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Chapter Text

Philip liked to think of himself as an observant young man. Adults often forget that children too had eyes and ears and the boundless, insatiable curiosity of adventurers- and sometimes it works out just fine, because adults make funny expressions when they remember that yes, children see the same things they did.

Such was the case when he asked Sir Berg- Sir Olberic, he reminded himself- some very many things one lazy afternoon in Cobbleston, all concerning that fancily-dressed man that seemed all too keen to barge into his house as he pleased.

It didn't seem that strange, not really- as every person in Cobbleston has made that a habit of their own in the eight years he'd lived among them. The man was strong, and fervently insisted on providing them with his aid whenever they needed to fend off bandits and the like. Nowadays those bandits were living amongst them, trying to live new lives after serving their sentence, and with their help the watchmen have grown stronger- the need to rap frantically against Sir Olberic's door for fear of danger had waned. No, these days it became Philip's small, sole privilege as he woke him up every day at the crack of dawn to get some training in, or to deliver a message sent by their headman.

Well, his and that scholar from the Flatlands. To say he was a little irked that Sir Olberic's time and attentions were monopolized by that man with each visit would be met with fervent denial, but the green-eyed monster in him agreed wholeheartedly.

But he'd cornered him that afternoon nevertheless, over a shared basket of his mother's sandwiches.

There was a certain hesitance to his mentor's voice when he caved in and told him about the true extent of his connections with the scholar, and it's here that Philip realized that this was the first time in the months since he returned that he spoke of his adventures in the two years he'd been gone.

"You haven't met him before, when you were taken away by those bandits," he started, casting an apologetic glance at Gaston, who was too far and too busy toiling at the fields to notice. "But as you know, he's from the Royal Academy in the Flatlands. He comes here every so often to ask me about Hornburg- and how he manages to come up with more questions to ask with every visit is beyond me,"

"You say you've traveled together for two years, sir? Wouldn't you think he'd run out of things to ask at some point?" Philip tilted his head in inquiry.

A small smile graced his mentor's features. "Aye. That's what I thought after the first few months. Alas, Cyrus is a curious, passionate man- if you give him answers then he'll keep finding new cracks, new mysteries to solve." His gaze hardened slightly, looking down at his half-eaten sandwich. "More than anything, he's determined to use whatever information he comes across for good. At the end of our journey together we'd encountered something rather… sinister, about my old home. Cyrus is adamant about finding more about it, and requires my assistance as I am more familiar with Hornburg than he."

Sir Olberic then shook his head, and smiled once more. "But that's for us to worry about, you needn't concern yourself with such things." The finality in his tone wasn't at all unknown to Philip, so he nodded once in reply. Philip noticed it was the one he liked to use when he wanted to keep the young man away from something he'd rather he didn't get involved in.

It did nothing to deter him, but he decided he'd be patient with digging deeper into this topic as Sir Olberic finished his sandwich quickly and nudged him back up to continue their training. He didn't miss the way that his mentor's strikes faltered and slowed by fractions of passing seconds, giving Philip more openings to counter with his own blows.

He hadn't managed to land more than a handful today either, but whether Sir Olberic meant to send a message or not through his stiffened stances and shifting eyes, Philip chose to listen and let it rest.

For the time being, anyway.

>>>
The next time that the scholar visited, his words actually grew a lot more unintelligible than before- so much that Philip was thankful that he'd managed to make out some of the things he'd prattled on about as soon as he stepped foot into Sir Olberic's cottage. As per usual, he came bursting in with a frankly ridiculous amount of books in his satchel, gasping on his knees from the effort and yet somehow managing to remain inspirited as he relayed his findings.

But he still looked ready to collapse into himself. He likely worried some of the villagers he'd rushed past, the man. Sir Olberic only sighed, rising from his seat and helping the scholar onto the bed, muttering about how reckless he'd been and that perhaps, Cyrus, it wouldn't kill you to send word of your arrival now would it?

"Really," his mentor huffed, moving about to prepare a spot of plum tea for the professor. "I don't mind that you're visiting, what I do happen to mind is that with your constitution, you'd still rather lug all those books around on your own to get here? For Brand's sake, Cyrus- you're wearing heels- at least let me know so you wouldn't exhaust yourself like this!"

This was what he'd said the last time too, Philip mused, dutifully helping Sir Olberic with getting the scholar sorted out. Said scholar at the moment was looking rather dazed as he nodded along to Sir Olberic's words, with all the tells of someone who let the elder's words enter one ear and go out the other- and Philip fumed silently, offended on behalf of his mentor. At the very least Cyrus had the grace to look apologetic.

"Didn't want to trouble Tressa even further, you know how busy she gets-"

"Cyrus- Cyrus do you not have helpers? Assistants?"

"Er- not quite, but-"

Philip did his best to hold his sigh as he brought out his mentor's cups from the drawer as the older men talked over each other. He'd not bothered counting the visits, but it did seem like Cyrus had no shortage of excuses to offer Sir Olberic. The knight fussed over the scholar in that peculiar way that he did- a steady hand on his back, a stern gaze, and that tone of voice seemingly reserved only for the scholar's eccentricities. Philip mused that it couldn't have been that horrible, after all Cyrus had been traveling with Sir Olberic for the better part of two years. Surely there's been some improvements.

He took a peek at the professor's satchel. He's carrying more than the usual twelve tomes this time, he wondered how his back had managed to come this far.

"Ah- my boy, are you perhaps interested in the volumes I've brought today?" Philip froze, Cyrus's attention now fully fixed on him. "You're free to help yourself! I realize that books must not be a commodity around these parts of the Highlands, and it'd be a right shame for me not to-"

"Cyrus-"

"Wait!" Cyrus stood up suddenly, startling both Philip and his mentor as he approached the boy, kneeling to meet him at eye level and holding him by the shoulders. "I've just had the grandest idea!"

Sir Olberic sighed, rubbing his temples in resignation. "And what is this grand idea, Cyrus?"

"Philip, your hand, if I may?" Too confused to argue, Philip gave the professor his hand, and rather eagerly Cyrus started muttering an incantation. He looked to his mentor for some kind of explanation, realizing that under normal circumstances he would have been more alarmed at the use of unfamiliar magic, and though seeing Sir Olberic's calm- if exasperated- expression eased his worries, it did little to explain what the scholar was actually doing to him.

Cyrus gasped, eyes sparkling with excitement. Philip chose to believe that it was because the plum tea had finally kicked in. "This is most brilliant!"

"…what is?" Philip prompted, tilting his head at the giddy scholar.

"My boy, you have such potent magical energy running through you- it's simply astounding!" There were stars in the professor's eyes now, as Philip struggled stared back into the frankly intimidating gaze that the older man was giving him. Glancing toward his mentor, there was a look of genuine astonishment on Sir Olberic's face now- perhaps, even traces of awe in his aged features?

It's then that the news truly sunk in for Philip, reacting with shock of his own and pulling his hand out of the professor's in disbelief. "W-what?"

Cyrus was not deterred in the slightest, instead lunging for his satchel and fishing out a battered-looking tome with a triumphant sound. "Oh, the possibilities, Olberic! You've been training him in the art of the blade, yes?" He said, flipping through the worn pages of his notes. "I can't believe this idea had only crossed my mind now, but I suppose it makes sense- you know that I've been studying the artifacts that we've found in the shrines for the past few weeks now, and the implications- the opportunities…!"

His mentor's brows furrowed, and he placed a big hand under his chin in thought. "…you're not suggesting what I'm thinking you're suggesting, are you?" he asked carefully, and yet there was no trace of trepidation in his voice.

"Certainly you and I know for a fact that it's possible! I realize this suggestion came so suddenly, but surely you see the potential this boy has-!"

"Excuse me!" Philip yelled, his hands balled into fists as he looked at the adults before him. "But what exactly does all of this mean, professor?!" He glared- as hard as he could anyway, what with the revelations making his legs quake under an unfamiliar pressure.

Cyrus, without missing a beat, flipped his notes back where Philip could see what was inscribed. He couldn't make heads nor tails of the professor's scribbles, but his eyes were drawn to the rough profile sketch of an unfamiliar person. "It means that you have the potential to become a spellblade, my dear boy!"

Philip's legs gave out from under him. "I can… what?" Sir Olberic was by his side immediately, helping him onto the bed. His mentor sighed, throwing a pointed look towards the professor.

"I realize how excited you must be, Cyrus, but perhaps you could slow down and allow Philip a pace where he can digest this information much more easily?" he said, rubbing circles onto Philip's back and handing him a cup of the tea they've prepared.

Cyrus blinked, and nodded. "Of course. My apologies, it seems I've gotten a bit too carried away…"

He would then proceed to get carried away, several times more in the conversation that followed. Philip had expected the professor to act strangely again, but as he listened to him prattle on in detail about the amazing things that he could accomplish with this power he couldn't help but wish that this was some horrid fever dream instead.

>>>
It was late in the afternoon that Sir Olberic was walking Philip home, keeping a steady hand on his shoulder to balance his steps. The professor had been urged to rest shortly after he'd finished his three-hour lecture on the nature of runes and the art of magic blades, having looked out of breath. It was a small pleasure he can take, Philip thinks, that he'd tired himself out from the combined excitement and fatigue.

He couldn't say that he was in better shape himself, as he blankly stared at his hands on the slow walk home.

There was magic surging in his veins. It scared him to know that if could concentrate, he could see it flow and pulse- a supernatural vitality intermingling with his life force. It felt too unreal- too unfamiliar.

"… are you afraid, Philip?"

He was. He very much was, because he'd long thought that magic was something too fantastical for someone like him. He thought himself destined for far humbler things.

And yet.

Philip swallowed the lump in his throat. "…yes." He took a sharp breath. "But at the same time…"

He didn't dare meet his mentor's searching gaze, afraid of the answers he might find there. Philip knew of his aversion to strange, unfamiliar magic. It was irrational, he knew, to think that Sir Olberic of all people would scorn him for this.

Philip hadn't noticed they stopped walking- not until the sun was blocked out by the knight's hulking figure kneeling down to his level, his hands gently squeezing Philip's shoulders. There was a small smile on his lips, but it made him look the oldest that Philip had ever seen him. "Listen well, Philip. I do not blame you if you fear the power you hold. But I want you to reflect on this revelation of ours today." His gaze was forlorn, but it was an anchor- a buoy that Philip clung to for fear of drowning. "You do not have to go through with honing this skill if you do not want to. Cyrus would understand, I'm sure. What matters here is what you choose to do with this, Philip- and whatever that choice may be, know that I am here to support you."

The silence lingered between them. Overhead, there was a murder of crows taking flight into the evening sky, singing their last songs of the day. Wind rustled against his and his mentor's clothes.

The boy took a breath.

If he were to be completely honest, there was a part of him that yearned to embrace this unknown part of himself. What would it feel like, he wondered- being able to bend the elements to his will, to dance in the spiritual energies of divinity? What would it be like to fight and protect with the combined prowess of the might of knights and the wisdom of wizards?

What wonders awaited him on that path?

But as Philip stared back into his beloved mentor's gaze, he could glean fear.

Fear was not an emotion that was befitting of Sir Olberic, and he loathed to know that he was in some way the catalyst for this tempest of doubt raging just beneath the surface.

The old knight was afraid for him. That much was clear.

Philip wanted to say something, some kind of reassurance- but his words were caught in his throat like a stranglehold, managing only a choked hiccup. Sir Olberic's gaze softened, and he stood up once more, taking him by the hand instead. "You don't have to give us an answer now. Think about it, and come to us when you are ready. We will be waiting for you,"

Numbly, his feet followed his mentor's footsteps. They were large and left imprints on the dusty sidewalks and muddy roads of their humble village, and Philip has never felt so small.

They decided not to tell his mother of their discoveries for now- mostly for her sake. Sir Olberic hadn't been quite sure how to bring it up to her, and Philip knew he wouldn't rely on Cyrus to deliver such strange news. He bid him goodbye for the day, and yet the sight of his footprints by the road to their doorstep remained.

He would come outside, later that night- just to sit on their small porch and stare at the trail that Sir Olberic left. No doubt he was still awake right about now, polishing his blade and listening to the professor's nightly lecture. In the peaceful silence of the town, he thinks he could hear them if he strained his ears enough- the excitable tone of the scholar's voice as he spoke of runes and shrines and whatnot. The rough profile sketch of that deity remained at the forefront of his mind, and despite himself Philip started to dream and think and aspire.

Carefully, he approached one of Sir Olberic's footprints. He placed his own foot over the carved surface, staring in awe at how it could fit several of his feet within its boundaries.

He let out a sigh, watching the crows from earlier perch near their house. He counted ten crows, all staring at him expectantly.

He had nothing to offer them but an answer and a smile goodnight. Tomorrow, he would make his choice.

>>>

"…simply, there are so many secrets we have yet to unlock regarding these runes, Olberic!" Cyrus's ever-cheerful voice resonated throughout the room, accompanied by his frenzied scribbling of notes atop a fresh, new notebook of Stonegard make. There were bags in his eyes and his cursive was messier than usual, but still his enthusiasm hadn't waned.

Olberic had long since grown to become fond of his habits. The professor was a dear friend to him, and his company had never ceased to instill a sense of warmth and camaraderie in the knight-

-but tonight, he found himself hard of hearing Cyrus's observations.

As he sat by the fire to wipe at his blade, Olberic found himself fearful and saddled with a dread he's never quite felt before. He could see himself in the steel of his sword, all pensive eyes and tense shoulders against the tender inferno of his fireplace.

He must have looked worrisome to Philip, the dear boy- and he sighed deeply, setting down the blade and burying his face in his hand in hopes that he could ease his doubts.

Their ordeal at the Gate of Finis was one that he was certain changed him and his companions forever. They carried with them curses- fickle souvenirs from that terrible place, and they all made themselves known in different ways- some more subtle than others. He knew that this was the reason why Therion sought out his company- finding him curled up in the corner of his cottage's pantry every few weeks or so. Ophilia had taken to traveling around Orsterra and visiting the chapels with Tressa's assistance, offering their aid in an endless pursuit of goodwill. Alfyn often tagged along with them, bringing with him new herbs and poultices with each encounter.

Meeting up with the Knights Ardante in conspicuous places was commonplace in Olberic's recent routine, and more often than not H'aanit and Primrose had accompanied them. There was much work left to be done, after all- news of the Gate's existence and Galdera's temporary demise was bound to cause some form of chaos if they did not act quickly.

If anything, Galdera's death by their hand had only instilled in Olberic a pervasive dread of something more to come.

The thought of involving those dear to him in this crossfire wasn't something that Olberic had been keen on ruminating on, but it was impossible to miss when Cyrus delivers to him news of modified training and the increase of organized efforts to prevent a horrid- if uncertain- catastrophe. The eager ones were getting younger and even more reckless, jumping into a cause they didn't fully yet grasp.

Philip becoming involved in the warding process of this divine darkness was unthinkable to him.

"…Olberic?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Collecting himself, Olberic turned to look at his companion's worried face. "…pray tell, is there something on your mind?"

Among all of them, Olberic was certain that Cyrus worked himself to exhaustion over this the most.

He's heard from Therion that he often went for days without food, writing and recording with no pause until one of his students came to fetch him for a lecture. Every break he was forced to take was spent on excursions with the others, traveling back and forth from Duskbarrow and revisiting the shrines of old for clues. He'd always known Cyrus to be a reckless man, but he was passionate- and he had to trust that he knew what he was doing.

And perhaps this is why Olberic could tell him what ailed him.

He laid his own hand atop of Cyrus's, squeezing it to ground himself. "…I'm worried about Philip."

Recognition flashed in the professor's eyes for a moment, before guilt settled in. "…I see. Perhaps I was too forward, after all. I must apologize to him tomorrow,"

"You certainly were forthcoming. But that's not why I worry," Olberic muttered. His eyes darted back down to his blade, finding only a weary reflection of himself. "The boy will grow to become incredibly powerful. And inevitably, he will want to use that power to protect others. Like this, great pain awaits him. Knighthood is not so glorious as it looks,"

"You are afraid that he will suffer."

"Aye," He leaned back on his seat with a grunt. "I didn't want him to have to experience this… this burden, if I could help it. It changes a person, Cyrus- chips away at parts of them that they will never get back,"

A silence fell upon them, with only the crackling of the flames and the songs of cicadas reverberating across the room- and yet Olberic could hear the gears in the professor's clock churn and click, scanning his mind for answers. If it were any other day, Olberic would have smiled at the thought.

"…and do you expect him to go through this hardship alone, Olberic?" Cyrus said carefully, hesitation rife in his voice. "He has you. He has his village. And he's a smart boy,"

"A smart boy indeed! But it would not save his mind."

Cyrus gave him a look, before shifting from his spot behind the knight to kneel in front of him, his endless blue pools piercing into Olberic's own gaze. "…my dear, growing up has rarely spared anyone's minds."

And for some reason, that gave Olberic pause.

Growing up? Philip?

Philip was indeed growing up, and he is getting to a point where he does not need to be shielded from his lived experiences. He will grow up, and he will make difficult choices, and he will know hardship and heartache for a life long lost.

Philip will grow up and all Olberic knows now is that he wants him to grow into a man he could be proud of.

Straightening himself in his seat, he let out a breathy laugh, making Cyrus tilt his head in confusion. "Have I said something amusing?"

"No, no…" Olberic replied, and took the scholar into his arms. He wasn't quite used to the feeling, but he knew it was welcome- and he knew full well that Cyrus was fond of his embraces. "You've just reminded me of something important. Thank you,"

"Er, you're welcome, my friend!" he heard Cyrus laugh as he gave him a few gentle pats on the back. "But what have you decided upon?"

"Not me, Cyrus. Philip still has to make that decision for himself." He said, loosening his grip on Cyrus, but not pulling away entirely. "But whatever decision he chooses to make, he shall have my full support. And I would trust that you do the same,"

Playfully, Cyrus slapped his arm lightly. "I wouldn't be so callous, my dear! You wound me,"

Olberic only chuckled again, his heart not quite at ease just yet- but his conscience had felt lighter. Tomorrow, or after that- Philip would give them his answer. His doubts still weighed heavy on his mind, and still there were protective urges that needed to be quelled.

But as he caught a glimpse of Balogar's profile on Cyrus's open notes, he felt reassured that the gods would be kind enough to smile upon them yet again.

Chapter Text

There were times when Philip thought that he might have been in over his head. They were rare, few, and far in between, because Philip had fancied himself a good kid. He didn't want for much, usually.

But if there was ever a time where he thought that perhaps he's toeing a serious line that he shouldn't, it would be when he'd agreed to have both Sir Olberic and the professor explain to his mother that yes, her son was magical, quite gifted, and was likely to raze a whole field of crops to the ground by accident.

The worst part of it was that he was unsure that he would never be that reckless, considering who his tutor in the art of bending the elements to one's will even was.

To his mother's credit, she hadn't fainted once in that whole discussion. Anyone who could withstand the professor's lack of tact when delivering news was some kind of deity in Philip's eyes.

"…I apologize for him, Heidi. Rest assured, when it comes to mastery over the elements, there is no one better." Sir Olberic had told her, giving the professor a pointed stare. The smaller man at least had the thought to look sheepish, but from the side of the door Philip could swear that there was something else to his flush. "There are notable aristocrats that could credit their talents to his tutelage,"

Philip remembered the rest of that afternoon biting on his nails as Sir Olberic continued to vouch for Cyrus's competency as a teacher. Panic had bubbled and burst in his chest at inconsistent intervals as memories of the last time he had to convince his mother of letting him pursue such a dangerous profession flooded his mind. She had been so close - too close - to pulling him out of his chosen ambition when he'd been kidnapped by those bandits two years ago, and it was a right miracle that his enthusiasm had been enough to convince her that it was still a reasonable path for him to take.

It might have taken her a long while to get used to being in Gaston's company after that, but she made efforts- and soon she was pouring him extra bowls of soup to account for his massive frame in village potlucks. That was more than what Philip had reasonably expected of his weary mother.

But spellweaving? Runes? She'd already drawn strict lines around normal blades! Fooling around with the arcane was something she would never agree to.

Under normal circumstances, anyway.

As it turned out, the scholar was actually capable of successful, persuasive speech. Philip swore that some planets aligned for Cyrus's silver tongue to finally act in his favor.

"Miss Farnham, I promise only my full support and guidance for your child. I can see that he is very precious to you, as well as my friend here," he spoke with certainty and practiced clarity in his voice. "He will receive only my best. Though I may not be as skilled a spellcaster as Sir Olberic makes me out to be, I have absolute confidence in my abilities as an educator. In Alephan's name, I will dedicate my all into helping turn Philip into the man he yearns to become."

No, Philip did not feel that the professor was cool that day. No, Philip did not feel that the professor was eliciting a fuzzy, awestruck feeling from deep within him. He certainly was not starting to look like a true hero of the continent in Philip's eyes.

But as his mother shook the two elder men's hands with a firm, yet trusting grasp- as she'd looked back at him to give him a resigned smile, that yes, she trusted that those two would help him and that she trusted him to do his best-

-he couldn't help but let out a choked sob. There would never be enough words for him to use to fully express his gratitude.

>>>
If he were to be completely honest with himself, Philip had expected the magical lessons to be slogs- endless talks of the properties of each element, calculations on magical outputs, and entire charts of magical synergy- all things that he'd caught but a single glimpse of in the professor's open and scattered notes. Having seen those diagrams and pages upon pages of dainty scrawls on expensive parchment, Philip couldn't have begun to imagine how any single one of those concepts could possibly relate to each other, much less how they could be put into practice.

But when he'd gotten ready and set out for the rocky outcroppings outside of town in the early morning, he was not expecting to be met with the most peculiar sight of the professor in strange turquoise armor, actually wielding a blade.

Sir Olberic was with them that day, and thankfully for Philip there was an explanation for it.

"The blade that Cyrus has is not exactly suited for battle, you see. It is made of a unique steel, and is more like a sharp staff than anything else," his mentor then pulled out a different, normal sword, motioning for Philip to take a closer look at the two blades. It's then that Philip noticed that the sword in the professor's hands was actually glowing- inscribed with letters in a strange language. "Cyrus's sword is forged from the same ore from which soulstones were mined. You could say that it is a medium of sorts,"

"Right you are, my dear!" Cyrus grinned, brandishing his blade. "Your magic and mine are somewhat different- yours is better suited for enhancements than raw manipulation. The way you call upon the elements would be through these stones," The professor reached into his pocket, pulling out a few colorful gemstones and holding them out for Philip to see. "These are runes. They are imbued with individual elements, but function differently from soulstones. The magical energy emanating from a rune would latch onto metal, whereas a soulstone would simply release its magical energy into its surrounding area." It's here that he pulled out another set of stones- ones that shone more brilliantly than the runes. Philip recognized them- as merchants have sometimes come passing by their sleepy village with stones that shone like the stars. His fingers were itching with the urge to touch them.

"I think this is a good place to start our demonstration," Cyrus hummed, as he threw an ice soulstone onto the empty patch of grass in front of him- and chuckling as he saw Philip's expression morph into one of awe as spikes of ice sprouted from the ground, trapping a tulip in its prison. The scholar then held the similarly colored run tight in his hand, muttering an incantation. The blade in his grip glowed a bright blue, and Philip shivered as he waved the sword next to the spot where the tulip was. Almost instantaneously, a great icicle sprouted forth, tearing a small patch of tulips apart with the sheer speed at which it appeared- making Cyrus yelp and drop the sword. "E-er… I-I suppose I've grown a bit stronger, since the last time I did this…"

Sir Olberic whistled, picking up the blade and letting the magical energies in it disperse. "You certainly have. I would tell you to tone it down a little more, Cyrus. It was a good call to use ice for this."

"Y-yes… thank the Twelve that I wasn't using my staff… or another element," the professor then coughed, collecting himself and managing a wry smile. "Perhaps it wasn't such a fair comparison, but all that matters is that you were able to see the difference. Excuse me for a second, while I uhm- get rid of these-" He then scurried off to melt the ice with his flames, leaving Philip to stare after him in amazement.

The giant spike of ice stood over him, glinting in the morning sun. No doubt the villagers saw it from afar, and wondered if the scholar had perhaps gotten carried away with his spellcasting. He was still shivering- but he couldn't tell if it was from the cold, or from seeing the professor's power up close. How many monsters must he have felled with this kind of strength?

Philip felt Sir Olberic clap him on the shoulder, a hearty smile on his face. "Now that you've seen for yourself what it can do, how are you feeling, Philip?"

He did his best to swallow the lump in his throat, but his limbs were trembling with something akin to excitement. "It's… truly amazing, sir. To think that I would be capable of such things…"

"It does take practice, Philip. So you can rest easy for now knowing that you wouldn't be able to create a glacier by accident," Sir Olberic said, brandishing his own sword- the large one, this time. "Now, for today, we'll have you observe. My sword is forged from Hornburgian steel, and it's a perfect counter to Cyrus's magic. I will be sparring with Cyrus, and you will do good to take note of how his magic is used against an opponent. Are we clear on this?"

He could not help smiling widely at the prospect of seeing Sir Olberic fight, and he nodded excitedly. "Yes sir!"

>>>
The first few days passed by just like this, with Philip being made to stand by for now and observe their movements. He didn't mind it, truly- it was always a treat to watch Sir Olberic in action, after all.

Philip realized very soon that it was the first time that he'd actually seen Sir Olberic fight against someone with magical capabilities. There was no villager in Cobbleston who could wield magic effectively enough to use in combat against him, as what little magical energy that surged through the few that actually possessed it was instead put to better use in the menial and the mundane.

But as he watched the professor- who was a horrid duelist, as far as swordsmen go- call upon the aid of elements and manage to hold his own against the Unbending Blade in a clash of swords of all things, he was starting to see the appeal of having magical assistance. And against that level of mystic might, Sir Olberic remained steadfast and unfazed by the scholar's attacks. His counterattacks were firm and seemed to carve a path through the stream of magical energy that surged forth from Cyrus's blade.

He learned from Sir Olberic that Hornburgian steel was made to counter magic, forged from ore that nullified the effects of the elements in its pervasive neutrality. It is rare, and rightly so- on its own, on paper, it could upset the natural order of magic if it were more widespread. It speaks to Sir Olberic's mastery, that he was allowed to wield such a precious blade.

He was very thankful for that mastery, as Philip was convinced that it was the only reason any of them were still standing after Cyrus's magical onslaught. If his counterattacks weren't perfect, Philp was certain that the South Cobbleston Gap would have collapsed.

That was only one of the many observations that he ended up making.

The professor was clumsy and it showed in his strikes, and Sir Olberic would pause the duel to make sure that he was able to stand steadily back up, and would correct the smaller man's stance before resuming his stance at the other side of their makeshift arena. Cyrus would do the same, to some effect- in the rare chance that his magic manages to knock back the knight, he would lay down his sword and ask if he was alright- to which Sir Olberic would brush off his concern and stand back up immediately.

Philp wanted to interfere every time that happened. Perhaps it was the vapor in the air, or because Sir Olberic then proceeded to change his style so as not to let the professor see the damage- either way, he rarely emerged unscathed from these practice duels. There were stray burns in the inside of his palms, paralysis scattered in his lower limbs, and Philip guessed that underneath his tunic were bruises and battered skin from the sudden changes in temperature.

He hid it from Cyrus, but as Philip would come to find, the professor was extremely good at picking up on Sir Olberic's pain.

The afternoon that he was getting ready to confront them both about Sir Olberic's pain, he found the scholar patching up the knight, a chiding voice echoing quietly throughout the mountain trail where they normally did their demonstrations. Philip hid behind one of the great stone pillars to listen in.

"-think to hide these from me, Olberic…" he heard Cyrus say. "You didn't think to tell me that I was causing you such pain? Ridiculous…"

"I mean it when I say that it's nothing. You've seen me handle far worse,"

"Perhaps! But there is no need to push yourself so hard for this. Olberic, don't you think that if you were to set a good example, you'd do well to keep yourself in good condition…? Honestly,"

"I know you don't deal well with the blade normally," Sir Olberic huffed. "And that your performance would drop even further if you were to actively suppress your magic. I'll be fine,"

"…I would rather that I continued these lessons knowing that I am not harming you in the process."

"Does that mean you are willing to give swordsmanship another try?"

"…"

"…truly?"

"…yes."

Philip sighed in relief, and scurried back up the stairs to the village. It looked like he was to be relegated to studying those boring graphs for a while after all. But as he remembered Sir Olberic's jovial laugh resonating throughout the crags that day, he decided that he would just have to deal with that.

What he didn't agree to deal with on those slower days of studying magic graphs was how distracted Sir Olberic seemed to be shortly after the professor left that weekend to continue his lectures in Atlasdam for a spell. He wouldn’t be back for a month, and as a parting gift Cyrus had given him the three of the fifteen tomes he carried with him- as well as worksheets for the properties of magic and their effects on a human's physical make-up.

Unwittingly, Philip found those exercises to be incredibly intriguing.

He was also given a set of blank runes to fiddle with while Cyrus was away, having been told to try and imbue them with basic fire and ice spells when he wasn't answering the worksheets or sparring with Sir Olberic.

Or trying to, at least.

Philip at first suspected that it was because the minor injuries he'd sustained from dueling with the professor hadn't healed yet, and though Philip was irked he was inclined to agree that it felt as though he had no injuries at all. Sir Olberic was still the unbreakable spear and the impenetrable shield, but this was not what frustrated Philip.

His mentor would be spacing out- it was for the barest of moments, but they have never happened before- at times, leaving himself wide open for an attack. It was only due to the years of lived experience and honed instinct that Sir Olberic was able to counter his attacks, but he'd lost count of how many times he brought him to a stagger from an unexpected clash of steel, one that wasn't projected.

It would have been one thing. But the next morning, Philip found him asking the guards if they've seen the professor stalk off into the Untouched Sanctum on his own, only to be reminded that he left for Atlasdam the other day.

There were several moments like this that had Philip feeling very concerned for his mentor, having been left out of sorts for the first few days that Cyrus had been gone.

"…you noticed? I apologize, Philip." Sir Olberic told him the next day, after training. His hesitation was prevalent and pronounced, and his eyes shifted past Philip. "I must suspect that it must be because I've grown used to training you with him by my side. I must confess time passes by differently when I am…" he stopped himself abruptly, coughing into his fist. "At any rate, I'm sorry that this is interfering with our training. I will try my best to be in top form tomorrow,"

It's like that Philip realized that he had a great many more questions to ask- each more personal than the last.

>>>
The month without the professor passed by without much incident. In fact it had gone very well- the night that Philip finally managed to figure out how to imbue the runes with his magical power, he'd almost set the house on fire. He was fortunate to have done the procedure with both ice and fire.

Today was the day that the professor would return to Cobbleston, and he joined Sir Olberic to wait by the border between the North and South Cobbleston Gaps to greet Cyrus. Sure enough, they spotted Cyrus's ebony cloak in the rolling hills of the lower crags nearer to the coast. There seemed to be someone with him now, and predictably Sir Olberic nearly keeled over in relief at the realization, mumbling his gratitude for the Twelve that Cyrus finally had the mind to take his advice and have someone accompany him.

They waved the duo over to their spot at the top of the hills. When the two had gotten closer, Philip realized that he'd never met his assistant before in his life. They were fair-skinned with blonde hair tied in a ponytail, and they sported a royal blue cape. They looked to be just a little more durable than the professor, as they were carrying the professor's satchel this time, with far less difficulty than the owner.

The stranger brightened up when they saw Sir Olberic, urging the professor to walk faster with an encouraging grin on their face.

"It's been far too long, Sir Olberic!" The stranger's voice was masculine and youthful, Philip noted. "When I overheard that the professor would be paying you a visit, I asked to tag along- I hope that you don't mind the intrusion!"

Sir Olberic smiled. "On the contrary, Kit- I am grateful for your assistance to the professor. Allow me to help you with that," The knight reached for Kit's satchel, before noticing the breathless state of the professor lagging just behind him. "Cyrus, are you feeling alright?"

The scholar, in fact, did not look alright- he was panting and gripping onto his staff with a feverish blush on his face. Despite this, Cyrus managed a smile. "Just… just fine, Olberic- I just need to… catch my breath,"

As soon as he'd said those words, Cyrus toppled over. If it weren't for Sir Olberic's swiftness he would have landed on the hard stone below them, and Philip didn't want to think about how bad of a head injury the professor would have gotten. He heard his mentor sigh deeply, before looking back apologetically at Kit. "Sorry, but could you keep carrying those, Kit?"

The man was shaken out of his shock, nodding quickly as he readjusted the ties.

Philip felt like he needed to help, watching Sir Olberic carry the professor in his arms back to Cobbleston. He tapped Kit's shoulder with an awkward cough. "Uhm. I'm Philip, do you need help with those…?" He said, feeling unsure of himself.

It was a small comfort to know that the man looked just as unsure, clearly shaken by the professor fainting. He gave him a tired smile. "The name's Kit! Kit Crossford," He then slung the satchel over his shoulder with a huff. "And don't worry about me! The village isn't far from here, right? I'll be okay!"

Philip raised an eyebrow. "I have to insist, sir- you're carrying some of my homework in there. And I know that bag's pretty heavy,"

Recognition flashed in Kit's eyes. "Oh! So you're that Philip- I mean, I figured, but," He stammered, before composing himself. "We should probably catch up. I'll carry the books, I'm pretty used to it by now, haha!"

Philip left it at that, nodding as he walked alongside Kit. Sir Olberic was a little ways ahead, but ever since his mentor had deemed him ready to take on some of the weaker beasts scurrying about in the Cobbleston Gaps, he'd felt confident that he could follow behind just fine. Kit seemed just as reassured, and most of the concern on his face was due to the professor's fatigue.

But it was awkward to walk along in silence, especially with a stranger, so he spoke up. "So, what do you do with the professor? How do you know Sir Olberic?"

Kit blinked down at him, before relaxing. He seemed happy to have something else to focus on. "I'm a new student of his in the academy, studying magic under him. Sometimes I go with him to the Woodlands to study some ruins and visit some shrines to the gods," He hummed, pulling a finger to his chin in thought. "As for Sir Olberic… he's saved my life once, alongside Professor Albright and six others."

Now that was interesting. "Saved your life?"

"Yeah! And I'll be forever grateful to them for it…" Kit then sighed and shook his head. "It's pretty hard for me to talk about though, so would you mind if we left it at that for now?"

Philip could just barely resist the urge to pout. He settled instead for an apologetic grin. "Right, sorry…"

"I'm sure I'll be able to tell you about it someday," Kit hummed, rustling the books in his satchel. "Maybe I should write a book about it…"

They were nearing the South Cobbleston Gap now, and Philip looked over at the tulip patch that they ruined last month. Even though no one had owned that patch, he still felt a slight twinge of guilt for it being frozen over. It was getting better though- there were new sprouts peeking out from the ground.

"You know, Professor Albright was raring to go right after he came back from a trip to Wispermill just the other day," Kit said with a teasing edge to his voice, breaking the silence that settled between them. "I didn't know why he was wanting to set out again so soon, but he didn't seem like he was in the best condition for it. I have to admit, that's a big part of the reason why I wanted to tag along with him this time."

"…that sounds like him,"

"Doesn't it? But honestly, hearing him talk about you and Sir Olberic, I can see why he was in such a hurry. I didn't know he had such a family out here," Kit chirped. "He must really love you both, to rush over here the first chance he gets!"

That gave Philip pause.

But ahead, he could see Sir Olberic freeze in place briefly, stiffly continuing on ahead at a noticeably faster pace than before. Philip felt the gears in his mind click.

Kit looked on in confusion. "I- have I misread things?" he asked, worry and recognition prevalent in his voice.

"…yeah. Professor Albright isn't my dad. And uh-" Philip gave Kit a reassuring pat on the back. "Sir Olberic isn't my dad either…"

"…oh. Oh."

>>>
After they'd arrived in Cobbleston and gotten Cyrus to his cottage, Olberic hurriedly cleared up a few things with Kit- namely that the professor was not his husband, and Philip was definitely not their child. Though he did not deny feeling like Philip was more than just his student on most days, his feelings for the professor were completely platonic-

-is what he'd let Kit to believe, anyway. Understandably, the lad had been embarrassed about his assumptions, bowing his head repeatedly at Olberic before the knight grabbed him by the shoulders to prevent him from giving himself a headache.

He was not in any way at ease the whole time he was helping Kit set up his room at the inn. Philip- bless the boy- picked up on this, taking Kit along for a tour around the town as Olberic excused himself to look after Cyrus.

It was late into the night now, and he kept his word- dutifully keeping watch over the professor. He knew it was irrational on some level, as this was far from the first time that something like this has happened. But it never hurt to stand by in case any unfortunate developments occur, because then it wouldn't be the first time that Cyrus has tired himself out enough that he got a fever either.

Olberic heaved a sigh. It was equally as irrational for him to worry about something as trivial as his true feelings being known.

Not for the first time, he wrestled with this thought as he polished his blade by the fire. He froze briefly when he heard the sheets rustle behind him.

"...Olberic," Cyrus's voice was shaky and heavy with fatigue. He looked back at the professor, who sat on the bed with his eyes downcast. "...you would tell me if I were overstepping my bounds, would you not...?"

The knight struggled to level his gaze with the scholar's. He hoped he wouldn't have to have this conversation any time soon, but here they were. Cyrus had been awake when Kit said that."...what brought this on?"

"...I have been thinking. About us, for a short while now," the scholar replied, his voice small and meek, fiddling with the satin ribbons on his wrists. "And I was hoping that I was not being too... Too intimate. At least on a level that you would be uncomfortable with,"

Panic simmered to a steady boil within Olberic, and he cursed himself for this oversight. When people notice, they bring with them doubts and expectations- ones that Olberic had been happy to ignore for the better part of his time with the professor, who seemed equally as content to simply enjoy his company. This precarious, unspoken agreement of casual affection was something that Olberic had gotten used to, and he was a fool to think that it would last.

The knight set his sword down to his right, taking a breath to steady himself. It didn't need any more polishing anyway. Clearing it all up to Cyrus would mean confessing to his less than platonic feelings, as Cyrus deserves only the clearest of explanations.

He let his eyes fall upon the fire next to him, unable to meet Cyrus's searching stare. "...I have never minded your intimacy," he said carefully. "Quite the opposite. And I'm not quite sure what other bounds there are to overstep between us, after what we have been through together."

He could feel Cyrus's gaze harden behind him, and Olberic braced himself. "...but people seem to get the idea that you have feelings for me, Olberic. Does that not worry you?"

In truth, he was never worried. He knew full well how the other villagers would look at them whenever they pay a visit to the tavern, paying special attention to the way that Cyrus would pour mead in their flagons- the way that Cyrus's touch ghosted above his arm where his sleeves were rolled up, calling him such affectionate things. It was impossible to miss the fond tone of his voice when he addresses the knight, his eyes sparkling with adoration in the dim lights.

They've seen how they walk, and how they stumble back into Olberic's humble home together- with the only thing keeping Olberic afloat was the reassurance that he knew where he stood with the professor. And where he stood was not where he wanted them to be, but it was good enough. There were more pressing matters for them to do, more tomorrows to protect together. It was good enough.

Now he wasn't so sure.

Perhaps this was why he'd managed to ask the other man so boldly. "Would you be opposed to the idea?"

He expected the silence- and it was as tense as he'd expected it to be, questions and unfamiliar truths hanging in the air between them, a heavy decision on their shoulders towering over everything. His heart beat and thundered in his chest, and his hands prickled with the yearning to take Cyrus into his arms- because it would be about time, he counted the hours and observed his patterns- and though deduction was never his strong suit he knew that he clung to a resigned truth.

He was dearly loved by Cyrus. And he would relish in it like a fish to clear water, in however way that Cyrus chose to love him.

He heard the scholar's heels clack upon the floor as they approached him. He took a breath, ignoring the fervent longing burning at his skin. "I understand if you are put off by me, after this. It was unfair of me to indulge-"

"Truly?"

The wonder in Cyrus's voice forced him to look, and there was indeed a new sight of awe across his pretty features. He was kneeling in front of him, with a hand outstretched- perhaps to settle it on Olberic's own knee. As though he were following instinct, Olberic took that hand, squeezing it tight. His feelings be damned- if this gave Cyrus some form of comfort, then he would endure the sharp needles of warm pining on his palm.

He will not falter in the face of this. "I must confess that I harbor romantic feelings toward you, Cyrus. Your intimate affection has played a role in it, I will not deny this, but..."

A delicate finger was placed on his lips. There were emotions in Cyrus's eyes that he dared not put a name to, but it left him wanting- knowing how dangerous it was to hope.

"…Olberic, may I try something?" The other man's voice was but a whisper. Olberic found himself nodding.

He is disbelieving when the gap between their mouths was closed, but the choked gasp came from Cyrus's own throat- as he felt the professor's free hand cup the side of his face, rubbing a shaking thumb across his skin.

He'd done no more than press their lips together, and yet there were sparks. Cyrus casted no spells, but there was a burning on his fingertips that danced lightly atop his jawline. His lips were just as soft as Olberic had imagined, and he'd tasted of plum and spirit and pleasant dreams.

Cyrus was clumsy and inexperienced but he was also tender- like a soft, cotton-wool blanket had been draped over his very soul, he kissed him gently-

-and it was one of the best sensations that Olberic had ever felt in his life.

It lasted only a couple of seconds. It was a couple of seconds more than Olberic had ever imagined he would get.

But there was a sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw the professor frown, his bottom lip quivering with something vulnerable and unsure as they pulled away for air. Intrusive thoughts made themselves known and raced through his mind- was it too much to hope for, after all?

"…I'm sorry," Cyrus whispered. "…it seems I'm not ready for this. I'm sorry, Olberic- I shouldn't have done that," The professor brushed the stray lock of hair from the knight's face. Their fingers remained intertwined, and Olberic thinks he could feel his quickening pulse. "…I'm not sure how I want to feel."

"I understand," he breathed, slowly. A simmering ache rooted itself upon his heart, grasping and yanking around the tender muscle and choking him with his own feelings.

As he braced himself for catharsis however, he felt Cyrus's warmth envelop him once more- having wrapped his arms around his neck and burying his face in the crook of it. "…not now. But… Olberic,"

He spoke in the quietest voice he ever heard from him, just enough for it to register in his mind that Cyrus spoke at all- but there was a great, inescapable gravity to his words. A new feeling of desperation.

"...would you wait for me? Until I am ready to put a name to what we have…?"

He could only hope that his own embrace would tell him everything he needed to know- that yes, he would wait for him, for however long that he needed him to-

-that as long as there was space for a tired, old knight in this beloved scholar's heart, he would wait.

Chapter Text

"-from the Knights Ardante, their performance has been consistently improving, so really there's nothing new for me to tell other than the new recruits from further up north,"

"Up north, then? The higher-ups must be growing weary, if they're sending the new corps from Flamesgrace."

"Aye. I doubt it's actually anything serious though. That Miles lad came with them, says it's little more than paranoia on their end."

"Miles? I've not spoken to him in a while,"

"You'll have to save your reunion for after the drills, old friend…"

Their voices were getting blurry again. The musk of the Wellspring Inn didn't help one bit- it was stuffy and it smelt of fumes and sweat from tired and weary travelers.

He was now one of those travelers, after weeks of ceaseless begging he'd managed to convince Sir Olberic and his mother to let him follow along on his trips to Wellspring he was finally here, and he was starting to regret that decision.

Having been raised in the Highlands for as long as he could remember, he was too used to the high altitudes and low temperatures of homes nestled in the hills. He'd expected heat, and now he was paying the price for underestimating it.

His mentor didn't look like he was having any problems at all, but the heavy tunic that he wore gave Philip secondhand heatstroke just from looking at him. He caught onto the way that Sir Olberic started breathing through his mouth around an hour ago, when they'd first arrived at the inn. The old knight was physically holding back his relieved groaning when he was handed a mug of cold beer, and Philip at that point had been too exhausted to be amused.

Sir Erhardt was worse in this regard though, Philip thought wryly- the man had a full mane of hair that he hadn't bothered to tie up, and the clothes on his back matched Sir Olberic's, fierce reds and daring golds in the place of calm blues and unassuming silvers. As far as he knew he was also a Highlander, so coupled with the ridiculous amount of black he wore Philip genuinely wondered how he could stand to walk among the sands of the Sunlands without issue. He can admit to himself that he was jealous of his gods-given talent to shake off the heat and manage to still smell and look good.

And oh- the voices, their conversation escaped him. Philip winced, a small migraine starting to form as he muttered an incantation. Ice manifested itself in his glass. He almost yelped when he felt the initial sting of putting one of them in his mouth, but the numbness was starting to spread on his tongue and he breathed a sigh of relief instead. It melted far too quickly in the heat, but he had spirit to spare and plums to replenish it with.

He'll find a way to last. Somehow.

Sir Olberic noticed his fatigue, and frowned. "Philip, you look unwell."

Philip wiped the sweat from his brow, offering his mentor a smile. "'m fine, sir… just need a little more water," He said, placing another cube in his mouth.

"Can't say I blame you. It took a fair bit of adjustment for me when I decided I'd stay here." Sir Erhardt said with a grin, raising his own mug of mead to his lips. Somehow Philip doubted his word.

Sir Olberic shared the same sentiment, raising his eyebrow. "With, or without your layers?"

"Cut me some slack. I've grown too used to this garb to want for anything else,"

"Just say you're stubborn. I'm surprised that tunic hasn't melted you from the inside out from the first week." His mentor remarked with a hearty chuckle as he widely gestured to the thick leathers of Sir Erhardt's clothes.

"Shove off, you just wish you could take this heat as well as I can." The blonde's grin was a full-on smirk now, lightly punching Sir Olberic's arm in jest.

"And deal with your hair care routine in the mornings while I'm at it? Not a chance."

Sir Erhardt huffed, and instead pulled Philip into a one-armed hug. "Don't listen to a word he says, lad. It's perfectly doable." He muttered, taking another swig of his mead.

Philip gave him a nervous smile, but raised his own glass to clink it against Sir Erhardt's mug. "…I'll just stick to the ice, sir."

"I've got to say that's mighty convenient. How's that training holding up for you so far, lad? The scholar treating you alright?"

Philip's free hand grazed the hilt of his sword, letting the magic flow from his fingertips. The sword glowed brightly, and Sir Erhardt whistled in awe at the display. "He's an excellent teacher, sir- just wish he'd stop ruining the flower patches with his magic when he's trying to show me how to use my sword!"

"That sounds like him. It's a good thing you've got this big lug teaching you too then, otherwise you and your professor would have leveled entire roads!"

"I'm not that strong yet, sir!"

The blonde knight ruffled his hair, laughing good-naturedly. "And I have no doubts that you'll get there soon. Especially if you've got the brightest mind I've ever met backing you up." He took another swig out of his mug before turning to Sir Olberic. "That reminds me, Olberic. Where is your scholar? I'd like to have a drink with him sometime!"

Sir Olberic stiffened in his seat.

Cyrus had gone just last week, having left him with a sizable amount of homework to do. He had given him an apologetic smile when he left, saying that he would be gone for a few months to take care of some business back in the Academy- preparing for some important event taking place in Atlasdam in a few weeks' time.

But Philip hadn't missed the uneasiness in his tone and the tight smile on his lips as he waved goodbye, nor the fact that he hadn't given Sir Olberic one of his tight hugs before leaving. Since then he'd had the mind to skip out on some of his studying of arcane sigils and magical synergy in favor of spending more time with his mentor and the blade.

Whatever it was that happened between them, it must have been serious. His mentor's previous enthusiasm had all but evaporated as he tightened his grip on his mug, refusing to look Sir Erhardt in the eye. "…back in Atlasdam. He does have other students besides Philip," he muttered.

That brought a confused expression to Sir Erhardt's face. "A shame. Ah well, I'll get my chance some other day," The blonde's eyebrows furrowed when Sir Olberic sighed heavily.

"It'll be a fair while before you get that chance, I'm afraid."

He gave a non-committal hum, before leaning down to whisper to Philip. "Did something happen?"

Something did. But he wouldn't be able to tell him either way.

He could only shake his head. "Er, not that I know of, sir,"

Sir Erhardt was impressive, Philip decided- the ease at which he could pivot the conversation away from something uncomfortable was a skill he wished he had. "You know lad, you could just call me Erhardt. Any boy of Olberic's is a boy of mine," he said with a cheerful tone in his booming voice.

It still took him out, sometimes- how many people assumed that Philip was Sir Olberic's child. Though flustered, he smiled nevertheless. "That's a deal, if you call me Philip instead of lad."

The knight clinked his mug against Philip's glass once again in affirmation, pulling him tighter against him. Seriously, how could he stand to walk around in that outfit? "A fine deal!" Taking one last, long swig out of his mug, he set it down on the counter and stood up. "Actually, now that we're finished with these stuffy updates, what do you say to a spar in the yards you two?" He said, gesturing to an open door to his back.

Sir Olberic's smile returned, but he'd glanced over at Philip in concern. "I don’t mind, but..."

"I'll be fine, sir! I won't…" Philip stood up as well, soundly ignoring the sudden pang of pain in his head in favor of clutching his ice-filled glass tighter in his hand. Any opportunity to spar was a good one, after all. "I won't…"

But his body seemed to disagree as his knees gave out from underneath him, and if not for Sir Erhardt's support he would have fallen face-flat onto the floor. It was a shame he couldn't have caught his glass, Philip thought warily- that was a whole basket of plums wasted for his energy.

"…the heat has gotten to him," He heard Sir Olberic's mutter as the knight put his gloved hand atop Philip's forehead, their voices getting fainter by the second.

"Aye. I'll have to duel you some other time, we've got a bed in the other room…"

>>>
It was through great effort that Philip was allowed to come along for Sir Olberic's next meeting with Sir Erhardt. It seemed at some point between training and exchanging letters the two knights had decided to meet in Stonegard instead as a compromise- as neither man wanted to be too far away from their towns in case anything happened while they were on a business trip.

Whether the compromise was made on Philip's account as well was something he hadn't dared ask about, but it provided him an opportunity to travel outside Cobbleston nevertheless, so on his part no words needed to be exchanged on the matter.

They were deep in the North Stonegard Pass now, having met up with Sir Erhardt just as he felled a small group of ratkin with his blade a few hours ago. They took a small rest then, with both parties having set off at a brisk pace not an hour after midnight. Sir Olberic had offered his friend a portion of the sandwiches that Philip's mother had prepared for their journey, to which Sir Erhardt returned the gesture by handing them packets of jerky and pieces of fruit.

"With luck, we'll reach Stonegard before noon with our pace," The blonde knight remarked, tucking his map back inside his woolen satchel as they prepared to set out again. Sir Olberic grunted in affirmation, handing Philip a small sandwich before standing up to dust his trousers. He saw the blonde perk up a little. "Oh, didn't Professor Albright get himself into trouble somewhere around here, actually?" he said, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. Philip also tilted his head in inquiry.

"Old manse in the upper district, if you've seen it." His mentor replied, nudging Philip along as they set back out on the road.

"…people live there?" Sir Erhardt asked incredulously. The other knight only shrugged in reply.

"If there was anyone back then, they certainly aren’t there now. If I'm right, there's still guardians and curators activated there," came his answer, effortlessly swatting away a Dread Falcon with his spear. Philip trailed closely behind, muttering incantations to help his mentor.

Sir Erhardt made a face, brandishing his own spear to help. "What madman would willingly live with those things?"

"Scholars, mostly." Philip masked his giggle behind a slight cough as he bit into his piece of plum sandwich. Sir Erhardt had no such reservations, and barked out a jovial laugh.

"You know what? That makes sense," He chuckled as he stabbed into another one of the Falcons in their path. "…say, if you and the professor ever get a place-"

A particularly hard stab to the ribs of their avian adversaries made Philip wince, looking up to see a red-faced Sir Olberic. "There won't be any of those things," And down fell another bird. Poor thing. "-because there won't be a place."

"Right, right…" Sir Erhardt muttered, a sly smirk gracing his features. He let a moment pass before piping up yet again, stabbing through the last of the straggling birds. "Though hypothetically,"

"Erhardt, drop it." Sir Olberic then stiffly stalked off back onto the road ahead without another word. Philip was certain that the tips of his ears were burning red.

"Fine," The blonde knight drawled, swinging the spear across his shoulders and leaning back into it as they continued on their way. Once his mentor was out of earshot, he leaned down to Philip's level with a cheeky grin. "Slip me the address if they ever get to that point, would you?"

"Sure," Against his better judgment, Philip giggled and nodded. He let his face settle into a pensive smile, following Sir Olberic's long trail of footprints. His feet were too little to fill them still, but he was growing, and that was enough. "…I wouldn't count on it being a big enough place for any of those things though, sir," He mused.

"…fair point." Sir Erhardt sighed, a faraway look in his bright green eyes. "Olberic's never been the type to want that much space for himself. Too open, I should say- and more than a little empty. He prefers to keep everything he likes in his line of sight,"

"Really?"

"You should have seen him back when we were still leading armies. A real father to his men, that one- he'd lose his sh-" He caught himself, and coughed into his hand. "-marbles, if someone was late for a head count and assumes the worst happened to the poor sod."

Philip glanced back down at the large footprints before him. He kicked a stray rock away from the path, letting the silence settle between himself and the knight walking beside him.

Perhaps that was why Sir Olberic cared for Cobbleston as fiercely as he did, and was able to do it so effectively? Everyone knew who everyone was, and because of this everyone did their part all the merrier. There was promise of solidarity and solace in the comfortable, unassuming quiet of Cobbleston. The town never grew big enough for that to change. Live there for long enough, and one forgot how to stray too far.

All it meant was that it was easy for Sir Olberic to come to their sides whenever they needed him. They were dear to him like that, and it was no closed secret.

"He sounds like a great leader," he eventually piped back up, shaking Sir Erhardt out from what seemed like a brief reverie.

"And he was. Still is, mind you." He replied. He then raised a hand to his brow, squinting ahead as they came to an outcropping. "Ah, we're here."

Sure enough, when Philip strained his ears, he heard the running of cart wheels along flattened stone and polished rock. They ascended the stairs together, the sounds of people and rustling baskets and clinking coins growing ever stronger, the grand terraces casting noontime shadows upon the south face of the Stonegard entrance.

"I suppose you'd want to take a look around, Philip?" Sir Olberic's voice snapped him out of his enlivened trance. He could see Sir Erhardt's amused smile from his side.

"E-er…" He fiddled with his thumbs, looking down in mild embarrassment. He was acting far too much like an excited kid.

But Sir Olberic was always willing to indulge him, and for that he was grateful that he was spared the effort of admitting to his own childish exhilaration. "After we get settled at the inn, we'll take a walk,"

"The lad's old enough to wield a sword, Olberic." Sir Erhardt cut in, and he and Sir Olberic looked back at him in surprise. "He can handle himself in this city. Stonegard doesn't shirk on its security, I'm sure he'll be fine if he wanted to explore on his own."

"Erhardt,"

"I'm sparing him from the report I have for you today. That Lady Woodward's gotten a lot busier this past month," He said, giving his satchel a hard pat.

Sir Olberic looked to be at a loss, crossing his arms with a thoughtful expression. There was a new sort of restlessness brewing within Philip now. He'd been fully prepared to sit through what news the leader of the Knights Ardante herself could have had for the two best knights in the realm, no matter how tedious- but this was an opportunity like nothing he'd ever had before. Ever since two years ago, in that brigand's den- people have been reluctant to let him wander around for fear of a repeated incident. He'd begrudgingly accepted this fact, no matter how frustrated he would feel at the reminders of his own inexperience.

So to explore an entire city on his own, without the strain of having worried eyes trail after him...

The old knight breathed a sigh, casting him a resigned glance. "…Philip, if you get lost, look for the guards. Some of them are familiar with me."

He could swear his heart would have leapt out of his chest. "You mean…!"

"Stay inside the city, you hear? And avoid the manse in the upper district." Sir Olberic said, ruffling his hair good-naturedly. From behind him, he caught Sir Erhardt winking in his direction.

He could not help the large grin that painted his face then. "…! I will Sir, thank you!"

There was a pounding on his chest as he walked- faster, as he approached the stairs leading up to the Upper District. On the way he'd passed by the breathtaking sights of a bustling city thriving with life. There were people busy unloading the deliveries for the big building near the Inn- and it smelt strongly of fresh parchment and vellum binding and elderberry ink. There were a great number of tomes being transferred from the cart, kicking up dust and grime but they too smelt fresh like Woodland pine.

He spotted a person wearing scholar's robes near the entrance of the great building, next to someone else who looked like he was giving orders to the delivery men. The scholar was handed a tome, and Philip supposed then that perhaps every scholar shared in Cyrus's special love of books after all- as the man jumped and wept with joy as he held the book tightly in his arms.

A small smile played on his lips, and he ran past.

Up ahead, he could see a bridge, old and young people alike crossing it, looking to get their shopping done for the day. Their own provisioner was packed, and he could see a beautiful woman with a red dress chatting happily with another woman, with a large man by their side standing by protectively, glaring at a fancily-dressed nobleman from afar. He supposed that because it was such a prosperous city, people could reasonably have bodyguards in their employ.

Philip's smile was a full-on grin now, breathing in the mountain air as he took care to climb the stairs. This was so much better than Wellspring- he was in a new, unfamiliar place, and yet he felt right at home in this city high up in the hills.

He reached the top of the stairs with a tired huff, panting on his legs as he looked back to observe the view from above. Mountains and rocky crags stretched as far as the eye could see, covered in mist and murders of crows and flocks of doves. It was another beautiful day in the Highlands. Giddily, he looked to his left- and sure enough, just beneath the tufts of smoke and clouds were the roofs of sleepy Cobbleston.

Being away from home wasn't so bad after all.

Philip then took another look around, the clean and pristine town square of Stonegard just waiting to be explored. He walked ahead into that bustling crowd, stepping closer to the beautiful fountain in the center of the upper district. Sitting upon the fountain, he felt the smooth rigidity of the polished cobblestone and the light sprinkling of water on his back. Cautiously, he dipped his hand in, letting the cool waters soothe his fingertips.

He breathed a relaxed sigh. Around him were houses grander than the ones he's familiar with- no doubt their foundations were sturdier and reinforced with the strongest cedar beams the Highlands had to offer. The buildings were tall and they all stood proudly- but one such manse caught his curious eye.

It looked just as sturdy as the others, but it was noticeably overrun with shrub and vine. The windows were all sealed shut, and the walls surrounding it were little more than rubble. It had a strange air about it- and the magic running through Philip's veins resonated in its proximity.

That was the manse that Sir Olberic had warned him about, he was sure of it. "So that's the place where…"

"Oh hey! I haven't seen you around here before!"

Philip turned around to the source of the greeting, and found a boy who couldn't be older than he was. He shrugged. "I'm not from around here. 'M from Cobbleston,"

"A little north from here, is that right? I love your potatoes!" The boy grinned.

"Thanks?"

"Name's Hubie!" He held out a gloved hand. "I'm getting ready to be a squire in a few years!"

It's then that Philip noticed the sword on his hip. The sword was short but it was made of steel, glinting gently in the sunlight. He returned the smile in kind and shook Hubie's hand. "Oh! Me too! I'm Philip!"

"I feel like we're gonna get along just fine, you an' me! I see you're carrying a sword already," Hubie gestured to his sword, and took the hilt of his own to show Philip. Looking closer, he could tell that the sword was old, but it was lovingly made- perhaps a hand-me-down?

He then brandished his own sword, swinging it with ease. "My mentor tells me I've got a mean swing. Gotta be careful not to break his back when we spar…"

Hubie gasped. "They let you spar?"

"Just a little! When there's time, Sir Olberic teaches me sword strikes and Professor Albright teaches me magic." Philip smiled, pulling out a few runes. He was quite proud of his handiwork this time around, and they glowed more strongly than his first batch.

The other boy leaned over to look, his eyes shining with awe. "Woah! Magic and swordplay!" A beat passed, and he made a strange expression akin to recognition. "…wait, did you say Professor Albright?"

"Yeah? Do you know him?" Philip raised an eyebrow, pocketing the runes.

"Everyone in Stonegard knows him, mate! See that old building there?" Hubie pointed towards the manse he'd been staring at earlier. "That's where he caused a hell of a scene!"

Philip tilted his head. He knew from earlier that Cyrus had gotten into a bit of trouble in Stonegard, but then again it was Cyrus, and he had also heard that he had a tendency to draw the ire of the average citizen through his information-seeking. Perhaps he'd angered the scholar living inside back then? "What exactly did he do?"

Hubie shrugged. "Heck if I know, nobody in town would let me hear the actual tale. The story goes is that he went an' killed the guy who used to live there."

It was all it took for Philip not to fall backwards into the fountain in his shock. "K-killed?!" He balked.

Unfazed, Hubie nodded. "Yep! And there's some nasty rumors about the guy he killed, see - something about blood crystals or summat? A lot of people went missing in these parts, around a few years ago, and I heard some grown-ups say they were used in evil experiments and all that."

"Woah…" He sat there in stunned silence for a while, his mind drawing blanks at the revelation.

He figured that in his time out on the road Cyrus had gotten himself involved in strange things- such was the life when you were following around people who had business on all corners of the continent (he remembers the dancer being on a revenge quest? Or so the loud apothecary said back then). In hindsight, perhaps Philip should have expected that forbidden blood magic would have been a given.

"Crazy, right?" Hubie said, and then whipped his head back and forth- before leaning in to whisper to Philip. "I don't like telling this story without knowing what really happened though, so I've been meaning to break into the place for a while now…"

This time Philip actually did stand up to yell. "That's dangerous, isn't it?!"

"Keep it down!" The other boy took him by the shoulders and sat him back down, offering a shaky smile to a nearby bodyguard who looked over in their direction. The guard then rolled his eyes as if this were a normal occurrence, directing his attention elsewhere.

That did not help matters. "But- Sir Olberic tells me there's still things like guardians and curators in there!" Philp whispered harshly, glancing worriedly at the manse in front of them.

Hubie's (incorrect) response was to take out his short sword and scoff. "If I don't get spotted, that's no skin off my nose!"

"And if you do get spotted…?"

"Then I guess I'll just have to run like hell!"

Philip resisted the urge to groan, settling instead for rubbing his temples. "You- you're mad,"

"And I have a sword! I'll get to the bottom of this, just you wait- and then I can tell you what actually happened!"

As soon as he'd said that, he'd taken off towards the old manse, catching Philip off-guard. He hadn't expected that he meant he'd be breaking in today. He cursed under his breath and followed his trail despite his better instincts.

The manse was supposed to be tightly shut, from the looks of it. Gaps between the walls were sealed with planks of wood and old cloth. But there had been one small gap where the planks couldn't completely cover up, and from the looks of it that was how Hubie planned to sneak in. Sure enough, there was a trail of footprints in the overgrowth leading into the gardens.

"Hubie-!" He called out for the other boy as soon as he caught up, spotting him near the door. Hubie hadn't heard him, and as soon as he unlocked it he'd jumped in with Philip following close behind.

"…!"

His heart sank fast in his chest when his feet hit nothing as soon as he stepped inside, the feeling of falling sending his flight or fight instinct into overdrive. The light from straight ahead of him was fading fast as he fell, and in a panic he reached into his pockets to fish out a few runes- praying that it'd be the right ones-

"Conjure wind…!"

"Woah-! Philip?!"

He brandished his sword, feeling the warm and cold airs in his palm converge as he pointed his blade downwards. He felt light as air, his breath caught in his throat as he and Hubie were swept away by the updraft of the tornado forming beneath them both- landing them onto their backs upon the carpeted interior of the manse, along with a few pieces of rubble and what looked to be bone.

Philip felt like throwing up, the gale-force winds left him out of sorts and took a lot out of his spirit. He shook in his place on the floor, trying to steady his breathing. If they fell inside that pit, they would have been seriously injured-

-and if he'd used the wrong incantations, he very well could have made it worse. He swatted away the stray piece of bone from beside him in disgust as he tried to sit upright.

Philip then turned to glare at the boy beside him, gripping his blade tight. "Are you daft?! If we fell straight down, we would have been really hurt…!" He gritted through his teeth.

To his annoyance, the boy only sheepishly rubbed the back of his head and raised a hand in defeat. "S-sorry! But holy cow- you're really good with that magic of yours! I wouldn't have known what to do if I fell in there alone, glad to see you have my back in this!"

That took Philip aback. "Tha- wait, no! We need to get out of here!" He reasoned, trying to stand on shaking legs.

Hubie beat him to it, dusting off the grime on his trousers and offering his hand to Philip. Begrudgingly, he took it- but the next words that came out of the other boy's mouth had him grimacing. "But we're already inside! There's stairs down there, and if we can just manage to stay hidden," He said, pointing to the staircase on their right.

Philip sighed in exasperation. "Mate, if you all you wanted was to know what happened, we can just ask Sir Olberic-"

A strange, unnatural noise came from their left, rendering them frozen in fear. Filling in the silence between the two boys was the shambling of hard stone and marble across the carpeted floor, accompanied by the grotesque squelching of what sounded like blood and bone marrow and the unsteady breathing of something trying in vain to exist.

Standing on the other end of the hallway was a construct of glaring red stone- with sickly blue spirit running through the large cracks of its body armor. Blood seemed to pool beneath its heavy steps, dripping from its broken yet sturdy jaws.

Hubie trembled in place, but stood in front of Philip with his sword drawn. He swallowed. "…! That's…!"

"W-we need to be careful, we don't know what it's weak to!" Philip stammered, his hand darting back inside his pockets and fiddling with the stones. His grip on his own blade was loose, and the only thing willing him to move was the adrenaline pumping violently in his veins.

The construct snarled at them, and Hubie assumed a different stance. "Let's bet on light,"

"Light?! You're sure?!" Despite his uncertainty, Philip's fingers reached for the pulsating light rune as he watched Hubie inch closer to their quadrupedal opponent. Surely he knew what he was doing, what with biding his time to enter this abandoned place-

"Nope!"

For crying out loud.

"Hubie, don't-!"

The boy charged forward with his sword and a yell, bringing his blade down onto the monster's head. As soon as it made a move to bite him, he jumped out of the way and skid across the floor. "It's a little weaker now…! It's not good with swords!" he called out.

"H-huh?!" Before he could let his mind process the information, Philip's blood ran cold as he saw the construct move and shamble. "Watch out-!"

Thankfully, Hubie heard him- leaping to the side just as the monster's jaws were about to close in on him. "Whoops! Man this thing is slow!"

"Focus! Conjure light!" Philip brought out the rune and let the energy surge through the steel of his blade. His feet brought him nearer to their opponent, his sword flashing bright in tune with his emotions.

Across him, Hubie readied his stance. The other boy caught his eye, and Philip nodded in his direction. "Together!"

As soon as the word left Hubie's lips, both boys lunged at the construct, striking its legs with their swords. A beam of light followed Philip's strike in bright pursuit, enveloping the room in warm, blinding luminescence. They scrambled to get away from the monster- just far enough to see if they'd managed to bring its defenses down.

The light scattered, and panic started to bubble up from within Philip when he saw that it had emerged unscathed- shaking off their attacks and snarling. "Ah-! Light didn't do anything?!"

He felt Hubie's hand on his wrist, tugging harshly at his sleeve to put Philip behind him. His sword was still drawn, but his arm trembled with trepidation. "Darn…! Philip, we gotta run-!"

"Y-yeah, we should- …!" He turned to run, only to find the way outside to be barred by bats and more of the bloody constructs. Tears threatened to prickle at his eyes when he struggled to swallow the lump in his throat. "We're surrounded…!"

Hubie whipped his head back, only to gasp at the sight of more opponents. "Bats?!"

One of the bats swooped down from its cloud- and flew straight for Hubie's arm, moving to tear at his flesh before Hubie swatted it away with the side of his sword, but not before it grazed his skin. "Ow...!"

"Hubie-!" In his distraction, Philip's own exposed arm was bitten. "Ah- that hurts…!" Jaws clamped themselves tightly shut on his arm and drew blood, letting Philip's breath quicken.

The other boy swatted that bat away as well, wincing as the sudden removal tore a whimper out of Philip. "Crivens… this is a horrible first impression…" He grunted as he waved his sword around, not letting a single one of the bats approach them. "Sorry about this, Philip," Hubie apologized in between swipes, as his breath got more and more ragged with every move he made.

"Apologize to me when we get out of this!" He hissed, his mind racing to think of solutions to their predicament, and fervently Philip ignored the pain spreading through his joints as he sifted through his runes for an answer. "Think Philip, think…!" He muttered desperately to himself, before spotting the light rune among the pulsing ores in his hand.

"Conjure light!" He yelled, raising his sword and letting it shine bright. Hubie balked at his unexpected move, raising an arm to shield himself from the luminosity.

"What are you doing?! That didn't work the first time!" he yelled.

"It's not for them!" Philip replied with a grimace. He sorted through his runes again and found a transparent one- and like a bag of bricks to the face, the realization hit him strongly. He gripped it tightly in his hand along with the ice rune, pushing his reserve of spirit to its limits.

"Conjure ice…!" The incantation resonated across the hall as Philip threw the transparent rune towards the tip of Hubie's sword, a smile daring to tug at his lips at the sight of his friend's sword glowing blue. "Hubie, try hitting them again!"

His call shook Hubie out of his awed state. "Wha- alright!"

His stance changed, before he lunged forward another time- slashing through their enemies' defenses with a horizontal cut of his sword. Not a second later, the temperature in the room dropped drastically as great shards of icicles pierced through their opponents in frigid pursuit. Their breaths came out in visible puffs of smoke in the cold of the room.

The bats- with their wings frozen- crashed down to the ground, pieces of their flesh lying shattered on the floor with the sickening sounds of broken glass and broken screeching. The constructs themselves were put out of commission for the time being, their defenses broken and leaving them immobilized. Their legs were held in place by the spikes of frost and ice.

Hubie laughed breathlessly, knees almost buckling beneath him. "Th-that worked! They're frozen!"

Philip just barely resisted the urge to celebrate, tugging at Hubie's sleeve and urging him to move. "Hopefully that buys us time- ah-!"

The distinct feral squeaking of a cloud of bats echoed from the bottom of the stairs. "More of them?!" The other boy cried.

Philip bit his tongue in order to keep himself from screaming in frustration. He felt drained of spirit, and he'd planned to use what remained of his powers to propel himself and Hubie across the gap in the floor.

There was a cracking sound next to them, and he spotted one of the constructs free its leg from the icy prison. He breathed slowly, fingers curling around the green rune. Either one of them made it out or both of them would die.

"C-conjure-!"

"Out of my way!"

Philip almost dropped his sword in shock. "That voice- it's Sir Olberic!"

The doors to the manse seemed to fly off their hinges as his beloved mentor burst inside- startling the beasts and brandishing his massive blade. "Philip! Philip, where are you-?!" He yelled.

"Over here sir!" Philip waved him over, grabbing onto a frozen Hubie's arm. Sir Olberic turned towards their direction, alarm alight in his dark eyes as he spotted them surrounded by the bats and red constructs.

"Dammit all- stand back!" In one swift motion, he leapt across the open hole in the floor. He stood protectively over them, cutting through the enemies' defenses with his sword. The colony of bats fell easily to his blade in a spectacle of broken ribs and splayed wings, and the red automatons shattered. "Are you two alright?!"

"Y-yes, sir…!" Philip stuttered- whether in relief or in awe of his mentor's talents, he couldn't tell anymore.

A sharp thud came from the door again, and there was Sir Erhardt- his golden mane of hair flowing seamlessly along with his attacks as he made his way towards them. "Olberic! So you found the lad?!" He gasped, striking down another one of the red constructs.

"Take them and go!" Sir Olberic barked as he swiped at an incoming colony of bats. "I need to finish them off."

Philip had barely enough time to register Sir Olberic's command when Sir Erhardt sheathed his sword and took both him and Hubie under his shoulders. "You heard the man. Hold on!"

The weightlessness took the breath out of his lungs as Sir Erhardt jumped easily- crossing the distance between the trap and the porch even with his and Hubie's combined extra weight. Philip caught the sight of what looked to be shattered human bones down in the pit, feeling the bile rise up from his stomach as he was put down carefully by a stern-looking Sir Erhardt on the mossy steps of the manse's porch. His exhaustion was starting to settle, and he would have stumbled into the grass if not for Hubie's arm around his shoulder, keeping him upright.

"…wanna tell me what possessed you two to walk into the one place in town that Olberic warned you about?" asked the blonde knight, staring down at him and Hubie with a disappointment in his eyes so intense that it left Philip's mouth dry. He squinted his eyes in that similar way that Sir Olberic did when he scanned his charges for injuries.

Philip didn't have any energy left in him to hide the wounds he and Hubie sustained, and he hung his head low.

"I…"

"It was me, I'm sorry!" Hubie cut in, his hand trembling atop Philip's shoulder as he met the knight's gaze. "I rushed in without thinking, Philip just wanted to look out for me, sir!"

Sir Erhardt's expression remained unchanged. "Did he, now?"

"Yes sir! I'm sorry, sir!" Hubie apologized again, hanging his head low as well with his fists curled up by his side.

"Am I really the one you're supposed to be apologizing to? Try again, kid." Sir Erhardt remarked, his gaze trailing over the bite mark on Philip's exposed arm.

"Philip, I-"

"What in the name of the ten hells were you two doing in there?! You could have been killed!" Sir Olberic's voice boomed from inside the mansion, landing with a heavy thud against the worn stone. His sword and tunic were stained and left a trail of blood where he walked, but none of that could have scared Philip more than the anger on the face of the mentor who had expected better of him. "Philip, I told you not to-"

"S-sir, it's not Philip's fault! I rushed in, and he just followed after me!" Hubie exclaimed, bowing in Sir Olberic's direction.

"And what exactly was so important that you would rush inside that accursed place?!"

"Olberic, cool it." Sir Erhardt said with a sharp sigh. "They need to have their wounds checked."

"Wounds?! Blast it- stay put here. I'll be dealing with you two later, I need to find an apothecary." The other knight ordered, and rushed off- but not before Hubie called out to him.

"S-sir…!"

Sir Olberic paused in his tracks, but refused to look back at them. "…yes?"

Hubie swallowed next to him as he trembled, but there was a resigned sort of determination in his eyes. "…There's a healer in Stonegard Valleys, sir. He's wearing an apron,"

"… good."

And without another word, Sir Olberic ran towards the direction Hubie pointed him in. Sir Erhardt was left to watch over them, making them sit upon the steps of the manse as he pulled out a handkerchief to start wiping away at the blood and bruises on their arms.

"…it's my dad." Hubie said after a while, answering the question left hanging on Philip's tongue. The other boy let out a beleaguered sigh, laughing mirthlessly. "I'm going to be in so much trouble when he sees us like this,"

>>>
The Stonegard Inn felt vaguely like the old barracks, Erhardt thought. It has been a good long while since he'd checked into an inn in the Highlands, and his melancholy for a home he brought down with his own hands came back full force as he took in the evening air from beside the window of his, Philip's, and Olberic's shared room. Perhaps it was because the town itself smelt strongly of Highland cedar and mountain ash, or because of the weariness settling in his bones-

-or it could have been the familiar sight of Olberic sitting down one of his charges as though he were a parent lecturing a child for their recklessness. That was probably it.

The child in question was situated atop the plush sheets of his bed for the night, looking very much resigned to his fate in front of Olberic, who sat on the bed across from him. The apothecary from Stonegard Valleys did a proper job at patching him up, and he'd been advised not to practice his swordplay for at least a week in order to give his arm enough time to heal. "…I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't have acted rashly." He muttered, keeping gaze downwards and letting his fingers grip at the leather of his trousers.

He couldn't see his face from where he was, but Erhardt was sure that the frown on Olberic's face softened a tad as he pulled his hair back to grip at his scalp. "…no. I'm sorry for blowing up at you. You hadn't come back for lunch, and it worried us."

"…I'm sorry for worrying you, sir." Philip sighed.

Not for the first time that night, he was sure that Olberic was at a loss for words. It was plain to see that he hadn't had to do something like this since Hornburg fell. Discomfort prickled at his skin as Erhardt cleared his throat to speak. "…you're training him in the art of the blade, Olberic. You know as well as I do you'll keep worrying no matter how talented he becomes- whether he's right on time or not,"

"…I know." His old friend conceded, sliding off the bed to instead kneel in front of Philip to meet his eyes. "And this is why I want to manage some expectations. I've had this kind of talk with you before, Philip- if I can help it, I would hope this is the last time we ever have to."

"…yes sir."

"I would be a right fool not to acknowledge how you've grown and applied all you've learned from Cyrus and I. You've done well to stall and fend off the beasts, and had the idea to alert us by conjuring light." The old knight said. Erhardt shot a glance at the runes and blade Philip had set upon the drawer. He had to give it to the lad, that kind of quick thinking was valuable - life-saving, even- in a place where one wrong move could have easily gotten them killed, he wasn't half-bad at it.

But tonight was not one for praise, and Philip had realized that very easily. "…but?"

Olberic let out a breath, finding the words. "…It's not your skill that I take issue with. Only that at the moment, you are too weak to take them on. You've done the best that you could in those circumstances."

"So why the talk at all, Olberic?" Erhardt prompted, moving to sit upon his own bed. "The lad knows where he did wrong."

"That's the thing. Philip, you've done everything right," Olberic grit his teeth, as though trying to grapple with the words he's meant to say. "And still, it could have easily been not enough. It wasn't your time yet,"

"…I know, sir." Philip said. "I know that I can't handle everything on my own yet. That's why I called for help, Sir- so that you'd know where to find me."

"…you don't know how glad I am to see you safe now," His friend exhaled heavily, looking as though he wanted to hug the boy, but can't- settling instead to rub his shoulder gently. "You are strong, Philip, and going forward I pray that you exercise more caution. You have potential, as well as a great many limitations. We need to find a safe enough pace to break them one by one."

"Yes, sir. I understand," Philip tried to look determined in front of his mentor, before struggling to stifle a yawn. Olberic chuckled dolefully, before reaching out a hand to lightly ruffle Philip's hair.

"You'd do best to rest early tonight, Philip." He then stood up with a grunt, glancing at Erhardt. "I'll have to pay a visit to that boy and his father. Could you watch over Philip for me, Erhardt?"

He gave a nod, watching him walk out of the room. Erhardt pushed back some of his hair behind his ear, before moving to sit on Philip's bed. The frame creaked slightly under his weight, but the boy simply moved over to give him space.

Between the two of them, Olberic was always the better lecturer, Erhardt mused- as he let his hand rub the small of Philip's back in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, his gaze trailed over the bandages that covered Philip's injured arm. The blonde was certain that he must not be looking forward to returning home with such a wound, nor would he be particularly happy with the realization that he would not be allowed to hold his blade for a spell while in recovery.

