Chapter Text
“What are you doing?”
Dainsleif asks his brother this, right before their nation makes a transgression that sentences them all to damnation.
Vedrfolnir pauses, hands stilling over the neat piles he’s making of his clothes, his belongings strewn across the floor. He looks startled, and worry gnaws at Dainsleif‘s gut. Vedrfolnir doesn’t get startled.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” his brother says. “I’m packing.”
Dainsleif looks at him blankly. “Packing,” he echoes. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving.” And this is the first thing he says, somehow. It will become a point of contention for himself, some point far later down the line; he doesn’t first ask where or why, but you didn’t tell me.
Vedrfolnir slips through his fingers as his brother is drawn to the abyss. They were nigh inseparable, the kind of bond where they told each other everything, before Vedrfolnir tasted that void. Now, there is a large, inconceivable distance between the two of them, and Dainsleif doesn’t quite know when it got so wide.
“Ah,” Vedrfolnir says simply. “I suppose I forgot.”
Dainsleif’s lips thin. “Well, where are you going?”
He turns to face him fully, and Dainsleif looks at the person who shares parts of his face. He is harder to read, now, and perhaps it is harder for Vedrfolnir to read him, too. “Rhinedottir, Surtalogi, and I are investigating a lead. It… it has the potential to be our biggest breakthrough,”
Dainsleif blinks. “Good luck,” he says genuinely. “It’s related to the power you believe can push our advancements, isn’t it?”
Vedrfolnir nods, and looks at him seriously. “The Abyss… to access it is to tap into the highest potential in this world. You understand that importance.”
While he does wish for his brother to succeed, for Khaenri’ah to grow, there is something about the Abyss that calls a great weariness within him. There is likely a reason why it has remained untapped throughout history, why it chills him to the bone to think about a rip being torn in the seams of reality.
“I do,” he says, not entirely sure, but at a loss for anything else to answer with. “Be careful,” he warns. “And tell me next time you’re leaving to investigate a realm of unknown darkness, alright?”
That draws a small smile out of his brother, dimmer than what it used to be like. “Alright, alright.”
Dainsleif leaves the matter there, discontent a building simmer as he later watches Vedrfolnir leave, unsure of how to ask for more. To ask what goes on inside his head, when he dedicates his life to something like the void.
When his brother returns, he is more akin to a stranger.
There is a look in his eyes, a dullness that stretches deep through his irises. It makes him look untethered, as though the world around him is hardly worth interest. It’s not only him, either. Rhinedottir, Hatpaty, Surtalogi, Rerir— they all hold that same eeriness in their gazes, the kind that makes him feel unsettled in his own skin when they look at him.
He asks Vedrfolnir how their investigation went, and the smile paired with his soulless eyes makes his blood run cold, as he answers, “Quite successful,” he sounds satisfied, triumph buried somewhere within it.
There is something dark swimming in his brother’s veins. Dainsleif cannot know exactly what occurred when they searched for the Abyss, for that power, but he thinks with certainty that they must have found it. And it is with a creeping sort of unease that he wonders, was it a success for Khaenri’ah, or for you?
His brother grows more and more distant, and Dainsleif climbs his way through the ranks of the Royal Guard.
It is somewhat easier to think when he fights. The world is clearer, sharper, and there is only the battle at the front of his thoughts. And yet, there is too much room to think after his blade is sheathed and he stands guard amidst ornate architecture. He tries not to think at all, when he remains at his post for long hours, gaze boring into carved pillars and ceiling finery. He examines the craftsmanship rather than his own head.
When he is not on duty, he finds solace in his men.
“You definitely have a promotion coming soon, don’t bother denying it,” Halfdan sighs woefully.
Dainsleif tips his head, mouth curving into a small smile. “I can’t be sure,” he says, and Halfdan points a finger at him.
“What did I just say?” he raises an eyebrow.
“It’s bad fortune to claim something that hasn’t happened yet,” Dainsleif says and then takes a large swig out of his drink.
