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Chapter Text

The radio crackles to life: “Permission to land granted. At 90 degrees, a gap will open in the Wall for one minute. Any ships left behind will not be allowed to land.”

The Lucian on the other side sounds more composed now than they did half an hour before, when the first transmissions were exchanged. Their words are businesslike, almost curt, as if a trio of Imperial airships showing up on Insomnia’s doorstep is a common, if unwelcome, occurrence.

“Acknowledged,” Captain Livius says. She adjusts the heading on their ship and relays instructions to the other two accompanying them. If she’s at all nervous about this mission, Prompto can’t tell. Then again, while it’s certainly the most dangerous part of the mission, if the next few hours go well, Livius and the rest of her crew will be headed back to the relative safety of Imperial territory. 

“My, my,” Chancellor Izunia drawls above the radio chatter. Prompto does not flinch at the sudden sound of his voice. The chancellor has kept mostly to himself on this journey; Prompto hadn’t expected him to show up in the cockpit at this point. “If they were going to keep us waiting this long, why not put up more of a fight before finally acquiescing?”

“Chancellor,” Prompto says, and inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement as the man saunters into his peripheral vision. He ignores the rasp in his voice and the tenderness in his neck and clasps his hands loosely behind him. It helps keep his shoulders straight and his fingers still, and it reminds him who he is supposed to be. “Have you any recommendations on how to proceed?”

The chancellor hums one of his strange melodies, his attention caught by the sight of Lucis’s glittering magical Wall pulling itself open in front of them, allowing them their first unobstructed view of Insomnia.

“Perhaps a small fuss is in order,” the chancellor finally says as Livius guides the ship behind the enemy’s lines.

The bridge is eerily empty, and even the sound of the ocean seems far away even though Prompto can taste the salt in the wind. He had expected the light to look different under the magic of the Lucians’ Wall, but weirdly enough, it seems the Wall is far more visible from the outside than from within.

The chancellor’s “small fuss” amounts to a bit of pointless pageantry, but Prompto would rather comply than risk the man’s boredom. To that end, the dropships have landed in wedge formation, and Prompto stands at the top of the ramp of the lead ship. Armed Niflheim soldiers flank him down the ramp and onto the bridge. It’s not as impressive a display as the Imperial throne room, but it is designed to put Prompto and the chancellor above whichever Lucian representative finally arrives and create a show of power.

Provided Chancellor Izunia decides to cooperate with his own fuss. He leans casually against the edge of the ship, his hat tipped over his eyes, the picture of calculated dismissiveness toward the entire event. Prompto knows better than to believe that. He counts down the seconds, the minutes, and ignores the way the sea wind tugs at his hair and the collar of his dress uniform that the chancellor insisted he leave open.

Two sleek black cars appear in the distance, eventually. Prompto fixes his eyes on them and does not turn to look when he hears a theatrical sigh.

“A bit of advice, Your Imperial Highness,” Chancellor Izunia says. Amusement and something else Prompto can’t decipher darkens his voice, now that there’s no one else around to hear him. “Do try to convince the Lucians we care about your continued well-being and general happiness.” 

Prompto does flinch when the chancellor claps his hand on one of his shoulders, but he keeps his gaze forward even when the chancellor adds in a teasing whisper, “The Lucians can get...creative with how they store unwanted royalty, otherwise.”

Prompto breathes in slowly, but he can’t do anything about the rasp in his words. “Thank you for your counsel, Chancellor.”

The man laughs, low and rich, and saunters down the ramp, just in time for the black cars to pull to a stop before it. Two men step out of the cars’ drivers seats—Kingsglaive, based on the uniforms. The first stays at his spot, carefully taking in the sight of three Imperial airships and their complements of soldiers, while the second circles around to his passenger side door and opens it.

A well-dressed man with rich brown skin and a graying beard and hair emerges. His suit is finely tailored to fit his frame, and his monocle matches the detailing on his waistcoat. Even if Prompto hadn’t already been told to memorize the names and faces of the most prominent Lucian diplomats, the man’s confident bearing is proof enough of his high rank.

If Weskham Armaugh is at all surprised to see them, he does not show it. Nor does he react when the chancellor sweeps off his hat in an over-the-top, mocking bow. Armaugh nods toward the chancellor but bows slightly from the waist to Prompto, respectful but not warm, and says simply, “Your appearance here was unexpected, Your Imperial Highness. To what do we owe the honor?”

Armaugh’s gaze has weight to it, though he is too well-mannered to stare at his throat. Prompto resists the urge to hide the scar there, against the chancellor’s orders. At least the one at the back of his head is hidden by his hair. 

Chancellor Izuna straightens up and puts his hat back on. “Why, good news, of course!”

Prompto digs his nails into his palm and raises his chin slightly. “His Radiance, Iedolas Aldercapt, Emperor of Niflheim, has in his mercy and wisdom, sent his son and trusted chancellor to offer a ceasefire and the hope of peace between our great nations.”

"The prince?" 

The air in the room is still. Noctis tries to distract himself by watching specks of dust floating in the light from one of the windows. He can't recall a time when tensions were as tight in the council room as they are in this moment. His father sits at the end of the long, dark table, a hand resting on the top of his cane. The light reflects off the silver crown of antlers at his temple. 

“Yes, and the chancellor.” Weskham's voice is as calm as always, despite the mood. 

A quick glance to Noctis’s own advisor is enough to know this is as serious as he thinks. Ignis sits with his hands folded on the table across from Noctis, but the moment they make eye contact Ignis sits a bit taller and nods for Noctis to focus. 

"What is the purpose of their visit?" his father asks Weskham. 

"We're unsure, Your Majesty. They’ve only requested permission to land and meet with you."

"After all this time, why now? None of our intel has given us any indication this was coming."

Cor, sitting to the left of Ignis, visibly pricks up. "Our sources haven’t been compromised. This has to be a distraction, or a trap."

"We can prepare for that possibility," Weskham interjects. "But I believe we should let them in as a show of civility. What damage could a few ships do to Insomnia, with our full army and the Wall?"

“Then I'll go." Cor’s voice echoes louder around them. 

Watching his father, carefully listening, Noctis thinks about the weight of this decision. These aren’t welcomed dignitaries. They’re enemies to most of Eos. Cor isn’t the most diplomatic person, but he is The Immortal for a reason. Noctis would believe it if he took out a few ships of soldiers waiting outside the city. 

"Weskham will go," Regis states, succinctly. He looks over the room, making eye contact with almost everyone as he does so. "Marshal, unfortunately your reputation precedes you. We will welcome them in, without a military force, to show we aren't on the defensive. Not here, not behind the Wall."

Cor bows his head. Weskham does as well. Clarus and Regis exchange a glance that's become familiar over the years.

On Noctis’s right, Gladio makes a soft humming sound, probably in agreement with the decision. Iris, seated at Noctis’s other side, is quietly watching Clarus closely. Gladio has inherited a temper and Iris, Noctis knows from experience, impatience, but they both look up to their father in the same way. Noctis can't help but wonder what things will be like when he's the one having to make the tough decisions from that seat at the table. If he and Gladio will always be in sync. 

Though Noctis hopes he won't have to make any of these kinds of tough calls by the time he takes the throne. It's something Noctis holds onto not just for himself and for Insomnia, but for Eos. Galahd and Tenebrae have suffered the most in this long war, though Lucis has lost most of Cleigne to Niflheim. This war has existed for most of Noctis’s life. He can't help but hope a little bit that this could lead to a resolution. 

"We'll reconvene in the throne room, and Weskham will bring them there," Regis concludes. 

With a simple nod, everyone in the room goes into action. Weskham is up and at the doorway, signaling two Kingsglaive to follow him. Noctis stands, and Iris, Gladio, and Ignis follow. Usually no one would move until Regis stood, but these days it’s harder for him to move quickly, and so he conserves his energy wherever possible, staying seated to whisper with Clarus. 

It’s another reason Noctis hopes this war ends soon. His father is aging rapidly with the strength needed to maintain the Wall over much of Lucis. Noctis wants his dad to experience a world without needing to protect them all with his very being. A world where he can relax. Where they can have time together. With the Wall, it often feels like Regis is only partially present most days, a part of him always pulled away to maintain the magic of their shield. And Noctis knows if somehow this war doesn't end soon, his dad won’t be around to keep the Wall, and it will then pass to him…

Noctis doesn’t want that. For either of them.  

He bows at the waist to his father, who acknowledges it with a slight wave, and then Noctis turns on his heels to leave. Other council members speak in hushed voices as he passes. He doesn't look behind him; he knows his friends are following. 

Once in the hallway Noctis relaxes, though minimally. He cracks his neck side to side and rolls his shoulders in an attempt to appease his joints. Who knows how long he will have to sit as the rest of the day plays out — Noctis isn't sure if he should hope for a long day or a short one. 

Gladio and Ignis flank either side of him, with Iris just behind, in their standard and familiar formation. 

“I don't like this,” Gladio mumbles. 

“I don’t think any of us do,” Ignis sighs and adjusts the sleeves of his jacket. “Coming here without any warning is a very bold and dangerous choice.”

“You think they have some kind of upper hand we don’t know about?” Noctis asks.

They enter the safety of the elevator to their quarters. There’s a collective sigh at the moment of isolation. 

Iris taps her foot on the floor, steel toe echoing around them. “Like Cor said, it could be a trap?” 

“I do think there is an ulterior motive, but dropping a prince and chancellor and soldiers inside a protected city doesn’t seem like a good plan for infiltration.” Ignis leans against Gladio’s arm for the briefest of moments. Gladio nudges back and wraps an arm around his waist. “I think it’s more likely a distraction, but I'm not sure what from.”  

“I guess,” Gladio leans his head back against the wall, “we gotta hear what they say first.” 

The elevator chimes and they all straighten back up as the doors open. With the news of Nif ships approaching, everyone in the Citadel is on high alert, taking on different roles as if they were preparing for an attack. After a few turns down busy corridors, they finally get to their hall. At Noctis’s room, Gladio opens the door first, doing a visual sweep of the room while Ignis and Iris follow. Only once they have all turned to Noctis and given the all clear does he enter. 

Ignis heads straight for Noctis’s bedroom and is getting Noctis's raiment from the closet. 

“I can dress myself, you know.” It’s an attempt at familiar humor that feels off in the moment. But if Ignis is put off by it, he doesn’t let it show. He lays the clothes carefully on Noctis’s bed. 

“We’ll just get you sorted, and then get ourselves ready.” 

“I’ll go get dressed and be right back.” Iris jogs to the door and leaves again before anyone can say otherwise. 

Gladio drags a hand down his face and all but collapses onto the couch. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, love,” Ignis chides. Gladio grunts softly in reply. 

Something is buzzing in the back of Noctis’s mind. The constant thought of what this could all mean. The desire to hope for peace is slapped away by the fear in his bones. 

“Do you think they’ll attack once inside?” Noctis stays standing, toying with the edges of his jacket sleeves. 

“We have to plan for that,” Gladio and Ignis say in unison. Ignis moves to the back of the couch and runs his hands through Gladio’s hair gently.  

“Then why would we let them in?” 

“If we don’t, it could be used by Niflheim as a catalyst. Either we let them in while ensuring our defenses are prepared for an attack, or we deny them and risk backlash, potentially on the civilians who live under their occupation. Which could then lead to civil war within our Wall. Your father, I’m sure, doesn’t want to add to that fire.” 

“So we play the good host.” 

“And hope we can keep in front of whatever they’re planning.” Ignis taps Gladio on the shoulder. “We’ll be right back, Noct.” 

“All right.” He doesn't move until the other two leave his apartment. In the silence, Noctis focuses on getting into his raiment. 

Once dressed, Noctis looks over himself in the mirror. His most formal attire mimics his father’s, with black and gold embellishments. He lifts up the small, single branch of his crown. His hair is done up with hair gel, which he usually doesn’t do when he’s to wear his crown, but he puts it on anyways, making sure it’s visible enough. It would take too much time to wash his hair. And Noctis is sure he’ll be dressed up enough if the prince is dressed for traveling. 

It hits Noctis that the only other royal heirs he’s ever met to compare his life to are Ravus and Luna. But they’ve known each other for years, and his friends have been without their kingdom for a long time. Claiming Altissia as their current home is very different from being in the place they are to rule from, to be around the people, to be in the politics of it all. 

Most of what Noctis knows about Prince Prompto and Princess Solara is from briefings he’s received, and sometimes gossip sites. The royal family of Niflheim is mostly hidden away from the public even in their own country. They don’t do run-of-the-mill royal appearances and fanfare. 

Prince Prompto isn’t, or wasn’t, the oldest son. But the heir apparent died in battle some years ago. While Lucis’s intel hasn’t proclaimed the prince as the new heir, it’s the going belief in Lucis. Princess Solara is young—nine years old. Even with such little being known about them, the prince and princess are demonized alongside their father. There isn’t much hope either of the two would end the war, should something happen to the emperor. That being said, Noctis is sure that in Niflheim his own reputation gets the same treatment. He’s not naive enough to think Lucians aren’t painted in some kind of negative light to keep the war propaganda machine running. 

The door to his suite opens. He hears the others walk into the living room, so Noctis gives himself one more glance in the mirror before heading out to greet them. 

The last time Noctis saw all of them dressed so well was for the Winter Solstice some months ago, but the vibe for that had been light and celebratory, while this has some level of…foreboding. No one is smiling or joking around. 

Ignis doesn’t look much different than his usual put together self, save for the slim fitting jacket he’s wearing over his purple dress shirt. 

Gladio is more dressed up than usual, because a majority of his day to day is training Noctis, new recruits, or himself. But now he is cleaned up, wearing proper dark pants and dress shoes, and a button up black shirt. Iris is usually in a similar boat as Gladio, training even more than he does. But she’s dropped her shorts and skirts she favors for the same style as her brother.  

Did people make outfits specifically for peace treaties or potential political sabotage? Noctis wonders if they should have done more to coordinate to show that they are a unit. 

“You are about to bust out of that shirt,” Ignis mutters, clearly at Gladio, who manages a soft laugh. 

“You wish.” 

“Gotta stop with those gains, Gladdy.” Iris bumps him and then turns to Noctis. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Noctis pushes his shoulders back and tilts his head to one side to pop his neck. “Should we head on down or wait for word?” 

Ignis’s phone pings with what Noctis knows is the specific sound for messages from any of Regis’s guards. Ignis pulls out his phone from his breast pocket to check the message. 

“Seems like we have an answer. They’ve been let through; we should be on our way.”

The throne room is a bit manic as the last of the council members enter. Noctis and his retinue are seated up in the balcony to the left of the throne, where his dad sits. Clarus and Cor flank either side dressed in their Crownsguard uniforms. Below them, councilors and other members of the court pile in, lining up on either side leading up to the grand staircase.

Two glaives close the large doors of the throne room and people settle. Noctis looks over at his father, who happens to glance over to Noctis as well. Regis smiles before lifting his chin and focusing once more on the rest of the room.

“My friends,” Regis’s voice echoes all around them. It’s almost soothing. “We are about to embark on the next stage of our history. We ask that you please show our respect to those entering here today.”

No one raises any objections. Instead, the whole room salutes. Regis responds in kind, and then motions to the glaives at the door. 

The heavy doors open, and once more the energy in the room shifts. Weskham enters first with the Kingsglaive who had escorted him to the prince and chancellor. Their steps are in time with each other, so that the room echoes with each one like a heartbeat. 

They stop in the center of the room. Weskham stands with his hands behind his back. "His Imperial Highness, Prince Prompto, and Chancellor Izunia, Your Majesty."

The council members, and everyone else, are focused on the large doors. Weskham walks quickly back towards the entrance, getting there just as the chancellor saunters in. It strikes Noctis that he is way too sure of himself considering what he's walking into, and not to mention, he’s walking in front of the prince. Noctis wonders what kind of royal etiquette they have in Niflheim. His dad is chill, but Noctis still can’t imagine him not being the first to enter a room, especially in such a serious and potentially historical moment.

Noctis hears the soldiers before he sees who follows the chancellor. Their armor echoes their footsteps, grinding and clanging against each other as they walk down the hallway to the throne room. Everyone in the room stays quiet and still, except for Izunia, who continues to grin as he observes their reactions.  

Through the doors, two Imperial soldiers enter. They pause in the doorway for a beat; seeing them makes Noctis freeze and his chest tighten. He can’t help but let out a shaky breath as he tries to control his body. For many of those present, they’d only seen these tabards and armor in the media. 

But the last time Noctis saw them in person was in Galahd. Despite being a child at the time, Noctis would never forget the soldiers who attacked brazenly, not caring at all for anything other than their target. 

The soldiers cross the threshold, allowing for the next in line to enter the room. There are three more Imperial soldiers standing behind their charge.

Ignis reaches over and gently rests his hand on Noctis’s forearm, giving it a soft squeeze before pulling away. It’s just enough of a distraction to get Noctis to focus elsewhere, not on the soldiers but instead at their charge standing in front of them in bright white and gold: Prince Prompto.  

The first two soldiers turn away from the prince to step behind and join the other Imperial soldiers. Others can't help but whisper to each other now, and it takes every ounce of strength for Noctis not to join. Prince Prompto is finely dressed in the colors of Niflheim. Golden embellishments reflect the sunlight, and the white of his coat is a bright contrast to the dark pants. As he enters, the prince is immediately focused on the king. Not one glance anywhere else, as if there’s no one else in the room. 

There’s been a very limited number of pictures of the prince, and even those are thought to be pre-approved or at least staged. Niflheim is very careful about what gets out. 

Prince Prompto appears mostly how he does in the pictures. But in person, there's a sense of determination in his expression. His hair is brushed up on one side, revealing a pale face with freckles and bright indigo eyes. 

His appearance is meticulous, precise, and almost intimidating.   

Given all this, Noctis is surprised to see that the collar of Prince Prompto’s uniform is unbuttoned in an exaggerated way. 

It reveals a thin wound, still healing, wrapping around his pale throat. The cut is an angry red, showing it is still fresh. 

The statement is loud and clear. 

When Prince Prompto gets to the center of the room, he stops, and so do the soldiers. He continues to only look at Regis. 

“Holy shit this guy isn't messing,” Iris whispers. Gladio must do something because she makes a startled sound, but then says no more. Noctis crosses his arms and stays focused on one thought that keeps him from looking away, one thing repeating in his mind.

Like it or not, Prince Prompto is the one who could finally change the course of the war.

Chapter Text

The Lucian throne room soars overhead, much like the Citadel it is part of. Prompto can’t help but be aware of the quiet stir that kicks up in the galleries above as he enters the room, but he keeps his gaze firmly on the throne. King Regis is flanked by two members of his retinue, Shield Clarus Amicitia and Marshal Cor Leonis. It is an interesting choice, but it’s one Prompto doesn’t know how to interpret. Do they normally attend the king so closely in formal audiences, or have they taken up those positions because they perceive him, the chancellor, or their five soldiers as immediate, physical threats?

Prompto comes to a stop not far behind Chancellor Izunia, who is doing yet another of his mocking bows. After a long, nearly insulting moment— “Remember my pride, boy” —Prompto bends at the waist in a shallower bow than the one he normally gives the emperor. The soldiers, all that they could fit into the cars with them, stop a pace behind Prompto, arrayed in a line behind him.

Chancellor Izunia gives a jaunty wave, as if he has returned home to friends who have missed him. “Greetings, Your Majesty.” 

“Has Niflheim grown so bold that they send both its prince and its chancellor as envoys? And under such paltry guard.” 

Regis’s voice is surprisingly quiet, but Prompto can still hear it clearly. The acoustics of the room have been excellently crafted, though Prompto doesn’t need them to hear the threat in the choice of paltry guard.

If the chancellor also hears the threat, he breezes straight past it. “His Imperial Majesty has not sent us out of ill-considered recklessness or arrogance.”

It is difficult for Prompto to keep his focus on the Lucian king when the chancellor roams along the base of the stairs, as if he is a coeurl stalking prey. Prompto forces himself to take measured breaths and keep his fear tightly leashed.

“Like you, we wish nothing more than to bring a swift end to this senseless war,” the chancellor continues. “And so we have come to you on this most auspicious of days to extend the offer of a ceasefire and, ultimately, terms of peace.”

That last word causes far more of a ripple in the gallery than their arrival, though King Regis betrays no reaction. “And to what do we owe these glad tidings?”

“His Radiance has had much to reflect on as of late,” the chancellor says, and his voice turns—Prompto isn’t sure how to describe the tone, but he can’t suppress the prickle of unease that crawls up his spine. “And while I am not privy to his innermost thoughts despite my station, prolonged war has a way of reminding almost any man of his own mortality and the eventual end of all things. As I’m certain Your Majesty is well aware, great men and nations are not diminished by their mercy, only by time.”

“Are you of the same mind, Your Imperial Highness?” the king asks.

The focus in the room shifts off of the chancellor’s performance and back to him. Prompto raises his voice so his words are as clear as he can manage through the pain and accompanying rasp. “His Imperial Majesty is a far wiser man than I. I serve as an extension of his will, and so we are one in this matter.”

The king considers Prompto’s response for a moment, but he does not try to push for anything beyond the only answer Prompto is allowed to give in a conversation like this. Instead, he turns his attention back to the chancellor. “You spoke of a ceasefire?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Chancellor Izunia says, and as he talks, he begins to climb the first set of stairs to the throne, in a slow, meandering way. “The terrible machine of fifteen years’ war isn’t something that can be stopped as easily as a breath. Even as we speak, a commodore of the Empire is on her way to Accordo to deliver similar tidings to the first secretary and the royal family in exile. Other messengers are on their way to our generals with orders to defend instead of continuing their expansion.”

The chancellor reaches the landing halfway to the throne and stops there. He takes a moment to turn to address the galleries on either side, and Prompto can’t quite believe he’s willing to turn his back on the king and the men at his side. “It will take some time for our many armies to prepare for and enact a full retreat, and we would not insult you by asking you to accept pretty words on mere faith. His Imperial Highness has come to your great city as incontrovertible proof of the emperor’s sincerity.”

“‘Proof’?” the king echoes, and although his voice sounds of polite confusion, his eyes are sharp.

Prompto doesn’t need the chancellor’s crooked finger to prompt his lines. “Until the day a peace treaty is signed, I intend to remain in Insomnia, if Your Majesty is willing to host me.”

There is a long, considering silence. “We will speak plainly,” the king says. “You would surrender yourself as hostage to Lucis against further Niflheim aggression?”

The chancellor smiles before turning back to the king, and there is little Prompto can do to calm his racing heart. “It will be an easy thing, should Your Majesty hold fast to your honor.”

Those words cause another stir in the galleries, but it is the famed marshal’s expression that makes Prompto bite his tongue. King Regis raises his hand, and the people in the galleries go silent. The marshal’s expression subsides a moment later, though not without significant effort.

“Then welcome to Insomnia, Prince Prompto of Niflheim.”

A second hurdle cleared, but Prompto can’t relax yet. He acknowledges the welcome with a slight incline of his head and tries to ignore the weight of the entire room’s silent speculation. 

Chancellor Izunia swoops in again, uncomfortably cheerful. “Well said, Your Majesty, well said. Now, let us discuss timelines. As a man of your wisdom is well aware, such delicate things as treaties should not be so hastily negotiated lest one or more parties feel aggrieved. I propose that we, as well as the exiled House of Nox Fleuret, reconvene in two months’ time in Gralea to begin discussions regarding the war’s end.”

“As you say, treaties are worthy of careful and deliberate contemplation,” King Regis says. “Rather than forcing Nifhleim to shoulder the burden of preparing both a military retreat and a treaty summit at the same time, we would put in our share of the effort and have Insomnia serve as host.”

“What generosity!” Chancellor Izunia exclaims and claps his hands together. “Without our focus divided, the empire could certainly be prepared within the month to begin formal negotiations.”

King Regis’s fingers drum once against the arm of his throne, then still. “A month is hardly of notice to a nation, but it looms far larger for its people. While the imperial generals have received word to cease fighting, we fear the possibility that fifteen years’ tension will make it difficult for both sides to trust only the absence of violence and a promise made of words. How long will it take for Niflheim to abandon the contested territories?”

“Your Majesty!” the chancellor sounds wounded, and Prompto bites his tongue again. “I must profess some small dismay that the empire’s ability to control its army has been called into question.”

“Not only the empire’s,” the king says, unmoved by the chancellor’s theatrics. “There are those in Lucis who may see the lack of aggression from the empire as an opportunity to enact vengeance. A demonstration of your commitment to a lasting peace would reduce the chances of the ceasefire being broken by either side.”

“A reasonable request, perhaps.” Chancellor Izunia hums, an over-exaggerated show of consideration. He turns suddenly, long coat flaring out, and his glittering eyes land on Prompto. “What say you, Your Imperial Highness?”

This is not a possibility Prompto was prepared to respond to. The terror of potentially giving a wrong or unacceptable answer claws up his throat, and he swallows it down as best he can. What the chancellor can do to him in public is limited, but he hasn’t been turned over to Lucis yet.

Think.

The empire has held Tenebrae since the start of the war, and given how much of it is still a frozen wasteland, it would be an easy territory to retreat from due to its proximity to Niflheim. But Tenebrae isn’t an area Lucis has ever controlled, and giving it up would do very little to soothe the average Lucian’s fears. That leaves Galahd, then, or Cleigne. It can’t be both, though. Giving up both would destroy a great deal of leverage that Niflheim currently has for the future negotiation.

“If the Lucian people’s faith needs to be bolstered, then I am not opposed. His Majesty understands the temperament of his people best,” Prompto says as evenly and authoritatively as he can muster. “King Regis, would you have Niflheim withdraw from Galahd or Cleigne as further proof of our commitment to the treaty negotiations?”

King Regis does not attempt to push for both, nor does he take more than a handful of heartbeats to deliberate. “Cleigne,” he says. 

There is a brief burst of whispers from the galleries that is quickly quelled. 

“Splendid!” Chancellor Izunia says as he spins back to the king. He fishes out a silver pocket watch from one of his many layers and makes a show of checking the time. “The empire will withdraw from the occupied areas in Cleigne within seven days, and negotiations will begin in Insomnia in thirty. Now then, I really must return to deliver the wonderful news to Emperor Aldercapt. His Imperial Highness’s things will be left at our landing site; I trust your people can fetch them?”

Prompto doesn’t know what to make of the expression that flickers across the king’s face. “Of course. Sir Armaugh, please escort Chancellor Izunia back to his ship and retrieve His Highness’s luggage.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The chancellor does another one of his sweeping bows to the king before sauntering down the stairs. “Come along, then,” he sing-songs to the soldiers, who follow him out the throne room’s double doors. 

The chancellor lingers for a moment when he pulls even with Prompto. “Your Highness,” he says, tipping his hat in what should be deference but Prompto knows is just an extension of his contemptuous theater. “I do hope you enjoy your time here.”

And then the chancellor is gone, and Prompto is left standing alone in front of King Regis and his court. He hopes he doesn’t look as small as he feels with everyone looking down at him. He reminds himself that others are depending on him to survive.

“Mr. Scientia,” the king says after a long moment, and one of the figures in the gallery steps forward to the railing to bow. “Please escort Prince Prompto to one of the diplomatic suites and see to his well-being until other arrangements can be made.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he says and heads for the stairs immediately.

“Prince Prompto, how many additional suites will we need for your people?”

Prompto doesn’t let his amusement show. No doubt King Regis would have sent his own son into an enemy’s territory with allies. Then again, Prompto does not have any. “None, Your Majesty. I have brought neither retinue, servants, nor guards with me. I shall prevail upon your kindness to see to my needs while I am here.”

If the king thinks the neglect is odd, he doesn’t comment on it. “It will take a little while for us to arrange assistance. In the meantime, Mr. Scientia will ensure your immediate needs are met.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

“We are certain you wish to rest after such a journey,” the king continues. It is a polite dismissal, and a welcome one. “Do not hesitate to make requests of us while you are here.”

“As you say.” Prompto offers King Regis the same shallow bow as when he arrived. 

He should feel better with the second hurdle cleared, but there are thirty days ahead of him in Lucis. Thirty days entirely on his own, with only the promise of a treaty at the end of that time to keep him alive.

Prompto does not button up his collar or reach for his knives. He simply follows Scientia out of the throne room and into new, dangerous territory.

After Prince Prompto follows Ignis out, Regis rises from the throne. In one motion, the rest of the room rises as well. 

Clarus lifts an arm to gesture towards the doors. “We’ll convene in the meeting room directly next door to discuss matters further.” 

The councilors filter out first. Only when it’s just Noctis, his dad, and their guard, does his father start the walk down the stairs. They all pretend it’s because of rituals and manners but lately it’s more because of the king’s health. Noctis falls in step next to his dad, not holding or helping necessarily, but being there beside him. Just in case. 

When they enter the meeting room it’s in a bit of chaos—that stops when the guards call out the king’s entrance. The room stays quiet as Noctis and his dad walk towards the head of the table and take their seats. Most of the council pick up talking amongst themselves, offering Noctis a moment to collect himself. He relaxes back in his chair and breathes.

The dining staff bring out water, as well as a spread of various types of bread and cheese for a temporary distraction. It doesn’t work for Noctis. He’s eager for Ignis to return. Partly because it feels uneasy, him escorting Prince Prompto. Partly because then Noctis can learn if Ignis got any intel after his brief time with the prince. Partly because things in the room are tense. Multiple times council members try to talk about choosing Cleigne, and every time Regis waves them off. It’s not like the choice can be changed once it’s been decided with the prince. Regis going back on his word could have catastrophic consequences. 

Noctis hopes there will be some time for them to collect themselves before discussions resume. But as soon as the doors shut behind the dining staff and the guards resume their posts, everyone quiets down. All focus turns to his dad, sitting at the end of the table. The king’s posture is a touch more relaxed than when they had been in the throne room as he leans forward with his elbows on the table. 

Clarus is on Regis’s right. They have a quiet conversation while the room just…watches. It’s normal for them to have these kinds of interactions. When Clarus nods and sits back in his chair, Regis sits upright and addresses the room. 

“We will enact the Typhoon protocol.” Regis speaks simply, but the words cause a stir in many of the council members.  

Noctis isn’t up to speed on all the possible plans for retaking Cleigne, but he knows there are several variations for whenever the time comes that Lucis has their cities under their control once more.  

“There will be dissent,” Councilor Hutton raises his voice from further down the table, “once the refugees hear that Cleigne was chosen.” He looks to those near him for support. A few others nod along. 

If memory serves him right, Councilor Hutton is from Cleigne, or at least has family there. Decisions in these kinds of instances have personal ramifications, and Noctis knows his dad is doing the best he can. 

“We will not reveal how this decision was made,” Cor says from his dad’s other side. “Or why.” 

“You all know how important Lucis is for our people.” Regis keeps a steady tone. “Not having access to the tombs of our forefathers prevents future generations of leaders from having the same protections in place that we do now.” 

Regis turns his attention to Noctis as he speaks. It makes Noctis sit up with the awareness of everyone in the room following the king’s focus. He’s hardly ever acknowledged in these meetings, only needing to be there to listen and learn. 

“You will need to be able to get to all the royal tombs, one day.” His dad's voice is softer, and sad, like it often is when succession comes up. 

Noctis swallows and bows his head in acknowledgement. His dad doesn’t smile at all, or return the bow. He goes back to staring down the angry expressions of the council. 

“Leonis, please remind the council of our next steps.” 

Cor bows his head and stands to address the room. “Once Drautos has confirmed Niflheim has left Cleigne, and it is safe for citizens to return, the Wall will extend out to cover Cleigne once more.” 

There are more whispers amongst the council, but Noctis can't quite catch the words. But his own thoughts race with his own concerns. 

The king, his dad , is already weak, weaker than he should be for his age. Extending the Wall once more won’t help him physically. It’s something Noctis has thought about but didn’t want to face. About what it would mean to increase the Wall to what it once was. He looks to his dad, sitting very still, hands resting on the table, not giving away any potential emotional response.

“When the Wall is up,” Cor continues, "and we’ve confirmed Cleigne is safe, we will then begin our sweep of the area before we rebuild. I’ll be setting up meetings with all necessary council members and leaders starting today so that we have our plan set the moment Niflheim is confirmed gone.”

“How long until the people can return to their homes?” another member shouts.

“We won't know until we've been able to assess the extent of damage. So it could very well still be months, or even years.” 

The room erupts into protests. It's only when the king stands up that they fall quiet once more. 

“We can’t move too quickly. We know nothing of Niflheim’s true intentions. Do not fool yourselves. The Wall is far from impenetrable.”

“How do you expect us to explain this!” Councilor Hutton stands, both hands planted on the table. 

“We won't announce anything. Not yet. Not until Niflheim’s forces leave.  We don't want anyone to try returning prematurely. With time, we can ensure Lucians are given as much information as they need.” 

Cor takes a step towards Hutton. “Our first priority is securing Cleigne, safely .” 

“How do we know Niflheim will actually leave?” 

“They left the prince with us,” Clarus’s voice booms around them. “Considering our previous interest in the prince, his survival here seems to be something they gain from.” 

The room settles into silence. It’s very rare that Clarus speaks up to the council, and everyone else is also aware of that rarity. Noctis observes how some in the room seem to be quietly contemplating everything before them. Others are angry. And there's a few who might be fighting back tears. 

Cleigne used to be a booming region in Lucis. Noctis had been there when he was really young, before the war started, so his memory of the area is fuzzy. He mostly is able to look at images of the area and recognize them, but not much more than that remains. It was a beautiful place, with mountain ranges, the sea, forests, and even haunting lakes. 

And there were, of course, the tombs. The relics of his ancestors, the places Noctis will visit to collect his own Armiger one day, like his father, and every king and queen before him. Regis has all his weapons, so Noctis does not have access, but if Noctis ever wants to be able to fight to his full potential, if that time ever comes, he’ll need every ounce of help he can get. 

As if on cue, there's a knock on the door. Ignis is ushered in, and he walks over to sit beside Noctis. There's no indication in his expression on how his time with the prince was. Noctis does his best to also maintain a neutral expression. He can pester Ignis later.

“Right,” Cor picks back up, “with that, council, you are dismissed. Do not engage anyone about this news or discuss it outside these doors. We can’t risk it getting out before we are ready. ” 

With only the slightest of muttering the council all stand and bow their heads to Regis before leaving the room. His dad is still, not even offering a nod in return. Noctis isn’t sure if he’s supposed to remain but he doesn’t move either, waiting to see what he’s told to do. 

In the shuffle Weskham returns. He bears a blank expression. All but Noctis and his crew, and his dad’s retinue, stays. 

The doors shut. Everyone lets out an exhale and sits back a little more in their chairs. 

“Have you heard from Cid?” Regis asks Cor, who takes his seat. 

“No, he hasn’t answered my calls or texts.”

“Does he think we won’t send someone out there to him?” Clarus is visibly bothered. 

“We won’t, he’s made himself clear,” Regis is clearly just as angry but holds the emotion down, except for the way he clenches his jaw. 

Noctis knows all about Cid, both from his dad but also from others, and from the stories around them when they were all around his age. A part of Noctis doesn't blame Cid for leaving Insomnia once the Wall was pulled back from Cleigne. Noctis recalls hearing Cid shouting as he walked by the council room on a lot of days during that time. 

Then Cid's daughter and son in law were killed by daemons, and that was the last sacrifice Cid was willing to allow. Cid never came back. Never contacted anyone in the Citadel, not as far as Noctis is aware. 

Clarus shakes his head. “He's on the inside. He can give us important information on the current state of Cleigne before we set foot there.”

“He hasn't done it for fifteen years, why do you think he would now?” 

The Shield presses forward. “If he knew why—”

“What,” Regis leans back, “so we could protect his family now, and not when it mattered most?”

Everyone stays quiet. It’s awkward as hell and makes Noctis want to sink under the table or warp out of the room. Clarus clamps down the emotion that had been bubbling to the surface. 

“We'll need the Nox Fleurets here, of course. Weskham, I assume you can bring them here?” 

All this makes Noctis wish he could call Luna and Ravus. Talk to Ravus about the political side. Luna for the humanitarian aspect. There are so many implications with all this, and they are two sides of something Noctis couldn't imagine himself being on his own. Noctis’s head is spinning, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to be the one responsible for what’s next. 

“Of course.” Weskham makes a few notes in the small book he has. 

“And I'll want to speak with Drautos as well.”

“Your Majesty?” 

Everyone looks up with the same confused expression. Regis turns to Cor, ignoring the confused looks.

“Cor, get on a secure line and speak with Drautos. Tell him to remain on watch for activity around Fort Vaullerey, but give no indication of what we anticipate should be happening.”

“Will he keep this to himself?”

“Our first priority is to ensure possession of Clegine and get the Wall back to the coast.” 

“Of course.”  

The way Clarus outright bristles sends waves of tension through the room, aftershocks still from the attack on Noctis and his dad years ago in Galahd. It’s a different anger than the irritation of Cid’s lack of involvement. 

“I will call him immediately,” Cor says calmly to break the silence. 

Gladio lets out a long breath, and Ignis shifts in his seat. Noctis’s fears, questions, thoughts—they’re all jumbled around and incomplete. It’s hard to be happy about the war coming to an end without knowing what it will cost them. 

Noctis feels himself spiraling out a bit, the voices in the room that have continued on sounding like he’s underwater and can’t make out the specifics. 

“Ignis,” Weskham turns the conversation, and Noctis can't hide how he startles. 

“Sir?”

“Tell us about the prince.” 

Chapter Text

Ignis Scientia is one of the people whose name and face Prompto has memorized, though there hadn’t been much in the way of detail regarding the Lucian prince’s chamberlain. He must be incredibly competent to hold the position at his age, especially since the king did not address him by any noble title. He must not be from the Lucian nobility, or at least not an heir.

Scientia, for his part, seems entirely unconcerned to have a prince of Niflheim following at his back. He is a sharply dressed man with carefully styled hair and an angular face. He must also be a confident one, judging from the grace and fluidity in his movements. Scientia looks neither left nor right at the guards lining the throne room’s antechamber, but Prompto can’t help but notice that the number of them has increased since he originally entered. 

But none of the guards fall into step behind them. Prompto considers that for a few heartbeats before he mentally reclassifies Scientia from Administrator to Soldier.

Scientia leads him to a different, smaller elevator than the one Prompto took with Chancellor Izunia on the way up. The elevator dings open, and Scientia politely motions for Prompto to step in first. Prompto inclines his head slightly and does so, claiming the back corner away from the bank of buttons. Scientia follows and selects the 15th floor. 

“Excuse me, Your Imperial Highness,” Scientia says as the elevator door slides shut. “I need to make a call.”

“Of course.” 

The elevator begins to descend, and Scientia fishes a phone out of his suit jacket. Prompto can’t see what is on his phone screen, but he does note how quickly the person on the other end picks up. “Which of the diplomatic suites are available now for guests?” Scientia asks briskly. Then, after a few moments, he murmurs his thanks and hides his phone away, just in time for the elevator door to open again.

Scientia steps out onto the new floor, and Prompto follows after. It’s in much the same style as the ground floor lobby and antechamber—clearly built to impress whoever has been granted the privilege of seeing them. It is also far emptier than the throne room had been; the only footsteps Prompto can hear are his and Scientia’s as they start down the main hall.

“There are three suites available,” Scientia says placidly. “I would be happy to show you all of them so you can make a selection, though in truth they mostly differ in decor.”

Prompto hadn’t actually expected a choice. Part of him still expects to be taken straight to whatever passes for protective confinement in Lucis. He studies the relaxed line of Scientia’s shoulders and decides to take another risk. “Do any of them have a bedroom without windows?”

Scientia does not break his stride, but he does glance back at him. Whatever he thinks of the question, his expression remains politely neutral behind his glasses. “Yes, I believe so. This way, if you would.”

Prompto follows Scientia down the hall, which features dark wood doors emblazoned with gold emblems at well-spaced intervals. Scientia stops before one, fishes a plain white badge from another jacket pocket, and presses it to a reader nearby. A light at the top of the reader flashes green, and there’s a soft click as the door unlocks. 

Scientia holds open the door for him. Prompto sweeps past him with more confidence than he actually feels and flicks on the entryway light. The air in the suite is empty and still, and an inane part of Prompto’s brain wonders if he’ll hear the echo of his breathing in it. 

The suite is an extension of the Citadel itself: dark stone and wood, soaring ceilings, art, plants, and metallic accents pressed here and there in subtle displays of wealth. The left side of the suite is wide open, with a dining area just past the entryway, large enough for company to join him for a private meal, and a kitchenette tucked along the wall. The back left corner is clearly meant to be an entertaining area with a television, low table, and plush seating. The back wall also has an expansive window framed by long, heavy curtains, and Prompto can see bits of Insomnia’s skyline poking up from below, though none of the buildings come close to the Citadel’s height. There are two identical doors to the right.

Scientia steps into the room after him, and the door clicks shut. “If I have remembered the layout correctly, the far door should lead to an office, and the near to the bedroom.” 

Prompto heads for the closer door immediately. Scientia has remembered another point in the layout correctly: there is no window in this bedroom. Much of the space is taken up by a large, expertly made bed. A wardrobe, dresser, nightstand, and writing desk with chair line the periphery. The last door, Scientia informs him, leads to the en suite.

“The office will have a window, then?”

“Yes, Prince Prompto. Would you like to see it?”

“No,” Prompto says. It isn’t as if he has much use for one, unless the Lucians have also stocked it with a computer, which he doubts. This is far more spacious than the cell he’d half expected to be thrown into. He can explore it more another time, when his higher notes of fear inevitably fade into the low dread of boredom. 

Thirty days. A trifling amount of time to prepare for the end of fifteen years of war. An eternity when surrounded by new enemies, none of which can be silenced or made to disappear if things go poorly. Prompto refuses to check the new number on his right wrist when he pulls off his vambraces, leaving it covered by his sleeve. 

He drops the vambraces on the bed and takes off his formal jacket, and Scientia immediately steps forward, hand outstretched in assistance. Prompto doesn’t step back, but he also doesn’t hand over the clothing, choosing to drape it over his left arm so Scientia can’t judge its weight. “I can manage on my own.”

Scientia merely nods, though he doesn’t move away. He’s a tall man, made taller by the proximity, and Prompto imagines he is well aware of his height. “Then you will not require a valet?”

“No. I trust the Citadel has a competent laundry service?” When Scientia nods again, he says, “Then that will suffice.”

“The housekeeping staff will collect your clothes to launder, as well as tend to your quarters. Would you prefer for them to work while you are here?”

Prompto is surprised by the implication he might actually be allowed out of this suite. Then again, it isn’t as if anyone in the Citadel thought the outcome of his appearance today would be him staying. It’s likely whatever Scientia says now will easily and swiftly be overridden the moment the Lucian king has time to plan. “It doesn’t matter to me, provided I have advance notice of their arrival.”

“Of course,” Scientia murmurs and finally takes a step back. 

Prompto wonders just what the requirements are to become a chamberlain in Lucis. Scientia is well-spoken, poised, and seems entirely unbothered to be alone with him in close quarters. Prompto has yet to catch him staring at his still-healing neck. 

“There is a landline in the kitchenette that will allow you to dial housekeeping, dining, and other departments within the Citadel that you may require during your stay here. The kitchenette is stocked with a few staples, though please let dining know if there’s anything in particular you’d like,” Scientia continues. “All diplomatic guests are assigned an attaché to be their point of contact during their stay. I ask for your patience as we find someone suitable for your status.”

Prompto weighs that careful phrasing regarding all guests and your status, but it doesn’t really matter how true that is. The Lucians aren’t about to let him wander the Citadel as he pleases—not that he’s eager to find out just how many people in this building may be tempted to try to start something with him if he’s by himself—and knowing where at least one spy will definitely be is almost comforting. Prompto wonders how long it will take for them to install surveillance in this suite if they don’t bug all the diplomatic suites as a matter of course.

“Take whatever time is necessary to vet your candidates,” Prompto says, purposefully taking on a dismissive air. “So long as they can do their job with a minimum of hand-holding, I don’t have any particular preferences that need to be catered to. I trust it will take less time to cobble together a security detail?”

Scientia isn’t surprised by the question. “Undoubtedly Shield Amicitia is already making assignments. I will confess to some small surprise that you’ve ventured here all on your own.”

It isn’t as if Prompto had any choice, but that doesn’t mean he should let anyone know that. “As I said to your king, it’s an easy thing if Lucians have honor.” Prompto pauses a moment, then adds, “And if His Majesty has the strength to enforce his will.” 

Scientia doesn’t rise to the new bait any more than he had the old, but he does sound unnervingly sincere when he says, “It is in His Majesty’s best interests to ensure your safekeeping.”

Prompto has no trouble tacking on a mental for now at the end of that sentence. But there is very little he can do to influence that at the moment, so he just inclines his head to acknowledge the point.

There is barely a moment of silence before Scientia smoothly transitions onto the next topic. “While you get acquainted with your lodgings, shall I have a meal brought up?”

Prompto’s anxiety hasn’t settled enough for him to actually feel hunger yet, but he could do with some breathing room. “Yes, something light. And once the security detail is here, you may go. I intend only to stay up long enough to see to my things.” Whenever Lucis’s security has finished going over them with a fine-toothed comb. 

“My apologies if I have kept you up,” Scientia says. “Did you fly through the night?”

He waves the apology away and decides there’s little harm in answering. “We stopped briefly in Cleigne to refuel and pick up another pilot, so I was able to get some rest.” Not sleep, though. There was too much fear for that, and the rattling of the airship would have kept him up anyway, even if it weren’t for the nagging pain. “A proper bed is preferable.”

Scientia looks politely curious. “You’re a pilot?”

“Occasionally,” Prompto says, and he turns toward the wardrobe. “The food, if you will. I don’t particularly care what it is right now.”

Scientia doesn’t protest the dismissal. “Yes, Your Imperial Highness. I’ll call dining,” is all he says before he slips out of the bedroom and shuts the door behind him.

Normally, the sound of a door closing would bring some measure of relief. Prompto refuses to allow himself the luxury of relaxing. This isn’t the same thing as a stolen moment away from surveillance in Gralea; his safety and care are a carefully constructed and mutually agreed upon political fiction.

Prompto opens the wardrobe and hangs up his too-heavy jacket for now. He is briefly tempted by the slippers at the bottom of the wardrobe, but that level of undress will have to wait until he’s relatively certain he will not be interrupted for the rest of the day. Remember my pride, boy.

He takes a few minutes instead to inspect the bedroom more thoroughly, opening and closing drawers, adjusting bits of decor, and admiring the artwork. No obvious surveillance, but detecting that kind of tech isn’t his specialty. He will keep an eye out for any new additions or changes to the room anyway. He knows Lucis will make sure he is surveilled as much as possible, and he suspects they expect him to try to counter it. 

What a new and exciting way to feel exhausted.

Prompto investigates the ensuite next—it’s fine—and takes a few moments to splash water on his face. The bit of cold doesn’t help as much as a shower and sleep would, but it’s better than nothing. It gives his brain a little bit of a kickstart, just enough to edge out the fear and anxiety that have taken all the space up in his chest.

He passed the biggest hurdle. No one is (probably) going to try to kill him in the next few hours. He has a small window of time before he gets an attaché and the dynamic of this moment shifts. What would Lucis expect a prince of Niflheim to do next? And should he try to meet or subvert those expectations?

What does he expect from them? How far can he push until he finds the boundaries of his so far metaphorical prison, and how harshly will they be enforced if he careens into them?

After a few moments of stomach-churning thought, Prompto dries off his hands and heads back into the living area. Scientia is in the kitchenette, polite and watchful—not at all on the verge of cowering like the servants in Gralea frequently are—and inclines his head again when Prompto appears. “Food will be sent up within the next twenty minutes. Would you care for anything to drink in the meantime?”

“An herbal tea, with honey if there is any,” Prompto says. For once he is grateful for the rasp in his throat that masks his hesitation. The honey won’t truly help his throat, but it will take the edge off for a time, and—

“Of course,” Scientia says, and he turns to a cupboard to fetch an electric kettle and begin filling it with water.

—it will be a momentary distraction.

Prompto can move silently when he needs to. He does so, but not towards Scientia. He is at the front door in a matter of heartbeats, and before his courage deserts him, he opens it.

A squadron of four guards are on the other side, a pair framing the door and another pair their mirrors across the hall. All of them are wearing the black uniforms of the Lucian Kingsglaive and looking varying degrees of startled to see him instead of Scientia. To their credit, they school their expressions fairly quickly, and the man who must be their leader steps away from the wall and bows shallowly. “Is there something we can do for you, Your Imperial Highness?”

Prompto glances left, then right, notes the additional squadrons of Kingsglaive at each end of the hall, and is only a tiny bit relieved the guards at the doors have clearly been ordered to be polite for the time being. They are still armed, and visibly. Prompto has heard the rumors that the Kingsglaive are allowed to tap into the Caelum magic and draw their weapons from nothing, so there really is no reason to have swords and daggers and even a pistol at their waists except for the weapons to be seen.

Prompto stays firmly on his side of the threshold. “Food will be arriving shortly,” Prompto says in the best bored-royal voice he has, “and be sure to allow it and my luggage in as soon as it arrives.”

The Kingsglaive bows his assent, and Prompto shuts the door firmly. He barely keeps from startling when he turns and sees Scientia far closer to him than to the kettle on the kitchenette’s counter. 

It seems Scientia can move silently, too, when he wishes. 

Prompto files that bit of information away and sweeps past Scientia to take a seat at the table. Scientia trails behind, falling back into the role of a servant as easily as if neither of them had done something unexpected. Prompto watches Scientia prepare the tea and silently eases his heart out of his throat.

It is only after Scientia sets the tea and a separate jar of honey down in front of him that Prompto decides he is ready to try to speak again. “Until an attaché is assigned, I trust you can relay my—requests to the appropriate parties?”

“Of course, Your Imperial Highness.”

The Kingsglaive didn’t immediately escalate when he opened the door. It’s time to see how far he can push. Prompto steels himself, then says, “I want daily access to a space for physical training. If your security will allow it, a shooting range as well.”

Scientia’s expression doesn’t change, nor does he make any promises. He just listens attentively, and Prompto thinks that blankness might be worse than outright scoffing at the request. He isn’t entirely unarmed in enemy territory, but they didn’t even bother to try smuggling in any of his guns.

“I trust I will also be allowed adequate access to entertainment? Given the abruptness of my arrival, I understand that it may take some time to arrange anything suitable.”

Something flickers across Scientia’s expression, and Prompto wishes he knew this man well enough to interpret it. “I am certain you will be allotted the privileges a prince of Nifhleim deserves.”

Which could be nothing. Prompto does his best to throw that thought aside and finally reaches for his tea.

Scientia lets him add honey and drink about half the cup before he speaks again. Perhaps he’d noticed how hoarse Prompto’s voice was getting. Prompto refuses to feel gratitude for that. “Is there anything else you’d like to request?” Scientia asks.

Prompto considers the question for a moment, but—he’s tired, and he has done enough poking at the boundaries of his confinement for the day. “No. I can handle the food and luggage on my own. You may leave now.”

Scientia hesitates for a moment, and this time Prompto does catch the glance to his throat. But Scientia doesn’t extend an offer of treatment or protest the dismissal. After all, there is a full squad of babysitters outside the suite, and Prompto has no desire to try to challenge that today. He would like food and then he’d like to sleep, if his brain will let them. In the first week or so after a transfer, it’s always harder for his mind to settle. 

Before the moment can become awkward, Scientia tells him he can ask the Kingsglaive outside his suite for anything urgent, bows respectfully, and retreats from the suite. 

Prompto breathes in the silence after the door clicks shut. He allows himself a small moment of weakness, letting go of some of the tension in his shoulders, both hands curling around the warmth of the cup of tea. He can’t let down his guard, he isn’t safe, but it is—better, to be the only person physically in this space. To pretend that no one is watching him at all, even though that hasn’t been true since the Archivist was introduced.

Chapter Text

“Tell us about the prince,” Weskham says. 

Ignis adjusts to sit up straighter and folds his hands together on top of the table.  “Prince Prompto seems unsurprised by the accommodations and finds them acceptable.” Ignis speaks plainly. “He had no requests that were out of line or questionable. He is guarded, even in his suite. He asked for a bedroom without windows. And requires no valet.” 

“Even though he didn’t have one traveling with him?” Weskham asks. 

“No one?” His dad isn’t the only one surprised. Noctis had only seen the soldiers who had brought in the prince, but had assumed the rest of his retinue were waiting at the ship. “Is anyone else expected to arrive soon, then?” 

Ignis shakes his head. “It does not appear so. At least he gave me no indication he would be expecting anyone else.” 

Weskham acts as though a complicated formula is in front of him that he can’t quite understand. “And yet he still doesn’t want any assistance from our staff…” 

Noctis has to admit it’s interesting how his dad and Weskham are reacting to this situation, while the rest of them seem to be accepting it. 

“Can’t blame him,” Gladio mutters, clearly stating what Noctis is considering in his mind. “Why would he want more Lucian eyes on him than necessary?” 

“Even so, it’s still odd for a prince to not have nor require such a thing.” 

Regis waves a hand gently towards Weskham. “We can respect the prince’s request, but he will still require someone as a liaison, even if not as a valet. Cor, Clarus, I trust you can find someone suitable.” 

Clarus and Cor both nod as they share a glance. 

“I have informed Prince Prompto of that requirement as well,” Ignis adds. 

“Excellent.” Regis seems pleased enough with this decision, and gestures towards Ignis to continue. 

Everyone turns back to Ignis. It’s as if he's telling a ghost story around a campfire, except instead of teenagers it’s grown men listening about a stranger in their home. 

“I can also confirm,” Ignis continues, “that the injury around his throat is…very real. I couldn’t see any evidence he is trying to imitate such an injury.”

“Yes, I assumed as much.” 

“Could still be an act,” Cor chimes in towards Regis, who shakes his head. 

"Prince Prompto is our leverage for this war, and he knows it. No matter what, we have to keep him safe, along with everyone here.” Regis turns towards Ignis. “Please ensure that someone looks at his injury to see if it needs anything more to heal."

Ignis nods. “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

The conversation continues, but Noctis can’t help letting his thoughts get stuck on that wound the prince shows so openly. 

Noctis finds himself glad no one balks at his dad’s request; he can't help the small twinge of guilt bubbling up in his chest. He of course has had nothing to do with any directives targeting Prince Prompto, let alone any knowledge of assassination attempts ordered by his dad or advisors. It isn’t even safe to assume that the injury was due to an attempt by Lucis. Niflheim is the enemy of everyone, and friend to none.  

And most are aware that the entire royal family is kept under tight security in their fortress. Which makes the trauma around Prince Prompto’s throat even more intriguing and terrifying. It means someone got close to him, and that someone had betrayed Niflheim. Whether they themselves made the attempt on his life or allowed someone else to do it, it doesn’t matter. 

Noctis has to be careful outside the safety of Insomnia. That’s understandable. But within The Wall he knows he's safe. He’s never faced an attempt on his life. He doesn’t even know if there’s ever been any. 

And still Prince Prompto walked into the throne room today with his head held high and the wound visible. Sure, it’s possible Lucis had nothing to do with it. It’s also possible they did. 

Noctis isn’t sure he could do what the prince has done, were their positions swapped. He honestly isn't sure how he would hold up. Noctis would like to think he’s strong enough, that he’s trained enough, that his Crownguard would always have his back. But what kind of training does Prince Prompto go through to survive something like this? Did he fight back against his attacker, or did someone manage to show up in time to save him? 

Something, he isn't sure what, pulls his attention from his thoughts and back to the conversation in the room. 

"He doesn't seem to want much, not for now at least. Minimal needs from staff, and very aware of the guards we have stationed outside his suite. However—”

For some reason Ignis pauses. He first looks at Noctis, then Cor, before speaking to the king once more. 

“But he would like access to a training room of some sort. I believe we should be able to permit such a thing with the right security measures in place.” 

In unison everyone sits up straighter. 

Clarus especially visibly flares up. “Are you suggesting we allow a political prisoner access to weapons?” 

Regis raises a hand before anyone else can speak. “If he has someone with him at all times, a glaive, that should be acceptable.” 

The way Cor and Clarus fluster at the agreement is comical. They look at each other, shaking their heads and moving closer to the king. “Regis—” Clarus manages to spit out. It takes all Noctis’s effort to not laugh. 

Despite their reactions, Regis smiles like they aren’t talking about the prince of Niflheim. “Don’t worry so much. He can only train by himself, and only use practice weapons. This arrangement could change at any moment.” 

The two argue over each other until Ignis clears his throat, earning a bit of quiet. “That time he is out of the room can be put to good use. We can do a sweep and also get bugs planted.” 

This time Noctis can’t help speaking up. “Wait, you want to spy on him even in his room?” 

When Ignis turns towards Noctis his expression is kind and somber. “He is by all accounts a prisoner here. It would be in everyone’s best interest that we know everything going on with him at all times.” 

“Precisely, Ignis. I shall entrust you to lead that initiative.” 

Noctis doesn’t push further. He understands, but it also feels harsh. Prince Prompto isn’t necessarily like the emperor just because he’s of the same bloodline. But it would be foolish to think he doesn’t hold the same world views of his empire. It makes more sense of course to assume the worst and plan for that. 

But if the prince is being allowed time in the training grounds, that means he will be somewhere he can be observed. 

From a distance, obviously. Discreetly, of course. 

Noctis may not be able to speak to Prince Prompto, but he’s sure there would be no harm in checking out the skills of the royal family of Niflheim…

The conversation carries on from there, Noctis once more getting lost in his thoughts about this prince from Niflheim. 

The next couple of days go by in a weird rush. The Citadel staff have to sort out what it means not only to have someone new staying there, but also what it means when that person is…well…the prince of Niflheim.

Noctis doesn’t see Prince Prompto, but he hears a few updates from Ignis and Gladio; the prince refuses medical attention, and he makes little to no demands. He has been out to the training grounds but no one has let it slip when or where he goes. But otherwise not much else has been unearthed about him yet. 

There are some unsavory rumors, which Noctis isn’t necessarily surprised by but still get under his skin. Some of the staff are scared at the very idea of having a Nif within their walls. Prince Prompto hasn't given anyone a reason to be afraid, as far as Noctis knows. 

But what the prince represents is a fear laid under the skin of everyone who knows the current plan. There’s concern the military won't leave Cleigne as agreed, among those who know. Each day his dad sits in meetings with the council and on the phone with other leaders. What will happen if Niflheim doesn’t leave is one of the biggest topics according to Ignis. 

By the fourth day Noctis finds himself going a little stir-crazy. He can’t leave the Citadel, which he isn’t used to. With everything else going on, it’s safer to just keep him there, but Noctis misses being able to go wherever he wants within reason. Go out for drinks, or stop by the arcade. He plays games in his room with the others, and he can have whatever he wants delivered to him, but—it’s not the life he’s used to. 

Then he feels stupid for complaining, considering what Prince Prompto is going through. He has friends, and soon Luna and Ravus will be there as well. 

Ignis and Gladio are out on a date and Iris has training with her dad, so Noctis set himself up with pizza and video games. It feels almost normal. But not long into gaming his phone starts buzzing. He glances down. It’s the group chat he has with the Nox Fleuret siblings. 

The best part about these conversations is the assumption that Ravus and Luna are sitting together somewhere texting instead of talking. Very on point for Ravus, who would rather spend his whole life texting instead of talking if he could do it. 

“Hey Noct!” Iris shouts as she enters the apartment. 

“Hey,” he sets the phone down, anticipating some updates on the itinerary for tomorrow. When Iris appears out of the small hallway, she’s grinning. 

“What did you do?” 

“Me? Absolutely nothing,” she sings and skips over to the couch, leaning against it. “But I got a hot tip.” 

Noctis is too distracted for this. “Iris.” 

“Okay, okay, you’re no fun.” She comes around and sits on the couch a few cushions away from him. “I may have gotten a hold of a certain prince’s training schedule.” 

“Oh?” Noctis tries to casually turn to focus his attention more onto her. “And?” 

“He’ll be in the Kingsglaive training grounds. Tomorrow.” She’s still smiling wide.

“That so? 

“Sure is.” 

Noctis returns the smile. “What time?” 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Gladio mutters. 

They're perched up on a viewing deck for the outdoor training area, where Prince Prompto is for his first supervised training session. He’s dressed simply in a black tank and slightly baggy work out pants, but he still wears wide cuffs on both wrists—maybe leather? His hair isn’t styled, but he’s wearing headphones and it pulls some strands away from his forehead. His expression is still schooled and emotionless, at least that Noctis can tell from this distance.  

The prince is at a small table with various options for training. Some weights, bands, and wooden training weapons of various types and sizes. He’s talking with Monica, who was chosen to be his handler, while Cor stands beside her. His hands are not relaxed, one resting on the hilt of his sword. 

After their discussion ends, Cor raises a hand and in a shimmer of crystals, a small pistol appears. He passes it over to Prince Prompto, and while he inspects it Cor also summons a box of bullets and sets them down on the table in front of him. 

“I’m surprised he can have a gun,” Noctis whispers. They’re up high enough he probably doesn’t have to, but it feels like he should. 

“I gather, as it’s an air pistol, that makes it safer,” Ignis says, “along with it being from Cor’s armiger. He can collect it at any time if needed.” 

“Still don’t feel good about this,” Gladio repeats. 

“We’ll be fine, Gladdy.” Iris nudges Gladio gently with an elbow. "You do know you are the shield. You could have kept us from being here."

Gladio just grunts and playfully swats back at her. Noctis knows that them being here means they all do think it’s safe enough. 

"Besides,” Iris sighs and stretches, “it’s not like we’re anywhere near him. Unless he can warp.” She pauses, arms still poised up in the air. “Do you think he can warp?” 

Noctis rolls his eyes jokingly. "He can’t warp. That's an us thing."

"What if they learned?" 

Gladio pokes her arm. "You know that isn't how it works." 

“You never know, they could have developed some kind of secret weapon.” 

While the Amicitias bicker back and forth, Noctis watches the prince. Monica and Cor are now away from the prince with their backs against the wall but very clearly focused on him. 

Prince Prompto stands with his pistol aimed at a target dummy set across the room. He fires the first shot. It hits the dummy in the head. There’s no shift in the prince’s expression to show if he is pleased or not with the result. He simply pauses long enough to aim again before shooting. 

And gets headshots every time. Prince Prompto holds himself like a soldier, not a prince. Eyes focused on the target even as he reloads the pistol. His movements are almost robotic; they come from him so naturally Noctis can't look away. Guns aren't really part of their armory. Not his Crownsguard at least. The need for one hasn’t come up. 

Noctis assumes they’re the same in some way; princes who have to also learn to protect themselves. They don’t have the luxury of having no self-defense skills. But Noctis has others beside him, and his fighting style reflects each of the abilities of his guard. It’s not about being a soldier, it’s about protecting each other. 

Another shot rings out in the training area, snapping Noctis out of his thoughts. The others have resumed watching as well, quiet and observant. 

Prince Prompto continues on. He acts as if Monica and Cor aren’t there, as if he isn’t being held hostage in enemy territory. As if there isn't a war surrounding them. As if there isn’t decades and decades of hatred towards him running through these halls. 

One shot after another hits the target square in the forehead.

“I don't think it's warping we have to worry about.” Noctis sits back.  They all go quiet as the prince takes aim again. And continues to make headshots. 

Warping away from bullets is tricky. And usually impossible. 

"Shit, he’s good." Iris shakes her head. “No way he can mimic this in battle. You think he’s showing off?

Ignis hums a little as Prince Prompto takes another perfect shot. “More like, he's trying to seem like a threat.” 

“Or that…I mean, he knows people will report on his activities. And uh, we’ve tried to take him out, and he’s still alive, clearly.” 

Iris groans and sits back, head tilted so she looks up at the ceiling. "Monica and Cor aren’t going to let us anywhere near him."

"As if there was ever a chance before this," Noctis mumbles. Not that he wants to hang out with Prince Prompto, far from that. He is very aware of their positions in the world. Noctis doesn’t want to think about all the ways a meeting with the prince could go wrong. He doesn’t know what they would even talk about. But he can’t help it.

While Noctis knows deep down they are both right, it still sounds harsh. He can’t quite place why he has conflicting thoughts around this. 

Prince Prompto is a hostage. He is an enemy. He could absolutely also be collecting intel for Niflheim. Does that warrant having surveillance installed in the prince’s suite? 

The chat shows Ravus and Luna are both typing, which is usually a bad sign. 

Ravus stops typing. Noctis relaxes a little. 

Before answering, Noctis checks back in on him. Prince Prompto has stopped shooting and stands by the other wall drinking from his water bottle. He doesn’t have the gun on him, which means Cor took it while he wasn't using it. Prompto uses a white towel to dry off his face, and then sits on the ground. In his training clothes his form is visible; he’s fit, definitely. And with his hair pulled back out of his face his red cheeks are more obvious.  

He ignores the way his cheeks warm at the suggestion. 

“He’s also a pilot, apparently.” Ignis interjects into his thoughts. The others whip around to Ignis, save for Noctis, who keeps watching the prince.  

“He said that?” Iris asks. 

“He mentioned it, but didn’t elaborate.” 

“Like recreationally or—?”

“I’m not sure, not yet. He did fly himself here in a dropship, though. Certainly something to be aware of.” 

“Means he could have more surprises up his sleeve,” Gladio adds. 

Iris holds up a hand and counts. “So he can shoot and he can fly. He probably also has some basic combat skills. Especially since he has evaded multiple attacks on his life.” 

“He’s a prince of Niflheim, Iris. Remember that. We should always be on guard around him, and never alone.”

Noctis returns to the chat on his phone. 

Noctis isn't sure he could make light of being run out of Insomnia by a military empire, but Luna is always doing so. Ravus not so much, but he doesn’t make a deal out of it when Luna does, which always surprises him.

“Are you talking to the Fleurets?” Gladio asks.

There’s some teenage desire suddenly to hide his phone behind his back. “…yeah.” 

Ignis speaks up just as Gladio looks like he’s about to say something teasing, so he appreciates the interruption. “Please send them my regards. And ask if they have anything they want when they arrive.”

“Sure.”

“You’re talking to…both of them?” Gladio gets his jab in anyways.

Noctis rolls his eyes and pushes himself forward to focus on the grounds below. Ravus has always been blissfully ignorant of Noctis’s teenage crush on him. Noctis made the unfortunate mistake of telling Gladio and Ignis. In his defense, it had been out of curiosity more than anything. Gladio and Ignis have been together since high school. While Noctis didn't date, he did have persons of interest. Not many, but a few. 

Though Ravus was the first guy, and the brother of his first crush, because sometimes the universe is dumb like that. But that was really why he had talked to them, because well. Being a prince and realizing you’re also into the same sex is…not conducive necessarily to things like the royal bloodline. Which is a thing Noctis hates to think about. His dad married out of love, and so did Gladio's. There’s room for that for him, Noctis thinks. 

He hates how suddenly his mind is clamming up thinking about this again. His crush on Ravus was long ago and more hero worship than anything else. Noctis hadn’t fallen for another guy since then. Attracted to? Sure, he’s not blind. But dated? Actively? 

Iris sneezes, suddenly and loud. Noctis lets out a loud yelp, taken off guard completely, before checking below. They all freeze. 

Cor, Monica, and Prince Prompto are looking up in their direction. Cor’s expression immediately sours. Monica speaks into her earpiece. 

Noctis ends up being the one Prince Prompto hones in on. They make eye contact, and Noctis can’t move. Not because he’s scared. He just doesn't want to show weakness. Prompto’s expression reveals nothing. 

“Oy!” Cor shouts, and Noctis is the one who has to pull away first as they all scramble to the exit.

Chapter Text

As far as minders go, Prompto could definitely have done worse than Monica Elshett. He has had worse in Gralea. Elshett is a woman in her mid to late thirties and an officer within the Crownsguard who commands respect from soldiers in an entirely different branch of Lucis’s military. She never escorts him anywhere without a team, so it is unlikely she is a soldier as Scientia clearly is. 

Still, there is a shrewdness about her eyes that has Prompto mentally slotting her into the Spy category rather than Bureaucrat after a few hours in her presence. An intelligence officer of some sort at least, even if she wasn’t out in the field, because there’s no way Lucis would waste someone as talented at fading into the background as her. Elshett appears pleasantly forgettable, and it is always an unpleasant shock when he realizes he’s lost track of her. He doesn’t know if she’s caught on yet to when that happens, but she’ll likely figure it out by the time the treaty negotiations start. 

She can’t be the only method of spying on him in any case—an extra long and solicitous tour of the Citadel on his second day was almost certainly when surveillance was added to his suite—and didn’t blink at his request for a well-stocked medical kit. 

No one pushed when he declined the attention of a doctor. The doctors in Gralea had taken extensive notes on his injury and proclaimed him safe enough to finish healing without additional medical intervention, and Prompto can’t let anyone in Insomnia start creating a medical file for him. He has to handle as much of it as he can on his own.

The kit Monica delivers to his suite is an interesting mix of trivial items meant for ordinary civilian injuries and illnesses and something that wouldn’t be out of place on a battlefield. Prompto carefully examines each item inside. The mundane items—low doses of pain reliever and fever reducer, bandages and ointment meant for minor cuts and scrapes—he files away in a bathroom drawer. The rest he places in as close to his preferred configuration as he can on top of the dresser in his bedroom for easy access. 

Once he’s satisfied with the arrangement, Prompto goes back to the bathroom and takes the stitch scissors, tweezers, and some alcohol wipes. He wraps a towel around his shoulders, just in case, and sits on the edge of the bathtub to wipe down the tools and carefully cut and remove the four stitches that have been hidden in his hair at the base of the skull. It’s a familiar exercise, almost bitterly nostalgic, and when he’s done, Prompto runs his fingertips along the new-old scar before tossing the stitches and used wipes in the bathroom trash.

He doesn’t bother to hide them—undoubtedly the bathroom is bugged as well—and they’re gone the next day when the housekeeping services sweep through the suite. No one tries to offer medical aid again, either.

Prompto turns his hand palm up when the clip is empty, as agreed, and the air pistol vanishes from his grip in a shattering of crystal. His fingers twitch, but he refuses to flex his hand in a vain attempt to grasp the abrupt emptiness. Up close, the magic of the Lucian Crystal is—disquieting. He reminds himself of the knives hidden at his back and calves. Those, at least, Lucis will have to take from him by force or threat of it.

(They went through his luggage carefully. The suite is bugged. They have to know by now he has the knives as a first and last defense, though they seem content to let him keep them for now.)

The vanishing weapon is a different sort of unnatural than he’s used to seeing, and Prompto is keenly aware of the fact that he has no real way of knowing how many of the seemingly unarmed people in the Citadel could suddenly materialize a weapon. Leonis can do it—has very fine control of it, in Prompto’s estimation, able to yank it away into nothingness from half a room away. Elshett seems like she can’t because otherwise why bother summoning the Lucian Marshal for this kind of duty, but that could be a ploy, another decision made in the hopes of getting Prompto to let down his guard around her.

Prompto pulls off his headphones and heads for the opposite side of the room to take a break. He grabs a water bottle and takes long, slow drinks from it before setting it aside and toweling off his face and neck. He is trying to stick to his Gralea schedule as best he can in Insomnia, but having a predictable schedule here somehow feels even more dangerous than it did back in Niflheim. Not that it matters, really, given the levels of surveillance in both locations, but his head and his gut don’t always agree on the amount of danger he’s in.

He starts his day with a light breakfast in his suite, followed by target practice and a rotation of cardio and strength training. While Elshett and Leonis are the only ones directly with him during his training (and Leonis the only there when Prompto is handling an air pistol), Prompto knows he has observers often. After exercising, he always returns to his suite to shower and to have lunch, and then he lets Elshett direct him to whatever sightseeing or cultural exchange attraction or other fabricated event will get him out of his suite and into another part of the Citadel so that Crownsguard intelligence can toss it and everyone can pretend he’s not actually a political prisoner.

His evenings are solitary by preference as there are no court events for him to attend. Elshett ensures his food arrives, and then he dismisses her so he can spend the rest of the evening with a volume of classic Lucian literature from the office and pick through the nightly news broadcasts to finish off his day. 

(It had been something of a surprise to realize that there was more than one station allowed to deliver the news and that they frequently covered different events or the same event from different angles. Even criticism of the king and his policies. 

And that, in spite of this remarkable freedom for the press, he found absolutely no mention of his continued presence within the Citadel. The lack of acknowledgment of his presence is—unsettling, even if he has done his part by dressing as nondescript as possible whenever he is outside his suite.) 

With today’s target practice finished, Prompto settles onto the floor to stretch his hands and forearms. To settle himself before he heads to the next stage of his daily training. Today is day five, and he hasn’t heard anything yet about the ceasefire being broken or Niflheim retreating from Cleigne. It isn’t as if he expects Lucis to actively pass on information to him—he is well-acquainted with only having as much information as someone else determines he should—but he’d thought by now he’d hear a whisper of something.

There’s a sneeze up above, and Prompto looks up sharply. A small crowd has gathered, overlooking the railing. Not unusual, though the previous ones had at least tried not to draw attention to themselves. But Prompto feels his expression freeze when he recognizes Noctis Lucis Caelum, Crown Prince of Lucis. Scientia is next to him, as are the two Amicitia who round out his retinue. 

They’re too far away for any subtlety in expression, but Prompto has the impression that the prince, at least, had not meant to draw his attention. He hasn’t seen the prince since the throne room, had no desire for it really, though it seems like the reverse isn’t true. What was the prince hoping to get out of watching him shoot stationary targets? There’s nothing particularly interesting about that.

Leonis shouts, and it shatters the frozen moment. To Prompto’s surprise, the prince and his retinue scramble away, like a startled flock of songbirds.

He realizes, after a moment, that it means they weren’t supposed to be here, that they’d likely been forbidden from being here, and had been caught. He doesn’t know what to make of that, and Prompto turns his focus back to his stretches as if nothing had happened. Elshett is calm, like the surface of deep water. Leonis, on the sideline still, is a thundercloud.

The pistol would have enough accuracy to hit at that range, Prompto’s certain, so that’s probably reason enough for Leonis to be angry. Though it does imply that Leonis isn’t willing to bet the safety of his crown prince on his own speed with magic against Prompto shifting aim to the gallery above.

That’s—either a sensible precaution or something more unnerving. 

Prompto keeps his expression relaxed as he laces his fingers together and pushes his palms out in front of him, chest level, and carefully pokes around the edges of that unsettled feeling. Could Prompto be fast enough to turn the air pistol against Leonis, if he had to?

Part of that would depend on how far away Leonis was at the time. Even in Gralea, Prompto has heard about Cor Leonis and his famed sword. If he were within striking range of that, Leonis would cut him down, even if Prompto managed to get off a shot, much less a potentially lethal shot with airgun pellets instead of proper bullets. But if Leonis were on the sidelines where he normally stands while Prompto was shooting targets—?

Can Leonis warp like some members of the Kingsglaive can? Can he use that elemental magic that has torn through Niflheim’s army repeatedly?

Leonis can make a gun disappear from Prompto’s grasp. Can he do the same with a projectile already in the air? If he can, could he then make it reappear with the same speed but on a different trajectory?

Prompto doesn’t know enough about the Crystal’s magic to be able to make any guesses, but he thinks he will only ever have one chance at Leonis, should he feel forced to take it.

The invitation is delivered with his lunch. It is a simple thing, as royal invitations go: a single sheet of off-white parchment, folded into thirds and closed with a black wax seal. The seal features a highly decorative skull in profile, carefully pressed so as not to lose any of the finer details. Prompto allows Elshett to unload the food cart and set the covered dishes on the dining table while he breaks the seal:

Prince Prompto of Niflheim,

His Majesty Regis Lucis Caelum invites you to privately dine with him. Your presence is requested tomorrow evening at 1900. Attire is semi-formal. 

Please relay your acceptance or rejection to Colonel Elshett by tomorrow morning. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to ask. 

Cordially,

Tullus Scientia

King’s Chamberlain

No matter how politely worded it is, no matter the gentle fiction of your acceptance or rejection, Prompto can recognize a summons. 

He takes a breath, folds the sheet of paper back up, and sets it precisely at the edge of the table. There’s no point in reading it again or thinking about his response. Neither hesitation nor contemplation can change the only right answer. 

“Relay to His Majesty that I accept his invitation to dinner tomorrow,” he tells Elshett.

The invitation said semi-formal, so Prompto does not wear a cape that goes with his dress uniform, and he buttons up the collar carefully. He doesn’t want to provoke a reaction in a private setting, not without Chancellor Inzunia’s prompting, and besides, his neck has healed enough that the sight of it won’t leave much of an impact, no matter the close quarters. The hoarseness of his voice still lingers and will be more pronounced at the end of the day anyway.

He leaves every one of his weapons behind in the suite. The Lucians haven’t tried to take any of his weapons yet, and there’s no reason to offer what few protections he has up for confiscation. And even if they do sneak into his suite and take them while he is at dinner with the king, Prompto will at least know that the mood in the Citadel has changed.

Once Prompto is satisfied with his appearance, he exits his suite. Elshett is waiting for him politely, along with a fresh team of Kingsglaive, to escort him to dinner. She doesn’t attempt to offer him any advice on dealing with her king or point out any historical tidbits about the Citadel, like she has on their other outings. She leads, and Prompto follows to the elevator and up several floors, eventually stepping out into areas that are clearly meant to be private as opposed to empty. 

He knows they’re in the right place when he sees a pair of Kingsglaive flanking an ornate wooden door. Elshett acknowledges them with a brief nod, and then to Prompto’s surprise, one of the Kingsglaive opens the door.

They didn’t even try to pat him down for weapons. It’s something of an unnerving realization, even though Prompto had deliberately left his behind. Letting him be in close quarters with the king without checking if he is armed is something entirely different from allowing him closely supervised access to an air pistol he doesn’t even have full control over. 

It can’t be a demonstration of trust; Prompto hasn’t done anything to earn that. It is more likely a demonstration of power, a deliberately calculated display of contempt for the kind of damage Prompto could do even if he were armed. The emperor, after all, expected Prompto to be armed at all times and knew Prompto would never touch the weapons in his presence without an order.

Prompto follows Elshett into the room. It is a formal dining room, based on the decor and elegance of the furniture, but it is smaller than he expected. The table is designed to seat a dozen people, based on the number of chairs, but based on the number of places set, only two will be dining tonight. 

King Regis sits at the head of the table, wearing a less formal robe than the one Prompto last saw him in and missing the silver branching Lucian half-crown. His cane is tipped against the table, carefully balanced and within easy reach. Shield Amicitia lurks behind him and to the side, keeping careful watch over the entire room. He is, Prompto notes, not on the same side as the king’s cane, clearly angled to step in between Regis and the doors should it become necessary for the king to grab his cane quickly. Leonis is present as well, close enough to the door that he will easily be able to cut off that escape route. 

The only people in the room are two uniformed members of the dining staff, standing next to a large dining cart filled with covered dishes and trays, clearly present to serve. Prompto wonders if the women are merely staff or are serving as a final security measure, beyond the Shield of the King and Marshal of the Crownsguard.

“We welcome you, Prince Prompto of Nifhleim,” King Regis says solemnly. It’s far from warm, actually, but it is civil. Not imposing like he’d been in the throne room, but still a voice that commands attention in such a small space. “Please, be seated.”

Behind him, Elshett murmurs a Your Majesty and slips out of the room, closing the door shut behind her.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Prompto says, equally polite and only a little hoarse. His place setting is at the foot of the table, directly across and as far away from Regis as is possible. He walks to the table, pulls out the high-backed chair, and settles into it with all the etiquette training he can muster. “It is an honor to dine with you, Your Majesty.”

The dining staff begin carrying dishes to the table, settling them in front of the Prompto and Regis and taking away the coverings. They each are getting their own portions—no chance to share anything from the same dish. He turns that over in his mind and tries not to calculate the odds of the king having someone tamper with his food during this meal. Enough to make him uncomfortable, but not enough to make it seem anything other than a bout of food poisoning.

Well. It wouldn’t be the worst thing the Lucians have done to him. To be practical, if they wanted him to suffer before now, there was no need to have him dine with the king to get to him. Unless Regis wants to watch, like Aldercapt sometimes did. Prompto has been taking his meals alone in his suite so far and already established he wouldn’t request medical attention.

“How has your stay been so far?” Regis asks.

Prompto knows this song-and-dance well enough that he doesn’t really have to think about his answers. They make polite, bloodless smalltalk through the appetizers (a selection of flat breads with various toppings) and into the main course (a delicate, citrus-flavored fish and a side of vegetables he’s unfamiliar with) about the Citadel, its history, and its attractions. He feigns interest in some of them and wonders if Elshett will be instructed to show him those in the upcoming days. He offers appropriate, detached praise for Elshett’s work as his point of contact.