"Don't look so gloomy, lad. I doubt he'd stop you from coming along the next time we do this," he said, hoping that he sounded as reassured as he felt. Even Olberic couldn't deny that traveling alongside them would provide him with much-needed experience, after all.

"It's not that, sir…" Philip muttered, and it clicked for Erhardt then what it actually was that he was concerned about.

He'd seen the way he chewed his lips earlier as he sat through the actual bandaging, shooting his new friend worried looks when he was put under the disappointed scrutiny of his father's gaze and serrated tone. Doubtless that he was concerned about what this might mean for his friend as well.

Familiarity was ripe in his voice when Erhardt spoke again. "…you know, when Olberic was around your age, he was a hell of a lot more reckless than you- and I daresay you were the most responsible you could have been for any brat in that kind of bind."

Sure enough, Philip looked at him with a confused expression. "He… doesn’t seem like the type, sir."

"Ha! I'm glad you have such a great impression of him." Erhardt then rested his elbows on his knees, letting a small smile tug at his face. "But it's the Twelve's honest truth that he was a rash, hotheaded brat. Back when we were but squires, he'd always get an earful from the sergeants. Always a hair's breadth away from getting discharged," He took the boy's stunned silence as his cue to continue. "It's not that he was running around causing problems on purpose, oh no- he was just the type that bit off more than he could chew every time he saw some poor sod in danger. It took far more than what you've seen today for it to get through to him that perhaps he would be of more help alive than dead. Once, I saw him try to fend off direwolves twice his size on his own- ended up with a nasty set of scars on his back."

Memories came and flooded the forefront of his mind as he remembered the experience. His own agitation at finding Olberic bleeding copious amounts of blood from his back as he shielded a wounded shepherd with his body, broken shield laying by his side- it paled in comparison to the earful Olberic had received once he'd gotten treated by a passing apothecary.

It wouldn't have been the last time Erhardt would find him like that. A sour taste grew steadily in his mouth as the recollections steadily grew clearer, and he bit it all back. "You remember what I told you earlier, don't you? There were reasons he grew up to become the worrywart I told you about. His first time leading a military campaign had him dealing with the same kind of foolhardy youth he once was, and it brought him no end of nightmares,"

"Was he really…?" the boy asked, but in the place of uncertainty there was instead fascination- and Erhardt was grateful for it.

"Oh yes. I've seen him, lad- at his worst and his best. Growing up with him… it's impossible not to notice just how far he'll go to make sure others will live to do better than him. You're part of that future he sees, Philip." he said, gently rubbing Philip's uninjured shoulder like Olberic had just a few moments ago. "I think he saw himself in you today, and that's left him out of sorts. But if you're anything like him, well- I think you'll go on to do just fine for yourself."

That brought a smile to his face, at least- and for that Erhardt was content. Hearing the boy mutter a small 'thank you' eased the growing pains in his heart as he tucked him into the sheets.

But they remained still, as Erhardt returned to his seat by the window, looking out past the busy evening streets of Stonegard and upon the vastness of the misty mountains surrounding the city. Reminiscing never got easier, as time had not dulled his skill his grief seemed similarly untouched.

He's had many a talk with Olberic himself, about these growing pains. He was not blind to the suspicion and self-doubt his old friend still held onto on slower days, nor the walls he rightfully erects when Erhardt is near. Mending the wounds and the massive rift between them was something that would take time, they understood that. Erhardt had robbed them both of a home, and there is blood on his hands that can never be washed away no matter how long he spent fighting in the name of moving forward.

But this is a grievance that he will set aside, for that same purpose. The future had been clear in his mind the moment Olberic came to him in that one hot day in Wellspring with that offer. When the opportunity to grow and nurture a new generation of better men reached out to him with gentle hands and a promise of meaning, who was he to refuse?

Erhardt looked back at where Philip lay. The boy slept soundly enough, despite the dull pains in his arm and the harsh lessons he'd just confronted.

He breathed a tired sigh, letting the smile on his face linger. The boy will learn and continue to grow. If Erhardt was to do better for his sake and the future of children like him, he would do well to do just the same.

Chapter Text

Winter in the Coastlands will never be nearly as bad as Winter anywhere else, Tressa thinks. Sure, the days got chillier and the tradewinds blew stranger, but you were never in danger of dying from the cold. The most one has to do to get on with their days in these parts was to don a thicker cloak, and it was off to the docks and ports they went to secure the season's bounty. The fish grew fatter and the crabs meatier, and come Yuletide the Coastfolk would have themselves a merry feast of seafood and good ale.

That second part, Tressa had yet to experience. Only one year to go before she could be deemed old enough for that sort of drink.

Yuletide came and went just a few weeks before, and so did Neujahr- and already people were feeling drowsy and despondent as the holiday mood gradually wore off with the passage of time and the warming of the seasons. All it meant for Tressa was that she'd have more opportunities to ferry her goods and passengers across the realms, wherever the tradewinds may take her and her family.

Sure enough, as she hopped along the snow-covered streets of Rippletide, she spotted the professor's cloak and Kit's own royal blue cape, and waved with a grin. "Ahoy there, mateys! You're here early!"

Early, of course meant that they must have woken up at the crack of dawn. The road from Atlasdam to Rippletide was a long one, and to make the trip at all in time for her usual rounds across the continent some hours of the morning had to be sacrificed. She thinks she could spot the bags under Kit's eyes as they met up halfway across the bridge, but it was always a joy to know that the guy could manage to be exuberant nonetheless when he returned her wave in kind.

Predictably, the professor was in worse shape- walking with a sway in his step and looking like his back was being weighed down by the temptation of just laying down flat upon the brick road. "Great to see you, my girl! It's been-" Tressa grimaced as he yawned- loudly. "- it's been a fair while, hasn't it...?"

The merchant put her hands to her hips as she clicked her tongue. "Tell me about it. You weren't kidding when you said you had a lot of stuff to take care of, it's been what- two, three moons, since you've had to pass by here?"

He at least had the decency to look contrite as he gave her a tired smile. "I do apologize, it's been taxing for me these past few weeks... fortunately, I was able to finish up a large portion of my workload."

Tressa raised an eyebrow as she scanned the rucksack on Kit's back, which was filled to the brim with tomes and string-bound manuscripts that she wasn't sure could sufficiently take the humid beating of the high seas. The satchel hanging from his shoulder hadn't looked any better, having been stuffed with stray pieces of paper and worn notebooks fattened by bookmarks and notes shoved between the pages.

Kit hadn't looked as unconvinced as she had, and shrugged all the same, giving the rucksack a gentle pat. "Fortunately. It was a bit of a pain trying to get the professor out of bed when dawn came…"

"Lemme guess," she huffed. "Translation work?"

"Yeah, he's passed out from studying Hornburgian folk tales. I should have figured that when he said he'd found a lead, he'd stay up well past midnight." the apprentice answered, wrapping a shoulder around Cyrus to keep him upright.

"Sounds... boring."

Cyrus, as per usual, took no offense and only offered her a chuckle as he leaned into Kit's hold. "I'm afraid it's simply part of the job. You know how it is,"

"The Congregation's been putting more pressure on him, recently." Kit said with a frown, giving the professor a slight shake to keep him from nodding off. "They said they wanted the tome fully translated in a few more moons' time."

Tressa bit her lip. She was looking forward to not having that many reminders regarding that particular mess, but she supposed it was a bit too much to expect from a trip meant to assist the professor. "Somehow, I'm not surprised. Anywho- ah! There's Philip!" she exclaimed, raising her arm to wave at the newcomer.

The kid was coming up from the other side of the East Rippletide Coast, swaddled in heavy Highlands wool and what Tressa was sure to be even thicker insulation underneath his cocoon-esque cloak. Somehow, even as he was buried under all those stuffy garments, he'd managed to wave back, and broke into a sprint at the sight of them. It was likely that Sir Olberic had escorted him to the border between the Highlands and the Coastlands (and not a step further, probably by Philip's own wishes) as the boy looked barely out of breath until he came up to them with an excited smile on his face.

Well, at least someone had a decent sleep schedule.

"Miss Tressa, Mister Kit! And Professor Albright, Good Morning!" he greeted them brightly.

The professor's eyes lit up, as though he'd only registered Philip's presence. That at least seemed to put a fair amount of energy into him. "Philip! Glad to see you hale and hearty as ever, my dear boy!" he returned his greeting with the most energy he'd shown today, even straightening up under Kit's arm. Tressa bit back the urge to snort- he was the type to force himself to look presentable in front of his students.

Kit had to exert no such effort, giving Philip a wave with his free hand. "Glad you could make it, Philip!"

"Me too!" Tressa followed as she approached the boy, an expression of fake scrutiny on her face as she surveyed his form up and down. She eventually laid a hand atop Philip's head. "...hey, is it just me, or have you grown a few inches?"

The boy giggled, and straightened his posture to reveal his full height. Just a few more inches, and he would surpass the merchant. "I have, haven't I? Mum tells me it's about time I had my growth spurt!"

"Damn. Here's to hoping I get that fabled second growth spurt." Tressa sighed in mock-exasperation as she removed her hand- but not before giving the boy a light noogie with her closed fist. She then turned her back to them with a flourish, a hand on her hip once more as she pointed a finger to the docks. "Anyway, now that you're here, I guess there's no point in waiting around any longer. Hop on aboard, we've got a long week ahead of us!"

>>>
The Colzione's merchant ship was neither grand nor imposing, but it lent itself well to the personality of its crew. It was a beautiful vessel, fashioned out of the finest cedar and oak wood the Highlands and the Woodlands had to offer, lined with white and yellow accents that shone like gold and pearl. The real eye-catching parts of the ship were the beautiful sails sitting atop the conifer masts, flying proud and true with what looked to be the Rippletide crest. As Philip heard from the Madam Colzione when he boarded the ship, it was made from cloth passed down from her mother's seafaring side of the family.

Mister and Madam Colzione themselves were as welcoming and cozy as the open docks of the S.S. Treasure (as their daughter has lovingly dubbed it), guiding them to the well-lit and well-stocked cabins as soon as they climbed aboard. Kit went on ahead to put their belongings in the room he shared with him and the professor, snacking on a bread roll that the Madam Colzione offered him earlier. He was back just as quickly, this time holding two bread rolls as he joined Philip and Cyrus on the stairs of the deck. He must have passed by Miss Colzione as she went to get the extra rope.

"Alright, scallywags- here's the drill!" Miss Tressa's voice rang across the front deck, catching the attention of everyone aboard. She had a map in her hand and a giddy smile on her face. "This vessel's bound for Grandport, and we're making our rounds allllll around it, before we get to Goldshore to stock up. Prof, you said you've got business in Goldshore too, didn't you?"

"R-right you are, my dear...!" Cyrus stammered. Philip raised a brow at that. He knew he was likely exhausted from whatever his business was from the Academy, but he's never seen him look outright nauseous.

Miss Tressa seemed to at least have expected that, and continued on with a grin. "Great! Then we go back around, and we'll drop you off at Bolderfall for your meeting with Miss Ravus!" she declared, rolling up the map and waving it around like a baton as she started addressing her parents regarding their plans for Grandport.

"Duly noted…" The professor muttered, green in the face as he leaned into the wall. Philip shot him a nervous look as he put a hand to his hunched back.

"Professor, you don't look so good…"

Kit frowned a little. "He doesn't do very well on boats, as it turns out…" He said, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand.

As if right on cue, Miss Tressa turned back to them and pointed her map down in their direction like a sword. "I'm getting to that part! Ma, Pa, Kit, and I'll take care of things up here. Philip, could you take the Professor down to the cabins before he throws up all over my deck?"

Alarmed, Philip stood up. He was not in the mood to swab her decks clean of the professor's last meal. "Oh- sure...! Lean on me, Professor!" He said, offering his shoulder to the older man the way Kit had done so before.

The professor gave him a grateful nod as he moved to stand as well, his feet staggering from the effort. "Th-thank you kindly, Philip…" he made a slight gagging sound, holding his hand up to his mouth. "Oh dear, it was definitely not a good idea for me to eat breakfast this morning…" came his muffled groan as Philip helped him shuffle across the deck and into the cabins.

It was almost too surreal of an experience. Philip had seen the scholar tire himself out and collapse out of exhaustion before, but even the slight fevers he'd gotten from overexertion were nothing compared to how he almost stumbled with each step and how loose his grasp was on Philip's shoulder. Each breath he took was labored and erratic, and his heart thundered loudly in his chest. It was plain as day how badly Cyrus was handling his seasickness- coupled with his fatigue from constantly traveling all over the continent for gods know what, it was a wonder that he was still able to stand at all.

"If you're not good with these kinds of trips sir, why do you go? Can't Kit handle some of your work?" Philip asked.

"I can't very well let Kit take on my burdens, my boy... and he has troubles of his own. " Cyrus huffed out a reply, his hand moving to try and massage his temples. "I'm grateful that on trips like these, I may catch up on my sleep instead. It is vexing to be behind on my work... but oh, no matter how many times I do this, it seems that my stomach can never get used to it."

"Is that so…" Philp hummed, wincing as he heard the professor groan in pain. He let the silence settle between them. Talking too much would agitate his nausea. He kept his steps light and slow so as not to put strain on the professor's own stride. He could feel waves rocking the boat get stronger, and he was thankful that the door to their shared cabin was just at the end of the hall.

Carefully, he opened the door. The room itself was modest and sparsely furnished, but it felt warm- the light seeped in through the closed windows of the lower section. He helped the professor onto the bed, taking his heavy cloak as he slipped under the covers with a great sigh. "Ah, thank you again, Philip…" His voice seemed to fade with each syllable, and to Philip's relief it seemed like his breathing became more stable as he drifted off to sleep.

At least, that was what Philip had thought- as right before he moved to get back to the decks he heard Cyrus's strained voice. "...Philip, before you go, may I ask you something?"

Philip took a breath, before turning to face him. "Sure. Anything, Professor."

"...How fares Sir Olberic? Is he well?"

He bit back a sigh. He figured this was what he would ask about.

He counted three moons since Cyrus has passed through Cobbleston. The most contact that Sir Olberic has received from him was a hastily-written letter and a care package from Kit sent the morning after Yuletide- detailing only the workload that the professor took on since his last visit, as well as offering them season's greetings from Atlasdam through exquisite fruitcake and sweets for Philip to share with the other Cobbleston kids.

He couldn't forget the strange expression that Sir Olberic had on his face from that day as he read that letter, but there was one thing that was clear - whatever it was that happened between them, it created an ugly rift, and Philip tired of the sight.

"He is well, Professor. He's really putting in work with the Knights, along with Sir Erhardt, sir." Philip hoped that he sounded as reassuring as he needed to be. "We got your sweets, too…! The others loved them,"

"That's a relief to hear," is what he'd said in reply, but something told Philip that the man's true face was obscured by something remorseful. Perhaps, he simply didn't have the energy to mask himself properly this time?

If Cyrus wasn't going to beat around the bush, then neither would he, Philip decided. "... you know, he seems to miss you a lot." He remarked, in a voice that felt too fake to be casual.

A thin smile graced the professor's lips. "... is that so."

Undeterred, Philip pressed him harder, clenching his fist. "When do you think you'll be able to see him?" He asked, giving him a hard look- one that the professor seemed content to ignore as he closed his eyes.

"... I'm afraid I don't know."

>>>
It was nightfall now, and the rhythm of the waves atop the sea's surface seemed almost somber. Out here, where there was no land in sight for what seemed like miles, it was quiet, and it was stifling. Philip wasn't well-versed in telling the time without a watch or clock, but he was certain that it was at least almost midnight.

The adults had agreed to let him stay up, if only for a quiet spell to let him clear his mind.

"It can be difficult spending the night on a boat the first time, my boy," Olneo Colzione told him earlier, when he'd spotted him coming out of his shared room with Kit and the professor. "Take a little walk around the deck. I'll tell Marina to fix you a glass of warm milk. It's a special Colzione mix, you'll be back to bed in no time!" He said, clapping him on the shoulder good-naturedly, before continuing on his way to the back of the ship.

The promised milk from Miss Colzione was warm in his hands now, the sweet, calming scents of Atlasdam maple syrup and fine Wispermill vanilla wafting throughout the cold air of the night. Philip thinks he can smell cinnamon in it as well, and the matron told him with a giggle that it had a touch of her special homegrown lavenders as well.

"It's for the stress, dear." She had said. "Growing boys like you shouldn't be so weighed down by such a thing."

Was he really too young for world-weary sighs?

He took a sip out of the blue mug, letting the sweet flavors flow into his mouth. Whatever it was that went on between Sir Olberic and the professor was none of his business- is what he'd tell himself. But his concern doesn't die, and how could it- when Sir Olberic's pensive silence sounded more troubled than calm these days?

Miss Tressa's missive reached Cobbleston right after the Yuletide feast, telling Sir Olberic of her next trip around the continent. He knew that he was here because of the professor, but he can't help but think that there was something else simmering beneath the surface- something uncomfortable.

With a frustrated noise, he downed the rest of his milk, as though he were a tired knight drinking ale. The light steps across the deck just barely had any time to reach him before Miss Tressa clicked her heels together beside him, sitting upon the wooden rail of her ship abruptly as she did so- nearly making Philip drop his mug.

"So..." She started, taking an innocent sip out of her own mug and peering at him over the rim with an expectant gaze.

"S-so...? What brings you here, Miss Tressa?" He tried, tightening his grip on the porcelain just in case she did anything else surprising.

"I've heard all of it from Professor Cyrus! You're practicing with runes, aren't ya?" She answered cheekily.

"Yes?" There was creeping dread climbing up his spine now- as he realized too late that there was a sword resting at her right hip. It glowed faintly in the dark- and it was just enough to let Philip see her growing grin as she gracefully hopped off the rail, taking out her sword and letting it flare like a lighthouse brazier.

Not a single ounce of whatever was in her mug spilled out, even with her sudden movements. Philip had truly thought that she was just a merchant, but the way she moved was familiar-

"Whelp- let's see some of it!" Her boisterous voice shook Philip out of his trance. She took a long swig out of her mug, before setting it down next to her. "Care to show me what you've got?"

Balking, Philip's hand gripped the hilt of his sword. "I- are you challenging me to a spar, Miss Tressa?!" He asked shakily, but took on a stance against her anyway.

"That's Captain Tressa to you!" She said, waving her sword around, before letting it rest on her shoulder. "And yeah, I guess I am- you can call this your test while the Prof's out of commission! Spellblade to spellblade- what do ya say to that, kid?"

Philip made a face. "Did he put you up to this?"

"Nope! But I'm sure he'd appreciate the empirical evidence!" There was barely any time for her words to register in Philip's mind before she waved her sword again and lunged- the blade flashing a brief, bright green as she slashed at him in a horizontal direction. The tip all but grazed Philip's clothing, but there was force behind her swing- knocking him off his stance and sending him stumbling onto the wooden floor of Miss Tressa's deck. Thankfully, the mug in his hands didn't break when it hit the ground- and he moved to set it aside before there was a sudden heat in the air around him. He rolled to the side before the merchant's blade could swing down.

"That's...!" Shakily, he stood up and grabbed his own set of runes. He let his blade glow an icy blue, breathing steadily as he stared ahead at his opponent. Her stance changed, and for a moment he saw Sir Olberic in front of him.

"Catch me if you can~!" She taunted him, letting her sword glow green. There was a slight wind drafting around her, looking slightly as though it was crystallizing around her in erratic particles- before leaping up onto her mast, hanging onto the rope with her legs supporting her position against the wooden pole. Her blade then flared a fierce white. Philip's eyes widened, and he knew he had to act fast.

Gritting his teeth, he pointed his sword at the mast- ice bursting out from the crevices of the wood. Tentatively, he stepped upon it- before his caution was punished by but a hair's breadth as a beam of light hit the platform from above. Residual heat would melt it quickly. The amount of control that he had over his power at the moment only allowed for small bursts of magic at a time.

He didn't know what possessed him to ignore this limitation, but as soon as the sky brightened behind him Philip chose to run upwards- leaving a crude flight of stairs made of icicles in his wake. Before he knew it, he was behind Miss Tressa- and with his blade flashing green, he moved to swipe at her just as she did to him-

Before she let go of the rope, falling downwards with the tip of her blade pointing down- and in that moment, there was a tempest raging at her feet. The sails beside them flapped vigorously, propelling the ship forward at a sudden pace.

It's then that Philip became aware of his own weightlessness- the seamless blending together of warm and cold airs licking at the soles of his boots as he and his opponent were both suspended above the deck. He swallowed thickly- the feeling was familiar, and though he knew rationally that the merchant wouldn't let him come to any harm, the sight of the waters licking at the boat's sides from down below reminded him that he couldn't swim at all.

"Ooh! Not shabby, kid!" Tressa remarked with a satisfied grin on her face, nodding along as she inspected his stance, not caring that the ship was fast leaving them to the empty sea. "But you're gonna have to try harder than that to lay a scratch on me!" She then let the winds carry them both down safely to the back of the ship- before she leapt across the deck, leaving a trail of shadows behind her.

Philip had barely any time to catch his breath, before he realized that the entire upper half of the vessel was shrouded in darkness- with Miss Tressa's giggling echoing unbidden. He reached for his light rune, careful to look up and not hit the mast as he waved his blade around like a torchlight, whipping his head back and forth to try and find his opponent.

A stray lightning bolt struck him from his side. It stung lightly across his clothed skin, sending him staggering to his side. It hadn't hurt, but it prickled at his nerves and numbed his senses. He bit his lip, cutting through the darkness to dispel the shroud with his light, and reaching for his ice rune in order to immobilize his opponent-

"Gotcha."

-only to come face to face with the tip of Miss Tressa's blade as he turned around. He let out a sharp cry as the merchant hit him with a burst of wind, knocking him back down on his behind like she had at the start of their spar. The floor felt colder than it had earlier, and Philip shivered-too fatigued from the experience to properly stand.

"Guess you're all tuckered out for the evening!" Miss Tressa's voice came, and he felt her hand on his back- gently pushing him upright to stand. His exhaustion hadn't allowed him to form any words, and he let himself be supported by his opponent back into the cabins.

Up close, through his heavy breathing- Philip realized that the merchant was more built than she looked- the grip she had on his waist was firm and she showed barely any sign of frazzle. Her hands felt rough and calloused- like they were used to holding heavy weapons. Even as she plopped him onto his bed and gave him a hearty pat to the chest, she had an amused smile on her face with nary a sign of fatigue. "You're good, but you've got a long road ahead of you, kiddo!"

She skipped out of the room after that, humming a cheerful tune under her breath. Hanging in the air between them when she silently closed the door to the room was a promise to do it all over again tomorrow.

Lying atop the sheets, with only the sounds of Kit's snoring and Cyrus's light, rhythmic breathing to lull him to sleep, Philip wondered if the pounding in his chest was due to dread or exhilaration.

>>>
They were near the coast of Grandport by now, two days after setting off at that leisurely pace. Mister Colzione counted another day before they landed ashore, and another day to reach the ports of Goldshore.

In Philip's opinion, it was a day too late- as where the days were spent helping clean out the decks and sort out their inventory for the week, the nights were grueling spars with a fellow Runeblade, and nothing but rest until he was woken up at nine in the morning by Kit, who had picked up on his recent exhaustion. It wasn't doing his sleeping schedule any favors, he thought bitterly. He was far too used to waking up before the crack of dawn, in imitation of the watchmen of Cobbleston who patrolled day and night to keep the village safe from harm, as well as the diligent farmers who kept them fed and healthy with root crops.

He supposed part of what Miss Tressa aimed to teach him was vigilance, and it wasn't as though she had a similar lifestyle at the moment. The crew needed to be awake to make sure nothing happened to the ship in the dead of the night, and merchants needed to wake up early to set up and restock their shops.

He figured out soon enough that Miss Tressa's way of combat was better spoken through technique and swordplay rather than words. He knew he'd seen her stances and strikes before.

"Sir Olberic drilled those lessons into me real good when we were traveling together, when he offered to teach me fencing!" she said last night, as a pretense to their spar. "I guess it paid off pretty well in the end, huh? I'd say I'm pretty good, hehe!"

This was where he also figured out that her preferred language for technique only applied to combat, as she was talkative in everything else- almost effortlessly trading blows with his sword as she talked about everything else under the sun- or moon, as it were. Where Philip was busy trying to fill in the gap between their respective abilities as Runeblades, she strove to fill in the silence typical of duels with idle chatter.

Her voice and innumerable stories left Philip little to no room to focus on reading and learning from her, but he persisted in his analysis.

He noticed, very gradually, that her breathing pattern changed ever so slightly whenever she's out of reach from Philip. Her vigor returned full-force whenever this happened- almost as if any damage and depleted spirit she sustained from Philip's feeble hits was replenished in that short reprieve.

This is how Philip figured out that he shouldn't give her time to rest at all, but getting to her was no easy feat.

It wasn't as though she was fast- not even with the controlled propulsion that Philip has since learned himself from observing her use of runes. He had no idea what it was about her that made her seem so invulnerable to getting hit, but it gave Philip no end of frustration trying to figure it out. And thus began his newfound reliance on ice- if he couldn't catch nor outspeed her, then the only option left to him was to entrap her.

But the ship was cramped, and she had an annoying habit of taking to the skies- and Philip swears that he's trying his best to predict her movements.

"Hm! You're getting pretty good at this!" She whistled, landing gracefully atop his most recent attempt at immobilizing her with ice. He wasn't nearly strong enough to cause her any actual damage, and yet even with these tactics he was unable to take her down. "Pat yourself on the back for that one, I think I felt a lil' breeze from that last swipe!" Miss Tressa laughed as she patted the torn cloth where his ice grazed her. She then pointed her blade at him, letting it glow green again as she knocked Philip back onto the deck for what felt like the hundredth time this week.

His limbs ached with exhaustion. He ignored their pleas, and staggered to his feet with his blade in hand. "N-not yet...!" Gritting his teeth, Philip lunged at her again- just as she leapt into the air with her wind, he swiped at the direction of that current with his sword flaring up in a vibrant red.

"Whoopsy-daisy-" His plan to throw her off-course with the manipulation of the wind promptly failed, and he barely had enough time to curse his horrid timing before his opponent weaved through the fiery pursuit and landed gracefully atop the deck across him. Without delay, she knocked him back down with a green slash. "- and that's the end!"

Philip groaned into the wood. He'll get that chance another time, but if she's noticed what he was trying to do, wouldn't that mean she'd have a counter for it next time?

He sighed. How inexperienced must Miss Tressa have looked to Sir Olberic, when he started training her? How must he look at her, when he sees how much she's grown and learned?

It must be nice, being deemed so capable.

"Don't feel too bad, Phil!" Miss Tressa said, offering him a hand. Begrudgingly, he took it- feeling his knees wobble beneath him. "You're picking up on some of my moves, and that's a heck of a better spot than where you were the first time!"

Before Philip could reply, the voice of Marina Colzione rang from across the deck. "Dears! How about you rest for a little bit? I made plum tea!" She called out to them, and in her hands was a tray with a stout kettle and a basket of what looked like bread.

"Thanks Ma!" Miss Tressa replied, moving to sit Philip down by the stairs leading to the upper deck. Miss Colzione handed him a cup, which he took a grateful sip out of. He felt invigorated, even if it hadn't completely taken away the aching in his bones. Upon closer inspection, Miss Colzione had brought them sandwiches lined with generous layers of grape jam and peanut butter.

It wasn't quite the same feeling as Cobbleston, but sitting here now after training, the flavor felt like a home away from home.

Miss Tressa took a good half of the plate, scarfing them down more ferociously than Philip has ever seen a grown man eat. "Whew, looks like there'll be fair winds all the way to Grandport, huh Phil?" She said, as though she hadn't just finished off entire fistfuls of sandwiches on her own.

"How can you be so sure?" He said, chewing more slowly as he followed her gaze to the horizon ahead. The sun hadn't fully set yet, this time around- the sky was painted in a beautiful shade of purples and violent reds, reflected in the waters below.

"Let's just say I've got great mentors when it comes to the art of sailing. Ma was born on a merchant's ship, and my Pa worked on one until they met and had me. Guess you could say it's in my blood- and my sweat! It wasn't easy learning the ropes at first," she started to say, before a startled yelp came from the crow's nest.

"H-hey, Tressa?!" Kit yelled atop the mast, putting down the telescope in his hand. "We've got a bit of a problem waiting for us up ahead!"

Miss Tressa made a face, clicking her tongue. "…darn it, I knew I should have kept my mouth shut," she muttered under her breath. "What's the problem, Kit?!"

"There's a massive monster in our way! I think it's some kind of octopus…?"

"Nay, my boy- that's a Leviathan! Haven't seen one since my younger years," Mister Colzione's voice piped up from where he was seated at the quarterdeck- having pulled out his own telescope to see for himself what was in their way. "…Shame I don't have the foggiest clue of what it's weak to, time does wear down on these old bones…"

Philip and Miss Tressa hopped off the stairs to go look for themselves- and sure enough, there was a strange, writhing mass in the distance. From where they were, it looked positively menacing as a dark cluster of tendrils. He looked up at Miss Tressa- finding only an irritated expression on her face, before she left to go to her father's side while muttering about how 'those wriggly bastards shouldn't be this far up north, what the heck-'.

Kit climbed down from the rope ladder at a panicked pace, just as the waves started to grow stronger. "Should I get Professor Albright?! He might know what its weaknesses are!"

Mister Colzione remained behind the wheel, catching a spear thrown his way by his daughter. He strapped it to his back, nodding to his wife- who took out a huntress's bow in the meantime- and Kit, who ran back into the cabins to fetch the sleeping Cyrus. "Be quick about it! Tressa!"

"On it! Transfer rune!" She threw three transparent runes in each of their directions, standing firm as the writhing Leviathan spotted them. "We just need to drive it off, and we'll be on our way. I'd rather we didn't have to kill this thing, but if it comes down to it at least we have magic on our side! Phil, I'm gonna need you to work with me here!" she hollered, fishing out a pack of what looked like pomegranate seeds from her pocket.

Philip nodded, his earlier fatigue weighing him down somewhat as he dug out three transparent runes of his own as he ran up to the upper deck and threw them in their direction. He can't let anyone down here- this may not have been his first encounter with monsters, but with something as big as this, he felt even more compelled to succeed. He wasn't alone here, but they needed his assistance.

He will do better this time. Nothing like Stonegard will ever happen again, on his honor- he will prove to himself and everyone who took the time to teach him that he can grow strong enough to hold his own in a fight.

He gripped another rune tight, letting his blade flash green. "Right! Conjure wind…!"

The winds blew stronger, and he could feel the tempest crystallizing into strange shapes as the power clung onto the steel of the Colzione family's weapons. With his spirit replenished, he braced himself for the incoming beast encounter.

He almost stumbled when he felt the sea creature's sheer mass colliding with the ship's hull. The Leviathan was a great, big thing- pale, thick tentacles marred with countless scars stretching out as if to block out the sky in its agitation- and at its core was a cluster of snapping mandibles. Its reach seemed to extend all the way to the rudder.

It screeched malevolently, sending Philip's nerves into overdrive and rooting him to where he stood. It was like nothing he'd ever seen before in his life.

"Phil! Together now!"

Miss Tressa's voice shook him out of his awe and fear, just in time for her hand to yank him by the wrist as he narrowly avoided one of the Leviathan's tentacles. From his peripheral vision, he saw the Colzione couple charge in with their weapons- Miss Colzione's arrows flying through the air with the storm of a windy pursuit and Mister Colzione aiming for its mouth with his polearm.

With Miss Tressa's assistance, he swiped at the creature as well with his sword. The merchant's blow landed as well, and with the beast crying out in pain she carried both herself and Philip back to the deck. The creature staggered backwards- sending waves of seawater up the deck and drenching them all.

"That seemed to do it…! Ventus Saltare!"

Philip whipped his head backwards, finding Kit trying to support a very disoriented Professor Albright on his shoulder. As soon as Kit's words were spoken, a great torrent of wind hit the creature- sharp, continuous bursts of concentrated magic hitting it as it was vulnerable. Philip ran to their side right as the professor was about to collapse onto his knees, catching him by the waist.

"Seems like you lot have gotten yourselves into quite a bind…!" he said, before holding up a hand to his mouth to keep his breakfast down.

"Take it easy, Prof! You look like you're about to throw up again!" Miss Tressa called out from the lower deck as she struck the monster again, her parents dutifully following suit.

"Don't mind me…!" Cyrus replied, his dizziness forcing Philip to sheathe his sword to support his weight. The scholar reached out for the worn tome he carried with him, thumbing clumsily through the pages for a few seconds until he found what he needed. "Ah- how fortunate! It doesn't do well against bows and lances, my friends! Philip, could you keep providing us with wind power… ugh!"

A hard rock to the ship signaled the creature coming back to its senses. It knocked Kit, Philip, and Professor Albright onto the wet floor. The professor looked more green than ever as Kit and Philip dragged him to the wall to have him sit upright.

"That's enough, Professor! We'll take it from here, thank you!" Kit said as he fumbled with his cloak, draping it over Cyrus.

"J-just so… do me proud, Kit." the older man coughed out, as the blonde rolled his eyes and brought out his spellbook.

"Don't talk like we’re about to die!" he snapped back. "Come on, Philip- Ventus Saltare!" He cast out once again, trapping the creature in a cyclone.

Philip stood, giving the professor's shoulder a pat before following behind Kit- throwing more of his transparent runes into the ground. "Conjure wind!"

He wasn't strong enough to deal any meaningful damage to it, and if he was put out of commission, Miss Tressa wouldn't have any time to focus on weakening it sufficiently to send it back into the ocean. His spirit was draining fast, but he pushed on- he needed to help keep the pressure on by providing them a steady source of magical assistance.

His heart beat wildly in his chest as he saw the family narrowly avoid the attacks of the tentacles reaching out for them, anxiety pumping through his veins with every furious screech of the creature. The Colziones and Kit brought the creature to a stagger again, once more getting drenched in a massive wave of water.

He felt the corners of his lips tugging upwards, as it seemed like they could all fight the creature very handily- but this jubilation evaporated when he saw Miss Tressa's stance remain steadfast, almost as if she was waiting for something.

Mister Colzione confirmed his suspicions, as he called out to them at the rear. "Watch out, all of you! It's about to call for reinforcements!"

"Without a doubt- ah!" The professor came up from behind them, knees weak from the intense rocking of the boat. With a groan, he held out his tome in front of him- where Philip could make out in spite of its wet, ruined state the illustrations of what looked like sea urchins. "Th-they have different weaknesses…"

Sure enough- the creature screeched once again, and out from the water jumped a small group of sea urchins. They rolled about the deck, scattering themselves in a cluster of purple and cyan hues.

"Darn! Phil, can you go with Ma?! Pa and I'll take the purple ones, so go and beat up the blue ones! Kit-!" Miss Tressa yelled, her blade already flashing as she came back to back with her father.

"I've got the big guy covered! Just focus on the small ones, alright?!" The blonde replied, turning to glare at the monster as he stood between it and the professor. Philip was about to run to where Miss Colzione was, but before he could do so, Cyrus reached for his arm.

"Philip- the Sea Urchins are weak to fire and light! Do your best- ugh…!" He said, and fell to his side ungracefully as the Leviathan rocked the boat particularly harshly.

Philip helped the professor stand, giving him a nod before he dashed to the Colzione matron's side- reaching for the fire rune in his pockets. "Conjure fire…! That should be enough, Miss Colzione!"

"Thank you, dear! Together now-!"

With his back to Miss Colzione, he slashed at the urchins in a horizontal fashion just as she loosed the arrows- followed quickly by fiery pursuit. The merchant pulled him out of the way when they rolled to attack them, allowing Philip to cut through them again with a level slash. With their defenses broken, Miss Colzione was able to fell them properly with another storm of arrows, with the flames finishing them off.

He let out a breathless laugh. "I think that did the trick, ma'am! Conjure wi- more of them?!"

The boat rocked under the force of the Leviathan's attempts to get to Kit, who was hard at work trying to keep its defenses broken until the urchins were finished- but more urchins leapt out from the sea beside the creature. Some of the urchins were being caught in its tentacles- and Philip looked away, but the sickening crunch of an urchin being crushed by the force of the Leviathan's bite resonated for what seemed like miles across.

Miss Colzione pulled Philip behind her, and with the fire rune still active she was able to break the defenses of the next wave of urchins. "Oh, hold on now…! I've got plenty of arrows to spare, my boy!"

The adrenaline running in his veins felt like they were about to burst, and Philip lunged forward to help her, cutting horizontally along the deck once more.

He was about to leap back behind Miss Colzione before the felt a stinging pain on his arm, tearing a yelp from his throat. "Tch…! T-this is…!"

A long, thin needle protruded from the torn skin- and his eyes widened with fear when he saw the area aroudn the prick start to bruise a sickly, vibrant purple. Philip felt lightheaded, and the feeling in his arm was growing number by the second. Miss Colzione's face turned grim, before she finished off the horde of sea urchins in fiery fury. He could vaguely make out the voices of Kit and the professor in the distance- saying that the Leviathan is fully vulnerable.

He needed to get up, it was almost over, he promised himself that it won't be like Stonegard all over again-

He felt Miss Colzione pull him against her, laying his head on her lap to inspect the injury. "Poison?! Sit down, Philip, let me take care of this quickly!" He saw her hands shaking slightly, as she moved to rip part of her dress, before a loud thunk sounded next to them, and a familiar gloved hand rested itself on Philip's clothed arm.

"No need, Ma-" Miss Tressa's voice sounded far too cheery for what was happening at the moment. He bit back a scream when Tressa pulled out the needle, shooting him an apologetic smile as she rolled up his sleeve. She yanked her glove off with her teeth, and placed her hand over where he was pricked. "You look like you could use a break, Phil!"

"H-huh?!" His annoyed yell was cut short when a soothing sensation ran through him- almost like a balm of mint and noxroot was being smeared atop his injury. The numbness was starting to fade away, and while the pain wasn't completely gone- the bruise itself shrank back as fast as it started to spread.

He felt invigorated. What was it that she did to him-?

He was shaken out of his awe by Miss Tressa, who held him up by the arm. "Focus- that thing's about to beat it! Don't give up on me now, Philip!" She said, giving his shoulder a light slap before jumping back into the fray with her sword held high.

With Miss Colzione's help, he stood upright once more, and gripped his sword. "Right, sorry…!"

The creature shrieked in fury, rocking the boat even more fiercely. Emboldened by his replenished strength, Philip took out more of his transparent runes and threw them towards where the Colziones were fighting. "Conjure wind!"

"Tonitrus Canere!"

With the combined attacks of Kit and the Colziones, they broke through the creature's defenses. Miss Tressa ran ahead as the Leviathan staggered backwards. She stood in front of it, unwavering as she brandished her sword.

"Stand back everyone!" She yelled to them, taking on a peculiar stance. Once Philip and Miss Tressa's parents were far enough, he could see it-

-Miss Tressa's blade glowed and flashed the colors of every element, and he could feel the sheer strength emanating from her. It came off of her in waves, bathing her in an ethereal light that crackled and shimmered around her.

It made her look almost divine.

She leapt into the air, and landed on what looked like the Leviathan's forehead as she stuck the blade into its flesh.

"I summon Balogar, the Mageknight!"

What happened next was a spectacle that would be ingrained in Philip's mind for the rest of his life.

In one swift move, Miss Tressa had brought about the wrath of gods through the medium of her blade- first came the blazing flame, followed immediately by a hailstorm of icy daggers. It was followed by a self-contained storm of relentless lightning and harsh winds, and finally by a beautiful, deadly interplay of light and dark that struck the squirming creature head-on.

In the middle of it all, Philip thought he saw the silhouette of the god in the professor's journal.

The beast's motions stopped, and when it was all said and done Miss Tressa took her sword out from its forehead, sheathing it gracefully as the great Leviathan sank back into the sea.

Hopping back aboard, she gave them all a grin- it was too casual. As though she hasn't just felled a great beast with the full might of runes. "Still not as good as your blade, Prof- but at least we put it to sleep, eh?"

"It's probably better like that... oof..." Came the professor's weary voice. Everyone looked back at him, finding him collapsed on the floor, looking pale as a sheet. "T-terribly sorry, but could someone find me a bucket? Or bring me to the rail...?"

>>>
They arrived in Grandport the next evening, thankfully not having encountered anything else of note- other than a few straggling birdmen who wandered too far out to sea for their own good. Miss Tressa had decided to spare him of the sparring for that day, as she and her family were busy taking care of their business in Grandport- something about seeing a girl to deliver a letter meant for Bolderfall?

At any rate, the task of checking them in at the inn fell to Kit- who took Philip along as he needed assistance carrying the exhausted professor. They finished up easily enough, and Kit offered Philip a walk around Grandport- one that he had to decline for the time being as he had to catch Cyrus up on his homework. The entire time he'd been aboard the ship, he was too unwell to do more than eat or talk faintly about the current weather.

Seeing the professor switch gears as soon as he greeted solid land was a strange experience. Philip had never seen someone so eager to throw up their lunch by the wayside, before bouncing off to gods knew where like nothing happened.

He was sitting with him now in their shared room at the inn. Kit was still outside for a walk, to take in the sights as he'd never been to Grandport before.

"We can go again tomorrow morning, so we don't both get lost." The blonde told him with a smile.

It was probably good for him that he hadn't accepted. He would have been too distracted to truly enjoy the scenery of the great Seat of Commerce.

He hadn't been able to get his mind off of what Miss Tressa had done to the Leviathan- that great spectacle of elements and sheer power was fresh in his mind. It was all bright flashes and raw colors flying in the night sky, every time he closed his eyes he was reminded of that power.

Every flicker of candlelight in the wicks. Every shard of snow that fell from the firmament above. The flashes of thunder in the distant skies, the cool evening air of the Coastlands- down to the rising of the sun in the morning and the reflection of the moon at night- they were all reminders.

And that shape he saw in the blinding excellence of physical and magical prowess- was that what this potential they saw in Philip amounted to? To bring forth the shape of Balogar himself...?

The thought was as beautiful as it was terrifying. But unlike that scrawny kid from Cobbleston a year ago who'd been so hesitant to speak with the arcane, now he truly felt like he wanted to reach that goal - to grasp that reality with his own hands.

"You've been doing very well for yourself, my boy- simply, your homework is exemplary! And the mastery of which you wielded the runes… it is astounding to see how much you've grown from the last time I've seen you." The professor exclaimed from the study table, after an extensive time spent humming and muttering to himself as he looked over the few months' worth of homework that Philip had done for him. Cyrus was holding up one of the runes Philip had infused with his power. They glowed more strongly now than they had a few months ago, when he'd first figured out how to do it. "Tressa has also given me records of your performances when you spar. I daresay you've been improving at an exponential rate with every battle. I'm very impressed!"

"Thanks, Professor…" he said- and he meant it, he was grateful.

Even so, something felt off. And he wasn't wondering about when he even had the time to look over Miss Tressa's hasty reports.

He knew the professor did not deal in false flattery. That much was clear- as his voice was free of doubts and he possessed no such filter for his honesty to be refined. But Philip liked to think that he knew him, and that once-irksome voice.

He sounded too much like he had a lot to hide, and his defeated tone haunted Philip at night just as much.

It seemed like Cyrus had noticed, but his face was doing an annoyingly good job of masking his true feelings. That wasn't how he was before. "…then, would you tell me what's on your mind? You've been looking like you want to say something all night, Philip."

He figured that the most decent approach would have been to rip off the bandages with him. Anything but a direct approach was bound to leave the scholar with an opening. He took in a sharp breath. "Professor, I know there's been something going on. Between you and Sir Olberic, I mean."

There, on his face- was a slight quiver on his lips. Philip took Cyrus's stunned silence as his cue to continue.

"You suddenly took on more work. The last time you left, you two felt like you weren't on good terms anymore."

He wasn't sure why he shuddered. He's not the one being interrogated here- he's not the one who might have done something wrong. That was Cyrus, wasn't it-?

There was remorse on the professor's face, and Philip can't help but feel like he shouldn't have done that. There was guilt starting to bubble up from within him, but before he could spit out an apology, Cyrus spoke quietly.

"…Is that it? I'm sorry if we've troubled you, Philip."

He watched as the professor run his hand through his hair, breathing a heavy sigh as he leaned back into the chair by the study. With only the gentle light in the wick lamp next to him, Philip could make out a sad smile on the professor's features.

"I understand how you must have drawn that conclusion, but I really do have more work to do, back in Atlasdam. Between teaching in a classroom and going on trips… it's been harsh on me, physically. I do not want either you, or Sir Olberic to believe that I've abandoned you, to some effect or another." He explained. "…but I will admit to finding this sudden surge of work to be a convenient distraction."

Distraction. He'd been thinking that this was on purpose, but he needed to know more.

"From… what? Did you and Sir Olberic fight or something?" Philip pried, before wincing at his own choice of words.

Cyrus hadn't seemed to mind, laughing lightly instead at the notion. "Good Heavens, no- our squabbling days are far behind us. I've only known a strong friendship with Sir Olberic once we have gotten used to each others' presence. And I suppose... This is part of why I felt the need to pull away from him for a while."

The elder swallowed thickly, before looking away from Philip. Between them hung a thick curtain of unspoken things, and it frustrated Philip.

"I have crossed a few lines, I should say… though he will never say it to my face so directly. I have yet to fully get my act together before I can face him once more."

Philip fought the urge to scoff and yank the professor by his fluffy cravat at that. He knew he shouldn't, there were things that he had yet to understand about adults and Sir Olberic and Cyrus. He didn't know enough.

There was a prickling at his fingertips. He didn't know how to fix this.

"… I don't think he sees it like that." He said with a sigh of his own, heavy and resigned. He hated that Cyrus had that same look on his face.

"…I have no doubts. But I am not quite… ready."

At the very least, Philip could at least say that Cyrus didn't hate Sir Olberic. It didn't stop him from wanting things to return the way they were, even if he did have to put up with Cyrus's constant, overbearing presence-

-one that Philip has admittedly started finding genuine comfort in. No matter how hard he tried to deny it himself, the scholar had a way of endearing himself to those around him. He missed his tutelage. He missed the way he would pat his head when he'd give him the correct answers to a question, and the way he would reassure him that it was alright if he didn't know the answer at all.

He missed him.

Philip made his way to the door of their room, intending to get some fresh air for himself. "…could you at least write to him? Just so you don't keep giving him any wrong ideas?" He muttered by the doorway- just loud enough for Cyrus to hear.

He didn't wait for the elder's answer, before he greeted Kit by the door, and took him up on that offer for a walk.

Philip hoped that by the time they got back, he'd accept that this was out of his hands. He was too young, and he had much to learn. But at the very least, he could say with certainty that he tried his best to say all he could.

Perhaps that was how he was meant to get Cyrus to listen to him? He wouldn't know.

He wouldn't know for a long time.

Chapter Text

South was a direction that Cyrus Albright hadn't taken in a long while. It was strange to come back here now, at the turn of the seasons when he should be catching up on his work. He had mountains of manuscripts waiting for him in the Atlasdam Archives, several written accounts and observations to sift through. He was certain that he gave Mercedes no end of headaches with his hectic routine- waking her up at the crack of dawn to ask for the key to the archives and leaving only when the librarian decided that if he wanted to collapse, he should do it in his own bed.

He didn't want to collapse. Between his lessons and tutoring and endless studying, he should be able to handle it all.

Despite his mind's resolve, his body and colleagues disagreed with this relentless pace, as the Princess Mary- flanked by Kit and Therese- slammed down a written decree in front of his latest draft of the translation for From the Far Reaches of Hell, one rainy Atlasdam morning in the Royal Library. She gave him a stern look in that special way only nobles could ever be capable of.

"The Royal Court orders you to take a week-long break from this hellish routine of yours, Professor Cyrus Albright." The blonde said with a finality that he doesn't think he's ever heard from her before. "You know better than to go against the orders of my Father, don't you?"

"...my Lady, pray forgive my words, but that is a horrible way to exercise your power in your Father's name."

"I don't care." She huffed out in reply, taking his face into her hands and squeezing his cheeks painfully with an irked look. "The bags under your eyes are so heavy that it's a wonder you're standing upright. You look like you haven't eaten food in days. I'm not letting you run yourself to the ground for this book, Professor."

"S-she's just concerned for you, Professor," Therese piped up meekly from behind Kit. "We all thought you were just early for class, but you've actually been sleeping in the classroom instead of going home, haven't you...?"

"Just take the week off, Professor. One week away from all of..." Kit gestured to his messy workplace- the hole he'd made for himself in the Royal Library. He didn't remember that stack of books getting so high, the walls between the pages so thick. "...this. It won't kill you to step away for a bit."

That was what he'd said, but without this work he would be left listless and aimless- which he supposed was the point, but it hadn't been any less disorienting.

There was one place in Orsterra that he knew he had yet to visit again. He'd caught sight of himself in the mirror just before he left for the trip, and there was shame rising in his throat when he saw the apprehension on his face. Princess Mary had been right about the bags under his eyes, and the paleness of his complexion. There was a vulnerable glint to his stare- and he loathed it.

He loathed that he knew exactly what it was that caused him such anxiety.

Cyrus stared at his boots. Its heels dug into the coarse soils of the Highlands trail, but it left no marks as he walked. The Spring rains have stopped just a while ago, painting the Highlands flora with a light layer of dew atop the tiny, unassuming petals of the white heathers blooming by the road.

He traveled with the lightest load he thinks he's ever carried on his way to Cobbleston, with nary a tome in his satchel and only his newest collection of inks and notebooks weighing it down in the way of study materials. He thought idly that he didn't need such a heavy load- not when he has memorized every passage and can recite every word verbatim. Every lesson he could think to teach Philip in this week-long trip was stored in his mental archive, ready to be used at any time.

But upon seeing the familiar faces of Olberic and Philip waiting by the stairs leading up to dear, sleepy Cobbleston, he found that for the first time in his life, words had truly failed him.

>>>
The silence was deafening, and Philip learned just how ear-splitting it could be on that first day of traveling.

It was uncomfortable to be walking between his two mentors in this state, like he was some interloper in this strange dance. He'd bitten back the urge to swallow the lump in his throat, and wondered instead if he shouldn't have intruded at all.

He tried not to shake his head, fiddling instead with the sword hilt resting by his side. No, he knew he made the right choice, persuading Cyrus to write to them again. It came at the cost of looking childish and clingy, but it was good for all of their sakes- he'd heard enough about the scholar's merciless routine. Between juggling lectures and diving deep into his tomes to find answers to questions only he knew how to ask, he was certain that Cyrus had barely any time for himself. Surely writing to them again would have given him some kind of respite in those grueling hours?

His doubts gnawed at him from the back of his mind, the pervasive scent of tiny red blooms on the road hitting him full force all of a sudden.

Since January, they'd only seen two letters with his signature- one buried underneath the mountains of homework that Philip brought home from his trip, and one hastily written to them in ungraceful cursive from just last week. Both times, Philip hadn't dared to peek into what those letters contained. His resolve to do so had waned when he saw Sir Olberic's expression morph into one of pained stoicism as he read through the first.

Philip tried hard to keep a straight face when he heard them sigh in sync for what felt like the millionth time that day. This was getting ridiculous.

Cyrus's timing felt too sudden, when he'd shown up yesterday at the foot of the stairs leading up to Cobbleston, catching them in the middle of training. He suspected that Kit might have had a hand in it, if the blonde's own letter had anything to say about it. Something about a mandatory leave by order of the princess...?

And though he greeted them with a bright smile and a plan to visit the shrines of the gods the next day, it was clear that there was something wrong- that much he could tell when he stiffened up at Sir Olberic's offer to accompany him.

Walking alongside them now felt nothing like it had last year. He still couldn't believe that soon, it would have been a whole year since he first held a rune. He never would have known that he had a talent for it if not for the apprehensive professor walking beside him now. Days spent poring over tomes and concepts that he could barely read on his own were never as boring as he'd dreaded they'd be when he was guided so eagerly by the scholar that his mentor trusted so much. He didn't think that there would come such a day where the usually exuberant man wasn't trying to fill in the silence, but now that it was here Philip couldn't help but feel like he was in some sort of nightmare.

"We should be coming up on the Thunderblade's shrine, in a short while." He heard Cyrus say, as the paths in front of them diverged. Philip remembered the trail, where going east would take them to Stonegard. He wrinkled his nose- he doesn't think Sir Olberic has told him of that particular incident yet.

But neither of them were looking east, and instead their gazes were directed at a ridge up ahead. To his left, Philip could spot what looked like the ruins of a temple atop a platform suspended above the crags. Philip squinted- he didn't see any way for them to get to that place.

"Aye. I think I spot the path," Sir Olberic replied, before walking ahead of them and skidding down a small slope. He reached out a hand to both of them, one that Cyrus hesitantly took as he knelt down to try and reach the rocks below him.

"We've not taken this road in… how long has it been, do you reckon?" The scholar asked, as he was carefully brought down with Sir Olberic's guidance. He dusted himself off quickly, averting his gaze.

"Two years, give or take?" his mentor said, helping Philip down as well. "What made you decide to visit this shrine in the first place, Cyrus? I've not known scholars to pray to Brand for strength,"

"Perhaps not strength, but justice," Cyrus said, before casting a quick fire spell in front of them. It was almost too casual, the way that he'd dispatched the ratkin blocking his path. He looked back at Philip with a warm smile. "And I thought that it was about time that Philip here met one of his patron gods."

Sir Olberic put a hand to his chin in thought. "...hm. I was planning to take him when he was a little older for it," He muttered.

"Why not, Sir? I can handle paying them a visit!" Philip sighed in exasperation, nudging the back of Sir Olberic's leg with his foot.

The knight remained silent for a while as he took out his sword to help Cyrus with clearing the path, an almost nervous expression on his face. "Well, you'll see once we actually get there."

Philip tried very hard not to pout as he brandished his own blade, letting it glow green. He caught up with Cyrus, striking down a ratkin that was about to cleave him in the back. The professor gave him a quick thanks, before clearing the rest of the path with a call for thunder from the heavens- electrocuting the flock of falcons about to swoop down on them from above.

To keep them from meandering the path in silence once more, Philip cleared his throat. "Professor, you said earlier that you pray to Brand for justice. What other things is the Thunderblade the god of?"

Cyrus looked taken aback for a moment, as though he weren't expecting to be spoken to, before answering him with a thoughtful hum. "Hmm... as I recall, Brand is the patron god of warriors. His domain is not so sparse, as his name is also invoked in the world of law as a figure of order and justice. He was also known to be the most honorable of knights, and thus the chivalric code has been modeled after his personality- when one wishes for loyalty, security, and integrity, they look to Brand for those blessings." He explained, his steps careful atop the mossy floor of the cavern. "Though, it seems that visiting the shrines themselves is a practice long forgotten..."

Philip nodded along to the professor's words, but his focus was elsewhere as he looked around the cave.

It was- to put it lightly- a decrepit place. There were stone pillars that Philip could tell once stretched and reached out for the heavens, covered in bushels of morning glory and ivy vines. Each step upon the weathered marble seemed to resonate across the mountains beyond the cavern itself. Ahead of them was a raised platform of some kind- with an altar sitting at the middle of it, sunbeams bathing it in an almost ethereal light.

He glanced at his mentor with a question resting on his tongue- one that Sir Olberic was quick to answer. "Though the temple that was built around the shrine was destroyed by an earthquake long ago, the shrine remains intact. This may be the case of divine intervention- perhaps Brand did not want to be discovered so easily while he laid to rest and recover in this place."

The knight then moved to kneel in front of the altar, beckoning Philip to come between him and Cyrus and do the same as they stared ahead in reverence at the empty space.

He did so, and the longer he prayed, the more he'd realized- there were no monsters that haunted this sanctuary. There was a distinct feeling of fatigue seeping into his bones- a sharp, pervasive sense of steely emptiness that felt as if it were suffocating the magic coursing through his veins.

Still, he persisted, offering up his prayers to the warrior god.

"...it should be about time," Cyrus mumbled, looking up from where he knelt.

Before he could ask what he meant by that, a strong deep voice echoed throughout the shrine- sending Philip tumbling backwards in shock.

"Hail, travelers."

As soon as he regained his footing, his hand had instinctively gone to the hilt of his blade. "Sir Olberic, did you-"

"Calm yourself, Philip. It is alright." Sir Olberic cut him off, and sharply changed his stance to that of a soldier saluting their commander. "Great Brand, we have come to pay our respects, as well as express our gratitude."

Philip blinked. They couldn't be serious.

This wasn't Brand, the actual warrior god, talking to them all. This was a random voice that vaguely sounded like Sir Olberic but wasn't Sir Olberic, because he'd not known the man to make those kinds of jokes- he was probably just hallucinating! Maybe he was more tired of their strange squabble than he thought he was!

And yet, and yet-!

"That will not be necessary." The voice echoed again, bouncing off the stalactite and stalagmite lining the walls of the caved-in shrine. There was an unmistakable power- a sense of divinity that was laced in the voice's stoic tone, compelling Philip to take his place beside his mentor to assume the same salute. He shook in his boots, fingers itching to curl around a rune for some shelter from the anxiety pumping in his veins- not that it would do anything against the incorporeal Thunderblade. "Thou hast done thine task well. Thou art more than worthy to wield mine power."

"I am most humbled. I pray that you continue to guide my blade true." Sir Olberic replied easily, with practiced ease and decorum. His poise was perfect, and for a moment, Philip thought that he'd looked younger- almost like the knight standing beside him now was in the prime of his life, receiving praise from a pleased liege.

"Hmm. The scholar is with thou. How fares Alephan?"

"He is well, great Thunderblade, as well as the great Magelord." Cyrus answered with the same ease in his tone- no, it seemed lighter, as though he were greeting some higher-ranking official from work rather than a god. Philip swallowed the growing lump in his throat. Was this what the professor meant, when he'd mentioned visiting the shrines of the gods across the continent- was he not just paying respects to hollow altars after all? "Their counsel is most helpful to us, even after the fall of the great adversary Galdera."

"That is a relief to hear. Thou hast been busy, it seemeth."

"It is only right that we remain vigilant. There is always a new danger on the horizon, and this brief reprieve of peace is the best time to train our forces to become invincible to any threat." Sir Olberic asserted, his salute unwavering.

" ...thou hast grown wiser. That would do. Be at ease, Eisenberg." the Thunderblade commended his mentor, and just like that the knight's posture relaxed.

Suddenly, Philip felt a tremble down his spine- as if there were eyes boring into his very soul, weighing his heart and peering into the deepest recesses of his subconscious. It pricked at his feeble courage, but he bit his lip in an attempt to remain steadfast. "...thou hast brought one of thine disciples today? Step forth, boy."

His feet felt like they were being held down by lead weights, and his mind raced with uncertainty.

There was a gentle nudge at his back, from a familiar glove- and it's thanks to that that Philip willed himself to move, stepping closer to the altar.

"Be not afraid. Settle thine nerves, child." the Thunderblade said with what sounded like a beleaguered sigh. "...Upon thee who hast ventured boldly into this place, I impart the secrets of the heavens."

As Brand spoke, Philip thought he'd heard the clicking of a lock from within himself, and from there, bursting forth like water from a broken dam- the surge of power running in his veins. Like broken shards from a shattered mass of divine will, it stabbed itself into the very core of his being, integrating itself strongly and surely and reshaping his very foundations.

A strange sense of euphoria welled up inside of him- it was not unlike the culmination of experience, of victory- adrenaline roaring and rejoicing in the thrill of battle.

"T-this is...!" Philip clutched his chest, the sudden energy swelling up from within him bringing him to his knees.

"It is mine blessing. It will be a fair while until thou will be able to wielden it properly, but it will doe for now." the Thunderblade explained. Philip could vaguely feel his mentor's hand rubbing his back in reassurance, grounding him to the waking world. It was too much to take in all at once, he thought as he breathed steadily through his nose. It was strange- it wasn't a taxing experience at all, but still-

He reached out to grab Sir Olberic's hand. He didn't feel lightheaded anymore- it was as if the neutral airs had felt natural to him now, and that he can breathe without the magic within him being agitated too much. Was that part of the blessing too, he wondered.

"Doth should not looken so surprised, warrior. Art thou so doubtful of thine squire's grit?" the Thunderblade chuckled lightly. From the side of his eye Philip could see his mentor's jaw clench slightly in shame, the tips of his ears burning a light red as he gave Philip an apologetic pat on the small of his back.

"Of course not, great Thunderblade. I trust in your judgment." said the knight, returning to his saluting stance from before. "Philip."

Remembering where he was, Philip abruptly resumed his stance as well. "T-thank you, Warrior God Brand. I will do my best to live up to your expectations, for you have been so kind as to impart this knowledge unto me." he spoke, surprising himself with the steadiness of his words.

The voice beyond made a noise of approval, and despite himself Philip felt a flutter in his chest at having pleased the god with his answer. "Mine only expectation of thee is that thou wouldst continue thine tutelage under thine mentors. Thou hast vast, untapped potential. Usen it well."

"Yes sir!" Philip found himself bowing low. He knew full well that his gestures were clumsy and very much absent from whatever knight's code there was, but all that mattered to him now was acting to the warrior god's satisfaction. There were thoughts to be had, and decisions to be made- but in the here and now was a divine promise to the patron god that has watched over his mentor for so long.

"...Warrior. Scholar. The boy is versed in the art of runes, is he not?" was what the Thunderblade asked next. Philip wobbled back to Sir Olberic's side, trying hard to ease the rapid thumping of his heart.

"That is correct, your Grace."

"Pay a visit to mine brother. It would do thine squire well to see for himself his patron god."

Philip unconsciously reached for the runes in his pocket, feeling their elemental energy prickle at his fingertips at the very mention of the Runeblade. In that instant, he remembered his shape- the formidable figure that he sees in his dreams. If Brand was here, with his consciousness intact, then...

He turned to look at his mentors- only to find them tugging at their collars and sweating profusely. Cyrus had an uncharacteristically unnerved expression on his face, his heels shuffling at the moss underneath, while Sir Olberic simply directed his gaze downwards with a despondent look. Philip tilted his head quizzically at their reaction- was meeting the great Magelord so unpleasant?

"Speak thine woes." ordered the warrior god. Sir Olberic coughed into his fist, while the scholar cleared his throat.

"...er, you see, great Thunderblade..." he began hesitantly. "The last time we had paid a visit to your brother's shrine, he had mistaken Olberic for you, and he engaged us in a fight."

It was all that it took for Philip not to gasp in surprise and tackle the scholar to wrangle that story out of him, because this sounded like a cool tale to tell, why would either of you keep this from me, but the god's confused humming kept him rooted to his spot.

"Is that so? That Balogar..." A silence swept over the cavern, before Brand sighed again- heavier, this time, like he were some disappointed mother. "Well, I woulde at least expect that he doth not repeaten the same mistake twice...still, he is a restless god. Perhaps it would doen thee well to engage him in battle again, after all."

Sir Olberic straightened in his spot, though he still looked somewhat green in the face. "...would it be acceptable, Great Brand, for me to call upon your powers again for this duel?"

"Wielden it however thou seen fit. Within reason, of course." the Thunderblade replied with a light laugh- one that Philip thought sounded a bit too much like Sir Olberic's own. "Scholar, pray lend him thine aid."

"Y-yes, great Thunderblade. Always." Cyrus agreed with a stammer to his voice.

"... Do come visit again. Even gods aren vulnerable to boredom. Warrior. Humor me with a duel next time, when we are both granted such a chance." the faceless god said- all-too-casually, might Philip add.

That offer on its own could have made any lesser man quake in their heels, but Sir Olberic was not that man- just close to one, as Philip closely observed his reaction to the Thunderblade's words, because after all it wasn't every day that such an elusive proposal was-

"I woulde hope that one day, the squire may growen into a stronger man. And I shalle look forward to dueling him as well."

This was it. This was how Philip died- in Sir Olberic's arms as they both jerked backwards in utter shock at the Thunderblade's unexpected addition.

"Er- what-?!

"S-sir?!"

The answer to their horror and awe never came, as the god seemed to disappear back into whatever space that he was resting from. Philip slumped against Sir Olberic's hold, finally having a moment to himself to process what exactly it was that just happened.

"He's gone... Aha, it seems that you have your plate full for the next visit, Olberic." Cyrus chuckled nervously as he moved to their side to help them stand.

"Even so... Isn't it too sudden for him to say such things?" Sir Olberic grumbled as he tried to stand, brushing a hand through his hair as he did so.

"Now that's a surprise." The scholar's laugh ebbed away into something more amused, lightly sweeping away the dust on their clothes with his palm. "I would think that you would be more excited at the prospect of facing your patron god in a friendly spar!"

There was a guilty look on Sir Olberic's face at that, as he shuffled away to collect his bearings. Philip took the opportunity to ask Cyrus about one of the many mysteries that he was now privy to.

"...are the other gods like this, Professor Cyrus?" He asked, holding onto his blade for support. His legs wouldn't stop shaking no matter what he did.

The scholar put a finger under his chin in thought. "... I must confess to losing much sleep to engaging in heated debates with the Scholarking himself, on occasion." He then sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "Says that I could be sharper, and against him, it seems I have much to improve upon."

"Perhaps I should take this as a learning opportunity as well..." Sir Olberic remarked, stretching his arms behind them both. Philip winced as he heard his joints creak, even from this distance. "Though I'm certainly not looking forward to the aching I would receive the next morning..."

"Then, I could give you a massage!" Cyrus cheerfully offered, clasping his hands together as he and Philip caught up to Sir Olberic's pace. "I'm not so experienced with it but- ah!" He cut himself off suddenly, almost stumbling forward as though he were tripping from a rock in the path. Confused, Sir Olberic looked back at him- to which the scholar waved a dismissive hand in his direction. "...B-Best to leave that to the hands of a skilled apothecary. Stonegard is just a ways away from the shrine after all,"

"... I suppose you're right,"

The knight left it at that, moving ahead and out of the cave. Philip heard the distinct sound of dying falcons following him, and shrugged- he felt more fatigued than he expected he'd be, and he blamed it entirely on the revelations from earlier. He would be a nuisance to Sir Olberic in his current state of mind, so he decided to stick with a relieved-looking Cyrus for the time being.

He seemed to be thinking deeply about something, and Philip was certainly not looking forward to trying to figure things out for himself at the moment. There were far more interesting matters at hand.

He tugged lightly at the professor's coat. "Professor? Did the Runelord Balogar really think that Sir Olberic was the Thunderblade?"

Cyrus blinked down at him like he was woken from a trance, before giving him a smile. "It's quite the bizarre story, actually! Perhaps one better suited for Tressa to tell," He started, pausing only to mutter an incantation to clear the path of straggling ratkin, decimating them with his flames. "It was on our second trip to Everhold, near the end of our journeys across the continent. We'd hoped to get more soulstones from the cave near the catacombs, when the four of us came across a tall staircase that led up to a shrine. We'd thought these particular shrines to be lost to time, so imagine their surprise when a great jolly voice rang throughout the mountains themselves."

Philip nodded along, not bothering to fight the giddiness welling up in his chest at hearing the tale.

"Not a few seconds after that, they were suddenly face to face with the great Runelord. He spoke quite fast, and seemed quite agitated until Ophilia- bless her- she couldn't contain her laughter when she understood quickly that Olberic was being mistaken for Brand himself!" Cyrus explained, a light chuckle following his words at the memory. They caught up to Sir Olberic, who waited for them at the entrance of the cavern.

"...It was a horrid mix of confusion and apprehension, that day. I have never felt so cornered," the knight said, before continuing to walk again. Philip thinks he caught him shivering.

"Of course, none of them were laughing when he suddenly challenged them to a battle." the professor continued, reaching for the satchel on his back. He took out his worn notebook, flipping through the pages. It surprised Philip that he managed to take out what he needed to quickly this time, as it normally took the professor a good minute to sift through his plethora of papers. "It was the fiercest one, in terms of strength, that we've ever had to face at that point - or so Tressa says. He wielded runes as easily as he breathed- if a god could breathe." Cyrus then made a satisfied noise, showing Philip the sketch of Balogar that he'd seen so long ago.

Upon closer inspection, Philip saw that Cyrus was an unexpectedly good artist. The rough lines and shading made it seem clumsy, though Philip suspected that the professor simply couldn't contain his excitement as soon as the party arrived at an inn to rest before drawing the Mageknight. The Mageknight himself was drawn with a confident grin on his face, his dignified profile surrounded by runes and hasty cursive. His eyes were obscured by the helmet he wore- and next to it was the professor's scrawl explaining that the gods wore veils and masks, 'as gods did not need eyes to see, and to look a god in the eyes was an act reserved only for fellow gods. To meet the gaze of gods is to walk among them,' or so said the messy text.

"Eventually, we did manage to subdue him." Sir Olberic said. "It was only then that he realized that I was not- in fact- his younger brother. He was quite graceful in his defeat, however. It was a very humbling experience."

To face a god and survive like that- Sir Olberic and his friends were truly a formidable force.

There was a skip in Philip's step now, as they climbed the slopes ever higher and the road to Stonegard was once again visible. "Somehow, Sir- I'm not surprised that he thought you were the great Thunderblade. He sounded a bit like you!"

That gave the knight pause, and he looked down at himself in confusion, like he couldn't comprehend the idea that he could be compared to a god in any way.

Cyrus nodded, a flash of recognition in his eyes as he scanned Sir Olberic's form. "A fascinating observation, Philip! It's true that his physique resembles that of the picture that The Trials of the Twelve have painted of the Thunderblade! And you do carry with you a certain regality..."

>>>
They reached Stonegard, early in the afternoon. Getting them settled in the inn was an easy enough process- one that Cyrus took keen advantage of. He asked for two rooms, one for himself, and the other for Philip and Olberic to share.

He didn't miss the strange look that Olberic gave him when he handed him the key to their suite. He didn't say anything then, and the understanding in his voice when he urged Philip to go get settled in their room was painful to listen to. Cyrus had expected it to hurt.

They went their separate ways for the rest of the day, with Philip taking off to see a friend he made the last time he came to Stonegard- with an unusual amount of warnings from Olberic, something he'll have to ask about sometime- and Olberic himself wishing to see pay a visit to the city hall, muttering something about Yvon's Manse.

Cyrus would have accompanied them both, if not for the strict instructions from Princess Mary not to let himself get caught up in anything relating to From the Far Reaches of Hell. He busied himself instead with visiting Russell and Dominic at the latter's house, being very careful not to mention anything about the accursed tome and instead focusing his efforts at conversation towards Russell's successful publication of his first book.

His satchel is one tome heavier for that visit, as Russell thrust the precious hardbound book into his arms. He allowed himself a small smile as he ran a finger across the sturdy cover- his colleague has come a long way since that day three years ago.

Cyrus set the tome on the nightstand by his bedside, breathing a heavy sigh and burrowing himself under the covers. He met Olberic and the others that same day, where they'd assisted him in trying to apprehend Russell for his crime.

He remembered that day very clearly, every detail of it- it sent him on a journey. It broadened his horizons.

It let him see the world he has only ever experienced through books, and he knew even then that experiencing them with others would change his life forever.

He thought back to those first days- when he was still so eager to set out and nearly set his companions on fire more than a few times because of how little life he's lived. He remembers Alfyn's jolly smile and gentle healing, H'aanit's lovely cooking, the endless hairs of Linde's fur getting stuck to his coat. In his dreams he thinks he can still hear Primrose and Therion's lighthearted bickering, and Ophilia and Tressa exchanging conversations about their beloved families.

His chest tightened at the memories of Olberic, of wanting so badly to unravel the mysteries behind this dead man walking and the fallen kingdom he once served. What things has he seen? What paths did he walk after his country fell to ruin?

Soon enough, his questions became less about Hornburg and more about Olberic himself- as though he were a book that he can't get enough of reading. What was it like going into battle? What did he usually like to eat after his morning routines? What are his dreams for the future?

Where does he want to be, when this is all over...?

Cyrus turned his gaze to the door, a sharp pang resounding in his chest. All of a sudden, the covers weren’t warm enough, the space in his bed for the night strangely frigid.

There was a stinging loss at his fingertips as he tried to control his breathing in vain. Inhalation and exhalation seemed futile when all his throat felt like doing was to collapse in on itself, to catch itself in a strange stranglehold. Each breath he took was followed by a shudder, and he could feel it- his heart beating and aching in his chest.

This should be no different from any other night in the Highlands. He had rested here before, perhaps even in this same bed-

-but as far as he knew, he has never voluntarily slept in a room alone. Not when he was traveling with trusted companions. This felt wrong.

It was a struggle to even breathe. There was something missing, that pervasive feeling of loss that he couldn’t understand just yet. Even as the urge to slip out of his covers and knock on the door to the room across his came and went, he bit it all down.

His restlessness only grew stronger throughout the night. He knew then that he couldn’t walk to Everhold in this sleepless state, but try as he might, he couldn’t shake his mind off of the person who was resting now, one hallway away.

>>>
They left Stonegard by catching a cart early in the morning, and Philip was more than a little giddy when he heard that their next destination was Everhold. It was a place he's only heard about from merchants and rich tongues- a grand place where stories come to life on stage. The real place of intrigue was the Amphitheatre- a repurposed, impenetrable mountain fortress built to withstand even the wrath of the gods themselves. It was a long way from Stonegard to Everhold, and much more perilous than what he was used to, but thankfully his mentors cleared the way of monsters as easily as they breathed. No horde of falcons nor ratkings lasted very long under their shared prowess.

If they hadn't traveled by cart, it would have taken them several days to get to Everhold by foot- or so Cyrus insisted as he yawned and threw himself and his light load into the back. Like this, it only took them two- and while the hay on the cart felt strange to sleep on, it was at least very soft, and the cart only stopped every so often to let the strong, hardy Highlands horses eat and drink.

They reached the city of theater easily enough, as Philip was shaken awake on the dawn of the second morning. He'd jumped out of the cart excitedly, and indeed Everhold was the grandest of the cities he's visited thus far- situated atop the large, lush plateau and looking across the horizon. Everhold's flags flew high and proud at its entrance, and while the chiseled stone houses didn't look much different from home he could feel it in the chiseled walls and the prime mahogany doors that this was a Kingdom that stood prosperously and spared no expense.

The Amphitheater in the distance was the single largest thing that Philip has ever seen in his life- but alas, they'd arrived when the building was booked for several ongoing productions, and at the moment any outsiders aren't allowed inside. Still, it was an amazing sight to admire from afar. Even more amazing to Philip was thinking about the history behind it, and how it stood the test of war and time.

In any case, though the Amphitheater was closed for the week the ruins down below decidedly weren't, so as soon as they checked in at the inn they set out again towards the shrine's entrance at the foot of the mountain face Everhold was situated upon.

It's also today that Cyrus had decided- for whatever reason- to dress like a golden pontiff. His robes were bright and his cape a sparkling purple, and when asked why in the Twelve's name he was dressed as such, the professor only gave him a smile.

Philip thought that Sir Olberic would probably be able to get a better answer out of him, but at the moment he seemed far too on edge for him to really approach. He cut down remnants in his path with more force than Philip was used to seeing from him.

"...are you alright, Olberic?" Cyrus asked worriedly, right as they came across the staircase leading up to the shrine. The knight in question had just gotten done reducing a light revenant to rubble on his own with nary a sweat on his brow.

Sir Olberic looked back at them both and then down at the merciless beating he just gave the revenant, coughing awkwardly into his fist. " ...aye, just- preparing myself. Mentally."

" If it's any consolation, I will do my best to support you with my spells, if it comes to that." Cyrus said, putting a hand over his chest like an oath.

"Is that what you brought the yellow robes for…?"

"It's only proper, I feel." the professor replied, and shivered a little as he sent a wave of fire behind him, melting away the remnants. "And it's still quite chilly up here."

Sir Olberic chuckled, before directing his gaze toward the staircase once more. "I suddenly feel very underdressed for the occasion."

"Chin up now," said the scholar as he tugged Philip along by the hand, beginning their ascent. "I'm sure I'm overthinking this visit. I'm afraid my skills as a Starseer have grown rusty as of late,"

Philip gave him a weird look at that, one that Cyrus didn't seem to catch.

They reached the top of the stairs without much issue, and all thoughts about wrangling stories out of the professor were wiped away from Philip's mind as the shrine came into view. Unlike Brand's shrine, the Runeblade's shrine was open for the world to see, on top of this great mountain. Looking to the left, he could spot Everhold in all its evening glory- the lights flickering and fading from a great distance and somehow paling in comparison to the twilight sky above them all. Here, there was no light pollution- only the brilliance of the world as seen from the weathered Runeblade's shrine.

His two mentors didn't seem to share in Philip's same stunned silence, as Olberic muttered quietly." ...Well, I don't think I would be able to decline such a challenge, but somehow I am glad that we decided to go to this shrine instead of Great Winnehild's-"

"Winnehild?! Is mine sister finally well enough for a visit?!"

A deep, agitated voice bellowed throughout the mountains, echoing loudly across the valleys. Philip whipped his head around, trying to find the source of the voice, before a heavy thud resounded behind the three of them- the sharp sound of hard steel hitting the marble floor with a great 'clang!'.

Before Philip could get a good look at the intruder, he was pulled abruptly behind his mentor by Cyrus, as another ear-splitting 'clang!' resonated for what seemed like miles across the Highlands in a relentless cacophony. It forced him to yelp and cover his ears- and looking up from under Cyrus's long sleeves, he saw him-

Sleek black armor gilded in the shiniest gold that Philip has ever seen. covering a lithe body from regal head to steadfast toe. Glowing sigils enveloping his form and whispering their own names and syllables, coming into existence and non-existence one sentence at a time, dissipating into the magical airs around him. His eyes were obscured by a long, golden mask that showed only his bared teeth.

His sword was perfectly against Sir Olberic's- a long, massive blade pulsing with the colors of every element all at once like a beacon in the darkest of nights.

It was him- the figure that permeated Philip's dreams was his.

Sir Olberic was struggling to maintain his stance, his eyes narrowed in focus as he fought to keep the parry steady in his grip. "...! Nay, great Mageknight! It is only us, please- stay your temper!" He yelled, digging his heels into the floor of the shrine.

The figure before him remained unmoving for a few moments, but Philip felt his gaze on him and Cyrus nevertheless- as though he were conducting an inspection. This scrutiny was different from Brand's, who had no form to call his own. No, this time there was a formidable shape to this overwhelming pressure- a shadow to put a name to. Philip's breath was caught in his throat in an anxious stranglehold as he kept his hand from reaching instinctively for his runes, and the grip that the scholar had resting on his shoulders was maddeningly tight.

