Chapter Text
Ishgard welcomes her wandering son and her Savior home with skies grey and heavy as her stones below. From the airship port, she takes the pair by their hands with a chilling breeze and kisses their faces with flurries that stick to their cheeks as they disembark.
It's a cold comfort that the former Azure Dragoon finds himself almost appreciating. The wind brisk and heady with pine brings to mind a more peaceful time when he roamed through Ferndale’s glens with his father’s flock and a wooden crook. But familiarity is not his biggest advantage in this clime. Estinien owes his comfort in no small part to his armor forged in the days when his people still rode the necks of dragons high above the greyest clouds. Indeed, Iceheart yet watches over this fool with her ever-enduring understanding and warmth.
Would that her blessing could also extend to his traveling companion. Another gust buckles the Warrior of Light with a shiver that ends with his tail puffing out to the size of an angry, tawny spriggan. For once, it’s hard for him not to smile.
“We’ve been spoiled by Thavnairian sun for too long,” the dragoon remarks as he meets him on the first step ascending to the Pillars.
Though only half his height, F’toren Tia seems even smaller bundled in the furs and layers of leathers he had prepared for this brief trek. The light blue scarf swaddled around his face only reveals the tips of his ears and two large watery eyes when he looks up. “Has it…gotten colder since we were last here?”
“Hardly. This feels fairly mild. A bit like summer, even,” chuffs the Coerthan native. He takes the next iced-over steps with sure-footed confidence. “Best keep moving to keep warm. Something our old field commander loved to say back whenever one of us would complain of the snow.”
But his teasing stops when his boots reach the top alone. Toren still lingers at the bottom, face turned towards the silhouette of a large cliffside manor and its distinct alicorn-spired gazebo. House Fortemps brimming with its golden windows is a beacon amongst the grey and white. Yet Estinien knows his friend's attention is not only towards where the new count busies himself with the day’s agenda but to a distant spot in the mountains that it overlooks.
A location in the Central Highlands Estinien knows well. He too has left an offering of prayers and flowers alongside dozens of others. The tokens from pilgrims, childhood friends, and pious brothers ensure that the little grey stone monument where a broken shield rests remains the greenest spot in all of the highlands.
Even in the absence of its grieving lover.
“Feels colder…” he hears Toren mutter as he resumes his march up the stairs. The bulwark shield strapped to the paladin’s pack bears a weight grander than what it was forged from.
A weight Estinien shares. Muddled as he was within Nidhogg’s thrall, he would swear to the Inquisition if asked that he had seen the lord and Lady Ysayle as clear as he had seen Alphinaud and Toren that dreaded day upon the Steps of Faith. Unlike the latter, his debt to those two can never be repaid.
“It would be good for all of us to pay the Fortemps a visit whilst we’re here,” Estinien says once the paladin has rejoined his side, “...all of them.”
Toren adjusts the straps of his pack on his shoulder and nods. “We best keep moving, like you said. I know Aymeric means to prepare a lunch for us and I’d rather not keep him waiting longer than we already have. ”
Moons longer than they initially planned. The prospect of returning to Ishgard for respite had been exciting when it had first been proposed. But between their investigations into the Thirteenth, and Aymeric’s availability thinned by parliament meetings and Ecumenical councils, coordinating a visit had become almost as taxing as the agendas keeping them from it.
He sees that toll on Toren most of all. An ashen look has recently taken over him that all the colors of Radz-at-Han have yet to brighten. Something darkener and deeper that Estinien does not know if he can reach. A part of him understands, at least. Under the massive shadows of his homeland’s stone heroes, how easy it is to forget they too were once flesh and blood, and not just the tall proud things of stories.
“Glad you’re eager to see him,” Estinien says, following after him, “and I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know you do not intend to skip this meal like so many recent others.”
Another shiver runs down the paladin. No wind blows, only a shared muted and knowing look.
“Right…” Toren sighs, “Let’s not mention that to Aymeric. Surely he has enough to worry about.”
Estinien has no issue with that. “See to it you take care of yourself and he shall have nothing to worry about then.” And nor I, he thinks as they turn down the street. “Don’t forget: you’re not the only one in need of unlearning poor habits
Toren’s chin sinks into the deep folds of his scarf. “That’s true. Given how much we know he’d fret over something like skipping meals, I shudder to think what his reaction might be should he learn what certain comrades attempted on Ultima Thul.”
