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Summer move forward and stitch me the fabric of fall, wrap life in the brilliance of death to humble us all, how sweet is the day, I’m craving a darkness, as I sit tucked away with my back to the wall…
Castle Krakenburg, Windmire, Nohr
“I’m being interminably foolish, aren’t I?” Leo murmured.
He hadn’t really expected an answer, but Hati snorted anyway, tossing his head and causing the metal of his bit to squeak unpleasantly. Leo couldn’t decide if his mount’s response meant Yeah, you’re an idiot, I’m used to it, or Would you please get this damned bridle off me?
Though it was more than likely the latter, Leo rolled his eyes and responded as if it were the former. “You don’t have to agree so quickly,” he said, gently folding the black’s ears down and easing the bridle off his head. “You could kindly take a moment to think about it before belittling me.”
‘Belittle’ is a bold word for someone who can barely see over my withers, Leo thought Hati might have answered. The prince did not stoop to answer the imaginary retort, reaching for the saddle that was, admittedly, at the same level as his head. Their line of warhorses had been bred to match the infamous stature of the Nohrian royal family, and Hati could be no exception to that rule when it was plain that Leo wouldn’t be either.
Despite the early November chill, Hati had worked hard enough for his dark coat to steam—or, perhaps more accurately, had put in so much effort trying to get out of working hard he’d expended far more energy than he would have if he’d simply done as his rider had asked in the first place, but that was neither here nor there. Leo took longer than strictly necessary to cool him out, trying to ignore the warring of determination and dread in his stomach.
Was it terribly cowardly, he wondered, to admit to himself he wished he would have backup?
It mattered not, he decided. Whether he wished it or not, his mission was his and his alone—none of his siblings could aid him. He could already hear Xander’s disapproval, could feel the disappointment in his gaze for ever daring to question their father. Elise would help the moment he asked her, yet he knew his younger sister well enough to know that her ‘help’ would have the opposite of the intended effect.
And Camilla…
She would plead, if she caught wind of his plan. She would never speak the words to remind him of what had happened when she had tried the same, but Leo would see the flash of it in her eyes—repressed, unspoken, but never truly gone.
It had been three years ago, nearly to the day—a mere week after Corrin had turned fifteen, less than a month before Camilla’s eighteenth, and only a scarce few months since Leo had received Brynhildr. She hadn’t told them, of course, what she planned—not until after, and only ever to Xander and Leo.
Camilla had pled Corrin’s case to their father, amassing every argument the siblings had whispered in secret to each other to present to the king. Corrin hadn’t been ill in recent memory, had taken to her swordsmanship so keenly that Xander praised her at every opportunity, and had kept to her studies with a fervor that could rival even Leo’s. Why, Camilla had finally dared to ask, had their beloved sister still not been allowed to join them in Krakenburg?
(Camilla knew why, and Leo and Xander would have reminded her of it a dozen times over if she had given them any clue what she planned.)
The retribution hadn’t been immediate. King Garon had almost seemed to consider it, to begin with. To anyone else, it might not have even seemed like retribution—but to the three eldest of the Krakenburg siblings, so used to watching over the shoulders for the subtleties they had kept them alive in worse days gone by, there had been no question that it was anything but. They knew, better than anyone, the unmistakable marks of a displeased Garon.
The king had announced, briefly before the new year, that Camilla was of age now, and he had decided it was time for her to be wed.
They had all been caught off guard. Political marriages were so common as to be expected, even at Camilla’s age—but Xander was four years her senior and the subject of his potential marriages had never even been broached.
(Leo would begin to wonder, in the years to come, if Garon wanted no competitions for Xander’s loyalty in the form of a wife.)
Shock had quickly given way to acceptance. Elise wrapped herself up in frills and flowers, keen on giving their eldest sister ‘the best wedding ever.’ Even Corrin had been cautiously optimistic that maybe, just for this, she could leave her imposed exile.
Acceptance had, quite abruptly, transformed into disgust.
The Krakenburg siblings had first met Camilla’s husband-to-be the morning of New Year’s Eve. While they had known, distantly, that Lord Filibert was older—significantly—meeting the man and seeing it with their own eyes had been a wake-up call. The man had an unfortunately receding hairline and a smile so leering it left Leo squirming when it wasn’t even directed at him.
