Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The beauty of Rex’s plan was its simplicity. Find Elysium, and the world was saved. Which was all well and good, but at some point, Nia realized, watching the titans crashing into the new coast, still reeling from falling from the bloody sky—a few details were going to have to be ironed out.

That was the last time it crossed her mind, at least for a while. Because then Pneuma’s core crystal started glowing in Rex’s fist, and Pyra and Mythra sprung back out, and it seemed like the Architect had had more than one last gift in him after all. She’d nearly tackled them both on Azurda’s back, of course she had, once Poppi and Rex had relinquished their hold. Even now, days later, the thought of them not being here to take in the sights and sounds of this strange new world was unbearable—Mythra’s unshakeable confidence and Pyra’s gentleness, soothing out their ragtag crew’s rough edges.

Although their group didn’t seem quite so ragtag anymore. No, almost immediately after they’d touched down, just where Genbu’s mouth opened around the new earth, Zeke was issuing orders, Shellhead gone and Crown Prince Ozychlyrus reporting for duty. It was no less dramatic a change than Pyra’s body melting away into Mythra then Pneuma, but somehow, it took Nia more by surprise than anything the Aegis—either of them—had pulled off. In the span of a few days, and a whirl of activity Nia could barely keep her eyes open for, bone-tired from their journey as she was, the Aegis party was installed into the palace in Theosoir as international heroes. The governments on all other Titans had been notified, and had decided to each take stock of their respective citizens before reaching out to negotiate new borders and trade with one another.

It wasn’t just Zeke, either. They’d all changed on their journey across the titans and up the tree, but no one more than Rex. He was still easy to tease, going pink when Nia snickered about his eyes tracking Pyra from all the way across the Great Hall and counting out gold by the coin when Nia knew damn well that their adventures—not to mention the mercs—had all of them nearly set for life, not even including the fact that they had royalty in their midst.

But now, it was the Driver of the Aegis who fielded the reports streaming in from Garfont and everywhere else that they’d been stationed before Malos’s sirens attacked, who addressed Eulogimenos calmly about his future involvement in international politics. It was the Driver of the Aegis, who, back straight and eyes flashing, held firm that the Indoline citizens shouldn’t face consequences for the Praetorium’s actions in an ethercom summit with Uraya, Gormott, and Mor Ardain.

Nia was proud of them both, of course she was, but it still made something in her shift uncomfortably to see her friends rise to new roles so comfortably. Zeke kept his eyepatch, but strolled around in Tantalese regalia like he’d never cast it off in the first place, and Rex, in his glowing, ancient Aegis getup, now stood a full three inches taller than her when she could have sworn they were the same height not two months prior.

They were still her crew, she kept reminding herself. Zeke ruffled her hair and called her Furry-ears at least thirteen times a day, and Rex was every bit caring and painfully earnest as he was when they’d met, letting every child in the palace that pleased hang off his armor and tell him very seriously that they would be Aegis drivers too, one day.

It was Rex, after all, that without prompting, had quietly dispatched his own blades and the mercs—Godfrey to Gormott, Roc to check in on the mercs, Nim to Leftheria, and Perceval to Mor Ardain—to check in on their loved ones and be back before anyone had worked up the courage to be selfish and ask. They were all grateful for it, Mòrag especially, once Perceval had reported that Niall was shaken but alright, and they’d suffered minimal casualties considering the state of the titan. And Nia loved him for it, still, with a human heart that ached when she watched him take Pyra’s hand shyly under the table at dinner.

She’d never regret telling him, not for a second, not after he’d given her the courage to finally be herself in front of all her dearest companions. But she’d be lying if she said it didn’t sting sometimes, when they’d gather around the fire in Mòrag’s quarters, and amid the chaos of Brighid threatening to fling Tora into the flames, she’d catch a look shared between Rex and Pyra, so soft and intimate that it twisted her stomach with something bitter and she had to fight not to excuse herself.

She prided herself on hiding it rather well, but every so often Pandoria would throw her a sympathetic glance from where she was sitting, or Tora would start to ask a question that Poppi would immediately interrupt. It would always leave her frustrated and snappy, even as the days spent in Tantal wore away the sharp hurt. And it wasn’t all bad—she would catch the same expression in Mythra’s eyes, more often then not, lost and angry, and she was more than happy to spar, to work out both of their frustrations with a boy who they didn’t deserve on someone who understood. And now, without the power of the Conduit supercharging Mythra’s blows, they were more evenly matched then even Nia had anticipated. On particularly rough days, they’d rope in Zenobia until all three of them were sore beyond belief, limping their way through meals and Brighid and Dromarch’s scolding.

And Dromarch, her oldest, dearest friend. The one who’d held her secret longer than any one person should have had to. He’d always been there, even as she tried her hardest to push him away, despite knowing exactly how it feels to have a driver pulling away from your bond. His kindness, his loyalty—if she thought about it long enough, she’d burst into tears in the middle of the Theosoir market, propriety be damned, and she’d resolved since their time in the Spirit Crucible to make it up to him.

For now, it seemed like her debt to him would only grow. When sparring wasn’t enough, Dromarch would rumble “My Lady,” and pull a blanket to the floor in her room, stretching out like he’d decided to stay on a whim. She’d press her tears into his fur and shake with overwhelmed sobs until she fell asleep. He’d keep up a rumbling purr through her nightmares and when she was shocked awake, and in return, she’d keep quiet when he nodded off in meetings the next day and sneak him plates of dried sunfish whenever she could get her hands on it.

Though it wasn’t without its faults, life in Theoscaldia was calm, peaceful, and Nia was just beginning to adjust to it when it all went to shit.

“Guys?” Rex asks, just as dinner was beginning to wind down. “Can we meet in Mòrag’s room after this?”

“Don’t we always do that?” Pandoria asks. “I mean, if Brighid would light the fire somewhere else, I’d go there, but…” Brighid raises an eyebrow. Pyra coughs politely. “Not that you couldn’t do it, too, Pyra! And I know Crossette is around here somewhere…”

“Poppi can also light fires!” Poppi chirps, sitting proud at the end of the table, preening between Tora and Mòrag. “Although Poppi does not necessarily need wood, given the combustion engine—”

“That’s okay, Poppi, thanks!” Pandoria cuts her off before she can really get going. “I just like blue flames, that’s all!”

“Ah, so I’m an evening entertainment act?” Brighid asks, icy. “I hadn’t realized, I’m sure I’ve got knives to juggle somewhere.”

“Pandy, my girl, you’ve put your foot in it now!” Zeke booms from the head of the table.

“Rex,” Mòrag blessedly interjects. “I’d be happy to have you all in there. But, is there something in particular you’d like to discuss?”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “But I’d rather not do it here.” He glances meaningfully around, where a respectful berth has been given around their table. But even without her blade form and the hearing that comes along with them, Nia knows that the rest of the hall has their ears trained on them, hanging on every audible word they can get their hands on. The Flamebringer, the Aegis’s Driver, and Thunderbolt Zeke, plus their blades? Nia’s surprised that they haven’t had to fight of hordes of palace girls with nothing but her own blade and a book of chastity sermons from the Praetorium.

Nia snorts, and Mòrag’s eyes follow Rex’s. “I see,” she says, stoic to the last. “Well, I look forward to it.”

“So, what’s up?” Nia asks from where she’s leaned against Dromarch, who’s curled up near the (blue, courtesy of Brighid’s heavy sighs and Pandoria’s sheepish “thank you!”) fire. Rex looks around the room one more time, taking stock of everyone: Mòrag in an armchair, Brighid perched delicately on the arm with a hand on her shoulder, Poppi squished between Pandoria and Mythra on the loveseat, Tora on the other side of the fire lolling on the floor, Zeke stretched out on the sofa, hands behind his head, and Pyra beside him, looking at the ground.

“Well,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “I think it’s time for us to leave.”

“What?” Nia asks a bit dumbly. She looks at the others, expecting an outcry. Instead, they’re all nodding solemnly.

“Tora has been wanting to see Dadapon, will be leaving for Gormott soon, too!”

“Poppi is excited to see Sister Lila!”

“Now that things have stabilized, it’s time I return and assist with the evacuation to the new mainland.” Mòrag says. Brighid leans a little closer. “And… I’d like to see the Emperor sooner rather than later.”

“I suppose I knew this was coming, chum.” Zeke says, finally. “You couldn’t all stay forever, as much as I’d like you to. You’ve all got big grown-up responsibilities now! What will you do?”

“Well, the first thing is to see to the mercs,” Rex says, jaw set. “I made a promise that I’d take care of them, and I will. And I know I’m gonna have to be part of all of these talks coming up—Pyra and Mythra, too—but in the time before then, I’d really like to go back to Leftheria.”

“Trying to become the new Leftherian king, are you?” Zeke asks, a twinkle in his eye.

“No, nothing like that! I just… haven’t been back since we went into the Spirit Crucible. And before I met Pyra, I hadn’t been back in years. They’re my family, you know? It finally seems like I can take the time to see them all.”

Tears start to prick at the corner of Nia’s eyes, and she wills them away before anyone else can notice. Dromarch presses closer.

“When you see Corinne, give her my thanks once again,” Mòrag says. “She was exceedingly kind to nurse us back to full strength after the Spirit Crucible.” Rex nods, blinding smile firmly attached now that his friends are on board with his departure.

“Of course, Mòrag!”

“I’m sure she’ll be excited to see Pyra and Mythra again,” Brighid says. “She’d wanted to spend more time with them before we left for the Cliffs of Morytha.” Rex looks down, scratches the back of his neck again.

“About that…”

“I’m not going.” Mythra declares, clear and strong. “I already told them.”

“What? Why?” Pandoria’s eyes are huge, saucer-wide.

“You’re not stupid, Pandoria, why do you think?”

“Hey!”

“Would you want to be around these two making eyes at each other every day?”

Pandoria shrugs, but Nia can see the concern in her eyes. “That’s fair.”

“Mythra told us before,” Pyra speaks up for the first time. Her face is nearly as red as her hair. “And of course we’ll miss her, but…” The we want alone time goes unspoken. Nia catches Mythra’s eye, and for a moment, seeing the open wound, the yearning, before Mythra jerks her gaze away and huffs.

“Anyway, I’m still leaving, too,” she says. “I’m going traveling.” The room erupts into questions.

“Are you quite sure, Mythra? You’ve only had your reduced powers for a short time.”

“Traveling? Where would you even go? Haven’t we literally been everywhere by now?”

“That’s great, chum! Everyone should do it at least once. Why, I remember, when Pandy and I first left home—”

“First got booted out, you mean—”

“I do hope you remember your obligations as an Aegis. The negotiations have been delayed for now, but there’s no telling when they’ll start.”

“Will Mythra visit Poppi when she goes?”

“Must bring Tora back souvenirs!”

“Masterpon…”

“I will, Poppi,” she nudges the girl next to her and pats her on the head. Poppi beams. “And Brighid, I haven’t forgotten. I know what my responsibilities are. And I’ll let the mercs know where I am when I run into them. You’ll be able to find me if you need me.”

“I do still worry about you going alone, you know,” Pyra says. Mythra huffs again.

“I told you, I’m not going alone. I’m bringing—” Nia holds her breath of a second, dread and hope racing through her body. “Herald.”

“What?” Zeke asks. Nia lets out a breath, hollowed out with relief and something else.

“She’s been wanting to get away for a while,” Mythra says. “And I understand where she’s coming from. I mean, who better to keep her in check than an Aegis?”

“We’re not Aegises, now though, not anymore,” Pyra says. Mythra’s mouth twists, but she doesn’t say what she wants to, instead: “The rest of the world is gonna treat us like we’re still one, so better get used to it.”

“And she trusts me,” Mythra adds, pointedly not looking at Zeke. “So what else matters?”

There’s a moment of silence, long enough that Nia's skin begins to crawl.

“Too right, Mythra,” Zeke says, horrible and cheerful and wrong. “You two seem like you’ll get into the swing of traveling swimmingly. You’re leaving tomorrow, then?”

Tomorrow?

“Yeah,” Mythra says, “We were thinking of heading to Uraya first, and then leaving out of Fonsa Myma port.”

“You can come with us, then,” Rex says, brightening up. “Since we’re going to Garfont anyway! Gramps is taking us, he’s got room for two more, easy. And then Pyra and I will head on to Leftheria, and you two can go…”

“Wherever we want,” Mythra says, but there’s no heat in it. “Sounds good to me.”

“Masterpon and Poppi will leave tomorrow as well!” Poppi pipes up.

“Poppi, what has Masterpon said about speaking for him?”

“Poppi is not sure, may have deleted from memory based on lack of value added to conversation—”

“But yes-yes, Tora is excited to go home to Torigoth and see Dadapon!”

“Then it only seems right for us to leave as well,” Brighid says. “If that’s all right with you, Lady Mòrag?”

“Yes, of course,” Mòrag says. “I am eager to see Niall, after all.”

Zeke claps his hands together. “Well, then, chaps! It seems that it’s our last night together for some time! We’ll have to make it a good one!” And he really has grown, Nia thinks, because any lingering tension melts away from the room like butter and everyone is looking fondly around at each other. She pastes on a smile and does the same, trying to ignoring the tingling pain in her limbs and her chest that’s threatening to overwhelm her. She mostly gets away with it, too—only Brighid’s stare, sharp even through closed eyes, seems to notice anything.

“Ooh, ooh,” Pandoria says, scrambling up from the loveseat to flop next to her prince. “Let’s play a game! Nia, you like Sneak-Thief King, right?” Maybe she hadn’t quite gotten away with it. She sighs internally.

“You bet your ass I do. And you better not be challenging me unless you want to lose!”

“You’re on!”

Nia was true to her word, and one by one, everyone in the room fell to her strategy, Dromarch the last to hang on only because he knew how she played and he was nearly as good. But finally, he laid his paw on his discarded cards and bowed his head.

“Victorious once again, my lady,” he says. “Your talent continues to amaze.”

“Oh, shut it,” Nia says, but she nudges him affectionately. “Who was the one who taught me, anyway?”

Tora lets out a snore and Poppi elbows him. “Masterpon.”

“Tora is tired,” he complains. “Hero of Alrest needs beauty sleep.”

“All right, all right,” Rex says, smiling, “I guess it is pretty late. We won’t leave until the afternoon tomorrow, so see you at breakfast, everyone!” He leaves, Pyra hot on his heels. Poppi sighs and picks Tora up like a stuffed toy, waving and making her exit.

“Well, I’m out too!” Pandoria says, and bounces out without another word.

“Pandy? Don’t you still have my—wait! Pandy!” Zeke hurries after her. Brighid and Dromarch share a glance, and seem to come to the conclusion that it’s too late to bother.

“Nia,” Mòrag begins, cautious—and no, no, no, she cannot have this conversation right now—

“Oh, damn, look at the time, Mòrag, can you believe? I should really be getting back to my room, come on, Dromarch—”

“Nia.” Nia stills. “Do you know where you’re going, after this?”

Silence swells and stretches until Nia can’t take it anymore. She shrugs.

“Didn’t think I’d need to, this quick. Hopefully Zeke and Pandoria don’t leave me out on the stoop tomorrow night.”

“They’d never,” Mòrag says quickly. Always so serious, this one, Nia thinks, a spark of fondness warming her in spite of everything. When she thinks about how far they’ve come—Mòrag continues. “I imagined you’d have another destination in mind, once we’d regained our balance at Theoscaldia.”

A lump is forming in Nia’s throat, and she closes her eyes, praying to a god that she knows is dead that she can get back to her room before the tears start tonight. “I mean, you tell me, where would I go? Tora has his da in Gormott, Rex has his mercs in Uraya and his aunt in Leftheria, you’ve got your brother in Mor Ardain, Zeke’s da is here—it’s just me and Dromarch, and we haven’t exactly been able to settle anywhere.”

“You could come back with us,” Brighid’s voice is smooth, calming, free of hesitation. Nia can only gape at her, open-mouthed. “That’s why you’re asking, isn’t it, Lady Mòrag?” Mòrag smiles, that small, crooked thing hardly anyone got to see.

“You know me too well, Brighid.” She says. “But yes. It’ll be a new challenge, evacuating the entire and relocating the palace, and it would be a comfort to have a familiar face around during the process. Brighid and I likely will not be able to travel outside of diplomacy for a long time. You’d be welcome to stay as long as you like, of course—no strings attached.” Mòrag hesitates. “Now that I know your true self… that day with Bana makes much more sense. And knowing what I know now, the risk you took saving Niall—”

Nia waves her hands, flushing. “None of that, okay? We’re friends, and he was innocent. I wasn’t about to let him die just because I was scared.” And what about when it was Vandham lying there? The part of her brain that would never let her rest again taunted. She ignored it for now. That was a problem for her nightmares.

Mòrag smiles again. “Of course. Nevertheless, I feel as though I am in your debt. And—” She holds a hand up, cutting off Nia’s protests. “Whether you agree or not, I also simply think it would be nice to have a friend in the coming days. Don’t you think?” Knowing a lost argument when she sees one, Nia nods.

“Dromarch, you’re welcome, too, of course.” Brighid adds. “We have several beast-type blades in our ranks in the military and in the palace, so you’ll find the accommodations well-suited.”