For the first time in ages, Estinien’s bones feel a chill that even Iceheart cannot shield him from. He looks down at Toren, whose scarf now falls over his face in a long grin-like swoop. The barb is playful but equally intentional. Estinien knows better than anyone to test it.
As if the damned Lalafell women didn’t already have him wound like a karakul tail around their very tiny fingers that they insist on sticking into his business. That the Warrior of Light might also entangle him in some form of emotional blackmail…
He huffs out a long puff of breath. “Perhaps it has gotten colder since we were last here…”
And Toren’s laugh follows him up the freshly salted cobblestone.
Their path to the Pillars is swept and well-kept by the Temple Knights, though the streets walked by nobility always have been. In his letters, Aymeric had described working with his House of Commons counterpart on passing a bill that would extend their services to the Brume and less maintained parts of the city. That a common decency even needed to be voted on disturbs Estinien to no end. He’s never had the mind nor patience for politics, and while his friend certainly does, he doubts it’s what Aymeric’s heart truly desires.
But when the familiar roof emerges out of the skyline, those worries are swept away with snow on the salted cobblestone. Even Toren strides at pace by his side as though he no longer feels the cold now that rest and a warm fireplace are at last in sight. He almost dares to look relaxed as the front stoop comes into view.
“Should we knock or will Aymeric mind if you let us in through the front?”
Estinien shrugs. “Knock, I suppose? Not sure how I would go about getting you in through the front.”
Toren scrunches his nose up at him. “I thought you told me earlier you had a key to Borel Manor.”
“I said I had a way into Borel Manor.”
No sooner do the words leave his lips, does the dragoon leave his friend’s side and leap up the manor’s garden wall with the ease of a skipping maiden. His boots barely kiss the snow dusting the topmost stones at a full fifteen films before they are airborne again, bound and landing on the balcony ledge attached to the master bedroom.
He grins over the railing. Below, Toren can only shake his head as he lugs their luggage towards the stone stoop like a respectable, proper houseguest; while its most welcome and improper one enters the way he has known since their Temple Knight days. The unlatched door swings wide for its anticipated intruder, who steps into the lord of the manor’s bed chambers as if it is his own.
Though the lord is not present to greet him, a crackling and healthy hearth is. Above it, freshly cut bouquets of Nymeia lilies and Gerbera adore the porcelain vases set around the mantle. The glimpse of spring makes him feel ten summers younger again. Something about this room has always been able to disarm him.
Especially when he sees the bed. The cherry poster frame tied with sky-blue curtains is as just as he remembers. He unlaces his gauntlet and runs a newly freed hand over the cottonfrost linens, tucked beneath the pouting lip of a down comforter. The pillows are full and fluffed high enough to shame the Sea of Clouds. It takes what little sense of decorum he still retains to not flop down onto the mattress.
Or at least not before doffing the heavier pieces of his armor. Having completed its journey, Iceheart too can at last rest piled in pieces along the windowsill. Truly, every bone and tendon in his body wants nothing more than to do the same.
At least until he hears Toren shouting three floors below.
He’s already out the bedroom door when a heavy thud causes the chandelier to titter, and he hears Toren call out again, clearer and sharper this time:
“Aymeric!”
Down the staircase’s spiral eye, the foyer unfolds to a wide-open front door. From the entryway, a trail of bags, parcels, and other personal effects thrown in haste leads him to where the paladin kneels over a dark-haired body slumped beside the divan.
He vaults over the banister without a first or second thought, the manor's fine decor a blur and a whistle in his ears as he drops down. By the time his boots touch hit the first-floor landing, Toren already has the other man slung over his shoulder.
“I knocked but no one answered,” he explains quickly. “Then when I tried the door, it was open–and I found him like this. I’m not sure what happened…”
Estinien looks over his old friend as they lay him on the couch with muted annoyance. Even in this state, his hair still looks proper. A bruise puckers under where he must’ve fallen on his cheek, but his raime blouse remains untouched and intact. No sign of any struggle on him or in the room, though he reaches behind him, nonetheless.
“Could there be someone else here then?”
And curses when his hand only grasps the air behind him. He can picture exactly where he left Nidhoog lazing against the poster bed, useless as his wielder feels.