(And that had been before Lord Filibert had proceeded to make quite the dent in the evening’s wine stores and began to start raving about expectations in marriage and how he certainly hoped Camilla would be more suitable than his first two wives. At that moment, Leo had come to two conclusions: One, his sister was engaged to a drunken and likely adulterous madman; and two, that he was quite certain this was not what marriage ought to entail. As a footnote to the second, Leo decided if it was, he wanted nothing to do with the concept.)
And nothing had happened—at least, as far as Leo knew nothing had happened, but it wasn’t as if Camilla had never kept secrets from the rest of them, so he’d called upon his sister’s room that next morning. In one quiet moment of remembering the leer directed not at him, but at Camilla—for the rest of her life—Leo had merely asked if she wanted it handled, Brynhildr pulsing at his hip even through layers of leather and cloth.
(It wasn’t as if they could have challenged Garon’s decision directly at that point, after all. But there were always other ways.)
Camilla had, of course, tittered into her sleeve and waved him away. He was a dear, her darling little brother, but she had no need.
Lord Filibert had been found dead in his estate two weeks later, his throat slit with such expert precision it seemed he had never even broken his slumber.
(No one had been able to account for Beruka’s whereabouts that night, but as the rest of the royal retainers had gladly attested, that fact wasn’t exactly unusual.)
Leo had never spoken of the matter again, to Camilla or anyone else.
Camilla had never been engaged again.
And Corrin still had yet to leave the Northern Fortress.
Leo finally put Hati away, resisting the urge to drag his feet as he descended into the depths of Castle Krakenburg, and wondered just what layer of hell he was about to bring down on his own head.
~~~
“Your Highness,” Iago said, his oily voice carrying a tinge of surprise that had Leo suppressing a recoil. He’d long been aware of the sorcerer’s dislike for him, and over the years the feeling had become so mutual as to be instinctual. “I wasn’t aware that His Majesty has summoned you.”
“I have a matter to speak of him with,” Leo replied flatly, glancing past Iago in the open doorway into his father’s chambers. “It’s of import.”
“Ah, I see,” Iago said. “After you then, Your Highness.” He gave half a bow, gesturing into the room with one hand, and Leo brushed past him with a barely repressed shudder.
The king’s chambers were a dark and dismal place. Ever since Leo was a child, Garon had suffered from periodic migraines, so intense that even the most potent of potions could only dull the edge. Leo had a feeling the moment he stepped into his father’s study and found the thick brocade curtains drawn tightly closed that he’d picked the worst possible moment for his potentially ruinous plans.
He inhaled and nearly gagged. The scent of incense hung so heavy in the air that within a few breaths it was giving Leo a headache—how on earth could his father stand it?
“I’ll go and speak with His Majesty,” Iago said from behind Leo, his dark, feathered cloak fanning out behind him as he crossed the study toward the double oak doors on the far wall. “If you’ll wait here.”
“Very well,” Leo managed, carving a path around his father’s massive desk and absently fingering the leather of the grand armchair behind it. Bookshelves lined the wall behind it, stretching around the corner to butt up against one of the short ends of the desk, the entirety of the structure forming a large ‘u’ shape out of dark lacquered wood and stacks of slightly yellowed books.
He took a moment to measure out several breaths as he waited. Part of him wanted to believe that perhaps this wouldn’t end quite as badly as he was anticipating; the rest of him knew it very likely would. Garon was, and always would be, the iron-fisted king Nohr demanded him to be—and a monarch always had the power to make the lives of those who displeased him very uncomfortable indeed.
His own children included.
“My son.”
Leo spun towards the sound, heart pounding faster than it really should have been. His father’s hulking form now occupied the doorway between office and bedchambers, while Iago maintained his ever-present orbit around the king, hands wringing together.
The sight of the deep lines marring Garon’s forehead—and the scowl accompanying them—kicked Leo’s nerves yet another notch higher. Some childish part of him that had never quite grown past the horrors of his early years urged him to run with such urgency he felt as if he’d just stepped into the den of a nesting wyvern.