Prompto drinks the aperitif that accompanied the appetizers and allows the dining staff to pour him a glass of white wine to accompany the main portion of the meal, but he only sips at that. He has no desire to get anywhere close to tipsy, and based on the place settings, there’s still a dessert course to go with yet another glass of wine. Three courses isn’t necessarily an insult in a one-on-one dining situation in Niflheim; Prompto chooses to decide it isn’t in Lucis, either. He compliments the food and asks about its regional origins, and the king gives unhurried, steady replies as if he actually knows about the provenance of each dish and drink. Aldercapt would not have cared enough to know, and Prompto can’t see why this king would. 

As the dining staff sweeps away the settings of the main course, the king’s voice—changes. It doesn’t become threatening, but the edges of his words are more defined. It still shoots ice through Prompto’s blood. “We have yet to see any signs of Niflheim retreating from Cleigne despite how few hours are left until the negotiated deadline,” Regis says. “We are curious as to whether or not you may have any insight into your army’s course of action for a withdrawal.”

So that’s what this meal is meant to be—a warning. Not an attempt to glean any diplomatic insight regarding Niflheim and what they might want in the upcoming treaty negotiations. A notice that it doesn’t look as if Niflheim will be upholding their end of the bargain. A threat. 

Why haven’t they started to withdraw yet? He was only given as much information as they decided he needed to know, but—Aldercapt said the ceasefire and treaty were to happen and was willing to risk Prompto dying in Insomnia to achieve it. He has no way to know if the plan has changed. On the few occasions he was out of Gralea overnight under Aldercapt’s orders, he at least had access to the internet and could go to the Gralea Sentinel to search for coded information.

Then again, King Regis was the one who proposed a withdrawal in the first place, and that wasn’t originally part of the plan. Was this one of the few times Aldercapt and Izunia disagreed? Had Aldercapt been offended by Izunia’s actions or how quickly Prompto followed along with them?

But if Prompto dies in Insomnia—Aldercapt wouldn’t risk that, right? Not now. Fear twists unpleasantly in his gut, morphing into nausea. 

Aldercapt might. If Besithia had finally achieved one of his long-promised breakthroughs—

There really is only one option for Lucis to take if Nifhleim doesn’t withdraw in time.

Prompto sets down his knife and fork carefully, positioning them across the plate to signal that he is finished eating this dish. The members of the dining staff are still lurking at the edge of the room, waiting to swap the main course for dessert, which means that they’re definitely the final security measure. Prompto wonders if they’re Crownsguard with a crash course in service training or if Lucis has a division of internal-focused spies like Niflheim does. 

“I’m afraid that the late prince was the one who inherited His Imperial Majesty’s talent in warfare,” Prompto says evenly. “I can provide you with conjecture, if you insist, but I doubt it will be any more accurate than what your own generals can provide.”

King Regis considers him across the table and the last bit of the main course he is working through. The man has better control over his expressions than Aldercapt does, or maybe it’s just that he’s still too much a stranger for Prompto to catch the subtleties in it. “Is that so? We find that remarkable given the skill you’ve demonstrated while in the Citadel.”

Well, that answered the question as to just how much of his movements were being relayed to the king. “My own small talent for marksmanship has not translated into leadership skills. It is true that I have more talent for warfare than Her Highness Solara, but she is still a child. His Imperial Majesty has yet to provide me with a command of my own to hone any of those skills.”

It would be pointless to have Prompto train on anything beyond skills he’d need to prolong his immediate survival, anyway.

“We confess that we have been puzzled by the lack of appointment for a son of the empire,” Regis says, and Prompto can hear the question underneath the statement.

Do try to convince the Lucians we care about your continued well-being and general happiness, the chancellor’s voice whispers in his ear.

“The same could be said for your own son, Your Majesty,” Prompto says mildly. “We are of the same age. Why do you keep him from the front?”

Regis sets his utensils down and finishes the last of the wine in his glass. “We do not have a second child and so cannot risk the first.”

It’s a cold but accurate statement. And while Prompto is almost certain the Lucian prince has endured fewer assassination attempts than Prompto has, he’s clearly survived all of them. If Regis wished to ensure the line of succession, he’s had over twenty years to find himself a new queen, and he hasn’t yet. Perhaps he and his former queen had actually loved each other.

“His Imperial Majesty has already lost a son to war,” Prompto says, and it is not an accusation. He can still feel Leonis’s eyes burning at his back. He tries not to think of the garrotte cinching around his neck and delivers his very best lie. “Perhaps he does not wish to lose another.”

The space to practice warping isn’t the same Noctis typically trains in; it’s a large open space with various rock formations and columns spread throughout. From where he stands, Noctis can catch glimpses of Kingsglaive practicing their warps well. He isn’t sure who is who; they move too fast or have head coverings on that hide their faces. 

Behind Noctis, someone retches. 

“Gladdy, it’s all right!” Iris calls from her vantage point at the top of a column. When Noctis looks over his shoulder, Ignis is rubbing Gladio’s back as he gets sick into one of the buckets on hand. Because, well, this isn’t abnormal. What’s more abnormal is how Iris is actually a fucking mastermind at it. 

She never once got sick, as far as Noctis knows. Or she hid it well, but really there wasn’t a point—warping is one of the most complicated and difficult skills to learn once connected to the magic of the Kings and the Crystal. Even Noctis had a bit of a rough go when he started training at sixteen. There’s no shame in things being rocky at the start. It’s almost like a coming of age thing. 

When Gladio is upright once more, Ignis guides him to a bench nearby. “Sit this one out,” Ignis says as he rubs Gladio’s shoulders and gives him a small, and quick, kiss on his forehead. They don’t usually show any affection when training, but Ignis dotes on Gladio out of habit when he’s at all unwell. 

Gladio chugs water like he’s dying. Then rests his arms on his thighs and focuses on the ground. 

“Do the counting thing,” Noctis offers. 

Gladio huffs. “It’s not that bad. Ignis just enjoys this a little too much.” 

Noctis makes a face. “Hey, whatever you guys do on your own is between you and Bahamut.” 

Gladio snaps his head up. “You—” 

“Ha!” Noctis throws the Engine Blade up, warping away before Gladio can put hands on him. He hangs up high and waves down at the group. 

“Fuck,” he hears Gladio say before Gladio retches some more. 

“Noct,” Ignis chides before sitting next to Gladio. Noctis grins, and then warps down to the ground and lets his sword vanish into the armiger. When Ignis gives him another stern look, he raises both hands up.

Iris appears at Noctis’s side. “Why are you pushing yourself so hard today, Gladdy?” 

Gladio clears his throat and takes a long drink of water from a bottle Ignis hands him. “In case you haven’t noticed, things aren’t exactly calm right now.” 

A few years ago, Iris would have taken the comment as some sort of insult on her own ability as a shield. But not now. Her maturity in these kinds of interactions is commendable. But she is still younger than them all, and still has her moments. But not when things are serious.

“It’s going to get better though.” She is solemn when she sits on Gladio's other side. 

“We don’t know that for sure.” Noctis toys with the ends of his hair before summoning his sword to distract his idle hands. “The Nifs still haven’t left Cleigne.” 

“You think they’ll go back on their word?” 

Ignis settles one hand on Gladio’s shoulder. “It’s hard to say what they will do with the prince here.” 

“It’s hard to be optimistic, given the circumstances.” Gladio places his hand on Ignis’s and squeezes.

“We’ll be all right.” Noctis nudges Iris’s foot with his. “No harm in practicing. It’s what we always do anyways.” 

“Hmm,” Iris hums, and turns her attention to Noctis. “Wanna go?” 

“Hell yeah.” 

She hops up and towards the training ring. Iris puts her arms up in a defensive stance, and Noctis lifts his sword out to the side. Iris is wearing her brass knuckles—her current favorite weapon. But she can’t use them to warp, since she can’t exactly throw them and then pull them back in time to do any damage. So she’s been practicing having her knuckles on and using a kukris as her anchor point like some Kingsglaive do. 

She charges Noctis, and he warp dodges just as she swings a punch at him. He throws his blade up and warps to the very top of the nearest column and flips to land on top of it. He peeks over the edge to wave to Iris.  

With a wide grin, Iris pulls the kukris from her belt and throws it. She vanishes, and when she reappears, she’s still a bit too low to reach Noctis. He hops back as she manages to throw the dagger one more time to fly up and then land behind Noctis. He spins and immediately blocks a punch with the flat of his sword. 

“Dammit,” she steps back. “I thought I’d get you that time.” 

“You’ll get there. You just need to time your throws so I don’t see you do that second warp.”

She makes a show of blowing air. “Can you show me how again?” 

“Sure, stay here.” Noctis tosses his blade nonchalantly and reappears on the floor. Iris peers down at him as he takes aim up over her head. 

“Marshal,” Gladio announces, bringing training to a halt. Iris warps back down and all weapons are gone by the time Cor reaches them. The expression on his face is as indecipherable as always. 

They all get to their feet. All but Noctis salute. Cor faces him and bows his head. 

“Marshal,” he addresses Cor, so Cor will stand upright. It still feels weird how Cor defers to Noctis, but it’s been this way ever since he came of age and it still just feels—out of sorts. Especially since the others don’t get that pass. 

“We’re gathering with the king right now.” 

Noctis catches how Cor sweeps his focus around their training space. He can still hear glaives whipping around in the distance, so this isn’t something all training is stopping for, and they aren’t needing to clear the whole space. 

“Did something happen?” 

“Let’s move,” is the only response Cor gives. 

The non-answer means something is happening. But what, exactly, Noctis can’t be sure. He can only hope the Nifleheim army is on the move, that they are holding true to their word, and they’ve passed another milestone to ending this damn war. 

They go straight to the meeting hall from the training grounds. Another detail that proves something related to the war has changed. Under normal circumstances they would never all pile into a room with his dad and the council while sweaty from their training. Noctis finds himself feeling uncomfortably aware of his current state seated across from those dressed for meetings with the king. It’s also surreal to see Ignis in his training attire and not in his usual Crownsguard uniform. Under better circumstances, Noctis would poke some fun at him about it. 

Noctis has half a mind to do so anyway. The tension in the room is at a high and Ignis sucks in all that anxiety and vibrates with it. He’s always so keyed in to what’s going on around them, observing and ensuring they always have escape plans, evasive plans, fighting plans. Gladio and Iris, too. But right now Gladio is focused on his father, who is standing at the back of the room at attention. 

As his Crownsguard, his friends are never truly off duty. Noctis is very aware of this. Until now, though, there had just been a lot of scenario training and emergency protocol reviews. The closest any of them have been in this war is their time in Galahd. 

And, at only a small fraction of the fight, it had been terrifying enough. 

Regis emerges from a hidden door next to where Clarus is, and everyone stands. His dad doesn’t speak right away, but he does lock eyes with Noctis as he makes his way across the room flanked by Clarus. There’s a half beat where Noctis almost panics that the news is about to be catastrophic.

This is ending today. Something has happened. People are hurt. Dead. The prince is loose. He hurt someone. Someone got to him—

“Be seated, please.” Regis takes his place at the far end of the table and looks out over the room. Clarus remains standing beside him, and Cor sits to Regis’s left. 

“We’ve received word from Fort Vaullerey.” It’s Clarus who speaks instead of his dad. “Captain Drautos has reported Niflheim air ships and transport trucks arriving, but none have been seen leaving.” 

“What about Ravatogh?” Larcius speaks up. She’s an older member of the council, but not one of the ones who was openly displeased at the decision to take back Cleigne. Noctis has had a few opportunities to talk to her, and she seems like a decent person who genuinely wants things to be amicable on all sides. 

“Transport trucks have been seen going in, but the imperial blockade is still up,” Clarus replies. 

“Considering they got in the first time—” Hutton starts up, but Larcius elbows him to hush. Maybe he got some words from her on his outburst before.

“Once we have Ravatogh, it will be ours, forevermore,” Regis says, and Noctis feels the weight of those words. Regis shifts his attention to Cor. “Do we have any way of knowing if the royal tomb is secure?” 

“We cannot know for certain until we get in there.” 

The room falls into a murmur of questions. Ifrit being pulled out of the ashes by the empire to take Tenebrae was something no one had ever considered, and hadn’t planned for. But the possibility they have gained one of his ancestor’s weapons is, to some, more terrifying. His father already has his armiger, but Noctis will need his own as well, and without each of the royal weapons, he risks failing at his duty as king in the future.

If they get that far. 

Cor clears his throat. “Our first priority is to verify the army is out of Fort Vaullerey, then Ravatogh, and then all of Cleigne. Once we have confirmed their absence, we will send in more troops to secure the region.” 

“Do you know for certain if they mean to honor the deadline?” 

Coir shakes his head. “We don’t, yet. Drautos and his scouts are watching and waiting for confirmation either way.”  

The expression on his dad’s face is far from hopeful. His eyes look heavy. “There’s not much time left.” 

“No, but we can’t do anything until we know for certain. Otherwise we risk sparking a battle on Lucian soil.” 

“Surely the prince ,” another council member Noctis can’t recall the name of says with a sneer, “gave you some inclination of their plans when you met with him?” 

A few others in the room mutter sentiments of surprise and sit up a little taller. Noctis works to keep his expression unbothered, but he has the same jolt of surprise. He didn’t know his dad met with the prince. He’s sure his dad was safe about it, but something about him being in the same room with a Nif, maybe with just Clarus, worries him. 

They don’t know what the prince is truly capable of. Not everyone, at least. Noctis is sure his dad and his guard know even more than Noctis. 

“He did not,” Clarus says, which means he at least had been there. “But he also, as far as we know, doesn’t have a line of communications outside these walls. We’re tracking his every move and are doing sweeps of his quarters every time he’s out. He isn’t seeing anyone outside of his guard.” 

“And the king?” 

“You question him?” The tone in Clarus’s voice isn’t so much anger but more like a parent disciplining their child. For now. “The king is doing all he can, and—”

Regis waves a hand. Clarus stops and presses his lips together. 

“It’s all right. These times are difficult.” His dad takes a deep breath. “Prince Prompto is perceptive and well trained. These facts are for certain. If we can make a show of trusting him here, it will do us a great service in the future. If Niflheim does as agreed, we have the opportunity to settle relations further with his and the emperor’s cooperation.” 

Noctis frowns. Usually he can keep up with his dad’s turn of phrases and ambiguous promises that help him get out of rough conversations. But he isn’t quite sure what is meant by this one. Ignis and Gladio tense on either side of him, both of them clenching their hands into fists. When Noctis catches Ignis and Gladio leaning back in their seats and looking towards each other in his periphery, it clicks. 

Their relationship isn’t a secret at all. But both are bound by honor to the crown. Noctis knows that. They would sacrifice any and everything for it. For Noctis. 

Even if it meant marrying another. 

It’s not like arranged marriages are never brought up. Hell, there’s always been talk of Luna and Noctis joining forces in Insomnia. Noctis never considered it affecting others . But the sworn shield of the future king is almost as good as the king himself as far as nobility and status in Lucis goes. 

Noctis clenches his jaw. Gladio and Ignis have already shifted their focus back to the conversation. He won’t bring it up, but it's another thing that NIflheim could take away from them. From his friends. There’s an anger building up Noctis has to swallow so he doesn’t reveal his emotions here.  

“However,” Regis continues, “if Niflheim does not hold to their side of this arrangement within the next twenty-four hours, we will be forced to consider the ceasefire…over.”

The room goes still at the implication. Noctis holds his breath. 

Larcius sits up straighter and rests both elbows on the table. “Is that wise? If we anger the emperor without proof of ill intent—”

“If they have not acted on their end of the deal by the decided time, it is our anger the emperor must reckon with.” Regis’s face is unreadable, but Noctis can see a hint of something dark in his dad’s eyes. 

Would they actually—? Prince Prompto isn't the one making the decisions; the emperor is. The prince is just like Noctis. They’re both caught in a web of politics and war, and for Niflheim, it means using their prince as a bargaining chip. Had things gone differently, Noctis could be the political prisoner, trapped under the guise of peace and waiting for the time when his life is deemed unnecessary. Would Noctis have received the same kind of welcome as Prince Prompto did here? It’s so hard, in the brief glimpses Noctis has had, to tell how the prince feels about being here. 

Well, Noctis is sure he isn’t happy . 

But he has a real suite, not a cell. And even had dinner with the king. There aren’t even more than a handful of Insomnians who can say they’ve had that opportunity. 

Noctis pushes that thought aside. He gains nothing from going down that train of thought. That’s not the situation they find themselves in. As Ignis would say, there’s no use in catastrophizing to the point of unrealistic outcomes. Noctis isn’t going to Niflheim. Prince Prompto is here. Their fates, as far as that goes, have been set. 

But if the prince is killed on Lucian soil, nothing will keep the war from coming to Insomnia.

Chapter Text

Prompto deviates from his routine. 

He doesn’t know what the Lucians will make of it, but he knows they noticed it. The grimly realistic voice in his head is a little surprised he wasn’t outright shot for it when he declined Elshett’s invitation yesterday afternoon to traipse about another corner of the Citadel and instead stay in his suite ahead of the dinner.

Will they think the invitation rattled him? It did. Will they think he’s scared after his meeting with the king? He is. Always. Will they think he’s plotting something?

He’s not.

Not really. He’ll put up his best fight when the Lucians come for him, of course, because he owes his cohort that much to not just—accept being murdered. He hasn’t been very good at that, historically. He’ll live for as long as he can if it turns out that Aldercapt has finally lost use for him, for them, and hope that Lucis will keep his murder secret for a good, long while, even if there’s no reason for them to.

Prompto settles in front of the television, turns it on, and picks a channel at random. It doesn’t matter what’s on, what matters is he has a place to orient his body while his focus turns inward.

Tomorrow is the deadline for withdrawal. If Niflheim doesn’t leave Cleigne, then Lucis will either kill him outright or arrest him and then kill him later. He wonders if they will give him the full day, or if they’ll mark it from the time the chancellor and the king came to terms. Prompto has four knives, fifteen floors, and an unknown number of soldiers and security personnel to make it out of the Citadel, and then he will be alone in the center of a hostile city, famed for its physical and mystical walls.

He has to live. For as long as he can.

Cor Leonis deviates from his routine the day of the withdrawal deadline.

He is present for the regular morning session at the shooting range, which Prompto does not alter. He leaves once Prompto is finished, as normal. Near the end of Prompto’s regular strength training session, he asks Elshett if one of the training areas is open, one where he can run circuits through artificial terrain and under the faintly purple sky. If a light meal can be sent up to him there instead of his usual lunch in the suite.

She studies him for a moment as he puts away the last of his weights, and then she steps away to place a call without asking why. 

(They usually come for him in the dark. Prompto would prefer to spend as much of the day in the light as possible.) 

It takes less than a minute for her to finish her conversation, and when she’s done, she has a room for him. And it isn’t until after she’s guided Prompto there and he has run a few circuits that he spots Leonis on the periphery, standing with Elshett, watching him yet again. He must have slipped in when the artificial terrain blocked Prompto’s sight lines. 

Prompto doesn’t know what to make of his presence. Dread starts creeping up his throat anyway.

If something were happening, if Niflheim were moving, wouldn’t that be important enough for the Marshal of the Crownsguard to be somewhere else? Leonis has never stuck around to watch his strength training or him running before, but he’s here now. Because Prompto deviated from his routine and that’s suspicious? Or because the minutes are ticking down to the nearer deadline?

His knives are small, blades barely as long as his palm, strapped to the outside of his calves and at the small of his back, neither his preferred carry style. They’re hidden to a casual observer when he’s wearing his workout gear, but he’s certain that Lucis would have checked this morning to see if he left them in his suite. Leonis likely can tell where they are just by looking at him.

Prompto keeps his pace and breathing steady for the next twenty minutes, even as his heart hammers painfully fast. Fear threatens to choke him every time he loses sight of Leonis. He doesn’t try to spot if Leonis brought additional forces with him; it’s enough that he’s made himself obvious. Leonis isn’t a bureaucrat. If there’s killing to be done, he’ll summon that sword of his and step forward to handle it himself. 

The knives aren’t optimized for throwing, though they can be thrown. Prompto's guns would normally be his long-range weapon, and even the knives aren’t his first choice for close combat. He will have to stay out of the way of the Immortal’s sword and get one of his knives into his dominant hand or arm if Prompto can’t put enough distance between them. Elshett’s fighting capabilities are a complete unknown to him. He will have to get past them both to get to the door.

The dining service eventually drops off a cart with a covered tray and two carafes, one filled with ice water and another with a juice that is surprisingly purple. Prompto runs a few more laps, slows his pace until he’s barely jogging the last one, and then does his best casual walk to the food and drink. Leonis watches him the entire way, and Prompto resists the urge to draw one of his knives to see if it will make Leonis blink. 

Prompto forces his attention away from the man and to the food when Elshett removes the cover on the tray. It’s all finger foods—more of those flatbreads, some vegetables, a few different kinds of nuts—all easily consumed while standing and meant to be served at room temperature so he can graze on them for a few hours if he wants to prolong the day.

There’s a small basin with warm, damp towels; he wipes down his hands and face. He pours himself water first and downs that quickly. The juice he samples more slowly. He has no idea what fruit it could be from, and on another day he might appreciate the pulpy novelty better. Right now his fear only enhances the sour notes. His stomach curdles by degrees.

Prompto picks at the food, managing to swallow some of it down; Elshett asks him if it is to his liking. He must have put together a satisfactorily bland reply because she doesn’t offer to get him something else. He deliberately ignores Leonis, and the hair at the nape of his neck prickles. He keeps his hands away from his knives. 

Once he thinks he’s made enough of a dent in the food, he covers it again and heads back out into the exercise space. Prompto takes it carefully, walking slow circuits, occasionally cutting through and over some of the artificial terrain for a change in pace. Something more meandering than purposeful, and while the distance from Leonis does ease some of the tension thrumming through him, he can’t help but keep track of the man in his periphery. 

One hour ticks over into two. Prompto shakily narrows his focus down to his body: his sun-warmed face, the easy swing of his limbs, the way his ribs move when he breathes deeply. He climbs, stretches, works himself up to slow jogs. It helps, focusing on his heart and his breathing and this body still existing, but it can only push back the fear in fits and starts. Its presence is always there, hovering.

(Has Aldercapt’s affection for his granddaughter finally taken precedence over his personal ambitions? Prompto hopes it has, for Solara’s sake, but she is still a child. She is too young for Aldercapt to hang the future of an entire empire on her shoulders without any contingency plans in place. Prompto’s entire existence is the first, and longest-running plan, but if Besithea has finally delivered any of the others, then Prompto is far more expendable now than he was before he climbed aboard an airship last week.)

He is on his second round of water when Leonis reaches into his jacket and pulls out a cell phone. Prompto can’t hear anything of the conversation, and Leonis’s face is impassive during the entire short exchange. The man hangs up, puts his phone back, and exchanges more quiet words with Elshett.

Prompto sets down the water. He does not retreat, but he does shift slightly, as if perusing what’s left of the food, and ensures the cart is between him and them. His breath freezes in his lungs when he realizes they’ve both abandoned their preferred standing places and are headed in his direction.

They aren’t signaling for any additional, hidden help. But they are approaching in tandem, and maybe Prompto was wrong to so quickly slot Elshett into a non-combatant role. Neither of them look armed, but Leonis has the power of the Lucian kings, and Elshett is entirely an unknown.

Prompto does not reach for his knives. He does adjust his stance slightly to open the possibilities for the directions he can make a break for. Then he does his best to pretend he only just noticed them once they’re within a few meters. It takes every ounce of his control to keep his jaw relaxed, his expression mildly curious at their approach.

They stop on the other side of the food cart. Prompto directs his question at Elshett, though he keeps the bulk of his attention on Leonis. “Does someone else need this space?” he asks, as if the worst thing that could happen to him today is getting kicked out of the training area by another group taking precedence. 

But Elshett doesn’t answer; Leonis does. “We’ve received word that Niflheim has started withdrawing from Fort Vaullerey,” he says, and Prompto—

—Prompto drops like someone’s kicked his knees out from under him, and he can’t hear anything past the blood and the relief roaring in his ears. He presses his face into his knees and wraps his arms around his head and he sucks air desperately, silently, into his lungs. His throat burns, and he doesn’t know if that’s a phantom pain or not. It doesn’t matter.

He’s still useful. Aldercapt hasn’t sacrificed all of them as some kind of delaying tactic while another scheme unfolds in the background. Niflheim is taking steps toward making the treaty a reality. He could actually get out of Lucis alive.

Remember my pride, boy.

Prompto sucks in another breath and holds it until the sound from the rest of the world filters back in. Then he lets it go, and in a well-practiced motion, stands back up. His complexion is probably off color—there’s nothing he can ever do about that—but he schools himself back into something that ought to pass for composure.

Leonis is stone-faced as always, but there’s a small furrow in Elshett’s brow that Prompto’s never seen before. He ignores it. “Thank you for personally delivering the news, Marshal,” Prompto says, as if he hasn’t been waiting for Leonis to try to kill him the entire time he’s been lurking. His voice is surprisingly even for all his heart is still thudding in his chest. He feels sick with relief, a twisting pain on the knife-edge of sweet. “If there’s nothing else—?”

Leonis shakes his head and steps back, his face still unreadable. Prompto turns his back on him, and Prompto gets back to his workout, his heart and his feet pounding out the rhythm alive alive alive.

"Something's different," Iris whispers, "with the prince."

They're back at the grounds to watch Prince Prompto’s training session. This time without Ignis and Gladio, since they were in meetings making their own preparations for all the pomp and circumstance that goes along with peace treaties and whatever could also possibly go wrong. 

Prince Prompto usually doesn’t spend this much time training. The only reason Noctis is even able to spy a little today is because of this change in his routine. Iris isn’t wrong. There’s an undercurrent of different energy Noctis saw earlier he couldn’t place, and still can’t, but there is something . 

Noctis clears his throat to whisper. "We all know what today is. It’s probably that."

“I don't know,” she leans closer to the edge than he dares after last time."He's never eaten down there. Nerves don't make you hungry."

Noctis doesn't fill the quiet with his thoughts. He wants to leave her to her observations. Iris is still learning, but she's smart and fast, and studying someone like Prince Prompto could help her in the future. Noctis isn't quite sure why he's there, except for honest curiosity. He could also argue that getting to see the prince helps him if he were pressed. How often does one get to see their sworn enemy without fear of death?

A part of him wants to sit across from the prince and just talk. Find out if all the rumors are true. Learn about this country Noctis has been told to fear his whole life. 

Right now, Prince Prompto reminds him of a cat the way he stands at the cart; keeping an eye on a larger predator but not engaging. Setting up boundaries. Stalking. 

Cor tends to have that effect on most people. 

That thought knocks something loose in Noctis. “Cor isn’t usually here after shooting practice.” 

“Huh?” Iris snaps to look at Noctis, and then back to the grounds. “Oh shit.” 

So Iris is right. Something is up. Noctis thinks he's also right, but of course there's no way of knowing. But the weight of the countdown hovering over anyone who is aware of this agreement is stifling. Noctis wants this war to be over. He's sure Prince Prompto does, too, but why might be different. Regardless, Cor’s appearance could mean one of two things when it comes down to it, and both of them could be bad depending on one’s point of view. 

A ringtone breaks the silence. It's Cor’s phone, and he takes the call without moving too far from Monica. 

Something shifts in the air, and it seems like Noctis feels it at the same time as Iris and Prince Prompto. 

Noctis keeps himself glued to watching the prince. It's surprising he hasn't felt Noctis staring. 

Cor finishes his call, and then things get worse . Prince Prompto stiffens, eyes locked on Cor and Monica. He looks like he's about to fight, or run. 

Noctis holds his breath.

“What’s happening?” Iris whispers. 

“I don’t know.” There's no fighting, not yet, but Cor is moving closer to the prince. Speaking low so up in these seats they can't hear—

When Prince Prompto hits the floor, Noctis jumps. Did he miss Cor hitting the prince? Or did Prince Prompto attempt an attack?  But neither Cor nor Monica are making any moves that indicate anything of that sort is going on. They both just…step back and talk to each other. 

Is it relief? Is it dread? Resignation? 

It can’t be that the treaty is null before negotiations could even start. Noctis is pretty sure if that were the case, more than Cor would have arrived to deliver the news. Prince Prompto probably would have been informed by way of being arrested there on the spot. 

What has the prince been told to have him finally break the robotic, empty of emotion person they've seen this whole time? Clearly something's happened, and Noctis can't tell if it's good or bad. He pulls away from the edge and is about to reach for his phone when he hears the door behind them open. He whips around to see, of course, Ignis and Gladio, both of their expressions tight and worried. 

“There you are!” Gladio growls low, and after speaking he turns his attention to Iris. “Both of you, up.” 

Noctis chances one more look behind him before standing. The scene looks like any other day. Prompto is back to running, and Cor is no longer down there. 

“Is it the Nifs? Did they pull out?”

“Not here,” Ignis hisses and holds the door open. Gladio stands tall and imposing beside Ignis, arms crossed. 

“Sorry Gladdy,” Iris relents as she gets up and goes through the door. Noctis follows, but doesn’t apologize. They get in the staircase, and Noctis pauses at the top while the others begin their descent down. 

“Which is it?” Noctis asks. His voice echoes around them. 

The others stop, but Gladio and Ignis stay quiet, for a beat, before giving each other a look Noctis knows means they agree. 

“They are retreating,” Ignis finally admits. 

Noctis understands how Prince Prompto must have felt in that moment, because the invisible weight of everything makes him dizzy. 

“The war is going to be over?” 

“We can only hope,” Ignis motions for him, “but first, we have much to go over. Things are going to move quickly, and then not.” 

Noctis finds his feet again and follows the others down the stairs, out to the elevator to his quarters, the whole while his mind going at lightspeed thinking about what this means for him. For the country. For Eos. A world without war in his lifetime for so long seemed unobtainable. And maybe, that’s how Prince Prompto feels also. 

Regardless of what it means for life in Niflheim for the prince, he’s sure it's safe to assume things will also be different, for the better. War is bad for all sides, right? Maybe even Tenebrae can be recovered and restored to the glory it once was, and his friends can go home.

By this point they’re swept into Noctis’s suite. There are several guards inside who file out as soon as Gladio enters ahead of Noctis, who is now flanked by Ignis and Iris. Ignis gently guides Noctis to his office. It’s been rearranged for this meeting: the main table has been extended and more chairs have been added so more people can sit at it, even though whoever was in here before is gone. 

“Right,” Noctis sits at the head of the table, and Ignis stays standing by his side. Gladio stays near the door, which means Iris is out either in the hallway, or at least in the living room. Noctis sees a large whiteboard in the corner where the editors have clearly been mapping out steps in advance of him arriving. Noctis can’t help but notice where someone had written what might have been worst case on the far side before erasing it. 

He can’t help wondering how close they were to that scenario. 

Before Noctis can continue, the door to the office opens once more and his editorial team files in. He gives them each a wave and a nod when they bow before sitting. 

He’s been working with this group for several years now; one could say they’ve grown up together. Noctis made it clear when he was going to start speaking publicly that he wanted people on his team who could actually capture his voice without sounding stuffy and too political. 

Ignis clears his throat. “We have confirmed Niflheim is pulling out of Cleigne. We anticipate word will get out to the public soon.” 

His editorial director, Sean, seated to Noctis’s right, straightens up. “Tonight, you and the king will be sitting down with Prince Prompto to go over a joint communications plan.” 

“Together?” While this is a unique situation, Noctis hadn’t imagined they would be working with Prince Prompto at all . 

“Yes, but we are each reviewing options in advance. The king is in his quarters now meeting with his team as well.” 

“Why not together? Wouldn’t that be the fastest?”

Ignis places a hand on his shoulder. “Please trust us, Your Highness. The team has been working on the different outcomes leading up to this. So now that we know the way things are going, we can move forward with those options.” 

Noctis swallows. Ignis doesn’t always use honorifics generally with this group. “Of course.” 

“We have been asked to get this joint message ready to go out tonight.”

“Wait, written and delivered?” Noctis directs his question to Ignis. It’s the tightest timeline he thinks he’s ever worked with. 

“I’m afraid so. We don’t have much control of how quickly the word will spread from Cleigne, and we need to be ahead of it.” 

“We’ve been working on several options which we will share, and we will be present to assist with finalizing the speech, of course.”

“The main talking points will be that Niflheim is leaving Cleigne as part of ongoing negotiations. We will also have to, of course, explain they are not pulling out of Galahd.” 

A moment of silence follows this reminder. Noctis can see how the writers feel about this, and he isn’t offended. He’s mad, also, but he knows there isn’t anything he can do. That any of them can do. When it gets down to it, they will all be professional and say what they must to protect the people of Lucis.

“Is there anything that can be said to soften that blow?” 

“We have some suggestions, but I doubt we can do too much. It is going to be something we have to take head on. There will be no escaping it.”

“What will the prince be saying?” 

“We don’t know, yet, but we are sure he has been briefed prior to coming to Lucis of all possible outcomes.” 

“But he does get a say?” Noctis doesn’t speak the rest of his question out loud—the prince is technically a political prisoner. They have the choice to include him or not, and so giving him the opportunity to speak surely has additional meaning and benefit for Lucis. 

“Of course.” 

An assistant enters the room and hands out sheets of paper to everyone at the table, along with red pens. 

“Now, Your Highness, we don’t have much time. We are expected to meet the king soon.” 

“I saw Prompto still—”

Ignis takes his seat to Noctis’s left. “We will have you meet His Majesty first, and then will bring the prince.” 

Noctis presses his lips together, recognizing his slip. No one would chide him for it here, but he can’t get into the habit of making any casual references out loud, in case anyone would hear. To use the prince’s first name and to insinuate he had even seen the prince could have serious ramifications. 

He and Prince Prompto are, at the end of the day, sworn enemies despite having never met. No one should be led to think Noctis would befriend him, lest they think they could somehow lead to a worse war. 

Noctis stops the way his brain is spiraling by grabbing the pen and forcing himself to focus on the paper in front of him. He has a duty to his dad, to his friends, to Lucis. Maybe even Eos. 

He can’t fuck this up. 

Chapter Text

The span of time between the end of his workout and someone knocking on the suite door is blurry in Prompto’s conscious memory. Nothing important happened, probably, given that he comes back to himself wearing comfortable clothing, a towel hanging off his shoulders, and shower-damp hair. The Archivist should have caught all of that time he lost in his relief-fueled adrenaline crash since there’s nothing wrong with his eyes or ears, though there’s no way to know that for certain until the data can be transferred in Gralea.

Whoever is at the door knocks again, louder, and Prompto drops the towel on his bed and tugs his long sleeves down over his wrists. There’s nothing easily at hand to cover the scar on his neck, but anything visible is all but done healing. He’s just going to accept answering the door in such a casual look because the last thing he wants is the Kingsglaive forcing their way into his suite because he took too long to open the door.

Prompto doesn’t have the energy to muster up a princely sneer at the unexpected interruption; he merely schools his face into what he hopes looks like neutrality and opens it. It’s not the dining service—is it too early for dinner? His stomach is still too unsettled to tell if he’s nauseated or hungry—it’s Elshett, looking as placid as ever even as her eyes sweep over him.

“Your Imperial Highness,” she says, and then stops there.

Huh. She must have stepped away after escorting him back to his suite. But why? Prompto doesn’t remember. He decides that her greeting and then nothing else probably means whatever she has to say to him shouldn’t be said with an audience, so he makes a little follow me gesture, and heads back inside.

It must have been the right choice because Elshett follows him all the way to the living area. She waits for him to take a seat in an armchair before she clasps her hands in front of herself and speaks. “King Regis, Prince Noctis, and their editorial teams are working on coordinated public statements regarding Niflheim’s withdrawal from Cleigne and the upcoming treaty negotiations. They are extending an invitation to you for a working dinner so that you can provide input from a Niflheim perspective.”

Prompto blinks up at her, and it takes a moment for him to remember that Lucis probably expects him to be the kind of prince their Noctis is—one with opinions they appreciate and want to hear. He’s attended similar meetings before in Gralea, but there his job was to provide predetermined “insight,” support any spur-of-the-moment decisions Aldercapt made, and dutifully give any speech Aldercapt thought was too tedious or inconsequential to do himself. 

Lucis will need his cooperation for this, rather than just assuming he’ll give it. They are asking for the cooperation of a person, not the obedience of a mouthpiece. There’s no script for him to memorize, no one to update him on the finer points of what Aldercapt wants him to project tonight. No way to report back what he observed, verbally or otherwise. Not yet, not without a way to access anything outside Insomnia’s walls.

Do try to convince the Lucians we care about your continued well-being and general happiness, the chancellor’s voice echoes in his head.

Prompto tilts his head in what he hopes is a thoughtful pose, even though there’s really only one way he can answer. “When am I expected?”

“Half an hour.”

“Formality?”

“Dressy casual to semi-formal.”

The range suggests that the expected attendees are a mix. King Regis is undoubtedly in semi-formal. It would probably be safest to match, though perhaps he can take off his jacket as the meeting progresses.

“I’ll be ready in twenty,” Prompto says and levers himself to his feet.

Walking into this conference room is less intimidating than entering either the throne room or the small dining room for his solo dinner with the king. Like everything in the Citadel, the furnishings are well made, sleek and dark and trending toward imposing, but it’s clearly a conference room where people are expected to meet and to work. Papers, writing utensils, and laptops are scattered across the circular table, and there’s a large screen mounted on one wall that is currently displaying a bulleted list titled Key Points.

There are about a dozen people already inside, some crowded around the table, others starting to dig through the food that the dining staff has laid out buffet-style along the far end of the room. Prompto only recognizes about half of the people there—most notably the king and his son. 

This is, Prompto notes, the closest he’s ever been to the Lucian prince. Prince Noctis is, surprisingly, one of the most casually dressed in the room, enough that Prompto’s first instinct is unease at how underdressed Prince Noctis is. Aldercapt would have never allowed Prompto into any kind of meeting wearing something like that. Prompto is far closer to matching the king in style than him.

The buzz of conversation dies in short order when everyone finally registers his entrance. Most of the people seated at the table scramble to their feet, while the ones already milling about the room turn to stare at him. Prompto suffers through an awkward chorus of bowing, which he accepts with a mechanical grace. It takes Prompto a second to realize that Prince Noctis is still sitting stoically at his father’s side and staring right back at him.

Prompto doesn’t technically have any peers in Niflheim besides Solara, but he knows the expected etiquette is to stand when an equal enters the room. If Aldercapt wants to flatter particular ministers, Prompto will stand when they enter a room and greet them personally. Noctis staying in his seat is quietly, obviously rude.

Prompto notes that, files it away for later consideration, and turns his attention to the king. He bows as is expected—he has manners—and says mildly, “Thank you for the invitation, Your Majesty.”

“We are pleased by your presence and hope the late notice did not inconvenience you,” Regis says.

Something in that sentence must spur the prince into action, because he finally gets to his feet. This close, Prince Noctis has surprisingly delicate features despite the iciness in his gaze.  “Welcome, Prince Prompto.”

As if his delay in standing weren’t undercutting that sentiment. Prompto inclines his head to acknowledge the greeting, but he keeps his focus on the king. “It was no trouble. I am looking forward to our collaboration.”

The meeting is more—chaotic than the ones Prompto has attended in Gralea.

Not that the people here don’t know what they’re doing or that they’re disorganized, but in the sense that King Regis seems genuinely interested in listening to everyone else in the room. Which is odd, considering that Prompto doesn’t recognize most of them. He had briefings on the most powerful Lucian nobles, the royal retinue, and other significant political players. It takes him a while to realize that most of the people in this room don’t even seem to be low nobility. They’re communications professionals, wearing varying levels of day-to-day office wear, and the king still listens to them when they speak. 

He doesn’t always accept their feedback, but he allows them to make their suggestions and defend them.

Prompto picks at his food and listens mostly, trying to track the way the energy and power in the room weaves between everyone. Who sides with whom. If there are any factions he can figure out, because even regular people play politics when they have this kind of access to royalty.

The prince keeps looking at him. Prompto doesn’t know him at all, can’t guess at the subtleties in his expression, though even from his peripheral vision, he can tell that the prince doesn’t have nearly as much control over his expression as Scientia. Prompto doesn’t let his attention wander over to him unless he speaks, which he does rarely.

They give Prompto a draft of a speech, mostly generic platitudes. Someone has helpfully added sticky notes to the margins, making sure he catches how each of the paragraphs line up with the Key Points on the display. Prompto is caught in the awkward position of trying to figure out if they’re trying to be insulting or helpful. No one in Gralea would have explicitly tried to explain; he can’t see from across the table if Prince Noctis’s own speech is similarly annotated.

Prompto decides to take it as a positive that they consider him capable of some amount of reasoning, sets his empty plate aside, and snatches up a pen to begin making edits to the printout they’ve given him. He does very little to change the substance of the message they’ve handed him; he is more concerned about the words and phrasing being closer to the kind of speeches he and Aldercapt would give in Gralea. He doesn’t think Aldercapt would be pleased if he sounded like someone else’s puppet.

Could he try to code a message in a speech like this? Prompto considers it for a while before ultimately discarding the idea. The text is too short for the kind of wordsmithing he would need to do to go unremarked on. 

He is on his third pass of the speech and is debating if he should object to the implications of a specific sentence when discussion of the venue comes up. Prompto’s head snaps up and fear makes his voice cold. He doesn’t even let the staff member finish his sentence. “I will not be delivering a speech in a public area.”

The entire room falls into a shocked, bewildered silence. Prompto ignores the weight of a dozen stares and the prince’s incredulity to keep his eyes focused on the king. 

King Regis tilts his head slightly and regards him for a weighted moment. “Traditionally, good news of this magnitude would be delivered from the Citadel steps so that Insomnia’s population can participate in the celebration.”

An explanation, but not an outright denial. Prompto refuses to let his fingers clench around the pen he is holding. He’s walked through the plaza leading up to the Citadel once already. “And in sniping, if they’ve the mettle for it.”

A ripple of unease, outrage works its way through the room. The king’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t ask outright if Prompto is afraid, which is a kindness that burns, but his voice is deceptively mild. “We assure you that our security is well-practiced securing the plaza. The best members of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive will be there.”

“The best of the palace guard in Gralea still let me be garrotted in my bed,” Prompto says. 

He forces away the memory of wire pulling agonizingly tight around his throat, the way his chest heaved for air and found nothing as he thrashed. He does not touch the scar hidden by his hair.

The room is so quiet and still that he can hear his own breathing and feel his heart racing behind his sternum. 

He can’t do this. They can force him if it means enough to them, just like Aldercapt, Izunia, and Besithia can. 

Prompto thinks of the first time in his suite and the risk he took throwing open the door. Maybe it’s time to test another boundary. “I will leave it to you to decide if I deliver my speech live or pre-recorded from within the Citadel,” he says easily, as if the king has already agreed to his demand, and turns his attention back to the draft in front of him. 

There is a hushed conversation. Prompto presses the tip of his pen next to the sentence that is giving him pause instead of letting his hand shake: The empire has withdrawn from Cleigne as a demonstration of its commitment to peace. He reads it again, and again, and thinks about how even simple, straightforward statements can leave enough space to imply very many things. 

Prompto remembers the burst of whispering in the throne room when the king named Cleigne. It hadn’t mattered to him either way, only that Lucis hadn’t gotten both Cleigne and Galahd ahead of the negotiations and the treaty signing. Why would they frame this as a decision that originated with Niflheim rather than a point the king had bargained for as part of the ceasefire?

It can’t be because they’re trying to paint Niflheim in a good light, not when it’s weighed against the goodwill the people of Cleigne would undoubtedly have for a king who won their freedom for them. He is missing something. Some kind of internal politicking he has no context for. 

“Thank you for sharing your concerns, Prince Prompto,” King Regis says, and Prompto looks up. Prince Noctis looks a bit flummoxed, and others around him look disgruntled, but the king looks placid as ever. “We will join you in a live broadcast within the Citadel.”

It’s a concession, and a decision to establish a united front by having them all deliver their speeches in the same way. The knot of icy fear in his chest loosens. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Prompto says, and while he doesn’t smile, he does try to project as much warmth into his voice as he is allowed. He sets his pen down and laces his fingers together. He could leave it at that, but he is—curious. About the answer, and what kind of reaction he will get if he pushes twice in a row. “The speech your people have prepared is very good. I have made a few changes to better represent the Imperial voice, though one item caught my attention. I believe that you should give yourself credit for the decision to liberate Cleigne.”

Some kind of silent ripple goes through the group. The king’s expression doesn’t change, but his son’s mouth twists in a sour expression before quickly smoothing out. 

So he wasn’t imagining it. Prompto still doesn’t know—whatever is happening right now, but some of his earliest lessons in being Aldercapt’s son were avoiding potentially dangerous things he didn’t understand. 

“It was a victory on your part,” Prompto continues, as sincerely as he can, as if he is trying to reciprocate the concession the king just made regarding the venue. “It wasn’t a point Chancellor Izunia had been prepared to bargain with for the ceasefire, and your people deserve to know that you won it for them.”

“I can’t believe this.” Noctis paces behind the couch back in his apartment. Ignis and Gladio are seated in front of him, glued to the television even though it's on a commercial. Iris is out training, which is fine. Better, actually. Noctis would rather as few people see him this angry as possible. He isn’t quite sure what to do with everything building up inside his chest. 

"I have to admit, it was a smart play by the prince." Ignis leans back and settles under Gladio’s outstretched arm as a commercial break comes on. 

Noctis stops long enough to stab a finger into the top of a cushion. “It’s fucked up, is what it is. Prince Prompto knew exactly what he was doing, and we just let it happen. What if this had been the plan from the start?” 

“It would have come out eventually. You know that. The choice of Cleigne is too big to keep quiet for long.” 

Ignis is right. But that just makes Noctis’s blood boil more. “I don’t like it.” 

“No one does.” 

As if on cue, the commercials are over and Prince Prompto’s there, alongside Noctis and the king. “He might.” Prince Prompto is probably laughing in his room right now, pleased with this result. 

“Noct…” Ignis turns to look over his shoulder. 

Noctis stays quiet as he goes towards the window for a bit of fresh air, grateful they’re high enough that he doesn't have to also worry about that now. Prince Prompto, though cut off from Niflheim, clearly still has a playbook of rules he’s following. Of course he does. 

When they were all working together on the speech, the prince hardly spoke to Noctis directly. Or to anyone, really, except to make edits and to ask questions like…like about Cleigne. And even then Prince Prompto directed most of his comments to Regis. 

Noctis pauses when the news plays the broadcast again. It’s been going for several hours now since it was first released. At first glance, things appear fine. Great. There’s shots of people in other towns celebrating with fireworks and parties out in the street. In Lestallum, people poured out into the streets to celebrate, with vendors giving away food and drinks. Galdin Quay shot out fireworks over the water while people toasted each other with champagne. Town after town in Lucis are getting some airtime as people celebrate the return of land, of homes, or families who have been lost for decades. The broadcast shows scenes that could, should, stir the hearts of any Lucian.

Emphasis on Lucian. 

Cleigne was lost when Noctis was young. He hadn’t traveled that far away from home yet. To see it returned hits him in the gut with relief. There’s still a lot to do to bring it back into the fold of Lucis, but at least now they can start somewhere. 

But Noctis also witnessed the fall of Galahd. 

And the broadcasts coming in from the refugee district of Insomnia are entirely different. 

The protests started there tonight but then moved towards the Citadel quickly. Noctis can’t blame them. There’s a reason they hadn’t announced anything before the confirmation of Niflheim leaving. There’s a reason some of the council expressed concern over this decision and what would happen once it was found out. 

Even now Noctis even hears some pops through his open window that could either be fireworks or gunshots; he wouldn't be surprised by either. The scene outside the Citadel is growing quickly with those in support of the king’s decision, but also Galahdians holding signs, chanting, and disavowing the choice the king made. 

What about OUR families

Not our choice

GIVE US GALAHD

We demand answers

It goes on and on. 

The last time they'd been in lockdown was when Galahd fell. It was when Noctis was injured, so that time is a little blurred at the edges. But once they fled back into the safety of Insomnia and Noctis was back home, Gladio had immediately been back by his side. This time, they’re all together. At least they have that. 

“Noct, sit down for fuck’s sake,” Gladio barks. 

He listens to Gladio begrudgingly just as the news starts playing the broadcast again. Prince Prompto is speaking. They had him stand on one side of the king, while Noctis stood on the other. And even though Noctis saw him in the flesh, up close, watching Prince Prompto’s expressions as he speaks just gets Noctis more irritated with the whole situation.  

Prince Prompto speaks perfectly. His shoulders are set; confident and strong. His expression ranges from neutral to passively positive without going too far to seem pandering. 

Regis speaks eloquently and boldly. He makes impressive gestures with his hands and smiles at the cameras. It's second nature to the king at this point, as it should be. 

Then there’s him. Noctis still isn't used to seeing himself on TV. He usually avoids watching anything like this as much as he can, despite how many times his team tells him he should so he can improve. But this time it feels different, important, to see himself and the Prince of Niflheim on the same screen with the king. People will compare them. It's what they do. Especially since this is the first time they have an opportunity to see the two princes together. 

Which makes watching this clip for the millionth time painful. Because while Noctis wants to believe he has the demeanor of a proper prince who has earned the respect of Lucis, seeing him in comparison to Prince Prompto makes him feel…

Small. Embarrassed. A kid playing at being a prince. 

Even though the three of them are all in their forms of royal attire, Prince Prompto shines like the sun in his blinding white and red and gold. The sun had set well before their broadcast, but the lights that had been set for the cameras allowed him to still glow. 

When Noctis watches himself on the screen he sees the fidgeting, the way his hand looks weird when he tries putting it in the front pocket. How many times he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. His public relations team is always coaching him about staying still and being aware and usually Noctis is. Usually he likes to think he has it together. Something about this, about the situation, about the prince, all of it coming together just makes Noctis feel out of sorts. 

Another commercial break. 

Several loud booms echo outside. Noctis clings to the couch arm and tries not to show any fear. Gladio instantly is on the move up and towards the window. They should probably close it for his sanity more than anything, but Noctis needs some fresh air tonight. 

Gladio doesn't stand directly in front of the open window, but to the side, slowly pulling the curtain back just enough so he can look. On the screen the news returns to a view of the courtyard, showing fireworks in the sky over the Citadel. 

It’s hard to say who is setting them off. On the news it looks like the two groups have split thanks to police and guards down on the street. Noctis swallows and sits back, inspecting his hands. The television sound becomes white noise. 

“Hopefully this is the worst of it.” Noctis keeps his voice low, like it’s a private prayer. 

“We can hope they will see the end goal the king has in mind,” Ignis says softly. Gently. And Noctis appreciates it, sure, but he can’t help but think about those people down there feeling betrayed. Hurt. Wanting justice for their families and homes, something they’ve failed to give them. 

Over the course of their time working on the announcement, Prince Prompto never came off as malicious. Or angry. 

“Do you think,” Noctis keeps his focus on his hands, “we’ll get Galahd back?” 

“We have to. If we don't, it could start a civil war,” Ignis replies. 

Noctis spares a fleeting glance at the screen. The ticker on the bottom of the broadcast continues to provide updates on the announcement while the news has moved on to the weather. Gladio makes his way back to the couch. 

He hadn’t asked while surrounded by the others, but Noctis can’t stop worrying. If Niflheim somehow, someway, doesn’t free Galahd—

Ignis picks his phone up off the coffee table. “I’ll order us some dinner.”

“M’not hungry.” 

“You need to eat,” Ignis chides. Noctis just grunts in reply. 

Gladio changes the channel over to some movie they’ve seen a hundred times. Passive, easy on the ears and mind, and Noctis tunes out a little as Ignis makes a call for food. Whatever he orders, Noctis won’t eat it, not right now. There’s too much clawing up his body that he can’t fathom trying to keep anything down. 

Is Prince Prompto watching the news tonight? Is he proud of what he’s done for his people? What does he think of all this? Is he proud of getting one over on the King of Lucis?

Noctis’s phone vibrates in his hoodie pocket. He pulls it out and sees a few text messages from Luna. A direct one, not in the chat with Ravus. 

Usually if he and Luna disagree on something it’s small, silly. Like about movies or food. And he knows she is trying to be kind, and as the future Oracle, she can’t have prejudices. But right now Noctis wishes she would be a little petty with him. 

He huffs and fights the urge to look up at the screen to see if the announcement is showing again. Noctis wants to say something about appearances being deceiving. 

Noctis taps his fingers on the sides of his phone. 

A laugh escapes him. If Gladio hears it, he doesn’t say anything. When Luna is here, Noctis will be able to articulate his feelings better. And won't have a record of anything on his phone that can be tracked down later. 

The emperor. The chancellor. Prince Prompto. They are all somehow involved or responsible for so much pain and suffering. And while he is a prince like Noctis is, and Noctis has his own experiences of his own involvement in decisions made by the crown, he doesn't know anything of the inner court of Niflheim. 

The flames subside a little to embers. It’s a common side effect of talking to Luna. And sometimes it’s annoying because it proves she’s right. 

He manages a smile, maybe his first all day. He really misses Luna and Ravus. It’s been so long since Noctis last saw them, and knowing they’ll be here soon does give him some hope. Their arrival feels more real right now than the promise of a peace treaty. 

“Food will be here shortly,” Ignis cuts through Noctis’s thoughts. “With this news we will have to be ready and available for any and all requests, functions, and interviews to help your father keep the peace until the treaty signing. We will of course have to keep to our messaging, that Cleigne is the first win of several, to keep the hopes of everyone alive.” 

“What about Prince Prompto?” Noctis asks. A part of him isn’t sure he cares, but he also wants to know what to expect.  

“We’ll offer him the opportunity to speak as he wishes, but we can’t force him to do anything. It’s enough that he participated in tonight’s announcement.”

“Yeah, look how well that went for us.”  

Gladio swats lightly at his shoulder. “Hey, knock it off.”

Without a word, Ignis rests a hand on Gladio’s thigh, getting him to sit back with a huff. 

“It’s possible he won’t do more because he doesn't have any support like you do.” 

“That’s fine.” Noctis stares at the dark screen of his phone. 

“Noct, no matter what, you’ll be seeing him a lot now. If not for press then for other discussions or whatever else is needed as the treaty date gets nearer.” 

“He’s just like you,” Gladio chimes in, “remember that. How would you feel if you were trapped in Niflheim court?” 

Noctis has thought about it a lot. But he doesn’t want to admit it. Noctis puts his phone back into his pocket and gets up. 

“I’ll prep the table,” Ignis says as he stands up as well. 

“I’ll have dinner in my bedroom.” Noctis walks away from them and closes the door without waiting for a response. He stands there for a moment, in the dark silence. He can still hear the shouts and fireworks and noise from outside through the ajar window. He storms over to his bed and lies down, face first, before rolling onto his back and getting out his phone again. He doesn’t go to his texts with Luna. Instead, he searches the news to see what else is being said in response to the broadcast. He expects vitriol thrown at his dad and Noctis like the crowds down below. 

What Noctis hasn’t considered is the public’s reaction to the Prince of Niflheim being in the Citadel.

Many of the posts have comments shouting about why Niflheim’s prince is alive. Why is he being treated like a guest and not a war criminal? More and more Noctis sees the outrage being thrown at Prince Prompto and—

All the anger Noctis has been piling up in his throat dies. 

Prince Prompto is a prisoner. Prince Prompto is in a place that isn't safe. 

The best of the palace guard in Gralea still let me be garrotted in my bed, the prince’s voice echoes in his mind.

Something clicks in Noctis. He tosses his phone onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. 

Noctis doesn’t have to like Prince Prompto. But he also doesn’t have to be another person treating Prince Prompto terribly because of his birthright. Luna is right. He hates when she’s right. 

Prince Prompto doesn’t have anyone he can trust. And maybe he can’t trust Noctis in the same way Noctis can’t trust him. But maybe they can have enough of an understanding to get them through this treaty and out the other side in one piece.

Chapter Text

By afternoon the next day, the anger that welled up in Noctis’s throat completely melted away. Noctis keeps thinking about what Prince Prompto is doing, how he’s feeling. Noctis has been doing rounds of interviews beside his dad all day, but the prince hasn’t joined them. 

Prince Prompto’s absence has been noted by the media, and while their team has been able to pivot the journalists to focus on the relief efforts for Cleigne, it still sits in Noctis’s stomach like an angry behemoth. 

“The prince has indeed declined doing any interviews,” Ignis explains as they dig into their bagged lunches back in his suite. “As I said last night, we cannot force him into it.” 

“Wouldn't it help him to be seen? If people saw him more, maybe that would calm things down.” 

“It could, but what if it could have an adverse effect back in Niflheim?” Ignis counters. 

“Is there anything we could do that would help?”

Ignis pushes an apple closer to Noctis. “Focus on your own work. That’s what you should be worried about.” 

“Yeah, you heard him.” Gladio tosses a pickle at his face. 

Noctis lets out a pained shriek and barely dodges it. “So gross!” 

Ignis looks only mildly exasperated. “The prince has his things he needs to do, and we have ours.”

“Fine, fine.” Noctis resorts to scrolling through social media on his phone while he eats to see how public sentiment has changed since the night before. Usually he doesn't worry about doing so. He’s happy to just read the reports the public relations team gives them every morning and evening. But the report that morning had been more…varied in sentiment than he’s used to. There’s more conspiracy theorists calling out that the prince is a hostage—a fact that isn’t wrong, but certainly not something they want the public to latch onto. 

There’s also people who are furious that the prince is not only in the Citadel, but he’s also standing beside the king, and treated like a guest instead of stuffed in a prison cell somewhere. 

Those are the people who are also protesting outside. Though there are less people there this afternoon, they’re still outside the Citadel and they’re still being loud on social media. 

“What’s the rest of the day like?” 

Ignis shifts back to work mode as he looks over the schedule on his phone. “We’ve just two more individual media interviews. Tomorrow morning we have a press conference to announce progress of the Niflheim exit, and then the rest of the day we’re free.” 

“And by free he means, I’m taking him out for a well-deserved night off.” Gladio says mildly laced with a good-natured threat. “So don’t do anything stupid.” 

“Who, me?” Noctis scoffs overdramatically. “What am I gonna do here?” 

“Sometimes you manage to surprise us,” Ignis deadpans. 

“You’re both bullies. Where’s Iris.” 

In the evening, Noctis manages to shovel a dinner of popcorn and soda in his mouth away from Ignis’s watchful eyes. He’s so exhausted he can’t be bothered to move from the couch to his bed. 

Media days are weird. They can feel like you aren’t doing a whole lot while at the same time feeling overwhelmed. It’s bursts of chaos intermixed with long periods of waiting and preparing for the chaos. At least they’re staying in the Citadel instead of their apartments so they don’t have to go anywhere. But even still they have to worry about makeup and attire, key messaging, reviewing each interview after it's done—honestly he doesn’t know how their public relations team stays on top of everything. 

It’s late in Altissia, but more often than not one of the Fleurets is usually still awake. He tries Luna first. 

He sets the phone on his chest while he digs for some more popcorn, at the bottom where the salt has collected. When his phone vibrates he licks his fingers and picks it back up. Ignis is starting to wear off on him though because he grimaces at himself.

“Shit.” Of course they are already being swarmed over in Altissia. The heirs to a fallen kingdom and oracle to the king were reduced to sanctuary in a neutral state. Them coming out to Insomnia is a bigger deal than just Noctis’s friends coming by to visit. Though selfishly, that’s sometimes what it feels like. At least other times, that is. 

But this treaty could help them finally. It’s another reason Noctis doesn’t want to fuck this up. 

He laughs, and they spend a bit more time talking while Noctis messily finishes off his popcorn. It’s a little sad to consider there are just three royal families, and that they aren’t all connected. Things would have been so much better if somehow they had known Prince Prompto. Had met him before. Talked with him. Learned who he is as a person. Even if they weren’t friends, sometimes it’s nice to be able to talk to someone else who has gone through the same trials as Noctis, as Luna, as Ravus. The same thought spirals back to him—they’re both princes. They should be able to talk to each other. 

Luna finally calls it a night. Noctis sets the empty bowl on the coffee table and flips through some TV channels. It’s all still more of the same: the treaty, the protests, the brief flashes Insomnia saw of Prince Prompto. He turns off the TV and finds himself once again searching online about what is being said by the public. 

The coverage report for that evening feels a little…biased. Vanilla. The public relations team doesn’t fudge things, since they need to know reality in order to adjust messaging. But Noctis did notice a lack of information about Prince Prompto. When pressed, they just waved it off as not something to worry about and to just stick with the same messaging. 

Which, sure, they have to toe the line here. But Noctis really doesn’t like information being omitted from his reports. He wants to know what people are saying. Even if they can’t do anything about it, he doesn’t want to be disconnected from reality.  

Searching prince prompto sends Noctis down another spiral. Any mention of the prince is negative, no matter the flavor of it. Noctis clicks his tongue a few times as he scrolls and scrolls. 

Is the prince actually declining to do any interviews, or is he being held back from doing so? Noctis’s anger at the broadcast had not been his alone. But the people of Lucis need to know, or at least believe, that the presence of the Niflheim prince is all a part of a bigger plan and that they are working together to end this war. All three kingdoms.

Noctis needs to talk to Prince Prompto. 

Alone. 

Noctis faceplants onto his bed after the next morning’s press conference. 

While yesterday had been a bit off with the on-again and off-again of interviews, press conferences are on a whole other gnarly level. It’s all the media who didn’t get their exclusive opportunity, so they’re already cranky. Then they’re all shoved into a room full of other journalists, cameras, and large video cameras. There’s the constant clicking of shutters, and Noctis can sometimes hardly concentrate with all the noise: people mumbling, scratching notes, and papers flipping.  

Then on top of that are the questions. For some reason he’s never quite understood, journalists love being sassy in a group setting with the king under the guise of asking questions “for the people.” Love making it seem like they’ve caught the court out on an error, a technicality, or whatever else they want to try to get. And then everyone is scrambling to get their questions or hot takes out first so they can upload immediately to social media to beat out the others in the room as quickly as possible.

The only saving grace really is that the publicists are the ones picking folks for questions. That takes some of the pressure off Noctis and his dad. But only mildly. 

It’s irritating most of the time in a way he’s used to, but this time Noctis wishes he could have said something more upfront. Like “hey, maybe you should stop being jerks and focus on the fact that Niflheim is out of Cleigne for the first time in almost a decade.” 

He doesn’t. Instead he follows the key messages and his dad’s lead. He’s mostly there to be support for the crown. And of course, as he’s reminded often, to show Lucis that Noctis is preparing for the time when he’s the one wearing the silver crown and speaking to the public. It’s been his own public facing journey since he turned eighteen. Though, of course, he’s had to live with that future looming on the horizon since he was small. The way the tabloids talked about him as the future king when he was under ten bothered him on so many levels. 

Even more when they started to talk about who his potential match would be to stand by his side at the throne. 

He rolls onto his back and takes a few deep breaths. While the press conference was out of his control, it made Noctis more sure his idea is a solid one. The press conference fueled his mind to consider more options. He sits up and, despite the way his body screams at him, he manages to get upright and moving. He grabs a soda from the minifridge in the kitchen and snags his laptop off the counter before sitting at the table. 

If Prince Prompto is declining interviews, why? Can Noctis convince him to do one more? Not a speech like they had with the broadcast, but them, the two princes, sitting side by side and speaking amicably at the cusp of a treaty that will end the Great War and bring peace to Eos.

Noctis cracks the knuckles of his fingers. 

It’s time for him to get to work on his plan. 

A few hours later, Noctis hears the door open. He isn’t surprised, though, because he invited Iris to come by on the guise of training he wanted to do. The moment she comes into view of Noctis, sitting dressed in his press clothes at the dining room table, she freezes. 

“What’s going on?” She looks around to see if anyone else is in the apartment. 

“What?” He can’t help but smile to mess with her a little. 

“You’re not dressed for training.” 

“I mean, it’s a kind of training,” 

She narrows her eyes at him. Before she can turn and leave, Noctis gestures to a seat next to him. "I need some help, but Gladio and Ignis don't know about this. Not yet at least."

That gets her attention. She comes over and sits, eyes trained on Noctis. "Again, what's going on?"

Noctis takes a breath before giving the spiel he’s been working on. "I've been doing some thinking—since the broadcast, people have a lot of opinions on Prince Prompto being, uh…"

"A spy for Niflheim? Gallivanting around the Citadel instead of locked away in a dark cell?”  

"Basically."

"What does that have to do with you?"

"Look,'' Noctis slides over his laptop so she can see the screen. He's got quotes from the media, lots of headlines, and online sentiment. "People are mad about Galahd. We knew they would be. But I think Prince Prompto and I can help. He can represent the intentions of the empire and put people's minds at ease. I can help show the public we’re not giving up on Galahd. This is just the first step to mending relations and borders."

Iris shakes her head and then rests her chin on the heel of her hand. "How are you going to do any of that? Isn’t he refusing interviews?"

Noctis grins. "Glad you asked." He clicks over to the next slide.

"Wait, did you really make a slideshow to sell me on this?" 

"No,"  he shakes his head, "so we can sell him on this."

Iris is pensive as she looks over the slide of information. "One interview?"

"Just one. Exclusive piece for the Insomnia Times . Pre-recorded here in the Citadel. We have review rights before it’s published to ensure we all agree on the messaging getting out. Including Prompto."

“And when?”

“In two days.” 

She frowns. "You think you can pull this off that fast?"

"Hey, this whole week we had to do in a flash."

"Sure, but that was with a whole team of support. You gonna sneak writers into this or something?"

“I’ve already reached out to Sean. He’s onboard to help. I think that’s all we need for now, since it isn’t dad talking. We can keep this small and scrappy.” 

“But you are going to tell the king, right?” There’s concern laced in her voice as she studies his face. 

Noctis sits back in his chair. “Of course, of course. Sean had stipulations; he’ll help, but not in secret. But—” 

“But?” 

“I want to talk to Prince Prompto first. No point in getting people all up in arms about something if it turns out he won’t do it.” 

She looks over the screen again. Then she sighs and sits back. “Okay, first we go talk to him. And if he agrees, we don’t do anything else until we can tell my brother and Iggy.” 

“Deal.” He intends to tell them tomorrow so they can enjoy their night out tonight. Noctis is very aware he’s working way out of his league right now. He’s hoping to appeal to Prince Prompto that this is something Noctis genuinely wants to do. That it isn’t some other play by the court. 

He closes the laptop and stands. “Okay, let's go talk to the prince."

It isn't until the elevator doors open on Prince Prompto’s floor Noctis thinks of two things. 

One, he hasn't been on this floor since it was designated as the prince’s. There are way more guards than he thinks he's ever seen on any floor that isn't for him or his dad. Unlike his own security detail, none of them have neutral expressions. They’re all showing some form of agitation. Noctis can’t tell if it’s because of their assignment just being this boring, or if it's because of who resides on this floor. 

While the guards aren’t from Galahd, something Noctis knows Cor made sure of considering the circumstances, they could still be upset on behalf of their comrades. The hope is that they will maintain professionalism for their duties. 

Who could say though how many of their fellow soldiers were down in the streets protesting without their knowledge? 

“The best of the palace guard in Gralea still let me be garroted in my bed.” 

Noctis still can’t get that statement out of his head. It rings and rings as he passes each guard. And the way all the guards look at him like they’re wondering why Noctis is there. Did he get off on the wrong floor? Is he on some secret mission? Is he here with ill intent? 

And two, Noctis and Prince Prompto have never been alone in the same space without guards. 

Noctis holds his head high as he walks down the hallway towards the main door, which is flagged by two glaives. This seems like overkill for someone who is supposed to be unarmed and doesn't have any magical powers—that they're aware of. 

As Noctis stands at the door, the thought crosses his mind that there is a chance Prince Prompto is in fact dangerous. But Noctis, not so secretly, has magic. The prince would know that. So perhaps he could have his defenses up and ready the moment the door opens. Noctis raises a fist to knock—

“Your Highness.” One of the guards at the door holds out a hand. “We need to check you.” 

“What?” Iris bristles. She’s probably never been frisked in her life. 

“It's fine." 

Iris relents and stands still as they are both patted down. Noctis does of course still have magic, but there's nothing they can do about that. 

Once that's done, the guard nods, and Noctis knocks with three solid raps. 

"Come in," Prince Prompto says from inside. 

Iris and Noctis share a surprised glance. Prince Prompto must feel safe enough if he just allows anyone to walk in without first asking who it is. But Noctis doesn’t wait for him to change his mind. He opens the door, and Iris walks ahead of him to at least keep up some amount of decorum. The layout of this apartment is different than his own, noticeably without the hallway to add some extra seconds for him to consider everything he is about to try to do. Instead, they are almost immediately face to face with Prince Prompto as he comes out of one of the rooms. 

“Hey,” is Noctis’s way of trying to be as chill about this as possible. 

Prince Prompto is dressed casually, in dark joggers and a loose white t-shirt. It makes the scarring around his throat the most obvious Noctis has seen. His blond hair is brushed back off his forehead and he is very, very clearly not expecting to see Iris, let alone Noctis, in the room judging by the way he freezes. Noctis doesn't miss the way his right hand reaches behind him before straightening out his shoulders and falling back into the schooled expression Noctis is more used to. 

“We’re here alone,” Noctis holds both his arms up after Prompto doesn’t go on the defensive. “I just want to talk.” He gestures to his backpack and slowly opens it up. He makes a show of pulling out the laptop. 

“Talk?” Prince Prompto stays where he is, one hand still holding on to the doorknob. “What about?” 

Honestly, Noctis is excited he’s gotten this far. Every step forward is like running a gauntlet. He takes the question as the opening to continue the conversation and steps forward. 

“I know you haven't been doing any interviews after the announcement, but I think you should reconsider.”

“If you know I'm not interested, why do you think I would change my mind?”

The word choice could be specific. Saying interested could suggest it’s his choice and not based on a directive from Niflheim. If that’s the case, then there’s a chance this could actually work. 

“To fix the narrative. For both sides.” Noctis keeps his voice steady and lacking the frustration he’d had the day before. 

Prince Prompto shifts. He slowly lets go of the door while narrowing his eyes at Noctis, who is holding his breath for dear life.  

Finally, Prince Prompto motions towards the corner of the room set up with some armchairs and a couch, and a glass coffee table in between. Prince Prompto goes to sit in the armchair facing Noctis, of course. 

Somehow Noctis does not cheer out loud at this progress. Iris lets Noctis pass to take up a spot on the wall—lurking but not hovering, while Noctis sits in the other chair. He respects what he thinks is Prince Prompto’s desire to maintain a safe distance.

And then, they’re sitting across from each other. This is the closest they’ve been, while also being the most alone they’ve been, since meeting. 

“So—” 

Prince Prompto interrupts immediately. “One interview?” 

Noctis keeps up his smile, ignoring how fast his heart is racing. “Just one.” He opens the laptop and then spins it so Prompto can see the screen. He pushes it towards the center of the table. 

At first, Prince Prompto doesn’t move. His eyes flick to the screen momentarily before he meets Noctis’s stare once more. Without makeup on, looking so casual, the dark circles under Prompto’s eyes stand out. Noctis can see freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks. He looks like how Noctis tries to act in his day to day: just another dude. 

“What do I get out of this?” Prince Prompto asks. His tone is flat. But Noctis knows this isn’t going to be a case of getting what he wants without negotiation. Noctis has to just make sure he can deliver something that wouldn’t get him tossed in jail for treason. 

So he knows better than to just offer something off the cuff. He tries to play cool with a simple shrug. “What do you want?” 

There’s a few more moments of silence while Prince Prompto stares at the screen instead of Noctis. 

“I can go through this first, if that helps—” Noctis reaches out to pull the laptop back to him, but then Prompto looks up with an intensity that makes Noctis freeze.

“I want a laptop.” 

“Sure. We can do that.” Noctis replies without missing a beat. A laptop is easy enough. He’s sure the prince is aware that nothing would be sacred here and his activity would be tracked. Even Noctis can’t search for anything while connected to the Citadel wi-fi or using any of his personal media devices without knowing somehow, someone is going to see it. And he’s not a prince of an enemy state. 

So Noctis gets out his phone and types up a message to remind himself to ask about that. He doesn't want to lose Prompto’s attention while he has it, and he hopes Prompto knows Noctis will honor the request. 

While he gets that typed up, Prompto reaches forward and hits the spacebar to go through the slides. 

“Not bad,” Prompto mutters. He‘s leaning on an elbow and the shirt sags a little at the shoulder.   “You made this?”

“Yeah.” Noctis is a little glad Prompto’s attention is on the laptop because he is embarrassingly staring. His hands are sweaty, and he worries there’s still a chance the prince is about to throw some kind of weapon at him. Or just call the guards. Or…

“Why?” Prompto asks, and they make eye contact once again.

Noctis swallows but doesn't break. “If we’re going to make this whole treaty thing work, we have to work together, right?” 

“Aren’t we already? You think the treaty won’t work if we don’t do an interview?” 

“No, no, I just mean—” Noctis usually doesn’t get so flustered but he finds himself stammering a bit more than usual. “I genuinely want us to work together on this. I think we can make a difference and speak to more people like us, our age.” 

He braces for Prompto to laugh. Or shout. But instead, the prince goes back to the laptop and hits the spacebar a few more times, reading the screen. Noctis’s leg bounces with nervousness. 

“What about the king?” 

This was the question Noctis anticipated that, out of all questions, would be the one he absolutely got. “He doesn’t know I’m here.” 

The way Prompto’s eyebrows rise up is almost comical. “Do you intend to tell him?” 

“I wanted to talk to you first before anyone else. If you’re not on board, there’s no reason in getting other people all caught up in it.” 

“Will it be like the broadcast?”

“No, smaller. We’ll just sit down with my writer and publicist. We’ll agree on key messages. We’ll get all the questions in advance from the journalist, so no surprises. We can go over the answers together. And we get full review and edit rights before it gets posted.” 

It’s a good deal. Hell, it’s a great deal. It’s the ideal situation for anyone wanting to control the narrative. Noctis is pretty sure they can pull this off. 

Prompto focuses on the screen for several moments. Noctis stays still, worried if he says or does anything to startle Prompto, it could throw everything off. 

Prompto closes the laptop and then sits back. Noctis holds his breath. 

“All right.” Prompto crosses his arms over his chest. 

“All right?” Noctis leans over to pull the laptop back towards him, but he doesn’t look away from Prompto.

The way the prince holds himself in that moment isn’t like he’s royalty, but more like a classmate hanging out somewhere and Noctis has just offered them to go do something stupid, like smoke under the bleachers. 

Prompto exhales. “I’m in.” 

Noctis can’t help smiling.

Chapter Text

The suite is crowded. Prompto is used to it just being him and Elshett, or a member of the dining staff, in his quarters at the same time as him. But today it has been practically overflowing, what with writer Sean Atrius, Elshett, and the prince’s entire retinue occupying his living space. It’s—not exactly comfortable, but he’s grown used to the intrusion as the hours have gone on. None of them have tried to go into his bedroom, not even to access the bathroom through there, choosing instead to step out of the suite to take care of their physical needs in one of the many unoccupied suites on this floor. 

It makes Prompto feel slightly better about his decision to hide his knives and stay unarmed for the duration of today’s work session. He’s sure Lucis knows he has weapons; he would rather not get caught with them on his person when he is in such close proximity to the prince for an extended period of time. Even if the prince and his retinue are never technically unarmed with the magic of their Crystal.

Their day started early, early enough that Prompto opted to skip his normal times at the shooting range and practice rooms entirely. Early enough that Scientia spent much of that first hour refilling Prince Noctis’s coffee mug while the lethargic prince and Prompto talked to Atrius about their rhetorical strategies to humanize Niflheim and advocate for peace. 

Prince Noctis eventually shook the lethargy, and he warmed up rapidly to the conversation. Before the prince arrived unannounced in Prompto’s suite yesterday, Prompto had very little idea of what to make of him. They hadn’t interacted privately at all, and their only extended time in one another’s presence had been while they were working on their speeches. 

Prompto isn’t entirely sure what to make of the fact that Prince Noctis brought just the younger Amicitia with him to make his proposal. On the one hand, at least the prince hadn’t felt like Prompto was so unthreatening that he could go into an intimate conversation by himself. On the other hand, Prompto clearly isn’t enough of a threat that he felt he had to bring his actual Shield. But most likely the prince’s choice in companion that day had been a courtesy: an acknowledgement of the potential danger Prompto could pose, but signaling he truly wanted cooperation rather than trying to intimidate him into agreeing. 

He wonders what niche the younger Amicitia fills in the prince’s retinue. She is well-muscled for her age and stature, with an expressive face, while her brother is large and hulking and severe. He is obviously a close-range fighter. Maybe she’s long-range support? Their family is famed for its fighters. Scientia clearly has the attaché duties covered, though Prompto is still certain he has categorized Scientia correctly as a Soldier as well given the man’s build and fluidity of movement.  

As for the prince—

Prince Noctis is more relaxed than Prompto thought a prince could be. He is clearly comfortable with his retinue, and fond of them, too. He asks their opinions, and most tellingly, doesn’t seem to mind at all when one of them pipes up with something unsolicited. Scientia and the older Amicitia are most practiced in their professionalism, but even they become less stiff over the hours, occasionally demonstrating a dry wit or sarcasm in their speech, both among themselves and to their liege. The younger Amicitia doesn’t have the practiced veneer her older counterparts do, but she’s not cowed by them, either. 

They’re friends, Prompto realizes. Yes, they all serve Prince Noctis, but they are also friends. Prompto can’t help but wonder at how much faith the prince must have in them to trust them with his self, not just his position.

The Emperor of Nifhleim does not have friends. He has a granddaughter, subjects and advisors, useful tools, and people beneath his attention. Prompto doesn’t even dare claim Solara, though the princess seems to like him on the rare occasions they are near each other. He keeps waiting for that to change as she gets older and begins to understand the assumed threat he could be to her position.

The morning is spent on those kinds of personal details. Prompto memorized the fictional details of his childhood as Aldercapt’s illegitimate son memorized for nine years now, so it’s easy to conjure up a “memory” or two of his mother to be able to share with Lucis. He doesn’t have to lie when recounting his disorientation and awe about when he was acknowledged and brought into Gralea the same day as Solara. He doesn’t have to lie about her, either, and how she deserves to grow up in peace after the death of both her parents. It gives him the opportunity to bolster the words Chancellor Izunia had said in the throne room:

Prolonged war has a way of reminding almost any man of his own mortality and the eventual end of all things.

Prompto doesn’t dare exaggerate this sentiment, but it was part of the allowed script, so he should be safe to keep insinuating that Aldercapt began to entertain the idea of peace after the death of his (only) child. It’s not a sentiment that Prompto thinks Aldercapt is actually capable of, given how long the war went after Prince Gaius’s death, but there is a—softening, to Prince Noctis’s expression when he tells the official story of Aldercapt’s loss and grief.

The prince glances away for a moment, as if internally debating something. Prompto can tell he has put the timeline together. “So you didn’t know him? Your brother.”

“I saw him once by chance,” Prompto says, which is the truth. “I doubt he noticed me, and I don’t think he knew we were brothers then.” 

But maybe he did. Maybe Prince Gaius knew what shapes his father’s desire for immortality had started forming. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Prince Gaius died long before Besithia had the tech to copy his consciousness, let alone transfer it to another body.

“But I know Princess Solara loved him,” Prompto continues. “She always speaks fondly of her father. He used to make sure to check on her and her mother whenever he returned from a campaign.”

Also true, so long as Solara hasn’t been coached on her own childhood. Prompto is sure that she is Prince Gaius’s illegitimate child, at least. Once, when she fell asleep at a court function, he carried her out into the corridor so her nanny could take her back to her rooms. It had been easy to cradle her head against his shoulder and check for an incision scar at the base of her skull. She had none.

“Your Highness,” Scientia says in the lull that follows, “may I suggest a break for lunch? You have been at it for quite some time.”

Prince Noctis glances at his phone, notes the time, and grimaces. “Yeah, of course. Sorry about that,” he adds, shooting apologetic looks to Atrius and Prompto. “What do you want to eat?”

So far, Prompto hasn’t made any special requests to Elshett, only told her if something wasn’t to his tastes after the fact. Most of it has been excellent. “I have no preference. Whatever the dining staff has prepared will be fine.”