“You’re too kind, Lady Brighid.” Brighid nods graciously and stands, offering Mòrag a hand as she stretches.

“I suppose we’d better head to bed, then.” Mòrag says. “Goodnight, Nia, Dromarch. I look forward to your upcoming stay. I know Niall will as well.”

Nia can only smile, half in a daze, as the two leave and she turns back to her blade.

“Dromarch… what the hell did I just sign myself up for?”

Chapter Text

The air was warm on the titan ship, whipping past Nia’s face and matting the fine hair around her ears. She didn’t mind—Tantal was warmer now that it was wedged onto Elysium’s shore, but it was still far cooler than anywhere she’d lived, and the cold had taken a fierce hold on her. Somewhere in the chaos between the battle with Aion and the World Tree, she’d instinctively changed from her blade form to the warmth of her driver jumpsuit, and since then, just… never changed back. No one in Tantal would mind, she knew, but the thought of going about her days in Theosoir, ears trailing behind her, mangled core crystal exposed and shining like a beacon, kept her firmly zipped into her jumpsuit, warm and straining to hear noises from the other side of the palace.

“We’re nearly there.” Brighid peers out onto the deck, and finding the temperature to her liking, joins Nia, mirrors her posture and leans against the railings. “The journey is much shorter now, isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” Nia says, yawning around the word. It had still taken the better part of a day, and the sun was starting to sink below the line of the water. She ought to wake Dromarch soon, she thought absently. He’d gotten lucky and slept through the journey this time—despite being a water blade, he’s never been fond of traveling by boat, feeling out of sorts on good days and violently nauseous on bad. “This is nothing like the first time we showed up in Mor Ardain.”

“Oh?”

“We’d just chased this little brat halfway across Gormott,” Nia says, remembering the horde of children, ribs and spines protruding, the feverish look in the boy’s eyes as he vowed to avenge his parents. “He’d stolen Roc’s core crystal, after Vandham—”

“Ah, yes,” Brighid hums, eyes on the horizon. “The stories you all tell are larger than life. I wish we could have been acquainted. I know Lady Mòrag does, too.”

Nia huffs out a laugh. “To be honest, I can’t imagine the two of you talking. He was all boisterous, and rowdy, and you and Mòrag are more…” she gestures vaguely. “Y’know. Posh.”

“I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment,” Brighid says, a flash of amusement warming her words. “But you know we’ve both primarily been around soldiers for the past 10 years.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I know,” Nia says. “And if I didn’t, the last time I saw you and Mythra arguing I would’ve worked it out. I didn’t even know a few of those words. I should’ve been taking notes—”

“All right, point taken,” Brighid says, laughing. “As busy as we’ll be, things will certainly be quieter.”

“Yeah.” Nia watches the waves below part around the hull of the titan ship, the foam and smell of salt in the water still unfamiliar. She’d been on the deck for a while, and some of the ocean spray was beginning to dry, white and flaking, on her gloves.

In spite of Rex’s words, they’d left early in the morning, hugs exchanged like candy. Tora had insisted he’d be back the second he saw with his own eyes that Tatazo was safe, and Pyra went down the line making sure everyone promised a trip to Leftheria as soon as they could. Nia had hugged her tight and gave her a smile, and ruffled Rex’s hair even as she had to reach up and do so. Mythra had attempted to edge away, a tight grip on Herald’s massive, draconic wrist, and Nia pulled her close, her only friend who knew what it was to be left behind and keep standing, and didn’t try to hold back her tears.

“I’m not leaving forever, you know,” Mythra had muttered, face red.

Nia squeezed her closer. “I’m taking that as a promise, you asshole. You know where I’ll be.”

Mythra scoffed, but squeezed back just as tightly before stepping away. Herald hung back, ever-careful, but she bowed her head and said, “I’ll miss training with you, Nia. You’re formidable.” with the beginnings of a genuine smile, and that had been enough.

The horn sounded on the ship, pulling Nia back to reality.

“We’re about to dock,” Mòrag says, stepping out onto the deck. “The Emperor is expecting us as soon as we arrive.”

“Roger that, Lady Mòrag.”

She’d spent a decent amount of time on Mor Ardain traveling with Rex and Tora, but it was always a step behind Pyra, eyes sliding past her. And then between Mòrag, Brighid, and Zeke, no one ever paid Nia a second glance, the Gormott girl who looked rather like all the wanted posters fading to the backdrop. Mòrag and Brighid were still here, of course, but…

“I’ll go for a bit of a walk when we dock,” Nia says, stretching again, “Would you let Dromarch know? It’ll get me out of your hair, and I won’t be seen wandering about Hardhaigh. I still don’t get how there’s a new palace almost built already. I don’t think I’ll believe it until—” Nia stopped. Mòrag was giving her an odd look.

“What?”

“His Majesty wants to see all of us, Nia, not just Brighid and I.”

“Oh,” Nia says. “Well. All right then.” She shrugs and turns back to the view on the water, the new Mor Ardain’s coastline growing larger and larger. The old titan, unlike the rest of them, hadn’t just docked along Elysium’s coast. Instead, it had fallen to its knees, arms outstretched as if in prayer. In doing so, it had taken the brunt of the force of falling from such a great height and made elevated paths to the mainland. Although Mor Ardain was undoubtedly the titan that had fared the worst in the aftermath of the battle of Indol and Torna, mass destruction had been averted. Not for the first time, Nia wondered how much the Great Titans understood, whether they ambled along blindly like the warship she was riding in, or if they were like Azurda, welcoming their burden believing it was their duty.

“Nia,” Mòrag starts cautiously, “You’re here as our guest. His Majesty—Niall knows your identity, but it doesn’t, it won’t—” she pauses, pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re not just here to work on the reconstruction. You’re our guest, my friend,” she says. “And you saved my brother’s life. You needn’t worry about such things.”

“Aw, Mòrag, you’re gonna make me blush,” Nia says, but she can’t quite keep the quaver out of her voice. “Let’s go see His Highness, then. No strings attached.”

Nia had been in Hardhaigh before, known the shape of its huge, rounded rooms and burnished metal walls. She expected this new version to be much the same, but already, she could see the influences of their new environment, where smooth pale stone sat in place of polished steel and shutters were thrown open, to welcome the heat rather than keep out the dust. The rich reds and gold finery remained, however, and the resulting effect was just as intimidating as she remembered.

Now, escorted through the palace by Mòrag and Brighid, Dromarch following close behind, Nia keeps her head high, and thinks she’s doing a pretty fantastic job of seeming unconcerned until Brighid lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Relax,” she says, barely a breath, too soft for Mòrag, striding forward, to hear. “You look as though you’ll shatter if I touch you.”

Not so far from the truth, Nia thinks grimly, but she gulps and nods.

“We’re just saying hello. You can go exploring later,” Brighid adds, and Nia imagines that there’s a twinkle behind her closed eyes. Not for the first time, fondness curls through her. Her friends know the whole truth of her and her habits.

They pass the audience chamber and ornate room after ornate room, a far cry from the crumbling ancient halls of Theoscaldia. Finally, Mòrag knocks at the door to an otherwise nondescript conference room.

“Enter,” a voice calls, calm and clear from the other side.

They file in, one by one. “Majesty,” Mòrag begins. “I’m glad to see you unharmed. We’ve just returned—”

“Mòrag!” Niall Ardanach, first of his name, by the Grace of the Architect, Emperor of Mor Ardain and Gormott Province, is halfway out of his chair and throwing his arms around Mòrag before she can finish the sentence. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

She returns the embrace, hesitant. “It’s wonderful to see you well, Niall.”

He looks at her and beams. They’re nearly the same height now, Nia notices. In the remainder of their journey up the tree, Niall has grown even more than Rex. He’s still in his imperial regalia, but no longer had the shorts and socks she’d come accustomed to. Now, he wears a uniform quite like the one she’d seen shoved into one of Mòrag’s trunks, white, gold and imposing, but with a long red cape trailing behind. He still had the circlet in his hair, but some of the roundness has left his face.

“You did it,” His voice hasn’t changed, Nia thinks, considering how different he looks. “Mòrag, I—when those artifices attacked, when the titan attacked, I thought…” he lets out a shuddering breath and lets his eyes fall shut for a moment. When they open, his face is warm and calm as the morning sea.

“I suppose even the World Tree,” he says, a sparkle in his eye, “is no match for the Special Inquisitor herself.”

Brighid lets out a decidedly unladylike snort, and Niall’s eyes crease with laughter as he detangles himself from Mòrag and allows Brighid to fuss. Nia watches, equal parts charmed and wrong-footed, a bright yellow blot on a family reunion.

Like he’s read her mind, Emperor Niall steps away from Brighid and meets her gaze. She only has time to panic for a moment—what the bloody hell am I supposed to do? Kneel? Curtsy?—and shove back the thoughts that actually, she knows exactly what to do in these situations, has done it countless times and perfectly before he speaks.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to speak last time we met,” he says, a little rueful. “I fear we were both a little preoccupied.”

Both? All you did was take a little nap, I was the busy one formed on the tip of her tongue, because she’d be damned if she decided to start following etiquette now, and Dromarch picks up on it, padding forward.

“Think nothing of it, Your Majesty. We thank you for your warm welcome and your hospitality,” he rumbles. No fun, Nia thinks.

“And as long as you’re not planning on blowing yourself up in the next few days, we’ll have plenty of time to chat.” Dromarch sighs heavily, and Nia can feel his disapproval boring a hole into the side of her face. She resists the urge to poke her tongue out at him.

Niall blinks.“Yes. Well. I’ll endeavor to make sure it doesn’t happen.” he says, stumbling a bit over the words before clearing his throat. “While we’re on the topic…” he meets Nia’s eyes again before sinking into a bow.

What the hell?

“Words cannot express my gratitude for your actions in Indol,” he says. “If Mòrag is to be believed, you’ve done a great many remarkable things before then and since, but I’ll never forget you risked your life to save mine. I thank you, Nia, with everything I am.”

She fidgets under his gaze. “It was nothing.” That’s a lie, and they both know it, but he doesn’t object. “Just try not to make a habit of it.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says, a smile warming his words. “Now,” he says. “I think I’ve embarrassed you enough—”

“Oi!”

“And you all haven’t eaten yet, yes? Let’s save the formal welcomes for tomorrow. I’ll have something brought to my quarters.”

Dinner is quiet, filled mostly with the clink of silverware and the interjections of the household staff. Turns out “bringing something to my quarters” also meant three attendants and their blades, flitting around, refilling glasses, reheating food, and clearing plates. Mòrag asks occasional questions, mostly about work, some—noticeably more stilted—personal. Niall answers in similar fashion, and more than once, Nia catches Brighid hiding a smile behind her spoon. Nia feels the same. She remembers Mythra’s brusque advice to Mòrag, all the way back on the Cliffs of Morytha, and how seriously Mòrag had taken it, accepted it like a mission. She was certainly trying—they both were.

“And have you enjoyed doing that?” Mòrag asks, in a tone that suggests she’s nearing the end of a brutal interrogation. “Taking…walks?”

“Yes, quite.” Niall answers gravely, in a tone that suggests he’s about to sentence someone to death. “It’s important to stay active. And I feel as though I must learn to appreciate this new climate.”

Nia considers walking out into the sea and sinking right back down into Morytha, but, for Ardainian food, the Quoteletta is really not bad. She busies herself with the plate in front of her, and, in between bites, gets a good look at the Emperor.

She does the math quickly, counting backwards under her breath. It had been nearly three years since Torna had hired Rex for the salvaging job, and Mòrag and Zeke had joined them about halfway through their journey. At a generous estimate, it had only been eighteen months since she’d last seen Emperor Niall. And yet, in that time, he’d changed more than anyone.

He’d grown just like Rex had, yes, but while Rex had filled out at the same time, voice dropping, growing flushed and strong and—Nia wrenches herself back on topic—healthy, Niall looks worse. He hadn’t gained weight to accompany his height, and what Nia had initially thought was a loss of baby fat now looks a great deal more like sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. As the evening wears on, deep bruising shadows begin to appear under his eyes, what Nia assumes to be makeup wearing off and the reality of sleepless nights presenting itself. He is fair, yes, but paler than he should be. Nia is sure that it’s only his good breeding and lessons that had undoubtedly been drilled into his head from birth that keep him from slumping forward into his stew like Rex after a long day. More than that, there’s something familiar about his mannerisms, and she can’t quite puzzle it out.

Niall dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. He also has a faint tremor in both hands, she notices, and she glances meaningfully at Dromarch, trying to catch his eye. Unfortunately—or, for the sake of everyone else present, extremely fortunately—he’s drawn Niall and Brighid into a spirited discussion on Ardainian archival records and the process by which they’re maintained.

A spoon clatters against a bowl, and Mòrag, Brighid, Dromarch, and Nia, battle-worn as they are, all tense, affinity links halfway to glowing.

“Apologies,” Niall says, sheepish, ears beginning to redden. “It seems that the hour is affecting me more than I’d anticipated.” He tucks his hands neatly under the table. Had Nia not already been watching, she would have missed the tremors growing more prominent, and how Niall seems to be biting the inside of his cheek, a tension lining the edges of his mouth. 

Carys, Nia thought. He looks like—It all came together with nauseating clarity. Fatigue, tremors, weight loss, some kind of pain, maybe abdominal?, all manifesting in such a short time, more than could be explained by simple exhaustion or overwork—it all spoke of chronic illness.

Not this, I can’t do this again, I can’t let Mòrag go through this, I have to do something, please, Carys, I need to—

“Shall we regroup in the morning, then?” Mòrag asks, “Brighid and I will take the liberty of showing Nia and Dromarch to their quarters. Frankly, we all need the rest.”

“Yes, of course,” Niall says, and the quiet relief plain in his face makes Nia’s stomach turn. “I’ll attempt to keep my schedule clear—at least for an hour or two. I still haven’t heard all your stories, I’d venture.”

“It’ll take more than a few days for us to catch you all the way up, Your Majesty,” Brighid says, fond. “But we’ll be here for a while yet. No need to rush.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Brighid,” he says. “A very good night to all of you.”

“You too, Your Majesty.” Nia says, and ignores the way the words turn to ash in her mouth.

“Mòrag, Brighid?” They pause in the doorway to Nia’s room. “Could I ask you guys something?”

“Of course, Nia,” Mòrag says, “Is something wrong?”

Nia hesitates. “Did you notice something… off, about the Emperor?”

“Now that you mention it, I had,” Brighid says, brow creasing, “He isn’t looking his best, but I’m sure he’s been overworking himself in our absence.”

“Yeah, probably. It’s just… I knew someone like that, and it ended up that they were really sick. Like, really sick.” Nia says, hopelessly vague, but she won’t talk about her sister now, she can’t. Mòrag looks at her, and whatever she sees is enough to make her eyes widen, skin paling.

“Do you think it’s the same thing? As what you’ve seen before?”

Nia sighs. “Well, she—they’d always been sick, their whole life, and it got worse slowly. His Majesty was fine before, but after Bana… that kind of thing is bound to cause the body strain.”

Mòrag swallows hard, taking a breath and visibly steeling herself. “Nia, would you—I said you were our guest here, but could you please take a look at him?”

“Oh,” Nia says. “That’s what I was going to ask you. I know the Emperor must have a whole team of doctors and protocols, but seeing as this might have something to do with me bringing him back. Sorry,” she adds quickly at Mòrag’s sharp inhale. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s all right,” Mòrag says. “Thank you, Nia. Anyway, I think I trust you more than the royal physicians, given the current state of things.”

“What? Why?” Mòrag doesn’t elaborate, instead touching Brighid’s arm to guide her out.

“I’ll come retrieve you in the morning and you can examine him then,” she says. “If you’ll allow it, I’d appreciate your input as well, Dromarch. But for now, we’ll show you to your room.” He dips his head in agreement, brushes his tail against Nia in a silent goodnight and follows them.

Nia turns and takes in her room for the first time. It was normally reserved for visiting dignitaries, Mòrag had informed her. Was that what she was now? She scoffs at herself.

Dignitary of where exactly, idiot? Didn’t know they were letting flesh-eaters get into diplomacy, now. Ugh.

Whatever she was now, the room was certainly fit for the job. A huge, plush, four-poster bed, deep burgundy walls, and when Nia peeked through the other door, her own bath. Her bags, few and shabby as they were, had been set at the foot of her bed, and she starts unpacking them, half in a daze. She’s never stayed anywhere this nice. Even in her early days, a lord of Gormott Province had nothing on the luxuries of the Ardainian Empire, and since she’d started traveling with Rex, was to used cheap traveler’s hostels or roughed it outside, mostly just happy not to be dead. Even Zeke and Mòrag, royalty that they were, would spread out their bedrolls and volunteer for night watch, each used to the life already in their own way. To have a room this nice now, completely to herself… Nia swallowed hard and willed away the burning in her eyes, unloading her things into the huge ornate wardrobe in the corner.

It was soothing in its own way, and she’d nearly calmed the storm that had been roaring in her mind since they’d landed on Tantal when her ears pricked. All the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she held her breath, ears straining to pick up movement.

“You’re right about the Emperor.” The voice was deep—austere and menacing, and Nia exhales, light-headed, in relief.

“Perceval, you bastard, my heart nearly stopped!”