Yet the thought of Corrin, sobbing in her room on the night she had turned eighteen, when she’d thought none of her siblings could hear her, kept him rooted to the spot.
“Father,” Leo finally managed, hoping his voice sounded more level to Garon’s ears than it had to his own.
After a moment, Garon clicked his tongue. “What is it?”
“I have something to discuss with you,” Leo blurted. As an afterthought, he added, “It’s important.”
“I should hope so, boy,” Garon said. “I haven’t time to be bothered by every passing whim.”
Leo swallowed. “Of course not, Father.” Forcefully regaining himself, he gave Iago a pointed glance. “I wish to discuss it in private.”
Garon seemed to consider the thought for a moment, then absently waved Iago away. Just as silently, the sorcerer bowed, though his eyes met Leo with thinly veiled disdain on the way back up.
It felt like a victory, even if it wasn’t one—Iago could easily scry into the room to eavesdrop were he so inclined. Still, not having to stare down the both of them during this conversation eased a tiny fraction of the tension in Leo’s shoulders.
“Just what, then,” Garon began frostily, “is this matter you speak of?”
“It’s regarding a ball,” Leo said quickly—too quickly, he realized at the abrupt narrowing of his father’s eyes.
“A ball,” Garon repeated flatly, clearly—dangerously—unimpressed.
Leo winced. “Yes. Well. Specifically, it’s regarding the balls held when a member of the Nohrian royal family comes of age.”
Garon eyed him for a moment. “Are you eighteen already?”
Those four words shouldn’t have stung like a slap in the face, yet they did anyway. Leo swallowed back a bitter laugh—it wasn’t like he should have expected his father to remember his birthday. “No,” he said. “But Corrin is.”
If Leo had blinked, he would have missed the sudden transformation in Garon’s features, the way his countenance hardened into a mask that could have rivaled the one that hung from the ceiling in the throne room. “I see,” said Garon, his voice seemingly emotionless. “And where, exactly, would you propose such an event should be held?”
Now or never. “Xander’s and Camilla’s were both here,” Leo whispered. “In Castle Krakenburg.”
The next moment dragged out so slowly Leo thought he could have counted every millimeter the beads of sweat crawled down the back of his neck. “Your sister,” Garon finally said slowly, “would swiftly fall ill should she leave the protective barriers of the Northern Fortress.”
No she wouldn’t, Leo wanted to shoot back. He’d tested the barriers himself back when he was thirteen and repeated the experiment more than once over the past few years; the conclusion had remained the same. While the magical barriers of the Northern Fortress might strengthen those who set foot inside, they were nothing near what Garon tried to pass them off as.
“Would you be so selfish to risk her life for a petty tradition?” Garon continued.
Selfish. Leo almost wanted to laugh. His father would call him selfish for all but sticking his head into the maw of a dragon by pleading Corrin’s case? “She’d be fine,” he muttered under his breath, eyes on the worn wooden corner of the desk he still stood at.
“What was that?”
Now, Garon’s voice had a true edge of menace to it, and Leo found himself unable to do anything but snap his eyes back to his father’s. It was like staring into the gaze of a serpent, caught in the sights of the creature that would surely end your life yet unable to look away. Leo cursed whatever part of his brain filtered what came out of his mouth.
“Answer me.”
“I said,” Leo replied with a deep inhale, “that Corrin would be fine.” He steeled himself, stepping toward his father with a defiant raise of his chin. “She is stronger than you care to believe. The box you’ve placed her in has grown too small for her. I think it’s time you realize it is far past when you should have opened it.”
For a moment, while Leo’s heart thudded painfully in his ribs, he almost thought he’d won.
Garon spoke only two words.
“You think.”
Without hesitation, and in that single moment without a damned care for the consequences, Leo said, “Yes.”
Even from across the room, Garon’s nostrils visibly flared. “Tell me,” he said. “Have you discovered any new spells of late? Perhaps one that grants the caster omniscience?”
Self-preservation kicked back in, warring with defiance as Leo fought to keep from shrinking under his father’s glare. “No.”