“You’re sure?” The prince sounds skeptical, and he clearly is used to being able to make whatever requests of the dining staff he feels like.

Prompto resists the urge to shrug. “Colonel Elshett has handled my meals so far, and I have no complaints.”

The prince’s face does something—twisted, like he’s bitten into something sour and then remembered he is trying to be unaffected. “Okay,” he says slowly, “so what kind of food do you like, then?” 

He doesn’t seem willing to let this go, and Prompto would rather not drag this out further. Even if he knows the truth would be valuable information for anyone inclined toward poison. They have more reasons to keep you alive than not right now, Prompto reminds himself. “I have a fondness for spicy food,” he admits. “I’ve also enjoyed the seafood dishes I’ve been served.”

To his surprise, Prince Noctis looks pleased by the answers. “We have great seafood here,” he says enthusiastically. “Ignis, I’ll have a seafood dish, too.”

“Of course, Highness,” Scientia says. With both of their requests out of the way, it opens the floodgates for the rest. 
Even Elshett places an order. Prompto has never even seen her sit down in his presence, but she is joining them for a meal. To be fair, Prompto has never once invited her to dine with him. But why would he? In Niflheim—

The Lucian royal family behaves differently with the people close to them. At least in some contexts. Clarus Amicitia and Cor Leonis had not joined in his private dinner with the king. But the king had also allowed his retinue and the public relations staff a surprising amount of leeway in the meeting a few days ago, and the prince is a clear imitator of his father. 

It seems things are done differently in Lucis. 

Scientia calls in their requests to the dining staff, and then he and Atrius work together to clear the table. Prompto excuses himself and retreats to his bedroom, just wanting a break without having to worry about everything he says and does in the prince’s presence. 

He flops on his bed and stares up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled voices chattering to each other. Maybe they’ll appreciate a break from him, too. They probably are, given the volume of their voices. Someone says something that makes someone else laugh. The Shield, probably, given the depth of it.

It’s—nice, being able to hear the volume of their conversation without the words, even if it is a lot. The palace in Gralea was always very quiet. People largely kept their distance from him.

There are two knocks at the bedroom door. Prompto takes a breath and then levers himself back onto his feet. He opens the door and finds Prince Noctis, of all people, on the other side. 

“Hey,” the prince says casually, as if he were greeting an actual friend. Up close, his eyes are surprisingly blue.

“Lunch is here.”

“Thank you,” Prompto says, and he goes out to join them.

In many respects, Prompto knows his “on camera” time has already started, despite the fact that the news crew is still fluttering about the room, making sure all the equipment and people are where they need to be. It started when Elshett knocked at his door and he followed her out to yet another portion of the Citadel. He volunteered for the early slot with hair and makeup—it isn’t as if he has anything better to do—so he is already finished and sitting on a comfortable couch on the stage.

He spared them from the awkwardness of asking if he wanted them to cover up the scar on his neck as much as they could with makeup and wore a dark red turtleneck. Prompto dislikes the sensation, but the whole point of this interview is to help settle the citizens of Insomnia, and his full dress uniform with its collar wouldn’t work at all. He doesn’t dare get rid of the Imperial reds, but a uniform that evokes the battlefields he’s never been on would be a poor choice in this context. The rest of his ensemble is similarly subdued: black trousers, socks, and shoes, and a gold cuff that, while probably not necessary given the length of his sleeves, still ensures the barcode is covered.

Prince Noctis has only just arrived, and he is currently with his retinue off to the side, getting his makeup and hair taken care of. He is chatting amiably with the middle-aged woman who is trying to tame his unruly hair, with occasional asides to the younger man who is pulling product from her rather large makeup bag and setting it on the table in front of them. Scientia is off to the side, discussing something with the producer, a gray-haired woman with a serious, but not forbidding, demeanor, while the Amicitias are prowling nearby, keeping an eye on the vicinity—and occasionally looking at him.

Prompto’s thoughts on the prince’s retinue are interrupted by the arrival of the interviewer and a man carrying an equipment bag approaching him. 

The interviewer is a woman about ten years older, with shoulder-length black hair, warm brown eyes, a dark blue sheath dress, low black heels, and minimal silver jewelry. She has already been through hair and makeup, and she bows politely when their eyes meet. “Your Imperial Highness,” she says politely. “I’m Lucia Seuis, and I’ll be facilitating your discussion with Prince Noctis. It is good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Prompto says, as professionally as he can, because the last thing he wants to blurt out is I’ve seen you on television like some kind of awkward fan. He glances briefly at the other man, who is clearly not meant for in-front-of-the-camera work, given his hesitation in sketching a bow of his own after their eyes meet.

Seius settles into the armchair across from him. The stage is set up to mimic a living room, with a bland backdrop behind them, and a long couch, armchair, and coffee table positioned so that the multiple camera angles the crew are fussing over will imply a far more intimate conversation. 

“We’re going to start setting up your microphone,” she says as she waves her companion over. He drops the bag down in the center of the coffee table and takes a casual seat next to it after shooting another darting, uneasy look Prompto’s way. Seius already has a microphone clipped to her neckline; Prompto has no idea where the transmitter is on her and doesn’t care to look. “Thank you for agreeing to participate in this interview.”

“Prince Noctis is the one who suggested this,” Prompto says as the man rummages through his bag and starts pulling items out, “and persuaded me as well. Your gratitude should go to him.”

One of the three camera operators adjusts her rig and calls out something to a member of the lighting crew. The shadows shift across the stage, and Seius smiles faintly. “Still, I am looking forward to this conversation. It has been decades since an Insomnian reporter has had the opportunity to interview someone in Niflheim’s royal family.”

Prompto does not grimace. He has no idea how anyone back in Gralea will react to this unsanctioned interview. But he wants, no needs, a laptop, even one that will be monitored to hell and back and at least a decade behind what he could get in Gralea. Even if he won’t be able to send any information, he’ll at least be able to gauge the mood of Aldercapt and the empire. If he’s very lucky, perhaps he’ll even be able to glean some instructions or receive guidance.

“I’ve given speeches before, but never interviews,” Prompto says. It’s the closest he’s allowed to come to admitting a weakness to a stranger. “We are not as—close with the media in Gralea as it appears King Regis and his family are in Insomnia.”

“What is the relationship like in Gralea?” Seius asks, politely curious.

In Gralea, the media printed what the Chancellor of Internal Affairs approved, and nothing else. “It’s not as—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” the sound guy says as he connects a cord to a mic. He has a small pile of transmitters, receivers, clip-on microphones, and cords spread out on the coffee table in front of the bag. “If you’ll let me—?”

Prompto plants his feet and shifts forward to the edge of his seat so that the man can slip the microphone to his neckline without having to get up or lean over comically far. 

“You need to feed the cord down your shirt,” the man continues. “We’ll connect it to a transmitter, which will get clipped to the back of your belt. Want help?”

Prompto declines, and the man pulls back. He turns away so he can more easily dig through his bag again. Prompto fishes for the end of the cord and shoves it down the front of his shirt. The cord gets caught between his skin and the fabric, bunching up awkwardly. Since he has to put on the transmitter anyway, Prompto pushes himself out of the chair and onto his feet. He tugs on the front of his shirt to make sure the cord drops down smoothly the rest of the way. 

The sound guy turns back around. He doesn’t have a transmitter in his hand—he has a gun. 

(Later, when Prompto is staring at the dark of his ceiling, he will play this moment over and over in his head, clearer than the Archivist could ever be.)

Their positioning is the thing that saves him. The man put his bag in an awkward spot, forcing him to twist his torso away from Prompto entirely in order to retrieve his gun. He’s an amateur, and his arm lags behind his body, swinging wider than it should as he brings it around. Because Prompto stood to deal with the cord, he is further off to the side from where the man last saw him. 

Prompto catches the man’s wrist before he can get it lined up at center mass. Prompto yanks down and brings his knee up to force the elbow to bend in a way it isn’t designed to move. 

The gun goes off, a thunderclap of noise that sets Prompto’s ears ringing. He can’t hear the man’s scream, but he must be screaming based on the twisted agony in his expression. Prompto lashes out with his free hand, catches the man by the throat, and doesn’t stop. 

He slams the man back onto the coffee table. It cracks under the impact, but it doesn’t collapse until Prompto drives his knee down into the man’s gut. Sound equipment scatters across the floor, and Seius scrambles away. 

Prompto can’t spare any time for her. The man’s still conscious, eyes bright with hatred and pain even as he tries to force Prompto off of him, scrabbling uselessly against Prompto’s cuffed wrist with his one available hand, weakened by the loss of air. 

—steel wire looped around his throat, a coil of fire cutting into his skin—

Prompto adjusts his grip on the man’s throat, digs his fingers into the spots that will cut off blood instead of air. Holds until the man’s eyes roll up, until he goes limp underneath him. 

“—al Highness.”

—chest heaving, desperate for air. Clawing, thrashing, frantic to strike—

Keeps holding.

“Prince Prompto!”

His head snaps up. There, just two or three meters away, stands Elshett. She has—she has the gun, somehow. 

As soon as their eyes meet, Elshett ejects the magazine and tosses it off to the side. It clatters against the wooden floor, sliding off into the distance. A wordless demonstration that there is no longer an immediate threat.

Prompto sucks in a breath and relaxes his grip. He looks back down at the man that tried to kill him. The attempted assassin is still, arm bent at an unnatural angle. Prompto shifts off of him, and sees the man’s torso move in a hitching breath. Alive, still. 

“The Kingsglaive will take it from here,” Elshett says. 

Prompto closes his eyes for a moment to gather himself. He opens his eyes again, hopes he looks composed, and gets to his feet. Two steps back, and the team of Kingsglaive that had been on the exits swoops in. The ones that had escorted him and Elshett to this room in the first place take up defensive positions nearby.

It’s—quiet. Quieter than the lingering ringing in his ears can account for. He can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. On Elshett, too.

Is Prince Noctis still in the room, or did his retainers pull him to safety the moment the gun was fired?

He keeps his hands relaxed at his sides and ignores the soldiers at his feet securing the attempted assassin. The immediate aftermath never gets easier, and Prompto mentally scrambles for something, anything, that will give him the appearance of being in control of himself.

Do try to convince the Lucians we care about your continued well-being and general happiness.

“What is the penalty for attempted murder in Lucis?” he asks, as if this is an academic point of interest and not something relevant to him.

Elshett is too professional to frown at him, but something shifts in her demeanor at the question. “Seven to fifteen years in prison.”

“Even if your prince had been the target?”

“No,” Elshet says. “Then, in wartime, the charge would be treason.”

“I see.” Prompto lets the discrepancy hang in the air for a strained moment. “I do not think His Imperial Radiance would appreciate the difference if a treaty were at stake.”

“Your Imperial Highness,” Elshett starts, but Prompto turns away from her. He heads for the exit before his hands can start shaking, sweeping past the television crew and Citadel staff.

The Lucian prince is still here, barricaded behind a literal great shield and his retinue. Prompto ignores the prince’s attempt to catch his attention. He just leaves, counting on Elshett and their escort to catch up. 

Chapter Text

It isn’t until Noctis and his retinue are shuffled into a small nondescript conference room that everything hits Noctis. It nearly knocks the wind out of him once he’s seated. Cor and Clarus won’t make eye contact with any of them. His dad just seems disappointed based on his deeply set frown. Noctis holds on to the edge of the table and takes several deep breaths to keep himself from spinning out of his chair while the others take their seats. 

Everyone looks serious. 

They should be. 

Noctis just about caused a political upset larger than anything they have experienced so far. It would have put a stop to the peace treaty. Set them back decades in this war. He plays the moment over and over in his mind. Imagines all the other ways things could have gone. If Prompto hadn’t been standing at the couch. If Noctis had already been sitting beside him. Would they both be dead? Could Noctis have acted as quickly as Prompto did to take out the assassin? Would they have tried to save each other?

Noctis hadn’t even seen what was happening until the shot rang out and he was shoved behind Gladio. Despite Noctis trying desperately to see what was going on, they held firm and then whisked him away without any chance to check on Prompto.

“The prince?” his father asks Cor, once the sounds of chairs sliding across the floor have settled. 

“No injuries. He’s back in his room. Full security detail.” 

“Increase security on his floor and at all checkpoints in the Citadel.” 

Cor bows and is out the door. The large door bangs shut—another indication of the tense atmosphere, Cor never lets doors slam—and then Noctis makes himself lift his head to look at his dad. The king. 

“I’m sorry, Your—” 

“Are you alright?” his dad interrupts.

“I—” Noctis pauses. His throat catches. There are tears, somewhere, in the back of his mind and he suddenly feels like a kid again, stretched out in the back of a car screaming in pain as his dad holds him tight, telling him he’s alright. 

He doesn’t catch a tear before it drops, but he does keep it together enough to wipe at his eye with the heel of his hand. He had some makeup on and it’s probably smudged but that’s not important. 

“I’m okay,” he finally gets out. Ignis and Gladio sit on either side of him. Their chairs slide a little closer than usual, not touching him but being there . Close. 

“This isn’t your fault.” 

Noctis shakes his head. “It was my idea. I put us all in danger.” 

“This could have happened at any time,” Clarus chimes in. His usually stern face has a softness to it Noctis has only really seen outside the Citadel, at his home, where he’s hung up the role of Shield for a brief moment of normalcy.

“But—” 

“This was a flaw in security. We’re going to take this very seriously, and ensure it doesn’t happen again.” 

Words are hard to come by, so Noctis nods his head several times. He looks down at his hands and pulls them back from the table to fold them in his lap. 

“Do you know who the shooter is associated with?” Ignis asks. 

Clarus answers. “Not yet. And we don’t want to have any false narratives getting out. We have taken the whole crew in for questioning.” 

“Understood.” 

Noctis doesn’t understand. He can’t pull together how they got here, how he just tried to help and fucked everything up. Lucia Seius is someone they’ve trusted for years. The reality of not knowing who he can trust anymore makes him feel sick. He hopes she wasn't involved…but now he can’t know. Maybe he will never know. 

Ignis keeps his composure and continues asking questions, and Noctis isn't sure if he's asking just to fill the space or if he thinks there could actually be answers already, but either way he appreciates it. 

“What will we tell Niflheim?” 

“Nothing yet,” his dad says. “The prince doesn't have a way to communicate, as far as we know. We will try to speak with him to see how we can work through this, once we have more answers.” 

Clarus clears his throat. “It is imperative we show this is not something the Crown orchestrated.”

The question dies in Noctis’s throat as he thinks about the scar around Prompto’s neck. The words he spoke as they worked on their speech. Lucis has tried to kill him. Many times. For a lot of his life. Noctis almost curses out loud. Of course he should have considered how this could be seen. 

“Whatever you need,” he finally finds the words, “I’ll do it. I’ll even go talk to him.” 

“I don’t think that's a good idea, son.” 

“Why not? If I apologize to him, that would show I'm not involved, right?” 

As he speaks, the reality of his words fall flat. If something happened to Prompto, or another assassin somehow got into his room, Noctis and the whole court would still be seen at fault. 

Just when Noctis thought he’d been making progress, the walls around Prompto are surely up once more. Higher than before, probably.  

“What if I’m the one to give him updates? With Ignis, Gladio, Iris, and hell whoever you want.” 

Clarus and his dad share a look. “We will consider it,” his dad says, while Clarus looks less happy with the answer. 

But Noctis holds on to that possibility. He doesn't want Prompto to be afraid of him. Ideally of anyone, but considering the situation, that would be a hard ask. All Noctis wants is for them both to come out of this alive. Safe. Able to live normal lives without worrying about assassins and treaties and armies. 

“We have just days before other dignitaries start to arrive here for the negotiations,” Regis continues. “I expect answers before then. And until we have any, the Citadel is on lockdown, no new people in, and any one who does enter must go through a thorough check. Security should be at maximum and every person should be considered a potential threat.” 

Everyone mutters a Yes, Your Majesty . 

“You are dismissed.” 

“Fuck!” Noctis allows himself to shout once inside his bedroom. He barely manages to not punch a wall as he walks in. He shuts the door as Iris, Ignis, and Gladio enter the apartment. He needs some space for at least a brief moment. Thankfully, no one knocks on his door. He tears out of his dress shirt, throws his shoes, almost rips the button on his pants as he struggles to get them off. Only once he is in his joggers and hoodie does he go into the bathroom. 

He looks an absolute mess. The light mascara and eyeliner left streaks down both sides of his face, from the temples down to his jaw. His hair is flat in places where he must have pulled at the hairspray. Noctis leans with his hands on the sink top and takes a few deep breaths. He tries the four count breaths. It works after a few rounds of it. 

In his mind, Noctis keeps hearing the gunshot. And then he keeps getting transported back to Galahd. To the screams around him as they were attacked. Shouting for his dad who stayed behind to fight. His chest tightens and he breathes again, thinking to himself I am safe I am safe. 

“Noct,” Ignis’s muffled voice comes from outside his room, “can I get you anything?”

They should all be blaming Noctis . They should be punishing him, not helping him. This could have gotten all of them killed. Noctis needs to apologize to Prompto. To all of them. 

He thinks about his options. What his next steps could be.  

Noctis pulls himself together enough to get closer to the door. “I want to go see him,” he states, the closest to a command he usually ever gets, “I want to make sure he’s okay.” 

“Noct—” 

“I’m going to shower first, then we’ll go.” It’s not his usual way of handling things. Usually he asks for their thoughts. Makes the conversation an actual dialogue they all have input in. But this isn’t a usual situation. Ignis will do whatever he can to get Noctis to Prompto. It’s the least any of them can do. 

After getting out of his clothes and turning on the shower to the hottest he can take, Noctis lets his brain go into autopilot. It’s better than replaying the attack over and over. He lets himself just float with the motions of getting washed up, face clean and hair without product. By the time he is back in his comfortable clothes and opening the door, he feels a bit more like himself. 

Ignis is in the office, talking on the phone. The door isn’t closed all the way so Noctis can see him pacing as he’s talking. Gladio and Iris are sitting on the couch, but they both stand at attention when Noctis appears. 

Noctis waves them to sit down. 

“He’s talking to Cor,” Gladio supplies as Noctis tries to eavesdrop on Ignis. “Should be wrapping up now.” 

“Can we?” 

Gladio grins and winks. It’s the first time he has smiled since this morning. “Come on, who are you talking to here?” 

“Iggy did all the talking,” Iris chimes in. 

“Yeah, exactly.” 

As if on cue, Ignis comes out of the office. He pockets his phone and catches Noct’s attention. “The Marshal has agreed that we can go to the prince’s suite.” 

“Great—” 

“But this will not be a simple conversation. We have to go through several stages of security. Both sides.” 

Noctis raises one eyebrow. “You mean, Prince Prompto? The guy who was almost shot and is helpless in his room?” 

He catches the way Ignis and Gladio give each other a suspicious side eye. “What?” 

“The truth is,” Ignis picks his jacket off the back of one of the dining room chairs and gets it back on, “he isn’t helpless, and he certainly isn’t unarmed.” 

Ignis says it with such a quick, casual tone that it trips Noctis up. “What do you mean he isn’t unarmed ? He clearly wasn’t earlier.”

Ignis sighs. “Monica and Cor have had eyes on him constantly. Every time he’s out of the room, security is sweeping it. They have found small knives and believe he typically keeps them on his person, most likely the back or legs.” 

“But today…” 

“We can confirm that today while he was with you, all knives were accounted for.” 

Gladio and Iris rise and lead the way out of the apartment. At least they aren’t arguing about this. 

Ignis falls in line beside Noctis. “As far as we’ve been able to tell, Prince Prompto has short range and long range capabilities, hence the knives. And they are easy to keep out of view.” 

“But you said he didn’t have them with him today,” 

“No, and that was probably a very calculated decision.” 

Noctis wants to know what reasons Prompto would have to keep the knives in his apartment. Was it because he trusted the security they would have together? For some reason, the possibility Prompto had put that amount of faith in Noctis and his team makes Noctis feel a little more sick to his stomach. 

They all get into the elevator. Noctis shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “So he didn’t think he would need them today.” 

“One could assume.” 

Noctis chews on the inside on his lower lip. “So what are we gonna do?” 

“We will have the security team pat us down before even opening the front door, and there will be guards inside with Prompto doing the same.”

“What about the knives you just mentioned?” 

“I imagine he has the forethought enough to not have them anywhere near his person.” 

“What are you going to say?” Iris whispers as they reach Prompto’s floor and the elevator doors open. It’s an absolute madhouse in the hallway, especially compared to the eerie silence last time Noctis had walked through here. 

“Not sure yet.” He walks down the hallway, passing guards every couple of feet. There is a table with several more glaives blocking their path to Prompto’s apartment. On the table are several metal detecting wands. The glaives are much more visibly armed than they were before.  

Noctis’s first instinct is that this is excessive. But he catches himself and approaches the table. He pulls his hoodie off so the guards can see his arms, feel down the sides of his torso. They go up each leg. The others go through the same procedure. It isn't until they are all deemed safe that a guard knocks on the door. It opens, and another glaive gives a thumbs up. 

And then they are able to enter. Gladio goes first, with Ignis and Noctis side by side, and Iris trailing behind. Noctis wishes now he had talked to Ignis more about what he should say. He’s very casual normally, and that has worked for him in the past, but as he’s realized the last few hours, Noctis still has a lot to learn. 

The fact he didn't even know Prompto has potentially, most likely, been armed this whole time, and security allows it, is just one thing that is going to keep rocking him back for a while. They were all together the day before with his dad, and Noctis hadn’t caught anything to suggest they might be in danger.

Once in the living room, Monica stands at the dining room table, along with two other glaives. One of them is Nyx, and even he has a very serious face, lips in a tight line, instead of being his usual more cheery self. Noctis doesn’t wave like he would have normally. Nyx gives a light bow which Noctis isn’t sure he’s ever even seen Nyx do . 

Prompto sits in the same armchair as the day before. He’s still dressed in the outfit from the interview, hair done and makeup impeccable. It makes a confusing amount of emotions swell up in Noctis’s throat. He had been so worried about Prompto breaking down and having to put himself back together, and Prompto’s just— 

Sitting there. Like nothing had happened. 

“The best of the palace guard in Gralea still let me be garroted in my bed,” 

Or maybe he’s just so used to people trying to kill him that this is just another day. Another example, proof positive, that Prompto can’t trust anyone.

This is the moment where Noctis can try to fix things. Do something. He failed to show Prompto that he could be safe and that Noctis could be trusted. Now, Noctis owes it to Prompto to try again. 

“Are you okay?” Noctis moves toward Prompto with one hand outstretched—and he’s immediately halted by a glaive he hadn’t even clocked on his right side. He balls his hands into fists and doesn’t argue so the glaive doesn’t have to manhandle a prince. He does give Prompto a pleading look from behind the raised arm. 

“You have to know, I had nothing to do with this.” 

Prompto’s expression is almost like a porcelain doll. There’s no ounce of emotion Noctis can see, can pull to determine what he should say next. One of the skills he’s proud of is his ability to read people. It helps in council meetings. Helps with observing his father. But here, now, he feels like he’s drowning and the prince is watching, only watching, and not revealing if he even cares. It’s a stark contrast to their time together the day before, where Noctis felt so much progress had been made in such a short period of time, and that thought makes his eyes water. 

If Prompto won’t respond to him as Noctis, then he’ll continue to play the part of prince for now. Before he can show any weakness to not just Prompto but the whole room, but especially Prompto, Noctis bows at the waist to conceal his face. 

“I am truly sorry, Your Highness, I hope you can forgive me for putting you in danger while you are here with us.” He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to see Prompto’s expression yet.. 

“Please, sit.” Prompto’s voice is low like he’s trying to speak so only Noctis can hear, despite how impossible that is given the number of people in the room with them. Noctis moves slowly, first lifting his head. Prompto has uncrossed his legs and there’s worry in his eyes for the briefest of moments, before he goes neutral again. 

Noctis straightens up completely and sits on the couch, directly diagonal to Prompto to still maintain a distance that makes everyone, but especially Prompto, feel safe. Noctis isn’t a threat, and he still wants, so much, for Prompto to understand that. 

“How are you?” Noctis asks again, hoping maybe this means Prompto will give an answer. 

Prompto swallows but doesn’t give any other indication of his emotional state before speaking. “Colonel Elshett has been keeping me posted as much as possible, but as I understand it, there’s still no information on the affiliation of the attacker?” 

Part of Noctis wants to shake him, tell Prompto can just say how he is feeling. He saw the glimpses of Prompto for who he is when they worked together. There were bits of a person Noctis could talk to—hell, even get along with, and it feels cruel to already have their connection be set back to the beginning. 

“They have the whole crew in for questioning. And we’re increasing security throughout the entire Citadel and adjacent buildings until after the treaty is signed and everyone has left.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“Look, they’re—” The frustration creeps up in his throat and he pushes it down. He takes a sharp breath, “We’re doing everything we can. I take full responsibility for this. It was all my idea, and I allowed this to happen. But I just…I swear I was trying to help. I hope you know that.” 

There’s a tilt to Prompto’s head and his fingers twitch slightly. “Help who?” 

Fuck. Noctis drops his composure even more, he can’t help it. He rubs his face with one hand and then clasps his hands together, looking down at the floor while resting his elbows on his knees. “This whole thing is complicated, you know that. We talked about what it could do.” 

“I didn’t ask for the interview.” 

Noctis doesn’t look back up. 

There are several avenues Noctis could take here. He could stay like the prince, holding everything in check, which is what he’s pretty sure is happening. Prompto isn’t a robot. Noctis knows this especially now. This is a reaction to being almost murdered in enemy territory while directly with the prince of that territory. Unsure who he can trust even more now than even just this morning. Things have shifted on the axis, and everyone is floundering.

Or Noctis could be himself , the person Prompto worked with the day before. Show that he will keep some of his walls down if it means making this whole fucked up situation even a little bit better. 

“You’re right.” Noctis finally sits back up and tries to relax against the back of the couch. “What else do you want me to say? What else can I do? Tell me, I’ll do it.” 

“Your Highness,” Monica speaks up, but Noctis keeps going before anyone can stop him. 

“I fucked up, I put you in danger. I owe you more than just a laptop that we both know is not really any kind of consolation or freedom.” 

“Noc—Your Highness,” Ignis nearly breaks his composure, and Noctis still doesn’t care, because something shifts in Prompto’s expression. 

“His sentence.” Prompto looks behind Noctis. “I’ve been told the standard sentence for attempted murder in Lucis is seven to fifteen years in prison.” 

This catches him off guard. He almost spins to look at what feels like an audience behind him but holds firm. He doesn’t want to look at anyone else in the room right now. This is just about Prompto. 

“He’ll get more. I swear it. Him and whoever else was involved.” 

The shuffling behind him is distracting but Noctis keeps ignoring it. He’ll sort out the details and deal with those consequences later because maybe he does agree that the attempted murder of a prince from another nation while also in the Citadel and in the presence of the Lucis’s prince should be more than fifteen fucking years. 

“Do you intend to tell the public? Or Emperor Aldercapt?” 

“What would you like to do?” 

He can tell this question catches Prompto off guard. The idea of Prompto being allowed to have a say in something, be able to voice his opinion. It’s becoming more and more clear there’s something to that reaction. 

When Prompto speaks, there’s a hint of softness from the day before. “Keep it quiet.” 

“Then we’ll keep it quiet.” Noctis doesn’t need to know why. Not right now. There’s more commotion behind him that he ignores. “And I’ll still get you the laptop.” 

Another chip seems to break in Prompto’s demeanor, instantly hidden when he speaks. “Thank you, Prince Noctis. For coming here and speaking to me personally. I accept your offer and apology.” 

Noctis winces at the staccato formality. “Can we, when it’s just us, well as much as it can ever be just us,” fuck, he’s rambling now, “drop the formality? Most around me do. I don’t need stuffy titles.” 

There is a chance, of course, that Prompto does want to keep the titles, keep decorum and proper etiquette of two royal enemies. But Noctis just isn’t used to that. His casual relationship with his inner circle, with Luna and Ravus, his whole life—he’s been creating that safe space not just for him now, but for the him of the future, when he becomes king. He wants to have the ability to fall back into himself when he wants to and have people around him who are comfortable with that. His dad has a little of that with Clarus, but Noctis hardly ever sees his dad not being the King. It seems exhausting. 

“As I said, Prince Noctis, I appreciate you coming by. But if it’s alright, I’d like to rest now.” 

Despite ignoring Noctis’s request, Prompto's tone isn’t rude, or even sarcastic. It’s tired. Noctis won’t push further. Things have been set back, and he has to accept that. 

“Of course, Prince Prompto.” With that, Noctis stands. Prompto doesn’t. But he does nod his head as a bow. Noctis returns the gesture, and turns towards the door. He doesn’t look to see if his crew follow him; he knows they do. He keeps his head down until they are all in the elevator at the end of the hallway. 

Noctis grits his teeth to muffle a groan of frustration. 

“You did what you could,” Iris whispers as the doors shut. 

“I don’t feel like I did.” 

No one says anything else during the short elevator ride. When the doors open and they all start to move ahead of him, Noctis holds up one hand. 

“You’re dismissed.”

“Noct,” Ignis says first. 

“Don’t be stupid,” comes from Gladio, “we have our orders.” 

“Then stay in the hallway.” Noctis wants to cry. He hates it. But the weight of everything, not just the day but honestly, years of trying so hard to just live. He should lean on his friends, but right now Noctis just wants to be alone in his room and sleep. 

“As you wish,” is all Ignis says to indicate to Noctis that they won’t follow. 

Noctis exits the elevator, and doesn’t look behind him.

Chapter Text

Word of the assassination attempt stays within the walls of the Citadel, so far. Security has increased, but that doesn’t phase anyone or come across as strange. Not when Luna and Ravus are arriving tomorrow. 

Most people who work in the Citadel will assume that's the reason for there being more measures in place. But for Noctis, for those who do know a man could somehow waltz in with a gun and get up close to their target, what else could happen? 

Noctis doesn’t want to know the answer to that. 

“Isn’t it a little too early for you to be going into a spiral?” 

Noctis jumps at Iris’s voice. He’s sitting at the table while she relaxes on the couch, watching some morning talk show. 

“Not spiraling. Just tired,” he mutters and has another spoonful of cereal. 

She smiles. It’s not forced, but it’s also unnatural. They’ve been on edge as a unit since everything went down. He doesn’t like the vibe. But it's his own fault, and soon he’ll have to say something. None of his friends will ask to talk about it. They will carry on as they are supposed to, and keep that whole thing behind a locked door and pretend like everything is fine, because Noctis is the prince, first. Friend, second. 

But he hates when they’re in this cycle. Noctis is always the one to break it, but he hates himself a little more every time it comes around. But the day of the attack Noctis hadn’t been able to focus on much more than ensuring Prompto was okay, and all the different ways that moment could have gone terribly wrong. It’s easier to catastrophize something than to face it. 

A wad of paper hits the center of his forehead. “Spiraling,” Iris walks over to the table and sits across from Noctis. 

“Are you guys pissed at me?” 

Iris snort-laughs. “No? Why do you think that?” 

“I mean, I was a dick to you guys. I haven’t been exactly sociable. I got us involved in an almost-assassination—” 

“Oh my gods, Noct. You witnessed an assassination attempt. You’re allowed to have time to process it.” 

“Yeah, but I don't have to be mean about it.” 

“You always exaggerate yourself in your mind. It wasn’t that bad. Seriously.” When he looks up, she’s giving a more natural smile laced with concern. 

“You never say it’s bad.” 

“Because it isn’t.” 

“But you would tell me if it was, right? You would tell me to knock it off?” 

Iris shifts in her seat just enough to let Noctis know she’s debating what to say. “I’m sure Iggy could do it, but like, nicely?” 

That gets a laugh out of Noctis. “Maybe he already does and I just don’t realize it.” 

“He could insult anyone and manage to make it seem like a complement.”

“Exactly.” 

“Noct,” Iris leans forward and stretches out one arm on the table, palm down.

“Iris,” he says around another bite of cereal. 

She tilts her head. “I solemnly swear I will tell you when you’re being an ass. Even when you’re on the throne.” 

“Promise?” 

Instead of a reply, she bends her arm to lift her hand, the pinky lifted. 

“Aren’t we a little old for that?” 

Iris doesn’t budge. “Never too old for a pinky promise.” 

“I don’t think this is a legally binding agreement.” 

“That’s not what you said when you pinky swore you would never tell Gladio about that time I snuck out to go on a date.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Noctis caves and reaches out to hook his finger around hers. They both squeeze and then release. 

“Just feeling like shit these past few days, in my head and all.” 

“Don't worry, I'll go easy on you in training this morning.”

“Pinky promise?”

“Oops,” she pulls her hand away and laughs. 

Noctis does too, and he thinks, hopes, maybe it is okay. His relationship, friendship, with his guard is one of if not the most important of his life. They have to trust each other truly, and have to also be able to communicate, and help each other out. Noctis never wants to cause any kind of problem between any of them. He can’t imagine his life without them. He can only hope they don’t ever hate him, or hold something against him. 

He saw what happened with Cid, and how that tore his dad up when he left. 

Iris hops up. “Come on, finish up so we can get this out of the way. We do have to go to a different room though, the Kingsglaive are doing some larger scale drills in preparation for the treaty day and with all the fancy people showing up, they need to be more tucked away.”

“That’s fine.” He finishes his cereal and gets up to drop the bowl in the sink. “I’ll be ready in five.” 

“Roger roger.” She picks up her phone and is instantly typing away. 

Iris leads him down to a different training hall. It’s still large, but it doesn’t have the open ceiling like where Noctis could watch Prompto. When they get to the double doors, there are two glaives on either side of it. 

Iris is clearly caught off guard. She adjusts to her ‘authoritative’ stance and voice. “I’m supposed to bring Prince Noctis here.” 

“Apologies. There was a last minute change.” 

“We can work in the corner, it’s not a big deal.” Iris steps forward. There’s one small pause before she grips the doorknob, clearly waiting to see if they would stop her, but they won’t—she technically outranks them. 

Noctis nods at them both, and they salute as he follows Iris inside. He then promptly slams into her back when she abruptly stops. 

“Hey—” Noctis slams his mouth shut when he looks over her shoulder. 

Prince Prompto is the one in the room, standing at the far side near a table of wooden weapons. 

It’s the kind of coincidence Noctis can’t ignore. Prompto had brought walls back up, but maybe now…

Monica is nearby, and she stands up with a salute and an obvious side eye to Iris. 

“It’s okay,” Noctis waves. Monica doesn’t relax. Prompto doesn’t either, but he does set down the polearm and goes towards his water and towel. It appears he intends to leave.  

“Wait!” Noctis shouts before he can stop himself, wincing at the echo around the room.  

Prompto stops. Turns towards Noctis. 

“You don’t have to go, I’ll just stay over here.” 

“Your Highness,” Monica interjects. 

“Just get set up, I’ll handle this,” Iris whispers before jogging over to Monica. 

He heads to the corner directly across from Prompto to try to show he’ll give as much space as necessary. Today he’s just planning on doing some core work anyways, which he can do easily in a small space. He hopes Prompto won’t leave. Even if Noctis doesn’t talk to him, he wants Prompto to know he’s safe. 

Noctis spends a few minutes stretching his arms over his head. He doesn't have his earbuds; he really wishes he did so he didn't have to stand there in silence. 

Iris jogs back over to Noctis. “Okay, we should be good.” 

“He won’t leave?” Noctis whispers. 

“I mean, we can’t stop him. But we can stay,” she says almost too loudly, and he just hopes Prompto didn’t catch it. 

So, Noctis starts to warm up. He jogs in place, and Iris gives orders for different warm ups in between. He keeps his back to Prompto, but either he’s just imagining things because he has been thinking about the prince nonstop or Prompto is staring at him. But he doesn’t want to turn around because he isn’t sure how he would react to facing him. Or the thought he’s being ignored. 

Does Prompto hate him? Would he refuse talking to Noctis? Prompto hadn’t immediately kicked him out of the suite yesterday, but here Prompto has more room to ignore Noctis. Not that he would blame Prompto if that’s what he wanted. 

But Noctis hopes it isn’t.

Because of his upbringing, Noctis has had very minimal experiences with fall out among others. He hates this feeling.

He hears air being cut by rapid movement. Noctis chances a look over his shoulder—Prompto is still there in the corner with his back to Noctis. He’s using the staff to practice forms it looks like. Prompto is disciplined, that much Noctis has already been able to see. But his form is really good. Solid. But there’s a bounce to it, something that feels almost like a signature. Every position he holds is brimming with control and confidence.

Noctis doesn’t like to fight. It’s not his favorite way to spend time, training for something he hopes he never has to use. It keeps him fit for sure, but so could basic cardio and weights in a gym. 

But he does enjoy sparring with his crew. Each of them have different fighting styles that create interesting spars. There’s something in the way Prompto moves that is new and exciting. He wonders how what Prompto has learned in Niflheim differs from him.

“Noct, you listening?” Iris slaps his bicep lightly and he startles. 

Prompto glances over while spinning the staff. 

Noctis has a really stupid idea. 

“I’m gonna grab…something,” he trails off, and his body moves on its own. Iris catches up as he walks across the room towards the weapon table. 

Monica straightens up. He’s sure Iris promised something to the effect of we won't come near him that Noctis is immediately breaking. Prompto moves to the side but gives no other indication if he’s bothered by Noctis’s approach, or concerned. 

Noctis doesn’t have a game plan until he gets there. He makes a decision that mostly is meant to quench whatever fire of curiosity is burning in his chest. 

He pauses with one hand hovering over the weapons. “You know,” Noctis starts. He feels stupid for how his stomach does a few flips. “It’s not all that much fun to practice moves alone.” 

Noctis steps closer to Prompto. Noctis sighs with relief when Prompto doesn’t immediately punch him or continue leaving. Prompto studies him with the same cold stare as the day before. 

“Wanna go?” Noctis makes it sound as casual as he can. This isn’t about egos. This isn't about Nif versus Lucian. Just two dudes who want to spar. 

That’s something even they should be able to do. 

“Your Highness—” Monica and Iris are on the move. 

Prompto lifts up one hand. 

“It’s alright,” Prompto keeps his focus on Noctis. “It shouldn’t be a long spar.” 

Noctis’s eyes widen and he smiles. Prompto is goading him. Oh, he’s so stoked. “Already admitting defeat, then?” 

Prompto considers Noctis.

Noctis internally panics. Monica and Iris are two seconds away from committing treason and tackling Noctis to the ground. 

Then Prompto smirks. “We’ll see about that.”

Somehow Noctis manages to not cheer. He sticks to smiling. “Cool.” 

They both turn to Monica and Iris, who look like they very much understand they can’t stop this and don’t like it. Monica steps back to the wall. Iris stays by the table. 

“Rules,” Noctis says while they're squaring each other up. 

Prompto spins his polearm idly. “No magic.” 

“Of course. No magic.”

Prompto nods. “First one disarmed loses.” 

“You’re on.” Noctis moves closer to Prompto and reaches his hand out to shake. 

Prompto steps back, briefly, before he seems to catch himself and then he’s also reaching out, joining their hands together. Noctis is surprised by the warmth of his palm. 

They step apart. Noctis needs to decide his weapon. There’s nothing on the table that is considered deadly. It would take more than a wooden polearm or sword to kill either of them—and even then Noctis could warp away. 

He knows Prompto does a lot of long range training. He’s seen Prompto’s aim. He clearly works out a lot, so he has stamina. What Noctis hasn’t seen is his hand-to-hand combat skills. Noctis can hope, guess, Prompto has one proficiency he’s focused on. Noctis wonders if that means he’s more adept with distance than up close combat. But then again, he does have knives as well. 

Noctis chooses not to think about the chance Prompto could use those knives now. 

Noctis decides to use the tonfa. They’re small, just longer than his forearm. This means Noctis can block and strike if Prompto gets close. He grips them to gauge how they feel, doing a few practice jabs before stepping back. 

It surprises Noctis when Prompto doesn’t approach the table, but instead spins the staff in his hands a few times. Noctis is curious about the decision, but there’s also a part of him interested to see how this will go.

They both walk to the center of the room and bow to each other. 

“May the best man win,” Noctis offers. 

“You should have more confidence in yourself,” Prompto quips and steps backward.

Noctis barks a laugh, pausing because he’s so caught off guard. Noctis shakes his head, still smiling, and Prompto’s lips twitch. 

“You talk big. But you haven’t seen what I can do.”

“Then show me.” Prompto bends to a holding stance with the staff in both hands, pointed straight at Noctis. 

A buzz of excitement vibrates through Noctis as he holds eye contact with Prompto. Not many look Noctis in the eyes on the regular, let alone hold that stare without blinking, without any indication he's uncomfortable. And pointing a weapon at him. 

Noctis waits. Prompto’s face is flushed from working out. His freckles stand out and his lilac eyes are clear and focused. 

He doesn't think Prompto would know much about Noctis’s fighting style, save for what he knows about the Caelum line and the magic of the Crystal, which he clearly knew enough of to make sure no magic is allowed. So he wants to wait. See what Prompto does. 

Prompto finally shows signs of attack. His chin juts up just slightly, his eyes glance down to Noctis’s knee. 

The bad one.

Prompto knows more about Noctis than he thought. Keeping Prompto close enough to fight but also away from Noctis’s bad knee is going to be a challenge. 

Prompto finally makes the first move with a quick downward swing. He pushes Noctis back with a few quick hits that Noctis blocks. The hollow sound of their weapons striking echoes around them. 

It’s immediately noticeable how fast Prompto is. Noctis spins out of the way and blocks several direct hits. Prompto spins and attacks low, so Noctis ducks and blocks up with his left arm, not able to swing at Prompto yet. 

Prompto mimics him in a crouch and stabs forward. Noctis manages to hop up barely in time, and he stumbles back. The urge to warp is almost out of his control. It's a subconscious move to guarantee his survival, but he catches himself. No magic.

Prompto closes the distance, and Noctis kicks him in the chest to get more space between them again. They’re both breathing hard as they collect themselves. 

This time Noctis lunges first to try to catch Prompto off guard. Prompto blocks, but Noctis still gets close, enough to feel Prompto’s breath as he leans back. Noctis follows the movement while trying to disarm Prompto. 

Instead, Prompto regains his footing and shoves Noctis back with one hard push. He follows through the movement and attacks Noctis with full force. Noctis blocks strike after strike until he has no choice but to use the inertia to bend until he can let himself drop to the ground. Noctis sweeps out one leg in an attempt to trip up Prompto.  

It doesn’t work—Prompto is caught off guard but jumps out of the way. With some distance between them again, Noctis stands. He spins the tonfas to focus.

Prompto knows about his knee. Noctis has nothing to go on here, save for Prompto’s throat, which is too soft to do anything with. He needs to identify a weakness. 

Noctis pushes again. Each hit is blocked on both sides. Prompto's good, better than he lets on when he’s training, meeting Noctis swing for swing. When Noctis narrowly misses Prompto’s face they both stumble and hang on to each other as they land on their knees, arms locked. 

They’re breathing against each other’s faces. They make eye contact. 

“You can surrender any time,” Noctis mutters, smiling while trying to stay mildly threatening.  

“After you.” Prompto shifts his body and gets one knee off the ground.  

Noctis breaks eye contact to knock Prompto’s foot. It draws Prompto’s attention long enough for Noctis to get out of his grip and slide away before standing. 

“Oops.” He winks at Prompto. 

When Prompto gets up he’s staring at Noctis with narrowed eyes. “Okay,” Prompto shakes out his head, shoulders, arms, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. 

“Okay,” Noctis mimics. 

Prompto charges. At full speed. Noctis matches it. Once they collide, they’re moving so fast Noctis has to concentrate harder than he has in some time in a solo spar. Noctis ducks and rolls, but then Prompto gets to his knees and once again, they're quickly tangled up with each other.

“You’ve got some moves,” Noctis huffs out with a laugh. He’s having fun. 

They struggle against each other until they untangle their arms once more. Noctis gets in a knock to Prompto’s waist, causing Prompto to wince and loosen his grip on the polearm. Before Prompto can readjust, Noctis slides his tonfa down the polearm to snap it out of Prompto’s hands. 

It goes soaring through the air away from them. Prompto goes to lunge for it, but that gives Noctis the moment to seal the deal and trip him. They tousle on the ground, both tugging at arms and trying to get legs wrapped around the other anywhere they can. 

Noctis gets Prompto on his back and he hovers, crouched over Prompto’s chest with his legs on either side. 

“You lost your weapon. Looks like I win.” 

He almost holds one tonfa to Prompto's exposed throat, then thinks that would be in poor taste, so he just holds one palm flat on the ground beside Prompto’s head, the other stretching out as if ready to strike. Prompto has both arms splayed out and stares up at Noctis with defiance. They’re both breathing heavily. Prompto’s face is a soft shade of red that makes his freckles stand out. 

Each breath Prompto takes cools Noctis’s skin.

“What the hell is going on?” Gladio’s voice booms around them. 

Noctis startles and falls over trying to get up. He lands back on his ass in the most embarrassing way possible. 

Prompto sits up. Ignis and Gladio storm across the training grounds. Noctis sees his life flash before his eyes. Monica and Iris can’t help him out here. 

“It’s just for fun!” Noctis insists, “It's fine!”

“That is not fine,” Gladio snaps back, and heads straight for Noctis. 

Ignis bows deeply to Prompto. “Your Highness, my deepest apologies if Prince Noctis coerced you into anything you did not want to do.” 

Gladio is with Monica and Iris. Both stand at attention and they’re masking any emotion, but Noctis feels terrible. Again. 

“It’s alright,” Prompto speaks up as he retrieves the staff. Everyone else turns to him with surprised expressions.   

“Specs.” Noctis moves closer to Prompto to get Ignis’s attention. “It was my idea. Monica and Iris tried to stop us.” 

“It was both of us,” Prompto chimes in, “with the idea.” 

Noctis could hug Prompto for going along with his story. Without missing a beat, even. 

“Ignis,” Gladio doesn’t finish the sentence but gestures towards the door. 

That’s fine. Noctis is used to getting drilled into. At least he can save some dignity in front of Prompto. 

“Well played,” Noctis offers out his hand one more time towards Prompto. 

Prompto takes Noctis’s hand, shakes twice. “Well played.” 

“Let’s go,” Gladio huffs, not grabbing Noctis but herding him like a sheepdog, getting him to drop the tonfas, walk to his stuff, and leave the room. 

Noctis has one quick second to check over his shoulder as they all leave. Prompto is watching, staff resting on his shoulder. The cold façade from before is gone, replaced by an expression Noctis isn't quite sure of, but it’s definitely not an angry one. 

Worth it. 

Prompto watches the Lucian prince get—politely—dragged away by the older members of his retinue. He honestly doesn’t know what to make of what happened. If it weren’t for his transparent, earnest apology the last time they saw each other, if it weren’t for the laptop that showed up at his suite this morning, he would assume this mix-up of places and schedules were part of some sort of scheme. 

He still can’t rule it out entirely, but—it doesn’t seem likely.

Prompto returns the training staff back to its place, and when he turns, Elshett is there with his towel and water. She normally doesn’t touch his things if she doesn’t have to, but he takes the towel and wipes the sweat from his face and neck.

“Most people tend to hold back with His Highness,” Elshett says as he drapes the towel around his neck. “Few are comfortable with the possibility of injuring him, even in training.”

Is this a warning? Prompto holds his hand out for his water bottle, and she passes it over easily enough. After he has taken a few long swallows, he says, “I understand His Highness favors close combat, which I do not. I couldn’t hold back if I hoped to pose any kind of challenge in a spar.”

“True.” Elshett regards him with placid, light brown eyes. “Though there was a moment you would have reached for a secondary weapon, if you’d had one.”

Prompto’s blood turns to ice. It takes everything he has to keep his breath from stuttering.

He has long suspected Lucis knew he was armed and tolerating it. Not that it had mattered when the first assassin struck—he’d left his knives behind for the interview because he knew he would be in close proximity to Prince Noctis. But today he hadn’t expected the prince, and he’d had his knives, and when the prince had disarmed him—

Well. That settles the matter as to whether or not this conversation is a warning. It also adds a few more points toward the tally of whether or not Elshett is capable of enforcing said threat.

“If I had done that, it would have been cheating,” Prompto says, as lightly as he can muster, even though his tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. “You seemed surprised to see him here. Does His Highness often slip half his retinue?”

Scientia and the older Amicitia were clearly displeased to find them sparring, but the prince and the younger Amicitia also seemed pretty surprised to walk in on Prompto here.

Rather than confirm or deny what could be a dangerous piece of information, Elshett says, “I believe there was a scheduling mishap. We don’t normally host many guests, and things have gotten a bit out of sorts in the rush to prepare.”

Guests?

There are only a few people in the world whose arrival could throw the Citadel into disarray; he did it himself just twelve days ago. But if a delegation from Niflheim were here, Prompto can’t imagine they’d hide that from him, if only because they would assume the delegation would want to verify his good treatment immediately. 

That really leaves just one option: the Nox Fleurets are on their way, with whatever support Accordo has lent them.

Chapter Text

It’s been almost two weeks since Prompto appeared in Lucis, and with his arrival, the shift of the entirety of Eos. Dignitaries have been arriving since, but none so important so far as his two friends.

Noctis is excited, but for different reasons compared to most waiting in the throne room. 

“It’s just Luna and Ravus, I don’t see why we need to do all this,” Noctis whispers to Ignis, who is standing to his left. His retinue and his dad’s are on the dais in front of the throne, looking over the room below. 

Regis taps his cane on the floor once, softly, just enough to make Noctis snap straight up, shoulders back and chin lifted. 

Ignis leans ever so slightly towards him.“They are still considered royalty, no matter how casual your relations.” 

“Oh, it’s casual relations now?” Gladio quips from Noctis’s right. 

Clarus clears his throat. 

Noctis doesn't respond in case his dad catches him again, but his statement still stands. Queen Sylva will be arriving closer to the treaty date, so they’ll just have to do this again for her, as Queen of Tenebrae. 

The room isn't filled, and it isn’t intended to be. Not all dignitaries have arrived—but given the attempt on Prompto’s life, filling seats for the sake of it was not a good idea. There are some of the higher counselors and Kingsglaive, and then Noctis and his dad’s retinue.

Prompto isn’t there, of course. There is press in attendance to cover the arrival of the Nox Fleurets, so even if there hadn’t been an attempt on Prompto’s life, there would surely be outrage once again at him being there. 

Trumpeting coming from the hallway warns the siblings have arrived on their floor. Ignis, Gladio, and Iris all hold a salute with right hands placed over their hearts, while the rest of the court splits down the middle of the throne room to the door to make space for the others to enter. 

The musicians enter the room and also split up on either side of the door. Cor comes into view in full Kingsglaive regalia, maintaining his signature scowl. Cor salutes once he is in front of Regis and Clarus, and as he stands to the side, a group of Kingsglaive appear in the doorway, also parting. 

“Presenting their Royal Highnesses,” Cor’s voice booms around them, “Crown Prince Ravus Nox Fleuret of Tenebrae, and Princess Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.” 

Noctis remembers to bow as the others do.  

When Luna and Ravus enter, they shine brighter than the sun coming through the windows above them. It’s been three years since Noctis has seen Luna in person, but in that time she’s started her Oracle pilgrimage under the tutelage of Gentiana and her mother. 

Luna embodies everything an Oracle should be and more, glittering like a silver goddess from her hair to the points of her heeled shoes. She holds her head up high, and when their eyes meet, she winks. 

Noctis can’t help smiling. She looks regal in her bright white dress and hair done up spectacularly. Noctis always knew she would be an amazing Oracle. One of the kindest people in all of Eos. He’s proud of her and what she’s accomplished. 

And Ravus stands beside her. Noctis has seen him more frequently over the years. His military service brought him to Lucis more often. Like his sister, Ravus wears the mantle of a royal birthright well. It still feels like every time they meet, Ravus has changed in ways Noctis hadn’t thought possible. Ravus has lost the last of the lankiness of someone of his height and stature and is all broad muscle and a stillness Noctis can’t match. 

Ravus’s stern, stoic demeanor breaks for a moment when it’s his turn to catch Noctis’s attention. He doesn’t wink like his sister, but he does break form to smile, which is worse than a wink, actually, because the gray and purple eyes always were, and still are, something Noctis can never quite pull himself away from staring at. Noctis clears his throat while trying not to grin like an idiot and hears a small breathy laugh from his left; he ignores it and curses the small bump in his heart. 

Ravus took on a military role when he came of age, and it shows in his posture and expression. His prosthetic arm suits him well now—Noctis was too young to really remember how it was when Ravus had first lost the limb. He was always impressed with the ease Ravus moved and fought. The one he has now is clearly some kind of advanced technology he’s sure Iris and him will geek out over later. It’s been long enough it isn’t a sore subject, more of a mark that Ravus believes gives him an edge against enemies. 

One less limb for them to take away from me, he would say, in a way that used to make Noctis stutter way too much. 

“We are honored by your presence,” Regis announces, “and celebrate your safe arrival.” 

“We are honored by your invitation,” Ravus replies. 

“And we are eager to discuss the future of Eos,” Luna finishes. 

After the initial pleasantries, there is a slew of ceremonial speeches. Noctis zones out for most of it—only focusing hard enough to keep a muted expression on his face for the cameras. He comes back around fully when Regis raises his right hand and makes a sweeping motion to the court. “We will adjourn here for today.” 

The only sound in the room after that is the shuffling of feet, not even voices quietly murmuring as everyone else leaves, including the glaives. When the heavy doors finally close, Cor stands in front of them, with his back to it, for several beats until he nods once to signal they have all left.

As if in an exhale, they all relax. Noctis skips forward down the stairs, immediately hugging Luna first. 

“It’s so good to see you,” Luna says with a laugh, holding on tight. Noctis pulls back, then faces Ravus while Luna moves on to greet the others.

“Noctis.” Ravus reaches out with his good hand and Noctis takes it, and Ravus pulls him into a hug. “You got taller.” 

“Shut up,” Noctis laughs. He can feel the way Ignis and Gladio smirk behind his back. Noctis really thought he’d outgrown his stupid teen-addled crush, and he has, mostly, but there’s that small childish part of him that still feels a little jittery. The others all join for informal greetings save for the king and shield. 

“Lord Amicitia,” Ravus breaks from their little group to approach them, “might I have a word with you and the Marshal?”

“Of course,” Clarus motions to Cor, who walks up to join Ravus and Noctis.

Noctis can’t help his curiosity about what Ravus is so eager to talk about. He stays beside Ravus to listen, and honestly, to learn. Noctis has always looked up to him, silly teenage feelings aside. While their experiences were vastly different, and Noctis has had a less traumatic existence, it always amazed him at how Ravus kept it together, kept fighting for his home, his family, his people.

Ravus sets his attention on Cor. “Have you been to Cleigne yet?” 

“Not personally, no. But I have been getting updates from Drautos.” 

“Is there a concern?” Clarus interjects. 

Ravus scrunches his eyebrows up for a moment. “I just don’t trust Niflheim is actually leaving. It seems too easy.” 

Noctis would never have the balls to look at the Marshal and the King’s Shield with any ounce of doubt regarding their plan, but Ravus does. But Noctis gets it. After all these years, it does seem strange to think that things will be coming to an end, that they would get to go home. He’s sure Ravus and Luna aren’t giving away to any excitement, not until they are standing on the steps of their own throne room. 

Cor and Clarus exchange a look. It’s Cor who replies. “All the reports we have received show us that is the case. We intend to confirm well before we allow the public to return to the area.” 

“Of course,” Ravus nods. “I would like to join the troops who go.” 

Cor bows his head. “We will consider your request, Your Highness.” 

The choice of words there is not lost on Noctis, so he’s sure it isn't lost on Ravus. 

But Ravus doesn’t give anything away in his expression. “Thank you. I do hope—” 

“Ravus Nox Fleuret!” Luna shouts. 

Everyone left in the room turns towards Ravus in response. He’s pretty sure Ravus might be turning a soft shade of red.  

“Brother, I am exhausted. Can we please retire for now? We have plenty of time to discuss such matters.” 

Ravus rolls his eyes, but he smiles softly. “Guess you are right, sister.” 

“Get some rest,” Regis says easily. 

So Ignis and Ravus lead the group out into the hallway. Gladio stays beside Noctis, while behind them, Iris and Luna cling to each other as they walk and laugh about something. Hearing Luna laugh and watching Ravus and Ignis fall into easy conversation with each other, makes Noctis wish, not for the first time, the siblings could have stayed in Insomnia instead. 

It feels like it would be safer, for one, than being in Accordo, but also, selfishly, Noctis just wishes they were closer to him, to his circle. There are so few people Noctis has in his life he can be himself with, can drop the formalities with, and it’s always a breath of fresh air when they’re all together. 

They all squeeze into one elevator. Ravus and Luna are staying on a floor together in a two-bedroom suite, one they’ve used before and is always on reserve for them. 

“Now, we have some catching up to do.” Luna takes Noctis’s hand in hers once the doors of the elevator close and it’s on the move upwards.

“About what?” 

She gasps. “About the prince you’ve had here!” 

Noctis swallows and has to hold back the urge to pull his hands away from Luna. “There's not much more to tell than what I’ve texted.” 

Ravus huffs a laugh. “Somehow I don’t believe that’s true. We all know phones aren’t truly secure.” 

“Ravus, have my back!” This time Noctis does pull his hands away from Luna, if only to press himself against the wall and debate if he could warp out of there. 

“He’s really good looking in person,” Iris sings. Gladio snorts. 

Noctis freezes. Those are words Iris has never said about Prompto, at least not around him. They’ve talked about his fighting capabilities and routines, sure, but never commented on something like…is he hot or not? 

Luna smiles as she leans towards Iris. “Oh yes, I’ve seen him on the broadcast. But he looks so serious. Is he always like that?” 

“He’s got some other layers to him. Noctis has an effect on him—you should have seen them yesterday.” 

Noctis would really appreciate it if a hole would open up in the elevator and take him straight down to the depths of whatever hell there is, thanks. 

Ravus leans down a little towards Iris. “What happened yesterday?”  

“Oh, they sparred. No big deal.”

Ravus and Luna look at him with wide eyes. 

“You sparred with the Prince of Niflheim?” Ravus hisses as the elevator doors finally open. “That’s idiotic.”

“Thank you,” Ignis chirps in. “We told him the same.” 

Noctis holds both of his hands up in surrender. “It’s not a big deal! It was totally safe, Iris and Monica were there, and we just used practice weapons.” 

The others spill out of the elevator and into the hall. Noctis hangs back to try to avoid making eye contact with, well, anyone. 

“Were you certain he was unarmed?” Ravus falls in step beside Noctis. It’s clear he is genuinely concerned, which Noctis appreciates, but he also doesn’t want to set up any false perceptions in case they meet Prompto before the treaty signing.

And to that, Noctis hasn’t considered at all if and when Prompto could meet them. Is the intent to keep Prompto away from everyone?

“He’s not some kind of cold-blooded murderer. He’s a prince, just like us. I doubt he would try anything.” 

Ravus shakes his head. “He’s a prince being held in enemy territory. You shouldn’t lower your guard around him.” 

Iris spins around and grins wickedly at them. “I'm just honestly surprised Prince Prompto agreed to it after the assassination attempt.” 

“Wait.” Ravus grabs Noctis’s bicep with his prosthetic hand. “Assassination attempt?” 

“Keep it down!” Noctis urges them ahead to get inside the room. The attempt is still supposed to be on a need-to-know basis, and he’s sure the guards here don’t fall under that. And he won’t bend the rules for them, but he will for Luna and Ravus. 

Ignis, Gladio, and Iris all sit at the dining room table. Luna and Ravus take one part of the large L-shaped couch, while Noctis puts some distance between them by sitting across. The siblings don’t even need to say anything to tell him to spill. They both sit, nearly identical, with fixed expressions of concern. 

Noctis takes a deep breath. “I convinced him to do an interview, it wasn’t like no one knew about it. We got it approved and had thought we had done everything right.” 

“Prince Prompto was getting his mic on. The sound guy pulled a gun.” Noctis’s voice shakes a little, betraying the calm he’s trying to uphold. 

Luna gasped, hand over her mouth. “Gods!” 

Ravus’s lips tightened in a line. “Is he alright?” 

Noctis can’t help but laugh a little. “He’s fine. I didn’t see it happen, but by the time the gun had gone off and we registered what was going down, Prompto had the assassin on the ground and a knee in his stomach, and the guy had a broken arm.” 

Luna sits back. “Seems he’s more than capable of handling his own here, doesn’t he?” 

“But I still don’t like this whole leaving him alone, isolated shit,” Noctis leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Like, what if we were in his position? What would we want, you know?” 

“So have you spoken with him?” 

“I apologized, and I think he knows I had nothing to do with it? Scared us all though, and that, uh, kinda set things back in just trying to maintain contact with him? But then…yeah, yesterday. It was fine?” 

Luna shakes her head. “There’s so much we have to unpack here.” She gets up. “But first, I desperately need a shower. Or at least a quick rinse off.”

She disappears into one of the bedrooms. Noctis rubs his knees, unsure where to go from here. He knows he can talk to Ravus, and Luna, about anything, but something about Prompto makes Noctis uneasy to talk about him too much with them. He’s not used to feeling this way. 

“How is it in Altissia?” Ignis asks from the table, and Noctis is glad for it. 

“About the same as always. Mostly boring, but at least it has a view.” 

“And the pilgrimage?” 

“Luna has been doing well. Over here it has been tougher—the Wall protects from some things but is worthless for others. People can still enter parts of Lucis that aren’t as protected as Insomnia. I think there’s more than just Cleigne that needs to have a thorough sweep once Niflheim is out.” 

Ignis nods. “I can imagine. And then we have to hope His Majesty is able to increase his protection over Cleigne once more.” 

“Yes, precisely.” Ravus sighs. “No offense to the king and his capabilities, but seeing him today—he’s looking much older than he is.” 

It's not the first time someone has said this around Noctis. It’s been a topic for years, even before the attacks on Galahd and Tenebrae. The Wall is a constant topic for the Kings of Lucis, and the toll it takes on them is massive. Others only see it in passing on broadcasts or events. Noctis sees it every day. Sees the way his dad has to depend more on a cane. Or how he stands less and stays seated more. The way he sometimes taps Clarus on the elbow to slow down their pace, hoping no one else sees the gesture. 

Noctis hasn’t been able to start his own journey to receive the blessings of the gods and acquire the weapons of his ancestors because of Niflheim’s occupation. But soon he will. It’s his birthright, his duty. And it’s scary, but he isn’t stupid or blind to what’s expected of him. 

“Once we have Cleigne back,” Noctis says with a conviction he hopes they can sense, “I’ll make the journey. I’ll take over the Wall. I’ll make sure Lucis stays protected. Including Galahd. We’ll get it all back.” 

The room goes quiet. Noctis looks at every one of them and is confused by their expressions. Did he say something wrong? Stupid? Sure, he’s a little hopped up on adrenaline and excitement—the spar with Prompto, his friends arriving, news from outside the Citadel walls—but he doesn’t think it’s the worst sentiment to have.

“What?” 

Ravus glances at Ignis. “Like I said. We’ll need time. Cleigne isn’t going to magically be free and safe overnight.”

“I know that,” Noctis fights snapping back, feeling childish all of a sudden. 

“When was the last time you were out there?” Ravus asks. 

“Cleigne?” 

Ravus nods. 

“Before it fell, of course.” 

“Exactly.” 

“What—”

Ignis interrupts with a raised hand. “I believe what Prince Ravus is saying is, all in due time.” 

“It’s alright,” Luna’s voice makes them all sit upright. She is in a big fluffy white robe and her hair done up in a high, messy bun. “It won’t be easy, but we can do it. Together.”

“Lunafreya,” Ravus starts, but she gives him a sharp look. 

“I’ve seen what is happening out there just as much as you. It’s not so bad we cannot fix it. We just need time.” 

“Exactly! And we’ll have time. We’re gonna have all the time we need and more.”

Luna walks over to sit beside Noctis. She takes his hands in hers. “The people of Eos depend on us. In this room. We are the ones who will bring a new dawn to Eos. No matter the cost.” 

“No matter the cost,” Noctis repeats. He believes it with every fiber in his being, every spark of magic in his body and soul.

Chapter Text

The invitation, when it interrupts his light breakfast, is on a thick, off-white parchment style paper, with His Imperial Highness Prompto Aldercapt on one side in a beautiful penmanship. The seal holding it closed is pressed into a deep blue-purple wax and features a stylized sylleblossom. Prompto stares at the seal for a moment, glances up to Elshett, who has retreated a few steps to give him space to read it even though she undoubtedly already knows the broad strokes.

It is structured almost identically to the invitation that the king had sent him, though Prompto notes distantly it is handwritten as opposed to typed:

Prince Prompto of Niflheim,

Her Highness Lunafreya Nox Fleuret invites you to privately dine with her in a small party of intimate friends. Your presence is welcomed this afternoon at 1300 in the Central Gazebo in the Citadel gardens. Attire is dressy casual. 

Please relay your acceptance or rejection to Colonel Elshett this morning. If you have any questions or would like to suggest an alternate time, please do not hesitate to do so in your reply. 

Sincerely,

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret

Princess of Tenebrae

Oracle Apparent

The tone could not be any more different than the last invitation he received. And it is baffling, honestly; Prompto expected the polite frigidity he has received so far from King Regis. He anticipated the same from the Tenebrae delegation, if not worse—they were driven from their homes entirely. But there is warmth in the phrasing, the wording, despite its formality. It actually sounds like an invitation rather than the king’s thinly veiled summons.

Prompto has no idea how to interpret that. Especially not since this—garden party must be one of the first official things Princess Lunafreya has set up since she only arrived in Lucis yesterday. And she wants to meet him?

As for the “small party of intimate friends”—that’s Prince Noctis at least, maybe his retinue, and whoever else she deems a friend on her side. Her brother, likely, if he arrived with her. It all sounds like a fantastic way to get himself cornered into uncomfortable and threatening conversations. And the gardens don’t sound like a particularly defensible area, but—Aldercapt would be furious if he found out Prompto had refused.

Prompto folds the invitation back up and resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. He liked that the Citadel’s focus had gone elsewhere in the lead up to the princess’s arrival. He’s going to be stared at again, up close and by who knows how many people. “Relay to Her Highness that I would be honored to attend.”

After his daily training and customary shower, Prompto struggles for a few minutes trying to figure out how to assemble an appropriate “dressy casual” outfit that isn’t a direct repeat of the clothes he was wearing when he almost got shot. He unearths a long-sleeved red button down shirt, more subdued than the normal Imperial red, and goes for the black trousers, socks, and shoes again. Instead of a gold cuff to peek out from underneath the sleeve, he selects one of black leather with the Imperial crest embossed on it. He forgoes a tie, leaves the top two buttons on his shirt undone, and hopes this doesn’t miss the dress code entirely. It will leave his scar on display, but the redness has faded enough it no longer draws the eye so quickly.

He leaves his knives in his suite.

Elshett and a team of Kingsglaive escort him down to the Citadel gardens after giving him a thorough patdown. He’s seen the gardens from a few stories up before, but Elshett hadn’t gotten to this part of his Citadel tour yet. That might have been a strategic decision—maybe they’d coordinated with Tenebrae about the setting for his first meeting with the princess.

The garden is interesting. There aren’t very many green spaces in Gralea, and it wasn’t as if Aldercapt had a burning reason for him to be taught anything about horticulture. But the trees, flowers, bushes, and other plants are all pleasantly arranged. There are benches and fountains scattered about, too, and it looks—nice. If there weren’t a ridiculous number of places an assassin could by lying in wait, Prompto thinks he’d like to spend more time exploring this place. As it is, he can’t help the way his heart kicks up a notch, and he tries not to make it obvious how frequently he scans their surroundings.

The gazebo is beautifully built from what looks like intricately detailed wrought iron, with a high roof supported by six archways. There are steps leading up through each archway, and the open sides allow for clear views of the occupants. Or it would, rather, if there weren’t people posted in five of the six archways. He recognizes both Amicitias, two Kingsglaive uniforms, and—to his surprise—Prince Ravus Nox Fleuret. 

He had expected the Tenebraen prince to join the party if he were here, but it seems he and his sister prefer him on guard duty. Prompto can’t decide if that is an ominous decision or not.

Prompto climbs the three stairs up into the gazebo proper, and Elshett and his guard fall away behind him, with Elshett slotting into the final archway. (He carefully shoves aside the confirmation of her ability to fight to worry about later.) Prince Noctis and Princess Lunafreya are already at the dining table at the center of the gazebo. They make quite the visual pair, with the prince in black slacks and black and geometric silver patterned shirt and the princess in tea-length white dress with silver filigree. 

They stand, practically in sync, and the princess says, “Thank you for joining us, Prince Prompto of Nifhleim.” Her voice is confident, pleasant, and she drops a small curtsy before offering him her hand expectantly.

Prompto seriously hopes that courtly manners are the same in Niflheim as they are—were—in Tenebrae, because otherwise he might get murdered. “The pleasure is mine,” he says, and accepts her hand, bowing over it before pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

When there isn’t any violence, Prompto lets go of her hand and straightens up. He turns and bows slightly. “Prince Noctis.”

The prince greets him back, and Prompto is abruptly reminded of his request to be on a first name basis, which Prompto had declined. Not that it would have been applicable here—under the scrutiny of his retinue and an unknown number of Kingsglaive—but the formal manners are certainly in contrast to the dressy casual listed on the invitation.

“Please, sit,” the princess says to him, indicating the only empty seat at the table. She takes her seat first as the hostess, and Prompto follows her lead. 

There is a silence afterward that stretches nearly to the point of awkwardness. Princess Lunafreya is studying him, and while her blue eyes aren’t hard, her gaze is still piercing. He wonders what she sees when she looks at him. He wonders what she thinks of the scar around his neck.

(He still doesn’t know if it was Lucis, Tenebrae and Accordo, or one of the great houses in Niflheim who murdered him in his bed. If Aldercapt knows, he hasn’t thought it important enough to share.) 

Scientia steps in then—literally, and Prompto honestly hadn’t expected that the man would be their waiter for the luncheon, not when he could have been the sixth at the gazebo archways. But he has a bottle of sparkling water in his hands, and he silently pours Prompto a glass before topping off the rest and retreating. 

The motion breaks the spell of silence, and Princess Lunafreya smiles again. “I hope you weren’t taken aback by the invitation.”

A comment that really only has one right answer: “I was honored to receive one so soon after your arrival. I anticipated you might have wanted time to settle in.” 

She glances over at Prince Noctis. “Noctis graciously allowed me to steal Ignis from him to help with the setting and the food, and Gladiolus for the security plan.”

The prince smiles at her, and Scientia appears at her elbow to deposit an oval plate with a varied selection of appetizers. “You made good use of them.”

Prompto can tell by the way the two look at each other that there is a fondness between them. They only change their demeanor when they look at him. He squashes the part of himself that wonders what it could have been like to have friends.

“It all looks wonderful,” Prompto agrees amiably as Scientia provides the two other plates of food and then fetches a wine bottle so he can pour them each a small flute. “Though truth be told, I had thought Prince Ravus would join us at the table.”

The Tenebrean prince does not react in Prompto’s periphery, at least not what Prompto can tell from the line of his back and shoulders.

“My brother prefers action to talking,” Princess Lunafreya says, and there’s a note in her words that Prompto doesn’t know her well enough to interpret. “Even if it means he simply keeps watch.”

Which is fair. If Prompto had any real choice, he wouldn’t be here either. “It is a trait that has served him well in the war, to my understanding. His Highness is a capable leader and an excellent fighter, and Accordo and Lucis’s continued existence are in no small part due to the actions he has taken.”

The set to the princess’s mouth indicates she isn’t particularly pleased by the compliment, and Prompto doesn’t know what to make of that. Are they not close? The reports he had been given in the briefing leading up to his handover to Lucis indicated that they were. Or maybe he strayed too close to the fact that Tenebrae no longer exists in any meaningful form.

Prince Noctis selects some kind of deviled egg and takes a generous bite from it.

“He has done much for our people,” is what she ultimately settles on. “But it is my dear hope that he can soon lay down his sword.”

That gets a reaction from Prince Ravus: a slight shift in weight, and a stiffening of his shoulders. Prompto wishes that he were at the table with them so he had some hope of guessing what emotion is behind it.

“But enough talk of the war,” Princess Lunafreya says. Her voice is too firm to be cheerful. “There will be time enough for that when our parents arrive. I would like to get to know who you are beyond your title and position, Prince Prompto.”

A little jolt of fear works its way down his spine. Who he is? What is there actually to say? He curls his fingers into his trousers rather than risk touching the scar hidden by his hair.

“The eggs are good, Ignis,” Prince Noctis pipes up, one quick swallow the only thing saving him from speaking with his mouth full. “I’d even go so far as to say they’re excellent.”

Princess Lunafreya laughs, and it is only then that Prompto realizes that no, Prince Noctis hadn’t said excellent, he’d said eggsellent.

A short burst of laughter tears out of him, which Prompto quickly turns into a cough. Prince Noctis catches his eye and grins.

“Noctis, for example, likes puns,” Princess Lunafreya says, clearly amused. “Bad ones, specifically. So do the rest of his friends.”

This is uncertain ground, far from the scripts he stuck to in Gralea and reused here in Lucis. But—it isn’t necessarily bad. “And what about you, Your Highness?”

“Irony. Teasing, in general. And you?”

It is so—weird. Not bad, necessarily, but—he can’t remember anyone asking him questions like this before. He isn’t sure he’s ever had to generate an opinion on something so mundane as humor. His brain stalls for a moment, until he realizes that the answer doesn’t really matter. This isn’t something that could have consequences for him now or for Aldercapt in the future. It isn’t like he’s going to be staying here after negotiations are finalized and the treaty is signed.

“Wordplay,” Prompto says finally. “Puns are fine. Riddles, too. Clever ones,” Prompto adds, and squashes the urge to smile when Prince Noctis makes a wounded expression by taking a sip of his wine. Princess Lunafreya raises her own glass in camaraderie? commiseration? and tries the wine herself.

“Let’s take turns,” Noctis says, gesturing between the three of them. “Likes, dislikes—stuff like that.”

“I’m in. I’ll count our styles of humor as my topic.” Princess Lunafreya smiles faintly, and Prompto can’t tell if she and Noctis are simply that in sync or if they planned this conversation. “Noct?”

“Favorite food? I love pastries,” Noctis says. He picks up a second appetizer and waves it at Prompto, which must be the sign that he should answer next.

He has no idea if Aldercapt has any favorites, but the emperor can always declare it a change in taste later. “I like curries.”

“Does this wine count?” the princess asks, which earns a smile from Noctis and a flicker of amusement that Prompto keeps locked in his chest. “Ignis, please send a few bottles to our suite.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“I’m rather fond of a good, hearty bread,” she continues. “I’ve had so many different kinds out in Leide.”

Right, her pilgrimage for her Oracle training. Prompto files that information away and finally picks up the deviled egg on his plate to try. The yolk filling is creamy with a tiny kick of spice that Prompto wishes lingered on his tongue longer. What is something inconsequential he can ask? “What is your favorite time of year? Mine is autumn.”

“Why?”

Prompto is thrown by how easily Noctis breaks their fledgling script. Why? He’s never had someone ask why he liked something before.

“I like—I like the way the leaves change colors,” Prompto says, feeling wrong-footed. “And what that does to the mountains around Gralea. It’s—” beautiful “—striking.” One of the few beautiful things he can see from the palace.

“Spring for me,” Princess Lunafreya says easily, “once it’s warmed up enough the flowers start to blossom.”

“Summer, definitely. It’s the best time to go fishing,” Noctis says. 

Prompto hesitates, but Noctis asked a follow-up question, so it should be fine for him to, right? “You like to fish?”

It’s not like he’s thought much about what Noctis might like to do in his spare time, but it’s a little hard to wrap his brain around the idea of a prince who likes to fish. What could he possibly be learning from or getting out of an activity like that? Why would the king allow him to spend his time like that?

“Yeah, it’s nice to be out on the water when I can.” Noctis doesn’t seem annoyed by the question, but something flickers across his expression when he adds, “My dad taught me.”

Princess Lunafreya steps in immediately to smooth away whatever she saw in Noctis. “How about hobbies? Noctis, you can’t say fishing.” She ignores the face Noctis makes at her and plows ahead. “Playing card games, when I’m on the road, and catching up on television and movies when I’m home.”

Prompto shoves another appetizer in his mouth, trying to buy himself time. Noctis notices his mouth is full and decides to answer instead of waiting. “Okay, second to fishing is video games. I like to play RPGs, especially strategy-based ones.”

Video games? That makes even less sense than fishing. At least fishing would allow him to feed himself if necessary. He can’t even imagine what Aldercapt would do if he heard Prompto was playing video games. 

Princess Lunafreya and Noctis look at him expectantly, and Prompto stares back, trying to formulate any kind of response. He doesn’t even know what Aldercapt likes to do—it’s not like the man spends his leisure time with him. It’s not like Prompto has a choice in how his time passes by in Niflheim.

“Running,” he says once he finally forces himself to stop chewing and swallow. It’s something he is good at and something he does every day in the Citadel, something that would clearly take time to train in. “Shooting.”

Princess Lunafreya’s expression is politely bland. “Competitively?”

“No, not really.” Being forced to reach ever higher standards isn’t a competition, especially given the penalties for failing to meet them. It’s training. “I’ve had more of a crowd here in Insomnia than Gralea.” 

Maybe he should have lied. He doesn’t know how to react to whatever tightness is around Noctis’s eyes. “He’s a good shot,” Noctis tells the princess, and he’s smiling a little in a way that makes Prompto want to twist the cuff around his wrist. “Cor’s said so.”

The news that Leonis is apparently talking about his skill level isn’t welcome, even though it’s unsurprising. Leonis is the one that supplies him with the weaponry and ammunition for shooting. He watches every second Prompto has a gun in his hands. Of course he’s noticed Prompto’s speed and accuracy. It still makes him queasy knowing that Leonis has specific opinions about it and is warning others.

“I’ve worked hard to become so,” Prompto finally says, not sure how else to respond. He’s not supposed to brag about his own skills; Aldercapt does, on occasion, though they’re normally couched as threats.

Noctis must sense his discomfort, because he continues. “My turn, yeah? Hmmm.” He considers the question longer than required while he pops a stuffed olive into his mouth. “Most interesting thing in Insomnia so far? Uh, this visit for you, Luna.”

There is something of a smirk tugging at the princess’s lips, though Prompto has no idea what it is. Maybe reveling in the implied intimacy of the nickname? She glances over to Noctis—why does that make Noctis look like he’s swallowed something sour?—and says with mischief in her voice, “I think I’m going to have to go with the obvious choice and say you, Prince Prompto.”

Prompto resists the sudden urge to bolt, aware once again of just how surrounded, how vulnerable, he is. “Your Highness is too kind,” he says and stays firmly in his chair. “I’m sure if you were to ask—” my keepers, minders, jailors “—Colonel Elshett, she would have a very different opinion. I have a very conservative schedule in the Citadel.”

“What do you mean?” she asks as she picks up her last appetizer.

He tells himself to assume that her prodding is innocent rather than some kind of taunt. “My day-to-day schedule changes very little. The mornings are devoted to training, and then after lunch, Colonel Elshett escorts me somewhere in the Citadel for an hour or so before returning me to my suite.”

“That’s it?” To his surprise, Princess Lunafreya doesn’t wait for a response. She turns slightly in her seat so her incredulity is firmly aimed at Noctis. “What kind of host are you?”

Noctis doesn’t sputter exactly, but he does glance over at Prompto guiltily before looking back at her. “I haven’t been one?” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, obviously unprepared for the princess to turn on him like this. “Dad hasn’t—Entertaining him hasn’t been my job? I mean—” there’s another darting look at Prompto, this one almost panicked “—not that that would be a burden or anything, I just—”

Prompto decides to cut him some slack. “I can handle boredom, Princess Lunafreya. And it has been better since His Highness gave me a computer. Frankly, I’m just grateful I was given a suite to stay in rather than a prison cell. Occasional walks around the Citadel are a bonus, and Colonel Elshett has been an adequate guide.”

Noctis flinches at prison cell, while the princess’s lips press thin as she looks at him. Prompto pretends he doesn’t notice because he’s not sure what to do about them disliking the truth. “And besides, after the assassination attempt, I’m not looking for excuses to get out of sight of my guards. I’ll survive a few more weeks.”

Princess Lunafreya doesn’t look at all surprised by his mention of the assassination attempt, nor does Noctis look alarmed that he brought it up. Lucis must be sharing a great many things with Tenebrae, then. Prompto will move forward with the assumption that whatever Lucis knows, Tenebrae also knows, even though he had asked for the event to remain quiet.