Bryngeir snorts from across the table. “Oh, shut up,”
“The Royal Family’s personal guard,” Halfdan drawls the words slowly. “Big responsibility there, Dain. This might be your last night of freedom.”
Dainsleif stares longingly at his cup. “You think?” he whispers sadly.
Halfdan nods empathetically. “ Definitely. So, you should order another round, because who knows when you’ll get the chance to, right? And because you’re the kindest, most generous knight in Khaenri’ah, you’ll allow us the joy to get absolutely wasted too—”
Dainsleif laughs. “Right, right. How horrible of a person would I be to curse you to sobriety for one night?”
“He gets it!” Bryngeir cheers, and more voices join as Dainsleif orders another round for the table because he’s weak for these people when it comes down to it.
“To the next Twilight Sword,” Halfdan raises his cup, not waiting to take a generous gulp. The sentence is echoed, and the night blurs into warmth and laughter and light.
He does get the promotion, and thus he stands in the tallest spire in the kingdom, sword at his side, a king at his back.
Twilight Sword, the king had proclaimed. May you protect this nation and the crown before it.
This is the difference between being a knight and being the Twilight Sword. As a knight, he fought to protect, yes, but he fought to keep his mind clear. As the Twilight Sword, perhaps he has come full circle, and in order to protect the throne, he will need to sink into his mind more than he likes. To keep tabs on the king’s list, to anticipate and eliminate threats before they become a problem, to function with a degree of freedom he has not had in some time.
There is no choice but to take it in stride, to be the weapon that will keep the king, his nation, his people, safe.
( Dainsleif can admit he was a confident man, before the end of the world.
He was young, and he was arrogant. His nation spearheaded advancement and power; he held a significant amount of it himself. He, like the rest of Khaenri’ah, misplaced his trust in mortal power when this world bends to gods.
Mankind cannot overcome the heavens. This is a truth he has come to learn. This is a truth he despises. )
There are very few attempts on the lives of the royal family, and every single one is aimed at King Irmin.
It is two months into Dainsleif’s tenure, and he is partially used to the flow of his new position. As unfamiliar with the particular ins and outs of it he might be, he will never be unfamiliar with battle. Becoming a shadow is something new that he learns, and it serves him well both when he draws his sword and when he slips through the kingdom on the king’s request.
It is because of this that he is not entirely surprised when an attempt is made on the king’s life.
The assassin comes at dawn, when the king rises from his sleep and begins his day, a fair time before the rest of the palace wakes and functions as the well-oiled machine it is. During this time he gets ready and reads several different newspapers, then has a cup or two of herbal tea.
The assassin is easy to see coming, if only because they couldn’t see Dainsleif hiding in the shadows. They slip down the corridor, and this tips him off to the fact that whoever planned this very clearly knows the layout of the palace.
The king’s room is hidden within the palace, out of the way of the main flow of the building and frankly hard to find if one isn’t sure where exactly it is. The corridor his room resides in holds many doors, and his is no different from any other, nor are there any guards beyond the ones stationed in the next corridor over.
It is a painfully simple method of hiding the king’s location, but has undoubtedly worked in the past. It is with alarming interest that this assassin knows where to go. An internal leak, then.
Dainsleif pauses his thoughts to intervene.
He swiftly steps out of the dark as they reach his location, fast, and darts behind them, pivoting his arm to knock the assassin out quickly.
The bottom of his sword is met with a clang as the other whirls quickly around, a dagger bouncing off the hilt. They’re quick, then. It shouldn’t be a problem.
Their form is tight and guarded, and he can’t spot an immediate opening. He dashes forward and feigns a piercing jab, instead swinging down, and his blade makes contact with their left hand, leaving a fairly deep slice. So, quick, but perhaps not as skilled in reading his movements.
They dash back and he presses forward. He swings again, wide, and they parry it with both hands holding a dagger. After, the dagger in their left hand drops and they hiss. He thrusts his blade again, taking the obvious opening in the way they are now favoring their right side, and stabs right into their clavicle.
He immediately brings his leg up and kicks them in the stomach, sending them falling to the floor, winded. The other dagger is still loosely gripped in their right hand, and he takes it out.