A figure emerged like liquid from the shadows, yellow eyes wide and cold. “You noticed me before I spoke. Very well done.”

“Ugh,” Nia shoves at him affectionately, then winces. She would have been better off shoving the palace wall. “You were there at dinner, then? You noticed, too?”

“Once I’d delivered the message that the Special Inquisitor was safe,” Perceval intones, “I had one more task set to me.”

“Which was?”

“Ensure the safety of the Emperor.” Perceval says. “Alrest may have been saved, but there are always threats lurking in the shadows. My lady asked that those threats are observed or eliminated as I see fit.”

“Makes sense,” Nia muses, “I always had her pegged as the protective older sister. Wait—what did you mean, I’m right?”

His expression grows more serious—something Nia hadn’t thought was possible. “His Majesty puts on a strong front, but he is experiencing great discomfort. He eats little, and sleeps even less. His condition has only deteriorated since Malos’s sirens wreaked havoc on Alba Cavanich. I had thought it overwork, but you may be right in that there is something deeper.”

Nia flops on the bed with a sigh and pats the fabric next to her. Perceval considers it for a moment, then perches on the edge, cross-legged. Nia makes a valiant attempt at hiding her amusement.

Her mind makes its way back to the conversation at hand and her smile quickly fades. “I don’t know if he’ll be okay, Percy,” she says. “What’s the point of saving someone if they’re just gonna go and—” her voice breaks and she doesn’t finish the thought.

Perceval is quiet for a moment. “There is little point in grieving someone who hasn’t yet been lost,” he says finally. “And I do not think the situation with His Majesty is dire enough yet to grieve him at all.” He gives her another look, deep, searching.

“Those who you do grieve deserve not to have that grief displaced.”

Nia gulps and nods. “You’re bloody scary sometimes, you know that? Perceptive, too.”

He bows his head in acknowledgment. “Both are necessary for what I do. And,” he adds. “In reckoning with my past, grief has become something of a friend.” And Architect, what’s Nia supposed to say to something like that? She pats his head, a bit awkward, but he lets her do it.

“All right,” she says. “Now get out of here before I pass out on you.” That gets him moving, and he goes to the open window—which was definitely closed when she’d first walked in, damn it—rather than the door.

“My lady and Brighid’s room is one floor above and two doors to the right,” he says. “And you’ll find Dromarch four doors down from yourself. Both are easy to access via window or door.” A knot unwinds in Nia’s chest that she hasn’t known was there. Her friends were close, and the palace was safe. It was a big change, from sleeping three to four to a room or all in a pile, one that Nia was finding harder than expected to adjust to.

“Thanks. Where are you headed now?”

“To give my report to the Special Inquisitor, as I always do,” he says, tilting his head a bit.

“I’d save it for the morning, Perce,” Nia says.

“Why’s that?”

“Those two haven’t had their own room in weeks,” Nia says, and wiggles her eyebrows for effect. He tilts his head, looking all the world like a confused dog—if the dog was dripping in shadows and flame and metal.

“They probably…missed each other,” Nia pushes, “Quite a lot, if you know what I mean.”

“Ah,” Perceval says, the flame above his head igniting for a moment. Nia sends another silent thanks to Klaus that not every bit of the room is draped in Imperial finery. “I will… see her in the morning, then.”

“Good night, Perceval,” Nia sing-songs, stretching out on the bed and luxuriating in the feel. “Don’t let the Lysaats bite.” The window’s soft closure is the only goodbye she gets, but she smiles anyway, feeling better in spite of everything. He was right. Only the morning would tell if there was anything worth worrying about.

Chapter Text

The door to the study slams and Niall jumps.

“D’you want Mòrag here, or would you rather it just be us?”

“I’ll stay, it’s no trouble,” Mòrag says, looking as though there would be trouble if she was made to leave.

“Didn’t ask you, Mòrag,” Nia says, and winks to take the sting out of it. “That’s up to His Majesty over here.”

“Hm? Oh—” Niall says. He’s looking a little flushed, Nia thinks. Different from the sickly pallor of yesterday. She leans in to examine the pattern—maybe it’s a rash? Fever?—and the color deepens.

“I’ll be alright,” Niall says after a moment. “Please, dear sister. I know there are other matters that require your attention. Go be with Brighid.”

Mòrag didn’t seem convinced. “I’ll catch up with you later, all right? You can grill me for as long as you want, I’ll be honest.” Nia pastes on her best smile, and whatever Mòrag, sees, it’s enough.

“I trust you, Nia,” she says quietly, and the weight of her words is enough to dim Nia’s smile, the odd cheer she’d felt since breakfast. Mòrag bows with a Majesty and closes the door gently behind her, and Nia is left alone with the Emperor.

Nia eyes him critically. “Have a seat, Your Majesty.” He obliges, and she moves to stand in front of him and place the back of her hand on his forehead. He’s running a mild fever—not enough to explain the color blooming in his cheeks—are they getting redder again?—but enough to raise an eyebrow.

“Now,” she says. “Tell me about every symptom you’ve been having since the summit.” He opens his mouth to respond, and before he does, Nia adds, “And Perceval’s had an eye on you for weeks, so don’t even think about low-balling me.”

He hesitates this time, and there’s a long, heavy pause. Was she pushing too hard? Nia thinks. He’d seemed relatively open to the idea of the examination when Brighid had brought it up at breakfast, though perhaps, with Brighid’s tact and incredible persuasive skills, it hadn’t seemed all that monumental. Now, with the strange Gormotti girl who’d resurrected him peering down at him, maybe he’d made a different choice entirely.

Finally, he takes a breath and seems to come to a conclusion.

“There’s pain, fatigue, fever, shakes. I don’t sleep,” Niall says, “And when I do, I have nightmares that are sure to wake me within an hour or two.”

“About anything in particular?”

“You may be able to guess,” Niall says with a wry smile. “But it’s not the actual event, per say. More so the sensation…” he trails off. “I feel as though I should spare you the details.”

Nia scoffs. “I’d be a pretty terrible healer if I was put off by details,” she says, and Niall chuckles.

“Of course, I don’t mean to doubt you.” He says. “Then, it’s more so the sensation of explosion. The shrapnel tearing in, yes, the physical wounds. But more than that—I knew I would die, and I knew that I would take Aegaeon with me. The guilt I felt for making the wrong choice, for costing my blade his life…” he shakes his head. “It was immeasurable. I felt our connection fading, the link being broken, and the loss was—is, indescribable. It’s what wakes me up, every time. And it’s something I feel, every day.”

“Your link being broken, huh?” Nia chews at her lip, the seed of an idea forming. “Do you,” she hesitates. “When you say you still feel the break, do you mean physically? Emotionally?”

“Both, I suppose,” Niall says, looking thoughtful. “Although it’s more potent the more tired I am, so I doubt I’m in the best headspace to be analyzing anything. But I know it’ll be worse when I fall asleep, so I put it off… but look where that’s gotten me now.” He smiles, a bit rueful, and Nia is struck again by the shadows under his eyes.

“I’m sorry you’re in pain,” The words fall out, soft, nearly intimate, and she hurries to correct herself. Somewhere, she’s sure Mythra is rolling her eyes. “I mean—I’m bloody well gonna try to fix you, yeah? But I just… I know it must hurt now whether I can fix it or not. So I’m sorry.”

One of the first things she’d noticed about Morytha were the buildings. So many, so impossibly tall, so many broken windows—gaping, jagged wounds visible from titanpeds away. Then, they’d gotten closer, and the crunch under her feet grew louder, and she began to see the shattered glass, coating the ground as far as she could see, millions upon billions of cracked, sparkling crystalline pieces. Here, now, Niall’s eyes looked the same. Like he can tell what she’s thinking, he closes his eyes.

“I appreciate it, Nia,” he says. “Thank you.”

She waves it off. “Don’t mention it,” she says. “Now, let’s see what I can do.” She takes a seat in front of him, puts her hands on his shoulders—ignoring his sharp inhale—and gets to work.

“There,” she says, triumphant after minutes of tense silence. Niall cranes his neck to peer at his right collarbone, where her eyes are fixed.

“Did you find something?”

“Well, you tell me,” Nia says. She reaches out with ether, very gently, and touches what she sees. He doesn’t make a sound, but the way his jaw clenches is enough.

“What is it?” She pulls away when she hears the strain in his voice.

“How do I explain this… “ Nia muses, mostly to herself.

She takes a breath. “Drivers and blades have a connection, right?” Niall nods.

“It’s a mental thing, obviously—you have an understanding of each other in battle, and you’ll usually have some idea of how your blade is feeling. Plus, there’s the affinity link, and the aptitude it took to resonate with a crystal in the first place without spewing your organs all over the the place. Or a nosebleed, if you’re a Nopon,” she adds thoughtfully. “Somehow.”

“Right…”

“The thing is,” she pushes on. “That link and that aptitude isn’t just the ‘strength of your soul’ or whatever bullshit the Praetorium used to spout. That’s part of it, but it’s also the literal flow of ether in your body.”

“I wasn’t aware humans had a natural ether flow,” Niall says, brow furrowed. “The blade transfers ether to the driver in battle, but there’s more?”

“Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “It’s just that there’s not nearly as much. That’s how most healing blades work, actually—transfer the right amount of ether in the right away, and it’ll put your body’s natural repairing system to work. And it’s how driver aptitude works, too. You need a decent amount of ether already present in your body to resonate.”

“That’s becoming rarer, is it not?” Niall asks. “We’ve been struggling to find driver candidates for several years.”

Nia shakes her head. “Nah, that was just Amalthus. His whole ‘cleansing’ thing weakened core crystals so that he could become a massive tentacle monster—” Niall looks more than a little lost, and Nia resolves to sit him down one day and tell him the whole truth of what had happened, without Brighid’s edits. “But that meant that only people with a ton of aptitude could become drivers, and that ruled out a bunch of people who might have been able to otherwise. So who knows?” she shrugs. “You might start seeing more and more people resonating as the cleansed cores go back to normal.”

“I hope so.”

“Anyway,” she continues. “This all means that your affinity link isn’t just something that the blade is doing. You’re providing your own ether, and it’s an actual, physical connection that you have with a blade. You know how it feels when you accidentally run into an affinity link? Like, someone else’s?”

“I can’t say I do,” Niall says. “I…never saw much combat, outside of training.” He’s got that shattered glass expression again, Nia notices.

“It’s not that important,” she hurries to say. “It just feels like a shock, or sort of like you just put your hand into hot water. I just mean that it’s something you can interact with, and it’s always there, even when it’s not all glowy.”

“I see.” Niall says, looking very much like he does not see.

“I’m getting to the point, I promise,” Nia says. “Since the link is physical, it can be damaged, just not quite directly.”

“You don’t hear of that happening very often,” Niall says. “Or at all, really.”

“Well, it doesn’t happen very often,” Nia says. “Because the problems start when that connection is interrupted. And that only happens when a core crystal itself is damaged, like how Malos’s was, or—”

“When a driver dies.” Niall finishes, face pale.

“Right,” Nia says. She pauses, choosing her next words carefully. “And usually when that happens, the connection is broken completely, and the blade returns to its core crystal without any damage except losing its memories. It’s… it doesn’t tend to happen the other way round. If a blade is damaged enough to fall, so is the driver. The only other time I’ve seen blades die without their driver were Mikhail and Patroka’s, and that’s not really the same since one, Mythra did some freaky Aegis math to do it, and two, they were part blade themselves, so the loss wasn’t as big.”

“I did some reading,” Nia continues. “And the few times this has happened in history, the drivers that recovered had other blades. It wasn’t easy or anything, but within a few months, and leaning on those blades for a bit, any loss or physical symptom they’d felt had improved. The more blades they had to make up that loss, the better. But Aegaeon was your only blade, wasn’t he?”

“You did some reading?” Niall asks, very, very still. “You suspected already, without examining me.”

It’s Nia’s turn to freeze. “I had—there’s an illness,” she swallows. “Or a condition, I suppose. With symptoms similar to the ones you’re experiencing. I wanted to make sure you didn’t have it.”

“And I don’t?”

Nia shakes her head.

“The whole time I had Aegaeon,” Niall says, so quiet anyone else would have trouble hearing him. “I felt he was wasted on me. It was my duty, but I wouldn’t—I couldn’t subject another blade to that.”

“Then you made the right call.” Niall looks up in shock. “You recognized your limits,” Nia says. “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

He shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile emerging. “You’re the first person to tell me that,” he says. “Without trying to flatter me.”

She shrugs. “I’ve never seen you fight,” she says. “Or had you as a driver. If you say you couldn’t handle it, I’ll choose to believe you.”

Niall does let out a quiet chuckle at that, and winces, breathing growing unsteady for a moment. Almost immediately, Nia’s hands are back on his shoulders, easing him through the coughs as they die down into wheezing.

“Your link was cut,” Nia says, leaning close so he can hear her through his breathing. “And you lost massive amounts of ether. It’s like—it’s like you’ve lost a limb, and it’s been bleeding for months and months. I can feel it coming out of here,” she gestures towards Niall’s collarbone again. “And it’s not getting better. Unless you treat it, it’ll just get worse until…”

Niall takes a few gasping breaths before speaking. “How do you treat it?”

“It would be simplest to bond with another blade,” Nia says. “Ideally, the same element as before. I’m sure it wouldn’t be that hard to find you a known water core crystal. If not… Mòrag still has Aegaeon’s—”

“I’m not resonating again.” Niall says, his voice firm, the first hint of the Ardainian emperor Nia has seen since she’s arrived. “That is non-negotiable.”

“Worth a shot,” Nia says. “The other option isn’t as easy. To get you back to your normal baseline, a healing blade would have to transfer huge amounts of ether to you every day, sometimes multiple times a day. You could try resonating with a random crystal after that—” Niall opens his mouth to speak “—but you don’t need to. You should know,” she says. “No one’s ever done this successfully. You’ll probably be sickly for the rest of your life. You might still have long term effects, and you’ll still need ether transfusions, just not as often.”

“If it doesn’t tie yet another life to mine,” Niall says, tone absolute. “Then I’ll do it. Gladly.”

“All right, then,” Nia says. “Sounds like a plan. Want to start now?”

Niall gapes at her, mouth open. He blinks. “You—you meant that you’ll be doing the transfusions?”

“I mean, yeah. This hasn’t been done successfully, but I’m the best healer out there,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And I’m a water blade. It’d be pretty dumb to ask someone else. Your Majesty,” she adds hurriedly. He doesn’t respond. “Unless there’s a problem?”

Who’d want someone like you touching them for hours every day? The little voice that didn’t sound like Mythra sneered. Hm. She hadn’t heard this one in a while. The Emperor is kind, but all kindness has a limit. Even Rex couldn’t bear—

“No, no, there’s no problem,” Niall says. His ears have gone red, and Nia hopes against hope that she hadn’t said any of that out loud. “I, well, this is a several months-long commitment you’re making,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay in Mor Ardain for my sake.”

“Where else would I go?” Nia asks, and hopes it doesn’t sound as sad to him. “Besides, I’ve done nothing but travel for years. If I’m honest, staying put for a bit sounds nice.”

“All right, then,” Niall says, and glances at one of the many, many, many, Nia notices, papers on his desk. “I’d blocked another hour for this examination, is that enough time?”

“Should be, for the first time,” Nia says. “It’ll probably tire you out a little.” She stands and surveys the room. The Emperor’s study is smaller than she’d expected—meaning, it was still bigger than any room she’d ever stayed in, larger than her room in Hardhaigh now. There were bookshelves in the corner and a chaise lounge next to it, but perhaps she’d wait on that. They hardly knew each other, after all. Nothing for it. She pushes her chair to sit alongside his. “Take your shirt off.”

Niall chokes. “Pardon?”

Nia claps him once on the back. “Or just unbutton it. Need skin-to-skin contact,” she says, wiggling her fingers. He doesn’t look all that reassured, but nods, hands trembling as he undoes his pauldrons, jacket, sash, cape, pulls off an overshirt, then another— “You must be hot all the time,” Nia says. “Especially when you were on the Ardainian titan.” It’s possible to think something without saying it, dumbass, the little Mythra in her head snorts. She shushes her.

“I suppose,” Niall says, fastidiously undoing what seems to be hundreds of buttons and avoiding eye contact. “But I’ve run cold for quite some time.”

“Hm,” Nia hums. “Maybe we can fix that.” Finally, the last shirt parts enough for Niall to slide it down.

“Now, you shouldn’t feel any pain,” Nia says. “Maybe a little strange, but I’ve already had my hands in your organs, so—”

Niall lets out a laugh, somewhat strangled. “I’d rather not repeat that, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Sure, sure,” Nia says. “How are you feeling now?”

“All right. Nervous, if I’m to be completely honest.”

“Why? I’m already doing it.”

Niall looks down in shock. “Oh, I—” But Nia’s hands are already pressed to his chest, the tell-tale glow of healing magic surrounding them. “You have a light touch,” he says, half-dazed.

“What does it feel like?” Nia asks. She couldn’t help being a little curious.

“Well, erm—a bit like a bath,” Niall says. Nia pulls a face and he chuckles. “You said yourself touching an ether link feels like hot water. Aren’t I submerged in it, now?”