“Still,” the princess says, “I can’t imagine it’s comfortable being cooped up all the time.”

“I’ve endured worse. Things will get more interesting as more people arrive for the negotiations.” He motions at their surroundings as Scientia steps in to start removing what’s left of their appetizers. “You managed to get me to the gardens already, so thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome, then,” she says, but she looks back at Noctis when she says it.

“We’ll do better,” Noctis says quickly. “I’ll figure something out. I mean—it’s the least I can do.”

Which is such a weird thing to say. The least he could do is nothing, and Noctis has already surpassed that with the—admittedly dearly gained—laptop. Prompto guesses it is the polite, expected thing to say, but Prompto is pretty sure that Noctis spent most of his political capital arranging the doomed interview. Prompto can’t imagine that the king would let Noctis do anything more than he already has. Aldercapt certainly wouldn’t just wave off a mistake like that.

“Thank you,” Prompto says, with a slight incline of his head. “I appreciate your offer.”

It’s an unexpectedly kind offer, Prompto thinks as Scientia brings out the main course. Nothing will come of it because Noctis almost certainly has better things to do with his time than make sure Prompto is enjoying himself, especially now that the prince and princess of Tenebrae are here. Still, this little garden party hasn’t been bad— weird, yes, and a little confusing, but not bad —and Prompto wouldn’t say no to something like this again.

Good food, polite company, and no murder attempts—it’s probably the best he can expect while he’s in Insomnia.

Chapter Text

“So, what do you really think, Specs?” Noctis asks from his couch. He's spent the last few hours replaying every minute of their lunch in the garden. He's convinced there are glimpses into who Prompto is and what he’s thinking sprinkled in through the answers to their questions. 

“Of?” Ignis, bless him, somehow doesn’t sound annoyed. Even though Noctis has been pestering him all evening. 

“Prince Prompto.” 

“Ah.” Ignis pauses briefly. “I find he is well trained in combat. Educated. Polite.”

“Yeah, sure.” Noctis twists to look behind him where Ignis and Gladio sit at the table working. “But I don’t mean the stuff we got in a folder. Like, what does his favorite food mean? Why doesn’t he have hobbies? Did he actually like the cheesy jokes or was he just being polite?”  

“You still feel guilty about the attempt on his life,” Ignis states, while keeping his focus on his laptop as he types away. 

“Of course I do! The interview was my idea. And what does that have to do with anything?”

Gladio interjects. “Honestly? Kid is probably impressed it took this long for someone to go after him, let alone get that close to succeeding.”

“Uh, isn't that fucked up though?” 

Ignis shoots Gladio a look. “It's the reality of the situation. His court wouldn’t have dropped Prince Prompto in enemy territory without being aware of all the risks. I don’t think it would be unreasonable to think like that. And as for today,” Ignis adjusts his glasses, “he appeared well enough and good humored. I’m sure it was a good break from being inside these past couple of weeks.”

Gladio and Ignis return their focus back to their work. Noctis sighs and drags his attention to the TV. He had been watching some disaster movie he’s seen a thousand times, but it’s always weirdly calming. He tries to zone out and relax to the sounds of chaos on the screen, but after just a few minutes, he’s thinking back to the lunch and the various topics they discussed. 

“I should have told him what’s going to happen to the guy. It’s the least I could do.” 

“Noct, you know that isn’t possible. We’re keeping any intel on that close to court, and we can't risk any information getting out to Niflheim.” 

“But he deserves to know! It’s not like it’s some random case he's not affected by.” 

Ignis shakes his head. “There’s too much at risk.” When he pauses, Gladio and Ignis share a look across the table, before Ignis turns back to Noctis. “At most, you can tell him the man will never step outside ever again.” 

Noctis can’t help thinking about what Prompto would want to hear, what he would want to know. And finds he doesn't really know.

“Don't you think that isn’t enough punishment?”

“The law dictates the punishment, and the law is different for you than for Prince Prompto. He isn’t a Lucian. Let alone Lucian royalty.”

“Who says the assassin wasn’t also coming for me?”

Ignis and Gladio turn once more in their seats to better face Noctis. So Noctis stands, more to expel some energy than anything else. 

“We’ve read his statement, and he’s been investigated. His records, home, nothing suggested any anger towards Lucis nor you and your father. His anger appeared targeted only at Niflheim. So he will only be facing a charge of attempted murder and endangerment of a member of the royal family.” 

Noctis drags both hands down his face. He can tell this isn’t something he can argue. “I'm gonna shower.” 

He's on the move before the others can say anything else. When he closes his bedroom door, he closes his eyes. In here he has more space to think, more room to ruminate without anyone watching him. Without judging him or telling him he’s wrong.

In the shower, Noctis lets the hot water pour over him. He keeps his focus on the water as it washes down the drain, once again replaying the afternoon in his mind. Something about Prompto nudges at Noctis’s brain, pokes something he can’t quite name. It keeps coming around and around. He can’t escape it, no matter how hard he tries.

Prompto arrived in a simple shirt, but it was unbuttoned, revealing the scarring. That is unusual. The prince has routinely made sure to have it covered or at least partially concealed. He hasn’t made a habit of showing it off much.

Several times today, Noctis found himself distracted by the sight of the scar. And by the way Prompto sat with them, how he talked, and how he laughed . Noctis doesn’t think he’s heard that before. 

It was…easy. Like he just belongs there, with them. 

Which makes Noctis feel even worse . Everyone keeps going on about how the prince is being given the best treatment possible, considering the circumstances . Noctis had just gone along with what everyone said. Trusted them.  

While the expression on Luna’s face might have been mild amusement for the show of being dramatic, Noctis is not a stranger to the small shifts in her demeanor. She has learned over the years how to curb any expression that could be deemed improper. As the future Oracle, she will need to maintain some sense of neutrality in certain situations. 

And still Noctis recognized the moment disappointment flashed across her face before it was hidden away. And the guilt followed quickly. Because if Luna were the one with Prompto in her home, she would be with him, ensuring Prompto is well treated and entertained. 

Noctis hadn't considered he could do more. Noctis doesn’t entertain guests. He just goes where he’s told. Prompto is in a bubble Noctis hadn't thought he could pop outside of his sneaking out into the training room to watch Prompto train, and even that was risky.

So should Noctis have reached out? Should he do so now, after everything that’s happened? What if Luna had just been playing the part of a kind host and hadn’t been serious in her commentary? 

Noctis quickly squashes that notion. Luna is one of the most up front and honest people he knows. She wouldn't hang something like that out in front of Prompto without meaning for Noctis to make good on the offer.

Once Noctis finally drags himself out of the shower, he throws on sweatpants and a hoodie. He falls onto his bed with his phone in hand, unsure what to do next. He feels stuck in place. He knows he should do something. Anything. Not even necessarily related to Prompto. He’s been in a weird cycle lately where he can't focus on things he needs to, and he finds himself just zoning out instead of making plans, making a difference, anything to help. Or even just training. There’s so much he could, should be doing, and yet he’s frozen so often these days.  

After several more minutes staring up at his ceiling, he brute forces his body to sit up and messages Luna. 

A part of him wants to keep things over text. He's better at that, better at having time to think about his replies before making an idiot of himself. Luna is not just one of his good friends, but she's also someone he can talk to about things that make him sound like an idiot, who brings him around to being a better person. 

Ignis, Gladio, and Iris, while also close to him, it’s…different. No matter their friendship, there is still an order to things, and boundaries to what his retinue will say. He likes to think they are able to skirt by some of those boundaries. But just now there are lines Ignis and Gladio won't cross because of their duty first and foremost.

So Luna isn't the last resort but more like the safest way for Noctis to work through whatever the fuck his emotions are doing. She's always been good at letting him talk himself in circles until he gets to an answer.

Gladio leaves Noctis with instructions to text when he's ready to go back to his room when Noctis exits the elevator on Luna's floor. Noctis knows Gladio would rather stay in close proximity, but there are plenty of guards on this floor to manage any kind of attack. Hopefully. 

After Noctis goes through the security checks, a glaive knocks on Luna’s door. 

She answers with her usual refreshing smile. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and she's also in a pair of matching joggers and sweater. At least they’re both cozy. 

“Come in, come in.” She steps back to let Noctis come through. When the door closes, she pulls him into a tight hug. He accepts it, taking a moment for a few breaths as they embrace. 

“Thanks for letting me come by. I'm sure you're still exhausted from the trip.”

When Noctis pulls back, the smile has given way to concern on Luna’s face. “Never mind that. Is everything alright?” 

“Uh—” 

In a flash, she takes his hand in hers and leads them to the couch. Noctis collapses onto it and rests his head back to once again stare at his good friend, the ceiling. Luna sits beside him.

“You're right,” he says to break the silence. 

“Usually.”

It’s not said with any anger or frustration. But Noctis knows Luna won’t jump in without Noctis explaining himself. “About… Prince Prompto.” 

“You'll have to elaborate more.”

Noctis closes his eyes. He wants to try to have some quasi-coherent thoughts mixed in with the overwhelming anxiety. Otherwise he’ll just be blabbering about. 

And so, Noctis takes a deep breath after working through how to start this. “I didn't think about checking in on him. Or doing anything more than I was told.” He rolls his head so he can look at her. She stays still, hand propping her cheek, studying him. “And what I did, sparring, watching him train, I did out of my own curiosity. So I’m just selfish, I guess?”

When Luna doesn’t speak up, Noctis continues on. 

“I mean, we’ve never had this kind of situation. He's a prisoner, but not treated entirely like one—and he's my age, not some stuffy dignitary. But still, I didn't think I could do anything else, and I don't know if I ever can. I didn't think I could entertain…and then I walked him into the arms of an assassin. He probably hates me. And I'm sure it’s too late to offer any kind of olive branch. And what good will that branch be in the end? We'll all go back to our respective homes or to some kind of home, but we won't have to speak to each other more than necessary to keep the peace. So in summary, he doesn't have to talk to me, and I'm sure if he had the choice, he would stay away from me.”

Silence hangs. It isn't painful or awkward, though. Luna takes time to process things in a conversation. She doesn't like to get ahead of herself. 

When she speaks, her voice is soft and careful. “I think you should, both of you, look at each other with a clean slate. Not based on the actions of your fathers. You wouldn't want anyone to judge you in that way, correct?”

Noctis frowns. “Well, yeah, but my father isn’t a murderous tyrant.”

Luna doesn't speak, just keeps watching Noctis. Then it hits him like a ton of bricks.  

“Fuck, I’m sorry. You’ve lost so much more than me. I feel stupid—” 

“Don't, everyone has their own journey, their own pain and trauma. You shouldn't compare. Yes, I lost my home. But Prince Prompto was a child when that happened. He probably hardly remembers it, let alone had any part in it. And his behavior here isn’t that of an evil man. He isn't the emperor, not yet. And with this treaty, with what we’re doing here, now, is better than anything that’s happened in the last fifteen years. I believe with all my heart Prince Prompto wants what we want—peace.

“Two things can be true. He can be the emperor’s son, and he can be a good person. He has been a kind, quiet, and civil presence here, prisoner or no. He hasn’t had to accept any invitations sent to him. Him coming out to the garden today shows that.”

“Because you invited him.”

She shakes her head and reaches out to rest a hand on his cheek. “He's smart. I'm sure he assumed you would be there based on my invitation.” 

“Still.” Noctis can’t help pouting, can’t help doubting. 

“Noctis, just talk to him.” She taps his cheek. “I’m fairly confident in my ability to read people. Prince Prompto doesn’t dislike you. He’s just guarded, and rightly so. You can show he is safe around you.” 

“But what am I supposed to do? He can’t leave the Citadel. We have libraries and galleries, and the shrine… but would he actually care about any of that?” 

“Have you asked?” 

Noctis picks at the string of his hoodie. “No, I haven't.”

“Then I suppose it’s time you try.” 

Chapter Text

Noctis has no reason to be nervous. But standing at the door to Prompto’s suite the next day has him all out of sorts and anxious. 

“I’m just grateful I was given a suite to stay in rather than a prison cell.”

Prompto’s comment has been playing on repeat in Noctis’s mind. The assassination attempt in Gralea, of course Noctis had nothing to do with. But Prompto's time staying in the Citadel, he does. And that responsibility led to an assassination attempt. 

Noctis has a lot to prove and make up for. 

But he also doesn’t want this to seem like a pity party, like something Noctis doesn't want to do.  He does, genuinely, want to spend time with the prince. He doesn't seem like a bad person at all despite where he comes from. Their time together yesterday proved more that Prompto is like Noctis, like all of them. Someone just trying to survive the world they've been born into and make the best of what fate has decided for them. Whatever happens with the treaty, all of their lives will be changed. These last few days are the last of what they know before stepping into an Eos without war.  

To his right at the end of the hallway stands Iris, talking with one of the guards. Gladio and Ignis don't know Noctis is here; they're cooped up with Ravus and Luna to go over plans for both Luna's ongoing pilgrimage and his own journey to visit royal tombs. 

Noctis got out of being in that discussion since they had already made their plan and all possible options. Noctis is supposed to be training since Prompto isn't. So he knows Prompto is here. He glances at the two guards who have been patient and still while he hypes himself up to just do this. Noctis even dressed casually to try to evoke a sense of chill, he keeps reminding himself. 

Noctis rolls his shoulders and returns his stare to Promtpo’s door.

This isn't anything more than him just keeping his word to Luna and Prompto about being a better host. To show it isn’t an empty promise. To show Prompto he is respected and that Noctis doesn’t…

Hate him. 

After beating himself up mentally a few more seconds, Noctis knocks twice and takes a small step back. Iris makes her way down the hallway to meet him as the door opens. Monica is the one who answers.

“Your Highness,” Monica bows her head. “I hadn't heard you would be coming by.” 

“Uh, yeah, sorry, it's unannounced. Is Pro—Prince Prompto here?” 

“He is, I'll speak with him.”  

“Of course.” 

She closes the door. Noctis huffs and stretches his back. He hadn't considered Prompto could decline his visit. Noctis hopes he doesn't. If he does, though, that would display his true feelings towards Noctis. The thought that Prompto could hate Noctis enough to just straight up ignore his visit makes Noctis’s heart race with anxiety. 

The door opens again. Monica ushers him in while Iris stays in the hallway. He needs her to be his eyes in case they get busted.  

Noctis stays in the living room area while Monica disappears into the office to give some pretend idea of privacy. Prompto is standing near the bedroom door, once again dressed very casually and clearly just after a shower. Noctis’s timing really needs a check because he isn't sure how to handle the way his body betrays him for a moment at the sight of Prompto’s skin, flushed red from the temperature of the water. 

Noctis clears his throat. 

“Hey, I'm sorry for not checking in before coming by.” Noctis does his best to not fidget from the nerves running through him.  

Prompto is clearly observing him with trepidation. “Is everything okay?” 

It hadn’t dawned on Noctis that Prompto would think something is wrong, and he kicks himself mentally for not starting this off better. “I just thought, you know, maybe we could go around the Citadel. Show you more than the training grounds here.” 

“I saw the garden.” Prompto’s tone is indecipherable to Noctis. 

If they were friends, Nocis would take this as a joke. But they aren’t, so Noctis is instantly concerned he’s already fucked this all up. “There's plenty more to see.”

“In the Citadel?”

“Course. I'm not crazy thinking I can get us out of here.” 

Prompto tugs at both ends of the towel around his shoulders. “The others?”

“Iris is in the hall, the others are in a meeting.” He didn't think he should go into more details than that. The prince of an enemy, or what is technically still an enemy, probably shouldn't know the details of what the Oracle and Prince of Lucis need to do once their land is reclaimed.  

After a few beats of silence, Noctis is convinced he’s going to be turned down. 

But Prompto nods. “Sure, I'll just get changed.”

“Awesome.” Noctis tries to keep his expression soft and not show too much excitement. 

Prompto disappears into his room and shuts the door, and Monica reappears from the office. 

“I’ll need to inform the Kingsglaive and His Majesty of this. Where do you intend to go?”

“Uh.” Noctis wants Prompto to have a say in what they do. He wants to know what Prompto is interested in. But he also knows he can’t tell Monica he doesn’t know where they’re going. So he goes for the first thing that pops up in his head. 

“The art gallery?” Noctis says with an accidental octave switch that makes him cringe.

“Your Highness?”

“The art gallery,” he says with more force. “I don’t imagine it will be too long.” 

“I’ll inform the Kingsglaive. Please make sure Lady Amicitia is with you the whole time.” 

This might be the worst idea imaginable. From the moment they leave Prompto’s place to the time the elevator dings on the floor of the gallery, neither of them speak. Prompto doesn’t ask where they're going. Noctis isn’t sure how to ask, or say what the plan is, because he really doesn’t have one. Iris looks like she’s about to slam both of their heads together if doing so wouldn't spark a world war. 

When they exit the elevator, Noctis tries to stay beside Prompto. “I was thinking we could check out the art gallery? It’s not too big.” He tries to make it sound casual.

“I do appreciate art.” Prompto’s reply makes Noctis’s heart sink. Does that mean he actually doesn't? That Prompto just knows how to look at it and say things to sound smart about it? Noctis recalls the day before in the garden and how Prompto had reacted to being asked questions. 

With Ignis and Gladio and Iris, they tend to play things on the silly side, and while Noctis does enjoy art museums, he enjoys being at them with his friends even more. They can crack jokes about artist intent and stylistic choices without worrying about offending each other. 

He thinks about the advice Luna gave the night before. Noctis doesn’t want to keep making assumptions based on what he knows from a dossier picked over by Clarus. “Does that mean you like art, or you pretend to like art when you think you’re supposed to?” 

The way Prompto stops moving makes Noctis almost trip over himself. He turns around and is ready to apologize profusely for insulting Prompto. “Are you okay?” 

Prompto doesn’t look mad. He looks surprised more than anything. “I don't think anyone has ever asked me something like that before in my life.” 

Noctis tries to play it cool. “It’s how I talk to my friends—my Crownsguard. I’m not really the formal type behind closed doors. Wears me out.” 

One blond eyebrow arches a little. “You and your guard are quite close.” 

“We have to be. We’re stuck with each other for life.” 

“It’s impressive you’ve all grown closer than just what is required of them as your guard. That camaraderie will help in the future.” 

There’s an opportunity here, and Noctis seizes it. “What about your guard back in Niflheim?” 

“They’re just that.” Prompto replies. “Guards.” 

“The best of the palace guard in Gralea still let me be garrotted in my bed,

Noctis clears his throat. “Well, I know you have Monica, who is an excellent conversationalist, but if you ever want to have someone else to talk to, we got you.” 

Prompto stares at him with an arched eyebrow. “You ‘got’ me?” 

“Yeah! You know, like—you can talk to us.” 

“I think I’ll be all right…”

“Or not talk! Anything really,” Noctis is drowning and Ignis isn’t there to save him.  So he does the very next thing he can think of:

Noctis smacks Prompto’s shoulder.

The look on Prompto’s face reminds Noctis that Prompto isn’t his friend. 

He quickly pulls his hand away and tries to brush it off to get his shit together. “So do you want to go to the gallery or not?” 

Prompto, thankfully, follows Noctis’s lead and doesn’t acknowledge whatever the fuck Noctis was thinking. “Let’s do it. What else are we going to do stuck in here?” 

“Die of boredom?” 

“There are worse ways to die.” 

Noctis snorts out a laugh. “That’s fair.” 

They fall into simple, easy conversation as they enter the art gallery. There are guards sprinkled throughout, more so than usual. Noctis does his best to pretend they aren’t there. 

While Noctis tends to find joy in looking at the paintings that look amazing far away, and the bizarre way they are constructed up close, Prompto seems drawn to more of the grandiose, artistic style of oil paintings. 

Prompto abruptly stops in front of a large painting, featuring a man tied up by the wrists, surrounded by glaives and looking up at the heavens. “What’s the story behind this one? It’s particularly haunting.” 

“This one?” Noctis walks to the placard. He knows the painting, as in he is aware of its existence and the rough story. “It’s called The Betrayal. Artist unknown. Second century ME. Doesn’t say much else.” 

Prompto studies the painting a moment longer, and then moves along. “So,” he says softly enough that Noctis has to touch shoulders to listen, “the rest of your guard doesn't know you're here? With me?”

“Iris is technically enough.” Noctis wonders if this is a question about procedure, transparency with Ignis and Gladio, or if Prompto is digging for some kind of intel. Ignis and Gladio probably know by now what he’s up to because of Monica. But he doesn’t have to say that. 

“Technically.” Prompto repeats with a hint of a smile. He pauses to observe another painting, and the moment of frivolity vanishes from his expression. 

“ The Fall of Shiva .” Noctis lines up beside him ready to discuss it this time. “This one is always popular with people. It depicts the goddess Shiva when she was beaten by Niflheim and her body left in Tenebrae. A lot of times people cry when they see it for the first time—showing an Astral dying is haunting, I guess.” 

The words are out of his mouth before Noctis’s brain can catch up—he doesn’t need to explain this to Prince Prompto of Niflheim . He doesn’t immediately flounder out loud, but he holds his breath for Prompto’s reaction. 

“Is that how you perceive Shiva's death?” Prompto’s voice isn’t…flat, but it definitely isn’t as warm as it was minutes ago. 

“What do you mean? She—She was killed.” Noctis’s concerns about offending Prompto increase tenfold. It doesn’t make sense why the image of a dying Shiva would upset him. Niflheim’s army is responsible for her death. 

“It’s interesting, is all. We see this as a victory in Niflheim. Proof of our army’s prowess.”

Noctis blinks. “Really?” 

Prompto hesitates, then nods once. 

The air between them is once again tense. And Noctis is about done with it. He whips around, putting his back to the art to face Prompto head on. Prompto doesn’t flinch away from the movement.

Noctis inhales sharply before speaking. “Listen, I know things are a lot. And we’re both stuck here and trying to sort out what we’re supposed to do with everything happening around us. But I want us to be more…” Noctis tries to come up with a word Ignis might use. “Amicable around each other? If you think we could. I bet that's better than us just sitting in our rooms not doing much except binge watching bad movies and playing video games.”

“Video games?” Prompto takes a step back now, and he looks to one side towards where Iris is standing, not quite out of view. 

“Didn’t you put any on the laptop you got?” Noctis isn’t sure what else Prompto would want a laptop for, but that’s…something to consider. 

Prompto looks like he's been accused of cheating. “I assumed I couldn't download whatever I wanted, and that it would be blocked by security.”

“You can!” Noctis wants to grab his shoulders for further reassurance and barely manages to hold back. “Or just come hang out at my place and we can together!”

“Are you sure I could even do that?”  

“What, afraid I won't go easy on you?”

“Just because I don't have games here, doesn't mean I don't know how to play.” Prompto tilts his head. “Maybe I won't go easy on you . Or maybe I'll lull you into a false sense of security.” 

Elation ignites Noctis, because it’s clear Prompto is once again joking with him. “Sounds like someone needs a good bit of ass kicking.” 

“You know where to find me.” 

Noctis snorts, covers his mouth, and Prompto smiles while Noctis tries to stifle laughter. Noctis catches sight of Iris in his periphery shaking her head; he’ll never hear the end of this. 

Wanting to shake her, Noctis tugs Prompto by the sleeve and moves them into one of the less occupied rooms. Noctis belatedly releases his grip. “I guess we shouldn't be making idle threats to each other and laughing around glaives.”

“Probably not the best idea.”

The room they're in is focused on the kings and queens of Lucis, depicted as larger than life avatars. Prompto takes a glance around them for a moment while Noctis collects himself. 

“By the way, what are your museums like?” Noctis decides it's better to ask that than to say something stupid like do you have museums in Niflheim?

“They’re devoted to military history, primarily. His Imperial Radiance prefers the people to learn about our victories over enemies, rather than depictions of flowers or lakes or fruit.” 

“That sounds…” Noctis holds in some of what he wants to say, because he can’t imagine ever referring to his dad by his title. And while they do have galleries dedicated to military history in Lucis, it’s not all there is. 

“Repetitive?” Prompto offers. 

Noctis raises both hands up. “You said it, not me.” 

Prompto makes a point of looking around the room. “It’s different from what you have here, but if it’s all we know, is it really that bad?”

“You’ll have to show me someday. I’ll let you know.” 

“I can do that.” 

The unspoken promises now of playing video games, sharing bits of their lives, feels like the direction Noctis should have started all this in instead of avoiding Prompto the last two weeks. He sometimes hates to tell Luna when she’s right, but. She was. 

They spend the rest of the time in the gallery making idle conversation. Noctis is genuinely interested in how Prompto interprets some of the works, how he analyzes choice of layout and style and perspective. Honestly, Noctis can’t remember ever spending this much time in any museum, let alone the one in his home. When he looks at his phone, it’s been three hours. 

“Shit, I should get you back.” Noctis turns on his heel to set them in the direction of the elevators. 

“Somewhere to be?” Prompto matches his pace. Iris falls in line behind them quietly.

“Just got some work to do.” Noctis wants to say what he’s doing like he would to literally anyone else. It shouldn’t be a big deal to say he and the Nox Fleurets are doing media prep for a small campaign once they receive to go ahead to go into Cleigne. But Ignis is there in his mind saying it is, with Prompto. It's frustrating. 

When they get to the elevators, Iris hits the button to call one to their floor. The silence between them just starts to feel awkward when there’s a bell sound, and doors open to their left. Noctis steps in first, followed by Prompto and Iris, who sets them to Prompto’s floor first. 

“Sorry I have to bolt,” Noctis says. “We can hang again later. I promise to feed you next time.” 

“What a kind jailer you are,” Prompto teases as the elevator doors close. 

“Hey!” Noctis quickly feels his face turn hot, and Iris audibly groans.  

Prompto is still thinking about his—outing with Noctis that night. It wasn’t terrible, spending time with him, even though the amount of security that was lurking made it very clear that everyone still considers Prompto a threat or in danger. The younger Amicitia had trailed along behind them openly, and the regular guards lurked at appropriately stationed intervals, but it was the brief glimpses of Prince Ravus that threw him. He isn’t sure if Noctis knew the other prince was there. Prompto isn’t sure if others weren’t there, and he tries not to be paranoid about if he missed anyone else spying on them. 

(The only other thing that unsettled him was the painting of the man strung up in chains, stripped to the waist. There was something about his face that set Prompto’s stomach churning, something about the agony in his expression as he was hoisted up by uncaring, shadowed hands.)

It was one of the better evenings he’s had in Insomnia, to be honest. The art had been interesting—most of it he’d never seen before—and it was good to have a change in scenery. And Prompto had—tried. Tried to find the boundaries of what Noctis was expecting from such a casual interaction with him. Teased him, a handful of times, and not meanly.

Prompto can’t trust it, of course. Not really. But it was far better than the interactions he normally got at court in Gralea. Uneasy at points. Fragile. Potentially genuine.

He spends his lives either as Prince Prompto or as nothing, but the afternoon with Noctis had been the closest he’s been to—something else in years, probably. Someone else. He can count the times he’s felt like that on a single hand, and most of those were with Solara. 

Prompto carefully tucks those memories aside and turns his attention to his laptop. He is keenly aware that it is filled with surveillance software. There’s nothing new about that, of course. He always knew he was under every kind of surveillance in Gralea, and so there was no point in trying to hide any but the smallest of his actions. In Insomnia, it means he needs to be boring.

Despite Noctis’s reassurances, he doesn’t look up any games to download, but he does discover there are a few small, simple games already installed on his laptop. He spends half an hour poking around in them before moving on.

He still spends time every evening watching the Insomnian news channels, so he has established a routine of looking up additional information about whatever events they reported on. He looks up people and places mentioned in those events, branches into the history of Lucis in general and Insomnia in particular. He finds a helpful site outlining a decade’s worth of war from the other side.

(Is it really true that Emperor Aldercapt did some of these things? Ordered them done? It shouldn’t be a surprise, given what he already knows of the man’s cruelty. But he thought the worst of it—he thought the worst of it was saved for what wasn’t human.)

Prompto also spends some time each day browsing the Gralea Sentinal ’s site. Niflheim hadn’t bothered to give him even a cell phone when he came here, knowing that Lucis would do anything in their power to install surveillance on it or tap into it and that danger came in even subconsciously believing something like that could be a safe way to communicate. Of course, Prompto has never really been relied on to provide information when communicating. He just needs to receive it.

So he reads, every night, and searches for any new orders for Operation Countersign.

Chapter Text

Prompto hadn’t been sure if he would be denied a request, but Elshett didn't look at all perturbed when he asked if the Citadel had a library and then if he could go to said library when she confirmed one existed. She didn't even asked why he wanted to go, and once they were there, she just pointed him in the direction of the non-fiction section and melted into the shelves.

It’s surprising how much easier it is to ignore his ever-present guard in a place so structured as the library. Prompto can almost pretend they’re browsing patrons, uninterested in him. The regular shelving keeps them at more of a distance, partially because there are much fewer ways anyone can get to him or that he could flee. Everything is straight lines and well-planned corridors. The library itself is already quiet by nature, and Prompto is grateful for it.

He wanders through the non-fiction section, glancing at the signs at each end of the shelves and trying to make sense of how Lucius organizes their topics. After a while, he finds an aisle with Cosmogony-adjacent books. He’s never read the Cosmogony itself and has little desire to do so; he’s more interested in analysis of it. He knows Lucis has a reverence for the Astrals that Niflheim has grown past, but he doesn’t know the shape of said reverence.

(And it’s probably going to be the closest he can come to learning about the Lucis Caelum magic. Given their millennia of secrecy, it’s doubtful he can find any scientific study of it. He will have to skirt around the edges of it.)

Prompto ends up with a handful of books for both general analysis of themes throughout the Cosmogony and Shiva in particular. Then he goes digging for Lucian history. He doesn’t want an entire overview from the fall of Solheim, and Prompto ends up finding the official chronicles of the Lucian royal lineage. There’s an entire set of 112 black leather books with silver lettering on the spines and covers, all of which read some variant of An Account of the Reign of Name, XXX Monarch of Lucis. The newest volume is for someone called Mors—based on the dates of his reign, that must be Noctis’s grandfather. Prompto snags that volume and the one before it, then adds a book about the Crystal and Ring, the famous pair of symbols for the monarchy, to his pile. Finally, he plucks a book from a shelf entitled The Regions of Lucis, Their Economies, and a History of the Yen in the hopes that it will give him a better idea of how Lucis sees itself—and how it values its own parts.

There won’t be anything about the current war in any of these books; he’ll have to keep an eye on their news and internet for more up-to-date opinions. But the fact that these books were kept out in the open in the Citadel library means that Prompto can trust them to have royalty-approved, or at least royalty-indifferent, information in them. It’s a starting point for gaining more context, even if he knows it’s unlikely he’ll uncover anything that isn’t public knowledge.

It’s—maybe a bit ridiculous, thinking he might be able to help the negotiators Emperor Aldercapt is going to send, but at the very least he would prefer not to be as ignorant as he has been. He would prefer to be able to say he did something besides just existing in his time here. He can admit to himself he was too afraid before the troop withdrawal, and then too shaken by the assassination attempt to actually do anything. 

But now Princess Lunafreya is taking an interest in him, and Noctis seems to be, too, so—maybe it’s okay if he pretends like someone might find his input worthwhile. If nothing else, it will be a less worthless way to spend his time as a political hostage. This probably won’t get him into trouble the next time they look at the Archivist.

After a small detour to grab an art history book about the artwork in the Citadel’s gallery, Prompto takes his finds to a small table tucked away in a windowless alcove. He was briefly tempted by one with a window view but thought better of it. If there are going to be more assassination attempts, he’d rather not make himself such an easy target. He selects one of the books about the Cosmogony and settles in to read.

Half an hour or so later, once Prompto has cleared an overview of the Astrals and their Messengers—do messengers really flock to the Oracle? has Princess Lunafreya interacted with any yet, or do they ignore her in favor of her mother?—and their commonly accepted associations and traits, a member of the Kingsglaive approaches.

It’s immediately clear that he is headed for Prompto, given he is approaching head on rather than doing a casual, glancing sweep by. The man is a few years older, probably a little taller, with slicked back brown hair and pale blue eyes. His outfit is wrong for one of the Kingsglaive’s mages, so he must be one of their front-line fighters. 

Prompto closes his book but does not put it down. The man stops directly across from him, as close as he can get with the table between them. “Your Imperial Highness,” he says as he places a fist to his chest and gives a shallow bow. “Colonel Elshett has stepped out for a moment. She will return shortly.”

Interesting that they would choose to inform him when she was already lurking out of sight. What could have been important enough for her to officially step away rather than having a hushed conversation somewhere else in the library? “Thank you for the information, Glaive…?” he trails off, waiting to see just how far this interaction will go. 

“Lazarus,” the man says. He straightens but does not turn away or ask to be formally dismissed. “Luche Lazarus, of Galahd.” 

Prompto keeps his expression neutral. “Glaive Lazarus,” he acknowledges. “Is there anything else?”

Lazarus stares at him for a moment, long enough to border on uncomfortable. Prompto does not flex his fingers around the book he’s holding because Lazarus keeps his hands still at his side. Prompto wonders just what kind of magic Lazarus got from the king.

Lazarus breaks first. Grimaces, leans in, drops his voice to a bare whisper. “Is it true? That King Regis chose Cleigne over Galahd?”

“It is,” Prompto says back, lowering his voice to match though he stays still and neutral. “He wanted a concession as part of the ceasefire, and we allowed him to choose which territory the army would pull out of.”

Lazarus is too good a soldier to let anything upset or sour cross his expression. But the sudden blankness is telling in its own way. He does that little fist-to-chest and bow thing again, and then he disappears into the library without another word.

Prompto sets the book down on the table. He laces his fingers together, turns his hands to press his palms out, and stretches high overhead. He holds it there, finger joints and shoulders burning from the stretch, until he’s mostly certain his hands won’t shake. He has barely found his place in the book again when Elshett appears.

“Your Imperial Highness,” she says. She is wearing an expression that Prompto cannot parse, and that makes him nervous. “Prince Noctis has requested a few minutes of your time if you’re available. He will be wrapping up with his current engagement in half an hour.”

Elshett takes him to a small room that Prompto would have overlooked entirely given its location on the periphery of the library. It’s a plain, stark thing, without windows but with a single small table and a pair of chairs. The tiny placard outside the door proclaims it Reading Room 3 , so Prompto supposes it’s designed for people who really need to focus on their study uninterrupted. It is definitely not a place Prompto would have chosen for himself—it’s too small and too empty to conjure up anything except claustrophobia. There’s only one way in or out. 

But it’s a pretty good location for an impromptu, private meeting. Prompto relocated his stack of books here without Elshett’s assistance, then made sure to move the chair he chose to sit in so it faces the door. That’s as defensible as this place can be without flipping the table on its side for use as a barrier. A little more than half an hour after Elshett spoke to him, there are two sharp knocks at the door.

This time, Prompto sets the book down but does not close it. “Come in.”

Noctis opens the door just far enough that he can slip inside, and he doesn’t close the door behind him all the way. Some of his retinue must be lurking outside, and Prompto wonders if this cracked-open door is an attempt not to crowd him in such a small space while still reducing the risk of the two of them unsupervised together. Prompto isn’t sure if he should appreciate the thoughtfulness or be annoyed that they’re aware of his baseline level of fear.

“Hey there,” Noctis says, his casual tone in contrast to his current outfit. His clothes are tailored, his makeup and hair professionally done, and he looks ready for an appointment either with the press or significant members of the Lucian government. Maybe even something with the Nox Fleurets. He is dressed more formally than the day of their disastrous attempt at public relations. “What’re you reading?”

“An analysis of the Cosmogony,” Prompto answers, because it’s not like any of his selections are secret, and given the titles in the stack on the table, it wouldn’t be that hard to guess.

(He is grateful the art history book is at the bottom of the stack. He isn’t ready to learn more about that painting—it still puts his teeth on edge.)

“Oh,” Noctis says, looking like he’s been caught flat-footed by the answer. “Really?”

Prompto doesn’t know what to do with the surprise in Noctis’s voice and decides ignoring it is the best course of action, even if it is some kind of dig at him. He closes the book so that the cover and title are visible before saying mildly, “Yes, I am. Non-fiction isn’t to your taste, I take it?”

Noctis grimaces a little. “Not exactly. But you like it?”

What Prompto likes has never mattered, and he hasn’t had much chance to actually explore literature anyway. “I realized during our tour of the art gallery that it would probably be useful if I knew more about the Lucian perspective of the world.”

Noctis looks a little more closely at the books stacked up on the table. He seems more curious now. “Yeah,” he says, then after a moment he glances up. “Are you liking this Cosmogony stuff? Because if you are, I could show you the family shine. It’s got statues of all the Astrals and some more art and things like that. I could even ask for a priest to give us a tour and everything.”

He looks so— earnest about it, just like he had been with the gallery invitation. Something in Prompto softens a little more. The realistic part of him had thought Noctis might decide a singular invitation was good enough, that it would be enough to soothe his sense of responsibility. But here Noctis is again, seeking him out on a busy day to extend yet another invitation, and this one even meant to cater to what Noctis thinks Prompto is interested in.

It’s probably just political strategy. But it’s—it’s fine, if Prompto doesn’t mind the outcome, right? He will be returning to Gralea after the treaty is signed. It can’t—hurt, to enjoy Noctis’s company for a few more hours.

“That sounds like fun,” he says, letting some warmth into his voice, and it isn’t hard at all when he means it.

There’s a single knock on the door this time, and the younger Amicitia’s voice slips through the cracked door. “Noct, we’ve gotta get moving for the next thing.”

“Okay,” Noctis says, but his smile is all for Prompto. “Sorry to run, but I’ve got an interview with Luna and Ravus. Lemme double check what I’ve got going on the next couple days, but I’ll let you know once I’ve got everything sorted, okay?”

He probably shouldn’t, but Prompto finds himself responding, deadpan, “You can check with Colonel Elshett for openings in my calendar.”

Noctis snorts, and his tone turns his words teasing: “Will do, Your Imperial Highness.”

Prompto smiles a little, relieved that Noctis appreciated the joke. Noctis grins back before he throws a mocking salute and disappears as quickly as he arrived.

And even though the library was quiet when he arrived, it seems even quieter now that Noctis is gone. At least Noctis has given up on trying to get him to participate in the PR machine. Princess Lunafreya and Prince Ravus will be less likely to be murdered, after all. Prompto brushes the thought aside, runs his hand over his face, and returns to his book.

The setting sun casts the skyscrapers of Insomnia in a beautiful light show of golds and purples from his room. Noctis doesn’t appreciate the view enough. Not lately, at least. Since he’s been done with wardrobe and makeup, he’s just waiting for the word that Luna and Ravus are ready before heading out. 

He wishes he could have hung out with Prompto for longer in the library yesterday. He’d rather do that than sit in interviews and meetings with the council. Even if just to chat a little more. Their time in the art gallery had been so…simple. Easy. And fun . Even with the slight offenses on Noctis’s part, which Prompto had been patient with. 

He needs to do this interview with Luna and Ravus, but he doesn’t necessarily want to. He’s worried about how things are going outside the Citadel, outside the bubble they’ve created for themselves. Prompto is clearly trying to learn about Lucis and their perspective on world matters. Their conversation in front of the Shiva painting was a clear reminder of that difference.  Meanwhile, Noctis hasn’t done anything to learn more than what he’s been handed about Niflheim and what he’s gleaned from Prompto.  

With the promise of going to the shrine now on the table, Noctis will make a point to ask Prompto about his life more. He’s getting pieces, slowly, carefully, but he wants Prompto to also feel like he can share more unbidden. But something tells Noctis that’s not really easy for the prince to do. 

“Noct?” Iris comes into his peripheral. 

He does his best not to act startled. “Yeah?” 

Iris motions behind them with her chin. “They’re here.” 

Noctis turns to see Luna and Ravus walking into the room. They’re dressed in Tenebraen white with gold and blue accents; Noctis and Ravus had agreed with their teams to be in formal suits instead of full raiment, but wearing their crowns. Ravus’s crown is simple, different from his mother’s, with the point at the center of his forehead and then hiding under most of his hair.  

For Noctis, that isn’t anything to write about, but it will be the first time Ravus has been seen with his crown in Lucis. But they are both heirs to the throne, and Ravus is closer than ever to seeing that come to pass. It’s a sign of hope, and of the future, for anyone watching. 

“You ready for this?” Noctis asks. 

“As ready as we can be,” Ravus sighs. 

Luna steps forward to pull Noctis into a quick hug. “You could act a little excited. This will be historic.” 

“I can think of some other ways Noct wants to spend his time that’s historic,” Iris quips with a grin. 

Noctis channels the rising panic of what Iris could say next into ushering his friends towards the door. “Come on, we don’t want to be late.” 

Luna and Iris, to Noctis’s horror, resort to whispers and laughs until they get into the elevator and turn to Noctis like predators in a field. 

“So have you seen Prince Prompto since lunch?” Luna tilts her head to the side toward Noctis. Ravus stays neutral, as if disinterested. 

“They went to the art gallery together,” Iris offers up. 

The way Noctis’s heartbeat races is unfair. “Of course I did!” He spins to Luna. “You called me out like that in front of him, I had to do something.”

“You fell right into her trap,” Ravus mutters. 

Luna looks quite pleased with herself. “Prince Prompto is just a piece to be played, like all of us. It’s good for him to have company now and again that isn’t just Colonel Elshett.” 

“Exactly,” Noctis huffs at Iris. 

“He does seem kind—” 

Luna is interrupted when the elevator dings, the doors open, and Noctis nearly warps out of it to get moving towards the designated meeting room. 

Instead of Luna or Iris catching up, it’s Ravus. “Noctis, be careful.” His voice is low. “I don’t trust Prince Prompto, not entirely. Who acts so comfortable living among sworn enemies? Someone who knows they can’t lose.” 

“Brother! You saw him in the garden, he’s not cold like other Niflheim dignitaries.” 

“Hey, I think we're all pretty good at reading people. If Gladio and Ignis didn't immediately want to go after him, he clearly isn’t that awful.” 

Iris knocks on the door and vanishes into the room for a moment, leaving the three of them in the hallway waiting for the all clear. 

Luna gives Ravus a stern look. “You know we’ll get asked about the prince. You must make sure you don’t let any of your suspicions show.” 

“I’m more than capable of controlling myself with the press. If I can’t say these things around you all, I’ll likely implode.” 

“So dramatic—” 

Iris opens the doors, and motions them to follow her. 

There’s a half second of a stall in Noctis’s step when they first walk onto the set for the interview. Noctis can’t help thinking about the attempt on Prompto in their last interview attempt. He forces his instincts to calm down.  

This is supposed to be a ‘softball interview’ per Ignis that is just taking advantage of the three of them in the same space, a first in a long time. It’s live—mostly, just with a few seconds’ delay—hence the need to make sure this is with someone who is a friend of the Crown. 

Their prep work for today’s interview had been easy since Noctis and his team had done so much leg work for yesterday’s interview. It’s just a matter of adding a few speaking points that include the Nox Fleurets. They exchange formal pleasantries with the crew and get set up on their places on a couch. Noctis can’t stop watching every single person who approaches them with apprehension. He hasn’t been able to shake that fear yet. 

Once the mics are set up and finishing touches on their hair and makeup are done, the host, Diana Allers, enters the space. She’s one of the top anchors of Lucis 11, the main broadcast channel for politics in Insomnia. She’s known for her piercing blue eyes and impeccable fashion sense. Noctis has met her before, but she still follows all the proper protocol to greet the three of them. And then they are all situated, and the director calls for quiet on the set. 

The first few questions are the standard PR small talk, and then they jump into the prescreened questions they’ve all practiced for. 

Noctis doesn’t enjoy doing press, but he does understand the need for it. It's why he tried to set something up in the first place with Prompto. With this being a live interview, there’s definitely no way they would do anything that could see them getting blacklisted by the Citadel. 

Diana gives a quick glance over Noctis’s shoulder as Luna is talking about what she wants to do while visiting. Sean from Noctis’s team is standing off the set behind him. The rest of Noctis’s PR team stands behind Diana, so Noctis can take cues if anything needs to be done differently. The PR team uses hand signals like they're a sports team, but it works every time. 

Diana settles her look on Noctis once more. He sits up and clears his throat softly. 

“Prince Noctis, how has it been having the Prince of Niflheim staying in the Citadel?” 

Noctis smiles warmly. “Prince Prompto has been doing well and has been learning more about Lucis while here.” 

“Do you see him often?” 

“Not very, no.” 

They agreed that they wouldn’t talk about seeing Prompto casually. It wouldn’t improve the conversation around choosing to release Cleigne over Galahd. 

The journalist shifts her focus to Luna and Ravus beside him. “Have you seen him since arriving?”

“Once my mother arrives in the Citadel, I am sure we will have opportunities to speak with him frequently,” Luna says, and Noctis and Ravus nod along. 

Something shifts in Diana’s expression, though, that makes Noctis uneasy. She reaches for the folder beside her that was hidden from the camera. 

“So you haven’t met with Prince Prompto?” 

The three of them freeze. They know a leading question when they hear one. Their PR team is looking over their heads at Sean with panicked expressions. But there isn’t anything to be done until they see where this is heading. If they interrupt too soon, it could cause more trouble. But Noctis doesn’t quite know where this is going. 

“If I may, Lady Lunafreya,” Diana takes out a photo, picture side down, “we have heard that you’ve not only seen Prince Prompto, but that you entertained the Prince of Niflheim at a tea party in the garden, alongside Prince Noctis.”

With that, she slides the photo, now face up, across the small table between them, and on the big screen behind them the photo is broadcast. It’s somehow a shot of them in the gazebo, plain as day, with Luna, Noctis, and Prompto at the table, Ignis serving wine, and Ravus in the background. 

They’re all fucked.  

Noctis’s mouth goes dry and he knows his eyes are wide, but he can’t stop it. He hears rustling behind him, and his PR team is no longer visible across from him. 

He doesn’t think they can shut the interview down, that could just make things worse. The angle they’re going for here is clear: Prince Prompto is being treated like a guest and not the son of a tyrant. 

Noctis’s mind races—what would Ignis advise in a situation like this? He tries to force his face neutral. He holds still instead of trying to turn to either of the others. 

“You’ve stooped to gossip rags as a source?” Ravus speaks sharply. Luna grabs his forearm, and he presses his lips tight. 

Diana’s face shifts. She looks like she’s won the lottery. “Are you saying this photo is fake?” 

“Of course not,” Luna answers. Noctis has never been more glad to have her there by his side. “But it is a shame you’ve chosen to do this publicly on live television.” 

“Clearly you are all getting along, despite the fact his father—” 

“You are exposing private matters of the crown that put us all at risk,” Luna interrupts. “You think on the cusp of a treaty that could end a war that has extended across all of Eos, the king should share every minutia of what is going on in the Citadel as we get to these final talks? Have you stopped for one second to consider the ramifications of sharing this kind of information with the public?” 

If Diana is affected by Luna’s pushback, she doesn’t show it. “Maybe we don't need to know everything, but the people deserve to know you are entertaining the son of a tyrant responsible for the death of many of our family and friends.”

Noctis can only blink. Diana is saying all this on a live broadcast, unless someone has gotten a hold of the controls to stop recording. 

“I see.” Ravus has a bite to his voice Noctis has never heard before. “So you believe getting views is more important than ensuring more people don’t die from this war?” 

“It is unfortunate you’ve gone this route.” Luna turns to one of the cameras. “Please know, people of Insomnia, of Lucis, of Eos—as your future Oracle, your lives are what matters most to me. I am always thinking of how to best serve you.” 

“This doesn’t answer why you were all there together—”

Luna snaps her focus to the journalist so fast it makes Noctis jump. “I invited both Prince Noctis and Prince Prompto, upon my arrival in the Citadel. That meeting and the discussions during it are not intended for the public, or you. If it were necessary, we would have of course shared it with you as we prepared for this opportunity you were given out of good faith.”

“A shame you’ve wasted it.” Ravus chimes in. 

Dian’s mouth hangs open. Noctis grins. He can’t help it, seeing Luna just tear someone down with a smile is one of his favorite things. He can’t jump in on this though. For many reasons, one being really he would probably just make an idiot of himself. 

So Noctis makes the call to pull the plug on the interview. It’s the least controversial thing he can do. “I believe we’re done here.” 

Diana doesn’t argue any further. She simply nods. Everything stops, and then everything is fast . People flee their positions. Diana doesn’t fight when glaives come in and grab her by the arms and lift her from her seat. 

Noctis, Luna, and Ravus don’t move until the media crew has been cleared out. When the coast is clear, Noctis allows himself to relax back in his seat to collect his thoughts and calm the pace of his heartbeat. “That was fucking wild.” 

Ravus is visibly seething. Instead of relaxing, Ravus shoots up out of his seat and paces. “It was definitely something. Absolutely unforgivable.” 

Noctis’s PR team is in a huddle with Ignis and Gladio, and it isn’t going well from where Noctis sits. Carefully, they each pull their mics out and turn them off, setting them on the table. The picture still sits there, and Noctis picks it up to look closely. 

“This had to be taken by someone in the garden. This angle doesn’t look like it would be coming from outside the gardens.” 

“We’ve informed security,” Ignis raises his voice as he and Gladio walk over to them. “I imagine it will take some time combing through security cameras to find the culprit. But I believe we should be able to.”

“You better believe that journalist is going to go through some intense questioning. Wish I could do it." The tone in Gladio’s voice is surprisingly more amused than angry. Ignis is more the latter. 

“I think that would be unwise.” 

“But it would be fun .” 

“Gladio—” 

Ravus chimes in, with not a hint of amusement across his face, “They'd do well to never set foot in the Citadel again, if they know what's good for them.”

“We need to tell Prince Prompto,” Luna says softly. “Even though he's isolated, he should know what's happening. We shouldn’t assume he would watch anything about this. Once Niflheim sees this, we need to be prepared for more questions.” 

“We aren't responsible for him.”  

“Ravus, we talked about this.” 

Ravus sets his jaw.  But neither of them say anything further. 

“We must go to the King.” Ignis adjusts his blazer and settles a stern look on Noctis. “Now.”

Chapter Text

“Did Prince Prompto accept your invitation?” Ignis asks. 

“I haven’t heard.” Noctis does his best to keep his expression neutral, focused on the television. Specifically on the disaster movie of the day since he doesn't want to deal with the jump scare of the news covering the terrible interview from the day before.

During their brief conversation in the library, Prompto seemed genuinely interested in visiting the shrine, and not opposed to Noctis taking him there. But Noctis sent the invitation via Monica, before the disastrous interview. 

Noctis is sensing a trend. He hates it. He wouldn't be surprised if Prompto never wants to even be in Noctis’s presence at this point, believing he's in danger if they’re so much as in the same room. 

“Aren’t you supposed to meet him shortly?” Ignis is really rubbing salt in the wound. 

“Yeah, not worried,” Noctis lies. He hopes their meeting in the shrine offers some sense of comfort that being in a room with journalists can’t. If Prompto doesn’t want to meet up with Noctis, then will he want to later? Is there a wall up between them now that will remain until the negotiations end and Prompto leaves as quietly as he arrived? Noctis doesn't want the library to be their last conversation. 

There's a sinking feeling in his chest. Noctis pries himself off the couch and avoids checking a mirror for how he looks. It's just the shrine with Prompto, and there won't be any civilians because it's the private one that only they can go to. He’s opted to wear a dark button up shirt so he’s not a total slob in front of another prince. 

“I’ll be back later.” Noctis heads towards the door. 

“Iris will go with you. Gladio and I have some business to attend to.” 

“Specs,” Noctis finally turns to look back to where Ignis and Gladio are sitting, their usual spots in the dining room. “Please. There’s already glaives in the shrine.” 

Gladio looks more displeased than Ignis, but when Gladio doesn't argue, Ignis relents. “Alright. We’ll leave you to it.” 

“Thank you.” Noctis means it. Even if part of it is so that he’s not embarrassed when he’s stood up. 

Standing in front of the double doors feels… He can’t explain it. There’s an energy to this moment Nocits can’t place or connect or…

It’s fear. Nervousness. Anticipation. Noctis thinks about how often he’s actually been worried someone wouldn’t be somewhere he asked. Or not done something he had asked. It’s a ridiculous thought he knows. But still. There it is. It was a mistake to ask Prompto to meet him inside instead of going to grab him beforehand. Noctis isn’t sure which would have been better.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, then pushes the double doors open. They creak, way louder than he remembers. Noctis keeps his eyes shut tight. If Prompto isn't there, he wants to delay the inevitable. 

When he opens his eyes, a wave of relief rushes through him. Prompto stands just inside the shrine and turns to greet Noctis. He’s wearing a white button up and an open red jacket. Noctis can’t help noticing the color of the scar around his throat is fading. 

And he ignores the way his body relaxes with relief that Prompto didn't ghost him. 

“Thanks for making some time in your calendar,” Noctis risks the humor on the approach.

“I had to move some things,” one corner of Prompto’s mouth twitches up. His head tilts to one side, “but I made it work.” 

Noctis returns the smile as they walk up the center aisle. “What do you think so far?” he motions broadly around them. The shrine is all in gray stone and lit by candles more than anything else. At the altar are smaller statues of the Astrals, but each of the alcoves have small shrines set up for them as well for individual prayer. Monica is tucked into a corner, and there are glaives scattered around.

“It’s a bit much,” Prompto looks around, “but I haven’t been in many shrines so I’m unsure of what is standard.” 

“I think it's safe to assume anything you see here in the Citadel is not the standard for Lucis.” 

“No?” 

“Most shrines and temples are to just one of the gods. But that would be a bit much for us to do in the Citadel. So the alcoves are like the mini version of what is sprinkled throughout insomnia.” 

“Do you come here often?” 

Noctis narrowly avoids choking on air and somehow keeps his expression neutral. “I attend with my dad, not by myself so much. I, uh, fall asleep.” 

“Is it that boring?” 

“It’s not even that! It’s the way the priests talk, it’s so monotone it’s like the rocking of a boat, just lulls me to sleep.” 

“Sounds to me like it’s boring.” 

A laugh escapes Noctis before he can catch it. The sound of it echoes around them bouncing off the stone walls and columns. “Fine, you got me. Come on, let’s check out these boring gods.” 

Prompto follows his lead to the first alcove to the left. This one is dedicated to Titan—there’s an imposing statue up against the wall depicting the Astral holding up the Disc of Cauthess, with gold and light blue stones scattered throughout the marble. 

There’s quiet between them as Prompto steps forward to seemingly inspect the statue. Rows of candles are lit in front of it to keep visitors from getting too close. Noctis isn’t sure how to broach the topic about the gods now that they are here. Their conversation around Shiva had been awkward, and Noctis isn’t sure if he’s going to shove his foot in his mouth now. Again. He really should have planned this better with talking points at least. Or gotten a priest to guide them. 

But Prompto doesn’t ask anything of Noctis. He merely indicates he’s ready to move on by stepping to be shoulder to shoulder with Noctis again, and giving a quick nod. It could be reverence, but Noctis isn’t sure Prompto would even think of these gods as anything more than statues in a cold room. It could also be Prompto doesn’t think Noctis would know much about the Astrals, at least anything interesting. Which isn’t the wrong thing to believe. 

They continue around the shrine. Each alcove is the same setup, and each time Prompto moves closer, takes some time to appreciate, and then they move on. Noctis tries to relay whatever he remembers as they go, which seems to satisfy well enough. The last alcove they enter isn't dedicated to the Astrals, but to the messengers. 

“Wait,” Prompto says with a gasp before he bolts forward so suddenly Noctis startles. “Are those dogs?” 

Noctis lets out a laugh. “They look like dogs, but they’re messengers of the Astrals for the Oracle. So they get a spot here.” The statue features the two appearing as if in mid-flight, wings splayed out. 

The way Prompto spins and looks at Noctis is comical. “You’re messing with me.” 

“They’re names are Umbra and Pryna. You can’t tell here with the marble but Pryna is white and Umbra has darker fur.” 

Prompto turns back to the statue. “But why dogs?” 

“Hmm, not sure? I think they’ve always been dogs. There’s art of the Founder King and the Oracle that has the same dogs.” 

“Please tell me they fly.”

“I haven’t seen them sprout wings. But that would be rad.” 

“You drop that you’ve seen immortal flying dogs like it isn’t anything unusual."

“Oh, I guess I hadn’t thought about that. I visited Tenebrae when I was little. But then,” he catches himself and trails off. “Not since then.” Noctis stops there. 

Prompto spends another few seconds studying the statue. “I’ve never heard about them before.” 

Noctis isn’t quite sure how to react. 

It puts Noctis into a strange situation— should Prompto know there are messengers in the form of dogs that serve the Nox Fleurets because of their connection to the gods? He doesn't think that’s secret information, but seeing Prompto’s surprise has him second guessing himself. 

But if the war is going to be ending soon, maybe that’s alright. Maybe it’s good to show trust by sharing information like this. 

“They try to stay hidden. The only ones who need them are the Oracle—Queen Sylva.” 

What Noctis does leave out though, is Gentiana. She is connected to Luna, but Noctis hasn’t seen her in the Citadel, so his assumption is that if she is around, it is only in the presence of Luna. 

So Noctis decides it's best to move the conversation along. “Niflheim doesn’t have anything like this? Gods, stories about the Astrals?” 

“I mean, we know they’re real. We can’t argue that. But we don’t worship them.” Prompto pauses and casts Noctis a look out of the corner of his eye. “No offense.” 

“None taken. I can get it—I wonder if it’s like meeting your heroes?” 

Prompto turns to face him with a look of confused interest. “How’s that?” 

Noctis feels a little silly now. Even though yes the gods are real, it still feels suddenly silly to talk about them like this. “Just they’re these beings that have such great power, right? I imagine they’re not all great. Like, what if Bahamut is just a big asshole?” 

That makes Prompto break into a small laugh before he clears his throat. Noctis smiles. 

“I’m pretty sure they are all not as great as some think,” Prompto gestures to the statue of Pryna and Umbra. “Except for these two.” 

“Oh, yeah, they are the goodest.” 

The conversation slows and picks up in what feels natural as they take a slow walk around the shrine. If he has to sit for too long without anything to say he’ll start saying stupid shit that he would normally talk about with his friends. So he keeps filling the space with random facts.

But once they have made their way back to the center of the shrine, Noctis worries about what to talk about next. There is something that he has thought about recently, that he thinks maybe isn’t off limits…

“Have you seen daemons?” It doesn’t feel so offensive—Noctis knows that the part Lucis Niflheim had taken, without the protection of the Wall, was at risk for being attacked by them. 

They’re standing in the middle of the shrine, side by side. Noctis watches Prompto’s face but his expression is neutral in the soft candlelight.  

“No.” Prompto pauses. “I haven’t seen them in person. I don’t often have business outside the palace.”

“You’re lucky.” Noctis works through the words he wants to say and what he wants to describe. “It feels like it isn’t real when you do.” 

“I heard about that time. I'm sorry that happened.” 

“It’s nothing compared to what others went through. I'm grateful I survived it, even with my injuries. It took the sacrifice of others to save me and my dad.”

There’s a spark in Noctis’s mind, a chance here maybe to finally hear more from Prompto about what his life is actually like.  

“So you don't leave the palace much?”

“I have everything I need inside. His Imperial Radiance is in good health, so he doesn’t need me to travel in his stead, only when his schedule has conflicts.” 

“Doesn’t it get boring?” 

“I’ve gotten very good at keeping myself occupied.” 

Noctis thinks about Prompto’s time staying in the Citadel. Thinks about how he fell into routines and never seemed bothered by his isolation. Is it something he's so familiar with that even in a different country it doesn't phase him? 

Noctis can’t imagine living that way, and then living that way somewhere else. “Do you…like it?” 

The question is dangerous. A prince in an enemy nation of course would never want to show any weakness. Noctis doesn’t think Prompto is weak and wouldn't think he is if he were unhappy with his life, or any small part of it. 

“It’s all I know since I came to Gralea.” The tone in Prompto’s voice echoes back to the very first time they met. Cold, distant. “My role is whatever the emperor commands.”  

“Sure, but—” 

The doors behind them creak open. Noctis presses his lips together before taking a glance over his shoulder. Ignis and Gladio enter with matching apologetic looks. Ignis makes a hand signal Noctis understands. Urgent

Noctis doesn’t know what could be so urgent right now, but he trusts them. 

Prompto has noticed them, too. “Duty calls?” He sounds more familiar now, the coldness gone. 

“I guess so.” Noctis feels like they still have so much to talk about. There’s so many more things he wants to ask, and he has just started getting somewhere. “I’ll see you soon?” 

“You know where to find me,” Prompto says with a nod. 

Noctis lifts up his hand, balled up into a fist. At first Prompto glances down to the hand between them, and Noctis starts to panic. Just as he is about to pull away, though, Prompto follows suit and bumps their fists together. 

It's a silly thing, but the reciprocation unlocks something else in Noctis’s chest, and he can't help the giddiness. Even Prompto's usual half grin feels like more.

“Later.” Noctis is still smiling when the doors to the shrine close behind him. 

Prompto should probably care about whatever caused Noctis’s abrupt departure, but every possible concern has been wiped clean from his head. He barely remembers the banter, the surprising revelation that a pair of dogs are actually lesser gods, or his disappointment that their meeting was cut so short. He can’t even start catastrophizing about whether or not this is a sign that Insomnia is about to turn on him. The surprise that kicked his heart into its wild beat is nearly as good as a fresh installation of the Archivist for getting rid of whatever else had been in this brain.

Because after the doors opened, when Scientia and Amicitia had all their attention focused on Noctis, and Noctis was walking back toward them, Prompto had seen him tucked away into an alcove.

For just a second: a flicker, a shift in the light across one of the endlessly anonymous Kingsglaive’s faces. Transformed from a stranger into Chancellor Izunia, and his wide, tooth-bearing smile. 

And then he was gone entirely. No movement, no sound, just a sudden cessation of existence as Noctis walked away.

There are only so many explanations, and if the Archivist is faulty, then Prompto’s deterioration is inevitable without Niflheim’s intervention. But if it was real, then the chancellor has some kind of tech Prompto has never seen before. 

Or—some kind of magic.

Does the emperor know? Besithia? Was the chancellor’s departure a complete illusion, or has he returned for some other gambit? Will he have new orders for Prompto?

If he does, they clearly aren’t meant to be delivered now, because Prompto waits an entire hour at the shrine in silence before finally returning empty-handed to his quarters, Elshett trailing in his wake.

Chapter Text

The day started in good spirits; Noctis’s time with Prompto had been more fun than he thought it would be. Walking through the shrine talking about the Astrals wasn’t so bad, and Noctis managed not to stick his foot in his mouth. Finally. Never mind Prompto showing up at all had been a surprise—and a relief. 

Conversation is becoming easier with Prompto. Noctis wonders how things will be once everyone returns to their homes, and if maybe he and Prompto could maintain some kind of friendship for their futures as potential rulers. It could lead to something better than what things look like right now when Niflheim has a leader so many fear or hate. Of course, Prompto isn’t the named heir right now, but if he does become the emperor…isn’t it better that they are friends? 

However, the win of successfully socializing without attempted murder accompanying it is long forgotten. Now, Noctis sits in a large unmarked vehicle with the Nox Fleurets and their collective retinues, surrounded by other vehicles driven by Kingsglaive as they drive out of Insomnia. The initial irritation of being interrupted was lost as soon as Ignis and Gladio revealed why it was so urgent for them to be on the move. 

“So they’re sure about this?” Noctis asks the group. 

“We must see them ourselves to confirm,” Luna replies. They're her first words since getting into the car. She doesn’t pull her gaze from looking out the window as the tall buildings give way to smaller housing districts. 

“If there’s even the slightest chance it is the Starscourge, it must be dealt with immediately,” Ignis supplies.

The Starscourge has existed like more of a scary story than reality to Noctis—he isn’t out of touch to the point of thinking it doesn’t exist. He’s well aware of its impact and knows Luna has been out helping heal people in other countries. It’s just not been something he’s faced within Lucis, and he hasn’t heard any reports of it being there. Because as far as Nocits knows, it hasn’t been. As far as Noctis knows, Lucis has been spared. But what if the time Clegine spent outside of the protection of the Wall was detrimental more than just because of the Niflheim invasion and takeover? 

They pass through one of the gates to exit Insomnia and drive out into Lucis. The vehicle is situated so their seats are facing each other, which usually is great for having conversations, but today, everyone’s expressions are dour and there isn’t a lot of talking going on. 

Luna sits across from Noctis and stares out the window, one hand pressed against the glass, the other curled up into a fist in her lap. Ravus sits beside her, but he keeps his gaze down at his legs, arms crossed over his chest. If Ravus’s eyes were closed, Noctis would say he’s sleeping. But there is no way anyone could sleep right now. Iris is on the other side of Ravus and has her phone out as a distraction. 

Gladio and Ignis sit beside Noctis, pressed together from shoulder to ankle and wearing matching grim expressions. 

Ignis shifts. He lets one hand rest on Gladio’s knee. “The doctors did everything by the book before contacting the palace. No recent travel, no new foods, nothing that could account for them being infected. If they had been in Cleigne, they wouldn't reveal it.” 

“I still don’t understand how this is possible. The Wall—” Noctis stops. 

They all know what the Wall is supposed to do. They all know this is a problem. If the Starscourge has somehow broken through the Wall, this goes against everything they’ve been told for centuries. 

They’re clear of the bridge that connects Insomnia to Leide. The water is a dark blue and the wind stirs up small white capped waves. 

Luna speaks softly. “ Over rotted soil, under blighted sky, a dread plague the wicked hath wrought. ”

No one says a word. They’re all very familiar with the Cosmogony and what it says about the Starscourge. Noctis wants to say that it doesn’t tell them what to do about it, so what is the point? But he holds his tongue.

“The Wall keeps daemons from entering.” Luna drags two fingers down the window. “But it could be entirely possible for someone infected with the Starscourge to enter the safety of it. It’s not like the Wall can sense when someone has this in their body.” 

Ravus sits up and clears his throat. “There is no way for us to know more until we’re there. If they do have the Starscourge, we will see what we can learn from the man. If he can speak.” 

“Is it safe? Being close to them.” Noctis would like to assume there aren’t major concerns; otherwise, they wouldn’t be going. 

Ravus’s expression softens. “Lunafreya has been healing others across Eos who have been infected. It’s not new to us, and it isn’t contagious.”

“And if it were, it is still my responsibility as an Oracle to at least try to help.” 

Noctis leans to the window to watch as they enter Keytriarch. Along the road there's mostly businesses, like restaurants and car repair, and neighborhoods can be seen in the distance. People are jogging, or chatting in front of places. None aware that there's danger in their proximity, that the Wall might have a weak spot in its defense. 

A part of Noctis is jealous at their ignorance. A lot of him, actually. He’s trying not to let the panic bubble up that they could be facing something awful and everything is about to go sideways.

When they arrive at the hospital, there’s a row of media with cameras and microphones at the ready. Several from his PR team are there as well speaking with journalists.  

“Right.” Ignis says once the vehicle has parked. “We will go through the children’s ward first. Princess Lunafreya and Noctis, you’ll lead prayers with patients and talk with them and their family, if they’re up to it. The media will be allowed to take photographs and video from a distance, but we have made it very clear there is strictly no room for interviews today. No one should be close enough to try to establish communication.” This last bit Ignis directs to the rest of the crew, including the two glaives at the front of the car, Nyx and Crowe. 

“Yes sir,” they say in unison. 

Noctis is glad it’s Nyx and Crowe who drove them out here today. There are hundreds of Kingsglaive, and with how things are right now, it feels a little better to have a couple Nocits knows would never turn on the crown. 

Nyx is from Galahd, but he has done well as a glaive and regularly receives honors and advances in rank. Crowe is from Cleigne, managing to escape into Leide before Niflheim took control of her home. 

Ignis continues, “Once we have finished there, the media will be dismissed. Then we shall go into another wing of the hospital to address the Starscourge concern. Please remember the first part of our visit is the cover for our being here. Do not discuss the Starscourge at all.” 

Noctis is also grateful they aren't expected to interact with the press at all. He isn’t sure he could stomach messing up with journalists a third time. The assassin has been quietly thrown into solitary confinement in the prison—Noctis isn’t sure how they are keeping it secret and what anyone the assassin knows is being told. 

The journalist Diana was unceremoniously fired, but this came with trouble—there are people who have sided with her, who are also incensed by the photo Diana revealed. There isn't much more Noctis’s team could do once the photo was put in the wild. It hasn’t been acknowledged by anyone officially, and denying it or saying the photo is fake would cause more issues. As much as it sucks, it is better to hope people move on and not dwell on it if there is nothing else coming out of the matter.

The van doors open. Ignis, Gladio, Iris, Nyx, and Crowe all step out first as their guard. Luna takes a few deep breaths and touches up her hair. 

“You ready?” Noctis asks. The Nox Fleurets nod in unison, but it’s Ravus who steps out first and holds a hand out for his sister. Noctis steps out after her. 

When Noctis, Luna, and Ravus emerge, the flashes of light are almost blinding. They all pause and take a moment to wave and give their royal smiles, and then follow the others towards the hospital doors. 

This hospital is specifically a place for cancer and other terminal conditions. While Noctis has visited hospitals in Insomnia, he hasn’t been in one with such a heavy blanket of grief over it since his accident. The mood is somber the moment they enter the ward. The press are following, but thankfully they recognize the tone of the visit. They keep a respectable distance and stay quiet as they snap photos.

Noctis and Ravus default to letting Luna lead them from room to room. She’s the best at this on multiple levels. And Noctis has a hard time facing some of these kids. Most of them have little hope for recovery. Their families are just trying to keep them safe and comfortable. It fucking sucks.  

Despite it all, Luna's presence in each room makes the kids and their families light up every time. She's way better at this, and it shows she has been working on her Oracle persona. Noctis is fighting not to fall asleep sometimes when she sits and reads books in a soothing, soft voice. Ravus doesn't seem to be faring much better; Noctis catches his chin drooping several times and has to elbow Ravus to startle him awake. Noctis is lucky Ravus doesn't have any weapons on him with the daggers in his eyes. 

But between the three of them, they make kids smile and laugh, and parents cry and offer thanks, and Luna gives her blessings. Noctis doesn’t think he and Ravus matter much, but he’s glad to bring some good in the world of these kids. It's the least they could do right now. 

After a couple of hours the press are all escorted out, and Noctis and his friends are led to a small lounge with refreshments and snacks for a break. Noctis collapses into one of the seats and is grateful they are more like armchairs than the usual cold hospital waiting room chairs. There isn’t a lot of conversation among them—Noctis thinks they all need some time to dissociate and regroup for what’s to come. 

The door opens and a new doctor is let in. Her expression is grim, mouth in a thin line and eyebrows downturned. 

“Princess Lunafreya,” she bows to the room, “Prince Noctis, Prince Ravus—thank you for your time today. All of you.” 

Luna stands up and holds out her hands to take the doctor’s when she straightens up. “It's no trouble at all. I am happy to see if I can help.”

“I’m Dr. Thompkins. We’ll need to go into another wing of the hospital. Please follow me.”

Noctis shoves a few granola bars into his pockets, just in case. 

It’s a good thing they don’t have to sneak around, because the size of their group walking through the empty halls would attract anyone around. They go into a part of the hospital that is a ghost town. It's mostly empty, not even with staff at the desks spaced between the different halls. They get to a set of double doors with the sign for DANGER and DO NOT ENTER . 

“I’d like for only the princess and her guard to visit the patient,” Dr. Thompkins states. 

Noctis bristles, and so does Ravus. Luna reaches out and rests a hand on Ravus’s shoulder. He catches her eye, and presses his mouth shut.

“It’s more for the patient. He is very distressed, and I do not believe having such a group of people watching him will help,” Dr. Thompkins explains.

Reluctantly, Noctis and Ravus relent. Nyx and Crowe go with Luna so she isn’t completely unguarded, while the rest of them are led to another waiting room, one with less snacks and comfortable chairs. Noctis grabs one chair to sit on and the other to prop his legs up, while Ignis and Gladio head into a corner of the room to talk in hushed voices. Iris gets settled with her jacket at the back of the chair as a kind of pillow. 

Ravus doesn't sit. He paces the room while on his phone, his expression clearly angry. 

“Would you relax?” Noctis says after twenty minutes. 

“I don't like not being in there with her.” 

“Neither do I, but she’s got this. You said it isn’t contagious, and the glaives are in there with her.” 

“I don't doubt my sister,” Ravus snaps, then winces and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” 

Noctis doesn’t take offense. He gets it. No matter how safe she is, if it's the Starscourge, there is more at stake for everyone. If it isn’t the Starscourge, then it's for the doctors to handle.

“If it's the Starscourge…what will we do?” Noctis can’t help asking.

Ignis and Gladio come into the center of the room. It seems they aren’t in the mood to sit either. 

Ignis speaks up. “I’m sure Lunafreya will do everything she can and will be able to heal them.  There will have to be a bigger investigation into what could have happened here. We will inform your father of what we learn today. He will decide how to proceed.” 

The room falls into silence. Noctis pulls out his phone to try to distract himself once more. Social media is an instant nope—he needs to go through and set up more blocks for shit he doesn’t want to see. He pulls out his ear buds and opts to play a rhythm game to zone out for a while.  

It does the job, because when Luna joins them in the room, he is shocked to see it's been an hour. Everyone stands up with the same question lingering in the air. 

Luna’s eyes are a little red and puffy. Ravus looks like he wants to punch something, but he rushes forward, pulling her into a hug. 

“Is it—?” Noctis asks softly. 

She nods. Ravus guides her to sit in the first available chair. He kneels on the ground and takes  one of her hands in his good one. She breaks composure, crying into his shoulder when he goes in for another hug instead. Nyx and Crowe stay in the hallway, but close the door to give them some privacy.

The only sound in the room is Luna’s quiet sobs. Noctis has no idea what else to do. He sits back down and drops his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. 

The Starscourge is in Lucis.  

Chapter Text

Back in Gralea, Prompto would be in one of the training halls to run or on the range to shoot target after target. It’s how he normally deals with his nervous, anxious energy, but he skipped his normal morning training time in order to meet with Noctis, and he didn’t plan on needing to do something physical afterward. He doesn’t want to disrupt the Citadel’s complicated scheduling by asking to swap, and it isn’t as if a single day without training is going to dull his skills.

He regrets that now, because he can’t even pace the length of his suite in private. His Lucian keepers will see that he is agitated and will try to figure out what, precisely, agitated him, and it isn’t as if he can just come out and say I saw Chancellor Izunia disguised as one of the Kingsglaive without signing his own, and several others’, disposal orders.

Chancellor Izunia is here. He’s here, and he has deliberately revealed himself to Prompto, which means—what, exactly?

Prompto grabs one of the books he borrowed from the library and drops into an armchair in his borrowed office. He does his best thinking when his body is engaged in something else, and a track and a range are both out of reach. He will just have to pretend to be otherwise engaged while he thinks.

It doesn’t actually matter to Prompto if Chancellor Izunia has been here the whole time or if he has snuck back into Insomnia. Either way, it’s clear that Lucis isn’t meant to know he is here—otherwise, he could have walked up the Citadel’s front steps and demanded a suite near Prompto’s. Prompto wouldn’t put it past the man to have an entirely separate agenda but then still decide to startle Prompto for the fun of it. The chancellor has a reputation for unkind eccentricity, and scaring Prompto to amuse himself is far from the worst he’s done.

Prompto turns the pages of the book at a meditative pace while he thinks. He recognizes the shape of the words, but their context and actual meaning are no more substantial than smoke. He just needs to look engaged while his mind churns through what he knows.

The chancellor is in Insomnia. He is concealing his presence from Lucis, either as an already existing member of the Kingsglaive or with a false face all his own. There is no way for Prompto to know who the chancellor is posing as, and Prompto definitely shouldn’t try to track the chancellor down. Prompto has almost never engaged with the men and women who guard him, and if he changes that now, that change in behavior will be noticed and questioned.

So. The chancellor wants Prompto to know he is in Insomnia, but without knowing who the chancellor is pretending to be, there is no way for Prompto to initiate contact with him. Which means Chancellor Izunia isn’t here to offer Prompto support—he must be here to deliver a message. Maybe even orders.

Prompto considers that thought carefully as he turns another page. He does his best to ignore his unease.

If Chancellor Izunia is here to talk to him, the biggest obstacle to that is how closely Prompto is monitored. His entire suite is bugged, and whenever he leaves the suite, he has a set of guards. His training is carefully watched, and whenever he does something with Noctis, Noctis has at least one member of his retinue lurking somewhere in addition to Prompto’s regular guards. The chancellor’s best time to contact him will be when Prompto is out in the Citadel with just Elshett and a team of four.

Could he go somewhere without Elshett?

He hasn’t actually tried. His usual routine of breakfast, training, shower, lunch, something with Elshett or Noctis typically ends with Elshett dropping him back off at his suite to have dinner and glancing through the Gralea Sentinel , reading one of the books in the office or from the library, watching Lucian news programs, or some combination of the three. 

A knock at the office door pulls him out of his thoughts. “Prince Prompto, lunch has arrived,” Elshett calls through.

Prompto notes the page he got to before shutting the book and calling back, “In a  moment.” 

This isn’t the only book he borrowed—he has a small stack of them. He has already been to the library once. It wouldn’t be too strange to go again, right?

He dismisses Elshett after lunch by telling her he intends to spend the rest of the day reading. She is too professional to look surprised, but after reassuring him that she will have dinner sent up by the dining staff, she leaves his suite. Prompto has no idea how her assignment works, but she can’t be on duty all hours of the day; the only times he has seen her in the evening were when she escorted him back to his suite after the dinner with King Regis and the day they worked on statements for the press regarding the ceasefire. Presumably the evenings are hers, though Prompto wouldn’t be surprised if she were temporarily living within the Citadel so she could be on hand in case of emergency. 

Prompto spends the afternoon reading. He picks through the books he borrowed from the library, only this time, his morning with Noctis influences what he ends up focusing on. He doesn’t even bother with the account of King Mors’ reign or the history of the Crystal, choosing to focus on information about the Astrals and their messengers instead.

The most comprehensive book is about thirty years old, and there is a surprising amount of information about the messengers Pryna and Umbra in it. The author goes on at length regarding their close association with the Nox Fleuret line, particularly its Oracles, and there are drawings and paintings of them going back centuries. There are even multiple photographs in the book, from shortly after Queen Sylva’s coronation, of her posing with them. 

Prompto hasn’t had the opportunity to be around animals much. He wonders just how much—or how little—the two messengers are like regular dogs. 

There are varying amounts of information about the other messengers, some of which only have a few paragraphs, whose visits to either the Nox Fleuret or Caelum Lucis lines are so far back in recorded history that little has survived until the present day. Some are closely tied to specific Astrals, while others don’t seem to have any particular god’s favor. Some don’t even have a painting; their only reference is a sentence or two in the Cosmogony itself.

What kind of messages would they even carry, if the gods are dead or sleeping? And sleeping is probably just a poetic euphemism for death for the rest of them, anyway.

It doesn’t matter, but it’s almost—relaxing to have this kind of low-stakes distraction. He doubts a messenger is going to show up to dictate treaty terms when it’s time for negotiations to start. Even if one did, there’s no way Niflheim would agree to allow some unknown being of dubious provenance tell them what to do.

So Prompto reads, and he reads, and he reads. He reads chapters that catch his attention, skims through more, skips still others entirely. He pretends to be more annoyed, more bored, as time drags on. About an hour before he would normally go to bed, Prompto gathers up the books that were actually too dull to keep his attention and holds them carefully in his left arm. Then he heads for the door of his suite.

He does not laugh when the Kingsglaive outside his suite jump slightly—a strong indication that the ones right here aren’t monitoring a live feed. That gives him a few seconds’ delay should he ever need it, and he files that thought away to deal with at another time. He is too busy right now trying not to let his nerves show. 

“I’m going to the library,” he says to the group, as if he has never imagined they might try to stop him and is only informing them because it’s the polite thing to do. “These books are not to my taste.”

“Ah, Your Imperial Highness—” one starts, then stops. Prompto refuses to bite the inside of his cheek. The four Kingsglaive share a look, and one of them must get some kind of permission in the earpieces they wear, because they say, “We’ll escort you.”

Okay, good. Lucis still is monitoring him like a zu, but they aren’t yet suspicious enough of him making a move without Elshett around to drag him back into his suite. Prompto nods once, like he’s grateful for the escort, and heads for the elevator on this floor. Two of the four Kingsglaive fall into step behind him.