They stood there in a standstill for what felt like ages, before the expression beneath the stranger's mask changed into something jollier.

"Ah! Faux-Brand!" he greeted them, withdrawing his sword and letting it rest atop his shoulder. The written runes around him dissipated along with the extreme pressure, the air around them all lightening up. "And the scholar as well! What bringeth thou to mine humble abode on this fine Highlands day?"

Philip blinked, and took a cursory glance around the shrine- the very grand marble shrine atop the tallest mountain for miles around.

Sir Olberic's muscles relaxed, as he lowered his sword, and knelt before the god the same way he had back in Brand's shrine. Cyrus and Philip took this as their cue to follow suit. "...the Thunderblade sends his regards, great Runeblade. That is why we are here."

"Hm? That Brand- I am bored!" the god... whined, is how Philip thinks he sounded- in the comforts of his own mind he can say that the Runeblade whined. "I do not need his regards - I want him up and raring for a duel! It hath been centuries since our last battle!" he said, his tone petulant as he stabbed his sword down into the ground, tearing through the hard stone floor. The Runeblade made his way over to the empty altar, sitting cross-legged atop it. The familiar feeling of a god's gaze on him sent a jolt up Philip's spine. "Oh-hoh- I see that thou hast brought a squire this time! Hail, tiny traveler!"

"G-good day, great Runeblade!" No matter how the Runeblade looked in his eyes at the moment, he was still a god- his patron god- and Philip wasn't looking forward to making an enemy out of him. "I am called Philip, and I am studying the art of runes!

Balogar made an intrigued noise. "Art thou? I was told that runes had become a lost relic in Greater Orsterra! Scholar, didst thou have a hand in this?"

"Certainly, venerable Mageknight." Cyrus replied. "I could simply not ignore the potential that Sir Olberic's charge had within him."

"And I am most grateful for the opportunity!" Philip chirped up, taking the runes out of his pocket and offering them up for the Mageknight to see.

The Mageknight leaned over, looking at the stones in Philip's hand with what Philip hoped was interest. He scratched a gloved finger underneath his chin, humming pleasantly, before nodding in approval. "Heh, I am glad that thou art making good use of mine gifts!" He then put a hand to Philip's head, giving his hair a good-natured tousle. It was strange, having the god's tangibility be confirmed in this way, but at the moment Philip just did not want to know how red his face might have looked. "That remindeth me, how fares the merchant girl? Is she still causing headaches on mine behalf?"

Philip figured they were talking about Miss Tressa, and oh- when will the Runeblade stop patting his head, it was hard to concentrate with this praise- "She grows stronger by the day, your Grace." he heard Cyrus say. "She is traveling the continent by boat now, actually!"

"A true herald of Bifelgan, that!" Balogar laughed- a jovial and carefree sound.

And yet, as soon as the Runeblade took his hand off of Philip's head, the air around the shrine became heavier, and it felt too much like how he was earlier. The Runelord stood on his altar- the heels of his boots clacking strongly on the glossy granite. He put his hands on his hips, grinning down at them with something akin to a challenge.

"So! If thou art here by Brand's urging, it meaneth only one thing." Philip saw his fingers twitching restlessly by his side, and his blood ran cold when Brand's words echoed in his mind. "Thou wouldst learn the secrets I hold once more?"

That seemed to pull both Sir Olberic and Cyrus into a primal fear, as they both stood back from where the Runeblade's sword rested on the ground. He's very sure that he heard Sir Olberic swear under his breath as he gripped his sword tight, putting himself between Philip and the cackling Mageknight- who jumped from his perch and unto the hilt of his blade. The glowing incantations from before crackled and lit up around him, and it reminded Philip of the shape that Miss Tressa had called.

"Then thou must prove to me thy worth!" In one swift motion, the Runelord grabbed his sword from under him- letting it burst with glowing colors. He then pointed it in Philip's direction- and despite himself, Philip found his hand gripping tight onto his mentor's sleeve in anxiety, as though it could hide him from the Mageknight. "That meaneth thee, boy! Letten us see how well thou really danceth with that blade!"

Faster than his eye could follow him, the Mageknight attacked Sir Olberic- who didn't bother to mask his frustration this time, swearing loudly as he parried the strike. "Cyrus...!"

"The stars guide our path...!" The scholar chanted, and the words bathed Sir Olberic in an ethereal light. "Olberic, are you alright?!"

The knight didn't have time to answer him as the Runelord's blade glowed a bright red, and a great trail of magical fire enveloped Sir Olberic. It was warm, even from behind him- the flames licking at his skin as if they were taunting Philip. This was his cue to move out of his mentor's way, as he dived sideways just in time for the Runelord to unleash a flurry of attacks onto his mentor.

"It's not nearly as bad as the first time we did this..." he heard Sir Olberic grunt as he dodged the numerous lightning bolts following Balogar's attacks. "But Philip-"

"Perhaps it is better after all that he stay beside me-!"

Cyrus was cut off mid-sentence by a swipe of the sword in his direction, and he was knocked backwards into one of the pillars by a burst of wind with a surprised yell. Philip gasped, remembering where he was and that right now- he was wide open for an attack.

"Focus, focus, focus! Otherwise thou might just falleth to my blade!" The Mageknight laughed, turning to Philip's direction with his sword flaring white. He was about to try and dodge the attack when Sir Olberic rushed to his side, taking the full force of the beam of light that was meant for Philip. It brought the knight to his knees, but he hung on tight to his sword- glaring ahead at the god. Philip hurriedly dug into the bag on his back, shakily pulling out a healing grape for Sir Olberic.

This was a god that they were dealing with. It was absolutely nothing like fighting the beasts in the wild- nothing like getting trapped in that mansion or facing a Leviathan on a cold January night. Though Philip knew from the tales that Balogar was weakened and recovering, he remained a formidable opponent.

They were up against a force of nature that had helped shape the continent itself- the very embodiment of flawless interplay between the tangible and the magical.

Balogar clicked his tongue, thrusting his blade into the open air. "Art the boy a nuisance? A babe to be protected? Letten him fight!"

"We beg your pardon, but the boy is twelve!" Sir Olberic snapped back at the god, who seemed unfazed by his enraged outburst.

"All the better! He will know early what it meaneth to go up against a true master of his craft!" the Runelord asserted, guffawing loudly as he made another swipe at Sir Olberic- this time, with his blade glowing green. It knocked the knight sideways into an opposite column from where Cyrus struggled to stand, leaving Philip once again open for an attack. He unsheathed his sword, beads of sweat rolling down from the side of his face as he dug into his pockets for his runes. He needed to think quickly- his nerves be damned.

"What sayest thou, Philip of Cobbleston? Will thou hide - or will thou faceth me like the soldier thou wishest to become?!"

Something snapped from within Philip. He took out his runes, muttering an incantation- letting the tempest raging below his feet propel him upwards just as the Runelord brought down his blade. His resolve quivered when he saw his opponent's sword glow a frigid blue, the temperatures from the icy pursuit throwing him off-course as his cyclone sent him crashing into the altar with a yelp.

There wasn't much time for him to think. He wasn't strong enough to take on the god by himself, but he didn't want to stand by as the onslaught continued either. He can only ever try to outsmart the Runelord.

"Conjure darkness," Philip muttered, clutching the pulsing dark rune in his hand as he tried to run- waving his sword around as he did so. He needed to buy his mentors time, even if his efforts felt futile as he left a plume of smoke in his wake. At least, like this he can try to blind the Mageknight-

A beam of light stopped him in his tracks, instantly dispelling the shroud he created. He skid to a halt to try and avoid it, but there was a sudden burning atop his skin that made him hiss and stumble backwards on his behind. The runes in his pocket scattered onto the floor, and desperately Philip tried to pick them up before he was greeted by the sight of Balogar's heel crushing a transparent rune in front of him.

The distinct shadow of Balogar raising his sword loomed over him, and he grit his teeth, expecting excruciating pain to follow.

"The moon smiles upon us!"

The deafening clash of steel against steel rang throughout the valleys as he heard Balogar swear- and in front of Philp instead was a panting Sir Olberic, who then brought down his blade upon the god, sending him staggering backwards. Philip thinks he could see sparks decorating the knight's longsword, trailing behind each slash that he delivered upon the god.

"Tch- Steorra's art?! That is most vexing to dealeth with!" the Mageknight complained as he parried each of Sir Olberic's attacks.

"Olberic-!" Cyrus called out from the side. "If I remember correctly he is weak to darkness in this phase...!"

Philip's eyes widened, and he reached for one of the dark purple runes on the floor, clutching it and his sword as tightly as he could. "Conjure darkness!"

The corners of his lips tugged upwards as he saw the shroud cling to Sir Olberic's blade, enveloping it in a menacing purple glow. For a split-second, he saw surprise in his mentor's gaze, before lunging at Balogar once more.

Shadowy plumes followed the knight's every strike, each one bringing the god to a stagger. He couldn't help but stare at the spectacle ahead of him- his mentor took each of the Runelord's attacks and responded in kind, both of them weaving in and out of attacks and brightly colored magical pursuit.

"Philip, together now!"

Sir Olberic's call snapped Philip out of his trance. He nodded in his direction, his sword flaring purple as he charged at the god from behind- breaking Balogar's defenses and giving them time to breathe.

"Stand back, both of you!"

Philip felt himself being dragged out of the way from the scruff of his neck by Sir Olberic's gloved hand. From a fair distance away, he could see Cyrus, kneeling on the ground as he recited an incantation.

He could barely make out the words, but what followed Cyrus's warning was a brilliant spectacle of what looked like shooting stars falling upon the Mageknight- crashing down and casting him into a colorful shroud. Wasting no time, Sir Olberic rushed inside the magical cloud in order to deliver a mighty blow- making Philip wince as he heard the hard metal make contact with the Mageknight's armor.

"Don't give him a chance to recover! Keep moving Philip!" Cyrus yelled, his hand outstretched towards them. He felt a gentle magic tugging at his lifeblood, as though replenishing his spirit and drive.

"A fine strategy! It's gotten thee to this point much faster than before- and with much less company this time!" the jolly voice of the Runelord called from the veils of stardust that the professor cast over him. A sharp gleam cut through the dust, revealing Balogar being enveloped in a fierce magical aura. "How long will it protect thee, I wonder?!"

Runes flew around their opponent in a brilliant glowing chain, before dispersing to gods knew where. The energies burst from the god's core, and like a beacon the Runelord held his sword up high- the incantations and glyphs flashing in every color of every element, almost blinding Philip in its brilliance. It seemed as if the Mageknight was surrounding himself in a cocoon, as unrelenting streaks of fire and ice intertwined impossibly, storms crackling and roaring alongside them- smoky trails of darkness and light beams weaving it all together and pulsing outwards, as if forcing them to stand back and watch as Balogar delivered his justice down upon them all.

"Tsk!" Sir Olberic's expression soured, holding onto his sword as he braced himself. "Cyrus, focus on protecting Philip!"

"What?! But, you'd be left with-"

"Come if you dare, Mageknight Balogar!"

Philip thought his heart had leapt out of his chest when his mentor taunted the recovering Mageknight, who cackled in an almost menacing fashion, pointing his sword towards Sir Olberic.

"Faux-Brand wants to play, does he? Have at thee!"

Just like that, they were back at clashing swords, though it was clear that the Runelord had the upper hand- despite having more openings to be exploited. Philip was vaguely aware of the professor approaching him, quickly giving him a plum as he muttered quick incantations. Philip bit into the plum in his hand, letting the energy to use his skills flow back into his bloodstream.

"That Olberic... his stubbornness will be the death of him," Cyrus grumbled, pulling out a dagger from his side. "We need to be quick. Philip, if you would be so kind-?"

"Of course sir," Philip swiped at a transparent rune in front of him, fingers curling around the dark rune once again. "Conjure darkness...!"

They both watched Sir Olberic stagger, just barely avoiding another strike from the Mageknight. He was panting heavily, and looking increasingly dazed as he took on the full onslaught of the runic attacks- the energies tearing apart at his tunic and singing his hair. "He can't take much more," the professor gripped his dagger tight, before standing. "Let us take this chance to break him, Philip- just a little more!"

"Right!" Philip followed the scholar into charging ahead, swiping at the Runelord with their respective weapons, bringing Balogar's continuous assault to a screeching halt as his defenses are broken by the great shadowy trails that followed. Cyrus immediately rushed to Sir Olberic's side, supporting him by his waist when he saw the knight wobble.

"Olberic...!" he gasped, pulling out a healing grape from his pocket- one that the knight denied. "What are you- you need your strength!"

Groaning heavily, Sir Olberic instead stood up- keeping his tight grip on his sword. "It's alright- this should be it...! Cyrus, together with me!"

The professor's eyes widened, before he nodded and turned to Philip. "You may want to stand back a little, Philip!"

Swallowing the nervous lump in his throat, Philip obeyed, throwing another clear rune to the ground and swapping out his dark rune for a light one. "Conjure light!"

His mentors moved in unison as soon as the words left Philip's mouth- Sir Olberic moving towards the Mageknight with his sword raised and glowing a bright white, with Cyrus raising his staff above his head, his own mouth moving ceaselessly as he recited the same incantation from before.

From this distance, Philip thinks he could see sparks emanating from Sir Olberic's sword as he knight closed in on their opponent. A shiver crawled up Philip's spine as he watched them both- and the feeling was familiar, it felt exactly like-

"I wreak havoc upon thee!"

"Alephan, lord of learning!"

It felt exactly like watching Miss Tressa from a few months ago, where she'd called forth the shape of the gods themselves with her sheer divine will.

Silhouettes made themselves visible against even the bright aura of Balogar's godly wrath, and Philip could make out the figure of a large, regal knight carrying even an even larger sword- the clap of thunder echoing throughout the mountains as Sir Olberic brought his sword down upon the deity. Following closely was a smaller figure with a large, golden cloak billowing elegantly behind them, with a hand outstretched, carrying what looked to be the sun itself in the palm of their hand.

Sir Olberic moved out of the way as Cyrus immediately began chanting yet another spell, once again calling down the stars from the heavens- but it felt different this time. Where before they fell and coated the shrine with sparkling dust, this time they splintered into great, glowing shards- all of which moved to pierce through the Mageknight's body, dissipating on impact and sending strong, domineering pulses of light and darkness across the shrine.

Philip hadn't realized that he was shivering- only when the smoke cleared and the Runelord's body was left quivering and hanging onto the now faintly-glowing blade in his gloved hand, kneeling unto the marble, that he allowed himself to breathe again.

The pinnacle of physical prowess and magical might... that was what Philip had seen today- and it manifested itself in not only the great Mageknight, but the seamless synchronicity between his mentors.

He was shaken out of his awe when Balogar grunted and fell sideways on the ground, the steel of his sword making a noisy clatter as he did so. "Mine word... Thou hast certainly grown!" he wheezed out, struggling to stand once again. "I yield,"

Sir Olberic, with his body wracked with what Philip assumes to be paralysis and thermal shock and having some of his limbs well on their way to getting frostbite from having withstood the relentless elemental onslaught, limped towards the Mageknight. He offered the deity a shaky hand. "...a fine battle that was, you have my thanks."

To Philip's surprise, the god took the hand quite easily. He didn't seem like the type to accept defeat so gracefully, and yet he sported a cheerful grin on his face as Sir Olberic helped him to his feet. He then stabbed his sword back down into the cracked marble floor, turning his head towards Philip.

"It is regrettable, but thou hast earned this right." he spoke with a noble tone- a far cry from the battle-hungry swordsman that they faced just moments before. He approached Philip, kneeling before him to meet him at eye-level. "Thou hast fought bravely alongside thy mentors, and hath even assisted them with thine own skill!"

He placed a hand on top of Philip's head with a strange tenderness. "I impart upon thee the knowledge of the heavens!"

Perhaps it was due to his fatigue, or because the experience has only begun to truly sink in for him- but this familiar bestowment felt so much sharper than before. He jerked forward into the Mageknight's palm as he felt the core of his being be reconstructed to account for the divine blessing integrating itself within him.

Balogar's blessing could not feel any more different from Brand's- it was an electrifying, relentless experience, much like the battle he'd just walked out of alive. He felt deeply the raging inferno and the roaring blizzard, the thunderstorm and the tempest, the gleaming lights and the beckoning of the void- all of it prickled at his fingertips.

He almost expected it when the Runeblade tousled his hair again afterwards. Philip can now confidently say that being teased like this by one's chortling patron god was the most surreal experience that he has ever had in his life.

"Gods'a mercy," he heard Sir Olberic groan behind him. "I'm only happy that this time around, those cursed side-effects weren't nearly as bad..."

"Do not falter now, Faux-Brand!" the god chirped. "With this blessing, thine magesquire shalle have the power to bestow upon his enemies only these most accursed side-effects!"

While Sir Olberic dealt with the splitting headache that Philip was certain he was receiving, Cyrus instead tilted his head in confusion. "Magesquire...?"

"A fine term, yes? I came up with it just now!" Balogar moved to pull his sword out from the stone he stuck it in earlier. He gestured for Philip to come in front of him. "Kneel, boy! Comen now, humor me!"

Too confused and tired to argue, Philip found his legs obeying the god's orders. "Uh, yes sir!" Really, with how energetic the god seemed to be, it was almost like he'd just faked his exhaustion.

"I dub thee..." The metal of Balogar's blade felt lukewarm against the singed part of Philip's outfit- certainly much warmer than any other sword he's used to touching the metal of. "The very first magesquire in history! In name, of course! Thou art hardly the only traveler who has bested me in combat!"

"I am- I'm honored, great Mageknight…!" Philip stuttered. He was positive that his face was burning red at this exchange.

The Runelord smirked. "I woulde not lie to thee, I have expected more out of the apprentice of Faux-Brand and his scholar, but thou will growen into the role, I'm sure!"

There was a pang in Philip's chest as he'd said that. The god was a brutally honest one. Nevertheless, he kept what he hoped was a determined expression on his face, his fists curling tight. "I will prove to you that I am worthy of keeping this power, mighty Balogar!"

The god barked out a hearty laugh, clapping him lightly on the back. "I woulde hope so! Otherwise, I woulde have to cutten thee down to taken it back, haha!"

Beside them both, Sir Olberic heaved a weary sigh. "I feel as if I must reiterate that the boy is but twelve, your Grace."

He had to give it to him- the god was surprisingly shameless as well, what with that giant pout that appeared on his face at his mentor's words. "Must you be so cold, Faux-Brand? I have granted thine offspring a blessing!"

"And must you be so prone to misunderstandings?!" Sir Olberic snapped back, looking very much like he was on the end of his rope trying to deal with this fickle god.

"How cruel! I am not so senile!" Philip honestly hadn't believed that the god's pout could get any deeper, but alas. "And to proven this, I shalle have to drawen attention to the serious matter at hand. There art another reason that thou art here, yes?" He asked, moving to once again sit on his altar.

"Yes, great Balogar." Cyrus started. "We are here to inquire about-"

"Galdera." the Mageknight cut him off, and though his posture was far too casual for the name of which he spoke of, there was a dense gravity to his tone that made Philip wince. "I understanden, I am closest to mine youngest brother's resting place, after all. And I do meaneth resting. As thou art aware, one doth not simply kill a god. A god doth not breathen. We doth not haven hearts to stab through. We drawen life from the beliefs of those who worshippeth us. He liveth on, in the hearts of those who believeth in him." He explained, resting his chin on his hand.

"…so it is as we feared." Cyrus replied solemnly.

Philip swallowed thickly. The information was something he'd admittedly come to expect, putting together the pieces over time when all his attempts at asking for the details himself have ended in poor efforts to deter him from finding out more. Galdera was a name he has only heard uttered in passing fear- the god of life, death, and destruction.

The greatest adversary that the continent has ever known, and his mentors have something to do with it- in some way.

Balogar's expression lightened up again, giving them a more lighthearted grin. "And why shouldst thou fear, when you have prepared so? Thine foresight is more than what us tired gods coulde have expected. Thou hast done well to stallen for time."

That was a statement that he found interesting. "What does that mean, sir? Are the gods…"

"Verily, magesquire! It is high time that the gods risen again to protecte thee!" The Runelord declared boldly. Philip wished in that moment that the blessing he'd given him included that unshakeable spirit of his, even as Philip and his mentors stared at him in unabashed disbelief.

>>>
There weren't very many times where Cyrus Albright could admit to his own exhaustion.

But having faced the Mageknight in battle after having gone for so long without engaging in a serious fight, and with him proceeding to grant them valuable information that he was sure that the Princess was going to smite him for, he can do naught but listen to the screaming of his limbs and the emptiness of his magical reserves. He was lucky to have even casted a few spells on their way back to the inn.

Despite all of this, Cyrus found himself outside, in the dead of a Highlands night. Spring would be soon giving way to the heat of summer, but at these altitudes this change in seasons hardly mattered. Only the cold of winter could be a cause of concern to them from this high above.

His back was to the theater, and his gaze was further out- deep into the night sky. He was unsure of what time it even was, but what he did know was that it was too late into the evening for another set of footsteps to be coming up behind him.

"…I thought that I'd find you out here."

He took a sharp breath, before turning to face his friend. "You know me well. What are you still doing up…? It's late, Olberic."

Olberic's expression was blank as he moved to stand beside him at the cobblestone wall. He was supposed to be resting- after having taken the full force of Balogar's wrath like that, his limbs were laden with fatigue and the after-effects of the status ailments he'd received. He hoped that Philip wasn't taking after his example and wandering around. The poor boy had done his best to pull through the sheer physical and mental stress of today, and he needed his rest. And he was no Olberic, whose body was sturdy and could held him upright as he leaned forward atop the stone.

"…I don't know when I'll get another chance to talk to you like this. That is all." admitted the knight.

"…I see."

They stood in silence for a while. It was nothing new. They spoke in different tongues, and sometimes it was alright, sometimes Cyrus persisted to fill in the void with quotes and queries. The language of blades used less words, and the world of knowledge spoke more than enough for them both.

This void felt too large for him to fill on his own now, and it tugged at his heart painfully. Silence shared between them has never felt so uncomfortable before.

"Are you worried?" Olberic eventually spoke, keeping his gaze away from Cyrus's.

"About what the Mageknight has told us?" From Cyrus's peripheral vision, he could see him nod. "…No. Not nearly as much as I should. Not when I-"

He bit his tongue. That was too close, but to hope that his slip-up went unnoticed was an exercise in futility. He shook his head instead, trying to recollect his bearings. "…the continent has people like you to help defend it, as well as strong apprentices like Philip to succeed us. And I would be content if I could do my part in this scheme just as well."

Ease the conversation into something else. Stall for time with half-truths and hard observations, look for an opening to escape. That's all that can save him now.

Olberic gave him a low grunt in reply. "The gods know you've been working hard, Cyrus… perhaps a little too much."

"It can't be helped. You know how it is, with the Congregation… I expected that there would be no end to my burning the midnight oil." he fought to keep a smile on his face as he remembered the workload waiting for him, all those heavy tomes and precious manuscripts to peruse through back at home-

-no, in Atlasdam, where the Royal Library was, where his students waited eagerly for his return and his lectures. It was never just the one tome, that one curse. The seat of knowledge was looking to him for guidance, and he was happy.

"It's good work, Olberic. I am happy to be doing it."

The knight's frown was almost audible. "…that's not how you sounded, when you've finally gotten a moment to yourself."

Cyrus's hand gripped hard at his wrist, fighting the frustration rising in his chest. He'd not told him a single lie so far, and still he's managed to see through him.

Vividly, he remembered that night in Grandport. Philip's urging had driven him to grab for the pen and paper just beside him. He remembered how the boy looked back then, and how his words struck Cyrus to his core- and before he knew it, he'd surrounded himself in countless failed letters. He recalls gripping the pen tight in his hand as he looked down at the one he'd eventually shove deep into the boy's satchel, the words looking up at him in mockery.

Philip was right. Olberic wouldn't see this kind of behavior from him as a burden. This dauntless, doubtless truth sat in the middle of the complete mess that were his feelings. Time and again, he's been told by others that his actions would cause someone pain eventually, and that he should be more mindful- it was something he couldn't understand for the longest while, and even now, confronted by arguably the biggest victim of his carelessness…

And yet. He still couldn't understand. Why this absence of one person's warmth hurt him so, when he was surrounded by so much of it- he couldn't understand.

"…is that so?" he whispered, hating the way his own words tasted on his tongue.

"Cyrus, you can tell me anything-"

"I know that…!" Cyrus snapped, finally looking back up at his friend. His hands trembled, and suddenly he wished he brought his staff, just so he would have something to support himself with because everything started spinning- "And I was not lying, not about it being good work… rather, I find myself wishing that the home that I was returning to every night, each and every single night…"

The words kept falling from his mouth, and he couldn't stand to look at the worry that marred Olberic's features. But he couldn't stop. The cold bit into his skin, and he wrapped himself in his arms to warm himself, but it wasn't that same kind of cold, he couldn't understand.

"It feels so empty." he managed to say, his voice wracked with unfamiliar tremors. "There is a loneliness there that wasn't there before. Not before traveling, truly living in the world I've only read about in the countless books in my study… not before knowing what it felt like to wake up and not find myself alone in the morning."

It was all that he could do not to curl into himself, but the cold was getting unbearable, and he didn’t know how to make it stop. "But right now, I can't have both… It is vexing, but I will have to deal with it until the worst is behind us."

Cyrus let out a shuddering breath, the weight of his responsibilities making themselves known.

Olberic's gaze on him was hard and somber, his lips thin with concern. "…I understand." He said quietly, reaching out to him with his hand. Cyrus doesn't know why he took that step backwards. There was nothing to be cautious of when it came to him, he didn't understand at all-

"Please, don't. Don't do this."

A soft breeze flew past them both, and the scholar could tell that it settled neither of them.

"Olberic, I know how I am. And I know that no matter what I say, I will hurt you in some way- and I do not want that. You don't deserve that." He hated this. He hated the quiver in his voice, the exhaustion pervading his senses, the emotions forcing their way out from his throat. "I wish desperately that I know how to do this… how to deal with this better. If it's for your sake,"

He didn't understand how he felt. That was yet another truth that he had yet to grapple with. All he knew was that the man standing in front of him was someone that he loved and held dear to his heart.

How could he stand to feel more when he was already feeling so much?

He almost jumped in his spot when he felt a hand underneath his chin. "…Cyrus, would you look at me?"

His stare was warm. There was a stinging at Cyrus's fingertips- a burning sensation that compelled him to grab and reach for that warmth.

"…Cyrus, you are very many things to me. A cold, hurtful person is not one of them." the knight muttered, in a voice that only Cyrus could hear. "You are not responsible for how I feel about you, do you understand that?"

He tried. Reaching out for his friend's ungloved hand, he felt some semblance of clarity coming back to him.

"But I admit to the same feelings. I've grown accustomed to waking up with you by my side. And like you, I want to accept that right now, we must forfeit this simple pleasure." For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something else. Each syllable that flowed from his lips was carefully spoken. "…Do you know what it is that keeps me going these days?"

"…what would that be?"

"Your words. Our shared vision of the future."

Cyrus blinked. Olberic had said that in a voice so self-assured, but Cyrus's mind drew blanks. What was it that he could have said to him that was so important?

"You told me once before, that you saw the future in our companions - in me," Slowly, the knight's hands took both of his own, enveloping them in a gentle warmth. "We're in that future now. I vowed to protect it to the best of my abilities, in that same way that you have sworn to stubbornly believe in its brightness." A small smile graced his lips as he'd said that, and Cyrus felt as if he were about to melt in his determined comfort.

"And I want to keep working. One day, we might get to rejoice in its peace. One day… it shall give you enough time to collect your bearings. One day, Cyrus- I hope that we can wake up next to each other again," Olberic gently squeezed his hands, and Cyrus couldn't fight his choked gasp. "Regardless of how you choose to feel in the end."

"And what of you…?" Cyrus asked. He had a feeling he already knew what his answer was, because this was Olberic, and he knew him- he liked to think that he still knew his friend. "How will you choose to feel in the end?"

A pensive quiet followed. "…Right now, I just don't want to lose you. The last thing that I want is to drive you away. If these feelings are to take you from me, then I do not want them." He sighed. There was no trace of regret in the knight's words- no hesitation to be found in his resolve, and Cyrus felt it unnecessary. "I want to experience this future with you, Cyrus. As long as I can be by your side to protect it, I will be content."

Something broke within Cyrus. His worries, his doubts, and his fears- they all flew freely into the night as he reached for Olberic, burying himself into his wide torso as he wrapped his arms around his midsection. He felt foolish- embracing him so desperately now when just moments ago he was so afraid of what it might do, what ridges it could drive in-between them.

"…I'm sorry, it looks like I'm taking quite a while to arrive at an answer." he whispered, tightening his hold around the knight.

"And I told you that I would wait. For as long as you need me to, I will wait."

Cyrus's laugh was breathless as he felt his friend lean into his embrace, reciprocating in kind and surrounding him with a gentle warmth. "You really are… just so…"

He still didn't understand himself. There was much work needed to be done, that hasn't changed at all. There would be more cold nights awaiting him when he returned to Atlasdam, and even less time to be given to sorting out his own feelings. The gods will return. The Congregation will take action. The preparation for the future will be long and grueling. He will come to suffer more nights of yearning for the solace he found in Olberic's patience and resolve. He can accept that- even with this newfound sense of longing he will see this job through, on his honor as an educator.

But in this moment, he was someone else. Professor Cyrus Albright was not one known to selfishly indulge in the warmth of others- in the embraces of his dearest friend. The Scholar Cyrus Albright strived tirelessly to become warm for others.

"…Olberic. I do not want to lose you either."

He is just Cyrus now, and in this moment, he yearned to be held- to hold, and be reassured that he is not going into that uncertain future without his dearest, beloved friend.

Under starlight, his wish was granted with a quiet promise.

"You are too dear to me for that to happen."

Chapter Text

>>>
Heidi's feet ached. She couldn't remember the last time she had to travel out of Cobbleston for... anything, really- her late husband settled down in that cozy mountain village, and she has wanted for nothing ever since. Or, at the very least, there was nothing out in the rest of the continent that she could want for that she couldn't already find in Cobbleston. They had farms for food, traveling merchants to discuss trade with, Cobbleston was not complicated, nor did it ever need to be grand- not for her, and certainly not for everyone else who called it home.

Perhaps she hadn't known her son as well as she thought then, she mused- as she'd watched him carry on and treading grounds unknown to her with a determined sense of familiarity. Philip's soles were hardened for traveling and the boy relished in the feeling. It showed in the almost casual way her son was able to navigate through the winding roads between Cobbleston and Rippletide, handily cutting down any monsters in their path.

"We should be close to Rippletide soon, Ma!" Philip called out from ahead of her, waving with a grin on his face and snapping her out of her awed trance. She returned his smile in kind, doing her best to ignore the trail of burnt birdian carcasses in her son's magical wake.

"That's good to hear...!" She huffed out, taking care not to step over the charred remains. "Your Ma's going to need that rest stop, I'm afraid I'm not as young as I used to be."

Her son giggled, helping her up onto the rock where he was. "You're not that old yet! Just a little more now, so here- you can lean on me!" He said, slinging her arm over his shoulders. Heidi was almost ashamed of her evident willingness to just lay down and not get up for the rest of the day.

The hold she had on her own spear was loose. It was little more than a walking stick now, and she struggled to keep a straight face. She was thankful that Sir Olberic wasn't around to see her using it so poorly when he'd been so kind to let her borrow one of his polearms for this trip.

"It should augment some of your magical potency," the knight had said when he unwrapped the spear sitting in his rack by the cottage door. It was a beautiful blue thing, with a polished tip and embellished with a modest yet colorful array of small, gleaming gems. "Since Philip would be accompanying you, you will be able to share in his rune transfer more effectively with this."

Even as he said that, it was cold comfort to her own limited fighting and magical capabilities as she'd watched her son almost effortlessly swat away the birdians and tortoises while having to support her. Where Heidi's augmented elements simmered and boiled blood with their power, Philip's own powers outclassed it all as they decimated virtually anything in his path. They hadn't lasted long at all under Philip's magical might, and Heidi wondered why she was ever worried at all.

There was a heaviness in her pocket, and she tried her best to ignore it. Some days, it was hard pretending like she was doing enough to help him grow into that capable man he always dreamed he'd be.

Already, it had felt like he was somewhere far away- far enough that she wouldn't be able to reach him. In terms of strength, she could never measure up to Sir Olberic's prowess and might. The knowledge of the world was granted to Philip through Professor Albright's seemingly endless reserve of tomes and enthusiasm. What did this weary widow have left to offer her son, at this point...?

It hadn't registered to her immediately when the sound of her heeled shoes hit the golden brick bridge leading up to Rippletide, when Philip's grip on her started to loosen ever so slightly as he waved at someone ahead of them with his sword. "Miss Tressa! Ahoy there...!"

Miss Tressa herself was already running up to them with a bright grin that matched her son's. "Philip! And Miss Heidi too- it's been a while!" The young merchant greeted them, skidding to a halt and tightly grasping Philip's hand. Heidi tilted her head when they'd started doing more complicated hand gestures. Could it just be something that the kids are doing nowadays?

"How are you enjoying the sea breeze so far, Miss Heidi? It's a pretty neat change of scenery from the mountains, ain't it? Hehe!" Miss Tressa giggled, moving to support her on her other side. Heidi resisted the urge to grimace- she must have looked more tired than she realized.

She smiled down at her nevertheless. "Oh yes- it's been a long while since I've caught so much as a glimpse of the Coastlands." She sighed lightly, the salt and sea brine tickling her nostrils. Still, the waters reflected the sky in its infinite depths, with the rolling waves gently carrying with them clouds and seagull feathers. "It looks just as beautiful as I remember it."

"Doesn't it?" The merchant's giggle was a full-on laugh now. "Oh yeah, Phil- hope you've been toughing yourself up, cuz I'm not holding back tonight!"

"You're on!"

>>>
A Coastlands night could not have been any more different than a Highlands one. Down here, the sky felt so much further away- and yet not so far out of reach at the same time. Walking along the coastlines of the Rippletide trails, she turned her attention to the seas. The beasts were all more active in the daytime, like she'd heard from Miss Tressa, and in this tranquility she can focus on really taking it all in.

Traveling without the worry of being killed on the roads was a strange experience, after having been closed off to the world outside the solace of Cobbleston for so long. The coast at night, so close to the sea...

Reflected in the waters was the clear, sparkling void of a milky way sky. The moon reflected itself so fully and so brilliantly, and if Heidi knew how to swim, she was sure she'd try to reach for the celestial body lingering closely in the waters.

There were bright flashes of colorful lights bouncing off the moist surfaces of the crags, and she felt her pulse quicken as her steps brought her closer to where she knew her son and Miss Tressa were sparring.

Sure enough, peeking from the side of a rocky outcropping, both of them were engaged in an intense battle of elemental and physical brilliance, of which she hesitated to call a spar. No, what little she knew of spars were friendly yet competitive jousts between warriors and guards in the training grounds, with naught but blunted weapons made of non-lethal materials. Philip and Miss Tressa were certainly not using such weapons, as the tips of their blades were anything but dull and their movements were fast and deadly- even though in her rational mind she knew that neither party would let any serious harm come to the other.

Heidi hesitated to call the shattering of waves and rock before her a spar, because she had not known such an activity to be so intense that she could spot the silhouette of a mighty, mystic god suspended above both Philip and Miss Tressa.

She remained there in awe- her feet rooted to the ground despite the apprehension welling up in her chest. her heart skipped a beat with every successful strike that they landed on each other, every fierce and unyielding trail that followed and missed their target by only a hair's breadth. Even from behind the sturdy stones, she can feel the sparks and burns- there was cold and wind biting at her fingertips, and she dared not look too closely for fear of blinding herself.

It was a truly marvelous sight, and it opened a gaping hole in Heidi's chest. She swallowed thickly.

"So this is where you were, Miss Farnham! I was getting a little worried,"

A soft voice called out from behind her. Marina Colzione approached her with a woven basket in her arms and a smile on her face, with an air of carefree tranquility.

"I apologize for worrying you," Heidi returned her smile the best she could. "I just wanted to take a short walk around the area."

"There are safer places to do so, but I've no doubts that you can handle yourself." the Colzione matron replied easily, placing a hand on her wrist. "Come, there are better spots for us to watch our children spar,"

Heidi allowed herself to be tugged along by the older woman, barely managing a nod. Her eyes drifted over to the basket in Miss Colzione's arms, and amidst the ferocious scent of smoky, magical trails of fire in the evening air, she caught the sweet aroma of grape jams and Wispermill vanilla wafting from within.

The other woman noticed, giggling. "It's routine, at this point. Those two can't possibly rest easily without a midnight snack to end their day."

"It smells exquisite," she offered politely, as she sat down upon a taller rock.

"Thank you." Marina Colzione settled down on the rock next to her, rustling through her basket. "It's a good thing I made extra tonight, then. It takes a while for them to tire themselves out enough for a break, so why don't we help ourselves in the meantime?"

Heidi barely caught on to her words, managing to only nod in reply. The matron was right, this was indeed a better vantage point. The constant flashing of light and shroud didn't hurt her eyes nearly as much from up here, and she was able to see their attacks more clearly. It seemed like Miss Tressa was fond of taking to the skies, with Philip trailing close behind her in an effort to catch up. He walked on air, and blazed his trail upon the ice as they continued their chase. She knew from her son how powerful the merchant could really be and how large the gap between them was, but she could only feel pride welling up in her chest as she watched him graze her with his own attacks. His earnest efforts will close that gap eventually, without a doubt.

She bit her lip. Even like this, it felt horrible.

"-arnham? Miss Farnham!" A hand waved itself in front of her face, and Heidi remembered where she was. Miss Colzione was looking at her worriedly, with another hand outstretched and holding a cup of hot milk. "Are you alright? You haven't been responding to me for a while,"

Honey, lavender, maple, and rosemary. The scents hit her nose and eased her thoughts- if only for a little bit.

They remained still. She took the cup from the other woman, breathing deeply.

"...does she still worry you?"

The question fell from her lips before she could stop herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw Miss Colzione tilt her head in confusion. "Pardon?"

"No, I was just... wondering, I suppose. If it gets any easier to watch them grow," Heidi muttered, keeping her eyes fixed ahead of her. Her free hand went to her hip, where a crumpled letter sat in her tattered pocket. Anywhere was fine, as long as she didn't meet the other woman's gaze. It hadn't stopped the shame creeping up from her stomach. She tightened her grip on her cup. "...nevermind, I'm sorry for the strange question."

The night stood still for a moment, after that- with only the clashing of swords and the cacophony of cicadas to fill in the silence between herself and Miss Colzione. The milk in her cup remained untouched.

"...Miss Farnham," the other woman began. "I do think that as a fellow mother you would understand that I never truly stop worrying about her."

Heidi kept her eyes on the ensuing fight in front of her. There was a strange knot in her throat that she couldn't quite swallow down. Miss Tressa weaved in and out of Philip's many strikes, bright green gusts of crystallized winds following her every step. She struck back against his attacks flawlessly- and she did it all with a grin on her face. "But- surely, Miss Colzione, she's so... capable. I've heard from Philip about the beasts she's felled, and the things she's seen... and she's only grown all the more stronger because of it. I wouldn't know what to do,"

A sharp clang echoed throughout the area as Philip's blade finally met its mark, swiping horizontally against the merchant's defenses and bringing her to a stagger. It was all her son needed, and with renewed fervor he continued his onslaught.

"...do you know, Miss Farnham, that Tressa still comes knocking on mine and Olneo's doors at night?" A tentative sip from the matron's cup was heard, before she sighed heavily. "When the nightmares come, and she can't fight them off on her own, she comes to us."

"...and I'm sure the nightmares just disappear?"

"They never do. There are nightmares that follow her around when she's awake too."

A surprised yelp came from the children's makeshift arena. Tressa was down on the sands, disarmed for the first time in their fight. Panic pricked at Heidi's heart for a brief moment until she saw the merchant's hands burst with concentrated cyclones- disarming Philip in kind with a jovial laugh as they both scrambled upwards to retrieve their weapons. Miss Colzione chortled beside her as she took another sip of her milk.

"Every time, it's something different. It could be because she worries for us, for our business, for the ship- it could be any number of things. It could even just be because she felt as if she grew up too fast. Tressa is a strong girl, but she is also young."

"...Is that so,"

Seagull cries echoed in the distant waters on the horizon. The moon was a little farther away now, and Heidi felt as though she may drown trying to chase its reflection. She couldn't help but feel she was sinking.

"...Miss Farnham, your son needs you in his life more than you think."

She couldn't stop the gasp that came from her throat, as she looked back at the other woman in shock. Her fingers curled tighter around her cup. In that instant, Marina Colzione looked and felt as though she aged several years. The air between them was strange, and Heidi couldn't help but tremble. A knot tightened steadily around her heart, tugging harshly on her windpipe and refusing to let her speak.

"When I look at them sparring like this, Miss Farnham, I must admit that I feel... apprehensive." Her voice was light, and yet it held a gravity to it that forced Heidi to hang onto every word that fell from her lips. "Like they are being woven into a scheme that is far too heavy for their shoulders, simply because of how strong they are. I rely on my daughter for a lot of things, because she is the only one capable of doing what Olneo and I cannot."

The smile that the matron gave her was bright, but there was an undeniable sorrow in its curve. "And you know, she relies on us because we are the only ones capable of doing what she cannot find anywhere else."

"And that is...?" Heidi found herself choking out.

"We are their parents, Miss Farnham. We understand them in a way that only we can. We love them in a way that only we can."

The world stood still, and all at once- it felt like it shattered and mended itself through the will of that self-assured woman's words. They were simple and clean, much like Miss Colzione herself. And yet, they compelled the knot that crept around her heart to hold it like vice. Tears threatened to prickle at the corners of her eyes.

Vaguely, she felt the warm hands of Miss Colzione gently envelop Heidi's own. They held up the cup that held sweet, still-steaming milk. "...you would do well not to forget that. Philip needs you, Miss Farnham."

It was the first thing in ages that Heidi had managed to understand wholly and completely. When her mind wasn’t focused on worrying over her son's lessons in swordplay and arcane magic, it was usually about where their next meal would come from, which merchants would be passing through that fortnight. Whose birthday would be coming up next, she wondered. Which one of her neighbors needed help with the fields today? When will their Winter preparations start?

When will Philip start to want a life outside of all of those humble things- of Cobbleston? When will it be clear to them both that the world outside is somewhere that Heidi will never be able to properly guide him?

When will Philip leave her, and would she have the strength to chase after him? And for how long, until she became nothing but a burden to him?

They were thoughts she had never been able to shake off, ever since the first time that Philip begged for her permission to train under Sir Olberic. Dread made itself home in the pit of her stomach, and it hasn't left for years.

It was undeniable that Philip grew stronger and more capable as the days passed by without pause. But as she saw him struggle to stand with the scrapes on his knees and the heaviness of his chest atop the sparkling sands of the Rippletide Coasts, taking Miss Tressa's outstretched hand and accepting yet another defeat, her breath hitched in the back of her throat as an epiphany gradually took root in her consciousness.

"...thank you, Miss Colzione." Heidi muttered quietly. She was well aware of how much of a mess she must have looked in front of the other woman, with frazzled hair and tear-stained cheeks.

Nevermind it now, she thinks- she's been foolish. She will not make the same mistakes twice.

Miss Colzione chuckled softly, with her smile melting into something less burdensome. "You are very welcome. And you know, perhaps it's time you started calling me Marina instead, hehe."

"Oh...!" Heidi blinked. Her tears stopped in that moment of confusion, before she shook her head and came to her senses. It had been a while since she's had to make the effort to be on a first-name basis with anyone outside of Cobbleston. Holding up the cup to her lips, to hide the quivering grin she was sure was forming on her face, she nodded. "Uhm, if you would call me Heidi, I suppose I can..."

"That sounds like a deal, Heidi."

The Coastlands night was cold and strange, but Heidi would never forget this one, where the moon sat upon the waves so comfortably, and the stars laid to rest on the ocean's surface.

>>>
Parting with the Colziones felt bittersweet, even as Heidi knew that she and Philip would need to make a rest stop for the return trip. Marina had promised to prepare a seafood platter for their return, and it was clear from the enthusiasm in her voice that no one could really oppose her. She'd shoved a handful of pleasant-smelling herbs in neat little bags into Heidi's arms as well.

"Just a little gift for the road, " she said, her form brimming with confidence and anticipation. "It helps to ward away monsters, but you may use them however you like!"

Without much fanfare, the Colziones wished them a safe trip, eager for the pair's next visit.

Sure enough, they were greeted by much less monsters along the shores that led to the Flatlands- only a few stray Froggens and stubborn Meeps braved the floral scents of Marina's mix of dried flowers and foliage, something that Heidi had been thankful for.

Atlasdam was hard to miss in the low, lush hills of the Flatlands. Its walls stood tall and dignified as they faced the oceans to the east, and they almost glimmered in the gentle daylight. If Heidi could squint from the border where the coast met the plains, she thinks she could see the gold-colored flags of the walled city-state flying in the wind like proud birds of prey. Amongst the thriving farming districts scattered across the road leading to that illustrious place, there really was nowhere else to look but straight ahead.

The interior itself was far grander than what its exterior might suggest, as right when she and Philip set foot inside the city proper, Heidi felt as though she would go blind from the gleam of the city-state's prosperity. The city's beautiful buildings and wide roads were all made with brick and heavy, polished stones, finished in such a refined manner that it scared her to even wonder how high the cost of living in this place must be. There was a grand plaza in the middle, just a short ways away from the sturdy gates. Children wandered freely about, sharing stories with their friends as their parents were a safe distance away in the markets lining the road towards this elusive upper district.

Her hand subconsciously went to her skirt as she watched women and children walk past in the finest fabrics that she's ever seen in her life. She could feel sweat beading down her brow at the sight. This was the world that Professor Albright lived in for all of his life.

It was so different from hers. In the seconds that followed, she wished for nothing more than to scurry back to Cobbleston- where the walls weren't as high, and the strong smells of high society were but a distant nightmare.

She was shaken out of her awe by a hesitant tug on her sleeve. Heidi looked down to see her son standing slightly behind her, his eyes wide and his hands gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword tight. "…it's a big place, Ma, so I'll hold onto you like this," he mumbled. "It's easy to get lost here,"

It felt like gears shifting in her mind like a ticking clock. It was no time for her to buckle, not when her son's face was all quivering lips and shifting eyes. Heidi smiled down at her son, and for once, her lips felt light on her own face. "Is that so?" With a determined huff, she slipped her fingers between Philip's own, squeezing it gently. "It's easier to keep track of me like this, don't you think?"

There was a shocked silence between them for but one tender moment, before Philip's expression morphed into something more confident. "Yeah…! I remember where the route is, so don't let go of my hand, okay Ma?"

Heidi could only nod, as she let herself be tugged along by the wrist into that large crowd of busy, bustling citizens.

Slowly, as they approached the Royal Academy's gates and Philip's steps grew lighter, she felt her apprehension grow- despite the ease that gradually replaced the self-consciousness on her son's face.

They spotted the familiar face of Kit Crossford in the halls of the Academy. The inspirited young man led them through the grand, polished halls, and straight towards the office Cyrus was lent for his research. Every student in the halls wore a black, embroidered robe that looked much like Kit's own, and wandered about with stacks of tomes. Lectures echoed in the classrooms they passed, and they talked in a language so sophisticated and elaborate that seemed almost foreign to Heidi.

Cyrus's temporary office was the only available room closest to the Academy's doors, Kit explained, in case the professor needed to make a mad dash for the Archives or was called for a sudden audience with the King or elsewhere.

"This is also where he sleeps on most nights," Kit said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand on the handle. "The Princess gave up trying to convince him to sleep in his own bed a few months ago, so you can imagine the back pain that he's been dealing with from sleeping on the cot he has in there. These days, it feels like I'm his attendant instead of his student,"

She'd come to expect that the professor's office was filled to the brim with books and papers stuffed in the shelves- and as if to prove her expectations, as soon as Kit opened the door, a flurry of papers flew in their direction and into the hallways. Worryingly, the papers were singed with sparks, and smoke wafted in the air not long afterwards.

Inside the disorganized room was a Professor Albright in dire need of a change of clothes and a new office to replace the one he'd just ruined with his ice and flames. The exasperated sighs of Kit and Philip told Heidi all she needed to know about his mad routine.

Despite the animated scolding from Kit to a flustered professor that she'd borne witness to that afternoon, the dread in the pit of her stomach could only writhe in twisted anticipation. The letter in her pocket felt like heavy lead.

>>>
After Professor Albright had taken his time to make his office look halfway presentable, Heidi was sat down atop a cot that looked and felt as if it hadn't been used in some time. From the looks of the blanket draped around the armrests of the scholar's worn office chair, he's been sleeping on his desk without even bothering to drag himself a few feet across the room to a proper mattress. He was by his desk now, brewing tea with a burner and a set of porcelain cups.

Philip and Kit had excused themselves a while ago after giving the professor a hand with cleaning up his office. She eyed the burnt floor where Professor Albright sat earlier, with the vials he was tinkering with having been shoved up a cabinet somewhere. The walls were covered with those shelves, from floor to ceiling- stuffed full with books and similar glass contraptions. To everyone's collective relief, no serious damage was done to the tomes.

A familiar scent tickled her nose. It was one that she hadn't smelled since her earlier years, and she struggled to compose herself as Professor Albright approached the table in the room. "Rosehip tea…?"

"It was recommended to me by one of my former students." He replied, pouring the tea into the cups. "She's always saying that I need to calm my nerves, and rosehip does have destressing properties... is it not to your liking?"

Their conversation has not even begun, and she's already been caught off-guard. She shook her head with a smile, accepting the delicate cup. "No, it's fine... it's very delicious, Professor."

"Ah, I'm glad." The Professor's shoulders sagged slightly with relief as he seated himself across her, taking a cup for himself. "Well, now that we've settled in, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about, Miss Farnham?"

It was only a few weeks prior that Heidi had finally mustered up the courage to write to the man in front of her. She could remember vividly the way her fingers trembled when she shoved her missive in between the yearning letters of Sir Olberic and the joyful recollections of Philip, her pulse threatening to set her veins ablaze.

But it had to be done.

"...not much, to be completely honest with you." Not much that she could properly articulate at the moment, at the very least. "I only have a few... lingering concerns, shall we say,"

"So you've said," the professor said, lifting the cup to his mouth and taking a brief sip. "By all means, do share them with me. I shall see what I can do about them."

"Very well then," Heidi took a slow breath, and met the man's eyes. "...that trip to the shrines that you and Philip took," She took his leveled silence as her cue to continue, and her fingers curled tightly around the handle. "May I know what exactly it was that it did to my son, and why?"

"You needn't fret over it so much, Miss Farnham. The gods have merely been kind- having granted Philip their blessings." he retained his smile, but there was a thin edge to his lips.

"Is that really all there is to it, Professor?"

Another pregnant pause. She took another breath, narrowing her gaze at him. "...I've not known you to be a hesitant man when it comes to this kind of thing."

Yet another minute of unbearable silence passed between them. As gently as she can, she set her cup back down on the tray before them with a clink, her hands trembling on the tabletop. "Listen, I know that... you and Sir Olberic, you've been involved in something grand, and horrifying. It's why the Knights Ardante keep making their rounds. It's why you keep running yourself ragged for a tome."

She leaned forward. There was no helping the slight quiver in her voice for what she said next. "Tell me, Professor- if whatever scheme it is that you two are involved in, does it concern my son...?"

The weight of a year's worth of confusion and trepidation threatened to bury them both alive. There were unfamiliar emotions brewing in the good professor's gaze, and did not dare put a name to any of them.

"...rest assured, neither mine nor Olberic's decision to train your child was influenced by our outside responsibilities." He said carefully, not a trace of indecision in his features. "Simply, I saw a child with potential, and gave him the means to realize it. I am sure that Sir Olberic's decision to train Philip is rooted in much of the same reasoning."

"...I am aware that circumstances may change, Professor. You would tell me if my son is involved in them."

"As his legal guardian, you would be the first to know."

"And when is that...?"

It was Cyrus's turn to sigh as he turned his head toward the window, a stiff frown finally on his lips. "...It seems there is no way around it."

The words hit Heidi like a sack full of stones, and she stood up abruptly in shock. "So you have been keeping something from me."

"Miss Farnham, this information is something that I cannot share to you in good conscience, as it is incomplete and inscrutable to even myself."

"I swear to you that this information will not be disclosed to anyone." It was a meaningless gesture, but her hand went over her heart on its own. It beat and pulsed like earthquakes. "Just… tell me what your plans for my son are."

What she heard next was nothing short of the most horrifying nonsense she has ever heard in her life.

"...the gods will rise again." the scholar said eventually. "If you are familiar with the name Galdera, know that he is not exempt from this new age of gods. As such, the higher Orsterran authorities are making their move to accommodate for this change."

A heavy pause followed, as the man before her observed her reaction to his words. To his spoken query, no - she couldn't say she was familiar with the name of which he spoke, but it held with it a divine gravity that compelled her to fear and cower before its hushed might. It was a name that made the crowns of nations quake, and Heidi found that she no longer had the spit to swallow her fear.

It was nonsense - that was what her rational mind chose to believe, but to the figures who saw their fair share of the fantastical, she was in no position to protect herself from this reality. Albright was an agent of truth who cared little for the benefits of falsehood.

"Myself, Sir Olberic, and six others are heavily involved in this operation to ensure that peace will be brought to the continent." the professor continued. "Both for damage control... and long-term plans for the future. The process is extensive, and none of us know when it will end- nor when it will truly begin. The best we can do is prepare ourselves, and those who will succeed us."

"...and Philip?"

"He is promising, and he carries with him the blessings of the gods. Philip's success and future is now a crucial facet of this operation, Miss Farnham."

A peculiar feeling like crumbling mountains filled Heidi. It was exactly as she thought after all - her son was a part of this now, this grand, impossible scheme of kings and gods. Blood was pumping in her ears as she struggled to breathe. The man in front of her struggled to hide his own discomfort, and inexplicably it gave Heidi catharsis. It gave her a name to say and a face to plead to, even as she knew that his hands were tied.

"...I see." She breathed, slinking back into the chair behind her, defeated. Once again, she’s confronted with the chilling questions of yesterday, with answers she wasn’t hoping to hear.

To know that it was only a matter of time after all - that Philip would leave her, and venture into a place that had no room for her or what she could offer to ease his burdens…

"Still, I would hope at least that the day where we would need to rely so much on him wouldn't come for a while.” Hesitantly, Cyrus spoke again. Uncertainty truly didn’t suit him one bit. “Despite all this I..."

In the midst of their shared trepidation, there was clarity - for Heidi towards the professor with no children to call his own. Something even his brilliant mind could never know so intimately… something he didn’t have the true words for. She could feel the beads of sweat rolling down her temple, anxiety coursing through her veins.

But this was their wish with words that only she knew how to say.

"Professor Albright, truth to be told... I just... I don't want Philip to grow up so fast. He deserves a childhood. He deserves to grow up at his own pace, Professor," she sighed, her unsteady breathing carrying the weight of it all. The smile he couldn’t see was laden with resignation. "That is my one wish as his mother. In spite of all this, I want to give him that chance."

The laugh that the professor gave her was strange, and impossibly she understood its meaning. He was not her. He was no parent. It was the laugh of someone willing to try despite that. "Of course. I understand, Miss Farnham." he said, before his eyes shone with regret. "I cannot promise you that things will truly be alright. Such is the nature of uncertainty…"

"May you promise me at least that you will support my son where I cannot?” she pushed on, her tone as insistent as she could make it. “I am more than aware of my own limitations, professor. All I can really do now is be there for him."

"I would hope that you know how much that really means to your son," he replied, taking one last sip out of his cup of rosehip tea. "But I give you my word. I am an educator, Miss Farnham. I will see to it that Philip is well taken care of."

His voice was woven with promises of ease, and it compelled Heidi to sink. This was the most that she could give Philip, and it was time for her to learn how to feel content with herself.

Philip will be fine. It’s all she could ever want.

"…just so."

>>>
The tray in his hands was still. No tremors wracked his frame, and his breaths were long and steady. It was a strange sort of calmness that he had no idea how to properly deal with. Perhaps it was the Rosehip tea that they coveted for its destressing properties. Maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into his bones from the bustle of his routine with Kit.

Philip's feet took him to the empty classroom sitting next to Cyrus's office, setting the tray carrying the precious porcelain tea cups safely down on a table before slumping into one of the many vacant seats.

The tranquility stayed. But it wasn't enough to stave off the tightness in his chest, nor the tears in his eyes. His fingers ached with the yearning to hold something and though he knew exactly what he's reaching for, he could only stand to burn in the feeling.

He'd been certain from the very moment Sir Olberic's true identity was revealed that fateful day in the Brigand's Den, that it was the beginning of something he doubted he would ever be ready for. He knew where he stood. He knew his own limitations better than anyone else.

But by the end of today, that was all he truly understood. There was so much more to it than he could ever hope to comprehend.

Philip Farnham is thirteen, and already he misses the quiet of his and his mother's world.

Chapter Text

Bottles rattled and clinked against the vials in Alfyn's hands. His nose almost itched with the powerful scents of noxroot and addlewort, but he bit back the urge to scratch at his discomfort. No, there would be plenty of time for him to do such a thing later, but there was no compromise when it came to the focus required to brew his elixir for the patient in front of him.

It hadn't taken long at all. He felt the insides of his gums start to bleed with all his biting, but ignored it in favor of giving the woman in front of him a reassuring smile as she finished drinking up the potion in the vial. He wiped the sweat on the villager's brow with a dry washcloth with a sigh he hoped hadn't sounded as troubled as he felt.

" ...and that'll do for now. You gotta take it easy, alright madam?" He said, replacing the dry cloth with a wet one.

The woman, Miss Geneva, returned his smile the best she could in her feverish state. "Thank you kindly, Mister Greengrass…"

"Please, just call me Alfyn. I'll be back tomorrow to check in on ya." He replied, waving an encouraging hand in her direction before exiting the stone cottage. He heaved immediately as he closed the pine door behind him, slumping against the rough cobblestone walls and burying his head in his arms. Alfyn knew that it wasn't the time nor place for him to be breaking, so he settled for propping his chin up on his knee instead in an effort to look at least a little more nonchalant.

He hadn't noticed that someone else sat beside him until he felt a familiar coarseness brush against his skin. Alfyn's relief was short-lived, but it was enough to have the corner of his lips tug upwards.

"...how's it looking around town, Therion?"

He expected the scoffing. Alfyn couldn't say he was surprised when he heard the crunching of an apple right afterwards either. "It could be worse," his friend replied. "Right now, it's only the older crowd that's having real trouble. Gods only know what this new plague can actually be capable of,"

The Yellow Plague is what they called it, from a sudden summons to the Atlasdamian castle a week prior and his past days of traveling to make sense of the damn thing. According to the scholars' accounts and Cyrus's many late nights in the medical ward, it started small and unassuming as mere nausea and irritability. They raised eyebrows when it started to happen on a city-wide scale, attributing it to food poisoning when their vomit turned a sickly yellow. They sounded the alarm when the plague claimed an orphan child as its first victim, finding her alone and covered in her own bile - and nothing but this pale golden bile, when they analyzed her blood samples to find not red in her veins but chunks and tumors of the fluids like amber from a tree.

Similar reports of such tragedies were gathered from Riverford days later, right as when Alfyn and Therion arrived upon Cyrus's doorstep, and they haven't stopped coming since. It was bad enough that the Knights Ardante were dispatched to each town that caught wind of the plague, and gradually travel was being restricted across the realm. The thief beside him has commented on several occasions how much he looked like crap with the bags under his eyes reaching the floor, and Alfyn didn't have the heart nor energy to call out his pot calling the kettle black.

Still, he was an apothecary. He couldn't afford to let up his smile, not even with the giant elephant slowly growing in the cramped room he called his mind. "Then I guess we'll have to make sure this doesn't get any worse. Problem is, I can't figure out for the life of me what it is that's causing this plague…"

A pensive silence settled between them. Therion knew better than to grant him hollow reassurance, or at least, he should - as the thief sighed, heavy and resigned but marred with faith Alfyn hadn't known he had. "You'll figure it out- or your name isn't the medicine man."

Looking back at the other man was like looking into a brutal mirror for once, as Therion regarded him with disapproval. "That's not a good look on you," he muttered, flicking his forehead and tearing a yelp out of the blonde.

"Yeah?" he rubbed the sore spot, leaning his head back further into the stone wall. "Sorry… I'm just thinking,"

He caught sight of his calloused hands, drenched with gerbera oils and sweat. This plague sounded just like something that would be mentioned in grave passing in his and Zeph's books - tales and warnings against maladies and miasmas from faraway times, bringing with them horrors to the human body that made even him shudder in his boots. He's seen and treated things so aggravatingly similar before, but its sheer speed was too much for him to handle alone.

There was a secret in this, somewhere. It brought him frustration he hadn't felt since Orewell.

He felt a slight tug on his sleeve, finding Therion facing away from him, tone quiet as cat feet. "...those knights wouldn't trust you with this if they thought you couldn't handle it. We'll find a cure for this soon."

The smile he sported melted into something more genuine. "We, huh? I'm glad you've got my back on this, Theri."

The thief scoffed again. No, it wasn't Alfyn's imagination that he saw his hair puff up and fan out. "I've got nothing better to do."

At the very least, he didn't threaten to stab him when Alfyn used his nickname. That was always an improvement.

"So that's where you two were."

A gruff, exhausted voice snapped them both out of their relaxed stupor. Sir Olberic approached them from Alfyn's right, his shoulders sagging low from fatigue. These days he didn't carry himself as regally as he meant to, and it pained Alfyn to see such a man so worn down from a foe that couldn't be felled with a sword nor a spear.

Nevertheless, he stood to give him a salute and a grin. "Sir Olberic!" Therion followed suit, standing up and giving him an acknowledging nod.

"Great work today, you two. I can't thank you enough for coming as quickly as you have." he said. Looking up close, Alfyn could tell the man lost much sleep from talking to the wandering Knights stationed around the village for the time being. The big guy was likely roped into helping them out with hauling over the relief goods sent from Flamesgrace.

He knew how it felt. Still, it was Olberic, and he certainly did not need to see him so put-out. He settled for scratching his neck in practiced, embarrassed motions. "Aw shucks, Sir - anything for an old pal!"

"Old pal or not, I hope you're not forgetting this is a state-mandated visit. We're legally obliged to be here." Therion huffed as he pushed his scarf further up his face. The knight simply nodded in understanding, crossing his arms.

"Still, I am grateful that you are here. That first week was rough for us." he remarked, his eyes seeming more distant.

"I'd bet as much…" said Alfyn. "Say, has Philip been doing okay at your place?"

He frowned when he saw the knight avert his eyes. "To tell you the truth, no. Cobbleston has not seen a tragedy of this kind in many a decade, and certainly not in Philip's lifetime. To see his mother in such a state is... hard." Sir Olberic's tone dipped into deep solemnity, his eyebrows furrowing in frustration. "...How is Heidi faring?"

Alfyn couldn't say he didn't see it coming. He could feel Therion shift uncomfortably next to him. The blonde took a sharp breath. " ...I can't lie to ya about this one, Sir. It's not looking good for her at all. I'll give it to her though, she's been hanging on. I'd chalk it up to good folks and healthy living, but I have to say she was pretty lucky that we made it here early."

There it was, phasing across the knight's features for a brief moment- the face of a patient's loved one who didn't hear what they wanted him to say. "...I see."

Gods, Alfyn wished he didn't sound like that. Despite himself, he forced his face back into a grin. "B-but don't worry! I'll find a way to get her hale and hearty again, Sir - on my honor as an apothecary!"

"There you go again, making such a promise. Just a minute ago you were complaining about how stumped you were." said Therion, before promptly being taken under Alfyn's arm. "Hey-!"

"You also said you'd have my back on this, so it should be no sweat!" said Alfyn, mustering up his glee, before letting his face melt into something more genuine. "...besides, I'd hate for the kid to lose his mom so soon. It just ain't her time yet, ya know?"

It wasn't his best solution, but it was a smile that Sir Olberic could reciprocate in kind. "I suppose... if anyone could find a way to fix this, it would be you. If there's any other way I can find to assist you, Alfyn, just say the word."

"As much as I'd love to have some extra muscle along," he said with a yelp as Therion shoved his arm off him with a thinly-veiled threat. "- the folks around here kinda need you around. Not to mention Philip,"

"I know. But having a little extra supplies for the road never hurts." Olberic replied.

"We appreciate it, Sir."

"Excuse me, Mister Greengrass, Mister Therion! And Sir Eisenberg as well...!"

All three heads turned to the source of the voice, seeing a Knight Ardante jog up to them with a couple of parchment papers on hand. "Some letters just arrived for you from Atlasdam. They're from Professor Albright."

Therion all but snatched the letters off from the knight's hand, earning him a look that he pointedly ignored as he sorted the letters in a flash. "Damn - it took him long enough."

A letter was shoved into Alfyn's hand, and the blonde wasted no time opening it. Almost tearing out the parchment from its confines, his eyes went to work scanning the professor's clean cursive.

By the time he finished, he found that his fingers dug so deep into the fiber that it tore holes. He resisted the urge to throw the damn thing aside in mangled frustration, settling instead for a long-suffering groan. "...of course. Of freakin' - Theri, we gotta move." he said, shoving the paper back into its envelope and inside his satchel.

"Great. Where to?"

With a curt nod to the Knight that brought the letters, Alfyn started walking back towards the Cobbleston pass where their cart sat waiting, with Sir Olberic and Therion following suit. "Our professor here might have just given me that last bit of info to figure out what this Yellow Plague is, and you're not gonna like what we're probably going to have to get."

"Did he say anything about the source?" asked Olberic.

"He says it's from a glacier south of the Riverlands. The Prof said something about some ancient maladies being trapped in the ice, and that the irregular melting could have released something nasty that we weren't aware of until now. It makes sense, but it also means the cure for it is just as ancient." They reached the stables, and Alfyn gave their horse a quick pat. "Heya Grassy. Sorry, but we're gonna have to go pretty soon," he muttered. Predictably, Grasswhistle was not amused with the news.

"If we're talking ancient cures…" Therion was beside him, already sorting out their inventory for the trip, while Sir Olberic called over another Knight Ardante after giving the thief a brief hand. "There's hearsay from the scholars we've been talking to in Stonegard that some of those weird-looking plants from the caves in the Frostlands have curative properties."

"That's what I was thinking about too. We'll have to leave right away though, before this spreads any further."

He turned to see the knight pause in his conversation with the Knight Ardante, looking at him in fraught anticipation. "Do you think you can make it in time for Heidi to be saved, Alfyn?"

Before Alfyn could answer him, the Knight Ardante raised a hand. "With all due respect Sirs, there are storms brewing in the Rippletide Coasts. You won't be able to go north."

Therion clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Tch. What a pain - it'll take us two weeks just to get there and back if we went around…"

"The Rippletide locals predict that fair winds will blow again in exactly that time." the Knight Ardante continued. "Until then,"

Alfyn bit his lip, staring down at the wooden pots in the cargo. Heidi Farnham was already halfway towards the precipice of death by the time he and Therion arrived in Cobbleston, and there was no telling how many more days they really had before the plague claimed not only her, but the other, riskier patients that Cobbleston was home to. Getting up to the Frostlands at their average speed already docked a week off however long his patients had left, only the gods knew how long it'll really take to mix a solid enough cure to run by Cyrus in Atlasdam once they got the key components - that was, if there even existed viable ingredients to begin with.

He shook his head, and gave his face a good slap with his hands. He'll figure it out. Somehow.

"...We'd be pushing it, but it's worth a shot." Alfyn said through grit teeth, before addressing Sir Olberic. "We'll leave first thing after one last round around the village, Sir Olberic - don't 'cha even worry about it."

>>>
Unbeknownst to any of them, a lone figure sat behind the pillars of rock. He fidgeted at everything he'd just heard, and swallowed the building spit in his throat. A choice sat before him, as did the cart that Alfyn and Therion left unattended by anyone but their horse.

Fear gripped him tight. Despite that, there was only one correct choice in his mind. He took his sword, and ran off. There were preparations that needed to be made.

>>>
To their shared relief, the roads between Cobbleston and Clearbrook were wide and empty enough that their cart wouldn't run someone else over in their haste. At this pace, and the limits they imposed on themselves for this trip, they wouldn't even have to make a stop-over in Sunshade - something that they were both thankful for. That way, there would be no chance of them spreading a gross disease by accident in a town that Alfyn still thought was its own unique kind of hazard, and they won't have to deal with the unpleasant prospect of getting mugged.

The wooden wheels rattled very little once they were finally out of the mountainside early that next morning, leaving instead a quiet trail in the sands. Unlike the mountains, the desert was thankfully an easier road to traverse - save for the occasional scorpion that needed freezing, or a couple of dirt rollers in the path. Their goal for the day was to reach the Riverlands by that evening in order to let Grasswhistle rest and drink, and perhaps to take a quick dunk in the water just to get rid of the stench of sweat he and Therion were guaranteed to accumulate by then.

"With this pace, we should come up on Clearbrook by tomorrow. We can't take this horse with us to the cliffs." Therion said, wiping the sweat off his brow as he reached for the flask on his hip - filled to the brim with spring water.

Alfyn grinned, elbowing him lightly when the horse whinnied in protest. "Call her by her name?"

"...ugh. Grasswhistle,"

Alfyn laughed, reaching over to give Grasswhistle a good-natured pat. "Come on, you love that name just as much as Grassy does. Ain't that right, girly?" His grin grew wider when she whinnied again - happily, this time - as Therion only grumbled in response. "Heh. Sourpuss,"

A sudden bump in the road gave the cart a sizable tremble, startling them both. Alfyn coughed, pulling the reins up to himself. "We left in a heck of a hurry though, do ya mind re-checking our inventory real quick?"

The thief shrugged, shuffling in his seat to hop back inside the covers. "It'll save us the pain of cataloging it all later I guess,"

The clinking of vials and pots behind him steered Alfyn's thoughts back towards the plague and the Cobbleston residents, and he gnawed on his lip. The village headman - Garreck, as the locals called him - wasn't doing great at all, and however formidable he may have been in his youth, that strength meant nothing in the face of illness. The same sentiment went towards their cowherds and tavern women - as well as the mothers of the flock.

He remembered clearly the faces Madam Heidi made while he was looking her over. Bless her soul, she knew how to keep her nerves together in front of her kid. Alfyn sorely wished he could say the same for Philip’s own anxieties.

"What the-?!" Therion's agitated voice jolted Alfyn out of his trance.

"What? What's up-" Alfyn whirled around and pushed the curtains back - only to be greeted by a sight he sorely wished was just some desert mirage. "-the hells?!"

Inside the carriage was Philip - behind their largest crates full of olive blooms, caught like a deer to a torch. He raised a meek hand in greeting. "Ah- hi?"

Alfyn has never wanted to scream so much in his life. "Philip?! What in tarnation are you doing back there?!" and so he did, letting his shock guide the reins on Grasswhistle's muzzle as her movements slowed down enough for Alfyn to safely face their stowaway - but not before Therion grabbed the boy's collar, tearing a yelp out of his throat.

"Doesn't matter - he's not supposed to be here!" he said, gnashing his teeth. Alfyn thinks he's never seen him so irritated before.

"I know, I know...! Just," Philip raised both his hands in surrender, wilting in the face of Therion's rage. "Could you two hear me out for a minute?"

The sound of Grasswhistle's hooves grew less frequent, giving Alfyn enough leverage to climb over inside the cabin to pry Therion's hand away from Philip's clothes. The thief scoffed in turn, settling for a sharp glare in Philip's direction. "You have one minute before I chuck you back out on that road, kid."

The boy swallowed a visible lump in his throat, before straightening himself out to face them with his best business stare. "Okay, before you throw me back out, I just… I wanted to help my mother. I didn't want to sit back there just to watch her die slowly and know that I didn't do anything about it." His hands balled into trembling fists, turning white from his grip. Despite his best efforts, Alfyn's resolve cracked. "And - and I know I don't know anything, but - I thought that I could at least help you two out in any way I can… you know?"

Alfyn observed his movements, and the expressions on his face morphing and changing even as Philip tried his damndest to put on a brave face - he could feel all his thoughts of lecturing the kid fading away into his empathetic urges.

"How did I know that's what your excuse would be?" The thief beside him groaned, crossing his arms with disapproval on his face. He then pinched the bridge of his nose as he regarded Philip’s sheepish form. "Look, I get it, kid. But Olberic would have our heads if he finds out you were with us. Did you even let him know you were doing this?"

"...I left a note,"

Therion, at the tail-end of his patience, withdrew into himself with a sigh. "Aeber take me."

An uncomfortable silence hung over the cart as the seconds ticked by like sand. The minute Philip was promised came and went, and Alfyn felt a pool of something begin to stir within him.

Therion turned to him, his visible eye narrowing into a slit. "... oh hells no, I can see the gears turning in your head. You know damn well it's dangerous where we're going." A wiry finger poked Alfyn's chest - pressing hard enough to hurt. "We're dropping him off on Clearbrook on the way, and that's final."

"I know that, but Theri-"

"There aren't any buts about it. If you know what's best for him, you'd leave him with Zeph."

Alfyn sighed, reaching for the back of his neck to scratch at an invisible itch. That was best - that's what Alfyn's rational mind said to him, running every possible scenario in his head where he would take Philip along. It was best that Philip was kept from hurting himself, at any rate.

He looked over Philip again. He saw a young man in his place, carrying a sword and gleaming runes and stalwart determination. His hair was longer than the last time he saw him, and his face was dusted with more than just freckles now. This was the stature of a young man trying desperately to grow into his own.

Alfyn ran his fingers through his bangs with a long groan. "Theri, you remember when I told you about my mother, right...?"

He caught Therion’s expression grow steely with more warning, but he continued. “It wasn't even that long ago. If I was as good as I am now back then, maybe I could have saved her. I don't want Phil over here to go through what I had."

It was a cheap card to play, and they both knew it. “Alfyn, think about this properly. He doesn’t have to come for that. He’s not going to lose his mother because stays put,”

“I am! I'm trying to think about this - and the more I do I just - Theri, he's not that weak.” Philip perked up from the corner of his eye. “You've seen him with the prof, haven't you? The boy's fourteen, he can handle himself - and he handles himself pretty darn well!"

Philip’s stance was one that wanted to challenge the world before him for trying to take away his mother. Alfyn knew that this was a situation that required no such thing, and yet the little boy in him was cheering loud, and he was persistent.

“I just… I want to give him this chance.”

The cart grew quiet once more, with only the rushing sands under the Grasswhistle’s hooves making any sort of senseless sound. It was quiet enough that Alfyn could almost hear the gears turning in Therion’s head as he waited for him to speak - could almost hear Philip’s heart thundering loud in his ribcage like a great, large storm.

So many things were bound to go wrong - and Alfyn couldn’t even begin to count all the ways in which things could end horribly. And yet - there was a fire in the boy’s eyes, and if Philip wasn’t going to back down in the face of this, then neither was Alfyn.

It was a good long while before Therion could make his decision. “ ...gods, whatever, just - ugh.” He shook his head with a grumble, and for a second Alfyn felt his heart plummet.

Sharply, he redirected his focus towards Philip - with a glare even fiercer than the one he gave him before. “Kid, you're going to stay put and out of our way when we tell you to, you got that? Wouldn't want to waste ingredients trying to patch you up when we don't need to…”

Alfyn swore that when everything was over, he would treat this thief to a few taverns’ worth of spirits. He settled for heaving a breathy chuckle. “Heh, he means just trust us when there's monsters that are too strong for you to handle with just us.”

“So you mean -?!”

Alfyn kept the boy’s beaming smile filed away in his mind - in case he needed reminders. He shuffled back to the driver’s seat, but not before returning Philip’s smile with one of his own. “It means you're on - but you're going to have to put up with how bumpy the ride is, heh.”

The blonde gave the horse a light pat as he hopped back into the heat. “You got enough bone in ya for a dead sprint to Clearbrook, Grass girly?” The horse whinnied, and Alfyn gripped the reins tight in his palms. “Alrighty - let's do this!”

>>>
The Riverlands were nice and moist. Alfyn's own biases be damned when he breathes in the air and doesn't find sand in his lungs when he does it again - but there really was no place like home. He helped himself to a few dozen of these breaths on the way to Clearbrook, because the gods know that the Cliftlands were just as dusty and blazing as the desert they'd just emerged from.

Home sweet home, as they always say, and it was a damn shame that they had to leave in the same pace that they arrived.

"Alf! Hey, Alf, Therion! Over here!" A familiar voice rang through the village, and Alfyn couldn't fight the grin on his face as he saw Zeph run across the village bridge. He hopped off the caravan and into his friend's arms, patting his back with a hearty laugh.

"Zeph! Good to see you, buddy!" he replied, before a pointed cough from behind him reminded him where he was. He pulled away from his friend, hand raising to fiddle with the hairs on his neck. "So, how are you guys holding up over here?"

The brunet's expression edged out into something more serious as he sighed. "Well - better than Saintsbridge in any case. Heard that the Knights Ardante shut it down just a few days ago,"

"That bad, huh? If that's the case then we're gonna need to head back out right away, so,"

Zeph gave him a look - and there it was, a spark in his eye. "If you're that eager to get back on the road, then I take it you're on your way to making a cure?"

"Something like that - or at least, we hope so," He made his way back to the cart, Zeph in tow. Grasswhistle nudged him lightly as he reached out to pat her. "We're leaving Grassy here for the time being, and we'll catch a cart to Northreach."

"Understood," Zeph took the horse's reins with a nod. "You guys need anything else?"

"Just a bit of luck would be nice, heh!" Alfyn then tossed a look at the cart, and breathed sharply. "And I guess a couple of extra supplies. See, we've got an uh - a -"

"A stowaway is what he is," Therion cut in, hopping down from the cart with a disgruntled flourish. Zeph shoots him a startled look, before Philip reveals himself from inside the caravan, flashing the apothecary a nervous smile.

"Erm, hi? I'm really sorry to be a bother," he said, before clearing his throat. He straightened himself out before Zeph, holding out his hand. "M-my name is Philip. I'm helping Alfyn and Therion find ingredients for the cure."

Alfyn sighed - he had expected the silent gaping, and subtly he nudged Zeph back down to earth. The brunet shook his head, and met Philip's hand with his own with an awkward cough. "Uh, yes, Zeph. Alf's friend, happy to meet you."

Therion clicked his tongue. "Introductions are nice and all… but you're taking this better than I thought you would."

