.”

“Those Niff bitches won’t be able to find me. I’m like a motherfucking ninja.” Ramuh’s disembodied voice replied.

“Fulgurian! Your speech brings to mind the lowest gutter urchin. Dispense with this vulgarity and remember you are a god!” Bahamut intoned, his voice pompous and scolding. “You as well, Archaean; in these past few centuries your character has devolved most wretchedly.”

“Get bent, Bahamut,” Titan said wearily.

Carbuncle, too, was eavesdropping, but he remained silent as his brethren bickered back and forth. Ramuh’s prediction turned out to be correct; his low profile allowed him to escape the massacre of Astrals that Ardyn seemed so intent on. No epic battle required, simply touch three stones to be granted the power of Ramuh. As a result, a corporeal form (rarely used) left intact.

After receiving the blessing of Ramuh, the opportunity presented itself in which the friends could both regain the Regalia, lost after the chaos on the Disc of Cauthess, as well as to wreak havoc on a newly erected Niflheim base.

They camped at a nearby haven to strategize and get a few hours of sleep before launching an assault on the base.  

Since his headaches had ceased, Noctis slept relatively peacefully, though the same could not be said for his companions.

Ignis found himself seating in the front of a classroom, his lanky form scrunched uncomfortably into a desk clearly made for a child. He realized he had not been to class all year.

“Books away and pencils out, class,” the teacher said as he laid a paper face-down on each desk. “You have one hour.”

Ignis turned the paper over. The words were unintelligible to him. He wiped sweat from his brow and tried rotating the paper to see if that would help the words become clear. He remembered the class was about parliamentary procedure and thought perhaps if he wrote an essay about different colored socks worn by members of parliament in Altissia, perhaps he could still pass the class.

His pencil touched the exam to write his name in the corner, barely leaving a mark. The paper was sopping from the sweat that poured from his brow and hands. Ignis raised his hand to request a new test form, looking up at the chalkboard where the teacher stood. How had he not noticed the teacher was Titan, looming over them all, enormous and menacing?

A flash of realization and sinking dread. If Ignis didn’t pass this exam, Noctis would not pass the Archaean’s trial. With renewed resolved, he wrote quickly, furiously, his pencil scratching faint words into the wet paper.

“Time’s up!” the Titan’s voice boomed. Ignis, panicked, scribbled down as much as he could, trying to at least finish his last sentence. He attempted to unfurl himself from the desk to turn his paper in, but his legs were tangled and he fell to the floor. The other students stepped over him and filed out of the room. Titan followed after them. Ignis, finally standing, ran to catch up. The hallway was dim, lined with dark wood that seemed to absorb light. Casting about, Ignis saw no one. Down the hall, an elevator door was closing. He raced to catch it, shoving an arm in to stop the doors for closing. Relieved, he dove into the elevator, only to find that it had no buttons. He knew, somehow, he needed to turn the paper in to Titan’s office upstairs. He returned to the hallway to look for a stairwell.

As he turned a corner, the bell rang and students poured from their classrooms into the hall. Ignis felt like he was in a tide, being carried backward by the mob. There were stairs at the end of the hall, but with the throng of students in his way he knew he would never be able to get to them. He ducked quickly into a nearby classroom and opened a window, intent on climbing to the floor above. Gripping the ivy that snaked up the side of the building, he climbed steadily until he could pull himself onto a narrow ledge. Exhausted, he leaned against the window, legs dangling, as he stopped to catch his breath. Abruptly the window opened, causing him to grip the edge to keep from tumbling backward into the room. He twisted around to see a dark figure, obscured by shadows.

“Fancy meeting you here,” a familiar voice said. “You thought you could save him? Oh, my dear boy. No one can save him.”

A sharp kick from the figure, and Ignis was falling.

Ignis woke with a start. He rolled over and reached an arm out to the sleeping prince next to him, as if to reassure himself that he was there. At his touch, Noctis murmured sleepily.

“Wazzat?” he slurred. 

“Apologies. Go back to sleep, Highness.”

Unseen, Carbuncle settled his small form in the narrow space between Ignis and Noctis, pressed up against them both, guaranteeing dreamless sleep. When Ignis’s alarm chimed two hours later, the dream was forgotten and he woke strangely well-rested.

Time to bust a base.

Chapter Text

There’s a long-standing tradition of the Astrals taking credit for phenomena they had nothing to do with. It is said that Ifrit was worshipped by the people of Solheim because he granted them fire. This (seemingly) magical process allowed the mortals to create their own light and heat, which they used to cook their food, stay warm through the cold of winter, fire clay for pottery, and forge weapons. It was, to the humans, a godsend.

Except that it wasn’t.

Despite the prevailing narrative, Ifrit never gave the power of fire to the mortals. The humans worshipped the god of fire? Well, then he would be that god. For all that he professed to the contrary, he secretly craved worship.