“I guess,” she says. “But if you’re wanting a sponge bath, you’d better go fetch someone else.” He shakes his head and doesn’t reply, a smile pulling at his lips. They fall into a comfortable silence, and soon, the only sounds Nia could hear were birdsong and the bustle of activity on the floors below.

Minutes slip by like snowmelt into a river.

“That’s right,” she says. “You said there was a banquet tonight.”

“Hm?” Niall blinks. His eyes had fallen shut. “Yes, to welcome the Saviors of Alrest home.” There’s just a hint of teasing somewhere behind his words.

“Hmph, Brighid will be excited to wear something other than her traveling clothes,” Nia says. “Hopefully I won’t get roped into doing her hair again.”

“Hah, I’m sure she’ll be too busy trying to do yours, instead.”

“Huh?”

“You’re one of the guests of honor, aren’t you? I’d be shocked if she doesn’t already have something picked out for you.”

“Ugh, schmoozing,” Nia groans and leans back in her chair, taking care not to break contact.

“It’s a bit selfish, really,” Niall says, no longer bothering to hide the smirk in his voice. “I’m looking forward to seeing you speak to the more… traditional senators.”

“Watch it, Your Majesty,” Nia says, pressing a bit harder with one hand. “Just you wait. I can schmooze like no one else.”

“Believe me when I say I can’t wait,” Niall says.

Something scratches at the door and Niall stiffens, eyes flitting between his bare skin and the door, torn between health and propriety. Nia doesn’t move—it’s a signal she knows.

“It’s all right, Dromarch.”

The door creaks open and is closed softly behind Dromarch as he pads in, sinking into a crouch as he approaches Niall. “Your Majesty, I hope you’re feeling better?”

“Much better, yes. Have you come to deliver a message?”

“Yes, as it happens. The Special Inquisitor requests your presence before the council meeting this afternoon.”

“Ah, yes, she’d mentioned that before.” Niall sighs. “I suppose I should go see her now, then.”

“I took the liberty of inviting her here,” Dromarch says. “I imagined you’d like a bit of a break.”

“You thought right. Thank you, Dromarch.”

A yawn forms in the back of Nia’s throat, and she takes her hands away from Niall to stretch. Niall jolts, and straightens up at the loss. He looks better already, Nia notices. Damn, I am good.

“We should probably stop for the day,” she says. “Slow and steady, at least in the beginning. You’ll be exhausted tonight.”

“Enough to sleep, I hope.”

“I should warn you, my lady,” Dromarch interjects. “I didn’t only come for His Majesty. Brighid is looking for you.”

“Me? For what?”

“I believe she has some clothing for you for the banquet tonight.” Dromarch rumbles, placid as ever, but Nia catches the amused flick of his tail before he can still it. Furry bastard.

“Damn it,” Nia sighs. “You’re good, Your Majesty. Glad we didn’t bet on it.”

Niall smiles, already starting to look drowsy. “There are a few things that are constant in this world, and Brighid’s love of fashion is one of them.”

Nia stands, wincing at the stiffness of her legs. “All right, I’d best get it over with, then. Dromarch, want to come along? I’ll need emotional support.”

“Of course, my lady,” Dromarch says primly. Nia swats at him as she passes, and nimbly dodges a massive paw swiping right back. Before she leaves the study, she turns back, and catches the tail end of an unfamiliar expression on the Emperor’s face.

“See you tonight, Your Majesty.”

His face clears, and he smiles, warm as ever. “I’ll see you then, Nia.”

Chapter Text

Mòrag sees Brighid’s mouth twitch almost imperceptibly, and she turns to watch as Nia tugs at her dress again, pulling at the fabric a touch too hard.

“Nia, if you keep fidgeting, Dromarch might start checking you over for fleas,” she says, nudging her hand away from the offending skirt. Nia makes a rude gesture.

“Glass houses, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid says, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten how tetchy you were before you could wear a uniform. And anyway,” she turns to Nia. “Isn’t this more comfortable in the heat?”

It was milder in Elysium, but the new Mor Ardain was still warmer than Tantal by far, and the ambient heat of the old titan still settled behind the palace. Brighid, as usual, had taken all of this into account, and had found a dress that was light, allowed for free movement, and covered her core crystal but looked similar enough to her blade attire just the same. Mòrag had coaxed her into allowing them to fuss with her hair. Like this,  Nia could perhaps be any young Gormotti noble, making a social call to the Emperor, perhaps using her charms to ask for favors or leniency for her lands. A fly buzzes and she claps her hands to crush it, making a face when she’s successful and flicks it away.

Perhaps not.

“Who’s going to be at this thing, anyway?” Nia asks, wiping her hands on the back of her dress. Brighid twitches again.

“Likely a few higher-ranking officials,” Mòrag says. She thinks for a moment, ticking names off her fingers. “There’s Senator MacNamara, head of the Committee on Foreign Affairs, Senator Bagley, who heads the Committee on Domestic Affairs, Elfric Geraghty, the Secretary of the Interior, and Grand Marshal Robalt, who you’ve met already.”

At that, Nia pulls another face, and remembering an over-enthusiastic Newt’s posturing and the amount of paperwork that had followed, Mòrag can’t help but agree. “You needn’t worry, he’s not one to hold grudges,” she says.

“But no promises about the rest of them,” Brighid adds.

Nia huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, sounds about right.” The three of them round a corner, and Dromarch is waiting there to meet them.

“You look lovely, my lady,” he says. “Excellent work, Brighid.”

“You’re too kind,” Brighid says. “If I’d had a bit more notice, I could have found you something, as well. I seem to remember you and Azurda eyeing hats last time you were in Alba Cavanich.”

“That’s quite all right,” Dromarch says, ears pricked in alarm. Mòrag bites the inside of her cheek so as not to smile. Nia lets out a decidedly unladylike cackle, and Dromarch sighs, long-suffering.

“My lady, you must remember that we’re guests of the Empire tonight. This kind of thing won’t do.”

“Ugh, lighten up, Dromarch.” Nia steals a glance at Brighid. “I’ll be good though, I swear. I know it’s posh tonight.”

“No one’s asking you to be anything but yourself, Nia.” Mòrag says.

“Out loud, you mean.” Nia says, smirking. “Brighid’s sweating.”

Brighid’s hand flies halfway to her forehead before realizing. “Menace.” Nia dances out of the way of the sparks that fly in her direction.

“But seriously, I’ll behave,” Nia says. “I know things are a little off politically right now, the last thing you need is the Special Inquisitor’s guest making an arse out of herself.“

Mòrag quirks an eyebrow. “What did Niall tell you?”

“Nothing really,” Nia shrugs. “He just seemed stressed. Plus,” she adds, a bit hesitantly, “There was that whole thing with Brionac and Lindwurm last year…”

“You’re right,” Mòrag says. “Our titan’s age was Mor Ardain’s biggest problem, but certainly not the only one.” The familiar twist of nerves when she thought about her country’s future hadn’t burned alongside with the World Tree. If anything, it was worse—especially when she looked at Niall and could only see him as he was months ago, small and still. Brighid, ever-perceptive, lays two fingers on Mòrag’s wrist and the warmth pulls her back to the present.

“Speaking of which,” Brighid cuts in. “Dromarch, were you able to speak to Perceval?”

“Yes, Lady Brighid,” Dromarch says. “He’d cleared the dining hall prior to your guests’ arrival, and he’ll be watching during the banquet. I believe that he’ll report in tomorrow morning unless something out of the ordinary happens this evening.”

“Excellent,” Mòrag says. “I must say, it’s quite reassuring to have him around.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid says, the relief clear in her voice.

This was the first Imperial event Brighid would be attending without Aegaeon, Mòrag thinks. She thinks of his crystal, locked safely in her chambers, and suddenly misses the rest of her blades fiercely.  Corvin, Wulfric, Theory—even little Finch, who she was sure still didn’t know her name. She’ll write to them soon, she decides. They’d all enjoy the palace, in their own way.

Finally, they reach the dining hall, the grand set of doors already closed.

“Wonderful to see you, Lady Mòrag, Lady Brighid.”

“Thank you, Iain,” Mòrag says. “Have all our guests arrived?”

“I believe so,” Iain says, dressed in one of his finer uniforms. “I’ll escort you in.”  He turned and opened the doors, and in the process, pressed a slip of paper into Brighid’s waiting hand, a move Mòrag only caught with years of experience. Brighid dipped her head once in thanks, and they were off.

Despite her earlier reassurances, Mòrag couldn’t help but watch Nia with a touch of nerves. Her dry wit and no-nonsense attitude were excellent qualities, ones she’d appreciated even on the opposite side of an interrogation—frankly, the dramatics of the previous year’s events would have been unbearable without her commentary.

Excellent qualities, but not necessarily ones that translated into politicking and diplomacy. Of course, once word had gotten around that members of the Aegis party were staying in the palace, ones formerly branded as terrorists at that, everyone had wanted a look. Given the tenuous grip Niall has had on the Senate, Nia and Dromarch’s appearance was non-negotiable. Mòrag counts her blessings that this dinner is at least taking place in a dining room rather than a banquet hall. Iain escorts them to the table, where Niall and four men with similarly stern expressions await.

“Announcing Special Inquisitor Mòrag, Lady Brighid, Lady Nia, and Master Dromarch, Your Majesty,” Iain says. Brighid curtsies beautifully, and Mòrag sinks into a bow.

“Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“Good evening, Special Inquisitor. Gentlemen,” Niall says. “Might I introduce Lady Nia and Master Dromarch to you? They accompanied the Aegis in her travels, and were instrumental in leading us to Elysium.”

Dromarch dips his head, polite and refined, and out of the corner of her eye, Mòrag can see Brighid gripping her napkin with more force than strictly necessary.

Nia sweeps into a curtsy, smooth and practiced. “Thank you for the kind words, Your Majesty. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Even her voice is different, a shade higher, the sharp edge of her Gormotti accent rounded down. Brighid squints open an eye to peer at her.

“Of course, Nia,” Niall says, unflappable in these situations as ever. “I speak naught but the truth. Allow me to introduce Senators Bagley and MacNamara, Secretary Geraghty, and Grand Marshal Robalt.” They each go through the motions of introductions, even Robalt, who doesn’t seem to have made the connection.

“The first course will be served shortly,” Iain announces, and excuses himself with a bow.  Mòrag lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Miraculously, the first four courses proceed without issue. Nia is demure and attentive, asking questions that draw valuable insight from their guests without prying. Brighid’s eyebrows have been inching higher and higher as the minutes tick by. Only Dromarch seems unbothered—it’s only her own years of brutal military discipline and even more brutal etiquette lessons that keeps her from picking her own jaw up from the table when Nia politely asks after Robalt’s granddaughter.

“I wasn’t aware you’d met the Aegis’s companions before, Grand Marshal,” MacNamara says, a frown marring his already-pinched features. “I was under the impression they’d been somewhat outside the law before the Special Inquisitor took them under her wing.”

“I wasn’t aware myself.” Robalt says, stroking his chin. “I’m sure I would remember one such as you, Lady Nia.” Nia smiles and ducks her head. Spots of color begin to appear high on Niall’s cheeks and Dromarch clears his throat.

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t remember, given the circumstances of our last meeting,” Nia says.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Do you remember the fire blade Newt, Grand Marshal?” Mòrag asks.

Robalt sighs. “Aye, that firecracker of a girl. Is she not in Hardhaigh, as well? I would have thought she’d be leaping at the chance to join the army officially.”

“I’ve no doubt she would,” Mòrag says. “Unfortunately, given that her driver is Tantal’s crown prince, it would have been somewhat of a conflict of interest.”

“You mean to say that mismatched little group following you around Torigoth included the Aegis?” Robalt says, incredulous.

“The very same,” Mòrag says.

“Then I suppose I have you to thank for thwarting the attempt on the Emperor’s life following the incident with the Titan weapon.”

“The Aegis and her companions have saved my life several times over, and none more than Nia,” Niall says. “I owe her a great deal.”

“You bringing it up at least twice a day doesn’t actually make it any less embarrassing, Your Majesty,” Nia says, smiling sweetly with the first hint of her distinctive bite Mòrag’s heard all night.

Niall blinks, staring, mouth slightly open, and only rouses himself when Mòrag prods him under the table. Robalt huffs out a laugh.

“Now I’m starting to remember,” he chuckles. “You’ve grown up a bit since then. You and— Dromarch, was it?—are a formidable team.”

“You’re too kind, Grand Marshal,” Dromarch intones, bowing his head. MacNamara scoffs, returning to his dessert. Bagley stays silent as usual. Geraghty is looking between Dromarch and Nia, eyes narrowed.

“You both do look rather familiar,” he says, just as nasal as Mòrag remembers. “But I’m not sure where I would have come across either of you.”

Nia smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I have one of those faces, I suppose.”

“It’s not that,” Geraghty strokes his chin. “Have you received any form of public attention previously? I can’t help but feel like I’ve seen you… on a poster, perhaps?”

Nia and Dromarch’s link begins to glow faintly, and Mòrag boots her under the table, hoping against hope that it’s too dim to be seen by non-drivers. Niall, to his credit, doesn’t falter, only gestures for the dishes to be cleared away.

“The Aegis was under suspicion for several months, Secretary Geraghty,” Mòrag says, “There were wanted posters for her and all her companions. Perhaps that’s what you’re referring to?”

“Of course, any charges were dropped once the Special Inquisitor discovered their true intentions,” Niall says. “Those posters are of no consequence.”

“Or perhaps the Secretary is thinking of another instance?” Brighid asks, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “It’s possible you’ve heard of Ursula, another one of Nia’s blades. She’s a wonderfully talented musician, you see, wildly popular among the youth. Why, just a few months ago, she was playing a show in Alba Cavanich. If you were in attendance, it’s very possible that—”

“Never mind that,” Geraghty snaps. “Perhaps it’s harder than I thought to tell all you Gormotti apart.” Out of the corner of her eye, Mòrag sees Niall pale. She holds her breath for a moment, but all Nia does is smile serenely.

“It’s not the first time I’ve heard something of that nature, Secretary.,” she says. “Nor will it be the last.”

“In the future, Secretary Geraghty,” Niall says, something like steel in his voice. “I would ask that you refrain from making such generalizations about the people of ally nations. Especially given that your responsibilities in Elysium are still somewhat nebulous.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Geraghty grits out, “My most sincere apologies.”

“Where exactly in Gormott do you hail from, Lady Nia?” Bagley speaks for the first time. “I confess I’m not as well-versed as I used to be, but I may know your family. I had some dealings with Lord Kizan some years ago.”

For the first time, something like hesitation crosses Nia’s face. “It’s possible,” she starts. “My father was Lord Echell, but he passed away some years ago after my sister and mother.”

“Ah,” says Bagley, expression unreadable. “My condolences.” Nia dips her head in acknowledgment and continues.

“The Praetorium… took me in, after their deaths, but their care was somewhat lacking,” she says. “Given what you know now about Amalthus, it shouldn’t be surprising. I fled back to Gormott, where I first met the Aegis and her driver.” Nia’s voice is clear, the story flowing from her like water. It wasn’t untrue, Mòrag thinks, just conveniently massaged to discourage more questions. Not for the first time, she resolves to spend more time with Nia, to speak uninterrupted by threats of world domination or apocalypse.

“I know Echell,” Bagley says, pensive, arms crossed. “But I last visited many years ago. I assume the territory has fallen into ruin now?”

“Yes,” Nia says quietly. “And there’s no reason to claim Echell land in Elysium. The line ends with me.”

At that, the table goes quiet, and no one makes a scene for the rest of the meal—even MacNamara, though he spends the rest of the evening with his expression a few shades shy of a sneer. Niall sees the guests out as is his duty, with compliments and promises to consider each proposal that had been mentioned throughout the night. Mòrag, Brighid, Nia, and Dromarch are ushered into the drawing room as he says his goodbyes, and as Mòrag sinks into the plush crimson armchair by the fire, she feels tension drain out of her for the first time since that morning.

“Architect,” Nia groans as she slumps into her own chair. “Nobles are exhausting.”

Brighid perches on the edge of Mòrag’s chair. “Ah, there you are. I was beginning to wonder if you’d been replaced by an imposter.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You must realize your demeanor was somewhat… changed, with those men,” Mòrag ventures.

Nia shrugs. “Well, yeah, you said be good. It’s not like I can’t act like I’ve got a stick up my arse, just don’t see the point most of the time.”

“I certainly can’t argue with that,” Mòrag says.

Brighid shakes her head with a smile. “It’s no wonder Dromarch’s always after you to clean up your act.”

“A rather fruitless endeavor, I’m afraid,” Dromarch huffs with a sigh.

“I’ll admit, your etiquette would have been useful a few times during our adventure,” Mòrag says. Nia shakes her head.

“No chance,” she says. “All you lot knew was that I was from Torna. How d’you explain something like knowing what all the bloody little forks do at a banquet?”

“That’s true enough,” Brighid says. “But I’m glad you trust us enough now to share that part of your life.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nia says, waving a hand, just as Niall comes in.

“How were goodbyes, Your Majesty?” Dromarch asks.

“Relatively uneventful,” Niall says. “Excellent work, everyone. No fires started, and a few extinguished along the way.”