A flurry of emotions seemed to consume his friend's face when he took his hand back, crossing his arms in thought. Every second that passed seemed to tick by a little slower, and Alfyn fixed his own gaze upon Philip - no doubt he'd been dreading to be asked about his place. "…yeah. It's - I have questions, and…" he sucked in a breath, tossing Philip a leveled stare. "…Therion over here called you a stowaway. So level with me here -"

Zeph - ever-responsible, brotherly Zeph - kneeled down to face the boy at eye level with a seriousness that Alfyn hasn't seen on his face since leaving for his journey. "- you're in danger of losing someone right now, aren't you?"

Impressively, Philip's stance remained firm as he met Zeph's gaze, nodding. "…yes. And I'm sorry, but I won't be convinced to sit back and be made to wait for the cure to be made." he said in steady words, his hands reaching for the sword on his waist. "I want to help Alfyn in any way I can, so - hey -!"

"I get it, I get it…" Zeph cut him off with a resigned chuckle, reaching out to ruffle the boy's hair. "You remind me too much of Alf - and all that means to me is that I'm not gonna be able to convince you to hang back,"

Therion threw his hands up to his face behind them. "Gods of course,"

Pursing his lips, Zeph continued. "…you know, Alf has a habit of stalking off on his own to get ingredients too. Not that I really doubt his strength, but as a kid he'd send the whole town into a tizzy - everyone can't really help but worry. That's how I feel right now too."

Philip's gaze hardened at that, before he slowly drew his sword - just enough that Zeph could see how brilliantly he could make it surge with his energy. Alfyn bit back a whistle, watching the elements crackle around the kid in leveled assertion. "You don't have to doubt my strength either, sir. Whatever comes, I'll be ready for it."

Something strange phased over Zeph's features for a moment, before his expression melted away into an apologetic smile as he stood. "Alright then. But - for my sake, I'll beg you not to forget to rely on Alfyn and Therion here. You understand the situation, don't you?" Another hard nod, and Zeph exhaled. "Great. That's good. Since those extra supplies are for you, how about you come with me to pick them out?"

Philip sheathed his sword with no small amount of relieved enthusiasm, giving Zeph a salute. "Yes sir!" he said, before walking off with the brunet towards the other side of town. Alfyn watched their backs fade from view - and he would have finished, had Therion not tugged harshly at his vest again.

"We have our own crap to prepare, so snap out of it,"

"Sorry - slowed down a bit too much there." Alfyn apologized, following Therion back to their caravan. The thief's lips were stretched into a thin, peeved line, and Alfyn sighed. "You can chew me out now if you like. You look like you're about to burst,"

The thief's gaze was razor-sharp when he'd turned, and if looks could kill, Therion's would have murdered him dead this moment and then some. "There'd be no point, because then you wouldn't listen." he seethed, before raising his scarf. "Look. I'm giving him the chance too - and I am trying very hard to commit to this choice. It doesn't mean I'm going to be happy about it, and I'm not keen on coddling him."

"Alright! I hear ya - I'm honestly just glad you're still on board with it. Besides -" Alfyn relented. He looked back to where Zeph led Philip - across the bridge where the markets should be.

Philip hadn't grasped at his runes to be able to make his sword glow this time, he realized - and his grin crept back onto his face as he reached for their bags. "…I doubt the kid wants to be coddled either."

>>>
The Cliftlands were no better than the Sunlands in terms of heat and the pests that love it. In fact, Therion would argue that it’s worse - as at the very least the Sunlands were flat, open wastelands with no surprises.

The Cliftlands were decidedly not those. It was barren, but the cracks of the Clearbrook-Bolderfall border were supersized canyons full of sharp cliffs and hungry birdians. It was an annoying place to live in, and he would know - he’d been putting up with the same bullshit for years.

It couldn’t compare with the bullshit he was putting up with at the moment, however.

Alfyn trudged ahead of him with fervor, his ax raised and glowing bright with thunderous energy. He cleaved the path clear of straggling birdians, with Philip close behind in case any of them managed to survive the onslaught. Therion’s own blades shimmered with the same lightning, and he couldn’t deny that it felt satisfying to break an enemy’s focus with a bolt from the heavens again. He could take up the craft himself if he felt like it - but between learning about the differences between two exactly similar herbs and risking a lecture on synergy and runic shit, he can say he has his hands full at the moment.

And with Philip around, his hands could not be more cramped.

There was nothing about Philip that Therion had particularly disliked. On good days, he might even say that he was fond of him - the strange kind of fond where it would amuse him greatly to teach the kid a curse word or two. No, it was that he was here at all that ticked him off, and the fact that Alfyn couldn’t recognize what was so wrong about that just added fuel to his frustrated fire.

Or - it was more likely that he did know - in which case he better start praying to whatever god that could save him from Therion’s fury.

The boy in question was - so far - not a waste of space in their party. His control of runes contributed greatly to his viability in Therion’s eyes, but though he’s since learned not to underestimate children, whatever shard of his persona that resembled a responsible adult in him told him that this was going to be a horrible idea no matter how strong or supportive Philip was.

He hasn't missed the way that Philip's eyes sparkled when walking the paths of the cliffs, his head whipping back and forth to take everything in. As far as Therion knew, Philip has never been past Atlasdam on his own - and this was a whole new side of the world that he had no knowledge of. Their survival depended on that - knowledge, and focus on the task at hand.

Once the path was clear of enemies, Alfyn pulled out a map from his sack. "Alright, at this pace we should be coming up at Bolderfall in a while. We'll take a cart from there to Victor's Hollow, and that'll save us at least three days if we're lucky."

The blonde caught Therion's eye, and internally the thief wished he could kick him. "Oh yeah, shouldn't you stop by with the Ravuses while we're at it?"

He brought a finger up to his chin, marching ahead with an exaggerated shake of his head. "...nah. We need to focus on getting that cart."

"I could do that while you talk with Miss Ravus," Philip piped up from behind him. It took all he had not to turn around and glare at the poor kid.

"Damnit." He gritted out instead.

"Hah, looks like you'll have to pay that visit after all!"

"Ugh,"

"Hey, that thing about the Ravuses and the stones, was all that true, Mr. Therion?"

Therion almost paused at that. It honestly seemed to him these days that he'd forgotten about the entire reason he knew about the Ravuses at all. "Huh? Sure. Was the professor seriously not telling you anything about it?"

Philip shook his head. "He's normally too busy shoving rune lectures down my throat to tell me anything like that…"

"Eh." The thief felt his eyebrows crease. "Would have thought that he'd send you one of his manuscripts or whatever at this point."

"Isn't he still getting grilled for that? Only the first draft is available to just us right now, if I remember right. Congregation didn't want him to reveal too much of the sensitive stuff." Alfyn said, tucking the map safely back into his satchel. Therion made a face.

On the days he grew bored enough to visit Cyrus, it seemed that the bags under his eyes grew heavier. It wasn't a good look on him, even if it didn't deter women from making unwanted advances. It was hard to navigate around his rooms. Though he couldn't give less of a damn about the diagrams and promises from death cults of centuries past, he did - begrudgingly - give a damn about Cyrus who can't seem to find his way to his own bed anymore in the mess he kept forgetting to clean.

"...you know things are bad when I'm starting to sympathize with him about this of all things." he muttered, bristling past the rocks.

He could hear Alfyn snicker behind him. Now he really needed to start praying.

"So about those stones...?" Philip asked after a sizable silence of resuming their uphill climb.

"All true." The thief waved a dismissive hand in reply. "Things you could have heard from the Knights and Olberic, they're all true."

The air about them changed ever so slightly, and oh - that wasn't good at all. He hadn't woken up this morning prepared to deal with warm feelings. "And you're the hero that took them back, right?"

Damn rocks. Making him trip over the awe in some kid's voice.

"Hero? What the hell?" he managed to utter out, pushing his scarf up to his face. If he could just wipe that look of wonder off Philip's face, normalcy could be restored and maybe rocks would stop manifesting themselves in his path and he would stop fucking tripping -

Alfyn had caught up to his stride, clamping him on the shoulder. "Give yourself more credit, Theri - if those things were lost for any longer, we'd have hell on our hands."

"We had hell on our hands either way, mind you." Now if he could also get rid of the annoying way that his pulse spiked any time the blond caught him off-guard like that, then it could really be a perfect sort of world. He shoved away the other man's arm, bristling further ahead on the road, Alfyn's snicker turning into a full laugh.

"Hey, all's well that ends well! You walked away from all that a hero whether you like it or not, Theri!"

"Stuff it before this 'hero' shoves his dagger up your ass." he barked, shooting Alfyn his sharpest glare. That hadn't worked on Alfyn at all after they had their first drinks together. "And anyway, we're almost there."

Soon enough, the tell-tale sounds of wagons upon coarse rock and gravel grew louder, and he could see the signpost pointing them toward Bolderfall. Granite gradually gave way to more polished stone, and the crowds looked a lot less like ants.

This level of the city hadn't changed much at all since his last visit. The same people stood in front of the same doors, and the same kids ran around the same streets in the so-called middle-class layer of Bolderfall. He thinks he sees less people in rags though. Turning his sights to the way leading down to the lower quarter, he saw that the stairs looked a lot less like a deathtrap and more like it could actually hold its own against a horse or two. That scholar must have had his hands full trying to renovate those damn stairs.

He breathed in, slow and steady. The smell was a lot less miserable now, too. That was good for his headache.

Therion turned to Philip - predictably, he had stars in his eyes and was drinking in the sight from above the crag. He sighed sharply. "We’re meeting up back here in two hours, and I better see you get that cart, kid." he muttered.

"You can count on me, sir!" Philip gave him a salute, running off before Therion could tell him off because no, never call him sir again please, what the hell.

"Think you could ease up on him a little more?" Alfyn chuckled, and Therion took the moment his hand started to itch as his cue to stalk off towards the upper district.

"Not when he’s giving me reasons to visit that damn Manor. If you’ll excuse me,"

>>>
Therion, in his mind, felt very assured when he asserts to himself that he does not like Cordelia Ravus.

He has long since grown out of the phase where he can say that he outright disliked her. There were many things about their meeting that he very much wished had never happened at all, but as it stood now Therion deemed it too exhausting to keep up a grudge against a child. That was all she was too him, several years into their vague acquaintanceship and begrudging alliance.

If nothing else, he did consider her an ally. Congregation or no - if the likes of her could earn the trust of wary Primrose and scrutinizing Cyrus, he could spare her that thought.

It hadn't made the trip upstairs any less tiring, nor did it stop the head of the House guard from throwing him suspecting looks - but those had been the only eyes he'd felt when he entered the premises. Heathcote wasn’t home, and well - that made this trip just a tad bit easier.

He spotted Cordelia sitting in the shade of her cottonwood tree - Gods, he spent too time around Alfyn again - where, at the base of it, lay several cabinets' worth of tomes. A quick squint at the text told him that they were of old scripture.

Cordelia looked up from the book she was reading, and smiled warmly at him. To this day he wondered how she could stand to make such a face for him. "Oh, mister Therion! You’re back!"

He waved a dismissive hand in her direction, stopping just short of the tree's shade. "Yeah yeah, don’t make a show of it. Where’s Heathcote?"

"Off on an errand for now," She answered, standing to straighten out her dress. "Shall I prepare you some cold water? Will you be staying long…?"

"Who do you take me for?" he scoffed, and crossed his arms. If there was ever an option to end their meeting as soon as possible, Therion would take it. "Anyway, it’s way too early for this, but has anything come up on your end with the Gate?"

"Down to business so quick? That’s so like you… " Cordelia, ever the open book, couldn't hide the resigned disappointment in her voice. She moved to pick up a stack of papers next to her, flipping through the reports. "But no. So far, there is nothing of official note to report, other than the occasional Knights Ardante coming in to check on the state of the dragonstones."

One tap. Two taps. Three subtle, shifting taps of her fingers atop the parchment, and Therion sighed. "I’m hearing another ‘but’ in there, so spit it out already."

She stiffened for a fraction of a second, before she coughed into her hand. "Nothing gets past you… Very well." She gave him a tight smile, stepping out into the sun to hand him a piece of the documents. The guy listed upon it seemed inconspicuous enough, if not for the fact that his scrawl had gradually turned into an apothecary's cursive towards the end of his weekly report. "Our spies have detected movement around the Gate of Finis. If it were simple stragglers from the Obsidians, it wouldn’t be any particular concern, but…"

- signs that an entity of some sort is wandering about the premises. Despite this, there is nothing particularly out of order in the area. Security around the Gate has been heightened in response to this new presence. Updates will arrive as soon as the situation changes.

Therion raised an eyebrow at her. "If it’s not that, then it’s got to be something weird if you’re telling me and not the Knights. You know, like you should."

"I would rather not cause unnecessary disarray among the Knights at this time." She admitted - the shift in her eyes noticeable. "Between the reorganization of their ranks and this plague… we’ve a lot on our plate right now. At least until this epidemic is resolved - or if our spies figure out that Gate activity has something to do with it - only then will I inform them of these movements."

No, he did not like Cordelia Ravus. But he would be lying if he hadn't harbored a certain sort of respect for her resolve - it did no favors to her emotions remaining plain as day upon her features, but it told him enough. Perhaps one day it'll finally be enough for him to stop calling her a naïve girl.

The thief almost snorted. He reached out to flick her forehead - earning him a light glare from the girl as she rubbed the sore spot. "Is this your way of telling me that we should hurry up?"

The glare faded away into a giggle soon enough. "Hehe. It’s my way of saying good luck."

Chapter Text

>>>

He doesn’t remember the snow ever glinting so brightly.

Winter in the Highlands was harsh and barren and dour – high up in nestled hills, where the frost met the clouds. There were hardly any trees for the snow to pile itself upon either, so this could be the Frostlands – a path yet unknown to him and yet so close to seeing for himself.

But he was on a cart before. He looked around the bright white expanse, finding himself alone on the malformed road. Alfyn and Therion were nowhere to be seen.

A sound rustled in the distance. His hand darted to his hip, and he gasped in horror upon finding that the snug weight of his sword was absent from his person. His fingers dug around in his pockets, and no – his runes weren’t with him either.

The sound rustled again, insistent and clamoring for his attention. He swallowed, and willed his feet to move towards the noise. Whatever it was that was waiting on the other side of the glen, he could face it.

This resolve withered little by little however, with every step that he took within. The sky grew dimmer, and the roots of the trees seemed to pulse the deeper he went. The silence of the forest gradually filled with the symphony of heartbeats and heavy breaths that were not his own. He doesn’t dare look back to find them – or rather, they follow him wherever he goes.

There was music in the trees when they started to grow veins and arteries beating with flowing blood. It rang in his ears – resonating further when the leaves fell and flaked off the canopies that he couldn’t see. Branches clattered to the ground like bones, oozing with ichor – and he doesn’t dare look closer.

A wet squelch snapped him out of his focused trance, and he looked down, only to gag in place as he realized that the sound came from below him. Sickly yellow boughs of something spread through the beating undergrowth of this forest, coating his boots with its bile. The path ahead was full of polyps threatening to burst and swallow him whole – so he broke into a sprint, and burst they did, splashing and scattering chunks of coagulated amber masses, but he had to keep moving, he can’t look back.

The breathing of the forest grew ragged and painful and he recognized that it choked with the voice not unlike that of a woman’s – cacophony like wracked sobs began to rise like a horrid crescendo with every step he took into that horrid red glen. The ground beneath him was sticky and lumpy like raw tissue and he wanted nothing more than to escape and not look back, don’t look back, it’ll all be over if he stopped here, he can’t go back.

Yellow – terrible clotting yellow – gradually flooded his vision as they pumped full the outstretched limbs around him like honeyed sap from maple trees. He tripped over amber-colored mounds and slipped on chartreuse plasma, and soon enough it began to rain – pouring rain, falling glistening acid like comets down to the earth below.

Tears stung his vision as he finally – finally – made it out of that horrid place. He tried his best to ignore its cries and calls and the haunting familiarity of the voices.

He can’t stand to think that it called out for him.

It wailed behind him, sounding like it was finally choking on its own self and pus.

He panted on his knees, relieved to come back to the somewhat familiar sight of pale snow on jagged rock. Cold sweat rolled down his brow when he saw dusted boots come into his vision. He looked up to find the hulking form of Sir Olberic – impossibly, with his pierced stare and gaunt expressions.

“...Sir Olberic?” he breathed. Shadows cast over the man’s face, aging him forward several years. There was no room for sympathy on the knight’s face, nor was there any to be found in his voice when he opened his mouth.

“You're late, Philip.”

His throat bobbed, and he straightened himself out before his mentor. “I... why are you just here, sir? How did you get here so fast? Did someone die while we were getting medicine...?”

One blink. Two blinks – and a familiar dirt-trodden trail appeared behind Sir Olberic. He rubbed at his eyes, and his breath clung to his throat when the sight wouldn’t go away. It shouldn’t be here – not when he was on the other side of the continent. “W-wait… isn't this…”

“You've left but a note.” His attention was forced back to Sir Olberic’s, and now his breath felt like a beast with claws that threatened to tear open his windpipe. Beating, pulsing, rumbling – Sir Olberic continued. “A note, Philip. Something like this was far more than what you can handle, and yet you... Why did you insist on being so difficult...? Now, of all times...”

“Sir? What's going on...?”

He shouldn’t have dared ask.

In that moment his beloved mentor’s face became that of a stranger’s. He wasn’t sure the real Sir Olberic could look so unkind.

But the hands that pushed him forward felt chillingly firm, and unbearably soft. “You can see for yourself. Your foolishness has already led you so far.”

And suddenly he was alone again, at the end of a dark cobblestone hallway. There was nowhere left to go but forward and now he wondered why he was so afraid of going back. He wants nothing else now.

This wasn’t home. His home couldn’t possibly be so stifling. How dare these halls look so similar, why did they smell so known to him? This shouldn’t be home.

He found himself, at last, standing before the door to his mother’s room.

He knows – implicitly – what is on the other side of that door.

He had no choice to hide from it when the door vanished before his very eyes. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t remember the feeling. All he can hear is the thundering of the still-beating heart in his chest – and in front of him, the agony of someone trying in vain to cling to life.

His feet moved like lead across the old, creaky wooden floors he’s known all his life. He dropped to his knees before the bed, and with nothing but a croak in his voice did he find it in himself to call out. “Ma…?”

His hands found her fingers – wet with golden fluid and covered in bumps that pulsed and throbbed with more of that accursed yellow bile. He could see the veins, and he knows he shouldn’t. They belonged under her skin – along with her arteries, along with her heart. Her limbs were dotted with festering wounds and it hurt to see all that made her. She was covered in a glittering, golden curse and he hated everything about it.

Not for the first time in these past few painful weeks, he asked himself through hot tears – what did she do to deserve this?

He crumpled before her twitching mass, tremors wracking his body as he struggled to find his words. Blubbering and stumbling and failing his way back into her arms, unable to meet her eyes.

“I'm here, ma...! Alfyn,” he swallowed, choked – wanting to choke, how dare he lie to his mother like this, how dare he show himself to her as nothing but a failure – “- he can help you now! Just open your eyes, h-here, I'll help you sit up –“

The watery voice that heard his pleas was garbled and filled with suffering. Why did his mother sound like that? Why did it come to this? “Philip... ha... this is cruel...”

“Ma...?”

“Why have you come?”

Why did she look at him like that?

“Ma – “

“Why did you leave me here…?”

Why couldn’t he answer her?

>>>

Alfyn awoke with a start. The rattling of the cart’s wheels was rhythmic and low, and the moon was still high up in the sky. It couldn’t have been more than an hour past midnight.

Therion was still beside him, his breathing slow and steady – deliberately enough that Alfyn almost doubts that he was asleep.

“Ma, no…! I'm… please…!”

Alfyn jerked to his sides, finding Philip convulsing in his sleep, sweat coating his forehead and mouth open in silent screams. Nightmares – he should have guessed.

He grabbed the boy’s shoulders, fingers gripping tight enough on his clothes to pull him up to a sitting position. Philip, still asleep, immediately begins to thrash against his hold. Wrangling hands found their way upon Alfyn’s arms, clawing at the open skin as Philip babbled apologies in between gasping breaths. He steeled himself, and shook the boy’s body hard. “Phil? Phil, you gotta wake up, buddy-!”

Philip’s eyes shot open – wide with fear and fresh tears. “Ma…!”

Alfyn envelops him in an embrace, close enough to hide the kid’s face. He doesn’t think he could handle speaking otherwise. Philip’s hands held onto Alfyn’s shirt like a lifeline, shaking like a leaf in a storm. He could feel the fabric of his shirt gradually get wetter with tears. He only held the boy tighter against him, allowing Philip to burrow his face into his chest.

“Wh-where is…” he stuttered eventually. Alfyn places a hand to his head, stroking his hair as tenderly as he can.

“It's alright, little guy. Deep breaths, come on. Take it easy, and follow my lead. In, out… in and out…”

The next few minutes went by just like that. Deep, steady breaths between them, and the crunching of the leaves under the slow turning of the cart’s wheels. Muffled sobs escaped the boy’s throat, and Alfyn's shirt dampened with his tears. Alfyn made a mental note to check if they have fennel and golden seal in stock left for Philip’s eyes – knowing him, he would want no trace of this in the morning.

Once Philip’s hiccups subsided and he relaxed in his hold, Alfyn leans back to meet his eyes. “Do you know where we are?”

“Th-the cart… we're in a cart. On our way to Northreach.”

He nodded, putting on a small smile. “Very good. Do you remember what we're going there for?”

“To… to find a cure for the plague…”

“Mhm. That's great, you're doing great. Breathe in just a little more,”

Alfyn shifted in place, letting the boy rest instead against his side. He doesn’t look at him – Philip would not want him to, not when Alfyn could already hear his attempts to stifle the rest of his tears. He supposed a kid has to preserve his pride where he can, especially when Philip’s fingers still curled tight enough on the fabric of his shirt to tear its stitches apart, clinging on for dear life and breathing through his mouth.

He remembers the feeling well enough himself.

He gave Philip’s body a small nudge after a few more moments. “Feeling better?”

A slight nod. It was stiff and it felt like it wanted to hide itself. “Y-yeah… thanks, Alfyn.”

Feeling a frown creep onto his face, Alfyn sighed. “…now that ain't gonna fly. But… look, I'm not going to force you to tell me what's really going on. Just know that you don't have to put up a front, alright? Not around me.”

“Thanks, but…” his voice, meek and afraid, trailed off into rumination. Alfyn lets it be.

Silence enveloped itself upon the cart, and Alfyn retreats into its comforting shroud. The wind blows steadily colder the further up the trails they go, but it was still a long way until they could get to Stillsnow. He hoped that it was far enough for Philip to gather himself. So he counted the leaves that fall from the subtle gusts of wind. He counted the trees that lined the path. He could put names to all of them – ash, birch, poplar. Rhododendron peeked out from the shadows of the groves.

He counted five fir trees before Philip spoke again. “…no. I… can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Ask away.”

A lengthy pause, then a shuddering breath. Alfyn thinks he knows where this went. “…when your mom was sick. I… how did you deal with it?”

There was only so much he could do to make it seem like he was put-together, but the air seemed set on disagreeing with his resolve. Alfyn tensed, not trusting his voice to stay steady.

“Ma's gotten sick before, it's not like I've never seen it… but it never got this bad.” Philip continued. “The village was always trying to help her whenever it happened. I-I'd help too of course, but… this time…”

“This time, it feels like only a miracle could do the trick, huh? I know the feeling.”

Philip’s eyes were on him now. He doesn’t meet his gaze, instead he plastered on his face an easy smile just bright enough to hide the contours of his leftover grief. “I can't really say that I'm over it, you know? Even now, I still think about it. It's what keeps me going on most days, but I can't help but wonder that if I'd only been a little better, I could have saved her.”

If Zeph could hear him now, he would have scolded him for thinking like this – so akin to his mother’s mannerisms that it made his heart ache in a way only exhaustion could dull the pain of. It hits him then, just how much broiled beneath the surface in this past week. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “On… on the day she died, she had to reassure me that I won't be left alone. I've still got Zeph and Nina and everyone in our sleepy backwater town, after all. But when the sun sets just a little lower for me on some days, I'd think - it wasn't her time yet.”

Maybe there was something to be said about the way every patient he saw in the wake of this plague reminded him of his mother – writhing sometimes but most of the time staying still, for fear of collapsing under physical stress. Their hands had the same grooves that she did, just before the end. Lumpy – dry and moist at the same time, flaking off in some parts and sweating profusely in others.

Eyes tired and dim, with only the feeble notions of things they still needed to do to keep them alight.

“I feel like a dumb kid for thinking that.” He said, before breathing out another weary sigh. In the end, they were all the more reason for him to keep his hands moving. He still thinks he can’t have it any other way. “But it's what makes me, and right now I just want to make sure that isn't the case for anyone else. It just ain't right to me that a mother gets taken away from her kids so soon. That includes your mom, Phil.”

“But I…”

A sudden snap tore the tension open between them like a knife to a raw wound, and it’s like this that Alfyn finds himself with an armful of Philip around his midsection, his shirt wet with new tears. “I'm sorry,” he hiccupped. “You're doing your best for her, and everyone else who got sick and I… Oh gods, I don't know anything about medicine. I don't know how I can help you, I really want to, but-!”

Philip curled further into himself – further into Alfyn’s body. He gnashed his teeth, and, impossibly, his fingers grasped tighter around Alfyn’s clothes. “…Mister Therion was right. You really should have just sent me back,”

His gaze softened as he let a hand rub circles around the boy’s back. Anything to ease the defeat in his voice. “Heh, so you were thinking about that too, huh? I really don't mind as much now. Nothing we can do about this arrangement now anyway. We'd run out of time,” Alfyn’s free hand went to Philip’s hair, stroking the chestnut strands. The boy was no glass toy on the verge of breaking – but this was a situation that called for his most tender touches. “…I knew from the start that you just wanted to make yourself useful. If there was anything you could do to save your mom, any chance at all, you'd have taken it - no questions asked. I promise that right now, you're no bother, even if I do wish you stayed put.” He continued.

“…I just… I don't want to lose her. Not like this.” Philip sniffled. “…I'm sorry. Y-you're going to hear that a lot, I know, but in any way at all, even if it's just for a tiny bit, I can lend you my strength. That's all I have, Alfyn…”

“That's all a guy can ask for.” He chuckled, giving the boy’s back a light pat. “Do me a favor and stop apologizing though – if you really want to make it up to me and Therion, all you gotta do is promise us that you'll do your best. Can you do that for us, Phil?”

“…Alright. I promise.”

A smile sewed itself upon his lips as he pulled Philip closer to him – snug enough for restful sleep. “Great. Now get some more shut-eye, it's still pretty early.”

Another little nod – one that was a little more sure of itself this time around. “Okay… good night, Alfyn.”

“Sleep tight, Phil.”

He counted fifteen more fir trees before Philip’s breath finally stabilized into something more rhythmic, the creases on the boy’s face finally smoothing out into peaceful sleep. He heard it on the sixteenth fir tree, a faint rustle to his other side. “…so you heard all of that?”

Sure enough, Therion’s gruff voice made no attempts to hide itself. “Call it a talent.” Therion said. “It was only a matter of time before his own mind came to bite him in the ass. You’re sure you want to leave it at that?”

Alfyn shrugged. “Well, I wasn't gonna be the one to pry it outta him,”

He looked back down at the sleeping Philip. He left it at that, sure – but only because he thinks he knows what he sees in his dreams.

Philip had only ever visited his mother once during the entire ordeal, against Sir Olberic’s better judgment. Though it was nothing new to Alfyn who had been surrounded by the macabre aspects of the healing arts since he was ten – he wonders how terribly it must have felt, for him to have holed himself away in Sir Olberic’s cottage ever since, having seen for himself a foe that can’t be felled by a mighty swing of a sword.

He wishes it were so easy.

The moon overhead glowed gently in the inky velvet skies, and in the far horizon Alfyn can make out the first traces of frost bathed in starlight.

“…Hey, Theri?”

“What?”

“…I really want to find that cure.”

“…And we will,” A weight pressed itself to his other side. He didn’t think Therion could be capable of being so warm – but he won’t be one to complain. “So wipe that stupid frown off your face and get some sleep. It’ll be okay.”

“…thanks, Theri.”

>>>

Philip was no stranger to snow, nor the winters. Winters were harsh, and they were barren – and the Frostlands were every bit as harsh and empty as he expected it to be. But he'd never breathed in so much chill from the air – never seen white death as plainly as he did now.

They got off the cart a good while ago, when the routes diverged from the Victor's Hollow borders. Stillsnow was a good ways away from both it and Flamesgrace – a veritable middle-of-nowhere town compared to its neighbors. If not for the furs that Therion had given him (along with a pointed look that told him not to ask questions about it, and obediently he'd kept his mouth shut), Philip was certain that he would have long since become a frozen statue. They didn't get to stay for long in the town – they only had time for quick bowls of goulash and bean soup – before Therion had nudged them all back outside.

The snow was also several inches thicker here than they ever had been in the Highlands, and more than once he found himself almost being swallowed alive by the mounds on their trek to the foot of Northreach's mountain trail. It didn't help at all that the way forward was littered with hordes of lizardmen and bears – and he had his hands full lending Alfyn and Therion his runic support. The constant pumping of adrenaline in his veins certainly staved off the cold at the very least.

Lethargy was a far more lethal danger in the Frostlands Wilds than any monster, after all.

With every step they took further into the trail leading up to Northreach, the monsters seemed to grow in strength – like they thrived in the biting cold, life flourishing in extremes. Philip thinks he admires these strange beasts – so easily able to move in frozen fire and brimstone with great serrated blades rivaling their own size. Alfyn had called them Lizardkings – and when Philip sees them shamble about with an odd sort of grace he decides to himself that no other title could capture their majesty.

The frost crept further up the trees on this trail, and the winds howled ever mightier. Alfyn rattled off stories about cathedrals buried in the mountains, and the strongholds that stood the test of time and domineering cold. Soon enough the icicles on the frozen branches became as leaves - and the beasts they faced grew tusks made of those same crystal daggers. It was as though the further away they were from Flamesgrace, the horizon before them twisted more and more into a black-and-white open maw.

Or that could simply be because they were, in fact facing a great maw, in many respects of the word. Philip marveled at the sheer size of the cave's entrance, its jagged borders lined with crystal teeth and glistening, frozen moss. The ice reflected light in a strange manner – almost like the insides of a geode upturned themselves into the rest of the world. The Maw of The Ice Dragon, as their guide called it just before they reached Stillsnow.

It may have been the cold, or creeping dread, but with an ominous name like that Philip wished dearly that what they'll find inside would be worth the trouble of the hike.

Therion – now wrapped in even more furs and cloth than Philip had realized they had – sank his face into his muffler. "…I hoped we'd never have to see this place ever again, but then again when do I ever get what I want?" He grumbled.

Alfyn was quick to take him into a one-armed hug. It really did just seem like Alfyn had too much energy for the weather, and Philip wondered how he could stand to laugh in this cold. "Hehe, chin up, Theri! If we're lucky, we'll be in and out!"

Therion rolled his eyes. "And of course you had to go ahead and jinx it. Let's get this over with." He shook Alfyn's arm off of him, and gave Philip a pointed look. "Kid, stick to the middle. In the face of these mutts, you either dodge or you get rabies."

"Don't spend too much energy trying to support us, alright? We'll let ya know when we really need it, so just take it easy and try not to get yourself hurt." Alfyn said, giving Philip a firm pat on the shoulder. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Philip gave a salute.

"Yes sir!"

"Quieter."

"Y-yes sir,"

The inside of the cave was shrouded in a deeper freeze than outside, cutting straight past what felt like dozens of layers of cloth and directly into the blood in Philip's veins. The heat in his hands burrowed itself into the deeper recesses of his body, like it itself was trying to get away from the chill. It felt dangerous to breathe, and he feared that the moisture in his mouth could spell his doom if he dared let his guard down.

It was deathly quiet too – he’d followed Therion's example of walking along the waxen floors with the silence of cat feet. The only sounds left to listen to were the subtle howling of the winds and the harsh rustling of the hardy leaves. The fall of a needle would be akin to the crack of a whip in this still – careless footfalls would resonate across the frozen halls like entire boulders thrown across the horizon.

It was as if the malice of the north had coalesced itself inside this place, and gave itself new form. The ice bent like the roots of a great oak tree, gnarled in the way ice shouldn't be as though it were bearing its fangs against intruders like himself. The outside was not welcome here. It seemed strange to think that life – existing in abundance, however warped the form it took – could persist in such hostility.

No matter how careful they were however, the beasts prowling within had heightened senses of their own, and they were hungry. Wolves and wild Snow Leopards leapt at them from the hidden shadows of the ice, and their growling too was limited to little more than grit teeth and bared fangs yawning open to strike. Therion's blades made quick work of their defenses, and Alfyn's ax made for clean kills. At some point, Therion tossed a bow and a quiver full of arrows in Alfyn's direction – perhaps directly after their encounter with a Snow Drake – and he and Alfyn had since then resolved to just cease questioning where the thief could possibly have been hiding all of that. Every weapon in their hands was nevertheless constantly glowing in a fierce red on Alfyn's insistence.

"It's to cauterize the wounds," Alfyn explained in hushed tones as he pat Philip on the head for another 'job well done, kiddo!'. "The heat'll melt the wound enough for it to close itself and stop the blood from leaking out. The scent of blood's like a smoke signal in this place, y'see –"

"Alfyn, watch it –!"

Therion's hissing was cut short by Philip's own glowing blade – and before any of them knew it a searing scent led them to the sight of a beheaded Snow Leopard. It fell to the ground unceremoniously, smoke rising from its closing wound. Philip sucked in a breath. That would have ended too differently had the beast not been on its last legs.

"Damn – that was way too close," Alfyn's hand on his shoulder shook him out of his trance, and he shot him a shaky smile. "Thanks Phil, I owe ya one!"

"D-don't mention it," He could feel Therion's gaze on him. Philip slowly deactivated the rune, but not before noticing a tuft of dark fur behind a rock from across them. "But it looks like there's just a whole pack of them up ahead."

The three approached the rock, and sure enough peeking out from behind the glazed boulder there was a pack of wolves moving about. The beasts crouched just as they did – careful and cunning so as not to attract the attention of higher predators. Therion rolled his eyes, bringing out his daggers once more as he crept to the side. "Just what we needed… Think you can stagger them, drugstore?"

"Probably." Alfyn gave the scene another once-over, his finger scratching the light fuzz on his jaw. Not a moment after that, his free hand dug into his worn satchel. How the vials within hadn't made any sort of noise before, Philip may never know. He drew a vial of green liquid and sleepweed from its confines, crushing the herb between his fingers. "We don't want to risk alerting the big boys though, so what do you say to setting off our sleep gas for this?"

"It's worth a shot. But you two better stay quiet when I finish them off after that. We clear?"

"Crystal."

The apothecary tossed him the vial, the smell of sleepweed emanating faintly within. Therion gave Philip a quick nod, before sprinting off. Philip blinked – and stifled a gasp as he reached for his fire rune. Relief spread across his body when the glinting blades in the thief's fingers glowed red, just in time for Therion to break the vial with a hard but silent flick of his wrist, and Philip has never been more thankful for the existence of leather gloves. The thief shook off the stained glove and tossed it into the middle of the wolf pack as the gas cloud billowed out from the broken shards, faint green smoke and the smell of herbs flooding the cavern.

He almost didn't feel Alfyn nudge a muffling cloth toward him – and how could he, when as soon as the wolves fell to the floor with an almost rhythmic thudding, their lives ended within fractions of seconds as Therion's creeping form and boiling blade met their defenseless bodies. A quick, agonizing cut to each neck was all it took, and it was equally mesmerizing and morbid to watch just how easily the act could be done when one had access to the right tools.

"Woah…" he'd breathed, before slapping a hand to his mouth to muffle the noise. Thankfully neither the beasts nor Therion had noticed his mistake – but Alfyn had, and his chest rumbled just loudly enough that only Philip could hear his chuckle.

"Awesome, yeah? Guy's got the reflexes of a cat. They don't call him a master thief for nothing, after all. He kinda scares me sometimes, hehe."

'Master thief', he says – and Philip could believe him.

He hadn't known of the thief's true profession until after Sir Olberic returned to Cobbleston for a while, seven other travelers in tow. No, as he'd dug up the mind that belonged to that nine-year old foolhardy boy from years ago, he rememered that he'd first seen Therion as a hero who allied himself with Sir Olberic – and Sir Olberic was one who chose his allies wisely. He'd grown out of such frivolities now and saw Therion's hands and dagger for what they were and what they were used for, but the unmistakable respect the thief had for Sir Olberic kept that same boyish admiration alive in him.

"…Looking at him like this," Far be it for him to call Therion a gentle enough soul for the likes of medicine and health, however. He never seemed to be the soothing type. "It's kind of weird to think he's an apothecary too." he mused.

"I know, right?" Alfyn nodded, scratching the back of his head with a soft grin. "Can’t say I expected it because he looked like he liked his other jobs better when we were still traveling, but I'm glad to have him around."

"If you two are done gawking," the last swipe of the burning blade was sharp, and so were its echoes. Therion's furrowed brow dug deep into his forehead, but Philip had squinted – which was unfortunate, because he's seen that same shade of red at the tips of the thief's ears once before. "Can we get a move on? I see a path with some weeds ahead,"

They walked on, and in the privacy of his own mind, Philip thinks – maybe Therion wasn't as fierce as he once thought he was. He wondered if all fearsome fighters flustered easily, and try as he might once he started connecting the dots he can't bring himself stop fast enough before the thought crosses his mind –

'Maybe that's what's going on here, but I won't be the one to air that out.'

>>>

A few more encounters like that led them to a deeper entrance, suspended above a precarious balcony of stalactite. Therion's assertion of a trail of flora was correct – moss and frosted grasses painted the Maw's trail in this last part of the caverns. They were perhaps too far inside for comfort. It came to a head here, where the rock crusted over with an odd sort of ivy and creeping dodder the likes that Alfyn had never seen before. The light in the tunnels shone on them strangely, and the leaves seemed almost transparent.

"These are…" he heard Philip breathe beside him.

Inside was a rare, pretty sight – one strangely familiar to him. A grove of frost and navy-colored bushels greeted them, nestled within the same vines lining the entrance. Alfyn squeezed himself through the hole, and upon closer inspection some of those strange plants appeared to bear berries of some kind. He reached out to pick some of them – emerald-green berries with the size and firmness of holly on one branch, and glistening, black pearl-like fruit adorned with transparent leaves of something that resembled mistletoe.

"Would you look at that," he muttered, rolling both fruits through his fingers – once, twice, firm like marbles and old as time itself. A childish enthusiasm swelled within as he ran his fingers through the leaves. "I'd love to take a gander at these sometime,"

"Sometime after we deal with what we came here for, I hope." the thief said next to him, and gods – he really needed to stop sneaking up on people. Therion, ignoring his pout, reached out for the fruit himself. "…what do you make of this, drugstore?"

Alfyn hummed, reaching inside his satchel for notes. He grimaced as he dusted off the flakes of snow on the parchment. "…to be honest, I have absolutely no idea what any of these are," he spoke, as his eyes scanned past the descriptions and rough ink sketches. Therion often complained about the professor's handwriting, 'there's too many circles. I'm trying to read, not solve a damn puzzle', and he couldn't find it in him to agree. His own writing was a chicken scrawl on normal days.

- Althaea leaves
- Skythion flowers
- Arkeion root
- Male Peony seeds

His frown deepened, and he reached to fiddle with the hairs on the nape of his neck. "…that's a tall order Prof," he muttered as he gave the grove a once-over. Each plant looked like it could carry one or two signs of their ancient panacea – but not all of them at once, and he swallowed a sigh. He kneeled down to fetch a pen, taking a leaf out of the closest shrub. "…'s no good. Leaves ain't nearly the same shape. Buds here are too frilly,"

He only vaguely heard Therion's steps and pointed orders to Philip to keep watch, before the thief walked over to the other side of the cavern to inspect those too, slight sounds of scribbling and uprooting plants echoing from the other side of the cavern. He could feel his frown melt into a smile as he picked at another plant to inspect its characteristics.

Truly, he had no idea why Therion decided he'd take the art of medicine more seriously. Traveling together years ago hadn't given Alfyn the idea that he was interested in it at all – he and poisons didn't get along, Therion had admitted to him, and he was open about his distaste for bitter things. But he would find Therion in his kitchen at odd hours of the night, on odd nights of the year, poring over notes and vials and stacks of tomes – and Alfyn thinks he really doesn't mind this company.

Whatever the case it was as to why Therion hung around the Riverlands all these years, Alfyn couldn't be more thankful for his reliability – especially in this plague.

Inspecting the numerous bushels with the thief's help didn't look like it would take more than an hour – and indeed, the hour ticked by uneventfully with only the occasional 'not this, either' and 'another fucking weed'. Alfyn's satchel grew heavier with samples by the minute, and frustration rose in his throat as he reached for one of the last plants he hadn't looked over yet. It was no good either – its seeds were only a couple of angles shy of the correct shape.

Just before he'd thrown the plant aside, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He bit down on his tongue to keep his surprised yelp from escaping his throat – his head whipping wildly to find an apologetic Philip. "Hoo – Phil, buddy, you darn near scared the wits outta me!"

"S-sorry. I didn't know how else to get your attention, but…"

"What's the matter? Something out there?"

"Yeah, but I wanted to wait for you guys to finish," Philip replied, scurrying over to the entrance. He pulled back the vines just as Alfyn caught up to him. "I saw a patch of greens down there. Maybe those things have what we're looking for…?"

Alfyn's eyes squinted, his gaze following Philip's. Sure enough, there was a trail of moss down there, just barely visible beyond the cave mist. "Hey, you have a good eye Phil!" he said with a grin, ruffling the boy's hair. Behind them both were the tell-tale sounds of Therion cleaning up their shared notes – a sure sign that this part of the cave didn't have what they were looking for.

He put his fingers to his chin, and weighed his options. Neither he nor Therion may have been in this place for four years, but he remembered well the way his muscles tensed when confronted with the Maw's deeper levels. Small-fries like War Wolves and Snow Leopards were no match for either of them, but the cave's ecosystem was a hierarchy – and atop everything sat the Dreadwolves, making their home in the deepest, most insulated parts of the cavern. Agitating one would incite an unstoppable rampage that would go on until they had no choice but to put it down.

There was no way they would be able to avoid a fight with one. If they had been a bigger party, he would have considered taking Philip along for it. No doubt the boy had encountered behemoths of his own before, in the protection of larger company.

Alfyn gripped the handle of his ax, before clamping Philip's shoulder with another hand. "This might get sticky Phil, so it might be best for you to hang back here,"

"But-"

"No buts, alright? We talked about this," he cut him off, and hefted his ax over his shoulder. "Stay here, and don't make a sound. Give us a holler only if you get yourself into trouble, you got that?"

He doesn't stay long enough for Philip to reply before he's already tumbling down after Therion on the slopes, blade in hand and a quiver full of arrows rattling within with barely a sound. Their landing was hardly anything graceful but it was silent – and that was all they needed to be.

Therion was already several yards ahead of him, weaving through the white sands like a purple dart. If his steps had been silent before, now it was as if he was some sort of ghost – like he was one with the winds in the cavern. Alfyn followed him, taking quick glances around the area as he went. The wolves down here were far more cunning than those above them, leaving virtually no tracks in their wake. As far as either of them were concerned, they had thrown themselves face-first into a den made of eyes and fangs, and if either of them let their guard down, they would die before they could figure out which wolf got the jump on them.

It was with unsettling ease that he and Therion reached the second patch of greens. Alfyn squeezed himself through the space, his mind immediately springing into action as his hands grabbed at the herbs to inspect them. All the wrong herbs with too-thick stems and too-round leaves were continuously stuffed into his satchel, his rising frustration kept only at bay by the anxiety of being deep into a Dreadwolf’s den.

Minutes passed by like this, piles of leaves fitting snug into his satchel and fingers fighting the urge to tear his hair out from the roots as he did so. His breaths came out ragged, the cold turning it into frost before his very eyes. He paid it no mind. There were only a few more samples left in the cave.

“…roots are a bust with this one too,” he muttered, and he stuffed that one down the leather satchel with the others. Alfyn heaved, slow as he approached the last corner of the frozen grotto to reach for the plants waiting there –

“- gahh…!”

The first drops of blood hitting the icy floors forced Alfyn to snap his head back where Therion was – and sure enough, the thief was gripping his arm as blood trickled down from a fresh bite wound. Alfyn swallowed a curse – only barely able to keep himself from ripping the foliage from the cavern walls and into his satchel, before shoving himself back out of the hole. With one hand on his ax and another rummaging through his satchel for salves, Alfyn rushed over to shield Therion from what he now realizes was an entire pack of wolves.

“You alright, Theri? What happened…?!” he asked, giving the thief a once-over.

“I’m fine,” Therion breathed, having torn out cloth from his cloak in the meantime. Alfyn made a mental note to get him a new one after this. “Sorry. This is going to suck.”

“’s fine, buddy.” Alfyn replied. “It’s just a bunch of dogs. Nothing we can’t handle,”

He gritted his teeth, tossing the thief one of his containers – it smelt of wolfsbane, to ward away the rabid infections – and he braced himself. The scent of iron wafting through this floor of the cave was only a death sentence if it spread, but as he stood there a shiver crept up his spine.

There was something vaguely different about the wolves – a sentiment that he had no time to ponder before one of them leapt at him, teeth stopping just short of tearing into his face and instead being caught on the handle of his ax. Alfyn dug his heels into the snow to fling away the wolf. He dug into his collection of vials for his grape solution, and threw it in front of them, the smoke rising a fierce green and blowing the pack back a fair distance.

It should have been enough to give them a few seconds. It should have – but the wolf he’d just flung into the wall immediately leapt at him again, accompanied this time by the rest of its entourage.

The shiver that crept up his spine became a maw that snapped its jaws shut tight around Alfyn’s heart, as he swung his ax to intercept the wave of canine jaws – drawing blood and splattering it onto the icy floor. He kept swinging – there was no going back after the blood, having agitated the wolves enough that they wouldn’t be subdued even with his most powerful concoctions. Too many things had gone wrong already.

“That didn’t work,” he grunted, narrowly dodging a wolf from his side. He brought his blade down upon its ribcage. “Why didn’t it work…?!”

His hand reached for his satchel again – but not before he came face to face with the fangs of another wolf. It fell just as quickly with an agitated whine, its warm blood splashing across Alfyn’s face. Two daggers stuck out from the back of its head, and looking further beyond that was Therion unleashing a barrage of throwing daggers on the onslaught of wolves, each one falling mid-jump before the thief’s assault.

The blustering plume should have left them immobile for about a dozen seconds, the year of practice and training in the Maw having branded the instinct into his mind. Had they evolved somehow? Did they develop a resistance to wind magic in all those years that they’ve been away?

Whatever the case was, all pretenses of silence and careful battle have gone out the window. Now, covered in the gore of wolves, they had no choice but to brace themselves for the battle ahead. Alfyn bit his lip as he heard the distinct echo of massive claws digging into ice. One step, two steps – enormous footfalls scattering crystals in its wake – all accompanied by the ragged breathing of a large, indomitable beast. It was still some distance away, and it would arrive by the time they dealt with the last of the wolves here.

Sure enough, as soon as the last of the mutts fell into a pool of their own blood, a low, rumbling snarl echoed from within the darkness in front of them. The glint of its golden eyes was faint, but its presence was gargantuan – menacing, with malice swirling in its dilated irises.

If those wolves had unexpected anomalies to their name now, there was no telling what the alpha in their pack had up its sleeve.

Alfyn felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his head. It was a wonder that the handle of his ax hadn’t broken in his grip, but he stood protectively over the injured thief behind him nevertheless. “You sure you don’t wanna rest for a bit, Theri?”

“Don’t be stupid,” came Therion’s reply. “Even you can’t take this thing on by yourself.”

The blond chuckled. “Heh – well, thanks for the vote of confidence, partner.” He drawled, before lunging forward to swing at the creature’s legs, with Therion hot on his heel and brandishing an ax of his own.

This was going to be a painful afternoon.

Chapter Text

>>>

Heidi Farnham was not a particularly religious person.

She believed in the Sacred Flame and its venerable power. She’s seen how brightly it can burn, and how easily one’s burdens can be eased when watching it dance. She believes in the healing powers of clerics and the holy light they bring down from the heavens themselves – but she would be hard-pressed to find time to devote her prayers to its grace.

And now, seized with the primordial fear that only mothers can feel so intimately – she can say that she hadn’t thought herself capable of being so shameless. To beg in her ringing memories for its help so fervently like this, she would chuckle to herself if she could.

Selfishly, she prayed. Though her hands weren’t – couldn’t – be clasped together in prayer.

She caught the creaking of her door – even past the pus that filled her ears. The heaviness on the floors must be boots, then, and the hulking mass of brown and scars before her should be Sir Olberic.

“…he hasn’t come home today, either.”

If he was saying that, then it must be sunset again.

Seven sunsets without Philip in sight.

She could barely manage a nod before she could feel her eyes get hot. Heidi knows – excessive tears will only irritate the inflammations near her eyes, that blubbering breaths will get her nowhere but choking on her own self.

She can’t help it. She can’t help anything like this, and the thought sinks her further into despair.

She feels the roughness of Sir Olberic’s palms enveloping both her hands. He sounded strange when he was apologizing like this, and she hated it. He shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

It was her – all her.

What good was she as a mother to worry her child so much that he would run away?

She could only pray now and she couldn’t even do that properly – but she would beg, over and over to whatever god could hear – that wherever her Philip was, he was safe.

Feebly, she hoped that she could last long enough for him to return too. Perhaps, just long enough for her to apologize.

>>>

If one were to ask Philip what he thought torture was, maybe this was it.

Minutes passed by in the grove he was forced to wait in – where he was forced to watch the onslaught happen before his eyes. The weight of his sword felt like a world upon his thigh, and he wished for nothing more than the opportunity to lift it. It grew heavier and the chokehold it had on him was unbearable, but it hadn’t compared to the knowledge that right now he was safe – and his companions were not.

The Dreadwolf was a gigantic mass of fangs and fur and malice – in many ways, a master in its own right. Its coat was light and snow-colored and it moved with a monstrous swiftness, almost as if the snow and cold itself had manifested into this thing that moved and bit with the force of an avalanche. The fact that this was only one of many of its kind stirred in Philip a fear he hadn’t known before. Its fangs were the size of swords and any one strike against its target was sure to be a lethal one.

Philip knew of beasts – it was a given when he comes along on trips on the S.S. Treasure, and its captain was a veritable force of nature of her own who felled tentacled monstrosities with practiced ease.

But the Dreadwolf didn’t fight like them.

Leviathans and other such sea beasts that emerged to the surface were starving things in search of prey. Such was the way of life, as he’s been told by hunters and seamen that sometimes accompany Tressa on their trips. They were great, guttural things driven by hunger and survival.

One look into the stance of the Dreadwolf, it wasn’t a hungry beast prowling for prey. Somewhere, underneath that suffocating mass of marred fur, was ill-intent. It saw his companions as opponents and trespassers – enemies.

Alfyn and Therion were by no means normal enemies – the gods know they’ve faced incredible trials of their own and came out alive – but even they had their limitations. Therion’s arm injury slowed him down considerably, and it hadn’t helped that because of that the cuts on his person grew as he couldn’t dodge the attacks from the Dreadwolf as effectively. Alfyn’s salves and tonics were effective but they were not miracles – and it certainly didn’t do anything to help their fatigue.

The Dreadwolf was in no way acting alone, however. With a single howl it brought to its vanguard War Wolves ready to lay down their lives for its sake. For whatever reason, the usual blustery smog did not seem to harm them in any capacity, but they seemed more receptive to Therion’s blades at the very least – a cold comfort when there seemed to be no end to these new species of wolves. Alfyn’s concoctions were perhaps the only thing keeping them afloat.

It made Philip sick to know that he had the means to help them. His runes sat quietly in his pocket useless and unused, his fingers itching like hell. They needed his support. He wanted to support them – because what use did he have just sitting here when his power could turn the tide of the battle in their favor in an instant?

He bit his lip. His hand stopped just short of grabbing the hilt of his sword, and he gripped onto his arm instead before it too could reach it. He was given orders – and he made a promise to follow said orders.

How much longer did they have to endure this?

“Damn, this dog doesn't wanna give in…!”

He winced when he heard the Dreadwolf growl, before its claw swiped at Alfyn. The apothecary flew into the cavern wall, coughing up blood from the impact. He knelt on the ground for only a moment, before he yanked the bow from behind his back as well as a few arrows. The distance allowed him enough time to fire, with the arrows piercing into the flesh of the wolves before him. He’d managed to stagger the Dreadwolf’s lackeys – giving Therion the chance to lower their defenses, his daggers poised and ready to strike.

The scent of pomegranate wafting through the air was strong enough for even Philip to detect – and in the next instant, the thief shot through the air with almost divine speed, a clawed shadow and a crescent smirk upon his back. The War Wolves’ bodies were all but butchered in the attack, pieces of their flesh scattering across the cave like a violent red blossom.

Philip dearly wished he could say the same for the Dreadwolf – and though the damage was sizable and left its mark like crimson lattice across its coat, it remained standing. Its gaze now on Therion, it snarled – and it lunged forward, claws open, like knives waiting to impale themselves upon the thief.

“Therion-!”

Therion only had enough time to brace himself, before he too was thrown across the cavern – violently enough that Philip thinks he heard his body crack upon impact with the sharp rocks of the walls, and he too coughed up blood as he heaved, sliding down upon a puddle of his own self and reduced to a crumpled heap on the cavern floor. The man was still conscious somehow, and he fought to stand – though each movement seemed agonizing even from the distance that Philip had been watching.

The Dreadwolf advanced upon Therion, its steps slow and deliberate. Philip hadn’t believed beasts to be so uniquely capable of expressing themselves until this moment, when the canine’s eyes shone with an almost manic glee, raising its claw just right for it to glint menacingly in the air. But perhaps Philip should be thankful for this beastly pride – as it distracted the fiend for long enough for Alfyn to shoot a couple of arrows upon its turned backside – finally, for the first time, able to bring it to a stagger.

Wasting no time, the apothecary threw himself to where Therion was, hands already rummaging through an assortment of weeds and vials. The Dreadwolf had all but torn up the thief’s cloak – revealing the large gashes upon Therion’s arm and torso. Angry, serrated lines now decorated themselves on his flesh, shallow enough to not have hit his vitals but large enough to rob him of copious amounts of blood.

Their seconds of respite are short and agonizing – but it had given Alfyn enough time to carry the thief into the leafy grove Philip had pointed them towards. Dread washed over Philip’s body as he realized that Alfyn was going to take on the wolf alone, despite his own injuries. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but one thing was clear enough – neither of them would last very long in their ragged state.

The thought haunted him, as did the haggard expression on Alfyn’s face – as did his weakening stance. He needed rest. He needed support.

It was support that Philip could provide at the cost of his life. The one thing that Alfyn and Therion didn’t want from him on this trip was this.

But the longer he watched, the louder the voice inside of him seemed to argue. The Dreadwolf was but another creature, and he has felled many of those. It could not compare to gods – one of whom had bestowed upon him a power that was currently lying dormant and willing.

The Dreadwolf howled once again as it stood, and its comrades appeared from the shadows. Its shadow was massive and it loomed over his companions with a menacing grin and the promise of a gruesome death.

It was nothing but an oversized dog driven by the urge to kill.

Before he’d known it, he could hear the sound of shackles breaking, and he had his fingers curled tight around his runes. His sword was raised and it started to glow red – red like flames, red like blood and flesh.

He took a breath - and leapt into action.

>>>

He had been counting the liters of blood that they were losing over the course of the battle. Currently, they were hovering at the dangerous, anemic number of two – and if Therion made any unnecessary moves, this number would creep upwards to three, and they couldn’t afford that. This was how Alfyn ended up carrying the thief on his shoulder while the smaller man fired arrows at the wolves trailing behind them.

“Gods you’re slow –” Therion grunted, before a pained noise tore itself from his throat after letting loose another arrow.

Alfyn huffed, continuing to run. “And you’re agitating your injuries too much.”

“It’s a given if I’m supposed to be covering for your slow ass,” the thief replied. “How about you set me down and we’ll show them what for with –“

“Don’t even think about it,” Alfyn cut him off, almost tumbling inwards into the hole of leaves and frost. “You are going to sit here and rest for a few minutes to fire those arrows while those salves dry. Besides – there’s no telling what that thing would do to you if you tried that using the blessing again – hey-!”

One of Therion’s knives whizzed past his hair and straight into the mouth of a wolf about to strike him from behind, and Alfyn spun upon his heel to hack on its body with his ax. He tried not to cringe at the faltering weight of his swings when he realized how chipped it seemed now.

“You say that like we can afford to chip away at this thing,” Therion said. “Focus. That thing’s about to wrangle more of those fucking dogs.”

“I just don’t get it,” Alfyn seethed through grit teeth as he got back to swinging its blade. “Maybe they developed resistances? The cold ain’t cutting it anymore, is that it…?!”

“We can talk about that after we get out of this –!”

All of a sudden, it felt like something was creeping upon his skin, and Alfyn assessed himself with a start. There was nothing unusual crawling around on it, but the feeling grew until it became sharp as a needle – then, bursting like a midnight sun – the sheer cold became as daggers sharp enough to pierce flesh. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the cold converging around their opponent’s muzzle.

It definitely couldn’t do that before.

He jumped backwards – there was no mistaking this, it was charging up for an ice attack. He hunched over Therion’s form, preparing to carry him again and ignoring that voice in his head – there was no way that they were going to dodge this one, they and the wolf were too close for comfort.

“Alfyn, what are you…?!” Therion hissed, but Alfyn had already steeled himself, bracing himself between the incoming ice and the thief against the cavern wall.

He could take this. He had to. Even if he had no idea how terribly powerful this attack could really be, he only had the years of wear and tear to trust in this moment.

Perhaps it can work this time again – willing his way into surviving horrendous odds.

“Conjure fire…!”

His blood ran cold as he looked up – finding Philip tumbling down the slope, sword raised and flaring a bright, burning red. The boy landed in front of them - and swiped forward just in time for his pursuit to meet the frigid flurry of the Dreadwolf. Flames erupted from the heavens and shattered the beast's attack into frigid pieces.

Alfyn could swear that the Dreadwolf’s expression turned sour once its attack was intercepted. It howled for its companions, now all-too fixated on the newcomer – almost like it realized that it had to turn the one bending the flames to his will into a priority. Alfyn gnashed his teeth, ignoring the screaming of his limbs against all his better senses, and rose from his spot to take up his own arms against the fiend.

“Thanks for the save, Phil!” he said, though his voice was hoarse. He wished dearly that he could hide his disbelief better. “Now, get behind me.”

Philip looked back at him for a moment, shadows clouding over his face, before facing the monsters in front of them with a bob of his throat. “I… I can’t do that. If I stop now, you’ll…”

“Philip –“

The boy threw transparent runes in their direction, the smooth stones shattering upon meeting the cold floor below. Trails of fire crept up Alfyn and Therion’s weapons, and Alfyn realized too late what the boy was meaning to do. “Please leave it to me! You both need to catch your breath!”

“Philip, no –!”

But he’d already jumped forward, yelling and running towards the horde of wolves as he met them with his blade – weaving between their paths with a lightness like panicked hummingbirds. Following his trail were bursts of fiery pursuit – the only protection he had against his opponents as they bit at and burned under Philip’s elemental power. He advanced upon the great beast, straight for it and its raised paws. Alfyn willed himself to move too late when the Dreadwolf howled, and before he knew it a wall of War Wolves barred Alfyn from reaching the boy.

“Damnit –“ He growled, hacking into their bodies as he felt the heat sear his skin from the fiery pursuit. “I don’t have time for this…!”

A weight pressed itself on his back – the coarse furs wet with carnage telling him that it was none other than Therion. “No. You don’t.”

“Theri-?!”

“Don’t bother telling me to stay down.” Therion barked, before taking out his sword and thrusting its hilt into Alfyn’s side. “…this thing’s a bit weak, but your strength and the kid’s flames should be more than enough to carry you. I’ll finish off any mutt still standing.”

“You’re… not giving me any other choice here, are ya?” He sighed, taking the blade and thrusting it into the torso of an incoming wolf.

“Nope.” He could hear the grimace in the thief’s words, before Therion gave him a hard nudge. “Just go before that brat gets himself killed.”

Alfyn gave him a once-over – the thief was putting all his effort into swinging his daggers, and though he was covered in his own blood and the remains of wolves he stood firm against their opponents.

Stubborn guy. No wonder they got along so well.

He turned his back towards him, grip tight on his blades and praying that his brief sessions with Sir Olberic would be enough to give him the edge. “If you die on me, I’m bringing you back to life just so I can kill you myself.”

“That’s my line, doofus.”

Alfyn kicked himself off his spot with a holler, ax and sword being flung in as great of swings as his remaining energy would allow, the fires raging and bringing the wolves to a stagger long enough for Alfyn to finish the job with a few jabs of Therion’s sword.

He lost count of how many wolves they must have cut down in the past hour alone, and wincing a little he thought of how many other diseases could run rampant if they left the corpses alone like this. H’aanit’s lessons from years ago told him that this influx was unnatural – invasive. They’ll need to put the scene to the torch after this. There was no telling how many of them were left.

The Dreadwolf in front of him had seemingly endless reserves of lackeys as it howled at Philip, summoning more wolves to its side right as the previous mutts fell to the ground. For however much Alfyn worried about him, it gave him comfort to know just how agile the kid was – no doubt his continuous sparring with Tressa honed his reflexes just enough to avoid the worst of Dreadwolf’s attacks. Philip was capable and he knew his craft, but despite that, nothing could have prepared him for this. Therion, even when injured, was as nimble as they came and could only ever be hit when caught off-guard. Philip was nowhere near that level, as even in top form his clothes still caught on his opponent’s claws – strikes still grazed his cheeks and were only fractions of seconds short of being fatal.

A new sort of rage was ignited in Alfyn when he saw just how many cuts have gathered on the boy’s body – a rage that flickered when Philip’s sword arm changed its angle, preparing himself to unleash a series of attacks that Alfyn was all too familiar with –

“Phil, don’t do it–!”

His words came too late, and he could only watch on in horror when Philip’s blade weaved upon the beast a pattern of sword strikes – an act that served only to agitate it. The Dreadwolf’s claw moved at blinding speed, and in the next instant Philip’s scream rang throughout the icy arena when his back made contact with the wall just as Therion had earlier, nearly drowning out the sharp cracking of the boy’s body. Blood was forced out of Philip's mouth, drowning out the boy's cry as he slid down to the cold floor.

His feet moved before his mind could – and Alfyn leapt straight into the beast, unleashing a flurry of attacks of his own with the head of his ax. He threw himself off the claw’s path just as the flames hit its outstretched limb, bringing it to a stagger. He took this chance to run towards Philip, sheathing his sword in one motion and digging into his satchel with the other.

“Phil, I’m here – pull yourself together!”

Philip, ever-stubborn, was already gripping on the hilt of his sword to support himself. “It’s no use, nothing I can do can…!”

Alfyn kneeled to meet his injuries. He ripped open his salves and packets, beads of sweat falling down his brow as he rolled up the boy’s sleeves to smear his solutions over the injuries as fast as he can. Philip hissed and gasped and it tugged at Alfyn’s heart to have to treat him this way – but they only had a precious couple of moments before the Dreadwolf regains its footing.

“Listen to me, Philip,” he began, his thoughts scrambling to escape his lips as he ripped parts of his cloth to use as bandages. “This thing isn’t anything like normal Dreadwolves. It will counter you if you try hitting it over and over like you did just now. It and the other mutts are weak to fire.”

The beast was beginning to stir. He cast a quick glance towards Therion, on his knees now from overexertion. He bit his lip, before he finished securing the last of the bandages around the worst of Philip’s wounds. “…Therion can't be left alone like this, so I want you back there. I’ll take care of the big guy. Lend us some of your power when you can. But whatever you do, don't get hit. And if we tell you to run – you run like hell. Are we clear on this?”

“I… But you-!”

“Promise me right this second, Philip!” Alfyn snapped back at him – and he sorely wished he hadn’t. He’s the only reason the kid was here. This was unfair. Everything about this situation was unfair, but the words kept pouring out. “What the hell would I say to Sir Olberic if you died here?! And your mother – what then?!”

Bile rose in his throat as the harshness of his tone sunk in between them, the shadows on Philip’s face growing at the utter terror of it all. His breath stilled and his form threatened to go under had Alfyn not been there to hold him upright. He clamped a hand on the boy’s shoulder, the force enough to shake him out of his brief trance. “…I need you to work with me if we want to get out of this together, okay? So promise me.”

Emotions like broken glass flew about in Philip’s eyes like a crystal storm, before he’d eventually settled for a grim nod. “…I promise.”

Alfyn breathed out a sharp sigh, returning his nod in kind. “Good. I want you by Theri's corner. I'll clear the way for you.”

On shaky legs they stood, and Alfyn brandished his blades at the Dreadwolf, striking hard with his ax before it could lay its eyes on Philip’s retreating figure. “Over here, you damn mutt! You've got some nerve clawing my friend out like that…!” He hacked at it again before it could get the chance to howl for help, the flames following his every strike. Both Therion and Philip needed more time to recuperate, and as he braced himself for the swipe of its claws. It can only take so many hits before it was staggered.

Sure enough, its claw came down on him with a vengeance – knocking him far back from Therion and Philip. He thinks he could feel the knobs of his spine fracture and creak, but he pushed himself off the floor – ignoring his body’s cries for respite. He ran to the opposite side of the pit, digging further into his satchel for his noxroot and ruinous seeds. Crushing the herbs in his hands, he cursed himself for not having prepared them beforehand. Nevertheless, he tried his best to dodge the Dreadwolf’s attacks as he reached for his vials.

Three seconds to dump the herbs into the solution. Three flicks of the wrist to shake it until it was volatile enough to use. His fingers weren’t nearly as fast as Therion’s own but he knew his poisons. His world was light for a second – and he was being carried by the scruff of his shawls, caught on the claw of his enemy. He threw the vial upon the beast’s muzzle with a shriek, covering his mouth as the fiery toxin did its magic.

The Dreadwolf howled in pain at the sensations, dropping Alfyn back onto the cavern floor. Behind it were Therion and Philip, poised to strike with a tomahawk and a sword respectively – yelling in tandem as they took the opportunity to stagger it from behind. The flames of Philip’s pursuit knocked it back, and Alfyn was free to run to their side. “Therion! Philip! I'm coming, hang on!”

“One more should do it –“ Therion breathed. “One more call for that useless god of mine,”

Alfyn gave him a hard look. “If you try pulling that off in this state –“

“Would you rather this thing found its way out, Alfyn?!” the thief spat, before averting his gaze. “We just need one more break. One more, and we’re out of here and we can make that damned cure. If I have to live with a limp to make that happen, then so be it.”

“Therion,”

“Better me than you, drugstore – remember your priorities here!” the thief walked up to him, yanking the bow from Alfyn’s back to thrust it against his chest. “You and the brat take care of breaking it. I’ll bring its defenses down – and that’s when you and I can raise hell on it.”

The wolf’s stir nearly made them jump, and suddenly there was no time to think again – he could only manage a nod in Therion’s direction before taking Philip by the arm to run in the opposite direction. Philip had begun reciting the incantations, enabling Therion to get a few hits in with his ax and enveloping the area in flames once more.

Once he’d deemed them far enough, he held out the bow to Philip. “You know how to handle one of these, kid?”

“Miss Tressa gave me a few lessons,” Philip replied, giving Alfyn the go-ahead to toss it and the quiver in his direction.

“Good – I’m gonna need you to start raining hellfire on that mutt. I’ll handle close combat,” he said, taking out his packet of pomegranate seeds and handing some of those to Philip as well. “Think you got enough energy in you to help me carry Therion out of here, just in case?”

“I’ll do my best!”

“Right – better nick those arrows then!”

With that, Alfyn took a breath, turning on his heel and sprinting back to where Therion and the Dreadwolf were jumping circles around each other. The thief caught his eye, shooting him a nod as he tumbled downwards, landing upon a rock just as Philip’s arrows hit their mark. With its attention drawn, Alfyn raised his ax, carving gashes upon its body and counting – seven, eight, nine, ten successive hits. Their enemy growled in agitation, baring its fangs and glaring at them through gilded golden eyes.

The threads of his clothes felt like daggers upon his skin when the wolf caught him on its claws again, preparing to throw him across the cavern, only for a searing heat to come barreling into its mass and sending it and him staggering to the floor.

“Come on, Aeber –“

Alfyn shoved himself off the ground to make way for Therion, taking a stance of his own with his ax.

“Time to steal the show.”

And steal the show they did, as in the next few seconds the room would be nothing but a spectacle of lacerations and crimson rays – the Dreadwolf’s body at the mercy of Therion’s knives and speed. Shadows like magpie feathers obscured the thief’s movements until he was nothing but a dancing purple trail, leaving splashes of blood in his wake. Weakening its defenses was the right move, where before Therion could not pierce deep enough into its flesh, he could now slice through the tissue with his usual practiced ease. Philip’s fiery pursuit followed each move he made, searing into the Dreadwolf’s flesh and rendering it little more than charred meat.

Therion’s onslaught lasted for only a few seconds. As soon as Alfyn counted the last speck of blood flickering through Aeber’s innumerable cuts, he moved –

The sickening sound of a blade cleaving through bone marrow echoed throughout the cave. Alfyn’s hands were sticky with blood from the massive wound he’d caused, but he persisted – pushing down upon the handle of his ax. It wasn’t over until the howl’s echoes died along with the light in this Dreadwolf’s eyes – wasn’t over until the steel met the cold ground, bathed in malevolent life essence.

After what felt like an eternity, the glare of their opponent faded away into the stillness of death. Its eyes, wide with unbridled spite, now stared at nothing. Faintly, Alfyn could feel the wooden handle splintering in his grip, and he let it go – along with his gloves, laying them to rest in front of their fallen canine adversary.

But he couldn’t breathe easy. Not yet.

He dragged himself across the cavern floor, shambling to get to the unconscious thief who laid on the ground. If he allowed himself to relax here, then the cold would take him – just as it will the dying mass of the Dreadwolf. Alfyn picked up the thief by his shoulder. “Gods… Therion, lean on me. We need to get out of here before the others realize we killed one of the big boys. Phil, sorry, but could you carry some of this…?”

Gingerly, he shook Therion’s satchel off his shoulder, handing it over to Philip. His joints were screaming obscenities at him at this point – demanding that he hole himself up somewhere to rest.

Therion’s ragged breathing and the chasm in Philip’s eyes kept his feet moving and his sword arm swinging until they reached the mouth of the Maw. By the time they stumbled upon the entrance to Stillsnow, his exhaustion had all but rendered him immovable.

The last thing he heard before his world went dark was Philip’s panicked voice calling out for healers to help them.

>>>

Three days to recover in Stillsnow was all the respite they allowed themselves before they threw themselves into a cart headed for Atlasdam. It was three days more than Philip thinks he deserves – and three days less than Philip thinks Alfyn and Therion needed. He didn’t need to be a medical expert to know that the amount of blood that either one of them lost could not be so easily compensated for in such a short amount of time.

The clerics of Stillsnow worked their healing magic, but even Aelfric’s divine will did not bring about miracles strong enough to erase the sting of wolf’s claws on his torso. He’s been told once that only time can mend such wounds – one more day on the way to Atlasdam was not nearly enough.

He can settle for being thankful that Alfyn had been lucid enough to identify that of the three remaining herbs he could find in that cave, one managed to fit the descriptions that Cyrus had asked for. But the apothecary’s lips remained pursed as he turned over the bloom with his fingers.

“We found it alright,” Philip heard him mutter one night, with sunken eyes and a gaunt, exhausted frame. “It’s still anyone’s guess if it actually works though,”

Despite his tone, he found it in him to play the part of an exuberant apothecary. It almost hurt how cordially he still treated Philip – fussing over his condition the entire trip and checking to see if anything was out of place. Philip dreads for him and the eventual confrontation he’d have with Sir Olberic.

Therion hadn’t looked at him once, nor has he spoken a word to him. Philip keeps his own mouth shut about it – the thief had good reasons to be angry.

It persisted until they were given passage into the gates of Atlasdam’s upper district, where Cyrus waited to greet them. Around them were apothecaries and clerics running around, carrying with them crates and bags filled to the brim with vials and herbs that he can’t put names to. The air was frantic – electric, and to his own shame he felt too tired to keep up with any of it.

They were near the castle now, and Philip tensed – hiding behind Alfyn as the professor approached them.

“Oh dear, you two look like you've seen better days,” Cyrus’s worried voice said, before Therion trudged forward to shove his and Alfyn’s satchels into his arms.

“Shut your trap and smell the weed. I need to sleep.” Said the thief, before marching inside the castle’s courtyard.

“Yeah, sorry prof – we don't really have time to chat –“ Alfyn began to say, and turned around to look at Philip. Cyrus’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his skull once they saw him, and Philip wished he could wither then and there. “But could Philip here rest up at your place for now?”

“What the – Philip?! What in the blazes are you doing out of Cobbleston?” Cyrus exclaimed, before a pleading look from Alfyn shut him up before he could ask any more questions. The professor coughed, settling instead for shooting Philip a stern look. “Well, nevermind your… unexpected presence. I’m sure you have good reasons to be here,”

“We'll explain later, let's just go to the lab!” Alfyn cut him off, taking the protesting Cyrus by the shoulders to drag him inside. “Philip, you know where the room is. Or stay with Therion – gods I don’t know – I’ll just come get you when we’re done, okay?”

Both of them were off before Philip could get the chance to reply to either of them. But the castle courtyard was bustling, and he doesn’t want to bother anyone any longer than he needs to – especially not the nurses and apothecaries running about. He scurried into the halls, the view around him little more than a blur of colors and people.

He hoped he didn’t run into Kit. Or Mary or Therese for that matter. He doesn’t trust his mouth to say anything even remotely nice or good or helpful to anyone at the moment.

Finding his way to Cyrus’s temporary room in the Archives was a task he knew like the back of his hand. The professor avoided sleeping in his own house for some strange reason, and every attempt to dissuade him from resting on his workplace’s premises instead led to dormant rooms in the Academy and the Archives alike being refurbished for his purposes. For such public spaces, they offered a level of privacy Philip couldn’t have expected.

This room was private enough for Therion to have picked it to rest in, as Philip came to find when he turned the knob on the door. He laid crumpled on the cot pushed against the office’s window. Laying on his side like this, Philip sees the old scar running through his covered eye, surrounded by about a dozen fresh ones. He met the thief’s glare for the first time in days, and he wilted in its intensity.

He tightened his grip on the handle. “… sorry. I'll go outside if you want.”

“…nah. Don't bother.”

The thief’s voice was like a dagger cutting through steel, and against him Philip can only be compelled to follow. His steps were heavy against his better judgment, tiredness permeating his bones as the floorboards creaked beneath his feet. If Therion were bothered by the noise, he didn’t show it.

Philip sat himself down at one of the plush chairs that the professor used sometimes for conferences. Not even the familiar scent of it could ease his anxiety, though his fingers curled around the armrests.

“You're probably sick of people telling you to listen right now.” He almost jumped when Therion spoke so suddenly. “But I'll say what I want regardless.”

“…you're going to tell me I shouldn't have done that?” Despite himself, a ragged itch held his heart in a vice grip. Like the sound of snapping twigs, he felt something inside of him break. Part of him knew that this was inevitable – that he was never going to get past this encounter without being confronted – but no matter how hard he tried he can’t help that his words came out bitter and laced with bile. “I know that already, okay? You're right, I'm sick of people telling me I should stay put. What was all that training for…?! So I can just watch you all die-?!”

Visions came into his mind unbidden. Too many things could have gone wrong that day. What if Alfyn missed his swings? What if Therion got bit? What if they hadn’t figured out the secrets behind that accursed wolf’s tricks? What if he hadn’t come at all?

What if he wasn’t needed after all?

“I'm not supposed to be here, I know that much…” He quivered. He could feel himself shake – could feel the stitches on his chest tug painfully upon the fresh wounds. “If I don't make myself useful, then what…”

“Are you done? What a predictable tantrum.”

Something sharp poked at his mind. He looked up to find Therion’s indifferent stare, and he saw red.

“Pardon?!” He seethed, rage coming to a steady boil when the thief shrugged – impassive, dismissive of the torrent raging within Philip.

“You heard me. You're brain-numbingly easy to read, kid.”

And what did he know of reading people – what does a thief know of the hearts of people? What does a thief know of losing precious things? And though there were voices within him that could perfectly answer such questions, still – still he wants nothing more than to take Therion by the scruff of his muffler and –

“I think you're forgetting that that's all you are right now.” The thief continued. “You're still just a kid. We don't expect much out of you because we're not supposed to. If you can't understand even that, then you'll be nothing but a pain in the ass.”

Hot tears blurred Philip’s vision further as he stood up. The sudden movements agitated his own collection of cuts and bruises, and he ignored all their stings and demands for rest. His hands balled into fists and gods – he wanted to punch something, hurt something – do anything – “Then why did Alfyn humor me?! Why didn't he just – listen to you and send me back?! Or leave me with Mister Zeph…?! That was the right choice, wasn't it?! So why –!”

“Because he trusted that you knew your own limits. He trusted that you understood your role in this.”

The thief’s words sunk deep like the open jaws of a hungry, rabid wolf. Philip could feel his knuckles turning white as he watched Therion groan and struggle to sit up on the cot. When their eyes met again, he could see the biting bittercold swirling beneath the jade veneer of his stare. The thief leaned forward, supporting his weight on his knees with his shoulders as he continued to stare him down.

“If Alfyn were a less empathetic man, you wouldn’t be here. But he isn’t careless either. He knows your worth way better than I do. And you know – maybe there is a place for what you have. But it isn’t here.” Therion’s words fell, cold and steady. “Alfyn thinks you’re a kid worth trusting.”

His gaze softened – at least, that was how it looked through the pesky tears in Philip’s eyes. It could very well have been something he hallucinated. Gods knew he was too exhausted – but he doesn’t imagine the firm weight on his shoulder. “…I'm not going to say that he was wrong for thinking that. As pissed as I am at you for acting out of line, I wouldn't be whole right now if it weren't for your support, so… thank you.” Therion said, before shaking his head and hardening his stare once more. “But you should really start thinking about things other than your own worth. You're here because you felt useless – worthless.”