It came with all the suddenness of a crack of lightning—the same sense of dread between one moment and the next of realizing you hadn’t quite cast a spell entirely right and knowing, for that split second, that it was about to blow up in your face.
And Leo knew, inside that breath, that he’d lost.
“Then what makes you presume you can defy me?”
Instinct overcame his bravado and Leo shrank back from the verbal explosion, his nerves screaming for a tactical retreat even as he realized he’d cornered himself in the ‘u’ of the desk and bookshelves. “Father, I—” he started, desperate for anything approaching damage control, only to be cut off.
“Three decades I have sat on Nohr’s throne! I have brought it more prosperity than has been seen in a lifetime and more territory than it has had in a century! It is my wisdom and my cunning that has done this and I will not be questioned by you!”
“Father,” Leo managed again, the word catching roughly on the back of his throat. “Father, I only meant—”
“You are a child, Leo,” Garon spat. “A child who thinks himself the equal of kings and gods. Never, in his lowest moments, have I ever seen Xander approach a fraction of the folly you have demonstrated in this conversation.”
If his father had struck him, had swung at him with Bölverk, it might have hurt less. Of course Xander would come up, of course Leo had gotten that one final twist of a poisoned knife. His eyes stung, throat aching so badly he wanted to tear it out; his fists stayed clenched at his sides, as tight as they’d ever been.
“My edict is unchanged,” Garon said. “Corrin will remain until the day I find it fit to say otherwise. If you ever find yourself naive enough to challenge that order again… you will find your fate worse than hers.” He curled his lip one final time. “Now get out.”
There was nothing for it. Leo had one final card to play, and it was by far his weakest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes on the floor.
“Get out,” his father repeated.
Leo didn’t bother to answer an affirmative; he trudged toward the doorway, head still lowered and aching with the effort of holding back the tears that threatened to escape.
The click of the door behind him seemed almost anticlimactic. He really had expected this result, hadn’t he? Perhaps not quite the scale of humiliation involved, but he’d known the odds of actually getting Corrin out of the Fortress had been slim to none long before he’d last passed through that doorway.
Yet he’d done it anyway.
“Pity,” a voice drawled, jerking Leo back out of his own head. Iago stood a few feet to his left, idly flipping a coin and not even bothering to make eye contact. “About Lady Corrin, that is. Next time, perhaps, mm?”
Never, before that moment, had Leo ever quite wanted to throttle Iago quite as badly as he did then. Sure, he’d idly thought up a few entertaining spells he would have gladly set upon the sorcerer—a curse that ensured one’s shoes would never fit quite right, for instance, or another that would start one sneezing uncontrollably at the sight of a certain shade of purple—but never before had he truly, desperately wished to connect his fist with Iago’s nose.
Iago hadn’t even had the decency to pretend not to eavesdrop by scrying from another room—it was clear by his casual positioning he’d stayed in the hallway listening the entire time.
“Perhaps next time,” Leo spat back, “I’ll be asking King Xander.”
With that, he spun on his heel and stalked away. It didn’t quite occur to him until he was two hallways away just what the implications of that statement were.
Leo paused, sucked in a breath, and wondered just what his Lord Filibert would turn out to be.
~~~
A week passed.
Leo told no one of his indiscretions, and apparently neither did his father or Iago, because no one asked of them either. If Niles has thought his lord looked shaken for the rest of that day, he hadn’t commented.
So Leo continued on with the motions of his life, trying not to dwell on the surety of what was to come—because there was no way Garon would let it lie. Leo had challenged him directly, openly, in the throes of his own foolishness, and such a challenge could not go unpunished. Leo knew, and he waited, and wondered if the waiting was half the punishment in itself.
When the summons came a week later, he did not hesitate.
It had all been for Corrin, after all.
What Leo hadn’t expected was to meet Camilla a hallway before the throne room.
“Leo?” his sister asked, her face concerned. “What are you doing here?”
Leo’s eyes narrowed. “Did Father send for you as well?”
“Indeed,” Camilla said. A cold sense of dread washed over Leo, one that he masked only with the strength of a great many hours of practiced neutrality.