As Solheim grew in strength and technological advancement Ifrit’s smugness grew in proportion, much to the continued irritation of his brethren.

But then the people of Solheim began to drift away from their god. What need had they for the Astrals when the light of their technology burned brighter than any god? It would be an understatement to say Ifrit was miffed.

The other Astrals found the hilarity of the situation to be without peer. As such, when Ifrit thought to express his wrath through the destruction of all human life on Eos, well, his fellow Astrals had other ideas. Towering over the capital city he cast fireball after fireball demolishing entire city blocks, laughing as the tiny figures fled screaming from his wrath. When he finally began to tire of this game, he extended his arm above his head, gathering heat and energy in the open palm of his hand. The sphere glowed bright as the midday sun and contained enough power to scorch the planet bare.   

A hand of stone roughly grasped his wrist before he could send Solheim’s doom hurtling toward the earth.

“I think not, Infernian,” Shiva whispered in his ear. A wall of water rose from the sea as if to draw a curtain between the Astrals and the humans that cowered below. He found himself surrounded by the other Hexatheon, the implication clear. Even Ifrit was reluctant to incite war between the Astrals. Begrudgingly, he stored the fireball away in a hidden pocket of the Astral Realm (no sense in allowing it to go to waste).

Titan released his grip. “They are not merely your playthings, Infernian,” he grumbled.

Not content to be so easily thwarted, his mind raced. There must be a way, there is always a way. Alighting on compromise, he smirked. It was not ideal, but he knew Bahamut at least would be unable to resist.

“Might I be so bold as to suggest an alternative?” Ifrit asked.

The other Astrals exchanged glances before Bahamut replied “We listen but make no guarantee to entertain your scheme.”  

A coin, large and golden with a faint sheen of red, appeared in his hand. On one side was the visage of mortal woman with a babe in arms. The reverse depicted the same only both were skeletons.

“I propose we decide the fate of all humanity through the toss of the coin. If I win, I will be allowed burn the planet down to the bedrock.”

Exasperated, electricity crackled around Ramuh. “These games you play grow ever more tedious! Might you dispense with the ridiculous wagers for a change?”

Pointedly, Bahamut ignored the Fulgurian. “If you lose? What shall you give up?” He asked Ifrit.

“Name it,” the Infernian replied.

Bahamut pondered a moment. “The mortals have already turned against you and you sought their destruction. Let us continue this narrative to a logical conclusion—your defeat at the hands of your Astral brethren with your body interred for all to see upon the Rock of Ravatogh.”

“Fitting, I suppose, though I would request one small concession.” Ifrit turned to stroke Shiva’s face, but his hand was slapped away. “Should I lose, I desire the humans to believe ours was a great love and you mourn my passing forevermore.”

Shiva snorted. “Over your dead body.”

“Indeed.” Ifrit replied.

“You care so much for the opinions of the mortals?” Leviathan asked.

Ifrit shrugged, noncommittal. “Consider it my consolation prize.”

“I refuse,” Shiva said.

Ifrit plucked the inferno from where he only minutes before had stored it away. (Waste not, want not.)  “I would suggest you reconsider. Unless you would instead wager that you could stop me in time.”

“Stay your hand, Infernian. Shiva will agree to it,” Bahamut said hastily, already fully committed to the idea of the bet.

“Like fun I will!”

“He does it to get a rise out of you,” Titan chided.

“Please, sister,” Leviathan said, her serpent form circling in close to Shiva. “If it will shut these two up, think you it might be worth it? It does no harm to the birds for the insects to believe what they will about them.”

“Yet my revulsion will allow me to respond in no other way,” she replied seething. “Do what you will, but I would like my opposition to be noted.”

“Then it is settled,” Ifrit said, his smile broad and feral, as he once again banished the flames. “‘Tis only fitting for the Sigtyrian to do the honors.”

“Odin, we have need of you!” Bahamut bellowed.

“I am presently occupied,” Odin’s disembodied voice replied. “Perhaps if you were to beseech my assistance with more decorum…”

“Oh for… Odin, Sygtyrian, we humbly request your aid in mediating a dispute between your Astral kin.”

Astride a six-legged horse, a raven perched on each shoulder, Odin appeared suddenly before them. He slowly dismounted, slapping his mount on the flank, sending it running. “Observe how much more quickly requests are considered when framed as a supplication rather than a command.”

Odin held out a hand and Ifrit dropped the coin into his waiting palm. Wasting no time, Odin flipped it into the air. Ever higher the glittering desk flew, until finally it began to slow, plummeting back toward the waiting gods. Odin snatched it out of the air, and slapped it down onto his wrist.

Slowly he pulled the concealing hand away, to reveal the outcome.

Life.

“A pity.” Ifrit summoned a sword to his hand. “Shall we give them a show then?”