Both hands were on his shoulders now, and Philip was trapped. He can look nowhere else but Therion and his eyes – both eyes, one alight with stern warnings and one milky, unseeing, and covered in scars.

“But this problem isn't about you.”

It was true. It wasn’t about him.

It wasn’t about him and he knew that all along.

But to have it spoken aloud like this was a cruel slap to the face. He wished he’d been slapped in the face for this – it’d probably hurt less than the way that his insides churned and groveled. It’d probably hurt less than having his entire being shattered at its core like this, and no matter how strong he was it hadn’t mattered – it was useless against this. Philip’s hand grasped at his chest as though it would stifle the thundering within.

He curled into himself and wished dearly that he was anywhere else. Anywhere that was far away from this, but Therion’s hands kept him where he was and the only escape that he was allowed was that of his choked sobs leaving his throat.

He was a coward that left his mother alone – an idiot that made her worry. A troublesome child that was only good for making his mother wonder and fear for him.

“… do you get it now? You’re in over your head. You forgot what you’re really supposed to be here for.” Therion said, snapping Philip out of his trance.

His voice was hoarse. He doesn’t know what words would make it easier. “…I'm sorry.”

“Save it.” The thief huffed, before one of his hands laid itself atop Philip’s head. “I'm not the one you should be saying sorry to.”

He both dreads and wishes nothing more than the day they arrive back at Cobbleston. Back to where his mother waited for them.

Philip took a shuddering breath, and nodded. “…right,”

“…just as long as we understand each other.”

He doesn’t know how long he sat there with Therion, with a weight so forcibly lifted from his chest. He doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or not – only that he’s started counting down the hours to their return.

He still doesn’t know what words can make it easier.

Alfyn and Cyrus would come to find them both on the floor later that day, all jubilant smiles and a cure finally in hand. Neither he nor Therion would know of this news until the morning after, shaken awake by the apothecary and swaddled in blankets that he didn’t know the professor had.

>>>

It was a night ago that they were finally back in Cobbleston. Alfyn and Therion wasted no time hopping off the cart to tend to the Cobbleston citizens, despite their injuries' demands to lay down and rest for a little while longer. But Alfyn would accept nothing less than his full efforts trying to lend his helping hand to everyone who needed it, and Therion followed his example – if a little less enthusiastically.

Philip was advised not to be anywhere near the patients, so he hid himself away near the South Cobbleston Gap before anyone could notice he was gone.

That had been hours ago. He could hear everyone’s relieved cries from afar and he let himself smile a little. Miss Geneva’s neighbors rejoiced at the news they’ve surely received from Alfyn once he’d emerged from her hut, and so did the younger children when they’d heard that Old Man Riordan would live to see another few years of telling them stories of talking dragons. He breathed many a sigh of relief and a prayer to the gods when the village guard cheered over the news of Chiefman Garreck’s guaranteed recovery.

His world wasn’t crumbling before his very eyes anymore. But he couldn’t stand to be part of it, else his lungs would collapse in on themselves.

He knew that Alfyn went straight to seeing to his mother. With his talents, he could breathe easy – and finally, so could her. She was fine – she was going to be fine. Death hadn’t taken her away from him just yet, and he was happy about that.

“Philip.”

So why couldn’t he face her?

“Philip, you will look at me when I am speaking to you.”

Philip bit his lip, his breath hitching in his throat as he lifted his head from his arms. He wasn’t sure how long he was sitting down on the stairs for. Everything ached. But he couldn’t disobey Sir Olberic. He met his gaze – and it was steely, like how it ought to be.

“…yes sir, I'm sorry, sir.” He mumbled. His hand gripped his arm, willing himself not to look away from his mentor.

He expected a tongue-lashing. Perhaps a scream or two. He doesn’t expect this meeting to be fraught with anything other than pain and he thinks he can bear it.

Sir Olberic did not look at him the way that specter of him did in his nightmares. Today, he looked tired and weary and disappointed – but not unkind. Philip almost wished that it was the case, but he knew better than to ask impossible things of his mentor.

Silence lingered in the space between them, with the knight looking down upon him with scrutiny – but more than anything he seemed to grapple with his own words. Philip tensed under his judgment, before eventually Sir Olberic let out a heavy sigh.

“…there will be time for me to lecture you later. There's someone that you need to see.”

Philip’s breath hitched in his throat, his fingers curling upon his flesh.

Anything but that.

“Philip, you can't run from this –”

“I know that already…!” His legs shook as he stood. Therion would call him a coward if he saw him now – and he wasn’t wrong, that was exactly what he was – even now, just a short distance shy from the arms of his mother, he can’t do it – “I'm - I'm sorry, sir - but I can't show my face to her like this. I know that what I've done was reckless and stupid, but…!”

His feet itched to run. He could run somewhere far but he doesn’t know where else to call home. His home was on top of the nestled hill and he still couldn’t bring himself to move – what was it that he was meant to do here?

“…enough of this.”

He didn’t have enough time to decide that for himself when he was dragged off the ground and dumped unceremoniously atop Sir Olberic’s shoulder. “You are going to speak to your mother, and that's final – even if I have to drag you there myself.”

“What –“ He began his ascent towards the village, and Philip felt panic bubbling over himself as he struggled in his mentor’s grip. “Sir! Sir, put me down…!”

The struggle was futile, he knew – Sir Olberic was the strongest man he’s ever known in his life. Kicking at his torso and trying to push himself free of his grip was nothing but a losing battle. But the thoughts continued to swirl in his mind, compelling him to try and fear what came next the closer Sir Olberic’s steps took them to his home.

“…I'm sorry to handle you roughly like this. But you left me no choice.” Was the knight’s only response to his petulance.

“Sir…! Gods - please just put me down!”

At last – his wish was granted – but only as they were atop his house’s doorstep. With swift motions, Sir Olberic had swung open the door to drop him inside with a hard thump. He closed the door just as swiftly, and from the sound the knobs made the knight seemed keen to trap him inside until he caves in and walks toward that room.

“Speak to your mother.” His gruff voice said on the other side of the door. “You owe her at least that much, Philip.”

“Sir…!” Gnashing his teeth, Philip slammed a fist against the wood. “…damnit…”

“…Philip…? Is that you…? Honey?”

He froze. His blood ran cold as his hand slid down from the door to his side. Weakness crept into his muscles, and his legs threatened to give out from under him.

How long has it been since he’s heard her voice?

He couldn’t keep her waiting now, and he cursed himself as he forced his feet to move. They felt tethered to lead and stone, but he couldn’t keep her waiting any longer. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow when he reached the doorframe to his mother’s room.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. He remembered it well – the Yellow Plague smelt nauseatingly sweet, even amongst the clotted iron and plasma that it drew forth from the victims it took. The room also smelt strongly of crushed roots and grape essence, no doubt from Alfyn’s brews. It only served to make looking at her so much worse.

His mother, covered in bandages from head to toe and smelling of bitterness and her own pus. The last time he’d seen her, she was a mass of lumps and golden chunks of self. He shuddered to think of just how many boils and tumors Alfyn had to remove under the layers of linen that they had wrapped her in, and how painful the treatment must have been.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. What a terrible son he was – to add to such agony.

He approached her bedside, kneeling down before her as he reached for her hand with one of his own. “…mom. Mom, I'm here,” he breathed, and used a free hand to tuck a stray lock of hair away from her face. “…are you feeling better?”

Philip bit his lip to stop it from quivering at the sight of his mother’s smile. “Hehe… I still feel a little woozy, but I'm getting there.”

Her voice was hoarse – like she’d been choking on something for a very long while. But there was warmth to be found in it still. Philip doesn’t know how she can stand to sound like that even after everything she’s been put through.

He’d curled into her side without realizing it. He doubted that he’ll make it through the day without bursting into another fit of tears. That seemed to be the only thing he could do without fail these days.

Fingers wrapped in soft linen threaded themselves in his hair. “Philip, let me look at you.”

He raised his head, and met her eyes – hers, bloodshot and wreathed in dark, shadowed rims. Fresh tears like morning dew started to pool at the edges. Philip was sure that he didn’t look any better than her when her hand found its way to his cheek, her thumb running over his skin.
“…so many new scars. You… you must have gone through a lot,”

Why was she saying that? He’s not the one who’s had to suffer this whole time. She shouldn’t say that.

“…why, Philip? Why did you feel the need to go…?”

How could he answer that? He had a thousand words on his tongue and every single one of them felt like a thorn to pierce her with.

“Philip, please answer me,” her tone was pleading now. Too watery. Too sad. Too – “…you didn't have to go, so why –?”

“Because…!”

No matter how hard he tried – there was no winning against his mother’s pleas. He could barely breathe here but his feelings were a river to a dam – and he just wasn’t strong enough. “I – I couldn't sit here to watch you! I'm sorry, mom, I'm sorry – I couldn't stand to see you look like that…!”

Seeing her so pained, her face twisted in agony and golden yellow bile – yellow in her eyes, yellow out of her ears, yellow in the blood she kept coughing up and spitting out –

“Seeing you like that made me feel so weak and useless, and – that’s…!” he squeezed her hand tight, and tried not to choke on his own words – he had to hold out. He owed her. He owed her so much. “– I’m such a coward, and an idiot - I'm sorry…!”

“I'm sorry that I made you worry…! Mom, I'm so sorry…!”

He couldn’t hear anything more than his own pathetic sniffling and blubbering, the beating of his heart loud enough to drown every other sound. It robbed him of his breath and any semblance of a calm mind. He knew that he was weak, and that he was stupid – but he could not stop.

“Oh, Philip… Philip, no,”

He was in a warm pocket now. Another’s heartbeats started thundering in his ears and he recognized it as his mother’s. His hands flew to wrap around her body to support her – and he shouldn’t, she shouldn’t be exerting so much effort, what if she collapsed? What if she broke – “…I'm sorry, but… I was so afraid… when Sir Olberic had told me you'd gone off to look for a cure on your own, I was worried sick,”

He knew. He held on tighter.

“I'm sorry for being such a weak mother.” He could hear the smile in her words. Why would she smile with those words? She should stop. She needed to stop. “If I was stronger, you wouldn't have to do all these things for me – “

“Mom, no, don't say that!” Philip yelled, curling further into his mother’s body. “Please – please , I can't take it…! Why are you the one apologizing…?! I should – if I wasn't careful enough…!”

He let out a wet, shuddering breath. She still smelled of pus and mint and honeyed balm, and it stung his senses – but he held on. “When you tell me about dad, I just… you always look so sad, and I just – you tried so hard to raise me. And look at what I… I almost left you behind like he did when I was supposed to protect you,”

No longer did he remember what his birth father looked like. Did he worry about her like this too? Did he ever fear so horribly that one day, his blade couldn’t cut down a threat like this one?

She always did tell him that he was his father’s spitting image. He’d sworn upon those words that he would never leave her the same way. The lengths he would go through to ensure that such despair would never etch itself upon her face ever again blinded him to what it was that she really wanted.

“I should have been here for you!” he cried, through clenched teeth and bloodshot eyes. Never again – he will never forget again. “Don't blame yourself for anything, damnit… I love you mom, I'm sorry, I love you so much,”

“Philip… I'm sorry, I love you too…!” his mother was wailing now. It wasn’t a sound that suited her one bit, and he hated that he was the reason for it. “I'm a failure of a mother, making you feel like this… no more of it, okay? I'm sorry… let's rely on each other from now on, alright…? No more of this… I'm sorry, I'm sorry…”

“Don't cry, please, if you cry anymore, I'll… I'm sorry…!”

Never again.

He swears he’ll never forget ever again.

The dawn rose, its dreary sunlight seeping in through the windows, and he can see his mother for what she was – someone precious.

Someone whose heart he will never break again.

>>>

Chapter Text

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Alfyn shivered as he opened the door to the Stillsnow inn, dusting off the last flecks of snow on his coat. Days spent in Stillsnow brought back conflicting memories for him and Therion. On the one hand, the town had looked idyllic enough, and the path to the Whitewood was always just breathtaking. Susanna was a nice, if cryptic old lady, and Alaic warmed up to them over time.

On the other hand, the town kept a dark secret under wraps for the past… Alfyn couldn't even count how many years it's been. Maybe ten, twenty, over thirty – all Alfyn knew was that it was home to a human trafficking ring, and that his mistaking it for a run-of-the-mill brothel had been a massive slap to the face to everyone involved.

It wasn't often that Ophilia was outraged. But he remembered clearly the ruthlessness she displayed when she joined Primrose's clean-up investigations, cracking down on every church member that indulged in those services that she could get her hands on. Despite their efforts, they couldn't clean out the dross in its entirety – only time could heal such a nasty wound. Ruffians still lurked in the streets, and crept around like shrews in their hideouts on the outskirts of Stillsnow.

This wasn't giving him the best of options.

Pushing his building dread aside, he made his way up to his shared room with Therion and Philip, when he heard voices arguing inside.

"No."

"But – "

"Damnit, I said no, we are not going to take you into the Maw – you're already stretching my patience just by being here."

Sensing his cue to intercept, he opened the door. He found Therion cross-armed by the table with their supplies scattered about – and Philip, red-faced and balling his fists as he glared at the thief. Alfyn sighed.

"Go easy on the kid, Therion." he said, walking over and pulling up a seat. "What are we talkin' about here?"

"The brat wants to go with us into the caves. Should've expected it,"

"And I've been trying to tell him that I can handle it! I've handled everything just fine so far,"

"Two things." Therion held up two fingers in annoyance. "We were facing off against weaklings until now. And you might not have noticed this because we had you hang back all the way into town, but the beasts between here and Victor's Hollow would have caught you off-guard and then some."

"You don't know that,"

"Oh trust me – if I didn't have a vested interest in staying on Olberic's good side as much as possible, I'd chuck you out there with the demon penguins just to see."

Philip’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword as he stood, pushing back his seat with enough force that the wood hit the floor. “Is that a challenge –?!”

"Alright, break it up, you two." Alfyn cut him off, and gave Philip a stern look. "Phil, I get that you don't want to keep hanging back, believe me – but Therion's got a point there. You've been mighty helpful to us so far, and we really are thankful to ya –"

"I never said that."

"Both of us think you've been doing a great job, but we know these plains. It's no place that a kid should be hanging out in. How about you just leave this one to us?" He was painfully aware of how close his voice was to pleading at that point, and all of it was moot.

"Too soft." Therion huffed beside him.

"Wha –"

"You're being too soft." he continued, reaching over and flicking him on the forehead. "You know damn well he's just going to sneak out to follow us, so would you please just learn how to put your foot down?"

Philip's face grew even redder at the insinuation. "I wasn't gonna –"

"I wish you could see how guilty you look." Therion said flatly.

They were going nowhere fast. Alfyn resisted the urge to smoothen out the creases he was certain were on his forehead. "Come on, even Philip knows that he's not supposed to –"

"I do, I know this, but can I please just make my case here?"

"The case is that you're not going out with us to that place, and that's final. Need I remind you that you could barely hold your own with the marmots on the way here?"

"So if I can prove that I can handle myself out there, you'll let me go?"

"Gods, alright – why don't you grow like five years older while you're at it? How did that become the thing you took away from that?!"

"Can the both of you please just calm down for a sec?!" Alfyn finally yelled, gripping the scalps of his hair tight in his fingers. Breathing in the silence for a few seconds, he let go of his head with a huff. "Alright, thanks – 'm sorry for raising my voice. Anyhow – Philip, I'm willing to hear you out. What's this case you're so hung up on making?"

He tried very hard to ignore the way Therion narrowed his eyes at him. There wasn't any reason why they shouldn't be listening to Philip, he'd thought – he'd already made up his mind before coming up to see them.

Philip, now put on the spot, sputtered and relaxed his grip on his sword as he cleared his throat. "You'll probably need a lookout." When that declaration was met with a blank silence, he fiddled with the hems of his sleeves. "…okay, i-it's not that I don't think you guys are strong to look after and defend yourselves… but what if something happens and – and you guys run out of soulstones? You'll need my runes,"

"And if you run out of energy? What then, genius?" Therion scoffed, before Philip wordlessly pulled out a packet of some wrinkly purple substance from his back pocket. "…where on earth were you keeping those."

Philip shrugged, placing the packet on the table for Alfyn and Therion to see. "I never leave home without dried plums. And er – hypothetically speaking, if I ran out of any, some of the monsters we fought were carrying plums, so… don't look at me like that! I washed them well enough –" he then turned around to fiddle with his blade and packets, the clink and clang of his spoils from their earlier battles reverberating along with his voice. "Plus, it's not like we have to kill every monster we find, you just tell me to run most of the time anyway, and you're not giving me enough credit here –"

"… just leave him at Susanna's like we planned." It took all that Alfyn had not to flinch when he felt Therion's breath on his ear. He didn't dare question when it was that the thief had the time to slip away from Philip's line of sight as the boy rattled off every reason he had at his disposal. "We don’t have all day, drugstore."

Alfyn tightened his jaw, and shook his head. He'd been dreading this part of the conversation. "Can't. I asked around earlier. Turns out Alaic took her to Northreach right as Atlasdam shut itself down,"

What little life Therion had left in his eyes faded away at his words. "…damnit."

Alfyn swallowed. "…look, I've been thinking about it while we were talking, and I can't say that I trust anyone else in Stillsnow to look after him. Beasts are one thing, but,"

But Stillsnow's seedy interior wasn't something that could be scrubbed away so easily, with Ophilia's intervention or otherwise – it was still the Frostlands' middle-of-nowhere. It was still home to shrews that had their paws laced with poison. No matter how he sliced it, without Susanna nor Alaic – Stillsnow was just no place for a kid to be.

Beasts could be evaded when you were small enough. They would grant you a quick, impersonal end. With all that Alfyn has seen and learned, he knew now that given the chance – people would not extend the same mercy.

"Leaving him unsupervised in this place gives me the willies, you know?" he said, his gaze lingering on the packets of dried plums and birdian feathers and marmot fur that Philip had placed on the table.

Therion did not speak for a long while. Alfyn couldn't blame him. This was a choice between the lesser of two evils, they both knew that. Finally, the thief scratched at his hair, ruffling it harshly with an agitated noise. "I hate how right you are about that. Truly, I do. I hope you know that,"

He could only nod in response.

"… we are both going to regret this." Therion grumbled.

"…you did your best, Theri."

"Only because I have to pick up after your slack,"

"–are you two done yet…?!" Philip's voice snapped them out of their shared trance.

Alfyn sucked in a breath, and let out a laugh as he stood to ruffle Philip's hair. He pushed his dread back down from whence it came – "Yes, yes – sorry about that, buddy. See – and I'll lay it out for you, so you understand where we're at…"

– to futile results. There was no way that they were getting out of this in one piece.

>>>

He was still in the middle of nursing the broken pieces of several weeks ago.

The Cobbleston tavern was deathly silent, and it did Alfyn’s strained nerves absolutely no favors.

He could feel the ache in his bones, clamping down on him with a vengeance even as his business with the Yellow Plague was done and over with. Nothing good would come out of applying his soothing salves on himself twice – not even to ease the anxiety that simmered and broiled within him as he waited for Olberic to show.

The knight would have forgiven Alfyn if he took a few more days to himself, but not him. He owed him that, at least.

Minze – their bartender – threw him a pitying look across the counter when the door rattled open. Footsteps reverberated across the floor, and it left a bitter taste in Alfyn’s mouth when he couldn’t bring himself to look at the warrior.

One weary “Sir,” was all he could manage. He almost expected the deep sigh that came next.

“Alfyn, come now. We've known each other for too long for this.”

He stiffened in his seat. “I – I know, Olberic. It's just that,”

No, his heart refused to stop thumping. It refused to stop tearing him apart from the inside.

Alfyn found his feet on the floor before he knew it, his back aching from the effort of bowing so low and his voice straining with broken words. “...I-I'm sorry! I shoulda listened to Therion, I know that...! Nobody here's messed up more than I have, and I know that no matter how much I apologize, I just...!”

A sharp tug upwards tore a yelp out of his wrangled throat, with the firm weight on his shoulders forcing him upright once more. He met Olberic's gaze for the first time that month, steely and resigned, yet it was the furthest thing from unkind – and Alfyn thinks he could cry at the feeling. "... Calm yourself, Alfyn."

How could he, was his first thought. In spite of that, he gave him a shaky, blubbering nod. Olberic's hands kept him steady as he was guided back to his seat, with the knight rubbing gentle circles upon his trembling back. It wasn't good for him to cry now, Alfyn knew that. If he cried, it'd put an even heavier burden on his mind. If he cried, he thinks he doesn't know what else he'd do. Rashes, burns, a bursting in his eyes.

He couldn't tell at that moment if the drops of water that fell on the counter were his sweat, or true tears.

But he came here for a reason. He thought he was prepared for this. He rubbed away at his face, shuddering in one, two, three heavy breaths. Up to five, up to ten – just like the way that Zeph had taught him.

It took a few more moments of sniffling before he could clear his throat, and Olberic had deemed his condition well enough. "That's better. I'm sorry if I've made you feel on edge."

“You’ve got every right to be, Olberic... I'm just…" He began, willing himself not to falter. "I knew it was dangerous. I should have been the bigger adult. Should have found more ways to keep him outta danger… I've got no excuse for this, and he – Sir, he got hurt because I wasn't trying hard enough to shake him off."

"Alfyn…"

"I thought I was givin' the kid a chance." Alfyn said, burying his head into his hands and gripping tight at his scalp. He curled into himself, descending into that gaping maw he called his mind – his irrational, irresponsible mind. He thought of the long scars across Philip's torso, who tried so hard not to wince at the sight of his own gruesome mistakes. He thought of Miss Farnham, only five seconds away from death and mourning her lost time with her son – and unwittingly, memories of his own mother took over.

Just who was it that he was trying to help, at that moment? He didn't like his answers.

"And I... I guess I did that, but at what cost...? A mom almost lost her kid because of me, and I don't know how I can come back from this," he blubbered. Alfyn didn't have the energy left to keep himself from flinching when he felt Olberic's grip on his shoulder tighten for just that second.

In grave words, the knight began to speak. "Alfyn, look at me. Neither you nor Therion could have expected what happened in that cave. You all did the best you could."

"That's no excuse, Olberic –" Alfyn cried, finally raising his head – eyes wide with guilt. "He wouldn't have gotten hurt at all if I hadn't enabled him! What if he died?! I – I don't think I can live with that!"

The very thought was a plague of its own. The second that he thought he could finally breathe easy, when word reached him and Therion that the last patient had been saved, the what-ifs burst forth from his mind like a viral overgrowth. Though he knew that Philip survived their ordeal, he made sure of that himself – he couldn't shake the chilling feeling of having his blood on his hands, of seeing the scars that littered his body.

Philip Farnham was fourteen, has seen things that no child should ever see – and Alfyn had no one to blame for that but himself.

"…You're right. He could have died in there – and so would you two." Olberic then said, as his large hands slowly guided Alfyn back to his seat once more. The seconds in silence that passed them by felt agonizing, like nails to every pore of Alfyn's skin.

And still, he couldn't read the knight – not when Olberic let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of mountains. "Alfyn, I... as much as I want to scold that boy for his recklessness, I have to recognize that he did his best, and so did you." he started, the steel of his eyes fading away into dust. "...Therion tells me that he's grateful to Philip. Said that he would have lost a leg had it not been for his intervention. That he would have lost you, if not for Philip's support."

At that, Alfyn's mind went blank. His mouth went agape as he held onto the counter to keep himself steady. "He... said that?"

"Is he wrong?"

He wasn't. And how could he be, when Therion's voice throughout the ordeal spoke of nothing but reason and grit in the face of Alfyn's own boyish stubbornness? How could Therion be wrong about anything now?

He found the breath to speak, after a few more moments. "No Sir, he's got the right of it. Like he always does… still, I –"

"But he's still just a child." Olberic cut in, a hard edge to his tone now. "I know that. I know that…"

A subtle clink on the counter made them both look up, towards Minze who carried with her a tankard and a couple of glasses in her hands. Her face betrayed no emotions now, only soft lines where discomfort should have been – and Alfyn would not have blamed her. Wordlessly, she placed a glass between both of their grasping, trembling fingers, and she excused herself just as quietly, slinking back to the other side with her dishrag in hand.

With the same calm – laced with only the barest hint of uneasiness – Olberic took the tankard, pouring springwater into their glasses. "...you may believe yourself to be at fault here Alfyn, but I realize now that I have blame to shoulder as well."

Alfyn frowned at that. "Olberic? You…"

"Philip... he's changed." the knight said, pausing to drink. "And he thinks that he's strong enough to take anything that comes his way. It's no mistake that he fights the way he does. Fighting like everything he loves is on the line – I see too much of myself in him. It's a dangerous thing for a boy like him to handle."

It was a sobering thought. Alfyn could see it, when he saw Olberic hunched over so wearily. The broad back that has protected countless lives, it was a shield – a shield to many things, and more than anything in this moment, it was a shield to the gruesome sight of the other side. The other side – Alfyn knew – there was no glory where Olberic held his sword, the side where blood splattered and sputtered onto his blade, his hands, his soul. Warriors dealt in strength and death so that fragile things would never have to break.

But fragile things can grow curious. Fragile things will see nothing but the light on the edges of his profile, and they start to dream for things that strength will never save them from.

In the end, it was his job. It was a role that he played. When those who watch are made to watch from afar, Alfyn wondered now if the blood and the grime could look no different from stars and the infinite horizon – if they were far enough, could this difficult necessity look so glorious?

He breathed out a sigh. He hadn't touched alcohol for months now. It's how he remembers the sight of Philip – of wide, frightened eyes seeing for the first time what sorts of prices he had to pay for this dream – in blood and sweat and jagged gashes of torn skin that will never fade away. The rest of him wasn’t any better, as his arms were covered in a multitude of lattices of scars and bruises. It was nothing short of a miracle that they managed to evade Cyrus’s scrutiny with only bandages and cotton tunics.

Alfyn’s own wounds throbbed against his clothes, and he hung his head low. He remembered his stitches, and the salves that held them together – he could still feel those pains crawling atop his skin. The pain can fade, but the body will remember. No medicine can help ease away the knowledge that with every wound, something will be lost forever.

How much did that day take away from Philip?

"Olberic, come on now…" Alfyn said, finally resigned. "...'s rich, coming from me. But I think I get you. He told me about how scared he was, you know. A scared kid with more power than he knows what to do with – that's a recipe for disaster."

"So it goes," Olberic agreed, his face all gaunt, regretful shadows in the dim lights. "What are we to do with him...?"

>>>

Him and H'aanit were an odd pair, and Therion knew this very well. But H'aanit was silent, and similarly enjoyed simply being silent, and Therion appreciated this trait of hers very much. It was easier to blend into places with her by his side as well, a couple of furs here and there and he'd look just like any other hunter, hanging out with their hunter friend… escorted by a frankly terrifying pet.

("Companion," he heard H'aanit's voice chastising him, in a years-old memory. "Linde is no pet of mine.")

He could also pretend that he internalized most of what H'aanit had taught him during their eight-man journey. Plants were a cinch (though he would never tell Alfyn that), so surely animals could be easy on his memory – that was what he thought, but he'd given up trying to understand Linde's mannerisms alone.

But he didn't need to be a hunter to know that what they faced down in the Maw a mere three weeks ago was no natural thing.

"...this bodeth ill."

That was why he was back here, in this cursed place, H'aanit and Linde in tow. When there's something unexplainable in front of you, you get an expert – and Therion has come to know many of those. The fact that his instincts were correct brought him no reassurance whatsoever, and he suppressed the chill that ran up his spine.

"You don't say, but we're going to need a bit more than that." The thief replied, crossing his arms. H'aanit looked up from where she was seated on the ground, inspecting what was left of the Dreadwolf's carcass.

"Stayen thine temper, Therion." She said, bemused. "Besides, art thou well enough to be moving about at present? Thy wounds art nowhere near healed."

As if to prove her point, the long gashes on his chest throbbed, their stitches feeling even more irritable than usual. He gritted his teeth, and took a few deep breaths to steady himself. Alfyn did his best to patch them all up, but he was no miracle-worker – and Therion would be remiss to bring the blonde's mood down any further. It was nothing that they hadn’t survived before, but to Therion’s dismay, he had to concede that even God-killers had their limits.

Not for the first time that day, Therion decided that calling for H'aanit's aid was a blessing in more ways than one, her strength when she was with an army of her beasts could not be overstated. He still had no idea where they kept popping up from, but at least he didn't have to try as hard.

"Meh. I'll manage," he said, ignoring the pointed look she threw at him. "So, what's the story behind this thing?"

H'aanit hummed, watching Linde sniff around the corpse for clues. "I am not certain of that – only that it was a good choice for thee to have slayeth the beast thou hast described. Dreadwolves aren territorial, yes – but are indifferent when unprovoked. Knowing thee, thou wouldst have been more than careful navigating these caverns – especially with a child."

Therion snorted, taking a seat beside her to look at the rotten thing. Its eyes were gone – only hollow indents left where they would be, pulsating with old blood and winter maggots. He clicked his tongue, taking out his knife and resisting the urge to sink it into its remains. "I'm glad you have such faith in me, but even the brat could have taken down one of those things on a normal day. It'll take him hours, sure, but he wouldn't have gotten himself a mortal wound just whacking that sword around…” he paused, tapping the beast’s faded snout with the flat of his blade. “I think."

"Hm. Far been it for me to declaren a new sort of beast on the prowl, then. I doe not sense any of its like anywhere,"

Therion grimaced at that. “Then you're saying we just got unlucky.”

“It wouldst appearen so, yes.” The hunter reached out a hand, beckoning Linde to come back to her side. The snow leopard obeyed, leaning into her touch with a purr. “I believe Cyrus woulde callen this an anomaly.”

“...that he would,” he mused. Neither he nor Alfyn had told him anything about the Dreadwolf – the urgency of the situation didn’t let them. They dressed their wounds away from Cyrus’s eyes, an easy feat when his nose was buried in centuries’ worth of ledgers and medical records.

He made a mental note to visit him soon – if only to knock him back into his cot for some long overdue rest.

He figured he would have to make that visit anyway, when H’aanit spoke again – words heavier as her gaze hardened. “A beast with the malice that thou describeth is unnatural, so to speaken. Only the best of us can enter this cave and leave alive… Something needeth to have happened.”

“There weren't any signs of other people when we walked in – alive or dead.” He muttered. “'course, that could be just the wolves… but,”

Foul memories clawed their way up from the recesses of his mind. Therion brought his scarf higher up his face, lips souring at the possibilities.

The words from Cordelia’s spies echoed in his head, of wandering entities around that gods-forsaken Gate. He hadn’t heard a peep from her since that day – and true to her word, he gleaned no immediate tasks set for the Knights either, on his last stopover from Flamesgrace. It wasn’t impossible that something bad could have happened to her spies, though he doubted Cordelia would keep silent about the lack of new reports.

But he knew now never to understate the power of gods and what they or their proxies could be capable of. “...you don't suppose it has anything to do with our old buddy Galdera, do you?”

If H’aanit saw the question coming, it didn’t show on her face. “…It is possible. However, something doth not feelen right,”

She turned when they heard a low growl to their right, followed by large, imposing footsteps. From the shadows of the cavern, a Dreadwolf emerged – bloodied, beaten, and covered in long, infected gashes – forming dark, crusted valleys over the edges of open skin. Dirty scabs sat where the roots of flowing fur should be, mending themselves at a slow, agonizing pace. It breathed in heavy sighs and great, billowing puffs of frost, and it wasn’t flanked by any War Wolves. A clean shot from either of them could easily finish it off and put it out of its misery, and its minions would be none the wiser.

The huntress motioned for him to lower the dagger that he hadn't realized he raised, approaching the beast with cautious steps. They stared each other down for long moments, sizing each other up, until eventually the wolf laid its head low. H’aanit laid a hand on its matted, grimy fur, and began to rub. Linde too, approached the great beast, moving around it cautiously at first – then daringly, low purrs rising from her throat as she licked at its wounds.

Therion sheathed his knife when the beast let out a short grunt, and pawed at the ground with slow strokes. As if to heed their masters’ call, War Wolves appeared – and carried with them what was unmistakably one of the dead Dreadwolf’s legs, covered in soot and old carnage. The thief felt his insides churn at the sight, phantom pains clawing at his stitches. They laid the rotting limb on the ground, pushing it towards H’aanit.

There wasn’t a lot that could rattle her, that much Therion was certain of. But as she stared right ahead at the limb that Therion couldn’t fully inspect from where he stood, a bead of cold sweat ran down the side of her temple – dripping onto the floor and shattering like glass.

“…It seemeth like the wolf hath simply appeareth from voids unknown to us. The beast harbors something not of this world.”

>>>

The months following the aftermath of the Yellow Plague left Philip with a number of scars.

Most of these scars were small enough that he elected to ignore them. He could stand to ignore the sick lattices they formed, or the tiny pinprick aching they'd give him when he least expected it. It went against everything that Cyrus could ever teach him about accumulation and decomposition, but what would he know about scars – what would he know about Philip's limits?

No, what did push his limits were the scars that needed stitches. Alfyn's painstaking handiwork and needling pointers for taking care of his injuries only served as reminders of his weakness and mistakes. Every suture upon his open flesh smelled like addlewort and shortcomings – every bandage that he kept out of his mother's line of sight, a disgrace to everything he was working towards.

Philip walked these days with a shortness to his breath, and a wobble to his gait – painful awareness of the long gashes across his torso marring his every step. Alfyn had reassured him that he would heal within a few months, so long as he took it easy.

He didn't have a few months. Taking it easy would mean taking it slow, and that in turn meant that he would be left with his own thoughts – and Philip, nowadays, quite hated his own mind. He would sooner run himself to the ground than be left alone with the echoes.

Nobody could understand that urge. And why would they, when everyone knew that he'd brought this upon himself? He did this. This was his blood price for trying to become a hero – unthinking, unrelenting.

Philip could hide his bandages all he liked but he couldn't fake his whimpers, or the way that his mentor had a much easier time knocking him to the ground than was normal. His blade was only inches out of reach, and he hated the sheer strain that it put on his limbs just to grasp at it.

His fingers only met dirt. If he breathed any harder than this, Philip thinks his lungs would implode on themselves, but he had to try –

A firm boot planted itself upon the handle of Philip's sword. "... that's enough for now."

Philip collapsed right then, panting as he rolled over on his back. "Yes, sir."

The clouds overhead looked serrated – cutting through themselves and meandering thoughtlessly. The light peeking through the cracks was blinding, and so he covered his eyes with a sweaty arm. It felt limp when he'd pressed it against his face – too limp, too imperfect.

Philip gritted his teeth. This made it the fifty-third time where he was disarmed within two minutes during a spar, the twenty-second day where he was knocked to the ground in fifteen. He did this to himself.

Sir Olberic's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Philip’s arm stayed where it was, obscuring his vision. "Philip, your stance grows more flawed by the day. Is there something we need to talk about?"

He could do it. He could say it. He could scream about how unfair it all felt, to have his cowardice and arrogance be paid in kind with pain and deterioration. He could ask what all of this was for.

"... No, sir. I'm fine."

"... alright, then."

It was better not to think so hard about the resigned tone that his mentor used. The silence between them was stifling, and he shut that out too – taking Sir Olberic's hand and allowing himself to be supported when he had to take a minute to stand on his own two feet. He spotted his blade on the ground, and he felt distaste overtake him.

He picked it up before he could seriously consider just leaving it there.

As Philip prepared to leave their training grounds with a farewell on his lips, Sir Olberic instead called out for him in a voice that he couldn't parse. "... Philip, wait."

He was careful not to meet his mentor's gaze when he looked back at him, but he hadn't the energy to suppress his surprise when he saw what was in his mentor's hand – a crisp, white envelope adorned with some fancy crest that he wasn't familiar with. "What's this, sir?"

"It came for you this morning." Sir Olberic answered simply, pressing it into Philip's hand.

Curiosity overtook his better judgment. He should open this elsewhere, but the envelope's seal gave way before he knew it. Philip wiped his hand on his sleeve, and pulled out the letter inside – and it took all the strength he had left in him to keep himself upright when he saw it written in bold letters – "... An invitation for the Squirehood...?"

"The Knights Ardante are going through a number of reforms, and this is one of them. You can do no better than them when it comes to becoming part of a Knighthood."

The words came out steadily, casually – leaving Philip floundering in their wake. His grip tightened on the letter, and he worried he'd tear it to shreds – but that was a problem for later, when he realized that his mentor had already started walking back to Cobbleston without him. He hobbled over to catch up, just carefully enough that he wouldn't trip over the rocks and bumps in the road, but he doubted he could care about the scrapes now when his mind raced with questions that he couldn't give a proper voice to.

His lungs thundered in his scarred chest, but he managed to heave out at least one of those questions. "I… Why are you giving this to me, sir?"

"Is it not your wish to become a knight yourself?"

It was a perfectly innocuous question. Of course, he would ask that, why wouldn't he ask that – and yet Philip couldn't parse where the sudden tightness in his throat came from.

It was his wish. This was his dream.

Why did those words sound so foreign to him now?

"It's just that... I would have thought," Philip swallowed, trying desperately not to choke on his own spit and bile as he stared ahead at the broad back of his mentor. "... How do you still think that I'm cut out for this?"

"I don't. At least, not with the way you are now."

This answered nothing. And yet – "Then why –?"

He froze when Sir Olberic looked back at him, the expression on his face unreadable. "I would like you to think about this yourself. Of course, if you wish so badly to hang your sword, then I will not stop you."

Philip could swear that the world beneath him had been torn asunder at the words – that here he was, about to be eaten alive by his frustrations and failures. Was this accumulation too, everything about the past few years – did it all have to lead to this?

He sputtered. He couldn't stop his voice from quivering further when his confusion clawed its way out of him. "Hang my – why would I ever want that? If I stop now, I'd be…"

Philip felt nauseous. These were words that didn't make sense. They couldn't.

He didn't know how long he stared at nothing, when his mentor's profile had all but disappeared from the trail. All he could feel was the burning weight of his sword in his hand, and the runes in his pocket – and that great, gaping maw within, where doubt made its home.

How did it come to this?

>>>

Philip mulled over the same questions for the next few days.

It kept him up in the blue hours of the morning. It made him pace around his room, looking up at the same wooden beams he's known all his life. He waited for the minutes where the familiarity of it all could give him peace – in spite of all the reminders that he kept in his room. His desk was cluttered with blank and shining runes alike, and birdian feathers and marmot furs. The shelves were stacked with Cyrus's tomes and recent worksheets – all graded, all imperfect.

Leaning against his old bedside table was his beloved runeblade. He wondered if he really loved it so much. The sight of it now gave him a sense of looming, unshakeable dread.

He couldn't begin to fathom that singular, fundamental fact now – that he was being primed to leave the world where he called the thatched roofs and cobblestone walls home. He thought he was prepared. There was grime on the walls now where he forgot to clean up after an experiment with an ice rune went wrong, faint singes of burns on the end table that he could never fix. Static crackled at the fuzz at the foot of his bed.

Boxes piled up in his room before he knew it. The reminders filled their corners and they shoved themselves under the mattress, and the invitation for the Squirehood sat below them all.

He counted three more mornings before he found himself in the living room, staring into the Atlasdamian parchment filled with words he shouldn't understand. His mother hummed away behind him, the clink and clang of her dish-washing filling the room with a levity that crushed Philip's spirit.

If they came only a little later. If they failed only a little more – this scene would never exist.

He pushed the parchment away, turning the papers over as he swallowed the building lump in his throat.

"...Hey, Ma?"

"What is it, Philip?"

"... Do you want me to stop trying to become a knight?"

He turned as soon as he heard his mother's surprised yelp, followed immediately by the sharp clink of their plate against their washbin. Her shoulders sagged after a second, setting down the plate properly with a hand on her chest. "Philip, what...? Why would you think that?" she asked.

Philip took a deep breath, though it did nothing to settle his nerves. He squeezed his hands together tight, feeling every thick pulse that ran through his veins. The crusted surface of his palms irked him more than he thought they would. "I'm... You all think I'm not good enough to be one, don't you? That I'm too reckless for this. I'd be more trouble than I'm worth."

He didn't expect the long silence that settled between them as he said that, and he couldn’t decide if it relieved or stung him. But he couldn't blame her – not when he's set his singular mind towards that singular goal for as long as he could remember. He'd caused her no end of grief with his insistence.

Philip forced his voice not to waver as he perked up. He could do this. "...It's fine, though! I can do other stuff. I know how to work the farms and wrangle goats and stuff," He forced himself to imagine a world without that sword, and it seemed perfect enough. The toil of farm work shouldn't be more than a stone's throw away from the toil of defending, so he thinks – "So we don't have to worry about food."

"Philip,"

"Or I can be a carpenter," He continued, and he thought, maybe the weight of a hammer wouldn’t feel so different from holding a sword – "So even if our roof breaks or something, we'll be fine."

"Philip, please –"

"I can even just be a merchant!" And that way maybe he doesn't have to close himself away from the world. He would still remember how to swing a sword hard enough to defend himself, his goods, and his world – "I'm sure Miss Tressa won't mind showing me the ropes –"

"Philip!"

He'd failed to register the feeling of his mother's hands on his face in the midst of his rambling, and he almost regretted saying anything at all when he saw how terribly her lips trembled. The tips of her fingers felt wet somehow.

A gentle thumb ran across his cheek, and she gave him a smile just as soft. "... I know about the letter, Philip. I think that it's a wonderful opportunity for you. You should go."

He doesn't know why those words hurt him so much. His breath quickened, and yet he couldn't look away. "...Ma,"

"... Philip, what made you decide that you don't want this?" Ever-patient, one of her hands moved to brush away his bangs from his face. "Could you tell me...?"

In that moment, Philip thought about a lot of things – an almost overwhelming amount of things, and he could feel the magic in his system pulse and thrum and thump. Fervently, he tried to push it all back down, where he couldn't hear their questions – but he'd been too weak. What will he do then? What else does he have? Where else will he go?

What was all of this for?

"... I keep worrying you, Ma." he started, the words on his tongue feeling like concentrated bile. "I keep worrying Sir Olberic. That's the opposite of what a knight should be doing. I'm not cut out for this... For any of this…!"

He thought of the letter at the bottom of the crates under his bed. He thought of how his hands shook as they reached up to claw at his face. He thought about how it leaked with tears, and he hated everything about it – what had all of it been for, when all it amounted to was him, stuttering and shaking and failing, failing, failing –

"I think... Sir's just about given up on me. And I just... I just...!"

And suddenly the world became warm, and he could hear the thumping of another's heart against his ear. Unthinking, he clutched at his mother's clothes, forcing out whatever pathetic sounds he could. He thinks they sounded like words, or like excuses – every whimper blended themselves together in his mind.

Vaguely, Philip could feel his mother's hand stroking his hair, and he leaned further into her. "Oh, Philip... is that what you thought...?" she breathed out.

"Why else would he be sending me away, Ma...?" he sniffed. "I don't – I can't become as good as he is. I've known that for a while now – but that's all I've wanted. Becoming as strong as Sir Olberic… that's all I have. But I've just done nothing but fail all these weeks… there's no way he doesn't think he's just wasting his time when he looks at me now."

She held him tighter, and let out a heavy sigh. Philip braced himself for the words, though he didn't know why. All he knew was that he'd bared his heart out to his tired mother – it was no burden that she should have to shoulder.

She leaned back to look into his eyes, wiping whatever tears he had left on his cheeks with her sleeves. "… Philip, could it not be because he thinks you should expand your boundaries a little?" she said slowly. "And what made you think that Sir Olberic had such a low opinion of you…? I may not know anything about what you're doing…" she paused, tucking a lock of Philip's hair back behind his ear. "But I know that you're giving it your all, and that Sir Olberic knows that as well.”

Before he could let the words sink in, his mother's tone became lighter as she squeezed his face – tearing a surprised noise from his throat. "And look at you! You've barely any friends your own age. I hardly see you do anything other than training… Hard work is important, but even the bravest warriors have companions by their sides… and they take breaks! I know that you want nothing more than to become a great knight like Sir Olberic, but you're –"

"…still just a kid, I know. I'm sorry, Ma. I was overthinking it." The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could think about them. Perhaps he didn't need to, perhaps he needed only to lean further into his mother's embrace for now.

"Yes… maybe just a little bit." She giggled, though it sounded mirthless and laden with lead. But it was warm, and that was all that mattered. "Philip, you're not one to throw away things so flippantly. I know this. I think it's good that you're holding onto this dream,"

There were tremors to her touch now, and Philip chased those too – hiding away from the tide.

He couldn’t hide forever. He knew this now, and he felt it when his mother’s voice became wetter, more resigned – like her words clung tighter to their warmth. "…but you have so much growing up left to do. There are so many things out there that I want you to see. Now you finally have more opportunities and I… I can't keep holding you back here."

Philip pulled away from her then, shaking his head in disbelief. Fervently, he pushed away that treacherous voice from down below himself – that dark pit where his fear of this very moment resided.

“Ma… you're not –"

“Just –" She cut him off before he could plead against her tone. Just like that, her worries were back to a place where Philip couldn’t reach. “… please think about this a little more, alright?” Her hands cupped his face once more. "Do you still want to be a knight?”

“I… of course I do,”

It was a thoughtless answer. It was all he had. Magic raced in his veins and promises to the divine had etched themselves onto his very soul. It was all he could become.

He will never forget the shape of his mother’s smile that afternoon, in that moment – burdened with a million unspoken words. “… then all you have to do is your best.” She said, tone gentle as she pulled him back into her arms. “Even if you can't bring yourself to believe, then I will believe for you – with everything that I have. And that's a promise.”

Maybe it was alright. Maybe it was all just fine like this, when his chest was filled with a million blooms where his mother’s words had touched it. And he could bat all his doubts away with just this.

“…Okay. Thanks, Ma.”

A sword forged with burning petals was bound to break at one point, Philip thought idly. How weak his youthful heart was, after all.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, honey.”

>>>

And how he wished that all of his problems could be solved in an afternoon.

But the letter still weighed heavy in his hand. The bold letters that spelled his eventual departure left him with an entirely different sort of dread.

The world beyond Cobbleston expected very many things out of Philip. What place did contentment have in expectation, he wondered – and was it a question that that world was interested in entertaining? There was no 'good enough' where he was going – even he knew that. One wrong move could cost more than what Philip's conscience could take.

Power thrummed in his veins. This was power meant to be wielded – but was it a power that he deserved to wield? Weren't there better children out there? And what of those better children, how will Philip fare against them? He doesn't like the sound of his own answers.

The stitches holding his torso together ached – dull and painful, like a good reminder should be. There was never an answer out there where Philip could prove himself worthy and useful.

Promises, convictions – did he have what it took?

Did he have what Miss Tressa had, with her weaving in and out of his barrage with absolute confidence? She danced on the barest edges of every lunge he made at her, like she was some flawless, divine sprite of swordplay. Every hit she did take, she took in stride – brushing it off with nothing but a grin and a few short breaths as she prepared to dodge every attack he made after that.

Philip knows he's grown. He knew he could grow further. He just needed to fight his impatience – just needed to find the will to even do so, when he was faced with such blinding competence.

He shook his head, and steeled his gaze. Miss Tressa was above him, then in front, then back behind him once more – and he shook his head again. It was fruitless to try and follow her movements, and he remembered at last to try and predict them instead. Exhaustion seeped into his bones, and he tried his utmost not to let it cloud his mind as he breathed in – slow and steady, like the endless months of training have taught him.

A bolt of lightning to his right, then a surge of howling winds to his left. Philip’s fingers sifted through the rapidly-pulsating runes in his pocket, reaching for one that flared up like sparks in a bonfire. He leapt forward, dodging the pillar of ice that grew inches away from where his foot had been. With his side hitting the ground, he swung his sword upwards – giddiness blooming in his chest as he heard Miss Tressa yelp in surprise, a sure sign that her trajectory was set off-course. Hastily, he pulled out his own ice rune, and – as fast as his mind and power could allow it – summoned his own row of ice pillars on the spot where she should have landed.

Sure enough, when he looked back at Miss Tressa, the merchant’s legs were encased in a glass prison, rooting her to the coarse sands below. Philip heaved and collapsed fully onto the ground, his back rustling with sand from the impact. He paid little mind to his sparmate’s grunting, focusing simply on regaining his strength and spirit before she could break out. His stunt should buy him a couple of minutes at least –

“So!” Tressa’s voice cut through her own efforts at freedom, yet Philip only noticed the distinct noise of a leg’s flesh against ice. “I heard you're about to go off to become one of those Knight Ardante guys! You joinin' for real?”

“What –?”

His shock only gave him a fraction of a second to react – still a fraction of a second too slow to defend himself against the vortex that spawned beneath his body, lifting himself and a torrent of sand into the air. He groaned, resigning himself to the fall when he saw Rippletide in the distance, and pulled out his own wind rune to try and cushion the impact. Miss Tressa’s winds calmed down after a few seconds, and making sure to keep his eyes on the ground as he cast the incantation, Philip landed on the sand on his toes and tripped just as Miss Tressa had finished thawing herself out from the ice.

“Had fun?” she asked, an impish grin on her face. Philip groaned, trying in vain to push himself off the ground, only managing to keep his torso upright as he dusted off the sand from his clothes.

“Now that wasn't fair,” he grumbled. Rune activation from a distance – it was a technique he had yet to master. He looked back at the spot where he should have been thrown upwards, and pouted at the discolored wind rune that sat there. He wondered vaguely if he should have worn thinner clothes after all, before remembering that no – cheap shots were cheap shots.

“Hey, out here anything can happen – and you can’t let any one of those things distract you when you’re holding that sword!” Miss Tressa chuckled cheekily, plopping herself down on the sand next to Philip. “That one’s a Tressa Colzione special, so you better take it to heart!”

He plopped his head back down on the sands at that, huffing with an indignance that he knew was childish. Cheap shots were still shots too – and they could still kill. It mattered little how fair it looked. He only has himself to blame when caught unawares.

Yet another lesson he failed to learn.

“You haven't answered my question yet.”

“I haven't even decided yet.” He said, turning to one side and putting a hand to his chest. He thinks he could feel the stitches through the fabric, and he breathed slowly – once, twice, in a poor emulation of Miss Tressa’s techniques. He could never get it right. “Who did you even hear that from?”

“I think you're forgetting that I have friends in high places. I figured you of all kids would be chomping at the bit to get in.” she replied, her voice breezy. The merchant’s fingers found their way to her frosted boots, untying its laces.

Philip found her tone to be too casual for the matter. It made sense – it should mean little to the merchant if he decided to accept. She wouldn’t have to deal with him quite as much, whether her sparring was being done on anyone’s insistence or otherwise.

He turned his gaze to his sword, lying a few inches away from his hand. Runes were scattered around them from his fall, and he made a mental note to get himself a sturdy bag of some kind. He can’t be dropping them so carelessly, nor could he keep faltering in his stances or failing his reads, there were always better, stronger opponents out there –

And there his mind was again, ruminating over questions he had no hope of answering – over doubts he had no strength to banish. That’s what it came down to, in the end. He had little strength.

A shadow hovered over his crouched form in the sands, and there Miss Tressa was, looking down on him quizzically. “What's the look for?”

“… look, if you knew about that, there's no way you don't know about how badly I screwed up a few months ago.” He muttered, heaving and pushing himself up from the ground to sit. He hung his head low with a world-weary sigh.

“Mhm. And?”

His gaze snapped back towards Miss Tressa, finding her face indifferent as she stared him down. Something cold and burning flared up within him, and the sensation reminded him too much of frostbite.

The plague may be long gone with Alfyn’s and Therion’s efforts, and yet it continued to haunt Philip with its golden sheen. Months after the damage was contained and even days after his mother continued trying to give him that last, forlorn push into the world beyond – how did people still think he could make it?

“What do you mean ‘and’…?!” He seethed, letting his indignation lift him off the ground as he glared at the merchant. “I could have died there! My mom could have died knowing I've gotten myself killed because of how stupid I was! I just got lucky! I know I won’t get lucky forever, but what do I do if I’m still not good enough when that time comes…?! What then?!”

He was sure that he felt tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. His chest heaved, and he would like very much to rid himself of his lungs. Hadn’t he cried enough?

His spiral came to an abrupt halt when he felt a rough, gloveless hand pushing down on his head – just soft enough not to leave a bruise. He would have yelled if not for the incessant ruffling of his hair between her fingers. “I'm glad you've internalized that! But let me tell you a few things.”

Philip forced himself to swallow his irritation when he caught a glimpse of her expression. She moved away from him, her bare feet carrying her across the sands – but not before she picked up his blade. Miss Tressa hummed, tuneless, as she ran a finger across its edge. “Alf and Theri made it a point that joining them was going to be dangerous for you.” She said in a tone too neutral for his tastes, as though she were inspecting produce on the market racks. With a tiny nod to herself, she continued walking, thrusting the blade in his direction with only a mild air of accusation. “And with your suicidal bullheadedness, you made it your point that you were going to follow them no matter what. Then when things got dire, you made the mistake of thinking that it all depended on you. If you could just do something, maybe it'll all work out. You know what that is?”

“What?”

Philip leaned forward, anticipating her answer – his face falling when all but a single word left her lips. “Underestimation.”

“…oh.”

It didn’t feel right. But her words had confidence – forcing him to face that such a wish was his own arrogance speaking.

“Why do you look so unimpressed? She snorted. “It's just basic stuff. And you forgot about it,” Miss Tressa’s deft fingers then turned around the handle of his sword, swinging it around like some kind of baton with only the barest edges of her fingers. Idly, Philip remembered, that his blade had never looked so weightless. “Listen Phil, you and I – we're blessed by the gods. But we're not unstoppable. Thinking that you're better than you really are is just one of the things that'll get you killed out here.”

With a flick of her wrist, the hilt was back in the snug grip of her palm, and the blade was held straight in front of her. Faintly, against the harsh light of a Coastlands afternoon, he could see her reflection in its sheen.

Shining there was a tight smile that he hoped to never see on her face again. “It's tempting, I know –” She continued, and she swung the sword at dead air, now with a clumsiness he has only ever observed with his own sword arm. “It's so easy to think that you should be stronger than this. But you're not, and that's why you have to grow up first.”

“I know that…! That’s all everyone’s been telling me! But –!”

“But you’re not gonna be a kid forever, right? I know that too.”

The look that Miss Tressa gave him then forced all the indignations in his throat to dry out. Her smile gave away to reveal something else, something rawer. In that moment, she was an older soul – far away, somewhere beyond Philip’s own boyish comprehensions. It was the kind of solemnity that he had only ever seen on his mentor, and Philip realized then – finally – the true shape of experience, and how small his world really was.

“You’re not ready yet. Everyone knows this. That’s why everyone wants you to keep trying until you are, and you’re not gonna get there without failing every once in a while.” She continued, her feet wading around in the water now. Her sword arm was lazily drawing circles around in the waves, all nonsensical patterns and cynic motions. “And I get it, it’s terrifying to make mistakes. That’s just life, and you still have to wake up the next morning to stock your wares. You’re still gonna have to swing this sword.”

A light, upward swing of the blade in her hands brought with it a trail of seawater, forming an arc above the merchant. The droplets caught the brilliant light of the sun, splitting its rays into brilliant, magical colors.

She gave him another smile as they watched the rainbow fade away. “Not much you can do about that but keep moving, right?”

He couldn’t say anything.

It all seemed so simple. Too simple. These were the words of someone who believed in them wholeheartedly, because they’ve seen the world beyond themselves. Understanding them now was beyond him – and once upon a time, it was a feat beyond Miss Tressa herself.

What was that like, coming to know the world that clung to such simple words like an anchor?

There was only ever one way that he could know. Then and only then, Philip thinks, will he understand that jaded edge to her youthful gaze.

Philip picked himself up, the wounds of yesterday and the past few months clamoring with a dull, echoing ache. He felt steadier than he had ever been as he approached her, staring down uncertainty. It didn’t feel quite like him, but maybe it could be.

One day. He just had to get to it.

“Miss Tressa, you –”

Any mote of sentimentality he felt was dashed away when he felt himself being dragged into a one-armed hug, with someone’s knuckles rubbing playfully against his scalp. Should there be a day in his future where he will look back upon this moment, he will fervently deny ever making such a high-pitched noise as the force of Miss Tressa’s sudden motions brought them down and into the shallow waters of the coast – drenching them both and making Philip sorely wish that he’d worn less-absorbent fabrics.

In the end, Miss Tressa was just stronger. If he was really doing this, then he swears it – one day, she will be the one with frizzy hair and tired jelly-like legs. “You can be really brutal when you want to be, huh?” he sighed, and Miss Tressa only giggled.

“I'm just being nice to my little buddy!” She grinned, pushing the blade back into his hands – and finally, it felt like it belonged there.

He tightened his grip around its familiar handle with a small smile.

>>>

Chapter Text

The flame in the lamp flickered. A minute change – but one that Cyrus had been advised very recently not to ignore. So he leaned back, stretching his arms out and muffling his groans so as not to disturb the other occupants of his house. He wondered if the walls were even thin enough, but he would rather not take that risk. He was overestimating very many things about himself these days.

He rubbed at his eyes – a habit that Alfyn was sure to chide him for – breathed in once, twice, letting the air flow through his lungs. It was the dead of night, silent like cat feet, yet blood seemed to pound in his ears the more he let the exhaustion seep into his tendons, then his muscles, all the way down to the marrow of his bones. He half-expected Therion to come climbing in through the windows, prepared to carry his limp body back to his bed, grumbling all the way up the stairs.

Cyrus glanced at his clock, then his calendar – two in the morning, on a Lightsday, nearing Balogar's Moon. Clearbrook would be having its annual fish feasts right about now, and all that meant for Cyrus was that he was not to be expecting any silent thieves running about in his house any time soon.

He leaned back on his chair, cringing a bit as he felt it soak up a bit of the sweat building up from his back. Two in the morning meant he had been toiling away at his texts for about seven straight hours now. The realization took its toll, slow and sweet and tempting when the bags under his eyes threatened to drop his head backwards into the headrest. It was about time he rested. He knew this, yet the papers in front of him remained. 'Treatise on Further Studies of Pre-Orsterran Magic', 'Overview on the Ethics of Galderan Rites and Rituals', 'Implications and Impacts of Applied Integration on Divine Arcana on Greater Orsterran Civilization'–

Flip.

'– stands to reason that the works of the Mad Scholar Salomon remain a threat to continental security after thorough review. Appeal on further study of Salomonic texts may only be conducted with special permissions from the Higher Orsterran Council –'

Flip.

'– the day should come that Orsterra will rely on the might of its Gods once more, where beings like ourselves live and breathe and walk among them – it will be the sunset of the age of man. What else does that leave us with, but an existential threat and that uneasy question to all our minds – what then becomes of us and our place in the world beyond ourselves? Only fools would dare tread that same path of Gods and expect to walk it with the same grace. Our histories have shown that not even Gods are infallible – and what does that make us, puny imitations that we are – when faced with dangers beyond even their comprehension –'

…Flip.

'– these days, Cyrus. I know how much this means to you. But I also know how little you tend to care for yourself in such relentless pursuits, and I should hope that you remember to pace yourself – if not for your own sake, then I urge you to do so for the sake of your wards and students. Should you need a place away for respite, know that Cobbleston is always ready to welcome you.

All the best, Olberic Eisenberg.'

Cyrus let out a sigh, the parchment in his hands shaking like a leaf. His free hand went to his forehead, pinching the bridge between his brows in a vain attempt to calm the throbbing of his cranium. All of it was a mess of words and appeal that he simply had no energy left to parse.

He looked around the room. Miraculously, all his mess was kept only within this corner of his study – Kit must have entered the room and cleaned up at some point. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the honeyed jam biscuits and barely tea on an end table a few stacks of books away, and he smiled to himself. He reached for one, and took a bite – sighing again, now in delight as he let the sugar revitalize him.

He owed much to Kit, ever since taking him in. Olberic had the right of it, he can't go on running himself ragged when his wards were trying so hard. This was a lesson he would soon forget in the morning, but now – at least for tonight – he would take their advice to heart, and finish a plate of food for the first time in weeks.

The door creaked open, and Cyrus turned in surprise to see Philip – donning his nightclothes and a gaunt, exhausted expression on his face.

Reminders came crashing into him like a storm, and Cyrus frowned in concern. "Philip...? What are you still doing up? We're to leave for Flamesgrace in only a few hours,"

Philip arrived at his doorstep only a few days prior, the luggage on his back heavier than it had ever been. He'd seemed so solemn then – so small, every step that he took going forward feeling unsure and unsteady. Cyrus had long since learned not to carelessly pry into the matters of his students, opting instead to ensure that Philip's stay in his house was as comfortable as possible before his days in Flamesgrace began. It hadn't stopped Cyrus's mind from gnawing at him as he watched the boy – incessant as the hours passed and Philip's somber gait hadn't waned.

He wondered sorely what made Philip change his mind tonight. The boy refused to look at him, his eyes instead shifting around the room. "... it's just the jitters, Professor. I'm sorry, is this a bother?"

"Oh, no no! Perish the thought." Cyrus waved his hands in dismissal. "If there's something you need from me, please do not hesitate to say so."

"I... Uh…"

They stayed there like that – for how long, Cyrus did not know. On nights like these, minutes felt like hours and dead air hardened into tense stretches of silence. Veritable storms of emotions swirled around in Philip's restless eyes, each with a name that Cyrus did not dare place on his own. No – if Philip willed it, he would tell him himself.

Philip's hand grasped the sleeve of his shirt tight – enough that Cyrus feared that its threads would unravel. He let out a sigh, before muttering in a voice quiet as a dormouse. "You don't have to say yes, but... Can I stay with you tonight?"

Cyrus blinked. “Oh? Of course you can,”

He forced himself not to wince as he finally lifted himself off the chair, the past seven hours coming back to haunt him through the sound of his creaking bones. Gingerly, he put away the piles of books sitting upon the singular couch in his private study. He spotted a blanket upon the end table – yet another thing he had to thank Kit for later. He beckoned the boy over, sitting him down on the plush seat and wrapping the woolen blanket around his shoulders.

Cyrus did not consider himself to be the coddling sort, nor did he take Philip to be the kind who takes well to being coddled – though his hand found its way to Philip’s head anyway, holding him close to his chest and rubbing through his chestnut locks with practiced motions. In buried visions of his distant past, Cyrus remembered his own mother – ever-patient, irresistibly soothing. He wondered how Miss Heidi dealt with such nights, if such nights ever came in the Farnham household at all.

But he could feel Philip relaxing against him, so perhaps he was doing something correctly.

“...is that better?”

“...a little,”

“Would you like to talk?”

“...not really,”

With one last smile for the night, Cyrus pulled away, watching as Philip settled into the couch. “I see. Good night, then.”

“...thanks, Professor.”

“You're very welcome, Philip. Sweet dreams now,”

Nights like these with his wards were not uncommon to Cyrus – children who carried nightmares around their necks and ran from the monsters under their beds. Kit himself spent many a night awake, despite his constant reminders to Cyrus not to keep late hours. Often, when such evenings came his way, whether it be by the boundary that student and teacher were not meant to breach or through simple reluctance, Cyrus could never bring them to talk of what ails them.

Was it a matter of would not, or cannot – it was simply information that Cyrus was not privy to. But as another hour passed, and Cyrus picked himself back up from his chair to prepare himself for the day ahead, he looked back at the sleeping Philip – whose shoulders were still so small, hours away from stepping into a world he has yet to know – Cyrus swore to himself there that he would remain by his side regardless.

Such was the duty of second parents, to the children of the future.

>>>

Clear skies were not all that rare in Flamesgrace, but they were cherished – at the very least, that was how it felt when Philip had walked into its premises at six in the morning with the Professor and Kit in tow. Dawns rose slowly in the Frostlands no matter what time of the year it was, so at six in the morning he is treated to the sight of the cascading colors of a gentle sunrise, with flecks of sparkling white clouds splashed across the horizon. His feet felt lighter, and confidence could almost grip him tight if not for the building weight of his own restless mind.

He had never visited Flamesgrace before this, but for a town in the Frostlands it felt very warm – nothing like the stuffiness of Stillsnow where regrets lingered like a veil of nails upon his head. People walked around its streets with a fearless stride, talking animatedly amongst themselves as they went about their business. It felt like home, tight-knit and at ease, and Philip felt his heart clench at the thought.

“Such a lively crowd...! I've not seen Flamesgrace so full outside of the holidays,”

Or he would have, were he not accompanied by one of the most distracting men in the continent. Philip had half a mind to thank Cyrus, then decided against it when he spotted him already wandering off to do some people-watching.

“Please focus, Professor, remember what we’re here for…!” Kit’s lips quivered in exasperation as he called out to him, to no avail. The blonde settled for sagging his shoulders in defeat. “I’m terribly sorry, Philip… how are you holding up?”

That was a question that had many different answers. Philip took in a large breath, grip tightening around the straps of his rucksack. “Fine, I'm fine...! I'm definitely gonna be fine –”

– only to feel the leather fray in his fingers, the seams tearing apart as he and Kit yelped in surprise. He watched as his belongings fell into the snow – a frivolous thing, if only he hadn’t been keen on not having to see any reminders of his home at the moment. Tightly-strung up packs of his casual clothes, his mother’s bags of dried nuts and fruit, a sack containing all the trinkets the tinier kids of Cobbleston had given him –

Philip quickly knelt before the scattered items before they could be exposed too long to the snow. They felt cold in his hands, as did the beads of sweat that rolled down from his brow. Head low and sighing in defeat, he tossed each item back into the rucksack. “...oh, who the hell am I kidding. This was a bad idea. What am I doing here,” he muttered, fiddling with the broken strap and cursing himself as he rummaged around inside for a pin to hold the ends together.

“Let me help you with all that,” Kit’s hands soon came into view, moving around Philip’s haphazard belongings. Philip let him, intent on finding that pin. Just as his frustration was about to reach its peak, a flash of silver on Kit’s fingers gave him pause.

He looked up to see the blonde smiling gently at him, placing a hand upon his shoulder. “It's okay Phil, just breathe. You're here now, so you might as well make the most out of it, right? You're strong, and I know you're gonna do well.”

He had half a mind to protest. He gave up as soon as Kit’s palm began rubbing, and he let the older boy lead him towards a bench to fix the rucksack. “...yeah, yeah okay. Thanks Kit,”

“No problem. We’re lucky we got here early, don’t you think? Should be enough time to fix it back up,” Kit said, but Philip shook his head before the blonde could think to search around for thread.

“It’s okay, leave it to me – it was my fault for not checking if this thing was ready to go last night,” Philip remarked and pulled out a smaller sack in the very back of his bag. Not for the first time that week, he thanked his mother for her foresight. As he got to work, threading the needle and frowning at the frayed seams, he felt his brow furrow. “By the way… are we sure we can leave the Professor running around on his own like this…?”

Kit simply giggled. “With him, it always feels like there's something new around the corner, so maybe we should have expected that, but I guess he’ll be fine.” He carried on with his rearranging, careful as ever with the garments and trinkets that still smelt of Cobbleston dirt. Idly, Philip hoped that he wouldn’t have to wear those clothes so soon.

Half an hour had passed by like this, with the Professor still away somewhere. The sun was higher in the sky now, which was good for Philip as he moved to finish his last loop around the broken straps. He caught a glimpse of Kit in the morning’s light, and took a second to wonder how he could stand to look so put-together so early, when he was stuck with the Professor most days. He supposed it took a special kind of person to be able to put up and keep up with Cyrus – to share in his deep eyebags and see the world through bright blue eyes, by day and night.

Looking a little lower, Philip blinked. Perhaps it was the trick of the remnant snow, but was there always such a dark spot creeping up the blonde’s neck?

“Philip?”

He blinked again. The spot was gone. “Y-Yes?”

Kit tilted his head. “You still need to go and write yourself up before you attend, right? I'll go with you.”

“Is that okay? You're not my guardian or anything,” Philip said, taking the thread between his teeth and pulling. He watched as Kit pulled up a document from his satchel and held it out in front of him. Philip squinted as he leaned over to read its contents. “What's this?”

“Something I had the Professor write for me, just in case.” Kit shrugged, and looked over the crowd again. Philip followed his gaze, and sure enough, there was still no hair nor golden hide of Cyrus. “He insisted that he wouldn't get off-track this time, but you can never be too sure,”

Well. That was one less thing to worry about.

>>>

It was a mildly surreal experience, having to sign his own name into the papers for the first real time since he’s left Cobbleston. It really was nothing more than an attendance sheet, simply to make sure that every enlisted squire was here and accounted for – and yet something about the weight of the quill in his hand struck in him some strange, fulfilling feeling. Philip knew for certain that this was simply one of many documents he’d have to look over and file, if things went exactly right.

It felt nothing like writing letters to Hubie. Funny how now simply scrawling his name upon envelopes set for Stonegard felt almost juvenile. Almost.

This was really happening right now, he thought as he pushed the sheet back into the hands of the organizer. He shuffled back to where Kit was waiting, just away from the crowd and wearing a pleased expression on his face. “Good work, Philip!”

“I-it was nothing,” he replied, reaching out to scratch the back of his neck. “That went a lot smoother than I thought it would,”

“It's the perk of getting here early.” Kit chuckled, leading him back to the bench where they’d left their luggage for the time being. “Watch, it'll get a lot messier in a bit...”

Looking around, the crowd of people did seem to get wider – pairs of parents donning furs and heavy animal skin accompanying their children slowly filled the Flamesgrace square where they were to be gathered before the main program began. In his days spent in Rippletide sparring with Miss Tressa, Philip had since learned to spot regional quirks in people’s clothes, though certainly not to the extent that the merchant herself had cultivated over the years. This was how he could tell that a majority of those coming and going from the square were Frostlands natives – stark blues and puffy cotton and wool taking over their ensemble. Philip thinks he even spotted the glint of a few gilded brooches here and there, a sure sign of Frostlands aristocracy – or so Miss Tressa had said, one afternoon in an offhand tale told in between meandering strikes of her sword.

Sure enough, in a few minutes Kit had been proven correct – when he spotted more knights coming into the square and start to direct people into forming single-file lines to the registration booth. He could feel the energy in the air rising the closer it got to eight in the morning, excited chatter amongst parents and anxious mumblings between other aspiring squires filled his ears.

Philip somewhat regretted only having slept for the one hour now. He feared for his body the following day, and he hadn’t even set a foot inside of the barracks just yet.

“–lip!” A cheerful voice cut through the noise, making Philip whip his head around in confusion. He could swear that voice sounded familiar.

“Did you hear something just now?”

“I’m… hearing a lot of things at the moment,” Kit replied.

“Sorry – I thought I heard someone calling my name –”

“Philip! Philip, hey!”

“Hubie –? Oof –!” He turned his head to the direction of the voice – only to be met with an armful of leather and thick Highlands wool, as well as boisterous laughter ringing in his ear. He found himself crouching and under the arm of an old friend, who had now taken to ruffling his hair with more energy than can reasonably be expected from anyone at such an hour.

“Hubie –! Hey, cut that out...!” Philip struggled under the unexpected warmth, trying to wriggle out of his friend’s grasp – which had turned out to be a difficult endeavor, because when was it that Hubie had gotten such a strong grip?

The other boy merely laughed louder, the arm around him pulling him closer. “Not a chance! I haven't seen you in ages, mate! How are things?!”

“How about letting me go first?!” With an exasperated grunt, Philip wrestled himself free from under Hubie’s arm, except now he found himself being held by the wrist, and he supposed that this was the best that he can get out of this greeting. “And uh, I’m fine? Sorry – it slipped my mind that you were going to show up. You look like you're just raring to go,”

Taking a good look at his friend, Philip had realized – he hadn’t seen him in ages now, not since his last trip to Stonegard with the Professor and Sir Olberic a few years ago. Hubie’s hair was longer now, tied together at the back in what must be the messiest ponytail in the world. He still had an earnest grin on his face, like the one he’d donned when he suggested they exchange letters.

Philip also felt a bit irked when it clicked for him that he was looking up at Hubie now, as the other boy had grown a considerable amount – in both height and build.

Hubie seemed to notice his inspection, and puffed his chest out with pride as he pumped a fist against it. “Why wouldn't I be?! Today's the day that I start becoming my own man – and I'll be damned if I wasn't pumped!”

“Haha, I'm glad to see that Philip's already got some friends.”

Philip felt his face burn, attempting to yank his arm away from Hubie, only to yelp when he was brought along by the force at which Hubie spun around to greet the chuckling Kit.

“Oh! Uh, hi Mister! Sorry, I got too excited there.” Hubie extended a hand to the blonde with a toothy grin. “Name's Hubie!”

“Kit, Kit Crossford. A huge pleasure to meet you,” Kit took the spectacle in stride, shaking Hubie’s hand in earnest.

“Oh, so you're that Kit!” Hubie’s eyes lit up in recognition, and finally let go of Philip’s wrist – something Philip had yet to chastise him for, but the words had died in his throat when his eyes met Hubie’s curious stare. The ponytailed boy took a few minutes to just look between him and Kit, before humming in thought. “Gotta say – you and Phil don't look like brothers at all,”

“What –?” Philip stared at him incredulously.

“Uh, brothers...?”

“That's how Phil always talks about you in his letters, at least...” Hubie then scratched the back of his neck with an embarrassed smile. “…Ah, wait, did I get it wrong?”

Philip suppressed the urge to pinch his friend’s cheeks, settling instead for the bridge between his brow. “You’re overthinking things! Did you realize that just now when you realized our last names weren't even close? I don’t remember ever writing anything about siblings!”

It was Hubie’s turn to have his face burn bright red, hanging his head low as his grin grew more sheepish by the minute. “Ah...! Yeah no, that's my bad, sorry! I just assumed since you sounded like you two were real close an’ all – an’ I know a few people who aren’t actually siblings, I mean – they are! But –”

“Hubie –!”

A wet giggle had just barely stopped Philip from tackling Hubie to stop him from saying anything more. Both boys turned to look at Kit, who – to Philip’s relief – hadn’t looked like he hated the thought at all, though his shoulders shook as he held a few fingers up to rub at his eyes.

“Hehe...! Well, I for one, am pretty flattered! Never knew that that was how you saw me, Philip – I'm t-touched...!”

“Are you really about to cry...?!” Philip shoved a hand into his pockets to look around for a handkerchief, though he still felt the warm blood on his face as he pushed it into Kit’s open hand. It was true that he grew fond of Kit’s presence – always a guiding hand whenever he had to visit Atlasdam for his lessons, he’d never once felt overbearing to Philip. He wondered if he really sounded so enamored in his letters. “It's not that big a deal...! Here, wipe those away!”

“My deepest, sincerest apologies...!” A new voice came along, and Philip felt a headache coming on. The day had barely even started.

Sure enough, Cyrus had come back bounding in their direction with an apologetic look on his face – he skidded to a halt and panted on his knees from the exertion of running. “There was a new set of murals painted near the cathedral, and I got distracted –” Guilt morphed into concern as soon as the scholar laid his eyes upon Kit, immediately reaching out to rub a hand behind the blonde’s back. “Oh, Kit my dear boy, what's gotten into you?”

“D-don't worry Professor, these are happy tears!”

“I-if there's really no problem...” Cyrus’s hand stayed where it was, though his face brightened upon seeing Hubie. “Oh, and who might you be? A friend of Philip's?”

“That I am, sir! The name's Hubie!”

“Ah, so you're the boy I've heard so much about! Best regards, my name is Cyrus Albright.”

As soon as the words left the Professor’s mouth, Hubie’s eyes seemed to blaze – and the boy went to grasp Cyrus’s outstretched hand with an unexpected fervor.

Unexpected, until Philip remembered Stonegard – and he felt the urge to knock himself silly for forgetting.

“So I finally get to meet you! Hey, so I’ve got a couple of questions about – do you mind? I don’t think you mind – mate, I’ve gotta know, what happened down in the –”

“All enlisted squires in the area, may I have your attention please?” A young man’s voice cut clearly through the hustle and bustle of Flamesgrace’s square. “The opening proceedings are about to begin! I need you all to come to the Cathedral Plaza…”

Hubie groaned, letting go of the Professor’s hand that Philip now feared had a few fingers broken. “Darn it – so close to my answers…!”

“Haha, I’m sure there will be more opportunities available to you soon,” If Cyrus was in pain, he did a stellar job of hiding it. “If you’ve things to ask me – feel free to ask away when you see me again, my boy!”

“I’ll hold you to that! Philip, come on mate – they’re calling for us!”

Philip had barely any time to grab his belongings before he felt himself being yanked away towards the Cathedral Plaza. “H-hey, I’m not made of rubber here…! Calm down!” He said, though it fell on deaf ears – so he turned back instead to Kit and the Professor, waving his free hand. “I’ll see you around, Professor…! You too, Kit!”

“Have fun, Philip! Do your best!”

“Do take care of yourself!”

It didn’t take long before they were both swallowed up by the crowd of moving people, and now Philip found himself not alone, but apprehensive for the words waiting for him at the Plaza.

>>>

“Madam Woodward, they’re ready for you.”

“Good. Thanks, Miles. Go get yourself seated,”

She waited until the sound of Miles’s steps faded away, before she began to take her own. Each tap of her sabatons upon the frozen, granite floor of the plaza seemed heavier than the last, and before she knew it, she was standing on top of the stage and weathering the brunt of a thousand stares. Everything felt so heavy – the armor on her person, the furs they’d decorated her with, the burden of her oaths.

Eliza looked upon the gaggle of children before her – and 'children' seemed appropriate then, their young ambitions hadn't yet realized what was at stake beyond themselves. Her role was a dire one, she mused, to crush those ambitions into dust and forge them into something capable of shouldering the weight of the continent. So goes the Knights Ardante's central creed – in the name of the Flame, they will dedicate their entire selves to defend all that rested under Fair Mother Orsterra's eyes.

Children can't enter that world. Not just yet. This was an event horizon of life, and only the strongest steel can survive that unknown world beyond.

These were the dire thoughts she held in her heart when she carried herself to that podium. She, too, had dreams – it was a dream realized through blood and strife. These children will not grow any differently from her, for as long as they remain here.

Thus, she ignored the stares of her superiors when she made no effort to mask her solemnity with bright, rattling words – no, children held fast to dignity, and she had to respect that. She cleared her throat, and set the words free.

"Greetings, aspiring squires. I am Eliza Woodward, squadron commander of the thirty-third regiment of the Knights Ardante, Flamesgrace division. I care not about why you are here today, only that you are here now. Whatever your reasons, you are gathered here today as siblings under the light of the Flame. Welcome –" she bowed low, and it felt like an offering to Aelfric's eyes from on high – "– to the rest of your lives."