He pulls their hood back, and the assassin is a man he has no recognition of. He’s relatively young-looking, with short red hair and brown eyes. He rolls him onto his back as he heaves, pulling his arms behind him and hauling him to their feet.
Dainsleif whistles, loud and sharp, and a few moments later footsteps echo down the corridor as two guards approach.
“Sir,” the taller one, a kind man named Alfthor says gruffly. The other is Ingimar, a younger knight, but showing promising talent.
“Intruder,” Dainsleif says. “A certain assassination attempt. Place him in a cell.”
The two nod and echo an affirmative, each taking one of the assassin’s arms. He watches them leave the corridor, and turns back to the daggers still on the floor. He picks both up and examines them. There’s little indicator to where the blades originate from at first glance, and likely only a blacksmith will be able to gain any useful information about their make. He places the daggers securely in his belt, and makes his way to the king’s room.
The entire thing felt somewhat amiss. The assassin knew exactly where to go, but his abilities did not hold up nearly as much as they should have. He was fast, but that was about all. Perhaps he intended to slip away before any harm could come to him.
There are few groups and individuals who would consider the king’s death in the first place, and fewer who could try to attempt it. King Irmin is generally well-received among the people for his role in strengthening Khaenri’ah to the bastion it has become, and there is a certain degree of uncertainty floating around what would happen to the nation should he suddenly be removed from power.
There is also the matter of who is capable of an assassination. Not any hitman Dainsleif is familiar with, from the files he acquired from previous holders of his position in addition to his own investigations. None of them risk the consequence of going after important political figures, and certainly not the king. If they did, Dainsleif would marvel at the reward or personal stakes that were in store for them.
This rules out a decent amount of suspects; most political rivals, he’d say, who either lack the funds or would do have the funds but would hire a more substantial assassin. But for the assassin to know the layout of the palace, he had to have an internal source. It’s possible that the assassin is someone who works in the palace; Dainsleif doesn’t know everyone who comes and goes here, and he supposes someone could have a personal vendetta.
But again: would the risk be worth it, especially for a servant or maintenance worker or whoever it might be?
Perhaps this is the work of an organized group. There are a few that disagree with the king’s policies for different reasons, but delving further into motivations will require thorough research, and he is at the king’s room.
He knocks lightly to announce his presence and opens the door.
King Irmin is resting in his bed, but he is awake, and looks at Dainsleif in the dimmed lighting of the room.
“Your Majesty,” he greets with a bow. “There was an assassin in the hall. He has been dealt with and is being detained.”
King Irmin exhales. “Ah,” he says, sounding neither surprised nor particularly torn up about it. Just resigned. “I suppose it was bound to happen around this time.”
“May I inquire as to why?”
“The time when a new Twilight Sword is selected is often seen as a weakening of our guard. This is a false assumption, but understandable to think when the new Sword is, by all accounts, new and presumably liable to mistakes,” King Irmin explains. “Though, many overlook the fact that a Sword’s sworn duty is to protect the crown, and that such a failure from the start would speak poorly to the state of our military itself… but I digress. Well done, Dainsleif.”
Dainsleif dips his head. “I am to do my duty. I’m glad you’re safe, Your Majesty.”
The king hums, and it is silent for a moment. “Do you know why this assassin targeted me, Dainsleif?”
He parses through his mind once more, coming to the same conclusion as before. “No, I apologize. I have a short list of who could be behind it, and a short list of motivations.”
King Irmin seems to appraise him, and Dainsleif isn’t sure what he’s looking for. “In truth, I have been expecting brash action like this from a particular group, although not for another couple months. Are you familiar with the Ninth Circle, yet?”
He is, actually. “Yes. The traditionalist party who oppose your efforts in the automaton technology budget, and in addition are against the court’s interest in taking advantage of Abyssal power.” It was part of the files he had received, and he had taken note of the members active within the palace courts and outside of them.
King Irmin nods. “Correct. They oppose these things because they simply are afraid. Fear is dangerous when left to fester, and this kingdom cannot afford such a thing, do you understand?” the king’s gaze is steely as he looks at Dainsleif, and it reminds him a little of his brother’s face, when he returned from his investigation and there was something wrong, is still wrong.