He really hopes he remembers how to get to the library on his own.

Prompto makes it to the library. The actual librarians are long gone at this time of night, but one of the two Kingsglaive produces a keycard and allows them inside. Prompto lets them sort out the lights and goes to deposit the books on the main desk so they can be dealt with in the morning. Then he heads back to the nonfiction section and does not wait for his guards to catch up.

It’s surprisingly dark in the library, even when one of the guards finds the switch for the main lights. The tall shelves cast long shadows, and everything is eerily quiet with just three people in the space. Prompto doesn’t try to hurry or to hide; he heads back to the nonfiction section and starts picking through the shelves.

He grabs one book, flips through its contents, puts it back. Move on to the next. Drifts over to another aisle. But nothing happens other than the Kingsglaive catching up with him and just patiently waiting at a distance. Ten minutes turns to fifteen, to twenty.

All right. Maybe the chancellor is busy with something else tonight. It’s not like the man arranged to meet up. Prompto just—didn’t want to fail a test, if this were a test. Not when others depend on him to stay alive for as long as possible.

Prompto settles on three books and tells the Kingsglaive he is heading back. They don’t protest him taking the books, either, which is another point in the “maybe Lucis isn’t just waiting for an excuse for murder” column. Not that he has any other use for it at the moment, but it is good to know ahead of time that Lucis may let him leave his suite without Elshett in the future, if she’s already retired for the day.

The Kingsglaive shut off the library lights and lock the door behind them. This late at night, the Citadel is quiet, far quieter than it is during the day. Most of the government employees are long gone, and most of the remaining staff are probably security, janitorial services, and some diplomatic and household support staff since this is the royal family’s residence. In that way, it’s pretty much the same as Gralea. 

Prompto can hear his own footsteps, and the footsteps of the Kingsglaive trailing him as he heads back to his suite. These hallways aren’t quite cavernous enough for the sound to echo, but the steady pace is there—until it stops abruptly, altogether.

He turns to look over his shoulder, and the world smears gray. The pair of Kingsglaive are caught like insects in amber, frozen mid-stride in the middle of the empty hallway. His heartbeat, his breath, are suddenly horrifyingly loud in the utter stillness of the world. It’s nothing like he’s ever heard of from Lucis’s magic, let alone seen before, and that can’t—

“Good evening, Your Imperial Highness,” Chancellor Izunia calls in his mocking cadence, and Prompto jerks back around in time to see the man sweep his hat off his head so he can drop into a dramatic bow. 

Prompto realizes he has the books clutched to his chest, as if that will help restrain the wild beating of his heart. He eases his hold on them and forces his expression into neutral lines. “Good evening, Chancellor.” His voice is a little higher than normal, and he swallows to clear his throat. “I had wondered if you would seek me out.”

Izunia laughs and sets his hat back on his head with a flourish. “You are one of several matters that require my attention,” he says dismissively. He steps in closer, and Prompto does not flinch. “Doing a bit of reading in your idle hours?”

“I thought it best to learn something about Lucis while I was here.”

The chancellor ducks in to get a look at the titles, and when he does, his nose wrinkles. “Hmm, well, there’s no accounting for taste.”

It’s far from the worst insult Prompto has had from the chancellor, so he dismisses the words and the urge to put distance between them. He ignores the way the chancellor glances upward, just enough to examine the healed, but still new-looking scar around his throat.

“Does His Imperial Majesty have orders for me?” Prompto asks because he would like whatever is happening right now to be over. 

Has Chancellor Izunia—he can’t have actually stopped time, right? This must be some kind of—some kind of illusion. Maybe Prompto is still in the library, staring blankly at one of the shelves, and the Kingsglaive are rapidly losing their patience. It would make sense for this to be an illusion, given that Prompto saw the chancellor wearing someone else’s face just this morning.

Because if this is— stopping time is so much more horrifying than conjuring fire or warping or whatever it is that the line of Lucis and their chosen soldiers are supposed to be able to do.

Chancellor Izunia straightens up with a smile that sets Prompto’s teeth on edge. “You are to continue as you have been,” he says dismissively. “The current phase of Operation Countersign does not require your participation.”

Current phase? Prompto had thought there were just two: his arrival in Insomnia and then the arrival of the negotiators. Granted, the decision to withdraw troops from Cleigne absolutely would have required the addition of more phases to the original plan to end the war. It probably made many of Niflheim’s military families unhappy, and it wouldn’t surprise him if that required some additional maneuvers on Aldercapt’s part to keep control. 

“The empire’s diplomats will arrive on time, as agreed,” Chancellor Izunia continues, sounding bored. He glances again at Prompto’s books. “Maybe your—research will be useful. The delegation may have updated orders for you then.”

The condescension in his tone sparks the urge to bristle. Prompto shoves the defensive reaction aside. Right now, Chancellor Izunia looks—well. He doesn’t seem to be in a bad mood. And an official “keep doing what you’re doing” doesn’t seem like a terrible omen for Prompto, either.

“I’ll do what I can, Chancellor,” Prompto says politely. “May I inquire as to my cohort?”

Chancellor Izunia blinks at him, and then he lets out an amused chuckle. “They’re just as you left them,” he says, waving his hand about carelessly. “No new accidents, no one falling behind the others, no one else needing to be culled.”

Prompto allows himself a shaky exhale as a bit of his tension eases. He’ll never not be worried, but at least their numbers haven’t dwindled further. At least Besithia is still laser focused on whatever his Diamond Weapon project is that he hasn’t succeeded in persuading Aldercapt to scrap Prompto’s cohort for Project Deathless. 

He just needs to survive through the negotiations and treaty signing, and then he can go back to Niflheim, where at least the danger is familiar, predictable.   

“A last question for you, Your Imperial Highness,” Chancellor Izunia says. He lifts one hand, to tap his chin in a pantomime of exaggerated thought. “An indulgence, if you will.”

Prompto does not stare. “Of course, Chancellor. I am at your disposal.”

“What think you of Prince Noctis?”

Prompto manages to keep the What? firm stuck behind his teeth. He takes a breath. “He is young,” Prompto says, which is only a little ridiculous because they’re the same age, but it feels true in a way that’s hard to explain. “He is surprisingly earnest and sincere, for a prince.”

“I am truly sorry, Your Highness, I hope you can forgive me for putting you in danger while you are here with us.” 

“His Highness is generally guarded. He seems to relax with his retinue, primarily, though he is quite friendly with Princess Lunafreya. He prioritizes his people and cares about how they perceive him and the crown. I believe he intends to do what he can to ensure the treaty succeeds.”

Chancellor Izunia hums, and Prompto has no idea how to parse the man’s current expression. It makes Prompto wish he were armed with something beyond his knives, not that he could ever raise his hand against the emperor’s most trusted man.

But why is Chancellor Izunia asking about Noctis? It isn’t the prince who will sign the treaty, and Prompto doubts he will be a significant player in the actual negotiations. The king is a shrewd, hard man, and he has an entire council and military leaders to advise him. Then again, Prompto knows that he is merely a placeholder; presumably, since Noctis will actually rule someday, he will have a bigger part to play in all this than Prompto could ever dream of.

“I understand you have had the opportunity to interact with him privately,” the chancellor says. “As privately as one can, with a royal from an enemy nation, that is.”

“I have,” Prompto says as a new form of worry starts to snake its tendrils through his chest.

“Continue to participate in whatever—invitations he extends your way,” Chancellor Izunia says. He’s smiling now, and Prompto does not shudder. “Preserve the emperor’s dignity, of course, but I think the best use of you would be to continue nurturing the prince’s goodwill.”

Prompto resists the urge to duck his head. The tendrils squeeze tight around his lungs. “I understand.”

“You’ve done well,” the chancellor says. He reaches out, pats one gloved hand against Prompto’s cheek, like he is a child, or a pet. The glove is fingerless, and the chancellor’s skin is surprisingly cool, given all the layers he wears. Prompto stares straight ahead, beyond the chancellor’s shoulder, and barely manages to keep from flinching. “Please continue persuading the Lucians that we care about you and want you whole when the delegates arrive.”

“Yes, Chancellor,” Prompto says, voice carefully even. His throat aches, like the wound around his neck is still healing. 

Chancellor Izunia steps back and raises a hand to wave. “Farewell, dear prince.” 

And then the hallway is empty, and the color is back in the world. 

Prompto heaves a breath, grips the books he’s carrying tight to his chest.

“Your Imperial Highness?”

Right. The Kingsglaive behind him. To them, it probably looks like he just stopped in the middle of the hallway.

Prompto closes his eyes and steels his spine. “It’s nothing,” he lies. He can still feel the chancellor’s hand on his face, a mockery of tenderness. “I’d forgotten a book I wanted. I’ll go back another time, once I’ve finished these.”

Chapter Text

Noctis’s brain feels like it's buzzing nonstop after their time out in Keytriarch. It’s so loud and overbearing that by the next morning he’s itching to do something . Which means a lot. Noctis is by nature a very lazy human. It’s the efforts and reminders of those around him that get him to accomplish anything, really. 

He forces himself to get through his breakfast, go through his morning routine. But he can’t help thinking about so many things at once; it's like the thoughts are all playing at the same time, overlapping and noisy and incomprehensible. But Noctis also understands it at the same time. 

Somehow the Starscourge infected someone within the Wall. There are more and more people within Insomnia who are angry at his dad. There’s nothing Noctis can do to help with any of this. He has no idea how the Starscourge got to Leide.

He doesn’t disagree with what his dad has had to do to protect his people. And that isn't just because his dad is the king. Noctis trusts him, trusts his advisors. His dad is a good person and Noctis believes with all his being that the king is also surrounded by good people. The decision to take back Cleigne instead of Galahd was an unfortunate sacrifice, but war is messy. He’s not foolish. 

By late morning the buzz in his mind hasn’t relented. Noctis gets into his workout leggings, shorts, and a tighter fitting shirt. He thinks he wants to try to spar today, if anyone is around to do it. Worst case he can spar with Iris. 

He sends a quick text to Iris that he’s heading to the training area. Ignis and Gladio have some other work to do today in preparation for more representatives to arrive. With the attempt on Prompto’s life, the obvious insider leak of the garden party, and the rumors circulating around possible unions, security is more important than ever. 

At the training grounds, Noctis decides to head in the direction of where Prompto usually trains. It’s a long shot, he really should get the prince’s schedule from Monica. 

“Noct!” Iris hollers as he’s about to open the doors. He pauses while she jogs over, but she isn’t dressed for training. She hands him a towel and water. “I got your text, what's up? This isn't your usual time."

“Feeling antsy.” It isn’t a lie. But he won’t admit to her what he’s hoping to find in the next room.

When he goes through the doors, Noctis can’t help but be pleased to see Prompto is there, standing at the edge of the mats stretching to the side. 

Prompto freezes when the doors open. They make eye contact, but Prompto doesn’t immediately relax.

“Hey, mind if I join?” Noctis waves at an attempt for a more casual vibe.

Prompto…blinks. Quickly does a check with Monica, who is standing in the corner. She offers just one nod in reply.

“There aren't any practice weapons here,” Prompto says flatly. 

“That's okay.” Noctis steps closer so Iris can close the door behind them. “You grapple?” 

“What?” Iris hisses behind him. “Gladdy would kill me. He almost did last time.”

Monida pulls out her cellphone. “It’s alright, I’ll let him know what’s going on.” 

Iris points at Noctis. “Okay…Don’t get hurt. Or hurt him.” She points at Prompto with the other hand. “Both of you. Got it?” 

“Got it,” Prompto and Noctis reply at the same time. They both turn towards each other. 

Noctis can’t help smiling. “You in, then?” 

It’s clear Prompto takes a second to track up and down Noctis. It takes a lot for Noctis to not squirm under the concentrated look. In the end, Prompto shrugs. “It’s been awhile, but sure. Rules?”

“Let’s keep it easy. First to concede loses.” A rush of adrenaline moves through Noctis. “No time limit, since there's no points or anything.” To seal the deal, Noctis holds out his hand. 

Prompto narrows his eyes at Noctis, but then grabs the offered hand and squeezes. “You're on.” 

They both walk to the center of the mat and shake hands. Out of the corner of his eyes, Noctis spots Monica and Iris whispering to each other. And it’s then Noctis recalls what Ignis said about Prompto having knives. Does he have them now? Would Prompto even use them, or are they just for self-defense? Is Prompto agreeing to this because he has the knives and Noctis has his magic? Does that make the playing field equal to Prompto?

Iris and Monica don't interrupt, so Noctis bows at the waist before stepping back. 

Prompto also moves away and hops up and down a few times. When they get within range of each other, Prompto makes the first move, swinging out towards Noctis’s side. Noctis blocks it and immediately goes to grab Prompto by the back of his head, but Prompto manages to duck down and put space between them.                     

Within arm’s reach again, Prompto tilts his head side to side, watching Noctis, before opting to tag Noctis’s shoulder. Noctis pulls back before grabbing Prompto’s left hand while finding purchase with his grip on the back of Prompto’s head. He isn’t trying to pull at his hair, but he does keep his grip firm as much as he can. Prompto immediately fights the hold. It probably looks like they’re waltzing before Noctis wraps his right leg around Prompto’s. 

But Prompto slips away, putting space between them once again.   

It makes sense Prompto focuses on getting away more than jumping forward. Noctis knows he’s better with long range, and Prompto knows Noctis is better at close combat. Though Noctis prefers to have a weapon, he does grapple frequently with his friends as part of his training. He won’t always be able to depend on the Armiger. 

Prompto takes one small step forward. Noctis decides to rush in. He takes both of Prompto’s hands in his own and pushes forward to press his forehead to Prompto’s. It’s a controlled contact not meant to cause any harm but to give leverage for Noctis to make another go of trying to get the back of Prompto’s head. This time, Noctis finds that leverage, but Prompto does as well. They fight for control for several seconds before pushing away from each other, and Noctis wastes no time in diving back in head first, this time aiming for Prompto’s stomach. 

Prompto sees the move coming and barely dodges in time to tackle Noctis, taking them both to the ground. It knocks the wind out of Noctis, costing him precious seconds.

Noctis squirms to get his legs up and around Prompto’s waist to try to flip him—

His heels make contact with something on Prompto’s back that is definitely not his spine. Not unless Prompto is secretly a mutant and has some weird shit going on. It has to be the knives—

In the time it takes to process this, Noctis slips up, giving Prompto the chance to get Noctis’s legs on either side of Noctis’s head, holding him at the thighs.  Noctis lets himself get pulled into the position, giving himself a moment to breathe while Prompto holds on. 

They lock eyes. They’re both breathing heavily. Noctis scans Prompto’s face and the freckles across his nose and cheeks. The bits of violet in his eyes.

“You good?” Noctis huffs out. 

Prompto takes a deep breath. “Peachy. You?” 

“Fantastic.” 

Noctis snaps his legs down quick and fights to get them wrapped around Prompto once again, but the guy is flexible as fuck and able to roll to keep Noctis on his back despite his efforts. Prompto’s on Ignis levels of agility. 

But then Prompto slips. Literally—his heels slide, and Noctis doesn’t wait to see if he’ll get his purchase back. Noctis lunges and gets his arms around Prompto’s torso to flip him onto his back. Prompto immediately wraps his legs around Noctis, but Noctis gets into a vice-like grip with his hands interlocked together. Gladio has taught him how to have this kind of strength despite his smaller frame. It ends with him completely on top of Prompto, their cheeks pressed against each other as they both take very deep, measured breaths. 

Noctis knows now that Prompto keeps knives on his back and legs. He can feel one on each of Prompto’s calves. He wonders if he should let someone know, to confirm their suspicion. 

“You’re fast,” Prompto mutters. His voice vibrates against Noctis. 

“Yeah?” Noctis blames their position on his shaky breath and cracked voice. He tries to maintain control while pulling Prompto’s right arm into his hold without letting go. 

“But—” Somehow Prompto manages to get one arm between their stomachs. “—So am I.” 

Those three words are punctuated by Prompto thrusting his hips up and using his hand to create space and give just enough leverage to—somehow—slide out of Noctis’s hold. 

Within one breath, Noctis is slammed onto his back. He crosses his legs at the shins right as Prompto goes for his torso, and Noctis keeps his legs between them. Prompto wraps his arms around Noctis’s thighs, but then they’re both stuck, once again taking a moment to breathe. 

Prompto braces one hand on Noctis’s shoulder. If there were a referee at all, this match might be called, or they might be told to separate and reset. But this is just them, and Noctis isn’t even sure what’s driving them at this point. 

Noctis keeps his expression neutral while he considers his next move. Prompto stares down at him. Sweat drips off the tip of Prompto’s nose. 

They’re both fast, and both have enough flexibility to get out of many positions. Noctis kicks as hard as he can with both legs. Prompto loses his grip and gets knocked back. It gives Noctis the space he needs to stand back up, and before Prompto can catch up, Noctis drives forward, hitting Prompto’s chest with both arms wrapped around him, sending Prompto to the ground. 

The sound Prompto makes gives Noctis pause, wondering if he has gone too far. He’s used to Gladio and shouldn’t have gone so hard— 

But it isn’t a pained sound; Prompto is laughing. His body goes slack and he splays out on the mat. Noctis sits up—knees on either side of Prompto’s hips. 

When their eyes meet, Noctis can’t help laughing as well. “You calling it?” 

Prompto nods. He’s smiling though, and closes his eyes while letting out a few more breaths. “Good fight.” 

“Yeah, not bad.” Noctis slaps Prompto’s arm—habit, but he tries to play it off—and rolls off Prompto to go directly for his towel and water nearby. After he chugs nearly the whole bottle and dries his face off, he turns. Prompto is sitting on the ground with his own water. 

Iris and Monica are where they’d been the whole time—off in the corner out of earshot. Being able to warp makes the concept of distance between them less of a concern. Noctis gives them a cursory glance and gives Iris the hand signal for all good as he walks towards Prompto. Who gives him a questioning look as Noctis sits beside him, knees almost touching. 

“I hate hand to hand,” Prompto huffs, taking another long drink of water. 

“Shame we can’t get guns in here,” Noctis says. He could have said something about knives instead, but he doesn't want to give away how much Noctis knows about his habits and the like. Things already feel just on the side of awkward and he wants to hold on to any sense of normalcy that he can. “You ever gone paintballing? Or done laser tag? Close enough.” 

Prompto visibly stills. “No, I haven’t.” 

“Oh.” Fuck, somehow Noctis still managed to put his foot in his mouth. “Dang, maybe we can arrange something like that here.” 

“I think that’s probably too much to ask for right now.” 

Noctis lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “You’re probably right.” He glances over at Iris and Monica. “We never get to do anything fun.” 

He thinks maybe there’s a small half-smile before Prompto wipes his face with his towel. 

“At least we can have tea in the garden,” Noctis moves on. “Luna enjoyed hanging out with you.”  

If Prompto is surprised at all by the mention of Luna, he doesn’t show it. “I assumed that wouldn’t happen again, after that interview.” 

“Ah, yeah.” Noctis had thought maybe he’d get through this without bringing that up, but no dice.  “Not the first time journalists were assholes, won’t be the last. Especially as more people get here. Don’t let them scare you.”  

“I’ll do what is expected and go where I am invited.” Prompto’s voice has reverted back to something more cold, like when they first met. 

“Of course.” Noctis mirrors the tone but stays smiling to try to keep the mood light. Noctis fucked it up again . But—he can save this. “You know, there’s going to be a party once Queen Sylva is here. I can make sure you’re invited.” 

Prompto looks at Noctis in his periphery. Noctis leans over a little so their shoulders are brushing, keeping his voice at a whisper. “It’s not even here, it’s at the top of a hotel, so I can get you out of here for one night.” 

He swears he sees a shift in Prompto’s expression. “That’s quite the promise to make.” 

“I'm good for it.”

“If you can swing it, sure. Count me in.”

Neither of them pull away as they sit and drink water. 

“When are the Niflheim dignitaries arriving?”

“They’ll be here in time for the treaty negotiations, so I assume ten days from now.” 

Noctis swishes water in his mouth. He doesn't want to push Prompto further. There's no reason to lie; if anyone else is traveling to Insomnia, Noctis will know eventually. 

But Noctis also wants to know more about Prompto. His life back in Gralea. What he's potentially giving up, like the rest of them. 

Instead they sit together catching their breaths, shoulders braced against each other. 

Prompto leaves first; he doesn’t know what compelled Noctis to seek him out, but he also doesn’t want to risk deviating too much from his regular schedule, just in case the chancellor decides he wants to speak with him again. He would rather not make the chancellor track him down, nor is he interested in seeing just how far the man’s powers extend. He does a few cool-down stretches, says goodbye to Noctis, nods an acknowledgment to the younger Amicitia, and heads for the door with Elshett.

After that difficult grappling session, Prompto is eager for a shower. He’s feeling overheated after all that prolonged physical contact, and while the cool-down helped, a lukewarm shower should get rid of the lingering heat in his shoulder and hands. 

(Did Noctis feel the knives in their sheathes? Prompto doesn’t know how Noctis could have missed them, given some of the holds Noctis put him in. Then again—then again, Elshett already confirmed that they know he has weapons. Maybe that’s why Noctis suggested grappling, so he could get confirmation on where he keeps them on his person.

It’s a logical sequence of events. It’s a theory that makes the memory-heat fade from his skin.)

He is a little surprised to see that Prince Ravus is in the hallway outside the training room. The man has an angular face and is prone to scowling, or at least he has been the two times that Prompto has actually been in his presence. He is wearing one now, a faint downward tug at his mouth, not quite a sneer. The prince glances over him quickly, and his frown deepens when his gaze settles on Elshett at his side. 

Do they know each other? If so, it doesn’t appear to be a friendly relationship.

“Prince Noctis is inside,” Prompto says, trying to move past the surprised silence as gracefully as he can.

“I’m not looking for him,” Prince Ravus says, and his mouth does twist into a sneer this time. He does not, however, explain why he is lurking; he simply walks past them and takes a right at the next hallway.

Prompto glances at Elshett; her brow is very slightly furrowed. All right, then. At least he’s not the only one thinking the moment was odd. There’s nothing he can do about the Tenebrean prince, so Prompto sets the odd encounter aside to think about at a later time.

He is in the elevator by the time the question occurs to him: Had that been Chancellor Izunia? Pretending to be Ravus Nox Fleuret? Should Prompto be trying to slip Elshett right now to make himself more readily available?

Did he even need to do that when the chancellor could do something about time itself? He came to Prompto when there were guards not more than a meter or two behind him.

There’s nothing productive along that train of thought, so Prompto yanks his focus back to his encounter with Noctis. Chancellor Izunia wanted him to continue entertaining the relationship Noctis is trying to forge. What has he learned from this encounter?

Noctis really is skilled at hand-to-hand, not just with close-range weapons. Surprisingly strong for his size and build, and he is good at strategizing his own moves and can capitalize on an opponent’s weaknesses. Despite the frequent proximity of his retinue, he is a capable individual fighter.

He doesn’t always do what is most strategic, though. Or rather, he doesn’t necessarily take the path that would offer him the most safety. To be fair, Prompto would have to be desperate to try to harm Noctis in the Citadel. But it’s clear Noctis has gotten closer to Prompto physically than makes Elshett comfortable. His retinue, likely, too, though the younger Amicitia seems less wary of Prompto than her brother or Scientia. Prompto wonders just how much detail others are reporting on Noctis’s movements to the king.

Prompto hasn’t seen the king in person since the original press conference. King Regis did not apologize for the attempted assassination—Noctis did. Perhaps, now that Nifhleim has proved it is sincere about ending the war, the king has handed off any day-to-day interactions with him to Noctis? 

(Prompto can’t imagine Aldercapt putting that sort of level of trust in him, but then again, Noctis is King Regis’s son, not a placeholder.)

He has no idea if Noctis will be able to deliver on his promise to get Prompto out of the Citadel. Prompto doesn’t know if he should leave, given an outside environment is bound to be less secure than the Citadel, and he nearly was shot here. 

But it would also be—nice, to get out. Even if he didn’t do things like paintball or laser tag, he isn’t normally confined into such a strict space in Gralea. There are always military bases or research installations to “inspect,” and Aldercapt lets Besithia summon him for tests whenever he likes.

But Izunia had instructed him to learn more about Noctis. He should probably accept the invitation, if it comes. It would be interesting to see how a welcoming party for Queen Sylvia would compare to the greeting Nifhleim’s delegates will receive. 

Prompto forces his thoughts away from that. Izunia told him he isn’t needed for the current phase of Operation Countersign. His only job is to continue nurturing Noctis’s goodwill—and that isn’t a responsibility he dreads.

Chapter Text

Prompto is more than a little surprised when Elshett delivers a formal invitation for Queen Sylva’s official reception two days later. Noctis, apparently, can be trusted for access to state-sponsored events. Prompto will have to thank him.

Prompto settles down to eat his delivered lunch while Elshett walks him through a general overview of security the crown typically runs for events held at the Caelum Via with a promise to provide official, Prompto-specific details once they are settled, with a refresher briefing the afternoon before. He listens intently as he finishes up his meal.

Elshett is midway through a spiel about the Caelum Via’s history and connection to the royal family when there is a knock at the door. She doesn’t quite hide her surprise before she asks, “Are you expecting someone, Your Imperial Highness?”

That’s interesting. Maybe it’s Noctis, here to tell him the news about the invitation, too? “I am not,” Prompto says and motions for her to go see who is at the door.

She comes back with Ravus Nox Fleuret, who looks just as annoyed as he was two days ago outside of Prompto’s training room. Maybe this really is Chancellor Izunia in disguise? If so, how irritated will he be that Prompto didn’t try to seek him out yesterday?

Prompto stands because he and Ravus are of equal rank, and also because not doing so if this is the chancellor would be an insult. “Prince Ravus. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The prince’s sour expression intensifies. “I wish to speak to you. In private.”

Elshett’s expression is perfectly bland, but the way her eyes dart toward the prince makes it clear that she isn’t exactly comfortable with the request. Prompto studies the Tenebrean prince for a moment. 

This is incredibly unlikely to be an assassination attempt, given that the Kingsglaive and Elshett are witnesses to Prince Ravus’s arrival, and he doubts that Lucis would permit a foreign power to assassinate him without warning Elshett first, given that she probably has some standing orders to prevent Prompto from coming to harm. The prince is definitely armed, but considering the clothing he prefers, any weapons he is wearing are concealed.

Prompto has no reason to fight Prince Ravus, not unless the other man attacks him first. And Prompto will fight, with all that he has.

“All right,” Prompto says finally. “Though if you want true privacy, I don’t think we’ll find it in my quarters.” 

Prompto is honestly more than a little impressed that Prince Ravus managed to get them both out of his suite and up onto one of the Citadel’s observation decks. Elshett didn’t look anything except politely professional about Ravus’s demands, but when pressed, she did admit that Prompto technically did not need special permission to enter any publicly accessible areas of the Citadel.

So the two of them are all alone at the top of one of the Citadel’s towers. Prompto is sure Elshett will be reporting on whatever she can from the other side of the doors, but for right now, it’s just him, Prince Ravus, and an admittedly stunning view of Insomnia under the afternoon sun. There are security cameras, of course, but the fact that Ravus took them here means he’s also fairly confident that they aren’t capable of transmitting sound.

Prompto settles his hands on the railing and takes a moment to admire the view. Based on the overview Elshett just gave him, that tall building over there ought to be the Caelum Via.

Prince Ravus, who has probably seen this view plenty of times, does approach the railing, but Prompto can tell from his periphery that Ravus is entirely focused on him. “If there are to be marriages out of this treaty,” the prince says bluntly, “there are only a few acceptable configurations.”

That’s true, though Prompto hasn’t spent much time indulging thoughts about the future. Noctis has to stay in Lucis to inherit, and Lucis and the remnants of Tenebrae are essentially the same party so far as the upcoming negotiations are concerned. If there is to be a union, it will be between Lucis and Niflheim or Tenebrae and Niflheim. Solara is far too young to marry anyone, and if peace hangs on a wedding, it will need to be done within weeks, months at most. Maybe even the day the treaty is signed.

That leaves Prince Ravus, Princess Lunafreya, and Prompto in play, with the possibility of a person of noble, if not royal, blood offered on Lucis’s behalf.

“Provided my sister maintained her right to carry out the Oracle’s duties as part of the treaty conditions, she could be sent to Niflheim,” Ravus continues.

And marry Prompto. The idea sits heavy and sour in his gut. “If I were legitimized and named crown prince, then I would have to stay in Niflheim. But if Solara were named crown princess instead, I could be freely sent to either Tenebrae or Lucis, if Lucis has a suitable lady willing to play the part of treaty bride,” Prompto says as neutrally as he can manage. 

Because he doesn’t know if that’s even a possible outcome. So much will depend upon Besithia’s progress and whether Aldercapt would honor Prompto’s theoretical treaty bride. By all accounts, Aldercapt had loved his wife and refused to remarry after she had passed, despite having only one child to secure the throne. Much like King Regis in that regard. And now Aldercapt has a “bastard son” and a bastard granddaughter to complicate his succession.

Prompto has very little control over his own life; he never expected to pick his own spouse. But with the most likely options said so bluntly, Prompto finds himself—worried. Because he is the one who almost certainly will have to marry, and if all goes as Aldercapt hopes, then what will happen to his spouse when Prompto has been overwritten?

Aldercapt wants immortality, and if it happens, it will come at Prompto’s expense.

Prince Ravus is watching him closely, and Prompto has no idea what to make of his intense expression. “Are things truly so uncertain regarding the succession?”

“His Imperial Majesty loved his wife and son dearly,” Prompto says. “Princess Solara is a welcome balm for what he lost.”

“And you aren’t?”

“No,” Prompto says honestly. He knows exactly what he is, and beloved isn’t anywhere on his list of characteristics. He continues with the official line, “Given that there are so few of the Imperial family, His Imperial Majesty decided not to set me aside.”

“And yet he has not named Princess Solara his heir publicly.”

“He has not.”

Ravus’s eyes narrow. “And he has not made you any promises privately?”

None that can be said aloud. None directly to him, just about him. He knows he doesn’t have the kind of future where any promises are worth more than the breath they’re given in. “I am content to follow the Imperial will, whatever it may be.”

Prince Ravus scoffs at that. “And Solara is easy enough to murder once her grandfather has passed.”

Prompto can’t help it, he gapes at the prince. The idea of someone going after Solara like—like Prompto has been targeted, and on his behalf—when Prompto only exists in the first place as a long-term experiment—

“She’s a—” person, an actual person, not a potential vessel or a madman’s dream, “—child,” Prompto says with as much polite outrage as he can scramble for. It’s better than the nausea tying his stomach into knots. “She is a child, and if she wants the Empire when she is grown, I hope Aldercapt has enough sense to give it to her.”

Whether the man will love his granddaughter more than himself is a confrontation Prompto won’t be around to see. Either he will be overwritten, or they will have finally given up on the experiment, and he and his cohort will be gotten rid of neatly. 

Provided nothing happens to Solara. While Prompto has been the most frequent target as most people are more reluctant to murder a child, there have been some alarming moments with her. He refuses to linger on the idea that he might survive her and Aldercapt both. The war is going to be over soon.

Prompto forces himself back under his princely veneer and pushes off the railing. “Thank you for sharing this lovely view with me, Your Highness.” He barely manages to keep it from coming out sarcastically. 

“Wait,” Prince Ravus says, and there’s an edge to his voice that has Prompto turning back to look at him despite his better judgment. 

There’s something—unnerving in the prince’s expression that makes Prompto feel extremely uncomfortable. This isn’t how people normally look at him. He doesn’t know how to respond when people look at him like that.

Prince Ravus takes Prompto’s silence as permission to continue, and he does, pitching his voice low. “If I am not mistaken, you have—expressed affection for Solara.” When Prompto nods, he continues, “I have much the same affection for Lunafreya. And if—”

The prince hesitates. His throat works for a moment before his jaw clenches briefly. His voice is tight with something almost like urgency. “If you have any sway in the upcoming negotiations, I would prefer any outcome that does not require Lunafreya to go to Niflheim.”

Oh. It’s desperation that is twisting Prince Ravus’s expression. Prompto can’t even blame him for it, even if this artless, honest appeal is not something that Prompto can match. He doesn’t have any sway. Or at least, not with anyone who knows what he actually is. Still, he can’t outright say that. 

Do try to convince the Lucians we care about your continued well-being and general happiness.

Prompto tries to figure out his best strategy in this conversation now that he knows the purpose of it. “Your loyalty to your sister is admirable,” he finally says, because that is true.

“I have but one ambition in these negotiations,” Ravus says, “and that is to keep her safe. I care not for the crown of Tenebrae but for Lunafreya’s happiness. Even if that means I go to Niflheim in her stead.”

Prompto doesn’t think that’s very likely, unless Aldercapt is going to decide to officially ally himself with one of the feuding factions of Nifhleim’s nobility that have an unmarried daughter to spare. Saying so will be too much of a distraction.

He also can’t just agree to pass this conversation on to the Nifhleim negotiators when they arrive, either. Ravus came into this conversation believing Prompto might kill a child for a throne, and he will be suspicious if Prompto agrees too readily.

“If Princess Lunafreya does not come to Niflheim,” Prompto says quietly, “the likeliest outcome is that I will lose my chance at the imperial throne and will be sent to be her husband.”

Ravus doesn’t even bother to hide his grimace, and Prompto can’t help but be amused by that. It’s how he feels about someone marrying him but eventually winding up with Aldercapt, after all. “I am aware,” Ravus says reluctantly. “And I have nothing to offer to you that is equal to a throne. But if the emperor ultimately favors Solara over you, then you would do worse than to have a prince of Tenebrae in your debt.”

Prompto is a little impressed by how blunt Ravus allows himself to be in a conversation of this weight. He tips his head in invitation to continue, and Ravus takes it.

“I would offer my personal alliance, superseded only by my devotion to my mother and sister.”

It’s far more than Prompto expected Ravus to offer. Something a real prince wouldn’t offer lightly. It’s not something that Prompto could ever offer when Aldercapt could overrule it at any time. Prompto nearly refuses the offer on principle, but—even if Aldercapt were the one to call in the debt someday, Ravus wouldn’t honor an obligation that went against his mother and sister’s interests. 

And if Besithia’s experiments never bear fruit, if Aldercapt decides to name Solara his heir—

“I can’t promise the negotiations will fall out as you want,” Prompto says, “but I will relay our conversation to the delegates His Imperial Majesty sends.”

It’s the best he can do. Whether or not the delegates will care, whether or not Chancellor Izunia will care, Prompto has no idea. All he can do is recount what Ravus has offered. 

(He doesn’t ask if Princess Lunafreya and Queen Sylva know what Ravus has offered. He is pretty sure the answer is no.)

Ravus doesn’t thank him. He just nods once, sharp, and finally turns to look out over the city instead of Prompto. 

After a few moments, Prompto joins Ravus back at the railing and spends several quiet moments enjoying the fresh air in an almost-companionable silence.

Chapter Text

Noctis settles into his seat at the head of the table in his office. It’s early, but at least he can do this meeting in his loungewear, since it’s just him and his retinue. Everything is kicking into gear as more delegates arrive and the closer they get to the negotiations starting. Noctis has hardly had time to himself save for sleeping as he’s been supporting his dad and doing what he can to prepare. 

And now they have the Caelum Via event. Noctis is strangely excited for it, more so than previous galas like this. Having Luna and Ravus there makes this feel different, as they haven’t attended anything like this together in years. 

And he got approval for Prompto to attend. His mind buzzes with the idea that all of them could do something like hang out in some spot. Maybe seeing that will give everyone there a renewed sense of hope for the future of Eos. They can be the ones to make the change they want to see in the world. 

Ignis sets a large mug of coffee in front of Noctis—the smell of chocolate revives him a little. Ignis has stopped making the disappointed face he did when Noctis informed him how much he doesn’t want his coffee to taste like coffee. 

He needs the caffeine but he will determine the cost. 

By the time Noctis is a few sips into his mostly chocolate and milk concoction, Gladio and Iris have taken their usual seats to his right. Ignis has a projector set up and the slide on the screen says, quite simply, Caelum Via Welcome Gala.

“Can't we just say party? It's just us in here.”

“It’s not a party ,” Ignis corrects. “It is an event to honor the arrival of Queen Sylva of Tenebrae.” Ignis’s tone is serious—in the this is not a joke serious way Noctis doesn’t see very often. 

Noctis recognizes the tone and resets his attitude. He nods and takes another drink as a sign of surrender and cooperation. 

The way Ignis doesn’t miss a beat is telling in his focus. “The gala will take place on the roof of the Caelum Via, starting just before sundown. There was a desire to be able to have the firework show later in the evening, and so there will be extra precautions taken with security.” 

When Ignis clicks to the next slide, the projector reveals a sky view of the hotel and the buildings surrounding it. 

Gladio clears his throat. “We have Kingsglaive stationed on the tops of all the buildings immediately surrounding the Villa, as well as Crownsguard. We will be utilizing a mix of magic and snipers to monitor and alert for any issues or concerns. There will also be plain clothes on the roof, but we will also have glaives stationed around so there is still a visible presence for attendees.”

Noctis wants to ask what kind of intel they’ve received on active threats for this event. Another part of him doesn’t want to know. With how everything has been going, he’s pretty sure there are several active threats. The security isn’t just because it’s at night. Gladio is also not talking through all this casually, so that tells Noctis everything he needs to know about the threat level.  

A top down view of the roof is next. “We have several emergency doors on the roof, two over on the mezzanine near where the speeches will take place. Another two are on the other side, right and left. There isn’t a door on the upper level, so in the event of an emergency, we will need to keep that in mind.”

“Any questions?” Ignis asks.  

Noctis shakes his head. 

Without skipping a beat, Ignis goes to the next slide. “The doors open an hour before sundown, which is when most guests and delegates will be arriving. You and your father will arrive together. We will have you in the underground safehouse before taking the elevator up to the top floor—no red carpet walk."

This makes Noctis sit up in his seat. “That’s not what we usually do.” He can’t quite hide the little bit of excitement in his voice. He hates walking the red carpet, for all its flashiness and for the way the press behave. And with how things are right now…

“Like we said, extra precautions,” Gladio interjects. 

“With the news about Galahd and the recent…incidents…around Prince Prompto, we’re to avoid public spaces as much as possible.”

“Won’t people catch on? They usually get to see us for events even if it's just for paparazzi shots. Not that I want to do it, just, you know. Asking. For science.” 

“It’s something the public relations team will have to handle, and they’re aware of it. That's not for us to worry about.”

“And Prompto?”

“Prince Prompto will not be going on the red carpet, considering the recent attempts and also to remove additional chatter about how he is being treated here. But he will be arriving before we do.” 

Ignis hesitates to say anything out loud, but Noctis is grateful. He recalls the way Prompto had pushed back so early on about being in front of the public. Going to the party is one thing, but Noctis does not want him to feel pressured to participate in any of the media circus that can come with this kind of event. 

“We anticipate your arrival to be right around sundown. King Regis will immediately head for the podium and greet guests along the way. You will stay near the entrance to do the same as guests go to take their seats.” 

“That feels like I'm a glorified usher.”  

Gladio huffs a laugh. Ignis continues without acknowledgment of his statement. “Event staff will handle directing the guests to their seats. Once that is done, you will join your father at the front, standing to his right. His speech will be brief, welcoming everyone, and will kick off the night proper.” 

“ Then can I eat?” 

“Yes, then you can eat.” 

“Sweet.” Noctis knows Ignis will ensure there’s enough for him to eat that’s to his liking. But these things always make him hungry out of anxiety and nervousness. He still isn’t used to the attention he gets as the prince. The way people talk to him is very fake ninety percent of the time, and Noctis just isn't skilled like his dad and Ignis in feigning interest and regal demeanor. At least usually Ignis stands directly beside Noctis to help him with knowing who people are as they approach him. If he had to remember all those faces and names, Noctis is pretty sure he would just shut down. 

“The king will stay near the podium after his speech. You will make your way around the Villa to speak with a select set of attendees we have determined would be amenable to your approach.” 

Noctis frowns. “That is less sweet.” 

Ignis continues going over who Noctis is intended to speak to. It’s no one surprising, since a lot of these people have come to previous parties—events—and Noctis knows the usual song and dance. The outlier, the anomaly, is Prompto. What will he be doing? Will he just be wandering around, or will he be held in a corner like a caged animal? Noctis isn’t even sure what would be better, because Prompto’s safety is, of course, a priority, and of all the people who should be managing that, Noctis is not on that list given his track record so far. Between the assassination attempts and paparazzi leaks, he's honestly surprised Prompto hasn't locked himself away until his delegates arrive. 

Maybe Noctis could sneak in a few conversations with Prompto in between the boring conversations with delegates. 

The rest of the agenda is loose save for the fireworks, taking place at half past seven. After that the festivities shift to dessert, which is when dad will take his leave. 

“Do I have to leave when my dad does?” 

“If you would like, you can, or you can stay and continue to mingle. We will remain by your side.” 

“I think I would like to.” Noctis won’t say it out loud, but he doesn't want to assume Prompto will want to hang out longer than he has to, but maybe there’s a chance they would be able to use the time to talk more. Maybe Prompto would like to stay as long as he can since it will be the first time outside the Citadel in weeks. 

Noctis hasn’t seen Prompto since their spar. A spar that had been way more fun than he anticipated it would be. Prompto is a good fighter, even without his knives. And even though Prompto clearly doesn't prefer close combat, he can hold up. 

There’s still seven days to go until the negotiations. Noctis is very aware that after that point their lives will change completely. Noctis will most likely never see Prompto again, save for any large events. 

Like weddings. 

Noctis sweeps the thought away. It’s too early to get his brain stuck on that.

“Who’s reviewing all this with Prompto?” he asks Ignis instead. 

“ Prince Prompto will have Monica give him the rundown, and a guard unit we have drafted for this event as extra precaution.” 

Noctis opts to not say anything further. It's not his job to go over details with Prompto, but he does wonder how much he's been told. Noctis is free for the rest of the day after this. Maybe he can stop by and see how the prince is doing… 

“This will also be Iris’s first formal event as a Crownsguard,” Ignis says proudly, and they all smile at her.

Noctis gives Iris his full attention. She’s beaming, but Gladio is doing so even more. “That’s awesome.” Noctis means it. While Iris has been an acting member of his Crownsguard in the Citadel, this will be the first formal event where she gets to don the gear and show up as a shield to Noctis in the public eye. Well, kind of public eye. The lack of the grand entrance reduces that exposure a little, but Noctis also knows there will be professional photos by the crown’s team that will be shared with sites later.  “You settle on your uniform?” 

She nods emphatically. “Gladdy helped me out!” 

Noctis can’t help but laugh. “You trusted the guy who wears the least amount of clothes to help you make your wardrobe choice?” 

“Hey!” 

Ignis clicks his tongue. He’s smiling though, which is a plus. “Gladio does have some semblance of taste. It’s taken me years to influence it, but it is there.” 

“Oh, so you’re all pickin’ on me now?” 

“I think you look great, Gladdy!”

“Glad someone thinks so.” 

“We will all be dressed appropriately.” 

While Noctis does want to give Gladio more of a hard time, he also doesn’t want to take this moment away from Iris.  “I can’t wait for everyone to see how cool you look.” Noctis smiles at Iris, and doesn’t make a deal out of her soft blush. 

“Shut up, it’s just a uniform. It's not like I haven’t been in your guard all this time.” 

“It’s fun, like a bit of a—what did they used to call those things—debutante balls?” 

“Ugh, gross, that is about dated as the idea of arranged marriages—” she slams her mouth shut, hands placed flat on the table. 

Noctis swallows and watches Ignis and Gladio. They manage to keep their expressions neutral, but Noctis does catch the way Ignis shifts in his seat and folds his hands together. 

“I’m sorry, I’m—” 

Ignis shakes his head. “It’s alright. It’s not like that isn’t the elephant in the room for all of us.” 

Noctis stares into his coffee so he doesn’t say anything stupid. Arranged marriages are something no one Noctis knows has gone through, and not something seen for decades in Lucis. So to know that it looms over them all is still something…Noctis doesn’t really want to think about. 

It seems Ignis feels the same, as he moves the conversation forward. “We will all be wearing our usual palette, and will be dressed simply: suit and shirt, vests.” 

“I hate the vest.” Noctis groans. 

“You will wear the vest.” 

“Fine, but I won’t like it.”

“And you will be wearing your crown.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.”

“Perfect.” Noctis sighs dramatically. He doesn't hate the crown, but he does forget it's there when he's wearing it. Which has led to some unfavorable moments. His dad's crown covers both sides of his head, so it's more sturdy, but Noctis’s crown is just on the one side so it’s more finicky. And he fidgets a lot and plays with his hair, which is a problem. He's sure that won't embarrass him in front of—

“Noct?”

He jumps a little in his seat. The others are all studying him with varying expressions of concern.  

“Sorry, uh,” he clears his throat, “I'm good.”

After another pause, the others return their attention to the presentation. Noctis holds onto his cup to keep himself from getting distracted, because his thoughts keep going back to the Prince of Niflheim.

There’s about two seconds after knocking on Prompto’s door where Noctis thinks maybe he should have called ahead before arriving with fresh pizza from the kitchen and a liter of soda. And a console and an arsenal of video games in his bag. 

When Prompto opens the door, he has a defensive look on his face before it settles into something warmer. Something Noctis has caught almost every time they meet up. Like he is always bracing for whatever is on the other side of the door. And now maybe Noctis isn’t a threat or something to guard against. Maybe. 

“Hey, uh, you get your briefing yet for tomorrow?” Noctis stumbles over his words and tries to hide it by shifting his backpack on his shoulder. 

“I’ve been informed of security measures and timelines, but not much more than that,” Prompto answers, but he doesn’t move to let Noctis into his apartment.

So Noctis goes out on a limb. “Want to do something way more fun than security briefings?” 

“Like?” Prompto lifts one eyebrow. 

Noctis motions to his backpack. “You can get your ass kicked?” 

At this sentence Noctis catches the way both guards stiffen up a little. He hopes they get the joke. Prompto thankfully seems to get it, because he laughs—softly, almost under his breath—and steps further inside to let Noctis enter. 

And that’s how Noctis ends up on the couch, shoulder to shoulder with the Prince of Niflheim, playing video games and sharing pizza. 

They’ve gone through race games and fighters—Prompto picks both up quickly despite supposedly never playing video games before. While Noctis tends to try to be more stealth and more on the defensive, Prompto is the one charging forward immediately with guns blazing. If they were on friendlier terms, Noctis would probably give him shit for being a liar about not playing games. 

But that could just rub salt in a wound Noctis isn’t fully aware of. 

They both kick each other’s asses equally, and after several hours, Noctis finally sets the controller down to rest his wrists. Prompto follows suit and takes a long drink of soda. They’re still sitting with their shoulders and knees touching as they lean back. Noctis tilts his head up as he drinks to avoid staring and ignores the way his face heats up. 

“Thank you again for your invitation to the event tomorrow night,” Prompto says after a few moments. 

Noctis waves him off. “It's not a big deal.” 

“I don't believe that. I know what favors like that take.” Prompto tilts his head to look at Noctis.  

Noctis swallows but doesn’t shy away from the eye contact. “Fine. You're welcome. I hope you have fun at the party.”

“Is it really a party?”

He can't help the way he snorts. “You just sound like Ignis.”

Prompto blinks. “Your terrifying advisor?”

Now Noctis really laughs. He hadn't thought Prompto saw Ignis enough to make this kind of observation. “I mean you're not wrong, he is scary as hell. You should see him when he's pissed.” 

“I'd rather not see that ever, thanks.” Prompto’s smiling though. 

“Fair,” Noctis catches his breath. “Do you have any other plans today?”

“No, why?” There's a hint of hesitation in his answer. Noctis Isn't sure if that means he is free and is open to doing something or if he'd rather be alone. 

But Noctis…he doesn't want to leave yet. 

“Wanna—” There's a series of knocks. The pattern tells Noctis that it's Gladio at the door. Which means what he wants to do is probably not relevant.

“Come in,” he shouts, only then remembering this isn't his home, but what's done is done. He catches how Prompto slides away to put more distance between them on the couch. Not much, but Noctis notices it and clenches his jaw. What does Prompto think Gladio will see? 

But Noctis's own concept of boundaries and personal space is most likely grossly different from Prompto’s. He's never seen Prompto do more than a handshake outside a spar. Not that he would trust anyone here with closer contact. No reason really to give anyone a hug, or anything else more intimate. Noctis isn’t a clingy person, but he is used to being comfortable enough with those closest to him. 

Gladio towers over them both when he enters the living room. He's laying on the shield act really heavy. It makes Noctis bristle defensively.  

“Time to go,” Gladio says simply.

A part of Noctis is irritated to have this kind of conversation in front of Prompto. He would have preferred if Gladio or Ignis texted first, so he knows what’s up.  There’s no way Gladio would tell the truth here. “I don't have any plans, last I checked.”

“Your father wants to see you.”

That seals the deal. There’s no arguing with that or asking if it’s true. Noctis casts a quick look at Prompto. “Sorry to run.” 

Noctis almost raps Prompto on the arm like he would a friend. Noctis distracts himself from doing something stupid by getting the console and games all put back into his backpack. 

Prompto doesn’t make a move to help. “Duty calls, I suppose.”

“See you tomorrow?” Noctis offers. He makes a small bow.  

Prompto stands up and bows as well. “See you tomorrow, Prince Noctis.”

The formality stings, but Noctis knows it’s probably Prompto trying to maintain some level of propriety. With Gladio present, Prompto is clearly back on guard. Noctis waves, which feels awkward since they just bowed, and he manages that embarrassment by turning and walking out as quickly as possible.

Chapter Text

Prompto has weathered more than his fair share of parties in Gralea, but this one at the top of the Caelum Via is one of the more unnerving ones he has had the misfortune of attending. 

He knows he tends to be on edge for days, even weeks, after an attempt on his life, but nothing reminds him of that more sharply than when he exits the elevator onto the roof access and is hit by the sheer amount of people crowded onto the open-air space. It’s more people than were in the throne room when he first arrived. More than in the conference room where they plotted the announcement of Nifhleim’s withdrawal from Cleigne. More than in the room when the sound engineer pulled a gun on him. 

Even with Elshett and an entire Kingsglaive team dedicated to protecting him, tonight is going to be a hypervigilant misery.

Elshett briefed him this morning and this afternoon about the extensive security measures for the party. The floor plan for the roof, his entrance route, his exit route, and what he should do and where he should go if something goes wrong. There is a cynical corner of his brain loudly proclaiming that if something does go wrong, Prompto will not be in any shape to go anywhere under his own power. 

(He left his knives in his suite. Elshett didn’t tell him to, but her briefings made no mention of him participating in his own defense, nor did she give him permission to protect himself with lethal force if necessary. It seemed—unwise to bring them, and it proved the right choice when the Caelum Via’s security team put him through a rigorous screening instead of waving him through. Was it an oversight? Or had it been a trap to take his knives from him, which he narrowly avoided?)

Prompto exits the elevator and heads for the open air on the main roof level. He sweeps past the guests who have already arrived and settles at the nearest roof edge, ignoring the way silence falls around him as he cuts through the crowd, and then ignoring how the whispering immediately resumes when he’s out of range. The Kingsglaive team melts into the crowd, keeping an eye for threats to his person. Elshett hovers nearby; not so close as to be seen as interference, should any Lucians attempt to speak to him, but close enough to catch if Prompto makes one of his agreed-upon signs to extract him from an interaction.

The Caelum Via isn’t as tall as the Citadel, though it still offers a rather nice view of the rest of the city. And it’s a different view than the one he had with Ravus, with the sun dipping below Lucis’s famed Wall and casting a great shadow on the western half of the city already. The taller buildings are throwing shadows of their own as well, causing smaller streaks of black to mar the perfect edge of what the Wall would cast on its own.

It is striking. Still too unfamiliar to be beautiful, but it does its job of giving Prompto a chance to steel himself for the rest of the night. He turns his back to the setting sun and steps forward just far enough to put himself into the path of a passing server so he can take a champagne flute from a half empty tray. He has decided to trust the food and drink here; it would be difficult for anyone to poison just him when everything is being offered on platters, and any guest could take from any tray at any given time. 

And if someone is willing to poison an entire tray of food or drink just to get to him, well, Prompto will only select items from trays that are already picked over and hope the earlier people start showing symptoms before he can finish anything. Prompto tucks that thought away and sips at his champagne—not too dry, and strong enough he will limit himself to two glasses for the night.

He surveys the space while he sips his drink. The rooftop of the Caelum Via has a unique, three-level design. The open-air portion of the main level is dotted with round tables with eight chairs each and decorative columns. Changes in the colors and patterns of tile delineate different spaces, and the entire place is strung with elegant lighting and foliage. There’s a string quartet huddled off in a corner, playing unfamiliar but still soothing pieces at a low volume so they don’t disturb the politically powerful. The covered part of this level houses the main bank of elevators and a kitchen and service entrance to handle the food.

A pair of staircases curve down from the main level to the lower level, which is set up for King Regis to address the gathering. There is a raised podium protected from the elements by a circular roofed area, held up by columns. Several rows of elegant folding chairs are arrayed before the podium, which makes Prompto wonder just how long the king plans to speak for. 

The highest level holds an impressive aquarium and viewing gallery, and can only be reached by the two sweeping, curved staircases leading up it. It’s a far smaller area than the main and lower levels, which means it can fit fewer people. In theory, it would be a good place to escape to whenever he can’t stand the crowd any longer. 

Queen Sylva and her children arrived before him, and they are currently the center of the party without King Regis and Noctis yet in sight. The entire family is dressed in white and silver, with just a few black accents, and they stand out against the Lucians’ preferences for darker colors. Given that this party is specifically to welcome them, they have a stream of well-wishers swirling about them. Weskham Armaugh stands nearby, and he looks like he is facilitating introductions. 

The queen and the princess are doing the heavy lifting when it comes to the actual interactions in the party. Ravus stands over his mother’s left shoulder, keeping careful watch of the crowd and looking imposing while his mother and sister greet others and hold conversations. Prompto inclines his head slightly when Ravus meets his eyes; Ravus nods back, once—Prompto still can’t entirely believe the conversation they had—and goes back to watching the crowd. He is not visibly armed, but Prompto is certain that he is still carrying weapons. It isn’t as if Lucian security would have confiscated anything from him .    

Prompto takes a few minutes to play spot-the-security as he wanders through the crowd; the Kingsglaive are most obvious in their uniforms on the perimeter, but Elshett’s briefing indicated that a number of Crownsguard would be in plain clothes. Prompto thinks he has spotted three by the time the first Lucian politician approaches him through a careful, circuitous route that could have been mere chance if Prompto hadn’t been paying attention.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the woman says as she curtsies. This is Councilwoman Novia, lady of her house, if Prompto remembers his briefings before he arrived in Insomnia correctly. She is tall, taller than Prompto in her heels, with a slender build, a light complexion, fine crows feet and laugh lines, and hair gone completely silver with age. Her dress is conservatively cut and an elegant midnight blue, with black elbow-length gloves, and her makeup is minimal but done to emphasize her dark brown eyes. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

Prompto returns her curtsey with a shallow bow and tries to ignore the prickle of eyes on the back of his neck. “The honor is mine, Councilwoman. Are you enjoying the evening?”

He knows the scripts for a formal event; it won’t take much concentration to have a conversation, so long as the scripts he uses in Gralea are similar to the ones they use in Insomnia. He’s grateful for that because it allows him to split his focus more easily on his surroundings. 

“I am,” she says, and adds, “How have you found Lucis these last three weeks?”

Prompto bites back the first bitter urge to say he hasn’t seen anything except the Citadel. That is a surefire sign that he is probably too tense to stay the entire party; he’s barely exchanged two sentences with someone and he’s already feeling snappish. Maybe he should have declined Noctis’s invitation.

“King Regis and Prince Noctis have been most gracious hosts,” Prompto says blandly. “And there are many places within the Citadel that I have found most educational.”

The councilwoman smiles, and Prompto distrusts the warmth in it even though he has no reason to yet. “Any favorites?”

If he says the garden, then it’s an easy segue into the luncheon the Lucian press lost their minds over. If he says the library, there’s a chance word will get out and someone will try to arrange to “accidentally” run into him the next time he’s there. He cannot mention Noctis coming to his suite to just—spend time. Where is a place that he won’t be going to again, that hasn’t been mentioned in the press, but will make a decent conversation topic?

“I quite enjoyed the gallery,” Prompto says, and it’s even the truth, though a significant chunk of that enjoyment came from the company. “There was a great deal of art that I had never seen before, and entire artistic periods that, to my knowledge, never made it into Nifhleim’s borders. It made for a rich afternoon.”

The councilwoman isn’t an artist, so she claims and so the rest of the conversation proves, but it is a decent warmup. Prompto would even call it pleasant, if it weren’t for the way he keeps glancing over her shoulders to track the people in the crowd.

(He knows Noctis will arrive late with his father. He still watches.)

The councilwoman eventually excuses herself politely, but now that someone has approached him and exited his presence safely, others have the bravery to mimic her. They come in ones and twos, smart enough to keep from crowding him and spacing themselves out enough that Prompto has the chance to snag appetizers from passing servers and get rid of his empty glass in between. 

He has talked to seven people (about the gallery, about the food he has enjoyed, and even once about Solara) by the time a ripple goes through the crowd. Prompto glances toward his left, and there—King Regis and Prince Noctis have arrived.

They are both dressed in black suits, crisply tailored with silver accents that match the peculiar Lucian crowns partially hidden in their hair. King Regis looks imposing as ever, with his head held high, his cape draped about his shoulders, and his cane ringing against the stone floor. Noctis walks right beside him, looking confident and composed, distant and untouchable as he has never been in Prompto’s presence.

The crowd drops into bows and curtsies, as deep as their stations require, which means that Prompto sticks up above most of the crowd. When he lifts his head from his shallow bow, Noctis catches his eye. One corner of his mouth pulls up into a crooked smile that’s gone again by the time everyone else rises. Prompto would almost think he had imagined it, if it weren’t for how—struck he is by the acknowledgement. The kindness of it.

He sets his empty champagne flute on a server’s tray and follows with the rest of the crowd down to the lower level with its rows of chairs. Noctis stands at the foot of the left hand staircase so he can greet the guests, and he clearly knows most, if not all of them, as people stream past him rather quickly rather than slowing down for official introductions. 

Queen Sylva and her family do cause a small bottleneck when Noctis insists on greeting each of them formally, so Prompto is not at all surprised when Noctis does the same for him.

“Welcome, Your Imperial Highness,” Noctis says, and though he does not smile when he rises from his bow, there is still warmth in his eyes. “Lucis is honored to have you here.”

“As I am honored to be invited,” Prompto says, a little surprised by his own sincerity, and then he steps aside to let the line continue. He selects a chair in the back row in order to minimize the number of people lurking behind him.

King Regis’s speech is a brief, predictable one. Once Noctis joins him up on the dais, the king thanks the guests for attending, acknowledges Prompto’s presence, welcomes Tenebrae’s exiled royal family, and pledges his commitment to turning this ceasefire into a proper treaty once the Niflheim delegates arrive. He does not address the discontent of Cleigne being chosen over Galahd, nor does he offer the chance for any of his esteemed guests to ask questions. 

(There aren’t any members of the media present, or at least if there are, they aren’t wearing any kind of press identification that Prompto can see. No cameras, no microphones. He doubts an event like this could have been kept quiet, and he wonders just what the Lucian media is going to say about a party like this.)

He heads back up to the main level after the polite applause is over, snags a dainty looking savory pastry from a tray, and settles back near the roof edge to watch the crowd again. The sun is below the wall now, and there’s only a bit of color along the western horizon.

Now that the opening pleasantries are over with, there is a—shift in the crowd. Where the first people to approach Prompto seemed pleased enough to talk about nothing with him, their fellows have taken courage from the first set’s survival of his presence. They segway into more political topics whenever an opening presents itself. 

The withdrawal from Cleigne is a common enough topic, which most of the attendees seem pleased by. Though that shouldn’t be a surprise—the only Galahdians present tonight are in the Kingsglaive, not dressed in three-piece suits and evening gowns. Or at least, that’s what Prompto assumes. There are no Galahdian’s in the king’s council, and only Captain Drautos in military leadership, unless Niflheim’s intelligence is out of date. This crowd is just as removed from the common people as Prompto is from the average Niflheimer. 

Several try to sound him out about potential treaty terms; Prompto deflects as subtly as he can, and only delivers a blunt His Imperial Majesty did not send me to negotiate when pressed. The potential of arranged marriages comes up, and Prompto repeats, endlessly, I trust His Imperial Majesty’s judgment and does not look at Ravus. He’s still waiting for Insomnia’s elite to realize that he does not speak with the emperor’s authority in any way when Noctis catches his eye. 

Where Prompto, the Nox Fleurets, and King Regis have been largely stationary for this party, allowing people to come to them, Noctis has been circulating. He isn’t as powerful as his father or novel like the foreign delegates, and that means he has a lot more freedom to move than they do because fewer people are trying to capture his attention. 

Noctis has maneuvered himself to the base of one of the sweeping staircases. He has a glass of champagne in hand—and another crooked smile when he realizes he has caught Prompto’s attention. He gives a little jerk of his chin, a subtle this way for anyone watching, and then he turns his back on Prompto and heads up the staircase, confident in being—

—obeyed? enticing enough to be followed? something else?

Prompto considers potential outcomes and decides he’d rather entertain a political scheme from Noctis than anyone else on this rooftop. Besides, Elshett will stop him if it goes against any of her own secret directives. He wraps up his current conversation at the most convenient opportunity, excuses himself, and snags his second glass of champagne. Then he takes the other staircase up to the highest level.

The aquarium is beautiful, Prompto thinks when he reaches the landing and can finally see it properly. It’s surprisingly large now that he’s close enough to actually have a better sense of scale, and it’s filled with crystal-clear water and a surprising amount of fish. The lighting in the surrounding area is softer than he would have expected, but he doesn’t know anything about fish, so maybe that is standard. The fish are a riot of colors and sizes, darting here and there, sometimes in sync, sometimes by themselves. But it’s—a restful kind of motion, in a way the crowd of finely dressed people aren’t.

Prompto doesn’t have to fake his interest in the aquarium, and the reflections in the glass do help somewhat with the prickling at the back of his neck from so many eyes on him. He resists the urge to run his hands through his hair, to make sure the scar is still hidden beneath. 

He takes his time admiring the aquarium, circling it carefully, until he finally spots Noctis. He’s hidden himself behind a pillar, out of immediate view of either staircase, still facing the aquarium as if he is admiring it, just from a bit of a distance. Their eyes meet in the reflection, and Noctis’s crooked smile makes a brief reappearance. Prompto decides he’s done enough to misdirect any casual observers—he knows that neither he nor Noctis have managed to ditch their personal security—and goes to him, stepping in close enough they can speak quietly but not close enough for their positioning to look intimate.

“Hey,” Noctis says, sounding casual and pleased in a way that is very—relaxing? appealing?—after the endless rounds of small talk. “Enjoying yourself?”

Prompto is a little jealous at how at ease Noctis looks right now, not-quite slouched against the pillar. He doesn’t look at all like he thinks there could be danger or that the people at this party are looking for opportunities to work against him. Prompto wonders if Noctis has ever been afraid in his father’s court. Of his father.

“I’ve been to worse events,” Prompto says dryly. “The food is good, at least. Thank you for inviting me.”

Noctis shrugs, a slight, one-shouldered movement. “I’m—it didn’t seem fair to leave you in the Citadel while we were all out here.”

And Prompto can admit that Noctis has been—trying. Especially after that garden luncheon. It took some time to manifest, but there is a kindness in Noctis, a persistent, quiet kindness, that leaves Prompto feeling off balance. It’s not the kindness of a child, the kind of thing that Solara has graced him with before in their rare interactions. 

It’s something that Prompto isn’t sure he has a name for.

“Fair or not, I’m glad to be outside for some fresh air, even if it does come with attempts at political maneuvering.”

Noctis makes a face; his nose scrunches up. “ Ugh, ” he says, and then he looks a little concerned. “No one’s bothered you too much, have they?”  

Prompto doesn’t laugh, but he does smile, just a bit. “It’s been fine. I haven’t needed Colonel Elshett to rescue me from anyone.”

“You like her?”

“She is a competent, meticulous woman. I have no complaints about her service.”

Noctis’s eyebrows draw together. “That’s not the same as liking her.”

Prompto bites back his first and second responses, and decides that his third will be honest enough without being rude. He keeps his tone carefully neutral. “It is difficult to be fond of anyone who is a physical reminder of how closely you are under watch.”

Noctis winces. Prompto is absolutely jealous about Noctis being able to let his guard down enough in public to have such an expressive face. Their relationship has—warmed up enough that Prompto has allowed himself to be less tightly in control of himself in private, but there are at least a hundred people on this rooftop.

“Sorry,” Noctis mutters and drains his champagne glass. “That was a stupid question.”  

Prompto carefully does not agree. “What about you? Do you like her?”

“Yeah, she’s—the Elshetts have served the crown for generations. Monica is close to Gladio’s family, so she was around when I was growing up. She’s always been kind.”

To Noctis. Not that she’s done anything for Prompto to complain about. But she and Leonis are the ones he envisions whenever his mind speculates on how things could abruptly go violent in Insomnia. Leonis at least can’t hide how dangerous he is; Elshett, he still doesn’t know.

“Then I’m glad that the person the crown assigned to attend me is someone who is in your favor,” Prompto says, and he means it. “She’s taken good care of me while I’ve been here.”

Noctis looks him over once, like he’s searching for a lie, but in the end he relaxes again. “That’s great,” he says, and offers another small, crooked smile. “I’ll make sure to put in a good word for her next performance review.”

“Just a good word?” Prompto asks, and he doesn’t know what possesses him, but he makes his next words sound as haughty as he can manage. “A promotion at the very least.” 

Noctis’s eyes widen and he visibly smooths out his expression. “I’ll keep that under advisement,” Noctis says, trying to match his tone, but his last word collapses back into quiet laughter.

And that—making someone else laugh with him—

Prompto realizes he’s smiling and finishes off his champagne so he can school his expression again. 

When he finishes, Noctis is still looking at him with—amusement, some kind of softness, around his eyes. Prompto clears his throat and scrambles for any neutral topic. “The fireworks should be starting soon, right?”

Noctis blinks, not quite startled, but he does look around. People are starting to gather around the edges of the roof. “Ah, yeah, just a couple minutes I think. Want to find a place to watch from?”

“Go ahead,” Prompto says. He snags Noctis’s empty glass with his free hand. “I’ll get rid of these and join you.”

“Sure, thanks.”

Prompto ducks his head and escapes with their glasses. The walk over to one of the servers is just long enough to start to smooth over the cracks in his composure. He sets the glasses on an empty tray, and freezes when he catches sight of Chancellor Izunia in the shadow of a nearby pillar. 

The chancellor grins broadly and sweeps his battered hat off, pressing it to his chest as he folds over into an elaborate bow.

What is he doing here? This isn’t the shrine, which only held a handful of people when the chancellor revealed himself. This isn’t a nearly empty corridor in the Citadel. This is a formal event, with over a hundred people, and the chancellor isn’t even bothering to stop time. He is tucked in behind a pillar, where anyone could spot him with the right angle.

“Sir?”

Prompto yanks his attention back to the server, who is looking at him in confusion. He lets go of the glasses and takes a step back. “My apologies,” he manages. 

The server stares at him a second longer, then dips her head in a nod and hurries off to handle less baffling attendees.

Prompto checks the pillar again, but the chancellor is gone. He allows himself a few heartbeats to curl and uncurl his fingers into loose fists at his sides and reminds himself to breathe.

That was—acknowledgement, wasn’t it? Maybe even approval. Or as much approval as Prompto has ever seen the man give. He has been nurturing Noctis’s goodwill, as the chancellor ordered. Chancellor Izunia must have noticed his efforts.

The thought leaves a sour, bitter taste in Prompto’s mouth.

The chancellor is gone, and unless he is going to stop time like he did in that Citadel hallway, then he’s unlikely to talk to Prompto now. But Prompto should be prepared for a potential visitor tonight. Maybe he can stage another late-night trip to the library to provide the chancellor another easy way to give him access.

Prompto puts those thoughts aside for now. He needs—he just needs to meet back up with Noctis, watch the fireworks, and endure another hour or so of political small talk before he returns to his suite in the Citadel. Worrying about the chancellor will do him no good for now.

He tells himself that again, and again, and again as he goes to find Noctis. He almost believes it.

The boom of fireworks echo like thunder around the roof. Prompto watches as they erupt into beautiful crystals in the sky. Noctis observes the first few, but then he finds himself focusing on Prompto instead. Most notably his expression, which for the briefest of moments appears…

At ease. 

A soft smile. Relaxed jaw. Eyes wide. When Noctis first saw Prompto earlier that night, he looked like a creature being hunted in the forest. It’s clear that, to Prompto, every person who approaches him is a predator. Every interaction is clearly forced and uncomfortable. 

Noctis smiles for as long as he can without being noticed, hidden in the moments of darkness between bursts of color. He’s happy that, finally, even if it’s just for a few minutes, Prompto can take in the moment. It doesn't feel like such a bad idea now to have invited him. 

Maybe Noctis managed to not fuck this up. They can move forward and approach the treaty signing more as… friends, than merely royal allies. Noctis tries to ignore how his mind stutters over the word friend.

Another explosion of color appears over them. The flashes of red and gold cast a glow over Prompto’s face, making his freckles stand out and his soft blue eyes brighten. The next burst follows up with silver and gold, highlighting Prompto’s cheekbones and throat. The wound is healed, but the scar will probably always be there.

Noctis’s own throat tightens. He recognizes the ache in his chest and the way his hands beg to reach out. Their hands are at each other’s sides. All Noctis needs to do is stretch out his fingers, and they would find Prompto’s. Could thread against them—

No .

Noctis takes a small step back, just a touch, so that he’s no longer standing directly at Prompto’s side. Putting distance between his traitorous body. It doesn’t look like Prompto notices, which is fine. It’s for the best. Whatever Noctis is feeling, whatever he thinks his heart is telling him, doesn’t matter. Prompto owes him nothing. Prompto is just trying to survive each day in enemy territory—which is what Insomnia is right now. Noctis has no right to any— any —silly juvenile thoughts. 

Noctis’s feelings mean nothing. He needs to only focus on getting through these next few weeks, and then taking stock of whatever his life will be for the future. And whatever it turns out to be, the only certainty is that Noctis’s future doesn’t involve Prompto. 

From the other end of the rooftop come some shouts as another round of fireworks erupt to the beat of music. The reaction is a little dramatic for royal dignitaries, but who knows, maybe the pending treaty, the idea of the war finally being over, it’s doing something to them all. It brings people hope. There’s a myriad of different emotions at play here. Noctis is really feeling that right now, for sure. 

In a pause between the fireworks, there are more shouts. Which actually…sound more like screams. Prompto must sense the shift, too, because he turns to check with Noctis. Not sure what exactly to say, they both sweep their attention across the Villa spread out before them. The lower part of the villa, where his dad is, they can’t get a good visual of. It’s probably nothing. They're both just on edge because of everything that has happened these past few weeks. If there was a problem, Gladio would be there beside Noctis in an instant. 

Some kind of incendiary explodes on the lower level and sends a plume of fire up into the air. There are no fireworks in the sky to account for the sound. In unison he and Prompto snap their heads in the same direction. The screaming gets louder, closer, as people—

They’re fleeing up the stairs. Away from the source of the commotion. 

“We have to get out of here.” Noctis tugs at Prompto’s sleeve, and they’re on the move before he can even really tell his body to stop. Noctis doesn’t let go of Prompto as they descend the stairs with the rest of the crowd. There’s more explosions, more gunshots, more screams. 

They’re under attack. 

Chaos erupts all around them. People drop everything to hurl themselves towards the exits. At the base of the stairs, they both skid to a halt. 

“Go!” Noctis shouts and releases Prompto before heading, as stupid as it is, towards the lowest level. His friends and family are down there. He can’t leave them. He won’t. Noctis weaves through the crowd, noting the lack of familiar faces. 

As he runs down the second set of stairs, the reality of what is happening is staggering. People are shot, bleeding out on the stairs, some clearly burned. It smells like magic. 

A searing pain erupts in Noctis’s right side. 

“Fuck!” It knocks him back. He stumbles, barely managing to cling to a railing to keep himself from falling back. When his hand goes to where the searing pain stems from, just under his ribs, it’s instantly wet, and red. Dark red. 

Noctis has been shot . 

Noctis chokes on air as panic sets in and his heart races, the adrenaline taking over his mind. He hopes Prompto escaped. The urgency rises into his throat and makes it even harder to breathe. He smells blood and fire and flashes of a daemon attacking his car threatens to pull him into a full meltdown. His vision is blurry. He has a hard time sorting out what exactly is happening as chaos breaks out across the open roof and the guests all scatter.

There’s no way of knowing who has been shot or grabbed. That Gladio, Ignis, and Iris aren’t immediately there with Noctis makes things feel even worse. He remembers the exits—there’s one on either side of this floor. He just needs to get to one, and then he can figure out what’s next. One step at a time. Prompto had a security briefing. He has to be okay. He has to be. 

Through the tunnel vision of it all he hears the frantic screams of a larger crowd. A flash of white and red flames arc across his vision. Noctis takes a few deep breaths despite the pain that resonates through him, and gets his bearings enough to focus on moving towards the door. 

People are running. A few knock him as they go by, and each time it feels like he has to walk up a mountain of sand to move forward. Noctis prays everyone quickly finds their way out; this isn’t the time to get mad. There’s glaives and guards mixed in with guests, which brings him comfort. They should be able to get this under control. Noctis gets himself on the move again when he sees a familiar face—Pelna—nearby. Good. 

Out the corner of his eye he catches a flash that makes him instinctively flinch and searing pain shoots up his body. He turns his head just in time to see one of the glaives, face covered with their hood, drives a sword through Pelna’s chest. Then they turn and grab a guest to toss off the roof like it means nothing. The same glaive warps to the other side to break the neck of another. It hits Noctis almost like another bullet. He can’t move. 

This isn’t an attack from Niflheim soldiers. 

It’s glaives. They’re fighting other glaives. They’re killing guests. Civilians who are unarmed. 

Most of the attackers have their hoods up and masks on to obscure their faces. Which means Noctis can’t know who is his friend or his enemy. But it’s a safer bet to assume all are the enemy at this point. 

The door. He has to get to the exit and wait for the others. They’ll surely know what's going on—

As Noctis turns, he makes eye contact with one glaive who isn’t running or fighting. They’re walking, calmly, through the crowd while behind them Noctis can see other glaives in combat. There’s so much commotion Noctis can’t see his father, and everything feels like it's in slow motion. Like the only thing in focus is the glaive heading straight for him. 

The masked glaive lifts a gun and points it right at Noctis. 

He should duck. Run. Do something, anything. Noctis has trained for this for years. He knows all the defensive moves. He knows where the secret doors to escape through are in case he finds himself alone. He knows the emergency protocols for these situations, on paper. 

But standing there, staring down a glaive’s gun, Noctis doesn’t know anything. 

“Noct!” Gladio shouts before he registers Gladio has warped in front of him. The tall shield is out, but it’s too late. There’s another sharp pain in Noctis’s left arm. This time Noctis loses his balance and collapses to the floor and out of the protection of the shield. 

“No!” A firm arm gets a hold of Noctis’s shirt and yanks him back. He orients himself—Gladio is on his knees, behind the shield, towering over Noctis. 

“Black Cat is hit,” Gladio snarls into his comms. “I repeat, he’s hit! Coerul and Moogle, do you read?” 

Noctis blinks a few times, finding himself unable to do much else. Gladio tracks his two wounds, but Noctis can see Gladio has also been injured. Several deep gashes are on his arms and sides. This close, Noctis can see where Gladio’s forehead is split open, a source of more blood that flows down Gladio’s face. 

“What happened?” Noctis shouts. Because it feels like he needs to despite how close they are. All around them it sounds like the world is ending. Magic is going off everywhere. Gunfire is rampant. 

“Not now, exit first.” 

As if on cue, Ignis and Iris appear on either side of Gladio, both also in bad shape. Blood runs down Iris’s right leg. Noctis can’t help but feel anger at how her shirt is ripped and skirt bloody—her Crownsguard uniform already destroyed. Ignis is splattered with so much blood and gore Noctis can only assume most of it isn’t his own, otherwise he wouldn't be moving. 

Iris kneels down with Noctis while Gladio and Ignis huddle together. 

“Can you walk?” she asks. 

“I think so?” Noctis honestly isn’t sure, but he wants to get the hell out of here. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want anyone to die. But that clearly isn’t not how this is going to play out.

“Luna—” he starts to ask. 

“Not now,” Gladio hisses. 

Iris and Ignis get Noctis back up on his feet behind the shield and then they’re on the move. Gladio keeps himself between where the most commotion seems to be while the three of them hustle it over to the corner with the hidden door. At least that's where he’s assuming they're going, where he hopes they’re going. 

One of the delegates who had been talking to Prompto is on the ground. Blood pools around her head. 

Ignis is shaking him. “Noct, we have to keep moving.” 

He hadn't noticed he’d stopped walking, transfixed on the body. Before he can apologize, Noctis is pulled by Ignis behind a large pillar and a few shots ricochet off it. 

“We’re almost there!” Gladio shouts. 

It feels like the door is miles away. Should it be taking this long? Noctis’s mind is reeling. His dad. His friends. Prompto. They could all be dead right now. He needs to know. What is happening? Why? Looking out across the way when he can, there are bodies everywhere. Glaives. Guests. Maybe not all of them are lost causes.

Noctis can’t breathe. He stumbles. 

“Gladio,” Iris says urgently. “He’s fading. We have to keep moving.” 

They get to the door. Gladio nearly rips it off its hinges with the force of his pull, and then they’re all inside a long, dimly lit hallway. 

When the door shuts, it’s quiet. Noctis stops running and presses himself against the wall. 

For the briefest moment Noctis believes he’s alright. He can feel the cool stone on the palm of his dry hand. He can smell blood, but that’s alright, it’s not the first time he’s experienced this. But then the room spins a little. He sways with it. Is there an earthquake? 

“Everything is…” Noctis swallows, trying to think of the words he wants to say. He feels light. Like he’s warping, but without any effort. Letting his body go wherever it wants to. 

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” Gladio yells as he picks Noctis up in his arms. 

That feels a little better. 

“Noct, you need to stay with me, do you understand? Talk to me.” Ignis’s grip on his arms tightens as they start running. A pain tears through Noctis’s body and he feels more blood run down his arm and side. 

“Specs…” It’s hard to speak. Everything goes fuzzy at the edges, and then he feels his body just. Stop. He’s still breathing, but it’s like his body needs to focus entirely on staying alive. So Noctis closes his eyes. His heartbeat is loud in his head. 

“Black Cat is not alert. We need immediate atten—” 

Ignis is saying something over comms, but Noctis can’t decipher the words. He can’t move at all. He bounces in Gladio’s arms with every step, and each time, pain radiates throughout his entire body. But he doesn’t even have the strength to say that much, so he suffers through it. He doesn’t want to scare his friends any more.

Gladio growls. It vibrates against Noctis’s torso. It’s a soothing rhythm. 

Noctis tries to open his eyes, tries to move, but his body is still unresponsive even now that he’s safe. The more he tries to move, the further away he is from his body. 

And then, everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

There’s a brightness on the other side of his closed eyes. Noctis hears more shouts, and he’s being moved out of Gladio’s arms. He thinks he’s been placed on a bed, but then it’s moving, which means they must have made it. He’s in some sort of hospital. He can smell it in the air with the tang of medicine that burns his throat. His arm and chest feel like they are on fire.  

Noctis thinks about Luna. About what could be happening to her. She could be lying there, on the roof, dead. With her mother and brother beside her. The last of the Nox Fleuret bloodline wiped out in his home. They wouldn't have gone without a fight. Noctis hates how his mind plays for him in their last moments. Luna does have a trident she can pull because of her connection to the Crystal. Ravus has his sword always at his hip. Queen Sylva has her magic and the protection of the Astrals. They would have given the traitors a fight, but that doesn't make Noctis feel any better, of course. The end would still be the same. 

Then there's his dad, with the best glaives in all the land, left to die in a pool of their blood by the hands of traitors. They wouldn't fall easily. 

And Prompto. 