She gave only a brief pause, meeting with the expectant gazes of the children she will soon be responsible for. Their expressions were grave, yet resolute – waiting on bated breath for her to continue.

So far, so good.

“The Squirehood program is the first of its kind, but have faith – it is the fruit of the efforts of the continent's great Leaders. All of you, from all walks of life, are here now – and will walk together on the path to becoming a protector of the continent. This path will be arduous. Demanding. Such is the nature of those who aim to live by the blade. Rest assured that you will not walk this path alone.”

Pulling out the paper she had tucked away, her eyes zeroed in on only its most essential parts – rolling it back up without regard for further introductions to the hawks sitting at the back, elevated and ever-watchful of everything underneath.

“Without further ado, please allow me to explain what you squires will be experiencing during your time here in Flamesgrace.

“Starting from today, you will live together in close quarters – newly constructed as per the Order's instructions. Tomorrow, you will be assessed according to your natural talents – and shortly after that, you will be sorted into teams. Squires will then be provided the necessary knowledge to become a knight through a standardized education system. You will be taught tactics, combat, basic education, wilderness survival, prayer – among a variety of other subjects.

“Do not be mistaken into thinking that you will be evaluated solely on written examinations and combat training, however. Practical examinations will be held every so often – in accordance with the Knights Ardante's core values of flexibility and adaptability.

“…well, it will be a long journey, to put it simply. You will learn to live, think, and breathe like a Knight Ardante – acting in the name of the gods to see their will done… find your faith.” It was here that she finally gave the crowd her first – and likely last – genuine smile of the day. “Let it be that the voices that guide your blade are those that you truly hear, no matter the circumstance.”

She bowed low towards the crowd once more, purposeful. Doubtless that the squires will remember her today as a blunt fellow, but she will have all the days she needs to fix that.

“Once more – I bid you a warm welcome into the Squirehood. May the Sacred Flame watch over us all.”

All at once, the rows upon rows of ordained knights and squires alike bowed back to her, and spoke in perfect unison. “And may it ever shine its warm light upon you, Commander.”

“And with that, we conclude the opening program. Please listen to all commanding officers, and proceed to the next location. That is all.” She rose from her position, giving them all a salute. “Dismissed.”

And with nothing more to say, she turned on her heel – prepared to face the fire, as well as the future of some fifty new, determined squires.

All the while, the weight of her sword against her hip never wavered. A perfect reminder of her own oaths.

>>>

"Was that alright?" was the simple question that Miles asked once the opening program was over, and he met her at the entrance of the tents they’d set up for the occasion.

Eliza forced herself to relax, letting her cheeks sag forward as she began her walk back towards the Cathedral proper. "Was it too stuck-up?"

"No, I think the new guys appreciated how short it was," Miles said, falling into step with her. "But you saw how the Cardinals looked at you earlier, Ma'am. They're sure to be displeased with you later,"

She shrugged. "I'd be surprised if they weren't. But that was their mistake, for putting me in charge of the opening theatrics."

Miles looked at her with a plea in his eyes – one that she did not answer as she shook her head.

In truth, she knew her words had teetered on the edge of danger. The Cardinals of the Sacred Flame were in the audience, after all – old bastards that were far too used to the rigidity that the Knights Ardante had conformed to for centuries past. Doubtless that the older Knight Commanders would also look down upon her after today.

Eliza steeled her gaze, though there was nothing in front of her to direct it towards. It was no matter – a new era was upon them. The Knights would crumble under the burden of those centuries if change did not come to be. Her words may have come from passion, but all of it was calculated.

All of it was exactly what she needed the squires to hear.

"…But enough of that, are the squires being rounded up?" She asked, finally facing Miles.

"Yes, they're getting them ready for the next part of the opening program, right as scheduled."

She then nodded to herself. "I'll go on and prepare the training grounds for tomorrow, then."

"Ma'am? You can leave that to us, didn't you have –"

"Relax, I'm just going to make a few adjustments… there's a lot we have to make up for with them." She said, cutting off Miles and placing a hand upon her hip. "Everything's new, and we're going to have to make some changes to account for that. Are we clear on that, Miles?"

The brunet held her gaze with hesitation for only a moment, before it hardened with resolve. He gave her a salute. "Crystal."

"Good. I'll leave the squires to you."

>>>

The somberness on the commander’s face remained in Philip’s mind long after they’ve been corralled out of the plaza. Everything she said had sounded normal enough to him, though she spoke with such solemn passion that it stirred within Philip a peculiar resolve. This feeling wasn’t lost on the other squires either – it was as though a squall had rolled over, they mulled over her words like they had been etched upon their very souls. Even Hubie stayed silent, his brow furrowed in thought.

Short as their introduction was, one thing had gotten through to all of them – this was the rest of their lives, if they so willed it.

“Alright, attention squires!” Sir Miles’s voice, clear as the day itself, shook them all out of their collective trance. They all stood before the grand doors of the Flamesgrace Cathedral – its stained-glass windows reflecting beautifully in the sun. Philip had thought it looked intimidating from a distance, but looking at it up close like this was a different experience altogether. He felt small in the face of its architecture, but not afraid. A blue light bounced around in the reliefs and the edges of the glass, and it seemed like it had enveloped the structure in a promise.

Inside was one of the Three Sacred Flames – Orsterra’s beacons of safety against forces from beyond. Philip had never considered himself particularly religious, and now for perhaps the first time, he is reminded simply by being near this holy place that he will now be part of those who serve its treasure till their final breaths.

“You all are about to meet the members of the reverent Order. They may have been your neighbors only yesterday, but starting from today, they will be your superiors. We expect all of you to be on your best behavior.” Sir Miles spoke sternly, though in the next moment his features gave way to something softer. “But you know, please try your best to relax.”

Scattered murmurs finally broke out amongst the other squires. “They're giving off mixed messages,” Hubie was among them, leaning over to whisper to Philip. “Think it was because of that squad commander from earlier?”

“Who knows...? Maybe it's just Sir Miles,”

“Quiet down back there, please!” Philip and Hubie stiffened immediately, and walked inside the Cathedral alongside the others.

Stepping into the Cathedral felt very much like walking straight into a light, airy dream. It felt different from the rest of Flamesgrace somehow – where before, the cold itself had almost felt like a comfort that held the promise of perpetuity, inside of the Cathedral no such pervasiveness was present. There was only divine warmth within its walls – bright, blazing blue wrapping the hearts of all in a delicate, yet resolute embrace. Inside, everything seemed alight with something – old stones shone as though polished, the brass decorating the pillars echoed with the sound of church bells, the tiles glistening like clouds awash with stars.

Before any of them knew it, they had now stood in front of the single most beautiful fire that Philip had ever seen in his life.

“Aspiring youths of the Squirehood, welcome to the Flamesgrace Cathedral! Before you is the Sacred Flame of Flamesgrace, one of the continent's pillars in keeping harm at bay.” Miles explained, his eyes alight with reverence as he continued with his introduction, though his words fell through with Philip – who kept his gaze fixed upon the Sacred Flame.

He was no stranger to the divine – far from it, when he’d come face-to-face with a god in the flesh. He knew that the gods were real, he knew this, and yet there was simply something about the living flame in front of him that set it apart from everything else he had encountered thus far. It seemed almost hypnotic – miraculous, something impossible proving itself to be. Its presence was commanding, yet not domineering – gentle and kind, like the embrace of a beloved sibling.

“Now, starting every Darksday, all of you will be required to attend mass...”

A knight then came in from the side of the room, calling out to Sir Miles. “Miles, hurry it up. The Archbishop candidate is coming.”

With a cough, Sir Miles gave the knight a nod. “G-got it,” He then cleared his throat, gesturing to the pews. “Ahem, seat yourselves accordingly. Be silent while mass is in session, and follow the instructions of the sermon.”

Doing as they’re told, the squires divided themselves among the front pews. Philip sat himself beside Hubie, and began to feel the tiredness of his bones begin to settle – something about the warmth emanated by the Sacred Flame was tempting him to catch up on his sleep, but that would be incredibly rude.

“And now for our Reverend Sister, Ophilia Clement. May the Sacred Flame shine upon us all.”

Philip almost shot up at the mention of the name. Sister Ophilia was not someone he had the pleasure to meet with very often, with Philip only ever having seen her a handful of times in the years that Sir Olberic returned from his journey. He knew that she had been someone important – but to meet her again like this reminded Philip that he never had the real chance to get to know her as well as he did the other people that Sir Olberic had traveled with.

He could hear excited murmurs from the pew in front of him. Perhaps the Sister was popular?

Philip didn’t get the chance to listen in to what the other squires could have been saying, as it seemed that sound itself seemed to stop when the Reverend Sister took her first step into the hall behind the cage surrounding the altar. Everything went still and quiet, save for the Sister’s heels and the rhythmic crackling of the Sacred Flame’s embers – the sounds of her reverberating across the Cathedral, commanding full attention as she made her way towards the altar.

Now that Philip could see her, she hadn’t looked at all different from when he saw her last – save for her garments, now donning deep blues in place of the stark white of a regular cleric’s robes. Her hair was in a bun now too, though the same golden bangs framed her tender face as she turned to face the crowd with a simple, unburdened smile.

That such a smile could captivate all those in attendance was a feat that Philip figured was an art only Flamebearers could carry.

“Thank you, Miles. You may be seated,” she said, and Sir Miles gave her a quick bow before leaving. Large, ochre eyes scanned the room, delight washing over her features as she held her hands together. “...oh my...! Such bright faces before me... I am most humbled to be in your presence today. I thank the Twelve for giving me this most holy task of welcoming you into the Knights Ardante. May the Sacred Flame shine upon us all.”

The Sister gave a gracious bow to her audience. As though compelled by nothing but the nurturing tone of her voice, squires and knights alike tilted their heads forward, drinking in her words with fervor.

“Please rise for our opening prayer…”

>>>

Philip couldn’t say that he had ever been to mass, not really – Cobbleston was home to no chapels or churches, and the most exposure that he had ever had to the intricacies of the Flame’s teachings was through the occasional cleric passing by their humble hills. He wondered what it must be like for those who live and breathe by the Flame’s word, echoes of its lessons ringing endlessly in their day-to-day – before he remembered that he was among them now, and he thinks – perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

The book in Sister Ophilia’s hands was large and heavy, and likely contained more secrets than Philip could ever bring himself to memorize properly – though she remained undaunted, having read from its dusty pages a million times before and will continue to do so for a million more, content to read aloud in a way all of them could understand. The mysteries of the twelve gods weren’t foreign to either Philip or Sister Ophilia, and indeed she spoke of them with a certain familiarity that only served to remind Philip of her breadth of experience.

It was about an hour and a half since she appeared before them that she finally closed the book, caressing its age-worn cover. “...and that concludes today's mass. Please rise, and we will say our closing prayers together. Please repeat after me,”

Obediently, all those in attendance stood, clasping their hands together in prayer and hanging their heads low as they waited intently for the Sister to say her parting words.

“Ye who wore glory from on high
Descending earthward, banishing blight
Cleansing shadows, wreathed in flamelight
Burn your mark in endless night.”

“...May the Sacred Flame bless you all on this journey, squires.”

“And may it ever shine its warm light upon you, Sister.”

When they looked up once more, they found only the warmth of Sister Ophilia’s everlasting smile as she gave them a little wave. “Hehe! I look forward to seeing you all soon.”

And just like that, the ethereal moment had ended – with Sister Ophilia turning on her heel to head back behind the untouchable cage, the awed faces of squires and knights alike trailing after her.

“May I have your attention, squires!” Two loud claps brought their gazes towards Sir Miles, already walking down the pews and towards the entrance of the Cathedral. “Check all of your possessions, and pick up any trash you may see. Make another double-file line now, and I'll show you to your dormitories.”

They followed his instructions without much fuss, and they walked back out into the snow. The sky wasn’t as clear now, and the snow had begun to fall – careful and benign as the flakes sat themselves upon everyone’s heads. The warmth of the Cathedral lingered even long after they’ve gone past the plaza, and into some of the new roads. Signs of new construction were scattered throughout the pavement – a stack of fresh pine planks here, and a batch of polished granite there, with laborers coming and going with ropes slung above their shoulders, clapping each other on the back for jobs well done.

A well-deserved reward, when the structure of the newly-constructed Flamesgrace Squire Barracks finally came into view.

It was a large, magnificent thing, looking to have three – no, four floors, where there were sure to be accommodations for everything a Squire might need. The windows glistened in the faint sunlight, the frost creeping up its sides visible even from afar. Philip wondered if the Knights’ regular Barracks looked much the same, if not grander.

This was the place that he was to spend the next few years living in. Philip swallowed the building lump in his throat at the thought.

Sir Miles led them through its halls, pointing out the relevant rooms as they passed them by. Its interior was cleaner than Philip expected, given its newly-constructed state – the floorboards were swept and polished with not a speck of dust nor rubble in sight, sturdy underneath their feet as they walked around. The mess hall was spacious and already bustling with kitchen staff working on meal preparation, and the hallways leading outside towards the training grounds were spacious and equipped with swords of all kinds.

What seemed strange to Philip were the numerous storage closets scattered around the first two floors. He had little time to question it when they were finally led to the third floor, where the dormitories were. He could feel his shoulders start to ache with relief – he hadn’t brought much, but the day was long and both his anxieties and pleasantries had kept him awake for long enough.

It seemed like this had been a sentiment shared by the other squires, as Sir Miles’s voice took on an apologetic tone once they’d reached the first of the hallways provided for their dorm rooms. “Just a little more, squires. We’ve made it to the end of our tour for now.” He said, pulling out a ledger from his pocket. “You will all be sorted randomly in rooms suited for four people. Please try to get along with your new roommates – you'll be with them for the long haul.”

Murmurs immediately broke out among the squires – other kids left and right muttering to each other in hushed, nervous tones. Beside him, Hubie sucked in a breath – stretching out his arms a bit as he adjusted the luggage on his back.

“Ah, finally! I was gettin' tired of dragging all our stuff around,” he said, letting out whatever groan he’d been building up. He then leaned closer to Philip, and spoke in a whisper. “…just between you an' me Phil, I don't know anyone here so –”

“You're nervous? Didn't take you for the type…”

“Never had a friend sleep over before, can you blame me? And this is basically just the world's longest sleepover –”

“Quiet over there, please!” Sir Miles’s order rang out once more as he flipped through his ledger. “Once you're settled in, you will be free to have the rest of the day to yourselves. Get acquainted with each other, sort out your rooms, or even explore the grounds available to you – familiarize yourself with the environment. Please keep in mind however, that you are to be at the training grounds at exactly six in the morning, am I clear?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good! Now, please follow me.”

>>>

The number of squires who had yet to be assigned a room gradually dwindled, and Philip had been somewhat thankful that Hubie remained beside him still – less so the fact that the urge to stumble forward into his bed and only get up once the dinner bell rang grew ravenous with every name called. There had been over fifty of them that were present at the event, as Philip would later come to know. Fatigue was the only thing keeping his impatience at bay, and it could not stop the relieved sigh he let out when Sir Miles had come back from around the corner to retrieve his next batch of squires and call out their names.

“…let's see, for the next set – Bourne, Ercanhard, Farnham, and Langford. Step forward and follow me!”

Hubie at this point had not bothered to mask his excitement, pumping a fist beside Philip as he flashed him a grin – one that he reciprocated as they picked up their luggage and followed Sir Miles. Two other sets of footsteps followed along as Sir Miles led them to the end of the hallway, and opened up the door, stepping aside to let the four boys pass through.

It was a simple enough four-person space, with four beds lined up at one wall and end tables beside each one. There were two desks present, each propped up facing each other at the wall opposite of the beds. Being at the very end of one wing of the Barracks, they have gotten for themselves a room with several more windows – natural light seeping through the frosted cracks and bathing the space in a warm glow. A big closet sat beside the door, as well as a rack where they could store their weapons.

“This is your dormitory. Some amenities are already provided to you, and we’ll leave it to you to personalize the place to your liking. Well, now I'll need to attend to the other batches.” Sir Miles said, already turning on his heel and out of the door once he surveyed their reactions – but not before turning towards them a final time with something like a pleading look in his eye. “Please try to get along, will you? No fighting over who takes which bed, I'll trust you to decide that smoothly. The uniforms are in your drawers, and I'll see you tomorrow at six.”

Something must have happened with one of the other batches, Philip thought as he and the other four gave him a salute. “Yes sir, thank you sir!”

With a satisfied nod, Sir Miles left the room. The sighs were immediate, and Philip almost expected the clamp of Hubie’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him into a one-armed hug as they both dropped their luggage onto the floor.

“…whoo! I've been holding back my relief ever since he called our names – but ain't this great, Phil? Guess we’re dorm buddies now!” the other boy broke into a laugh, and Philip had wished that it weren’t so infectious when he felt a grin tugging on the edge of his lips as well.

“Yeah…!”

“Guess we all got lucky here, huh?”

A third voice nearly – not did, simply nearly – made them jump out from their own skin as they turned around to greet the source. A taller, robust-looking boy had both his hands held up in surrender, looking sheepish while the other, lankier boy beside him looked frankly unamused by his antics. “Ah, sorry! Didn't mean to startle ya. See, me an' this bloke over here –”

“That's really how you're gonna start this?” the lankier of the two muttered, pinching the bridge between his eyes – but not before the first boy slung an arm around his shoulder to give him a good, hearty pat.

“We've been together for forever now! It just makes it a little easier to adjust when you've got a familiar face around!”

“Man, don’t I know it!” Hubie replied, extending a hand towards the first boy with none of the hesitation he showed earlier. The boy took it with just as much gusto, shaking it with a firm grip. “Name's Hubert, but my friends call me Hubie!”

Philip simply nodded in his direction, watching the exchange. “And I'm Philip. We'll be in your care.”

“No need to be so stiff, mate! But, sure – likewise. My name's Derryl.” Said the robust boy.

“Nathaniel. Call me Nate though, less of a mouthful.” The lanky boy added.

Looking both of them over again, they didn’t feel like Frostland natives at all – and they had an air about them that reminded Philip of Alfyn, in that the faint, homey smell of wet grass followed them about. Luckily, he needn’t spend more time simply scrutinizing them when Hubie, ever the straightforward guy, opened his mouth once more.

“Nice to meetcha both! Where are you two from? Philip and I, we're Highlanders!”

Derryl made an awed noise at that. “That's pretty far. Nate and I are both from Saintsbridge.”

“Pretty far ourselves, we know.” Nate shrugged, managing to wrangle himself away from Derryl’s grip. He went to lean against one of the desks, ignoring Derryl’s protests. “We’re actually with someone else – he's training to be a priest instead though.”

Philip blinked at the words. “There's a Cathedral in Saintsbridge, isn't there? Why come all this way? Across the Middlesea an’ all,”

Derryl’s grin became toothier, and he closed his eyes as though remembering something rather amusing. “Haha, for now let's just say we're all impatient little snots!”

Nate glared at Derryl, clicking his tongue. “Don't lump me in with you and Emil – you're the ones who couldn't sit still,”

“But you're here now, ain't you? Barely makes a difference!”

“Yes, it does!”

Hubie broke in between their spat with a loud guffaw. “Hahaha! You two sure are a lively bunch. Well – here's to a great next few years!”

Derryl nodded, giving Hubie a thumbs-up. “I like your style! Guess that puts me in 'Hubie' territory?”

“Sure does – you an' Nate both! What do you guys say we all see what's up around the barracks? Dyin' to get myself a snack at the mess hall!”

Philip raised a hand at that. “A-ah, sorry Hubie – I still need to unpack.” He said slowly, extracting himself from under Hubie’s arm. “It'll be trouble for me if I end up being too tired to sort all this out tomorrow,”

“That right?”

“I'm with him on that one.” Nate agreed, pushing himself off the edge of the desk with a light stretch. “He's got too much stuff… and so do we.”

Philip felt his protest die in his throat once he saw Nate meander his way towards the huge, bulging bags that laid at the foot of one of the beds. “I-it really is a lot, huh…”

“That settles it then – how's about we all help each other unpack first, and then we'll go to the mess hall?” Derryl asked, going to help Nate sort out their things.

“Sounds like a plan! Oh, that means we'll have to pick beds.” Hubie said, looking over the room. He turned back to Philip after a few minutes, pointing at a bed. “Hey, Phil – you want this bed in the middle here? It's near one of the desks an’ I know you’ve got a lotta write-ups to do,”

“Really? Not that I don't appreciate it, but what about you guys…? I'm fine wherever,” he started to say, when he saw Nate wave a dismissive hand their way.

“I'm good with that. I'll help myself to this bed in the corner if you guys don't mind,” the lanky boy said, already draping himself over his chosen bed – a place where Philip had to squint, because it had been the one surrounded by the frosted windows.

“Next to the window, eh? We sure got lucky with this room – you always did like havin' something pretty to look at,” Derryl said with a chuckle, before crossing his arms with a hum. “Then I guess I'll…”

“Ah, hold it Derryl – ya don’t mind if I take the bed closest to the door, do ya?” Hubie said, raising a hand. “’s a bit of a convenient thing for me, so I’m a little sorry if you wanted it,”

“It’s fine, it’s yours, mate. I was gonna take up the bed next to Nate anyway!”

“Drat,” Nate muttered. “Was hopin’ I wouldn’t have to hear your snorin’. You could wake up one of those bears we saw wanderin’ around with that racket.”

Derryl made an indignant noise. “We hadn’t had a sleepover in years, and this is how you treat me? For shame… and I’m not that much of a snorer anymore!”

“I’ll believe it when I hear it! Anyway, come over and help me get our sheets out,”

“You mean your sheets, I only packed a few –”

“It’s because you packed so few that I had to bring along extra, you nitwit! It’s cold as bollocks out here!”

Philip couldn’t help but muffle a laugh at seeing the two friends bicker, feeling the weariness in his bones ebb away into something warmer. Hubie shot him a confused look. “Somethin’ funny, mate?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” Philip felt around his rucksack, and the makeshift repair job he did on one of the straps caught his eye. He shook his head with a smile, running a finger over the shoddy seams. “I think I’m a little glad I came here now.”

Chapter Text

“And you’re sure you’ve got all your study things in there?”

“Yes Ma –”

“What about your clothes, did you double-check to see if they're packed tight enough –”

“About three times. That makes six, so it's okay Ma –”

“Oh dear, what about your sandwiches? Are you sure it's enough? I can fetch some more from the pantry if you want some –”

Feeling the rattle in his bag grow heavier, Philip finally grabbed his mother by the shoulders to stop her from her fussing. “Ma! Really, I'm fine!”

“Haha, let her have it, Philip. It will be a long while yet before she can dote on you again.”

A good-natured laugh rang out behind them, and Philip had turned to see Sir Olberic with his arms crossed, and none of the creases that had plagued his face for the past few months. Standing just beside him was what Philip assumed to be the entire rest of the population of Cobbleston, which was just plain excessive – and incredibly hard on his cheeks, which burned red from embarrassment.

“Not you too, sir…” Philip hung his head low, praying to the Twelve that his bangs were long enough to cover his face. “I've already promised you both I'd write to you, and I'll promise again that I'll behave,”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sir Olberic gave him a satisfied nod. “We know. Well, it'll certainly get quieter around here…”

“Hey now – I don’t think I’ve ever been that rowdy!”

“Maybe not, but you should hear yourself when you do your chores.” Said Mister Aimeric, the fond smile on his face cutting through the smell of cow dung that stuck to his clothes like an incessant stain.

“An’ how about when you come round to watch Kolbe and I spar?” Mister Keiler’s voice held a familiar exasperation to it, one that Philip was sure to miss. “You’ve got a hell of a mouth on ye, to be mutterin’ so fast!”

“Aye, can’t forget the way he’s always so excited about helpin’ with the harvest either,” mused patient Mister Juri, and now Philip can’t shake away the voice that used to guide his hand when the time came to sort the crop.

“See? They agree. Heh, I don't think we can ever get used to the quiet…” the chiefman spoke up, a hearty chuckle on his lips. Philip could not bring himself to pout too deeply, simply not knowing when he would get to hear such a grandfatherly laugh again. “Philip, do remember that you're dear to us. I suspect it'll take us quite the long time to get used to life without you around,”

On old feet, the chief hobbled over to him – and Philip had half a mind to stop him, but the air around him went still when the old man he’s known all his life finally lifted his brow just enough to let him see what had always been hidden beneath. “But know that we're rooting for you. Do your best out there, laddie.”

“Y-you guys…”

To think that only a few months ago, most of the faces in the crowd had been on their deathbed. His neighbor, Miss Geneva would have gone – and she would have left behind grieving Mister Jurgen. Old Man Riordan wouldn’t have lived to see his hundredth birthday, or told his thousandth story. Miss Minze’s tavern would be far emptier. The children running about and around their parents’ legs would have had to learn very early how to till the lands in their lost parents’ stead. Where would all of them be, without their beloved Chiefman Garreck – who looked at him now with nothing but love and pride in his old, weathered eyes.

These were the people that Philip had taken for granted all his life – they who were always there, they who have never changed. In this moment, Philip felt like he was looking outside of himself, and into the life of the boy with stars in his eyes, and a wooden sword in his grip – chestnut hair and freckles across his cheeks – a boy he had almost forgotten about.

That was the boy who belonged in the sleepy Cobbleston of his memories. The weight of the steel sword upon his hip grew heavier, and he wondered – could he make that beloved boy happy?

“The chief's right. Remember, always – that home is here, and it will always welcome you back with open arms.” Sir Olberic nodded, with his words laden with a peculiar warmth that Philip had long since forgotten. The knight approached him, with all the grace of an old tree’s embrace. “Ah… I never thought I'd experience something like this again,”

“Experience what, sir?”

A firm, gloveless hand clamped itself upon Philip’s shoulder. He felt the weight of it burn. “Watching an aspiring young lad like you leave for the knighthood.” And there it was – regret, in the autumn brown of his mentor’s eyes. “Philip, listen. I realize I've been –”

He was not hearing this today.

“You can stop right there, sir – I know what you're about to say already… and, I need to tell you that I don't mind.” Said Philip, cutting him off – staggering with an unknown confidence that felt only right. He stared down the surprise embedded in Sir Olberic’s expression, letting his own lips curve upwards into a smile. “I've done a lot of thinking. I still… need to do more of that, but I've realized – you're always looking out for me. And I haven't always been grateful for that,”

The sight of the back that has protected him from so much, and the grasp of the hand that held firm onto Philip’s own for all these years – all of it, it led to this moment. No matter how distant his gaze, or how heavy the work had become – Sir Olberic was his mentor, one who feared for him as any father would for his own son.

“… so, thank you.” Philip hoped only that the glint in his eye now could be enough to cut away whatever doubt this man had left for him. “Please keep watching me from afar now too.”

They held their gazes for only a moment longer, before Sir Olberic let out a breathless laugh. “… haha, of course, Philip. I look forward to seeing you grow.”

His mentor’s hand slid from his shoulder to the broad of Philip’s back, turning him around to face the glittering horizon. It was a sight that he had already seen a million times before. The world had never looked so vast from this peak, high above the South Cobbleston Pass.

With one final look back, Philip had tried to burn the sight of Cobbleston into his eyes – its residents, his mentor, and his mother, and the sloped roofs he called home. “Well… I'm off then!”

One step at a time, he descended the beaten road that would take him to Rippletide, that would lead to Atlasdam, then towards Flamesgrace – one foot in front of the other, right and left, he let drive carry his stride. The sooner he can get out of the Highlands, the sooner he could yearn for its embrace once more –

“Philip, wait!”

But fate had other plans, and he only had barely enough time to turn back around and greet the arms of his mother.

“Ma –? Oof!”

She wasn’t strong enough to send him to the ground, though her embrace threatened to send Philip to his knees in a despair he had failed to bury deep. He could feel her tears soaking the part of his tunic where his mother had buried her face, and the grip of her fingers threatened to tear at the stitches of his clothes.

“I-I'm sorry, just one more hug.” She mumbled in a weak, wet voice, tightening her arms around him. Hers was a familiar, heartrending scent – she smelled of wool skirts and earthen herbs, of ewe milk and the sun.

His mother smelled of home and Philip felt his resolve crumble.

“Haha, I thought I'd prepared myself for this day, but look at me…” his mother blubbered, but her embrace remained, stubborn and all-encompassing.

“… it's okay, Ma… but at this rate, I'm not gonna want to go,” he swallowed the cry threatening to build up in his throat, as he pulled his mother back. Her eyes glistened with tears – each one stung as Philip’s fingers wiped them away, washing away, flowing endlessly. “I promise I'll be okay. I'll see you again in Winter,”

“Mm…” She leaned in again, her tears continuing to flow no matter what Philip did. “I love you, Philip. I love you very much,”

He’d not taken five steps out of the world he called home, and already he wanted to scurry back into its fold.

The horizon waited for no one. Philip held his mother tighter nevertheless.

“Love you too, Ma. Love you too…”

>>>

The tears followed him into the dawn, when he realized with a blink that the ceiling above his head was not the thatched roofs of Cobbleston, but the wooden floorboards of the barracks. He wiped them quickly, and the world came barreling back to him as he heard the rustling of clothes and more than a few groans to his right.

"How are you holdin' up, mate?"

"Horribly. My body feels like a pile o' rocks,"

These were the words that had greeted Philip when he woke up the next morning, and he found them to be frustrating – if only for the fact that they had resonated with him and his aching bones so deeply that he heard them creak the second he lifted his head from the cot. He swears himself to be no stranger when it came to cold, dreary mornings, he wasn't a Highlander for nothing – but the Frostlands proved itself to be a slow and terribly unkind environment for strangers to its days.

Their accommodations were not meager by any means, but not even the expert masonry of Flamesgrace architecture could perfectly ward away the cold. The chill came in from the weathered cracks and crevices in the walls, meandering until they found the cracks in their bodies too – filling in the shoddy gaps and making itself a home as an unwelcome guest.

All this to say that he was feeling very envious of Hubie at the moment, five steps away from a bed with fixed sheets and already doing his warming up his quads and joints.

The other boy noticed him and gave him a smile that was far too bright for the hour. "Mornin', Philip!"

"Morning," Philip groaned out in reply, sitting up from the bed and rubbing at his eyelids. He cringed when he heard the creaking of his joints. "...how are you this full of energy? M' bones feel stiff as a beam right now,"

"Haha, you too, huh? I'd be lyin' if I said I felt fine just movin' around,"

Philip blinked at that. "...you look fine enough,"

"Right you are, mate! But I'm freezin' my rocks off!" Hubie wandered to Philip's cot, and Philip almost yelped when he felt the extra weight on his back. "Up and at 'em, come on now! Won't do you any good just sitting around in the cold,"

Philip was then shoved out of the bed and onto his feet before he could get the chance to refuse, with Hubie keeping him steady on his heels. “Might as well join me in doing my stretches!”

“I get it, I get it…! Can you let me grab a muffler first at least?”

“Philip! You’re finally up –” Nate’s voice was groggy, and the boy glared at the stretching Hubie. “Do something about that guy, he’s makin’ my head spin with those stretches – it’s four in the bloody morning!”

“I dunno, I think he’s got the right idea there,” Mused Derryl, having already gotten over the stress on his bones, jumping off his bed to join the other boy. “You don’t mind, do you, mate?”

“That’s the spirit! Here, swing your arms around like this,”

“Meatheads, the both of you – it’s too early for this,” Nate threw his hands up, yanking a towel out of one of his bags and slinging it over his back.

“Are… are you showerin’ this early?” Philip asked him with an incredulous look, one that Nate returned with a nonplussed expression.

“They have warm water here, I checked last night. Better to do it now than wait ages for the other kids to finish,” Nate paused for a second, before tilting his head towards the door. “You should come join me actually, it’s kinda awkward goin’ alone. Might be good for your bones too,”

“You – don’t you think it’s weirder if we go in together?”

“Nah.”

His better senses reminded him fervently that stretching was the better option here. But the chill in his bones and the prospect of hot water led him to pulling out his own towel with a sigh.

“…alright. Beats stretching, I guess.”

>>>

Before any of them had known it, it was already a quarter to six – and all four of them made their way to the training grounds. Breakfast wouldn’t be served until after seven at least, and upon learning this knowledge they shared small, but filling snacks amongst themselves – before then grabbing the uniforms left for them inside of the drawers. If Sir Miles had seen the stray crumbs on their persons when they came in, he did not mention them.

“Good morning, squires. I trust you boys slept well?” he greeted them, looking them over with a smile.

“Like a rock, sir! Everythin’s fine and dandy!” Hubie replied.

“I’m glad to hear that! Oh, Ercanhard – you’ll need to button up your jacket for today.”

“Ah – thing is Sir, we’ve worked up a bit of a sweat earlier, so I was hopin’ to cool off,” the boy said sheepishly, while Nate snorted.

“Derryl did the same stretches and he’s fine,”

“That’s cuz he’s got more bulk than I expected! You’ve seen him –”

“Haha, glad to see you’re already getting along well!” Sir Miles cut them off with a laugh, before coughing into his fist. “I mean, it’s good that you’re already building up a routine, but I wouldn’t recommend pushing yourselves too far at the moment. You’ve still got an exam, after all.”

“Sir, good morning!” A new batch of squires entered the grounds, also donning the deep royal blue of the uniforms.

“Good morning! I’ll be right there with you!” Sir Miles called out, turning to Hubie one more time with a sterner look on his face. “In any case, please button up your uniform once the exam begins, Erchanhard. For formality’s sake,”

“Yessir!”

With a satisfied nod, the knight then jogged over to greet the other squires properly. Philip looked over at Hubie. “You know, he kind of has a point – won’t you be cold later like that?”

“Relax Phil, I’ll cover up when I need to!” Hubie waved him off. “But enough about my jacket, what do you guys think they’ll make us do for the exam later?”

Derryl crossed his arms, looking down in thought. “The Knights stationed back home used to talk about a test of strength of some kind… I don’t know what though, we’ve got Knights of all ages and they all said different things,”

“Could be anythin’ from a round robin spar to takin’ down a wolf,” Nate added. “Dunno if it changes every year or if we’re at the mercy of our instructors here.”

Philip swallowed. He did not want to have to deal with wolves any time soon.

He wasn’t given the chance to stew in thought, when he spotted Sir Miles making his way over to the entrance, where the barracks faced the side of a forest. “Alright squires, welcome to your first real day in the Order!” He said, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “I won't keep you waiting, so let me explain to you our agenda for today.

“First off, basic drills. Form two lines right now, and we'll make our way to the test area while we’re at it.” He said, and everyone followed his order without much fuss. “After that, it's prep for the preliminary assessment – you'll get thirty minutes to do whatever you need to. Spar a little, maybe have a joust – just keep your feet warm. As for the preliminary itself, there's no pressure to it. Do your best, and have fun.”

“Again with the conflicting messages?” Hubie muttered behind Philip, though he was paid no mind when Sir Miles hid his ledger, kicking the heel of his boot against the snowy, paved ground.

“Right, time for those drills.”

“Sir? Right now?” A weary squire asked from the back of the formation, right as Sir Miles started to jog in place.

“Yep – starting with jogging! We'll do a few laps around the grounds – those who haven't gotten an opportunity to explore the premises, better pay attention now!”

Without another word, the knight took off – a weight to his stride so surprising that it had taken the rest of them a second of groaning to run and try to catch up to him.

>>>

The jog lasted for all of an hour, and it was seven now – with the sun well above the clouds of Flamesgrace. Sweat clung to Philip’s skin, though the horrid combination of the cold and his building exhaustion worsened the feeling – leaving him feeling moist when he shouldn’t be. The thick fabric of their uniforms absorbed the sweat before it could become a problem, though his exhaustion persisted. He shuddered to think of winter, where the biting cold was certain to be worse.

All the while, Sir Miles had been spouting off facts about each milestone they visited – which all likely fell on deaf ears, as everywhere Philip turned, he only found equally exhausted squires that focused their efforts into maintaining their breathing throughout the pace that they were running at. He was certain that they were all very pretty sights and that he would appreciate them better if he had the energy to do so.

He was often told back in Cobbleston to take it easy when he went on runs, as the jagged roads of the mountains would not be kind to his calves. Sir Olberic had him do his laps around the plateaus of the farmlands instead – and even then, the air above the hills was thin enough to have him panting after only a few minutes of running most days. He knew the cold was unforgiving, but to truly live with it is a challenge all its own.

“And we're here – this is the test area!” Sir Miles’s voice felt like a call from the heavens when he announced their location, and with bleak eyes they all looked ahead to see a walled clearing at the top of a hill. Every squire breathed a heavy sigh of relief when they entered its threshold, nearly collapsing into the snow – only the fear of shock kept them upright. “Yes, rest up! Remember these routes, because we're going to be doing those laps every session!”

A collective groan rippled through them all.

“You're jokin', mate…” Hubie heaved out.

“Damn, I knew it'd be rough, but… my legs,” Nate gritted through his teeth, his hands on his knees as he took steady breaths.

“Tired already, mate?” Derryl chuckled, wiping sweat off his sleeve with a cheeky smile – one that remained even as Nate threw him a glare.

“What's it look like to you?!”

“Five-minute break! Grab some water, wipe off that sweat. After this, we're doing a few more warm-ups to get the lot of you prepped for the preliminaries!”

Scattered grunts of acknowledgement hung in the air. Philip dragged himself through the snow towards the rest area along with the rest of his room-mates. Gratefully, he took the glass of water offered to him by a deacon that was stationed there, letting the cool liquid seep through his aching body. As he moved to sit however, a peculiar sight crossed his eye.

Carefully, he nudged Hubie, who sat beside him. “Hey, Hubie… you see that rack?”

Hubie followed Philip’s line of sight, and cracked a grin. “Hehe, yeah. Had my eye on it the moment we came in here. They've got so many weapons on it that I don't even know where to begin,”

Swords of all shapes and sizes weren’t the only things resting on its slots – lances, pikes, even daggers and axes were lined up against one of the wooden walls of the test area. There were so many weapons in fact, that Philip couldn’t name all of them – Cobbleston’s local blacksmith only ever had enough ore to forge new farming tools and the occasional sword. Even from a distance, the luster of the weapons was clearly visible, sparkling with brilliant sheen in the Frostlands morning.

Hubie’s eyes carried that same sparkle, and Philip idly wondered about the other boy’s sword. He hadn’t come to Flamesgrace with the old one that he saw him use in Stonegard. “…come to think of it, I haven't seen you swing a sword in a while.” Philip said, to which Hubie simply chuckled.

“Yeah? Can't wait to show ya what I've got up my sleeve, then!”

“Line up, everybody! Time for squats!” Philip and Hubie both stiffened at that.

“Yipes! Five minutes are up already?!” Hubie yelped, downing the rest of his water before joining Philip in the mad scramble back into their formation.

>>>

In addition to those five extra minutes of squats and stretches, their promised thirty minutes came and went, and in their place was the building anticipation for what came next. Sir Miles had left them alone to do their preparations – which, in this scenario, consisted mostly of squires psyching themselves up to do their best with what little information they were given.

This period of grace was over as soon as they heard the clap of his hands once more.

“Rise up, squires! Lady Eliza is approaching!”

The reaction was instantaneous. Even with some difficulty, every single one of them had lifted themselves from their seats to line up neatly, wiping the sweat off their brow and standing firm as they waited with bated breath for the commander.

They needn’t wait very long. Against the faint sunlight and blue winds of the Frostlands, Lady Woodward’s burgundy hair flowed like a stream of lava bursting from the forgotten cracks of the ground. On her face was a terse smile, and eyes that seemed to pierce through their very being. She’d exuded an almost regal air when she took the stage yesterday, but today she seemed brusque – no, it was like she was taking things in stride, down to the way she dressed in lighter plates and the loose grip she had on her sword.

Upon reaching the peak, standing against the rays of the sun, she gave them all a quick salute. “Good morning, squires. I see everyone's working hard,”

“Yes, ma’am!”

She held up a hand, her expression taking on a heavier emotion. “At ease. I'll now explain to you the procedures behind preliminary assessment.” She walked across the rows, inspecting each and every one of them as she talked. “Now, normally in Knight Apprenticeship, we'd have our apprentices pair up and duel one another, just to see how they'd stack up against opponents of equal measure. But for the Squirehood, we've prepared something a little different,”

As the words left her mouth, the sound of steps across the snow reached their ears. Not a few seconds later, a number of similarly-dressed knights came into view, lining up before them like an impenetrable fortress wall.

Lady Woodward’s smile did not disappear, even as confusion reverberated across the squires like a wave. “You will be going up against seasoned knights in a spar.”

“What the? That's a little…” Philip heard Nate mutter behind him in disbelief.

“So, they're throwing us into the ring a little earlier…” he then heard Derryl mumble.

“Settle down, there's nothing to be afraid of.” Said Lady Woodward. “This is being done so we can adequately assess the strengths of each individual squire. We will see with our own eyes what you squires are made of – your strong points, your prior experience… and of course, your weaknesses.

“One other thing. In the past, the Knights Ardante usually conducted these tests with heavy restrictions on magic and weaponry.” With a stride that left no room for doubt, she walked towards the weapon-filled rack. “Not now, though – we're looking to diversify the offensive power of each Knight. So, as a rule – you are not to hold back against your sparring partner in the time allotted to you.”

She then unsheathed her sword, pointing its tip at the blades of its sisters. “You're also free to choose a weapon you think is best suited for you in the rack behind me, so think carefully about what you want to do here. Feel free to employ any tactics you’re familiar with – rest assured, our knights can handle you just fine.”

“This is all a bit extreme – don't ya think so Phil?” Hubie said, looking back at him. “Phil?”

Philip felt his fingers reach the bag of runes he kept in his pockets at all times, and within him he felt his pulse quicken with the thrum of magical energy. The way the commander phrased herself – she would be able to tell immediately if he wasn’t fighting with his very best. “…I'm allowed to use my runes, then,”

He clenched his fist. He didn’t think he’d have to be doing this so soon.

“We'll be doing this in batches. Step forward if your name is called,” With a wave of her hand, a deacon approached her with an open ledger. “Let’s see… Assenberg. Dumont. Blumstein. Soto… Farnham.”

“A-already?!” Philip’s breath felt like it was knocked out of his lungs, anxiety crashing into him like a tide when Lady Woodward pointed her sword towards him.

“Step forth.”

“D-do your best, Philip! I'm rootin' for ya!” Hubie’s hand clamped upon his shoulder. The other boy was looking at him with determined eyes, and Philip swallowed.

“Ah, guess this is a good opportunity for us to get to know each other more, don't you think?” Derryl said, with Nate breathing an exasperated sigh at the words.

“You with your blade-talk…”

Lady Woodward’s gaze remained on him. “Philip Farnham. You will be facing me.”

He sincerely wanted the ground to swallow him up right there. There was no breath in his lungs when he followed her anyway, unsheathing his sword with one hand. “I-I'll be in your care.”

“Have confidence in your power,” the commander chuckled. “Philip. Your talent with runes… show me your full potential.”

Philip’s eyes widened in shock. “You know?”

“Let's just say that I have an extensive list of connections.” She gave him no time for him to even stew in the implications of her words before she took on a battle stance. “Engarde!”

A burst of snow flew behind her as she kicked her foot off the ground, and if not for Philip’s instincts he was sure that he would have been knocked back by the flat of her blade. The weight of her swing was heavier than expected however, and he felt the soles of his boots burn with the effort of remaining upright under the force of her blow.

This struggle did not last long however, as Lady Woodward jumped backwards – only to leap forward once more to deliver another blow. Philip blocked that in time too – and the next, and the one after that – Lady Woodward was chipping away at his strength early with a flurry of strikes. She danced through the motions, graceful like a butterfly soaring through the rain – deadly precision and practiced power working in tandem to trap Philip in a cage of sword swings.

“Tch…! She's so fast…!” he gritted out, finally deciding to take the risk and flicking his wrist right as he slid his free hand down to the handle of his sword. Putting all of his body weight onto the next swing, he managed to knock her back. Allowing himself to be driven by the momentum of his own efforts, Philip prepared to jump into the ear – twisting his body at an angle to deliver a fierce blow against the commander.

His confidence cracked when he saw that the smile remained on her face. “Fine swordplay you've got there. Reminds me of the Unbending Blade.” She said, with barely any edges to her voice, betraying only intrigue.

Philip cursed himself when she took this opportunity to use her height to her advantage, as she speedily slid the edge of her blade against his to push him back. He dug his feet onto the snowy ground as he glared at her.

“But it is still so very unpolished,” she remarked, getting into a counter-position – as though egging him to attack her. Philip felt the furrow in his brow deepen, pulling out a shining green rune. Pointing his sword to the ground, he let his will fuel the fiery and icy cold runes still in his pocket to seep into the gusts starting to form beneath his feet.

“Conjure Wind!”

Crystallized wind currents covered him like a veil as he shot up from the ground, kicking up a flurry of snow in his wake. He was several feet above the air now, paying little mind to the weightlessness of his maneuver and instead raising his sword arm. The gales seemed to cut through his uniform, but he endured the chill – his eyes were focused solely upon Lady Woodward, who did not move from her current position and only eyed his movements with interest.

“Taking to the skies, interesting…” he thinks he heard her say, and Philip used the moment to propel himself towards her with another burst of wind, twisting his body to gain more momentum.

The sheer impact of both swords meeting sent shivers running through Philip, forcing a pained noise out of his throat. His hands shook with pain, but he forced his grip on the sword handle to remain tight. When the dust cleared, he found himself standing atop Lady Woodward’s outstretched, unscathed arm, and nothing else. Panic gripped him tight when he realized he was open for another attack – one that he did not have enough time to react to when Lady Woodward pushed him back with a grunt.

“It won't work on me.”

With nothing but those words, she took off in his direction once more – performing another series of sword strikes that Philip struggled to track now that he was disheveled from his own reckless move. He steeled himself, and resolved to wait for a proper opening this time.

Impatience started to gnaw at him the longer Lady Woodward kept on swinging at him, except she seemed to grow faster somehow – each strike was lighter, just enough to make sound and let the steel sparks fly. It made it hard to think, and Philip bit his lip – they were going nowhere with this.

He bit down harder – bracing himself for pain when he dug his heels in once more, meeting her next strike with as much force as he could put into every inch of his body. He simply needed a moment.

“Gah...!” he couldn’t stop himself from making another pained grunt when the impact of the strike reverberated down to his very bones, but he held fast – his fingers digging into his pockets and grasping tight at the dark, pulsing rune resting there.

“Conjure Darkness!”

He went to work immediately, letting the shroud cover his blade – trails of blotted darkness filled the air as he blazed across the arena and around the commander. Every strike forced more darkness to puff up around them both – and to his elation, it slowed down her movements. Philip didn’t bother hiding the smile creeping up his face, and he could feel himself gaining his own second wind –

–only for his concentration to be broken by a bright, blinding burst of light, sending him tumbling backwards once more. The smokescreen he created was blasted away by that wave of brightness – and the culprit had been none other than the commander herself, sporting a satisfied grin and a blade that blazed white like the sun.

“Using every tool at your disposal, I see! Good, good! I told you not to hold back!” Her praise did nothing to quell the frustration that Philip felt upon seeing the shroud he’d enveloped the space disappear with each effortless flick of her sword. “How long can you keep this up?”

“Ugh...!” His grip on the dark rune remained tight, and he could feel his knuckles cracking hard enough to bleed. “You asked for it – Conjure Darkness!”

He hid himself in the curtain of shadows, ducking out of the range of the commander’s blade. With two fingers holding the purple rune tight, he reached for another one – the energy of it cutting into his flesh like a thousand needles in this weather.

“Conjure Ice!”

He thinks he felt no guilt when he heard the distinct crack of bursting ice sprouting forth from the ground, the swirling frost sprinting up lady Woodward’s lower half expanding outwards into a crystal prison in a fraction of a second. Philip quietly promised himself to become kinder when using this rune in these circumstances. Entire seconds passed between them, and for that time Philip could only hear the sound of his own breathing and the blood pumping in his ears.

“Immobilization... heh. You've had to deal with a lot of troublesome maneuvers.”

A chill crept up his spine when he heard another crack, and he turned to look back at the commander – who still bore that self-assured smile on her face even as she was enveloped in a thick layer of ice.

“Allow me to give you some more to keep track of.”

Perhaps Philip was a fool to underestimate the abilities of a knight born and bred by the cold itself, because in the next second the knight had freed her sword arm from the prison – a feat of strength accomplished so casually that he had to wipe his eyes just to make sure he’d seen that right.

“Just on raw strength alone... no, that's not it – wah–!”

Her next move had been to point her sword to the sky, and bolts of light came raining down around her – each one of them falling on the ice, melting it all away with residual heat. The luminescence was bright enough that Philip could not help shielding his eyes from it – another fatal mistake, as in the very next second, he was struck by the flat of the commander’s blade, sending him tumbling down into the snow.

“You have a lot of openings. Are you normally so sloppy?”

His shock snapped back into frustration, grasping the ice rune in his fingers tight and feeling the cold gather at the soles of his feet.

“Tch – Conjure Ice!”

The stress of the ice at his extremities, coupled with the adrenaline pumping through his veins – it melted away the chill building all around him. He simply needed to keep moving. He struck her with wide waves of his sword, ice crystals flying around them both as he met her blow for blow. Pillars of ice sprouted all around them like plumes of fire, gradually forcing them closer together – each one being burned away by streaks of light and the heat of Lady Woodward’s sword. Philip paid little attention to the flashing colors reflected in the prisms, following only the black and burgundy mass that was the commander.

“This is the end...!” His thoughts became as words, numbed fingers finally letting go of the ice rune in favor of the crackling, bottled thunder rune. “Conjure Lightning!”

A bolt of lightning surged forth, and Philip felt all his hairs stand on end as the static electricity conducted itself through the ice crystals when Philip struck his sword against an ice pillar next to the commander – the lightning seeping through the cracks as it made an audible, angry noise – and he ducked away only seconds before the pillar burst into a million pieces. A cloud of icy vapor concealed everything, and in a panic he whipped his head around to look for Lady Woodward, wondering if he’d gone too far –

“So it is.”

“What the – oof–!”

Only to feel the warm sting of a glowing, crackling blade pointed towards his sword hand – empty now, when Lady Woodward’s blade knocked it out of his grasp.

His shoulders sagged with defeat and exhaustion, and all at once the fatigue of the morning came crashing down on him. Philip fell to his knees, keenly feeling the beating of his heart against his ribcage.

“That was a good show you just gave me. But you lost focus right at the end,” He heard Lady Woodward say. He looked up to see her gloved hand outstretched, and he took it – though standing was done with difficulty. This had been one of his most intense sparring matches so far – his legs felt like jelly, and he could feel his vision becoming blurry. It was only thanks to the commander’s arm around his waist that he was able to remain upright. She gave him a rumbling laugh. “It's understandable, given that I am an unfamiliar opponent. I hope you take the lessons you learned this day to heart, Philip Farnham.”

Despite his loss, he could not bring himself to feel dissatisfied – was what he wished he could tell her, yet he could only hang his head low. “Y-yes, Ma'am.”

“You have quite the fluid grasp on runes... you'll make a good squire.”

“Yes Ma'am, thank you.”

Philip let her drag him back to where the rest area was, just barely able to stay conscious enough so as not to spill the glass of water that was handed to him. Lady Woodward’s firm hand was on his shoulder, and she gave him another smile – this time, softer and sisterly. “Keep up the good work, Farnham. Take a breather. You’ve earned it.”

She seemed to take his tired nod as an acceptable reply, as she moved to another, less ruinous part of the training grounds. “Strand, you're up next!” she called, and another boy quickly scrambled to take his place – careful to move around the mess she and Philip had made of the area they used.

Her gait was still as steady as ever. Philip hadn’t held anything back. That was the power of a real knight in action, and Philip could not help but be in awe of her. He leaned back in his seat, trying to regulate his breathing.

“I'm beat... wah–?!”

He wasn’t given a second to do just that when another set of hands grabbed at him with an excitement that he was absolutely not ready to deal with at the moment.

“Philip! Philip!” Hubie was in his face – way too close for his liking – with a fire alight in his dark eyes. “Philip, what the hell, mate!”

“Slow down – what do you want?!”

“I can't help it – I can't sit still! You were so cool fighting Lady Woodward just now! It's been a while since I've seen you use your runes, but who knew you'd be such an expert at it by now...!”

His ears were still ringing from the fight earlier, and Philip did not need Hubie to bring them past the point of no return. He fought the urge to splash what was left of his water in his face.

“I-I get it! I get it, so thanks already! Settle down, you shouldn't be so agitated before a match!”

“Right mate, sorry 'bout that!” To Philip’s relief, Hubie did back off, though the overbearing energy remained when the other boy’s face was split into such a large, earnest grin. “I'm feeling pumped after seeing you now, don't want you to be the only one showing off!”

Philip winced. “That wasn't really my intention...”

“Ercanhard! You're up!” Sir Miles’s voice rang out.

“Be right there with ya! Alright – now it's my turn!” Hubie pumped his fist in the air, and ran backwards, giving Philip huge, wide waves with his arms. “Watch me, Philip!”

“S-sure. Good luck!” He called out, and thought that perhaps now he could relax – but he’d spotted Derryl and Nate from the corner of his eye and simply resigned himself to his fate when they sat themselves on either side of him.

“Say, mate – all of that was crazy!” Whistled Derryl.

“Who knew you were hiding that kind of insane skill...” Nate, his voice free of a sardonic tone for once, stared at him intently.

“You too...? No, I’m not trying to hide anything...”

“It's still a shock! You just seemed so gloomy, no one would have guessed you'd pull out so many surprises!” Nate retorted. Beside him, Derryl was nodding – and Philip wondered exactly just how he’d looked to these people when he stepped on the premises.

“G-gloomy?” He shook his head, directing his attention towards finding Hubie instead. “Anyway, let's talk later – I want to watch Hubie's match,”

Hubie wasn’t hard to spot – his black hair was too shaggy and pointy and he stuck out like a sore thumb in a crowd full of blue and white. Philip had to rub his eyes, blinking once, then twice, then three times – simply to confirm that yes, the thing in Hubie’s hands was indeed a huge sword that looked to be about two-thirds of the boy’s own height.

Sir Miles was his opponent, and in the knight’s hands was a standard-issue sword – the same kind that Lady Woodward had been using. The knight was nimble and sturdy, clearly not intimidated by Hubie’s weapon choice as he took to dodging Hubie’s wide swings.

Though clumsy at first glance, Hubie’s movements were not wasteful in any way – at least, in Philip’s eyes he was incredibly precise in the way he threw his weight around. Sir Miles’s steps were cautious, whether it be out of instinct or a conscious choice to avoid Hubie’s grand efforts. Each swing that he could not avoid was blocked, but with great difficulty – the strain it put on his muscles to even hold his body up from a direct blow was palpable even from this distance.

“Dang, Hubie's no slouch either, ain't he?” Derryl said, a thoughtful hand on his chin.

“He's not anythin' flashy,” said Nate, leaning back on his chair – though his eyes still watched the battle with rapt interest.

“A-are you kidding? He's swinging that large sword around like it's nothing,” Philip retorted, but Nate simply looked at him incredulously.

“Well, sure but... between you an' me, the runes surprised me more. You aiming to be put in the Magic course or something, Philip?”

He blinked. “Magic course?”

“Ah, it's just somethin' I heard from the higher-ups, then I told Nate...” Derryl said. “But the gist of it is that they're testing us like this to see what course would be best for you. If I remember right, there's three – Vanguard, Support, and Magic. You can guess what each one specializes in,”

Philip simply made an awed noise in reply, his eyes leading him back to Hubie and Sir Miles’s match, though his mind was now elsewhere. Vanguard likely meant they were training them to become part of the main infantry, where all of the fighting was. Most of the fight would be carried out by their skill with their weapons. He supposed Magic was much the same, but with much more emphasis on magecraft. Support seemed the vaguest out of all of them – he wondered vaguely what on earth kind of roles they had to fulfill on a field of battle.

Though, if Philip had the opportunity to choose…

“...hm. I don't think I'd like to be in the Magic course.” He finally said. He almost expected it when Nate gave him another strange look at that.

“You're serious…? I mean, you'll probably be put there anyway what with how much magic you're used to usin', but –”

“Ack–!”

Thoughts of roles evaporated when Hubie’s cry rang out loudly enough for them to pay utmost attention again – and, incredibly, Hubie’s large sword looks to have been knocked out of his hands by Sir Miles’s sword, which looked to be worse for wear from the effort – its blade bent at a nasty-looking angle. The boy bowed repeatedly at the knight, who was now trying to calm him down – and it looked to have worked when Hubie perked up and ran towards the weapon rack.

They had no idea what to think of the knight now that they’ve seen this feat, but Hubie’s own thoughts were all too evident on his face as he made his way back to them after handing Sir Miles a new sword.

“I'm back, fellas!”

Derryl was the first to break out of their stupor, shaking his head and standing up to hand Hubie a glass of water. “…yeesh, mate – go sit down. You're sweatin' buckets…”

Hubie laughed as he accepted the glass, downing it all in one gulp. “Haha, yeah – Sir Miles really didn't go easy on me! Man, and I tried my best too – I thought I'd be able to take him down!”

“You were amazing too though, Hubie…!” Philip said, now standing up to face him the same way Hubie had with him just minutes ago. “Just a couple of more direct hits, and you would have had him!”

Hubie avoided his gaze, and maybe he was more tired than Philip thought – because now the other boy was sweating twice as much, with red dusted over his freckled cheeks. “Aw shucks, ya think so?”

Philip had half a mind to fetch him a towel when Nate beat him to it. Or rather, the towel had been thrown onto Hubie’s face by their lanky roommate. “Well, you got the snot beaten out of you, but you're still standin' – that's nothing to sneeze at,”

“I've got nothin' on my buddy here though – I'll be real there. But you know, rune magic ain't the only flashy thing you can do with a sword!” Hubie’s expression morphed back into mirth as he rubbed at the side of his face, the red of his cheeks fading along with it – though there was something rather peculiar swirling about in his eyes when he turned to face Philip again. “Say, Philip – I want you to watch me even more! One day, I'll be just as impressive!”

“I-I wasn't really trying to impress anyone –” Philip held up both his hands in surrender, though Nate snorted at this.

“Could've fooled us –”

“Langford, step up! It's your turn!”

The boy nearly fell out of his seat when a knight’s voice reached his ears. “Damn – I'm not ready!”

Derryl grinned, pumping a fist into the air. “Break a leg, Nate!”

“Don't say that, you idiot…! What if I actually break a leg–?!”

“Come on Langford, we don't have all day!”

“Y-yes sir, sorry sir!”

They watched as Nate stumbled his way towards the knight that called him over. After a bit more fumbling, he picked up a halberd from the rack – a weapon that Philip had not expected out of him, though Derryl made a pleased noise beside him.

He was going to seat himself again when he found himself in another one of Hubie’s one-armed hugs. “I'm a little beat, but that really got me fired up…! Say Phil, what do you say we spar –”

“I'm gonna have to stop you right there, Hubie. We're not allowed to spar with each other without express permission from our commanding officer,” Both of them looked at Derryl at that, blinking.

“Huh? This is the first I've heard of that… and it's not like Phil and I haven't been sparring before,”

“That was once – several years ago –”

“Which counts!”

“You know what, I'll make it my first bonding activity with you –” Derryl helped himself to the gathering, draping an arm around both him and Hubie and Philip really wished at that moment that all of them would just sit already. “We're gonna sit down, and have a nice old afternoon reading the rulebook together.”

“N-no thanks, I'd rather be out prowlin' –” Hubie stuttered, but Derryl cut him off with a tut.

“And now I'm concerned, so no buts! You can ask for a spar after we get sorted,”

“That's a little – Phil, say something!”

“Sorry mate, I'm not looking to get into trouble… maybe next time, yeah?” Philip said, pulling himself out of both their grasps and straightening out his uniform. Though the rulebook’s existence was a curious piece of information to him – none of them have ever heard anything about a rulebook before. “I might actually want to take a crack at this rulebook too though… just so we don't screw something up by accident,”

“That's the spirit! See Hubie – even Philip's on board!”

It took Hubie a bit of looking back and forth between both of them before he hung his head and sulked. “Ugh… well, if Philip's doin' it,”

“Bourne, you're up!”

“Coming!” Derryl finally let go of Hubie, but not without rubbing his head with his knuckle and ignoring Hubie’s protests. “Alright you two, that's a promise! Watch Nate's match for me!”

Without leaving them both any room to argue back, their robust roommate made his way over to the knight that called him.

“That guy… he's weirdly compelling, don’t ya think?” Hubie grumbled, patting at his hair to fix whatever Derryl had mussed up.

“I get the feeling he's just way too used to stringing his friends along,”

>>>

The rest of that day passed by without much incident – given to them by the instructors, who advised them to take their rest after working so hard. Derryl had, indeed, kept a thick rulebook that was worn from having been read over and over. Philip wondered exactly how long Derryl had been aiming to become a Knight Ardante – and how long he’d been working on this knowledge, without knowing that the rulebook had been outdated for a good ten years now, as Hubie pointed out from the cover when asked to read the entire thing front to back.

Philip couldn’t call it a waste, in good conscience. They managed to learn a lot about the Knights that came before them, at the very least – what they had to do to get in, what rules they had to abide by, what battles they won. Most of the things written inside didn’t line up with anything they were expected to do today, but two things remained constant. The first was that desertion of the sword was tantamount to desertion of the Order, and the second was that infighting was still very much forbidden. Even spars had to be regulated.

It took Hubie all of dinnertime to be shaken out of the funk he sunk into when he learned that information, when the conversation shifted towards the weapons they chose to use.

“You really surprised me, you know.” Philip told him, taking a hearty bite out of one of the chicken legs they were offered. “I didn’t peg you to be a two-handed sword guy,”

“It’s kind of embarrassin’, but when I heard that the big guy you came to Stonegard with was the Unbending Blade – I just couldn’t help myself! I still remember the way he swatted those remnants away with one swipe of his huge sword! Like, that thing was bigger than I was mate!” Hubie explained. “An’ I thought, maybe I could learn to do something like that? Just so I wouldn’t run into the same problem as last time! Took a while before my own mentor let me handle a sword that thick though,”

“Wait – back up – Philip, you know the Unbending Blade?!” Nate asked, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Yes? He’s uh – he’s my mentor.”

Derryl hummed. “Suddenly a lot of things about you make sense…”

“W-what? Don’t stare at me like that, let’s not make this into a bigger deal than it needs to be…” Philip stuttered out.

“Hard when the guy you’re studyin’ under has songs written about him, mate.” Nate retorted. “Come to think of it, other than your moves… you don’t take after him much, when you’re usin’ all those runes and stuff.”

“I was… talked into it.” Philip said, though he didn’t miss the way Hubie’s eyes were trained on him. He couldn’t blame him, not when he knew that Philip had Cyrus’s backing in some form. “A-anyway, Nate – you’re amazing too, aren’t you? With the halberd and all,”

“Eh? You think so? I’m not used to the weight of it,” Nate replied sheepishly. “I’m plannin’ to switch back to a regular old spear the next chance I get, so don’t go yappin’ any more about it.”

“You seemed to handle it just fine though?” Derryl said.

“Look, it’s hard when I’m up against people and not like – fish,”

“You fish like that, mate?” Hubie asked, curious.

“It’s not that strange, is it? Harpoon-fishing,”

“You’re openin’ my eyes to a whole new world here,”

The talks continued well into the night like that, going from weapons to food to memories of frolicking around in the backyards of their respective hometowns. Philip learned very many things that night – more than he ever expected to out of new people he’d just met, like how Hubie had managed to sneak into the ruins of the ruined manse – because that went swimmingly the last time he’d tried trespassing somewhere – or how Derryl and Nate came across more tales of Sir Olberic’s exploits down in Riverford.

It felt good, even if Philip hadn’t felt like talking much about himself. He wasn’t sure what kept his mouth shut about the crazier things that happened to him in the past few years – perhaps it was the way his old wounds still stung underneath his clothes, or the way even thinking about wolves made Philip quiver. But he was not keen on ruining whatever this was, and he continued to smile and laugh along when Hubie shared a story about a legendary hunter named Z’aanta that came to visit Stonegard the other month.

Before they knew it, it was the next day – and they still needed to be down at the training grounds at six sharp. Sir Miles did not make any mention of the bags under their eyes when they stepped outside, which would have been great, had they not needed to take their laps around the Flamesgrace Wilds once more.

“… and that's a wrap for today's warm-ups! Good job, guys! Take a five-minute break!”

As soon as Sir Miles gave the order, most of the squires all but dragged themselves to the rest area and collapsed onto the seats from exhaustion. Philip and Nate were ‘most squires’, hunched over the chairs in favor of just sitting.

“… every damned day, we're really gonna do this? Why'd I choose to come here again?” Nate panted, emptying the water in his cup so fast that Philip thinks he might as well have splashed it on his face.

“Heh,” Derryl chuckled, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here!”

“Easy for you to say. It's day two and you look like you've barely broken a sweat, so stop showing off in front of me…”

“Don't be like that! Here, take my water!”

“You're impossible…” Nate complained, taking Derryl’s cup anyway. “But thanks,”

Philip wondered idly if this was going to be what most of his mornings would look like from now on. He was snapped out of his rumination by Hubie’s arrival, who was balancing no less than five cups of spring water in his hands.

“You guys done with your spat yet?” Hubie grinned as he began passing out the cups between each of them. Nate groaned.

“And here comes the other impossible guy – what is it with meatheads like you being fine in this weather?!”

“I'm not that much of a meathead!” Hubie protested. “Maybe you've just got too much flab on you!”

“I'm not even gonna try and deny that, but lay off – like you’ve got room to talk, too!”

Philip simply watched as they went back and forth like that, as though they’d known each other for ages now. He didn’t realize Derryl had approached him until the robust boy spoke “Heh, sorry about Nate – he gets pretty cranky when he hasn't gotten his coffee yet.”

It was too late to be apologizing for that, was what Philip wanted to say. He offered him a lopsided smile instead. “Nah, it's fine – I think we both get him… All this is really hard to get used to, I don’t blame him one bit.”

“You're not bad either, you know. You're still standin' upright and it's only been the second day,”

“Thanks? I guess I'm just used to it… Cobbleston's small, so I've had to learn how to wake up early to help with chores.” Philip said, shrugging off the compliment.

“Sounds tough,”

“You get used to it,”

“Alright squires, your five minutes are up! Gather around!”

With no small amount of grumbling, the squires obeyed Sir Miles’s order – lining up once more. The knight then opened his ledger, humming for a few seconds, then snapped it shut once more as he cleared his throat to speak.

“I'd like you now to group yourselves according to your room assignments – this will be the team arrangement that we will be working with for the rest of your time here. You will be assigned team leaders later in the day as well, and you'll have the rest of the day to get acquainted with them and your assigned course.

“As some of you may be aware already, there are three major courses provided in the Squirehood – you will be sorted according to the strengths that you have shown us in the practical exam yesterday. Placements and schedules will also be discussed according to your commanding officer, so please wait a short while until they arrive.”

Mixed murmurs amongst the squires filled the air as they grouped themselves as Philip and his roommates moved away from everyone else.

“I'm kinda relieved… I'm already so used to you three that it'd put me on edge to be around anyone else,” Derryl said, breathing out a sigh.

“Took the words out of my mouth!” Hubie nodded in agreement. “Who do you think's gonna be – why is Sir Miles walking towards us.”

Sure enough, when they all looked back, the brown-haired knight was walking their way, prompting them to line up neatly to greet him. Before they could get a word out however, Sir Miles already had a hand raised.

“At ease, squires, it’s alright. It’s a pleasure to be working with you!” he said, with a smile that bore none of the weight that it had in the past few days.

“You’re acting a little differently from before,” Nate blurted out, before slapping a hand to his mouth. Sir Miles only gave a laugh at that, rubbing at the back of his neck somewhat meekly.

“Ah, you noticed… sorry about that, I suppose I'm still trying to get used to managing my behavior. It’s hard to keep up appearances all the time, you know? I don’t know how the commander does it,” he said, then coughed into his fist. “But anyway, I'm looking forward to helping you guys out.”

It all took them a moment. Looking at him like this now, Philip thought – Sir Miles wasn’t all that old, nor as strict as he’d expected. Rather, when not clapping his hands or ordering them to fall in line, he looked to be a simple enough guy. Still, they all saw him take on all of his assigned squires yesterday with an ease so practiced – they couldn’t underestimate him.

Philip saw his own thoughts reflected in the eyes of his roommates, so with a collective nod, they straightened themselves out and gave him a salute.

“Likewise, Sir!”

Sir Miles tilted his head in approval, and gave them a short bow. “Well, I'll introduce myself again – I'm Miles Ambriel, when we're in this environment, you're free to address me however you like. I'll be overseeing your performance as your commanding officer. If you four run into any problems, you come to me first, alright?”

“Yessir!”

“Excellent, let's see… ah right, your course placements!” the knight pulled out a sheet of paper – from where he keeps pulling these things out of, Philip will cease to question – and cleared his throat. “Bourne, Ercanhard – you're both Vanguards.”

The two immediately took to slinging an arm around each other’s shoulders at that. “Whoo! I was aimin' for that!” Hubie cheered, while Nate rolled his eyes at them.

Philip meanwhile grappled with a mild conundrum – that left two more possible roles, and Nate hadn’t displayed any such talent for magic yesterday. Mentally, he braced himself – he would have preferred to become a Vanguard, but thinking about it now, Philip wondered if he should have held back on the runes after all. If he was to be placed in the Magic course, there was very little chance that he’d learn anything of substance.

“That leaves us with you, Langford and Farnham – you're both Supports.”

So when those words left their acting captain’s mouth, Philip let out a breath so heavy that he wondered how he remained on his feet.

“Ah, I'm relieved – wait –” Nate’s own relief was short-lived, and was quickly replaced with confusion. “We don't have a Magic Squire on our team? Not even Philip?”

“I can see why you'd think that! I was surprised too,” Sir Miles replied, looking directly at Philip now. “But the higher-ups ruled out his rune magic as enhancement rather than raw manipulation of magic,”

“I think the Professor said something about that too,” Philip said, trying to avoid his gaze, saying nothing more than that as he felt the eyes of the others on him as well.

Sir Miles’s gaze lingered for only a second longer, nodding instead with an agreeable noise. “I should have expected you'd be familiar with it! Well, now that that's out of the way, it's time for us to set off – I'll be walking you through the intended daily routines you'll be taking…”

Thus began Philip’s real days of study and swordplay, as outlined by the activities penned on Sir Miles’s seemingly endless supply of paper. Though the others felt satisfied with the roles given to them, Philip couldn’t help but listen with only half an ear when Sir Miles gave him and Nate the basic run-down of classes they would be taking as Support squires.

It was a petty thought, but Philip now seriously wished he didn’t need to rely on his runes so much, if this was the hand that was dealt to him.

Chapter Text

This was a frankly terrible idea.

The last thing Kit really wanted out of life was even more of Galdera – he has spent enough of his time haunted by that accurst God. He still felt everything crawl on his skin, most days. Being encased in that cocoon, wrestling with every voice that rang in his head – most of all Galdera's own, assimilating itself into his body like a parasite.

He thinks he can still hear the voices. In the corners of his room at night, in the shadows that lurk just out of sight – there was no escape to it all.

So it was perhaps not his wisest decision to come to Professor Albright, who seemed intent on becoming the world's foremost scholar on Galderan arts. Cursory visits to the Professor's study – be it in the Academy or in his own horribly cluttered home – were filled with stiff moments where Kit forced himself to stare only at the Professor, in a time where looking into anyone's eyes felt like a great burden. He was afraid to even glimpse into the margins of the Professor's notes, too precise and familiar with the Galderan tongue. Despite his unique efforts to hide every overt Galderan manuscript from Kit's sight, Kit knew implicitly that there were nightmares in his shelves that he cannot do anything about.

Professor Albright may be a bit airheaded, but he was no fool – no, more than that, he was the model educator. There was no escaping his scrutiny when Kit came to him with the question of being taken under his wing.

"Are you quite sure, my boy?" He'd asked that day, concern written across his face like an epic tale. "Not that your interest is unwelcome,"

"It's... Professor, they told me in the Congregation that I could be dangerous, right?" Kit steeled himself. "That I have great power. I don't want to waste it... but I don't know how to use it,"

"You wish to learn more advanced magic, do you…" the Professor hummed, stacking up his dusty books. "I think that can be arranged! Very easily might I add,"

"So then –!"

"May I ask why?"

Kit blinked. "W-why, I already told you why… it'd be a huge waste, and I'd like to be useful to people,"

The scholar stared at him for a few seconds, before motioning towards his couch. Obediently, Kit took a seat, though he felt his throat run dry at the conversation that was about to take place. He remained quiet as the Professor prepared a cup of tea for him, on a tray that Kit has now grown to be very familiar with. The concern had never left Professor Albright's face, even as a smile had etched itself across his lips.

"I'd like you to be frank with me, Kit. Are you being coerced into this?" He asked, and Kit felt sweat roll over the protrusions on his skin. "Did you meet with someone from the Congregation, recently?"

Fervently, he shook his head. "N-no, nothing like that, Professor! No one's forcing me to do this, I-I just,"

The Professor's hands worked quietly, pouring sugars and sweeteners into the tea without missing a beat. "It's something else then,"

"Why is that something you want to know, anyway?" Kit tried, hating the accusatory edge in his own voice.

"Your condition," Professor Albright replied, setting aside saucers. "It complicates matters. You have your own motives, I'm sure – so please know that I am merely speaking out of concern for you. I'd like to take you under my wing, regardless of those things. I simply wished to affirm the autonomy of your decision."

This would have been far from the first time that Kit would think that the Professor was an unfair man. He's never met someone so earnest, nor has he ever quite dealt with an adult that so keenly saw through him. His own father couldn't do so, nor could any of the friends he'd made in the Impresario's Troupe in his short time with them.

Then again, he supposed he's never quite dealt with adults who would stare down the god of life and death simply to retrieve him either. Through the grime and soot and every aching pain that Kit masked behind a smile, Cyrus Albright could see him.

Kit wasn't sure if this was a position he quite liked.

He straightened himself out in his seat. "This is my own choice, Professor. I want to learn. I don't want to be afraid of myself, or what any of this could mean for me."

It wasn't the whole truth. He had a feeling the Professor could tell.

If he ever did, he did not mention it when he brought out the necessary forms to assume his new role as Kit's legal guardian, signing them with nary a trace of hesitation in his cursive.

>>>

He was using the Professor. He knew this – knew this, coming to love him anyway, in spite of the itching, loathsome ichor that clung onto his skin like a fresh iron brand. This was selfish, he reminded himself as he picked up every stray book, wiped off every speck of dust on the tables and cabinets – prepared every light, sugar-filled meal that he knew the Professor liked.

The Professor's home was – for lack of a better word – dusty. And so to distract himself from the constant creeping on his skin, he took it upon himself to fix that. Kit would not consider himself a good cleaner, but he was at least certain that he could do a better job than an exhausted Professor who often kept late nights. Kit mused to himself – by the time he'd picked up his dusters and rags to tidy up the third, cramped reading nook – that he almost couldn't blame him. This house was too big and too empty for just one man.

He would learn later that this was the Professor's family home, when he tripped over a box filled with portraits of dignified-looking men and women. With a rare twinge of open guilt in his tone, the Professor had told him, "It pains me as my parents' son that I find myself so overworked that I would leave the cleaning to my ward. Please do not feel obligated to do this, Kit. I implore you to tell me off."

Kit's hands were laden with unknown things when he held a particular frame in his hands that day. A family of three was painted there, in faded, dusty colors. It looked nothing like any family portrait that Kit had ever seen, free of stuffy airs and dramaturgic caricatures. Instead, it had looked like what it was perfectly meant to – a moment frozen in time. A lanky, kind-looking man had his arms wrapped around his wife and child. The wife, a lady with a refreshed complexion, had her hair falling freely down and her arms fully embracing the child. All three had smiled unabashedly, vibrant blue eyes piercing through the canvas – free of burdens and worry and bearing only confidence for the future.

He felt sincerity in his smile that day, when his fingers traced their figures. The Albrights were deserving of their name. He wondered vaguely if there was ever a time like that in his own life. "It's okay, Professor. I think your parents would worry more if you were left alone in a dusty place like this, so I'd like to help them out a little."

"It seems I have yet to prove myself to be a capable adult," The scholar had the decency to be sheepish at least, but he had joined Kit in simply staring at the painting. Melancholy was a feeling that Kit knew very well, and it hung over the Professor almost pervasively. "They would have loved to meet you, Kit."

His heart tightened at the very thought. Kit no longer knew if the darkness recoiling within him was of Galdera's or his own, but he's unsure if he could withstand the meeting.

What would it be like, indeed – to meet with the parents who had raised a man so full of love and vigor? He's not sure he can stomach it. The fog clouding his mind would break the dam keeping him sane, and he's had quite enough of his own tears.

Mister and Missus Albright seemed to stare at him too, their gazes fond and laden with encouragement. Did they know of Kit's sin? Would they forgive him for imposing upon their son like this? Would it be okay with them if he kept knowing even more about the Professor?

"Thanks, Professor."

He managed to say that and nothing more on the matter, though the painting found itself in its rightful place once more – hanging in the foyer of the Albright Household, waiting to greet anyone who sought the company of Cyrus Albright.

>>>

It didn't take too long for Kit to settle into a routine in the Albright Household, just as he had in his days in the Castle. Though the Professor had stopped visiting Cobbleston regularly, it didn't mean he wasn't still traveling around and putting strain on his body. Kit was already accustomed to his habits, even prior to settling in, but there was no stopping his own concern when the Professor didn't come home from the Academy, or the Royal Library.

It gave him plenty of time to sift through the documents. When not poring over complex tomes packed with magic circles and the million distinctions between emanation and manipulation, Kit swallowed down his guilt – pulling out carefully hidden pieces of parchment and every rolled up forbidden scroll on Galdera that he could get his hands on. Even discarded drafts of From the Far Reaches of Hell were useful – the Professor used their margins for offhand notes.

'– the existence of automatons, in conjunction with the undead, may very well be indicative of Galdera's lingering influence. The opening of the Gate some 200 years ago had given us the mad witch Lyblac –'

'– the role of the Mageknight Balogar in the safeguarding of the Gate of Finis. His testimony suggests that he is unable to venture very far out of his domain in the Everhold border, which could serve as an explanation as to why Lyblac had managed to escape his purview –'

'– with regards to the full extent of the effects of the Scarlet Snow, we must posit the question – how much of the plan devised by Ceraphina was influenced by Lyblac –'

Every time, the same name. Kit cursed himself and his inability to overcome her – the red in his vision, the ichor in his veins, the machinations of a thousand cursed years running through his body – all of this was pointless if he could not push through his fear of her.