“I understand,” Dainsleif says for a lack of anything else he should say at this moment. But his curiosity pushes to the forefront of his mind, and he asks, “If I may, why do you think they are afraid?”
King Irmin’s gaze does not leave him. “They fear the divine; it is a mortal fear,” he says. “Khaenri’ah is built off of human ambition, and we stray closer to the power of the gods without one ourselves. They witness this and they fear we become a threat to eliminate.” he sighs. “But we are strong, and they do not trust in that strength. Tell me, Dainsleif, do you believe this nation can kill a god?”
Dainsleif— isn’t sure.
The gods are, more or less, an abstract construct to the citizens of Khaenri’ah. This realm does not fall under their dominion, and thus that kind of looming power is unimaginable to most. Dainsleif is unsure if they actually hold the power to fend off the Seven, but. Maybe they do; maybe they do have the power to fight back.
So he says, “Yes,” because even if this nation could not kill a god, Dainsleif thinks it could come close.
King Irmin smiles, and it doesn’t match his eyes as he nods slightly in approval.
“Dain,” Rhinedottir greets with a grin– and those cursed soulless blue eyes –and he restrains a shiver as he smiles back. He hasn’t seen her in a while, and her blonde hair is longer than it’s ever been. She has golden markings running up her arms, intricate and complex.
“Rhinedottir,” he says. “What’s the occasion?”
She steps past him into the house he and his brother share, setting a rather large box down on the table. He shuts the door and turns to look at the box; it’s a silver metal, with several twist-latches to secure the two halves of it together.
“I’m here to go over some of my project with Folnir. Where is that bastard, anyway?” she grouses.
Dainsleif shrugs. “He left a few hours ago. If you’re lucky, he’ll be back soon.” It’s rare that Dainsleif is here in the first place, given a select couple of free days away from the palace. He wonders if she would have let herself in regardless if anyone wasn’t here.
She groans. “Oh, well,” she turns to him. “Would you like to see?”
Dainsleif is taken aback momentarily. He hasn’t really seen any of her projects since they were both much younger, in their early teenage years. He’ll hear passing words or descriptions of her creations, but he hasn’t actually seen one in a long time. “Alright,” he says, and she beckons him to the box.
She undoes the latches, and a hiss of air escapes the box as the last latch comes undone. His breath stills as he looks at… a heart?
“A heart,” he says, watching the synthetic pump pump pump of synthetic chambers and synthetic vessels, ichor filtering in and out of the organ.
Rhinedottir turns to him, rather excitedly. “Dain, I figured out how to create life. Complex life.”
He stares at the heart in a mixture of horror and awe. It almost feels wrong to be looking at such a thing, something that goes so ardently against the laws of this world. Is he supposed to be seeing this, actually? Is it not a classified project that she’s created an imitation of life?
“How did you…” he breathes, and she readily launches into an explanation.
He knows the basics of Khemia; most Khaenri’ahns in the military or in any scientific field do. But this goes beyond any semblance of understanding he thought he had. She lists facts about this synthetic heart; it’s functionally immortal, as it’s immune to decay with the right care. It’s stronger and more reliable than organic hearts. It cannot easily repair itself.
“I’ve created the first creature to bring to life with it,” she tells him. “I mimicked these impressions of creatures I saw in the Abyss, I’m calling them riftwolves,” she pulls out a thick journal from a bag she sets down next to the box, and flips to a page with a grotesque sketch of something that looks vaguely like a wolf. “See?” she points.
“Is that… what you saw?” he asks, staring at the amalgamation. Even though it’s only a sketch, his skin prickles imagining a creature like that existing in a vast darkness. How does Rhinedottir sound so excited over a monster? It looks like it defies the laws of this world, too. Perhaps that heart is perfect for it.
Her head tilts as she looks at him, and he feels like he’s being examined by something much larger than he or Rhinedottir is. “It was,” she says, and then smiles. “Don’t worry! It’s not that scary. It’s a good thing!”