“And Nia,” Niall turns to face her. “I must offer my most sincere thanks to you in particular. You navigated the evening fearlessly. It was much less painful than it could have been.”

“It was nothing,”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Niall says. “I daresay all of them were your admirers by the end of the night.”

“Except MacNamara.”

“Except MacNamara,” Niall allows. “But even for you, there are only so many miracles allowed in a night.”

“Oh, lay off,” Nia says, waving a hand. “If it’s that important, you can make it up to me by letting me prod you for a little longer tomorrow.”

Blood rushes to Niall’s face faster than Mòrag has ever seen it move, and Dromarch lets out a snort badly disguised as a cough. Somewhere behind her, Brighid’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“Of course,” Niall finally says. “Although I fear that’s for my benefit, as well.”

“You’re letting me stick around here, aren’t you?” Nia says. “What’s good for you is good for me.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Niall says.

“If he turns any redder, I’m worried we’ll lose him in the upholstery,” Brighid says, leaning in close, lips brushing Mòrag’s ear.

Mòrag frowns. “I don’t understand,” she says. “He’s always been so outgoing—to think he’d suddenly turn shy around a close friend of ours?”

Brighid is silent, and Mòrag turns to face her, so close her eyelashes brush Brighid’s closed lids. Brighid studies her expression for moment, then lets out an amused huff, pressing a finger to the divot between Mòrag’s brows.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” she says. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“You know something.” Mòrag says. It isn’t a question.

Brighid hums. “You two truly are family, aren’t you?”

“And just what does that mean?” Mòrag turns back to Niall, now engrossed in conversation with Nia and Dromarch. She watches how he gestures as he speaks, how animated he looks, how he turns to Nia as a flower turns to the sun—

“Brighid,” Mòrag says slowly, “Surely you don’t mean—”

“I haven’t said a word, Lady Mòrag,” Brighid replies, light as air.

No. Surely not. That would be ridiculous.

Nia laughs at something Niall says, and spots of color bloom high on his cheeks.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Chapter Text

“You’re looking chipper this morning,” Nia says. It’s been some time since the welcome dinner, and day by day, Niall improves. He’s still a little too thin, too pale, but his eyes are bright and he’s sitting straight in his chair—and he’s truly improving, Nia thinks wryly, because it no longer takes him a quarter of an hour to unbutton his shirt. Niall catches her eye and smiles, a crooked little thing Nia’s beginning to recognize as an expression he only shares with those close to him. The thought warms her, and she nudges at him affectionately with one of the hands pressed to his chest.

He hums. “I suppose I am, a bit.”

“D’you sleep any better last night?”

“Not especially,” Niall says. “But moving around feels somewhat less draining. It’s subtle, but I notice a difference.”

“You look a hell of a lot better from where I’m sitting,” Nia says. “You’re not nodding off in the middle of your sentences, for one.”

“It could be—well. I’m happy,” Niall says. Nia cocks her head. “In a way, I’d resigned myself to my condition. I was always a bit of a sickly child, you know—it wouldn’t be all that surprising that such a body couldn’t recover from fatal wounds. And when you said the only solution would be bonding with another blade… well. This is the first time in months I’ve felt progress. It’s nice,” he adds, like he was discussing the weather. “And it’s thanks to you.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say, Your Majesty,” Nia says. “You’d rather be a walking corpse than take on another blade?”

“Without a doubt.” Niall says, eyes hard. “I am no fighter—I will not subject another blade to a life tied to an incompetent driver.”

Something in Nia twists uncomfortably at that, but she nods. “Lucky I’m here, then.”

“More than I know, I suspect,” Niall says, holding her gaze.

Nia clears her throat. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you? It might be time to start setting some goals.”

“Goals?”

“You’ll recover faster if you’re working towards something. Is there anything you’ve wanted to do for the last few months?”

“Hm,” Niall is quiet for a moment. “Now that you mention it… it’s been some time since I was permitted to venture beyond the palace walls.”

“Permitted? You’re the Emperor, aren’t you?”

“Even as a child, once I ascended the throne, I didn’t have an heir. I was far too valuable to go far without appropriate protection. Even the summit in Indol… I would never have gone if the situation hadn’t been dire, and you know how well that worked out. I haven’t traveled since the evacuation to Elysium, and to be frank, I wouldn’t have had the strength to do it anyway. I would have met you all in Tantal the second your presence was confirmed, if I was able. Hm,” Niall muses. “I do still want to see Rex, to thank him in person. Perhaps Leftheria?”

Nia chuckles. “No one can say you aren’t determined,” she says, choosing not to examine the the way her stomach flips at the mention of Leftheria.”But let’s start small. If you’re feeling up to it, why don’t you try leaving the palace? Doesn’t have to be every day, but it’ll be good for you. I know I’d go crazy if I was stuck inside all day.”

“That sounds lovely,” Niall says. “I confess, I may have been exaggerating the number of walks I was taking when I spoke to Morag.”

“Oh, yeah? How many did you actually take?”

“Not even one,” Niall says, very seriously. Nia stares at him, and he keeps eye contact just long enough for the both of them to break into helpless laughter, even as Niall breaks into a coughing fit and Nia eases him through it. He has a little more color to him, Nia notices, but it’s not the fever of several days ago, and it’s not the embarrassed flush from the day after the welcome dinner. She likes it, she decides. It suits him.

“I know it’s probably still a security issue,” she says. “But I can come with you. For healing and for protection. Dromarch, too. I know,” she continues even as he takes a breath to interrupt. “You don’t want blades hovering around you like meat shields. But we’re not bonded to you, yeah?”

“Nia…” Niall says, a pinched expression creeping its way onto his face.

“It doesn’t have to be me, either. Architect knows you’re on your last nerve, having to sit here with me every day. But then you’ll have to deal with the Imperial Guard—Carriag, right? They look like they don’t mess around. Or I suppose you could just take Perceval—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Niall says hurriedly—a bit too hurriedly, Nia thinks.

“Emperor Niall,” she says, putting on a voice, unable to keep the smile out of it. “Surely you don’t have any kind of aversion to Perceval?”

”I—you—“ Niall sputters. The flush is back, spreading all the way down to his chest. “He’s terrifying,” he finally bursts out, and Nia nearly keels over with laughter once more. “If Rex hadn’t sent word along, I would have thought him an assassin.”

Nia very tactfully decides not to mention Perceval’s previous life. “Aw, Percy’s not all that bad.”

“Maybe he is trying to assassinate me,” Niall muses. “By wreaking havoc on my nerves.”

“Well, if he is, it’s not going very well.”

“Oh no, it is,” Niall sighs with, frankly, more drama than Nia had thought him capable of, and throws a mournful glance to the clock on the wall. “I fear I have only days left.” He winces as the words leave his mouth—either because of his current condition, or because of the international incident it implies, Nia’s not sure.

“Keep on whining and you’ll have even less, Your Majesty,” she says. Sure, threaten the ruler of the only country that’ll take you. Great work, idiot, she thinks. Niall’s laugh, breathy with relief, says otherwise.

“My apologies,” he says. “Perhaps I should take my chances with Perceval, after all.”

“He’s less scary the longer you’re around him,” Nia says, grinning. “You should be used to it. You’re Mòrag’s brother, after all.”

“Mòrag’s not scary!” Niall protests.

Nia raises an eyebrow. “Not even counting the fact that I first met her when she was interrogating me,” Niall hides his wince better this time. “She’s the best bloody driver in the Empire. Hell, she’s been trying to spar with Zeke for months now and he won’t take her on. That’s Thunderbolt Zeke, mind you—same bloke who followed us around Alrest for a year begging for a fight.”

“That may be—” Niall allows.

“Oh, how gracious of you,” Nia mutters.

“That may be,” Niall repeats, speaking over her. “But when you’ve seen her buying up half the cosmetics in Alba Cavanich because she lost one of Brighid’s daggers, well. She loses the intimidation factor, just a bit.”

“First of all,” Nia says, holding up a finger. “I’m gonna need the full story of that as blackmail. And second of all, you have a point. From your perspective, anyway. She’s your older sister—they’re always all gooey around their little siblings. I should know.”

“Oh, do you have a sister, Nia?” Niall asks politely, and he doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t know, who would have told him, you can’t tell him, why did you even bring this up, idiot, idiot, idiot—

“Nia?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, um. I’m sorry.” She takes a breath. “I did. Have a sister, I mean. She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Niall says quietly. “What was her name?”

“Carys,” Nia says, the words barely a breath. How long has it been since I said it out loud?

Niall closes his eyes a moment. “Carys,” he repeats, and Architect, hearing someone else say her name… “She was very loved, I can tell.”

“How’d you figure that?” Nia asks, and very deliberately does not acknowledge the way her voice cracks.

“She was your sister, Nia.” Niall says. “How could she not be?”

“You—” Nia’s voice cracks again, and to her horror, she can feel tears forming in her eyes. She shakes her head. “You’d better watch that silver tongue of yours, Your Majesty. Might get you in trouble one day.”

“I don’t mean to,” Niall starts. Nia pulls her hands away, breaking the connection. Niall inhales sharply at the loss.

“It’s been about an hour, I think,” she says, standing, brushing non-existent lint from her lap. “Let’s stop for today. You must be tired.”

“Nia…”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and we’ll go for a walk, yeah? We can do your transfusion afterwards, you’ll be too tired otherwise.”

Niall opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Yes, that sounds wonderful. Thank you again, Nia. For everything.”

She waves him off as always, ignoring the hot, sick feeling curling its way through her chest.

“It’s nothing. I’ll see you, Your Majesty,” she says, and leaves without looking back.

Don’t be a baby, Nia tells herself, pacing up and down the corridor outside Niall’s quarters. The sun hasn’t quite come up, and no one has interrupted her yet—she figures she has a few minutes before the Emperor’s valets realize someone is wearing a path in front of the imperial bedchamber. It’s chilly so early in the morning, even in her jumpsuit—she rubs her hands against her arms and absently wishes Pyra were here.

“Take this if you’re cold,” A voice says, very, very close behind her.

“Shit!” Nia hisses, and whirls around. “Perceval, one of these days I’m gonna be holding something sharp.”

Perceval blinks. “Usually, you are holding something sharp. If I want to surprise you, I choose moments when you’re not. Here,” he holds his hand out again, curled around a lit candle. The halls are still dim this early, before the palace’s staff have made their rounds, lighting fires and flipping switches. Where Perceval even found a flame, Nia has no—

“Percy,” she says, slow and deliberate. “Did you light that candle off of your head?”

“Is there a problem?” Perceval asks. “I don’t believe it functions differently than naturally occurring flame.”

“Nope, no problem!” she squeaks, voice a few shades higher than normal. She takes the candle and cups her palm around the flame. “Yep, straight from the skull, nothing weird about that. Like drinking milk right out of an armu.”

“I do hope that’s not on the agenda for this morning,” Niall says from behind them both. Nia nearly hurls her candle at him in surprise.

“Bloody hell, how long have you been standing there?”

“I’ve been up for some time,” Niall says, serene as ever. “And I heard voices. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he adds. Nia takes a closer look at him. He’s not as thin as he was, but the bruise-like shadows under his eyes have returned, and he’s pale and sallow with exhaustion.

“You’re feeling worse today,” she says. It’s not a question.

“We may have cut it a little short yesterday,” he says, apologetic, and Nia flinches.

“That was my fault,” she says before he can continue. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just—hard to think about, sometimes.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Niall says gently. “I understand.”

“Are you still up for walking? You look like you need a nap.” Niall shakes his head.

“If we don’t now, I won’t have time again for another few days. Although we may have to take it slow. You did promise,” he adds, a hint of teasing creeping through.

And Nia may be a former terrorist and a current flesh-eater, but she’s someone who keeps her promises. She sets her candle on a nearby table, offering a sunny smile and her elbow.

“Reporting for your walk, Your Majesty.”

Niall smiles so wide Nia has to blink once or twice in response, and takes her elbow like he’s handling glass. She notices he gives Perceval a wider berth—well, that won’t do at all.

“Perce, you’re coming too, aren’t you?” She feels Niall tense besides her.

Perceval cocks his head. “Would you like me to?”

“Unless you’ve blocked off time to polish your armor, yeah,” Nia says, and reaches up to rap him gently on the forehead. Perceval chuckles—a rasping, horrible thing that Nia remembers taking months to get used to—and she steals a glance at Niall, who looks rather like Nia knocked him over the head instead.

“Then let’s go,” Nia says, and starts towards the elevator, tugging at Niall to move him along. After just a few steps, Niall slows, his breathing growing labored. They make it partway down the hallway before Nia stops, abrupt. Niall nearly collides into her from behind and she steadies him with hands on his shoulders.

“Is something wrong?” Niall asks. Nia watches him with a frown.

“You’re too weak for this right now,” she says. “You’re out of breath just walking down the halfway, there’s no way you’d make it ‘round the palace gardens without a transfusion.”

Niall’s face falls. “I suppose there’s nothing for it, then.”

He turns to head back to his room. “Hold on, I didn’t say we couldn’t go,” she says, and watches him, considering.

“All right,” she says, and pulls her glove off, stuffing it into one of her jumpsuit pockets. “Left glove off.” Puzzled, Niall obeys, and Nia shoves his glove away before grabbing his hand and resuming her pace.

“Nia—!” Niall lets out a curious little noise that’s not quite a squeak.

“Relax, Your Majesty.” She holds up their joined hands, close enough to his face that he can see the faint glow emanating from them. “I can multitask. Feeling better now?”

“I—yes. Thank you.” The color is slowly returning to his face, and when she grins at him, he grips her hand a little harder.

“Well, come on then,” Nia says. They enter the elevator and out of the corner of her eye, she catches Perceval staring, un-blinking at their hands. She raises an eyebrow and he meets her gaze. His expressions are hard to read at the best of times, and right now, he looks a little like when Vale tried to teach him to weave.

“Perceval, think any harder and you’re gonna burn a hole right through His Majesty,” she says.

“My apologies, Emperor,” Perceval says. “I am often reminded of gaps in my knowledge. This is one of those times.”

“Oh, I see,” Niall says. “Is there anything in particular you are wondering? I’m happy to assist where possible.” Perceval gives them a long, searching look again—first Niall, then Nia—and seems to come to some sort of conclusion.

“From what I know about my previous life, and indeed in this current one, I have always been a man of action. A weapon, if you will, to aim in the direction of enemies. My role here has been somewhat different—to protect, rather than to eliminate. It’s apparent to me at times how little I know about… relationships,” he says after a pause.  It’s probably the longest Nia’s ever heard him speak. “Communication, diplomacy. The verbal arts.”

The elevator doors slide open and he continues. “I watch you navigate your day, Your Majesty, and it’s apparent you see the world differently than I do.”

“How so?” Niall asks.

“Answer me this. When faced with someone new, you see them not as a threat, but as an opportunity for connection. Am I correct?”

They step outside the palace walls. The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, orange light filtering through trees and washing over the grounds. The air buzzes with insects and birdsong, and the palace gardens are green and lush. A far cry from the original Hardhaigh, Nia thinks. Still, with the looming mass of the Ardanian titan behind the palace, the old climate isn’t so easily forgotten, and with the rising sun, she can already feel the temperature picking up. Sweat is beginning to bead at the back of her neck, but Niall’s hand in hers stays cool and dry. Ether still flows between them—if she concentrates, she can feel it leaving her hand, humming pleasantly as it goes. She’s kept up the transfer throughout the conversation with little effort—it’s been days since they started this, perhaps weeks, and by now, it’s second nature.

Niall hums a little to himself, mulling over Perceval’s question, and Nia is drawn back into the conversation.

“I suppose you’re right,” Niall says. “I don’t see much value in assuming the worst in people. Bad faith often causes more harm than good.”

“Spoken like someone who’s always had an army ready to die for them,” Nia says. Niall looks stricken, and she rushes to add, “Not a bad thing! You’re the Emperor, aren’t you? Most valuable person in the country—the world, even.”

“I do hope I add value beyond just my title,” Niall murmurs, not entirely mollified. Nia lets out a groan.

“Of course you do,” she says. “But what I mean is that you’re allowed to see the best in people. Some people don’t have that luxury. I sure as hell didn’t. And Percy here doesn’t either, right?”

“You may have a point,” Perceval allows. “Perhaps our different circumstances allowed for different perspectives. It’s a gift you have, Your Majesty, one that I admire. To trust, and ask for trust in return. Be sure not to squander it. That is all I meant to say.” And then, inexplicably, he reaches down and ruffles Nia’s hair.

“Percy!” Nia yelps, ducking away, finally letting go of Niall’s hand. “What the hell?”

“You do the same to me constantly,” Perceval rumbles. “Don’t be a… brat.” The words sound stilted and foreign from his mouth, and Niall lets out a snorting little laugh. Nia whips around to stare at him.

“Oi! Don’t laugh, you arse,” she says, and it sets him off even harder, enough that he buries his head in his hands to hide his expression. “Betrayed by the Emperor, I see how it is,” Nia says, feigning offense.

“Oh, hush,” Niall says in response, and it’s as close to scathing insult as he can muster. Nia sticks her tongue out at him, then grins. Niall turns to Perceval.

“Your words ring true, Perceval,” he says. “You have valuable insight. I would do well to seek your counsel more often. I would… like to speak with you more, if I may. Perhaps on another morning like this.”