On the nights that the Professor did return to his home, he suspected nothing, and Kit's guilt could not be enough to stop him from hiding the papers under his pillow anyway. There could be a more efficient way of storing them, he mused, because he did not trust the strength of his own mind. Nightmares were all they were, escaping from the confines of mere words and seeping through the pillows – flooding and stabbing away at his mind every night.

The Professor came to check on him, some nights. Because who else could it be – other than Mister Therion, who was too exasperated on most nights to care about anything other than putting the Professor to bed – who else could push themselves out of the sheets to simply see if Kit was doing fine?

Kit was not doing fine most days. But the Professor did not need to know that. He did not need to know that tears slipped from his eyes in unknown colors sometimes, blotting over the sheets like spilled ink. He did not need to know of the information Kit had stolen that was now resting underneath the covers, feeding him visions of a world flooded – disappearing into a starless night, the sky becoming one with the sea to form oblivion. He did not need to know of the spots and gashes across his skin splashing outwards, reaching for the void that his saviors had fought so hard to banish.

He did not need to know that his arms did not feel like his own on most days, reaching out for magic as if wanting to yank its presence from the veins of those overflowing with it. Kit was only ever lucky enough, that this contact could be mistaken for warmth and yearning.

The Professor did not need to know that Kit did yearn.

>>>

Kit's routine took him to the Academy, still. Sometimes the Professor's work would take him away for long enough that having Kit along would become counterproductive, and on such occasions, Kit was rarely left alone unsupervised. If it were anyone but him, Kit would feel embarrassed – a 19-year-old kid that cannot be left alone.

On the days that he was granted reprieve from constant surveillance, he was content to be left alone with his thoughts. Though the attendants and staff were all familiar with him and he them, pleasantry was as far as he could ever allow himself to be close to them. Other students simply saw him as a gloomy transfer student who came out of nowhere in the final term of the last semester, and left it at that.

Meeting Philip a couple of years ago had changed things. Subtly, but Kit had known by now never to ignore the subtle things.

(Except for when he should. He swore to himself since then never again to make his assumptions on the romantic lives of his saviors known.)

He felt himself compelled to write to the boy that the Professor had taken upon himself to train out of the blue. If he had overstepped these bounds, no one had ever told Kit as much – nor could the replies have masked such feelings. It gave him a small sense of comfort to simply hear more about a place as quaint as Cobbleston – quiet, sleepy, uneventful Cobbleston, where the weather was fair most days and the people were far removed from the nightmares of the continent’s machinations. It was no wonder that the Professor spoke of it so fondly.

That was also when his relationship with the Professor's brightest graduates changed.

The Crown Princess Mary Reinsonne had always seemed far away from him, as Kit's life had never been so extravagant as to involve people like royalty and princesses. Sometimes it was enough to simply be concerned for their beloved Professor Albright together.

But Princess Mary Reinsonne was, to Kit's detriment, still a model student of Cyrus Albright's – meaning she had inherited his eye for people and carried with her none of his same quirks when it came to casual conversation. It also meant that she was very persuasive, which was how he had ended up meeting with her for tea for the first time.

"So, he's gone and finally taken in a ward," the Princess said wistfully. "I'm not surprised that it ended up working out,"

"Do… people often approach him asking for unreasonable things?" Kit asked, the tea in his hands rippling.

"It's something anyone can do," Princess Mary shrugged, though drank her tea with grace – pinky up and all. "Professor Albright is a very hands-on educator, and you're under his care. Even if he's swamped with work, he'll bend over backwards to help you if you ask him to,"

"But I don't want to ask that of him,"

"Hehe. You'll just have to deal with it, I think. See, he's a very kind man. That's what's makes him so popular,"

It was at that moment that Kit saw the Princess, meeting her eye to eye for the first time. The jade of her gaze gleamed clearly against the harsh, golden glow of everything around them – and in it was the gentle haze of fond recollections. Kit recognized that look, and the melancholy it carried.

"It also makes him reckless. He's not paid enough attention to himself in a while." she said, her voice carrying with it the distinguished edge she showed only when formally ordering the Professor to bed.

"I can see that..." he replied, careful as he sipped out of the tea he was given. It had the sweetness of three sugar cubes, tasting of autumn and memories.

The Princess's gaze hardened. Her eyes seemed like a pair of emeralds now, warm with temperament. "Kit, if you're having issues, it's probably just best to be direct with him... if you don't tell him first, it's likely he'll knock himself out trying to figure out the problem on his own. He's a roundabout man like that,"

"H-has no one really told him that this sort of thing could be a bother?"

The Princess hummed thoughtfully at that. "There used to be. But Professor Endlich has been away for a very long time now…"

That was a name that Kit had only ever heard in passing – but spoken by the Professor, its sound dripped with the distinct, hapless tone of a close bond.

"Do you feel like saying anything to him yet?" the Princess's voice cut through his musings, and Kit looked down upon his cup once more.

Princess Mary did not know much of what Kit sees, and Kit would prefer to keep it that way – he'd rather not drag Her Majesty into his problems. Though Kit knew nothing of royalty and customs, he knew one thing for certain about Mary Reinsonne – that she was part of the world that the Professor worked tirelessly to protect. The Crown Princess of Atlasdam was deserving of her title as the Sun of the Flatlands – she was bright, diligent, and overflowing with love for her Kingdom.

The open hands that so daintily held the teacup with fine tea did not deserve to be tainted with anything of Kit's. This was his truth, in the moment –

– but by some compelling force – perhaps it was the insistence in her eyes, or the pleading undertones of her words – Kit's mouth began to move all the same.

"... he's done so much for me. I want to do everything I can while I'm here, but…"

It could tell nothing but half-truths. But he knew she could read into him, past the regret and ego that had been locked into brutal struggle in his own mind for the longest while – the moment he accepted her invitation, he knew that she had already caught a glimpse of what writhed underneath.

It was all someone like her needed. Kit sorely wondered how she could stand to look at him kindly despite all that.

"It's fine, it's fine! You want something out of this, right? I don't think he'll hold that against you." she said, waving a hand his way in dismissive fashion. "But Kit, I want you to know one more thing."

"Y-Yes? What is it?"

Now Kit felt like he couldn't escape – and now he is assured completely that the shape of her gaze on him remained kind. It was a crushing weight that he had no heart to trouble her with.

"The Professor isn't the only person you can lean on. You can come to me if you have any more problems, okay? Promise me."

He was becoming too good at lying, he thinks. But anything was worth it to see her face awash with relief when he nodded back at her – unsure and determined all at once, just enough to be convincing.

"... yeah. Yeah! Thank you, Princess Mary!" The smile on his lips felt damning.

"Oh please, we've known each other for a few years now! Just call me Mary when we're alone!"

He will be damned in due time, of this Kit was certain. It did not surprise him one bit when her likeness had appeared in his nightmares that night, among the mountain of bodies – beneath the dripping evil of a red-eyed beast.

>>>

Where there was a Sun, there followed a Moon. Lady Therese Shermot was that Moon, and Kit had always thought that it was a moniker that suited her well. Princess Mary's brilliance was unmistakable and regal, but Lady Therese's charms were her own and served to balance her cousin well. Princess Mary's dignified presence was purposeful, and Lady Therese trailed behind her stride – demure, but nevertheless hiding a certain passion.

At the very least, this was what Kit had thought about her in the few years he'd spent merely greeting her in the hallways of the Academy. He wasn't quite sure what it was that she was aiming to be after her graduation as she seemed to be just about everywhere in Atlasdam – and to be fair, she doesn't know either, telling him as much one day when he spotted her assisting the local provisioner with their morning sales.

"I'm nothing like Her Highness," she spoke frankly. "But I should like to support her wherever I can… so I'm following her example to get to know the lands we'll be governing. I might find an answer here,"

He gained a great deal of respect for her tenacity that day. What he doesn't expect is the tea party that she also ended up inviting him to. So once again, Kit is invited for a cup of tea and Atlasdamian snacks that still tasted far too bland, faced with another member of the Flatlands Aristocracy.

Lady Therese was nothing like her cousin, behind the curtains of her own private spaces. She trembled and stumbled over her words. Kit could not find it in him to judge her when he felt rooted to his own seat in the gazebo of House Shermot.

"S-so, Lady Therese, what did you want to talk to me about…?" He tried, ignoring the way the teacup trembled in his hand. He almost flinched when he heard Lady Therese make some sort of high-pitched noise.

"Just call me Therese, I beg you!" She blurted out, before politely coughing into her fist. "A-ahem. I wanted to see if you're doing alright,"

He blinked. "Of course! I'm fine, thanks for your concern…"

"... is that so,"

All of a sudden, the air seemed to crackle with anxiety – making Kit's hairs stand on end. The Lady Therese's braided silver hair seemed to quiver in the space around her. Her eyes turned glossy with what Kit sorely hoped weren't tears.

"Kit, it's not nice to lie…" She mumbled.

"E-eh?"

The noblewoman set her cup and saucer down on the table. Her eyes – blue like lightning – had a determined edge to them now as she stared at him with both of her hands clenched into shaking fists. "I can tell something's bothering you, so...! If you wouldn't mind sharing it with me,"

Kit swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. "W-why are you so invested?"

"Because... this is because of the Professor, right?"

Though they were in the broad daylight of early summer, Kit felt as though his back had been drenched with ice. Lady Therese continued to look at him with that quivering bottom lip, her body shaking with words that seemed too powerful to contain.

“Uh – no, no, it's not like he's treating me badly,” Kit tried to cut her off, waving his hands. “There's really nothing to worry about–”

“But, that's exactly it, isn't it? Because he's not treating you badly,”

He had been afraid of this. The moment that he accepted her private invitation, he simply knew that it could only come to this. He cursed himself – if this situation was due to his imperfect actions, or if it was some long-held desire of Lady Therese’s, he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. Trapped beasts had not much to think of when backed into a corner – other than escape.

But he could not find it in himself to deny the plea in Lady Therese’s eyes. It kept him staring at her, waiting for her to continue.

Silence settled between them for a few moments – perhaps now, some of the longest, loneliest moments that Kit had ever experienced in his life, before Lady Therese began to speak once more.

“...do you know, I was the reason that he left on his journey a few years ago? It's because I got him into trouble,” Her voice seemed to become weaker with every word that fell from her lips – so much that Kit felt like he had to strain his ears to even listen. “I was... I was selfish. And very stupid. I let my petty feelings get the best of me, and I could have cost him everything. He says he's forgiven me, but I don't think he really understands,”

He knew nothing of the specifics. When prompted, the Professor never once mentioned Lady Therese nor Princess Mary as part of the exact reason why he was sent on sabbatical. One would never be able to tell if they only took to observing the amicable way that the Princess, Lady Therese, and the Professor would interact with one another.

But there were shadows cast over the aristocrat’s eyes – this was a truth she held close to her heart.

“Then how…”

Her answer to his unspoken words came out easier than Kit had ever expected them to.

“Because… the way he keeps smiling at me… it makes me think, I can really live with myself after that.”

Those were the steadiest words that he had ever heard he speak of her own accord. If only things were so simple.

“But… doesn't it hurt?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking more. He felt his heart thump painfully against his ribcage. “If he smiles like nothing's really wrong, if he keeps treating you the way you don't think you deserve to be,”

“Of course it hurts. I really can't stand it sometimes… no, it's not him that I can't stand, it's myself. I still feel like I want to crawl into a hole sometimes, and just stay there…” she replied, her voice once again showing its cracks and crevices. “But I feel like he won't forgive himself if I do something like that. Even after everything, he reached out to me and let me stay in his life. And I just thought – I can keep going, even if I have to cling to him selfishly.”

Kit had never quite understood the passion of educators – much less the persistence of the one he now called his guardian. Cyrus Albright, away from the public eye, was clumsy and tireless and overflowing with love. He wasn’t sure most teachers were like him.

He wasn’t certain that anyone was quite like him. Simply knowing this truth made even breathing difficult – how often does the Professor push himself past that limit, that boundary between teacher and student where he could still stand to smile even as a student could cost him everything?

Kit’s very presence could cost the Professor his life, and now he understood why he felt like choking every time the Professor reached out for his hand.

“… do you think he'll do that for me too? If…”

Her answer was exactly as he feared. “Yeah… I think he will. Do you get what I'm trying to tell you now…?”

He doesn’t notice Lady Therese’s presence until she was holding both his hands in hers, rubbing circles over the back of his palms. Alone like this, sitting under the shade of morning glory and ivy vines, the Lady sutured the open wounds that Kit never meant for her to see.

“It's okay… it's okay. If you have things you feel like you can't say, when you feel like you won't be understood… you can come to me. I'll listen to everything, okay?”

He doesn’t know how to apologize to her. He could only nod as they stood there, paying no mind to the tea that has long grown cold.

>>>

The last of the Professor’s longstanding, endeared students that Kit had the pleasure of meeting was perhaps the only one to truly understand his conundrum. Barring every event from a couple of years ago, Kit doesn’t think he’s ever been so unsettled.

Except for today, probably. There weren’t many days where he can say that he was threatened with death by a twelve-year old boy’s hand.

Mikhail Roya was a name that Kit had only ever seen in some of the papers that the Professor was grading, but digging just a little deeper would give him the record of a boy talented enough to have already penned and adapted an original play in Theatropolis. Later on, he will come to know the boy as someone who carried with him an indescribable, restless void.

He would feel kinship with him if Mikhail were not so closed off – detached from most things. But Kit knew the feeling well.

Their meeting did not have any tea nor flavorless snacks. Instead, it was one where Kit had been caught unawares as he was reading alone in one of the Academy’s empty classrooms.

“You... you've got the smell of gods on you,”

The unfamiliar voice shook him out of his concentration. It took everything Kit had not to flinch at the way the boy’s eyes bored into his. Unlike Mary and Therese, his eyes held no warmth to them – no pretense, no softness, only a jagged, invasive scrutiny.

“S-sorry? Can I help you?” he tried, but the sandy-haired boy only narrowed his gaze further, his features contorting into open distaste.

“...no, that's not it. There's something worse, isn't there? Something's wrong with you.” His words flowed forth, steeled and steady as he approached Kit with resolute steps. There was really no reason that Kit should be so intimidated by a child that was about half his size, but something about the way he spoke simply kept Kit rooted to his seat.

“... I don't know what you're talking about,” Kit replied dumbly. The boy scoffed.

“Please don't mistake me for a simple child. I know more than a few things about the gods.” He said, continuing to stare him down. The room seemed to grow more frigid, but nothing could have prepared Kit for what the boy said next.

“Is that why you're here? Because you're using the Professor too?”

It felt like his entire world had shattered. Every effort he made not to give anything away was torn down and made useless so easily – dread filled his entire being as his chin was forcibly lifted by a youthful hand, forcing him to meet the boy’s cold gaze once again.

“I...” he breathed out, but he really had nothing to say in his defense. What could he say?

“It's written all over your face,” The boy’s stare sharpened into a full-on glare, his fingers tightening their grip on Kit’s flesh. “...well? Out with it. Who were you cursed by?”

“C-cursed? You're talking about gods here,” he said incredulously, though he was aware of the ridiculousness of his own words. The boy seemed to recognize that as well, rolling his eyes in deep exasperation as he let go of Kit’s chin.

“The only thing the gods can give you is power. It's up to us weak folk to decide whether or not it's a curse.” He replied simply, and Kit wondered if this was how all twelve-year-olds talked. But twelve-year-old boys could not – should not – have shoulders that seemed to sag with the weight of ten terrible years, nor could they heave such world-weary sighs. “...you don't smell familiar, so it can't be Aeber,” he muttered, putting his fingers to his temple in thought.

It was Kit’s turn to narrow his gaze. “You know something about this then.”

“I'm a silly kid, if anyone asks. A normal kid wouldn't want anything to do with something that hurt them so badly,” the boy shrugged, walking backwards to the table in front of Kit and seating himself upon it. Crossing his knees, he then leaned forward – never once breaking eye contact with Kit. “So, consider this a favor. I help you look for material, and you promise me that you'll never hurt the Professor.”

Questions about the kid’s dubious capabilities aside, Kit could swear he felt his eyes bulge out of his sockets at the words. Willingly hurting the Professor – it was perhaps the most outrageous thing that he’s ever heard all this time. “W-what makes you think that I'll do something like that?!” He asked indignantly.

“It's insurance. We're just people. I can't take any chances if gods have something to do with it.”

All of a sudden, the world around them both felt heavier – thick with the oppressive, crushing weight comparable to that of the nightmares that insisted on haunting Kit every single night.

“If you won't agree, then I'll have to try to end you right here.”

Even in the face of the boy’s threat, each word laced with bloodlust and obsession, Kit felt a strange calm. It disturbed him – he swears this – that such danger brought Kit a twisted comfort in its familiar grip.

Kit took one deep breath, then two, squeezing his eyes shut. Like some sadistic reminder, a vision of the Professor dead at his feet – not breathing, bleeding profusely from a slit throat – burned itself into his eyelids. Even simply imagining the sight of him crumpled up on the ground with cold hands and dead eyes filled him with a rage he had never felt before, and he clenched his fists.

Gritting his teeth, he opened his eyes once more to meet the boy’s empty gaze. “No, I get it. You... look too serious about this, but I don't want any blood on your hands.”

Silence remained between them, as did the muggy gravity that hung over them like a veil of pointed nails. Kit sucked in another breath.

“On one condition.”

“Hm?”

“You tell me everything you know.”

Unbearably, the air around them began to shift – in what way, Kit did not desire to know. All he knew was that he would never forget the way that the boy’s lips curled upwards, tinged with thinly-veiled malice.

He hadn’t paid much attention before then, but the boy’s eyes were green – deep, hungry, and raging. They were nothing like the Princess’s, whose eyes still held to them a certain warmth that softened the edges of the burden on her shoulders. The boy known as Mikhail Roya had no such pretense.

“Sure. Not that there's a lot that you need to know about me.”

It is in the near future that Kit would come to regret not paying more attention to such words, and how they hadn’t fit the boy in front of him at all. But until that day came, Mikhail Roya’s presence was a grounding, harrowing reminder – one that Kit hadn’t known he needed so badly until he found himself with a pile of new papers from the Professor’s offices on his end table the next morning, each filled with more information than he knew what to do with. They disappeared from his bedside just as quietly, not long after he was done with them.

If this was the shape of Aeber’s curse that Mikhail had claimed he carried, then it was a very convenient one indeed. It did nothing at all to ease the building worry Kit had felt for the boy and his disconcerting familiarity with the pain Kit himself carried.

There was always a warning in Mikhail’s eyes, whenever they would meet – what Mikhail knew was but a meager fraction of what Mikhail felt, and if Kit really understood how things went, then he will pry no further.

>>>

"Kit? May I come in?"

Like clockwork now, he pushed the forbidden papers under his pillow, and pulled out the book on Dreisang's arts that he was really meant to be studying at the moment. "Yes, Professor."

Strange for him to be asking that in his own house, Kit mused as the scholar opened the door to the room he provided Kit. In his arms was a sealed crate of some kind, one that he was having some difficulty lifting – so Kit immediately set down his book to help him with it. He frowned at the weight of the box. "Professor, why didn't you call for me to help you carry this?"

"Ahaha, I wanted it to be a surprise, you see." the Professor replied with a sheepish smile, one that made him look quite boyish despite the bags under his eyes. Once they set the crate down on the bed, the scholar stretched. Kit winced at the sound his spine made. "It came just now. My companions had all wanted to give you a few things,"

Kit tilted his head. He can't have had any more things displaced across the continent, which could only mean –

"F-for me? Why?"

"A moment, if you will…" the Professor sat himself upon the bed next to the crate, and after some difficulty prying it open, they were finally able to see its contents. His smile widened, and Kit swore he could feel the room brightening up. "Oh, that lot… These are all such wonderful materials! I'm not sure how well they'll fare hung up, however…"

"Hung up? What do you mean to do with these?"

'These', being a strange and colorful variety of objects that really did not look related to each other at all. There were sturdy straw hoops of some kind, and colorful rolls of thread. Stacked against those were shiny seashells and pieces of what looked to be glassfish accessories, as well as bundles of dried and resin-soaked flowers – with the occasional rosary here and there. Monster teeth and claws and feathers took up some space in the crate, as did small pieces of blazons and such embedded in bits of metal. What made the whole thing so damn heavy was likely the rather surprising amount of soulstones buried underneath all of it.

The Professor simply hummed, pulling out a piece of paper tucked away underneath one of the rosaries. "Now, if we follow these instructions Ophilia had kindly written out for us, we should be able to make a fine dreamcatcher."

Kit blinked at him. "…What? What are we doing that for?"

The scholar tenderly picked up a seashell – blue as the ocean itself, its sheen seemed almost pure – and gave him an apologetic look. "Hehe, I'm sorry for winding this up for so long. But Kit, you are having nightmares, are you not?"

At that moment, the world stopped spinning. Kit's mind simply stopped working in that moment, frozen in time as the Professor continued to smile at him with that irritating twinge of sadness. How had he known? Was Kit's tossing and turning louder than expected? Was he simply just careless, letting his tells slip? Worse yet – could he have lost control at some point, and no one had thought to tell him anything –

A stinging warmth made him flinch backwards, and he looked back at the Professor, now with a hand outstretched and reaching for his cheek. A thumb had wiped away a tear from Kit's eye that he doesn’t remember shedding.

"H-how did you…" Kit stuttered out, resisting the urge to claw out the roughness in his throat.

"I know a troubled student when I see one, my dear boy." The Professor's tone was soft – cautious. "And I feel heavy regret in not addressing it sooner. I thought that if you had something to share, then you would come to me on your own, but it seems that I have failed in creating an environment where you could do just that,"

Kit felt his shoulders begin to shake. The itch on his skin was now like a blanket of a thousand burning needles pricking at him deep, and more tears fell from his face and he could not help but fear their color. "Y-you don't need to do that, Professor – you're already doing so much for me, you've let me stay in your home –"

"And I've failed to have it be a comfort to you, Kit." The Professor continued, remorse now lacing his every word. "What use is a home that you cannot call your solace? Forgive me, but I've neglected even this simple duty –"

"What the hell, don't say that!" Kit yelled, despite himself – despite the tightening ropes of ichor around his throat. "Don't say that, of course you've helped me! When I was afraid of my own magic, you took me under your wing! I can breathe a little easier because of you, Professor! Don't you think I've noticed how you keep hiding the Galdera stuff when I enter the room? I feel bad about it because you're behind on your work…!"

"Kit, no work is worth risking your wellbeing." The Professor's voice was tinged with something else now, something desperate. "I have an obligation to the Congregation, but I also have one to you – as your guardian. I want you to be able to depend on me –"

"I am! I'm depending on you for so much, can't you see that?! I-I'm just…!"

"Kit,"

"I wasn't lying," he heaved, through grit teeth and hazy, deafening fog. "When I said that I don't want to be afraid of myself. But nothing's working, every day I wake up and I'm reminded that I've got this horrible stain on my soul –"

"Oh, Kit…"

"The truth is that I want it gone… the more I learn, the less I understand – the more trapped I feel, and I don't – I don't know what to do about this, I just wanted…!"

His insides roared and churned with pain but he couldn't feel any of it, all he knew was that his hands were on his face now – the sting of his nails across his skin, wrapped in grime and flesh and blood, so much blood. Every ache and bruise and ungodly throb in his veins, it gave way to an unpleasant, stifling numbness – what was it that he wanted?

Tremors and breathless sobs wracked his frame, rattling down to his very bones and reconstructing his entirety. All at once, the nightmares converged and chased him down – wouldn't leave him alone, wouldn't let him escape, wouldn't let him tear his eyes away from the horror, why had it all come to this, why him, why him, just why –

"I'm sorry," a warm voice, cutting through all the hellish noises of his own mind. "I pushed you too far. I'm sorry, Kit,"

Part of Kit wanted to scream. The rest of him simply wanted to reach out to that light and crush it.

"You've been suffering for so long on your own,"

If he could just crush it, then maybe the world will burn a little less. But was that what he wanted? His limbs did not feel like his own. They didn't know what to do with themselves.

"I'm here, Kit. You don't have to be alone anymore."

Clarity like a white-hot brand came barreling back into Kit, and he snapped his eyes open.

It felt exactly the same as when he was finally pulled out of that cage of flesh. He clung tight onto the body enveloping his own, and he feared that his hands would break whatever was between his fingers. He felt unholy, he felt found, he felt like the night had returned but now it wasn’t here to haunt him – the warmth of a billion stars in the distance came together to hold him in its embrace, and everything inside screamed at him to reject it.

But he remembered that his name was Kit Crossford, and that it was the name of a boy whose feet wanted nothing more than to stumble into the shelter of an open-hearted hug.

Every breath he took sent tremors down his spine, smoothed over by the Professor’s fingers rubbing circles down his back.

“That’s better,” His voice didn’t seem so far away anymore. “Kit, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“That’s good. Do you remember where you are?”

“I’m in your house,” he swallowed. “In my room.”

“Excellent…” the Professor’s words seemed labored somehow. But he was too afraid to look. “Do you want to talk more?”

“…no,”

“That’s alright. What do you want to do?”

He burrowed his face further into the Professor’s chest. He could hear his heart beating. It was the most wonderful sound.

“… please tell me more about these dreamcatchers,” Kit mumbled.

“Then I’ll do just that,” the Professor conceded. “When I had my suspicions, I remembered a few charms I learned of in my travels. I don’t consider myself particularly superstitious, but the Starwalker herself made mention of them once, you see…”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Kit breathed without minding the threat of death that loomed over him. It was still there – it will never quite leave him – like the slow-rolling tide of the sea. It was safe in the Professor’s arms, simply listening to his endless chattering. How to braid the threads around the looms, how to tie right knots around each trinket, all of it seemed far away until colorful strings found their way around their fingers.

At some point, the Professor started talking about his companions – Kit’s saviors. His voice was full of love, and so were his eyes as he handled each feather and dried flower with care, placing them between Kit’s fingers as they wove together the first of many dreamcatchers.

It took them a month to make fifteen, in an effort to clear the crate of its contents. It took only another month for every light soulstone to crack and lose its luster, as the strength of Kit’s nightmares never wavered.

Several months into the ritual of replacing the corroded soulstones, Kit still counted the days where he would eventually, finally tell the Professor everything that he was still keeping from him.

>>>

It wasn’t very long after they completed their tenth dreamcatcher, when a particular missive arrived for the Professor. The delight on his lips told him that it came from Cobbleston.

“Philip’s mother has agreed to let Philip travel to Atlasdam for his lessons,” the Professor told him as soon as he had finished reading it. “He’ll be staying with us for a week every month or so, so please be kind to him while he’s here.”

Of course, Kit did not intend to be anything less with Philip. What comfort the Professor had found in the sleepy, mountain village was one that Kit had also shared in. It was an honest miracle, he thinks, that in all the years that they had known each other, Philip had never once felt anything off about Kit.

It was refreshing. It almost made him forget about the worsening hold that Galdera had on him.

The first time that Philip visited Atlasdam for one of these visits, the Professor was in the middle of a lecture. The surprise was plain on Philip’s face when his knocking was answered by Kit, still dressed in a cleaning apron and holding a duster.

“I didn't realize you were living with the Professor,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“A-ah, that's a somewhat recent thing! I'm sorry, this must be a shock.” Kit said, opening the door wider to welcome him in.

“N-no, why are you apologizing, seriously…” Philip cleared his throat. Kit took him by the hand, leading him into the Professor’s living room. It hadn’t felt like he was carrying much at all, and he supposed that made sense – he was told that Philip was to make stops at Rippletide, where he would stay with the Colziones for a day before setting off again for Atlasdam.

But there was something else different about him, from when Kit had seen him last. A peculiar oppressive shroud had begun to take root inside Philip – no, perhaps it wasn’t shroud, but the thrum of magic in the hand that Kit held felt more pronounced than before, like it was laced with something divine.

It felt distinct, not unlike the divine magic running through the Professor and his companions. It gripped at the ichor crawling on Kit’s skin.

He didn’t have much room to question it when he found Philip staring at him, and he’d realized too late that he was holding the boy’s hand for far longer than was necessary. Shrugging off the awkwardness, he sat Philip down on one of the couches and prepared tea, prepared to prattle on and ask about how his day was and if the trip had been difficult, but Philip had beaten him to it.

“The Professor’s place looks a lot cleaner than I expected it all to be…” he said, looking around the Professor’s living room.

Kit smiled. “You think so? That's a relief,”

Philip gave him a once-over at that. “... okay, should have known that was your doing. You sure you're alright with this?”

“It's the least I can do for him. He's not being given the time he needs to do anything but research and lectures. Lately I've even had to grade a few papers for him,” Kit replied, taking off his cleaning apron. Fervently, he ignored the itch acting up beneath his clothes, rummaging instead around the documents piled up on the other couch in the room for the log that the Professor left him with in case Philip had arrived before he could return.

“Sounds rough,” he heard Philip say behind him. The boy then made a curious noise. “What's that?”

Following Philip’s line of sight, he saw one of the dreamcatchers he and the Professor had made, hanging by the large bay window. He made his way over to retrieve it, careful to undo the string keeping it airborne. He held it tenderly in his hands, and he thinks he could hear hissing from within himself as he gazed upon its colorful threads.

“It’s called a dreamcatcher,” he said, holding it out for Philip to see. This one, Kit remembered, was one of their first attempts at the craft. This one was a bright kaleidoscope of light and dark threads, inlaid with white and dark purple soulstones and emptied glassfish shells. Noxroot flowers and falcon feathers hung from the lower half of the ring, tied together with clumsy knots. “It's supposed to help people with sleeping. All the things hanging on it are supposed to help with luck, but they're just random trinkets.”

Philip stared at their craft with awe, tentatively running a finger over the small soulstones. They watched together as the magical energy swirled about, following Philip’s fingertip. “It's real pretty …does it work?”

It does not. He did not know if it was because the Starwalker’s rituals were ineffective on the curses he carried, or if his situation was simply that unsalvageable. He still woke with cold sweat and lingering visions of blood. All it served to do was agitate the ichor within him at the very presence of it. He could feel it now, like a monster’s low growling trailing just in the back of his mind.

He’d not told the Professor about any of it either. But he admits to finding comfort in their presence, and that was just as good.

Kit bit the inside of his mouth. His smile remained on his face. “... yeah. At least, it works on me pretty well.”

“You were having bad dreams, huh...” the boy said with a thoughtful hum, fading into silence as he stared at him with an intensity that Kit has grown familiar with. This was the stare of all earnest students under the Professor’s care, but Kit was just as adamant. Of all kids, Philip should not be the one to bear any of Kit’s burdens.

Philip eventually sighed, and nodded to himself as he rummaged through his pocket.

“Hold out your hand for a sec,” the boy said, holding out his own free hand for Kit to take. Kit stared at it for a while, hesitation and confusion holding him back for only a little while when he did as the boy asked, carefully setting down the dreamcatcher by his side.

He shut out the clamor of the voices in his head, forcing himself to instead focus on the feeling of Philip’s hand. He almost frowned at the sensation of it – it felt a great deal rougher than Kit’s own, doubtless it was from the years of holding the blade at his hip. He was unsure if kids Philip’s age should be carrying around such callouses so young, but part of him remembered pride – letting his uncertainty fade away into awe at the boy’s hard work.

He was shaken out of his concentration when something smooth and warm was pressed into his palm. Kit blinked.

“A... rune?” he asked dumbly.

Philip didn’t meet his gaze, instead keeping his eyes on the red-orange rune he placed on Kit’s hand. There was warmth on his cheeks as he muttered in a voice that made him seem all the smaller to Kit. “... if a random trinket's all you need to make one, can this work too? Even if it doesn't, just keep it.”

Kit felt his mouth go agape as he watched Philip’s hands turn Kit’s fingers inward, enclosing the rune and letting him feel its pulse. Something indescribable – but not unkind – had wrapped around his being the longer that the two of them had stayed like that. He thinks he can feel a sting somewhere, or maybe it was everywhere, but his vision had begun to blur.

“O-oh... Philip, I don't know what to say...” he started to babble, hating the cracks in his own voice.

“It's okay. You don't have to say anything.” Philip cut him off, pulling his hands away to reach into his pockets once more, this time to pull out a handkerchief. Kit doesn’t quite have the energy to refuse his offer, and he prayed – prayed that this hadn’t pushed him so far as to let the tendrils reach his fingers. The fire rune, still firmly in his hand, wasn’t intense at all – it its warmth was akin to a fire crackling in the blue hours of a Winter’s night.

He wondered why he was like this, too easily brought to tears by the strangest things. If the Impresario were here, he would be chastised for his sloppy acting.

“... M-More than that, what's on the agenda today?” Philip then said, awkward but well-meaning as he looked away.

Next time, then. Next time, definitely – Kit will be more careful with himself.

With one last sniffle, he rubbed at his eyes and nodded at him. “R-right, right! You’ll need to show me how you’ve been sparring with Tressa, and we'll move on to combining some elements...”

The rune fit snugly inside of Kit’s pocket for the rest of the day, up until the morning that Philip left. It wouldn’t leave his side for the next few weeks, at least until he could figure out which trinkets he could choose to hang it up with.

>>>

It was once again two hours past midnight, and there was still candlelight burning in the largest study of the Albright Household. This light will fizzle out in two minutes, but before it will do so, two more will take its place as Kit crept into the Professor’s cluttered study. It was the same song and dance every time. No matter how much closer Kit could get to his own answers, or how much more of the Professor’s Eld Manuscripts are completed, this was simply how the nights passed.

“... really, Professor... no matter how many times we have to tell you, you just never listen, do you?”

Those were the words he muttered under his breath, though any sincere indignation they once held had long since faded away. At the very least, the plate that Kit had left by the Professor’s side was empty this time. That was always a plus.

The only sounds in the room were those of the Professor’s snores, and the crackling of the tiny flame in Kit’s well-worn oil lamp – and, briefly, the rustle of a blanket being thrown over the Professor’s shoulders. Kit kept himself from smiling too widely at the almost childish way that the scholar snuggled further into his own arms, his long, fluffy hair shaking along like the mane of some sort of forest beast.

He needed to remind him soon not to miss his next hair appointment, though Kit was certain that it would fall on deaf ears. Not that Kit had really minded so much, as that mane of hair was a comfortable shade of black. Recently, small streaks of silver had begun to show through the flowing void of the Professor’s hair, and that did make Kit a little worried.

He winced a little just as he’d picked up a stray document. Even after a year of this – a wonderful year with the Professor and his students, of weaving braids for dreamcatchers that could never work quite right – his pains remained. He didn’t need to roll back his sleeves so far anymore just to check its growth. Even without any of his emotional outbursts or magical mishaps of any kind, the streaks of vantablack now reached past his elbows. If he rolled up his pants, he would see them run past his knees.

He stopped just sort of sighing as he looked over the contents of the document.

‘– the additional constraints proposed to keep the Gate of Finis shut will be considered after thorough review. The origins of the Dragonstones may provide more clues. The subject will henceforth be discussed in future conferences with the continents of the east –’

More appeals. Kit should have figured. He wondered how much longer the Professor will have to wait until proper implementation of these new proposals surrounding the Dragonstones will see the light of day, though it did leave Kit wondering if dragons could somehow help his own meager cause.

He sincerely doubted it. It was undeniable that the power needed to keep Galdera’s darkness at bay could only come from a certain type of dragon, and the only true dragons he knew of have already been slain. But he tucked the manuscript away nonetheless, and moved on to sift through the next ones.

‘– the study of the ancient religion founded in the Woodlands, migrating southwards toward the Highlands –’

Flip.

‘– connections between the rise of the Kingdom of Wald and the Kingdom of Hornburg, as well as the opening of the Gate – are purely coincidental. Surviving artifacts from the time period have since proven that –’

Flip. Flip.

‘– the evolution of Orsterran magic, ties back to the magic in the blood running within all of us. Not one element is innate to any single one of us humans the same way that it is innate to those of non-human races such as salamanders and snow drakes –’

Flip.

‘... don't know how you can do this, Olberic. Kit is a truly brilliant child, and a model student, but I still know nothing about having a ward. I want to do my best for him. Have you any advice?

I've never known it could be like this. He is like a son to me now... and it instills in me a peculiar fear. Am I being intrusive? Is this... inappropriate, somehow? I've always felt a close bond with my students, but never quite like this.

Your guidance is like a light to me, in these trying times. I hope to see you soon.

Best regards, Cyrus Albright’

“... like a son,”

A single tear blurred out the words closing off the letter that Kit should have never seen. It was going to be hard to explain away such an anomaly later in the morning, and he prayed that the Professor would be too tired to notice it. Carefully, he slipped the letter back under the stacks that remained on the Professor’s desk.

He caught another glimpse of the Professor’s sleeping face. Dark, heavy bags stayed under the Professor’s eyelids, though they slowly faded away with every minute that he stayed in slumber. His brows were freed of creases, and so was his temple. Strands of his silken midnight hair framed his face.

Kit knew he was shaking when he brushed away those strands, tucking them back behind the Professor’s ear. “Professor... you're so unfair…” he murmured, almost tasting the velvet poison of his ill-gotten curse on his tongue when he did so.

He had not felt like he was anyone’s son in a long while. The thought broke his heart – kept breaking at him the more days pass between that fateful, hellish day. He realizes now that he does not remember the comforting weight of his father’s arms around him, only traces of Graham Crossford remained when Kit wore the battered blue cape.

But he remembered well the warmth of the man he was now using. His stare, his hands, the beat of his heart against Kit’s ear – they all felt like love that he buried long ago.

He was using Cyrus Albright to meet his own ends. This was the unmistakable truth. It now drowned Kit with its entirety. He tasted guilt.

He tasted love, and it tasted no different from heartbreak.

Chapter Text

If Primrose had to rate Flamesgrace as a city, it would differ on the day. Dreary days were fine. Sunny days were even better. Days with meetings, she would take them or leave them.

Days where she could see Ophilia and the others – now those were irreplaceable no matter how many meetings and bad news she had to weather. Flamesgrace would not be bearable without the earnest cleric.

She held on to this thought, even as she watched Ophilia's lips purse into an uncomfortable line as soon as she finished giving Primrose her findings. She kept holding onto this thought, even when Ophilia beheld her with the same gaze as she had been for the past several minutes without dropping even the slightest bit of shadow from her eyes.

"… and you're absolutely certain about this?" Primrose tried, though she already knew what answer awaited her.

Ophilia nodded solemnly. "The Flame doesn’t lie. This… it's not Galderan."

She wasn't sure if it was better that it wasn't. Galdera, branded upon their skin and souls as ugly traces of strife and unholy ails in the mind, at the very least remained someone familiar to them. He remained dormant now, as he had for a thousand years, but the continent will never forget him. Galdera existed in the form of traces and tragedies – information, however gruesome, was useful to them.

What Ophilia was telling her now was that the rancid, loathsome trails of ichor that entrenched itself in the veins of this rotting, festering limb was not something known to them – they both understood the terror. That there were forces beyond them that could be just as devastating was an existential threat to the continent – and a threat to Primrose's own immediate health. She could already feel the weight of a million headaches for when she eventually had to relay this information back to the Congregation.

Ophilia breathed a sigh – it must have been a while. "I'd like the Professor to come and check a third time, but I know he's very busy…"

Primrose snorted, crossing her arms and pursing her lips. "Yeah… good luck trying to wrangle him. He's got his hands full watching over the Crossford kid. He can't give anything away,"

The cleric looked away from her. Primrose couldn't blame her – Cyrus's position was not enviable in the slightest. She couldn't help but feel sorry for him, having his time be so completely eaten up that he didn't have much time for his monthly respites in Cobbleston. Even after so much time, Primrose still couldn’t quite decide if having Kit there was a good thing – for everyone involved. The conflicted expression Cyrus kept letting slip made things all the messier.

The sound of wolfskin and hard leather scraping against polished tile echoed behind them both, and Primrose allowed her features to melt into a smile.

“…H'aanit. Darling, you could have told us you were coming.”

The familiar scent of woodland pine and ground orchids enveloped Primrose like a gentle embrace, though the huntress simply remained by the doorway. She bore the mark of professionalism, even in Ophilia’s private office where none could see them.

“Primrose. Ophilia. I'm pleased to know both of thee aren hale and hearty,” Primrose does not disparage her weary, dignified voice – it fit the mood just fine. “But thou knowest what I came for.”

Ophilia closed her eyes, her head hung in a half-nod. “Yes… Well, it's as you've said. The corruption on the limbs, it's like nothing we've ever seen before.”

“… hm.”

Silence seeped into the small room, before the cleric tilted her head to the side. “Is Therion not with you?”

H’aanit stepped closer to where they were, close enough to where Primrose can now also smell the jasmines on her person. Despite herself, she can silently admit to being soothed – be it by the huntress herself or by Primrose’s own simple delusions.

From the corner of her eye, she saw H’aanit shake her head. “No. I sent him back to Clearbrook the moment we finished. His wounds art not yet healed,”

“Figures,” Primrose shrugged, and the room went quiet once more.

Primrose felt her eyes grow heavy at the sight of the Dreadwolf’s mangled limb. It rotted and festered, but it hadn’t been preyed upon – save for the creeping strings of pure death that covered each crevice torn open by pain and time. It lacked even the slightest bite from any maggot nor wriggling fiend that survived the annals of the Maw’s depths, oddly pristine in the way that could only be claimed by forces outside of that puny thing they called life.

It was clean in the way that dead, broken things should not be. What Primrose saw before her was a veritable abomination.

Primrose sucked in a breath. “Do you think we should go and just… you know. Ask the gods if they know anything?”

It was the easy way out. The reasonable ultimatum. She expected the way that Ophilia’s brows furrowed. “… such direct correspondence,” she muttered, giving her head a quick shake. “I have my reservations, but I don't believe we have a choice.”

“Mm. I'll drop by Atlasdam then.” Primrose replied, to which the cleric narrowed her eyes.

“… surely, it's not to see the Professor? You just said –”

“I know what I said.” Primrose cut her off with a flick of her wrist. “He's busy, but I know that guy gets an earful out of old man Dreisang if he's not on time to meet with him. Plus, he'll get to examine the specimen for himself.”

It all sounded like excuses to her. But between the Yellow Plague’s inopportune timing and the chaos of the lockdowns, Primrose can admit to herself that her suggestions were self-serving – and perhaps, slightly, simply in the Professor’s favor. She knew too well how he worked.

H’aanit seemed to see right through her anyway, when she crossed her arms and nodded with a sagely weight. “I agree with Primrose. It might also doe him good to be out of that dusty hovel he calleth his study.”

The cleric giggled. “You two sure don't mince words… very well. Please advise him to take his time with this venture.”

“That goes without saying. I'll need to turn in another report… this really is the dreariest job,” Primrose drawled, though her own arms relaxed by her sides. She raised one to place upon her jutted hip, keeping her eyes trained on her friend. “Is there anything else you want me to pass on, Ophilia?”

“No, I think that's everything of note,”

It was cute, sometimes, when Ophilia thinks she can hide from Primrose. Perhaps she could have managed it if the dancer were alone, but pitted against H’aanit’s watchful, mindful eye? She might as well have been transparent – every nervous twitch upon her skin, her fingers, and especially under her eyelids – there was no escaping.

She could feel almost sorry. But the reminders were as kind as they did sting – like suturing an open wound, as Alfyn would tell them.

“Ophilia,” H’aanit eventually said, tone laced with tentative exasperation.

“… alright, well there is one thing that's bothering me.”

Ophilia breathed out a second, wearier sigh. Her eyes no longer met theirs, and Primrose surveyed the weight of her faraway gaze.

“They've decided that I will become the next Archbishop of Flamesgrace. Pontiff Julius himself gave me the news just this morning, right as I finished handling the specimen.”

Primrose's hands were around the cleric the instant the final word left her mouth, for she had not once heard her sound so small – not since the day that they helped save her sister in the throes of Wispermill's despair. She remembered the day clearly – surrounded by only the disoriented, mostly unconscious citizens and the not-so-distant bats in that dismal cave, Ophilia had cradled her sister. Aelfric's azure embers surrounded them both, fluttering silently – like some sort of apology.

The trip back to Flamesgrace had been short. Bitter. The specter of Mattias loomed over Ophilia's back, and it wasn't until they defeated the root of the evil that Primrose saw the sparkle truly return to her eyes.

The Flame she worshipped placed upon her shoulders a heavy burden. Primrose thinks she can feel its weight, pressed against her like this.

"… thou doth not lookest happy about it." H'aanit muttered in feeble reply, though she stood closer now.

"I-I know, I'm sorry. I should be accepting my position with grace, but -"

With that, Primrose slid herself in front of Ophilia, one hand working fast to press a finger atop the cleric's lips. The other, she used to cup her cheek, tilting Ophilia's head upwards so she can meet her eyes.

That amber gaze was marred with a peculiar sort of fear. This was the face of a woman who felt hunted.

"Easy there, darling. No one's saying you have to feel sorry about anything, okay?" Primrose said, forcing down the acrid taste of her own concerns. Even the sweetness of her words felt somewhat dry. "We get it. Even the Church can have these kinds of complications."

H'aanit raised a hand to clamp upon Ophilia's shoulder, rubbing it softly – a learned gesture. "… I am no good with words, as thou knoweth. But pray callen upon me if thou needest a person to lean on."

"You two…" Ophilia's lips wavered, and Primrose watched it melt into a small, perfect smile. Just the way it was meant to. She felt the cleric's gloved touch on her knuckles, and for the first time since entering the city today, Primrose truly felt warm. "Y-Yes. Yes, I understand. Thank you."

She does not speak to Ophilia of her silent vows. But she caught H'aanit's gaze on the way out, just before they parted ways once more – leaving Primrose with that same void, easily patched over when she makes her way to Atlasdam.

It was a steely, dignified sort of look. One brief nod, and Primrose understood.

>>>

“… again with the stretches, huh?”

Another day, another morning of quickly wiping away the tears from his eyes – and most importantly, another morning of seeing Hubie halfway to a handstand, perfectly poised to snap like some stocky, sturdy branch. Derryl was next to him this time, waking up five minutes earlier than he had yesterday. Philip suspected that this time will only move itself closer to Hubie’s own screwed-up internal clock – whatever it seemed to run on – and really, the last thing he and Nate needed was two of Hubert Ercanhard being so readily productive in the cold.

For completely different reasons. It seriously irked him how slowly his body adjusted to waking up in this chill.

“Got no choice mate! Buildin' up core strength's just the thing that can pull us through!” Hubie replied, far too cheery for the hour.

Nate groaned from across the room, having thrown his pillow into the mattress. He stretched his blanket apart with forceful motions as he mumbled grumpily to himself.

“You need to cut it out before you and Derryl fill the room with your musk. Better yet, hit the baths.” He practically spat, an audible thwap of the thick fabric snapping across the room with a cadence so precise that Philip feared that the cloth would tear.

“It's four in the morning! And that's your thing!” Hubie replied, scrunching up his nose.

“It's my thing because I happen to enjoy not smellin' like a dishrag before I show up to the drills.”

“Alright, break it up guys – we've all got our own routines in the morning, okay? We can be satisfied with staying out of each other's way for it!” Derryl cut in, arms stretched wide and circling around in a wide arc.

"Whatever you say, squad captain."

"Ah-ah-ah!" Hubie leaned back, landing on his feet and turning around – wagging a finger in Nate's direction. "Givin' up the title so early, Nate?"

The lanky boy rolled his eyes, throwing his towel across his shoulder and huffing to his side. "Wasn't plannin' on going for it anyway – aw hell, now I have to run before all the good water runs out," He promptly ignored Hubie as the other boy blew a raspberry at him, making his way to the door and calling out. "You coming, Philip?"

"Oh – oh yeah, be right there with ya!" he replied, snatching up his own towel beside his unmade bed and running after Nate before Hubie could wrangle him into the next round of their dynamic stretching. "You're really not plannin' to be selected?" he asked as he caught up to him.

Nate made a face. "It's too much of a hassle! I'd rather leave it to the reliable types…"

"And you don't think you're reliable?"

"Nah. It'd drive me insane trying to look after you guys and get graded for it." the other boy replied, shaking his head. His steps became heavier somehow, once they reached the foot of the stairs. "I didn't come here to be anyone great you know. I'm alright playing second fiddle to someone else."

Philip paused, surprising himself when he tightened his grip upon the railing.

He knew on some level that one of these days, the selection would come – and he'd not thought about much else. He couldn't rightly envision himself in such a position, having been too used to following around the adults in his life simply because he was told that they knew best. It wasn't something he questioned – they'd never given him any reason to.

A leader was about as close to becoming an adult that he could get at the moment – reliable, level-headed, someone good at making choices – someone capable. Philip could not deny that he would like to be called capable.

"Really… I don't get it."

Nate looked back at him with his mouth stretched into a thin line. He shrugged after a few stifling moments. "Feh. Shoulda known you'd say something like that. At any rate, I'm rootin’ for Derryl. But I don't actually care who ends up leading."

"Why is that?" Philip felt his head tilt to the side.

"Whatever happens, I think I'll have to reign you all in anyway." The other boy's face morphed into a pained sort of grimace. He turned back around to keep walking. "…besides, this crap won't be decided for a while. No point in worryin' about it now."

It was any day now. He couldn't fathom how such a thing could be something that didn't need worrying about.

>>>

The sun of an Aeber’s Month morning rose slowly on the horizon, blanketing everything in bleeding orange and golden glow for longer. Time seemed to follow suit, when Philip found himself getting worse at keeping track of it the more familiar he became with the Order’s grounds. Everything felt slower in the cold, in hazy glen and skies clouded over like half-lidded eyes. Perhaps it won’t be clouded for long, but with how moist the air felt on his face, he didn’t put much faith in that.

He could at least feel thankful that the drills have been helping his body adjust to its weight at an alright pace. An hour and a half of jogging and basic warm-ups every morning, with another few hours to rest and recuperate before going to his classes – it was fine, Philip swore he could handle a little chill. It had already been a few weeks since the opening ceremony, and he liked to think he could grow into the mold they set quick enough. He’ll match their pace, breathe in the cold air of the morning and sigh it all out, and he'll feel like a million leaves ready to practice his swings.

Except, he was playing support. So, when the stony exterior of the Squirehood's barracks came into view after Sir Miles led them back, he ran over the notes he'd been taking for the past week. He ignored the way his heels began to drag into the snow, he needed to remember which weapons were effective against which monsters – flying things were vulnerable to all manner of pointy objects, skeletons crumble at the blunt end of staves, snakes hated axes, and goodness – he was getting sick of the repetitiveness of it all –

He gritted his teeth when he stubbed his toe on the crest of a stray boulder. He raised a hand, and shot Derryl a wobbly smile when the other looked over him in concern, and they continued to walk.

Philip breathed a quick sigh once he was out of earshot. It was no use. Everything they were teaching him so far in class were things he already knew about. He clenched a fist at the thought.

"Alright, with all that out of the way," Sir Miles said, once they'd arrived at the barracks entrance. He was dressed today in heavier furs, which usually meant that he was overseeing a somewhat heavier Vanguard exercise. "Derryl, Hubie, you two are with me. Nate, Philip –"

Nate gave the man a tired salute, already grabbing Philip by the arm. "Yes sir, we'll see you after class, sir."

"Good, good! Off you two go then,"

Philip only had a moment to catch Derryl and Hubie waving them goodbye when Nate had all but dragged both of them inside, making their way to the locker rooms to wipe themselves down and get dressed. He forced his mind to go over his material again, however fruitless – elementals and wisps were vulnerable only to magic, when fighting against a soulstone construct, aim for the soulstone at its core – the monotony of the ordeal seeping through to his very bones.

"You look like you want to say something," Nate said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that hung over them.

"'s nothing," Philip replied, tugging the strings at his jacket just a little tighter. "… more than that, are you good for the quiz later?"

He'd said that carelessly, but the sound of brushing paper against metal brought his attention back to Nate, and oh – so that's where those went.

"With these notes that you left hanging out in the open last night? Never felt more confident in my life."

Philip felt himself growing indignant the longer he watched Nate skim through the worn parchment, making a move to swipe at them. "Wha – at least ask first! I mean, I would have let you take them anyway, but –"

Alas, Nate was taller – and only by a bit – opting to raise his notes above his head to continue reading them. His posture betrayed nothing, but the way his eyes seemed to almost jitter as they flew across each carefully-written word was unsettling.

"See? No issues there,"

"Seriously, give those back!" Philip jumped to swipe again, this time landing on the tips of his toes and bracing an arm on the other boy’s shoulder – threatening to have them both fall backwards. He paid no mind to the way his friend’s face flushed, though he felt relief when he raised both his arms in the air in surrender.

“I get it, I get it…! I'm sorry!” Philip did not waste one second once the notebook was in reach, flipping through the slightly creased pages as he moved backwards.

Same-old, same-old – he bit his lip to keep his frustration from leaking out as he scanned through the words for what felt like the millionth time.

“Hey, Philip – I'll ask first next time, so do you mind if I took another peek at them real quick?”

He took one final look at the numbered list containing the weaknesses of a Hoary Bear, before snapping his notebook shut and handing it over to a Nate who had his hands clasped together with a plea. “Sure…”

“Thanks mate. You’re a lifesaver,” Sparing no time, Nate began fervently reading through the pages once more. He didn’t take his eyes off of it for the rest of the time that they took off the rest of their training armor. “But you sure were fast. Guess you studied long enough already – no, more like… you've already got this in the bag, huh?”

“How’s anyone supposed to say no when you look at me like you’d die without my notes…? And anyway, it’s just another quiz,”

“Oh, don’t let the other guys catch you saying that,”

At that moment, they heard the noise of the doors creaking open, damp leather soles hitting the stone of the room. Sure enough, both of them let their voices trail off into silence, offering only cursory nods to their batchmates who did not return their greeting. They exited the room just as quietly when they finished gathering their things, and made their way to the classroom without passing by anyone else.

Philip kept his head down until he found his assigned seat, next to the frosted windows. Nate was sat behind him, his nose still buried in the worn pages. He went through the material in his head once more for good measure. Running down the creatures of the Frostlands and their respective weaknesses, he opted to ignore the sound of their batchmates entering the room in droves, chattering amongst themselves in panicked tones about the quiz.

This had become a familiar scene over the past month. The lessons wasted no time acquainting them with the Frostlands, and though most of the recruits were already native to the area, not many of them could name more than two weaknesses to even the most common of the land’s beasts – something that did not please their current instructor on Monster Physiology.

“Alright Squires, hide every note you've got and put your hands on the table!” A voice boomed from the doors some minutes later, followed by the shoving of seats from tables and papers into bags. Their stocky homeroom instructor walked in with a clean stack of papers in his arms, and he wore a cross, expectant face. “I don't want to see any of you looking over, backwards, or sideways and I don't want to hear any peep or pap out of you either. Any sign of cheating and I'll throw you out! These papers? They've got four different sets in them, so don't even try. Is that understood?”

“Yessir!”

“Good lads! You've got an hour, starting now!”

>>>

Nate had only looked a little less peeved than he had from taking last week’s quiz, though this week he’d looked a little more dead walking out of the room. Philip couldn’t say much about his own face – he’d been too busy not to look anyone in the eye once he finished jotting down his answers after a measly thirty minutes. Sitting out the rest of the time they’d been given felt like absolute torture today too, and Philip had since ceased to wonder why getting things right seemed to make him feel ashamed instead of proud – like he rightfully should be. But he wasn't in the Professor's classroom, nor was he in the rolling hills of home.

It wasn’t his fault that Cyrus decided to have him practice his swings on the Flatlands’ lower Froggen population. It wasn’t like he wasn’t somewhat disgusted by the fact that he perhaps knew the anatomy of Spud Bugs and Howlers a bit too well either – and this went for beasts on the Flamesgrace Wilds as well, nevermind the intuitive weaknesses of the local Frost Foxes and Frost Marmots. Such things were hammered into him in the weeks he spent in Atlasdam. It was just necessary.

Simply knowing was only half of it anyway. Philip dearly wished that the sidelong glances would stop already, didn't they have strategies to think about? Shouldn't they worry about their own answers?

He bolted out of the room as soon as the instructor finished collecting the papers. He trusted Nate to be fast enough to follow him, at least.

They were always silent after finishing a quiz. Nate never looked at him the way their batchmates did, not after the first week. At the very least, the other boy was blunt and quick to admit to Philip what the problem was.

"It's a little unfair that you've gotten yourself a hefty head-start," That's what Nate had said, scratching at his messily-tied hair. No malice in his voice, yet the words made Philip recoil into himself all the same.

"That's not my fault."

"It ain't. But I can't help but be a little jealous,"

"Mate," Philip remembered looking at him, feeling the crinkle in his eye as he pulled out his notebooks. Three years now, since the Professor came bounding into his life with all the knowledge he didn't really ask for. It would be pure folly to dismiss all that he has gained, so Philip hung onto gratitude as he pushed them into Nate's hands. "I'll help if it bothers you so much, okay?"

He felt only a little small when the lankier boy clamped a hand around his shoulder that day. Nothing like Derryl, nothing like Hubie – after all, this was Nate, who didn't flinch at all when he saw the scars that littered Philip's back and torso, who kept dragging him to the baths anyway after seeing every ugly gash. He knew how he sounded – he tasted the plea in his own voice – this wasn't something he could afford to lose.

He was shaken out of his own memory when Nate flicked at his forehead, scolding him for spacing out. They grabbed their armor and made their way to the training grounds, without running into anyone else from the other groups.

It was closer to noon now – an overcast day, with lightly falling powdered snow. They found Sir Miles out in the open, without Derryl and Hubie. He had been looking into the distance with an arm raised, before he turned around to greet them.

“Oh, there you both are! How was the exam?”

"It was alright," Philip shrugged in reply.

"Terrible. Wouldn't do it again if I had to." Nate groaned out, pinching the bridge between his brows.

Sir Miles chuckled, making his way over to them and putting a hand over each of their heads to ruffle their hair, much to Nate's chagrin. "Ah. Sorry to hear that – there's no pressure to these early examinations though, so don't feel too bad! Take your time improving,"

Philip felt himself pout at that, the day's subtle woes creeping on his back. "Sir, I might be askin' this a little late, but is it too late to switch courses?"

The knight paused – long enough that Nate managed to throw off his gloved arm. He remained unfazed, putting a hand to his chin in thought. "You'll have to take that up with someone higher-up, I'm afraid." His tone took on a concerning tone, and there it was again – that irrational guilt. "What's wrong? Are you struggling with the subjects somehow?"

It was everything that wasn't the subjects. But he remembered the eyes that lingered and trailed after him, even when his back was turned.

"N-nothing like that, I was just curious." Philip muttered in reply.

"If you say so," The knight sounded unconvinced, though he dropped the subject once he crossed his arms to look back at the thicket. "Well, it should be about time that Hubie and Derryl came back,"

"What did you put them up to this time?" Nate asked.

"Nothing major. Just a little foraging contest. They got through the standard-issue sword and spear training pretty quick. And since you boys weren't native to the Frostlands, I figured this would help with getting used to the lay of the land," Sir Miles explained, then rummaged around in his pockets. He pulled out a small, iron pocket watch, flipping it open and clicking his tongue. "… but it looks like they're both taking too long, so what do you two say to joining them?"

"That's…"

"Sure! I'm up for that!"

Philip shot Nate an apologetic look, though he'd surprised himself with how quickly he answered. The buzz and thrum of the magic in his veins made him ball up his fists, and he itched to hold his sword – and Nate must have noticed, when the other boy shrugged with a defeated sigh.

"… oh, what the hell, I'm in too."

Sir Miles nodded in approval. "Great! All I need you two to do is help me find them, think you can handle that?"

"So... We're foragin' for our teammates." Nate said blankly.

"Sounds about right. We'll split up – you guys are a pair. Shoot a ray into the skies if you need help, alright?"

“Leave it to us, sir!”

That’s what he’d said, though he felt somewhat conflicted as he watched Sir Miles’s back disappear into the vast whiteness. He looked down at the sword at his hip for a while. Philip felt the pulse of the light runes he kept in his pocket, the charged stones reminding him of his own restlessness.

"… so, if we're allowed to use rays,"

"It just means they've got their heads too far up their own behinds to use theirs." said Nate, further behind now. Philip looked back to see him inspecting the lances on the rack where the barracks kept its variety of weapons, fondling the small light soulstones they’ve been given. "Derryl doesn't look like it, but he can be stubborn when he wants to be,"

"Didn't seem like the type," Philip replied, watching him pick out a sturdy and polished lance that was longer than he was tall.

"Oh, give him a few more weeks. He's enough on his own when he gets comfortable, but Hubie's rubbin' off on him."

It still felt somewhat strange to think about. Derryl Bourne, in Philip's eyes, was level-headed, relaxed, and a stickler for the rules in the weirdest of times. Whenever he spotted him next to Hubie when they took their specialized Vanguard lessons, he never once looked like he'd broken a sweat no matter what sort of exercise the instructors threw at him. Next to Hubie, who passed his assigned tasks through sheer reckless effort that left most on the field reeling, Derryl was the model Vanguard who wouldn't dare toe out of the lines the Squirehood had set.

Just trying to imagine a person like that taking longer on a simple foraging assignment because his head wasn't in the right place was unfathomable. But the line on Nate's lips remained thin – and he wasn't about to question the judgment of the friend who had been by Derryl's side since they were children, even one who just that morning deemed him fit to bear the title of squad captain.

Philip mulled over these thoughts several yards into their search, past the point where the thicket became the wide woods. It was about noon now, so they could see through the denseness of the evergreen without Philip having to use his runes too early. In the deep white, it was silent – save for the occasional crunch of the virgin snow and dead leaves beneath their heels. Some distant chirping far above them reassured Philip that the Flamesgrace Wilds weren't quite empty, and that surely there were still shrews and other critters scuttling about with lighter feet than they.

"Oh hey, footprints."

He turned to where Nate was looking, and sure enough – there was a fine trail of foot-shaped indents that they didn't make just in front of him, not yet buried by the falling snow. The pattern wasn't chaotic enough to be Hubie's, nor was the edge of each shape sharp enough for it to be Sir Miles's. The knight preferred to start the two on their Vanguard lessons early, so they were guaranteed not to get in the way of other squads. Unless some interloper was on their grounds, Derryl was the only person who could have passed through here.

They followed the trail deeper into the woods, the steps in the ground slowly becoming more frantic, until they came into a clearing, where the trail was replaced by a large area of upturned snow. Mounds were kicked up into swirls and other incomprehensible shapes, with crushed leaves and bark dotting the area.

Philip approached one of the trees and took one of his gloves. He squinted, looking at the bark and feeling its grooves against his skin. Gashes covered the trunk like scratches – too clean to be anything old or natural. "Incisions on the trees… think they ran into something?"

"Probably a bat. Or a really angry marmot," He heard Nate reply from behind him. He was about to argue the contrary when a subtle sharpness in the air made him twitch. Putting his glove back on, Philip turned his head to the left – and there it was again, something that sounded vaguely like steel. He walked over, and the sounds became a little too incessant for it to be some trick of the mind.

"Found anything –"

“Shh. I think I hear something," Philip shushed him, though he didn't take his eyes off what was in front of him. In the distance, several feet away from the clearing, laid another trail of footsteps, weaving in a more frantic pattern than those they saw before.

He could hear the frown in the other boy's voice when he felt his presence behind him. "… that's outside of the premises."

"It'd explain why it's taking them so damn long to come back," Philip muttered. He ran through the Frostlands's bestiary in his mind. It took him two seconds to fish out two runes from his pocket, and he threw the transparent one against the tree – hard enough to shatter it. He ignored Nate's surprised yelping as he tightened his grip on the other rune. "Conjure Fire."

It took less than a fraction of a second for the flames to envelop the blades of their weapons. Philip turned back towards Nate, "Just in case," and that was all he said before he took off, rushing into what he hoped was the source of the noise.

The clash of steel against something became sharper with each step he took, and the voices gradually became clearer – until Philip found himself crouching down to avoid a stray wind burst from what he assumed was a Howler, skidding into a bush and feeling the sting of snow on his face.

"Hey, Philip! What the hell-" Nate scurried after him, out-of-breath and furious – until he stopped dead in his tracks to stare at the sight before them. "Oh."

"Take that-! And this! And more of where that came from…!"

"Hubie, slow down!"

They guessed right that they ran into something, but nothing could have rightfully prepared them for Hubie and Derryl being stared down by a large raging bear – fangs bared and claws open fully hunched over with only the intent to kill. Surrounding all of them were Howlers that shared its murderous rage.

The squires themselves were worn out – scrapes and gashes tore their uniform in what were thankfully non-vital spots, though the heavy way that both of them were breathing beget concern. Philip didn't want to think how much time they'd spent simply fighting the bear to a standstill, and Hubie's grin did not help matters – that was the face of a boy fully committed to finishing a fight with no small amount of sunk cost and semi-fatal injury.

They weren't in dire straits. That was what Philip had convinced himself of, but bears in particular took forever to kill. They were smarter than most monsters, capable of detecting patterns and sensing weaknesses in their opponents. Whether it was some manner of bad luck or carelessness – the fact that they'd drawn out a bear somehow was a rare and damned unfortunate occasion in itself.

It was only thanks to Nate's iron grip that Philip had managed not to leap into the fray as soon as he spotted the blood across Hubie's body. Instead, he scrunched up his face – sitting upright and taking a hard look at their conundrum.

"A Frost Bear, huh… wait no, it's got darker fur…" He felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. A brief memory of a similar monster flashed in his mind – fangs bared, claws opened with a sole, murderous intent – one that was only a few months old. This changed things, and he felt mild panic bubbling underneath his skin. "Hey Nate,"

"You want me to get in there. While they're hackin' away at it."

Philip did feel only a little sorry, but he had no time to spare for Nate's reservations. He dug into his pockets once more, cursing that his foresight missed the mark as he pulled out his light and wind runes. "I'll back you up, just give me a bit of time to dispel the rune transfer – well actually that, and –"

"That makes me less assured!"

"Ack–!"

They looked back to Hubie, halfway to losing his footing and falling backwards, his torso left wide open for attack. If not for Derryl intercepting the incoming swipe of the bear with his blade, Philip feared that Hubie’s chest would have been torn open. The force of the swipe was strong enough to knock them both back into a tree however, and they fell into a crumpled stack of themselves and snow once they hit the frozen bark.

Hubie shoved himself off the ground to meet the bear head-on once more, this time using the wide steel of his blade to block the bear’s attack – the clear clang of claw against steel reverberating through the white forest and sending shivers down Philip’s spine.

This seemed to convince Nate enough when Philip swore that he heard the exasperation in the way the other boy rolled his eyes, now holding his spear with both hands. "… make it quick! Hey, Hubie, make way…!"

Philip watched as he kicked his foot off the ground, jumping out of the bushes to charge at one of the Howlers. He rummaged through his pockets, and reached for the pulsing light rune and the blustery wind rune.

“Conjure Light,” he muttered, though being covert didn’t matter much when shimmering streaks of daylight enveloped themselves around the metal of his blade. Philip promptly waved it in the air, a beam shooting itself into the skies with blinding fervor. He heard the screeching of the Howlers, and he knew he had to act fast, ducking right as the last vestiges of light left his sword.

He paid no mind to the splinters hitting his face when windy blades hit the tree trunk, concentrating only on the gusts enclosed in the smooth stone between his fingers. He ran into the middle of the fight, blade brandished and already beginning to glow a bright green with his intent. “Conjure Wind.”

Yells of surprise rang throughout the area when a sudden burst of crystallized gale struck the hulking, furry beast. Philip struck it from behind with a grunt, the windy pursuit finally bringing the bear to a stagger. He took his place near an awed Derryl, standing firm against the beast and digging his heels into the snow.

“Woah – Philip?! Seriously, where did you two pop out from?” Derryl asked, though his surprise was cut short when they heard Hubie’s distinct grunting to their left, being plagued by another flock of Howlers. “…Nevermind, Hubie still needs a bit of help, you got any plums on you?”

“Never go outside without 'em,” Philip replied, patting his side. “Let's go then,”

They then both ran past the heaving bear, blades raised – with Philip leaping up and bringing down his sword in a horizontal slash, feeling the steel hit its mark and the raging winds follow suit. Derryl was close behind, poised to break the Howlers with his own sword. They didn’t spare the owl-like birds a glance as they fell to the ground in a daze, instead skidding to a halt in front of Nate and Hubie.

“Hubie! You doin' alright?!” Derryl yelled behind him.

“N-never better!” Hubie replied, when a whoosh of ash wood and crystal gale made him stiffen. Another Howler hit the snow with a pained cry, and they found Nate standing over it, his face dripping with cold sweat.

“Pay attention!” He gritted out, pointing his spear back upwards right as they heard a low growl from their right. Even the Howlers around them were still twitching – no doubt enduring despite their renewed stances. Philip felt himself tense when he spotted the traces of breath gathering around the bear’s head as they watched it slowly rise, the unnatural spines almost twitching with rage when it turned to look at them, its fangs bared with killing intent.

“S-sorry, sorry!” Hubie hurried to his feet, dragging himself up by the hilt of his massive sword. Philip’s fingers – still curled around the pulsing green wind rune – reached for a transparent rune, throwing it to his feet just near enough for him to crush it underneath his heel. He didn’t hear himself chant the incantation, focusing instead on the beast’s movements. It was haggard, angry, and about as bruised as Hubie and Derryl were at the moment.

Still, something about its gait didn’t give Philip much confidence that this was something they could handle with a few more swings and concentrated squalls.

This was not a sentiment shared by Hubie, whose grin Philip could hear stretch across his face as he dragged himself up to the front of their group, his massive sword now glowing the same vibrant green as the smooth stone in Philip’s hand.

“Alright, now that we're all here, I reckon we might have a shot at this!”

“I reckon not…!”

It all happened in a flash.

A flash of white, then crimson specks bursting from the back of the bear – flecks of flesh and gore scattering from the edge of a blade that glinted silver in the stark white and onyx fur. The bear did not even have the time to roar in pain when the blade left its spined back, only to hack into its neck, its blood blooming like a stormy sunset at the tip of the sword. It had only a few moments to remain upright before it was shoved forward, revealing Sir Miles from behind it, already flicking the stains away from his sword.

He gave them a pointed look, when nobody made any motion to even flinch at his unexpected arrival. “What are you waiting for? The Howlers,”

Beside Philip, Derryl shrugged – and moved to decapitate the Howlers before they could recover from their staggered state. The rest of them followed suit, taking care to be quick about their movements. By the time the winds emanating from their blades died down, they sheathed their weapons, and lined themselves up to stand in front of Sir Miles, who regarded them with some level of exasperation – directed mostly towards Hubie and Derryl. From the corner of his eye, Philip saw them both with their heads hung down.

“What took you boys so long? And what the heck – this is already way further than –”

“That was so cool…!”

Hubie’s outburst made them jump out of their skin – and they looked back to find him with his fists balled-up and pumped, stars streaking around in his eyes as he stared up at a very unamused Miles.

Undeterred, Hubie raised his hands up in excitement, shaking Nate beside him, who made a face. “That was cool, right?! Like right before our eyes he just swooped in an' cleaved the bear in two–!”

“Hubie!” Sir Miles cut him off with an expression that didn’t quite look like a glare, but was sharp enough to get him to stiffen up.

“A-ah, yeah – sorry, sir!”

“This warrants more than a little sorry!” Sir Miles continued. “This is way beyond the premises of the task I gave you both, what on earth happened?!”

A distant roar made them freeze in place, but the knight simply sighed, and started to walk back into the direction of the barracks. He raised a hand, beckoning them to follow him. “Actually, tell me on the way – but consider yourselves to be in trouble!”

“Y-yes sir, sorry sir!” Hubie saluted in reply, jogging up to Sir Miles to match his pace. “But Derryl ain't done nothin' wrong, he was just looking out for me,”

“Is that so? I appreciate your honesty, but it's not like he's faultless here. What happened to the soulstones I gave you?”

With a sheepishness that Philip couldn’t have expected from him, Derryl kept his eyes to the side. “We… lost them in the scuffle, sir. Can't find them in all this snow,”

Another sigh. “I see. I want you both to reflect on today when we get back.”

Hubie perked up. “How about we do it now? Can we do that now? I can start – Derryl, I'm sorry I got you into this, you got roped into trouble because I was bein' reckless,”

Philip tuned out the rest of his apology, opting instead to reach for the pack of dried plums he kept in his back pocket. He pried it open, and passed one to Nate before walking ahead. He watched as Derryl nodded along to every word that fell from Hubie's lips, his mouth stretched into a thin line that edged on irritation.

He chose to leave them be and made his way over to Sir Miles with a hand outstretched. "…is this how training for them usually goes, Sir?"

The knight took the plum in his hand with a grateful noise, though his expression remained somewhat sour. "Something like this, yes. I'm glad that Hubert is so energetic, but he's still working on his impulsiveness," he said with only a slight grumble. "As for Derryl, he's the only reason Hubert stays on track most times. It's reassuring to have him around, but they're not quite striking the balance yet,"

Philip hummed in thought, hazarding a glance back at the two boys. He knew by now that Hubie's earnest attempts at apologizing were, more than anything, motivated by the simple desire to get it over with – there were only so many hours in the day to be spent on rumination and mulling over 'what if's', no matter how necessary it seemed to be.

The plums in his packet were long gone by the time they returned to the barracks. Energized now, Sir Miles turned to face all of them again. “Sorry to spring this on you lot after all that, but we've still got to hit the rest of our agenda for today. Philip, Nate – think you two still need a warm-up?”

"Haven't we run around enough, sir?!" Nate yelled in protest.

Sir Miles, undeterred, simply nodded – much to Nate's unabashed shock. "I'll take that as a no! Hubie, Derryl, take over Philip for me and walk him through the drills I showed you this morning. Nate, you're with me,"

Philip watched the knight take Nate by the shoulders towards the spear racks in spite of his protests, before being dragged by the wrist by an excited Hubie over to where Derryl stood. He was then promptly tossed a sword – standard-issue, somewhat thicker than the sword Philip was used to carrying around. His robust friend had one in his hands already, tucking it next to his usual, larger blade that hung off his waist.

"Sword swings, is it?" Philip asked, taking the sword out of its sheath and inspecting its sheen – then yelping when he felt the weight of firm palms at his hips. He relaxed once he saw for himself that it was just Hubie, who had the grace to shoot him an apologetic smile.

"Yep – stick out your hips, straighten your legs…" Derryl said, unsheathing his own sword and using it as a baton to point at Philip's form. "We're gonna do this with the basic swords first,"

They proceeded to do exactly that, in a fashion stale enough that one would think that they hadn't just come out of a dangerous bind with a bear. If not for the scrapes and scratches still visible on the clothes of the two Vanguards – their bruises slowly healing with grape essence and a faintly sweet-smelling salve that Philip caught a whiff of on Hubie's arm – Philip would have thought that what happened earlier had simply been a mirage he'd conjured out of utter boredom.

The weight of the sword in his grip was somewhat grounding – he wasn't yet used to fighting with this particular sword, its dimensions ever so slightly wrong, the steel yet unused to the thrum of his magic. But even past that unfamiliarity, there was something sordid in its gravity – this blade represented a goal. One day, he will be awarded a blade with a better polish, forged from the same cut of steel.

This sword was a far-away vow. Abandoning it was tantamount to desertion. Philip wondered if his Vanguard friends have had enough time to reckon with that fact, when they eventually moved on from simple sword swings, into more complicated stances, and into light basic spars as the afternoon went on – he felt it in every connected blow.

Some more minutes passed, and Philip found himself being held down by the sheer force behind Hubie’s blow, the echo of their swords still ringing in his ears. He weathered the intensity in Hubie’s gaze, until he saw it soften with surprise when his eyes trailed off to the side.

"Hm? That's a heck of a crowd over there," he heard him mutter, then yelp when Philip took the opportunity to put his entire body weight into his next shove.

Derryl clicked his tongue right as Hubie met the ground. “Hubie, stop getting distrac – ah!”

“That smarts,” Hubie groaned, though he took Philip’s hand anyway and let himself be pulled up. “Derryl, your turn – Derryl?”

The other Vanguard remained unresponsive, simply staring off into the same place as Hubie had earlier. Philip did the same, only to spot that there was indeed a crowd of people gathered there surrounding a person, and if he’d strained his ears, he could hear the chatter – indistinct, but excited.

“Derryl? Derryl. Snap out of it, mate.” Hubie snapped his fingers in front of the other Vanguard, tearing a yelp out of him.

“S-sorry. Sorry! Back straight, just like that, you're doin' great –”

“Good to see you, Reverend Sister!”

The title was enough to bring them all to attention, and they all turned to see the graceful form of Sister Ophilia making her way towards them. Philip had not seen her since the inauguration from the previous month, and now that she was up close like this, her features seemed a little sharper – not any less warm than when he’d met her for the first time, though the amber of her eyes now shone with the luster of cold steel.

“Please, Miles – it's alright to call me by my name. I see your charges are hard at work!” she said, accompanied by a beaming smile that seemed to soothe the fatigue that had begun to seep into their bones.

“They're definitely putting their backs into it! So – Philip, Hubie, Derryl –”

“Sister!”

Derryl rushed over to her with an energy that Philip had never seen before this, almost stumbling over his own steps as he did so. The cleric regarded him with surprise, then sunny recognition as her smile widened to greet the boy.

“You're… oh my, Derryl!”

“Yes, Sister! It's me! It's so good to see you!” Before any of them could question the sudden brightness in Derryl’s voice, he composed himself – straightening himself out with a cough, then bowing. “I – I mean, ahem – I hope the day has been good to you, Reverend Sister Ophilia.”

“Oh, what a most fruitful meeting this is!” replied Sister Ophilia, reaching out to clasp Derryl’s hands in hers. Keeping that blinding smile on her face, she turned to where Nate stood as she regarded his form. “Nate too, you're here, oh – you and Derryl have grown so much since I've seen you last!”

Nate simply scoffed, though a smile was tugging at his own lips. “Sister, don't embarrass him – he's gonna explode any minute now.”

“Nate!”

The Sister simply giggled at that. “I’m glad to see that the both of you are as lively as ever!” Philip felt himself stiffen as her gaze shifted over to him. “And you… Philip, you're Sir Olberic's boy, right? It's been forever!”

Sir Miles made a noise behind them both. “Sir Olberic's –?”

“A-ah, no, you’ve got it wrong, Sister – he's just my mentor!” He had no confidence that his words really did anything to quell any disquieting thoughts in his commanding officer. He could only stare helplessly at the Sister when he heard her laugh again.

“Oh, do forgive me…! Work has not been very kind to my memory, as of late…” To Philip’s great relief, she did not press the topic further, and turned to Hubie. “And hello there, your name is…?”