But as soon as his hand returns empty to his side, a set of flour-dusted fingers slots themselves between them. “Nay. None but the fool who resides here,” their owner assures, grasp as weak as the chuckle that follows. Under thick dark lashes, an unfocused blue eye looks up at him with a lopsided smile.
Toren reaches out and touches his other hand. “Do you remember what happened, Aymeric?”
He sits up, wincing against the divan's arm. “Ah… I was in the kitchen and felt dizzy. I went to go lie down, but I must have…”
“Worked yourself until you passed out no doubt,” Estinien supplies with a snort. His annoyance only grows when Aymeric confirms it with another breathy chuckle.
“Forgive me for worrying you both. If I just rest my eyes for a few moments, I should be…”
Ever and always frustrating. Estinien would sigh if he didn’t think the fatigue from their journey would also double him over. He squeezes the lord’s hand as Toren leans over, brows knit as tight as his scarf after he lays a palm against Aymeric’s cheeks and forehead.
“He’s burning up…”
It's all Estinien needs to hear to sanctify his next course of action. “Right. Let’s get you abed, milord.”
“But–” is the only word he allows Ishgard’s Lord Speaker to say before hoisting him up to his chest, cradling him around the knees the same way he carried wayward lambs back to their flock. He makes for the stairs as Toren springs to his feet.
“I’ll fetch a washcloth to help cull the fever,” he shouts and is already a blur down the hallway to the first-floor washroom.
Aymeric squirms over his shoulder. “Please! You do not need—”
“Hush.”
And he quiets, not from the command but the prompt placement of the dragoon’s lips over his own. Quick, decisive, and forward: the kind of treatment a man so caught in a world snagged with pomp and pleasantries needs from time to time. When they part, Aymeric looks pinker than ever.
“‘Twas a very poor plan if your goal was to bring down my fever, Ser Varlineau…”
He laughs. “Apologies.”
“Nay…. ‘tis not you who needs to be making amends...”
How Estinien wishes that was true. Three flights of stairs is a pleasant stroll compared to the journey the man in his arms had made when their roles had been reversed. He had been unconscious every stone step from the Arc of the Venerable to the hospitalier. The Dreadwyrm’s possession had tossed his soul to the very stoop of the Seventh Heavenly Gate. And compared to the moons he had endured broiling in rage and grief, the dead silence had been welcome. A moment of peace, though he doubts Aymeric experienced the same. Perhaps, he had as Estinien does now, felt the weight, not of another man, but the prospect of losing him forever. It almost makes him understand his and the little lord’s blubbering over his waking. Almost.
“Exhausted…” he hears Aymeric murmuring as they finish ascending the final steps of Borel Manor.
“A bit late, but good you recognize it.”
It almost feels like a nuzzle from the angle Aymeric shakes his head. “I mean F’toren,” he clarifies. “He should be resting…you both should…”
“Then take care of yourself so that we are able to,” he grunts as he returns to the master bedroom with its master in his arms.
Aymeric concedes with a small pensive noise. Estinien’s suggestion is curt, but not unkind. Guilting him may be the only way to force the man to consider his health and well-being. Not that the dragoon can fault him for his observation, either. He’s not so obtuse that he has neglected his concerns over his traveling companion’s health. If it was up to Estinien, he’d launch both of them like a javelin into that soft bed.
For now, at least one of them is letting him kneel to his unlace his boots while he sits at the edge of the mattress. He deposits them beside his doffed armor and returns to tuck him into chocobo-down pillows and whitefrost sheets.
“‘Tis not the homecoming I wanted to give you…” Aymeric sighs, reaching out to him. His eyes are pinched and red while his hair sticks the sweat on his forehead—and he is still, as frustratingly ever, beautiful.
Estinien leans his cheek into Aymeric’s palm. “You still have time to give it,” he assures, turning his face to quickly kiss his wrist. He forces his head back into his Chocobo down pillows with another gentle one to his forehead. “Won’t be jumping out any windows anytime soon. You have my word.”
His oldest friend smiles, seeming more comforted by the promise than his pillows as he, at last, shuts his eyes. Estinien joins him in a sigh. One down, he thinks to himself as a flurry of footfalls hit the staircase.
Toren’s ears are tucked flat against his head as he bustles through the door with an armful of folded washcloths. A small wooden basin sloshes in his other hand, gently lit by flecks of aether from powdered ice crystals. It’s a true testament to his speed and concern, given cold water is not a particularly rare commodity in the Holy See. He hurries to his bedside.