“You need only ask, young Emperor,” Perceval responds. Niall dips his head with a smile.

“Then,” he says. “Shall we go on? I believe I have some energy in me yet.” Nia watches him, eyes clear, voice warm.

“Sure, Your Majesty,” she says after a moment, and takes his hand. “Let’s keep going.”

Chapter Text

The midday sun hits Nia directly in the eyes and she squints, putting a gloved hand over her eyes. Beside her, Dromarch looks unbothered, keeping a slow, measured pace next to her and carrying their haul from the day on his back.

“Please, Dromarch, there’s no need.” Niall had been horrified when Dromarch had taken the bags and swung them up onto his back. “I can carry them—we all can. I won’t have you struggling like a beast of burden.”

“Bags of trinkets from schoolchildren are hardly a burden, Your Majesty,” Dromarch rumbles, an amused twinkle in his eye. “Although I must say, I didn’t know you had quite so many admirers.”

“Honestly, Dromarch,” Nia rolls her eyes. “He’s the Emperor, how wouldn’t he have admirers?”

“It does happen from time to time,” Niall says. “Although those reigns typically don’t end so well for the emperor in question.”

“Ugh, don’t joke about that,” Nia says, knocking a friendly shoulder against Niall. He takes the blow without so much as a wince, nudging Nia right back. There’s still something fragile about him that Nia can’t quite identify, but he’s back to the state that Nia remembers, from all those months ago in Indol. Every day, they venture a little further beyond the palace walls, and Niall being Niall, takes the opportunity to turn the trips into morale boosters for the empire, venturing into markets and shops and theaters alike. Weeks and weeks have passed, more than Nia’s kept track of, and sometimes Perceval accompanies them, sometimes Dromarch or Brighid or Mòrag, but Nia is always there, hand clasped tightly in Niall’s and trying not to shy away from the curious eyes of the townspeople.

“Apologies,” Niall says, not sounding sorry at all. “Such is the life expectancy of a ruler.”

“Not as long as I’m around, you bastard,” Nia says, and walks a little faster. Niall hurries to catch  up—not that it takes him much time, bloody long legs—and murmurs something.

“What’d you say?”

“Oh, I—it was nothing,” Niall says. Nia eyes him suspiciously for a moment.

“Emperor Niall,” Dromarch says. “If you’re about ready to head back, one of the Imperial blades informed me of an alternate route you may find pleasing.”

“Oh, yes, Dromarch, that would be lovely,” Niall says. Grateful for the interruption, Nia thinks, a bit uncharitably. “Lead the way.”

The alternate route, as it turns out, is outside the main city, through a small woodland that borders the rear gate of the palace. Nia’s grown to like many of the people in new Alba Cavanich, but she much prefers this. The path is cool and shaded with trees she’s never seen before, and even with its proximity to the old titan, the forest is teeming with life and pleasantly temperate. She can hear her steps as she walks, crunching over twigs and fallen leaves, and luxuriates in it, in not having to conceal the sounds she makes or the space she occupies. Dromarch is enjoying himself trotting along, Nia can tell by the pleased flick of his ears and swoosh of his tail, but when she turns to look at Niall, she nearly misses a step.

His face is turned up, catching the dappled sunlight, and expression on his face is nothing short of sheer bliss. Nia chuckles and Niall turns to catch her eye—rather than look down and stammer as he’s wont to do out of some misguided sense of property, he grins, a wide, dazzling thing that Nia can’t help but return. His eyes are lidded, taking in as much sun as he can bear, and all Nia can see of his eyes are slits of bright, bright blue. Her face is warm, warmer than it should be, even in the patches of light they’re walking through, and she touches her unoccupied hand to her cheek, perplexed. Niall gasps, and Nia quickly regains her bearings.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Look!” Niall points away from the more established trail, where a smaller, worn path leads to a gap in the trees.

“Oh, yeah,” Nia says. “Must be a pond there or something. Looks like a path monsters make to a watering hole.”

“Shall we explore?” Niall asks eagerly, looking years younger than Nia has ever seen him. Then again, she thinks, this is probably the closest to his age he’s ever acted, if Rex is any comparison.

“Fine by me,” Nia says. “Dromarch? You got anywhere to be?”

“As a matter of fact… Perceval had asked to meet with me earlier, as soon as I was able.”

“That’s all right, then,” Nia says easily. “You go on ahead and His Majesty and I can check this out.”

He hesitates. “I confess… there was another reason I took you down this path. Perceval has been concerned, lately, for His Majesty’s safety.”

“Has something in particular happened?” Niall asks, brow furrowed.

“And why haven’t I heard about any of this? What the hell?” Nia asks. Her ears prick of their own accord, and she can feel her hackles rising. Dromarch looks at her for a moment, head cocked. An odd expression crosses his face for a moment, then fades.

“There’s no concrete threat, my lady,” he says. “It’s just that your trips into the capital have begun to draw attention. Mostly positive, of course—the people are thrilled to see more of their emperor, and your popularity has only increased. But as you know, attention of any kind… well. Neither of you should be overly concerned. We’re simply over-cautious. Call it learning from our past mistakes.”

“It’s appreciated as always, Dromarch,” Niall says, but his face has shuttered, the easy joy of moments ago drained away. “But I still believe you can go on ahead.”

Nia and Dromarch both open their mouths to protest, but Niall holds a hand up. “I understand your worry, I assure you. But you chose this route because it was off the beaten path, no? And Nia will be here should anything go horribly awry. If I may remind you both,” Niall adds gently. “I am not so fragile as I was months ago. This is simply a place where I’d like to linger, if I may.”

Nia takes a breath. “All right, Your Majesty. We can stick around. But don’t think we’re done talking about this!” She points a finger at Dromarch. “I’m this close to siccing Mòrag on you.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Dromarch says, with frankly, not as much fear as Nia would have liked. “But then, I’ll take my leave. Emperor Niall, where would you like me to bring the children’s gifts?”

“Would you have them sent to my quarters? I’d like to know who to thank later, if at all possible.”

“Of course,” Dromarch leans in and nudges his head against Nia, who in turn ruffles the scruff of his neck. “I will see you tonight, my lady, Your Majesty.”

“Careful walking back, you old furball,” Nia says, and gives him an extra scratch for good measure. Dromarch disappears down the trail, and almost before he’s out of sight, Niall grabs Nia’s hand again, tugging her towards the gap in the trees.

“Whoa! Where’s the fire, Your Majesty?” She asks, but keeps up with him all the same. The trees part, and the view they’re greeted with immediately makes the detour worth it. It’s more than a watering hole or a pond formed mostly by rainfall. Really, it’s a lake. Sandy beaches, though no more than a few feet long, a stream feeding into it on the opposite end, all manners of wildlife drinking at the mouth (after a quick look-around and a sigh of relief, Nia notes that they’re all herbivorous), and clear blue water so deep Nia can’t see the bottom. The resulting effect reminds Nia, forcefully, almost painfully, of Gormott.

“Wow,” she breathes. She chances a look at Niall to find that he’s similarly awestruck, gazing at the scene before them, mouth slightly open. That open, innocent look on his face is back, and she takes it in, marveling at the difference between the stoic, if a little weary expression she’s grown so used to over the last few months. She’s loathe to interrupt, but after giving him a moment, then two, she finally speaks.

“D’you want to get closer? We can sit for a while, do another transfer if you like.” She thought he’d jump at the chance, but something in his face dims at her words.

“We don’t have to!” she adds hurriedly. “Not if you don’t want, it just seemed like you wanted to stick around, that’s all.”

Niall smiles, and it’s a sad, pathetic little thing. Nia hates it. “It’s not that I don’t,” he says. “My sister and I used to play somewhere very similar, once. The likeness caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

Nia tilts her head. “Not to be rude… but where on Mor Ardain did you find a place like this?”

“I was born on Mor Ardain,” Niall says. “But for the bulk of my childhood, Mòrag and I were raised in Gormott. Lake Yewtle, to be more specific. Are you familiar?”

For a moment, Nia can’t speak.

“Carys, please, be more careful! I can only heal you if you aren’t eaten by something in one go.”

“You worry too much, Nia, I’m fine, I promise,” The words were cut off in a coughing fit, and right away, Nia was there, rubbing her shoulders, leeching some of the pain away.

“Just because today is a good day doesn’t mean you can push yourself like that,” she chides her sister, still gentle in spite of her words. She can’t be anything but, with Carys.

“I know, I know, it’s just that—there are children out there, you know? From the town, nearby. There’s rumors that Ardanians will start coming ‘round too, because of the annexation! Think of all those people, so close, and we’ve never even seen them! It… it would just be nice, is all. To be a part of that.”

“Carys… “ Nia sighs. Echell and Yewtle bordered each other on the Upper Level, but even making the trip here took the better part of a day with the speed at which Carys could move. There was no way she’d make it all the way down to the lake, not while having to return before the day’s end, and they both knew it. “I’ll tell you what. One day, I’ll go sit there all day, talk to those brats from the village, and then come home and tell you all about it. I know it’s not the same, but I’ll remember every single thing, I promise, and you can ask me anything you want about them. How about it?”

Her face is a still a little sad, but Nia would take sad over sick, any day. “Okay. But you’d better do it! Promise?”

“On my life,” Nia swears.

And years later, tear-streaked and shaking, in the middle of the night, Dromarch in tow, Nia keeps her promise.

“Nia?” Niall is watching her anxiously. “Are you all right?”

“I—yes,” she says. “Yewtle… I know it well. My sister—it was a spot she loved.”

“I see,” Niall says. He’d shifted closer as her thoughts had wandered, and he squeezes her hand. The firm touch helps, and her thoughts return gradually to the here and now.

“You’re right,” she says after a moment. “This place really is like Lake Yewtle. I didn’t see it at first.”

Niall smiles, a bit wistful. “We spent many days there. Remembering the child I was then, then the man I am now… I’m having some trouble reconciling the two. There are some things we can no longer do, that’s all.” His expression is all too familiar, both on his face and a face Nia will remember  until her last breath, and suddenly, she wants nothing more than to change it.

“Fuck that,” bursts out of her, and Niall’s eyes go wide in surprise. “Who’s to say you can’t do what you used to?”

“Much as I dislike it at times,” Niall responds hesitantly, “There is etiquette expected of an emperor.”

“Well, I don’t see any of your subjects around, do you?” Nia asks, and winks. “I’m a free agent, remember?”

“I won’t soon forget,” Niall says, something soft behind his eyes.

“So spill! What was your favorite thing to do? Was it a game? I’ll bet you I can play better than Mòrag ever could.” She puffs up her chest, and Niall lets out a chuckle.

“If you must know,” Niall says, eyes lighting up in spite of himself. “We used to shake off the servants and go swimming. Those days in the water… they were some of the best I ever had. “

“Ah,” Nia says. Very eloquent, dumbass. Oh, that’s where the little Mythra in her head had gone. It had been a while.

Niall’s face falls, just slightly. “Of course, I understand that it’s a bit of an intimate activity. I wouldn’t want to put in you in a compromising position—”

Nia recovers in record time. “Bloody hell, it’s not like you’re asking me to get naked.”

“Nia!” Niall squeaks, ears bright red.

“Honestly, it’s more embarrassing than that,” Nia says, choosing to ignore the increasingly alarming shade of Niall’s face. “So don’t laugh.” She points a finger threateningly in his face.

“I would never,” he says solemnly, earnest to the last.

“I can’t—ugh. It’s just…I can’t swim.”

The following silence stretches far longer than Nia is comfortable with. Finally, she can take it no longer.

“Architect, say something!”

“Sorry!” Niall says on reflex. “I didn’t intend to leave you hanging. But—” Nia would find the bewildered look on his face adorable, were it not for the context. “You’re a water blade.”

“Bloody hell, am I?” Nia snaps. “I wish someone had told me, I would’ve gone and learned.”

“I confess, I’m having trouble understanding,” Niall says, brow furrowed. “I’m sure Aegaeon knew how to swim. In fact, he quite enjoyed it.”

“Hell if I know why,” Nia shrugs. “But it’s more common than you’d think. Dromarch gets seasick, you know,” she says, and snickers at his expression. “And… it’s not like all wind blades can fly! But somehow Mythra can? And, and—” she’s lost the point, somewhere, but what the hell, “Perceval is literally on fire half of the time, and he’s not even a fire blade. One of Zeke’s blades is convinced he is a fire blade even though he’s ice, don’t ask me how that one makes sense—”

“All right, all right, I’ve learned my lesson,” Niall says in between his laughter. “But how in the world did you get around Alrest without learning to swim?”

“Well,” Nia scratches at the back of her neck. “Dromarch knows, and so did most of the water blades. Mòrag's military, and Rex is a salvager, obviously, but Brighid hates the water. Pandoria too, and Poppi couldn’t stay in for all that long before her joints started going all wonky. So most of the time, we’d have to find some alternate way around wherever we were anyway. And if something needed swimming out to and scouting, I just… didn’t volunteer. In a pinch, I could hang on to Dromarch and get by.”

“I see,” Niall looks pensive, a hand on his chin. “Nia, would you like to learn? You’re under no obligation, I assure you, but it seems a shame to me, to be honest, to have so much love for the water and yet not be able to experience it.”

Nia almost refuses on reflex. She’s been around for centuries, probably, and never picked up anywhere along the way, how useful could it be? But out here… the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and Niall Ardanach was whole and healthy beside her. Miracles do happen, now and again.

“Ah, what the hell,” she says. “Why not?”

The resulting grin she gets from Niall, she decides, makes whatever resulting torture worth it.

“Excellent!” he says with real enthusiasm, and clasps his hands together. “But first… neither of us have suits.”

“Oh,” Nia says, looking down at her jumpsuit. “That.”

She knows that when you swam for pleasure you wore a swimsuit, obviously. Most of their friends had had them—even Brighid, who wouldn’t go further than knee-deep in the water, and that was after a solid thirty minutes of Mòrag's puppy eyes, which are surprisingly effective, Nia muses.   But even in all of their impromptu aquatic adventures, Nia had always stayed well out of the reach of water. She could just use her blade getup, she supposed, but the thought of her core crystal on full display, ether lines glowing bright even in the sunlight—too much somehow. She wasn’t ashamed of her origins, and she’d meant every word she’d said back in the Spirit Crucible, but something had changed in the fall from the Tree. The thought of being wholly a blade again, being wholly Rex’s blade…it didn’t sit with her the same way it used to.

“Nia?”

“Turn around for a second,” Nia says. Niall complies immediately. “If you peek, I’ll know!”she adds fiercely, before closing her eyes and concentrating. It’s uncommon, but it’s not unheard of for a blade to change their appearance to suit the situation, if only temporary. Nia’s better at it than most, having lived as a Gormotti driver for so long, but it does take some adjustment.

“All right,” she says after a moment. “You can look.” Niall turns, and his eyes widen. She’s replaced her jumpsuit with a sundress of the same color; not quite a swimsuit, but as close as she’s willing to get for now. It’s not perfect—she’s kept her ether lines concealed along with her core crystal, but as a result, her ears have returned to their original form, facing the right way around and hair trailing by her knees.

“Nia, you…” Niall trails off, blinks rapidly. “I didn’t know blades could change like that.”

“I’m not most blades, am I?” she winks. “But it’s only temporary. I’d give it an hour before I start sprouting sleeves again.”

“That’s more than enough,” Niall says, seemingly recovered. “But—what shall I do?”

Nia shrugs. “I did trek halfway round Alrest with a load of guys. Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.”

“All right,” Niall looks thoughtful. “I suppose you have had your hands in my organs.”

Nia snorts, and the odd tension that’s sprung up between them bursts like a bubble. “You’re an odd one, Your Majesty.”

She dutifully turns as Niall undresses, peeling off layer after layer and folding them neatly into a pile on the bank. At his signal, she turns around and gives him a once-over. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before—after all, they have a transfusion in his study at least once a day. This feels different, somehow—seeing Niall without his circlet, bare feet sinking into the muddy lakeside and the small abdominal scar still remaining from that day shining in the sunlight. Nia starts to feel an odd heat start at the back of her neck and promptly ignores it, clapping her hands together.

“Right! How do we do this?”

Niall considers her for a moment, considering. “You said you’ve managed to stay in the water while holding on to Dromarch, yes?” Nia nods. “Then perhaps we start with floating, and go from there.”

“Fine by me,” Nia says.

“Excellent. Then, why don’t we begin? We’ll start in the shallows, and work our way inwards.”

“All right.”

Niall begins to make his way into the water. When he’s about waist-deep, he stops.

“This should be far enough for now. Trying making your way over here.”

Nia nods and puts one foot in the water, then two. Water has always felt comfortable, just as much so as air. She has no trouble manipulating it, feeding ether through it to bend to her wait, to repair or to destroy, and yet…

“Nia?”

“Sorry,” she says, standing ankle-deep in the lake and beginning to tremble. “My damn legs won’t move.”

“Ah,” Niall says, something like indulgence in his voice. “A common problem. How about this?” he asks, and returns to where she’s standing. He takes one of her hands in both of his, and on reflex, Nia begins to send him ether.

“That’s always appreciated,” Niall says, a twinkle in his eye. “But not my intent for right now.” He takes a step back, then another, and Nia follows him on instinct. His hands are warm even in the the bright sunlight.