Hubie puffed up his chest and gave it a proud knock. “The name's Hubie, Lady Clement!” Derryl elbowed him in the side, and the boy coughed before he took on a humbler stance. “I-I mean – my name is Hubert Ercanhard, Reverend Sister!”

“Hehe, such an earnest response! It's fine, please call me whatever you like.” She let her face rest on a delighted smile, missing the smug smile Hubie had shot Derryl – and the way that the other boy elbowed him harder. “All of you look like you've been working up quite the sweat,”

“Hardly, Sister – we've only just started doing today's proper drills –”

“But we've warmed up enough, haven't we sir?”

The surprise was palpable – though Sir Miles reacted first, looking down incredulously at Derryl, whose expression Philip now could not read. “Uh? I believe I just got done saying –”

The shadows cast over the boy’s face cleared up just enough for them to see the steely glint in his eye as he put a gloved palm over his chest. “Sir, I believe that Hubie and I are liable for further assessment – will you permit us to duel?”

“What the – Hey! I wanted to ask him that!” Hubie cut in, pumping his fist and gnashing his teeth – before blinking in confusion. “Wait, no – hang on, what's gotten into you –”

“Slow down, slow down! Not that I think you're wrong, but this is a little sudden –”

“Please, sir!”

In the midst of the noise, Philip heard Nate click his tongue next to him, then making his way towards the knight. He bowed his head forward. “… I dunno if I'm the right person to be cuttin' in for this, but sir – I'm asking you too. I think it'd be a good learnin' experience for Philip and I.”

Everyone was looking at Nate’s way with shock now – the Sister included, having held up a hand to cover what was sure to be a gaping mouth. A palpable silence washed over them, and Philip could only look on as Sir Miles crossed his arms in thought, weathering Derryl’s expectant gaze. This was the boy that was quick to point out every rule, having memorized his worn book front to back simply to keep them all in line – he couldn’t see a trace of that model student in him now.

The corner of Sir Miles’s eye twitched for just a moment, before he let out a big, beleaguered sigh. “… really, when you boys ask me so earnestly like that, how can I say no? Fine – line up you two. Philip, Nate – pay attention.”

Hubie scrambled to his position once Nate passed him by, having clamped a hand upon their friend’s shoulder to shake him out of his surprise as he made his way back to Philip and Sister Ophilia’s side. Derryl meanwhile, looked antsier more than relieved as he leveled his gaze towards them.

“Reverend Sister, please watch over us!” was all he said, before turning and drawing the sword at his hip – a longsword, in place of the standard-issue arming swords. Similarly, Hubie had chosen to take his hulking claymore out of the sheath on his back.

Both Vanguards had an iron grip on their swords, their glares piercing each other from across the field. The building tension in the air crackled, making the hairs on Philip’s neck stand on end. Perhaps the most unbelievable thing about this match was how calm Nate was next to him, who looked on at the scene with a calm that didn’t suit him.

He caught Sister Ophilia’s worried eye for a brief moment, and he looked away just as quick.

“Don't you hold back, Hubie.” Derryl said. The other Vanguard’s lips slowly tugged away to reveal a growing grin.

“I don't know what's going on with you, but just don't get distracted! Bring it!”

“Begin!”

As soon as the word pushed past Sir Miles’s lips, the two flew towards each other, swords raised and voiceless – save for a grunt a second later, when Hubie deflected Derryl’s advance. This position was broken without even a moment’s passing, when Derryl twisted his body to land another powerful hit, only to be parried once more. The sheer force of their movements set their blade alight with sparks, with each strike ringing out in deafening tones across the training grounds.

Derryl was the first to make a retreat, stepping sideways to hold his sword at an angle – cautious, taunting, a move that Hubie fell for as he pivoted, allowing his momentum to deliver a heavy blow against the other Vanguard. Having anticipated this, it was Derryl’s turn to deflect an attack, raising his sword with enough force to throw Hubie off-balance. The tip of Hubie’s claymore hit the snow-covered pavement for only a split-second before he recovered from his surprise, tightening his grip around its hilt despite the way his shoulders trembled from surprise – just in time to parry Derryl’s next swing.

From where he was sat, Philip could see streams of sweat rolling from both boys’ temples. Their attacks didn’t let up for even a moment, and that had come as a surprise. Philip had only ever seen Derryl be a somewhat reactive duelist, wholly uninterested in flourish and matching his opponent’s shows of strength. But here Derryl was now, thrusting, lunging, using feints – fighting Hubie with a streak of aggression that he had never seen before.

Judging from the way that Sir Miles’s lips pursed, and Hubie’s ill-timed swerves that felt as though they were reserved for a very different fight, this side of Derryl was foreign to them as well.

“Are they usually like this?” he heard Sister Ophilia ask beside him. She stared at the battle in front of her with a focus that he recognized – it was the expression that Sir Olberic would wear when watching the village watchmen spar.

“It’s a Derryl thing,” Nate replied, his tone carrying the same resigned air since vouching for this spar. “Sister, please watch him. He's trying his best. I think… you can figure it out,”

This wasn’t a conversation that he was meant to hear.

But swords could not lie, not to a warrior’s trained eye. Philip was no seasoned fighter, yet there was rawness in the way that Derryl growled and yelped and bared his teeth against Hubie – there was trying, but trying for what, he couldn’t know, just what on Earth was it that he was trying to do?

The Sister’s pensive look from before hadn’t been a trick of the light after all, not when Philip saw her shoulders tense right as Derryl dodged a swing from Hubie that had come too close for comfort. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at Nate. “… I did think it strange, that you two and Emil would cross the Middlesea for this. Did something happen?”

The lanky boy shook his head. “… I wish I had an answer for you, Sister. All I know is that right now, he wants to prove something.”

A loud clang brought their attention back to the match, this time both blades met each other close enough for Derryl and Hubie’s hair to graze each other’s foreheads. Though Derryl held the lighter blade, Hubie had the smaller frame – every contrasting aspect of the two as fighters made it difficult to tell who really had the upper hand in this standstill. Even from this distance, Philip could hear them both heave with the effort of maintaining the position, force pushing back against force as their heels dug into the ground.

One blink became two, and two blinks became three – this was all the time it took for Derryl to shift his weight and slide the edge of his blade upwards with enough force to push Hubie back –

“Ah–?!”

–hard enough to force the hilt of Hubie’s claymore to slip out of his grasp and send him to the ground.

“…and that’s a wrap! Derryl is the winner of this match!” Sir Miles announced, the moment the echo of steel clamoring atop brick died down around them.

Hubie leaned back on the ground, groaning into the air in frustration. “Damn, you really didn’t hold anything back! Where was all of this energy when we we’re with the rest of the class?!”

“But it’s fine, right? You finally got that spar you wanted…” Derryl’s hand was already pushing down on Hubie’s head when he attempted to get up. “Now settle down, I know I didn’t go easy on you.”

“This won’t end the same way next time, mark my words – ow!”

Hubie’s declarations were cut short once Sir Miles placed both hands on his shoulders, and Philip winced when he heard cracking. “He’s right, sit still. We need to pop those joints…”

He had half a mind to help Sir Miles with getting Hubie sorted out, but Derryl had already begun making his way back towards them with an expectant look in his eyes. Sister Ophilia greeted him with a smile, raising her hands to clap. “Derryl! I don’t know what to say… you were amazing just now!”

Red dusted the Vanguard’s cheeks as he rubbed the base of his neck. “You really think so, Sister…? I’ve got a long way to go.”

“Maybe so, but… I can see how hard you’ve been working up until now. It’s good to know that you’re always trying your best.” She then pursed her lips, clasping her hands together. “But you know –”

Derryl cut her off by bowing in her direction, low enough that they couldn’t see his face. “Of course, Sister. I’ll work even harder to reach further heights.”

A myriad of emotion seemed to consume the Sister then, when neither of them made a move for a while. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, before settling back into an easy smile as she reached out to ruffle his hair with a tender, gloved hand. “So long as you don’t push yourself too far… but I would be delighted to see you keep improving.”

Derryl had not the time to raise his head when the cleric gasped. “…oh, please excuse me, everyone! I’m afraid it’s time I headed back to the Cathedral.” They all watched after her as she straightened her robes, and turned on her heel after giving them a polite bow. “May you all have a wonderful rest of your day.”

It was when the Sister was out of earshot when Philip saw Nate cross his arms as he looked at Derryl with an unreadable look on his face. “… so, did that satisfy you?”

“… not enough. I can get better. I can’t have her worry like that.”

Philip would not be able to shake these words from his head for the next few days. Not when Derryl hadn’t shown off any of that fervor since, no matter how much Hubie tried to goad him into trying has hard as he did on the day the Sister came to see them.

>>>

It was hard not to wince when the oaken doors to the conference room slammed open, though Eliza opened an eye to regard their newcomer with thinly-veiled exasperation all the same. She was hot enough under this collar, back heavy with expectations as she watched Miles pant on his knees and stutter out an apology for the intrusion.

“Ah Miles, excellent. You're only a couple of minutes late to the meeting this time.”

“R-really?! I'm very sorry for my indiscretion! It won't happen again!”

The boisterous laughter of Sir Rondo cut through the tension of the room. “Haha, relax, relax! Better late than never, I always say!”

Eliza fought to keep a smile from tugging at her lips as she coughed pointedly into her fist. “I shouldn't be encouraging your behavior, Sir Rondo, but I tire of these meetings as well, so let me get to the point.”

She did not wait for Miles to be seated when she tossed a folder onto the large, polished table. “That report we got a while back from Lady H'aanit? The scholars of Atlasdam have finished their professional analyses of the samples of that infected Dreadwolf she and her accomplice found.”

Anxious muttering filled the room as they all looked on at the papers like they were something cursed. “And we’re absolutely certain that it is not of Galderan influence?” a knight said after a while, having picked up the file to read it once, twice, just to make sure that the text printed upon the parchment was real.

Eliza nodded gravely. “Yes. Its penchant for the darkness is similar, but not exact. If the Reverend Sister’s words did not convince you before, then it would behoove us now to listen to the conclusions of Atlasdam’s scholars… and the counsel of Lord Dreisang himself.” She leaned forward, already bracing herself for her next words. “Worse yet, if it is something truly not of this world… then we do not know whether or not the Sacred Flame will be enough to protect us from it.”

Expecting the senior knights in attendance to throw a fit did nothing to ease the irritation bubbling from her throat. She recognized their like, the ones who weren’t present when Emberglow’s disaster occurred, nowhere to be found in the Frostlands – former defenders of Tytos who slinked back into the upper ranks when the Order lost too many to the Scarlet Snow.

“Preposterous! You mean to imply that the Sacred Flame would be so weak a force –”

“Have you not yet opened your eyes to that fact, after the Congregation?” Sir Rondo cut in before Eliza could say something she would later regret, shooting the baronet a glare. “At the very least, we know that the Flame is corruptible. The last Flameguard was proof of this. Wispermill lives today with the burdens of the Flame’s weakness. Should it not be clear to us now that the Flame alone will not save us from all of our problems?”

“Perhaps I have every right to be even more concerned then – there is no such thing as a corrupt Sacred Flame, only corrupt wielders!” Another baronet slammed his hand on the table, leveling his own sharp glare towards the Flameguard. “Wispermill only happened because that disgrace Lianna Clement should never have been near the Flame in her state. How will I know that your words are not a sign that we start doubting you, Sir Ravus?”

Eliza felt her eye twitch. She could not hide the bite in her voice when she spoke up once more, smacking her own fist on the wood to call for silence. “Hold your tongue, Sir Seaver. Do not forget your own position. This is not what we have come here today to discuss. Further insults towards the clergy will not be tolerated, do we have an understanding?”

She will not admit to the satisfaction she felt seeing the sweat roll down the side of the old knight’s temple. It almost made the ire-filled gazes of his posse worth enduring. “Bah, get on with it then.”

“Thank you.” With a nod from Sir Rondo to her side, she pulled out another file. “There is another concern that I wish to bring to light to this meeting, and that is increased activity around the Gate of Finis. This missive we received from Lady Ravus just yesterday says that the spies have detected a presence – though non-hostile – around the Gate.”

The room was once again filled with murmurs, quieter this time. The younger knights in attendance looked particularly on edge – tension that soon paled their faces when the next words left Eliza’s mouth.

“After running it through the Orsterran Congregation, we have been tasked to confirm if these two things are related somehow.”

Sir Rondo motioned for a couple of knights to roll out a map. “For this reason, we'll be dispatching a good number of scouts across the continent. We'll be including the Squires in this endeavor – they will be covering the Frostlands and the Woodlands.” His hand glided atop the map, gathering the small carved figures that represented their forces and putting them into place. The new polish of the pieces dedicated to the Squires stood out amongst the wear and tear of the other wooden figures. “Half of our knights will be tasked to investigate the Flatlands and Coastlands, and the rest of us will gather information around South Orsterra.

“All of this will be done in the guise of relief campaigns held to round out concerns over the Yellow Plague, but your true objective is scouting the perimeter for any suspicious activity.” He said, opening up a new set of papers. “In here are the finer details of the operations you’ll be conducting. Knight commanders will receive these instructions from me after the meeting.”

With a collective – if reluctant – nod from the knight commanders in question, Eliza grabbed a pen and a fresh sheet of paper that was sure to become riddled with indecisive scribbling in only a few minutes.

“With that, let's move on to deciding which divisions will cover which area…”

>>>

It was pure happenstance that she stood outside the doors to the conference room.

Lianna’s duties took her near the Knights’ Headquarters today. Sweeping the hallways was something no cleric was exempt from. This was nothing unusual, the rotation of chores between the Cathedral’s clerics and the chaplains assigned to the Knights Ardante always had some degree of overlap. But she will not dare lie about the discomfort she has come to feel about being near the knights themselves.

It was well within expectations. Flamesgrace had never treated her the same after the events of three years ago.

She would be reprimanded if a cleric of her rank were to be seen cowering from the knights, but no one was around to do exactly that, so she helped herself to keeping out of their sight when they finally emerged from the conference room. She focused on the roughness of the broom through the leather of her gloves, the dust in the closet that had to be cleaned away – counting the pairs of sabatons that walked the halls and not the hushed, irritable whispers of the knights they belonged to.

It was only a miracle that she found only Eliza there when she miscalculated and stepped out too early anyway.

The burgundy-haired knight studied her face, her own expression kind – if a little tired. She then shrugged forwards, as if waiting for Lianna herself to speak.

After a quick glance around the hall, Lianna finally sighed. “You know, you don't have to defend me every time you hold a meeting…”

“Let's both agree that it just slips out sometimes, okay?” Eliza breathed out a laugh, though there wasn’t any mirth to be found in its cadence. “Old coots just can't let go of the past…”

“But they're not wrong that I'm untrustworthy. I don't know why you keep insisting otherwise,”
A disgrace is what they’d called her. No knight would dare say it to her face. Fate kept dealing her these hands, and she found herself catching them whisper the word when they thought they were alone with their thoughts. Dropping eaves the way that she was never meant to, and yet she could not deny them those opinions. What power did she have against the truth?

Eliza’s lips spread into a thin line. “You've done your best for Wispermill, haven't you? Chin up.”

She could feel her own lips trembling. Lianna kept her head down, the grip on her broom tightening.

There were still things to be done. Halls to be swept, people to guide, knights to avoid and villages to help put together the broken pieces of yesteryear.

Lianna learned how to count her miracles. Eliza was one of them, and every day she prayed to the gods to help her figure out how to be grateful for that.

“You… really don't get it at all, huh,”

“Lianna…”

Gloved fingers found their way under her chin, gently tilting her head upwards. Eliza’s eyes were as warm as they’ve always been.

“You know, all I want to hear from you sometimes is a thank you.”

“I…”

A pointed cough from their sides tore them out of the moment, making Lianna jump backwards as she turned her head towards the smiling newcomer, innocently waiting at the intersection with a broom in hand and an apron tied over her robes.

“Oh, Phili! How long have you been standing there?” Lianna could feel her face burn – and she cursed herself – always at the most inopportune of times.

Her sister giggled, pressing her free hand to her mouth. “Not long enough! Carry on, please don't mind that I'm here!”

Eliza chuckled, putting a hand on her hip. “Hey now, it's not a good look for you to eavesdrop, Reverend Sister Ophilia.”

“Why, whatever could you be talking about?”

“Heh, cheeky thing.” The knight strode over to Ophilia and lightly pinched at her cheek. The strains etched upon her face smoothing out with every new giggle she managed to tear out of the cleric. “Since you're here though, do you mind if I talk to you about a few matters? It's about the Knights.”

“If that is what you require. Shall we take this to the lounge?” Ophilia turned, gesturing towards the left wing of the hallway.

“Please.”

Lianna opened her mouth to wave them goodbye, but found that she had no chance to when they both looked back at her expectantly.

“Oh, Lianna – you'd better come too.”

“B-but I'm on cleaning duty –”

“Nope, none of that!” Ophilia reached out for her hand to pull her along, and Lianna felt all the fight in her slink away the more she stared into her sister’s eager eyes. “I already saw to that, don't worry about it! Come on, Anna!”

Their touches were laden with exhaustion, though it ebbed away the more they talked, chattering about their day and savoring each step before duty called to them once more. Lianna felt her throat strain with something strange, but followed them in anyway once they made room for her to sit in the chaplain’s lounge. It was the place in the Headquarters furthest from the knight’s common rooms, where no knight would pass by even on the slowest of days.

Lianna’s miracles of late were few, but they were precious. And every day, she promised to herself that she would return these favors. Sitting in the middle of her sister and friend’s discussions about how many clerics to dispatch and where, she wondered how she would be able to do exactly that.

>>>

Chapter Text

It became less and less of a chore to wake up in the mornings.

“If either of you fall on me again, they will never find your bodies.”

“Why does it count for both of us if only one of us is being a moron here –

“Hey! We’ll see who’ll be calling themselves a moron in the next set!”

“It’ll be both of you if you don’t stop getting your musty scent all over me–!”

Less so the way that Philip had to peel his rowdy teammates away from each other any time Hubie wanted to get his blood pumping. Still, no matter how much any of them yelled like they had the entire wing to themselves, Philip thinks – he could live with it.

This morning at least, it took them only an hour to get themselves sorted. Not like he had been keeping tabs on how long it took to get Nate to stop grumbling, but for this particular morning, they were told to wake up especially early. Sir Miles wanted them all to be at the training grounds at five sharp instead of the usual six.

“You’ll all be getting some special training, starting tomorrow. Get some good sleep,” Sir Miles had said yesterday. “And savor those beds. You won’t be sleeping in them for a while, I’m afraid…”

The rest of the squires were already there by the time they arrived at the grounds with creased uniforms. Placed behind the rows of squires were large bundles of bags and what seemed to be poles, arranged neatly into a stack. Even further back was the rack where there usually sat a variety of weapons – now cleared of most blades, replaced instead by bows and quivers of all shapes and sizes. Chaplains ran about the area, rummaging through the bags and inspecting the arrows over by the rack. They took up the last remaining seats in the back row, where they could just barely see over the tops of the other squires’ heads.

Philip shivered in his seat, grasping tight at his blue jacket, watching his breath come out in puffs as he waited patiently for whatever activity was about to start. Five sharp meant that there was no daylight, and less heat than usual – found only in the braziers lit some several feet away from them.

Warmth curled around him when Hubie leaned into his side. He had half a mind to ask if the other boy was running a sudden fever of some kind, but the murmurs around them grew more agitated before he could get the chance. Knights started to march to the front row, with Sir Miles among them. They both craned their necks over to see what was going on, and Philip spotted tufts of direwolf fur and boarskin among the crowd of chain mail and stark white tabards.

As the knights organized themselves into a line, the masses of padded leather and fur had revealed themselves, and Philip held up a hand to stifle a gasp when he spotted a familiar pink braid.

“…! Isn't that…”

“What, you know 'em Phil?” Derryl raised a brow at him.

“Wait –” Just then, Hubie shot up from his seat, almost shoving Philip into the back of a hapless squire sat in front of them. “Stonegard would know that direwolf anywhere – that's Mister Z'aanta!”

“Seriously? He looks so cool…” Nate breathed.

Sure enough, standing up on the makeshift podium was Miss H’aanit and the man she called her master. Philip could only barely remember the last time he saw Miss H’aanit and her snow leopard – it had to have been when Sir Olberic made his final stopover to Cobbleston before he set off for his homeland with the other members of his company. Out of all of them, Miss H’aanit was perhaps the one he remembered the least about, though her appearance made her stick out in his memories. The tame leopard certainly helped with that – but besides even Linde, she had just looked so different from every other woman Philip had ever seen.

She had a strong body like Sir Olberic’s, with height being the only thing his mentor surpassed her in, in terms of build. Her hair was a pretty shade of pink that he found hard to forget, tied in a messy, flowing braid. She did not look so different from when he saw her last, just that she wore heavier garments than before to contend with the harsh weather of the Frostlands.

Next to her was a jovial-looking old man with windswept silver hair and a braided beard, wearing all green under his thick boarskin cape. He sported a rather toothy grin, and seemed more than a little scruffy – still, he had an air about him that commanded respect. This was the man that existed in the whispers of Stonegard’s local hero stories, a man who took down a dragon and trained his apprentice to be good enough to do the same.

“They say he’s got a bunch of tamed beasts somewhere,” he heard a squire next to him whisper excitedly. “An’ that they’ll swoop down on his enemies when he so much as whistles,”

“Lady H’aanit’s amazing too, isn’t she? She can do it as well as he can…”

“They’re both legends… the Darkwood is an amazing place.”

“Mister Z’aanta’s the person the Knights turn to when a job’s too hard,” He remembered Hubie saying one day, through a mouthful of roasted turkey leg. “He’s taken down beasts that would rip a dozen Knights to shreds. Heard he tailed a right freak of a beast for a year, an’ disappeared… only to bounce right back an’ save lil’ ol’ Madam Marie from a giant Sabertooth down at the edge of town!”

A mentor to one of Sir Olberic’s trusted companions… Philip couldn’t even begin to imagine what sort of prowess he’d possess.

He froze when he caught the gaze of the direwolf sitting quietly next to Sir Z’aanta. He allowed Hubie’s quivers of excitement to mask the trembling of his own body.

He did not need to stew in his own wariness for long, as the murmurs died down when the crisp sound of Lady Eliza’s sabatons hitting the snowed-over stone of the training grounds drew their attention.

“Hail, squires. I'll assume you've received enough of a briefing from your respective officers, so I'll not keep you waiting any longer,” She gestured to the two hunters and their companions. “These two standing beside me are the esteemed Hunters of the Darkwood, Sir Z'aanta and Lady H'aanit. They have kindly given us the time to teach you all the supplementary information you need to accomplish your tasks next week.”

The elder of the two hunters cleared his throat, before raising a hand to address them. They all waited for bated breath for him to speak –

“Hail, children! I am being paid to be here! Ack–!”

– only for Miss H’aanit to elbow him in the side with too straight a face for someone who just hit a person of living myth.

“And I am here of mine own will.” She said dryly, paying no mind to the way her mentor doubled over in pain. She then crossed her arms with a huff. “When it cometh to anything but the hunt, prithee doth not taken this silly man's words seriously.”

Philip looked around him, finding his fellow squires go slack-jawed at the display, though the knights themselves seemed rather bemused – like this was nothing more than some every day spat.

“What she said.” Lady Eliza said with a nod, before coughing into her fist. “Ahem. Please behave yourselves, and listen to their instructions. I’ll let them take things from here.”

“Now that is just plain rude!” piped up Sir Z’aanta, now leaning against his direwolf for support. The direwolf snorted in his direction, puffing cold air into his master’s face. “Ach–! Hägen, not you too…!”

Miss H’aanit rolled her eyes right as Sir Z’aanta sneezed – loudly. “Master, please at least act like thou art being paid their money's worth.”

“Alright, aright! I was just tryen to lighten up the mood, thou’st all looken like thou art to be tossed into a dragon’s lair…” he grumbled, though he perked right back up. He dusted the snow off his pants, then his hands, and grinned once more as he looked at the crowd. “Let's not dally any longer then, laddies and laddettes! Find thyselves a good bow, and a sturdy sack for good measure. First thing on our agenda – we shalle hunten ourselves a fine meal!”

Silence settled over the area, save for the shuffling of the knights in front, who all began to move towards the heavy bags.

“Uhm, sir? Like… now?” A meek-sounding voice asked what all of them had been thinking.

“No, next week! Of course now! Come on, chop chop! No time like the present!”

As the lot of them scrambled to line up and pick out bows and sacks, Philip thought to himself – this was shaping up to be a rather weird exercise.

It even sounded fun.

>>>

By the time they stepped into the Woodlands, it was almost noon. The S’waarki-Flamesgrace border wasn’t all that far, and their pace had been constant. It felt rather surreal to be traveling in such large numbers – some fifty-something squires, over a dozen knights, two hunters of great renown, and their two beastly companions – they would have made for a rather strange sight, if they hadn’t taken the road less traveled.

All of them welcomed the gradual change in temperature the closer they got to the border, with many breathing sighs of relief once they felt leaves instead of snow crunching beneath their boots. Some had even started unbuttoning their jackets – ‘some’ including Hubie, who stretched and mewled like a cat the moment he felt the Woodlands sun on his face.

This road, as he overheard some of the other squires chat about, was one taken only by members of the Order. Generations of knights and knight apprentices coming and going from this trail in the woods paved the ground with only their slow and steady march into the wilderness, and it had gone on for so long that grass no longer grew where their feet had tread. All knights, at some point, had walked out of this place a changed person.

Or so the traditions went. Apparently, there were still exceptions to this rule – stamped with seals from families with prestige. Philip had noticed that they were lacking in a few squires on the way here.

They reached the campsite soon after they crossed the border. The area was far enough from the Frostlands that they could spot no frost creeping on the ferns, but still near enough that the water in the river nearby carried with it the occasional chunk of ice.

They did not have long to admire the surroundings before Sir Z’aanta’s whistle cut through the chit and chatter of the squires and the critters scuttling about the undergrowth. He instructed them to take two traps each from the pile waiting for them by the stack of firewood and stone. They all then gathered around the elder hunter, with Miss H’aanit sitting next to him, simply inspecting her bow and arrows as Linde curled up beside her.

“One, two, no more than four lads to a team…” he hummed, then nodded as he stroked his beard. “Yes, one healthy squirrel each should be enough to feed thy mouths. Thou hearest me? Exactly one squirrel amongst thyselves… and not a critter more.”

Philip blinked. Another squire spoke up.

“Sir!”

Sir Z’aanta pointed his finger at the squire with their hand raised without missing a beat. “A question! Fireth away!”

“Doesn't one squirrel a team seem… small? Shouldn't we be eatin' our fill?”

Sir Z’aanta hummed again, with a deeper rumble this time. “Hm! I see why a growing lad wouldst ask me such a thing. Squirrels must look to be barely bigger than a rat in the sewers to thee. But as a rule, thou'st shouldst not overestimate the amount of food one canst carry at a time.”

He then slapped his thigh, and knocked his knees as he stood. He took the longbow slung over himself, and now that Philip had a better look at it, he could see that it was a very worn thing – its wood was chipped, the fabric on its grip frayed and tattered.

But the sound its string made when Sir Z’aanta struck it for a moment – it felt dignified. Time-honored. Battle-tested.

Satisfied with his cursory inspection, he walked to the edge of the wood, with Miss H’aanit and their animal companions close behind. The rest of them followed suit, watching his every move. “Thou art on a short mission. Best not to make a feast out of thy quarry for short trips. It leaves much room for wasting the meat.” he said, keeping his tone light in a way that did not match his stance.

They kept their eyes on him as he nicked an arrow to his bow. Only the distant clanging of sabatons and shuffling of bags across grass could be heard, though Sir Z’aanta barely paid it any mind as he pulled back the arrow.

In the very next moment, the arrow cut through the air. A faint cry could be heard in the distance not even a second after the arrow was let loose. Hägen, the direwolf, sprinted off in that direction the second his ears picked up on the noise.

Hägen returned not two minutes later, carrying in his mouth a plump squirrel that didn’t so much as twitch nor bleed. The arrow stuck out from behind its ear, just below the direwolf’s snout. Sir Z’aanta grunted in appreciation, picking the squirrel up by the arrow. Gently, he turned the corpse over in his hands.

“Yes… ‘tis a fine day for squirrel hunting. See how their fur is less coarse? How their eyes are bright and beady?” Sir Z’aanta’s fingers carefully pried the arrow away from where it had pierced the critter. Still, barely any blood, though specks of it started to splatter on the hunter’s gloves. “They’ve started to fatten themselves up for the winter. Prime squirrel meat, perfect for one meal amongst ye growing lads.”

“Remember this, always.” Miss H’aanit’s voice came from behind them all, the gentle purring of Linde accompanying her. “Thou ought not to take more from the forest than what is needed. The forest is plentiful, but it is finite. Allowen it to provide thee, and it shalle deliver.”

Philip could not help but stare at the corpse in front of him. It was far from the first time he’s seen an animal be hunted for food. Beasts did it. The village huntsmen did it when the ranches were close to running dry of cattle and ram. It was not something he has had to think about often – their meat ended up on his plate, whatever shape it ended up taking after the butchering was all said and done.

This was a fresh life taken – to be eaten. He didn’t quite know how to feel about it.

He saw the other squires from the corner of his eye grow squeamish at the sight of the dead squirrel. Some looked on at the display in awe instead, while others twisted their faces in discomfort. His friends were among those whose shock was plain on their faces as the squirrel’s beady eyes seemed to stare through them all.

Sir Z’aanta gave the squirrel back to Hägen, who bounded off back in the direction of the camp. “The lot of thee better have thy traps ready. I’ll not expect perfection out of thee – not today. Any excess that we catchen, thou givest to thine officers. They will knowen what to do with them,”

The pair of hunters then went on to show them how to use the traps they brought along, laying them in spread-out patterns in the forest undergrowth. They were then told to leave them be until the next day, when the bodies have long since gone cold and limp. Afterwards was a series of lessons on archery – something he wished he’d have brushed off as he was not without his previous lessons with Miss Tressa, however –

“I want thee to observe her carefully. See how she has now become part of the very forest? Thou art the predator. Thou must acten like one, if thou wishest to have their next meals,”

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The moment she took her place in front of the makeshift targets, it seemed as though the very air around her shifted to accommodate her, making way for her, embracing her.

“Fear is thine greatest enemy. If thou art too imposing, the quarry is good as gone. Creep silently, like a dormouse. Breathe with care.”

Sir Z’aanta’s words were spoken carefully, like an oath. He had crossed his arms, in that way that proud fathers did sometimes when their children came out to play. It was in his eyes that they saw it – something not unlike reverence coloring his irises.

“It is when the prey is at their most vulnerable that thou looseth the arrow. Do not hesitate for even a single moment.”

Miss H’aanit did not miss a single shot, the arrowheads cutting into the air with such force and will – carving for themselves straight, unbending paths, hitting each target dead in their centers. Philip did not doubt that if the targets were made of flesh in place of wood, the arrows would have pierced right through bone. What seemed like standard fare for Miss Tressa, was, in Miss H’aanit’s hands, a deadly art that deserved nothing less than absolute focus.

A quick, clean kill. Such efficiency seemed so hauntingly elegant then.

>>>

By the time they were instructed to return to the campsite, it looked significantly more organized. A large tent was set up in the middle of it, the grass around it no doubt having been flattened by the coming and going of busy knights. Surrounding the tent were piles of stones and firewood, and large logs rolled and cut up into makeshift tables. He could spot the fiery red of Lady Eliza’s hair from inside the tent, talking with some of the knights.

“Welcome back, boys! How was training?”

Sir Miles greeted them near the entrance, carrying with him a pile of towels. They each took one from the pile, dampening them immediately with how hard they all sweat.

“It was real fun, sir! Looks like we’re eatin’ good tonight, too, what with all those traps we’ve got set up!” Hubie replied with a grin, though sweat still rolled down the side of his head. Nate snorted beside him, crossing his arms.

“Easy for you to say… and what’s up with your aim?! It’s horrible! You damn near shot that one arrow between my eyes!”

“I-I said sorry, didn’t I?! I’m not really much of an aim guy…”

“I guess I can’t really say I’m too surprised,” Philip heard Sir Miles mutter, though the knight gave Hubie a kind smile when he saw the Vanguard’s expression fall. An arm was draped across Hubie’s shoulders as they started to walk towards the center of the camp, where the other squires were also meeting up with their commanding officers. “Don’t let it get you down, Hubie. Archery isn’t the only thing we came out here to learn, so can I count on you to keep doing your best?”

Perking up, Hubie saluted him with a toothy grin. “Of course, sir! What’s next on the agenda?! Are we fishin’ next? Salve-makin’? What about…”

It was at this point that Philip buried his face back into the towels, tuning out the ensuing slew of questions from Hubie. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nate groan and do the same.

Derryl chuckled beside him. “That guy really never runs out of energy for long… I guess that’s reliable in its own way,” Philip was halfway to a nod when he felt Derryl’s hand on his shoulder, giving it a light shake. “By the way, Philip… you okay?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been quiet the entire time, even though someone you know just showed up…”

Philip resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn’t as though he was starving for anyone’s attention here. He wasn’t blind, he’s seen Lady H’aanit’s eyes linger on him for a second longer than the other squires, squinting as if she had half a mind to speak up. It was a miracle that she hadn’t, leaving him be and treating him no different from everyone else.

Faint recognition was all he really needed. He doesn’t think he had much to talk about with her, in the first place. He wasn’t keen on drawing any more attention to himself either.

“I-it’s nothing. Really. Don’t worry about it,” he said, in place of much meaner words. “More than that –”

“Okay, Hubie – at least wait for the others – gather round, guys!” Philip let his words hang in the air as he and a mildly dissatisfied Derryl made their way over to where Sir Miles was keeping a grip on Hubie. “I’ll be running through the basics of setting up camp. Not the big ones just yet, we’ll work our way up there as we go on.”

Once the knight was sure that Hubie wouldn’t be bounding off somewhere on his own, he led them to the area where the bags were being kept, right as a couple of other teams of squires dispersed, rucksacks slung over their shoulders.

“So! Before we go about assembling poles and whatnot, what do you boys think a camp needs?” asked Sir Miles, as he handed them bags and rolls of cloth.

“A wide-open space without any trees!”

“A source of clean water.”

“Firewood,”

“Firm ground?”

Sir Miles nodded in approval. “All of you are exactly correct!”

Derryl put a hand on his hip as he looked around. “… this means we’re taking a hike, right?”

“…Unfortunately, yes.” The knight’s smile had dulled a bit from the realization as he put a hand to his chin in thought. “We’ll have to be quick about it, too – we’ve only got so much space in the perimeter they set for us… well, being close to the other units isn’t so bad either, strategically speaking…”

He cleared his throat, then shrugged as he tugged tight at the slings over the bag he was to carry. He bent over another pile, gathering piles of firewood and sticks in his arms to then toss towards them. “Alright, no time to waste then, help me carry these.”

“Yes sir!”

>>>

Hoisting poles and bags filled with wood and stone over their shoulders, they followed Sir Miles into the thicket. Sir Miles carried with him the heaviest of the bags, containing the large cloth and knobs of the tent, as well as necessities like extra food and lantern oil. On their backs were their sleeping bags and clothes, all rolled up and slightly creased, smelling lightly of grass and sword grease.

The perimeter that Sir Miles had talked about turned out to be quite large. Theirs was a corner of the forest that barely any hunters visited. Sir Miles explained that this place was marked by torches embedded with light soulstones that occasionally pulsed – not brightly enough that they would disturb the local wildlife, but enough to be seen by any lost squire who might wander too far.

However large the area they’ve been given for training might be, it was lacking in good camping spots that met their criteria. Whenever they would come across a good spot, they would find that it was already taken by other groups. Once, they spotted two groups in the middle of a squabble over who gets the spot, and they slipped away before they could get involved.

“Ah, the other guys work fast. We’ll have to make our own camp somewhere further away,” Sir Miles said, sighing on the sixth encounter.

“Sir! What about over here?! It’s nice an’ grassy and everything!”

They looked ahead to find Hubie waving them over. He was in the middle of a pretty clearing, where sunlight gently slipped through the canopies above. It was a windy little knoll, slightly higher above everywhere else. Philip did not need to strain his ears to hear the sounds of running water and critters running about in the undergrowth. If he squinted, he could see the river through the trees.

Sir Miles looked around, humming appreciatively. “This is a good enough spot, I think. Quite a distance away from the main tent, but it does fit the bill. Good job, Hubie!”

“Not so fast there, Miles.”

Philip felt like groaning when a foreign voice entered the space. Moments later, a stern-looking knight emerged from the wood, flanked by what looked to be the squires he was supervising. The knight walked over to where Sir Miles was, sizing him up and staking one of the wooden poles to the ground.

“We’ve had this spot reserved for a while, you see. You’ll have to set up camp elsewhere.”

“That so?”

“Would I lie to you about that?”

“Hey now, no one said anythin’ about reserved spots…!” Hubie said indignantly, reaching out to swipe at the pole, but the knight yanked it out of its spot before Hubie could touch it, almost causing Hubie to lose balance.

“It’s just basic preparedness. There’s plenty of space left in the area,” the knight replied, with only a hint of a scoff in his voice.

“And not nearly enough time to–!”

An arm shot out between Hubie and the knight before Hubie could get up in his face.

“Hubie, stand down.” Sir Miles said, calmly.

“But sir…!”

Sir Miles stepped in front of Hubie, meeting the other knight’s gaze with an unreadable look. “We’ll take our leave. Sorry about the intrusion.”

Before Hubie could say anything more, he took the Vanguard by the arm and led them out of the clearing, never looking back at the other team once. They could hear sniggering, and it stirred in Philip something that felt more than just a little unpleasant. It had been a right miracle that Hubie waited until they were out of earshot to blow up, his face red-hot with anger.

“What’s the big idea?! Why’d you just let him walk all over us like that, sir?!” He yelled once they reached the riverbank. This spot wasn’t half-bad – it was clear, if more than a bit gravelly. Here, the river broke itself into a cluster of streams, and it was a little quieter than upriver – subdued enough not to disturb their sleep or mask the sounds of intruders from the wood. Still, it was nothing compared to the knoll Hubie found, which had a little bit of everything.

Sir Miles didn’t look at him, setting down the bags instead. He staked a pole to the most solid part of the ground, hard enough to make a crack. They heard a faint rustling to their right, fading away into a flurry of murmurs that disappeared into the thicket. “I’d rather not involve you boys in something unnecessary. We’re here to learn, not pick fights.”

“Still… it’s unfair,” Hubie gnashed his teeth, clenching his fists. “What about you guys, huh? Aren’t you all ticked too?”

Nate looked off to the side, kicking a stray pebble into the river. “Of course we’re ticked, but…”

“It’s nothing worth getting into a fight over.” Derryl finished for him, shaking his head and moving over to help Sir Miles set up the rest of the tent. Philip felt a nudge to his side, and watched as Nate shuffle over to offer his assistance too, taking out the knobs and counting them.

“Nghh… that’s true, but…”

“… it’s not that I didn’t think it was unfair, but considering the position you lot are in,” Another pole was staked to the ground before any of them could question what the knight had murmured. “… nevermind. Point is, Hubie – learn how to pick your battles. It’s not the end of the world if we have to look for a new place to camp, okay?”

Hubie’s face twisted into a violent cascade of emotions, and he settled for hunching over with a deep pout. “… yeah, I got it,”

Hubie didn’t move from his spot yet, and Philip couldn’t blame him. Still, they needed a place to rest later, and he walked forward to clamp a hand upon his shoulder.

“… it’s okay, Hubie. We all saw their eyes too.” He muttered, quietly enough that the others couldn’t hear them. The other boy regarded him with an annoyed sigh, reaching up to rub the side of his neck.

“Yeah? Dunno how you can stand them for so long,”

“I can’t. But that’s why I just choose to be with you guys.” Philip admitted. He did his best to pull up a smile, even as the lingering stares and whispers of their batchmates occupied his mind. “Let’s just set up camp. We’ll figure out how to deal with all that later.”

This was a promise he wasn’t sure he could have held to, and he thinks Hubie knew that – but he’d nodded along anyway.

They let the ensuing lecture from Sir Miles chip away at the smoldering frustration that drove their hands. Philip could see it in Derryl’s silent, far-away stares, Nate’s occasional glance, the way that Hubie’s lips pursed with every stray swish from the bushes. He let his thoughts wander instead, recalling some of the days he spent listening to Sir Olberic and Miss Tressa share stories from their days on the road, sleeping underneath the stars.

He wondered if Miss H’aanit often looked back on those moments with fondness too. He heard from Sir Olberic that they often relied on her to find the best camping spots, and how particular she could be about such arrangements – how fast they needed to be, who does which task, among other things.

“Timing is a big part of it,” Sir Miles chirped up a little later, while they were flattening the gravelly ground the best they could. “Best to set up while there’s still daylight out. You could get a fire going, but its range is unreliable. Lanterns are good, but can be cumbersome when there’s so many moving parts… and there happens to be more than just one of you needing to move a light around. Setting up in the day minimizes risk and maximizes focus.”

The sun had already begun to set by the time they could call the ground flat ‘enough’. Not a few minutes after they finished stretching the fabric over the beams and making something that wouldn’t topple over at the slightest gust of air, all four of them were being called back to the main camp.

>>>

Everyone else was already gathered around when they arrived. The other squires all huddled around stone rings, with piles of firewood and tinder placed next to them. Each group was without their commanding officer, hunched over and trying to start a fire. Nate was the one who found their dedicated campfire spot – rather, the only open spot left in the area, with a few missing stones. When they moved to light their own fires, they found that they were a few bushels of tinder short, prompting Hubie to run into the forest to gather bark and pinecones, ignoring Nate’s protests.

Philip would have opted to light a fire using his runes, but the disapproving voice of a knight telling off a Mage squire for ‘wasting energy’ kept his fingers from digging into his pockets.

On top of the piles were two bags – one containing condiments and herbs, and the other carrying cooking utensils. Among those utensils were knives of varying sizes, including a rather intimidating knife made of dark bog iron.

It was when the last group finally had a fire going that Miss H’aanit rustled out of the bushes, carrying on her back what looked to be at least a dozen squirrel corpses. Linde trotted next to her with a marmot of her own between her jaws, looking quite pleased with herself as she moved past the plinth where the huntress laid down her quarry. The snow leopard disappeared behind one of the tents, where the crackling of each fire masked whatever noises rumbled out from her partaking in her meal.

The sharp sound of knives scraping against each other brought their attention back to Miss H’aanit. “Thou art in the forest, now. Thou musn't underestimate its power, anything can happen. And this is why it is essential that thou'st learnen how to embrace its bounty.”

They watched as she pulled one of the squirrels out from its knot, though Philip and his friends were sat at the far back where they had to crane their necks to see. Just like the squirrel from earlier, it seemed to be a flawless catch – barely any blood, and no damage to the rest of the body.

“We shalle start small. Our bounty today suits four.” She said. “I shalle showen thee three simple meals made from marmot meat, but first – the butchering. Payen close attention.”

What followed next was… a sight.

As he watched the huntress work, Philip felt something inside of him squirm. The entire process couldn’t have taken more than three minutes. Barely any blood was spilled in the process, no matter how much of the squirrel she had taken apart.

Perhaps it was because of how easy it looked, how unintrusive it seemed to cut something up to use for a meal. Carefully, quietly, quickly – Miss H’aanit had pried the squirrel’s paws off from its wrists, setting them aside. No blood.

She then held it up by its tail, its belly out for all of them to see. She made incisions near its buttocks, and once she was satisfied, she laid the squirrel back down onto the stone, with one hand around its body, and the other wrapped around the base of its fluffy tail, and then she pulled –

Beside him, Nate covered his mouth with his hand once they heard the riiiiip of coat being torn from flesh. “Urk,”

“What’s wrong?”

His lanky friend waved away the hand Philip offered him, looking away from the sight. Miss H’aanit had pulled the brown coat up to the squirrel’s neck, leaving the bottom half still covered in fur – and its entire top half, pink and bare and far too pale. “Just… I’m fine, I just need a bit of time to get used to this,”

“Out of everyone, you’re the last one I’d expect to be throwin’ up at the sight of gutted critters.” Derryl remarked beside them both, to which Nate glowered at him.

“What kind of guy do you take me for – listen, I just catch the fish back home. I’m not the one cuttin’ them up with butcher’s knives at the markets… and Ma never lets me handle the meat,”

They all flinched when they heard the stinging noise of iron hitting stone – and just like that, the squirrel was beheaded, its own pelt covering up the head. Still, no blood. Miss H’aanit quickly set aside the pelt-covered head, getting to work on removing the bottom half of its fur as well. The sound of tearing could be heard from even where Philip was sitting, and it was when the sound was followed by a wet squelch that he and the others winced.

She had taken the knife and slid it into the squirrel’s bare torso, sliding it open to reveal its innards. Delicately, precisely, she dug her fingers into the opening, easing outwards the intestines and stomach and other such organs that Philip did not know the names of, and only then did they see something akin to carnage – seeping out, coating the huntress’s nails. She paid no mind to the scene, working quietly as she emptied the creature of its insides one by one, until all that was left was a pink mass of flesh and bone.

“A simple task. One only needs to steelen thyselves for it.”

With those words, they were all given a squirrel of their own to handle, each one as pristine as the one Miss H’aanit had just processed. The huntress made her rounds, checking on their progress every so often to correct their cuts or chastise them for getting fur on the meat.

For their part, they had spent the past two minutes looking at the corpse in front of them, then at each other, before Derryl had finally sighed and took the squirrel and the knife in his hand. Nate visibly deflated in relief right next to him, however the expressions on their friend’s face morphed and danced between confusion and utter dread as he held the squirrel’s rear up and tried to remember where to start cutting. Philip almost felt sorry.

“You there! What is taking so long?”

They looked up to see Miss H’aanit looming over them, her hands sitting on her waist. Her gaze bore straight into Derryl, who couldn’t meet her eyes.

“S-sorry, Lady H’aanit. We’ve just… never done this before,”

The huntress raised a brow, and sighed in exasperation. “Is that so? Thou hast nothing to fearen. ‘Tis but the very same meat thou serven in thy halls,” She then clicked her tongue as she sat next to them all. “Thou wouldst be doing thy quarry a disservice to beholden its flesh with scorn and disgust.”

“I-it’s nothing like that, Lady H’aanit…!”

“…hm. In any case, it wouldst behooven thee to treat the meat carefully.” She whistled, and not a few moments later, Linde was by her side, with another squirrel from the pile between her jaws. “Observe. Do not look away.”

She repeated the steps, taking that corpse into her hands and cutting it up with no hesitation. She held it in a way that they saw exactly how quickly and deeply she made her incisions, the ivory fat lining the pelts showing no trace of bleeding. The huntress eyed Derryl when he tried to mimic her movements, though his cuts were not nearly as precise. Blood seeped from one open cut, and Derryl grimaced.

Miss H’aanit, undeterred, made a quick hum as she looked at Hubie. “You. The one with the ponytail.”

“M-me?”

“Doen as I have done. Go on.”

Derryl looked apologetic as he handed the squirrel and the knife over to Hubie, who swallowed a lump in his throat. Working around the first cut the other boy made, he made another one.

No blood.

Miss H’aanit nodded in approval. “… yes, easen the blade into its flesh. Clean cuts. Taken care not to let it bleed too much.”

Hubie obliged, mirroring the motion on the other side, cutting deeper until a small pocket of sorts was formed around the base of its tail.

“Now from there, peelen away its pelt from the tail. Do not letten its fur touch the meat,”

“Like uh…” Hubie scrunched up his face as he held the squirrel by the head and the tail, his face distorting further with effort as he pulled – a sickening rip, nothing like the sound Miss H’aanit made when she did it. In the next second, jagged lines where the pelt once was connected to the squirrel’s legs were left hanging. “…like this?”

“… clumsy. But it shalt doen for now. Next, removen its head…”

Off came its head. Then its innards, then its arms and legs and thighs, meat of different cuts slowly arranged themselves onto the plank they used as a chopping board. It barely resembled a squirrel. It looked just like any other small cut of meat, though Philip did not want to think of how different it was from turkey meat or goat meat or hare meat – and it certainly wasn’t on his mind when the meat was eventually turned into stew and skewers. The taste of it made him question the meat he’d been eating up until now, how different it could be –

Sir Z’aanta had returned, at some point when Miss H’aanit showed them how to make broth with the bones. The bag of pelts and squirrel heads was given to Hägen, who took them with something akin to glee. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the direwolf diligently tore the pelt away from the rest of the heads.

Each head was crushed between his jaws. Eaten, left without a trace. No blood, nothing wasted.

Philip fought to keep their dinner in his stomach that night. It was delicious.

Still no blood.

Chapter Text

The wind was howling.

Philip knew this sound well. The wind howled like sirens – echoed like ringing screams, drowning out the sound of the ice crystals shattering on the cavern floor beneath. Looking down, he saw the broken remnants of the icicles that fell, too cloudy and cracked to see himself in their reflections. That was to say nothing of the blood that slowly coated their sheen, pooling up from the ground.

He winced when he heard a wet squelch underneath his feet. Blood, reaching up to his ankles.

He didn’t have any time to think of where he was running, just that his legs had started to carry him someplace away from where the blood started to boil and pop.

It was a strange feeling, to be back here – he would never set foot in the Maw again, and that was how he knew this was a dream. It was a dream, which surely explained why the Maw looked so familiar and unfamiliar all at once as he ran through the winding, lifeless paths. It was just a dream, because blood can’t sing, and neither can a cave. Caves can only scream.

It was a dream. Otherwise, he would have thrown up at the stench that the rotting pile of wolf corpses in front of him should have emitted. In their jaws were scraps of squirrel tail and bone, their heads nowhere to be seen. There could never be so many flies in the Frostlands, so far down the caverns – so deep in the belly of the beast frozen in time, no, weak things like flies would have died the moment they even breathed.

(But he was alive, wasn’t he?)

Did it matter in a dream, when he stood there for what felt like hours, transfixed by the scene before him, and he did not die of creeping, bursting frostbite? Did it matter in a dream when what meager light filtered in from above gradually turned golden, then amber, then dark velvet red as the blood trickled down, seeping into the reflections of falling snow? The mirrors all around him bled and twisted the reflections into something else, something horrendous, something that writhed and wrapped itself in veils of shadows.

Philip looked down. The floor had begun to tremble, and the glass around him began to shatter, and he braced himself to drown in blood – only to find that the walls had morphed, rock and permafrost remaking themselves and curving, and the bloodied ice began to shine like rubies as they melted themselves into rows and rows of what looked like fangs –

And so, Philip found himself suspended in mid-air, and he found himself weeping – the howling of the winds and the sickening crack of each transforming rock became an anthem for something foreign, like a voice, like the combined cries of every carcass floating all around him came together for one final howl, ringing endlessly into the void of the night sky. A mass of swirling shroud was below everything, lit by a dark flame. One by one, they fell, fell, fell – endlessly, becoming one with the shadows, never to be seen again, and Philip gasped and choked as he kicked and thrashed about to wrench himself away from the vortex –

>>>

Philip awoke with a start, finding his hands clutching at his shirt. He felt the months-old stitches throb under the fabric – could almost smell the wolfsbane and addlewort smeared upon the edges of his scars. He wiped the tears from the edges of his eyes, feeling the crust dig themselves under his nails. He could not see the night from in here. No buzzing, no devouring shadows – he was just inside the tent, its walls painted in a faint orange glow from the fire crackling outside.

He winced when he heard a grunt next to him, relaxing only when he found both Nate and Hubie sound asleep. He reached over, tenderly lifting Hubie’s arm away from where it had draped itself across Nate’s face. He breathed a sigh of relief when Nate’s face untangled itself from displeasure, drifting right back to blissful rest. He deserved it, having taken the first shift of the night watch.

Derryl’s spot was empty, the sheets of his makeshift bed folded neatly. If not for its presence, Philip would have assumed that Derryl was never here at all – it was too clean, too impersonal.

He shuffled out of the tent before discomfort could take him. It was only when he saw Derryl there – hunched over by the crackling fire – that his heart stopped thudding with unease.

Philip took a breath, and made his way over to the other boy. “…hey, it's time for me to take over.”

Derryl didn’t say a word. He kept silent even as Philip took a seat on the log next to him, keeping his eyes on something in his hand. The sight of him seemed ethereal to Philip, instilling in him a different sort of discomfort. His face was illuminated by the gentle glow of the fire, pensive, far-away – it was a candid moment, like it was something that Philip was never meant to see.

Still, duty called. Philip cleared his throat, though he doubted that the other boy hadn’t noticed his presence either way. “What's that?” he opted to ask, curiosity tickling the better part of his brain.

Derryl tenderly rolled the beads over in his palm. “Rosary. Our bishop gave it to me the day before we left for Flamesgrace.” He played with the beads, colored golden in the firelight. Just as Philip squinted to get a better look at them, Derryl clenched his fist, covering up most of it – leaving only the familiar emblem of the Flame exposed and hanging in the air. “Nate's got one too, you ever seen it?”

“Nope. Not yet anyway,”

“Heh. Figured he wouldn't wear it. He'd call it impractical, but what he's really doin' is keeping it safe.”

“What, and you think you're not doing that?” Philip crossed his arms, watching as Derryl let out a breathless laugh.

“Nah. I can be pretty selfish, so I take it everywhere.”

“That’s what being selfish is to you?”

Derryl only hummed in reply, placing it around his neck and tucked it snug under the layers of his clothes in such a way that Philip couldn't see it at all. Even the Flame's emblem was hidden away under the hood of their uniform, though Derryl placed his fingers above its place with care, caressing the spot with a tender smile on his face.

Philip was unfamiliar with most things concerning the Flame. All his life, he had accepted it as a constant – like air, it was something intangible, but important. People swore by it, died for it, fought wars in its name, and its existence was never to be questioned. Before coming to the Squirehood, he had never once seen the Azure Flame in person. He knew not how things worked for someone eternally touched by the living flame, going through all of the motions of life in fear and awe of it.

He had watched other squires raised in the faith press their fingers to the emblem on their person with the same reverence. It was never something to be hidden.

"Are you… you know, do you really swear by the Flame that much?"

Derryl blinked at him, and chuckled. “Oh… I can see why you’d be a little confused… But no, that'd give me too much credit. I told you, I'm selfish.” He then shrugged in Philip’s direction, that selfsame smile on his face giving nothing away. “You don't seem all that devoted either,”

Philip shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his arms falling to the side. “…no, I guess I'm not.”

“What are you here for, then?”

He pursed his lips. Months ago, this would have been an easy question to answer.

Two hands enveloped his own trembling ones before he could think about it any further. He can still feel the tremors despite the fingers rubbing circles at the backs of his still-gloved palms.

“… ah, sorry. That came out a little harsh,” He heard Derryl’s voice cutting through the fuzz. It took him a few seconds more to lift his head to look at the other boy’s face properly once more, finding an apologetic curve etched to his smile. “You don't have to answer that. Even if you had an answer for me, I'd have to share mine too, and then I'll have to hear you laugh about it.”

"Yeah? Try me."

He'd said without thinking, and before he could think to take it back, Derryl's expression had become more cat-like. "Don’t wanna. I'd rather trade for it – a secret for a secret. What do you say?"

Philip tilted his head to the side in confusion. "Sure…? What did you want to know about?"

Derryl let go of one hand, only to point towards Philip's torso. "Those scars. I want to know what hurt you so bad."

He felt his breath hitch. His fingers itched to claw at his chest. In his legs was a tremor that compelled him to run and hide and tell Derryl that it was none of his business, but the other boy still had his grip on him.

"That's a little – it's not anything special," he started to stutter, and he felt his face grow warm as he glowered at Derryl. "And when did you even get the chance to look?! We've never taken a bath together,"

“W-wait, it’s not what you think,” And now it was Derryl’s turn to stammer, pushing his voice down to something normal-sounding with a cough into his fist. “Might have caught you undressing once. And don't be angry with Nate, he hasn't told me anything.”

“That's still a little... Don’t you have other secrets you want to trade for?”

“I dunno. Everything else about you lines up, if I'm gonna be honest. I can ask about the Unbending Blade and how Sister Ophilia's familiar with you, but it's obvious enough.”

He had said all of that so matter-of-factly that Philip almost wanted to shake him for it. That squirming pit of embarrassment that pooled in his gut, the fog that filled his mind with uncertainty any time he tried thinking about it too hard – truly, he knew that Sir Olberic’s company was filled with amazing and talented people that have touched many lives.

And what did that make him? What was he?

“Now that right there? That's weird. I don't know why you don't find that weird.” He found that he could not hide the cracks in his voice. Derryl gave him a look.

“The world ain't a small place, but it's easy enough to piece together when you've been livin' in the Riverlands all your life. Word travels pretty fast there,” The other boy tapped his ear. “And, well – I have to keep an ear out for anything to do with the Knights.”

Philip shifted awkwardly in his seat, the heat under his collar seeming unbearable. “And you don't… find me weird? Or suspicious?”

Derryl didn’t answer. Not for a while, not with a word – only with the gentle, slow rub of a thumb over his hands. The fire continued to crackle and creak as each agonizing second passed them by.

He finally sighed. “'Course I do. I mean, who's even heard of a 'Cobbleston' anyway, and then some kid like you shows up at the Knight Ardante's porch with a hero's bladework and rune magic? You're really not subtle at all,”

‘What was subtle about existing’, Philip wanted to ask, indignance rising from within, but Derryl spoke again before he could get the chance.

“… but you know, I don't think that's anythin' to be hung up about, personally. I don’t know what’s going on between you and all those people, but you’ve always just been…”

“Been… what?”

“I don’t know… damn, what do you want me to say here?” A squeeze. A tight one, around his hands and heart. “I just don’t think you’re all that different from me. You know… a kid.”

When looking back at such a moment, Philip would not be able to explain why he felt like crumbling. He certainly would not be able to explain why the sensation felt almost euphoric – he felt rather weightless, like he was released from some sort of binding. It felt like the air itself began to taste sweet when he next breathed.

“… thanks,” He managed to say after a while. He slipped his hands out of Derryl’s grip. “Sorry, I think I was wrong about you.”

“Woah, where'd that come from?”

He ignored the other boy’s quizzical look, instead allowing his hand to creep up to his collar. “… don't worry about it. But you wanted to know about my scars, right?”

"… I can't help but feel like I backed you into a corner here,"

"It's okay. Look."

One by one, the buttons of his nightshirt came undone, and the chill of the Woodlands night slowly seeped into his skin as he laid his chest bare before Derryl. He pulled back the fabric like a curtain, trying very hard not to crumble under the other boy's hazel gaze.

It was easy enough to know where Derryl looked – how Derryl looked, trailing along the massive marks that stretched across his skin, from his shoulder all the way down to his abdomen, his torso little more than a lattice of mistakes and foolhardy choices. In this moment, he could feel every stitch that held the flesh together more than ever – the wounds throbbed as they had that day, unrelenting and uncompromising. He remembered clearly the way that Alfyn looked at him when he sewed the wounds shut, all pursed lips and cold sweat and unending regret.

Derryl didn't look at him like that. At least, that's not what it felt like, he couldn't rightly tell when he's too busy avoiding his stare.

"… these're worse than I thought." He heard him mutter. A hand, larger than Philip's own, slowly came into view. "Can I…?"

"Go ahead,"

He willed himself not to flinch away when the other boy's fingers met his exposed skin. Was it Derryl that was cold, or was it Philip, he didn't know – he knew only the newfound warmth ghosting over the bumps and edges of torn, healing flesh. His friend stayed quiet through it all, inching closer to get a better look. The pads of his fingers felt rather soft on his scars – so unlike how Philip imagined them to feel like. The rest of Derryl was calloused and elusive, not a stone's throw away from how people tended to think of Philip. The tenderness was foreign – nice even, approaching him with awe in place of pity.

Nate had never been like this. Nate never asked too many questions about the way his body was covered in scars, never asked to touch, never pried too deeply into his business. He'd caught him shooting him a look of misplaced grief still, and he continued ushering Philip to the baths before anyone else could see.

Derryl, who'd always felt far-away from Philip, now had his palms sliding over his waist, tracing every sordid shape he could reach. Tenderly, eagerly, with a gentility that vaguely reminded Philip of his mother – but not quite, he has never felt so confused – he pressed a thumb over the curve of Philip's side. Philip tried his very best not to gasp at the sensation.

What came out of his mouth instead was a question. Philip could feel the weight of a hundred silent days laced in their words, easing nothing when he set them free, one by one.

"… you remember the Plague, from a couple of months ago?"

"This isn't what the Plague did." Derryl replied. His thumb pressed deeper into his waist.

"No. It's not. These came from a wolf."

A breath. Then two. Derryl's hands never left his body. His mind clung to that presence for comfort, and he continued to speak.

"… my mother was dying from the Plague. I couldn't stand to see her like that. I couldn't do a damn thing but watch her wither away."

Dreadful memories crept into his mind, steady and sure. He remembered hearing of the Plague, then he counted the days. The more days passed, the more minutes his mother had to take to sit down and catch her breath. He counted the chores he had to take from her, then how many glasses of water she drank, then how many cysts and boils grew over her skin.

He remembered clearly the day that he went to wake up his mother, only to find her strewn across the bed covered in pale golden bile.

Philip swallowed, and continued to speak. "But then I heard that there was a cure somewhere, so I snuck aboard the caravan of a couple of apothecaries… one of them was really mad at me for that," Memories of a distant, different ache steadily trickled into the forefront of his mind. Phantom claws with tips of white-hot agony, the unforgiving chill of the Maw's depths – and, most of all, the gnawing, gaping void torn open when he was reminded of what he could have left behind.

"What the hell would I say to Sir Olberic if you died here?! And your mother – what then?!"

He wondered how being here was any different. He stifled a pained noise before he could stew in the thought any longer.

"Anyway… we ended up finding the cure in a cave somewhere. But we ran into a big wolf… nothin' like any wolf we'd seen or even heard about. I only realized I was in over my head when my chest got torn open by its claws… so that’s what happened."

For a single moment, he saw those claws again. He blinked once, and saw only Derryl's trembling fingers hovering above the largest of his scars.

"My gods…" Derryl breathed. "How are you alive right now, mate?"

Philip scoffed, though the itch in his throat made it difficult. "Easy. I got really damn lucky. I was lucky that Alfyn and Therion were there. I was lucky that clerics were there, I…"

He snuck a glance at his own hands, riddled with scrapes and rough patches of skin. Long gone were the soft edges that he thought all boys must have had at some point. Magic hummed its silent song through his veins, he could feel it at the very tips of his fingers – but no matter how many bruises and scars he received, still, Therion was right.

He had forgotten what he had come there to do.

"I was lucky enough that my mom was saved. I'm getting real sick of lucking out,"

He felt like gagging. Those words had tasted more bitter than any poison.

He could feel Derryl’s stare, hazel eyes boring through him in scrutiny. “S-sorry. Sorry, that's not what I should be saying.”

“No, no… don't be sorry. I… wouldn’t be able to understand it anyway.” Derryl said. “But thanks for telling me all that.”

“Was… it anything like what you were expecting?”

Silence again. The fire fizzed about, nipping at the air to fill it with mirth. Philip thinks for a moment, that he saw the shadows dance in the corner of his eyes, but they were dashed away by the light once Derryl’s hands finally left his body.

“… yeah. But there was more to it after all, so…”

Before Philip could ponder the implications of those words, Derryl’s lips split into a wide grin. “I owe you a secret now. I feel real stupid about it after hearing all that, but –”

“I won't think it's stupid,”

“Now you can't go deciding that on your own before you've even heard it,” he huffed, and his gaze softened – softer than Philip had ever seen it. His voice sounded like what Philip had always thought clouds to feel like. “I came here for Sister Ophilia.”

“...Huh?”

“See? Look at you, gawking, that’s exactly the kind of reaction I was expecting to get –”

Philip waved his hands, swallowing his shock. “No, no, sorry – I was just... well… Now that I think about it, it makes a lot of sense.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle about things,”

Philip blinked at that. “You're kidding, right? Nothing about you is subtle when it comes to her.” he said, dryly.

“Really? Sounds like I’ll have to work on it,” Derryl hummed, though his face had flushed red as he crossed his arms.

He then closed his eyes, leaning back slightly in his seat and taking a breath.

“I think… it was about a few years ago,” he began. “I just lost my own mother, and that… really messed me up. Should've seen me when I was a little brat, I was lashin' out at everyone and everything. My mother left me a brooch. It was the only thing she could really call hers on her deathbed. I don't even remember how I lost the damn thing. But whatever the case, it was lost – and I think I just wanted to be angry and blame someone… so I took it out on my friends. Especially Emil,”

Philip watched as Derryl took something out of his pocket. In his hand was a pretty pendant, inlaid with a large red gemstone. Philip did not know enough about gems to know what it was, it looked like a ruby of some kind, but he wondered if rubies could crack so easily when Derryl turned it over and showed off the long fractures that consumed the entire gem, reflecting its sanguine hues with a brilliance that didn’t suit it.

Derryl ran a finger over a particularly large fissure, painted velvet by the gem’s reflections. “By the time Sister Ophilia made me see just how much of a brat I was being, he'd already gone into the forest to look for it. And I didn't know what to think, but I just rushed in – no weapon, just me. Sister saved the both of us, and honestly – she's saved more than just our lives that day. I owe a lot to her.”

Philip mulled over his friend’s words as he watched him trace the cracks on the brooch. In his hands, it looked like a beating organ – but it was no soft thing that bled, it simply pulsed along to the firelight enveloping them both. He studied the boy before him, and he could see them – the contours of a boy weighed down by regret. Derryl too had cracks, torn open by this moment. Derryl too, was simply another boy at the end of the day, made queasy by things like corpses and lifelong vows and the mistakes of several years ago.

He wondered if he could be half as put-together as Derryl should he lose his own mother. He quashed the thought before it could make him choke.

He let his curiosity guide his next words. “… so, are you here because you want to pay her back, or something? That doesn't sound like something she'd want.”

“Hah, you're right. The only way she could accept me being here is if I was doing this out of my own self-interest. And I am.” Derryl’s fingers curled around the brooch, holding it tight as he brought it close to his chest. “I want to be her knight.”

It couldn’t have been simpler.

It did make sense. He was following the wonderful Sister’s shadow. It made sense that he would look to her for the next steps, when there was nowhere else to grab onto. He saw the way his eyes blazed to life whenever the Sister was near, and Philip knew those eyes – he’s seen them somewhere already, on Sir Olberic and Mister Therion, narrowing as though they were squinting at the sun.

“… somehow, it's… nevermind,”

“You can say it. I know it's a weird thought to have.”

In Derryl’s voice, he heard an echo. Philip remembered a vow he made one fateful day. “… no, if I look at it this way… you’re trying to pay back a favor. You’re chasing something. If it’s something you really want, I don't think it's weird at all.” He said, carefully. A tightness bloomed in his chest, clawing its way up his windpipe – and he had to take a breath to get his next words out. “It's nice that you've got a goal like that. Something to work towards,”

“You don't think it's cliché'd?”

“Nothing wrong with clichés. It's important to know what you want… and you’ve already come so far. You’re in Flamesgrace now. That had to take a lot out of you.”

Mothers. Saviors. Whatever the reason they had, they were both here now – miles away from home. Just for now, Philip didn’t feel like he was inches away from drowning.

But something still felt missing.

“…thanks, by the way. For sharin' that with me,” He managed to say after a while.

“… no problem. I'm glad we can have a moment like this together.” Philip felt a hand on his back, and he remembered that his chest remained bare when Derryl met his eyes once more –

Feigning indifference, he broke their stare. One of his hands finally clasped at his open shirt to cover himself up again. “… you should go to sleep.” He muttered, fiddling with the buttons.

“I kinda don't want to. We're having a good moment here, you an' me.”

“That's not very disciplined of you,”

“Heh. Hey, don't go actin' like you're innocent here. You’re up here with me, keeping me up with how interesting you’re being.”

Philip grumbled, shoving Derryl off the log with his other hand as the other boy laughed lightly. He willed himself to ignore the heat gathering in his cheeks. “Go already.”

“Sure, sure…” A weight pressed itself down on his head, ruffling his hair. Derryl’s hand left his head before Philip could gather the strength to even fake his anger. “Good night, Phil.”

“…Night,”

With one last, warm look, Derryl finally retreated to their tent, leaving Philip alone to stare at the fire. A wind gusted through their encampment, making him shiver. He struggled to slot the buttons back past the openings of his shirt, his body remembering all the places Derryl had touched.

He still wasn’t sure what to make of the entire exchange. He thought back to his time in Cobbleston, and realized – he’s not sure if he could have had such a conversation had he stayed. He doesn’t remember the last time he could express such long-held resentment for his own inadequacies. Not even in his letters to Hubie could he find a comfort in being understood like this – in the first place, was this something he yearned for?

Philip stared down at himself, just before he could pop the last button back into place. Something still spasmed inside of him – like an itch that couldn’t be sated. He replayed the conversation in his mind, over and over, recalling each touch and each sentiment they’d each poured out on the table, and it hit him just as the firewood in front of him broke apart with a sharp snap.

Determination. It had been etched all over Derryl, strung together to make sense of everything that made him.

“… a goal… something to work towards, huh.”

He clenched his teeth. He caught sight of his scars. He covered it up in one swift motion.

It must be so nice to know.

>>>

Elsewhere in the camp, Eliza was awake, leaning against a pine tree. In her hands were folders of files both old and new – problems all the same, following her wherever she went, even deep into the woods where she was meant to focus on training the squires. She felt a migraine start to stir, ‘that’s what the commanding officers are here for.’

As if she could ever let her guard down with just that. The reasons she’s even here will not let her.

She saluted a passing batch of knights returning to the main base, who shuffled away just as quickly – likely to catch up on their much-needed rest. Each commanding officer was put on a shift for patrolling the grounds. They used that time to check up on their squires as well. Z’aanta was… somewhere. In the first place, he did not work with groups, and the few times that Eliza had accompanied him on missions, he often stalked off on his own, doing gods-knew-what until he announced that he’d captured the day’s breakfast.

“Master couldst spend days without so much as a wink if need be,” she remembered H’aanit saying, years before the Redeye hunt. “In a hunt, it is vigilance alone that keepeth him awake. Though, I have yet to catch him rest at a normal hour. He rests only when he deemeth it appropriate.”

“And that is?”

“’When there is naught else that needs watching,’ he hath told me once.”

Mulling over the words on the pages in her hands, she could say that she finally understood what those words meant.

The sound of leaves being crushed beneath someone’s soles echoed to her right, followed by the rattling of branches as they were tossed to the ground. The distinct scent of leopard fur and wolfskin trailed in the air not long after.

“Eliza.”

“Hail, H’aanit. What are you doing up? It’s not your turn to take watch.”

Eliza watched as H’aanit emerged from the wood, patting down her arms. Flecks of darkness seemed to fly where she rubbed. Linde walked alongside her, casting her master looks of concern.

“Maybe not. I simply found mineself rather restless.” The huntress replied, stepping on the timber she had been carrying. She bent over, grunting as she took out a piece of flint and steel from a small satchel at her hip. “Thou knowest better than to read in the dark.”

“Right,” she hummed, though she did not put away the files. “Moon’s bright enough tonight. But if it bothers you that much, I’ve got a few soulstones on me.”

“A waste,” H’aanit muttered. The clicking noises of flint being ignited filled the distance between them. “If thou were to simply walk about… thou’st will find that there is quite a lot to burn.”

Eliza pressed her fingers to the bridge between her eyes, pressing the back of her head against the pine. “You found some, then?”

A fire roared to life not a few seconds after. Twinges of deep violet phased through the golden velvet of the flames, entrenching themselves in the shapes like veins.

H’aanit did not answer. She did not need to. The burning mass in front of them told them everything.

The huntress found herself a spot across from Eliza, sitting down and pulling out her bow. Linde settled down next to her, curling up but never relaxing, staring down the fire with squinted eyes. H’aanit’s movements were slow and deliberate when she tugged at the knots holding the bowstring in place.

“…‘tis not mine place to question how thine Order functions, but I believe I am owed a few answers.” She finally said.

“This is about Ophilia, isn’t it?”

“Who else?” H’aanit pulled out her quiver next, her calloused fingers taking out an arrow for her to inspect. “…Primrose will not tell me anything.”

Of course, Primrose did not tell her anything. How could she? Eliza will not claim to know of the inner workings of Lady Azelhart’s mind nor heart. The dancer’s eyes were talented at hiding everything beneath a thick veneer of steel and grit. It was for this exact reason that Primrose Azelhart’s cooperation was invaluable to the Congregation. Even now, Eliza could only know to trust her because everything that woman does, she did for her companions.

Even if it meant hiding things from them. Even if it meant she had to endure her own conscience when she faces H’aanit. Primrose Azelhart was a performer at the core.

The huntress took Eliza’s silence as her cue to continue. “… ever since Alfyn and Therion found that wolf, along with the young Philip… Thou’st been on edge. I realize mine own place in the matter, but the last thing that I want at this moment is to burden Ophilia.”

The flame flickered a daunting shade of violet for a split second.

“If thou knowest something, it wouldst behooven thee to speaken.”

“Is that a threat?”

H’aanit’s gaze hardened. An arrow splintered in her grip. “‘Tis whatever thou makest of it. My friend thou may be, but I doth not appreciate being left in the dark… wherever it concernen mine companions.”

It was still hard to believe, somewhat, how much the huntress had grown. Eliza had always believed them equals on the path of life, slotting perfectly into time-worn roles that would not change. Her path was that of knighthood, and H’aanit’s of guardianship over the wood. They are inheritors of legacies larger than themselves.

Eliza was a fool to think that there could be a legacy that wouldn’t crumble when the Gate opened. Some things had to be broken along the way.

“…heh, I don’t think we’ve ever really talked about how much you really changed from your journey. Or even what really happened,” Eliza said, breathless. She met H’aanit’s leveled stare, different and familiar all at once. H’aanit had always been a stoic, straightforward woman – but in her eyes was a foreign spark of something fierce. Possessive. “But I’m in the dark too. I don’t have anything that can make you believe me… but if Primrose is quiet, and you can trust her, then I ask for the same trust in turn.”

The huntress narrowed her eyes, tossing the broken arrow into the fire.

“A different question, then. What art thee afraid of?”

“You’re asking that now? You’d know better than anyone.”

Fear. What a concept. Eliza had bogged herself down with responsibilities and secrets she had no real power to keep – they kept her awake and complacent. Tired. Too busy to mind the fear that gnawed at the dark recesses of her mind, and now it seemed as though whoever was lurking in the shadows was taunting her with physical, damning proof of what should never be.

A flame of deep violet, lit alight by tinder and foliage stained black like oblivion. The nightmares that crept into the land, condensing themselves into the damning status reports she now held in her hands.

‘… ‘tis an infection. A plague upon our land. A slow-acting poison that shalt consume Orsterra whole.’

Those were the words of the Archmage.

’Do not act carelessly. Tread with caution. This is a bane unknown to thee… a bane, not of our cursed sibling. ‘Tis something else. Beyond Orsterra.’

The warnings of a god.

The world, Eliza realized, was rather large. Too large and too unknown for her liking. What other things could have escaped, since the three years that they fished H’aanit and her friends out of Hell?

She kept herself from tossing the files into the fire.

“We’re scared of what your merry band brought back. Several years ago, we really thought it was all over… How can we be sure that this time, it isn’t over yet either?”

>>>

“This won’t do,”

A snap.

“No. Not this, either…”

Two snaps.

“Tch… all this meat, wasted…”

Another corpse yanked free from the straps of a leghold trap, then promptly tossed into the mouth of a ditch. Z’aanta gnashed his teeth under the cloth he wore over his nose, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat rolling down the sides of his head. A soft whine from Hägen kept him from losing to his own temper, and he breathed through his nose.

“Yes, yes… thou hast the right of it, Hägen.” He said, though his grip did not loosen as he took another one of the traps into his hands. He did not need to even hold it up to his eyes to know that this squirrel was no good either. He pressed his fingers into the flesh, and cringed when he felt the unpleasant squish of the ichor run down his gloved fingers. “Find the source, striketh at the heart. I knoweth…”

He threw the hopeless corpse into the pit. Hägen leapt out of its trajectory with a short growl, and Z’aanta muttered an apology his way.

“Still… I was looking forward to this. I really was, you know?! And now, some blasted beast from nowhere decides to muck up the place,”

Yet another ruined carcass to add to the pile. Another waste of a perfectly good trap. His patience wore thin, and he avoided looking into the hole. He had Hägen dig some six feet into the ground, and he thought it’d be deep enough, but he’d underestimated how much of their quarry had been damned to whatever sort of lesion lurked in the underbrush. He could not risk Hägen coming into contact with the substance infecting all these squirrels, nor could he get it upon his own skin if he could help it.

“We don’t know what this could to do humans,” were the Lady Eliza’s words. “Still, better safe than sorry. If we come across anything like it in the woods…”

“’Burn it’, she says… I’m not happy about it. Not one bit, I tell thee!” he complained. “What an unpleasant nuisance we’ve met with…”

Another growl. Z’aanta rolled his eyes.

“No, I shalt not claim to knowen better. Not now, anyway. Whatever lurketh here, it can’t have gotten too far…”

He stared into the beady eyes of the next squirrel. Rather than gloss, he saw an abyss – and it stirred in him a vexing rage he had not felt since the hunt for Redeye.

This one too, wasted. With a frustrated grunt, he threw it into the ditch. He’d lost count of how many bodies had piled up after twenty. Some hundred traps were set – none of them were spared.

“I should like to given it a piece of mine mind. An arbiter I am not…”

It should have been the last of the traps set by the squires. He yanked off his gloves and mask, having served their purpose. None of them had been salvageable, and he loathed to think of what he should be telling the children in the morning when he felt his fingers curl around the fire soulstone he was given. Clicking his tongue, he flung that into the hole as well.

“But I am rather furious.”

The fire burst as soon as he shot an arrow at it. The controlled flames of a soulstone were only slightly different from fires set without magic, in that it didn’t spread further than it needed to if it was small enough. They never rose above the ditch, never produced enough smoke to trouble anyone. Z’aanta could tell immediately that it was made from the remnants of a rather weak monster, but he thanked it all the same – it did its job, and did not overstay its welcome.

Far be it for him to decide who the forest should welcome and who it should cast aside, but as he looked around himself, squinting at the shadows creeping up the grasses that hid in the dark of night, he made up his mind. Whatever intruder had entered this place – he would be the one to slay it.