Every time Noctis has tried to do something for Prompto, reach out, make him feel at ease, it’s all gone to hell. And now Prompto is probably dead, because how many people would actually try to protect him? Save him? If this is an inside job, and Prompto is a target along with the other royals, there's no telling the lengths they would take. When it came down to it, would his security detail risk their lives for the prince of the most hated nation in all of Eos?

And Noctis delivered Prompto to a place he wasn't supposed to be. If he could cry, Noctis would. He wants to. Instead he’s just screaming in his mind, until everything once again goes dark. 

The next thing Noctis is aware of is that it’s quiet. He isn’t able to move yet; even his eyes don’t listen to his brain telling them to open. So it’s the quiet he recognizes first. The difference from the last time he was aware to now is jarring. His ears are still ringing. 

Maybe he’s dead, and now his soul is floating in the Crystal—is that where he’ll go, when he dies? It makes sense, considering the legacy around his bloodline and the connection to the walls, the Armiger—

There's a sound, like a chair scraping on the ground. 

No, Noctis isn’t dead. Sensation returns to his right hand where there’s an IV inserted. His fingers twitch. It still smells of medicine. He's in a hospital bed and trapped under what feels like kilos of blankets. But there's something about the weight that's comforting. 

He tries as hard as he can to move and barely tilts his chin up what is probably centimeters.

“I think he’s waking up!” Iris says from his left side. 

Footsteps replace the silence and voices become many and frantic. At first, Noctis isn't sure he wants to open his eyes and face reality. What happened to everyone? How many people are dead? Did his friends all make it? He imagines that by now they should have a body count. It must be hours since the attack, but Noctis isn’t sure it’s something he wants to face yet. 

“Noct,” Ignis’s voice is closer. “Can you hear me?” 

Noctis manages to swallow and take a deeper breath. Slowly, and with an irritating amount of effort, he opens his eyes. He blinks several times against the blinding white fluorescent lights in the ceiling... 

“Thank the gods,” Ignis mutters. 

Noctis blinks once more and forces his eyes as wide open as he can. Which still feels like he's squinting. But he pushes through it to tilt his head down to face his reality.

Gladio is beside Ignis. They're all in hospital scrubs and cleaned up, the only signs of their injuries are bandages on their faces and arms. Gladio rests a warm hand on Noctis’s knee, still hidden by the hospital blanket. 

“Good to see you,” Gladio croaks. 

“Hey.” Noctis’s voice cracks. His mouth is dry and his tongue feels heavy.

“Would you get some water, and let the staff know he’s awake?” Ignis directs to Iris, who is now on Noctis’s right. She disappears from his periphery but returns quickly with a plastic cup with a straw before vanishing once more. 

“Drink slowly,” Ignis directs as Noctis immediately tries to just tip the cup into his mouth. Ignis pulls the cup away, then brings it closer with the straw angled towards him. Noctis obeys the silent directive and takes slow sips through the straw.  

“You’ve lost a lot of blood. You've already come out of surgery, but you need to take things slow.” 

Noctis pauses. He stares into the water cup and takes stock of his body. He has all his limbs. He can wiggle his toes and fingers. No broken bones. All he feels is the pressure of the blanket and the IV in his hand, the cold of the saline traveling in his veins. 

“I feel fine,” Noctis lies.

Gladio lets out a passable laugh. “I sure hope so, with all the painkillers they pumped into you.” 

Noctis smiles. Now that he’s awake, he feels…less scared for his own life, of course. If he and his guard survived then maybe…

“Where are the others?” 

Ignis presses Noctis’s forearm. “Your father is unharmed. They were able to escape almost immediately through the secret door near where they were. He’s been informed you’re awake and should be here shortly. He’s currently visiting others who were injured. The Nox Fleurets are being kept here overnight for monitoring and safety but are mostly unharmed. Queen Sylva and Lunafreya have even been assisting with healing those they can. Security is going through protocols and investigations before we are all released. Any other injured are in a different wing.”

Noctis picks up on the choice of words. “And Prompto?” His voice cracks again, and he takes a large sip of water. 

Ignis pauses. Fear grips Noctis’s throat. His pulse quickens, and sadly he is hooked up to the monitor and his fear is displayed loudly for them all to catch on to. 

“Prince Prompto is alive,” Ignis starts, then he looks over his shoulder to Gladio, who nods. The fear grows inside Noctis. Prompto is alive, but for how long? Is he seriously injured? If anything happens to him, Noctis knows Niflheim will retract all peace talks—

“He’s alive and about the same as you. He held his own alongside a few guards but still took some hits. He’ll also be held here overnight.” 

“Is he nearby?” Noctis tries to sit up further, but Gladio steps forward to gently pin him down by his good shoulder. 

“You’re not going anywhere, idiot.” 

“I’m fine!” 

“You were shot. Twice .”

“I just want to see—” 

“You are staying put. The doctor should be on her way.” 

Instead of continuing to argue the point, Noctis accepts the circumstances and rests his head back against the pillow. They won’t let him leave, fine, but he needs to get more information on what is going on and what the damage truly is.

“The television isn’t on and my phone isn’t near me. What are you trying to keep from me right now?” 

Ignis sighs. Gladio grabs a chair and slides it over. Ignis sits, and Noctis braces himself as Ignis folds his hands on the bed. 

“There were casualties among the guests and staff, but we don’t have final numbers yet. Every attacker, save one, perished. Reinforcements were delayed as the attackers had blocked public entrances to prevent anyone from getting on the roof. Sonitus, the surviving attacker, is being detained.”

Dread sits heavy in Noctis’s gut. He knows so many glaives, some of them he’s even grown up around. Sonitus wasn’t one he was close to, but Noctis very much knew him and never would have guessed he was capable of something like this. But maybe that’s the thing about people—it’s impossible to truly know them. 

“Were they all Kingsglaive?” 

Ignis and Gladio’s expressions darken. “They were. No one even gave it a second thought when they first appeared. That would explain how they were able to gain access to the roof so easily. Security camera footage is still being pulled.”

“I knew them all.” Gladio’s jaw clenches for a moment before continuing. “Tredd, and Axis were among them, I just trained with them yesterday. Now they’re dead, those fucking—”

When Ignis presses a hand to Gladio’s back, Gladio pauses and takes a deep breath to collect himself. “We have no reason to believe any of them were civilians. They all warped and used magic in some capacity. They knew who the undercover security were and made sure to attack them first. It wasn’t just a scatter shot of their attacks.” 

A part of Noctis doesn’t want to believe this was an inside job. It feels unreal that people he has talked to, trained with, known for years, could be responsible for something like this. 

“Has Sonitus said anything?” 

Ignis shakes his head. “We’re expecting a debrief tomorrow morning, and in the meantime we are all to stay here for security purposes. They need to make sure the Citadel is safe for us to return to and ensure there isn’t anything waiting for us there that might have been missed. With the attackers being the Kingsglaive, that means they also had access to the common areas we are often in. We can’t risk any additional deaths. Not with the treaty.” 

There isn’t much Noctis can say at this point. There’s nothing much he can do. Especially not while trapped in this room. He feels useless and powerless and he hates it. 

“Can I at least have my phone?” 

“It’s with the Crownsguard. They have all our phones in case anything is bugged.”  

“This is so fucking insane.” Noctis snaps his mouth shut before he says anything further. Frustration bristles throughout his body. “Can I just get out of this room for a minute? I want to see Luna and Ravus.” 

And Prompto. But Noctis won’t reveal that here. 

“Noctis,” his dad’s voice interrupts any reply from Ignis. 

The room goes quiet as Ignis and Gladio stand at attention. Regis is in the doorway with Clarus and Iris behind him. 

“Hey, Dad,” Noctis manages to say through the emotion swelling up in him. He can’t see any immediate signs of injury on any of them, which is a relief. Despite being told his dad hadn’t been hurt, there is still a wave of relief to see him and know for sure. 

When Regis takes long strides to get to Noctis, everyone moves into the hallway, backs to the room, and the door closed. They’re clearly trying to give them some semblance of privacy. 

With the door closed, something unlocks in Noctis’s chest and he lets out a small sob, one he barely manages to hide. He can’t help it. He feels small and weak and angry all at once. Tonight he could have died. Tonight his friends could have died. Tonight everything could have crumbled beneath his feet. 

“Noctis.” His dad sits in the chair beside the bed and looks over Noctis, hands instantly on his arm. This close, Noctis can see how red his dad’s eyes are and the signs of exhaustion in his expression.  

Noctis waves because he isn’t sure what else to do. “I’m okay. I’m here.” 

“But you almost weren’t.” Tears are in his dad’s eyes and—fuck.

Emotion takes over. Noctis lets out several loud, wet sobs. His dad leans forward and gently wraps his arms around Noctis’s shoulders and holds tight. Noctis feels tears on his arm and can’t hold back anymore, he allows himself to cry. To let himself go through the waves. 

“What about you?” 

“Not a scratch. But I had more advantages than others.” 

Even compared to Noctis. The king has powers given to him with the Crystal, with the Ring, and the Royal Arms. And that's how things should be. Noctis doesn’t want anything to happen to his father. He deserves to live as long as he can and die, happily, surrounded by family. Not in some terrorist attack. He’s been a great king. Noctis can only hope to measure up to him. 

There’s a knock at the door and everyone turns towards the sound. A doctor stands in the doorway with a nurse alongside her. “May we enter, Your Majesty?” 

“Of course,” Regis stands and sweeps his arm towards Noctis before taking a step away from the bed. “This is under your command.” 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the doctor bows before entering. She has blonde hair tied up in a bun and soft brown eyes, smiling as she approaches Noctis.  

“Prince Noctis, I’m Doctor Angeli. It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” 

He thinks about Gladio’s comments about the painkillers he’s on, unsure what the answer should be right now. Does he feel fine because he’s tapped into drugs, or does he feel better because he is better after being shot twice and going through surgery? He isn’t sure of the answer, and he decides to be honest. 

“Nothing hurts.” 

Dr. Angeli continues smiling. She looks over the notes in the data pad she holds. “We have you on some pretty strong medication right now. You should expect to start feeling a little less fine overnight, but please let us know if it becomes too much and we can give you another dose.” 

“When can I get out?” 

“I’ll check in with you in the morning to see how your wounds are doing.” 

“What were his injuries?” His dad moves closer to the doctor’s side. 

“Bullet caught him in the shoulder, which we removed in surgery with no issue. The injury in his side, the bullet passed through and missed vital organs. He’s recovering well so far.” 

Regis turns his attention back to Noctis. “Please rest, my son.” He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Noctis’s head. It's a warm gesture and intimate, usually his dad only shows that kind of gesture on special occasions these days. Or even when it’s just them, if he thinks about it. 

The doctor motions for the nurse to start taking vitals, and for a few minutes it’s quiet. The two of them note his progress, and the nurse goes to open the door. 

“Everything is looking good. Anything else, Your Majesty?” 

“No,” Regis shakes his head. “Thank you, Dr. Angeli.” 

She turns to Noctis. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

He shakes his head. The doctor bows and turns, but takes a step back when she sees Ignis and Gladio entering.  

“He stays here until I release him, understood?” 

Shit, she saw right through Noctis. 

“Yes ma’am,” they say in unison. 

She turns her glare to Noctis. 

“Yes ma’am,” he repeats. He can’t remember the last time he was intimidated by a doctor. 

Her smile returns. “Thank you, Your Highness. We’ll be checking on you throughout the evening.” 

Iris closes the door behind her once everyone has returned to the room. 

His dad tips his head in a slight bow. “Thank you all, for saving my son.”

“It is our honor and duty, Your Majesty,” Ignis replies as he and Gladio and Iris salute. 

“I’m proud,” Clarus speaks up. 

Gladio’s chest puffs up. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Here,” Ignis hands Noctis the phone and remote, “as requested. We’ll leave you to rest now.” 

“Hey, you don't have to go.” He has no concept of what time it is, but exhaustion and fear are mixing up his brain, and he isn’t sure he’s ready to be alone. 

The concern on Ignis’s face deepens. “Will you be alright? We won’t be far, we’re staying in the doctor’s quarters on this floor and there is security in the hallway.”

That feels better than them leaving the hospital. Though he’s sure still not as comfortable as being home. “I’ll…be okay. Thank you—all of you. For today.”

The three of them bow in unison. Then Gladio taps the top of his head and Ignis pats his shin. 

“See you tomorrow,” Noctis says as they leave, and they wave, closing the door behind them. 

Noctis is left there in silence. It's deafening. 

He looks at his phone. He doesn’t have the energy at that moment to turn it on and see what kind of messages he has. 

Part of his life, part of the freedom he has as a prince, has led to him having acquaintances outside the Citadel. It’s probably a little strange if he thinks about it too much, but he went to school like any other kid. He knows people. Has had dinner with them, gone out to celebrate major milestones like weddings and baby showers. 

And he imagines that whatever is being said on the news is better than anything he could read on social media. The news sites wouldn't post anything incorrect about the crown, at least there was that much. Not like the trashy sites who would probably take this attack and run with it in the worst possible direction. 

He knows he got probably more information than what the media has, but he is curious about whatever he can learn. 

So, first Noctis turns on the television. 

He goes right to Channel 2 and sees there is a live emergency broadcast still on. The newscaster stands on the same street as the Caelum Via. In the background there is an obvious blockade of emergency vehicles. 

He hadn't even considered how long it's been since the attack—seeing the time on the screen, it’s been several hours since the fireworks, which is the only way Noctis can identify time in relation to the attack. He had actually been watching them, with Prompto, something he usually never cared a whole lot about. 

“ You’re watching live as we continue our coverage of the attack on the Caelum Via this evening, what is believed to be a targeted attack against King Regis. There has been no statement from a responsible party at this time, though we have received word the assailants included Kingsglaive and outspoken refugees from Galahd. 

We don't have a confirmed death toll at this time. However, we can say there were casualties. 

What we know right now is that King Regis and Prince Noctis are safe. The king intends to speak to the press in the morning. We expect we will learn more about the victims' identities at this time, as well as the attackers. 

Until then, we are all trying to put the pieces together. We know the Nox Fleurets, including Queen Sylva, were at the event, as well as Prince Prompto of Niflheim, who has been staying at the Citadel while waiting for his father to arrive for peace treaty talks. 

While the presence of Prince Prompto has some convinced of Niflheim’s involvement in this attack, we have received a tip that the prince was injured and is in recovery. The extent of his—”

Noctis turns the TV off and almost chucks the remote across the room. Of all the angles to take right now, blaming Prompto seems the worst. People are mad at the king for his decision, not so much at Prompto for the hand his father had in the war, right? 

If he thinks about it too long, Noctis is afraid of the conclusion he’ll come to. This should, probably, be a stark reminder of who Prompto is. Where he comes from. He’s not a dignitary from a friendly territory. He’s the son of the emperor who has threatened the whole of Eos for decades. 

But when Noctis thinks about Prompto, he doesn’t see any of that. He sees a person who has lived a life more private, more restrictive, than Noctis. Someone who has to always be looking over his shoulder. Has faced actual danger multiple times. In his own home. Hell, there’s a chance that this whole debacle could be just another night for Prompto. 

To think more about what Prompto has been through and how much Noctis has enjoyed his time with the prince, Noctis really hopes Prompto has friends back home. Prompto’s rare smiles are wide and bright, and he’s fast with wit and skill. He is kind—Noctis can tell, and Luna has a sense for these kinds of things, and she was smitten by him. There’s a difference Noctis can see when she is doing something because she has to and doing something because she wants to, and she wants to talk to Prompto. 

And Prompto…he’s been doing alright at the Citadel, right? 

There's a chance…Noctis shakes the oncoming thought from his head. No, this wasn’t something Niflheim planned, it was with Kingsglaive. Men and women who have been a part of the royal guard, people who had worked hard to get where they are. Noctis doesn't believe they would work alongside Niflheim, not for a second. 

Which makes this whole thing worse, actually. To think that glaives could be so mad they would turn on the crown is unsettling. The majority of the Kingsglaive are from Galahd, and it’s terrifying to think just how many more of them might be sympathetic towards the ones who attacked tonight. 

Noctis looks at his phone again. He sets it on the small tray at his bedside, and lays his head back on the pillow to see if maybe sleeping will be better than having to face this reality.

“I see they have you imprisoned here as well.” A soft voice breaks through the voices in his head. When Noctis opens his eyes, Luna is standing at his door in scrubs, with bandages on her face and arms and dark circles under her eyes. The combination of the attack and healing others must be exhausting. 

“Luna.” Noctis almost cries again at the relief in seeing her. Being told she is alive is one thing, but seeing her is a whole other thing for his emotions to grapple with. 

She approaches slowly. But no limp, so there's that. “Noctis, it's alright. We knew the exits and got out as quickly as we could. Just tousled two of them before we made it. Mother is much better off, and Ravus has a mild concussion.” At his bedside she does a quick glance over Noctis’s body. 

“I'm…that's good. That's…I'm relieved. They haven't been able to tell me much.”

Luna rests her hand on his arm. “What about you?” 

“It looks worse than it is, I promise.” Noctis wiggles his fingers. 

“It seems we should take our blessings where we can. We're to be released tomorrow. We still have a few days before the negotiations start.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut. He knows Luna is probably as tired as Noctis is, but even just those few minutes of solitude sent his thoughts spiraling. 

“Can you sit here with me for a while? I can put on some trashy reality tv on a channel that somehow isn't miraculously talking about tonight.”

Her smile is genuine and kind. “Hand me that remote.”

Chapter Text

Prompto prefers the illusion of privacy the suite gives him to this hospital room. Obviously there are cameras in both, but there are people in the room with him all the time now. There are a pair of Crownsguard inside the door, and while he hasn’t gotten to know the Kingsglaive assigned to him very well, they are at least familiar. Now he has pairs of silent strangers lurking constantly and pretending he can’t see them. It made sleep last night almost impossible, and Prompto hated having to pretend he was asleep.

Is Prompto supposed to just trust that this particular institution of Lucis is more trustworthy than the Kingsglaive are? were? He wants his knives, but they’re still in his Citadel suite. Or they should be, but who knows if Lucis is finally going to take them while they tear the Citadel apart, top to bottom, in the name of investigating and tightening security. He can fight without any weapons, but hand-to-hand isn’t his strength, and tossing one of the attacking Kingsglaive off the roof hadn’t helped much when the man had simply warped himself to a safe vantage point to regroup. The man had warped back in and broken Prompto’s left wrist before Prompto caved part of his skull in with one of the decorative light fixtures Prompto snatched up from a table. 

Lucis will take his knives away. They will have to, after he killed someone. Prompto practices his breathing and tries to persuade himself that he is no less vulnerable right now than he was yesterday. His teeth ache from clenching his jaw. His left wrist aches in its cast, and Prompto still has half an hour before he can take another dose of paracetamol.

He is grateful no other intervention was necessary as he’s pretty sure his refusal would have caused a stir. It’s one thing to refuse when the injury is already well on its way to healing and another to refuse when his radius is fractured. He’s trying not to freak out about what would have happened if his right wrist had been broken instead. 

(Or if he’d gotten a head injury, or if he’d been injured enough they had to put him under. If they had found the Architect—)

As it is, Prompto has two copies of his wrist x-ray, one on paper tucked in the pocket of the spare pair of scrubs they offered him and one on a thumb drive, along with a great deal more data about his injury and treatment, tucked into the uniform boots he refused to take off. He will need to get these into Besithia’s hands as soon as he returns to Niflheim. The medical staff had been a little baffled by his insistence that he get all the data on his injury and treatment, but they had given it over. Lucis probably still has copies of the information, which he does not look forward to having to confess, but he should have enough of the details that they can be replicated in Besithea’s labs. 

There is a familiar trio of knocks at his hospital room door. Prompto closes the paperback he couldn’t focus on anyway and calls out, “Come in.”

Elshett slips inside, and Prompto is only a little irritated that she looks as if the top of the Caelum Via hadn’t turned into a battleground last night. After all, he knows what she looks like in a fight now, and he has a much better assessment of how very dangerous she could be if King Regis ordered her to kill him.

She gives him her customary bow and then says, “Prince Prompto, the security sweep should be finished this afternoon. I will let you know as soon as you are clear to return to your suite in the Citadel.”

A number of snide and irritated remarks bubble up; Prompto locks them behind his sore teeth. “And what of the Kingsglaive who were guarding me?”

Elshett doesn’t wince, but there is something—displeased? uncertain? concerned?—in the way she presses her lips together for a moment. “The Crownsguard will be taking over your security for the foreseeable future.”

Prompto stares at her. Aldercapt spends a great deal of his time and effort as an emperor ensuring that different factions of his military do not gain too much power in relation to the others. Has the Crownsguard usurped the Kingsglaive entirely? Or is this decision because they’ve deemed Prompto will be at higher risk if he continues to be surrounded by that group? Should Prompto be expecting a purge within the Citadel?

(Is the purge happening now? Is that why he and the rest of the royalty are being held in this hospital?)

“I see.” He needs his knives. But if they’re not still in his suite when he returns— “I shall trust His Majesty’s judgment in the matter.”

Elshett’s expression smooths out, so at least Prompto gave a response she was hoping for. “Is there anything you need in the meantime, Your Imperial Highness?”

Prompto glances over her shoulder at the pair of Crownsguard that are once again pretending not to watch him. “I would prefer some privacy, if that is possible.”

Elshett considers his request for long enough that Prompto is sure she’ll say no. But she nods, once, and says, “The Crownsguard will be in the hall.”

“Thank you,” Prompto says before he can second-guess himself. 

The pair of Crownsguard don’t object when Elshett motions them out ahead of her, and the sound of the door closing eases something in Prompto’s spine. He picks up the book again, waits the half hour for a member of the hospital staff to deliver another dose of paracetamol, and then finally sinks under the hospital blanket to take a nap.

Prompto is less on edge after getting a few more hours of sleep, though that hasn’t magically gotten rid of the restlessness building in his chest. He may not have freedom to go wherever he likes in the Citadel, but he is used to more freedom than a single hospital room and its attached bathroom. With the Crownsguard out in the hall it is less claustrophobic, but Prompto is struggling against the temptation to simply leave the hospital and go on a run through Insomnia’s streets.

He is on his third cycle of can I outrun the Crownsguard vs maybe I can steal some scalpels when a knock comes from the door. It’s not Elshett’s polite one-two-three; this is twice, and louder. 

Either whoever is out there has permission to approach, or they’ve silently killed both Crownsguard and Prompto is about to get plenty of exercise. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed so it will be easier to get on his feet before he calls, “Come in.”

The door swings open and Noctis steps inside the room. Like Prompto, he has lost his finery from the gala; he is in a pair of blue scrubs that are nearly a match for his eyes. Noctis looks a bit pale, and the way he stands suggests he is even more tired than Prompto feels. The younger Amicitia peeks out from behind Noctis, sizing Prompto up quickly before shutting the door behind her liege.

“Hey,” Noctis says, abrupt and awkward in the silence. His gaze gets caught on Prompto’s cast. “I just wanted to—see how you were doing.”

Prompto lifts his left arm slowly, showing off the elbow-to-knuckles cast; Noctis’s eyes follow the motion before he catches himself. “Sorry,” he mutters as he looks away. His cheeks gain the barest hint of color. “That was a dumb question.”

“It’s not a dumb question,” Prompto counters. There are bandages peeking out from under the collar of Noctis’s shirt. Prompto can’t quite get the angle since his wrist is immobile, but he does his best to gesture with his left fingers to his own collar. “What happened to you?”

Noctis glances back and gives him a hesitant half-smile after a heartbeat. “I asked first.”

Prompto lets himself sigh, and before he can overthink it, he scoots further up the hospital bed and settles himself cross-legged at the head. He motions toward the foot of the bed. “Come on, sit. Let’s talk.”

Noctis doesn’t exactly scramble to obey, but he still seems relieved to be invited closer. As if Prompto is going to make him just stand there while they talk when he’s still so pale. Noctis winces a little as he climbs up—Prompto bites back his question—and settles opposite Prompto, cross-legged as well, close enough that their knees will brush if either of them moves.

“My radius is fractured.” Prompto says. He raises his hand between them, as if Noctis could actually see through the cast to the injury underneath. “Single non-displaced, to be precise. All I need is the cast.” 

Prompto (carefully and slowly) wriggles his fingers to show there’s nothing to worry about, and to his surprise, Noctis reaches out. He doesn’t grab Prompto’s hand—with the cast, it’s not really possible—but he cups one hand underneath Prompto’s and the other beneath Prompto’s elbow. Prompto, startled, goes still, and lets Noctis take the weight of his arm while Noctis peers closely at the cast.

This contact, this—interest? concern?—it’s unsettling, but not in a bad way. Prompto and Noctis had full-body contact when they grappled. But Prompto doesn’t know how to react to this kind of careful contact. He’s intimately familiar with violence, with training, and with scientific assessments. He’s even had a few moments of childish affection from Solara. But he is a stranger to having any part of him held like it is—fragile, and worth a delicate hand.

Apparently satisfied with whatever he sees, Noctis lowers Prompto’s arm down to rest atop Prompto’s thigh before letting go. There is an earnestness in Noctis’s eyes when he looks up that has the back of Prompto’s neck going warm. “They’re taking good care of you?”

“I have no complaints about the medical staff,” Prompto says immediately, which is true, and then adds, because Noctis would probably appreciate hearing praise about the hospital’s staff, “They have provided me with paracetamol at regular intervals.”

Noctis frowns, just a little. “That’s good,” he says slowly. “Is it enough?”

Prompto blinks at him. He hadn’t expected any medication for an injury like this. “Yes, of course.” He can fall asleep with the dosage they give him, so long as he does so shortly after it kicks in. “And what about you?” He nods toward the bandages.

The frown morphs into a grimace. “Shot twice. More grazes than anything, really,” he adds quickly. 

“You look tired,” Prompto says, not necessarily an accusation, just an observation.

Noctis wilts a little anyway. “Lost some blood. I’m fine,” he insists. “I got clearance to visit you and everything.”

“By that metric, you’re doing better than I am.”

Noctis glances around the utilitarian room, and when he looks back to Prompto, there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Want to break out?”

Yes. It would be a terrible idea. Elshett said they would be done with the security sweep in the afternoon. It’s the afternoon now. There are guards on his door for a reason. Both he and Noctis are hurt. The hospital has to be safe, or else they wouldn’t have all three sets of royals here.

“We don’t have to go far,” Noctis says, and it’s not quite wheedling, not exactly teasing. He knocks his knee into Prompto’s, and it’s as simple as that for Prompto’s hesitance to give way.

“Fine,” Prompto says, “but how do we ditch our guard dogs?”

Noctis’s plan is ridiculous in its convoluted simplicity, but Prompto doesn’t have anything better, and he is almost certain no one will murder him if he has the Prince of Lucis next to him on his escape attempt. The first bit is the least ridiculous but also the highest hurdle: getting Prompto out of his room.

“We’ll stay right on this floor,” Noctis lies earnestly to the younger Amicitia’s face. “If I can walk around, Prompto should be able to, too. And he’s even less hurt than I was.”

She squints at Noctis suspiciously, then eyes Prompto like—well, like he’s the prince of an enemy nation breaking pattern to make an unexpected request. It takes everything Prompto has to keep his expression smooth, serene, from his seat on the bed. He must pass her scrutiny because she looks at Noctis again. “Just—wait a second.”

“You’re the best, Iris,” Noctis says, and she wrinkles her nose at him before popping out into the hallway to have a quiet conversation with Prompto’s guards.

Guards who do not have orders to keep him in this room, as it turns out. They have orders to guard him, not confine him, and with that persuasive loophole, they’re free. Or at least, free of the room and onto step two of the plan. Noctis walks side by side with Prompto as they take a fairly leisurely stroll through the hospital hallways, with Amicitia and the two Crownsguard trailing some distance behind them.

Noctis appears to be taking his leadership role as seriously as he had in the gallery. But more surprising is how many people they pass who just don’t even acknowledge their prince. Prompto can’t walk through the palace at Gralea without everyone he comes across at least pausing to give a shallow bow, no matter how urgent their tasks, and everyone stops for the emperor. But here—

It’s clear their work is more important than honoring Noctis’s rank. Those who can spare the time to bow or curtsy do; the ones who don’t might offer a nod, or just straight up rush past him. And Noctis doesn’t at all seem offended—he just smiles or nods and keeps moving. Like he’s familiar enough with them, and they him, that propriety doesn’t matter nearly as much as Prompto would have expected.

Noctis knows his people. 

Prompto isn’t sure what, if anything, he should do with this observation, so he tucks it away for another time and focuses on Noctis’s small talk. They’ve made it one and a half circuits of the area before Noctis intentionally starts to slow, to flag a bit. He lists gently in Prompto’s direction, and Prompto, as agreed, reaches out with his uninjured arm to steady him by his elbow. Noctis’s skin is warm beneath his fingertips. 

Amicitia notices and darts forward. “Noct?”

“I’m fine,” Noctis insists, for just a moment, before his shoulders slump. “I’m just—tired, is all.”

“Let’s get you somewhere to sit.”

And once again, as agreed, Prompto speaks up. “Perhaps the break room?” He nods toward the neatly labeled plaque beside a nondescript door.

“Works for me,” Noctis says, and when Amicitia darts across the hall to open it, he follows her through, with Prompto still at his elbow. 

The break room is as Noctis described it: fairly small, with a few round tables and scattered chairs around them, plus two well-worn couches along one side, and a little kitchenette with a sink, water cooler, coffee maker, and fridge on the opposite side. And most critically: no vending machines, and a second door. Prompto looks away from the second door immediately, steering Noctis toward the first available couch.

Noctis slumps onto the couches and sprawls out, sighing. Prompto lets go of his elbow and gives Amicitia space to hover, stepping carefully between her line of sight and the second door.

“I’ll be fine,” Noctis says, though it doesn’t sound any more convincing than the last time. 

“Want me to grab something for you to eat? Drink?” Amicitia asks.

Noctis gives her such a plaintive look that Prompto has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. “Please?” he asks, eyes wide and innocent.

She hesitates for a moment, and for a second Prompto believes their plan is blown. But she looks toward Prompto—and to his shock says, “Keep an eye on him, all right?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says automatically, caught off guard by the trust she is displaying. “Of course.”

Then again, Iris Amicitia has seen him, if not entirely alone, in close quarters with Noctis before, and each time Noctis has walked away unharmed. And Noctis, while tired, at least has full use of all his limbs. And Prompto has no motive to hurt Noctis, not right now. Chancellor Izunia told him to nurture Noctis’s goodwill, after all. And he hasn’t rescinded that order, despite his foreboding appearance at the disastrous gala. 

(Had Chancellor Izunia played a part in that? But what would Niflheim gain from it? They’ve already withdrawn from Cleigne. And if the Galahdains who participated in the attack hated Lucis for not freeing their territory first, how much more would they hate Niflheim? 

Perhaps he is overthinking it. The chancellor is a man of mercurial moods, and he may have only shown up to the gala to amuse himself with the fact that he could. That no one in Insomnia could find him right under their own noses.)

(If the chancellor had wanted to harm Lucis, he could have ordered Prompto to kill Noctis. He must have seen them. He must have seen how—relaxed Noctis had been in his presence. Noctis wouldn’t have expected it. Prompto is weaker at hand to hand, but there is significant advantage to be had in surprise.)

Amicitia nods once and strides back through the same door they entered in. He hears her speak briefly to the Crownsguard, voices muffled to incomprehensibility, before silence reigns again.

Noctis sighs. “Now I feel guilty.”

“Guilty enough to abandon the plan?”

Noctis sighs longer. “Not yet. It’s just—normally we’re the ones doing ridiculous shit together to annoy Gladio and Ignis. And now I’m doing it to her.”

Prompto can’t help but smile, just a little. “Better earn your guilt than have it for no reason.”

Noctis snorts, but he takes Prompto’s hand when he offers it, letting Prompto help pull him to his feet. “Ready to run?”

They don’t run—it is a hospital. They sneak very quietly out of the second door, and Noctis does some very apologetic smiling at the bewildered hospital staff whose meeting and conference room they have walked into. They exit through another door and out into a hall that Noctis did not take Prompto down before.

And then they’re out in the hall it’s—

It’s ridiculous, how it feels like a steel trap has been gently pried off from around his chest. Prompto knows he’s not really free of all surveillance—if nothing else, there are general security cameras tastefully tucked away in various corners—but he is free from immediate human surveillance and not closed up in a room for his own good, and it’s good. It’s good.

Prompto and Noctis walk close together as they hurry through the hallway. Prompto pretends he doesn’t notice the little glances Noctis keeps sending his way. 

“Better?” Noctis finally asks.

“Yeah,” Prompto says, and he lets himself smile, just a little. “So what do you actually want to do?”

Noctis laughs quietly. “I have no clue. Just wanted to get out for a second. What about you?”

It’s—still weird, that so many people in Insomnia ask him what he wants. “Just wanted to pretend I’m not being spied on.”

Perhaps that’s too much honesty. Noctis’s laughter dies away, but he doesn’t flinch. He hums instead, then says after a while, “Yeah, makes sense.”

Prompto can breathe a little easier at that. It’s not an apology, but Noctis’s acknowledgement that Prompto isn’t wrong to feel the way he does about Insomnia makes something inside him relax.

They turn a corner in silence, wait for two nurses to get out of earshot, and then Noctis asks casually, “So you’re looking forward to going home, yeah?”

As if Gralea were a home and not just a prison he is more familiar with. “I think everyone in Insomnia will be happier when I’m gone,” Prompto says lightly. 

He isn’t expecting surprise from Noctis, and he certainly isn’t expecting the way his sudden frown transforms his face. “What do you—”

“Noctis,” a furious voice whispers from the hallway behind them. 

Prompto glances back, and there is a rather irritated looking Iris Amicitia stalking after them. She has two bottles of water in one hand, held between her fingers by the caps, and a handful of what are probably granola bars or candy bars or something—Prompto can’t make out the brands from this distance. Her expression is thunderous.

Noctis swears and grabs Prompto’s right hand. He pulls Prompto into an aggressive speed-walk, and Prompto stumbles to catch up, surprised by the sudden heat of Noctis’s palm against his.

“Are you serious right now?” Amicitia seethes behind them. “Do you think I can’t catch you?”

“No warping in the hospital!” Noctis whisper-shouts back and walks faster.

Apparently they’re going to have a speed-walk chase through the hospital because this Amicitia is the only one in Noctis’s retinue that has a shorter stride than Noctis. It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd. It’s going to end with them getting caught and lectured and maybe even Prompto in considerable trouble given everything—

But Prompto can’t help it, he laughs. He laughs, and Noctis gives him a wounded look but doesn’t stop dragging him through the hallway. 

“You’re not helping!” Noctis whispers indignantly and hauls them blindly around a corner. He nearly plows straight into a lab tech, but he manages to yank them both clear. Noctis swears, apologizes to the bewildered tech, and keeps going.

“Noctis Lucis Caelum,” Amicitia says, voice distant, but Prompto can hear the threat in every syllable.

Prompto bites his cheek to stifle his laughter. Noctis beelines for the elevator, hits the down button, and does not wait for the elevator. It’s a distraction, Prompto realizes, as Noctis pulls him past the elevator and yanks open an unlabeled door further down the corridor.

A light flickers on when the door opens, and Noctis shoves Prompto inside, crowding in after him. The room doesn’t look like a janitorial closet, but there are a great deal of boxes arranged on tidy shelving. If the boxes are labeled, Prompto doesn’t get to read what they contain, because Noctis presses him back up against the wall next to the door and shushes him. 

Prompto’s shoulders hit the wall, knocking the last of the laughter out of him. Noctis is close. Close, and still hand in hand, but now with the fingertips of Noctis’s free hand pressing against the left side of Prompto’s chest. Noctis isn’t even looking at him—all of his attention is on the door and Amicitia’s approaching footsteps.

They’ve been in far closer contact both times they sparred, especially when they grappled. But this, here—in some kind of storage room, hands joined, fingertips pressed against him—

It’s—gentle. Gentle, and unnecessary, and warm. Prompto’s breath stutters, and he fights to smooth it out. 

This close, Noctis still looks too pale compared to his regular complexion, but there is a hint of color to his cheeks from their slow-speed chase. His brow is wrinkled between his eyebrows, and his jaw is tight as he listens intently for the footsteps, which go past the door and finally fade. 

Prompto counts two slow breaths before Noctis grins, a small, triumphant thing, and turns to look at him. Noctis’s eyes are a brilliant blue this close up, and Noctis is so close that Prompto can hear his startled inhale when Noctis realizes that. 

But Noctis doesn’t pull back; he freezes, except for his breathing, which Prompto can feel as silent, warm puffs of air against his face. Noctis opens his mouth—

—and the door opens. Noctis flinches back, pulling away all his warmth, and Prompto stays frozen against the wall.

Iris Amicitia glares at them both. “I’m going to dropkick you off the Wall .”

Chapter Text

“Noct—!” Ignis says with a raised voice that makes Noctis jump. 

Noctis shifts where he sits on his couch to face Gladio and Ignis. He can't hold back the grimace as his side pinches a little from where the stitches are. Gladio watches him with narrowed eyes. 

“What’s up?” Noctis makes an attempt at being as casual as possible. 

“I said,” Ignis begins, while giving what Noctis knows is his best please calm down look to Gladio, “you need to eat your breakfast so you can take your medication.” 

“I'm doing it, just not super hungry.” His simple breakfast of a chocolate croissant sits mostly uneaten on the tray beside him. It’s better than what he had in the hospital yesterday, but that’s not really the problem. 

Ignis points at it. “That is irrelevant right now. Eat.”

“Geez, okay, okay.” Noctis makes a show of picking it up and taking a bite. Ignis, satisfied, resumes his work. 

On the television, the news is still covering the attack. It’s all Insomnia is talking about right now, especially with the treaty negotiations just days away. Everyone is asking the same question—will the negotiations be postponed? 

Noctis isn’t sure anymore if he wants them to be or not. Everything feels too raw right now; people died . Lots of people almost died. It was members of the Kingsglaive who organized and committed this attack. How do they come back from that? These are the questions Noctis asks himself because he knows his dad is asking them as well. At least his dad can get answers. Decide what’s next. 

The one thing they can say for sure is this wasn’t Niflheim. A blessing and a curse. Noctis picks at his croissant and changes the channel to look for something else to watch. Or maybe he’ll load up a game as a distraction. 

Ignis and Gladio’s phones ping at the same time. Noctis glances over to them and watches their expressions as they read their texts. 

“Fuck,” Gladio tosses his phone onto the table and rubs his eyes. “Fuck. Fuck.” 

“What is it?” 

Ignis, not Gladio, answers, reading off his own phone. “All Galahdian Kingsglaive are on mandatory paid leave until at least after the treaty is signed. As a precautionary measure.” 

“That doesn’t seem fair. It’s not like all of them are a danger.” Noctis thinks of someone like Nyx, who Luna and Ravus trust. 

“It’s a matter of necessity to ensure everyone in the Citadel is safe during the talks.”

“But doesn’t that reduce the security we have here if they’re all gone?” 

“It’s just the Galahdian refugees. Unfortunately, I do agree with the decision, harsh as it may sound. On the heels of the attack, everyone will be questioning our ability to protect those in the Citadel.”

“I don’t like it, Ignis.” Gladio stands and collects his things, shoving his laptop and other supplies into his gym bag. “It means we’re gonna have a bunch of people who aren’t properly trained suddenly thrust into these positions, and who do you think has to train them?” 

“With Sonitus refusing to speak, we don’t know if there are still more who would betray the Crown.” Ignis begins to pack up his stuff as well. They’re leaving sooner than they had said they would, but Noctis doesn’t push. 

Pulling out the Galahdian soldiers does nothing to quell the thoughts invading Noctis’s mind. It makes it worse. What if the glaives learned Prompto would be at the party, and so they decided to coordinate this attack? It’s the thing Noctis can’t help thinking about on loop. Would this have happened if he hadn’t invited Prompto?

“Any word from Niflheim?” Noctis decides to ask instead. 

“All I have been told is that Weskham is discussing matters with the Chancellor over calls. He’s stressed Prince Prompto is safe, and we just hope they believe us.”

“We gotta go, babe.” Gladio hands Ignis his thermos before heading for the door.

Ignis lingers at the table. “I’ve left your painkillers on the counter there. Text if you need anything. Iris should also be available if needed urgently.” 

“Thanks. Keep me posted?”

“Of course.” With that, Ignis and Gladio leave. 

The only sound left is the commercial playing on the television. Noctis turns it off with annoyance. He nudges his breakfast on the plate, any semblance of an appetite now lost. Considering the couple of bites he did take, Noctis takes his painkillers. 

He wants to talk to Prompto with a kind of desperation that exposes too much of his heart. Yesterday at the hospital, something had happened, right? Or rather, almost happened.  

Something was there, in that closet. Prompto, for all the coldness shown to others, was warm. The skin of his palm was soft. He had a smile that made Noctis smile as well. 

And yeah, Noctis had, for a second, considered some things. Things that today were quietly driving him up the wall. Prompto laughing, really laughing, being untethered together for the first time since meeting, being in close proximity without the excuse of sparring, or working. 

Standing so close Prompto’s breath hit Noctis’s lips and—

Noctis had wanted to kiss Prompto. Just like he had wanted to hold his hand during the fireworks. 

It’s not like this general feeling is unusual to Noctis. He’s had crushes, he’s fantasized about being with other people. Those he even knows. He dabbled in dating fellow students while in school, but knowing in the back of his mind there probably would never be a chance he could marry any of them, especially those who couldn't supply an heir. 

Liking women who aren’t noble is silly and harmless. Liking men of any class even moreso. 

Liking a prince ? A prince from the country that has been at war with Lucis for fifteen years? 

It feels like he's been thrown into some kind of shitty ancient fairy tale. Torn by devotion and family. Noctis pulls back on the dramatic internal monologue. He’s sure this isn't something Prompto is feeling. 

But Noctis does want to genuinely know how he's doing, and that’s something he can express. It’s the third time a decision of his has led to Prompto being in danger. The security before was already tight, and now with not just an assassination attempt but this attack on the royal family, it’s going to be even worse. 

There’s no point in trying to go visit him. They’re on lockdown. There’s no way to talk to him, Prompto doesn't even have a phone…

An idea dawns on him. Probably a stupid one, but at this point he’s willing to give it a try. 

Noctis rushes to his room, despite the way it makes his side ache. He has a small notebook that he’s pretty sure he's never used—and he finds it shoved in the back of one of his bookcases. It's nondescript, the cover is black and has a couple of nerdy stickers on it Iris had bought for him at some point. 

He flips through the pages to confirm he’s never used it, and when that’s done, he goes to his desk and sits down, grabbing a pen. 

“Now I know you asked my brother to handle this,” Iris swings the familiar black notebook back and forth in front of Noctis’s face like she’s a hypnotist, “because he wouldn't know what’s really going through your mind when you asked this be delivered to a certain prince you can’t see right now.” 

Noctis doesn’t move. He holds his expression as neutral as he can. He can feel the heat of embarrassment that rushes up his cheeks.

“But I do,” she grins and Noctis finally reaches for the notebook. She pulls back and he doesn't feel like fighting, or even playing, so he leans back against the couch and crosses his arms.

“What do you think you know?” 

“Hmmmm.” She brings the spine of the notebook up to her chin and taps. “That you wanted to see Prince Prompto in the hospital. That you concocted a plan to escape the view of guards. Ran away from me. That you held hands—” 

“Because we were running—”

“That I found you in a closet, and you thought you pulled back fast enough, but I saw it, Noctis Lucis Caelum, I saw just how close you were.”

“It was a cramped closet!”

She grins. “So nothing happened?”

“Nothing happened!” It isn't a lie, so it’s easy to say. Because the happening was all in Noctis’s head and heart.

“Did you want something to happen?” 

Panic. Noctis needs to abort this conversation. “What? I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh my gods, look at you blush!” 

“Shut up. Give me the notebook. I demand it.”

“Okaaay,” she sings and hands it over. He puts it on his lap and tries to act like there’s nothing further to do, going back to watching TV. 

“Aren't you going to read it?” 

“Not with you here—princes only.”

“Ugh, come on, if you're going to have some kind of secret royal tryst with a prince, you can at least let me live vicariously through you.” 

It takes every nerve in his body to hold his expression neutral and not fluster the way his insides want to. “There’s no tryst, okay? Nothing to live through or whatever.” 

“Fiiiine, I’ll see you later I guess.” She turns and skips away humming. 

Noctis sighs with ample frustration once the door is closed. Picking up the notebook, he realizes not just Iris, but anyone could read it. He wonders if Prompto would write anything back at all. 

But after minutes that feel like hours, Noctis breaks and looks down at the notebook. There’s tape along the edges. 

He can't help smiling. Prompto must have done it, to show no one else had read it. There is, of course, a chance anyone could just put tape back on, but it gives Noctis at least some semblance of hope for privacy. 

He breaks the tape and slowly opens it. 

Prompto's handwriting is neater than he expected. When they had been working on the announcement and the interview, Prompto’s notes had been messy but legible. Now they are a semblance of what Noctis saw before but cleaned up. Time taken to write the words for Noctis.

Noctis— 

I’m not convinced this is more secure than texting, but I’ll go along with it. I trust if this is just between us and Lady Amicitia that you do consider it secure. 

My recovery is going well. Slow, of course, but the medication is helping to keep the sharpness away. And the itching. Casts are annoying, but at least it wasn’t my dominant arm. Otherwise, I don't think you’d be able to read anything I tried to write. Imagine having to deal with that while signing the treaty? What a way to be remembered. 

You don’t owe me any apologies. You’re not the one to blame for anything that happened that night, and it’s not like you could know something like this would happen. The Kingsglaive turning like that is a surprise, and not just to you. Even with my limited knowledge, this is, to quote you, “nuts.” 

Everything up until it wasn’t, was good. The hotel was stunning. That aquarium was—I read online it's the largest standing one in Eos. (Though I am surprised it’s here and not in Altissia.) I don’t think I’ll ever forget seeing it for the first time.

I don’t usually watch scary movies, but I am interested in seeing if I agree with your assertion that an interesting premise was bungled by poor execution. I’ll watch it tonight and send you my thoughts in the morning.

Sincerely,

Prompto

Noctis is relieved. Prompto didn’t immediately dismiss his idea. He wrote back and agreed to the stupid idea to watch a movie kind-of-but-not together. 

And he didn’t write ‘Prince’ Noctis. Or ‘Prince’ Prompto. He’s only ever addressed Noctis by his title, even though Noctis is sure he dropped the address long ago when talking to Prompto. 

It’s the most casual they’ve been with each other, and his body buzzes with excitement. Feelings aside, he does want to have some kind of connection with Prompto, especially while he’s in the Citadel. It's been all he’s wanted, and every time he gets closer something rips them apart. 

If this somehow goes wrong, Noctis will assume the gods are trying to say something. He’ll probably just walk into the ocean at that point, honestly.

Noctis and Prompto have—separately—watched three of the four movies in the series Noctis recommended. It was fun to write commentary as he watched and read Prompto’s reactions later. Iris takes on the note passing role without giving Noctis any more shit about it.

There’s so many times Noctis laughs at Prompto’s commentary. He wishes Prompto were right there to talk about this because he thinks it would be way more fun. Most of Prompto’s thoughts are exactly the same as Noctis’s own. So at least Prompto has good taste when it comes to movies. 

Writing to Prompto becomes a welcome distraction. They focus on the movies, neither of them asking about recovery since the first exchange. No mention of treaties and security details. 

Though it isn’t like Noctis wants to talk about those things with Prompto. Right now, talking to Ignis and Gladio is tough. They’re preoccupied with all the preparations that have to happen, especially since half of the Kingsglaive are on leave. Their responses are summarized as this is just what we’re doing or that's not for us to decide . Which Noctis gets, but it’s frustrating he can’t just vent instead of making others feel like he’s looking for something more. 

But focusing on movies for about two hours at a time provides a little bit of free space in his mind. When he doesn’t have the notebook on hand for the movie, he takes notes on his phone so he can add them later. 

He starts a new document he titles things i can’t say and uses it as a way of letting off some steam. He still pretends he's writing to Prompto because something in that makes it easier to let the words flow out.  

At first, Noctis talks about any insights into the preparations he gleans from Ignis and Gladio. There’s some kind of dumb drama around seating arrangements at the banquet that’s purely asinine and hilarious. Someone wants to bring in their pet coeurl, which brings up so many questions. One menu had to be thrown out because of unknown allergens from one of the diplomats. All stupid stuff, really. 

It doesn’t take long before Noctis starts detailing things he definitely can’t say to Prompto. 

Like how the Starscourge is spreading in Lucis. That his dad, Weskham, Luna, and Queen Sylva are working together to plan how to track down the origin of the outbreak after the treaty is signed. It’s been able to go under the radar so far because the cases are spread out enough that people haven’t realized it’s becoming a widespread problem. And ever since the first case was reported just over a week ago, hospitals are on notice to report any potential cases to the king directly. 

And those are only the cases where someone has confirmed they’ve seen someone with the Starscourge. There are also cases of people feeling sick, but then they don’t show up for their appointment, or aren’t there by the time doctors arrive, which means they could be out in the world spreading this thing. 

Ignis has been giving Noctis these updates, and Noctis learned early on not to ask follow up questions. Ignis doesn’t know anything else. 

But at least in the notebook, Noctis can admit to Prompto he’s scared. And not just about the Starscourge. That should be the scariest thing out there right now looking to disrupt their lives. But it isn’t what he’s most scared of. 

Noctis has his life planned out. Once his dad is ready to retire, Noctis will take the throne. Do his duty to continue the line of succession. Keep the Wall up. Protect the people. Protect his friends. 

More and more, Noctis worries he can’t do any of that. It’s two-fold: worried he won’t be able to do all those things and will be a terrible king, and worried something awful is happening and the Starscourge is just the beginning of it. The war ending is a credit to his dad. What will Noctis be known for? 

He’s scared to talk about marriages because he has always understood he might not get to marry out of love. His dad did, but there are many instances in his lineage with marriages of necessity, or politics, just like now. While Noctis wants to say Lucis is progressive and all that, but the truth of the matter is people expect Noctis to play his role. 

What if these feelings for Prompto are things he never feels for someone else?

This is the dumbest thing for him to be afraid of, but it sits there in his chest. Whatever this is with Prompto, it’s nothing he’s ever experienced before and that terrifies him. If he spends the rest of his life chasing after this feeling, will he ever find it again? And what about when they see each other again, and—

That’s usually around the time Noctis has to set his phone down and dissociate for five minutes. He puts this fear back into the perspective of everything else, and for a time, it fades into the background once more. Then he can focus on the real things in front of him. 

And yet the most terrifying thing still, when Noctis drops his guard for even a second, is Prompto. 

When there’s a knock at his door the next evening, Noctis is confused at first. None of his crew would knock before entering. The guards know the correct pattern for Noctis to recognize a myriad of different things: warnings, directions, alerts, even food delivery. So Noctis doesn’t move from the couch and waits for any possible follow up sounds. 

Then there’s a set of knocks that does have a recognizable pattern, the one for guest . Which confuses Noctis more, because again, the only other people he could fathom meeting him are Luna or Ravus. Maybe they should work on some kind of code for the future. 

Noctis gets up and goes to the door, shaking out his hair and rubbing some of the sleep from his late afternoon nap out of his eyes. He opens the door enough to peer out into the hallway and nearly gasps out loud. 

Prompto is standing there. 

Noctis blinks and opens the door fully. “Hi?” 

“Sorry for coming by without an invitation,” Prompto looks awkward for the first time Noctis has seen since they meet. Prompto nervously taps his thigh with his right hand. 

“It’s cool, everything alright?” 

Prompto nods, and he smiles a little. “May I come in?” 

“Shit, yeah, of course, sorry, uh—” Noctis nearly sprints into the living room to try to make it look less like he’s been living like a slob these past few days. Noctis is definitely not in his best form. Baggy gym shorts and oversized hoodie, hair flat and probably a little oily. 

When he finishes flailing about, Prompto is by the dining room table, setting down his messenger bag. Noctis finds he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he braces them on the back of the couch. 

“So what’s going on?” 

“I thought it might be more fun to watch the final movie together,” Prompto says so simply Noctis isn’t quite sure how to respond. He has to jumpstart his brain to move . 

“Does Monica know you’re here?” 

At that, Prompto looks a little guilty. “I didn’t tell her, but only because she’s off work. My guards are in the hallway. I’m sure they’ve informed her.”  

“So what you're saying is she could come in here at any moment swinging.” 

The guilt shifts back into something of a smirk. “I have a good excuse. Someone’s a bad influence.” 

And at that, Noctis loses all sense of what he should do. He should let Iggy know. He should make sure Monica knows. He should tell Prompto they aren’t supposed to hang out like this right now, not in the midst of the chaos and uncertainty in the Citadel. They’re on the precipice of ending a war, and they can’t risk anymore fuck ups, something Noctis has managed to make them both the center of three times now. Three! And now this? 

“Want me to order pizza?” Noctis says instead. 

“Please.” Prompto walks over to the couch and takes a seat. Noctis gets on his phone and texts the kitchen. 

“Drinks?” 

“Whatever you have should be fine.” 

Noctis gets the order in and takes a few deep breaths. “All set!”

When he gets to the couch, Noctis has to make another important and terrifying decision, and that is where to sit. The last time they hung out in Prompto’s apartment, things were…different. Noctis hadn’t nearly gotten Prompto killed. He hadn’t almost touched his hand on the rooftop, and he definitely hadn’t considered kissing him. And now all that is mixed up in Noctis’s head, and he resigns himself to just try to play cool and sit on Prompto’s left side. 

The cast should be a deterrent for any silly thoughts. Noctis gets the movie pulled up on the television in between them talking about the other movies they’ve now seen. They get so into it, he almost misses the knocks on the door from the kitchen staff, meaning he almost doesn’t get to the door in time before they open it. 

The guards may know Prompto is there, but would rather more people didn’t find out. He takes the pizza and bags of sodas (because he isn’t sure what Prompto would like), says his thanks, and shuts the door before the staffer can say a word. He locks the door and takes another deep breath. 

“All right, let’s get this party started!” he says a little too loud. Prompto gives a thumbs up with his left hand, throwing Noctis into a fit of laughter. 

This time around, they aren’t jostling each other as they play video games. But this is technically a horror movie, and Noctis didn’t worry about his reactions while watching the others. Now, when he gets startled, no matter how hard he tries not to, he always leans into Prompto’s side, which he apologizes for every time. Prompto always says not to apologize. 

But Noctis's stomach is in so many knots, he can hardly touch his pizza. The jump scares even get Prompto a few times, and much to the damage of Noctis’s brain, he also leans into Noctis. By the time they’re at the peak of the movie, they’re shoulder to shoulder—Noctis has his knees drawn up to his chest and elbows on his knees so he can try to contain himself at least a little. 

Noctis is on fire . He isn’t sure how else to describe it. There’s this burning ache in his chest that pulls him. Like because he’s thought of Prompto in a different way, it’s wired his brain differently. Noctis wants to lean in and rest his head on Prompto’s shoulder. Or just bury his face in Prompto’s neck to pretend he’s hiding from the horrors. And Noctis isn’t even sure that would quench whatever the fuck is happening to him right now. 

The credits roll, and they both let out a few long exhales. Noctis checks the time, which he hadn’t done for the entire movie.

“Shit.” 

“What is it?” Prompto leans back against the couch, head resting on the back. He’s turned his head to face Noctis, and it is doing things to Noctis’s heart. 

“I hate to suggest it, but it might be a good idea to go back?” 

With a heavy sigh, Prompto turns his head so he’s looking up at the ceiling. “You’re right. This was probably a dumb idea in the first place.” 

“No—it wasn’t! It’s just I don't want Monica to set off any alarms that you’re missing or something.” 

“Can’t have the hostage on the loose.” Prompto says so smoothly, and then he instantly freezes. “Sorry.” 

Noctis turns to rest his right side against the couch, facing Prompto. “We can do this again, you know. A lot more. After.” 

At that, Prompto’s eyes widen, but then shift into something else. Noctis is sure he’s not interpreting correctly, so he pushes on to make sure Prompto understands. 

“After all this, once the treaty is signed, we are the ones who decide what happens next. We can show what it means when princes and princesses are friends and work together. You know, royal dignitary visits, only ours can have pizza and video games. And no one has to know that part, it can just be ours.” 

The truth is Noctis does believe this. No matter his feelings, because those are irrelevant, Prompto is a good guy. And he’s funny. Noctis enjoys his company, and he hopes Prompto does too. And sure, whatever the fuck happens with marriages will be something he has to unpack in the future, but he hopes they can still have something like this between them. 

And Noctis hopes it wont incinerate him from the inside. 

The smile Prompto gives, the way they’re just kinda sitting there, looking at each other, though—fuck, does it hurt Noctis that there is a wall there, between them, he can never cross. 

“I should go.” Prompto speaks softly, and then gets up. “But thank you for letting me come by unannounced.” 

Noctis recognizes the speech pattern and behavior. Prompto has put his guard back up. There isn’t a whole lot Noctis can do at this point, that much he knows. He did suggest Prompto leave, after all, like an idiot. 

So Noctis stands, brushing off crumbs from his clothes, and stands awkwardly at the door while Prompto collects his things. When Noctis opens the door, he first does a cursory check of the hallway. He sees his own guards posted at the end of the hall and at his door, and along the walls are the four he assumes are Prompto's. At least there’s no sign of Monica or Noctis’s friends. So he opens the door fully, and isn’t sure how to say goodbye. 

“See you soon?” Noctis asks, because he is a masochist and knows the answer. 

“See you,” is all Prompto says before exiting. 

Noctis watches, and Prompto never looks back. 

Noctis closes the door and leans to press his forehead against it, trying to cool off. 

This is fine. He’s fine. This is fine . 

It seems they got away with their hangout since no one has come after Noctis about it. He hopes they didn’t go after Prompto instead. He doesn’t have a way of finding out. He could send the notebook again, but without the excuse of the movie, it feels like it could be weird. There was a purpose before; that made it different. 

Noctis hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Prompto. He’s been doing all he could to distract himself not only from the accumulation of everything that has happened but also from the events coming up. There’s one more day until the negotiations start—the delegates from Niflheim finally arrive tomorrow. Ignis has been going over everything with Noctis on the daily, because Noctis is still exhausted from his injuries.

“Hey-yoooo!” Iris announces as she appears in the doorway. Noctis, who has been glued to the couch all day, gives her a quick wave. While Ignis is part of the planning for the treaty negotiations, Iris and Gladio have been focusing on the remaining Kingsglaive. 

“They let you out for a bit?” 

She flops into the armchair opposite him, flattening out as much as possible. “Just a lunch break. I can't believe the negotiations haven't even started yet and I'm so tired.”

“You’re telling me.” 

“At least you get to sit in here and get updates, and not have to sit in all the stuffy meetings. Or boring long training sessions.” 

“Just get shot next time.”

“Shut up.” She says this with her usual gusto, but then sighs and fidgets with her hands. “Actually, I came here to talk to you about something.” 

“What, related to the Kingsglaive?” 

“No, it’s about the negotiations.” 

“Isn’t Iggy coming by later with updates?” 

She clasps her hands together. “Well, yes. He will. And you have to act like you have never heard of any of this before.” 

Noctis blinks. This is getting more and more concerning. “Iris, what’s going on?” 

It’s clear something happened. She clenches and unclenches her hands in her lap. Then she puffs up and settles a look on Noctis, eyes wide and chin lifted. 

“My name was submitted as a possible match for Prince Prompto.” 

The way Noctis’s stomach drops makes him dizzy. He studies Iris for a moment, but she is serious. She isn’t laughing, and she looks…not sad but. Guilty. 

“Wha-how? Is that okay? Are you okay?” 

“It’s okay, I had said, you know, before. To my dad and Gladdy that I understand these kinds of things happen. And I figured, maybe I could do more than just be some noble in a castle.” 

It’s like walking through mud up the waist to ask the question Noctis knows he should ask as someone who isn’t currently feeling his stupid heart shatter. 

“You volunteered?” 

She nods. Presses her lips together. 

“What did Gladio say?” 

“When I offered? He just kind of waved it off. I think…shit.” She pauses and collects herself. “I keep thinking about Iggy and Gladdy.” 

It’s a terrible reminder of what Noctis knows they’re all thinking but no one is talking about it. Without Iris in Insomnia, it would fall to Gladio to carry on the Amicita line. 

Noctis has caught on to the fact Ignis and Gladio are spending a lot more evenings together, and even days where they can. Noctis isn’t dumb. And he knows they aren’t either. But it makes Noctis feel awful for bemoaning his crush when Ignis and Gladio have been together for years, and that won’t matter in the face of stopping a war. 

“I know if I'm gone…” Iris covers her face with her hands briefly, pulling herself together. “They don’t show it to you, Noct, but they’re…it’s tough. And they have to sit in those meetings too, and pretend none of it will affect them.”

“But my dad, and yours, they know—” 

“You know as well as us that it doesn't matter.”

“You don’t have to do this for anyone.” 

“I do!” She shouts, and quickly rubs her eyes when tears fall down her cheeks. “We don’t have great houses, not like Niflheim has. It will be a really obvious slight to them if I’m not in play if marriages are suggested. Maybe if Gladdy and Ignis were married already, I could stay out of it so I could carry on the family line, but if they get married now it’ll be obvious they just got married to keep me off the list.”

Noctis rubs his eyes. If Gladio has to carry on the family line, like they had thought Iris might, that would be it for him and Ignis. They wouldn’t live in secret. 

“He’s nice, right?” 

“Huh?” Noctis snaps back up to her attention.

“Prince Prompto.”

“I mean, he is, sure. But—” 

She settles a look on him. “If you think for a second you can fool me into thinking he’s not, you’re an idiot. You wouldn’t be this much of a mess if you didn’t think so.” 

There are a lot of implications here Noctis doesn’t want to confirm. “All I’m saying is, nice here doesn’t mean nice there . Not to mention you’d be around the emperor and that creepy chancellor. Gladio would go nuts not knowing what's going on with you. We all would.” 

“You guys have to let me grow up at some point.” 

“It's not about that! I mean it, we’d be worried about you.” 

She waves him off. “We don't even know what is going to happen. I just wanted you to know, and get your thoughts on Prompto.” 

“You’ve seen him just as much as I have, you know how he is.” 

“You’re impossible.” Iris hops up, eyes dry once more. “I want to grab some food before things start up again.” 

Noctis stands as well. “Prompto is a good person. He hides a lot of himself, but it’s there. He’s funny. He respects people. He’s never said a bad thing about any of his guards even if I ask directly. He plays video games and enjoys scary movies. He’s protective of his niece. I think he loves dogs. He’s weirdly into art, and likes to dig into new things. And—” 

When he pauses, he catches the way Iris is smiling, arms crossed in front of him. 

“Thanks, Noct,” she says with a wink, before turning to leave. 

Noctis stands there a little dumbfounded, spiraling in a mix of confusion and anxiety. He thinks back to the day before and the way Prompto had been there beside him, the ease of his company and the way it felt when Promtpo looked at him. 

With a groan, Noctis collapses back onto the couch and shoves his face into one of the pillows. 

It doesn’t feel like it’s any different of a day when Noctis first wakes up. He lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s quiet in his apartment. When he sits up, his phone pings on his nightstand with a message from Ignis that he is on his way.

Everything comes rushing back to Noctis. And it's not the good things of the last three days. It’s what starts now: the end of the war. When they walk into the throne room today, they will change the trajectory of their lives. All of them.  

He should get up. He should shower. He should make himself presentable. 

All Noctis wants to do is hide under the covers and pretend none of this is happening. 

It’s such a childish thing to think. Noctis should want this to happen. Their personal sacrifices are nothing compared to what it means for Eos. To even think for a moment he would rather it didn’t happen is selfish.

There’s no point in thinking about what Noctis would want if he were given the choice. 

Noctis forces himself to get out of bed. Ignis will be there soon, but if Noctis is in the shower when he gets here, that will buy Noctis a few more minutes of time to get his head on straight. 

He’ll go where he’s told when he’s told. Smile when he’s told. Shake hands. Accept his fate for the good of the people like he’s supposed to. 

The shower is as hot as Noctis can take it. 

By the time he has washed his hair and put on fresh sweats and a shirt, he can hear his friends in the apartment. Noctis takes several deep breaths, his knuckles white as he tightens his hold on the doorknob. 

He opens the door. Ignis has set the table with their breakfast. Gladio and Iris are already eating, while Ignis is pouring his coffee in the kitchen. Noctis takes his seat, where an energy drink waits for him. 

“Serious business.” Noctis takes a sip and relishes the way it bites at his tongue. “Breaking out the juice this early.”

“We will need all the help we can get today.” Ignis takes a seat next to Gladio, who instantly rests a hand on Ignis’s thigh. 

Noctis tries not to think about things too much. He has the agenda for the first day up on his phone. He grabs a croissant, some cheese, and jam. Where usually they would be chatting and laughing, they are instead all quiet and focused on their phones.  

In the throne room, it’s a kind of quiet chaos. The delegates from Tenebrae, Accordo, and Lucis are seated together on the ground level, while Noctis and his dad are at the top of the stairs. 

The Nox Fleurets look well despite their injuries. Several delegates are bandaged up. And yet they’re all there, despite what has happened, and despite those who have tried to stop this treaty from happening. 

Noctis’s gaze is pulled towards a flash of white and gold at the doors. Like a moth to the fucking flame. 

Prompto enters the throne room. He’s dressed similarly to when he first arrived—the collar of his raiment is fastened up properly, and there isn’t a cape trailing behind him. Behind Prompto are people dressed in similar colors. The Niflheim delegates have finally arrived. 

But neither the emperor nor the chancellor are among them. 

Noctis makes eye contact with Prompto. 

Something in Noctis’s chest squeezes. Not sure what else to do, Noctis bows his head slightly, but without looking away. Prompto’s eyes widen, and it almost looks like a corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. 

Noctis can’t help but return it, just in case.

Chapter Text

It’s a little unsettling when Prompto realizes he is less afraid his second time in the Lucian throne room. The fear is still there, of course, but it is more an instinctive reaction to the structure of the room, where everyone else is peering down at him and the rest of Niflheim’s delegates. He is not—he’s not afraid this time that the Lucians will throw him into a cell or straight up kill him. 

The sharp claws of his worry have blunted, withdrawn a little ways from his heart and his throat, just enough to make a sliver of room for hope. He survived thirty days in the Citadel as planned, and now Niflheim’s delegates are here, and Prompto hasn’t been abandoned to the enemy. The end of the war is on the horizon, so long as the treaty negotiations go well.

The composition of the delegates is something of a surprise, given the number of representatives who also have active military careers. Most of them Prompto has either met or seen images of when he attended meetings regarding the war effort. Some of them would have been commanding troops in Cleigne when the withdrawal happened. Having so many soldiers among the delegates seems like an aggressive composition, though to be fair, almost all of Nifhleim’s great houses have strong ties to the military. Aldercapt had little use for those with other specialties, though maybe that explains the ones Prompto doesn’t recognize.

But Prompto had assumed Chancellor Izunia would be on the list. Perhaps even the emperor himself, given the unprecedented nature of the event. There’s no way that Izunia left now that the delegates are here. If anything, he’s probably still flitting about Insomnia in disguise, continuing with whatever spying he was originally here to do. And Prompto hasn’t had the chance to ask the delegates because he hadn’t even known they were in Insomnia until Elshett informed him, and he hadn’t even seen them until they met just outside the throne room.

Honestly, he probably shouldn’t ask about Izunia. If the chancellor isn’t here publicly, then he clearly has a different part to play in this phase of Operation Countersign than the delegates do. They might not even know that the chancellor is here. And with the amount of surveillance Prompto is under, any attempt to ask about him would be picked up by the Lucians and jeopardize whatever task the emperor has set for him.

And if Prompto is the one who gets Chancellor Izunia caught, he won’t be the only one who pays for it.

“Welcome,” King Regis says, voice steady. The acoustics of the room meant he didn’t have to raise his voice for it to carry, even if Prompto isn’t as desperately focused on him now as he was the first time. “We thank you all for being here, on the dawn of a new era...”

It’s a variant of the speech that the king gave atop the Caelum Via, only with more emphasis on the start of negotiations and apologies for cancelling the gala to celebrate Niflheim’s arrival. Prompto can’t exactly blame King Regis for that decision; his wrist only barely stopped aching. High Commander Ulldor, who is in charge of the Niflheim delegation, doesn’t seem to care about the lack of hospitality. If the emperor were here, it might be a different matter, but the king appeals to the high commander’s practicality regarding risk, and the man just nods his acknowledgement of what could have been a disastrous snub.

Once King Regis’s speech winds down, High Commander Ulldor steps ahead of Prompto to directly address the king. “On behalf of His Imperial Radiance, Emperor Aldercapt, I thank you for volunteering to host the peace talks,” the man says. He doesn’t sound nearly as oily as Chancellor Izunia did a month ago in this room. “And I extend His Imperial Majesty’s apologies for being unable to attend. I assure you that this delegation has the authority to act in his name.”

And then, to Prompto’s surprise, the high commander turns his back on King Regis to face him. “Prince Prompto, prepare to receive the emperor’s command.”

Prompto slides onto his knees in front of the entire room, resting his hands on his thighs and bowing his head, even as his heart rate skyrockets. “I hear and obey.”

“In honor of your years of service to the empire, your loyalty to the throne, and your devotion to your people, His Imperial Majesty has, in his grace and his wisdom, appointed you to the rank of Crown Prince of the Niflheim Empire,” the high commander says.

The words are a sudden, crushing weight. Prompto closes his eyes and forces a quiet, steady breath, though it still sounds far too loud in his ears.

Aldercapt has made his decision. Solara will stay herself, and Prompto and his cohort will live as long as they can.

“His Imperial Majesty authorizes you, in His name, to see these negotiations to their conclusion,” High Commander Ulldor continues, oblivious to the roil of emotions in Prompto’s chest. “Rise, and receive the Crown Prince’s seal.” 

“This humble servant accepts His Imperial Majesty’s command,” Prompto says, and his voice does not shake. He gets to his feet as smoothly as he can and reaches out, hands cupped together, so the high commander can place the golden seal in his upturned palms. 

Relieved of his burden, High Commander Ulldor bows low, and the rest of the Niflheim delegation follows suit. Prompto turns back toward the center of the throne room. It is somehow just as surreal to see the rest of the room bow or nod in acknowledgment as their ranks require. But the only thing that catches Prompto’s notice in this unreal moment is Noctis’s eyes. 

He looks—surprised, maybe? From this distance it is difficult to tell. But Noctis’s gaze is intent on him, and Prompto feels it like a hand pressed to his chest. 

King Regis’s voice breaks the moment, and Prompto tears his gaze away from Noctis to look at him. “We congratulate you on your appointment, Crown Prince Prompto of Niflheim.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Prompto says. His fingers curl around the seal. The gold is cool against the skin of his palm, but he reminds himself that very little has truly changed for him despite this symbol of power. “I am humbled and honored to shoulder this responsibility in the peace negotiations.” 

The rest of that first meeting is short, in deference to the Niflheim delegation’s travel, which Prompto is grateful for. He is certain that High Commander Ulldor has additional orders from Emperor Aldercapt, and it would be incredibly unwise to try to do any kind of negotiation without receiving those orders first. After the introduction of every nation’s delegates, Prompto agrees with Queen Sylva’s (undoubtedly scripted) recommendation to officially open the talks tomorrow morning. There is a bit more obligatory ceremony, but soon enough Prompto is back in his suite, with High Commander Ulldor, Lord Tummelt, long since retired, and three men roughly Prompto’s own age who have the bearing of skilled soldiers.

“Please, sit,” Prompto says as he takes one of the armchairs in the living room. Lord Tummelt takes the far end of the couch with a murmur of gratitude, but High Commander Ulldor signals the other three soldiers.

The soldiers waste no time in pulling an assortment of tech from their pockets. They fan out through the suite, confident and practiced, and begin searching for the Lucians’ surveillance in silence.

Prompto closes his eyes when he hears the first, harsh beep that means something has been found. He only opens them again when he hears the high commander’s footsteps. The man takes the seat closest to Prompto, and for a moment, Prompto remembers what it was like to have Noctis on that same couch. He banishes the thought and yet another harsh beep to focus on the two men before him. 

(Though part of Prompto is still grateful that he timed his visit to Noctis’s rooms so that Prompto wouldn’t end up with the notebook in his own suite. There’s no way that the Imperial soldiers would have missed it in their search, and the—pointless, harmless, ridiculous back and forth between him and Noctis wouldn’t survive the kind of scrutiny his suite is going through.)

High Commander Ulldor led the southern forces in Cleigne. He is a serious, unsmiling man, whose family has served the empire faithfully for centuries. The years in the field and frustration at the stalemate have weathered him. Not as prematurely as King Regis, but there is more gray in his hair than his fifty-odd years might have originally been inclined to put there. 

Lord Tummelt is older than Aldercapt, a well-decorated and retired soldier who won what passes for Aldercapt’s favor in his youth and retired even before Prompto was brought to Gralea to lead his house. More than one of his children still serve in the military, if Prompto isn’t mistaken, as do some of his grandchildren. Out of all the Niflheim delegates, he is probably the closest to what the Lucians, Tenebraens, and Accordans would consider a diplomat.

Prompto hasn’t ever spent time alone with either man and knows them both largely by reputation. High Commander Ulldor hasn’t been at court for years, and if Lord Tummelt wanted an imperial ear, he went straight to Aldercapt. Prompto isn’t entirely certain what to expect from either of them, especially not now that he has been elevated to the role of crown prince.

Eventually the three soldiers fall into a neat line in the space between the kitchenette and the seating area. “All surveillance has been disabled, Your Imperial Highness, High Commander,” the man says after a polite bow. 

“How many cameras?” Prompto finds himself asking, as if it’s a point of idle curiosity.

“Ten,” the soldier says.

Prompto fights to keep his expression placid against the crawling sensation skittering over his skin, his spine. He knew since the day he first arrived that the Lucians would place surveillance in his suite. It still seems like overkill to him to have hidden ten in a space like this.

(He stomps hard on the little kernel of—whatever it was that had been forming word by word and line by line in that little notebook.)

The high commander glances at him, and when Prompto nods, dismisses his soldiers. They tuck away their tech and step out of the suite to wait for their superiors. And isn’t that a dizzying thought. With Nifhleim’s delegates joining him on this floor, with the soldiers they’ve brought with them, the Kingsglaive will no longer be lurking outside every door for him. They’ll be at all access points to the floor , of course, but this is—some breathing room he has sorely missed. He finally has allies in the Citadel now. People who will come to his defense, if needed.

The image of Noctis pressed close, one hand on his chest, warm breath across his skin, comes unbidden. 

Prompto mentally shakes that thought, those sensations, away. The moments between him and Noctis weren’t—Noctis’s loyalty is to Lucis, not him. Even if Noctis made overtures of—what? friendship? Less than a handful of weeks, no matter how pleasant their interactions, shouldn’t be worth nearly as much as having soldiers on his side.

(Right?) 

Prompto takes a breath and asks, “What other orders does the emperor have for me?”

Prompto spends the entire week of negotiations bracketed between Lord Tummelt and High Commander Ulldor, seated at a grand conference table in a too-large room and desperately hoping he doesn’t fuck up the last stage of Operation Countersign.

Even though there are far fewer people in the room than were on the top of the Caelum Via, the feeling of being stared at is worse even though there are only six other people at the table to engage in the actual negotiations: King Regis, Weskham Armaugh, and Clarus Amicitia for Lucis, and Queen Sylva, Prince Ravus, and Princess Lunafreya for Tenebrae. But the rest of the room is ringed three rows deep with the rest of the Niflheim delegation, representatives from Accordo, a good number of the Lucian Council, and Noctis and his retinue. 

At least at the Caelum Via, people could be discreet about their staring. Here, the conference table is the sole focus of everyone in the room. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for Noctis, day after day, selecting a seat that puts him directly in Prompto’s line of sight. Technically, it puts Noctis at his father’s back, a symbol of Lucis’s united front, but it is—uncomfortable, to watch Noctis’s face as the negotiations drag on. 

The emperor’s orders for the negotiation outcomes were simple enough that Lord Tummelt recited them from memory in those first minutes Prompto’s suite was cleared of surveillance. Things the emperor is willing to concede with minimal resistance comprised the largest category, while there are a handful of points that they are to resist on but ultimately give way on if Lucis presses hard enough. There are only two points on which they are to hold fast and offer their own concessions to secure them. The first is to secure Galahd as an imperial territory.

Keeping Galahd makes some sense; with Cleigne already surrendered for the ceasefire, it is the only Lucian territory they still occupy. The empire’s grip on the archipelago is nearly fourteen years uncontested, while the battle lines in Cleigne were frequently redrawn. Prompto is a little surprised that the emperor would rather keep Galahd than Tenebrae—Tenebrae is both larger and shares a border with Nifhleim, though to be fair, a significant portion of Tenebrae is still frozen. Perhaps that’s why. 

But that worries him, even though it shouldn’t. The Kingsglaive who attacked at the Caelum Via—from what he understood, they were from Galahd. The news programs are still covering ongoing unrest from when King Regis took responsibility for choosing Cleigne over Galahd. It’s a condition that will make political tensions worse within Lucis. 

Prompto shouldn’t care that it will make things more stressful for Noctis. But he can’t go against the emperor’s orders, not with the rest of his cohort at stake. So Prompto pushes that concern down as deep as it can go and ignores the shadow that crosses Noctis’s expression the day his father ultimately concedes Galahd as an imperial territory, despite concessions for the people’s eventual integration into Niflheim as full citizens in the coming years. 

The arguments over territory took a significant chunk of the second day and all of the third. The discussion of the marriages to seal the treaty takes less than half an hour.

Prompto expected the emperor to care deeply about who Prompto was to marry, but Lord Tummelt said only that the emperor wants a suitable match from among the noble ladies of Lucis and left the actual choosing to their judgment. No, the second point on which they are to fight tooth and nail is the marriage of Prince Noctis and Princess Lunafreya.

Prompto would have thought it makes more sense for Aldercapt to fight to keep Tenebrae and marry Princess Lunafreya to Prompto. That would unite their already adjacent territories and ensure that any eventual children will have a legitimate claim to both nations. 

Keeping Galahd, foregoing marriage to Princess Lunafreya, hardly caring about who among Lucis’s nobility the crown prince married—Prompto doesn’t understand what the emperor’s overall aim is for the conclusion of this war. But it is what Aldercapt demanded, and it isn’t Prompto’s job to second-guess him. It does happen to coincide nicely with Prince Ravus’s request that his sister not be sent to Niflheim, though Prompto still has no idea what he could do with the prince’s pledge. It doesn’t particularly matter—he is incredibly unlikely to be the one to ever collect on it. 

Princess Lunafreya looks just faintly surprised when Lord Tummelt suggests her marriage to Noctis. Noctis, in contrast, looks stunned before he schools his expression into neutrality. But Prompto isn’t worried about their marriage. They’re clearly friends based on their interactions during that garden party, and they’ll be able to carve out a pleasant marriage together, even if it ends up lacking actual romance. 

(Prompto shoves aside the memory of Noctis’s hand on his chest.)

Neither King Regis nor Queen Sylva immediately accept the suggestion, but the king does provide a dossier of eligible Lucian women who have agreed to become treaty brides, if necessary. High Commander Ulldor calls for a brief recess so each side can confer.

Lord Tummelt presses the packet into Prompto’s hands after a brief glance through it. “All of suitable rank, if memory serves,” is all he says. High Commander Ulldor doesn’t even look at the list. His focus is on the other side of the room, where the king, queen, both princes, and the princess are grouped together to discuss Nifhleim’s offer.

Prompto flips through the packet, which contains headshots of the women, a brief biography, explanation of their titles and holdings, education, and various accomplishments There are only seven women in it, and they’re—he’s met all of them, he realizes. He met all of them at the party at the Caelum Via and talked to each of them one-on-one for a few minutes. The only one he didn’t meet at the party is Iris Amicitia, who he has frequently seen at Noctis’s side. 

She is the youngest of the candidates at just twenty. But Iris Amicitia is a member of the Crownsguard, and she fought to protect Noctis at the Caelum Via, so her appointment to that role wasn’t simply because she is an Amicitia. 

Prompto reads through the packet again, more slowly. They are all beautiful, accomplished women. They all would make fine empresses of Niflheim someday. But only Iris Amicitia lists any kind of formal combat training. Only Iris Amicitia has a chance at fighting her way out of Gralea if she ever needed to. 

The recess ends. King Regis and Queen Sylva return to the bargaining table to formally accept the marriage of their children, and Prompto chooses Iris for his bride.   