“Is it uncomfortable,” he asks. “To keep your ears concealed for so long? Does it cause you any strain?”

“A bit,” Nia says. “But I’ve done it for so long, I don’t really think about it.”

“They suit you,” Niall says. “The hair, too.”

The heat at the back of her neck intensifies. “Hmph. There’s no harm in having it like this more often, I guess. Although getting it wet like this is bloody annoying.” It’s starting to weigh down around her waist, sticking to her thighs along with the fabric of her dress. Which means—Nia looks down and finds herself in water up to her chest, taking small but deliberate steps forward alongside Niall. She yelps in surprise and hurls herself forward, wrapping both arms around Niall and clinging like a Squood. Niall grunts a little at the sudden blow, but holds his ground, returning the embrace and letting out a warm, amused laugh.

“I’m in the water,” she says.

“Yes,” Niall says. “That is a rather necessary part of the process.”

“You distracted me,” she says accusingly.

“But look how far you’ve come,” Niall says, placating. They haven’t moved any further, and Nia takes a moment to register their surroundings. The water is up to her chest, yes, but it doesn’t feel like it’s sucking her down quite as much as it typically does. She can feel her legs, and she can feel her feet on the sandy lake bottom. On the opposite shore, a herd of Garnia Camills bends to drink from the water, and Nia watches as one of the young ones skitters between its parents, dipping one hoof into the water, then darting away. If she’s not mistaken, this particular species was native to Leftheria. She wonders about the journey they’ve taken—how far must they have walked, to make it to Mor Ardain? How did they make it off the titan? What made them decide to seek out something new? She takes one deep breath, then another, and turns to face Niall.

“You’d better not drop me,” she says.

“Never,” Niall says.

“Okay,” Nia says. “Then keep going.”

Step by step, they wade deeper into the lake until Niall stops.

“After this point,” he says. “I believe your feet won’t touch the bottom. Do you remember how to float?”

Too nervous to speak, Nia nods.

“Wonderful,” Niall says, painfully earnest. “Let’s try it.” He moves his hands to her waist, and she takes a single step before the bottom disappears out from under her. She gasps even though she was expecting it, and her hands tighten on his shoulders.

“It’s all right,” Niall says, low and soothing. “Remember to breathe.”

“Right,” she says, and slowly relaxes, kicking experimentally and staying upright. Before long, Niall is floating too, and they’re nearly in the center of the lake. Nia still has a firm hold on his shoulders, but Niall is swimming normally, with measured, even strokes and a grace he doesn’t quite possess on land. It reminds her of swimming with Dromarch that first trip through Leftheria, and when she braces herself for the ache, it doesn’t come.

“This isn’t so bad,” she says. Niall looks back and her and smiles, a wild kind of delight in his eyes Nia doesn’t think she’s ever seen.

“Want to try floating on your own?” he asks, and against all instinct screaming at her, she nods. Gently, he disentangles from her until only their hands remain connected. The flow of ether lights up again, but, Nia notices, looking a little closer, the color isn’t quite right. The blue green of healing magic is there, yes, but there’s something odd about it, almost like—

“Nia,” Niall says, a touch teasing. “I’m fine.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, and breaks the link. “S’just habit.”

“No need to apologize,” he says. “Look.”

She looks, and she’s unattached in the water, staying upright and afloat of her own accord. She’s oddly proud in spite of herself, and without meaning to, she lets out a delighted whoop. Niall’s hair, completely soaked now, gleams like a precious stone in the sunlight, and patches of color spread high on his cheeks.

“Your Majesty,” she starts, and Niall frowns just slightly.

“Would—do you think you could,” he stumbles over his words, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“What is it?” Nia asks. There’s an odd weight between them, suddenly.

“Call me by my name,” he says. “Please.”

“What?” Nia asks. It’s not what she thought he’d ask.

“Few people use it,” he says. “And I’m well aware that I must be Emperor Niall first, and just Niall second. But sometimes… even Mòrag—” his face twists, and he doesn’t bother to finish the sentence.

Nia smiles in a way she hopes is reassuring. “Sure, Your—Niall,” she says, correcting herself. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I would like to think so,” Niall says, with a wry smile Nia can’t quite interpret.

“Then, thank you, Niall.” Nia says. “Seriously. It means a lot that you’d do this.”

The water is cool to the touch, but Nia is pleasantly warm. Niall’s eyes are startlingly blue. “There’s a lot I would do, Nia,” he says quietly. “You need only ask.”

Chapter Text

Six months after leaving Theosoir, Nia wakes up at the crack of dawn, shaking and sweating through her sheets. She flails around blindly for a second, gasping for air, and stills as she gains awareness, the glow of her ether lines bringing light to the dark of the room. She’s in her blade form—odd, considering how she tries to avoid staying like this for any length of time. Her ether lines are bright, and on her chest, her crystal glows, blood-hot like she’s about to cast a special. Puzzled, she presses a hand to it and nearly hisses at the heat. Why would…

Tentatively, she stretches and has to muffle a groan. She’s sore, aching in a way she hadn’t since they’d been climbing the Tree, battle-weary and sick with worry. Architect above, I must have had a hell of a dream, she thinks, and yawns, scrubbing a hand across her face. Well, nothing for it. She’ll never fall back asleep now, she knows, not with the first signs of daylight lingering about the horizon. Nia sighs and gets up, padding across her room to start the day, slipping her jumpsuit back on as she goes.

In the hallway, she catches a flash of blue, and lets out a short, sharp whistle in two notes, an old battle signal. Brighid whirls around and relaxes at the sight of Nia, a new half-formed whipsword fading back into the ether. She waits, and Nia jogs to catch up.

“Impressive,” Nia says, gesturing to where the sword had disappeared. “You’re quicker at manifesting than I remember.”

“When we fought Amalthus, his limbs had disarmed Mòrag of both weapons,” Brighid says. “I vowed to regenerate them faster since. It’s been a goal of ours in training, lately.”

“Well, it looks bloody brilliant to me,” Nia says, “but you didn’t need me to tell you that.”

“I suppose not,” Brighid says, looking thoughtful. “Now that I think of it, Nia, I haven’t seen you and Dromarch at the training grounds in quite some time.”

Nia grimaces at the unasked question, but Brighid simply waits patiently.

“It’s gonna sound weird, so don’t laugh,” she threatens. “But for the last, what, ten-odd years? Dromarch and I’ve been on the run. It only stopped when we met you lot, and then we just swapped running for fighting. I know it’s not the same now, but it—it sort of feels like if I start training, then I’ll be training for another fight. I know it doesn’t make any sense, so—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Nia,” Brighid says gently. “I think I understand.”

“I know you and Mòrag never stopped training, I know, but—”

“Lady Mòrag and I are trained soldiers,” Brighid says. “We blades may not age like humans do, but you were still very young, fighting more than you should have had to. It makes perfect sense to me.” To her horror, Nia feels the telltale prickle of tears, and she coughs to distract from the surreptitious wiping of her eyes. She must really be tired, she thinks. The sun’s not even up yet and I’ve already gone and started blubbering.

“All I’ll say,” Brighid continues. “Is that it’s good for blades to train from time to time, if only to regulate their ether flow and re-establish a connection with their driver. I know the rules aren’t entirely the same with you,” she continues as Nia opens her mouth to remind Brighid exactly where her driver is. “But still, I’m sure it would be helpful. I’m happy to spar with you at any time, blade-to-blade, and I know Lady Mòrag would do the same, driver-to-driver.”

“Thanks, Brighid. Really. Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” Nia says, and clears her throat. “Anyway. What are you up to, wandering about this early?”

“No particular reason,” Brighid says, placid as ever. “You know I’m something of an early riser.”

“Fair enough,” Nia says. It’s true—she and Brighid were always the first awake, either relieving whoever was unlucky enough for night watch or eating pastries and chatting quietly as they watched the sun rise. It would have made perfect sense, if Nia hadn’t known all of Brighid’s tells and caught the twitch of her right hand as she spoke.

Nia’s eyes narrow. “You’re lying. Why would—”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Brighid says, amusement clear.

“You’re the worst,” Nia complains.

“So I’ve been told,” Brighid says, not bothered in the slightest. She takes Nia by the arm. “Now, if we move quickly, we can still sneak into the kitchens before they open.”

Nia’s eyes widen. The staff have taken to chasing her and her sticky fingers out of the kitchens between meals. “Then what are we waiting for?”

The reason behind Brighid’s secrecy comes a few hours later, after Mòrag and Niall have joined them for breakfast, and Nia is stretching, trying in vain to rally herself for an hour of transfusions. She stands from the table.

“All right, you ready to do this, N—Your Majesty?” she catches herself just in time, and Brighid raises an eyebrow. Nia glares at Brighid, refusing to elaborate. She’s taken to calling Niall by his name easily enough, but it feels odd, somehow, to do so around others—particularly Brighid and Mòrag, who stick to royal conduct more rigidly than half the palace staff.

“Actually, Nia,” Niall says. “A few senators have requested I speak with them this morning.”

“Perceval has informed me that they’re currently waiting in the throne room,” Mòrag adds. “I’ll accompany you as well—Brighid and I are expecting some visitors.”

“Would you like to come along, Nia?” Brighid asks. “I have a feeling you’ll find them quite interesting.”

Nia bites back the reflexive Absolutely fucking not that threatens to escape, and thinks for a moment before nodding. She has a feeling it’ll have something to do with Brighid’s strange behavior, anyway.

The four of them make their way to the throne room, where two senators were waiting for them, as promised.  A short woman with a sleek dark bun stands on ceremony, eyes lighting up and hand extended, while a taller woman, rail-thin and dishwater blonde, waits beside her, arms crossed.

“Your Majesty,” the short one says. “Thank you so much for taking time out of your day, I know your schedule is—”

Niall raises a hand. “It’s my pleasure, Senator. Allow me to make introductions. Lady Nia, might I introduce you to Senator Moira Hedden—” the short woman bows with a smile, “and Senator Imogen Kilbride?”

Nia gives them her best curtsy. She gets the sense that the stakes aren’t quite as high as they were that first night, but still. Her presence in the palace has been an accepted oddity thus far, a quirk of the Special Inquisitor’s generosity, but she’s well aware of how quickly things can change. Best to be careful, she thinks.

“Senator Kilbride was our liaison with the Praetorium,” Niall continues. The tall woman’s eyes narrow, but before she can interject, he corrects himself. “Rather—she remains as acting liaison as we navigate the new parameters of our relationship with what remains of the Praetorium. Her insight has been invaluable.”

“Just doing my duty, Your Majesty,” Kilbride drawls with a sharp smile that immediately has Nia on edge. “We’re determined to set the Praetorium right again.”

Nia returns her smile, syrupy-sweet and empty-headed as she can make it. “Sounds like you’re doing incredible work, Senator. My congratulations.”

“And Senator Hedden is the newest head of the Department of Research and Technology,” Niall adds. “She’s already done incredible work assisting in the migration from our titan.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Lady Nia,” Hedden says, eagerly bowing. “I heard all about the Aegis group’s efforts in Temperantia. You were instrumental in stopping Torna. I was only working in the capital then, since Senator Roderich was in charge then, but, well—anyway!” A flush spreads over her cheeks and she straightens up abruptly, tugging at her clothes.

“The pleasure is all mine, Senator,” Nia says. “And you’ve done a great job so far, if what I’ve seen in the new capital is any indication.”

“Now, Your Majesty, we’ve got quite a few action items, if you’d like to get started. Special Inquisitor, Lady Brighid, you may want to be in attendance as well,” Kilbride says.

Mòrag nods. “Yes, of course. Perceval?” He emerges out of the shadows, seemingly from nowhere, and Nia privately snickers at the way Kilbride suppresses a shudder.

“They’ve just arrived, my lady,” Perceval says. “Shall I call them in?”

“Yes, thank you,” she says.

“They?” Nia asks.

Mòrag just smiles and turns towards the massive double doors. They creak open, and Dromarch slips through. I was wondering where he’d got to, Nia thinks, and then promptly stops thinking as Praxis, Theory, Kora, Floren, and keeping an eye on them all, Wulfric, file in. For a single, beautiful moment, there’s silence, which is promptly shattered by Praxis and Kora screeching in unison. They sprint to Nia, Floren close behind, nearly tackling her, and decorum forgotten, Nia returns their embrace with equal strength.

“What the bloody hell are you all doing here?” Nia asks.

“We’ve been planning a visit for ages,” Praxis says, nearly vibrating with excitement. “But Brighid said it would be fun to surprise you!”

“Are you surprised? You are, aren’t you? I knew it would be a good idea,” Kora adds.

“You’re all demons,” Nia says emphatically, and hugs them closer for good measure. She glances back, belatedly realizing her etiquette had gone out the window, only to find Mòrag and Brighid  had strategically herded the senators into an alcove, out of her line of sight. Brighid catches her eye and smiles knowingly, and Nia feels warmth spread through her chest. 

Mòrag excuses herself, and makes her way over to her visitors. Praxis throws herself at Mòrag in turn, Theory hot on her heels and latching onto her driver so tightly Nia winces in sympathy. Floren detangles himself from Nia and hovers around Mòrag excitedly, clasping her hands and chattering away. Nia smiles—she might be his driver, but Floren and Mòrag had a close bond for as long as she can remember. Kora lingers, an arm slung around Nia’s shoulders, and Nia soaks up the contact. It’s always a relief for a driver and blade to be united, and doubly so for the blade. She squeezes Kora a little tighter and watches Wulfric clumsily pat Mòrag on the head.

“How long are you here?” Nia asks.

“Only a couple of days,” Floren says, frowning a little. “We’re actually on our way back from a merc mission.”

“We’re headed to the new Garfont next,” Kora says. “There’s still so much that has to be done everywhere! I’ve never worked this hard, not even when we were all traveling together.”

“Oh, is that right?” Nia says, crossing her arms.

“Aw, I don’t mean it like that, Nia!” Kora says. “And anyway, Yew and Zuo said to take our time coming back. They say hi, by the way.”

“Yep!” Praxis says. “We’re on vacation! We can do whatever we want! Nia, will you take us to all your favorite places? Who sells the best desserts?”

“You know Mòrag and Brighid are actually Ardainian, right?” Nia points out.

“But that’s why we can’t ask them,” Praxis says. “We’re tourists! It’s different when you’re a native.”

“None of us are really native in Elysium, though,” Nia says.

“And beyond that, Nia’s been here for quite some time,” Mòrag says. “She could very well be a native to this version of Mor Ardain.”

“Come off it,” Nia scoffs. “Me, native?”

“Is it so outlandish?” Mòrag asks. “You’ve been back here just as long as Brighid and I.”

“That’s different and you know it,” Nia says, but the thought stays with her.

“Does that mean Dromarch’s Ardainian now, too?” Praxis asks.

He lets out a thoughtful rumble. “An intriguing thought, to be sure. Are blades from anywhere in particular?”

“Well, Brighid is, and Pandoria too. But I wonder if they know that right when they’re woken up. We should ask Brighid to check her journal, maybe it’s something that—”

“All right, enough blabbering, we’ve got things to do, places to see!” Kora says.

“Rich coming from you,” Nia says, and promptly ducks under the zap Kora sends her way.

“I thought a native Ardainian would be more excited to show me their new home, Nia,” Kora says, batting her eyelashes.

“Hush, you,” Nia says. “And anyway, we can’t go anywhere until these two are finished with whatever they’re doing.”

“I wager Brighid and I will be occupied for some time,” Mòrag says. “Why don’t you show everyone around? You’ve done enough exploring with His Majesty that you’ll make a fine guide.”

“What kind of arsehole d’you think I am? I’m not just gonna go gallivanting around while you two work.”

“Nia,” Mòrag says, and takes Nia’s hands in her own. “You’ve been doing so much. Please, enjoy the day. And because I know you’ll still object,” she continues, a twinkle in her eye. “Consider it a request from me. Brighid and I simply don’t have time to leave the palace today.”

Nia groans. “You’re not making this easy, are you?”

“Great work, Mòrag!” Praxis chirps. “Really twisting her arm!” Theory scoffs, but Nia sees her hiding a smile. Traitor. 

“Well, what about His Majesty?” Nia asks. “I’d normally do his transfusion right about now.”

“I think I can manage for the day,” Niall says from behind Nia. She lets out a sound that is very much not a yelp and turns to face him.

“You felt awful the last time you missed a day,” she reminds him.

“That was several months ago,” he responds. “And I’m in far better condition now. Wouldn’t you say so, as my healer?”

“You’ve gotten cheekier, that’s for sure,” she mutters. Niall laughs, and Nia catches Kora and Floren exchanging wide-eyed glances. She leans over to ruffle Floren’s hair.

“Hey, you didn’t look half as scared when we were mowing down Ardainian Citadels,” she says. “He won’t bite, promise.”

“They made me stop when I became Emperor,” Niall says solemnly. Nia snorts.

“Hey, he’s funny!” Praxis says. “Just like you, Mòrag!”

Mòrag frowns. “I didn’t think I was particularly funny. I hardly ever joke.”

“Of course you don’t,” Kora cuts in, sliding an arm around Mòrag and elbowing Praxis in a single smooth motion Nia makes a note to use sometime. “That’s our Flamebringer!”