Some tension seeps out of his spine, and he clings to those words like armor.
Miraculously, he still finds the time to bask in the company of his men.
It’s mostly with Halfdan and Bryngeir, and it is a balm to the heavy ebb and flow of his work as the Twilight Sword.
“The inteyvats are blooming around this time of year,” Halfdan comments, and Dainsleif looks out the window. It’s nearing spring, and the great inteyvat fields will sprout countless amounts of flowers, growing and withering and growing again in weeks.
The notion is nice, and the flowers are beautiful, in fields of white and pale blue petals. “Looking to visit the Sea of Flowers?” Dainsleif remarks. He wouldn’t be opposed himself; a vast expanse of white beneath a purple-blue sky.
Halfdan grins at his thoughtful expression. “Looking to see them too?”
“I’d forgotten about them until now,” he admits. “It would be nice to see them again.”
It has been… a long time, since he last saw the Sea of Flowers. He had been with his brother, and with Rhinedottir and Surtalogi, before Rerir and Hroptatyr became intertwined with their lives. They were children, and the flowers seemed mystical and grand to their small eyes.
They had run through the sea together, shrieking with laughter as white petals billowed out in a trail from their footfall. They had laid down, heads in a circle, and looked at the sky, at the eclipse peering at them from above.
“ Forever!” they had promised each other their friendship, in the belief that only a child can have that forever exists.
The assassin had not spoken of his allegiances, even when pressed with more harsh methods of interrogation. He had remained stubbornly silent, and the guard had failed to glean any substantial information from him.
The blacksmith had identified where the daggers were made; a common manufacturer that exported weapons to most general weaponry stores. Similarly, a length not worth pursuing further, most likely to result in nothing of value.
The king had theorized that the assassin came from the Ninth Circle, which alarms him for multiple reasons, considering that three of its party members sit in the king's court. Two politicians, Feykir and Kilian, in addition to a nobleman, Yggirlauger. Dainsleif has been keeping tabs on them since, and aside from continuing in their push against recent policy, they seem to have no idea that the assassination attempt was made. It doesn't rule them out from suspicion, and could be a part of their tactic to avoid it, but the truth is that Dainsleif doesn't have any concrete evidence as to whether or not they are guilty.
Another attempt is not made, and for that Dainsleif is thankful, if cautious over.
For how long will their silence last?
Dainsleif joins the king on his inspection of the military automaton inventory.
They are guided to a large storage facility on the outskirts of the capital city, situated on a tall cliff. The walls are enormous, reaching an impressive height that has Dainsleif craning his neck to see the top of.
One of the leading engineers of the military’s automatons, a man named Arnfreyr, beckons them inside with a respectful greeting.
“Your Majesty,” he bows. “The stock has grown tenfold in the last year.”
King Irmin looks pleased by this. “I’d like to see, then,”
Arnfreyr leads them down twisting, metal hallways, and answers the questions the king asks regarding the automatons and production.
They walk until they reach the last door, and it opens into a massive hangar, where giant automatons rest in a slumped standing position. There are the largest ones, which nearly touch the ceiling, and are at least twelve stories tall. There are some that look to be about nine stories tall, some that are five stories tall, and a ton of the smallest size, the Field Tillers as he had heard them referred to. There are multiple versions of this smallest size, with some looking to have the capability to fly. All in all, it’s an impressive display of technology.
“This storehouse holds a fourth of the current automaton inventory,” Arnfreyr says. “There are three goliath-class automatons that are not kept in a storehouse, simply because they are too large. They have their own construction sites, as you are informed.”
“Splendid,” the king says. “Are they all ready to be deployed?”
Arnfreyr looks slightly offended at this question. “Of course, Your Majesty. All units are perfectly functional.”
“This is the army with which we shall stand against the divine,” the king is looking at Dainsleif as he says this, and it takes everything he has in him to stay silent. He inclines his head, and the king turns back to Arnfreyr.
He wonders, intensely, if Khaenri’ah is preparing to defend itself in an expected war from the heavens, or if it is looking to start one.