“This should help,” he whispers, setting the bowl aside and unfolding a washcloth. “There might be a tea we could make up too. Nidhanna gave us some fresh herbs that help with sleeping—and the blankets we received from Vrtra! That fabric won’t retain so much heat since it breathes better—”
Would that Estinien could vouch the same for the Miqo'te. Every other word seems to catch in his lungs. His breathing comes almost as fast as his footsteps had. Exertion, most certainly; and for one as fit as the Warrior of Light, he knows it’s not it’s not entirely physically induced.
Toren’s ears shoot straight up. “Twelve’s mercy, I left it all downstairs—”
He stands but before he can bolt again, Estinien stops him by the shoulder. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. He picks up a dropped washcloth and entrusts it back to Toren, who wrings between two shaking hands. The paladin’s eyes dart from the Elezen who grabbed him to the one who is abed. He takes a deep breath, letting his shoulders plateau out.
“Right. Sorry,” he says, steadying himself with another breath before adding, “ …and thanks.”
He ducks under Estinien’s arm, who sends him off with a friendly push as he heads towards his new task.
On this trip, the dragoon takes the stairs as they are intended. Down to the foyer and living room, where he crosses over the brambling shadows cast by the Alpine chandeliers overhead. He first removes some of the snow creeping in from the open door with several side sweeps of his boot and bolts it behind him. From there, he follows the trail of personal effects left behind when their courageous Warrior of Light once more sprung to the side of another without a heartbeat’s hesitation.
He gathers up a large backpack nearly the size of the Miqo'te who carries it, dividends filled with fresh flowers, herbs, and a smattering of all sorts of trinkets from traveling. With some effort, he manages to close the lid of a compact tacklebox bursting with an assortment of bait and hooks. He recognizes the artisan whittling knife he often sees in his hands at camp, turning and working figures by firelight. Toren fiercely guards his unfinished projects until their completion. Right now, Estinien can see the current one appears to be some sort of three-legged bear, which he secures along with the knife in the pocket with all the other crafting material. He locks the pack’s buckle and slings it over one arm.
Their scattered souvenirs are next. He recovers books purchased from a Sharlayan bookseller. Most are dull, lengthy titles about the histories of the old land, its treaties, and philosophical tenets; the founding and fall of its sister city-state in Eorzea. But among them there is a translation of Count Edmont’s memoirs that found its way thousands of malms from its homeland.
The aforementioned blanket from the Satrap’s reserves remains thankfully bound in a loose roll of deep blue Hannish silk and thread. Unfurled, it would be a cumbersome carry that could stretch to cover three or four people. He smells the spice chest before he sees it, grabbing it along with two tins of tea leaves, and what is surely a market’s worth of coconut milk, nutmeg, and sykons that the Lord Commander has been enthusiastically hinting at incorporating into his cooking.
The last item is a silvered kite shield thrumming with holy protection, and sturdy and stalwart as the oath of his friend who bears it. It is, as expected, the heaviest in his arms in every sense of weight. Every shimmering scratch and dent is a wound averted and a life spared.
A prodigy with polearms, Estinen has never had the desire to fuss with such cumbersome armaments. Even Aymeric who by all measures should wield one alongside his father’s famed blue blade, oft is forced to forgo one. Despite all the healing magicks and techniques of their chiurgeons, whatever foul aether and magicks the Archbishop’s Heavens’ Ward had tortured him with had left lingering chronic damage in his shield arm. Never mind what it had done to a shield once as whole as this one was; what it did to the brave knight holding it—and the hearts it had protected.
He thinks of that snowy monument with the broken shield as he climbs the stairs again. The packs on his back bustle and jingle with every step, but past the second landing, Estinien’s ears tweak to a different sound. A low and lilting music, like an orchestrion left to play in another room. He slows his steps to listen closer and soon realizes it’s not music, but sung words. Though not any he knows, he recognizes the tune. Sometimes from across their shared campfire; sometimes from the other side of their shared quarters at Radz-at-Hahn.
From the open door to the master bedroom, he hears it again as Toren attends to Aymeric’s bedside on tipped toes. He dabs his cheeks with a cooled washcloth in one hand, and combs the thick of the lord’s dark hair with the other, all while a song sweetly spills from his lips. He does not sing often, let alone what is most likely a Seeker’s song, passed from mother to son and tribe to tribe. And while the lyrics are foreign, the tune is calming and soft as sheep's wool. Like the lullabies his mother would sing to him and his brother on cold Coerthan nights.