Prompto’s first one-on-one conversation with Iris doesn’t happen until after the negotiations conclude. It doesn’t happen until the night before the treaty signing, when they’re both dressed up in formal wear at the celebratory ball held in the Citadel. 

This is a much smaller crowd than what attended the Caelum Via. The security protocols were even stricter than then, including metal detectors, physical pat downs, and a team of dogs clearly on the alert for explosives. No one is allowed to attend with weapons save for some hand-picked Crownsguard and the members of the king and prince’s retinues that have the permanent connection to the Crystal’s magic. There are no external balconies to access, and the floor-to-ceiling windows on both the main and upper level of the ballroom are covered to prevent snipers from being able to target anyone specifically. 

Prompto wants to abandon the party the moment he clears security. Even though there are fewer people, the main level is more crowded, and the weight of everyone’s eyes on him is worse than either the Caelum Via or the negotiation table. He just has to make it through tonight. Tonight, and then the treaty signing tomorrow, and then the celebration afterward, and then—

And then he’ll finally be going back to Niflheim.

Prompto resists the urge to grab a flute of champagne. His left wrist is still in a cast; if something terrible happens tonight, that will be more than enough hindrance of its own without complicating it with alcohol. He mingles with a few members of the Niflheim delegation until King Regis appears on the upper level to welcome them all, thank them for a successful conclusion of the peace talks, and issue the order for the ball to officially begin.

That’s his cue. Prompto heads for the dance floor as the string quartet strikes up a waltz, and Iris is there to meet him, chin held high and gaze steady. There are diamonds in her hair and sewn into the bodice of her sleeveless black dress, and her grip is confident when he takes her hand. His own left hand rests awkwardly against her waist due to the cast, but she settles herself in his arms without any obvious fear. 

They aren’t alone as they begin to dance; Noctis and Lunafreya are on the floor with them. Prompto does not allow himself to do more than keep them in his periphery, flashes of black and white, while he leads Iris around the floor. She dances as gracefully as he imagines she fights, but he does not know at all what to say to her.

Iris breaks the silence first. “I want to know why you picked me,” she says. Her voice is confident, steady, and her brown eyes are fixed on his face. 

Prompto wants to turn the question back on her—why did she decide to cooperate with the marriage selection?—but the Amicitia family is renowned for their loyalty to the kings and queens of Lucis, so she probably volunteered out of duty. There is still bravery in making that choice in the first place.

“Other than the directive that I marry a Lucian woman of appropriate rank, His Imperial Radiance left the choice to me,” Prompto says, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “In other circumstances, I would have liked to have time to get to know all of the candidates in less formal settings and choose based on perceived compatibility. I would have liked to give any of you the chance to withdraw after getting to know me.”

But they are to be wed in Altissia in a month from tomorrow, he and his bride, and Noctis and Princess Lunafreya. And Prompto doesn’t want to overstay his welcome in the Citadel. 

“But there is no time for that, and so I—” Prompto hesitates, then tries for a different angle, “I trust Prince Noctis would not have kept you so close if you were easily scared, incompetent, or an unpleasant person.”

Iris looks—surprised. Prompto desperately hopes it is a good sort of surprise, but then her expression morphs into something almost wry. “Well, I guess that’s better than because you think I’d be easier to control than someone older or just because I’m pretty.” She blinks up at him and asks, softer, “You really trust Noct that much, huh?”

Prompto can’t deal with the full force of that softness and glances aside. He doesn’t look where Noctis is dancing with Princess Lunafreya. “I suppose I do,” is the best that he can admit out loud. He clears his throat and continues, “In the hopes of establishing as much transparency between us as we can, there is another reason I chose you, but it isn’t—I’d rather it not be overheard.”

Iris studies him a moment, and then she jerks her head to the left. “There are a few sitting areas in the level above. I’ll be in one on the south side in—two hours?”

Enough time to mingle like he had at the Caelum Via, and plausibly enough time for him to tire of it and want a break. “That works for me.” 

“All right,” she says. Iris doesn’t quite smile, but her expression is still oddly gentle as the song winds to a close and the people in the ballroom burst into applause for their approaching future.

The paranoid part of Prompto’s brain that never shuts up wonders if he is about to walk into an ambush, but when he glances into the third little alcove, he finds Iris alone. She’s sitting in one of two chairs, the skirt of her dress pooled out around her bare feet. Her strappy silver heels are set just in front of a small side table nestled between the chairs. There are a pair of full champagne flutes on it.

“Prince Prompto,” she says, but Prompto waves her off as she starts to stand. She settles back in her chair and plucks one of the glasses off the table. “I’ve got someone watching out for eavesdroppers.”

“Thank you,” he says, and takes the other chair. He doesn’t touch the champagne, and Iris doesn’t press him on it. Prompto takes a steadying breath, then says, “The other reason I chose you is that I believe you stand the best chance to flee Niflheim, should you ever feel it necessary.”

Iris stares at him over the rim of her drink. “Do you think it’s likely I’ll need to?”

Iedolas Aldercapt refused to marry again after the death of his wife, even after he lost his son and only trueborn heir. He wants to live forever and falsified a bastard son in order to do so. He acknowledged his real son’s bastard in case he can’t. What use will Aldercapt have for a woman he didn’t choose and probably won’t want?

“I think,” Prompto says quietly, “that an imperial crown changes a man in unexpected ways. And no matter what kind of—relationship we build in the years to come, you would be wise not to trust me when I inherit the empire.”

Iris tilts her head, frowning slightly, and Prompto holds still under her scrutiny. What does she see when she looks at him? How has it changed since he chose her to marry?

“Are you afraid of me?” she asks after a long moment. Her gaze drops to his neck for a heartbeat before she meets his eyes again. 

Prompto gives her the respect of actually considering his answer, even though he shouldn’t be honest. Remember my pride, boy. “Not now,” he says, knowing he will have to pay for this in the next transfer, if Besithia finds this moment. “The war will officially be over tomorrow, and so you, and your country, have every reason to want to keep me alive. And I was never afraid of you, specifically.” 

“Just what I represented?” she asks. There’s something he can’t decipher in the quirk of her mouth.

“Just so.”

Iris hums thoughtfully and puts down her drink. She leans back in her chair, sinking down a little and kicking her feet out further. Despite this deliberate attempt at casualness, the weight of her attention doesn’t lift in the slightest. “What about Noct?”

Prompto’s throat goes dry. He nearly replies with what about him? but that would be ridiculous. “A little,” he allows. “He had the power to make my life here unpleasant if he wished to.”

“But he didn’t.”

“He didn’t,” Prompto agrees. “He tried very hard to make it pleasant, these last few weeks. I appreciate his efforts to—engage with me.”

The offer of a laptop. Two different times sparring. The tours of the art gallery, the shrine. The ridiculous escape attempt from the infirmary. A hand on his chest, breath warm on his face. A notebook passed back and forth for no other reason than a desire to stay in touch. A shared movie and a meal in person.

Iris worries her lower lip between her teeth. “Noct was curious about you right from the start, you know.”

That is a surprise. Prompto hadn’t really thought much about Noctis at all until the day he was spying on Prompto at the shooting range and got caught by Leonis. And even then, Noctis didn’t truly catch his attention until Noctis asked him to participate in an interview. It’s—flattering, disorienting, something else Prompto can’t define.

“I didn’t know. Lady Amicitia—”

“Iris,” she corrects. 

Well, Prompto can’t really refuse that, can he? Not when they’re getting married, at least not in private. And it’s—a sign, however small, that she isn’t opposed to building a marriage neither of them will hate. “Iris,” he repeats, “I’m not sure why we’re suddenly discussing him.”

“Because I think Noctis likes you,” Iris says bluntly.

Prompto’s mind doesn’t even have a chance to go blank because there is a strangled sound from just beyond the alcove. That’s—that can’t be—

“And because I think he’s eavesdropping and not just keeping watch,” she continues, raising her voice slightly.

Prompto stares at the alcove entryway, heart stuttering in his chest, the only part of him that is still capable of moving. And then—there’s Noctis, face red, stepping into the little sheltered space. “Iris,” he hisses, but his wide, blue eyes are focused on Prompto’s face. 

Prompto has no idea what his face is doing right now. There’s a burning in his ears, his throat, and every other part of him might as well not be here. The celebrations around them have dissolved into a white-noise roar.

Iris levers herself out of her chair and onto her feet. She slips her shoes back on and heads for the exit, pausing for a moment to grab Noct’s wrist. That yanks Noctis’s attention to her, and she says simply, “I’ll keep watch,” before stepping away.

After an endless stretch of time, Noctis looks back at him. Prompto hadn’t gotten a good look at him earlier, given his careful avoidance on the dance floor, but now that they are face to face and staring at one another, it’s impossible to deny how striking Noctis is with his dark suit, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes. The silver of his odd little crown peeks out through his hair.

Noctis steps forward, stops. He runs his hand over his mouth, and Prompto‘s attention is caught by the grace in his fingers, by the memory of that hand pressing him against a wall. “I’m—sorry,” Noctis blurts, hushed and mortified. “She shouldn’t have—”

“Is she wrong?” Prompto asks. His heart has clawed its way up to lodge in his throat. It’s a ridiculous, useless question. Nothing will change about tomorrow, no matter what Noctis’s answer is. Prompto still wants to know what that answer is with a desperation that wraps around his bones. 

Noctis’s throat works. “No,” he says, barely loud enough to be heard, his expression fragile and hesitant. “She’s right.” 

Something gives way in Prompto’s chest, and he—this isn’t a conversation he can have sitting down, half a room away. Prompto gets to his feet, feeling dangerously off kilter and refusing to acknowledge the unsteadiness in his stride as he closes the distance between them. 

Noctis’s eyes grow wider as Prompto gets closer, his lips parting just barely when Prompto stops right in front of him. But whatever Noctis might have said is lost when Prompto says, “You hardly know anything about me.”   

“Yeah,” Noctis agrees, more breath than air. They’re nearly the same height; there are only a scant few centimeters between them. “But it’s still enough to like you.”

This is an even more direct confession; something knife-like slides between Prompto’s ribs as he realizes what Noctis is waiting for. A reciprocation; a denial. Prompto should walk away. This will be worse than the conversation with Iris when Besithia uncovers it. 

He stays. He breathes. He says, “I think I could have figured out how much I liked you, if we’d had more time.”

If they’d had more time, if peace weren’t hanging on their marriages to others, if Prompto were actually a person the same way Noctis thinks he is. 

Prompto leans in. The brief kiss he presses to Noctis’s mouth is soft, a flickering moment of warmth and pressure. A beginning and an ending all at once, and bitterer than anything Prompto has ever tasted. When he steps back, Noctis looks at him with something akin to wonder and reaches out to— 

“Goodbye, Noctis,” Prompto says, and he does not look behind him when he leaves.

Chapter Text

Noctis stifles a long yawn behind his hand. Exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover the way he feels this afternoon. The betrothal arrangements had done terrible things to Noctis’s head and heart as he struggled with his feelings. And today has been spent preparing for the signing. For this historic moment. 

But now all Noctis can think about, as he looks down from the balcony of the meeting room to where Prompto, Queen Sylva, and his father stand in the center, is that—

—Prompto kissed him. 

Prompto, Prince Prompto, kissed him. Initiated it. Walked up to Noctis and stepped into his space. Noctis hadn’t even—well, what did he expect, when Iris said the words out loud. He had expected at minimum rejection. At worst laughter. But deep down Noctis somehow knew Prompto wouldn't be like that. And that was even more terrifying. 

Not quite as terrifying as the feeling when Prompto pulled away and said goodbye without even a glance back at Noctis. Noctis had held every ounce of strength in his body to not reach out, not to try to pull Prompto back into an embrace. It was…is…all his body screams for right now. 

It feels stupid. That moment in the closet was so silly, but looking back on it, Noctis wishes so much he had just. Gone for it. Said fuck it, and got them a few good days and nights in before everything was taken from them. 

For once, Gladio’s romantic ideals hit a nerve with Noctis. What was that one phrase he used to balk at? Better to have loved and to have lost than to never have loved at all? 

It’s stupid to think of that phrase. This isn’t about love . It’s…not. It can’t be. And even then, Noctis thinks maybe that quote is wrong. The feeling in his chest. The way he sees Gladio and Ignis crumbling to pieces. Is it worth that pain? How will Noctis feel at the end of all this, when everyone goes their separate ways and he is left here with Luna, and the memories they all once shared are smashed? 

It’s better to forget. Better for Noctis to not think about that kiss ever again. He should do that. But maybe…later. For now maybe Noctis will just take a few more moments to see Prompto as he wants to. As the handsome, funny, kind man who made Noctis feel something real for the first time in his life. 

Prompto, in a moment of pause, maybe of weakness, if Noctis wishes hard enough, takes his stare off the treaty in front of him and tilts his head to make eye contact. It's brief, but it takes the wind out of Noctis just the same. 

Noctis thinks about Prompto’s eyes, the night before, the hooded look to them when he was close, the way the lights had splashed across Prompto’s cheeks to highlight his freckles. The way the corners of his mouth twitched before a smile seems a million kilometers away from the cold, stark expression Prompto bears now. 

And Noctis can’t blame Prompto for that look. Noctis is sure they all have a version of it, one they will be wearing when the cameras are on them later after the terms of the peace treaty are revealed to all of Eos. Each of them will be placated and honored to do what is needed to help their nations. Everyone will praise Noctis and his friends for being a part of a ceasefire to a war that raged for generations. 

Gladio nudges him, but it's not disparaging. Just a gentle reminder to keep up appearances. It makes Noctis grateful they get to be up above and further away from the highest ranking delegates. There are deep circles under Gladio’s eyes which Noctis is sure match his own. He knows Gladio and Ignis spent most of the night together after staying only as long as was required at the festivities. They haven’t seen each other most of today, won’t until later when Ignis and Iris will rejoin Noctis and Gladio at the celebration this evening. 

Noctis can’t imagine what Ignis and Gladio are going through. It feels like of them all, they have the worst of it. But then there is also Iris, who will be sent into enemy territory, and who knows what waits for her there. He wants to believe that Prompto will protect her, but Noctis has been getting the sense that maybe that isn’t in Prompto’s power to promise. Iris is holding it together way better than the rest of them. So maybe she will be okay, in the end. 

When Noctis looks over the rest of the room below, Luna and Ravus are seated beside each other, whispering. Noctis wishes he could be happy for how things have turned out for him. For Lucis. 

No amount of good of the nation helps when facing the reality that there is someone who came out of nowhere, who pulled emotions Noctis never felt before, who was just as quickly ripped away as discovered. 

“Today is a historic day,” Regis says loud enough for his voice to echo around them. “Today, we show the world that we as people, as those who exist here on Eos together, are choosing hope. We are choosing Peace, and are willing to do what is needed to attain it. We are grateful to Niflheim and Tenebrae for stepping forward and offering this opportunity to change our futures.”

Distantly, there's a sound like a car backfiring. Noctis’s first instinct is to check Gladio’s reaction at his side. Gladio’s expression is neutral; if there is anything to report, it doesn’t appear to worry him. When Noctis looks back down, Clarus is still standing behind Regis, with no weapons drawn. Noctis scans over the rest of the room, but the rows of council members and other high-ranking officials from Accordo, Niflheim, and Tenebrae don’t appear concerned. 

This floor is high enough up it's unusual for sound from the streets below to carry, but it doesn’t seem like anyone else even notices or if they hear it, are not concerned. The recent events he’s experienced have probably put Noctis on edge, is all.  

There’s another loud rumble, and this time he sees Clarus turn his head away from the attendees, speaking low into the earpiece. Gladio puts a hand up to his ear, but doesn’t speak. Noctis assumes it’s just more of the protests they’ve been seeing around the Citadel. The announcement of Galahd’s fate in all this certainly hasn’t received the kindest reaction. He hadn’t expected the handover to Niflheim and he doesn’t necessarily agree with the decision, but it was what his dad clearly thinks is best for the sake of the treaty. 

When his father picks up the pen, Queen Sylva picks up her own and Prompto his seal. Noctis tells himself Prompto’s hand isn’t shaking. The nerves bundle up in Noctis’s throat. 

There’s a high pitched whirring outside. Noctis can’t see anything in the large windows on the other side of the room. Regis pauses and turns to look back at Clarus, who is speaking into his earpiece with less secrecy than before. Regis sets his pen down. Prompto’s frowning, and he looks over towards the Niflheim delegates. Queen Sylva leans towards Regis and whispers something. 

When Gladio speaks quietly into his earpiece, the bundle of nerves becomes stone. “The Crystal?” 

The whirring sound happens again. It’s noticeably closer, and this time it ends with the sound of impact. 

The room shakes. 

People shout in surprise and some drop to the ground. Noctis can’t help but grab Gladio’s forearm as Gladio in turn grabs him by the bicep. Prompto steps away from the table, and this time when their eyes meet, Noctis sees his own fear mirrored. 

“Please stay calm,” Weskham announces. He moves next to Regis, arms outstretched in an attempt to placate the group.  

“Come on,” Gladio tugs Noctis out of his chair. “I think we should get out of here until we learn what’s going on outside.”

Noctis allows himself to be pulled up as Weskham continues to try to regain control of the room. No one is listening to him, especially not as another round of booms and shaking occurs stronger yet. When he glances at Luna and Ravus, they are still seated, but look like they are ready to run to their mother. 

Wesham speaks up more. “Please stay seated. We are speaking with our security team—” 

“Oh, they can't help you.” 

Noctis and Gladio can’t help turning back around to see who is speaking. Everyone has turned to face a Niflheim council member, Lord Tummelt if Noctis remembers correctly, standing near the front of the rows of chairs. Noctis’s blood turns cold at the smirk on the man's lips, unsettled for reasons he can’t quite place.  

“Sir,” Weskham takes a step towards the man, his tone shifting to more stern, “everyone, please remain seated.” 

Lord Tummelt calmly pulls out a gun, aiming it at Weskham. 

There isn’t even time for Noctis to wonder how this man got a gun past security, because the room erupts into chaos immediately. Weskham summons his own gun as he falls back to Clarus‘s side. Regis moves to the cover of the Tall Shield, arm outstretched and ready to summon the Armiger. 

“Noct—” Gladio says, but Noctis doesn’t hear the rest. He warps down below, landing near his dad and Clarus, and instantly calls for his sword from the Armiger. 

Gladio appears beside Noctis in a burst of shimmering crystals. There’s no time for apologies. Gladio’s tower shield is up as he joins his father in protecting Noctis and Regis. 

Clarus speaks into the earpiece, snapping orders to evacuate and for more guards and any glaives in the Citadel to come to assist. Ravus stalks towards Lord Tummelt from behind—but without a weapon, Noctis isn’t sure what he intends to do. Everyone had to release their weapons before entering the room.  

“Put down the gun,” Weskham warns Lord Tummelt, “now.” 

Lord Tummelt laughs. It sets off every red flag in Noctis. Then, like something out of a movie, his body, clothes, everything about him shifts like blades of grass in the wind to reveal himself as—

Chancellor Izunia?

Trying to understand whatever the fuck is happening is beyond Noctis’s capacity right now. There isn’t any bit of magic he’s ever learned that covers this kind of ability. The sounds of shock from Gladio and his dad tell him he’s not alone in his confusion.

Ravus reaches out to grab the Chancellor from behind, and a bright red flash makes him and everyone else scream and drop to the ground. Gladio covers Noctis while Clarus covers Regis—but Noctis catches a glimpse of what has happened after blinking several times.

Chancellor Izunia is surrounded by what looks like the Armiger, but it pulses with a deep red instead of crystal blue as swords circle him. 

In an instant, Gladio is on the move, pulling Noctis towards the side door by the arm. Gladio doesn’t pause, not even when Noctis stumbles to keep up. 

“Adagium!” The king shouts as Clarus guides him to the same door. “The Crystal will not serve you or the emperor!”

“Nor you... Once I take it from this accursed city.”

As he’s being dragged, Noctis sees Prompto backed against the wall. He’s staring at the chancellor with wide eyes and his face has gone pale. 

“Prompto!” Noctis shouts. He tries to lunge away from Gladio. Prompto doesn’t have anyone around him for protection. He needs to get Prompto to safety. 

“No! We gotta go!” Gladio tugs hard and Noctis is nearly knocked off his feet. “That’s an order, Your Highness!” 

Chancellor Izunia spreads his arm out and the weapons fan out behind him. 

Right as Gladio and Clarus have them at the door, there is another bright flash of light, this time white, that envelops the room. When Noctis opens his eyes, the red Armiger is gone and most of the people in the room are crouched down along the walls.  

Chancellor Izunia stands with a trident piercing through his chest, arms still outstretched. Dark, thick blood covers the three prongs and drips down at his feet. 

Queen Sylva releases her grip on the trident and staggers back. Ravus and Luna run for their mother, who tugs them to her sides. 

No one moves. Prompto is still pressed against the wall. He does not look relieved. 

The chancellor falls to his knees, then tips over on his left side. His eyes don’t shut. Don’t blink. 

They’re safe now. The treaty is dead in the water, but they’re alive. And Noctis wants to believe, so, so much, that Prompto had no involvement. But he knows he can’t make that assumption right now, even if Prompto appears innocent.  

“Get the guards in here! Arrest them all!” Clarus orders. “Including the prince!” 

Arguing now would be pointless. Noctis is already thinking of all the things he can say later to get Prompto out, or at least get him somewhere other than a jail cell. Prompto still looks terrified as Clarus points him out. 

“Guards!” Clarus repeats. 

But the large doors still don't open. Even though they can hear the soldiers on the other side trying to get in. Some of the delegates run to the door, trying to get out, but they have no luck either. Something isn’t right. 

“Get in here! That’s an order!” Clarus spares a glance at Noctis and Gladio. "And you two, leave. Now.” 

“But he’s dead—” Noctis takes a step forward, but Gladio reigns him in by the arm. 

“This isn’t done,” Regis’s voice sounds scratched and tired. “Niflheim isn’t done. We must get—”  

“Finally, you understand, Your Majesty.” A voice echoes around them with a guttural effect to it, like it's coming from underwater. 

Chancellor Izuna blinks and pulls himself back up to his knees. 

Noctis wishes all of this is a nightmare. There’s no reasonable explanation for the way the chancellor is able to stand up and pull the trident out of his back with one hand. The sound of it clattering on the ground makes Noctis flinch. 

“Now, where were we?” Chancellor Izunia flicks his wrist. A singular sword, large and glowing red, appears floating in front of him. 

“Go!” Gladio and Clarus yell in unison. This time Noctis doesn’t fight when Gladio drags him towards the door. But Chancellor Izunia isn’t looking at Noctis. 

He’s looking at Prompto. 

A new kind of fear spikes up Noctis’s throat. Gladio opens the side door, but Noctis digs in his heels and tries to— 

The sword flies across the room in a streak of red, and then Prompto is pinned to the wall at the torso. 

“No!” Noctis’s throat burns before he’s tossed through the doorway into dark silence. 

The sword punches all breath and every thought out of Prompto when it slams through his gut and into the stone wall behind him. He can’t tell if he screamed because all the sound in the world has dropped out.

He’s pinned, like a dead insect to a board. His knees give way, and there’s the pain, an agony he’s never felt before despite all the times he’s died. The red crystalline sword is snagged on the underside of his right ribs. He tries to lift his hands, to brace himself against the blade, to push up and do something, but they might as well be separated from his body for as much control he has over them.

“Poor little automaton,” the chancellor sing-songs as he leans over the sword and into Prompto’s space. 

Prompto jerks his head back—tries, but there’s nowhere to go, and the world is frozen gray, all except for the two of him. Maybe. His eyes—he can’t focus on anything except the chancellor’s leering face, everything beyond that is an indistinguishable smear. He can’t hear anything except the chancellor’s voice. 

“It thought it was a real boy there for a moment.” 

The chancellor’s breath is so hot against his face. Prompto gasps—shallow, wet, choking. 

“But there is no prize for being the last puppet.”

Last?

No.

No.  

There were eighteen left in his cohort after this transfer. It—there were supposed to be—he can’t be last—

“They’re just as you left them. No new accidents, no one falling behind the others, no one else needing to be culled.”

The chancellor had laughed before he said it.

Just as you left them. Nothing new. No one, no one.

They were dead before Prompto left Niflheim.

Besithia must have had them disposed of as soon as he finished the tests to ensure the transfer was successful. They were probably dead before Prompto left the facility.

“It understands now,” Izunia says. His hand is cradling Prompto’s cheek, a mockery of sympathy. “Too late, of course. Just in time for cleanup to start.”

The sword shatters in a million pieces of glowing crystal, and Prompto drops to the floor in an entirely uncontrolled heap. His head hits the floor, an explosion of pain that knocks the last of the color out of the world.  

Izunia steps back, tsking as the dark puddle of—Prompto’s blood, that’s his blood—seeps toward his shoes. His lips move, he says something, but Prompto can’t hear anything anymore over the roaring in his ears.

The color goes, and then the edges of the world, and then the light last of all.

Chapter Text

“We have to go back and help!” Noctis wrestles out of Gladio’s hold after he’s been dragged kicking and screaming down a long hallway. Gladio gets his arm again, pulling Noctis into a break room. There are a few staff in there hiding under a table as another explosion shakes the building. 

When they see Gladio and Noctis, there’s panic in their eyes. Without a word, they run, nearly taking out Regis and Clarus as they exit. 

Noctis swings away from Gladio and staggers backwards. He leans against the small table with tears in his eyes, pushing the heels of his palms against his eye sockets to try to drive the moment Prompto was—impaled—out of his mind. 

Noctis’s breath is ragged. His chest aches. His throat burns.

“Prompto—you saw. He isn’t a part of this! He’s—He’s hurt—and the others, Luna—” 

“We can’t risk you or the King!” Gladio slams one hand on the table. It startles Noctis, and he opens his eyes to face the red-rimmed gold of Gladio’s. 

Noctis clenches his fists and lowers his head to break eye contact. Gladio steps away, hands on his head and eyes shut tight. 

Noctis won't say Prompto is dead. Admitting that has far more implications than Noctis is willing to face, because how many more would get run through before help arrives? Would glaives open the door and find no survivors and only the Chancellor? 

Why hadn’t he died? And why did he have an Armiger? And…

It seems completely impossible for the chancellor to simply change his appearance . The idea of not being able to trust anyone in this moment, or of other people maybe being tricked, makes Noctis dizzy. The only people he can trust right now are here in the hallway with him. 

Did Chancellor Izunia ever make himself look like Prompto? It would be the easiest thing to do, especially in the early days of their meeting, when Noctis wasn’t familiar with Prompto. Or was it ever not the chancellor? 

Why have the real Prompto there as a hostage, if the chancellor could play this trick on them this entire time?

His dad and Clarus are on the other side of the room. Regis braces against the wall and catches his breath. His cane must still be in the room, forgotten in the chaos. Clarus speaks low into his earpiece as he paces back and forth, but it doesn't sound promising. 

Distantly, there’s another explosion that reverberates around them. It feels like it's coming from elsewhere in the Citadel. Are Ignis and Iris safe? Or has the Crownsguard lost control so quickly that even their safety is at risk? Will the Imperial soldiers know who Ignis and Iris are? 

“We have to help them,” Noctis says quietly, pleading. 

Clarus doesn’t leave Regis’s side, but he does glance at Gladio briefly before speaking. “We must continue forward.” His expression is more neutral than Gladio’s, but there’s still the same pain just under the surface. 

It isn’t fair, Noctis wants to shout. Why does he get to live, run to safety, while others are trapped in a room with a killer? Why can’t they be in there, fighting back with the power of the kings? Of the Crystal? 

Deep down, Noctis understands the why. He hates it. 

“Son,” his dad reaches out, and Noctis lets himself be pulled into a hug more because he isn't sure he can deny it than he needs it, right now.

His dad squeezes harder. “We have a duty to Lucis. We need to protect them. The only way to do that is to stay alive.” 

In the ensuing quiet, they can clearly hear the calls of distress coming from Clarus and Gladio’s earpieces. 

“ They’re going for the Crystal! I repeat, all hands to the center chamber!” 

The building shakes. This time, it doesn’t stop. Without a word, they're on the move. The sound of explosions echoes between the sounds of their footsteps as they all break into a jog. 

“Gladio—” Clarus orders as they pick up the pace, “switch to channel fifteen.” 

Noctis and Gladio are behind Clarus and his dad. Noctis clenches his jaw against the urge to order them to stop, or at least slow down, as he watches his dad struggle to keep up. Gladio adjusts his earpiece with the hand that isn’t loosely holding Noctis by the arm. 

“Immortal , what’s your location?” Clarus asks. Noctis doesn’t recall where Cor is supposed to be. He doesn’t wish Cor is safe—it’s more like he hopes Cor is already taking out Imperial soldiers and saving people. He has a reputation to uphold. But the way sounds echo in the hallway has made it difficult to hear anything. 

After Clarus repeats the call several times with no clear response, Gladio speaks into his earpiece. 

“Coeurl, Moogle—call home.” Gladio’s voice cracks. 

“Immortal, report!” Clarus holds his arm out in front of Regis, causing Noctis and Gladio to skid to a stop as well. 

Clarus turns to Regis and speaks into the earpiece. “Location?” A pause. “Civilians?”

Cor is alive—it feels like a win, but Noctis isn’t naive enough to celebrate. He observes Gladio’s expression, less guarded than his father’s. Noctis watches as the color fades even more in Gladio’s pallor, but he doesn’t press. 

“They’re working on getting inside the meeting room.” 

“It’s still locked?” Noctis whispers. 

Gladio huffs in reply. When Clarus stops speaking into the radio and confers with Regis in a low tone, Gladio taps his earpiece. 

“Coeurl, Moogle—call home.” Gladio tries again. He glances at Noctis and turns up the radio. Noctis steps closer. 

“Behemoth?” comes through loud and clear, and Gladio breaks. He pulls away and rests his forehead on the wall. Noctis quells the urge to follow. He doesn’t listen in, but he sees Gladio change a channel. 

“Moogle—” Clarus also takes several long strides away from Regis as he continues talking rapidly to Iris. 

Regis gives Clarus the same privacy and pulls Noctis into another hug. And while Noctis is glad that Iris and Ignis are alive, it doesn’t mean they are okay . He can’t help constantly thinking of all the worst case scenarios they could be relaying right now, can’t help thinking of those left behind. 

“Dad,” Noctis finally gets the courage to ask, in the quiet, “who exactly is the chancellor?” 

When his dad replies, he doesn’t look at Noctis. “Something we—I— believed to be a legend, an impossibility.”

That doesn’t explain a whole lot. Noctis fights to curb his usual stubbornness. “Why does he have an Armiger?” 

Clarus appears beside them. “Regis, we have to get out of the Citadel. And out of Insomnia.” 

If Regis is at all surprised by this statement, he doesn’t show it. He simply sighs and closes his eyes, before nodding. “Iris and Ignis?”

Gladio rejoins them, holding his chin up high as if to make up for the brief moment of emotion. “They know where to go.” 

“Then we go there, as well.” Regis says. 

Noctis looks at Gladio expectantly. 

“They’re alive, that’s all that matters.” Gladio whispers. Noctis won’t press him, not right now. It should just be enough to know Ignis and Iris have a chance. 

At the end of the hallway, Clarus slowly opens the door and disappears for a moment. 

When he reappears, he motions for them to follow. “All clear, this way.” 

Beyond the door is a staff area, with different doors along the walls and larger elevators to account for deliveries. It appears abandoned. Carts with prepared food are pushed against walls; trash bags lay half open on the floor. Dust disturbed by the building shaking floats around them, emphasized by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows high above. They walk slower, keeping pace with Regis. The heels of their shoes echo, and Noctis feels strangely exposed. 

When they are nearly across the room, there’s a large bang that sounds closer, like a metal door being hit as opposed to another explosion. A persistent whine gets louder. 

And then everything goes quiet. They all stop, even though Noctis is pretty sure they shouldn't. 

The large windows explode inward, raining glass down on them. 

They scatter out of the path in different directions. Which is the worst thing to do because the reason for the glass shattering is immediately apparent: Imperial soldiers are in a pile on the floor between them. It’s roughly ten soldiers, but they don't quite look like the ones they've seen before. These have strange green, human-like masks covering their faces and glowing red eyes. 

“What the hell?” Noctis turns to his dad and Clarus, but they’re both staring down at the pile of bodies looking just as confused.

Gladio takes a few tentative steps to kick the foot of one.  

And then the nightmare continues. There's the sound of metal against the floor, scraping and scratching.

“Get back!” Clarus summons his sword and shield. Gladio jumps away as the soldiers writhe and somehow get to their feet in the most terrifying and grotesque way. It's like their joints are all barely held together with string, and a puppeteer is controlling them. Arms hang strangely and heads roll around on the necks. And then, they’re standing upright as if they hadn’t been injured at all by the fall. 

And Noctis realizes with horror that…they aren’t.

Gladio’s grip on his arm tells Noctis to move. As the last few soldiers stand, one raises their arms, fashioned to look like guns. 

“Oh fuck this.” Gladio lets go of Noctis and roars as his sword and shield crystalize in his hands. Clarus has the same idea, immediately joining Gladio’s side to keep Noctis and his dad behind them. 

At least this time Noctis can fight. He summons his sword, and he can't help but scream as he slices the nearest soldier from shoulder to hip. His dad stays back but unleashes chains of lightning through the soldiers.

Between the four of them, they make quick work of the strange soldiers. Getting them at the head becomes the immediate strategy, since they can’t know if losing any other limbs will even matter. One by one they fall, until once again they all lay in a pile on the floor. This time for good. Noctis hopes. He stumbles to his knees as he sends his sword back into the Armiger and catches his breath.

With the windows busted open, Noctis hears the state of things outside. It sounds like a war out there. Screams somewhere in the distance. Gunfire, explosions. Noctis runs his hand down his face and tries to collect himself. With a long exhale, he studies the mask of the nearest soldier. 

There’s a strange smoke coming out of the dead soldiers. It doesn’t appear like fire. It’s a deep black that looks almost violet. There’s a vague sense of familiarity he can’t quite place. 

“What is this?” Noctis asks. 

The others turn immediately and gather around to stare down at the soldier. Gladio kicks the shoulder and more of the smoke escapes with an eerie hiss. Even not knowing or understanding what it is, it still makes Noctis’s skin crawl with how unnatural it appears. 

The silence is unnerving. His dad covers his mouth with one hand while Clarus looks visibly terrified. 

“Dad?” Gladio presses this time. 

After glancing at Regis, who nods, Clarus sighs before speaking. “We had intel some time ago that Niflheim was experimenting with soldiers. But our inside source couldn’t get access to additional information on what that means.” 

“It seems they have succeeded.” Regis sounds defeated in a way Noctis has never heard before. 

Unable to help his curiosity, Noctis leans closer to try to get a look at the nearest head. The eyes are dim and appear black instead of the ruby red of before. He reaches over to take off the green mask and get a better look at what these…things…look like. If they really are humans at all. 

“ It seems we have,” the voice of the chancellor booms around them. Noctis stumbles backwards and desperately spins around to try to find where he’s hiding.

“Go!” Clarus shouts. 

Before Noctis can ask where they’re supposed to go, Gladio obeys instantly. With his sword once more at the ready, he takes Noctis by the arm, Regis at Noctis’s other side. They head straight for the next set of doors at the other side of the room. 

“Ah ah ah.” An icy cold breath hits the back of Noctis’s neck. He can’t help letting out a shout  before warping ahead and away from the source. By the time Noctis reappears and skids to a stop, Gladio is on his knees slamming his tower shield up towards the chancellor. Regis is along the wall, gasping for breath as he rejoins Noctis. 

Chancellor Izunia looks deranged. He’s covered in blood spatter and the hems of his pants are darkened as if stepped in puddles of water. His eyes are bloodshot and lips bloody as he grins wide, making eye contact with Noctis. 

Clarus uses two hands to stab right into Ardyn’s back, pinning him in place. Despite this, Noctis doesn’t think anything has changed. The chancellor, who should by all accounts be a crumpled mess on the floor for the second time, stands there with a broadsword in his back, laughing. Noctis clutches his dad’s hand. 

“Why don’t you just die!” Gladio screams as he summons his own broadsword and attempts to stand. 

Before Gladio can straighten his legs, Ardyn extends his arms out and blasts Gladio and Clarus into opposite walls. They crumble to the floor like dolls.

“Gladio!” Noctis raises his sword. 

Regis grips his forearm. “Noctis, no, you have to get out of here. Let me—” 

He won’t let his dad hold him back any further. Noctis charges this man who has upended his entire life, his entire country. There must be something that will kill Chancellor Izunia. No one is truly immortal. 

“I’ll kill you!” 

The chancellor smirks and glides backwards to create more distance between them. Maybe he’s weakening.  

“You’re so kind to make it easy for me to end your pathetic bloodline, once and for all.” A red haze forms around Chancellor Izunia as the circle of weapons return. 

Noctis doesn’t care. All he cares about is driving his sword through the asshole’s throat. 

“ ADAGIUM .” Another voice, loud and metallic, echoes all around them, but isn’t familiar to Noctis. Out of his periphery he sees Gladio and Clarus get back to their feet shakily. 

Chancellor Izunia drops his arms. He seems to see something, or at least understand a little more of what is going on.

Gladio and Clarus run to Noctis and Regis, questions on all of their lips.   

The voice continues. “ I COMMAND THEE TO HALT AND KNEEL BEFORE ME. ” 

“To hell with you!” The chancellor shouts at the ceiling. He waves both hands in the air like a mad man. 

While he is distracted, Noctis raises his sword to run at the chancellor again. Just as the chancellor makes eye contact, everything goes dark and Noctis skids to a halt. He waits one, two seconds, and still it’s so dark he can’t see his own hand in front of his face. It’s also gone silent. It feels like he’s in a void of emptiness.

“Hello?” It feels silly, but he doesn’t know what else to do or what to make of this. Noctis blinks a few times. 

Everything shifts. Noctis is suddenly floating, and while it’s no longer dark, he is instead surrounded by what looks like a twilight sky, blues and purples and specks of crystals swirling around him. 

“Where am I?” His voice echoes strangely. Did he die? 

“ SOMEWHERE I CAN SPEAK FREELY WITH YOU.” Through the mist, a large figure emerges. Noctis recognizes him immediately—it is the Astral who is deeply connected to Lucis and is even part of the Kingsglaive insignia.

“Bahamut!” Noctis tries to move forward, reach out, but he is trapped. He can only struggle as if he’s underwater and trying to reach the surface. “Help us!” 

The Astral comes closer, and his size is daunting. Noctis is able to lift his chin at least, to try to face him. A mask covers Bahamut’s face, save for a pair of strangely human eyes. The metal of Bahamut’s armor shimmers in the reflection of the strange mist, and the way the light filters through the giant swords makes them look like wings. 

“ YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED ON THIS DAY, ” Bahamut’s voice makes his head ache. “ THE ASTRALS HAVE YET TO BE AWAKENED BY YOU, THE TRUE KING.”

The statement on his survival offers zero comfort. It’s worthless if everyone else he knows doesn’t make it. “But I’m not king! What about my dad!” 

“ SOON YOU WILL BE, AND YOU MUST FULFILL YOUR DESTINY.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“ ONLY BY THE TRUE KING’S HAND CAN THE IMMORTAL ACCURSED BE BANISHED. WHEN THE PROPHESIED HOUR HAS COME, YOU WILL ABSORB THE POWER OF THE CRYSTAL INTO THE RING.” 

“The Accursed?” Noctis’s anger boils in his veins. None of this makes sense. None of this is helpful . What good is having a connection to the Astrals if this is what they offer? “We need your help now!” 

Bahamut shakes his head. “ I CANNOT REVEAL ANY MORE TO YOU, NOCTIS LUCIS CAELUM. YOU FIRST MUST MAKE YOUR COVENANTS WITH THE SIX. ONLY THEN WILL THE PATH BE REVEALED TO YOU.”

“How am I supposed to do that if I’m alone!”

The question goes unanswered. Everything goes dark once more. Noctis has the sensation of falling endlessly. His chest aches and tears well up in his eyes, unsure what to believe. But mostly he thinks, maybe he is dead. He’s failed everyone he loves. He— 

He wakes up in Gladio’s arms, his feet dragging on the floor as Gladio holds him up with his free arm, the other holding up his tower shield. 

“Noctis, wake up—Dad!” Gladio is the one shouting this time. Noctis blinks and forces himself to come around as fast as possible. It’s only Gladio beside him. His dad is encased with the chancellor in a crystalized shield and seriously wounded. Blood is in pools on the floor. And Clarus— 

Clarus is pinned to the wall by a polearm. His tunic is stained dark red around it and his head tilts unnaturally to the side. His eyes are open, unblinking. The chancellor stands before Clarus, staring up at him like he’s a piece of art hanging on the wall. Bile rises up Noctis’s throat.

His dad is alive. There’s hope He has his Armiger out, but he’s struggling to stand upright. Blood covers one side of his face. The crown is on the floor. 

“Dad!” Gladio’s voice cracks. Noctis gets himself out of Gladio’s hold. They both run towards the wall and beat their fists against it. 

“Let us help!” Noctis screams out to his father. 

Chancellor Izunia still doesn’t turn towards them. Gladio runs down the length of the dome shouting for Clarus. Noctis kicks something accidentally and ignores it, instead shouting until his dad makes eye contact with him. 

“Remove the shield!” Noctis presses both hands on the dome.  

His dad doesn’t move. He points to the ground, to Noctis’s feet. His expression makes Noctis’s heart skip several beats. “I swore an oath to protect my people. It is not yet your time to do so.”  

Despite everything in his body telling him not to listen, Noctis glances down at his feet. The Ring is there, just on his side of the shield. Sitting in a small pool of blood. 

He won’t do it. He won’t pick it up. He refuses to acknowledge what his dad clearly expects from him. 

“We can do this together!” Noctis isn’t sure what else he can even say at this point. Everything is slipping through his fingers so quickly he doesn’t have time to do anything to catch it. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Chancellor Izunia moves, turning slowly towards them. Noctis bangs more and more on the shield, his voice going raw from screaming anything he can at this point to try to reason with his dad. 

“Walk tall, my son.” 

The chancellor doesn’t acknowledge Noctis, nor Gladio, who is now back at Noctis’s side. Gladio grabs the Ring off the ground, and Noctis is grateful he pockets it instead of making Noctis take it. He isn’t ready to give up. The Ring belongs with the king, with his dad, they have to… 

“Gladio, we have to do something!" 

“Yeah,” Gladio lets out a sob, “we do.” 

He takes Noctis by the arm, and warps before Noctis can pull away.

Chapter Text

Ignis pauses with his pen hovering over one of the many Crownsguard dossiers on his office desk. Had he—heard something? 

With four nations’ worth of delegates at the treaty signing, even Iris doesn’t rank high enough to attend, and she is one of the treaty brides. Ignis, a chamberlain to a prince, certainly doesn’t merit a position. Ignis won’t be needed until the post-treaty signing dinner and ball, which Iris asked him to escort her to since her father and brother will both be occupied.

Ignis is not, technically, supposed to be working; Noctis told him to take a break after Ignis made sure Noctis was perfectly attired for the signing. Noctis even went so far as to kick him out of the suite. But the joint weddings to seal the treaty are to be in one month, and that is hardly any time at all to prepare for Iris’s departure.

He is humbled by the trust Iris put in him when she requested he assemble a pool of candidates to take with her to Niflheim as her retinue. She had her own shortlist, of course, but she will need a different sort of retinue than Noctis does. Noctis can depend on the Citadel for many of his needs; Iris will start, at best, a stranger with no true allies in the Gralean court beyond the ones she brings with her. She needs people with a variety of skills and—

There is no mistaking the distant, muffled THUD this time. That was too loud to be fireworks, and it is still daylight besides. Fireworks wouldn’t make the Citadel shiver underneath him.

Ignis drops his pen and snatches up his security earpiece. He turns it on and makes sure it is on the main Citadel security channel before putting it on.

“—ees to evacuate,” comes the unmistakable voice of Clarus Amicitia through the line. “Crownsguard and Kingsglaive, Etro is at the unseen gate. Those on floors 28 to 32 go to the Room of the Wise immediately to secure—”

There’s a semi-orderly acknowledgement of the orders over the line, which Ignis ignores.

Ignis has participated in various Crownsguard emergency drills many times in the seven years since he became an official part of Noctis’s retinue. He has his parts for all of them memorized—the parts he’s supposed to fulfill in the public drills, and the secret parts he is actually supposed to do, when the emergency is not a drill.

Etro is at the unseen gate means that there is an active, present threat to the life of the royal family.

Noctis is in the Citadel. Gladio is with him. But Ignis is in the northern tower and Iris is up in the Amicitia family’s suite, preparing for the celebratory feast and ball that are—were—supposed to happen after the signing. They’re both in entirely different sections of the Citadel from Noctis and from each other.

But Etro is at the unseen gate . Ignis must get to Noctis at all costs. And if the Citadel cannot be secured, Ignis must get Noctis out . But where is he? Still in the Room of the Wise? 

Ignis lurches to his feet and yanks open the inner door of his office. His assistant’s desk is empty—on sick leave for the past three days, which is a small mercy—as are the chairs in his foyer. He rushes past them and to the main door that leads out to the public hallway.

“—doors were locked,” Clarus is saying in his earpiece. “No response from squadrons stationed outside the main doors. Titan, what eyes do you have on enemy units?”

When Ignis steps into the hallway, there are several startled and concerned-looking Citadel employees peering out from their own offices.

“Approximately a dozen combatants outside the Room of the Wise,” a terse voice replies. “Reinforcements have not been able to open the doors. All six of the Niflheim dropships are airborne.”

“Sir? Is everything—” one of Ignis’s coworkers starts, but the question turns into a yelp as the Citadel shakes around them.

Ignis catches himself on the wall and braces until the shaking stops. Etro is at the unseen gate. 

He strangles his first true surge of fear and reaches for the Crystal’s magic.

A dagger materializes in his left hand, and the burst of relief at the confirmation that Noctis is alive would be enough to make Ignis’s knees weak if he let it. There’s no way to test if Gladio still is, but—either he is with Noctis, or he kept Noctis alive, and that is all he can know until one or the other of them jumps onto the security line.

(Please. Please be alive.)

Ignis pushes himself back upright and banishes the dagger. “Get out of the Citadel,” he orders. And then he makes a break for the end of the hall, unceremoniously darting around fearful employees and ignoring shouted questions. He is distantly grateful that he hadn’t changed into his formal attire for the ball yet.

Distant gunfire bursts over the main Crownsguard security line. “They’re going for the Crystal! I repeat, all hands to the center chamber!”

Ignis slams open the stairwell door just as the Citadel rumbles again. He is in the north tower, thirty-sixth floor, which means he needs to go down at least six floors before he can head toward the southern half of the building, where the treaty signing was. He can’t take the shortest route, which would lead him directly into whatever firefight has erupted around the Crystal. It sounds like the Crownsguard are mounting an admirable defense as Ignis hurtles down one, then two flights of stairs.

The main line is going to be useless to Ignis now that Titan, the main security center, is coordinating defense of the Crystal. And even if they weren’t, there is no way that Clarus or Gladio (please, be alive) would announce the location of their charges on the main line when the Citadel itself is under attack from within and without. So he should probably consider the main line at the very least public, if not compromised entirely.

Ignis switches to channel fifteen, which is startling in its comparative quiet.

“—is iced over,” and that’s the marshal’s voice, tight with displeasure. “Reinforcements here. Muting now.”

The line is silent for a moment, and then--

“Coeurl, Moogle—call home.”

The sound of Gladio’s voice nearly brings Ignis to his knees. He grabs a hand railing to keep his balance. “Behemoth?” he says.

There’s a great heave of breath, and Ignis wants nothing more than to pull Gladio into his arms. He shoves that emotion as far down as he can.

“Moogle here,” and that’s Iris accounted for, too. Her breathing comes in quiet, quick pants, like she is or has recently been running.

A door higher up in the stairwell, and Ignis glances up. It looks like the employees that were on Ignis’s floor have finally chosen to evacuate. Ignis resumes his descent down the stairwell.

“Moogle—” The relief in Clarus’s voice is too much to bear on top of Gladio’s.

Ignis swallows hard and says, “Behemoth, channel sixteen,” and leaves Iris to speak to her father in the scant seconds they have.

“How is Black Cat?” Ignis asks after he changes the channel.

“No injuries,” Gladio says roughly. “Mobile as we can be, given the company.”

King Regis will slow them down. Ignis does not voice it, because he knows Gladio and Clarus both have to be running their own calculations about when they might be forced to suggest Regis and Noctis part company, and whether or not Noctis would even agree to such a separation for the safety of the crown.

Protect Noctis , Ignis doesn’t say. Gladio will, with his last breath. I love you , he can’t bear to say aloud. “Do not wait at the rendezvous if you have a clear path out,” Ignis says instead. “We will catch up.”

“Coeurl—” and there’s a deep, steadying breath. “I wouldn’t dare.”

It is a relief to get that confirmation. “Go. Coeurl returning to standard communication protocols,” Ignis says, and he doesn’t wait for a response to mute his side of the line and switch back to channel fifteen.

A door bursts open in the stairwell a handful of floors below—the floor that would allow him to get access to the rest of the Citadel—and Ignis glances down reflexively. He can’t truly see much, but he can hear the shouting and stumbling as a group of Citadel employees rush down the stairs. The door bursts open again, and with it comes gunfire and screaming, pleading, and more gunfire and then awful, ringing silence.

Ignis spins right back around, rushing back up the handful of stairs and toward the door he just passed. There’s no way to hide the sounds his footsteps make, not in the cramped, echoing stairwell. Not when the people on the flights above him are making horrified, panicked noises. The soldiers’ footsteps—heavy, steady, and metallic—get louder, and Ignis realizes they’ve heard the noise, too. Whether they’ve noticed him or they’re clearing the Citadel floor by floor, he doesn’t have time to speculate. He needs to put distance between them now.

Ignis slams open the door to the thirty-first floor and nearly bowls over a cluster of panicked people headed for the stairwell. “Not this one,” he says, voice tight as he shoulders his way through them. “Niflheim’s soldiers are coming up.” He unmutes his earpiece to say,  “Imperial soldiers, stairwell A between thirtieth and thirty-first floors, north tower,” and then mutes it again.

“Then where—?” someone shouts at him.

Someone else tries to grab his sleeve; Ignis pulls away. Part of him hates that he cannot stop, that he cannot help them. His duty is to Noctis right now, not these people. “Find another exit! Go!”

Ignis breaks free of the group and sprints down the hallway. The Citadel is one of the tallest buildings in Insomnia, and its unique construction includes multiple stairwells. He dodges more confused and upset people ( Go! Get out!) , and finally spots a squad of armed Crownsguard. He slows, just enough to shout that there are Niflheim soldiers in stairwell A before blowing past. 

More screaming and gunfire behind him, in the direction he came from, and loud enough to know that the fighting has officially reached this floor. The Crownsguard shout into their security earpieces and take off running. Ignis keeps going. He doesn’t shove people out of his way, but he doesn’t slow again, dodging and weaving through the press of people who are starting to panic as they rush toward what they hope is safety.

There’s noise over channel fifteen, a soft beep that indicates someone is coming off mute. “Imperial soldiers, thirty-second floor, west tower.” Iris’s voice is little more than a whisper, which means she is far closer to the enemy than is safe.

Ignis indulges his fear for a heartbeat, then ruthlessly shoves it down. Iris is a capable fighter, an Amicitia worthy of her lineage, and there is nothing that Ignis can do for her other than to trust her skills, her cleverness, and her determination. 

Iris hisses “Engaging!” over the sound of crystalline shattering and the responding gunfire. She’s been spotted, then, and Ignis can’t do anything except listen to her fight: harsh breathing, the snap-shatter of warping, and the heavy impact of brass knuckles on armor. They came upon her so quickly she didn’t have time to mute her line again before engaging.

And then he can’t even listen to her fight anymore, because Ignis rounds a corner, and there is an entire eight-person squadron of Niflheim soldiers emerging from the stairwell he is headed for. The two armored soldiers at the front are carrying guns, and they cut down one, two, three, four people closest to the exit door.

Ignis summons a pair of daggers and hurls them at the soldiers’ necks. 

He expects flinching, blood, if he’s hit the armor’s joints right. He gets a shower of sparks from one of the soldiers instead, and they teeter sideways and collapse in a heap that shouldn’t—shouldn’t look like that. It’s too rigid, even for someone heavily armored. 

The other dagger bounces off the soldier’s neck without them flinching, and the soldier turns its attention to Ignis.

Their eyes are glowing red.

The soldier he took down is still sparking , but now there is a terrible, unnatural smoke rising from their wounds.

Ignis doesn’t have time to unmute his earpiece to report the soldier’s location. He vanishes the daggers and leaps forward and to the side, out of the immediate arc of the gun. He summons a poleaxe—the Citadel’s hallways aren’t as wide a space as he would prefer, but there’s still enough space to get up the momentum he needs to take the second soldier’s head clean off.

No blood, more sparking, more smoke, the grating sound of mechanics abruptly stilling. These are—magitek soldiers of some kind. 

There are still six soldiers left, bearing an assortment of swords and axes, and Ignis has no time to wonder about how Niflheim went from the human-piloted magitek armor that helped take down Shiva to these far more humanoid soldiers. Ignis turns the poleaxe on the soldiers, darting around the sparking metal and over and around the corpses underfoot to get in close enough to fight.  

The magitek soldiers must have some kind of programmed intelligence, but Ignis quickly finds that they do not flinch or scramble or panic or get distracted by pain like real people do in a fight, meaning there are fewer weaknesses to capitalize on. It means that Ignis overextends a handful of times, earning himself a shallow score along his left thigh.

But they’re slower than he is, and they are not desperate, and when Ignis infuses a dagger with lightning, it takes down the entire magitek when it lodges in its shoulder joint.  

He finishes off the squadron and catches himself against the wall. He heaves two breaths, air thick with ozone and blood and foul smoke, and banishes his poleaxe.

“Clear,” Iris says on her end of the line, and Ignis doesn’t bother to report his own engagement.

Ignis takes a precious second to reorient himself, to calculate where Iris last reported she was and the path Noctis and Gladio would take from the Room of the Wise to their first rendezvous option for an extraction and unmutes himself. Iris is far closer than he is, but who knows how many soldiers stand between each of them and the rendezvous?

“Moogle, continue heading down and secure the extraction checkpoint. I’ll meet you there,” he says as he finally enters stairwell B. This one is quieter than the first one he was in, and he refuses to think about why that is as he heads down. He refuses to acknowledge the sources of the blood slowly dripping down between the handrails on the stairs and just carefully picks his way around and over the obstructions.

“Confirmed,” Iris says, voice not quite breathless; she is probably running again. He can hear the distant sound of fighting on her side before she mutes again.

“Behemoth, Niflheim’s soldiers are new magitek, not people. Lightning is effective,” he continues. He takes the stairs as quickly and quietly as he can manage. “There are magitek squadrons in the stairwells. Uncertain if they’re clearing floors or searching for specific targets.”

There is a double tap on the line, and Ignis is grateful for the confirmation that, even though Gladio is currently silent, he is still alive on the other end. Ignis mutes his line again to keep from asking for verbal confirmation. 

Iris has another cycle of Engaging/Clear by the time the twenty-fifth floor door opens in Ignis’s stairwell. Ignis slams to a halt just half a flight of stairs above, exposed and vulnerable—but it’s a man in Kingsglaive black who has yanked open the door.

The man spots him, and it’s easy in that half-second to see that Ignis doesn’t register as any particular threat, because the man turns his back to him and hisses, “Come on, this way, hurry,” as a crush of frightened Citadel employees stream out onto the staircase, clogging it quickly.

The glaive’s left arm hangs limp, and his black coat is soaked dark with blood at the shoulder and down his back. He has his left foot braced against the bottom of the door to keep it open while people rush into the stairwell. Ignis can hear the snap-shatter of warping, more gunfire, shouts of pain, and other, less distinct noise of battle alarmingly nearby, but he can’t see more than a slice of hallway from his vantage point. 

The glaive stares intently down the hallway—and then someone screams not far away. He curses, brings his arm up, palm out, to form a shield—

— and nothing happens.  

For an entire second, nothing happens , and when the bullets slam through the glaive, there is nothing but surprise on the man’s face, even as he drops to the ground in a bloody, unmoving heap in front of the door.

The man’s magic failed him.

No. His Majesty—

The king is dead.

Ignis desperately grabs for one of his daggers, and it comes to his hand as easily as he’d willed it. Noctis is alive.

The ring of metallic footsteps on stone yanks Ignis out of his relief, and he realizes with horror that the dead glaive’s body has prevented the door from closing. And the stairs leading down to the ground floor are filled with other, panicked people. He won’t be able to push through them.

Ignis hurls himself toward the door and summons Gladio’s tower shield, and its heavy weight nearly makes him stagger even though it correctly appeared with its enarmes securely around his left arm. He slams it into place in the doorway and ducks behind it just in time for the shield to catch a hail of bullets. “Engaging with tower shield!” he hisses when he unmutes, because the shield is not his, and if Gladio tries for it when it’s already out of the Armiger, the delay could be the difference between life and death. 

The gunfire doesn’t let up, and Ignis can’t stay here. The shield can’t fill the door completely—there is a significant gap between the top of the door and the top of the shield—and the magitek soldiers will simply continue their advance. He braces himself behind the shield and risks a glance down the stairwell. The last people are just clearing the twenty-fourth floor landing, and Ignis—

He cannot care about them. Not above Noctis.

Ignis reaches into the Armiger for two flasks of ice. He pulls them out and tosses one over the top of the shield, into the hallway beyond, as near the direction of the gunfire as he can manage. He does not hear the flask break, but there is a whoosh of light and frigid air that immediately makes his skin sting and his breath mist in the air. There isn’t any screaming, but the gunfire does falter, and Ignis takes the chance to banish the shield and hurl himself down the stairwell.

“Disengaging!” he shouts, and instead of following the rest of the employees down to the ground floor, he exits onto the twenty-fourth floor and slams the door shut behind him. Then he hurls his second flask of ice at the door itself, freezing it over. Either the magitek soldiers will be slowed by breaking down the door, or they’ll follow the larger group, but those employees are entirely out of his hands now. Ignis strangles the nausea and the guilt and mutes his earpiece again. 

He hurries for the checkpoint, and tries to control his apprehension at the continued silence from Gladio.

(Please, be alive.)   

Ignis approaches the fifth-floor checkpoint as quietly as possible. There is a not-so-small scattering of magitek soldiers in this seemingly out-of-the-way corridor, smashed into considerable pieces thanks to Iris’s precise application of her brass knuckles. And lightning, it looks like, based on some of the visible scorch marks.

“Approaching checkpoint,” Ignis says into the earpiece, and Iris’s answering Acknowledged is a relief, even though he heard her last Clear a few minutes ago. It’s true that she hasn’t reported any injuries yet, but Ignis also hasn’t, despite the blood still seeping from the wound in his thigh. 

He makes his way to what looks like a nondescript janitorial closet, swipes his employee badge on the card reader, and opens the door. It looks like a janitorial closet, but Ignis picks his way through the supplies until he reaches the very back wall. He feels along the gap between a shelving unit and the wall, and presses the correct four-button sequence that causes the false wall to swing back.

Iris is on the other side, hands up into fists and ready to swing, but her shoulders sag when she sees him. “Ignis,” she says, voice tight with emotion. There’s a bruise blossoming on her chin, and it’s clear from the last few jeweled hairpins and what remains of her makeup that she had started getting ready for the post-signing ball when the alert went out. At least she hadn’t changed yet—she is in a crew-neck tank top and shorts, one of the outfits she favors for her downtime.

Her right arm sports a hastily wrapped bandage around her right bicep. The bandage is already darkened with blood.

“Have you found them yet?” Ignis asks. This hidden room is small, perhaps three meters squared, but it does have three touchscreen monitors along the right wall, and a shelf full of emergency supplies along the left. He spots the first aid kit Iris already opened and pulls out additional gauze, bandages, and a pair of medical gloves.

“No,” Iris says, and she offers him her arm when Ignis swaps out his usual gloves for the medical ones and starts unwinding her bandages. She jerks her head toward the leftmost of the three monitors. “But I found—His Majesty and His Shield’s bodies.”

Ignis keeps his focus on her injury and not the bodies that are likely on screen. He adds additional pieces of gauze overtop the soaked through ones already sticking to her arm and applies additional pressure. If she wanted to be consoled, she would have called them by their names, or at least called Clarus her father. But she is as focused as Ignis is on what is important, and she can grieve once they get Noctis to a place of safety.

“Keep searching,” he tells her, still pressing his hands tight against her wound.

Iris twists a little and banishes the brass knuckles on her left hand so she can more easily manipulate the three screens. The screen with Regis and Clarus gets flicked away, and she resumes her search on the left and middle screens, swapping to new locations, pausing whenever she finds a fight and checking who the combatants are before moving on. Much of the fighting is on the levels surrounding the Crystal. Her bleeding slows enough that he is finally able to rebandage her arm, fairly confident that it won’t restart. 

He ought to change gloves between them, but that doesn’t matter in the short term. After they are out of the Citadel and at a safer location, they can worry about proper wound care and not just stopgap measures. So once Iris’s dressing is secure, he immediately turns his attention to the wound on his thigh, pressing the rest of the gauze to the cut. 

“Found them,” Iris says suddenly, and Ignis’s head jerks up to look at the center monitor. Noctis and Gladio are both there, just ducking out of sight of the camera frame. Iris takes a second to pull up another camera, and there they are again. “Behemoth, Black Cat, we’ve spotted you. Checkpoint is still secure.”

Ignis watches Gladio raise his hand to his ear, and then he hears the earpiece click twice. 

Noctis looks—there aren’t any visible injuries, though it’s hard to be certain when Gladio’s bulk is frequently shielding him. He doesn’t appear to be limping, at least, and the two of them are making good time when they aren’t pausing to peer around corners or through doorways. 

Gladio looks the worse for wear, his formal Kingsglaive uniform clearly battered, his right sleeve torn into ragged pieces from the elbow down. The security cameras don’t have enough resolution for Ignis to tell whether or not the black uniform is darkened with blood. 

Ignis wrenches his attention back to his first aid and quickly wraps up his thigh. He takes off the gloves, tossing the little bundle into one of the room’s corners. To Iris, he says, “Keep them in your sights on the left monitor. I’ll take the center and right.”

Iris shifts over, and Ignis steps in, using the center monitor to check the areas around where Noctis and Gladio are, and the right monitor to check the areas around their little room. He only has to unmute his earpiece twice to tell Noctis and Gladio to change their route, the first to avoid a cluster of Citadel employees, and the second to avoid a fight between the magitek soldiers and a group of Crownsguard.

“You’re clear to enter,” Ignis is finally able to say on the line, and he watches them disappear into the janitorial closet on the monitor. 

“Noct, Gladio!” Iris hurries over to them, and Ignis lets her take care of assessing the two of them while he pulls up new camera feeds. “Injuries?”

“I’m fine,” Noctis says, and there is something about the hoarse tone of his voice that has Ignis closing his eyes briefly. Noctis already knows his father is dead. “I’m—Gladio’s arm needs attention.”

“Got it,” Iris says, and she grabs the first aid kit.

Ignis keeps his focus on the monitors, checking the closest areas for more Niflheim troops. It doesn’t seem like Noctis and Gladio were followed, and he settles the left and center monitors on the two closest cameras to give them warning, while Ignis pulls up camera feeds for the Citadel’s exterior on the rightmost one. With half the Kingsglaive on paid leave, and now all of them without their magic, the Crownsguard is stretched thin. If they can’t hold the Citadel until reinforcements can arrive—

“Is there anything we need to know about what happened in the upper levels?” Ignis asks.

“The chancellor, Ardyn Izunia—” There’s a loud, almost shaky breath from Noctis “—he has magic, like me. But his Armiger—it was red. I don’t—Dad called him Adagium. And then he—”

He falters there, and Ignis very carefully doesn’t look at Noctis, not wanting to push where things are still raw. “Do we need to know those details right now?”

There’s a mumbled No , and after another beat to steady himself, Noctis continues, “We have the Ring. Before—Gladio has it.” 

And that is a weight off his shoulders that Ignis hadn’t even known was there. The Crystal isn’t safe, but the Ring is, and that is better than both being left behind to fall into Niflheim’s hands. “That’s good. What else can you tell us?”

Gladio grunts in pain; Ignis doesn’t look to see what Iris is doing or how bad his wound is. At least now they can share his burden of protecting Noctis, and that will be of some relief, despite the wound. 

“I don’t know where the Nox Fleurets are,” Noctis says, and anticipatory grief underlies his words. “But they—it took a couple minutes for the chancellor to catch up to us.”

Iris doesn’t pipe up, and given she was doing the initial searching, it means she didn’t spot them alive. They could be in a state not conducive to identification or have died out of sight of the cameras—but there is still hope even if she didn’t see them when she was actively looking for the rest of them on the monitors. 

Ignis is about to ask Noctis to search through the shelving for more nondescript clothing for him and Gladio when an unnatural shiver goes through the air, something incorporeal that sets every hair on Ignis’s arms on end. Not quite sound, but something that rattles his bones nonetheless, something that sends dread pulsing through Ignis’s veins. 

“What was—?” Gladio says, voice tight with pain and surprise.

Noctis shoves his way into Ignis’s space and commandeers the right monitor. Ignis takes a step to the side and lets Noctis pull up the feed for—the Crystal. Niflheim soldiers have pulled the Crystal down and are attempting to wrestle it onto some kind of transport.

“They have the Crystal,” Noctis breathes, face ashen. “Then the Wall—”

The Wall has fallen, and the entirety of Lucis is laid bare before Niflheim.

Chapter Text

“They have the Crystal,” Noctis breathes, swallowing air, “then the Wall—” He has a hard time catching his breath, dizzy as he tries to process the last…minutes? hours? His dad is dead. Clarus is dead. Prompto is dead. Luna, Ravus, Sylva…everyone he knows, could be dead. Except the ones in front of him, and who knows by the end of the day—

“Noct, here, take this,” Ignis gently hands him a bottle of water, his other hand resting on Noctis’s shoulder. “Take a breath. All right?” 

Words are…tough. So Noctis nods instead of replying. Iris, Gladio, and Ignis huddle together at the screens, for the moment not focused on him. Noctis puts his back to the only wall space there is and slides down to the ground. He holds the bottle against his chest and curls in on himself while the others talk in hushed tones. He will pull himself together as soon as they need him to, but for now he needs to sit and breathe. Or try to. His lungs feel like they are both too full of air and also not enough. If he were on his own, he would probably— 

Noctis is aware of the responsibility now on his shoulders, and it terrifies him. He isn’t ready for this by a long shot and absolutely not ready for this war. It somehow had never even crossed his mind that they could end up here. Not at this scale, and so boldly. Noctis never imagined doing this without his father there to guide him.

The red sword slamming into Prompto plays on repeat in his unwilling mind. If Prompto really had no idea what Niflheim was planning, then what was the point of him being here? As far as Noctis is aware, the only thing Prompto did was get almost killed twice. Noctis refuses to believe Prompto has…had…anything to do with this, but what does it matter now, anyway? Niflheim is here, and Noctis’s home is being destroyed. He knows they need to run. Noctis’s breath catches in his throat again. He can’t keep running. Is that all he can do? When others either can’t run or make the choice not to? 

“Noctis, check the shelving unit for nondescript clothes.” Ignis instructs, pulling him back to the small room. Noctis lifts his head up to see the three of them watching him with something new in their expressions. Noctis knows what that is, but he still doesn’t want to acknowledge it. 

“What?” Noctis’s throat is so dry it hurts. He opens the bottle and drinks as much as he can in one gulp. 

Ignis spares one more look at the screens. “I believe our best option is to make our way to the parking garage and take a Citadel employee vehicle to one of your safehouses. We haven’t seen any soldiers in that direction. But to get there, we need to make you and Gladio as inconspicuous as possible.” 

“But we…” Noctis loses the words. Anyone and everyone in the Citadel surely knows what he and Gladio look like. And he’s sure Niflheim does, too. And are probably looking for him. 

“Noct,” Ignis gets down to the ground and rests both hands on Noctis’s knees, which are still pulled up to his chest. His expression is apologetic. 

“The chain of command here now is you. I will advise you, but you must decide.”

Noctis winces. He can’t help it. Before Ignis can continue, Noctis shakes his head. “I trust you.” 

Ignis pauses. He looks up at Gladio and Iris. Noctis becomes aware now that Iris and Ignis are also injured, both covered in blood and bandages around arms and legs. He hadn’t even asked how they are, what they’ve seen. Are the employees out? How bad is it inside? What—

Gladio speaks, voice strained. “The tunnels to the Caelum Via are compromised; Prince Prompto knows about them.”

Noctis can’t stop the way he snaps his head towards Gladio. “But they killed him,” Noctis says, and his voice hitches dangerously. “The chancellor—he killed Prompto—”

There’s a split second where Gladio bristles. Ignis stands back up and puts himself between Noctis and Gladio. He holds out his hand for Noctis. “We cannot assume Prince Prompto was completely innocent in this. It’s too much of a risk.” 

“He wasn’t…” Noctis squeezes the water bottle instead of taking the offered hand. “He was just trying to survive. He had nothing to do with this.” For reasons Noctis can’t exactly place, the idea that Prompto could have known about any of this— any of it—and still, kiss Noctis. Still admit something so…

“I think I could have figured out how much I liked you, if we’d had more time.”

In the distance, there is yet another BOOM, and the building shakes once more. Noctis can’t stop the tears that escape his eyes before he can rub his face with his forearm. Prompto…It’s a layer of betrayal he isn’t ready to face, isn’t ready to accept. 

“I don’t think the Citadel can take much more,” Gladio warns. He moves toward the boxes on a shelf and pulls out different articles of clothing, sorting through them. 

“You said you trust me.” Ignis bends at the waist to extend his hand out once more. “I know you were getting closer to the prince. I had been secretly pleased with that as well. I saw the good that could come from that kind of connection. But now, Noctis, you must understand that you cannot say you truly knew Prince Prompto. There is no way to know where he stood in all this, and how much is compromised because of your…friendship.” 

Friendship

Noctis can’t help glancing up at Iris. When they make eye contact, she looks away guiltily and rummages through another box. Maybe she didn’t say anything to Ignis and Gladio, but who knows. Maybe it was all telegraphed anyway. 

“Do you think this is my fault?” Noctis whispers. Part of him doesn’t want the answer after the words escape him, but it’s too late. “Was I too distracted?”  

“No!” Iris steps closer. Gladio catches her by the shoulder. 

But Ignis and Gladio don’t deny it. Once more Noctis feels ill. He closes his eyes and rests his head back against the wall. He feels the tears as they stream down his face despite how much he tries to hold them back. 

“Clothes, Noctis,” Ignis simply says.

Noctis almost pulls himself in tighter instead of getting up. He wants to stay here in this room. Not to have to face this reality that feels like a nightmare. But after a few beats of the others looking through boxes, he forces himself to stand. He clings to the water bottle like it's a lifeline as it crinkles and bends in his grip. Gladio hands him a large hoodie and some sneakers, so Noctis discards some of his raiment unceremoniously onto the floor and gets dressed, even putting on a snapback. By the time he’s ready, the others are changed into at least some more casual clothes. Gladio has all his tattoos covered, and Ignis has discarded his suit jacket. Iris is wearing baggy jeans and a shirt that hides her injuries and most of her form. 

They all look ridiculous. In any other scenario, Noctis would make jokes. But he doesn’t have the energy to even pretend right now. 

“How did they even get so many of those…things… in the Citadel?” Iris wonders as she packs up the first aid kit.

“And what are they, really?” Noctis finally finds his voice enough to ask. “Did you get to take a closer look?” 

Ignis shakes his head. “We allowed multiple airships in when the delegation arrived. It’s possible these use some of the same technology as the magitek armor encountered in Cleigne. I’m sure you saw they emitted sparks or smoke instead of blood when attacked.” 

Noctis shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “So they are robots, basically.” 

“I would wager as much. And ideal for transport. No need to breathe, to eat, to handle waste, to sleep. Perhaps even a simple on or off switch. They can sit and wait without issue. But that doesn’t matter right now. Right now our focus is to get to safety, and that means leaving the Citadel.”

Ignis focuses on the screens for a few beats. Noctis doesn’t miss the way Gladio has lined up beside him so the back of their hands are touching.

Ignis stretches his fingers to momentarily thread them with Gladio’s. For the briefest of seconds, Noctis thinks about them, and what this could all mean, and hey, maybe that’s…something. 

He could be speaking to Gladio or to all of them, but Ignis stays facing the monitors. “We need to regroup near the city walls. That should have supplies enough to cover us for a few days at least. Then we can leave the city. I imagine with the Wall down, we don’t have much time before things escalate further.” 

“We can’t just leave—we have to find the others first!” 

Gladio and Ignis turn, but it's Ignis who steps forward and takes Noctis by the shoulders again, getting eye level with him. “Your Majesty, please understand the circumstances here.” 

Noctis swallows air and nearly chokes. He isn’t ready for that title, to face the reality of the situation. And with that it’s clear Ignis is pleading because Noctis could order it at this point, that they stay here and fight. And they would listen, even if they thought it was the worst idea, because now Noctis isn’t just—

—a prince. 

Does he risk all their lives for everyone else? The Nox Fleurets won’t have access to the security line unless they’re with any kind of guard. The Room of the Wise was locked from the outside, so unless the Nox Fleurets went through the same door Noctis did, they are still trapped in there. 

But the chancellor caught up to Noctis and his dad. And there has been no sign of the Nox Fleurets. Or anyone else who was still in that room when he left it. 

A chill goes through the room. Goosebumps rise on Noctis’s skin despite being bundled up. The others feel it too, as they all pause and look around. 

Iris yelps and they all turn in the direction she’s facing with their weapons immediately crystalizing. In the corner stands a woman Noctis hasn’t seen in years but instantly recognizes. 

“Gentiana?” It’s uncertain if this is a good or bad sign that she appears before them right now. So Noctis walks up to her—cognizant suddenly that the last time he saw her, he had to look up to meet her neutral stare. She doesn’t look worried or upset, but Noctis also isn’t sure if she’s even capable of showing that kind of emotion. 

“Greetings, Chosen King,” she says after a small bow. “I am sorry this is how we meet once more, but I am glad to see you safe.” 

The way Noctis wants to shake her almost overtakes him, but he manages to hold back. “Where is Luna? Is she safe?” 

The messenger is just as expressionless as Noctis remembers. “The Prince and Oracle are alive.” 

Uncertain, Noctis looks back over his shoulder at the others, who look just about unsure. He hates how his body shakes with fear and grief. “The Oracle as in, Queen Sylva?” 

“Lady Lunafreya is now the Oracle, Your Majesty.” 

“Fuck,” Noctis turns in a few circles to try to work through the surge of anger that runs through him. He opts to close his eyes and press his forehead against the cold wall. Luna and Ravus are alive. Somehow they survived being locked in that room with the chancellor, or maybe he left them for the soldiers to take care of in order to chase after Noctis and his dad. 

“But they are alive,” Ignis clarifies. 

“They are.”

The urge to ask about Prompto makes his hands hurt. But the point Ignis made is clear, and it isn’t something he can keep bringing up without it becoming a distraction. 

If Prompto is alive, then Noctis will see him. Either on his side of the fight, or on the other. 

If he isn’t, Noctis will never see him again. And he has…he has to live with that possibility. After today there is no hope for peace. Not right now. Not until Noctis can fulfill his role. 

Fuck. 

“Thank you, Gentiana. Will you go to them now?” Bless Ignis for having a better head on his shoulders right now than Noctis could fathom having. 

“I intend to, yes. There is still much to be done.” 

The relief of knowing Luna and Ravus are alive is quickly replaced with questions of Prompto’s fate. He doesn’t think anyone could survive that kind of injury, but maybe…if Gentiana is here, if Luna is alive, there’s a chance. 

Noctis pulls himself back together again and opens his eyes. 

Gentiana is gone. 

Gladio and Ignis both look relieved. Iris gets a backpack of supplies over her shoulder. 

“I bet most of the Nif dropships are still in the main plaza,” Gladio offers. “We can’t take the main garage, but the path to a another one is largely clear.” 

“A motorcycle and a car, I should think.” 

“Dibs on playing decoy,” Iris says, too sharp to be cheerful. “Also, dibs on the grenades.”

The journey to one of the secondary garages is eerily quiet compared to getting out of the upper levels of the Citadel. Iris takes point, Gladio stays firmly planted by Noctis in the middle, and Ignis brings up the rear. 

He doesn’t want to say anything, but Noctis has picked up on the fact that none of them have attempted to make contact through the security channels, but it seems like they are listening. Noctis supposes right now it is better for the enemy to be left in the dark as to Noctis’s whereabouts and his survival. 

Without Bahamut stepping in, Noctis is sure the chancellor intended to kill them all. 

“Do you think the other glaives are helping?” 

“If they were, I imagine things changed rather quickly when they lost their connection to the Crystal. If that happened while they were fighting, we cannot know the end result.” 

“We can’t think about that right now,” Gladio sounds distant. “They’re soldiers, they’ll figure it out or die trying, just like the rest of us.” 

It’s clear that, whatever Niflheim is up to, it doesn’t involve a complete takeover of the Citadel for now. The path to the garage is eerily quiet save for the sounds of fighting outside or whatever echoes through the hallways and stairwells they go in and out of. Their focus on the Crystal is where the most fighting probably is, and if they’re using airships for transportation they have no need for the cars in the garage. Niflheim’s focus on the Crystal means their forces are more concentrated in the higher levels; the lower levels are eerily empty after the non-combatant Citadel employees fled. 

So they make it to the garage without incident. Despite not coming into contact with any enemies, they stay quiet the whole way. There’s not much more to talk about right now. They have a plan. There’s no deviating from it. Noctis needs to keep his fears to himself; they won’t help anyone. But he hopes and prays Gentiana is able to help his friends get to safety quickly. 

Whatever attendant was on shift in the small office at the garage entrance is likewise gone.

“Looks like everyone is playing their part.” Gladio jogs over to the key cabinets, left unlocked and open so every one of the cabinets containing labeled keys are accessible. 

Iris heads straight for the only cabinet that holds the motorcycle keys, while Ignis joins Gladio in looking for keys. 

Noctis stands still, listening. There’s sirens, multiple sets of them, coming in and out of earshot. Explosions, low and further away, every few seconds. He follows Gladio and Ignis to a black car that looks nondescript enough. 

His entire body feels wrong sitting in the backseat of a car. Safe. Alive. It’s almost too easy how they get out of the garage and within minutes are on the freeway. It isn’t until Ignis speeds up that Noctis, fearfully, opens his eyes to look out the window. 

The Citadel is surrounded by airships. Smoke billows out from various floors on all towers, mostly up towards the top, starting at the level of the Crystal. The beam of light he’d known his entire life no longer exists, no longer reaching up into the sky to create the shield that protects Insomnia. Instead there’s dark black smoke and flames. Some parts of the building look like entire chunks are missing. On some floors there appears to be people waving clothing, anything, trying to get attention for help. But there are no Insomnia forces in sight. 

The skyscrapers around the Citadel aren’t faring any better. Several are fully engulfed in flames near the rooftop. Others have more airships hovering over them. 

One of the buildings he isn’t able to recognize suddenly becomes engulfed in smoke and fire. Noctis watches in horror as the building collapses, crumbling down with huge plumes of red smoke erupting taller still. And when the smoke clears as they go up another on-ramp, the building is completely gone. Smoke billows up from the different streets surrounding. 

“That was the Caelum Via,” Ignis mutters. 

No one says a word.  Noctis doesn’t want to keep watching his city burn, but he must. He owes everyone who has died, is dying, and will die, at least that much. 

I’m sorry, he leans forward, head against the glass and tears in his eyes. 

I’m sorry.

The gray and the agony are familiar companions to Prompto, and he braces himself against them for a moment as he tries to reorient himself and his connection to his body. He died, right? The—Izunia, with a sword, in front of—

“But there is no prize for being the last puppet.”

He shouldn’t be here. There isn’t another body for him to transfer to. This—the pain is in his—his abdomen, not his head, radiating everywhere instead of down his spine— 

He claws his way back toward consciousness and only succeeds in cracking open his eyes. The world is still—the colors are smeared, blue tinted, and too bright—

Hands? Someone’s—sleeves? Prompto squints and the world slowly resolves itself into a pair of arms, lit up by a blue-white light and—

Princess Lunafreya? There is blood splattered on her arms, her dress. Her face, and tears, too, and there is no version of the world where she would be crying for him. Which means—

It takes every bit of his strength to turn his head, and he doesn’t—he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. 