“Are we going or what?” Theory says. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll still be wandering around the city at midnight.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” Nia says, untangling herself once again.

“If you don’t mind, my lady, I’ll stay with Wulfric and Perceval,” Dromarch says. “We have much to discuss.”

“Don’t go acting all official on me, you old furbag,” Nia says. “I remember how you three would sit around gossiping like old ladies during book club.” Dromarch gives her an affectionate swat that she takes gamely.

“I’ll fill you on everything we discuss in this evening,” Mòrag says, “Unless you’d like me to invite our colleagues for dinner?”

“I think I’d rather pull out my own toenails,” Nia says.

Mòrag chuckles. “Point taken. I’ll let Brighid know to start dropping hints if they stay past noon.”

Nia and the blades leave in a whirl of chatter and laughter,  but she still spares a glance back to the stairs. Mòrag and Brighid are speaking with Kilbride, and judging by the way Mòrag’s posture is even more ramrod-straight than normal, it’s already going poorly. A stray spark flies off Brighid’s boots in a rare loss of control, and Nia’s half-turned around and ready to crash the conversation before she realizes she’s even moved.

Idiot. What would you even do to help? It hits her in a sickening rush that there’s not much she knows about the state of affairs in Mor Ardain, much less in Elysium, especially considering how long she’s been here. Beyond the first week, her days have been spent in a pleasant haze, wandering about the palace or the capital, napping with Dromarch, and bit by bit, healing the fathomless wound in Niall’s chest.

Not exactly wasted effort, I guess, she thinks begrudgingly. But something about the curve of Kilbride’s mouth sets the hairs at the back of her neck on edge, and her being the Praetorium’s liaison doesn’t help one bit. Moira Hedden seems sweet enough, if a bit dim, but Nia’s spent years fiercely distrustful of government, and having a few big-hearted Ardainian royals for friends isn’t enough to change that.

She hesitates another moment and catches Niall’s eye, who’s momentarily distracted from his own conversation with Wulfric and Perceval.

Go, he mouths with a smile, and the last bit of her hesitation bleeds away like snowmelt. She throws a wink back and turns to cajole Floren into giving her a piggy-back ride on the way to town.

To no one’s surprise, as soon as they’re out of the palace, Praxis takes off like a shot.

“Oi, slow down! Got somewhere to be?” Nia calls after her.

“We were stuck on the Titan ship for hours,” Praxis says. “I can’t help it!” She leaps around the corner, out of sight, and Nia groans.

“The merchants on the ship gave us a map,” Theory says. “I’ll keep an eye on her. Meet in the town square?”

Nia nods, and Theory darts after her sister. There’s silence for a moment.

“Floren, you can go with them if—” Floren is gone before she finishes her sentence, and Nia sighs.

“Bet you missed us now, right?” Kora says with a grin.

“I actually did, you menace,” Nia pokes her in the side. “But things are a lot quieter without thirty-odd blades trying to jam themselves into an inn.”

“You can say that again! Garfont’s just as crazy as it always was. Almost everyone’s come around since we left Tantal. Except for you Ardainians, that is,” Kora adds.

“Oh, shove off.”

“Although,” Kora says, a sly look in her eye. “If I was that friendly with an emperor that looked like that, I can’t say I’d be willing to travel either.”

“Kora!” Nia yelps, face aflame. “I’m his healer, for Architect’s sake.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t take a peek or two,” Kora sings out. “He’s grown up good, hasn’t he? He was shorter than you the last time I saw him!”

“How am I supposed to remember? It’s been years.”

“Don’t give me that load of armu dung,” Kora says gleefully. “I’ve only been here a few minutes and you two were making eyes at each other the whole time.”

“Shut it,” Nia hisses.

“I kid, I kid,” Kora says, slinging an arm around Nia’s shoulders. “Really, I’m glad you’re having fun here! We were all worried about you for a little while there.”

“Oh? Who’s we?”

Kora’s face pales. “Oh, you know… no one! Anyway, we’d better get going before we get too far behind!” She dashes off ahead, and Nia sighs. Just like old times, she thinks, and breaks into a jog.

As promised, they catch up with the rest of their group in the town square. In Elysium, water was a plentiful resources, and the Ardainians had taken full advantage, adding water features in every spot they could. It suited the new Alba Cavanich, humanized it a bit. Evidently Praxis agrees, Nia thinks wryly, because she’s currently knee deep in one of the fountains, surrounded by giggling children and blowing bubbles. Floren is beside her, blooming flowers in the palms of his hands and handing them out obligingly. Theory stands a little ways away, guarded as always but fighting a smile.

“You two can’t help but draw a crowd, can you?” Nia calls out, grinning.

“It’s our winning personalities!” Praxis chirps back.

“I’ll have you know I’m an absolute delight,” Floren says, dropping an ornate flower crown onto the nearest child.

“And humble to boot,” Nia shoots back. She checks the position of the sun in the sky. It’s just after midday—even taking into account Praxis’s flightiness and Kora’s tendency to ramble, they should have enough time to do plenty of sightseeing.

Famous last words, Nia thinks wryly as she watches the last rays of sun sink below the horizon. Forget sightseeing—they’d never made it past the town square. Between entertaining what must have been half the city’s schoolchildren and the fact that Nia was now apparently recognizable as a member of the Imperial court, their group had been completely bogged down by curious passerby and Praxis’s tendency to buy something in every shop she visits.

“Praxis, wrap it up! We’re heading back with or without you!” As if on cue, Nia’s stomach growls. Architect, I must be really starving if I’m craving Ardainian food.

“Coming, coming!” Praxis calls.

“At this rate, it’ll be midnight before we get to sleep,” Theory complains. “Fatigue is a silent killer, you know.”

“You’re a blade,” Nia points out. “And you stole that line from Brighid. We’ll make it back sooner than that, promise.”

“Thank goodness,” Floren says. “We have enough late nights on merc missions.”

“Rex isn’t working you lot too hard, is he?” Nia frowns.

“No, not at all,” Floren says. “But you know Rex. He can’t say no to anyone.”

“Except Nia,” Theory says. Praxis gasps.

“Theory! Nia, she didn’t—”

Nia snorts. “S’all right. It’s been months.” She ruffles Theory’s hair, who endures it with only minimal huffing.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Theory says mulishly. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“It’s rude to ask people stuff like that!” Praxis admonishes.

“You’re right,” Nia smiles. “But really, I don’t think about it at all. I’m happy here.”

“I can tell,” Theory says. “You smile more now.”

Nia blinks, unsure how to respond, and Floren nods eagerly.

“I can feel it,” he says, hand on his chest. “Something is different.”

“Different, huh?” Nia muses. “I guess so.”

The city lamps blink on, washing the square in warm yellow ether light. Above, the stars twinkle one by one into existence, and if she listens closely, Nia can hear the buzz of insects in the woodlands outside the city limits.

“All right,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah!” Floren says. “Wait… where’s Kora?”

Nia looks around, but she’s nowhere to be found. “Huh, it’s been a while since I’ve seen her actually. She’s never even been here before, where could she have gone off to?”

“Oh!” Praxis says, and points to an elegant-looking salon a little further down the road. “She was saying how she wanted to go in there earlier, maybe we should check?”

Nia shrugs. “Worth a shot.” She straightens up a bit, tugs at her clothes and ducks into the salon, the other blades hot on her heels.

Inside, the salon is dim and warm, filled with the sound of running water and the pleasant scent of soap. A few chairs are occupied with patrons, and towards the back, Nia spots Kora’s spiky blonde, toes freshly painted a startling pink. To her surprise, among next to her is Brighid. Only…

“I cannot believe,” Nia says. “That she actually talked you into this.”

“Quiet,” Brighid snaps, but considering the situation, the words have little heat to them. Her hair is piled high on her head in curlers, and something murky and deep green is smeared across her face.

“No, no, I get it,” Nia snickers. “This was clearly a national security issue.”

“See, Brighid?” Kora says. “Nia gets it.”

“If you must know,” Brighid says. “I actually came to check up on you. We didn’t think you would be in town so late.”

“Uh, about that…” Praxis starts. Brighid holds up a hand.

“It’s no problem, I just wanted to make sure nothing had happened. Trouble tends to find you, is all,” she says with a knowing smile.

“Somehow we got away this time,” Nia says. “We can head back soon as you lot are done.” She plops into the seat next to Brighid, and Praxis and Theory start to wander around the salon while Floren flits up front to pepper the hairdresser with questions about the ingredients in all the bottles. Brighid leans in, close enough that Kora, distracted by the new design being painted on her toes, can’t hear.

“It may not have been wise to skip His Majesty’s transfusion today,” she murmurs. Nia looks up in alarm, a pit forming in her stomach.

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Brighid says. “Exhausted, perhaps. Today’s negotiations were… trying, at best.”

“And absolute hell at worst?” Nia guesses.

“Something like that.” Brighid says, brows furrowed. “I confess that his condition has been worrying me as of late.”

Nia wracks her brain for new symptoms she could have missed, any odd behaviors. That old, familiar, fear begins to creep in, and she feels her breath growing shallower.

“She’s getting worse, not better.”

“I know, I promise, I’m trying everything that I can.”

“What’s the point of a healer that can’t fix her?!”

“I just need more time, I promise I will!”

Brighid lays a hand on Nia’s shoulder and Nia jumps. “I don’t mean to frighten you, Nia. I know you’ve been doing a wonderful job. It’s just…” she hesitates. “I know these transfusions were never going to cure anything, merely alleviate his symptoms. But it’s hard to watch him deteriorate so quickly just after missing a day. He’ll be fine as long as you’re here, yes, but you’ll want to leave someday. And of course, Lady Mòrag and I will support you in whatever you wish to do, I only hope—”

“Hey, who said anything about going somewhere?” Nia interrupts.

Brighid sighs. “It may not be now, or tomorrow, but you’re young, Nia, and so is His Majesty. You’re finally able to travel freely without the weight of your identity. Don’t you think you’d want to experience other places besides this one? His Majesty—and Lady Mòrag and I, for that matter—will always be tied to Mor Ardain. You don’t have those obligations.”

Nia takes a deep breath. “Look, Brighid,” she begins. “All that may be true, yeah? But you said it yourself this morning. I’ve been running for years. Here, I finally get to just… exist without wondering if the Praetorium is just around the corner. I know what you’re gonna say,” she continues when Brighid opens her mouth to speak, “that traveling’s not the same as running, and I deserve to choose my own path and all that. But I’ve never been happier than when I was around you lot,” she ignores the heat flaring in her cheeks and presses on.

“I don’t want to leave. I meant what I said when I got here. The fact that you lot want me around is the reason I want to stay, don’t you get it? I’ve never had—I mean, I never got to have—” she gulps. “As long as I’m allowed to stay, I’m staying. That’s all. You don’t have to worry about Niall like that.”

“No,” Brighid says, watching her with something like clarity. “I don’t believe I do.”

It’s late—hours after dinner, where thankfully Hedden and Kilbride were not in attendance. Nevertheless, between Theory peppering Perceval with questions about palace security, and Praxis and Kora’s spirited recaps of their day, it had been a chaotic affair all the same. Niall, as always, had taken it in stride, but Nia could see the day had been hard on him. She’d herded him to his study initially, just like always, but he’d stopped her just before entering.

“I wouldn’t normally ask this,” he begins. “But…”

“Spit it out,” Nia says.

“I fear I will likely fall asleep during the transfer,” Niall says. “And it’s a bit of a trek to my quarters from here. I’d prefer to make it now and dress down rather than while half-asleep.”

“Sure,” Nia shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s just that—”

“I grew up in a noble house, you know.“ Nia says. “You lot are weird about that sort of thing. Propriety and all that, but it’s all the same to me.”

Niall looks down at his feet, almost shy. “I’ve never had anyone else in my room before.”

“Even Mòrag and Brighid?” Nia asks, eyebrows raised.

“Not in my memory,” Niall says. “They must have in Gormott, I’m sure, but once I was crowned Emperor…” he trails off, wistful. “Even Aegaeon would stay outside, out of deference to the Empire.”

“Well,” Nia says. “If you’re not okay with it, we can stay right here. But I’ve had Mòrag and Brighid drooling on me passed out in a field for nights on end,” Niall lets out a startled little laugh, “so if that’s where you’d be most comfortable, we’ll do that.”

“All right,” Niall says after a moment, and gestures. “Shall we?”

They start down the hall in the opposite direction.

“In case you were wondering,” Nia says. “Mòrag snores like a gogol.”

Nia has better ears than most, but she guesses the resulting laugh could be heard all the way through the palace.

In Niall’s quarters, Nia can’t help but look around. The first things she notices about the room, oddly enough, are similarities to Mòrag. The bed is made with perfect corners and sheets pulled so tight you could bounce gold off them, and among the books stacked on a nearby shelf Nia spots a few familiar art history volumes Mòrag is fond of. Of course, any room I’ve ever stayed with Mòrag in wasn’t the size of a bloody banquet hall, Nia thinks. Clearly, the room was designed for someone with more of a sense of grandeur, with a vast fireplace and ornate embellishments, but the actual furnishings were smaller, cozier, a study wooden desk and shelves and a four-poster bed with soft flannel sheets.

“It’s a bit sparse,” Niall says, apologetic.

“D’you mean you haven’t time to decorate?” Nia teases. “I like what you have so far. It suits you.”

“Yes, well,” Niall’s cheeks flush red. “Thank you.”

Nia grins. “Nineteen years and His Majesty still hasn’t learned to take a compliment? What a shame.”

“Hush, you,” Niall says with a smile. He eases himself down on the bed, and Nia blinks. She thought—Where else d’you think you were gonna sit, dumbass? Ah, the little voice that sounds like Mythra. Nia’s missed her. It’s not like there’s anywhere else you could both fit. He’s been wearing lighter clothes lately, given the warm weather and his improved condition, and before long, Nia’s hands are glowing with ether.

Niall hisses, and Nia winces in sympathy.

“Sorry, sorry, I usually warm my hands up first.”

“It’s not that,” Niall says. “It’s odd. It must be only a few hours later than we normally do this, but it almost feels like it did those first few days, like you’re healing something, rather than a preventative measure.”

“Do you feel like this is becoming less effective?” Nia asks, eyes narrowed. First Brighid, now Niall…

“No, not in the slightest,” Niall says. “But it feels as though my body’s become very accustomed to the routine of it. I feel best when the transfusions are at the same time each day, and to be honest, even slight deviations are noticeable.”

“Why haven’t you said anything!” Nia thumps him gently across his chest. “We could have set a fixed time ages ago if I’d known.”

“It would be best,” Niall says regretfully. “But my schedule is in constant flux. Things come up that need to be immediately addressed. I can’t consistently block out part of my day like that.”

Nia hums in agreement. He had a point. Even Lord—even her father had matters that needed attending to no matter the time or the prior obligation.

“Then why don’t we stop doing them in the mornings?” she asks. “I’ll just come here before you go to sleep, and you’ll be tired anyways. We can still go for walks or whatever when you have time during the day, but this way things will be more consistent.”

“That sounds doable,” Niall says, looking thoughtful. “We can certainly give it a try.”

Nia nods, and they fall into silence as soft green light filters around them.

“Nia,” The next thing she hears is Niall’s voice, as warm and gentle as the hand he lays on her shoulder. She slowly makes her way back to awareness.

“Damn,” she says, rubbing at her eyes. “Was I asleep?”

“It’s quite all right,” Niall says. His voice is low, and the room dark. The only light is coming from the ether still hovering around them. “I wasn’t sure if I should wake you.”

“S’all right,” Nia says around a yawn. “Sorry. Didn’t sleep great last night.”

“Oh, then please, you’ve had a long day. Don’t let me keep you,” Niall says, beginning to shift away. The sudden absence of body heat hits Nia like a shock, and she sits up straight, blinking rapidly.

“Here I am, going on about how tired I am while making you sit up here with me,” Niall continues. “I’ll be all right for tonight, I promise. We can try for a more regular schedule in the coming days.”

Nia yawns again, and shakes her head once to clear it. “No wait, hang on.” The prospect of returning to her room so late sounds horribly unappealing. “Here…” Still half-asleep, she maneuvers up the bed and shifts them both around until she’s sitting behind Niall, hands flat against his shoulder blades. She hooks her chin over his shoulder. “This all right?”

Nia feels him shudder, and follows the motion experimentally with her palms, leaving a faint glow where she’s touched. He doesn’t feel cold, she thinks, brow furrowed, but doesn’t linger, her thoughts clouded with sleep.

“Yes, that’s fine,” he says, voice barely audible. Nia feels the words more than she hears him, and she presses her cheek against his skin to catch the vibrations.

“This way I can nod off ’n still transfer,” she explains, words slurring with sleep. “Just wake me up when it’s been an hour an’ I can scram.”

Niall hums a noncommittal sound and Nia feels him gently move something off his lap. How…

“My bloody ears are out again,” she complains, and Niall chuckles quietly.

“It seems so,” he says. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Mm-hm,” she says, already fading. “Jus’ kick me out when you’re done with me.”

Niall says something in response, but Nia doesn’t hear. Her eyes close, and the last thing she registers is soft flannel and the scent of pine.