With a smile their old friend would surely be proud of, he leaves their packs, bags, and souvenirs just behind the doorframe, and departs without intruding.
He returns downstairs humming Toren’s lullaby, but the moment he passes by the kitchen partition the song leaves his tongue with a cluck. Through them, he spies what he can only surmount must be a fraction of Aymeric’s meal prep for them.
Few are his happy memories after Ferndale, but the ones he cares to recall are either around Alberic’s campfire or at this very manor. Especially during holiday leave when he would join them here: an invitation he would always begrudgingly accept at both Aymeric and Alberic’s insistence. Begrudgingly accept and even more begrudgingly grew to love.
Both the company and the food, of course.
His first Starlight here, he had assumed Lady Borel had invited the entire congregation of St. Reymanaud’s given the incredible spread. Dishes and cloches covered every ilm of their cherrywood table with stuffed Roasted Dodo, Rolanberry Pie, Poached Porchini in Hollandaise, assortments of petit fours, and other treats whose names are lost to memory.
And upon entering the kitchen, he discovers the glimpse that the partition afforded him had indeed been just a preview.
“Fury’s Frostbitten Tits…” he whispers taking in the full sight. Truly his mother’s son. Every counter and flat surface is crowded with prep work and utensils. By the Fury’s grace, the stove is blessedly unlit, both wood and fire crystals untouched. Around it, he finds a bag of dark chestnuts leaning against an open sack of flour. Measures of yak milk and butter linger near a cutting board with sliced filets of okeanis and river fish: fresh, prepped, and salted from the morning markets. A dozen or so dodo eggs are arranged like a summoning circle on the central island.
It’s also where the House Borel cookbook rests on a book holder, open and exalted as the Enchiridion on a cathedral lectern. In the margins, Estinien recognizes the thin ink strokes from letters Aymeric would receive from home. Alongside them are her dutiful son’s careful additions to her recipe notes. And while the Coerthan shepherd cares little for most noble customs, the marked recipes are ones he knows that are often prepped and consumed on special feast days to celebrate the lives of Ishgard’s fabled saints and heroes.
Looking at it all laid out, the dragoon feels right and ready to faint from the scale of it. Little wonder their tireless Lord Commander had collapsed on the spot.
Damn it, Aymeric.
At least he can salvage most of the ingredients for him. He’s familiar enough with the Borel estate’s cabinets and pantry. A courtesy from many of their after-hour trists in the kitchens, whenever night terrors would drive two reckless summer youths to devour bites of leftover tarts and treacles between sticky kisses.
He lobs a pot to soak in the sink when the kitchen door opens.
“How is he?” he asks Toren without turning around.
“Asleep now.”
“Good.”
It’s where both of them should be, though Estinien supposes it had been a fool’s hope that the Warrior of Light would simply lie down beside him. Especially now watching him circle the kitchen scattered with what remains of the ingredients. He touches the counter with the cookbook and frowns. “Was… all this…?”
“For us? Of course,” Estinien answers with a snort. He pins a sprig of sage back on the overhanging herb rack before grabbing a broom with the same ferocity he holds a lance.
“Once we finish up here, we can head to the Crozier and see if there are any stalls open for lunch,” he suggests as he begins to attend to the spilled highland flour. Though they no longer have access to the sprawling and vibrant vendors crowding Radz-at-Han’s market at all hours, Ishgard should still have a few open, Fury and weather-providing.
“We were just speaking the other day about how much we missed those Heavens Lemon Crepes.”
But only the bristles of the broom seemacknowledge Estinien’s offer. “Or…I could go on my own and bring something back if you’re feeling unwell…”
And when he finally looks up and sees his friend hovering over Lady Borel’s cookbook, he realizes his concern had been for the wrong reasons. The tip of Toren’s tail crooks like the end of a question mark as he faces Estinien with wide open-sky eyes. “I was thinking…”
A phrase that never ceases to prick the short hairs on Estinien’s neck. Especially because even he can glean what is going to be put forth:
“...that maybe we could try cooking this for Aymeric?”
“We?” he laughs, brief and bark-like. It sounds even more absurd now that it’s been said out loud. “A fine jest.”