Prince Ravus and Marshal Leonis fighting soldiers in Niflheim colors—that makes some kind of sense. So do the bodies strewn about. 

Prompto blinks, and there are more shapes on the floor. One is shooting out sparks like falling stars from its chest cavity. Oh. The MTs. Besithia must have figured out mass production for them. When had that happened?

He blinks, and the world trembles as he shivers, shudders violently, bone deep. His throat burns with it as he chokes on air, or maybe it burns with a sound he cannot hear, because Leonis looks back at him sharply.

He blinks, and there are two pairs of boots before him, taking up nearly his field of vision. Two long blades—swords—out of their sheathes. He doesn’t have the energy to cringe away from them, though he is—he isn’t warm. Not exactly. His abdomen is—he isn’t sure he can feel his limbs, but he can feel that , a digging, knitting sensation, not quiet warmth. Like his body is reforming part of itself. He doesn’t look.

He can’t look, because the sound comes back in a sudden, dizzying rush and resolves itself into words.

“—ve him—” someone says. Leonis? Likely, with that growl, with those boots.

“—is not yours to command—” someone else bites back. Probably Prince Ravus.

”Give me space,” yet someone else says, and that—that is Princess Lunafreya’s voice, thick with grief and something akin to impatience, or maybe fury. “I will save someone in this dreadful room.”

Oh. That makes more sense, for Prompto to be the last or maybe only possible choice for her to save. He hopes she hasn’t chosen him over someone else.

His fingers curl slowly, and the tips of them find blood gone tacky with time. He hopes it is only blood, but he has never been run through like this before, so he doesn’t know for certain. 

The boots retreat. Prompto forces his head to turn again, and it is a little easier this time. The princess is—she is pouring her magic into him, and her pale blue eyes are focused on where her hands must be pressed against his body. He can’t feel her hands, not over the disorienting sensation of his midsection knitting itself back together.

And then, suddenly, she meets his eyes. She does not smile, and her expression does not soften. Her eyes are alight with her magic, or maybe something else entirely. She says, only, “You will live.”

“Okay,” Prompto whispers back, because what else can he do against her will? “Okay.”

She drags him back from the precipice one heartbeat, one nauseating sensation at a time, until he’s left panting and shivering. The core of him is hollow, but he is still, undeniably, bewilderingly, alive. 

As soon as her magic fades, Prince Ravus swoops in, dropping onto his knees next to her and cradling her wrists in his hands. “I’m fine,” Princess Lunafreya says, but even Prompto can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “Just—give me a moment.”

Whatever reassurance Prince Ravus gives is drowned out by the thud of Leonis’s boots. Prompto follows the line of them up until he can see Leonis’s face. His expression is hard, carved into place by a cold fury, blood trickling from his hairline down along the right side of his jaw and neck. He still is carrying his katana in one hand. 

Prompto stares up at him, too tired to be truly afraid. It would be remarkably unkind to wait for Princess Lunafreya to exhaust herself before finally putting Prompto down. Leonis should have done it earlier, before she poured so much of her magic into a pointless rescue. He ought to fight for that reason alone, but—

“But there is no prize for being the last puppet.”

—he doesn’t.

“Marshal,” he says, and his chattering teeth keep the words from coming out even. “How can I help you?”

Leonis’s expression twists. Prompto probably deserves to be run through again for that question, even if he did ask it sincerely. The Citadel shivers under a distant explosion.

“What is Niflheim’s plan?” Leonis asks, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his sword.

“I don’t know,” Prompto says, and he doesn’t flinch when the tip of Leonis’s sword drifts toward his neck. “The last order I had as part of Operation Countersign was to ensure that the emperor got the treaty terms he desired.”

It’s too familiar an address, but Prompto can’t call it back now. “And before that?” Leonis presses.

Prompto would rather not drag this out. He shifts his gaze away from Leonis. Prince Ravus has his biological arm around his sister’s shoulders, and they’re both looking at him with expressions he can’t decipher. “When I came here, Operation Countersign had two phases: surviving until our delegates arrived, and then the treaty negotiations. I was to convince the Lucians that the emperor cared about my continued well-being and general happiness, and later, to continue nurturing Noctis’s goodwill.”

He would have done that regardless. It still—taints those few good memories he has of spending time with Noctis.

“You received orders after arriving here?”

Prompto tastes blood at the back of his tongue. Had the sword pierced his lung? “Chancellor Izunia came to see me the same day Noctis took me to see the shrine.” He never did find out what the emergency was, the one they were covering up with that hospital visit in Keytriarch. “That night, on the way back from the library.” 

“What do you know of his magic?” Prince Ravus asks. 

“Illusions,” Prompto says immediately. “I saw him wearing others’ faces twice before the signing. I didn’t know he was Lord Tummelt, nor did I know about his ability to—resurrect. Or materialize weapons.” He licks his lips. “Perhaps—time. He—on the way back from the library, and when he stabbed me—I think he might have stopped time. Or slowed it. I don’t know.”

Leonis scoffs. “What do you know?”

And maybe Prompto shouldn’t give this secret up. They won’t care. It won’t mean anything to any of them. But it is a secret that has died and died and died with him, and the idea that it will finally be buried permanently is too awful to contemplate. “Besithia killed them all before I left Gralea,” he says. “So it’s—there’s no one left to transfer to. Prince Prompto will finally die if you kill me.”

“Transfer?” Princess Lunafreya asks. She is looking more composed but still unhappy.

He has never needed to explain this before. “Prince Prompto isn’t real,” he says, trying to get to the heart of it. “He is—we’re clones. Every time one died, Besithia transferred the memories to a new body. This one is N-iP01357/05953235.” He lifts his right hand a little and waves it vaguely in the air, not that anyone can see the barcode with his bloodstained sleeve in the way and the formal vambrace peeking out beneath that.

Prince Ravus looks like he has bitten into something sour. “For what purpose?”

“So Aldercapt can live forever,” Prompto answers, and then he drops his hand. “Only I guess that’s not the plan anymore, considering—everything. I guess I was just a distraction for all of this instead.”

Well. The emperor never appreciated waste, though he wasn’t known for hanging onto worthless things. Why not play out this final pawn? It clearly was a good gambit, considering they made it all the way to the treaty signing without any of their enemies catching onto the deception. Without Prompto realizing that his very presence had been a trap the whole time.

Silence falls over the room, save for the distance sounds of what might be—probably is—fighting. But it’s over for him now. They know he isn’t human like them. They know Niflheim preferred him dead. They know he has no useful information for them. Without the members of his cohort to protect—to give them as much time as he can to be whoever they could be, confined in Besithia’s facilities, before they are overwritten—there is nothing beyond this body to live for. 

This ending isn’t one he thought he would have, but it is an ending all the same.

Before anyone can break the silence and before Leonis can decide to slit his throat, a sudden gust of wind swirls through the room. Everyone else looks off to the right, so Prompto does too, and finds it’s easier to move when his body isn’t constantly shivering. A woman stands not far beyond Leonis, wearing a long black dress and shoulder-length black hair that both seem to have been entirely unbothered by the wind or the corpses she serenely picks her way through. Are her eyes even open?

“Gentiana,” Princess Lunafreya says. Her brother helps her to stand and it takes a long moment for Prompto to recognize the name and face from one of the many books he took from the Citadel’s library.

Gentiana, Messenger of the Six, and frequently spotted around the Tenebrean royal family, though not as frequently as Pryna and Umbra. 

“Oracle,” Gentiana greets.

Princess Lunafreya doesn’t flinch so much as she pauses to draw breath, and oh, Prompto finally realizes who she was crying for. Prompto pretends he does not see the grim set to Prince Ravus’s mouth, and he does not look for Queen Sylva’s body among the fallen.

“What words do you bring?” Princess Lunafreya asks. 

“Witness,” Gentiana says, and Prompto isn’t sure if it is a command or a title. “The king has been struck down.”

“I witness,” Leonis says, and there is a bleak sort of resignation in his tone. “I can’t access his Armiger any longer and the Wall has fallen. Regis is dead.”

“The Stone has fallen into the Accursed’s hands,” Gentiana continues, serene as a summer day, “and the King of Stone has fled his hall. His Shield and Hands attend him on his journey.” 

Prompto tries to scrape together some kind of understanding, still reeling at the idea that King Regis has died. The King of Stone—that has to be Noctis, and Shield must be one of the Amiticias. The Stone must be the Crystal. Which leaves the Accursed—

“Is Noctis okay?” he asks, unable to help himself, even if it draws everyone else’s attention back to him and threatens to suffocate him with it.

Gentiana doesn’t seem to mind the demanding edge to his voice, though she still doesn’t open her eyes when she turns her face toward him. “There are many dangers in his path, and every step is beset by grief. He may yet falter, and fall.”

And there is the fear that has been missing since Princess Lunafreya dragged him from the brink of death. Prompto levers himself up onto one elbow, ignoring the way the flat of Leonis’s katana brushes the side of his neck. “Can someone help him?”

He doesn’t know what Gentiana is capable of, but she knows something about Noctis and—Insomnia must be an uproar. The delegates were allowed to bring dropships inside the Wall, and with the explosions and distant fighting, they must have put them and the MTs they surely hid inside them to good use. And if Gentiana’s right, and the Crystal is fallen to Niflheim—

“He has received the Ring, but the Chosen King will still fail in his calling without the three things he yet lacks,” the gods’ messenger says, still serene. “The keys to the tombs of his ancestors, the covenants with the gods, and the blessing of the Stone.” 

Prompto stares at her, baffled. Is Noctis also the Chosen King? It’s—he’s heard the title of course, read a bit of the speculation in the books he borrowed from the library about who this mysterious being in the Cosmogony should be, but— Chosen ? For what? Banishing darkness, or whatever the exact phrasing those books had used, is a pretty metaphor but doesn’t make any actual sense. And how can a stone give a blessing, even if it is the Crystal?

Everyone else seems far less confused than Prompto is. “I know where the keys are,” Leonis says, expression still grim.

“I know the rites to wake the gods,” the princess—Oracle now, too—says. The air shimmers next to her, and suddenly there is a—trident in her hand, a little taller than she is. “And where the gods are sleeping.”

There is an expectant pause, and Prompto does not understand why they’re all looking at him right now. “I don’t know the plan for the Crystal,” he reminds them. “Even if—I could guess where Aldercapt might keep it.” As a trophy, the palace in Gralea makes the most sense, though if he wanted to study it, Zegnatus Keep is more likely, or maybe even one of Besithia’s more secluded laboratories. “But I don’t know .”

“It is more than what we know,” Prince Ravus points out.

“You can’t trust me,” Prompto says, and he doesn’t bother to gesture at the sword still at his throat. “I have done nothing to earn it.”

“I offered you my personal alliance,” Prince Ravus says, and his sister glances at him in surprise. Leonis doesn’t react outwardly, but it’s—did he really keep that secret from her? From Lucis?

“I did nothing for it,” Prompto says again. “Aldercapt already wanted a union between Lucis and Tenebrae. I did not have to exert any effort for a wedding you favored.”

“Ravus—” Princess Lunafreya starts, and the man grimaces.

“Fine,” he snaps. His expression is sour, displeased, but he soldiers onward. “I’m disinclined to give Niflheim what they desired, which was your death. Even if you prove to be no help to us on our journey.”

The noise Leonis makes isn’t a laugh. But it does have him pulling his sword away from Prompto. He keeps it in hand, rather than banishing it—and Prompto remembers that he can’t anymore, not with King Regis dead.

Leonis stares down at him for a long moment. “Come with us, or fend for yourself,” he says, and there is no inflection in his voice to hint at which he might prefer. “But if you betray us, I will kill you.”

It’s ridiculous to be comforted by that statement, but it is almost a—return to normalcy, to stable ground. Prompto lets out a breath that’s nearly a laugh. “I have always known you would,” he says, and under Leonis’s watchful eye, he pushes himself up to sitting, and then, slowly, to standing. 

He expects lightheadedness, maybe even nausea, and is surprised when he encounters neither. He feels a touch unsteady, like his muscles are remembering how to hold him up, but not at all like he was just run through. His shivering has slowed. Prompto looks to Lunafreya with a mixture of gratitude and awe. “Thank you,” he says, as close to reverence as he has probably ever been.

“You needn’t thank me,” she says simply, “for I think there is still a part for you to play in all this.”

Prompto doesn’t believe in divine destiny, and the only part he ever played was not meant for her benefit. But Gentiana smiles, just a little, and that is so unnerving he decides to ignore it and offer a more mundane motivation. “Regardless, if Noctis does need our help, I’d like to provide it. He—was kind to me.”

It’s too simple of a description, but it is all he has at the moment.

“May the gods’ blessings be upon you,” Gentiana says, and then she disappears, leaving the four of them amid the carnage of the treaty signing room.

“The keys are in a vault within His Majesty’s chambers,” Leonis says, all business now that the gods’ messenger is gone. “Fourteen floors up from here. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Before they leave the signing-room-turned-butcher’s-floor, Leonis lifts his free hand to the earpiece and says a phrase so opaque it can’t be anything but code. He pauses at the broken double doors, listening to whoever is on the other end of the line, and Prompto stares at the bloody hand prints, bullet holes, and scorch marks on the paneling instead of the bodies that are clumped around it.

People—the representatives of Niflheim, the ones that hadn’t been allowed into the main room but had been allowed to linger in the foyer with all the others who couldn’t fit into the room—had locked these doors. Locked the doors and let Izunia start his slaughter.

(Had Leonis been in the foyer? Is he the reason why the doors are cracked inward?)

Leonis doesn’t relay the words from whoever is on the other end of the line, but it is clear that he is listening closely to whatever information he can glean from it. He peeks out through the ruined doors, confirms a lack of enemies on the other side, and steps across the threshold. He signals for the rest of them to follow, and they do. 

Prompto winds up in the middle of their little group, next to Lunafreya. Leonis, as the one who is most familiar with the Citadel, takes point in their formation, while Ravus brings up the rear. This area of the Citadel is the sort of quiet that comes with death, but Prompto can hear the distant sounds of violence. Even with the king dead and the prince fled, the battle for the Citadel—for Insomnia, for Lucis—isn’t over yet.

Their little quartet moves swiftly under Leonis’s direction. Prompto wonders if he’s listening to a general security channel or if someone is specifically feeding him information on a different line. They dart into smaller corridors, darkened rooms, long before Prompto hears or spots anything worrying. They skip the closest stairwell (and the smoke seeping out of it) and all of the elevators, take a second stairwell just four flights up before exiting it so quickly that Prompto worries that enemies are right on their heels. Leonis uses his security badge to ease their way, at least until they start finding doors already caved in.

Prompto focuses on keeping as steady on his feet as he can as he climbs a different, endless stretch of stairs. He feels not quite hollow, not exactly faint, maybe like he hasn’t eaten for most of the day. Off enough that he knows that his best strategy if he’s forced to fight will be to end it as quickly as possible. When the Citadel shakes, he braces himself against the nearest bit of architecture. Otherwise, he does his best to keep watch to either side from his position in the center. It’s either that or start paying too close attention to the cooling blood growing tacky on his skin and clothes.

They exit onto a floor that seems almost alarmingly peaceful. Leonis and Ravus carry their swords in their hands. Lunafreya is armed as well, her trident sometimes helping her pick her way across debris-strew floor—window glass and whatever stone the Citadel’s structure is made of. Prompto’s left arm is still in a cast, and his right hand is empty.

In one deep alcove, while they wait for the MTs’ footsteps to fade down an adjacent corridor, Lunafreya glances at him, her face cast in shadow from distant lighting. It’s not exactly a stare, but the fact that she does it again makes something anxious crawl up Prompto’s spine. 

Still, he waits to speak until Leonis has motioned them forward again. “Is there something…” he trails off, not entirely sure what he’s asking.

“Ah,” she says, not quite embarrassed to be caught looking. Her gaze flickers down briefly, then back up. “Your knives?”

Prompto grimaces. “In my suite.”

“Why?” Ravus asks from behind, sounding both baffled and annoyed.

“Aside from when I first arrived, I never wore them when I knew I would be meeting with King Regis, Prince Noctis, or the two of you,” Prompto says simply. “Lucis maintained the polite fiction that I was a guest, and so I wasn’t about to lose them to a ‘random’ security check and wind up in a worse position. Lucis seemed inclined to leave them be if I left them behind in my room.” He takes a breath, then adds, not quite amused, “I shouldn’t have needed them today.”

Not when he was surrounded by delegates from Niflheim, nearly all of them career military. Not when they needed his signature and his seal on the treaty to end the war. Not when all of this was almost over, and then he would have packed up and returned to Niflheim.

Not that his knives would have helped him when the chancellor personally ran him through. Prompto carefully sets aside the phantom sensation of the sword through his middle and the chancellor’s hand on his cheek.

“When there is an opportunity to arm myself, I will take it,” Prompto says. “Until then, I shall do what I can.”

Leonis shushes them then, and makes a hand signal that Prompto doesn’t technically know but still obviously conveys stop . They freeze behind him, and after a heartbeat, Leonis creeps forward to yet another intersection. He stays there, listening, and then very carefully glances around the corner. 

After a few moments, Leonis retreats back down the hallway with them, motioning them to step in close before speaking quietly. “Security reported that a squadron of Niflheim soldiers went into Regis’s quarters about fifteen minutes ago.” 

Prompto is more than a little impressed that there is still a security team with access to enough surveillance to know that and relay it to Leonis. Izunia undoubtedly spent however long he was actually in Insomnia spying. Any centralized security rooms would undoubtedly be a high-priority target. 

(He wonders if the security team has an exit strategy, or if they’re barricaded in to make a last stand. Then he files that thought away because there is nothing he can do about it.)

“Humans, mostly, but there are some of the mechanical ones standing guard.”

“MTs,” Prompto whispers. “Short for ‘magitek trooper.’” At least, that’s how he heard research staff refer to them, not that Prompto knew they’d gone past the prototype stage and to combat readiness. Besithia had always been so focused on the mind transference technology and monitoring Prompto’s cohort for long-term complications of its repeated use that Prompto hadn’t realized Besithia overcame the ego death issue. 

Leonis eyes him but forges on ahead. Prompto is certain they’ll return to the topic of what he knows about them if he makes it to a safer location. “We need to clear them from the suite, and if they’ve already uncovered the tomb keys, retrieve them.” Leonis nods back toward one of the corridors they passed. “There is a doorway between the bedroom in the unused queen’s quarters and the king’s. I’ll enter from there and draw their attention. When the guards move from the main doors to help, you can attack from behind.”

It’s a decent enough plan, and Prompto doesn’t know the terrain well enough to offer any suggestions. He nods, and Ravus and Lunafreya murmur their own agreements. Leonis slips away, and the three of them duck back into the nearest alcove. 

This portion of the Citadel is horribly still. Ravus, Lunafreya, and he are all pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the alcove, Ravus at the edge nearest their target, Lunafreya at the edge furthest, and Prompto firmly in the middle. There is some sound—distant violence, occasional tremors that rattle through stone, the sound of muffled voices drifting over from the king’s suite. Prompto wonders if Niflheim is also searching for the keys to the Lucian royal tombs, or if they’re ransacking the king’s—former king’s—suite for something else entirely. 

The symbols of the Lucis Caelum dynasty’s right to rule are the Crystal, the Ring, and the Crown. The Crystal is in Niflheim’s hands already, according to Gentiana, but Regis wore the Ring and the Crown to sign the treaty. Surely they are with his body, unless, for some reason, he wore replicas? But why would—?  

Ravus reaches down to pull a dagger out from what must be a hidden sheath in his right boot. The dagger is a beautiful thing, with a blade that is a little longer than the knives Prompto brought to Lucis, and an all-black hilt inlaid with white—opals?—to form a stylized sylleblossom. Ravus turns the dagger in his fingers before offering it, hilt first, to Prompto.

Prompto glances up to meet Ravus’s eyes; Ravus wrinkles his nose and not-quite-wags the dagger at him. Prompto bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling and takes the dagger. Another extension of trust, and one that settles him more than any words could. Lunafreya is closest to Prompto, and yet Ravus still handed over a knife. 

The dagger hilt warms in Prompto’s hand as the seconds, minutes tick by. He listens intently for the sound of Leonis discovered too early, of the approach of another squadron of soldiers. He forces his breathing slow and steady and tries to ignore the mix of anticipation and dread creeping down his spine.

When Leonis makes his move, it is not subtle. There are muffled noises—shouting, probably, maybe even impacts of people or large objects thrown—growing louder, and then the unmistakable sounds of gunfire, screaming. 

Ravus leads them out of the alcove, and Prompto and Lunafreya follow close behind. They reach the corner, and pause there for Ravus to risk a look at the hallway to the king’s suite. He waits five, ten—

And then Ravus moves, quiet, swift steps, and Prompto follows him around the corner. The hallway is nearly empty. The MTs have turned away from their posts, their programming prioritizing a nearby threat over keeping watch, though it doesn’t seem like their programming is sophisticated enough for them to prioritize cover. They have both marched straight into the king’s suite, axes ready.

Ravus’s sword punches its way into the closest MT, and his weight and momentum take it clear of the entrance and down to the ground. Lunafreya leaps over a pair of twitching metal feet and catches the second MT with her trident as it starts to turn around. She doesn’t have quite enough weight to force it to the floor, so Prompto kicks out one of its knees to help her get it the rest of the way down. Both MTs spit miasma and sparks where their armored exteriors are breached.

Prompto glances around for his next target, and he has no time to be disoriented by the high ceiling or sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He hurls himself, dagger-first, at the Niflheim officer who positioned himself to take cover from a threat coming from a direction other than the main doors. The man has a standard-issue pistol secure in both hands, and when he starts to turn, Prompto buries the dagger first in the man’s chest, beneath his collarbone. He screams, and Prompto pulls the dagger back out to shove it under his sternum and into his heart.

The officer chokes, starts to crumple, and Prompto shoves him away. Lunafreya wrenches her trident out of the MT and slams it down again, half wrenching off its head in a shriek of metal and wires. Ravus has already cut his way across the room, brutally economic with the thrusts of his sword. One, two, three, and there are more people dying on the floor, and Ravus is out of the—sitting area?—and deeper into the suite. Lunafreya follows him immediately, and Prompto hangs back just long enough to do a quick sweep behind the furniture to verify they are truly clear before he follows.

It takes just two, perhaps three, more minutes to entirely clear the suite, and Prompto tells himself he doesn’t care about the extra blood on his clothes or how many corpses he recognizes. He watches the last officer die from a deep, devastating gash across the throat on a hallway floor.

(It’s the same man who reported ten surveillance devices in Prompto’s suite. Prompto doesn’t know if the fear and surprise in his glassy eyes are because he saw Prompto or if it’s because it’s the first time he faced death.)

“Clear,” Ravus says as he wipes the blood off his sword. “The keys, Marshal?”

Leonis doesn’t answer. Prompto wrenches his gaze away from the dead officer and over to him, and he does not know what to do when he catches Leonis staring at him. He especially doesn’t know what to do when his expression twists into something alien. 

“I don’t know what to call you,” Leonis says bluntly.

Of all the things to worry about in an invasion, but with Prompto’s facade of humanity stripped away, Your Imperial Highness is hardly correct. Doubly so, considering the chancellor’s near successful murder attempt. Aldercapt is not a name he wants to claim, but the idea of being addressed as this body’s current numbers outside of one of Besithia’s laboratories makes his stomach churn.

“Just Prompto will do,” he says. It’s as false as Aldercapt , but at least it has only ever meant his consciousness and not the emperor’s. Not yet. 

Leonis’s expression smooths out. “Prompto.” He pauses, then nods toward the nearest body, “Take the time to arm yourself with something better than that knife.”

It occurs to Prompto that perhaps Leonis doesn’t want him to see wherever King Regis hid the keys to the Lucian kings’ tombs, but he will not turn down this generous offer. He gives Leonis a sharp nod, and then immediately starts scavenging while Leonis steps away. 

One good thing about Niflheim’s military is that it has specific and exacting standards for its equipment. All of the corpses that have guns on them have the same model of gun and the same ammunition. He claims the least-bloody holster, a pair of pistols, and eight full magazines, one each loaded into the pistols and the rest in his easiest-to-access pockets. Prompto cleans off the dagger and offers it back to Ravus. 

“Are you certain?” Rauvs asks, frowning at him.

“I don’t have a good way to carry it,” Prompto says, patting a pocket bulging with magazines. “I’ll ask for it if I run out of ammunition.”

Ravus scoffs at that but takes the knife back, tucking it back into his boot. “You fought well with it.”

“Thank you.” Prompto hadn’t expected any sort of compliment, but he is a little relieved that Ravus, at least, thinks he will be an asset in this—escapade of theirs. He still can’t believe he’s doing this, he can’t—

He never thought he’d have anything beyond the grasps of Aldercapt, Izunia, and Besithia. And yet here he is, alive in spite of all of them, and aiding their enemies. He doesn’t know how long it will last.

Noctis is out in Insomnia, somewhere. An Insomnia that is thoroughly under attack. He can hear the occasional distant explosion and wonders if Niflheim had additional dropships waiting offshore; surely the amount of explosions he’s hearing can’t be explained by the six ships the Lucians allowed in for the treaty negotiations.

Prompto hesitates but decides to press his luck. “These are high-ranking officers. If they didn’t get a message out during the fight, then someone will be sent to look for them when they realize they haven’t reported completing their objective or checked in.”

Lunafreya frowns slightly in thought. “Do you think we could lure in other officers, then?”

“Not unless whatever they were trying to do in this suite is such an important objective that they’re willing to reallocate resources while fighting is still happening,” Prompto says. “If they were truly attempting to locate the keys for the tombs, then I think it would be more about ensuring Lucis didn’t leave with them, rather than securing them being a key part of the—the invasion plan.”

There’s movement at the edge of Prompto’s vision, and Prompto glances over in time to see Leonis flash a ring of old-fashioned keys in his grasp. 

“I have the keys,” Leonis says briskly, before shoving them into an inner pocket on his jacket. “So I suggest we leave. If they’re following protocol, Prince Noctis and his retinue should be falling back to a safehouse in the city. Prince Ravus,” he says and fishes an earpiece out of a different pocket to toss to Ravus. “This will give you access to the main security frequency. And, if we get in range again, we will be able to hail Prince Noctis on channel 15.” 

So Noctis and his retinue have access to what must be a private, or at least encrypted, line. Shorter range than the main line Leonis has been listening to. Prompto clings to the promise Gentiana made: they left the Citadel together.

“Do you know which safehouse they would be headed for?” Lunafreya asks. 

Leonis shakes his head. His gaze flickers to Prompto for a second before turning back to her. “There is one main and two secondary safehouses that are meant for His Highness. If I had to guess, they’ll pass over the main one, but I don’t know which they’ll pick between the other two.”

“But you know their locations?” Ravus prompts as he slips the earpiece into place.

“I do.”

Which means that they can check all of Noctis’s safehouses, if they need to. If they can get out of the Citadel and find some kind of conveyance into the wider city itself. Prompto knows nothing about most of Insomnia, so he doesn’t know if the population has just tidily locked themselves indoors, miraculously keeping the streets clear while Niflheim invades, or if they’re starting to mount a resistance.

Even if Noctis and his retinue had to flee the Citadel itself on foot, they would have to acquire a vehicle or vehicles eventually. Prompto doesn’t—it’s unlikely that they are going to be able to stage a counterattack. He can’t imagine how, not after the king’s death and the gutting of the Kingsglaive as a result. So Noctis and his group must be heading to a safehouse to catch their breath before searching for a way out of the city.  

“Then we need to catch up to him,” Lunafreya says. “And if he’s fled already, then we need to follow him out of the city.”

“We’ll need to—” Leonis stops mid-sentence, frowning, and Ravus pauses as well, both of them clearly listening to the security line. “The dropships have fanned out. They’ve been bombing nearby infrastructure.” 

Prompto’s mouth is dry. “They’ll target cell towers, power plants, and key points in the transportation network,” he says as calmly as he can. At Leonis’s sharp look, Prompto shrugs, feeling a little helpless. “That’s the standard operating procedure for captured territory. Kill the leadership, then destroy key portions of the infrastructure to make it easier to control the populace. He’s killed the king, destroyed the Kingsglaive’s effectiveness, and forced Prince Noctis to flee, so there’s no way the army will simply abandon a prize like Insomnia.”

“That’s what they did with Tenebrae,” Ravus confirms, “and in the towns they took in Cleigne.”

“And when they took Galahd.” Leonis runs his hand over his mouth, clearly thinking. Then he lifts his hand to his earpiece and says, quite calmly, “Titan, give the order to abandon the Citadel. Any surviving Crownsguard and Kingsglaive should regroup at their external emergency checkpoints. From this point onward, they are to protect civilians, including helping them flee the city if necessary, unless this order is countermanded by Prince Noctis.”

The weight of that statement hangs heavy in the air, even though there’s nothing in Leonis’s face to suggest that he has given the order to abandon the Citadel, and, functionally, the city as well. Then his expression twists and he turns his head. There is tension in his voice this time when he says, “I can’t ask that of you, Monica.”

Elshett? Is she on the line? Prompto hasn’t given a second thought to her since Niflheim’s delegates arrived and she disappeared entirely from his life. It doesn’t look like Leonis changed the channel on his earpiece, so Elshett must be on the main security frequency. Prompto risks a glance at Ravus, who is frowning slightly as he listens to whatever she is saying.

Leonis clenches his jaw briefly before he nods once, as if to himself. “Then we are in your hands,” is all he says before he taps the earpiece again—more than once. Changing frequencies, probably. Leonis turns back to them, and his composure has smoothed back into place when his gaze sweeps over them in a professional, sweeping glance. “Colonel Elshett will be coordinating our departure. Prince Ravus, stay on the main line and keep us apprised of any major developments within the city. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

When they have the Citadel behind them, Noctis takes that as his sign to stop staring out the window. But he doesn’t move from where he’s pressed against the glass. Iris is on the motorcycle, driving on his side of the car, clearly still protecting him even though their entire world is falling apart. 

Is it just because of who Noctis is at this point? What is keeping them all here, together, at a time when it’s clear the odds are stacked against them? 

How is Noctis supposed to fight this? How are they supposed to get through it? It might be safer, for the others, if they just left him there on the side of the road somewhere and got themselves out of Insomnia. 

The offer settles on his tongue, but that’s where it stays, because Noctis is scared. He is terrified. He’s sure they are, too. He doesn’t want to be alone. It’s selfish. But Noctis is not ready. 

He’s sure they know that, too. Gladio still has the Ring. Noctis hasn’t asked about it once. 

There is a lot of traffic with others trying to get out of the city, and it’s escalating quickly. Iris keeps having to swerve to avoid cars, and even Ignis is getting daring in order to avoid getting stuck behind cars. 

“We should get to a safehouse and wait for some of this to die down,” Gladio says after Ignis has to swerve out of the way of two cars that hit each other. 

“You think that’s actually possible?” 

“Which part?” 

“The second.”

Noctis glances at Ignis without turning his head. He can see Ignis’s right arm, and how Gladio has looped his left under it to rest a palm flat on Ignis’s thigh. 

Noctis squeezes his eyes shut.

“We’ll go to the one in the industrial complex. It’s nearer to one of the gates out of the city but not in a residential area. Perhaps by nightfall we can have a better understanding of the situation and who is left for us to contact for assistance.”

There’s a lull in conversation. The sounds outside are muffled but Noctis can still hear the destruction of the city now mixed with car horns honking, people screaming. Squeals of tires. It’s becoming an absolute nightmare just as much out here as inside the Citadel. Which is what Niflheim probably wants. 

“Do you have any glaives or guards you could reach out to?” Ignis asks.

Noctis crosses his arms over his chest and adjusts his head so he could, in theory, be napping. There’s no way he could, but he wants Ignis and Gladio to have a few moments without worrying about Noctis. 

“Probably the same ones you’re thinking of. Crowe and Nyx, maybe even Libertus. They could at least have some more intel on what’s been going on. But I haven’t talked to them since they were put on leave.”

“And I'm sure they have discovered their connection to the Crystal is gone.” 

The Kingsglaive don’t entirely rely on the Crystal, but it is a source of their strength in battles. And with the current conflict with the Galahdian glaives, Noctis would put money down that they may be less inclined to help out. A part of Noctis wants to believe they still would, but now it’s hard to say. 

“So, safehouse, contact, regroup, leave?” 

“I think that's the most ideal option, yes. But without knowing our full resources, I don't feel confident solidifying anything yet.”

“Once we’re at the safehouse—” 

They’re interrupted by a large explosion to the right. Noctis sits up and opens his eyes in time to see plumes of bright red and black smoke curling up and engulfing an entire building. It’s not too close to the freeway, but the road shakes from the blast. Iris gets off balance for a second and other cars slam on the brakes around them, causing Ignis to have to sharply veer off to the shoulder. Noctis can’t quite see what it was, a building or an dropship. It really doesn’t matter at this point.

“I think we should get off the freeway,” Gladio mutters. 

“I think you are correct.” Ignis hits the gas and takes the exit just up ahead, Iris still beside them. He hears a tone that almost sounds like someone talking from Gladio’s side. 

“Taking the detour route,” Gladio says. Iris gives a thumbs up and falls back to follow. 

Down here on the side streets it’s almost possible to pretend nothing is going on. Almost. But the veil is clearly lifting. Cars in driveways with their trunks open, boxes shoved inside haphazardly. Families and pets getting into their cars. 

As they get closer to the edge of the city, the buildings are getting smaller to reveal more of the sky. Which is red. And not from the sun setting, though that will be soon, also. 

“At the safehouse,” Ignis picks up once more, “we’ll need to set up communications with whoever we can. There should be a radio we can use to attempt contact with allies still in Insomnia. Do not use your cell phone. If there are any phones inside, we will take those instead.” 

Noctis sits upright. “But Luna and Ravus—”

“They have Gentiana, and she knows we are also alive. I am sure a messenger of the gods can connect us when it is safe to do so.” 

Noctis stops himself from asking about anyone else. Resumes resting with his eyes closed and head against the window. The ride is smooth, and for a moment he might actually be exhausted enough to fall asleep. 

Ignis and Gladio talk in low voices to each other, and Noctis doesn’t try to parse any of what they are saying. 

But with his guard lowering just a little, the spiral starts once more in his mind. 

There’s no way Prompto is alive, he knows that. And even if Prompto were, somehow, Noctis is sure he’s alone in the ruins of the Citadel. No one would help him. Or if he was in on the betrayal all along…

The thought makes Noctis curl in on himself a little more. Is it better if Prompto is dead? Would that make this easier to know he couldn’t be involved, that he was a pawn and was innocent in all this? 

Noctis…isn’t sure what to wish for at this point. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Prompto kissed him. They had exposed a part of their innermost thoughts they probably shouldn’t have. 

Or is it better to hope that Prompto is somehow alive to explain himself, and hope that what Noctis wishes is still true?

He lightly hits his head on the window, soft enough to not draw attention. 

His dad is dead. Gladio’s dad is dead. Their friends. Their family. They had lives outside the Citadel. And here Noctis is, quietly wishing that the man he hardly knew and somehow had developed feelings for in the span of a month is alive, before thinking of them. 

Some king he is. 

“Noct,” Gladio’s voice shakes him out of his spiral. “What happened when you blacked out?” 

Noctis swallows and opens his eyes. 

“Pardon? He blacked out?” Ignis sits up a little straighter. 

“Not from an injury,” Noctis clarifies quickly. “Something happened when the chancellor caught up to us…”

Honestly he isn’t sure how to say what it was, what he experienced, because he isn’t even sure it’s real. He does, but he is struggling to believe it himself.

“Bahamut showed up.” 

“Bahamut,” Ignis repeats flatly. Then tilts his chin towards Gladio. “Really? You saw him?” 

Gladio shakes his head. “I heard a loud voice. The chancellor shouted at the ceiling. I thought he had lost it. Then he vanished.”

Noctis didn’t know that part. “Vanished? Did I?” 

“No, he was gone and then back again in a flash. Right when you passed out. Then everything…” 

There isn’t a reason for Gladio to talk about what happened to their fathers yet, so Noctis pulls himself together a little more. “Bahamut said a bunch of weird shit, but mostly just that I wasn't supposed to die yet. That I need to make covenants with the Astrals in order to take out the chancellor, I guess.” 

“That is all…very vague and unhelpful.”

“You know, I said that to him. He didn’t really care what I thought.” Noctis is surprised he managed to make a small joke of it, though no one laughs and he feels like an idiot after saying it. 

The car falls silent. Ignis takes a few turns, and soon they are in an industrial zone with fewer cars and people. He assumes they’re nearing the safehouse. 

“But he said you have to live,” Ignis asks. 

“He did.”

Ignis hits the gas, the car kicking back in response. “Then I suppose we need to make sure you do.”

Ignis pulls into an underground parking garage that feels more like a strip mall parking lot and less like a safehouse, but Noctis doesn’t have the capacity for attempting any more jokes. Once they’re parked and Iris is beside them, they collect themselves and their belongings, take an elevator, and go even further underground. 

No one speaks. 

When the elevator doors open, it’s to a large, empty space with dim lighting that only comes on when they approach. It makes the whole floor look like something out of a horror movie. 

“This way,” Ignis directs. Noctis follows. There aren't any signs of life yet, and Noctis worries deep in his gut that maybe this goes deeper, that even more people are dead or traitors than they had ever anticipated. 

After Ignis enters a code into the lock of a door, he swings it open for he and Gladio to enter first. Noctis stands there, holding a backpack, feeling—

Not very much like anything. And definitely not feeling like a king . 

Iris ushers him in when she gets the signal, and inside it’s more depressing than the garage. It's clear this is intended to be a hub for people in hiding, but there isn’t anyone. There are tables with large plastic boxes, bearing labels such as radios, med kits, armor, and weapons, and the like. All covered thickly by dust. 

Noctis stands still, taking in the space. This could be where they hide for some time, until they figure out what to do next. Bahamut had said Noctis needed to go out of the city, get the covenants, but he can’t do that without Luna. And he can’t do that when the people of Insomnia are under attack. What would the people think if they knew he was just running?

“Noct, sit. We’ll take stock of supplies.” Ignis orders. 

Like his body is moving on its own, Noctis follows the instructions. He takes the first flimsy metal chair and sits. He puts his phone, screen up, on the table.

There are no messages. No alerts. Nothing. Noctis turns it off and shoves it into his jacket pocket.

“Did they take down the phones?” 

“I would imagine so.” Ignis and Gladio are setting up the radio, switching through channels and speaking code words, moving on when there’s no reply. 

“But out there, they should work?” 

The others all share a look. 

“We can see how things are as we leave and make that decision.” 

Noctis sits there, leg bouncing, wishing— 

For a lot. But the phone network is down, and there isn’t any wi-fi down here. 

“ — ships on the horizon, we need back up!”

Noctis jolts at the static-laced voice. 

“What is your location?” Gladio’s voice is tinged with urgency. 

“South side— Their soldiers—”

“What is their target?” 

“ I —” There are sounds of gunshots, explosions, and it’s a war up there. “ Everyone !” 

And with that, the line goes silent, no matter how many times Gladio tries to hail them again. 

Ignis stills with both hands on the table, staring down at the radios. “We have to get out of Insomnia. We should act as if we are the only ones to survive, and pray that isn’t the case. But we cannot spend any time worried—” 

“We can’t just leave !” Noctis’s voice shakes. He sits back in the chair and covers his face with his hands, and takes several deep breaths. The edges of his mind are vibrating, and he knows he will lose his composure soon if he doesn’t pull himself together. 

“We have to, Noctis. We have no way of fighting anyone right now. Let alone an entire army with human and robotic soldiers alike. We are not prepared at all for this kind of situation.”

Noctis stands and paces to try to clamp down on the emotions running through him. He tries to compartmentalize things while Ignis and Gladio continue rummaging and packing supplies. Iris puts on a pair of large blocky headphones and takes over listening in on the radio. 

He’s…grateful not to hear more firsthand at the moment.  

They don’t have an army right now—glaives and soldiers are scattered. Many of the glaives have probably fled like the rest of the city, especially without their connection to the Crystal. 

And even so, there is still the risk of traitors among them, as seen by the Caelum Via attack. 

The standard guards were all set up in the Citadel, and so he assumes they are lost, or out of reach, after the force of the attack there. 

Luna and Ravus are alive, but they will also be getting away from the Citadel to safer ground. If there is anyone else fleeing from their ranks, they would also be going to safehouses, though which one is the question. 

And the Wall is gone, meaning once night falls across Lucis, they risk more trouble with daemons. 

Putting all this out on the proverbial table is not helping Noctis feel better at all. 

He flexes his hands and considers how to use his connection to the Crystal—

“Wait, what about the Old Wall?” Noctis rushes towards Gladio, hand outstretched. “With the Ring, I can control it, right?” 

“We don’t know exactly how it works,” Ignis puts a hand on Gladio’s wrist and holds it in place. “You’ve not yet connected to the Ring’s power. We can’t risk you being unconscious right now while we are trying to get out or risk losing control of the Old Wall and causing more harm than good.” 

It’s like something comes undone in Noctis’s chest. This is his birthright. His duty. “That doesn't make sense! How would I not have control?”

“Your father couldn’t control it anymore,” Ignis’s voice has a warning tone to it. “You know he feared if a time came that he would need to use it, he wouldn’t be able to. But he didn’t want you to carry that burden too soon.” 

Noctis shakes his head. Once more he gestures towards Gladio. “Come on, give me the Ring. Let’s do this.” 

This time, Ignis steps in front of Gladio. “This isn’t a game, Noct! The Ring can kill you without the proper preparation!”

“It’s my duty to bear the Ring!”

“Hey guys,” Iris says carefully. They all turn to her. “They’re starting to blockade the bridges that lead out of Insomnia. We might need to rethink our escape plan.” 

“Are they killing civilians?” Ignis diverts all attention to her, but doesn’t step away from Gladio. Noctis takes a few steps back to collect himself. His face is hot and his pulse is fast and—

“Not yet, but they aren’t letting them leave. Apparently, there are Magitek Armors stationed at most bridges now to keep people from leaving.”

Noctis hasn’t, he comes to realize, really learned about the Ring. He knows what it’s for. Understands the idea of the power it bears. But he just hadn’t pressed for more, to learn more, because doing so would mean to face what him having the Ring means. And he thought he had time. He thought they all had time. 

Ignis spins to face Gladio. “There should be a connection between safehouses and outside the borders of the city, right?” 

Watching his friends is like having an out of body experience, like he’s floating again in front of Bahamut. They’re just as afraid. They’re grasping for straws, while Noctis throws a tantrum. He unfurls his fists and steps back to the table without a word. They don’t immediately acknowledge him. 

“Not from here,” Gladio runs both hands through his hair, then steps away, checking the labels of the boxes until he finds one that is marked as Maps . Ignis follows, and together they pull out large maps that are clearly of Insomnia. They spread it out between them all on the table. At first it’s topography, then roads, but then there is a map of tunnels. 

“There,” Gladio places an index finger on the map, near the Wall. “We have to access it from above ground, but there is a tunnel we can use to get out. It drops into the reservoir. There’s a chance Niflheim doesn’t know about it.” 

Ignis holds his hand over his mouth as he looks over the map. “We can’t possibly go that way, it’s too risky. There’s a chance they do know about it.” 

Gladio sighs, but he soldiers on and looks at some of the other maps. Nothing looks promising. “The only other option the way I see it is getting in a dropship, which Insomnia definitely doesn’t have.” 

Noctis watches Ignis, Gladio, and Iris go over the maps in silence. No other options come up. So he makes the choice. 

“We head towards the tunnel.” 

They all look up at him. He carries on. “But carefully. Scope it out. If we can see it’s safe, we go for it. If it’s not, then we pivot and try to get in the air.”

Noctis rests his hand, flat, on the center of the map. He looks each of his friends in the eye as he speaks. “I trust you.” 

They don’t lower their heads, and they don’t salute. But Ignis places a hand on Noctis’s. Gladio follows a second later, and then Iris finishes the stack. It’s silly, but it’s grounding. 

“I trust you.” Noctis repeats. “With my life.”

Chapter Text

The one good thing about Niflheim’s desire to ransack King Regis’s rooms is that they haven’t caused any major structural damage to this portion of the Citadel. With how tall the Citadel is, Prompto can only catch small glimpses of the buildings immediately surrounding the Citadel through the windows they skulk by, but the pillars of smoke rising up to obscure the early evening sky are clear enough. 

He wonders if Niflheim is still searching for Noctis within the Citadel or if they’ve somehow realized he has escaped. He wonders if there are blockades around the Citadel they’re going to have to fight their way through in order to follow Noctis. He wonders if there is enough structural damage to the roads around the Citadel right now that they’ll have to escape on foot. Then he carefully boxes up those thoughts and sets them aside.

With the tomb keys in their possession, Leonis has clearly decided to prioritize speed instead of stealth, though the evidence of Niflheim’s many small massacres is impossible to hide right now. It seems after Niflheim confirmed that the officers were searching the king’s quarters, the rest of the nearby teams focused on clearing out the tower. And given the number of bodies, of liveried servants, Crownsguard of various rank, and other Citadel employees, Niflheim obviously does not intend to take any prisoners at all.

Prompto knows Niflheim is capable of monstrous things. The series of bodies he has had are proof enough of that. This war has been ongoing for fifteen years, and he has even seen some footage of Niflheim’s triumph in bringing down Shiva in Tenebrae. But this is—

It is different, to see up close the aftermath of patient, systemic violence and horror inflicted on people and not just himself. To see corpses piled up in dead-end halls, huddled up in alcoves, scattered down stairwells. To see so many people dead at once. Even when Besithia culled some of the clones from Prompto’s cohort for falling behind their peers or for deviating too far when healing, Prompto never saw anything to this extent.

(Just how long has it been since Prince Prompto became disposable? How long have Aldercapt, Besithia, and Izunia been planning to use him as bait for a false peace treaty? At the very latest it would have been after his previous death but before they spent the time to autopsy his last body and make careful study of it so they could inflict a non-fatal version of the garrote wound on the remaining clones. Or—one clone, the last clone.

But he can’t imagine that they were able to produce so many functional MTs, and with such sophisticated programming, in the time it took from when Prompto woke up in this body and today. 

Months, then. Months since they decided to abandon the gridlock of this war. Months since they decided to turn Prompto from a vessel for an emperor into one for a false ceasefire, and he had no idea.)

In another time, another place, Prompto might get sick about it. For now, he sets those thoughts aside and decides all he can do about it is be grateful that these three people think he is worthy of life. That he can be trusted enough, for now, to be at their sides. He does not delude himself that the rest of the people in the Citadel, or Insomnia, will think the same.

The first time Leonis signals for them to halt, just before they reach an intersection of two wide halls, they press in close behind him. He mutters, “Squadron of MTs ahead,” and jerks his chin to the side.

It isn’t until Ravus says, “Let’s,” and Luna nods once, sharply, that Prompto realizes Leonis is wanting—permission? approval?—to go a little out of their way to stop a unit instead of continuing to flee. And Prompto—

He can smell the blood in this hallway, can still see the aftermath of an arterial blood spray splashed on a wall when he blinks, and the body splayed out beneath it is just a few meters back.

“I am not opposed,” Prompto murmurs, because these are not his people, but he would prevent more suffering if he is allowed to.

Leonis doesn’t second guess their answers. He leads them to the intersection, takes the right fork, and charges forward, sword in hand. Ravus rushes after him, and while Lunafreya has a shorter stride and isn’t as swift, she doesn’t falter when she darts after him.

Prompto rounds the corner, and there is an entire twelve-MT squadron in the center of the hallway, doors to adjacent rooms yawning open like violated tombs. The MTs are facing in the opposite direction as they make their way down the hall, still focused on their systematic clearing of every room on this floor, and it isn’t until Leonis drives his katana through the neck joint of the rearmost MT that the rest of them finally recognize that there is an actual threat to face.

Leonis kicks the MT off his sword in time to catch the downward swing of an MT’s axe. Ravus shears off the offending MT’s hand, then uses his own metal arm to grab the MT by what’s left of its sparking, smoking forearm and hurls it behind him. Lunafreya slams her trident into the MT’s torso before it can regain its balance, and she leverages her body weight to both take it to the ground and crack open its chest cavity. The MT emits more miasma, and the glowing red of its eyes stutters, dims.

The skirmish chokes the hallway, and the MTs seem to be at least partially programmed against inflicting friendly fire, which means that even in a hallway as wide as this, there is a limit to how many can actively engage with Leonis, Ravus, and Lunafreya at any moment. Prompto is not armed for close combat, but staying too far out of the fray is as good as not being here at all.

He scans the hallway, but there is no convenient way to gain elevation and better sight lines. He would rather have never woken up than to risk shooting any of the others. Prompto bites the inside of his cheek, watching the flow of the fight, trying to sort out the safest way he can engage.

Leonis and Ravus have fallen in together, roughly dividing the hallway between them, Leonis on the left and Ravus on the right. Between the two of them, they’re taking the brunt of the fight. Lunafreya is close behind the line they’ve established, darting back and forth, finishing off MTs that one or the other disarm or partially dismember, ensuring that the damaged stay down. The occasional MT that slips by the edges to flank, she delays, wielding the greater reach of her trident with stunning efficiency until her brother or Leonis can break away to assist.

Prompto stays in the middle of the hall and draws one of his pistols as he slowly advances. He raises the pistol into position and watches the fight to see if he can get a clear shot. He can’t get as secure a grip on the pistol as he wants, thanks to the cast on his left arm, from his elbow to his knuckles, that largely covers his palm. He keeps his right pointer finger against the frame, above the trigger guard, and waits for a moment to open up.

There. An MT at the side of the crowd, kicked out of the fray by Leonis and slamming off the wall, only now getting itself up to its knees. Leonis is busy cutting his way through another MT’s guard, and this MT isn’t close enough to be a threat yet. In the next five or so seconds, perhaps. But Prompto finally has a clear line of sight, and he aims at the MT’s head in profile and fires once.

The recoil isn’t so bad that Prompto drops the pistol, but it is bad enough that he doesn’t dare an immediate follow up shot without securing his grip again. 

The bullet strikes home, a sharp bang as it tears its way through the MT’s false cheekbone. For a second, as the MT’s head jerks from impact, Prompto thinks he’s taken it down. 

Then the MT’s head swivels straight toward Prompto in a horrendous, inhuman movement, its red eyes flaring. 

Prompto fixes his grip and fires again, and this time, its left eye explodes. The right eye dims. The fight is too loud to hear the MT shut down, but it slumps as much as its robotic joints allow it to. When Leonis whirls around to finally deal with it, he clocks the fact that it isn’t moving and turns straight back to the main fight.

Which only lasts a minute more at most. Leonis sends the last MT’s head flying down the corridor, and Ravus immediately goes to Lunafreya to hover over her. She is leaning on her trident, mouth slightly open as she pants for breath, and Prompto feels a pang of guilt knowing just how much energy she spent on healing him.

Leonis catches his eye and glances significantly at the gun he still has out. Prompto holsters it immediately, but that just makes Leonis frown. “You took out this one, right?” Leonis finally asks, nodding toward it.

“Yes,” Prompto says, his spine straightening. “The eyes are vulnerable, but when I shot it in the side of the face, it continued to function. I’ll seek out additional weak points when circumstances allow, but I’ll focus on the eyes if I can’t.”

Leonis grunts. Then, almost reluctantly, he says, “Good shot.”

Prompto blinks at him. Leonis has never commented on his shooting before, and he’s been present every single time Prompto has aimed a gun in Insomnia. “Ah—thank you?” 

Prompto is not about to disagree with Leonis, though part of him wants to. He only took down one MT, it took him two shots to do so, and there was an unacceptable gap between those shots due to the problem with his grip. But he’s not about to make arguments in favor of Leonis deciding he is too much trouble and shoving his katana through Prompto’s neck.

Leonis frowns more , but before Prompto can scramble to say anything else, Lunafreya says, “I’m ready.”

She’s standing upright and waving off Ravus’s hovering hand when Prompto glances over. Ravus looks worried, but he isn’t voicing any objections, which probably means he agrees with her assessment. Leonis doesn’t second-guess her either—he just says, “Let’s go,” and retakes his lead position.

They are cutting through a banquet hall—tables mostly set for the post-treaty-signing feast, carts of napkin-rolled cutlery and wine glasses abandoned in between tables—when Leonis snaps, “Incoming, east,” just in time for a pair of double doors to burst open and another squadron of MTs to start pouring through.

Prompto immediately draws his pistol and takes aim. The doors are maybe twelve meters away, with three long tables laid out between them to prevent a direct approach, and the MTs are not nearly as agile as humans.

Nor are they interested in taking cover when Prompto starts firing. Just like the fight in the king’s suite, they are focused on engaging with their enemies, not their own safety. And the MTs don’t seem to be capable of—either physically or in their programming—vaulting the tables in order to spread out or try to force their group into individual battles.

Instead, the doors and the tables create a natural choke point and funnel, and Prompto downs one, two, three MTs at the front, forcing the ones behind them to sidestep them or step awkwardly on or over them. It slows them down even further.  

Only one of the “kills” is a clean, single shot. The eyes are a difficult target from his angle because of the contours to the MTs’ “faces” and his faulty grip, but even a missed shot is enough to draw the targeted MT’s attention. And when it turns its face to orient to the threat, it gives Prompto the perfect opportunity to follow up with a shot that drops them.  

By the time Prompto has emptied his first magazine and paused to reload, Leonis and Ravus are on the move. They have no problems with vaulting dining tables, each taking a side to flank the MTs. Lunafreya stays at the end of the funnel, with three downed MTs at her feet to make their advance on her slower.

And Prompto is—

If he didn’t have the cast on, he would probably keep shooting. But it feels wildly reckless to keep engaging when he can’t fully trust his grip. It’s one thing to miss shooting out the MT’s eyes, and it would be an entirely separate thing to accidentally shoot the only people in this city he can trust not to try to kill him on sight.

(He pushes away his instinctive thought of Noctis. He will be lucky if Noctis doesn’t order his execution as his first act as king. Prompto knows exactly what he represents, and Noctis can’t—even if he didn’t—

A few charged moments and a single kiss is nothing in the face of his father’s death, a destroyed city, and hundreds, maybe even thousands, of his people killed under a false ceasefire. The very best Prompto can hope for, if they all make it out of the city alive, is to be allowed to help them find the Crystal before they cut him loose.)

Prompto needs to figure out how to pull his weight. What can he do to reduce his risk of friendly fire?

The tables. They aren’t flimsy, foldable, made of plastic and a bit of metal. This is a grand banquet hall, and the tables are heavy wooden things, and Prompto decides to take a risk.

There’s no elegant way to get on the tables, not with them already set, and Prompto ignores the awful cacophony of the dishes he knocks askew or entirely off the table as he climbs on it. But the change in elevation changes the angles he has, and that widens his possibilities. With an extra meter of height, he can see to the back of the crowd and the MTs that haven’t managed to actually step into the banquet hall and the actual fight.

So he targets them instead, before they can become a danger to anyone else. This angle is even worse than ground level—the MTs’ helmets mean he can’t hit the eyes at all on the first attempt—but it doesn’t matter. The MTs still look at him, up and to the side, after the first impact, and that’s enough.  

First hit to draw attention; second to put the MT down. 

Again.

Again.

Again.

And then all the MTs are down and Prompto’s ears are ringing, just a little. There’s nothing to be done for that, so he keeps an eye on the smoking, sparking MTs for another handful of seconds until he’s satisfied that they’re all truly out of the fight. He climbs back off the table, winces as the soles of his boots crunch glass and porcelain underfoot, and does a quick once over on the rest of the group.  

There is a long scratch on Ravus’s metal arm, but it looks fairly shallow and doesn’t appear as if the damage impairs his movement at all, based on the way he tests out his range of motion. Lunafreya is bracing herself against the back of a chair, sweat dampening her hairline but otherwise unharmed. Leonis is frowning too much to look bored, but he is entirely unscathed. 

Prompto snatches up a pitcher of water from an abandoned cart and an unbroken glass. He goes to Lunafreya and holds out the glass to her first. “Here,” he says, as kind as he can make it, and when she takes it from him, he fills it to the top.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and downs the water in a handful of long swallows. He pours her a second glass when prompted, which she sips more moderately. 

Ravus moves over to them, carefully picking his way over what’s left of the MTs. “Are you well?” he asks his sister.

“As I can be,” she says. She clearly wants to change the subject because she looks back to Prompto. “Noctis did say you were a good shot. It seems he wasn’t exaggerating.”  

Before Prompto can reply, Leonis says as he heads back to them, “He’s been better.”

Shame makes Prompto’s cheeks heat up and he gets a tight grip on the instinctive surge of fear those words spark. 

But then Leonis adds, with a significant glance down at Prompto’s left arm, “The cast causing problems?”

Oh. That wasn’t—it hadn’t been an accusation. It was an observation. “My grip isn’t as secure,” he says and tries to let go of his fear. The shame is harder to ignore, but he forces himself to face Leonis squarely. “My apologies.”

Leonis waves off the words immediately and turns his focus on Lunafreya. “Did you happen to fix up his arm when you were healing him?”

“No, I was focused on the larger wound,” and this time Lunafreya is the one who sounds apologetic. “Should I—”

“That’s not necessary,” Prompto says immediately, even though it’s rude to cut her off. But the thought of her further sacrificing her strength, her stamina, for him makes his stomach clench in unpleasant ways. He would rather have her expend her effort on fighting than the work of healing bone. He would rather have a slower rate of fire than risking the need to have one of their group carry her. “I have been managing well enough without it.”

Leonis grunts at his assessment, but he doesn’t argue, so that should mean that Prompto is at least adequate for the moment. Or else he, too, is concerned by what another healing would mean for Lunafreya. 

Leonis does snatch up an unbroken wine glass, and Prompto obeys the unspoken request to fill it, and then Ravus’s when he decides to follow suit. Prompto downs the last of the water himself, straight from the pitcher. It’s still chilled, and Prompto hopes that whoever poured it got out of the Citadel safely.

The Citadel shakes again, violently enough that Prompto sways with the force of it and sets the empty pitcher down hard on the nearest table. A few glasses tip over and roll off various tables to smash themselves on the ground. 

“What was that?” Lunafreya asks when the shaking stops.

Ravus’s face takes on a pinched look as he listens to the other side of the earpiece. He cuts a glance at Leonis, who looks just as grim as he presumably listens to Elshett. “It appears,” Ravus says, voice tight, “that Niflheim has issued its own evacuation orders. They’ve started bombing wings of the Citadel that are clear of its human officers.”

Prompto doesn’t know how many stories they still have to go to reach ground level, but it is too many when there are still MTs to contend with and they don’t dare use the elevators.They’re running out of time to fight their way out—they need to flee. 

It may be too late to flee, given the destruction Prompto glimpsed from various windows and the assumed damage the surrounding buildings and roads have taken. At least in a vehicle.

“Prompto,” Leonis says, and Prompto barely manages not to flinch at his tone. “You told Ignis Scientia you were a pilot when you first arrived. Was that true?”

“Yes,” Prompto answers quickly. “I am capable of piloting the standard dropships as well as a few other craft.”

Leonis echoes Prompto’s response into his earpiece and after a few tense moments says, “There is a single dropship still near the Citadel. It is on the level where the Crystal was installed. Niflheim is gathering its injured human soldiers there and stabilizing them before they bring them on board.”

“If we can take the ship, I can fly it,” Prompto says quietly. There’s another BOOM as Niflheim destroys another part of Insomnia, distant enough that this time the Citadel doesn’t shake. “What are we going to do with the people already on board?”

Injured people. Soldiers. Who must have known what they were going to do to Insomnia today, who helped slaughter the inhabitants of the Citadel and were injured in the process of it. 

Prompto—hasn’t had an opportunity to be anything except loyal to Niflheim, not until today. Presumably, these people have, at least to a greater degree than him. But some are injured, to the point they may no longer capable of fighting—

“If they surrender, we’ll leave them behind,” Leonis says finally. “It will be up to their command to save them.”

All High Commander Ulldor would have to do is call back one of the other ships to retrieve his people. Or if this one ship was the concession, he could call off the bombing of the Citadel, wait until the rest of his objectives have been completed, and then have a ship retrieve what remained of the wounded. 

Prompto doesn’t know if he would, if it would prevent him from filling out his orders.

“All right,” he says, and it feels like a surrender of his own. “Let’s get ourselves a dropship.”

Chapter Text

The walls of the machine shop they’ve taken shelter in does little to dampen the sounds of destruction surrounding them. Noctis tries to tune it out while he sits and stares at the concrete floor between his feet, looking for patterns in the sweat and blood dripping down from a gash at his temple. He should clean it. Bandage it. But right now he can’t be asked to do much of anything. 

Ignis and Gladio are in one of the small offices connected to the garage with the door closed. Iris is off searching for the shop’s first aid kit. All of them are clearly looking for some semblance of quiet, though it’s short lived. They all know that. This could be the last moments of peace, if it can even be called that, for a long time.

Instead of being useful, Noctis is stuck in a spiral while he has this moment. He’s struggling to come to terms with the truth laid out before them: their plan won’t work. There’s no way they can make it out of the city like this. Every street they attempt to take, they are met with dropships full of soldiers, human or whatever those weird robot ones are. Every time they fight the best they can. And sure, they've made it this far, but not without injuries. Once again, their clothes are blood spattered and wounds are visible through the gashes and tears in their pants and tops. Each time they face a new batch of soldiers, it is to their disadvantage because they are in various states of injury and exhaustion while the soldiers are fresh. They’ve been able to take them out, but every time it is harder and harder. How long can they really do this without collapsing or fucking up just once and getting seriously hurt? Or killed?

Noctis has no way to reach out for anyone else. See if there are any soldiers nearby in Lucis who could come to their aid. But again, even if they could get in touch with anyone, they would be walking into a death trap. 

While it’s still in his best interest to get out of Insomnia, Noctis isn’t sure how to do that at this point. 

Another drop of sweat hits the small pool of blood and causes a cauliflower-like design. 

A hand breaks his view—it’s Iris. She’s holding a snack bar and water. Noctis notes her hand is freshly bandaged. He takes the offering and tilts his head up. Her soft smile doesn’t go past her lips, and it isn’t helped by the dried blood on her throat and another fresh bandage across her cheek. 

“Thanks.” He sits back and opens the water, taking several gulps. Iris stays in front of him but looks around the room, pausing at the office Ignis and Gladio are in. Noctis follows her gaze. There’s no window, so it’s impossible to know what is going on in there, but it isn't hard to imagine. 

Right now they’re at a crossroads. It's a choice between staying hidden in here until they think it's safe, or trying still to get out of the city. Honestly, Noctis isn’t sure if there is a best option. If Niflheim searches literally every building, they’ll eventually be found unless they can somehow move around to buildings they’ve already checked. But what then? 

And then without the Wall to protect them, as night falls, there’s no telling what could happen. This city has never had to worry about the daemons roaming the lands outside of the protection from the Wall. Noctis only has a vague understanding and experience. If all the stories are true, those creatures will appear out of nowhere and won’t stop killing until they themselves are destroyed. 

Can Noctis really abandon his city knowing what’s to come when the sun vanishes behind the horizon? 

With every possible move, all Noctis can see is the blood being spilled across the city. 

“Are you…” Iris’s voice is soft and careful. 

“I’m fine.” His voice cracks. He didn’t mean to completely zone out, and his answer comes out without thinking. He is mostly telling the truth. He is fine in the sense that he’s alive. He can fight. He’s with people he trusts and who will protect him. But he isn’t fine in any other way. He’s pissed. He’s hurting. His heart is breaking. He’s on the verge of having a complete meltdown, but he can’t because the entire city is depending on him not fucking dying.  

“ Come out, come out, wherever you are ,” The unmistakable voice of Chancellor Izunia booms from outside. Close. Too close. Noctis drops his water bottle and jumps up, and Iris instantly has an arm in front of him, even though there’s no way to know where the chancellor’s voice is coming from exactly. 

It hadn’t occurred to Noctis that the chancellor could be out here, let alone looking for him. It brings into question once more who and what the hell the chancellor really is. Noctis shouldn't have assumed Chancellor Izunia would consider his work finished after the death of the king. 

A door slams open behind them. When Iris and Noctis turn around, Ignis and Gladio are walking towards them with their chins lifted to look at the ceiling. 

“He’s trying to draw us out, that piece of shit,” Gladio growls.  

“I agree, but we can’t let him succeed.” Ignis rests a hand on Gladio’s uninjured shoulder—the one without blood staining it. They clearly cleaned up a little in the office out of Noctis's view. Noctis doesn't want to assume they’re hiding injuries but…he wouldn't be surprised. 

“ Testing, testing, one two three, is this thing on? I do hope you’re not getting cold feet…King Noctis.”

Something breaks inside Noctis’s chest and he turns sharply like he expects the chancellor to be in the room. To have the first time hearing that title from this insane clown makes his blood run hot. He wants nothing more than to ram his sword through the chancellor like he did to Prompto. 

“How does it feel to be powerless? To watch your little kingdom burn to the ground? ” It’s even closer this time. Ignis, Gladio, and Iris surround Noctis with their weapons out. 

“He wants to get a rise out of you, Noct,” Ignis reminds him calmly. 

“Well it’s fucking working—” 

Ignis vanishes one dagger to wrap his hand around Noctis’s forearm. “He doesn't know where we are. We just stay here, until he passes.”  

“That magic is a royal disappointment in your hands.” 

When the others block him from moving out of the small protected circle, Noctis debates warping away from them. They would support him and let him lead the charge if he commanded it. He’s considering it if it means taking out Chancellor Izunia. The urge to wipe that grin off Chancellor Izunia's face is coursing through him.   

Noctis pushes against Gladio’s arm. “Let me go! Maybe Bahamut will come again if I'm not supposed to die, and I can at least distract him while you guys run.” 

“Absolutely not.” As Ignis speaks, Gladio grips Noctis by the shoulder to hold him in place further. 

“What other options do we have? We’re trapped!”

Gladio pulls Noctis back further into the small circle they’ve made. “Don’t be a fucking idiot! We're not going to lose you to being reckless.”

There’s no way Noctis could overpower Gladio, but he fucking tries. Everything that’s been building up since the treaty signing is just under the surface and ready to be released. And Noctis wants to release it into Chancellor Izunia’s skull . 

“Let go of me!” 

“Get a grip!” Gladio shakes Noctis. 

“He’s killed people! We can’t just let him get away!” Noctis beats Gladio’s chest with his fists. 

Gladio catches them in his hands and holds them tight. “People gave their lives to get you here. I won’t let you throw that away!” 

They’re both screaming into each other’s faces at this point. The blood is barely dried on Gladio’s face—a testament to how much they’ve gone through. “You think I don't know that?”

Ignis tries to pull Noctis away from Gladio. “I won’t suffer this pointless bickering. We have to focus on getting out of here.”

“If we can kill the chancellor—” 

“Killing the chancellor won’t stop Niflheim’s forces.” 

“See?” 

“Gladio, not right now—” 

“You guys are—” 

Iris gets between Noctis and Gladio, hands pressed to both of their chests. “Would you guys stop!”

Everyone freezes. 

Noctis feels weirdly childish at this moment, to be called out by Iris. Gladio seems to feel the same embarrassment, if the way he pulls away is any indication. 

Ignis lets out a shaky breath. “Noct, we—”

The ground shakes, harder than any of the previous times. They all look up. 

Some kind of shock wave rocks through the building and knocks them all off their feet. Noctis slams into a workbench before he lands face first on the floor. His ears are ringing but he can make out the others coughing and groaning. They’re all alive so far. 

His back pulses with new pain. He takes a few deep breaths against the concrete floor. His back, knee, wrist, head, throat…each recognition brings that pain to the forefront of Noctis’s mind. He catalogs and moves on.  

“Everyone all right?” Ignis is the one to ask. 

“All right enough,” Noctis replies before forcing his body to move despite the way it screams. As he gets up, he takes in the damage around them. On the far side of the building, there’s a hole in the wall, but he can’t see what caused the explosion, and no one is coming through it yet. His gaze moves on to his friends. 

Ignis is standing but is covered in a layer of white dust. There are dark stains on his thighs, but he’s helping Gladio up. Gladio's sleeve is torn at the shoulder, dark mud streaming down his arm. Both his shoulders are injured now. When Gladio is on his feet again, they hold each other at the elbows and press their foreheads together. 

Noctis turns away from the scene. Iris is already up, her hands clasped together at the back of her head as she takes in the damage. 

“Do you think that’s just collateral, or do they know where we are?” Noctis whispers. 

Ignis and Gladio take a few steps in the direction of the hole in the wall but don’t get too near it. The garage looks like it went through a tumbler. Anything not bolted to the ground is toppled over, and plaster from the ceiling is now littering the floor. Dust is everywhere. The sounds of dropships and explosions are louder. 

Ignis runs a hand through his hair. “I’m fairly certain that was just a blast wave. It doesn’t mean we’ve been found.” 

“Maybe we should hide in one of the offices?” Iris adds. 

Before anyone can reply, there’s a mechanical whirring sound, followed by the roof being torn off like a tin of cat food, exposing them to the dropship flying directly above them and leaving flames in its wake. It has to be some kind of magitek armor bot, but he has seriously underestimated those things. 

“There you are!” The chancellor shouts once more through a speaker. His voice carries over the noise of the fire and the dropship. “You thought you were being clever hiding out here, didn’t you?” 

The door opens, and instead of soldiers, it’s the chancellor. He looks even worse than when Noctis last saw the man killing his dad. His clothes are ripped and there are clearly dark patches of blood where he’d been stabbed. Blood splatters over the rest of his clothes. His hat is gone, but his hair is matted to his head in spots. 

And his face has dark blood running down his face from his eyes and mouth. But he’s still smiling like nothing is wrong. 

Noctis isn't sure if it's gore or dirt or fire that renders much of his clothing black. 

“Oh shit—” Noctis reaches for Iris. 

“Run!” Gladio orders, and Noctis doesn’t need to be told twice. 

They run to the exit directly behind them and sprint down the street. The sound of the dropship falls back but they don’t slow down, not when they can hear more explosions behind them and the ground shakes.

“Must be tiring, having to run all the time.”  

Just as they get to another intersection, a wall of flames lights up in front of them. Then behind them. Then along the road on both sides. 

“We’re blocked in!” Gladio summons his tower shield. “Noctis, center!” 

He doesn't get a chance to argue because Ignis and Iris move into place so he is surrounded. So instead Noctis does a scan of the area around them now. The flames are taller than the buildings, and also engulfing everything in the perimeter quickly. Warping is possible, but there’s a chance Gladio wouldn’t make it out. And there’s no way of knowing how deep the fire goes, so they would risk hitting stasis midway. 

They have to make some kind of stand here, even though that’s the last thing Ignis wanted. That anyone of them wanted. The others are also tracking the space around them, weapons out and posture at the ready. 

The chancellor laughs. “You thought you were being clever hiding out here, weren’t you.” 

The smile on the chancellor’s face makes Noctis’s skin crawl. The chancellor had looked the same as he killed Prompto. As when he charged at his dad. “Shut up and fight me already!” 

“Noct—! Please.”

“I’m done playing games with this asshole!” 

The chancellor claps his hands, drawing their attention once more. “ Now, I know it's been a long day, and I have a Crystal to deliver. But before I go, I wanted to leave you a parting gift.”

Noctis lifts his sword, but stills when Iris bumps his back with her elbow, a silent pleading gesture Noctis wants to ignore so badly.  

“If the boy is to awaken as the True King, he’ll need to undergo a few more trials first—and I intend to help!”  

Another explosion of flames comes from the road ahead of them. The ground shakes. Probably one of the mechs like the one that destroyed the roof. Maybe full of more soldiers. Noctis takes a few deep breaths to calm his mind as best he can and prepare for this next round of fighting. 

“Can’t you simply taste the air of foreboding? Oh? Did you hear that? There’s something out there…”

The next time the ground shakes, there’s cracks in the road like shattering glass. One after another, like footsteps. Definitely a mech of some kind, but Noctis hasn't seen anything heavy enough to do that. 

“Fall back,” Gladio warns and they all immediately do so without question. 

An explosion of fire bursts out, and a bare human looking foot steps into view. It’s as big as a car, with white hot flames engulfing it. It goes through the flames blocking the road without issue.

“Ta ta,” the chancellor sings, before the dropship lifts up higher and then vanishes. 

Iris steps closer to Noctis’s side. “I have a bad feeling about this.” 

“I think we need that escape plan now!” Noctis shouts. 

Ignis glances back at him. “I don't think that’s going to be an option.” 

As if to solidify Ignis’s words, a giant man emerges from the flames. He’s four or five stories tall, with giant long horns that trail behind him. Part of his body looks to be covered with some kind of thick substance like crude oil, and the rest of him is engulfed in bright white fire.

And as if this isn’t terrifying on its own, when he turns to fully face them, he carries a broadsword as long as he is tall. When he stops, he stares down at them with bright glowing eyes. 

They’ve all frozen in place. 

Realization dawns on Noctis. “Is that Ifrit ?” 

It’s rhetorical, because it clearly is. But the disbelief Noctis feels is short-lived. In Tenebrae, Ifrit had been there to attack the city and fight Shiva. He can’t believe he forgot that Niflheim had caged an Astral. And he can’t believe they brought it to Insomnia. The level of destruction Niflheim has planned is clear. 

They need an exit strategy. It’s either dousing the flames or warping through them, but neither would prevent Ifrit from just following them. If they want to get out of Insomnia, they need to either shake Ifrit or take him out. But that last option—Noctis isn’t sure he can see that happening with their limitations and injuries. 

“Do we have any frost magic?” Noctis looks at Ignis. 

After a beat, Ignis clears his throat.“I have three flasks. I used the rest back in the Citadel.” 

“What about the grenades? Do you think those will work?” Iris asks. 

“I think we have to try everything we can.” 

“Don't attack up close. Gladio, focus on protecting Noctis. I’ll use what magic I can.”

“I’m not standing by while you fight an Astral !” 

Ifrit drags his sword behind him, carving more space for flames to spring up from the asphalt. They’re pulled from their argument when Ifrit raises both arms, and then slams his sword down to the ground. 

“Fan out!” Ignis shouts.

It’s seconds too late. The road fractures under the blow, and they have no choice but to split up. Iris dives to the left with Ignis, and Gladio and Noctis go right. Noctis manages to warp further away but Gladio isn’t beside him when he lands on his feet. Noctis spins around and sees Gladio using his shield to get himself back up on his feet.

Iris warps up into the air and then tosses a belt of grenades at Ifrit’s chest before warping backwards. The grenades explode, but Ifrit just watches them go off, clearly unaffected.

Ifrit raises his sword and swings it over the road, with flames arching off it like whips of fire. Noctis and Iris warp backwards, while Ignis and Gladio duck behind a car. 

“We don’t—” Noctis stutters when he joins them in cover. He tries to catch his breath. “How the hell do we get close enough to fight him without getting fried?” 

“If we can avoid the sword and the flames around him, it appears some parts of his body are not engulfed,” Ignis says. “Target those areas but get out as soon as you can to avoid catching fire.”

Gladio shakes his head and looks over his shoulder. “Ignis has daggers, and those few vials of magic…”

It’s not a plan. It's not a question. It's a statement. It's an admission of being way out of their league. They couldn't fight the chancellor? They certainly can't fight a god . 

Noctis tries to quell the fear threatening to spill out of his mouth. “What other options do we have?” 

The ground shakes beneath them, and they hear the roar of flames only seconds before there’s a wall of hot air over them. 

“Down!” Gladio shouts and they huddle, pushing Noctis into the center while they all cover his back. 

Noctis squeezes his eyes shut and keeps his arms crossed in front of his face. He smells burning asphalt and thick smoke enters his lungs with every breath. 

The shaking stops and the heat subsides. Gladio keeps Noctis pinned down at the shoulders while Iris and Ignis slowly straighten up just enough to peek around the car. 

Iris throws a dagger and vanishes from Noctis’s line of sight while Ignis pulls a flask of magic out of the Armiger and rushes forward. He hears Iris shouting, flasks breaking, and Ifrit roars— 

Gladio is up and around the car immediately. Noctis can hear him shouting, but the words are lost when the ground shakes again.

Noctis comes out from behind the car—

Ifrit is now entirely on fire. There’s frost at his feet that's quickly melting away. Ignis is sprawled some distance back, but Gladio stands with his tower shield to protect Iris. 

She’s down on her knees, and isn’t trying to stand. Her jacket is ripped to shreds down her back, and the exposed skin is bright red with blood. She’s leaning to the right, that arm hanging in an unnatural way, also leaving a pool of blood under it. One of her boots is a few feet away and on fire.

Ignis gets back on his feet, just in time for Iris to collapse. 

“Iris!” Noctis screams.

Gladio and Ignis are at her side in an instant. Gladio shouts for her to wake up, and Ignis immediately raises a hand to signal Noctis to stay put. And Noctis—

There isn’t a way to survive this. 

There’s nowhere to hide with the fire blocking their way. They’re exposed. All Noctis can think about is what Bahamut said, about him having to live. And then he has a terrible thought. 

What if the Chancellor isn't there to kill Noctis . What if the Chancellor intends to kill his friends ? 

Leave Noctis to travel the world alone to try to fulfill his destiny. He can't stop the images this conjures in his mind:

Driving in a car along the roads of Duscae. Huddled under a shelter for warmth during a storm. 

Fighting without his friends. Getting worn down, injured, having to somehow figure out how to survive. 

He refuses to let that become a reality.

Noctis takes a deep breath, chucks his sword directly at Ifrit’s head, and warps.

He appears right in front of the god and raises his sword. Noctis is screaming over the roar of the fire, but he doesn’t really think about what is coming out of his mouth. 

Ifrit snatches him out of the air.

Searing pain sends Noctis’s pulse racing and all he can see for a moment is fire, all he can feel is pain.

Ifrit holds Noctis in front of him out as if studying an insect. Then he tightens his grip . Noctis feels something inside him crack, and a new kind of terrifying agony blooms in his chest. Noctis forces his body to move past the sharp ache and lifts his sword to stab Ifrit’s hand as best as he can. 

Ifrit growls, loud and rumbling, but before Noctis can land another hit, he’s flying backwards, tossed away like a doll. He throws his sword up to warp before hitting anything, but nothing happens. His sword hits the road with a hollow metallic sound and Noctis follows, landing with his right shoulder before he tumbles. His pants tear and he feels his skin ripped off his arm and knees, then his head hits as he spins upside down, before sliding to a stop. Everything goes dark and sounds are muffled until he gets some of his bearings. 

Noctis can’t move. Breathing hurts, and he wants to take the deepest of breaths right now to work through the pain, but instead all he can do is take small, quick ones that match the panic in his heartbeat. Ignis appears at his side. Noctis blinks a few times to show he’s conscious. Ignis’s bare, bloody hands hover over Noctis without touching at first. 

“It’s okay,” Noctis mutters and then winces and arches his back at the pain in his lungs.

“Stay still,” Ignis instructs. 

Gladio appears in Noct’s vision, and together they lift him up. 

Noctis screams, and he feels bad about it, but they don't stop moving him. Noctis presses his mouth shut tight to try to keep the anguish in his throat. They keep him on his back after he screams again when they attempt to have him sitting propped up against the car. 

When Noctis opens his eyes to look up at them, the expression on their faces says a lot. He feels blood running down the side of his face. It gets into his eyes. 

“Stay here,” is all Ignis says before he and Gladio vanish. 

Noctis hears the sounds of fighting, of screams, and feels the ground shake. There’s black bleeding into the edges of his vision. He wants to move, but finds his body isn’t responding. Tears run down his face as he lays there while his friends fight. 

When Noctis opens his eyes again, Ignis is laying Iris down beside him. This close, Noctis can see her arm and neck blistering from burns. When Ignis rises, he looks down at Noctis. There’s scorch marks on his shirt and neck, and his glasses are missing. 

Before either of them can speak, there’s another explosion. Ignis snaps his attention toward Ifrit, and his eyes widen before he warps away. 

Noctis knocks his head back against the ground and pushes himself to roll onto his unburned side. Which is sadly the side with broken bones, but at this point the pain is becoming an all encompassing noise that he tries to shove down. He tries to move towards Iris, but everything in his body is screaming in fire-hot pain. He collapses onto his stomach and reaches out the arm that isn't broken to touch Iris’s arm.