No use dwelling, he thought, and continued to stride toward the throne room.
But if this is about… and if Camilla’s here…
He shut down that thought as they turned the last corner and found the massive doors ahead of them open and waiting. Garon was expecting them, after all, even if the gesture hardly felt welcoming.
The throne itself was high enough off the ground that Garon himself was visible before Leo and Camilla even crossed the threshold into the room proper. The king’s head had been raised toward the ceiling, but as the footsteps of his children approached he lowered his gaze to fix them with a look of cold calculation.
“Father,” Camilla said, curtseying so deeply her thick velvet skirts spread in a circle on the stone floor. Leo bowed beside her, though the gesture was slightly too hurried to technically be proper. “What do you require of us?”
A long moment passed before Garon answered. “I have just received word,” he finally said, “that this past week there was rioting in Chevalier. Six Nohrian law enforcement officers were injured in the effort to disperse it.”
Camilla let out a light gasp, one of her hands coming up to cover her mouth in the perfect image of a concerned lady—however affected Leo knew it was. “Oh, my. Were any killed?”
“Twelve Chevois. None of ours.”
Leo finally dared to speak. “What was their justification?”
Garon snorted. “What animal gives a justification for its violence? There is none but Cheve’s own ungratefulness to the shelter Nohr has given it these past twenty years.”
Leo resisted the urge to point out that most animals killed either to fill their bellies or out of self-defense.
“Such insubordination is unacceptable,” Garon continued. “And as such, you will both be going to Chevalier until such time that this point has been proven.”
Until such time. Leo’s mind locked on to those three words, ignoring Camilla’s query of their expected lodging and Garon’s curt answer. Indefinitely.
Gods, he thought with a cold, sick feeling creeping into his stomach. This might as well be… effectively banishment.
But why did Camilla have to come into this? If this was the sentence for Leo’s crime, he should have been serving it alone. Unless…
Garon thought to isolate them together—the only two who had ever fought Corrin’s battle in front of him directly. Perhaps he thought Camilla had set Leo up to take another shot at what she had failed to do three years ago. It was something he could certainly see Iago doing with one of Garon’s lesser advisors…
Leo cleared his throat, another angle of the issue coming to the forefront. “Did not Xander recommend that Cheve ought to be left alone after his visit last summer? This seems the opposite of what he proposed.”
Garon fixed him with another glare. “Xander’s suggestions were misguided and naive at the best. Does one leave a child alone to play with fire? Cheve requires discipline, and the stronger the punishment the faster they will learn.”
A very sardonic part of Leo wanted to point out that Garon had left all his children alone, not to play with fire but to literally murder each other, and instead of arranging ‘discipline’ he had turned a blind eye to the monstrous schemes of his many lovers.
“If the presence of two of my own children in their very heart does not deter them,” Garon said, “then they will be swiftly reminded of the might of the army they lost to twenty years ago.”
Leo blew out a soft breath through pursed lips. “I only meant—”
“You have your orders,” Garon interjected. “I will send for you when I see it fit for you to return to Krakenburg. Dismissed.”
There wasn’t a point to staying after that, so the two below quietly bowed again and turned on their heels. “Well,” Camilla said under her breath. “We’ll just have to make the most of it, won’t we, Leo? A nice brother-sister trip, hmm?”
Leo’s only answer to that was an absent nod.
Every ounce of tactical knowledge he’d ever acquired screamed there were only two ways this could end. Either Cheve would surrender and roll over under Nohr’s iron fist (for how long? Another ten years? Twenty? A hundred?) or Cheve would rise up and throw off Nohr’s shackles or die trying.
Scratch that. There was only one option—the question was how long it would take.
Leo shot one more glance over his shoulder, daring to pause his steps for a moment to regard King Garon from the corner of his eye.
He wasn’t sure why he’d never made the realization before.
At that moment, Nohr was not at war. Despite tensions with Cheve, with Hoshido, with any number of smaller territories, at the moment there was an absence of fighting.
But Leo knew, in that second, that Nohr would never truly knew peace as long as Garon sat upon her throne.
Too far is next spring, and her jubilant shout, so angels ‘inside’ is the only way ‘out…’