At least he prays it is one. The idea that the two of them would be able to cobble together the delicacies for a proper Ishgardian High House supper is absurd. Nobles with entire households of kitchen staff dedicate bells—if not days—of preparation work for a feast day spread. Even Aymeric who had grown up with these techniques and recipes had not been able to accomplish it. The two of them attempting would only result in a spectacle.
But as Toren continues to scan through pages while silently mouthing notes, any small remaining sense of hope in the dragoon’s being is immediately replaced with a dread he has not felt since turning his spear on a Blasphemy.
“You’re serious then…?”
“Think how much it would mean, Estinien! For him to wake up well-rested and not worry about disappointing us or having to cook. It would be a nice surprise.”
“The gifts we brought back are a nice surprise, Toren. Aymeric rousing to his family’s kitchens engulfed in the flames of The Final Days is a poor one.”
The Miqo'te scrunches his nose up at him. “It wouldn’t come to that!” he insists, flipping to the first marked page. “I have some culinary training and you—well, you just love to eat I guess. But you could still—”
“No,” he says, short and blunt as the back of a spear. It had been a fool’s fantasy with Aymeric’s skills and it would be a fool’s delusion without them. He sees no sense in even entertaining the idea.
But when he reaches for the cookbook, Toren grabs it quicker and darts around the other side of the kitchen island before Estinien can react. He palms the counter with a frustrated huff. His reactions are duller than he thought: all the more reason to put themselves and this matter to rest.
“F’toren…”
With a rustling of pages, the paladin’s hand shoots up from behind the counter and waves the open book like a white flag for a truce.
“What if we do just a dessert?” Toren offers as a compromise. “I’m almost positive this is one of Aymeric’s favorites—and the recipe doesn’t look too involved!”
He points to a marked page with an ink illustration of a pastry swirled high with cream and crowned with glazed chestnuts. A Sohm Al Tart: a confectionary imitation of the sacred Dravanian mountain where dragons would go to their final promised rest. Knights, nobles, and clergy alike devoured the tart in mock symbolism, praying the act would give Ishgard the strength to conquer the actual site. Based on the last thousand years of war, Estinien finds it hard to believe the dessert provided any actual succor to his people’s war efforts. He’s just as uncertain it will help them now.
Yet, as Toren stares up at him, wide-eyed and sugary as the recipe he’s holding up, he sighs, knowing one thing for certain. “He certainly does have a fondness for sweet things…”
The Miqo'te practically twirls when returning the book to its holder. “Excellent! I knew you’d agree to help!”
“Hold on, when did I say I’d—”
But it’s already too late. A night blue apron with a tiny embroidered chocobo chick on the front soars off its hook and lands around his neck. A quick pair of small hands knots and bows the strings behind his back before appearing in its twin in front of him. Tailored for an Elezen’s lanky frame, it falls to Toren’s ankles as he zips around the kitchen, checking ingredients and re-retrieving the milk, sugar, and cream Estinien had stored within the icebox. He looks…excited at least, even if the length of his apron nearly trips him with an armful of dodo eggs once or twice. Happy enough that Estinien, for all his misgivings about this endeavor, can no longer bring himself to disarm him of it.
“Right then,” he says regathering his hair up into a higher foxtail. “Where do you want me?”
From behind a bag of highland flour and a measuring scale, Toren pours over the recipe, eyes flicking from line to line with the same rapid pace his tail swings to. “We’ll need to get started with the chestnut cream first. So…I think if you started slicing these dark chestnuts to roast that would be a big help.” He tosses a rattling sack towards Estinien, who catches it with one hand. “While you work on that, I’ll start on our pastry crust.”
“Aye. Whatever, you need,” Estinien says, though he’s unsure if Borel Manor’s new pâtissier heard it, given his hands are already focused and dusted in flour.
He draws the biggest knife from the block. Though he’s used to cooking them whole around an open fire, shelling a few nuts and roasting them in an oven shouldn’t be too much of a challenge. At least, he prays not.
Over his shoulder, he hears Toren murmuring measurements as a brief tremor runs over his hands when he readies to crack an egg. Estinien shakes his head. He supposes after scoring his first chestnut open with ease that even fatigued the two of them have faced down vengeful hordes of scalekins, blasphemies, voidsents, and countless other horrors side-by-side. A dessert, of all things, should pose no threat to the Azure Dragoon and Hydaelyn’s Blessed Champion.